If only she’d been a gentler person, like Mama, one given to prayer and trusting in God from the beginning no matter how bad the circumstances. Life with Marta’s father had been dire indeed. Nothing pleased the man. And yet, Mama had treated him with loving respect. She worked hard, never complained, never gave in to despair, and continued to love him, even at his worst. Marta saw how she had made her mother’s life even more difficult. Hot-tempered, stubborn, willful, she had never been an easy child. She’d fought her father, refusing to be cowed, even when he beat her. How many times had Mama been in the middle, pleading, trying to protect?
Mama had only hurt her once. “You are more like your father than you are like me.”
Marta had been offended at the time, but she should’ve listened. She should’ve been warned! Harsh words, fierce anger, a desire to achieve her goals at all cost—hadn’t she inherited all that from Papa? Mama hadn’t meant to hurt her. She had only wanted Marta to see her father in another way, without hatred and condemnation.
Did Hildemara look upon her the same way? Did her daughter see her as unbending, never satisfied with Hildemara’s efforts, always looking for faults, unfeeling, unable to love? If Hildemara didn’t feel she could ask for help, didn’t that say it all?
How could such misunderstanding have grown between them?
Yes, Marta conceded, she had hurt her daughter at times, but to make her strong, not to tear her down. Had she been so determined to make Hildemara rise up and fight back that she had become as intractable, cruel, and heartless as her own father? God forbid!
But she saw clearly how she had been harder on Hildemara than the others. She had done it out of love. She had done it to save Hildemara from Elise’s fate. She didn’t want her girl growing up frightened of the world, hiding away inside a house controlled by a tyrant, utterly dependent on her mother.
And Hildemara hadn’t.
Marta had hated her father. She realized now she’d never forgiven him. When he wired for her to come back, she had burned his message and wished him in hell. How dare she hope for forgiveness from Hildemara if she couldn’t forgive her own father?
Pain clutched at Marta so fiercely, she sat up and hunched over.
She had never used her fists on Hildemara, or whipped her with a strap until she bled, the way her father had. She never called her ugly or told her she was stupid. She’d never told her she had no right to go to school, that education was wasted on her. She’d never made Hildemara work and then taken away her wages. Despised and rejected, Marta had fought back, lashing out in fury against her father for trying to bury her spirit beneath the avalanche of his own disappointments.
And Mama had held her and whispered words of encouragement. Mama had held her head up so she could breathe. She’d sent Marta away because she knew, if she remained, she’d become exactly like him: discontent, selfish, cruel, blaming others for what hadn’t turned out well in his life.
She’d always been Papa’s scapegoat.
As you made him yours.
Getting up, Marta went to the window and looked out on the moon-cast yard, the closed barn doors, the white-veiled almond trees.
Would she have left Switzerland and set out on her own journey if not for her father? She’d always credited Mama for her freedom, but Papa played a part, too. She’d been the least favored child. Hermann, firstborn son; Elise, so beautiful, like an angel.
She could see now how she had treated her own children differently. She’d taken pride in Bernhard as her firstborn son. Clotilde thrived, possessed from birth of an independent spirit. Nothing would hold that girl down. And Rikka, with her ethereal beauty and childlike delight in God’s creation, had been like a star fallen from the heavens, not quite of this world. Rikka knew no fear. She would flit and float through life, delighting in the wonder of it, seeing shadows, but ignoring them.
And where had Hildemara fit in?
Hildemara, the smallest, the least hearty, the most dependent, had struggled from the beginning—to live, to grow, later to find a dream, to build her own life, to thrive. And now, she must struggle to survive. If she didn’t have the courage to do that on her own, Marta must find a way to give it to her.
A flash of memory came of Hildemara racing home, terrified after Mr. Kimball had tried to rape her. But it occurred to Marta now, her daughter had kicked free of a grown man stronger than Niclas. She had been smart enough to run. Hildemara had shown real spunk that day, and at other times, too. She’d gone out and gotten herself a job. She’d said no to college and gone off to nurses’ training. She’d followed Trip from one base to another, finding housing in strange cities, making new friends. She’d crossed the country by herself and come home to help Bernhard and Elizabeth hold on to the Musashis’ land despite threats and fire and bricks through their windows.
My daughter has courage, Lord!
Despite appearances, and though Marta loathed to admit it, she’d always favored Hildemara a little above the others. From the moment her daughter came into the world, Marta had bonded fast to her. “She looks like her mother,” Niclas had said, unwittingly setting things in motion. All the cruel words her father had said about her appearance rose up inside her when she saw Hildemara Rose was plain. And like Elise, she was frail.
But she wouldn’t stay that way. Marta decided that first frightening week she wouldn’t cripple Hildemara Rose the way Mama had crippled Elise.
Now she wondered if she hadn’t pushed Hildemara too hard, and in doing so, pushed her away.
Oh, Lord, can I bring her close again?
Hildemara had Mama’s constitution. And now, it seemed she had Mama’s disease. Would she share Mama’s fate as well?
Please, Lord, give me time.
