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Authors: Mona Hodgson
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to see that some things hadn’t changed. Pastor Adam Barklage greeted parishioners at the doorway. His steps reluctant, Woolly wrapped the reins, then moved around the horses and offered his hand to Mother Brantenberg.
Her feet on the ground, his mother-in-law let go of his hand. “Pastor Barklage will be pleased to see you.”
Woolly wasn’t so sure. He had plenty disdain for himself. How would the pastor and his parishioners not feel the same? They all knew of his abandonment. He was swinging Gabi to the ground when he heard his name.
“Woolly Wainwright!” The pastor rushed down the steps toward him, his hair now thinning on top and gray at the temples. “Why, it is you! I’d heard you were back.”
“Pastor Barklage.” Woolly reached to shake his hand, but quickly became enveloped in a welcoming embrace.
“If you aren’t a bright spot in a bleak aftermath.” The pastor studied him from hair to shoe. “One of the few in our congregation who’s returned in one piece.” He clapped Woolly’s shoulders and gave them a good shake. “Happy to have you home, son!”
Home . He wasn’t sure which hurt the most—his shoulder or his heart.
“Thank you, sir.” Woolly looked at Mother Brantenberg, the little girl at his side, and then at Miss Jensen. “It’s good to be here.” And on some levels—the shallow ones—it was good.
After a barrage of warm greetings from the other parishioners, Woolly told Gabi he’d wait for them outside. He watched as the ladies proceeded inside, chatting with the others. About halfway to the chancel, Miss Maren seated herself on the aisle next to Mother Brantenberg.
Sitting on the step just outside the door, he could hear a young woman’s clear soprano voice rise and fall in “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.” The hymn had played over and over in his mind on the battlefield, but never so sweetly as with a Danish accent.
***
After supper, Woolly’s baritone laugh and Gabi’s giggles wafted into the kitchen from the sitting room, stirring Maren’s dreams of home and family. She dried a plate, her thoughts being swept back through time. In her first year here, she’d dreamed of Orvie Christensen changing his mind, returning from the fighting, and marrying her despite her failing sight. She wanted a husband … children of her own. But when Orvie walked away and never looked back, she let those hopes fall by the wayside. No man would want her now, and she couldn’t blame them. All she wanted to do was to return to her mother and siblings … to be a part of their lives.
“You’ll soon have those flowers rubbed clean off.”
“Oh dear.” Maren added the dry plate to the stack.
“Thinking again?”
“Yes ma’am, I am.”
Mrs. Brantenberg handed her another wet plate. “I’m doing a lot of that myself lately.”
“Your son-in-law coming home has stirred your thoughts, I’m sure.”
“Most of them memories I’d rather forget.”
“And the good memories are not powerful enough?”
Mrs. Brantenberg looked straight at her, a gray eyebrow raised. “Is that something I said at the circle?”
“Yes ma’am. You said, ‘God would have us give more power to our good memories and see the weakness in the bad ones.’ ”
Huffing, the older woman dunked a bowl into the dishpan. “Your thoughts are of your family in Denmark?”
Nodding, Maren turned toward the singing and laughter coming from the sitting room. “I love you and Gabi, and so appreciate you opening your home to me. But, yes, I do miss my family.”
“Maren.” Mrs. Brantenberg patted Maren’s arm, leaving her sleeve damp with dishwater. “Not all men are as narrow-minded as Orvie Christensen.”
“I could be completely blind in a matter of a few years. I wouldn’t wish myself upon a man who needs a wife who can work beside him.”
“Don’t shortchange yourself, dear—you are a hard worker. And many women with full eyesight don’t have half the
Her feet on the ground, his mother-in-law let go of his hand. “Pastor Barklage will be pleased to see you.”
Woolly wasn’t so sure. He had plenty disdain for himself. How would the pastor and his parishioners not feel the same? They all knew of his abandonment. He was swinging Gabi to the ground when he heard his name.
“Woolly Wainwright!” The pastor rushed down the steps toward him, his hair now thinning on top and gray at the temples. “Why, it is you! I’d heard you were back.”
“Pastor Barklage.” Woolly reached to shake his hand, but quickly became enveloped in a welcoming embrace.
“If you aren’t a bright spot in a bleak aftermath.” The pastor studied him from hair to shoe. “One of the few in our congregation who’s returned in one piece.” He clapped Woolly’s shoulders and gave them a good shake. “Happy to have you home, son!”
Home . He wasn’t sure which hurt the most—his shoulder or his heart.
“Thank you, sir.” Woolly looked at Mother Brantenberg, the little girl at his side, and then at Miss Jensen. “It’s good to be here.” And on some levels—the shallow ones—it was good.
After a barrage of warm greetings from the other parishioners, Woolly told Gabi he’d wait for them outside. He watched as the ladies proceeded inside, chatting with the others. About halfway to the chancel, Miss Maren seated herself on the aisle next to Mother Brantenberg.
Sitting on the step just outside the door, he could hear a young woman’s clear soprano voice rise and fall in “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.” The hymn had played over and over in his mind on the battlefield, but never so sweetly as with a Danish accent.
***
After supper, Woolly’s baritone laugh and Gabi’s giggles wafted into the kitchen from the sitting room, stirring Maren’s dreams of home and family. She dried a plate, her thoughts being swept back through time. In her first year here, she’d dreamed of Orvie Christensen changing his mind, returning from the fighting, and marrying her despite her failing sight. She wanted a husband … children of her own. But when Orvie walked away and never looked back, she let those hopes fall by the wayside. No man would want her now, and she couldn’t blame them. All she wanted to do was to return to her mother and siblings … to be a part of their lives.
“You’ll soon have those flowers rubbed clean off.”
“Oh dear.” Maren added the dry plate to the stack.
“Thinking again?”
“Yes ma’am, I am.”
Mrs. Brantenberg handed her another wet plate. “I’m doing a lot of that myself lately.”
“Your son-in-law coming home has stirred your thoughts, I’m sure.”
“Most of them memories I’d rather forget.”
“And the good memories are not powerful enough?”
Mrs. Brantenberg looked straight at her, a gray eyebrow raised. “Is that something I said at the circle?”
“Yes ma’am. You said, ‘God would have us give more power to our good memories and see the weakness in the bad ones.’ ”
Huffing, the older woman dunked a bowl into the dishpan. “Your thoughts are of your family in Denmark?”
Nodding, Maren turned toward the singing and laughter coming from the sitting room. “I love you and Gabi, and so appreciate you opening your home to me. But, yes, I do miss my family.”
“Maren.” Mrs. Brantenberg patted Maren’s arm, leaving her sleeve damp with dishwater. “Not all men are as narrow-minded as Orvie Christensen.”
“I could be completely blind in a matter of a few years. I wouldn’t wish myself upon a man who needs a wife who can work beside him.”
“Don’t shortchange yourself, dear—you are a hard worker. And many women with full eyesight don’t have half the
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