106 
An Honest Talk

Amanda Rutherford and Timothy Diggorsfeld had been talking for more than an hour as they had never spoken with each other before.

Honest had been Amanda’s confessions, frank Timothy’s counsel. Nothing could be gained for either by pampering, hiding, or glossing over the truth. Too much had already been lost. The time to face serious spiritual reality had come.

Amanda told him about Vienna and Ramsay and the sisters at the chalet, including the counsel she had received and her reaction.

“I realize what a selfish girl I have been,” Amanda was saying. “My father tried to tell me. Sister Hope tried to tell me. Probably God himself tried to tell me, too, through my circumstances. But I wouldn’t listen. I was stubborn and selfish and independent, just like you said. I did nothing but what I wanted to do. And look what it got me. Into more and more trouble. I was not even a respectable prodigal, Mr. Diggorsfeld, as you said in your sermon.”

Amanda began to cry.

“But I don’t want to end up like Robinson Crusoe, Mr. Diggorsfeld,” she went on, sniffling and wiping away her tears. “I don’t want to spend another thirty years in misery. I’ve had enough misery to last a lifetime. I have been so selfish and foolish. I see it so clearly now. My father was not controlling. He was just trying to do his best to train me out of my rebellious attitude. I’m sure he saw it all along.”

“He saw it, yes, and it concerned him,” said Timothy. “He loved you, Amanda. That is why he was willing to risk even your rejection, even your despising him for a season, to try to help you learn to lay it down.”

“And I never learned!” wailed Amanda. “I just blamed him for my own wrong attitudes. I can hardly bear it. What a great ordeal I must have put him through!”

Timothy said nothing for a moment.

“I talked with him, and prayed with him over you many times,” he said at length.

“But . . . what am I to do now!” moaned Amanda. “It’s too late to make it right with him!”

She broke down sobbing.

“You must do what we all must do, Amanda,” said Timothy. “You must arise and go to your father. It is how all such stories must end.”

“But it’s too late, I tell you—he’s dead!” she wailed.

“With God, it is never too late.”

“But how can I go to him now?”

“You must go to your heavenly Father first,” said Timothy. “Then he will show you how to go to your earthly father. But rest assured, reconciliation is always possible.”

“But he is dead,” repeated Amanda.

“Only to our sight. And that fact changes nothing about your responsibility. It still must be done,” said Timothy. “It is not primarily for the father that straying young people must return with repentance in their hearts . . . but for themselves. It is something you must do. Though your father may be gone from the earth, in your heart his memory still lives no less today than when you were young and with him every day. I am confident God will show you how to make peace with that memory.”

It was silent a moment.

“There is something I have not told you yet,” Timothy went on after a moment, then paused.

Amanda waited.

“That sermon you heard this morning . . . they were not my words at all.”

Amanda looked at him with an odd expression. “I wondered,” she said. “They did seem . . . different somehow.”

“Your father wrote those words, Amanda,” he said. “I once asked him to preach at New Hope Chapel, many years ago. He wrote that sermon for the occasion. He called it his testimonial sermon.”

Amanda took in the words soberly. Again her eyes filled with tears. A rush of deep emotion welled up within her. She realized she had actually been listening to her father’s voice speaking to her, as from the other side of the grave.

“So you see, Amanda,” said Timothy, “by responding as you have, and by taking his words to heart, you have already begun turning toward your father in a new way. The Lord has taken him from us. Yet in another way he remains with us through our memories of him, through his teaching, his character.”

Amanda leaned forward and broke into sobs again. She sat in the chair with her face in her hands, her body shaking. The excruciating remorse was so deep she felt as if her very stomach would turn inside out.

Timothy waited with eyes closed. Even in the midst of his own grief, he knew it was impossible for him to fathom her guilt-stricken anguish at such a moment of loss.

When Amanda came to herself she knew a decision had been reached.

She had all her life been nothing but what she had wanted to be, done nothing but what she had wanted to do. Self-rule had dominated her character almost since the day she was born. She had resented any and all intrusion from her parents, from God . . . from anyone.

But how lonely had become such an existence. What kind of a life had she made for herself? She had squandered everything her father had given her—both his money and his training. Even hired maids back at the estate in Devonshire enjoyed a better life than hers.

As if reading her mind, at length Timothy spoke softly. “Have you seen your mother yet?” he said.

Amanda shook her head.

“You must,” he said.

“I . . . I couldn’t face her,” said Amanda. “Not after what I have done . . . what I have been. I am so ashamed.”

“You do not think she would receive you with open arms?”

“How could she?”

“She loves you more than you can imagine.”

That Amanda knew Diggorsfeld’s words were true only made the fact all the more heart wrenching that she had rejected that love, from both mother and father.

“I don’t know if I can face her,” she repeated softly. “It would be too humiliating.”

What should have been the easiest thing to do in all the world—go home—she was afraid to do.

“So you think to add to the grief of the present by remaining estranged from her?” asked Timothy.

Amanda took in the words almost as if she had been slapped in the face. He was direct! Yet in some strange way she was glad. She did not want to be babied in wrong attitudes any longer.

“But how can I face her?” she wailed again in the most forlorn tone Timothy thought he had ever heard. “She must hate me!”

“You know that is not true.”

Amanda sat without expression.

“You must arise and go to your father,” he urged again, “even though it may be your mother’s arms that will receive you.”