That evening when Søren asked if he and Ilsa could see Rose’s journal, Kari found that she was not fearful that they would take it. Instead, she felt she was sharing her treasure with those who would love it and value it as much as she.
“Will you read part of it to us, Kari?” Ilsa asked after they had both carefully handled it and read Rose’s name on the flyleaf.
Kari nodded and selected a passage near the end.
January 26, 1911
Grant and Joy have named their son Edmund, after our dear Mr. O’Dell. This honor speaks of the great friendship between Grant and Mr. O’Dell—and, truthfully, of Mr. O’Dell’s friendship to us all.
I am happy for this precious man. I remember how hardened by the world he was when I first met him in Corinth—how skeptical, disillusioned, and cold the difficulties of his work had made him. Lord, you have done a great work in his heart!
Kari paused, considering what she’d read. “Fen-Bai took me to see Grant’s grave in Denver. Alannah told me that a few years after Grant passed away, Joy married Mr. O’Dell. She said that her mother was their daughter, Roseanne. Named for Rose, no doubt.”
Søren and Ilsa both nodded, and Kari tipped her head a little in thought. “I understand Joy and O’Dell’s other children are still alive. I would really like to meet them someday.”
She ducked her head a little. “I have a confession to make.”
“Tell us,” Ilsa smiled.
I really like Ilsa, Kari thought at that moment. Maybe it really is a God thing that my car is keeping me here with them for a few weeks.
“Well, I have been afraid,” she said softly.
Søren lifted his brows. “Really? Of what?”
“You see . . . I’ve been afraid that someone, some descendant of Rose’s, would claim her journal and demand it back.” She reddened. “You don’t know how much I love this book. I don’t ever want to give it up.”
“Ah.” Søren nodded. He had an odd expression, but Kari felt that he understood. “What will you do if, uh, someone does ask for it?”
“I don’t know. I guess . . . I guess I would pray about it and do what is right, even if I don’t like it.”
“That sounds good,” Søren answered, “but somehow I don’t think anyone will do that.”
Søren and Ilsa then regaled Kari in bits of family history they thought Kari would appreciate. “According to what’s been handed down, Rose Brownlee arrived in RiverBend wearing the latest fashions for 1881.”
“Brownlee? Was that her name before she married Jan?” Kari took notes as they talked.
“Yes; it was her first husband’s name,” Ilsa answered. “She had a bank manager drive her out to look at abandoned homesteads. In what we today would call ‘a wild hair,’ she up and bought one. She set the tongues of the whole community on fire by daring to live on a homestead by herself—a ‘citified’ woman completely unprepared for life on the prairie.”
They talked on, adding details that fleshed out Kari’s knowledge of Jan, Rose, and their daughter, Joy.
Later, when Kari had dragged herself into bed and was on the verge of sleep, she had a last thought. No one has told me yet where Rose and Joy and O’Dell are buried. Or Joy and Grant’s son, Edmund, for that matter. I will ask—
She was asleep before the thought fully formed.
Kari hadn’t realized that the next day was Sunday until Max thundered down the stairs after breakfast with his damp hair haphazardly combed.
“Kari? Aren’t you going to church with us?”
It’s Sunday? The day had started with chores, just like any other day! Kari raced to her room. Eying her choices, she decided that one of Lorene’s picks would be most appropriate.
Dressing quickly, she entered the kitchen just as Ilsa did. Søren and Max were ready and waiting. Max sidled up to Kari and slipped his hand into hers. He smiled up at her and slowly winked. Kari had to turn her face aside and cough.
“Wow. You clean up good,” Søren grinned.
Ilsa slugged him in the arm.
“What! She does, don’t you think?”
That earned him another slug.
Søren opened the back door of a small sedan for Ilsa and Max and the front door for her. “Oh, I can ride in the back,” she protested. “Ilsa should ride in the front.”
“Just get in,” Søren growled. “We’re going to be late as it is.”
