A Bride for Donnigan (33 page)

“You’re a man who has lots of knowledge about lots of things. What can you tell me about an altar?”

“An altar?”

Donnigan nodded.

Lucas sat quietly thinking, seeming to be reaching for answers.

“Well, the Incas used them for their—”

“I’m not talking Incas here,” said Donnigan. “I’m talking the Lord’s altar, the one church folks use.”

Lucas was silent for a minute; then he confessed with no seeming shame, “I’ve never researched religion,” and Donnigan was disappointed again.

Donnigan went back to the Bible. He studied the altar in the Old Testament that had been built of shittim wood and overlaid with pure gold. Was that really the kind God demanded? If so, it was no wonder it hadn’t been left behind in the locked-up church, and if so, there wasn’t much chance of Donnigan getting one.

Donnigan shifted instead to the study of confession and acceptance.

He found a lot of verses. He began to put them together. As he studied they began to make a lot of sense. He reread many of the New Testament stories. The preaching of John, the calling of the twelve, the conversion of Paul—then the ministry of the disciples. As he read there seemed to be a new understanding coming to him.

Confession. Rebirth. That was what was really happening. Over and over—the people who were told of Christ and became His followers were being received through confession of their sin and acceptance of His forgiveness. And Donnigan didn’t find one verse where it talked about needing an altar in order to be “reborn.” He jotted notes quickly as he went from passage to passage. His fingers were trembling and his face pale. Was that it? Was that the answer he had searched so hard to find? The one that should have been so obvious from the beginning?

It was all there. There were no missing pieces. It all fit beautifully together. You bowed before a merciful God, confessed your sins, and begged His pardon. Then you accepted, with thanksgiving, His sacrifice on the cross on your behalf. He was the Lamb. The Lamb killed and offered up for every sinner. He washed away your sin stains with His own blood and made you clean so that you could present yourself as a living servant of God the Father. And you did not need an altar. God accepted you wherever you were. At whatever time you came with your confession.

God had accepted Saul in the middle of the dusty road to Damascus. The Philippian jailer in the dank, dark dungeon. The Ethiopian in the carriage under the hot sun of the desert.

“Kathleen. Kathleen,” Donnigan said excitedly. “I’ve found it. I’ve found it. It was here all the time. Look—right here. You don’t need an altar. There can be peace—real peace for all of us. All you need is here in this verse. Look! ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ ”

Donnigan looked up, his face flushed with excitement. “Now all we need is to find the prayers so that we can pray them,” he said.

They were getting closer.

Donnigan shared the verse with his family the next morning, the thrill of his new discovery edging his voice.

They looked at him, some eyes uncaring, some showing confusion, and others registering no response at all.

“What does it mean?” asked Fiona candidly. “What’s confess?”

“Well, you remember that we talked about Adam sinning—and then every one of us since that time finding it very easy to sin after that?”

Fiona nodded.

“Well—confessing is admitting that you have sinned. Here—here’s another verse. It talks about repenting. Repenting is feeling sorry about what you have done wrong and turning away from doing it anymore. So you admit to God that you have done wrong—and you feel sorry about doing it.”

“Like Eamon and the fire,” put in Timothy. “He told Mama he did it—and he was real sorry.”

Donnigan could not help but wonder if young Eamon would have been sorry if he had not burned his hands in the incident.

“God hates sin,” Donnigan went on to get the lesson back on track. “Sin spoils everything. He can’t allow sinful people to go to His heaven. The sin would spoil heaven, too.”

Donnigan intended to continue his explanation, but a quivering voice stopped him. It was the small Brenna who broke in. “Daddy.”

Donnigan turned to look at his child and was surprised to see that her eyes were filled with tears and her chin was trembling.

“I want to tell God sorry,” she sobbed.

For one long minute Donnigan seemed to hold his breath. He was about to say, “But we don’t know the prayer—yet.” Then he looked at Kathleen. He noticed that her eyes were misted, but she nodded her head. It seemed quite right to let the young Brenna tell God that she was sorry in her own childish way.

A short time later Brenna walked away with all traces of tears gone and a smile lighting her petite face.

“I told God sorry and now He’s not cross at me anymore,” she informed Fiona.

“But you have to be good now,” warned Fiona, “or He’ll get cross again.”

For one brief minute Brenna frowned and then her face brightened. “Daddy said that Jesus will help me to be good—and if I really do something wrong, then I’ll tell God sorry again.”

“Well—you can’t just
plan
on doing that, you know,” said Fiona matter-of-factly. “You have to really, really, really try to be good.”

Brenna shrugged her tiny shoulders. “I will,” she said with a toss of her head. “I don’t want to make God sad again.”

That seemed to settle it.

Donnigan went to his outside work and the children all went to play or to care for chores. Kathleen was left alone in her kitchen with the events of the morning filling her mind. At the thought of young Brenna, her eyes filled with tears. The child had really seemed to understand what she was doing. She had been so filled with sorrow as she cried out her plea for forgiveness. And she had been so filled with joy when she felt her little prayer had been answered.

Kathleen kept thinking about it as she kneaded the day’s batch of bread.

“That’s really what I need,” she told herself. “Perhaps it would take care of the heaviness of heart I’ve been feeling. I’ve been trying so hard to be good since we’ve been reading the Bible. I’ve been trying so hard to forgive—Madam—but I can’t. I guess it’s just like the Book says, our righteousness is as filthy rags, because we never quite are able to do what we try so hard to do.”

Tears were running down Kathleen’s cheeks at the troubling thoughts. At last she turned from the bread dough, wiped her hands on her apron, and made her way to the bedroom. She knelt down beside her bed and turned her face heavenward. “God,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks, “I’m like Brenna. I want to tell you I’m sorry. For all the wrong—all the—the sin in my life. Forgive me, Lord. Please forgive me—and make my heart clean like you have promised—through—through the blood of your Son, Jesus.”

There were a few moments of silence—followed by a softly whispered, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you.”

Kathleen could not have explained the deep feeling of peace that was stealing over her whole being.

Donnigan tossed another fork of hay into the manger for the milk cow. He was still shaken by Brenna’s simple prayer. Was that what Jesus had meant when He had spoken of becoming like a little child? Donnigan concluded that it well might be. Her faith had been so simple—so complete—her prayer so earnest from her childish heart—and she had walked away with a smile on her face and a lightness to her step.

“That’s what I’ve been wanting—longing for,” Donnigan told himself. “But I’ve been making the whole thing so difficult. Trying to sort it all out—make sure I was doing everything right. And it is as simple as that. Calling out to God—telling Him we’re sorry.”

Donnigan shook his head. His cheeks were wet with the wonder of the discovery.

“So what am I waiting for?” he suddenly said to Black. “Now that I know—why don’t I just—?”

And Donnigan tossed his fork into the pile of hay and fell on his knees in the bedding straw.

“Oh, God,” he began. “I come like Brenna. Thank you that you showed us the Way through a little child. We don’t need fancy prayers. Special words. We just need to come to you with honesty—and talk to you, Lord.

“Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me and give me your peace and cleansing. Help me to be the husband—the father—that I need to be. Help me to be a living sacrifice. Acceptable to you for the sake of Jesus—your Son—our Lamb. I love you, Lord. Help me to show it—through my life—through obedience.”

Donnigan waited in silence—his head bowed—his hands clasped in front of him.

A strange and gentle calm seemed to move into the crude farm structure and surround him. He couldn’t have explained why, but he knew that his prayer had been answered.