Though None Go with Me

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Daddy,” ten-year-old Elisabeth said tearfully one night, “I don’t think I’m a Christian.”

  Still in his three-piece suit, as usual, he settled his huge frame on the edge of her bed. “You’re the best Christian I know,” he said.

  “Then you don’t know me.”

  “Have you done something dastardly, Elisabeth?”

  “I don’t know what dastardly means, but I sin all the time.”

  Her father hesitated. “So do I,” he said finally.

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “Sometimes I perform my tasks for the applause of men.”

  “The applause of men?”

  “I do it for attention, to be admired and respected.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I should be doing it as unto the Lord. The Bible says we are to humble ourselves in his sight and he will lift us up.”

  “But you’re not selfish, are you, Daddy?”

  “I usually hide it, but I’m often frustrated by patients who come to me with minor ailments at the end of the day and make me late getting to you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like sinning,” she said.

  “Tell me what you mean by sinning,” he said.

  “I can be awful,” Elisabeth said. “I lose my temper, talk bad about people, want my own way. I’m jealous of anyone who does better than I do in school. Sometimes I actually hate Aunt Agatha. Why do I keep doing that?”

  He shifted his weight and the bed creaked. “We keep sinning because we’re sinners, honey.”

  “But Jesus died for my sins. Why am I still a sinner?”

  Her father gently stroked her hair. “You remind me so much of your mother,” he said. “She was light-haired with skin as fair as porcelain.”

  “Aren’t our dishes made of that?”

  He nodded. “Imagine your mother’s face as delicate and beautiful as the teacup your aunt uses.”

  Elisabeth sighed. “I want to be a Christian like Mommy.”

  Her father embraced her. Her cheek lay against the wool of his vest and his watch chain tickled her neck. “Just like you, your mother worried and worried about her faith until it all came to her one night in our little church.”

  “What came to her?”

  “She heard the truth, that’s all,” her father said. “She’d heard it all her life, but she didn’t catch it until then.”

  “I want to hear the truth,” Elisabeth said.

  “Such wisdom from a wee one,” he said, pulling back to look at her. “Tell me what it means to be a Christian.”

  “To believe in Jesus,” she said. “And to live for him,” she added quickly.

  “Is that so?” he asked. “The Bible says we are known by the fruit we bear. You try to live for Jesus, Elisabeth. I know you do.”

  Elisabeth scowled. “Doesn’t God want me to?”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “Daddy, I’m asking you.”

  Dr. LeRoy stood and stretched, and Elisabeth did the same. His yawn was contagious too, but she fought sleep. If her own mother had the same problem she did, and she had found the answer, Elisabeth would not rest until she found it too.

  Her father sat again. “Listen carefully, Elisabeth. Your mother finally realized what grace was all about. It means we don’t have to please God, because we can’t.”

  Elisabeth was confused. “You mean we’re not supposed to try to—”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “We try to live godly lives to show our thanks to him for grace. Nothing we can do on our own can please God. You know the verses.”

  “‘For by grace are ye saved through faith,’” she said, “‘and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.’”

  “We’re saved by the grace of God, Elisabeth. Living godly is noble. But don’t do it for any reason other than to thank God for the gift of grace. Otherwise, you’re still trying to earn his favor.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Losing her mother in childbirth had been a blow, but Elisabeth lacked little else. Despite her father’s counsel, even as a child Elisabeth learned that the first ward was the place to live. “The riffraff in the other wards gossip about first warders,” her aunt said. “But you know they strive to move up here themselves.”

  Elisabeth felt priceless when her father’s countenance brightened at the sight of her at the end of the day. “Homework report,” he would announce, and she brought him up to date. “Um-hm,” he repeated, studying her work.

  “Are you tired, Daddy? You’re breathing hard.”

  He inhaled deeply. “Be sure to get more exercise than I do,” he said. “And be careful of your diet.” He patted his ample belly. “This is a self-inflicted handicap, but such things are also genetic. You’ll have to be careful.”

