It was the autumn of the year, the time when clouds hung ominously in the gray skies, when days were monotonously gloomy and uneventful, when I set out on my solitary horseback excursion. As I journeyed, I traveled along a featureless and unremarkable stretch of land until presently, as the colors and then the duskiness of evening drew on, a desolate and mournful house came into my line of vision. Although I do not know what caused the emotion, the structure gave me immediately an overwhelming feeling of despondency within my soul. Already the weight I bore on my shoulders after the recent discovery of the sad state of the plantation’s financial affairs seemed overwhelming, and now the hopeless appearance of the cottage pervaded my mind with still further memories from the war and questions concerning its aftermath.
Raised in Georgia’s heartland, I grew up the only child of a widowed owner of a vast estate, whose primary crop was cotton. Exceedingly prosperous, the plantation thrived because of the sweat and toil of several hundred slaves who incessantly labored underneath the sun to provide for the whims of my father, Jacob Schwann, without ever receiving gratitude of any sort. As a small child I was taught that these Negroes were inferior to whites like myself, and that I should not fraternize with them. Fearing my father’s unpredictable temper, I avoided them at all cost, only interacting with the household domestics with the barest of perfunctory communication. Unfortunately, even taking such measures, I was not completely free from my father’s severe reprimands.
Similarly, my father believed that religion was for the infirm and the poor, and would only decrease his own productivity while increasing his vulnerability. Hence, it could be said I was raised a “heathen,” as I never attended church. Once, when I was about nine years old, I went secretly with a friend to attend a service at Easter. When my father found out, he was prodigiously furious, and after the thrashing I received at his hand, I never again attempted to return. Unfortunately, the phenomenon that induced my father to passionately abhor Christianity within his own household also caused him to prohibit it among his “property.” It added to his staunch requirements for hard labor and success to make him quite a formidable figure among those he encountered. All feared his wrath, and throughout my childhood I cringed to see his harsh punishment for failure, disobedience, and displays of religious faith.
Now, as I approached this melancholy cottage, childhood memories flooded through my mind. As I drew closer, something about the house held my attention. On a whim of my adventurous nature, I reigned in my horse at the gate, and dismounted to investigate further. The gate, with peeling paint that revealed former whitewash seeming to suggest better days, hung only on one hinge and creaked as I opened it. The grass on the side of the path grew tall and threatened to cover it. Upon reaching the porch, I tested each board as I stepped up to the front door. Out of habit, I raised my hand, knocking on the door, and receiving no answer, I entered the house.
Inside, the scent was surprisingly clean instead of the musty smell I expected as a result of long disuse. The room I had just entered contained a few chairs and an old desk of the kind that close and lock. The walls were as bare as an infant just entering the world. In one corner, part of a floor board had rotted away. Cautiously, I opened another door, which led to the other room that formed the back side of the house.
I drew back a bit surprised as I stepped through the doorway and found that a fire was burning on the hearth. Although I realized that I was invading someone’s property, my tendency towards curiosity got the better of me, and I continued to look about the house. A table with two chairs was located in the middle of the room on top of an old, multi-colored, braided rug. A shelf contained a few dishes, and a few pots hung from nails on the wall. Noticing a ladder, my eyes turned upward to discover a loft above half of the room that appeared to contain a cot of some sort.
To my dismay, as I stood trespassing in someone else’s quarters, a voice penetrated my thoughts. “Well, hello there. I see I have an unexpected visitor today!”
I whirled around quickly to discover an elderly black man addressing me, having apparently just entered the back door of the cottage. Sensing my embarrassment and speechlessness, he continued speaking.
“Don’t mind me. I’m jus’ ole’ James. I live here ya see. An’ I had jus’ gone down to the cellar to get me some food for dinner,” he said in a kind, Southern drawl.
“I…I’m sorry sir,” I stammered. “I didn’t realize that anyone lived here, and I was out for a ride and decided to have a look inside and… oh please, sir, let me go I didn’t do any harm to anything…I didn’t know…”
“Easy there, miss. I’m not gonna hurt ya none. Haven’t ya ever seen a black man before? Of course you didn’t hurt a thin’,” he chuckled.
“I knocked on the door and no one responded,” I continued.
