A New Dawn Over Devon (20 page)

 28 
Hang On to the Lifeline—God Is Good

Later that afternoon Timothy accompanied Amanda by taxi to her hotel, where they met Catharine and enjoyed dinner together. The following morning the two sisters rode again to New Hope for breakfast with the minister before their eleven-o'clock train back to Devon.

The moment Timothy had seen them off at the station, he returned home and telephoned Jocelyn.

“Hello, Jocelyn, my dear,” he said when she came on the line. “I just left your two lovely daughters at the train—they are on their way back to you.”

“Was it a good visit?” asked Jocelyn.

“Wonderful. Amanda and I had an excellent talk. I hope I gave her some helpful things to think about. I'm sure she will fill you in. She is maturing greatly in the Lord, Jocelyn. You have a great deal to be proud of.”

The telephone was silent for several moments.

“Jocelyn . . . ?”

“Yes, I am still here, Timothy,” said Jocelyn. “I just—”

Her voice faltered.

“What is it, my dear?”

“Yes, I see that Amanda is doing well, but sometimes I . . . I just become—”

She began to cry.

“I'm sorry . . . I can't help it. Sometimes . . . I become so angry for what happened, for what she went through . . . for what we all went through.”

“Angry . . . angry at who, Jocelyn? Angry at God?”

“I don't know, Timothy,” Jocelyn replied, “—at everyone. Angry at the Pankhursts, angry at my brother-in-law Hugh, especially angry at the Halifaxes and that Hartwell Barclay—angry at them all for being so willing to take advantage of Amanda's resentments. Any of them could have turned Amanda's heart toward home at any time. But none of them did. They used her. And sometimes I'm even angry with Amanda herself for being so foolish and stubborn all those years. Not Amanda as she is now, but I confess I still get angry with the old Amanda, for putting us through this—for putting herself through it when it was all so unnecessary. We were a good family, Timothy, a fun family—
why
couldn't she see it!”

Jocelyn broke down, crying in earnest.

“Now it's all gone,” she went on. “I even get angry at myself and Charles too. Oh, if only we hadn't been so hard on Amanda! If only we had let her live a more normal life here at home. I don't know, Timothy . . . maybe anger toward God is mixed up in it all too. It just hurts so much to have lost Charles and George, and to see Amanda have to suffer now.”

“I know . . . I hope I understand some of your pain,” replied Timothy tenderly. “In the midst of my own grief for Charles I battle with similar emotions. Yet all that has happened to you has helped make you who you are today, and to deepen your trust in our Father.”

“But I don't care about myself!” sobbed Jocelyn. “Timothy, if God is sovereign, then why did George and Charles have to die, and why does Amanda have to suffer, so that I can be who I am today? It's not fair that
they
should have had to suffer so that I could be strong! I don't want to be strong—I only wanted a godly family, and now it's gone!”

“They did not suffer
so
that you could be strong,” said Timothy. “Suffering is one of the intrinsic components God has allowed as part of human existence. People do not understand why he has done so, and even use the fact to say they do not believe in God at all. Yet
God's purposes are eternal not temporary. If he is able to use the suffering of this life toward eternal good, then foolish is the man or woman who looks at this very tool in his hand—a tool he will use for our ultimate benefit, even, it may be, our ultimate perfection in the next life—and say they do not believe in the Father-sculptor who wields it.”

“But it is so hard to understand when you're in the middle of it!”

“We do not have to enjoy suffering. How can we? But we must look to the Father and see it as his divine instrument, not the working of a cruel and impersonal fate. Suffering came to your family—why, I do not know. Only God does. But through suffering, God will always make us strong if we will let him, as you have let him through yours.”

“But I'm so tired of it, Timothy! I'm tired of having to be strong, tired of having to trust God. It is so hard! Sometimes I can't help but think we would all have been better off if Charles and I had never tried so hard to follow the Bible, never become Christians at all. Oh, you know I don't mean that, but it is so confusing!”

“I have no answers, Jocelyn,” said Timothy softly. “In this world there is suffering, and why it is dispensed where and when it is will remain one of the great mysteries of life and the human equation. I only know that God will make all right in the end, and having done so, all his creation will look back and say, ‘Everything was
always
right, only we did not know how to see it.' I believe your dear husband believed that. And I know down in your heart you believe it too. Therefore, the best way to revere Charles's memory is to hang on to his lifeline, that God is good, and always will be good, and that all will work for good.”

