The Soldier's Lady (28 page)

Katie paused as she passed my papa. “That's Weed Jenkins, Uncle Templeton,” she said softly. “He's Sheriff Jenkins' son . . . you know, from Oakwood.”

Papa nodded as he took in the information with a serious expression. He'd vaguely recognized the boy immediately but didn't know who he was. Then Katie and I continued on inside.

Micah came forward and stopped before Papa and Uncle Ward.

“What are you doing in our barn, young man?” asked my papa.

“None of your business, nigger-lover,” said Weed rudely.

A sharp pinch of Micah's grip on his shoulder muscle made him wince in pain.

“I want to know what you were doing.”

“I ain't gonna tell you nothin'! What are them niggers doin' inside a white man's house? You're all just a bunch of nigger-lovers.”

Another pinch, harder than the first caused Weed to cry out in pain.

“Hey you,” said Micah, “show a little more
respect for your elders, son!”

“I ain't got no respect for the likes of them!” spat Weed.

Micah glanced at the two men, silently asking what they wanted him to do.

“We could take him in to the sheriff,” suggested Uncle Ward, who hadn't heard Katie's words to my papa.

“Somehow I don't think that would do any good,” said Papa. He paused and rubbed his chin a minute, thinking.

“You might as well let him go, Micah,” he said. “He's not going to tell us anything.—You get out of here, son,” he said to Weed. “And if you have occasion to come back, you come to the door and knock. Don't go sneaking around like this. You hear me?”

He nodded to Micah, who released him. Weed swore at all three of them, gave Micah a look of hatred, then walked off down the road toward town and, after three or four minutes, disappeared from sight.

E
MMA
H
EARS A
V
OICE

26

W
e were all more guarded and cautious after that, reminded again of the ill will there was in the community against Rosewood. It seemed that in the last year people had reacted in two different ways. Some people were more friendly to us and seemed to respect us all for what we had done. But on the other side, there was growing resentment too.

But even after this incident, Emma wasn't thinking too much of the danger. She had been thinking the whole time about her conversation with Micah Duff.

Several days passed. How deeply all of Micah Duff's spiritual arguments had penetrated Emma's intellect was not nearly so important as the fact that the spirit of his convictions had penetrated her heart. And it was doing that more than she realized.

Something was slowly changing within her, though she did not know what. Still less did she know how to respond to it. She could not quite believe herself worthy of God's attention. The ancient wind that blows where it will was sending fresh new breezes of life through recently opened windows in Emma's heart and soul. They were windows that had been opened by the affirming kindness of these people around her. And now especially by the compassionate, gentle, ministering presence of Micah Duff.

But the new outlook was so stupendous, and so intermingled in her mind with the remarkable character of Micah Duff—like no black man she had ever imagined!—that Emma was distracted, confused, and hardly seemed to know what to do with herself. She said scarcely a word for two days.

On the third day she went out alone after breakfast. No one saw her for several hours. She walked through fields and into the woods and along the river. She had so rarely cried in her life, yet now the tears were flowing as if they had themselves become a river inside her.

All her life her own worthlessness had been the single consistency she had clung to, the one unchanging fact in a life without any other foundation or anchor. To have someone now tell her that the only thing she had known as
true
was really an
untruth,
and that she was
not
the person she had always thought . . . it had undone her at the very root of her being.

Yet we will often believe what another says of us more than we will believe it when left to ourselves. And Emma was now heroically, almost desperately, struggling to find some way to believe what Micah Duff had told her, and to
cast away the garment of inadequacy that clung so close to her. But it was a hard struggle. To believe good about ourselves is sometimes the hardest mental struggle in all of life.

She could not quite believe it yet. But that she was wrestling with her own worth as a person showed that the birth-struggle of the true child of God had begun in her.

Her voice was murmuring softly as she went. She was not praying exactly, but carrying on the ongoing debate and questioning, both with herself and with God, that had been going on for days.

I don't see how dere kin be dat good in me dat Mister Duff is talkin' bout. I's a sinner an' I sinned terrible wiff dat William McSimmons, an' I wuz too lame-brained jes' ter kick him away an' scream my head off. His papa wuz a good man an' he'd hab helped me. I sinned, all right, but I cudn't tell Mister Duff 'bout dat. What wud he think ob me ter know dat I slep' wiff such a no-good man! But God knows . . . a body can't hide nuthin' from Him, dat's fo sho'! He knows what I done, an' He knows what a fool an' dummy I's always been. Dere ain't nuthin' in me dat's any good, an' God must know dat better'n anybody. Miz Katie an' Mayme, dey's different . . . dey treat me good, anyway. An' dat Mister Duff an' Jeremiah, dey's as nice ter me as any man cud be. Dey's all real good ter me, but nobody kin fool God 'bout what's down inside, an' He—

Suddenly Emma heard a voice. She stopped and listened intently. Had someone followed her? Was someone spying on her?

Everything was still and quiet around her. She began to think she had imagined it.

Now the words of Micah Duff came back to her. She remembered what he had said—
God speaks to everyone, but not everyone hears His voice.

Would God ever speak to
her,
Emma wondered. Micah Duff was different. He was a fine man. He had seen a vision!

But God would never—

Suddenly the voice spoke again. A chill went through her as Emma's eyes opened wide at the astonishing words she had heard.

I love you, Emma.

“Dat be you speakin' ter me, Lawd?” she said aloud. “I don't know ef I heard you right, or ef I heard dat at all, or jes' made it up. Where is you, Lawd? Is you tryin' ter say somethin' ter me?”

Yet a third time came the voice—whether audible or inaudible, Emma never knew.

I love you, Emma,
the words gently whispered in her spirit.
You are precious in my sight. You are my child.

She could no longer keep back the flood of tears. They burst like a dam and Emma fell on her knees where she was, weeping at the very idea of what she now knew she had heard.

“How can you, Lawd?” she said through her tears. “Does you really . . . can you really love me, Jesus?”

A mighty
Yes!
flooded into Emma's heart.

She broke down and sobbed.

Several minutes went by. Gradually Emma began to calm and the flow stilled.

“I don't know why, or how you wud eber care 'bout one like me, God,” Emma said quietly. “But ef you does, den
I want ter be like Mister Duff says an' be yer daughter. Help me, Jesus, cuz I don't hardly even know what dat means. Ef everythin's different den I thought wiff you an' wiff me, den I reckon I oughter know it.”

When Emma walked into the house some time later, her eyes were aglow. We all knew immediately that something had happened.

She went straight to Micah Duff.

“Mister Duff,” she said, “I wants you ter tell me everythin' dat man Hawk tol' you 'bout God.”

Micah smiled and nodded. They went outside together a little while later and were gone most of the afternoon.

That night Emma came to see Katie and me in our room.

She had the most different look on her face. I recognized it from how Katie had changed too during our first year together. It was the change of deciding what was to be done rather than just taking things as they happened to come. Emma had always just gone along with what we said about everything. Now there was a look of determination on her face.

“I wants ter be baptized,” she said.

“Do you want me to talk to Reverend Hall?” asked Katie.

“I don't know, Miz Katie,” she said. “I doesn't know him too well.”

“What about Micah Duff?” I suggested. “I'm sure
he would baptize you, Emma.”

“Dat be right nice,” she said. “He be da one I want. He cud say some nice words an' a prayer. Dat's what I want.”

“Do you want me to ask him, Emma?” I said.

“Yes'm, I wud.”