Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  42

  In the Garden

  In the dark night of my agony

  Oh, Savior, let me turn to Thee,

  Who leads me from Gethsemane

  Beyond despair to victory.

  ANONYMOUS

  It was late before the parlor doors finally closed on the last visitor, later still when those left behind went to their rooms.

  In their bedchamber, after making certain Finola understood his need to be alone, Morgan prepared to seek out a place of solitude.

  “You will tell me…when you have made your decision?” Propped up in bed, her flaxen braid tucked neatly over one shoulder, Finola searched his eyes, all the while clinging to his hand.

  Morgan noted with some concern that she looked exceedingly weary. Her eyes were shadowed, her fair skin more pale than usual.

  “Are you quite well, macushla?” he asked, his wheelchair pulled close to the bed. “You look exhausted.” He reached to touch her cheek, and she covered his hand with her own.

  “I am perfectly fine, Morgan. ’Tis not me you should be thinking of tonight, but yourself.”

  “You’d just as well tell me not to breathe as not to think of you,” he said, smiling. “Now, will you promise to go to sleep?”

  “I cannot promise you that I will sleep, but I will have a rest. Go, now, Morgan. I know you need to be alone for a time, but please—not too long. You, too, must sleep.”

  She brought her face to his for his kiss, and afterward he held her for a moment. “Finola? You have not told me what you think I should do.”

  “Oh, my love, you know I cannot!” Her eyes caressed his face. “Whatever you decide, you must do it for yourself, not for me. Only for yourself, and for our Lord, as He leads you. I can merely promise to be with you, to love you, no matter your choice.”

  He squeezed her hand. “No man could ask for more,” he answered softly. “Rest, Finola aroon. I won’t be long.”

  He did not reassure her lightly. But as he wheeled himself out of the room, he wondered how long it might take a man to make what might well be the most critical decision of his life.

  From the first day of their arrival, Morgan had been drawn to the gardens behind the house. So tonight Sandemon took him across the wide lawn, to the sheltered pavilion at the very end of the garden. Surrounded by a profusion of late-blooming flowers and shrubs, Morgan sat breathing in the rich scents of autumn with great relish, savoring the bracing effect of the night air.

  Sandemon came round the chair to face him. “Shall I stay with you, Seanchai, or would you prefer to be alone?”

  Morgan shook his head, lifting a hand. “You need not wait. It is late, and I know you must be weary. I can make my own way back. I’ll use the side ramp.”

  He was keenly aware of Sandemon’s hesitation, his searching dark eyes. The man’s expression was uncommonly grave, with no hint of his thoughts or his feelings.

  “Have you any word for me?” Morgan made no attempt at lightness; the time had long passed when either of them felt a need to dissemble with the other. “I would not be too proud to hear any advice you might care to offer.”

  “No advice, Seanchai,” Sandemon replied quietly. “Only the conviction that, however you decide, our Lord will be with you.”

  Morgan nodded, and Sandemon squeezed his friend’s shoulders as he passed. He had felt the need to be alone, yet the moment Sandemon left him, he shivered slightly—not from the chill night air, but from the rush of loneliness that suddenly came swooping down on him.

  Weary beyond belief and chilled by the dampness of the autumn night, Sandemon thought wistfully of the warm fires inside the house. But instead of going back inside as he was tempted to do, he sought a private place of his own, beneath a large old oak whose branches still clung bravely to the last of their bronze leaves.

  He pulled his cloak more tightly about him and prepared to wait. It was a clear, sharp night, the sky sprayed with stars and frosted with moonlight. With his eyes fixed on the hunched figure in the wheelchair, he was so keenly attuned to the young giant’s torment that he could almost feel the weight of the burden upon his own back.

  As he stood watching, he began to pray. He prayed first that the Seanchai would be given the faith and childlike trust to make a wise decision. Although he thought he knew what that decision would be, he would not presume, but would wait until he heard it for himself.

  He went on to pray for a company of the faithful who would this very night begin to gather, united in the One God, to do battle during the coming days for one of their own. Too often it seemed that even God’s own people were unmindful of what their united, intercessory prayers could accomplish. Although the Holy Word and the world’s history were filled with examples of lives changed, battles won, and evil vanquished by a divine power working through the prayers of a believing people, too often every other effort besides prayer was employed in a time of crisis. It was a sad but undeniable fact that only when all else had failed did hearts kneel in desperation before the throne of heaven.

  Sandemon prayed that God would call on all those who loved the brave young poet now struggling with his own life-changing decision—those who through the years had been touched or influenced by his words, his deeds, his very life—to muster their faith and join forces in storming the doors of heaven on his behalf.

  Finally, he prayed for peace for the Seanchai, the peace that did indeed surpass all human understanding….

  “Peace, Lord, for that troubled, searching spirit…peace for that agonizing soul. A peace that will abide, in the dark garden of his anguish, through the haunted valley of the shadow. Prince of Peace, bestow Your peace upon Your troubled son this night.”

  At first Morgan was tempted to think of this night in the garden as his darkest hour, his own Gethsemane. But such a thought seemed almost profane, somehow. To cast himself in the same light as his Savior was surely irreverent to the extreme.

