The Seeds of Change

by Lauraine Snelling

  Lark met the frank gaze of his gray eyes. “Indeed.”

  At the soft chime of piano keys, they both looked toward the front of the church. Lark’s throat tightened with sudden tears.

  Forsythia was playing.

  It had been so long.

  Forsythia caressed the keys, the worn ivory of the hand-me-down piano a familiar friend beneath her fingertips. She segued from one hymn into another, her hands knowing the notes without her even having to think about them. Their beloved “Abide with Me” moved into “My Jesus, I Love Thee,” followed by “Now Thank We All Our God.” It was Thanksgiving, after all.

  Someone slid onto the bench next to her, and she glanced up to see Adam’s bearded, smiling face. She smiled back, her heart too full for words.

  He sat quietly a moment, watching her, and then, to her surprise, lifted his own hands to the keys and added harmonizing chords to the last round of the hymn of thanksgiving. Their four hands blended beautifully on the final notes of the amen.

  She turned to him. “I didn’t know you played.”

  “Nothing like you, my love. But a little.”

  “Do you know ‘Come, Ye Thankful People, Come’?” She ran her fingers over the keys again, shifting through arpeggios. It was like her hands couldn’t stop playing, so much had they missed it.

  “I think so. You start, and I’ll see if I can follow.”

  Forsythia eased into a melodic introduction, then began. After a few measures, Adam pressed the keys again, softly adding chords. His touch was slower than hers, yet sure, with a depth and richness to it, like her doctor himself.

  Her doctor. Her heart warmed again with the wonder of it.

  She hadn’t realized her sisters were gathering around them until Lark’s contralto picked up the first verse, then Lilac joined in, followed by Del. Soon other families gathered round, and they were all singing, Forsythia lifting her soprano alongside Adam’s hearty baritone.

  “Come, ye thankful people, come,

  Raise the song of harvest home;

  All is safely gathered in,

  Ere the winter storms begin.

  God our Maker doth provide

  For our wants to be supplied;

  Come to God’s own temple, come,

  Raise the song of harvest home.”

  They finished all four verses, and Forsythia concluded with a triumphant chord. Applause rose enthusiastically from around the church.

  “And on that lovely note, let us gather and give thanks.” Rev. Pritchard raised his voice above the swelling chatter. “And then eat!”

  Still on the piano bench, Forsythia bowed her head and closed her eyes. Adam’s hand covered hers, his fingers warm against her skin. Much to be thankful for, indeed.

  They all feasted on turkey and duck, mashed potatoes and turnips, canned corn and beans, preserves, pickles, breads, and pastries. Then the pie auction began, the women of Salton—and even an occasional man—having given the best of their baking skills toward the schoolhouse cause. Pumpkin and mince, apple and custard, lemon, raisin, and even vinegar pies were lavishly praised by Mr. Caldwell, the appointed auctioneer, and generously bid on by the townsfolk.

  At last, with bellies unable to hold another bite and children falling asleep, the Nielsens piled into their wagon to head home. A November sunset painted the sky toward swiftly falling night as they rode.

  Adam and Jesse joined them for Thanksgiving evening, though no one except the children had room for any supper save coffee and a few bites of leftover pie.

  Once Robbie, Sofie, and Mikael had tumbled sleepily into their beds, the grown-ups lingered around the table, sipping coffee and visiting.

  “This reminds me of home—I mean, home back in Ohio.” Lark cupped her hands around her drink. “Ma always said family conversation around the table was the best kind, remember?”

  “I do.” Del tipped her head. “We must keep up that tradition in our new home. Never stop gathering around the table together—even if it’s a bit crowded yet.”

  They all chuckled, for here in the cramped main room of the soddy, they barely had room for a table large enough for all of them to squeeze around, especially when the doctor and Jesse joined them. They’d had to move another bed into the addition to make it possible.

  “Someday we’ll have a bigger house. Not too far off, I hope.” Lark nodded. “How are your plans coming for your house, Doctor?”

  Forsythia glanced at Adam, loving the way his eyes lit at the question.

