Peace Like a River

By Leif Enger

A boy searches for his fugitive brother in 1960s Minnesota in this New York Times bestseller—“a stunning debut novel [of] faith, miracles, and family” (Publishers Weekly, starred review).

An eleven-year-old asthmatic boy, Reuben Land has reason to believe in miracles. But he will soon learn that life, even when touched by the divine, is never easy. Along with his father and poetically inclined sister, Reuben finds himself on a cross-country search for his outlaw older brother who has been controversially charged with murder.

The Land family’s journey is touched by serendipity and the kindness of strangers, and its remarkable conclusion demonstrates how family, love, and faith can stand up to the most terrifying of enemies—and the most tragic of fates. “A rich mixture of adventure, tragedy, and healing,” Peace Like a River is “a collage of legends from sources sacred and profane—from the Old Testament to the Old West, from the Gospels to police dramas” (Ron Charles, The Christian Science Monitor).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 1, 2007
• ISBN: 9781555845902

Leif Enger

Leif Enger was raised in Osakis, Minnesota and has worked as a reporter and producer for Minnesota Public Radio since 1984. He lives on a farm in Minnesota with his wife and two sons.

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Peace Like a River

Leif Enger

Grove Press

New York

Copyright © 2001 by Leif Enger

Introduction copyright © 2021 by Leif Enger

Cover design by Julie Metz

Cover photograph © Gary Isaacs

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [e-mail].

20th ANNIVERSARY EDITION

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: September 2001

First Grove Atlantic paperback edition: September 2002

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available for this title.

ISBN 978-0-8021-3925-2

eISBN 978-1-55584-590-2

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove Atlantic

154 West 14th Street

New York, NY 10011

Distributed by Publishers Group West

groveatlantic.com

To Robin

The country ahead is as wild a spread

As ever we’re likely to see

The horses are dancing to start the advance—

Won’t you ride on with me?

Introduction to the 20th Anniversary Edition

Twenty years ago I read from this novel in a Minnesota lake-country bar and grill. It wouldn’t officially publish until the next day, but the local bookstore had gotten copies in advance and arranged with the tavern to host the event. The patrons were surprised to have their drinks and dinners interrupted, but they were good sports and kind people. I have not forgotten the date because it was September 10, 2001.  

Everyone has their own way of describing the following morning, as the towers plumed and dissolved: the world turned darker, meaner, upside down. It tied on a blindfold and hit the gas. In the new hydroplaning reality, a modest story about an adventurous family pursuing their prodigal across the plains felt distinctly low stakes. We hit the road ourselves a few weeks later, my wife Robin and I and our sons, uncertain whether promoting a book in that environment was even the right thing to do. Every day we drove a few hundred miles, following faxed printouts from Deb Seager at Grove Atlantic. We ate tacos in a blizzard in Montana, gas-station barbeque in Mississippi, oranges off the ground in California. We had kites along and flew them in farm fields and parking lots. Evenings we arrived at the next bookstore and spoke to whomever was there. Sometimes nobody came. Other times everyone did. The constant was the kindness of booksellers and readers. They looked out for us, that’s how it felt—filled us with pastries and their own vivid stories. More than one proprietor, at the end of the night, drew a map by hand showing where to find coffee on the way out of town. 

When you love books and live with them daily, it’s tempting to believe they’re the answer. That whatever the crisis—war, pandemic, social delamination—books will be our lanterns and compasses, our balls of string leading out of the labyrinth. I think all this is true, and moreover that these primitive bundles of ragstock and ink still pulse with curious music, but twenty years on it’s plain that their greatest power is to move us toward each other. Who are you, reader? If you’re familiar, we smile and relax. If we are strangers, then these are charged and perilous moments, when the filament glows and we become synapses—with luck, a bridge flickers into being. 

Either way, I hope you like the story. It’s stuffed with everything I needed most at the time—blizzards and fugitives, miracles, romance, coal veins smoldering in the earth. I still feel close to the Lands, hydroplaning as they are, low on gas, old Plymouth barely touching the road. Whatever comes next is a mystery, but there are lit windows ahead—maybe it’s someone who knows the terrain, and how to bake cinnamon rolls.

—Leif Enger, 2021

Clay

From my first breath in this world, all I wanted was a good set of lungs and the air to fill them with—given circumstances, you might presume, for an American baby of the twentieth century. Think about your own first gasp: a shocking wind roweling so easily down your throat, and you still slipping around in the doctor’s hands. How you yowled! Not a thing on your mind but breakfast, and that was on the way.

When I was born to Helen and Jeremiah Land, in 1951, my lungs refused to kick in.

My father wasn’t in the delivery room or even in the building; the halls of Wilson Hospital were close and short, and Dad had gone out to pace in the damp September wind. He was praying, rounding the block for the fifth time, when the air quickened. He opened his eyes and discovered he was running—sprinting across the grass toward the door.

How’d you know? I adored this story, made him tell it all the time.

God told me you were in trouble.

Out loud? Did you hear Him?

Nope, not out loud. But He made me run, Reuben. I guess I figured it out on the way.

I had, in fact, been delivered some minutes before. My mother was dazed, propped against soggy pillows, unable to comprehend what Dr. Animas Nokes was telling her.

He still isn’t breathing, Mrs. Land.

Give him to me!

To this day I’m glad Dr. Nokes did not hand me over on demand. Tired as my mother was, who knows when she would’ve noticed? Instead he laid me down and rubbed me hard with a towel. He pounded my back; he rolled me over and massaged my chest. He breathed air into my mouth and nose—my chest rose, fell with a raspy whine, stayed fallen. Years later Dr. Nokes would tell my brother Davy that my delivery still disturbed his sleep. He’d never seen a child with such swampy lungs.

When Dad skidded into the room, Dr. Nokes was sitting on the side of the bed holding my mother’s hand. She was wailing—I picture her as an old woman here, which is funny, since I was never to see her as one—and old Nokes was attempting to ease her grief. It was unavoidable, he was saying; nothing could be done; perhaps it was for the best.

I was lying uncovered on a metal table across the room.

Dad lifted me gently. I was very clean from all that rubbing, and I was gray and beginning to cool. A little clay boy is what I was.

Breathe, Dad said.

I lay in his arms.

Dr. Nokes said, Jeremiah, it has been twelve minutes.

