Legacy of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  Chapter 32

  Geesje

  Holland, Michigan

  I’m sitting at my kitchen table, sipping tea and praying for all the people I love when the sun finally peeks above the eastern horizon. I haven’t slept well in two days. Cornelia is still upset about her grandfather’s decision to move away, but we have agreed to pray and trust God for a resolution. How much more pain does that poor child have to endure? I ask God as I plead for His mercy.

  The house is so quiet at this hour that the gentle tapping on my back door makes me jump. Derk comes through the door a moment later. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “What are you doing up so early?” I ask him. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, I can’t stay. I got up early to study, and I saw your light on.” Derk speaks softly, as if worried Cornelia will overhear him. “I wanted to tell you the latest news. Our pastor came over last night to talk to Dominie Den Herder. I went upstairs to give them privacy, but the warm air vent in my bedroom is right above the front room, and I couldn’t help hearing what they said—even though it was in a mixture of Dutch and English.”

  “Wait. Are you sure you should be telling me this?”

  “Well … I know Cornelia is upset about having to move again. And I know you’re worried about her, too… .”

  I hesitate before deciding to let Derk continue. “Go ahead, then.”

  “She’ll have a temporary reprieve from leaving town with her grandfather. The pastor persuaded Dominie Den Herder to stay and help out at the church, at least through the Christmas season. He’s going to preach at one of the Dutch language services, although they haven’t decided when, exactly.”

  “I’m so glad. It will bolster Cornelia’s faith to see her prayers being answered. But isn’t the dominie supposed to start a new job in Kalamazoo?”

  “If I understood him correctly, the job wasn’t definite. And it was some sort of manual labor. He’s probably better off staying here with the jobs he already has.”

  “So he was just running away again,” I say. I’m glad I meddled.

  “I told my father about what’s been going on, and after the pastor left, he talked to Dominie Den Herder. Dad assured him that the rent he’s been paying has been a help to us, and there was no need to move out. He said he was welcome to stay as long as he likes.”

  “That was very kind of him, Derk. Let’s hope he convinced him. I know the dominie is carrying a huge load of grief. Was he able to confide in the pastor and share any of it?”

  “Not that I could tell. They mostly talked about ways he could help at the church, and what his church back in the Netherlands did during the holidays. That sort of thing. Nothing personal as far as I could tell.”

  “Thanks, Derk. And while I don’t condone your methods—”

  He laughs. “Hey, it isn’t my fault that I could hear every word they were saying.”

  “Well, thanks for letting me know. I’m relieved that he and Cornelia won’t be leaving right away. And Cornelia will be happy, too.” I hope the news will be a boost to her fragile faith.

  Cornelia looks as though she hasn’t slept much, either, when she shuffles into my kitchen later that morning. I tell her the good news as we eat our oatmeal. “At least you’ll have time to think through what you want to do if your grandfather still decides he wants to move after Christmas.”

  “I’m going to be eighteen in February. Aren’t I old enough to do whatever I want and live wherever I want?”

  “That’s probably true. We can ask someone for legal advice, if you’d like. But even if it’s legal for you to stay here with me, and even if that’s what you decide to do, I urge you to make peace with your grandfather before he goes away. You don’t want to live with any regrets or angry words between you, do you?” She frowns and looks away. Too late, I remember that the last words between Cornelia and her mother were angry ones. We finish eating in silence.

  Afterward, I open my Bible to the Gospel of Matthew, which Cornelia and I have been reading together. We read Jesus’ parable about the man whose huge debt was forgiven, yet he refused to forgive a much smaller debt that was owed to him. It ends with the man being thrown into prison, and with these words: “This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” I close my Bible.

  “Did you really mean it when you told your grandfather you hated him?” I ask Cornelia. “Hate is a very strong emotion.”

  “Well, I don’t love him. And I don’t want to live with him.”

  “I understand why you feel bitter toward him. But if you allow that bitterness to live in your heart, it will eventually destroy you. So many things happened that you couldn’t control. You’ve been powerless over your life. And when your grandfather orders you around, it must make you feel even more powerless. But there is one thing that you can control, one area where you do have power. And that’s the power to forgive him.”

  Cornelia looks up at me, eyes flashing. “Why should I?”

  “Because it’s what Jesus wants us to do. He forgave all of us and now we must forgive each other. In Jesus’ parable, the man who wouldn’t forgive was thrown into prison. The only way we can be set free is to forgive.”

  “But what my grandfather did was wrong! He took my baby away!”

  “I know. But forgiving someone doesn’t mean that what he did was right. It wasn’t. Forgiving means that even though he was wrong, and even though he owes you a debt for all the pain and suffering he caused, you’re choosing to forgive that debt. You’re marking it paid, just like Jesus did when He forgave our sins. You’re no longer going to hate him or desire revenge.”

  Cornelia shakes her head in vehement denial. “I can’t do that.”

  “None of us can do it without God’s help. For years, I was bitter toward the young man who convinced my daughter to run away with him. You heard the rest of Christina’s story when we were in Chicago, and all of the things that happened to them after they left home. But God can bring joy from our sorrows, in time. And now He has brought Anneke into my life.”

