Keweenaw Grace

By Brian K. Holmes

Johnny Hendricks, son and grandson of traditional Christian pastors in Grand Rapids, graduates from college and gets the calling to create a youth mission in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Soon after he arrives, he finds himself embroiled in a controversy dividing the city of Hancock right down the middle, and he is the cause. Problems that have been dormant for decades are suddenly brought to the surface, and this enthusiastic young man with no experience, a big smile, and a strong faith in God, somehow must resolve situations that have nothing to do with a youth mission.

Throw in an angry black bear, a kidnapping, a prison break, and a Pannukakku, and you have some of whats going on in Keweenaw Grace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512732689

Brian K. Holmes

Once again, Holmes has chosen Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for his third novel, Keweenaw Faith. His intimate knowledge of the copper country around the Keweenaw Peninsula allows him to weave a tale of challenges and ultimate successes. Holmes, a retired auto worker from the Detroit area has visited the Keweenaw for more than forty years, and it shows in his familiarity with the people and the beautiful peninsula.

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Copyright © 2016 Brian K. Holmes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-3267-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-3268-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016903175

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/12/2016

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

For Judy

Children go where I send thee how will I send thee

I'm gonna send thee one by one, one for the little bitty Baby

Who was born, born, born in Bethlehem

(Folk Carol)

He will give you peace; take you by the hand

Fill your life with wonder; help you understand

That His love's forever offered up to you

You only need surrender that's all you have to do.

Brian K. Holmes

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The Upper and Lower Peninsulas of Michigan

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Keweenaw Peninsula

Prologue

D owntown Hancock is a microcosm of the whole Keweenaw Peninsula in the western end of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. From its southern neighbor, the city of Houghton, to the northern tip of the Peninsula at Copper Harbor, lie a string of cities and towns built one hundred and fift y years ago to facilitate the extraction and processing of copper ore. The groups of immigrants from all over Europe landed in New York City and struck out to stake claims and seek their fortunes in northern Michigan, and it was there for the taking. Towns sprung up around successful mine claims and by the 1880's the peninsula, with Calumet in the middle, was one of the richest areas in the entire country. By the beginning of the twentieth century, street cars and electric lights were installed in many of the small towns and prosperity was there for those willing to roll up their sleeves and go down into the mines.

And then it died. Like all booms it tapered off and then for many reasons it became unprofitable to mine copper in the Keweenaw. Many fingers were pointed and accusations were made. The companies blamed the unions; the unions blamed the greedy managers, and in the end the industry simply moved elsewhere for cheaper labor and less regulations. The music stopped right in the middle of the dance.

To the rest of the world it was only a blip, but to the local miners and their families it was like a death in the community. Projects were stopped; bills weren't paid; dreams were put on hold or abandoned, and this fifty mile long strip of land went into hard times for a hundred years. Occasionally businesses started to fulfill local needs, or a dream or a vision would be spawned by an enterprising individual, but for the most part life just slowed down. The two world wars offered opportunities to leave and start anew, so many packed up went south leaving the descendents to hold on waiting for the next big something.

Chapter 1

T he white smoke rose from the icy waters of Portage Lake, as the frost began its morning recessional from the slate roof tops of the century old buildings on Quincy Street, in the City of Hancock. It was mid October in the northern upper peninsula of Michigan, and the bright sun rose high in the eastern sky. With one cold hand in his jeans pocket, and the other clutching a credit card, Johnny Hendricks vigorously scraped the ice from the wind shield of his old Dodge van. Freezing temperatures had come early to the Keweenaw Peninsula, and the contrasts of the pines, and maples created a colorful mural that only God could take credit for.

Zipping the insulated hooded sweatshirt up close to his chin, he stomped his feet for warmth, and slid his skinny butt across the vinyl seat cover. He was still whipped from the eleven hour drive from Grand Rapids to Hancock the day before, but he was grateful it was over, and ready for a fresh start. Pulling out of the Hancock Motel parking lot under the approach of the blue Hancock Lift Bridge, he slowly eased into the morning city traffic toward downtown, looking for the first restaurant he could find.

