Fiction

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Alone in the dark, and already wet to the skin, Dick set out in the direction of the Keckilpenny’s. As he trod down the muddy road, with his feet slipping from under him and his vision occasionaly blinded by flashes of lightning, Dick’s heart began to cry out at the futility of his life. Why had he been born a minister’s son? Why had he been raised up in a house where feelings and affections were suppressed and decorum reigned paramount? Why had he been given a father who could not be pleased with his son’s greatest efforts? Week after week of his entire life, Dick had sat in his father’s church and had heard sermon after sermon, until he had been nearly sick. He wondered if God approved of lip-service in the pulpit when the home was sorely neglected. For at the manse, there had always been, to Dick’s rememberance, the talk of orderliness and decorum. There had been talk of a good reputation and of charity, and of being a ‘minister’s son’. But in Dick’s recollection, there had never been talk of religion, nor of God.

Stumbling down the road in this fashion, with his thoughts a whirl, and his body drenched with rain, Dick felt feverish and heart-broken.

At last, he reached the Keckilpenny’s gate, and pushing through it, Dick looked up to see a light in the kitchen window.

At his knock on the kitchen door, someone slowly opened it a crack and looked out. Then it was flung wide with an exclamation of, “Dick Aldebourne-what on earth!?” And then Dick was pulled into the warm kitchen by Mrs. Keckilpenny.

He stood, dripping water on the kitchen floor, and shivering. Mrs. Keckilpenny slammed the door on the storm outside and then turned to Dick, her blue eyes full of questions.

Dick’s eyes met hers and in a hollow voice he said, “You’d best not call me Aldebourne-I’ve been disowned, you know.”

She stared at him, surprise clearly written on each feature of her kind face. “Dick, darling, what’s ‘appened?” She took his bag from him and set it on the kitchen floor while, expectantly, she watched his face for an answer.

Summoned by his wife’s exclamation of surprise, Dr. Keckilpenny now entered the kitchen. “What’s this!?” He asked. “Dick? Are you alright, lad?”

Dick sank into a chair, shaking his head.

“There now, tell us what’s ‘appened.” Both Dr. Keckilpenny and his wife drew up a chair and faced Dick. “What’s this rot I hear about you being disowned?”

Dick was trembling from head to foot, more from grief than from cold. “It’s true; they called me a thief . . . and they made Father leave the church on account of it . . . and then Father told me to get out.”

Both Keckilpennys were rather surprised at this revelation and they exchanged astonished glances between themselves. But Mr. Keckilpenny only asked, calmly, “Who called you a thief, Dick?”

“Mr. Cunningham.” And then Dick looked up at them both with fire in his eyes, “But I didn’t steal anything! I didn’t!”
“Steady, Old Chap, we believe you.”

“You do?” Dick could not hide his amazement.

“Of course we do; you’ve never given us any cause to doubt you, Dick.”

Dick looked at them, incredulously. “My Father didn’t believe me . . .” And then his face contorted in pain and Dick burst into sobs. “Oh, why does he hate me so?” Dick cried, and then covered his face with his hands.

“Your father doesn’t hate you, Dick.” Mrs. Keckilpenny contradicted, patting Dick’s hand.

Dick’s head shot up, and a fierce look was on his face. “Yes he does! I never did anything good enough for him! My marks in school weren’t good enough; my work wasn’t good enough! Nothing ever pleased him, no matter how hard I tried!” With that, he buried his face in his hands again.

Dr. Keckilpenny left his chair and was on his knees beside Dick. He wrapped his arms around the sobbing boy. Dick was now growing quite ashamed of his unmanly tears, but he couldn’t seem to stop them.

After a few moments had passed, Mr. Keckilpenny said, “Dick, shall I tell you who God is?”

This seemed an abrupt question to Dick and he quieted some. “Wha . . . What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems to me that your father might have given you a false view of who God is -seeing as how he’s a minister.”

“We never talked about God.” Dick whispered.

“Never talked about God! And him a minister!?”

Dick only shook his head in reply. Mr. Keckilpenny regained his composure. “Dick, can’t anybody do enough good things to please God.”

With a look of anger, Dick asked, “Are you telling me that God is just like my Father?”

“Certainly not, Dick! Haven’t you ever read the Bible?”

“Mother always read it to us in the evening, but I never read it on my own.” Rain trickled down Dick’s brow and he pushed aside his dripping hair.

“Did you ever hear the verse what goes: “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.”?”

“Yes . . . I think I’ve heard that before.”

“Don’t you hear what it says? Can’t none of us be good enough to make it to heaven; for: “all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags.” ”

“Is that in the Bible too?” Dick asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well . . . what do I do then? Why do we even have the Bible? Just to know that we still aren’t good enough?”

“No, Dick, No. It don’t stop there.” By now, Dick’s eyes were riveted to Mr. Keckilpenny’s compassionate face. “It goes on to say: “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” ”

There was silence after this, but it was finally broken by Dick. “What does that mean?”

“It means, Dick, that the only way to heaven and to God, is by Him. You can’t earn it, you can’t work for it . . . you just . . . take it.”

