Lydianne nodded sympathetically as she began setting up the cash box. “I’d be in a bad way if Martin let me go,” she admitted. “I’ll do everything I can to persuade him what a valuable employee you are—because without you there, I would have to take on all the staining, in addition to keeping the books.”
When they heard voices in the adjacent shop, they saw Gabe and his father wheeling in a large glass-front china hutch. Was it her imagination, or did Gabe briefly seek her out by looking between the slats that separated their shops? He hadn’t said much to her during the past week, as though Uncle Clarence might’ve turned him against her—yet his expression suggested thoughts and emotions he hadn’t expressed in words.
As exhausted as she was, Regina knew better than to read too much into the way Gabe looked at her.
“I hope to stay on everyone’s gut side today, minding my business while they mind theirs,” Regina remarked to Lydianne as she continued hanging pictures. “After the earful Uncle Clarence gave me on Monday, I can’t handle any more confrontations.”
A few minutes before The Marketplace’s doors were to open for business, however, Deacon Saul walked past Regina’s shop carrying one end of a large quilting frame toward his wife’s shop; Preacher Ammon was hefting the other end of it. Following like ducks in a row came Ammon’s middle-aged, unmarried sisters, Esther and Naomi. Their curiosity immediately soured to disapproval when they saw Regina standing behind the counter.
“I feel a storm blowing in,” Regina whispered as her stomach tightened into a knot. “You can bet they’ll be in here as soon as they’ve positioned that quilting frame for Martha Maude.”
“I’ll handle the customers so you can steer Saul and the Slabaughs out into the back hallway,” Lydianne suggested. “This isn’t the time or the place for hashing out church business, after all.”
When Preacher Ammon and his sisters entered the shop ten minutes later, however, Regina knew he didn’t share Lydianne’s opinion.
“What’s this?” he demanded, gesturing at her art-covered walls. “Bishop Jeremiah made it clear that you were to conduct no more of this sinful art business, didn’t he?”
Regina swallowed hard, heat rising into her cheeks. Her seven or eight customers turned to watch the discussion between her and the man in the black straw hat. “He left it up to me whether I’d sell the rest of my paintings or—”
“And given the choice between right and wrong, you chose wrong!” Ammon interrupted. “How are your neighbors to take your confession seriously if you continue to sin up to the very last minute?”
As if the preacher weren’t attracting enough attention, Deacon Saul stepped into the shop to have his say as well. “I was hoping not to see you here this morning, Regina,” he said brusquely. “What were you thinking, returning to your store after both the bishop and your uncle spoke with you about this matter?”
Regina felt trapped. The two church leaders stood in front of the doorway with their legs slightly apart, their arms crossed over their chests, frowning sternly, so stepping into the hallway wasn’t an option. The only way to move this disastrous conversation along was to give her best answers, hoping the men would be satisfied by her reasoning—or become disgusted enough to leave.
“Martin will decide about keeping me on at the furniture factory after my confession,” she murmured. “Meanwhile, I have bills to pay. I need to support myself—”
“Yet another sign of your pride and arrogance—not believing that God will take care of you!” Preacher Ammon interrupted.
“The way I see it,” Saul put in, “Martin will let you go because your artwork has set such a harmful example for his daughters and the rest of our young people. If we mention to Martin that he’s enabling your sinful behavior by keeping you on his payroll, he’ll fire you first thing Monday morning.”
“And besides,” the preacher put in with a wry smile, “once your house has sold and you’re living with Clarence, what need will you have for an income?”
Regina choked on a sob. She felt the foundation of her life crumbling away much faster than she’d anticipated, so she grasped at another straw. “I’m selling off my inventory so—so the church will earn its commission for the schoolhouse fund,” she said, gesturing at the paintings on her walls. “Otherwise, what will I do with all these pictures? Back when you were telling the congregation about The Marketplace’s potential income, you were counting on the commission—and rent—from this shop—”
Saul waved her off. “The other stores are bringing in more than enough to compensate for the closing of yours, Regina. It’s your soul—your salvation—we’re concerned about.”
