“The carolers are here,” Ruth said, a smile breaking over her face. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas until the young people come caroling.”
Outside, the teenagers broke into song—“It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”—and Maggie felt tears prick her eyes. Ruth was right. The carolers did make it seem like Christmas.
She was too old to be out there singing with them, single or not. Maybe she was more like her aunt Ruth than she’d realized. This very well might be her life from now on—doting on her siblings’ kinner and accepting that she had become more than passed over.... She’d become too set in her ways to marry.
“Naomi, get some tarts and cookies together so we can bring them out to the young people,” Mamm said with a smile. “And Maggie, grab a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam for the basket for the Grabers, would you?”
Maggie did as her mother requested, then passed it over to her.
“There, done,” Mamm said with a smile. She handed the basket to Maggie, then went to the door and opened it wide to better listen as the young people sang. She looked over her shoulder. “Hurry back, Maggie. Daet and Amos will be in soon enough, and we don’t want to start Christmas without you.”
Maggie put down the basket for a moment and reached for her shawl. The young people started a new carol, and Maggie pushed her feet into her boots and pulled on her gloves. Then she picked up the basket again.
It was cold this Christmas Eve. And there were festive goodies to deliver. The young people sang about the angels, singing over the earth as they told their good news....
Christmas was about more than her broken heart, and that was strangely comforting.
* * *
Atley gave the horse one last long stroke with the brush before patting its flank. Uncle Ben knocked the shovel against the wheelbarrow, tapping the last of the dirt off the blade. Outside, the night was dark and stars already twinkled overhead. It felt appropriate to be out in a stable on Christmas Eve, smelling the tang of manure, listening to the nickers of horses.
“Uncle,” Atley said, coming out of the stall and closing the gate behind him. “I wanted to talk to you about something alone.”
“Oh?” The bishop looked up. “You know that your aunt has pie and treats for us inside, don’t you?”
“Yah, I do.” Atley shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s about Maggie Lapp.”
“Ah. And what about her?”
“I was hoping to plead her case,” he said.
“So, she’s asked you to speak to me?”
“On the contrary. She refused to ask you to change your mind,” Atley said. “But I never did tell you all the good that column was doing.”
“It’s a mockery of our way of life,” his uncle retorted. “An Amish woman answering the base and sinful questions of Englishers.”
“The questions they post might be peculiar,” Atley agreed.
“But they are honest. I’m sure of that. And when Maggie answered, she never said anything that would go against church teaching. She simply explained how we Amish live, and the reason why we make the choices we do.”
“She’s a woman. Her place is in the home,” the bishop sighed.
“She’s unmarried, and she’s likely to stay that way,” Atley said, and the truth of it made his voice catch. “She’s not neglecting any children or a husband. If she were, it would be different. But she’s more like her aunt Ruth, finding a way in our community without a family of her own. If you take this away from her—”
“Atley, it doesn’t change that this isn’t appropriate,” the bishop went on. “A woman, whether she has a husband or not, is to be meek and quiet, listening to the leadership in the community. In this one thing I can commend her. Yes, she made a mistake, but when informed of the leadership’s decision she accepted it like a good Amish woman.”
She accepted it, even if it crushed her. Atley couldn’t just give this up. Maggie deserved someone on her side, a man willing to speak for her.
“Uncle, she’s doing good. God didn’t send His son that first Christmas for only one group of people. There is neither Jew nor gentile, remember. There is neither slave nor free. Man nor woman. The Savior came to save all of us, and by speaking her faith, Maggie is spreading it! These are people who might never listen to a minister, but they listen to her.”
The bishop was silent, pursing his lips in thought. Then he said, “At this time of year, we think of Mary, the mother of Christ, as our example. She was meek and gentle, the perfect example to our young women. When the angel told Joseph they had to flee to Egypt, she followed her husband and allowed him to be her protector—”
“This might be the only time many of these people hear about our faith, Uncle,” Atley interrupted. “Would you be the reason that they don’t?”
Uncle Ben sighed. “It doesn’t change the fact that she’s a woman. If she had a husband to oversee her . . . But she doesn’t.” The older man went silent for a few beats, his gaze turned inward. Then he sighed. “If she were to submit all her writing to me for oversight before she hands it in, then I could make notes to ensure that proper theology is being relayed.”
Atley shook his head. “No.”
“No?” Uncle Ben shot him a sharp look. “I thought that was incredibly generous. You’d turn down an offer like that? Are you sure she would?”
“Uncle, if you add your notes and your theological discourse, it will no longer be her voice, and the people won’t read it. Her column would be canceled, and this would be over. Those Englisher readers don’t want to hear you or me; they want her!”
The bishop looked at Atley in surprise. “You feel strongly.”
“I do.” Atley swallowed. “I don’t mean to overstep, Uncle, but I feel that God is using her for something, and we cannot stand in the way of the Almighty, or he’ll move us Himself.”
“If I can’t be certain of the validity of the theological stance she takes—” his uncle began.
