Planted with Hope (26 page)

“I'm not going to tell you to do anything—make any decisions for you—but I learned long ago that in order to get a
gut
picture of what God's doing in a place, you have to look back and see what He's already done. How He's already worked.

“God's been at work in this community long before you came, Hope. Long before I came too. And long before that Victory Garden was planted back in 1942. Maybe we can see more clearly when we turn back the pages of time… that's all.”

“And is that why you asked if I could borrow—could read the Victory Journal?”

Elizabeth winked. “It just might be.”

Hope sighed. “It wasn't about the garden tips and the recipes after all, was it?”

“Those don't hurt. I'm sure you found some good things to try, some good advice. But,
ja
, now you know the real reason.”

Hope took the Victory Journal out of the pocket of her garden apron, and she flipped through the pages, seeing the book in a whole new light. She paused at the Grapefruit Pie recipe that she'd shown Lovina just last night. And her breath caught.

“And Lovina… the pie shop… this is part of it too. It's a gathering place. Pulling people together.”

A slow smile crept up Elizabeth's face. She nodded and released a sigh. “
Ja
, isn't the Lord
gut
? God urged me to pray for that place, and I've been doing it for a while. But until a few months ago I was just focused on the building itself.” She pushed her glasses farther up on her nose. “But I have a feeling that my prayers spilled over to the back—to the garden area too.”

Hope nodded, and deep down she knew what she needed to do. To hear Elizabeth explain the importance of community proved her garden was just part of what God was doing. What He'd be doing for a while. She would have to pray that God would change her, soften her heart, and make her not so concerned if her carrot tops popped up in nice, straight rows.

Oh Lord, I want to be willing. Please make me so.

 

Grapefruit Pie, 1940

⅓
cup cornstarch

1¼ cups sugar

¼ tsp. salt

1¾ cups boiling water

3 eggs, divided

1 Tbsp butter

½ cup fresh grapefruit juice

1 tsp. grated grapefruit rind

1 baked pastry shell

grapefruit segments

6 Tbsp sugar

½ tsp. vanilla

Mix cornstarch, sugar, and salt. Add water slowly, stirring until well blended. Cook over boiling water for 15 minutes, stirring until thick and smooth. Pour into egg yolks slowly, return to heat and cook 2 minutes longer. Remove from heat and add butter, grapefruit juice, and rind. Cool. Pour into pastry shell and arrange grapefruit segments around edge of pie.

For meringue, beat egg whites until frothy. Add sugar gradually and continue beating until stiff. Add vanilla. Pile on pie and bake in slow oven (325°) 15 to 18 minutes.
^*

^*
Ruth Berolzheimer,
250 Superb Pies and Pastries
(Culinary Arts Institute, 1940), 27.

Chapter Twenty

Anyone who practices what he preaches doesn't have to preach much.

A
MISH
P
ROVERB

H
ope tossed the journal onto her bed, thankful that Lovina had gone to a volleyball game with Noah. Thankful that she had their bedroom all to herself. She sighed and sank down on the bed next to it. As much as she'd like to go to the garden and enjoy the cool of the evening, she had a lot of thinking to do. Pauline's story had stirred up so much inside her—so much that Elizabeth had confirmed today.

Sure it was easy for Pauline to welcome people to help in her garden. There had been a war going on. They needed the food back then. They needed to work together.

“This is different,” Hope mumbled to herself. “Is it too much to ask for a place to retreat? Is it too much to have a space just for me?”

Guilt weighed on her shoulders as soon as the words were out, and her eyes fluttered closed. She wanted her own space. She wanted her own work. She wanted to look out at the garden and have evidence to what she'd accomplished… and that spoke of one thing: pride.

Tears filled Hope's eyes and she lay back against her pillow, allowing her body to sink deeper. Her chest tightened as she remembered her earliest memory—walking behind Mem to church at a neighbor's house. They'd been walking from the buggy to the house where church was being held. Instead of paying attention to Mem she'd gotten distracted by two puppies in the barn, and when she looked up all she could see was a sea of Amish dresses and men's pants. Hope remembered how her heart had pounded. She remembered how she'd cried out for Mem. She remembered her tears. Her gut tightened at the memories.

Then, finally amidst the noise, someone heard her voice. It was an older Amish man with a long beard. He'd taken her to his wife—a lady with a round face and large blue eyes. “Oh, it's just one of the Miller girls,” the woman had said.

