Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  “And he gave them back to you today—how peculiar,” said Jocelyn. “What did he say?”

  “Not a word, Mother. And I didn’t ask. I have the feeling he did it behind his father’s back.”

  “I bet Cousin Gifford put him up to taking them in the first place,” said Catharine.

  Maggie was at the Hall waiting for them when they returned. Along with Sarah, the two of them had prepared a sumptuous tea for the weary mother, daughters, and London minister.

  As they sat with cups in hand later that evening talking casually, gradually the sense began to envelop all five, including Maggie, that a threshold had been crossed, that with the service behind them a new season of healing and regeneration had begun.

  It was clear to all that a great change had come over Amanda. Each one saw it. The intrusive, importune personality they had been acquainted with since her childhood had remarkably begun to give way to a calm, even reticent, demeanor. More often now she waited for others to speak, listening, absorbing, thinking, reflecting on what was being said around her rather than blurting out whatever came into her mind. And as she listened, it was clear her ears were open to the flow of conversation, eager to learn, to hear what others thought . . . hungry to glean from them. Her mother and sister, who had not been with Amanda for eight years, occasionally glanced at each other. Though Amanda had now been home for four days, they still did not know what to make of this soft-spoken young lady in their midst.

  That same evening, not to monopolize the conversation but realizing the importance of doing so, almost confessionally, Amanda began by degrees to fill in the details of her story since leaving Heathersleigh. She spoke softly and humbly, and the telling was not without many tears and interruptions. But she knew that for the healing of her homecoming to be complete, she must open her heart to mother and sister and pastor and allow them to be part both of her pain and her repentance. It nearly broke Jocelyn’s heart to listen.

  “Obviously it wasn’t,” said Amanda as she drew to a close after about an hour, “but sometimes I think the whole awful mess I made of the last eight years is almost worth it for the experience of being at the chalet. I didn’t realize it at the time, but those dear sisters and their stories, their love for me and acceptance of me, and their complete honesty all played such a part in finally opening my eyes to see myself. Maybe their openness and transparency was, in a sense, a mirror held up to my own face. They were all so real. I hardly knew what was happening to me, even though I was right in the midst of it. One of the first things I need to do, once I catch my breath, is write them a very long letter, thanking them.”

  A quiet smile came over Amanda’s face.

  “You know, it’s funny,” she said after a moment. “I can almost feel the spirit of the sisters coming over me right now. I have the feeling they are praying for me. Suddenly it feels good. For so long the idea of being prayed for infuriated me. Why was that, Rev. Diggorsfeld?”

  “No doubt it rubbed your rebellion a bit too raw for comfort, as it often does to people in such a frame of mind,” replied Timothy. “When one is running from God, one of the things they hate most of all is the thought that another is praying for them.”

  “Well, I certainly did. All of a sudden I can scarcely believe I was the same person.”

  Amanda exhaled a long sigh.

  “Another reason I need to write that letter,” she said, “is to apologize to Sister Hope for some of the things I said.—Oh, how could I have been so mean to so many people!”

  Again she began to cry.

  “It is so hard not to feel an overwhelming sense of guilt,” she moaned, “for everything! For what I said to the sisters, for how I treated Geoffrey . . . for horrid things I said and did to all of you—so many times I can’t stand to think of it. I’m so sorry! And especially for Daddy and George. How can I not think that maybe if I had come home sooner, this wouldn’t have happened and they might not have died?”

  “You are not responsible for their deaths, Amanda,” said Timothy.

  “But how can I not feel guilty?”

  “It is true that if you had come back sooner you might have had the chance to be reconciled in this life. However, I am certain good will come of it, and that God will use it somehow to help others. But as far as what actually happened with the ship, that is a burden you cannot carry.”

  “But I can hardly bear it.”

  “God is sovereign. This awful war which is consuming the world is certainly much larger than any of us.”

  “How can I know the difference between what I am supposed to feel, as you say, and not?”

  “There are proper guilts we must face and shoulder to some degree all our lives. The Lord uses these to keep us humble and reliant on him. But there are false guilts as well which we are not meant to carry. Satan is always trying to mix up the two in our minds and make us carry what we shouldn’t, and at the same time tempting us to make excuses for ourselves in those very areas where we are meant to be accountable. Learning to distinguish which is which is the challenge of dealing with guilt. But above all we must remember that nothing we do or do not do can thwart or alter God’s ultimate plans or will. As I said, he is sovereign. He is sovereign even in the midst of our sin.”

  “But how do I live with myself, Rev. Diggorsfeld? How can I face the future? How is it possible for me to face myself?”

  “For one thing, young lady,” he replied with a smile, “I think you need to start calling me Timothy, like everyone else around here. I gave up the Reverend a long time ago under this roof.”

  Amanda smiled sheepishly.

  “All right, I’ll try . . . Timothy. Though it sounds funny coming from me.”

  “What would you say to her question, Maggie?” said Timothy. “You have had to face the death of your Bobby. How do you go on?”

  “Life is not always a fairy tale,” said Maggie. “In this life, the Christian often has to find victory in the midst of heartbreak.”

