When Grace Sings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Sure.” He lifted the thermos for another drink.

  Steven examined a half circle-shaped window with some sort of purple flowers on a vine hanging from the ceiling by thin silver chains. “How did you know you wanted to do this kind of work? It’s not exactly …” He sought a word. “The norm for an Old Order Mennonite man.”

  Anna—Grace’s father laughed. “No, it sure isn’t. And to be honest, it isn’t something I planned to do.”

  Steven looked at him in surprise. “It wasn’t?”

  “Nope. I knew I liked creating things. Even dabbled a bit in a woodworking shop shortly after I finished school, but somehow it wasn’t quite right. Then when Beth Quinn—you probably remember her as Beth McCauley—came to town and decided to open this shop, she needed help. At first I helped because it was wintertime, not a lot to do on the farm, and she was my uncle Henry’s stepdaughter so it seemed right to give her a hand. But in a very short time of working here, I realized how much I liked stained-glass art.” He turned a serious gaze on Steven. “It satisfied me, down deep. I finally came to recognize this was God’s plan for my future. I’ve been here ever since.”

  Steven nodded slowly. “And your parents … they didn’t mind?”

  Another laugh burst out—this one full of self-deprecation. “Oh, they minded all right. Especially my dad. But he was mostly worried about whether I could make a living with stained-glass art. It’s the man’s responsibility, you know, to support his family. Dad just couldn’t see it happening.” He nudged Steven with his elbow. “But you know, God worked that out, and now Dad’s one of my best supporters. Especially since Beth and her husband moved to the Kansas City area to open a second studio and left me in charge of this one.”

  He placed the empty thermos on the bench between them and wadded up the paper sack and sandwich wrapping. He rose, smiling at Steven as he did so. “When you really set out to find what God wills for your life, things fall into place. Seems to me there’s even a Bible verse to that effect.” He scratched his head for a moment. “From Psalm 139, verse 3, I believe. ‘Thou compassest my path …’ To me, that means He has a road mapped out for me to follow. If I ask for His guidance, He’ll direct me in the way He wants me to go.”

  A bitter query found its way from Steven’s mouth. “But what if someone else puts a roadblock on your path?”

  “Well, then, I would say you should step up your prayers, because either you’re on the wrong path or the other person needs to hear God’s voice more clearly. Pray God would move the roadblock if you’re meant to continue, or ask Him to open a new path that is more of His choosing for you.” Suddenly he frowned. “Steven, are you having second thoughts about marrying Anna—Grace? Because if you’re uncertain—”

  Steven leaped up. “No, sir. I love Anna—Grace.” Sometimes he worried they were marrying too soon, but he couldn’t imagine marrying anyone but her.

  The man blew out a little breath. “That’s good to know, because she loves you and is very committed to you. Her mother and I are pleased, too.” He rose and put his hand on Steven’s shoulder, the touch fatherly. “We know you’ll be a faithful husband and a good provider for our girl.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Andrew turned and shot his wadded-up lunch bag like a basketball into the trash barrel. Then he picked up the thermos and pressed it into Steven’s hands. Putting his arm across Steven’s shoulders, he aimed him for the front door. “Farming is an honest trade, and you’re starting off much more secure than many young men your age thanks to your parents’ generosity. Whatever challenges you’re facing right now getting the house in order will all be worth it the day you harvest your first crop, whether that crop be in Arborville—if that’s where you and Anna—Grace decide to keep your home—or somewhere else.”

  Andrew opened the door and ushered Steven through it. He lifted his hand in a wave. “Thanks for bringing me the lunch. It was good to talk to you, but I’d better get back to work. I’m a little behind on this project since my order of glass didn’t arrive on time. Please tell Livvy I’ll be home by six.” He closed the door before Steven could respond.

  Steven dragged his heels along the wet sidewalk, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the thermos tightly enough to dent its sides, and his head low. He’d been certain Anna—Grace’s father would recognize his desire to step outside the norm and pursue a vocation different from any of the Old Order men before him. He paused, looking toward the studio. Should he go back inside and tell the man what he really wanted to do?

