Vasara’s first impression of the farmstead is of great swathes of color.

Pink, peach, and milky-white peonies; yellow-purple pansies and maroon-speckled lilies. Floral notes of paradise waft through the air, and Vasara pauses midstride to drink it in.

As she crosses the ring of maple trees that encircles the farm, Vasara searches for the traditional cartwheel in the tallest tree. According to legend, a pair of storks in its branches would reassure any traveler that good people nest here. Good people. That would be reassurance, indeed.

For courage, she scans and rescans the scrap of paper from the priest. GUDAITIS. Two figures at the swaying edge of the rope bridge to her past.

Vasara faces the bottle-green door. She wraps her fingers around the brass knocker. A nervous nymph holds her back. So long as she stands here, at the threshold of time, all options are on the table. But once the door opens, truth will have its way.

Vasara shifts to her toes. She raises the metal hoop and is about to bring it down on the embellished brass plate, when the door swings open and she stumbles, almost tumbles, headlong into the hallway.

“Steady there, girl!” A firm hand grabs her upper arm, and a toothy smile grins at her. “Where are ya off to this fine, bright day?”

Vasara recoils, her cheeks on fire. “Atsiprašau! I was about to knock!”

“Yes, well. You were taking your pretty time and that’s a fact.” Behind the farmwoman a wiry farmer wearing suspenders speaks up. Smoke rings rise lazily from his stumpy pipe, mingling with the charred scent of the logs in the fireplace.

“Ahh… sorry,” she blurts out, locking her gaze on the panting black hound that pads around his master.

The lady gives a great big guffaw. “Is that the best you can do? My Lukas was nigh near ready to get the gun with your dawdling. Now that I get an eyeful… she doesn’t strike me as bein’ the thieving type, does she, Luke?!” and she belts out another laugh with a wink.

“Ne! Of course not!” Her cheeks redden, but she regains her voice. “Do I look like a thief? I just wasn’t sure this was the place. You are Farmer Gudaitis, are you not?”

The farmer and his wife exchange looks.

“We either are or aren’t. What’s it to you?” The farmer’s free arm drops to the dog’s neck; his fingers graze its collar. The hound bares its teeth.

Vasara swallows and looks away. I’ve stepped on a nerve. “Father Montvila gave me your name.”

Smiles run through their faces, wider than the Nemunas river. Toothy Woman claps Vasara on the back while her husband moves to shut the door.

“You’re a funny one, you are!” she roars again. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Mr. Gudaitis gestures to a rustic seat near the fireplace. “Please! Make yourself comfortable!”

Vasara sinks into a pile of corduroy cushions and lets the bottomless comfort surround her. Her eyes close briefly. This is what a home should feel like

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 611)