When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  34

  Two weeks after Tim’s hour-long phone conversation with his father—a conversation that had to be ended before either was ready due to the cows’ pitiful bawling in the background—a black sedan pulled into the lane and parked in the area Tim had cleared for customers. Caught up in telling a group of visiting homeschooled youngsters about the importance of pollination, he barely glanced at the vehicle. But when an older couple in Mennonite garb stepped from the car, Tim’s recital came to an abrupt halt.

  He stared as the man caught the woman’s hand and led her across the ground toward Tim. Both pairs of eyes seemed fixed on his face. Even from the distance of forty feet, Tim could see their lips quivering, caught between smiles and tears. Their feet—his in sturdy work boots, hers in black-laced oxfords—moved slowly, stiltedly, determined yet hesitant.

  Puzzled mutters reached Tim’s ears, his guests no doubt wondering why their lecturer had lost the ability to speak. With effort, Tim tore his gaze away from the approaching couple to offer a quick, “Excuse me.”

  He pried his stiff legs from their wide-set stance and took two stumbling steps toward the couple. Then, eagerness chasing away anxiety, he broke into a run, his chest full and aching. Their faces were older, the hair peeping beneath black flat-brimmed hat and white mesh cap streaked with gray, but as Tim ran toward them the years peeled back and, in their eyes, Tim saw the parents he remembered. “Mom! Dad!” Arms wide, he flew to them, feeling the weight of separation fall from his shoulders until it seemed his feet hovered inches above the ground.

  They stopped in a patch of dappled sunlight and opened their arms to him. He fell into their embrace, burying his face in the crevice formed by their tightly pressed shoulders. Beneath his encircling arm, Mom’s shoulders shook. Dad’s hand gripped handfuls of Tim’s shirt, his fingers convulsing. Tim clung in return, laughing while he battled tears. Disbelief and joy mingled in his chest. They’d come!

  Pulling free, he looked into his father’s square-jawed, thick-browed face. “What about the cows? Who’s minding the dairy?”

  “Ach, cows.” Dad flicked his hand, the thick leathery palm familiar but the thick veins and age-splotched back belonging to a stranger. “Your brother and his sons took over for the week. How could your mother and me stay away? A telephone call doesn’t tell us what we need to see after so many years of daily prayer that the Good Lord would return you to us—our oldest boy in flesh and bone.” Tears flooded Dad’s eyes, and a sob broke from Mom’s throat. Mom leaned into Tim’s chest, her mesh cap brushing his chin while Dad curled his hand around Tim’s upper arm. “You look good, Tim. You look so good.” Dad’s voice was gruff from emotion.

  During his teen years, Tim had often inwardly grumbled that the cows meant more than anything to Dad, but Dad had left the dairy and driven nearly seven hundred miles to see him. He mattered to his father. He truly mattered. And even though he wore faded Levi’s and a snap-up western shirt instead of Mennonite-approved attire, Dad thought he looked good. The years had mellowed his father. An unfamiliar prayer, borne of gratitude, formed in the center of Tim’s heart. Thank You, Father.

  He wanted to stay there, memorizing his parents’ changed faces and catching up on the lost years, but duty called. The cows were in capable hands, but no one else could finish the planned tour for the students and parents waiting near the barn. Regret twisted Tim’s lips into a grimace, but there was no other choice.

  He gestured behind him. “I was just starting with a tour group. I wish I could take the afternoon off and talk, but—”

  His father shook his head, waving both hands. “No, no, we took you by surprise, just showing up like this. You have work. We can go back to the hotel and come see you later. When your workday is over.”

  “Or . . .” Did he dare make the suggestion? Part of the reason Tim had left home was feeling as though he could never meet his father’s high expectations. Would Dad find reason for criticism if Tim invited him fully into his world? He licked his dry lips and finished the suggestion. “You could follow the tour. See what . . . what I do now.”

  Mom bobbed her head, the ribbons on her cap bouncing. “I would like that.”

  Dad smiled. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  Tim escorted his parents to the group, introduced them, and then released a nervous chuckle. “All right, then. Let’s go.” Not until he’d pointed the visitors toward the path between the trees did he realize he’d exactly mimicked his father’s comment. And, oddly, after all the years of trying to be completely different from his father, the realization made him smile.

