Life Works 026 - Story: Miss Parsimon's Dream
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Miss Parsimon's Dream
© Christopher Shennan 2008
Miss Mildred Parsimon, elderly, sweet, noble, determined -- had nevertheless failed in the one driving ambition that had consumed her since childhood. She would never be the missionary she had longed to be, or the instrument in God's hands in bringing heathen hearts to the Savior.
Miss Parsimon had developed callouses on her knees praying for that very thing. Yet she had failed. Miserably. Finally.
"Why, Lord? Why? Haven't I earned the right to ask that question -- at least once? How many times have I come from prayer with assurance? How many times have I believed Your promises, and clung to Your faithfulness? I asked for one thousand souls because I couldn't go to the mission field where my heart led me."
She gazed at her wrinkled image with its wispy, silver halo in the bathroom mirror. The blue eyes stared back at her with an intensity age had failed to dim. The line of her mouth was still set, and her jaw firm, despite the glistening wetness on her cheeks. Miss Parsimon was crying.
She dried her cheeks and patted them with a tiny amount of powder. It would never do for that fine new minister to see she'd been crying. Such an upright young man; so intense and full of zeal for the Lord. He and his sweet new wife would arrive for tea in half an hour, and she still had to set out the old china and take the biscuits from the oven. Whatever would Katherine think if she could she see her giving way to self pity like this? At last, she felt reasonably in control of herself, and went to prepare for her soon-to-arrive guests.
"Yes, she is a lovely girl, isn't she?" Miss Parsimon said to the minister and his wife as they sat in the kitchen, sipping tea.
Pastor Ridgeway had commented on the picture of Katherine propped up on the kitchen dresser. Below it, still un-opened, was a letter from Katherine that had arrived at almost the same moment as the minister and his wife. The colourful African stamps, and Katherine's familiar handwriting, were like landmarks in her fading world. She had been tempted to settle her visitors in the kitchen, then retreat to the kitchen to read the letter. But no, she would discipline herself and enjoy the reading of it much more for the waiting. Still, it beckoned to her like the Macedonian in the apostle's dream.
"She's a missionary you know." A wistfulness crept into Miss Parsimon's voice, "Something I've always wanted for myself, but somehow . . ."
"Oh, do tell us about it, Miss Parsimon!" cajoled Jessica, bright, youthful, still flushed with the newness of marriage. "About Katherine, I mean . . ."
Miss Parsimon understood perfectly. She knew the question that had sprung into the younger woman's mind. How come, seeing she had never married, was Katherine's picture in such a prominent place? How come the affection in her eyes when she spoke of her was more that of a mother for a well-beloved daughter? "In a way," she said pensively, absently fingering the handle of the china cup, "Katherine is my daughter."
"Jessica!" said Pastor Ridgeway, his handsome face flushed with embarrassment, "we shouldn't pry into Miss Parsimon's affairs."
"Mildred," said Miss Parsimon. "My name is Mildred. I'd like you to call me by my first name. And no, I don't consider it prying to ask about Katherine." Then she surprised herself by saying, "Perhaps I need to tell someone the whole story -- from the beginning."
"If you would rather not . . .?"
Miss Parsimon placed her cup delicately on the saucer and continued as though the minister had not spoken. Her eyes misted over with a dreamlike quality as though she had left the present company for other times, as indeed she had. Even her voice slipped into the dream mode. She told her story as one speaking in the past, from the past.
......................
"I never thought you could be so inconsiderate -- so cruel," Mrs. Regina Parsimon said to her nineteen year-old daughter. "You've never been so before, and I can't think why you should be so now."
"Mother, please believe me!" said Mildred. "I'm not being inconsiderate or cruel. I'll make proper arrangements for you and grandmother, and I'll write often. It's just that I've got this call to be a missionary. I must answer that call."
"And that's another thing, said the invalid mother. "Where you got all this fanatical religion from is anybody's guess. Neither your father nor I subscribed to that sort of thing, though God knows we've never been irreligious. I think you'll agree we were good parents. We did go to church, you know."
"Mother, I told you how it happened. It was at a meeting at . . ."
"I know, I know! You had some kind of religious experience that's made you want to rush off to the ends of the earth. The point is, if you're so religious, doesn't your religion teach you to honour your parents? Your poor father's dead, but there's still your grandmother and myself. Don't we count for anything?"
Mildred stifled a reply. It was no use trying to explain. She'd tried often enough. Still, was there not a tiny grain of truth in her mother's argument? Was not honouring one's parents a very serious Scriptural obligation? On the other hand, the words of Christ burned into her soul, "He who loves father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me."
For weeks, these two apparently contradictory ideas swung back and forth in her mind; pulled her viciously from one decision to the other. One moment her heart soared on the wings of missionary zeal; the next, her mind dragged her back to filial duty.
She could not have endured this inward tug-o-war had she not had the solace of prayer. She had no doubt God would make His will known to her. She must have patience. At the right time, God's perfect will would be revealed to her. However, when the assurance of God's will finally came to her, it did not settle the issue as clearly as she had expected.
