He smiled at the look on Kari’s face. “We brought them with us to compare their handwriting to that in the journal you found, but we didn’t find it necessary to do so. After all, you are the image of our mother, just cast in gold and honey instead of sun-ripened wheat.”
Kari swallowed. The thought of reading more of Rose’s journals was the most enticing of gifts she could imagine. “I would be honored to keep them for the family.”
“Good, then! That is settled. Now, what was it you wanted to give me?”
“Well,” Kari answered quietly, “when I found the journal, I also found something else.”
“Oh?” Matthew’s look was expectant.
“I found a letter addressed to Joy.”
Matthew’s brows shot up. “A letter to Mother? From whom? From Edmund?”
“That’s the thing—I don’t know. I didn’t open the letter, and the envelope does not say who it is from, but . . . I don’t think it could be from Daddy. It was placed in the trunk with the journal in 1957 and Daddy had left New Orleans years before . . . although he did not die until 1958.”
She fingered the edges of the envelope through the bag. “I didn’t know who the letter was written to at first because the writing on the envelope cannot be seen by the naked eye. Owen and I took it to a friend who was able to make the writing visible for a few minutes.”
She looked at the cloth bag she held with both hands. “Owen’s friend put some chemicals on it and we were able to see that the front of the envelope read ‘Joy Thoresen Michaels.’ That was quite clear. The back, however, was harder to read. Some of the letters were scratched and the ink was smeared. I am certain, however, that it reads, ‘Joy Michaels, Personal and Confidential.’”
“You are quite strong and persistent, Kari,” Matthew praised her. “I see some of Mother’s spirit in you—in how you were determined to find out more about Rose and how you searched for and found your way to Palmer House.”
Kari glowed with pleasure. “Thank you, Uncle Matthew. That is so sweet.”
She drew the letter out of the bag. “Because the letter was personal and confidential, I left it sealed. Now that I’ve found you all . . . well, it seems to me that you, Uncle Jacob, and Uncle Luke should have it.”
Matthew’s hand trembled as he took the letter. “Thank you, Kari. The Lord bless you for your kindness to us.”
Kari enjoyed the singing: It was loud, fun, and unabashed, with lots of traditional songs thrown in followed by hymns and choruses. She was sorry when it ended and when the barbecue dinner was over.
Many of the attendees began to pack up and leave then, heading to their homes either in or around the community or headed to hotel reservations down the interstate on their way to their respective towns and cities. A crew began taking down the tent and hauling away the tables and chairs.
However, not everyone was leaving after the day’s festivities. A smaller family group planned to remain and have a Sunday service on the lawn the following morning: the O’Dell brothers; a few Liángs, including Quan, Mixxie, and Shan-Rose; and Alannah and her father. Lars and Dalia Thoresen had offered to house Clover, Lorene, and Owen, so they would be joining them for morning worship, too.
Then, unexpectedly, Matthew and his brothers called them together, the smaller group staying over. “Before we retire for the night, I’m asking if you would gather once more. I have something to read to you.”
His manner was solemn, and Kari deduced that he and his brothers had read the letter she had given him.
Kari shivered in nervous anticipation as the grassy area below Søren and Ilsa’s little orchard filled. Family members sat on lawn chairs arranged in two rows in a semicircle. Those who could sit on the grass did so, leaving the chairs to those who could not.
It would not be dark for another hour but the heat of the day was, at last, lifting. Kari plopped down on the grass, slipped off her sandals, and ran her bare feet through the lush grass, relishing its coolness.
She nodded and smiled at Matthew, Jacob, and Luke and their families; Lars and Dalia and their brood; Sean and Alannah; Shan-Rose, Quan, and Mixxie; and Clover, Lorene, and Owen. They were no longer strangers; she trusted and loved them all. Well, with perhaps the exception of Mixxie.
But I am willing to love her, Lord, Kari realized. I hope you will make a way for us to love each other.
Søren placed a chair in front of the assembled group and gestured to Matthew to sit there. Søren pointed to three chairs at the outside of the semicircle where Ilsa already sat and wordlessly asked Kari to join them. As she left her spot on the grass, Max, cross-legged, front and center, grinned and waved to them.
Kari smiled and waved back and then took a deep breath. She had not been able to stop thinking about the letter addressed to Joy. What did Matthew read in that letter that caused him to call us together this evening—and with such solemn insistence?
“Welcome, everyone. Let’s get started, shall we?” Søren called. The assembled group turned its attention to him.
Søren looked at Kari. “You have already met our cousin Kari. You have heard her story. What you might not know is that when Kari found Rose Thoresen’s journal, she also found a sealed envelope with it. That envelope was addressed to Joy Thoresen Michaels.”
Excited murmurs floated across the lawn.
Søren looked to Matthew. “Matthew, Kari gave that envelope to you, as Joy’s eldest living son, to open and to share its contents with your brothers.”
“Yes, Søren. Jacob, Luke, and I opened and read the letter this afternoon. I felt that it was imperative for the family to hear what it says. Jacob and Luke agreed. If I may have your quiet attention, I will try to read it loud enough for all to hear.”
Matthew slid the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. He perused the first lines again and then began to read.
