When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The this-and-that store in Weaverly had albums for photographs—she’d seen them when she’d shopped there. A man wouldn’t want a fancy book with flowers and frilly stuff on the cover. Just a plain one. Maybe blue or green. And a plain one probably wouldn’t cost very much. Bekah placed the photos back in the box and dug out her money jar from beneath her socks in the dresser drawer. She dumped the contents on the bed and quickly counted the few dollar bills and assorted change.

  She nibbled her lip. Almost eight dollars. Would it be enough? Even though the pictures didn’t hold her own memories, it was very important that they be retained for Mr. Roper. She couldn’t understand why it meant so much to her, only that it did.

  Oh, please let seven dollars and eighty-six cents be enough to buy an album.

  With the prayer lingering in the back of her heart, she stuffed the money in her little pocketbook and raced downstairs to ask Mom for permission to ride her bicycle into town.

  Tim heated a can of soup on the little propane stove in the fishing trailer. He bent forward slightly to avoid bumping the top of his head on the padded ceiling. He appreciated the shelter, but if he had to stay in this little camper very long he would end up with a permanent crick in his neck from constantly ducking. Didn’t camper makers realize some men were more than six feet tall?

  He crushed half a package of saltine crackers into the broth, then sat on the little bench that folded out into a bed and ate his feeble supper directly from the pan. For a moment, he wished he’d accepted Luke Mischler’s invitation to eat supper with his family. He’d be dining on something more substantial than watery vegetable beef soup. His stomach growled as he swallowed the last spoonful, reminding him how inadequate the meal had been. But sitting down to a meal with the Mennonite family would have drawn him even closer to the newcomers from Ohio. Now that the work was done, he needed to resume his solitary existence. Forget—again—his joint heritage with these people.

  He clanked the empty pan and spoon into the shallow sink and stood, slope-shouldered, staring out the tiny square window above the minuscule counter. The completed barn loomed where only yesterday a twisted pile of timbers had rested. Even though he’d witnessed the Mennonite practice of goodwill before, he still found it hard to believe they’d pooled their own funds to purchase the supplies needed for the new barn and spent time away from their families and fields to help him. Tim Roper, a man who had abandoned the Mennonite faith.

  With a soft whistle of amazement, he examined the barn by increments, from the sleek green roof panels to the red siding all the way to the rock foundation. Although the metal structure wasn’t as proud looking as the age-worn wood-planked barn the tornado had destroyed, it would suit his purpose. And the colors emulated a ripe Red Delicious. What a gift, that big, metal, barn-shaped building. As soon as his insurance check arrived, he’d pay them back. That should end his contact with the affable Mennonites.

  Until picking time.

  The men had indicated they’d bring their families out when the apples were ready for harvesting. He scratched his chin, thinking ahead. Maybe he’d offer the families a discount to say thanks for all their help. Then he wouldn’t have to feel beholden to them. Yeah, a discount. That’d even the score.

  He turned from the window and unfolded the bench into a cot. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to bed before nine o’clock, but what else did he have to do but sleep? No television, no books to read, no one to talk to . . . Besides, he was worn to a frazzle by the long day of nonstop activity.

  As he unrolled his sleeping bag across the thin foam pad that masqueraded as a mattress, his mind drifted back several years. He’d offered a discounted price to a group of Mennonites one other time. Four adult men and a handful of kids had driven over from someplace else in Kansas, arriving in two rented vans with cargo space in the back to cart the apples home again. They’d picked for themselves, and then they’d picked extra bushels to have ready for customers who weren’t interested in pick-your-own, so Tim knocked ten percent off their cost for their trouble.

  A sad smile twitched at his cheek as he flopped onto the lumpy cot. That’d been the last harvest before Julia and Charlie’s accident. Charlie had made friends with one of the Mennonite boys—a kid maybe a year or two younger than Charlie who’d been a little slow. Not Down Syndrome or anything Tim could identify—just slow. The boy and Charlie’d had a good time that day, playing in the barn and chasing each other between the trees. Tim and the boy’s father’d had a good talk, too. Even though Tim had wanted to hold his distance from the Mennonite men, he’d felt a kinship with this father who understood what it was like to raise a boy with special needs.

