Silver Birches

by Adrian Plass

  “I confess I came to join you for this weekend with a heart full of confusion and anger and stubbornness. I was coldly determined nothing would break into or out of the shell that was preventing me from handing my wife over to God, and God from giving me courage and hope for the future. Well, nothing’s changed very much. I’m really dreading getting home this evening. It’s the first time I’ve been away and come back since Jessica died. And I’m dreading going up to bed tonight because half the room will be empty and — oh, dear! — I’ll have to decide whether to turn her bedside light on or not. It’ll go on being tough, I know it will, but the crucial difference is this. I think — I think I’ve given up. I mean, I think I’ve given up the idea that I might sort it out for myself. I’ve tried to do it on my own, but I can’t do it. There’s a grand tradition of little kids trying to do grown-up things before they’re ready, and then having to go back to their dads and say, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do it. Will you do it for me?’ I think that’s what I’ve done, and I’m glad.

  “And of course I’m not alone. We all have our difficult dark invaders, don’t we? Looking round now I think of what we’ve shared this weekend, and how brave we’re all going to need to be. I know that we’ve only touched the surface of each other’s lives, but you have inspired me, you really have. Thank you. Thank you for all sorts of things, not least for reminding me how important physical things can be, like wrestling with doors in the middle of storms and long walks on hills and leaping suicidally off the tops of trees.

  “I’m sure we shouldn’t take any pride or satisfaction in these irritants that enter our lives, but, look, I do think we should greatly value the way in which God’s able to form a pearl of protection around each of them. He hasn’t got rid of most of them because he’s good enough to allow us to go on being the person we are. We wear God’s pearls as symbols of our vulnerability and perhaps as pictures of the way God can make something beautiful out of weakness.

  “Speaking for myself, in practical terms this has meant I’ve been willing to own my problems and weaknesses in any public speaking I’ve done. Knowing that vulnerability isn’t a sin — and Jesus himself is the clearest example of that — can be very helpful to people who’ve been intimidated by ‘perfect’ Christians.

  “I’m proud of my pearls, and so should you be proud of yours.

  “So, who are the swine?

  “Well, it’s interesting. In this context they’ve tended to be Christians who suffer from what seems an overwhelming compulsion to put me right. They get very agitated when I appear too casually open about deficiencies in my Christian life or the way my personality and experience are affected by things from the distant past. I know they think they’re being helpful when they send me books or tapes or leaflets that might address my problems, but they’ve actually got it wrong. You see, they want to heal my uncertain childhood and my skepticism toward most human organizations, and my habit of hanging about on the edge of things, waiting to see if the truth will end up inside or outside the circles that nervous Christians like us seem obliged to form all the time. I don’t want them healed, thanks very much, any more than a red-haired person wants the color of his hair healed or a left-handed person wants his left-handedness cured or a person who likes singing in the bath wants that habit drawn out of them by the roots, like some sort of wart.

  “I truly think one of the most wonderful things God offers us is his permission to follow Jesus without becoming somebody else. Paul the apostle, for instance, didn’t change from being exactly the man he’d been before his Damascus Road experience, but a brand-new, God-given perspective redirected all his energies and talents and tendencies toward a completely different goal.

  “These helpful swine want to get rid of anything that makes you or me different from the kind of person that actually only exists in the context of those strange acts of corporate dishonesty that some Christian congregations specialize in.

  “So why do they do it?

  “Difficult to be sure, but I think this obsession with spiritual blandness comes from a mixture of fear and unbelief. I read somewhere that insecure church leaders are like children left in charge of a house. They get so worried about the size of the job that they make up a set of horrendously impossible rules for each other in order to cope. It’s just an attempt to control a situation that feels frighteningly complex. People who are frantic to get others fixed are often plagued with worry and doubt in exactly the same way. The bad news for them is that they’d have found Jesus terribly worrying two thousand years ago. The even worse news for them is that he hasn’t changed at all.

