Fragile Blessings

  FRAGILE BLESSINGS

  Susan M. Baganz

  Copyright 2015 Susan M. Baganz

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cover Art by Joan Alley

  Editing by Beverly Haynes

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by Prism Book Group

  ISBN-10:1943104247

  ISBN-13:978-1-943104-24-6

  First Edition, 2015

  Published in the United States of America

  Contact info: contact@prismbookgroup.com

  http://www.prismbookgroup.com

  DEDICATION

  To my grandmother, Marcella Fronk, who made summers as a child a wonderful time of freedom and love.

  CHAPTER ONE

  October 1881

  Lily cried out and rolled over, grasping for her husband. Pain ripped through her entire body, freezing her in place. Waves of hot and cold washed over her all at once.

  “Hmmmm?” Her husband managed to respond through a snore as he rolled away from her, taking most of the quilt with him.

  “Grant!” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Help me.” She latched onto his arm and clenched the solid muscle underneath the flannel nightshirt with as much force as she experienced across her midsection.

  He sat up and turned towards her.

  “The baby?”

  She nodded, panic radiating from her. He paled.

  “It’s not time.”

  Leave it to him to state the obvious. “Ride for Mrs. Hughes.”

  He rose and started to dress. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

  “Jack...” She gasped. Her breaths were shallow and rapid.

  “He’s a dog. What good will he be to you?” They both glanced to the foot of the bed where the black and white mutt raised his head to consider his humans as his long tail slapped the quilt.

  “He will be a comfort and protection. Please hurry, Grant. Fetch the midwife.”

  Grant finished dressing, leaned over his wife of two years, and kissed her on the forehead. “Anything else I can do for you before I leave?”

  “No. Just go.”

  He started for the door.

  “And pray, Grant. Oh, please pray!”

  He nodded as he shoved his feet into his boots. A jacket and hat followed, and he slapped his leather gloves into his hands as he headed out the door into the moonlit night.

  * * *

  Grant didn’t bother saddling Molly, his most reliable mare. He threw on the bridal harness and pulled himself onto her back. He headed down the dirt path from their house to the main road leading towards Mrs. Hughes’ home, closer to town. The rhythmic song of the crickets was a backdrop to the trotting of his horse as he navigated the muddy, pitted roads. He prayed for his wife, for their child, and that he would make it back to Lily in time.

  He restrained the urge to travel faster as he traversed the roads. He was a man of action, but risking his horse coming up lame was not a gamble he would willingly take. Especially when the lives of his wife and child hung in the balance.

  Thoughts of self-doubt assailed him. His family wanted him to settle closer to them. His mother would have gladly helped them. Was he selfish in his desire to establish his own homestead? To carve out his place in the Wisconsin bluffs where he could shine God’s love to his neighbors and share his faith as he farmed his land?

  The other farm families claimed religion, but some built round barns to keep out evil spirits. People of the earth who would greet one kindly in town and then speak slander behind his back because he didn’t hold to their brand of religion. Even his in-laws had sought to undermine his courtship of their daughter. While Lily’s father had accepted him as a potential husband, her mother refused to do so.

  Grant’s mind came back to the present as the wind buffeted him and Molly. It was only a short distance further to the farm where the midwife lived with her husband. He hoped she was home, but where else would she be in the middle of the night? He wanted to kick himself for not hooking up the wagon. He would be thrilled to come back to find this was a nightmare and his bride slept peacefully. He would wake up to see her there and draw her into his arms as he often did, and revel in God’s grace in providing him with his heart’s desire.

  He spied the house in the distance. All the lights were out except one. He pushed forward as rain poured from the sky. Combined with an increase in the wind buffeting his face, he shook his head, grateful that Lily had suggested he grow out his beard in the fall to help protect him from the elements when he had to work outdoors. God had blessed him with a wonderful wife. Oft times it tickled and prickled her, but she would only smile that special way of hers and tenderly stroke the facial hair as if it were her most favorite thing about him. He was certain it wasn’t.

  Grant finally reached the farm, dropped from his horse at the front door, and knocked softly at first. Why rouse the whole house if someone was awake? The door swung open and there stood Mr. Hughes. He pulled on his coat as he motioned Grant into the house.

  “We expected you.”

  “You did?”

  “The missus had a dream and woke me. I’m off to hitch the horse. Warm yourself a moment by the fire. My wife’s almost ready to leave.” The door opened again and the man departed in a gust of cold air.

  Mrs. Hughes entered, shoved a mug of hot coffee into his hands, and pushed him toward the fire. She showed all manner of things into a big bag.

  “Is anyone with Lily?” she asked.

  “Jack.” He let the hot drink warm him up from inside. He’d likely need more of this through the night.

  She nodded in response, her movements unceasing.

  “You expected me?”

  “God told me.”

  “God woke you to tell you Lily was in labor?” How long had it been since God spoke to him that way?