Dear Mrs. Michaels,
I have attempted, in one fashion or another, to begin this letter many times over the past twenty years. The truth is, I was not ready to write it until now—at least not in the manner it should be written.
I have taken pains not to follow your life. The years have flown by, and I don’t know if you are still alive. However, I felt that if I were to see your death notice in the papers, I would have lost, forever, the opportunity to speak what must be spoken.
Writing these words in a letter is a coward’s way—a panacea for my own benefit. I acknowledge this, acknowledge that I am a coward, and acknowledge that I have waited far too long. Death, however, waits for no man; it is now stalking me. It is drawing near, and I can no longer put off saying what is required of me.
I stole from you what I can only believe was the most precious thing in your life: I stole your baby son, Edmund.
The gathering, as one, sighed. There was no doubt now as to the writer of the letter Matthew was reading. Kari listened in stunned silence.
I had never loved anyone other than myself before I took your child. I had spent my life to that point in selfish and vain ambition. Then, in a few weeks—mere months—I learned what it is to love, as I gave my heart to your son.
It was by loving him that I learned how precious he had to have been to you.
My love for little Michael—for that is what we named him—grew as he grew. He was the only thing in my life that was good and whole and pure. My life and purpose were bound up in his life by cords of such love that they tie me to him even now.
I must now confess that, as he grew to be a man, I erred grievously in my dealings with him. I attempted to control him and force him into a mold of my choosing, a mold he could not bear. That is when I lost him.
Mrs. Michaels, it was by losing him that I experienced the agony you felt when you lost him.
For the first time in my life, I experienced regret. And more.
In the years following Michael’s departure I raged against his defiance. I raged against the friends who had turned him to his faith and away from me. I raged against the univer
se that caused me to care so deeply for him—and then snatched him away. I raged at everyone and everything. Except myself.
I simmered in my pain for years. I ached in my loneliness. I sought relief in pleasure. Year after year I grew more debauched, more corrupt in my lusts.
Still, I would not acknowledge that my suffering was the just recompense for what I had done to you. Back when I took him, you were my enemy and I wanted not to kill you but to mortally wound you.
But, in truth, with the instrument of your wounding, I killed myself.
After many more years, I ceased my useless ranting and raging. I acknowledged that the hand of God himself must be against me.
Yet, isn’t to acknowledge God’s hand, also to acknowledge his existence? And if God exists, then what? It is a slippery slope to acknowledge God’s existence and continue to defy him. Can a mere mortal defy the God of creation and remain unscathed, untaught, untouched?
A few years ago as I wrestled with these thoughts, I was on my way to assuage my sorrow in more drink and illicit pleasure. As I went on my way toward the outskirts of town, a crowd drew my attention to a large tent meeting.
I cannot say why I was drawn, for I have never darkened the door of a church that I did not view with disgust and I have never heard a message on God that I did not revile—yet drawn I was.
That evening, bankrupt in the core of my being, I stood in the crush of thousands and I heard a man from the platform within the tent shout these words: “God is a good God and the devil is a bad devil!”
I was struck with this one clear and indisputable truth: I have aligned my life with the devil and I am as evil as he.
Kari gasped, as did others listening. Matthew took the moment to pause and sip on his iced tea before he resumed.
I could not escape this truth! Rather, it increased in certainty, my long-dead conscience awaking and adding these facts:
I have murdered men in cold blood—I am a murderer.
I have deflowered and debased young women for profit—I am a man most vile.
I have hated, stolen, cheated, and lied—I am altogether without honor, vindication, or excuse.
I am evil.
From that moment I could not escape the crushing finality of this truth: I am an enemy of God and he will judge me.
I could no longer sleep. I could not eat. I roamed my home finding no peace, no rest, no reprieve. I knew my end was coming and when it did, I would—most justly—burn in hell.
Then came a day of reckoning, when God spoke to me. “Surrender,” he said. “Surrender to the Savior and be saved.”
Kari could not believe what her ears were hearing. She made no conscious decision to stand, but she found herself on her feet, moaning, “No! No! Jesus spoke those words to me! No—he would not forgive this man, this evil, evil man who stole my father’s life and stole my family from me!”
The compassionate eyes of those present—her family—turned on her. Some nodded, understanding her outburst, her anger, her denial. A few wept and grieved with her.
She stood, shaking and repeating the word, “no” to herself and to anyone who would listen.
It was Søren who spoke, just to her, but for the rest to hear, too. “God will have mercy on whom he will have mercy, Kari. It would not be mercy if any of us deserved it.”
“But . . .” Kari’s voice trailed off and she could only weep.
Søren tugged her into his arms and pressed her to his chest. “Let’s let Matthew finish, Kari, shall we?”
He signaled Matthew to continue reading. Kari stopped struggling and dropped her head to Søren’s shoulder. Matthew wiped his own eyes before he could begin again.
I wrestled with God for many weeks, for how could a just God forgive me, a murderer, a rapist, a kidnapper, the most vile of creatures? It was not just! It was blasphemous.
Still, he would not leave me. He spoke to me again and again, saying these words: Behold, I stand at the door and knock. Only you can open the door. Open and find me.
