Chapter 8

Connie awoke early the following morning. Tom was uppermost on her mind as she dressed. He was at the forefront of her thoughts as she helped her mother with breakfast. Then, as they sat down to morning devotions and breakfast, there he was again—this time in the flesh.

Papa opened his Bible and prayed over the meal, then began to discuss Psalm 27. “This passage is one of my favorites,” he said. “‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’” He continued to read, although Connie found it hard to focus. She couldn’t help but wonder what Tom was thinking. Did the words make any sense to him? Could he relate even in part?

“‘When thou saidst, Seek ye my face; my heart said unto thee, Thy face, Lord, will I seek. Hide not thy face far from me; put not thy servant away in anger: thou hast been my help; leave me not, neither forsake me, O God of my salvation.’”

Connie wondered why her father had chosen this particular passage. The chapter was actually one of her favorites, but she didn’t see it as one to teach someone about the reality of God.

When Papa finished reading, he closed the Bible and smiled at his family. “I’ve always loved that chapter. We have many fears in life, but we needn’t be afraid, for the Lord is our light and salvation—He is the strength of my life. I was especially thinking of the last part.” He began to quote it from memory. “‘Deliver me not over unto the will of mine enemies: for false witnesses are risen up against me, and such as breathe out cruelty. I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the Lord.’ You know, with all those who are plotting against us, I find great comfort in this verse. I am determined to wait on the Lord and be of good courage. I wanted to share this so that you might be of good courage as well. No matter what happens to come our way—accusations or suspicions—I will wait on the Lord. Let’s pray.”

As her father began to pray, Connie was disappointed. He’d said nothing to Tom about his unbelief. Perhaps he planned to talk to him privately. Maybe he felt it would be too embarrassing to point out Tom’s flawed thinking in the company of all.

After breakfast, Tom volunteered to help Mama with the dishes, so Connie decided to go see her old friend Rosy. She knew it probably wasn’t the best of ideas to go off alone, but Rosy lived fairly close by.

Rosy had been born with a Shasta Indian name that translated to Flower Blooming in the Summer Sun. When English names had been imposed, Connie’s mother had told her that roses typically bloomed in the summer. Because of that, Rosy had taken on the name Rose Johnson, but everyone called her Rosy.

Life for Rosy had never been easy. She had endured the long march from the southern border of Oregon to Grand Ronde in the north with her husband and three children back in the ’50s. She had been expecting another baby at the time but lost him on the hard and difficult trail. Two children had also died on the trip. Rosy had been heartbroken, her husband too, but the soldiers wouldn’t give them time to perform decent funerals or to grieve. The bodies were hastily buried, and the Indians were moved on ever closer to the reservation.

Rosy had told Connie of how her husband died only a month after reaching Grand Ronde and how her only surviving child—a son—had been shot by soldiers when he attempted to leave the reservation with a group of his friends. They had hoped to reach Canada and a new life without imprisonment. Instead, the five young men had been killed, and Rosy’s heartbreak was complete.

Connie couldn’t imagine the pain the old woman had suffered. She had often talked with Mama about looking forward to heaven, where she was certain she would see her loved ones again. Life on earth was nothing more than a reminder of loss and pain.

Rosy lived inside the reservation’s boundaries but not far from Connie’s parents. She had a tiny one-room house with two windows. Both were covered with oilcloth, but once there had been glass. Outside, Connie saw a well-tended garden. She knew Rosy used to sell vegetables to the store, which in turn gave her credit to buy things she couldn’t grow. Hopefully that arrangement was still in place.

To the left of the house was a pump. Papa had dug that well for Rosy. Connie had been told the story since she was very little. Shortly after her husband died, Rosy had befriended Mama. When others from her tribe heard about this, they shunned Rosy for having anything to do with white people.

The women brought their water up from the river, but if Rosy tried to go with them, the other women would often pick fights with her, so she would wait and go alone. There was no one for her to talk to. No one to help her if she couldn’t manage the pails. Mama told her husband what was going on, and he agreed to single-handedly dig Rosy a well.

Over the years, the shunning ended as Rosy’s trust encouraged others to believe that Adam and Mercy were worthy of their friendship. After a time, Rosy and many others came to believe in Christ. The story always reminded Connie of the woman at the well in the gospel of John, chapter four. She too had been outcast, but one day she met Jesus and then invited her people to come meet a man who had told her everything she had ever done. And they came, and many believed.

Connie started to knock on the door of Rosy’s house, but she heard someone humming and followed the sound around the side of the house. There she found Rosy bent over a large rosebush.

