by Lynn Austin
Chapter 11
Geesje
Holland, Michigan
Cornelia and I have nearly finished sewing her new skirt and blouse. We are working on them in my kitchen, where the afternoon light is better, when a messenger comes to my door with a telegram. I stare at the words in surprise. “It’s from my granddaughter Anneke,” I tell Cornelia. “She’s arriving for a visit tomorrow by train.” I can barely comprehend it. Anneke is coming! She doesn’t say why. I am delighted but also befuddled. She must not have received my letter, telling her about my houseguest. But it doesn’t matter. We’ll make room for her.
Arie lets me borrow his horse and buggy so I can get Anneke at the train station the next day. Cornelia offers to drive the carriage, and she turns out to be quite good at handling the reins. I can barely contain my joy when I hear the train whistle in the distance and watch the locomotive hiss to a halt in the station in a cloud of steam and dust. The conductor helps Anneke step down, and she runs into my arms. I hold my granddaughter tightly, inhaling her soft, sweet scent and thanking God for this unexpected gift.
Cornelia gapes at Anneke in her elegant traveling suit as if she is royalty. I introduce them to each other. I have already explained Anneke’s story to Cornelia, but I take a moment on the short drive home to tell Anneke about my guest. “She and her grandfather recently emigrated from the Netherlands. She is staying with me, and her grandfather is staying next door with Derk while he looks for work.” I decide to leave out any details about Cornelia losing her family in the fire or about her suicide attempt.
“I’m so sorry for barging in when you already have a guest,” Anneke says. She looks guilt-stricken. “I never should have presumed that I could arrive without any warning. I’ll gladly find a hotel room.”
“That isn’t necessary. There’s space for both of you in my spare bedroom if you don’t mind sharing it. Cornelia is trying to learn English, so it will be good for her to get some practice. She could use a friend.”
Anneke’s smile returns. “I don’t mind sharing. I’ve always wished I had a sister.”
“Maybe you could also show Cornelia how American girls dress and fix their hair. It would help her fit in a little better with other young people her age.”
“I’ll be happy to try, Oma. My maid offered to come, but I didn’t want her to.”
How different our worlds are. Wealthy young women like Anneke don’t have to pin up their own hair or sew their own clothes. I long to ask her why she has come, suspecting that she didn’t endure the long train ride without a reason. Something must have happened back home in Chicago to upset her. But I’ll give her time to settle in before we talk.
Cornelia ties the horse to my post when we arrive home and helps Anneke with her bags. She didn’t bring much, so it doesn’t look like she’ll be staying long. “If you would like some time to rest up after your trip,” I tell her, “please feel free to do so. I need to run an errand for my church while I still have Arie’s carriage, but I won’t be long.”
“For your church?” she asks.
“Yes, we’ve been collecting winter clothing and knitting mittens and hats for some needy children here in town. I want to deliver them, and Cornelia offered to drive.”
For some inexplicable reason, Anneke’s eyes fill with tears. “May I go with you, please?”
“Of course, but don’t you want to rest?”
“I would rather help you. Give me a moment to change my clothes.” She hurries into her room, and I hear her rummaging around.
“Are you able to understand anything we’re saying?” I ask Cornelia while we wait. She shakes her head, staring at the floor and nibbling her fingernails. “Anneke is going to come with us on our errands,” I explain.
Cornelia nods, still studying the floor. “I’ll wait for you outside by the carriage,” she replies.
“Wait … I’m sorry that I neglected to ask if you mind sharing your room with Anneke for a few days.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t mind. It’s her room.” The fact that Cornelia calls me ma’am instead of tante is a bad sign. She is distancing herself from me again. She turns to me as she reaches the front door and says, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Yes. And Anneke is beautiful on the inside, too. I hope you’ll become friends.”
Anneke comes out a few minutes later wearing a plain gray skirt and a white blouse with tiny pleats down the front that would be considered her “Sunday best” by Holland’s standards. She puts on the jacket from her traveling suit and the three of us squeeze onto the carriage seat with Cornelia in the middle, driving for us. Two of my friends are waiting at Pillar Church, and they help us load the bundles of clothing into the carriage. I give Cornelia directions in Dutch to the home of the first family, and we’re on our way.
“You get along with this horse very well,” I tell Cornelia. “I know from experience how ornery and disagreeable she can be, which is why I don’t ask Arie if I can borrow her very often. How did you learn to handle horses so well?”
“I had a mare back home.” Cornelia’s voice is so soft I strain to hear it above the clomping hooves. “Her name was Suiker. She was like … like a friend to me. I would ride her bareback sometimes, and we’d wander for miles past fields and farmland… .” Cornelia gazes down the road as if looking into the past. It’s hard to visualize her as a carefree girl on a galloping horse, her brown hair streaming in the wind. “I wanted to take Suiker with me after the fire, but Grandfather didn’t have a stable.”
“I’m so sorry. The small losses can be just as painful as the big ones. Since you seem to get along so well with Arie’s horse, I’m sure he’ll let you borrow her whenever you’d like.” As soon as I say this, I wish I hadn’t. Cornelia’s grandfather will never allow her to wander off by herself on a borrowed horse.