In Dick’s eyes, Mr. Keckilpenny could see light beginning to dawn. “You know, Dick, I think you and your family, have been doing this backwards. Do you know what it says after that verse?”

Dick smiled and shook his head.

“It says that we are, “His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works”. What it means, Dick, is that the good works come, after we’ve been saved. Good works are not a means to heaven, they’re just proof that we’re going there.”

Dick looked up. “What do I do then? I mean, if the only way to please God is by letting Him save me, how do I do that?”

“You tell Him you’re a sinner, Dick. You ask Him to save you. “ . . . if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.” and “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” That’s it, Dick: you confess, and you believe. You’ve heard of Christ’s death? And of His resurrection?”

Dick nodded.

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell Him. It’s between you and God now; I can’t talk to Him for you. You’re the one whose got to ask Him to save you. Do you want to?”

Dick nodded, very vigorously this time.

“Then go ahead.”

Dick, so used to formal prayers, but now with a new understanding of God’s character, was bewildered as to how he should begin. He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and then looking up at the Keckilpenny’s ceiling, he began to pray.

“God, . . I thought a lot of wrong things about you and . . . I’m sorry. I need you. I’m tired of trying to please everyone else. I’d sooner die, than live how I’ve been living. God, I’m asking you to save me. I know now that I can’t ever be good enough.” Dick paused. “God, I’m sorry for hating my Father.” His voice choked, but he swallowed and continued, “I don’t think I can forgive him if you don’t help me.” Dick stopped and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Then he looked at the Keckilpennys and gave them a wobbly smile. “Is it all right, to ask Him if He can help me to forgive my Father?”

Dr. Keckilpenny laughed. “Of course, Dick! If God’s willing to save your soul, don’t you think He can help you with a little thing like that?”

Dick laughed too. “Thank you-thank you both!” And he flung an arm around each of the Keckilpennys. Sentimental Mrs. Keckilpenny was crying, and her husband was laughing. Dick was doing a little of each.

When the three separated, each realized that Dick was still soaking wet.

Mrs. Keckilpenny pointed to his bag and told him, to “put on something dry before he caught his death,” and then she went to make him a cup of tea.

A little while later, as Dick was sipping the warm brew, he said, “I came here, ‘cause I didn’t have nowhere else to go. Is it alright if I stay for a while? I’ll try to find work, and pay you-truly I will.”

Dr. Keckilpenny clapped him on the shoulder. “Stay here as long as you like, Dick-we shan’t be sorry to have you.”

And then Madeline said, “And we’ll hear no more nonsense about you paying us. Who was it gave away all of his earnings to Arthur?” And she smiled at Dick until he blushed.

“I - I still want to pay you.” He insisted.

“Nonsense,” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “You can help Mrs. Keckilpenny and me and that’ll be payment enough.”

Finally, Dick agreed, but he vowed to himself that he would find some way to repay their kindness.

-

And Dick did try. The very next day, when Arthur was at Mr. Cunningham’s, he left the Keckilpenny’s to look for work. He was without success that day, but, undeterred, went out again the next day and every day after until his stay at the Keckilpenny’s had extended to a week and he still had found no means of repaying them.

Friday afternoon, Dick had walked for over an hour when he came to a small, poor-looking farm. Outside, there was a man, obviously the farmer, who sat sharpening an ax head. Going up to him, Dick waited until the man saw him. The farmer was perhaps in his sixties, with white hair and beard and warm brown eyes. Stopping his work, he looked up at Dick, and, in a thick Scottish brogue, kindly asked, “Ye lost yer way, laddie?”

“No,” Dick answered. “I was only looking for work, and thought that perhaps you might have some.”

The man smiled and shook his head. “Och, no, A am sorry, lad.”

Dick drooped at this. “Might I . . . might I have a . . . a drink of water?” Dick had come rather a long distance and was thirsty.

Immediately, the farmer rose from his seat. “Aye, lad! Far be it from me tae deny ye that.” And then he slowly made his way inside the house and was only gone for a moment before he reappeared with a cup of water in his hand. He handed it to Dick, who took it and gratefully drank it down. “Thank you.” Dick handed back the cup.

“Aye, yer welcome.” The farmer eyed Dick thoughtfully. “I’m sorry I cannae gie ye work, lad. Ye see, just last week, I hired that man oot there tae dae the plantin’ and the harvestin’.” He pointed towards his field where Dick could see a man behind a horse and plow. “My bones are gettin’ a wee bit auld fer that kind o‘ work.” The farmer explained. And then he turned and called out to the man working, “Come in and put awa the horse and rest a moment!”

As he said this, Dick had glanced at the hired man, but then had looked off towards the road as a wagon passed by. Dick turned back to see the farmhand drawing very near to them. He admired the big horse that was pulling the plow and then he looked up at the man.

Suddenly, Dick recognized the stalwart figure behind the plow. He knew his striding gait and the way his big hands gripped the plow handles.

As the man drew near, he stopped at the edge of the field to unhitch the horse from the plow. In the midst of his work, he stopped to swipe a hand across his brow. At the same moment he looked up to where the farmer and Dick were standing. Dick shrank back behind the farmer.

But it was too late, his father had seen him.

