by Judith Pella
Benjamin was well accustomed to standing apart in such gatherings. It was a minister’s lot. He was the shepherd, not one of the sheep, thus friendships among the sheep were few. At least he’d always believed his lack of friends was due to his flock’s high respect for him, and that belief kept him from questioning the situation. He would not have questioned it now except he sensed innately there was a deeper chasm between him and his sheep than usual. He felt it not so much in the way they looked at him, but rather in the way they did not look at him. Nor was it in the words spoken, but instead in those left unspoken. No one asked, “How’s the missus?” or remarked, “Them kids of yours must be getting big” or even acknowledged the situation with “Sorry to hear about your wife, Reverend. Our prayers are with you.”
Perhaps it would have been better if the silence had continued. But finally Jim Wilson himself clumsily broached the touchy issue.
“Reverend Sinclair, I sure appreciate you coming all this way.”
“I would not have thought to do otherwise.”
“Well, considering . . . uh . . . things, I would have understood.”
Benjamin could have dropped it there by nodding quietly and changing the subject. But the implication of Wilson’s words ignited his defensiveness. “My ministry always takes precedence over my personal life. There is no reason for one to affect the other.”
“Sure, Reverend. I never thought otherwise. . . .”
There was something in Wilson’s tone that implied more, and it irritated Benjamin. “But not everyone feels as you do, is that not so, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well . . . uh . . .”
Still Benjamin could have avoided further discussion by keeping quiet. Part of him wanted nothing more than to do so. But he was by nature confrontative, whether it be disputing sin or apostasy or injustice or political issues. In winning converts to Christ or taking up a moral cause, he never backed down. And he knew if he did so now, his ministry would be over. It was time he set everyone straight and quelled the rumors he knew were spreading.
Benjamin swung around and, with a fierce glint in his eyes, called for the attention of the group.
“I have something to say to all of you.” His voice was clear, as if he were intoning a sermon. “Mr. Wilson, I hope you will indulge me a moment. I will take no more because I know our purpose today is to support you.” Wilson nodded, and Benjamin continued. “I am certain you are all aware of the fact that my wife has left Texas to return to her home in Boston. I am also certain that all manner of rumors have accompanied these circumstances. Let me put them to rest immediately. My wife was extremely homesick, and when an opportunity arose for her to leave, she took it—yes, without informing me, but I’m sure only because I was out on my circuit. I do not defend her actions. She broke faith with her marriage vows. But if I believed for a minute that her behavior in any way reflected upon my spiritual call and my personal soundness for the ministry, I would not now be standing before you. Her weakness does not weaken my ministry to you. I am blameless and stand with a pure heart before God. I implore you not to give place to Satan by rejecting the ministry I have begun. If you have doubts, take it to God in prayer. I know He continues to stand with me through all this, and I pray you will also.”
Regardless of what anyone thought about Benjamin Sinclair, they could not attribute cowardice to him. Even if they thought his bravery was mixed with a good dose of gall, they had to admit he had pluck in standing face-to-face before them, though they did wonder about a man who considered himself blameless and pure of heart. Yet Rev. Benjamin Sinclair was the only man of the cloth they were likely to see, so they were willing to overlook his faults, just as they always had.
When the people in the cabin shook Benjamin’s hand and told him not to worry about it, he took them at their word. Why would they do otherwise? He was faultless in the situation with his wife. He returned to his cabin bolstered as never before. A good portion of his daily prayers were spent on Rebekah’s behalf, that God would lead her back from the path of iniquity, deliver her from Satan’s wiles, and “create in her a clean heart.”
He was pleased that as he prayed for his wife his own sense of anger dulled. He had often advised those in his flock plagued by anger to “pray for those who would despitefully use you.” What a blessing to see this in action in his own life! In fact, he prepared an inspired sermon on this very topic, which he planned to preach when he began his circuit again.
Any sense of self-reproach he might have experienced over Rebekah’s departure was thoroughly dispelled in the wave of grand benevolence that washed over him. Naturally, he knew he wasn’t a perfect husband, but imperfection was not sin. It would only be sin if he had, like Rebekah, let it destroy their marriage. It would only be sin if he refused forgiveness.
And just to leave no doubt as to his spiritual righteousness, one afternoon Benjamin gathered a pen, ink, and a sheet of paper, sat at the table, and penned a letter to his wife.
Dear Rebekah,
It has been a month since your departure, and as I write this, I assume you are more than halfway home. This letter may be awaiting you when you arrive in Boston, but more likely it will follow you. In any case, I waited to respond to your actions because I feared any immediate response might have lacked godliness. Now, however, I believe my heart has healed somewhat, and I can write with a true spirit of Christian love.
In that spirit, wife, I tell you that I forgive you for what you have done. You are still my wife, and I will accept you back in my home should you seek to right the wrong you have done. Don’t let a single impulsive act destroy you. Allow God to work His will in you and in your heart. Turn from your destructive ways. Turn back to God and to your husband. Return before it is too late. I will even come for you, if you write telling me of your change in heart. In the meantime, please give my love to the children. I miss them terribly.
