“Nathan won’t last three hours,” Luke muttered. “Maybe I should have kept Abby with me.”
Since his young daughter also sat with her aenti Miriam and was surrounded by other caring mothers, Gideon felt no need to comment. He did catch Elam rolling his eyes.
Silence fell.
Chapter Thirteen
Gideon turned his head when he heard a flurry of whispers in the back. Older boys, for sure. He was glad he had kept Zeb close.
The Volsinger, John Mast, announced the first hymn, and lifted his voice in the traditional, solo beginning. The purity of it always moved Gideon. Then the rest of the congregation joined in, young voices, old, women and men. Even caught in the beauty of the slow, measured cadence, sorrow blended with hope and faith, Gideon wondered what Hannah would think of what was closer to chanting than the songs he heard on the radio in stores or in bursts from passing cars with open windows. He wanted to watch her face, but couldn’t let himself.
As an adult, he didn’t waste much time thinking about what other people meant by saying or doing this or that, and even less time examining his own feelings. He had focused always on what had to be done next, rarely permitting himself to try to look through the eyes of other people.
He had been different as a boy, always questioning, worrying about matters that weren’t his concern, or so his father told him. Punished severely when he spoke up or rebelled even in small ways, he had learned that rebellion achieved nothing. Everyone had eventually been convinced that he was a dutiful son, following the path his father laid for him.
Not until he married did he deliberately veer from his father’s rigid path. He determined to be a good and loving husband and father, not so rigid he would expect his word to be law without listening first to suggestions or arguments from Leah and his kinder. Had he been wrong to deviate from the way he was raised? He still asked himself whether he should have exercised more authority as a husband and father. How could he help but wonder whether he’d been careless in allowing Leah to make choices he hadn’t liked—and whether she had secretly longed for a life he couldn’t give her?
Even after her shocking death in a speeding car driven by her Englisch friend, and the chiding—most loudly from his daad—and murmurs that followed it, he’d held tight to his faith in God. It had helped him stifle his resentment for what the bishop said to him.
The move had been mostly for his kinder, he still believed, but maybe more for himself, too, than he’d known. Once he’d bought the farm here and they were settled, he hadn’t let himself dwell on his motives. What did they matter? What was done was done.
He’d certainly never let himself wonder throughout a service how an auslander would see it. The separation of men and women, the use of backless benches that surely were intended to keep anyone from slumping into inattention. The sermons, sometimes powerful and speaking directly to his heart, other times wandering or repetitive. Did preachers in Englisch churches often apologize for their clumsiness in trying to share God’s word before they began their remarks?
He did glance to see that Hannah joined the others kneeling to pray when they were called to do so. Did she understand that they chose to worship God in the simple surroundings of homes and barns rather than in fancy churches to express their humility? That they blended their voices into one as part of their belief in community, in Gelassenheit, the giving over of individual will to a higher authority?
Gideon didn’t understand himself, asking these questions. Questioning tradition wasn’t the way of the Leit. That he was letting himself be swayed even this much by a modern woman disturbed him.
And yet, she was here, dressing plain, keeping her promise to her daad and to Rebekah.
Dismayed to realize Amos was giving the benediction and that it was time for the closing prayer, Gideon feared he had missed much of the preaching. He couldn’t even remember the topic of Josiah Gingerich’s sermon, and Josiah was forthright and hard to ignore.
Grateful that there was no members’ meeting today, he joined other men in carrying the benches out onto the lawn, where some would be converted into makeshift tables for the fellowship meal. Zeb ran off with other boys his age. A volleyball net had been set up, and Melvin Esch maintained a baseball field, probably because of his large family of primarily boys.
Hannah, of course, appeared among the other women carrying dishes out from the kitchen, Rebekah at her side clutching silverware. If his family were intact, she’d have eaten with her mamm, as young as she was, but usually he called her to his side. Today, he felt sure she’d prefer to stay with Hannah. Zeb had recently taken to eating with the other kinder after both the men and women had finished rather than with his daad.
Gideon didn’t like the spear of loneliness that slid between his ribs. His kinder were growing up, looking to other people rather than just their father. That was as it should be, except that Rebekah’s attachment to Hannah laid bare how much she needed a mother to guide and love her. That was something he could provide for her. Should have provided for her . . . but right now, the only woman he might have been able to see making his wife was not of their faith.
And he was being foolish to let himself think such a thing.
Yet his gaze followed her, this graceful, good-hearted Englisch woman who was dressing plain and had given up her car on an everyday basis in favor of driving a horse and buggy—however much that scared her.
* * *
* * *
Not until after everyone had eaten did Hannah come face-to-face with Gideon again.
She’d been foolishly aware of him all along, noticing that he was readily accepted by the other Amishmen his age, yet often seemed to stand on the outskirts of any group. Perhaps it was because he was a relative newcomer to this settlement, but that might just be his nature. He had a way of listening to others talk, watching each speaker in silence, before he contributed himself. When he did, she saw other men nodding, as if he’d clarified their thinking.
An older woman caught her watching Gideon—or at least the group he stood with—and smiled. “You work for Gideon Lantz, ja?”
