A New Beginning (20 page)

Almeda turned fifty that summer. Pa was now fifty-three. I know the passage of years can't help but bring changes, yet when you're young you don't stop to think about things with quite the same perspective as you do when you get older. So I think it came as a surprise to us “younger adults” one evening when Pa and Almeda asked us to all have supper together because they had something they wanted to talk to us about.

“Almeda and I aren't getting any younger,” began Pa, and I could tell from his expression that something serious was on his mind. “And we've been thinking and talking and praying about the future and about some changes we maybe ought to make.”

We all glanced around at each other, wondering what he might be talking about.

“The long and the short of it,” Pa went on, “is that we've been talking about selling the freight company.”

He stopped to let his words sink in. I don't know what anyone else thought. But the Mine and Freight—now officially the Hollister Supply Company—had been such a part of our lives since the very day my brothers and sisters and I had first set foot in Miracle Springs that I could hardly imagine our lives going on without it.

“The business continues to grow,” now added Almeda, “and we are simply beginning to feel that it is too much for us. It seems as though the business needs new, young, fresh energy. Mr. Parrish and I had that kind of enthusiasm when we first began back during the gold rush. But times have changed. The demands on the business are different now. We've done our best to change with them, and yet at the same time we're not at the stage of life when we have the energy or vision to begin all over again in new directions.”

“What new directions?” asked Tad.

“Nothing particular, son,” replied Pa. “We've just got the feeling that new times are coming. Why, the railroad's going to link the country within a year. That's bound to change a lot of things. More folks'll be coming west. More lines are getting built right here in California. A business like ours that has to do with transporting things is bound to change by all that modernizing.”

“We want to see the business continue to thrive,” said Almeda, “but we're wondering if it might be able to do so better in someone
else's
hands. You know—young, fresh, enthusiastic blood.”

“But you
are
the freight company,” I protested.

“Yes, dear,” admitted Almeda, “I have been. But perhaps that season is drawing to a close, as sad as it makes me to say it.”

It fell silent around the table.

“'Course any of you'd have first crack at the business and would be our first choice to carry on with it,” said Pa after a minute. “That's why we're talking it over like this, to ask you all what you think, and to see if any of you'd ever thought of taking a more permanent interest in things.”

Again it was quiet a moment.

“What would
you
do, Pa?” asked Zack.

“Maybe become your deputy!”

“No you won't, Drummond Hollister!” exclaimed Almeda. “If we're talking about being too old to keep running the freight company, then . . . well, I won't finish what I was going to say!”

Pa laughed. “I don't know, son,” he said to Zack. “There's plenty around here to keep me busy. Maybe I'll do what most men my age do and raise a few cattle and horses to sell. We're all right for money, especially if we sell the business. I'll keep as busy as I want to with the mine—there's still some gold there.”

“What about politics again, Pa?” I asked.

“Not for me, Corrie. Even with the train coming through here, I've got no intention of running back and forth to Sacramento again. The one thing I aim to do is enjoy my later years with my family. I'm staying put right here in Miracle Springs!”

“We had thought at one time about you and Corrie taking over the business,” said Almeda, now turning toward Christopher. “But of course now that would seem out of the question.”

“Why?” I asked. “If we're not going to take money from the church, then we have to support ourselves somehow. Besides, I know more about the freight company than anyone but you—well, maybe you or Mr. Ashton.”

“The question is, Corrie,” replied Almeda, “—do you really
want
to run a business yourself?”

“There's more to it than meets the eye,” said Pa. “Even as close to it as you have been, you don't realize a tenth the burden it's been for Almeda all these years. You just don't feel it till you're standing in those shoes yourself.”

“Your father's right, Corrie,” said Almeda. “I have no doubt you and Christopher could do a most capable job of it. But is it what the Lord wants for you? A business can be a huge emotional burden, just like a church.”

“I imagine there are more similarities between the two than most people realize,” said Christopher, “and they take their toll.”

“There are always pressing financial problems,” Pa put in, “situations with employees, disgruntled customers, orders that are late, competition, and a thousand complexities. I can't tell you how many times Almeda's come home plumb worn out from them.”

