Chapter 9

Geesje

Holland, Michigan
1897

I stand just outside the door of Pillar Church, gazing in dismay at the rain that has begun to fall, spotting the steps with dark circles. “It looks like we should have ended our gathering a few minutes ago,” I tell the other ladies. “I hope you all brought umbrellas.”

“I don’t mind a little rain,” the dominie’s wife says. “We accomplished a lot of work for the Lord this morning.” We all murmur in agreement, and after saying good-bye to my friends, I unfurl my umbrella and prepare to plunge into the rain. Dominie’s wife stops me. “I just wanted to thank you for leading us in prayer today, Geesje,” she says. “You always seem to know exactly what to say and do and how to pray. We would be at loose ends, sometimes, without your wisdom to guide us.”

I feel my cheeks grow warm at the unexpected praise. I thank her and set off for home. By the time I arrive, my leather shoes and the hem of my skirt are soaked, and I find myself wishing we still wore wooden shoes like in the old days.

The warm, incessant rain makes my house feel like the inside of a dog’s mouth. It’s too steamy to leave the windows closed, too damp to leave them open; too muggy to knit, too wet to work in my yard. I wonder what Derk does out at that great big hotel on rainy days like this. I’ll have to ask him the next time I see him. He and his father ate Sunday dinner with me here yesterday after the service, and I gave Derk the first few pages of my story to read.

“This is fascinating, Tante Geesje,” he told me when he came to the place where I’d stopped writing. “I wish you had more for me to read. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story about the soldier you fell in love with, have I? What happened next? Is he the man you married?”

I didn’t think I could tell Hendrik’s story out loud and still keep my composure. It’s difficult enough to find the words to write about him after fifty years. “Hendrik’s story is very long and complicated, Derk,” I told him. “I promise I’ll let you read it when it’s finished, but I need to tell it in my own time and in my own way.”

“I understand,” he’d said. “I’ll try to be patient and wait.”

Now I putter around my kitchen for a few minutes, looking for something to do. The rain is still coming down hard. How in the world do all the guests out at those big hotels keep busy when they can’t go to the beach or sail on the lake or even go fishing? I can’t imagine having days and days of uninterrupted leisure like those wealthy guests do—although I suppose, with their mansions full of servants back home, they’re accustomed to a more leisurely life than I am. We Dutch are a hardworking people, and we give ourselves only one day of appointed rest each week, the Sabbath day. When I recall how hard we all worked when we first arrived here in America—to near exhaustion, at times—I cannot imagine what men like Dominie Van Raalte, God rest his soul, would think of the grand hotels that now line the shores of Black Lake. Or the rows and rows of cottages that are inhabited only during the summer months. We were thrilled to finally have a one-room log cabin to live in after sheltering beneath lean-tos made of branches for weeks and weeks. The lean-to that Papa and Maarten built offered no shelter at all when the rain poured down like it’s doing today. “But how wonderful this rain is for our crops,” Papa would say, always finding rainbows in the storm clouds.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. If I’m going to coax all these memories back to life like dying coals, I should be writing them down like the committee asked me to do. With nothing else to do on this dreary day, I sit down at my little desk and pull out my notebook, rereading the last page to see where I left off. Then I choose a freshly sharpened pencil and, as the memories pour down like the rain outside, I begin to write.

Geesje’s Story

The Netherlands
50 years earlier

I clearly remember the summer evening when my life changed once again. The day had been unusually hot, and I hurried through our simple dinner of bread and fish, hoping to leave our stifling apartment for a few minutes and walk down to the river, where the air always felt much cooler. I would have to ask Maarten to accompany me since my father still didn’t want me to venture far from our house by myself. Papa always read from the Scriptures and prayed after we ate, but on this night the Bible remained closed on the table with Papa’s ink-stained hands folded on top of it. The somber look on his face and the way he nervously cleared his throat told me he had something important to say.

“For several months now,” he began, “I have been meeting with Dominie Van Raalte and some other men from our church to discuss the persecution we continue to experience. Added to those worries are our concerns about the blight that has struck our crops for two years in a row. After much discussion and prayers for God’s guidance, we have reached an important decision. We feel that the Lord is directing us to leave the Netherlands and immigrate to a place where we can live and work and worship in peace.”

“Papa, no!” I covered my mouth the moment I had spoken. I knew it was disrespectful to contradict my father, much less interrupt him. But Hendrik had just left for Utrecht, and I couldn’t imagine moving even farther away from him.

My father didn’t react to my outburst, continuing as if I hadn’t spoken. “One place we have considered is the Dutch colony on the island of Java.”

