Sarah's Garden (32 page)
Father looked so pleased that Sarah knew
Mamm
couldn’t help but go. As they walked off, Sarah considered how strange it was that she should be willing to offer to watch everything. Last year, at this time, she would have probably been hesitant to even suggest such a thing, but her months at the stand had taught her much, in more ways than one.
An
Englisch
woman and her husband stopped in front of the stand. “Bob, look at that quilt. I’ve never seen one like it!” She looked at Sarah. “What do you call it?”
Sarah hesitated for only the briefest of seconds. “A Patch of Heaven.”
“Oh, Bob. You know I love quilts—what do you say?”
“How much is it?” Bob asked.
Sarah considered, remembering the man who had bought a quilt from her that winter at the stand for his ill wife. “Five hundred dollars.”
The woman clapped her manicured hands. “Bob, that is a steal!”
Another
Englisch
couple had strolled over and heard the woman. The man studied the quilt and then looked at Sarah. “I’ll give you eight hundred.”
Sarah opened her mouth, beginning to feel flustered. A small crowd was gathering with each person admiring the workmanship and beauty of the quilt. John Kemp came over and threaded his way to where Sarah stood.
“Is everything okay, Sarah?” He asked above the now-growing cries of prices being shouted out.
She spread her hands helplessly as someone called out for a thousand dollars.
“Sarah,” John Kemp questioned. “Do you want to sell the quilt? Pay no attention to anyone else.”
Sarah let her gaze wander to the iridescent patches of fabric and felt like she was somehow defaming what she had meant the quilt to be, a symbol of the Lord’s light in her life, and the acknowledgment of all that a quilt stood for in community and creativity and spirit. She flushed and had the horrid sensation that perhaps she was like the temple money-changers whom Jesus was so angry with so long ago.
She shook her head. “No. No—I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale.”
John ignored the angry babble of voices and calmly took down the quilt, folded it, and handed it back to Sarah.
“No sale,” he announced, and one by one, the customers drifted away, clearly annoyed.
After that, the day seemed to be overshadowed with gloom for Sarah, though she did her best to hide it. John Kemp explained to
Mamm
and Father, and Sarah tucked the quilt away under some blankets in the back of the wagon.
“I’m glad, Sarah,”
Mamm
said, patting her arm. “That is a quilt for you to treasure.”
“
Jah
,
Mamm
.”
Sarah felt embarrassed by the encounter and concentrated on selling and wrapping various items. She was grateful when Luke brought her back a ham-and-coleslaw sandwich and cold lemonade. She ate in the back of the wagon and felt her headache of the morning begin to ease a bit. She had just thrown out her paper plate when she glanced up and saw Ms. Fisher moving happily through the crowds.
The woman’s hair was shiny and bouncy, and she wore a jean jacket and pretty collared shirt and denims. She seemed to be walking with friends, and in the bright sunlight of the day, her scar was all the more apparent. Sarah had a sudden inspiration.
Scrambling from the back of the wagon, she pushed through the crowds and called out, “Ms. Fisher! Ms. Fisher?”
The woman turned.
“Why, Sarah! How lovely to see you! How is your father?”
“
Gut
—he’s good. Listen, please, I—I want you to have something. I made it this winter. I call it ‘A Patch of Heaven.’” Sarah thrust the quilt into the woman’s arms and felt a keen sense of being in the Lord’s will when Ms. Fisher’s eyes welled with tears.
“But, Sarah, it’s beautiful! I’ve never seen anything like it. I can’t take this.”
The crowds were milling around them, and Sarah nodded.
“Yes, you can . . . as a blessing from
Der Herr
. He told me to give it to you, to warm you.”
“Thank you.” Ms. Fisher smiled, and Sarah embraced her before scampering back to the stall. She didn’t look back; she didn’t need to. She knew the quilt had come full circle and found its proper home as a symbol of love and light.
O
n the first Monday in May, Sarah squirted the hose on a handful of radishes, washing away the mud to reveal the rich cherry red and white globes. She added them to the basket with the cleaned carrots and then set about rinsing the lettuces and dabbing them dry with a cotton towel. Luke had pulled the wagon back for her and was lugging the baskets of potatoes into place.
