3

Rain began to fall during breakfast, starting with a drizzle before it turned into a steady downpour, so David offered to drive his daughters to school in the buggy. To his surprise, Gabby quickly volunteered. “Really?” he said to her. “Then maybe I’ll have you drop me at the store on the way.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Gabby said. “That’s why we’re here. To help.”

His mother was pleased by Gabby’s offer. “Precisely. We are here to bring blessings.” She glanced out the window. “Showers of blessings.”

David wasn’t as confident that the outcome of his mother’s long-term visit would be quite so beneficial, if history was any indication. The last time she stayed with the family for a period of time was after the accident that took the life of his wife, Anna, and left his daughter Katrina hospitalized with severe injuries. The entire family was in shock, barely able to go through the motions of living. His mother made everything worse. During the preparation of the house for the funeral, she packed up Anna’s clothing and personal belongings and gave away the boxes. David wasn’t aware of what she had done until the night after the funeral. He went to put away his shirt in the closet and found half of it empty. Cleaned out. The sight of it had made him double over, as if someone had hit him, hard, in the abdomen.

But that was then and this was now. David wanted to be optimistic, to be grateful, and believe that his mother had come to Stoney Ridge with the best of intentions. Still, a niggling part of his brain sensed impending doom on the horizon.

As for this rainy morning, he could find things to be grateful for: Gabby’s offer to drive the girls to school, for one. Time alone in the store to work on Sunday’s sermon before the old codgers arrived to play checkers, for another.

Not thirty minutes later, in his office, David opened his Bible and pulled out a fresh piece of paper from his desk drawer. Then, as he began to concentrate on Noah building an ark because God had warned him of the flood, he thought of Abraham, leaving his home and relatives because God had promised him a new home, a new posterity. He thought of Moses leading the Israelites to the Promised Land. In all those cases, a word of God came first.

A word of God came first.

He paused and ran a hand over his chin. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have that kind of confirmation before one acted? Such specific, clear directions. And yet David knew, that while God may not normally address his loved ones with direct speech, he did continue to speak through Scripture.

A word of God came first.

He bowed his head. Speak, Lord. Speak to me, first.

David’s eyes flickered over to a piece of paper on the corner of his desk. He picked up the letter he’d been hemming and hawing over. He had started only one line to Isaac Bender, a nearby bishop whom he highly regarded.

Dear Isaac,

Mer wees nimmi wu naus. I am at a loss to know what to do.

David Stoltzfus picked up his pen and tried, yet again, to write this letter, but all he could think was that he had no idea how to proceed. He’d postponed the unpleasant duty for weeks, hoping there might be a reason to avoid it, but the situation was only getting worse. How in the world could he succinctly put into words the crisis that faced the little church of Stoney Ridge? No words fell from his pen.

He sighed. He knew what he had to do: state the facts and ask for help.

Just as the next few sentences started to come together in his mind, he heard someone tap on the store’s front door. It was only a little after eight thirty; Bethany Schrock wasn’t due in to work until ten, so he left his chair and went to answer the knock.

Katrina waved to him from the window. “Dad! Thelma and I need to talk to you.”

David hurried to hold the door open as Katrina helped Thelma Beiler over the threshold, into the store, and settled her gently into a rocking chair by the warm woodstove. David set her cane beside her, within easy reach. Thelma used a cane but insisted it was only temporary. She’d never been a sturdy woman, even when young, but the years had worn her down until she wasn’t much more than a wisp, a dandelion puff, held together by frail bones. There was nothing wrong with her mind, though. Thelma was as sharp as a tack. “Good morning, ladies. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No coffee for me,” Katrina said.

“I’ll drink hers,” Thelma said, warming her wrinkled hands by the hot stove. “With cream and three teaspoons of sugar.”

“One teaspoon for her,” Katrina corrected. “The doctor said she has to cut down on sugar.”

David poured a cup of coffee for Thelma, stirred in cream and two teaspoons of sugar—a compromise—and handed it to her. He poured himself a mug and sat across from them in Hank Lapp’s oak rocking chair. “So . . . what did you need to see me about?”

As he watched them exchange an excited look, he marveled at how God had brought these two together. Thelma, a widow in her late seventies, without any heirs, chose to amend her will and leave the land to Katrina, an unmarried nineteen-year-old, soon to be a mother, come spring. David’s first grandchild. A great blessing, he believed, though the circumstances weren’t exactly what he had expected for his daughter. Nevertheless, God was always in the business of redemption, and he was clearly at work in Katrina’s life. And in the life of this little one.

“Dad, Thelma and I have talked about it, studied the subject from every angle, listened to Andy’s descriptions of pros and cons, and we want to go ahead and lease the land to the oil company.”

David leaned back in his chair but forgot it was a rocker. He lurched forward to catch himself, spilling his coffee all over his tan pants. Good grief, he was getting as accident-prone as Birdy!

