Faith In Fiction | Hidden Treasure
As evening approaches, I gently lay my sleeping 4-week old daughter into a basket beside my chair. Taking a deep breath, my mind fills with sweet memories from a year ago. It was August 1, 1860 and I was a young bride full of dreams for the future. On that day, church members helped my husband, Ambri, and I settle into our farm house and plant our first small field of corn. As we worked that day, there were discussions about South Carolina’s threat to withdraw from the country. But we lived in North Carolina and were confident that our state would stand firmly with Mr. Lincoln’s intention to eliminate human bondage should he be elected president. Scripture taught me that all humans are made equally in God’s image.
From a young age, my grandfather’s convictions and lessons were crystal clear. The law, whether written or just understood, was that anyone with dark skin had to cross the street when a Caucasian person was approaching. Whenever my grandfather took me into town, if a darker skinned person started to cross the street to abide by this law, my grandfather would grab my hand, nod his head and cross the street so the other person didn’t have to. He explained that the Lord taught us to love everyone without exception, and that’s exactly what we are to do,
“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.” John 13:34
What a difference a year makes! After the election last fall, some Southern states withdrew from the country, triggering a pending war between the north and the south. My life stayed busy with our farm and preparing for the child we were expecting. Four months ago, my home state also voted to secede. Supporting the northern view that slavery must end and concerned that he might be drafted by the Confederate army, Ambri and I made the painful decision that he would go north to join the Union army after our baby’s birth. We welcomed Cynthia, our treasured daughter at the beginning of July, and the following week, Amri and I shared a tearful goodbye.
As I sit here now, I wonder where my husband is? Is he alive or has he been killed in battle? My thoughts are interrupted by a disturbing sound outside. Jumping up, I run to the window and see Union soldiers approaching on horseback. Soldiers from both sides are rumored to break into homes and do dreadful things. As I’ve practiced many times in case my home is invaded, I quickly loosen two floorboards near my bed and lower Cynthia into the hidey-hole that my father built as a safe haven for his only grandchild should soldiers break in intent on destruction.
Hearing a slight knock at the door, I know not whether it is safer to ignore or answer it. I bow my head seeking wisdom and an answer from Scripture comes to my mind immediately,
“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7
The second knock is louder, and when I open the door, a chivalrous soldier removes his hat, while two other men stare menacingly at me. “Food,” the bearded man says gruffly as he pushes me aside and the three men walk through the door, uninvited.Two of the men start emptying my cupboard, throwing all of the food into dark green bags. The third man places the contents of my icebox into a thick brown bag. As I watch, I pray that my baby, hidden below the floorboards, will not awaken and cry. Although these men only seem interested in food, I fear what they might do if they hear a baby cry.
Time seems to stand still. When the cupboard and cooler are empty, a shiver runs through my body when the bearded man stares at me, his gaze then falling on the family Bible sitting on the table. Surely, he won’t steal that! The chivalrous soldier opens the door and urges the other men to leave quickly so they can make it back to camp before dark. As the door closes behind them, I sink to the ground, tears in my eyes, praise to the Lord on my lips.
“My God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold and my refuge, my savior; you save me from violence. I call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised, and I am saved from my enemies.” II Samuel 22:3-4
Another rap on the door startles me. Slowly, I open the door to find the bearded man again staring at me. Stretching his arm towards me. I stand in disbelief as he hands me the bottle of milk that had been taken from the icebox. “For your baby,” he states matter of factly. With no hint how he knows my home shelters an infant, I accept the milk as he continues, “I have a four-month old back home. I will pray for your baby’s safety. Please pray for mine. You and I will meet again in the heavenlies.” Pointing at the Bible on my table, he quotes Ephesians 6:12,
“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”
With that, he turns, mounts his horse and the soldiers ride off the property. I retrieve Cynthia from under the floorboards and sing a song of praise. I will tell this story to her when she is older and hope that this encounter will be handed down from generation to generation.
One hundred sixty-one years have passed since that night in 1861. Just as my mother honored her great-great grandmother’s wishes by passing down her story, I too have shared this family history with my children. This experience of fear turned into praise, of saints recognizing the true enemy, will not be forgotten.
