A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

He walked across the dewy ground to the mission. The door stood open in invitation, signifying Lizzie was up. His pulse beat like a hummingbird’s wings in anticipation of seeing her again. The effect this woman had on him . . . Surely God wouldn’t let these feelings grow only to take her away, would He?

  Lizzie stood at the cookstove greasing a black iron skillet, dressed today in her buckskin tunic and leggings. Her hair hung in neat braids alongside her dusky face, and she hummed a hymn he’d played the previous Sunday on his accordion. Her beauty, as always, made his breath catch, and the sight of her at the cookstove, looking every bit like she belonged there, brought an immediate prayer from his heart.

  Father-God, let them let her stay. She’s content here . . . happy. And I love her. I love her more than I ever imagined possible. Please let her stay.

  She turned and looked him up and down, a shy smile on her rosy lips. “How fine you look.”

  He mimicked her leisurely perusal by allowing his gaze to travel from the fringed hem of her leggings to the beaded neckline of her tunic. “As do you.”

  She ran her fingers down the length of one braid, seeming to trace the strip of leather woven into the dark strands of her hair. “I must be Athabascan today.”

  Clay nodded, approving her choice of clothing.

  Her chin lifted, a hopeful glint lighting her blue eyes. “We will know by day’s end, yes?”

  They’d discussed Clay’s intention to visit with Co’Ozhii, and Lizzie had counted the days with him. Unconsciously, he ran his hand over his slicked-back hair, checking to see if the unruly strands remained in place. “I’ll visit her after the children are done with their lessons.”

  Her brow pinched, a slight movement. “I will see her after the children are done.”

  Clay crunched his brow tightly and moved beside the stove. “Lizzie . . .” He interjected a gentle warning into his tone.

  She shook her head, her braids flopping. Her jaw jutted into a stubborn angle. “She is my grandmother, Clay. And she has cast me from her life. I must be the one to talk to her.” An ornery twinkle appeared in her eyes. “But you may come if you’ll be quiet and let me talk.” Her expression changed from impish to pleading. “You will honor my desire?”

  Clay bit the inside of his lip. He’d planned this visit for weeks. Lying awake in the bark hut, he’d practiced the speech in his head so many times he could recite it in his dreams. He’d always envisioned going to Co’Ozhii on his own, convincing the woman to bend her stubborn pride and welcome Lizzie into her life. He wanted to be the one to bring peace between Co’Ozhii and Lizzie.

  He gave a start, realization descending like a log beam on his head. What a selfish plan. He hung his head, asking God to speak His will into his heart. A whisper of peace floated on the fringes of his mind. Months ago, Lizzie had insisted he not intrude in her relationship with her grandmother. She’d set aside her stoic stubbornness in exchange for gentle persuasion, but maybe it would be best for him to abide by her wishes.

  He drew in a deep breath, releasing it along with the selfish pride that made him want to run ahead of Lizzie and pave the way. “All right. You talk to her. I’ll go with you to offer my support, but I’ll stay quiet unless you ask me to speak.”

  She caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you, Clay. I’ve been praying and asking Father-God to make the way to peace. Even if He says no, I will accept His will. You see . . .” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I wanted to be with Pa, but God brought me to Himself instead. What He has for me is what is best for me. I will trust Him.”

  “You may come in.”

  Lizzie’s heart cheered at Co’Ozhii’s invitation, but she managed to maintain a composed posture as she followed her grandmother into the little cabin. To her relief, the smell of sickness that had hung in the air was gone, but dark shadows shrouded every corner. Co’Ozhii hadn’t pinned back the furs covering the windows. The gray cast gave the room a gloomy feel, and Lizzie battled a feeling of melancholy as she slid into the chair Co’Ozhii indicated.

  The older woman grunted at Clay and pointed silently to a third chair in the corner. He dragged it to the table, but he waited until Co’Ozhii dropped into her chair before seating himself.

  Co’Ozhii sent Lizzie a wary look. Although she appeared less haggard than the day of Vitsiy’s funeral, a sadness seemed to penetrate her being. Lizzie recognized the haunting look of loneliness, and her heart turned over in sympathy. My Father-God, open my grandmother’s heart to You so she might know the joy of Your ever-presence.