His uncle was close, but he was still worried, and Atley could understand. The bishop didn’t know Maggie like he did. He was concerned for the community, for their reputation, for the young people who might read her words . . . He needed proof, and while Atley knew that Maggie wouldn’t easily agree to this course of action, Atley pulled the manila envelope out of his jacket where he’d been carrying it.
“Read for yourself,” Atley said. “These are the letters she’s answered in her latest batch. They’re honest and heartfelt, and nothing she says goes against our theology.”
For the next few minutes, Uncle Ben flipped through the letters, reading Maggie’s answers in thoughtful silence. He flicked through page after page, chewing the side of his cheek while Atley pensively watched him in the soft golden glow of the kerosene lamp. A horse nickered, and the pages crinkled as the bishop set them carefully aside.
Outside, the sound of horses’ hooves crunching through the snow and the laughter of teenagers broke the stillness. Some of the voices were chatting, and a few were singing a line or two of a Christmas carol. Then they were silent for a moment, some murmuring; then they broke into song.
Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king . . .
From his position in the stable, he could see out the window and could just make out the backs of a few of the teens. There was a time when he and Maggie were part of a group like that one, going door-to-door on a hay wagon and singing carols for the Amish homes. They’d even stopped for a few Englisher neighbors they knew.
“You’re right,” Uncle Ben said after a moment. “I can’t fault her answers. I might have phrased them differently or put a different emphasis, but—” He tapped the pages together again. “I see your point, Atley.”
Atley stared at his uncle. There weren’t many people who could claim to change the bishop’s mind once it was made up. Had he just succeeded?
“Are you saying . . . ” Atley wasn’t sure he should even voice it, lest his uncle change his mind.
“I’m sa
ying that I will allow this,” the bishop said slowly. “I will personally read every column that comes out, and if she begins to slide into heretical territory, I will stop it. But as it stands . . . ”
“You’ll let her write the column,” Atley concluded.
“Yah. I’ll allow it.”
Atley couldn’t help the grin that broke over his face. “Uncle, you have no idea how happy this will make her. Thank you for this.”
“It’s Christmas,” the bishop said with a small smile. “There are miracles this season.”
The door rattled and then pushed open, and Atley turned. Maggie stood in the faint light of the doorway.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I brought some baked treats to the house and your wife said that you were out here. I was hoping to speak with Atley—” It was then that her gaze fell on the envelope and the pages in the bishop’s hands. Her complexion paled and her scandalized gaze whipped over to Atley in shock.
“Atley?” she breathed.
He knew what she must be thinking—that he’d betrayed her again. “Maggie, it’s not what it looks like,” he said hurriedly. “My uncle has reconsidered his decision about your column.”
Maggie didn’t seem to register what he’d said right away, because her hands still trembled and her gaze flashed with anger.
“Maggie—he’s reconsidered,” Atley repeated.
“He, what?” The anger bled from her face, replaced with a look of shock.
“I have reconsidered,” Uncle Ben said with a nod. “You are free to continue writing the column, but only if you remain careful to portray our faith correctly.”
“Yes, yes! I have been careful, and I will continue to be.... ” Maggie’s entire face lit up and she put a hand over her mouth as her eyes welled with tears. “I won’t let you down. Thank you, Bishop Graber. Thank you. This means more to me than . . . ”
“Happy Christmas,” the bishop said, patting her shoulder. “Now I’m going to leave this wheelbarrow with my nephew to empty, and I’m going to go inside for some of those baked treats you were speaking of.”
“Thank you!” she repeated.
The bishop went out the door, shutting it behind him, and as soon as they were alone, Maggie flung herself into Atley’s arms. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her shawl. She smelled warm and sweet and ever so faintly like baking. She felt so good in his arms, and as they stood there, the sound of the carolers echoing through the cold night, he pulled back just enough to look down into her face.
“You are a good man, Atley,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need,” he said gruffly. “Call it a Christmas gift.”
“Horace is going to be thrilled,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Yah, I imagine so,” Atley agreed.
“This means so much to me,” she said; then she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He closed his eyes, memorizing the feeling of her lips brushing against his skin. “What made you do it?”
Atley looked down into her chocolate brown eyes, and he didn’t have it in him to hide what he was feeling. Because while he hadn’t been able to see it before, he suddenly knew why he’d done everything up until now . . . every step he’d taken had been for one reason.
“Why I did it?” he asked, shaking his head. “Because I love you, Maggie. I have for years. I never stopped. It gave me wings when we were together, and it hobbled my feet when I broke it off. But I’ve loved you for years, Maggie. You have to ask?”
She stared up at him, her lips parted and her eyes wide.
“You love me still?” she breathed.
“Yah.” He bent his head down and caught her lips with his. He kissed her tenderly, then pulled back. There was nothing else to say. It was the truth.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, and tears misted her eyes. “You were the only one I’ve ever loved.”
“I should have given you the rock I used for target practice,” he said with a low laugh.
“No. . . . ” She dropped her gaze and her chin trembled. “You should have married Miriam.”