I squeezed my eyes closed to hold back my tears, remembering Hendrik’s stories of the exotic lands in the Far East. It would take months and months of sailing to get there, with unimaginable dangers along the way. And in the end, Hendrik and I would be on opposite sides of the world from each other.

“However,” Papa continued, “we discovered that we would face the same religious restrictions in Dutch-controlled Java as we do here. And so we have decided to go to America, where there is no state religion and all faiths are allowed to worship as they wish.”

“No . . .” I said again, but in a whisper this time. America seemed as impossibly far as Java. The distance between Arnhem and Utrecht was already too far to be separated from the man I loved.

“America has good opportunities for workers and plenty of land waiting to be settled,” Papa continued. “A state called Wisconsin is offering inexpensive land for sale. Good land, I’m told. The cost of traveling across the ocean has never been cheaper than it is now, and people from many other nations have already taken advantage of that fact. Dominie Van Raalte believes it’s possible for us to settle in a place where we can live together quietly, farm our own land, educate our children, and raise them to love God. Most important, we’ll be able to worship freely as a community.”

Maarten grew very excited as Papa spoke, shifting on his wooden chair as if he could barely stay seated, his sturdy legs shuffling beneath the table. “I would very much like to immigrate with you, sir, if you’ll let me.”

“Of course, son. Of course.” Papa offered Maarten a rare smile as he leaned forward to squeeze his shoulder. “You’ve been with our family through many tests and trials, and you are very welcome to join us. Some of the elders believe that the hardships we’ve been forced to endure these past few years were God’s way of directing us to move on, just as the persecution that the early believers suffered in Jerusalem served to scatter them and spread the gospel around the world. And so, beginning tonight, our family will offer prayers for continued guidance in this matter.”

I bowed my head and listened as Papa prayed for God’s leading. But it was clear to me that he had already decided the matter and was merely asking God to prosper his plans. I felt sick at the thought of moving to America, thousands of miles away from Hendrik. Would I ever see him again? He had written two letters to me since moving to Utrecht, assuring me of his continued love. I made up my mind to remain here in the Netherlands, where he was, even if it meant saying good-bye to my parents.

Later that night I was unable to sleep—and not only because my room felt unbearably hot. I had moved back into my own bedroom after Hendrik and the others left, but I crossed the passageway to my parents’ bedroom and knocked on their door. “It’s me—may I come in?” I asked.

“Of course,” Mama said. My parents were already in bed, but they both sat up, looking at me with concern. The sun went down so late on summer nights in Arnhem that there was enough light in the room to see them clearly. “What’s wrong, lieveling?”

“I don’t want to go to America. I want to stay here, in the Netherlands. Maybe I can move in with Anneke or Geerde and—”

“Your sisters are much too poor,” Papa said. “They can barely afford to feed their own families.”

I had been afraid he would say that, so I had another alternative ready. “Well . . . maybe I could ask the dominie to help me find a job. I could work as a house servant for a wealthy family, or—”

“Geesje, you’re only seventeen years old,” Papa said. “Besides, the people in our community of Separatists aren’t wealthy. The few who do have money are also considering a move to America. And I doubt if any rich families who attend the State Church would hire you as their servant once they learn of your beliefs.”

I didn’t tell Papa, but I was so desperate to stay here with Hendrik that I would have considered returning to the old church.

“Geesje, why don’t you want to go with your moeder and Maarten and me?” Papa asked. “The elders have prayed long and hard about this decision, and they feel it is God’s will.”

I had no choice but to tell them the truth. They would learn it sooner or later. I took another step closer to their bed. “I’ve been afraid to tell you but . . . but Hendrik and I are in love.”

“Hendrik—the soldier?” Mama asked. “You barely know each other.”

“Yes, we do, Mama. We talked about all manner of things when he lived with us this past year, and I’ve discovered that he’s a wonderful man. Before he left, he told me that he loves me, too. He wants to marry me after he’s discharged.”

Papa groaned. Mama climbed from the bed and came to where I stood. “You can’t marry him, Geesje. I’m sorry.” She spoke softly, not angrily, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “I agree that Hendrik seems like a nice young man, but you have very little in common with each other. A marriage works best when people share the same values and the same faith in God. It would be a huge mistake to marry a man who isn’t a believer.”

“But Hendrik is a believer. He wanted to make a profession of faith, but they sent him to Utrecht before he had a chance to talk to the dominie. Ask Maarten. He’ll tell you. He was good friends with Hendrik, remember?”

“Even if Hendrik does become a Christian,” Papa said, “and even if he joins the Separatists, how would he support you? He has no home or family, and work is very difficult to find these days. That’s why he joined the army, if I’m not mistaken. And the lack of jobs is one of the reasons we’re leaving the country. I’m sorry, lieveling, but you are still so young. I can’t allow you to stay here on your own, or marry a man who is nearly a stranger. Try to understand that.”

