An Amish Miracle

by Beth Wiseman

  Chapter Twelve

  “Okay, your cell phone and laptop are fully charged, right?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. Stephen said he could charge them in the barn with the diesel generator.” James wiped window condensation away with his sleeve as his caseworker drove slowly up the Bowman lane.

  “Stop smearing my windows. Now, do you have plenty of coins to call me from next door if you change your mind about staying and your phone isn’t charged? Two weeks can be a long time. You might get bored, especially in the winter.” Miss Webster slowed the car to a crawl and gazed over fields covered with frost. Last night’s light rain had crystallized over acres of pasture.

  James looked too while anticipation built in his veins. “First of all, the neighbor’s phone works on the honor system. You don’t need quarters. Second, Stephen said there’s always plenty to do on a dairy farm. They raise cows for milk, cheese, and butter, not steers for beef.”

  She cocked her head, laughing. “I know what a dairy farm is, young man. My, you do sound sure of yourself.”

  “I’m kind of glad to get away from the Hydes’ for Christmas vacation. Christmas morning gets crazy with nine people opening gifts. Mrs. Hyde likes to wrap up lots of cheap stuff so we all have plenty to open. Not that I don’t appreciate her effort, but I’d rather keep the holiday more low-key.”

  She stopped the car within sight of the frame farmhouse and pivoted on the seat. “The Amish do celebrate Christmas, but it will be definitely low-key and very religious.”

  James shrugged. “Christmas is a religious holiday. Who needs all the other stuff? Did you see that car commercial where this guy surprises his wife with a sixty-grand sedan? Who can really afford something like that?”

  “Not many. I like your worldview, but I’m surprised you wanted to come back so soon.” She craned her neck to watch a curl of smoke rise from the chimney into low-hanging clouds. “Hope Bowman meant what she said about traveling to Philly once a month to see you. And she’s willing to bring your half sisters.”

  “I know, and she can for the rest of the school year. I think I’ll try out for the cross-country team in the spring. That should be a sport I can handle. Running fast is one talent every computer geek should develop.”

  They laughed as she parked the car next to the Bowmans’ side porch. “Sounds like a plan,” she said. “Remember, James, if things become uncomfortable you can always call me. I’ll come get you.”

  “Thanks, Miss Webster, but I’m not six years old. I can convince people to give me space without bloodshed. And I don’t have a problem with their rules. That’s life, isn’t it?” He opened the door, then yanked his bag from the backseat. “Have a nice Christmas and try not to worry about me.”

  Just then Josie, Emily, and Greta came running out of the house. “James!” they shouted in unison.

  James felt a tightening in his chest that left him breathless. Never before in his life had he been greeted with so much enthusiasm. Stephen and Hope stepped onto the porch with baby Faith. They grinned and waved.

  “I will be fine,” he repeated, and stepped out into a different world. She tooted the horn and drove away, leaving him surrounded by girls all talking fast—two in English and one in Deutsch. “Ya, ya, gut,” he said to Greta, patting the top of her head. He didn’t have a clue what she said.

  “Come inside.” Emily grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the house. “I want to show you the gingerbread men I baked.”

  Josie took the position at his side. “I’d like to read you my part in the Christmas skit,” she said. “I need to practice my lines. Maybe you can teach me how to project my voice. The teacher said nobody can hear me past the front row.”

  Little blond Greta danced around them, chattering away in her native language. Distracted and eager for attention, she tripped over the bottom step. With one hand, James lifted her to her feet. Greta’s dialogue barely faltered as she climbed the stairs, this time facing forward. James glanced at the elder Bowmans to his left.

  “We’ll say our hellos inside,” said Hope as Stephen pulled the bag from his hand.

  In the kitchen the wood burner had turned the room cozy, while a simmering pot of herbs scented the air like potpourri. “I smell cinnamon and cloves. Has someone been baking?” James winked at Josie.

  “It’s cookies.” Emily clapped her hands. “Josie can’t seem to stop herself—three different kinds, plus the gingerbread men I helped Mamm with.”

