They sang three hymns with such majestic delivery that Summer fought tears. She recognized the melody of the third hymn as soon as they began singing. In her heart, she transposed the words to English—“Fairest Lord Jesus … Thee will I cherish, thee will I honor”—and despite an effort to stay silent, she hummed the soprano line along with those who knew the German pronunciations.
The minister gave a nod of permission for the congregation to sit, and the people settled in for the sermon. It turned out to be a lengthy one, none of which Summer could understand. What had Mr. Ollenburger been thinking to assume she could find meaning listening to gibberish? Although the music had been soul-stirring, now she simply felt lost.
Summer glanced at Mr. Ollenburger and Thomas often throughout the sermon. The big man’s focus never wavered from the suited man in the front, although Thomas nodded off once or twice. Summer fought the impulse to close her eyes.
Her gaze drifted across the congregation. For the most part, the people seemed relaxed, interested, open to whatever was being shared from the pulpit. Frequently, the people referred to leather-bound books in their laps, nodding in agreement or smiling at the minister. Twice Grossmutter placed her gnarled hand on Summer’s knee and patted, as if trying to encourage her to listen. Frustration welled—the woman knew Summer didn’t understand the language!
Despite her discomfort, Summer had to acknowledge the people behaved much differently in this church than in her church at home. Even with the beautiful setting, she had never seen such intense concentration from the Boston parishioners. She wondered if it was the smaller number of people attending this service or the message that made the difference. She supposed she wouldn’t know since the message remained a mystery.
She thought back to the hymns, the sincerity and nobility reflected in the a cappella singing. It had appeared that these people truly believed the words they sang. They weren’t merely singing notes; they were sharing of their hearts. It had been both beautiful and tragic. Summer acknowledged she had never before felt the music the way it had touched her on this Sunday morning in this simple setting. What made the difference?
She looked again at Mr. Ollenburger. The man’s lips were tipped into a gentle smile, his eyes warm. His entire bearing spoke of a peaceful spirit. The words from the hymn filtered through her mind—“Thee will I cherish, thee will I honor”—and a knot formed in her throat. When Mr. Ollenburger sang those words, he meant them. He meant them with the depth of his soul. But could Summer truly comprehend what it meant to honor and cherish the fair Lord Jesus?
Suddenly the congregation rose to its feet. Summer listened as the minister delivered a prayer, his hands clasped in reverence beneath his bearded chin. At the solemn amen, the congregation chanted a phrase together in closing, then people began filing outside, heads together in hushed conversations.
Mr. Ollenburger stepped between Summer and the grandmother, offering each woman an elbow. Grossmutter took hold and Summer did the same, more out of habit than a desire to cling to this man’s arm. Although many people, some curious and others stoic, turned in her direction as she stepped into the sunshine of the brisk November day, no one spoke to Summer except her giant escort.
“So, Frau Steadman, what did you think of Kleine Gemeinde?”
“How do you do it?”
He turned his startled face in her direction. “How … do what?”
“Sing like that.” She tightened her fingers on his firm forearm, remembering the way the music had seemed to flow through her very soul. “The harmony, without any piano or organ … It was beautiful. But how is it done? Have you always sung without instruments?”
They reached the wagon, and Summer watched him gently lift Grossmutter into his arms and place her on the pile of quilts in the back. His tenderness with the old woman touched Summer’s heart. He helped Summer onto the wagon seat and then lifted Thomas into the back, instructing the boy to use the stack of blankets to cushion his seat. Only when he had aimed the oxen for the road did he finally answer her question.
“As a boy, in the old country, I learned the notes. The leader would sing a phrase, then all worshipers would copy it. Slowly we learned the songs. Seldom was a piano or organ available. Our small congregations, and having to move much, made having such items not easy. But the music does not seem to suffer when the notes are sung right.”
Summer agreed with that. “Why did you have to move too much?”
