by Janette Oke
Lord, you know I’ve been talkin’ to you ’bout this nearly every day, she prayed silently as she lifted Ellie from the cradle. Please make your way clear to everyone—to Tom and Owahteeka, to Ma and Ben, to their families. An’ yes, Lord, bless her old grandfather. Help him find you ’fore he dies. . . .
Twenty-One
Reverend Knutson
Ben took a team and wagon to the train stop in the neighboring town to pick up the new preacher and bring him back. Reverend Knutson would spend two days at the small hotel getting rested after his long trip, and then he would arrive at the Watleys’, where he would make his home. Belle Watley was all in a dither. Imagine! Not only did she have the distinguished honor of housing the schoolteacher but now the new preacher, as well. Belle, however, did not believe in allowing her excitement to mean overexerting herself. Though her chatter and color were at their peak, she was still content to let her daughters do the bustling about in preparation for the pastor’s arrival.
Word quickly spread through the town and countryside that they had indeed gotten “their man.” The reverend was resting as planned in the hotel and would be picked up by the Watleys for residence at their farmstead the following Friday. This would give him a day to settle in and prepare himself for the Lord’s Day and the first meeting with his new congregation.
The whole neighborhood felt the excitement, and early on Sunday morning the teams and wagons began to stream into the school yard. Even the less faithful members of the flock turned out, except for Zeke LaHaye, though he allowed his wife and family a few hours off so they, too, could meet the preacher. There would not be sitting room for everyone, that was for sure. Fortunately the weather allowed for setting up some makeshift benches outside.
Marty was mentally prepared to see another rather small man like the teacher, thinking perhaps that was the way “they made ’em out east.” The sight of the still-young Reverend Knutson provided quite a shock to all. He was tall, but that was not his outstanding feature. It was his size! And it was not the weight itself the reverend carried that was remarkable but how—or where—he carried it. He was hard put trying to cover his girth with his suit coat. His face was round and full, like a small replica of what was behind his straining coat buttons.
Seeing a round face raised the expectation that it should appear jolly—but not so the Reverend Knutson. There were no laugh lines there, no crinkles at the corners of the eyes.
Maybe he’s still weary, Marty told herself. By next Sunday he’ll likely be more himself.
The good reverend possessed a booming voice, both in word and song, and in spite of some of the hymns he chose being unfamiliar to the rest of them, the singing went well. His prayer, too, was very meaningful to Marty. It sounded as though he was on good speaking terms with the Almighty. Marty felt her soul moved and her spirit warmed as the congregation worshiped together under the leadership of Reverend Knutson.
The sermon left Marty somewhat puzzled, though. The reverend had a voice that was easy enough to listen to, but some of the words and ideas were unfamiliar and difficult for Marty to grasp. Just when she felt perhaps she knew what he was saying, she would get lost again. She chided herself for her ignorance and determined to check with Clark on the way home.
There was general visiting and introductions as the people filed out of the schoolhouse. Marty heard several comments of “Good sermon, Parson,” and was more convinced than ever that she was terribly dull.
On the way home she put it to Clark. “Reverend Knutson’s jest fine, ain’t he?”
“Seems so.”
“Got a nice voice that carries even to the outside, hasn’t he?”
“’Deed he has.”
“Sings real good, too.”
“Fine singer.”
“Clark—what was he talkin’ ’bout?”
Clark started to laugh.
“Be hanged iffen I know,” he finally managed through his mirth.
“Ya don’t know, either?”
“Haven’t a notion,” said Clark. “Don’t s’pose there be a soul there who did.”
“Thought it was jest me thet’s dumb,” admitted Marty, and Clark laughed again.
“Well,” he said, getting himself under control, “I think the good parson was sayin’ somethin’ about man bein’ a special creature, designed fer a special purpose, but I never did get rightly sorted out what thet purpose was. ‘Fulfillment of man’s higher purpose’ or some such thing seems to have come up more than once. Not sure what he’s meanin’.”
