Waves of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  Papa died that evening, less than an hour after reciting the Twenty-third Psalm and the Lord’s Prayer with me as I bathed his burning forehead. Over the next few days, Mr. and Mrs. Van Dijk also died, lying side-by-side on the same pine-bough bed, their hands entwined. The cart that circulated through our settlement came to collect their bodies, adding them to all the others. Maarten and I and the two children were the only ones in our cabin who survived.

  “There are so many orphans in the kolonie,” Maarten told me one evening, “that the elders have decided to build an orphanage to house them all. But I think we should take care of Arie and Gerrit ourselves. What do you say, Geesje? These little ones shouldn’t be all alone. They need us.”

  I readily agreed. The children had lost their parents just as I had. They needed love. Caring for them gave me a reason to go on living as I waited for Hendrik to arrive. Maarten and I also agreed to let a middle-aged widow named Mrs. Van den Bosch and her twelve-year-old son move in with us after her husband and young daughter died of malaria, too.

  At last the rain stopped. The terrible summer and the plague of malaria finally came to an end. Maarten and I were sitting outside our cabin on a fall afternoon as the leaves began to turn colors, when I looked up at him and said, “I’m not sure I believe in a loving God anymore.”

  Maarten didn’t flinch at my scornful words. “Even so, Geesje, He believes in you. Nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus—not tribulation nor famine nor persecution nor death. Not things present nor things to come—”

  “I don’t believe that. I feel abandoned by Him. Forsaken.”

  “I’ve felt that way at times, too, these past few months,” he admitted. “But it isn’t true. We’re His, and He’s hanging on tightly to us. Nothing and no one can pluck us out of His hand.”

  “But where’s the meaning in all these deaths?”

  “We couldn’t understand God’s purposes even if He explained them to us. Could little Gerrit understand us if we tried to explain malaria to him or tell him how a tiny mosquito caused it? When we forced him to drink the bitter medicine that saved his life, Gerrit simply had to trust us and believe that we were doing it because we loved him.”

  “Where’s the proof that God loves us? Show me, Maarten.”

  He didn’t reply. I’m not sure I would have listened to him if he had.

  Holland, Michigan

  1897

  My tiny house is much too hot for me to sit inside it all day. Derk finds me on my front porch that evening when he arrives home from the hotel. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it, Tante Geesje?” he asks.

  “It’s wonderful! There’s a nice breeze off the lake that’s keeping the mosquitos away.” He bends to kiss my forehead, and I smell pine trees and lake air on his clothing. “Your skin has turned very brown from being in the sunshine all day,” I tell him. “You’re starting to look like one of the Indians who used to live down by Black Lake, except that your hair has bleached nearly white.”

  He runs his fingers through it making it stick up on end. “I’m hoping you have more of your story for me to read,” he says as he flops down on one of my porch steps.

  I’m reluctant to show him what I’ve written. In fact, I considered ripping out the last few pages right after I wrote them and burning them in my stove. In the end I decided not to. Derk needs to know what despair and heartache look like. His congregation will ask him many hard questions someday, like the ones I asked Maarten. Derk will need to help his parishioners find strength in God the way Dominie Van Raalte helped us during that terrible time. Sooner or later, sorrow and tragedy are part of everyone’s life. Besides, I haven’t written about the greatest sorrow of all, yet.

  I fetch my notebook, and we sit on my front porch as he reads it. The sun sets so late these midsummer days that the sky remains light for a long time. When he finishes, Derk slowly closes the notebook and turns to me. “So much loss,” he says, shaking his head. “It must have been hard for you to go on.”

  “Yes. . . . And now you know the truth about all my doubts. They outweighed my faith, at times.”

  “And yet you weathered them, like a sturdy ship battling a storm at sea.”

  “What I’ve written doesn’t shock you?”

  “No,” he says. “No, I’m not shocked. I nearly gave up on God, too, remember? After my mother died? You’re the reason I didn’t, Tante Geesje. You had just lost loved ones, too, and yet you told me you didn’t hate God. You said you had decided to cling to Him like a lifeboat, and you encouraged me to do the same. You helped my father and me through that terrible time.”