Gradually the passion of Jocelyn's tears subsided.

“I would trade anything that I am,” Jocelyn said at length, “I would trade all my own growth to have them back.”

“Charles and George joined the navy knowing they might be giving their lives for their country,” said Timothy. “They didn't die
so
you could be strong, but you will grow strong if you can trust the Father in the midst of your grief.”

“And I just cannot help thinking there might have been something more we could have done to hasten Amanda's homecoming.”

“You mustn't blame yourself. You could not have known what was going to happen. Homecoming always depends on the prodigal. The father in the Lord's parable prayed and waited patiently, but
could not urge his son home until the son
himself
said, ‘I will arise and go.' Amanda could have come home anytime she wanted. She could have ended her sojourn in the far country years sooner. But she didn't. I believe she always knew in her heart of hearts, during the darkest nights when she was alone with her thoughts, that you were here waiting to love her. But she waited. And the cost of that waiting is something you all have to bear.”

Timothy paused.

“But she
is
home now,” he added. “For that we are all grateful. Some prodigals never do return in this life. But yours has. It is a return that will always be tinged with grief, but is nonetheless a return of her heart to its home.”

“I know . . . I know. Forgive me, Timothy,” sighed Jocelyn. “Sometimes, even now, the sadness overwhelms me. But I realize we went above and beyond trying to do what we
thought
was right, even though it all seemed to turn out so wrong.”

“Not all. You mustn't forget George and Catharine. And you did more than what you thought was right—you
did
right.”

“But you must see that it is very confusing.”

“Of course.”

“When Amanda was gone, I wanted so badly to try to find her and go see her. I wanted to write her letters and send her packages and gifts and birthday reminders. I wanted to do so much. But I knew I had to respect her wishes to let her alone, give her freedom to live by her decision, give her the very freedom she never thought we were capable of giving her. She will never know how hard that was, just to let her go, and let her wallow in her waywardness and do nothing when everything in my mother's heart cried out to love her!”

Again Jocelyn began to cry, this time softly.

“I feel so worthless and unspiritual, Timothy,” she said. “You talk about the strength this has brought me. I certainly feel none of it. I just feel helpless! How can I help Amanda through this grief she feels for her father and her brother, when I feel it too? How can I help her through the dilemma she is in about her marriage?”

“Jocelyn, you need to just be who you are, and hang on to that lifeline that God is good. Amanda needs that more than anything—to remember that God is good.”

“But none of this seems good!” Jocelyn said, crying again. “How can it be from God?”

“The tragedy is not
sent
by God,” replied Timothy, “but it is
used
by him. God is our holy Father. Though this world is fallen, it is still his, and suffering and tragedy, prodigality and pain, all result because his independent, rebellious children insist on taking their lives into their own hands. But he
will
make all right in the end. We know that, and we must hang on to it.”

Another pause came over the telephone line for several long seconds.

“Every human pain, every disappointment, every tear,” Timothy added after a moment, “is specially designed for use by the Father's hand to sculpt our characters into their eternal shape. We can trust him, Jocelyn dear . . . we can
trust
him to do that work within us. And if we will but yield the tool into his hand, he will mold our beings into the likeness of his own dear Son.”

 29 
Thoughtful Return

Like her mother after the telephone conversation with Timothy, Amanda too was thoughtful that afternoon on the train as she and Catharine rode back to Devon. Little was said as they sat side by side gazing out at the passing countryside. In contrast to Amanda's pensive mood, Catharine was even more bubbly than usual, with an occasional smile breaking out on her face, though from what cause she didn't say. At the same time she seemed to sense her sister's need to keep to herself.

As the train continued along, Amanda's thoughts drifted back to all that she and Timothy had discussed on the previous afternoon, especially allowing seeds from the garden of her father's nature to sprout and blossom in the soil of her own life. Then her thoughts came to dwell on his final comments about her future.

Thinking about what lay ahead was new for Amanda. For years, especially during the months since leaving Vienna, merely getting through the present had been challenge enough. All of a sudden Timothy had put the notion in her brain that life could be good again. It was almost too overwhelming a thought to take—that even now, after all this, her life might actually amount to something.

She had had such dreams and plans when she was young. How shortsighted they all seemed now! She had changed the world, all right . . . for the worse. She had hurt so many people, herself most of all. But if what Timothy said was true and God did have a purpose
for her life even after such failure, was it really possible that she might have the chance to give back a little, to help where she had hurt, to make restitution for what she had done and been?

