Meek and Mild Read online

  “John,” Andrew said, “we are true friends, are we not?”

  John nodded. “For many years.”

  “Then please speak freely.”

  John scraped a boot through the dirt. “The meidung will not bring unity to the church. I will not shun, no matter what the rule.”

  Andrew took in a long breath through his nose, waiting for the rest.

  “The Yoders refuse to regard the Maryland congregations as true Amish churches,” John said. “They also refuse the truth that some in our midst are prepared to join the Marylanders if they continue to push the question of shunning families and neighbors.”

  “I see,” Andrew said. “You are considering this.”

  “Have you not?” John met Andrew’s gaze. “You are the one with an English automobile.”

  “It is only a matter of time before the church must consider the question of automobiles,” Andrew said. “I do not presume to know what the answer will be.”

  “And if the congregation votes that we must not follow the English way in the matter, will you sell your car?”

  Andrew worked his lips from side to side but did not answer.

  Yonnie straightened his spine against Noah Yoder’s barn so tightly that he felt the seams between the slats of wood. Next to him, the window was open.

  “Have you been to see Mamm?” Noah asked his brother. “How is Daed today?”

  “He sleeps all day,” Joseph said.

  “Has the doctor been in?”

  “She won’t have an English doctor. Mrs. Weaver came by with some herbs.”

  A fly buzzed around Yonnie’s left ear. He waved a hand. The fly circled and swooped in again, this time settling on the window ledge. Yonnie stared at it while he listened.

  “I pray he recovers soon,” Noah said. “I am beginning to hear talk among the church families.”

  “He must recover,” Joseph said. “If Mose Beachy becomes bishop now, the church will lose its way.”

  “The lot would more likely fall to you or me. As long as we stand together, God’s truth will prevail.”

  The fly twitched and lifted, making a straight line toward Yonnie’s face. He blinked and swatted. Unthinking, he moved his left foot to rebalance.

  He had not seen the slop bucket earlier. Now it clattered against the side of the barn before spilling its swill across his boot.

  “Who’s out there?” Joseph’s voice boomed through the open window.

  Yonnie held his breath, hoping blame for the disturbance would fall to an unseen stray dog or a clumsy barn cat. He dragged the side of his boot through the dirt in an attempt to dislodge food scraps. When he looked up, Noah was coming around the corner of the barn.

  “What are you doing here, Yonnie?”

  Now Joseph’s face popped through the window. “Didn’t you find our milk in the spring?”

  “Ya,” Yonnie said. “I found it.”

  The brothers waited.

  “I’m sorry about the bucket,” Yonnie said.

  “Have you come to visit, then?” Noah raised his eyebrows.

  Yonnie shifted his weight. “I wonder if you might be looking for a hired hand.”

  “I would think you’d be plenty busy,” Joseph said. “Between your job at the dairy and working on your daed’s farm, you must wear yourself thin.”

  “My brothers are a big help on the farm now,” Yonnie said, “and it may be time for me to find other work. I am not proud. I would do whatever you ask of me, on either of your farms—or your father’s.”

  “I thought you wanted your own farm.” Joseph leaned both arms across the window ledge.

  “I do. I’m still saving for a down payment.”

  “What’s brought this on?” Noah asked. “You’ve been with Dale Borntrager for a long time.”

  Yonnie looked from one brother to another. “I find myself unsettled there of late.”

  “It’s a solid business,” Joseph said. “Steady employment.”

  “In my spirit, I discern that working for someone else would keep me obedient.”

  “I see,” Joseph said. “So you feel it is the will of the Lord to seek other employment?”

  “I do. If I were to work for the bishop’s sons, both ministers of good conscience, my own position would be more clear.”

  “Is there something you want to tell us about Dale?” Noah said. “Perhaps the Holy Ghost has convicted you to come forward.”

  Yonnie swallowed. The fly buzzed at the back of his neck. “I only seek to safeguard my submission to the church.”

  “You have chosen wisely,” Noah said. “You can be certain of our calling to protect and pass on the faith of our fathers.”

  “Thank you for bringing Dale Borntrager to our attention,” Joseph said. “We will be sure to pay him a call.”

  Yonnie toyed with regret. If the Yoder brothers confronted Dale, he hoped they would not mention his name—at least not unless they offered him work. Any of Dale’s employees might have gone to the ministers, he realized. They all knew Dale continued to do business with people the bishop placed under the ban. Still, Dale’s suspicions would settle on Yonnie soon enough.

  “Might you have work for me?” Yonnie asked again.

  “We’ll need to consider the question.” Noah glanced at his brother. “We still have time before the harvest. Why don’t we speak again in a week or two.”

  A scowl settled on Yonnie’s face. Everything could change in a week or two. The bishop might or might not recover. The congregation might or might not have a new bishop. The Yoders might or might not confront Dale, who might or might not decide Yonnie deserved no further warnings.

  “Thank you for your time,” Yonnie said. He banished the word might from his mind. Yes, anything could happen, but God’s will was certain—and how could he regret God’s will?

  I don’t see them.” Rhoda lifted Mari from the buggy and set her on the ground outside the Flag Run Meetinghouse.

