116 
Milverscombe Remembers
On the following Sunday, the old stone church of Milverscombe parish was packed as it had not been except on two or three occasions during its long existence.
“We are going to cut short our regular service from the prayer book this morning,” said Vicar Stuart Coleridge, “in order to spend some time remembering our dear friends Charles and George Rutherford.
“Last week, we were all so numb from shock of the news that I must admit I would almost rather have canceled services than go through them as we did, knowing our beloved Lady Jocelyn and her daughter Catharine were grieving and we felt so powerless to extend our love to them. Yet now a week has gone by, and we are pleased that Sir Charles and Lady Jocelyn’s older daughter, Amanda, is now with us again. I hope, therefore, that the passage of this time will enable us to put these heartbreaking events into a perspective that will comfort our hearts and allow us to recall these cherished loved ones with joy, asking our Lord to bring a new dawn of hopefulness to our hearts.
“I have asked my good friend and yours, Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld from London, to preside. Rev. Diggorsfeld needs no introduction, for he has been in our midst on many occasions throughout the years. As uncommon as it may be in other parts of Great Britain for Church of England vicars and dissenting Presbyterian ministers to exchange pulpits from time to time, I hope it will always be considered the norm here, where I and this man—whom I count among my closest spiritual friends and advisors—happen to believe in unity above doctrinal and denominational distinctions. That said, I will now turn the remainder of this morning’s service over to Rev. Diggorsfeld.”
Timothy came forward, shook hands with the vicar, then stood before the Milverscombe congregation. He remained silent for many long seconds. Finally he drew in a deep breath and began.
“Thank you, Vicar Coleridge,” Timothy said. “The occasion that brings us together on this day is a grievous one to our hearts,” he went on, “—grievous, I should add, as the world judges it. Though Vicar Coleridge is correct in saying the passage of this week has helped assuage the initial numbness and shock, I must tell you that I remain devastated by what has happened, and sad almost beyond my capacity to endure it. It should not be grievous to us, for life has come to these two men, father and son, whom we loved. But it is grievous. Who can deny it? We are weak humans, after all, and do not quite yet believe in eternity with all our hearts. We believe in it, of course. I do not say we doubt the truth of the resurrection. But we are not yet quite able to base our lives upon the full glory of that belief.
“What can we do, what can we say, to comfort one another? It is at such times that eternity intersects with our weakness, crashes cruelly in upon our earthly senses unbidden. And try as we might, even knowing that at such moments we may possibly catch glimpses of the faint glow of eternity from around the edges of the closed door of our finiteness . . . yet we mourn and cannot be comforted, because we are not yet given to see past that door.”
Timothy paused, looked across the sea of faces, and tried to smile.
“I believe in eternity,” he said at length. “I do believe, as I know each of you do. Yet I have wept this week, as have dear Lady Jocelyn and her two lovely daughters, and as I know have all of you. Something tells me I should not weep, that the faint shimmer from beyond the door ought to prevent it. But I did weep. I could not help it. For I am a man, a weak man. I cannot yet behold with clarity what lies beyond the veil we call death.”
Again Timothy paused, this time for several long and thoughtful seconds.
“But Charles and George do behold it,” he went on. “They are there. They are even at this moment bathed in the luminescence of that garden of light of which we are only able to discern hints and faint glows. That door has been opened to them. They have now been privileged to begin their eternal journey. And for that, however deep the aches in our own hearts . . . we ought to be able to rejoice.
“So I am going to ask whether we might this morning, for their sake, open the door if not in reality, at least in our imaginations, and rejoice . . . for them rather than grieve for ourselves.
“We shall weep together. I know I shall. My tears are not altogether dry. I miss my friends. But may we now weep with joy because eternity has visited us rather than weep for our loss?
“It will be difficult. But can we not try to do this together?
“Let us remember our friends as alive, as they surely are. Let us take courage to think of them among us and with us in the spirit now, at this very moment . . . smiling and laughing and spreading the goodness of life to those around them as they always did.
“They are here! Knowing that, I rejoice in the lives that Charles and George Rutherford lived when they were with us in the flesh. Rejoice with me, rather than mourn, that those lives were not as lengthy as we might have wished. Remember our Lord’s words, ‘No one who lives and believes in me will ever die.’