Marty sat quietly.
“Maybe next Sunday he’ll explain,” she said thoughtfully. She decided right then and there that she’d be praying for Reverend Knutson as he fit himself into the community and their needs. She truly wanted their children—all the children, actually—to receive further spiritual nurture and training now that they had a regular pastor.
Marty was clearing away the supper dishes when she heard a lone horse approaching. Tommie swung down from the saddle, appearing to be in a great hurry. Marty prayed that nothing was wrong as she rushed to the door to meet him.
His face was white and drawn and there was a determined set to his chin.
“Can I see ya?” he asked, his tone as tense as his expression.
“Of course, Tommie,” she said, drawing him inside, then asking quickly, “Tommie, what’s wrong?”
“I’m leavin’.”
“Leaving! Fer where? Why?”
“I’m goin’ west.”
“But why?”
“I got a note this afternoon from Owahteeka. We were to meet as usual, but she wasn’t there. I waited an’ waited an’ I got worried, an’ then jest as I was gonna go find her—grandfather or no—I spotted these stones piled up—an’ in ’em a letter.”
He shoved the crumpled paper toward Marty, and she took it with trembling fingers.
Dear Tommie,
Grandfather must have learned of us. He is taking me back to the reservation. Please don’t try to follow. It would mean danger. I am promised to Running Deer as his wife.
Owahteeka
“Oh, Tommie!” Marty whispered. “I’m so sorry.” She now understood the anguish in the young man’s face.
Tom shuffled around, and Marty realized he was fighting for control of his emotions.
“But why . . . why go away?” she finally asked him.
“I won’t stay here.” There was bitterness in his voice. “This is jest what Ma wanted. She should be happy now.”
Marty laid a hand on his arm, feeling the muscles tense with his anger and grief.
“Tommie, no mother is ever happy when their young’uns are in pain. Can’t ya see thet? Oh, I know Ma was worried, worried ’bout you an’ Owahteeka. She didn’t feel it was right. But yer hurtin’, Tommie—an’ yer sorrow will never make her happy. She’s gonna be in terrible pain, too, Tommie—truly she is.”
Tommie wiped the back of his hand across his face and half turned from Marty.
“I still gotta go,” he said eventually, his voice hoarse. “I jest can’t stay here—thet’s all. Every day I’ll think I see Ma lookin’ through me, sortin’ me out, wishin’ me to find another girl. . . .”
“I see,” Marty answered gently.
“I left ’em a note. Didn’t say much. You tell ’em, will ya, Marty? Try to tell ’em why I had to go.”
Marty couldn’t speak over the lump in her throat but agreed with a nod of her head. “Be careful, Tommie, ya hear,” she whispered, “an’ write a note now and then, will ya?”
He nodded but said nothing further. He turned and was gone. Marty was left standing in the doorway, watching him go, while tears streamed down her cheeks.
Twenty-Two
Life Moves On
Tom’s departure was very hard on the young Missie. His family and friends were left with deep inward sorrow because of it, but along with the pain in Missie’s heart was deep confusion. It was simply beyond her comprehension that Tommie would choose to
leave everyone—to leave her. Marty tried to explain, but her efforts were in vain.
Ma’s aching heart was hidden by the attention and activities required for Nellie’s wedding. Marty watched her bustling about, organizing everything that needed to be done, but she knew beneath Ma’s smile and her instructions to everyone within sight and sound was a mother’s heart broken for her grief-stricken son.
When March was torn from the general store calendar and discarded, April promised new growth, new life, new vigor. Nellie plunged into the last-minute preparations with flushed cheeks and a beaming face.
“Do folks always smile when they gonna marry?” Clare wondered after a Sunday morning service in which he had spent more time watching those around him than listening to the reverend.
Marty chuckled. “Mostly,” she said, “mostly they do.”
Clare shrugged and let it go at that. The “why” of the whole matter quite escaped him.
