Page 35 of A Hidden Hope

On Sunday morning, David Stoltzfus sat on the hard backless bench, breathing in the familiar scent of horses, cows, and hay filling the barn.

His eyes wandered over the sea of white and black prayer caps on the women’s side, while straw hats lay tucked under the benches of the men’s side—each one a quiet testament to the life he cherished.

It wasn’t that he sensed God more here than anywhere else—God was with him always.

But in these moments, surrounded by his family and friends, he felt especially attuned to God’s presence.

For David, simply being here was an act of worship.

Still, he couldn’t deny that his mind was wandering a bit during the sermon.

He was fond of Menno Yoder, trusted in his unwavering faith, and secretly admired his long fluffy beard—something David had never quite managed to achieve on his own.

Still, he couldn’t help wishing the minister would shorten his sermons by at least half.

Menno had a reputation for being long-winded.

Why use five words when ten would do? That was Menno’s style, every time.

Plus, his low voice had a tendency to flatten into a soothing, almost somnific rumble.

Combine that with the heavy, thick air, the rising heat, and it was a perfect recipe for nodding off.

David, sitting at the front with the other men, was near the open door, but an occasional breeze wasn’t enough to keep the sweat from trickling down his back.

His gaze wandered upward. Not even the barn swallows had the energy to swoop through the rafters today.

With effort, he refocused on Menno’s sermon—the story of their ancestors, many martyred for their beliefs, who had kept the faith alive and brought it with them across the perilous ocean.

David wondered how he would’ve responded to such persecution if he’d lived in another time.

He liked to think he would’ve stood firm, but without having faced true hardship, he wasn’t sure.

Still, the strength of those who had suffered for their faith cast a long shadow, one that gave strength to those who followed.

He glanced up again toward the rafters. “Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses,” as the writer of Hebrews said.

David offered a silent thank-you to them.

A high-pitched wail jolted David back to reality.

Clara Zook, sitting at the back on the women’s side, was wrestling with her twin babies.

Just as she soothed one, the other would start fussing.

It was evident she was having a tough time, the tension etched on her face as she tried to keep the little ones from disrupting the service.

A few worshipers shifted uncomfortably on the hard benches, clearly distracted.

Birdy, David’s wife, caught Clara’s eye and motioned that she’d take one of the babies.

Clara shook her head. She was trying to manage on her own, though it seemed more than she could handle.

David thought back to his own twin daughters as infants, Emily and Lydie, to the sleepless nights, the exhausting days.

When both babies started wailing at once, and Menno stopped his sermon to stare her down, Clara quickly stood and hurried out of the barn, chin tucked in embarrassment.

David could hear the babies continue to cry outside the barn.

Across the room, Birdy was giving him the eye.

Clara needs help , she was telegraphing, as clear as a bell.

David leaned slightly back to glance at Clara’s husband, assuming Jacob would follow her out, but he remained in his seat, staring straight ahead, statue-like.

The only sign he was aware of his wife’s situation was a deep flush spreading up his neck and over his cheeks.

David felt a pang of concern. This was exactly why Birdy had wanted him to have a talk with Jacob—but he’d completely forgotten.

Jacob might not realize how overwhelmed Clara was or, more likely, he expected her to handle the babies like his first wife had done.

Frankly, David wasn’t quite sure what to do.

The babies’ cries hit a new octave—if that was even possible—nearly drowning out the sermon.

Not to be outdone, Menno cranked up his volume to a full-on shout, which, naturally, woke up yet another sleeping baby.

David could practically hear the collective squirm of bodies on the benches as people shifted, clearly trying to pretend they weren’t counting the minutes until the service ended.

Birdy’s eyebrows kept dropping and lifting at David, as if to say, Do something!

David was closer to the door than anyone else, so he quietly slipped out the open door.

Blinking against the sudden wash of sunlight, he first saw the buggies and wagons lined up in the yard like pigs at a feeding trough.