There was a flash of anger in the older man’s eyes as he recognized Dick, but then he turned back to his task. However, Dick knew that he was seething. John Aldebourne’s strong hands trembled and he jerked at the buckles as he unhitched the horse. Then, without a glance at Dick, he drove the horse past them and into the barn.

Turning to Dick, the farmer kindly said, “I am sorry I donnae hiv enough work fer twae, lad.”

“Th-thank you all the same.” Dick sidled towards the road with a nervous glance in the direction of the barn.

“Will ye nae bide a wee?” The Scotsman beckoned towards his house.

“Oh, thank you, no. I must be going.” And then bidding the farmer good day, Dick hurried down the road as quickly as he could, stealing many a backward glance as he went.

When Dick arrived back at the Keckilpenny’s, Arthur was returning home as well. Dick’s friend lifted his hand in greeting. “Dick! Any luck, Old Chap?”

Dick shook his head.

“I say, you’re rather pale-you feeling alright?” Arthur asked, suddenly.

Dick and Arthur reached the back of the house. Sinking down on the steps, Dick looked up at his friend. “Arthur, I’ve seen my father.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “Did he speak to you?”

Dick shook his head. “No. He only glared at me.”

Arthur gave Dick‘s shoulder a pat. “I’m sorry, Old Chap.” He sat on the step next to Dick, and was silent for several moments. At last he said, “Where did you see him, then?”

“About an hour’s walk south of here. He’s working for an old Scottish farmer.”

“That’s rather strenuous work for a minister.”

“Former minister.” Dick corrected. And then sarcastically, “I’m surprised that he would stoop so low.”

“Farming is hardly stooping.”

“It is to my father.” Dick said.

“Perhaps he had no other choice, Dick. One has to live, you know. You can’t begrudge him that.”

“Oh, I don’t . . . I just . . .” Dick trailed off. Than in a lower, quieter tone; “It’s just hard to see him at all . . . without . . .” Dick stopped again and sighed, deeply.

Arthur put an arm around Dick’s shoulders. “I know, Old Chap. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m the one who needs to forgive him.”

“Forgiveness takes a little while, at times. You say, ‘Lord, I forgive him,’ and then you see him again, or he does something else to hurt you, and you get angry all over again. And then comes the test of whether or not you really want to forgive him. Then you have to pray that same prayer over again-and again-and again, as many times as it takes.”

Dick smiled, ruefully, “I might have to pray it a thousand times for my father.”

Arthur rose to his feet. “Then pray it a thousand times-the Lord will not grow weary.”

Dick stood too and reached for the door-latch. “I know He shan’t.” Dick said as both boys stepped inside the Keckilpennys kitchen. “It’s my fortitude I’m worried about.”

“My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever.” Arthur quoted.

Dick laughed and shook his head. “Well, how’s a fellow to argue against that?”

-

One day, nearly a month later, Mrs. Keckilpenny and her daughter Roberta were preparing supper in the kitchen. Dr. Keckilpenny was out on a call and Arthur had not yet come home from his day’s work for Mr. Cunningham.

And so, we find Dick in the midst of entertaining the youngest member of the Keckilpenny family. Little Lucy’s affectionate, frank nature had done Dick’s aching and lonely heart a world of good. She had grown extremely fond of Dick; so much so that she would often come to him for a game or for a story, even over her brother. Dick would barely admit to it, but he adored the curly-haired little girl more than he ever had anything in his life. And so, the two had formed a fast friendship.

This particular afternoon, we find the unlikely pair in conversation over the child’s broken tea set which she has brought to Dick for mending.

As he applied the paste and held the broken pieces together, Lucy said to him, “Now we can have a tea party with Tibbs and Ellie.” (Tibbs being a stuffed horse and Ellie a doll.)

“No, we can’t, Lucy.” Dick was endeavoring to find a way to keep the handle on the child’s tea pot while it dried.

Lucy’s face showed astonishment. “Why not, Dicky?”

“Because we can’t use the tea set until the paste dries.” Dick rummaged through his pockets for a piece of string.

“What will happen if we use it before the paste dries?”

“The handle will fall right off again.” Dick explained, tying the string around the pot and handle.

“Well, when the paste dries, then can we have a tea party?”

“Yes, of course.”

“When will it be dry? Before dinner?”

“No, Lucy. We’d best not use it until tomorrow.” Dick rose and placed the tea set on top of the bureau in the nursery.

The little girl’s rosy lower lip stuck out at this news. “But Tibbs always has a tea party on Tuesday. He’ll be so sad if we don’t.” Dick turned back round to look at her. Lucy had blue eyes, just as the rest of the Keckilpennys. But hers were exceptionally round; with long lashes. She blinked as she looked at Dick and several of her chubby fingers went into her mouth as she grieved over the disappointments of her unfortunate toy.

“There, now,” Dick squatted down in front of her, “I’ll explain to the old boy. Perhaps I can make him see that Wednesday is just as good as Tuesday.”

At this, Lucy broke into a smile. “Can you, Dicky? I wouldn’t know how to tell him myself.”

“Of course, where is the good fellow?” And Dick looked about the nursery as though searching for an old friend.