  Josie reached for his coat to hang on a peg. “You’re probably smelling stuffed chicken and sweet potato casserole. I hope you’re hungry, since Mamm roasted three.”

  “I’m starved, actually. I haven’t eaten anything since cereal at breakfast.”

  “Come look at the gingerbread.” Emily dragged him to the counter where frosted men cooled on baking trays. “The faceless ones are for us; the ones with faces are for you. Look at that one—he’s frowning because he’ll be eaten.” She burst into giggles.

  Doing a quick addition, James calculated that he would have plenty of cookie eating to do. “He’s my favorite,” he said. An odd tremor of emotion clogged his throat.

  “All right, girls,” said Hope. “Go to the upstairs bathroom and wash for supper. Take Greta with you. Your daed and I would like to squeeze a word in edgewise.” Frowning but without argument, the three filed from the room as though separation would be unbearable.

  Stephen dropped James’s duffel on the floor and took a step toward him. “Welcome back. Maybe after we eat I’ll show you the new filly.”

  “I would like that.” James found it hard to focus as Stephen stretched out his hand for a clumsy shake. Then he disappeared up the steps with his bag. James was alone in the room with the woman who’d given birth to him.

  “I hope you enjoy spending Christmas here,” Hope said. “But don’t be afraid to tell your sisters to leave you alone. And regarding things between you and me? We’ll take life slow, with you calling the bullets.”

  Hope’s incorrect slang took him a moment to decipher. “I believe you mean calling the shots.” When he met her gaze she was smiling. “And I think we’ll do just fine.”

  Hope drew the quilt tighter around the baby. Stephen checked the road ahead and behind. It was Christmas Eve—the holiest night of the year. Their buggy rolled down the two-lane road at a brisk pace since the gelding was eager to get to the barn and his bucket of oats. Hope was equally eager to get her family home, safe and warm.

  Her whole family.

  James Webb had settled easily into the Bowman routine. He stayed in touch with the Hydes and his friends with his cell phone or e-mail whenever near the McDonald’s in town. He said they had free WiFi, which apparently meant he could send e-mail. In the backseat Josie, James, and Emily talked endlessly about the school pageant and the caroling afterward.

  “I heard you just fine, Josie. And I was sitting in the second to the last row.” James had been trying to build Josie’s confidence since they left the school.

  Josie sighed. “But I stuttered several times and lost my place. If the teacher hadn’t prompted my lines, we’d all still be sitting there.”

  “Plus you mispronounced the word myrrh. It sounded like you said ‘murf,’” Emily added.

  “Only a minor slipup,” said James. “Everyone makes those. Basically your performance was top-notch. Your voice contained the most emotion.”

  “Thanks, James. I’m glad it’s over.” Josie sounded more than relieved; she sounded self-assured.

  And Hope? She wished his two-week vacation would never end.

  When they arrived home everyone changed clothes and went to do their chores. Even on Christmas Eve, animals still needed to be fed, watered, and milked. Hope served a light supper of beef vegetable soup with homemade bread so they had room for the popcorn, sugar cookies, and cocoa. Later they gathered in the living room around the fireplace—James on the ladderback chair; the girls lined up on the couch, Hope in the rocker with Faith in her arms.


  Stephen took his well-worn Bible down from the mantel, settled into the recliner, and cleared his throat. “On Christmas Eve, we like to read the three gospel accounts of Jesus’ birth. I’ll read the first story in the book of Matthew.”

  Josie raised her hand. “I’ll take Mark. I won’t be nervous with family like I was in school.”

  Hope, the usual reader of the third account, hesitated just a few seconds. Her patience was rewarded.

  James lifted and dropped his shoulders. “I’m not great with American novelists or poetry, but I can read pretty well.”

  “Then let’s begin.” Stephen began the account in his baritone voice. Greta, with the typical attention span of a four-year-old, dozed off during Josie’s recitation. Bible reading was a new experience for James, and he stumbled over unfamiliar names. But everyone had to start somewhere on their spiritual path.

