Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “What if you printed the runners-up this week and the winners next week?”

  Phillip paused in flipping through the entries. “Thorliff, that brain of yours must never be quiet.” He clapped Thorliff on the shoulder. “Good idea. We’ll prolong the suspense.”

  “You better plan on printing extras of those two editions. People will buy more than one so they can send copies to all their relatives.” Elizabeth yawned and stretched, locking her hands behind her and pulling her shoulders back. “The accounts are caught up. There are some invoices you need to pay there in your basket, and Mrs. Jamison called. She wants to talk with you.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. She insisted on talking with you.” Elizabeth strode to the shade-covered windows and peeked out. “Tom’s not here yet.”

  “I can call for him if you are ready.”

  “Please.” Elizabeth rubbed her upper arms. “I’m already tired of winter, and it’s just begun.”

  Thorliff locked the door after they left and turned out the gaslights. Making his way down to the basement, he threw several large chunks of coal into the furnace, half closed the dampers, and headed back upstairs to his room. At least there was a heat grate near his desk so he could stay warm while studying. He reviewed his lesson on Matthew for Bible class, wondering if he dared ask the question he and Benjamin had been arguing about, and spent half an hour memorizing his verses. Since he’d memorized most of them in school in Blessing, this was review. He paced the floor, “ ‘Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.’ ” He dragged his hands over his scalp. “No, it’s the other way. Pure in heart comes first.”

  He was still murmuring the “blesseds” when he fell asleep under the woolen patchwork quilt he’d brought from home.

  “And you have a question, Mr. Bjorklund?”

  “Yes, sir.” Thorliff swallowed hard and heard Benjamin shuffle his feet. “Sir, in the Old Testament we see Jehovah, the God of creation but also the God of judgment and wrath. How then can He be the same being as the God of love in the New Testament?”

  “And this question has been bothering you?”

  “Yes, sir. All through school.” Thorliff forced his body to remain still.

  “I see. And you believe you are in a position to question the living God?”

  “Well, sir, He says in Job to come and discuss with Him.”

  “And in Job doesn’t He also ask where you were when the stars were put in the heavens?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I would suggest that you read all those passages again and see if you are in a better position than Job to question. Is that clear?”

  Thorliff could feel the heat creeping up his neck. Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut? He sat back down, gritting his teeth but keeping from glaring at Professor Schwartzhause. After all, he’d invited them to ask questions. And this was the one class in which he’d not been ashamed of his exam scores.

  “Tomorrow, Miss Jacobson, you will recite. Class dismissed.”

  As all nine of them filed out of the classroom, Benjamin muttered for Thorliff ’s ears only, “Sorry for that. Should have asked some of the sophomores if this would work in this class or not.”

  “I don’t believe God gets angry when we ask questions. He is bigger than that. Why, Abraham didn’t just question. He argued with Him. And got God to change His mind. So did some of the other prophets. Aren’t we supposed to learn from their examples?”

  “Maybe by the time we get to the New Testament, we’ll get some answers.”

  That night after supper at the Rogerses’, Thornton, Thorliff, and the family split up the contest boxes and quickly sorted out the entries that were not in contention with the finalists. Since the largest box was the children’s, Elizabeth and Thornton took that one.

  “At least ours are shorter,” Elizabeth said, handing him a stack of papers.

  “So what exactly are we judging them on?” Thornton asked, his head bent to reading, the firelight haloing his curly hair.

  “Originality, quality, does the story have a good conclusion, is it really a story with a beginning, middle, and an end or just a picture of life.” Thorliff rattled off the requirements without looking up.

  “Do you have a check sheet or something to score them on?”

  “No.”

  “This is all very subjective, then?”

  “Oh, Thornton, just choose the top three or four from your pile, and I’ll do the same, then we’ll compare.” Elizabeth shook her head. “It isn’t like they are winning a college scholarship or a packet of money or something.”

  “Now, dear, let’s not be . . .” Annabelle Rogers, dark hair smoothed back and bundled in a black crocheted snood, looked up from her chair facing the fire.

  “Thank you, Mother, let’s just read.”

  The crackling of the fire, the whistle of the wind amongst the eaves, and the whisper of papers being shuffled were the only sounds for a time, but other than the wind, they were friendly sounds. That and the warmth of the room after an excellent supper made Thorliff fight to keep his eyes open. He caught a yawn and looked up in time to see Elizabeth do the same, then heard Mr. Rogers give the slight start that meant he had about dozed off too.

  “I’ll ring for coffee, or we’ll all nod off.” Annabelle pulled the cord in the corner.

  Elizabeth put her papers down and went to stand in front of the fire. “I’ve done fifteen, and only one really stands out, so I’ve divided those I’ve already read into good, possible, and no chance.”

  “I’d say that makes rather a good division.” Phillip was reading the stories from older folks. “I have one here that really jerks the heartstrings. If nothing comes better, that’s the winner in my group.”

  “You have to choose three.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Phillip gave his daughter an exasperated look over his half glasses. “Such a stickler.”

  While the coffee helped, everyone was yawning by the time they finished.

