Pilgrims of Promise (60 page)

Otto’s chin dropped, and he received the gift with a trembling hand. “Oh, Pieter, Father Pieter, I… I…”

“Fill it with the bounty of your liberty, lad.” Pieter smiled.

Otto embraced the old man lightly. “I shall treasure it always.”

Pieter was then laid upon his litter again, and Wil directed his column away from the roadway and led them due west across the flat countryside. The company traveled slowly through small stands of pine and scattered hardwoods for much of the afternoon, eventually noticing a subtle descent, which they followed until they spotted something glistening between a thin row of trees in the distance.

“There!” cried Tomas. “I see the river through the trees!”

A loud hurrah was lifted. It was the Weser!

The sun of late day lit a host of tiny white wildflowers that were sprinkled generously atop the green field waiting just ahead. Awed, the company lifted their faces past the white-tipped meadow and to the tree line beyond. Their eyes fixed on a ribbon of silver threaded between the shadowed trunks, and they quickly pressed on.

To liberty
, rejoiced Heinrich.
To freedom’s home!
The pilgrims hurried through the wide field of shin-deep grass and stalky flowers until, at last, they slipped through the tree line only to be held in place by the sheer wonder of the enchanting scene now opened before them.

Unable to speak, the blessed wayfarers now gazed upon Blumenthal, the splendid valley of their river of promise, which welcomed them with such a flourish of heaven’s greeting as would dwarf the homecoming of the greatest kings of time! The light of day had faded softly as the sun sank respectfully toward the distant horizon. A few puffed clouds edged the yellow ball. Slanting shafts of golden light were cast across a fresh carpet of vivid wildflowers standing pure and precious before the dumbstruck travelers. The dappled colors of the creation sprawled as far as the eye could see, divided only by the water’s silver strand. It was a presentation of the Master’s palette, a masterpiece of gentle brilliance that heralded the very presence of its Maker’s glory.

Wil ran to Pieter and, with Heinrich’s help, stood the priest up to behold the world as it should be. Pieter stared silently for a long moment. His eyes moistened and his throat swelled. “Fields of gossamer touched by the rainbow,” he whispered weakly. “Dear God, You have brought us to the portal of paradise.”

The man began to sag in his fellows’ grip. He tossed his head weakly toward a stout oak to which he was quickly carried and seated against its sturdy trunk. Solomon slumped close by, then laid a forlorn chin on the man’s lap. Pieter rested a loving hand atop his companion’s head. “My good and faithful friend,” he whispered.

Looking across the river, the failing man pointed a trembling finger and asked faintly, “Is it there? Is that Stedingerland?”

Heinrich knelt by Pieter’s side and laid a soft hand on the man’s shoulder. “Ja, Pieter, it is there, just beyond the river.”

The priest smiled, then looked quietly into the distance for along while. His lambs gathered close to either side, and the whole of the company stared wistfully at the panorama before them.

In time, Heinrich retrieved Karl’s cross from his belt. “Pieter, I shall plant this in free soil.”

Pieter nodded. “Good. He would have it so.” He lifted his feeble hand upward to touch the apple wood lightly. “Dear friend, would I be too bold to ask you to set it at my grave?”

The baker’s throat swelled. He turned a wet eye to Wil and nodded. “Indeed. I surely shall. Karl would have liked it to be so.”

Pieter sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. He then awakened with a start and stared into the distance again. His breathing began to falter before he pointed his finger once more. “You all do see it, don’t you?” he asked weakly. “Maria, Wil…?”

“
Ja,
” his fellows answered in unison.

The good man nodded, then stared into the shadowed lands far beyond the Weser. “Then your day is come …” His eyes lost their light, then fluttered and closed. “You are home,” he whispered faintly. He took a difficult breath and muttered something indiscernible.

“What, Papa?” asked Maria as she clutched his arm. “What did you say?”

Pieter stirred as his troubled flock leaned close by either side. He opened his eyes and gazed ahead once more, then lifted his timeworn face toward heaven. There he sat silently as the sun sank peacefully in the west. Frieda led the others in some quiet songs, and Pieter’s breathing became shallow.

