Promise Me This (55 page)

I do not regret my desire to protect those I love. I did so with a pure heart. But I’ve sought forgiveness for believing that the salvation of my loved ones was up to me. And because I must, for my own sake, I’ve forgiven Aunt Eleanor for being only herself. Darkness was everything she knew. How I pity that. She died in her grasping and meanness. I pray God’s mercy upon her.

At last I understand what it means to lay my burden—my own unique burden of sadness, bitterness, loss, and lost opportunities—at the foot of the cross and to look up with hope. At last I understand what Owen tried so hard to tell me—that joy and freedom may only be found in the source of absolute love and truth—in Christ!

For the first time I have paused and am choosing where my feet will take me—a journey of free will without fear, guilt, or coercion. I do not know what of life lies ahead, only that it does. And I am happy in anticipation. Can I write that with any propriety? I think I may. By the time you receive this letter, I will be half an ocean away.

Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for loving me. I will write again soon.

All my love,

Annie

The crossing took seven full days. “A slow boat to China,” some called it, then added, laughing, “or New York.” Michael did not mind. He had a great many memories to sort through and new ones to process.

The first days at sea reminded him of his days with Owen.
All the ways he saved me—from starvation and the elements in Southampton, from my own stupidity aboard
Titanic
, from drowning when he forced me into a lifeboat.
Michael shook his head at the wonder of it all.
Owen saved me for a hope and a future when he forced my arms into his own coat, a coat too big and sewn full of dreams—dreams of a charge and purpose, an occupation, a family.

What was it he said?
Michael tried to remember, standing at the ship’s rail after two days at sea.
Ah, I remember. He said, “What are we without our dreams?”

Michael sighed.
I do not know, Owen. What are we . . . without our dreams?

That night Michael rummaged through the duffel he’d left with the Spragues before he sailed to France. He pulled Aunt Maggie’s Bible from the bottom, leaned his forehead against it, then thumbed absently through it.

What would you do, Owen, if it were you sitting here? Off to America with no Annie?

Michael sat a long time before he realized that was exactly what Owen had done. He had sailed to an unknown land and unknown family with all the plans and hopes and dreams in the world. He had planned to carve a life around helping and prospering those he loved. And he had planned to bring Annie to America only when it was safe—because all he really wanted for Annie was what was best for her.

Can I want that? Truly? Only what is best for Annie? What if leaving her in France—leaving her to this marriage—what if that is best for Annie, better than the life and love I could give her?

Michael nearly choked. He did not want to believe that anything in this world could be better for Annie.

Even Owen’s plans changed. In the blink of an eye he saved me, a gutter rat—a feeble friend he’d known only days. He gave away his dreams to a near stranger. He laid down his life for me, for Lucy Snape, and he secured a promise for Annie’s future—Annie’s best.

Michael shook his head and continued to flip through Aunt Maggie’s Bible.
Owen was a better man than I can ever be; of that I am certain.

Each time he flipped the pages, they seemed to slow in the same place. Michael thumbed again, carefully, and stopped when he found a slip of paper stuck close into the binding. It was Aunt Maggie’s handwriting, a short note that began with a Scripture citation: John 15:11-14.

Curious, Michael traced his finger down the column until he found the passage:

These things have I spoken unto you, that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full. This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever I command you.

Michael swallowed. It was exactly what Owen had done, laid down his life for his friends, though they did not deserve it. Michael turned the scrap of paper and saw that Aunt Maggie had written,
These four have done this for me: Sean, Daniel, Owen, Michael.

Michael sat until the light from his porthole faded. He could not believe Aunt Maggie had included him with those good men. He knew that each of them had done all the good they could, whenever they could, to whomever they could. Each had sacrificed and counted it only gain.

He knew from Daniel that Sean had loved Maggie with all his heart and Daniel as his brother. He knew that Sean Allen had tried his best to save his brother, Mackenzie, and his children from Eleanor Hargrave; he knew that Daniel had served Maggie and Sean all the days of his adult life and would love and serve Maggie till he died. Owen he knew best of all. Owen had taught him, by example, all he knew about love and kindness, about manliness and strength and sacrifice. No greater gift, no greater legacy could there be than his.

Michael read the passage again.
This is where they learned it. And so might I.

Such knowledge was not new to Michael, but it felt new. It felt like a thread, a towline, a possibility.

He slept peacefully through the night for the first time in longer than he could remember. The next morning he stood at the ship’s railing and watched the sun cast its pale-pink wash across the heavens, even before it rose from the sea.

