The Lost Village(34)

Was this where the Bible group held their meetings?

He had an unshaking belief in the Bible, Pastor Mattias. He said that he had read it four times cover to cover, and thought that every good Christian should do the same. And so Aina started plodding her way through the Bible, too. She wrote that she read it every evening. Pastor Mattias had asked her to help him set up a youth group for Bible studies, and she was so proud she could almost have burst.

Grandma’s voice always lost its color when talking about Aina. As though it were easier for her to put a lid on those feelings.

“What’s this?” Emmy asks behind me. I look around, startled by her voice.

“I think it’s some sort of meeting room,” I say. “Or office,” I add, as my gaze lands on a messy pile of papers on one of the corduroy seat cushions.

I pick them up cautiously. They are filled with dense, tight handwriting. The paper has yellowed and the ink faded with time, but the writing is still legible.

I hardly dare touch the pages for fear of damaging them; I don’t know how brittle paper can get after sixty years. So I put them down on the table and lean in to read the top page.

He who is true and faithful to God need have no secrets.



“What is it?” Emmy asks as her eyes skim the writing.

“I think it’s a sermon,” I say, suddenly breathless.

Pure hearts have nothing to hide—neither from God, nor from each other. Standing here, I can see that you want to hide; that you want to flee His penetrating gaze and true light; to conceal the darkness within you; to suppress that of which you are ashamed. That is the Devil speaking, the rot within you that shuns the light, for your souls know no fear. But they are drowning, drowning from the weight of evil. They want to see, and be seen by, God.

It is only in completely submitting yourself to the Lord that you can become one with Him; only in giving up your worldly possessions, your petty worldly thoughts and concerns, that you can be pure. And only when you are pure can you be free.

You cannot move forward or change until you are pure. He who is pure does not sink down into darkness; he walks on water, like Jesus himself.



“Not particularly forgiving,” Emmy remarks quietly.

“No.”

There’s a boom overhead. I jump, look up, and see the first raindrops start to land on the windowpanes.

“Shit,” I swear, grinding my teeth so hard my jaws hurt. I had hoped that the rainclouds would hold out.

“We’ll have to get back to the vans,” I say, shuffling the papers into a neat pile and taking off my rucksack to put them inside. “Abandoned buildings aren’t safe in heavy rain. It can be too much on the joints—the weight from the water can make them collapse.”

Emmy nods.

“I’ll let the others know,” she says.

She walks over to the doorway without waiting for a reply.

“Guys,” she shouts to the others in the church. “We have to get back to the vans.”

“Why?” I hear one of the guys shout back.

“It’s not safe in the rain,” she says. “Pack up so we can get going.”

They don’t seem to protest. Of course they don’t: Emmy said it. People do as she says because she expects no less.

I have always envied her that.

I close the zipper on my rucksack, and get it on just in time to see the sky outside the window flare up.

A real spring storm. So typical that it would happen on one of my five days. But with any luck it won’t last long. They normally pass over pretty fast.

“Ready?” Emmy asks from the other side of the door.

“Yes,” I reply, pulling up the hood of my jacket as the thunder rumbles above us.





NOW



The rain is clattering against the roof of the van. It’s chilly here in the back, much colder than it has been, but I’ve wrapped myself up in a blanket. I’m sitting in the light of one of our small, battery-powered lamps. Tone’s asleep in the tent, so I’ve started drafting a blog post about the first day. I wonder if she would mind us taking a picture of her ankle? I know it might not be in the best taste, but it gives everything credibility, makes it feel more tangible.

If not, the shots of the broken step will have to do. With any luck we can get them this afternoon, once the rain has stopped. We’ll need to go back to the school to try to find Tone’s walkie-talkie, anyway.

I’ve been staring at the same sentence for what must be ten minutes now. The sound of the rain lashing against the roof is strangely soothing, and I yawn into the back of my hand. I can understand why Tone’s asleep. I would absolutely love to be, too. I’m not getting anywhere with this.

I feel the rucksack at my feet calling out to me.

Why not take a look at the papers from the church? I mean, they’re part of the job, too. They’re a story. Just because that’s more appealing to me right now than writing blog posts and putting together a production schedule doesn’t mean it’s not important.

I close my laptop, reach for my rucksack, and unzip the bag slowly and carefully, so that the small raindrops on the outside don’t make it onto the papers.

The sheets of paper are so thin between my fingertips that I’m almost too scared to take hold of them. Will they get destroyed by the oil on my skin? Archivists and librarians tend to wear gloves when handling old papers like this, but I don’t have any with me. And I’m so eager to read them that my hands are shaking.