Chagrined to have been caught gawking at him, Hannah returned her smile. “Ja, I’m Hannah Mast.” It was getting easier to say that, instead of Prescott.
“A quiet one, Gideon is. Keeps his thoughts to himself.”
“He’s been good to me. And I love his kinder.”
The woman chuckled. “Hard not to. I’m Martha Beiler.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Denke for letting me join you today.”
“Ach, Samuel’s daughter. You belong with us.”
Hannah opened her mouth to thank her again, but a squeal from a boppli had her turning to find Julia at her side. Nathan was grinning and verbalizing while bouncing in his mammi’s arms.
Martha chucked him under the chin. “Busy boy. And so good during the service!”
After she hurried off in response to a signal from someone else, Julia made a face. “If it hadn’t been for the rest of you taking turns with him, I wouldn’t have heard a single word of either sermon.”
“No one would think less of you if you hadn’t. And you know perfectly well we all wanted to steal him from you.”
Julia’s smile lit her face to beauty. “I’m so glad we’ve become friends. I pray you decide to join us. Having someone who understands my challenges is such a blessing.”
This new friend was the first person to say out loud what Hannah hadn’t even allowed herself to consider as a possibility: that she would choose this faith, this life, so different than what she knew. The life her mother had run from like a wild animal ripping its paw from a trap. Even Samuel hadn’t said anything like that to Hannah, although she didn’t doubt he was thinking it and hoping.
“I . . . don’t know about staying,” she said haltingly, determined to be honest. “I’m pretty mixed up right now, after finding out so much abou
t my life I didn’t know. And with my grandfather ill, and—” She didn’t say that she wondered if the depth of her faith equaled theirs. How could she be sure?
Julia touched her hand, her expression soft. “I understand. I shouldn’t have said that. My parents weren’t happy about me converting, but I never had any doubt that they loved me or would support me whatever I chose to do. You must be especially mixed up about your mother.”
Hannah tried to smile. “Denke for understanding. And helping me look as if I belong today.”
“I’m glad you wore that dress. The color is good on you.” She lowered her voice. “Not that we are meant to be vain.”
They exchanged grins.
“What did you think of the service?” Julia asked.
“I meant to ask the same question.”
Hannah jumped at the deep voice coming from just beside her. Or maybe it was only her heart that jumped.
“Do you have a backache?” Gideon asked, a possible twinkle in his eyes.
“A tiny bit,” she admitted. “I’m more used to standing than sitting.”
“I tell myself I need a rest,” Gideon said. “God is good enough to give me one every two weeks.”
Julia laughed. “That’s one way of thinking about it.”
“As for the service . . .” Hannah sifted through her impressions. “I almost cried during the hymns. We sing in other churches I’ve attended, but I’ve never felt as if everyone truly joined in prayer that way.”
Julia nodded. “That’s how I felt, the first time I came. As if I was hearing one voice, raised to God. As if everyone felt the power of that joining. No whispers, or congregants getting a verse wrong, or phone ringing in someone’s purse.”
“Yes!”
When her son batted her cheek, Julia smiled ruefully. “Of course, then I didn’t have a little one trying to contribute, too.”
Nobody within several rows could have missed hearing Nathan’s excited babbling.
“What singing could be more beautiful than that of a kind?” asked Hannah.
Gideon’s gaze, resting on her, seemed to hold a weight, but she knew perfectly well that she was likely imagining something that wasn’t there. She really needed to curb feelings she had no reason to think were reciprocated. Even if they were . . . the gulf between them was surely too deep.
She decided to return to the original question. “I mostly understood the sermons. Josiah—that was Josiah, right?” At Julia’s nod, Hannah continued. “I felt as if he was talking to me. That was sort of unnerving.” The younger of the two ministers had started with a verse from Matthew.
Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.
“Worrying about tomorrow is my specialty. He made me realize how much I’ve missed by not rejoicing in the present.”
Gideon nodded. “I think he was talking to the farmers among us, too. Every day we labor while knowing that the rain may not come when the crops need it, or it comes in buckets two days before we bring in the hay. We try to accept God’s will.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “ ‘Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.’ That I can mostly accept.”
The two women laughed, even knowing that on one level he was serious.
“I suspect Hannah had the right idea,” Julia said, after a seemingly thoughtful moment. “ ‘We will rejoice and be glad in it.’ ”
Gideon bent his head in assent. “That’s a good reminder. I’m happy with the day the Lord has made.” He looked past Hannah. “Esther seems tired. I should gather the kinder and go.”
“Oh, I forgot you usually bring her,” Julia said. “That’s good of you.”
“It makes no trouble. She’s my neighbor,” he said simply, and walked away, heading toward the baseball diamond. Hannah was still disconcerted by the Amish habit of skipping niceties like hello and goodbye.
Beside her, Julia sighed. “I should collect my dishes, too.”
“I’ll come with you. I have no idea if Mose will want to linger or go home as soon as possible. I don’t think he’s very interested in girls yet. Baseball, I’m not sure about.”
“You’d better hope not, or you might be stuck here for hours.” Julia grinned at her. “Have you seen David and Miriam?”
