When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Bekah’s chin shot up. She grinned, then giggled. “Okay.” She turned and skittered to the kitchen.

  Tim followed. He wasn’t really hungry, but Bekah needed something to keep herself occupied. He needed to be busy, too, but rather than helping her, he slipped into a kitchen chair and watched her buzz between the pantry, refrigerator, and cabinets. Within minutes, she’d cluttered the tabletop with sandwich fixings—bread, sliced tomatoes, lettuce, three different kinds of cheese, pink ham, pickles, mayonnaise, and mustard.

  She slathered mustard on a slice of bread, then layered meat and cheese over the golden smear. “I’ll make a whole bunch. That way, when Mom and the kids are back, lunch’ll be waiting for them.”

  Tim smiled to himself. Now she was thinking positively—a good sign. He helped arrange the sandwiches on the plate, stacking them into a pyramid. When she’d completed six sandwiches, she retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “Do you want—”

  A bang intruded, followed by a frantic voice. “Bekah! Bekah!”

  Bekah plopped the carton on the table and dashed around the corner. Tim trailed behind her, his heart catching at the sight of Mrs. Knackstedt clinging to Bekah. Parker and Adri surrounded them, their arms wound together. Their unity—their obvious relief to be together again—put a lump in Tim’s throat. How long had it been since he’d been wrapped in the embrace of people who loved him?

  Mrs. Knackstedt pulled back, cupping Bekah’s face between her palms. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry you had to face that storm alone. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Bekah flashed a smile at Tim. “Mr. Roper came over. He went into the cellar with me, and he told me to trust you’d be home soon.” The girl’s image blurred, and Tim realized his eyes had misted over. He blinked rapidly, clearing the moisture. Bekah finished, “We were just gonna eat a sandwich. I made plenty.”

  Mrs. Knackstedt stepped free of her children, leaving them in a huddling group in the doorway between the living and dining rooms. She crossed the floor and then stopped mere inches from Tim. Her eyes locked on his. His stomach trembled as he read a jumble of feelings in the steadfast gaze of her blue eyes. Gratitude. Admiration. And sympathy.

  “Thank you for being here with Bekah when I couldn’t. I prayed fervently she wouldn’t be alone. I knew God was with her—He is always with her—but I’m so grateful He sent a human form to be His hands on earth.”

  Her kind words wrapped him in warmth. Looking into this woman’s sincere, tender, open face, something inside him seemed to bloom to life. He cared about the children, yes, but he also cared about their mother. Seeing her safe and home again raised a desire to draw her close, to thank someone for delivering her from the storm, to shelter her within his arms and hold her in his heart. When had resentment for her intrusion in his life changed to devotion?

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “Y-you’re welcome.” He bobbed his head toward the kitchen doorway. “Bekah’s sandwiches are drying out. You probably ought to eat.”

  But she didn’t move. Her hand stretched toward him, and her fingers descended lightly on his forearm. A sweet tenderness softened the gentle lines around her eyes. “Mr. Roper, I must tell you . . .”

  Tim held his breath, his heart pounding so hard his ears rang. Did she sense how he felt? Did she feel the same way toward him?

  “Your orchard. The tornado . . .”

  Tim didn’t wait to hear more. He shot past her, nearly knocking her aside in his frantic bid to escape, and ran out the door.

  29

  Tim stood in the drizzle, fingers in the back pockets of his Levi’s, boots planted wide, and stared at what was left of his house and barn. Thunder rolled gently in the distance, its growl an appropriate accompaniment to the emotions swirling through Tim’s chest.

  The destruction to his house didn’t surprise him. Not too many mobile homes could stand up to the force of a tornado, even an F2, which, according to the radio announcer, was what they’d had. Seeing it twisted off its concrete-block foundation, a section of roof crinkled up like a huge wad of tinfoil and a gaping hole where his bedroom used to be was painful, but not unexpected. But the barn . . .