  He leaned forward. “Well, I’ve bought the land, just a short ways out of town, and have already spoken with an architect and a builder. We’ve finalized the plans and should be able to start building as soon as the snow clears in spring.” He took Forsythia’s hand. “I wish it could be ready for our wedding. But my sweet bride has graciously assured me she doesn’t mind spending the winter in my rooms above the office. Jesse will move in with the Jorgensens for the time being.”

  Del raised a brow. “You aren’t waiting till spring to get married?”

  Adam’s grip tightened on Forsythia’s fingers. He shot her a glance.

  She cleared her throat. “We’re thinking of getting married at Christmas.” That was Adam’s desire, and she hadn’t contradicted it. Though whenever she thought of being married in just a few short weeks, she found it a little hard to breathe. Was it only from excitement?

  “I see.” Del said nothing more, but her lips thinned.

  Forsythia noticed Lark studying her before steering the conversation toward the church plans to celebrate the upcoming Christmas season. But a strain hung over the rest of the evening, spoiling the festive spirit they’d all shared.

  Adam and Jesse soon said good night, and Forsythia walked her doctor out to their buggy. The air hung clear and bitter cold, the black sky frosted with stars above. She shivered even in her coat, her breath puffing in the night air.

  “You must hurry back inside.” With Jesse already in the buggy, Adam laid his mittened hands on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I think so.”

  He pressed a kiss to her woolen hood. “I love you, you know.”

  “I love you too.” She watched the buggy drive off over the frozen ground, wondering if the chill in the air heralded snow. They’d only had dustings so far.

  She hurried back into the lamplit warmth of the soddy. Lark and Lilac were looking at some of Lilac’s latest drawings by the fire while Del washed the coffee cups.

  Forsythia joined her, taking a dish towel to dry. “So what was that about?”

  “What was what about?”

  “You know. Adam’s and my wedding, at the table.” Irritation prickled. “You were unhappy about something. Spit it out.”

  Del sighed. “I just . . . I hope you aren’t moving too fast.”

  “We’ve known each other nearly six months. These things can move swiftly out here on the prairie.” Hearing herself repeat the arguments she had run so often through her own head, Forsythia paused, letting her defenses lower. “You think we are?”

  “I can’t say for certain. Only . . .” Del laid her dishcloth down and looked at her sister. “You say nearly six months . . . Sythia, it’s only been six months, just half a year since his wife died. You love each other, and are no doubt God’s gift to one another. I don’t question that. But I do question not giving it a bit more time.”

  Forsythia stared at the coffee cup in her hand, rubbing the rim with her drying cloth over and over. Though she hadn’t wanted to admit any barrier to moving forward, the wisdom in her sister’s words sank into her head and heart. A sigh rose up from the soles of her feet, or so it felt. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Del squeezed Forsythia’s hand with her damp one. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped, little sister. I just don’t want you to make a mistake.”

  Nor did she wish to, certainly. But oh, Lord, how am I going to tell Adam?

  30

  What do you mean, yo
u don’t want to get married yet?” Adam’s brows drew together in a darker frown than Forsythia had ever seen except for when he first found out about Clark being Lark.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to.” She twisted her hands together, sitting on one of the chairs in Adam’s office, where she’d found him organizing medical supplies. “It’s just that I’ve begun to wonder if we’re moving too fast.”

  “Because of what your sister said.” Adam slammed a drawer harder than necessary.

  “But she’s right, Adam.” Forsythia bored her gaze into his bent head, willing him to understand. It had taken her a few days since her talk with Del to work up the courage to talk to him about it, but she knew it was the right thing to do. “It’s only been six months since you lost Elizabeth. We’ve been acquainted even less time. Does that not seem fast to you?”

  “And God can work quickly, when He’s of a mind. Or do you—or your sisters—doubt that too? I’ve heard of far faster courtships on the frontier than ours.”

  “And does that mean we shouldn’t even consider the timing just because others have moved more quickly?”

  He huffed out a breath and dug through his medical bag. “Where in tarnation did I put my stethoscope?”

  Forsythia rose and quietly crossed to him. She gently reached behind his shoulders and lifted the instrument from his neck.

