Spring's Gentle Promise

by Janette Oke

I kissed her again.

  “When you left the kitchen and didn’t come back, I was a little worried,” she admitted. “I thought—well, I don’t really know what I thought.”

  “It took me awhile to find the dictionary,” I confessed, “and then when I did, I needed some time to think it through and to pray for God’s help.”

  I shifted so I could gather Mary more closely to me. The dictionary fell unheeded to the braided rug. I was through with it for the moment anyway.

  “I need to go make the coffee,” Mary murmured, but she didn’t sound too convincing.

  “Uncle Charlie knows how to make coffee,” I reminded her.

  “Yes—” But I stopped her protest with another kiss.

  “We don’t get much time alone,” I reminded her. “I want you to tell me all the ways you can think of for me to keep the promises I’ve just made.”

  It was some time later that the smell of fresh-perked coffee drifted up the stairs and into our room, and Mary and I smiled at each other. It seemed that Uncle Charlie had found the coffeepot.

  I finally finished the harvest. It wasn’t a great crop, but it would get us through. The fall had been a dry one. In fact, the last moisture we got was what had come in July to delay my haying. I smiled every time I thought of that rain. It had speeded up my marriage to Mary, and for that I owed the rain a great deal.

  We decided to further postpone our honeymoon. Mary said it was silly to spend the money when it might be needed elsewhere.

  Mary got all her garden taken care of, and we settled in for another winter—one totally different for us, for now we had each other.

  Matilda and Mary kept in touch by way of letters. Matilda’s leg had mended well and she was enjoying her new school. There were even hints that some young man she had met was becoming rather special to her.

  In November Lou gave birth to another girl, Patricia Lynn, her coloring darker than Sarah’s. This little mite demanded a bit more attention than Sarah had as an infant. I looked at Lou with her family of four and wondered what it must be like. Certainly it meant work and sacrifice—but I figured it would be more than worth it.

  With Matilda gone we had decided to subscribe to our own paper. I guess we had all become intrigued with the reading material that kept us informed of the world’s events. Many evenings were spent sharing the paper around the kitchen table.

  We were saddened and horrified by the news reports of the stock market crash. It seemed to be of great significance to many people—even causing suicides and such things. I couldn’t understand how that whole financial world worked, though I did feel sorry for those who were directly affected by it all.

  It sure didn’t have much affect on our life, however. I mean, no one in our small community ever had money to invest in any stocks or such. The results of that crash would have little, if any, repercussions in our town, I reasoned. We were a bit relieved when the newspaper stopped screaming horrid headlines about the crash and went on to something else.

  Winter came—according to the calendar—though the look of things didn’t change much. There was no snow to speak of. The weeks trailed on, following one right after the other, and the world outside was just the same—brown and bare. Mary kept talking longingly about snow, and I must admit I was wishing for a good snowfall, too.

  Christmas was nearing, though it was hard to get in the holiday spirit without a white world outside. But family members began to sneak around on their way to hide something somewhere. Secret whisperings and plottings made life rather interesting and fun. Then the whole house began to smell like a bake shop as Mary turned out special cakes and cookies. I wondered if we’d finish eating all those things even by Easter time.

  Mary talked about trimmings for the tree, and I hoisted the boxes down from the attic and she went through them. I’d never realized before what a sorry lot they were. Mary set to work making new ones and even spent some of her egg money in town to replace several items. I could see that she received a good deal of pleasure out of making Christmas something special for all of us.

  I looked forward to Christmas—but it sure would be nice to have some snow.

  CHAPTER 16

  Christmas

  ONE LITTLE SKIFF of snow dusted the ground a few days before Christmas, and Mary got all excited over it. But it sure didn’t last long. Before it had even covered the ground it began to melt off again. Mary was disappointed and I was disappointed for her. There wasn’t anything I could do about snow for her Christmas, though.

  “Josh,” Mary said on the Saturday before Christmas, “we need to get a tree.”