“Seems to me you’ve forgotten all about being Amish,” Naomi muttered as she came in to stand beside the men.
“Had I not seen these paintings with my own eyes,” Esther chimed in from the doorway, “I would never have believed how you’ve deceived us for all these years, Regina. This is no mere whim we’re talking about. It’s obviously a deeply ingrained habit—like an addiction.”
As the Slabaugh sisters left the shop, Regina struggled to keep her composure. Why try to further defend herself? No matter what she said at this point, the deacon and the preacher would twist it to their advantage, wouldn’t they? She bowed her head and remained silent, figuring the men would have the last word anyway.
“We’ve stated our case,” Preacher Ammon said after several moments of disapproving silence. “You may show your repentance by immediately leaving your store, or you may continue down your wayward path. Your decision will affect the discipline you’ll receive after you confess in church. What would God have you do, Regina?”
With that searing question hanging in the air, the two men left. Regina stood in place, clenching and unclenching her hands as she willed herself not to burst into tears with so many customers present.
What would God have her do? She’d talked with Him ceaselessly as she’d painted this past week, believing that the swift, effortless way her brush created new paintings—income to sustain her during her uncertain future—was a sign of His presence and approval. God helped those who helped themselves, didn’t He?
But you knew, deep down, that the church leaders wouldn’t see it that way.
Regina sighed and opened her eyes. If she left the shop this morning, should she close it up and send her customers away? Or should she ask Lydianne to manage it in her absence? She didn’t want to get her good friend in hot water by asking her to stay in a place the deacon and the preacher considered a pit of sin.
When she turned to step behind the counter, however, the line of customers—and the number of paintings they held in their hands—took her completely by surprise. Rather than leaving the store during the confrontation they’d witnessed, folks appeared even more eager to purchase her work.
“I—I guess I’d better help ring up these sales,” Regina said with a quiver in her voice. “Thank you all for your patience—”
“Do you think this’ll be your last day here?” one lady asked with a sympathetic smile. “I love your work, and I was looking forward to buying gifts here for a long time to come—”
“What a bummer, the way those guys got on your case,” a young man in line remarked. “I didn’t realize you painted these awesome pictures—”
“We don’t mean to get you in more trouble, miss,” another woman began, “but if you won’t be open after today, I’d like to see the rest of your paintings now—”
“Me, too!” the fellow behind her blurted. “I want to stock up!”
Regina gaped at Lydianne. Never had she imagined such an outpouring of support for her artwork. “I brought along everything I’ve completed,” she said as she reached behind her. “While I fill in the wall display, you can thumb through these bins to see the rest.”
As she attached more of her watercolors to the planks, Regina felt a secret thrill about the way folks were snapping them up. New customers coming in had apparently heard the reason folks
were choosing so many of her pictures, and they, too, decided to buy something while they still had the chance.
By twelve fifteen, all her paintings were gone.
As the final customer left, Lydianne scribbled a SOLD OUT sign and posted it on the shop’s closed wooden gate. “Can you believe what happened this morning?” she whispered as she joined Regina beside the checkout counter. “Now what’ll you do?”
Regina shook her head. “I don’t know. From the church’s point of view, I should stop painting—dispose of my brushes and sketch pads and pack it in. And yet,” she added wistfully, “what’ll I do with my evenings if I give it up before I absolutely have to? In a sense, Esther has it right. Painting is an addiction—”
“Puh!” Lydianne blurted. “Far as I can see, she and Naomi have always had their noses in the air, acting superior to us younger maidels—but it’s because they envy us for having so much fun. They wish we’d include them in our activities, but . . . well, they’re just different.”
“Who’s different?” Jo asked as she peered between the slats separating the stores. “So it’s true. You’ve sold all your paintings! I’ve been having a rush myself or I’d have come over after Saul and the Slabaughs left.”