  “There were many people who came alongside me. And taking care of you helped me with my own grief, the same way taking care of Arie and Gerrit helped me after their parents died. Our burdens are lighter when they’re shared.”

  “I like the words Maarten said that came from John’s Gospel,” Derk says. “‘Nothing and no one can pluck us out of His hand.’ God held on tightly to both of us after the Ironsides sank, and even grief couldn’t pluck us out of His hand.”

  I hear the emotion in his gravelly voice. I’m surprised by the tears that suddenly fill my eyes as he refers to my favorite Bible promise. No one can pluck us out of God’s hand.

  “When my parents were gone and God was all I had,” I said, “I discovered that He is enough. I survived malarial fever, so I knew He must have a purpose for me on this earth even though I couldn’t see it. I kept moving forward, one tiny step at a time, clinging to Him in faith. And isn’t that the definition of faith—moving forward through the darkness, clinging to God?”

  Derk rises from his seat and gathers me into his warm, sun-browned arms. “I love you, Tante Geesje,” he murmurs.

  “Ik hou ook van jou,” I tell him. I love you, too.

  Chapter 17

  Geesje’s Story

  Holland, Michigan

  50 years earlier

  I still remember the early fall afternoon when I received my final letter from Hendrik. One of the other settlers had made a trip into Allegan and had returned with it. The pages were filled with good news, and I could feel Hendrik’s excitement in every sentence. Weeks had passed since he’d mailed it in the Netherlands, and by now he was on his way to America. I probably wouldn’t hear from him again until he walked out of the woods and into my arms.

  My darling Geesje,

  I have been discharged from the army and have finished all my preparations to come to America. I will be traveling with a group of Dutch emigrants who plan to settle in the state of Wisconsin. We will set sail from Rotterdam tomorrow. I feel like one of my ancestors must have felt as he prepared to sail the seas. I could leap and dance with joy and anticipation.

  I will travel with them across the ocean to New York City, then sail up the Hudson River and go by way of the Erie Canal to Buffalo, like you did. It will be early enough in November that the American shipping lakes should still be navigable, and we will be able to board a steamer to cross Lake Erie and into Lake Huron, then down to Sheboygan, Wisconsin on the western coast of Lake Michigan. From there, I will take another steamer across the lake to the port of Grand Haven, which I’m told is some twenty miles north of you. They will give me directions to your settlement from there. If I have no delays, you and I will be together at last by the end of November.

  I have saved enough money to buy several acres of land in America. If you agree and if your parents allow it, we will be married right away. I would build a palace for you if I could, grander than the king’s palace in Den Hague. Geesje, I’m filled with hope for our future together. Soon! Soon I will be able to hold you in my arms. Soon we will be together for the rest of our lives.

  I love you so much,

  Hendrik

  He was coming to be with me at last! He was already on his way and would arrive in just a few more weeks. We would be married as soon as we could. The anticipation helped ease the terrible grief I felt at the loss of my parents.
Hendrik didn’t know they were dead. He didn’t know the challenges he would face in this wilderness. But at least we would face them together.

  Every day I mentally charted his progress, counting the weeks he would spend crossing the ocean, checking off the days in my mind, praying that God would keep him safe from storms. I pictured him arriving at Castle Garden in New York City like I did, traveling up the beautiful Hudson River to Albany. The plodding mule trip along the Erie Canal would seem endless to him, and I imagined him walking along the towpath with the mules to hurry them on their way.

  The days and weeks of waiting seemed interminable to me. I took care of Arie and Gerrit and worked beside Widow Van den Bosch to store up what little food we had managed to harvest for the coming months. We prepared our cabin and mended our clothing and knit warm socks for winter. Every day, from the middle of November onward, I watched for Hendrik to step out of the woods into the clearing that surrounded our cabin and into my waiting arms. Every day brought disappointment.

  “He should be here by now,” I said as I stoked the fire to make pea soup. Widow Van den Bosch was kneading dough for bread. “Today is the first day of December already. I can’t imagine why he isn’t here.” It wasn’t true. I could easily imagine all sorts of disasters. My stomach ached so badly from fear and worry that I could barely eat. “I hope he isn’t lost in the woods.”