“Miss, it be alright. You done nothin’ wrong. Why, I was jus’ thinkin’ earlier today how nice it would be to have a visitor. ‘Cause you see, ole’ James here lives by hisself, and no one ever come visit him, so I think that the Good Lord done sent you to bless me!” he said enthusiastically. “Would you like to have some tea with me? I have some leaves left over here.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. There must be a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to come visit you. I didn’t even know anyone lived here.” I responded in confusion.
“I know dat, miss. But dat don’t matter. Now, you didn’t answer my question. Would you like some tea, miss…what was your name?” his warm brown eyes glowed.
“Liza…Liza Schwann. And I’m sorry sir, but I must be going. If my dad knew I were here…well, I must go…” I began edging toward the door through which I had entered.
“Liza Schwann? You be Liza Schwann, the daughter of Joseph Schwann?” the man said incredulously.
“Yes, I am.” I replied uncertainly.
“Well I’ll be! If the Good Lord ain’t workin’ mighty kindly for an old man like me today! First He bring me a visitor, and then she be Liza Schwann!” James raised his hands and looked towards heaven with an expression of gratitude.
“I’m afraid I do not understand,” I said inquisitively.
“Miss Liza, I done prayed for you since you was born. Ya see, your father be my ole’ massah till after the war. Your father say there be no God, and one time he whip me for teachin’ the children ‘bout Jesus. He whip me more when I say I pray for him an’ his family. But I didn’t stop prayin’. When I see you I knew the Good Lord had some big plan for you, so I prayed for you eva’ since. Now I get to see you and talk wit’ you and tell you ‘bout Jesus myself!”
“I…I don’t know what to say…” My emerald eyes must have shown my questions.
“There be nothin’ you need to say, Miss Liza. Now, will you have tea wit’ me so I can tell ya ‘bout Jesus?” he probed further.
“You mean…You mean…I didn’t know…I’m so sorry,” I stammered with remorseful realization of the truth.
“There be nothin’ for you to be sorry ‘bout, nor you father. I already done forgive ‘em,” he said with a huge smile.
“But how? How could you forgive him for what he did to you? He beat you and many other slaves. I know. I saw him do it many different times.” I questioned dubiously.
“The Good Book say to forgive our enemies, so I forgive him. Jesus died for me and the bad things I done. He need Jesus, too,” James said matter of factly.
“He was so wrong…all my life he told me that…that blacks were inferior, that they were nothing,” I mused regretfully. “I don’t know how I could have fallen for his delusion. And God…he never let me go to church. I know nothing about religion.”
James and I proceeded to sit down at his crude, wooden table and, over a cup of tea, he told me all about how God created the world which rebelled against Him, so He sent His Only Begotten Son to die to pay the retribution for our sin. I marveled at how such love could flow from this old, former slave man for the daughter of his cruel master. Tears came to my eyes as I thought of the bitterness and hatred stored up inside of my father. Maybe ole’ James was right. Perhaps father needed Jesus…perhaps we both did.
Finally, it came time for me to leave for home. I promised to return quite soon, and James sent his Bible-his one battered, old Bible that He had kept hidden for years under the tyranny of my father, along with the fact of his literacy. He saw me to the door, and I trudged in deep thought down the path to where my horse waited. Mounting my ride, I galloped off across the fields towards home with my hair, dark as a starless, midnight sky streaming out behind me. Reaching the stable near twilight, I looked up into the beautiful starry sky and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there indeed must be a God who had created all of this. That night, I knelt down at my bedside and prayed to a God from whose identity I had all my life been shrouded and secluded, but from whom my own could never be hidden.
The next morning, I walked with a lighter step, whistling as I went about my duties, and joyful in my newfound faith and personal relationship with the Living God. Soon, I obtained my own Bible, having returned James’ to him with the news that his prayers of many long and difficult years had finally been answered. I began going to see him frequently for spiritual nurturing, and I joined him in vigilant prayer for the salvation of my father.
The fallacy of everything that I had been taught as truth throughout my entire life was shattered in a matter of minutes. I was amazed at the impact the love of Christ could have on the life of an old and abused man, and how it could flow as a river of eternal life to my thirsty soul. Years of racial prejudice and religious intolerance were crumbled like old bricks by the power of this love. Although the days ahead were uncertain with the precarious situation of my family estate, I knew that I could finally live in peace and contentment for the remainder of my days on God’s earth.
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