  Cornelia looks unconvinced. I decide to let it go. We’ve talked enough for one day.

  As Christmas approaches, Cornelia spends much of her time, when she isn’t working at the store, helping me and the other ladies at church as we prepare Christmas parcels for the poor. They’re packed with food and baked goods, some warm clothing for winter, and a simple toy for each child, along with bundles of firewood and sacks of coal wherever they’re needed.

  When the day comes to deliver the Christmas parcels, Cornelia and I borrow Arie’s horse and wagon. The December afternoon is sunny but very cold, and the fresh layer of snow on the ground crunches beneath our boots and the wagon wheels. Smoke from hundreds of chimneys and factory smokestacks freezes in the air in a sparkling fog. Everyone’s cheeks are rosy as we load up our wagons at the church. Dominie Den Herder has come to help, as well. I’m surprised to learn that he has been spending much of his time at the church, in between his duties at the print shop and the newspaper.

  “Would you mind riding along to help your granddaughter and Mrs. de Jonge?” the pastor asks him. “They have several loads of firewood and coal to deliver along with their parcels.” Dominie can hardly say no, although I can tell he would like to. He hasn’t spoken to either of us since the night he told Cornelia they were moving. “And please make note of any spiritual needs these families may have so our church can help meet them,” the pastor adds.

  We set off to make our deliveries, the three of us pressed together on the driver’s seat with Cornelia handling the reins. I have gotten to know many of the families we’re helping, and I enjoy taking time to visit with them and fuss over their children. But unless he has wood or coal to carry inside, the dominie stays outside near the wagon while I chat. I feel sorry for him. He is missing a wonderful blessing.

  One of our last deliveries is to a new family I haven’t met before. Mr
s. Miller is a tiny woman who can’t be much older than Anneke. Two small boys cling to her skirts as she welcomes us inside. Everything she owns, which isn’t much, is crammed into one small, drafty room. “May your boys have one of these treats?” I ask as I pull a box of homemade cookies from the basket. She nods, and Cornelia kneels beside the children to pass them out. My heart breaks when I see the joy on the little boys’ faces as they bite into them.

  “Say, ‘thank you,’” Mrs. Miller prompts. They mumble the words through mouthfuls of shortbread.

  “Is there anything else the church can do to help you, Mrs. Miller?”

  “Well …” I see her struggling with her emotions, and I move closer to reassure her.

  “Please don’t be afraid to ask.”

  “It’s just that … my husband is in the county jail… . For robbery.” I hear the shame in her soft voice and see it in the way she lowers her eyes. “The boys and I haven’t seen him in months. It’s too far to walk in the snow.”

  “Do you know when he’s allowed to have visitors?” I ask. “I can arrange for someone to drive you and your children to see him.”

  Before Mrs. Miller can reply, the dominie interrupts. He has brought two bundles of firewood inside and has heard us talking. “You should feel no duty to visit,” he says in his clumsy English. “He is in jail to be punished. He is bad for your children.” He looks at me. “A bad influence,” he says in Dutch and waits for me to translate. I can’t do it. I’m hoping Mrs. Miller hasn’t understood anything he said. But she has.

  “I know what John did was wrong,” she says. “But he’s still their father. And I want him to know that I love him.”

  “I will take you,” Cornelia says. She has won the children’s trust with the cookies, and the oldest one takes her hand as she stands. She gestures to our wagon, parked out front. “Tell me when should I come.”

  Marinus has already left and doesn’t hear Mrs. Miller’s tearful words of thanks. We return to the wagon, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to lecture Marinus or tell him how wrong he was to say what he did to Mrs. Miller. Only God can change him. I certainly can’t.

  Our last visit is to Mrs. Hartig, an elderly widow who lives alone and struggles with melancholy. The curtains in her front room are drawn shut when we arrive, and she has allowed the fire in her stove to go out. The room is very cold. “Would you mind building a fire for her?” I ask Marinus as he brings in the coal. “Cornelia and I are going to visit with Mrs. Hartig for a bit.”

  The ash grates need to be emptied first, and it takes a while for the dominie to get the wood hot enough to kindle the coal and warm the room. Mrs. Hartig understands Dutch, so it’s easier for Cornelia to join the conversation, but neither she nor Mrs. Hartig says much. I do most of the talking as I pass around the cookies and invite Mrs. Hartig to help us bake more of them at church next week. Once again, Cornelia offers to provide her with a ride. Mrs. Hartig shakes her head.

  “We need to let the church know that she is having another spell of melancholy,” I say when we return to the wagon an hour later. “We’ll need to visit her more often and show her our love.”

  “What happened to make her so sad?” Cornelia asks.

  “It’s none of our business,” Marinus says before I can reply. “And what makes you think she wants visitors tramping in and out, disturbing her privacy and trying to cheer her up?”

  “It’s not a question of cheering her up,” I reply. “We simply need to walk alongside her when she has these spells. We sit with her, read to her, just to let her know she’s not alone.”

  “And once you tell people at church that she is depressed, then all of the ladies will gossip about her.”