“We want your blessing.”

“We do,” Thelma echoed. “We won’t proceed without it.”

“Tell me more.”

Katrina’s heels tapped on the floorboards, a hint of her excitement. “Well, you know that the oil company interpreted the seismic data that Andy had gathered and determined that Thelma’s property does have a large oil trap.”

“Our property,” Thelma corrected. “Hers and mine.”

David nodded. Andy Miller, Thelma’s farmhand, had spent months determining if the hillside had an oil trap and where it might be located. He’d had experience with doodlebugging, an old-fashioned method of finding oil traps by collecting crude seismic data, taught to him by his grandfather. He used his grandfather’s generations-old equipment, and somehow, someway that was beyond David’s comprehension, it did the job. Over the course of a few months, all over Moss Hill, Andy dug holes twenty feet deep, shot a bullet or threw down a lighted half-stick of dynamite, and recorded the seismic data on a geophone. He took that crude seismic data to another company to be interpreted, and then to a land agent who acted as a broker for independent oil companies.

“We’re satisfied that the oil pumps won’t pollute any water source or contaminate the ground. The oil company wants a five-year lease.” Katrina handed David a file of papers, with a check paper-clipped to the front of the file. “They gave us this check as an up-front bonus. And then they’ll pay us 17½ percent royalties on the oil, once they drill the wells and start pumping.”

He looked at the amount on the check and had to do a double take. Fifteen thousand dollars! A sizable figure. “Have you signed anything?”

“No. Not yet. We wanted to talk to you first.” She leaned forward. “Dad, Thelma and I want to donate this bonus to our church. And a goodly portion of future royalties.”

David looked up sharply. “That could end up being quite a bit of money.”

“We know, we know,” Thelma said, eyes sparkling. “We think it could be God’s answer to help our church’s situation.”

Maybe. “I’d like to look over the paperwork. And I’d like to have a conversation with Andy.” He knew Andy would be able to explain the fine print of terms and conditions.

Thelma was barely listening. “We’ve decided that we want you to disperse the money as you see fit.”

“No,” David said. “Not me. The entire church can make decisions about this money together. If we’ve learned nothing else from this . . . this . . . lot-switching debacle . . . it’s that we are a community.” He opened the file and scanned the first page. “Why is it a five-year lease?”

“The broker explained it’s typical to have a five-year lease,” Katrina said. “Then they’ll have options to continue to lease the land. They’ll pass us a yearly rental fee for the acreage.”

It amazed David to hear this new knowledge, this bold confidence, coming out of his oldest daughter’s mouth. Katrina had always been flighty, scatterbrained, dreamy, and distracted. Was this the same girl? It amazed him to see how God was working in her life to bring all things—all things!—together for good.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

David flipped through a few pages of the lease. “Well, I’ll be honest with you. My first thought is I’d rather have a three-year lease so we can evaluate how this venture is affecting our community. There might be negative results.”

Katrina’s face was utter astonishment. “Dad, how could money ever be considered negative? It’s the very thing Freeman Glick was desperate for! It’s the reason he wanted to be bishop. He saw the writing on the wall for Stoney Ridge. He knew we were going to be in trouble soon. The church is half the size it used to be. Everyone’s leaving to find cheaper land for their children.”

“And think of the bills we’re facing,” Thelma said. “Think of Ephraim Yoder’s enormous hospital bills. And the plight of his widow. And poor Noah. That boy is working two jobs after school.”

David’s eyes went straight to another folder on his desktop, fat with hospital bills. Ephraim Yoder was a young father who’d been fatally injured in a farming accident just a month ago. The bills were sailing in, horrifying his widow, and David was working through them, trying to discern which could be discounted if cash were paid immediately and which could be delayed. He was still waiting to hear back from the Amish Aid Society about how much assistance could be provided. “I’ll talk to Abraham and see what he has to say. But my leaning is toward a three-year lease, despite the drawbacks. We need to evaluate how this venture affects the church.”

Thelma leaned forward in her rocker. “David, this money is God’s answer.”

But money, David knew, was not an answer. It was only a tool. “Ich will erscht driwwer schlofe.” I want to sleep over it.

As the two women got up to leave, David reached out to take Katrina’s hand. “Hold on a moment, honey. We have some visitors. Your cousins Gabby and Laura are here.”

“All the way from Ohio?”

“Mammi arrived too.”

Katrina pulled her hand from his and pressed it against her belly, a small mound. “She knows, doesn’t she?”

David gave a quick nod.

Katrina paled. “How long is she staying?”

“A long, long time, it seems.”

“Oh Dad, do I have to see her?”

“I’m afraid so. In fact, it might be best if you find her before she finds you. Why don’t you plan to come for dinner tonight?” He watched Katrina sink back down into her chair. “Mammi will be cooking instead of Molly, if that’s any consolation.”