  “A good reply!” exclaimed Timothy. “What about you, Jocelyn—how would you say we go on?”

  “Isn’t that the lesson of the cross,” said Jocelyn, “that our ultimate victory comes later?”

  “Exactly,” rejoined Timothy. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. You can always depend on these ladies to give you good advice, Amanda. Let me try to respond to your question about facing the future by saying this,” he went on. “This world will always bring suffering because we are sinners, but ultimately all will be reconciled. The cross is the symbol of suffering and death, just as it is the symbol of triumph and victory over the grave. You and your father will be restored to each other, Amanda, but in no fairy tale. Rather in the reality of eternity.

  “Another lesson of the cross is that sin has consequences. You have to live with that, my dear, learning that portion of its lesson too. I do not like to say such a thing at this time. Yet if you want to know how to go on with your life, what good will it do you for me to speak empty words? So, yes, wrong choices have consequences. You have to face them. One of the consequences for you is that you will not see your father again.”

  Amanda began to weep. The realization was so bitter she could not stand it.

  “But in the midst of those consequences,” Timothy went on, “we may focus our eyes on the ultimate victory of eternity. That is the majestic triumph of the cross! We live in this world amid the consequences of sin, while looking toward that final triumphant reconciliation. It is what life as a Christian in this world is all about. And so at the same time as I say what I just did about consequences, I would also tell you that God’s forgiveness is so tender that he wants only to wrap his arms of love about you, and hold you, and assure you that life will be good again. The challenge before you will be to somehow appropriate both the Lord’s and your father’s love and forgiveness.—You know that your father loves you right now, don’t you?”

  Amanda nodded.

  “I know that you will learn to live in that knowledge,
in the actual reality of knowing that he is still with you, but in a new way.”

  A long silence followed. Timothy looked around at the four women, and now addressed each of them.

  “I would say the same thing to you all,” he said, speaking as the elder statesman of the tiny congregation. “You have all lost your men. Maggie, you your dear Bobby. Jocelyn, Amanda, and Catharine, your dear Charles and George. In a sense you are alone now. God has plans and purposes that often go beyond our sight. The four of you must help each other to stand tall, encouraging and exhorting and leaning upon one another and giving one another strength.

  “God has a purpose for each one of you, and for Heathersleigh—yes, both the Hall and the cottage—to fulfill. We cannot see what his purposes are, but I do not believe this is the end for you four, but rather a beginning. Something lies ahead, a new chapter in your lives.”

  “What kind of something?” asked Catharine.

  “I don’t know. But I do know that God has given to women a special courage and special strength for such times as these.”

  “Special strength?” repeated Catharine.

  “Of course. In many ways women indeed are the stronger of the two halves of humanity. Not in brute physical strength, but in a host of inner ways where even greater strength is required. Some women never discover those reservoirs within themselves. But God has chosen that the four of you have no alternative. In a way, I am almost excited to see what might lie ahead, for this tragedy that has befallen us indicates in some way, I think, that God has some great thing in store, something he will reveal in time. Whatever it is will grow out of the ashes of your pain, and will flower as the result of the compassion perfected by your suffering.”

  Jocelyn began quietly to weep as Timothy spoke. Now slowly she rose, went to her room, and returned a minute or two later with the handwritten parchment Catharine had given her.

  Timothy began reading. Before he was halfway to the end, his eyes were moist with tears. He continued to read it aloud.

  For several long minutes it was quiet as they pondered the words Catharine had been given almost as if the Lord had spoken them himself.

  “What you have written here, dear Catharine,” Timothy said at length, “is prophetic. I truly believe it represents the Lord’s word to the four of you. I believe you will discover that reservoir of the Master’s nature together, and that God will use you to carry that discovery into the lives of many others.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “I don’t know why he has given you this road to walk,” he added. “But as I said, there is a strength in womanhood that sometimes in life has to stand in the lonely places. I will be here to help you. I hope you know that. I will always be here for you. But you four women must join together in prayer and common vision, and discover what it is the Lord has for you now.”

  116

  Milverscombe Remembers

  On the following Sunday, the old stone church of Milverscombe parish was packed as it had not been except on two or three occasions during its long existence.

  “We are going to cut short our regular service from the prayer book this morning,” said Vicar Stuart Coleridge, “in order to spend some time remembering our dear friends Charles and George Rutherford.

  “Last week, we were all so numb from shock of the news that I must admit I would almost rather have canceled services than go through them as we did, knowing our beloved Lady Jocelyn and her daughter Catharine were grieving and we felt so powerless to extend our love to them. Yet now a week has gone by, and we are pleased that Sir Charles and Lady Jocelyn’s older daughter, Amanda, is now with us again. I hope, therefore, that the passage of this time will enable us to put these heartbreaking events into a perspective that will comfort our hearts and allow us to recall these cherished loved ones with joy, asking our Lord to bring a new dawn of hopefulness to our hearts.

