When Mercy Rains

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  2 15-oz. cans diced or crushed tomatoes, undrained

  3 T. soy sauce

  2 T. dried oregano

  2 T. dried basil

  1 T. seasoned salt

  ½ t. black pepper

  2 c. elbow macaroni, uncooked

  shredded cheddar cheese (optional)

  In a large dutch oven, cook the meat over medium heat, breaking it into small pieces as it cooks. When the “pink” is gone, stir in the onion and garlic and continue cooking until the onions are translucent. Drain the grease.

  Stir in the water, tomato sauce, tomatoes, soy sauce, oregano, basil, seasoned salt, and pepper. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking.

  Stir in the macaroni, cover, and simmer until the pasta is tender (20–30 minutes). Remove from heat, allow to cool slightly, and refrigerate overnight. The next day, pour goulash into a greased baking dish, cover with foil, and bake at 350° Fahrenheit until heated through (45–60 minutes). Remove foil, sprinkle with cheese (if desired), and return it to oven until the cheese melts.

  Serve! This makes 8–10 servings.

  PS—This can be eaten the day it’s made, but it’s much better when the flavors are allowed to marry overnight.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mom and Daddy—thank you for the strong legacy of faith you have so beautifully lived in front of me. God blessed me abundantly when He gave me to you.

  Don—thank you for handling the mundane so I can disappear into my make-believe worlds. I couldn’t finish these stories without you!

  Kristian, Kaitlyn, and Kamryn—thanks for loving me in spite of my slipups. I love each of you and am proud to call you my daughters.

  My wonderful critique partners—thank you for your suggestions, your encouragement, your prayers, and your friendship. So very glad we travel these writing pathways together.

  Shannon and the marvelous editorial/marketing staff at WaterBrook—thank you for your conscientious efforts to make my stories the best they can be and for putting up with my SOTP tendencies. So grateful to be part of your team.

  Most importantly, God—thank You for the forgiveness You readily bestow on all who ask. No matter how far we’ve fallen or how scuffed we’ve become, You are merciful to bring restoration and peace to our lives. I praise You, my Father, for all of Your gifts. May any praise or glory be reflected directly back to You.

  READERS GUIDE

  1. One youthful indiscretion led to a host of repercussions for Suzanne and Paul. Who else was affected by their choice to step beyond the biblical mandate to save sex for the marriage bed? If God forgives our wrongdoings, in essence “wipes the slate clean,” why do we have to live with the consequences of our decisions?

  2. Abigail’s feeling of failure with her oldest child caused her to place harsh and unfair expectations on her younger children and allowed things around her to fall apart as an outer sign of the mess she saw in her own soul. Her feelings toward herself impacted her relationships with everyone else. As humans, we all make mistakes. How can we keep from letting our regrets turn us into bitter, unhappy people?

  3. Growing up as the only child of a single mother, Alexa felt secure and loved, yet she still longed for something more. The longing led her to create pictures in her head of a big, loving family. The reality fell short of her expectations. Have you ever anticipated receiving something you really wanted only to discover it wasn’t at all what you expected? How did you handle the disappointment?

  4. Abigail demanded Suzanne go away, deliver her baby in secret, and give the baby to someone else to raise. In some cases, giving up a baby for adoption is the best thing for both the baby and the mother. Was that the best decision in Suzanne’s case? Why or why not? How would you have advised Abigail?

  5. Initially Suzanne resisted returning to Arborville because she knew her arrival would raise questions and speculations she didn’t want to face. What changed her mind? Did she go for the right reasons? Was her family’s reaction to her return fair or unfair? How did Suzanne’s situation resemble that of the prodigal son? How was it different?

  6. Paul spent years blaming himself for Suzanne’s departure from her home and family. He felt if he asked Suzanne’s forgiveness he’d be able to release the regret. Have you ever sought forgiveness from someone you wronged? Have you ever needed to forgive someone else for a grievous hurt? Did forgiveness—either offering it or receiving it—bring you peace?

