From Across the Ancient Waters (20 page)

Avoiding the text itself, he would then dust off one of the stale sermons from his seminary days, written with the intent of impressing professors rather than moving hearts. Or perhaps he would follow the script in one of a half dozen volumes on his shelf of sermon outlines and notes. He would gloss over the powerful passage with a few dusty truisms. His words would thus be guaranteed to keep his own tears at bay and, at the same time, to put his listeners to sleep. One thing they would certainly never do was rouse so much as a flutter of homegoing, right-making conscience-movement in the heart of whatever unrepentant prodigals might be listening in his congregation.

He knew as well as any man who had asked God for insight into the human condition that prodigals of all ages were alive and well in his parish. He knew that thirty-, forty-, and fifty-year-old prodigals needed to repent no less than their younger counterparts, before the matter of their prodigality became of internal import. Some, it was true, delayed their homecoming until it was too late to say the healing words. How deep must be their grief and how bitter their tears before God to realize their fathers were no longer alive to receive them into a loving embrace.

Still … such must repent and arise … they
must
repent and go to their fathers.

Homegoing is imperative, whether in this life or the next. Homegoing is the eternal imperative, the overarching
must
of the universe.

How fortunate for those thirty-, forty-, fifty-, and even sixty-year-old prodigals, perhaps who have grown comfortable in their prodigality, who awake, alas, late in life, but not
too
late, thank God, with their fathers still alive. For they could go to their aging parents, hearts of young and old breaking together, and whisper the eternal words, “I have sinned.” However late it comes, they have the opportunity to hear the father’s long-awaited, “I love you, my child. You have always been forgiven. Welcome home.”

Yet for most of his listening prodigals, those who bury the rebellion of youth in the deep recesses of consciousness as a blurry dream from long ago, it was easy to allow life simply to “go on” and not look back. These never face the heart-probing reality of what their words and actions inflicted into the hearts of those who sacrificed themselves on the altar of parenthood. Many indeed drift back into relationship with their elders on such a superficial foundation. In the presumed maturity of their own adulthood, the hostility of early years fading, they assume it enough to be on “speaking terms.” But as long as the underlying schism remains unhealed, it is
not
enough. Relational drift cannot eradicate the roots of rebellion. Only repentance can accomplish that. Outwardly respectable, these never take account before God for the hubris of their early years with the words, “Father, Mother … I sinned against you. I am sorry. I want to be a true son, a true daughter to you for the years I have left.”

The vicar knew there were such comfortable prodigals in his church, because they existed everywhere. As the consequences of this unseen prodigality swirled through his mind, the question rose in the heart of Edward Drummond: Could he, in good conscience, deny them the opportunity of being challenged to “arise and go” because of the frail tenderness of his own suffering father’s heart? In the end, he had realized that the answer was no. He had to issue the challenge of Luke 15, whatever it might cost him personally.

And surely it
would
cost him. The image of father and repentant son was too personal, too close to his own breaking heart. Yes, it would
cost
him! But he could not shirk his duty. He could not shirk the truth. Thus he would not shirk the challenge.

With that decision came an even greater realization. He had to confront the reality of Luke 15 for
himself
. With his own son adrift in prodigality, did he, Edward Drummond … did
he
still believe in God’s goodness, in God’s infinite fatherhood, in the welcoming embrace of the Eternal Heart of Forgiveness?

He could only answer that question by confronting the Fatherhood of Luke 15 in all the anguish it might cause his own heart and in all the glory of its eternal resolution.

Truly no man nor woman can apprehend the full pathos of the prodigal story who has not stood as the waiting, praying, seeking, hurting, eager, long-suffering, grief-stricken, shattered yet patient parent of Luke 15—who has not stood on the road day after day, wept night after night, and gone out again morning after morning to stand on the road … waiting for the return of son or daughter.

Grannie

A
fter leaving church and passing Hollin Radnor on his way out of town, the three cousins from Westbrooke Manor made their way casually through Llanfryniog’s streets. A few others were out, mostly young boys with nothing on their minds other than that favorite pursuit of the weak-minded—seeing what amusement might chance their way now that they had been released from the prison of Sunday morning.