  He crunched his forehead, trying to recall the Mennonite boy’s name. It was different—Bumper? Bunker? The name had long escaped Tim’s memory. But he did recall his conversation with the dad. They’d agreed when you had a child who needed extra attention, you stuck close. You gave more of yourself. What had the man said? Tim pressed his memory, determined to recall the exact words. “When you have a child who will always be a child, you make plans to be there for them. Not just ’til they’re old enough to be out on their own the way you do for most children, but forever.” Tim had nodded at the man’s emphasis, understanding completely.

  But then Tim had been freed of his lifelong commitment to Charlie long before “forever” came. He rolled to his side and closed his eyes against the memories, but they continued to play out behind his closed lids. He’d give most anything to have his son and every aspect of responsibility back again. But then his eyes popped open, realization dawning. All these years of working the orchard on his own, he’d convinced himself he was fine alone. He was better alone. No risk of being hurt or abandoned or even betrayed if he was alone. But now, after being accepted by the Knackstedt children, by their mother, and by their fellowship, alone just didn’t sit as well as it once had.

  Tim heaved a mighty sigh. He’d handled alone before. He could do it again. “I can do all things—” Before the verse could complete itself in his mind, he threw his arm across his eyes and forced himself to shut out the world.

  Amy set aside her Bible and gave Parker a kiss on the cheek. “Sleep well,” she said, receiving his sleepy smile in reply. Adrianna and Bekah rose from the foot of the bed, and Amy followed them down the short hallway to their bedroom. She tucked Adrianna beneath the sheet, making her giggle by giving her a flurry of kisses on her sweet-smelling neck. With a soft laugh, Amy smoothed her hand over the little girl’s hair. “Sleep well.”

  “I will, Momma. ’Night.” Adrianna rolled to her side and scrunched her eyes closed.

  Amy turned to Bekah, who stood in the dim glow of the bedside lamp removing the pins from her hair. “Are you going to stay up and work on Mr. Roper’s book?” She kept her voice low to avoid disturbing Adrianna.

  Bekah nodded. Hair tumbled down her back in a wave. The sight of her daughter, standing tall with squared shoulders, her dark hair shimmering in the soft light, put a lump in Amy’s throat. What a pretty young woman Bekah was becoming. Bekah lifted the denim-covered album and held it out, her expression bashful. “Want to see what I have so far?”

  “Sure.” Amy sat next to Bekah on her bed and laid the album in her lap. She opened the album and admired her daughter’s efforts. Bekah had done a commendable job of sorting the photographs into groupings that complemented one another. A chill tiptoed up her spine as she received a glimpse into Mr. Roper’s family life. Amy turned the pages slowly, examining each photograph by turn. Admittedly, jealousy pricked. How she’d love to have images frozen in time of her children and of Gabe to look at again and again. When she reached the last filled page, she gave Bekah a one-armed hug. “It looks so nice, honey. I’m sure Mr. Roper will be pleased you took the time to do this for him.”

  “I hope so.” Bekah pulled the album into her own lap. She turned a few pages, then used her finger to outline the figure of the little boy, perhaps five years old,
standing in front of the old barn. “This is my favorite. He looks so cute in those striped overalls and bare feet. And his whole face is smiling, not just his mouth, do you see?”

  Amy chuckled softly at the boy’s grin, so huge it squinted his eyes to slits. “I do see. He looks very happy there.”

  Bekah nodded, her chin low. “He must’ve really liked those overalls. He wears them in lots of pictures, and Mr. Roper even kept them.” Bekah angled a quick glance at Amy. “Wanna see?”

  Amy nodded, and Bekah slipped from the bed. She opened the closet door slowly, cringing at its creak. But Adrianna, sound asleep, didn’t even stir. Bekah pulled a box from the closet and tugged the flaps open. She lifted out the overalls shown in the picture and held them up. “The knees are worn through, but Mrs. Roper must’ve sewn in some fabric behind the holes.”