  7. Abigail told Suzanne, “You two created life together. It will never be over.” Do you agree or disagree with her statement? Why?

  8. Suzanne, Abigail, and Paul all held secrets. Although none told outright lies to protect their secrets, neither did they divulge the entire truth. Is withholding the truth the same as telling a lie? Are there times when holding back part of the truth is more beneficial than harmful? Why or why not?

  A Selection from

  When Grace Sings

  (coming from WaterBrook in spring 2015)

  This was a town? Briley propped his forearm on the window frame and slowed his fire engine–red Camaro to a crawl in case he might miss something. By the time he reached the north end of Main Street, Arborville, Kansas, which was only a block from the south end, he realized there wasn’t anything to miss. A hardware store with oil lamps displayed in the window—oil lamps, of all things!—and a lumberyard on the east side, a grocery store, fabric shop, gifts-and-crafts shop, and postage stamp–sized post office on the west made up the entire business district. What had Len been thinking to send him here? A place this small couldn’t hold a story of interest.

  But he was sure stirring interest. Or, more accurately, his car was. The mix of Amish and Mennonite folks—according to his research, the Amish women wore the solid-color dresses and the Mennonites the floral-patterned ones—meandering along the cement sidewalks all paused to gawk as he rolled by. Little boys pointed only to have their hands smacked down by their mothers, and little girls hid behind their mothers’ skirts to peek at him with round eyes. Hadn’t they ever seen a sports car before? He tried to summon a bit of sarcasm—Take a picture. It lasts longer. But he had to admit he liked the reaction. Who would’ve thought ragamuffin Briley Forrester would garner such attention? Now if his article would get the same attention from non-Plain folks …

  He planted his foot on the brake and stuck his head out the open window. “Hey, there.”

  The two Amish women and cluster of kids on the corner outside the hardware store aimed curious faces in his direction. The oldest kid, a boy maybe twelve or thirteen with a bowl-shaped haircut and homemade britches held up by suspenders, raised his hand in a wave and called, “What’cha need, mister?”

  “I’m looking for the—” He poked the button on his recordable memo keeper, and his voice stated the inn’s name. He turned back to the little group. “The Grace Notes B and B. It’s supposed to be in Arborville, but it’s not coming up on my GPS.”

  The kid glanced at one of the women, presumably his mother, and waited until she gave a nod. Then he trotted to the side of the car and leaned down, his gaze examining the car’s interior as he talked. “That’s out at the Zimmerman farm. Go back to Highway 96, drive north three miles to County Road 42. Then go east two and a half miles. You’ll see the sign for Grace Notes at their lane.” He made a sour face. “It’s all dirt roads out there, mister, so your shiny car’ll get plenty dusty.”

  Briley grinned. “It’ll wash. Thanks, kid.”

  The boy backed up slowly, the heels of his clunky brown boots stirring dust that swirled away on the stout breeze.

  His foot still on the brake, Briley revved the motor, earning an open-mouthed look of wonder from the kid. The boy’s mother pursed her lips in disapproval, though. She grabbed the boy’s elbow and yanked him onto the sidewalk. Briley winked at the red-faced mother, mock-saluted the boy, and took off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

  As he p
ulled onto the highway, he berated himself. Why had he shown off that way? Who cared if he impressed some little Amish kid in a podunk town? The boy couldn’t do anything for him, and if the townsfolk branded him a troublemaker, they wouldn’t open up and share the information he needed to complete his article. He’d acted like the cocky seventeen-year-old he’d been instead of the mature, responsible twenty-seven-year-old he was supposed to be.

  Aunt Myrt’s voice chided him. “You’re gonna have to bury that wild side of yours, Briley Ray, or it’ll be your ruination.” But it wasn’t easy to lose the boy who’d hidden his insecurities behind a shield of arrogance. Aunt Myrt had done her best to convince him all he needed to do was let Jesus work in him and he’d be good as new, but Briley’d never been able to grasp the concept. Aunt Myrt was a nice lady—the nicest he’d met during his years in the foster-care system—but she was a little simpleminded sometimes. He’d respected her enough not to tell her so, though. He missed her.

