Every morning, she took time away from her sewing to work in the garden plot behind the house. How weeds could grow so abundantly in the dry, hot weather she couldn’t imagine, but she faced a constant battle keeping them from stealing nutrients from her beans, peas, peppers, beets, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, cantaloupe, and watermelon. Parker and Bekah helped with weeding, and Adrianna splashed the plants with water from the spigot. They all tired of working in the garden, but Amy reminded them they’d appreciate the fresh vegetables once the plants began to produce. Inwardly, she wondered how much they’d actually glean from the poor, wilted scrubs of green.
The men from the Ohio fellowship worked the fields around Amy’s house daily, stirring up dirt that traveled on the wind and drifted through her open windows. They set up sprinklers to water the soybeans, drawing water from the hydrant behind Amy’s house. Despite the sun’s bold rays, the plants grew, promising at least a minimal harvest. When the fellowship members met on Sundays, they thanked God for the growing plants and continued to ask Him to bless them with rain. Yet not even a wisp of a cloud appeared in the endless blue sky.
Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, Bekah and Parker mounted their bicycles and rode to Mr. Roper’s house for the afternoon. They never complained about having to work for their neighbor. After each visit, they came home sweaty and dirty but smiling, full of stories of what they’d done that day and things Mr. Roper had said. Parker, especially, seemed to blossom from the man’s attention, and Amy found herself growing ever more appreciative of their neighbor. She prayed for him daily, for God to touch him with grace and healing and to draw him close again.
The last Friday in June, Mr. Schell knocked on the door just as Amy shut down her machine for the afternoon. His face glowed red from his time in the sun, and sweat circles blotched his shirt under his arms and in the middle of his chest. Amy invited him to step inside, then called, “Adrianna? Pour Mr. Schell a glass of ice water, please.”
The little girl forgot the ice, but Mr. Schell didn’t seem to mind. He guzzled the entire glass without pause, then smiled wearily at Amy. “I need to start carrying two big jugs of water when I come out to work. My thirst is impossible to quench in this heat.”
Adrianna trotted back to the kitchen with Mr. Schell’s empty glass in her hands, and Amy shook her head in worry. “It’s a wonder you men all don’t suffer heatstroke out there. Please feel free to come to the house anytime for more water. The back door is open during the day so you can get ice from the freezer, or you know you can always use the hydrant out back.”
“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Knackstedt. I’ll tell the others. Now, I wanted to let you know Dillard Gerber has reached an agreement with the insurance agent in town to use the meeting room at the back of his office for worship services until we can locate a separate building. The man is very kind, only charging us a small amount to cover the cost of electricity for lights and cooling while we’re there. So we won’t need to trouble you any longer by taking over your sitting room.”
“How nice of him.” Amy tried to inject enthusiasm into her tone, but her thoughts drifted to Mr. Roper. She’d hoped the sound of their voices might reach his ears and reignite his faith. If they began worshiping in town, far from Mr. Roper’s home, how would he hear them singing hymns and reading Scripture?
“We’ll meet at nine thirty, just as we’ve been doing.” Mr. Schell shared the address with Amy. “My wife still wants us to have a fellowship meal together afterward, so bring something that will keep for a few hours, and we’ll trade off going to the different houses in town to eat together.”
“That all sounds wonderful, Mr. Schell. Thank you.” She watched him clomp across the porch and then over the withered grass to his waiting vehicle. As he pulled out of her lane, Bekah and Parker rode in on their bicycles. Amy stayed on the porch, waiting until the children put their bikes in the garage and then ran to her.
Parker gave her a hug, and Amy wrinkled her nose. “Phew, you stink. Go take your bath before we eat, huh?”
Parker chortled and headed on in.
Bekah stepped onto the porch and paused, giving her mother a puzzled look. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not really.” Amy ushered Bekah inside and to the kitchen. She told her daughter about the change in location for the worship services.
Bekah’s face lit. “They won’t be coming here anymore?”
“That makes you happy?”
Bekah shrugged, her expression sheepish. “We had to do twice the cleaning. We cleaned on Saturday to get ready for them all, and then we cleaned up the messes they made afterward.”
