The Judgment

by Beverly Lewis

  “Rose . . . I’ve asked you to marry me, and I am fully prepared to do so. Perhaps our affection will grow even more with time.”

  Rose made no answer. She looked down at the beautifully wrapped box, and he urged her to open it. “There are two more boxes in the buggy yet,” he added.

  She removed the bow and tore open the wrapping. Inside, she found delicate glassware with etched floral designs. Stemware for water or iced tea, just like Mamm had received from Dat years ago.

  “Oh, Silas . . . these are just beautiful.” She lifted one of the glasses out gently to look at it more closely. She guessed by boxes he meant there were many more of the same outside in his courting carriage.

  “It’s a set of twenty-four,” he told her, smiling. “For big family gatherings, ya know.”

  She paused, looking at him. “And I have a gift for you, also.”

  “No . . . no,” Silas protested. “Ain’t necessary.”

  “It’s not what you think,” she said. “But it’s a gift all the same.”

  His eyes registered bewilderment. “What do ya mean?”

  “I’m releasing you from our engagement, Silas. I believe you and Rebekah are meant to be together.” She paused and offered him a small smile. “After all, a good marriage needs lots of love to help make it strong. I want that for you and Rebekah, just as I do for myself . . . someday.” Her voice trembled.

  Silas looked surprised, but his relief was equally evident. “If you’re sure,” he said slowly, then offered to take her for a ride. “It’s Christmas, ain’t so?”

  Her first thought was to decline, but then, seeing the gracious smile on his face, she accepted his invitation. As Silas helped her into the buggy, Rose thanked him and settled into his open carriage for the very last time.

  A light snow began to fall, dusting them with soft white flakes. She felt sure it was a sign, if not Providence. “Joyous Christmas, Silas,” she said.

  “And to you, too, Rose Ann.”

  They rode quietly side by side, and Rose did not feel the slightest speck of sadness or regret. If anything, there was a tangible peace between them as they rode up Salem Road in the silvery moonlight.

  Chapter 37

  As sometimes happened on the heels of Christmas, the

  weather began to turn warmer, akin to an Indian summer. The drastic change was a blessing to Sol, considering their long trek ahead to York that Friday morning. He was thankful for sunshine, especially since Emma hadn’t been outdoors in quite a while.

  They were traveling on clear roads, the sun pouring down on them. It was truly a brilliant day in every way—or so he hoped. The closer they came to the city across the Susquehanna River, the more he trusted this was a wise move for Emma. He did not, however, want to be tricked into doing something risky or unreasonable. Nor would he allow his wife to be treated like a guinea pig!

  When they arrived, he and the driver got Emma safely situated in the wheelchair. Together, they pushed her up the ramp leading to the doctor’s office. Once inside, Sol and Emma waited for her name to be called after Sol signed in with the helpful receptionist.

  Going to sit with Emma, Sol didn’t see how a single visit to a doctor could change the course of their lives, but because of his and Emma’s firm belief in prayer, he was optimistic. He still wasn’t sure what to make of Beth’s dream, but it had made Emma want to move forward with this, and he was forever thankful for that.

  Emma, for her part, was adamant that God had planted the dream in the innocent young woman’s heart for this very purpose. Truly, Beth Browning was a godsend.

  “No matter what happens,” Sol said quietly as he and Emma waited, “we’ll always trust in God’s will.”

  No matter what.

  Dr. Robertson surprised Sol with his attention to detail during Emma’s initial exam. Sol asked if the surgeon thought he could help alleviate Emma’s pain.

  “I’ll need to do further testing before we can decide on a course of action, but yes, I believe I can help your wife.” The doctor said it with such confidence, Sol was taken by surprise, and tears shone in Emma’s eyes.

  “I’d like to do some X-rays today, while you’re here.” Dr. Robertson explained that several advancements had taken place in the decade since Emma’s accident. “There is good reason, Mrs. Kauffman, to assume surgery would enable you to live without much pain.”

