“Almeda didn’t think it was what God wanted for her.”
“Exactly. Because of that it would have been wrong for her to do it, yet at the same time it could be right for your father.”
“The same thing being right and wrong all at the same time. That could get a mite confusing.”
“Once I started looking around, I found so many examples of this I’d never noticed before. Is rain a good or a bad thing? Both. It depends on the situation. Too much and you have a flood, too little and there’s a drought. Is it right or wrong for a young lady to be a journalist? It might be either, depending on whether God wanted her to be or not.”
I smiled.
“Harriet and I, of course, think that God has led you all along the way you’ve come, and we are very proud of you. That was just an example.”
“I see.”
“Personal decisions, like writing or being a mayor, are easy enough to see. But there are all kinds of things in the Bible that aren’t black and white either. Does everybody come to God in the same way? Is there a right form of salvation? Those kinds of questions are very perplexing to a man in my occupation, as you can imagine. Nicodemus came to Jesus by night and the Lord told him about being born again. Paul was blinded by a great light. God spoke to Moses in a bush. Timothy and St. Mark grew up under believing parents. So many differences! There may not be any question about murder, stealing, and lying. But what about all the deep things St. Paul wrote about in his letters? There are so many interpretations about what he meant. Does hell last forever? Will we know each other in heaven as we do now? Is the devil a real being? What does it mean to be dead to sin? Oh, Corrie, you can’t imagine all the questions and issues ministers get involved talking and thinking about where there are no clear biblical answers!”
“What do you do to keep from getting confused?” I asked.
Rev. Rutledge laughed loudly. “I don’t keep from getting confused!” he said. “I talk to my wife, and we both get more confused than ever!”
They both laughed.
“You see, Corrie,” Rev. Rutledge went on in a minute, “as long as you keep a balanced perspective on such things, you can’t go too far wrong. I am aware that I don’t know too much about heaven and hell. But I am perfectly content not to know, because I realize we’re not supposed to know such things perfectly. God didn’t make them clear in the same way he made lying and stealing and murder clear. Some things are supposed to be absolute, others aren’t. Where people go wrong is in adopting some personal view on one of the non-absolute things, and then saying that people who disagree with them are wrong.”
“So if we were talking about heaven,” I said, “I might say, ‘I think we’ll know each other there,’ and you might say, ‘I don’t think we’ll know each other there,’ but neither of us could say the other one was wrong.”
“We could say that we disagreed, but we couldn’t know absolute right or wrong about it because the Bible doesn’t make it clear.”
“Hmm . . . that is interesting,” I said. “Then it comes down to whether a certain question is absolute, like lying and stealing; or not absolute, like being mayor or what heaven will be like.”
“That’s what it comes down to, all right—what things fit into which category. That’s where most people go wrong and start arguing with other people—they assume their views are more absolute than someone else’s.”
“But there are absolutes where someone is right and someone is wrong?”
“Yes. And on such issues Christians must not waver from the truth. But on all the other wide range of things, we have to give each other freedom to think without criticizing.”
A long pause followed. Finally I spoke up again.
“Which kind of question do you think slavery is?” I asked. “Is it right or wrong in an absolute way, and everybody ought to feel the same about it? Or is it right for the South but maybe wrong for the North, and each side ought to respect the other’s view?”
“Ah, Corrie, you’ve landed right in the middle of the hornet’s nest with that question!”
“The whole future of the country may depend on the answer,” I insisted.
“That may well be, which is why slavery is such a divisive issue. Of course, I personally find the very notion of slavery abhorrent, contrary to everything I see mirrored in the life of Jesus. Yet . . . I know there are Christians, and ministers, in the South who do not see it so. The Baptists, the Methodists, and the Presbyterians have already split over the question, their southern factions believing just as strongly in the validity of slavery as their northern counterparts believing it is wrong.”
“How can that be?” I said in frustration, back again to the original quandary that had brought me to the Rutledges in the first place.