  “Graham, Jenny, Angela, Mike, Peter, we can only follow Jesus as we are, just like the old disciples had to. Me with the hole left in my life by Jessica’s death, Graham with insecurities about being a husband and father, insecurities that leak into his faith, Jenny with her fear of loneliness, Angela with the need to forgive and get rid of all the bitterness inside her, Mike with his feeling that God has never shown him how much he loves him, and Peter . . .”

  I looked a question at Peter. Paler than ever, he nodded resolutely.

  “And Peter with the fact that he’s gay — ”

  A murmured ripple of response.

  “Peter with the fact that he’s gay and has made a decision to remain celibate for the rest of his life. All sorts of people have all sorts of views on that, but they’re not important. This is what he’s decided and I respect him for it. Yesterday Peter actually did the thing he’s been most frightened of all his life. He very bravely told someone what I’ve just told you. For the first time ever, wasn’t it, Peter?”

  “Mm.”

  “Like I said, we follow Jesus with all that baggage on our backs, and we hope and pray that God will do something to ease our burdens. But we don’t give up just because we’re not as good at forgiving ourselves as God is at forgiving us. In any case, the problems are only a part of us. There are all the strengths and the talents and the beautiful things about each of us, and they have to go in the rucksack as well.

  “Pearls are valuable things. They’re beautiful, and they’re what you get when God transfigures things that could have turned very ugly. Whatever we do, we mustn’t let anyone take them away from us. And now, I’m getting sick of the sound of my own voice, so I’ll say — amen.”

  The prayers that we said for each other before passing round the bread and wine that morning were nourishing, perhaps as nourishing as the communion itself. There was no pressure on anyone to pray aloud, but everybody except Mike said something. Peter prayed for Andrew.

  Most moving of all for me was Jenny’s prayer for Peter. She got up and moved down the table so that she could stand behind his chair and wrap her arms round his neck like a human scarf. Laying her face on his shoulder, she thanked God for him and prayed that he would find lots and lots of love in his life and be exactly the person he was supposed to be. Then she stood up, kissed him on the very top of his head, and returned to her seat. For at least a minute or two after that there were traces of color in Peter’s bloodless cheeks. The peace in his eyes lasted for much longer.

  As we passed the bread and the wine to each other, they were, to us, the body and blood of Christ. We took them and ate and drank them in the knowledge that they were given for us, we remembered that Christ died for us, and we fed on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving.

  Because of the rain, good-byes happened in the hall. They happened quite quickly and were conducted with passion and strain. We hardly knew each other. It had been very intense. Now we were parting. Addresses and numbers were busily exchanged. Half-formed arrangements were left to be finalized at some later date. Open invitations were extended.

  Well, perhaps some of us would meet again. I hoped so, but I had been part of too many weekends away to be very sure of that.

  I had decided to be the last to go. Graham and Jenny were the first. He had picked her up on his way over on Friday and would now take her home. I shook hands
with Graham, encouraged him, and wished him well. He was bright-eyed and positively throbbing with excitement about the prospect of going home to his beloved family. How much would he tell Julie about what had happened this weekend? Not too much. Just enough.

  I didn’t think Jenny looked at all excited about the idea of going home. I told her how much I admired her, which I did, and how grateful I was for her part in changes that had begun in me this weekend. I told her how much I liked her red hat and she laughed. She told me she would never forget our walk over the hills. Then she looked as if she might cry and hurried after Graham out into the yard.

  For traveling back to Yorkshire, Peter had elected to wear a navy-blue blazer with silver buttons, worn over a dark pink roll-neck sweater made from some thin acrylic material. He looked as if he was off to judge a dog show. Whatever had peeped out during the weekend seemed to have retreated for now. The big bad world was out there, and it was tough. He shook hands with me over-politely, pecked Angela on the cheek, and ducked his tall form out of the door.