  “May I see them?” Amy took the overalls, examining the frayed hems, the ragged holes with patches of green-and-red-plaid flannel sewn inside the legs. “My, these were well loved.” She shot Bekah a startled look. “How did you happen to come by these?”

  Bekah shrugged slowly, crunching her lips to the side. “Mr. Roper told me to throw them away. These, and his wife’s things.” She gestured to another box in the closet. “But it seemed like a waste. I thought maybe somebody could use them. So I brought them home.”

  An idea whisked through the far corner of Amy’s brain. “Do you have plans for them already?”

  Bekah sent a wistful look toward the box in the closet. “Not really.”

  Amy patted the mattress. “Well, come here, then, and tell me what you think of this. . . .”

  32

  The last half of July and early August disappeared quickly. After the tornado, humidity descended on Weaverly, making Amy long for the dry days preceding it. Yet she gloried in the occasional rain shower that nourished the soybeans and her garden. She and the children worked in the garden early each morning before the day grew too hot while the fellowship men harvested the soybeans and readied the soil for a winter wheat crop.

  The first few weeks after the tornado, the children begged daily to visit Mr. Roper. Although a part of Amy desired to see him, too—to ascertain he was recovering from his losses—she refused the children’s requests and steadfastly turned her thoughts elsewhere. She continued to keep him in her prayers and encouraged the children to pray for him, as well, but he’d asked them to stay away. As much as it hurt her to deny the children, she knew it would hurt them more to suffer cold rejection from the man who’d been so open and caring in the past. Parker, especially, wouldn’t understand Mr. Roper’s change in demeanor. So she consistently refused, and over time, they stopped asking.

  On Saturdays, the fellowship women met to can the bounty from their gardens, exchanging tomatoes for beets or peas for cucumbers so everyone would have a variety of vegetables for the winter. Amy’s cellar shelves bowed beneath the weight of full quart jars, and her heart rejoiced at the security the food stores offered her and the children. Each Sunday, the Mennonites gathered and praised God for the fruitful land and opportunity to serve Him together. Weekly, Amy felt herself drawing closer to these men and women from Ohio who’d accepted her and her children into their fellowship. But although she prayed daily for God to expose the truth concerning Gabe’s death, she never mentioned the need to her new friends.

  She and the children developed a routine of visiting the Weaverly library Friday mornings after finishing in the garden. To her delight, each week she discovered several new contacts in her email box. Over the weeks, she accepted jobs from four new clients. Even as she confirmed her intention to complete the projects, she wondered if she’d be forced to sell her house and expensive quilting machine to repay the insurance agency. She and her father spoke on the telephone several times after the children had gone to bed, but thus far God hadn’t answered their prayer to provide evidence that Gabe hadn’t taken his own life. The worry ate at her, stealing her sleep at night and giving her stomach pangs during the day. But she took the jobs as a statement of faith that somehow she’d be able to fill the orders.

  While Amy sewed on her projects, Bekah worked on the other side of the room. Margaret Gerber had loaned them her older-model Singer, claiming she only sewed during the winter months. Using pieces cut from the clothing that had once belonged to Julia and Charlie Roper, Bekah stitched the pieces into colorful Tree of Life blocks. When perusing Amy’s book of quilt patterns, they’d both agreed the tree formed of triangles and squares was the perfect choice for a man who operated an orchard. The appeal of the pattern lay not only in its simple beauty, but in its reminder of faith and the truth of eternal life.

  For the quilt’s center block, Bekah had chosen a square of sturdy muslin and hand-embroidered a Scripture from Job, chapter fourteen, which spoke of a tree’s roots sending forth new growth. While meticulously stitching the letters onto the stretched muslin, Bekah had mused, “You know, Mom, this verse works for the apple trees that’re still blooming even after all the damage from the tornado, but it also kinda talks about people, doesn’t it? We might get knocked down by life, but God gives us strength to get up again. And even when our bodies on earth die, we get a whole new life in Heaven with Him—a life that goes on forever.”

