The Measure of a Heart Read online

  © 1992 by Janette Oke

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-5855-8731-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  I have been privileged to be a part of a large and loving family. Many aunts and uncles have each added something “special” to my life, both when I was a child and later as an adult. There is so much I would like to share about each one of them. Since space will not allow that, I wish to pay tribute to my Ruggles heritage by dedicating this book with my love and thanks to:

  Uncle Royal and Aunt Bea

  Uncle Burt

  Aunt Laurine

  Uncle Wayne and Aunt Violet

  Uncle Bob

  Aunt Jean and Jim

  Uncle Harry and Aunt Marion

  Thank you all for your love

  And in loving memory of wonderful aunts and uncles who have already gathered with Jesus:

  Aunt Carrie, Uncle Jack, Aunt Leone and Uncle Walter,

  Uncle Ross and Aunt Hazel, Aunt Marie, and Uncle Dorn.

  JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, during the depression years, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Didsbury, Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward. They were married in May of 1957, and went on to pastor churches in Indiana as well as Calgary and Edmonton, Canada.

  The Okes have three sons and one daughter and are enjoying the addition of grandchildren to the family. Edward and Janette have both been active in their local church, serving in various capacities as Sunday school teachers and board members. They make their home near Calgary, Alberta.

  Contents

  1. Anna

  2. Surprise

  3. Learning

  4. A Brief Summer

  5. Preparations

  6. Graduation

  7. Changes

  8. Beginning to Serve

  9. Calling

  10. Reaching Out

  11. Struggles

  12. Building

  13. Trouble

  14. Sorrow

  15. Concerns

  16. Lessons

  17. Passing Days

  18. Another Summer

  19. Baptism

  20. Disturbing News

  21. Another Blow

  22. Toughing It Out

  23. News

  24. Mrs. Angus

  25. Release

  Chapter One

  Anna

  The rays of the late afternoon sun poured down upon her head, splashed over and spilled onto the thin blue calico that covered her slender shoulders. She had pushed her bonnet back and loosed the braids that usually held her hair captive, running her fingers through the heavy brown locks so they fell about her, thick and wavy, making her face seem almost pixyish.

  But she paid no attention to the warmth of the sun, nor to the tresses that wisped about her face. Her thoughts far away, she did not notice the sounds or stirring around her. Her bare feet dragged listlessly through the dust of the rutted track that the locals referred to as the Main Road. But even though part of her was deep in thought, her intense blue eyes scanned the grasses at the sides of the road, alert to small groupings of red that announced wild strawberries tucked among the greenery.

  Her worn school shoes, the only ones she owned, were tied together by frayed laces and hung loosely from her shoulder. They swayed lightly as she walked, but she did not pay them notice either. Only when she stopped and bent over did she even remember they were there. Then she held them in place by pressing an elbow against the one that hung in front while her hands reached out to pluck the sweet berries. She deposited them carefully in the red metal lunch pail with the scratched-in initials A.T. for Anna Trent.

  She could have eaten the berries—but even in her state of distraction, she automatically placed them in the small container, conscious of the small hands that would reach eagerly for them when she arrived home.

  Her thoughts were not on the warm day, nor the dust at her feet, nor even the berries that she placed carefully in the small pail. They were more seriously occupied. This was her last day of school. Her last day ever! And she would miss it. Would miss it terribly.

  But even as the sad thoughts filled her being and tightened her throat with unshed tears, she knew she had been blessed. Why, most of the girls her age had been forced long ago to drop out to help at home. Here she was, already past her sixteenth birthday, and still trudging off to school with the little kids. Oh, not every day. In fact, she had missed almost a solid year when her mama had been so ill. And there were the seed times, the harvests, the days when Mama just couldn’t do without her help. But she had gone enough to easily keep up with her classmates. But not any longer. She had completed the eighth grade. There wasn’t any more school for her.

  Quite suddenly she broke from her reverie and lifted her eyes to the afternoon sky. A shocked look crossed her face when she saw where the sun was. My, she’d been dawdling. She hadn’t realized. Her mama would wonder what on earth had become of her.

  She straightened from her crouched position and let the handful of ripe berries trickle from her stained fingers. She had to get home. There was work to be done before the sun set and the farmhouse door closed against the spring darkness.

  Her bare feet slapped the earth with rapid regularity, causing the dust to lift with each step, swirling around her and clinging to the hem of her calico skirts. Every now and then she reached down to shake her skirt of the encroaching dust—but she could not shake her thoughts as easily. School is over. Finished. I’ll never go again hung heavily upon her, clinging to every awareness of her quick and active mind.

  She had loved school. Had been an apt student. Could have accomplished great things had she had the opportunity. She did not think about that. But her teachers had. Anna only knew that she loved to learn, loved the excitement of new discoveries, loved the quickening of her pulse as she shared some great adventure in the pages of a book. Through books, her mind—her life—was made to stretch and grow and become more aware of the world about her and beyond her.