“I think we must ask ourselves, ‘Do we believe the Lord?’ He said they would never die! I challenge us to be strong to take our Lord’s words into our hearts. Let us be strong to rejoice together for George and Charles Rutherford. As we do, let us find comfort in those truths about our heavenly Father that undergirded Charles’ faith—his assurance that his God was trustworthy and good in all things. Charles believed, as I know George did as well, that God’s goodness and trustworthiness extended beyond death.
“Therefore, we may trust God—yes, even trust that God is still good—in the midst of what appears a tragedy. What should be our response to this heartbreak? That God is good. Can we understand how it can be? No . . . but God is still good.
“Charles knew that, and based his life on it. For his sake, I challenge you—and I challenge myself—to take hold of that truth and refuse to let it go. Our hearts are sore . . . but we know that God is good!”
Timothy continued for another ten minutes, then opened the floor for brief remembrances of Charles and George from members of the community.
The instant his voice was still, a dozen hands rose into the air. Timothy hardly knew where to begin with the flood that seemed determined to unleash itself.
Never had the church seen such an outpouring of affection for one of its number. English reserve was cast aside for the opportunity to share about one they loved. The testimonials went on for forty minutes. And though tearful, they were remembrances of joy. The spirit of Charles’ smiling face did indeed rise above the gathering and infect it with something of the same vibrancy as if he were personally among them.
Amanda sat as one stunned to hear of an aspect of her father’s and George’s lives to which she had been so oblivious. She almost wondered if they were talking about someone else. Yet through it all, the ring of familiarity was undeniable. She found image after image now coming back to her, as she faintly recalled many of the incidents spoken of, but realizing she had not taken note of their significance at the time.
At last they were dismissed. As Jocelyn and her daughters filed outside, it seemed the whole community clustered about them. Not a single person felt like leaving.
Amanda was introduced to some she did not know, and many she only faintly remembered.
“Amanda, you remember Gresham Mudgley . . .” said her mother. A simply clad man, with an unruly crop of grey hair coming out all around the edges of his cap, and with the faint odor of sheep’s wool about him, drew near.
“Why, the girl is grown into a lovely lady,” said Mudgley, with a tip of his hat and offering his hand.
“Hello, Mr. Mudgley. It is nice to see you again,” replied Amanda with a pleasant smile, shaking the sheepherder’s rough offered hand and remembering with a stab of conscience the comment she had once made to her father about him.
“Oh, and I want you to meet Sally Osborne—” said Jocelyn, turning away from Mudgley toward a beaming red-faced woman holding the hand of a chubby three-year-old at her side. “—and this little fellow is her son Hadwin.”
“I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Osborne,” said Amanda. She knelt down and smiled at the little boy. “Good morning, Hadwin.”
As she stood, Amanda now noticed a man at Mrs. Osborne’s side holding an exact replica of the same little boy. The look of astonishment on her face was plain to see.
“And this is Andrew Osborne and Gildan,” said her mother.
“Hello,” said Amanda, glancing back and forth between their two boys.
“—as you can see, Sally and Andrew are the proud parents of twin sons.”
“Now I understand,” laughed Amanda. “I thought I was seeing double!”
The press of the crowd and the constant greetings and handshakes and smiles almost reminded Amanda of being in London again. She had never been in the midst of such a gathering—so friendly and warm, like a huge family.
As she was turning back and forth between the twins, all at once in the background she saw two familiar figures approaching. But how changed they were!
“Agatha, good morning!” exclaimed Jocelyn.
“Oh, Jocelyn,” said the other, hugging her emotionally, “I am so sorry!”
“Thank you, but this has been a good day. It is healing to hear how much Charles was loved.—Amanda, you remember Agatha Blakeley—”
“Yes. Good morning, Mrs. Blakeley.”
Amanda swallowed hard as she glanced nervously to the man at her side.
“—and her husband, Rune.”
“Hello, Mr. Blakeley,” Amanda added, shaking Rune Blakeley’s hand.
