“I cannot describe the shame I felt,” my father said. “My sisters spoke to me about what my mother had done because they were afraid she might insist on going to church again if I stayed away again. Amy told me, ‘If you put us through that one more time, I will hate you till I die!’ And of course I did not.”
My father was telling himself and all the rest of us that Edward’s transgressions were trivial beside his own. He was also saying, to himself and to the rest of us, that there was an aptness in this present embarrassment and disappointment which made it valuable and instructive to him — that there was a seeming ^design in it that might mark it in fact as the Lord’s benevolence, a sort of parable meant to deepen his own understanding. This construction of the matter would certainly have forbidden, or at least discouraged, any impulse he might have felt to blame Edward. The thoughtlessness of any individual, when it is seen to be in service to the mindfulness of the Lord, cannot justify anger.
I have used this line of reasoning any number of times myself, when I have felt the need and found the occasion. And the fact is, it is seldom indeed that any wrong one suffers is not thoroughly foreshadowed by wrongs one has done. That said, it has never been clear to me how much this realization helps when it comes to the practical difficulty of controlling anger. Nor have I found any way to apply it to present circumstance, though I have not yet abandoned the effort.
***
This afternoon I came back from a fairly discouraging meeting at the church — just a few people came, and absolutely nothing was accomplished. That is the kind of thing that wears me out. So I took a nap and slept through supper. It was dark when I woke up and the house was empty so I went out to the porch. You and your mother were sitting on the swing, wrapped up in a quilt. She said, “This might be the last mild night.” She made room for me beside her and spread the quilt across my lap and rested her head on my shoulder. It was just as pleasant as could be. This summer she planted what she calls her owl garden, I being the owl in question. She read somewhere that white flowers are most fragrant at night, so she planted every white flower she could think of along the front walk. Now there are just a few roses left, and alyssum and petunias.
So we sat there in the dark together for a while, you asleep, more or less, with your mother stroking your hair. Then we heard footsteps in the road. And sure enough, it was lack Boughton. I believe he may have meant to say good evening and pass by, but your mother asked him to come visit a little, so he did. He came in the gate and sat down on the steps. I have noticed that toward her he is consistently obliging.
“We were just enjoying the quiet,” she said.
He said, “No better place in the world to do that.” Then, as though he was afraid he might be misunderstood, or at any rate that he might give offense, he said, “It really is good to be back for a while.” He laughed. “There are people here now who don’t know me from Adam. It’s wonderful.”
Then he put his hand to his face, his eyes. It was dark, but I could recognize that gesture. He has made it his whole life, I believe.
I said, “It has been a great happiness to your father, having you here.”
He said, “The man’s a saint.”
“That might be true, but it was still good of you to come.” “Ah,” he said, as a man might when a chasm has opened at his feet.
So there was a silence of a few minutes, and then your mother stood up and lifted you out of the quilt and carried you away to bed.
“I have been glad to see you, too,” I said, because I really was, for old Boughton’s sake.
To that he made no reply. “I say that quite sincerely.”
He stretched out his legs and leaned back against the porch pillar.
“No doubt,” he said. “Stack of Bibles.”
He laughed. “How high?” “A cubit or so.”
“That’ll do, I guess.”
“Would two cubits put your mind at ease?”
“Entirely.” And then, remembering his manners, “It has been good seeing you again. And meeting your wife. Your famiiy—” Then we were quiet for a while.
I said, “I’m impressed that you know Karl Barth.” “Oh,” he said. “From time to time I still try to crack the code.”
“Well,” I said, “I admire your tenacity.”
He said, “You might not, if you understood my motives.” Of all people on this earth he must be the hardest one to have a conversation with.
So I said, “That’s all right, I admire it anyway.” And he said, “Thanks.”
So we were just quiet there for some time. Your mother came out with a pot of hot cider and cups, and she sat there quiet right along with us, the dear woman. And I spent the time thinking how it would be if Jack Boughton were indeed my son, and had come home weary from whatever life he had, and was sitting there still and at seeming peace in that peaceful night. There was a considerable satisfaction in that thought.