  He spotted a narrow metal sign announcing County Road 42, and he slowed to make the turn. His tires crunched as they left the smooth asphalt and met the gravel-and-dirt road. He hit the button to raise his window before dust flowed inside with him. He liked the way the dirt billowed in a cloud behind him, though, so he picked back up to almost sixty. Fields stretched in both directions, only stubble remaining in some, others covered in small bushy-looking tufts he presumed were soybeans, and still others looking charred from a recent burn. In the distance a plume of smoke alerted him to another field being burned. Good thing he’d closed the window. He’d have quite a time getting rid of the smoke smell if it attached itself to his leather interior.

  Just as the kid in town had said, two and a half miles in he spotted a sign. He slowed the Camaro and stopped at the end of the lane, examining the sign. Nothing more than a sheet of plywood mounted on fence posts, painted stark white with freehand letters in dark blue in some sort of flowing script. Black music notes formed a wavy line along the top and bottom, sandwiching the B and B’s name in between. Quaint. Aunt Myrt would probably exclaim over it. But Briley wasn’t Aunt Myrt.

  Pressing the gas pedal once more, he eased onto the lane. A thick row of trees, overgrown cedars mixed with scraggly trees with big green balls growing on the branches, had blocked his view of the house, but once he got a glimpse of it, he released an unconscious whistle of amazement. The sign didn’t do the house justice. He wouldn’t want to live in an old Victorian farmhouse in the middle of cornfields, but he had to admit the place was welcoming with its porch running the full width and around the side, and a variety of paint colors showcasing the different trims. They didn’t build houses like this anymore and, even though he preferred his modern apartment in the steel-and-glass building in Chicago, he could appreciate the craftsmanship of the place.

  He inched up the lane, taking in the monstrous barn and the half-dozen dried-up flower beds laid out on the lawn. Wire frames shaped like notes filled the center of the beds. During the spring and summer, those frames probably held bright-colored blooms. Now empty of color, they looked stark and lonely. Tuneless. He shook his head. This place was making him whimsical, and he was never whimsical. He parked the car in a graveled spot next to the barn and killed the engine. His radio, which he’d tuned to a classic-rock station and cranked up full blast, ended midsong.

  The quiet struck like a blow. Even with the windows rolled up tight, the wind’s whisper and a bird’s cheerful song crept though. He knew what wind sounded like—where he lived, it sometimes swayed the highest floors of buildings—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a bird sing. Reminded him of summer evenings on Aunt Myrt’s sleeping porch. At least it raised pleasant memories even if he didn’t have time to be skipping down memory lane.

  He popped open the door, swung his legs out, and unfolded himself from the seat. He stretched, arching backward to work out the kinks in his lower spine. When he’d bought the sports car, Len had told him it was a foolish expenditure. Why not just walk or take the buses like every other downtown Chicago dweller? Then he’d teased him about needing a pry bar to get in and out of it. “A man close to six foot three with shoulders broad enough to give Atlas some stiff competition has no business cramming himself into a sardine can,” he’d said. But Briley was used to close quarters. All his growing-up years, he’d had little more than a bed and a couple of dresser drawers to claim as his own. The Camaro’s sleek frame made up for the compact space. He’d keep the car no matter what Len said.

  He left his luggage and laptop in the backseat and didn’t even bother hitting the lock on his fob. Who would disturb anything? Then he ambled along a series of steppingstones that led to the porch. Len had made the lodging arrangements for him. Briley had wanted to stay in Wichita, the closest large city, where he’d be able to enjoy a bit of the night life, but Len said if he was going to write an accurate depiction of living the Plain lifestyle, he needed to be in the middle of it. Briley paused at the base of the porch steps and turned a slow circle. He was definitely in the middle of “plain,” that was for sure.

  A soft squeak caught his attention, and he turned to see the front door open. Briley removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. A girl with her dark hair pulled back in a simple tail, wearing a straight denim skirt and a pumpkin-colored, long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, stood framed behind the old-fashioned screen door. Despite her humble wrappings, he recognized beauty when he saw it. Mennonite or not, the girl was a knockout.

