Meek and Mild (19 page)

Naomi gently fingered a silken cornstalk. “Are there any stories in the Bible about crops?”

Clara swallowed hard, barely believing what she was about to do. “Crops and fields and soil and barns and so many things that are part of our life.”

“Tell us,” Priscilla said.

Clara sat on the ground and tucked her skirt around her knees. “This story is about a farmer sowing seed.” Clara dug her hand into the ground and let the black soil run through her fingers. “What difference do you think the soil makes?”

The girls all lived on Amish farms. Clara described four kinds of soil and four kinds of yields, watching their heads bob in understanding.

“What kind of soil are you?” she asked. “That’s the question Jesus wants us to think about.”

Thoughtful silence hung for a few seconds before a mother’s calling voice shattered it. The girls jumped up.

“We have to go,” Priscilla said. “When can we do this again?”

Clara hesitated. She loved their attentive faces and little-girl answers to the questions she asked as she navigated through the story. But telling them they could meet like this again would be an unfair, false promise.

“You’d better go,” she said. “Don’t keep your mothers waiting.”

The trio scampered down the row calling out to answer the summoning voice. Clara let the responses fade before she stood. It would only be a matter of time before one of the girls told an adult about the story—maybe even before suppertime that day. Most likely they would be admonished not to bother her, to tend to their chores, or to ask their questions about the Bible at home.

In this moment, though, Clara savored the flush of satisfaction.

Andrew turned a wrench and asked, “Why do you feel guilty?”

“I know it’s silly,” Clara said. “It’s not as if I put up a sign to advertise. I found Priscilla frightened in her own yard, and I couldn’t have known she would bring her friends to the field today at the same time I happened to walk through.”

“
Gottes wille
.” Andrew ducked into the engine again.

“That’s what Priscilla said.”

“She’s an Amish child,” Andrew said. “She probably learned to say ‘God’s will’ before she learned to say her own name.”

Clara chuckled.

“Did you tell them anything your father would not say?”

“My father is not much given to commentary. His method is Bible reading and silent reflection.”

“There’s a time and a place for that,” Andrew said, rubbing his hands on a rag, “but you have a gift for communicating with children that your
daed
might not share.”

“All I’ve done is tell a couple of stories about Jesus. Why do I feel so guilty?”

“I don’t know. Why do you?” Andrew caught Clara’s gaze.

She picked at a fingernail. “Perhaps because their parents don’t know.”

“Did you make the girls promise not to tell their parents?”

“No, of course not.”

Andrew turned a palm up as if his point were self-evident.

“No one but my father ever told me a Bible story, and he sticks to his favorites,” Clara said. “I didn’t understand most of the sermons at church. I had to learn to read High German before I could read the Bible for myself. I still have many, many questions about what everything means.”

“You don’t have to persuade me,” Andrew said, “but you’re making a pretty good argument that what you did will help those girls.”

“I suppose it does not feel very much like submission.” Clara studied the back of her hand. “No women in the church are teachers.”

“Mothers teach their children.” Andrew tossed his rag over a headlamp and stepped closer to Clara.

“That’s different. They have husbands to help guide them.”

“You could have a husband,” Andrew said. “And to remove all doubt, let me say that I believe you would do a wonderful job with our children and anyone else’s.”

She blushed. “Andrew—”

He held up a hand. “I know. You’re not ready. I’m not rushing you.”

Clara laid a hand on the Model T. “Do you ever feel guilty about the automobile?”

“Not especially.”

“Yonnie doesn’t think you are in submission, either.”

“I’m not worried about Yonnie.”

“He might tell the wrong person you have a car,” Clara said, “just like the girls might tell the wrong person about my stories. Bishop Yoder could make us both stand up and confess before the entire congregation.”

What Clara said was true—and if someone happened upon them together in this remote barn, the list of their transgressions would likely lengthen. But Andrew found fear an unlikely basis for a faithful life.

“If someone asks you not to speak to their children,” he said, “I am sure you would respect their wishes. And as for Yonnie? I will not borrow tomorrow’s trouble. The Bible tells us each day has enough trouble of its own, right?”

Clara nodded. She raised her eyes and looked beyond him. “You have a visitor.”

Andrew pivoted and saw Jurgen Hansen striding into the barn. He’d been so intent on listening to Clara that he hadn’t heard the sound of the vehicle Jurgen must have driven.

“Am I interrupting something?” Jurgen said.

“You’re always welcome,” Andrew said. “This is my friend Clara Kuhn. Clara, this is the garage owner I told you about.”

“Are you also interested in Model Ts?” Jurgen offered a hand to Clara, who shook it awkwardly and glanced at Andrew.

“She’s interested in
my
Model T,” Andrew said.

“I hope she’s not too attached,” Jurgen said, “because I’m here to renew my offer.”

“It’s only been a few days,” Andrew said. “I thought I had more time to consider the question.”

“I realize I may be rushing you,” Jurgen said. “I have a customer who wants to buy the car I drive. I’d sell it to him if I knew I could have yours.”

“But your automobile runs far better than this one.”

