When Hope Blossoms (8 page)

Bekah stiffened, fully expecting Mom to scold. After all, she’d instructed Bekah to wash, iron, and hang the curtains, and Bekah had dawdled. Now it was past her bedtime. Mom had spent the entire day working and she’d still had to finish Bekah’s job. Deep down, Bekah knew she’d been disobedient, and guilt tried to take hold of her heart, but she stubbornly refused to accept it. She was still a little mad at Mom over the talk they’d had after Adrianna and Parker went up to bed. Mom was so set in her old-fashioned ways.

To Bekah’s surprise, instead of scolding, Mom folded her in a hug. “Thank you for your help, honey.” After a squeeze, Mom released Bekah. Something flickered in Mom’s eyes. A kind of pleading Bekah really didn’t understand. “Is the house starting to feel like home to you now with all our furniture arranged and curtains on the windows?”

Bekah angled her face to look at the ruffly curtain gently lifting in the evening breeze that poured through the kitchen window. Just like in Arborville, the wind here in Weaverly never seemed to cease. The pink-dotted fabric billowed and collapsed, billowed and collapsed, much like Bekah’s emotions of late. “I guess.” Then she jerked her face to look into her mother’s eyes. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

Mom tipped her head. One black ribbon crunched against the shoulder of her rose-flowered dress. The gloomy color looked out of place amid the spatter of cheerful blooms. “Of course.”

Bekah gulped, gathering her courage. “You said moving to Weaverly would give us all a fresh start. Right?”

Mom’s lips pinched briefly, but she nodded.

“So why can’t that mean a fresh start in more than just where we live? Why can’t we do something else new, like wear shorts when it’s hot outside? Or buy a swimsuit—it doesn’t have to be a two-piece—and go swimming in the public pool like other kids? Or maybe even cut our hair instead of piling it under these scratchy caps?”

As Bekah spoke, her voice rose in both volume and speed. Bottled up questions poured out fast before Mom could interrupt and tell her to stop fussing. “We moved away from Arborville and all the people of our fellowship. We’re in a brand-new place where nobody knows us. Not even the Mennonites who came from Ohio really know us—just a little bit from helping us carry our stuff into the house. Do we have to dress this way and . . . and live in an old house to make God happy?”

Bekah ran out of words. She plunked into the nearest chair, exhausted. She peered up at her mother, who stood silent and unsmiling before her. Another thought filled her mind, and she spit it out before she lost her nerve to share it. “Why is it so important that we be Mennonites? Mr. Roper isn’t Mennonite anymore, and he seems okay. Wouldn’t we be okay if we decided not to be Mennonites, too?”

A
my silently prayed for guidance as she pulled out a kitchen chair and seated herself across from her daughter. She should have known this conversation was coming. Amy’s dad had grimly predicted shortly after Bekah’s eleventh birthday, “You watch. That one’s going to give you heartache. She thinks too much.” At the time, Amy had discounted her father’s words, secretly proud of Bekah’s ability to reason deeply and ask difficult questions. It meant the girl had intelligence, and intelligence was a good thing.

But now the questions threatened the foundation of Amy’s faith. Perhaps she should have taken Dad’s warning more seriously and better prepared herself for this moment. Closing her eyes to calm her raging emotions, she pleaded with her heavenly Father to let the Holy Spirit speak words that would reach Bekah’s questioning heart.

“You asked why we can’t take off these caps and cut our hair.” Absently, Amy smoothed her fingers down the ribbon of her own cap. “Tell me why you began wearing your cap.”

Bekah traced squiggles on the table, her head low. “Because the church said I had to when I got baptized. It means I’m part of the fellowship of believers.”

Amy frowned. Surely Bekah knew the deeper reason the women of her sect donned the mesh caps that covered their hair. “Why else?”

“And the Bible says a woman should cover her head when she’s praying, and we’re supposed to be in prayer all the time.” The girl grimaced, making Amy wonder what thought trailed through her mind. “So we wear the caps all the time.” Bekah’s head shot up. “Does that mean women who don’t wear caps never talk to God?”

Amy swallowed, seeking an appropriate response. “I think there are some people—both women and men—who go through life never talking to God. They’re too busy looking at themselves to realize there is a God in Heaven who loves them and wants them to be His children. To me, those are the saddest people, because they’re always trying to fill something inside of them that can only be filled one way, and they miss the way.”