He gave a shrug. “People first welcomed us, but then later …” He sighed. “Much unkindness exists in the world. Many rules which are hard on the heart to follow. From Germany to Russia my family went to escape hard rules and unkindness. Then, after many years, the hard rules and unkindness finds us again. By then I am grown man with my own wife and son to think of. So to America we come. Here my Thomas and me follow our beliefs without problems.”
“And the unkindness?” Summer thought of the way the people had ignored her presence, even in church. It hadn’t seemed kind to her.
Again, the man sighed, and the sigh sounded heavy with sadness. “Ach, unkindness. Where people exist, unkindness will exist. I do not like it, but I do not know how to change it. I just pray….”
Already the shariah was in view, which meant the house was just around the bend. Something occurred to her. “Was the service longer last Sunday? You didn’t return until late afternoon.”
Mr. Ollenburger glanced back at Thomas, a warning frown creasing his brow. He turned to Summer, and his expression cleared. “Many times, after Sunday service, we visit with families. Last Sunday we visited the Penner family. They have boy same age as Thomas. This Sunday, though, we come home.”
He called the oxen to a halt outside the house and hopped down. His feet hitting the ground seemed to bring a close to the topic, although Summer still had questions. Why hadn’t they gone visiting today? Would no one welcome them with her in attendance? Why were the people so set against her? What had she done to them? The fear of the illness was past. What was wrong with her?
Mr. Ollenburger set Grossmutter safely on the ground, then reached for Thomas. The man looked up at her, his gentle blue eyes as kind as always. Raising his hands, he smiled. “Come, Frau Steadman. A nice lunch we will eat, and then a surprise I have for you.”
Peter watched Thomas clear the dishes from lunch and stack them on the dry sink. As soon as the table was clean, he would bring out the surprise he had prepared for the woman. He worried his lower lip between his teeth as he pondered what her reaction might be. Once more his intentions were honorable, but always he felt concern about how they would be understood. He only wished to make her feel less uncomfortable. Those in town did not make her feel welcome.
He remembered the warning thrown at him by Herr Schmidt—“The Holy Book tells us not to be unequally yoked!” Peter knew this. He wished he could make those in town understand he was not looking to be yoked with the woman—he only wanted to help her and allow her to help Thomas.
Looking at her pale face above the harsh black of her mourning gown, he wondered how anyone could treat her with anything but kindness. She was a picture of unhappy longing. He felt the need to compensate for the town’s abstand—their unreasonable keeping of distance. Still, his heart pounded as he rose and smiled down at her.
“You stay here, Frau Steadman. I have something for you.” He waved his hand at her, noticing a pink stain steal across her thin cheeks. As quickly as his big feet would allow, he darted to his bedroom.
There in the corner, it waited. A chair ordered from the Montgomery Ward and Company catalog and delivered to Nickels’ Dry Goods store. It was not the most expensive chair from the catalog, but when he had seen the padded seat and back embroidered with a design of roses, he had thought it suited the woman. And its frame was made of oak—a good solid wood that would last.
Peter liked oak. He liked its grain and its warm honey color when touched with stain, and most of all he liked how the mighty tree grew from such a tin
y acorn. He always thought of oak trees as one of God’s miracles. But he would not say all this to the woman.
On the fabric seat of the chair rested a small square paper-wrapped package that was of more importance than even the oak chair. It, too, had been ordered from the catalog and had raised some eyebrows. The chair Nick could surmise was for Peter’s home, but that second item … It could only be for the woman. Nick had been full of questions, for sure, about the little package.
A band of worry tightened Peter’s chest as he remembered Herr Schmidt and Herr Penner watching him load the chair onto his wagon. Herr Schmidt had said, “I hear the mill in Hillsboro is now using a steam engine.” Herr Penner had nodded, a smug look on his face, as Herr Schmidt continued, “Much faster it can grind the grain. Maybe I will go there next harvest, ja?”
