by Janette Oke
Spring’s Gentle
Promise
SEASONS OF THE HEART #4
JANETTE
OKE
Spring’s Gentle
Promise
Spring’s Gentle Promise
Copyright © 1989
Janette Oke
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Cover photography by Aimee Christenson
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Oke, Janette, 1935–
Spring’s gentle promise / Janette Oke.
p. cm. — (Seasons of the heart ; 4)
Sequel to: Winter is not forever.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0803-4 (pbk.)
1. Orphans—Fiction. 2. Farm life—Fiction. 3. Depressions—1929—Fiction.
4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.3.O38S67 2010
813'.54—dc22
2010004160
* * *
To all the men and women
of the soil,
past and present,
who have fought against the elements
and the changing times
to maintain their roots
and to pass on a heritage.
We need you.
We cheer you on.
God bless you.
JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife, and she grew up in a large family full of laughter and love. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward, and they were married in May of 1957. After pastoring churches in Indiana and Canada, the Okes spent some years in Calgary, where Edward served in several positions on college faculties while Janette continued her writing. She has written forty-eight novels for adults and another sixteen for children, and her book sales total nearly thirty million copies.
The Okes have three sons and one daughter, all married, and are enjoying their fifteen grandchildren. Edward and Janette are active in their local church and make their home near Didsbury, Alberta.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 A Beautiful Morning
Chapter 2 Togetherness
Chapter 3 Visitors
Chapter 4 Summer
Chapter 5 The Ford
Chapter 6 A Caller
Chapter 7 Changes
Chapter 8 Troubling Thoughts
Chapter 9 Eying the Field
Chapter 10 Spring
Chapter 11 An Awakening
Chapter 12 Courtship
Chapter 13 Plans
Chapter 14 Sunday’s Comin’!
Chapter 15 Beginnings
Chapter 16 Christmas
Chapter 17 Adjustments
Chapter 18 Life Goes On
Chapter 19 Happiness
Chapter 20 Tough Times
Chapter 21 Planting Again
Chapter 22 Hope Upon Hope
Chapter 23 Sustained Effort
Chapter 24 Striving to Make It
Chapter 25 Another Spring, Another Promise
Epilogue
CHARACTERS
Joshua Chadwick Jones—The boy raised by his aunt Lou, grandfather, and great-uncle Charlie. Josh is now an adult, farming the family farm.
Grandpa and Uncle Charlie—The menfolk who share Josh’s home and life.
Matilda—The neighborhood schoolteacher who boards with the Joneses.
Turley—Housekeeper and neighbor girl who helps the men with the kitchen duties. In Grandpa’s thinking, two girls in the house make the arrangement more “respectable.”
Willie—Josh’s boyhood friend who went to Africa as a missionary and died of a native disease.
Camellia—Josh’s first love, but she loved Willie instead.
CHAPTER 1
A Beautiful Morning
I WAS WHISTLING AS I left the house. It was early. The sky had brightened, but the sun had not as yet lifted its head above the tree line that marked the border of the Sanders’ place—new neighbors in our community.
Even in the dimness of early morning I could see field after neighborhood field as I let my gaze wander around me. First there was ours—I supposed I would always think of the farm as ours—Grandpa’s, Uncle Charlie’s and mine—though in truth it really was just mine now. Guess that was one of the reasons I was whistling. Just yesterday Grandpa and Uncle Charlie had signed all the official papers to make the farm mine—really and legally mine. Joshua Chadwick Jones the papers read, clear as could be. The full impact had yet to hit me. But I was excited. Really excited. I mean, what other fella my age had a farm of his own, title clear and paid for?
I sobered down a bit. It was a big responsibility ’cause I was the one who had to make the farm “bring forth” now. Had to support Grandpa and Uncle Charlie and myself and Mary, our housekeeper, and even Matilda, our boarder, though she did pay us some board and room.
I was the one who had to make the right decisions about which crops to plant and which field to plant them in, which livestock to sell and which ones to keep, and where to find the particular animal that would help build up the herd. I would need to keep up the fences, repaint the buildings, work the garden, keep the machinery in working order, watch out for weeds, put up the hay for winter feeding. . . . The list went on and on— but that didn’t dim my spirits. It was a beautiful morning. I was a full-grown man with a place of my own.
I lengthened my stride. I’d been dawdling somewhat while I looked all around. The fields, the tree line, the wooded area where the crick passed through, the pastureland, and then the fields of the Turleys, Smiths, Sanders, the faraway hill that marked another Smith, the road to town—I knew it all. And I loved it more than I would ever have been able to say.
My roots were buried deep in this countryside I had known since a child. This was my life. My whole sense of being and knowing and living and growing were somehow wrapped up in the soil that stretched away before me.