She felt certain God would have her remain, for some time at least, to tend to the needs of her two closest relatives. Knowing this was one thing; dealing with the disappointment was another. A heavy lump of unaccustomed resentment settled somewhere in the region of her diaphragm, and festered, filling all her thoughts. God knew how much she wanted to go to the mission field. How then could He allow her mother's selfishness to hinder the call He himself had placed on her heart? It was six months before she could surrender her own longing and submit willingly to the indefinite postponement of her dream.
Once she did, her joy returned and she found the years of service less a trial than she imagined they might be. Regina Parsimon's attitude toward her daughter softened when she observed her inward battle, and final surrender to a path not of her own choosing. Mildred was never quite sure whether her mother quite came to accept her faith. Nevertheless, in the thirteen years before her death, Regina Parsimon mellowed; became more sympathetic to Mildred's undimmed vision to convert the heathen tribes across the sea. They were good years; mother and daughter enjoying a closeness they had seldom known in Mildred's growing years.
Mildred was thirty two years old when she was at last free to pursue her dream. Her grandmother had died seven years earlier, leaving her a modest inheritance. She was free to attend missionary training college and prepare for the work to which destiny had called her. She was still young, with a good portion of her life available for service to the Lord. Departure for college was only three days away when a childhood friend died in childbirth. It was just one tragedy amongst the many that happen in large cities. However, there were unique features to this one that dashed her dreams of a missionary career for the second time.
Mildred had been with Helen Gates when the labour pains were still far enough apart to allow intelligent conversation.
"Mildred, you have got to promise me something!" There was a desperate gleam in Helen's eyes, almost of fear.
"You know I'll do whatever I can," Mildred responded, "but you've got to calm yourself. You mustnt work yourself up into . . ."
"Listen Mildred! You've got to listen to me! There may not be time after . . ." Her voice trailed away.
"After what?"
"You're going to think I'm crazy, but . . . but I have this funny feeling . . . premonition really -- that I'm not going to make it."
"Helen! Whatever do you mean?"
"I think I'm going to die. I think giving birth to this baby's going to kill me."
"Helen, you're imagining things. There's nothing wrong with you. You've carried to term without any problem, and the doctor says it's all going to be fine."
"Doctor's don't know everything, Mildred. Now stop arguing with me. I've got to ask you. Will you care for the baby if . . . if I don't . . . make it?
"Helen, there's not going to be any need. Besides, wouldn't your parents be the logical ones to care for it. I mean . . ."
"Mom's had emotional problems lately, and dad . . . Well, Dad's too busy with his mistresses to care." She cried out as her body was momentarily convulsed with pain. By the time she spoke again and was breathing more easily, the perspiration stood in beads on her forehead.
"I . . . I know you've been disappointed in me, Mildred. I can't even say for certain who the father is. In any case, I've set my heart on you bringing up my child. That way it's less likely to turn out . . . like I have." Another pain wracked her body before she could continue.
"Now open the top draw in my side table. That's right, take out the large buff envelope. I've signed papers that say, if I die, you are to have legal guardianship. Please, Mildred, don't say no to me. Not now!"
.................................................
Mildred Parsimon sipped her tea and peered over the cup at pastor Ridgeway and his wife, "That was twenty-seven years ago. Complications set in and Helen died, just as she had thought she might. The baby, Catherine, survived. Of course, I brought her home and cared for her. What else could I do?"
"I never imagined . . ." said Jessica Ridgeway.
"Few people did. In those days it was unheard of, and frowned upon, for a single lady to adopt a child. Of course, my dream died, too. Oh, I tried . . . both then, and when Katherine applied for missionary training college herself. Oh, they were very polite, and apologetic, about turning me down. In the beginning it was because I had a baby, and one couldn't take a baby to the mission-field. At least, not as a single parent. Later, it was because of my age. I had hardly enough years of active service left to justify the study and expense involved. They were right, of course, but that didn't make it any easier to accept."
The Ridgeways, sensing Mildred's pain, changed the subject. Then they prayed with her and left her to her broken dream. Curiously, the mere telling of it had wrought a measure of healing. The hard core of disappointment within her seemed lighter, more manageable. She sat motionless for several minutes before the bright stamps on Katherine's letter caught her eye. Rising, she ferreted her reading glasses from the top drawer of the writing desk, and settled herself on the sofa to read.
Before Miss Parsimon had finished reading the second paragraph she was crying, joyously, unashamedly.
"You know," Katherine's letter said,"how that for seven years my colleagues and I have laboured in this tribal community. They have been dry, fruitless years. Or, that is how we saw it. It was difficult to stay here, with no response to our preaching of the Gospel. I would never have lasted had I not known you were praying, even pleading for the conversion of these people. Knowing that, I couldn't quite give up.
"Well, last week your prayers were answered. An old time revival has broken out here. Rev. Ingles says the converts number in the thousands. If it hadn't been for you . . ."
Credits
- The Tanzanian sunset photograph (used under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs License) is by Marion A, found on Flickr.
- The theme music is Wagner's The Flying Dutchman (Overture), courtesy of the Rumblefish Music Licensing Store.
- The intro voice belongs to Steve "Snowball" Saylor.
- This podcast is produced by Shane Shennan.