“Good day to you, Miss Amanda,” he returned, then hesitated. He did not move away but shuffled for a few seconds back and forth on his feet. He obviously had something else he wanted to say.
“I don’t know if you recollect the day, Miss Amanda,” he said after an awkward moment, “when you and your mum was in the village and I’d been treating my Stirling a mite rough, and you ran up in a huff.”
Amanda nodded with an embarrassed smile.
“I been wantin’ to apologize to you for years for my rudeness that day,” he said. “The drink did mighty bad things to me back in them days, and I got your own father and mother to thank for helping me get over it. Many a time your papa sat up most of the night with me. There was times I’d yell at him like I done you. I’m embarrassed to say that I tried to hit him once or twice too, I got so mad. But your papa was a shrewd one. I never could so much as lay a hand on him. I suspect he could have laid me out on the floor with one blow. He was a strong man, and nimble on his feet. But he was always gentle and forgiving, and never held any of that against me. He just kept being patient with me till I got over it. And now here I am, and I got him and your mum to thank. But I was terrible mean to you on that day, Miss Amanda, and it would do this heart of mine a heap of good if you’d say you forgive me for what I said that day.”
Amanda’s heart was stung by the man’s simple apology. His spirit, in the midst of the acknowledgment of his sin, was like that of a child.
“Of course, Mr. Blakeley,” Amanda said. “Of course I forgive you. But I should ask the same of you. I was just as insensitive myself, and I’m afraid I said some rather unkind things to my mother about you afterward. I too apologize.”
“Think nothing more about it, miss. You were just a child. I was a grown man and should have known better.”
“How is Stirling?”
“He’s away at university, Miss Amanda—at Oxford,” replied Mrs. Blakeley.
“That’s wonderful,” said Amanda. “I am so happy to hear of it. He must be a grown man by now.”
“He still walks with his limp,” his mother said, “but he’s a good strong lad. He and your brother, George, were the best of friends.”
“Your father was always real good to him too,” added Rune.
“Tell Stirling hello for me next time you write him, will you please?” said Amanda.
“You could say the same to your sister,” replied Agatha. “Stirling and Catharine have been writing since he left.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Just the same, I would appreciate your telling him too.”
“We will indeed,” Agatha said.
A jab in Amanda’s ribs from Catharine turned Amanda again in another direction, where she was now as shocked as her sister to see Gwendolen Powell and her mother walking toward them. They had not seen them during the service.
“Hello, Amanda, Catharine,” said Gwendolen, with a pleasant tone and far more gracious expression than Catharine in particular would have given her credit for being able to display. “I am so sorry about your father and George.”
“Thank you,” Catharine replied.
“I heard you were back, Amanda,” Gwendolen said. “It has been a long time. I don’t think I would have recognized you.”
“Nor I you,” Amanda smiled. “Are we both getting to that age where we start talking about the years flying by?”
“I hope not,” Gwendolen replied with a laugh. “I do not want to relinquish my youth quite yet.”
She paused as she looked momentarily at both girls with an unexpectedly shy expression.
“I . . . I would be happy to have you visit me,” she said after a moment. “Anytime.”
“Thank you, Gwendolen,” said Amanda. “Perhaps we shall ride over this week.”
“I would like that very much,” rejoined Gwendolen.
“We are all very, very sorry,” now said Mrs. Powell, shaking Jocelyn’s hand. “Your husband was highly thought of in all of Devon.”
“Thank you, Lady Holsworthy, that is very kind of you.”
Mother and daughters turned to leave and were soon on their way home.
“What are you doing, Amanda?” said Catharine when they were alone a moment later. “I don’t know that I am interested in going to visit Gwendolen Powell.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I never cared that much for her. And what if Hubert is around?”
“I thought you told me he was married and getting fat.”
“Maybe so, but the idea of visiting Holsworthy Castle is not one I find appealing.”
“Can’t you tell Gwendolen is lonely?”
“Lonely!” exclaimed Catharine in a loud whisper.
“It is written all over her face, Catharine. She’s hungry for friendship—there’s nothing so sinister in that. And I think I shall go visit her.”
“Well, I’m not so sure.”
“Suit yourself,” said Amanda, “but I felt sorry for her.”