  Her father’s height camouflaged his true weight, which Elisabeth guessed at nearly three hundred pounds. He changed the subject. “Isn’t learning an adventure?” he said, a smile burning through his haggard face. “Education gives us a passion for life!”

  She nodded, aware of his stare. Normally he lingered over her schoolwork, making sure she understood the material, but now he just gazed at her. “You look more like your mother every day.”

  “Those smelly ladies at church pretend they’re my mother,” she said, shuddering at their smothering embraces.

  “They’re just affectionate.”

  Elisabeth shrugged, not letting on that she always shut her eyes and imagined her own mother. She had not even told Frances about that.

  Aunt Agatha did not hug her, and for that Elisabeth was grateful. She had heard her aunt sobbing in her bed, railing against God for taking her loved ones. That made Elisabeth cry too, and at times she raged against injustice—against the unfairness, for instance, that Frances Crawford enjoyed both a loving mother and a father.

  But Elisabeth would not complain. She remembered what her father had told her: “Always look on the bright side. Half the people I treat would be helped merely by a more positive outlook.”

  “I know,” she said. “See?” She flipped to the back of her school writing tablet, where she had listed, “My blessings: God. Christ. Holy Spirit. Bible. Church. Father. House. Warmth. Brain. Curiosity. Books. Lamp. Food. Bed. Clothes. Training Hour. Friends. Aunt Agatha (sometimes).”

  When Elisabeth’s body began to change, her father seemed to change too. He grew more careful around her, speaking more circumspectly.

  “Who’s going to tell me about the things of life?” she said.

  He looked away. “Such as?”

  “You know. Men, women, husband and wife things.”

  “There’s time for that,” he said, busying himself in one of her books. Elisabeth wondered if she had broached a subject not proper to discuss.

  One day her father sent her to a nurse friend of his at the hospital for a physical exam. Elisabeth blushed when the woman gave her a cursory once-over and said quietly, “Your father has asked that I explain what you might expect for your monthly cycle.” The nurse also gave her a booklet on sexuality.

  Elisabeth was so embarrassed she could not look at her father or speak to him for days. And it seemed that was fine with him.

  They became cordial again, then more familiar, and were soon back to a friendly routine. He had to be as aware as she that there was a subject neither would acknowledge. Elisabeth wanted to ask if it was customary for one’s mother to discuss such matters, but she dared not broach even that. She told Frances, “I will speak frankly to my children, at least my daughters, about these things.”

  With Elisabeth’s increasing knowledge of the mysteries of life, her view of God and faith began to mature as well. “I finally understand the virgin birth,” she whispered to Frances. “Don’t laugh, but I always thought a virgin was just a young woman.”

  Frances shook her head. “Mary kept Jesus from being born with Adam’s seed.”

  “I finally understand how Jesus qualifies
to be the spotless sacrificial lamb of the Old Testament,” Elisabeth said. She found that miracle every bit as dramatic and impressive as the Resurrection, and suddenly the picture of redemption and salvation began to crystallize. How often had she heard Pastor Hill say that one death could cleanse the sins of all, “because the lamb that was slain was the infinite God of the universe”?

  The truth of it hit Elisabeth hard one humid summer Sunday night when the pastor preached on the subject of the cross. He asked the congregation to “close your eyes and imagine Jesus hanging there just for you.” In the dark silence Elisabeth trembled, believing that if she had been the only person in the world, Jesus would have died just for her. When Pastor Hill whispered, “He loved us, every one, as if there was but one of us to love,” she burst into sobs.

  Barely thirteen, Elisabeth developed a hunger to understand everything about God. She made an appointment with Pastor Hill and was shocked to find him nearly as embarrassed to talk to her about the deeper things of God as her father had been to talk to her about the secrets of life. Jack Hill had been pastor of Christ Church since long before Elisabeth was born. It was he who had brought life to the doctrine of grace, giving such peace to Elisabeth’s mother.