Reverend Knutson had by now presented five sermons to his congregation, and Marty had long since given up on any reasonable explanation of his meaning. Others seemed to have given up, also, and a few of the less ardent families had ceased to attend. The schoolroom was still overcrowded, however, and the worship service wasn’t always as worshipful as many wished it to be.
Marty did wish the reverend weren’t quite so educated, so formal. She longed so much for spiritual nourishment, similar to what she found during the daily Bible reading with Clark and their family. Sunday by Sunday she went home feeling uncertain and agitated. She was sure she was hearing truth in those fancy phrases, but she did wish that truth could be presented in a way she could take home with her and apply to her life.
The Davis family had invited Reverend Knutson to join them for a Sunday dinner. Never had she seen a man tuck away as much fried chicken or mashed turnips. She of course said nothing and continued to pass the serving bowls his way, but when she saw Clare watching him in wide-eyed disbelief, she suppressed a giggle and quickly diverted Clare’s attention lest he blurt out some embarrassing remark.
Marty and Clark talked about the situation over those early weeks. They decided to accept their new minister—accept him for who he was, for whom he represented, for what he had come to do. He had come a very long way to teach them from the Bible, and certainly they could open their hearts to the Word of God and trust Him for the rest.
When school began again that fall, along with the girls trudged small Clare, self-confident and assured. His only concern was how Clark would manage the farm without him. But when Clark told him he supposed he could make do—he had Arnie now—Clare nodded reluctant agreement.
He was full of tales of school, often about some lark or humorous playground happening or classroom mishap. Missie occasionally accused him of being a downright tattletale, but that did not dampen Clare’s enthusiasm for a good story.
One day Marty sat in the quietness of the house knitting a new pair of mittens before winter set in. Nandry was off picking blueberries in the far pasture, Arnie was “helping” his dad, the three school children were at school, and Baby Ellie was having her nap.
Marty’s thoughts turned to Wanda. By now the whole community was aware that little Rett was not progressing normally—everyone, it seemed, but Wanda and Cam. Marty’s heart felt heavy as she thought of the boy. Though finally walking on his own, he still did not attempt to speak, and it was evident he would never be like other children.
Cam still boasted about his son. “See how big and strong he is?” he would ask anyone within earshot. How would he take it, Marty wondered, when he finally realized the truth?
Marty was surprised to look up from her thoughts to see Wanda herself driving into the yard. She had brought Rett with her, and he sat upright beside her on the wagon seat, delightedly holding the end of the reins beyond where she grasped them.
Wanda tied the team and lifted the big boy down. He shuffled about the yard and became excited at the sight of Ole Bob. The boy and the dog soon became acquainted.
Then Wanda took the boy’s hand and led him toward the house. He did not protest, but he did not show any eagerness, either.
Wanda wasted no time with small talk. “I had to see you, Marty,” she began. Marty noticed her quivering chin.
“I know the neighbors are all talking about Rett being different,” she said, her voice shaking. “I know they are. I know, too, that they think . . . they think Cam and I aren’t aware. We know, Marty, we know. I guess I’ve known from the time Rett was a tiny baby. Oh, I hoped and prayed that I’d be wrong . . . but I knew. For a while I wondered . . . I wondered about Cam. I wondered when he’d learn the truth . . . how he’d feel when he did. And then . . . one night . . . well, he just spilled it all out. He’d known, too.”
Wanda stopped and her hand went to her lips. She took a deep breath, then went on, “Marty, have you . . . have you ever seen a grown man cry? I mean really cry? It’s awful . . . just awful.”
Wanda wiped away her tears, took a breath, and continued, her voice stronger now. “I felt I just had to share with someone . . . someone who would understand. It was hard at first . . . really hard. But, Marty, I want you to know I wouldn’t change it, not really. He has brought us so much joy. You see”—she looked at Marty, the tears glistening in her eyes—“I asked God so many times for a baby. And . . . and He’s given me one—a boy that will, in some respects, never grow up. Now, can I fault God for answering my prayer? I don’t suppose, Marty, that Rett will ever leave me, not even for school. I have . . . I have my baby . . . for always.”
