Waves of Mercy Page 7

  For a long moment I feel paralyzed. Am I losing my mind? William said that the castle church was making me crazy. Is it true? My diary slides from my lap and falls to the ground as I leap to my feet. I want to chase the woman and ask her what nationality she is, what language she is speaking. But how can I ask a stranger such a question? Besides, she and her son have disappeared into the crowd.

  The mother had thick, golden blond hair like mine. I was the envy of all the girls at school because my skin was so fair and my hair was so thick and curly. I can’t recall ever seeing another woman with hair like mine. Our Swedish maid’s blond hair is as fine as silk.

  I sit down on the bench again, too shaken to walk much less run after them. I bend to retrieve my diary. When I sit up again, the sun blinds me as it reflects off the lake. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember Mother speaking to me in another language when I was a child. But why would she? And what language would it be? Mother’s ancestors were English. So were Father’s.

  I pull my straw hat down to shield my eyes and open my diary to the place where I stopped reading.

  March 9

  I don’t know what to think. Last evening in his sermon, Reverend Torrey asked us the same question that Jesus asked: “For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” The question haunts me. The answer eludes me. William will be giving me “the whole world” when we marry, yet my soul feels lost and empty. I had told Mother I was going to visit a friend yesterday, but I went to the castle church instead. I know it’s wrong to tell lies, yet I find myself doing that very thing. When I arrived home, I went into Father’s library and searched for the huge family Bible that he keeps on one of his shelves. The servants are the only ones who ever touch it, and that’s only when they dust the bookshelves each week. I carried the heavy Bible up here to my bedroom so I could read Jesus’ words for myself. The sermon gave me so much to think about. I already know I’ll go back to the church again, in spite of William’s order to stay away.

  March 12

  I’ve been reading the Gospel of Luke from Father’s big family Bible. I was deeply moved by the parable Jesus told about a rich man who had no pity on a poor beggar named Lazarus. The story reminded me of the question that still haunts me: “For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” I wish I had someone to talk to about everything I’m reading. I have so many questions.

  March 13

  It’s after midnight. I’ve just arrived home from a dinner party with William, and I’m so upset that I know I won’t sleep. The dinner was at the Mitchells’ magnificent new mansion, and there were endless courses of food. I watched people nibble at each course or take a sip or two of their soup, and then the servants would clear away our plates and bring the next course. Naturally, there was entirely too much food to eat. And I realize that this is the way these elegant dinner parties have always been. But as I dined beneath the gilded ceiling and dazzling chandelier, I couldn’t stop thinking about the rich man in Jesus’ parable and the poor beggar, Lazarus, who would have gladly eaten the crumbs from his table but was never given any. The uneaten food tonight would have fed a family of immigrants for a week. And on the carriage ride home afterward, that’s exactly what I told William.

  But he stared at me as if I were crazy and said, “Which immigrant family?” Then he asked where I was getting such wild ideas.

  I told him they were from a story in the Bible, that Jesus told a parable about a rich man who never helped a poor beggar. But he cut me off and stated that his family gave very generously to charity. “And so does your father.”

  “But in Reverend Torrey’s sermon he said—”

  “Who? What sermon? There’s no one by that name preaching at our church.” I realized my mistake too late. William had been holding my hand as we rode home, but he suddenly let go, practically tossing my hand back into my own lap. “You went to that ridiculous church again, didn’t you? After I told you not to.”

  I couldn’t reply, my throat was so tight with tears.

  “Your silence condemns you, Anna.” Then William turned away, gazing out of the carriage window not at me, his chin lifted in contempt.

  “William, please listen . . . I don’t understand why you’re so against that church.” But he shook his head, refusing to say another word to me for the rest of the ride home.

  I can’t read any more diary entries, or I’ll begin to weep. William had forced me to choose between him and the church, and by continuing to sneak back there to attend services, I had chosen the church. Had I been foolish to do so? I remember feeling so lost and alone at social events, even with William by my side and dozens of people surrounding me, and yet that emptiness always lifted when I sat by myself in the pew, listening to the minister talk about God’s unfailing love.

  I stand and slowly walk back to the hotel’s wide front porch. The walkways are crowded with people and I look all around, hoping to see the woman and her little boy again. I still can’t imagine how I understood the foreign words she said to him.

  My mind bounces from that mystery back to William again. If he decides to give me another chance, should I take it? He would give me everything I could ever want—except the freedom to attend the castle church. I could never go back there again. “What is a man profited,” I wonder, “if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”

  Chapter 9

  Geesje

  Holland, Michigan

  1897

  I stand just outside the door of Pillar Church, gazing in dismay at the rain that has begun to fall, spotting the steps with dark circles. “It looks like we should have ended our gathering a few minutes ago,” I tell the other ladies. “I hope you all brought umbrellas.”

  “I don’t mind a little rain,” the dominie’s wife says. “We accomplished a lot of work for the Lord this morning.” We all murmur in agreement, and after saying good-bye to my friends, I unfurl my umbrella and prepare to plunge into the rain. Dominie’s wife stops me. “I just wanted to thank you for leading us in prayer today, Geesje,” she says. “You always seem to know exactly what to say and do and how to pray. We would be at loose ends, sometimes, without your wisdom to guide us.”

