The Calling (11 page)

Bethany put a red-checkered napkin on top of the breakfast tray to keep the food hot while she walked it over to the guest flat. Coffee in a thermos, cream in a small pitcher, six blueberry pancakes, syrup, four strips of bacon, two halves of a grapefruit, one bowl of cereal, and a large glass of orange juice. One thing she had learned quickly about this little lady preacher—she had a sizable appetite. Each morning, the tray was returned empty. Practically licked clean.

Bethany barely knocked on the door and Geena opened it with a big smile. Bethany set the tray on the little kitchen table. “What are you planning to do today? Most of our guests go over to Bird-in-Hand or Intercourse to shop. Those towns are more touristy than Stoney Ridge.”

“Already been. To each and every town along the Philadelphia Pike. I’m kind of tired of being a tourist and thought I’d do more hiking in the hills. I do need better hiking shoes. Any chance there’s a shoe store nearby?

“Only if you happen to be a horse.”

Geena turned half around to her and smiled. She poured some cream into her coffee and stirred, took a sip, and got a look on her face like she was instantly transported to Heaven. “I don’t know what you do to the coffee, but it is delicious.”

“Broken-up eggshells. I add them to the grounds. Takes the bitterness out.”

“Everything is so good, Bethany. You and Rose are excellent cooks.”

Bethany was pleased. Not all the guests were easy to delight.
A few were fussier than Mammi Vera and that was saying a lot. Last week a man stayed at Eagle Hill and knocked on the kitchen door one morning. He told Mammi Vera he’d like to show her the proper way to make a poached egg. She scolded him in a rapid stream of Penn Dutch and thoroughly confused him so that he tucked tail and hurried off to the guest flat.

“Well, I’m due at the Grange Hall soon. Serving lunch to the down-and-out of Stoney Ridge,” Bethany said as she walked to the door.

“Need any help?

Bethany spun around. Was Geena serious? “Well, sure. The sisters who run it could always use an extra pair of hands. But I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

Geena was already seated, napkin in her lap, fork in her hand. “I’ll be ready.”

The sisters were delighted to meet Geena and very curious about her—they had never met a lady preacher before, they said. Geena explained she was a youth pastor, not a preacher, but they didn’t seem to think there was a distinction. They were quiet, watching her carefully, but Bethany could see they were itching to ask Geena something. Like an avalanche that began with a pebble, Ella asked one thing first, then Fannie, and soon, all five sisters pummeled her with questions.

What did she preach about? All kinds of topics from the Bible. Did she wear long black robes? No. Were folks nice to her? Mostly. Did they accept having a lady preacher? Again, she explained she was a youth pastor. What did she like best about being a lady preacher? Serving God by caring for the youth. What did she like least? Well, preaching.

It seemed no time at all before they had arrived at the Grange Hall, the kitchen was unlocked and the groceries were stacked
on the countertop. Geena seemed to know how to help without being asked. She walked right into the kitchen and pulled open the dishwasher. It was full of clean dishes, so she put them away, opening cupboard doors and quickly getting familiar with the layout of the kitchen. In no time at all, soup was simmering on the stove, the tables were set, bread and butter were on the tables, and the down-and-outers were lining up outside.

Bethany didn’t mind making meals for the down-and-outers. She was getting to know each one and understand why they were where they were; each one had a story. She liked keeping busy and she loved to cook, but her pleasure dissipated when the wayward girls from the Group Home arrived. Those girls made her uncomfortable, especially that red-haired girl.

When the red-haired girl walked inside, she looked all around the room like she owned the place, then swaggered over to a table. The other girls followed behind her and sat around her. The red-haired girl stared at Bethany without friendliness. She met that girl’s dark eyes, standing her ground. Inside, though, Bethany felt a chill run up her spine.

Geena walked right up to the wayward girls’ table and introduced herself. Once, Bethany even heard her laughing—Geena had a very distinctive low-sounding laugh—and she wondered what was so funny. The red-haired girl, she noticed, acted like she didn’t care if Geena was there or not.

That was the thing about those girls. None of them seemed to care.

Mid-afternoon, after the kitchen was cleaned up, the women started back down the road that led to the Sisters’ House with empty wagons. As they passed the vacant lot between the Group Home and the Grange, Bethany looked at it more carefully. Trash and tumbleweeds blew into the lot,
catching on junk of various kinds—discarded tires, plastic grocery bags, sawed-off tree limbs, a couch where two girls sat smoking . . . something small that didn’t look like a cigarette. One of those girls was that red-haired girl.

“I just have to say,” Bethany said, “that lot is an eyesore and I think something should be done about it. Who owns it, anyway?”

“I think it belongs to the Grange Hall,” Sylvia said.

Fannie raised her eyebrows. “Bethany, what would you like to be done with the lot?”

“I don’t know,” Bethany said. “I haven’t thought about that. I wish those girls had something to do besides just sit around and stare at people.”

Lena nodded. “They’re bored.”

“Sylvia, didn’t you say there was a housemother at the Group Home? Can’t she make those girls do something?”

“Mrs. Green? She does her best but she’s old and tired.”

Bethany had seen Mrs. Green. She was at least thirty years younger than the sisters. Maybe even younger.

“When school starts in the fall, the girls will be busy during the day,” Fannie said.