“He’s on the bed.” Lucy pointed and then went and fetched Tibbs. The horse was made of burlap and was rather stiff and lumpy. He had black button eyes and a painted on mouth and hooves.

Handing the stuffed animal to Dick, Lucy said, “Tibbs, Dicky must tell you something. You listen good now.”

Dick smiled at this and then, in all seriousness, he took the horse in his own hands. “Now listen, Tibbs. I know you’re used to a tea party on Tuesdays, but you’ve just got to be a man about it. Lucy’s tea set has been broken and shan’t be mended until tomorrow. There’s nothing for it but to wait until then. There’s a good chap.” And he patted the horse on it’s lumpy burlap head.

In the midst of this tete-a-tete, two people walked into the nursery. Dick looked up when he had finished explaining to Tibbs the way things were. When he saw who was in the doorway, he handed the horse back to Lucy and stood to his feet all in one swift motion.

“Mother!” Dick stared in surprise.

“‘Ere’s your mother come to see you, Dick.” Mrs. Keckilpenny said. And then to Lucy, “Come and help Roberta and me to set the table, dearest.” Which request Lucy immediately obeyed and Dick was left alone with his mother.

Clarice Aldebourne looked somewhat different from when Dick had last seen her. She was much paler and there were dark circles under her lovely eyes. Her clothing seemed looser, as though she had lost weight. But still, she was dressed with extreme care and neatness.

Dick wondered what she thought of the impropriety of being shown into the nursery, but he hid his amusement as best he could. “Hello, Mother. Are you well?”

Mrs. Aldebourne smiled faintly and nodded.

“I say, you do look pale and thin, are you quite certain you’re well?” Dick asked, with concern creeping into his tone.

Clarice rubbed her forehead with one hand. “I’m just a bit tired is all.”

“Here’s a chair, Mother, do sit down.” Dick motioned towards the rocking chair that sat in the nursery.

“Oh, thank you.” Mrs. Aldebourne took the seat with a sigh. For several moments she was silent, as though unknowing of what to say.

“I say, does Father know that you’re here?” Dick questioned his mother, after watching her for several moments.

She looked up at him and then shook her head. “No, certainly not.” Then more silently, as if to herself. “He’d be furious.”

“I daresay he would.” Dick agreed.

“I just wanted . . . to see you.” His mother looked up at him. “To make sure that you were well. I haven’t had the chance to get away until now.”

“I’m well enough, Mother.” Dick assured her. “The Keckilpennys were good enough to let me stay on here. I’ve been apprenticed now, you know.”

“Have you, Richard?”

“Yes, to a woodworker. He lives just up the road a bit. I was glad to get the work on account of I could pay back the Keckilpennys . . . and . . . Mr. Cunningham.” He coughed as though it had pained him to say this last part.

However, Mrs. Aldebourne only smiled. “I’m glad, dear.”

“And . . . you and . . .Father?” Dick hesitated. “Are you well?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t complain.” Mrs. Aldebourne looked down at her dress. “After all, there are people in much dire straits than we. But your father had to take on work as a farm hand when he lost the parrish. And then when we moved away from the manse, we couldn’t afford to keep on Mary Ann or Henrietta any longer.”

“I . . . I am sorry, Mother.” Dick was sympathetic. “Where are you living now?”

“In a little cottage nearer to the farm where your father works-which is a distance from here.”

“Yes, I know where it is.” Dick shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out the nursery window. “I went there, looking for work myself.”

Mrs. Aldebourne looked up at his face, expectantly. “Did you see your father?”

Dick nodded.

“Did he speak to you?”

Dick only shook his head; a wry look flitting across his face and then disappearing just as quickly. His mother sighed and drooped down in her chair, making it look as though she had shrunk.

Suddenly, Dick knelt down in front of his mother and looked searchingly into her face. When her eyes met his he said, in a soft voice, “You’re worn down, Mother. Body and soul, ay?”

Her lip trembled a little and she lowered her gaze. “Y-yes. I am . . .” She sighed, deeply. “I haven’t any strength left. I am tired of . . .”

“Life?” Dick finished.

With eyes still downcast, Mrs. Aldebourne fidgeted with the button on the wrist of her glove. “Yes.” She sounded as though she were afraid to admit to such a scandal. And then she looked up into Dick’s face, and in a whisper she asked, “How did you know?”

“I felt just that way when I came here. Like I just wanted to lie down and give up.”

“Yes, just so.” His mother agreed.

“I was tired of trying to be good enough for everybody.”

“Did you . . . I mean . . . that is to say . . . Did I make you feel that way?”

Dick blushed, embarrassed to admit to her face that his mother had caused him any sorrow. “Yes. And Father did. I suppose it was just our entire way of living. I’ve never felt as though I could be me-Dick.” He smiled. “I felt as though Dick weren’t very proper, because he had feelings. But more than that were his failings.”

Dick lapsed into a thoughtful silence then, which was soon broken by Mrs. Aldebourne. “I-I am so sorry we made you feel that way.” And then she mused to herself, “I suppose I expected too much of you. I was trying so terribly hard to make a good impression on others, myself. Now, though, with every appearance of good and propriety taken from me, I can’t see that it was of any great consequence to have them in the first place.”