  Julia’s uncle had told him the barn was built in the late-1860s by German immigrants, back when they did things right. He’d given the barn a coat of paint every other year, always kept the roof in good repair, and never lit a lantern inside it. The oak timbers—a good six inches square—that served as support beams had always seemed indestructible. Solid. Permanent. Now he realized how foolish he’d been to think that nothing could destroy the huge wooden building.

  A churned strip of bare ground, no longer holding so much as a blade of grass or a scrap of weed, showed the path the tornado had taken between his house and barn. And then it must have gone back up into the clouds, because the clean path ended at the road. Tim wanted to be happy the neighbors’ fields and homes were safe. But happiness for his fellow Weaverly residents would have to come later. Right now, he needed to be selfish and mourn his own loss.

  The sound of car tires crunching on rain-soaked ground met his ears. Company. He craned his head to look, too weary to move his body. Mrs. Knackstedt’s Buick inched up the lane. Her windshield wipers squeaked on the wet glass, tossing raindrops aside. He remained in place, waiting and watching until she stopped the car, climbed out, and tiptoed her way through the leaf-strewn mud to stand beside him. Her cap and the shoulders of her dress gathered wet polka dots.

  Tim shifted his focus to the hole in the side of his house. His bedspread gently flapped in the light breeze, and a picture of flowers—one of Julia’s oil paintings—still hung on the wall. Tornadoes were mighty strange storms. “I’d say let’s get in out of the rain, but I’m not sure where to take you.” He supposed his voice should hold bitterness or sarcasm, but instead he just sounded tired.

  “Mr. Roper . . .” Her words caught. She didn’t touch him, but her hand hovered near his arm. The fingers trembled. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, her head bobbing here and there as she examined the area. “Have you checked your trees? Did you suffer much . . . loss?”

  He swallowed a derisive snort. “The tornado steered clear of the orchard. I haven’t gone clear through, but from what I’ve seen, the trees are mostly wind-damaged but nothing more. Some broken branches. Leaves and apple buds blown to kingdom come.” When he’d driven home, he’d thought it looked like a parade had passed by, leaving a trail of confetti behind. “Won’t have much of a crop this year—not as much as I’d hoped for—but there’ll be some.”

  Blowing out a big breath, he flipped one hand toward the barn. “ ’Course, I can forget folks being able to make their own applesauce or squeeze their own juice. My equipment . . . it’s all buried underneath that tumble of beams and shattered lumber. Can’t imagine finding anything of use in there now.”

  Her hand descended on his arm. A light touch—yet delivering heartfelt sympathy. “Do you have insurance?”

  “Some.” Tim ground his teeth together. He’d skimped on insurance and he knew it, trying to save money with a smaller policy. No way he’d get what he needed to rebuild his business to where it had been before the storm struck. “Guess it’ll have to do.”

  “I suppose . . .” She sounded sad. “I’m so grateful you came to the house and went to the cellar with Bekah. She needed someone with her, but more than that, it kept you safe, too. If you’d been in either the house or the barn when the storm hit, you could have been seriously injured.”

  Tim hadn’t considered how running next door had saved his own skin.

  “I’m thankful God spared you.”

  Her innocent comment, so sweetly uttered, stirred an unexpected flame of fury in Tim’s gut. Sure, God had spared him, but for what? He had trees but no equipment to harvest the fruit. He had land but no shelter. He’d clung to this orchard in lieu of clinging to his wi
fe and son, and now it seemed as though everything had gone up in a gust of wind. All of the hurt and frustration of the past lonely years roared through Tim’s chest and exploded in an angry deluge of words.

  “Our great and powerful God could’ve spared a whole lot more, don’t you think? After all, He put the stars in the sky. So why couldn’t He keep that tornado in the clouds where it wouldn’t do any harm? Why’d it have to land on my barn? My house?”

  Mrs. Knackstedt stared at him in dismay, but once the words started, he couldn’t seem to stop them. He’d held them inside far too long. Every element of resentment poured from the center of Tim’s soul.

  “Wasn’t it enough He gave me a son with needs I couldn’t meet without help? A son I had to send to therapists in another town, requiring a trip on the highway where an idiotic driver fiddling around with his radio dial crossed the center line and took my wife and son from me? Why didn’t God spare Julia and Charlie? I wasn’t ready to tell them good-bye!”