At last, the old fellow’s eyes rolled slightly, and his head tilted to one side. In a faint whisper he murmured, “What… hidden harbor … greets the fleet of stars … that cross the night… and … where do shadows gather… after they have lost their li …” Pieter Godson von Kinder’s voice trailed away, and his chest released its final breath. He slumped into his beloved Maria’s arms, and his soul flew to his Maker’s breast.

Solomon whined and Maria whimpered. Great groans of sorrow rippled through the grieving company. Their Pieter—their Papa Pieter—was gone from them. It could not be, yet it was; and it was very much to bear.

For the next hour, the mourners suffered their loss with sobs and anguished cries. Death remained as it always had been: that certain shadow that follows every life, that ruthless foe that bites the tender places and shows mercy to none.

In time, Wil and Alwin laid the good man prostrate on the soft, bloom-spotted grass and folded his cold hands over his heart as Heinrich stood to speak. He wiped his eye and cleared his throat.

“Pieter Godson von Kinder was my friend,” he said with a loving smile. “He taught me much of things that are and of things that shall surely be.” The pilgrims shuffled close and listened carefully as the simple baker proceeded to bless them with something of a homily on the resurrection to come. His words were soft and comforting, and he finished by saying, “For in the rising of the Christ we find our only hope against this curse. In that, and in that alone, is our final triumph. Take heart, my brothers and sisters, though we grieve this night, we
shall
see him again.”

Then, under the gauzy light of the rising moon, Pieter’s body was carefully carried to the shores of the lapping Weser to be bathed. His mourners stared heavenward, as if hoping to somehow see his white beard amidst the silver of the night’s sky. Frieda said that he would have loved the way the stars were shining down on the river. “They are making the water sparkle clean and bright,” she said. “He is smiling on us; he is at peace. I can feel his joy all around.”

Pieter’s body was carried back to the camp, and Wil walked slowly to Paulus in order to retrieve the bundle that had been discreetly handed to him by Friar Oswald in Renwick. It was another gift from Traugott—a fine deer-hide shroud, one fit for a prince. Wil unfurled the shroud, then handed his wife a ball of leather cord and a heavy needle.

Frieda nodded and quietly gathered the women together. In less than an hour, Pieter’s body was sewn within the deerskin and then laid in the center of the camp, where the company fell slowly to sleep until distant birds signaled the coming of dawn.

It was Tuesday, the twenty-seventh of August in the year 1213. Heinrich rose first and added a few small logs to the red ashes of the night’s fire. He looked at Pieter’s shroud lying stiff and straight atop the earth.

“Father?”

Heinrich turned. “Aye, lad?”

Wil stretched his open hand toward the man. “Let all things be forgiven … let all things be made new. You have brought us safely to a new land, and I thank you for it.”

The baker squeezed his son’s hand hard and answered, “We have brought each other here, both guided in ways I cannot explain.” He looked deeply into his son’s eyes, now enlivened by the rising flames. “May God bless you richly as you take hold of what is now yours.” He released his son’s hand and retrieved Karl’s cross from his belt. He kissed it and held it to his breast. “I pray that none of us forgets the sufferings or the joys of our journey.” Heinrich’s throat swelled, and he could no longer speak.

Katharina slipped to the baker’s side as Frieda joined Wil. Maria emerged from the darkness to lean against Heinrich. Together, the five stood silently as the first light of the new day streaked pink across the bluing sky.

The light breezes of the early morning teased their hair and brushed warm against their faces like the breath of angels. The quiet group watched their fellows rise, and when all had gathered, Wil spoke. “We’ll not eat here,” he said firmly. “Today, we eat our first meal as freemen!” He looked at Pieter’s shroud and then smiled at Maria. The stitching had been filled with flowers in the night. He lifted his sister into his arms. “And we take him with us. He shall rest in free soil.”