  The tour went well, in Tim’s opinion. Although his parents followed well behind, never contributing, he caught their interested, approving glances, and he might have been ten years old again, highly marked school report in hand, receiving their praise for a job well done. Each of the homeschool kids went home with a small box of apples and a sunburned nose, and the parents thanked Tim for his time. The last car turned out of the drive, and Tim found himself alone with his parents.

  They stood in a silent circle, examining their own feet or the clouds or the trees. What should they do now? With younger siblings always around in his childhood home, he couldn’t recall ever having his parents’ full, undivided attention to himself. Here he was, thirty-eight years old and uncertain how to proceed. Talking on the phone had been easier—less intimidating, since if things went awry, he could simply hang up. But face-to-face? What if anger surfaced again? If only Julia were here. She’d know how to bridge this awkward silence.

  Tim jolted, awareness dawning. “Would you like to come to the house? I have . . . I have something I’d like to show you.” His parents fell in step beside him, Mom centered between Tim and his dad. Tim swallowed the bitter taste of worry that sat in the back of his throat. They might not approve of his having used a camera over the years, capturing images of God’s creation in a man-made manner, but Tim was willing to risk their censure to let them see his wife and son.

  Thank You, Lord, that Bekah didn’t dispose of those photographs.

  Bekah stood next to the automatic quilting machine, nibbling her nails. Amy chuckled as she rolled the layers of backing, batting, and completed quilt face into the frame. “You don’t need to look so worried. I’ve done this before, you know.”

  Bekah zipped her hand from her mouth, tangling her fingers in her apron skirt. “I know. But this is my quilt. What if some of my stitching comes undone or something?” Her gaze roved across the blocks bearing the Tree of Life pattern. “I wish all the points were perfect. Sometimes they didn’t line up just right.”

  Amy paused in her task to tickle Bekah’s chin with one of the ribbons dangling from her cap. “Honey, the quilt is beautiful. Ti—Mr. Roper is going to be so appreciative.”

  “I hope so . . .”

  Hiding a smile, Amy turned back to the frame. “Why don’t you go get the supper dishes washed and put away? I’ll get started here, and by the time you’re done I’ll probably have one row quilted. You’ll see how nice it looks with the stitching.”

  Bekah sighed. “All right.” She scuffed toward the kitchen, peering back over her shoulder with a look of longing.

  Amy laughed quietly and completed rolling the quilt. Although not all of the triangles were perfectly on point, Bekah had done a commendable job putting together the squares. Even well-practiced quilters sometimes missed crisp points. The overlapped edges reminded Amy of the way leaves clustered, one hiding behind another, and seemed to fit the quilt’s theme. She felt certain once Bekah saw the quilt all stitched, she would be satisfied with her handiwork.

  With the layers in place, Amy programmed the machine. Bekah had chosen a stitch pattern called Indian Summer, which incorporated the shape of maple leaves with swirls, as if the leaves were blowing in the wind. Although Amy had never used the pattern before, she was certain it would prove to be the perfect choice for the Tree of Life quilt. Pride filled her as she considered Bekah’s natural a
rtistic abilities. She’d be an expert quilter one day.

  She flipped the switch, and the long-arm machine roared to life. Amy carefully guided the frame beneath the needle, watching the pattern emerge. As always, satisfaction welled as she completed a project. How she’d miss this machine if she were forced to sell it.

  The verse Bekah had chosen to stitch into the center of the quilt repeatedly played through Amy’s mind, serving as a reminder that God would bring new growth to them, no matter where they might have to move. Two nights ago, she’d placed her future—and her children’s futures—into God’s capable hands and decided to stop worrying. As her father often encouraged her, she would trust God to meet their needs whether they were able to keep this house or not. Surrendering the worries brought the peace she’d been seeking.

  She smiled to herself as the needle bounced, the thread forming a leaf. How good to have peace, fresh and green and alive, unfurl in her heart. She reached the end of the first row, stopped the machine, and rolled the quilt upward to expose the next row of blocks. As she reached to flip the On switch again, the sound of feet tromping across the porch boards sounded, followed by a firm rap on the doorjamb.

