An Amish Miracle

by Beth Wiseman

  Peeking around the corner to make sure no fraa had doubled back, Stephen sprinted for the house. Lunch had been hours ago, and he was starved for supper.

  “Hope,” he called. “Is the coast clear?” He set his straw hat on a peg, but before he could roll up his sleeves to wash, two speeding figures shot through the kitchen.

  “Daed!” Greta and Emily hugged him around the waist and knees as though he’d been gone for days instead of hours.

  “Did you miss me? The barn’s not that far from the house.” He patted each of their kapps.

  “Mamm needed me in the house today,” said Josie from the doorway. “Or I would have come to help you.”

  He smiled at his shy dochder. “I know you would have, but your place was in here with all the noisy hens.”

  “Hens? What hens?” Hope entered from the living room, pulling a clean apron from the drawer along the way. “I noticed no chickens in my kitchen, only sweet ladies who ironed your shirts and cooked plenty of your favorites.” She smiled wryly over the kinners’ heads.

  “I’m not sure why the chicken coop came to mind when I came in for lunch, but I refer to good-natured hens, of course.” He kissed his wife’s cheek while she set the table.

  “Best change your shirt. That one smells like your horse.” Hope pinched her nostrils.

  “I might as well grab one of those freshly ironed ones, since someone went to all that trouble.”

  On his way to their bedroom, Stephen paused at the crib. Baby Faith slumbered peacefully under the open window. Her dark lashes fanned across her round cheeks while her mouth formed a perfect bow. Faith’s bright pink coloring at birth had faded to a pale shade of cream. He bent close to kiss her forehead, careful not to wake her. Each time he gazed on a boppli, he felt huge and clumsy as an ox. When he returned, his wife and daughters were waiting patiently at the table. He slipped into his chair and bowed his head.

  After their silent prayer, Hope was first to speak. “One of those hens you referred to made meat loaf just the way you like it—with plenty of onions and mushroom gravy.” She handed him a heaping platter.

  “Danki.” Stephen placed a slice on Greta’s and Emily’s plates, three on his own, then passed the platter to Josie. He might have preferred not to have so many women in his house today, but he couldn’t deny that the supper they’d provided was a feast: sweet potato casserole, green beans with ham, pickled vegetables, and a heap of corn bread drizzled with melted butter.

  He attacked the meat loaf with knife and fork. “You might have to let out a seam or two after this week’s vittles,” he said around a mouthful of sweet potatoes.

  During the meal, his girls entertained him with amusing tales from sisters’ day. “I’m glad no mishaps occurred today with that many women hard at work. That many cooks might not spoil the broth, but more than a ladleful usually gets spilled.”

  Hope studied him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Everyone managed to work without treading on each other’s toes.”

  While he wiped up the last of his gravy, Josie scrambled to her feet. “Shall I slice the pies?” she asked.

  “Just the rhubarb,” said Hope. “We’ll leave the rest. Emily, you start clearing the table. Fill the sink with suds and set the plates to soak. Josie and I will wash them later. Then sit down to eat your dessert and finish your milk. I want a private word with your daed after supper.”

  Stephen accepted a slice of pie from Josie and held up his mug for a refill. “Hear some choice gossip that can’t wait another moment longer?”

  Hope’s dimples deepened as she fought back a smile. “Of course not. Our district doesn’t gossip since Scripture forbids it. We simply share the news of those unable to attend.”

  Josie giggled, as did her siblings, even though they had no idea why they were laughing.

  “Everybody wanted to hold little Faith,” she told her father.

  “For a short while our baby will be the newest kid in town.” Stephen devoured his slice of pie. “But knowing our district, someone will soon bump her off the pedestal. Josie, bring me another slice of pie if there’s a small one.”

  “While Emily and Josie clear the table and Greta dawdles over her dessert, why don’t you tell me what the ladies accomplished?”

  “They washed all the windows, weeded my garden, blanched and canned the green beans, and filled our propane refrigerators with plenty of cooked meals.” She glanced between him and their dochdern while she spoke. “All right, girls. Go into the front room to read until I call you. You too, Greta, since you’re obviously no longer hungry.”