  “You said he was a soldier, didn’t you? I’m sure he can take care of himself.” The widow gave the dough another thump with the heel of her hand. I didn’t say so, but her bread was always tough and dry, not at all like Mama’s. “What are your plans after he does arrive?” she asked. “Will you continue living here once you’re married?” I knew she was trying to distract me from my fear by helping me think about our future together.

  “I feel like this is Maarten’s cabin, since he worked so hard to build it and clear the land. But I hope he’ll let Hendrik and me live here until spring. Hendrik will probably want to buy land farther out of town. He plans to clear several acres for farmland.”

  “Maarten may take a bride of his own one of these days,” the widow said, lowering her voice and giving me a sly wink. “Have you noticed that young Johanna Van Eyck seems smitten with him?”

  I hadn’t noticed. I’d focused solely on myself these past months. “Is that right?” I said, feigning interest. “Is he smitten with her, too?”

  “He seems to be. Haven’t you seen them talking after church?”

  I didn’t want to admit that I barely paid attention to the people or the sermon or anything else at church—so totally consumed was I with my prayers for Hendrik. “I hope Maarten finds a good wife and that he’s happy,” I said. “He’s so good with the little boys. He’ll make a wonderful father.”

  “Will you adopt them when your Hendrik comes or will Maarten?”

  I stopped chopping carrots and looked down at Gerrit, napping in his little wooden bed by the fire. Maarten had made the bed for him so he would be off the damp dirt floor. Widow Van den Bosch’s question was one I had never considered. “I’m not sure who the boys will live with. I need to wait and ask Hendrik what he thinks.”

  I had grown to love Arie and Gerrit as if they were my own children. They even called me Mama. I couldn’t imagine giving them up. But Maarten loved them, too. He and the other men in our settlement had sold the trees they’d felled to a lumbering company, and Maarten used some of his proceeds to buy more chickens, a pig, and a dairy cow so the boys would have milk to drink. I had no idea how Hendrik would feel about raising someone else’s children. We had never talked about such things. We had known each other for barely six months before Hendrik had been transferred to Utrecht. The vast distances our letters had to travel and the weeks it took for them to arrive limited what we’d been able to talk about. But once Hendrik and I were together again, we would have the rest of our lives to get to know each other. We would grow as close as my parents had been. Mama and Papa had known each other’s moods and thoughts without asking and could communicate with a simple look or gesture. It would be that way for Hendrik and me someday.

  When the first snowflakes began to fall, I could no longer disguise my worry. I remembered watching the two burials at sea in the middle of the Atlantic and doubting God’s goodness. I had asked myself the question: If He could cruelly snatch the young bride from her husband for no reason, the child from his mother, might He snatch Hendrik from me, too? He had also taken my parents. Fear of God’s seeming capriciousness consumed me.

  Hendrik was all I ever talked about. “He should have been here weeks ago,” I told Widow Van den Bosch as we trudged up the hill over the frozen ground one Sunday morning. The men had finished building the log church, and it felt warm inside when we arrived. I unbundled Arie and Gerrit and hung up my own coat.

  “There are always unexpected delays,” she assured me. “We will pray for him this morning.” We settled beside each other, flanked by her son and the two young boys.

  I could see that something was wrong the moment Dominie Van Raalte stepped behind the pulpit that Sunday. He had been our pastor for a long time, and I had seen him weather every crisis imaginable: suffering from seasickness on the Atlantic, from exhaustion after trudging through snow up to his waist, and sorrow after tirelessly nursing his congregation through malaria. I’d seen him weep as he buried men, women, and children who had followed him faithfully to this new land. But I’ll never forget the pallor on his face when he stepped behind the pulpit on that Sunday in December and read the news.

  “There has been a shipwreck,” he said in a trembling voice.

  My heart dropped like a dead weight in my chest. I wanted him to stop talking. I covered my mouth to keep from crying out and wished I could also cover my ears. I trembled as I waited, as if I had malarial fever all over again.

