Braided Gold

by Glen Roylance

  “In the flower of young womanhood she had long, blond hair like Cathy. In fact, the resemblance between my Christa and your Cathy was uncanny – another reason for my being drawn to her. I remember combing Christa’s hair and braiding it for her. She liked to have me tie off the ends of those braids with silk ribbons. She was the love of our lives during those wonderful days. I was supremely content as a wife and mother. But light and shadows seem to belong together if life is to be genuine, and we lost our daughter about the time she graduated from high school. She was killed in a tragic boating accident at Stony Point near Lake Erie.

  “We spent months condemning ourselves for having let her go with her friends, but that only made our ordeal more difficult. Once I had stopped condemning myself, I found it hard not to blame God. I couldn’t understand why he would give her to us in answer to our prayers, then snatch her from us in her prime. It was a difficult test of faith.”

  “And how did you do it?” asked Paul. “How did you get through that kind of a test without becoming cynical about life? Didn’t you ever consider abandoning your faith? Did you never consider the possibility that people are born, live their lives, and then die without there being a God? Did you never entertain the possibility that God’s existence is an invention of men as they struggle to make sense of life? If I’m honest, I must say that this business of faith eludes me. It seems that the call to faith requires the doubter to merely will himself to have faith. I can’t do that. It just seems like a game of make believe.”

  Though Paul’s sentiments were full of personal doubt, he was not challenging Elizabeth. Rather, it was as if he were pleading for an answer – some substance for faith that he himself could embrace without succumbing to the blandishment of simplistic, shallow ideas that placated the gullible.

  “Part of what you say is true, Paul. In a way one does have to will himself to believe. He must, at least, make up his mind that he won’t fight against or demean spiritual verities. He must decide to open himself to fervent spiritual desire. It’s not a game of make believe, but rather an experiment in believing – acting as if one already had assurance and anticipating a display of God’s power to verify the efficacy of one’s experiment in believing. I have discovered that this kind of ‘tentative’ faith ultimately brings genuine affirmation through experiences that transcend anything that can be discerned by the physical senses alone. They are simply inadequate in the providing of true spiritual enlightenment.

  “But let me continue my story, Paul. Perhaps there will be some value in your hearing how I finally found unshakable faith. After Christa’s death I became angry at life and, worse still, I allowed that anger to damage my faith in God. I felt that if the God I had embraced since childhood truly existed, he had abandoned me. In time, a feeling of futility completely overtook me, and I withdrew from life into myself. My relationship with Isaac languished, and I detached myself from the many friends that had become so important to me over the years. It was deeper than self-pity. It involved doubt and depression to a profound degree.

  “Then one day Isaac took me in his arms and spoke pleadingly. ‘Elizabeth,’ he said, ‘the death of Christa is the greatest tragedy of my life, but I’ve begun to fear something worse. Is it possible that something inside of you is dying as well? I need you, Elizabeth; please come back to me!’

  “Isaac’s plea was a ‘wake-up call,’ and it worked within me for days. It became clear to me that I had shut God out of my life. I was like a branch on a tree that had been broken off – which then died.

  “That day I decided to believe again. I would walk into the darkness and hope for a light to guide me. I took my scriptures in hand and began to read indiscriminately. As I continued it seemed that I was being led by a divine influence through new and uncharted territory. It was as if I had discovered spiritual sight for the first time. There was a veritable flood of new thoughts and deepened understanding. When I finally looked at the clock, I discovered that I had spent nearly four hours in what had become a passionate search for the mind of God. I had completely lost track of time.

  “Then, for the first time in many months I knelt in prayer, but unlike my earlier efforts at devotion this was fervent, pleading prayer. It was a prayer filled with new faith and new confidence. That prayer brought a discernible heavenly response. My feelings were elevated and my broken heart was comforted. For the first time in so many bleak months there was a return of animation to my life. All of my turmoil and personal pain was simply swept away.

  “As I sat pondering upon what I had experienced I heard a voice speaking within me. With perfect clarity it said, ‘You need to become a healer.’ That injunction left me bewildered. Again and again I asked myself what was meant in those words, ‘You need to become a healer.’ Then it all became clear. I needed to forget myself and look to the needs of others. I sensed that if I would accept this invitation my empty life would be filled and I would be granted the capacity to make a lasting difference in the lives of other people. Shortly thereafter I decided to return to my career as a teacher. What better way to begin my new quest in life?

  “Paul, I have discovered the goodness and power of God for myself, and he has become the first love of my life. I can honestly say that there is absolutely no question in my mind as to the existence of a merciful God, nor do I have the slightest doubt that the stories told us of the babe in Bethlehem are true – that the scriptural accounts involving Gethsemane and Golgotha are unassailable. I understand the significance of those things that occurred on the Galilean seashore wherein the resurrected Christ enjoined his disciples to ‘feed my sheep.’ Paul, I love the Christ! I think I love him no less than those who stood with him on that seashore – those whom he made healers of men.

  “He has allowed me to aid many people in making the same discovery that has changed my life. And this is the miracle of it all: Those of us who declare ourselves willing to help in the cause of human redemption are allowed to see God’s handiwork. It becomes our privilege to observe the ‘healer’s art’ operating amidst the intimate circumstances of people’s lives at a time and in a way uniquely suited to each individual’s needs.

