A Place in the Sun

by Michael Phillips

  Chapter 35

  Deep Pain Surfaces

  Several days later, out of the blue, Almeda said to me, “Come on, Corrie, we’re going to see Katie.”

  She began gathering up some things in the kitchen, then to my questioning look added, “It’s time, Corrie. From the moment I woke up this morning, I had the strong sense that today was the day.”

  “The day for what?” I asked.

  “For doors to open.”

  The puzzled look on my face didn’t go away with her answer.

  “I can’t even say that I’m sure myself what that means. But sometimes God puts within you a sense of purpose, a sense of urgency, a sense that it’s time to do something, say something, take some action that will move things in his kingdom.”

  “Are you saying you think Katie will be open to God today?”

  “I don’t know. That’s something I have no way of knowing. God holds the keys to our hearts, and nothing we do can open or close those doors without there first being nudgings and promptings and openings from his Spirit. I don’t know what’s going on in the deepest regions of Katie’s heart. That’s God’s domain, not mine. Our responsibility is to obey his promptings in us, not concern ourselves with what he is saying to others.”

  “So what is it you think will happen today?”

  “I have no way of knowing that. I wouldn’t even want to. God is in control of Katie’s destiny, and her heart, not me. Yet sometimes God will place inside us an urge to do or say something that fits in with the groundwork he is doing inside someone else. The result is that a door opens. It’s impossible to say what exactly that means, how it will come about, or what will be the eventual outcome.”

  “What will you say?”

  “I won’t try to plan that. To speak of holy things at the wrong time, before someone is truly ready to receive them, can do more harm than good. We must rely on God’s guidance to provide the fit opportunity, and we must move slowly. I don’t know what Katie needs to hear. God knows that. So I just want to be available.”

  We packed up some food, and two knitting projects we had been working on, and then set out for Uncle Nick and Aunt Katie’s—just the two of us. All the way there Almeda said nothing. From the intense look on her face, I knew she was praying.

  When we arrived, Katie was alone with Erich. Uncle Nick was at the mine with Pa and Zack. All the other kids were in town at school. It was the middle of the morning, and the men would be working for another two or three hours before lunchtime.

  Katie did not seem particularly overjoyed to see us, but she went through the motions of being hospitable.

  “How are you feeling?” Almeda asked.

  “Well enough, I suppose,” Katie answered.

  “We brought you some fresh bread. I know sometimes it’s difficult to keep up with baking when you’re not feeling so well.”

  “I tell you, I’m feeling fine,” replied Katie, a little crossly. “I don’t need your help, Almeda. I’ll get through this fine on my own. Just quit worrying about me so much.”

  Almeda looked away for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said after a bit. “I’m only trying to be a good sister-in-law to you, and a good neighbor, and I know how it feels to be alone and far away from—”

  “Look, Almeda,” Katie interrupted. She turned and faced Almeda. Her face did not seem to be angry, but there was no trace of a smile to be found anywhere on it. She was cool, distant, reserved, and obviously not interested in returning Almeda’s friendliness. “I know what you’re trying to do. I know you feel sorry for me. But just don’t bother. I can get along fine without you or anybody else’s sympathy. Keep your bread and all your religious notions about neighborliness to yourself, and just leave me alone!”

  The words stung Almeda; and the slight wince that flitted across her face showed that they had stabbed her right in the heart. I would have done anything to disappear right then and not be in the room with them.

  How thankful I was for Erich. Little children are so innocent, and sometimes they can stumble right into the middle of a hornet’s nest without realizing it. On this particular morning he toddled in and rescued us from any further embarrassment.

  “Look, Aunt Corrie,” he said, holding something up to me, “Papa make me wood bear.”

  I stooped down to look at the piece of wood he was holding, so relieved for something to do. After I’d seen it, he marched over to show it to Almeda. She had looked away after Katie’s rebuke, but now she stooped down, put an arm around his shoulder. Though her face was still a little pale she flashed him a bright smile and asked two or three questions about his toy “bear,” which looked like a stick that had been whittled on. Katie went about something on her stove without another word, and Almeda and I talked for a few more minutes with Erich.

  When he finally waddled off to another part of the house, Almeda threw me a glance which was followed by a deep sigh. This did not seem to be turning out to be much of a visit.

  Slowly we rose, still holding the things we brought. Almeda walked over toward Katie, whose back was still turned toward us.

  “I brought the stockings I’ve been making for Erich,” Almeda said quietly, “and the sweater for your husband. I thought you might like to see them.”

  Katie did not reply for a moment. Then, still not facing us, she said, “You can leave them on the table if you wish.”

  “They’re not finished. I thought you might like to see how I’m planning to—”

  “Then take them with you and finish them any way you like. Leave them if you like, or take them. I don’t care.”

  Almeda winced again, as if she had been struck across the cheek.

  Almeda stood still, facing Katie’s back, looking helpless. She wanted so badly to be Katie’s friend.

