A New Dawn Over Devon

by Michael Phillips

  He opened his eyes and glanced up. Timothy’s face was aglow.

  “Is there anything else?” he asked.

  “I think you should also address the Father,” said Timothy. “Remember, Jesus is your Savior because, as you said yourself, he wants to open your heart to intimacy with the Father.”

  The young man closed his eyes again.

  “Dear heavenly Father,” he prayed, “thank you that you are not a tyrant like they say, but that you love the world . . . and that you loved me enough to send your only Son to tell me about you and show me the way to have an intimate relationship with you. I want to be your child and to walk with you as my Father. Thank you for forgiving my sins through the death of your Son. Help me to get to know both you and Jesus better. Help me to begin seeing you as a tender, loving Father. Reveal your character to me and show me what you want me to do.”

  Again he opened his eyes. They were glistening as he smiled at Timothy.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I cannot tell you what this means to me.—So . . . what should I do now? How do I begin living as Jesus’ disciple?”

  “It is very simple, really,” replied Timothy. “You have been doing a good deal of it already.”

  A puzzled expression came over the young man’s face.

  “Keep reading your New Testament,” Timothy went on, “—in particular the Gospels. Find what Jesus told his followers to do . . . then do it. I would be happy to have you join in a Bible study or two that we have in the church in which we attempt to help one another toward that end. There is nothing more to the Christian life than that—simply doing what Jesus said. Jesus himself said it this way: Follow me.”

  44

  The Dreaded Word

  Meanwhile, the discussion around the oval table continued.

  “What of this fellow Wildecott-Browne?” asked Chairman Roul.

  “A solicitor . . . relatively new to the church,” answered Mrs. Paulus.

  “Whose side is he on—is he reasonable?”

  “He is highly respected—a former Anglican.”

  “What is he doing at New Hope Chapel?”

  A few heads shook. No one seemed to know.

  “Can we interview him . . . discreetly? He is apparently a powerful man in some London legal circles. He could be of great help in making the case against Diggorsfeld.”

  “He was one of the first the deacons went to because they knew he was close to Diggorsfeld.”

  “They have already tried to sway him?”

  Mrs. Paulus nodded.

  “And?”

  “The attempt was unsuccessful,” said Mr. Riper. “He is one of Diggorsfeld’s staunchest supporters.”

  “Then he will do us no good,” rejoined Roul.

  “There is also the charge—” Mrs. Packer began, then paused. “I cannot bring myself to say the word,” she added.

  “You mean . . .” said Mrs. Paulus.

  Packer nodded.

  “Come, come, we are behind closed doors,” huffed the chairman. “There is nothing to fear from saying it. It is written right here. Are you referring to the charge of universalism?”

  A momentary heavy silence descended upon the room, as if the speaking of the dreaded word was tantamount to embracing the heresy itself.

  The others nodded.

  “Is it actually true . . . is he a universalist?” asked Vice-Chairman Taylor. If it were true, this would certainly put an end to Taylor’s own ambivalence. The board could not let a known believer in the universal victory of the cross continue to speak openly.

  “I cannot answer for the man,” replied Mr. Riper. “But when I attended one of his Sunday evening services—I was disguised so he would not recognize me—I heard him raise the question—and I wrote it down to be certain we did not charge him falsely—‘What marvelous things might it be in God’s heart to do?’”

  The others took in the words seriously.

  “That certainly could be grounds for heresy,” Roul said at length, “if only we were certain what he was referring to.”

  “What else could he be referring to?” objected Mrs. Packer. “It is obvious, the man is a heretic.”

  “I agree,” nodded Mrs. Paulus.

  “I say we formalize the charge and have it drawn up,” said Mrs. Packer.

  “And what would be the charge . . . exactly?” asked Roul.

  “Unorthodoxy, heresy, and working division in the flock.”

  The chairman nodded. “Yes . . . yes, that should be adequate grounds for dismissal.”

  45

  The Mother and the Motherless

  Two evenings later, two women sat down together, each with a cup in hand. Jocelyn had brought tea and a small plate of biscuits to the sitting room next to her bedroom after the three girls had retired and invited Hope to join her.

  “Young Betsy is an energetic and delightful girl,” smiled Hope as they began sipping at the edges of their cups. “The moment I saw her, something quickened in my spirit.”

  “She has found her way into all our hearts,” smiled Jocelyn. “And already she is so different, so much more outgoing and expressive than when she came,” said Jocelyn. “The change is remarkable. She was so withdrawn and silent, no doubt in shock from what had happened. And yet—”

  Jocelyn hesitated.

  “What I was going to say,” she went on after a moment, “is that as much as we have tried to make her feel at home, there still seems to be something missing in Betsy’s life. I realize, of course, that in her circumstances it may always be that way. Yet somehow it appears that she may never quite be at home here.”

  Hope took in the words thoughtfully.

  “I cannot help thinking that the Lord has something else for her,” Jocelyn went on, “though I have no idea what that might be.”

  “You still know nothing of the circumstances of Betsy’s father’s death?” said Hope.