“It is exciting and challenging if that is what you make the focus of your whole life. I have loved being in business all these years,” said Almeda. “But your father is right, there are burdens it brings. And when you have other responsibilities—as the two of you now do with the church and all its needs—then it becomes very difficult to have enough of you to go around.”

“I see,” nodded Christopher. “These are all things we must seriously consider.”

“The years, for example, when your father was in the legislature,” added Almeda, “—those were difficult years for us to keep up the energy necessary in the business, along with all the demands of his political role.”

“Not to mention the fact,” laughed Christopher, “that I know nothing about business.”

“Neither did I, son,” added Pa. “But these women of ours are mighty capable. I have no doubt Corrie could run the business just as good as Almeda did—
if
that's what was the right thing.”

“And that's really the point, isn't it,” said Christopher, “—what is the
right
thing? What does God want? Corrie and I will pray earnestly about it,” he said, turning first to Pa, then to Almeda.

I nodded my agreement.

“And, of course, we've thought of the rest of you too,” Pa said now to the others. “Zack, you're pretty tied up with what you're doing. Tad, I don't know what you're planning on doing, but—”

“I'm going to sea, Pa.”

Pa laughed. “I know I've heard you talk about sailing from time to time, and I see you reading them books about ships—you really serious, son?”

“You bet I am, Pa. I'm gonna do it someday.”

“And after that, what?”

“Don't know. Haven't thought much about it.”

“Becky?”

“I don't know, Pa,” Becky replied.

Again there was a long, thoughtful silence.

“What about Mr. Ashton?” asked Zack.

“We shall perhaps talk to him,” answered Almeda, “but I am not certain he would be best for the future of the business, either. He is even older than we are.”

“Well, we ain't likely to settle anything here and now,” said Pa. “We just wanted to know what you all thought. Meantime, we're gonna write to Mike and Emily and let them know what we're thinking. We'll keep praying, and all you keep praying, and we'll see what the Lord wants to do.”

Along with everything else, 1868 was a presidential year.

Andrew Johnson had become President after President Lincoln's assassination in 1865. He did his best to carry out Mr. Lincoln's reconstruction policies, which were already in place. However, he was not as strong a leader as Mr. Lincoln and was not able to carry them out very well.

Mr. Lincoln's plan had been to view the southern states as never having been outside the Union. So immediately after the war they had been fully recognized as states just like always, and President Johnson had laid down conditions for the restoration of their state governments. New constitutions, legislatures, and governors had been established in these states, and their first act had been to ratify the Thirteenth Amendment of the Constitution, which abolished slavery.

The Congress, however, controlled by Northerners, did not approve of President Johnson restoring the South so quickly by presidential authority. Congress wanted to keep treating the southern states as rebel territories and to withhold the full rights of statehood. Had President Lincoln lived, this battle for power between the President and Congress might have turned out differently. But with Mr. Johnson being a weak leader, Congress slowly gained the upper hand and proceeded to ignore his proclamations and pass its own series of reconstruction acts. Mr. Lincoln's more moderate and forgiving approach to putting the country back together after the war was thus replaced by a harsher and more arrogant Congressional scheme led by the radical Republicans of the President's own party.

The dispute between Congress and the President became so severe that finally Congress decided to try to get rid of President Johnson by impeachment.

In May of that year two things happened. President Johnson was narrowly acquitted in the impeachment proceedings, which meant that he would not be removed from office. Yet his reputation was so low that he was not nominated to run again on the Republican ticket. Instead, that same month, at their national convention in Chicago, the Republicans nominated Ulysses S. Grant as their presidential candidate for the election to be held that November.

If anything could have tempted me to get involved again in politics, that could have!

Knowing Mr. Grant personally as I felt I did, it would have been easy to start writing articles supporting him, maybe even speaking as I had for President Lincoln's and Mr. Stanford's campaigns. So much rushed back to my mind as I read the newspaper accounts throughout that summer—from Mr. Grant's first visit right here to Miracle Springs way back in 1853 to my associations with him during the war.

Suddenly I had three possible things to be involved in—being the wife of a pastor, running a business, and politics and newspaper writing.

But now there was a lot more for me to think about than just myself. I had a husband to consider, and we had a church and a community that was looking to us to be there for them when they needed us. So Christopher and I had been praying diligently about all these things.

