Waves of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  Derk gives a weak half-smile and asks, “So who did you fall in love with after my grandfather?”

  “With someone wonderful,” I reply, returning his smile. “I’ll write about it in my notebook and let you read it. But for now you need to understand that there’s a difference between the giddy euphoria of falling in love the way you did with Caroline, and the deep joy of loving someone for an entire lifetime and being loved in return. The excitement and passion of first love often wears thin as you journey through all the waves and storms of life. But the deep, abiding love and commitment that replaces it is far more satisfying. You’ll find that kind of love someday, Derk. I know you will.”

  He leans back in his chair and exhales. “Thanks for listening, Tante Geesje. I should let you go to bed.”

  “You may come over and talk to me any time, dear. You know that.”

  After Derk leaves, I begin to wonder why he hasn’t confided in his father and shared his romantic woes with him. Is it because his father set such a high standard that Derk feels there should be only one woman for him, too? The love I once felt for Hendrik was so deep and powerful that I didn’t believe I would ever fall in love again, either.

  But I did.

  Geesje’s Story

  Holland, Michigan

  26 years earlier

  Maarten’s grief after the death of our son Gerrit was as bottomless as my own. We had shared all the joy and hard work of raising our four children together, and now we shared our aching sorrow, as well. We both had a difficult time accepting Gerrit’s death, so we comforted each other as we talked and wept and prayed. “Why would God take him?” I asked Maarten one night as we lay curled together in bed. Our long habit of clinging to each other for a few minutes each night before going to sleep had become even more important to both of us after this tragedy. “Gerrit was so young, with his whole life ahead of him. Isn’t it bad enough that God took his parents at such young ages when all they had wanted to do was worship Him freely here in America? Did He have to take Gerrit, too?”

  “I’ll be honest,” Maarten replied. “I’ve struggled to find a reason for his death. God doesn’t owe us an explanation for what He does, of course—and we may not understand His reasons even if He did try to explain them. And yet . . . and yet as I kept asking God why, He finally offered me a measure of comfort in the words that Dominie Van Raalte said at Gerrit’s funeral: He said that Gerrit gave his life for the cause of freedom—remember?”

  “I think so.”

  “Geesje, we came here to America so we’d have the freedom to worship. But this country won’t remain free unless we’re willing to safeguard our freedom. Our family agreed that it was a crime against humanity to keep the Negro race enslaved. They deserve freedom as much as we do. So even though we miss our Gerrit, his death does have meaning. He died so all those former slaves—along with our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren—could enjoy freedom for generations to come.”

  I hugged my husband tightly, savoring the familiar, solid shape of him. “I don’t know what I would ever do without you,” I whispered.

  “Nor I you.”

  The outpouring of love and consolation from our community of believers, along with the assurance that Gerrit was with his heavenly Father in paradise, slowly helped Maarten and me to heal. I had glimpsed Hendrik and his wife, Nella, at Gerrit’s funeral, but we didn’t speak. Only Maarten truly understood how I felt, and so I leaned on him. Then Hendrik came to our door one morning soon after the funeral, while Maarten was at work. I didn’t answer it. Instead, I hid in the shadows, pretending I wasn’t home. Something had changed inside my heart, and it seemed wrong to let Hendrik console me. When I chose to remain with Maarten years ago, it was partly because I had also chosen to be a mother to Arie and Gerrit. My grief at my son’s death should be shared with Maarten, not Hendrik. And so I sat in Gerrit’s darkened bedroom alone, waiting for Hendrik to leave. Together, Maarten and I slowly healed.

  Our kolonie was now a thriving town of about 2,400 people. Arie became a full partner in the printing business with Maarten after the war and learned to maneuver expertly on his crutches. Jakob finished his degree at Hope College and enrolled in the newly founded Western Theological Seminary to become a minister. And Christina turned seventeen, the same age I was when I left the Netherlands to come to America. We had a family portrait taken of the four of us by a traveling photographer who visited Holland. Christina was a beautiful young woman, friendly and vivacious and as attractive to the young men in our church as my flower garden is to the honeybees. The summer before her final year of high school she worked as a maid for the Cappon family, one of Holland’s most prosperous families. That fall she announced at dinner one evening, “I’ve decided to move to Chicago and work for a wealthy family after I graduate.”

  “Chicago!” Maarten thundered. “Heaven forbid!” He was usually so soft-spoken. I had never heard him thunder before. Neither had Christina.

  “I need to get out of this town and see a little bit of the world, Papa. When Mama and I visited Arie in Indiana, I saw that there’s so much more to America than tiny, little Holland, Michigan. I want to see some interesting, exciting places before I settle down and get married.”

  Before Maarten could respond again, Arie spoke up. “Those places only appear exciting on the surface, Christina. You have no idea how blessed we are to live here in this community.”

  “If you’re not ready to get married and settle down yet,” Maarten said, “why not continue your education and become a teacher?” Christina shook her head, staring at the tabletop.

  In the weeks that followed I noticed that she stopped sharing her plans with us and became more secretive. I missed the close relationship we’d once enjoyed. Christina went for long walks in the evenings after her chores were done and seemed to spend a lot more time with her friends than at home. She even begged us to let her sit with them in church instead of sitting with our family.