I opened the gate at the end of the lane and took a break in my whistling to speak to the milk cows. The little jersey, one of my most recent purchases, rubbed her head against me gently as she moved to pass by. I reached out and ran my hand over her neck. She seemed satisfied then, and I smiled. She’s a great little cow, I gloated. Can fill the milk pail with the richest milk I’ve ever seen. She was a mite spoiled though. Her former owners had treated her as the family pet.
I hurried ahead of the cows to open the barn door for them. I knew they were right behind me, anxious to reach the milking stall where their portion of morning grain waited. They also wished to find relief from the heavy load of milk that swelled their udders and slowed their walk.
I began my whistling again. A bird joined me, off to the right, and I turned my head to look for it. It was high in a poplar tree by the hen house, and by its vigorous song I imagined that it was just as happy with the early morning as I was.
From somewhere in Turleys’ pasture a cow bawled and another answered. Perhaps a mother had become separated from her baby and was calling it for breakfast.
I open
ed the barn door for the cows and turned right back to the house for the milk pails. I knew the three cows would find their own way to their stalls and be appreciatively feeding on the chop when I returned. I could have gone the entire milking time without fastening the bars that held them in position, but I never did. I knew they wouldn’t move from their places, heads between the stanchion bars, bodies motionless except for the ever-flicking tails and an occasional shift of a foot; but when I returned with the milk pails I fastened the bars just as I always had. It was pure habit I guess—but it was the way Grandpa had taught me.
The jersey gazed back at me with soft brown eyes as I hooked a toe under the milking stool and pulled it up to her side.
“What’s the matter?” I chuckled. “You think I’m too lazy to bend over?”
I rubbed her side and eased myself onto the stool beside her, then reached out to brush off her taut bag, wash it a bit, and gently start the flow of milk.
“Well, maybe I am,” I conceded. “But a fella has to conserve all the energy he can. I’ve a busy day ahead. I start plantin’ today. Just as soon as I get the chores done. My own fields. Never planted ‘my own fields’ before.”
I grinned and began the steady stream of milk that would soon fill the pail with rich, warm, foamy liquid.
I would never have been able to explain to anyone why I talked to the cow. I mean, no one would understand if they hadn’t spent time in a barn at 5:00 in the morning doing the milking.
A barn cat, meowing, brushed itself against my pant leg. I didn’t know if the soft sound was my welcome or an urge for me to hurry. I stopped long enough to squirt some milk in the cat’s direction. It immediately sat back on its haunches, front paws batting in the air as though to capture every drop of milk and direct it toward its open mouth.
We were rather good at this—the gray tom and I. But then, we’d had a few years of practice. He sat there guzzling contentedly as I gave him squirt after squirt.
“Go on, now,” I said at last. “I’ve got chores to do. You’ll get your fill as soon as I’m done here.”
The cat seemed to understand. He walked off a few feet and sat down to begin carefully grooming his spattered face.
The milking didn’t take long, so after giving each cow a final pat on the flank, I left them, and carried two brimming pails of milk to the house. I would need to return for the third one, which was now hanging on a peg beyond the reach of the barn cats.
In spite of the early hour, Mary was moving briskly about the kitchen when I entered with the milk. I thought I noticed a certain gleam in her eyes—but perhaps it was just fanciful on my part. The fact that I was feeling so good seemed to be affecting my whole outlook on life.
Pixie was there too, rubbing against my legs, looking for her share of attention. I reached down and scratched her soft, silky ear. She was no longer the puppy I had learned to love. The years had passed by and Pixie was now old in dog years. She had remained behind, curled and contented, when I’d left my bed that morning. And I had been happy to let her sleep on. I rubbed her soft side and she licked at my hand.
“Mornin’, Josh,” Mary said cheerily. And without even waiting for my reply she went on, “My, you’re up early. Don’t know how you can even see out there in the barn.”
“I waited for some light,” I answered with a smile. “At least it was gettin’ light when I went out.” Then I added, “True, the barn stays dark a bit longer than the outside world, but I know my way around out there well enough that I don’t need much light.”
Mary smiled, adding to the brightness of the morning.
“Do you want to eat early?” she asked.
“I still have some chores to do.”
Mary’s eyes lifted to the kitchen clock, and mine followed.
“Guess I will be ready before the rest of them,” I admitted. “Want to start plantin’ just as soon as I can.”
“I’ll git your breakfast,” Mary said simply and moved toward the pantry.
“Thanks. I—I hate for you to get breakfast twice, but I’m kind of anxious—”
I needn’t have tried to explain. As Mary tied her apron around her slim waist, without even turning to look at me she answered, “In plantin’ and harvest time, a man doesn’t want to lose any time gittin’ to his fields. An early breakfast is no problem—an’ we sure don’t need to be wakin’ the rest of the house.”
