Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  “You just ask,” I said simply, “and you believe that Jesus died for you. That’s all, I think.”

  Philippa shook her head. “I don’t believe it’s as easy as all that,” she said firmly. “Let’s not bother about sins. Let’s just ask Jesus to make me walk. Do you know how, Elaine?”

  I looked doubtful. “I don’t think you can do it like that, Philippa,” I answered. “I’m sure you’ve got to belong to Jesus first. Let me ask Mrs. Owen about it, and then I’ll come and tell you.”

  “All right,” said Philippa, “you ask her. I don’t believe you know an awful lot about it yourself, Elaine. Now come and see my presents.”

  I helped her indoors and admired her beautiful gifts, and then I said good-bye and thank you to Mrs. Thomas and went trotting home. To my surprise, the others had not returned. It was one of those very rare occasions when I could have Mrs. Owen all to myself. She was in the kitchen, ironing.

  “Auntie,” I said, “I want to ask you something very important. Can you pray for things before you’ve had your sins forgiven?”

  She looked up, startled. “Why have you come home, Elaine?” She asked. “Where are the others?”

  “I forgot I promised to go to tea with Philippa,” I explained, “so I came back . . . and Philippa wants to know. She wants me to pray that she’ll get better, but she doesn’t want to bother about having her sins forgiven. She says she hasn’t got many.”

  Mrs. Owen switched off her iron and gave me her whole attention. I discovered later that she prayed each day for Philippa and her mother.

  “It tells us in the Bible that God is so pure and holy that we can’t come to Him at all until we’ve been made clean and forgiven by the Lord Jesus,” she answered.

  Our peace was shattered as the back door was flung open and the children burst into the kitchen, sunburned, messy, and noisy, trailing wet swimming things, with Cadwaller covered in mud leaping behind them.

  “Mum,” announced Peter, “there were some Boy Scouts in tents by the river, camping. Mum, please, can we all go camping?”

  Mrs. Owen blinked, as she always did when switched too suddenly from one subject to another. “Why, yes, Peter,” she answered, “I think it would be lovely. But you didn’t mean tonight, did you?”

  “No, Mum, not tonight,” said Peter. “We would need weeks and weeks to get ready. I mean in the summer holidays. You said we couldn’t afford to go somewhere together, but camping wouldn’t cost anything at all. We’d go to the mountains, and we’d go on bikes, and you and the babies and everything else could come on the bus. We’d go on Dad’s holiday, and he’d take us up Snowdon.”

  “Who’s taking me up Snowdon?” asked the vicar, coming in at that moment and flinging himself down rather wearily into the old kitchen chair, and holding out his arms to Frances, who leaped joyfully into his lap.

  “Mum says we can go camping in the mountains this summer,” said Peter eagerly. “You said you’d take us climbing this year, didn’t you, Dad?”

  “Why, yes,” agreed Mr. Owen, as eager as Peter. “I’ve been waiting for years for you to be old enough to start on the big mountains, and I’d have taken you all last August, only you spoiled it by having chicken pox. It will be extra good fun this year, because we will have Elaine with us. We need to find a farmhouse for Mum and the little ones, and one tent for me and Pete and Johnny and one for the girls.”

  “Me in the tent,” whispered Frances. “Oh, say I can be in the tent!”

  “Of course,” answered Mr. Owen, laughing. “I’m not sleeping out in the wilds of Snowdon without Francie to look after me!” And he drew her smooth, mousy head against his shoulder and gave her a hug.

  A Sudden Meeting

  I was so eager to finish my conversation with Mrs. Owen that as soon as our lights were out that night I slipped out of bed and crept downstairs in my night clothes. She was sitting alone in the living room, so I sat down on the rug and went on where I’d left off.

  “It’s funny Philippa doesn’t think she’s got any sins,” I began, “because she’s really awfully selfish and cross. Couldn’t you come and explain it to her, Auntie?”

  She was silent for a moment, and then, instead of answering me, she said, “I’ll tell you a story, and you try to think what it means.