Benjamin paused in his writing. He shouldn’t have mentioned the children, for the thought of them threatened to ignite the anger he had so studiously quelled. If he was a stern father, it was only because he deeply loved his children. Rebekah knew that beyond anything else, thus her act of taking away his children was perhaps her greatest sin. Nevertheless, determined to maintain his spirit of forgiveness, he inhaled two deep breaths, and murmuring a prayer, he took up the pen once more.
I leave this final word of hope with you from the First Epistle of John: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” My prayers are with you, Rebekah. I fervently hope I will hear from you soon.
Regards,
Benjamin
He thought how he, too, stumbled over the closing of his letter. He had not been able to write the word love. It had never been an easy word for him to say in the best of times. Now, of all the emotions he felt toward Rebekah, love was the last to come to mind. Of course he did love his wife, even if it was a love void of passion or romance. Such emotions flirted too closely with sin anyway, though he thought Rebekah looked for such things. But when she had married him fourteen years ago, she had known there was no passion between them. He had always known she had wavered between Haden and himself. When Benjamin found Christ, the scales had tipped greatly in his favor, because she had known she could not marry an ungodly man. Then when God told Benjamin that Rebekah was the woman for him, that was all there was to it—for both of them. She had married Benjamin because she knew he was the right man for her, and he had done the same. Wasn’t that better than all the love and passion in the world?
Yet it left him oddly empty when he could not even sign the word love and mean it in the way he knew she wanted. He wondered what it would be like to love in that way—with an intense passion and starry-eyed romance, combined with the assurance of God’s blessing.
He quickly banished those thoughts from his mind. It was very nearly adulterous to think that way now. His passion for God was all he needed.
Nevertheless, h
is hand trembled as he folded and sealed the letter. He would mail it the next time he went into Cooksburg.
CHAPTER
28
BENJAMIN GRABBED THE AX FROM its hook on the wall and headed out to the woodpile. Even now he could not admit that he desperately needed the physical exertion to release the pent-up emotions writing the letter had evoked. He was simply low on wood and wanted to bring in a supply before it rained again.
He set a chunk of oak in place on the chopping block and took up the ax in his gloved hands. The first blow split the oak cleanly. He stared, a bit surprised at his effort. He was no weakling to be sure, but physical prowess was certainly not his forte. Yet the ax had cut through the hard oak as if it were a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Could it be more than physical strength compelling his arms?
Unable to answer the question, he did the same to another piece of oak. Blow after blow, he fell upon the wood as if driving a sword into an enemy. The pile of defeated oak grew as sweat poured from Benjamin, blurring his eyes, soaking his shirt. His ears reverberated with the fierce sound of metal striking wood so that he did not hear the hoofbeats until they were well into the yard.
“Benjamin!”
He swung around at the sound of his name, ax gripped in both hands, eyes flashing as if he indeed were ready for battle. That stance did not change when he saw who had arrived.
“Haden.” The name ground through gritted teeth. For a moment Benjamin saw only his brother mounted on his chestnut mare, tall and imposing in his buckskin clothes. And in that single moment, all Benjamin’s practiced Christian reserve bolted, replaced by white-hot anger. It was as if no time at all had passed since that awful moment he had stood alone in his cabin and read Rebekah’s letter.
But before he could actually do what his anger was telling him to do with the ax, he took in the rest of the scene. Leah was nestled on Haden’s horse in front of him, and another horse carried Micah and Isabel. Still, the full import of the scene did not register.
“Are we welcome?” Haden eyed Benjamin as one might size up a wild animal.
The sight of the children had dulled Benjamin’s anger, at least for the moment. Had he been able to move, he would have run to them, plucked them from the horses, and embraced them in his arms. But his feet felt like lead, and the ax felt as if it had become part of his body.
“Of course. What is the meaning of this?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, rather it mirrored his complete bafflement. “Where’s—” her name caught in his throat like pain, like fear, but he forced it out—“Rebekah?”
Haden motioned for Benjamin to help him with Leah, who was sound asleep. Seeing this need made Benjamin will his body into motion. First, he set the ax by the cutting block, then he walked, though still leadenly, to Haden’s mount and reached up for the sleeping child. Having the child in his arms seemed to release a great tension within him, almost as much as chopping the wood had. Vaguely he thought how sad it was that he needed such an excuse to hold his own child.
Haden dismounted, and it was then that Benjamin saw he was wearing a pack on his back. The other children remained mounted.
Micah looked grim, as if merely waiting for a word from his uncle in order to turn around and gallop from that place.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Benjamin was reluctant to invite Haden inside, still remembering he had once banished him from his home and knowing he now had more reason than ever to maintain that judgment.
“I . . . don’t know how . . .”
“Did Rebekah decide she wanted to leave not only me but the children as well?” Benjamin simply could not help releasing some of the scathing accusations he’d repressed for so long.
“You selfish fool!” Haden yelled. “Rebekah is dead!”
Benjamin felt as though the ax had been turned upon him. He was certain Haden hoped his words would split him in two. Too stunned to speak, he shook his head. His arms felt weak and he feared he would lose Leah, yet at the same time, he clung to the child as if for life.
