“You know,” I said after we had walked a ways in silence, “that I struggled with all this too, don’t you? We have talked about it several times.”
Becky nodded.
“Just because I thought I probably never would marry doesn’t mean I didn’t want to or didn’t think about marriage just like any girl. I’ve thought and cried and prayed, too. I went through stages of desperately wanting to be married and other times of not wanting to at all. One time I even thought about being a nun, like the sisters I stayed with back East. So when I say what I am about to say, you mustn’t think I say it only because none of this mattered to me. I have felt some of the same things you are feeling, Becky.”
Becky nodded as I spoke.
“There was a time,” I went on, “back when I revisited our old home in Bridgeville, that I saw some things in a new light. It was as if I relived the first fifteen years of my life all over again.”
I stopped, remembering again the moments I had experienced under the old oak tree.
“Go on, Corrie,” Becky urged.
“I realized that life could be wonderful, not because I might someday marry but because I had the Lord himself to be with me no matter what happened—forever. That’s when I first began to feel free to call God Father in a way I never could before.”
The memory of telling Becky about it brought back so many feelings that I felt my eyes starting to fill with tears. We were both quiet a few minutes.
“I’m glad you told me that, Corrie,” said Becky. We were quiet again and walked in silence for a while. Finally I reached over to lay a hand on her shoulder.
“Can you trust me enough,” I went on, “to accept what I might say to you as from someone who has felt what you are feeling, even though, as you say, maybe we were different in many ways too?”
She turned to me with big eyes.
“I’ll try,” she said softly.
“As I listen to you, Becky, and from everything I know about you as my dear, dear sister, I sense a heart that really desires what God wants, even though at times it is difficult and your soul wants something for itself—like to be married. Is that how you feel?”
Becky nodded.
“Sometimes those feelings struggle against one another,” I went on. “I have known that struggle. But I have come to believe there is a special place in God’s heart for young women who have the opportunity to learn to trust him in ways that those who marry young never experience. These feelings you are now having, the ones I encountered when I was in the East—those are not feelings Emily will ever be able to share with us. Some of us marry. Some don’t. That is in no one’s hands but the Lord’s alone. What is most important is how we respond to the Lord as he makes his will for each one of us known. Do we begin to feel an underlying resentment that blames God that we are not married? Or, even though it is hard, do we learn to trust God? Do we learn to say to him, like Mary, ‘I am the Lord’s handmaiden, be it unto me according to your word’?”
Becky said nothing, and we continued walking slowly alongside the stream. She seemed to be thinking seriously about what I was saying.
“That is a difficult thing for a young woman to say,” I added. “It is never easy to relinquish something we dearly want. And yet I think those very words of Jesus’ mother are often the door into deeper intimacy with God.”
“But why wouldn’t God want me to be married?” Becky blurted out finally. “Does he want me to be miserable and lonely all my life?”
“Oh, Becky, of course not!” I cried as her tears began again. I wrapped my arms around her, patting her slim shoulders, waiting for the weeping to subside.
Presently she pulled away, gave her head a little shake, and pulled up the edge of her skirt to wipe her eyes. Then we continued to walk, passing the mine—quiet this Sunday afternoon—and continuing along the path into the woods.
Lord, what would you have me say now? I prayed silently.
It was probably five minutes before either of us spoke again.
“What do you think, Becky,” I asked finally, “is it more important to do God’s will than to be married?”
Becky nodded.
“Jennie thought it was more important to be married than to do God’s will, and now look how miserable she is. You talk about being lonely, but your temporary loneliness is nothing compared to the garden of weeds she has planted for herself and now has to watch sprout.”
Becky took in my words without replying.
“Maybe you will never marry, Becky,” I added. “I don’t know what the Lord has planned for you. But if that should be the case, the only way to really come to terms with it is in thankfulness to God.”
“It’s hard to be thankful for that.”
“That may be. But do you know why you truly can be thankful?”
“Why?”
“Because the Lord has something even more wonderful planned for those of his Father’s daughters who don’t marry.”
“What could that be?”
“His own intimate companionship. He has chosen such a woman for himself, to walk with him as his own bride. And Jesus, more than any mortal man that ever walked the earth, is a faithful and loving life-companion.”
The Lord had shown me this truth when I was in the East and wrestling with this very thing Becky was now facing inside herself. But I could tell it was new for her to take in.
“You should have seen the joy the Sisters of John Seventeen had,” I added. “It was so wonderful to be part of it—it was that joy that made me consider joining them.”
We walked a distance longer as she mulled over my words in her mind.
“If you can only try to take a long-range, lifelong perspective,” I said after a bit, “it may be that you will look back with huge thankfulness that the Lord kept you single for a long while, protecting you from the heartache that might have resulted from a wrong or hasty marriage.
“Believe me, there is a lot of heartache over at the Woodstock home these days! And just think how awful it would have been had I married Cal!
