Bekah stared long and hard into Amy’s face. Her sober expression gave away nothing of her inner thoughts, yet Amy sensed the girl was rolling things over in her mind, searching for her place of peace. So Amy sat quietly, allowing her daughter to process what she’d shared. While she waited, she prayed for Bekah’s understanding and acceptance.
Finally, Bekah looked away, her shoulders rising and falling. “Okay, Mom.” She spoke with her face aimed at the kitchen window, seemingly entranced by the play of the wind in the curtains. “I think I see why you want us to keep living the same way we did in Arborville, even though we aren’t in Arborville anymore. But there’s still one thing I have to figure out for myself.”
“What’s that, honey?”
Bekah pulled her hand loose and rose. “Whether God really called me to be a Mennonite.” She turned and darted for the stairs. Her clattering footsteps faded away, but Amy’s heart continued pounding in her ears.
She folded her arms on the table’s smooth top and let her head drop into the bend of her elbow. The brief conversation in the comfortable kitchen had sapped her energy even more than her walk across the pasture in the late-afternoon sun. “God . . .” The name groaned from her lips. “You promised to give Your children strength to stand firm through every one of life’s challenges. I need Your strength now. Without the support of my fellowship, I feel the way Bekah must feel—as if I’m standing alone. Give me strength and wisdom to guide my precious daughter to the truth. Strength, dear God, please give me, and my daughter, strength.”
On Saturday morning, Amy assigned cleaning tasks to each of the children. She delegated laundry duties to Bekah, put Parker to work sweeping and mopping all the floors, and instructed Adrianna to chase every bit of dust from the baseboards and furniture with a feather duster. While the children worked on the house, she worked on piecing the second wall hanging for the family of grieving siblings. Although in Arborville she’d never sewed quilts on Saturday, reserving that day for housecleaning, baking, and preparing for Sunday’s dinner, she’d lost time with the move and needed to make it up.
Smoothing the fabric into place beneath the silver needle of her machine, she experienced a rush of joy. She’d always loved quilting, and she believed God had given her a special ability to create patterns and color combinations that pleased the eye. Using the articles of clothing given to her, she had planned a trio of similar yet distinct thirty-six-inch-square quilts. By combining texture and color with information the children had shared about their mother’s likes and dislikes, she felt certain she’d captured tiny pieces of the woman’s life in art.
The sewing machine whirred and she thought ahead to next week when she would use her automatic quilting machine to bind the decorative tops to the plain backings. All three sisters had chosen the same stitching pattern for their individual quilts—a series of interlocking hearts. The pattern was Amy’s favorite, the perfect choice for any remembrance quilt.
The machine’s hum drowned out the sounds of the children’s soft banter. She was so caught up in her work, she almost missed the thump of someone knocking on the front screen door. In their six days in their new home, no one had visited. The knock brought both elation and curiosity. Who might it be?
Tucking stray wisps of her hair beneath the edge of her prayer cap, she hurried toward the door. Parker and Adrianna also came running. She shook her head, shooing them back to their tasks. They scurried around the corner, giggling together. Amy looked through the screen door. One of the men from Ohio who’d helped her move into the house stood on the porch with his black Sunday hat in his hands. He offered a nod of hello as she squeaked the door open. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Knackstedt.” He peered past her into the front room. “I see you have your house all in order already. Those of us who settled in town do, too.”
“I’m so glad.” Amy searched her memory for the man’s name. Mr. Schell? Mr. Mischler? Both men were big-boned with dark hair, so she couldn’t be sure which one stood on her porch. Somewhat embarrassed, she held out her hand in invitation. “Won’t you come in? I have some cold lemonade in the refrigerator. I’d be glad to pour you a glass.”
He stepped over the threshold but remained near the door, twisting the brim of his hat. “No, thank you. I just came to ask . . .” A sheepish look crossed his face. “If you would rather say no, we’ll understand, but . . .”
Amy’s curiosity increased with each second that ticked past. She laughed softly to cover her unease. “What is it?”
