Saturday was another beautiful day, and as we gathered around the dinner table, Janet suddenly looked out of the open window and said, “Mum, could we take tea to the river and swim this afternoon?”
A joyful roar greeted this suggestion, for we had not been swimming that year. Mrs. Owen glanced rather doubtfully outside, but the still-golden sunshine reassured her, and she agreed it would be a very good idea.
“Come with us, Daddy,” coaxed Johnny, climbing onto his father’s knee. “You said you’d teach me to swim.”
Mr. Owen was a very busy man, and his company was a rare treat, but he shook his head sadly. “Got to get into my best black suit and marry someone,” he said with a sigh. He looked out to the sparkling blue sea in the distance. “Fancy wanting to get married on an afternoon like this when you could be splashing in the river!”
“Never mind, Dad,” comforted Peter. “You’ll get a lovely tea.”
“Maybe,” said his father, “but I’d rather eat buns in the mud with you. Never mind! I’ll keep next Saturday free and take you all to the beach—mums, babies, prams, dogs, and all!”
He scattered the children and went off to get ready, and we rushed in all directions collecting fishing rods, sandwiches, lemonade, Cadwaller, and towels.
Mrs. Owen was rather worried about Francie going, too, but Peter promised to look after her really well.
“The river’s so shallow, we couldn’t drown her if we wanted to,” he said.
“Which we don’t,” added Johnny.
“Remember, Francie is very small. Dry her properly, Janet,” said Mrs. Owen. “And don’t sit around in wet swimming things. And Elaine, don’t stay in too long, and don’t forget—”
“No, Mummy. Yes, Mummy. We won’t forget anything, we promise,” we shouted, all kissing her good-bye at once and dashing off up the hill. The countryside, bathed in sunshine, was beautiful. We all went mad and pushed one another around and laughed over nothing at all till we couldn’t stop, as happy children will when spring has got into their blood.
When we reached the top of the valley where we could see the river below, I suddenly remembered something and stood stock-still.
“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Janet, turning around to see why I’d stopped. “Have you swallowed a fly?”
“I’ve just remembered,” I answered slowly, “I promised I’d go to tea with Philippa.” There was a long, dismayed silence. Then Janet spoke.
“You’d better go back,” she said flatly. “Or . . . I suppose I could go back instead. I mean, if it was a promise, I suppose someone had better keep it.”
“Come on, you girls,” shouted Peter. He had reached the bank and had already changed into his swimming trunks. Johnny and Frances were struggling with their buttons.
I stood thinking deeply. I had said I’d go back and take the Bible. If I failed, she’d never believe that the Bible made any difference to anyone. I stared again at the inviting little path, and it reminded me of my special verse: “You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy.” And suddenly I knew very clearly what path He was showing me that afternoon—not the one that led down to the cool river, but the one that led back over the fields to Philippa—the path of unselfishness and kindness and keeping one’s promises. That was where I would find Jesus.
I drew a long breath and turned back. “I’d better go,” I said. “Good-bye. Have a nice time.”
“Good-bye,” answered Janet, much relieved. “We’ll come again another time—there’ll be lots more chances to swim.” She rushed off down the valley, unfastening her dress as she ran.
It seemed a long, hot walk home, and I tried hard not to think of the others splashing in the river. Yet I was not really as unhappy as I thought I would be. I think it was the first time in my life I had given up doing something I really wanted to do for the sake of someone else, and it was a strange, rather pleasant feeling. I reached the house at last and retrieved my Bible. When I reached Philippa’s house it was half past four, and Mrs. Thomas was standing at the gate looking rather anxious.
“Oh, Elaine,” she said in a relieved voice, “I’m so glad you’ve come. You see, it’s Philippa’s birthday, and I was going to have a party, but she wanted you all by yourself, and she said you’d promised to come. She was getting in such a state, thinking you’d forgotten.”
She led me into the garden, where Philippa lay in a deck chair by the rockery with tea spread out beside her, and a beautiful pink birthday cake with ten candles. She looked very pretty in a new blue summer dress she had received as a present, and I, hot and crumpled, in my oldest clothes and muddy shoes, felt rather ashamed of myself.
“Where have you been?” asked Philippa. “I thought you’d forgotten. You didn’t know it was my birthday, did you?”
“No,” I answered, “or I’d have brought you a present. Happy birthday, Philippa! I’m sorry I’m late, but the others went swimming in the river, and I went some of the way with them and then came back by myself.”
“Oh,” said Philippa, looking at me curiously, “and why did you do that? Did you forget you were coming to tea with me?”
“Well, yes,” I replied truthfully, “I did at first, because Pete thought of swimming only at dinnertime, suddenly, and we all got rather excited. But as soon as I remembered, I came back quick.”
“Oh, I see,” said Philippa. Then she added, “Do you like swimming?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered. “But it doesn’t matter. Mr. Owen’s going to take us to the sea next week. We’re not allowed to swim alone in the sea, but the river’s shallow. Even Francie went.”
Then Mrs. Thomas arrived with the teapot, and we had a very happy tea party. Mrs. Thomas told us funny stories, and I stuffed myself with cakes and cookies and sandwiches. Then we lit the candles, which didn’t show at all in the sunshine, and Philippa cut the cake.