  “There was once an old woman who lived in a little village in the mountains, and one day in winter she went to town and bought a packet of washing powder that was supposed to be very good. She did her laundry and hung it out to dry, and it certainly did look whiter than the clothes in the other cottage gardens. She was so pleased that she left it out for two whole days so that everyone could see it. Then it became bitterly cold, and she thought, ‘I must bring in my washing before nighttime.’ So out she went, but when she got into the garden, she threw up her hands in horror and said, ‘Who’s been meddling with my washing? It’s not white anymore—in fact, it looks almost gray.’

  “No one had meddled with her washing, and in a moment or two she realized what had happened. While she was busy indoors, the snow had fallen on the mountains. And against that pure dazzling whiteness—God’s whiteness—her laundered clothes seemed gray.”

  She glanced at me, smiling, but I was frowning in a puzzled way, not quite understanding.

  “Lots of people are like that old woman,” said Mrs. Owen. “They look at their neighbors and say, ‘I’m not a sinner, I’m better than So and so, and I’m much less selfish than So and so.’ And they quite forget that God never tells them to be like So and so. He says, ‘Be holy, for I am holy,’* and He sent Jesus to show us just how perfect and holy He is. It’s when we look at Jesus in the Bible that we see God’s perfect, shining whiteness, perfect courage, perfect goodness, and perfect love. And the more we look, the more we realise, ‘I am not like that.’”

  “I see,” I answered slowly. “I’ve got to keep telling Philippa about Jesus, and when she sees what He’s like, she’ll see what she’s like, and till then, I suppose she mustn’t ask to be made better.”

  Mrs. Owen shook her head, smiling.

  “Lots of people came to Jesus in the Bible who only thought about getting better,” she said simply. “He was so kind and loving that He always said ‘Come.’ He never turned anyone away. He just gave them more than they asked for. He let them see His face and hear His voice, and I expect that was far more wonderful to them than being healed. You let Philippa pray any way she likes; Jesus Himself will teach her if she really means what she is saying. You’ve got just three things to do.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “First, pray for her, and we all will, too. Then make special times to go and visit her and read the Bible together, and stick to them faithfully. Lastly, show her the love and care and patience of Jesus in your own life. If He is really living in your heart, she ought to be able to see Him in you, not only in the Bible.”

  I sat thinking silently, and a few moments later Mr. Owen came in, and we told him what we had been talking about. He was very interested and asked whether Philippa had a Bible of her own.

  “No,” I answered, “but I could buy her one for a birthday present. What would it cost?”

  “A nicely printed one would cost quite a lot,” said Mr. Owen, “but I think Janet would like to help. Tell her about it in the morning, and you could go into town together and choose it.”

  I went up to bed feeling very happy, and the next morning I told Janet about my plan. She was delighted and promised to give every penny she had, but that was not much, because she was an extremely generous little girl and was always giving presents.

  We were spreading our joint collection on the table to count it properly when Peter came in.

  “What are you doing with all that money?” he asked suspiciously. “Don’t forget; we’ve got to save for camp. I’m going to try to buy a map and a compass, so you’ll have to help with other things.”

  “But it’s for Philippa’s Bible,” explained Janet, “and I think it’s more imp
ortant than camp. Elaine has started telling her about Jesus.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Peter, scratching his head thoughtfully. He was a very shy boy in some ways and never talked about his deepest thoughts.

  “Well, you don’t seem to have much between you,” he said suddenly, and marched out of the room.

  “Oh, dear!” said Janet, who adored her brother. “I’m afraid he’s cross. After all, we did say we’d save for camp, but I thought there was still time for that. We’ve got all our pocket money for two months, and we can do some odd jobs.”

  She was interrupted by Peter’s clattering feet. He marched into the room and threw some coins on the table.

  “Might as well get her a decent one while you’re about it,” he said gruffly. “And when you go to choose it, I’ll come with you.” He was gone before we could even say “Thank you,” slamming the door very hard behind him.

  We set off early the next morning on our bicycles, since the nearest town where Bibles could be bought was seven miles away. We went the back way through winding roads to avoid the traffic.

