by Janette Oke
“Have you not been feeling well?” Belinda asked.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth waved the question aside. “I’ve been fine,” she maintained, “just fine.”
Belinda did not press her further. “And how was your trip?” she said instead. “I am so anxious to hear all about it. It must have been terribly exciting.”
The older woman looked at her evenly. “Well, I must say, not really,” she replied at last.
Belinda was surprised. Maybe Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s trip has not gone well. “You aren’t telling me something,” Belinda said softly. “What is it? Were you sick while you were away?”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth shook her head, and then tears began to gather and then to run down her face, splashing unheeded into her fur collar. “It’s just . . . just . . .” she sniffed and searched for a handkerchief in her pocketbook, “that I couldn’t think of anything else but you, deah. I kept thinking you wouldn’t come back once you got home again. I lived every day in feah and didn’t feel like doing anything. Celia neahly tossed me out she was so annoyed with me, but I . . . I just couldn’t help it.”
Belinda reached out to take her employer’s hand, passing along her handkerchief. “That’s all right,” she comforted. “I’m here. I came back just as I said I would.”
“I’m so glad. So glad,” breathed the older woman. “Now things can get back to normal again.”
Normal? thought Belinda. She had just moved back and forth between two very different worlds. What, she wondered, is normal?
But things did fall back into a daily routine. The two women picked up where they had left off, sharing their meals, their handwork, their reading, their lives. Little by little they spoke about some of the experiences of their time apart, too. It seemed that the one had been as miserable as the other—but for quite different reasons.
The windy fall days turned to winter chill, and snow began to pile up on Thomas’s flower beds. This time there was no discussion of a trip abroad to avoid the winter. They knew without saying it that they both had consented to suffer it through. Belinda realized she was already looking forward to spring even as she saw the winds tuck the flowers away under their snowy blankets for the winter.
Belinda kept her promise to her mother. Each week she wrote a lengthy letter home and looked forward to the reply that was sure to come. She shared the letters with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, who seemed to enjoy them almost as much as Belinda did.
When Christmas came, they celebrated with strangers again. In its own way, it was a joyous time. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had enjoyed planning the holiday event and having the festive table surrounded by dinner guests. Their guests, too, appreciated the time spent in the lovely big house with the kind woman and her staff.
But for Belinda the most special moments occurred each day as the two of them spent time together studying the Bible. Since her trip to New York, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth seemed much more aware and sensitive to spiritual things. Belinda wondered if something particular had happened there.
But her employer never said anything about such an event. Belinda held her tongue but continued to wonder—and to pray.
ELEVEN
An Exciting Event
Belinda knew her folks at home were praying with her for Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. Each morning as the two studied a Bible lesson together, Belinda watched closely for glimmers of understanding on the part of the older woman.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did listen attentively. She also attended church services regularly. But Belinda could not help feeling that the woman did not really capture the true significance of the Christian faith. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth seemed to feel that if one tried to be good—was more good than sinful—then hopefully God’s scales would tip in the person’s favor.
Belinda selected Scriptures dealing with the sacrificial death of the Savior, the need for a personal faith, the glorious hope of heaven because of what Christ Jesus did on the sinner’s behalf. But though the woman looked sincere, each Bible lesson seemed to fall on unhearing ears. Belinda thought often of Christ’s parable of the seed and the sower. She wondered if Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would ever choose to be “good ground” for the truth or if the evil one would always snatch the seed away before it had a chance to root—to grow.
Belinda prayed more earnestly and searched more diligently for appropriate Scriptures.
One Sunday morning as Easter approached, Belinda left the morning worship feeling rather dry and empty. The sermon, though it had referred to the Cross and what it meant for sinful mankind, seemed without energy—truth, certainly, but without life or passion. It left much to be desired, in Belinda’s thinking.
If he only had gone on—told the rest of the story—explained the meaning of it all, Belinda grieved. But no. He stopped right there— short, leaving his congregation to sort through the whole thing for themselves. No wonder they cannot seem to understand the meaning of the Cross, of redemption.
Belinda felt like crying as she climbed into the carriage with her employer for the ride home.
“Wasn’t that a wonderful sermon, deah?” asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth as soon as she had properly arranged her skirts.
Belinda quickly turned to look at her. There was something unusual in the woman’s tone. To Belinda’s surprise the lady’s face was shining in a way that Belinda had never seen before. Belinda could not speak. She just nodded dumbly.
“I’ve heard it ovah and ovah,” the older lady went on with reverent enthusiasm, “but you know . . . I’ve nevah really understood the meaning of it befoah. This mawnin’ as I listened, it all came to me just like that. Imagine! The Son of God himself dyin’ in the place of me. Isn’t it glorious? Most wonderful! Why, I bowed my head right there where I sat and just thanked Him ovah and ovah. I nearly had one of those—what do they call it?—revival meetings all by myself.”
Belinda stared in wonder. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had gotten what her pastor at home would call “a good dose of oldfashioned religion” —and in a somewhat unlikely place, too. In a rather formal, staid city church.