“It really could be that the Lord has chosen you to walk with him and him alone, and that really could be a great blessing. On the other hand, maybe he wants to nurture you for several more years, preparing you and preparing your future husband so that a much stronger marriage can result.
“What is another five or ten years, if it means you are that much more mature spiritually and emotionally by then? What are a few more years of singleness if they mean the prayerful and thankful wait enables God to bless you with a man who is close to God—and loving and understanding to his wife?
“Wouldn’t you rather wait until age forty, if that meant having a happy marriage to a mature man, than marry too soon and then discover your husband was not as kind and loving as you thought, like Jennie has sadly discovered? Speaking for myself, I would sooner have waited another ten or even twenty years for Christopher!”
Becky sighed. I think she knew I was right, but the words ten and twenty sounded so long to her right then. Twenty more years would almost be her whole life all over again! To her ears, I might as well have said forever.
“As I look at it, Becky, I think a happy late-life marriage that would endure into old age would be far better than an early marriage that is full of conflict and pain. After my visits with Jennie, frankly, I do not see your situation as so awful. I know it may seem lonely at times. But I happen to think that possibly the Lord might have just the sort of man you desire picked out for you, but that he is waiting for the right time in order that your marriage will be founded on maturity rather than immaturity.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Do you trust him enough to say, ‘Lord, if I spend my life single, I will thank you . . . if I marry at forty I will thank you . . . if I marry at sixty I will thank you . . . I trust you, Lord . . . be it unto me according to your word’?”
By now we had gone about to the end of the path. We stopped and slowly turned around and bega
n walking back the way we had come.
“I don’t know, Corrie,” sighed Becky at length, “sometimes I think that there just aren’t men like Christopher for girls like me. Maybe you found the only one.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute, Becky,” I replied. “Good, godly, gracious men do exist for young Christian women who are willing to seek and pray for them, then put the timing into the Lord’s hands and not try to hurry him along in his work. They may be few and far between. But the Lord is fashioning men who want nothing but his will. They are worth waiting for. Even worth waiting twenty or thirty years for!”
“You didn’t have to wait thirty years, Corrie.”
“Perhaps not. But I was willing to.”
“Being willing isn’t the same as doing it.”
“Maybe it was because I was willing that I didn’t have to.”
“You mean if I am willing, maybe I won’t have to wait thirty years either?”
“Perhaps not. But then once you are truly willing, such a question would never occur to you.”
Chapter 30
Christopher’s Wisdom
We were nearly back to the house now.
“Let me ask if you’re willing to do something a little more immediate than wait thirty years,” I said. “Would you be willing for us to go inside and ask Christopher about this?”
“Oh, I’d be too embarrassed, Corrie!”
“He is a wise man.”
“I know that, but . . .”
“I’m certain he could shed more light on it for you than I’ve been able to.”
“Maybe, but you are my sister. You understand these kinds of things. It’ll be hard to talk to a man about it—especially your husband.”
“Christopher’s not only my husband, Becky. He’s your brother now, too. Just talk to him like you would me.”
We went inside the bunkhouse. Christopher was sitting in his chair reading. He glanced up with a smile. I could tell he noticed Becky’s tear-stained face and my serious expression, but all he said was, “Have a nice walk?”
“Very nice,” I replied. “We would like to talk to you about something.”
“Of course. Have a seat.”
Becky and I sat down on the only other two wooden chairs we had in the room. I briefly recounted the gist of my conversation with Becky, and eventually Becky repeated her most pressing questions for Christopher, too.
“It’s just so hard,” she concluded, “to understand why God would want me not to be married and why he hasn’t answered my prayers about it.”
The small bunkhouse fell silent. Christopher always collected himself before saying anything. I knew he was inwardly praying for the right words.
“The questions you raise are good ones,” he finally said, “and very difficult to answer. You’ve voiced some things I know many people wonder about. You can’t imagine how many times I heard similar questions when I was pastoring. That experience was one of the things that helped me be so patient myself in waiting for Corrie.”
He paused. “So you say you have prayed about this, Becky?”
“Oh yes,” she answered, “for years.”
“But you think God hasn’t answered you?”
Her voice quavered, fresh tears not far away. “I’m not married. So I assume he hasn’t answered me.”
Christopher paused another long moment and then answered with great gentleness, “But what if his answer is no? What if his answer is that he has something else planned for you that is just as good, or better—but that you can’t see as better yet?”
Becky shrugged. “Something better than marriage?”
Christopher nodded.
“I don’t know,” she said after a bit.
“Let me ask you something else, Becky,” he said. “I want you to give me a straight, honest answer—agreed?”
“I’ll try.”
“All right—does it seem to you as if I probably don’t know how you feel, that I probably haven’t faced the kind of heartache you are going through, that probably all of my prayers are answered?”
Becky squirmed a little in her chair.
“I suppose maybe so,” she said with an uncomfortable smile.
