The Braxtons of Miracle Springs (7 page)

While we all sat waiting for Pa to answer Christopher's question, a silence which must have only lasted two or three seconds, it was as if the time since the incidents involving Buck Krebbs had never happened. All the years with Pa being mayor of Miracle Springs, and then being an assemblyman in Sacramento, the years when I had been away in the East—it was as if they had all vanished and here we were again, suddenly facing a danger we hadn't even thought about in all that time.

Yet those years
had
passed.

Pa was over fifty. The rest of us were grown. Almeda's hair was half gray. I was now married. My new husband was sitting here sharing the moment with us. But now here we were facing Pa's past once more.

I knew that was the pain I saw in Pa's face as he sighed again. It wasn't fear for his own life so much as a deep sadness and regret that what he had done so long ago was once again placing the rest of us in danger—especially Zack. When he'd left Ma and us kids so long ago it had been to protect us from the danger following him from trying to help Uncle Nick straighten out his life.

“I don't know, Christopher,” he said at length. “Don't reckon there's much I
can
do . . . except pray, then wait to see what comes of it.”

Again the room fell silent.

“Then, let's
do
pray,” said Christopher after another minute or two, “and ask the Lord for his protection.”

Pa nodded his consent, then took another breath, bowed his head, and started to pray aloud without waiting for anybody else.

“Lord
, once again I come to you,”
he said,
“asking
you to take care of my family. Just when I
think all those days of my own foolishness are gone forever, back it seems to come again. I tell you
again, like I have so many times, how sorry I am for not paying more attention to you when I
was younger. And now that I've learned a little
about walking with you, show me what you want me to do.”

“Keep this new danger from us, Lord
Jesus,”
prayed Almeda.

“I pray for Pa and Zack
,”
I said.
“Keep them safe from this man Demming
or Harris or whatever his name is. Show them what
to do.”

A few other prayers went round the room. Then it fell silent. We were all feeling things we hadn't felt in years.

Then Pa started praying again. When he spoke, it showed just how much he had changed. The prayer that next came from his lips were not the words of an ordinary man.

“Lord,”
he said,
“I find myself thinking just now about the
words you spoke yourself about praying for our enemies. I
've always known you said that, but I don't reckon I ever thought much about it in a personal
way before. Hard as it seems to do such a
thing, I reckon it's time I found out if my faith in you means much and if I'm
willing to obey you in doing a hard thing I probably wouldn't do if left to myself. So right
now I'm gonna pray for Jesse Harris, if it's him that is the Demming feller. I used to
ride with him, but from the sound of it he's made himself my enemy now. I'm not really
sure how to pray for him, Lord. So I guess
I'll just say—touch his life somehow. Be God
to him, though he ain't much of a God-fearing man. Course I wouldn't have thought I'd
be a praying Christian man neither, and if you can get inside my skin and make me new from the
inside out, I reckon you can do it with anybody. Do some kind of good work in him beyond what
I even know how to pray for. Work your will
in his life. Do good for him, whatever that is
.”

Again we were all silent. I didn't know about the others, but I felt strange tingles all through me—spiritual tingles, not anything that I actually felt in my body. It was such a huge thing to pray for the good of someone who you knew was trying to kill you. I could hardly take in the thought.

“Do you mind if I share something?” Christopher asked.

Pa nodded, but Christopher knew he meant to go ahead.

“I was praying once,” Christopher said, “when I was in seminary, praying for an individual I was having a very difficult time loving—one of my professors, actually, whose manner grated on me. He didn't like me very much and didn't mind that I knew it. I knew I had to pray for him, though I didn't particularly relish the assignment. I was willing enough to pray, but out of duty, not because I really felt any compassion for the man in my heart. I suppose that is a better thing than not to pray at all, but it is still far from the best thing.

“In any event, as I was dutifully saying the words,
Lord I pray for so-and-so . . .
I sensed the Lord beginning to speak to me, telling me that my words were impersonal and detached. It was a good thing to pray for him, but I had not reached the level of Christlike prayer, the kind that is able to move mountains.”

“You actually heard the Lord talking to you?” asked Tad.

“I
felt
him saying something like this,” answered Christopher.
“You
are praying for me to do a work in this man's life. It is well you should pray this
, and such it is my desire to do. How willing
are you then, my son, to be the one
yourself
through whom I answer your prayer?”

Christopher was quiet a moment, allowing his words to sink in. We were quiet, too. It was such a new way of thinking about prayer.

“I realized,” he went on, “that suddenly my prayers couldn't be mere words anymore. If I was going to take the Lord seriously, everything about the way I prayed would have to change. Praying generally is one thing, but saying to the Lord that he could use me as his instrument of answering my very prayer—that was something entirely more personal. There was no telling what he might require of me if I was willing to pray
that
prayer.”

“Are you saying that it's wrong to pray if you don't pray in that way?” I asked.