  I feel my cheeks grow warm at the unexpected praise. I thank her and set off for home. By the time I arrive, my leather shoes and the hem of my skirt are soaked, and I find myself wishing we still wore wooden shoes like in the old days.

  The warm, incessant rain makes my house feel like the inside of a dog’s mouth. It’s too steamy to leave the windows closed, too damp to leave them open; too muggy to knit, too wet to work in my yard. I wonder what Derk does out at that great big hotel on rainy days like this. I’ll have to ask him the next time I see him. He and his father ate Sunday dinner with me here yesterday after the service, and I gave Derk the first few pages of my story to read.

  “This is fascinating, Tante Geesje,” he told me when he came to the place where I’d stopped writing. “I wish you had more for me to read. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story about the soldier you fell in love with, have I? What happened next? Is he the man you married?”

  I didn’t think I could tell Hendrik’s story out loud and still keep my composure. It’s difficult enough to find the words to write about him after fifty years. “Hendrik’s story is very long and complicated, Derk,” I told him. “I promise I’ll let you read it when it’s finished, but I need to tell it in my own time and in my own way.”

  “I understand,” he’d said. “I’ll try to be patient and wait.”

  Now I putter around my kitchen for a few minutes, looking for something to do. The rain is still coming down hard. How in the world do all the guests out at those big hotels keep busy when they can’t go to the beach or sail on the lake or even go fishing? I can’t imagine having days and days of uninterrupted leisure like those wealthy guests do—although I suppose, with their mansions full of servants back home, they’re accust
omed to a more leisurely life than I am. We Dutch are a hardworking people, and we give ourselves only one day of appointed rest each week, the Sabbath day. When I recall how hard we all worked when we first arrived here in America—to near exhaustion, at times—I cannot imagine what men like Dominie Van Raalte, God rest his soul, would think of the grand hotels that now line the shores of Black Lake. Or the rows and rows of cottages that are inhabited only during the summer months. We were thrilled to finally have a one-room log cabin to live in after sheltering beneath lean-tos made of branches for weeks and weeks. The lean-to that Papa and Maarten built offered no shelter at all when the rain poured down like it’s doing today. “But how wonderful this rain is for our crops,” Papa would say, always finding rainbows in the storm clouds.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself again. If I’m going to coax all these memories back to life like dying coals, I should be writing them down like the committee asked me to do. With nothing else to do on this dreary day, I sit down at my little desk and pull out my notebook, rereading the last page to see where I left off. Then I choose a freshly sharpened pencil and, as the memories pour down like the rain outside, I begin to write.

  Geesje’s Story

  The Netherlands

  50 years earlier

  I clearly remember the summer evening when my life changed once again. The day had been unusually hot, and I hurried through our simple dinner of bread and fish, hoping to leave our stifling apartment for a few minutes and walk down to the river, where the air always felt much cooler. I would have to ask Maarten to accompany me since my father still didn’t want me to venture far from our house by myself. Papa always read from the Scriptures and prayed after we ate, but on this night the Bible remained closed on the table with Papa’s ink-stained hands folded on top of it. The somber look on his face and the way he nervously cleared his throat told me he had something important to say.

  “For several months now,” he began, “I have been meeting with Dominie Van Raalte and some other men from our church to discuss the persecution we continue to experience. Added to those worries are our concerns about the blight that has struck our crops for two years in a row. After much discussion and prayers for God’s guidance, we have reached an important decision. We feel that the Lord is directing us to leave the Netherlands and immigrate to a place where we can live and work and worship in peace.”

  “Papa, no!” I covered my mouth the moment I had spoken. I knew it was disrespectful to contradict my father, much less interrupt him. But Hendrik had just left for Utrecht, and I couldn’t imagine moving even farther away from him.

  My father didn’t react to my outburst, continuing as if I hadn’t spoken. “One place we have considered is the Dutch colony on the island of Java.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed to hold back my tears, remembering Hendrik’s stories of the exotic lands in the Far East. It would take months and months of sailing to get there, with unimaginable dangers along the way. And in the end, Hendrik and I would be on opposite sides of the world from each other.

  “However,” Papa continued, “we discovered that we would face the same religious restrictions in Dutch-controlled Java as we do here. And so we have decided to go to America, where there is no state religion and all faiths are allowed to worship as they wish.”

  “No . . .” I said again, but in a whisper this time. America seemed as impossibly far as Java. The distance between Arnhem and Utrecht was already too far to be separated from the man I loved.

  “America has good opportunities for workers and plenty of land waiting to be settled,” Papa continued. “A state called Wisconsin is offering inexpensive land for sale. Good land, I’m told. The cost of traveling across the ocean has never been cheaper than it is now, and people from many other nations have already taken advantage of that fact. Dominie Van Raalte believes it’s possible for us to settle in a place where we can live together quietly, farm our own land, educate our children, and raise them to love God. Most important, we’ll be able to worship freely as a community.”

