Land of the Brave and the Free (Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister Book 7)

by Michael Phillips

“I’m sorry, Christopher. If you don’t want—”

  “No, it’s all right. I want to tell you about it. I’m only confessing that scratching a rake across the innermost ground of my soul, where there are still raw places exposed, is not an easy, or even a pleasant, thing. But I think it is a good thing. Good does not always mean pleasant or enjoyable.”

  I paused briefly. “As I told you earlier, I was forced down to the bedrock of God’s being itself, and was left with nothing much else to hang on to. I felt, as I told you, in the middle of a hot desert. I was alone and lonely, despondent, discouraged, broken. I cannot tell you how many tears I wept—some quietly, some with heaving anguish that racked my whole frame. I suppose there are many who consider it unmanly to shed tears, as a sign of weakness. But I was weak. Desperately weak! It is impossible to find the words to convey how stunning was the shock to be forced to realize that I had been alone in that church in my quest for deep truth about God. I saw my naivete, even my foolishness. I felt like such a sap, such a fool . . . so blind.

  “And yet . . . I so deeply loved the church and God’s people, and still wanted more than anything to be among them. So there was no bitterness toward anyone. But suddenly I was so alone and so isolated and cut off that I didn’t know what to do.

  “I spent hours walking these fields and hills, talking to God, crying out to him, falling on the ground in tears of confusion! I had to rethink everything I had ever believed. I suppose, in a sense, I had to reconstruct my very faith, as if I was building a whole new house. The foundation was still there all the time—God himself. But a hurricane had blown away every­thing else. Now I had to rebuild it all, board by board. And I wasn’t able to use all the boards from the past. They were all new boards. I had to ask God anew about prayer, about faith, about obedience, even about his own Fatherhood. I had to wrestle through the relationship between the Father and the Son in a deeper way than I had ever studied about the Trinity in seminary. I had to grapple with heaven and hell from whole new vantage points of thought that had never occurred to me in all my wildest speculations when I was younger. I thought a great deal about unity and what it might mean, about what it ought to mean. I studied the passage of John 17 for countless hours—”

  As I spoke I was unconsciously watching Corrie. At these last words, a sudden look swept across her face that I couldn’t understand, a look as if she had been invisibly slapped in the face momentarily. I could see her gaze drift away, and I stopped and waited. It lasted only two or three seconds. Then she seemed to shake it away, her eyes coming to rest upon me, and she said, “I’m sorry. Something about what you said . . . it just . . . sounded familiar somehow. But I don’t know why. Go on . . . please.”

  “Mostly,” I said, “I thought about the church itself, about Christians, about what growth really is supposed to be, about what the words body of Christ truly mean—mostly about what my place in it all ought to be. What was God leading me toward? What did God want of me? What was unity, what was the church, and what was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to be a minister as I had always thought . . . or did God have something else in his ordained plan that was still in my future where I could not yet see it?”

  I stopped. I had been looking away as I spoke. Now I brought my eyes back to where Corrie was seated on the blanket across from me. She was gazing into my face intently.

  “What did you find out through it all?” she asked. “Were all your questions answered?”

  “Hardly!” I laughed. “I don’t suppose that will ever happen. As I told you, for every answer there are a dozen more questions!”

  “Well, then, did you at least find enough boards to rebuild your house? You’re not still in the desert?”

  “Let me put it this way,” I said. “The house is far from complete, and I still have no idea what it’s going to look like when and if it ever gets done. But I think I do have walls enough for a room or two and a roof over my head. I’m dry and cozy and protected from the winds and hailstones and rains that were pelting me so fiercely a year or two ago. As I said, I don’t know what the rest of this house of my faith and my life with God is going to look like. But I’m hopeful and optimistic once again. And I have more confidence in the solidness of the Foundation than ever before in my life.”

  “I don’t mean to keep asking so much,” said Corrie, “but I am so interested. I don’t remember hearing anything like this before.”

  “Your curiosity is entirely forgiven!”

  “Then would you mind telling me about the walls and roof you have built? I want to know about the boards you used. I want to know what the house looks like now, even if you don’t know what it will look like five years from now.”

  “My, but you are inquisitive!”

  This time Corrie didn’t apologize but laughed along with me. And by now I found her questions wonderfully honest and refreshing. It was another two hours before we finally rose to return to the house, during which time I had learned some things about myself that even I hadn’t known before.

  By the time the day was over I was sure of her name! That she was a skilled reporter, I could no longer doubt.

  After supper that evening, while Corrie attempted to help Mrs. Timms and converse with her in the kitchen, I took my place at a little writing table I had been using since Corrie had been occupying my room. Fifteen or so minutes later, suddenly I was aware of her standing at my shoulder watching me. I gave a little jump.

  I glanced up. “I didn’t hear you approach,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “What are you working on?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” I replied. “It’s my journal.”

  “Journal . . .” she repeated in a very curious tone. It was not a questioning tone, but I nevertheless took the opportunity to explain further.

  “I write down most of what I do, especially things I am thinking about,” I said. “My spiritual thoughts, prayers . . . sometimes I even talk to God on paper when I’m groping for light about something I’m puzzled about.”