“I’d rather just hide until she leaves town.”

Thelma smiled and reached out to pat Katrina’s arm. “Your father is right. Best to face these things head-on.”

“You’re welcome for dinner too,” David said as he handed Thelma her cane.

She smiled sweetly at him. “Not a chance.”

Jesse wiggled under Eli Smucker’s old buggy, partly to try to figure out how to take off the wheels like Eli wanted him to, and partly to keep out of the rain. “Tell me again why you want these wheels off.”

Eli reached into the back of the buggy and pulled out handmade wooden sled attachments. “So that you can put these on them.” He leaned the skis upright against the buggy. “It’s the only way to travel, come winter.”

Talk about outdated. That notion was as old as Eli’s buggy. “Eli, those won’t help you on snowplowed roads.”

“Farmer’s Almanac said it’s going to be a doozy of a winter.” He stroked his long, wiry beard. “So when will it be ready?”

Jesse looked at the old bolts that held the wheels in place. “I’m not sure, Eli.”

Eli leaned down to shake a finger at him. “Well, you’d better hop to it. Weather will change any day now.”

Jesse looked over at Eli, who was upside down to him, beard covering his face, and tried not to laugh. C.P., Jesse’s nothing-but-sheer-nuisance puppy, had crawled under the buggy and wiggled right up to him. Then the puppy froze, pricked his ears, and let out a low growl. Jesse stopped. Something didn’t feel right.

What followed was a silence, an eerie, deafening silence. Jesse reached into his pocket for a screwdriver when an explosion—BOOM!—shook the buggy. C.P. whimpered, Jesse jumped out of his skin, banging his forehead on the axle of the buggy. Eli’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground. “I’ve been shot!”

Jesse rolled out from under the buggy to help Eli, who hadn’t been at all shot and was only startled. He helped Eli to his feet as Amos Lapp burst out of the barn. Fern appeared from somewhere. They all met up at the crest of the driveway to peer down toward the road, not even aware of the pelting rain. There was a splintered post left where the mailbox used to be, and metal pieces of mailbox were scattered all over the driveway. Somebody had blown Windmill Farm’s mailbox to smithereens.

Fern crossed her arms against her chest. “Luke Schrock,” she said, like that explained everything. “That boy has nothing but vinegar in his veins.”

As soon as Katrina and Thelma left, David tried to get his mind back to the letter he had started to Isaac Bender, but he couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he picked up the phone to call Abraham, his deacon, and leave a message that he wanted to talk to him. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead, thinking back to the last conversation he’d had with him.

Just a few days ago, David had gone to the Big House to talk with Freeman. Abraham went with him.

Freeman opened the door of the Big House but didn’t welcome them in. He was a big man, taller than most, with piercing eyes that pinned people up against the wall. “What do you want?”

David took the lead. “We want you to make things right with the church.”

Freeman scowled. “I have only had the church’s best interests in mind.”

“I believe you. I really do.” And David did. It was the way Freeman went about it that was wrong.

Freeman jabbed a finger at David’s chest. “I’ve gotten more done for our church than anyone else.”

“Getting things done is something the world is very good at. But that’s not what the church is about. A man can’t just go off in a corner and do his own thing.”

Freeman jeered at him. “Do my own ‘thing’?”

“That’s exactly what you were doing when you switched the lots.”

“Hold on. You’re wrong there. ‘The lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposing thereof is of the LORD.’ The final choice is made by God alone.”

David couldn’t believe his ears. That very Bible verse was written on the slip of paper inside the hymnal that indicated which man had been chosen. Was Freeman using Scripture to justify his deception? It was such a sacred and important event in their church, the choosing of lots. It might be the most important event of all. A lifetime commitment. The impact of leadership, good and bad, could last for decades. Did he truly believe he was doing God’s work by determining the outcome? Acting as if God had asked him to?

On the day in which the Stoney Ridge church had selected a new bishop, there were only two candidates chosen from the current ministers: David and Freeman. As a minister, Freeman had gone to another room to prepare the hymnals, and David hadn’t thought twice about it. He was the longest serving minister. What he hadn’t realized was that Freeman had put a slip of paper into each hymnal, knowing that as the eldest nominee, he would pick first.

David remembered the moment vividly. Freeman rose, put his hand on one hymnal, let it hover for a long, suspenseful moment—church members leaned forward on their benches—then he reached for the other hymnal. David didn’t consider that to be unusual. No one did. He had even heard some stories of men who tried to pick up a particular hymnal, but felt some kind of invisible pressure to hold back. Slowly, Freeman slid the rubber band off his chosen hymnal and opened it. There was the slip of paper. His wife burst into tears. That, also, was not unusual. Because of the solemn procedure and great responsibility involved in being an ordained leader, when the chosen man’s name is announced, often many shed tears for him and his family. Everyone is encouraged to pray for him, for he has been selected to serve from among them. The Amish believe the hand of God is involved in the selection process. David affirmed the selection of Freeman. He didn’t even bother to pick up the remaining hymnal. God had spoken.

