by Tricia Goyer
“One minute, dear.” Linda reached out a hand, placing it on Ginny’s arm. “Are you going to be around here long? Because I’d like to ask you about singing at the fund-raiser for Brett. It’s this Saturday night. We’re putting on a production—folks are reenacting scenes from our first settlers. I know you’re not one of those types who shows off your fame, but I thought it might be nice for folks who enjoy your music.”
Ginny was surprised this woman knew who she was—knew about her music—but that didn’t surprise her the most. “Wait.” She held up a hand. “What are you talking about? What is Brett raising funds for?”
“Don’t you know, dear?” Linda patted Ginny’s hand. “Brett’s heading to Africa next month. We’ve been doing all we can to help him prepare.”
* * * * *
Concern furrowed Grandma Ethel’s brow as Ginny entered the front door. “What’s wrong? Where’s Brett? Are you coming down with something?”
Ginny nodded. “I think I am. My head hurts something terrible.” She placed a hand on her forehead. It was the truth. What she didn’t say was that her heart hurt something terrible too.
Why hadn’t he mentioned Africa? Why hadn’t he taken the time to talk to her? Maybe she should have left Alaska. She felt like a fool for coming at all.
“You better get a cup of cocoa and the warm quilt from my bed. In fact, why don’t you nap in there for a while? And when you wake up, there are always more letters.” Grandma Ethel winked.
“Thanks. That does sound nice. But I better call Brett and tell him I won’t be able to make it to the lodge for dinner. He should cancel our reservations.”
“No.” The word shot from Grandma Ethel’s mouth. “That’s a few hours away. There’s time to rest and still make it to dinner.” She pattered to the kitchen and grabbed a big bottle from the cupboard. “Vitamin C.” She shook a couple of tablets into her hand then brought them over.
“Uh, thanks.” Ginny took them, then shook her head. “I really don’t feel good, and I’m not sure these will work fast enough. Plus, it’s so cold outside—”
“Which is a perfect opportunity for you to wear my fur. My sweet Harold trapped each one of those foxes himself. After we got rid of those pesky eagles, that is. For a while those birds nearly wiped out every fox in Strawberry Point.”
Pesky eagles? Ginny sat in the armchair, and her fingers stroked the holes on the cribbage board on the side table, trying to imagine what some of her activist friends would think if she returned to LA and told them she’d worn a fox coat.
“Do you like cribbage, dear?” Grandma Ethel asked, interrupting Ginny’s thoughts.
“I’ve never played.”
“How about pinochle?” Grandma Ethel perked up.
Ginny shook her head. She used to play Battleship with a foster sister. She’d always lost, until one day she figured out that her sister could see the reflection of her pieces in the sliding glass door.
“We’ll have to change that. Before you leave we’ll have a pinochle night. I’ve been playing with my neighbors for longer than you’ve been alive. That’s what we used to do around here for fun, you know. Play that and many other games.”
Ginny nodded, quite sure she wouldn’t be around for a pinochle night. She was also pretty certain that by the time Brett showed up, she wouldn’t be feeling well enough to go out. Picturing Kelly’s smiling face caused her gut to ache. It was hard to dislike a person like that. Hard to understand why Brett even humored her by asking her to dinner.
Ginny grabbed up a few more letters and hurried to Grandma Ethel’s room. She sank onto the bed, noticing it smelled like Polident and talcum powder. The smells were yet another reminder of all she’d missed.
That was a hard thing about not growing up with a mom and dad. She missed having grandmas and grandpas too. Sure, she’d visited a dozen different homes of “relatives” growing up, but it never was the same. While the real grandkids got spoiled, she was given the obligatory doll and socks. Not that she should complain. She’d learned long ago that complaining never changed anything. She was just thankful for this time with Grandma Ethel now.
She leaned back into the soft pillows and slipped another letter from the envelope. For this moment, she could pretend that Ethel was her grandma. And that Ellie’s heritage was hers too. Because deep down it felt exactly like it was.
