Your letter from New York came with such a sense of anticipation. Does it display weakness for a man to admit that he read a letter from one he cares for with trembling fingers and pounding chest? If so, then I fear I must admit to that weakness! A joyous trembling!
I could tell immediately as I read that a change had come, that you had crossed a threshold of decision and had entered into a new depth of trust in your Father. The very tone of your expression revealed a calmness that told me quickly the work which God had to do had been done. He had purified his scalpel in the fire and had sent it in search of that hidden place in your heart where the final surgery was required.
Line by line as I read from your hand, I felt the huge weight of waiting slowly lifting from my own shoulders. He had secured the roots of your being in him. No longer could there be any danger in my inhibiting that work by whatever declaration I might make. By the time the pages of your letter dropped from my hand, I was weeping in abandoned happiness, for your final words were accompanied by a silent thundering sensation, as if the heavens were shouting, “Now, my son. You have waited patiently for me to make the two paths straight in preparation. At last you may speak. As your heart told you, I intend now to join the paths and make them one!”
I was sobbing by now. How could I read such words and not weep with a thousand unexpected feelings? God . . . oh, God, are you truly doing this remarkable thing?
I grabbed up my pen and a sheet of paper to begin immediately writing my heart to you. But then the next instant I jumped up and ran to my bureau to find the unopened letter. Throw it away? Did you possibly think I would—never! Even unopened, the mere fact that it came from you made it a treasure. I was by now so feverishly hungry for any further word from you, I tore it open and hastily read.
What you wrote that compelled the telegram I have not an idea! I read with renewed tears. Oh, Corrie, Corrie! With all respect to your mother, yours is the face that has filled my entire consciousness now for months. Comely enough to fetch a husband? Someday many years from now I may argue the point with your mother! But for now I will only say that you are so beautiful in my eyes as to reflect the very nature and purity and radiance of the God who made you, and I know of nothing in all the world so beautiful as that! I grew to love every inch of your face as you slept peacefully after your accident—your mouth and eyes, your chin and cheeks, your neck and the dimple and the few freckles, the color and gentle waves of your hair. Do you know that after praying for you, I kissed your forehead every night? Beautiful Corrie . . . you are all the world to me!
I could not keep reading! I was positively bawling like a baby, glad there was nobody right next to me. There were enough people scattered through the coach that some of them were starting to stare, because I’m afraid I was by now crying and sniffling with almost a loud groaning of uncontrolled emotional happiness. But who cared what any of them thought. For the first time in my life I was ready to shout out to the whole world that I was in love with a certain fine man named Christopher Braxton!
Oh, there is so much to say! It may be difficult for you to understand, but in time I’m certain you will, but I read of your decision to return to California with gladness. My heart will be sore for missing you. And I flatter myself that you will feel a certain loneliness as well.
But in matters such as these, haste is almost certain to cause men and women who live in the flesh and the soul to run ahead of the pace by which God establishes his purposes in the Spirit. Speed is often alien to the ways of the Father. The purposes of God take time and cannot be rushed.
Additionally, I feel you need to see your family and home before you see me again. You need to talk with your beloved Almeda and your father, and your dear Rev. Rutledge. I will not tamper with the rightful order by which these things must be done so as to bear the greatest harvest of fruit in the end. Your sensing God’s prompting to return confirms to me that he has been speaking to us both, even apart, as with one voice.
It was for all these reasons I wrote, as you of course know well enough by now, to your Sister Janette with instructions to give you this letter as you boarded the train. I feared one of us might grow weak, and the desire to set eyes upon each other grow too strong, that your journey could have been forestalled. I keenly felt that now was the appointed time for your return, and thus I waited as I did to speak to you from my heart.
But you will see me again, I promise you that. I know that the appointed path marked out for my steps to follow will lead me also to California. Wherever my own future lies beyond that, let me only say it is my prayer I do not have to make that decision alone.
You will see me one day, not too far off I hope, in the town of Miracle Springs that I have already grown fond of because of someone who lives there. One way or another, I will get there. I have got two very important things I have to do there. I have to see a man by the name of Drummond Hollister to ask if he will consent to give me the hand of his daughter. And I have to see you to ask if you will consent to give me your life, and do me the honor of allowing me to call myself your husband.
Oh, my sister and friend, it seems I always use far, far too many words to say what could be said in only a few. The few I would say now, for all to hear and know, are these: Corrie Hollister, I love you!
How can I end except by saying again, I love you!
Yours forever,
Christopher
I broke out in a suppressed sob. I tried to stifle it, but they kept coming in waves. I know every eye on the coach was watching me. I tried to pretend I was looking out the window, but from the sniffling and crying and handkerchief, already wet, going all about my eyes and nose, it was obvious I wasn’t much interested in the scenery.
I could hardly remember what state we were in . . . and barely what country.
“Are you all right, miss?” said a voice beside me.
I glanced up. There stood the conductor, with a kind look of concern on his face.
“Oh, yes,” I cried, my eyes red and wet and puffy. “I’m just . . . just so . . . so very happy!”
I guess I wasn’t controlling my voice too well and must have been talking a little loud, for behind me several people laughed lightly at my words. I took no offense. I think they were relieved, though it must have sounded funny after all the time I’d been carrying on like I had.
“Where you bound, miss?” the man asked.
“I’m going home,” I answered. I hadn’t used the word for a long time. I suppose I’d been confused about just where my home was. But not anymore.
“Where’s home?”
I finally managed a smile through my tears. “California,” I said. “Miracle Springs.”
“You got a long ride ahead of you.”
Not so long, I thought. I had the memory of a certain man to keep me company. And I intended to read and reread and reread his letter every mile of the way!
Acknowledgments
Three books stand out above all the rest in their perspective on the Civil War, which I would like to cite for their helpfulness in the research and preparation of this manuscript.
The Civil War, An Illustrated History by Geoffrey Ward, Ric Burns, and Ken Burns (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990).
The Union Sundered and The Union Restored by Harry Williams (New York: Time-Life Books, 1963).
Christian History magazine, Vol. XI, No. 1.
About the Author
MICHAEL PHILLIPS is perhaps best known for reawakening interest in the writings of George MacDonald. In the 1980s Phillips embarked on a campaign to reacquaint the reading public with the works of the forgotten Victorian novelist and Scotsman. Phillips edited and published more than fifty of MacDonald’s works in twenty years, including his own acclaimed biography of the man. Combined sales total two million copies, inaugurating a renaissance of interest in MacDonald’s work. Phillips also began writing fiction of his own and now is primarily known as a novelist. He has authored and coauthored (with Judith Pella) more than seventy titles in additio
n to his volumes of MacDonald. His best-known novels include those of the Phillips-Pella writing team, THE STONEWYCKE SERIES, THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER, and THE RUSSIANS, as well as his solo THE SECRET OF THE ROSE, AMERICAN DREAMS, and SHENANDOAH SISTERS. Michael Phillips and his wife, Judy, alternate their time between the U.S. and Scotland, where they are attempting to increase awareness of George MacDonald and his work.
Land of the Brave and the Free (Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister Book 7) Page 28
