Love Redeemed (32 page)

“My judgment—”

“Your judgment is fine. Gott led you on a path today that saved Sarah's life. He guided you and kept you and Sarah and Hannah safe. Because of that you were able to save her.”

“He did.” Her voice filled with wonder. “I did.”

“It's nothing to get a big head over, but it's something to remember.” Katie leaned back and closed her eyes for a few seconds “It's something for us all to remember. We'll be all right. We'll be all right.”

Gott, I'm ready. You've shown me the way. Thy will be done.

Chapter 30

I
nhaling the cool evening air, Michael stepped up to the plate, dug his heels into the dirt, and took a gentle practice swing. These guys brought aluminum bats. They felt different from the old wooden ones he'd learned to use on the field by the school in Bliss Creek. That seemed like a hundred years ago. They didn't have bases so they used old tin cans. Most of them didn't even have mitts. He'd received a glove for Christmas the year he turned ten. He still had it in his room at home.

If they hadn't given away his things.

Having a glove didn't matter. Even the teacher had played. So had Phoebe. She'd hitch up her skirt and run like a little jackrabbit whenever she got a hit—which was most of the time. She loved to play baseball and she was good at it. Every time he heard the ping of the ball against bat or the slap of a fist against a mitt or smelled the leather, he thought of her. So why did he keep coming back for more? This was his third game in the last two weeks. He winced, expecting the usual sharp pain these memories always brought. Not this time. This time, all he could feel was longing. A longing so deep if he inhaled he would drown in it.

He came because the exercise felt good and he liked the company. Sophie's brothers were good folks. So were their other teammates. Everyone had made him feel welcome. For the first time in months,
he could relax. The smell of dirt and sweat and old leather made him feel at home…almost home. He waggled the bat and stared at the pitcher, a skinny guy wearing a St. Louis Cardinals T-shirt and a red cap. He had red hair and freckles to match. Time to forget the past and focus on bringing Robert, who was dancing back and forth off second base, home.

The other team picked up their chatter, baiting him. “Here batter, batter, batter, here batter. Swing, batter, swing!”

He ignored them and took another practice swing. The sun would be down soon and the field they commandeered in the park not far from Sophie's house had no lights. Already dusk made seeing the ball harder, but with two previous games under his belt, Michael had grown used to the less-than-ideal playing conditions. The pitch came. He swung and connected, a solid hit that made the bat reverberate in his hands. He tossed it aside and sped toward first base. The ball sailed into the gap between centerfield and leftfield. He rounded first and chugged into second while Robert slid into home plate despite the fact that the ball was still in the outfield. He just liked sliding. He liked the dirt on his pants.

“Way to go, Michael!” Sophie's high voice carried from the sideline. She sat alone on the top row of bleachers in her flowered skirt and white blouse, looking like a flower herself. “Good hit!”

He'd never seen her with friends, girls her own age. Did she have friends? It was Thursday night. A school night, but she didn't seem worried about studying or the time. She didn't seem worried about anything.

At home plate, Leo went down in three straight swinging strikes. The guy needed eyeglasses. Two of the pitches were wide. Three outs and the game ended. Michael hadn't been keeping track of the score, but the combined whooping and hollering of the other team told the story.

“Good game. We'll get them next time.” Timothy shoved bats and balls into a large bag. “That was a good catch you made in the third inning.”

“Thanks. You didn't do so bad yourself.”

“We used to play almost every night in the summer when I was younger.”

“We did too.”

Timothy's hand went to his head. Looking for his hat. Michael had done that a few times before he'd broken himself of the habit.

“You taking the bus home again?” Timothy lived in an apartment he shared with a couple of guys who worked for the same construction company. He didn't have a car either. “I'm headed that direction.”

“Yes. I have to open the diner in the morning.”

“How is that—working at a restaurant?”

Michael shrugged. He couldn't quite explain it. He'd never seen himself doing this kind of work, what he'd once considered women's work. Washing dishes and clearing tables. But the day he'd started working for Oscar had been a good day. A day when someone took a chance on him. “It's a job. I didn't have much when I got here and my boss is a nice man.”

