My garden did well that summer. I grew tomatoes for the first time and got ripe fruit, in a year when Mom's know-it-all friend, Dona, who claimed to be a garden expert, didn't get anything but green ones. The red dent corn developed red striations on the leaves, and red coloration at the joints, but never produced corn in time. Many of the plants just did not get enough water.
In mid-August I received another letter from Daniel; it was so close to my birthday, less than a month away...I could hardly wait to be free. The knowledge that I was only there for a little longer was what gave me the strength to put up with Dad's continual harrassment and abuse. Here is what the letter said:
---------------------------------------
My Dearest Rebekah,
Who knows what out father in heaven is planning? You trust him. I trust him. The world's systems are falling apart as His prophets testified. People will be frightened and will need compassion. Our old nature has no real humility or compassion. Only the spirit of the good Shepherd (His name shall be the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace) has true love. I know him as my Father and King. His real name is Dad.
Either people will have the compassion of the Savior or a spirit of hate and of judgement of one another. The seal of the Creator or The mark of the beast (here he drew a smokestack belching black smoke with oil, Black Gold, the love of money, The Middle east, Present Day Jerusalem, written beside it)
I believe, Rebekah, that the names Jehovah, Yahweh, Jesus Christ, Yahshua, the Great Spirit....are important. But you know, what touched me most about your family was the hominess and love and hospitality. When the anger that keeps me away from your house took over, who cares about the names? Hang on to your compassion Rebekah, it only will get you through the fire.
In His name, Daniel.
P.S. Lassie's doing fine. Our Father in Heaven is good to us and knows how to cheer us up. Keep that cheerfulness Rebekah and always know you're a child of the King! He knows you want a husband and hopefully a farmer to boot. Be ready- when He calls-like Rebekah of old when Abraham's servant met her at the well. You're a sweet girl. I miss you, Daniel.
On the back of the letter, he had written:
"And many in that day shall say master, Master! Please, Have we not prophesied in your Name and cast out demons in your Name? Then He will say to them- I never knew you."
-----------------------------------------
This letter made me uneasy. It seemed full of conflicting messages. One moment he wrote that "hopefully" I would get a farmer, him, and then he would write that I should be ready. I wasn't sure what to think. It worried me a lot. Mom and Dad were furious about this letter and the disrespect shown for our beliefs. I knew exactly what he meant, and I even agreed with him to some extent. Dad ranted and raved about it. I wrote Daniel back, and of course, I had to write what my parents wanted me to write to him, not what I would write myself.
I was absolutely desperate for September 3rd to come. I waited every day, thinking about the apple trees that Daniel had said we'd pick together. I couldn't wait for him to come and get me!
A lot of other stuff was going on in the background, but my head was so full of dreams and plans for our new life together, and learning all that I could to be a good wife, that I paid very little attention to any of it.
The worst was that our neighbor, Mr. Gumaer, had decided to cut our supply of water off, even though the title to our land was specific in including water rights. The wellhouse was on Mr.Gumaer's land, but originally all of it had been once piece. The condition for selling him his portion had been sharing the water, and now that the land had been sold to us, he was reneging on that. This meant that we had to haul water again. At least we only had to drive 3 miles in to Priest River to get it. Also, Dad hooked up a pump between the barrels and the plumbing so that we didn't have to use pitchers and hoses with siphons anymore. Moving the barrels was still a production, but with the steady firewood work, I had grown fairly strong. I could now turn a barrel to the end of the truck, using my strong legs and wedging myself between the barrel and the truck with my hips to move it. It wasn't long before I could also get the dolly under it, tip it back, and wheel it into the house. The tricky part was letting it down gently, because my slight 120 lbs was no match for the nearly 500lbs of water.
It was the same thing out in the woods. I didn't roll logs anymore unless they were huge. If I had a big round of firewood 16" wide and 18" long, I'd just heft it up onto my shoulder and carry another one in my other arm, too. We exhausted all our own slash piles, and got permission to go through those on the land next to ours that was freshly logged, and we were selling as much as a cord of firewood a day. I split almost all of it. I had learned now how to swing the maul from either side, to strengthen my back and shoulders evenly. Setting the logs up one at a time was too time consuming, so there would be a long row of log rounds set up on end. I'd just work my way down the line, smacking each one in half and moving on to the next, go back and stand all the halves up, knock them into quarters, etc, and then toss the whole lot towards the stacked wood to get them out of the way so I could split more. I loved the splitting. When I was mad at Eliyah, I could go out and pour all my rage into the face of one of the logs, pretend it was his face, split it wide open. Of course, I didn't tell him so. He was delighted with my industry.
And of course, even though he never touched a maul or carried any logs anymore, he still wanted me at the end of each evening, to rub his body and then lay down beside him in bed, stiff and awkward and not wanting to be there at all, enduring his wandering, wayward hands, evading him by shifting my limbs around to thwart his attempts. He could pursue me like this for hours if I didn't get him to go to sleep. Often, I was very skillful with his feet and could slip ever so silently out of the room. Or sometimes, I would wait beside him for his breathing to slow and change, and I would slide a centimeter at a time, so gradually, so slowly, off the bed. It might take me ten minutes to shift my weight from the bed to the floor, with most of my body still on the bed....but if I wasn't careful, he would awaken and say, "Becky, where are you going? Stay here!", and his heavy arm would imprison me next to him again like a vise while I laid very still and tried to plot my next escape.