Chapter Twenty-Four
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January 11, 1929
Dear Clay and Ellie,
Nurse Schroeder again writes for me. I am blessed by her help. Even though she’s a German, I think she’s softening a little.
(Nurse S. here: Why he say things like this? To vex me. I know.)
How glad I was to get your letters. Amen and amen! They came in a big packet, which did my heart good to receive. It sounds like you two are getting along swimmingly.
I’m sorry, Ellie Bell, for those dark nights of the soul you’ve had. I trust our great Redeemer will bring you safely through till the light of His morning shines into your heart and lightens your face with His joy and peace. And you too, Clay.
Cheer up, my dears. He loves you!
Don’t worry about me. I am safe and secure in my Savior’s arms. I have many good friends here. They come in my room and we sing hymns. I’ve had wonderful conversations about all manner of things with the poor lost and lonely who spend their days in illness. Yet, despite their heartaches, they bring me joy. I’m honored to remember them in my prayers, as I do you both, as well as your ministry there.
I’m also lifting up your Joseph. Coming of age brings many challenges, even in the best of situations. He lost his mother, one who would guide him through these rocky paths. It may take longer than you like for him to come around. He may sink to greater depths before the Lord brings him home. But the Good Shepherd’s loving hand will draw him back, perhaps not until His rod has given the loving discipline He reserves for His children. Amen and amen.
I’m told by a young woman standing by my bed with a silver tray that it’s time for my medicine. I must say so long for now. I’m hoping for more and more letters from you, yet I know the mail boat doesn’t come frequently.
My love to you both,
Grandfather
P.S. Please give the folded note to my friend Janey.
P.P.S. Nurse S. here: Since he did not mention. I will. That Felix, he come by. I do not trust that man. Another man come too. A younger, weak man with smooth hands. I do no like him either. I think you should know.
January 11, 1929
My dear Janey,
Stay steadfast, dear one. You have a very important job. You are my “eyes and ears,” as they say. We must keep apprised of what’s happening, in case the good Lord sees fit to use us in His great scheme. In the meantime, here are your assignments:
1. Encourage the others to give them time to talk without interruptions.
2. Make sure you and your brothers do your chores with a cheerful heart, so Miss Ellie and your papa have no reason to be anxious.
3. Pray!
Do those three things and all will be well, no matter what happens.
Your friend,
Mr. Barnett (or you can call me Grandfather, if you like)
P.S. I’m enclosing a penny for you. A small “thank you” for the information.
Ginny put down the letter, chuckling to herself. First because of the secret correspondence between Grandfather and Janey, and second because of the fact that Clay was in love with Ellie and didn’t even know it. Yet the realization of their love made her keenly aware of what she’d lost—what she’d thrown away.
Ginny yawned. She needed to rest, but she had to find out…would Clay ever realize his love? Confess it?
March 12, 1929
Dear Grandfather,
How wonderful to receive your letter this morning! Clay and I didn’t even know the mail boat had gone out. I’m glad you got my early letters. Many more wait for you at the mailbox. It’s a good thin
g Clay didn’t know about the mail boat’s arrival; otherwise, he would’ve set me on it. He still talks about my going back in the spring. I go along with it, but in my heart I want to stay. Sometimes it seems as if he wants me to stay too.
One thing I know for certain: I love the children. What joy each brings to me. Even Joseph, although he’s being more defiant each day, especially to me. He resents me simply for being here. I imagine that in his mind, his mother should be the one making supper, doing laundry, and kissing the little ones’ boo boos. I try to respect her memory, not act too motherly with him. But it doesn’t seem to matter what I do.
It’s funny, all the other children long for their mama too, but they’re willing to find some comfort in my care and love. While the others open to me, Joseph slams the door and locks it. He turns more and more to Tinle, the Tlingit girl who lives with the Curtises, and we see him less and less.
I know this is in the Lord’s hands. Could He really be the rock, Grandfather? I still keep Mama’s stone in my pocket, always reminding me of her and you, and now, the Lord. I try to trust in Him, but I don’t know if I believe it deep down—can He really love me?