  “You have come to speak. So speak.”

  Although no kindness tempered Co’Ozhii’s tone, Lizzie chose not to take offense. In the past, Lizzie had spoken coldly to Clay to mask her true feelings. No matter how Co’Ozhii behaved, she would show Vitse respect and compassion, loving her the way God loved her. Lizzie had glimpsed evidence of God’s love in Clay’s actions. Perhaps Vitse would see God if Lizzie chose gentleness.

  Lizzie lapsed into Athabascan. “When last we spoke, I told you I would trouble you no longer because I planned to go to my father in California.” The sharp sting of loss had lessened over the past weeks, but a residual pain remained, like a bruise that lingered far beneath the skin. Lizzie swallowed a lump of sadness and continued. “I come now to tell you I am not able to go to Voss Dawson. He . . . he died, just as Shruh died. No home waits for me in California.”

  She paused, waiting to see if Co’Ozhii would offer a condolence. But the woman sat in stone-faced silence. Lizzie shot Clay a quick look. His tender smile encouraged her to continue.

  Shifting slightly in the chair, she crossed her ankles and looked directly into her grandmother’s face. “Mother is gone. Voss Dawson is gone. Shruh is gone.”

  A muscle twitched in Co’Ozhii’s jaw, the only indication she listened to Lizzie.

  “You are the only family I have left. I do not wish to remain separate from you, Grandmother. You brought my mother into this world. You nursed her and taught her and loved her.”

  A single tear formed in the corner of Co’Ozhii’s eye. The woman blinked, but the moisture didn’t disappear.

  “She hurt you when she married my father, but leaving you hurt her, too. She never stopped loving you or Grandfather. Her final wish, a wish made as she lay with death waiting to steal her away, was for reconciliation with you.” Lizzie inched her hand across the table and placed it, ever so gently, on top of Co’Ozhii’s wrinkled hand. Co’Ozhii stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. Heartened, Lizzie went on softly.

  “My mother’s wish is also my prayer, Grandmother. Might peace blossom between us? Can you forgive my white blood and see my mother in me?” Her hand still cupping Co’Ozhii’s, Lizzie fell silent. She’d made her request. Now it was up to Co’Ozhii to accept or reject her only grandchild. Lizzie continued to pray, even while she waited, for her grandmother to choose peace.

  Moments passed. Outside the cabin, voices chattered and dogs barked. A bush growing along the cabin’s stone foundation, teased by a breeze, skritch-skritched on the rough log wall as if counting the seconds. And still Co’Ozhii didn’t speak. But Lizzie sat patiently in silence, taking hope from the fact Co’Ozhii hadn’t yet pulled her hand from Lizzie’s light grasp.

  Suddenly the woman jerked and pinned her gaze on Clay. “Clay Selby, the day my husband’s spirit left his body . . . you spoke to him.”

  Clay looked at Lizzie, as if seeking her permission to reply. Lizzie offered a quick nod, and he turned to Co’Ozhii. “Yes.”

  “What words did you say to one another?”

  Clay folded his hands on the tabletop. “Shruh asked me how to find the way to the Father. He knew his time here was almost gone. He said he did not wish to step into the next world without assurance. So I told him how to have eternal life with Father-God.”

  Lizzie’s heart sang with the realization that her grandfather now abided with the Father. Just as she would one day reside with the Father. And on that day, she would have t
he chance to know Vitsiy, in Heaven.

  Co’Ozhii made a face. “Did you tell him this assurance would come if I made peace with my granddaughter?”

  Clay shook his head. “Human relationships might bring temporary happiness and comfort to us here on earth, but only a relationship with Jesus brings the assurance of eternity with the Father.”

  His gentle voice, the same tone he’d used when sharing the truth with Lizzie, embraced her once more with warmth. She closed her eyes and offered a prayer for her grandmother to accept the truth that now lived in her own heart. She continued to pray while Clay explained, in simple terms, the way to find everlasting peace.

  When he’d finished, Lizzie dared peek at her grandmother, her heart pattering in hope. But no joyful spark lit Co’Ozhii’s eyes. Instead, she released a heavy sigh. The untidy tufts of her gray hair, chopped short as a sign of mourning, fluffed out as she shook her head sadly.