  “Oh.” He took it, a bit shamefaced, and hung it on its hook, then sank into his chair, rubbing his forehead. He sat there for a moment, head in his hand, then looked up at her. “I dearly want to marry you, Forsythia Nielsen.”

  “And I you.” She drew near and laid her hands on his shoulders. The vulnerability in his brown eyes set her heart to thudding. “So very much, Adam. But at the right time. Not sooner than we should, simply because we don’t want to wait.” She glanced at the narrow staircase leading up from the office. “Besides, wouldn’t it, in some ways, be better to wait till the house is ready anyway?”

  Adam sat still for a moment, then leaned his head back and groaned a sigh. “I suppose. I’ve been fighting that thought, but yes, in a strictly practical sense, it would be the wiser move. And no doubt in the other ways you mention as well. As much as I didn’t want to hear it, I value the strength in you to say it.” He gave her a wry smile. “Very well. We’ll postpone the wedding till spring. But once a livable frame for the house exists, I warn you, I will brook no more excuses to carrying you over its threshold just as soon as Rev. Pritchard can pronounce us man and wife.”

  Forsythia kissed him right on those penitent lips. “It’s a pact.”

  The decision was right. She knew it by the holy peace in her heart. But oh, Lord, these will be another six very long months.

  It was snowing.

  Balanced on a ladder leaned against the sod wall of the newly enclosed barn, Lark tipped her head back to see the fluffy flakes falling fast from above.

  “Think it means to stick this time?” Isaac McTavish, who had been helping them finish the barn before winter, asked from where he crouched near the roof’s peak, helping lay the final sod bricks across the closely spaced rafters. Snow already dusted white over the patched shoulders of his coat.

  “Looking likely.” Lark brushed snowflakes from her eyelashes. Though they were only a week from Christmas, the snow until now had been meager. “How’s the roof seem?”

  “Tight as we can make it. Your stock’ll be snug as bugs this winter, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Praise be.” Lark climbed down the ladder, then held it steady for Isaac to descend.

  “Is the roof f-finished?” Jesse came up, leading Buttercup. “I thought I should get the animals in from the s-snow.”

  “Good thinking.” Lark patted his shoulder. What would they have done without this faithful young man? “And yes, the barn is finished.” A weight lifted from her chest with the words. At last, their homestead was ready for winter. And just in time too.

  “Stay for supper?” she asked Isaac, blinking through the snowfall, which was thicker and faster now.

  “I’d best get back to the Youngs’ before I get myself stranded.” Since Thanksgiving, Isaac had taken up lodging in the banker’s barn, helping his son-in-law run the farm—not that it abounded with work just now, hence his helping the Nielsens and whatever other families had need. He touched his hat with a gloved hand. “But thank you kindly. Perhaps another time.”

  Of course he wouldn’t want to stay with the snowstorm. “Would you join us for Christmas dinner, then? Weather permitting, that is.”

  “I just might do that. Evenin’, Miss Larkspur.” Turning up his coat collar against the snow, Isaac touched his hat again and headed off, disappearing into a blur of white.

  The snow did indeed stick, falling steadily overnight and building to six inches by morning. Robbie and Sofie stared with wide-eyed wonder, then spent the morning playing in the new white world, all aglitter in the winter sunshine. Del and Forsythia watched by the window while sewing linens for Forsythia’s trousseau, baby Mikael playing on his quilt by their feet, but Lark and Lilac donned hats and mittens for an old-fashioned snowball fight with the children.

  When a cold, wet missile splatted directly in her face, Lark shrieked and fell backward into the snow, arms flailing.

  “Children, this is how you make snow angels.” She spread her legs and arms. “See?” Her laughter bubbled with Robbie’s as he threw himself down to imitate her. Lord, it feels so good to laugh. She squinted up into the deep blue sky. Can I dare to think we are truly home—that this journey I started us on last spring has come to such a good end? That we seem to be safe here and settled at last?

  A verse floated through her mind. “Yea, the Lord shall give that which is good; and our land shall yield her increase.” Truly, you have been faithful to that promise, Father. Thank you.

  And before they knew it, it was Christmas.

