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mother. She flashed a big smile
     at Taylor. “What a perty table, with all the plates at their places and your handprint
     turkeys as our centerpiece,” she said. “ Denki , Taylor—which is thank you in our language.”
    “No problem,” the girl replied with a grin.
    Rhoda paused before opening the oven door. “Ya know, I hear English folks say that
     in the café, and I’m not sure it fits,” she said in a pensive tone. “When ya tell
     me it was no problem to do somethin’, it makes me feel like it was a problem—or at least an inconvenience to ya—but ya managed to rise above it.”
    “Yup,” Betty joined in as she shuffled toward a place near the end of the table. She
     smiled at Rhoda with one side of her face. “Always make . . . the other person . .
     . feel welcome. Important.”
    “Good call, Mom,” Andy agreed as he held out her chair. “Making people feel important
     is, well— important . Respect never goes out of style, even when you’re dealing with your brother or sister
     . . . or the person cooking your dinner.” He looked directly at Rhoda until she returned
     his gaze. “And dinner smells fabulous, Rhoda. Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness.”
    Rhoda flushed. “You’re welcome,” she replied happily. “My mamm says it’s her mission to feed people. I’ll pass along your thanks.”
    Brett had followed this conversation with a wary expression as he took his seat. “So
     what’s your mission, Rhoda the Raccoon?”
    Now there was a question she hadn’t expected from a boy Brett’s age! And she’d learned
     not to dodge an important issue when a child asked about it.
    “Well, Brett the Bear,” she answered as she placed a steaming pan of sliced turkey
     on the table, “I believe I was born to help folks, whether it be cookin’ for them
     or gettin’ them to laugh off their troubles and keep goin’. We all have a lot of gut reasons for bein’ on God’s earth. And the sooner we figure out what our purpose is,
     why, the easier it is for us to be truly happy with our life.”
    “And are you happy with your life, Rhoda?” Taylor asked as she carried the basket
     of fresh bread to the table. “I . . . I don’t think I’d like wearing dresses like
     yours, or having that funny little hat on my head all the time.”
    “Taylor, that’s enough of such talk,” Andy warned, but Rhoda kept smiling. She took
     the chair Taylor had gestured toward, pleased that it was the seat beside hers.
    “Most English folks—those are families like yours, who aren’t Amish or Mennonites,”
     she explained, “have a hard time understandin’ Plain ways. Sometime I’ll tell ya whatever
     ya want to know, all right? But for now, I’m hungry, for sure and for certain. Shall
     we pray?”
    Brett’s eyes widened, but Taylor bowed her head and pressed her hands together at
     her chin.
    “God is good, God is great,” the girl recited. “Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.”
    It pleased Rhoda that prayer was already a part of the Leitner family’s mealtime.
     And who wouldn’t be gratified at the way these children dove into the mashed yams
     and green bean casserole? Betty was slowly feeding herself with her good hand, opening
     her mouth as best she could, and Andy . . . well, Rhoda had watched a lot of fellows
     eat at the Sweet Seasons, but none of them had worn an expression of such utter bliss.
     With each bite he took, the man at the head of the table closed his eyes to savor
     the juicy turkey . . . the stuffing with its apples and pecans . . . the creamy green
     bean casserole . . . the warm, chewy bread he slathered with the butter she had brought.
    “Now this is Thanksgiving dinner,” he murmured when he’d eaten about half the food he’d taken.
     “I think I speak for all of us when I say I hope you’ll come here to help—”
    “Yeah, do it, Rhoda! Please and thank you!” Brett piped up.
    “We really, really need you,” Taylor murmured