  “It’s still early,” Hiram said.

  “I don’t care if he is the bishop,” Rhoda said, “his wife is not going to let him come to church if he’s been ill all week.”

  Clara was the last to exit the buggy and dallied as her family walked ahead. She spied Wanda Eicher wrestling with her toddlers. With a child on her hip and another swelling her belly, Wanda might have stood there all morning pleading for the recalcitrant boy’s cooperation. Clara strode over, lifted the stunned child, and set him on his feet.

  “Thank you,” Wanda said. “He insists on independent thinking every moment of the day now.”

  “He doesn’t seem the worse for wear.” Clara brushed off the boy’s trousers and held his hand tightly. “I’ll sit in the back with you, if you like.”

  “Everybody wants to know about the bishop,” Wanda said. They started to walk. “It’s not as if he’s never been ill before.”

  “They say it’s very bad this time.”

  “Whoever they are,” Wanda said. “The illness gets more severe with every telling.”

  Clara nodded. What Wanda said was true. In the absence of facts about the bishop’s illness, rumors had crisscrossed the district all week.

  They settled in the rear of the meetinghouse, each of them holding a child in her lap. The men marched in, a hymn began, and the ministers withdrew to determine who would preach. After twelve stanzas, the hymn faded and prayerful silence descended while the congregation waited for one of the men to feel moved to begin another.

  When Clara heard the tenor strains, she knew the voice immediately.

  Andrew.

  “To be like Christ we love one another, through everything, here on this earth,” he sang.

  Clara was one of the first to join. “We love one another, not just with words but in deeds.”

  The hymn mounted gently with admonition. “If we have of this world’s goods (no matter how much or how little) and see that our brother has a need, but do not share with him what we have freely received? How can we say that
we would be ready to give our lives for him if necessary?”

  Clara watched the door through which the ministers would return. If only there were a way for Mose Beachy to preach both sermons. The rhythms of the hymn rose and fell with its centuries-old tune and High German words. Clara, who knew the words by heart, chided herself to heed their message.

  “The one who is not faithful in the smallest thing, and who still seeks his own good which his heart desires, how can he be trusted with a charge over heavenly things? Let us keep our eyes on love!”

  Faithful in the smallest thing.

  Clara’s lips stilled as she paused to absorb the challenge. All of her life felt small.

  Let us keep our eyes on love!

  The next worship Sunday would be the day of preparation, the final worship service before the fall communion the next time the congregation gathered. The hymn’s message was a fit one for the occasion, giving everyone something to meditate on in the coming weeks. Clara stroked the drowsy head of the child in her lap while she sang and prayed that the words would sink into her own heart.

  When the ministers returned, the postures of Noah and Joseph Yoder announced that the lot had fallen to both of them to preach. Clara clung to the words she had just sung as disappointment seeped through her spirit.

  Lord, let me hear Your truth. Clara took the first of many deep breaths that would see her through the service. Despite the inner peace Clara cultivated for the next two hours, the end of the sermons had the effect on the congregation that became more predictable on each Sunday the church gathered.

  Relief.

  Clara could think of no other word to describe the aggregate sensation as she heard the rolling wave of sighs.

  “Well, that’s that,” Wanda said after the final hymn, “at least for another two weeks.”

  “The singing was nice,” Clara said. Let us keep our eyes on love! Eyes and words and hearts, Clara thought.

  The boy in her arms slept soundly, a condition that overtook him at the midpoint of the first sermon. Awake, his sister squirmed in Wanda’s arms.

  “Let me take him,” Wanda said.

  Clara shook her head. She rather liked the sensation of the child limp in surrender, his mouth opening and closing in shallow breaths. “I’ll just sit with him a few more minutes,” she said.

  Wanda winced and put a hand on her belly. Her daughter took advantage of the moment to escape Wanda’s lap.

  Clara’s heart thudded as she caught the little girl’s hand to keep her from wandering off. “Are you all right, Wanda?”

  Wanda’s shoulders rose and fell three times with her breath before she replied. “That was rather a sharp pain.”

  “How close is your time?”

  “Not close enough for this.” Wanda’s face tightened again.

  Clara looked around. “I’ll find your husband.”

  Wanda put a hand on Clara’s arm. “No. You have no idea the fuss that would stir up.”

  “If you are unwell, he should stir up a fuss.”

  “It’s easing up.” Wanda leaned back on the bench. “I’m all right.”

  The little girl tugged against Clara’s grasp. “I want my daed.”

  Clara wondered if the child was capable of finding her father and bringing him back into the meetinghouse.

  “We’ll go together,” Wanda said. She braced herself to stand up.

  “Wanda—”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Tell somebody.”

  “It’s nothing, Clara.” Wanda steadied herself on her feet. “Odd things happen when a woman is with child. Someday you’ll understand. Not every twinge means something is wrong.”

  That was more than a twinge, Clara thought. It might mean something was wrong.

  Clara offered no further argument aloud, though she noticed Wanda was not walking as easily as she had a few hours ago.

  The benches gradually emptied and conversations clustered and spattered the meetinghouse.