Later
So, may I tell you about our trip to Hoonah? So much to tell, it might take a few letters. The trip over was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. We took the kayak so Joseph and Linc would have the boat in case they needed supplies upriver.
I love adventure, you know I do, but carrying an eighteen-month-old baby in a cradleboard while being rowed in a kayak across frigid, whale-infested waters—well, that shook even adventurous me. Thankfully, Clay was absolutely confident, which calmed my nerves.
First, we made our way through the bay, so close to the jagged mountains with spiking turrets and gleaming white ice. Their majesty cast a fearful wonder over me. I hugged my arms, humbled by the glacier’s danger and beauty. We are helpless in God’s creation, aren’t we, Grandfather?
Then as if to confirm my thoughts, a chunk of ice broke off an iceberg and crashed into the water. Clay yelled to hold on just before a huge wave rolled under us, almost capsizing our little vessel. My heart never pumped so fast in my life! I gripped the side of the kayak with one hand and reached back to Penny with the other. She giggled as if it were a pony ride. I love that sweet girl.
How grateful I am for Clay. That wave could’ve tipped us into the freezing water, but his focused hands steadied us through wave after wave until the water calmed again. I could do nothing but trust him.
In the quiet that followed, I touched his hand, to thank him. He instantly pulled it away, even though we both wore gloves!
He paddled us on and parked along the rocky shore of a small peninsula. My feet relished the feeling of solid ground again. Clay made a little campfire, and after gobbling her lunch of reindeer jerky and clams, which I had prepared and packed (I’m getting better at this!), sweet Penny fell asleep in the cozy bed I made for her in the kayak.
I think Clay craved the quiet more than the warmth and food. He surely doesn’t strike up conversation too often—especially that day—but I like talking to him when he does. He’s thoughtful about what he says; doesn’t blurt things out. So I asked questions, tried to soften his resolve to close me out.
“Did you make the canoe?” I know it’s called a kayak but wanted to taunt him.
“Yes.”
That didn’t work. So I tried again. “How?”
“Cut down the tree. Carved it. Burned out the inside.”
I asked him how he learned, and he said Patricia’s husband helped. The mention of Patricia renewed my chill.
He moved his gaze from the fire to my eyes. “Yes, Patricia.” His voice was stern. He stood up. “I need to talk to you about what happened with the Tlingit ladies. You offended them.”
A surge of guilt tightened my stomach. I confessed my bad behavior—even the way the rutabagas made me sick. Yet I couldn’t help but mention that they took over my home without asking.
Clay eyed me. “Your home?”
The way he said it, accusing…I didn’t know what to say. I felt his disapproval, the dislike I’d experienced in the first weeks I was there. I thought we’d gained ground.
Tears pressed to come out, but I held them back. I stood up, silently packed our things, threw snow onto the fire, and loaded Penny into the backpack. As Clay lifted her to my back, he was careful not to touch me, as if I was a diseased varmint or something. Then without warning, he grabbed my shoulder and threw Penny and me into the kayak. He shoved the kayak hard with his boot and scrambled in. I twisted back to see what the problem was. Then I screamed like a little girl and paddled like I never have before.
March 13, 1929
Dear Brother Peter,
Glad to get your letter. I know it did Ellie good. I’d like to tell you the events at Hoonah. Ellie said she told you about the bear.
After shooting (and missing) the ill-mannered grizzly who came after our lunch, I managed to take over and row fast enough (my muscles still ache) to escape her reach. Mind you, she splashed in after us, and they can swim.
Ellie had the good thought to throw the leftover salmon away from our boat. Thank God, the beast clambered after the fish’s pink flesh instead of ours. We rowed to safety. Then after resting and breathing a spell, we found relief in a fit of nervous laughter.
Twice in two days I have laughed with that girl.
Hoonah takes many hours of slow rowing. Yet the journey’s a mighty fine sight on a clear day, which we had. Bitter cold, but clear.