When I could eat no more, Mrs. Thomas picked up the tray. “I’m going to wash up the tea things now,” she said, “and leave you two together. Philippa, do you want to show Elaine your presents?”
“Later,” said Philippa. “We’ll stay here for a bit now, because we’ve got a secret.” She waited till her mother had disappeared, and then she turned to me eagerly. “Have you brought your Bible, Elaine?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, rather surprised, for she had not seemed particularly interested before. “It’s here under my chair. I’ll show it to you.”
“It’s like this,” said Philippa. “I’ve been thinking. You said that when you know Jesus, it makes you good, and I think I’ll believe you now, because you came back from swimming when I know you wanted to go. If you hadn’t come back, I’d have thought it was all silly pretending. And you said it was like having a friend you could tell things to, and I just wondered—if I read my Bible and prayed, do you think Jesus would make me walk again?”
I hesitated. “He could make you walk again,” I said simply. “He did heal people lots of times. He was always making people better. Mark’s Gospel is full of stories about people who were ill and got healed.”
“Well, read me one,” commanded Philippa.
“I’ll read what I read this morning,” I said confidently. “It was about a man who couldn’t walk at all, so his friends let him down through a hole in the roof, and first of all Jesus said, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ and then He made him walk. Here it is, I’ve found it.” I read her the story of the paralyzed man in Mark 2, and she listened intently, her eyes fixed on my face.
“It said in the notes,” I remarked thoughtfully, “that the most important thing is to have your sins forgiven. Then you can start asking for other things.”
Philippa frowned. “I don’t think I’ve got an awful lot of sins,” she said. “How could I, lying here? I couldn’t really be very naughty if I tried.”
“You can be bad-tempered,” I answered, “and you do grumble a lot. I think that counts as sin. I used to get terribly cross before I loved Jesus.”
“You still are, sometimes,” retorted Philippa. “But never mind, let’s not quarrel today. Tell me how you get your sins forgiven.”
“You just ask,” I said simply, “and you believe that Jesus died for you. That’s all, I think.”
Philippa shook her head. “I don’t believe it’s as easy as all that,” she said firmly. “Let’s not bother about sins. Let’s just ask Jesus to make me walk. Do you know how, Elaine?”
I looked doubtful. “I don’t think you can do it like that, Philippa,” I answered. “I’m sure you’ve got to belong to Jesus first. Let me ask Mrs. Owen about it, and then I’ll come and tell you.”
“All right,” said Philippa, “you ask her. I don’t believe you know an awful lot about it yourself, Elaine. Now come and see my presents.”
I helped her indoors and admired her beautiful gifts, and then I said good-bye and thank you to Mrs. Thomas and went trotting home. To my surprise, the others had not returned. It was one of those very rare occasions when I could have Mrs. Owen all to myself. She was in the kitchen, ironing.
“Auntie,” I said, “I want to ask you something very important. Can you pray for things before you’ve had your sins forgiven?”
She looked up, startled. “Why have you come home, Elaine?” She asked. “Where are the others?”
“I forgot I promised to go to tea with Philippa,” I explained, “so I came back . . . and Philippa wants to know. She wants me to pray that she’ll get better, but she doesn’t want to bother about having her sins forgiven. She says she hasn’t got many.”
Mrs. Owen switched off her iron and gave me her whole attention. I discovered later that she prayed each day for Philippa and her mother.
“It tells us in the Bible that God is so pure and holy that we can’t come to Him at all until we’ve been made clean and forgiven by the Lord Jesus,” she answered.
Our peace was shattered as the back door was flung open and the children burst into the kitchen, sunburned, messy, and noisy, trailing wet swimming things, with Cadwaller covered in mud leaping behind them.
“Mum,” announced Peter, “there were some Boy Scouts in tents by the river, camping. Mum, please, can we all go camping?”
Mrs. Owen blinked, as she always did when switched too suddenly from one subject to another. “Why, yes, Peter,” she answered, “I think it would be lovely. But you didn’t mean tonight, did you?”
“No, Mum, not tonight,” said Peter. “We would need weeks and weeks to get ready. I mean in the summer holidays. You said we couldn’t afford to go somewhere together, but camping wouldn’t cost anything at all. We’d go to the mountains, and we’d go on bikes, and you and the babies and everything else could come on the bus. We’d go on Dad’s holiday, and he’d take us up Snowdon.”
“Who’s taking me up Snowdon?” asked the vicar, coming in at that moment and flinging himself down rather wearily into the old kitchen chair, and holding out his arms to Frances, who leaped joyfully into his lap.
“Mum says we can go camping in the mountains this summer,” said Peter eagerly. “You said you’d take us climbing this year, didn’t you, Dad?”
“Why, yes,” agreed Mr. Owen, as eager as Peter. “I’ve been waiting for years for you to be old enough to start on the big mountains, and I’d have taken you all last August, only you spoiled it by having chicken pox. It will be extra good fun this year, because we will have Elaine with us. We need to find a farmhouse for Mum and the little ones, and one tent for me and Pete and Johnny and one for the girls.”
“Me in the tent,” whispered Frances. “Oh, say I can be in the tent!”
“Of course,” answered Mr. Owen, laughing. “I’m not sleeping out in the wilds of Snowdon without Francie to look after me!” And he drew her smooth, mousy head against his shoulder and gave her a hug.