She covered her face and prayed. Oh, God, I wish I’d been more like Mama with her and less like Papa. Maybe I could’ve made Hildemara strong without wounding her. But I can’t go back now and undo the past. Hildemara Rose has no faith in me, no understanding. And that’s my fault, not hers. Does she understand I’m proud of her and her accomplishments? Does she know me at all?
She can.
Marta lowered her hands, drew back the curtains, and looked up at the stars. “Jesus,” she whispered, “will she be willing to meet me halfway?”
What does that matter?
Marta bowed her head. It was just her pride butting in again.
Hildemara had worked hard and done well. She’d had her moments of despair when she’d wanted to give up, but she’d grasped hold when hope was offered and rose again. She wasn’t Elise. She might be depressed, but she wouldn’t give up. Not if Marta had anything to say about it.
Hildemara might be quieter than Bernhard, who thought he could tackle the world, less self-possessed than fiery Clotilde with her quest for fame and fortune, not as intuitive and gifted as Rikka, who saw the world through angel eyes. Nevertheless, Hildemara had spunk. She had her own special gifts.
Marta lifted her chin again.
My daughter has a servant’s heart that should please You, Lord. Like Your Son, she’s meek, but no coward. She might be a broken reed now with the cold wind of death in her face, but You won’t allow her spirit to be crushed. You said it and I believe it. But give me time with her, Lord. I beg You. Help me mend my relationship with her. You know how I’ve fought against being a servant all my life. I confess it. I’ve always hated the very idea of it!
A gentle breeze drifted in through the open window, as though God whispered to her. Marta wiped tears from her cheeks.
“Lord,” she whispered back, “teach me how to serve my daughter.”
Marta got up early the next morning and prayed. She went out the side door toward the garden, leaving her journal open on the kitchen table. Walking around to the front of the big house, she knocked on the front door. When Donna opened the door, Marta asked to speak to her and Hitch together about something important. They both looked nervous as they invited her to sit at their table and share a cup of fresh coff
ee. Marta told them about Hildemara and that she had been thinking about the ranch and making some changes. Hitch’s expression fell.
Donna gave him a sorry look and then offered a pained smile to Marta. “With your husband passing on and all, and your daughter needing you, it’s understandable you’d want to sell.”
“I’m not selling. I’d like to offer you a contract to run the place. You tell me what you want. I’ll tell you what I need. And we’ll have Charles Landau put it all in writing so there will be no question about it.”
Hitch’s head came up. “You’re not selling?”
“That’s what I said.” She gave Donna a teasing look. “Better see that he cleans his ears.” She looked at Hitch again. “It may come to that, but if it does, you’ll get first shot at buying it. If you want it, that is.”
“We don’t have the money,” he said glumly.
“Knowing how hard you work, I might even be willing to hold the paper rather than have some banker come out the winner in the deal.” She looked between the two of them. “So?”
“Yes!” Hitch grinned.
“Please,” Donna added, face aglow.
That settled, Marta drove to town to take care of the rest of the details.
Then, on impulse, she drove to Merced and went shopping.
She wrote to Rosie that night and told her about Hildemara.
I started thinking about Lady Daisy and our afternoons at Kew and tea in the conservatory. I think it’s about time I shared some of these experiences with Hildemara Rose. So I went to Merced and looked through all the stores and couldn’t find anything as fine as what I wanted.
After hours of searching, I was discouraged. Actually, I was annoyed. I ended up in a little shop, but one look around and I was ready to walk out the front door. Fortunately, the proprietor cut me off. Gertrude! Swiss, from Bern! We talked for an hour.
I’d completely forgotten why I’d come to Merced in the first place until we both noticed the time. She needed to close the shop, and I needed to drive home to Murietta. Before leaving, I finally got around to telling her what I’d been looking for and why. G went into her back room and came out with an old, dusty box filled with dishes. She said she’d forgotten all about them until that very moment.
I am now the proud owner of a Royal Albert Lady Carlyle tea service—four plates, four teacups, and saucers! G also sold me some dainty spoons and forks, well worth every dollar she extracted from me. I will make all the wonderful sweets and savories for Hildemara Rose that I once served to Lady Daisy. I will pour India tea and lace it with milk and conversation.
God willing, I will win back my daughter.
A Note from the Author
Dear Reader,
Since I became a Christian, my stories have begun with struggles I’m having in my own faith walk, or issues that I haven’t worked out. That’s how this two-book series started. I wanted to explore what caused the rift between my grandma and my mom during the last years of my grandmother’s life. Was it a simple misunderstanding that they never had time to work out? or something deeper that had grown over the years?
Many of the events of this story were inspired by family history that I researched and events I read about in my mother’s journals or experienced in my own life. For instance, when I was three, my mother had tuberculosis, just like Hildie did. Dad brought her home from the sanatorium and Grandma Wulff came to live with us and help out. It was difficult for everyone. A child doesn’t understand communicable disease. For a long time, I didn’t think my mother loved me. She never held or kissed me. She kept her distance to protect her children, but it took years before I understood what felt like rejection was actually evidence of sacrificial love.