  Finally she drew in a breath and said, “I suppose we’ll be going now. I’m so sorry, Katie. I didn’t mean to cause you any pain, or to intrude where I don’t belong. Please, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I would appreciate—”

  “Forgive you!” repeated Katie, spinning around. Her face was red and her eyes flashing. “Forgive you for what?”

  “I don’t know,” stammered Almeda. “For upsetting you, for intruding when you wanted to be alone.” I’d never seen Almeda so flustered and unsettled. “I’m just sorry to have caused you any more grief.”

  “The only grief you cause me is by trying to be so good and self-righteous all the time!”

  “Oh, Katie, I’m so sorry,” said Almeda in a quavering voice.

  “Sorry . . . forgive . . . don’t you ever get sick of being so good? Do you ever stop, Almeda? Don’t you ever want just to be normal and let people live their own lives, without always being nice, always smiling, always doing things for them, always preaching to them with all your holier-than-thou notions of God? Sometimes you make me sick with all your talk of God and forgiveness, and that happy smile on your face—always with a kind word, always doing somebody a good turn, never getting upset, never getting angry!”

  I sat shocked at what I was hearing, my eyes glued to Katie as she poured out her fury. Poor Almeda just stood standing in front of her, defenseless, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “Do you know what it feels like to be around someone like you who’s always so good?” Katie went on. “It makes me resent every word I ever hear about God! What about the rest of us, Almeda, who can’t be as good as you? What does God have for people like us? I’m sick of it, do you hear? I hate God, I hate you, I hate California, I hate this stinking house, I hate the whole rotten business, and I never want to hear another word about God as long as I live!”

  I don’t know if she was going to say anything else. Before her outburst was finished, Almeda ran out the door, one hand held over her face. The bread and knitting lay on the floor where she had dropped them.

  The sound of her footsteps and sobs woke me from my trance. I looked hard at Katie and saw tears in her eyes too. The next instant I ran out the door
after Almeda.

  She was hurrying away from the house, but not down the path to our place. She stopped on the edge of the woods, and I caught up with her leaning against a tree.

  She was sobbing harder than I’d ever seen before, from the depths of her heart. I walked up to her slowly and laid my hand on the back of her shoulder. It was hot and wet. She kept crying but reached up and grasped my hand with one of hers, clutching it tightly.

  We stood there, alone and quiet next to that tree, for several minutes. Gradually her weeping calmed down, then finally stopped.

  Slowly she turned around, looked deeply into my eyes, and attempted a smile.

  “I am so thankful for you, Corrie,” she said softly. “I don’t know what I’d do right now if I didn’t have you here to share this with me.”

  I had no words to say. I just put my arms around her and held her.

  “Do you know what’s the hardest thing of all, Corrie?” she said at last.

  “What?”

  “Being so misunderstood . . . having your motives—which you thought were good—questioned as if you had some selfish end you were trying to gain.”

  “She didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said.

  “Oh, I know. She has no idea what she’s done. But to have love turned back on you as if you were trying to injure rather than help and minister . . . that’s such a painful thing.”

  We were silent another minute.

  “But of course she didn’t mean it,” Almeda went on. “I have no doubt she’s hurting more right now than I am. And it must be especially bitter for her in that she has no place to turn, no source of help. I do. But she is alone with her anger and her frustrations. So of course I don’t blame her for lashing out at me.” Her voice was soft and clean, as if the tears had washed it.

  “It’s not you anyway, is it?”

  “No. Katie’s not angry with me. She just doesn’t know where to turn for help.”

  By this time we had stepped back, and Almeda was leaning against the tree again. I could tell she was thinking about the last words she had said.

  It was quiet a long time. Then Almeda took a deep breath, looked at me, and smiled.

  “We do know where to turn for help, don’t we?” she said. “Maybe this is the door I had the feeling the Lord was going to open. It just might be time I told Katie some things. As painful as it will be, I think the time has finally come. Let’s go back to the house, Corrie.”

  She turned and led the way back toward the cabin.

  I followed Almeda through the door. She didn’t knock or wait to be invited in. Katie was sitting in a chair staring straight ahead, her face white.

  “Katie, I know you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye on some things,” Almeda said. “And I know our views on religion are very different. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you or done things to bother you. I’ve honestly tried to be a good neighbor and friend to you. I’m sorry if it’s seemed otherwise to you.”

  Katie just sat there saying nothing. She looked spent, like the storm of her anger had left her weak and with no more words to say.

  “But there’s one thing you’ve got wrong, Katie,” Almeda continued. “And that’s about me being good. When you said ‘someone like me who’s always so good,’ your words felt like a knife piercing right through my heart. And so whether you like it or not, Katie, unless you actually demand that I leave your house, I want to tell you what I used to be. You’ve got to know some things about God that you have all mixed up in your mind. After you’ve heard what I have to say, then if you still think faith is ridiculous and want to hate it, that will be your choice. But I intend to tell you what I have to say.”

  She paused for a breath. She was still standing, looking straight down at Katie. Katie sat with her eyes focused on the floor. But she said nothing.

  Almeda sat down in front of her, took another deep breath, and began to speak.

