23. Elodie
TWENTY-THREE
ELODIE
There were, in fact, lots of YouTube videos on how to build a barn.
Unfortunately for me, and much to my dismay, I slowly came to the realization that building an entire barn from scratch would be slightly outside of my wheelhouse.
After unending calls to local contractors, I also learned that it would be several months before construction could even begin, given that the summer months were the busiest in the profession.
As much as I hated to admit defeat, it looked as though Star Harbor Farm would have to open without the barn as its heart and showpiece. Undeterred and knowing there was no rest for the weary, I moved down to the next best thing on my to-do list: Source a stupid number of straw bales.
After borrowing the keys to Stan’s farm truck, I climbed inside the cab of the old square-body Ford.
I turned the key and the engine cranked to life.
Surely someone in town knew of a local farmer looking to sell off some straw.
The truck’s seat rumbled beneath me as I bounced across the gravel road that led to the main roadway .
When I rounded the bend on the way toward town, I noticed a horse and buggy pulled off to the side of the road.
Growing up in Western Michigan, Amish and Mennonite communities were a part of life.
It wasn’t uncommon to see a horse-drawn carriage trotting down the main roadway, the drivers lifting a hand in greeting as you passed.
As I slowed to give them ample room, I realized their carriage had a broken wheel. I eased on the brake, coming to a stop next to the buggy, and rolled down my window. “Hi there. Do you need some help?”
The oldest man in their group, dressed in a pale-blue shirt, black trousers, and black suspenders, looked at me, his eyes roaming over the old truck. “Are you Stan Stafford’s kin?” he asked while making only minimal eye contact.
“Uh, kind of,” I answered with a shrug. “I’m his friend. Borrowing his truck. It looks like your vehicle is in a bit of a bind. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
The man hesitated. “That is kind of you. We do not usually take rides, but this time, it appears to be needed. We have a damaged wheel,” he answered. “Your help would be much appreciated.”
I unlocked the door, and he pulled it open.
The man dipped his chin. “I am Gideon.”
I waved. “Elodie.”
“If it’s all right, we would all like to take you up on your offer,” he stated.
“Of course,” I said. “Hop on in.”
Gideon motioned to the others. “Sarah, Jonah, in the back.”
I glanced in the back seat of the cab, hoping that Stan’s greasy tool bag didn’t dirty Sarah’s beautiful dress.
Gideon then instructed the oldest boy, Samuel, to stay behind with the horses.
The younger children, instead of climbing in the back seat as I expected, climbed into the bed of the truck.
Sarah climbed in carefully, smoothing her dark-blue dress over her lap, her white kapp fluttering in the breeze.
She pressed her hands together, folding them neatly, her bare feet tucked beneath her.
Unbothered, Gideon sat in the front, next to me. From the back, I could hear the children speak a language I didn’t understand, but I recognized the melodic lilt of Pennsylvania Dutch.
I gripped the steering wheel. “Okay. Here we go.”
Gideon pointed out directions, taking me down a winding country road that led to the outskirts of the county.
We reached a long narrow road, and the truck bounced along until we came to a stunning white farmhouse.
Crisp white sheets pinned to clotheslines billowed in the breeze, baking in the afternoon sunlight.
A woman stopped, setting down the laundry basket and lifting a hand to wave. Two smaller children were running through the clotheslines, a yappy dog nipping at their heels.
The air around their homestead was peaceful—that of simple elegance and pride in the lifestyle they had maintained, despite modern progress all around them. In a way, I envied them, that they valued their culture and traditions so much that they refused to bend to the will of man and time.
In the distance, the sound of rhythmic hammering caught my attention, and I glanced toward a neighboring farm property where at least thirty men were nearly finished hammering the trusses of a massive barn.
“Wow,” I said, completely entranced with how the men straddled the wood without any safety equipment at all. “It’s masterful, isn’t it? The skill that must take is really impressive. ”
Gideon only offered a dip of his chin and a small but proud smile. “It is simply what must be done.”
A seed of curiosity grew until, finally, it got the best of me. “How long does something like that take you?”
A slight frown pulled down Gideon’s mouth. “About two, I’d say. For that one, going on three.”
“Months?” I asked, with an exhale. “Wow, that seems pretty fast.”
Beside me, Gideon chuckled as he climbed out of the truck. “Days.”
“Days?” I couldn’t help the shock seeping into my voice. I pointed across the field. “They built that barn in two days ?”
“That’s not a mighty feat when the community works together. It’s just our way.”
The hammering was rhythmic, a steady song of labor and craftsmanship, of hands working in tandem like some unspoken symphony. The sheer number of people—all moving, lifting, working—was staggering.
A barn. An entire barn , rising from the dust in mere days.
My throat tightened. This was what true community looked like.
“Are you for hire?” A burst of embarrassed laughter escaped my lips before I could help it.
Gideon pursed his lips as though he was seriously considering my question. “You say you’re Stan Stafford’s kin? Word traveled about what happened to his barn. I take it that’s what you’re referencing.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “The barn was completely destroyed,” I said glumly.
“There’s nothing left and we have to start over.
Every construction company I called can’t even start for at least a few months, let alone get it done in a matter of days.
” The mere thought of it had frustration simmering beneath my skin, but there was no use in crying over it—again.
I sighed and gripped the steering wheel. “Okay, well, best of luck with your carriage.”
“We do not ask for much, only that we may serve where we are needed. The Lord provides, but neighbors must also do their part.” Before he closed the door, Gideon reached into the back pocket of his slacks, pulled a small white rectangle from his pocket, and reached across the cab to hand it to me.
“The business is roofing, but as you can see”—he gestured toward the barn raising in the distance—“there’s more than that we can do.
The number on there is for a business line—voicemail only—and it gets checked once every few days.
If you’re needing our services, you know how to reach us. ”
“I—I couldn’t possibly—” I stammered as I turned the card over in my hand.
“Around here, community is everything. Seven people passed us before you stopped to offer your aid. Returning the kindness would be the neighborly thing to do. You’re not one to give back a miracle, are you?
” His words hearkened back to when Stan called the morning sunlight and a burned-out barn, the simplicity of it all, a miracle.
I swallowed hard. “No, sir, I’m not,” I answered with a smile.
He nodded. “Then I suppose I’ll be hearing from you.” With that, he closed the door and walked away.
I ran my thumb over the edge of the card, tracing the embossed print like it held some kind of secret magic.
A barn in a matter of days. A second chance. A miracle.
I looked up at Gideon, at the quiet certainty in his expression, and grinned.