Believing the Dream (48 page)

And so she did the same one week later as he climbed the steps to the train. She smiled and waved until the train disappeared in the distance, then went home and cried for two hours.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Blessing, North Dakota

As summer progressed, the stunted wheat ripened early. Thorliff had four up side by side to pull the binder, and for the third time that day the twine broke. He whoa’d the horses and flung himself off the seat to again check what was wrong with the delivery system. He checked the tension on the bolt of twine, retied the ends, and closed the cover. Everything seemed to be in order, so why was the twine breaking?

“Got a minute, Thorliff?” Pastor Solberg called as he rode across the field.

“Why not?” He pushed the brim of his hat back with one finger and, grabbing the canteen, took several deep swallows.

Pastor Solberg leaned his crossed arms on the saddle horn. “Having a problem?”

“The twine keeps breaking.”

“Did you grease the spindle?”

“Tried that, checked the tension, cleaned out the track, but it broke for the third time.” Thorliff shot the offending machine a murderous glare.

“I’m no mechanic, that’s for sure. Here, I brought you something.” He handed Thorliff a packet of cookies. “My wife sent you these.”

“She thought I needed some sweetening up?”

“Perhaps. I’ve missed seeing you in church. I was looking forward to some of our talks again.”

“Ja, well . . .” Thorliff kicked a dirt clod with the toe of his boot. He stared at the ground, then raised his head to look toward the pastor, feeling the concentration of the man’s gaze on the top of his head. “I’ve not been very good company this summer.”

“Anji?”

He nodded. “And Moen.” Bitterness bit his tongue and throat. Anger clawed the bites deeper.

“I was afraid of that.”

“I’ll be going back to Northfield soon. That should make things easier.”

“Easier isn’t always best. Our Lord says we must forgive those who trespass against us if we want God to forgive us our trespasses.”

The words lay between them like a flame that coiled and flickered, seeking new straw to devour. One of the horses snorted and stamped a foot. Another followed suit.

“Ja, well, I been trespassed against all right. Well, I need to get this rig in motion again. Thanks for stopping by.” He started to climb up on the binder seat, then stopped and looked at his friend and mentor. “But I don’t have it in me to forgive him . . . nor her either.” He settled his hat back on his head and, taking up the reins, hupped the horses forward without a backward look.

Forgive! But they did the wrong! Forgive, or how can God forgive you?
The argument kept time with the horses’ footfalls and the creak of the wagon wheels. The blade clattered, the wheat fell to the belt that carried it to the stretched canvas that delivered it to the bundler and the twine that tied the bundle. The bundle was dumped out on the stubble, the whole of it a plethora of squeaks and clatters and squeals, rattles and banging and dust. Dust that coated his face and neck, drying his tongue and lips. It sucked up the sweat from the horses and turned it to globs of mud. Sometimes he could go for an hour or more without thinking of Anji and Mr. Moen, or of anything at all. Just push the body to do the same work over and over. But his heart grew harder as each day passed.

Days were nightmares of heat and sweat and dust. Nights were battlefields of friends and rage and despair. He read the Psalms where David said his very bones were being sucked dry by the weeping, and he knew what David meant. Thorliff was too tired to write and too drained of ideas to express his feelings.

The war within continued. Friday night in the middle of the night, he threw back the sheet and leaped to his feet, his leg muscles clenching in knots. He paced the room he and Andrew shared, stretched his leg out, and finally made his way downstairs to get a drink of water. He took the cup outside and sat on the stoop, sipping and looking at the sickle moon sinking toward the western horizon.

“God, I cannot forgive him.”

A dog barked somewhere far off. Coyotes yipped and sang from over on the river. Next week he knew they would take the steam engine and separator on the road. But he wanted to go to communion first. Only he couldn’t. Confessing his lack of forgiveness would not suffice. He had to also do the forgiving.

He argued with himself all the next day, but evening found him on horseback on his way to Pastor Solberg. “I have a question,” he said after the greetings and he and the pastor were seated side by side on the front porch.

“Shoot.”

“How can I forgive when I don’t have it in me? I mean, I can say the words, but Scripture says God sees into the heart, and all He’ll see in mine is blackness.”

“He knows you, remember, from the time He knit you together in your mother’s womb.”

“So?”

“So all you have to do is ask Him to forgive through you.”

“But He already forgave.”

“But you haven’t. So you can ask Him to love someone through you. You can ask Him to forgive through you. A willing heart is all He asks for. Are you willing to forgive?”

