Hsi-chen lay staring up at the rough ceiling of her father’s dispensary. For the moment she was reflecting that only a few days earlier there had been a hole the size of an apple in the very spot where her gaze rested. Now, thanks to the new guests, it was sound again and would withstand the rains for many years to come.
Many years to come. . . . The thought of the distant future was sobering indeed, and took her mind off the hospital’s new roof.
Behind her Hsi-chen heard the door creak and she was glad to have her thoughts wrenched from the direction they had begun to take. She turned her head and saw her father approaching. His face wore a deeply pensive look, striking for one whose face always seemed absorbed in thought. His look drew tiny lines of anxiety to the corner of her eyes. But she tried to shake the worry away, breathed a silent prayer, and smiled to her father, now acting in the capacity of her doctor as well.
“You need not mask your anxiety, Hsi-chen,” he said. “I share your thoughts with you, and I know your feelings are coupled with faith.”
“I pray always that I will be able to leave this in God’s hands.”
“He will honor your prayers.”
“But I am still frightened.”
Wallace reached out and took his daughter’s hand. It was damp and cold in his strong, warm grip. She felt a security in his touch. She knew God had given her this man to be her father for just such a time. He had been all a father could ever be to a daughter, and yet at this moment she knew she needed his strength and his faith in God perhaps more than ever before.
Wallace prayed silently over his daughter for several minutes, then released her hand, stroked her silky hair, smiled, and began his examination.
When he was finished some six or seven minutes later, he spent several moments rearranging his instruments, apparently absorbed intently on that task. Hsi-chen sat up on the table and waited patiently. She knew her father’s attention was not engrossed in the tidiness of his instrument tray, so she quietly gave him the time he needed to think, to draw his medical conclusions, and perhaps to collect his turbulent parental emotions.
At length he laced his fingers together and brought his hands to his chin, which he tapped thoughtfully as he spoke, keeping his voice, even then, professional. Indeed, perhaps even more professional than ordinarily, for he had emotions to mask as well as his daughter.
“Nothing has changed since the tests we made last month, my dear,” he said. “To know anything for certain, we will have to send more blood to Shanghai. But perhaps it is a good sign. The longer we can keep it at bay—”
“I feel well,” Hsi-chen said, eager hope imprinted on her features. “Perhaps I just became faint from the sun. It may be unrelated.”
“Perhaps. We may always hope that is true. I know so little about this. If only more was known—” He stopped short, his voice catching on his rising emotion.
“Oh, Fu-ch’in, Father,” she said, beginning to weep softly. “I so want to be brave.”
Wallace wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair, murmuring gentle words in her ear in her native tongue, as he had often done when she was a child and knew not a word of English.
“Always remember, dear child,” said Wallace in a tender voice, still holding his daughter, “we have our God, and He is mighty—to heal, to renew strength, to give courage to accept the path laid before us. He will never fail you, Hsi-chen.”
She nodded bravely, her eyes alight with faith even as Wallace wiped the tears away.
“Now,” he continued in a lighter tone, “there are two very concerned people outside.”
“Two?”
“Your mother, of course, and Mr. Taggart.”
“Mr. Taggart? That is kind of him.”
Wallace hesitated a moment, as if this were a new consideration where their guest was concerned, then said, thoughtfully, “Yes . . . I suppose it is.”
“I do not think you like Mr. Taggart, Fu-ch’in.”
“I believe Mr. Taggart is a man easily liked,” replied Wallace, “but he does trouble me. It is apparent that he possesses a great deal to give to others. But because he refuses to reach beyond the shallow surface of life, I fear he may not come to realize the potential God intended for him.”
“I see, Fu-ch’in. But he is not lost yet. Do not forget your own prayers for him when he came to us. I think perhaps he is on the verge of an awakening, like a bud ready to blossom.”
Wallace smiled. “God has given you a wonderful spirit, dear Hsi-chen.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, perhaps thinking of the special gift he had been allowed to have that might be all too soon taken away. “I’m sure you are right. But who can tell what the Father in heaven may have to put our Mr. Taggart through in order for him to awaken to his own awakening. We must keep praying diligently for him.”
“I have been, Father.”
“I know, my child. And I thank you for reminding me of my own necessity.”
Wallace turned and walked toward the door, but before he opened it, his adopted daughter called out to him,
“Fu-ch’in, I love you!”
He inhaled deeply, as if to gather strength for the smile that followed. “Your name was rightly given Hsi-chen—Joy that is true. Now rest, while I call your mother.”
After a few minutes Shan-fei came in, leaning on her husband’s arm. She did not often venture far from the residence, and when she did so, it was always on her husband’s arm, for her feet did not permit much adventuring. Wallace drew a chair for his wife up to the bed where Hsi-chen now sat, dressed and eager to return to her routine. Wallace did not miss the impatient look on his daughter’s face.
“I have several calls I must make,” he said. “Hsi-chen, you will stay in bed the remainder of the day.”
“But I promised Chang that I would come back this evening.”
“I will take care of that,” he replied, now wearing his more stern countenance. “You must remain in bed.”
When he had gone, Shan-fei turned to Hsi-chen with more pleading in her voice. “You must do as your Fu-ch’in says.” Her motherly concern was evident even beneath her reserved demeanor. “He knows what is best. Perhaps you will do even more than he says—you will rest many days. It would be good for your body.”
“Mama, we have spoken of this before. I will not become an invalid. That is why I want no one but you and Father to know of my illness. Can it be so wrong of me to want to live a normal life?”
“I understand, dear one,” answered the mother sorrowfully. “Have I not myself lived the life of an invalid? But God gives grace.”
“I know. But you had no choice. I do, and I want to invest what days I have in service, in living, not merely waiting—until God tells me I must stop.”
“Will you hear God’s voice in this matter, child?”
“Pray for me, Mama, that I will.”
The older woman caressed her daughter’s cheek and nodded her head. The lovely, flawless face showed lines of worry, hinting at the woman’s true age. Her eyes wept, though no tears flowed, for her only daughter whom she loved. The years had cloaked her, too, with a kind of strength perhaps only a woman can know, though it came not from herself, but from the One whom she trusted, and whom she had given up so much to serve many years ago.