“Troyer, are you still in that dark room? In that wheelchair?” a loud, familiar voice demanded.
Amos winced. He was in no mood for a visit from the bishop.
“So this is to be the way of it? Are you so pathetic you’ve also lost your ability to speak?” Floyd leaned on the doorjamb, scowling. “Take up your bed and walk, Amos. A man with any sort of faith—a preacher who believes in the healing power of Jesus—wouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity, sitting alone in his room. If you believe in the miracles Jesus performed, come to church with me.”
Amos remained silent. Was it his imagination, or did Floyd sound out of breath—and maybe out of his head? Did the bishop’s relaxed posture suggest he had recovered from the fall he’d taken, or was he leaning on the door frame because he didn’t have the strength to enter the room?
Before Lehman could rail at him again, Amos raised his hand. “I heard you loud and clear,” he muttered. “If I were able, I’d be preparing to preach this morning, but my body is telling me to rest instead. The Psalmist tells us to rest in the Lord and to wait patiently on Him—”
“So if I’m the one who took the worst hit—the one who fell to the ground beneath your weight,” Floyd countered, “how is it that I’m up and around while you say you’re not able to walk? That makes no sense to me.”
“I don’t like it, either!” Amos retorted. “I don’t know the answer to your question, but I’ll tell you that my headache was barely noticeable this morning until you showed up. Spare me your sarcasm, Floyd. Something tells me you’ll need all the strength you can muster to make it through the service.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” the bishop taunted.
“In Deuteronomy and in the story of Jesus’s temptation, we’re told not to put God to the test,” Amos replied impatiently. “Be careful, Floyd. ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’”
“I can trade verses with you all morning or I can go preach the Word to folks who’ll listen. As for me and my house, we’ll worship the Lord.” Floyd gazed at Amos and then sneered. “As for you, Preacher, this must mean it’s God’s will for you to be a cripple for the rest of your life.”
Amos gripped the arms of his wheelchair to keep from shouting at the insolent man in his doorway. When Floyd left, the sound of the door slamming echoed accusingly throughout the house.
Amos exhaled. Was he wrong—and was Floyd right? Was he so caught up in the self-pity the bishop had spoken of that he’d lost his will to recover? If he’d prayed harder, or more correctly, would God already have healed him? Or were his injuries linked to his sins? Jesus had often healed people and then added, “Go and sin no more”—
Answer me, Lord! Your servant Amos believes in Your miracles, in Your ability to heal. If it’s Your will, help me stand up. Get me out of this chair and out of this misery.
Amos sucked in a deep breath, gripping the arms of the wheelchair. He placed his feet on the floor and pushed himself up, willing his legs to support him. Once he was standing upright, with his arms out for balance, Amos dared to believe that his prayer had been answered—
But a wave of dizziness overcame him. When his knees buckled, it was all he could do to fall back into the chair rather than forward, onto his face. Sweat ran down his temples. He swallowed repeatedly, refusing to vomit. He could not have Mattie find him splattered with his half-digested breakfast.
When Amos’s pulse returned to normal, he heaved a sigh. Well, I didn’t like Your answer, Lord, but I see it as a sign I’m to remain in this wheelchair for now. Make Your presence known to those in church this morning, and especially to Bishop Floyd. Forgive my impatience with him. Create in me a clean heart . . .
* * *
As Roman sat on the men’s side of the congregation gathered in the lodge’s large meeting room, he felt a thrum of tension. Seated with Lester, Noah, and Harley Kurtz, with the younger boys behind them, Roman sang the final verse of the hymn. Preacher Marlin stood up to read from their big King James Bible. Because Marlin had arrived at Promise Lodge after Eli Peterscheim and Amos were already serving as ministers, he had taken on the duties of the district’s deacon.
“Our Scripture passage today is from the Book of Luke, the fourth chapter and eighteenth verse,” Marlin began, his clear voice ringing in the low-ceilinged room. “‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised.’”