  “We need another vote,” a woman whispered behind Clara, who did not try to turn and see the speaker lest the boy wake. Clara had enough experience with small children to respect the final vestiges of a nap.

  “If we change the vote, they will have to stop preaching these sermons.”

  “Undoing a unanimous vote that has stood for more than twenty years will not be easy.” The second voice carried caution.

  “My husband and I have given up talking about it, but I think it’s time we began again. Surely some of the older men can do something.”

  The women drifted away with their hushed conversation. Clara caught Andrew’s eye as he moved past in conversation with John Stutzman. Later, when they were alone, she would have to remember to thank him for choosing the hymn that had kept her calm.

  Wanda’s son lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. “Where’s my mamm?”

  Clara rearranged his shirt and straightened his suspenders, as she had done for Josiah when he was this age. With three young half siblings, she knew she could care for a child—or a half dozen. Mrs. Schrock was right. In her own home, Clara could tell as many Bible stories as she wished.

  If only the thought of birthing a child did not terrify her.

  The boy slid off Clara’s lap, and she trailed him outside to be sure he found his mother.

  During lunch, Clara moved between tables, sometimes listening to the conversation before her but just as often catching snippets of interchanges behind her or down the table.

  “The bishop’s sons will make sure nothing changes.”

  “Now is the time to ask for reasonable consideration.”

  “Pray for the bishop. Protect your heart from thinking ill.”

  “Mose Beachy should speak out more. It’s his duty.”

  For the most part, Clara did not have to look around to know how opinions lined up. Those with a family relationship to the Yoders close enough to inspire loyalty tended more and more to band together. A few other families, headed by men who had known the bishop for decades, took their plates and sat with the Yoders and those who had married into the Yoders. The much larger group were church members with family scattered over the border between the Pennsylvania and Maryland districts.

  Clara was grateful Andrew’s connection to the Yoders was distant enough that he felt free to think for himself. She sponged up the last of the gravy on her plate with a final bite of biscuit and peeked at Rhoda. Mari was refusing to eat, Rhoda had barely touched her own food, and Hannah was nowhere in sight. All of this left Clara with the conclusion she had time for some fresh air before the Kuhns would be ready to depart and she would have to decide whether to go with them.

  She was barely out of the clearing when two small forms popped out from behind a tree.

  Clara gasped. “You startled me.”

  “We’ve been waiting and waiting,” Priscilla Schrock said.

  “We want a story,” Lillian said.

  A few yards farther away, Hannah and Naomi appeared.

  “It doesn’t have to be a long one like the sermons in church.” Priscilla’s features settled in the most earnest expression Clara had ever seen on a six-year-old. “God can speak to us in a short story.”

  Clara sighed. “I’m afraid we can’t have a story today.”

  “I told you she would say that,” Hannah said. “Next time you should believe me.”

  “Hannah’s right,” Clara said. “But you can have a lovely time playing together and enjoying your Sabbath.”

  Clara ignored the ring of dramatic scowls and hastened her stride. At the sound of steps crunching behind her, she turned to reiterate that there would be no story. But the girls were scampering in the other direction.

  “Yonnie,” Clara said.

  “What did they mean about stories?” Yonnie’s blocky form continued toward her.

  “Never mind,” she said. “It’s nothing.”

  “It didn’t sound like nothing.”

  Clara resumed walking. Yonnie kept pac
e. The last thing she needed was for Yonnie to get wind of the Bible stories she told the girls.

  “You know the imagination children that age have.” Clara rummaged around her mind for a change of subject. If she could manage something kind, perhaps the rift between Andrew and Yonnie would not seem as impassable as it had the last few weeks. “I heard talk that your father’s crop is plentiful this year. I’m sure you had something to do with that. Everyone says you understand the soil.”

  “Our family works together,” Yonnie said.

  “We would all do well to follow your example.”

  “Better our example than others’.”

  Clara stifled a sigh. She pitied Yonnie Yoder. He had no notion of how smug he sounded.

  “Andrew has too much joy in his automobile,” Yonnie said. “It will be trouble.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Clara shot back, already chastising herself for being unable to sustain her good intention for more than eight seconds.

  “No, it doesn’t—if Andrew makes the right choice.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The bishop will not be in seclusion forever. If you are true to your faith, there are things you give up.” Yonnie pivoted abruptly and reversed his direction.

  Clara had always detested that particular Amish proverb. She balled her fists to keep herself from scooping up a handful of pebbles to throw at the back of Yonnie’s head.

  Her urge for a few minutes of fresh air matured into the resolution for a good long walk. If she did not turn up at the Kuhn buggy when Rhoda and Hiram were ready to leave, they would assume she had decided to go to the Singing and would find a way home later. Clara wanted to bolt for the meetinghouse, collect Andrew, and disappear with him. Instead, she bided her time by taking that long walk and ending up at the appointed barn for the Singing. Dutifully, she sat among the unmarried women and watched Andrew from across the barn. He sang with enthusiasm, his tenor piercing the gathering with its irresistible precise pitch.

  The hymns passed, the evening ended, and the moment Clara awaited all day arrived. She was alone with Andrew in his buggy.

  “The hymn you started this morning convicted me,” she said.

  Let us keep our eyes on love!