Wind-Borne Sister. Melinda Holland
but Susannah stopped him: “Go wash, Allan. Take some fresh water and care for your tired body. You are too worn to make such an important decision this way.” Grudgingly, he took the two filled kettles and moved away.
Susannah reached out a hand and found my own. She smiled and then said softly, “Little Michael is very blessed that you came to market yesterday.” She nodded to herself. “He will treasure life in a different way now, as will his mother.” I said nothing, afraid that my words would be my undoing. “Brie, I can sense that you are very afraid. Your fear in the long run will only harm you. Can you lay it down?” I did not know what she meant; fear had been such an intrinsic part of my life, ever since the cross came to me. With the outward expressions of my gift came suspicion, even hatred, in the eyes and hearts of others. I did not know a way to change that.
Susannah continued, “Allan feels that you are a danger to me. I know better. You are a gifted child of God, and you have the heart of a friend. You did not need to run to Michael’s side. Yet Rachel reported that you threw down your packages and ran to his aid the minute you heard his cry. For you, to offer healing took precedence over hiding; that was a self-forgetful choice, and an honorable one. You are very aware of others’ needs and hurts—and responsive even when it is to your detriment.
“But Gabriela, what do you seek for yourself? What do you long for? Only when you quiet yourself enough to hear your own heart’s cry will you discover where your journey leads.
“Please know that, despite Allan’s misgivings, you are welcome here with me. Yet somehow I feel certain that you will not stay, once the last snowfall has come and gone. You have a long and rich road ahead, not without danger, yet also shining with grace and even joy.”
Still I said nothing. Her hand remained linked with my own, and I caressed the aged skin with my thumb, gently, thoughtfully. I did not know what I sought for myself. I was afraid of my own longings, so deeply had they been buried under grief and loss and others’ rejection. Midst my quiet musings, Ebenezer decided it was time to offer his own form of comfort. He jumped up in my lap, circled once, and made himself at home. His purring, resonant and peaceful, soothed my ragged spirit.
The three of us sat in silence until Allan emerged from his bath. His eyes were not quite so guarded or angry as they had been on our long day’s journey. I even fancied I saw some compassion alongside the uncertainty. He settled himself on the floor by the fire, drawing his long legs up to his chest. I expected him to speak, as he had tried to do earlier, but he joined us in our silence, as though waiting.
Unexpectedly, Susannah began to sing. It was a tune I did not know, but Allan did. His rich baritone gradually joined her clear, quiet alto. They sang a haunting tale of a young woman on the run from her destiny, chased by those who misunderstood or wished to use her for their own ends. The music held rich harmonies and unexpected turns that stitched the song through with strength. I held my breath, wondering how it would end, but the song looped round to the refrain, which left the outcome in doubt:
So she runs, her feet fleet, and wind-winged by grace,
So she runs, with the Lord’s light abright on her face,
So she runs, but in running one must have a goal . . .
Does she see that while running, she cannot be whole?
Come home, gifted sister, come home.
Come home, grieving sister, come home.
Come home to your Father’s grace; come home, find your rightful place.
Come home, wind-borne sister, come home.
I did not realize that I was crying until Ebenezer shook out his dampened whiskers. So there had been others on the run before me? And people sang of them? It seemed incredible. Susannah had asked what I longed for: what I longed for was to know and to find my home. But with Anna’s death, my old home had closed up behind me, and I did not know where my new home lay. Would I always be running? And where is home for those who breed distrust in others simply by being who they are? I was too tired to make sense of anything but the questions, and after offering the others my small gifts from the market, I nodded off before the fire, Ebenezer’s soft head at rest on my palm.
Dozing by the fire, I dreamed. Once again, I saw the wind-lashed boat, the stricken faces. Far in the distance, I saw the tail feathers of the albatross, journeying on. One sailor seemed determined to row in the direction the bird had taken, and the others seemed too tired and discouraged to resist his intentions, though one muttered, “They journey for thousands of miles over sea. He will not lead us to land, mate.” One girl cried quietly, but the other watched the bird with bright eyes, still hoping. The storm was abating around them, but their world was only water, water everywhere.
I awoke briefly to discover that Susannah and Allan had both retired, leaving me with Ebenezer by a dying fire. They had covered us both with heavy quilts to ward off the cold, and I felt too bone-tired and heart-heavy to move. I stroked Ebenezer’s head gently before falling to sleep once more. For much of the night I journeyed dreamless through dark and discouragement, hearing in the distance the lapping of waves and a soft sobbing. But just before dawn a light broke over the dreamscape of sea: in the far distance, a patch of sand; and farther still, a trail up a steep-sided hill that led to twisted trees and snow-capped mountains beyond. Now all the sailors were rowing in earnest, rowing with joy. Land! Land! The albatross was perched on a towering crag, just to the east of the beach. His eyes gleamed like pearls in the early light as he watched their approach and surveyed their safe landing. Five figures straggled to shore and collapsed, just beyond the high water mark. Only Anna knelt and spread her hands in a brief prayer of thanksgiving before also falling faint to the sand.
I awoke to the smell of baking bread and to the sounds of Susannah’s breakfast preparations. I could not shake the memory of Anna’s upraised, grateful hands, nor the vision of the steep hill with mountains beyond. In those first moments of hazy consciousness, a conviction grew within me: Anna was alive, far from home, but alive!
Despite the dire fortune she had been told and the lost cross, she and her four companions had come safely to land somewhere far distant. Should I tell Susannah and Allan? Yet what purpose could it serve? Who would believe the tangled dreams of this wind-borne sister? I held my peace.
All through that winter, I raised my hands in prayers of thanksgiving, much as Anna had done. I was warm and safe, beloved and encouraged. Susannah taught me a few of her carving tricks, and I coaxed the rough-hewn form of an albatross from a bit of driftwood over the long dark nights of midwinter. She taught me new recipes, simple preparations, ways of combining just a few ingredients for nourishment and delight. I knew in my heart she was seeking to prepare me for a long journey ahead, one with few provisions and unpredictable circumstances.
Sometimes in the evenings I would read aloud to Susannah from Anna’s letters, coming to love and understand this vibrant, faithful young woman through her own words. I looked for clues in her letters as to where she had been: town names, plans, descriptions of vistas, and landmarks. They were few and far between. Besides, her point of embarkation would not necessarily have been anywhere near the deserted beach to which I imagined the party had come after storm and despair, guided by a wise old bird. Who was I to think that I could find her? To travel alone as a young woman, even one well-trained in cooking, wise in boating, versed in healing, was a foolish plan altogether. But it was only midwinter. Perhaps the coming months would reveal God’s deeper plan.
Soon snow insulated us in our cottage world, with only brief forays out to tend the cow. Then came ice and wind, and it became clear that spring would be late in coming this year. At intervals, in the quiet evening, I would sometimes feel compelled to extend my hands toward Susannah, inviting the light to return to her shaded eyes. Over time she could see vague forms and outlines as she had not for two years or more. It helped her to navigate her home more confidently, to take up her old craft with less anxiety. I watched in wonder as she coaxed the figures of two dancers from a glossy, rich piece of wood; by the end, I recognized them as Allan and Anna, just as I had seen them in my vision in the