  “This is the backdrop that will help you understand my reason for speaking with Cathy about faith that dark night in the hospital as she faced the imminence of death – the night she asked if I could teach her how to pray. This sense of mission is the reason my life has been intertwined with yours for many years. It is the reason I invited you to come to Ann Arbor!”

  It was enough for Paul – Elizabeth’s words seemed full of importance to him – he had understood! There was nothing more to add on Elizabeth’s part, for as she had spoken to him in deep sincerity an undeniable feeling had swept over him for the third time this night, bringing him to his quintessential “moment of truth.” Only one unresolved issue remained for him. If Elizabeth’s description of the path to faith was true, and he believed she had spoken the truth, then how was he to make the divine system fully work for him?

  It was Elizabeth who broke into these solemn moments of reflection, drawing Paul’s attention back to the day and the hour. “You’re weary, Paul. It’s been a long day for you. Let me show you to your room.”

  Paul felt subdued and sanguine. An element of peace seemed to envelop him. “Thank you,” he said, as he set about to retrieve the overnight bag he had left in the rental car. He followed Elizabeth up the stairs to a hallway that opened to an enclosed balcony built above the portico that formed the entryway to Elizabeth’s stately home. Continuing down the broad hallway they passed two doors on the left. At the end of the hall Elizabeth ushered Paul into the room that would be his for the night.

  She flipped on the light and embraced him gently, thanking him again for coming. Before she left, Paul added one postscript to their earlier conversation. “You’ve been so good to Michael” he said. “I am very grateful to you.”

  “It has been easy for me to love Michael,” she said with a smile, and then she was g
one leaving him alone.

  Like the rest of the home, Paul’s room was spacious and beautifully decorated. One wall consisted almost entirely of windows and was covered with sections of beautifully crafted burgundy draperies. The other three walls were a combination of papered and painted surfaces. There was a sofa and armchairs similar in styling to those in Elizabeth’s living room, also a large desk situated against one wall. A matching framed bed occupied the space to the right of the doorway opposite the bank of windows. Illumination in the room came from a small golden chandelier and matching crystal lamps on small end tables to either side of the bed. A green visor lamp stood on the desk. But of greater importance than the furnishings of this room were a few significant items that immediately caught Paul’s attention.

  He walked to the foot of the bed and gazed upon the large portrait occupying a place of central importance on the wall to his right. It was a picture of Cathy! – Cathy in her radiant beauty as a young woman. Though lifelike, the piece was not a photograph but a painting, accentuating Cathy’s beautiful long blond hair. The likeness was astounding. He stood for a long time looking with fondness at the canvas, then shifted his gaze to another painting that hung over the desk in the far corner of the room. He moved to it with disbelief. It was a painting of himself, much more contemporary than the likeness of Cathy. Intuitively he sensed that both paintings had come from Helen’s hand, undoubtedly at Elizabeth’s request. But how had she managed to render these likenesses so accurately. Paul’s eyes rested on a third beautiful portrait above the sofa. It was an equally impressive painting of Michael.

  Paul’s eyes now moved to two books lying on the bed. They were scrapbooks, one resting upon the other. He picked up the first and turned its pages with interest. He was astonished. It was a scrapbook that covered the details of his own life: duplicates of yearbook pages from high school days, numerous newspaper articles as well as blurbs and publicity items from N.E.T., copies of speeches, academic awards, and special items of recognition from across the years. There were also copies of periodical articles Paul had published throughout his career. It was a meticulous, loving documentation of his life’s work.

  The second smaller book brought feelings of shame as he slowly turned the pages. It summarized the recent crisis at San Diego State through newspaper articles and photographs, detailing everything from Paul’s raucous speeches to student demonstrations in recent weeks. The final articles were as recent as two days before and included the disturbing stories of the fire and student deaths connected with the campus riot. The various articles came principally from California newspapers. Paul was amazed at the rapidity with which Elizabeth had acquired these items chronicling events that had gone so dreadfully wrong.

  He now noticed a third item of interest, a white florist’s box lying on the end table near his bed. He opened it and looked upon a long golden braid secured with a red ribbon on either end. It was identical to the one he had left on his kitchen table at home. And so it was that now in this city, in this home under the spell of an unusual woman, that he was swept away in an unanticipated emotional experience. Perhaps it proceeded from a confluence of many things simultaneously transpiring in his life. He had slept very little in recent days, nor had he been able to hold much in his stomach prior to this evening. There had been the tragedy on campus accentuated by Kristel’s tearful phone call, there had been the confrontation with Tony Ballard in which he had nearly lost his own life, and then there had been the ugly turn of events in which Leo, the only real father he had ever known, had been placed under severe professional discipline thereby hanging a shroud over his illustrious career.

  But most fearful among these trying circumstances had been the dreams – those horrific dreams that had brought him to the brink of emotional collapse. It was these dreams that had plunged him into the recesses of his own mind where repressed self-accusation and guilt had their abode. He had experienced guilt that could no longer be held in abeyance. Accusations had assailed him until he had willingly yielded to them. It was there, in those dreams, that he had finally been engulfed in that mourner’s grief which is incapacitating.

