A New Beginning

by Michael Phillips

  The Congress, however, controlled by Northerners, did not approve of President Johnson restoring the South so quickly by presidential authority. Congress wanted to keep treating the southern states as rebel territories and to withhold the full rights of statehood. Had President Lincoln lived, this battle for power between the President and Congress might have turned out differently. But with Mr. Johnson being a weak leader, Congress slowly gained the upper hand and proceeded to ignore his proclamations and pass its own series of reconstruction acts. Mr. Lincoln’s more moderate and forgiving approach to putting the country back together after the war was thus replaced by a harsher and more arrogant Congressional scheme led by the radical Republicans of the President’s own party.

  The dispute between Congress and the President became so severe that finally Congress decided to try to get rid of President Johnson by impeachment.

  In May of that year two things happened. President Johnson was narrowly acquitted in the impeachment proceedings, which meant that he would not be removed from office. Yet his reputation was so low that he was not nominated to run again on the Republican ticket. Instead, that same month, at their national convention in Chicago, the Republicans nominated Ulysses S. Grant as their presidential candidate for the election to be held that November.

  If anything could have tempted me to get involved again in politics, that could have!

  Knowing Mr. Grant personally as I felt I did, it would have been easy to start writing articles supporting him, maybe even speaking as I had for President Lincoln’s and Mr. Stanford’s campaigns. So much rushed back to my mind as I read the newspaper accounts throughout that summer—from Mr. Grant’s first visit right here to Miracle Springs way back in 1853 to my associations with him during the war.

  Suddenly I had three possible things to be involved in—being the wife of a pastor, running a business, and politics and newspaper writing.

  But now there was a lot more for me to think about than just myself. I had a husband to consider, and we had a church and a community that was looking to us to be there for them when they needed us. So Christopher and I had been praying diligently about all these things.

  Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in politics anymore. Meeting Christopher, and of course being married, had gradually changed everything. So much of what had once been important no longer looked the same in my eyes.

  Almeda had given me wise counsel that night when we were talking about the future of the freight company. As time passed, I did not find rising up within myself a strong desire or enthusiasm toward either the business or politics.

  Both still interested me. But I was slowly recognizing that Christopher’s and my future lay in other directions. I recognized too that this lessening of enthusiasm in one direction, with increased focus in another, was the Lord’s subtle and quiet way of answering our prayers about whether we were to be involved in the future of the freight company in a more permanent way.

  Chapter 41

  What Is Going to Last?

  Throughout the summer and early fall Christopher and I continued to talk about the future and where these different things fit into our new roles in the community now that Rev. Rutledge was gone. One day we were talking about my writing again in a casual way, and this led into a discussion about permanency. Christopher would have been happy for me to keep writing, for he had always supported it wholeheartedly, yet he always led me back to consider the other side of it too.

  “We’ve always got to look at the long-term impact of what we do,” Christopher said as we were talking.

  “How do you mean?” I asked. “My writing something that’s going to be of interest years from now rather than just for the present?”

  “Something like that, I suppose,” he replied. “But it’s not just writing. I try to consider the lasting quality of what I do as a pastor too.”

  “Isn’t everything you do as a pastor lasting?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure you can say that. I think even a pastor can get caught up in temporal and insignificant things like anyone else.”

  He paused thoughtfully.

  “It’s something I started thinking about during those long years at Mrs. Timms’ farm,” he went on after a moment. “What’s going to last?—that’s always got to be the question one asks. What’s going to outlive us, what are we going to do in life that lives beyond us, what efforts of ours now will we still be able to look back from eternity and see the results of?”

  “What kinds of things do you mean?”

  Christopher laughed.

  “That is the very question I’ve been asking myself all these years. I suppose it began when I was asked to leave my first church. As I looked back on my ministry among those people, and all the sermons I preached and all the other pastoral functions I carried out, I could not help but wonder if they would all go up in the first puff of smoke with all the rest of the wood, hay, and stubble that Paul talks about.”

  “That seems a rather harsh judgment,” I said. “Surely you did some good?”

  Christopher smiled. “I suppose so. And yes, I remember individuals here and there that I like to think I helped in some ways that will be permanent. But do you see the question I’m trying to raise—that what looks on the surface to be a good, even a spiritual thing—like the preaching of sermons, for instance, which I did lots of—or even just a good thing by itself—like writing articles helping people to see political issues more clearly—may or may not have any eternal value?”

  “How can you know?”

  “That’s the hard part! I’ve got no easy answer. I only know that I want to spend my energies on things that do have eternal value. But I still have to look hard to know what they are sometimes. One thing I have been in the habit of doing whenever something comes along that I have to decide about is to ask myself, if I were eighty or ninety years old and facing near death, looking back on my life, would this be something I was glad I devoted time and energy to. That is one of the things I asked myself in arriving at a decision regarding the offer from the church last March. It’s amazing how quickly that simple question sifts the wheat from the chaff.”