“Good morning, Rosy.”

The old woman straightened and turned to Connie, who grinned from ear to ear.

“Little Connie.” Rosy came to where Connie stood. “You are all grown up.”

“I am.” She laughed. “Finally. I sometimes thought I would never be an adult.”

Rosy chuckled. “When you are as old as I am, you will wonder why you were in such a hurry.”

They embraced, and Connie found it hard to drop her hold. She’d missed her friend. “How are you doing? I feel like it’s been forever since we talked.”

“To me it was just yesterday,” Rosy replied. “Come inside, and we’ll have tea.”

Connie followed Rosy into the house. Rosy quickly lit a lamp, then went to the stove to check the metal teakettle.

“I put the water on before I went to check on the roses.” She smiled. “I hoped you’d come.”

“I wanted to come yesterday, but I was much too tired. Now, after a good night’s sleep, I figure we can have a nice long visit without you having to wake me up.”

Rosy smiled and poured hot water into a ceramic teapot. Connie glanced around the house. It was a single room. Rosy’s bed was in one corner, the kitchen in the other. A small bookcase held various books and basket projects Rosy was making. Connie remembered Rosy telling her stories about weaving baskets with her mother and grandmother. They were precious memories for the woman who had no remaining family.

“Sit, and we will talk as we did when you were young,” Rosy declared. “When we were both young.”

She brought two cups to the table and then the teapot. There was no other offering, and Connie chided herself for not bringing something. She would remember next time and make something special for Rosy. No doubt the old woman had treats on rare occasions, and Connie wanted to honor her and their many years of friendship.

Rosy poured the tea and took her seat. She hadn’t bothered to strain the leaves, so Connie gave them a few minutes to settle. “I’ve missed you so much, Rosy. I hope you are well.”

“I am old, so such things are a matter of perspective.” She smiled. “I’ve lost all but six teeth, and my body aches all the time. Still, I am happy for each breath and happier still for the day I will go to heaven and see my family.”

Connie nodded. “It’s good to look forward to that day. I’m sorry, though, that you are in pain and have lost your teeth.”

“It’s of no matter. How are you? Did you learn everything there is to learn, as you hoped?”

Connie had almost forgotten their long-ago conversation where she had told Rosy that was her goal. She smiled. “I learned a great deal, that’s for sure. Oh, Rosy, the big city is so much different than growing up here. There is too much noise and so many people. People who are always rushing from one place to another. They are so busy doing things and striving for things that they never seem to put their work aside and just rest.”

Rosy chuckled. “When I was a little girl, my mother said I was lazy. If she were here now, she would see how busy I’ve become and tell me to sit down and enjoy what God has given.”

Connie smiled. “Exactly. People are definitely like that in the cities. They work very hard and seldom stop to enjoy life. My aunt and uncle are very busy people. Many people think them wise and constantly seek their counsel. My aunt has a small book in which she writes her various appointments for each day. It is the only way that she can keep track.”

Rosy looked appalled. “What a horrible way to live—always bound by those things.”

Connie thought about it for a moment. That had been her life for the last seven years, and while she’d always been occupied, she’d never thought of herself as being bound or chained to those things. When was the last time she’d had nothing to do and spent the day in leisure?

“But now you are home. Will you stay?” Rosy asked.

“At least for a while. I have come with a job to do. The government has hired me to make a list of the tribes here at Grand Ronde. And not just a list—I’m to write an account of the people and their culture. The men in the big cities want to know about the life of the Shasta and the Tututni and the Modoc. They want to know about all the tribes.”

“What is it they want to know?” Rosy asked, frowning.

“They realize that some tribes have disappeared. That the great march stole many lives, and that over the years some of the tribes have died away. They want an accounting of those people and all who are left. They want to know what you believe and how you used to live. They want to know about your clothing and way of life. They want to know about your trade goods and hunting, about your houses and ceremonies.”

“If they had left us to our lives, they could easily know those things by observing us,” Rosy said with a hint of bitterness.

“Yes. They could have,” Connie agreed. “It was wrong of them to take that life from you. Now perhaps some of them are seeing that and want at least to know about that life. I cannot say for certain what is in their hearts, but in my heart, I want to make an accounting that will never allow the people of this vast land to forget the real people who were here first.” She used the Natives’ phrase for the various tribes to remind Rosy of her devotion and respect for the people of Grand Ronde.

Rosy shook her head. “It will not matter. The tribes have lost their heritage—lost their vision. The old ways were taken from us, and all that is left are the stories. Our stories are sacred—they have always been sacred. Why should we share them with the people who have taken away everything else? Should we let them steal our stories too?”

