Gladden the Heart

by Olivia Newport

  As they sang, Niklaus moved to his place beside Yohan Maist. When the ponderous hymn concluded fifteen minutes later, Shem offered a prayer and pronounced the benediction. Conversation buzzed in the barn as men rearranged benches into tables and women dispersed to prepare the food. Niklaus savored the moment, the sounds of the congregation fading from his ears as his heart opened in a way it never had before. Many times he had felt he had rightly taught the truth of Scripture, but the experience of doing it with such freedom and assurance was new. Even if his words fell on deaf ears, he himself was changed.

  “Niklaus.” Shem’s voice shattered the moment. “May I have a word?”

  “Of course.” Niklaus turned toward his friend.

  “Perhaps outside,” Shem said.

  Tables were going up in the farmyard, but beyond the confines of the barn, it was easy to stroll away from hearing distance of congregation members, which was Shem’s clear intent. Niklaus kept pace.

  “As your bishop,” Shem began, “I feel it is incumbent on me to speak to you about your sermon.”

  Niklaus waited.

  “’Twas quite unlike you,” Shem said.

  “We all speak as the Spirit leads us,” Niklaus said.

  Consternation colored Shem’s face.

  “Have I spoken amiss?” Niklaus was so close to God in the doing that he could not now see what disturbed his fellow minister.

  Shem crossed his wrists behind him and continued to stride along a fence line. “I feel in my spirit that you have spoken in a manner unsubmissive to the authority of the church.”

  “Surely you do not believe that was my intent,” Niklaus said. “I was called on to preach, and I preached. This is the promise I made when I was ordained.”

  “Intent and result do not always align,” Shem said.

  “And what result do you perceive?”

  “I held my tongue when some of our people attended the revival meeting a few weeks ago,” Shem said. “I have held my tongue regarding Noah Kauffman because I believe in due time God will call him to repentance.”

  “Repentance?” Niklaus said.

  “And when Noah repents, God will be faithful and just to forgive, and this illness of his spirit will be healed.”

  Niklaus swallowed and ran his tongue across his bottom lip. “The matter of Noah Kauffman is a complicated pastoral challenge.”

  “I commend him for staying away from the congregation while he awaits his healing,” Shem said, “though I am given to understand that more and more of our people are visiting his home in the hope that he will expound.”

  Niklaus nodded. “It would seem so. When I had the opportunity, I discouraged such gathering.”

  “Then I commend you for your discernment,” Shem said. “Yet I cannot help wondering what benefit you thought would come to the church by encouraging him to go on a preaching mission with Charles Baxton.”

  “Charles Baxton loves the Lord,” Niklaus said.

  “Perhaps in his own way,” Shem said, “but not in our way. You are Noah’s closest neighbor, and I have always deferred to you to minister to the households closest to you. But I believe the time has come that I must intervene.”

  “Our people were not present on the journey with Charles,” Niklaus said. “No harm has come to the congregation, and I doubt Noah will want to do it again.”

  “No harm?” Shem stopped walking and turned to face Niklaus. “Susanna Hooley is an impressionable young woman. Noah tasted the pride and fame of the outside world. And your own preaching changed after one short trip with Charles Baxton. I cannot accept the truth of your statement that no harm has come to the congregation.”

  Niklaus had not expected Shem would gush about a livelier style of preaching, but neither had he expected chastisement.

  “Shem,” he said, “we have been friends for many years.”

  “And I hope we will be friends for many more years. But I am the bishop. I have a particular burden on my shoulders for the spiritual welfare of the church.”

  “We share the duties as ministers,” Niklaus said. “Yohan also shares in our work.”

  “Yet I am bishop,” Shem said. “What is to become of the influence of Charles Baxton and his Methodist revivalism on the church? We are to shepherd our flock, not lead them astray.”

  Niklaus held Shem’s eyes for a long half minute, blinking only twice before shifting his gaze.

  “Here comes Adam,” he said.

  Adam was uncertain what he was approaching, with the bishop standing in such a posture and Niklaus seeming to pull away from him. He faltered, thinking to turn away.

  “What is it, Adam?” Niklaus said.

  “The tables are ready,” Adam said. “I have been sent to see if the bishop will lead the silent prayer or if I should ask Mr. Maist.”

  “I will come,” Shem said.

  Against his volition, Adam’s eyebrows pinched toward each other. He had interrupted something more than a friendly stroll between two old friends.

  His uncle put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Someday perhaps Adam will be the minister called on to pray.”

  Adam gulped. When he married, he would also be promising to serve as minister if he was called upon, but he could think of no young man more unworthy of such a spiritual calling.

  “I am certain Adam will honor his baptismal vows,” the bishop said. “He understands the serious nature of the promises we all make to submit.”

  Adam’s chest tightened. He had come only to find someone to lead a time of prayer but was caught in a debate about his intentions to keep his promises.

  “Adam is a reasonable young man.” Niklaus tapped Adam’s back twice. “In his heart and in his way, he wants to follow the Lord.”

  “His way will be the way of our people for two hundred years,” Shem said.

  Adam inhaled deeply. “The prayer? One of you will come?”