“I thought perhaps that might be the case,” Christopher said. “That is often how it is—after someone has grown and has developed a certain level of spiritual maturity, which is perhaps how I seem in your eyes, it can be easy to assume that person has led an easy life, when in fact it may have been severe hardship that has led to that maturity over the years. Let me tell you something, Becky—I have had a very difficult and painful life. Perhaps one day I shall be able to tell you about it. Meeting your dear sister has truly been the most joyful thing that has ever happened to me—the only really happy thing . . . outside of knowing God, I mean.”
When he said that, it was my turn for tears. What a privilege—and a responsibility—to be that to another person!
“I have come to be very, very thankful to God for my past,” Christopher went on, “but it was a gratefulness I had to learn. One’s first response to hardship is to complain, and I am no different from anyone else. I have had to learn how to pray in difficult circumstances, too. I have had to struggle with thinking the Lord hasn’t heard me. I have had to face the answer of no many times when I wanted the Lord to say yes.
“And through all those experiences I have learned some deep truths that I have come to depend on for my daily existence as much as I depend upon air to breathe and water to drink. May I tell you what they are?”
“Yes,” Becky nodded.
“The first truth I have learned to depend on,” Christopher said, “is that I know God is good. I know that God is always good and is good in all things, whether I see it or understand it or not. That must remain our foundation stone in life—yours and mine and Corrie’s and everyone who calls himself a child of God—when we don’t see answers.
“God is good. We must hang onto that, even if sometimes there aren’t answers we can see. Perhaps sometimes that in itself is the answer: God is good!”
Christopher paused, and Becky nodded. She seemed very intent on what he was saying.
“I know also that God operates on a longer timetable than we do. Imagine—he waited four thousand years to send Jesus after man had sinned. God’s purposes are never rushed. How much less will he be hurried in the small matters of our lives?
“Another truth I have learned to depend on is this: Besides being good, I know God is trustworthy. Therefore, I think our responsibility is to trust him even when we see nothing and where his timetable is lengthier than we would like.
“Does he hear our prayers? We see no answer . . . but we trust him anyway.
“Is life hard? Often, yes . . . but we trust that God is good.
“Will we see answers to all of our prayers before we die? Perhaps not . . . but God is still good and to be trusted, and we cannot hurry his purposes.
“Would you like to be married and don’t understand why God might have other plans for you? Yes . . . but he is good and you can trust him to do his very best for you. Do you see the perspective I am trying to get across?”
Becky nodded slowly. “I think so.”
“We can pray our prayers, trust him to hear, trust him to respond as he knows is best—which will always be best, because he is good—and then rest in that . . . trusting him.
“I suppose in short I would simply ask—do we believe God can be trusted above our own desire at times to see quick answers to our prayers?”
“And do you always believe that?” she asked. “Is it always so easy for you? It isn’t for me.”
Christopher met her eyes and sighed deeply. “Oh, Becky, if only you knew. No, it’s a daily struggle for me, too, as it surely is for all growing Christians. I have to say over and over, ‘Yes, I do believe that—God help my unbelief.’
“Do you remember that story in the New Testament?” he asked. “Help my unbelief—I love the dear father of the demon-posse
ssed boy who replied to Jesus with those words. What an example for us all!
“We cannot help but struggle with these things, Becky. We always will, because we are temporal human beings. There is a portion of us—the part that wants to do good—which believes. There is another portion—the part that doesn’t want to do good—which we might say is ruled by unbelief. And the two will always be in constant tension as we work at learning to listen and act upon faith rather than unbelief. But learning is a lifelong process.
“I can tell you that Corrie struggles with such things as well. But even as we struggle, we remind ourselves that God’s purposes—his eternal purposes and his very specific and personal purposes for us—generally take longer than we in our shortsightedness are comfortable with. Then we try to return to the fact that we can trust him.”
He sighed once more, deeply, then leaned back against his chair. “But I am preaching again, when you came to me for brotherly counsel.” He leaned forward again. “It may be that my answer will seem cheap to you. After all, I am married, so how can I possibly know what it is like for you? But I just ask you to remember that Corrie and I were unmarried when we were your age and planned to remain that way.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“It is obvious that most people do marry,” he said. “Yet being single is truly not the end of the world. It is only the end of the world if you let it be. I think it all boils down to whether you trust God or not.”
We all sat silent for a very long minute, then Christopher surprised us all with a very blunt question.
“Do you want to be close to God, Becky?” he asked her.
“Yes . . . yes, of course,” she replied.
“If you had to tell me the deepest desire of your heart—would it be to be married or to be close to the Lord for the rest of your life? I’m not saying you can’t do both. I only ask which is the deepest desire? Which do you want most?”
“I suppose to be close to God?”
“Are you just saying that? Or do you really mean it?”
Becky thought in silence a minute.
“No, I think I really do want to be God’s daughter more than anything and to be close to him . . . even though sometimes it is hard.”
The Braxtons of Miracle Springs Page 13
