Hand to the Plow

By Ilene H. Kingsbury

(Previous installment)

Part IV – Dedication

Synopsis: A Welsh widow on her way to the valleys of the mountains in 1864, with her family of five children, pauses in a railway station in Philadelphia awaiting a train to take them westward. The widow’s father and mother and some of her brothers and sisters, who have not joined the Church, have already established themselves in Bradys Bend, Pennsylvania, only about twenty-five miles from the railroad. The widow and her family had long planned to visit their relatives before traveling to the West to make a permanent home; however, the fear of not continuing westward to the body of the saints after being reunited with her family, causes the widow to decide to journey westward at once.

Somewhere she had read, ”Almost thou persuadest me.” Somewhere she had heard a song which praised the Father of all for just such sweet reunion as was now within her grasp. But she now had said I cannot, and I have thought.

Children do not so easily give up coaxing, teasing, tearfully begging, and downright demanding. Is it too difficult by carriage or wagon to cover those few crow miles? Do you remember that only a few days back, on the fearful Atlantic, we yearned for any going just so it was on dry earth? Now we have that earth, that ease. Have we not enough means to swerve our course, as a scythe reaches to strike home? Is it so necessary — that arrival in the Far West — that one day or another would make a difference? Strength, time, means, distance; all as a drop in the bucket when so soon it will overflow for joy. Sweet reunion of heart. Catching of the breath at a thought of Grandma standing arms akimbo waiting for us to rush her off her feet. Is the eye never to see these kindred? “I cannot do it,” she said again and again.

Then arose that natural question, of why, why? In the scales, the reasons for the Bend far outweighed the ones for a few days of delay, then continuance of the way. The children slowed down in their thinking and talking. Those who could better express themselves in tears, when touched most deeply, did cry. Those who might believe that a cry of protest was not manly, kept silent and felt more the man for it. The six-year-old was not exactly to be considered in this family conclave, but she remembered when she was a great-grandmother that, as she reached for her mother emigrant’s hand, it was trembling. This is perhaps our only clue that a great battle had waged within the granite, lion-hearted woman.

Another glance at her would reveal the very set of the jaw, the very mobile relentlessness of face of the king of the forest. She never looked so immovable, so chiseled, as that morning when she said she would not get off the train.

When the whirlwind of protest had subsided, and each child had reached calm banks of emotion, their mother answered the why, why of her decision. In the first place, yes, she was afraid of Indians, and rebels, and walking a thousand miles, perhaps still another thousand across the wastes of North America. Yes, there were no loved ones awaiting them in the Rockies. True, a family or two of friends in the Old Country had preceded them to that far-off desert; but who knew where they were by now? Perhaps dead of cholera or of bleeding of a redman’s arrow, or assigned even more distant valleys west and on west. Perhaps some were already rich on the Golden Shore. But go they must. Where? To Zion.

That last word was said with a glint of the eye that could only reflect a spiritual dedication to a cause, only a religious fulfillment not found elsewhere. The word was the reminder to her boys and girls that goals had been set, vows taken, means gathered, and a journey begun, all because a faith had been accepted, tried on for fit, found to fit, and, now, must be worn right on into a certain valley. That valley of refuge was a place where pride of wearing that faith and living it could be called dedication, fulfillment, self-realization. The spirit of the migration in that day came under the heading of gathering. It reminded one of Moses and the Red Sea, in religious fervor.

This gathering, then, was worth all the hardships, the empty stomachs, the bleeding feet, the giving up of the world. Yes, the emigrant mother assured her children this was worth more than father and mother and brothers and children and husband. Even Grandpa and Grandma, their glances questioned. But why can’t we have both? Give us a few days at Bradys Bend, give us the only chance we shall ever have to see our aunts and uncles and cousins. Then we shall start out refreshed for the valley. Why couldn’t that be the way?

If the hand was trembling and the voice showed a quaver, the eye and heart were steadfast. Her answer: Because I have not the courage, after such a joyful reunion, to go on.

The children thought to themselves and questioned each other with startled glances. What is our mother talking about? they wondered. She who is iron and rock and lion and refuge, all in all — she says she has not the courage! What then of us who are young and fatherless and homeless and dependent on the ravens for bread? How must we feel about resolution and never deserting a worthy cause? These thoughts shook them as they realized their helplessness.

But, Mother, they pleaded. Even in the face of her solidness, they hated to let go of their weakness and abide by her decision. Her inner thoughts weighed her strength under stress. This was part of the testing, no doubt. If she could not withstand the cries of her children in this little island of privacy among strangers, how could she combat the tears of her parents and loved ones combined with the victorious offspring? Together, they would talk her out of the supreme goal in life, even the life hereafter. Temporary pleasure was pitted against permanent security. If one could be victorious in the little things, then their accumulation of power would bring one victorious in the great issues. Thus she had thought since buying a ticket which would bypass the Bend.

She motioned to Eliza to open her carpet bag and retrieve from the folds of personal clothing a little Testament given her by the captain of the sailing vessel as a parting gift. The mother then said, “Eliza, turn to Luke nine and sixty-one and read to us.” And this is what Eliza read: ”And another also said, Lord, I will follow thee; but let me first go bid them farewell, which are at home at my house. And Jesus said unto him. No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.”

The Word had been consulted. If it took each hearer of that Word to make his personal interpretation, it also took his personal action which followed that hearing. This was almost the only time in each life of the children that they wanted time and privacy and strength to arrange their hearts and minds in such an order that an accuser in later years could be turned aside without a case against them. Their earthly mother had shown them the Word, and they believed. The sacrifice was stated as if meant for them instead of travelers to Jerusalem in the year thirty- two A.D. The reward was also assured, and they believed that, too.

One by one they looked their mother squarely in the face. That was all the affirmative vote she needed. All were very quiet. No reproach was heard. It was not easy, but now they all knew that the valley and not the Bend was their immediate goal. Now the struggle was over, the tension was broken as water breaking through the headgate of a dam. If tears were mingled with the flood, they were tears of triumph and not remorse. As hope rises eternally to lift all to ecstasy, so it did them. Some day, some day, maybe, maybe, we can home back to this station and start out for the Bend and reunion and contentment. We shall, we shall.

But the emigrant made no promise for herself. The finality of her decision precluded the hope that she could retrace her footsteps to this bitter day to start out to find her parents. Her strength lay in forsaking, in renouncing the idea as a permanent thing. To consider that even in old age she should be so near this sentimental goal, was to make her half defeated at this moment. Forever behind her was this day, this trembling of the hand, this possibility of defeat. If time and strength were pitted against each other again, she would know what to do, and that without the great battle from within. The West and not the Bend was to be the daily cry. The Bend was to be thought of less and less, thus to hurt less acutely, thus to become a chapter of life entitled Lost, or Never, or I Cannot. The very denouncement of this plan gave power to the shoulders to bear any burden, gave direction to the feet to trudge ever forward, gave resolution to the heart to live and love and dream and achieve in spite of disappointment and tragedy. In giving up this side journey she would be the better fortified against other temptations, other passing pleasures, so that the big chance could be pursued andconquered. Only in saying I cannot can we ever say I can.

The emigrant was ready to resume her journey.

(To be continued)