  He mounted the four steps in two bounds. Two long-legged strides brought him to the opposite side of the door. He settled his weight on one hip, slipped his fingertips into the slanted pockets of his jeans, and grinned at the girl. “Hi, darlin’. I’m Briley Forrester, and I have reservations for a long-term stay.” Three months would probably seem like forever, but at least the scenery was nice. He peeked beyond her shoulder. The screen distorted his view, but he didn’t think anyone else was inside. “Is the owner here so I can check in?” He half hoped she’d say no so he’d have a little more time to flirt. He liked flirting almost as much as he liked writing exposés.

  She pushed the screen door open, forcing him to take a sideways step, and moved onto the porch although she remained just over the doorjamb with the screen door braced against her shoulder. Her chin tipped back when she looked into his face, giving him a glimpse of a few light-colored freckles strategically placed on her forehead, her cheek, and the left side of her upper lip. All perfect locations to land a kiss. Maybe he’d find a little nightlife here in Arborville after all.

  “I’m Alexa Zimmerman. I manage Grace Notes B and B.”

  “Really?” He gave her a bold up-and-down look. “You’re too young and pretty to be running a hotel.”

  “It’s a bed-and-breakfast inn, Mr. Forrester, and—”

  “Call me Briley.”

  “—my age and appearance have nothing to do with my ability to run it well.” Looking across the yard, she pointed. “Is that your vehicle?”

  He nodded, anticipating a compliment.

  “Since you’re long-term, feel free to pull it into the barn at night. It will need to stay on the side yard there during the day, though, so my uncle can access his equipment. Do you have luggage?”

  He automatically formed a smart-alecky reply. “Well, I’m here for a long-term stay, so …”

  “If you’d like to get it, I’ll show you to the cottage.”

  He placed his hand on his chest, feigning surprise. “What? No bellhop to assist me?”

  She let the screen door flop into place. Without a word she stepped past him and trotted down the steps.

  He followed her. “Where are you going?”

  She moved along the steppingstones, her gleaming ponytail swaying between her shoulder blades. “You asked for a bellhop. That would be me.”

  He might be a flirt, even a rogue by some people’s definition, but he wouldn’t let this slip of a girl car
ry his luggage. He bounded past her and stopped in her pathway. She came to a halt and looked upward. She didn’t even crack a smile. She sure was a serious thing. Too bad, too. He’d like to have a little fun with her. What would it take to strip away her cloak of indifference?

  He quirked his lips into a grin that usually raised a self-conscious giggle from members of the female population. “Where’s your sense of humor? I was only teasing, Alexa.”

  “You may call me Miss Zimmerman.”

  Wasn’t she something? Maybe living among people who avoided modern technology made her a throwback to an earlier century. He swallowed a chortle and bowed, affecting a highbrow look. “I beg your humble pardon. Miss Zimmerman it is.” The hours spent watching black-and-white classic movies with Aunt Myrt weren’t for naught. He could be a throwback, too.

  Her brows pinched together, reminding him of his third-grade teacher. She’d never appreciated his shenanigans, either. The same deviltry that had led him to torment Mrs. Burton reared its head and aimed its attack at Miss Alexa Zimmerman.

  “I shall retrieve my luggage forthwith and carry it with all due haste to your establishment. Furthermore, I—”

  “Furthermore,” she said, folding her arms over her chest in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Burton, “you’ll behave yourself. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. I might be only a young woman, but I am the manager of Grace Notes B and B, and I would appreciate being treated with respect.”

  His amusement fled. Irritation replaced it. She didn’t need to be so high and mighty. Didn’t she know how to have fun? But what did he care? Would he let some unsmiling Mennonite girl make him feel small and insignificant? Absolutely not. He shrugged in well-practiced nonchalance. “Whatever you want, Miss Zimmerman. I’ve had a long drive and I’m tired, so if you’d point me to my room and tell me where I can grab some supper, I’d appreciate it.”