  His voice boomed out louder than the thunder that continued to roll. “And why’d He bring you and—and those other Mennonites to Weaverly? He knew a boy like Parker would remind me of Charlie. He knew a loving, warm, giving mother like you would remind me of Julia. He knew having all of you here would remind me of the life I threw away. Couldn’t He have spared me from coming face-to-face with every one of my past regrets?”

  Tim ran out of steam. His shoulders wilted, his stiff knees relaxed. Right there in the mud, with rain still saturating his hair and clothing, he went down on one knee. “He spared me, Amy Knackstedt, but for what purpose?”

  She stared at him, silent, her hands clasped in a prayerful position against the bodice of her dress. The top of her cap was soaked, and little rivulets of water ran down her face. Or were some of those trails of moisture tears?

  Tim hung his head, heaving a sigh. “Go home. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  “What are you going to do?” She wrapped her arms around herself like Bekah had after the storm, sending a lengthy gaze across his house. “You can’t stay out here. There isn’t a safe shelter.”

  Tim jolted to his feet. “I’ll drive into town. Talk to my minister. Reverend Geary and his wife’ll put me up for a night or two. I’ll be fine.” He tipped his head in the direction of her car. “Thanks for coming by, but you should be with your children. They’ve had a scare today, too.”

  “They sent me over—insisted I check on you.” A soft smile curled her lips. “They were worried about you.”

  Droplets of water clung to her eyelashes. Bedraggled ribbons hung alongside her cheeks, plastered against the damp wisps of hair at her temples. Rain-soaked, weary . . . and somehow still beautiful. Her faith shone through. Tim’s throat tightened. He blinked. “Tell ’em thanks. Tell ’em I’ll make sure they get their apples before I do any other selling.” He steeled his heart. “But tell ’em not to come over.” He sent a sorrowful look across his property. “There’s nothing here for them anymore.”

  Tim drove into Weaverly after covering the gaping hole in his trailer with a tarp he found in the old storage shed on the back corner of the property. Strange how the ramshackle shed still stood, but the mighty barn had been toppled. Tim tried not to think about it too much, but he couldn’t deny a sense of unfairness at the whole ordeal.

  As he’d expected, Reverend Geary and his wife, Marjorie, told Tim he could stay in their guest room for as long he needed. Marjorie got busy on the telephone, and by seven o’clock that evening, the whole town had heard about the tornado tearing up Tim’s place. In typical small-town fashion, they rallied to help.

  Dean Bradley, one of Charlie’s teachers from the grade school, brought over a sackful of jeans and T-shirts he’d intended to take to the Goodwill in Ottawa. Although the clothes were used, they were in as good a shape as any Tim generally wore for working in the orchard. The general store owner, Ralph Miller, opened his store after-hours and let Tim help himself to packages of socks and underwear and whatever toiletries he needed, free of charge. Tim had noticed his dresser still stood along the wall, seemingly untouched, but the sagging roof above the piece of furniture made him hesitant to retrieve anything from it. So he appreciated putting his hands on articles of clothing.

  By bedtime Saturday, the civic club had already decided to do a pancake feed to raise money to help pay for a new barn and equipment, church ladies had delivered more covered dishes than Tim could eat in a month, and Jeff Allen, a local rancher, promised to haul his fishing trailer to Tim’s land so he’d have someplace to sleep until insurance paid out and he could buy himself another mobile home.

  Tim fell into bed Saturday, thankful for the support of his townsfolk but still worried. All of the paper work for his insurance policy was in his desk drawer, so he couldn’t double-check it, but he was relatively certain the policy he’d purchased—the one that fit his limited budget—included a sizable deductible. Even with the pancake feed proceeds, how in the world would he be able to replace the barn?

  On Sunday morning, Tim dressed in a pair of Dean’s hand-me-over jeans and one of Reverend Geary’s dress shirts, which Mrs. Geary offered him after seeing the T-shirt he’d pulled on before coming to breakfast. As he brushed his teeth, he grimaced at his reflection. Despite the night in the comfortable bed, he looked haggard. And he wasn’t much in the mood to attend a worship service.

