A Searching Heart

by Janette Oke

  “She has locked me out, too, Mr. Woods,” Virginia said regretfully. “Oh, we talk—some—and we go through the motions of friendship. But it’s not like it used to be. Jenny has shut herself away. I’ve about given up. All I can do is be there. And pray.

  “I think I’ve finally realized that I cannot be Jenny’s salvation,” Virginia continued carefully, looking into Mr. Woods’ face to see if he understood. “Only God can bring about the miracle, the rebirth. It is my job to love her, to pray for her, and to leave the rest to Him. I no longer push and prod—and grieve. It only causes stubbornness on her part and frustration on mine.”

  Mr. Woods nodded. He looked so concerned that Virginia’s heart ached for him. But when he spoke, his words again surprised her.

  “I guess I’ve put this whole load on you for far too many years. I’ve not been in the place where I could pray for my girl myself. Well, that’s got to change. I can’t go back and change the past, but I can change the future. The sooner I have that talk with the preacher, the better. I’ve known for some time that I need forgiveness—living the way I did with all that bitterness and anger that spewed out every time I opened my mouth. But I need to accept my responsibility as a father, too. I can’t do that for Jenny if I keep on fighting God.”

  The tears refused to be contained any longer and rolled down Virginia’s cheeks. She rubbed them quickly away with the tips of her fingers. The big man before her looked uneasy at his own confession. Virginia supposed it had been a long time since he had opened up so completely to anyone.

  “When will you leave?” she asked in an effort to put him at ease.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’ve no idea. It will depend on the findings of the doctor.”

  “Of course.”

  He shuffled his feet and rubbed a hand across his unshaven cheek. Virginia knew he worked through the night on the paper. He very likely had not yet been home to take his breakfast.

  “Is there any . . . message . . . you’d like to send?”

  Virginia’s brow wrinkled in confusion. To whom would she be sending a message? She didn’t know anyone in the city. Except for Pastor and Mrs. Black, and Mr. Woods had said that Mrs. Black had left. So it was . . .

  Oh. The young preacher. But what message would she have for him?

  She smiled. “Just tell Pastor Black that I said hello and trust all is going well with him and his church,” she responded lightly.

  Mr. Woods gave her a grin and a nod before he turned to go.

  ———

  Virginia had to readjust her thinking and daily routine with Jenny gone again. Instead of having to make time to go visit the girl, Virginia had to find other things to do to fill her spare time. With a sigh, she took up the handwork she had laid aside. For many months it had been nothing but a painful reminder that she had no need to be filling a hope chest with linens and laces. Now she began to have other thoughts.

  There is no reason for Papa and Mama to be endlessly supporting an old-maid daughter, she thought to herself. I’ll keep my eyes open for a small place of my own. Even a spinster lady on her own has need for towels and pillowcases.

  Virginia once again began to embroider and stitch, carefully laying each completed project in her former “hope chest.”

  Francine, in her forthright manner, wanted to know what she was doing, and if she “had an eye on somebody.” But Virginia refused to let the younger girl’s comments disturb her.

  She was finally over Jamison. Well, no—not totally. She wondered deep in her heart if she ever would really forget Jamison. But she could now think of him without such pain in her heart. The experience of his Christmas visit home had somehow managed to cut the cord that had bound her to him.

  Perhaps it had been the shock. But more than likely it was the fact that he could approach her, could speak to her with civility, as an old friend, could turn and walk away as though she were no more, no less, than the other members of the local congregation. In those few moments, Virginia had clearly realized the fact that there would never be a reconciliation. It was too late. Maybe she wouldn’t even want one. She sensed that Jamison was right. In some way she could not discern, only sense, everything was different now. He was not the Jamison she had loved when he was a boy.

  And she had changed, too. How much or in what ways, she had not yet sorted through. But they both had become different people as young adults.

  When her heart had finally recovered from this fresh wound, Virginia felt ready to lay all thoughts of love aside and go on with life. A life far different from the one she had romantically planned such a few short years before.

  Now it was to be a life filled with her own activities and goals. It included God, as it always had, her church, family, and friends. It included her own little mission of reaching out to help in any way she could. It included self-sufficiency and responsibility—both to those she loved and to the employer in the job with which she was blessed.

  Oh, it wasn’t a magnificent career, Virginia realized. But it was one that put her in contact with many people daily. In spite of the fact that she had no higher education, it was work that supplied an adequate income so she would not need to be dependent on others. It even brought her a measure of satisfaction.

  All in all, Virginia felt quite settled. Each month she was tucking away money in the fund that would one day buy her own house, and each week she added something more to her little chest of household items. There was no use grieving over what might have been.

  ———

  Virginia was sorting the morning mail just in on the train. She hummed softly to herself as she went through the small pile of letters, almost automatically stuffing them into the proper boxes. Another letter for the Booths from their son in college. A letter to Mrs. Parker from her sister in the East. One for Mrs. Dunworthy from her elderly mother. My, her handwriting is getting shaky, she noticed.