“Oh no, certainly not. Any kind of prayer for another individual is a good thing that can open doors for the Holy Spirit to work,” replied Christopher. “But I believe there come certain times when God desires to explore deeper reaches of willingness within us. At such moments, the act of prayer becomes a more somber act of both sacrifice and possibility.”

“Did you pray it?” asked Becky.

Christopher smiled.

“Eventually,” he said. “But it was one of the most difficult prayers I ever prayed.”

“What happened?” asked Zack.

Christopher's smile deepened. I had come to know the expression that crossed his face and knew there was pain somewhere in the memory.

“It's a long story,” he sighed. “Let's just say that the Lord did answer my prayer, both sides of it, but certainly not in ways I would have anticipated.”

Again quietness fell.

Christopher had given us a lot to think about. I knew Pa took his words seriously. After a few minutes he got up and walked outside.

A few days after our return to Miracle Springs, Christopher and I went to pay a call on my childhood friend Jennie Shaw—Jennie Woodstock as she was now.

As soon as we rode up, we saw her husband, Tom, going out to one of his fields to work. I know he saw us, but for some reason he didn't acknowledge us. Jenny knew it, too, and felt awkward because of it when she answered the door and saw him walking away in the distance.

She invited us in and we tried to keep up a friendly conversation, but it was difficult because she was so nervous. We could see that something was amiss, and I even felt uncomfortable being so happy. Jennie had had a happy time, too, right after her own marriage, and the reminder of it, with us not that long back from our honeymoon, must have made our visit all the more a strain for her.

“Is something the matter, Jennie?” I finally asked. I couldn't stand pretending there wasn't.

Just the question brought tears to her eyes, and she looked away. She dabbed at her nose and eyes with her handkerchief.

“Oh, Corrie,” she said, “it's not good with Tom and me.”

“How, Jennie?” I said. “What's wrong?”

Jennie hesitated and glanced down into her lap.

“Why don't I wait outside?” said Christopher, starting to rise and thinking Jennie felt awkward in front of him.

“No, no—please, Mr. Braxton,” said Jennie, looking up at him. “It's all right if you stay. It's not you; it's just . . . it's so hard to talk about.”

“I understand,” replied Christopher. “But really, I'd be happy to leave you alone if you'd feel more comfortable just with Corrie.”

“No—no, I think I'd like you to stay. Corrie said you used to be a minister; maybe you can help. I . . . I just don't know what to do, and I've got no one to turn to.”

Again she looked away and started to cry. This time the tears began to flow in earnest.

“All right,” said Christopher, “I'll stay. But you must call me Christopher, or I'll feel like an old man here with you children!”

Jennie tried to smile politely through her tears, but it was a weak effort. She nodded at Christopher to show she appreciated what he'd said.

Christopher and I sat waiting. It was difficult resisting the urge to want to leave. I knew Jennie needed to talk—and
wanted
to talk. But I couldn't help feeling like we were intruding where we didn't belong. But I had been with Christopher enough by now to know that pastors—or
former
pastors like him—who had a heart of love for people sometimes probed a little to get people to open up about their problems. When somebody was hurting about anything, Christopher could sense it almost immediately, and he wanted to get right in and find out the cause of the hurt to see if there was some way he could help, even just by prayer. I could tell that his heart had gone out to Jennie the instant she had answered our knock on the door.

Finally I got up and sat beside her and gave her my handkerchief.

“I thought it would be so wonderful being married,” Jennie began after she had cried softly for a minute. “But it wasn't long before I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake.”

I placed my hand on hers, and she clutched at it tightly.

“Oh, Corrie!” exclaimed Jennie, “You don't know how many times in the last two years I've wished I'd had your good sense and not been so anxious to snag myself a husband. That was all I could think of back then. You remember when we used to talk before we were married? I'm embarrassed to say it, but I used to think you were silly for not being, you know, like other girls. You didn't talk about boys and marriage all the time. You had your writing and other things you were interested in. I used to think it was strange—but now I see you were just waiting for the right time and right man.”

Suddenly Jennie seemed to realize what she was doing. She stopped and looked over at me with an embarrassed expression.

“I probably shouldn't be saying all this. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to burden you down with my problems.”

“Oh, Jennie,” I said. “Your problems aren't burdensome to me in the least. You are my friend. I am interested and want to help.”

Christopher spoke up now for the first time.

“We don't want you to tell us any specifics right now, Jennie,” he said, “while the wounds are so fresh. It's best not to confide hurtful things about someone else when you are upset, when your perspective is clouded. It's been my experience that often people say things under such circumstances that they wish they could retrieve later.”

Jennie nodded.

“Corrie and I both want you to know that we will do whatever we can. It is enough right now that you have shared your hurt with us. We want to extend to you all that we can be as friends and listeners. We will pray for you. You can know that you are not alone in this. I would encourage you to pray as well. God will hear you. He loves both you and Tom and wants only the best for you.”

