Timothy tried to help his older brother, but almost everything that he attempted didn’t turn out quite right. Timothy likely taught Eamon more about patience than any other family member. For Eamon did adore his younger brother, in spite of the fact that he often led the smaller boy into trouble.
“When you get all better—” Timothy would often say, and then follow the words with some elaborate plan. Eamon would look at his damaged hands and his eyes would cloud. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Kathleen heard him say on more than one occasion. “We might get hurt.”
Kathleen figured that Eamon had experienced quite enough “hurt” for some time to come.
By the time Eamon’s hands healed enough to use in some fashion, he seemed to be much quieter of spirit.
“Maybe God has used this terrible accident to bring Eamon a—a miracle,” Donnigan dared to say to Kathleen as they prepared for bed one evening.
“Oh, I do hope good will come of it,” breathed Kathleen as she slipped her long gown over her head. She moved toward the bed and threw back the covers.
“But it is so hard—so hard to see his hands scarred like this,” she said with heaviness.
“Better his hands than his soul,” replied Donnigan.
Kathleen nodded her head in agreement.
“Now,” she said to her husband, “what are we gonna do with Rachel?”
Chapter Twenty-three
The Discovery
Donnigan was poring over the Scriptures again. It seemed to Kathleen that he spent most of his evenings reading portions, scribbling down notations and cross-checking verses.
“What are you looking for?” she asked him, using her teeth to bite off the thread that had just been sewn on a button.
“You shouldn’t do that,” Donnigan reminded her as he looked up.
She nodded. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but the scissors were across the room in her sewing basket.
“We’re missing something,” Donnigan went on in reply to her question. “I’m sure it’s here. I’m sure. If I can just get it all sorted out.”
Kathleen made no reply so Donnigan went on, scanning down his notes as he spoke. “God made man—man sinned—so God brought in the Law. If man sacrificed the animals and tried to obey—God was pleased.”
Kathleen nodded in agreement. Donnigan’s brow was still furrowed.
“You don’t think we should still be making sacrifices, do you?” asked Kathleen, a bit appalled at the thought.
“No—” replied Donnigan tapping his paper with the pencil. “Remember the verse that says, ‘Obedience is better than sacrifice.’ And Christ didn’t ask for sacrifice in the New Testament church.”
“So all we need to do is obey?” responded Kathleen, somewhat relieved.
“Yeah—but the problem is—none of us do.”
Kathleen wished to argue that statement. “I do,” she said quickly. “At least—I try.”
“That’s the point,” said Donnigan. “No matter how hard we try—we still don’t quite make it. Here in Romans it says, ‘For all have sinned.’ And again over here, ‘There is none righteous, no, not one.’ And the verse that really settles it is this one that says, ‘All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags.’ ”
Donnigan laid down his pencil and looked at her. Kathleen’s hands had stilled in her lap. It sounded to her as if there really wasn’t much hope.
“But something changed,” she reminded him. “All those verses about Jesus—why He came to earth—to die. Remember it said that He was the sacrifice—once—for all.”
“That’s why we no longer need the lambs and bulls,” said Donnigan, nodding.
“Then what’s missing?”
“I don’t know,” replied Donnigan slowly, leaning back in his chair and gazing at the open Book before him. “I don’t know what’s missing—except peace. Why don’t I have peace, Kathleen? Why am I still struggling?”
Kathleen did not reply. She did not have the answer.
Wallis called—just at mealtime. Kathleen should have been used to it—in fact, she was—but it always managed to irk her just a bit when she had to leave the table and get another plate for the neighbor man and crowd the children even closer together.
“Wondering how yer crops are doin’,” Wallis explained to Donnigan as though that were the reason for his visit.
Kathleen lowered her eyes quickly to her plate so her irritation wouldn’t show.
“Fine—just fine,” Donnigan replied. “And yours?”
“Fine—just fine.” Wallis reached for the bowl of carrots.
Wallis had never really gotten over Risa’s leaving. He didn’t seem as angry anymore and he had progressed to the point of weary acceptance. He knew she would never be back, as he had hoped for so many months—so many years.
“God made the crops,” piped up Rachel. Then returned to her eating.
“Ya sure got a nice-lookin’ bunch of spring calves,” Wallis said around a bite of warm biscuit.
Donnigan nodded. They were nice.
“God made the calves,” said Rachel.
Wallis frowned and took a big bite of potatoes and gravy. After he had chewed for a few minutes, he lifted his head again.
“Did ya get much outta thet rain shower last night? I figured it sure did come at the right time.”
Before Donnigan could answer, Rachel said in a sing-songy voice, “God made the rain.”
Wallis, dumbfounded, looked at the child. Then he turned back to Donnigan. “What do you do, Donnigan? Spend all yer time religioning yer young?”
“Not all my time,” replied Donnigan evenly.
The silence hung heavy in the room for several minutes. Even the children seemed to sense it and stopped their usual prattle.
Donnigan was the one to break it. “You don’t seem to put much stock in religious training,” he said to Wallis.
Wallis continued to chew; then he lifted his eyes and replied dourly, “It’s not I’m all agin’ it. My folks were plenty religious. I had more’n my share in my growin’ up—but a man can go too far with it, seems to me.”
Donnigan would have liked to ask, “And how far is too far?” but his attention had been caught by Wallis’s earlier statement.
“You’ve had your share? What? What were you taught?”
Wallis shifted uneasily. He reached up and scratched his uncombed hair with the blunt end of the fork he held in his hand.
“Well, I—I don’t know as I recall all the—the—You know the usual, I guess.”
“Like,” prompted Donnigan, leaning forward in his eagerness.
Wallis still hesitated.
“Go on—please,” said Donnigan.
“Well—you know the stuff. God made everybody and—”
“We know that story,” called out Timothy. “It’s in the Bible.”
“Then Eve et the apple—and she gave some to Adam—and he et a bite and then God sent them from the garden and told ’em never to go back.”
All Donnigan’s children could have told those stories—likely better than the grizzled man.
“Then—” prompted Donnigan.
“Well, then ya got all those stories ’bout those other fellas, Noah and Joseph and Elijah and sech,” went on Wallis.
With a look Donnigan silenced his children, who seemed about to explode with their own knowledge of those Bible characters. He was anxious to hear what the man had to say. Maybe he had the last piece to the puzzle.
“And then ya get to the next part,” went on Wallis slowly. “Where Jesus is born.”
“Go on,” said Donnigan.
Kathleen had stopped eating. She leaned forward almost as eagerly as did Donnigan.
“Well, He went about healin’ people and helpin’ the poor and trying to teach what was the right way to live an’ fergivin’ their sins an’—”