The little church, just outside of the town, looked like it had leapt out of a classic movie: white clapboard, peaked roof, and steeple. The pews were filled and service had just started when they entered. The four of them slid into a row of extra chairs against the back wall.
Kari closed her eyes and sank into the old hymns being sung, all of them unknown to her but powerful in their words of praise and adoration. And then the congregation took up a new melody, their voices strengthening and swelling on the chorus:
Our God . . . is an Awesome God . . . He reigns . . . in heaven above
Kari was stunned—and then she was singing, raising her voice with the others, losing herself in the majesty of their corporate worship.
O God! My awesome God! her heart proclaimed. I long to worship you in your heavenly dwelling place . . . someday.
After the service ended and they were milling around on the church’s lawn, Kari noticed how many tow-headed children raced about with Max. Eventually, several families sought Kari out and introduced themselves.
“Hey. I’m Dalia Thoresen; this is my husband Lars. You must be Kari.” Dalia was plump, blond, and dimpled. Lars was, without a doubt, a Thoresen: tall and broad with sandy-colored hair and brows and piercing blue eyes.
“We’re Søren and Ilsa’s cousins, next farm over,” Dalia added. “Those are our boys with Max.”
“The next farm? You mean Karl Thoresen’s homestead?” Kari expostulated. “Why haven’t I met you before?”
“The very one,” Dalia assured her. “We haven’t been over because we’re so busy with harvesting the corn and the garden . . . and because Søren didn’t want us to bug you about Rose’s journal.”
“Does everyone know about the journal?” Kari wondered aloud.
“Everyone in the family, I imagine. It’s pretty big news, what with—.” She had started to add something but caught herself.
She laughed, a little embarrassed. “Well, just wanted to say ‘hi.’ We’ll see you next weekend—.”
Her husband pinched her arm.
She frowned and coughed. “I mean, we’ll see you around. So nice meeting you, Kari.”
Lars nodded and dragged her away.
Søren had sauntered up to Kari’s side at the last moment. “Well done, Dalia,” he muttered, glaring after her.
“What?”
“Nothing. Are you ready to go now?”
That afternoon over lunch, Kari remembered to ask Søren and Ilsa what she had been thinking as she fell asleep the night before. “Can you tell me where Rose is buried? And Joy and O’Dell? And Edmund Michaels?”
Kari saw Søren and Ilsa exchange a quick glance. She was certain Søren gave a curt shake to his head.
“I’m sorry. Was that wrong to ask?”
“Not at all, Kari,” Ilsa smiled. “Søren will show you the family cemetery after dinner.”
Kari helped Ilsa with the dishes while Max and Søren took care of some chores in the barn.
Then Søren and Max poked their heads in the back door. “You ready?” Søren asked.
Kari stepped out into the bright sunshine and followed Søren as his long legs ate up the distance from the house, down the lawn and up the slope to their orchard; Max stayed as close to Kari as her own shadow.
They climbed the low hill covered in fruit trees. At the top of the rise she saw what the trees had screened: a wrought iron fence surrounding a family cemetery. Søren waited for Kari and Max at the gate. Then he opened the gate and led them inside.
The plots were simple but well-tended. Kari was surprised how many graves
there were—the area inside the fence was nearly filled.
“My father added to the fence and expanded the cemetery years ago, but still it is almost full. There’s room for, perhaps, two or three more graves, but the family has decided that no one else should be buried here,” Søren said quietly, “inside the fence. We will keep it as it is—the resting place of our pioneer ancestors.”
He sighed. “We are talking about making a second cemetery just down the slope . . . if we stay here.”
Kari frowned. “What do you mean ‘if we stay here’?”
Søren shrugged. “Every year we are losing ground with our farms. Us, our cousins next door, other farmers in the community. Expenses are up and the prices we sell our crops and animals for are down. We need to modernize many of our operations, but we can’t afford to—and yet we can’t afford not to. It’s a losing proposition.”
He tugged off his hat and ran his hand over his neck and up the back of his head. Kari recognized the gesture now for what it was—an expression of stress. “But let’s not talk about that right now,” he muttered. “Come on. I’ll show you what you were asking.”
