leftover cloth, a cotton ball for a head, and yarn to mark the sleeves as arms. They appear cheerful, not stricken by all that happened, not scarred as Eliza is. She endured so much. I worry that she is too stalwart, too strong. Even a tree must bend in the wind or it will break, have its roots exposed. I fear her breaking and my not being here to tend to her healing.
I awaited Horace’s arrival that day with such joy the year before everything happened. I was eager for his companionship. The tensions between us and the other missionaries, the Smiths and the Whitmans, grew ever worse. Dr. Whitman sometimes refused to act as the mission doctor, which was his responsibility. He would not come when I gave birth to Eliza, until it was almost too late. The child nearly died. Other times he told Mr. S what he must and must not do in bringing the faith to our Nimíipuu. He seemed jealous—such a childish emotion—when Timothy, Joseph, and a white man, Connor, asked for baptism. We had not brought the Indians to the faith “in English.” Such a petty thought. We were not forced to learn Greek or Hebrew before we found the faith. We learned in English, our language. Why not teach in Nez Perce?
Marcus Whitman’s intrusions troubled us and things only got worse with the arrival of the Smiths. Marcus was not trained as a minister of the word. Mr. S was. He felt we should not be teaching in the Nez Perce language, that our Indians should learn English. Yet the Whitmans rejoiced with the printing press and the publication of our primer and the book of Matthew, both in Nez Perce language called Sahaptin. At least outwardly they rejoiced. The Halls did celebrate. They taught Hawaiian at their mission. Like us, they did not require English for their converts and they too were successful in bringing people to experience love. I miss Sarah Hall immensely.
And what good was English, just to speak to us? We could easily speak their language after a time, even little Eliza. We taught the scriptures to the young men who did know English, and as criers, they taught their people. I drew pictures to describe Noah’s ark and God’s provision and rainbow promise. And they did a splendid job of reteaching the women and children, the braves and the elders. Yes, they may have missed some nuance of the faith but what they needed to know—that Jesus loved them as they were and would greet them in Heaven—they understood. To my thinking, is there a greater message?
All the missionaries, wives, and children had a meeting at Waiilatpu, all of them, in ’42. I refused to attend. I didn’t want to hear the bickering nor their unkind words about Mr. S—and me, I suppose. My teacher training allowed me to draw, sing, play harmonica music, hymn-sing, and do every handiwork I could imagine, giving experience to words, using head, heart, and hands. Our Nez Perce learned quickly! I drew the Bible stories of the woman with the lost coin, using bones from their stick games for currency—or did I paint dentalia, the small round mollusk shells used as currency? My memory fades. I painted David and Goliath, drawing an Indian boy and man. A river stone and slingshot caught their interest, easily. I painted pictures using inks I made from red berries and black berries and the sunny flowers that sprang forth in spring. All ages loved the colorful stories and I felt useful, as though the talents given me had found a place of investment.
I think the Whitmans and the Smiths were envious. So I remained at home with the children while the others went off and met in ’42 at Waiilatpu and did the business of sending reports to the Mission Board. I knew something wasn’t right when Mr. S returned early. He claimed it had been a contentious time but they’d resolved hard issues. Later, as we lay side by side on the bird-feather mattress, he whispered what had happened. A letter from the Board awaited him at the meeting. It was full of complaints lodged by other
I awaited Horace’s arrival that day with such joy the year before everything happened. I was eager for his companionship. The tensions between us and the other missionaries, the Smiths and the Whitmans, grew ever worse. Dr. Whitman sometimes refused to act as the mission doctor, which was his responsibility. He would not come when I gave birth to Eliza, until it was almost too late. The child nearly died. Other times he told Mr. S what he must and must not do in bringing the faith to our Nimíipuu. He seemed jealous—such a childish emotion—when Timothy, Joseph, and a white man, Connor, asked for baptism. We had not brought the Indians to the faith “in English.” Such a petty thought. We were not forced to learn Greek or Hebrew before we found the faith. We learned in English, our language. Why not teach in Nez Perce?
Marcus Whitman’s intrusions troubled us and things only got worse with the arrival of the Smiths. Marcus was not trained as a minister of the word. Mr. S was. He felt we should not be teaching in the Nez Perce language, that our Indians should learn English. Yet the Whitmans rejoiced with the printing press and the publication of our primer and the book of Matthew, both in Nez Perce language called Sahaptin. At least outwardly they rejoiced. The Halls did celebrate. They taught Hawaiian at their mission. Like us, they did not require English for their converts and they too were successful in bringing people to experience love. I miss Sarah Hall immensely.
And what good was English, just to speak to us? We could easily speak their language after a time, even little Eliza. We taught the scriptures to the young men who did know English, and as criers, they taught their people. I drew pictures to describe Noah’s ark and God’s provision and rainbow promise. And they did a splendid job of reteaching the women and children, the braves and the elders. Yes, they may have missed some nuance of the faith but what they needed to know—that Jesus loved them as they were and would greet them in Heaven—they understood. To my thinking, is there a greater message?
All the missionaries, wives, and children had a meeting at Waiilatpu, all of them, in ’42. I refused to attend. I didn’t want to hear the bickering nor their unkind words about Mr. S—and me, I suppose. My teacher training allowed me to draw, sing, play harmonica music, hymn-sing, and do every handiwork I could imagine, giving experience to words, using head, heart, and hands. Our Nez Perce learned quickly! I drew the Bible stories of the woman with the lost coin, using bones from their stick games for currency—or did I paint dentalia, the small round mollusk shells used as currency? My memory fades. I painted David and Goliath, drawing an Indian boy and man. A river stone and slingshot caught their interest, easily. I painted pictures using inks I made from red berries and black berries and the sunny flowers that sprang forth in spring. All ages loved the colorful stories and I felt useful, as though the talents given me had found a place of investment.
I think the Whitmans and the Smiths were envious. So I remained at home with the children while the others went off and met in ’42 at Waiilatpu and did the business of sending reports to the Mission Board. I knew something wasn’t right when Mr. S returned early. He claimed it had been a contentious time but they’d resolved hard issues. Later, as we lay side by side on the bird-feather mattress, he whispered what had happened. A letter from the Board awaited him at the meeting. It was full of complaints lodged by other
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