Fields of Grace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “I promised to care for Lillian.” He spoke aloud, his voice echoing across the rolling prairie. “We are bound to one another, and I will see to her needs, even if . . .” Resolve lit a fire in his soul. Balling his hands into fists, he raised his face to the sky and vowed, “Even if she never accepts me again, I will fulfill my obligations to her, Father. I will love her unconditionally, just as You have always loved me.”

  His arms pumping, he headed for the house to fetch Joseph. He could use the boy’s help.

  Lillian sat in front of the fireplace, angling the fabric and needle toward the blaze to catch the light. Her stitches, usually straight and perfectly balanced, appeared jagged and uneven. With a huff of displeasure, she crumpled the patchwork quilt in her lap. How could she do anything correctly in this dark, shadowy hole?

  She closed her eyes, battling an attack of tears. Oh, how she wished for sunshine pouring through windows, painting a yellow path across the floor! The sod house, with its solid walls and tightly closed door, felt like an animal burrow. How had she lived for so many months in this dirt hovel without losing her mind? Surely living in constant shadow contributed to the state of despondency she now experienced.

  Setting the unfinished quilt aside, she crossed to the door and cracked it open. Cold air whisked inside, making the fire dance. She hugged herself and peered out through the narrow opening, basking in the thin band of sunlight, even though it carried little warmth. Her gaze roved the snow-covered ground, noticing the trails of boot prints—the larger ones left by Eli’s feet and the smaller ones, Joseph’s. One set remained conspicuously missing: Henrik’s.

  A knot of anger clogged her throat, and she slammed the door. She stomped to the discarded quilt and snatched it up, crushing it to her aching chest. If only she could hold her absent sons the way she held this quilt, her heart would be soothed.

  Sinking onto the stool beside the fire, she smoothed the quilt across her knees. She touched each patch in turn with her fingertips, her lips trembling as she battled another wave of tears. This quilt—her remembrance quilt—had been formed from Jakob’s little shirts and those Henrik had left behind. As she’d cut into the clothing, turning finished items into squares, she had wept, feeling as though she cut into her own soul. But putting the squares together, arranging the plaids and solid colors into a pleasing design, had brought a small measure of comfort.

  When she finished this quilt, she could wrap herself in memories of her sons. The thought sent her hands scurrying to retrieve the needle and resume stitching. She longed for the comfort the quilt would bring. Nothing else provided comfort. Not Eli. And not God.

  Anger—a too-familiar companion—once more assailed her. Eli should have gone after Henrik. He should not have given Henrik money and sent him out into the cold. How could she trust a man who cared so little for her feelings? All of the intimate moments they had shared now tortured her. She wove the needle in and out, in and out, while her thoughts continued to tumble.

  Where was Henrik now? The not knowing nearly drove her mad. Was he warm? Well fed? Ill or mistreated? Her hands trembled, skipping a stitch as the unknowns ate at her insides. Every day in his morning prayers, Eli asked God to keep Henrik safe and guide his footsteps. She would have no peace until Henrik’s footsteps led him back to her—and she would hold herself aloof from Eli—and God—until Henrik was safe in her arms again.

  Lillian sat bolt upright as crunching footsteps approached. Her hand pressed to her chest as the door swung open. But Joseph, not Henrik, entered the room.

  Joseph stepped just inside the sod house. He rubbed his mittened hands together while globs of snow dropped from his boots. In the past, Lillian would have teasingly scolded him to remove his boots and come to the fire. But, too weary to speak, she simply sent him an unsmiling look.

  “Pa says to tell you we will not be in for lunch. He is hitching up the oxen, and we are taking the wagon down-creek for more rocks.”

  The lack of enthusiasm in Joseph’s voice sent a twinge through Lillian’s middle. Her cheery, energetic son—the one who’d blossomed on American soil—had retreated into the quiet boy of Gnadenfeld again. And she had no more means of restoring him than she had of returning Jakob to life or bringing Henrik home.

  “Do you want some bread and butter, then, to take with you?”