Breathe! The picture I see is of Dad, brown hair short and wild, giving this order as if he expected nothing but obedience.

Dr. Nokes approached him. Jeremiah. There would be brain damage now. His lungs can’t fill.

Dad leaned down, laid me back on the table, took off his jacket and wrapped me in it—a black canvas jacket with a quilted lining, I have it still. He left my face uncovered.

Sometimes, said Dr. Nokes, there is something unworkable in one of the organs. A ventricle that won’t pump correctly. A liver that poisons the blood. Dr. Nokes was a kindly and reasonable man. Lungs that can’t expand to take in air. In these cases, said Dr. Nokes, we must trust in the Almighty to do what is best. At which Dad stepped across and smote Dr. Nokes with a right hand, so that the doctor went down and lay on his side with his pupils unfocused. As Mother cried out, Dad turned back to me, a clay child wrapped in a canvas coat, and said in a normal voice, Reuben Land, in the name of the living God I am telling you to breathe.

The truth is, I didn’t think much on this until a dozen years later—beyond, of course, savoring the fact that I’d begun life in a dangerous and thus romantic manner. When you are seven years old there’s nothing as lovely and tragic as telling your friends you were just about dead once. It made Dad my hero, as you might expect, won him my forgiveness for anything that he might do forever; but until later events it didn’t occur to me to wonder just why I was allowed, after all, to breathe and keep breathing.

The answer, it seems to me now, lies in the miracles.

Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it’s been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week—a miracle, people say, as if they’ve been educated from greeting cards. I’m sorry, but nope. Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word.

Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature. It’s true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in. Lazarus obeying orders and climbing up out of the grave—now there’s a miracle, and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time. When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of earth.

My sister, Swede, who often sees to the nub, offered this: People fear miracles because they fear being changed—though ignoring them will change you also. Swede said another thing, too, and it rang in me like a bell: No miracle happens without a witness. Someone to declare, Here’s what I saw. Here’s how it went. Make of it what you will.

The fact is, the miracles that sometimes flowed from my father’s fingertips had few witnesses but me. Yes, enough people saw enough strange things that Dad became the subject of a kind of misspoken folklore in our town, but most ignored the miracles as they ignored Dad himself.

I believe I was preserved, through those twelve airless minutes, in order to be a witness, and as a witness, let me say that a miracle is no cute thing but more like the swing of a sword.

If he were here to begin the account, I believe Dad would say what he said to Swede and me on the worst night of all our lives:

We and the world, my children, will always be at war.

Retreat is impossible.

Arm yourselves.

His Separate Shadow

I now think of my survival as my father’s first miracle. Dr. Nokes himself named the event miraculous once he woke up and washed his face and remembered who he was.

The second, I suppose, is that the doctor turned out wrong about the brain damage. I’m happy to say none surfaced until I entered tenth grade and signed up for Plane Geometry; but since I can still feed myself and grind out a sentence in English, you won’t hear me complain.

Dad’s third miracle—and one of the most startling, if not consequential—happened in the middle of the night, in the middle of North Dakota, just after I turned eleven.

It was the trip I shot my first goose, a medium-sized snow. We were staying at August Shultz’s place, four hours west onto the Great Plains, hunting near the homestead Dad grew up on and still quietly longed for. The goose was a joyous occasion, and for a while we could all speak to each other again. That is, Dad and Davy could speak again—Swede and I rarely quarreled, for I never held opinions in those days, and hers were never wrong.

I do remember that the tension in the car, going out, was so potent I fell asleep as soon as I was able. A veteran bystander to hard moments, I knew they went by quicker when you were unconscious. Davy was sixteen then, a man as far as I was concerned, with a driver’s license and a knockout four-inch scar down his right forearm and Dad’s own iron in his spine. That night they sat in the front seat of the Plymouth, green-gilled from the dashlights, not speaking at all.

We were late getting started, as happened often, because Dad had to lock up the school after the football game. Swede and I yawned in the backseat, boxes of shotgun shells stacked at our feet. The sky spat ice and water. It rode up on the windshield, and from time to time Dad pulled over so Davy could jump out and scrape it off. That Plymouth had a worthless heater. Swede and I rode cocooned in gray army blankets and stocking caps, the two of us scratchy as horsehair. Twenty miles into the trip she slipped off her rubber boots; then I felt her toes creep up against my hip. Oh, but they were cold. I pulled them into my lap and rubbed them while up front Davy opened a thermos, poured coffee into the lid, and without looking at Dad handed it over.

Still not a word between them. The road beat backward under us. In a few minutes Swede’s toes felt warm and she was breathing evenly through her nose. I kept my hands tented over her feet, pigeon-toed there in my lap, laid my head back against the seat, and slipped away as well.

Before dawn we settled among decoys in one of August’s barley fields. Dad and Swede lay on their elbows side by side, the two of them whispering under a swath. Davy and I took the opposite flank, he with his clawed-up Winchester goose gun. I was too young to shoot, of course, and so was Swede; we were there purely, as she said, for seasoning. In all the years since I don’t remember a colder morning afield. Rain can outfreeze snow. We lay between soaked ground and soaked swaths with a December-smelling wind coming over our backs. As the sky lightened we heard geese chuckling on the refuge away to the east. The rag decoys puffed and fluttered. I yawned once, then again so hard my ears crackled.

Davy said, Don’t go to sleep on me now, buddy.

He could say it; he wasn’t cold. Though his gloves were nothing but yellow cotton, he could handle an icy shotgun in evident comfort. I had on his outgrown leather mitts with two pair of wool liners, yet my fingers were clenched and bloodless. It seemed to get colder as the day came on. When Davy said, softly, Old Rube, I could live out here, couldn’t you? I was too frozen to tell him yes.

Minutes later I woke: Davy was poking me in the side. Finger to his lips, he nodded east. A lone snow goose was approaching, fighting the wind, making low questioning honks at our flock of rags. I put my face against the ground, trying not to move—a goose is an easy bird to spook. The loner’s honks got louder and more confident as it decided to land for breakfast. It was utterly fooled. I’d actually started feeling sorry for the doomed bird when Davy grabbed my shoulder and spun me so I lay on my back. He jammed the Winchester into my hands.

Take him, Rube.