“Well, Sarah, it’s been one year since you began the stand, and now it’s a new year. It’ll be easier this time,
jah
?”
“
Jah
,” she replied because it was the expected answer.
She couldn’t say what she really felt, that her heart was a torn song within her—that she tried but couldn’t sleep, didn’t seem to take full heart in her garden, and wouldn’t want to go to the stand at all, except that it was her responsibility and duty.
She recalled taking Grimes the barn cat with her last year for company, but even his sleek form failed to comfort her this day, and she climbed into the wagon and tried to remember how much the Lord had been willing to teach her this past year.
“Maybe you’ll find your husband this year,” Luke joked as he slapped the reins.
Sarah turned to stare at him. “Do you even know what you say sometimes?”
Luke returned her gaze and flushed. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”
She gave a brief nod and sighed.
“If it means anything to you, little sister—I miss him too. Dr. Williams was my friend. He . . . didn’t treat me like the young fool that I am sometimes.”
Sarah’s eyes welled with tears, and she bent her head into her hand. “
Danki
, Luke—it’s good to speak of it with someone.”
“Have you talked to Chelsea?”
“
Jah
. She says that I will forget, but I will not. Not ever.”
Luke ’s voice was soft. “Have you talked to
Der Herr
?”
She caught her breath at this, knowing that she had not poured out her heart to the Lord in the way she might have in times past. She prayed for Grant to come back, prayed for acceptance and peace, but she had not confessed that she harbored a great amount of anger inside and that it ate at her like a vicious blight on an otherwise healthy plant. She clutched Luke ’s arm.
“Luke, please . . . stop the wagon. There’s something that I must do. Please, will you watch the stand for just a little while? I’ll run there when I’m through.”
Luke stopped the wagon in bewilderment as Sarah slipped from her seat and began to run back toward the farm.
Sobbing, she rounded the house and entered the shelter of her garden. She raced through the plants until she found her favorite prayer spot beneath the wild rose bush and dropped to the ground, turning her face to the earth.
Her heart burning within her, she began to pray aloud. “Oh God, my Father, my everlasting Father, I confess to You now that I’ve been so angry these past months, angry with You, my Savior. I was angry with my earthly father, and I’m angry with Grant. Dear Lord, please accept me with mercy; make my heart anew. Let me grow forgiveness and grace in spirit and not brokenness, though I know this brokenness brings me closer to You if I allow it. Help me, God. Please. I want to live again with things right. In Christ’s name, I pray. Amen.”
For long moments she laid thus, until she felt the relief and peace of old began to cover her heart and her mind. She sobbed with the release of it, with the knowledge that she was loved by the Lord of heaven and earth, and that she had been the one who’d held herself off from Him, not the other way around.
She rose with the grace of a young deer and gaily started the mile back to the stand, only to be met by Mrs. Bustle, barreling down the dirt lane in the driver’s seat of the red sports car, with a trapped looking Mr. Bustle beside her. They drew abreast of Sarah with a loud gunning of the engine, and Mrs. Bustle had to struggle to contain her mirth as the vehicle popped dramatically in a cloud of dust.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bustle, what’s wrong?” Sarah cried, waving away the dust and bending to peer in one of the lowered side windows on the passenger side.
“She’s got her license, that’s what,” Mr. Bustle muttered.
“What was that, my dear?” Mrs. Bustle asked, then smiled over at Sarah. “Our cat . . . er, the cat you gave us last year, just had a kitten,” she announced proudly, indicating a pet carrier in the backseat. “We were just in to Lockport to see the vet . . .” She trailed off, but Sarah kept a fixed smile on her face. She just had a time of communion with the God who loved and made her; she was not going to let anything interfere with that.
“Of course, if the doctor were here . . . ,” Mr. Bustle began, but he soon stopped too.
Sarah reached her hand inside the window to squeeze Mr. Bustle ’s arm. “We all feel the same, but we need to go on . . . to go forward into God’s grace.”
“You’re right, my dear,” Mrs. Bustle sniffed, gunning the engine. “And we’re going to move forward to show your mother the kitten. We named her Thimble . . . I’ve become quite the quilter since your quilting party, Sarah.”
