From the Millennial Star, December 1948 –
For All Their Sakes
By Muriel Joy Fearnley
In the still evening air there was a sound of a “click” as the gate at the end of the drive rolled to and tenacled itself to its neighbour; then followed an audible “sniff” from the old person without the gate. Patrick Paynton stood with bowed head and a lump in his throat, and his gentle, sensitive old heart reflected on the last few minutes of time, wishing his duties were anything but that of village postman.
Slowly he moved away. His thick boots crunched a pace or two along the frosted, snowy path and paused again. He lifted his head to the early darkening sky where already a pale star or two had gathered like the tears in his eyes. He closed them in a little prayer, then took out his handkerchief and blew his nose with cold, fumbling fingers.
If anyone in the world would have wished to make every living soul rejoice on this festive season, it was Pat Paynton, and here his generous heart had to be burdened with the knowledge that he had struck another kind soul a blow, unwittingly maybe, but his hand it was that had passed over the sad tidings.
He started again along the road that led to the village. So short a time ago he had travelled this road with mixed feelings, for a second time that day too, for this was an emergency. A telegram for Mr. and Mrs. Simonds would be so likely to contain the news that their son would be coming home at last. They had expected him for three years, and surely this would be it.
The home of the Simonds, “Kolob,” as it was strangely called, stood alone, four miles from its neighbour, and Pat had no short journey. He increased his pace a little with an urgency to reach his own little domain where he could relieve his troubled soul to “Mother” Paynton.
Thirty minutes later he came nigh the village, and the two bright eyes of his cottage windows presently beckoned him. His steps quickened in spite of weariness, and he crossed the garden path to the door. He lingered there, his hand on the handle while he half absently-mindedly scraped his shoes on the old iron scraper at the flagstone edge, sadness still furrowing his brow.
A warm glow and an appetizing smell greeted him as he opened the door but still did not penetrate his senses consciously until a familiar voice with a gently commanding tone forced his attention.
“Leave them big clompers by the door. I don’t want dirty snow drippings on the new carpet.” (The “new” carpet was twenty years new and was only displayed at Christmas time when all the bits of rugs and mats were hidden away mysteriously till the new year.)
Pat padded across the red and yellow roses to his slippers and sighed as he took his inviting arm chair. The deep sigh attracted Mother Paynton’s critical gaze. She read trouble in her husband’s face, but Mrs. Paynton, like many an old wife, had learned wisdom through experience and kept quiet until he had been served with a tempting dish of warm soup.
“Aye,” she said when Pat had sampled a good portion, “‘Christmas comes but once a year, and when it comes it brings good cheer.’ No one should be sad and mournful I reckon.”
Patrick just shook his head from side to side. “No, Mother,” he replied to her, “no one should be, but there’s folks that are” – and then he began to relate to her the sad news . . .
“… and I was saying to her, ‘There’ll be right now such a crowd of them all excitedly ready to start out for ‘Kolob,” ‘ and she was slitting open the telegram with a questioning smile – I shall always see it – gathering like a sun beam at the corner of her mouth, and then vanishing in a queer, strangled cry. I could just stare at her, and she passed me the ‘gram to read – Oh, Sar’ann, I felt like a man who had just plunged a knife – it said – ‘Experiment marvellously successful, but deeply regret, John died. Letter following.'”
Mrs. Paynton flopped down heavily on the chair opposite and stared at him, her eyes glistening suddenly. Then she leaned her elbow on the table edge and rested her head on her hand, covering her eyes with a sad gesture. After a few moments she lifted the corner of her apron, dried her eyes, and looked across at her husband. His face read worry and concern, and she forced a smile.
“Don’t take on so, Patrick, it wasn’t any of your blame. Anyone would think you’d killed poor John yourself, though it’s mighty hard for Mrs. Simonds. She loved that lad so, a little more than the rest I used to think. We must pray for her that God will send her peace of soul in His own way, but He doesn’t wish us to be full of woe all Christmas, Pat. We can keep it at the back of our minds with a prayer each time we remember. Though many folks forget it, this is the time to remind us of God’s wonderful gift, His very own Son sent down amongst us so long ago – aye, and to suffer and die too. for all our sakes
Patrick sat quietly, and the words of his wife seemed to be writing themselves on his brain.
“‘God’s very own Son – to suffer and die for all our sakes . . .’ Her son . . .”‘ and he was lulled to sleep before the warm fire and his own reflections.
Mr. and Mrs. Simonds had a large family. Mrs. Simonds, Grandma Simonds, called them her “intelligences” to her husband, though she took care there was none around to hear.
They seemed to have all been endowed with a fair share of sagacity and had mostly made a mark in the world one way or another.
All but the youngest three had left the old home surroundings and had their own place of abode near or far with their families. Mrs. Simonds would say she couldn’t count all their offspring, but of course she could and knew and loved each one. The whole family was bound rather uniquely by a great affection.
Each year on Christmas morning, cars, privately owned or hired, rolled up to “Kolob” along the stretch of drive. Sounds of laughter, greetings, children’s voices, and festive songs floated through the constantly opening doors, and delicious, savoury odours issued forth from the kitchen entrance.
When night came, music – beautiful enthralling strains of golden melody in song and instrument, rendered to perfection – came upon the stilly air to mingle with the sleeping trees and lull the feathered world.
Angels in heaven must surely have sung in unison, for it happened only on these divine occasions of the Saviour’s birthday.
Of course, unfortunately, at times there were members of the family whom circumstances prevented being present. Virginia and her husband, for instance, had been on the continent last year to attend their daughter’s debut.
Then there was John. Dr. John, who had gone out to West Equatorial Africa with a passion to find a cure for malaria. he and his colleagues, after untiring research, had worked out a theory that in its last stages of testing required a human guinea pig – and John offered himself.
He had written his parents part of the true facts but did not wish to worry them. . . . And John’s life was given for the experiment’s success. . . .
Just on the eve of Christmas Mrs. Simonds had received the tragic tidings from gentle Pat Paynton. Her heart was torn with anguish as she turned indoors to seek her husband.
“Peace and joy to all mankind,” once long ago the angels sang. In the home of the Simonds rang the happy voices of children. Father and Mother kept a brave smile and spiritually sustained one another though they suffered in secret anguish of soul.
At night, gathered around a cheerful fire, the young ones away in bed, a song was suggested. Mother had been silently praying how best to tell them all.
Suddenly she raised her hand and turned to Alan, her second son, “No, dear, don’t lets sing yet. Turn on the radio.” Why she made the request she could not have told. Alan obeyed immediately.
Across the hushed party another song swelled forth infinitely sweet and dear — “God so loved the world . . . that He gave His only begotten Son …” and then a burden seemed to leave Mrs. Simonds as she heard, and she thought –
“God could give His son, so can I.” Her grief found relief and she rose and crossed the room as all watched her. Then she gently turned off the dial – and told them.
-oOo-
In the cottage of Pat and Sar’ann Payton the old couple listened also to the “Messiah” being rendered, and as the words Mrs. Simonds had heard were being sung, the wise old wife rested her hand on her husband’s. “Listen.” she said. “If Mrs. Simonds hears this in the way I do, then God has answered my prayers for her.” And the old postman bowed his head understandingly.