“Oh, Aunt Virgie!” Belinda cried, throwing her arms around the older woman. She wanted to say, That’s what I’ve tried so hard to show you. That’s what I’ve been praying for, working for, but that seemed irrelevant now. The wonderful thing was that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth knew the truth for herself. I can hardly wait to write home with the good news! she exulted. She knew her folks would be nearly as excited as she was.
“You know,” the woman went on, her face still shining, “all those readings that we’ve been doing togethah? Do you remembah where you found them? I’d like us to read them all again—now that I think I understand what they’ah really saying. Could we?”
“Why, of course.” Belinda was thrilled to agree.
“I can hardly wait to tell Windsah . . . and Pottah. I’ll bet they don’t understand it, eithah. Cook might . . . there’s a feeling I have about Cook. But the girls . . . doubt if eithah of them do. Do you think they do?”
Belinda hadn’t gone that far in her thinking. She was a bit chagrined as she thought of the other household members. She had been concentrating all of her time and prayers on Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
“You know, we should have the whole staff gathah for the Bible-reading times,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth continued. “My, I’d just hate it terribly if any one of them right in my own house missed knowing the truth.”
Belinda could not believe her ears, but Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was still not finished.
“That’s what we’ll do. Right aftah breakfast each mawnin’. We’ll all meet togethah in the north parlah. You can choose the reading and then we’ll talk about it.”
Belinda had a momentary qualm at the thought of leading the whole household in the morning Bible lesson. What if someone asks a difficult question? she thought. I’m certainly no theologian. It wouldn’t be at all difficult for one of them to stump me—badly.
But she nodded her head in agreement. Maybe even Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would be able to help explain
some of the scriptural truths.
It was later that evening that Belinda was able to ask the question that had been gnawing at her all day. Seated in the cozy little parlor having tea and biscuits before retiring, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was still enthralled with her earlier experience. Belinda listened joyfully as she talked, and then when the lady paused, Belinda posed her question.
“What was it that made you see it—understand the truth of salvation—all of a sudden?”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stopped, teacup raised almost to her lips, and thought about the question. Then she answered assuredly, simply, “Why, I suppose it was the Holy Spirit. Just like the Scripture tells us, ‘He will teach you all things.’ I couldn’t ‘see’ it on my own. My spiritual eyesight was ‘darkened.’ I don’t think I wanted to know the truth. I shut it out without realizing it, just like the Scripture says. I wanted to manage on my own. I had to reach the place where I was willing to hear the truth.”
Belinda could only stare.
“You read those verses the othah mawnin’,” the older lady told her. “Remembah? Of course at the time they didn’t mean much at all to me—but I understand them now.”
“Of course,” said Belinda.
That night as Belinda knelt beside her bed she had something new to pray about—to rejoice over. But she had a confession, too.
“Dear Father,” she prayed, “forgive me for feeling that I had to ‘convert’ Aunt Virgie when it was your business all the time. I know that we Christians are to share our faith—help me to be faithful in doing that. But, Lord, never let me believe it is my doing when someone reaches out to you. It is only through the work of your Holy Spirit that any lost person can be drawn to you, the Father. Aunt Virgie accepted the sacrifice of Christ only because your Spirit helped her to understand it. Thank you, Lord, for showing her. Thank you that she was able to understand and accept it. And now help the two of us as we try to share this Good News with the staff. And remind me— always—that my task is just to share. Yours is to do the converting.”
The whole household soon felt the effects of the conversion of their “Lady.” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was open about what had happened. She did not force the issue with others, but she let it be known that she hoped very much for her staff to be in attendance at the Bible readings.
She had Belinda read, gave opportunity for discussion, but pressured no one to accept or refute the truths.
“God will do that through His Spirit,” she kept reminding Belinda. “He is the only One who knows the innah parts of the soul.” But Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did not lightly regard her Christian duty. She and Belinda spent much time in prayer every day for each person attending the morning study.
Then Mrs. Stafford-Smyth extended her mission to share the Good News.
“We need to have anothah dinnah party,” she informed Belinda. “I don’t know if any of my old friends really understand the truth. I believe they think much like I did—that one gives God proper respect and tries to do good toward his fellowman, and, in return, the Lord blinks while the person squeezes through the gates.”
Belinda smiled.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth thought for a while. At length she continued. “You know,” she said, “I think it’s moah than that. I don’t think I understood what sin was. I thought sin was killing folks, or stealing from your neighbah, or cheating the poah. And so it is—but it’s so much more. I didn’t understand that the sin that broke the heart of God and kept one from entering heaven was the sin of rejection—of not acknowledging and accepting Christ’s death on Calvary in my place. That is why God would not have been able to let Virginia Stafford-Smyth enter the gates. I hadn’t recognized my sin of unacceptance— unbelief, if you will—and accepted what He did for me on Calvary.”
Belinda solemnly nodded again.
“Oh, but it’s so wonderful when it is all taken care of,” continued the older woman, tears forming in her eyes. And then she hastened on. “Well, we need that dinnah party, that’s foah sure.”