  Pastor Hill was tall and knuckly, a hardware store clerk Monday through Saturday mornings. His office, such as it was, occupied a tiny alcove off the dining room in a modest parsonage in the third ward, where he and his wife had raised six children. Elisabeth and the pastor sat with his pine desk between them. He wore his Sunday suit, stiff collar pressing his Adam’s apple. She wondered if he spent his afternoons dressed like that, studying and preparing his sermons. She would be impressed if he had dressed just for their meeting, but she thought it imprudent to ask.

  “I just want to know if I have it all,” Elisabeth exulted, accepting his offer of a chair and fanning herself as she spoke. “I always loved the faith, but I thought so much of it was a mystery, like the Trinity.”

  Pastor Hill stared at the wall behind her. “Much of the faith is indeed a mystery,” he said. “Salvation itself is a mystery, as Paul writes.”

  “But it’s less mysterious now, Pastor. You make everything so clear.”

  The pastor sat back, clearly embarrassed. “Well, Elisabeth, you’ve had wonderful training at home, and I know from your teachers and my own observance that you know your Bible.”

  “I only thought I knew it. There’s so much there! I, uh, just wondered if there are more secrets or mysteries.”

  Pastor Hill studied her. He hollered to the kitchen. “Margaret, could you join us?” His wife was red-faced and stocky with raw fingers, her hair piled atop her head. She was sweating through her blouse as she dried her hands.

  “Margaret,” he said, his voice thick. “You know Elisabeth, of course.”

  “I’ve known her all her life, Jack,” she said, smiling. “The spirit and image of her beautiful mother.”

  “But did you know she is an answer to prayer? Have I not been praying for years for a young person in love with Christ?”

  Margaret nodded. “You have.”

  Elisabeth hadn’t come to be singled out. “Is there more of God?” she managed finally.

  Mrs. Hill smiled but appeared on the edge of tears. “There is all of God that you want,” she said.

  “The Trinity and salvation,” she said, nodding. “I’ll accept the one by faith, but the other is much clearer now.”

  The pastor seemed amused. “I have studied Scripture since Bible school and find salvation God’s greatest mystery. I’m grateful Paul writes that we ‘may know.’ I rest in that.”

  Elisabeth immediately said, “First John 5:13, ‘These things have I written unto you that believe on the name of the Son of God, that ye may know that ye have eternal life, and that ye may believe on the name of the Son of God.’”

  Pastor Hill nodded, moisture from his forehead collecting in the creases beside his mouth. “Unfathomable love and grace is beyond me and most everyone but young girls.”

  Elisabeth scowled, wondering if he was criticizing her naivete.

  His sad smile was like his wife’s. It was as if he could read her mind. “I pray you will always stay close to Christ, despite any cost. True devotion requires sacrifice.”

  “It hasn’t so far,” she said, and that made him smile again.

  He gazed at her, and she wondered if the meeting was over. She had more questions now than when the conversation had started. He reached for his Bible. “I need to tell you,” he said, “that when you feel drawn closer to God, you must remain open to his call. The nudging in your spirit may be evidence that God wants more from you. And Jesus said that to whom much is given—”

  “‘Of him shall be much required,’” Elisabeth said. “‘And to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.’ Luke 12:48.”

  “You are remarkable,” the pastor said, leafing through his Bible. “Elisabeth, Paul counts all things but loss compared to knowing Christ and knowing the power of Christ’s resurrection. The power that raised Jesus from the dead can work in our lives. Think of it! But see what follows. As Shakespeare would say, here’s the rub. Read it.”

  “‘… and the fellowship of his sufferings.’”

  The pastor appeared to look upon her with pity.

  “What does it mean?” she said.

  “The more of God you want, the more of Christ you’ll get. Most are content to stay out of the deep water.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re warning me or encouraging me.”

