A Home for the Heart

by Michael Phillips

  You see, Corrie, I take his fatherhood over the one I love with great seriousness, and I would do nothing to remove from his hand a decision and counsel that I feel belongs to him. Though you are a grown woman, ultimate responsibility for you still remains not in your hands nor mine, but in your father’s. He has been given that solemn obligation by God, and I honor that position. Until such a day that he passes authority for your life on to me, it is my prayer and intent to walk humbly and respectfully before him.

  You will not be mine until your father gives you to me. I hope you understand.

  You ask when I will come. I cannot say with certainty, although I hardly need say that you shall be the first to know my every plan, my every step.

  I have been with Mrs. Timms a good long while now, and I cannot leave her without making provision for her farm, the animals, the work, and she herself. She is a stout woman but steadily aging, and I must take care in finding someone reliable to take my place here. With the war now over, there are many men who would be grateful for honest work. Sadly, however, there are even more descending upon the South who seek neither honesty nor work, but only their own opportunistic gain, however they can come by it. Mrs. Timms would be ripe prey for such men, and I must be vigilant on her behalf. Meanwhile, I am in prayer and am hopeful.

  There is also the matter of my own history with which I must concern myself. I know I have not told you a great deal about my past other than what concerns only me. I shall do so—soon, I promise. This will not be a problem in whatever timetable the Lord sets for me, but it is of course of some significance when one is contemplating a change that may be of some duration.

  In the meantime, I shall begin making plans for a trip west.

  Yours,

  Christopher

  Dear Christopher,

  I was trying to save your second letter to read tonight, trying to space your letters out, but I couldn’t do it! It is not even midafternoon, and already I have yielded to temptation and torn open the envelope. So I will say to you the same thing you did to me: write me every day if you can!

  Yes, I will try to do as you ask and say nothing about our hopes and plans. But may I tell that you will be coming to California?

  What may I tell them?

  I’m afraid they suspect too much already, especially Almeda. She knows me too well, and the way she looks at me when I mention you tells me that she knows. Women understand those kinds of things about each other more than men realize. Or do men realize it but just don’t talk about it? Probably sensitive and thoughtful men like you do.

  Sometimes I think my father is more aware of the way women think than he lets on. A twinkle comes into his eye when he looks at me, and even though he doesn’t say anything I think he knows what I am thinking. Uncle Nick is different though. Have I told you about Uncle Nick and Aunt Katie and their family? I’m sure I have. Uncle Nick is more what I guess you would call a typical man. Even though he and Pa are such good friends and are a lot alike in many ways, Uncle Nick doesn’t understand his Katie the way Pa does me and Almeda and Becky.

  I wouldn’t doubt if Pa already has figured out the way it is between you and me. But I won’t say anything, and I don’t think he will ask. Pa’s not one to intrude.

  Let me tell you a little more about everyone.

  They’re all older, of course, than they were when I first went east. I notice it the most with the youngest. Tad and Becky seem more than two years older since I left, but that’s because it’s a bigger change to grow from eighteen to twenty like Tad has than from twenty-six to twenty-eight like me.

  Tad’s practically a man now, with such a peaceful countenance on his face and such a gentle expression in his eyes. Of all us five Hollister kids that came west thirteen years ago, he seems the least affected by the hardship and the heartache that went along with that journey. He was only seven at the time, and when I ask him about it, he says he only remembers bits and pieces. I’m glad I remember, but in a way his scant memories are a blessing too. It was a hard time, and losing Ma in the desert was something I’ll never forget. He has such a sweet and gentle spirit that I am looking forward to getting to know him all over again, but this time as an equal, as friends.

  It seems funny now to think back to when I used to call all the others young’uns. They don’t seem so much younger than me now!

  Pa and Almeda’s little girl, Ruth Agatha Parrish Hollister (named both after my ma, Pa’s first wife, and Almeda’s first husband), is already as old as Tad was when we came. It’s amazing to think of, but the only life she has ever known is in California. She’s I guess what you’d call the first generation of new Californians. She’s cute as a bug’s ear, and I can see both Pa and Almeda in her. I even imagine I see a hint of me in her too!

  Becky’s twenty-two, and such a young lady now. She always had spunk, and still does, but she’s calmed a lot. We’ve already had several nice talks. I shouldn’t find myself surprised by this, but I have to admit that in a way I am. She has such deep perceptions about people and, well, about all kinds of things. All this time I just wasn’t aware of how much she was taking in inside. I suppose all people tend to focus only on their own inner growth. But I guess I thought Becky was too frivolous and gay to pay much attention to spiritual things. Now I find that she’s been growing all along, in her own personal way, and is remarkably mature in her outlook.

  Almeda has grown closer to Becky in the past two years, just like she did with me when I was Becky’s age. Their relationship is different, of course, but with similar bonds. Becky tells me they had lots of special times when I was gone. She missed me, she says, and yet in another way I think my absence has been a blessing, since she and Almeda were able to spend so much time together and grow close as friends and as Christian sisters. Becky had become a true young lady of depth and faith.