  “The way of your God, white man, is unknown to me. I do not understand it.” She slipped her hand from beneath Lizzie’s and rose. Her unsmiling gaze shifted from Clay to Lizzie and then drifted to the darkened corner of the cabin where Shruh had lain the last days of life. She shuffled to the corner, her gait slow, her shoulders bending as if she carried a burden. Lizzie squinted through the feeble light, trying to determine what her grandmother was doing.

  Still bent forward with her back to them, Co’Ozhii rasped in a tired voice, “But I will honor my husband’s words to me on the day his spirit left. He wished for peace between us, White Feather, so . . .” She turned and moved toward them, stepping from the darkest shadows into murky gray.

  Lizzie clapped her hand over her mouth to hold back her cry of joy. Vitse wore the coat Lizzie had so painstakingly crafted.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Clay followed Lizzie into the sunny yard outside Co’Ozhii’s cabin, his heart light as he observed Lizzie’s skipping footsteps and beaming smile. He wished he could scoop her into his arms and celebrate this moment of victory with a kiss. But other Gwich’ins milled about in the village’s common area, so he pushed his hands into his pockets and offered a smile of congratulations instead.

  Lizzie walked alongside him, her hands clasped in front of her as if she held tight to her new bond of harmony with her grandmother. Her eyes, bright with wonder, scanned the skies. A short, joyous giggle left her lips. “Peace, Clay . . . at last we have peace, my grandmother and me. And now my prayer is that this peace will spread across the village.”

  Clay nodded. Co’Ozhii had told them she planned to call a special meeting with the tribal council later that evening to recommend ending Lizzie’s excommunication. In a few short hours they would know whether Lizzie would be welcomed or ostracized. Looking into Lizzie’s trusting face now, he could do nothing less than believe her time of acceptance drew near.

  “Vitse still resists the Father,” Lizzie went on, her tone taking on a wistful quality that tugged at Clay’s heart, “but I will speak to her often and share with her how I hold Him inside of me, how He brings me joy.” She crossed both palms over her heart and beamed at Clay. “She will come to believe. My Father-God will answer my prayer.”

  Her confidence spurred his confidence. He’d prayed so often for the people of this village to come to the mission he’d nearly worn out the words. Why hadn’t God answered his prayer? God knew how much he wanted to remain here, serving the people and bringing change into their souls, so why didn’t He light the fire of desire in their hearts?

  As they neared the mission building, Lizzie pointed ahead. “Someone has been here and left something behind.”

  Clay squinted against the descending sun. A white rectangle of paper, tacked to the building’s doorframe, flapped gently in the light breeze—an envelope. Anticipation pushed him into a trot, and he closed the distance quickly. He yanked the envelope loose and, his hands shaking, turned it over to look at the handwriting. With a grin, he waved it at Lizzie. “It’s from my father!”

  Lizzie hustled to his side, her eyes alight with eagerness. “Open it.”

  Clay’s hands turned clumsy as he slit the envelope and removed a small square of paper, folded in half. His elation dimmed momentarily. He’d expected a lengthy letter, citing suggestions and offering support. He shot Lizzie a puzzled look before tucking the empty envelope into his pocket and unfolding the paper. His brows crunched as he read the single-sentence message. He shook his head, trying to unfuzz his brain, then read it a second time. Despite himself, he smiled, then guffawed, and finally let loose with a long, self-deprecating belly laugh.

  He held the paper high and shook it. The paper’s crinkling sound emulated laughter. Clay snorted. “Pa . . . you rascal. Trust you to get to the heart of the matter.”

  Lizzie stared at him, concern marring her brow. “Clay?”

  Without replying, he handed her the short letter, then strode away several feet, scuffing his toes against the hard ground and shaking his head while bubbles of laughter continued to escape his lips.

  Lizzie read Pa’s advice out loud. “ ‘Son, the church isn’t a building. Love, Pa.’ ” She refolded the letter and gazed at him with a puzzled expression. “What does it mean?”