  And between the cookies and snacks and toasted marshmallows, Hope could barely contain her joy.

  On Christmas morning, Hope rose at first light to say her morning prayers before excitement made concentration difficult. Stephen had kissed her brow and gone to his chores thinking she still slept. But soon after he left she got up and dressed, set out gifts on the kitchen table, and started breakfast. She had barely filled her skillet with strips of bacon when James padded into the room. He wore dark slacks and a solid, long-sleeved shirt.

  “Good morning,” he said, but stopped in his tracks before reaching the fridge. “Presents? I thought Amish people didn’t get into the commercialization of Christmas.” He pointed at the array of wrapped packages.

  Hope sliced a loaf of bread. “We don’t decorate the house or put up a tree, but we exchange presents—everyone usually gets one. After all, didn’t the wise men come to Bethlehem bearing gifts?”

  “But I didn’t get anybody anything.”

  Hope shook her head. “Trust me—having you here is all we wanted.”

  James opened the cupboard for a glass. “I guess it’ll take awhile to learn the ropes.”

  “The Bowmans are nothing if not patient.”

  He poured a glass of milk and drank half, then cleared his throat. “While it’s just the two of us, I’ve got something to ask. A favor, kind of.”

  Hope turned. “A favor?”

  “Yeah, well.” He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking—that is, if it’s all right with you—I thought, well, maybe I could spend next summer on the farm.”

  Hope blinked back tears and for a moment couldn’t speak.

  “Did I say something stupid?”

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong, you know, about not getting us a Christmas gift. This is the best gift ever. Nothing could make me happier.”

  James ducked and grinned and gave her a one-armed hug. “It’s settled then.”

  Yes, it was settled. Her son was back—her family restored. And no one would separate them again.

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” he asked.

  Hope turned the burner to low, then wiped her hands on her apron. “We’ll drive to my parents’ for dinner. My sisters and their families will be there. Everyone brings food to share. I’m taking potato and macaroni salads.”

  “So I’ll meet your dad—the one who wouldn’t let you bring me home.” James met her gaze and held it.

  “Only if you wish to. Otherwise, you could stay here and read or go to Lancaster in a cab. The McDonald’s on Lincoln Highway will be open.” The words stuck in her throat. “Tomorrow will be the second day of Christmas. We’ll head to my brother’s house. Half the district will be there, including Becky Byler and plenty of young people. If the pond freezes, everyone will be ice skating. If we get more snow, there will be sledding, sleigh rides, and a bonfire. I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “I don’t own ice skates.”

  Hope nodded toward the stacked boxes. “You do now. I believe they’ll fit.”

  “Thanks. So you have two days of visiting folks? I think I’ll go to both, if that’s all right. I’m not afraid of your dad. It’s water under the bridge.”

  Hope turned back to the stove, exhaling her pent-up breath. “He’s only one man. His opinion cannot hurt us.”

  The Klobentz farm was a frenzy of activity when the Bowmans arrived. All the nephews and nieces were building snowmen and snow forts in the front yard, while adults congregated on the porch as if it were a warm summer day.

  “Those are our cousins,” announced Emily. “I’ll introduce you to everybody, James, but don’t worry if you can’t remember folks’ names.”

  James leaned forward between her and Stephen. “Will everyone speak English?”

  “Yes, everyone older than six. Don’t worry.” Hope smiled as young people ran toward their buggy.

  “Looks like they found out you were coming.” Josie grasped his hand as they stepped out to a dozen smiling faces . . . and one with an expression like sour milk.

  Silas Klobentz marched toward them bundled in his heavy wool coat. He waited until his grandchildren finished introductions, then stepped forward like Pharaoh about to address his subjects. Most of the kinner took a step back.

  Except for James Webb. He stood straight and tall, his shoulders back, and met the older man’s eye. “Hi, I’m James Webb. I’m Hope’s son.”

  Hope held her breath.

