by Naomi King
Does he think God’s going to rain money on us? After years of scraping by following Atlee’s death—and months of lying awake, wondering how they would pay their bills before that—Amanda hoped her generous new husband hadn’t overextended himself in his excitement over leaving Clearwater.
Have faith, Amanda.
She let Wyman’s earlier words soothe her as she went inside again. When Jemima sent her a questioning look from across the kitchen, where the kids were snatching fresh cookies from a plate, Amanda shrugged. She feigned innocence when they all pelted her with questions, too. “It’s a mystery,” she hedged. “Sometimes we must wait for all the reasons to be revealed, jah?”
“What’s a mystery, Mamma?” Cora asked.
Dora sucked in her breath, excitement all over her face. “I know! Is a mystery like when we heard Eddie talking on the phone in the barn yesterday, like, to a girl?”
“And when we asked who it was,” her twin continued, “he told us to leave—”
“Because it was none of our beeswax?” Dora finished with a giggle.
Eddie let out an exasperated sigh, grabbing another cookie. “I wasn’t talking to a—”
“Oh, jah, you were! The twins are callin’ it like they saw it,” Pete countered mercilessly. “It was that blonde we met at church, ain’t so? Fannie Lehman, the preacher’s daughter.”
“Fannie?” Simon piped up. “Isn’t that another name for your backside?”
Amanda bit back a laugh, pleased that Eddie was already making new friends. It was a joy to watch her kids and Wyman’s taking up for one another, having their fun even as they were undergoing such major changes. She slipped away as their animated discussion continued, to the little room where she’d previously made her ceramics.
Jerome was clearing away the boxes and crating. He had placed the wheel beside the windows, where she’d kept her old one, and he’d already hooked the kiln to the gas pipeline. With the pale yellow glow of the freshly painted walls reflecting the morning sunlight, Amanda yearned to be working in this cheerful room again. Her fingers itched to be covered with wet, pliant clay while she formed pitchers and bowls on the wheel.
“I’d say somebody loves you, Aunt Amanda,” her nephew remarked. “And I’m guessing you know some things we don’t, too.”
“Maybe,” she hedged as she spun the wheel with her fingertips. “But that’s for Wyman to say, not me.”
“Soon?” Jerome insisted.
Amanda laughed. “I hope so. This kiln and the wheel have all of us wondering what’s going on. In God’s gut time—and Wyman’s—we’ll have our answers.”
• • •
As he drove up Uriah Schmucker’s lane, Wyman inhaled deeply to steady his nerves—and needed no further reminder that the bishop was a pig farmer. Even on this brisk November day, the stench from the manure pits enveloped him as he approached the house. Smells like money, farm folks joked.
And money was the reason that—except for this final visit—Wyman felt as bubbly as a bottle of soda pop. Ray and Trevor had gotten approval for a loan, and they also wanted to take over the remodeling of the house. Tyler was excited about becoming a full partner and setting up the computer and automation systems for the new elevator in Bloomingdale, too. Wyman felt as if all his ducks were in a row for a wonderful future—but he couldn’t leave Clearwater like a thief in the night.
Guide my thoughts, Lord, he mused as he knocked on the Schmuckers’ door. It swung open as though Mildred had been watching him from behind her simple blue curtains.
“Jah?” she demanded.
Wyman blinked. Her jarring tone seemed yet another reason he and his family should no longer live here. “I’ve come to speak to Uriah, please.”
“Fine.”
Again Wyman was struck by this woman’s lack of common courtesy, making him wait outside as though he were a stranger. Had the Schmuckers spread the word that he and his family had fled Clearwater rather than face up to Amanda’s confession? If the bishop had gossiped this way, and the other members had believed him, well, that was just further proof that Wyman had made the right decision about selling his land.
Uriah appeared at the door, his eyes as hard as marbles. “Brubaker,” he muttered. “What brings you here with your hat in your hand? Come to repent, did you?”