  “A steamer called the Phoenix caught fire and sank in Lake Michigan nearly two weeks ago on November 21. The ship carried many of our countrymen from the Netherlands, some two hundred eighty men, women, and children who were immigrating to Wisconsin. There were many casualties.”

  When he paused to swallow and regain his composure, Widow Van den Bosch grabbed my hand and held it tightly. As Dominie continued reading, every word he spoke felt like a blow to my heart.

  “The Phoenix set sail from Buffalo, New York, crossing Lake Erie into Huron, then into Lake Michigan. Five miles from their destination of Sheboygan, Wisconsin, the ship caught fire. Out of more than three hundred passengers, only forty-three survived. Seats in the two lifeboats were given to the first-class passengers, not the poor Dutch immigrants.” He folded the paper in half and looked up at us. “Entire families were lost with many small children. I know that some of you have family members coming. . . .”

  I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I lifted Gerrit off my lap and thrust him into Widow Van den Bosch’s arms, then ran from the church into the cold morning air, not bothering to grab my coat. My stomach heaved. I thought I would be sick. I ran blindly down the hill on the frozen pathway, my heart screaming soundlessly.

  Not Hendrik. Please, God, not him. The Phoenix couldn’t be his ship. And even if it was, he would find a way to survive, I know he would. He would grab a seat in the lifeboat. Or he would swim. Hendrik was young enough and strong enough to endure the lake’s icy water until he was rescued. I refused to believe he was dead.

  My tears blinded me, and I tripped over a tree root and fell to my knees on the path. I remained there, weeping and shivering and praying with all my heart, my breath fogging the air. “Please, God! Please let Hendrik be alive, please!” I wanted to bargain with God, to promise Him anything and everything, but I had nothing to offer in exchange for Hendrik’s life.

  I heard footsteps behind me, but I didn’t turn. A moment later someone draped a warm coat over my trembling shoulders. I thought it might be Widow Van den Bosch, but it was Maarten who crouched beside me. He pulled me into his arms, rocking me, letting me cry. “Geesje, I’m so sorry. Wha
t can I say? What can I do?”

  “He’s alive, I know he is. . . . Hendrik made it out alive. He’ll come for me. We’ll be married. . . .”

  Maarten said nothing.

  I don’t know how long we sat there before Maarten finally helped me to my feet and walked with me back to our cabin. He stoked the fire and wrapped me in a blanket. “I’m going back to get the boys,” he said. “Will you be all right?”

  I stared into the flames, rocking back and forth, shivering. Hendrik would come. He would.

  But he didn’t.

  Nearly three months after the shipwreck I awoke to a blizzard outside our cabin. The forest was frozen in sorrow along with my heart, dead and white and featureless. I went outside to fetch more wood for the fire, and as I watched snow piling on top of snow all around me, I understood the truth: Hendrik wasn’t coming. He was dead. As dead as the frozen world that stretched as far as I could see. A drift had buried the block Maarten used to split firewood. More snow buried all traces of the path to our neighbors’ cabins. I wished it would bury me. My despair felt as deep and cold as the winter snowdrifts, my grief as wide and vast and bottomless as the lake that had swallowed the man I loved. I had reached the end of all my hopes and dreams, my parents’ hopes and dreams. Mama and Papa were gone, and now Hendrik was gone, as well. I was miles and miles from home, trapped in this wilderness, living in a shack. All hope was buried. I saw no reason to continue living. I wanted to die and join everyone else I had ever loved in heaven.

  I heard the cabin door open and close behind me. A moment later Maarten rested his hand on my shoulder and gently turned me around. “Come inside, Geesje. I’ll get the firewood. The children need you. They are clamoring for breakfast.” I did what he said. Taking care of Arie and Gerrit was the only thing that kept me going.

  Late that afternoon when the blizzard finally stopped, I bundled up the boys so they could go outside and play in the snow with Maarten. I watched from the window and listened to their laughter. They adored Maarten, and he adored them. Six months had passed since their parents died, and the children’s grief was ebbing. Would mine, as well?