A New Beginning (10 page)

Two days later, as if to temper the exuberance I felt at our not leaving Miracle Springs, the federal marshal came to pay a visit to Zack.

“I'm afraid I've got to take your prisoner, son,” he said.

“Where?” asked Zack.

“Down to Sacramento. He's going to have to stand trial down there. I know it's personal for you, and I understand how you feel, but it can't be helped.”

Zack nodded. “How . . . how, uh—bad is it, Marshal?”

“Well, there ain't no murder warrants on him, if that's what you mean—”

Zack breathed a sigh of relief at the marshal's words.

“—so he ain't likely to hang. Leastways there ain't nothing been found yet. But there's plenty else, from a long while back, up north in the state and in the Nevada territory. We're still waiting to hear from the East.”

“How much jail time you figure he'll face?”

“No way to tell, son. No way at all.”

After Zack told us about it at supper that same evening, all the happiness that had been around the place for the past two days seemed to evaporate all at once.

It was real silent around the table. We'd known this day was coming, and as fond as we'd grown of Jesse Harris, we knew he still had to pay for what he'd done in his past. It was one of those hard and sad things in life where there just didn't seem to be any resolution to a situation other than a painful one.

“When's he have to go, son?” asked Pa.

“Marshal's taking him tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Middle of the morning, I reckon. There's some paper work we gotta take care of.”

“Good,” Pa nodded, “that'll give us all time to go into town and say goodbye to Jesse.”

I knew every one of us around the table were thinking the same thing—that it might really be a
goodbye
.

Again it was silent.

“Well . . . God bless him,” said Christopher. “He's God's son now, and his future's in God's hands.”

The next day came. Like Pa'd said, we all went into town to see Jesse Harris off. Our whole family crowded into his jail cell. Zack had to stay outside after locking us in, but he joined in with the rest of us through the bars. We prayed with Mr. Harris one last time. We were all in there praying when the marshal walked into Zack's office, and he could hardly believe what he was seeing.

“I'm sure sorry you have to go away, Mr. Harris,” said Tad.

Mr. Harris looked him straight in the eye. “Not half as sorry as I am about how I spent my life, son,” he replied seriously. “Even though I feel like a different man, I ain't chafin' about having to make restitution for what I done. I know the good Lord's forgiven me, but the law still says I gotta pay.”

Then the marshal and Zack got Mr. Harris all ready to go, and of course they had to tie him up and everything. Then he and the marshal walked to the station.

All the rest of us followed along so that you would have thought some kind of local hero was leaving town rather than an outlaw. The marshal kept shaking his head and muttering that it was the strangest kind of thing he'd ever seen in his life. Mr. Harris promised to explain it to him on the train ride down to Sacramento. From what Zack had said about his conversations with the man Unger, I had no doubt it would be a very interesting talk.

They boarded the train, and we all waved goodbye as it pulled out, just like I'd imagined it would be with me and Christopher. Yet there we were standing on the platform with everyone else, waving to Mr. Harris instead.

Christopher and I walked slowly back into town hand in hand.

“Well, he's completely the Lord's now,” said Christopher after some time. “Now I feel able to look to the future—even more than last weekend when the church voted.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh, I don't know exactly . . . almost like the continued uncertainty about Jesse's future kept a certain doubt or anxiety in the air. Maybe it's only that I knew it was weighing on Zack.”

“You really think it was?”

Christopher nodded. “He didn't say much about it, but I know he was concerned. I'm sure he probably still is, but at least any decision about it is out of his hands. Maybe now that he can get on with his future, I can get on with mine too.”

“Are you excited?” I asked.

“Oh yes! Just imagine, Corrie—I'm a pastor again! Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can,” I laughed. “What are you going to do?”

“You mean . . . ?”

“I mean first . . . right now. What's the
first
thing you are going to do as pastor of Miracle Springs?”

Christopher thought a moment or two.

“Well, we were so busy yesterday unpacking and celebrating and talking,” he said, “—now that you bring it up, I realize that there's one important
first
thing we've neglected to do as we make this new beginning in our lives.”

“What?” I asked.

“Come with me. I want you to do it with me.”

Christopher led me straight to the church on the other side of town.

We didn't talk anymore as we walked along, first down the street that led through the middle of town and then along past several rows of houses. We walked slowly, still holding hands, nodding to whoever we met. But Christopher was subdued, and I knew he was praying for the town and its people. So was I.

After leaving the main part of town and walking across an open field, we reached the church. We stopped fifty or so feet from it. Christopher gazed up at the simple white building and steeple, seeing it, I think, with different eyes than before. This was
his
church now, something he had never anticipated. And the reason for it was still a fresh pain for us both, because Rev. Rutledge had only been dead a week.

I suppose it was
my
church now too!

Goodness—I was a
minister's wife
 . . . something I had never anticipated either! If only Ma could see me now—married and wife of a pastor.

My husband even said I was pretty—that was something
Ma
never anticipated!

I smiled at the memory.
Well
, I thought,
I guess she can see me. I sure wish I knew what she thinks
!

Christopher started walking again and led me the rest of the way up the steps and inside.

It was a warm day, yet the chill from the previous night still lingered inside the building. It was quiet and still, such a different feeling than when everyone was present on Sunday. I suppose it was like any other quiet empty building, yet there was something different about it too. It felt reverent and holy, like God really was there. I know he is everywhere all the time, and no more in a church than in a barn or someone's house or out in the open country. Of course, he's in people's hearts most of all. Yet still, there was a special kind of sense of his presence in this little church building as we walked inside.