  On a warm Sunday morning in September, one of the elders pulled Maarten and me aside after the church service and said, “May I have a word with you please, Mr. and Mrs. de Jonge?”

  “Yes, of course,” Maarten replied. We sent Jakob and Arie ahead of us with the carriage, telling them we would follow them home on foot in a few minutes. Christina wasn’t with us. For the sake of peace, Maarten had allowed her to sit with her friends, and she always walked home with them afterward. We stood outside on the church steps with the elder, the stately white pillars framing a view of the changing fall leaves.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this news,” he began, “but I’m concerned about your daughter, Christina. Perhaps it is nothing—I hope it is nothing—but for the past three Sundays I’ve seen her get up and leave before the service ended. I thought she might be changing seats or using the facilities. But today I happened to be standing in the back of the sanctuary when she rose from her seat. I watched through the window as she left the church grounds altogether and hurried west on Tenth Street. I believe your home is in the other direction, isn’t it?”

  My heart felt like an iron weight inside my chest. I looked up at Maarten and saw him briefly close his eyes. “How long ago did she leave today?” he asked.

  “At least an hour ago. Maybe an hour and a half.”

  “Thank you for letting us know,” he said.

  “If I can help in any way . . .”

  “Thank you.” Maarten was suddenly in a hurry to leave. My arm was still linked to his, but he quickly turned and plunged down the stairs as if he’d forgotten, pulling me, stumbling, along with him. My husband was a godly man, and I knew that if anyone possessed the good judgment and wisdom to handle this situation, it was him. I remained silent for as long as I could on that aching walk home, aware that Maarten needed time to think and pray in his slow, deliberate way. I longed to do something that very minute, to chase after Christina and drag her home, to convince her to be the loving, trustworthy daughter we once knew. When
we turned onto our street, I could no longer hold back my tears. I tugged Maarten’s arm to slow his marching pace.

  “Before we get home, we need to talk about what we’re going to do,” I said.

  “I don’t know what to do, Geesje . . . I don’t know what to say to her.” I heard the raw emotion in his voice. Christina’s deception had hurt him deeply. The fact that an elder at church had known about it before we did shamed us both. I struggled for words to make things better.

  “Maybe she’s just restless, Maarten. Christina has hated to sit still in church all her life. Don’t you remember how she used to act up when she was small? No amount of punishment has ever worked. Maybe there’s a good explanation for why she walked out.”

  Maarten wiped a tear with his fist. “We trusted her and allowed her to sit with her friends, but she betrayed our trust.”

  “Christina has always chafed at the rules and at our way of life. She thinks we’re too strict and unyielding. I’m worried that the more we restrict her and punish her, the more she’ll rebel. It’s like holding sand too tightly in your hand—it will all slip away.”

  “I fear that she has already slipped away from us. I’m not sure she even believes what we do anymore.”

  “She does . . . of course she does.” But a prickle of doubt made me uneasy. Christina had never wholeheartedly embraced our faith the way her three brothers had. There had been many times when I felt she was simply going through the motions, saying the right things to placate us.

  We walked the rest of the way home in a daze, struggling to control our shock and grief. Christina arrived home just as I was putting Sunday dinner on the table. She was as lively and cheerful as usual while we ate, as if nothing at all was wrong. I felt too sick to eat, and Maarten didn’t seem to have an appetite, either. When the meal ended, Maarten read from Scripture and prayed like he always did, but when Christina rose to help me stack the dishes, he cleared his throat and said, “Everyone remain seated, please.” She sat down again. I laid my hand on top of his as I looked up at him, silently asking if he intended to expose Christina in front of her brothers. Maarten understood me perfectly and gave a slight nod. We were a family and we would deal with her behavior together.

  “Christina, would you kindly explain to us where you have gone these past three weeks when you have left the church service early?”

  Her mouth fell open and a blush crept up her cheeks. But she quickly recovered and raised her chin in defiance. “Who told you that lie?”

  “Someone who has no reason in the world to lie.”

  “That’s what I hate about that church and this stupid town. Everyone is so nosy! Everyone has to know everyone else’s private business. I’m so sick of it! That’s why I’m leaving the first chance I get and going someplace else to live.”

  She started to rise again, but Maarten said firmly, “Sit down, Christina, and listen to me.” She sat. “You can leave home and leave Holland, but you can’t escape God’s watchful eye—or His love for you. As for despising our church, we all need those ‘nosy’ brothers and sisters for our own protection, to keep us from going astray. We depended on each other for our very survival in the early days, and we still depend on each other today. The Bible says ‘Two are better than one . . . For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up . . . a threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”

  Christina didn’t respond. She stared at the tabletop, her body tensed as if ready to leap up the moment Maarten excused her. “You haven’t answered my question, Christina,” he said. “Why have you been leaving church?”

  “Because it’s boring. I’m tired of all the rules and laws. I’m tired of being told I’m a sinner just because I can’t possibly obey all of them. Nobody lives a perfect life, and if anyone says he does, he’s a hypocrite. There’s a world full of interesting people beyond our city limits if we ever bothered to go meet them, but the narrow-minded people in this town are all dead set against anyone who isn’t Dutch or who doesn’t belong to their church.”