  “Step up your prayers …”

  Andrew’s advice whispered through Steven’s mind. With a sigh that formed a little cloud in front of his face, he aimed himself for his truck. He’d go back to Anna—Grace’s house for an hour or two. He’d color with Sunny, talk some more with Anna—Grace and her mother. Then he’d close himself in his bedroom at home—his parents’ home—and step up his prayers, the way Andrew Braun had told him to do. He only hoped God would answer them by tearing down the roadblock, not forcing him on a different route. Because those few minutes he’d spent going over test papers were the most satisfying minutes he’d spent in years.

  Arborville

  Alexa

  The weekend before Anna—Grace’s arrival at the B and B passed so slowly it seemed as though time stood still. And Alexa didn’t mind one bit. Despite her careful preparations, despite the prayers for God to ease her discomfort, despite telling herself again and again it would be fun to have someone her age staying at the farmhouse with her, she still wasn’t ready. Not emotionally. Had it not been for the copy of the awful photograph Briley had taken at the Meiers farm that she found taped to the backside of a pantry cabinet door, she wouldn’t have smiled once the entire weekend. If Monday wanted to wait another week to arrive, she wouldn’t complain.

  Sunday after she and Grandmother returned from Shelley’s house, where they’d had lunch with the family, Grandmother went to her room to nap and Alexa wandered upstairs to the room she’d blocked off her scheduling calendar for Anna—Grace’s use. At first she’d intended to give her the room with the attached bathroom, but Grandmother talked her out of it. “If someone calls, they’ll be more likely to want the private bath than the shared bath. But Anna—Grace will be grateful no matter where you put her, so save the private bath for a paying guest.” She hoped her grandmother was right and Anna—Grace wouldn’t feel as though Alexa gave her second best.

  She wandered the room—the one she called “Ruth 2:10”—and examined every detail to be certain it was ready for its occupant. Of the three rooms, this one was the most feminine with its pair of white iron twin beds covered by matching Roman Square quilts pieced and tied by Grandmother’s quilting circle at church. The quilts’ calico patches of palest shell pink, moss green, and eggshell gave the beds a dreamy, step-back-in-time feeling. Cream-colored eyelet curtains at the windows matched the flounced dust ruffles on the beds, their delicate softness a perfect contrast to the dark burled-walnut dressing table and bureau.

  She paused and touched the carved acorn drawer pulls, shiny from yesterday’s polishing, then slid her finger along the dresser top. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Not even under the edges of the doily providing an anchor for an antique pitcher and bowl filled with artificial flowers. The other items on the dresser were practical rather than pretty—a box of tissues, a small bowl holding a few individually wrapped peppermints, and a pad of notepaper and a pen imprinted with the name of the B and B. She set the pad so its top edge was parallel with the dresser’s edge, then angled the pen on it, just so, with Grace Notes B-&-B showing.

  After one more trek around the room, during which she examined the floral area rug and exposed strips of stained yellow pine for an errant dust bunny, she sat in the reproduction French Provincial chair in the corner and stared at the framed sampler hanging on the mint-and-white-striped opposite wall. Linking her hands together, she rested them in her lap and tried to imagine how it would feel when A
nna—Grace stepped through the front door tomorrow.

  She’d met the girl several months ago when the family gathered for Grandmother’s sixtieth birthday. They’d had little time to talk, but during those brief exchanges she found her pleasant and unpretentious—the kind of person who could be friends with anyone. But at that first meeting she’d thought Anna—Grace was only her grandmother’s great-niece. Now that she knew the truth—that Anna—Grace was really Mom’s biological daughter adopted by Grandmother’s nephew and his barren wife—everything was different.

  Whispering in case her voice might carry out the door, down the stairs, and through the house to Grandmother’s ears, she read the words stitched in a flowing calligraphy on the sampler. “ ‘Why have I found grace in thine eyes, that thou shouldest take knowledge of me, seeing I am a stranger?’ ” A knot formed in her throat, and she blinked against the threat of tears.