  The moment they were alone, Hope drew a folded paper from her apron pocket. “This article appeared in a German Baptist magazine. Mamm spotted it at the chiropractor’s office. Her doctor said she could take it home.” Hope carefully unfolded several sheets stapled together.

  “I don’t have my reading glasses, fraa. Why don’t you tell me the gist of it?” He took smaller bites of the second slice to make the pie last longer. Rhubarb was one of his favorites.

  “A group of homeopathic physicians wrote the article, people who know every herb, spice, and natural compound. Did you know the poison ivy toxin actually improves certain arthritis symptoms? The relief can last for days or even weeks.”

  “Fascinating, I’ll keep that in mind for the future.” He drained the last of his coffee.

  “I’ll keep the whole article for reference, but the part I liked best was written by a fertility specialist. She provided a list of herbs and spices that increase a woman’s chances of conceiving a boy.” Hope lowered her voice to a whisper. “I can order special tea bags from this catalog. No guarantees, but if I drink several cups per day starting next month, I might have a better chance of birthing a son.”

  Stephen stared at her. “Your mamm gave you this article?”

  Hope nodded, pulling the sheets back when he made no move to pick them up. “Ya.”

  “I’d bet your daed knows nothing about this hocus-pocus nonsense.”

  Her eyes began to water. “Lots of Plain folks use natural remedies.”

  “True enough, but a natural remedy is staving off a cold with echinacea and cider vinegar or applying a cabbage leaf poultice to reduce swollen knees. Not drinking some kind of weird tea to predetermine our baby’s gender. Would Gott approve of that?”

  “Are you forbidding me to order these tea bags?”

  Stephen selected his words carefully. “No, but I would greatly prefer you didn’t. Let’s leave the matter of our kinner up to God.”

  The showers that would assure abundant hay and soybean crops arrived the next morning, along with a cooler breeze from the north. With her laundry and ironing caught up, Hope would have an easy day. She had enough prepared meals in the refrigerator to feel like an English working wife for some time to come. After so much attention, baby Faith had slept through the night, giving Hope some much-needed rest. Her child grew more alert and active by the day. The Bowman garden was yielding plenty to can, dry, or freeze for the coming winter months. And her girls never failed to make her smile with their inquisitive questions.

  Still Hope’s heart remained troubled. Picking up her mamm’s magazine article, she reread the promises from the homeopaths. No guarantees, but a much better chance of . . .

  She looked again at the prices and mailing address at the end of the story. Stephen hadn’t forbidden ordering the tea, yet he’d made his stance clear. From the day they’d married, her husband refused to run his household like some older men who made all the decisions themselves. Men like Hope’s father. Stephen talked matters over with her, even including the girls in their discussions when it was appropriate.

  This would not be one of those times.

  Clearly, he would be upset if she ordered the tea bags over his objection. But wasn’t he the one who so yearned for a son? What would it hurt to drink some tea for a few months and see what happened?

  Hope pulled out a pen, a postage stamp, and her checkbook. St
ephen might not notice an extra box of tea on the shelf. And if they did the trick, he might change his opinion from “hocus-pocus” to “miracle cure.”

  She put the envelope in her mailbox and lifted the signal flag, then returned to the house, laughing at her own gullibility. Once in a doctor’s office she’d watched a TV commercial for a new diet pill. Take this capsule every day and lose twenty pounds within one month—no diet or exercise required. Distressed by the weight she’d gained with Greta, Hope contemplated calling the 800 number from the payphone as she munched on her second glazed donut that morning. Instead, she’d thrown the rest of the donut into the trash and began walking daily with her dochders. They gathered wildflowers or kindling or just enjoyed a beautiful sunset high in the hills. The baby weight came off without depleting her wallet.

  So why was she falling for a similar solution now?

  And a better question was: why wasn’t her faith as strong as her husband’s?

  Stephen was content to wait and see what the Lord had in store for the Bowmans. But she wanted to do something.