The goose was straight overhead. Not twenty feet high! I flung off a mitten and tried to aim. The gun was way too big but I balanced it out there and yanked the trigger. Nothing happened—something was stuck—then Davy’s hand zipped out and clicked the safety off. The goose was just beyond us but still so close I could hear its panting wings. I yanked again, shot wild, and the recoil slammed my shoulder into the mud. My ears rang high and clear, and the goose finally understood and tilted off to the left while I pumped another shell into the chamber and fired again. The goose still didn’t fold but caught the wind and sailed over the barley like a kite. Tears were in my eyes—I’d missed two easy shots and wasted Davy’s present to me. Blind with despair I fired again. The goose had to be out of range; yet somehow it shuddered, went graceless, and made a controlled fall to the ground some eighty yards away. You did it, Davy said. Good shot—you took him the hard way, buddy. Better go finish him.

But as I handed him the gun, almost sobbing with relief, Swede streaked past in her corduroy coat yelling, I’ll get ’im, I’ll get ’im! and Davy said, Aw, let her chase the old bird down, so I watched her go, yellow hair bouncing behind her stocking cap.

Downfield, though, the goose seemed to have recovered its wits. It stood upright, taking stock, its head so high and perky I feared it might take off and fly after all. When it saw Swede coming it turned and sprinted away.

I’m telling you that goose could run.

Seeing this Swede lowered her head and went full steam, mud and chaff raining off her bootsoles. Dad started laughing, whipping off his cap and whacking it on his leg, while the goose stretched out its neck and bolted across the barley. Reaching the end of the field it encountered a barbwire fence. It stopped and turned as Swede closed in.

Did you ever see an angry goose up close? It’s a different bird from those you’ve watched flying south or waddling in city parks. An adult goose in a wrathful mood can stand up and look a third-grader right in the eye, and that’s what this fellow did to Swede. She got within a yard and stopped cold. She’d seen Dad wring a few goose necks and understood the technique, but those had been badly wounded, pathetic creatures—they’d seemed almost grateful to get it done with. This goose still owned its spirit. Later Swede told me she felt numb, standing there with her hand out; the goose had one blind, clouded eye, plenty eerie in itself, but Swede said the good eye was worse. She looked into that good eye and saw a decision being reached.

It decided to kill me, she said.

From where we stood, though, all we saw was the goose raise its wings and poke its beak at Swede. She spun, slipped to one knee, then was up and shutting the distance between us. The terrifying part, for her, must’ve been glancing back and seeing that goose coming ­after her just as hard as it could, wings spread, its black beak pointed at her rump. Dad was laughing so hard he was bent clear over and ­finally had to sit down on a gunnysack wiping his eyes. Swede led the bird straight ­toward us, and when she pounded past, Davy leaned over and snagged it just behind the head. A quick twist and he handed it to me, wings ­quivering. He grinned. All yours, Natty—after Natty Bumppo, Mr. Fenimore’s matchless hunter. It was a heavy goose. I realized I was warm, standing there with my mitts off, even hot. I held my goose with one hand and Davy’s ­Winchester in the other, smelling gunpowder and warm bird, feeling something brand-new and liking it quite a bit. Swede, though, was crying, her face in Dad’s belly, even while he laughed help­lessly on.

Swede felt bad about that goose for a long time. For an eight-year-old girl she put enormous stock in courage. To be routed across a barley field by an incensed goose gave her doubts about her character.

He’s really a big one, look at him, I said, once we were back at August’s farm doing the job you might expect; behind the barn was a hand pump and an old door set across a stock tank for a cleaning table.

Davy was whetting the blade of his hunting knife, a bone-handled Schrade. He said, You want me to show you how?

I shot him, I’ll clean him. I had no urge to actually gut the bird, but I was eleven and a hunter now—a man just beginning his span of pride.

He gave me the knife, handle first. Don’t forget to thumb out the gizzard. We don’t want sandy gravy, uh?

As he strode away I noticed how the clouds had racked up, thick and low, and how the light was going though it wasn’t yet noon. Maybe this affected me, or maybe it was just the thought of cleaning that goose by myself, but I sure wanted Davy to stay.

I’ll save out the heart for you, I called after him, and he turned and smiled, then climbed a low ridge of cottonwood and willow brush and disappeared.

I had, of all things, a lump in my throat. Luckily Swede was standing at my elbow and said, First thing, you have to cut his head off.

Well, I know that.

She prodded the goose with her finger; plucked, it looked pimply and regretful.

Then the wings, she said.

You want to clean him?

Swede let it go and stepped over to the ruins of a grain truck that had been parked behind the barn to rot. She shinnied up the big rumplike fender and sat there with the wind tugging her hair. It was a cutting wind; the light was leaking from a mottled yellow sky. Imagine a sick child all jaundiced and dirty about the cheeks—that’s how the sky looked. I picked up Davy’s knife and tried it against my thumb, then beheaded the snow.

Watching, Swede said, Forgive me running, Rube?

What?

I ran away.

From the goose? Swede, it wasn’t any big deal. I tossed the head into a cardboard box we’d found in the barn and went to work on the wings. They came off a lot harder than the head; I had to saw the knife blade back and forth.

Come on, forgive me, she insisted.

I nodded, but said nothing. Those wings were gristly fellows.

Out loud, she said.

She was the most resolute penitent I ever saw. Swede, I forgive you. Is it all right now?

She hugged her elbows. Thanks, Reuben—can I have the feet?

I whacked them off at a chop apiece and tossed them up to the truck. Swede caught them and scrambled over to the grainbed. My hands were freezing and I dreaded the next part—I ought to’ve taken Davy’s offer to clean the goose. Aiming at a spot under the breastbone, I plunged in.

Swede, I said—just talking so she’d stay with me—I don’t get what’s wrong with Davy.

She didn’t answer right away. She sat on the flatbed toying with the goose feet. She took so long to speak I got involved in a tangle of guts and forgot I’d said anything.

Finally she said, He’s mad about Dolly.

Oh. Davy’s girlfriend. How come?

She looked at me. You heard, she said. Last night, driving over.

We’d gotten a late start, as I mentioned. The football team had been busy getting whomped; it was almost eleven before we got on the road.

I was sleeping.

You were faking, I could tell. Just like me.

We heard the screen door open, up at the house. Pancakes in five minutes! Dad hollered. The screen slapped shut.

Really, I was asleep—I swear it, Swede.