  He gave her a hesitant nod. Slowly, feeling like a creaky old woman, Lillian set the quilt aside and retrieved a loaf from the crock in the corner. She broke it in half, slathered the exposed middle with butter, and wrapped the pieces in a length of toweling. With a sigh, she placed the bundle into Joseph’s waiting hands. “Nä-jo, tell Eli I will keep a soup pot warm for when you are ready for something more.”

  The boy slipped back out without a word. She shook her head. So this is what she and Eli had resorted to: using Joseph as a go-between. Remembering the days when Eli would have found any excuse to return to the sod house, when he would kiss her lips or nuzzle her neck and whisper in her ear, a spiral of longing tried to overpower her. But she pushed it away.

  That part of their kinship was dead. Thinking of what used to be only increased her dissatisfaction with the now. Determinedly, she returned to the quilt. She must stay busy with something concrete, useful, mindless. . . . When she finished this quilt, she intended to make a similar one for Joseph out of Reinhardt’s shirts. The boy continued to call Eli “Pa,” stinging Lillian’s soul with every usage. Eli had made a mockery of the name. A true pa would have fathered Henrik, too. Reinhardt would not have given Henrik a fistful of cash and sent him alone into an unknown world. Reinhardt had always protected his sons, kept them close and safe. But Eli . . .

  The needle jabbed her finger. She gasped, jerking her hand from beneath the folds of fabric. A bubble of blood rose from the tiny wound. She sucked on her throbbing finger, and the pain abated. If only the gaping hole in her heart could be so easily repaired.

  With a huff of annoyance, she rolled the quilt into a ball and carried it to Reinhardt’s trunk. When she lifted the lid, her gaze fell upon the black leather Bible. Another wave of longing nearly drove her to her knees. Her comfort in God’s presence had slipped away the day Eli sent Henrik from their sod house.

  Tears flooded her eyes. She closed the trunk and sank onto its lid, pressing both palms to the trunk’s sturdy surface, envisioning the book trapped inside. Her heart begged her to pray—to call out for God’s arms to draw her close and whisper peace into her soul. But her heart, withered and sore, couldn’t find the means to open.

  God had taken Reinhardt and Jakob home to Him long before she was ready to bid them farewell. He had given her a taste of security here on the prairie with Eli and her remaining sons but then callously snatched that away, too. Knowing all she had lost, God should have prevented Henrik from leaving. He should have prompted Eli to keep Henrik close.

  Shaking her head, she acknowledged the truth. She would be denied peace as long as she was denied the presence of her oldest son.

  “Pa?” Joseph grunted the name as he heaved a rock into the back of the wagon.

  Eli paused in prying loose a gray stone from the hard soil. “Jo, son?”

  “Do you think Ma will like the new house?”

  The hopeful note in Joseph’s voice pierced Eli. Could Lillian not see the harm she inflicted on Joseph with her continued withdrawal? Was Henrik the only important one now?

  He forced a smile to his face. “For sure your mother will appreciate having a big kitchen, and separate rooms for sleeping and sitting. This rock house will be fine house, and every time she looks at it, she will remember how hard you worked to build it for her.”

  “You work hard, too.” The boy sounded defensive.

  Eli’s heart turned over. It would be easy for Joseph to pull away from Eli to show loyalty to his mother, but he had not forsaken the one he called Pa. Although Eli disliked that Joseph was forced to choose sides, he couldn’t help but rejoice in the continued closeness he and his stepson shar
ed. He considered it a precious gift, and he would not treat it lightly.

  “Jo, we work together. You are a fine worker, and you make both your mother and me proud.” A crooked grin tipped up Joseph’s chapped lips. Eli jerked the shovel’s blade, popping the stone loose. “Come now—get this one and put it in the wagon.”

  Joseph obediently lifted the stone, grunting with the effort. He walked straddle-legged and hefted the rock over the side of the wagon. Slapping his hands against his thighs, he said, “How many more stones do we need, Pa?”

  Eli scratched his chin. They had used all of those from his four rock piles to lay the foundation and build the first layers of the walls. It pleased him to walk the circumference, to envision doorways and windows and rooms inside. Had he not chosen to make the house so large, the walls would already be higher. But he had promised Lillian a big house, and he would build her a big house.