Although neither man spoke to Peter, he understood the words were meant for him. It was a threat—send the woman away or risk the loss of his business. Peter did not respond but only latched the back of his wagon and headed home with the purchases.
Grossmutter’s eyes were full of questions when she saw these things. Peter felt embarrassed, explaining to her why he had bought them, but when he finished she patted his hand and smiled approvingly. He could not decide whether Grossmutter truly liked Frau Steadman or only felt sorry for her.
He’d left the woman waiting too long already. He lifted the chair, careful not to tip the package from the seat, and stepped back into the living area. When Peter’s feet scuffed the floor, she turned in his direction and her brown eyes widened.
“Oh my.”
His heart lifted at her pleased tone.
She rose, rounded the table, and advanced on the chair, her fingers pressed to her lips. Tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, it’s just beautiful. How could you possibly know …?” A tear broke free and spilled down her cheek.
“I order it from the catalog.” Peter thought his heart might burst through his chest, so heartily it pumped away as the woman circled the chair, her fingers tracing the curve of the armrest and following the line of the high, scrolled seatback. She pressed her palm to the rose design, and fresh tears made new tracks down her blushing face.
“The chair, it meets with your liking, then?”
“Oh yes.” The words came out in a breathy whisper as she brought her steepled hands beneath her chin and stood in front of the chair, beaming down at it in pleasure.
“Well, sit in it!” Thomas’s eager voice brought a smile to the woman’s face.
Peter leaned over to remove the package from the seat, gesturing with his hand for her to make herself comfortable. With a girlish giggle, she turned and lowered herself into the padded seat. Draping her hands over the armrests, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and released a satisfied sigh.
“Does it sit good?” Thomas asked.
Her eyes opened, a smile crinkling their corners. “Does it sit well,” she corrected. “Oh yes. It sits perfectly.” She peered up at Peter with an expression of great appreciation. “It’s a beautiful gift. I thank you.”
Peter did not believe he had ever pleased someone as much as he had just pleased this woman. What a change the smile made in her appearance! His stomach felt fluttery, and he swallowed hard before speaking. “I promised you a chair so you need not always sit on the bed. I keep my promises.”
Her eyes remained pinned to his. “Yes, you do. You are a good man.”
The simple words sent another shot of warmth through his middle. This woman did not deserve the unkindness bestowed upon her by the townspeople. Somehow he must make them see the neediness, the loneliness that existed within her heart. Then maybe they would reach out to her instead of shunning her.
All during the butchering he had tried to tell them she was no threat to their humble existence, but they had not trusted his words. He must find some way to bring them together so the fear and worry could be set aside.
“Pa, aren’t you going to give her the other present?” Thomas’s words jarred their gazes apart.
The woman’s face flooded with color, and she gripped the armrests. “Oh, please, the chair is present enough.”
Peter had no choice but to give it to her. With awkward motions, he thrust the package at her. “You are the only one who can make use of this,” he insisted when she didn’t lift her hands to take it. “Please, Frau Steadman.”
With a slight frown, the woman reached out her hands. When Peter released the package, her hands slipped downward, as if surprised by the weightiness. She placed the package in her lap and removed the string tie, then folded back the paper. A leather-covered book came into view. The black cover of the book was the same velvety color as the dress the woman wore.
“Holy Bible,” she read aloud.
“Heilige Bibel,” Grossmutter echoed, nodding her head.
Frau Steadman glanced up, acknowledging the woman’s words, then touched the curling gold letters on the cover. Though she was still looking down, Peter heard her whisper, “Thank you, Mr. Ollenburger.”
He knelt next to the chair, his big hand on the armrest beside her elbow. “This morning in Kleine Gemeinde, you could not know the lesson because you could not understand the language. I keep the verses our Reverend Enns spoke in here.” He tapped his forehead. “I will write down where to find them, and Thomas will tell you in English. I do not know the English spelling.” He regretted that so many steps were necessary for this woman to receive the message. “Then you read the verses in your English. We can talk about them afterward.”
