people. Because not so many years ago I was sitting at that table in the dark eating cold meat loaf from the pan it came in, listening to the radio, when old Boughton let himself in the door and sat down at the table and said, "Don't put the light on." So I turned the radio off and we sat there together and talked and prayed, about John Ames Boughton, for John Ames Boughton.
But that story may be more than you need to know, more than I ought to tell you. If things have come right, what is the point? There's nothing very remarkable in the story, in fact it is very commonplace. Which is not an extenuation by any means. So often people tell me about some wickedness they've been up to, or they've suffered from, and I think, Oh, that again! I've heard of churches in the South that oblige people to make a 121
public confession of their graver sins to the whole congregation. I think sometimes there might be an advantage in making people aware how worn and stale these old transgressions
are. It might take some of the shine off them, for those who are tempted. But I have no evidence to suggest it has that effect. Of course there are special and extenuating circumstances. They were fairly special in young Boughton's case and
by no means extenuating, if I am any judge. Which I am not, or ought not to be, according to Scripture.
Transgression. That is legalism. There is never just one transgression. There is a wound in the flesh of human life that scars when it heals and often enough seems never to heal at all. Avoid transgression. How's that for advice.
I have to decide what to tell your mother. I know she is wondering. He's very nice to her, and to you. And to me. No "Papa"
this evening, thank goodness. He's so respectful I feel like telling him I'm not the oldest man in the world yet. Well, I know I'm touchy about some things. I have to try to be fair with him.
You look at him as if he were Charles Lindbergh. He keeps calling you little brother, and you love that.
I hope there's some special providence in his turning up just when I have so many other things to deal with, because he is a considerable disruption when peace would have been especially appreciated.
I'm not complaining. Or I ought not to be.
I've been thinking about my funeral sermon, which I plan to write to save old Boughton the trouble. I can do a pretty good imitation of his style. He'll get a laugh out of that.
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Young Boughton came by again this morning, with some apples and plums from their trees. He and Glory have things
looking pretty nice over there. They've done a lot of work. I'm trying to be a little more cordial to him than I have
been. He sort of steps back and smiles a little, and looks at me as though he's thinking,
"Today we're cordial! What can account for that?" And he looks me right in the face, as though
he wants me to know he knows it is a performance and he's amused by it. I suppose an attempt is a performance, in some
sense. But what else can I do? Most people will go along with you in these situations, whatever their private thoughts might be. I hesitate to call it devilment, but it certainly does make me uncomfortable, and I'm fairly sure that is what he intends. And I believe he truly is amused as well. So I abandoned the attempt at cordiality for today and excused myself and went off
to look after some things at the church.
I spent several hours in meditation and prayer over John Ames Boughton, and also over John Ames, the father of his soul,
as Boughton once called me, though I can't endorse the phrase, any soul's father being the Lord only. There's much for me to ponder in that fact. Better that I should offend or reject my own son—which God forbid—but you are the
Lord's child also, as am I, as we all are. I must be gracious. My only role is to be gracious. Clearly I must somehow contrive
to think graciously about him, also, since he makes such a point of seeing right through me. I believe I have made some progress on that front through prayer, though there is clearly much more progress to be made, much more praying to be done.
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This is an important thing, which I have told many people, and which my father told me, and which his father told him. When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation? If you confront insult or antagonism,
your first impulse will be to respond in kind. But if you think, as it were, This is an emissary sent from the Lord, and some benefit is intended for me, first of all the occasion to demonstrate my faithfulness, the chance to show that I do in some
small degree participate in the grace that saved me, you are free to act otherwise than as circumstances would seem to dictate. You are free to act by your own lights. You are freed at the