  Chapter 36

  Almeda’s Story

  The person I was many years ago in Boston,” she began, “was a different person than you have ever known me to be. Completely different, Katie. Do you understand what I mean—black and white, night and day different?”

  Almeda paused momentarily, but apparently she wasn’t waiting for any answer, because she went right on.

  “My father was a wealthy Boston merchant. I was one of three daughters—I hesitate to say it, but three beautiful daughters. I was the eldest. My father was a conniving man who would do anything—including sacrifice his own daughters—to turn a profit or to make a deal that would pad his bank account.”

  A painful look passed across Almeda’s face as she said the words. Then she took in a deep breath, as if she was trying to gather courage to continue.

  “I have to tell you that even after all the years I have been a Christian and have been trying to forgive him deep in my heart, the very thought of what he did to us still causes resentments to rise up within me. He was not a good man. For many years I despised him. At least now I can say that is no longer true. I have learned to accept what happened, and his part in it, and to know that through it I discovered what I might not have discovered otherwise. To say that I am thankful for my past would not really be truthful. But I do accept it, and have come to terms with it.

  “What my father did was to flaunt us before his important clients. From the time I was fourteen or fifteen he would make me put on scanty dresses and alluring silk stockings, then he would pour perfume on me and take me out in the evening with him. There he would meet men I always assumed he was doing business with. I was too young at first to have any idea what was happening to me. I just went along obediently. There I would sit or stand beside my father while he would talk or drink. Sometimes it would be for dinner, other times we would go to saloons or taverns. Soon enough I realized that he was talking to the men about me. They would look me over, and there would be laughing and winking and whispered comments, then more laughing, all with a lewd, suggestive tone to it. My own father was hinting to his various associates that he would let me be available to them in exchange for their business.

  “At first it wasn’t so awful. The men would try to joke with me or take me alone over to the bar to buy me a sparkling water to drink while they had their whiskey. But it got worse the older I grew. They wanted to touch me and put their arms around me and feel my hair, always leering at me through toothy grins and evil eyes.

  “I hated it. I hated the men, and I hated my father. But there was nothing I could do except go along with it. If my father thought that I wasn’t being ‘friendly’ enough, or wasn’t doing enough to please his associates, he would yell at me and hit me when we got home, and say horrible and abusive things to me. Sometimes he beat me even when I had done my best to be agreeable, just because a certain client decided to take his business elsewhere. One time—”

  Even as Almeda spoke, the memory made her shut her eyes and a momentary shudder passed through her. She took a deep breath and continued.

  “One time, he stopped the wagon on the way home, shoved me down from my seat, jumped down after me, and struck me over and over, knocking me to the ground until my nose was bleeding and my dress was torn and I was covered with dirt and mud, then threw me in a heap in the back of the wagon. I had learned years before not to cry aloud in his presence. He hated it when I cried, and he would beat me all the more. So I had to learn to stifle my whimpered sobs, and bury the agony of pain from his beatings.

  “That night riding home in the back of the wagon, blood and dirt on my face, my ear and shoulder splitting with pain from his blows, I realized, perhaps for the first time, that my father was not a good man, and that I hated him. And from that moment, something began to rise up from inside me, a determination to escape from his clutches whenever and however I could.

  “But it wasn’t as if I could just leave home. I was only sixteen, and I was still completely dependent upon my parents. They never gave any of us any money. What could I do, where could I go? We had no
relatives, no friends I could turn to. My mother knew what he was doing to us, but she was just as afraid of him as we were. I could never understand why she didn’t stand up for us and protect us from him. But as I grew older I saw that she felt just as helpless as we. I tried to confide in her about what he did when he took us out in the evenings, but she would only suffer with us in silence. I don’t doubt that she had more than her share of beatings from his hand as well. Probably if she had tried to say or do anything, he would have punished us all ruthlessly—all of us. So she just must have figured it best to keep silent and hope we could endure it.

  “Once I even tried to talk to my father. It was late in the afternoon, around dusk. He was out in the barn working on a new saddle he’d bought. How naive I must have been to think he would listen, that he would care. But something had come over me that day with more clarity than ever before that what he was doing was just wrong. It was so plain to me all of a sudden, with my little girl’s trusting heart, that if I could just say it to him he would see it too. I was wrong.

  “I walked up to him slowly. He had his back turned. I don’t even know if he heard me approaching. I stopped a few feet from him, terrified. I mustered all my courage and blurted out, ‘Daddy, I want you to stop doing what you’re doing to me. It’s wrong. I don’t want to go out with you again to see any more men.’

  “That was all I said. I stood there trembling, just looking at his back in the quiet of the barn. He said nothing, and what seemed like a long time passed, though it was probably only a minute. Then he slowly turned around and bore his eyes into me. His face was blank. It was not even a look of anger, just a total lack of feeling, an emptiness, a void. Then slowly a cruel smile spread over his lips. He just looked at me with that horrid half-smile. It was the same kind of expression I’d seen in the men he made me be friendly to. Then slowly he turned back to his saddle, never uttering a word.