Waiting for Summer's Return (12 page)

13

S
UMMER SAT ON
a wooden bench—a hard, backless, uncomfortable bench—and waited for the service to begin. People filed in, filling the other benches. Mr. Ollenburger and Thomas didn’t sit with her. Mr. Ollenburger had forewarned her that the men and women divided to sit on opposite sides of the church, so she wasn’t surprised when the two Ollenburger men seated themselves across the aisle from her.

Although the grandmother sat beside her in her slumped-forward pose, the other women chose benches in front of or behind her. She found this arrangement acceptable. She had no desire to speak to people who had openly avoided her elsewhere in town. She recognized the two women from the store, but neither so much as looked in her direction.

Mr. Ollenburger had referred to the church as
Kleine Gemeinde
and then told her it meant “little church.” His heritage believed a small congregation would become like family, so small congregations were encouraged. If a population outgrew the
Kleine Gemeinde,
the congregation would split and form a second church body.

Summer thought this sounded good in theory. She so needed a family. In reality, though, she knew it would never work for her in this place. How would these people become family when they were unwilling to reach out to her in friendship? They had ignored her needs while her children were ill. They had ignored her needs following her family’s deaths. With the exception of Mr. Ollenburger, the community had made little effort to treat her with kindness. Family? Not with these people.

Then there was the church itself. Why, how could one even call this simple wood-slatted building a place of worship? The only thing that set it apart from the other buildings on the block was its small steeple—one that did not contain a bell but simply acted as a perch for the crude wooden cross pointing toward the heavens.

She compared the
Kleine Gemeinde
’s sanctuary to that of the towering two-story brick-and-mortar church she and Rodney had attended in Boston with his parents. Where were the stained-glass windows and carved woodwork? No highly-polished cherry lectern stood on a dais at the front of the sanctuary; only a plain, boxlike podium rested on the wide-planked floor. She scanned the bare walls, mindful of the absence of statues or paintings depicting the life of Christ. Summer could find no beauty on which to feast her hungry eyes. How could a sanctuary so devoid of beauty be good for the soul?

A minister wearing a simple black suit stepped behind the podium and raised his hands. A hush immediately fell, all eyes shifting to the front. He gestured, uttering a string of unintelligible words, and the congregation rose as a whole. Summer jumped to her feet, confusion making her heart pound.

Mouths opened in song, the tune unfamiliar to Summer and sung in a language she couldn’t understand or speak. No piano or organ underscored the four-part harmony created by the congregants, yet she found the synchronization of voices pleasant to her ears. Her heartbeat slowed to a comfortable rhythm, the starkness of her surroundings melting away as she became lost in the beauty of the songs.

They sang three hymns with such majestic delivery that Summer fought tears. She recognized the melody of the third hymn as soon as they began singing. In her heart, she transposed the words to English—“Fairest Lord Jesus … Thee will I cherish, thee will I honor”—and despite an effort to stay silent, she hummed the soprano line along with those who knew the German pronunciations.

The minister gave a nod of permission for the congregation to sit, and the people settled in for the sermon. It turned out to be a lengthy one, none of which Summer could understand. What had Mr. Ollenburger been thinking to assume she could find meaning listening to gibberish? Although the music had been soul-stirring, now she simply felt lost.

Summer glanced at Mr. Ollenburger and Thomas often throughout the sermon. The big man’s focus never wavered from the suited man in the front, although Thomas nodded off once or twice. Summer fought the impulse to close her eyes.

Her gaze drifted across the congregation. For the most part, the people seemed relaxed, interested, open to whatever was being shared from the pulpit. Frequently, the people referred to leather-bound books in their laps, nodding in agreement or smiling at the minister. Twice
Grossmutter
placed her gnarled hand on Summer’s knee and patted, as if trying to encourage her to listen. Frustration welled—the woman knew Summer didn’t understand the language!