  “Journal,” she repeated again.

  “After everything we talked about today, I wanted to begin getting it down before I forgot anything,” I went on. “The thoughts of the human mind, especially when they are directed toward God and trying to learn more of his ways, are precious to me—even my own, if it’s not too ridiculous a thing to say. It’s almost something I feel I have to do, write down what I am thinking—even if no one but God himself ever reads it.”

  “I . . . I think I understand,” said Corrie softly, her voice more pensive than I had ever heard it before. “Everything you say hits something deep in me. . . . I can feel your words going into a place in my mind, even in my heart . . . but it’s a place I can’t see with the eyes of my memory. I . . . I think I used to keep a journal too. . . .”

  The look on her face was miles and miles away—perhaps thousands of miles away!

  “Seeing your fingers . . . and the pen . . . and the words on the paper . . . it all reminds me of something far away . . . farther away than my mind can follow it. . . .”

  “I told you in the beginning that I thought you were a writer.”

  “I’d hardly thought about it since, but now . . . I feel something tugging away inside me at the very sight of you sitting there . . . writing like that . . . and the word journal. . . .”

  I rose and led her to a soft chair nearby.

  “Sit down,” I said. “There’s something I’ve been waiting to show you. I think now the time has come.”

  She obeyed, still with the far-off gaze in her eye. I went into the bedroom, where I still kept most of my scant possessions, and opened the second drawer of the bureau. I returned, then handed her the newspaper, already opened to the third page and folded back so that the article in question was plainly visible.

  “I think it is time you read this,” I said.

  She looked at the paper, squinted her eyes momentarily, then glanced up at me with a questioning expr
ession.

  “It says . . .” Her voice trailed off softly.

  “Yes, I know,” I answered. “It says Corrie Belle Hollister there under the caption. If that is your name, it would appear you are more than a mere writer of letters or a keeper of a journal as I am.”

  A moment more she stared at me, then returned her attention to the paper and read the article in full. I sat patiently in an adjacent chair. At last she completed it, set the paper down on her lap, and looked over in my direction once more.

  “Is this why you have called me Corrie Hollister without doubting it was my real name?” she asked.

  “Along with the envelope, yes, I would say I am thoroughly satisfied. Don’t you see how it all fits together—the ink stains on your fingers, your inquisitive nature, your responses about writing and journal keeping? But of course, all that I have seen and deduced is circumstantial. There is no proof that you are Corrie Hollister—not unless something comes to your mind from reading this article.”

  “It all . . . it all does have a bit of a familiar feel to it,” she said, softly and thoughtfully, trying to understand her reaction even as she uttered the words. “I don’t know how to rightly explain it . . . kinda like it was from a dream, or something that happened to somebody else.”

  “But you do recognize it?”

  “I can’t say it that strong . . . that plain-like . . . it’s more something I feel when I read it, like I ought to know something more about it, but my mind can’t quite lay hold of it—just like everything else.”

  Corrie looked away, and I knew she was crying softly. I rose, sought a handkerchief, took it to her and placed it in her hand, then departed from the room for a minute or two. When I returned she was in the midst of reading the article again, dabbing her eyes and nose occasionally, but reading with great intensity. I sat down beside her again and waited patiently. It took her longer to read it all this time. I could tell she was digesting every word. At length she put the paper down once more and looked at me. Her eyes, though still a little wet, were full of earnestness.

  “This paper is from the North,” she said. “But we are near Richmond. How did you get it?”

  I smiled. “I hadn’t thought that would occur to you. You have a very sharp and perceptive mind, Corrie.”

  “Never mind all that. How did you get it?”

  “It’s not important. I don’t get papers from the Union regularly, but I have been interested in the election because I believe Mr. Lincoln is still the President of the entire country, and I wanted to hear about it without the negative Confederate bias of all the southern papers. So from time to time I manage to smuggle some papers in by mail. My means are devious,” I added with a smile, “and there’s no need to go into all that. The point is, I do get them from time to time, and here is one with your byline under a major article about the election campaign.”

  “The election . . . I hadn’t given it so much as a thought since waking up here with you. I reckon in the back of my mind I have been aware of the war and the whole conflict about slavery, and you’ve mentioned it. But it’s all seemed far away and dreamlike. And Mr. Lincoln hadn’t crossed my mind once. Now suddenly . . . it’s all coming back to me . . . some feeling of . . . I can’t rightly tell . . . something urgent, even dangerous. . . . I feel as if there’s something I’m supposed to know or do or tell somebody. . . .”

  She stopped, grabbed up the paper again, and with hasty fingers began unfolding it and turning the pages looking for a date. “When did you get this paper?” she said, not looking up but still sifting through the pages.

  “I’ve had it probably three weeks. I think it came about the same time you did. Of course it was already more than a week old by then.”

  She stopped rummaging through the sheets. “Then when is the election?” she asked, looking toward me again.

  “Corrie,” I said, “the election was two weeks ago. It took place when you were unconscious.”