In a quarter hour, the brave company was standing in proper order as Wil inspected each of his comrades. With Solomon at his side, he planted his staff firmly into the rich soil of Blumenthal and walked up and down the small column with pride. Tomas, Otto, Alwin, and Heinrich each held a corner of Pieter’s litter—Heinrich and Otto in the fore. Wil paused to look at each of them.
Brave men all
, he thought.
And Friederich, too.
He turned to face Maria and the women.
Dear sister, dear wife, brave Wilda, and good Katharina…

“May God bless us all on this good day and for many to come,” he proclaimed. He walked past Maria and rubbed Paulus’s ears with a contented smile. Then, taking his place in the fore of his beloved company, he pointed westward.

With cries of jubilance, the pilgrims advanced, measuring their steps lightly atop the yielding petals of the valley floor, drawn deeper into color and to light as the sun rose higher behind them. Splashed to either side was the brilliance of this new day’s dawn, set to glory by the fluttering of butterflies now dancing atop the morning mist and the gift of wildflowers spread far and wide. Above, the sky was filled with songbirds, and ahead the lightly riffled waters of the Weser lay easy and warm, peacefully waiting to receive this tithing of free brethren.

Drawing deeply of the sweet, fragrant air, Wil paused at the water’s edge and took Otto’s place with Pieter’s litter. He held the rail handle firmly in his left hand; to his side stood Heinrich holding the litter with his right. The pair looked at one another, then turned their heads southward as their memories suddenly carried them across green forests and wending fields of grain. They were swept far, far away, through narrow valleys and into the magnificent desolation of the highest places. They closed their eyes to smell the wood smoke of a hundred campfires, to hear the laughter and the tears of those much loved.

It was in that moment that their fellows began to sing the “Crusaders’ Hymn,” that gentle song of so many lost along the way, that melody of innocence and purity that had graced the hearts of all who had lifted it to their lips. “Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodland….”

Heinrich listened and looked to the heavens, where he imagined Karl joined in chorus with Pieter and Emma, with Lukas and Ingelbert. It was as though he could see them floating with the angels at that very moment, in that very place. He let a tear fall from his eye as Katharina stepped to his side.

Wil looked at his father knowingly. He had seen the same vision and was comforted. He took a deep, resolute breath and planted his sturdy staff firmly into the pebbled bed of the River Weser. Frieda approached to lay a hand softly on his elbow, and he turned his shining eyes toward hers. “It is time,” he said.

Wil faced his father once more. “We ought to take our first steps together.”

The baker nodded humbly. “Together it shall be.”

Then, rendering their thanks to heaven, Wilhelm Godson Freimann and Heinrich Godson Lieberlicht squared their shoulders toward Stedingerland and smiled as their fellows made ready behind them. It was time to claim that which they had been given, to lay hold of the prize hard won. With seabirds soaring high above, the two stepped bravely into the kindly currents of their appointed destinies. The warm waters of the Weser welcomed them gladly, and with a triumphant shout they splashed through the clear river of liberty as freemen, well forged on the anvil of suffering and prepared by truth to serve others in the gardens of the sun.

THE END

THE CHRONICLES OF FRIEDA

E
go, Frieda Westphaliensis,
uxor Wilhelmi Freimanni, anno Domini 1213,
in order
gloriam Dei
, the
auctori
of all things,
nunc
chronicle the wisdom that has been offered by many along this journey of the souls. May these things be shared in the memory of my beloved brothers and sisters of crusade.

My ears have been blessed by my beloved friend Pieter, for whom my heart does yet ache. It has also been my great honor to learn from dear Heinrich, the father of my husband; from
Signore
Salito of Arona; from Sebastiani, the brave soldier of Domodossola; from the Waldensians Jean and Philip; and from Friar Oswald of Renwick.

My quill has been further blessed with the words of others I have never known such as
Frau
Emma of Weyer, Brother Lukas of Villmar Abbey, Sister Anoush of Rome, and Father Wilfrid of Zell. To these and to all who have passed the Bread of Life across the generations, I give my thanks.

