She opened her mouth but then paused. “It shows me that what I assume is sometimes wrong. That what my eye sees is only a partial story.”
“Exactly so.” Mamm-wynn nodded, her eyes slipping closed again, though only for a moment. “As our eyes always do in this world. We see only in part. But there is more. More to this physical world that your magnifying lenses can show you. And more still beyond it that we need a spiritual lens to see.”
Her chest went tight. “The mysteries.”
“How an old woman can know where her granddaughter is hiding.” Mamm-wynn’s fingers drifted back down to rest on the bedcover. “How sometimes the future can be whispered into our hearts. How one Man’s blood can take away our sins.”
The tightness was different this time than what she usually experienced. Not the anxious squeezing that made her stomach ache. But the kind she felt when Oliver looked at her. The kind she’d known when Mabena had called her friend. The kind that had seized her when Mama and Bram presented her with the microscope last Christmas, proving not only that they knew her but that they loved her as she was.
The kind that spoke of truth beyond facts. Of the spirit beneath the cells of her body. Of a God who called her by name and made a place for her in this world where she was allowed to explore it. Of a Son who did the miraculous, the impossible, so that she might live after those cells returned to dust—and so that she might love beyond all reason in the interim, knowing that’s where true treasure lay.
That really was the mystery. Not how a plant grew or whether a comet was a chartable phenomenon or a harbinger of supernatural destruction. Those they could learn about and come to understand, as Oliver had said. But how sins could be forgiven, how Jesus could have taken them upon himself with death and then come to life again, how they could somehow partake of a world beyond the physical one she so loved . . . those were the things that belonged to faith. Those were the things science couldn’t answer, and didn’t need to.
Why, then, had so many people focused on the wrong side of things and taught it to her? Why was the miracle of Christ presented as something simple, something easy, something to be taken for granted and not even thought about overmuch, while so much attention was given to arguing about the things they could easily discover with a telescope or microscope? It seemed to her that there were mysteries enough to contemplate about the divine nature of God and Christ to keep one busy for a lifetime—just as there were things enough to learn about their world through observation, which didn’t need to be debated so much as explored.
She’d thought she had to choose one or the other. That she couldn’t have both faith in what she couldn’t see and understanding of what she could. That if what she learned of the world didn’t agree with the things she’d been taught to believe, she must choose between belief and observation. Why had it never occurred to her that the problem wasn’t with the beliefs, as Oliver had said, but with the interpretation? That God was bigger than man’s finite understanding of Him and of His Word? That it was people, not the Lord, who tried to make her choose?
“There now.” The hand she held squeezed her fingers, relaxed again. “I knew you would see. A heart like yours that wants to understand the world around her cannot help but see when it goes earnestly looking.”
“I think I’d been afraid to look too closely. Afraid I couldn’t accept the answers—that God would demand I accept this world on faith that it works and never ask how it does.”
Mamm-wynn chuckled and let her eyes slide shut again. “But then there are the Daniels in history—the ones who make their fame with both prophetic visions and earthly knowledge. They can be your model. Your hope.”
“You’re very wise, Mamm-wynn.” Libby leaned over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I see where Oliver gets it.”
That the lens of the spirit was to faith what her microscope was to the world—that was a thought that brought unspeakable peace to her mind. More, it was one that made her crave both lenses—the physical and the spiritual. Knowing God didn’t mind her understanding the one made her long to know more about the other.
“Will you sing to me?” Mamm-wynn’s eyes were closed fully again, and she repositioned herself a bit against her pillow. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard you.”
Had she ever? In church, perhaps. But then, Mamm-wynn didn’t seem to be limited by what Libby remembered as the past. A mystery she could either call madness or accept as a part of this woman she’d so quickly come to love. “What would you like to hear? A hymn?”
“Mm . . . no.” She sighed and nestled deeper. “An aria. Beth will never sing me those—she hates opera. Silly girl.”
“So does Bram. He always makes fun of me when I sing them. Or maybe it’s because I’m not all that good.”
“I love to hear you.” Mamm-wynn gave her a small, tired smile. “Sing ‘L’amour est un oiseau rebelle.’”
“One of my favorites. I always sing it when—”
“When you’re painting. I know.”
She could sit here wondering how, when Libby had never admitted that to a soul here, or she could give her this simple gift she asked for. She chose the second option, launching into a quiet rendition of her favorite song from Carmen.
“Love is a wild bird that no one can tame, and you’ll waste your time trying to catch it.” She’d always loved the first verse. It was no wonder it sprang to mind when she was painting, given how often birds were her subjects.
And how true those words were. Love really was like a bird. You didn’t know where it might settle, or when. You couldn’t tame it, couldn’t force it. Couldn’t often predict it. You could call and call for it and never would it flutter down. Then, at the most unexpected time, in the most unexpected place, there it was.
Here it was.
By the time she finished, Mamm-wynn had fallen asleep again. For a moment she felt guilty that she’d monopolized her entire waking and hadn’t told the lady’s grandchildren that she’d spoken, responded, seemed like her usual self, just tired. But she’d go and let them know now.
She scooped Darling into her arms and turned, jumping a bit when she saw Oliver leaning into the doorframe, Bram a step behind him. She expected her brother to give her his usual sigh over the opera or joke about her torturing an ill old woman with it. But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything.
Neither did Oliver. He just tracked her approach with that watchful look of his, and when she paused in front of him, he looked deep into her eyes. No doubt seeing, because he was Oliver, all the thoughts that had settled. All the peace that had taken the place of the questions inside her. The fresh yearning to learn more about the beyond, as well as the here and now.
And he smiled.
Mabena turned her face toward the rising sun and let it warm her. She breathed in the scents of salt and sand and sea. Felt the smooth wood of the oars in her hands, the firm seat beneath her. The pull of the water against the paddle. Birds called out to each other, chattering about where the fish were swimming and what predators circled above, no doubt. From the distance came the fading shout of a fisherman.
Home.
“We could just stay right here for the next few hours. I could look at you longer.”