Israel Finch and Tommy Basca had Dolly in the girls’ locker room.

What—how come? Two boys had gone into the girls’ locker room? You wouldn’t have caught me in any girls’ locker room. I might even have snickered, if it weren’t for the look on Swede’s face.

They beat her up, Reuben. During the football game. Dad caught ’em.

It was only then that the names sunk in: Israel Finch, Tommy Basca. I shrunk up inside my coat. How bad, Swede?

"She’s okay, I guess. I heard Dad say he got there in time."

What, did he chase ’em off? Did he fight ’em?

I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk about it to Davy.

Dolly’s all right, though?

I guess so. Swede, a goose foot in each hand, made them walk daintily along the edge of the flatbed.

Then why’s Davy mad? Wasn’t he happy Dad caught those guys? I didn’t even want to say their names aloud.

I don’t know. Ask Davy if you want.

I wasn’t sure I could do that. Though there were only five years between Davy and me, lately they’d seemed a weighty five. At times it felt like he was Dad’s brother instead of mine.

Finishing the goose I held it under the pump until water surged clean from the cavity, then went up to the house with Swede. On the way she showed me how by pulling a tendon she could make a goose foot contract and relax. She made the foot into a tight goose fist and said, Youuuu dirty raaaaat! For a kid sister she did a very adequate Cagney.

We hunted again that afternoon, under skies so cold frost paisleyed the gunbarrels. Davy had missed the pancakes, but Dad had served them up merrily to Swede and me and not commented on Davy’s absence; then he stoked the woodstove and the three of us went to our rooms to snooze. That’s how goose-hunting is—you rise early and do the cold, thrilling work; then come in and eat; then fatigue sneaks up and knocks you flat. I pulled up the quilt and slept like a desperado. I woke to Davy sitting on the bed across from me, wiping down his shotgun with an oiled rag.

Hey, Natty, he said, seeing me stir.

Hey, Davy. We going back out?

A little bunch went down on the west quarter. Canadas. He hiked his eyebrows at me. We’re gonna crawl up.

Okay! I threw the covers back, stretched, and tried to shake out the murky dream I’d been having—there was a reptile of some sort in it. Davy laid the shotgun across his knees and leaned forward. A warm tobacco smell clung to him.

Listen, Rube. You heard us talking about Dolly last night, didn’t you?

I was asleep. Swede heard, though.

Well, she didn’t hear everything. Dad kept shut, to keep from scaring you guys, but you should know this. Finch and Basca made some pretty vicious threats. To Dad, I mean. Getting me by the eyes, Davy said, They talked about hurting his family.

It took me a second to realize he meant us. Dread landed flopping in my stomach. We’d never had an enemy before, unless you counted Russia. I watched my brother closely.

They’re basically loudmouths, he said. Cowards, windbags; they won’t do anything. I don’t want you to worry. Just keep an eye out, that’s all. He was entirely relaxed, saying this, as though it was nothing we couldn’t handle. It reassured me but was unsettling too. The way he mentioned Dolly, for example—breezing past her name as though she were somebody else, an aunt or something. He said, Okay?

Okay.

And let’s not mention it to Swede, Natty. All right?

Nope. We don’t need to scare her, I guess.

Good. He reached down and picked up my boots and set them in my lap. Now let’s crawl up on those Canadas.

A crawlup, if you’re not familiar, is a different kind of hunt from waiting among decoys. I stuck with Davy again, Swede with Dad, and we squirmed on our bellies up a shallow rise beyond which a few dozen honkers were feeding on stubbled wheat. This time there was no whispering among us; the light was almost gone and though we supposed the geese were close we couldn’t hear them and had to crawl on faith that they were there at all. It was a very serious crawl, even though Swede on my left was pretending to be a wild Sioux brave creeping up on some heedless cowpoke—a game I’d happily played also, when hunting, until that morning when Davy handed me his gun. Now suddenly I found it quaint, and when she sneaked a look at me I grinned and winked, instead of keeping my Sioux composure, and she frowned at me savagely and went bellying forward.

At the crest of the rise lay a small rockpile. We wiggled up to it and Dad peered over. They’re pretty far, he whispered. Now we could hear them, uttering occasional harsh honks. They sounded uneasy, and when Davy had a look he said, They’re walking away from us, look at ’em waddle.

There wasn’t a thing we could do; the geese were out of range. I was disappointed all out of proportion. I’d been hoping—expecting—that the Canadas would be right there for the taking. Also that Davy would again give me the shot. (It’s strange—that morning I hadn’t expected to fire at a live goose for two, three years, and it hadn’t troubled me a bit. Now I wasn’t going to get a shot at these present Canadas, and the fact had me ready to cry.) Then came a great racket of honks and the geese rose up in a panicked layer and beat westward into the wind, away from us. Dad got up on his knees and took aim but didn’t fire. Davy didn’t even raise his gun.

The voices of the Canadas faded to a dim disorganized music, and we rested against the rocks.

Well, Dad said.

The cold seeped through clothes toward bone. Joyless and bushed, I sat pouting over having crawled so far for nothing. Dad was just getting up when Davy said, Wait.

He watched the dirty western sky. When he said, Down, Dad knelt slowly back among the stones.

A honk came seeking us out of the distance.

One of ’em’s broke off from the group, Davy said quietly. There. He pointed at something none of the rest of us could see.

We huddled into what little cover we had. Half a minute later we saw the goose coming toward us. My, it was high. Dad relaxed. A bird that far up is all but beyond the reach of lead shot. Swede soughed in defeat.

Stay down, Davy said.

The goose now commenced a wide swing round the field, while Davy melted into that rockpile as if to join it forever. I remember the low angle at which he held the shotgun; I remember his shadowed, patient eyes—he looked ready to burst from cover and chase down an antelope. The odd thought came to me that Davy was hunting alone—that Dad and Swede and I weren’t even there, really; that we existed with him as memories, or fond ghosts watching his progress.

The goose circled the field once, saw nothing interesting, and gained altitude; it might’ve been considering Mexico, it was that high. It flew over the rockpile on its way south, and when it did Davy rose to one knee and shot it out of the sky.

That night Swede and I lay somewhat breathless under a hill of quilts. For drafts there was noplace like August’s farmhouse; you could roast under such strata and your nose still cold as a glass knob.

