Believing the Dream (23 page)

“I catch glimpses of a different man now that he can communicate some and is learning a trade.”

Kaaren nodded. “I was beginning to think it would never happen.”

Ingeborg stopped in midstep into the sleigh. “And yet you kept him on?”

“Only due to Ilse’s pleading and God not letting me send him back home.”

“Hmm.” Ingeborg settled herself on the seat and unwound the reins. “Shall we go get her or let her walk?”

“I’m coming,” Ilse called. She signed one more thing to the broadshouldered man, who signed back before opening the door to the furniture shop. He turned once more and waved at the two women in the sleigh before he disappeared inside.

“Well, I never . . .”

“I told you so.” Kaaren raised an eyebrow. “Another of God’s miracles.”

“She’s in love with him?”

“Ja, I think so, but you know Ilse. If ten words are needed, she will use two.”

“And George?”

Kaaren shrugged. “If his face glowing like a gaslight whenever she comes near says anything . . .” Kaaren’s smile dimmed. “I keep praying for him and for them, but I have to confess, I’d sorely hate to see Ilse leave the school.”

“Ah, you mean if he chooses to return to his family?”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Ilse clambered into the backseat. “Bridget already went to the church, along with Penny.” She sighed. “And Mr. Moen.”

“Mr. Moen is coming to the quilting?” Ingeborg clucked the horse forward. “Why, whatever for?”

Kaaren looked as surprised as Ingeborg felt. While they had met Mr. Ivar Moen in church the previous Sunday and knew that he was writing articles for a newspaper back in Norway about life in North Dakota in order to provide information for prospective Norwegian emigrants, Ingeborg had not expected this. In fact, she wondered why he had arrived in winter instead of waiting until spring when the farming started. As if milking, feeding, and repairing machinery weren’t just as much a part of farming as working the land. She tightened the reins, and the sleigh squeaked to a stop. With the air still and the sky as clear a blue as only contrast with a white world can make it, she stepped from the sleigh and took the horse blanket with her. “I’ll tie him out here; he most likely needs the sun as bad as the rest of us.” She threw the blanket over the horse’s back and, after slipping off the bridle and leaving it hanging around his neck, tied a rope from the halter to the hitching rail. She patted the horse’s shoulder. “I’ll bring you some grain later.”

While she worked with the horse, the other two women gathered the baskets of food and sewing supplies to carry inside. Then mounting the steps to the closed church doors, Ingeborg glanced at Kaaren. “It’s so quiet. Did no one else come today?”

Kaaren motioned toward the other horses lining the rail. “I think we’re the last.”

But instead of the normal laughter and talking, the ladies of the church were sitting quietly, as if waiting for the Sunday service to begin. A kettle of soup bubbled on the stove, along with a steaming coffeepot.

“Where are the babies?” Ingeborg caught herself whispering. She set her basket on one of the tables.

“Welcome. Come right on in.” Pastor Solberg beckoned from in front of the altar. “I am just introducing our guest from Norway. After our opening prayer, I will leave you all to your stitching.”

Ingeborg, Kaaren, and Ilse took seats in the back row. Pastor never came at the beginning of the quilting bee, only for the dinner afterward.

He rubbed his hands together and beamed at the only other male in the room. “Now, then, let us begin.”

Ingeborg marveled at the beam of sunlight that lit the fine hairs on his head, giving him the halo that bespoke his calling.
Lord, so many
of our friends are with you now. Are they wearing halos and singing your
praises? Please watch over us
.

“Father God, we come before you this day grateful for your many blessings and the way you keep us safe.”

Nodding, Ingeborg knew that if she raised her eyes she’d see the Lord standing right there in front of the church, praying right along with Pastor Solberg, just as though the two of them were best friends visiting each other.
Lord, yesterday I called for you. . . .

And I answered
.

I know that now, but I was so terribly frightened. I never want to see
the pit again. I want to see only you
.

“We thank thee for sunshine after storm. . . .”

Oh yes, your blessed sunshine, so bright after the days of darkness.
You suppose that is why the pit returned?

“Keep us all safe, Father God, and thank you for bringing this special guest into our midst. Guide him as he sees firsthand the life you have given us in this land. Bless the fingers that sew here and give of our bounty to those less fortunate. Open our hearts this day to hear your word. In Jesus’ precious name, amen.”

Amen, indeed. Come, Lord Jesus
. Ingeborg straightened and looked to the front again.
This man, this Ivar Moen, looks so sad. Lord, help him
to find what he is looking for
. She stopped her thoughts. Why did that bother her? She glanced to her side to see Kaaren nodding at Pastor’s introduction. Today would be different. The women would not feel free to speak their minds and hearts with a man present, and a stranger at that. She caught herself sighing.

“Thank you, Pastor Solberg, and all of you for permitting me to be here.”

As if anyone asked us. Ingeborg Bjorklund, what is the matter with
you?

“What is bothering you?” Kaaren leaned close enough that the whisper could not be heard by others.

Is it that obvious?
She gave a tiny headshake, but Kaaren reached over and patted her clasped hands.

“All will be well.”