“Oh, I’m glad.”
“Good-bye, my dear.” Mr. Bustle patted her arm and she watched them tear off toward the farm. She turned and walked determinedly. Her simple quilt, made from squares she was sure she would never be able to use, had borne fruit in more ways than one. Grant had given her a lasting gift and lasting memories.
She arrived at the stand to find Luke pacing and eating an apple.
“I’m sorry . . . I ran into the Bustles.”
He grinned. “I saw them. At least they didn’t run into you.”
Sarah smiled. “Have a good day in the fields.”
“You too here. I’ll be back tonight as usual.”
She watched him drive off and then looked around to take stock of the stand. Father and the boys had been out to secure any loose boards, set the tables aright, and put the tubs of flowers in their usual place on either side of the steps. Everything was the same, yet so different. She turned to arrange some early salad greens into attractive miniature bundles when she saw an Amish man walking down the high road out of the corner of her eye.
She went back to finishing the greens, then moved to take her place in the small chair next to the checkout table. A paper wrapper, carelessly thrown, lay in the grass within her line of vision and she frowned at the litter. The Amish man had his head down, so she had a quick moment. She rose and darted down the steps, snatched up the paper, and had gained the top step again when she tripped and fell flat on her face.
She instinctively covered her head as a heavy rain of onions fell from the table above and rolled around her. She knew she ’d made enough noise to attract the attention of the Amish man, so she decided that she might as well get up and see who it was when she was suddenly lifted and set on her feet with strong hands.
“Didn’t you drop an onion the first time we met?”
Sarah turned at the warm voice and stared up into the blue-gold eyes that she knew and loved so well. “Grant . . .
jah
. . . but what . . . ?” She ran her hands in wonder down the light blue sleeves of his Amish shirt.
He put an onion in her hand. “Kiss me, Sarah King.”
She lifted her mouth to his, moving as if in a dream. Her heart pounded and the morning sunshine warmed her lowered eyelids until she felt that she was drowning in sensation, stars twirling in bursts throughout her body until she had to stop to breathe. She opened her eyes and gazed at him, half afraid he might disappear.
“I just can’t believe it,” she whispered. “
Der Herr
is so good.”
He grinned at her. “I’ve come to know that more and more over this year. And I’ve found a community, Sarah, a belonging that I’d never thought possible.” He was belatedly dusting down her skirt. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.
“No . . . not anymore.” And she wasn’t, she realized. She ’d felt whole since this morning when she ’d poured her heart out to her Savior.
He stilled, then stood tall at her words. “I’m sorry, my love, my heart . . . I had to go away. I had to study. To become Amish was something I had to be sure that I wanted, that the Lord wanted.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him again. “I understand. I’ve just missed you so.”
“And I’ve missed you too, Sarah. You say how good the Lord is . . . oh, but how good. And here I’ve felt half-scared to death that you might have fallen in love with Jacob Wyse.” He searched her eyes at the confession, but she shook her head.
Nee
. . . it’s only you. It’s always been you.”
You
, she thought. “Englisch
or Amish. Your hand twined in the earth with mine like the root of a single plant; your fingers touching the iridescent fabric square with mine until it became part of something alive and flowing and healing. Always you
.
A passing car tooted as they embraced again, and Grant smiled. “I also want you to know, my love, that I talked with your father before I began to study, and he gave his approval.”
Sarah nodded, too happy to speak as he went on. “Before we go tell the Bustles, I have a surprise for you . . . The bishop helped me, and I hoped that you wouldn’t notice.”
“What is it?”
“Let me lead you and keep your eyes closed.”
She felt him take the onion from her, then carefully guide her down the steps. The dew-drenched grass caressed her ankles above her shoe tops as they made their way onto the rocky path that led behind the long back of the stand. He stopped briefly, lifting her eager mouth to his in a lingering fashion and then walking on a few steps. He steered her close to a plant; she could feel the small leaves on her arms like touches in a hundred places, and she shivered.
“An engagement present?” he asked tenderly.
“Oh, Grant, yes.”
I’ll marry you. I’ll marry you and love you forever
.
“
Danki
, Sarah.” His voice was hoarse. “Now, please, open your eyes.”