  It was Whitsun holiday, and the town was very busy and crowded with holidaymakers. At last we found the bookshop, and a kind shop girl asked us which Bible we wanted.

  “We’d like to see them all, please,” said Peter grandly, “as long as they don’t cost too much.”

  The girl smiled and waited patiently. For ten minutes we looked and argued and discussed and changed our minds. But in the end we all agreed on a beautiful clothbound one with large print and pictures.

  “Good,” said Peter with a sigh of relief. “Now, let’s have one ice cream each, and that still leaves a bit for camp. Come on!”

  We were standing in a doorway eating our ice cream when I suddenly saw him, and my heart seemed to miss a beat. I looked again. Yes, it was definitely the face that had haunted me for weeks—an ugly, unshaven face with wild, frightened eyes.

  “Peter,” I whispered, clutching hold of him so hard he dropped his ice cream. “Peter, it’s him!”

  “Who?” retorted Peter. “Look out, Elaine!”

  “Never mind your ice cream, Peter,” I breathed urgently. “Look, look! There by the crossing! It’s the man I saw in the Thomases’ garden! Oh, Peter, let’s get away quick. He may see me!”

  I cowered down in a doorway, but I was too late. At a sign from a policeman, a crowd swarmed across the road, leaving a gap. The man turned suddenly and recognized me. The next instant he dived off into the crowds and disappeared up a side street.

  “Quick!” shouted Peter. “There’s a policeman—tell him!”

  He plunged toward the policeman. “We’ve seen the thief who took the things from Mrs. Thomas’s house,” he yelled, clutching hold of his sleeve. “He’s just run off, but I’m sure you could catch him if you tried.”

  The policeman shook him off impatiently. “I don’t care if you’ve seen the thief who robbed Buckingham Palace,” he retorted, his eyes on the traffic. “I’ve got my job to do. If you have anything to report, you can go to the police station up Emrys Street.”

  “It’s no good,” said Peter disappointedly. “It would take us half an hour to get to Emrys Street in these crowds, and he could have gone anywhere by then. There are buses leaving all the time. Oh, to think I got as near as that and missed him!”

  We moved into a side street and leaned miserably against the wall.

  “I don’t think the police take much notice of children, anyhow,” Peter went on. “We’d better get home quickly and tell Dad. He could always phone if he liked. Anyhow, one good thing—I’ve seen him myself now, and I would know him again anywhere!”

  * 1 Peter 1:16

  The Child at the Door

  The summer sped by and, without knowing it, I was changing—growing taller and more sturdy. I had also really started to enjoy school and was beginning to realize what a beautiful world I lived in. It was as though my eyes had been opened.

  I was learning other lessons too. Three times a week, I climbed the hill in the light of the evenings after supper and sat for half an hour with Philippa. Sometimes Janet came, too, and we always spent part of that time reading the Bible. Philippa’s Bible had become her dearest possession. All through her illness, she had had nothing much to think about but herself, and she was tired and bored and unhappy. Even her storybooks bothered her because they were mostly about strong, healthy children who ran about and had adventures. But the Bible opened up a wonderful new world to her. It was all about sick children who were healed, sad people who were comforted, tired people who found rest, lost sheep that were found, and sinful people who were forgiven. In the midst of them all was Jesus, who called them to come to Him, and in whose presence was fullness of joy.

  “I do love Him,” said Philippa suddenly one night. “I wish I really belonged to Him, like you. But He hasn’t made me walk yet, and I sometimes wonder if He really listens to me.”

  “You could belong to Him like I do,” I said simply, “but when I tell you how, you never seem to understand. I’m going to ask Mrs. Owen to come. She’ll tell you. She’s ever so good at explaining things. I’ll bring her before we go camping.”

  Philippa’s face brightened. “Yes, do,” she answered. “I like Mrs. Owen. I’d like to make certain before you go camping, because I won’t see you for a whole ten days. Still, Daddy’s coming home after that, so that’s something to look forward to.”

  Plans for camping had been going well, and it was all we could think and talk about. By the time I reached the garden gate, I knew that something very exciting had happened, for I could hear the noise quite a long way away. I dashed up the path to find out what it was all about. “What’s happened?” I shouted. “Tell me quickly!”