  That was no problem. We had lots of small trees down along the crick that would look good with Christmas decorations.

  “I’ll get one,” I promised.

  “I thought maybe we could go together,” offered Mary, and I grinned in appreciation.

  “Great! When would you like to go?”

  “Right after dinner—if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine.”

  And so the two of us headed out for the crick bottom right after the noon dishes were done.

  It was colder than it had looked. I wondered if Mary might not be bundled up warmly enough, but I guess the vigorous walking helped keep her warm. Anyway, each time I asked her, she assured me that she was just fine.

  The farm dog went along with us. Truth was, any time one of us went out, we didn’t get far without Fritz at our heels. We didn’t mind. It would have been fun to have Pixie along too, but she couldn’t run very well anymore. She seemed to have arthritis like Uncle Charlie. Anyway, she didn’t do any more walking than absolutely necessary. I even carried her upstairs each night. Most of her day was spent curled up in her little box behind the stove.

  The pond in the pasture was frozen, and we took some time to slide back and forth. Sorta like being a kid again.

  “We should have a skating party,” enthused Mary, but I really didn’t know who would want to come. All our old friends were either married with youngsters to care for or else had moved away.

  For some reason I thought of Willie—maybe because he had skated with me on this very pond. Boy, I missed the guy. It still didn’t seem real to me that he was gone—actually in heaven. I could see his face so plainly, could hear his banter and laughter—could sense his feel of mission and commitment when he spoke intensely of the needs of African villages for the gospel. Boy, I missed Willie.

  I thought of Camellia. She had gone across the ocean to Willie’s people now. I put money for her support in the collection plate the first Sunday of each month, and Uncle Nat forwarded it on to the Mission Society. We got an occasional prayer letter from Camellia, too. She loved Willie’s Africans. She was kept busy with her nursing, for they were a poor people and many of them, old and young alike, had physical needs. Camellia was glad God had called her to this work. I still had a hard time picturing Camellia, the golden girl, trudging through destitute villages, visiting dirty, unkempt huts with medicines and love. But God did wonderful things with those who obeyed Him. Used people in ways we would have never dared suggest. Mary and I prayed daily for Camellia.

  Mary brought my thoughts back to the present with a jerk when she lost her balance and ended up on her back in the middle of the ice. I was afraid she might have hurt herself, but she was laughing as I bent to help her and soon we were both down on the ice rolling and laughing.

  It was fun until old Fritz jumped right into the middle of the fracas. He was barking and prancing and taking quick licks at our faces. By now Mary and I both decided we’d had enough, so we scrambled to our feet and started off again on our Christmas tree quest.

  I’d figured it would be a quick, easy task. But with every tree I pointed out, Mary was sure we could do just a bit better. So on we walked, checking out tree after tree.

  I was beginning to worry about getting home to do the choring when Mary at last found the very one she was looking for. It was about my height, with full, even branches. />
  “It will fit just fine in the parlor,” Mary exclaimed and then added matter-of-factly, “Of course I will need to trim it up a bit.”

  I smiled wryly. She could trim it all she pleased just as long as we could cut the thing and get on home.

  It wasn’t hard to cut it down. It was a bit harder to get it home. There was no snow, so we couldn’t drag it because Mary was afraid of damage to some of the branches—probably the ones she’ll eventually trim off anyway, I thought but didn’t say. That meant we had to carry it. Mary insisted on sharing in the effort. I lifted the big end and she took the small one, but carrying a tree, particularly one that has large, full branches and sways in the middle, is not an easy task.

  We tripped about as much as we walked. The dog didn’t help matters. He kept running around the tree and our feet, constantly getting in our way and tripping us up even more.

  “Why don’t I carry it?” I finally suggested.

  “Oh, Josh. It’s too heavy for one person.”

  I could have told her that it was too heavy for two people— but I didn’t.

  “I think it would be easier,” I dared insist.