While thinking over the past, my husband, Rick, and I decided to take a trip to Switzerland, my grandmother’s homeland. Several years earlier, we had gone on a heritage trip to Sweden to meet many of Rick’s relatives on his mother’s side. I knew I wouldn’t have the same opportunity in Switzerland, but wanted to see the countryside with which my grandmother would have been familiar. We visited Bern, where my grandmother went to housekeeping school, and Interlaken, where she worked in a hotel restaurant. When I mentioned to the tour guide that my grandmother had come from the small town of Steffisburg near Thun, she and the bus driver decided to surprise us. Taking an alternate route, they drove into Steffisburg and parked across the street from the centuries-old Lutheran church my grandmother’s family must have attended. Rick and I stood in front of the Steffisburg map for a picture before wandering the church grounds and sitting in the sanctuary. We walked up and down the main street, taking lots of pictures. It was a very precious moment for me. On the way out of town, we caught a glimpse of Thun Castle, another place my grandmother mentioned.
Steffisburg, Switzerland
Going through family pictures, I came across several of my mom and her siblings. The one below is my favorite. Mom is second from the left, giggling. Sig was the eldest, then came Mom, Margaret, and Elsie. The picture was taken on the farm in the Central Valley where Grandma and Grandpa had almond trees and grapevines. They dried grapes to make raisins. When my brother and I were young, we often spent a few weeks every summer on the farm, romping and playing and swimming in the irrigation ditches that ran along the back side of the property.
The Wulff siblings
Mom went away to Fresno for nurses’ training, then worked at Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley. My father worked part-time as an orderly. He told me with some amusement that he would go to Mom’s ward and ask for an aspirin. Nurses were not to date orderlies, but Dad eventually won Mom over. Not long after they were married, he was called off to war and served as a medic in the European theater. He was in the third wave into Normandy and fought in Germany during the final days of World War II.
Francine’s parents, the Kings
My parents enjoyed camping and wanted my brother and me to see as much of our country as possible. Every year, they saved vacation time and took us off on a trip to visit as many national parks as they could squeeze into two weeks. They often invited Grandma Wulff to come along. When my brother and I would doze in the backseat, Grandma or Mom would prod us. “Wake up, sleepyhead. Look out the window! You may never see this part of the country again.” Every few years, we made the trip from Pleasanton, California, back to Colorado Springs, my father’s hometown, to visit Grandma and Grandpa King. The photo below is one of the rare pictures of my family with both of my grandmothers. Unfortunately, Grandma King died when I was six.
King family vacation; “Marta” on right
I am blessed to have many wonderful family memories, many of which include Grandma Wulff. I knew there were times of stress and tension between my parents and Grandma, but all families have them. Most work through them. Sometimes minor disagreements can escalate when things aren’t resolved.
No one but God can see into the human heart. We can’t even fully see into our own. My mother and my grandmother were both strong Christians. They both served others all their lives. Both were admirable women of strong character whom I loved dearly. I still love them and miss them both. I choose to believe my grandmother forgave my mom at the end for whatever hurt lay between them. I choose to believe she simply did not have the time or voice to say it. I know my mother loved her to the end of her own life.
This book has been a three-year quest to feel at peace about the hurt between Mom and Grandma, the possible causes, the ways they might have misunderstood one another, how they might have been reconciled. Jesus teaches us to love one another, but sometimes love doesn’t come packed the way we want. Sometimes fear has to be set aside so we can share the past hurts that have shaped our lives, so we can dwell in freedom with one another. And sometimes we don’t recognize love when it is offered.
Someday when I pass from this life to the next, I hope Mom and Grandma will both be standing with Jesus and welcoming me home—just as I will be waiting when my own beloved daughter arrives—and her d
aughter after her and all the generations yet to come.
Francine Rivers
Discussion Guide
1. Marta certainly had a difficult childhood. What factors shaped her the most, for better or worse? How do those influences shape the woman she becomes?
2. How does Marta’s relationship with her father shape her early beliefs about God and His expectations? How is it different from the way Mama sees God? What seems to make the biggest impression on the way Marta views God? Does that change throughout the story? If so, what causes that change?
3. At the end of chapter 4, Marta’s mother gave her a blessing when she left home to make her way in the world. In what ways, verbal or otherwise, did your parents give you their blessing? If they didn’t, what do you wish they had said to you? In what ways did you—or do you hope to someday—do the same for your own children?
4. It has been said that women often marry a version of their father. How is Niclas like and unlike Marta’s father? In what ways is Niclas both passive and aggressive? Marta sometimes seems to harbor resentment toward Niclas. Is that fair?
5. Marta has a hard time trusting Niclas because of the way her father treated her mother. How do you think that makes Niclas feel? In what ways—good or bad—has your family of origin affected your marriage or close friendships?
6. Niclas asks Marta to sell the boardinghouse she bought as the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. Is that an appropriate request? What do you think of the way Niclas makes the decision and communicates it to Marta? If you were Marta, what would you have done in that situation? Have you faced a similar decision in your marriage or family?
7. Marta sometimes makes it difficult for Niclas to be the head of their household. Does Marta view herself as a helpmate to Niclas? Do you think he sees her in that way? How is he able to love Marta despite her sometimes-prickly nature?
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