Heathersleigh Homecoming (49 page)

 102 
Sunday Morning

Amanda awoke the following morning feeling weak and numb.

It was Sunday, though she hardly realized it at first. She had but rarely attended church with the Pankhursts during her first years in London, and not once since then. The sisters had had informal services at the chalet, but that was different. On this day, however, when she arose and the day of the week dawned on her, the idea of a church service seemed the only appropriate response to the devastating news of the death of father and brother. She still hardly knew
what
she believed, even
whether
she believed. Yet before she knew it she was dressed and, after half a cup of tea and an attempt to eat a little breakfast in the hotel dining room, prepared to set out for morning services at St. Paul's.

The day was bright, the air pleasant. As she drew closer, however, finding more and more men and women bustling around her on their way to the great London cathedral, she began to feel out of place. The city whose crowded activity and energy had once drawn her had become impersonal and unfriendly.

Up the steps she moved with the masses, then inside the great doors and into the majestic place whose huge dome towered over the city.

Amanda stopped. The throng continued to push past her. But she could not do it. There were too many people, too much commotion. A church service was not what her heart needed right now. She wanted quiet. She wanted to be alone.

For what, she couldn't have said. To
do
what . . . to
think
what . . . to
pray
what—none of this Amanda considered. She just had to get out of there.

She turned and left the way she had come, moving against the human flow out the doors, then down the steps.

As the human river thinned and she found herself on a quieter street, the paralysis of her brain suddenly gave way to a rush of
mental activity. Unwelcome and painful memories assailed her. She continued heedless of direction.

All at once her mind was clear and focused. Images, words, faces plagued her . . . her father's voice, the words of parental counsel as she had contemplated coming to London:

You are making a serious mistake, Amanda
.

Then words of warning from his letter several years later:

Please, for your good not my own, listen to my cautions. . . . There
may be dangers that you are unaware of . . . people you
have become involved with are not what they seem. . . . You
are an adult now. I urge you to stand tall
and mature and to exercise sober adult judgment
.

But they had fallen on deaf ears. Sister Hope was right. Amanda had always done only what she wanted to do, heeding no other, asking no other.

Where had it led her in the end but into the very dangers her father had warned of? He had been so right . . . so right about everything! How could she have been so immature and stupid, and yet think herself so wise and grown-up?

Then the cruel words she had written to her parents after leaving Heathersleigh came back to haunt her:

. . . I cannot
endorse anything about the life you have chosen. . . . I see
no basis for us to have a continuing relationship or friendship. . . . I am not interested in your God, in your
prayers, or in either of you
.

At last a few hot tears began to sting at her eyes. How
could
she have been so mean, so childish . . . so utterly foolish!

Now more recent words . . . Sister Hope's voice pleading with her to listen . . .
There is an independence into which we must all grow . . . but the independence that is making you
miserable is something else, and is nothing but pride. Every
prodigal has to go home eventually
.

From her own mouth she could still hear herself shouting back—

I'm not a prodigal!

Then came Sister Hope's pointed reply—

It may be painful to admit, but that is exactly what you are
.

More words to haunt her! She had been given sound advice for years. But she had refused to listen to any of it.

She clasped her hands to her ears to try to stop the tormenting flow of memories. But they came from inside, and nothing she did
could prevent their piercing accusations bombarding her brain like a waking nightmare.

If only . . . if only she had come back sooner! Maybe she might have been able to make it right with her father and ask his forgiveness.

If only . . .

But what was the use now?

What was the use of anything now? None of it mattered anymore! She could
not
be reconciled to her father. He was gone . . . dead.

It was too late!

Pictures and memories from childhood floated in and out, fragmentary pieces of conversations, harsh words she had spoken. Through it all were images of the two happy, smiling, forgiving, patient, unselfish, loving faces. The best brother, the best father a girl could have!

Their smiles haunted her, refusing even in death to be angry at her, refusing to speak harshly. Smiling . . . only smiling.

Silently they whispered out from some watery grave. She knew well enough what they were saying—that they
loved
her, despite what she had been to them.

How badly she had misjudged them. Suddenly she saw so clearly what wonderful men they both were.

Now she would never see either again!

A lump filled her throat. She forced it down, then drew in several deep breaths, telling herself she must regain her composure.

She continued to walk, she hardly knew where.

 103 
The Call of Intimacy

All the streets where Amanda found herself were lonely and cold, the faces she encountered impersonal. The great metropolis she had once longed for had lost its life.

As Amanda walked along a nearly deserted part of the city, voices of singing caught her ear. She had turned in so many directions by now she had scarcely an idea where she was.

She glanced along the street. There was a steeple.

She was walking along Bloomsbury Way! There was New Hope Chapel in the next block! How had she come here? Had her steps unconsciously been leading her here all along?

From inside, peaceful melodies of song drifted gently out into the street. The hymn drew her. Slowly she approached.

The singing stopped. Amanda paused and waited. After another few minutes, a man began to speak. Inside she heard the familiar voice of Timothy Diggorsfeld.

“The great crying need of our time, my friends,” the pastor began, “is intimacy with God, our Father and Creator and Maker.”

He paused briefly to allow the simple yet profound words to sink in.

“What prevents this intimacy we so desperately need?” he went on. “Many evangelists of our day will say it is sin, and then proceed to rail against this or that evil of society. They are right, of course—sin is the great curse that prevents us from what God would give, and especially all that he would have us to be.”