“Yes, I think I am. I want to take communion again, but I don’t want to see them together in church. I cannot do that. I mean, I’ve been thinking a lot. I don’t like the way I am now. I get mad easy. I think bad thoughts. I want to argue with people, and I hurt others’ feelings. This is not good, and I don’t want to look on this summer as a time of hatred and anger.”

“Remember, the Scripture says, ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ ”

“Ja, you made sure I memorized that one and the one following. ‘If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.’ ”

“You learned the verses well. Do you confess you are sinning by not forgiving Anji and Mr. Moen?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to forgive them?”

“Yes. Do I have to go to them and say that?”

“If you want. The Bible also says that if your brother sins against you, you are to go to him and—”

“Can I write them a letter?”

“If you’d rather.”

Thorliff nodded. “I will do that tonight. Right now, though, I confess my anger and grudge. I seek God’s forgiveness.”

“Then by the grace of God and my holy calling, I declare unto you the forgiveness of all your sins and the cleansing of all unrighteousness.” Pastor Solberg laid his hand on Thorliff ’s head. “You are forgiven, dear Thorliff, go and sin no more.”

“Amen.” Thorliff stood. “Think I’ll get on home and get those letters written. Thank you, Pastor.”

“You are most welcome. See you in church tomorrow?”

“Ja, at the altar.”

Thorliff left for school again on the tenth of September, after weeks of harvest and the crew still on the road. He waved to his mother, brother and sister, and the others who gathered around to see him off. As the train chugged down the track, he saw the Baard farm off to the left. Someone was at the clothesline hanging out clothes, and he knew it must be Anji. “Go with God, dear friend. And may you find the right way for you.”

Thorliff leaned back against the seat, letting the memories of the last weeks wash over him—his conversations with Pastor Solberg, his discussions with God, his fights with himself. Such tremendous changes, and none of them were even visible. If someone had told him what all would transpire over the summer, he would have laughed in protest. But what if . . . ? He tuned out the clacking of the train wheels and listened closely to that inner voice. What if a young man in a story went through what he had gone through? Would that make a story? Could he tell it this soon without it ripping out his heart? Would Anji mind? After all, it was part her story too.

He took the pencil out of his inside jacket pocket and paper from his valise. One good thing, he’d learned to always carry the tools he needed. Paper and pencil. His pencil flew over the pages, jotting notes, bits of dialogue, descriptions, titles.

Hours later, after changing trains and never losing track of his story, he put everything away as the train chugged into Northfield. Again there was that strange telescoping of time moving him from one life to the other. He swung his carpetbag down from the overhead rack and stepped into a blast of hot air, stirred by the steam boiling up from under the train.

Carrying both cases, he headed uptown for the newspaper office. While he’d told them which day he thought to arrive, no one had met him, and he’d not expected them to. Within two blocks, sweat rivuleted down his spine, behind his ears, and into his shirt collar. Oh, for a blast of that North Dakota wind right about now instead of a paucity of breeze that didn’t even rustle the birch leaves, small as they were.

He pushed open the door to hear the bell welcome him back.

“Can I . . .” Elizabeth looked up from writing at the desk behind the counter. “Thorliff—er, Mr. Bjorklund.” She surged to her feet, her smile flashing bright in the dimness.

“Mr. Bjorklund? Have I been gone that long?” He set his carpetbag down and tipped back his hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

She stopped, tilted her head to the side, and studied him. “I can tell you’ve been out in the sun. Farming for sure.”

“How can you tell, other than . . .” He held out his tanned and well-muscled arms.

“Your forehead is a dead giveaway.”

“My forehead?” He touched it with one finger.

“The line—the hat line. All farmers have it.”

He removed his fedora and set it on the valise. “Pardon me for my manners.”

She shook her head. “Now don’t go getting in a huff. I have made a resolution.”

He eyed her as he would a critter he wasn’t sure would bite or not. “Like what?”

“I shall not pick fights with you.”

“You already are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Thorliff grinned at her. Things were certainly back to normal. “I have a story idea.” He didn’t mention the twenty pages he’d already written.

“So tell me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Thorliff Bjorklund, you are the most infuriating man I’ve ever known.” She crossed her arms and waved one finger at him.

Ah yes, the new year was off to a fine start. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s about a young man and a young woman.”

“A romance?” Her cocked eyebrow and tone clearly said she didn’t think he could write such a thing.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” He picked up his bags and carried them back to his room. The window sparkled, and the floor shone with a new coat of paint. Even his desk had been polished, and a plaid cushion invited him to sit. New story, new room, new dreams. He hung his hat on one of the pegs by the door, sucked in a deep breath, and let it all out. New life.