  “What makes the difference between the two, the wheat and the chaff?”

  Christopher thought for a moment.

  “I suppose the things that have eternal value have to do with character, with the kind of people we are more than the things we do. Internal things rather than external. It’s not always as easy as saying that we ought to be helping people. If we’re not becoming more Christlike as a result, then of what permanent value is it? I may fix a broken buggy for widow Hutchins like I did last week, but if inside I am annoyed about the inconvenience, what will be the permanent benefit to my eternal character from having done it?”

  “What about Mrs. Hutchins?” I asked. “She benefits whether you were annoyed or not.”

  “Benefits . . . how? By having her wagon in good working order? How does that benefit her eternally? That wagon will go up with all the rest of the wood, hay, and stubble.”

  “Hmm . . . I see what you mean,” I said.

  I thought for a moment more. Then I had another thought.

  “But what if your fixing her buggy benefited Mrs. Hutchins internally?” I said. “What if you helped her eternal character somehow by doing it?”

  “Exactly!” rejoined Christopher. “I think you’ve hit it precisely. When we are becoming more internally Christlike from what we do, or when we are in some small way helping another man or woman to become more internally Christlike themselves . . . then it seems to me that we are expending our energies upon things of eternal value.”

  “How wonderful,” I added, “if both can be happening at once.”

  “Amen to that!” said Christopher. “The more I think and pray about this, I just can see nothing else but Christlikeness of character that is going to last. Everything else we do, everything else we are, is going to vanish the instant we die. Some poor individuals will be left with ver
y impoverished natures. Others will find themselves giants of character in the kingdom of heaven because of the multitude of small acts and choices of Christlike kindness they demonstrated in this life. Turning ourselves constantly toward such a focus, and helping others to orient their lives likewise toward Jesus, seems to be life’s ultimate goal. That’s what I want our ministry in Miracle Springs to be.”

  “But not everyone can be a preacher like you.”

  “I don’t mean telling people about Christlikeness. No, I don’t necessarily mean talking about spiritual things at all. I mean behaving in such a way that Christlikeness of character results—both in yourself and in others. Acting, thinking, speaking, responding . . . living as much as possible like Jesus did and according to what he taught—it cannot help but have eternal consequences. No, I don’t mean preaching about it, but modeling our lives after his.”

  “Like Pa and Mr. Royce.”

  “Precisely. Your father hadn’t the slightest idea what was happening. But because he was behaving and thinking in more Christlike ways himself—forgiving, being kind to others, turning the other cheek—Mr. Royce was all the while being drawn toward Christlikeness himself. Therefore, both men are now engaged in the development of internal characters that will go with them into eternity.”

  “Speaking of Mr. Royce, what he has been doing still has everyone in the whole town abuzz. Did I tell you that Almeda received a letter just yesterday from her friend in Sacramento, Carl Denver?”

  Christopher shook his head with a puzzled expression.

  “No, what about?”

  “There are banking people in Sacramento that have had their eye on expanding up here for years,” I said. “They’d heard about Mr. Royce’s lowering the interest rate on all his loans, just at the time all the Sacramento banks were raising theirs. He asked Almeda if Royce’s bank was in trouble.”

  Christopher smiled.

  “Almeda laughed when she read it,” I said. “‘Just wait until I write and tell him that Franklin has also canceled one month’s payment on all loans so that his valued customers may catch up on their other bills,’ Almeda said. ‘He’ll think the good banker of Miracle Springs has gone completely mad!’”

  Christopher nodded, still smiling, but almost reverently. What Mr. Royce had done was to him a serious and holy thing.

  “The Zacchaeus principle,” he said after a moment. “I was so moved when I heard what he had done. It showed that what happened between him and your father, and the prayers he prayed, were going to be permanent and were going to make a lasting difference in his life. Following up prayers of Christlikeness with actions of sacrifice and kindness gives the Father a tremendous foothold from which to work rapid transformations of character. God bless the man.”

  “It seems he already is.”

  “I truly believe Franklin Royce is going to be a radiant son of his new Father.”

  We thought a few moments. It was still hard to believe what a change had come over Mr. Royce so quickly.

  “This is an example of exactly what we were talking about,” Christopher began after a minute. “Your father, as he represents it in talks we’ve had, saw in your mother and then Almeda and Avery Rutledge qualities of character that eventually prompted him to want to live in a different way himself. His life, in turn, as that same Christlike character began to emerge, has shown something to Franklin Royce about how he wants to live and the kind of person he wants to be. Now Franklin in his turn is beginning to demonstrate an unselfishness and a Christlike spirit of giving that I know will have profound impact within others of this community, perhaps even so far away as Sacramento.”

  “Wow, that is a wonderful progression!”

  “Christlikeness always multiplies. It cannot but have deep and lasting impact on all those it touches.