  I’m so happy for her . . . for them both! All things work for good! Now Becky and I are able to share our “daughterness” with Almeda, and our “sisterness” with each other. Oh, it’s just been so rich with the three of us!

  Actually, Becky reminds me of our sister Emily, who’s twenty-four now and has a little daughter of her own. Emily wrote me with the news shortly after I’d arrived in Washington, D.C., so I’ve never seen my little niece—her name is Sarah. Neither have I seen Emily and Mike yet. They moved down toward the southern part of the state where Mike says it’s going to grow and there will be lots of opportunities. That’s what Pa said he said anyway.

  Mike hopes to earn enough money to start a ranch of his own. Pa and Almeda hope for the best for Mike and Emily and their young family, but Pa doesn’t place much stock in Mike’s dreams and schemes, as he calls them, and doesn’t think the southern part of the state, which is mostly desert, has much of a chance to amount to anything. Pa says that if it came up in the legislature again, he’d vote to let them have their own state down there.

  Mike’s working on a ranch in a little town called Santa Barbara, where one of California’s missions is built. It’s a long way from here, but I guess not as far as the East Coast, so I ought to be able to figure out a way to see Emily again soon.

  Becky still has her youthful energy and a twinkle in her eye, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to find some young man proposing to her real soon. Can you imagine? All three of us Hollister girls may be married before long! Who would have thought it? It seems like just yesterday we were all “young’uns”!

  I wonder what will happen with Zack and Tad! I can hardly picture either of them married—not my brothers! But then I would never in my wildest dreams have thought that any man would ever love me, and . . . here I am writing to you!

  I still can hardly believe that one day I will see you in Miracle Springs! The very thought is too wonderful to consider!

  I will tell you more about Zack and Pa and Almeda later. I am anxious to get this off in today’s mail, and the stage is due within an hour, and I need to get it into town.

  Oh, Christopher, wh
en do you think you will come?

  Corrie

  Chapter 5

  Life Again in Miracle Springs

  My first day home I slept in longer than I ever thought I would! When I woke up I could tell the sun was already high, and I knew from the sounds around me that everyone else was already up.

  I guess I was more exhausted from the long trip than I’d realized, not to mention being up so late the night before writing to Christopher!

  It was a wonderful, happy, exciting day, but frustrating too. I wanted to see everything and everybody at once!

  Almeda and Becky and I went up to see Aunt Katie again right after breakfast. Then we went into town to see the Rutledges, and Almeda wanted to show me the Supply Company.

  I don’t know where that first day went. Suddenly it was gone!

  The following days were much the same. It was so good to be in a kitchen again, to be able to help Almeda and Becky with the meals. Oh, we laughed and talked and had such a time! The first time I made biscuits, I was so out of practice that they turned out awful. Pa got such a kick out of teasing me—it was almost worth failing just to see the pleasure it brought him!

  And to be able to sleep in the same bed night after night, to be able to put my clothes away and not look at my traveling bags again, to be able to set out my books on a shelf . . . I hadn’t stopped to think about all the special little things that make a home homey, but now suddenly everything about this place felt special in a whole new way!

  I didn’t have long to just relish in the hominess of it, though, before the question of “What should Corrie Hollister do next?” began to intrude into my thoughts.

  As anxiously as I awaited the mail delivery every several days, I had mixed reactions when I read the following:

  Dear Miss Hollister,

  I have followed your career these past two years with much pride, and we have run as many of your articles from the East as we have been able to obtain—most of them, I think. From your beginnings as the anonymous C.B. Hollister, who I thought was a man, you have indeed begun to make a name for yourself in a man’s profession. Your byline is one that the female portion of our readership awaits eagerly.

  Word has it that you are due back in California soon. Perhaps you have already arrived. I would hope for an opportunity soon thereafter to discuss your rejoining the Alta team of writers and reporters. As San Francisco and the state grow, more and more women read our newspaper, and we find that they identify quite well with your points of view.

  I am aware we have had our differences of opinion in the past over the matter of remuneration. However, I am confident we will be able to arrive at a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  I remain, Miss Hollister,

  Sincerely yours,

  Edward Kemble

  Editor, California Alta

  I put down the letter and smiled. What a turn of events, I thought—Mr. Kemble asking me to write for his paper, instead of me begging him!

  But I wasn’t yet ready to think about that nebulous thing called “the future,” especially as it concerned my writing career. I’d been doing so much of that kind of thinking during the last two years—at the convent, then in Washington, and when I’d visited Bridgeville—and my brain was tired from that kind of exercise. I found I couldn’t even pray or talk to God about it. It was going to take some time to find out what would happen between me and Christopher. I’d given everything in my life over completely to God when I was in New York, and in the meantime I didn’t want to waste energy thinking about what I’d already put in his hands.

  There was something else too. I couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Kemble still couldn’t quite bring himself to admit that I was a full-fledged newspaper writer. The implication of what he said was that my writing was only of interest to women and that if it weren’t for his “female readership,” he wouldn’t waste his time on me.

  Maybe Mr. Kemble didn’t really think that, but that’s what it sounded like! And I couldn’t help wondering why more men couldn’t be like Pa and just come right out and admit that a woman has done a downright good job at something if it is true! Why did it always have to be, “That’s pretty good . . . for a woman”?