What do you think Davy’ll do—about those guys? Swede whispered, eyes alight. Though I’d promised not to scare her with any Finch and Basca talk, she kept coming back to them.

What do you mean, do? They’re just cowards, windbags. An unsatisfactory answer to a warrior like Swede. She jounced a little under the quilts, which let in some cold, and we listened to talk from the kitchen: August and his wife, Birdie, larking through the old ­stories with Dad. Davy was in there too, drinking coffee with the grownups, keeping his silence.

You think he’ll fight ’em?

Why would he? Dad took care of those guys already, didn’t he? In the locker room.

Swede said, Davy thinks they got off easy, can’t you tell? He’s being such a grouch. Boy, I’d hate to be those guys when Davy gets hold of ’em.

I thought that was awfully bold of Swede on Davy’s behalf—you understand, I would never bet against my brother, but these two fellows were as serious a kind of trouble as you could purchase in Roofing back then. To call Finch and Basca the town bullies doesn’t touch it, as you will see.

Maybe, I said, we just ought to wait. All right?

We settled, yawned, and listened to August Shultz talk about Doot, his fleet quarter horse in days of yore. We knew about Doot. As kids, Dad and August had been neighbors, only a few miles from here. August would ride over in the mornings and pick up Dad, who’d be saddling his paint Henry in front of the barn, and they’d race the last half mile to school. Though Henry was a dozen years older than Doot, Dad was by nature a flat-out rider whereas August had inherited the cautious temperament of his German forebears. On calm autumn days the dust raised by Dad and Henry would hang above the road for hours; to August’s great credit, he never exhibited resentment about the constant losing. In fact, though August’s judiciousness cost him transient glory, it probably saved his farm any number of times; it probably accounted for his now owning three farms, including the one he loaned us to hunt on every fall. Dad’s family, the Lands, had not only lost their farm toward the

Reviews for Peace Like a River

[jrobinw · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I didn't realize until after the first chapter that I had read this before and liked it. It's just as good the 2nd time around.

[castlelass · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

“No miracle happens without a witness. Someone to declare, here’s what I saw. Here’s how it went. Make of it what you will.” – Leif Enger, Peace Like a River

In 1962, single dad Jeremiah Land and his three children, Davy, Reuben, and Swede, live in Roofing, Minnesota. Jeremiah is a devout Christian who relies on divine guidance. Reuben, the story’s eleven-year-old narrator, believes his father performs miracles. He suffers from asthma and wonders why his father’s miracles have never cured him. After two bullies assault Davy’s girlfriend, kidnap Swede, and break into their house, Davy shoots them. He is arrested but escapes jail. The family and a federal agent pursue him to the Badlands of North Dakota.

This is the story of a family. They want to love and protect Davy while realizing there should be consequences to his actions. Reuben’s character is particularly well developed. His young age enables him to recount events with a tenderness and vulnerability. It is violent and gruesome in places. As the story proceeds, there are several surprises in store for the reader.

Themes include ramifications of decisions, faith, loss of innocence, and family loyalty. It functions as an allegory, a tragedy, and a western-themed adventure. It explores questions of ethics that do not have clear-cut answers. I particularly enjoyed the atmospheric descriptions of the landscapes and the caring interactions between the father and his children.

[techeditor_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Leif Enger’s writing is, in a word, delightful. A simple story of a boy and his younger sister and father searching for his outlaw brother becomes so much more in Enger's hands.PEACE LIKE A RIVER, narrated by 11-year-old Reuben Land, begins when he is born, and a miracle occurs. First he appears to be dead. Even the doctor has given up on him. But his father orders him to breathe. He does and lives to tell the tale. He continues to witness and hear about other miracles his father is responsible for. Now it is 1962. Two high school boys continually cause trouble for the Land family after Reuben's father, a janitor at the high school, catches those two boys starting to rape a girl. One day when the Lands are all in bed and sleeping, the two boys break into their home. But when they get to the bedroom that Reuben shares with his 16-year-old brother, Davy, Davy is ready for them. He shoots them both but more times than is necessary.So Davy ends up in jail. But he breaks out and goes on the run. And the Lands, including Reuben's little sister, Swede, go looking for him.PEACE LIKE A RIVER is about their adventures. Reuben's descriptions, especially those of his father and Swede, deserve my highest praise.I'm still trying to figure out, though, how Swede, three years younger than Reuben, has the vocabulary and writing abilities of a college graduate.

[jaylcee · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Second reading. Since I am an atheist, I had problems with the god parts. The author does have a way with words.

[emabbott-206119 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A wonderfully moving book. I heard all the praise for this author for his latest work. I found a good used copy of this book and gave it a read. I had no idea what to expect so it took me about fifty pages to get into it. Well-written, wonderful characters, and a great story. I loved it.

[ctpress_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Read for Book Club - I liked it way more than my other two book club members. Jeremiah Lamb - like an Old Testament prophet meek as Abraham, what a creat character. We discussed the ending and they were disappointed some how, but I liked it.

[jwhenderson_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Once upon a time there was a young boy who was born with asthma. That is he was almost not born as his birth was something like a miracle; maybe it was one. Thus the story of Reuben Land, as narrated by himself, begins. His story and that of his family is one filled with miracles and stories within the story. It is both the story of the rite of passage of the young boy and his journey from young life through adventures that are in many ways as magical as a fairy tale.

[bnbookgirl · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Good story. Dragged out a bit In spots so I skimmed. Great characters; Swede and Rueben are marvelously written. Enger is a good story teller, just a bit wordy at times. I really enjoy coming-of-age stories, and this was that for Swede and Rueben.

[katherinegregg · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Peace Like a River tells the story of the Land family, a father and his two sons living in rural Minnesota in the 1960s. Life changes dramatically when bullies enter the Land home and older brother Davy shoots and kills the assailants. While awaiting trial, Davey escapes from prison and an all out search begins. Jeremiah, the father, and his younger son Reuben set out in their Airstream trailer to find Davy. Along the way they meet kind strangers who give them shelter and nurse Jeremiah back to health. Reuben finds Davy but keeps it a secret until he fears for Davy's life. Ultimately Davy is never captured although there is a shoot out and Jeremiah is shot and killed. Reuben returns home to live and marries the girl whom Davy lived in hiding with at one point.

[bookwyrmm_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unlike anything I have ever read. Feels like a Western, but more modern, and with a touch of magical realism.