  “We will need many, many stones, Joseph,” he answered, “but this land has plenty. We will keep collecting until the walls are as high as my arms held over my head. Then we will know we are done.”

  Joseph followed Eli, placing his feet into the larger tracks left in the thin coating of snow. “When you finish the outside, will you use stones to build Ma’s Spoaheat?”

  Eli scanned the ground, searching for stones as he considered Joseph’s question. In Gnadenfeld, the cooking hearth had been constructed of Mennonite-fired mud bricks. Lillian missed her little thatched house in the village; a familiar kitchen would please her.

  “We will fire bricks for the stove and oven.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder. “And the Meagrope. Your mother wants to raise pigs, so she will need a lard cauldron, too.”

  Joseph nodded, his face brightening. Then he stopped suddenly. “Then . . .”

  Eli came to a stop, too, and turned to face the boy. “Jo?”

  “Then you will not . . .” Joseph’s chin quivered; he blinked in quick succession.

  Concerned, Eli placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What is bothering you, boy? Tell me. Do not be afraid.”

  Joseph swallowed, peering into Eli’s face with a pained expression. “You will not give up? You will keep . . . loving Ma? Until she loves you back again?”

  With a strangled gulp, Eli pulled Joseph into his arms. The boy clung, burrowing his face into Eli’s jacket front. Oh, Lord, please work Your miracle in Lillian’s aching heart. Let what is broken be restored. . . . Pressing his chin to Joseph’s cap, Eli made a promise. “I will not give up, boy. I will love your mother forever.” Even if she never loves me back again.

  32

  Through snow, rain, sunshine, and shadow, Eli worked on the house, with Joseph beside him. Winter faded into a spring so rife with scents that Eli sometimes felt almost drunk from breathing in the aromas. Musky soil, tangy grass, sweet moisture—a potpourri designed to thrill a farmer’s soul. This was a good land—he refused to think otherwise.

  The house, constructed with an assortment of brown, tan, and gray rocks, reminded Eli of the patchwork quilts Lillian worked to complete. But unlike a quilt, which eventually became tattered and worn, this house would endure for centuries. Just as his love for Lillian would endure.

  He heaved a stone to chest level and rolled it into position, pressing it firmly into the thick slab of mud and clay mortar. Joseph stood to the side, his lips sucked in as he held his breath. Eli held the rock and counted silently to ten before stepping away from the wall. The rock held.

  Joseph let out his air in a mighty whoosh, then grinned at Eli. “I always worry it will fall on your head, like that sod did on Henrik when we built the fireplace.”

  Eli smiled, remembering. That had been a good day. “One of these rocks would do more harm than a lump of dirt, I can tell you.” He pointed to the waiting pile of rocks. “Hand me another stone—a lenkjlijch one.”

  Joseph sorted through the pile and selected an oblong stone. He thumped it into Eli’s waiting hands with a light laugh. “It looks like a gray watermelon!”

  Eli chuckled in response. “Jo, but I would not suggest trying to bite into it. You would break your teeth.” He added the rock to the wall.

  Joseph laughed appreciatively. The sound of the boy’s laughter, accompanied by the whisper of wind and the song of birds, brought a lift to Eli’s heart.

  “We need to clear ground for a watermelon patch,” Joseph commented. Eli hid a smile when the boy tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels—just the way Eli often did. “Soon it will be planting time. Can we ready the ground Saturday?”

  “I thought you wanted to go fishing on Saturday.”

  Eli and Joseph had developed a routine of hunting or fishing on Saturdays. The time together had bonded them as securely as two rocks joined with mortar.

  “The creek will still be there next week.” Joseph begged with his eyes. “We need watermelons so when Henrik comes back, we can have one for his birthday.”

  Rarely did Joseph mention Henrik’s name, but often Eli saw the boy staring into the distance. He knew Joseph missed both his brothers. Eli chose another stone while Joseph went on pensively. “Where do you think Henrik lives now?”

  “I do not know, son.” He pushed the words past gritted teeth, speaking while lifting the thirty-pound rock. A grinding thunk sounded as the rock found its position, and Eli stepped back, rub-bing his shoulder. “He wants to attend a university, so maybe he went all the way back to New York.”