  Parker and Adrianna dashed through the sewing room, a dishtowel flapping in Adrianna’s hand. Both children exclaimed, “I’ll get it. No, I’ll get it!”

  Amy stepped between the arguing pair. “I will get it.” She stilled their complaints with a frown, then shooed them back to the kitchen. She looked through the screen door and gave a start when she saw Tim Roper and an older Mennonite couple looking in at her. She gave the door a push, offering a hesitant smile. “Good evening.”

  Tim popped his billed cap from his head at the same time the gray-haired man removed his black church hat. Tim ushered in the woman first. She gave Amy a bashful smile. The men stepped inside next, and Amy let the door bounce into its frame. Tim met her gaze, seeming embarrassed yet glowing with a happiness she’d never witnessed in his green eyes before. “Forgive us for dropping in unannounced, but—” He swallowed, his gaze flitting to the couple. “This is Timothy and Marianne Rupp.”

  Amy held out her hand to the man, who shook it somberly. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Rupp,” she said. She shifted to bestow a smile on the woman. “Mrs. Rupp.”

  Tim cleared his throat, twisting his hat in his hands. “My parents came for a visit, and when I told them about you and your children, they wanted to meet you.”

  His parents? Amy blinked in surprise. She’d known Tim had been raised Mennonite, but she’d surmised his parents were deceased. Seeing them very much alive, standing side by side with curious, friendly expressions on their gently lined faces stole her ability to speak.

  Fortunately, Adrianna bounced around the corner and rescued her mother. “Hello, Mr. Roper. Hello, people I don’t know. I’m Adrianna Amelia Knackstedt, and I’m five. I go to kindergarten, and I can already read. Want me to read you something?”

  Light laughter rolled from the adults. Tim’s father propped his hands on his knees, bringing himself to eye level with Adrianna. “What is your favorite thing to read?”

  “My cat book!” Adrianna’s eyes danced. “You wait here. I’ll go get it.” She dashed off, her giggle trailing her.

  Tim’s parents exchanged an indulgent look, and then Mrs. Rupp turned to Amy. “Just as Tim said, she’s a delightful little girl.”

  Amy sent Tim a soft smile. “Thank you. She thinks very highly of your son, as do all of my children.” She released a self-conscious laugh, gesturing to the furniture. “Please—sit down and make yourselves comfortable. May I bring you something to drink? Coffee or lemonade?”

  “No, thank you.” Mr. Rupp guided his wife toward the sofa. “We just finished our supper at Tim’s place.”

  Tim and his parents sat in a row on Amy’s sofa. The two men hooked their hats over one knee and cupped a hand over the top. Even though they were dressed differently, with different kinds of headwear, their actions were so identical Amy had a hard time not staring. She sank into one of the two chairs facing the sofa.

  Mrs. Rupp crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. “We were so happy to learn Tim has Mennonite neighbors. Timothy”—she shifted one hand to her husband’s knee, and he automatically placed his hand over hers, stirring a longing in Amy’s breast for a man to respond to her in a similar way—“and I have prayed over the years that our son would make friends with people of his faith. He says you haven’t lived here for long, but he considers you and your children his friends.”

  Amy felt as though she was missing a huge piece of a puzzle, but she nodded in reply. “He’s been a very good friend to us. We couldn’t have asked for a better neighbor.”

  At that moment, Adrianna skipped into the room with a storybook in her hands. She went directly to Tim and scooted backward, situating herself between his knees. She grinned into Mr. Rupp’s face. “Okay, I’m ready.” She flopped the book open and began to read about a furry cat named Cindy. While she read, Parker and Bekah inched into the room, obviously wanting to be part of the circle but uncertain whether they should intrude.

  Mrs. Rupp’s sweet smile of welcome propelled Parker across the floor, and he perched on the arm of the sofa. Bekah slipped into the remaining chair and sat erect, hands in her lap, as ladylike as Amy had ever seen her. Everyone listened as Adrianna read each word in the book, accepting Mr. Rupp’s soft corrections when she stumbled.

