David remembered another bishop once describing that very thing: the more money we make, the less we give away. He thought, surely that couldn’t be true for Stoney Ridge, with all the income that was coming in from the oil leases. Surely not here.
But the issue kept poking at him.
Nyna the Mynah had become a local celebrity. Jesse’s youngest sisters, Emily and Lydie, told anyone who would listen about Patrick Kelly’s talking bird. Even Jesse found himself driving out of his way to drop by the cottage at the Inn at Eagle Hill to hear Nyna’s latest wisdom: “Be slow to anger!” “All things are possible!” “A time for everything!”
She was better than a circus show, that bird.
When Edith Fisher Lapp heard about Nyna the Mynah, she sent word to Jesse to bring Patrick over to the house with the bird. She was persistent about it, absolutely relentless, which translated to sending her husband, Hank, over to the buggy shop each day in the golf cart to remind Jesse. He didn’t have time for bird visits! He had a buggy shop to run. He had apprentices and a dog to mind. He had to keep an eye on Jenny Yoder.
But it wasn’t easy to put off Edith Fisher Lapp.
Luke Schrock dropped by the shop on Monday afternoon when Hank was hanging around. Patrick happened to be there too, when Luke volunteered to take the bird over to visit Edith.
“Only if Patrick goes too,” Jesse said, shooting him a look of warning.
“Of course!” Luke said, as if such a thing would never occur to him. He seemed wounded by the implication. “I’ll take your scooter home and get the bird, then I’ll be right back. Fifteen minutes, tops.”
Jesse felt a little bad about always assuming the worst of Luke, but he thought he detected a troublemaking look in his eyes. Maybe that was just Luke’s regular look. If he could get Edith off Jesse’s back, he would be doing him a favor. Jesse should be grateful, not suspicious. Ruthie had told him Luke promised he was turning over a new leaf. He had promised he would stop drinking and avoid his no-good friends. New leafs were a welcome thing. Jesse should be supportive, not skeptical.
But then, as so often happened when Luke Schrock was involved, disaster struck.
Patrick went with Luke and Hank to take the bird over to Edith’s. They returned much sooner than Jesse expected, without Patrick and Nyna the Mynah. According to Hank, who relished giving Jesse and the apprentices a blow-by-blow account, Nyna the Mynah had stared her black beady eyes at Edith and let loose a string of hair-curling cuss words.
Edith was outraged. Patrick was mortified, hugely apologetic, and thoroughly baffled as to how his bird had gained that particular vocabulary.
Hank retold the story twice, doubled over with laughter, as red in the face as a turkey gobbler. The apprentices ran for Jesse’s dictionary to try to figure out what the words meant. Luke remained stone-faced, shocked and disappointed by Patrick. Saint Patrick, he called him.
But when Luke thought no one was looking, Jesse saw a look of mirth flit through his eyes. Here and then gone.
Whenever Galen King was away from the Inn at Eagle Hill to attend an auction, Luke would slip into his stable and ride the newest horse, bareback, the one straight off the racetrack, hot-blooded, eager to run. It was Luke’s favorite on-the-sly pastime.
On Wednesday afternoon, as Ruthie and Patrick watched from the open paddock, Luke was dashing around the property of the Inn at Eagle Hill on a new Sorrel Bay, a Thoroughbred horse Galen had recently purchased to train as a buggy horse. The horse was lathered up, eyes wild, as Luke yanked hard on its reins and pulled it to a stop in front of them. The horse stomped its legs impatiently, but Luke had the reins pulled so tightly its mouth was stretched.
“How about you, Saint Patrick?” Luke said. “You ready to give this horse a try?”
“Stop it, Luke,” Ruthie said.
“What, are you scared?” Luke taunted. “You do look a little pale. Don’t tell me you’re not man enough to ride this gentle little pony. I got him all warmed up for you.” The horse was panting, its nostrils flaring.
“Knock it off, Luke. He’s never been on a horse.”
Luke smiled that mean smile. “There’s a first time for everything. Right, Saint Patrick? You said you wanted to live the Amish life. That includes knowing all about horses.”
“Then go get a gentled horse,” Ruthie said. “Racehorses are trained to run. This one’s barely rideable.”
Patrick spoke for the first time, his voice tight. He spoke in English, not Penn Dutch as Luke and Ruthie had been doing. “Thank you, Ruthie, but I can answer for myself.” He drew himself up tall. “Perhaps another time.” He turned and walked to the cottage.
To his back, Luke shouted, “Farichbutz!” Coward.
Patrick swiveled and strode back to Luke. “Socrates was once asked, ‘What is courage?’ He responded by saying that there were times when the courageous thing to do was not to persevere but to retreat or even flee.” He lifted his palms in the air. “Thus, I am retreating.”
“Then you, my friend, have a thing or two to learn from the Greeks,” Luke said, arrogance in his voice. “Alexander the Great would have never retreated.”
Patrick didn’t offer up a retort, though Ruthie could see the forceful jut of his chin. He simply turned and went to the cottage.
When the door to the cottage shut, Luke turned to Ruthie with a smirk. “Imagine that. Quoting Socrates to justify cowardice.”