  And now that was over. She had reached the end of the road. The last day of the eighth grade.

  With one final swish of her skirts, she turned the corner into her own farmyard and proceeded with quick steps toward the house. Mama would be tired from her long day. Anna dreaded the first glimpse of the pale face, the listless eyes, the drooping shoulders that marked another day at the laundry tubs or the long rows of spring vegetables. Her mama worked so hard—and she, Anna, had dawdled over tiny wild strawberries.

  She entered the kitchen and placed her pail on the small table by the door. Her mama was at the cupboard, her back turned, and yes, her shoulders were drooping; but at the sound of stirring behind her, she turned. Anna was tempted to lower her gaze so she wouldn’t see the tiredness in the eyes, but she could not. Clear blue eyes met smoky gray ones. Anna saw the weariness she had expected, but she also saw the gray eyes lighten quickly, a warmth and eagerness making them brighten.

  “You got your eighth-grade certificate?” her mama asked, excitemen
t filling her voice and spilling over into her face.

  Anna’s eyes shone in turn. She nodded her head and reached to the bodice of her dress where she had carefully tucked the certificate so she wouldn’t stain it with berry juices. She eased out the slight crease in the paper and handed it to her mother.

  “Grade eight!” the woman exclaimed as her eyes fell to the small but important document.

  Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she carefully studied it.

  “It says I finished the eighth grade with first-class honors,” said Anna, almost under her breath. She hated to boast, but she knew her mama might not be able to read all the words.

  “First-class honors,” repeated the woman. “I’m so proud,” and she reached out a calloused hand and let it rest on the wavy brown hair. “So proud t’ have an edjicated daughter.”

  The tears did fall then, and the woman laid the bit of paper on the nearby table, brushed her cheeks with the hem of her flour-sack apron, then moved back toward the cupboards.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” Anna apologized. “I got picking strawberries and lost track of the time.”

  “Isn’t every day that a girl graduates,” excused her mother, running her rolling pin over the crust for a pie. “I got the last of the apples up from the root cellar,” she said. “Getting kind of wrinkled and scrawny. Figured they had to be used up. You pare ’em before you peel the supper potatoes. The boys are out doing up the chores. Pa is in the east field. I’m sure he’ll work until it’s dark. He’s so anxious to get that crop in—with the rainy weather puttin’ him way behind. ’Course he’s further ahead than some of the neighbors. Mr. Rubens ain’t half done, and Ole Hank hardly has him a start. But then he don’t have much help. Just has them girls, and they are none too ambitious—and them not even going t’ school much since sixth grade.” She raised her head a moment to look again at Anna. “Eighth grade. Just think of it. I’m so proud to have a daughter so edjicated!”

  Anna was used to her mother’s chatter. Used to the run-on topics that seemed disconnected and yet were all woven together by some unknown thread of thought. She knew how much her mother needed someone to talk to. Stuck at home with all the household chores, with two small boys still clinging to her skirts, with rowdy school sons tumbling in and out of her kitchen for the remainder of her day. With a husband either in the fields or in the barns. She needed someone to talk to. And Anna was her only girl. Her only companion. One girl with six younger brothers. No wonder her mother talked nonstop when Anna arrived home from school.

  “I’d better change,” Anna managed to fit in when her mother stopped for a breath, and the older woman nodded, the rolling pin working smoothly back and forth under her expert hands.

  Anna moved quickly to the little room at the back of the kitchen. It was small and simple, but neat and private. Her little place of solitude—her sanctuary. She wished she could stay there now—tuck herself among the pillows on her bed and pick up one of her worn books, or just bury her head in the pillow and have herself a good cry.

  She didn’t understand why she felt like crying—she with her education, she who had been so singularly blessed. But she felt weepy nonetheless.

  She didn’t stop to indulge herself, though. Her mother needed her in the kitchen. She slipped the calico over her head and hung it properly on its peg. Then her hand reached for the simple brown garment that was her household chore dress. She let it fall over her slim shoulders and settle about her. The brown dress seemed to smother her small frame. She didn’t like the dress. It always made her look and feel like a small child lost in brown straw.

  I’m so—so skinny, she thought to herself for the hundredth time. She made a face at her own reflection in the piece of mirror that hung on her wall. So shiny and—plain. Her thoughts continued.

  Small face, skinny cheeks, little bit of a chin, thin lips—only my nose is big, too big for the rest of me. I wish my face was bigger—or my nose smaller. Something—something to balance me off. And I look all lost in all this—this sack of a dress, this hair.

  Her eyes lifted again to the mirror. She really did look lost, she concluded, as her blue eyes stared back at her. They looked too big for the small, thin face. Anna flung her hair back from her face and turned away from the mirror in discouragement. Then she reached for a piece of ribbon and quickly bound the hair back at the nape of her neck.