Bekah listened intently, no hint of defiance in her face.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Amy continued. “And then there are people who do know God. They aren’t Mennonite, but they believe Jesus is their Savior and that God is their Father. They hold their faith in their hearts, but they don’t feel it’s necessary to clothe themselves differently to show it on the outside.”

“But the Mennonites think they need to show it on the outside, too.”

Amy nodded in agreement. “The Bible teaches us to be separate, not of the world, so our clothing lets others know that we are a separate people, living for God rather than for self.” Amy took Bekah’s hand. “Sweetheart, I know it’s hard to dress differently from others your age. It will be even harder here, with so few Mennonites and all of them strangers to you right now. But God gives us strength to do what He calls us to do.”

Bekah stared long and hard into Amy’s face. Her sober expression gave away nothing of her inner thoughts, yet Amy sensed the girl was rolling things over in her mind, searching for her place of peace. So Amy sat quietly, allowing her daughter to process what she’d shared. While she waited, she prayed for Bekah’s understanding and acceptance.

Finally, Bekah looked away, her shoulders rising and falling. “Okay, Mom.” She spoke with her face aimed at the kitchen window, seemingly entranced by the play of the wind in the curtains. “I think I see why you want us to keep living the same way we did in Arborville, even though we aren’t in Arborville anymore. But there’s still one thing I have to figure out for myself.”

“What’s that, honey?”

Bekah pulled her hand loose and rose. “Whether God really called me to be a Mennonite.” She turned and darted for the stairs. Her clattering footsteps faded away, but Amy’s heart continued pounding in her ears.

She folded her arms on the table’s smooth top and let her head drop into the bend of her elbow. The brief conversation in the comfortable kitchen had sapped her energy even more than her walk across the pasture in the late-afternoon sun. “God . . .” The name groaned from her lips. “You promised to give Your children strength to stand firm through every one of life’s challenges. I need Your strength now. Without the support of my fellowship, I feel the way Bekah must feel—as if I’m standing alone. Give me strength and wisdom to guide my precious daughter to the truth. Strength, dear God, please give me, and my daughter, strength.”

On Saturday morning, Amy assigned cleaning tasks to each of the children. She delegated laundry duties to Bekah, put Parker to work sweeping and mopping all the floors, and instructed Adrianna to chase every bit of dust from the baseboards and furniture with a feather duster. While the children worked on the house, she worked on piecing the second wall hanging for the family of grieving siblings. Although in Arborville she’d never sewed quilts on Saturday, reserving that day for housecleaning, baking, and preparing for Sunday’s dinner, she’d lost time with the move and needed to make it up.

Smoothing the fabric into place beneath the silver needle of her machine, she experienced a rush of joy. She’d always loved quilting, and she believed God had given her a special ability to create patterns and color combinations that pleased the eye. Using the articles of clothing given to her, she had planned a trio of similar yet distinct thirty-six-inch-square quilts. By combining texture and color with information the children had shared about their mother’s likes and dislikes, she felt certain she’d captured tiny pieces of the woman’s life in art.

The sewing machine whirred and she thought ahead to next week when she would use her automatic quilting machine to bind the decorative tops to the plain backings. All three sisters had chosen the same stitching pattern for their individual quilts—a series of interlocking hearts. The pattern was Amy’s favorite, the perfect choice for any remembrance quilt.

The machine’s hum drowned out the sounds of the children’s soft banter. She was so caught up in her work, she almost missed the thump of someone knocking on the front screen door. In their six days in their new home, no one had visited. The knock brought both elation and curiosity. Who might it be?

Tucking stray wisps of her hair beneath the edge of her prayer cap, she hurried toward the door. Parker and Adrianna also came running. She shook her head, shooing them back to their tasks. They scurried around the corner, giggling together. Amy looked through the screen door. One of the men from Ohio who’d helped her move into the house stood on the porch with his black Sunday hat in his hands. He offered a nod of hello as she squeaked the door open. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Knackstedt.” He peered past her into the front room. “I see you have your house all in order already. Those of us who settled in town do, too.”

“I’m so glad.” Amy searched her memory for the man’s name. Mr. Schell? Mr. Mischler? Both men were big-boned with dark hair, so she couldn’t be sure which one stood on her porch. Somewhat embarrassed, she held out her hand in invitation. “Won’t you come in? I have some cold lemonade in the refrigerator. I’d be glad to pour you a glass.”

He stepped over the threshold but remained near the door, twisting the brim of his hat. “No, thank you. I just came to ask . . .” A sheepish look crossed his face. “If you would rather say no, we’ll understand, but . . .”

Amy’s curiosity increased with each second that ticked past. She laughed softly to cover her unease. “What is it?”

“Tomorrow, as you know, is Sunday. We don’t have a meetinghouse in Weaverly yet, but we’d like to hold a service. One of our men is asking about using one of the empty businesses in town until we can get a proper meetinghouse built. In the meantime, we need a place to come together for worship.” His gaze bounced around the spacious sitting room. “We noticed when we moved you in how large this room is. I believe it would accommodate all of us. We wondered if you would consider hosting our service tomorrow.”

Amy glanced at the room. Considering only around twenty-five people would attend the service, she certainly had the space. “I’d be happy to host the service tomorrow. As a matter of fact, we can hold services here for as long as we need to until we have a building available.” She grimaced in apology. “But a few people might need to stand and the children might have to sit on the floor. I have the sofa and chair, and four kitchen chairs, but—”

He waved one of his big hands in dismissal. “Don’t worry about seats, Mrs. Knackstedt. One of our men, Christian Hunsberger, has a pickup truck. He said he could carry chairs out for us to use if you don’t mind him coming a little early to get the room set up.”

Amy smiled, relieved. She’d been so busy getting herself and the children settled, she’d forgotten about Sunday services. Now the promise of worship with like believers—even though they came from a fellowship in Ohio and she from one in Kansas—gave her heart a lift. “Tell him he’s welcome to come anytime after eight o’clock. The children and I will be up and ready to help him arrange the room.”

The man beamed. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Knackstedt. My wife, Lorraine, is eager to meet you. I told her about your big sewing machine, and she would like to see it sometime.”

“I’d be delighted to show it to her.” Although Amy hadn’t yet met the woman, she already imagined them becoming friends.

“And I think our children are close in age to yours,” the man said. “Of course, ours are all boys, but it will do them good to get acquainted before school starts. They can be support to one another, yes?”

His tone carried a hint of a German accent, reminding Amy of her grandfather’s deep, seasoned voice. Her smile grew without effort. “Yes, that would be good for all of them.”

“Well, I’ll go then and leave you to your day.” He plopped his hat on his head and stepped back onto the porch. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

An idea struck. Amy darted after him, letting the screen door slam into its frame behind her. “Why don’t you tell the others to each bring a little something for lunch, and we’ll have a meal together here afterward. Then we can all get better acquainted.” For the past two nights she’d lain awake, praying and fretting over her conversation with Bekah. Being accepted into this circle of Mennonite believers from Ohio would surely help Bekah feel at ease with her own heritage again.

“I’ll tell everyone,” he said, inching backward toward his waiting vehicle.

Amy stood on the porch and waved as the man pulled out of her driveway. She turned to go back inside, but then she paused, her gaze drifting effortlessly to the stand of trees east of her house. Mr. Roper’s orchard. Her heart gave a funny half-skip. Would the man see all the cars in her yard Sunday morning? Would he hear their songs of praise drifting across the prairie from her open windows? Might their example of coming together for worship minister to his soul and restore within him the faith of his fathers?
God, if it be Your will, use us to draw him back to Your fold.

The prayer complete, she stepped back into the house, a smile forming on her face as she imagined tomorrow’s visitors filling the sitting room. Then she clicked her tongue on her teeth. If this sitting room was to serve as the temporary meetinghouse, it needed a much more thorough cleaning than the children would give it. She also needed to prepare extra food so she could share with her new fellowship.

She’d intended to spend the afternoon sewing, but she rapidly changed her mind. Preparing for this service—a service she prayed would aid in bringing understanding to Bekah’s soul and perhaps reach the heart of the man next door—was more important than sewing. She hurried to the kitchen and called, “Children? Come here, please. I need to talk with you.”