Meek and Mild

by Newport, Olivia

  In a flush of vindication, Yonnie resolved to seek out the bishop immediately after the close of worship to make an appointment to speak privately.

  Sarah Tice had proved right on that June day when Clara ran into her friend in Springs. The Widower Hershberger did go to Ohio to marry. A younger couple would have waited for the fall harvest season to pass, but Mr. Hershberger rode the train, married, and returned all within the space of four days. Clara’s housekeeping work diminished. At least the English banker’s family still depended on her services.

  Clara spent most of her days in the far corners of the farm. Crouching among the rising corn to clear weeds always was an option, and her innate industriousness was not so far spent that she turned her nose up at the chore. At first she avoided the places where her father worked with Josiah under his wing. Gradually she began to work beside them, briefly at first, as if she had some more important responsibility at the house, and then for increasingly longer stretches. Hiram never asked why she was not occupied with more feminine labor.

  Between sermons that grew more stern each time the congregation gathered and her determination not to rely on the milk wagon for transportation as long as Yonnie was driving the route, Clara hesitated to leave Kuhn property. Three days had passed since Noah and Joseph Yoder rained the latest scoldings on the congregation. She hadn’t seen Fannie in three weeks—not since Yonnie would have gloated to leave her on the side of the road—and while Andrew was always glad to see her, Clara did not want to aggravate whatever trouble might be brewing for him because of the Model T. The expression on Andrew’s face when he drove the automobile was adorable, and Clara loved the sensation of the car in motion, but if anyone saw her with Andrew and the car, she couldn’t be sure of the consequence. Automobiles were English machines. Driving one had not yet faced the practical test of defiance that visiting relatives in Maryland had withstood, and certainly not a congregational vote. Clara was fairly certain who agreed or disagreed with the Yoders on the shunning. She was far less sure how members of the congregation would divide on the question of an automobile.

  In the end, Andrew would be all right. It was Fannie who worried Clara with her melancholy. She had not been the same since discovering Martha was expecting a child, and Clara suspected Elam did not realize how deep his wife’s emotions had plummeted.

  At midafternoon on Wednesday, Clara wandered back to the house, too warm and too thirsty. She was barely in the back door when Hannah barreled at her from across the kitchen.

  “You got a letter!” Hannah waved the envelope.

  Rhoda rapped her knuckles on the kitchen table. “Hannah, that doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Clara doesn’t mind.” Hannah looked at Clara. “Right?”

  Clara glanced at Rhoda. She would not take sides between mother and daughter.

  “Why don’t I have a look?” Clara took the envelope from Hannah.

  “It’s from Sadie, isn’t it?” Hannah wiggled in anticipation of the answer.

  “Don’t be silly.” Rhoda sealed the lid on a jar of fat. “Sadie is younger than you are. She doesn’t know how to write a letter.”

  Clara wished she could scoop Hannah into her arms the way she could have done a few months ago.

  “It’s from her mother,” she said. “But you and Sadie will both be big enough to write letters before you know it.”

  “When I am, I will write to Sadie,” Hannah said.

  Clara resisted the urge to glance at Rhoda again. “One thing at a time.”

  “Hannah,” Rhoda said, “let’s go outside and get the laundry from the line.”

  Hannah constrained the pout that flashed through her lips and followed her mother. Rhoda paused at the back door, turning toward Clara.

  “This is your turn to clean the Flag Run Meetinghouse, is it not?”

  Clara nodded. “I’m going soon.”

  “You can take the cart if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I want to help clean the meetinghouse,” Hannah said.

  “You’re going to help me with the laundry.” Rhoda’s tone left no room for negotiation.

  Clara took her letter upstairs to her room, opening it only when she was certain she wouldn’t be interrupted.

  Dear Clara,

  Do you remember how we used to write letters over the winter when our parents did not want to take the buggies through the snow? At least I understood that excuse. The news we hear from your congregation is almost unbearable. And you do not fool me. I know you are not happy at home.

  I must apologize for being such an inadequate hostess when you last visited. Whatever weighs in my heart, I should have welcomed you more ably. Sadie asks every day when you will come again, and I don’t know what to tell her.

  Why don’t you come to stay for as long as you like? Come to the Maryland district. You would be much at home here. You can stay with Elam and me. Sadie would be thrilled—I don’t have to tell you that.

  I know you are fond of many people in your own congregation, but the thought that they would even consider keeping you from us casts a new light on the question of your visits.

  You must come. You must.

  Love,

  Fannie

  Clara had no doubt of Sadie’s abounding glee if she were to go to sleep with Clara in the house and wake to discover she was still there. And Clara’s presence might cheer Fannie—or at least keep the household running until Fannie could cheer herself. Clara prayed every night for the news that her cousin was with child.

  But Sadie was Sadie. She wasn’t Hannah or Mari or Josiah. Or Hiram. Or even Rhoda as she had been until recently. If Clara went to Maryland for an indefinite stay—especially if she visited the church there—her own family would be required to shun her. The silent division running through the household would widen into permanence.

  Clara couldn’t bear the thought.

  Neither could she imagine not seeing Fannie and Sadie and Martha and all the Hostetlers.

