XV. “FIRST AT ANTIOCH.”
“How beautiful it is to be alive!
To wake each morn as if the Maker’s grace
Did us afresh from nothingness derive,
That we might sing: How happy is our case,
How beautiful it is to be alive.”
—H. S. Sutton.
It was Saturday afternoon; Judith had been busy in the kitchen all the morning with Aunt Rody, and she (not Aunt Rody) had kept her temper; that was one happening that made the day memorable and delightful, and then there were three others: one was her miracle, another the maidens that were going out to draw water, and the disciple from Antioch, and, most memorable of all, the plan for boarding-school.
The miracle happened in this way: Aunt Rody sent her to take a basket of things to Nettie Evans, a “Sunday surprise,” Judith called it; tiny biscuits, jelly cake, and a little round box of figs.
Nettie had had a wearisome day (very much more dreadful than a Saturday morning in the kitchen with Aunt Rody, Judith told herself), and Mrs. Evans thought it better for her not to go up to Nettie’s room, for the pain in her back was better, she had fallen asleep and she was afraid to have her disturbed.
“May I get a drink of water?” Judith asked. She always felt thirsty when she came near the plank that formed the ascent from the ground where the kitchen had been to the bit of floor that was left for the sink to stand on. The old kitchen had been torn down this summer, and nothing remained of it excepting the sink which contained the pump (the water came from the well where Nettie’s lilies grew), the window over the sink, the roof overhead, and the walls on each side of the sink. She liked the fun of running up and down this plank, and she liked to stand and look out of this window toward the east. It was a window toward the east. Sometimes she thought about the Jews praying toward the east. She wished once that something would happen to this window because it was a window toward the east. A window facing the east in a house was not at all remarkable; but a window that was not in a house brought itself into very interesting prominence.
And this afternoon her something happened. There was a wonder in the heavens.
It was afternoon; she knew it was, she was sure of it; dinner was over hours ago; Aunt Rody had helped her wipe the dinner dishes, and Aunt Affy had gone to town with Uncle Cephas to take the week’s butter to her customers; and she was on her way to the parsonage to sing hymns with Miss Marion, the hymns for church to-morrow, and she never went till afternoon. But there it was. The sun was in the east in the afternoon; round, peering through mist with a pale, yellow splendor; she saw something that no one in the world had ever seen. It was the sun rising in the afternoon.
It must be a miracle; a miracle in the window towards Jerusalem.
But the sun surely had not stood still ever since morning; it was high up when she stood in the back yard and rang the dinner bell for Uncle Cephas and Joe.
Was it a miracle just for her?
That was the east; it had been the east ever since she was born; it had been the east ever since the the world was made; and it was the sun.
It was nothing to see the full moon in the east; the last time she went driving with Miss Marion and Mr. Roger they saw the full moon in the east and he talked about it. This was not the full moon.
“Mrs. Evans, Mrs. Evans, quick, quick,” she called, excitedly, fearing that her miracle would vanish.
Hurried steps crossed the new kitchen and Mrs. Evans appeared.
“What is it, child? Don’t wake Nettie.”
“Look,” said Judith, with the dignity of a youthful prophetess, pointing to the apparition; “see the sun in the east in the afternoon.”
Mrs. Evans stepped up the plank, and looked. It was the sun in the east in the afternoon.
“Well, I declare!” ejaculated Mrs. Evans, “that does beat all I ever saw. Where did it come from? How could it get there?” Startled, she turned, and toward the west, there was the big, round sun shining in all his glory.
“Oh, I see,” with a breath of relief; “I thought the world must be coming to an end. It is the reflection. Look, don’t you see? the sun is opposite the window. But it is a wonderful sight. I wish it would stay until I could call the neighbors in.”
Judith looked at the west and reasoned about it; she turned toward the east, then to the west, then to the window again.
“So it is,” with an inflection of disappointment.
Mrs. Evans laughed softly and hurried back to the new kitchen.
Judith pumped her glass of water with the radiance of two suns in her face.