When Marlin sat down, all eyes were on Bishop Floyd as he rose from the preachers’ bench. The bishop looked at the men on his left and then at the women to his right, as though awaiting the Lord’s guidance for the sermon he was about to preach. Roman wondered if Floyd was standing with his legs so far apart to keep himself from falling. The bishop didn’t look very steady, and one of his arms hung limp at his side.
“The spirit of the Lord is upon me,” Floyd began in a booming voice. “As you all know, it was God’s idea for me to come to Promise Lodge to preach the gospel, to heal the brokenhearted—or whomever among you needs my counsel—and to—to—”
A couple of the women gasped when Floyd’s face went slack and his eyes rolled back. Marlin and Eli quickly stood up and grabbed Floyd from either side so he wouldn’t fall. They guided him backwards toward the bench and lowered him so he’d be propped up by the wall, but the bishop showed no sign of opening his eyes.
“Floyd! Wake up!” Lester said as he hurried over to kneel in front of his brother.
Preacher Eli gently slapped the bishop’s cheek. “Bishop, you’d better come around, or we’ll have to carry you home to bed.”
Floyd’s eyelids fluttered. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. When the bishop tried to slap at the hands that were holding him upright, he appeared to be waving sideways, missing his aim completely.
Frances hurried forward and stood in front of her husband, shaking her head. “I was afraid of this,” she muttered. In a louder voice, she said, “Floyd, can you answer me? Can you walk home with help, or do we need to make a stretcher and carry you?”
Roman and the fellows around him got very quiet, watching for the bishop’s response. Floyd’s expression appeared belligerent, as though he intended to rebuke his wife for suggesting he go home, but he couldn’t seem to put his thoughts into words. His face looked out of balance, which made his scruffy U-shaped beard lower on one side than on the other.
Frances planted her hands on her hips. “The spirit of the Lord is indeed upon you, Floyd—and He’s giving you an undeniable sign that you’ve got to stop this foolishness and get back to the hospital.”
Minerva Kurtz had slipped up from her seat to look at the bishop, as well. Her expression appeared grave as she studied him. “Floyd, listen closely to me. This is a test. Give me a big smile.”
The bishop looked ready to do anything but smile, yet he focused on Minerva. His eyes widened and his lips curved—but only on one side.
“Raise both of your arms for me,” Minerva insisted.
Floyd appeared puzzled as his right arm rose partway but his left hand remained on his lap. He was trying to talk, but couldn’t.
“Someone needs to call 911, right this minute!” Minerva said, looking at Rosetta and her sisters. “Floyd appears to be having a stroke, and every second counts if he’s to recover from it.”
Rosetta rushed toward the lodge kitchen to make the call, with Frances close behind her. “I’ll pack him a bag—again,” she said as she left the meeting room. Gloria gazed fearfully at her father and then hurried to catch up with her mother. Alma Peterscheim was talking in a low, concerned voice with Mattie and Christine, while the younger girls whispered among themselves.
When Roman saw Mary Kate rise from her seat, her arms wrapped around her belly, he feared this frightening episode had made her go into labor. He started toward her, but the
n he realized that while Mary Kate’s brown eyes were wide with concern, she seemed calm and in control of her emotions. She walked toward the preachers’ bench and sat down beside her father.
“Hang on, Dat,” she murmured as she took his hand between hers. “You did your very best to convince yourself you’re okay, but your head and body have other ideas now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Floyd looked at his younger daughter with eyes that widened like a startled horse’s. Then he took a deep breath and seemed to settle himself.
“The ambulance is coming for you,” Mary Kate explained patiently. “You’re going to the hospital again. Please let the doctors help you this time, Dat. We all need you to be healthy.”
Roman’s heart went out to Mary Kate and his admiration for her soared. She was speaking calmly, showing concern, yet insisting that her father focus on what she was saying.
“When you hit the ground with Preacher Amos last Thursday, you might have caused more than just a concussion.” Minerva took up where Mary Kate had left off. “Truly, Floyd, I think the Lord’s trying to get your attention. If you don’t listen to Him and the doctors this time, you may be incapacitated for the rest of your life.”
