A Measure of Mercy by Lauraine Snelling Page A

is where He wants you to go.”
    “But what about inside of you? Do you really think and feel I should go?” Astrid turned her head to stare up at her mother.
    “Ah, Astrid, no mother wants to send her daughters or her sons off to some distant place, but if God calls you to do that, His calling is far more important than my feelings.” She paused and allowed herself to imagine life there without Astrid. A tear matched that of her daughter. She inhaled the morning freshness and let it out on a sigh. “I want you to come back with all your new knowledge and be here to help Elizabeth. I want us to build a hospital that will make life better for many others around here.” She paused and smiled. “Guess I have all kinds of wants.”
    “I hate to leave all of this.” Astrid swept her arm out to include the houses, the farms, her town, her people.
    Ingeborg stroked her cheek.
    “Do I have to go?”
    “No. You need to seek His face so He can guide you.”
    “I’m not very happy with Him right now.” Astrid wrapped her arms around her middle, as if holding a pillow.
    “I know. I’ve been there too, and the sooner I let go of what was making me angry, the sooner I felt safe and loved again.” She kissed the top of Astrid’s head. “It is a fact that God is happy with you. He rejoices over you with singing.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Because He said so.” She kissed her again. “I’ll bring the coffee out.”
    “I’ll come help.” Astrid stood and hugged her mother close, then arm in arm they entered the kitchen.
    As Ingeborg poured the water into the coffeepot, she let her prayers rise with the steam. Father, only you can tell my daughter what you want her to do. Please make it clear and heal her hurts. And mine if she leaves . This was one of those times when she was sure she heard Him chuckle.
    “All will be well” floated like a happy breeze around the kitchen.
    Instead of taking their coffee back out to the porch, Ingeborg stirred eggs and flour into the sourdough batter she’d started for pancakes the night before. Astrid brought the ham from the wooden icebox that now resided in the kitchen corner and began slicing off pieces to fry for the men. That done and the ham beginning to sizzle, she moved the frying pan toward the back of the stove.
    “I’ll go feed the chickens and see if there are any eggs yet.”
    “Watch out for the speckled hen. She’s setting and is meaner than a wounded badger. Like to tore my finger off the other day.”
    “She’s getting old. I thought she’d probably go in the stew pot this winter.” Astrid picked up the lard bucket of vegetable scraps they kept for the chickens. “Need anything from the well house?”
    “Bring in that jug that has a red stripe. Your far will love having sour cream on his pancakes.”
    “Any chokecherry syrup?”
    “Down in the cellar.”
    Ingeborg paused to watch her daughter swoop the cat up in her arms, hug and pet her, then set her down, grab the scraps can again, and head on out the door whistling. Ah, the resilience of youth, stumbling over a decision one minute, then whistling the next. “Astrid, you have no idea how much I will miss you. You make my heart sing.” Her whisper joined the others heading for heaven and a heart that always hears.
    By the time the men came up from milking, breakfast was ready to be put on the table, including a bouquet of sweet peas Astrid had picked from the garden. She set the flowers between the cut-glass creamer and the sugar bowl, which either sat in the middle of the table or on the windowsill for the sun to sparkle it.
    Now that summer had arrived, the men washed outside at the bench set up with basins of water and soap; towels hung from hooks along the side of the house.
    “Betsy stuck her foot in Haakan’s bucket,” Samuel crowed on entering the kitchen.
    Ingeborg glanced at her husband, who both nodded and shook his head. “You can’t let your mind wander with that one.” He