We rode out of Richmond back toward the country. The fear of the city was gone now. I was hardly thinking about the war, in fact. Seeing Derrick Gregory again raised so many thoughts and feelings from so far back in the past that a quiet, almost melancholy mood gradually came over me, and we rode most of the way in silence. I think Christopher sensed it and didn’t want to intrude.
Not only did seeing Derrick bring back everything that happened during my adventurous, frightening time in Sonora following the John Fremont story, it caused me to think about a lot of things I hadn’t thought of in years. I suppose, most of all, Derrick’s words lodged into me: You had more guts and courage than I did to stand up for something you believed in. . . . I never forgot about that night . . . even said a prayer a time or two . . . wanted to see you again.
I couldn’t get out of my head that Derrick Gregory had been thinking about me all those eight years! I remember Almeda telling me that you could never know all the ways the Lord might put some small, insignificant incident in your life to use in some way and for something he was intending to do. But suddenly the huge meaning of her words rushed over me like she was just saying them to me right then.
It wasn’t that I’d forgotten Derrick. I would never forget the incident. But for me it was just—I don’t know how to explain it, exactly, but it was just something that happened. Then my life picked up and went on. But for him, the incident had made such an impression in his heart and mind that it wound up changing him. Really changing him for good! All this time he’d actually wanted to see me again, to apologize and to tell me that I’d had what I reckon you’d call an influence on his life.
It’s pretty amazing when you stopped to think about it that I could have caused a difference in somebody’s life without even knowing it!
Yet that’s exactly what Almeda had said to me.
“Every person you meet, Corrie,” I could hear her voice saying, “even someone whose path crosses yours for the briefest moment, may be what Avery calls a ‘divine appointment.’ ”
“What’s a divine appointment?” I asked her.
“A meeting, an encounter, a relationship, a situation that God has set up for some purpose we might not know about . . . might ‘never’ know about or be aware of.”
“You mean God sets up ‘appointments’ for us with people, but never tells us about them?”
“That’s exactly what he does. They’re not ‘earthly’ appointments, but ‘divine’ appointments. They don’t have a purpose that ‘we’ can see or even do anything about. But just like every earthly business meeting, or ‘appointment,’ has some purpose, some agenda, some reason for its taking place, so do God’s heavenly appointments have purposes he wants them to accomplish.”
“But if we don’t know what his purpose is, how can we do what he wants us to when the appointment comes?”
“We’re not supposed to know. If we ‘tried’ to do something, we would be more likely to intrude upon and even get in the way of what his intention was.”
“God doesn’t want us to know his purpose?”
“Not always. Sometimes he does, I suppose. But not in the small moments of contact, what we could call ‘chance’ encounters, which is what I mean when I say divine appointment.”
“So what are we supposed to do,” I asked, “if we don’t see them ahead of time and don’t know God’s purpose?”
“We’re supposed to just be ourselves,” replied Almeda. “But at the same time that means we have to be paying attention to God’s voice in case he does prompt us to say something. And we have to behave as his children ought to, so that even if nothing is said, God’s life is still able to rub off on the people around us. If we are walking as God’s children, then God is able to accomplish any number of things around the edges of life and relationship—in the people we contact, in ways we may never know about.”
“Are you saying that we may never know God is doing something, and may never realize he is at work, and yet a divine appointment can still be going on?”
“Exactly. I would even say that ‘most’ of the time it is that and we never realize a thing. You see, Corrie, if we knew what our heavenly Father was doing, or if we ‘thought’ we knew, we would probably try to say something that we considered appropriate or spiritual. We might even start talking about God himself, thinking we were helping, when actually we would be getting in the way. That’s why God doesn’t always let us in on all the divine appointments he has scheduled for us.”
“Why would it be getting in the way for us to say something to someone about God?”
“Because the occasions are rare when God wants us to ‘talk’ about him. Sometimes he does, and at those times we’ll find ourselves speaking almost in spite of ourselves. But more often than not, what God wants his people to do is simply ‘live.’ It’s in the way we live our lives, and the way we speak about things that ‘aren’t’ spiritual, and the way we conduct ourselves, and how we handle problems, and how we treat people. It’s all those kinds of things that tell most about our lives as children of the Father, far more than what we say. God schedules these ‘divine appointments’ all the time, every day, so that people who don’t know him can watch his children ‘live.’ He isn’t so much interested in scheduling these encounters that I’m calling divine appointments so that there can be a lot of talk about him, but just so that people can observe his children living their lives in a way that sets them apart ‘because’ they are his children.”
For a minute I thought about everything Almeda had said.
“I reckon I see what you mean,” I said slowly. “God wants people to see how we behave when we’re not thinking about him and are just kinda what you’d call acting normal.”
“Precisely, Corrie.”
“So the more we knew about all the divine appointments he was doing, we might mess up what he wanted to accomplish?”
“It’s difficult to imagine us having the power to interfere with something God wanted to do, but I think we can do just that, especially when we ‘try’ to start acting and talking in a spiritual way.”