Now, in the name of our Lord, I do present this humble portion of my gain to the child in my womb, to others yet unborn, and to their children and to their children’s children unto the end of time.

Amen.

Be these things considered:

Some of us shall find our end in shadows, others near the heavens. What matters is that we delight in whatever journey we are granted.

Nothing on earth rules with authority unless it rules according to God’s Law of Love.

Strong faith and strong opinions rarely share the same heart.

If we are to lead men, we must know this: even an unredeemed heart bears the mark of his Maker’s image. It is good to find that stamp in both friend and foe.

For those fearing death, let it be said that our heavenly Father would no more leave us alone in that dark valley than He would in any other.

The good farmer wanders over a fallow field and says, “I have hope.” When he plunges his plough into the earth, he is saying, “I believe.” He spreads his seed and says, “I trust.” When the warm sun and the gentle rain nudge tender blades through the hard ground, he smiles and says, “I knew.” And when the harvest is yielded and his storehouse is full, he is thankful, for he has been blessed.

Every lamb needs a ewe to lean upon. We all need more than a touch from the clouds.

Where love is, hope is.

God is not a hard taskmaster; we are stiff-necked students.

I believe in order to understand.

We are truly free when He fills us with the faith to do nothing and the wisdom to know when.

Notice your youth. Taste what of it you can and capture it in your mind, for such memories shall be your most prized treasure.

Here is a rub: the very thing that gives such value to our past is that which steals it away. For ‘tis only when the present fades to a memory that it becomes so very precious. Yet in such fading it does leave us. Oh, what a double-edged sword is this thing called “Time.”

Behind every belief is a premise; behind every premise lies a desire. Decisions are more often made by the will than the mind. We choose what to believe from our heart, not from reason. If one wants to change a man’s mind, one must first change his heart.

There are two kinds of anger, and they should be discerned. The first is the good anger of God. It is outraged at evil and ignited to defend the innocent; its target is the Evil One. The second is the rage of arrogance, the fruit of hard hearts defending their vanities; it is the child of disappointment and the grandchild of pride.

Preachers need to know that brevity is oft a good substitute for ability!

God can do miracles as and when He wishes, and it is a wise man who seeks them. But they are not for our taking. Our task is to act on what is before us in plain view. Our faith ought not to presume on God.

We must face this troubled world as it is, not as we would hope it to be.

Our Father above forgives His children always—and not because it is deserved on their account. If forgiveness could be earned, it would not be forgiveness at all, but rather a bartered exchange.

Beware the sinister code that demands us to be right rather than forgiven. We are never truly right, for there is a quality of either error or pride that stains all we do. Hence, we are wise to live aware of our unending need for forgiveness.

Self-reliance is a merciless tyrant. It blinds the eyes, its appetite is never quenched, and it never rests.

If we choose to trust ourselves alone, we shall surely spend our days in the grip of a dragon.

We are allowed to suffer sadness, sickness, poverty, pain, or even failings, for these He mysteriously redeems as paths to His mercies and, hence, to Him.

Simplicity may bring joy, but two ways of simplicity exist. The first way is the simplicity of blindness, and it is never a virtue. The second way understands that simple truths do, indeed, govern the world. But they are only understood on the far side of complexity.

It is important that we look beyond the steps of our own little journey.

Perhaps there is never a time for treachery, but cunning has its place!

Our miseries are but the heavy labors of a worthy Gardener, working and kneading God’s soil into our hard, barren hearts. He has planted vineyards of sweet grapes within each of His children. Indeed, we stand upon Holy Ground that is well worked into each of our hearts.

Sad is the man who is blind to the order, beauty, and goodness that lie amidst the confusion of the world. The earth may groan for a time, waiting for its redemption, but it groans in hope. For wherever there is evil, there is always a reminder of good. We see both tears and smiles, clouds and sunshine, death and birth, sickness and healing, hunger and plenty. For every night there is a day.

Our sufferings seem to be that which do most surely draw us closer to Him. And in that closeness we will find love, not madness; hope, not despair.