“Imagine who you’ve become,” Ruthie said, furious. “Justifying fun at the expense of another.”
David was surprised to see Ruthie standing at the door to his storeroom at the Bent N’ Dent. She had spent a few hours helping Dok unpack her office and said she’d come by at closing time to hitch a ride home. Was it five o’clock already? He glanced at the wall clock. It was!
“Come in,” he urged.
Ruthie closed the door behind her. “Dad, who was Socrates?”
He put down his pen. “Socrates was a wise Greek man. It’s thought that he’s responsible for shaping Western philosophy.”
“When did he live?”
David rubbed his forehead. “I think . . . somewhere around 400 to 300 BC.” He wondered what had triggered her curiosity about Socrates. “Are you asking for any special reason?”
“Patrick said something about Socrates and courage. That sometimes the courageous thing is to know when to retreat.”
David nodded. “That’s in reference to the Laches, a dialogue written by Plato, another Greek philosopher. Two generals had gone to Plato to resolve a question about what true courage is. Socrates kept questioning them to find the faults in their thinking. That’s what Socrates did best—questioning and questioning, so the seeker came to his own discoveries. Truth discovered is better than truth told.”
“So how does the story end?”
“The generals go back and forth, examining all sides of courage, but they are stumped. It allows the reader to come to a conclusion. Courage is strength in the face of knowledge.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think it means that true courage is acting on the truth we find.” He could see Ruthie was taking it all in, and he wondered why Patrick Kelly had sparked this particular conversation. But then, he was finding that Patrick Kelly’s presence was sparking quite a few unexpected conversations this summer.
17
David waited quietly outside the Wild Bird Rescue Center. Twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, Birdy led a bird-watching class at the center for children. He heard the town bell ring eleven times and knew that she would be finishing up soon.
A stampede of children burst out of the Wild Bird Rescue Center door, escaping into the bright sunshine, which forced David to jump to one side to avoid being trampled. No one paid any attention to him until Birdy came through the door, carrying a large bundle of books that shifted suddenly in her arms and sent her through the doorway at such an extreme angle that David had to put his arms up in order to stop a collision.
“Oh
hello,” Birdy said, obviously surprised to see him. She struggled to rebalance the tower of books in her arms. “What a lovely surprise!”
David reached out and grabbed half the stack. “I had to get a few things taken care of at the post office and thought I’d grab a ride back to the store with you, if you don’t mind.”
Birdy’s kind face lit up. “I don’t mind at all.” Her whole face soared upward when she smiled. “In fact, I’d be delighted.”
He smiled back. “Why in the world did you take so many books?”
“I wanted the children to identify different species.”
David set the books into the back of the buggy as Birdy climbed in the passenger side. “So, what’s troubling you?”
He looked at her sideways as he picked up the reins and snapped them to get Thistle started. “How can you tell?”
She nudged him. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”
He hadn’t. “I’m sorry if I kept you awake.”
She waved a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about me. I can sleep through anything.”
That was the truth. Birdy was a champion sleeper. “I just keep getting the feeling that something isn’t quite right in the church. I spoke to Eli about the tithing and he said it was a larger amount than usual. Everything looks all right on the outside . . . but something doesn’t feel right on the inside.”
“Like a polished cup.”
He glanced at her with a question in his eyes.
“Jesus said the Pharisees were like a polished cup. Shiny on the outside and empty on the inside.”
“Oh, let’s hope not.”
“If tithing is larger than usual, what makes you think there’s something to be concerned about?”
He shrugged. “Just a strange, bothersome feeling I have that I can’t shake.”
“Well, I think you should listen to it. You have a sense about things that always turns out to be spot-on.” She looked out the window. “I think you might be right too. Not sure if you heard, but the old sisters’ Second Chance Soup Kitchen might be closing its doors.”
“Lack of donations?”
“No. It’s got nothing to do with a lack of money. It has to do with a lack of volunteers.”
There it was again. That disturbing sensation. Something felt awry. Off-center.
“I wonder if it might be wise to do an audit.” There. He said it aloud. It was customary to have the church appoint trustees to do a financial audit of each household in the community every three to five years. It had been over three years since the last audit. It wasn’t a popular thing to do—everyone in the church had to provide their financial status, including an accounting of their assets, but it was informative and helpful as the church made decisions.
Birdy remained silent.
“The school board wants to add a new schoolhouse. That alone would be the reason for an audit.” The audit would help the trustees decide how much each household would be required to provide to pay the schoolteacher’s salary. The information from the audit would allow the adjustment of each family’s ability to pay. It wasn’t meant to be a burden. He looked at his wife. “Go ahead. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I think it won’t be a very popular idea, yet it might give you the answer you’re looking for.”
But what answer, David worried, was that?
David spoke to his ministers and deacons, and after the service on Sunday, there was a meeting for the church to choose trustees, a team of honorable men. Amos Lapp led the team, which gave David great peace. Amos had wonderful judgment and would lead the team to ask the right questions and nothing more—they weren’t coming around to pry and coerce. Over the next few days, the team carefully and respectfully made their way around to each of the church members’ homes in Stoney Ridge.