Atley blinked. “What?”
“She was the kind of woman you wanted, Atley. Whatever you felt for me, it doesn’t change who I am. We know we can’t work.”
“Maybe we’re wrong,” he said quietly. “Maybe we do have what it takes. I argued your case to my uncle because you needed this. But if you were married . . . ” He stopped, swallowing hard. “You don’t have to write those columns if you’re married, do you? You could put your heart into your bobbilies and your home—”
Even as he said it, it sounded wrong in his ears. He wanted her to be the kind of woman who wanted to take care of him. . . . He wanted her to need him, not the Englishers out there, hanging on her words.
“You think this is just to keep me busy without a family of my own?” Her voice firmed, and she took a step away from him. He could see it happening, the distance, the misunderstandings, the heartbreak when he asked too much of her and she offered too little to him. He could see how feelings could be wounded and hearts could be cracked, chipped away over time.
“No.” He sighed. “I know what that column means to you.”
“I’d never be that quiet, sweetly traditional wife, Atley,” she said. “That hasn’t changed. I am Amish to the core, but there is more to me, and I’m only finding that out now. It’s who I am. I say what I think. With the bishop’s permission, I can now continue writing my column. People hear me, Atley. They listen. They understand me. I know that it shouldn’t mean so much to me, but it does. This is me.”
Beautiful, individual, and determined to go her own way. He loved her with a love so fierce that it could break stone, but it might also break her, if he let it. He wanted a wife devoted to him and their children. She wanted a husband who could let her go free into that unknown territory with the Englishers. It was one thing to argue for a single woman who needed something to fill her days and nights, but his own wife? Would he be so confident in their love to encourage that? He knew his own limitations, too.
Atley thought of Abram sleeping alone in that bed, and he knew for a fact that love was not enough to keep a man and woman happy together. If it were, Abram and Waneta would be celebrating Christmas together with their children instead of separated by miles, waking up to empty arms.
“We’d love each other deeply,” he said, his voice catching with emotion. “And we’d break each other’s hearts.”
Maggie slid her hand into his, and her lips trembled. “Thank you for what you’ve done for me today, Atley. I will always love you. I promise you that.”
She raised his hand to her lips and kissed the tops of his fingers, then she released him, and he stood there frozen as she made her way to the door. She pulled it open and, without looking back, disappeared outside.
The carolers sang, their song winding its way through the stable, and Atley covered his eyes with the heels of his hands, holding the waves of heartbreak inside.
He loved her . . . he always had! And seeing her again hadn’t released him from that burden. But there would be no relief for them, either. He’d have to go back to Bountiful and face his life with the knowledge that he’d love her ’til the day he died.
Love wasn’t always enough.
Chapter 6
Christmas morning, Maggie got up early to light the stove. Then she pulled her heaviest shawl over her shoulders and marched out into the winter darkness to gather eggs. She hadn’t slept much last night. It had been difficult to try to seem cheerful while the rest of the family laughed and played card games around the table. She’d managed to turn her back to the family while she cleaned up; then she’d slipped away to bed while Amos won his third round of Dutch Blitz and everyone groaned.
This morning, she felt tired and her throat was sore from her tears last night. She loved him. . . . Why couldn’t she have gotten over this man? He didn’t want her—not all of her. He wanted a
life that all Amish men wanted and she didn’t blame him, but she wouldn’t become like Waneta, spent and tired and angry. She wouldn’t be that cautionary tale the younger people whispered about—the kind of wife to avoid.
Although she was already a tale told by mothers to daughters—what happened when a woman couldn’t keep her peace, stay quiet, know her place.
The moon was low in the sky, wisps of cloud blocking some of the light. She stood in the cold, her heart heavy.
“Maggie?”
It was Daet, and he stood on the steps, pulling on his own gloves for morning chores. Christmas Day or not, the work carried on.
“Yah, hi, Daet,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Wait, Maggie. I want to speak with you.”
She’d been trying to avoid this, but she stood still, waiting as her father’s boots crunched through the snow. He stopped at her side and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Happy Christmas,” he said with a worried smile.
“Yah, Happy Christmas, Daet.”
“You are not my happy daughter,” he said. “What has happened to you? Since yesterday evening, you’ve been a well of sadness. You’ve always loved Christmas. . . . ”
“I’m not a kinner.” She sighed.
“No, but you’re not an old woman, either,” he retorted. “Now, I heard of a widower who is very interested to meet you—”
“No.”
“You haven’t met him. Some men my age seem much younger, Maggie. I’m no catch, but he might be. I’ve heard that he’s in good shape. He’s kind, too.”
“I don’t want him, Daet!” she said, and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t love him. . . . I don’t know him!”
“But you do love someone,” her father said with a decisive nod. He pulled her into his arms and patted her back like he did when she was a little girl. Maggie sniffled against his coat, then pulled back. “Who is it, my girl?”
“Who it’s always been,” she whispered. “Atley.”
“And he came just in time to ruin your Christmas,” Daet said, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”
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