A Measure of Mercy by Lauraine Snelling Page A

the steps to the porch. He turned to his guest. “This is Miss Astrid Bjorklund, our resident doctor-in-training.”
    “How do you do, sir.”
    “Very well.” The reverend Schuman smiled, yet his eyes seemed tired. Or maybe he was weary in general. He cleared his throat. “I saw you in church.”
    She watched him clear his throat for the third time. When she thought about it, he’d been doing that during the service too. “May I ask you a few questions?”
    “Of course.” He motioned to the empty chair beside him. “Why don’t you sit down while we talk.”
    “I’ll leave you alone, then.” Pastor Solberg started to stand, but the pleading look Astrid sent him settled him back down in the rocker again. “I guess they can play ball without me for a change.” He leaned forward and, resting his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands. “What is bothering you?”
    “How do you know something is bothering me?” The question slipped out before she could clamp it off. That didn’t sound very polite.
    “Ah, Astrid, how many years have I known you?”
    “All my life.”
    “Then shouldn’t I be able to sense unrest when I see it?”
    Astrid glanced at the other man watching her. He cleared his throat again.
    “It’s about something you said, Reverend, about needing those medically trained workers in Africa.”
    “We need people like that desperately. You have no idea how severe the crisis is there. Jesus calls us to heal the sick.”
    “But what about here? Doctors are needed here too.”
    “I’m sure they are. Do you feel God is calling you to be a doctor?”
    “In most ways I already am one. I’ve been in training for over a year and working for Dr. Elizabeth for two or three years. My mother was the one everyone called for medical help before Elizabeth moved here. I thought I wanted to be a nurse, but I’ve decided to become a doctor and will be taking more intensive training.”
    She stared at the man and watched his Adam’s apple bob again. What was wrong with his throat? “But I don’t want to go to Africa.”
    “Who said you had to go to Africa?”
    “I thought you were speaking right to me.”
    “Then perhaps I was. Sometimes God works that way.”
    “But I don’t want to go to Africa. I don’t even want to go to Chicago. I want to stay here.” Tears threatened again. I will not cry. I will not be a big baby . How embarrassing. “How do I know if this is God calling me?”
    “You ask Him.”
    “But what if it is Him?” she asked in barely a whisper.
    Reverend Schuman leaned forward. “Then you have to make a decision—to go or to stay. What I usually find is that if it is God, He will keep calling you. Remember Samuel? He said, ‘Here am I, Lord.’ ”
    “At least he didn’t have to go to Africa.”
    Pastor Solberg chuckled. “There’s my Astrid.”
    “He was given a rather large assignment, though. But it didn’t happen until God had trained him for the job. He will lead you step by step, and if you follow those steps, you will know what His will is. You also check what you hear against the Scriptures. How did God call people?”
    “He struck Paul blind.”
    “True. How did He call the disciples?”
    “He said, ‘Follow me.’ But they could see and hear Him. Jesus was a real person and went up to them and told them what to do.”
    “True. We have to listen both inside and out. But He will make His will clear to us.”
    Astrid sighed and leaned back in the chair, setting it to rocking with one foot.
    “Does that answer your questions, young lady?”
    “I have one other.”
    “What’s that?”
    “How long have you had the problem with your throat?”
    Solberg rolled his lips together, glanced at the surprised look on his friend’s face, and burst out laughing. “She’s like her mother, direct and observant, without an ounce of coyness in her.”
    Astrid waited for him to answer.
    He squirmed a little in his chair, almost like a child who’s had to sit too