  Maarten grew very excited as Papa spoke, shifting on his wooden chair as if he could barely stay seated, his sturdy legs shuffling beneath the table. “I would very much like to immigrate with you, sir, if you’ll let me.”

  “Of course, son. Of course.” Papa offered Maarten a rare smile as he leaned forward to squeeze his shoulder. “You’ve been with our family through many tests and trials, and you are very welcome to join us. Some of the elders believe that the hardships we’ve been forced to endure these past few years were God’s way of directing us to move on, just as the persecution that the early believers suffered in Jerusalem served to scatter them and spread the gospel around the world. And so, beginning tonight, our family will offer prayers for continued guidance in this matter.”

  I bowed my head and listened as Papa prayed for God’s leading. But it was clear to me that he had already decided the matter and was merely asking God to prosper his plans. I felt sick at the thought of moving to America, thousands of miles away from Hendrik. Would I ever see him again? He had written two letters to me since moving to Utrecht, assuring me of his continued love. I made up my mind to remain here in the Netherlands, where he was, even if it meant saying good-bye to my parents.

  Later that night I was unable to sleep—and not only because my room felt unbearably hot. I had moved back into my own bedroom after Hendrik and the others left, but I crossed the passageway to my parents’ bedroom and knocked on their door. “It’s me—may I come in?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Mama said. My parents were already in bed, but they both sat up, looking at me with concern. The sun went down so late on summer nights in Arnhem that there was enough light in the room to see them clearly. “What’s wrong, lieveling?”

  “I don’t want to go to America. I want to stay here, in the Netherlands. Maybe I can move in with Anneke or Geerde and—”

  “Your sisters are much too poor,” Papa said. “They can barely afford to feed their own families.”

  I had been afraid he would say that, so I had another alternative ready. “Well . . . maybe I could ask the dominie to help me find a job. I could work as a house servant for a wealthy family, or—”

  “Geesje, you’re only seventeen years old,” Papa said. “Besides, the people in our community of Separatists aren’t wealthy. The few who do have money are also considering a move to America. And I doubt if any rich families who attend the State Church would hire you as their servant once they learn of your beliefs.”

  I didn’t tell Papa, but I was so desperate to stay here with Hendrik that I would have considered returning to the old church.

  “Geesje, why don’t you want to go with your moeder and Maarten and me?” Papa asked. “The elders have prayed long and hard about this decision, and they feel it is God’s will.”

  I had no choice but to tell them the truth. They would learn it sooner or later. I took another step closer to their bed. “I’ve been afraid to tell you but . . . but Hendrik and I are in love.”

  “Hendrik—the soldier?” Mama asked. “You barely know each other.”

  “Yes, we do, Mama. We talked about all manner of things when he lived with us this past year, and I’ve discovered that he’s a wonderful man. Before he left, he told me that he loves me, too. He wants to marry me after he’s discharged.”

  Papa groaned. Mama climbed from the bed and came to where I stood. “You can’t marry him, Geesje. I’m sorry.” She spoke softly, not angrily, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “I agree that Hendrik seems like a nice young man, but you have very little in common with each other. A marriage works best when people share the same values and the same faith in God. It would be a huge mistake to marry a man who isn’t a believer.”

  “But Hendrik is a believer. He wanted to make a profession of faith, but they sent him to Utrecht before he had a chance to talk to the dominie. Ask Maarten. He’ll tell you. He was good friends with Hendrik, remember?”

 
“Even if Hendrik does become a Christian,” Papa said, “and even if he joins the Separatists, how would he support you? He has no home or family, and work is very difficult to find these days. That’s why he joined the army, if I’m not mistaken. And the lack of jobs is one of the reasons we’re leaving the country. I’m sorry, lieveling, but you are still so young. I can’t allow you to stay here on your own, or marry a man who is nearly a stranger. Try to understand that.”

  I could no longer hold back my tears. “But I love him! Please, Papa! I want to be with him!”

  Mama pulled me close as she tried to comfort me. “Listen, Geesje . . . listen to me.” I could barely hear her above my sobs. “I would hate for you to have your heart broken, but you must understand that Hendrik no longer lives in our home or has Maarten to talk to about spiritual things. He won’t be influenced by Dominie’s sermons anymore. It will be much too easy for him to forget about God now that he is living with hundreds of other soldiers again. And his feelings for you might also change once he’s away from you and living in the big city.”

  “No. That isn’t going to happen. We love each other.”

  Papa climbed out of bed, too, and rested his hands on my shoulders. “You need to put this matter into God’s hands, Geesje, and trust Him with it. If He truly intends for you to marry Hendrik, then nothing will stand in your way. Perhaps Hendrik can also come to America when he completes his service in the army. Maybe emigrating is the right answer for Hendrik, too. He could find work in America or buy land of his own within our community. Pray about it, and if this is the Lord’s will for you, it will all work out. If not—then you must decide if you’re going to obey God or go your own way.”