“I’ve searched myself, Ben.”
“—or we misinterpret the phrase ‘give you the desires of your heart.’”
“What’s to misinterpret?” she said.
“Has he given you the desires of your heart?”
“No!”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I’m asking you, Ben. I have nowhere else to turn.”
“Consider a possibility: that the phrase ‘he will give you the desires of your heart’ means he will tell you what the desires of your heart should be.”
Elisabeth sat staring, blinking.
Ben continued. “In other words, delight yourself in him and he will tell you what to desire. That same passage says, ‘He shall bring forth your righteousness as the light, and your justice as the noonday. Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.’”
“How can I, Ben? I’m so angry!”
“The passage gets more personal. ‘Cease from anger, and forsake wrath; do not fret; it only causes harm.’”
Elisabeth could barely move. She let her chin fall to her chest and wept.
Ben rested a hand on hers. “In about ten minutes I’m expecting one of the widows from my last church to come and play the piano and sing. Any day other than today Dellarae Shockadance might amuse you.”
Elisabeth looked up. “That’s her name?”
“Don’t get me wrong, she’s a wonderful person. But she’s a little overweight, a little rosy-cheeked, and little enthusiastic on the keyboard and as a vocalist. Come to chapel, and then let me drive you to Three Rivers.”
“But my car—”
“You shouldn’t drive without sleep. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow and you can drive home after that.”
“It’s out of your way.”
“I don’t want to worry about you on the road.”
“I appreciate that more than I can say, Ben. I just wish I could sleep.”
“You will. I’ll look for you at chapel.”
Elisabeth sleepwalked to Will’s room to gather her things, touched his lean shoulder, and made her way down the hall. She was among the first at chapel and sat in the back. Dellarae was already at the piano and playing too loudly. She wore a red dress slightly too small for her, a hat with a feather, and a huge smile. She played with a flourish, ending every phrase with a high note.
The little chapel soon filled. Dellarae seemed to enjoy herself. She accompanied herself for a solo, and she and Ben sang a duet before he spoke. With her feather keeping time, she transported Elisabeth to childhood when she snorted aloud to keep from laughing at the guest soloist at the protracted meetings.
Ben spoke for twenty minutes. When Mrs. Shockadance began the last song, Elisabeth slipped out and waited for him. Finally he emerged and introduced the women. “I’ve heard so much about you,” Dellarae gushed. “And I’m so sorry about your loss. My husband died almost ten years ago, when I was about your age. Thank God we had twenty-five years together.”
Elisabeth tried to smile but could not. Losing a husband after twenty-five years didn’t sound so bad. She had allowed her own silver anniversary to pass without notice the previous January.
Elisabeth confronted Joyce at the funeral. “Please,” she said, “let’s not become strangers. I want to help with the baby.”
Eyes hidden behind sunglasses, Joyce nodded and said nothing. A contingent of her old friends and possibly family—none were introduced to Elisabeth—crowded the front row. They smelled of tobacco and body odor and stood in a group smoking while awaiting the ride to the cemetery.
Despite Ben’s warm message, Elisabeth’s pain was unabated. She feared she would never find her way out of the black hole that entrapped her. Receiving friends was as difficult a chore as she could remember, and she was grateful to finally arrive home.
She changed into her nightgown and robe in the middle of the afternoon and lay atop the covers of her bed. Sleep eluded her, yet exhaustion overwhelmed her. The thought of going back to work and driving to Kalamazoo every afternoon depressed her all the more.
Through Christmas and New Year’s she prayed for relief, venting her anger toward God. People at church, at work, and at the hospital were kind but no help. Ben was compassionate and never failed to try to cheer her. She took a break from her Sunday school class and stopped her missionary letters too, feeling hypocritical and not wanting to spread her bitterness.
Late in the evening of January 23, 1946, she was startled to hear the rough voice of an uneducated man on the phone. “This here Mrs. Bishop?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Yeah, um, I’m, ah, friend of Joyce Adams, ah, Bishop.”
“I’m Elisabeth Bishop.”
“Joyce wanted me to tell you that you have a granddaughter.”
Something broke loose in Elisabeth as she hurried to the hospital in the middle of the night. For the first time in weeks, she was able to thank God for something. “Restore me!” she pleaded. “Make me what I need to be for this child.”
How long had it been since she had heard from God? He seemed to impress upon her afresh something she had known all her life. What he was about, the desire he wanted to plant in her heart, was to bring as many as possible into his family. That still, small voice reminded her, “I am not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.”
Her granddaughter needed Christ. Her daughter-in-law needed to be brought back to him. Elisabeth herself, as well as Joyce and the baby, could be used to further God’s kingdom. She still didn’t understand, didn’t agree Bruce had to die, still wanted answers. Meanwhile, she was starving from the estrangement. She missed God, needed him, wanted him.
Suddenly, from deep within her memory gushed verses she had memorized as a child. As she drove, blinking away tears, she recited from Psalm 51:9–13: “Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit. Then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee.”
