The Winds of Autumn (24 page)
Later, Camellia and I tried to talk about books just like we had always done. It was hard for me. I had so many things churning around inside of me. On the one hand were all my doubts. On the other hand were the Bible truths I had learned from the time I was a child. I couldn’t really swallow evolution and the supposed facts that it presented. It was like Willie said. It was just too unbelievable.
No, try as I might, I could not believe that things just happened. I did believe in God.
There has to be a God,
I concluded. I guess I had never really doubted that, not even for a minute. What really had been troubling me was how God related to folks as individuals.
Was it true what we had learned in church? Was it true that God knew the best for each life, that He cared for those who followed His way? I had thought He had let Aunt Lou down. But Aunt Lou said that He hadn’t. She said that she had never felt God’s love as strongly about her. That was rather peculiar. To be going through such pain and yet feeling God’s love the most.
And then there was this thing about Jack Berry. I hadn’t shaken Willie’s words. He said that whether Jack deserved forgiveness or not, I did, and the only way I could find that forgiveness, for my hate and my bitterness and my desire to get even, was to ask God to forgive me.
Boy, it had me all mixed up.
I stole a glance at Camellia. I had never really faced it before, but she was my other problem. I knew Camellia and her pa had their hearts set on a smart young man who could make lots of money and buy her lots of nice things. I knew Mr. Foggelson thought that a fella who believed the things that the Bible said couldn’t be all that smart, and therefore he likely wouldn’t make much money and so he’d never make his daughter happy.
I thought Camellia was pretty special. I knew that my faith in God and my choice of a friend weren’t very compatible. Not that I was thinking on getting married or anything. I mean, I wasn’t even sixteen yet—neither was Camellia, but well—she was really pretty and . . .
If I told Camellia that I believed what the Bible said was true, she’d tell me not to bother coming back, I was just sure of it.
Then another idea came to me. I’d pray. I’d pray that Camellia and her ma and pa would change their thinking. That they would start to go to church and believe the things the Bible taught. Then Camellia and I could still go on seeing each other.
Even as I got excited about the thought, I knew it was wrong. Sure, I should pray for Camellia. And for her folks, too. But not so I could go on seeing her. That was the wrong kind of an attitude. I should pray for her because I cared about her, and because I cared about her ma and her pa, too. They needed to turn to the Lord. They needed to recognize that things didn’t just accidentally fall into being, that there is a Creator. Things didn’t just evolve. And because God really was God, He had the right to ask His creation to walk in His ways.
Wasn’t there some way I could hang on to God, my anger and Camellia, too? Did a person have to turn over
everything
— every part of life when he asked God to direct his ways? Wasn’t there some way I could still choose some areas where I could still be in control?
And then I started thinking on Gramps’ words. Gramps seemed pretty sure that wanting to take things in your own hands was fighting against God. And Gramps felt pretty strongly that doing so was not only stupid and wasteful, but sinful and disastrous.
The whole thing had my head spinning.
But I couldn’t chat with Camellia about her pa’s books and be working that all out, too, so I tried to push all the conflicting thoughts from my mind.
“Do you or don’t you, Joshua?” Camellia was asking.
“Huh? I mean, pardon? I guess I was thinkin’—”
“About something else. I know. I just hope it wasn’t another girl,” teased Camellia.
“ ’Course not,” I said, blushing to the roots of my hair.
“I wanted to know if you’d like to come with us for a picnic on Sunday. We are going to the lake.”
“Oh!” I answered. “Oh, no, I can’t. It’s church.”
Camellia looked hurt.
“Can’t you skip church for just one Sunday?” she pouted. “You go to your old church all the time. ‘I can’t come over on Wednesday, Camellia. I have to go to meeting. I can’t see you on Sunday, I have to go to church,’ ” she mocked. “I’m beginning to think—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted.
“Then you’ll come?”
I looked at her steadily. I think I realized at that moment that Camellia would never understand me—not really.
“No,” I said firmly. “No, I can’t come. I’m going to church.”