  With one last disdainful glance at her own reflection, she left the room and hurried out to help her mother in the kitchen.

  Her mother was already speaking when she entered the room.

  “As soon as you finish the apples and peelin’ the supper potatoes, the milk and cream have t’ go to the parson’s. She might be needin’ it for her supper.”

  Anna nodded and moved quickly to tie a large apron over the large brown dress. She had an added incentive to hurry with the peeling now. She loved the short walk to the parson-age. And she loved her little chats with the kind Mrs. Angus or her elderly pastor husband. Here were people who were really educated—and Anna had so much she longed to learn.

  Chapter Two

  Surprise

  Anna hurried down the road with the pails of milk. Even though she hadn’t been to the parsonage for a while, she knew she would not have long to visit on this night. The supper potatoes were already put on to boil, the withered-apple pies placed in the cooking ovens. Her mama would need her back quickly to set the table and help with the dishing up.

  No, this time she wouldn’t get to linger and chat at the parsonage. Still, she had tucked her eighth-grade certificate in the large pocket in her apron—it wouldn’t do to dig in the bodice of her brown dress in order to show it to the minister and his wife. But she was concerned that one of the heavy pails might bump up against it and wrinkle the smooth parchment. Her arms ached as she walked carefully, trying to hurry, yet hold the pails slightly away from her body.

  She should have left the certificate at home, she chided herself. She would likely go and spoil it—and she’d never have a chance to get another one.

  But Mrs. Angus had made her promise that she’d bring the important piece of paper and show it to her. Anna was both a bit proud and a little embarrassed to be toting around the proof of her accomplishment, but she would never have considered trying to wriggle out of a promise.

  So she walked awkwardly—hurriedly—in spite of her discomfort. The pails were heavy enough anyway, but doubly so with the difficult way in which she was carrying them.

  She had to stop every now and then to rest her tired arms. That cut into her precious minutes. She would be so glad to exchange the heavy full pails for returned empties.

  At last Anna reached the boardwalk that led to the back door of the small parsonage. She was flushed and out of breath as she hastened down the clattering boards, set her pail carefully at her feet, and lifted an aching arm to knock on the door. One hand traced the outline of her precious certificate in the apron pocket. She fervently hoped that she hadn’t wrinkled it, but she could hardly take it out to check lest she be caught with it in her hand. That would appear far too boastful, she was sure.

  She sighed a bit impatiently. She knew it often took the elderly woman a few minutes to make her way to the door. She had arthritis in one hip and moved very slowly with her “hobblin’ stick,” as Anna’s small brother Karl called the cane. Sometimes the pastor himself opened the door. Then Anna did not have to wait quite as long for a response to her knock. Either way, she always felt welcomed and accepted at the parsonage. She loved to come. But tonight her stay could not be long. She hated every ticking second that cut back on her time.

  And then she heard footsteps approaching the door. Her heart quickened and a smile lit her eyes and gently curved her lips. It is not Mrs. Angus, Anna was thinking, realizing that the steps were moving quickly and lightly across the kitchen floor with no accompanying thump of the cane. But neither did it sound like—

  The door opened and a stranger stood with his hand o
n the doorknob. Anna’s smile quickly faded and she blinked in confusion.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” she began to stammer, taking a step backward. But the man was smiling and motioning for her to enter the kitchen.

  Anna held back. She had never seen him before. She knew he was not from their small town—their community.

  “You’re the young Trent girl,” he was saying, the smile still on his face. “Mrs. Angus told me you’d be bringing milk.” He placed a hand lightly on the sleeve of her brown cotton and gently urged her into the room. Anna still did not budge.

  “Where is Mrs. Angus?” she finally managed. She wished she could still the beating of her heart. Had something dreadful happened? Was Mrs. Angus ill? Who was this—this stranger?

  “The Anguses are taking a few weeks off,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been sent to fill in for the summer months.”

  Anna didn’t respond, just reached down to lift her heavy pails of milk and move woodenly through the door. She intended to deposit them on the small table against the far wall. She could see the clean, empty pails awaiting her. She wouldn’t need time for a visit after all. Wouldn’t need the certificate that now seemed to hang heavily in her apron pocket.

  But he gently eased the pails from her fingers. His eyebrows lifted slightly. “These are heavy,” he observed and Anna nodded her head dumbly.

  “Your name is Anna?” he asked, lifting the pails onto the table.

  Anna nodded her head again, forgetting that his back was turned to her and that he could not see her response.

  He turned to face her and asked again, handing her the two empty pails, “You’re Anna?”

  “Yes,” she managed.

  “Mrs. Angus was fretting. She hated to leave before you arrived. Said that she wanted to see your school—something-or-other.”

  “Certificate,” Anna filled in and had to stop to swallow. “My eighth-grade certificate.”

  She felt so silly standing there before this man, talking about eighth grade.

  “Did you bring it?” he asked with seeming interest.