Wyman paused. He didn’t intend to sink to this man’s level, or to flare up in anger, for neither trait exemplified the Christ they both worshipped. Best to state his case and leave. “I’ve sold my land. We’ll be living in Bloomingdale,” he said. “I wanted you to hear it from me, firsthand.”
The bishop looked startled but then his eyes narrowed. “You can run but you can’t hide, Wyman. Jesus said it best, asking what a man profits if he gains the world—or a big bunch of money, in your case—but loses his soul.”
“I have entrusted my soul to God. I’m leaving the district because I prefer to follow His ways rather than yours, Uriah.”
Wyman stepped into the doorframe to keep the bishop from shutting him out before he was finished. “You crossed the line when you destroyed Amanda’s pottery—frightened our children with your violence—while she and I weren’t at home,” he said. “That’s hardly the way Jesus taught us to behave.”
“But Jesus overturned the tables of the money changers in the temple,” Uriah countered in a rising voice. “He was chastising sin and dishonesty, as I have been chosen to do in the district I serve. You’ve forgotten how to accept constructive criticism and you’re too enamored of your new wife, Wyman. Your adoration of Amanda has eclipsed your devotion to God.”
Wyman’s pulse pounded. This conversation was escalating into a heated exchange of Bible verses neither of them would win because they had already lost the trust and respect all servants of Christ should have for each other. “And you, Uriah, have lost your sense of humility, along with your vision for our district. Even my friends, the Fishers—”
“Puh. Mennonites.”
“—have told us you’ve spoken out against Amanda and me,” Wyman persisted. “And your lack of concern was blatantly obvious when you saw how the storm had damaged our home yet you didn’t lift a finger to help us. That goes against all I’ve ever known about Plain ways.”
“So you’ve sold out. Turned tail and run off rather than making Amanda face up to the confession I prescribed for her.” Uriah widened his eyes, as he did during a dramatic moment of a sermon. “The wages of sin is death, you know.”
Wyman checked his urge to lash out. The bishop was like a dog who would never release this meaty bone of contention. So Wyman would be the one to let go.
“God is love,” he said softly. As he stepped away, he wondered why he’d bothered to come in person when he could have written a note or left a message on the bishop’s answering machine. Yet it had felt like the honorable way to—
“Never heard that your land was even up for sale, Brubaker,” Uriah remarked. “Who’d you sell out to?”
Wyman bit back a grin. “Ray Fisher and his son.”
“Mennonites? Mennonites? Of all the—”
Wham! The slamming of the door announced the end to his membership in the Clearwater church district, where generations of his family had followed their faith. Wyman regretted this deeply, yet he believed his father and grandfathers wouldn’t have tolerated such treatment from the bishops of their day, either.
With his most difficult task behind him, Wyman climbed into his rig and clucked to his horse. He couldn’t wait to get home to Amanda, to tell her and their family of the wonderful changes coming their way.
Chapter Thirty-three
Amanda caught herself looking out the window every five minutes as she helped the boys put the front room to rights after the cream-colored walls had dried. “The downstairs looks so pretty and clean, Eddie,” she said as he was carrying his drop cloths to the porch. “Denki ev
er so much for helping this old house look its Sunday best again.”
He shot her a lopsided smile. “It was tough seeing the other house in such a wreck, and finding our clothes and broken furniture in the mess we were hauling off,” he admitted. “I’d lots rather be working here.”
“I’m sorry you had that awful job,” Amanda murmured. “But this, too, shall pass. We’re all in it together.”
At last a clip-clop! clip-clop! in the lane announced Wyman’s arrival. Amanda hurried outside to greet him, but of course she was followed by the twins and Simon, all clamoring for their dat’s explanation of today’s delivery. She lifted Alice Ann to her shoulder, nuzzling the toddler’s dewy cheek as she waited to catch her husband’s eye.