Jurgen ran a hand along a shiny polished fender. “I’ve been enamored of this machine since the first time it came into my shop. Have you thought about my offer at all?”

“I have,” Andrew said. “How could I not after the number you named? But I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I’m quite enamored with this Model T myself.”

Jurgen swung one foot and kicked up a small flurry of dust from the barn floor. “I don’t blame you, but I thought it was worth asking. Consider it a standing offer.”

“Thank you, Jurgen, but I don’t plan to sell the automobile.”

Jurgen made polite farewells. Andrew and Clara stood still as they listened to him crank the engine of his own Ford outside the barn.

“You’re really going to keep the Model T,” Clara said.

“I am.”

“And if you’re disciplined?”

“Mose Beachy will stand with me.”

“And will that be enough?”

“Others will be glad to stand with Mose.”

Clara’s candle burned long after the rest of the Kuhn household was shrouded in rest. She resisted the urge to light an oil lamp for brighter illumination. Her father and Rhoda were just across the hall. If one of them happened to rise in the night, the yellow gleam under her door would launch a battery of questions about what would keep her up when morning was nearer than last evening’s nightfall.

Andrew’s modern thinking emboldened her. A box tucked deep under her bed held the scribbled first drafts of the stories she copied over and sent to Sadie. Clara had lifted the pages one by one and made a list of all the Bible stories she’d written in words Sadie would understand—or Priscilla or Naomi or Lillian. One day perhaps she could even tell them to Hannah and Mari.

Until now, Clara had written the stories stirring her own heart. Now she considered where the gaps were. Had she written enough about the history of Israel and the good kings and the bad kings? What about the prophets? Elijah’s and Elisha’s lives were full of miracles to encourage faith. Had she balanced the miracles and parables of Jesus? What about the book of Acts? She hadn’t begun to try to put the letters of Paul into language for children.

Clara didn’t know if she would see Priscilla and her friends again for a story, but if she did—
Gottes wille
—she wanted something ready in her head and heart. Sadie would always be eager for a new story. Clara resolved to copy afresh all the stories she had written up until then, and from now on to make one clean copy to send to Sadie and a second to keep for herself.

Someday she might also want these stories for her own children—if she could bring herself to marry.

She thought of the image of little Priscilla standing in the field and announcing, “Peace! Be still!”

Clara’s own heart craved the assurance she had declared to Priscilla.

F
or a week Dale Borntrager did both the morning and afternoon milk runs himself, leaving Yonnie with the dairy employees who bottled milk, kept the butter churns moving, checked on the process of the cheeses, and sorted orders for delivery. In the winter, everyone preferred the indoor work. At this time of year, though, Yonnie relished sitting on the uncovered wagon bench and watching summer’s splendid settling in.

His exile to bottling had ended, but the route was shorter now. On Monday morning, Yonnie returned to the dairy with about two-thirds of the canisters he would have collected only nine or ten days ago. He steered the wagon tight up against the platform where he and others would unload.

Dale Borntrager scowled. “Where are the rest?”

“This is everything.” Yonnie heaved a canister out of the wagon and onto the platform.

“Cows do not suddenly stop producing milk,” Dale said. “This can’t be right.”

“There are fewer stops now.” Yonnie puzzled at explaining the obvious.

Realization broke over Dale’s face. “Do you mean that you didn’t pick up from the Marylander farms?”

“Of course not.”

Dale grabbed a canister so forcefully that milk sloshed around the edges of the closed top. “Get these unloaded. Then go back and get the rest before it’s too late.”

Yonnie’s feet froze. “But the bishop—the ban. He was quite clear.”

“The bishop has a nice, quiet farm. He’s not running a business,” Dale said. “The Marylander families supply thirty percent of our milk, and they buy from us as well.”

“Didn’t you explain to them when you made the rounds yourself?”

“I made those visits to make sure they know where I stand.” Dale hefted another canister. “It seems you are the one who doesn’t.”

Yonnie’s feet finally moved, and he gripped the handles of a milk canister. He had assumed Dale would cull his lists.

“The ministers might call on you to explain your actions.” Yonnie spoke respectfully. “I did not want to put you in the position of facing discipline.”

“I’ll decide that,” Dale said. “Your job is to do what I ask you to do.”

Yonnie hesitated. He did not want to face discipline, either. Bishop Yoder’s sermon last week made clear that lax shunning would no longer go unnoticed. Church members would be accountable for their interactions with the Maryland church members.

Dale straightened back, hands on his hips. “Yonnie?”

Yonnie met his employer’s eye.

“You’ve worked for me for a long time,” Dale said. “But if you’re not in agreement with my business policies, I can find somebody else to drive the wagon. I’ll understand if you quit, but as long as you’re on the payroll, you’ll pick up the Marylander milk right alongside the Old Order milk.” Yonnie needed his job. He would always be welcome in his parents’ home, but he had too many brothers. The farm would not be enough when they all began to have families. His father had given Yonnie a slice of land he had never considered tillable, full of stumps and boulders. Even if Yonnie cleared it, one backbreaking step at a time, the acreage was not large enough to plant profitably. If he had any hope of his own farm someday, he needed the income that came from the dairy.