As the small flecks of ice dribbled down the windshield to meet the wrath of the wiper blades, he glanced into the rearview mirror at the bloodshot eyes of a blond, curly headed, baby face, stuck on the shoulders of a six foot, 140 pound scrawny frame. This certainly didn't inspire much confidence that he was the world beater that his folks had placed their hopes and money on when they sent him to this outpost so far from the home front in southwest Michigan. At age twenty five, and with all the education he hoped he'd ever need behind him, he was ready to escape the past and explore some different horizons. Ahead on the left, a large sign announced the Kaleva Bakery and Coffee Shop, and with the bonus of a parking spot right in front of the door, he wheeled right up to the curb.

As he pushed through the front door, the heat and aroma of the baking ovens hit him squarely in the face. And with the tenacity inherited from his mother's side of the family, he squeezed his way through the tables to the five-stool counter.

Coffee? asked the tired looking waitress as if there were no other option. It was obvious that after three hours of breakfast traffic, she didn't have much left for small talk.

Please, he responded reaching for the small plastic covered menu. After ordering the pancake special, he spun around on the stool checking out the rest of the coffee shop. He was glad he wore his best wool shirt, Levi jeans and work boots, to help blend in with the working class locals.

Excuse me, said his counter mate, can you pass the sugar?

Johnny slid the sweetener to his left. Maybe you can help me, he said. I'm looking for an empty building to rent here in Hancock.

The waitress came over with Johnny's coffee, a spoon, and the advice.

Check the bulletin board over by the front door, she nodded. The locals place their want ads on it 'cause it's free.

Johnny took a sip of coffee, and made his way through the patrons lined up waiting for a table.

Bulletin boards are universal; want ads, business cards, pictures of lost animals, and people wanting to trade their specialty for money. Up in the right hand corner, next to a local dog groomer was an ad for a local store front. For sale or lease, call H. Aho, with the phone number and address. He copied the information and made his way back to a stack of hot pancakes and sausages thinking that at the moment, his stomach held priority over his immediate future. The waitress knew Mrs. Aho, said she was a regular, and gave him directions to her home. It was only two blocks away, so he thanked her for the information, left the van, and decided to enjoy the morning. It was a good time to walk off a little breakfast, and take a look at his new city.

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Portage Lake, a deep water river once used to transport copper ore, divided the Keweenaw from the rest of the Upper Peninsula. It was now just a scenic waterway separating Hancock and Houghton with miles of rocky crags, towering pines, and shimmering waters to add to its beauty. Johnny walked from Quincy Street down towards the water feeling the cool mist rising to meet him. Ten minutes later he found the house he was looking for. There on a corner lot sat a little white house with dark green shutters. Directly across the street was a yellow galvanized railing and a forty foot drop down to Portage Lake. He had to go look over the edge imagining what a piece of property with a view like this would cost down in his home town of Grand Rapids. He turned back and looked at the small framed wooden houses on this block and wondered how they survived the terrible snow storms that would roll in off of Lake Superior in the coming months.

Johnny crossed the street, climbed the four steps and rang the bell. The door slowly opened and a short curly permed hairdo attached to a grandmotherly face poked her head out into the frosty air. Replete with a flowered house coat and muffy slippers, he could see the madam of the house wasn't expecting anyone this time of the morning. She reminded him of one of the old live-in aunts, or housekeepers from the early sixties sitcoms, who was slouchy, yet comfortable, but capable and wise to all situations under her roof.

Good morning Mrs. Aho, (Ayho) he smiled trying to project more confidence than he felt at the moment.

Aho.(Aaho) was the gruff reply emphasizing the long A. She seemed rather unpleasant as she poked her head out looking in each direction to see if he was alone.

Aho, yes Mrs. Aho. How are you this morning? he offered lamely wishing he could go down the steps and start over again.

What do you want? she asked pulling her house coat closer to ward off the cold. She looked back into the house as if she might need reinforcements.

You know, maybe I should come back at a better time to talk about renting the building on Quincy Street, he offered apologetically.

Nonsense, come in, it's cold out there, she said as she held the door open for him like a barn cat seeing a mouse at the door.