We drive down a street of small, working-class houses near the basket factory and halt in front of one that is little more than a tar paper shack. The fall afternoon is chilly, but there is no plume of smoke rising from the chimney. “I don’t think you saw this part of Holland,” I tell Anneke. “The Murphy family lives here. They need our help because Mr. Murphy has been ill and unable to work. My heart goes out to these poor souls. I know what it’s like to struggle to get by.”
“Then it would break your heart to see how poor the working families in Chicago are,” Anneke says. “Hundreds and hundreds of families are packed together in rickety tenement buildings with no running water and only one reeking outhouse that a dozen families have to share. The garbage just piles up in the streets where the children play, and—” Her voice catches.
I reach to take her hand. “Your church in Chicago must feel overwhelmed trying to meet so many needs.”
“That’s the problem, Oma. My church isn’t doing anything like this.” Her blue eyes glisten. She has Christina’s eyes. “That’s one of the reasons I had to get away. The need is so great, yet it frustrates me that I can’t find a way to help. An acceptable way, that is.”
“What do you mean?”
“One that William approves of. This is what I wanted to do,” she says, gesturing to the house as we climb down. “I wanted to give clothing and food to the poor, but it all went wrong.” A stream of children flow out of the door, and I see that two of them are without shoes. It’s too cold on this autumn day to be barefooted. We gather the bundles from the back of the carriage as a young, weary mother comes to stand in her doorway holding a squalling baby. I suspect from the mother’s disheveled appearance that we interrupted the baby’s feeding time.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Murphy. I’m Geesje de Jonge, and this is Anneke and Cornelia. The ladies at Pillar Church have gathered some things that we thought you and the children might need for the winter months.”
“That’s kind of you.” Her eyes and voice are flat, her expression lifeless. The children take the bags from us, clamoring to see what’s inside. As they begin pulling out clothing and mittens, I’m happy t
o see a few pairs of shoes in the bags, as well.
“If there is anything else we can help you with, Mrs. Murphy, I hope you’ll feel welcome to come to the church and ask.”
She nods and shifts the fussy baby to her other shoulder. I move closer to take a look at him. The child can’t be more than a month old, with fuzzy red hair and a pink face. The blanket is threadbare, and I make a mental note to knit him a warmer one for winter.
I rest my hand on Mrs. Murphy’s shoulder. “God loves you and your little ones, Mrs. Murphy. That’s why He sent us here.” She nods, her woeful expression never changing. I return to the carriage and climb onto the seat, where Cornelia and Anneke are waiting.
“That’s all I wanted to do,” Anneke says after I direct Cornelia to the next house. “I just wanted to help feed and clothe the poor like the Lord told us to do. But it seems like every time God leads me in a new direction, William opposes it. I was learning so much at the church on La Salle Street, but William didn’t want me to attend there anymore. And the other day I read about a wonderful organization in Chicago called Hull-House, where they help poor mothers who need a safe place to leave their children while they work. I thought of Mama and how a place like that could have helped her when I was little. I wanted to volunteer there, but William forbade it. He says I must never go back there.”
Her words worry me. William seems very controlling. But I don’t really know if his behavior is unusual in her circle or not. Some people believe it’s a husband’s right to make decisions for his wife, but I believe there should also be room for her personality and her gifts to grow and shine. I’m thankful that my husband considered me his partner, and that we made decisions together. “Have you asked William to explain why he forbids it?”
“Yes, and he got quite upset about it. He thinks Hull-House is trying to make a political statement, and that they have an agenda beyond merely helping the poor. But I guess … I guess I still don’t understand. I’m trying so hard to find God’s purpose for my life, and I thought it would be wonderful to help women like Mama. I can’t bear to live a useless life, Oma. Hull-House would give me a purpose and would be a way to obey the Lord’s teachings. Now I don’t know what to do. Even worse, I’m letting Him down by not following His commands.”
“Be patient, sweet Anneke. God knows your heart, and He knows you want to serve Him. He’ll answer your prayers and show you the perfect place He has for you, in time, even if Hull-House wasn’t it.”
We arrive at the O’Dells’ house next, near the tannery. Thick smoke and soot blackens everything and leaves a layer of grime in the air that I can feel. The O’Dell children run outside to greet us while Mrs. O’Dell remains inside, peeking through the tattered curtain. I speak to the oldest child, a girl of about twelve, while her younger siblings collect the parcels and carry them inside. “What’s your name, dear?” I ask.
“Nellie.”
“That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. Please tell your mother that if she needs anything else, to visit us at Pillar Church. It’s the big, white building on Tenth Street with the pillars in front. We would be happy to help you.” I climb onto the seat again, and we drive to the next house. “God sees your desire to serve Him, Anneke,” I say, continuing our conversation. “Maybe for now, He simply wants you to share His love with the people around you.”
“I’m a failure at that, too!” She lifts her hands in a helpless gesture, then lets them flop onto her lap. “I tried to share the Lord’s words with the ladies in my circle yesterday, but they interpreted them all wrong.”
“What happened?”