“You’d have thought Esther and Naomi were seated on either side of God Himself, the way they were passing judgment on Regina,” Lydianne remarked as she walked closer to Jo. “Oh, but I wanted to smack them! And their brother, too.”
Jo sighed. “I couldn’t hear all the words, but Saul and Preacher Ammon sounded really harsh,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to endure that with customers in your store, Regina. I was so humiliated for you, I thought about spilling a cup of hot coffee on Saul out in the commons—accidentally, you know.”
Regina shrugged as she joined her friends. The elation of watching her paintings being bought in such a frenzy was wearing off, and she would soon have to face whatever came next. “I appreciate you girls standing by me,” she murmured. “Guess I’ll head home—although I suppose I could help at the Flauds’ shop, the way I originally intended.”
“Phooey on that,” Lydianne said, slinging her arm around Regina’s shoulders. “I’ll go over there—and you can bet I’ll give Martin a piece of my mind if he starts in about how sinful you are. Men that age are worse than biddy hens when they huddle together. If one fellow gets his feathers ruffled, they all cluck up a storm, but they rarely do anything except point their fingers—usually at some poor gal who’s trying to get by the best she can. I get mighty tired of that, you know?”
As Regina gathered her empty bins, she was surprised at the vehement remarks her two friends had made. But she’d need a lot more than the support of four maidels if she was to get through six weeks of being under the bann. She’d deposited enough cash in the bank to last awhile—but what would she do with herself in the evenings?
And how would she survive life with Uncle Clarence?
Chapter Sixteen
As Gabe sat on the pew bench on the Sunday of Red’s confession, the tension in the Slabaugh sisters’ farmhouse hung like storm clouds. Because Esther and Naomi set up for church in their basement, the gray concrete walls and floors added to the bleak, claustrophobic atmosphere as they sang a slow hymn about the wages of sin being death—which made Gabe even more antsy. All the chatter the past week had been about Red’s amazing sales—and about her decision to keep the business open until her formal confession, despite the church leaders’ warnings.
Her future seemed even drearier than the morning’s first sermon. Preacher Ammon was lecturing about those who heard the call of Christ yet ignored it.
“We are to spend our time honoring God,” he exhorted the congregation. “When we pursue worldly pastimes that set us apart—that lead us into the temptations of individualism and independence—we can only diminish the unity the Old Order way of life promotes. These pastimes can force us to hide behind secrets and to weave webs of deception so dense we can lose our souls and not even know it.”
As Ammon continued his stern warnings to those who would stray, Gabe peered between the heads of the older men who sat in front of him, to see how Red was holding up. The preacher hadn’t mentioned her by name, but as he spoke further about the evils of pride, fame, and ill-gotten profits that come from engaging in art for art’s sake, everyone knew he was talking about her.
Poor Red. Her complexion was washed out and her eyes were rimmed in a sorrowful shade of pink that stabbed at Gabe’s heart. As the sermon continued, she slumped lower, holding her head in her hand.
Gabe longed to tell Slabaugh to move on, to speak of encouragement and forgiveness, but he kept his mouth shut. At least he’d stopped his father from firing Red this past Monday. Dat had been ready to hand Red her pink slip, after Saul and Ammon had convinced him that he was enabling her to keep painting her pictures at her house rather than to trust in God for her survival.
This reasoning made no sense to Gabe. Why did the deacon, the preacher, and Dat feel Red needed to live at the Miller place, totally dependent upon Clarence’s charity? Why couldn’t they trust her to put away her art now that she’d been called out for it and was ready to confess?
What penance would they prescribe if they found out about your worldly pastime?
The thought made Gabe even more agitated. Only a financial argument had kept Dat from firing Red, because their orders from The Marketplace were putting them behind schedule—and they would fall further behind because one of their men was off work for a while with a painful case of shingles.