He made his way through the foyer into the living room trying to imagine how cold it would be in February, as she closed out the cold October air. She offered him a seat on an overstuffed davenport with hand-crocheted end pillows. The room was decorated in the style of the nineteen fifties with flowered wallpaper, and old but solid wooden furniture. The house smelled of wood fire smoke, roasted meat, and Finnish humanity all rolled into one. He would soon find out that most of the older homes on the Keweenaw Peninsula had been heated by wood stoves since the great immigration of the 1840's.

Are you from Hancock? She asked.

No, I drove up yesterday from down-state, he said, making himself comfortable. I spent last night at the Hancock Motel.

That place is too expensive, she remarked as if by reflex.

John guessed she has no idea what the cost of any lodging was in the area.

He thought it was a bargain by down-state standards, but quickly concurred with her if for no other reason than to try and seem agreeable.

Well, I got in late and it was the first place I saw with a Vacancy" sign.

I was kind of pooped after driving non stop from Grand Rapids, maybe I'll look around tomorrow," he said.

So, you're staying then, at least for a while, she mused. He took his time examining the room and thought his aunt Gracie would be impressed with the collection of green and pink fancy glassware displayed on all the curio shelves.

You certainly have a beautiful collection of glassware, he smoozed.

Where did you hear about the building? she asked, ignoring the flattery.

I saw it on the bulletin board down at the Kaleva Bakery on Quincy Street.

Dey got good bakery eh, she smiled, dropping into her Finnish U.P. dialect, which went right over his head.

Not to be out done, he offered. Ya, dey do eh, rather impressed with his new bi-cultural affectation. For a moment they smiled at each other.

Would you like coffee? she asked all cleverness put aside.

I'd love some, he replied, and together they made their way through the formal dining room to the kitchen. While he sat in a green plastic chair at the matching Formica table, Mrs. Aho put a teaspoon of Sanka in each cup, sliced up a Povititsa loaf and placed it on the table.

I think it's time I introduced myself, I'm John Hendricks from down-state in the Grand Rapids area. He smiled quickly declaring a truce between a clever woman, and an out-matched smart aleck.

Well, my name is Helen, and you're along way from home John Hendricks. What are you doing way up here in Hancock?

I'm sort of a missionary, he said toying with the spoon.

Her eyes lifted as if he had just climbed out from behind a bush in darkest Africa.

A missionary in Hancock? She asked, more of a question than a statement.

I guess it sounds a little strange, he said and maybe missionary isn't the right word to use in this situation. It's sort of a commitment, or a pledge if you will, that I have made to God and some fine people in the Grand Rapids area to try and provide a facility in a community where high school and college aged youths can go to relax, study and communicate with each other to relieve some of the tensions from school or home life.

Hmm, she mused, Are you a priest, a minister, or just a regular old missionary?

Well. It's kind of a long story, he offered.

She slid her chair back, Let me get the tea kettle, and you can start from the beginning.

For the next half hour, over weak instant decaf and some excellent homemade coffee-cake, John and Helen swapped life stories. He told her about growing up the son and grandson of Christian Reformed preachers, and she told him of the joys and hardships of a young girl's life in a Finnish-American community. Their ages and cultural differences melted away as he told her about his four years at Cornerstone University, and his undergraduate work in Ministerial and Youth Leadership.

My dad and grandpa, both John Hendricks' arranged the funding for this mission through their large main stream churches in the Grand Rapids area. Together with their committees to support missions in the continental U.S, they agreed to collectively hear my presentation.

Helen spread a little butter on a slice of Povititsa, and passed it over to John without breaking his train of thought.

You know for many years, American churches thought the mission to fulfill God's promises were only in foreign countries, never considering that right here in our own back yards there were opportunities to roll up our sleeves and help our own brothers and sisters create better lives for themselves. Many different ethnic and cultural groups from the forgotten native Americans to the poor share croppers in the south have... he paused.

Helen, he said quietly.

Yes, John, she responded.

Sometimes I get so excited I just get carried away."

That's okay John, I feel your enthusiasm, but what I can't understand is why here? I mean, why Hancock? Helen said with a perplexed look on her face. Look around you, you drove through town this morning, this isn't an Indian reservation out west or some big inner city area. There's no blight; there's no hunger. We're not asking anything from anyone. We've been perfectly fine for over a hundred years without any interference, and I don't think Hancock's ready for some outsiders to come in and try to influence our kids.

Helen, having spent all of her