After the audit, David met with Amos in the kitchen at Windmill Farm and learned some surprising facts. The people of Stoney Ridge had grown rich. A few households brought in well over two hundred thousand dollars per year. But the entire church was less generous than it was a few years ago, when the average household income was fifty thousand dollars. Amos pointed out the figures to prove that the actual percentage of giving was lower. “The average household is giving only 6 percent,” Amos said. “And the ones who have the most money, they’re giving 4 percent.”
David was astounded.
“Folks have more money, but they aren’t giving in proportion to their income.”
“Not like they used to?”
“Not like they used to.”
Three years ago, the church had given substantially more to the Amish Aid Society than they did this last spring, when they held communion and collected the monetary gifts. Three years ago! A time when the church had so little to give . . . they actually gave more.
How could that be? How could they have more and give less? “Did you ask them why? Was anyone forthcoming?”
“I did. I asked them outright. Mostly, it came down to fear. They said they were afraid to give more.”
“Afraid? How could they justify feeling afraid?”
“Afraid they might need it, mostly. A number of them have gotten themselves into precarious situations. They bought land for their children, but they did it with steep mortgages. A few others had taken out bank loans to expand their businesses. They’re concerned about rising interest rates.”
It was a disturbing discovery. They were . . . hoarding.
And it wasn’t just hoarding money. It was a lack of giving with time, as well. He was still stunned by Birdy’s news that the Second Chance Soup Kitchen might close due to lack of volunteers, not a lack of money.
These attitudes—they felt like red flags to David, warnings of things to be concerned about. They didn’t reflect the heart of Christ. The church, he feared, had transferred trust from the Giver to the gifts.
As David drove home from Windmill Farm, he thought of an assumption Patrick Kelly had about the Amish. He felt the Amish worked hard to safeguard the things that were beautiful and true in the world.
So how does a bishop safeguard attitudes? He looked through the buggy’s storm front to the blue sky above, lifting a prayer. How can I keep abundance and plenty from turning our hearts away from you, Lord? How can I keep our community whole and healthy . . . and generous in their abundance?
Jenny Yoder was here at the Leola auction! Jesse could not have been more surprised if he’d bumped into her at some exotic location—at a museum in New York City, or while visiting his aunt in Pinecraft, Florida. Of all the people he could have happened upon at this auction, why in the world did it have to be her?
Perhaps Jenny was following him.
As they approached, she feigned to be startled by the sight of him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, the very picture of innocence.
Schauderhafdich. Jesse was shocked silent. Were Jenny Yoder’s eyes always that shade of blue? Nearly violet. Those eyes of hers, were they always such a striking contrast to her creamy skin? And when did her skin get so milky? It reminded him of Fern’s peaches and cream, served up this very breakfast. The black bonnet framed her face and softened her angular features. He felt a strange interior paradigm shift: as if seeing Jenny Yoder with new eyes. It seemed to him that she had developed curves in all the right places, seemingly overnight. She certainly didn’t have that shape a week ago. Not even this morning!
He felt struck to the marrow, as vividly as if an arrow had pierced his heart. His mind went completely, utterly blank. It was as if the two hundred other people at the auction ceased to exist.
“Jesse, did you hear me? I asked what you’re doing here.”
Jenny searched his face for some clue to his thinking. But he had no thinking to speak of.
Fern suddenly appeared at his elbow, frowning at him. She took the large flowerpot of red geraniums out of Jenny’s arms and handed it to Jesse. “Where are your manners?”
Where indeed? He had no idea. He hadn’t even noticed the bright re
d geraniums in Jenny’s arms. “They come and they go,” he said, and then he laughed. His laugh, even to his own ears, sounded nervous, too loud.
“Mostly, they seem to go missing,” Fern said. “No wonder the apprentices have such appalling behavior. My work is not yet done.”
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat, thoroughly uncomfortable. He blamed the Jenny Yoder Effect.
Ruthie took off her prayer cap and set it on her bedside table, pulling the pins out of her hair and letting it flow down her back. She scratched her scalp, closing her eyes and enjoying the moment of quiet. Her family was sound asleep. She should have been in bed hours ago, but she started reading a book and couldn’t stop. By the time she came to the last page, the grandfather clock downstairs struck 2:00 a.m.
Just at that moment, she heard a frightening sound outside her open window, a moaning and gasping. She ran to the window to look at the sky, expecting to see a flash of lightning or to hear a roll of thunder. Lately, one summer storm ran into the next.
But the sky was still, dark, clear, lit with bright stars.
Then she noticed a shadowy figure trying to hoist himself up on the porch roof by shimmying up the gutter. She slammed the window shut and the intruder looked up in surprise.
Luke Schrock. Of course.
She expelled a little breath and lifted the window. “Luke. What are you doing? You’ll break your neck. Or the gutter.”
Luke craned his neck to look up at her. “Ruthie! Ruthie, come on down and let me in! I wanna talk to you.”
Ruthie flew down the stairs before he woke Molly with his clatter.
She held open the door as he stumbled onto the porch. Luke was clearly drunk, so drunk that just standing still was problematic. “You told me you were going to stop drinking! You promised.”
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