  “A car for the holiday!” yelled Peter. “Mr. Jones is so grateful to Dad for making Mrs. Jones better that he’s lending him his car for August. We will be able to explore everywhere now, and Mum and the little ones will be able to come too.”

  “Steady, Pete,” broke in Mr. Owen. “I’m not a doctor.”

  But we all knew about poor Mrs. Jones, whose first baby had died quite suddenly. The doctor could do nothing to help her, and it was only Mr. Owen’s prayers and patient daily visits that saved her from going crazy. She was now up and about again, visiting others who were sad. No wonder Mr. Jones was grateful.

  Having a car was really wonderful news, for there weren’t many mountain buses, and Lucy seemed to need so much luggage. Now we could take the camping equipment in advance, and then come back for Mrs. Owen and the younger ones. Besides, we could reach the foot of the great mountains by car, do some real climbing in the day, and get back to camp at night. Peter had even produced a climbing rope.

  We were to leave on the second day of the summer holiday. Mrs. Owen was very busy preparing everything, so I waited till Sunday to ask her about Philippa. She said she would go to see Philippa right after supper, so that evening we set out together. When we reached the grassy slope under the old beech trees, Mrs. Owen stopped and sat down on the mossy roots.

  “Let’s pray before we go in,” she said. I sat down beside her and closed my eyes, and she asked God to show Philippa the way to Him.

  Mrs. Thomas chatted to Mrs. Owen for a few minutes, and then she went off to get the supper and we were left alone.

  Philippa turned eagerly to Mrs. Owen. “Good,” she said, “you’ve come! I’ve been waiting every day. Did Elaine tell you?”

  “Yes,” answered Mrs. Owen. “You are worried, aren’t you, because you’ve asked God to make you walk properly, and He hasn’t, and you can’t understand why?”

  Philippa nodded. Her eyes were fixed on Mrs. Owen’s face as though she was listening to some wonderful secret.

  “I think it’s like this,” said Mrs. Owen, speaking very slowly. “Supposing a ragged, homeless boy came to my door and asked me for fifty pence. I could give him fifty pence and send him away, or I could do something far better. I could say to him, ‘I’m not go
ing to give you fifty pence, but I’m going to take you into my home and love you and wash you clean and care for you, and make you my own little child.’ If I said that, do you think that little boy would go on worrying about his fifty pence? He’d know that I loved him enough to give him every single thing he needed.”

  “Is the fifty pence like my legs?” asked Philippa. She was a very quick child in some ways.

  “A little bit,” answered Mrs. Owen. “You’ve asked the Lord Jesus to give you strong legs, and He’s looking down at you and saying, ‘Philippa, I’ve got something far better for you than that. I love you, and I want you to be My own little girl. I want to save you from all your crossness and sadness and selfishness, and I want to make you happy.’ Of course, later on He may give you strong legs as well, and you can go on asking Him. But first of all He wants to teach you that if you belong to Him, you can be happy even lying here on this couch. Has Elaine shown you the verse written in the front of her Bible?”

  “Yes,” answered Philippa at once. “I can say it: ‘You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy.’”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Owen. “It means that when we come to the Lord Jesus, we tell Him that we are willing for Him to choose our path of life, because He knows best. And that means that even if we have illness or sorrow or disappointments, we will know that He is close beside us. You know, Philippa, happiness doesn’t really depend on what you’ve got or where you are. Real, true, lasting happiness comes from living close to the Lord Jesus and being like Him.”

  Philippa said nothing. She often turned things over for a long time in her mind before coming to any decisions. A few minutes later Mrs. Thomas came back and begged us to stay for supper.

  “I really must get back and see what the family is doing,” Mrs. Owen said. “They are all wild with excitement because Mr. Jones has offered to lend my husband a car so we can all go camping. The Joneses are staying with his parents, and they’ve got a car already, so they were just going to leave theirs in the garage. Isn’t it wonderful! I can’t tell you how I was dreading carting all the camp gear and little ones on the bus and dragging them miles up a mountain at the other end.”