  “I have asked my good friend and yours, Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld from London, to preside. Rev. Diggorsfeld needs no introduction, for he has been in our midst on many occasions throughout the years. As uncommon as it may be in other parts of Great Britain for Church of England vicars and dissenting Presbyterian ministers to exchange pulpits from time to time, I hope it will always be considered the norm here, where I and this man—whom I count among my closest spiritual friends and advisors—happen to believe in unity above doctrinal and denominational distinctions. That said, I will now turn the remainder of this morning’s service over to Rev. Diggorsfeld.”

  Timothy came forward, shook hands with the vicar, then stood before the Milverscombe congregation. He remained silent for many long seconds. Finally he drew in a deep breath and began.

  “Thank you, Vicar Coleridge,” Timothy said. “The occasion that brings us together on this day is a grievous one to our hearts,” he went on, “—grievous, I should add, as the world judges it. Though Vicar Coleridge is correct in saying the passage of this week has helped assuage the initial numbness and shock, I must tell you that I remain devastated by what has happened, and sad almost beyond my capacity to endure it. It should not be grievous to us, for life has come to these two men, father and son, whom we loved. But it is grievous. Who can deny it? We are weak humans, after all, and do not quite yet believe in eternity with all our hearts. We believe in it, of course. I do not say we doubt the truth of the resurrection. But we are not yet quite able to base our lives upon the full glory of that belief.

  “What can we do, what can we say, to comfort one another? It is at such times that eternity intersects with our weakness, crashes cruelly in upon our earthly senses unbidden. And try as we might, even knowing that at such moments we may possibly catch glimpses of the faint glow of eternity from around the edges of the closed door of our finiteness . . . yet we mourn and cannot be comforted, because we are not yet given to see past that door.”

  Timothy paused, looked across the sea of faces, and tried to smile.

  “I believe in eternity,” he said at length. “I do believe, as I know each of you do. Yet I have wept this week, as have dear Lady Jocelyn and her two lovely daughters, and as I know have all of you. Something tells me I should not weep, that the faint shimmer from beyond the door ought to prevent it. But I did weep. I could not help it. For I am a man, a weak man. I cannot yet behold with clarity what lies beyond the veil we call death.”

  Again Timothy paused, this time for several long and thoughtful seconds.

  “But Charles and George do behold it,” he went on. “They are there. They are even at this moment bathed in the luminescence of that garden of light of which we are only able to discern hints and faint glows. That door has been opened to them. They have now been privileged to begin their eternal journey. And for that, however deep the aches in our own hearts . . . we ought to be able to rejoice.

  “So I am going to ask whether we might this morning, for their sake, open the door if not in reality, at least in our imaginations, and rejoice . . . for them rather than grieve for ourselves.

  “Can we do that, my friends?

  “We shall weep together. I know I shall. My tears are not altogether dry. I miss my friends. But may we now weep with joy because eternity has visited us rather than weep for our loss?

  “It will be difficult. But can we not try to do this together?

  “Let us remember our friends as alive, as they surely are. Let us take courage to think of them among us and with us in the spirit now, at this very moment . . . smiling and laughing and spreading the goodness of life to those around them as they always did.

  “They are here! Knowing that, I rejoice in the lives that Charles and George Rutherford lived when they were with us in the flesh. Rejoice with me, rather than mourn, that those lives were not as lengthy as we might have wished. Remember our Lord’s words, ‘No one who lives and believes in me will ever die.’

  “I think we must ask ourselves, ‘Do we believe the Lord?’ He said they would never die! I challenge us to be strong to take our Lord’s words int
o our hearts. Let us be strong to rejoice together for George and Charles Rutherford. As we do, let us find comfort in those truths about our heavenly Father that undergirded Charles’ faith—his assurance that his God was trustworthy and good in all things. Charles believed, as I know George did as well, that God’s goodness and trustworthiness extended beyond death.

  “Therefore, we may trust God—yes, even trust that God is still good—in the midst of what appears a tragedy. What should be our response to this heartbreak? That God is good. Can we understand how it can be? No . . . but God is still good.

  “Charles knew that, and based his life on it. For his sake, I challenge you—and I challenge myself—to take hold of that truth and refuse to let it go. Our hearts are sore . . . but we know that God is good!”

  Timothy continued for another ten minutes, then opened the floor for brief remembrances of Charles and George from members of the community.

  The instant his voice was still, a dozen hands rose into the air. Timothy hardly knew where to begin with the flood that seemed determined to unleash itself.

  Never had the church seen such an outpouring of affection for one of its number. English reserve was cast aside for the opportunity to share about one they loved. The testimonials went on for forty minutes. And though tearful, they were remembrances of joy. The spirit of Charles’ smiling face did indeed rise above the gathering and infect it with something of the same vibrancy as if he were personally among them.

  Amanda sat as one stunned to hear of an aspect of her father’s and George’s lives to which she had been so oblivious. She almost wondered if they were talking about someone else. Yet through it all, the ring of familiarity was undeniable. She found image after image now coming back to her, as she faintly recalled many of the incidents spoken of, but realizing she had not taken note of their significance at the time.

  At last they were dismissed. As Jocelyn and her daughters filed outside, it seemed the whole community clustered about them. Not a single person felt like leaving.