  Robbie and Sofie woke early and squealed over the little gifts filling their stockings. After a simple breakfast, the sisters set to work preparing their first Christmas dinner in Nebraska. They had no turkey this year, but a plump goose Lilac had shot had been roasting since before dawn in the oven of their new, larger cookstove, bought with some of Lark’s remaining winnings. Del mashed potatoes and baked squash, while Forsythia whipped fresh butter for the hot rolls, a treat now that Buttercup was with calf and her milk was starting to dry up. They mostly had to save it for Mikael.

  The doctor and Jesse arrived, coats and scarves frosted with fresh snow. Lark set the table, listening to the children chatter as Robbie played with his new wooden train, carved by Jesse, and Sofie crooned to her rag doll, fashioned in secret by Del to tuck in the little girl’s stocking that morning.

  Lark glanced out the window. It was snowing harder now, and there was no sign of Isaac. Likely he wouldn’t come at this point. She fought a nagging disappointment and straightened the forks on Ma’s lace tablecloth.

  “Dinner is ready.” Del squeezed her shoulder. “Shall we go ahead?”

  Lark looked out the window once more. She could barely see the barn through the snow. “I think so.”

  Around the table they gathered, dressed in their best, the table set with the nicest dishes they had managed to bring on the journey. Lilac had gathered winterberry and sumac branches and entwined them between Ma’s pewter candlesticks as a centerpiece, and the candlelight glowed on the crimson berries.

  At the head of the table, Lark reached for Del’s and Robbie’s hands on either side to say the blessing. At the other end, she saw Forsythia clasp hands with her doctor, and the hands continued to join around the table until they formed an unbroken circle.

  Lark closed her eyes. “Father, we thank thee.” A sudden lump filled her throat. So much to be thankful for . . . so very, very much. Yet suddenly, awareness of those missing from this table pressed on her heart, those they wouldn’t feast with again until heaven. Ma and Pa. Dr. Adam’s Elizabeth, and Jesse’s parents. Thomas and Alice Durham, and Sofie and Mikael�
��s mother and father. So many broken pieces, and yet the Lord had woven them all together into a family, as only He could do.

  “We thank thee,” she began again. “For bringing us all to this place to gather around this table. For the food thou hast provided for us, and for the love of family and friends. And most of all, for the gift of thy Son, whose coming as Immanuel we celebrate this day. Bless this food and our fellowship around it.”

  The “amen” echoed heartily around the table.

  They dug in, laughter and chatter rising with the fragrance of roast goose and apple pie. After dinner and the washing up, they gathered back around the table. Forsythia brought over her guitar and tuned the instrument. Lilac fetched the fiddle and passed the mouth organ to Lark.

  “What shall we start with?” Forsythia’s fingers picked over the strings.

  “‘Joy to the World’?” suggested the doctor.

  She smiled and swung into those joyous chords, Lilac and Lark adding fiddle and harmonica to the singing. Sofie and Robbie clapped along, and then Robbie requested “Jingle Bells.”

  “Maybe something quieter now?” Del cuddled a sleepy Mikael, who lay against her, chewing on the leather teething ring he had found in his stocking. They expected a tooth to poke through any day now.

  “How about that new one we learned last Christmas, ‘Silent Night’?” Lilac played the intro on the fiddle.

  “Good idea.” Forsythia finger-picked the guitar and softly began to sing. “‘Silent night, holy night . . .’”

  Was that a knock at the door? Lark cocked her head, halting her own singing for a moment. Perhaps it was only the wind—no, there it came again. She pushed to her feet and hurried to the door.

  Isaac McTavish stood outside the soddy, his shoulders and boots crusted with snow. He removed his hat, sending a shower of white to the ground. “Did I miss dinner?”

  “We’ve plenty left.” Lark held the door wide, feeling her smile stretch her cheeks. “Come in. You must be half-frozen.”

  “Not once I heard that music.” Isaac stepped inside, nodding to everyone. “Near to lost my way in the storm at one point, and then I heard this glorious sound. I said to myself, either I’m freezing to death and that’s a heavenly choir, or I’ve near made it to the Nielsens’.” He smiled, lighting those gray eyes of his. “As much as I look forward to glory one day, I must say, I’m glad it was the latter.”