The Imposter (10 page)

David made a point to get to Windmill Farm extra early on Sunday, hoping he might snag time alone with Hank Lapp
to hear firsthand how Jesse's apprenticeship was going. His son was not forthcoming with information. Unfortunately, Hank was nowhere in sight. David looked around the buggy shop, impressed. It was spotless, clean, and organized.

Not much later, David was delighted to see Jesse drive the buggy up the hill and went out to meet him. The buggy dipped and rocked as his daughters scrambled out of it, one by one. He noticed that they all looked exceedingly tidy, almost . . . starched. The credit, no doubt, went to Ruthie. As she climbed out of the buggy, he high-fived her. “Great job getting your sisters ready for church, Ruthie.”

Jesse handed the reins of the buggy to his father. “Dad, Ruthie is turning into an absolute tyrant.” He smiled his naughty-boy smile. “I'd never admit it to her, but she does a much better job at bossing the family around than Katrina did.”

And it was true. Ever since Katrina moved to Thelma's, it seemed as if Ruthie had found the space to become . . . her best self. Home life ran remarkably smoothly after she stepped into Katrina's role. She had created schedules for everyone to take turns with chores, and for the first time in a year, David could actually count on a freshly cleaned and pressed shirt in his closet on Sunday morning.

He drove the buggy out to the field where the horse could graze during the service, unhooked the horse from the large harness, and pulled it forward, out of the traces, leading it through the fence and into the field. He patted the mare on her rump and turned to close the fence behind him. As he walked toward the house, he passed right by Birdy Glick. She was shielding her eyes from the bright morning sunshine to stare at something in the sky. It was a peregrine falcon diving
down into the field, then swooping up again, whirring off to the top of the precipice at the far side of the stream. He watched the flight in some admiration. The nesting falcon, an endangered species, was a well-known fixture on Windmill Farm. For a moment they stood, an island of silence in the midst of a busy, bustling farm.

“The first great book,” she said softly to herself.

“The falcon?”

Birdy startled. “David! I didn't know you were here.” Her cheeks reddened. “I meant . . . the book of nature. I always like to start Sunday worship by noticing something about creation around me. God's first great book.”

Intentionally preparing one's heart for worship was something David tried to practice at home. He did all he could on Saturday to make Sunday morning an easy, stress-free time. The buggy was washed and cleaned, clothes were laid out on beds, breakfast was simple, dirty dishes would wait. But he knew there was more to be mined in preparing one's heart for worship than merely checking off chores. He watched the falcon soar high in the sky, then dip down to catch an unfortunate field mouse, then up again and off to its nest.

“Listen now,” Birdy said in a hushed voice. “As soon as the falcon is gone, the other birds will start to sing.” The chorus began with one bird, igniting the morning chirping. Little by little, an entire choir of birds joined in. “They know it's safe now, to sing with all their hearts. Declaring that the world is bathed in the joy and love of God.” She steepled her hands together, as if in a prayer. “Evidence of God is everywhere if only we take the time to find it.”

David listened, and heard more sounds that shouted of God's goodness. The distant stream that ran along the road
of Windmill Farm, flowing day and night, never taking a holiday. It echoed of God's faithfulness.

He saw the rock ledge where the falcon had made her nest, and he remembered how steadfast and solid God is. He watched the trees dance in the breeze, and thought of how flexible and adaptive God's Spirit could be, adjusting to the needs of every generation while still remaining unchanged. He studied the plants, grass, and trees scattered in a chaotic fashion and remembered that in the chaos of life, God remained in the business of making beautiful landscapes out of our messes. His eyes lifted to the sky, the blue, blue sky, and he took a deep breath of crisp morning air, a symbol that every day is a new chance to begin again.

Then he noticed how many faithful church members were heading toward the farmhouse, heads bowed low with worn hope and fresh wounds from the week.

Birdy is right!
he wanted to shout to them.
All around you, God's great book
of creation is being preached. Lift your heads! See what
God has given you on this beautiful September morning. Signs
of his glory, his wonder, his ability to make something
beautiful out of your life. Lift your heads! You're
not alone in this journey.

David smiled at Birdy, perhaps a beat too long, because her cheeks started to flame with a bright red streak and she spun around, straight into the path of an approaching horse and buggy. The horse shied and reared, throwing his tail, starting a chain of spooked buggy horses, which invited distressed whinnying among the horses in the field, wondering what the excitement was all about. Birdy apologized profusely to the first horse and buggy's owner and scurried off to join a knot of women, gathered by the porch.

But for David, the worship that had filled his heart remained with him all morning.

The church rustled, bowing their heads. Birdy sat on the hard backless bench next to her identical sisters-in-law and let the quiet roll over her. In this time of waiting, of silence, with her family and friends close around her, she felt safe. She felt loved. She felt hopeful. And she thought of David.