  She pushed her fingertips into her closed eyelids. How was it that the Yoders saw a clear straight line between right and wrong, and Clara saw only the wiggle of uncertainty?

  Clara tucked the letter back into its envelope and slid it under the winter nightgown lying in a drawer. The meetinghouse was waiting to be tidied and swept. Bishop Yoder had already announced that the next service of the congregation would be at Flag Run. Clara loaded a bucket with rags, filled two large jugs with well water, chose a broom, and arranged everything in the small open cart before hitching a horse.

  When Clara drove past the adjoining Schrock farm, she waved at Mattie Schrock, who strolled along the road with a small basket of apples braced against one hip.

  Clara slowed the horse. “Good afternoon. I hope everything is well with the Schrock household.”

  “We are well.” Hesitation wafted through Mattie’s face. “May I have a word with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Our breakfast conversation this morning was unusual.” Mattie steadied herself against the side of the cart.

  “Oh?” Clara’s mouth dried out in an instant.

  “Priscilla asked when she was going to get to hear another Bible story from you.”

  Clara tightened her grip on the reins. So it had begun.

  “Of course her daed and I did not know what she was talking about. Imagine our surprise when she explained.”

  Clara steeled herself to withstand Mattie’s gaze. “The stories are in the Bible. I’m sure she has heard them before and will again.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true. You know that we are not overly strict in our interpretation of the church’s teachings about these matters.”

  While the words might have carried encouragement if they appeared on paper, the tone with which Mattie delivered them made Clara’s breathing grow shallow.

  “It is not so much that we disapprove of children hearing Bible stories,” Mattie said. “Rather, it is that such instruction is the ro
le of parents—or at least should have the approval of parents.”

  “I meant no disrespect. I am sure you teach your children well.”

  “Others might protest more than Priscilla’s father and I do.” Mattie shifted the fruit basket to the other hip. “I’m sure your own father would be happy to see you married and settled with children. Then you could use your gift under submission to your husband, as the Bible teaches.”

  Clara swallowed, coughing to cover the gag in her throat. “Thank you for telling me how you feel. You will have no reason for further concern.”

  “I was sure you would understand.”

  Clara raised the reins, and the horse trotted forward. She blinked back stinging, indignant tears for the next four miles before letting herself into the meetinghouse. With the door propped open to capture whatever breeze might stir the sweltering afternoon, Clara swept the floor before launching into a furious scrub of the windowsills and benches. The water in the bucket grayed rapidly. It was impossible to keep summer dust out of the structure. Clara hefted the bucket outside to dump it in the clearing. Above the splash of water, horse hooves clattered. She looked up to see Yonnie drive past in his own open buggy, not the milk wagon. He slowed slightly, his eyes meeting hers, before his rig disappeared behind a grove of trees. Clara rotated, expecting to see him come out the opposite edge of the cluster. When he didn’t emerge, she stilled her hands and breath to listen, certain Yonnie had seen her. If he were passing on the road, he should have appeared by now. Clara glanced at the open meetinghouse door and at her own cart, pondering where her steps should take her.

  The rattle in the bushes sent her scurrying toward her horse. She ran straight into the clasp of a man’s hands.

  “What’s going on?” Andrew gripped Clara’s trembling shoulders, preventing her from turning away from him.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Something had spooked her. “Did I frighten you?”

  She turned her head and looked through the trees. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know. But we haven’t spoken in a long time. I remembered you would be cleaning today and hoped I could catch you.”

  She stepped away from him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “What happened, Clara?” Andrew followed her line of sight to the road.

  She exhaled. “Yonnie just went by. I saw him approaching, but he never came out on the other side of the trees.”

  Andrew paced toward the road, peering through the dense foliage. “Maybe you just couldn’t see him.”

  “The noise stopped,” Clara said. “I should have heard him coming past.”

  He looked at her white face. “He won’t hurt you.”

  She said nothing, not convinced.

  Realization struck. “The bishop,” Andrew said.

  “What about the bishop?” Clara said.

  “If Yonnie turned off to go south to the bishop’s house, you wouldn’t have seen or heard him go past.”

  Clara groaned.

  “I’m not worried,” Andrew said.

  “Maybe you should be.”

  “Each day has enough worries of its own,” Andrew said.

  “What will he say?”

  Andrew shrugged. “The Model T, your visit to Fannie, my temper. Who knows?”

  “He could hurt you.”

  Andrew shook his head. “I could tell my side of things, and Yonnie would not look innocent, either.”

  “No!” Clara said. “That would just stir up trouble for everyone.”

  “It won’t matter. Despite what Yonnie thinks, Bishop Yoder is not as powerful as he once was. Someone will step forward to say the congregation must vote.”

  “But who? Who would stand up to the bishop?”

  Andrew was unsure. “He’s getting old to be an active bishop.”

  “Sixty-nine is not ancient.”

  “He’s been leading a long time. We’re due for a change.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Andrew looked again through the silent trees. “Mose Beachy will be our greatest hope.”