Bethany glanced at the girls on the abandoned couch. “Seems like they could be gardening on that lot or mowing grass or washing windows at the house. Something.”

Geena stopped for a moment to look it over. “Maybe the yard could be turned into—a big garden! Or better still, lots of little garden plots. It gets plenty of daylight, all day long.” She turned to Sylvia. “Wouldn’t that be something? A community garden.”

“It would indeed.” Sylvia inclined her head, a quizzical expression on her brow. “Do you think it’s possible?”

Geena turned to Bethany. “I’m a city girl. What would it take?”

“I guess we’d have to build raised beds and bring in topsoil. That dirt is no good.”

Sylvia nodded. “I think that’s a splendid idea, Bethany. You need a project and it needs you.”

Bethany stopped. “Wait a minute. I didn’t mean
we
as in
me
. I meant it in the generic sense.”

Sylvia smiled. “‘We’ doesn’t always mean somebody else.”

Oh no. Bethany did
not
need another project. Cleaning out the Sisters’ House was more than enough for anyone—and it was not a job for the faint of heart.

“Imagine that!” Fannie said, clasping her hands in delight. “Bethany and the lady preacher want to start a community garden! Plots for each family in need. Maybe a few for the Group Home. That would keep those girls busy and teach them skills too! It’s a wonderful idea.”

Me?
How did one tiny suggestion get carried away? “It’s already the end of June,” Bethany pointed out. “Too late for planting.” The Eagle Hill garden had been planted weeks ago. Same with Naomi’s. Strawberries had already come and gone.

“No—not necessarily,” Sylvia said. “Amos Lapp has plants in his greenhouse, year-round. He could help us by providing starts. Tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, even corn. And then there’s fall planting too—swiss chard and spinach and lettuce and carrots. All kinds of things could get in the ground before the first frost hits in October.”

Bethany thought of the vacant lot, the hostile girls, and then Sylvia’s description of the gardens. In that instant, she caught the vision. She saw the garden in full summer, corn
tasseling, pumpkins sprawling, those bored-looking girls plucking tomatoes they’d grown themselves.

She realized she hadn’t thought about Jake Hertzler or her brother Tobe or her mother or father or any other unsolved problem for at least an hour, maybe more. Maybe she did need a project. She turned to Sylvia. “We’ll look into it.”

Geena woke before dawn and couldn’t go back to sleep. Too much was swirling through her mind. She tiptoed to the kitchen to warm some milk for hot chocolate. The milk in the pan frothed and Geena poured it into a chocolate powder she had spooned into the bottom of the mug. She stirred it and took the mug to the sofa, the one by the window, where the soft morning light was just starting to fill the room. Bethany had showed her how to light the stove, but she wasn’t quite sure she could manage lighting a kerosene lamp without supervision. She was sure she’d blow up this Amish farmhouse.

Her Bible was in her other hand. Her comfort, her solace. It was leather-bound and well loved, a gift from her father when she graduated from seminary. Its binding had broken and its pages thinned to onionskin. She had always felt that if a fire swept through her belongings, this is the one thing she would grab. Everything else could go, but not this Bible.

Geena burrowed deep in the couch and gently opened the Bible to the center.
Ah. There.
The book of Psalms. They were like old friends, the Psalms, each with a word to address her needs—some for wisdom, some for thanksgiving, some for sorrow. This morning, she sought guidance and direction. She’d been at the Inn at Eagle Hill for eight days now. Rose told her there had been another reservation cancellation and she
could stay on through the weekend. She wanted to. But she also knew she had to start facing the inevitable: what to do next.

Psalm 27. She read aloud, softly. “Hear my voice when I call, L
ORD
; be merciful to me and answer me. . . . Do not hide your face from me, do not turn your servant away in anger; you have been my helper.”

How audacious. How wonderful! To think David spoke to God in such a familiar way and yet God called David a man after his own heart. The wonder and the mystery of a loving, holy God.

Her finger scrolled down to a verse she had underlined.
Teach me your way, L
ORD
;
lead me in a straight path because of my oppressors.

Who were her oppressors?

Fear. Insecurity. Self-doubt. Anxiety about her future.

Her eyes traveled to the end of the psalm.
Wait for the L
ORD
; be strong and take heart
and wait for the L
ORD
.

Geena leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Wait for the L
ORD
.
The words swirled around her mind, reminding her, bringing comfort and peace. Surely the God who set the stars in the sky would let her know when and where her next church would be.

Wait for the L
ORD
.

Of course. She would wait.

It was a good thing Edith Fisher slept like a hibernating bear. It gave Jimmy time to sneak out of the house early in the morning and sneak back in late at night. He took his meals at Galen’s. He was doing his very best to avoid any confrontation or conflict with his mother, because any interaction
with her meant a healthy dose of both. Few would guess that Jimmy disliked conflict, but he did. He never minded stirring things up, but he didn’t like to stick around long enough for the aftermath.

Long ago, he had learned that the best way to get along with his mother was to go along with her. At least on the surface. Under the surface, he quietly went about his own business. On this morning, he was tiptoeing down the stairs in his stocking feet when his mother met him at the base of the stairwell, arms akimbo.

“Have you spoken to Galen King yet?”

He stiffened. “About what?”

“About quitting that silly horse business and managing these chickens, full-time. That’s what. I’ve been talking about nothing else for weeks.”