Beyond them, grazing in the pasture, were the unhitched buggy horses.

Then he turned and saw Clara standing under the shade of a tree, not too far from the barn, trying to calm the wailing babies.

“Clara,” David said gently as he approached. “My first wife Anna and I had twins. Emily and Lydie. Grown now, with families of their own, but I remember what it was like at first. I used to have a knack at calming a baby down. Let me hold one of them for you and see if I still have the talent.”

Clara looked up at him, her face flushing with embarrass ment. The idea that the bishop would offer to help hold one of her babies, during a church service, clearly mortified her. He’d only made things worse for her. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’ll just go inside the house to feed them.”

David watched Clara hurry toward the house, her slight frame and youthful appearance making her seem almost like a child herself. Concerned, he offered a silent prayer for both her and the babies. Soon, he would stop by the Zook farm to talk to Jacob.

As he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow, he noted how the day’s heat was pressing down hard.

He should return to the barn. With him set to preach next and the temperature creeping higher, brevity would be welcomed.

Most of the church had been toiling under the summer sun to bring in the harvest, and they were feeling the strain.

Still, no Plain family would ever miss a church Sunday if they could help it, not even during harvest.

By now, since Menno had dropped his voice back to a rumble, half of them had drifted off, even on those unforgiving wooden benches. David smiled to himself. He was confident the Creator of all must have a soft spot for farmers. After all, he’d started everything in a garden, hadn’t he?

On Sunday afternoon, Annie sat on the shaded porch steps of her house, arms crossed, watching a cloud float across the sun as Gus paced back and forth in front of her. He looked like a man on a mission—determined but also undeniably frustrated.

“We’ve tried everything else,” Gus said, listing them off on his fingers like a checklist. “Conditioning, wrist pressure points, ginger tea, breathing techniques. Everything but...” He stopped short and turned to face her.

“Everything but over-the-counter meds like Dramamine or Bonine. You could take the meds right before your shift starts at the fire station.”

“Assuming I get hired.”

“Yes, assuming you get hired. And of course you will.”

“And what about if they don’t work? Or what happens if they stop working?”

“For long-term management, you can use scopolamine patches. I’m sure Dok would prescribe them if you asked.”

She shook her head, the gesture small but firm, and her cap strings tickled her shoulders.

The broad brim of his straw hat lifted to reveal his face. “Annie, why won’t you just consider medication?” Gus stood with his legs sprawled, hands on his hips. “It could solve your tendency to get motion sickness.”

“More than just a tendency, Gus.” Couldn’t he see? Why didn’t he understand that? But her annoyance faded when she saw the anguished look in his eyes. “I just can’t function if I’m in a fast-moving vehicle.”

He took off his straw hat and slapped it on his knee. She watched his Adam’s apple bob above his open shirt collar. “You’re being so stubborn about this, Annie! And you’re usually the most reasonable person I know.”

“I won’t take drugs. I just can’t.” Annie stared at the worn wood of the porch step, rubbed smooth by all the mornings her father and brothers—and plenty of times, she and her mother—had trudged to the barn for milking.

Like clockwork, 4:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m., every single day of the year.

Whether Dad had a cold, was dog-tired from a long day, or just plain sick and tired of cows, he never missed a milking.

That worn step was somehow precious and dear to her.

Gus sat down beside her, exhaling a deep sigh of frustration. “Can you at least give me a reason?”

Annie took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I don’t want to end up like my mother.”

Gus’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “What do you mean?”

She looked away, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know as well as I do that she’s a hypochondriac, Gus. She’s tried every medication under the sun for illnesses that weren’t even real.” She glanced at him, seeing his expression soften instantly, concern replacing the frustration in his eyes.

“Annie, you’re not her.” The sound of his voice, so full of comfort and tenderness, nearly undid her, and she had to blink back tears. “You’re nothing like her. Just because that’s her path doesn’t mean it’s yours. You get to make your own choices.”