It had been the first time she'd heard that term—“Just one of the Miller girls”—but it hadn't been the last. She and her sisters were more different than similar—in looks and talents—but that didn't stop those in their community from lumping them together. Hope liked to be by herself, and that was hard to do in a home with four sisters and a mother who loved getting together with other women and serving in her community.

Instead, she'd found solace in the quiet of the garden. And even though she hadn't expected it, her gardening skills in Walnut Creek had also given Hope her name back. When slow buggies drove by, the drivers had plenty of time to appreciate her hard work. She was no longer just one of the Miller girls, she was Hope Miller, and everyone in Walnut Creek had come to know Hope's garden.

Even as a young teenager she was often stopped at the grocery store by other Amish women asking for gardening tips. And
when Grace had convinced the sisters to open a garden stand on the roadway near their home, business had gone well. People had driven out of their way for her produce. Yet when Hope moved to Pinecraft she not only felt as if she lost her garden, but lost herself too—lost her worth. Was it prideful to want to reclaim that here?

Who am I without a garden? Who am I?
The questions filled her mind, and with them came a rush of pain, like a knife to her heart. Hope didn't want to walk through this world feeling like that young, lost girl. She didn't want to relive the same emptiness she'd experienced during the last year in Pinecraft. In both cases she'd felt alone, unknown, and unnamed.

I want to be Hope. I want to have hope.

She leaned back against the wall, picking up her pillow and pressing it against her chest. She didn't want to share her garden, but what choice did she have? She could continue to put up walls and push everyone away, but what good did that do? It was just making her miserable. And maybe she'd lose any chance with Jonas in the process too.

She could continue to push people away. She could move back to Ohio, and she could leave the garden behind to everyone who wanted to run it. Or she could… submit. She could open herself up to others. She could forget about having her own garden and just enjoy being with others during the time she had.

She could still go back to Ohio when the time was right, but until then she'd see the garden as
theirs,
not just
hers
. Just like Pauline.

The idea of welcoming others, their opinions, and their ideas into the garden was a hard one. Still, it was the right thing to do. It was what God would want.
Our
Father.

Hope closed her eyes and imagined people gathering around the garden beds. She imagined children poking their fingers into
the soil, and she imagined Jonas there with them. At least that last thought made her smile.

She enjoyed being with Jonas. She enjoyed seeing him with Emma, but also ached at the pain and loss in his gaze at times. She liked the idea of building a closer friendship with him—maybe something more—but another fear plagued her. Would she ever be able to replace the loving wife that he'd lost? She didn't think so.

God, I'm tired of thinking about all this, worrying about all this.
She clenched her fists and then released them.
I'm tired of figuring out the perfect plan for the garden, or if I should move back to Ohio, or… or open my heart to Jonas. I'm tired of feeling as if I'll never be enough. Lord…

It wasn't much of a prayer, and Hope wasn't expecting an answer, but a sweet, gentle voice filled her mind all the same. A voice that didn't come from her mind, but one that did speak to her heart.

I know your name.

Emotion filled her throat and tingles danced on the back of her neck, down her spine, and to her limbs. For most of her life God seemed distant and far away, but in this moment—when she felt weak and confused—He suddenly felt close. Very close. As if He was sitting right next to her on this bed.

God had created her. He knew her fears and worries. God knew how much joy she'd found in her garden back in Ohio. He'd given that garden to her.

God was with her, and she wasn't forgotten. God knew her name. She just wasn't one of the Miller girls. She was Hope.

God
… Tears filled her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands.
Are You doing this to grow me and change me? Is this garden a way to make me more like You… more like Your Son?

It was easy living life within one's premade boundaries, but
was that what God called her to? Was that what He called anyone to?

Just in the weeks she'd started this new garden she'd had to learn to be more patient. She'd listened to others, and she learned to give—of her time, of herself, of her space in small ways. She'd carried on conversations with strangers. She'd planted seeds with Emma, sharing her favorite activity. Yet she also hadn't given her whole heart to these tasks. How would things change if she did?

Hope thought of Jonas again too. Hadn't he said he'd given up his farm for a season to help his sister? He'd left the place he loved to help his daughter too. And that was what attracted her to him. He was willing to put his desires aside to help others.