  This was not the first time Yonnie visited the bishop’s house. Even though the congregation worshipped in meetinghouses rather than homes, every household in the district found ample reason to extend hospitality to other families. And Yonnie was a Yoder, just like the bishop. Once a year, everyone descended from the Yoders who first came to Somerset County a hundred years ago gathered for an afternoon frolic. Yonnie knew the farm from a lifetime of reunions.

  This was the first time Yonnie had come with a purpose as serious as the one on his mind now. Three days of patient waiting for the appointed time had not deterred him. In fact, the time had nailed in his determination. Today Bishop Yoder would know exactly what Andrew Raber was up to. And Dale. And Clara.

  Maybe not Clara. And maybe not Dale, at least not until Yonnie found other work.

  But nothing held him back from telling the bishop that Andrew had an automobile.

  He arranged his stance on the Yoder front step and knocked firmly.

  Caroline Yoder answered the door with a dish towel hanging from one shoulder. “Hello, Yonnie. What brings you out here?”

  “On Sunday I made an appointment with the bishop for today,” Yonnie said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing,” Caroline said. “My husband was called away a few minutes ago. He’s not anywhere on the farm.”

  “But I made an appointment.”

  She shrugged. “Appointment or not, he’s still gone. Emergencies happen.”

  “When will he return?”

  “I don’t have the mind of God, Yonnie.”

  “Perhaps I should wait.”

  She shook her head. “I have a feeling it would be a long wait. I’m sure you have other things to do. The bishop will be happy to speak to you. Please come by again another time.”

  Back in his buggy, Yonnie considered his options. He was finished for the day at the dairy. Dale had sent Reuben on the afternoon route, which happened more and more often. Dale seemed to prefer keeping Yonnie where he could see him.

  Yonnie picked up the reins. Perhaps God had given him this unscheduled afternoon for a purpose. Perhaps this would be the day his inquiries about other employment would bring a favorable answer.

  If they did not, Yonnie would double the time he spent praying for discernment and trust. If he gave Dale his notice, surely God would provide.

  Clara wondered if anyone would notice if she did not attend worship. It would be just once. From time to time, everyone had a reason to be absent—illness in the house, a cow birthing on a Sunday morning, a journey to visit relatives in another district. Clara had none of those reasons, though. She could hardly tell Rhoda and Hiram that she was staying home because she could not bear the thought of another sermon by the Yoder ministers.

  She hadn’t seen Fannie and Sadie in over a month, and she hadn’t visited Martha in almost two months. By now everyone in the Maryland church must know her aunt was with child.

  And Clara stayed home, on the farm, waiting for whatever was going to happen.

  No more, she thought. She only needed to plan more carefully—walk the miles to Fannie’s farm early in the day, before the heat bore down, or arrange with her father to have a horse and cart. He would not turn her down if she asked ahead of time.

  A congregational meeting was scheduled to follow the worship service. Clara was of a mixed mind whether she wanted to be present.

  But Andrew. If she excused herself from church on a pretense, she wouldn’t see Andrew. Clara braced herself, already planning to mentally work on a story for Sadie during the sermons, and rode with her family to church.

  Noah Yoder preached, and Clara spent the time visualizing the words on the pages of the family Bible about Jesus healing Jairus’s daughter and then trying out phrases and cadence in the retelling of it.

  When Mose Beachy stood to give the second sermon, though, Clara’s wordplay tumbl
ed out of her mind. For weeks she had prayed it would be God’s will for Mose to preach.

  The text God laid on his heart, Mose said, was Romans 12:18. “If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.”

  Mose recited the verse twice, looking with deliberation around the congregation.

  “This verse falls naturally into three parts, which we must fully consider with our hearts and minds,” Mose said. “First, ‘if it be possible.’ Second, ‘as much as lieth in you.’ And third, ‘live peaceably with all men.’ ”

  Clara gave her rapt attention. Mose preached not only with his words, but also his demeanor. When he gazed at the congregation, he had none of the sternness of the Yoders. He did not brace his stance to exude authority but rather leaned over his Bible as if to bind his heart to those of his listeners. Clara wished she could write down everything he said.

  Fifty minutes later, he concluded. “I ask you to consider three questions. If you answer them well, you will know you have this portion of God’s Word in your heart. Is it possible for you to live in such a way to bring peace? In what ways does peace depend on you? And finally, who is the all with whom God wants you to live in peace?”

  Andrew was right. If the lot to become bishop fell to Mose Beachy, things would change. Clara resolved to pray every day that this would be God’s will.

  Yonnie scowled, unsure what to make of Mose Beachy’s sermon.

  Who could disagree with a sermon about peace? But surely there was much room for misinterpretation. The bishop wanted unity of mind, and this would bring peace to the congregation. Mose spoke of a different peace. He made no mention of discipline or obedience to the church’s teaching.

  Yonnie stood for the brief break between the end of the worship service and the beginning of the congregational meeting. Women took children outside to let them run for a few minutes. Men clustered in conversation or rearranged furniture for the meeting. Yonnie stood still as Andrew approached, forming in his mind what he might say if Andrew asked forgiveness for his actions on the day he came to the dairy and embarrassed Yonnie. Familiar proverbs would serve well. Let your life story be for God’s glory. Or, A heart at peace gives life to the body.