Inga-Lena needed to vomit again, and her husband held the bucket for her.
When she was through she said, as if to excuse herself: “The sickness may have started because my bowels are so hard. I have not had an opening for several days.”
“Isn’t that a sinner’s defense, Inga-Lena?”
“No, dear Danjel, I know I would feel better if I could cleanse my bowels.”
“If it were God’s will, you would have openings,” answered her husband.
“Yes, that I believe, of course.”
“But you do not rely on the Lord your God!”
She wanted to. But she wished, so much, that she had a quart of buttermilk to drink here on the ship. Buttermilk had always helped her when she had hard bowels on land. By drinking half a quart a day she could always keep her bowels in good order.
“Do not worry and think of worldly things now, my dear wife,” admonished Danjel, and softly patted the hand of his seasick wife. “Now you must reconcile yourself with Jesus. Do as Ulrika does. She feels hale and well. She believes that the Lord helps His devoted ones on the sea. She holds on to her faith.”
And Inga-Lena felt a deep repentance, and prayed her husband to forgive her for having wondered and questioned and doubted: she hadn’t known any better. But when she got well again, and free of the seasickness, then she would never doubt again. She knew very well that Christ had calmed the storm and walked on the sea and turned water to wine when He lived here on earth. She knew He could save her from any ailment He chose.
Danjel Andreasson kneeled at his seasick wife’s bunk and prayed to God that He might give her more strength to adhere to faith in her Saviour.
Meanwhile Inga-Lena’s head was filled with anxiety: she must improve, she must be able to get up on her feet again. Who, otherwise, would prepare the food for her husband, who could neither boil nor fry? Who would look after his clothes, and keep them clean? He was so sloppy, and dirtied himself so, he wouldn’t care if he finally went about in rags. If she were to lie here — who would feed her children? And the baby who was ill, with something in her chest: who would take care of her? The milk in Inga-Lena’s breasts had gone dry here at sea and she had been forced to stop suckling little Eva; someone had to feed her now by chewing her food. Who would chew for the toothless child, if her mother lay here abed? And who would see to it that the other children were washed and combed and dressed in the mornings? Her husband couldn’t handle children, he was too clumsy with them. And who would watch the children when they played on deck? They might run too close to the rail and fall into the depths of the sea. There was no one to look after the poor little ones. Her dear family required her health and strength; if she were sick day after day, her poor husband and their poor children would be helpless and lost.
And while Danjel prayed for stronger faith for his wife, she herself prayed for strength so that she could do her daily chores and help her loved ones — she prayed for strength to get up the following morning.
Danjel Andreasson:
His feet sought a hold on a fragile little ship — a few brittle planks tossed about like shavings by the storm on these terrifyingly high waves. But each plank he stepped toward seemed to escape his foot and sink away. Darkness reigned over the great water, and darkness ruled the depths. And he could hear the cries and complaints of his fellow men, when the claws of pain tore their stomachs and bowels and emptied from their insides all they had consumed for their bodily sustenance. And they were all afraid they might drown on this ship, in this storm at sea. The sinner’s fear of death penetrated to his ears, the unconverted’s anguish at the thought of the resurrection and the Day of Judgment, when the King should sit on His throne of glory and separate them, one from the other, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, saying unto those He did not recognize: Depart from me, ye cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his wicked angels! Danjel looked for the Lord’s angels, but saw no sign of them. No white wingfeather gleamed through the darkness; and he feared there was no angel at the rudder guiding the hand of the helmsman.
Fright was about to overtake him, the weakness which shortly before had seized his wife. He knew the danger of doubt was lurking for him too. Where are you, my God? Are you near by? But the fright came closer. Why need he ask? Why must he question? There was no need for him to ask; he must know, he, who believed. It was not allowed for man to question and doubt. He must not let himself be overtaken by questions and doubts; they must be suppressed. God was surely here on the ship. Danjel could seek Him out, he could go to Him and throw himself on His bosom.
And Danjel now fled in this late moment to his God — he opened his Bible, the Almighty led his hand to the ninety-third Psalm: “The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.”
From the words of the Bible, confidence was restored to his heart: “. . the Lord on high is mightier. .”
What harm will you do to me, you high, horrible billows out there? The Lord is greater than you. And you noisy, roaring wind, blowing at us tonight — I fear you not! The Lord is stronger than you! And what evil can you bring, you great, wide, dark sea, embracing our ship? The Lord is mightier than you!
God had shown His presence to Danjel Andreasson in the words of the Psalmist: they were not alone on the brig Charlotta in this terrible storm. God sailed with them. God was as close to Danjel here on the ocean as He was on dry land at home in Kärragärde. They could walk as safely on this little rocking ship as they did in solid, timbered houses set on rock and earth-fast stones.
And while this knowledge filled his breast he hurried to tell suffering, frightened people in the bunks around him that God was here among them on the ship — they had brought God with them, He was sailing with them to North America. And the storm He had let loose was a storm of trial — He wanted to try their faith and their belief in Him.
As a comfort and help for his fellow passengers he read for them from the Gospel of St. Matthew: “And when He was entered into a ship, His disciples followed Him. And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves: but He was asleep. And His disciples came to Him, and awoke Him, saying, Lord, save us: we perish. And He saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm. But the men marveled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him!”
The Bible reader’s voice rose so as to be heard above the roar of the waves that broke against the ship. But the Gospel word could not penetrate the indifference of the seasick ones: they were too deeply involved in their own pain and discomfort. They heard the story of a tempest at sea once upon a time, a storm in the time of Christ, blown out and dead many hundreds of years ago. What had that storm to do with them? They were seafarers on another sea, in another time, on another ship. Another storm had arisen, but Christ had not boarded their ship to still this storm. He let them lie there in their suffering. Ye of little faith, He reproached them. But He lived no longer on earth, He did not now come to help them — how could He accuse them of little faith? And their sickness in itself protected them against fear: those very sick had neither great nor little faith, they were neither afraid nor brave: they lay there in their vomit, unable to believe or to doubt. They were in a sort of beyond — coiled up in their indifference, completely insensible.