  And yet he could not help but think of the Son of Man, kneeling in a garden, agonizing, even sweating drops of blood, over the terrifying ordeal that awaited Him. That Man, too, had found himself alone in His garden of torment, with no one who could drink His cup of sorrow, share the suffering of His soul, or lighten the burden of His heart.

  At times like this, Morgan knew, in times of momentous decision and great despair, when everything in life—even life itself—seemed to depend on the choice that is made, a man is truly, utterly alone. And yet, after those first tortured minutes of pleading for an answer, for wisdom and enlightenment, he slowly began to realize that he was not alone. This fragrant autumn garden had been transformed into a hushed and holy place. The presence of the Lord was all about him.

  He could not kneel, not with his dead legs. He had often thought that, if by God’s mercy he should ever regain the use of his legs, the first thing he would do would be to kneel before his Lord, in humility and thanksgiving. But for now he could only kneel in his heart, his body hunched in the chair, his hands gripping the rungs of a garden trellis.

  As he sat there, his spirit gradually quieted, growing more serene than he would have thought possible this night. The years of his life began to roll over him like an entire succession of tides. Scene after scene—his lonely boyhood, his youthful roamings, his foolish, thoughtless sins and errant ways—gradually unfurled, reminding him with startling clarity of the strange and unpredictable directions his life had taken.

  Could anyone have foreseen the changes God had wrought, the surprising turns and twists…and falls…that had brought him to this place, to this night?

  A mystery.

  A miracle.

  Suddenly, in one radiant, pristine moment of illumination, he knew that tonight he would not pray for a miracle, as he had earlier thought to do. The truth was that he had already been given his miracle. From a solitary vagabond, a wayfaring poet with little but the cloak on his back—a wanderer without a home, without family or means—he had been given a vast estate he had not earned, a
loving wife he could never deserve, and two precious children he had not sired.

  If that was not a miracle, then what was? Moreover, in the agony of his pain and humiliation, in the helplessness of his immobility, he had been bathed in infinite grace. In learning to live with his useless legs, to endure the pain that ever burned low in his spine and burned even hotter in his freedom-starved spirit, he had discovered the reality of a loving, forgiving, redeeming God.

  In his weakness, he had caught a glimpse of divine power. In his anguish, he had been comforted by divine love. And in finally accepting the burden of his own cross, he had received divine peace.

  For the sake of his soul, the decision he would make this night must be based not on the hope that he would walk again, but on the truth that whether he walked or not, God would still be God and would still be faithful. The promise for his life, the glory of all life, was not God’s blessing…but God Himself.

  “My grace is sufficient for you…”

  If his healing, his deliverance, did not come in one sudden, brilliant flash of divine intervention, then it would come day by day, year by year, as he went on, walking with God in his spirit, if not on his legs.

  By the gift of God’s love and by the blessing of family and friends, he lived life, if not entirely as a whole man, at least as a fulfilled man.

  He prayed that he might also live it as an unfailingly thankful man.

  Morgan stayed a short while longer, then turned the chair to start back toward the house. He wheeled about, then stopped, startled by the dark figure who stepped into his path.

  “May I help you, Seanchai?”

  Morgan studied the serene features. “You need not have waited. You must be chilled to the bone, you with your love of tropical breezes.”

  Sandemon went behind the chair and began to wheel him down the garden path. “I wanted to wait with you,” he said quietly.

  “This day has been exceedingly long,” Morgan said over his shoulder. “You must be weary.”

  “Not so much as you, I’m sure.”

  They continued in silence for a moment. At last Morgan said, “You were praying for me as you waited, I expect.”

  “For you…and with you.”

  The wheels bumped over a fallen branch, and Sandemon slowed the chair.

  Morgan swallowed with some difficulty. “I am grateful to you for staying,” he said, his voice roughened with emotion.

  “It was my privilege, Seanchai, and my pleasure.”

  “The Savior should have had such faithful friends,” Morgan said. “Instead, His followers slept while He agonized. How is it, I wonder, that a wretch like myself is more greatly blessed in his companions than our Lord was?”

  “What I do for you,” Sandemon said quietly, bringing the chair to a stop and laying his hands lightly on Morgan’s shoulders, “is also done for our Lord.”

  Morgan nodded. “Aye, so it is. And He must be greatly blessed by your faithfulness, for surely I am.”

  They stayed that way for a moment. Finally Morgan cleared his throat and said, “I have made my decision. I will have the surgery.”

  The hands on his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I thought as much,” came the quiet reply. “And do you have peace with your decision, Seanchai?”

  “I do. Whatever comes, I have peace.” Morgan hesitated, then went on. “Two things I would ask of you, though in truth I have no right to ask.”

  “I give you the right, then, Seanchai. Ask what you will. You know that I will do all that lies within my power.”

  And so he would, Morgan knew, his heart swelling with gratitude for this friend who had enriched his life in more ways than he could number. “Should I not survive the surgery, I would hope that you might remain at Nelson Hall with my family—our family. Finola and the children would have great need of you. You would be taken care of financially, of course. It would mean more than I can say to have the assurance that you would remain with them.”