  Mike, wearing his heavy cord trousers and leather jacket, had hung about by the door, saying good-bye to the others and flicking a glance at Angela every now and then. Sensing that there was something he wanted to say to Angela without anyone else being around, I took up a stance in the porch, gazing out across the wet yard. A few minutes later there was a loud burst of merriment from Angela, followed by the sound of a hand slapping leather two or three times. Moments later, Mike, with a rueful expression on his second-hand features, caught my arm, spun me round, and stuck a hand out.

  “See yer, mate!” he said.

  I poked a folded piece of paper into his top pocket as I shook his hand.

  “If you ever feel like getting in touch, give us a ring.” I meant it.

  “Right.”

  “Mike, just before you go — as a matter of interest, after this weekend, everything that’s happened, what do you — I don’t know how to put it — where do you stand with Christianity?”

  He pondered, blowing his cheeks out and knitting his brows. “

  It’s been a laugh,” he said eventually, “it’s been good. At the end of the day, though, well, it’s crap, right? I mean — Jenny and Peter whipping themselves to death for wanting a spot of the other like everyone else. Why? What’s that all about?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, I dunno! Anyway — cheers, mate.” Pause. “Sorry about Jess. Cheers, Angela!”

  Angela came and stood beside me in the doorway, arms folded, watching as Mike climbed into his battered old Peugeot and chugged noisily away out of the yard.

  “Mike’s in love with me,” she said. “Well, he was until two minutes ago. Now he’s not.”

  I chuckled. “Yes, I heard you smacking some sense into him. Poor old Mike. I hope he does give me a ring sometime.”

  “So do I. Here you are, David.” Angela offered me a white envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s from Jessica. It’s only a letter.”

  Only a letter. Only a letter from Jessica. I took it, and without thinking, raised it to my lips.

  “You’d better be off.”

  Turning round into the hall, Angela picked up my bag, hefted it out and across the yard, and slung it on to the backseat of my unlocked car. I hadn’t moved. She came back to the doorway, one hand smoothing her glistening wet hair.

  “Find a place on the way home, David. Bye. God bless.”

  I came out of my trance.

  “Yes. Angela. Good-bye. Thanks.”

  Jessica’s friend, Angela. She smiled and lifted her face to kiss me gently on the cheek, then she spun me round and gave me a little push with both hands in the direction of my car. As I started it up and pulled away, still in a trance-like state, she was standing in the doorway, arms folded once more, still smiling. She lifted one hand in salute as I turned out of the yard and set off down the drive toward the lane.

  I found a pub on the way back. I took my drink to a corner by the window and sat quietly for a while, watching the rain stream off a blocked gutter just outside. Jessica’s unopened letter lay on the polished table in front of me. Several times I extended a hand and then snatched it back again immediately. Once I had read this letter it would have been — read. Perhaps it would be better if I never read it. I could keep it on a shelf in our kitchen and just let it be part of my life. I could do that. I picked it up at last, raised it to my lips once more, then lowered it, and forced the envelope open with my finger. Taking out the thin sheets of handwritten paper, I carefully unfolded them and began to read.

  My dearest, darling David,

  I do hope you’ve found a really nice place to sit and read my last letter to you. I think if things had happened the other way round I would probably have chosen somewhere out of doors. Yes, thinking about it, I definitely would. And it could rain if it wanted to. I wouldn’t mind. I’d love to be in the rain one more time. You and I always loved all sorts of different weather, didn’t we? Or rather I always did and you often did and had to pretend sometimes. So, maybe just for my sake you’re sitting under a tree on a nice dry waterproof, all dressed up warm and holding that big green golfing umbrella of ours to keep the rain off your hair. You don’t like getting your hair wet, do you, darling? It makes you so ratty.

  Isn’t it nice to be together one last time as you read this? I hope it is. I wish with all my heart that I could be with you properly, David, but it’s only just sunk in over the last couple of hours that we shan’t be together for very much longer, and so I wanted to find a way to be with you just once more after I’ve gone. I know you won’t be able to see me or touch me, but honestly, I don’t reckon I shall be all that far away as you read this. If it’s allowed (who knows what’s allowed?) I’m going to come as close to you as I can and snuggle up under the umbrella and watch your face as you read and probably wish I’d written a better letter than this. Oh, dear, I’m starting to sound as if I’m in one of those weepy films you always enjoyed so much, aren’t I? Do you remember I laughed once about you blubbering, didn’t I, and you got very serious indeed and told me I didn’t understand. You said that every time you were made to feel something very intensely it was such a relief because then you believed that you were alive again. Do you remember that? I’m still not sure what you were talking about . . .