In mid-August I received another letter from Daniel; it was so close to my birthday, less than a month away...I could hardly wait to be free. The knowledge that I was only there for a little longer was what gave me the strength to put up with Dad's continual harrassment and abuse. Here is what the letter said:
---------------------------------------
My Dearest Rebekah,
Who knows what out father in heaven is planning? You trust him. I trust him. The world's systems are falling apart as His prophets testified. People will be frightened and will need compassion. Our old nature has no real humility or compassion. Only the spirit of the good Shepherd (His name shall be the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace) has true love. I know him as my Father and King. His real name is Dad.
Either people will have the compassion of the Savior or a spirit of hate and of judgement of one another. The seal of the Creator or The mark of the beast (here he drew a smokestack belching black smoke with oil, Black Gold, the love of money, The Middle east, Present Day Jerusalem, written beside it)
I believe, Rebekah, that the names Jehovah, Yahweh, Jesus Christ, Yahshua, the Great Spirit....are important. But you know, what touched me most about your family was the hominess and love and hospitality. When the anger that keeps me away from your house took over, who cares about the names? Hang on to your compassion Rebekah, it only will get you through the fire.
In His name, Daniel.
P.S. Lassie's doing fine. Our Father in Heaven is good to us and knows how to cheer us up. Keep that cheerfulness Rebekah and always know you're a child of the King! He knows you want a husband and hopefully a farmer to boot. Be ready- when He calls-like Rebekah of old when Abraham's servant met her at the well. You're a sweet girl. I miss you, Daniel.
On the back of the letter, he had written:
"And many in that day shall say master, Master! Please, Have we not prophesied in your Name and cast out demons in your Name? Then He will say to them- I never knew you."
-----------------------------------------
This letter made me uneasy. It seemed full of conflicting messages. One moment he wrote that "hopefully" I would get a farmer, him, and then he would write that I should be ready. I wasn't sure what to think. It worried me a lot. Mom and Dad were furious about this letter and the disrespect shown for our beliefs. I knew exactly what he meant, and I even agreed with him to some extent. Dad ranted and raved about it. I wrote Daniel back, and of course, I had to write what my parents wanted me to write to him, not what I would write myself.
I was absolutely desperate for September 3rd to come. I waited every day, thinking about the apple trees that Daniel had said we'd pick together. I couldn't wait for him to come and get me!
A lot of other stuff was going on in the background, but my head was so full of dreams and plans for our new life together, and learning all that I could to be a good wife, that I paid very little attention to any of it.
The worst was that our neighbor, Mr. Gumaer, had decided to cut our supply of water off, even though the title to our land was specific in including water rights. The wellhouse was on Mr.Gumaer's land, but originally all of it had been once piece. The condition for selling him his portion had been sharing the water, and now that the land had been sold to us, he was reneging on that. This meant that we had to haul water again. At least we only had to drive 3 miles in to Priest River to get it. Also, Dad hooked up a pump between the barrels and the plumbing so that we didn't have to use pitchers and hoses with siphons anymore. Moving the barrels was still a production, but with the steady firewood work, I had grown fairly strong. I could now turn a barrel to the end of the truck, using my strong legs and wedging myself between the barrel and the truck with my hips to move it. It wasn't long before I could also get the dolly under it, tip it back, and wheel it into the house. The tricky part was letting it down gently, because my slight 120 lbs was no match for the nearly 500lbs of water.
It was the same thing out in the woods. I didn't roll logs anymore unless they were huge. If I had a big round of firewood 16" wide and 18" long, I'd just heft it up onto my shoulder and carry another one in my other arm, too. We exhausted all our own slash piles, and got permission to go through those on the land next to ours that was freshly logged, and we were selling as much as a cord of firewood a day. I split almost all of it. I had learned now how to swing the maul from either side, to strengthen my back and shoulders evenly. Setting the logs up one at a time was too time consuming, so there would be a long row of log rounds set up on end. I'd just work my way down the line, smacking each one in half and moving on to the next, go back and stand all the halves up, knock them into quarters, etc, and then toss the whole lot towards the stacked wood to get them out of the way so I could split more. I loved the splitting. When I was mad at Eliyah, I could go out and pour all my rage into the face of one of the logs, pretend it was his face, split it wide open. Of course, I didn't tell him so. He was delighted with my industry.
And of course, even though he never touched a maul or carried any logs anymore, he still wanted me at the end of each evening, to rub his body and then lay down beside him in bed, stiff and awkward and not wanting to be there at all, enduring his wandering, wayward hands, evading him by shifting my limbs around to thwart his attempts. He could pursue me like this for hours if I didn't get him to go to sleep. Often, I was very skillful with his feet and could slip ever so silently out of the room. Or sometimes, I would wait beside him for his breathing to slow and change, and I would slide a centimeter at a time, so gradually, so slowly, off the bed. It might take me ten minutes to shift my weight from the bed to the floor, with most of my body still on the bed....but if I wasn't careful, he would awaken and say, "Becky, where are you going? Stay here!", and his heavy arm would imprison me next to him again like a vise while I laid very still and tried to plot my next escape.
posted by chamoisee at
3:59 PM
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