And when Wyman looked at her from the huddle of the three little kids who had captured him at thigh-level, her heart held still. That glimmer in his eyes could mean only one thing—and since his news was much more important than her curiosity about the kiln and the wheel, she merely returned his smile.
“Supper’s nearly ready,” she announced. “You girls can help Lizzie set the table, and, Simon, it’s time to feed and water Wags. We’ll give your dat a chance to catch his breath after a busy day, jah?”
As the children scattered to do their chores, Wyman slipped up to kiss Amanda’s cheek and then Alice Ann’s. “See there? Already they’re listening to you and behaving so much better.”
“And you need to behave, as well,” she teased. “It seems we got a delivery today, and your name was on it, Wyman. And—and denki ever so much for the kiln and the wheel,” she added in a voice that quavered. “But whatever were you thinking when you ordered them? What if Lamar Lapp sees no reason for me to take up my pottery again, now that my husband supplies all my needs? What about—”
“Do I, Amanda? That’s gut to hear,” he whispered. Then he grinned. “Consider them gifts. And Lamar sends you his blessings to make your dishes again, but perhaps with more . . . subdued colors.”
A laugh escaped her. “You’ve spoken to him?”
“Just full of surprises, aren’t I?” Wyman teased. “You’ll have to wait for supper to hear the rest of the details. But they’re gut, Amanda. It’s all gut now, my love.”
Somehow she contained her excitement as the older girls set on the bowls of creamed chicken, noodles, peas and carrots, and apples simmered with cinnamon Red Hots. After they prayed, Wyman held up his hand before the kids could start in with their questions.
“It’s a historic day for the Brubaker family,” he said in a resonating voice that filled the kitchen. “And while I tell you of things to come, please hear me out. Then you may ask your questions and express any doubts you have. But with God’s guidance, and considering the entire family’s welfare, I have made my decision. And I will not—cannot—change my mind.”
Amanda’s heart beat faster. The children’s expressions bespoke the solemnity of this moment, yet their eyes were wide with eager curiosity. Bowls of food were being passed, but all eyes were on Wyman.
“After much prayer and soul-searching,” he said, pausing to look at everyone around the table, “I have sold the farm in Clearwater to Ray and Trevor Fisher. Which means we will be living here now.”
A tight silence filled the kitchen.
“Holy cow,” Jerome murmured. “That’s huge.”
“‘Bless the Lord, oh my soul,’” Jemima intoned. “Yet another miracle this week.”
“But—but what about our stuff at the other house?” Vera whispered.
“And what happens to all the hay we baled?” Pete asked. “There’s not enough put by for the livestock here, what with Jerome’s horses and mules—”
“That’s all being worked out.” As Wyman smiled, his rugged face glowed with the relief of sharing this news at last. “Trevor and his dat have been approved for their loan, and they’ll take on the rebuilding of the house after we move out our belongings. Meanwhile Ray and I will remain partners at the Clearwater elevator, and we’ll build a new elevator here—down the road by the railroad tracks,” he added in a rising voice. “We have a lot of work to do, but God has brought us this far and He’ll give us the strength to meet our obligations . . . and to deal with this major change.”
After another moment of tense silence, pandemonium broke out around the table.
“We’re home!” Lizzie crowed as she grabbed for Cora and Dora.
“So that’s why you’re having me paint these walls—”
“But, Dat, that’s been our home forever!” Pete protested.
“And what about the pieces that belonged to Mamm? Where will we put them here in Amanda’s house?”
“Pink! I want my woom pink now!”
“You knew this all along, Mamma! And you didn’t tell me!”
When Simon’s exclamation rang out above all those of his siblings, Amanda had to laugh. Bless his heart, he was calling her Mamma now, and his chocolate brown eyes bore into hers to demand her answer.
