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Will Be Done

Eli straightened up and leaned backwards, popping his back. Sweat trickled down his

forehead, slid down his nose, and dropped into the thick, chocolate-brown earth. Another good

day’s work. God be praised. He leaned back down and gave a few last strokes to the soil with

the rake, then picked up the wooden bucket and gently poured the water into the garden. The

bailing of hay had finished earlier than expected, and he had moseyed on over to the tomatoes

and squash, realized a few weren’t quite ready to be picked, and got in some more work before

the sun set.

Jacob Christner rode on by in his carriage, waving, the setting sun glistening against the

back of the acorn-brown horse. Eli waved back at the father-in-law of his son, Isaiah, who had

just been married to Jacob’s fourth daughter, Rebecca, the Tuesday prior. They would make Eli

a grandfather for the ninth time, barring any unforeseen medical complications. Regardless, the

will of God will be done. Yes, it will be done. But God works in mysterious ways, does he not?

And it is not our right as humans upon this earth to know that will, no it is not.

Eli had to swallow that fact like the lump in his throat when he saw the plume of dust

rising into the evening sky just over the hill, the increasing drone of an automobile’s motor

meshing with the constant rhythmic screeching of the cicadas in the forest that bordered his

property. The car was silver, glistening like a bullet, glistening like the city of Indianapolis that

lay far to the north. He looked over to his wife, Miriam, who stood up from her crouching

position over the washboard to share his concerned gaze. The car pulled over to the side of the

road, just on the other side of Eli’s wooden fence. He set the rake down next to the tomato

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plants and began walking across the field of recently harvested corn, the dried husks crunching

beneath his feet. God’s will be done. God’s will be done.

The man that emerged from the sedan wore a white tucked-in dress shirt and black

slacks, a black tie that fluttered in the breeze and dark sunglasses to match. He hopped over the

fence, approaching Eli, and stumbled in a particularly soggy spot, winced, wiped his muddied

shoes on a husk. He offered a hand to Eli. “Mr. Plank,” Eli said, not returning the gesture, “good

evening.”

“Hello, Eli.” Plank took in the scenery. “Nice evening, eh? A good harvest this year?”

“Decent. It will last us the winter, with some to spare.” They stood silent for a moment.

A rooster cackled from the barn. “What can I do for-”

“You know why I’m here,” Plank said. He set a hand on Eli’s shoulder, took in a breath as

if about to speak. Eli cut him off before a word escaped.

“The answer hasn’t changed.”

The smell of baking apple pie came across the field from the house, carried by the gentle

breeze. Plank snorted, set his hands at his hips, looked at the ground, shook his head once.

“I said the answer hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah, but the world has. Your world has. What about the Ordnung?”

“The Ordnung is dead. Our way of life is dying. I will keep it alive in the world God has

given us, regardless of the weakness of lesser men. We need no Bishop to interpret the word of

God.” He stamped his foot on the ground. “This is the word of God. We have kept it for nearly

two hundred years. I will not lose it to heathens.”

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“Eli,” Plank said, removing his sunglasses. “It’s already lost. It’s over. And God has given

you another land.”

“An abomination, to think that–.”

“Your own world, Eli. Free from the development and pestilence of this area that lesser

men have squandered. Unfarmed, but fertile. Pristine.” Plank waved a hand dismissively. “As

God intended it before His people rebelled, if that’s what you want to call it.” Eli stood resolute

against the whelp’s words, shook his head once. Plank sighed took out a small tablet from his

back pocket, held it up in front of Eli’s face. How dare he. How dare he shed heathen

technology here.

“You see this? You see this signature, right here?” Eli’s fingertips went numb, his

throated collapsed into his innards. Jacob Christner’s signature glared across the technological

gulf like a wound. “Jacob has already forfeited his land, traded it away for a new chance.” Plank

slid a thumb across the screen, showing a new signature. “Hershberger.” Another slide.

“Fisher.” Slide. “Lapp. Zook. They’re getting prepped tomorrow morning for their first journey,

to set up their homes where the Bishop and Deacon and a few other families from other

communities around the country have already set up shop. Nearing harvest time, over there.”

Plank reached a hand into his pocket, presenting some kernels. “Just as good. If not better.” A

jet roared overhead, soaring through the clouds at a height Eli couldn’t see.

“They have no right to give away communal –”

“Eli, your family is all that’s left. Your world doesn’t have to die.”

Eli welled up, clinched his fist. “Bastard,” he whispered. “I should’ve known you’d

always come back. You were always trouble, from the moment you were born.”

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“Careful, Dad,” Plank said, crossing his arms, dropping the foreign kernels onto the

earth, polluting it like salt on Carthage. “You-know-who can hear you.”

“How dare you mention Him when you do not believe.”

“Oh, I believe. I believe we are in the process of building a community just over that

grove of trees yonder and He has given you the ability to make a new home free of all

this...technological pollution. You have that option.” Plank’s phone vibrated and Eli looked at

his pocket as it lit up. Plank smiled wryly. “It would appear I do not.” Eli stroked his beard, heard

the dinner triangle ring. His dogs barked and howled, and his boys in the field led the donkeys

back to the stables. The sky’s brilliant colors were fading into the end of twilight. “Nothin’ like

home cookin’,” Plank said.

“Get off my land, Samuel,” Eli said in a shaky voice. “You have been shunned for plenty

of time, and I have been more than hospitable.” Eli pointed down the road from whence his

excommunicated son had come. “Go. Go back to your heathen ways.”

“Hey,” Samuel said as he backed up, hands in the air, “I’m giving you the opportunity to

remove your family from outside influence in any way.”

“Go!”

“Alright, Dad. Ok. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Samuel shook his head and hopped back over

the fence, slid into his car, and drove off into the night on the wings of another plume. Eli

watched as the vehicle climbed a hill and disappeared with the engine noise. Crickets sang

harmony to the cicadas, and Eli’s stomach groaned. But he was not hungry. He walked back to

the house, over the dried husks on the sacred earth. Miriam would already know, having talked

to Mary Christner and Hannah Zook at the market earlier in the day. She would be supportive,

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talk about how God works in mysterious ways, how His will is for Him alone to know until the

day we step into His paradise, and how perhaps it will be better off for a fresh start, similar to

the Pilgrims heading over from England. Eli will nod assent, but it will be a lie.