Besides, I wasn't sure I wanted to be in politics anymore. Meeting Christopher, and of course being married, had gradually changed everything. So much of what had once been important no longer looked the same in my eyes.

Almeda had given me wise counsel that night when we were talking about the future of the freight company. As time passed, I did not find rising up within myself a strong desire or enthusiasm toward either the business
or
politics.

Both still interested me. But I was slowly recognizing that Christopher's and my future lay in other directions. I recognized too that this lessening of enthusiasm in one direction, with increased focus in another, was the Lord's subtle and quiet way of answering our prayers about whether we were to be involved in the future of the freight company in a more permanent way.

Throughout the summer and early fall Christopher and I continued to talk about the future and where these different things fit into our new roles in the community now that Rev. Rutledge was gone. One day we were talking about my writing again in a casual way, and this led into a discussion about permanency. Christopher would have been happy for me to keep writing, for he had always supported it wholeheartedly, yet he always led me back to consider the other side of it too.

“We've always got to look at the long-term impact of what we do,” Christopher said as we were talking.

“How do you mean?” I asked. “My writing something that's going to be of interest years from now rather than just for the present?”

“Something like that, I suppose,” he replied. “But it's not just writing. I try to consider the lasting quality of what I do as a pastor too.”

“Isn't everything you do as a pastor lasting?” I asked.

“I'm not sure you can say that. I think even a pastor can get caught up in temporal and insignificant things like anyone else.”

He paused thoughtfully.

“It's something I started thinking about during those long years at Mrs. Timms' farm,” he went on after a moment. “What's going to last?—that's always got to be the question one asks. What's going to outlive us, what are we going to do in life that lives beyond us, what efforts of ours now will we still be able to look back from eternity and see the results of?”

“What kinds of things do you mean?”

Christopher laughed.

“That is the very question I've been asking myself all these years. I suppose it began when I was asked to leave my first church. As I looked back on my ministry among those people, and all the sermons I preached and all the other pastoral functions I carried out, I could not help but wonder if they would all go up in the first puff of smoke with all the rest of the wood, hay, and stubble that Paul talks about.”

“That seems a rather harsh judgment,” I said. “Surely you did
some
good?”

Christopher smiled. “I suppose so. And yes, I remember individuals here and there that I like to think I helped in some ways that will be permanent. But do you see the question I'm trying to raise—that what looks on the surface to be a good, even a spiritual thing—like the preaching of sermons, for instance, which I did lots of—or even just a good thing by itself—like writing articles helping people to see political issues more clearly—may or may
not
have any eternal value?”

“How can you know?”

“That's the hard part! I've got no easy answer. I only know that I want to spend my energies on things that do have eternal value. But I still have to look hard to know what they are sometimes. One thing I have been in the habit of doing whenever something comes along that I have to decide about is to ask myself, if I were eighty or ninety years old and facing near death, looking back on my life, would this be something I was glad I devoted time and energy to. That is one of the things I asked myself in arriving at a decision regarding the offer from the church last March. It's amazing how quickly that simple question sifts the wheat from the chaff.”

“What makes the difference between the two, the wheat and the chaff?”

Christopher thought for a moment.

“I suppose the things that have eternal value have to do with character, with the kind of people we
are
more than the things we do.
Internal
things rather than external. It's not always as easy as saying that we ought to be helping people. If we're not becoming more Christlike as a result, then of what permanent value is it? I may fix a broken buggy for widow Hutchins like I did last week, but if inside I am annoyed about the inconvenience, what will be the permanent benefit to my eternal character from having done it?”

“What about Mrs. Hutchins?” I asked. “She benefits whether you were annoyed or not.”

“Benefits . . . how? By having her wagon in good working order? How does that benefit
her
eternally? That wagon will go up with all the rest of the wood, hay, and stubble.”

“Hmm . . . I see what you mean,” I said.

I thought for a moment more. Then I had another thought.

“But what if your fixing her buggy benefited Mrs. Hutchins
internally
?” I said. “What if you helped
her
eternal character somehow by doing it?”