Connie had never seen it that way. She was saddened by the thought that Rosy considered her job to be theft. Connie had thought it good—a way to honor the Indians.

“I have no desire to steal your stories, Rosy. I wanted to come and make a record so that those stories won’t be forgotten. So that the people wouldn’t be forgotten.”

“Our people will not be forgotten. We will tell our children, and they will tell their children.”

Connie nodded. “I realize that, but I want everyone to know about your people. Not so they can steal that from you, but so they can learn the truth. I want them to see what they have done—how they have taken those precious things from you.”

“Why, Connie? What good will it do?”

For a moment Connie didn’t know how to respond. What good would it do? Connie and Tom, along with other teams, would chronicle the tribes and their old life, but it wouldn’t change anything for these people. Even a record that would ensure the old ways weren’t forgotten would never bring the old ways back. It would never give back the real people’s way of life. Their history would be recorded and then . . . forgotten.

Still, if even a few refused to forget, wouldn’t that be worth the effort?

“The history of your family—your people—is precious to me, just as my own is.” Connie chose her words carefully. If she couldn’t convince Rosy that this was a good thing, there was no way she would convince anyone else. The women were key to this, and if they wouldn’t share what they knew, then Connie and Tom might as well pack up and return to Washington. “Writing it down won’t bring back the old ways or those who passed on, but it is a way to honor them. Others should know about the life you lived before the white man came and changed everything. They should be able to see the wrong they did, but more important, they should see the life you lived and how successful it was without their influence. They should know the culture and history of your people and remember it so that it will never be forgotten.”

Rosy sipped her tea, and Connie did likewise, hoping her words would encourage Rosy. She wanted so much to tell the story of the various tribes. Though she was here to prove her parents’ innocence, she believed in this project as well.

Connie put down her cup. “Rosy, I would never do anything to dishonor you or your people. I only want this new record so that people everywhere will know the truth. Your truth.”

Rosy lowered her cup. “That would be good. The white man should know the truth.”

Connie nodded. “They must know. Truth is the only thing that matters.”

“Your father once told me that Jesus was the truth.”

Connie smiled and reached for Rosy’s hand. “Yes. He is. He loves for the truth to be told. God hates lies and loves the truth.”

Rosy seemed to think on this for a moment, then gave a nod. “I love the truth, as well. I will speak truth with you about my people and encourage the others to do the same. The truth is my gift to you.”

“And I will cherish it, Rosy—Flower Blooming in the Summer Sun.”

Rosy smiled at this and covered Connie’s hand for a moment with her gnarled fingers.

They finished their tea, and only then did Connie remember the small gift she’d brought Rosy. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a leather bag. “I have something for you.” She opened the leather bag and pulled out a wooden cross. “There was a fair in the capital, and I found this and thought of you. It’s made from rosewood, which comes from a tree that grows in a land far away.” She handed the cross to Rosy.

“It is very beautiful,” Rosy said, running her fingers over the polished wood.

“It’s made from a single piece of wood and is very strong—like you.” Connie smiled. “I wanted you to have it to remind you of Jesus and all that He has done for you.”

“I will, and I will remember you and all you have done for me—all that your parents have done for the people.”

Connie walked back to her house after her visit with Rosy, and for the first time since taking the job to make a record of the tribes, she worried that maybe it wasn’t going to be the good thing she’d hoped for. Rosy had made her look at the entire project with different eyes. Were they somehow taking the last vestiges of the tribes by recording their stories and their history?

“You look upset,” her father said as he joined her on the walk.

“Good morning, Papa. I suppose I am.”

“Did something happen? Did someone trouble you? You know you shouldn’t wander about alone.”

“I just went to see Rosy.” She gave her father a smile. “I’ve missed her very much and hoped we might have a nice talk about old times and why I’ve returned.”

“And?”

Connie frowned and looked away. “I don’t think she completely agrees with the job Tom and I have come to do. She saw it as the government stealing their history and stories. I think I helped her understand that by sharing the truth of who the people were and what they treasured, that people everywhere for all time would better know the real people. I told her I thought it was important that the truth be remembered.”

“And did she accept that?”

“Yes, but it made me start to think that maybe she’s right. Are we taking yet one more thing from them?”

Papa put his arm around her. “Being part Cherokee, I want to know my history and the people who went before me. I want to know the old stories that were told—the things the people believed about creation and death. It connects me to my ancestors, and it will connect others as well. I think this is a good thing, and in time, I believe they will see it that way too.”

