CABOT (suddenly raises his head and looks at her--scornfully) Will ye ever know me--'r will any man 'r woman? (Shaking his head) No. I calc'late 't wa'n't t' be. (He turns away. ABBIE looks at the wall. Then, evidently unable to keep silent about his thoughts without looking at his wife, he puts out his hand and clutches her knee. She starts violently, looks at him, sees he is not watching her, concentrates again on the wall and pays no attention to what he says) Listen, Abbie. When I come here fifty odd year ago--I was jest twenty an' the strongest an' hardest ye ever seen--ten times as strong an' fifty times as hard as Eben. Waal--this place was nothin' but fields o' stones. Folks laughed when I tuk it. They couldn't know what I knowed. When ye kin make corn sprout out o' stones, God's livin' in yew! They wa'n't strong enuf fur that! They reckoned God was easy. They laughed. They don't laugh no more. Some died hereabouts. Some went West an' died. They're all under ground--fur follerin' arter an easy God. God hain't easy. (He shakes his head slowly) An' I growed hard. Folks kept allus sayin' he's a hard man like 'twas sinful t' be hard, so's at last I said back at 'em: Waal then, by thunder, ye'll git me hard an' see how ye like it! (Then suddenly) But I give in t' weakness once. 'Twas arter I'd been here two year. I got weak--despairful--they was so many stones. They was a party leavin', givin' up, goin' West. I jined 'em. We tracked on 'n' on. We come t' broad medders, plains, whar the soil was black an' rich as gold. Nary a stone. Easy. Ye'd on'y to plow an' sow an' then set an' smoke yer pipe an watch thin's grow. I could o' been a rich man--but somethin' in me fit me an' fit me--the voice o' God sayin': "This hain't wuth nothin' t' Me. git ye back t' hum!" I got afeerd o' that voice an' I lit out back t' hum here, leavin' my claim an' crops t' whoever'd a mind t' take 'em. Ay-eh. I actoolly give up what was rightful mine! God's hard, not easy! God's in the stones! Build my church on a rock--out o' stones an' I'll be in them! That's what He meant t' Peter!It's a time for walking out front doors. Today as I left my house, just after stepping off the porch, a stranger approached me and held out a couple of twigs to me. I nodded to him, awkwardly, wondering why he was in my yard. He said, Here. Take it. I said, What? He said, Here, take this. And he handed me a handmade cross. I said, Uh, no thank you. I have a crucifix and I don't really need a dumpy handmade cross. No offense of course. He said, here, take it. I looked around innocently and said, Who, me? That's for me? No. You must have the wrong guy, I've already got my cross, see, I carry it around my neck. He said nothing, and gestured as if to give me the cross. I said, that's not even what a cross looks like. That's a plus sign. He said, It's a cross. I said, Don't you think I know what a cross looks like? I know what a cross looks like. It's suffering, it's pain, it's struggle, it's a challenge, it's not a silly wooden thing. He said, Take this cross, you asked for it. I said, How dare you tell me what I asked for! You don't even know me. Get off my property! He said, You're stupid. You should go be a businessman. I said, I won't! Ha! See, I knew it, you're a coward. You want me to give in, to give up the cross, but I tell you, I'm not gonna. I'm strong, I'll carry the cross. He said, You don't even have a real job. You aren't going anywhere. I said, Stop afflicting me! Leave me alone, I'm doing good work, I don't deserve this.
Although I didn't expect this to come to me while reading Desire Under the Elms
, it did: the road that rises isn't easy and it never will be, taking up the cross isn't ever going to be easy. Often, I tell myself that of course I know what it means to take up my cross and of course I'm ready. I'll suffer. Watch. I'll sacrifice. But when it comes down to it, I'm still shocked and angered when someone presents me with a cross to carry. I even act surprised. But we don't get to choose our crosses, nor should we act as though good deeds are crosses. Persecution, mockery in the name of Christ--in our minds, these things are either childish (literally kids making fun of the Christian kid in school, how many times have you had that moral lesson taught you by your elders or in ponderous publications?) or terribly distant and drastic (we imagine there might come a time when our freedoms are taken away and we are put in jails and murdered because of our faith because fascists don't like faith or something like that--think of all the times you've heard the word persecution mentioned in the context of foreign churches, that's what persecution means to us, strangers being jailed by other strangers). But at the same time, we manage to complain a good deal about things. I'm not wealthy, I don't have a good life, I can't have fun, I don't attract cool people, I don't cheat like everyone else, I haven't ever gotten drunk and have missed out on all the partying--we complain as though these things weren't persecution. To see them as such doesn't belittle the "real" persecution of martyrs. But it would require Christians to be a bit more joyful about it. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad. Stop expecting Christian life to be easy: God is hard, God ain't easy.
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