But . . . it turned out that as Freeman had prepared the hymnals and had placed lots in both of them, he hadn’t realized that someone was observing his actions. His sister, Birdy.

Freeman was watching him now, as if he could read the thought process running through his mind. “David, do you honestly think you should have received the lot for bishop? Someone new to our community? Someone who can’t manage his own family?”

David ignored the insult. “No, not at all. But we can’t pick and choose our way. Whoever is given the task to lead our church must do it in a way that’s appropriate to following Jesus. Our following must be consistent with his leading.”

“And you think I haven’t done that?”

“I think, by switching the lots, you discarded Jesus’s way and adopted the world’s way. You took a shortcut.”

Freeman’s eyes narrowed. “And I think you are positioning yourself to become bishop.”

David exhaled a puff of air. This wasn’t going well. “Freeman, Abraham and I came to ask you to make things right with the church. To repent.”

“Or?”

David exchanged a glance with Abraham. “Or you will have to be put under the bann.”

“You are forgetting, David, that I am the bishop and you are the minister.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten. But wrong is wrong, whomever you are.”

Freeman closed the door on them.

“Well,” David said, turning to Abraham, “that didn’t go as well as I had hoped.” The two men walked down the steps to the buggy. “I’ve only been in Stoney Ridge for a little more than a year. Was he always like this?”

“No, not at all,” Abraham said. “When I first became deacon, I held him in the highest regard. He was a very dedicated minister. He was always available, always the first one to arrive in a crisis—middle of the night, hospital visits, funerals—anytime, he’d be there.” He adjusted a harness buckle so it wouldn’t irritate the horse’s thigh. “A while back, I started to notice some peculiar behavior. Peculiar for Freeman, anyway.”

“How so?”

“He lost his temper quite a bit. He made decisions without talking to anyone, even Elmo. I thought maybe he was working too hard, getting exhausted. I felt, I don’t know, protective of him. So I tried to help him out. I took on more responsibilities.”

David had experienced that cycle of weariness. Pastoring required the fortitude to take what comes: Your schedule was jam packed, the hour might be late, your family was waiting for you, but if a problem arose, you had to do what was necessary. Ministers were supposed to be tougher, steadier, better able to handle pressure than most, but David knew that wasn’t at all true. Ministers were as human, as vulnerable to sin and weaknesses and failures and mistakes as anyone else. Maybe even more so. David had just read the warnings of the apostle James to those who became ordained leaders: “My brethren, be not many masters, knowing that we shall receive greater condemnation.” Not only would leaders be held responsible by God for what they taught, but they would be prime targets for the devil’s mischief.

“At one point or another, a few of us—Amos Lapp, me—each acting on our own, took Freeman aside. We’d ask how he was doing, tell him that we had concerns. But I’ll be honest, David, we just . . . dithered around the topic.”

“Did Freeman listen to any of you?”

“Yes, sure, he listened to what we had to say. He nodded and admitted that he felt overworked, at times overwhelmed. He assured us that he would make changes. The thing was, not all the problems were obvious. Or consistent. We were like a family that didn’t want to admit Grandpa was getting senile. Our intention was good, but the result wasn’t. So in the end, nothing changed.” He rubbed his forehead. “There was just no easy way to help.”

David understood their confusion. Even when a problem was obvious, like the lot switching, he and Abraham found themselves unable to do anything decisive.

Abraham folded his arms against his chest and leaned against the buggy. “I’ve been thinking something through.”

“I’m open to anything that might help to bring about a peaceful resolution to this.”

“I’m a cousin to Freeman. I didn’t know about the lot switching when I received the lot to be deacon, but now that I do know, I’m guilty too.”

David lifted a hand to interrupt, but Abraham wouldn’t let him. “This Sunday, I want to tell the church that I no longer consider the deacon lot to have come from the hand of God, nor did it come from the blessing of the community. I want the church members to start all over again and draw a new lot.”

David considered that idea for a moment. Abraham was a fine deacon. It would be a great loss to not have him by David’s side in ministry. “Do you think such an action might influence Freeman and Levi to do the same?”

“That’s my hope.”

“All right,” David said, but with disappointment. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it could help solve this problem before it gets any bigger.”

Abraham opened the door of the buggy. “Heaven help us.”

That conversation had taken place on Monday. Wednesday brought the unexpected arrival of David’s mother and his two nieces. That meant that his mother, who was never shy to share her opinion, would be here for Sunday church. A crimping pain began in David’s abdomen.