  “Not quite so specific. He told me a woman needed my help and to be ready.” With this, she stopped, her gaze penetrating his fatigue. “I feared it was Lily. It’s too early.” There was a firm line to her lips. She sighed and resumed shoving things in her bag. “Finish up. Your wife needs you. You go on ahead. We will not be far behind.”

  “What am I to do when I get there?”

  “Pray, offer comfort, whatever she will accept. If she wants to be held, hold her. If she doesn’t want to be touched, don’t. If you need to be busy, make some coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Grant downed the contents of the mug and placed it on the cupboard by the washbasin. Warmth spread outwards through his chest, but it never quite reached his fingers and toes. He wiggled his hands before the fire and put his gloves back on. “Thank you, ma’am.” He departed back into the cold autumn night. He gave Molly a pat on the nose before tossing himself onto her back and journeying home. At least this time, the wind was at his back.

  * * *

  Lily struggled to rise from the bed after Grant departed. She placed more wood on the banked fire and stoked the embers back to a flame to hold back the chill as well as the fear. She fell into the rocker while Jack sat sentinel at her feet. She rocked, her hands white-k
nuckled on the brown grained arms of the chair her husband made for her after he learned they were expecting their first child.

  In spite of her pains, Lily smiled at the memory of her sturdy husband and his tears of joy when she told him about their child arriving in the New Year. After waiting for what seemed like so long to be with child, the pregnancy had gone as most do, with morning sickness, fatigue, and weird cravings. She giggled, remembering her husband’s tolerance for the strange meals she sometimes made and kept preparing for days on end. He never complained. He would smile, kiss her, and speak to the child she carried in her womb. She loved the tender side of the man she’d married.

  But now, something was definitely wrong. She fought back tears at the thought that she might be burying their first-born. Lord, why would you give us a child, let us come this far, only to take it away? Shame filed her musings. In recent years, she’d attended many funerals for infants who didn’t survive the first year of life. She had delivered meals to the young wives, much like herself, while at a loss as to how to respond to their grief.

  When she had asked the midwife, Mrs. Hughes, about it, she had responded, “God is sovereign over it all, Lily. He loves those babies more than any parent ever could. We grieve, we move on, and God provides comfort at times in surprising ways.” Lily prayed for understanding and for acceptance of the reality of a world where babies were ripped from their mother’s arms by death. She gulped again as pain overtook her.

  Breathe. Inhale. Hold. Exhale slowly.

  Her eyes squeezed shut as if to force out anything else, including morbid thoughts. As one contraction ended, Jack lifted his head and rested it on her knee. She released her grip from the chair and let her hand get lost in the softness of his fur. Somehow, he gave her comfort.

  She longed in vain for her mother to be here, but they lived on a farm an hour’s drive away by carriage, on the far side of Hillsboro, over nearer to Kendall. Would her mom really provide the comfort she sought? Lily shook her head and sighed. Leaning her head back against the chair, she welcomed the silence broken only by the creak of the rocker on the floor and the crackle of the flames keeping her warm. Her mom would have only brought criticism and division. She was better off right now with the Lord and Jack for company.

  Without thinking, she began to hum. Great is thy faithfulness, oh, God my Father, there is no shadow of turning with Thee…the sound broke off as another wave of pain gripped her and held her gasping in its clutches. Lord, what are You up to? Tears came to her eyes and she longed for Grant’s return.

  * * *

  Grant walked into the house to find his wife dozing by the fire, agony written across her features. He hung his wet clothes by the door, shhh’d the dog and added more wood to the fire. She stirred.

  “Grant…” Her hand reached out to him.

  He placed a kiss on the top of her head. He knelt by the rocker and placed his hand on her swollen stomach. “I love you, Lily.” The muscles under his hand tightened beneath his touch and his wife gasped in pain. He frowned as the muscle released. Normally, when he would touch her stomach the baby would move, but there was no movement now.

  “Shall I carry you back to the bed?” He reached for her as she nodded. He scooped her up awkwardly, and she whimpered in his arms as she wrapped an arm around his neck and rested her head against his chest. He placed her on the bed and sat down next to her. She curled as much as she could as she rolled to her side.

  “We’ll get through this,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her close to him while another contraction seized her. When it was over, she relaxed into his arms.

  “I’m scared, Grant.”

  “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.” He kissed her hair and prayed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lily slept, exhausted, on the bed. Grant pushed the hair off her face for the umpteenth time and thanked God for sparing the life of his bride. Mrs. Hughes walked in and handed him a small bundle—the cleaned body of the stillborn infant, wrapped in a beautifully knit blanket. The midwife nodded for him to take it.

  “Why? He’s dead.”

  “He is your child. A beautiful baby who is now with the Lord. You and Lily need to name him, plan a funeral and move on, trusting God to give you more.”