“Well, until just this minute I didn’t know how it would all turn out,” she explained. “Your dat and I have talked and prayed all week long—”
“And, Simon, when you said no one would be happy unless your mamma was happy? You hit the nail on the head,” Wyman said. “After those unfortunate incidents with the Schmuckers, it made perfect sense for this farm to be our new home. It was as though God dropped that answer into my head and brought all the pieces and players together, just like that.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate his point, smiling at each of them.
“Uriah will be hopping mad when he hears about this,” Pete remarked.
“Matter of fact, I spoke with the bishop this afternoon. And with all due respect,” Wyman said emphatically, “I’ve not seen anyone do a better imitation of a whistling, overheated teakettle. When he found out I’d sold our place to Mennonites, well . . . he slammed the door in my face.”
“Oh, Wyman,” Amanda murmured, grabbing his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t happy about it, either,” he admitted as he squeezed her fingers. “It’s serious business to part ways with the bishop God chose for us . . . and, as Jesus taught us, we should pray for those who persecute us. As much as he’s provoked us, Uriah needs our prayers.”
When Wyman paused, Amanda saw how their children were listening intently . . . processing their father’s wisdom. Even Alice Ann sat absolutely still in her high chair, as though she fully understood the magnitude of what her dat was sharing with them, and the higher road he was leading them on.
“I want you kids to know that first and foremost, I left our home district because I believe that if we are to follow God, we can no longer follow Uriah,” Wyman stated. “He accused me of loving Amanda too much, to the point that I loved our Lord less than I should.”
Wyman gazed intently at her. Amanda’s heart beat steadily even as she held her breath, awaiting whatever her husband said next.
“But the way I see it,” he continued earnestly, “if I love your mother and take gut care of her—love you kids and everyone under my roof—then I am in fact living out my faith, reflecting the heavenly Father’s love. If I give my family my very best, am I not loving God with my whole heart at the same time?”
Amanda slowly let out the breath she’d been holding. Here in this clean, cozy kitchen, surrounded by those she loved most in this world, it seemed they were sharing a holy moment—the beginning of a whole new life as a family. The frustrations of her first weeks as a Brubaker faded away as she basked in the glow of her husband’s love.
“You’re such a gut man, Wyman. A fine example to us all,” she murmured. “Truly, none of us could ask for more.”
For an excerpt from the next story by Naomi King
Emma Blooms at Last
One Big Happy Family
about the blended Lambright and Brubaker families, which some ar
e calling an Amish Brady Bunch, coming November 2014 in print and e-book,read on. . . .
This is what a Monday morning should look like, Amanda mused. Her kitchen was thrumming with activity as her family finished breakfast—and everyone looked happily intent on getting where they needed to go next. In the six weeks since she’d married Wyman Brubaker, they’d known some rough moments, yet it seemed that their eight kids and the four adults had finally figured out a morning routine that worked. Today they’d all been dressed and ready to eat on time, without any squabbling or drama. It was a minor miracle.
“What a wonderful-gut meal,” Wyman said as he rose from his place at the head of the table. “The haystack casserole had all my favorite things in it. Lots of sausage and onions and green peppers—”
“And cheese,” five-year-old Simon piped up. “So much cheese the hash browns were really gooey and really, really gut.”
“And what are you three fellows doing this morning?” Wyman asked. He rumpled Simon’s dark hair, looking from Eddie to Jerome. “Did I hear you say we might have baby mules by the end of the day?”
“That’s my best guess,” Jerome replied as he, too, stood up. “Eddie and Simon are going with me to get some feed supplement. Let’s hit the road, boys, so we’ll be back in time if the mammas need our help with their birthings.”
“I’m already outta here!” Simon sprang from his chair and shot through the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.
Eddie, his fifteen-year-old brother, headed toward the jackets and hats that hung on wall pegs. “Well, there’s the speed of light and the speed of sound—and the speed of Simon,” he remarked as he grabbed his youngest brother’s coat along with his own. “At this rate, we’ll be to Cedar Creek and back before those mammas can turn twice in their stalls.”