[maryreinert · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Reuben Land is a asthmatic ten year old son of a single father who is raising Reuben, his sister Swede, and brother Davy in the 1960's in rural Minnesota. Davy gets into a confrontation with some local thugs and kills both when they enter the Land house. Davy is jailed, but escapes. Most of the book tells of the family's attempt to find Davy; a trip which takes them to the badlands where is he hiding with a mean old man who also has a young girl who he is "raising" and will marry her when she is old enough.The story is narrated by Reuben which at times borders on "cuteness". There is a lot of simply living and philosophy interspersed with a rambling plot.

[m.belljackson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Beautiful, evocative title and wonderfully unfolding tale.(from [THEN SINGS MY SOUL]) -"The saints shall flourish in His days,Dressed in the robes of joy and praise;Peace, like a river, from His throneShall flow to nations yet unknown." - Isaac Watts, 1719Yet, how welcome it will be when the grotesque glorification of barbaric human hunting has ended.A miracle we can work.

[deltaqueen50 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Peace Like a River by Leif Enger is a rich and evocative novel about a family with a father who may be touched by God. In a small town, working as a janitor, Jeremiah Hand raises his family alone as a single parent. The children, 11 year old asthmatic Reuben; who tells the story, his fabulous sister Swede; 9 years old and an accomplished poet who writes about western outlaws, and Davy, who at 17 becomes a killer. Two town boys on whom Jeremiah delivered a beating when he caught them trying to rape Davy’s girlfriend, have sworn revenge on the Hand family. The situation escalates until one night they break into the Hand house with baseball bats in hand. Davy was prepared and quickly laid them out.There is the beginning of a trial but it quickly becomes apparent that the jury will not deliver a favorable verdict for Davy. He escapes and all too soon the family takes to the road in an air-stream trailer which has been willed to them. How they know exactly which direction to head, and how the police are avoided may be due to Jeremiah’s religious convictions but the final confrontation gives us the biggest miracle of all, but as Reuben says, “Make of it what you will.”Peace Like a River comes across as a simple, heartfelt story, beautifully delivered and served with the feel and flavor of the mid-western plains. A sad yet hopeful story that illustrates the strength of a united family through hardships.

[dorie.craig · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was simply wonderful. The writing was just beautiful, and the characters engaging. One of the better books I read in 2005.

[cindamac · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Peace Like a River is a stunning debut. Gentle and meditative with great characters. The story is told by 11 year old Reuben who doesn't realize his own goodness in a family of remarkable individuals (in the case of his little sister, however , her precocity is a little unbelievable - she should have been an older sister.)

[zachmontana · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Somewhat depressing story set in the 60's in poverty situation with a family of a father, 11 year old son, and younger daughter and 17 year old boy who kills 2 boys who enter their home with intent to harm. Good characters and somewhat accurate portrayal of people of these depressed small towns in that era.

[maryeisele · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I couldn't put it down and hated for.it.to.end. I love the character devopment. I pictured Scout from the movie To kill a Mockingbird as the daughter Swede. I loved the idea that miracles can happen and Ruben was the benefactor. Asthma is difficult to live with and I felt a lot of compassion for this boy. This book has a lot of twists and turns making it a very compelling read.

[rascalstar · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The voice and tone of this book are perfect. The story kept me engaged more than most do. The book apparently has wide appeal already. I'd recommend the book to anyone who likes a darn good read, nevermind all the frills and loftiness. It's well written. I won't tell the story again because you can read about that in any of the reviews online. This is a wonderful story and I'm looking forward to more, if the writer chooses to make more books. Something about this story is so appealing, I've put it on my favorites list.

Thanks to Ed for the addendum recommendation!

[whitreidtan · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I don't usually reread books and I probably wouldn't have reread this one except for the fact that it came to me in my Postal Mailbox Book Club. I remembered the general shape of the novel but not the particulars this many years out from my first reading so I thought it necessary to do a complete reread to be able to discuss it intelligently rather than just vaguely. I have searched for my review from so many years ago, hoping to compare my first reading with this one but it is apparently lost in the mists of the internet. What I do remember of that first reading, is that the book was fine and that I was odd man out in not being wowed by it. This second reading crystalized that feeling for me. It is still just fine. It is the early 1960s in Roofing, Minnesota. Reuben Land lives there with his father Jeremiah, older brother Davy, and younger sister Swede. Their mother has long since abandoned them. Reuben is an asthmatic who owes his very life to his father's ability to work miracles; it is only through Jeremiah's command and laying on of hands that Reuben started to breathe many long minutes after his birth. When the story opens, Reuben is eleven and his father, a janitor at the school, has stepped in in the girls' locker room to protect Davy's girlfriend from an assault by two hoodlums in town. The boys fight back, first by vandalizing the Land's home, and then by Swede from and then returning her to her own home. The escalation of hostilities, in which Jeremiah Land refuses to participate, reaches a head when the boys break into the Land's home one night and Davy shoots and kills them in cold blood. When Davy is put on trial for murder, he breaks out of jail and escapes. Reuben, Swede, and their father try to track him down before the Feds do, trailing him into the surreal landscape of the Badlands. Reuben is presented as idolizing his older brother and his father both so he doesn't know whether he should root for Davy's complete disappearance or for Jeremiah, who appears to be being led by God, to find Davy. He is trying to figure his way in the world amid all of his conflicting feelings and the knowledge that even his highly moral father is wrestling with what is right. Younger sister Swede is barely nine and she has the convictions of a young child in terms of right and wrong. But even she starts to have her notions of black and white challenged, as reflected in the epic Western poem she writes throughout the action of the story. Her poem is a problem though, too precocious by far for a child her age, even one who is incredibly smart and well read and her understanding of events is too quick for a child with as few life experiences as she has had. Davy as a character is harder to know. Not only is he missing from a large chunk of the narrative but even when he is present, he is inscrutable to the reader. Whether he is intentionally drawn this way is the question.The novel is narrated by Reuben from the vantage point of adulthood but it still manages to capture most of the scene through the eyes of a child giving the narrative a slightly jarring back and forth feeling. Although the action is in mainly trying to find Davy, the story is also a Gospel of Jeremiah, the recounting of his miracles and his Job-like trials at the hands of God. There is a definite heaven and hell dichotomy and a strong core of religious belief here despite the fact that Enger never preaches to the reader, tapping into a deep vein of faith and morality. The writing about place is beautiful, evocative, and powerful and there is a controlled stillness to the narrative. In plot terms, there is a big conundrum in trying to find Davy. While Jeremiah is certainly being led by a Higher Being to his son, there is no indication that Davy is being led to find his family in the same way or through the same catalyst so his sudden ability to turn up feels too convenient. The general pace of the narrative is slow; sometimes this hinders the story and at other times it highlights it so on balance it works out okay. The ending of the story comes full circle to the beginning and as such is too frustratingly predictable and an obvious set-up. Over all though, this is a decent coming of age tale, one of sacrifice and heroism, right and wrong, good and evil, and mixed with a folksy Americana version of morality.