Ja, I hope so
. She forced her attention back to the man in front. Not tall by Bjorklund standards, but neither was he short. Not handsome but not ugly either. The man’s saving grace from mediocrity was his full beard and mustache streaked with white among the umber. Somehow she thought him not old enough to be already graying, for his carriage was erect like a younger man and his voice strong as one who speaks to groups regularly. But his eyes, her attention returned to his eyes. If the eyes really are the windows to the soul, his soul lay parched like the land wounded by drought. The word
slain
slipped through her mind but slain did not apply to their land, for new life would come with the spring, watered by the melting snow of which they had an abundance. His frock coat and gray woolen pants looked more suited to a city symphony, and his hands looked to never have done an honest day’s labor. At least not the kind of labor the people of Blessing were accustomed to.

“And so I thank you again,” the man was saying in Norwegian, “for any who would be willing to answer a few questions regarding your life here.”

Ingeborg glanced to where Mary Martha Solberg sat, a smile on her face that only her close friends would understand. It was the smile that said she had no idea what the man was saying. While she had learned some Norwegian, she still was teased at times for her slow southern way of speaking. And Norwegian with a southern accent was indeed a different dialect.

“Thank you and welcome.” As this year’s leader of the women, Penny Bjorklund stood and graciously added her greeting. She turned to the women gathered. “Pastor has asked us to continue our meeting as we always do so that Mr. Moen can visit with us and ask questions. Kaaren usually reads to us. Yes. Good.” She answered to Kaaren’s nod. “And now let us set up and get busy.”

“You s’pose he brought a needle?” Ingeborg asked, loud enough that those in front of them chuckled too. Soon the sewing machine Penny had brought was humming in one corner, two quilting frames were set up with four women stitching away on each, and others were cutting or pressing.

Penny stopped by Ingeborg. “Have you seen Anji lately? I specifically invited her to be here today. She needs to get out of that house.”

“Then who would take care of Joseph?”

“Surely Knute or Swen could do that for a couple of hours, not that he couldn’t stay alone for a while, far as that goes.”

“You want I should go have Andrew run over there?”

Penny pursed her mouth, a slight nod accompanying her faraway thoughts. “I guess not, but we need to make sure she feels part of us.”

“What about Mira Mendohlson?”

“She’s over at the soddy with Mrs. Sam, watching the little ones. Mrs. Sam offered, so we decided to try that. Leaves the mothers some time off for a change.”

“Including you?” Ingeborg quirked an eyebrow.

“To be honest, yes. All those years I kept praying for a baby, guess I didn’t realize how much time babies take.”

“You do fine, carrying him around in the sling like you do.”

“Ja, the store is different than the cheese house for instance. I don’t know how you did it all back in those early days. Tante Agnes either. Sometimes I miss her so much I could scream. It’s so unfair, she who loved babies and prayed for one for me all those years.”

“I imagine she has plenty of babies to love in heaven.” Kaaren, Bible in hand to begin reading, put an arm around Penny’s shoulders and squeezed. “Today I think I’ll just start with Psalm one and keep reading. Give us all a chance to sit at our Lord’s feet and worship.”

Penny watched as Kaaren made her way forward, stopping to talk with those who greeted her, her hand warm on every shoulder, and her smile as beautiful and comforting as the sun. “She not only reads and speaks wisely, she lives out her faith—none of that ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’ Wish I could be more like her.”

“She went through the fire to get there, but even back when I first met her, she had a peace about her. Sometimes when she was so sick and I had to force food down her throat, I didn’t think we would live through the winter. I had to ask her forgiveness for screaming at her, but short of holding her nose so she had to swallow to breathe, I didn’t know what else to do. She believes God gave her a second chance at life and does far better than I do at continuing to thank Him for it.”

“Well, the three of you were and are my heroes, or rather heroines. I hope Thorliff writes more stories about those early days. We all need to be reminded so we can be thankful for what we have.”

“God dag.” Ivar Moen stopped beside the two of them. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I would like to talk with everyone here.” His English was slow and halting, as if he had to think through every word, and his accent so heavy they had to smile.

“You can speak Norwegian if you like.” Penny spoke before Ingeborg had a chance. She reintroduced herself and Ingeborg too. “This is one of the people you need to talk with. Ingeborg’s one of the first settlers in our area.”

“Mrs. Bjorklund.” He bowed over her hand. “I have heard much about you. I am still being in trouble to keep faces along with names.”

“Today we are starting with Psalm one.” Kaaren raised her voice to be heard above the conversations around the room. Slowly quiet fell, and she began. “ ‘Blessed is the man who walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.’ ” She continued on with that psalm, and then went on to others.

Mr. Moen sat back and listened along with the rest, but Ingeborg noticed that some part of him was always moving, a finger tapping his thigh or a tick pulsing above his right eye. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasping and unclasping. She was tempted to offer him a needle and thread to keep his hands busy and perhaps lessen the strain. She drew herself back to listen to Kaaren’s reading.

When Kaaren finished, Mr. Moen moved from table to table, greeting and visiting with the others. The women went about their quilting as usual, but the normal visiting and laughter didn’t reappear until after dinner and the men had left.

“Whew,” Penny said with a mock wiping of her brow. “Now we can be us.” The others greeted her sally with chuckles and agreements.

“You mark my words,” Ingeborg said on the way home. “I feel something real disquieting about Mr. Moen being here, and I have no idea why.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN