Then Gideon, with some help from the kinder, sang “Das Loblied,” the best known of all hymns from the Ausbund.
She had left her phone and handbag in her car, Hannah realized, never giving them a thought. The roaring sound was muted by the earth that surrounded them, but the tornado could have snatched up her car and flung it half a mile into a cornfield. She wasn’t even sure she’d shut the car door behind herself.
Once more, and so powerfully, she felt the peace of certainty, of faith. Of course the decision she’d made over the course of the last week was right for her. Of course it was.
She wouldn’t need the car, or her phone, or most of the contents of her purse again, Hannah thought. It might be fitting if all those possessions treasured by an Englischer were spun out of reach by God.
Happiness swelled in Hannah’s chest as she watched Gideon lift his voice to their Lord. The hymn ended, and she looked down to see that Rebekah had fallen soundly asleep. Gideon noticed, and smiled. He murmured something to Zeb, who leaned more securely into his father’s arms and closed his eyes.
Neither adult said anything for several minutes, although Hannah couldn’t make herself look away from Gideon.
He spoke quietly. “I was glad Amos came to your grossdaadi’s funeral.”
“That was so kind of him.” She hesitated, but when better to tell him than now? “I’ve been wanting to talk to him,” she said simply. “We arranged a time.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gideon stared at her. He hadn’t dared let himself hope. Was it possible . . . ?
Remembering to breathe, he asked, “When will you meet with him?”
“It was supposed to be tomorrow morning.”
In the shadows, he couldn’t tell if Hannah was blushing, but for some reason he felt sure she was.
“I want to convert,” she said in a rush. “I don’t want to leave. I’ve felt as if I’m home ever since I came to stay. As if I’m meant to be here.”
He felt . . . so much. But disappointment and worry were in the mix. “Your commitment must be to our faith. You could stay in Tompkin’s Mill as an Englischer.”
She shook her head, her tangled, loose hair swaying. He could just see a dangling pin. “Julia said that, too, but it’s not the place that’s home. It’s how faith weaves through your lives. No one is ever truly left alone to bear a burden. That’s a big part of what feels right to me. As if everything I do will have a purpose, be part of a whole. Do you know what I mean?”
“Ja,” he said huskily. “Of course, I do.”
“I’ve been talking to Julia, since she was so recently baptized and has made the adjustment from a life not that different from mine. She claims not to have had a single regret.”
He glanced down at his son, to see that Zeb, too, was sound asleep. To keep from awakening him, Gideon kept his voice low. “What about your work? You trained for a long time so that you could come up with new meals in a restaurant.”
Hannah bent her head enough to brush a soft kiss on top of his daughter’s head. Then, voice equally soft, she said, “I love to cook meals that make people happy. I think I started cooking in the first place because I wanted to please Mom. I’ve discovered that seeing your family and my father’s eat what I cook, being at the table with you, gives me so much more joy than having a server mention that a diner complimented my potato-lentil croquette, or seeing a review online remarking on a dish that I’m responsible for at the restaurant.”
Some of what she was saying, he didn’t entirely understand, but the important part he did. The taste of her molasses cookie lingered on his tongue, a reminder of how delighted he and the kinder had been by her skill, and by the forethought that allowed her to feed them even in a storm shelter that might be in the path of a raging tornado.
Little creases formed between her eyebrows. “I also suspect that I loved to cook because of my grossmammi and all the other women in Daad’s family who encouraged me to help when they prepared meals and baked, even though I was too young to really contribute anything.” She sounded slightly tremulous now.
Her heart had been touched by those long-ago memories, Gideon guessed. The memories, and sense of belonging, that had led her to give the same to a motherless little girl.
“Somehow, I thought, if I could do what they did, I’d make everything right. Only, it didn’t work.” She bent her head again, as if she didn’t want him to see her face. “I was so lonely.” It was barely more than a whisper. “Until I came home. Until . . .”
She raised her head slowly, almost reluctantly, her gaze touching on Zeb first, until her eyes met Gideon’s.
Until I met you.
He heard what she hadn’t dared say. Unless she was encompassing his entire family, and that wasn’t so bad. He needed her to love him first, and always, but he had no question in his mind that she loved his kinder—and how could he love her if she didn’t?
Perhaps feeling embarrassed, she changed the subject. “So. How will we know when we can look outside?”
Jolted by the reminder of where they were and why, he said, “Let’s wait a little longer, to be sure the tornado has moved on.”
“We could find the house gone. Or the barn, or the crops you’ve worked so hard to plant and tend.”
She grieved at the very idea, he could tell, perhaps because she’d lost so many homes over her lifetime.
“Ja, and if any of that is true, we’ll rebuild, plow again, plant again.” He heard the tenderness in his often-gruff voice. “We would do that even if lives had been lost, trusting in God’s purpose, although it would be much harder. But, thanks to you, and to our Lord, we are all safe.”
“You made it home in time. I was so afraid for you.”
Gideon smiled at her. “I might not have been if I’d had to go to the house looking for Zeb and Rebekah. They would have had more time to be frightened, or decide to run to a neighbor’s. And even if we’d made it to the shelter, you would not have been with us.”
Her lips trembled, but she said lightly, “You’d have had no milk and cookies.”
“And no Hannah.”
“You’re a good daad. They could both have slept in your arms, knowing they were safe and loved.”
“Now they feel loved by two adults. They trust you, Hannah.”
“I know. And I’m so glad.”
“I shouldn’t ask you so soon, but—”
“I do want to keep working for you,” she said in a rush. “If . . . if—”
“That’s not the question I was going to ask you.” What if her answer was not what he wanted it to be? Their remaining time in the shelter would be difficult, and her continuing to work for him awkward.
And yet, he felt the kind of certainty that should be part of love. As he had felt certainty and trust in Leah. At that moment, he was stunned by a realization. Of course she wasn’t drinking alcohol. Why had he ever felt the first hint of doubt?
I can and do trust Hannah as much, he realized. She had lived most of her life in the Englisch world, but that no longer frightened him. She was not a woman who would ever break a promise. Ever be unkind to anyone, for any reason. Ever fail his kinder, or him.
She would certainly never abandon them.
“Will you marry me, Hannah?”
* * *
* * *
She was terribly afraid she gaped at him even as her eyes burned. “You mean that?”
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Ja, Hannah. I love you. I have been fighting my feelings since your first day of work. I told myself I shouldn’t have hired you. I should be glad if you left as soon as you first thought you would. But that would have been a lie. I didn’t want you to leave. Not ever.”
Tears spilled from her eyes. “I fell in love so quickly. When you said you couldn’t be alone with me anymore . . .” She shivered.
“I missed our
meals,” he said huskily, “just you and me, able to talk about anything.”
“So did I.” Oh, she sounded so watery! “That’s not anything I’ve ever had before.”
He hesitated. “I did with Leah, but . . . it wasn’t the same. We grew up knowing each other, saw most things the same, never had any reason to argue. You help me see through new eyes. Because of you, I’m closer to both of my kinder, instead of only a stern daad. I’m a better father than I was.” He paused. “Also, better fed.”
Hannah stifled a giggle with her fingertips.
He looked both rueful and frustrated. “I want to hold you.”
She wanted that, too. And more, but they would have to wait.
Zeb stirred and lifted his head. “Is the tornado over?”
“Perhaps it’s time we take a look,” his daad said.
Zeb straightened. “Can I?” he asked eagerly.
“The door is too heavy for you. Even for Hannah, I think.”
“Did the tornado come right over the top of us?” his son asked in worry.
“I’ve never seen one before,” Gideon reminded him, “or had to hide in the shelter, but I think we’d have heard more noise if it was that close.”
His eyes met Hannah’s, and she knew Gideon was less certain than he’d sounded, but Zeb had noticeably relaxed.
“I want to see!” he exclaimed.
“Ja, ja.” Gideon ruffled his hair. “You are not so patient.” But he stood and went to the steps.
After gently awakening Rebekah, Hannah rose, too, so she could lift one of the lanterns to enable Gideon to see what he was doing.
A few steps higher, he reached above his head. With a metallic clang, he heaved the door upward. The hinges squealed as gray light spilled into the shelter. Gideon went up a couple more steps, and then called down, “It’s still windy, but not even raining. The buildings are all standing. It should be safe for us to go to the house.”
Hannah blew out a breath. Relief lasted mere seconds, however, because any of their neighbors and friends could have suffered the horrific damage from which Gideon’s farm had been spared. What if it had hit Daad’s place? Or the Bowmans—any of the Bowmans? Or poor Esther Schwartz next door, or the Millers, or— She thought of all the students at the school and their families, of Teacher Tabitha, of Bishop Troyer and his wife.
The tornado had surely not turned around and gone an entirely different direction. Anyway, whatever its path, homes would have been in the way. People endangered.
Gideon climbed out, waiting to take first Zeb by the hand to help him, then to swing Rebekah out and hold on as she wobbled down the steep slope. Last, he extended both hands to Hannah, and for one moment, they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes.
As if she were made of glass, he said in a low, deep voice, “Anyone whose house or outbuildings or even fields were damaged will have the help they need to rebuild, just as we will receive help when we need it.”
“Ja, I know that,” she said. “And I like it when you say ‘we.’ ”
“It might be the best word in any language.” His head turned. “The kinder have run to the house, so I think we can have that kiss.”
She lifted her face to his, uncaring of the wind or deep gray skies, feeling as if she were bathed in sunshine. Gideon loved her, and now his lips met hers with tenderness, gratitude, and enough urgency for her to wish for more than this stolen moment.
* * *
* * *
Indeed, the coming weeks were to be spent helping with the cleanup. No lives had been lost, but news spread quickly so that everyone knew there’d been significant damage. Among their church district, Martha and Enoch Beiler, an older couple, had suffered the worst loss when their old farmhouse was leveled while they huddled, safe, in their shelter. The minister, Josiah Gingerich, and his wife would need a new barn, as did their next-door neighbors, the Wag-lers. Otherwise, fences had been ripped from the ground, fruit trees blown over, shingles scattered everywhere, sheds destroyed, and animals killed. A dozen or more farmers would need to replant some of their fields.