“They were gossiping about a friend of ours, and I asked them to stop. I told them that the Lord holds us accountable for every idle word we speak. They were furious with me.”
I hide a smile, imagining how the women I know would react to such advice, especially if they were caught in the act. But I’m also reminded of Dominie Den Herder’s accusation about gossiping women. “You’re right, Anneke. God does hate gossip. I suspect that the women became angry because you struck a nerve. We don’t like to have our faults brought into the light.”
“I’ll have to socialize with those women again when I go home. I’ll see them at all manner of events. I can’t avoid them.”
“Hold your head up high and don’t back down, dear. I’ll be very surprised if they gossip right in front of you again, so that’s a victory.”
“Mother thinks I should apologize.”
“Well, she knows more about those women and why they were offended than I do. Maybe you can find a way to say you’re sorry for offending them without apologizing for what you said. Pray about it and ask the Lord to guide your words when the time comes.”
We arrive at the last house near the furnace factory and see Mrs. Ramsay taking her laundry down from the clotheslines. She walks out to the street to meet us, nodding mutely as I tell her who we are and why we’ve come. Her children gather around to see what we’ve brought, as excited as on Christmas morning. The littlest boy asks to pet our horse, and Cornelia lifts him up to stroke its muzzle.
“No one seemed particularly grateful today,” Anneke says on our way home. “I don’t think anyone even said thank you.”
“You’re right. But I know how humbling it is to be unable to provide for your loved ones, and to be forced to accept charity. My family lost nearly everything we owned when the fire destroyed Holland years ago, including our home and our print shop. We had to live on handouts for quite a while. When that happens, people sometimes put up a wall of indifference to preserve their dignity.”
“I guess I can understand that,” Anneke says.
“Of course, it would be wonderful if our gifts had an immediate effect on these families and they decided they would like to learn more about Jesus, but that rarely happens. Yet even though it seems like we’re not making a difference, God sees the long-range picture that we can’t always see. For now, it’s enough that these families know that God loves them and that He’s taking care of them through our hands.”
I glance at Cornelia and notice that she seems more downcast than usual, as if our errand has had a negative effect. “I’m sorry for leaving you out of the conversation, Cornelia,” I say in Dutch. I explain a little bit of what Anneke and I have been talking about, sensitive to the fact that Cornelia also was left with nothing when fire destroyed her home. “Can you understand any of what we’ve been saying?” I ask again. She shakes her head.
“Oma, how did you know that this was the work you were supposed to do—collecting clothes for families like these?” Anneke asks.
“I’m not doing this alone. The other women at my church are also involved. But we decided to ask ourselves, what work would Jesus be doing if He were here? Where would He go? Who are the people He would reach out to?”
“That’s exactly what they’re doing at Hull-House!” I can hear the frustration in Anneke’s voice. “A group of wealthy people like me decided to live right in the middle of an overcrowded immigrant neighborhood so they would get to know the people as neighbors and learn what their needs are. I think it’s precisely what the Lord would do if He came to Chicago. The immigrants are able to keep their dignity because they’re giving back to each other, and everyone shares what they have.”
“It sounds wonderful. Are the people who started Hull-House from a particular church?”
The question seems to surprise Anneke. “You know, I never realized it before, but it isn’t affiliated with a church. God was never mentioned when I toured there.”
“It’s wonderful to help meet people’s physical needs. But what they need even more is to be restored to our heavenly Father. That’s true for rich and poor alike.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Jesus had a heart for the poor, certainly. But He also spent time with wealthy people, and He loved them, too. He invited a wealthy tax collector named Levi to become His disciple. Then Levi hosted a dinner with all his fellow tax
collectors because he wanted them to meet Jesus, too. And you probably know the story of the rich young ruler who came to Jesus. The verse says that Jesus looked at him and loved him. I have always treasured that verse … Jesus loved him, even though the man decided he couldn’t give away his riches and follow Him. I want to be able to look at people the way Jesus did, and truly see them and love them.”
Anneke is quiet as we ride home. When we turn onto my street, she looks over at me and says, “I think it’s harder for my rich friends to admit they need God than it is for the poor families we saw today to accept charity. We don’t want to admit that there’s something missing in our life or that we have any needs. We’re accustomed to relying on ourselves for everything, and we try hard to pretend that we’re perfect—but we’re not.”
“That might be why your friends reacted so strongly when you pointed out their faults.”
“Yes. I think you’re right.”
We halt in front of my house, and I notice Anneke gazing at Derk’s house next door as if hoping he will run out to greet her. “I haven’t seen Derk in over a week,” I tell her. “I didn’t get a chance to tell him you were coming.” I see her disappointment. She and I climb down and walk toward my door. But Cornelia doesn’t follow us.
“I can drive the carriage back to the print shop,” she says. She has barely spoken all afternoon. “You and Anneke can have time alone. I’ll walk back with Grandfather when he is finished working.”
I hesitate, and I hate that Cornelia notices me doing it. But she could travel a long way with a horse and carriage if she decided to run away again. I promised her grandfather that I would watch over her. “I don’t mind going with you,” I tell her. “Anneke might want to take a little nap while we’re gone.”