  Clay returned to her side and plucked the letter from her hand, his father’s wisdom making him feel both foolish and grateful at the same time. “It means I’ve had my focus in the wrong direction all along.” He paced back and forth, gesturing to the fine mission built of sturdy logs. “I was so determined to complete the building I lost sight of what really matters—serving people.” He swung to face her. “I’ve prayed and prayed for the people of Gwichyaa Saa to come and sit on those benches and hear me preach . . . but I should have been going to them.”

  A lump filled his throat. How shortsighted he’d been. How much time he’d wasted. He looked at the fine structure again, recalling the way his chest had swelled with pride when he’d examined his craftsmanship. The remembrance shamed him. I came to do Your will, but I got so caught up in my own plans, You were pushed aside. Father, forgive me.

  To Lizzie, he said, “The church doesn’t reside within a building, but within the hearts of God’s people. And that’s what I came to teach, Lizzie. I hope this building will one day be the place we gather to worship together, but I’m no longer going to wait for them to come to me. I’ll go to them, the same way my pa did when I was a boy. Door to door, serving them in any way I can. And I’ll grab every opportunity to tell them of God’s love.” Determination stiffened his spine. One heart at a time . . . that’s the way the message of truth spreads.

  He clamped his hands over her shoulders, rejoicing in the way her hands rose to grasp his wrists. Peering directly into her attentive face, he made a vow. “I’ll push my pride out of the way and follow the leading of the Spirit. If I allow Him to work through me, we’ll see change, Lizzie. I know we’ll see change.”

  “And I’ll help you, Clay Selby.”

  Her immediate promise of support sent a shaft of joy through Clay’s soul, but a worrisome thought cast a shadow over his delight. The uncomfortable fear that had pestered him at night had to be addressed, and this seemed a good time. He led Lizzie to the stoop and sat, pulling her down beside him.

  “Lizzie, I have to know something. Will you answer me truthfully?”

  None of her former rebellion or distrust flared. She gave a quick nod.

  He drew a steadying breath, fearful of the answer yet needing to know. “You’ve made peace with Co’Ozhii and you said you would pray to be accepted into the village. But . . .” His mouth felt dry. He swallowed and continued. “Do you truly want to live in the village, or are you hoping to stay because you have no place else to go?”

  If she chose the village out of desperation rather than a real desire to live there, he feared she might also lean on him because she had no one else. He loved her and wanted her permanently in his life, but he needed her to feel the same way about him. His pulse pounded like a drumbeat in his ears while h
e waited for her reply.

  Lizzie sucked in her lips. She sat for several seconds, her fine brows pulled together in a manner of deep reflection, and then a smile—a knowing smile that spoke of an inner decision being reached—graced her lovely face. She placed her hand over his, slipping her fingers between his to link them together.

  “Clay, I’ve lived my entire life on the other side of those trees, knowing the village existed but never being a part of it. When I was a little girl, I had no need for the villagers. I had Mama and Pa, and I was happy. But then Pa left, and Mama died, and I was alone.” Pain briefly puckered her lips, but then peacefulness washed over her countenance. “During those lonely years I pined for the village even while resenting it. I honored their ban against me even while inwardly hating them for rejecting me.”

  Her fingers tightened, and Clay placed his other hand over hers. She offered a quick, appreciative smile before continuing.

  “And then you and Vivian came along. You showed me friendship and affection even when I didn’t know how to reach back. You touched my heart.”

  A flutter moved through Clay’s chest—his heart’s reaction to her sweetly spoken words.

  Lizzie angled her head, peering at him with a pensive look. One braid framed her cheek, the tip of the other brushed Clay’s knuckles. Her blue eyes shimmered with an emotion that held him in place as effectively as a tether—a tether he had no desire to escape.

  “You told me once that these people were your people, all created by the hands of the same Father-God. I didn’t understand, but now I do. I want the villagers”—she bobbed her chin in the direction of the village, one bright tear trailing down her cheek—“to know the peace and joy I now know. I want to be to them what you were to me—a living, breathing example of God’s presence.”

  She shifted to face him again. Her tear-damp face glowed with an inner love that heightened her natural beauty. Clay’s breath caught in his throat as he gazed at this woman—this lovely, open, strong-willed Athabascan woman who now shared his passion for changing souls.