  Mary looked reluctant. “Do you want it on your back—or your shoulder?” she finally conceded.

  “My shoulder,” I decided.

  “I’ll help you lift it up.”

  It didn’t work very well that way either. Possibly it would have if Mary had allowed me to trim off some of the bottom branches—but she wanted the branches to come right down to the parlor floor. It was prettier that way, she said. So I was trying to carry a tree on my shoulder with branches right down to the bottom of the trunk. They poked me in the face and knocked off my hat.

  I finally dumped the thing to the ground, and Mary gave a little gasp, fearful that I had broken some of her precious branches—which there were far too many of anyway.

  “Look,” I said, a little out of patience, “why don’t I just get the team and wagon and come and haul it home?”

  “Can you drive back in here with the team and wagon?” Mary wisely asked. I would have had to cut my way in and out again. There were no trails except those the cattle had made, and they were too narrow for a wagon to travel.

  “Then I’ll hook Barney to the stoneboat,” I threw out, keeping my voice even.

  Mary tipped her head slightly to consider it.

  “It should work,” she nodded in agreement. “You can sorta snake your way in and out among the trees.”

  I didn’t like her description. “Snaking” didn’t seem like much of a way for a man to travel.

  “We need to put it someplace so you can remember where to find it,” Mary continued, and I got even more huffed at that.

  “I’ll remember,” I said flatly. “You think I’m an old man or somethin’?”

  Mary looked a bit hurt by my response. “Of course not,” she assured me apologetically; “but the trees all look alike an’ anyone can forget.”

  She stressed the anyone.

  “You forget that I was raised on this land,” I reminded her loftily. “I know this crick bottom like the back of my hand. Roamed through here all my life—fishin’ and huntin’ cows.”

  Mary nodded but said nothing more.

  We stashed the tree up against two anchored ones and started off for home. I checked the sky. The sun was already low on the horizon. I would need to hurry to get back for the tree before dark.

  Mary reached out and slipped her mittened hand into mine, and I gave hers a bit of a squeeze. I wanted her to know I really wasn’t mad at her or anything. We walked in silence for a while and then Mary began to chat about how she was going to decorate the tree and how pretty it would look. I could sense how special it was to her, and I was glad I hadn’t insisted on lopping off some of the lower branches. “Nourish and nurture her” flashed through my mind, and I gave her hand another squeeze.

  At home Mary went right on to the kitchen to get busy with supper, and I went to the barn to get old Barney.

  It didn’t take me long to get down to the crick bottom with the stoneboat, and I figured out how I’d slip right in, pick up that bulky tree and get back to the farmhouse in a jiffy.

  I drove directly to where we had left it—but it wasn’t there. Nor were the two trees we had braced it against. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I started looking around, this way, that way, and the more I looked the more confused I got. I had to use the axe a few times to untangle the stoneboat from the brush, and that didn’t make me so happy either.

  All the time that I was searching, it was getting darker and darker. And I was getting madder and madder. I don’t know why. It was my own dumb fault, but I was mad at Mary. I don’t really know what she had done. Just been right, I guess. Anyway, I kept right on looking, too mad and too proud to give up. At the moment I couldn’t think of anything more humiliating than showing up at home without that tree.

  But in the end I had to give up. I was so confused I didn’t even know which direction to point old Barney to get him back to the barn again. That made me even madder. Not being any snow, I didn’t even have tracks to follow—though I was glad for that in a way. I sure wouldn’t have wanted anybody to have followed my tracks through that brush. They’d have laughed at me for sure.

  I finally conceded defeat and just gave Barney his head. He weaved in and out—snaked, if you will—and finally came out into the open again. There across the field were the welcome lights of the farmhouse.

  Mary ran to meet me as soon as I pulled into the yard. If she was disappointed about me not finding her tree, she didn’t voice it.

  “I was worried,” she said instead.

  “Too dark,” I sorta growled. “I’ll have to go pick it up later.”