With Penny sleeping in her cradleboard, the hours passed right quick, and soon we spotted Hoonah. I venture to say the place surprised Ellie. She thought the Tlingit a primitive people, not the sophisticated society they are. Their large plank houses, from our view in the kayak, surely rival any in an American port settlement. I hate to say, but it’s a good bit more established than Strawberry Point. The church and school have been there since 1881.
The church steeple’s cross offered its familiar comfort, but I was still a mite anxious about meeting with Reverend Martin.
He’s been patient with me, as all of you on the missions board have been, but this offense may affect his ministry as well as mine. One can’t understate the damage an angry woman can have on ministry. Even the apostle Paul learned that lesson well. I warned Ellie that they might not go easy on her.
With the sunset at our backs, I paddled toward shore. Friends awaited our arrival, waving and smiling. A welcome sight—until I caught Rev. Martin’s eye. And Chief Thomas’s. No smiles there.
The womenfolk greeted Ellie with kindness, immediately unloading Penny and giving Ellie’s back much-needed relief. My little angel found a Tlingit girl her age to giggle and toddle with. They held hands as the women hustled them off for an eagle dinner.
No dinner for me.
Rev. Martin patted my back as I introduced Ellie. “We are glad you’ve come to help our brother. Lord knows he needs it.” Then he laughed a mite too loud, and Ellie blushed.
Patricia greeted us with tight hugs and smiles. She took Ellie’s hands and offered to take her inside for a warm drink.
“Nothing with rutabagas, I promise,” she said with a grin, then put her arm around Ellie, and off they went.
Chief Thomas and Rev. Martin escorted me into the reverend’s office. Very Presbyterian, with white walls and dark wood furniture. The chief leaned against the wall as Martin and I took our seats. I felt like I was sitting right down into a confessional, only without the screen of anonymity.
Brother Peter, I won’t put you through the torture of the whole meeting. Here is the sum:
First, the women were not offended by Ellie. They loved her. Couldn’t say enough about her sacrifices for me and the children, how well she’d adjusted to life in Alaska. Not a word of rutabagas.
Second, the Tlingits in Hoonah have had Christian missionaries for over forty years. They know truth and won’t abide a preacher living with a single woman. The concept of
governess or maid or anything like that utterly escapes them. They lay no blame on Ellie. Just me.
Third, we must get married. We have a month.
Fourth, I am not doing my job. There have been no new converts since Adelaide died. Sadly, this is true. And what’s more, I have hardly even set out. My longing these days is for family. Afraid, I suppose, to lose a precious minute with them.
These were the “concerns” laid before me at the meeting. Afterward, Rev. Martin took me aside and prayed with me. He must’ve seen my pained expression, for he asked me if I still felt the call.
Yes, of course—that should’ve come from my lips, but I’m afraid it did not. Truth is, I’m not sure. I don’t want to leave here, but the hurt hasn’t healed. It keeps me down.
Rev. Martin rested his elbows on his knees and eyeballed me. “God can carry your pain. It’s not too heavy for Him.”
I will not soon forget those words.
He told me to start with Ellie. Open up to her. “She seems like a good woman. Possibly a good wife. Perhaps you could love her in time.”
I already do.
I thought those words but didn’t—couldn’t—say them.
He said they needed to see a change, something to show them this call is for me; otherwise I will be sent back to the States.
I hear Patricia outside calling my name, something about Penny. I must say good-bye.
Clay
Chapter Twenty-Five
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March 14, 1929
Grandfather,
We had a glorious trip to Hoonah. So majestic—made me feel that if God can create such immense beauty, He can take care of me too.
But then, our little Penny. She was so sick, Grandfather. While Clay sat in the meeting and I was busy learning to weave blankets with the women, Patricia’s daughter Margaret watched the little ones. After our poor tired girl fell asleep, Margaret laid her back into the cradleboard and covered her with a blanket.
My weaving lesson done, I checked on her. At first she looked beautiful, snoring softly with her thumb just outside her mouth. When I fingered a stray curl from her forehead, my stomach dropped. She was so hot.
