Chapter 11

Geesje’s Story

The Netherlands
50 years earlier

The weeks that it took for my urgent letter to reach Hendrik and for him to write back were a time of soul-searching for me. I thought long and hard about Papa’s warning that I must choose between God’s will and my own, and I prayed to be strong enough to follow God, even if it meant losing Hendrik. When his reply finally came, I ripped open the envelope, holding my breath.

My darling Geesje,

I would gladly follow you to the ends of the earth, so why not to America? I can think of no reason for me to stay here in the Netherlands without you, and I believe we would have more opportunities over there for a good life together than we would ever have here. If I could buy a patch of land to call my own in Wisconsin and live there with you, I would be the happiest man alive.

I’m so sorry that you will have to travel all the way to America without me for now. But will you wait for me over there until I can join you after I’m discharged from the army? I hope that your answer will be yes. In the meantime, the days and weeks and months until we can be together again will seem very long.

Your loving soldier,

Hendrik

I wept with joy as I read his letter and quickly wrote back to him, promising to wait. Leaving Hendrik behind with a vast ocean between us was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. But I had trusted God so far, and I decided to trust Him to bring us together again.

“I’m so happy for you, lieveling,” Mama said when I told her the news about Hendrik. “The next time you write to him, you can send him this list of provisions that the shipping company recommends for the trip.” The amount of food we were advised to bring seemed absurd, totaling 160 pounds per person! This included meat, flour, rice, potatoes, peas, bread, cheese, butter, sugar, coffee and tea, as well as household items like kettles, plates, pots, and tin water cans. My family didn’t pack nearly that much because Papa also needed to bring some of the equipment he would need to start a new printing business in America. We weren’t wealthy people, so we had very few clothes and other belongings to pack.

During the next few weeks, our family’s plans seemed to move forward with great speed. We said a tearful good-bye to Geerde and Anneke and their families, knowing that we would probably never see them again on this side of heaven. Then on September 24 my parents and Maarten and I joined Dominie Van Raalte and about fifty other Separatists and set sail from the port of Rotterdam on the brig Southerner. The vessel looked huge to me with its boxy wooden hull and three towering masts. Our little congregation was filled with faith for our future as we launched out to sea with a litany of psalms and prayers. We sailed only as far as the Dutch port of Hellevoetsluis when our first calamity struck. A fire broke out, starting in the cook’s galley and quickly spreading to the upper deck of our ship. Thick smoke found its way into every stateroom and passageway, sending us fleeing up from below, coughing and choking, our eyes stinging. What a terrifying sight to see flames consuming our wooden ship! Papa, Maarten, and all the other men quickly pitched in with the crew to form a bucket brigade. Thankfully they managed to extinguish the flames, but not before the fire burned a hole through the upper deck. The experience left everyone badly shaken. “What if the fire had happened while we were at sea,” I asked Papa, “instead of in port?”

“Our lives are in God’s hands, lieveling, whether we’re on land or at sea,” he replied. “We must learn to trust Him.”

I had never been fearful before, but now I began to worry about all of the hindrances that might keep Hendrik and me apart. For the first time in my life I had a plan for my future but the obstacles that stood between me and the fulfillment of that plan seemed enormous.

Our voyage was delayed for a week because of the fire, and we remained in Hellevoetsluis until our ship could be repaired. A local church invited Dominie Van Raalte to preach on Sunday and we crammed into the sanctuary with so many other parishioners that we couldn’t have fallen over if we’d tried. Everyone agreed that Albertus Van Raalte was a spellbinding preacher. His sermon filled all the passengers with courage, including me. “God is able to use all manner of obstacles to accomplish His purposes,” Dominie assured us, “including the blight on the potato crop and the fire aboard our ship.” I left the service reassured that everything would work out for Hendrik and me in America.

At last we sailed out into the North Sea, passing through the English Channel and into the Atlantic Ocean. My mood, as changeable as waves on the water, went from the heights of hope to the trough of despair. I can’t begin to describe the melancholy I felt as I watched the shoreline of my homeland disappear from sight, knowing I would never see my beloved Netherlands again. America was so huge and distant and unknown. Would it ever feel like home to me the way Leiden had? I had sent one last letter to Hendrik before we’d departed from Hellevoetsluis, knowing it would be many, many months before he would receive another one from me, and even longer before I would receive one from him. He would have no way of knowing where to address a letter to me on the other side of that huge ocean until after we’d landed and gotten settled. Those months of silence would be excruciating to endure.

