She hadn’t stopped with her complaints over losing Niclas, but had moved on to other pent-up grievances: her father’s abuse, her mother’s life of illness, her sister’s suicide. She dredged up every resentment and hurt.
And God had let her purge herself. In His mercy, He didn’t strike her down. Instead, she would feel the whisper of air, the silence, and would feel Him close, leaning in, His presence comforting.
Marta held to Niclas’s promise. How she loved that man still. And they would be together again, not because of anything she or Niclas had done in this life to make it so, but because Jesus held them both in the palm of His mighty hand. They were both in Christ and always would be, though she had to endure this physical separation for however long God decided. The Lord had already set the day of her death, and she sensed it would be a long time in coming.
After those first painful weeks following Niclas’s death, when she’d finally drained herself dry, she began to see God all around her. Her eyes opened to the beauty of this place, the tenderness of her family and friends who still offered aid and comfort, Hitch and Donna Martin, who shouldered the work. She took long drives to think and talked easily to the Lord while she did. She apologized for her unruly behavior and repented of it. While she had ranted, God had bestowed grace upon her. He had watched over, protected, and cared for her when she was at her worst.
She laughed now, knowing how surprised and pleased Niclas would be if he could see the change in her. She didn’t just pray over meals; she prayed all the time. When she opened her eyes in the morning, she asked God to take hold of her day and lead her through it. When she closed them at night, she thanked Him. And in between, she constantly sought His guidance.
Even so, loneliness sometimes snuck up on her as it had today, catching her by the throat, making her heart flutter with an odd sense of panic. She had never been one to cling or depend solely on her husband, but he had become integral to her existence. Niclas now stood in heaven, and she remained captive on this earth. Jesus was with her, but she couldn’t see Him; she couldn’t touch Him. Never one for hugs and kisses from anyone but Niclas, she missed human touch.
Why this restlessness inside her? Was she floundering or simply at a crossroads?
She missed so many things, like watching her children or the Summer Bedlam boys hunting for doodlebugs and horned toads or crossing the barnyard on stilts.
She missed the sound of their laughter and shrieks when they played tag or had one of their moonlight snipe hunts. Only the humming of bees filled the silence now. The air, cool and refreshing, stood still.
Marta admonished herself. She had no patience for self-pity in others. She despised it in herself. She had started her journey alone, hadn’t she?
She had plenty of blessings to count. Her children had grown strong and flown off to build their own nests and families. Bernhard and Elizabeth’s nursery in Sacramento was doing well. Movie companies pursued Clotilde for her expertise in costume design. Rikka, dreamy and lovely as ever, still had Melvin dangling. How long before that poor young man realized Rikka loved art more than any man?
Only Hildemara still troubled her. Marta had no peace about Hildemara. Her eldest daughter hadn’t looked well the last time Marta saw her. And how many months ago had that been? Of course, everything could have changed for the better by now. Of the four, Hildemara shared the least about her life. She kept a distance. Or did Marta just imagine that?
She missed Hildemara terribly, but if her daughter wanted to keep a distance, so be it. Marta wouldn’t poke her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. At least Hildemara knew how to take care of herself, especially if she’d learned keeping up a house wasn’t as important as taking care of her health.
Shaking her head, Marta chuckled, remembering how Hildemara had come home from nursing school and spent her vacation scouring and scrubbing everything in sight-floors, walls, counters, shelves. She’d been obsessed with ridding the farmhouse of germs, as if that were possible. Marta had been insulted at the time, annoyed past enduring.
Her mind often went back to the day Hildemara had left home. Marta had pushed her hard that day. She’d hurt her girl and made her good and angry. Hildemara had never done anything easily, and stirring her anger had served Marta well in motivating the girl. If she got Hildemara mad enough, her daughter forgot her fear. But now she wondered if the anger lingered, even after the blessings became apparent. She hoped that wasn’t true.
Hadn’t anger had its way with her as well? Would she have left Steffisburg if she hadn’t been raging mad at her father? Or had it been pride?
Her girl had been a godsend during Niclas’s illness. Hildemara had proven her great worth during those last difficult months. She’d been knowledgeable, efficient, overflowing with compassion. She hadn’t allowed her emotions to rule. She had been like the balm of Gilead in the house. Once or twice, she had stood up to Marta as she guarded her patient. It couldn’t have been easy on Hildemara to watch her papa die. Marta was proud of her.
It had been in the weeks that followed Niclas’s death that Marta had recognized the growing threat to both her and her daughter. Hildemara had remained to keep her company, to serve, and Marta had drawn comfort from it. She had become used to Hildemara doing for her. God had opened her eyes to it, and she’d been furious. Marta, who had sworn never to become a servant, was making her daughter into one. Her conscience rubbed her raw. Mama had set her free. Would she now cage Hildemara? What did an able-bodied woman need with a nurse? Mortified, she saw how Hildemara cooked and cleaned and fetched and carried. Only the constant activity and search for new things to do revealed the inner turmoil inside her girl. And it had come to Marta like a blow.
The more Marta considered the truth of it, the angrier she’d become-at herself, more than Hildemara. It shamed her now to remember how long it had taken to do what was right. She had pushed Hildemara right out the door. It broke her heart, but a good mother teaches her children to fly.
Some, like her sister, Elise, never even spread their wings. Others, like Hildemara, had to be shoved to the edge before they’d take wing. Marta regretted pressing her daughter so hard, but if she hadn’t, where would they be now? She, sitting like the queen of Sheba in her rocker, reading for the pure pleasure of it while Hildemara worked her fingers to the bone on that wretched rag rug? God forbid!
If only she’d been able to send Hildemara off in Mama’s gentle way, with words of blessing rather than a lie:
Marta had often been amazed at the differences between herself and her eldest daughter. Marta had set her mind long ago against ever being anyone’s servant. Hildemara made a career of it. Serving others seemed to come naturally to her. Marta had dreaded being pulled home again by Mama’s illness and Elise’s dependency. Hildemara had come willingly, pouring her heart into caring for her papa-and mama, as it turned out.
Marta’s father had clipped her mother’s wings and caged her. He’d worked Mama until her health gave out. Had he the opportunity, he would have done the same to Marta. Mama knew it as well as Marta. Marta had fretted constantly, her conscience plaguing her. How could she leave Mama, ill as she was, and go after her dream? How dare she take her freedom at the cost to others she loved so dearly! Mama had understood the guilt that imprisoned Marta and lifted it.
So many years had passed and Marta held fast to those words.
Words had power. Papa’s crushed. Mama’s lifted and sent her out free to find her way in the world. Perhaps, had Mama known how far from home Marta would go, she might’ve had second thoughts. Perhaps that had been an added reason for holding Elise so close, inadvertently clipping her wings and making her unable to fly.
Marta had so often been tempted to hold Hildemara as close. Sickly from birth, a tiny, homely baby prone to sickness, Hildemara Rose had torn at Marta’s heartstrings. She had wanted to protect and shower love on her girl. What a tragic waste if she’d given in and done it! No, Marta told herself firmly, she would’ve crippled her. She had done the right thing in stifling those yearnings.