“Little girl, little girl,” called a voice from a buggy in the road, “will you direct me to the parsonage?”
“Go on straight up the hill, turn to the right and see the church; the next house is the parsonage,” she replied with ready exactness.
“Thank you,” said a second voice, with a foreign accent; the face bent forward was very dark, with dark eyes, and dark beard.
Half an hour afterward she found Miss Marion in her own room, and before they went down to the parlor to the piano, she and Miss Marion read together in First Samuel.
They were reading the Bible through together; Marion told her brother that it was a revelation to her to read the Bible with a girl, and an old woman; it was looking forward and looking backward.
Judith read her three verses and then gave a joyful exclamation:—
“‘And as they went up the hill to the city, they found young maidens going out to draw water, and said unto them: Is the seer here?
“‘And they answered them and said, He is, behold he is before you; make haste, now, for he came to-day to the city, for there is a sacrifice of the people to-day in the high place; as soon as ye be come into the city, ye shall straightway find him, before he go up to the high place to eat, for the people will not eat until he come, because he doth bless the sacrifice; and afterwards they eat that be bidden. Now, therefore, get you up; for about this time ye shall find him.’ Oh, Miss Marion, that is like me. I was getting a drink of water and I sent two men to find the Bensalem seer.”
“Even Saul couldn’t find the way without the maidens,” reflected Marion.
“And they were put in the story for all the world to read about; I wish people wouldn’t forget about girls now-a-days.”
“Who does?” asked Marion; “this is the girls’ century.”
“I wish people wouldn’t forget about girls now-a-days.”
“Who does?” asked Marion; “this is the girls’ century.”
“Nobody ever thinks about me. I am never in things like the other girls. Aunt Rody will never let me go anywhere; Aunt Affy coaxed her one day, and cried and said she was spoiling my girlhood, but Aunt Rody was worse than ever after that. I cry night after night because she will not let me go to boarding-school. Boarding-school has been the dream of my life; I make pictures about it to myself. Did you go to boarding-school?”
“Yes, for one year, and was glad enough to go home again. I wish you would come to school to me; do you suppose you could?” asked Marion with a sudden and joyous inspiration.
“O, Miss Marion,” was all the girl could reply for very gladness.
“We will plan about it, Roger and I. If you can come and stay all day and study, and take music lessons, three or four days a week, it will be better than boarding-school for you, and more than you can think for me. You have been on my mind, but I didn’t dare propose anything; I knew Aunt Affy would not be allowed to have her way.”
Both Judith’s arms were about Marion’s neck, with her face hidden on Marion’s shoulder.
“I’ve wanted a sister all my life,” she said laughing and crying together.
Sunday morning on entering church her attention was arrested by a large map stretched across the platform, or half-way across it; the pulpit had been removed and in its stead were flowers, a row of pink bloom and shades of green.
A tall gentleman, with the very blackest hair and beard she had ever seen, arose and stood near the map.
How her heart gave a throb when he said, touching a spot on the map: “That is Antioch, the place where the disciples were first called Christians. I was born in Antioch, where Paul and Barnabas preached Christ. I was born in Antioch, and I was re-born in Antioch.”
Judith held her breath. He was a disciple, a Christian come from Antioch. She drew back, almost afraid; she felt as if Christ must be there standing very near this disciple.
He talked about the beautiful city and made it as near and real as this little village in which there was a church of disciples. It was like seeing one of the twelve disciples, Peter, or James, or John; or perhaps Paul, because he had been in Antioch.
But he said he had been “reborn” there; what could he mean? Re—again; born again. Was he born twice in Antioch? She had been born only once. Must every disciple be born over like this disciple who was born both times in Antioch?
For a long time she puzzled herself over this new, strange thing; then, when she could not bear it any longer, she asked Aunt Affy.
“When he was born, and for years as he grew up, he did not love and obey Christ, and then the Holy Spirit gave him a loving and obedient heart, and that loving and obedient heart is so new that it is like being born over again,” was Aunt Affy’s simple, and sure unraveling of her perplexity.