Potter, Windsor, and Cook were all summoned once more, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth discussed her plans. All the old crowd were to be invited, she said, and in some way—some way—the Spirit would reveal to her a way to share her newfound faith. She didn’t want to depart this world without telling her dear old friends the truth of the Gospel, she informed the staff members.
The night of the dinner party arrived.
“What do you plan to do?” Belinda asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth as they waited for their guests to arrive.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. She said she still had not received her directions from the Lord as to how to go about sharing.
All the guests had been seated at the dining room table, and Windsor was standing ready to serve at a nod from his mistress. Belinda watched her, realizing she was stalling for a bit of time while she waited for an idea from the Lord.
Finally the guests were all watching their hostess expectantly, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth began slowly. “Belinda and I have established a new—” she hesitated—“habit,” she said, picking up the thread again. “A good habit. We read togethah before we dine. Belinda, deah, would you bring the Scriptures and read that same portion that we read togethah this mawnin’?”
Feeling a bit nervous, Belinda went to get the Bible. She settled herself in her chair at the table and began to read. At first her voice was low and trembling, but gradually it steadied. Fidgeting stopped. Dinner guests lifted their heads to catch the words.
Belinda read, “For when we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly. For scarcely for a righteous man will one die: yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”
“Ah yes,” breathed Mrs. Stafford-Smyth as Belinda carefully closed the Book and handed it to Windsor. “Let us pray.” The prayer was a thanksgiving for the food that they were to enjoy, but Mrs. Stafford-Smyth also included a thanks for the truth presented in the Scripture reading.
During a few awkward coughs and throat clearings, Windsor stepped forward to serve the meal.
Before the talk around the table had opportunity to stray to other topics, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth turned to Mr. Allenby. “How do you understand that Scripture?” she asked simply.
For a moment the dignified man clearly was mentally scrambling around for some explanation, while his shrewd little wife cast furtive glances about the table.
Mr. Walsh spoke up. “Why, it told of the death of the Son of God for sinners,” he stated in a straightforward manner.
“For sinnahs,” mused Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “Who are the sinnahs?” And so began a discussion that gathered momentum as it moved forward. Belinda could not help but smile at times. Never had this elderly crowd become so involved in animated conversation.
There were differences of opinion, of course. Mr. Allenby believed that though all of mankind might “err” on occasion, eventually everyone would be ushered in to enjoy the bliss of an eternal heaven. Mr. Whitley disagreed. Heaven was a state of mind, he argued. Mr. Walsh went so far as to declare that heaven was reserved for a “special” group, but he wasn’t sure just who or what determined the special ones.
Mrs. Allenby sat silently, her eyes darting back and forth between the speakers, while Mrs. Whitley fidgeted with her napkin and turned from pale white to blushing red and back again.
Belinda could tell Celia Prescott was getting ready to involve herself in the discussion—she was not going to allow the men of the crowd to have all the say. She broke into the conversation with enthusiasm, making her point and then camouflaging it with a bit of humor. Belinda decided that Celia Prescott did not want to be taken too seriously where religion was concerned.
But Belinda watched as gently, and with skillful courtesy, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth steered the conversation in the direction she wished it to go.
“It seems from what you have said” —Mrs. Stafford-Smyth nod
ded toward Mr. Allenby—“that it isn’t possible for anyone to live perfectly. That all of us, in one way or anothah, at one time or anothah . . . well . . . sins,” she concluded, pinning him with his own words.
He sputtered a bit, but he finally conceded the point.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth then turned to Mr. Walsh. “And you think that heaven was made a special place—for those who rightfully belong there.”
He chuckled, nodding sociably. Mr. Walsh, with his unique sense of humor, did not seem able to take even eternity seriously.
“Well, I have reason to agree,” continued the lady. “If heaven were for everyone, as you believe, John,” she said, turning to Mr. Whitley, “then it seems to me it wouldn’t be one bit bettah than what we already have heah on earth. Soon we would have the killing, the war, the poverty—all the things we have at hand. That’s not the kind of heaven I would look forward to entering.”
Heads nodded solemnly.
“So the only thing left,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth went on, “is the business of how one gets to go there.”
Mrs. Whitley fidgeted morosely, her face looking pale again. Mrs. Allenby darted a look at her hostess, then seemed to measure her distance to the door. Belinda wondered if she was going to rush out.
The men still seemed perfectly unaware of the direction and intent of the conversation. To them it was a jolly good discussion, with some life—some spirit. They hadn’t enjoyed anything quite as much for a long time, their expressions indicated.
“We make our own heaven,” argued Mr. Whitley. “If we are miserly and mean and can’t get along with our fellowman, we live and die that way.”
“But that’s not exactly right,” argued Mr. Allenby. “There has to be something beyond life—we all know that in here.” He placed his hand over his chest.
“What gives us the right to determine who gets to heaven—and how? We are no different than our neighbor,” said Mr. Walsh with some spirit, looking like he had scored a good point, even though he did not feel too strongly about the matter.