In the distance, Roman heard the wail of sirens. He went through the lobby and out to the porch of the lodge, waving his arms above his head to attract the attention of the emergency workers. When Queenie raced toward the approaching vehicles, barking as though the drivers needed her directions, Roman called her over and commanded her to sit beside him. He was relieved to see that one of the paramedics hopping out of the ambulance had been here Thursday evening.
“One of the fellows you took to the hospital is having a stroke, we think,” Roman said. “He’s inside, first room on your left past the lobby.”
The men nodded and hurried inside with a stretcher. When the police officer and the firemen established that there were no other emergencies, they went on their way, and by that time the paramedics were wheeling Bishop Floyd through the lobby. Roman held the door for them, and when he saw Frances Lehman rushing around the side of the lodge he called out to the paramedics.
“Could Mrs. Lehman possibly ride to the hospital with you?” Roman asked the men. “The fellow who drove her the other night is attending his own church service—but I bet Truman would join you later today, Frances,” he added. “Do you want me to go with you?”
The bishop’s wife gave him a grateful smile. “I know more about what to expect this time, and which doctor to request,” she replied. “I’m not leaving until I’m sure Floyd is staying put, undergoing treatment. But jah, if you could have Truman check on us later, that would be helpful.”
Roman nodded and helped her into the ambulance after the paramedics got Floyd’s stretcher situated. The array of blinking, beeping medical machinery and the quick efficiency of the paramedics amazed him—and frightened him. The determined expression on Frances’s face as she sat on a small bench inside the vehicle suggested she was rising above her fears better than he probably would.
Their neighbors had gathered on the porch to watch the ambulance race down the lane. When its pulsing lights and wailing siren were headed down the county road, everyone began talking at once.
“Frances will have her hands full if Floyd gets contrary again.”
“Jah, but what if he doesn’t come out of it?”
“What are we to do if he can no longer carry out his duties as our bishop?”
“My word, first Amos is laid low and now Floyd. Is God trying to tell us our leaders aren’t behaving the way He wants them to?”
“Let’s head back to our worship service,” Preacher Marlin said above the chatter. “If ever we needed a time for prayer and contemplation, this is it.”
When everyone had resumed their seats, they focused on Marlin as he stood in the space between the men’s side and the women’s. Roman saw how Gloria clutched Mary Kate’s hand, her brown eyes wide with fear.
Lord, we could use Your comfort and consolation, Roman prayed as he briefly bowed his head. Help me to be a source of strength and reason during this confusing time.
“The spirit of the Lord is indeed upon us,” Preacher Marlin said as he gazed around their small congregation. “We should never forget that even in emergency situations, He is with us—just as He’s with Floyd, Frances, and Amos—and He’ll show us the path we’re to take if we listen for His still, small voice. ‘Be still, and know that I am God,’ He insists in the Scriptures. Let’s unite in silence, praying on our bishop’s behalf and listening for God’s message to us this morning.”
For several minutes the meeting room resonated with the sounds of deep, even breathing, punctuated by an occasional sigh and the soft ticking of the wall clock. Roman felt a unity of spirit among these new neighbors and friends, much stronger than he’d ever sensed during their church services in Coldstream. Or was he simply more attuned to this atmosphere of reverent purpose because he’d taken on more responsibilities as an adult?
“Amen.”
When Preacher Eli rose, the folks in the room opened their eyes and sat up straight to hear what he had to say. His solemn expression was accentuated by the deep lines carved around his eyes and bearded chin.
“It’s understandable for us to wonder what the future holds, as far as the leadership of our community,” Eli began. He clasped his hands and thought for a moment. “While we should indeed consider the need for another bishop, if Floyd doesn’t recover as we’ve prayed he will, I believe we should wait a bit and see what God has in mind for him—and for Amos—before we rush into choosing new leadership. Marlin and I are both experienced in our role as ministers, and unless somebody says differently, I believe he and I are prepared to maintain the Promise Lodge community until it becomes apparent we should hold a drawing of the lot for a new bishop.”