Elisabeth dug in her purse for a hankie and wiped her face. Joy flooded her and she thanked God for not abandoning her. “Be my friend!” she cried. “Be my guide and my companion. All my trust is in you. Though I don’t understand you, I love you. You are my rock, my fortress. In you I hide. I have nowhere else to turn.”
In the same building where she had lost her son, she was introduced to a squalling baby girl, just under seven pounds. “I’m going to call her Lisa,” Joyce said, smiling sadly. “Bruce and I had agreed to name her after you. Elisabeth Grace Bishop.”
“I couldn’t be more touched.”
“I don’t believe in grace anymore. You were a great mother, but I wouldn’t have given her that middle name, except Bruce wanted me to.”
“You need to see that she’s raised in the nurture and admonition—”
“That will be up to you,” Joyce said. “You’re not going to find me in church again.”
“Oh, Joyce.”
“Don’t start. God lost me when he took Bruce.”
Elisabeth wanted to argue, to warn Joyce against becoming a miserable old woman as Aunt Agatha had. But Elisabeth herself had nearly lost her faith. Joyce handed her the baby and Elisabeth wept. Holding that precious new life and looking into her dark, curious eyes, she resolved to find Aunt Agatha and give her a look at her great-grandniece.
“I’ll be happy to take Lisa anytime.”
“Don’t worry,” Joyce said. “I have to work, so I’ll need a lot of help.”
“I’d love to show her off at church. Will you come—”
“No, now I told you. You can take Lisa, but don’t expect me to go and don’t ask me again.”
Elisabeth spent the next several months praying that if God could not make clear some purpose in Bruce’s death, he would somehow nurture in her heart d
esires that would please him. She revisited her commitment to obedience and hunkered down to resume her spiritual disciplines and service. She even told Ben she’d try a duet with him in the State Hospital chapel.
Elisabeth cut her work hours in half, determined to sacrifice if necessary so she could watch Lisa frequently, spend more time in Kalamazoo, and enlist Ben’s help in locating her aunt. Through his contacts with other healthcare facilities in the state, he finally found Agatha Erastus in the Battle Creek Home for the Aged. She was seventy-five years old, in a wheelchair, and nearly blind from diabetes.
Noting how close Battle Creek was to the penitentiary in Jackson, Elisabeth informed the prison chaplain she was bringing Benjamin Bishop’s first niece to meet him. “If you have to surprise him, do it. Don’t even give him the option of turning us away.”
She and Ben agreed on “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” for their duet at the State Hospital chapel, and the indefatigable Mrs. Shockadance came early to rehearse. “You’re singing my favorite song,” she said, and sobbed loudly throughout practice, which was the only thing that kept Elisabeth from doing the same. She had to concentrate on blending with Ben’s beautiful baritone. As she sat waiting to sing in front of the audience, she let the lyric echo in her mind. “My richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.”
After the duet, during which Dellarae was able to keep quiet despite torrents of tears, she told Elisabeth, “It’s eerie. You two sound as if you were born to sing together. It’s almost as if you’re related, the blend is so perfect.”
Elisabeth stopped to see Will on her way out, feeling guilty over how she enjoyed standing close to Ben. Ben was careful about not touching her, reminding her of how perfectly appropriate Will had been years before when living in the same house with her, secretly loving her, but honoring her engagement to Ben.
As she left, Ben met her in the hallway. “We’ll have to do that again sometime,” he said. “That sure melted the years away.”
“I’d like that,” she said.
“I’ll play for you two anytime!” Dellarae hollered from the end of the hall, and Ben and Elisabeth smiled at each other.
Elisabeth arrived home to a letter from the chaplain in Jackson. “I suggest you accelerate plans to see your son. He is showing signs of confusion and forgetfulness. Any light you might shed on this would be appreciated, family history, etc.”
Elisabeth slumped on the couch, letter in hand. She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “God,” she prayed, “don’t do this to me.”
Transporting a baby by herself reminded Elisabeth she was not as young as she used to be. She encouraged herself by imagining the looks on the faces of Aunt Agatha and Benjy when they saw this beautiful little one.
An orderly wheeled Aunt Agatha to the great room in the Battle Creek Home. Her chair brakes were locked near a couch by the window, and the orderly bent to speak loudly into her ear. “You have visitors, Mrs. Erastus!”
The little old lady, her hair now wisps of white, scowled and looked up at him. “I what?”
“You have visitors!”
“Oh, not too bad. And you?”
“Look, ma’am! Over there! That’s your niece, Mrs. Bishop, and your great-grandniece!”
“I don’t know any Bishop!” she said.
Elisabeth approached. “Tell her it’s Elisabeth LeRoy, her brother’s daughter.”
Agatha grew rigid. As other patients reached for the baby and cooed at her, Agatha said, “Elisabeth is here? Here to see me?”
“I wanted you to see my granddaughter, Aunt Agatha!” Elisabeth said, holding the baby before her.
“Oh, my!” the woman said, seeming afraid to touch the baby. “James! Bring Elisabeth and come and see the beautiful baby!”
Elisabeth sat across from Agatha with Lisa in her lap. “Do you remember me, Aunt Agatha? I’m Elisabeth!”