The strength left Kari’s body and she slid from Søren’s arms to her knees. No! It can’t be true!
Then Matthew finished reading the letter, his voice choked with emotion:
I don’t know why, but that day the love of God drew me to him and the blood of Christ cleansed me of my evil. I am not worthy! I am the worst of all men.
As death approaches I am no longer afraid of what is on the other side, but I am afraid of meeting you there, in God’s kingdom, before I have pleaded for and implored your forgiveness. That I do with these words.
Mrs. Michaels, I beg your forgiveness. With every regret of my wretched life, I beg your forgiveness, if only because of the mercy of Christ.
Your enemy, whom you know as
Dean Morgan
Most of those listening were openly sobbing now, and Kari, stunned into stillness, could hear prayers and even thanksgiving amid the weeping. Matthew, too, was crying, his eyes red with tears. When he was able to speak, he called for their attention once more.
“All our lives we have equated the name of Dean Morgan with the most unspeakable evil. For us, his name has been synonymous with the devil’s. That must all change now. We must change now.”
He wiped his face, his voice breaking again. “Whom God has made clean, we must receive as a brother.”
Slowly heads nodded and Kari was astonished to hear more than a few ‘amens’ answer Matthew. Their acceptance seemed so easily bought, and their acquiescence angered her.
How can they? How can they forgive and simply “receive” this man on the strength of his own words? She stood up, clenching her hands into fists.
Not me. No. I will never forgive him.
Her back rigid and her eyes straight ahead, she brushed off Søren’s hand on her arm. She stalked away toward the house.
And in her heart, she allowed a great, hard rock to settle.
~~**~~
Chapter 25
Breakfast on Sunday, with so many of the family having departed, was much more relaxed. The more intimate-sized group sat in chairs in a circle on the lawn, eating, chatting, and laughing comfortably—all except Kari.
Kari was conspicuously absent. She refused to speak to Søren or Ilsa and she avoided the others. With a cup of coffee in hand, she cloistered herself on the screened back porch, keeping herself apart from the others, stoking the seething fires of her anger.
Occasionally she saw someone look toward the porch as though searching for her. I don’t care, she told herself. But she did care. Along with the anger she felt an ache, as though she had cut off what was dearest to her.
But how could God forgive Dean Morgan? And how can my family just forgive and accept him? They didn’t have to grow up without a family! They weren’t the ones who suffered!
Those thoughts twisted around and around in her head, cinching her anger tighter, widening the divide between her and the others.
It was from the porch that she noticed the black vehicles crawling up the drive toward the farmhouse.
What now? she sighed. Who else could possibly show up? I am sick to death of all of this.
She didn’t know why their approach seemed so ominous, but it did. She saw those on the lawn watching the cars, too. The sounds of children playing and laughing and the chatter of conversations ceased. All eyes were on the approaching automobiles—a sleek black limousine sandwiched between two black Suburbans.
The vehicles drew abreast of the lawn. Before the motorcade had come to a complete stop, the doors of the two Suburbans opened and four men in dark suits stepped out. They surrounded the limo, their heads turning, their eyes scanning the area as though checking for danger.
The skin on Kari’s arms crawled. Everything about the manner of the men intimidated her. The four of them had glossy black hair and wore dark glasses. That was all Kari could see of them—but her insides were set on edge.
Kari watched Søren leave his conversation on the grass and walk to meet the visitors. Wh
en the four men focused their attention on Søren, Kari became afraid for him.
She forgot her anger. O Lord, please don’t let anything bad happen to this good man, she prayed. I don’t care how much of a pig-headed, stubborn Norwegian-Irishman he is—please don’t let anything bad happen to him!
One of the men blocked Søren’s path and placed his hand on Søren’s chest. It cheered Kari a little that Søren easily stood several inches over the man! Søren glanced at the hand and back to the man’s face. Kari could see him speaking, but she could not hear.
She was relieved when the man nodded and removed his hand. He jutted his chin at two of his companions; they opened the back door of the limousine.
A dark and slender individual stepped from the car. He buttoned his suit coat and glanced around. Even from a distance, Kari could feel something emanating from him. Arrogance? Authority? Danger? She didn’t know. Under his bodyguards’ watchful eyes, he walked up to Søren and spoke to him.
Kari saw Søren’s hand reach for his neck as though to rub it in frustration—or consternation?—she couldn’t tell which. As quickly as he lifted it, though, he pulled it back to his side as though resisting the impulse. A moment later he beckoned to Sean and Alannah Carmichael, who hustled over. At a word from Søren, Sean turned to fetch Quan and An-Shing Liáng.
The conversation grew more animated, with Quan taking the lead in the exchange with the man. At one point the slender man stared up the slope to the house and Kari shrank down, hoping he couldn’t see her through the screen’s mesh. More conversation ensued and then it seemed to Kari that some agreement had been reached.
Quan and An-Shing bowed to the slender man before directing him, closely followed by his bodyguards, toward the front entrance of the house, the one that led to the living room. Søren said something to Sean, who nodded and walked off at a brisk pace. Kari saw him approach the O’Dell brothers.
Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6) Page 31