“Tomorrow, as you know, is Sunday. We don’t have a meetinghouse in Weaverly yet, but we’d like to hold a service. One of our men is asking about using one of the empty businesses in town until we can get a proper meetinghouse built. In the meantime, we need a place to come together for worship.” His gaze bounced around the spacious sitting room. “We noticed when we moved you in how large this room is. I believe it would accommodate all of us. We wondered if you would consider hosting our service tomorrow.”
Amy glanced at the room. Considering only around twenty-five people would attend the service, she certainly had the space. “I’d be happy to host the service tomorrow. As a matter of fact, we can hold services here for as long as we need to until we have a building available.” She grimaced in apology. “But a few people might need to stand and the children might have to sit on the floor. I have the sofa and chair, and four kitchen chairs, but—”
He waved one of his big hands in dismissal. “Don’t worry about seats, Mrs. Knackstedt. One of our men, Christian Hunsberger, has a pickup truck. He said he could carry chairs out for us to use if you don’t mind him coming a little early to get the room set up.”
Amy smiled, relieved. She’d been so busy getting herself and the children settled, she’d forgotten about Sunday services. Now the promise of worship with like believers—even though they came from a fellowship in Ohio and she from one in Kansas—gave her heart a lift. “Tell him he’s welcome to come anytime after eight o’clock. The children and I will be up and ready to help him arrange the room.”
The man beamed. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Knackstedt. My wife, Lorraine, is eager to meet you. I told her about your big sewing machine, and she would like to see it sometime.”
“I’d be delighted to show it to her.” Although Amy hadn’t yet met the woman, she already imagined them becoming friends.
“And I think our children are close in age to yours,” the man said. “Of course, ours are all boys, but it will do them good to get acquainted before school starts. They can be support to one another, yes?”
His tone carried a hint of a German accent, reminding Amy of her grandfather’s deep, seasoned voice. Her smile grew without effort. “Yes, that would be good for all of them.”
“Well, I’ll go then and leave you to your day.” He plopped his hat on his head and stepped back onto the porch. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
An idea struck. Amy darted after him, letting the screen door slam into its frame behind her. “Why don’t you tell the others to each bring a little something for lunch, and we’ll have a meal together here afterward. Then we can all get better acquainted.” For the past two nights she’d lain awake, praying and fretting over her conversation with Bekah. Being accepted into this circle of Mennonite believers from Ohio would surely help Bekah feel at ease with her own heritage again.
“I’ll tell everyone,” he said, inching backward toward his waiting vehicle.
Amy stood on the porch and waved as the man pulled out of her driveway. She turned to go back inside, but then she paused, her gaze drifting effortlessly to the stand of trees east of her house. Mr. Roper’s orchard. Her heart gave a funny half-skip. Would the man see all the cars in her yard Sunday morning? Would he hear their songs of praise drifting across the prairie from her open windows? Might their example of coming together for worship minister to his soul and restore within him the faith of his fathers? God, if it be Your will, use us to draw him ba
ck to Your fold.
The prayer complete, she stepped back into the house, a smile forming on her face as she imagined tomorrow’s visitors filling the sitting room. Then she clicked her tongue on her teeth. If this sitting room was to serve as the temporary meetinghouse, it needed a much more thorough cleaning than the children would give it. She also needed to prepare extra food so she could share with her new fellowship.
She’d intended to spend the afternoon sewing, but she rapidly changed her mind. Preparing for this service—a service she prayed would aid in bringing understanding to Bekah’s soul and perhaps reach the heart of the man next door—was more important than sewing. She hurried to the kitchen and called, “Children? Come here, please. I need to talk with you.”
9
Amy swept the back of her wrist across her forehead. Even with all the windows open and a box fan whirring from the corner of the kitchen, the room was unbearably hot. But the heat wasn’t solely due to the Kansas sun—she’d left her oven on low all morning to keep the casseroles carried in by the other women warm until mealtime. Although she’d turned off the oven nearly an hour ago, warmth still radiated from its cast-iron sides. The oven’s ability to hold heat would be a blessing during the winter months.