It’s funny how the whole conversation came back to me now. It must have been years ago that we talked about it. It all made so much sense all of a sudden.
Derrick Gregory . . . a divine appointment, Almeda would call it. I could see it all so clearly now. God had not even been on my mind that night so long ago when Derrick had held a gun on Robin and me. And yet, somehow I guess God had used the whole incident to show Derrick some things about himself that got down inside him and changed him—all unknown to me. There sure didn’t seem to be much you could have called “spiritual” about the encounter! But it must have been a divine appointment nonetheless.
“What ‘are’ we to do about them then,” I had asked Almeda again, “anything at all?”
“I always try to keep two things in mind,” she had answered. “First of all, I try to just remember that God’s appointment book is ‘full’ of situations and encounters for us, all day long, every day. I try to remember that if you are a child of God, like you and I are, Corrie, then ‘nothing’ really is a chance encounter. God has divine appointments scheduled for us all the time. Everything that happens may be a divine appointment, for all we know. And just remembering that keeps me a little more on my toes as a Christian.”
“What’s the second thing?” I asked.
“I try to remember to pray for everyone I encounter, even if it seems like the tiniest and most insignificant interaction. You can just never tell what God may be doing in someone’s life, behind the scenes out of our view. There are no chance encounters, like I said, God is always active and busy in the souls and hearts and minds of men and women. Our Father is always a busy, busy, energetic God in the affairs of men. Nothing happens by chance. So I try to remember to be in prayer for the people around me as much as I can. Sometimes I even find that he has been most busy in some situation that appeared to me ‘least’ likely to contain any evidence of his presence.”
&
nbsp; “How do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean sometimes God can be most diligently at work in the person who seems ‘least’ like someone who would be interested in God or responsive to his voice. That’s why it’s so important to pray for the people our paths cross, no matter what they seem like. God may have purposed for us to bump into them at that exact moment, and we may never realize all that’s involved for them in the deep places within their heart.”
That had sure been true with Derrick Gregory! I had no idea what he’d been thinking all this time! I’m not sure I’d ever prayed for him either, back then or in the years since. And yet his life had taken a different turn because of a chance encounter with me, of all people . . . a divine appointment.
It made me feel guilty in a way for not remembering to ever pray for him, and for being so unaware of the possibility of God’s hand at work.
“God,” I prayed silently, “I’m sorry for not thinking to pray for Derrick all this time. But I’m glad you were stirring things up in his life anyway. So I do pray for him now, and ask that you’d get into him in even greater ways and show yourself to him more and more all the time. And help me to recognize whatever other divine appointments you have for me, and to pray for the people who cross my path.”
And speaking of divine appointments . . . what about this one sitting next to me in the wagon as we rode silently along?
What if Christopher Braxton hadn’t come along when he did? Once I started thinking about how many little pieces of what most people would call “chance” fit together to cause things to happen, before long I began to realize how God’s hand has to be in everything because of how connected it all is. Who could tell, maybe God had been scheduling hundreds of little “divine appointments” in my life, for eight years and getting me clear across the country, hundreds and hundreds of things, all leading up to that moment when my eyes happened to fall on the newspaper and see Derrick Gregory’s name, which then led me to see him again, the very thing he’d prayed for himself.
It was such an enormous thing to consider, how interwoven and interconnected all the events of our lives might be in the purposes and “appointments” of God! I could hardly grasp it!
“I don’t even know if I dare ask what you’ve been thinking about,” Christopher’s voice said suddenly in the midst of all my reflections. “You seem to have been a long ways away.”
I glanced over at him and smiled.
“Seeing Derrick Gregory again gave me a lot to think about,” I said. “Then I found myself remembering a conversation I’d had with Almeda. And then my mind filled with all kinds of things.”
“I know what you mean,” he said.
“Does that happen to you,” I asked, “when your thoughts just take off so fast in two or three directions that you can hardly keep up with them?”
“Oh sure, all the time. So . . . what were you thinking about? Anything you care to share with a friend?”
I told him about my conversation with Almeda about divine appointments.
His face grew real thoughtful, then almost sad. When he spoke, which wasn’t until after some time, it wasn’t about anything I’d said at all, which is what it had seemed to me he’d been thinking about.
“Your stepmother, Almeda, sounds like quite a lady,” he said. “I would love an opportunity to meet her.”
“Oh, how I wish that were possible!” I exclaimed.
“It’s a long ways to California,” Christopher replied. “It’s unlikely I’ll ever have the chance.”
“From what I hear, the two railroads are getting closer and closer all the time.”
“You’re right. I read an article on it just a few weeks ago— when you were asleep. The Central Pacific is planning to lay most of the rail across the Sierra Nevada when the weather turns later this year, and the Union Pacific is well begun across Nebraska toward Wyoming.”
Just hearing the words Sierra Nevada sent a brief stab of homesickness through me and reminded me of the Pony Express and Zack and all he’d been through.