  I love you so much.

  David, it isn’t dying I mind so much. Honestly. I’m surprised. Now it comes to it, I feel ever so peaceful about me. I’m a little bit afraid of how much it might hurt, but I’m pretty sure I actually do believe all the things that we said we believed every Sunday and all the other times. Anyway, right or wrong, by the time you read this I shall know all about it, and — by gosh! — won’t you be just hating the thought of that. As far as you’re concerned we always did have to discover things together, didn’t we, darling? You always get so cross whenever you have to play catch-up with me. Not this time, though. By the time you take this letter out of its envelope, I shall be with Jesus, wondering how we could all have been so dense, and seeing some amazing, beautiful things. But we will be together later on. It’s a promise. Not mine.

  No, the thing I do mind terribly is leaving you, my precious, precious husband. I just had to stop writing for a minute or two because I couldn’t keep the tears from coming when I thought of you raging like a blizzard inside, your face all set and expressionless because, as I know only too well, you won’t have a clue about what to do with all the hurt and loneliness that’s washing around inside you. Not a bit like a soppy film I’m afraid, is it, my darling?

  And then I think of you waking up in the morning and wondering if it was all a nightmare and turning your head very slowly to see if I’m there beside you like I have been so many times since the day we got married. And then rolling your head back and staring at the ceiling, trying to work out new ways to get yourself through another whole twenty-four hours. Hey! I’ve just thought of one good thing — you can have as many pillows as you like
now, and there won’t be any more of those midnight tug-o’-war sessions with the duvet, that I could only win by kicking you really hard in the leg.

  I wish we could be in bed together once more.

  I’ve thought of another good thing. You’ll be able to pay off the house. It’ll be ours — I mean, yours — at last!

  I hope you won’t mind me rambling on like this, but I don’t want to leave anything out. There are four other important things I want to say to you, darling.

  First, I want to thank you very much for our marriage. Hasn’t it been nice? Well, it has been pretty good, hasn’t it? I hope you’ve enjoyed it. We’ve had lots of fun in lots of different ways. A few problems and a few end-of-the-world rows, but nothing that didn’t culminate in the rapture. (That’s supposed to be a joke, by the way, in case you didn’t get it.) David, be sad about the immediate future if you like, but not about the past. We may not have made our twentieth anniversary, but the years we had were good, rich ones. I’d like you to know that it was a pleasure and a privilege to spend them with you. That may sound a bit silly and formal, but I don’t care because I mean it.

  Secondly, I wanted to say something about the future. I know that in quite a few of those films that you have such a strangely unaccountable affection for, dying wives make their husbands swear that they’ll marry again, within a week or so of being bereaved usually, isn’t it? Right now I’m afraid I don’t feel like that at all. The worst part of me, the bad Jessica, wants you to love me and think about me and want me and grieve for me and not even notice any other women for the rest of your life until the day you die and join me in heaven and I can start nagging you all over again. But the best Jessica, the good Jessica, doesn’t want that. I know you’re going to be very unhappy, just as I would have been if you’d died, but you won’t be sad forever, sweetheart. One morning you’re going to wake up and feel a bit guilty and troubled because the pain isn’t quite as bad as it was before, and that’ll be the first stage of being somewhere near all right again, and after that — well, I have to grit my teeth and say that, as you’d be absolutely useless at being on your own, I want you to find someone else one day. And I mean that as well. You’ll have my blessing and my love, and let me tell you that she will be a very lucky lady indeed. You will tell her what you do to the toothpaste tube at a very early stage in the relationship though, darling, won’t you?