Christopher stood up.

“I think I'll mosey out to the field and see what Tom's up to. Maybe I can strike up a conversation.”

Jennie looked doubtful, but she didn't protest. She and I continued to talk quietly between ourselves, both of us sharing the adjustments we'd had to make to married life, while Christopher left the house.

Christopher walked outside, glanced around, spotted Tom in the distance, and headed over the uneven terrain toward him.

The two had, of course, met and had seen one another any number of times in the almost year and a half since Christopher had come to Miracle Springs, but there had never been any kind of camaraderie between them. Tom Woodstock was not a sensitive or a talkative man, and I doubted strongly whether he had any interest whatever in spiritual things. I don't know what I had to base that statement on except that I had never once seen him in church and that his personality was kind of sharp and rough.

I had never really understood what Jennie saw in Tom, but then sometimes girls can be attracted to young men for the strangest of reasons, often having nothing whatever to do with what kind of person these men are inside. I suppose that some girls deceive themselves into thinking a man is of worthy character in order to justify the emotions they feel for good looks or brawn or something else like that. I couldn't imagine any other reason why Jennie would have fallen in love with someone like Tom Woodstock. And maybe some girls figure they'll be able to tame a rough man—change him to be what they hope he'll be, all the while overlooking what he really is.

Tom was struggling to attach a long six-inch split rail to the top of two fence posts that stuck out of the ground from two holes he had dug for them. But the rail was heavy, and he was having difficulty keeping the loose end where he had perched it on top of the post while he tried to wire-wrap the other end long enough to steady it. Already it had fallen twice, and frustration was beginning to set in, aggravated by the knowledge that his wife was inside talking to her friend and her cheerful do-gooder of a husband—probably about
him
, if he knew Jennie!

As Christopher approached, Tom did not look up or greet him in any way.

Christopher, who had installed miles of fences in his time, saw immediately what the problem was as he drew closer. He broke into a run, reaching the loose end of the rail just as it was about to wobble to the edge of the post and crash down to the ground for a third time.

“Hey, Tom,” he cried, “looks like you could use a hand!”

He latched onto it and held it steady while Tom completed the temporary fastening of his end.

“Toss me the wire, and I'll tie this one down,” said Christopher.

Nonchalantly, and still without saying a word, Tom threw over the wound bale of wire, which landed with a thud at Christopher's feet. Still holding the end of the rail in place with his left hand, he stooped down, retrieved the bale, and in thirty seconds had tightly bound the rail to the post with several strong diagonal strands.

“Got some cutters?” he asked, relaxing his hold now long enough to roll up his two sleeves.

Two seconds later the tool landed at his feet. Christopher picked it up, snapped the wire in two, twisted the two ends to hold the rail in place, then faced Tom.

“What were you going to do, run a piece of doweling through the two posts?” Christopher asked.

“Yep, figured that's what I'd do,” answered Tom, speaking for the first time.

“Got your brace and auger bit out here?” asked Christopher. “If you'd like, I'll get started boring a hole in this end.”

“Yeah, right over here.”

Christopher walked over, Tom handed him the bit, and the next moment Christopher was circling his hand around and around on the handle while the bit chewed into the wood. In three or four minutes the tip of the bit protruded out the other end of the post and a little pile of the hole's former contents lay at Christopher's feet.

“There, that ought to do it,” he said, twisting the bit back out backward. “I'll go ahead and get the second hole drilled on your side if you want to pound in your dowel.”

Christopher and Tom traded ends, went about their respective jobs, and in another ten minutes the rail was solidly in place. Tom sawed off the excess dowel while Christopher unwrapped the wires that had held up the two ends temporarily. Then they stood back to admire the result.

“Thanks, Braxton,” said Tom. “That sure made an easier time of it.”

“How many more of those you got to do?”

“I don't know,” shrugged Tom. “About a dozen.”

“Could you use some help?”

“Naw. Me and Jennie's a little short right now, I couldn't afford to—”

“I wasn't asking you for a job, Tom,” laughed Christopher. “I was just asking if you could use some help—neighbor to neighbor. Believe me, I won't ask for a cent, and wouldn't take one if you offered it to me.”

Tom shrugged again.

Just then Christopher saw Jennie and me emerging from the house.

“Ah, looks like our wives are done with their visit,” he said, slowly moving in my direction. “You going to be working on the fence this afternoon?”

“I reckon so,” shrugged Tom.

“Let me ask it another way, then. If I were to show up here to help you, would you run me off?”

“No, I don't reckon I'd do that,” said Tom with a reluctant upturn of his lips into something that could have passed for a weak smile.

“Good,” said Christopher. “Then I'll be back in two or three hours and we'll finish up your fence.”

He ran back to the house, then jumped up into the buggy beside me. I could tell he was itching to tell me about it, which he did as we rode home.