Max slipped his hand into Kari’s and tugged her along. They followed Søren, who stopped at the first row of graves. “The first of our family to die in America was Karl Thoresen. Some horrible sickness came upon the two families, Jan and Karl’s. Karl, Elli, and Kristen died within days of each other.”
He pointed. “Karl’s wife Amalie never remarried. She is buried next to him. Jan is there, between Ellie and Kristen. Hard to believe how long ago it was.”
Kari nodded. All she could wonder was, But where is Rose?
Søren pointed out others, his namesake, Søren, and wife Meg, many of their children, some who died in their infancy, and other Thoresens whose names Kari did not know.
“Our side of the family got the red in our hair from Meg,” Søren grinned. “Talk about a volatile mix. Meg, an Irish-American, and Søren, a Norwegian. That’s hot tempered and stubborn.”
“I would never have guessed,” Kari muttered, dripping sarcasm.
“Careful,” Søren growled.
In the back, in the last row, he stopped. “Here is where they laid Rose.”
Kari knelt down and traced words on the simple stone.
ROSE
Blake Brownlee Thoresen
1849–1927
Beloved Wife, Mother,
and Friend to Many
—I know that my Redeemer lives—
“You have been a friend to me, too, Rose,” Kari whispered. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
Søren watched Kari, wondering at the emotions she was experiencing. When she stood, he walked a few steps farther. “Joy and Edmund O’Dell,” he said softly, pointing. Joy’s grave was between her husband’s and her mother’s.
“I remember Joy and O’Dell’s sons saying that their mother wanted to be buried on Thoresen land. O’Dell, who lived a few years longer than she did, asked to be buried next to her.”
“But Grant! He’s . . . he’s in Denver.”
Søren nodded. “I know. That’s a hard one to swallow. But in reality, he’s in heaven. He understands. The fact is . . .” he shoved his hands in his pants pockets, and Kari smiled as Max followed suit, copying Søren exactly. “The fact is, life is not easy. It certainly isn’t neat and tidy. Sometimes it’s downright unfair. It’s best to take the long view. The eternal view.”
Kari pondered Søren’s words and looked back at Joy and O’Dell’s headstones. “They lived good, long lives,” she murmured.
“Yes. And their long lives were lived for good,” he answered. “Their examples are hard to live up to some days.”
“Mixxie said something like that,” Kari mused. “Something about the family saints casting long shadows.”
Søren coughed on a surprised laugh. “That’s a good way of putting it. The heritage they left us is both inspiring and daunting.”
“Heritage.” Kari turned the word over in her mouth. “It’s not a term I have any experience with.”
Søren shifted his eyes sideways toward her. “That could change. You never know.”
They stood there until the July afternoon sun dimmed unexpectedly. Søren glanced up.
“Looks like we’ll get a rainstorm in a couple hours. Maybe sooner.” He gestured to Max. “Run on down to the barn now, Son, and get a head start on your chores.”
“Okay, Papa.”
Kari watched Max tear down the slope and then looked up and saw the clouds building. “Down in New Mexico we have summer thunderstorms that come up from the Gulf of Mexico or off the Baja. Monsoon weather we call it.”
Søren chuckled. “Yeah. Our summer storms are often called ‘tornadoes.’ We keep an alert eye out for funnel clouds.”
“Yikes,” Kari muttered, glancing up again. “Søren, may I ask you a personal question?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“When I came here last week, Max . . . said something about his mother.”
“That she left?”
“Yes. That’s what he said. I hope you aren’t mad that I brought it up?”
He shrugged again, but Kari glimpsed that pain in his eyes she’d seen before. “Sharon knew what she was getting into when she married me.”
“A farmer’s wife; a farmer’s life?”
“That. And the life of a Christian.” He sighed. “She changed her mind. About all of it. One day she just announced that she was going ‘in search of her dreams.’ She put her things into the family car and drove away.”
Selfish, selfish woman! Kari glowered inside. How could you leave your son alone?