We are changed in our sufferings. Like a thirsty tree in drought, our roots grow deeper into the source of our life. The confusions and miseries in this world are but tools in God’s workbox—tools to incline us toward Him and the mysterious joy that awaits our meeting.

Our God is the known and the unknown, together and the same. He is the source of sunlight and shadows, smiles and tears. It is the heart of God that is our haven, the mighty keep of all joy and all pain, all triumphs and all failures.

Mystery is our destined boundary. We may choose to stand before either the mysteries of fear or the mysteries of hope.

We ought to observe a simple flower and consider the heart that might design such a thing. Even the edges are laced with delicate color so that another’s eye might look and be glad.

Can we not see that the God of the storm yet tends the beauty of a wildflower?

The flower is our symbol of the presence of God, and the cross is a symbol of His love. By them we know these two things: that God is there and that He cares. Know these and we need to know little else.

Beware of falsely religious men. They destroy all that is within their grasp.

Knowing who hates you can teach you much about yourself.

Where Truth is present, light is present.

Color is the fruit of light.

Beware of virtues, for they easily become objects of arrogance.

Things are not always as they seem, for sometimes they are so much better.

Sunshine is hope; moonlight is mercy. The sun is but a sign like its sister the moon. They both urge us to look past our world to the sure things above.

God’s gifts are for those humble enough to abandon themselves.

True humility draws a man’s face upward, not downward.

What our eyes see, our tongues taste, our noses smell, our ears hear, and our fingers touch do much to call upon the spirit within us.

Freedom, like hope, is a birthright from God.

Truth is what remains when all else fails.

Wounded people serve others well, for our God is a God of scars.

A man has a right to keep what is his so long as none in his view are starving.

Fixing the eyes on failure is like staring into a chasm, for it draws us to disaster.

God’s mercy is not His only gift… it is just the beginning of gifts. He offers us so much more than forgiveness; He offers us the whole of His love.

Faith is not proven by things attained but by walking in love.

Guilt sprouts where shame is planted. Hope grows where trust is sown.

Suffering is the path to faith and the doorway to compassion.

Greed is oft found in proportion to gain.

The promises of a priest will do more to prompt alms than the face of a hungry child.

Someday, when our strength wanes and our virtues fail, when we long for hope, we must turn our eyes upward and find the other way.

The sun always shines; it is only hidden by the clouds.

Where the light is brightest, the shadows are darkest.

We must not let our regrets rule us, else they become who we are.

The sight of heaven makes all of life easier.

Live life wisely, and have a care for the passing of time. For our world is like a garden and we like roses. Our blooms open and spread over others fading nearby. In time, new buds shall surely come, and they will bloom fresh and fragrant near our own withering petals. It is the cycle of life—the way it ought to be … and it is good.

Ours is an astonishing journey. Indeed, goodness and mercy have followed us, and the swords of heaven’s legions go before.

To have a handle on trouble, we must first name it.

Preachers and balladeers have much in common: they both make things up!

God and nature do not work together in vain. He gives us this earth as a glimpse of His greater glory; it is a reminder that He is present in all things, and from that we can draw hope.

Repentance follows forgiveness, and that is the very essence of redemption.

Order and love are not always friends.

The conscience is reached by love.

We are never too far gone for grace to find us, nor too close for us to need it.

Do not be so proud as to carry shame.

The past is oft a good place to remember but not a good place to dwell.

See the host and his diners seated before a table spread with a bounty of good things. This is a fitting image of the kingdom of God.

All men are either poets or merchants. Poets see beauty for what it is; merchants see it for what it does.

Any of us can become the ugliest face of our idols. If we worship wealth, we become greedy. If we worship power, we become tyrants.

Men may call us bound or free, foolish or wise, brave or cowardly, even saintly or wicked, but it is heaven that has already declared who we truly are.

We must believe in the Word and learn to want what it offers. For, in the end, we will live as we have learned to want.

Some only pretend to be forgiven, for they pretend they are sinners.