Birdy thought of him so much. When she woke up in the morning he was on her mind, and her first thought was whether she would see him that day. Church Sundays were her happiest days of all. She could sit and watch David all morning, to her heart's content, and listen to his honeyed baritone voice as he preached. No one had a clue of all that was running through her mind. She did her best to keep her mind on the contents of the sermon—she knew it was a terrible sin to allow her thoughts to wander off in the direction they tended to go whenever David Stoltzfus was near.

Oh, she was so sure they'd had a “moment” this morning. David had looked at her as if he was seeing her for the very first time and Birdy wondered if there might be something blooming between them. But not much after that, she crossed the yard to head toward the barn and nearly walked right into David. He looked at her and smiled, and Birdy didn't turn away. For once, she didn't knock anything over or trip over her own big feet. A sense of anticipation had skittered over the top of her skin, brushing the back of her neck, her elbows.

Yes, she had thought, this was something possible. The thought made her feel giddy with joy.

Not two seconds later, Katrina had appeared at her father's elbow. “Dad, there's someone here I'd like you to meet.” A beautiful woman stood behind her. “This is Mary Mast. She lives in the next town over. It's an off-Sunday so she came to worship with us today.”

As David turned to say hello to Mary Mast, Katrina sidled to Birdy's side and whispered, “She was the most promising candidate of all the
Budget
letters. She's a widow with no children. Cross your fingers. I think she could be the one.”

Mary Mast beamed at David. Positively beamed. Birdy didn't want her to be so pretty and charming. She was green with envy—another terrible sin.

And Birdy's delight over the brief moment she had shared with David had disappeared.
Poof.
Gone.

Mary Mast had come as a complete surprise to Katrina. She'd forgotten all about Hank Lapp's infamous
Budget
letter, but Mary Mast hadn't forgotten. She had tracked Hank Lapp down and called him. Hank invited her to church on Sunday, then drove over to Moss Hill to tell Katrina what he had done, and to hand off the task to her. “You said you'd handle it from here,” Hank had said. “In the store, that was the last thing you told me.” He brushed his hands together. “I've done all I can to help get your father married off. The rest is up to you.”

Katrina dug out Mary Mast's letter, read it to look for signs of oddity or mental derangement but was cautiously optimistic about its mild content. Then, after meeting Mary, she felt the first glimmer of encouragement. Mary Mast was a widow who lived in a town nearby, had no children—a
big
plus, because Katrina's own siblings were complicated enough, especially Jesse, though Ruthie could be sneaky—and seemed almost too good to be true.

As she watched her father and Mary Mast chat before church started, she thought they made a striking couple. Looks weren't important, or so everybody said, but her father was a handsome man, and Mary Mast was quite attractive. In fact, if Katrina squinted her eyes and pretended Mary's hair was red, she even resembled her mother. A tiny bit. Her father had smiled at something Mary Mast said—a good sign. They had seemed to be enjoying each other.

All in all, Katrina was rather pleased with herself about this unexpected turn of events and spun around to say so to Birdy, but she'd gone.

Andy spanked the reins against the horse's rump, and the buggy harness jingled. The wheels creaked into motion, squelching through the mud in the yard at Windmill Farm. As the buggy rattled over the corduroy bridge that spanned the creek, Katrina looked back to see Thelma lift her hand in a wave. She had decided to stay and visit with Fern, so Andy told her he'd return to pick her up later because it looked like it was going to rain soon. Katrina turned her back to the farm, settling down on the seat. Andy seemed quieter than usual as he flicked the reins. “Anything on your mind?”

Andy's gaze lifted from the back of the horse to her face and she saw something in his eyes, a sort of wary pride. “Your dad's sermon. I haven't heard a sermon like that before.”

Katrina thought back to her father's sermon, trying to remember if he had said anything significant. In truth, she
hadn't listened. Her mind had been occupied with how to get Mary Mast over for dinner this week on a night her father would definitely, absolutely, positively be home. “What were sermons like where you grew up?”

“A lot of stories about Anabaptist martyrs, with a few Scripture verses thrown in at random. Rules and regulations to keep everybody out of moral potholes. Pretty thin soup.” He glanced at her. “Must've been different for you, to have grown up with your father's way of thinking. You're pretty lucky—to have grown up with a father like that. He's the real deal, your dad.”

Katrina looked at the windshield, partly because raindrops had started to fall, but mostly to avoid responding. She had never paid much attention to her father's preaching. Or to any other preaching, for that matter. “What struck you as memorable?”

“I'd always heard the Bible described as a manual. Do this, don't do that. Your father talked about it . . . like . . . it was a story. A story to enter into, not a blueprint of rules to follow. And then when he said that we are part of that story today . . .” His voice trailed off.