“Oh, Wanda.” Marty went to put her arms around her friend, and they wept together. When their tears had washed through the grief, they were able to talk of other things.
Rett played contentedly with the building blocks, pushing them back and forth on the kitchen floor, for he couldn’t seem to succeed in stacking them.
Twenty-Three
Church and Family
The small log teacherage was built the following spring, and Mr. Wilbur Whittle and his bride moved into their new little home. The community had long since realized the true reason for Mr. Whittle’s insistence on a home of his own near the schoolhouse, for immediately after receiving assurances it would indeed be built, he asked for the hand of Miss Tessie. The community smiled its approval, and as the finishing touches were put on the teacherage, Reverend Knutson did the honors of pronouncing the couple husband and wife.
Among the members of the community, though, was a growing dissatisfaction with the Sunday morning worship service. Rather than laying the fault on the “learned man” and his lofty sermons, the people instead felt the problem was related to the place of meeting. The school was crowded, the seating was inadequate, and there was no place to take fussing children. That the situation was not conducive to worship was the thrust of neighborhood discussions.
In between the planting of crops and the haying season, a meeting was organized to discuss the matter. The turnout was strong, and many expressed their feeling that the community was in dire need of a proper church. Then followed a lengthy discussion as to where this building should be located. Several generously offered land, but the group finally decided the most central location would be a corner of the Watley farm. Come fall, a group of volunteers would pace off and fence the area. Another group would take up the task of log count. Then throughout the winter months, men and horses would strain and sweat getting the lumber transformed from tall standing timber in the hills to stripped logs in ever-increasing piles at the building site. Clark would oversee the job of sorting the logs to make sure the number snaked in would be adequate for the building.
Wooden benches would satisfy the seating of those full-grown men who had, Sunday by Sunday, been forced to squeeze their tall frames into desks created for fifth graders. An altar would provide a place where those with spiritual needs could bow in prayer, and the Word of God would be proclaimed from a specially fashioned pulpit.
All of the plans drew g
reat excitement from the group, and all went home from the meeting with spirits lifted. Now they were finally getting somewhere. Their worship time surely would have a better chance of meeting their needs with an appropriate gathering place. The church would be much larger than the schoolhouse. It would have two side rooms, one where the children could be taught in a Sunday school class and a smaller one where crying babies would not disturb the rest of the congregation.
The reverend seemed to agree with the plans, though he did not show any particular enthusiasm. He was quick to inform the group of the great number of hours needed in his study for the purpose of preparing himself for his Sunday sermon. The clear message was that it was fine with him as long as he was not called upon for some such task as log cutting.
So be it, the planners concluded. After the crops had been harvested and the fall work completed, the menfolk took to the wooded hills. Their family’s wood supply had to be secured first, and they were in a hurry to complete the task so they could start tallying up the logs for the new church.
As the winter wore on, each day that was fit for man and beast to be out carried the sharp sound of axes and the crashing of large timbers. Gradually the piles of logs at the site grew, and Clark, who was keeping the tally and overseeing the peeling, reported to Marty the steady progress they were making.
With the spring thaw, large piles of naked, steaming logs lay in the warm spring sun. A day in May was set aside for the church raising. Because it was special and larger than most of the buildings they had erected, the men knew the church would take more than one day to see completion, but the first day would give them a sense of direction, the raw outline with which to work.
The community met on the appointed day, and the men set to work, grouping rather naturally into teams for the various endeavors required to put up their meetinghouse. The women chatted and cooked and chased hungry children out of the food set aside for dinner. By evening as the farmers headed for home to their waiting chores, the walls of the church stood stout and strong. Those who could take the time agreed to come the next day to work again on the building. The important things now were to get the roof on, the windows in, and the door hung. The finishing on the inside would be done throughout the spring and summer as men could spare the time.