I could no longer hold back my tears. “But I love him! Please, Papa! I want to be with him!”

Mama pulled me close as she tried to comfort me. “Listen, Geesje . . . listen to me.” I could barely hear her above my sobs. “I would hate for you to have your heart broken, but you must understand that Hendrik no longer lives in our home or has Maarten to talk to about spiritual things. He won’t be influenced by Dominie’s sermons anymore. It will be much too easy for him to forget about God now that he is living with hundreds of other soldiers again. And his feelings for you might also change once he’s away from you and living in the big city.”

“No. That isn’t going to happen. We love each other.”

Papa climbed out of bed, too, and rested his hands on my shoulders. “You need to put this matter into God’s hands, Geesje, and trust Him with it. If He truly intends for you to marry Hendrik, then nothing will stand in your way. Perhaps Hendrik can also come to America when he completes his service in the army. Maybe emigrating is the right answer for Hendrik, too. He could find work in America or buy land of his own within our community. Pray about it, and if this is the Lord’s will for you, it will all work out. If not—then you must decide if you’re going to obey God or go your own way.”

I had a feeling that my parents didn’t really believe that things would work out for Hendrik and me. They hoped this was a girlish infatuation that would fade once Hendrik and I were separated by thousands of miles. I knew it wouldn’t.

I stayed up late into the night writing Hendrik a frantic letter, explaining what my parents and the others had decided, explaining that I had no choice but to go to America with them. I told him that he was welcome to immigrate to America, too, when he was discharged. I mailed the letter early the next morning, and for days I couldn’t eat or sleep while I waited for his reply. What would he say? Was Papa right in believing that Hendrik would soon forget all about me? I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to defy my parents and run away to Utrecht if Hendrik asked me to join him there, but that’s what I longed to do. Yet if I did that, I would not only be defying Mama and Papa, I’d be defying God.

That Sunday as people crowded into the print shop and stood outside near the windows and doors, I listened to the sermon from the kitchen, sitting beside Mama and a handful of other women. Dominie preached about the great heroes of our faith and how God worked in the lives of those who believed. Too restless to stay seated, I stood and moved to the window as he spoke about the faithful ones like Abraham who never lived to see the fulfillment of things that he’d hoped for in this life. Outside in our tiny yard, the sun shone on the clothesline where Hendrik had held me in his arms, and as I listened to the sermon, I knew that my faith wasn’t strong enough to trust God’s plan for me.

For the first time in my life, my heart was pierced by doubt. I had lived with my parents’ example of unwavering faith in God and thought I believed everything they’d taught me. But now I began to wonder if what I’d learned about God was really true. With a huge, wide world to run, why would God even care if I followed my heart and married Hendrik? Why would He bring Hendrik into my life in the first place and watch us fall in love, only to cruelly decide that we shouldn’t be married? Were we like insects to God who hovered over us, watching our every move, prepared to squash us and our dreams if we didn’t follow His will?

Mama glanced at me with a worried look, but she was quickly drawn back to the sermon. Papa had said I must decide if I was going to obey God or go my own way. But did God really direct our lives if we prayed for guidance? How would I hear Him speaking? I felt as though we were all on a ship and God was our captain, standing at the rudder, choosing our direction and destination. We had no choice but to hang on to the rails as He took us through storms or allowed us to wallow in the doldrums—unless we decided to leap overboard and start swimming in our own direction. I knew enough to fear the chaos of the unknown deep.

My doubts widened and spread like the killing blight until I not only doubted God’s goodness but also Hendrik’s faithfulness. What if Papa was right and Hendrik’s feelings for me began to change now that we were apart? Utrecht was filled with women who were much prettier than I was. And why would Hendrik even want to become a Christian knowing that he would have to submit to God’s will and live by the Bible’s strict rules and be persecuted for his beliefs?

Papa said I should trust God and put the matter into His hands. I wanted to do that, I really did. I wanted to believe that everything I knew about Him was true, and that He was a loving God who wanted only the best for me. Because if that wasn’t true, then nothing in life had any meaning. If He didn’t love us and have a plan for each one of us, then why bother living at all?

I didn’t think I could ever be happy without Hendrik—but I knew that I couldn’t endure life without God. When the sermon ended and it was time for prayer, I sat down at the table beside my mother again and bowed my head. I prayed, like everyone else, for God’s guidance. I told Him that I wanted His will for my life, not my own will. I whispered Amen.

Then I held my breath and waited for Hendrik to answer my letter.