A Bride for Donnigan (32 page)

“What are you looking for?” she asked him, using her teeth to bite off the thread that had just been sewn on a button.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Donnigan reminded her as he looked up.

She nodded. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but the scissors were across the room in her sewing basket.

“We’re missing something,” Donnigan went on in reply to her question. “I’m sure it’s here. I’m sure. If I can just get it all sorted out.”

Kathleen made no reply so Donnigan went on, scanning down his notes as he spoke. “God made man—man sinned—so God brought in the Law. If man sacrificed the animals and tried to obey—God was pleased.”

Kathleen nodded in agreement. Donnigan’s brow was still furrowed.

“You don’t think we should still be making sacrifices, do you?” asked Kathleen, a bit appalled at the thought.

“No—” replied Donnigan tapping his paper with the pencil. “Remember the verse that says, ‘Obedience is better than sacrifice.’ And Christ didn’t ask for sacrifice in the New Testament church.”

“So all we need to do is obey?” responded Kathleen, somewhat relieved.

“Yeah—but the problem is—none of us do.”

Kathleen wished to argue that statement. “I do,” she said quickly. “At least—I try.”

“That’s the point,” said Donnigan. “No matter how hard we try—we still don’t quite make it. Here in Romans it says, ‘For all have sinned.’ And again over here, ‘There is none righteous, no, not one.’ And the verse that really settles it is this one that says, ‘All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags.’ ”

Donnigan laid down his pencil and looked at her. Kathleen’s hands had stilled in her lap. It sounded to her as if there really wasn’t much hope.

“But something changed,” she reminded him. “All those verses about Jesus—why He came to earth—to die. Remember it said that He was the sacrifice—once—for all.”

“That’s why we no longer need the lambs and bulls,” said Donnigan, nodding.

“Then what’s missing?”

“I don’t know,” replied Donnigan slowly, leaning back in his chair and gazing at the open Book before him. “I don’t know what’s missing—except peace. Why don’t I have peace, Kathleen? Why am I still struggling?”

Kathleen did not reply. She did not have the answer.

Wallis called—just at mealtime. Kathleen should have been used to it—in fact, she was—but it always managed to irk her just a bit when she had to leave the table and get another plate for the neighbor man and crowd the children even closer together.

“Wondering how yer crops are doin’,” Wallis explained to Donnigan as though that were the reason for his visit.

Kathleen lowered her eyes quickly to her plate so her irritation wouldn’t show.

“Fine—just fine,” Donnigan replied. “And yours?”

“Fine—just fine.” Wallis reached for the bowl of carrots.

Wallis had never really gotten over Risa’s leaving. He didn’t seem as angry anymore and he had progressed to the point of weary acceptance. He knew she would never be back, as he had hoped for so many months—so many years.

“God made the crops,” piped up Rachel. Then returned to her eating.

“Ya sure got a nice-lookin’ bunch of spring calves,” Wallis said around a bite of warm biscuit.

Donnigan nodded. They were nice.

“God made the calves,” said Rachel.

Wallis frowned and took a big bite of potatoes and gravy. After he had chewed for a few minutes, he lifted his head again.

“Did ya get much outta thet rain shower last night? I figured it sure did come at the right time.”

Before Donnigan could answer, Rachel said in a sing-songy voice, “God made the rain.”

Wallis, dumbfounded, looked at the child. Then he turned back to Donnigan. “What do you do, Donnigan? Spend all yer time religioning yer young?”

“Not
all
my time,” replied Donnigan evenly.

The silence hung heavy in the room for several minutes. Even the children seemed to sense it and stopped their usual prattle.

Donnigan was the one to break it. “You don’t seem to put much stock in religious training,” he said to Wallis.

Wallis continued to chew; then he lifted his eyes and replied dourly, “It’s not I’m
all
agin’ it. My folks were plenty religious. I had more’n my share in my growin’ up—but a man can go too far with it, seems to me.”

Donnigan would have liked to ask, “And how far is too far?” but his attention had been caught by Wallis’s earlier statement.

“You’ve had your share? What? What were you taught?”

Wallis shifted uneasily. He reached up and scratched his uncombed hair with the blunt end of the fork he held in his hand.

“Well, I—I don’t know as I recall all the—the—You know the usual, I guess.”

“Like,” prompted Donnigan, leaning forward in his eagerness.

Wallis still hesitated.

“Go on—please,” said Donnigan.

“Well—you know the stuff. God made everybody and—”

“We know that story,” called out Timothy. “It’s in the Bible.”

“Then Eve et the apple—and she gave some to Adam—and he et a bite and then God sent them from the garden and told ’em never to go back.”

All Donnigan’s children could have told those stories—likely better than the grizzled man.

“Then—” prompted Donnigan.

“Well, then ya got all those stories ’bout those other fellas, Noah and Joseph and Elijah and sech,” went on Wallis.

With a look Donnigan silenced his children, who seemed about to explode with their own knowledge of those Bible characters. He was anxious to hear what the man had to say. Maybe he had the last piece to the puzzle.

“And then ya get to the next part,” went on Wallis slowly. “Where Jesus is born.”

“Go on,” said Donnigan.

Kathleen had stopped eating. She leaned forward almost as eagerly as did Donnigan.

“Well, He went about healin’ people and helpin’ the poor and trying to teach what was the right way to live an’ fergivin’ their sins an’—”

“How?” broke in Donnigan. “Forgive sins—how?”