“Bekah . . .” Amy clicked her tongue on her teeth and began pulling cans from the pantry to put together a simple casserole.
“Mom, you have to admit, some of those kids were really messy.” While she spoke, Bekah washed her hands in the sink. She pulled out the hand-operated can opener and took one can from Amy. “They used up all our dishes, carried dirt in on their feet, and they left crumbs everywhere.”
Amy stared, aghast, at her daughter. From where had this ungrateful attitude come? “We should be honored to host the worship, even if it does mean a little dirt.”
“That was hardly a little dirt. . . .”
Only then did Amy see the teasing glint in Bekah’s eye. She burst out laughing. “You scamp.” She teasingly snatched the can and opener from her daughter and began opening cans.
Bekah giggled and retrieved a glass casserole dish. “Actually, the mess all those people made together is nothing compared to what I’ve been cleaning at Mr. Roper’s house. It’s sad, Mom, how he’s let his house go just because he doesn’t have time to clean.” She leaned against the counter and watched Amy combine cans of pork ’n’ beans, kidney beans, and white beans. “He really appreciates everything I’m doing to make it all neat again—he told me so. And he said his wife, who was an impeccable housekeeper, would be rolling over in her grave if she knew how badly he’d let the place go.”
Amy didn’t miss the subtle emphasis. She knew she shouldn’t ask, but the question slipped out anyway. “He talked to you about his wife?”
Bekah began rinsing the empty cans. “I don’t think he meant to, because he got this really surprised look right after he said it. But then when I asked about her, he told me she died five years ago in an automobile accident.” Her hands paused in the task, her face clouding. “Along with their son—he was named Charlie. He showed me a picture he carries in his wallet of all of them together. They looked so happy it made me want to cry.”
Amy gulped. Apparently the children had formed a tighter bond with Mr. Roper than she’d imagined. Her heart turned over in sympathy for the man, and for Bekah, who clearly cared about him. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah . . .” Bekah dropped the rinsed cans in the plastic bin they used for recycling. She crossed to the counter and fiddled with the little tin of chili powder. “Mom, there was something different about his son. You could see it in the picture. His face was . . . different.”
Amy frowned, confused. “Different how?”
“Kind of round and almost flattish. And his eyes were shaped funny, like this.” Bekah tugged the outside corners of her own eyes, lifting the lids slightly.
Amy paused midway between the counter and the oven, the casserole forgotten in her hands. “His son had Down Syndrome?”
“Is that what it is?”
“I think so.” Amy stepped to the stove and placed the beans in the oven. She turned the oven on and set the timer, then took out a package of cheese from the refrigerator. Her thoughts raced back to her first conversation with Mr. Roper. He’d indicated that the school in Weaverly had a good special-education program. And from the very first moments of meeting her family, he’d reached out to Parker. His kindness toward her son—toward all of them—made sense now. He knew what it was like to raise a child with a disability.
His child had been born with a medical condition, and then he’d
lost him and the child’s mother. He’d suffered more deeply even than she. Father, he needs Your healing touch more than I’d imagined. In past prayers, Amy had asked God to move on Mr. Roper’s behalf, opening his heart to the Spirit’s guidance. But now, without conscious thought, her prayer changed. Help us find ways to bring joy to him. Help us remind him he isn’t alone, no matter what he’s lost.
“Mom?”
Amy opened her eyes and lifted her head to meet Bekah’s gaze.
“Mr. Roper asked if we were going to the town’s Fourth of July celebration next week. He said everybody in town goes, and that since we’re Weaverly residents we should go, too.”
Amy smiled and withdrew a knife to slice the cheese. “Well, we’re definitely Weaverly residents now, so I guess that means we’ll be going.”
Bekah let out a cheer, the sound welcome to Amy after her daughter’s days of long faces and sullen tones. “Can I go tell Parker and Adri?”
“Sure, and tell them dinner will be—”
Bekah pounded up the stairs before Amy could finish her instructions. She didn’t mind, though. It was nice to see Bekah excited about something. She’d have to mention the Fourth of July celebration to the others on Sunday when they met for worship—they might all want to go together and get better acquainted with their new neighbors.