Despite her discomfort, Summer had to acknowledge the people behaved much differently in this church than in her church at home. Even with the beautiful setting, she had never seen such intense concentration from the Boston parishioners. She wondered if it was the smaller number of people attending this service or the message that made the difference. She supposed she wouldn’t know since the message remained a mystery.

She thought back to the hymns, the sincerity and nobility reflected in the
a cappella
singing. It had appeared that these people truly believed the words they sang. They weren’t merely singing notes; they were sharing of their hearts. It had been both beautiful and tragic. Summer acknowledged she had never before felt the music the way it had touched her on this Sunday morning in this simple setting. What made the difference?

She looked again at Mr. Ollenburger. The man’s lips were tipped into a gentle smile, his eyes warm. His entire bearing spoke of a peaceful spirit. The words from the hymn filtered through her mind—
“Thee will I cherish, thee will I honor”
—and a knot formed in her throat. When Mr. Ollenburger sang those words, he meant them. He meant them with the depth of his soul. But could Summer truly comprehend what it meant to honor and cherish the fair Lord Jesus?

Suddenly the congregation rose to its feet. Summer listened as the minister delivered a prayer, his hands clasped in reverence beneath his bearded chin. At the solemn amen, the congregation chanted a phrase together in closing, then people began filing outside, heads together in hushed conversations.

Mr. Ollenburger stepped between Summer and the grandmother, offering each woman an elbow.
Grossmutter
took hold and Summer did the same, more out of habit than a desire to cling to this man’s arm. Although many people, some curious and others stoic, turned in her direction as she stepped into the sunshine of the brisk November day, no one spoke to Summer except her giant escort.

“So,
Frau
Steadman, what did you think of
Kleine Gemeinde
?”

“How do you do it?”

He turned his startled face in her direction. “How … do what?”

“Sing like that.” She tightened her fingers on his firm forearm, remembering the way the music had seemed to flow through her very soul. “The harmony, without any piano or organ … It was beautiful. But how is it done? Have you always sung without instruments?”

They reached the wagon, and Summer watched him gently lift
Grossmutter
into his arms and place her on the pile of quilts in the back. His tenderness with the old woman touched Summer’s heart. He helped Summer onto the wagon seat and then lifted Thomas into the back, instructing the boy to use the stack of blankets to cushion his seat. Only when he had aimed the oxen for the road did he finally answer her question.

“As a boy, in the old country, I learned the notes. The leader would sing a phrase, then all worshipers would copy it. Slowly we learned the songs. Seldom was a piano or organ available. Our small congregations, and having to move much, made having such items not easy. But the music does not seem to suffer when the notes are sung right.”

Summer agreed with that. “Why did you have to move too much?”

He gave a shrug. “People first welcomed us, but then later …” He sighed. “Much unkindness exists in the world. Many rules which are hard on the heart to follow. From Germany to Russia my family went to escape hard rules and unkindness. Then, after many years, the hard rules and unkindness finds us again. By then I am grown man with my own wife and son to think of. So to America we come. Here my Thomas and me follow our beliefs without problems.”

“And the unkindness?” Summer thought of the way the people had ignored her presence, even in church. It hadn’t seemed kind to her.

Again, the man sighed, and the sigh sounded heavy with sadness. “
Ach,
unkindness. Where people exist, unkindness will exist. I do not like it, but I do not know how to change it. I just pray….”

Already the
shariah
was in view, which meant the house was just around the bend. Something occurred to her. “Was the service longer last Sunday? You didn’t return until late afternoon.”

Mr. Ollenburger glanced back at Thomas, a warning frown creasing his brow. He turned to Summer, and his expression cleared. “Many times, after Sunday service, we visit with families. Last Sunday we visited the Penner family. They have boy same age as Thomas. This Sunday, though, we come home.”

He called the oxen to a halt outside the house and hopped down. His feet hitting the ground seemed to bring a close to the topic, although Summer still had questions. Why hadn’t they gone visiting today? Would no one welcome them with her in attendance? Why were the people so set against her? What had she done to them? The fear of the illness was past. What was wrong with her?