Her temper flared. “Well, if your old church is more important to you than I am, then you—”
“I’m sorry,” I said rather sadly. “I’m sorry, but I guess it is.”
I thought Camellia would strike out angrily. But she didn’t. In fact, she changed her approach completely, even giving me a smile.
“I’m sorry, Joshua,” she said almost sweetly. “Let’s not fight. If it is that important to you, then, by all means, go ahead. I’ll tell you all about the picnic when you come over next week.”
I reached for my cap and fumbled it around and around in my hands. It seemed a long time until I was brave enough to say it, but I finally managed.
“I’m sorry, Camellia,” I said in a low voice. “I—I won’t be comin’ next week.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice sounded angry and almost frightened.
“I won’t be comin’ back. I shouldn’t be here now. I—I can’t agree with your pa’s books about evolution an’ all those other things. I can’t agree that bein’ smart is the greatest thing in the world either. I don’t think that makin’ lots of money is the only way to live. I—I think different from you. I—I believe that church is important. I believe that God is important. I know I haven’t been livin’ like it but—but—”
I fumbled with my cap some more.
“Right now I’m all mixed up. I’ve been tryin’ to hang on to God and live for Josh Jones, too. It doesn’t work so good.” I looked down at my cap. It was a while before I could go on. “I’ve got a lot of things all mixed up. I need some thinkin’ time,” I finished lamely. Then I made myself move quickly to the door before I could change my mind or Camellia could protest. I was anxious to get back to the freedom of the farm and the busyness of the harvest fields and the familiar chores.
“Bye, Camellia,” I stammered and I almost ran from the room, anxious to get away, somehow thinking I could escape also from all of the conflicting thoughts that were tearing away on the inside of me.
I
AWAKENED EARLIER THAN USUAL
the next morning— not by my choice. I had slept poorly the night before, still wrestling with some of my conflicts. I knew that my life really belonged to God. I knew that I would most likely be happier, be at peace inside, if I let go of all my self-will and let Him direct me. But for some strange reason I just didn’t want to do that.
So I was still needing more sleep when a commotion in the big farmhouse awakened me. It took me a few minutes before I could get myself awake enough to sort out the noises. It was Grandpa.
“Charlie!” he called. “Charlie—get down here quick!”
I heard Uncle Charlie as he hit the wooden floor in his bedroom and hurried to the steps. It sounded, by the strange thumping noises, like he was trying to get into his trousers and run at the same time.
“What is it?” he called back to Grandpa from the head of the stairs.
“It’s Pa,” said Grandpa.
The words sent a chill all through me. “Pa” to Grandpa was “Gramps” to me, and I didn’t like the way Grandpa had said the word—his voice tight with emotion.
I was out of bed in a flash, and I never even stopped to pull on my pants, just grabbed them and somehow worked them on as I ran.
Uncle Charlie and Grandpa were already in Gramps’ room. I came running up behind them and tried to push my way between them. Grandpa put out a hand to stop me, but I put my weight against it and forced my way by.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with Gramps? He sick or—?”
I stopped abruptly. Gramps lay still on his bed, his eyes closed, a faint hint of a smile on his relaxed face. There was no gentle lifting and falling of his chest with his breathing. All was quiet. Too quiet. Grandpa moved close behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Yer Gramps is gone, Boy,” he said, and his voice trembled.
“No!” I shouted. “No!” and I brushed away Grandpa’s restraining hand that was meant to comfort me and dashed from the room.
I don’t know how I got to the fishing hole. I don’t know how long I lay there on the cold damp grass. I only know that when I had finally cried myself all out, that’s where I was.
I didn’t even try to get up. The grass was dew-wet and the morning foggy and cold. Suddenly a shiver made me realize just how cold I was. Laying right beside me was my choring jacket and my flannel shirt. Someone had visited me—and I hadn’t even noticed.
I crawled awkwardly into my clothes, shivering as I did so. My body was damp from the wet grass, and the flannel felt good on my back.
I tried hard to pull myself together, but it was tough.
