Not a Sparrow Falls (29 page)

****

Alasdair adjusted the desk lamp so that the light pooled onto the sermon notes he was making. He had been working hard, giving no occasion for criticism. He’d visited homes, listened to complaints, soothed the malcontents. And oh, how tired he was of it all.

He hated the whole underground, backstabbing, tittle-tattling business of church politics. It was the main reason he had never desired to enter the clergy to begin with. If all the job entailed was serving the Lord, teaching His Word, encouraging the saints, what a joy that would be. But reality was different.

If his leadership came to a vote, the decision would be close, he realized, and suddenly the professor’s little story came back to him. It was possible to win and lose at the same time. Perhaps he should put a stop to it all and allow the church to find the person they wanted to lead them.

Or become that person again yourself,
the still voice suggested.

Easier said than done, he dismissed, not wanting to enter that familiar morass of guilt and self-recrimination just now. He put his mind back on Bridie and checked his watch again.

She was a lovely young woman. Physically, of course, but inside as well. She confided she had never been to college, yet she was obviously intelligent. She was bright and funny, had deep insight, almost uncanny perception, and a huge endowment of common sense.

His family had been socially conscious. Too much so, he remembered, his mouth tasting sour at the memory of the tolerant condescension they had offered to others less appropriately connected. Bridie was refreshingly free of that, and even though she was a simple person and said she was from simple stock, her manners were impeccable. Love trumped etiquette, he realized, and love was something she had in abundance, even for the unlovely. He remembered how she
unfailingly treated Winifred with kindness. She would have even been kind to his mother.

He thought of her warmth, her tenderness, her generosity, her quiet strength, her faith, her silky hair, the way it tumbled down onto her shoulders, slipping and cascading in a shining platinum waterfall. The blue of her eyes, piercing and vivid, yet warm and engaging. Her heart exposed for all to see.

When he sat and talked with her, their voices twining together in murmured conversation, something in his chest, something that up until now had felt tight and held in, began to loosen and expand. He could almost feel it as a physical sensation of warmth and relief. “Aaah,” he wanted to say. “That’s better.”

Take care, his better sense counseled, and under the flat warning his greatest fear yawned—a sharp, bottomless crevasse of self-condemnation. He did not have what was necessary. When her soul opened to him in the most intimate of relationships, he would be lacking in some fundamental way. He would fail her.

He struggled against that dark current for some time before he came to himself again. He was not opening his heart and soul, he reproved himself with bracing firmness. He was having dessert and coffee. He checked his watch again. Ah. It was time. He set down his pen and headed down the stairs.

****

“I love butterscotch-chip cookies.”

Bridie smiled and watched him bite into his third one and take a sip of the tea. She’d made it hot, steaming, with a teaspoon of sugar and a tiny splash of cream. Just the way he liked it. She leaned her elbows on the red plaid tablecloth and watched the flame from the fat candle burn bright and steady.

“So,” he said. “I’ve been doing most of the talking again.”

“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I like hearing about your life.”

He nodded. “But don’t I deserve the same privilege? I’d like to hear about yours.”

“Mine’s not very interesting.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

She forced a smile.

“Here,” he suggested, “I’ll help you begin. Let’s see, we’ll start out simple. What’s your favorite color?”

She thought for a minute. “White.”

He tipped his head. “I’d have pegged you for a blue person. To match your eyes. Why white?”

She thought for a moment. “It’s pure and clean.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “It is. Favorite music?”

She thought about the music she listened to on the radio, but the answer came from someplace deeper. “Old hymns.”

“Really?”

“You think that’s odd?”

“No. Not at all. Just unusual for someone your age. Why do you like them?”

“The memories they carry.”

“Which one is your favorite?”

She didn’t just remember it. She could hear it again, in Grandma’s warbly soprano. “ ‘Rescue the Perishing,’ ” she said. “I don’t think it’s in your hymnal.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” he said, but he was probably only being polite. “Refresh my memory.”

