Grace in Autumn (31 page)

“Well”—Zuriel spread his hands and lifted a brow— “it's the same thing. The things that die aren't important because the part that's alive keeps going on. When Christians die, their spirits go straight to heaven, and their worn-out bodies get . . . put away.” He paused, lifting his gaze to the steeple on the church across the street. “I'm always a little amazed when people cry at funerals. There's really no reason for them to be sad. Their loved ones aren't gone; they've only relocated. And the reunion will come soon enough.”

“I know why they cry.” Georgie spoke softly, and when Zuriel looked down, the boy was staring at his mother's frozen flower bed, still dusted with this morning's snow. “They cry because they miss the person. And heaven is very far away.”

Zuriel sat silently, absorbing the human perspective revealed in the boy's words. Truth to tell, he had forgotten how limited human understanding could be. They didn't have the luxury of zipping to heaven in the twinkling of an eye, and they didn't have the ability to see beyond the physical dimensions of earth. Though the Lord had given them clear insights, instructions, and assurances in the written Word, not all of them believed it . . . or even bothered to read it.

“I suppose you're right, Georgie,” he whispered, feeling the chill for the first time since stepping outside. “But man was not created for this world. God created humans for heaven, for eternity, and all their longings will be fulfilled when they finally reach their home. Heaven is all you could ever imagine . . . and more.”

Georgie didn't speak but leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin on his fists. His mouth hung partly open, and Zuriel could see the tip of the boy's tongue worrying the loose tooth in the center of his mouth.

“You ever seen heaven?” Georgie asked, not moving.

Zuriel glanced upward for inspiration. Though the angels would never lie to their human charges, sometimes it was wise not to share everything . . .

But didn't Jesus himself thank the Father for hiding the truth from those who thought themselves wise and clever, while revealing it to the childlike?

“Ayuh,” he said, after a moment's reflection, “I've seen it.”

“What's it like?” Georgie tilted his head and looked at Zuriel with something very fragile in his eyes. “Is it cold?”

“Cold?” Zuriel smiled. “Why would you think it's cold?”

“Well”—Georgie shrugged—“the other place is hot, right? And if heaven's in outer space, it must be black and cold and dark.”

“It's none of those things.” Zuriel glanced toward the leaden sky and wished he had the authority to part the clouds with a breath. “To be absent from this body is to be present with the Lord, in his holy Temple. And that is a place of warmth and brightness and music. Your human eyes cannot see all of it, nor can your ears hear, nor can your nostrils”—he leaned forward and gently tweaked Georgie's snub nose—“breathe in all the sweet scents of heaven. But when you enter it in spirit, you will know you have finally come home.”

The slamming of the storm door broke into their conversation, and both Zuriel and Georgie waited silently to see who would come out of the house. A moment later Babette's head appeared over the porch railing, and her face brightened when she saw them on the swing. “There you are,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest. “Stay there, Georgie. I need to speak with you.”

Zuriel rocked silently, wondering if he should go, as Babette disappeared, then reappeared a moment later, rounding the hedge that bordered the porch. A moment later she stood before the swing, her face splotched and her eyes swollen. But she wore a smile and she gave it to Georgie.

“Honey,” she said, running her hands over her sweatered arms, “I'm glad I found you. I have to tell you something.”

Zuriel stopped the swing, ready to rise. “I should go.”

“No, Z. Please stay.” Babette returned her gaze to her son. “You can hear what I need to tell Georgie.”

“I know about Mr. Edmund,” the boy said, lowering his gaze. “I know he's in heaven.”

“Ayuh—but that's not what I came to tell you.” Babette threw Zuriel a quick glance, then reached out and caught her son's hands.

“Sweetheart,” Babette said, kneeling on the dark mulch beneath their feet, “I want to apologize to you. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I realize now that I've been asking you to fulfill my dreams. You painted me a puffin, a beautiful gift, but I was wrong to ask you to paint more. I was wrong to promise puffins without asking you first, and I'm going to call Mr. Bedell and tell him the deal's off. I won't make you paint puffins. And if you do paint other puffins, I'm keeping them here, to display in our gallery. I don't want to make money so we can be comfortable— I want to be a good wife and mom and take care of my family. That's the most important thing in the world to me.”

Zuriel felt his heart warm at her words, but Georgie said nothing. He kept his gaze lowered, his feet hanging motionless over the swing.

Babette rubbed the boy's hands, warming them with her own. “You are my precious son,” she said, her eyes damp. “You are God's gift to me, and I've been wrong to depend upon your talent instead of God, who gives us all good things. I've told the Lord I'm sorry, Georgie, and now I'm telling you. Will you forgive me?”

Georgie looked up then, and beneath the soft fullness of his face Zuriel saw a suggestion of motion and flowing, as though a hidden spring were trying to break through. For a moment the boy said nothing, though his lower lip trembled, then he threw his arms around Babette's neck.

Holding her son, Babette made soft soothing sounds and rubbed his back. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and slowly spilled from the ends of her dark lashes.

Watching the tender scene, Zuriel felt a trembling from the depths of his own soul. He had never quite understood forgiveness, having never needed it, but the power in that profound act never failed to move him.

Swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat, he reached up for the chain of the swing and tactfully shifted his gaze to the wide sky above. And then, in a breathless moment of epiphany, he understood. Today, for the first time in his short life, Georgie had learned how to forgive. And how could he understand God's forgiveness unless he had experienced giving it himself? Very soon, today or tomorrow or the next day, the boy would realize his own need for forgiveness, not from his mom or dad, but from God himself. And in that moment, Georgie would experience the same sweet release that now rained tears over Babette's lovely cheeks.

As a stream of sunlight broke through the cloud cover above, Zuriel breathed a deep sigh of contentment.

Leaving her son with Zuriel, Babette climbed the front porch steps and ran her hands over her arms. While sitting in the faded parlor of Frenchman's Folly, she'd realized how big a mess she'd made, but she could set things right again. Life was too short to spend even an hour in anger or regret.

She entered the house and paused at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly missing the noisy click-clack of Charles's old typewriter. The new computer made nothing but soft tapping sounds, ghostly in the nearly-silent house. She didn't even have the plink-plink of the leaky roof to keep her company any more.

She placed her weight on the first tread and smiled as it creaked. Maybe their house wasn't meant to be quiet and sedate. Maybe it was meant to be filled with clacks and creaks and plinks, overspread with the giggles of an active little boy.

One thing was certain—the silence that had fallen between her and Charles was not a companionable quiet. Though he had not said a cross word to her of late, he hadn't said much in the way of regular conversation, either. She had another overdue apology on her “to do” list.

Charles was sitting in his new computer chair when she entered the office, but his hands were not on the keyboard. They were holding a heavy stack of white pages surrounded by torn brown paper. Someone had stuck a yellow Sticky Note to the first page, scrawled with a short message.

Charles's manuscript had returned . . . again.

She sank into the spare dining room chair against the wall, then pressed her hands together. “Charles?”

Staring mournfully at the manuscript, he shook his head. “Dull, trite, and plodding,” he said, his voice heavy with defeat. “Utterly unpublishable.”

Purpose and determination kept her from arguing. “Charles, I was wrong to say those things. If you believe in your dream, you should pursue it. I don't know what will happen, but if you really believe this is something God wants you to do—”

“You didn't say those things.” His heavy finger thumped the Sticky Note. “Stellar Cross did.”

She hesitated, blinking with bafflement. “
The
Stellar Cross?”

“He returned my manuscript.” Charles heaved the mountain of paper onto his cluttered desk. “He obviously thinks I should stick to my day job.”

Babette lowered her gaze. She had come up to encourage her husband, to apologize for her bluntness, and to give her blessing so he could continue to exercise his creativity however he saw fit. But Stellar Cross had smashed Charles's dream more effectively than she ever could.

“I'm surprised,” she began, proceeding carefully, “that a busy man like Stellar Cross would even take the time to read a manuscript from . . . well, from an unknown. The fact that he did says something, Charles.”

“Ayuh, it does.” He lifted a folded sheet of paper that had fallen to the floor and handed it to Babette. “Read that and you'll understand everything.”

Babette unfolded the letter, a handwritten note, and saw that it had been signed by Florence Cross, the famous novelist's wife.

“My husband does not read unsolicited manuscripts,” she had written, “but he recognized your name and decided to make an exception. He loves your art, Mr. Graham, and one of your seascapes is hanging over the fireplace in our library. My husband is a harsh critic of writing, I'm afraid, because he has spent years studying the craft and has little patience for beginners. So forgive his brusqueness . . . and know how much we appreciate your beautiful artistry.”

Babette folded the note and held it for a long moment before speaking. “Honey, I came up here to apologize.”

“No need. You were right. I stink.”

“You don't stink.” She sighed. “You have a great gift, but maybe you're neglecting it. Maybe you're like a kid holding a whole bag of peppermints, but you keep reaching for somebody else's lollipop.”

Charles's mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “I guess I'm not the Renaissance man I thought I was.”

“Maybe not.” Babette stood and walked to him, then bent and draped her arm around his shoulder. “But you're the Renaissance man I love. And you're the father Georgie adores. You're a wonderful artist, and the people in this town respect you.”

“But my painting—” A muscle flexed at his jaw. “It's not good enough to support this family. We couldn't afford to fix the roof, and we had to rely on Georgie to buy a computer—”

“Your art is good enough. It's great.” She bent until they were eye-to-eye. “But you've only been painting six months out of the year. Maybe our profits would increase if you painted a few months more . . . and you would satisfy your need for variety if you painted something besides seascapes. You're a talented artist, Charles, and you know the great Creator. Don't sell yourself short.”

“Art won't pay all the bills.”

Babette drew a deep breath, feeling a dozen different emotions collide. Part of his glum reaction was her fault, for she had whined about the bills and the budget, wanting Charles to feel guilty for allowing her to carry the burden of bookkeeping.

But God had given her a head for figures, so the burden was a by-product of her own stubbornness. For years she had scrupulously trusted God to handle the tidy ten percent she gave him each month but refused to trust him with the ninety percent she retained. Clinging to their dollars, she had fussed and fumed over expenses while Edmund de Cuvier personified the key to accumulating eternal treasure while living in peace on earth.

Be a channel of blessing.

“Honey,” she softened her tone, “God will supply our needs. He always has . . . I see that now. We can trust him for the future, too.”

“You think so?”

The computer chair creaked as Charles's hands closed around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Babette giggled as she and her husband tilted backward at a dangerous angle.

“I know so,” she whispered, running her hands through the wisps of her husband's hair.