The other immigrants in our traveling party were filled with anticipation and excitement, knowing they were beginning a brand-new life in a new country with God guiding their every step. But each passing day on the featureless ocean took me farther and farther from the man I loved. Hendrik had assured me of his love in his last letter. Nothing could keep us apart. He promised to join me in America as soon as he could. I read that letter again and again until the paper became limp and the ink blurred from the salty air and my lovesick tears.

During our first day at sea, I spent as much time as I could on the passenger deck, fascinated by the intricate workings of a sailing ship. I loved the sound of the waves slapping against the bow as the ship plowed through the water, the call of the sailors as they signaled to each other, the snap of the sails in the wind. I was just getting my “sea legs” and adjusting to the feel of the rolling deck when a second calamity struck. A strong wind began to blow, and it soon swelled into a powerful storm. Sky and sea turned black, illuminated by spears of lightning that stabbed through the darkness. Rain and wind and waves pummeled our helpless vessel. Even the sailors had difficulty standing on the pitching deck, and they ordered all passengers to take cover below. Every door and hatch in the ship had to be closed up tightly to prevent the waves that rolled across the deck from pouring inside. The wooden-hulled Southerner seemed no match for the storm. I was certain we would all die.

For the next week, the storm refused to free us from its grip. Everyone on board was struck with violent nausea and vomiting, including the crew. The relentless pitching and rocking made it difficult to walk and impossible to keep even the smallest bites of food in our stomachs. Our stash of recommended supplies went uneaten. Mama, Papa, and I took turns nursing each other even though we were all equally sick. Maarten also tried his best to care for us, but he was deathly ill, too. By week’s end, so much weight had fallen from his sturdy frame that his round face looked pale and haggard. Everyone prayed and hung on tightly to God and any railing or handle or post that we could find. Then, at the end of the week, Jesus finally calmed the wind and waves, and the convulsing sea became tranquil once again.

“Our prayers have been answered,” Maarten said as he brought me some bread and tea on that first calm morning. He was out of bed and back on his feet before my parents and me, and he prepared a simple meal to help restore our strength even though he was still so shaky that he had to cling to the walls and furniture to remain upright.

But not all of our prayers had been answered. Tragedy struck for a third time. We learned that two of our fellow passengers had died, a young bride not much older than me, and a two-year-old child. I stood beside Maarten during the funerals beneath the billowing sails and miles of ropes and rigging, the canvas snapping and cracking in the wind above our heads like gunshots. Gripping the rail on the swaying deck, we watched the crew drop the bodies into the sea. “Why does God allow these terrible things to happen?” I asked him. “How can He see such tragedies and look the other way?”

“I can’t answer your questions, Geesje,” Maarten replied. “God’s ways are not our ways.”

I’ll never forget the sound of that child’s tiny, shroud-wrapped body splashing into the fathomless water. Or how inconsolable his mother’s grief was. She would never be able to visit his grave or set up a marker to remember him by. I would think of that grieving mother again years later when I buried my own child.

Dominie Van Raalte conducted the funeral service for the families, reading Jesus’ words as he tried to reassure us. “‘I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. . . .’” But after he’d prayed and the service ended, I still had unanswered questions.

“Was God punishing those two people for some reason?” I asked Maarten. “One was an innocent child, the other a new bride. Didn’t we all obey God’s will and leave our homeland? Why did this have to happen? It makes no sense.”

“The Bible says that all of our days are written in God’s book before one of them comes to be,” he replied. “And remember, our life here on earth isn’t all there is. We have the promise of heaven awaiting us. And resurrection. That mother will see her child again, the husband will see his bride. Do you believe that?”

“I do . . . But it still doesn’t seem fair.” For the second time in my young life, my faith was battered by a storm of doubt as I questioned God’s goodness. If He could cruelly snatch the young bride from her husband for no reason, the child from his mother, might He snatch Hendrik from me, too?