  “Two weeks ago!” she exclaimed in shock. “Then it’s too late!”

  “What’s too late?” I said.

  “Whatever I was supposed to do . . . the danger . . .”

  She seemed to be thinking more clearly all at once, yet a confused, panicked expression was on her face.

  “But . . . but what about the war? There’s something I was doing . . .” she went on, struggling desperately to recall some vital piece of information that was eluding her. “And the President . . . there’s some danger . . . I’ve got to tell him—”

  Her words broke off in frustration.

  “Corrie,” I said softly after a moment, “wasn’t the thing you needed to do, to tell people to vote for Mr. Lincoln?”

  The words seemed to have a calming effect. Her forehead wrinkled in thought, then she slowly nodded. “Yes . . . I think you’re right . . . that’s what this article says, isn’t it?”

  “Wasn’t that the danger? A danger to the country, to the Union, if he was defeated?”

  Still she was thinking hard, and slowly nodding. “Yes . . . that must be it . . . that has to be what I was getting all stirred up about—”

  “Don’t you see then, everything is all right—the danger is past, and you did do what you needed to do.”

  She looked at me, bewildered.

  “I don’t . . . what do you mean? I haven’t done anything.”

  “You wrote this article, didn’t you? And apparently others before it.”

  “But how does that. . . ?”

  She didn’t have the words even to finish her question.

  “Corrie, don’t you hear what I’m telling you—the election is over. President Lincoln was reelected!”

  Still her face was blank and confused, as if even this good news wasn’t sufficient in itself to dispel her doubts and uncertainties. Then slowly the wrinkles on her forehead faded and she sat back in the chair and began to breathe deeply and more easily.

  “Yes . . . that is good news . . . reelected. I’m glad to hear it . . . wonderful news . . .” Her voice, however, remained soft, just barely above a whisper. Reading the article and the ensuing exchange between us had clearly taxed her.

  “But . . . but what about the war?” she asked after a moment. “Is it still going on?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I answered. “Terrible things are happening farther to the south. General Sherman’s army has nearly destroyed Atlanta. Rumors have even been reported that he plans to burn the city to the ground. And closer by, General Lee continues to hold Richmond, while General Grant’s siege of Petersburg continues. I don’t know, Corrie, if the end is yet in sight, though I continue to pray.”

  But again, as I spoke, the faraway gaze returned to her eyes, and her voice was barely audible.

  “. . . Lee . . . Grant . . .” she murmured softly. “. . . Petersburg . . . where is that?”

  “South of Richmond,” I said. “Only about thirty miles. Both armies are encamped around it. They have been fighting in and around Richmond for five or six months.”

  “. . . Grant . . . General Grant . . .” she whispered again.

  I glanced away unconsciously for a moment. When I turned toward her again I saw that she was fast asleep.

  I rose from the chair, picked her up in my arms, and carried her to the bed, where I made her as comfortable as I could, keeping her wound well away from where she might accidentally roll over onto it.

  I had cherished the hope that reading the article, talking about the war and the election, and hearing about the election results would trigger the necessary mechanisms in Corrie’s brain to stimulate her memory back into full operation. But it was not to be.

  When she awoke the next morning, it was with a stupor-like gaze of unreality on her face. When I tried to question her about the things we had spoken of, her responses were vague, distant, and disjointed. She remembered the words only, but not the feel and emotional tug which had so gripped her before. We even discussed the article she had written about the country and President L
incoln, and she seemed willing to be called and even to consider herself Corrie Hollister in a more definite way.

  Yet there was a matter-of-fact distance to it. It was as though she had ventured to the very precipice of her memory, and then, as she slept, retreated from it once more. I did not understand what had happened. I had felt the full return of her consciousness was at hand, only to find it suddenly gone.

  Days passed . . . then another week . . . then two. They were pleasant days. We spoke of many things. The lump on her head was now gone. Her arm and shoulder were healing so nicely that I did not think it would be much longer before the sling could be removed. She was out of bed most of the day and followed me about a good many of my chores around the place. We became much more deeply acquainted in things spiritual than I had imagined it possible to be with another person. In that vein, there was certainly no diminishing of her mental acuity. She was as alive, ever probing, questioning, insightful, and full of what I can only describe as the life of God. I continued to be marvelously refreshed and full of joy in her presence.

  But when it came to her factual memory about her past, the void of amnesia continued and showed no sign of a change.

  December came, Christmas approached, and slowly a deeper concern began to grow within me. What if the amnesia went on and on . . . indefinitely?

  The question itself—once I summoned the courage to look it squarely in the face—was almost too enormous for me to consider. The implications were huge!

  What if . . . what if she never remembered!

  Here she was, obviously a Northerner—a Northerner of repute and importance—in the South, found wounded along the roadside with nothing on her person except a letter, whose return address I could not make out, from someplace in California I could hardly read and had never heard of, in the middle of a war . . .

  What was I to do? Should I contact the newspaper whose copy we had been reading? Surely they would know something about her. Should I write a letter and make an attempt to reconstruct the whereabouts of this Almeda from the smudged ink on the outside of the envelope?