  “I would stay, Seanchai. Surely you knew without asking that I would stay.”

  Morgan had known. Still, he had needed to ask—for his own sake.

  “And your second request, Seanchai? You said there were two.”

  Morgan drew a deep breath. “I would ask you to be with me in the surgery room, while Gunther does whatever he will. I cannot explain exactly. I only know it would give me some measure of peace, the knowledge that you are standing by me, praying for me, watching the entire time.”

  There was a long, bleak silence. Morgan was beginning to think he had asked too much. Even the most unselfish of men must surely have his limits.

  When the reply came, it sounded strangely muffled, even somewhat choked. But the words were clear, and they warmed Morgan’s heart like a soft blanket of down.

  “If the surgeon has no objection, of course, I will stand by you throughout the entire procedure, Seanchai,” Sandemon said. He paused, and in a slightly steadier voice added, “And throughout the days and months and years thereafter…may they be long and richly blessed…I will continue to stand by you.”

  Morgan could manage nothing more than a weak nod of gratitude. This, too, he had known without asking.

  43

  A Gathering at Bellevue

  For where two or three are gathered in my name,

  there am I in the midst of them.

  MATTHEW 18:20

  Anxious not to get in the way of the doctors and aides rushing back and forth through the vestibule, Finola huddled against the corner in one of the chairs Michael Burke had secured for them. She could see nothing of the adjacent corridor or patients’ rooms from where she sat, only the drab walls and cold floor of the small room where they had been told they could wait.

  She had never been in a hospital before, at least not that she could remember. This Bellevue seemed enormous; its design haphazard at best. Grim as a prison and equally as intimidating, it reeked with the smell of sick rooms and acrid chemicals. As the morning hours went on, her stomach had grown increasingly unsettled from the noxious odors.

  As Finola waited, she felt her senses heighten. Every sound drummed in her ears and played on her nerves: the abrupt exchanges between physicians, the groaning of patients, the heart-stopping screams that echoed down the corridor as if coming from a great distance.

  Above the racket that drifted in to them from the hallway, she found herself keenly aware of even the faintest sounds made by herself or those waiting in the vestibule: Michael Burke’s shoes buffeting the hard floor as he paced. The frequent sighs of his wife, Sara. Evan Whittaker’s way of slipping off his eyeglasses and immediately putting them back on, the frames clacking lightly as he did so. Daniel Kavanagh’s drumming fingertips on the small scarred table by the window. Pastor Dalton’s walking in and out of the room, his low murmurs to one of the physicians passing by. Only Nora seemed to sit without making a sound, wringing her hands in her lap, occasionally glancing at Finola with a sympathizing smile.

  They had been waiting since early morning—close on three hours by now. Even though the surgeon had cautioned that the procedure would be lengthy, with every hour that passed Finola grew more and more fearful. Three hours seemed far too long to bode anything good for the surgery.

  As if he had sensed her anxiety, Pastor Dalton crossed the room and stopped in front of her. “The morning must seem endless to you, I’m sure, Mrs. Fitzgerald. But no doubt we’ll hear something soon. Is there anything I can get for you in the meantime? Anything I can do?”

  Finola shook her head. She tried to smile, but instead suddenly found herself fighting back tears.

  The big pastor dropped down in front of her. “Would you like us to pray again?” he asked softly, his eyes reflecting kindness and understanding.

  Finola looked at him. “I would, please,” she said gratefully.

  There had been much prayer already throughout the morning, of course—the personal, silent prayer of individuals, as well as the combined prayer of the enti
re assemblage. But as the hours passed without word from the surgery room, the prayers seemed to increase, both in frequency and intensity.

  After nearly three hours, Sandemon was keenly aware of the tension and anxiety swelling inside him. He felt somewhat light-headed, though more from the malodorous ether than from his close vantage point of the surgery.

  A number of times he had had to remind himself that he must ask no questions, make no sound whatsoever, must not even breathe too heavily. Such had been the surgeon’s adamant orders before beginning the procedure.

  So, as directed, Sandemon had spent the hours standing, unmoving, his insides growing tighter and tighter as he watched the surgeon and his slightly wild-eyed assistant operate on the Seanchai’s back.

  But now, with his chest as tight as his nerves and his head beginning to swim, he quietly turned and went to stand at the narrow window that looked out across the river. He had anticipated the long hours, the tension, the discomfort of standing in the same position for such an extended time. He had even anticipated the unpleasant chemical odors. What he had not anticipated was the effect this unnatural invasion of the Seanchai’s large and powerful body was having on him.

  As weak and ailing as Morgan Fitzgerald had been when Sandemon had first gone to stay at Nelson Hall, he had still been leagues beyond the perilous condition in which he now lay: utterly vulnerable, entirely at the mercy of a surgeon who appeared to possess little if any emotion or concern for the person beneath his knife.

  As he stood there, drawing in deep, steadying breaths, Sandemon paused for only a moment in the prayer vigil begun during the hours before dawn. His concern was deepening as the morning wore on. Yet from the start of the surgery he had sensed a Power at work in the room that had nothing to do with the disdainful physician.