The sounds of children’s happy voices drifted down the stairs, and Amy laughed softly to herself. Apparently the news of attending the town’s celebration appealed to Parker and Adrianna, too. Then she sobered, thinking about the man who lived next door. How heartbreaking to have only one child, and then for that child’s voice to be stilled forever.
She’d kept Bekah and Parker from visiting Mr. Roper too frequently so they wouldn’t wear out their welcome, but she changed her mind. He’d opened himself to them. They must be good for him. So in the future, she’d allow them more time with the orchard owner. Perhaps God had guided them here so the children could ease Mr. Roper’s loneliness.
Use us, Lord, for his good and Your glory. Amen.
19
The morning of the Fourth of July celebration, Tim rose early and saw to the necessary chores—including setting up the sprinklers so the trees would get a good drink in his absence—before fixing a pot of coffee. He skipped breakfast so he’d have plenty of room for all the goodies in town. Saliva pooled under his tongue as he thought about slow-roasted barbecued beef, baked beans, golden fresh-fried corn dogs slathered with mustard, and an unlimited selection of homemade pies. He’d learned everyone pulled out the stops when it came to these celebrations, and being a bachelor, he took advantage of the opportunity to eat his fill.
Sipping the strong black brew from a chipped ceramic mug, he ambled sock-footed to his bedroom and flicked through the shirts in his closet. He’d wear a button-up western shirt in place of his usual work T-shirts today. For a moment he paused, admiring the crisply ironed neatness of each shirt, perfectly centered on the hangers and spaced so they wouldn’t crush one another. He chuckled. That Bekah would make someone a fine wife someday—she took her role as his housekeeper seriously. Her mother’d done a fine job training her.
Training her . . . He grimaced. People trained dogs, not children. Plunking the half-empty mug on his dresser, he selected a blue-and-tan plaid shirt. As he snapped it, he contemplated the training he’d received while living under his father’s roof. He couldn’t deny he’d been well instructed in caring for crops and tools, in being respectful and responsible, and in Scripture memorization. Not that he leaned too much on the Scriptures these days, even if they did try to invade his thoughts at odd moments.
He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. The older he got, the more he saw his dad’s face peering back at him. Same square jaw, same thick brows, same mahogany hair with a cowlick best hidden beneath a hat. To his consternation, he looked like Timothy Rupp Senior. “But I don’t act like him,” he informed his image. When it came to parenting, he’d never barked orders, expected perfection, or quoted Bible verses at full volume to shame his son. Charlie had never been afraid of his father.
Turning abruptly, he moved away from the mirror and sat on the end of the bed to tug on his boots. Why think about it now? Dad’d probably forgotten he had a son named for himself. Charlie was long gone . . . and Tim needed to toss the past in the closet where it belonged and leave it there.
He rose with a cracking of knees and gave his closet door a good slam. Then he grabbed his cowboy hat from the edge of the dresser, slid it into place over his cowlick, and strode out the door. Behind the wheel of his pickup truck, he drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. By increments. Feeling the tension that had knotted his shoulders during his moments of reflection ease a little more with each deliberate expulsion of breath. By the time he reached town, he was ready to put on a smile—even if it was a forced one—and enjoy a rare day of leisure.
Wooden barricades decorated with strips of red, white, and blue crepe paper blocked Main Street from through traffic, so Tim pulled into the high-school parking lot. Most townsfolk just walked to the city park for the celebration, leaving lots of room for the rural folk to leave their vehicles. He glanced down the row of cars and trucks, identifying neighbors by their mode of transportation. His heart gave a funny lurch when he spotted Mrs. Knackstedt’s blue Buick. So the kids had convinced her to come in—good. He’d give them a wave if he saw them.
He put the truck in park, killed the engine, then pocketed his keys. He didn’t bother locking the truck—nobody in Weaverly would bother it, one of the perks of small-town living—then took off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, heading for the park on the opposite side of town. His bootheels thudded against the cracked concrete, keeping time with a band playing in the distance. Based on the occasional sour note, Tim surmised the high-school band director had pulled his students together for a summer concert. Although it sounded a little rusty, the marching tune added to the day’s festive attitude.