  On the other hand, Mr. Kemble was offering me what I’d always dreamed of—now suddenly it was right in front of me! This wasn’t going to be an easy decision.

  I folded up Mr. Kemble’s letter and put it back in the envelope.

  “Well, Mr. Kemble,” I sighed to myself, “I don’t know what to tell you. I think my answer’s just going to have to wait a spell.”

  But even though I didn’t reply to it, the letter from Mr. Kemble did cause me to reflect a bit on the various possibilities in front of me . . . besides Christopher, that is! Suddenly, with the end of the war and Mr. Lincoln’s assassination, a chapter of my life had closed. What stories would the new chapters have to tell? I didn’t yet know.

  Did I want to keep writing? Did I want to be involved in politics anymore? Did I want to go back into the business with Almeda? And the biggest question of all was, how did any of these things fit into life as a married lady? Or did they fit at all?

  Everything was so different now. Only one thing I was sure of—my future wasn’t mine alone to decide about. So I tried not to think about it all too much. I bided my time and waited to see what would be written on the pages of life’s book once the Lord turned them over.

  Chapter 6

  Reflections on Loved Ones

  Dear Christopher,

  I told you before that I would tell you about Zack, Pa, and Almeda later. Well, it’s late now. Another day is behind me, and everybody’s in bed but me . . . but I’d rather talk to you than sleep.

  About those three—in a way, they’re the ones who seem to be changed the most. Actually, that’s not really true—they’re just the three I find myself noticing the most. On the outside, I suppose, they’ve changed least of all. The changes that I notice have to do with deep inside things.

  Almeda is the same as always—sensitive, warm, caring, always trying to serve someone else. As we visit and talk, she treats me so much like an equal that it’s hard to think back to our first years together, when I didn’t know anything about what it meant to be a Christian. Almeda guided me so wisely through those first years of growing with God that I can’t even imagine my life without her help. Now, even though she’s still older and wiser and more experienced than I am, there’s an evenness to our relationship that makes it seem more like we’re on the same level. She’s been there longer than me, and I still find myself asking her questions. Yet we’re different together now that I’m older, like we’re closer to the same age . . . which we are, even though we’re not. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?

  Almeda is forty-seven now. The thought of her being almost fifty years old is almost more than I can take in. Yet I will be thirty before she is fifty, and that is all the more astonishing!

  I always remember hearing grown-ups talk, when I was little, about how fast the years go. They were right! The older you get, the more they start flying by.

  Oh, but what might the years ahead hold for us, dear Christopher? Of course, I don’t want to know! Knowing would spoil the adventure of discovering the answers together!

  I do see some of the signs of age in Almeda. Of course, it’s not a bad or an undesirable thing, because when I look in the mirror I am always amazed at the person staring back at me. The signs of age are happening just as rapidly on my face! What happened to the little girl? I always want to say to myself.

  There are more lines and wrinkles gradually showing themselves around Almeda’s eyes and mouth. Her face is still brown from working outside as much as she does, and maybe that makes them show up a little more. Her brown hair has lots more gray streaks than I remember, though on her it looks nice, and she doesn’t seem to mind them at all. A smile is always on her lips, and her eyes haven’t changed. If anything, they look at you deeper and with more love than before
, if that is possible.

  I love Almeda so much! God has been so good to our family to arrange it so that she and Pa fell in love after losing Ma and Mr. Parrish.

  Pa seems more changed than anyone in the family. It’s possible that he was like this when I left in ’63 and that I just hadn’t noticed. But he seems so different from the hard-working, card-playing outlaw-turned-miner that we found in the Gold Nugget saloon when we first got to California. So different!

  He’s almost like a city man now. He dresses nicely. He walks tall, like he’s comfortable with who he is. People in town call him Mr. Hollister—about the only people who still call him just plain Drum are Uncle Nick and Alkali Jones. Everybody in the whole area is proud of Pa. He was mayor of Miracle Springs for four years, and has now been an assemblyman in the legislature in Sacramento for five.

  Maybe coming back makes me realize more than I ever did before that my father is the closest thing to a celebrity there is for miles around. He’s an important man! And now all of a sudden I can see it written all over him. He’s just so different. He carries himself with poise and stature. Why, he even reminds me of people I met back in Washington, D.C.! But I guess the changes came over him so slowly through the years that I wasn’t really struck by them until I went away for a while.

  Funny, isn’t it, how it’s hardest to see when someone right up close to you is gradually becoming important. Everybody else’s eyes from farther away knows who they are more than the person’s own family and friends. It seems like it ought to be just the opposite.

  Pa just turned fifty earlier in the year. He shows the signs of it too, with the wrinkles and the graying of his hair and whiskers. But it all looks so good on Pa!

  I’d never quite realized how handsome he is. Distinguished is what you’d call it. He just carries himself like a man who is somebody, but without a hint of putting on airs. He doesn’t think too highly of himself, and I don’t imagine he ever gives a thought to how he looks or what people think of him. The way he acts seems to come from just the way he is inside, not from anything he is trying to do about it.