Adding to the stove’s warmth, steam rose from the sink of dishwater. Since they’d used her house and mostly her dishes, she’d assumed the task of washing the stacks of dirty plates, bowls, cups, pots, and pans. And of course, having seven women crowded into the room made things feel tight and sticky. But Amy didn’t begrudge their presence. How she’d enjoyed their morning together! Already she felt the stirrings of oneness with these people. She prayed Bekah was experiencing the same feeling with the young people her age who clustered on the back porch.
Cheerful cries filled the backyard—children at play. Amy easily detected Adrianna’s melodious giggle and Parker’s lower-toned guffaws in the mix. The low rumble of men’s voices drifted from the sitting room into the kitchen, where the women jostled together. The combined sounds created a sweet song of unity.
Ellie Hunsberger, the youngest of the women, brushed her elbow against Amy’s arm as she reached to return the clean bowls to the cupboard. She laughed softly, sending a shy smile in Amy’s direction. “Maybe next time we should buy a package of paper plates. The cleanup would go faster, I think.”
From behind them, someone tsk-tsked. “Shame on you, Ellie.” After only one morning together, Amy already recognized Margaret Gerber’s somewhat abrasive tone. Perhaps the older woman didn’t intend to be condescending, but of all the women, this one struck Amy as the most critical. “Paper items are a waste. Only lazy people use them. Doesn’t it say in Proverbs, the fourteenth chapter and twenty-third verse, ‘In all labour there is profit’? We should take joy in our given toil, not look for ways to simplify.”
Ellie dipped her head. She continued stacking the clean, dry dishes in silence.
Apparently the other women feared the sharp side of Margaret’s tongue, because they too stopped the cheerful chatter of moments ago and focused on completing the cleanup tasks. A half hour after they’d begun, Amy’s kitchen was in order and everything sparkled. She gathered the sodden dishtowels and carried them to the little area beneath the stairs where she kept a laundry basket. The opening to the hidden storage area was next to the door leading to the back porch, and Amy couldn’t resist sneaking a quick peek outside to see how her children were getting along with the others. She smiled at the wild game of tag taking place in the backyard, Adrianna and Parker in the middle of it. But her smile faltered when she spotted Bekah leaning against a tree by herself at the far corner of the yard. The handful of other children near her age remained in the shade of the back porch. Why had Bekah left the group?
Amy reached for the screen door, intending to go out and check on her daughter, but Margaret Gerber called, “Amy? Do you have more lemons to mix another batch of lemonade? The pitcher is empty again.” Amy changed direction, retrieved lemons from the refrigerator, and gave them to the woman.
Margaret bustled to the counter and began digging through Amy’s kitchen drawers, talking all the while. “I’m puzzled why you would choose this house away from town, since you have no husband to see to chores.” She flicked a curious glance over her shoulder as she withdrew a knife from the drawer. “Wouldn’t a house in town be more sensible?”
Amy loved the openness of the acreage—it gave her children room to run, and by secluding them somewhat she could limit the influences that might come from any unchurched townsfolk. But she sensed no matter what reason she gave, Margaret would find something at fault. She handed the woman a small cutting board, one Gabe had crafted from strips of oak for a Christmas gift the year Bekah was born, and said, “I realize I don’t have a husband to see to things, but I’m not concerned. With the men of your fellowship farming the land around the house, they’ll be close by should a need arise. I’m certain they’ll be willing to offer assistance if it’s needed.”
Tamera Mischler bustled to Amy’s side. “Of course they will! They’ve already discussed the importance of checking on you when they come out to work. And now that all of our places in town are in order, the men will put their hands to work preparing the ground for soybean planting. You’ll have someone close by every day.”
Warmth flooded Amy. How wonderful to know these people—these strangers quickly turning to friends—cared about her well-being.