  Jocelyn shook her head. “A minister friend of ours in London is trying to learn what he can, but thus far without success.”

  “It must have been terrible for her.”

  “I am sure it was. Yet, as I said, she is so much better than when she came. A great deal of the change is due to Amanda. She has been able to draw her out in a way that I haven’t myself, though Betsy seems to love Catharine too.”

  “It appears that she adores them both.”

  “Yes, she really does,” smiled Jocelyn.

  “It is not hard to see why,” said Sister Hope. “Both your daughters are lovely young women.”

  “The one in no small measure because of you and your sisters at the chalet,” rejoined Jocelyn. “Amanda has told us so much about her time with you—all the way down to Sister Marjolaine’s story about the tiny man fighting the dragon—that I feel I know every one.”

  The reminder brought a smile to Hope’s lips. “Perhaps you and Amanda and Catharine can visit us one day,” she suggested.

  “I can hardly imagine such a long journey,” laughed Jocelyn. “But you have come here, and Amanda has traveled over half of Europe, and I myself was raised in India, so I suppose it can be done. From all Amanda has told us, your chalet sounds lovely.”

  “Our little village is the most spectacular place on earth,” smiled Hope. “Although I must admit it is lovely here in Devon as well. I have felt such a great peace since being with you. It began the moment I stepped off the train. In its own way, Heathersleigh Hall reminds me of the Chalet of Hope. God’s Spirit is here in a similar way. I feel somehow that I have left the world’s cares behind and have found a refuge here. It is exactly how the chalet has always ministered to me.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “That is exactly what Heathersleigh has been for me, thanks largely to my dear husband. As you can imagine,” she went on, gesturing to the red scar covering nearly half her face, “the world was often a cruel place for me. My hardest struggle as a Christian was to believe that God really loved me as I was, even that he had created me as I was. Charles helped me learn to a
ccept God’s love. In doing that, he always made sure Heathersleigh was a place where I could be free from the staring eyes and expectations of others and could just be myself. And eventually his love, then God’s, got through to me.”

  “He must have been a very loving man.”

  “He was indeed. But poor Amanda . . . he was gone before she woke up to realize it.”

  “But she has realized it now; that is the important thing,” rejoined Hope. “Earthly timetables, even the intrusion of death itself, matter far less in God’s grand scheme than they do to us.”

  “I try to keep reminding myself of that, though it is not easy. I miss him too, yet I do not have to carry a tenth the grief she does.”

  “She will be reunited with him one day very soon,” Hope added, “and all will be well between them. As well as had their hearts never been parted at all.”

  “In some ways it already is,” said Jocelyn. “Amanda’s heart is so tender and grateful toward Charles’s memory.”

  “So I have gathered from her letters,” said Hope. “Does she share them with you?”

  “Yes, she does. She wants me to know everything she is thinking.”

  “That must bring great joy to your heart in the midst of your loss.”

  Jocelyn nodded.

  “But sometimes I do miss Charles and George so much. Yet I feel I must endure some of it alone for fear of adding to the guilt that is so near the surface in Amanda.”

  “I have found it remarkable to see the change in your daughter in such a short time. It is so clear from her letters. When she was with us, she was expressing the last dying gasps of anger toward your dear husband. I saw it in her eyes, how she would react to things that were said. All along I knew fatherhood to be at the root of her struggle with herself. And yet now her thoughts seem full of your Charles’s memory. Everywhere she turns, she has said, she discovers pleasant memories, reminders of things he taught her which at last she is able to receive. I am sure the time will come when she will heal to the point where you will be able fully to express your own grief.”

  “I marvel as I watch it,” nodded Jocelyn. “I don’t know whether the parallel is apt, but I am frequently reminded of the Lord’s words to his disciples, that it was for their good that he leave them, and that after his death the Spirit would bring many things to their remembrance.”

  It fell silent for some time. Both women were mature enough in years and life’s experiences to enjoy the quietude, and to allow the stillness, in its own way, to knit their hearts even more closely together.

  “In so many ways,” said Jocelyn at length, “we have you to thank for the changes that have come to Amanda. You will never know what an answer to prayer you have been in our lives. All those years when she was gone, Charles and I prayed that God would send people to her who would be good for her and would love her with God’s love. While so many coddled Amanda and justified her prodigality, even used it for their own ends, you were willing to make her face it. You cannot know how grateful I am to have my daughter back, and that the Lord sent her to you.”

  Hope’s eyes filled as she listened.

  “It almost seemed too much to hope for, but we prayed especially that she would be led to someone at the right time who would turn her back toward home,” Jocelyn went on. “I have so longed for this moment, to be able to thank you personally. As remarkable as it seems that she could wind up high in a little village in the Swiss Alps, it would seem that he led her to you and the other sisters in answer to our prayer. Now that you are here, and because we prayed for you, in a sense, for so long, I feel like I have known you for years.”