  “Some of them will. But many of them will volunteer to sit by her side, and bring her a meal, and help keep her fire going.” There’s so much more I want to say to him. I long to quote the Bible verses where Jesus says, “I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.” But I don’t. The dominie already knows those verses. They are in his head, but they have never touched his heart.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say when we return to the church. The late-afternoon sky is already growing dark, and the December chill has reached my bones. I wonder if Marinus will comment on what he has seen and done today, but he merely nods and walks away.

  “See why I hate him?” Cornelia says. “He’s so mean.”

  “It’s almost as if he’s afraid to love, as if he’s protecting his pride behind a wall of stone, and he’s afraid to let anyone or anything touch his heart. I feel sorry for him, Cornelia.”

  “I don’t.”

  Cornelia drives me home, then leaves again to return the horse and wagon to my son. As I stir the coals in my own stove, I can’t stop thinking about the dominie. He has locked himself in a prison made of laws and rules, where grace and mercy aren’t allowed. I wonder how much more pain he will have to suffer before his prison walls begin to crumble.

  Chapter 33

  Anna

  Chicago, Illinois

  My health continues to improve, but as Christmas approaches, I still don’t feel strong enough to face the yearly round of parties and receptions and teas that have been part of my holiday celebrations in the past. Instead, I ask Mother to plan a holiday party at our home so I can celebrate our Savior’s birth without overtaxing myself. Father goes out with our driver and our butler to purchase an enormous Christmas tree that fills an entire corner of our parlor, nearly touching the ceiling. I watch from the sofa as Mrs. Dunlap and the other servants decorate it under Mother’s careful supervision. Fresh evergreen boughs top every fireplace mantel and adorn the stair railings. Their aroma fills the house with the scent of Christmas. We have celebrated with these customs for as long as I can remember, but I’m seeing Jesus’ incarnation and birth through different eyes this year. Maybe it’s my close brush with death, or perhaps it’s the fact that I have more time to reflect on those long-ago events in Bethlehem now that I’m not racing through the snowy city from one elaborate gathering to the next. Either way, I’m learning to be grateful for a simpler life.

  William came to see me again, and I was careful to make no mention of my “real” parents. “I hope you’ll feel free to attend all of the holiday events without me,” I told him. “Please don’t let my absence prevent you from enjoying the season.” I was pleased when he agreed.

  Now it’s the night of the party at my home, and snow is falling softly outside, covering the city in a blanket of pure white. The servants have lit dozens of candles, and an abundant buffet of sliced ham and roast beef and every kind of pie and dessert is spread across our dining room table. Laughter and well-wishes fill our home as I greet our family’s friends and social acquaintances for the first time since my illness. I have been marshalling my strength for this Christmas party, but I will likely have to stay in bed all day tomorrow to recover.

  I’ve insisted that Mother invite Judge Blackwell and his family. I’m eager to get to know my half sister, Florence, who is a few years younger than me. She sits beside me near the Christmas tree, balancing a dessert plate as we chat. I search for a family resemblance between us but can’t find one. She has the same mahogany-colored hair as the judge, the same dark brown eyes as her mother—so different from my fair hair and blue eyes. I think I understand why William doesn’t want me to acknowledge the relationship publicly, but I can still be friends with my half sister, can’t I?

  “My father was very worried when he heard you might be dying,” Florence says. “He told us the tragic story about him and your mother.”

  “I hope you won’t think less of him for loving another woman before your mother.”

  “Not at all! It sounds so romantic. Besides, I’ve always wanted a sister.”

  “I don’t have any siblings at all. It will be wonderful to finally have a sister. I hope you’ll call on me some afternoon when you get a chance, Florence. I won’t be able to make social calls
or return to the Literary Club for a few more months, but I would love it if we could become friends.”

  “I would like that, too.”

  I watch the judge stride across the room with a glass of punch in his hand, and he halts in front of us with a wide grin. “Why, look at that! Here are the two prettiest girls at the party, talking together.”

  “Oh, Papa. You aren’t biased at all, are you?” Florence stands and leans into him. He laughs as he wraps his free arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. He seems so warm and loving that I envy their close relationship. I don’t even know what I should call him yet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going back for another piece of this wonderful pie,” Florence says.

  The judge takes her place on the chair beside mine. “I see that the Wilkinsons are here tonight. Am I to understand that you’re going ahead with the wedding?”

  “Yes. William and I were supposed to be married on the first of January, but we had to postpone the wedding when I got sick.”

  He leans close, lowering his voice so only I can hear him. “You may feel free to tell me to mind my own business, Anna, but why are you going through with this marriage? It’s clear that you’re in love with Derk Vander Veen. And he told me that he loves you, too. If you’ve learned anything at all from Christina’s and my story, please let it be that class distinctions and family wealth shouldn’t get in the way of love. All the money in the world isn’t a fair exchange for spending a lifetime with the person you love.”

  “I’m not marrying William because of all this,” I say, gesturing to the beautiful room where we’re sitting. “I don’t want any of it—but my parents do. May I confide in you, Judge Blackwell?”