To his great relief, the woman did not push the Bible back at him. Her chin raised and lowered in a gentle nod of agreement.
He rose to his feet, clapped his hands, and then rubbed his palms together. “And there is no better time to start than now. Thomas, get my tablet and inkpot, please. Before my mind forgets, I must to write down the verses for our Frau Steadman.”
14
OUR FRAU STEADMAN …” Often over the next week, the impulsively spoken words came back to haunt Peter. Why had he let those words slip out? He had been feeling tender because he knew he, Grossmutter, and Thomas were her only friends. But the word our spoke of possession. He did not want to give her the wrong idea.
Yet, there were two things he did each day that were only for the woman. Every afternoon, while Thomas washed lunch dishes and Grossmutter napped, he took her to visit the little spot where her family was buried. Every evening after supper, with heads together and Bibles open, he spent an hour with her in study. It was a peaceful time for Peter, a pleasant end to the day.
During the past week they had moved beyond the preacher’s sermon to other parts of the Bible. Peter tried to stay in the New Testament, turning the woman’s attention to others who had suffered so she would know she was not alone. Tonight, as he sat across the table and guided the woman in reading about the apostle Paul, he felt her quizzical expression, and he squirmed in his seat.
Her eyes seemed to ask of things that went beyond the subject they studied, and his foolish words “our Frau Steadman” tickled his mind. Thank goodness for Thomas’s presence at the table and Grossmutter’s chaperonage from her chair in the corner.
“Philippians, chapter four, verse eleven.” Thomas glanced at the verse his father indicated. “I know that one by memory. ‘Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.’”
Frau Steadman’s dark-eyed gaze turned toward Thomas. Peter noticed that the woman’s eyes had lost their haggard look. Eating regularly had done her some good. And, he admitted to himself, it did not hurt that much of the time she ate her own cooking rather than his attempts. They were all eating flavorful meals thanks to the woman’s willingness to assume the cooking chores.
“Thomas, how did you learn all of these verses?” she asked. “This is the third time this week you’ve quoted a verse from memory.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Things just stick with me.
Especially things I like. And I like that verse. It helps me remember that even though I don’t have all the things I want, I can still be happy.”
Peter tousled the boy’s hair. “And what do you want that you do not already have?”
“A bicycle.”
The answer came so quickly that both Peter and Frau Steadman released a laugh. How good it was to hear laughter from her lips.
“Ach, boy, I think you misunderstand. When Paul writes these words, he is in much physical discomfort. In prison, alone, and far from everyone he holds dear. Yet he found contentment in the knowledge of God’s presence. I do not think Paul was meaning bicycles.”
The boy shrugged. “Oh, I know. Bicycles hadn’t been invented yet.” He turned to the woman. “But it still reminds me to be happy with what I have, and I think Paul might have meant that, too.”
“Yes, I suppose he could have.” The woman closed her Bible. “Mr. Ollenburger, you have a commendable grasp of Scripture. You obviously paid attention in church all of your growing-up years.”
A warmth flooded Peter’s chest as he remembered the church of his childhood. “Ach, ja. A treat it was each Sunday to put on my nicest clothes, to smell the chicken simmering in the pot. My belly would growl at the good smell. Then I walk with Vater, Mutter, and Grossvater to Kleine Gemeinde. The singing, the preaching … Ja, it was good feeling, but mostly I think of that chicken waiting at home for me to eat it.”
He pinched his brows as other memories crowded in. “Then, later, we are told we cannot gather to worship. We must to go somewhere else if we wish to meet together and learn from Scripture. So we go. And when we meet again, I never take lightly listening to the Word. I think less of the good chicken dinner and more of the food of the spirit. I listen close. I remember. I hide the words in my heart.” He rested his hand against his chest. The familiar rhythm of his heartbeat served as a reminder of the knowledge of his faith.
Waiting for Summer's Return Page 12