[ozzieslim · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I had this book sitting in my pile for a long time. Several times I looked at it contemplating the reading of it and then set it aside for something else. I should have grabbed it a long time ago. It was a wonderful story and different from most "modern" books.

Although set in 1963, it reads more like a book from the late 1800's or early 1900's. Not in the sense of story but more in the sense of language and phrasing. The prose is sometimes poetic (bot literally and figuratively) but in a way that paints a very good picture. In addition, if you like words, there is a strong, sassy young female character who plays with language and writing.

All of the characters are interesting. My one disappointment, if you could call it that, was the character of Davy. He starts out strong and is a prominent force throughout the novel but is never as clearly defined as Rueben, Swede, Jeremiah or even Roxanna. There are also some threads left dangling in the story that leave you vaguely unsettled at the end. That leads me to rate this with 4 stars rather than 5.

The other weakness for me is that one important component of the story revolves around faith. There is always ambiguity in the discussion which is realistic but I felt that there were a lot of unanswered, as well as unasked, questions by the characters and about the characters with regard to where they stood. I suppose the author was asking you at times to read between the lines but for those of us who are spiritual without necessarily being religious, it was disquieting. There were Bible references but from a particular rendition and tradition and without that religious instruction or understanding of the historical meanings behind the denominations, it was indecipherable to me. I also had no interest in following up by delving more deeply into that whole arena at this time. For those who are religious, or have some religious instruction, they might get more out of that part of the book.

This is a thought provoking satisfying read. It kept me interested and I was able to enter the world of the story quickly. The end of the story is a little rushed and neat but it doesn't detract from the beautiful writing which is what I enjoyed the most.

[alrtree · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Enjoyed very much. Thought-provoking. Well-written character thought processes.

[thewanderingjew_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

1951 is the year of Reuben Land’s miraculous birth. He did not breathe for the first twelve minutes of his life, not until he was commanded to breathe by his father, Jeremiah Land! Dr. Nokes thought he was dead, after so long a time, or at the very least, brain damaged. None of his fears were realized, although Reuben was severely asthmatic. Narrated by Reuben Land, the story begins in 1962, when he is 11 years old.Written with a light hand, the book will often make you smile in agreement with the simple statements. It takes place in a time without computers, but rather, a time of typewriters, in the Midwest where life was simpler, but harder, where lives were tossed about by the caprices of nature. Alternately humorous and serious, anchored in reality or drifting into the supernatural, it feels like Cormac McCarthy or Ivan Doig, at times, one in style and the other in context.Abandoned by their mother, who could not bear to stay with a dreamer, a husband scarred by his tornadic experience from which he emerged unharmed, yet somehow changed so that from medical student he goes to odd jobs as a man bereft of the ambition he once had, to a gentle, thoughtful and religious man with simpler needs, the Land children are raised by their father, a man who seems to have some fantastic powers. There is the possibility that he can perform miracles! All of the children seem old beyond their years and far more capable and responsible than children today, of the same age, and assume responsibilities of adults when the need arises.When son Davy, 16 years old, shoots and kills the two boys who terrorized his girlfriend Dolly, and his sister, Swede, who was just short of 9 years old at the time, the two boys who vandalized their home and then returned again in the middle of the night to attack them with baseball bats, because Jeremiah beat both of them off Dolly when they attacked her in the girl’s locker room of the school where he worked as a janitor, the Lands are abandoned by all they know, except for two or three devoted friends.Davy, unremorseful and unrepentant, is arrested. He believes they got what they deserved. They were bullies who preyed on those weaker than them. One was the mastermind, an ex-reformatory inmate, the other a simpleton who knew no better and only wanted a friend. He is appointed a public defender but will do little in his own defense. At first, the media portray him as a hero, but then, they turn on him. Although the book is written in 2002, the media’s behavior is reminiscent of the reporters who portrayed the hero, Richard Jewell, in the 1996 Summer Olympics bombing in Atlanta, in glowing terms, but then turned on him and made him into the monster who planted the bomb, although, it turned out, he was totally innocent. It is also reminiscent of the more recent 2013 case of George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin, in which the media portrayed one as an innocent 11 year old child, although he was indeed, the 17 year old victim, and the other is portrayed as a profiling racist, even after a jury found he acted in self-defense and found no evidence that he profiled the victim. In those cases, as in the case of Davy Land, the media took on a life of its own, simply to make headlines, not to serve justice. In the book, as in reality now, people were afraid to voice their true feelings because of fear, they still had to live with the families of the bullies and feared reprisals from their community. When the media turned on Davy, no one even bothered to question why these two young boys were in the Land home in the middle of the night, as they lay sleeping, they just judged the Lands for Davy’s crime. The nastiest side of humanity nature took hold, justice was not the issue, but rather vengeance became the common call, and attaining popularity and power was the imperative. To keep “one” safe, the cruel behavior of the victims somehow became acceptable as they were portrayed as “innocent” children.Throughout the story, Swede, old and intelligent beyond her years, writes a concurrent poem about Sundown, a hero, who fights the villain Valdez. The symbolism is everywhere as you read her poems. There are so many themes evident in the telling of this story without being hit over the head with them. Heroism, forgiveness, faith, atonement, devotion, loyalty, family values, redemption, repentance, remorse, materialism, marriage, faithfulness, obligation, morality, ambition, are just some of the many values that are touched upon and inspire the reader to further thought in this wonderful tale about life.