“But . . . do you know where she is now?”
Søren didn’t answer for a long time, and Kari was thinking they should get back to the house. She studied the darkening sky and smelled rain coming.
“She’s in Los Angeles,” he whispered. “In a cemetery in Los Angeles.”
Kari’s lips parted in horror. “She died?”
Søren nodded. “Drug overdose.”
Oh, Søren! Oh, I am so sorry! Kari cried in her heart. Out loud she whispered, “And Max doesn’t know.”
“No. Not yet. I’ll tell him in a few years. He doesn’t really remember her . . . Ilsa gave up her life in Lincoln to come help me raise Max. He was only four when Sharon left.”
He stared at his boots a few minutes. “I never did divorce her. Thoresens don’t divorce. We marry for life.”
He sighed again, and Kari heard the weight of his regret in that sigh. “I admit that it was my fault, Kari. I knew Sharon wasn’t a committed believer. I even knew she was . . . unstable. Immature.
“I thought . . . I thought I could fix her, I guess. Could fix the character flaws that everyone else in the family knew could only change through a deep, growing relationship with Jesus—something she did not have.”
Kari nodded. “I’ve been there.”
When he looked a question at her, she took a deep breath. “You told me yours. I might as well tell you mine. I’ve been married . . . and divorced. Twice.”
“Twice?” Søren’s voice was rough. Surprised.
“Sad, huh? My first husband could never keep a job. I didn’t understand why until I found out that he, too, had a drug problem. So I guess I understand a little about Sharon. Anyhow, I just kept working and paying the bills and thinking that one day he’d get a job that suited him and everything would be fine. Instead, he emptied our savings account and ran up the credit cards. It was three years before I got out from under the debt.”
Søren was studying Kari intently. “And the other marriage?”
Kari wilted under his scrutiny. “We divorced this year. He-he made all the decisions, controlled all the money . . . everything, actually. And then I found out about . . . the other women.”
Søren’s eyes widened. “He cheated on you.”
“Yes. With at least three women I know of. I hired a private investigator t
o document his infidelities. Even so, by the time it was all over, I was flat broke. I don’t know what I would have done if Clover hadn’t called me.”
Søren’s frown was skeptical. “Clover? Is that actually someone’s name?”
Kari smiled, remembering her own disbelief. “C. Beauregard Brunell, managing partner of Brunell & Brunell, Attorneys at Law. The “C” stands for Clover. To quote his wife Lorene, It’s a Southern thang.”
They were both chuckling as thunder broke overhead. They started down the slope together.
“So what was the phone call about?” Søren asked. “From Clover.”
“Oh.” Kari laughed aloud then. “The phone call, Søren, was the start of this amazing journey. Turns out my father’s uncle left him his estate. Daddy and Mommy died when I was six. His uncle’s attorneys hadn’t been able to find Daddy until they uncovered the notice of his death earlier this year. After that, they found me and I inherited his uncle’s estate.”
Søren stopped on the grass and stared at her. “Wait. You inherited an estate?”
“It’s no biggie,” Kari said, evading the issue. “There’s a house, and some other, er, stuff. And the Caddy! But that’s not the best part. No. You see, I was exploring in the garage when I found Rose’s journal at the bottom of an old trunk. It was when I read her journal that I began to learn about Jesus, to learn about being a Christian. When I started longing to know him myself.”
Rain was pelting them as they reached the back steps.
“That,” Kari added as they climbed up the porch, “that was the best part.”
Each morning of the next week Kari rose in the dark with the others and helped Max do his first chores. Kari found that she was enjoying helping out. She was growing accustomed to the earthy smells, the quiet routine, the physical work, the early calm and stillness.
Tuesday morning breakfast wasn’t quite ready when she and Max finished choring, so Kari grabbed a second cup of coffee and wandered outside. She found herself standing on the other side of the barn gazing across the pastures and across the stream. The rising sun warming her back lit up the abandoned homestead on the other side of the creek.
Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6) Page 27