  A person shouldn’t get sore at God. His father would probably quote Proverbs 19:21 if he knew what Tim was thinking. “There are many devices in a man’s heart; nevertheless the counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.” Timothy Rupp Sr. was particularly fond of the verse, but at the moment, Tim wasn’t terribly interested in the Lord’s counsel. In his opinion, the Lord had allowed one too many calamities to befall him.

  Still, he wouldn’t disappoint the ones who’d given him shelter last night. The Gearys expected him to attend service, so he’d go. But he couldn’t guarantee he’d listen to any sermon. Especially if it involved goading people into believing God had a good plan in the hard situations. Some people might still buy into it, but any shred of belief Tim might have possessed was crushed along with his sturdy, seemingly indestructible barn.

  The sanctuary filled quickly, people slipping into pews at the back first and forcing latecomers to take the seats in the front. Tim had arrived early, so he sat on the second-to-last pew. He used a bulletin to stir the air. The church possessed a fairly new central air unit, but Mrs. Geary had come over and opened windows to let in the breeze. She said they could all benefit from the leftover scent of rain after the long, dry weeks. Tim admitted the breeze carried a nice scent, but the sun was already high, as was the humidity, and even before the song leader stepped behind the pulpit to direct the congregation in the opening hymn, Tim felt sticky.

  He rose for hymn singing, remained standing for prayer, sat for the Bible reading and children’s feature, stood again for another song, and then settled into the pew for the sermon. None of the sounds of a church service—a minister’s deep voice, the flutter of Bibles’ pages being turned, a child’s occasional whining complaint followed by a mother’s stern shh!—were new. He’d sat through countless services as a boy. Back then he’d held his head erect, his spine straight, doing his best to at least appear attentive lest he earn a stern glare or a reprimand from his father for woolgathering. Today, at the back of the church, hidden from the majority of worshipers and free of his father’s watchful gaze, he could let his mind wander. He had plenty to think about.

  After the wind’s force, his trees needed pruning. The grounds would require a good raking to dispose of all the fallen branches and leaves. He hadn’t checked to see if the beehives were toppled—if the bees had scattered, he’d probably have to pay to replace them. Another expense he couldn’t afford. Somehow he’d have to dig through his house and salvage anything still usable. What remained of the barn would need to be hauled away—or burned—and another structure erected in its stead.

  The lis
t grew lengthy, and as Tim considered the amount of work awaiting him, a tension headache built in the back of his skull. He’d never get it all done by himself, but how would he hire workers without money to pay them? Caught up in his thoughts, it took a few moments for him to realize everyone was shifting to stand for the closing hymn. He shot to his feet, holding the back of the pew in front of him to keep himself steady—how his head ached—and focused on the music leader. The piano played the opening chords, but before the director began the first verse, a shuffling sound filled the rear of the sanctuary.

  People turned to look over their shoulders. Surprise registered on faces. Whispers broke out across the room, and children pointed. Tim squinted his eyes against the pain stabbing in his head and turned slowly to look at what had caused the uproar. There, in one big cluster, the Mennonites from Ohio stood just inside the double doors at the back of the worship room.

  The director waved his hand, and the pianist came to an abrupt stop. Reverend Geary hurried down the center aisle and greeted the guests as if the community church welcomed a group of visitors at the close of every service. More whispers floated across the room as Reverend Geary and the oldest of the Mennonite men spoke quietly together. Then Reverend Geary threw his arm around the man’s shoulders and herded him to the pulpit. He said, “Folks, sit down, please, and give this man your kind attention.”

  More whispers rippled, but everyone settled into their seats. Reverend Geary held his hand toward the Mennonite man, granting him permission to speak. The man pressed his hat against the front of his buttoned black coat and leaned toward the microphone on the pulpit.

  “I thank you for letting us come in and interrupt your worship. I am Dillard Gerber. My wife and me and several people from our town in Ohio moved here to Weaverly a couple months ago. We haven’t got to meet most of you yet, but we hope to make good friends with all of you.”