I hadn’t missed Mary’s reference to “a man” and “his fields,” and my heart beat a little faster. Then my thoughts hurried on to Grandpa, rather old and tired out after all his years of farming, then to Uncle Charlie, all crippled up with his arthritis. I wondered sadly just how much sleep he had been able to get over the night hours. My thoughts went on to Matilda. She was testing her pupils again at the nearby schoolhouse, and I knew she had been staying up late marking papers for a number of nights in a row. I nodded my head in agreement with Mary’s simple statement. They all needed their sleep, all right.
“I’ll only be another half hour or so,” I reported to Mary and then went to strain the milk into the bowl of the cream separator.
“You go on,” Mary prompted. “I’ll tend to that.”
My eyes questioned her, though it was true that Mary had often stepped forward to help with such tasks in the past.
Her eyes held mine steadily, and I knew she wished to take over the chore.
“At least let me strain it,” I urged. “These pails are heavy to lift.”
Mary did not argue with that. Her eyes followed the stream of milk from the pail into the large bowl of the separator.
“The jersey’s?” she asked me. But she didn’t wait for my reply. “My, such rich milk. I think I’ll separate it by itself and keep the cream aside. Just think of the butter it’ll make!”
I could hear the smile in Mary’s voice even though I was too busy to look at her face.
I positioned the pail under the separator for Mary and turned to go back to the other chores. On my way to the barn to pick up the remaining pail of milk, I stopped by the tractor and ran a hand over its still-shiny fender. I could hardly wait to crawl up into the seat and begin passing back and forth over my fields, dropping the seed that would mean a bountiful harvest. I lifted my eyes toward heaven, and an unspoken prayer of thanks welled up within me. I’m not sure, but there could have been a few tears in my eyes.
I turned back to the chores at hand. I was whistling a tune I had learned some time back in my childhood, a tune I had sung frequently over the years. But it swelled in my heart in a new way now: “Praise God from whom all blessings flow. . . .”
CHAPTER 2
Togetherness
I WAS TIRED AND stiff when I climbed down from the tractor that evening. Already the sun was disappearing in the western sky and there was a slight chill in the air. It was, after all, still early spring. I had been riding the tractor almost constantly since sunup. Mary had brought my noon meal and an afternoon snack to the field to save me time. I was glad I wasn’t driving a team that would need to stop for a rest and nourishment. The tractor didn’t complain about the long hours, though I did need to stop to refuel now and then.
I was a bit surprised at the aches and pains in my back and legs. But then I remembered I’d been bouncing and jostling my way over the field for several hours, and it always took a few days for my body to readjust.
I moved toward the smell of roast beef, my feet reluctant to proceed as quickly as my stomach was demanding. I hadn’t realized just how hungry I was until I smelled supper in the air.
“Are you finally stopping for the night?” Matilda good-naturedly asked.
I tried to disguise my stiffness as I stepped up onto the back porch. Matilda was seated on the porch swing, a cup of tea in her hands.
“I was beginning to think we’d never eat,” she continued. “This is all Mary would let me have to tide me over till supper.”
I stopped mid-stride. “Why?” I asked, surprised. Mary wasn’t one to withhold victu
als from anybody.
“Well,” laughed Matilda. “Guess I’m exaggerating some. Truth is, Mary would have let us go ahead, but we all opted to wait for you.”
“I’m sorry—” I began. “If I’d known—”
But Matilda interrupted me. “We all know how important it is to get the crop in. We didn’t mind waiting.” She stood to her feet and took another dainty sip of the tea, then looked at me, her eyes sparkling. “Honest!” she said frankly, and I believed her.
I held the kitchen door for Matilda and followed right behind into the aroma-filled room. Grandpa was reading a paper in his favorite chair by the window. Uncle Charlie sat on the couch along the west wall gently massaging his gnarled hands, and I knew without asking that they were paining him again. As soon as he felt my eyes on him, he stopped the rubbing and let the hands drop idly into his lap.
Mary was at the big kitchen stove spooning food into serving bowls. She turned, glanced over her shoulder and gave me a smile. I thought she would ask a question, but she didn’t—at least not vocally. Maybe her eyes found their answer, I don’t know, but she smiled softly again and turned back to the stove.
“We’re ready as soon as you wash, Josh,” she said.
I crossed to the corner sink with its big farm basin and noticed that it had already been filled with warm water. I didn’t know who had thoughtfully supplied the water, but I did think, with appreciation, that I sure was well looked after.
It didn’t take long to scrub my face and hands clean enough to appear at the supper table. By the time I’d re-hung the towel, the rest of the family had gathered around the table. I took my place beside them and bowed as Grandpa asked the grace.
When we lifted our heads and began to help ourselves from Mary’s heaping bowls, Grandpa spoke for the first time.
“How’d it go, Boy?”
He still called me “Boy.” Guess to Grandpa I would always be Boy no matter how old I grew or whether I was a farm owner or not. I didn’t mind. It made me feel “belongin’.”