Only four blocks separated the high school from the park, nothing compared to how much ground Tim covered each day at the orchard. But the ridiculous temperature—probably close to one hundred degrees already at nine in the morning—had him feeling sticky by the time he’d walked half the distance. Maybe he should’ve dressed like the kids racing around, in shorts and a tank top instead of his customary Levi’s.
Several buildings, those no longer in operation, were locked up tight, their windows graced with FOR SALE or FOR RENT signs. Every occupied business had its door propped open with a brick or a bucket of sand. Cool air whisked out at him as he passed by, encouraging him to slow his stride. But food waited at the park, and he was ready to find something tasty.
Tim wove between groups who lingered on the sidewalk, tipping his hat and smiling hello as he went. Down the middle of Main Street, people had set up tables to sell arts-and-crafts items. Townsfolk milled there in the sunshine, examining starched doilies, wooden cars, or handmade dolls. He didn’t meander to the booths. If Julia were here, she’d be dragging him to each display, looking for ideas for her own handiwork. But he had no interest in crafty items. Besides, staying on the sidewalk put him in the shade thanks to the height of the buildings blocking the sun. He stepped off the curb at the end of the business district and crossed the street to enter the grassy park.
“Hey, Tim!” One of the town council members, Greg Eads, raised a hand in greeting, gesturing Tim over to a cloth-draped table under one of the towering elm trees. The red-checked cloth flapped in the wind, threatening to dislodge a square hand-painted sign advertising “Cold Pop: 50¢/can.”
“Come grab yourself a drink,” Greg called. “Looks like you could use it.”
Tim rarely drank pop, and never this early in the morning, but today he’d make an exception. He dug two quarters out of his pocket and dropped them into the money jar on the corner of the table before fishing a dripping can of cola from an ice-filled cooler resting in a child’s red wagon. He bobbed his chin at the wagon
as he popped the top on the can. “You planning to take your business on the road?”
The man laughed heartily. “Doubt I’ll need to. I’ve already had to restock the cherry cola—kids love it. Nah, the wagon was my son’s idea. He said it put the cans up high enough that the, uh, older ladies wouldn’t have to bend over to get their cans out of the cooler.”
Tim laughed. “How old is that boy of yours now, Greg?”
His chest puffing with pride, Greg said, “Eight going on eighteen. Playing Little League for the first time this summer. They grow up awful fast, don’t they?” Then he blanched, ducking his head. “Oh, sheesh, sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .”
Tim took a swallow of pop, wishing he could swallow the lump of longing the man’s words had innocently stirred. He forced a light chuckle. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ve got a right to brag on your boy.” If Charlie were still living, he’d be fourteen already. Big enough to be a help around the orchard or to participate in the Special Olympics with other challenged athletes. If Charlie were alive, Tim would take advantage of every opportunity to boast about his son’s accomplishments, no matter how large or small.
Greg slapped Tim on the shoulder, blasting a laugh that held a hint of embarrassment. “If we can peel you away from your apple trees now and then, why don’t you come to town some Friday evening and watch the youngsters play? I tell you, Tim, there’s nothing like watching a Little League baseball game to take your mind off your troubles.” He swung a look skyward, his lips pursing. “And from what I’ve heard so far this morning, lots of folks are troubled about our lack of rain. Can’t remember the last time we made it through an entire spring without a storm or two.” One brow high, he gave Tim a worried look. “How’re your trees doing? They holding up under the heat?”
“So far, although I’ve already counted the grapes a loss.” The vines were so shriveled, they might never produce again. Tim finished off his pop, then tossed the can in a barrel behind the table, where it clattered against several other cans. “I’ve had to water a lot more than I’d like for this early in the summer. Still, the roots’ve got to have moisture or the trees’ll dry up on me. At least I’ve got well water, so I’m not paying the city to water my trees.”
When Hope Blossoms Page 15