“I’ve never told you, have I, that I worked for Leland Stanford for a while?” I said.
“The governor, one of the railroad Big Four?”
“Yes. I helped with his and Mr. Lincoln’s campaigns in 1860.”
“You are full of more surprises than anyone I’ve ever met, Corrie!” replied Christopher, laughing. “Every time I turn around, I discover some new famous person who’s your friend. You know Lincoln and General Grant, for heaven’s sake, and John Fremont and—”
“You couldn’t really say I know John Fremont,” I put in.
“You worked on his campaign. And now it’s Leland Stanford, and all you have to do is open up the newspaper, even three thousand miles from home, and there you find someone else you know, this Gregory fellow. Is there anybody you don’t know?”
It was my turn to laugh. “It’s not really at all like you make it sound,” I said. “It’s just that writing for the Alta has given me a few opportunities, that’s all.”
“I’m not at all convinced. I still think you’re probably famous yourself, and you’re just not telling me.”
“I am not famous,” I insisted.
“You’ll have to do a lot more than that to convince me! So anyway . . . tell me about Leland Stanford.”
“It’s a long story,” I answered.
“You’ve said that before. Not only do you know more famous people than anyone I’ve ever met, you have more long stories to tell, too. But you haven’t told me any of them yet. I want to hear them all!”
I fell silent. I wanted to tell Christopher everything. Here was someone I knew would be interested and who would understand whatever I did tell him. But we’d been together such a short time—how do you tell someone a whole lifetime’s worth of experiences? I reckon it takes a lot of time. I wanted to know about what he’d been through as well.
As briefly as I could I told him about meeting Cal and how I’d become involved with him and Mr. Stanford and the election and the Sanitary Fund, and how that had led to the invitation from President Lincoln to come east.
“So it all ties in, you see, to what I was doing here when we came after Cal to see what we could learn about the plot against General Grant. But then Surratt came after us, I took off riding, he came after me shooting, and the next thing I knew I was lying in Mrs. Timms’ bed and you were taking care of me.”
“Pretty exciting adventures,” Christopher said. “I can’t say that anything like that has happened to me. Being a preacher is interesting in other ways, I suppose, but nothing like that!”
“For instance?” I said. “I want to know something about you.”
Christopher thought a moment. “I can’t keep from thinking about what you were telling me about your conversation with your stepmother,” he said. “You just can’t imagine how wonderful that sounds, just to have someone you can talk to like that.”
“She is a special lady,” I said.
“When I had my church, there were times I so desperately longed for someone I could pour my heart out to. But they were just looking at the external man and had not much interest in my heart. I doubt they knew I even had one.”
He sighed, and I could tell the memory was a painful one.
“And then in the time since, I’ve been essentially alone. It’s been a good time. I know my Father is straightening around priorities deep within me in preparation—well, for what I haven’t an idea, but for something. But through all that, you just can’t possibly know how good it feels just to . . . to talk to someone your own age, someone who doesn’t have motives or designs on you, who has no plan or agenda for you . . . someone who just listens, and understands, and who shares back in return. Do you see what I’m trying to tell you, Corrie? I consider you being here equally a godsend for me as much as whatever good I may have done you.”
“Hardly the same,” I said. “You saved my life.”
“But I want you to know the depths of how I app
reciate, as I said, just being able to talk and share with you. And hearing you talk about Almeda makes me hunger for it all the more. You mentioned your minister as if he was a friend, someone you all admired, and that you could talk to him too.”
“Yes, that’s exactly how he is, though it took a while for us to see those qualities in him—especially my pa.”
“Oh, how I’d just like to be able to know them all—your family and your minister—what’s his name?”
“Rev. Rutledge—Avery Rutledge.”
“Well, I’d like to be able to know him, and Almeda. Listening to you talk, it sounds like you have such a refreshing communication between all of you, like you’re always talking about everything.”
“I reckon I never thought that much about it, but I suppose you are right. I guess I just took it for granted.”
“Oh, don’t do that, Corrie. It’s very unusual, that depth of understanding and that sharing of ideas and thoughts. Not many families experience it. You should consider yourself abundantly blessed.”
There was a longing in his voice that I could tell went deep and said more than his actual words.
“I wish you could meet my father,” I said. “I know you would like him.”
“Who knows . . . perhaps someday,” he replied.
“You said it yourself, it won’t be too many years before the two rail lines join California with the rest of the country. Then you could easily come out for a visit. Why would you even have to wait till then?” I added.
“It isn’t that it would be impossible. But the Lord would have to initiate such a thing, don’t you see, Corrie? You can’t just charge off and go someplace or do something because maybe you want to. It’s got to be what he wants you to do. And I’m still so uncertain about so many things regarding my future.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’m sorry, I reckon I got kinda carried away and—”
“No, no, think nothing of it,” interrupted Christopher. “You were thinking of me, and I appreciate it, Corrie, truly I do. But there’s one other element in what we were talking about that would make a visit difficult.”
Land of the Brave and the Free (Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister Book 7) Page 10