When Bishop Jeremiah delivered the main sermon, the tension eased a bit. Rather than inciting anxiety and guilt, the bishop’s words focused on Jesus’ teachings about judgment and forgiveness.
“Let’s not forget that our Lord was a peacemaker—a man who countered the religious leaders of his day by telling them not to judge, or they would be judged,” he reminded those seated on both sides of him. “Jesus told his disciples to remove the log in their own eyes before they remarked on the mote in their brothers’ eyes. Hypocrites, he called them, as he warned them to first relinquish their own sins so they could see clearly to help those around them who floundered.”
Gabe felt the focus in the room shift away from Red—if only for a moment. Folks were looking at their laps, wondering if Bishop Jeremiah knew of secret habits they hadn’t told anyone about.
“I’ve heard voices raised in outrage and accusation this week, concerning one of our members,” Bishop Jeremiah continued softly. “Let us not forget that we all fall short of the glory God would have us attain. We all disappoint Him on a regular basis—even if our particular shortcomings might not be known to the folks around us.
“As we approach today’s Members Meeting, let us put the words of the prophet Micah into everyday language and write them across our hearts,” their dark-haired leader continued as he gazed at his congregation. “What does the Lord require of us but to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God? For when we raise ourselves in self-righteousness above another, we become prideful and blind to our own human failings.”
Gabe’s heart thudded in gratitude. They were truly blessed to have such a compassionate man as Jeremiah Shetler for their bishop.
Even so, as the Members Meeting began, Gabe felt twitchy. Without any prompting, Red went to her knees in front of the bishop as the two preachers remained seated alongside Saul on their bench.
“Regina, you confessed to me two weeks ago that you painted the wildlife scenes you were selling at The Marketplace and that you’d made up a name to cover your identity,” Bishop Jeremiah said. “Is this correct?”
“Jah, it is,” Red replied softly. “I should’ve put away my painting when I joined the church, but I didn’t. I’m sorry for the lies I’ve told, and for the way I’ve hidden my artwork these past several years, and for opening the shop at The Marketplace under a fake name and false pretenses. I’m willing to accept whatever discipline and penance the congregation
feels is appropriate.”
As folks shifted on the hard wooden benches, Preacher Ammon rose to stand beside the bishop. The expression on his bearded face was stern.
“That’s all well and gut,” he said, “but when Deacon Saul and I saw that you were still open for business on Saturday after you’d confessed to the bishop, we felt you were being less than sincere about giving up your artwork.”
“And you said you were selling those paintings to support yourself, in the event you lost your job at the furniture factory,” Deacon Saul put in from the bench. “Have you thought any more about what we said, about depending upon the Lord to provide for your future?”
“Matter of fact,” Bishop Jeremiah said in quick defense, “before the service this morning, Regina handed me all the money she took in that Saturday—not just the commission for the schoolhouse fund. It was a voluntary act, an act of faith on her part.”
“Probably trying to buy her way out of the bann,” one of the women muttered.
Gabe peered across the room to see who’d made that remark. Bishop Jeremiah looked up as well, appearing none too pleased.
“That was inappropriate,” the bishop stated. “This is precisely the attitude I’ve become concerned about. Malicious opinions are so unlike this congregation—and they undermine the Old Order’s emphasis upon unity and peace as well.”
After a few moments of heavy silence, Bishop Jeremiah continued with Red’s confession. “Let’s recall the vows you took when you were baptized, Regina,” he suggested gently. “You promised to renounce the devil and even your own flesh and blood. You agreed to commit yourself to Christ and His church. And you said you would be obedient and submissive to the word of the Lord and to the Ordnung.”
Red nodded, swiping at tears. “I’ve failed miserably, ain’t so?” she asked in a tremulous voice. “But I’ll do better now. I hope folks will help me along—will forgive me for being so wrapped up in my painting, and for all the ways I’ve deceived them.”
Morning Star Page 13