“I’m glad you can see that now. Our appearance doesn’t at all matter to God.”

His mother looked at him. “I’ve never heard you talk about God before.” It was as though she had just realized it for the first time.

A smile slowly spread over Dick’s features. “I didn’t know Him. Not until Dr. Keckilpenny told me who God really is.”

And then Dick proceeded to tell her all of the things which we already heard the good doctor relate to him. And Dick explained the gift of salvation, and remembered every scripture so clearly, that deep conviction came upon Mrs. Aldebourne.

With tears filling her dark eyes, she leaned forward and clasped Dick’s hand. “That is it. That is what I have been looking for. It is what I have been missing. The Lord already made a way for me to be saved, and here I was, trying to find my own for so long.”

“Yes, Mother, I know.”

And then with a trembling voice, his mother said, “I want it to. I want to know the Lord as you do.”

Dick softly smiled. “Then you must tell Him so, Mother, and ask Him to save you.”

And Clarice Aldebourne knelt beside her son, and asked the Lord to be her Saviour. And then, doing what she had rarely ever done, she allowed her emotions to show.

With her head on his shoulder, she held onto Dick and cried tears of joy. “Oh, Dick, such a peace in my heart, as I have never known.”

And then Dick cried too, but he didn’t let her know it.

-

Back downstairs, the Keckilpennys rejoiced with Dick as they heard of Clarice’s salvation. Mrs. Keckilpenny embraced her and cried over her. Dick also wondered what his proper mother thought of this. But the change in her was soon obvious, for Dick could see that she was touched and she returned Madeline’s embrace without reserve.

When the excitement had abated somewhat, Mrs. Keckilpenny said, “Mrs. Aldebourne, Dear, won’t you stay to dinner? We’d love to ‘ave you sup with us.”

However, Mrs. Aldebourne declined the offer. “Thank you just the same. I must be home to get supper for Mr. Aldebourne. I want to tell him what has happened to me.” A beautiful smile lit her features, one which reflected the light of heaven.

Dick walked his mother outside and as they stood beside the horse and waggon, his mother threw her arms about him again. “Be well, Darling.” And then she drew back and, resting her hand on his cheek, she looked him in the eye. “I love you, Dick.”

Dick blinked and then swallowed. “You-you never called me Dick before.”

“I . . . didn’t even . . . realize. It just seemed so natural.” And then she tilted her head as she looked at her son. “You hated to be called Richard, didn’t you?”

Dick laughed at her frank question. “Yes. In truth, I can’t stand it. It’s . . . dreadfully stiff sounding.”

“Then I shan’t use it any longer. Why on earth did you never say you disliked it?”

“I was afraid to, Mother.” Dick shoved his hands into his pockets and shook aside a dark lock of hair which had fallen over his forehead.“ I never felt as though I could share my heart with you or Father.”

His mother saddened at this. “Yes, I can see how that would have been difficult. I didn’t have much time for you, did I? And your Father was never pleased with you.” Her brows furrowed with regret as she said it.

Dick didn’t answer this, but she could tell by his face that it was so. Finally he said, “Don’t mind it, Mother. I-I daresay I was . . . rather a trial. I am sorry about that.”

“Nonsense, Rich-Dick.” And then they both laughed at her mistake. “We can change all that now, can’t we?” She gave him a hopeful look.

“I dare say, we can, Mother. Though it mightn’t be easy if Father won’t cooperate.”

“Yes . . . I know.” After a slight pause she sighed. “I had better go now.”

Dick helped her into the waggon. “Goodbye, Mother.” He called as she drove away. “I’ll pray for you and Father.”

She lifted her hand in acknowlegement and drove on. Dick watched her for awhile, and then he turned to enter the house. “I’ll pray that the Lord will work a miracle, that’s what.”

-

That evening, as Clarice Aldebourne sat down to dinner with her husband, she could tell by his unusually sullen manner that he was tired and a bit cross. She prayed for God’s wisdom as she served the food and thought about what she should say to her husband of what had passed that day.

When the food had been served, and they were both seated across from one another, Mrs. Aldebourne suddenly asked, “John, could I ask the blessing, please?”

Her husband’s eyebrow raised and he looked at her strangely, but he consented without argument.

Bowing her head, and folding her hands in front of her, Clarice offered up the most irreverent prayer that had ever been uttered beneath the Aldebourne roof. “Dearest Father; thank you so much for this meal. Give John your strength tonight, bless me, but he looks exhausted. Grant also, that we might know you better. Amen.”

At the close of this prayer, John Aldebourne picked up his napkin. With a meaningful glance at his wife, he shook open the napkin and laid it across his lap. “That was a most peculiar prayer.”

“Was it, Dear?” Mrs. Aldebourne asked, innocently.

“Indeed. ‘Twas a very familiar way to talk to the Almighty.” He dipped his spoon into his soup bowl and took a sip of the broth.

“Well, yes, I suppose it was.” Clarice agreed. “John, I want to tell you something.” She went on, in a determined voice.

“Yes, what is it?” The former reverend calmly proceeded to eat his soup.

His wife drew in a sharp breath and seemed to hesitate for a moment. “I went to the Keckilpenny’s today and saw Dick.”