The Miracle Springs church contained so many memories for me—Pa and Rev. Rutledge helping to build it, Uncle Nick and Pa's weddings (and mine!), and so many wonderful times through the years. I almost felt as if I could hear faint echoes of Avery Rutledge's voice. Little snatches of sermons he had preached through the years came back to me—so much that had helped me grow and mature as a Christian. I thought of him and Harriet and how as a couple too they had helped me, of how many times I had been in their home, talking and praying with them, asking them questions.

There truly was something wonderfully full when a man and woman ministered together as the Rutledges had. And now suddenly it dawned on me—Christopher and I would be in that position in this community from now on. We would be the Rutledges!

People would look to
us
for help and counsel. Maybe even young women would come to talk to
me
, as I had the Rutledges, asking me their questions about life and God and growing up and what God might want for their lives.

The thought was overwhelming at first. In many ways I still felt so young. When I stopped to think about it, I didn't really feel so much different than I had at fifteen, or twenty-one, or twenty-seven. Yet I was different. I suppose in the eyes of those much younger than myself, like little Ruth, I was a grown woman. I had always thought of myself as just a girl. Being married had changed that perception quite a bit in my own eyes, but this would, in some ways, be an even greater change. Now the whole community would be looking up to Christopher and me. Even if we didn't necessarily feel worthy of it, how could they help it?

Christopher Braxton was the
pastor
of Miracle Springs, and Corrie Hollister Braxton was his wife!

We sat down in the front row of seats, and then, as if he had been reading my mind, Christopher spoke.

“It is really a humbling thing,” he said, “when people place so much trust in you that they say they want you to be their spiritual leader.”

I nodded. I knew exactly what he was feeling.

“I am excited about the prospects for the future, yet . . . there is always that frightening aspect of it too—what if you let people down?”

“You won't,” I said.

“I did in the only other church I pastored.”

“That was different.”

“Perhaps, but I still can't help the worry of it crossing my mind.”

We were both quiet several minutes as we sat in the stillness thinking about the change that was coming to our lives.

“I wanted to come here to pray,” said Christopher at length. “Will you pray with me?”

“Of course.”

“I always said to myself that if the Lord ever blessed me with the opportunity to minister in this way again, the first thing I would do would be to commit that ministry, the church, and all the people involved to him in prayer. I forgot about it yesterday, and then just this morning remembered.”

“You've been praying all along,” I said.

“Yes, but I mean placing it specifically into his hands—saying that all this ministry is
his
, not mine.”

“I see,” I said.

Again we were quiet, and then we closed our eyes. Again, Christopher took my hand.

“Oh, God our
Father,”
he prayed softly after about a minute,
“we
are both so deeply thankful for this opportunity you have given us. We grieve at the loss of our dear
brother Avery and for his dear family. Yet we know
he is with you—happy, smiling, radiant, and full of
life. May we be worthy and able to carry on
the work he began and performed so faithfully.”

Christopher paused and breathed in deeply.

“We are humbled, yet excited
,”
he prayed again.
“And we pray that you would
keep us humble, and keep us excited. Let us be
enthusiastic about your work among your people, and never think that it is our work, or that lives are changed
by our efforts. But we do ask you, dear Father
, to change lives—not by our efforts or through our
ministry, but by your Spirit which is alive and at work wherever men and women live. And if it pleases
you to involve us in that life-changing process, then
even more deeply will we rejoice at your goodness to us. We do thank you, Lord, that we are yours
, and that you have changed our lives. We want nothing
so much in all the world as to proclaim that good news throughout the land that you love your children
, that you are a good Father to them, and that they may trust you. Oh, Father, make those truths known
to the sons and daughters of your making!”

I squeezed Christopher's hand as he paused again. My heart was full of the same prayer, though I could find no words to say beyond what he had already prayed.

“And now, Lord,”
he continued,
“we do give ourselves
and the future of our ministry here into your hands. We commit this church, its people, its families, all those
who will come here in future years, and especially ourselves—we commit all to you. We ask, Father, that you
accomplish your purposes for this church and its people. May
we bring nothing of our own to bear upon what we do here, but only what you would have us
do.”

Christopher stopped again, and now I prayed.

“We
ask for you to specially touch every single person, whether man or woman or boy or girl,”
I said,
“who comes into this church. Touch them, Lord, not by
what Christopher or I may say or do, but because you are here.”

“And may your Spirit be here
always, God,”
said Christopher.
“May people feel your presence
just by being here.”

“And I pray, too, Lord
, for our home,”
I said.
“May our home, wherever
it is, whether our bunkhouse or somewhere else someday—may
our home be what the Rutledges has always been for me—a place of warmth and welcome and open-hearted
hospitality. Bring people to us, Lord, that we can help
in some way. Let where we live be like the
church itself, and I ask that the community will know that Christopher and I love each one of them and
that they can come to us any time.”

“You don't know how much it means to me to hear you say that,” said Christopher, and it took me a moment to realize that he was speaking to me, no longer praying. “Something about this feels so different than before, back in Richmond. As I said, you just can't imagine how it warms my heart to know that you want to share this ministry with me, that you care about the same things I do, that you want to be involved in people's lives in the same way I do.”

“Isn't that what being married is all about?” I said.

Christopher smiled. “I suppose,” he replied, “but that makes me no less thankful for you.”