“Exactly!” rejoined Christopher. “I think you've hit it precisely. When
we
are becoming more internally Christlike from what we do, or when we are in some small way helping
another
man or woman to become more internally Christlike themselves . . . then it seems to me that we are expending our energies upon things of eternal value.”

“How wonderful,” I added, “if both can be happening at once.”

“Amen to that!” said Christopher. “The more I think and pray about this, I just can see nothing else but Christlikeness of character that is going to last. Everything else we do, everything else we are, is going to vanish the instant we die. Some poor individuals will be left with very impoverished natures. Others will find themselves giants of character in the kingdom of heaven because of the multitude of small acts and choices of Christlike kindness they demonstrated in this life. Turning ourselves constantly toward such a focus, and helping others to orient their lives likewise toward Jesus, seems to be life's ultimate goal. That's what I want our ministry in Miracle Springs to be.”

“But not everyone can be a preacher like you.”

“I don't mean
telling
people about Christlikeness. No, I don't necessarily mean
talking
about spiritual things at all. I mean behaving in such a way that Christlikeness of character results—both in yourself and in others. Acting, thinking, speaking, responding . . . living as much as possible like Jesus did and according to what he taught—it cannot help but have eternal consequences. No, I don't mean preaching about it, but modeling our lives after his.”

“Like Pa and Mr. Royce.”

“Precisely. Your father hadn't the slightest idea what was happening. But because he was behaving and thinking in more Christlike ways himself—forgiving, being kind to others, turning the other cheek—Mr. Royce was all the while being drawn toward Christlikeness himself. Therefore, both men are now engaged in the development of internal characters that will go with them into eternity.”

“Speaking of Mr. Royce, what he has been doing still has everyone in the whole town abuzz. Did I tell you that Almeda received a letter just yesterday from her friend in Sacramento, Carl Denver?”

Christopher shook his head with a puzzled expression.

“No, what about?”

“There are banking people in Sacramento that have had their eye on expanding up here for years,” I said. “They'd heard about Mr. Royce's lowering the interest rate on all his loans, just at the time all the Sacramento banks were raising theirs. He asked Almeda if Royce's bank was in trouble.”

Christopher smiled.

“Almeda laughed when she read it,” I said. “‘Just wait until I write and tell him that Franklin has also canceled one month's payment on all loans so that his valued customers may catch up on their other bills,' Almeda said. ‘He'll think the good banker of Miracle Springs has gone completely mad!'”

Christopher nodded, still smiling, but almost reverently. What Mr. Royce had done was to him a serious and holy thing.

“The Zacchaeus principle,” he said after a moment. “I was so moved when I heard what he had done. It showed that what happened between him and your father, and the prayers he prayed, were going to be permanent and were going to make a lasting difference in his life. Following up prayers of Christlikeness with actions of sacrifice and kindness gives the Father a tremendous foothold from which to work rapid transformations of character. God bless the man.”

“It seems he already is.”

“I truly believe Franklin Royce is going to be a radiant son of his new Father.”

We thought a few moments. It was still hard to believe what a change had come over Mr. Royce so quickly.

“This is an example of exactly what we were talking about,” Christopher began after a minute. “Your father, as he represents it in talks we've had, saw in your mother and then Almeda and Avery Rutledge qualities of character that eventually prompted him to want to live in a different way himself. His life, in turn, as that same Christlike character began to emerge, has shown something to Franklin Royce about how he wants to live and the kind of person he wants to be. Now Franklin in his turn is beginning to demonstrate an unselfishness and a Christlike spirit of giving that I know will have profound impact within others of this community, perhaps even so far away as Sacramento.”

“Wow, that is a wonderful progression!”

“Christlikeness always multiplies. It cannot but have deep and lasting impact on all those it touches.

“That's the eternal value we've been talking about. When your father dies, it won't be his work at the mine or the gold he's dug up or the votes and speeches he made in Sacramento that will go with him into the next life, but rather the Christlikeness of character he's developed in the process of these other pursuits. And I think the rewards Paul speaks of that he will receive there will be made up of the Christlikeness of character he has helped to foster in others, such as Franklin Royce.”

I nodded.

“Anyway, that's how I view it now,” said Christopher, “though it's a complex mystery. I only pray our lives can be influential in the same eternal way as your father's has.”