  When Adrianna reached the end of the story, she slapped the book closed and turned a serious look on Tim. “In my class at school, there’s a girl named Trista, and her cat had kittens last week. She says if I want, I can pick one. I want a girl one, and I’ll name it Cindy, and I’ll take very good care of it. But Momma has to say yes first. I won’t bring one home unless Momma says yes.” She shifted to Amy, her face imploring. “Pleeeeease, Momma?”

  The trio on the sofa laughed, and Tim gave her a little nudge away from his lap. “You’re pretty smart, asking permission now. How can your mom say no in front of all of us?”

  Adrianna hunched her shoulders. “I dunno. With her mouth, I guess.” She wrinkled her nose. “It says no pretty good.”

  Laughter roared, and Tim caught Adrianna in a hug. He set her aside, still chuckling, and she scurried across the floor to climb into Amy’s lap.

  Mrs. Rupp smiled at Parker. “You must be Parker, and your sister over there is Bekah. Am I right?”

  Parker nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tim’s parents exchanged an approving look. Mrs. Rupp turned back to Parker. “My son tells me you worked very hard for him in his orchard.”

  Again, Parker nodded. He kept his arms tight at his side, a sign of nervousness, but he spoke clearly. “I helped outside, and Bekah helped inside, but not anymore. He quit needing us.” Hurt colored Parker’s tone, and Tim lowered his head. Parker went on. “But he’s still our friend. You don’t quit being friends just because you don’t see each other. If you can’t see people with your eyes, you can still hold them with your heart.” His movements jerky, Parker shifted to look at Amy. “That’s what Mom said when our dad died.”

  Tears glittered in the older woman’s eyes. She nodded slowly, her gaze pinned on Parker’s sober face. “You have a very wise mother, Parker.”

  Mr. Rupp cleared his throat. “And I understand you have your own business, is this right, Mrs. Knackstedt?”

  “Yes. A quilting business.”

  “She has quite a machine, Mom.” Tim unfolded himself from the sofa cushion. “Called a long-arm machine. Mrs. Knackstedt, would you mind if I showed it to my mother?”

  With Adrianna on her lap, Amy couldn’t get up quickly. Bekah bounced up but stood silently, her eyes wide and uncertain. Before she could stop him, Tim slipped his hand through his mother’s elbow and aimed her toward the sewing room.

  35

  Tim stared at the quilt caught in the machine’s frame. Although only a small portion of it showed, something about the bright patches
seemed familiar. He tipped his head, searching his memory, and then he gasped. His finger reached, brushing across a soft lilac patch while remembering how lovely Julia had looked in the flowing blouse. He shifted his attention to a gray-and-white-striped triangle, and an image of Charlie in his favorite overalls filled his mind. The lines blurred together as tears flooded his eyes. He blinked rapidly and turned away from the quilt, his gaze falling on Bekah, who stood in the doorway, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  The girl inched forward. “M-Mr. Roper, I know you told me to empty the closet, but I kept the clothes instead. And I . . .” She gestured to the quilt, her dark eyes begging him for understanding. “Are you mad?”

  Anger was the farthest emotion from Tim’s mind. He snaked out one hand, caught Bekah’s shoulder, and drew her into his embrace. He held tight, his eyes skipping across the triangles cut from clothes his wife and son had once worn. When Amy had mentioned her business, he hadn’t understood why someone would request such a quilt. But looking at the patches—each one releasing a specific memory of either Julie or Charlie—he understood. What a gift Bekah had given him.

  He gave her another squeeze and then chucked her under the chin. “Thanks, kiddo. This is . . .” He shook his head, releasing a soft chuckle. “This is amazing.” Putting his arm around his mother’s shoulders, he gestured his father near and then pointed out a few triangles. They listened intently as he shared how much Charlie had loved wearing overalls, and how cute he’d looked in the little sailor suit he wore to Sunday school, and how ladylike Julia always appeared.

  After years of trying to forget, what joy he found in remembering. He caught Amy’s eye, and the tears winking in her very blue eyes brought an answering prick of tears in his own eyes. “Remembrance . . . it’s a fine idea.”