  Virginia stopped. The next letter in the pile bore her own name. And the handwriting was Jamison’s. With trembling fingers Virginia tucked the letter into her pocket, anxious for the noon break to discover the reason for the correspondence. Whatever it is, she reminded herself sternly, it is over between us.

  In spite of her resolve, Virginia found it difficult to concentrate. Why would Jamison be writing her? Had something happened?

  There had not been a letter to his parents for several days. Surely if something was wrong he would have written to them first—or, certainly, as well as to her.

  At last the clock on the wall granted Virginia her noon break. She strained to hear the footsteps of Mr. Manson as he came to relieve her. He was thirty-four seconds late, and it seemed an eternity to Virginia.

  With one hand clinging to the letter in her pocket, Virginia hurriedly left the post office and crossed to a lone bench in the little square. Thankful that no one else was about, she quickly tore open the envelope. She had no idea what the message might be and how it might affect her emotions.

  ———

  Dear Virginia,

  Undoubtedly you will be surprised to receive a letter from me after all the months of not corresponding. You may even feel it strange that I would share my news with you, but I do hope you will understand that it is because of my deep respect for you as a person and friend.

  It was good to see you at Christmas. I had dreaded the first time that I would face you and had put off coming home for that reason. I need not have feared. You were just as kind, just as personable, as ever. I so much admire you.

  I have missed being able to share my heart with such a wonderful ‘kindred spirit.’ We were always able to talk frankly and openly about our thoughts and feelings. I will always cherish that. It got me through some tough times, especially when I came to college.

  Things have changed, I know, but I do hope that our friendship might continue. You have every right to be angry, but I pray that is not the case.

  The real purpose of this lette
r is because I wanted you to know that I believe God has brought someone new into my life. She came at just the right time. I was so low and so confused I hardly knew who I was or what I believed anymore. Then God sent Rachel. She is so strong and steady in her faith, and God used her to show me the way back to solid ground. I know you would love her. The two of you share so many common traits. Things I so greatly admire.

  A little about her. Her father is a preacher with a growing church on the extreme west end of the city. She is the oldest child of a family of five, and because her folks have always been so busy with the mission church, she grew up quickly and assumed major responsibilities at an early age. I can’t believe how mature she is in both attitude and action. I can hardly wait for the two of you to become acquainted.

  We have made no definite plans as yet because I still have these classes to get out of the way. It was very difficult for me to backtrack and go for the accounting degree. I have had to earn money for my schooling, as well, so it has greatly slowed down the process.

  I am still playing football. Coach says that he thinks I can make a professional team if I put my mind to it. Rachel assures me that she will back me if I decide to try. But at least now I have solid training to fall back on if it doesn’t work.

  I do pray that you can accept this letter in the spirit in which it was written—as a friend to a friend. You will never know the number of times I grieved over hurting you. That was never my intention. I am so relieved to see that the wounds have healed.

  May God bless you always and bring only good things into your life.

  With deep devotion,

  Your friend Jamison.

  Virginia sat, fingering the letter, and waited for the tears. They did not come. Jamison was telling her of a new love, and she could not cry. Instead, she felt strangely—what? Released. Healed. Restored. She had lost a first love, but she had regained a friend. A dear friend. She was uniquely blessed.

  Rachel, her thoughts went on, I don’t know you, but thank you. Thank you for getting him back on track. Thank you for helping him to find faith in God—faith in himself again. He is a special person. I wish you every happiness with Jamison. He’s a wonderful man. You are blessed, too.

  Slowly Virginia folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. That night she would write a reply. She was sure that she would not be able to express all the things that she was feeling, but she would try.

  Suddenly, and without warning, the tears began to fall. But they were tears of thankfulness for the complete healing and the renewed joy that the letter had brought to her soul.

  ———

  “Mama. I’m a bit worried.” Virginia’s words brought Belinda’s head around from the pot she was stirring. “There is no smoke coming from Mr. Adamson’s chimney,” she explained hurriedly. “I went up and knocked on his door, but there was no answer. Is he away, do you know?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Belinda answered, concern on her face. “He has no place to go, as far as I know. No close family. Are you sure he didn’t just miss your knock? He’s getting quite hard of hearing.”

  “I knocked three times. And I called out. I didn’t get any response at all.”

  “He might be dozing. That would account for the fire being allowed to—” But Belinda laid aside her spoon and started toward the back door. Virginia followed.

  “Come to think of it, I didn’t see him in the yard when I came home from the grocery store this morning,” Belinda mused as they walked quickly together toward the little house. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. He spends more time indoors these days.”

  “His knees are getting so bad. I hold my breath when I see him walking about and trying to keep his garden.”

  “I know. He seems to be getting more and more tottery.”

  “I just hope he hasn’t fallen.”

  “There certainly is not smoke from the chimney.”

