When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Adrianna, her eyes wide, leaped onto the porch and grabbed her mother’s hand. “Bekah says come quick!” She dragged Amy toward the barn.

  7

  Tim pounded the U-shaped staple into place over the string of barbed wire, then gave the wire a tug. It released a subtle ting but vibrated for less than ten seconds. Good and tight. He glanced down the fence line, wishing he had the funds to put up galvanized mesh fencing at least three feet higher than the current five-foot-tall post-and-barbed-wire fence. No deer could clear a fence like that. But the more protective fence was another expense beyond his reach at the moment. Maybe after this year’s crop?

  He slipped the hammer into the loop of his work jeans, then snagged the water bottle he’d dropped in the grass at his feet. The water had turned tepid, but the moisture felt good draining down his parched throat. He glugged the bottle dry, then crumpled the plastic, flattening it as best he could before jamming it in his back pocket to throw in the recycle bin at home. Patting the box of staples in his shirt pocket, he turned his attention to the next post.

  “Hi, Mr. Roper.”

  Tim nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find the neighbor’s boy, Parker, standing less than ten feet away. Why hadn’t he heard the kid approach? Feet on dry grass weren’t exactly quiet. But somehow Parker had managed to sneak up on him. The situation left him unsettled. “What’re you doing here? Didn’t your mom promise to keep you home?”

  The boy cringed, hunching his shoulders. “Mom said to stay on our land.” He rocked his head back and forth, reminding Tim of a clock’s pendulum. The boy’s lips twisted into a grimace. “I’m not . . .” He straightened, throwing back his skinny shoulders. “Traipse-passing.”

  Tim had to bite down quick on his tongue to keep from laughing. The boy was obviously proud of his big word, but he had no idea he’d gotten it wrong. Besides, he was definitely traipse-passing—traipsing right along Tim’s fence line.

  Parker pointed, one shoulder hunching again as he squinted into the sun. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Fixing my fence to keep pests out.” Tim presented his back to the boy. Parker’s mannerisms—the self-conscious shrugs, word confusion, and questions—reminded him too much of another boy. Thinking of Charlie always brought pain. Tim walked the line, checking each post to be certain the barbed wire was securely fastened. Trying to refocus.

  The rustle of Parker’s shuffling footsteps followed. “Pests . . . like bugs? Mom calls flies and spiders pests.”

  Tim located a loose staple low on a post. He pulled his hammer free, stooped down, and aimed its head at the post. “Stop and think for a minute, Parker. Would a fence like this keep out bugs?” Bang! Bang! Bang! He glanced over his shoulder. Parker was crouched down, imitating his pose. He jerked upright and moved on. To Tim’s chagrin, Parker trudged along behind him, faithful as a puppy dog.

  “I guess not. Bugs could fly straight through the wire.”

  “Now you’re thinking straight.” Tim heard the undercurrent of ridicule in his tone, and he shook his head hard. He had no cause to be mean just because the boy brought up memories Tim would rather keep buried. He turned, intending to apologize, and caught Parker extending his finger toward a pokey barb. “Don’t do that!”

  The boy jerked. He clutched his hands together and stared at Tim. “I . . . I wasn’t gonna hurt it. I just wanted to see if it’s sharp.”

  Tim stomped to Parker’s side, his hands curled into fists. If Parker broke his skin on the barb, he might need a tetanus shot. “Let me save you the trouble of testing it. Those barbs are very sharp.”

  Tears swam in Parker’s eyes. Tim gritted his teeth, more affected by the boy’s reaction than he cared to admit. But he remained stern. “Barbed-wire fence is dangerous. You need to stay away from it. Promise me you won’t try to climb on it or put your hands on the barbs.”

  The boy blinked several times, biting down on his lower lip. Finally he nodded. “I promise, Mr. Roper.”

  Tim blew out a breath of relief. “Good boy.”

  A lopsided smile replaced the boy’s crestfallen expression. Tim’s heart gave a leap at the transformation. Automatically, a smile tugged at his own lips. Then he whirled, once again turning his back on Parker. What was he doing, making friends with this Mennonite kid? No good could come of it. He clomped in the direction of his truck, which he’d left parked alongside the road. “You better get on home now. Your mom’s probably wondering where you are.”

  As if on cue, the cry came from a distance: “Par-r-r-r-ker-r-r-r? Where are you, Parker?”

  Both Tim and Parker turned toward the sound. Tim offered a grim bob of his head. “See there? Told’ja.”

  Parker repeated his turtle routine, the lower half of his face nearly swallowed by his hunched shoulders. “I’m in trouble, huh?”

  “Could be.”

  The boy aimed an innocent look at Tim. “But I didn’t climb your trees or go on your land. Right?”

  Tim stifled a chuckle at Parker’s reasoning. Wasn’t it just like a kid to try to turn things around to his own favor? He decided it was best not to answer. Instead, he cupped his hands beside his mouth and hollered, “Mrs. Knackstedt! It’s me, Tim Roper. I’ve got Parker.”

  Moments later Mrs. Knackstedt’s capped head appeared above the gentle rise of weed-spattered ground. Her worried face pinched Tim’s conscience. He should’ve sent Parker straight back the minute he’d discovered the boy following him. Parker stayed rooted in place until his mother reached his side. Tim expected her to wrap the boy in a hug, the way she had the last time he’d wandered, but she grabbed his arm and shook it.

  “Parker Gabriel Knackstedt, I am not happy with you at all. What are you doing out here, bothering Mr. Roper again?”

  Parker ducked his head, and Tim surprised himself by coming to the boy’s defense. “I imagine he heard the hammer banging—I’ve been working on my fence—and he got curious.”