At this, there was a noticeable start of John Aldebourne’s frame. His brows furrowed in anger and his stern eyes flashed sparks. “I told you not to mention him, let alone speak to him.”

“I . . . I wanted to make sure he was well.” Mrs. Aldebourne twisted her own napkins in her dainty hands. “Dick is different now, and so am I. He came to know the Lord because of the Keckilpennys and I’ve come to know Him on account of Dick.”

He gave her a hard look. “Just what do you mean by that? Haven’t we always served God?”

“Well, no. We’ve been very busy all this time, trying to do good for Him, but it’s all in vain. He’s already made a way for us to come to Him, and it’s not in anything that we can do . . .”

Here she was cut of by her husband’s thundering voice. “Enough of this!” He started up from his chair, and stood, glaring down at his wife. “I have dedicated my life to God.” He growled. “I’ll hear no more of this!” And then he stormed out of the room in such a tumult that he did not notice the turned over chair, nor the spilled soup, nor the teary eyes of his grieved wife, all of which he left in his wake.

-

Many weeks passed in which there was little change for any one of our characters.

Dick was still living with the Keckilpennys and went to his job daily at the woodworker’s shop.

Every attempt of Mrs. Aldebourne’s to verbally tell of her salvation, was coldly refused by her husband. She did, however, continue to be a silent witness to him, by obeying his every wish with meek submission, and returning his impatience with calm cheerfulness.

One afternoon, however, there was an occurrence which soon changed the course of each Aldebourne.

John Aldebourne had gone to his daily work for the Scottish farmer, and was occupied in splitting fence rails. The old farmer was at hand to assist him, though his efforts were weak at best. They were beginning to erect the fence, when he toppled over altogether, as though struck down by a blow. John Aldebourne dropped the fence rail and hurried to his employer. Kneeling down beside the old man, he could tell that the Scotsman was in great pain. As though the farmer were a child, John Aldebourne picked him up and carried him to the house. He shouted for the man’s wife as he went.

With a bang, she came to the door at his call, her eyes wide with fright. “Och, what’s happened?” She ran to her husband.

“I’m not certain.” John Aldebourne carried the man inside and laid him on the bed which the farmer’s wife indicated. “A doctor should be sent for immediately.”

“The nearest be an hour from here!” The good woman wailed. “A Dr. Keckilpenny.”

“I know the man.” John Aldebourne hurried back outside.

Just then, a small poor-looking boy was walking by upon the road. John Aldebourne rushed to him, calling, “You-boy! Come here!”

The boy looked up at him in surprise and then looked around as though there were a dozen other boys standing beside him. “Me, Sir?”

“Yes! Do you know of Dr. Keckilpenny?”

The boy’s face lit up. “I should say I do. He helped me Mum when me sister had the measels last year. Kind a man as ever . . .”

“Ride and fetch him here for me, boy, and I’ll give you a shilling.”

The boy’s dirty face brightened at this and he grinned. “Bless you! Of course, I will.”

And then he and Mr. Aldebourne went to the farmer’s barn and got out his big mare. John Aldebourne saddled her and threw the little urchin up on her back so quickly that the boy was nearly dizzy. “Ride as fast as ever you can, and don’t stop for anything until you’ve reached the doctor’s house. Tell him that the Scottish farmer half a mile from the Stone River has dropped down in the midst of his work. Tell him to come at once! Go quickly now, boy!” And then he slapped the mare’s rump and the boy and horse were off. The lad screamed in fear and clung to the horse’s mane with clumsy fingers, flopping about on her back as though he were a sack of potatoes and not a boy.

For a moment, John Aldebourne wished that he had gone himself, but then he turned back to the house to wait with the farmer and his wife for the arrival of the doctor.


The farmer had been unconscious for a long while, and his wife had paced the entire farm while waiting for the doctor. John Aldebourne, by turns: waited by the farmer’s bedside, split a few more rails, or peered down the road, all in a seemingly unruffled fashion.

At last, the doctor arrived on horseback. Leaping down from his mount and tying it outside the barn, he headed inside the house with Mr. Aldebourne, asking questions as he went.

The farmer was awake now, though still in terrible pain, and breathing heavily.

Finally, after a short, but thorough examination, Dr. Keckilpenny gravely and gently informed them that the Scotsman’s heart had failed.

The farmer held out his hand and called for John Aldebourne. Dr. Keckilpenny stepped back to make room for him and heard all that passed between the two of them. It went something like this:

“John,” The farmer spoke through his labored breathing, “’Tis true that ye were a reverend?”

“Yes.” Very slowly.

“Tell me then-” The farmer gave a gasp. “Tell me what I must dae tae make me peace wi’ God.”

For the first time in his life, the former Reverend John Aldebourne did not know how to answer. He stood beside the farmer and a wild look-much like a hunted animal-crossed his stern feautures.

“Please, I donnae ken how tae pray, nor how tae be forgiven o’ my sins.” The farmer implored, reaching again towards John Aldebourne and gripping his hand.

“I . . .” For a moment John Aldebourne looked just as he always did-calm, dignified and informed. But then his face crumbled and his shoulders slumped. “I don’t know-I can’t tell you.”