  Hope smiled. “I often imagine the prayers of God’s people intertwined in a great invisible tapestry,” she said, “in which God weaves many threads together in ways we cannot see, and often will never see. But the prayers of the saints, all taken together, I believe, will result in the magnificent triumph of salvation and reconciliation, healing and growth, restitution and forgiveness, and most of all homecoming, when at last we have heavenly eyes to see it.”

  “That is a lovely picture!”

  “Amanda was as much an answer to our prayers as we were to yours,” Hope added. “That is the wonderful thing about our God. He so energetically takes care of us all, and leads us, by his Spirit, all to pray toward the same will that is in his heart to accomplish.”

  “He certainly used you in answer to ours. I am more thankful than I will ever be able to tell you.”

  When at last they stood, a long embrace followed.

  When they separated, both women were weeping. Jocelyn Rutherford and Hope Guinarde knew they had each discovered in the other a lifelong friend.

  46

  Betsy and Sister Hope

  Watching from an upstairs window, Jocelyn Rutherford smiled as she saw Betsy outside below on the edge of the lawn. The girl had such a way with animals. She was now slowly inching her way toward a rabbit standing at the edge of the woods. Jocelyn had overheard her on several occasions, talking quietly to birds and sheep and rabbits, even little snails, in a soft voice different than she used for anyone else. She was no doubt speaking in her quiet animal-talk voice now, thought Jocelyn as she watched Betsy creep gently closer with hand outstretched.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jocelyn saw Sister Hope walking out from the house.

  Hope paused ten or fifteen feet from the door when she realized what Betsy was trying to do.

  The two stood still for several moments. Then Betsy seemed to become aware of the presence behind her. She turned and glanced back toward where Hope stood watching. As she did the rabbit scampered into the woods.

  “I’m sorry I frightened your rabbit,” said Sister Hope, now walking toward her again.

  “That’s all right,” said Betsy. “He will come back.”

  “How do you know?” asked Hope as she approached.

  “Because I have been making friends with him, and he lets me come a little closer every day. I tell him he has nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Do you talk to all the animals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think the little rabbit understands you?” asked Hope.

  “I don’t know,” replied Betsy. “But I think he likes the sound of my voice.”

  “I’m sure he does. I’ve noticed that you like animals.”

  “They are my friends.”

  Hope took Betsy’s hand, and they began walking toward the heather garden together.

  “We have many animals where I live,” said Sister Hope.

  “Where is that?” asked Betsy.

  “I live in the mountains of Switzerland called the Alps. Do you know where that is?”

  Betsy shook her head. “What kinds of animals do you have?” she asked.

  “We have chickens and goats, and two donkeys and three cows—”

  “Oh, I would like to see the donkeys!” interrupted Betsy.

  Hope laughed. “I am sure you would love them. But donkeys can sometimes be naughty.”

  “I would be so nice to them they would not want to be naughty.”

  Again Hope laughed. She was quickly falling in love with this girl!

  “Perhaps you could come visit and help us take care of them.”

  “Oh, may I, may I . . . please!” exclaimed Betsy. “I would take good care of them!”

  “One of the women who lives with me, a lady named Galiana, loves animals just like you do. She makes sure that they are all well cared for. She feeds them every day and gives them nice fresh straw to sleep on. But sometimes she needs help, and whenever she must go away, then the animals need a friend because they miss her.”

  “I would be their friend.”

  “I am sure you would be,” smiled Hope.

  “I like cows too, but they don’t seem to notice when I talk to them. When may I come?”

  Hope laughed. “We shall see,” she said. “It is a very, very long way.”

  They entered the garden. Hope led her to
one of the benches and they sat down.

  “What is that in your hand, Betsy?” she asked.

  “A picture of my mother,” replied the girl. “Would you like to see her?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Betsy handed her the small stained photograph.

  “She is very pretty,” said Hope. “You look like her, Betsy.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I do.”

  “My father said she was a good lady, but I cannot remember her. Are you anyone’s mother?”

  “No, Betsy,” smiled Hope. “I have no children.”

  “I wish you were my mother.”

  The words took Hope by surprise.

  “What about Lady Rutherford?” she asked.

  “I love Lady Jocelyn. But she already has two girls.”

  “She loves you very much.”

  “I want a mother who doesn’t have a daughter and wants me for one.”

  A stab went into Hope’s heart at the words. She glanced away, a sudden lump rising in her throat.

  “For as long as I am with you,” she said, reaching her arm around Betsy and drawing her close, “I will be as much a mother to you as I can be, Betsy dear.”

  They sat in contented silence. Gradually Hope began softly to sing a hymn. As she did she felt Betsy relax against her and snuggle imperceptibly closer. She continued to sing.

  Christ our Redeemer died on the cross,

  Died for the sinner, paid all his due.

  Sprinkle your soul with the blood of the Lamb,

  And I will pass over you.

  When I see the blood, when I see the blood,

  I will pass, I will pass over you.

  Chiefest of sinners, Jesus will save,

  All He has promised that He will do.

  Wash in the fountain opened for sin,

  And I will pass over you.

  When I see the blood, when I see the blood,

  I will pass, I will pass over you.

  Judgment is coming, all will be there,

  Each one receiving justly his due.