  Without warning, a tear ran down her face.

  “What’s wrong, Mamm?” Josie appeared in the doorway with Emily at her side, carrying a full basket of lettuce, carrots, and radishes for supper. “Why are you crying?”

  “Ach, no reason.” Hope opened her arms to her daughters. They set down the basket and fled to her embrace. “Sometimes a woman gets sad after having a boppli, but it’s nothing to worry about. I feel better knowing we’ll have a big salad tonight. I’ve had such a taste for one.” Hope kissed their foreheads.

  “Betsy told me Englischers call that baby-depression. She read about it in a library health book.” Josie, a voracious reader, nodded with authority.

  Hope rose to her feet to start washing the produce. “Such a thing for a young woman to read about. You should stick to stories about horses.”

  “I usually do, but Betsy said mamms need to spend time alone when they feel short-tempered and unhappy. They should take a bubble bath or a long walk on the beach.” Josie took out the paring knife, peeler, and cutting board.

  “Considering I take a bath every day and the closest beach to Lancaster County is a couple hundred miles away, I’ll have to ignore Betsy’s sage advice. I don’t think our horse would appreciate that long a trip.”

  “But you could take a walk up to your favorite place. And enjoy some peace and quiet.”

  Hope stared at her oldest child. Her favorite place was the highest point on the Bowman land—a rocky outcropping at the top of their pasture. Beyond the fence line stood a dense woodlot that supplied firewood and an occasional deer for venison meat. She hadn’t walked up there in at least a year. Once she discovered she was carrying Faith, she chose to take it easy. “What made you think about that spot?”

  “You said you felt close to God there. Surrounded by His handiwork, it was hard not to count your blessings.” Josie repeated her words verbatim. “I love it there too. I always see plenty of hawks and turkey vultures circling above the treetops.”

  Hope smiled, remembering the day they spotted a bald eagle. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll rig up a sling to carry Faith and hike to the top. We could even pack sandwiches for a picnic lunch.” She peeled and trimmed a carrot with practiced dexterity.

  “No, Mamm. We’ll do that another time. You need to go by yourself.” Josie pulled the carrot from Hope’s fingers.

  “Seems like you and Betsy are determined to mend something that’s not broken.” Hope arched an eyebrow. “I’ve got supper to fix and a newborn to tend, young lady.”

  Josie glanced at the wall clock. “Didn’t you just feed her? Faith should sleep for another two hours. Where’s Greta?”

  “Napping on the couch, next to the day-crib, but—”

  “I’m a big girl. I can heat the chicken casserole that Ida May made and finish the salad. Emily will set the table.” Emily nodded, her brown eyes very round. “Why don’t you go to your favorite place now?” Josie’s voice turned downright pleading. “I don’t want you to be sad anymore.”

  Hope’s tears returned, but this time they were for the blessing of sensitive, compassionate daughters. “All right, I’ll go tell your daed, then take a quick hike before we eat. Danki, Josie and Emily, for your help.”

  Josie clutched her arm. “I’ll tell him when he comes in. Go before you think of another reason not to.”

  “Goodness, this isn’t like a gash on your finger that needs stitches in the emergency room. I’m fine, Josie.”

  Both girls giggled. “I know, but by supper you’ll be even finer.”

  For a brief moment, mother and daughter looked at one another. Josie had become so grown-up since Greta’s birth. “Danki,” she whispered. On her way out the front door, she checked on Faith. Josie had been right—the baby slept soundly.

  Walking up the well-trodden cattle path, Hope felt like a child sneaking out after dark to catch fireflies. But once beyond sight of the house, she relaxed. She needed this. Time to pray and surrender her will to God.

  Hope picked up her skirt and ran, suddenly eager to reach the summit. As she neared the outcropping, breathless and sweaty, she found the air cooler, the breeze refreshing, and her heart lighter. True to Josie’s prediction, hawks soared high overhead while butterflies trailed behind, moving from flower to flower.