Still not having seen much of the town, Percy struck off the main street with Florilyn trailing after him. Courtenay followed as well since they were moving in a general direction that would take him where he was bound. Soon they were lost in a maze of twisting and turning lanes and streets.

Percy paused to stare down a side street where an oddly shaped purplish building caught his eye. Brother and sister continued sauntering along. They came to an open door through which they heard the
whirrrrrr
of a spinning wheel.

“Look, Florilyn,” said Courtenay. “The old witch is spinning.”

A girl walked out the door. When she saw who was standing in front of her, she turned and hurried back inside. But it was too late.

“Hey, th–th–there, funny-looking little Gw–Gw–Gwy–neth!” taunted Courtenay. “Visiting the old w–w–w–witch today?”

Florilyn laughed at what she supposed her brother’s wit.

Gwyneth turned and planted her feet firmly. “G–G–Grannie’s not a w–w–witch!” she said. “Y–y–you should be ashamed of yourself, M–M–Master C–C–Courtenay!”

“Did you hear th–th–that, Florilyn?” laughed Courtenay. “This little brat thinks I ought to be ashamed of myself! You know what I think?” he added, turning back toward Gwyneth and glaring down at her. “I think it’s
you
who’s the w–w–w–witch! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

By now Percy was approaching and saw who they were talking to. “Cut it out, Courtenay,” he said. “She meant no harm. Hello, Gwyneth,” he said, smiling down at her.

“She’s just the little village idiot—that’s what she is.”

“Leave her alone,” repeated Percy.

“What—is she a friend of yours now?”

“That’s right—she’s a friend of mine.”

“So that’s how it is! That explains everything,” laughed Courtenay. “I’m hardly surprised. And she
is
a witch. Didn’t you hear her stutter?”

“That doesn’t make anyone a witch.”

“Listen to the city boy!” Courtenay spat back. “Even if she’s not a witch, she’s a half-wit.” He touched his index finger to the side of his head and winked at his sister.

“I tell you there’s nothing wrong with her,” said Percy angrily. “That’s the trouble with cowards like you, Courtenay. You don’t know how to pick on someone your own size.”

“You’re calling me a coward?”

“For making fun of a girl half your size—that’s exactly what you are.”

The words were unwisely spoken. Seconds later Percy found himself on the ground groaning. A little more on his guard after the incident in the barn, this time he managed to sidestep the quick jab from his cousin’s hand. But Courtenay was not merely bigger than Percy, he was twice as cunning. Missing with his fist, he gave a lethal swipe with his foot. Percy’s legs went out from under him, and the next instant Courtenay’s booted foot landed two well-placed kicks into the side of his ribs.

Brother and sister continued on their way laughing at the two fools behind them.

Percy rolled over and tried to sit up in the dirt of the street, while Gwyneth ran inside the cottage. A moment later she stooped beside him, this time with no fistful of flowers but holding a moist cloth. She handed it to him. He took it with a smile of gratitude and wiped at his dust-covered face.

His two cousins were not yet out of sight. Glancing back and witnessing the tender scene, they could not keep themselves from the temptation to add insult to injury. They walked back toward the cottage.

“Percy, Percy, baby Percy!” chanted Courtenay. “Witch girl taking care of baby boy from the city!”

Florilyn was laughing so hard by now that she could scarcely contain herself. This was sweeter revenge than she had hoped for!

Suddenly a great shooing and scurrying interrupted the laughter and taunts. A woman by appearances ancient beyond years ran from the cottage with a torrent of shouts. In truth she was but eighty-one, old enough to be wise yet still robust enough to hold her own against the viscount’s troublesome brood. She held a great broom in her hand and came flying into the street like an old Celtic warrior from whose stock she had come. Heedless of their father’s status in the region, she whacked and swatted at the two young Westbrookes, whose character she knew well enough. “Get away from here, you two troublemakers!” she cried, landing a powerful blow with the blunt handle of her weapon on Courtenay’s head.

“Ouch … hey, you old witch!” he shouted, jumping back. “Stop it! I’ll send my father down here after you.”

“I’ll give him the same,” shot back the woman, “if he tries to harm a hair on another body’s head!”

