This Tender Land

by William Kent Krueger

So, among the many pieces of wisdom life has offered me over all these years is this: Open yourself to every possibility, for there is nothing your heart can imagine that is not so.

And, of course, there will be hope. In the end, isn’t that what every good story is about?

That didn’t mean it wouldn’t still be an awful thing, but the awful you knew was easier to handle than the awful you imagined.

I’ve always thought of her in the way I think of a precious gem: The beauty isn’t in the jewel itself, but in the way the light shines through it.

If the situation hadn’t been so tragic, I’d have found it funny, this heavy white man showing a bunch of Indian kids things that, if white people had never interfered, they would have known how to do almost from birth.

hope I gave you all a few things you might take with you into the rest of your lives. I’m not talking about knots or putting up tents. I’m talking about a respect for who you are, maybe a sense of what you can accomplish if you set your minds to it.”

“You said God was a shepherd and would take care of us. God’s no shepherd.” He didn’t respond. “You know what God is, Mr. Brickman? A goddamn tornado, that’s what he is.”

But as I continued, I went to that place only music could take me,

Everything that’s been done to us we carry forever. Most of us do our damnedest to hold on to the good and forget the rest. But somewhere in the vault of our hearts, in a place our brains can’t or won’t touch, the worst is stored, and the only sure key to it is in our dreams.

Me, I love this land, the work. Never was a churchgoer. God all penned up under a roof? I don’t think so. Ask me, God’s right here. In the dirt, the rain, the sky, the trees, the apples, the stars in the cottonwoods. In you and me, too. It’s all connected and it’s all God. Sure this is hard work, but it’s good work because it’s a part of what connects us to this land, Buck. This beautiful, tender land.”

“Wherever we take the crusade, I try to find somewhere set off a bit so I can be by myself. It’s not always a place as lovely as this.” “So you can pray?” “So I can refresh myself.” She spread her arms wide as if to embrace the river. “And so I can open my heart to the beauty of this whole divine creation. If that sounds like prayer to you, then call it prayer.”

I don’t know about the God in the Bible, he signed. But I know you and Albert and Emmy, and now Sister Eve. And I think about Herman Volz and Emmy’s mother. I know love. So if it’s true, like Sister Eve says, that God is love, then I guess I believe.

“Why do you call yourself John Kelly?” “Safer. Easier.” “What do you mean?” “The cops, most of ’em, are Irish. They find out you’re Jewish, they’re liable to give you grief. Hell, maybe even kill you. Just look at Gertie.”

“Her face, you mean?” “Yeah. Cops did that.” “Why?” “Like I said, they find out you’re Jewish, their billy clubs come right out. Way I understand it, Gertie tried to help some poor schlub the cops were trying to beat to death, and they did the same to her.”

WE BREATHE LOVE in and we breathe love out. It’s the essence of our existence, the very air of our souls.

Gertie gave a derisive snort, and in response, Flo said gently, “In every sinner, Gertie, is the possibility of a saint.”

“Life’s stranger and more beautiful than I ever thought possible.

He’s my people. “I thought Albert and Emmy and I were your people.” Still are. There’s room in my heart for all of you.

“You’re a storyteller. You can create the world in any way your heart imagines.”

“Maybe the universe is one grand story, and who says that it can’t be changed in the telling?”

THERE IS A river that runs through time and the universe, vast and inexplicable, a flow of spirit that is at the heart of all existence, and every molecule of our being is a part of it. And what is God but the whole of that river?

Perhaps the most important truth I’ve learned across the whole of my life is that it’s only when I yield to the river and embrace the journey that I find peace.

Of all that we’re asked to give others in this life, the most difficult to offer may be forgiveness.

But I believe if you tell a story, it’s like sending a nightingale into the air with the hope that its song will never be forgotten.

Far better, I believe, to be like children and open ourselves to every beautiful possibility, for there is nothing our hearts can imagine that is not so.

“Some of what I’ve told you is true. The rest . . . well, let’s just call it the bloom on the rosebush.”