  There was no response to Belinda’s loud rapping on the front door.

  “What should we do?” Virginia asked as fear gripped her.

  “Mr. Adamson,” her mother called out loudly, rapping again. “Mr. Adamson, are you there?”

  Virginia clasped her hands in nervousness.

  “We need to check,” her mother said. “He might need help.”

  But the door, surprisingly, was locked.

  “I didn’t know he locked his door,” Belinda murmured.

  “He told me that it has a habit of coming open in the wind, so he keeps it locked. He always uses the back door. I’m sure it will be open.”

  At the rear of the house, a wheelbarrow stood under the willow tree, bearing pulled weeds and clipped grass.

  “It looks like he was working here quite recently,” Belinda noted hopefully.

  Again she rapped and called, and with no response. Without hesitation she turned the knob, and the door opened.

  Virginia was relieved to see there was no prone body on the kitchen floor. Used dishes sat on the table, a lone fly buzzing lazily over the contents.

  “Mr. Adamson,” Belinda called again. “Are you here?”

  Still only silence.

  They moved together from the kitchen. There was no sign of anyone in the parlor. On through to the little bedroom.

  There was Mr. Adamson, tucked into bed, a peaceful look on his face.

  “Oh, thank God. He’s sleeping,” Virginia whispered in relief. “I was so worried.”

  But her mother, the nurse, reached out an arm and drew Virginia close. “He’s not sleeping, Virginia,” she said softly. “He’s gone.”

  Virginia looked at her mother with a puzzled frown. Understanding began to dawn, more because of her mother’s face than because of her words.

  “You mean. . . ?”

  Belinda nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “In his sleep, I would suppose.”

  “But . . . ?”

  It was hard for Virginia to accept. Their old neighbor. With his kindly nod and his arms of flowers. He had been taken from them. Silently. Alone.

  She buried her face against her mother’s shoulder and wept.

  ———

  In a quiet ceremony, he was buried in the little cemetery on the hill. He had not been a great man who had accomplished great deeds, but he had been a good neighbor and a great friend. He had brought joy with his flowers and understanding with his willingness to listen. They would miss him.

  Throughout the summer months, Virginia kept the weeds from his garden and picked fresh bouquets of flowers to carry up to his grave. It seemed like so little to offer the man who had given friendship and a word in season to a gangly, uncertain little girl at a time when she needed it the most.

  CHAPTER 17

  With Rodney’s graduation in the spring, he and Grace were planning a late fall wedding. It meant excitement for the entire family. The Simpsons would travel by train to Grace’s home city of Bremington and stay with her in her mansionlike home. “I insist,” she told them. “That is the only reason I am keeping the house for as long as I am.”

  Already Rodney had a job with a pharmaceutical company in the growing city where they would live. It was a long way from his small-town roots and hard for the family to accept that he and Grace would not set up housekeeping nearby as Clara and Troy had.

  But Rodney seemed so happy and excited by the prospects that they could do nothing but rejoice with him and wish them well.

  He and Grace had decided to sell the large house that she had inherited and move into a less auspicious home in a newer neighborhood. But making those arrangements would take time, and they did not want to be rushed.

  At first it had bothered Rodney that his new bride would be the one to provide the family home, but he explained to his family that Grace soon laid to rest any arguments that he presented.

  “I didn’t earn it, either,” she had assured him. “Nor did my father, if it comes right down to it. It was passed on to him through my grandmother. She
was the one who brought money to the family.”

  Grace shared more of her family history on one of her many visits. They all were gathered around the table after a Sunday dinner, including Clara’s little family.

  “My mother came from a lower income family. My father met and fell in love with her on one of his business excursions. She was working in the office of one of the companies he visited. He brought her home, and my grandmother was the first to give her approval. ‘You’d be a fool, my boy, not to marry that girl,’ she told him. ‘And I have never set out to raise a fool.’

  “My grandmother was a very outspoken woman. I’m not sure if the family was matriarchal, but if it was not, it was not for any fault on my grandmother’s part. I learned all this from my mother’s diaries that I discovered shortly after Aunt Sadie’s passing.

  “Every reference to Grandmother spoke of a wise woman— and she was fair. She didn’t make snap judgments, and they were not based on bias. I guess that made her ‘dictatorship’ a little easier to bear.” The lovely young woman smiled a bit ruefully.

  “It wasn’t that Grandfather was spineless,” she said. “There were a number of times when he put his foot down. But he also respected Grandmother’s judgment and invited her opinion on matters.”

  Clara pushed back from the table with a sleeping baby in her arms. “Oh, please, Grace, could you wait a minute while I put the boys down for naps? This is fascinating, and I don’t want to miss a word.”

  They all laughed as she hurried out with the two boys in tow. They chatted quietly until Clara returned.

  “Now, where was I?” Grace wondered. “Yes—my grandfather appreciated my grandmother’s wisdom and wanted to know what she thought about various matters.