Strangely moved, almost warmed by the words which several years earlier would doubtless have angered her, Amanda began to walk forward again, curiously drawn to the message. The doors stood wide open to the fair morning, and Timothy's voice carried clearly out into the street.

“But what about otherwise good people,” Diggorsfeld was saying, “even Christian believers, whom the world would look upon with
favor? Perhaps some of you men and women listening to my voice are such. And before I gave my own heart to the Lord, such was I—respected and admired by all . . . but far from God in my heart. I do not say that evangelists ought not to preach to sinners who need to repent. Their hellfire messages and salvationary fervor are perhaps much needed for some. But they did not rouse me out of the complacent and contented stupor I supposed was my goodness and respectability. Something else was needed.

“So I find myself compelled to ask—what of good people who are in church many a Sunday? Good people, as was I myself? What about young boys and girls, teenagers, young adults with believing parents, who have been in church Sunday after Sunday throughout their lives and who are well familiar with the gospel, perhaps even who believe in its message?”

Amanda was nearing the front of the church now. She continued to walk slowly toward the door.

“Does the heavenly Father not desire intimacy with such individuals just as greatly as with the worst sinner in the land? Does he not desire intimacy with
you
—believer that you are—no less than with a thief or a murderer? Yet it may be, though we are unaccustomed to think so, that this intimacy is actually as
lacking
in the hearts of good respectable Christians as it is lacking in the hearts of the worst sinners listening to a rousing message about the dangers of hell.

“I
know
that such intimacy can be missing in the midst of outward respectability. How can I say such a thing? Because I was just such a one myself. I was a contented, respectable prodigal. I had no idea what I was at all. I would have recoiled from the merest suggestion.

“What—
me
a prodigal!
Outrageous
, would have been my reply.

“You see, my friends, I had no idea that my prodigality was not evidenced by wicked crimes against society . . . but rather lay in my own prideful independence. Thinking myself a fine man, I was in fact living in my very own private far country just like the young man who went to eat with pigs. But I knew it not.”

Timothy paused. Amanda could not but recall again, as she had when walking yesterday, her bitter argument with Sister Hope of only a week ago. How much had changed in such a short time.

“Intimacy, therefore, may be lacking in
your
heart as you sit listening to my words this morning,” Timothy continued. “I cannot know such things, nor do I judge any man or woman. I only say that
perhaps the Spirit of God has drawn you here because he has been calling your heart to deeper intimacy with him.”

Amanda slowly sat down on the steps of the chapel outside. She would not have said she
wanted
to listen. Yet somehow she knew she
had
to, feeling compelled to remain.

She knew the words were being spoken to her, even though the preacher could have no idea she was even there. From the energetic tone of his voice, she could only assume that Rev. Diggorsfeld had not yet been informed about her father.

“What is to be gained,” Timothy had by now resumed, “by condemning this or that evil, if we neglect that region where lies our first business of life? Indeed, one of the greatest of the last century's preachers said that we could rid the world of
every single one
of its wrongs and still neglect that most important of all life's callings. What will it accomplish if we set
all
the world's evils right, if we rid it of poverty and alcohol and inequity, if we bring justice to every creature, if we give every man and woman the vote, if we eliminate the scourge of war—what good will it do, I say, to remove
all
these from the world . . . if we as a people yet in our hearts remain distant from the God who made us?

“And, you may rightfully ask, what about me? What about one who has given his professional life to combating the evils of our society through government? That is why, as I said, there was a time when I had to ask these questions first and foremost to myself.”

Amanda's ears perked up. These were curious words coming from Timothy Diggorsfeld. What could he mean?

“And as I asked them,” the sermon went on, “I had to face at length the primary question: What is the calling to which we should aspire if it is not to rid the world of evil? Many would consider this the highest calling of man—especially politicians—to rid the world of wrong. But I say no. I say it is elsewhere we must look for the
summum bonum
, the highest thing of life.

“Where then? What
is
the highest of life's ambitions, that worthiest goal to which the human creature may strive?”

The voice stopped. Timothy was glancing back and forth through his rows of listeners. This was the most difficult sermon he had delivered in his life. Tears struggled to fill his eyes, blurring the page of Charles' handwriting on the lectern in front of him. Though these were not his own words, insofar as it concerned one particular
individual whom he did not know was listening, it was also the most important sermon of his life. Already his prayer of the night before was in the process of being profoundly answered.

“Intimacy
, my friends,” said Timothy after a moment, “—a personal and daily walk of trust and reliance upon God our Father, and with His Son Jesus, our Savior.
That
is the highest thing.

“I speak not only to the so-called
sinners
among you, but to
you
, Christian man, to
you
, good believing woman, to
you
, young person raised and trained in a gospel-believing church, to
you
, good citizen who have dedicated your life to worthy causes and to the elimination of inequality and injustice and evil in our society. I speak to
you
as well as to the thief and adulterer and murderer—and I say to you,
Your Father desires to live with you in intimacy
. And because for years I did not know this intimacy either, I speak to myself.

“Salvation may be all that is required for entrance into the heavenly kingdom,” the compelling sermon went on. “But alone it will not produce the abundant, fruitful life Jesus came to reveal to his brothers and sisters. The Son of God came that we might walk in close fellowship with his Father. Such he became a man for. Such he died for.

“He did not die on the cross only to save us from our sins, though of course he did do that. He died on the cross also that we might be drawn into and thus share in the relationship he had with his Father—that we might too become fully sons and daughters of God.”