“People on both sides heatedly and righteously consider it an absolute issue with an absolute right and truth at the bottom of it—their own! Neither side will admit to anything except that the other side is absolutely in the wrong.”
“What do you think? Is slavery one of the absolute issues, where there is a positive right and a positive wrong?”
A long silence followed. At last Rev. Rutledge exhaled a long sigh. I could tell he had already thought long and hard on the very question I had posed but without coming any nearer a conclusion than I had.
“I wish I knew, Corrie,” he said almost wearily. “I truly wish I knew.” Again he paused, then added, “And I fear for our country unless God somehow reveals his mind on the matter to large groups of people on both sides . . . and soon.”
Chapter 15
A Talk With Pa
In spite of his activity with Tad, Pa could not help but be weighed down by Zack’s leaving and by the angry words he himself had spoken. Both Almeda and I knew him well enough to see that beneath the surface he was struggling hard to come to terms with what had happened.
A few days later I found him alone on the far side of the corral checking a hoof on one of the ponies. I walked up behind him.
“Made any decision about Sacramento, Pa?” I asked.
He slowly set the pony’s foot back down onto the dirt, then straightened up. The weary and downcast look on his face made him seem ten years older than he was. The loose shoe was the furthest thing from his mind.
“Sacramento?” he repeated, forcing a slight chuckle. “To tell you the truth, Corrie, I hadn’t hardly thought about it for a week. What about you? Got any idea what you aim to do yet?”
“No,” I shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it, but I don’t suppose I’m any closer to knowing what God wants me to do than when we came back from San Francisco.”
“I reckon getting away from all the hubbub of the city does slow the pace a mite. I suppose that’s why I like it here. I couldn’t abide living in no city. That’s one thing I think I’ve decided. Whatever comes, I don’t aim to leave Miracle. Zack’s right about one thing. I was a fool to leave the only other home I ever had.”
“He didn’t say that, Pa.”
“He didn’t have to say those words. He may as well have said it. And even if he didn’t say it, it’s true anyhow, and I don’t intend to make the same mistake twice. I’ve got a home now, and I’m gonna keep it, even if it means I turn my back on everything any other man would give his eyeteeth for. No, I don’t suppose I’ve thought about it much, but I don’t reckon there’s much else to do now but say no.”
“Zack’s just all mixed up now, Pa,” I said. “You can’t plan your whole future on one outburst.”
“It goes a lot deeper than just the other day, Corrie. Couldn’t you tell? It had been building up inside the boy for years, and I never knew it. I don’t know how I could have been such a blind fool!”
He turned away and leaned over the rail fence. I knew what he was fighting against. I walked toward him and laid my hand gently on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, and after a minute I pulled away, then climbed up and sat down on the top rail of the fence, looking up toward the mine.
“Do
esn’t seem to me like you ought to blame yourself, Pa,” I said after a minute or two.
“How can I not blame myself? Don’t seem like there’s anybody else I can rightly blame.”
“He’ll cool off and come back, Pa.”
“I ain’t so sure, Corrie. You saw that look in his eye. He was determined. And it’s sure he’s not just a kid anymore. I got a feeling we might not see him for a spell.”
“Are you afraid for him?”
“No, that ain’t it.”
“Like you said, he’s not a kid. He’s old enough to take care of himself. He’s been away before, just like I have. You never seemed too worried about me, and Zack’s a man.”
“I’m not worried about him, Corrie. Sure, I know Zack’s every bit the man I was at his age. He’s made of better stuff inside, too. But I can’t help feeling a heap of guilt for the things he said. I haven’t been the pa to him I should have been. He’s right about me running out on you kids and your ma. My life isn’t one to be altogether proud of. The boy’s got every right to hate me. I deserve it.”
He stopped and let out a long sigh.
“But even when he said what he did,” Pa went on, “telling me how he’d hurt and saying nothing but what was the truth about me, like a blame fool I just got angry at him. . . .”