  Sol held his breath for a moment, astonished.

  “I’m confident I may be able to help you in many ways.” Dr. Robertson went to the wall switch and lowered the lights. He touched another switch, and a large screen descended behind his desk, displaying an enormous diagram of the spine. He pointed out the area that required further testing. “If the vertebral column is turned or fused in either of these areas, then surgery might eventually return some feeling to your legs, though I cannot promise that you will be able to walk again.”

  Emma gasped and reached for Sol’s hand.

  “We’ll know more when the X-rays come back. After that, we’ll want to follow up with an MRI and possibly a CAT scan.”

  While sitting in the waiting room during Emma’s X-rays, Sol spotted a handmade wall hanging and rose to look at it more closely. In cross-stitch was a Scripture verse he’d learned as a boy . . . one he and Emma had often recited together during their courting years. Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust: cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my soul unto thee.

  Seeing this particular verse displayed here on a simple wall hanging took Sol aback. Was it a sign to them—a sort of divine confirmation?

  When Emma was finished, Sol wheeled her over to look at the cross-stitch. She was quiet for a time. Then she folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. “I daresay it’s the handprint of God on this day . . . on our coming here,” she said in a hushed voice.

  Later, as they rode back to Lancaster County, Sol questioned why he hadn’t taken Emma to this surgeon years ago. She doggedly resisted, that’s why, he reminded himself.

  And in that moment, he knew precisely where his beloved daughters had come by their stubborn streaks.

  Preaching Sunday arrived, and Sol climbed into the buggy with Jeremiah and Sylvia, leaving Emma at home in Rose Ann’s care. Word had gotten out amongst the district that a decision regarding their longtime bishop was being announced today after the second sermon.

  All through both sermons, Sol fidgeted, which was unlike him. With his whole heart, he held out hope that Bishop Ezekiel would rule in favor of Aaron’s remaining the bishop over the local district. Sol didn’t see how the older and wiser man of God could do otherwise, given the vague nature of the issue at hand. To think one could be expected to dictate the actions of an offspring, blood kin or not. And the talk of Aaron’s sermons being any longer than those given by the other ministers—it was downright ridiculous! For sure and for certain, Sol had never noticed any such prideful tendency.

  Soon enough, the time came for Bishop Aaron to stand for the reading of the Weltende, or the end-of-the-world scriptures from Matthew’s gospel. The place was hushed.

  “ ‘But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only. But as the days of Noah were, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be. For as in the days that were before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the ark, and knew not until the flood came, and took them all away; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be. Then shall two be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left. Two women shall be grinding at the mill; the one shall be taken, and the other left. Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.’ ”

  Still holding the open Bible in his hands, Bishop Aaron looked out at the congregation. A long pause ensued and his eyes held Sol’s gaze. Does he already know the outcome? Sol worried what it would do to their already grief-stricken bishop, and poor Barbara, if Old Ezekiel ha
d ruled against Aaron.

  Taking his seat, Aaron looked nearly despondent. Sol’s ire rose even as the People bowed in contrition, turning to kneel at their seats. He was ever mindful of his own failings and shortcomings. Having taken the scriptural warning to heart, he silently asked now for God’s mercy and forgiveness, just as he did each and every day.

  By the time the final hymn was sung, Sol had chewed his fingernails down to the quick. Old Ezekiel was not in attendance this day. For that reason alone, Sol clung to the last shred of hope.

  After the nonmembers and children were dismissed, one of the neighboring bishops rose stoically to speak. A look at the minister’s grave expression and Sol felt certain what was coming.

  Even so, the dreaded pronouncement to silence their long-standing bishop came like a punch in the gut. Such a sad, sad day for the People! Sol felt sickened. No longer would Aaron oversee the two local church districts, nor would he preach at area weddings or funerals. He had no further ministerial influence over the community that loved and respected him—he was relegated to the status of church member only.

  Surely God doesn’t remove a ministerial calling from a man who has wholly followed Him, thought Sol. How can this be?