  Christina’s bitter words struck me like a slap in the face. I started to react, but Maarten squeezed my hand to stop me. How could he remain so calm? “Where have you been going after you leave the service?” he asked her.

  “Nowhere. Just walking around.” She looked away, her cheeks turning crimson. She was lying. I remembered the long walks she had also been taking every evening and her outburst suddenly made sense to me—she was meeting someone in secret. Someone who wasn’t Dutch.

  Arie spoke up first. “Are you still seeing that boy you met last summer? Tell us the truth, Christina.”

  She shot him a look of fury from across the table, and her blush deepened. “I confided in you, Arie. You said you wouldn’t tell on us!”

  “I have to tell. I’m trying to save your life, Christina, the way you once saved mine. Nothing good can come from a relationship with an outsider, especially if you have to tell lies and sneak around behind Mama and Papa’s backs to see him.”

  I had done the same thing with Hendrik, meeting him in secret to hold hands and share a few stolen kisses. I could only hope that Christina had done nothing more than kiss. Our church had dozens of wonderful young men to choose among, but like Eve in a garden full of beautiful trees, Christina was drawn to the only one she couldn’t have, the forbidden fruit—an outsider. Just as I had been drawn to Hendrik.

  “Christina, listen,” Maarten said. He still sounded calm, not angry. “You must stop this behavior before you ruin your reputation and destroy all your chances of marrying a fine Christian man from our community—someone who shares our faith and who values the same things we do. Your mother and I made sacrifices and worked hard to establish a fellowship of faith for you and for your children after you. I believe that God has a husband in mind for you here—”

  “How do you know Jack isn’t His choice for me? You haven’t even met him!”

  “Is he a Christian?” Maarten asked. When she didn’t reply he said, “He can’t be God’s choice if he isn’t a believer. Scripture says, ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?’ Marriages work best when the couple has the same values and traditions and share the same faith in God.”

  “I love him! You don’t understand how I feel!”

  But I did understand. Should I tell her? Should I give her the same speech that Papa gave me about choosing God’s will or my own? “Tell us about him, Christina,” I said. The room was silent for a moment.

  “His name is Jack Newell, and he’s from Toledo, Ohio.” Her angry look dissolved as she talked about him, and her face glowed with love, like a fire burning brighter. “He left home on foot with barely a cent in his pockets, determined to make something of himself. And he has! He was passing through Holland on his way to find work in Chicago, and he found a really good job at the Cappon Bertsch Tanning factory. He’s going to work his way all the way to the top and own his own factory someday.”

  Christina must have met him last summer when she worked for the Cappon family. Their home wasn’t far from the tannery. “What about his family?” I asked.

  “His father started drinking too much after his mother died. He didn’t want to stay in that home anymore.”

  Part of me wanted to grab my daughter by the shoulders and shake some sense into her for getting involved with a homeless, penniless drifter with an alcoholic father. But Hendrik hadn’t been a believer either, at first, and he had come to faith through our family’s Christian example. Surely Maarten was thinking of Hendrik as well when he said, “Why don’t you bring him home so we can meet him?”

  “No. I don’t want him to come here.” Her angry defiance returned.

  “Are we an embarrassment to you with our accents and our clothes and our humble home?” Maarten asked.

  She lifted her chin. “Jack wouldn�
��t care about any of those things. But I know you would judge him and condemn him and try to make him feel guilty because he isn’t religious like you. You would start preaching to him and telling him he was a sinner.” Again, I thought of my parents who had preached to Hendrik by their way of life rather than with words.

  “We are all sinners, Christina,” Maarten replied. “I could overlook the fact that your friend isn’t Dutch if he was a sincere Christian. Does Jack believe in our God at all?”

  She began to look very uneasy. “Of course he believes in God. But he thinks it’s wrong to scare people into conforming to a bunch of old-fashioned rules and morals with stories of floods and fiery furnaces and whales swallowing people alive. Especially when the people who teach those rules are such hypocrites. We can live good lives without all the false guilt the church tries to scare into us.”

  I knew those weren’t Christina’s own words. She must be parroting what Jack had said. It shocked me to realize what a strong influence he’d already had on her, causing her to reject everything we had taught her.

  Maarten closed the Bible that still lay open on the table and folded his strong, ink-stained hands on top of it. “If you won’t allow us to meet him, then I must forbid you to see him, Christina. You may no longer go out walking alone or sit with your friends in church or lie to us and pretend that you’re visiting them. We will take you to and from school from now on—”

  “You’re making me your prisoner?”

  “Only because you’ve been deceiving us. And because we love you.”

  Christina rose from the table and stormed off to her room, slamming her door. I agreed with everything Maarten had said and done. I knew he hoped to prevent Christina from ever seeing this young man again—but I knew that he couldn’t stop her. She would find a way. We were too late. Our daughter had already slipped away from us like a boat that had become unmoored. Now she was drifting downstream on a powerful current.

  Chapter 32