  When she’d searched for verses including the word grace to feature in each of the rooms, she’d chosen this one in the hopes she could emulate Boaz’s kindness to Ruth, providing guests with whatever was needed to meet their needs for the time of their stay, and in so doing give them a glimpse of God’s care for His children. But now the words from the Bible seemed to mock her. Anna—Grace wasn’t the baby abandoned and taken in by one of the Zimmerman offspring. Anna—Grace wasn’t the imposter in the family. She truly belonged here, unlike Alexa, whose birthright set her apart.

  She groaned, bending forward in the chair and burying her face in her hands. She had to be gracious. She’d promised Grandmother and Sandra that hosting Anna—Grace wouldn’t be a problem. Anna—Grace was coming tomorrow—she couldn’t change the plans now. She had to be gracious to this girl whose blood tied her to the family Alexa wanted to claim for her very own. The only way she could separate herself from Anna—Grace now was if she received calls to fill all three rooms. Then she’d have a reason to ask Sandra to host the girl instead.

  Straightening, she looked toward the ceiling—toward heaven, where the only Father she knew resided. “I don’t think I can do this, God. Begrudgingly maybe, but not graciously. So make the telephone ring. Send some guests to Arborville. Fill these rooms. Please?”

  But the telephone didn’t ring. Not that afternoon. Not that evening. And not the next morning, no matter how many times Alexa repeated the prayer. So at eleven thirty, when Steven Brungardt’s pickup pulled into the lane, Alexa gritted her teeth, pasted on a smile she hoped would fool both Grandmother and the arriving guests, and stepped out on the porch to welcome the girl who rightfully belonged in this place.

  Anna—Grace

  The tummy-trembles that started when she and Steven pulled out of her parents’ driveway became a full-fledged uproar when Steven drew the truck up to the patch of gravel next to the Zimmerman farmhouse porch. Great-Aunt Abigail’s granddaughter stood at the top of the steps with her arms crossed over her chest. She was probably just chilled, but her pose looked forbidding. Without conscious thought Anna—Grace reached across the seat and took a gentle hold on Steven’s elbow.

  He shifted into Park, then turned a puzzled look on her. “What’s wrong?”

  She pulled in a ragged breath. “I’m … scared.”

  Steven placed his hand over hers. “If you don’t want to go in there, we can always turn around right now and go back to Sommerfeld. You don’t have to stay.”

  His words stirred unexpected anger. Couldn’t he encourage her rather than tell her it was all right to give up? “Yes, I do, Steven.”

  His brows pulled down. “No, Anna—Grace, you don’t. I meant it when I said if it’s too hard for you to be here, I can sell the farm and—”

  “Don’t tell me that!” A touch of hysteria made her voice come out more shrilly than she intended. She gripped his elbow hard and prayed for God to calm her. When she’d gained control, she loosened her hold and spoke again. “Please don’t tell me to quit before I’ve begun. I’ll always wonder if I made a mistake if I don’t at least try to be a part of this community.”

  He gazed at her, his lips set in a firm line, for several seconds. Then he gave a short nod and reached for the door handle, dislodging her hand with the movement. “Then let’s go in.”

  She threw open the door and slid out, adjusting her skirt as she did so. Cool air touched her legs and she gave an involuntary shiver. She met Steven at the front of the truck, and he offered his hand. She grabbed it, grateful for the anchor, and they walked together up the wide stairs to the porch.

  “Hello. I’ve been watching for you. Did you have a good drive?” Alexa Zimmerman’s words chirped out on an unnaturally cheerful note.

  Anna—Grace’s throat felt dry, so she let Steven do the talking.

  “Yes. The roads were wet but not slick.”

  “That’s good.”

  Steven scuffed the toe of his boot back and forth on the porch boards. “Did you get rain this weekend? We got a lot of rain in Sommerfeld.”

  “Some, but not a lot.”

  Such a stilted conversation. Anna—Grace’s unease increased by the minute. Even though Alexa had been friendly at their previous meeting, she now acted skittish and uncertain. Anna—Grace had feared she would feel uncomfortable in the town, but she hadn’t anticipated others immediately being uncomfortable around her. Did Alexa sense her inner anxiety? If so, she needed to behave normally and put her hostess at ease.