“Jah, but it's not something you want to do forever, is it?” Timothy examined a red spot on his index finger. Looked like a splinter, maybe. “Reason I ask is the foreman on my crew said today that they'll be hiring another carpenter after the holidays. We'll finish out a lot of interiors during the winter months. You interested?”

Swinging a hammer. Michael knew how to do that. He'd gone to barn raisings and such since he was old enough to walk. Good, hard work. No steam, no detergent, no dried egg yolks or sticky syrup.

No Oscar or Crystal or Lana.

The construction company hired Plain men because they were hard workers and they knew what they were doing. He'd be with his own kind.

Which had its drawbacks. Coming to Springfield was intended to be his new start. Working with a bunch of Plain men would only lead to the same old questions, the same old discussions.

“Look, it was just a thought.” Timothy nibbled at the spot on his finger and grimaced. “It probably pays more and you could move out of that motel you're staying in.”

“You should probably use a needle to get that splinter out.” Michael
tucked the mitt Leo had loaned him under his arm and started toward the sidewalk. “You think you'll be staying?”

“At the construction job you mean?”

“In Springfield.”

Timothy stuck his fist in his pocket as if to keep from messing with the splinter. “I expect I will. I'm not going back.”

“You don't miss it?”

“I like my pockets.”

“Your pockets?”

“I like deciding whether I can have pockets on my pants. I like microwaving popcorn.” He smiled as if it were a joke, but it wasn't. “And I don't think any of those things will keep me out of heaven.”

What Timothy meant to say was he didn't agree with the Ordnung and couldn't abide by it. Which meant he couldn't be baptized. He couldn't go home. He didn't belong there.

He and Michael were different. “I think I'll stick to the diner. Right now, I best get home and get some sleep.”

“No, no, you guys can't go yet!” Sophie called as she rushed across the field toward them, looking like a child about to throw a tantrum. “They're having an ice cream social for the youth group at the church this evening and I just know there's still ice cream. And Mama took her homemade brownies.”

“Okay, okay.” Michael couldn't resist Mrs. Weaver's brownies. They were so like his own mudder's. “But I have to make it quick.”

Every game ended with some kind of invitation to a youth group occasion at the church. He knew what Sophie was doing and he didn't blame her. It was her way. Besides, he liked the group. He liked the baseball. Even though they were Mennonites, they were so much like his own folks, given to plain talk, hard work and kindness, and good cooking and simple fun.

“Good.” Sophie clapped her hands and crowed. “You too, Timothy, you too.”

“Me too.” The big guy grinned. He sidled closer to Sophie, his skin turning a darker red. “I'm not passing up ice cream. Especially free ice cream and brownies. I can't buy groceries until payday.”

Laughing and talking, they strolled the three blocks to the church. Most of the crowd had dissipated already, but Sophie was right. Plenty of ice cream remained, and Mrs. Weaver had saved them a plate of her brownies. “Especially for you, Michael. I hear it's your birthday.”

His face burning, Michael groaned and waved a finger at Sophie. “I told you that in confidence.”

“If you think we're gonna let your birthday pass without marking it, you've got rocks in your head.” Sophie wielded an ice cream scoop with the deftness of much practice, dumping a scoop each of chocolate, vanilla, and cookie dough into a bowl. She topped it with a brownie and added chocolate syrup and a sprinkle of nuts. “Happy birthday, Michael!”

He accepted her offering and shoveled a big bite into his mouth.

“And I have something else for you.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “A little, small something.”

He laid the bowl on the table and took the rectangular package. As soon as he felt its weight and substance in his hand, he knew. A book. The book. “Sophie.”

“Open it later.” Her cheeks turned pink.