“How?” Wallis sounded caught off guard. He also sounded puzzled. “How?” he repeated. “Guess God Almighty is the only one who knows thet.”

Donnigan felt acute disappointment. But he refused to give up. “Did you ever have your sins forgiven?” he pressed the older man.

Wallis blushed under his bearded cheeks.

“Me? Not me,” he hastened to answer.

“Did you see anyone else?”

“Well—sure—lots of folks.” Wallis sounded a bit put out. One wouldn’t have attended his church, with his folks, without seeing a good number of folks praying for forgiveness.

“How?” asked Donnigan.

“Well—ya gotta go up front of the church—or wherever—sometimes it was at one of them there tent meetings, an’ kneel down and cry some, at thet—they call it an altar, I remember now—ya gotta go to the altar—an’ cry and ask God to fergive ya fer the bad ya done.”

Donnigan eased upright in his chair. An altar. They did not have one. Kathleen met his eyes.

“I wonder if there’s an altar left behind in that church,” she said aloud.

“Oh, I’m sure they is,” said Wallis. “Church always has an altar.”

Donnigan’s memory began to stir. The Bible spoke of an altar. When God gave the people the tabernacle, and later the temple, He spoke of the altar. The altar was where the sacrifices took place.

“Did they—did they make sacrifices at the altar?” he asked hesitantly.

“Sacrifices? Ya mean like slayin’ things? Naw. They didn’t do nothin’ like thet. Preacher said we was to give ourselves—a livin’ sacrifice.”

“A living sacrifice? What does that mean?” asked Kathleen.

“I don’t know. Preacher talk, I guess. I don’t know.”

“A living sacrifice,” said Donnigan. “You know, there’s a verse that talks about that. I saw it again just last night. In Acts. No—no. Romans, I think.”

Donnigan hurried away to get the Bible. He spent a few minutes turning the pages while the rest of the people around the table sat in perfect silence.

“Here it is in Romans 12:1: ‘I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.’ ”

Donnigan frowned—reread the verse, then shook his head.

“It says ‘service,’ ” said Kathleen. “Do you think—?”

“It must mean something about living to serve God,” said Donnigan, still studying the verse.

Then he lifted his eyes again to Wallis.

“Do you understand it?” he asked the man.

Wallis scratched his head again. The whole conversation was making him dreadfully uncomfortable—and it was so close and warm in the room. He reached up to loosen his shirt and run a finger around his collar.

“Well, ya can’t serve Him when ya got sin—thet much I was told,” went on the man. “I don’t think He really wants much to do with ya when—when ya ain’t yet made yer confession.”

“Confession?” asked Donnigan.

“Sure, confession,” said Wallis, looking a trifle upset with their lack of understanding. “Ya gotta confess yer sins—thet’s what ya go to the altar fer.”

Donnigan knew there were many verses that spoke of confession. He made a mental note to look them up and study them that evening.

“Then ya just—just—I think they say—accept,” went on Wallis. “Thet’s how ya be born agin.”

Jesus had used those words with Nicodemus, Donnigan remembered. Born again. Born of the Spirit, Jesus had gone on to say. Donnigan felt excitement. The pieces were slowly falling into place.

“An’ thet’s all there is to it,” said Wallis, wishing to get himself out of his present situation.

“You were taught that—in your church?” plied Donnigan.

“Yep. Shore was,” said Wallis without hesitation.

“But you didn’t confess?”

Wallis looked up slowly, then shook his head.

“But—why? I mean—if you had the teaching—if you knew it worked—why—?”

To their surprise the man began to shift nervously on his chair. He looked down at his calloused hands and rubbed them together in agitation. When he at last looked up his eyes were clouded.

“It worked—fer others. I saw thet. But—well—I was young. I wanted to—well—to do things my own way—be my own boss. I figured there was plenty of time fer religion when … someday,” he replied simply.

He raised his arm to wipe his sweaty forehead on his shirt sleeve.

“Weren’t thet it didn’t work,” he went on to say. “It was me. I got feelin’ kinda ornery like. Wanted to sow my oats. My mama—” He stopped again. “I was about ready to think on it agin when—when—Risa—”

He stirred again.

“But it ain’t been a smart thing to do,” he finished lamely. “I ain’t had me much peace.”

“But—others? You’ve seen others with peace?” asked Donnigan softly. He just had to know.

“Ya mean when they went to the altar and confessed? Yeah. I did. I sure did.” The old man managed a wobbly smile and brushed again at his forehead.

I’ve got to find us an altar
, thought Donnigan.
For all of us. That’s what we need—a place to confess—and accept.

Donnigan made a trip to town. The church door was still bolted shut. In fact, there was a double lock on the door. Donnigan rattled the locks, but knew there was no way to open them without the proper keys.

He walked around to the window, pressed his face against the glass and peered in. He could see nothing that he understood to be an altar. There was only a small stand at the front where one could maybe lay a book, and a little railing that went around it. Donnigan was disappointed. If he knew what an altar looked like, perhaps he could build his own.

Sadly he turned away. Then he thought of the elderly couple he had visited a number of years before. Maybe they would know about an altar. Maybe they even had the key to the door.

But when he knocked on the door, it was a new face that greeted him. “Oh, ya mean old Joseph Reed?” said the woman. “They moved off to somewhere. We been in the house for ’most a year now. No, I don’t know where they went. He was rather poorly. ’Spose they went off to kin somewhere.”

Again Donnigan felt disappointment. As a last resort he headed for Lucas.

After a time of small talk and inquiring of Erma and their four girls, Donnigan dived right in.