  “Of course I will come,” Shem said. “I am the bishop.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The walk along the edge of the forest at the base of Jacks Mountain with people his own age brought Adam respite from feeling stretched between his uncle and his bishop. Shem had strode back to the farmyard to lead the beginning of the meal, and Niklaus made no effort to keep up. Unsure whether to walk—or eat—with either one of them, Adam angled off toward a table of young men and gladly helped to organize the walk. The same outing was far more pleasant in late spring or early fall than in August heat, but keeping to the shade along the route made the trek more bearable. A dozen and a half friends traipsed along a path, some pairing off for a few minutes at a time.

  Susanna, who was rarely without her collection basket, had stopped to inspect loose bark when Adam caught up with her.

  “I have a feeling I know just the shade you have in mind,” he said.

  Susanna gave a half smile. “You know me well.”

  Adam liked to think so. “May I walk with you?”

  “If you do not mind the occasional pause to consider the possibilities of God’s bounty,” Susanna said.

  “Never.” Adam let her set the casual pace and adjusted his longer legs to her shorter stride. Susanna paused to touch the vibrant blue of a lone wildflower but did not pluck the petals. Her eyes would be looking for the place where the flowers were plentiful so that the few she carried home would leave no bare spot.

  “How did you find church this morning?” he asked.

  Her gait faltered for a split second but found steadiness again. “I always pray that God is present in our worship,” she said.

  Her answer told Adam nothing of her opinion. He tried again. “My onkel and the bishop seem to have had different responses.”

  “Your onkel gave a wonderful sermon,” she said.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Did you not?” Susanna turned her head to glance at Adam but did not meet his eyes.

  “May I be honest?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “I am not sure w
hat to think. Niklaus’s sermon was very different today.”

  “Especially heartfelt.”

  “Too heartfelt, perhaps.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  Adam shrugged. “The bishop seems to think so.”

  “The bishop is a good man,” Susanna said, “but he is overly cautious about new ways.”

  “Is that not the manner of our people?” Adam said.

  “I do not suggest that we should give up living apart,” Susanna said, “but neither should we close ourselves off to the ways God may choose to speak.”

  Adam walked a few yards in silence. They were exchanging information, informed perspectives, but they were not linking hearts the way he craved.

  “I came upon my onkel and Shem,” he said, “and felt great discomfort between them.”

  “About the sermon?”

  “Perhaps about the events that led Niklaus to take this new approach,” Adam said.

  “You mean the preaching trip.”

  “I cannot be certain what they were speaking of, but I suspect so.”

  “I wish you had come, Adam,” Susanna said. “It was not what I expected, but I felt God move in my heart.”

  “And you think my onkel did as well?”

  “If only you had been there to see for yourself,” she said. Her countenance grew intense. “When people come to hear Noah at his house, they do so only out of curiosity or because they hope to find some judgment against him. But in the revival meeting, Charles made nothing of the way Noah falls under in his introduction. He simply gave those who came the opportunity to hear a fine sermon that moved many hearts.”

  “But if the bishop disapproves,” Adam said, “was it right to go?”

  “If you had been there,” she said again, “you would have seen only how right it was—how the beauty of faith can truly gladden the heart.”

  “Your heart has been gladdened?” Adam played with the phrase in his mouth.

  “It has. I wish you could know what I mean.”

  “What is right and true is not simply what we feel in the moment.”

  “Did I suggest that it was?”

  Her brusque tone rang unfamiliar. Adam only wanted to talk with the person who knew him best about his own uncertainties. But whatever hesitancy she might have had about Noah’s preaching in public had dissipated during the four days she was away. A chasm had opened between them. A gladdened heart was no match to what he felt.

  Behind them a heavy breath caused them both to turn.

  “Finally, I caught up with you.” Barbara Glick smoothed her apron. “I want to see what you have in your basket, Susanna. I want to learn what you know about making colors.”

  “I am happy to show you.” Susanna lifted her basket.

  Two bonneted heads leaned toward each other as Adam withdrew. Susanna did not even catch his eye.

  Galahad would run himself to exhaustion if Patsy allowed it, and as much as it thrilled her to be astride as he galloped, gradually she reined him in to cool him down. To think that her father had wanted to geld him and make a calm work animal of such a magnificent stallion! Only Patsy’s protests spared Galahad the fate—and the reprieve had required Patsy’s promise that she would make sure her favored horse earned his keep on the farm. He was far too expensive to raise and feed merely for her amusement. Having raced up Jacks Mountain and along the ridge before descending, they were still miles from home, and Patsy would soak up every ray of sunshine and every breath of the wind on her face. The heat bothered her not at all.

  A bobbing black bonnet caught her eye. Patsy did not have to spur the horse in order to catch up with the pedestrian.

  “Susanna, what are you doing way out here?”

  Susanna tilted her head up to gaze at Patsy. Her bonnet, quilted and black, was years out of style, but that seemed to be true of most of the clothing the Amish women wore. Unspoken rules of dress kept them in clothing that might have been in style twenty years earlier. Patsy was hardly one to remark, though. While she owned gowns that would have been presentable in a downtown Philadelphia church, she much preferred comfortable cotton work dresses with a minimum of petticoats. The color or print of a dress mattered far less than how easily she could move, especially when she wanted to ride.

