9

If Fort Colson legend was to be believed, the town started as an outpost for fur trappers before Michigan had even joined the union. Eventually, for reasons I never quite understood, Dutch immigrants settled the land. Following God’s call to be fruitful and multiply, they brought forth upon the earth as many children as they could bear. It wasn’t long before houses and shops and such popped up all along the shores of Chippewa Lake.

Right in the middle of the town they’d constructed a church. Over time it was leveled and rebuilt. Ours was a modest church with clear glass windows instead of stained and blocky wooden pews with no embellishment. But what we lacked in fancy, we made up for with heart.

The people of the First Christian Reformed Church of Fort Colson were rich in mercy and generous with their love.

It was the Sunday before the Fourth of July and all of the hymns listed on the register board were of a patriotic flavor. “God Bless America” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” closing with all four verses of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The ever-present American flag was moved from behind the pulpit to right beside it.

When I looked through my bulletin, I saw that on the prayer card the secretary had included “Pray for our boys over there.” In bold type was my brother’s name. I dragged my fingertip over the letters, asking God for some way that Mike might be able to stay over here.

When I looked up from where we sat in the second row on the right-hand side of the sanctuary, I saw that Mrs. Vanderlaan held her prayer card up, reading it. When she noticed that I was looking at her, she flashed me a small smile, like she wasn’t sure it was all right to.

I smiled back.

From the first time Walt had made fun of me, Mom had blamed Mrs. Vanderlaan. She’d called her on the telephone to ask her if she could keep her son in line. When Walt’s mother had denied that her son would ever say such a thing, Mom had hung up on her, vowing to never speak to the woman again.

Mom’s grudge didn’t have to be mine.

“Gloria,” Mrs. Vanderlaan said, approaching us in the narthex after the service. “Hi.”

Mrs. Vanderlaan was of sweet face, soft features, hazel eyes. She dressed like they had money, always had. It was the way Mom had dressed before Frank left. I sometimes wondered if Mom resented the reminder of how her life had once been.

“Elizabeth,” Mom said back to her.

“I saw Michael’s name on the list.” She held up the prayer card as if Mom wouldn’t have seen it. “Was he drafted?”

“He enlisted,” I answered. “In the Army.”

“Good for him.” Mrs. Vanderlaan kept her eyes on Mom. “Walter is in the Marines.”

“Yes.” Mom raised an eyebrow. “I read the article about him.”

“Well, I’ll pray for Michael.” Mrs. Vanderlaan slipped the prayer card into her purse. “Do you need a service flag? Someone gave me an extra one, and I certainly don’t need two of them hanging in my window. I’d be happy to let you have it.”

“I have one,” Mom said.

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Vanderlaan said with not a hint of condescension, although I was sure Mom heard one. “Well, I’ll be going now. Nice to see you.”

Mom turned her eyes away, looking at a brick wall across the room.

“Nice to see you too, Mrs. Vanderlaan,” I said.

As soon as she left, walking out the heavy wood door, Mom turned toward me and whispered, “You don’t have to be nice to her.”

“You don’t have to be rude,” I said back.

Mom pursed her lips in irritation and made her way to the door. I followed after her, thinking how exhausting it must be to hold so tightly to conflict.