  Tears had burned in Amy’s eyes for hours after Bekah’s thoughtful expression. Her daughter’s insights offered a peek at the spiritual growth taking place within Bekah’s heart, giving Amy’s mother-heart a reason to sing.

  The last Friday before school started, Amy took the children to the library and then to the Burger Basket for an end-of-summer-vacation lunch. Parker and Adrianna played tic-tac-toe on a napkin while Amy and Bekah visited. With school around the corner, Bekah seemed nervous. Amy surmised going to a new school with new teachers and many unfamiliar faces created her daughter’s uncertainties, but her heart turned over when Bekah confessed the true reason for her apprehension.

  “It’ll be the first time Parker and me aren’t in the same building. What if he needs me? I won’t be close by like I’ve always been before.”

  Amy took Bekah’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “If you aren’t there, Parker will learn to handle his problems on his own. That would be good for him, wouldn’t it?”

  Bekah cast a tender look at her brother. “I guess so. He is getting bigger.” She sighed, facing Amy again. “But it’s hard for me. I feel like I’m letting him down by not being there.”

  Amy hadn’t realized how deeply Bekah’s long-held position as older sister and protector had become ingrained in her being. She sought words of encouragement, but before she could speak again, Bekah suddenly blurted out a statement that stilled Amy’s voice.

  “But maybe we’ll end up back in Arborville and in the same building after all.”

  Amy stared at Bekah, her jaw slack.

  Bekah shrugged. “If you have to pay back the money you got from the grain-elevator owner, you’ll have to sell the house we’re in, right? And we’ll move back to Grandpa’s house?”

  How had Bekah known about the threat? She hadn’t mentioned it to the children, fearful of creating a sense of panic. Yet apparently Bekah had kept the secret for weeks. Amy shook her head. “I—”

  “Here you go!” The cheerful server plopped plastic baskets of hamburgers and french fries on the table.

  Amy led them in a prayer of thanks for the food. The conversation steered to other topics, but Amy couldn’t stop thinking about Bekah’s questions. She’d put off planning what would happen if she was forced to pay back the money, but she knew she didn’t want to return to Arborville. Not after someone there had made such hurtful accusations not only about Gabe, but about her. The insinuation that she would be deceitful enough to accept money that didn’t rightfully belong to her stung.

  While the children jabbered, enjoying their meal, Amy fell silent, lowered her head, and let her thoughts dissolve into prayer. God, help me forgive those in Arborville who wronged me. I want to believe Gabe wouldn’t cho
ose to leave us—I want to assure my children their father would rather be here to watch them grow into God-honoring adults. But time is quickly running out for me to offer proof that Gabe didn’t take his own life. If I’m unable to keep the money, the children and I will have to move. Are we meant to return to Arborville, that place of painful memory? Or do You have another place of beginning for us?

  Her heart stabbed as she considered leaving Weaverly. In only three short months, she’d grown to love the town, her new fellowship members, and—a tiny gasp escaped her lips as realization rolled through her—her neighbor. Her eyes closed tightly, she offered a deeply felt entreaty. Reveal Your plan, Father, so the children and I might be at peace.

  “Mom?”

  Amy startled at Bekah’s hesitant voice. She lifted her gaze. “Yes?”

  Her hand next to her cheek, Bekah pointed toward the door. Her face reflected apprehension. Adrianna and Parker turned backward in their chairs to peek. Adrianna squealed, “Mr. Roper!” Before Amy could stop them, the two youngest bounded out of their chairs and raced across the tile floor to the man who’d somehow, inexplicably, stolen a piece of their mother’s heart.

  Tim’s heart fired into his throat as Adri and Parker flew toward him, arms outstretched. Unmindful of the other diners, he went down on one knee and captured Adri in a hug. Parker bent forward, wrapping his skinny arms around Tim’s neck. Tim’s baseball hat bounced off his head and hit the scuffed floor, but he didn’t care. Not until that moment did he realize how much he’d missed them. But their exuberant greeting brought back every lonely minute he’d held them at bay. What joy he’d denied himself by remaining aloof from these open, smiling, accepting children.