Margaret sniffed, pushing the cutting board back into Amy’s hands. “This is too small. I’ll just use the countertop.” She whacked one lemon in half. “But what about at night? There’s no one here at night.” She aimed a speculative look at Amy, her double chin emerging with her head-tucked-low pose.
Was the woman trying to frighten her? Amy hugged Gabe’s gift to her middle. Without conscious thought, she quoted a portion of Deuteronomy 31:6. “ ‘Be strong and of a good courage, fear not . . . for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.’ ” She smiled at Margaret, who continued to pinch her brows in silent censure. “The children and I are never alone.”
Margaret returned to slicing lemons.
Lorraine Schell leaned against the counter on the other side of Margaret and used a dish rag to mop at the juice spritzing the countertop. “Besides, Margaret, Amy has a close-by neighbor—the orchard-owner, Mr. Roper. If she has an emergency, surely he’d be willing to offer a helping hand, considering he was raised a Mennonite.”
A variety of murmurs—Margaret’s reproachful, the others’ regretful—filtered through the kitchen. Before Margaret could openly condemn Mr. Roper for abandoning his faith, Amy said, “He’s been very neighborly.” An image of the man caught in Parker’s embrace filled her memory. Many people would have pushed Parker away, but Mr. Roper treated the boy with kindness. How she appreciated his kind response to her son. “He’s quite busy with his orchard, though, so I don’t want to impose on him unless it’s an emergency. I’m glad the men will start coming out each day. And if they ever need anything from me while they’re working—something to drink or eat, or to use the facilities—they’re more than welcome to come to the house.”
Approving nods went around the small circle of women. Margaret snatched up two lemon halves and began squeezing the juice into a tall plastic pitcher. “I intend to make sure Dillard has a good lunch and a jug of water in his truck before sending him out. That’s my duty as his wife. And you might as well know, I’ve instructed him not to come to the house except to check on you.” She bounced an imperious look across each of the women in the room before looking directly at Amy. “There’s no need for the men to be pests just because you’re here and available during the day. You have your quilting business. The men coming and going would keep you from focusing on your work.” She squeezed the last lemon half and then tossed the rind into the sink with other squeezed-flat shells. “Besides, one needs to avoid creating fodder for gossip. Men coming and going from a widow’
s house might be construed as inappropriate dealings.”
Lorraine Schell gasped, and the others gaped at one another, but none of them voiced an argument. Amy, as the newcomer to the group, didn’t believe it her place to let Margaret know she found her comments offensive, but she couldn’t stay silent in the face of unwarranted criticism. She lifted the pitcher with trembling hands and held it beneath the faucet. Her gaze on the flow of water, she said quietly yet firmly, “I know the men will be responsive to me in case of an emergency. I will be responsive to them, as well. That’s what members of a fellowship do for one another.”
After placing the full pitcher on the counter, she slid the sugar canister next to Margaret. “Would you like to add the sugar? I’m sure you have a preference for how much sweetening to use. The wooden spoons are in the drawer near your hip.”
Margaret pursed her lips, but she began scooping sugar without another word. Amy left her to the task and crossed to the table where Lorraine, Tamera, Renae Stull, and Sheila Buerge had seated themselves. Ellie stood nearby. The women offered weak smiles of apology, and Amy acknowledged them with a quick bob of her head. Obviously Margaret held strong opinions. But Amy had been raised by a man with strong opinions and a tendency toward stubbornness. She’d learned long ago not to respond with anger, but rather quiet reasoning.
Margaret carried the pitcher of lemonade to the refrigerator. Then she turned to the table, where every seat was already filled. Amy smiled, letting the older woman know she harbored no ill feelings. “Wait just a moment, Margaret. I’ll get some of the extra chairs Mr. Hunsberger brought in.”
The moment Amy returned to the table, two chairs in tow, Lorraine leaned forward. Interest sparked in her eyes. “Tell me about your quilting business, Amy.” She flicked a glance toward the sewing room, where sheets shrouded the machines. “My husband says you have a machine that does the quilting for you.”
When Hope Blossoms Page 7