And, of course, Englisch neighbors had their own losses. The Amish would pitch in to help them, too, as they were able.
By morning, work parties were already being formed to clean up debris and repair roofs while plans were made for barn and house raisings.
Hannah had accompanied Gideon and his kinder to Sol and Lydia Graber’s home for this first day. Like many families, they would have rain leaking through into both their barn and house if patches were not made to the roofs. Hannah had been told that Sol and Lydia lost their oldest son a year ago when a car had hit their buggy, severely injuring Sol as well. How dreadful yesterday would have been, the two of them hugging their other kinder tight while the storm raged. They’d have been aware on the deepest level how quickly a kind could be snatched away. Like Gideon, they had known that their property meant nothing compared to those precious lives.
Their yard was a mess, littered with tree branches, fence posts, toys, and tools. Hannah and Rebekah had gone to work with a will, joined by Adah and Emma once Samuel and his family had arrived. Hannah kept an eye on several other kinder, too, whose parents were working on the barn or in the house.
She and Gideon had agreed that they wouldn’t tell Zeb and Rebekah about their plan to marry until she’d spoken to Amos. She assumed the Saturday appointment she’d made with him would be postponed. There were many needs greater than her own.
Yet, when another buggy arrived, Hannah recognized the bishop when he got out and tethered his horse. His glance swept over all the workers, stopping when he saw her. To her surprise, he walked over the grass to her.
“It’s good of you and Rebekah to help.”
Hannah smiled, as much at the sight of the little girl earnestly dragging a small branch to a pile where they would be burned as at what Amos Troyer had said.
“Of course we want to help! Gideon and Zeb are with the men rebuilding the corner of the barn and reroofing. Mose and Daad are here, too, up there.” She pointed at the pitched roof of the house, crawling with men hard at work.
“Is Lydia inside?”
“Ja, she and several other women are putting together a meal and watching the younger kinder.”
“I’ll go say hello, then. I’m trying to find out how everyone in my district fared, and where and when we’ll need to hold work frolics. Bishop Ropp and I will be able to plan them so that we can have the most helpers possible at each. Will you be able to take a few minutes to talk once I stick my head in the kitchen to greet people? I may not have a chance tomorrow, and why wait?”
“Denke,” she said gratefully. “I’d like that.”
Amos dipped his head. “Then I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Hannah asked a woman she’d met when dropping off the kinder at school to keep an eye on the girls, and told Rebekah what she’d be doing. Ready when she saw Amos returning from the house, she left her work gloves on the grass next to the trunk of a plum tree that had lost several branches.
He fell into step with her, saying nothing as they strolled along the side of the house. She’d asked for this meeting, so apparently it was up to her to start it.
“I want to convert to the Amish faith,” she said simply. “I think it’s been my faith all along, and I just didn’t know it. I’ve always been drawn to the teachings about forgiveness, nonviolence, and trusting in the Lord without knowing I’d heard them as a young child.”
Under his gentle questioning, she told him some of what she’d already confessed to Gideon. Her loneliness, a faint frustration because, even as she took to heart the teachings from services held in countless churches as she and her mother moved around, she had never known how to integrate them into her life.
Amos stopped walking at that moment, and smiled at her, the skin beside his eyes crinkled. “Fro
m what I’ve seen and heard about you, I think you’ve done that better than you believe. Everyone who has spoken to me about you mentions your warmth, your instinctive kindness, how readily any of the kinder trust you. Your father is proud of the woman you became. Sad that he didn’t have the chance to see it happen, but he forgives your mamm because she raised you to be generous, helping others without a second thought. It seems to me Rebekah has blossomed under your guidance.”
“I love her.”
“Ja, so I’ve noticed. I think it’s not only Rebekah that you love.” His sidelong glance held shrewdness as well as kindness.
“That’s true,” she admitted, voice stifled.
Of course, that was the moment her gaze turned toward the barn just as Gideon stepped into sight. He’d probably been checking up on Rebekah, but now he looked at Amos and then her. Although their eyes had barely met, Hannah felt both heartened and strengthened, knowing she had Gideon’s support, and always would.
He nodded at them both before going back around the corner of the barn and out of sight.
Amos’s eyebrows had climbed. “You are not alone in your feelings, I think.”
Hannah couldn’t lie to this man. “No. Just yesterday, we admitted what we feel for each other. Gideon stayed silent,” she added hastily, “until I told him I intended to talk to you about getting baptized.”
They walked and talked for another twenty minutes, Amos wanting assurance that her decision was one of faith, not romance.
“That’s not a mistake I would ever make,” she told him. “Not after seeing how many people were hurt by my mother breaking trust because her commitment wasn’t sincere.”
Amos gave her another of those shrewd looks, and stroked his beard. “You seem to be a steady woman who sees herself clearly.”
“More clearly than I did before I came home.”
“Good.” He outlined his expectations for her: several more meetings with him and perhaps one or more ministers, and then her participation in the series of classes that would take place in October and early November, taken both by converts like her and the Amish young preparing for baptism. “Most Amish weddings take place in November, too,” he said. “Should you be ready to plan for such a thing.”
Finding Hope Page 30