Eager to breathe in the familiar fragrance of the orchard, I raised the window as birdsong beckoned to me. But I also wanted to feel the cool morning dew on my bare feet before doing chores. So, already dressed, I gave my waist-length, light brown hair a good brushing, then twisted and pinned it into a thick bun—not bothering to put on a bandanna.

I slipped down the two flights of stairs in my family’s home, then walked out the side door and across the yard and beyond. Unhurried, I wandered past the blooming peach trees, along the grassy strips that separated their rows. Time seemed to slow to the easy ticking of a heavenly clock. Honestly, I was so thankful not to live like our few English neighbors scattered here and there amongst us. Such a racket came from their big tractors and other farming equipment! Ach, it was bad enough that planes streaked our skies, trucks and cars crowded the highways, and folk in the city of Lancaster rushed helter-skelter.

But here? My heart drank in the peace of this lovely place, the soft blossoms dusting the atmosphere with their sweet peachy scent—like honey. As a young girl, I’d declared that the Lord God himself must surely dwell in our orchard—the most splendid spot on earth.

“If I could, I’d stay here forever,” I whispered, ever so content.

From behind me, I heard swift footsteps and assumed it was my oldest brother coming to check on the swath of newly planted semi-dwarf apple trees down near Harvest Drive. But to my surprise it wasn’t Jonah but Evan, my twin.

“Whatcha doin’ up so early, Ellie?” he asked, stopping to roll up his black pant legs. “You nearly beat the dawn.” He straightened, a whole head taller than me, almost as tall as our older brothers, Jonah and Rudy—both married with growing families and places of their own.

“It’s so fresh and dewy this time of day,” I said. “Ain’t so?”

Evan nodded, a sparkle in his blue eyes the same shade as mine. “No wonder Adam and Eve walked with God in the garden in the cool of the day—and no better place for a Hostetler to be on such a fine Thursday morning.”

“I’m sad for everyone who doesn’t have an orchard to come home to!”

“You remind me of Dawdi Hezekiah, comin’ out here to ramble through the rows.”

“Jah.” I smiled, happy that Dat’s elderly father lived in the small Dawdi Haus addition to our home just as he had for nearly two decades—since well before Mammi passed away three years ago. “Well, he’s the one who planted most of these trees back when. They’re his children, in a way.”