She knew she could never make it up to her father. That realization would pain her for the rest of her days. So restitution would have to come in other ways. She could try to make it up as best she might to her mother and Catharine. And perhaps, as Timothy said, she could help other girls and young women, that healing might grow in their families out of the soil of her own mistakes.

She smiled as she remembered Timothy's analogy. That's what she had made of her life all right—manure! Yet perhaps she could put that manure of failure to work to help cause good things to grow in other people's lives.

The thought sent a surge of hopefulness through her heart. She realized she had not felt
hope
for longer than she could remember. She had been so discouraged for so long, thinking that life could never again contain happiness. She had almost given up altogether, resigning herself to living out her existence in a dreary continuum of enduring one grey day after another. She had forgotten what hope and optimism, enthusiasm and joy, even felt like.

Amanda smiled to herself. It was a smile that contained both sadness for the past and new hope for the future. Perhaps, she thought, the way God's people were meant to change the world was by being men and women of goodness and character, being true sons and daughters of God, rather than by changing things about the world itself. She had had it all backward when she was young.

Her father understood that principle, she thought. The realization led him to step aside from the world's politics in order to carry out a work in a much different realm—a realm she did not have eyes to see at the time. The very characteristics that used to bother her about him were nothing more than the natural result of his trying to live—really live!—by the principles of the Sermon on the Mount. He was trying to be a man of spiritual character. He had come to recognize the requirement she had for so long been unable to see—the need to change, not the world, but oneself.

I am sorry again, Lord
, Amanda breathed to herself.
And I am sorry for not seeing your work in my father for what it was. But, Lord, I
want to submit myself now to your transforming hand. I
always thought I wanted to become someone of importance in the
world. Now I ask you to truly make a
lady of me—your daughter. I want to make a
difference in the world, Lord—but for you and your
kingdom. I ask you to carry out your work in
me. And if there is anything you can use to
help other girls, as Timothy said, then please do so.
I was not a good girl. I was too selfish
for good qualities to grow within me. But I ask
you now, Lord, to take what is left of my life and make a virtuous woman of me. And if
the story of my prodigalness can help anyone else, then I will be glad. I am willing for you to
do what you want with me
.

She closed her eyes and sat back as the train continued to bounce along, at peace with her thoughts. Gradually she dozed off. When she came to herself an hour later, the train was slowing down and they were nearly home.

Almost as if in answer to her conversation with Timothy and her own prayer, as they left the Milverscombe train station, Amanda saw Chelsea Winters on the sidewalk. She smiled and stopped.

“Hello, Chelsea,” said Amanda. “How have you been? I haven't seen you for a long time.”

“Hello, Miss Rutherford,” replied Chelsea. “I saw you come out of the station, but I didn't know if you would remember me.”

“Of course I remember you, Chelsea,” rejoined Amanda. She glanced around, but the girl was apparently alone.

“Where is your mother, Chelsea?”

“I came to town by myself.”

“Have you thought about what I told you before?”

“Yes, Miss Rutherford.”

“I hope you are not thinking any more about going away to London to be a suffragette like a foolish girl named Amanda Rutherford.”

“I don't know . . . sometimes I think I would like to do something exciting like that.”

“It is not exciting at all,” rejoined Amanda, “but a way to get yourself into a great deal of trouble.”

Amanda paused momentarily as a thought struck her.

“Why don't you come to the Hall with Catharine and me,” said Amanda. “Would you like to do that?”

“Yes, Miss Rutherford!”

“When is your mother expecting you home?”

“Not for two hours.”

“Good—we will have tea and biscuits and then take you home after a little while. Have you met Betsy?”

“Who's Betsy?” asked Chelsea as she began walking between Amanda and Catharine to where Hector sat waiting for them with a horse and two-seater buggy.

“A girl about your age who is staying with us.”

“Why is she staying with you?”

“Because her daddy was killed, and God sent her to us.”

“Did God really send her?” asked Chelsea.

“I think so.”

“Why would God send her to you, Miss Rutherford?”

“I don't know, Chelsea. Perhaps so that she could learn some things she needed to know.”

“What kinds of things?”

“I don't know yet. Sometimes we are not able to see all that God is doing. Maybe one of the reasons is so that you and she could become friends.”