Wham!
came another strike from the broom.

“Get on home! You two are no better than a couple of street urchins! Whatever happened to gentlemen and ladies?”

“Come on, Florilyn,” said Courtenay. Now that he had recovered himself, he found himself a little cowed by the rumors he had heard of the old woman. “Let’s leave Percy to the two witches.”

They ran off down the street, laughing again, though not quite so gaily. They were superstitious enough to be nervous about having a run-in on God’s day with one of the devil’s presumed workers of iniquity.

Gwyneth took Percy by the hand and tried to pull him to his feet.

“Goodness, goodness!” said the old woman, out of breath from the battle. “Come inside, the two of you. What you need, young man, is some strong hot tea.”

“Grannie, this is my friend, Mr. Drummond,” said Gwyneth as they entered the darkened cottage. “He’s from Glasgow.”

“Is he now! Well then, welcome to Grannie’s house, Mr. Drummond,” she said as Percy followed them inside. “You must have these violets I picked just this morning,” she added. She set down the weapon-broom and took a tiny clump of purple from a water dish on the table. “No stranger comes to my house without flowers to make a friend of him.”

Percy and Gwyneth glanced toward one another and smiled.

“Thank you,” said Percy. He took the tiny bouquet and lifted them to his nose as he sat down on the straight wood chair the woman pulled toward him. “Are you Gwyneth’s grandmother?”

“No, young man, I am Gwyneth’s great-great-aunt. Her father is the grandson of my husband’s brother. They’re all gone now to their home with the Lord, all except the lad, Gwyneth’s daddy.”

The old woman set about the tea making. At her side, Gwyneth assisted with the familiar routine.

“I hear rumors,” said Grannie as she worked, never embarrassed to speak her mind before either lord or peasant and especially before friend, “that in Glasgow you’re not much better than your two cousins.” As she spoke she glanced over her shoulder to where her guest sat holding the wet cloth to his face.

Percy was so shocked by the unexpected words that he did not answer at first. His only reply came in the form of the reddening of his cheeks.

“Sometimes the Lord must turn the tables on us,” she went on, “so that we see ourselves as we really are.” She glanced toward Percy again. This time she gazed deeply into his eyes. “No,” she added with a knowing nod, “you are not one of them. The difference is not hard to see. You’ve just been a mite confused about some things. But there’s the look in your eye of one who knows right from wrong. You are of the truth, I’m thinking.”

Grannie sat down and said nothing more. Gradually she seemed to drift away to some distant time in the past.

Gwyneth quietly finished the tea preparations. She handed a cup to Percy then laid the tray on a small table beside Grannie’s chair.

Percy remained thoughtful over Grannie’s words. He
did
know right from wrong. The woman was right. He had been no better than his cousins. He deserved more than just a kick in the ribs. He deserved to be in the gaol right now. He would be, too, if his father wasn’t a respected vicar.

Gwyneth had inherited Grannie’s straightforward tongue as well as the Celtic clarity of her vision. “What’s bothering you, Grannie?” she asked after a few more minutes. “Why are you so quiet?”

“Did you not hear about poor old Sean Drindod, dear?”

Gwyneth nodded. “Papa told me.”

“He and I were two of the few left from the old century, you know,” said Grannie. “When someone you’ve known all your life goes on to their next home, it makes a body thoughtful.”

Percy detected from her tone and the faraway expression that had come over her countenance that there was more behind the old woman’s mood than her brief explanation revealed.

A God to Call Father

B
y the time Sunday came to Glasgow, the vicar doubted he would survive the morning without tears.

“My friends,” his message had begun, “I would like to speak to you this morning about reconciliation. It is what the Bible calls
unity.”

He paused to allow the word to sink in. He was also trying to settle his own thoughts.

“I believe,” Drummond went on, “that unity is what God cares about more than anything in the world. Jews the world over remind themselves daily that God is one.

“It is a mighty truth—God is
one
. God’s nature is singleness, oneness … unity. For things to be one as God intends … for relationships within God’s creation to reflect their Creator, all discord, all separation, all disharmony … these must be brought together, made
one
. Everything in life, everything in the world, must be made one, because God is one.