“I only remember part of it.”

“That’s all right.”

She sang it softly.

“Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,

Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;

Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,

Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.”

“That’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

“My grandmother used to sing that song.” Bridie blinked
several times and was silent. She was there again, feeling that secure and steady way she’d always felt at Grandma’s, even after things had begun to go to pieces. Sometimes when Papa went on one of his benders, she would take her brother and sisters there. Grandma would feed the younger children, and when they’d eaten and were outside playing, she would have Bridie lie down. She would rest, listening to Grandma’s soft singing and the sound of her snapping beans.
Snap, snap, snap,
then
thunk
as they landed in the enamel bowl.
Snap, snap, snap, thunk. Snap, snap, snap, thunk.
In the background would be the whir of the fan, the far-off cawing of crows, the baying of a dog, the
shhhh-te-te-te, shhhh-te-te-te
of the pressure cooker. She could almost smell the dry, slightly musty fragrance of Grandma’s bedroom, the pungent cedar of her closet, the sweet sunny perfume of the sheet she would pull over Bridie’s bare legs, the aroma of apples and woodsmoke. She remembered her relief that, at least for a while, she didn’t have to worry. Someone was taking care of
her.
She gradually became aware of Alasdair’s eyes on her, watching silently.

“Where have you been?” he asked softly.

“Home,” she answered, her throat tightening.

He said nothing, just nodded slightly. “You never talk about your home. Not really.”

So he had noticed.

****

Alasdair said nothing. He put down his cup and waited for her to continue.

“I’m the black sheep of the family,” she finally said.

He kept his face impassive and resisted the urge to contradict her. He suspected she was being overly dramatic, but then again, who really knew another, no matter how many cozy conversations you shared? “And for that reason you feel alienated from them? You don’t feel free to return home?”

“I’m
not
free to return home,” she said with a wry smile. Something about what he’d said seemed to give her a certain ironic amusement.

“They’re not a forgiving people?”

“It has nothing to do with them,” she said. “I know I’m talking riddles. I’m sorry.”

He gave his head a small shake.

After a moment she spoke again. “I used to have faith,” she said abruptly. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Alasdair looked at her for a moment, and the longing was evident on her face. “Is it that you’re not sure of the promises any longer or just not sure they belong to you?”

He’d hit the mark. Her eyes filled with tears, just briefly, before she blinked them away.

“You’re not the only one who has disappointed God.” He remembered his torn confession to Professor Cuthbert after Anna’s death, of his failures, his deep, deep regret.

“What would you tell a person like me?” she asked, sniffing back her emotions.

“A person who’s left the fold, so to speak?”

She nodded, and again he caught the yearning look in her eyes.

“I would tell them that where sin abounds there does grace much more abound.” And it was odd, but as soon as he spoke them, the words beckoned him as well, like a lifeboat with room for them both. “The greater the loss and failure, the greater God’s redemption and grace.”

“Not for me. I’ve lost all that.” Her voice was flat, but behind it he heard fear and longing. They called out to him, and he answered them.

“You can’t lose it,” he said simply. “It’s impossible.” Where were these things coming from? He didn’t know he believed them himself, and again it seemed that everything he said was a message to both of them. “ ‘Where can I go from your Spirit?’ ” he quoted. “ ‘Where can I flee from your presence? If I make my bed in the depths of hell, you are there.’ ”

She was silent for a moment, and the eyes she finally turned toward him were hollow and haunted. “What if you’ve made your hell?”

He didn’t even pause but answered without hesitation. “Especially then.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” she said, barely breathing.

“I don’t need to.”

She was silent so long he spoke again. “But I’m not afraid to hear it.”

She was quiet for a long time, and he waited, patient, to see what she would decide.

“Maybe next time,” she said, rising to refill his teacup.

****

Bridie was completely drained by the time she arrived in Samantha’s room to read.