  How long would two hundred dollars last in a big city like New York? Had Henrik learned enough English to communicate? He didn’t like to think of the boy being cheated. Many unscrupulous people lived in the world, and they wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a young Mennonite boy from a faraway country. But Eli didn’t mention those concerns to Joseph. “Wherever he is, you can be sure he is saving his money for school. Being a teacher, that is important to him.”

  Joseph pushed his foot against a rock, his head low. “Wish he would come back, though.”

  Eli didn’t need to ask why Joseph wanted his brother to return. Lillian’s continuing despondence created a bigger chasm between mother and son each day. He and Joseph had begun praying together for Lillian, and Joseph’s heartfelt petitions for his ma’s happiness brought tears to Eli’s eyes. When would God answer the prayers of this young, faithful servant?

  “He will return.” Eli spoke with confidence, praying his statement would prove true. “He loves you and your mother, and he will want to show you the certificate he receives from the university so you can be proud of him.”

  Joseph nodded slowly, his expression apprehensive. “If he waits until he has a certificate, it might be years before he comes back.” Suddenly, he squared his shoulders, his chest puffing. “I will be grown by then—as tall as him, probably, but stronger.”

  Eli laughed. “Stronger?”

  “Jo.” Joseph hefted a large rock. His face reddened and the tendons in his neck stood out like cords. Eli quickly took the stone, and Joseph flexed his arms. “I carry stones, and Henrik carries books. I will be stronger.”

  With another laugh, Eli turned toward the house. “You are probably right. Now mix some more mortar. We are ready to put another row on the north wall.”

  They continued building, one stone at a time, all morning and into the afternoon. The early-March sun beat down, warming them, and they removed their jackets. Midway through the afternoon, a movement caught Eli’s eye, and he looked to see Lillian walking toward them. A bucket hung from her hand.

  His mind skipped backward to the days when he, Henrik, and Joseph had cleared the land to receive seeds. Lillian had walked across the grass to bring them a drink of water. But in all of their weeks of house building, she had never come near the growing stone structure. To see her coming now sent quivers of anticipation through Eli’s body.

  “Ma?” Surprise underscored Joseph’s brief query. “Did you come to see the house?”

  Lillian set the bucket on the ground and stood u
pright, pulling her shawl back into position. “I brought you a drink. And I need to speak with Eli.”

  Eli’s heart leapt. Not since the day Henrik had left had she initiated a conversation. Surely, despite her sober face, this was a good sign. “For sure we can talk.” He gestured toward the half-built stone house. “Come inside, and I will show you the house while we talk.”

  For a moment, he thought she would refuse. Her lips puckered, a sharp V forming between her eyes, but then she nodded and moved stiltedly through the opening that would eventually frame the front door.

  Eli, hands trembling with excitement, followed. “See, Lillian? This will be the sitting room, and over here”—he trotted to the opposite side of the wide space—“the kitchen. Your Spoaheat will go right here in the corner so the flue can send smoke through the attic to smoke your hams.”

  He waited for an answering smile, but she remained somber. His spirits dampened somewhat, he continued, “Back here”—he walked to the far corner and held out his arms—“this will be the main sleeping room, with a stairway over there leading to the loft. Then this space will be a dining room.” Envisioning it, Eli’s enthusiasm soared again. “When the others arrive, and our furniture builders set up shop, we can buy a good Mennonite-made table and chairs, and there will be room to host gatherings for Sunday faspa or—”

  “Eli.” Her sharp tone brought an end to his explanations. She caught the tails of her shawl and folded them in an X across her body. “We must talk.”

  “All right.” He crossed his arms over his chest, chilled now that he stood still in the shadow cast by the shoulder-high wall.

  She took a few small steps closer and glanced over her shoulder. “Will Joseph hear?”

  Eli leaned to glance out the door. “I will send him to the sod house, if you prefer.”

  “Please.”

  He stepped past her, giving a wide berth, and stuck his head out the door opening. “Son, will you take the bucket back for your mother? Refill it at the well, and then go into the sod house and eat a snack—some bread or dried venison. You have earned a rest.”