“I do not know what my future holds, Sweet Jesus,” he prayed, “but I beg Your forgiveness for my sins and shames, and I trust You—with all the failures of my past, with the uncertainties of this day, and with all my days to come. Make of me what You will, and make me a blessing to those in my path.

“I trust to You my precious Annie, Sweet Jesus, and all that is best for her. I trust to You her heart, her husband’s heart, their love, and the children that will be born of that love.”

Michael did not wipe away the tears that fell, but there was no need. There were only he and God to see.

When the great ship sailed into New York’s harbor, Michael stood on deck. This time he carried no dread of customs or officials, no fear of being sent back. He knew he should be grateful to call this free land home. In time, he knew he would be again.

The hardest moment came when he stood in line and could not help but watch as men met their waiting wives and families with loving embraces, lingering kisses, small children running into the arms of their young parents. It was Michael’s lost dream in a picture, in a moment.

He turned away, breathed deeply, and checked the train schedules to Philadelphia. With less than an hour to go, he thought he’d best make his way to the station. Michael hefted his bag and duffel.

As he pushed through the gate, he caught sight of Aunt Maggie and Uncle Daniel scanning the crowds, two not-quite-elderly, anxious halves to a whole—dear faces, faces that he loved. He had not expected them to travel to New York but was pleased they had come.

Michael forced himself to smile for their sakes, pushing down the dry lump in his throat, a grating reminder that he would have no half to make him whole; there would be no one else for him.

They spotted him suddenly. Their faces lit and they waved, Aunt Maggie jumping up and down, wildly pumping her arm and calling something he could not hear, pointing to something he could not see.

The afternoon sun broke through the clouds, and Michael shielded his eyes to better see them. In the shade of his palm, he thought he saw flowers bobbing over Aunt Maggie’s head. He blinked and looked again.

From between the older couple stepped a slender young woman in a white summer dress, her golden hair twisted and swept high beneath a fetching, broad-brimmed hat and veil.

Michael’s heart began to pound.

The young woman lifted the simple white netting, found Michael’s eyes, and smiled, two dimples calling his name.

Running, stumbling toward her, Michael could not take his eyes from the face he loved for fear she would vanish. He raced up the platform, swept her high in his arms, and swung her round and round.

Annie laughed aloud just before she pulled his face to hers, just before she kissed him, her tear-filled eyes the color of the blue lobelia she carried, tucked into a bouquet of Owen’s white double roses and trailing English ivy.

Titanic
has long fascinated me—the ship, her builders, the romance of the era, but especially her passengers and staff and the family members left behind.

I’ve wondered about the individuals, the hopes and dreams cut short of those who drowned that fateful night. And those who lived—how did they go on living, knowing they’d been miraculously, magnanimously saved in lifeboats while hundreds died around them?

The first time I saw a copy of the ship’s manifest, I found details of a young man, Owen George Allum, a gardener who’d sailed third class from Southampton. Later, in a
Titanic
exhibit, I saw his name again and learned that he had drowned. A little research led me to his family, his intended destination, even the items found in his pockets once his body was recovered. And from that I wove a short story, “The Legacy of Owen Allen,” which eventually grew into the full-length manuscript
Promise Me This
.

Based on those beginnings, I fleshed out the fictional character of Owen Allen. It was easy to imagine that he would save others and charge them with the care of his loved ones while sacrificing his own life—for isn’t that what Jesus did for us? As I wrote, I fell in love with our Savior all over again and saw parallel after parallel between His gift and Owen’s story.

But Michael, the recipient of that unmerited act of grace, has his own story: the charge he accepts to care for Annie and for Owen’s family in America is our story—a picture of the charge that the Lord gives us to “love one another.” We’ve learned through His gift of love and saving grace that there is no greater gift to receive or give than this: “that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

The portion of the tale I did not fully see was Annie’s story—the sister left behind—until, after two weeks spent researching in England and France, I remember sitting on a bench before the tomb of John Bunyan in Bunhill Fields, London, journaling, very early on the last morning of my stay. I contemplated the relief on each side of his tomb, taken from his book
The Pilgrim’s Progress
—on one side, Christian, weary and bent, burdened by the load on his back; on the other, Christian, relieved of his burden and grasping the cross in joyous victory. In that moment Annie’s story poured into my mind. I couldn’t write fast enough, and I couldn’t keep the tears of joy and gratitude from raining down my cheeks.