“Pretty sure they left. She told me her ankles are swelling.”
“Ugh. Mine did that, too.”
Such a prosaic conversation to give Hannah a severe attack of envy. Until she came to stay with her father—and work for Gideon—she hadn’t realized how much she wanted children. A real family. Here, she was surrounded by extended families. Within the church district, only Esther Schwartz, Gideon’s neighbor, seemed to have no one—but from what Hannah could tell, her needs were still met, church members visited her, invited her to quilting frolics, treated her as if she were their own widowed mamm or grossmammi.
And then there was Gideon, a widower who had moved away from his extended family—and presumably his dead wife’s family, too. Hannah would give a great deal to know why he’d done that.
And no, it wasn’t any of her business, except that she’d come to care entirely too much for Rebekah and Zeb.
Not to mention Gideon, she could admit only to herself.
* * *
* * *
Considering what a short time she’d been dressing plain, Hannah didn’t know why it felt so odd to change back into her everyday clothes. Her Englisch clothes. When she came out of her small bedroom, everyone in the kitchen turned as one to stare. Even three-year-old Isaiah, who sat on the floor building a tall structure with wooden blocks, stopped to gape at her. Adah and Emma looked astonished, as if they’d forgotten she wasn’t really one of them.
“I’m going to visit my grandparents,” Hannah said unnecessarily. She might go back tomorrow, too, but somehow it seemed wrong not to see them on Sunday. She’d planned in advance to take them dinner and stay for a couple of hours this evening.
She’d considered not changing, but if other drivers in town saw an Amishwoman driving a car, she might be enough of a distraction to cause an accident.
Lilian produced her usual, warm smile. “Ja. Don’t forget the casserole and cookies. And the peas! They’ll enjoy peas fresh from the garden, for certain sure.”
Hannah smiled. “Ach, I remember fine.”
Her teasing passed unnoticed.
“And be careful driving home in the dark,” Lilian added.
Adah carried the lidded container filled with cookies while Hannah managed her rarely used handbag, the covered casserole, and the peas, picked just before she went in to change.
The drive should have given her time to decompress—think of it like Superman’s telephone booth, she told herself wryly—but it didn’t really work. The less often she got behind the wheel of the car, the less she enjoyed driving. It was silly, given that the whole route was on country roads, but her timidity came out when she got stuck for a stretch behind a wagon pulled by two draft horses. The bed of the wagon was piled high with lumber and a couple of doors and some wrapped objects that might be windows. She started to edge out once to pass, but an oncoming car was so close, it scared her back into her lane.
On her way home this evening, she’d probably drive ten miles under the speed limit. She never liked driving in the dark.
Finally in town, she parked at the senior complex, looked nervously around in case her mother was lying in wait, and then piled the cookies atop the bag of peas and the casserole and went up to her grandparents’ apartment.
When the door opened, she was smiling . . . until she realized it was her mother there in front of her. Inside her grandparents’ apartment.
For a too-long moment, she didn’t move.
Jodi didn’t even acknowledge the shock on Hannah’s face, only exclaimed, “Oh, you
’re here at last! I’m so excited. It’s been ages since I’ve eaten your cooking. And, of course, I’m excited to spend time with you.”
Hannah flicked a glance beyond her mother’s shoulder, but couldn’t see Helen. “You set a trap,” she said flatly, keeping her voice low. “You know I can’t turn around and walk away.”
Mom did sad eyes so well. “Oh, but . . . I’ve missed you so much.”
Hannah opened her mouth, but shut it when Helen appeared behind her daughter, smile bright but worry in her eyes.
“Hannah, I’m so glad you could come. I was talking to Jodi earlier, and, well—”
“She inveigled you into inviting her.” She managed to keep her tone light, and was glad when she saw the relief on her grandmother’s face.
“What an armload!” Helen said. “Let me take—”
“Oh, I’m closer,” Jodi said sweetly, taking the top few items from the pile Hannah carried. “Oh, my! What did you bring?”
“Nothing that fancy. A casserole, and fresh peas straight from the garden. And cookies.”
Jodi headed toward the kitchen, saying blithely over her shoulder, “Have you had Hannah’s cookies, Mom? She’s the world’s best cook.”
Helen gripped Hannah’s arm to stop her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I should have warned you.”
Giving her grandmother a one-armed hug, Hannah said, “It’ll be fine. As long as she doesn’t demand a heart-to-heart with me.”
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t have a chance,” Helen said firmly.
Hannah said hi to her grandfather and kissed his cheek before going to the kitchen, where she popped the casserole in the oven for a quick reheat. Knowing where everything in the small kitchen was kept, she took out a pan from beneath the stove for the peas and began shelling them.
“Why don’t you let me help you?” Jodi suggested. Her voice had a lilt, because she was sure they were all so happy. She still sounded girlish.
And yes, Hannah thought fiercely, it felt more natural to think of her by her name than as Mom. Since Hannah had reached adulthood, her mother had liked being called Jodi. She would giggle and say, “Because I can’t possibly be old enough to have a child in her twenties!”
Finding Hope Page 15