  Anna—Grace forced herself to speak. “Thank you for inviting me to stay here. The house is so pretty the way you painted it. I remember how nice the living and dining rooms were decorated when I was here for Aunt Abigail’s party. I’m sure you did just as good a job fixing up the guest rooms.” Once she started talking, she seemed to lose her ability to stop. “I’m not terribly creative when it comes to decorating, so I admire your ability to make everything look so warm and homey. I imagine I’ll get lots of ideas from you for fixing up the house Steven inherited. That is, if you don’t mind sharing ideas.”

  Alexa stared at Anna—Grace, her mouth slightly open. “Um, no. I’m glad to share ideas.”

  “Oh, good. I’ll plan to pick your brain then.” Anna—Grace released Steven’s hand. “Would you get my suitcases?”

  He was looking at her oddly, too, as if he’d forgotten who she was, but he nodded and headed down the steps.

  Anna—Grace held her hand toward the front door. “Can we go in? I’m eager to get settled in my room, because once I get everything put away I can go to the Meiers farmstead. I can’t wait to see the house Steven’s grandparents lived in.” Acting cheery and unaffected helped her feel less uncertain, and when she smiled again it felt much less forced.

  The smile Alexa offered in return also lost some of its stiffness. “Sure. Come on in.”

  Anna—Grace followed Alexa over the threshold into the small vestibule. A scrolled iron rack hung on the wall just inside the door, and Alexa gestured toward it. “If you’d like, you can leave your coat here. There’s a closet in your room, but it’s more convenient to have your coat close to the exit.”

  “Thank you.” Anna—Grace placed her coat on one of the hooks, then trailed Alexa into the living room. Aunt Abigail was waiting in the middle of the floor. The moment the girls entered the room, she held her arms open.

  “Anna—Grace … welcome!”

  Her enthusiastic greeting brought an immediate sting of tears to Anna—Grace’s eyes. She hurried across the carpet and leaned down for a hug. Aunt Abigail had hugged her when she came for the birthday party last summer, but this embrace was tighter, longer, somehow more emotional. Anna—Grace stayed in the bent-over position until the older woman loosened her hold even though the angle was far from comfortable. She straightened as the screen door opened and Steven came in with her suitcases, one in each hand and the smallest case tucked beneath his elbow.

  He looked at Alexa. “Where do you want these?”

  Alexa reached for one of the two larger cases. “I put Anna—Grace in the room you and yo
ur dad shared when you were here.” Her gaze flicked in Anna—Grace’s direction. “I’m using the shared bath, too, but I don’t have any guests scheduled”—did regret enter her voice or did Anna—Grace imagine it?—“so it’ll just be the two of us up there.”

  Anna—Grace smiled. “That sounds fine.” She bustled forward. “Let me take that bag.”

  “I can do it.” Alexa started up the stairs, raising the suitcase with her knees as she went. “But I won’t unpack for you.”

  Even though Alexa still sounded a little stiff and formal, Anna—Grace decided to respond in a teasing manner. “Well, then, no tip for you.”

  Neither Steven nor Alexa chuckled in reply, but Aunt Abigail laughed heartily enough for all of them. She rolled her wheelchair to the bottom of the staircase and called after them. “Alexa has a Crock-Pot of stew simmering in the kitchen. When you’re done up there, come join us for a bowl.”

  Anna—Grace was fairly certain her nervous stomach would reject food, but she couldn’t deny her great-aunt’s request. “Thank you. Stew sounds very good.”

  She topped the stairs on Alexa’s heels with Steven close behind and entered an octagon-shaped upstairs landing. Brief expanses of cheerful wallpaper in a tiny rosebud print alternated with closed, raised-panel doors painted glossy white. No windows looked onto the landing, but the single bulb in a small antique brass fixture hanging from the center of the rosebud-papered ceiling proved adequate when reflected by the many bright-white doors and the softer-white background of the wallpaper.

  Alexa opened the first door on the right, then stepped aside and gestured for Anna—Grace to enter the room. This was it—her new, temporary home. With her linked hands pressed to her jumping stomach, she moved across the threshold, and when she got a look at the room Alexa had set aside for her, she couldn’t hold back a little gasp of delight.