Despite his best intentions, he stayed another hour, watching Sophie and her brothers clown around and chat with their friends from the youth group. They reminded him so much of Daniel and Rachel and Molly and…Phoebe. Of course, Phoebe. His nineteenth birthday and he was hundreds of miles from home. It might as well have been millions. He wondered what she was doing tonight. Did she remember that today was his birthday?

Last year her family had come to the house for supper the night of his birthday. He hadn't had the guts to speak to her directly, even though she'd been nice enough to bring him a present. A new hat. She insisted his old one smelled like horse. Everyone laughed and she grinned, looking pleased with herself. He smiled at the memory of her insistence that he throw the old hat away, hands on her hips, feet planted, a frown she could barely keep on her face. He managed to say
danki
, sure his face had turned the color of bricks. So much lost time. If he'd been able to tell her how he felt then, would things have been different?

They might have been married by the time their families took the trip to Stockton Lake. No sneaking around. No terrible, terrible consequences.

He closed his eyes, suddenly too tired to think, let alone walk to the bus stop. Better get going before the last bus or he'd be hoofing it all the way to the motel. He forced himself to stand. “Thanks, Mrs. Weaver. For everything.”

She smiled. “Don't be a stranger.”

She always said that.
Don't be a stranger.
The Weaver family never met a stranger they couldn't turn into a friend.

He wound his way through the chairs and tables in the fellowship hall and made it to the door before Sophie noticed. “Hey, aren't you at least going to say goodbye?”

“Sorry. I don't want to miss my bus and walk all the way to the motel.”

“You forgot this.” She followed him through the door and out into the parking lot, the package clutched in one hand. “It's rude not to accept a present.”

“We don't do Bible study.”

“But you do read the Bible, don't you?”

“What if I already have one?” He did. His groosmammi had given him her German Bible before she died. He didn't read German very well, but enough to get the gist. “Maybe I don't need one.”

“Knowing how and why you left home, I'm thinking you didn't bring it with you.” Smiling, she held out the package. “And you always need one. Always. Happy birthday.”

He accepted her offering. Her eyes were full of something he couldn't identify, something he hadn't seen there before. They were big and blue and clear as sky. She looked so sweet.

For one horrifying second, he thought he would lean down and kiss her.

No. No. No.
He backed away. The smile on her face faded and her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Michael? What's wrong? You look like you don't feel good.”

They were friends. She'd befriended a complete stranger, alone in a
strange city. He was thankful for her. What was wrong with him? Look where kissing a girl had gotten him in the past.

Phoebe. He wanted Phoebe. Sophie, he loved. He was sure of that. But he wasn't in lieb with her. So why had his thoughts gone there? Was that the only way he knew to express his feelings to a girl he liked? His stomach churned and a wave of nausea made him put his hand to his mouth. What was wrong with him?

“Thank you.” He choked out the words, whirled, and almost ran across the parking lot.

“You're welcome.” Sophie hollered. “I don't know what your big hurry is. Whatever's chasing you can't be left behind. It won't stop bothering you. Not until you stop running and face it.”

He wanted to yell at her that she didn't know what she was talking about, but he was afraid he'd vomit. Mostly because she was right. And it wasn't nice. And because he was too busy walking away.

He kept going until he reached the bus stop. He knew he'd been mean to Sophie, but he couldn't help it. She had him all mixed up. Out of breath, he eased on to the bench and turned her package over and over in his hands. Finally, he ripped off the brown wrapping paper fast, in one swoop, like ripping a bandage from a wound. As he had suspected, the gold lettering on the outside read
Holy Bible.
An Englisch translation. Little yellow sticky notes stuck out the top, marking pages. He opened the book and found a note from Sophie. “Start anywhere you like. You can't go wrong. But I like Micah 7:18-20.”

Not able to resist, he turned to the page and began to read. He read it over and over again. Then closed the book and closed his eyes.

Thank You, God, for being faithful despite how often I mess up. You never fail. You forgive. Your grace never ends. Help me to help myself. To forgive myself. Show me the road. I feel like I'm walking around blind, bumping into things and people and hurting everyone in my path. Help me.