Pastor Törner had been waiting patiently while she attended to the boy; he only smiled at the little one as he cried and carried on. She very much liked this minister who never showed any severity. He seemed to realize that a small, innocent child, only lately a suckling, could not wait to do his business until the service was over.
Now the pastor took up the psalm: “For thy wounds, O Jesus dear, for thy anguish and thy suffering . . .” He himself sang with a powerful, vibrant voice, but his communicants in the cabin had trouble with their singing. They had only a few psalmbooks—three or four people jostled for each one—and it was a long time since they had attempted psalm singing.
The minister read the text:
“ . . . And hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation; that they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far from every one of us . . .”
At the sound of the holy words the participants sat stone still as if bound to their seats. These settlers, who at home had attended services almost every Sunday, had not listened to a sermon in years. And now they heard God’s Word again, in their native tongue, spoken by a minister, spoken well and beautifully. They listened, tense and still.
“I speak to settlers,” continued the minister, “to people who have left their homes in the Old World to build new homes in a new continent; that is why I have chosen the text from the seventeenth chapter of the Acts. More than eighteen hundred years ago these words were uttered by St. Paul to the Greeks in the judicial place in the town of Athens, but they have a meaning to the immigrant Swedes of Minnesota today: wherever human beings live on the earth, they are of the same blood, the same race, and the Lord lives near them. He is not far from us at this moment, in this settler home.”
Twelve immigrant Swedes listened, packed together in the small log cabin. Twelve pairs of eyes were riveted upon the young minister at the head of the table. The twelve listened, and their lips parted, their mouths opened, as if their ears were unable alone to catch the speaker’s words.
“God has decided to what distances on the earth people shall travel and move their habitations!” The minister made a sweeping gesture with his hands, as if wanting to measure the journeys length. “I speak to men and women who have traveled over one third of the earth’s circumference, who have moved from one continent to another, in order to found new homes in these wild forests. You, my countrymen gathered here, have participated in an emigration covering a greater distance than ever before in human history!”
And his countrymen listened. It was a sermon all of them understood well: it was about themselves. They had forsaken that part of the earth where their forebears had lived for thousands of years, to wander to another part of the globe where they still were aliens. This sermon explained the fate which the Creator in his inscrutable wisdom had prepared for them—the fate of emigrants.
Karl Oskar recalled his parting from Dean Brusander, who had depicted North America as a sky-high Babylon of sin and who had told him that, through his emigration, he broke the Ten Commandments. It was a comfort now to learn from another minister that their emigration was not contrary to God’s will; rather, it sounded as if God had planned and arranged for their move.
Kristina thought that the pastor there at the end of the table was himself a proof that the Lord had not forsaken them in a foreign country. She knew who had sent him to their distant dwelling; the Almighty knew the roads even in the unbroken Territory.
She listened to the minister intently, but also with half an ear to the yard outside; if the kids only didn’t start yelling or coming in to disturb them! They had been told to keep as quiet as mice. But through the open door she could hear the brood-hen cackling, persistently. What an awkward sound, coming like that between the words of a sermon! It was a fine hen, this present from Ulrika; already she had deserted her chicks and started to lay. Now she must have laid an egg in some bush behind the cabin; she could hear it in the tone of the hen’s cackling: she wanted to announce that she had just laid an egg. Why couldn’t she have waited to lay that egg until a little later in the day, after the sermon . . .
“The Lord has decided where people shall live. To you emigrating Swedes he has indicated Minnesota. The brown-skinned sons of the wilderness have ruled this land for centuries. But the Almighty sweeps away one race from the surface of the earth and plants another. You are the new race to build the land. But it is your duty, my dear countrymen who are born in a Christian land and know the Ten Commandments, to treat these heathens as brethren. Indians, too, are our neighbors; they are not of the same color as we, but they have the same Creator. Be kind and patient with the vanishing race . . .”
The hen outside cackled ever more lustily. Kristina turned in her seat; it sounded as if the obnoxious creature had made up her mind to drown the minister’s voice! Had ever a pastor endured such a hen cackle during a sermon?
Kristina was grateful for the new egg, but if she could have imagined that the critter would have made so much noise for the sake of an egg, she would have locked the hen in the barn before they began. What must the minister think? He was so kind, he wouldn’t reprimand her for not keeping her feathered livestock under control.
He continued his sermon, without appearing in the least disturbed by the critter, and none of the other listeners paid any attention to the hen. But now the cackling was right outside the door. The hen was accustomed to come here for food when the door was open. And the door was open now . . . If the hen should come tripping into the room . . . Once she had flown up on the table—suppose the beast repeated that maneuver! What would they do? It would reflect on them. Oh, if that shameless creature would only stay outside . . . !
The service continued, and the hen did not come in, God be praised. And it seemed no one except Kristina had heard its cackling. Soon she too was able to close her ears to the bird’s chatter and entirely immerse herself in the minister’s words.