  “Both, Elisabeth. God does not call us to a closer walk to make our lives easier. Pray about your desire for a closer walk,” he said. “I know few with the stomach for the cost. If you are called, you must go. But the rewards are few.”

  He seemed to rouse from a reverie and smiled at her. “There have been costs,” he said. “But I am without regret.”

  Elisabeth wanted to ask what his walk with God had cost him, but she dared not. “I’ve taken too much of your time,” she said.

  “Not at all,” he said. “Let me pray for you before you go. Margaret, would you be so kind.” Mrs. Hill laid her hand gently on Elisabeth’s shoulder as the pastor knelt. A lump rose in Elisabeth’s throat.

  “Fairest Lord Jesus,” he began, “to you who promise to be both mother and father to the orphan, I plead for a touch on Elisabeth’s life. She seeks a closer walk. May she be willing despite a cost you never reveal in advance, lest we faint at the weight of it. May she follow completely the one in whom there is no change, neither shadow of turning.”

  The pastor remained kneeling as if too spent to rise. Mrs. Hill’s cheeks shone with tears, and Elisabeth could not even express her thanks.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Elisabeth walked home at twilight. She was about to cross to the other side of West Michigan Street when she saw Will Bishop ahead on his bicycle, gas lamp lighter held aloft. In knickers and cap, he pretended not to notice her, as usual. They had known each other all their lives. One of her earliest memories was of tussling with him in the church nursery.

  Elisabeth thought of avoiding him for his sake, not for hers. Poor Will was painfully shy. She couldn’t decide what would be best, to spare his having to acknowledge her or to educate him in the social graces. She decided on the latter.

  “Good evening, Will,” she said, stopping before him as he prepared to light a lamp.

  “Oh,” he said, as if surprised. He left one hand on the handlebars and touched his cap with the other, seeming to forget he was holding the long wick. “Hullo, Elspeth.”

  “Careful there,” she said. “Don’t set yourself afire.”

  “No’m,” he said.

  “I’ll let you shorten my name,” she said. “But you must not call me ma’am until I’m older.”

  “Sorry.” He looked away miserably.

  “I’m teasing, Will. Call me anything you wish, as long as you call me your friend.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Better k
eep going.”

  “Nice to see you, Will,” she said.

  “Yes’m,” he said, “I mean, friend.”

  Elisabeth wished she could tell him about her visit to the pastor, but did boys ever even think about such things? She could barely get him to look at her, much less converse. She had once made the mistake of asking Will about his father, frequently the object of unspoken prayer requests. Will had merely shaken his head.

  In youth group one night, a girl suggested a young people’s activity might include an outing to see Mr. Bishop at the State Hospital in Kalamazoo. The youth group fell silent when Frances Crawford (who had lately earned the nickname Big Mouth) offered, “Isn’t that where they send the loonies?”

  Dr. LeRoy later assured Elisabeth that Mr. Bishop was “no loony, which is certainly not a term anyone should use for a mental patient anyway. He suffers from an undiagnosed memory malady, and it would serve you and your friends better to pray for him than to call him names.”

  “Should we visit him?”

  “I’m afraid he wouldn’t know us.”

  Elisabeth’s friends said Will was handsome, but caring about that seemed frivolous. Frances accused her of being too serious and “way too spiritual. No boy’s ever going to be interested!”

  Elisabeth was impressed that Will seemed willing to work. He had a paper route, which he threw after midnight while outing the gas lamps he had lit just before sundown. He had his own little scavenger company, selling wagons full of stuff to the junkyard. And he volunteered to carry groceries, never charging but accepting tips. Elisabeth wondered if he said two words to his customers. She glanced back at Will as she headed home.

  Still full of emotion from her visit with the pastor, Elisabeth was disappointed to find her father not home. It was just her and Aunt Agatha. The dreary woman seemed to need a target for her moods. “Where’ve you been, young lady? Your dinner’s long cold.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

  “About you? That’s a laugh. Did your father know you would be late?”