The warm bright sun shone from a blue sky alive with scudding white puffs of clouds. Sighing, she turned, picked out a few cucumber seeds from the small packet in her hand, and dropped them in the hole she had made with the hoe.
With all the rains and the flooding, the planting had been late this year. Sarah was grateful to be able to plant the “late” seeds—corn, cucumbers, lima beans—crops that wouldn’t push their way up from the soil if the earth was not properly warmed by the sun.
Chattering barn swallows, daring little acrobats of the air, wheeled and turned, grabbing insects as they executed their aerial show. From a distance, she heard the clanking and squeaking of Dat’s corn planter, the mules walking at a rapid pace, their nodding heads and flopping ears never quite in harmony.
She knew Dat would be on the cart, watching the planter, his thoughts on his sermons, the congregation, the troubles and concerns as well as the joys. Last night, though, he’d talked plenty, for Dat. He wasn’t a person of excessive speech, but he needed a listening ear, he’d said.
The barn fire had occurred, yes. Someone had lit it, with intent to destroy, provoke, excite, whatever. Who knew for what reason they did this? And now the men were sidling up to him at church and saying that he needed to do something about this. Some seemed to think he was not doing his duty as a minister to let this all go on as if nothing happened. He could at least cooperate with the prosecutors. The church members thought Dat was too compliant and said he had to do what he could.
Every Sunday, Dat would develop a headache and a tic in one eye. Apparently, no one in the congregation had gotten a decent night’s sleep since the fire.
Take Amos Fisher. He said he slept in his own bed, or tried to, until all kinds of images encroached on his thoughts. Here he was, with forty head of cattle, beef cows, all housed in his new ventilated barn. What if someone snuck in and just got a big bonfire going?
He’d taken to sleeping on the couch in his kitchen, so that he could at least hear a car if it drove by. The sleeplessness was making him groggy, and his arthritis was flaring up in his thumbs. It would be different if Sylvia cared. She just rolled over on her good ear and slept like a rock. Amos didn’t know what would happen if his new barn burned.
Dat tried to explain to Amos how difficult it was to pin down this arsonist, and the police weren’t even completely sure it was an arsonist. He didn’t get very far after that, the way Amos flew off. So what could he do?
Softly, Mam asked what his own personal feelings were.
Dat gravely stroked his beard and shook his head from side to side as he contemplated the question. Arriving at a decision, he sat up straight, his far-seeing eyes not really aware of his surroundings.
He said he looked on the situation as a spiritual chastening, a call to be a better person. In the Bible, hadn’t Job suffered tremendously? For Dat to poison his own life with unforgiveness was unthinkable. Yes, the loss had been great, but the aftermath had been rich in blessings.
The sight of those caravans of men arriving to help was one blessing. He’d simply wanted to kneel before them all and wash their feet as a sign of humility, the way Abraham did in the Old Testament.
In view of the tremendous caring and love poured out on his family, who could stand if he didn’t forgive?
Suddenly, Dat’s face took on a silly grin. “And besides, now my cow stable has plenty of new and modern things, for an old preacher.”
Mam laughed with him, knowing how happy he was with the new barn and appreciating his resilience.
So, Sarah had thought, no matter how overwhelming the flood of kindness had been, someone always managed to insert a prickly note of dissension. Like Fannie Kauffman.
In the garden, Sarah tramped down the last of the soil, straightened her back, and went to find a small wooden stake for the
With all the rains and the flooding, the planting had been late this year. Sarah was grateful to be able to plant the “late” seeds—corn, cucumbers, lima beans—crops that wouldn’t push their way up from the soil if the earth was not properly warmed by the sun.
Chattering barn swallows, daring little acrobats of the air, wheeled and turned, grabbing insects as they executed their aerial show. From a distance, she heard the clanking and squeaking of Dat’s corn planter, the mules walking at a rapid pace, their nodding heads and flopping ears never quite in harmony.
She knew Dat would be on the cart, watching the planter, his thoughts on his sermons, the congregation, the troubles and concerns as well as the joys. Last night, though, he’d talked plenty, for Dat. He wasn’t a person of excessive speech, but he needed a listening ear, he’d said.
The barn fire had occurred, yes. Someone had lit it, with intent to destroy, provoke, excite, whatever. Who knew for what reason they did this? And now the men were sidling up to him at church and saying that he needed to do something about this. Some seemed to think he was not doing his duty as a minister to let this all go on as if nothing happened. He could at least cooperate with the prosecutors. The church members thought Dat was too compliant and said he had to do what he could.
Every Sunday, Dat would develop a headache and a tic in one eye. Apparently, no one in the congregation had gotten a decent night’s sleep since the fire.
Take Amos Fisher. He said he slept in his own bed, or tried to, until all kinds of images encroached on his thoughts. Here he was, with forty head of cattle, beef cows, all housed in his new ventilated barn. What if someone snuck in and just got a big bonfire going?
He’d taken to sleeping on the couch in his kitchen, so that he could at least hear a car if it drove by. The sleeplessness was making him groggy, and his arthritis was flaring up in his thumbs. It would be different if Sylvia cared. She just rolled over on her good ear and slept like a rock. Amos didn’t know what would happen if his new barn burned.
Dat tried to explain to Amos how difficult it was to pin down this arsonist, and the police weren’t even completely sure it was an arsonist. He didn’t get very far after that, the way Amos flew off. So what could he do?
Softly, Mam asked what his own personal feelings were.
Dat gravely stroked his beard and shook his head from side to side as he contemplated the question. Arriving at a decision, he sat up straight, his far-seeing eyes not really aware of his surroundings.
He said he looked on the situation as a spiritual chastening, a call to be a better person. In the Bible, hadn’t Job suffered tremendously? For Dat to poison his own life with unforgiveness was unthinkable. Yes, the loss had been great, but the aftermath had been rich in blessings.
The sight of those caravans of men arriving to help was one blessing. He’d simply wanted to kneel before them all and wash their feet as a sign of humility, the way Abraham did in the Old Testament.
In view of the tremendous caring and love poured out on his family, who could stand if he didn’t forgive?
Suddenly, Dat’s face took on a silly grin. “And besides, now my cow stable has plenty of new and modern things, for an old preacher.”
Mam laughed with him, knowing how happy he was with the new barn and appreciating his resilience.
So, Sarah had thought, no matter how overwhelming the flood of kindness had been, someone always managed to insert a prickly note of dissension. Like Fannie Kauffman.
In the garden, Sarah tramped down the last of the soil, straightened her back, and went to find a small wooden stake for the
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