“It’s true,” Haden said, and by the tone of his voice, it appeared he had been repressing a few choice words as well. “She died giving birth to your child. How do you like that, Benjamin? Better than holding a gun to her head.”
“I . . . I . . .” Words eluded Benjamin and his body was growing ever weaker. He stumbled back until he reached the cutting block, then shoving aside the ax, he sank onto the stump. “She . . . was not due for another month.” It was such a foolish, idiotic thing to say, but his brain simply could not function properly.
“She should never have attempted such a journey, but she was willing to take that risk rather than die of loneliness and misery here.” Haden now stood over Benjamin, glowering.
It did penetrate Benjamin’s numb brain that Haden’s attitude was somehow incongruent. Why did his words ring of accusation? Why was there murder in his eyes?
“What are you saying, Haden?” Benjamin finally managed. Even as he spoke, he knew it was the wrong thing to say, that somehow the question only invited more ire to be unleashed.
“She tried to tell me how completely oblivious you were to her situation.” Haden shook his head. “Even knowing you, I found it hard to believe. That any man could . . .”
At last Benjamin’s brain ground into motion. True, it was more like a loaded wagon lumbering uphill, but at least it began to exhibit some rationality.
“Haden! You’ve just told me my wife has died! How can you say such things now?”
“Because you were here, no doubt basking in righteous indignation, while I had to watch her die. I had to sit there, helpless, while the very life bled from her. I had to hold the struggling infant in my arms, knowing it was yours, and that had it not been for you, Rebekah would have lived. I had to dig a grave on the side of the trail and lay her sweet body in it. I—” His voice broke with emotion. Tears sprang into his eyes. “She did not deserve this, but I’ll wager you wished her dead after she left.”
“That’s not true! I forgave her.”
“So magnanimous of you!” Haden sneered.
“She was the one who left me—”
“Because she would have killed herself had she stayed a moment longer!” Haden stopped and gasped, then shot a glance at the two older children still seated on their horse. He obviously hadn’t meant to say so much in front of them.
Benjamin was struggling with his own emotions. Had he not been holding Leah, he knew he would have physically attacked his brother. And even with the innocent baby in his arms, his hands itched for violence.
Haden spun around and strode to the mounted children. Murmuring soft words to them that Benjamin could not hear, Haden helped Micah dismount, then lifted Isabel from the horse. He gave Isabel a gentle hug and kiss before setting her upon the ground. She clung to his neck for a few seconds before letting go. Poor Isabel was nearly asleep on her feet. Micah was wearing such an impenetrable mask it was impossible to fathom what was going on in his young mind. What could he possibly think of the terrible accusations being shot back and forth between his uncle and his father?
Haden was right about one thing, as his actions indicated. The children needed tending. This impelled Benjamin to rise to his feet, and still carrying Leah, he headed into the cabin. He heard the others follow. He laid Leah on his own bed and turned to face the others.
“Come Isabel. You can sleep a bit, then we’ll have supper.”
She walked obediently to him. He laid a hand on her shoulder and helped her into her small bed. Could she feel his hand tremble? Did she know how he loved her and how much he wanted to protect her from harm? For the first time that day, he lifted his eyes from his own shock and grief to realize that his children had lost their mother. Perhaps they, too, had watched her die. How they must be suffering!
On impulse he reached out to take her up in his arms to comfort and love her, but then he saw she was not even looking at him. It was almost as if her eyes were purposefully averted fr
om him, and her hands were stiffly at her side, making no move to reach out to him. He let his own impulse die. The last thing he wanted now was to have her flinch away from him.
He straightened up and turned his attention to Micah. “You can sleep, too, if you wish, son. Or, if you prefer, have something to eat. There is jerky in the crock where your mo—where it usually is.”
“I’ll tend the horses,” Micah said coldly and left the cabin.
“So you have turned my children against me,” Benjamin accused.
The brief respite from their battle was ended.
“You needed no help from me, Benjamin. You did it all yourself. I doubt you care a thing for your children. You’ve never even asked what became of the new baby.”
“I assumed . . .”
Haden, as if in response, took the pack from his back and laid it gently on the table. Reaching inside, he removed a tiny, squirming bundle.
“What?” Benjamin said roughly before his voice disintegrated once more.
“You have a son.” With surprisingly deft hands, the bachelor lifted the corners of the blanket that had been tucked neatly around the baby. “He is nearly two weeks old. An old wife on the trail told me that if he has survived this long, he is likely to continue to do so.” Once the child had been arranged to Haden’s satisfaction, he lifted him into his arms. The infant had been asleep, but the handling woke him, and he began to make small sounds, somewhere between crying and cooing.
Benjamin continued to stare dumbly at the process. His son.
“Take him,” Haden said, and it was clearly an order.
“I . . . wouldn’t know what to do.” Benjamin wasn’t aware, but it was the first hint of contriteness he had yet exhibited.
“You’ve had three other children.”
“Rebekah . . .”
Haden thrust the child toward him. Benjamin backed away. He had always basked so in his children and his family, but he suddenly realized he had never truly taken part in their lives, at least not in the daily aspects. He’d never diapered them, or fed them or—dear God!— seldom even held them!