  Returning home, he was torn between the grave judgment put on his friend and, on the other hand, the brighter possibilities before his Emma. Dr. Robertson had been encouraged enough by the X-rays to schedule Emma for yet another round of tests, including blood work, coming up in a few days.

  “A fine way to begin the new year,” the doctor had told Sol and Emma, who were both convinced it was God’s will they follow the advice of this man.

  As for today, Sol secretly doubted the will of God had been performed before the People. The decision appeared utterly unsound.

  Distraught over Dat’s news of their bishop’s silencing today, Rose Ann left the house and headed up Salem Road for a walk. She lifted her face to the heavens and soaked up the warmth of the sunshine. It felt so good to see the blue of the sky after the heavy storms during Christmas week, and the brown fields were already emerging from their snowy blankets. The road, too, was beginning to clear.

  Not caring where she walked, she wandered all the way over toward Bridle Path Lane. The day was entirely jumbled up in her mind as she considered the decision made against Aaron Petersheim. It was beyond her to think Nick’s actions had the power to set such a terrible thing in motion. Somehow yet another tragedy had been laid at his feet.

  Alone with her thoughts, Rose found herself at the bottom of the ravine, sitting on the boulder near where the tin box was hidden. Nick would surely be sorry at this sad outcome. If only he knew . . .

  Resting there, she realized how very short the daylight hours had become. Winter solstice had occurred just a few days ago, and she felt thirsty for light. Even with every tree stripped of leaves, this area was bereft of much sunshine.

  She sighed, feeling colder and knowing she should head home before dusk. Turning, she glanced at the spot where she’d pushed the tin box back into the earth the last time she’d come. She pulled the old box from its hiding place and pried open its lid. Looking inside, she found that it was empty. Her letter to Nick was gone.

  Rose gasped. “Where is it?”

  Had her father come searching for Mamm’s precious box and found her letter? She had told him about finding the tin box here . . . and about the market money, too. But would he even do such a thing?

  No . . . no. She tried to calm herself. The area was too vast—too dense. How would Dat ever find it? He was much too busy to be traipsing about the wooded, precipitous area in search of such a small item.

  Still, she trembled. What if Silas ended up seeing the letter—or hearing about it? Would he think she’d released him from their engagement because she was in love with Nick? “Oh,” she groaned. “Why’d I take such a risk?”

  She was afraid, too, about what might be said about her, should the letter find its way into the wrong hands. In any hands, amongst the People, it will destroy my reputation!

  Holding the box, Rose didn’t know whether to put it back or take it with her. She turned around to look for footprints in the mud but remembered that more than a few inches of snow had fallen and then melted here since her last visit.

  She saw no evidence of her father’s large boot prints or anyone else’s. Her stomach ached and she didn’t know what to think. So, deciding not to stir up further concern at home, she returned the box to its hidden spot and picked her way back up the ravine slope.

  When at last she made it to the top, she walked briskly, trying to clear her aching head.

  “Hello there,” someone called to her.

  Looking just ahead, she saw Jeb Ulrich sweeping off his wooden stoop. He was surprisingly spry as he waved at her, but his gaze made her feel terribly uneasy. Had he seen her in the ravine before today?

  Her heart pounded. How could he possibly see clear down there? Rose shuddered. And what would he do with the letter, if he somehow managed to find it?

  She opened her mouth to ask, then realized how ridiculous such a thing would sound to the elderly man. Poor thing, he rarely got out of his house, let alone into the steep gorge. No, she wouldn’t bother him with her unreasonable thought.

  Rose kept walking the narrow dirt road and dismissed her notion of Jeb’s having found the note where she’d unwisely revealed her love for Nick Franco—outcast that he was. And now to think his own foster father—their dear bishop—was nearly considered likewise!