And then the doctor stepped forward. “I can tell you, my good man. If you truly wish to be forgiven.”

The farmer turned from one man to the next with tear-filled eyes, “Aye; ‘tis many a year noo, that I hiv wanted this. And noo, I must really ken -‘fore the end comes.”

So the doctor knelt down beside his patient, and as he had done many times before beside the beds of sickness and death, he told of the only One who could save from every disease of body and soul.

And the old Scotch farmer listened, with tears glistening in his eyes and at the end said, “Aye, ‘tis all that I have ever longed fer.” And then the farmer raised his eyes upward and prayed that the Lord would forgive and save him. Then James Keckilpenny prayed for him and asked that God might grant him peace and comfort in his last hours.

When this was through, the farmer’s wife was summoned closer to his side, and he spoke lovingly to her, imploring her to trust in the Savior. And the woman, whose name was Maggie, cried and said that she would trust in Him, just as her husband had. The doctor left them alone as she knelt beside her husband’s bed.

Outside, James Keckilpenny found John Aldebourne sitting inside the barn upon an old stool, with his big hands covering his face. “Is he gone?” He did not look up at the doctor as he spoke.

“Not yet, but if I know anything, he shan’t be much longer in this world.” James replied, gravely.

When John Aldebourne had not stirred, nor replied, Dr. Keckilpenny asked. “I say . . . are you . . . quite well?”

The former reverend uncovered his face and looked up. And there was now something which had never before been reflected in the scornful eyes of John Aldebourne: brokenness. He said nothing, and then James dropped a hand onto his shoulder in the kindest tone, said, “What is wrong, my friend?”

The green eyes no longer flashed, but glistened, as John Aldebourne spoke in a choking voice. “All of this time-how could I have been so wrong? How could I not see?” And then his big shoulders heaved with sorrow.

“It is not too late to turn to Him.” James Keckilpenny gripped the big shoulder beneath his hand. “He will still forgive and save.”

“But how can He? How many others have I led astray? How many have I wronged by speaking only of good works and piety and never once alluding to the Saviour? How can I be redeemed?”

“‘For whosoever shall calleth upon the name of the Lord, shall be saved.’ Any who come to Him He shall not cast out.” And he could have said more-and much more has been said-on this subject. But it was enough, and God blessed His Word as it was spoken by the good doctor.

“Forgive me, Lord!” John Aldenourne cried, falling upon his knees in the middle of the barn. “Forgive my blindness, my stubbornness, my unbelief. I’ve nought to give you, Lord, and I see now that there never was anything sufficient that I could give to earn your favor. I at last believe and acknowledge that Jesus is the Son of God, and He it is that has died for my sins, to redeem me from them that I might know and serve you.” And the contrite man confessed much more to the Lord of the sins which he had committed, against his wife, against his son, and against his congregation.

And when he had risen, Doctor Keckilpenny met his gaze with a welcoming smile. “I never did see so many souls enter God’s kingdom, nearly at once.”

The first smile which had crossed John Aldebourne’s face in years lit his eyes with newfound joy. And then, his face melted back to seriousness. “Where is my son?”

“He should be at my house at this time of day.”

“I . . . I must speak to him.”

“Then go and do so. I will stay here.” Dr. Keckilpenny told him.

“Thank you.” John Aldebourne hurried to saddle his own horse and was leading him out, when he stopped. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a shilling. “When the lad who fetched you comes back here with the farmer’s horse, would you give him this?”

“Certainly.” The doctor pocketed the shilling and watched John Aldebourne leap onto his horse. With a smile on his lips, the doctor watched the former minister ride away.

-

John Aldebourne rode his horse hard until he had reached the little cottage where he and his wife now lived.

He came up into the yard and pulled his horse to a halt. Mrs. Aldebourne was sweeping on the front steps and she looked up in surprise. “John! What’s wrong?”

He had dismounted already and now stood beside the horse. He looked at her without saying a word. Clarice’s gaze met his and then she understood what had happened. Dropping her broom, she ran to him and was caught up in his arms. “Oh, John, you’ve come to Him too!” And she wept on his neck.

“Yes, my dear.” Her husband set her down. He held her at arms-length. “Forgive me for not listening and for leading our family down the wrong road.”

“Of course, I forgive you, my darling.”

“I don’t know how I could have been so blind.” He muttered.

“We all were.”

He looked down at her and nodded. Gazing into the sky, a thoughtful look flitted across his face and then one corner of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile. “I don’t wonder that Dick saw the light first. He was always much more honest about himself than I ever was.”

Mrs. Aldebourne smiled too. “Indeed, he was.”

And then John Aldebourne snapped from his reverie and took his wife’s hand. “Come, my dear, we must go to our son.”

-

“And then the elephant ran away, because he was dreadful scared of mice.” With her feet planted on the garden gate, Lucy Keckilpenny rocked back and forth, her chubby hands gripping the top of the gate and her brown curls swinging to and fro with her movements.

Both Lucy and Dick were watching for Arthur to come home and as they waited, Lucy was telling Dick a story.

“Did he indeed?” Dick was leaning with his chin in his hands and with his elbows planted on the fence rail. He watched Lucy with a smile as she threw herself into swinging the garden gate.