Agatha looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “I’m blind,” she said. “But I remember you. You hate me.”
“I don’t! I never did! I’ve missed you, wanted to see you for a long time! I’m glad I finally found you!”
“And this is your baby?”
“My granddaughter! Can you believe it?”
“You married the soldier then? Such a nice young man.”
“I married Will Bishop.”
“His dad was crazy. Died in the State Hospital.”
After half an hour of bizarre interchange, Elisabeth asked Aunt Agatha if she could read to her from the Bible. The old woman’s head bobbed and Elisabeth imagined a smart retort, as she’d heard so many times as a child. “Read me Psalm 23,” Agatha said.
Elisabeth was shocked. “Psalm 23?”
“In my room.”
The orderly pushed her there and helped her into bed. She appeared sound asleep. Elisabeth balanced Lisa on one knee and found Psalm 23 with her free hand. Convinced her aunt was sleeping, she hesitated.
“Well, are you going to read or not?” Agatha said.
Elisabeth’s eye fell on Psalm 22. “Aunt Agatha,” she said softly, “before I read Psalm 23, let me read you the chapter before it. This psalm used the same language Jesus would use on the cross.”
“Just read it!” Agatha said, eyes still closed.
“‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring? O my God, I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent. But thou—’”
“What?” Agatha shouted. “Begin again!”
“‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from—’”
“He has not forsaken me!” Agatha wailed. “I’ve forsaken him!” She forced herself up onto her elbows, eyes still shut. “It’s too late! Too late!”
“It’s never too late, Auntie,” Elisabeth said, and the baby began to cry.
“Oh, Elisabeth, will you keep that little one close to God?”
“I’ll try.”
“It’s too late for me.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’ve strayed too far, been stubborn too long.”
“It’s never too late.”
“Go and let me sleep.”
“All right, but—”
“Go!”
“I’ll pray for you.”
“Don’t waste your breath.”
“Jesus forgave the thief on the cross. He was a believer for only a few minutes, yet Jesus told him, ‘Today you will be with me in Paradise.’”
Agatha rolled onto her side and wept. Elisabeth set the Bible down and reached for her, but Agatha wrenched away. “Go!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On the drive from Battle Creek to Jackson, baby Lisa slept and Elisabeth prayed for Agatha. She had hated to leave, but she did not want to agitate her aunt when Agatha seemed as close to repentance as Elisabeth had ever seen her.
That took Elisabeth’s mind off Benjy, at least enough to allow her to keep her emotions together. She did not want to break down in front of him, regardless of his state. She only hoped that his dementia, if that’s what it was, was in a stage early enough that she could still communicate with him.
The penitentiary was clangy and cold. Lisa was still sound asleep, despite the noise and the fact that a matron had to search even her. “Such a sweetheart,” the woman said.
“Yes,” Elisabeth said. “And too inexperienced for a breakout attempt.”
She was directed to a table in the corner of the large, busy room where families met prisoners. Elisabeth dug two blankets from her bag and built a thick, soft bed in the middle of the table. When she placed Lisa atop them and covered her, the baby moved only to turn her face away from the harsh light. That pointed her tiny features toward where Benjy would sit.
Here he came. Elisabeth was shocked at his appearance. One thing Benjy cared about was dressing a certain way. Last time his hair had been combed just so. His denims were tucked neatly with his cigarette
pack rolled crisply in his sleeve. His shoes had been shined. This time his shoes were dingy and untied. He wore one sock. His denims were dirty, he had missed a belt loop, the zipper and button were askew, and his shirt had been buttoned in the wrong holes and had one shirttail out. His hair looked as if he hadn’t touched it since he woke up. And he was none too happy.
She rose to embrace him. He did not return her hug. “I didn’t know it was you or I would have said no,” he said.
“I would have come anyway. You’re my son and I love you, and I understand you’re having some trouble with your memory.”
Benjamin squinted at her and scowled. “I don’t remember.” He clearly didn’t see the humor in his own comment.
“Sit down and meet your niece,” Elisabeth said. “Let me talk with you.”
Benjy sat and drew in an awestruck breath as he leaned close to Lisa’s face. Elisabeth worried his tobacco breath would bother her, but the baby did not stir. “Can I touch her?”
“If your hands are clean, you can touch the back of her hand.”
He held his hands up to her, as he had done as a toddler on his way from the bathroom to the dinner table. Elisabeth was pierced. His hands were not clean, but she didn’t think running his finger across Lisa’s hand would do any harm. She could wash the baby’s hands before they left.
“Just feel her velvety skin right there, Benjy,” Elisabeth said, realizing immediately she had called him his little boy name, the one he had not liked for years. He touched the baby as if she were fragile as an eggshell, and again he drew a quavery breath.
“Her name is Lisa?” he whispered. Elisabeth nodded. “And she’s my sister?”
“She’s your niece, honey. She’s your brother Bruce’s daughter.”
He nodded. “Bruce is a marine.”
“I wrote you about Bruce,” she said. “Remember?”
He nodded, his eyes still on the child. “They wouldn’t let me come to the funeral. Bruce was killed in the war.”
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