  Parker nodded so hard Tim was surprised his head didn’t come loose. “I thought somebody was building something, like Dad used to do. I wanted to see what he was building. In case I could . . . help.”

  Tim gave an involuntary jerk at the boy’s words. Didn’t every boy need a man to show him things? Before his relationship with his dad had gone sour, he’d trailed his father, watching, imitating, learning. So much of what he knew about fence building and mechanics—even though he’d grown to resent the brusque way Dad taught him—he’d learned from his father. They were lessons he’d used again and again. Of course Parker would seek out a man’s teachings. It was only natural.

  The woman kept her frown pinned to her son. “That’s not an excuse. I gave you permission to play in the barn. I did not give you permission to go across the pasture to Mr. Roper’s place.”

  “I didn’t climb his trees,” Parker whispered. “I didn’t go on his land.”

  Mrs. Knackstedt closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering her patience. Tim understood. How many times had he failed in communicating something important to Charlie? As hard as he tried, sometimes Charlie just couldn’t grasp what Tim wanted him to know.

  He stepped forward and curled his hand over Parker’s shoulder. “Listen, Parker.” He waited until the boy turned his woeful face upward. “Wandering around out here by yourself isn’t a good idea. There are all kinds of things that can happen to a boy. You could step in a prairie dog hole and hurt your ankle. You might surprise a snake.” The boy’s eyes flew wide. So did his mother’s. Tim swallowed a chortle and went on. “As hot as it gets, the sun can make you dizzy and sick. So your mom is smart to want to keep you close to home. Remember you promised me not to touch the barbed-wire fence?”

  Parker nodded slowly, his eyes glued to Tim’s. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I want you to make me another promise. That you’ll never, never go farther from your house than your mom’s voice can carry. If you stay within what we call around here ‘shouting distance,’ you’ll be safe. Okay?”

>   For long seconds Parker stared into Tim’s face, his dark eyes unblinking. Then his head bobbed in another slow-motion nod. “Okay.”

  “Good.” He looked at Mrs. Knackstedt. Gratitude shone in her blue eyes. He turned quickly away. “I’ve got chores waiting—” He intended to say he needed to get back to his house. But other words tumbled from his lips. “But let me drive you to your place. Looks like you’re just about worn out from traipsing around out here in the sun.”

  She pursed her lips, and for a moment, Tim thought she would refuse. He held his breath, his emotions seesawing back and forth on whether he wanted her to accept his help or not. At last she offered a weary smile. “Thank you very much for your kindness, Mr. Roper. I believe we would appreciate a ride.”

  The two of them followed Tim to his truck and climbed in, Parker in the middle straddling the gear shift. They didn’t speak on the short ride, which suited Tim fine. He couldn’t figure out why he’d offered the ride in the first place. The sooner he could let them out and get back to his own business the better. He pulled up close to the house and put the truck in park. “There you go.”

  Without warning, Parker threw his arms around Tim’s neck in a stranglehold of a hug. “Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Roper. You’re a nice man. I like you.”

  Tim’s heart thumpity-thumped in his chest. He sucked air, not because Parker’s arms were so tight, but because the boy’s spontaneous action was so much like Charlie’s. Tim wanted to grab the boy and hold on forever just to relive the feel of his precious son in his arms. But it wasn’t fair to use Parker that way.

  Very gently, Tim disengaged Parker’s gangly arms. “You’re welcome. I like you, too.” His dry throat made his words come out growly. “You . . . you listen to your mom, now, okay? Keep yourself safe.” Real regret filled his chest as he gave Parker the directive. If the boy stayed safe on his own land, Tim wouldn’t see much of him.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Roper.” Mrs. Knackstedt leaned past Parker, her hand on her son’s knee. “Parker has made you some promises, and I intend to see he keeps them. We’ll do our best not to bother you anymore.” She popped open the door and slid out. Parker clambered after her. She pushed the door closed, then slung her arm around Parker’s shoulders and guided him toward the house.

  Tim backed out of the driveway at a snail’s crawl. He blinked several times, trying to erase the image of Mrs. Knackstedt walking with her arm tucked protectively around her son’s shoulders. But it remained imbedded in his mind’s eye, and it brought a wave of memories of his own boyhood, his mother, her unconditional love. So different from Dad’s, which demanded immediate, unquestioning obedience. For the first time in more years than he could recall, Tim experienced a longing to see his own mother. But seeing her would mean seeing Dad. And the day he’d packed his bag, Dad had growled, “If you walk down that road, remember it doesn’t go both ways. You won’t be welcome here ever again.”

  No, no matter how much he might like to see Mom, Tim couldn’t go home again. He had a new kind of home—his trees, his apples, his business that filled his every waking hour. As long as the Mennonite woman honored her promise and kept her distance, he’d be safe from the memories that swelled at each encounter with her or her son.

  Bekah held the chair steady while Mom stood on the vinyl-covered seat and clipped the final curtain rod into place. The rod secure, Mom gave the snowy white curtains a few deft flicks with her fingertips to even out the gathers, then stepped off the chair. Her gaze whisked around the room, a smile tipping up her lips. “Curtains make such a difference.”

  Bekah raised her eyebrows. It would take more than curtains to brighten this dreary old farmhouse. Their house in Arborville had been old, too, but soft white paint on the walls and honey-colored stained woodwork had given it a comfortable appearance. This house’s chipped, blue-painted woodwork and faded wallcoverings just made it seem tired and run-down. But Mom wouldn’t want to hear her thoughts.

  Wordlessly, Bekah lifted the chair and carried it to the kitchen. She sensed Mom following her, but she slid the chair into place at the square table that filled the center of the room without glancing back to see. The moment she released the chair, hands descended on her shoulders and turned her around.

  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?”

  8

  Amy 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 trace
d 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.”