A few folks whispered to one another, nodding.
“I’m fine with that, Eli,” Lester spoke up. “We’ve been blessed with three strong preachers—and I believe Amos and Floyd are too tough to let infirmity get them down. I’m confident you and Marlin can lead us in the meantime.”
“That’s the way I see it, too,” Rosetta said, and the women around her nodded in agreement.
“Rather than preaching today, or proceeding with our regular worship service,” Eli went on, “I feel God is calling us to a time of silent reflection. There’s great power in communion with our Lord, whether individually or as a body united by a common purpose. I would like us to pray again, and then continue in our observance of the Sabbath by remaining silent as the ladies set out our meal and as we partake of it together—and then as we depart toward our homes.”
Preacher Eli paused, gazing at each member in turn. “We have a lot to think about,” he continued pensively. “We might have some amazing insights to share as we begin our work week tomorrow, after spending this morning listening for the voice of God rather than talking amongst ourselves.”
The folks around Roman seemed as surprised as he was by Eli’s idea, but everyone bowed their heads again. After a while, the women and girls got up and set their simple meal on the table in the dining room. Everyone passed the food and ate in a contemplative silence. The mood felt hopeful and helpful—not at all depressing. No one seemed deprived of the visiting that ordinarily filled the afternoon of their church Sundays. In short order, Roman and the other folks ate the sliced ham, fresh bread, gelatin fruit salad, slaw, and pies, all of which the women had prepared on Saturday.
Before he left, Roman filled a plate for Amos and covered it with foil. His mother nodded at him, squeezing his arm gratefully. Roman figured she might clean up the kitchen with the other women and then rest this afternoon rather than rushing over to spend the remainder of the day with Amos. He suspected his mamm felt bewildered by her fiancé’s condition, and was wondering when Amos would show some improvement.
When Roman stepped outside to take Amos’s meal to him, fat, white snowflakes were swirling
lazily in the air. He stopped for a moment, looking toward the sky to enjoy the fluttery, feathery prickles when the cold flakes landed on his face. Although winter sometimes brought on weather-related problems with the cows and other livestock, Roman enjoyed the colder weather . . . the hushed beauty of snow-covered hillsides. He recalled the old sleigh Amos had brought from Coldstream, now stashed in the shed, and an idea made him smile.
Did Mary Kate enjoy riding in a horse-drawn sleigh as much as he did? It was a question worth asking her sometime—at least when enough snow covered the ground.
Roman took Amos’s porch steps two at a time and knocked loudly before entering the preacher’s house. “How’re you doing, Amos?” he called out as he wiped his feet on the rug.
“Still here,” came the reply from the back room. “What was all that commotion with the sirens a while ago?”
Roman entered Amos’s room and allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness before he sat in the chair beside the bed. The preacher was propped upright against the headboard with a pillow behind his back, which meant he’d maneuvered himself out of the wheelchair and into bed—a positive sign.
“Floyd was launching into his sermon about how the spirit of the Lord had anointed him to preach, when he nearly fell over,” Roman replied. “Minerva believes he was having a stroke—said he might be incapacitated for the rest of his life if he didn’t get medical attention right away, so Rosetta called 911.”
Amos’s eyes widened. “A stroke? They say that’s like having a heart attack except it’s happening to your brain,” he murmured. “Do you suppose this has been building up inside him for a while? Might account for the crazy things Floyd’s said and done lately, like running underneath me to catch me when I fell. And this morning he told me it’s God’s will that I’ll always be a cripple, because I couldn’t get out of my wheelchair and walk.”
“The bishop said that? Well, I don’t believe it for a minute.” Roman unwrapped the meal and handed it to Amos, observing the way he firmly gripped the plate. Roman was pleased to hear Amos reasoning and speaking clearly. “You might have something, though, about his stroke being in the works for a while. Minerva thought Floyd’s fall might’ve set him up for it.”
Christmas at Promise Lodge Page 13