“I hope so. I don’t want to cause more suffering. These people have already known far too much. Every day I pray that I might live long enough to see them set free to live among us as equals. I know that’s a big prayer, but like you always told me, we serve a God that is bigger than any problem we might bring Him.”

Her father laughed and hugged her close. “Indeed, we do, and don’t you ever forget it.”

“I won’t, Papa. I promise.” She cherished his embrace and remembered times when she was younger that he had held her like this. “I’ve missed you and Mama so much. I tried not to think about it while I was gone, but now that I’m here, I don’t ever want to leave again.”

“But you will. Not only when the job takes you to other reservations, but one day you’ll marry and have a family of your own. I doubt your husband will want to live with his wife’s family.”

Connie knew he was right, but then Clint came to mind. “He might if he was already acquainted with them and worked alongside them.”

“Are you talking about Clint?” her father asked. “Are you still in love with him, as you thought when you were fifteen?” His voice betrayed his concern.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. My thoughts are all wrapped around this place and what it represents for me. Clint’s a part of that, and I think he might be interested in me now.”

Her father stopped walking and turned her to face him. “Connie, I think Clint is a good man. He has given a big part of himself to seeing this place made better, and I know his family is strongly supportive of a better life for the Indians. But don’t try to make something out of nothing. I wouldn’t want you to settle for someone just because you thought it would allow you to remain close to your mother and me.”

Connie hadn’t considered that she might be trying to conjure up feelings for Clint for such a purpose. In fact, she’d tried her best not to have any feelings at all for him. At least she’d thought she felt nothing for him. But there were times when he came to mind, and she wondered. Oh, it was all so confusing.

“I want you to know real and deep love like your mother and I have known. Nothing is worse than trying to make a romance work where the love isn’t true. Pray about your feelings, Connie. God will show you the way.”

“I will, Papa. I promise. I honestly don’t know what I feel about anything. I put the past aside, and my girlish feelings went with it. At least I thought as much. I’ve spent seven years trying not to have any thoughts or feelings about Clint Singleton, and I suppose now, being here face-to-face, I can’t ignore that I once cared deeply for him. But as everyone points out, I was just a child.”

“Don’t judge yourself too harshly. The feelings of a child are felt just as strongly. However, tempered by adult judgment and reason, you may well find that such feelings prove false.”

Connie thought of Tom and the guilt she bore. “Papa, can I ask you about something else?”

“You know you can. What is it?”

“It’s about Tom.” She lowered her head. “I feel guilty for not working harder to teach him about God.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

She sighed. “Tom and I used to have talks all the time about God when I first arrived in Washington, DC. I enjoyed our debates and was confident I would change his mind, but instead I found myself . . . confused and at times very nearly persuaded of his thinking. It scared me so much to realize my faith was more closely tied to you and Mama than to God. I wasn’t as strong as I thought. I had to stop talking to Tom about God, because I was afraid that I might be tempted to stop believing in God as he had.”

She bit her lower lip for a moment, then continued. “We talked about everything else, but when it came to matters of faith, I avoided any conversation. I sought to strengthen my own walk with God. I talked to Uncle Dean about what I could do, and he suggested reading the Scriptures and studying them deeply to understand the context and meaning of every word. We did some of it together.” She smiled at the memory. “My faith has grown stronger, and now it’s my own faith. I know why I believe what I believe. I can support and defend my beliefs, and I am not afraid of being tempted away from God. But now I have such guilt. What if I failed Tom in my fear? What if he might have been saved had I just stood strong?”

“You’ve already admitted you didn’t have the strength to stand,” her father countered. “You did what was necessary to flee the devil. Tom wasn’t the adversary. Satan was and still is. I believe you did the right thing. You didn’t cast Tom aside as some would have advised you to do. Instead, you sought God for yourself so that the lies of the world wouldn’t sway you. How could you have helped someone when you yourself were going under?”

She nodded and hugged him close. “I just feel so guilty. Since growing stronger, I haven’t even tried to save him.”

Her father chuckled. “Connie, you can’t save Tom. Only God can do that.”

“But maybe God wants me to talk to him about salvation.”

“Then God will give you the words. Just remember, God is in charge. Not you. Pray about it and ask for His guidance—His wisdom. Remember, the Bible says in James that if you lack wisdom, ask for it, and God will give it.”

“I will do exactly that.” She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “That makes me feel so much better.” She started to walk away, then turned back. “Pray for me.”

“I always do,” he said, smiling. “More than you know.”