  Now, in this instant, as all these physical, emotional, and spiritual forces combined to overwhelm him there was no inner control. The braid of hair was in his hands and against his face. His senses filled with powerful feelings that continued in wave after wave until something convulsed within him, and he fell on the bed weeping uncontrollably as a child in the midst of unbearable grief. Mingled with his sobs there came words from the depths of his soul. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Dear God, I’m so sorry.”

  Once it had commenced this eruption of overwhelming emotion could not be contained nor stayed. There was wrenching pain of a spiritual-emotional nature, unlike any pain typically reported by the physical senses. And now, in this spasm of intense sorrow, Paul broke. There was no mortal eye to behold this unspeakable grief, nor would Paul ever be able to explain it. All of this continued until sheer physical exhaustion intervened and he lapsed into a state somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

  He could feel the cool water lapping at his bare feet as it spilled over the logs of the raft from the blue lake all about him. There was a slight breeze that seemed to be moving him across the glass-like surface, and though the raft undulated slightly upon the water he had no fear of losing his balance. In his hands he held a long pole that flattened out at the end to become a paddle. It was his only means of steering. Majestic mountains in the distance rose up to the morning sky, and over the tops of the mountain peaks shafts of warm sunshine heralded the new day as they flooded the lake and its surrounding valley with golden light.

  The scene was a masterpiece of color. The mountain foothills were blanketed with wildflowers so profuse and dense that they appeared to be sheets of color descending to the meadow below. There were patches of yellow, violet, and pink, with all the colors now and again merging together. Stands of green mountain pines were visible further up the mountain slopes, and closer to him was the lush green meadow grass that surrounded the lake. Immediately before him was the dark brown shoreline where the sandy mountain silt had washed up from the lake. He had watched intently as he moved closer and closer to a person standing upon that shore. He could tell that it was a woman, though he could not make out her features. The slight breeze caught her white flowing dress in billows, moving it backward and forward, together with her long blond hair that shimmered in the sunlight. He sensed that she was waiting for his approach.

  And now, as he came closer, his heart leapt within him – it was Cathy, even more beautiful than in his enshrined memory of her. He extended the long pole and nudged the raft into the soft sand until its motion ceased. As he stepped to the shore she looked directly towards him and smiled. It was the smile he remembered from those days when, as a young man, he had been drawn to her, wishing for her affection. He walked eagerly in her direction, but stopped within a few feet of her person, sensing that some propriety might be breached by drawing nearer. He dared not speak, yet there were unspoken sentiments within which were full of wonder at this moment of unexpected reunion. “Oh, my dear Cathy. You have come back to me!” he said with a great desire for understanding.

  It was as if warmth emanated from her countenance and he was bathed in the light of her radiance, which was like the sunlight itself. Though she said nothing, Paul was made to understand that her visit with him was to be brief, but that it would be of great importance to him personally. Seizing this moment of communion he sought the means to express feelings that had been pent up within him for so many years. He spoke with reverence, as well as pure love.

  “Oh Cathy, I am so very sorry! … I’m sorry I caused you so much pain! Oh, if God would but let me live my life again I would make it up to you. I would do everything differently. How I wish I could make things right. I have made so many mistakes. I have hurt so many people. Can you ever forgive me? Can God ever forgive me?”

  Cathy spoke quietly and
reassuringly. “I come to you in the spirit of love, not condemnation. I forgive you. I forgave you long ago. Nevertheless, Paul, I speak for myself. I am not at liberty to speak in behalf of God. Your soul is in his hands at this hour, and you must make your peace with him. But it is given for me to tell you this much: You shall be granted sufficient opportunity to right many wrongs, to put aside old ways and to adopt new ones. If you will allow it, God will yet teach you how to live the balance of your life.”

  With those words there came a dawning of hope within Paul, a yearning to seize life and to become God’s willing student before this opportunity slipped from his grasp. How grateful he was, for what he perceived to be a second chance at living.

  He sensed that Cathy had delivered her message and that she must now leave him. Paul willed the joy of this precious reunion to remain, yet he knew his wish could not be fulfilled. He was filled with exquisite love for her that exceeded his capacity for expression. Surely she knew his thoughts, for she smiled once again, and in that brief exchange of love’s reciprocity he felt a power of healing course through him. For an instant the two varied spheres of their existence became one, and then she was gone. Yes, she was gone, yet she left no void behind, rather a refulgence of peace and hope. For Paul it was the dawning of a new day – a new life!

  When he opened his eyes the light of the morning had begun to stream through the slats of the Venetian blinds covering the windows of his bedroom. Initially, he struggled to get his bearings. Where was he? What day was this? Gradually his memory began to awaken. The hours of the night had slipped away as if in a moment, but the recollection of his experience remained vivid and he did not have the slightest inclination to question its authenticity. The spirit of renewal filled his soul and he felt a lightness of heart he had not experienced before. In his hand he continued to clutch the golden braid. Once again he pressed it against his face and felt its softness.