  “Church was at the Planks’,” Susanna said, “and we had an outing.”

  Patsy glanced down the road in the direction from which Susanna must have come.

  “You are a long way from home on your own,” Patsy said.

  “So are you,” Susanna said.

  Patsy patted her horse’s neck. “But I have my trusty steed to whisk me home.”

  “I have two equally trustworthy feet.”

  Patsy laughed. “Climb on and let me take you home.” She would feel like a neglectful friend if she cantered off and left Susanna to traverse the miles home.

  Susanna hesitated. “I wonder if taking the horse out and then asking it to carry two riders does not constitute work on the Sabbath.”

  “I prefer to think of it as the joy of the Sabbath,” Patsy said. “Exodus tells us we are to delight in the Sabbath.”

  “But even animals are to have a Sabbath rest.”

  “Will it be a sin for you to ride home on a horse which God has so clearly created to find delight in running as fast as he can?” Even the Amish used their buggy horses to get to church. What could be so different in riding Galahad?

  Susanna moved her basket from one arm to the other. “I suppose not.”

  Patsy held on to the saddle horn with one hand and reached down to offer the other to Susanna’s grasp. Once her friend was settled behind her with her basket secure, Patsy put Galahad into motion again.

  “Doesn’t Adam usually see you home from your outings?” Patsy asked. “Especially one so far from home?”

  “It does not always work out,” Susanna said.

  “I hope he is not unwell.”

  “No, he is not.”

  “Did his uncle need him today?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  Without slowing the horse, Patsy twisted to look at her friend’s face.

  “Susanna Hooley, you tell me what is going on right this instant.”

  Susanna hesitated.

  “Susanna.” Patsy infused stern warning into her tone.

  “Matters between us are strained,” Susanna said softly.

  “Between you and Adam? That’s ridiculous.”

  “’Tis true.”

  “Did he not offer to see you home?”

  “’Tis I who declined. Someone else had a wagon and could bring me most of the way home, and I was happy to walk the remaining distance.”

  “Happy?”

  “Willing, at least,” Susanna said.

  “You must work it out,” Patsy said.

  Susanna was silent.

  “Does this have to do with my father’s preaching journey?”

  Susanna remained silent.

  “Niklaus seemed content enough while we were gone.”

  The horse clip-clopped another thirty yards.

  “It’s the bishop, isn’t it?” Patsy said. “He’s causing trouble.”

  “The bishop does what he believes is best for the congregation,” Susanna said.

  “And if he is wrong?”

  Susanna shifted in the back of the saddle but did not speak.

  Since the short preaching trip, Noah had not failed a single day to fall under. What Susanna found most remarkable was not that Noah preached daily now but that the time at which he would fall under was likely to occur within a specific thirty-minute period of time. News of this consistency only served to increase the size of the crowd that came to hear him. With the certainty that he would preach and an accurate estimate of the time this would occur, residents of the valley could plan the day’s excursion in the same manner they would plan a visit to a neighboring farm or a trip into a town with sufficient shops to make the outing worthwhile. Every day or so another bench turn
ed up, and others simply circled their carts and wagons to be able to see from the driving benches while children napped or played in the beds.

  Susanna did not blame them for coming. She learned something new from God’s Word every time she listened to Noah. At the same time, she suspected that many who gathered were there for the spectacle more than for the edification. Snippets of conversation she overheard still revolved around whether Noah could truly be unconscious as he preached or whether he was a charlatan and everyone who assisted him was complicit.

  Susanna was not complicit in anything. She was there to make sure Noah was safe. Increasingly the task went beyond keeping him away from a hot stove, a glass lamp, or loose rugs he might trip on and also included keeping people out of the house and at a reasonable distance. Thursday’s crowd was the largest Susanna had yet seen, and some moved to stand in front of the benches, even in the flower bed beneath the window. There was no point in asking them to leave, but as the time approached, she stood on the front step and called out polite requests for respectful observance of Noah and Phoebe’s property and privacy. She or Patsy gave the same brief speech every day.

  When Adam turned into the Kauffman farm on his horse, his interest lay not in listening to Noah’s words but in the likelihood that Susanna was somewhere on the premises.

  He had fumbled badly on Sunday. He and Susanna looked past each other, never meeting eyes, and surely not hearts. Trying again was imperative. Spying Galahad heartened him. Patsy’s presence would give Susanna less reason to refuse to step out behind the house with him. He knew the rules, however. Once Noah fell under, no one must approach the house. He waited in plain view in the front until Susanna peeked out the front window beside Noah and caught his silent, pleading eyes. Only when she nodded did he lead his mount around to the back.

  “I feel terrible,” he said once they were face-to-face. It had been a miserable four days since Sunday, in the middle of a miserable few weeks.

  “Me too,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I miss you,” he said. They had not had an impromptu forested walk for weeks, and none seemed likely soon.

  “I miss you,” she said.

  “When can we be alone to talk?”