Free When Hope Blossoms by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

tipping up her lips. “Curtains make such a difference.”
    Bekah raised her eyebrows. It would take more than curtains to brighten this dreary old farmhouse. Their house in Arborville had been old, too, but soft white paint on the walls and honey-colored stained woodwork had given it a comfortable appearance. This house’s chipped, blue-painted woodwork and faded wallcoverings just made it seem tired and run-down. But Mom wouldn’t want to hear her thoughts.
    Wordlessly, Bekah lifted the chair and carried it to the kitchen. She sensed Mom following her, but she slid the chair into place at the square table that filled the center of the room without glancing back to see. The moment she released the chair, hands descended on her shoulders and turned her around.
    Bekah stiffened, fully expecting Mom to scold. After all, she’d instructed Bekah to wash, iron, and hang the curtains, and Bekah had dawdled. Now it was past her bedtime. Mom had spent the entire day working and she’d still had to finish Bekah’s job. Deep down, Bekah knew she’d been disobedient, and guilt tried to take hold of her heart, but she stubbornly refused to accept it. She was still a little mad at Mom over the talk they’d had after Adrianna and Parker went up to bed. Mom was so set in her old-fashioned ways.
    To Bekah’s surprise, instead of scolding, Mom folded her in a hug. “Thank you for your help, honey.” After a squeeze, Mom released Bekah. Something flickered in Mom’s eyes. A kind of pleading Bekah really didn’t understand. “Is the house starting to feel like home to you now with all our furniture arranged and curtains on the windows?”
    Bekah angled her face to look at the ruffly curtain gently lifting in the evening breeze that poured through the kitchen window. Just like in Arborville, the wind here in Weaverly never seemed to cease. The pink-dotted fabric billowed and collapsed, billowed and collapsed, much like Bekah’s emotions of late. “I guess.” Then she jerked her face to look into her mother’s eyes. “Mom, can I ask you something?”
    Mom tipped her head. One black ribbon crunched against the shoulder of her rose-flowered dress. The gloomy color looked out of place amid the spatter of cheerful blooms. “Of course.”
    Bekah gulped, gathering her courage. “You said moving to Weaverly would give us all a fresh start. Right?”
    Mom’s lips pinched briefly, but she nodded.
    “So why can’t that mean a fresh start in more than just where we live? Why can’t we do something else new, like wear shorts when it’s hot outside? Or buy a swimsuit—it doesn’t have to be a two-piece—and go swimming in the public pool like other kids? Or maybe even cut our hair instead of piling it under these scratchy caps?”
    As Bekah spoke, her voice rose in both volume and speed. Bottled up questions poured out fast before Mom could interrupt and tell her to stop fussing. “We moved away from Arborville and all the people of our fellowship. We’re in a brand-new place where nobody knows us. Not even the Mennonites who came from Ohio really know us—just a little bit from helping us carry our stuff into the house. Do we have to dress this way and . . . and live in an old house to make God happy?”
    Bekah ran out of words. She plunked into the nearest chair, exhausted. She peered up at her mother, who stood silent and unsmiling before her. Another thought filled her mind, and she spit it out before she lost her nerve to share it. “Why is it so important that we be Mennonites? Mr. Roper isn’t Mennonite anymore, and he seems okay. Wouldn’t we be okay if we decided not to be Mennonites, too?”

8

    A my silently prayed for guidance as she pulled out a kitchen chair and seated herself across from her daughter. She should have known this conversation was coming. Amy’s dad had grimly predicted shortly after Bekah’s eleventh birthday, “You watch. That one’s going to give you heartache. She thinks too much.”