[lovinglit · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I would never have picked this book up based on the cover. In fact I thought it to be religious or spiritual propaganda at first glance! (woops) But thank goodness it was a gift, and I was able to get past my prejudices and read it. This is a story of an eleven year old boy, his brother and sister and dad. The older brother is jailed for a shooting that was committed in defense of his sister who was at threat of violence. He ends up escaping prison and the family goes in search of him. The story unfolds slowly, very slowly, and with a lot of description that to me seemed superfluous. Very close to the end of the book, the story picks up and gets very exciting, yet for some reason this section is rushed through. Perhaps the author wanted to keep focussed on family relationships which is what dominates the first 4/5 of the book. I found the slow pace made it difficult for me to keep interested, and I was really pleased when the story shifted gear close to the end. However, it was too close to the end that that happened for me to consider this book an excellent read. If I was editor I would have cut quite a few scenes from the book, including most of the epic poem the sister was working on throughout the book. (Yes, it paralleled the story we were reading, but to me was too much a distraction.) But: even though I found some of the phrasing irritating, it all added up to a rounded picture of the life of the family searching for their son/brother, a strong sense of place and the rollicking ending was exciting and worth the reading to that point.

[jmoncton_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As Lilly would say, 'I can recommend this book until the cows come home.' Great narration by Chad Lowe.

[johnkalexander · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is told from the perspective of an eleven year old boy and the trials that they family faces after their older brother is convicted of murder. The murder was likely justified, however the family and community have serious doubts about what really unfolded. The boys younger sister is a writing protege who shares parts of her story about Sunny Sundown, a character straight out of the Western Genre, throughout the book. Her dialogue provides the comic relief to the story, and she seems much older than she actually is. The story ultimately is about sacrifice, love, and faith, and forces the reader to consider what they would be willing to do for a loved one. This book won the ALA Alex Award for best adult novel for teens.

[hayduke_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I'll grant you that I was predisposed not to love this novel. I had been told by my boss that it was the best thing he had read in years, better than Plainsong (one of my favorite books in recent years.) So let me proceed to say that the book was "okay." The eleven-year-old boy's tone of voice got on my nerves, especially knowing that the character was telling it from years later, adulthood. Also I wasn't caught up in the theme of miracles and the extreme faith of the father. It might be a good for younger readers, but cynical me just wasn't buying it. I still maintain that Plainsong is a better written book that gives reality a certain poeticism.

[janiereader · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Peace Like a River by Leif EngerEleven-year-old Reuben Land is an asthmatic youth from a “silent family” living in Minnesota. His older brother Davy has a “steal spine” like his Dad, and his little sister, Swede is a literary up-and-comer who creates western saga poetry and snappy dialogue. Tommy Basca and Israel Finch beat up Davy’s girlfriend, with Reuben’s Dad coming in to save the day, appearing as almost luminescent, an angel face coming from nowhere. The rift that forms begins to escalate until both Israel and Tommy are shot dead invading the Land’s home, leading to Davy’s arrest for murder. When he escapes, the family heads westward to find their brother and discover much about themselves, friendships, love and miracles. This seemed to me a very literary work, with lots of references to famous American authors and works, but all in the Western or American classic bent (think Louis Lamour and James Fenimore Cooper). While I don’t consider this really a true Western, it did share some major characteristics of a typical book of the genre, and some that fit more of a description on a “New Western.” Setting – While not true west (MN) they do head west into the Dakotas. There is a sense of solitude and freedom where they live and visit. There are lots of homes with outhouses, many shanties, and/or simple cabins. Time – 1960’s. It’s not apparent until reading about 1/3 of the way in what the time period is, but I kept making guesses due to references and events.Guns, weapons etc. – There are lots of guns in this story, though mostly due to hunting (with a lot of description). Thus they are readily available to move the plot along.Mood – does have the nostalgic feel of many westerns, as it contains many outdoor scenes, riding horses, struggling against nature (snow) loneliness which leaves the reader to think they have almost stepped back in time.Characters – strong, solitary characters each with unique attributes. Even the “bad guys” don’t seem stereotypical.Good vs. Evil – This is where the book shines. Though Davy is technically in the wrong, there is a strong sense of justice that prevails. The plot reminded me a lot of authors such as Jodi Picoult who write about controversial issues from many viewpoints which are easily debated. For this reason alone I think it explains the popularity of this book with many reading groups.

[jo3jo_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this book with my book club and I can tell you that since I didn't like his other book, So Brave, Young, and Handsome, I probably wouldn't have picked this one up on my own. I'm glad I did though, because Enger brought us along on a miracle filled journey for young Reuben and his family.Reuben is the narrator of the novel and it was interesting to see things from his young and innocent perspective. Even when Reuben sees his older brother Davy kill in cold blood, his innocent mind allows him to believe that Davy did no wrong. In an attempt to escape conviction, Davy flees his home and family on a quest for his freedom. Davy's escape sets the tone for the novel, when afterwards his father packs up their belongings in a recently acquired Airstream trailer, and toting along Reuben and his sister, leaving their home in the Minnesota plains to head for the Badlands of North Dakota. This is where they believe they will find Davy.Miracles keep happening along their journey that really are unexplainable. They seem to be making headway until they finally stop for gas close to their destination, and meet a woman named Roxanna. Roxanna is a gracious woman who opens her heart and home to this family in need. In time she seems to be the link that could make the Land family complete.This was a very descriptive novel making it easy to create images of the scenes while reading. I think my biggest problem with the book is that although it takes place in the 60's, it seemed to have an old western feel to it. I quite often felt like I was watching an old western cowboy movie unfold before my eyes. I didn't like watching these movies with my grandparents when I was young, so I didn't appreciate that tone in this novel.Besides the western tone to the book, I have to admit that I found it enjoyable for the most part. With themes of family, and miracles, and the age old battle between good and evil, I'm sure many of you will love it. It made for an interesting book club discussion so I don't hesitate in recommending this novel for any book group out there.

[herdingcats_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow. What a story! In it we follow Reuben Land, a severely asthsmatic 11 year old, and his lyrical younger sister Swede who constantly writes cowboy poetry and their father Jeremiah, whose faith often produces miracles, as they travel across the badlands searching for their oldest brother Dave, who has killed two rogue teenage boys who broke into their house. Ruben sees miracles flowing from his father although most people miss them. Slightly remnicient of "To Kill A Mockingbird", this story is touching and unforgettable.

[weave8 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The book is a beautiful love story.