  “Thanks, Tom, for coming out on such a cold night,” Thorliff said, stepping out of the sleigh. In the last year, since the installation of the telephone, Tom had divided his time between working for Dr. Gaskin and the Rogerses.

  “It’s all right.”

  “And thank you, Thornton, for delivering the manuscripts to Mr. Jordan for me and for your help with the judging.”

  “Quite all right.”

  Thorliff waved as the sleigh went on to the Muellers’ house, where Thornton lived with his pastor uncle and his wife and sons.

  Thorliff, however, still had to finish a composition that was due in the morning. His employer’s “well done” as he left this evening helped somewhat to alleviate the nagging sting of his teacher’s words earlier in the day. From now on, Thorliff promised himself, he would keep his mouth shut in class except when called on. But if God didn’t intend for me to think, why did He give me such an inquisitive mind?

  By the time he finished the composition, he felt wide awake so he began a letter to Anji.

  Dear Anji,

  I must confess that I have no idea what is happening between us. You sent me that telegram that sounded as if you never wanted to see me again, and when I wrote to you, I never received an answer. I have decided to write again in the hopes that my earlier letter was lost and you are feeling as bereft as I. Surely the love we confessed for each other is stronger than these difficulties. In fact, perhaps these are the tests we must go through; as silver and gold are purified by fire, so are we.

  And should the unthinkable be, that you no longer love me as I do you, then I must know that too. I think I am over the worst of the homesickness that plagued me through October. While I did not expect school to be easy, I have been surprised at the difficulties I have experienced. Just today I was castigated rather severely for questioning what I see as the disparity between the vengeful and judgmental God of t
he Old Testament and the God who is love of the New. I am not the only one with questions. There are others who discuss with me in private. As you know, Pastor Solberg welcomed our questions, saying that when we question, it is like flint on flint, sparks fly, and we all become wiser. He said that God is not afraid of our questioning and loves us anyway. After all, Thomas doubted, and as I understand, only when doubting leads to disbelief is there a problem. All my questions create an awe in me that the God who created the universe also created me and desires that I commune with Him.

  I have been reading Christmas stories entered in our local newspaper’s contest, and many of them make me even more wish for home. Though I want to come home for Christmas, some days I doubt that I can leave my job, while on other days I would give up the job and school itself for a glimpse of your sweet face.

  Greet your family for me. I have joined my prayers with yours that your father would heal enough to be free of the terrible pain he is suffering. I know you must miss your mother terribly.

  All my love,

  Thorliff

  Without rereading what he’d written, he addressed the envelope and, while the ink dried on the envelope, folded the paper to insert and seal. When he crawled under his quilt, he was sure this would be another of those nights rife with questions and devoid of sleep. But in the morning he knew he’d not prayed for any beyond those of his immediate family before falling into the comforting arms of rest and refreshment.

  They had to reprint more copies of the paper with the runners-up stories and so doubled the run for the finalists. When one customer suggested they print all the stories in a small book, Phillip handed that project over to Thorliff.

  “What do you think? Is this something that you can do?”

  “Before Christmas?” Thorliff felt his heart leap to racing speed.

  “No, no. I know that is impossible. But we need to keep that in mind for next year. I think this first edition could come out in January during the winter doldrums. We could look for other places to sell it besides the newspaper office. Olson’s Bookstore would be a natural.”

  “What if you designated a portion of the cover price to go to a local charity? That would extend the Christmas spirit into the new year.”

  “Thorliff, where do these ideas of yours come from?” Phillip stared at his young worker with an amazed expression.

  Is that good or bad? Thorliff wasn’t certain if he was to be castigated or congratulated. Unsure, he kept silent.

  “Now, do you have any suggestions as to which charity?”

  Thorliff let out the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “I don’t know the town well enough, but scholarships are always needed at the colleges. As you know, St. Olaf was pretty close to closing its doors this fall. Reverend Ytterboe is out canvassing for financial assistance.”

  “Thank you. I shall ask my wife. She would have suggestions for this also. Son, you are increasing our good name in Northfield. Thank you.”

  The bell tinkled over the door, and a child entered the newspaper office. He laid his pennies on the counter. “I would like two more copies of this week’s paper. My sister is one of the story winners.”

  Phillip winked at Thorliff. “See?” He reached under the counter where they had a stack of papers stashed. “Here you go, lad. And tell your sister congratulations from us.”

  The boy dashed out with a quick wave over his shoulder. His cheery smile reminded Thorliff of Trygve—and home. Home, where Christmas secrets abounded as everyone made presents for the others and tried to keep them from guessing, where Mor and Astrid would be baking goodies and pulling taffy, where they would have made snow candy by now and dipped small candles to light on the tree. At the school they would be practicing for the Christmas program, the program that he always used to write but didn’t write this year for the first time since the school began.

  What would he give for Christmas gifts if he did go home?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  December 21, 1893

  “So, Thorliff, are you going home for Christmas?” Mr. Rogers asked.

  Elizabeth Rogers watched the young man’s face as he struggled to find an answer to her father’s question.