I walked down to the crik and bent low to splash cold water on my puffy face. Just as I bent over the cool water, a dark shadow approached, then just as quickly disappeared beneath some low branches hanging from the willows at the crik’s edge. It was that big northern again—the one Gramps and I had seen on our last fishing trip together.
The sight was too much for me. I lowered my body to the sandy bank and let my mind drift back. The sobs overtook me again. It had been fun to fish with Gramps. He was great company. I would miss him. Boy, would I miss him! He had talked to me man to man. Just like we were equals.
My mind filled with some of those things Gramps had shared. He had said that he was lonesome. That he wanted to go home to heaven. That it was hard for him to be patient, knowing that Great-grandma was waiting for him there and all.
He had said something else, too. He said, “I don’t want anyone grieving long for me.” Strange he should say that—just a few short days before he went home, too.
I sorted through my memories to try to remember all of Gramps’ words. He had talked quite a lot about death that day. I hadn’t paid much mind to some of what he had said at the time. I didn’t like thinking about death.
But he had talked about more than death. He had talked about life, too. About how to live it. That I was to be sure to let God have complete control of every part of my life. That I was to be ready to die, whenever that time would come.
That meant I couldn’t hang on to bitterness or anger, no matter how much I had a right to be mad. I guess I couldn’t hang on to my future either and make my own plans about what I wanted to do. It meant that I couldn’t blame God for things happening when they did or how they did—especially when it all turned out right and good anyway.
Either God was God—or He wasn’t. There was no moving Him in and out of my life with the mood I happened to be in.
All sorts of things started to fall into place for me. I saw some things clearer than I ever had before. I think I saw Gramps— his life and what he had tried to teach me—more clearly, too. I understood what he was trying to say to me about him being there waiting for me, and how I was to join him “triumphant” because I had been obedient to God, and not with my head hanging in shame.
As I thought of all of these things, I just lay there on that cold ground sobbing my heart out. Only this time I wasn’t grieving for Gramps. I was grieving for me. I sure had messed things up. I had filled myself so full of anger and bitterness and pain and doubts, and then I had turned right around and pointed my finger at God as though He was to blame for it all. I knew better. Deep down I knew better. How could a God who loved me enough to die for me turn around and be spiteful and mean?
I cried it all out to God, asking Him to forgive me and to take away all of the bad feelings I had inside. I told Him I was done making my own plans. I didn’t know if He wanted me to be a preacher like Uncle Nat, but that didn’t matter. What
did
matter was that I was
willing
to be one—if that’s what God wanted me to be. If He wanted me to be a farmer, I’d be that. Or if He wanted me to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or even a teacher, I would try to be the best one I could possibly be.
And then I prayed—sincerely—for Camellia and her ma and pa. I prayed that God would help them to understand how much He loved them and how sad He was that they couldn’t believe in Him. I prayed for Mrs. Foggelson in another way—that she might have the courage to come back to her faith.
I even prayed for Jack Berry. Not because I
should
, but because I really wanted to. All of a sudden, I felt so sorry for Jack. He had hated school, but his pa had insisted he be a doctor. He had even been gypped out of the camping trip, and he had wanted to go as much as any one of us. He had liked Camellia, but that hadn’t worked for him either. He had wanted to do great things and prove himself important, and here he was, alone, in some musty jail somewhere, no one able to visit him or even caring much that he was there. I really felt sorry for Jack Berry.
I can at least write to him,
I decided. Maybe if he knew I wasn’t out to get him, we could be friends again. And maybe he’d believe me when I told him about God’s love.
And then I prayed for my family. The sad news would need to be taken to Aunt Lou, and I knew how much she had loved Gramps. Uncle Nat would need to conduct the funeral service, and that would be awfully hard for him. He had loved Gramps, too.
And Uncle Charlie and my grandpa—they would hurt something awful. We had all grown to need Gramps among us. He had been a strength, a source of laughter. We sure were going to miss him.
I got up and washed my face again. The shadow moved. I spoke out loud.
“It’s all right. You’re safe, ol’ northern. I’m gonna leave you there. For Gramps. He shoulda caught you. You know how excited he woulda been to have landed you? He’d a shouted all the way back to the house.”