Mr. Ollenburger set
Grossmutter
safely on the ground, then reached for Thomas. The man looked up at her, his gentle blue eyes as kind as always. Raising his hands, he smiled. “Come,
Frau
Steadman. A nice lunch we will eat, and then a surprise I have for you.”

Peter watched Thomas clear the dishes from lunch and stack them on the dry sink. As soon as the table was clean, he would bring out the surprise he had prepared for the woman. He worried his lower lip between his teeth as he pondered what her reaction might be. Once more his intentions were honorable, but always he felt concern about how they would be understood. He only wished to make her feel less uncomfortable. Those in town did not make her feel welcome.

He remembered the warning thrown at him by
Herr
Schmidt—
“The Holy Book tells us not to be unequally yoked!”
Peter knew this. He wished he could make those in town understand he was not looking to be yoked with the woman—he only wanted to help her and allow her to help Thomas.

Looking at her pale face above the harsh black of her mourning gown, he wondered how anyone could treat her with anything but kindness. She was a picture of unhappy longing. He felt the need to compensate for the town’s
abstand
—their unreasonable keeping of distance. Still, his heart pounded as he rose and smiled down at her.

“You stay here,
Frau
Steadman. I have something for you.” He waved his hand at her, noticing a pink stain steal across her thin cheeks. As quickly as his big feet would allow, he darted to his bedroom.

There in the corner, it waited. A chair ordered from the Montgomery Ward and Company catalog and delivered to Nickels’ Dry Goods store. It was not the most expensive chair from the catalog, but when he had seen the padded seat and back embroidered with a design of roses, he had thought it suited the woman. And its frame was made of oak—a good solid wood that would last.

Peter liked oak. He liked its grain and its warm honey color when touched with stain, and most of all he liked how the mighty tree grew from such a tiny acorn. He always thought of oak trees as one of God’s miracles. But he would not say all this to the woman.

On the fabric seat of the chair rested a small square paper-wrapped package that was of more importance than even the oak chair. It, too, had been ordered from the catalog and had raised some eyebrows. The chair Nick could surmise was for Peter’s home, but that second item … It could only be for the woman. Nick had been full of questions, for sure, about the little package.

A band of worry tightened Peter’s chest as he remembered
Herr
Schmidt and
Herr
Penner watching him load the chair onto his wagon.
Herr
Schmidt had said, “I hear the mill in Hillsboro is now using a steam engine.”
Herr
Penner had nodded, a smug look on his face, as
Herr
Schmidt continued, “Much faster it can grind the grain. Maybe I will go there next harvest,
ja
?”

Although neither man spoke to Peter, he understood the words were meant for him. It was a threat—send the woman away or risk the loss of his business. Peter did not respond but only latched the back of his wagon and headed home with the purchases.

Grossmutter
’s eyes were full of questions when she saw these things. Peter felt embarrassed, explaining to her why he had bought them, but when he finished she patted his hand and smiled approvingly. He could not decide whether
Grossmutter
truly liked
Frau
Steadman or only felt sorry for her.

He’d left the woman waiting too long already. He lifted the chair, careful not to tip the package from the seat, and stepped back into the living area. When Peter’s feet scuffed the floor, she turned in his direction and her brown eyes widened.

“Oh my.”

His heart lifted at her pleased tone.

She rose, rounded the table, and advanced on the chair, her fingers pressed to her lips. Tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, it’s just beautiful. How could you possibly know …?” A tear broke free and spilled down her cheek.

“I order it from the catalog.” Peter thought his heart might burst through his chest, so heartily it pumped away as the woman circled the chair, her fingers tracing the curve of the armrest and following the line of the high, scrolled seatback. She pressed her palm to the rose design, and fresh tears made new tracks down her blushing face.

“The chair, it meets with your liking, then?”

“Oh yes.” The words came out in a breathy whisper as she brought her steepled hands beneath her chin and stood in front of the chair, beaming down at it in pleasure.

“Well, sit in it!” Thomas’s eager voice brought a smile to the woman’s face.