  After a moment Silas nodded his graying head. “In that case, I’m your grossvader. Welcum. Come inside to eat before you involve yourself in any snowball fights. You’ll need your strength with your new cousins.”

  Side by side, the two headed toward the house, while Hope remained rooted in place.

  She had just witnessed another miracle . . . on Christmas Day, no less.

  Always His Provision

  RUTH REID

  Chapter One

  Rosa Hostetler rolled to the other side of the mattress and gazed out the window next to her bed. In the clear October sky, a faint halo of light surrounded the full moon and cast a soft glow over the rolling pasture.

  Since Uriah’s death two years ago, and more recently, since discovering he had let the property taxes default, sleep came intermittently at best. Tonight was no exception. She couldn’t stop thinking about the future, about the looming threat of the tax sale.

  Rosa yanked the wool blanket over her head. She missed Uriah’s comfort, the reassuring warmth of him beside her. Now whenever her foot drifted over to his side of the bed, she felt only the chill of loneliness.

  But tossing all night accomplished nothing. Rosa pushed the covers aside and crawled out of bed. She padded barefoot down the squeaky wooden stairs and into the kitchen, and struck a match against the cast-iron stove. She lit the lamp, and a soft yellow glow filled the empty kitchen.

  Sometime during the night, the fire in the stove had gone out. Rosa wadded a few pages of newspaper, laid on the kindling, and touched a match to the crumpled paper. Occasionally she wished she had one of the fancy propane ovens like her friend Hope had. But as it was, Rosa had only herself to cook for, and it seemed pointless to want something so extravagant.

  Coveting material items wasn’t a problem for Rosa. She struggled with more basic issues: the battle she had fought throughout five years of marriage to accept her childless state and, more recently, the loss of her husband. Now widowed at age thirty, it seemed she would never experience the fulfillment of motherhood.

  Rosa set the glass jar of cookies on the table, plopped down on one of the ten empty chairs, and waited for the water in the kettle to boil. The tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall broke the silence. One a.m. Gorging on cookies in the middle of the night had become a routine.

  Propped against the saltshaker, the latest letter from the Tax Claim Bureau caught her attention. Marked DELINQUENT in a bold red stamp, the property taxes listed not only the current tax lien but the amount due from unpaid taxes and accrued late fees from the previous years.

  She scanned the document. Notice is hereby given that the Lancaster Count
y Tax Claim Bureau will hold a continued tax upset sale on . . . The November date and time blurred as tears welled. She had less than a month to settle the lien. On her egg money that would be impossible.

  Boiling water erupted from the kettle’s spout and sizzled on the cast-iron stovetop. She dropped the letter on the table, grabbed the hissing kettle with a potholder, and poured water over the herbal tea bag. The wafting lemony scent soothed her senses.

  Somewhere outside a dog barked, then others joined the chorus. She lowered the kettle and leaned over the sink to peer out the window. But even with a full moon, she couldn’t see into the darkness.

  The barking grew louder. Rosa jerked her cape from the hook and opened the door. The hens had gone wild, clucking and flapping frantically. She bolted back inside and grabbed her husband’s shotgun.

  Adam Bontrager slowly opened his eyes. His mind vaguely registered the sound of dogs barking, but he closed his eyes and slid back toward sleep.

  Moments later the racket roused him again. This time he shot out of bed and went to the window that faced the Hostetler house. Light illuminated the kitchen window. The same disturbance must have awakened Rosa too.

  A small shadowy figure stepped onto Rosa’s porch. He couldn’t understand the muffled words, but the angry tone carried through the night.

  Adam pulled on his clothes and rushed out of the house without tying his boots or grabbing his hat. On his way across the yard, he snagged the heavy metal rake leaning against the utility shed. Above the panic of flapping wings and the fierce growl of an animal, he could hear Rosa shouting—something about leaving her chickens alone.

  “Rosa?” he called. He didn’t mean to startle her, but he also didn’t want to be clubbed in the head with whatever it was she had in her hand.

  “It’s after mei chickens!” He heard a mechanism click and a half sentence about hoping the shell was loaded right.