Samantha pounced. “What took you so long?” She had apparently been ready and waiting, pillow propped at the head of the bed, Bridie’s spot empty. She frowned, seeming to notice Bridie’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Allergies,” Bridie said, waving a hand and heading her off. “Let’s read.”

Samantha continued frowning.

“Unless you want to skip tonight?” Bridie asked hopefully. “My feelings won’t be hurt.”

“No, I want to read.” Samantha gave her one last curious look. “Close the door,” she ordered.

Bridie gave her a look, but she did it.

They’d been through several more scrapbooks, though it had taken them a while. More pictures and poems, clippings and lists, ticket stubs and lots and lots of pages in Anna’s beautiful script detailing everything that was praiseworthy about Alasdair MacPherson.

Bridie climbed onto the bed.

“Hurry up,” Samantha urged.

“Don’t get your knickers knotted,” Bridie answered back, taking her time arranging herself. “All right,” she finally said. “You may begin.”

Samantha moved the book so that it rested on both of their legs and opened the leather cover. No pictures greeted them this time, just several handwritten pages stapled onto the scrapbook.

We visited Father last weekend. He doesn’t care for Alasdair. I am disappointed, though I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Of course, he doesn’t admit it. He says his hesitation hasn’t anything to do with Alasdair but from his belief that I’m not ready for a serious relationship—blah, blah, blah.

We had barely returned from the visit before I received a long letter from him, full of cautions and pleading. He confided he is going to a new counselor, and this one has the key to all knowledge and insight. Of course, he wants me to see the man, too. He cited my ups and downs, which I felt was unfair of him. All women have these spells. I see no need to try to meddle with nature by going on expeditions into the past. No good will come from sifting through the dustbin of old memories. I’m happy now, and life moves on. Perhaps I’ll ask Alasdair what he thinks, but I’m sure he would agree.

The thought of Alasdair brings up many conflicting feelings.

Bridie paused in her reading. She knew that feeling, too.

I am so aware that our time together draws to a close. I try not to think about that, just to enjoy each day.

Maybe that’s what she should do. Give herself fully, enjoy the situation for as long as it lasted. A beam of hope sliced into her heart on that thought.

“Go on,” Samantha urged. Bridie turned her attention back to Anna’s journal.

Alasdair and I attended services together today, and the message was about leaving behind the past and pressing on to what lies ahead. Really, what are the chances? I took it as a confirmation of my decision to tell Father gently, but firmly, that I support his decision to go to yet another counselor but see no need for it myself. He’s troubled. I am not. I am happy now. More happy than I’ve ever been in my life.

This afternoon I toasted a muffin, spread it thick with butter and honey and just savored a bite. I let it lie on my tongue, rolled it around in my mouth. That is what my life is like now. Sweet and satisfying.

I read Ecclesiastes this evening. I love the verse that says God has made all things beautiful in His time. This is my time.

There were more ticket stubs and concert programs. Lots and lots of pictures of Alasdair and Anna on outings. More flowers.

“Boring.” Samantha flipped through the pages.

“Slow down,” Bridie said, turning the page back.

Samantha sighed. “She just goes on and on about the same stuff all the time. It’s like she thought everything Dad did was perfect.”

“Hush,” Bridie said and continued reading.

****

He has that fierce, single-minded devotion to God that I’ve longed for all my life. None of my own wavering. No, he is solid and dependable.

****

Samantha snorted. “My point exactly.”

“Mind your manners,” Bridie said without looking up. Samantha sighed.

I wonder if being around him will do me good? Perhaps some of his consistency will rub off onto me. I smile as I write this. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if people could be thrown into a pot and mixed together?

There were a few more pages of pictures.

As it turns out, I won’t have to think about his leaving. Ever. Alasdair has asked me to marry him! I am the happiest woman on earth. I called Father to tell him, and of course, he had to spoil it by asking me all sorts of questions, objecting that things have happened too suddenly. Why can’t he just be happy for me? Why must he ruin everything? I put him out of my mind and relish my joy. I am so grateful to God. It is true that He gives us just what we need.