In the cabin it was as still as if everyone had stopped breathing; no noise or sound in the whole world could disturb this, the settlers’ service, in Karl Oskar’s and Kristina’s home. And soon the communion would begin, and they would sit down at their own table and receive Christ’s flesh and blood, which would lift the three-years burden of their sins. Today they were guests in their own house.
—5—
“Kneel and read after me the confession of your sins!”
Twelve people knelt around the table. Twelve had gathered around Jesus at the first supper, and Pastor Törner had seen a deep significance in the fact that the number of guests here was the same as it had been at the institution of the Sacrament: Christ’s Church would be built here in the wilderness.
The minister read the confession. The kneeling men, women, and children each read after him in his or her own way, some loudly and openly, some in low and mumbling voices. Child voices repeated the words clearly, vibrantly; thick male voices halted and stammered:
“. . . and I have in all my days—from my childhood, even until this moment—many and bitter sins committed . . .”
The communion guests knelt on the floor, their hands folded over their breasts, their heads bowed. Married couples knelt side by side, and children next to their parents. It was crowded for the twelve around the table, but no one pushed for space; they pressed their arms close to their bodies, kneeling in a circle around the table. It was intensely warm outside, and with the crowding it began to grow hot inside. Drops of perspiration appeared on foreheads and cheeks. A breath of wind from the door felt blissfully cool. From the outside no more sounds were heard from two-legged or four-legged livestock. But in the midst of the confession, suddenly lusty child laughter reached them from the yard.
“. . . thine holy words I have often neglected and avoided . . .”
Some were behind in their reading, and the young minister repeated the words s
lowly, so that the stragglers would catch up.
One of the participants needed no one to read the words for him—Danjel Andreasson. He knew the confession word for word, and he knelt there on the floor as if reading to himself, as if he were alone in the cabin. Thousands of times he had repeated these confessional words, both aloud for others and silently for himself, and each syllable was familiar to his tongue.
At a sound from the door, Danjel turned his head. But it was only the wind stirring. Did he expect some other caller? At his last communion, in the old country, he himself had distributed the holy sacrament, and it had taken place in the night, in his own home, because he had been denied the sacrament by the clergy. And while he had been thus occupied, a noise had been heard at the door. He had gone to open it, and in had come the dean and the sheriff, who forcefully had scattered the guests at the Lord’s table. All had been fined or imprisoned, he himself exiled. When he confessed his sins in Sweden he violated law and authority.
Danjel Andreasson was exiled from his homeland, but not from the Kingdom of God.
And now he was here in the new land which the Lord had promised him. He need not now fear any disturbers of the peace. Here no worldly authority would interfere with their gathering. What he heard from the door was only the cool summer wind which blew over the grass and the trees. It was not the noise of a sheriff, not the hard, commanding voice of authority, silencing the voice of conscience in the name of the law, writing ordinances for people’s souls. It was the Lord’s own voice Danjel Andreasson heard in the sounds from outside—it was God’s free wind, blowing hither and yon over the earth of his new homeland.
Kristina was kneeling to the left of her uncle Danjel and to the right of her husband. Karl Oskar got mixed up in his confession, he read haltingly and fell behind. And Kristina herself found that in a few places she had forgotten the words. She caught herself making mistakes.
“. . . I have had lust to evil: I have been vain; I have sought the wicked and sinfull world . . . I have been greedy, covetous, short in compassion, gluttonous . . .”
With tense breath and trembling lips she enumerated all the sins and transgressions she had committed. While repeating the words after the minister, she was overwhelmed by the multitude of her wrongdoings. Contrition overtook her, repentance burned in her breast. But only through repentance could she become worthy of participation in this sacrament. And while she repeated the confession, and her lips moved, she prayed a wordless prayer within her: “O Lord, give me repentance . . . ! Help me repent enough . . . !”
Karl Oskar’s bowed head was close to hers. His face was quite unlike itself today; it was hard and solemn, severe and closed. Had he repented enough, did he repent deeply enough now, was he worthy? She would have liked to whisper to him: You must not confess your sins with your lips only! You must not enumerate them the way you reel off the chores you’ve performed, at the end of each day! You must confess from your heart! You must feel forced to do it! Unable to refuse! You must feel your sin burden as so heavy that you’re unable to struggle another step without forgiveness! You must be consumed with hunger for the bread, thirst for the wine, yearning for forgiveness!
“Whosoever eateth of this bread and drinketh from this cup, he receiveth the Lord’s body and blood . . .”
You must repent, Karl Oskar, repent, repent, repent! You who receiveth . . . but I myself . . . ? Do I repent sufficiently . . . ?
“My grievous and many sins press me hard and are like unto a burden too heavy . . .”
Kristina’s limbs began to tremble. Her knees began to shake as she held them bent against the floorboards. For a moment she was on the verge of falling forward. Perhaps her hearts repentance was not complete. Perhaps it was not sufficient to kneel at the Lord’s altar. Perhaps she should bend still lower, feel greater humiliation, throw her face against the ground, lay herself at the Lord’s feet, become dust and ashes under the Creator’s tread . . .
The confession was over. The floorboards began to sway under her.