  Earlier this morning, while keeping Mamm company when Dat was at Preaching service, Rose had read a verse in 1 Peter, chapter four . . . one she hadn’t paid much attention to before. Mamm knew it well, though, and asked Rose to read it more slowly a second time. The verse referred to the kind of love that covered a “multitude of sins,” and Mamm had said she hoped the brethren remembered that love when it came time to judge their bishop. But it seemed they’d forgotten.

  God expects us to have that kind of devoted love for one another, Rose thought, her eyes on the lights of home as she made her way down Salem Road. Hurrying now, she knew she must face whatever fallout might come from having declared so unashamedly her feelings for a man who was not her fiancé—and never would be.

  Serves me right for being so foolish!

  Rose turned into the long lane, walking toward the house, past the grapevines she and Nick had often pruned together. Woodsmoke trickled out of the chimneys of the main house and two smaller attached houses—one where her grandparents made their cozy home, the other where Hen was attempting to create a new one out of the ruins of her marriage.

  Rose reached for the back door, realizing she could not live bound by fear. If her father, or even Silas, had happened upon the letter, then so be it.

  She glanced behind her and looked up at the bright stars appearing one by one. One way or another, she must forge a new path. The thought of the New Year, just days away, gave her a measure of assurance. An uncluttered slate before me.

  After all these years, the truth concealed in her heart was out in the open—in the light—at last. And whether or not anyone would ever read the letter wasn’t a concern.

  Perhaps Providence had permitted this to happen. Rose smiled at the thought, trusting in that. She must move ahead to do what she knew was right. The Lord would see to the rest.

  Epilogue

  If you’re ever lost, always look for the brightest spot along the horizon,” my father used to tell my brothers. “You’ll find a river there, which will lead you to people . . . to inhabitants.” And Dat had explained that the light of the sky reflected in the river below.

  There are times when I ponder such things in view of all that’s happened in these past months, though I’m surely not lost in a strange land. But I am on a journey, and sometimes it seems ever so long. Still, little by little, I’ll find my way with the help of my heavenly Father. I can never go wrong by clinging to His hand, Mamm always says.

  And sh
e ought to know! Dr. Robertson has nearly completed his tests, but the prospect of surgery next month seems quite

  certain. When Mamm thinks about the possible wonderful-good outcome, her upcoming operation causes her great anticipation . . . and great apprehension, too. Yet who can blame her for being so torn? Surely it’s an enormous leap forward for one so reclusive and resigned to living a life of suffering. With all of my heart, I hope and pray the surgeon can lessen her pain. That is my dearest wish of all.

  As for my daily work, when I’m not sitting with Mamm, I help occupy Mattie Sue’s time for Hen. And what an energetic little girl she continues to be! Hen certainly has her hands full caring for Brandon, who has transitioned better than expected to our life here, though he’s anxious to get back to what he calls “normal living.” When that might be, the doctors aren’t sure, as Brandon’s sight has yet to return beyond an occasional flicker of light. Each passing day is a real worry, but Hen is unwavering in her belief that her husband will see again. Amazingly, there’s no indication of anxiety on her part—she’s become a truly prayerful wife and mother. I just hope Brandon won’t break her heart when all’s said and done.

  To give my sister and her husband some time alone, I take Mattie Sue with me on Thursdays when I work to make quilts and comforters for the Philadelphia homeless shelter with the womenfolk. Mattie Sue enjoys playing with the other children, often right near our feet under the frame. The talk is a strange blend of hearsay and solid information. And occasionally I feel a sense of sadness as I am continually reminded why the People were so quick to presume Nick’s guilt in Christian’s death. It seems not a soul ever really had the chance to know the sometimes-thoughtful Nick Franco the bishop’s wife knew . . . nor the softhearted, horse-loving Kummraad—friend—I came to know.

  So then, which is the real Nick?

  But my mother taught me that a friend never gives up on a friend. And this is the reason I privately beseech God’s mercy for Nick, who seemingly caused all this chaos, just as I ask it for our former bishop. As far as I know, there has been no further word about Nick, which is probably just as well.