“Yes, and then the mice ate up all of the elephant’s food.”

“Jolly mean of them.” Dick protested.

“Oh, but it wasn’t!” Lucy exclaimed, with a squeak in her small voice. “You see, the mice had . . .”

The sound of a horse’s hooves clopping along the dirt road, brought Dick’s head up and the rest of Lucy’s explanation went unheard by him. He watched as a waggon approached. Dick at once recognized the gray mare that was pulling it and his eyes widened in amazement, for seated in the waggon behind the horse was his mother and father. They pulled to a stop in front of the Keckilpenny’s fence and all they and he could do was stare at one another.

At last, Lucy broke the stillness. “Who’s that, Dicky?”

Dick was still staring at his parents. “It’s . . . it’s my mother and . . . father. . . Lucy.”

John Aldebourne handed the horse’s reins to his wife and then climbed down from the waggon seat. Lucy had stopped her swinging, and was merely standing on the gate’s bottom board, watching with wide eyes as he approached.

Then their eyes met; the innocent bright blue eyes and the sorrowful green ones. A kind of understanding passed between the two and they both smiled in the same instant. The girl’s dimples appeared in her round cheeks, and the man’s cheeks were creased. One mouth was well accustomed to the exercise, and the other was not.

Dick watched this silent interchange in frozen fascination.

“Are you Dicky’s father?” Lucy asked.

Dick nearly fell over in surprise when his father did not deny their relationship.

“If you are, why does Dicky live with us and not with you?” At this blunt question, there was a round of coughs and clearing of throats and a general hemming and hawing from both Dick and his father.

At that moment, Mrs. Keckilpenny called to Lucy from the house and she had shot off in an instant before either Aldebourne could think of a satisfactory explanation for the curious little girl.

Dick turned from watching her run and found himself face to face with his father.

“Will you come out here?” His father motionied with his head to the side of the fence where he and Mrs. Aldebourne were.

Dick opened the gate and stepped out in front of his father. The action was done reluctantly, but when he stood before John Aldebourne he met his gaze without fear or defiance. It was simply a patient look as though he were prepared to either wait forever or to take insults upon his head without retaliating.

“I’ve something to tell you.” John Aldebourne began. “I’ve just come from the deathbed of my employer.”

“I am sorry.”

“Yes-well, so am I.” His father paused in reflection. “Still, God can work miracles through death-and has done so.”

Dick’s deep blue eyes were riveted to his father’s face. He said nary a word, but merely listened with bated breath.

“I’ve come to know how insufficient I am of myself, and I’ve trusted in Jesus to save me.” And then a huge grin broke out on his face, the likes of which Dick had never seen there before.

“So have I.” Dick returned his father’s smile.

John Aldebourne stopped smiling and he said in a serious tone, “Dick, I owe you . . .” He stopped and then shook his head. “An apology seems insufficient for what I’ve done to you. I owe you all of your childhood. Not only did I make you feel as though you were worthless, I set myself up above you as what I thought was a good example. But I was really leading you astray and making it more difficult for you to understand God’s salvation. Can you . . .” His voice choked. “Can you ever forgive me, Dick?”

Dick was shocked to see his father’s flinty eyes filling with tears. Those had been more scarce in John Aldebourne’s eyes than smiles had been to his lips.

Dick’s lip trembled. “ Father, the Lord has forgiven my sins. Of course, I forgive you.” He cleared his throat, “Can you . . . forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” His father drew back and looked at Dick incredulously. “What am I to forgive you for?”

“For . . .” Dick hesitated. Then with downcast eyes, he whispered, “I hated you.”

“I can understand why.” His father muttered. But then he smiled at Dick, “All the same, I forgive you.” There was silence for several seconds. “Dick, you paid back Mr. Cunningham didn’t you?”

Dick stiffened at this abrupt question. “I paid him, though it was nothing I owed to him.”

“You still maintain that you did not steal from him?” The expression on his face was not stern, as it would have been in times past, but it was an expectant one, as he waited for his son’s answer.

“Yes.” Dick said, firmly. “I told you and everyone else from the beginning that I hadn’t. The truth does not change.”

“I believe you, Dick.”

Now it was Dick’s turn to stare at his father in unbelief. “You do?”

His father nodded. “I do, indeed. And there I owe you another apology; for falsely accusing you.”

Dick’s face reddened and he looked as though he would cry. “I . . . forgive you. Th-thank you.”

Though all that had passed was amazing, Dick was still surprised when his father said, with a hopeful look, “Will you come home, then?”

And Dick was so glad that he sprung into the waggon without thinking of saying goodbye to his kind friends, nor of gathering his belongings.

All three Aldebourne’s were silent for several moments as they drove towards their home. Then Mrs. Aldebourne looked from her husband to her son. “I feel as though we are a family for the first time.”

And they all grew silently thoughtful at this statement, but none would speak, for fear that their voice would break.

But then, moved with gratefulness towards the heavenly Father, and a new love for his family, John Aldebourne cleared his throat. “I feel as though . . . as though I have been a barren and fruitless field these many years. And now . . . now at last, when all was hopeless . . . the Lord has sent His rain down upon me . . . and I thirst no longer.”

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