Finally Pa’s voice broke slightly at the memory of the blow he had given his son.
“God, oh, God . . . how could I?” he said in a more forlorn tone than I’d ever heard. “Telling him I’d take the belt to him! No wonder he was mad. He had a right to be. How could I have been so blind all this time to what he was feeling and thinking?”
He stopped. It was quiet for a minute, Pa breathing in deeply, but kind of unsteadily.
“Zack was always one to keep things inside, more than me, Pa,” I said. “When we first came here, he was trying to be more a man than he was. Then he took to hanging around you and Uncle Nick all the time, wanting to be grown up.”
“He did grow up too,” said Pa. “I don’t know why I didn’t let him know better how I felt about him.”
“You tried, Pa.”
“Not enough. But a man just gets so busy and involved with his own affairs that he doesn’t even know what his kids are thinking. They grow up so blamed fast; suddenly they’re adults and they’re holding things inside them that you done. But there’s no way you can go back and make it right to them.”
He paused a moment, then looked up at me earnestly.
“You got anything you’re holding inside about anything I’ve done or said, Corrie?” he asked. “It’d kill me to find out something I oughta know but not find out till it’s too late.”
“I don’t think so, Pa,” I answered with a smile. “Nothing I know of at least. You’ve been about the finest pa a girl could have, and I love you, Pa.”
He looked away. There were tears in his eyes, both from what I’d said and from the hurt over Zack.
“Pa,” I said, “I feel bad, too. I was guilty of taking Zack for granted myself. I figured Zack felt just like I did about being a Christian, but maybe he had a more independent streak in him than I did. You and I talked about your past, and you confided in me and we prayed together. I suppose I was able to put it behind me more than he did. It made me love you more, but I guess people can react to the same situation in opposite ways, and so what drew me closer to you, he resented. It’s not your fault. You can’t lash out at yourself for Zack’s holding things against you.”
“If he had a right to . . . if it was for mistakes I made.”
“You said it yourself, Pa—he’s grown up now, just like I have, and so he’s got to be responsible himself for his reactions. That’s part of growing up too, it seems to me.”
“Maybe you’re right. But how does a man keep from feeling guilty over not giving his own son all of him he might have?”
Neither of us had seen Almeda walking slowly toward us as we’d been talking. She came closer and heard the last of Pa’s question. He glanced up, then reached out his hand and drew her toward him.
“Still wrestling with Zack, Drummond?” she said.
Pa sighed and nodded his head. I knew they’d talked a lot about it already.
The three of us were silent for a while; then Almeda began to pray softly. “Oh, Father,” she said, “I ask for a special pouring down of your grace for my husband. Comfort his father’s heart and ease his pain over his son.”
She stopped. There was nothing else to pray. Her simple words had expressed what both of us were feeling right then toward Pa. I was praying silently myself, not knowing what I could say. Then to my surprise I heard Pa’s voice.
“God,” he prayed in a raspy, quiet voice, “watch over my son. Wherever he is right now, take care of him. Even if he doesn’t think I care about him, Lord, show him that you care for him. And if you can, help him to see that I do too. Bring him back to us safe, Lord.”
“Amen,” Almeda added softly.
Again it was silent for a while. At last Pa and Almeda headed off toward the creek, Pa’s arm still around her shoulder, talking softly together.
Chapter 16
Surprise Visitor
The summer progressed. July was hotter than June. August was hotter than July. We heard no word from Zack.
“What are you gonna do, Corrie?” Pa asked me one day at breakfast. “That paper of yours is getting fuller and fuller of election news all the time, and I still haven’t seen your name in it anywhere.”
“Are you going to write for Lincoln or Douglas?” asked Tad around a mouthful of warm biscuit.
“She wouldn’t support a Democrat,” said Becky. “You’d never go against Mr. Fremont’s party, would you, Corrie?”