  “Ja, I plan to take the morning train tomorrow.”

  “I thought you decided not to.” She dropped the last of the capitals from Thursday’s edition of the Northfield News into their cases. The ancient printing press still used individual type that was hand-set on a long slug line and had to be put away when the paper was finished printing.

  Elizabeth brushed a lock of hair off her face with the back of her hand. “That means I have to help pick next week, and here I thought to have some time off.”

  “You’ve had time off. I’ve been doing most of the picking all month.” Thorliff sighed. According to her, he did nothing more than clean and keep the furnace going, and here he’d written the final article about the winners of the Christmas story contest, and made sure the judges received their entries, and catalogued all the entries, and come up with the idea in the first place.

  Along with keeping up with his classes.

  “How long will you be gone?” She snapped the case closed, and he shoved it into the slot where it belonged.

  He looked to Mr. Rogers. “How long may I be gone?”

  “I could sure use your help with the New Year’s edition.” Phillip Rogers consulted the calendar on the wall by his desk. “Can you return on Wednesday the twenty-seventh?”

  “If I need to.”

  “Your little sister is going to be mad at you.” Thorliff had told Elizabeth of his family on some of the evenings when she worked on the accounts and he either cleaned up the newspaper office or put away the used type.

  She had told him about her dream of becoming a doctor. While the sparring continued, they had developed a friendship of sorts, wits honed to a sharper edge due to their repartee.

  “Are you ready to head on home, dear?”

  “Any time.” All of a sudden Elizabeth felt like someone had stolen whatever energy she had left, leaving her noodle limp. She trapped a yawn behind her fingers, remembering at the last moment that she hadn’t washed yet. She turned to her father. “Do I have ink on my face?”

  “Only a little.” Phillip glanced up from searching his pockets. “Have you seen my—” he turned back to the desk—“here it is.” He removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Thorliff. “Merry Christmas, son.”

  “Why . . . why, thank you.”

  Elizabeth tried to stifle her look of surprise, but her father caught it. One raised eyebrow dared her to say anything.

  She rubbed the inside of her cheek with her tongue and headed to the necessary to remove the ink from her face. Father has never given the boys that work here a Christmas present. Why is he starting now? Not that Mr. Bjorklund was a boy really, even though he’d grown thinner through the fall instead of muscling out like Cook insisted he should. When she returned, her father had donned coat, muffler, and gloves, and stood waiting, holding her coat. Thorliff had disappeared.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Down to stoke the furnace.”

  “Oh.” She pushed her arms into her coat sleeves and removed her muffler and hat from the coatrack by the front door.

  “Did you need him for something?”

  “No.” I was going to wish him a merry Christmas is all, but then he’d probably make some comment that would make me want to give him a shove. Thorliff is so exasperating; why can’t Father see that?

  Instead, here her father was giving the man a gift of money for Christmas. Not like her mother hadn’t already sent a plate of Cook’s Christmas treats. Ah, the krumkakar, the sandbakkels, and fattigmann, plus the julekake they would enjoy on Christmas morning. One thing about Cook, she never spared the butter.

  “Are you ready, my dear?” Her father touched her arm with a gentle hand.

  Elizabeth bit back a sigh. This year, for the first time since Cook came to them, she�
�d missed out on helping with the Christmas baking. Being a junior in college took more time than she’d imagined, and not just studying.

  She shook her head at her father’s questioning look and headed for the stairs to the basement. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Bjorklund.” All the emphasis on the mister, knowing that would make him smile.

  “And to you, Miss Elizabeth.” His use of her given name made her smile.

  Just as she turned away, he started up the wooden stairs sided on one side by a wall and a wooden handrail on the other.

  “Really, a most blessed Yule.” There was no teasing tone in his voice, only the richness of one friend sharing with another.

  “Thank you.” She struggled for something more to say, but when the words failed her, she turned instead to let her father usher her out the door. For some odd reason, a lump clogged her throat.

  “A fine young man, is he not?”

  “I guess.” She ducked her chin into the muffler that covered her face clear to her eyes. Pray for a safe journey for him. The inner voice caught her by surprise.

  Why? What could happen? He would get on the train here, change in St. Paul, change again in Grand Forks most likely, and then . . . How come lately that still, small voice had been coming more frequently? Ever since her visit with Dr. Morganstein in Chicago, she’d noticed a change and wondered why. Could it be the influence of the woman who radiated love in action?

  “I should have had the sleigh brought round.” Phillip Rogers picked up the pace. “It’s dropped twenty degrees since we came over after supper.”

  “But not much wind.” Speaking, even through the muffler, let sharp knives attack her throat.

  “Good thing.”

  By the time they reached the front gate, they were both breathless from inhaling frigid air. Annabelle Rogers threw open the door before they reached it.

  “Oh, my dears, I was about to send Old Tom with the sleigh.” She stepped back out of their way. “My land, the cold is ferocious.”

  Unwinding their mufflers and removing coats gave Phillip and Elizabeth time to catch their breath. Annabelle hung their things on the walnut coat-tree, then turned with a wide smile. “I have a surprise for you.”