far from home

The wind on the lake flung ice crystals against the glass window pane of the cabin. Britta could barely see the fir trees in front. Such a storm!

The cabin was warm enough; the rocking chair made by her husband’s skilled hands sat in front of the fireplace, a cheery braided rug at her feet. But she was not one for relaxing; that was what she took from Mamma—busy hands. Right now, her hands were clicking knitting needles. It was a surprise for Anders—a new sweater of lovely blue.

He would need it in the winter months to come. This America, ach! Such a wild, cold land. She remembered the first time she had seen their new home, six months ago, on a glorious summer morn that rivaled any at home in Sweden. The lake was pure azure and dark green trees gleamed on the shore; the sun warmed the little house as Anders carried her over the threshold. She was perfectly, wondrously happy. After their long separation while he came to America to clear land and build the house, it had been unspeakable joy to be together again. Sometimes, Britta still couldn't believe it was true, and she would raise the lid of the cedar trunk to take another look at the wedding dress packed safely inside. She was now Mrs. Anders Lindgren. In their own happy little home, she could put aside the memories of the big ship pulling away from the dock and Mamma and Pappa, waving goodbye, and growing smaller and smaller in the distance. With sunshine and a garden and summer nights to enjoy, she didn’t have to think about her oldest and dearest friend, Linnea, who was expecting her first baby any day now. She and Anders had picnics on the lakeshore and long drives in the twilight. It had been different in the summer.

But it was winter now. This place named Minnesota was frozen; the Lake called Superior was solid. There was no warmth, no waves and no color—only wind and snow in shades of grey and white.

Still, Sweden was terribly cold too. And the winter days there hadn’t seemed unbearable. Pausing to pick up a dropped stitch, Britta thought about the difference family and friends make. She hadn’t really considered how important they were, especially at Christmastime. A plump tear rolled down her face as she thought about Mamma, with golden braids wound around her head and a crisp apron around her middle, baking pans of Pepparkakor (ginger cookies) and saffransbullar (saffron buns). She wondered which of her sisters would be chosen to be the Lucia Queen on December 13. Perhaps it would be Helena; oh, how she would love to see her in a white gown, wearing the candle crown and carrying a tray of coffee and sweet rolls for everyone to enjoy. She would miss the wonderful Christmas Eve smorgasbord and the Christmas church service. Yes, being without loved ones was awful.

Of course, she loved Anders too much to tell him about it. He was working so hard, and he would worry if she told him about her sadness. This is what being a prairie wife was all about. She must buck up and do the job.

At least, that’s what Mamma would say. Britta thought about the quiet night last spring when they were sitting on Britta’s bed, stitching pillowcases for her trousseau. She remembered Mamma’s words: "Britta, soon there will be an ocean separating us. I could not let you go so far on your own." She stopped sewing and laid her hand on Britta’s. "But I know our dear Savior Himself goes with you always. And it was His plan that a woman stay with her husband. You must honor His way, even when it causes hurt. And, if you do, He will be true to you. I know it." Her eyes had been shining with misty tears and love.

Britta stopped knitting. So, I am here. The snow is piling at my door, and my husband has gone to help a neighbor. But, I have spices and sugar and flour and eggs; it is time for me to do the baking. I will make Kanelbullar (cinnamon buns). She hid her knitting and got up from the chair.

Before she started mixing and stirring, she went to the cedar chest and took out candles. She fashioned a little wreath with fir sprays and tied a bit of ribbon here and there; then she set the candles inside and struck a match. She lit candles in the two glass windows Anders was so proud of. Then she stood looking out at the wintry sky; "Lord, I have lit the candles in honor of the Christ Child. I am here, following Your way. I’m waiting on Your answer."

She had barely finished when there was a bang on the door. Outside, with snow peppering down on golden curls was a young woman.

Britta threw open the door and smiled. “Hello, welcome.”

The stranger smiled back at her. “I’m Olga. My Gunnar knows your husband. He said you might like a visit." 

"Oh yes, I would! Come in! I'm just going to make Kanelbullar. Let's do it together!"