“I don’t know.” Mammi shook her head. “But that would be wicked indeed to push an old man off his own farm in order to take over!”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” Sarai said. “All I know is that Moe is perfectly fine where he is, and Arden has been sent here to bring Moe back to Ohio with him.”
Was Arden set to inherit? Or was his father, and Arden was simply sent to do the dirty work of bringing Dawdie home? Sarai knew that the Stoltzfus family in Ohio weren’t well-off. That was common knowledge.
“Sarai, I know that look on your face. Don’t jump to conclusions,” Mammi Ellen said.
“You have me here to help you with housework and cooking and outdoor work,” Sarai said. “But I do more than that. I’m here if someone tries to take advantage of you or pressure you into something you don’t want to do. Moe doesn’t have that right now. He’s on his own over there, and I have a sneaking suspicion that if Moe leaves, someone will benefit. It isn’t right to let poor Moe be pressured into something he doesn’t want to do, even if the family’s intentions are completely pure.”
“No, it isn’t...” Mammi pressed her lips together. “Let’s pray on it.”
At least Mammi could see the problem. If Arden whisked Moe back to Ohio, not only would he miss out on his dear old farm, but there would be no more time for Mammi Ellen and Moe to discover that they were truly meant to be together.
When Sarai went to bed that night, she prayed for Gott to intervene. She prayed for Him to show Moe and Mammi just what happiness they could have together, and she prayed for Him to turn Arden’s mind away from taking his grandfather away...somehow! She prayed very specifically, and while she knew that Gott’s ways were not her ways, and His mind was not her mind, she did believe that He was working, even when they didn’t see it. And so she prayed all the same.
She lay in her bed for a long time, her gaze focused on the ceiling. She’d come to stay with her grandmother because there was no one else to do it. Her older sisters were married with children of their own, and her brother had moved to another community for a job at a factory that paid very well. Everyone’s life had started...her cousins, her siblings... They’d all gone on their own adventures or gotten married and had homes of their own. It was difficult being the unmarried one, always feeling like she was waiting for her life to start.
When she closed her eyes, she imagined in her mind’s eye a chance at starting fresh in Shipshewana. It would include growing a flock of specialty hens and meeting new people. And maybe there would be a man who would be so good, so honest, so well spoken of, that she wouldn’t feel any fear at all at the thought of taking her lifelong vows and starting the rest of her life...
She couldn’t imagine what he’d look like. His face was a blur. But he’d be tall and strong, she was certain, with a straw hat he’d wear perfectly straight on his head.
After Sarai drifted off to sleep, the wind started. There wasn’t a drop of rain, but a gale began to blow. It howled around the chicken coops, and it whistled over the stable roof. Trees thrashed, and as Sarai slept that night, she dreamed of tornadoes, even though the closest she’d ever been to one was seeing it on a TV screen in a store in town. And when she woke up the next morning, the storm had stopped, but outside the window, strewed across the yard in the rose-gold sunlight, there were twigs and small branches, garden signs for cabbage and onions that must have blown over from the neighbors.
Sarai got dressed and went downstairs. Mammi was up already, stoking the fire in the big woodstove on the cooking porch.
“What on earth happened last night?” Sarai asked.
“Didn’t you hear it?” Mammi asked.
“I didn’t hear anything!”
“It was a windstorm,” Mammi said. “It was short but powerful. We have a lot of cleaning up to do.”
Mammi looked forlornly out over the backyard. It was then that Sarai saw the worst of the damage. One chicken coop had lost its roof entirely, and the other had most of the shingles stripped right off. The chickens scratched in the dirt, clucking softly to each other.
“Did we lose any hens?” Sarai gasped, rushing past her grandmother, off the porch and into the grass. She looked around the hen yard, mentally counting the birds by twos.
“I believe they are all still there,” Mammi called back. “Much like Paul and Silas in the prison—everything shook, the doors flew open, and they stayed put.”
And while Sarai was grateful that the hens were all there, her stomach dropped at the sight of all the work awaiting them.
Perhaps Sarai’s prayers last night had been too specific, too proud, too certain that she knew what was right, and Gott was showing her how little control over things she really had.
I’m sorry if I was presumptuous, Gott, she silently prayed. I’ll just ask that You give us the strength to do the work in front of us.
This morning, in the face of the windstorm damage, that seemed like a safer prayer.
Arden washed his hands in the mudroom sink, letting the soap foam up through his fingers. He’d tidied up the stable. It was evident that someone had been helping his grandfather get the outdoor work done, but they weren’t coming half often enough. Giving the stable a proper cleaning had taken him two hours longer than it should have.
“I’ve got the oatmeal ready, Arden!” Dawdie called from the kitchen. “And I’ve got fresh blueberries to go on top, too.”
“Thank you, Dawdie. I’ll be right there.”
Arden rinsed and dried his hands, then headed into the kitchen, where his grandfather waited for him. The oatmeal was on the table, and his grandfather had a towel tied around his middle. Not an apron—those were for women—but definitely a makeshift covering to protect his clothing. His grandfather untied the baling twine he’d used to hold the towel in place and dropped his contraption on an unused chair.
“It’s nice to have a young man around here again,” Dawdie said. “Sit. Let’s pray.”
Arden pulled out a chair in front of an empty bowl and spoon, and he bowed his head in silent prayer. When his grandfather cleared his throat, the prayer was over.
“That was a strong wind last night,” Dawdie said. “Any damage in the stable?”
The old man leaned forward and dished a scoop of oatmeal into Arden’s bowl for him.
“A little bit,” Arden said. “Some shingles came off on the east side of the roof. I’ll help you get that fixed up today.”
“That’s nice of you,” Dawdie said. His hands stayed busy with serving himself as he talked. “Someone will come by and check on me, though, Arden. You can be sure of that. The church hasn’t forgotten me.”
“Yah, yah, I know,” Arden replied. “But we miss you. My daet tells us stories about you all the time. I think he misses you a lot. And you know my daet—he doesn’t like to show his feelings. But they’re there.”
“What stories does he tell about me?” Dawdie asked.
“Oh, about how you used to take him fishing, and how you got frostbite on your nose one year when you were harvesting ice. He talks about your makeshift aprons, too.”
“It isn’t an apron,” Moe replied. “It just protects my shirts. Otherwise, I’d be doing more laundry, and who has time for that?”
There was fresh, creamy milk and the promised bowl of fresh wild blueberries. How long his grandfather had spent gathering them that morning, he didn’t know. There were a few leaves in the bowl, and Arden pulled them out and put them on the table before sprinkling some berries onto his oatmeal.
“Who does your laundry, Dawdie?” Arden asked, taking a bite. The oatmeal was well cooked, and he was hungry after a morning of hard work.