“Show thy Grace to me, wretched sinner that I am, and receive thy dear son Jesus Christ’s innocent suffering and death as a full payment for all my sins!”
The minister asked, “Do you ask with a repentant heart the forgiveness of your sins?”
Kristina’s reply was a faint whisper only, barely audible to herself, but it was a whisper that shook her whole being: “Yes . . . yes . . . you know it, Lord . . . I’ve prayed to you for this moment. For long, long, I’ve wished it. I’ve waited and wished and prayed. You know how I’ve wished forgiveness through the sacrament. And you have heard my prayer . . . you came to me here in my home—during the night . . . Now I am ready—I am prepared to approach thy table, to be thy guest . . . I come . . .”
She leaned her forehead against the edge of the table so as not to fall. Her surroundings began to blur, she felt so dizzy. She could hear the minister’s voice, but not what he said. She heard psalm-singing, but not the words of the psalm. Human bodies were close to her, but she recognized them no longer. For now she was alone. She was alone in the world with her Savior, who on the cross had paid her sin debt with the blood which flowed from his spike wounds:
Behold, behold, all ye present . . .
How sorely Jesus suffers . . .
The words of the psalm completed the contrition. They cut through her breast, opened it wide, and exposed her repentant heart. Trembling and dizziness were upon her. Now she must submit, become dust; she had a sensation of fainting . . . fainting away . . .
So as Jesu’ suffering was,
No one’s suffering ever was . . .
Then came the sobs which shook her, the first tears, trickling. People around her cried, loudly, steadily; to the right and to the left of her they sobbed and wept. But she did not hear them, she was absorbed in her own tears, surrendered to her own weeping, blissfully unresistible. So overpowering a weeping had not come on her since she was a little child.
And so it took place, while dissolved in tears, kneeling there as if separated from all other people, liberated from all earthly things, as if she were the only human being in the whole creation—thus Kristina, for the first time since her emigration, partook of the Lord’s Holy Supper.
Afterward she felt dazed and exhausted. Her limbs still trembled but it felt good in both body and soul to tremble this way. And on her face, her tears now dried by themselves—now the Savior dried them all from her cheeks. Her breast was still full and tense, her breathing still hot—but it was now only with joy that her heart overflowed.
Kristina had been a guest in her own house. And afterward she felt lighter of heart, more satisfied, than she had ever been since arriving in North America.
NOTE
1. “The situation had become so serious that the United States and several European countries sent protests to Sweden concerning the persecutions . . .” George M. Stephenson: The Religious Aspect of Swedish Immigration, p. 143.
V
MAN AND WOMAN IN THE TERRITORY
—1—
About midsummer the little Swedish colony at Ki-Chi-Saga was increased by two new families; Lars Sjölin and his wife Ellida, a childless couple from Hassela, Helsingland, took land at the lakeside below Petrus Olausson’s claim, across from Nordberg’s Island. They were both in their forties. From Kettilstad in Östergötland came Algot Svensson and his wife Manda, who settled on a piece of land to the west of Duvemåla. They were about the same age as Karl Oskar and Kristina and had five small children. It was further known that several families had come from Småland and were squatting along the southern shores of the lake, and that still more Smålanders were on their way.
Immigrants from three Swedish provinces had found new homes around the big Indian lake. Karl Oskar and Kristina had Helsingland neighbors to the southeast and Östergötland neighbors to the west. Now they speculated where people would come from to claim the still unoccupied piece of land to the north of them.
They became a
cquainted with their new neighbors from Östergötland at once. Algot Svensson was a kind, small man, rather taciturn, the kind of settler who made little noise. His wife, Manda, on the contrary, was sociable, jolly, ever ready to talk. She related that she came from an old, well-to-do farmer family and that her parents had rejected her for marrying the hired hand on the farm. Manda Svensson had brought with her from Sweden two loom reeds, one of which she now presented to Kristina, who did not own one. The winter before, Karl Oskar had made with great difficulty a primitive loom, but he had been unable to make the reed, and there was no reedmaker among the settlers. Kristina almost jumped with joy at the gift from her neighbor. Through Ulrika’s efforts she had last year obtained a spinning wheel from Stillwater; it had been made for her by the Norwegian, Thomassen, who was both shoemaker and spinning-wheel maker. She had already spun last year’s flax, and with the blessed reed she could weave new clothing for them next winter; no one in the family had any longer an unpatched garment to put on.
Hard winter work awaited Kristina, while Karl Oskar labored most intensely during the warmer seasons. He was working on his threshing barn, which he hoped to have ready when the crops were ripe so that he could flail them under shelter. In years before, the ice had been his threshing floor, and the crops had lain unthreshed until the lake was ready to put down its floor; meanwhile, the pestiferous rats, mice, and other rodents had taken a sizable toll from his rye and barley. By putting up a threshing barn he would save many loaves for his family.
Now he split shakes for the barn roof, cut and worked the timbers for his new main house, dug on the foundation for his cellar, put up fences, mowed and dried grass and put the hay in stacks. All these chores must be done before the crops were ripe, when harvesting would take all his time.
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