  Grant gingerly took the baby and held the bundle in the crook of his arm. It was late morning. He gazed into the face of this tiny person they had longed and prayed for. Perfect fingers and toes. Little cheeks and long eyelashes. Ginger colored hair, just like his. He touched a cheek tenderly. The body was still warm. He wished Lily would wake up to see their son.

  Mrs. Hughes spoke softly. “Lily will be fine in time. She needs time to heal. I’ll return tomorrow, but you may come for me if you need me.” Her voice lost the confident professional tone as she continued. “Your son is beautiful, Grant. I won’t pretend to understand why God would take such a perfect child away so young. I never do. You are a father, even if you don’t get the pleasure of raising this little one.” She wrapped her scarf around her head and secured it. “God will bless you and Lily, Grant. Trust Him.” And with that, she left.

  Grant gazed down at his little boy. God gave them a son and had taken the child away. The previous night had been a difficult one for Lily, and he’d prayed as he heard her cries from the other room. He’d wanted to be with her, but the midwife would not permit it. A man who helped heifers and mares give birth should surely be allowed with his wife during that process. He wife stirred next to him. He leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “He’s beautiful, sweetheart. When you wake up I will introduce you to our son.”

  * * *

  The funeral was a small one at the Wesleyan church in Hillsboro. Lily’s family refused to attend, believing the child was cursed as they had not baptized it. Those words cut deeply into her soul. She had not wept over the loss of their child. Instead, she held and rocked the baby before she’d handed it to Grant and returned to sleeping. After that, she never asked again to hold him. She couldn’t bear it.

  Something within her vanished along with the spirit of the little person who’d died within her. In spite of the quicksand of grief she drowned in, Lily insisted they stick with their plan to name their firstborn son after her husband. So Grant Rudolph Anderson, Jr. was buried that early morning in October.

  Mrs. Hughes visited two days later and encouraged Lily as she struggled with the changes in her body that continued to believe it was ready to care for a child that wasn’t there. Several women provided meals. But at night, they were alone with their mutual grief, a wall between them.

  Lily had been quiet as she tried to go about the normal daily chores. Fatigue weighed her down. One night, Grant sat across the table from her and as he finished eating, he spoke.

  “God will give us other children,” he said.

  “You don’t know that,” she spat back.

  “He has some kind of plan for us. I don’t understand what it is, but we can trust Him. Whatever happens, children or not, I will always love you.”

  “You don’t care if our baby died? As long as I’m here, that’s enough?”

  “Of course you are enough for me, Lily. Would I love for us to have a home bursting with children? Yes. But not without you to share it with.”

  “So the child meant nothing to you?”

  Grant’s jaw dropped. He shook his head. “That is not what I said.” He ran his fingers through his hair and stared up at the wood ceiling of the home he had built for her with his own two hands. “I meant that I could not imagine raising children without you by my side. I would not want to do that without you. I love you. I need you, Lily.”

  “But you don’t need children?”

  “No. I don’t. Not without you,” he pleaded.

  She glared at him, fury tearing up her insides. How could he so easily minimize all they had lost? What if she could never bear any more children? The thought broke her. Didn’t he care? Had he wept over this child?

  She really didn’t know. S
he’d slept a lot, and he would often head to the barn to care for the animals and complete the final storage of the harvest as they prepared for winter and readied the fields for spring. Or chopped wood. It was as if he was avoiding her. She had failed as a wife. Her body had failed her as a woman. God had failed her. She rose and went to the bedroom and crawled into bed fully clothed. For the first time in days, she wept for all she had lost. Not only a baby, but also the death of her dreams of a family, her hopes, her faith, and the closeness she once shared with Grant.

  * * *

  Grant cleaned up the kitchen. He was lost. They never argued like this. She thought he didn’t care? Grief beat him incessantly. As he milked the cows, the wound inside him bled. As he mucked out the stalls, he ached with loss. As he worked in the fields, dreams buried themselves in the soil. His wife had become a stranger to him. How could he go to bed with her so angry with him?

  She didn’t return to the kitchen, and when he went in to try to talk to her she remained asleep. Of course, she was exhausted. Grant didn’t even bother to undress. Instead, he stoked the fire, made another pot of coffee, and pulled out his Bible to seek God and pray.

  Fatigue weighed him down on Sunday morning as he went to milk the cows before preparing for church. Their soft moos and the smell of hay and manure, at least, were familiar to him and comforting in a way. Life continued even in their sorrow. He was grateful it was the Sabbath with no major tasks to accomplish. Perchance he could get a nap. He had only dozed a few times in the rocker. He figured this strange creature who used to be his wife would probably leave him alone.

  First, they needed to get through the gauntlet of well-wishers at church. The pitying stares, hushed whispers, and acting like everything was normal. Afraid to say anything to Lily that would make her cry.

  Worship began with the hymn “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” Lily sat silent and weeping through the song, and Grant longed to wrap his arm around her and draw her close. Given her refusal to speak to him that morning, he doubted it would be welcome. At the end of the service, Pastor Brown made an announcement.