  “That’s the eternal value we’ve been talking about. When your father dies, it won’t be his work at the mine or the gold he’s dug up or the votes and speeches he made in Sacramento that will go with him into the next life, but rather the Christlikeness of character he’s developed in the process of these other pursuits. And I think the rewards Paul speaks of that he will receive there will be made up of the Christlikeness of character he has helped to foster in others, such as Franklin Royce.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, that’s how I view it now,” said Christopher, “though it’s a complex mystery. I only pray our lives can be influential in the same eternal way as your father’s has.”

  Chapter 42

  A Permanent Legacy

  “What does all this have to do with my writing?” I asked after we had again sat thinking silently for a few minutes. “Does looking at the lasting and eternal importance of everything mean I should only write about spiritual things? I doubt Mr. Kemble would be very excited about that.”

  Christopher laughed lightly.

  “I’m not sure that’s what it means, and that wasn’t what I was trying to say. You know me well enough by now to recognize that the term spiritual for me encompasses all of life, not just things connected with church services, hymns, and Bible verses.”

  “What did you mean I should do then?”

  “You’ll have to pray and ask the Lord to answer that question more clearly than I can.”

  “I want to know what you think anyway.”

  “Well then . . .” began Christopher, then paused, pursing his lips and scratching his neck as he thought about it. “Maybe I would say this—that God is probably able to use any kind of writing, just like he is able to use any other kind of thing people do—whether it be preaching, working a gold mine, or running a bank—to draw men and women closer to him. I don’t know that it’s so much what you write about exactly, but that the process helps you in the development of your Christlike character and enables you to help others toward that same end.”

  I reflected on what Christopher had said for a moment.

  “But,” I said at length, thinking out loud, “writing is different than everything else. Your readers don’t actually see you living your life in a daily way like Mr. Royce was able to see Pa all these years. So how could I possibly have an impact in people’s lives toward Christlikeness unless somehow I wrote about it more directly?”

  “Hmm . . . I see what you mean.”

  “What possible difference could it make whether somebody votes for so-and-so—after we get to heaven?” I asked. “I hope Mr. Grant wins the election. But how can that be a so-called spiritual thing? What eternal difference does it really make?”

  “In other words, what could be more temporal and passing than politics?”

  “Maybe that’s what I’m asking, and if that is true, why should I expend energy and time writing about it? How does that help people toward developing Christlike characters?”

  I stopped, and kind of half shook and half nodded my head with indecision.

  “And yet . . .” I went on, “I love to write. I admit it. I don’t think I could ever not write.”

  “Then by all means keep writing!” said Christopher. “I would never want you to stop.”

  “But about what? Most of what I’ve written articles about in the past isn’t of much eternal significance.”

  “Writing doesn’t have to be published to have value. Maybe you’ll write articles in the future, maybe you won’t. But you should keep writing regardless. Maybe your audience won’t be newspaper readers at all. What about the journals we both keep?”

  “I don’t write in mine much anymore, it seems,” I laughed. “Remember my hospitality entry!”

  “How’s it going?”

  “The page is still empty, but I’m going to go back and fill it pretty soon!”

  “But however much or little time we find for such writing, it is still important, even though mostly it’s just for ourselves and our thoughts when we’re alone with God.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “And with the other writing you do—we don’t always know who our aud
ience is going to be when God is writing the living epistles of our lives. Your father didn’t know Mr. Royce was ‘reading’ him. I simply think if you write—write whatever the Lord gives you to write—he will make use of it in his own way.”

  I nodded.

  “Would you like to know a different kind of writing I’ve been doing in my own journal over the last year or so?” Christopher went on.

  “Yes . . . of course,” I answered.

  “Actually it began after I’d come here and had begun to think of marriage in a more personal way than I ever had before. I never said anything to you about it, however, because it seemed somehow premature to talk about us having a family before we were married. And then it’s never come up since the wedding.”

  “Go on, then, tell me,” I urged.

  “I’ve found myself thinking, again as if I were an old man like I sometimes do, of what I would want to say to my sons and daughters—our children, I mean!—if I knew I was about to leave them. What would be the spiritual principles I would want to pass on to them—almost like a legacy?”

  “Oh, Christopher, it’s almost too much to imagine our really having children someday.”

  “I certainly hope we do. Don’t you?”

  “Of course. But doesn’t the thought seem, I don’t know, frightening?”

  “How so?”

  “I never anticipated being a wife—but being a mother, now that seems even more of an awesome responsibility! Although what woman isn’t eager for it at the same time. But go on with what you were saying.”

  “Well, sometimes thinking of being a father helps me pray and focus on what the truly important things in life are now. It has helped me, even if no one else ever does read it.”

  “Oh, I want to read it . . . that is, if you would let me.”

  “You will. But I was only telling you to suggest that you could do the same in your journal. You have learned so many things over the years as you have been growing with the Lord. Do you remember what you told me you were going to do with the journal I gave you back in Virginia?”