  But she hadn’t come here to bird-watch or gather bouquets. She came to welcome the Holy Spirit into her heart. Dropping onto a large rock, Hope turned her face skyward and prayed, first for forgiveness and then for guidance and direction. At last she spoke the words closest to her heart—she prayed for a miracle: “Please, God, I’m grateful for four healthy daughters. But please bring us a son to help Stephen and to carry on after we’re gone.”

  Hope sat in silence then, and as she waited, a sense of well-being settled over her. She was filled with a sense of purpose, and she knew what she had to do.

  If she wanted God to grant her heart’s desire, she must first unburden her soul.

  Chapter Four

  When Hope opened the kitchen door, she was greeted by four smiling faces and the pungent scent of herb chicken. The table had been set for supper, and Stephen was already at his place, sipping a cup of coffee. The moment she hung up her cloak and bonnet, Josie sprang into action. She carried the casserole to the center trivet, added ranch dressing to the salad, and then tossed. Bread, butter, and honey were already on the table.

  “All better, fraa?” he asked, winking. “Emily said you went to the high pasture to get un-sad.”

  “Truly, I am. That walk did me a world of good.” Hope brushed a kiss across Josie’s cheek on her way to wash her hands. “Danki,” she murmured.

  “Happy to hear it,” he said after prayers. “I feared you might have taken off bareback on the old mare, leaving me alone to raise four wildcats.” Stephen leaned forward to scoop a hearty portion of chicken and rice.

  “What’s a wildcat?” Emily frowned, unsure whether or not to be flattered.

  “Something you are not, my sweet girl.” Hope divided the salad among the five bowls, giving herself a huge amount. The walk had piqued her appetite.

  Stephen studied her while he ate. “Something bothering you?”

  “Nothing to worry about. I needed to clear my head. Why don’t we talk after the girls go to bed?” She tried to ease his mind with a smile.

  Stephen’s brows connected over the bridge of his nose. “Did one of the ladies say something to rile you yesterday?”

  “Goodness, no. Josie simply reminded me the high pasture was a good spot to pray—something I’ve neglected lately.”

  With a grunt of approval, Stephen concentrated on the delicious meal, taking two helpings of both chicken and salad. “Say, you should ask Ida May for this recipe. It’s mighty tasty.”

  “I have, dear heart, many times. Ida said she’ll leave it behind like a last will and testament.”

  All throughout dinner, kitchen cleanup, Faith’
s final feeding, and putting her daughters to bed, Hope felt no anxiety about what lay ahead, only peace. She was doing the right thing. Finally.

  With a light step, she entered the living room where Stephen sat reading Scripture.

  “Everyone asleep?” he asked, closing his Bible. “If so, it’s time to speak your mind.” He reached for her hand.

  Hope clutched his calloused fingers, then with little preamble she told the sorrowful tale of a summer night almost twenty years ago—the night she had been raped by a man full of hatred. She spoke of her parents’ shame and how her father insisted she keep silent, even when the loathsome act led to a pregnancy. No one had found out—not her brothers who should have taken her home, not her sisters who might have become more cautious, not even the district brethren who might have offered consolation . . . or a solution other than giving her child away to English strangers.

  Stephen listened without interrupting. When she paused, he asked, “You left town expecting a child and then returned to the district without one?” His voice sounded skeptical.

  “Ya, my father sent me away before I was showing. He made the arrangements without telling even the bishop.”

  “Where did you go if you were only sixteen?”

  Hope’s confidence slipped a notch. “He sent me to Harrisburg to stay at a special center equipped to handle . . . these situations. There was no cost as long as the child was given up for adoption. A lawyer at the center handled the paperwork, and my son was placed with an English college professor and his wife.”

  “Your son?” Stephen’s voice rose.

  Hope glanced toward the stairs. “The child was a boy. They allowed me to hold him for a few minutes before taking him away.”

  Every drop of color drained from his face. “You birthed an Amish child and gave him to Englischers?”

  “I didn’t want to!” Hope’s courage vanished, and her stomach cramped into knots. “I argued with my father, but he wouldn’t permit the boppli in his haus.”