All summer, Katie and Edie had kept political issues stirred up to such an extent that even Becky and Tad were aware of what was happening. We’d managed to stay clear of any arguing about it again, although Edie and Almeda kept a cool distance from each other because of their strong views on the two opposite sides of the slavery question. I’d never really thought much about Almeda being a “northerner” before. But even ten years in California couldn’t take the Bostonian out of her, any more than Edie’s recent trip west could take the Virginian out of her.
“I don’t know, Becky,” I answered. “I suppose I might be able to support a Democrat someday if he was the right man. But not this year. As far as I can see, Mr. Lincoln’s the best man to be president.”
“Then why don’t you write an article saying so and send it in to Kemble?” asked Pa.
“I’m still a little confused over how Christians can feel so differently about the same thing.”
“They do, though, so why don’t you just jump into it and give ’em your two cents’ worth?”
“What if I’m not right?”
“Do you have to be right to speak your mind?”
“It seems like if I’m going to advise people what to do, and tell them how they ought to feel and how they ought to vote, then I have to be right. I couldn’t do it otherwise.”
“Do you still have doubts about how you feel, Corrie?” asked Almeda.
I thought for a while. “No, I don’t suppose I do,” I answered finally. “I guess down inside I do think I know that slavery is wrong. It’s just knowing whether I’m supposed to say that in public, and tell people they ought to vote for Mr. Lincoln—that’s the thing I’m still unsure about.”
“How are you going to know that?” asked Pa.
“I guess I’m waiting for some sign from the Lord, something that tells me he’s urging me one way or the other. You’ve always said to me, Almeda,” I said, turning toward her, “that when in doubt about what to do, it never hurts to wait.”
“God never will discipline us for going too slowly.” Almeda smiled. “I’ve had to learn that the hard way. We can get ourselves into plenty of trouble by going too fast, but not from holding back waiting for God’s guidance.”
“What kind of a sign, Corrie?” asked Tad
. “Is God gonna say something to you in a dream or something?”
I laughed. “I don’t know, Tad. I doubt it. Just circumstances, probably. I feel like I know what’s right, and even what I’d like to do. But I also feel like I need to wait until he brings something to me, rather than me going out to do something myself.”
“Well, I hope he does it pretty soon,” said Pa. “If you wait much longer without making up your mind, the election’s gonna come and go and leave you behind altogether.”
“If that happens, then I’ll just figure I wasn’t supposed to do anything in the first place, and everything will be fine.”
After breakfast I decided to saddle up Raspberry and go for a long ride. Somehow the day reminded me of the one more than two years earlier when I had ridden up to the top of Fall Creek Mountain on my twenty-first birthday. It had been a while since I had a good long ride, and somehow the questions at breakfast put me in a reflective mood.
The sun was well up as I headed off east, and the earth was already warming up fast. I never got tired of the smell of sugar pines under the beating of the sun’s rays. Especially if there’d been rain anytime recently, and the earth underneath a bed of fallen pine needles was moist, the fragrance of the warming dirt, the dead leaves and needles and cones, and the live breathing trees were to me the very smell of heaven itself.
It hadn’t rained today, of course, because it was the first week of August, but the smell was almost as wonderful. The rugged, rough-textured bark of the trees, cracked and splitting, oozed the translucent sticky pitch that ran up and down the trunks. It was precious to me, as were all things of the forest, as indications of the fingerprints of God when he made the world.
I had been thinking for a year or more about the first chapter of Romans, and found myself almost daily awakening to its truth, that God’s invisible being really was clearly visible and obvious in everything around me—that is, if I had eyes to see him.
The world tells us what God is like. But most folks don’t take that truth deep enough to allow the world to really speak actively to their hearts and minds about God’s character. I found myself forgetting it sometimes, too. At such times, the world around me only spoke quietly, not with the vibrant reality that the bark was speaking to me today about his creativity.
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