  “Supper’s ready,” she told me. “Do you want to eat before you chore?”

  I nodded—which she probably couldn’t see considering how dark it was. Mary started back to the kitchen. “I’ve fed the pigs and chickens,” she called over her shoulder, “and Grandpa carried the wood and water.”

  It should have made me feel great. Here I was coming in late without having accomplished my errand and chores still ahead of me, and I found them half done already. But it didn’t make me feel great. It made me even madder. Don’t they think I can even do my own work? I fumed.

  I put Barney back in the barn and fed him. No soft words or appreciative pats for him tonight. I pushed a barn cat out of my way with a heavy-booted foot. He was lucky. I felt like kicking him.

  On the way to the house it hit me. I was acting like a spoiled child, not a married man—and certainly not like a Christian husband who had promised to love and cherish, with all that it meant. Mary had done nothing to deserve my wrath. She was trying to make Christmas special. For me, for Grandpa, for Uncle Charlie. She had wanted a special tree. Had tried hard to help with the work of getting that tree. It wasn’t her fault I couldn’t find my way around my own woods.

  But she had been right, she would likely—likely look at me with I-told-you-so in her eyes. If she does—

  But I stopped right there beside the woodshed and prayed, reminding myself of all of my promises and asking God again to help me keep them. It didn’t change my circumstances any, but it did make me a better supper companion.

  The tree was not mentioned or the tree ornaments that sat waiting in the parlor either. Nor did Mary look at me as I had expected her to. She found something to busy herself with that Saturday evening and chatted away as if everything was just fine.

  I loved her for it. It seemed that Mary was doing a much better job of keeping her promise to “cherish” than I was.

  On Monday morning I hooked Barney up again. I still didn’t know how I was ever going to find that tree, but I’d find it if I had to spend the whole day looking.

  Then Mary complicated things. She came from the house, all bundled up, and smiled sweetly at me. “Thought I’d ride along,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

  My head was spinning. I�
��m going to be humiliated again. I’d boasted of knowing my own crick bottom, of having a nearperfect memory. Both statements had proved to be false. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and directed Barney to head for the woods.

  Halfway there I got this brilliant idea. I gave Mary a big grin and motioned for her to scoot up beside me.

  “Wanna drive?” I asked her. Her face didn’t brighten as I expected. For a moment I feared she might turn me down. Mary had her own little code of what rights belonged to the man of the family. But when I passed Barney’s reins to her, she grinned and accepted them without further comment. I inwardly sighed with relief.

  I was afraid as we neared the brush that she might pass the reins back to me. I had to do something to prevent that. I leaned over and lifted the axe to my lap.

  “You drive,” I said as casually as I could, “an’ I’ll cut any little shrubs that get in our way.”

  Mary just nodded.

  We reached the woods, and she began to “snake” her way through with that stoneboat. Not once did she get hung up on anything, so I never got a chance to use that axe.

  And would you believe it, she drove straight to that tree.

  I made no comment as I loaded it. It filled up the stoneboat, so Mary and I had to walk back. She didn’t seem to mind, and I sure didn’t. On the way home she left the driving to me. I never even thought to share it. I was too busy wondering just how she had done what she had done. I mean, dead on! Right to where that tree stood waiting.

  When we got back to the farmyard Mary went in to finish the washing. I put Barney away and went to do up a few odd jobs. I knew that in the evening we would be decorating the tree in the parlor. I looked forward to it now that we finally had the thing home.

  We ran into another snag the next day. I didn’t see it coming, though I should’ve been smart enough to sort it all out beforehand. You see, ever since Lou and Nat had married, we had always spent our Christmases with them. Lou had made the arrangements, cooked the dinner and everything. All we fellas ever did was show up.

  Well, that’s not quite true. We did our own shopping, wrapped our own gifts—in a manly sort of way—raised the turkey that we chopped the head off and plucked. But other than that, Lou took care of everything. I have no idea why I expected it to just remain that way.