Little Amish Matchmaker

by Linda Byler

  Catherine put both hands to her mouth, her blue eyes opened wide and she said nothing at all for awhile. When the women crowded around, she began thanking them, saying it was too much, just way too much.

  Dat went around with an envelope, collecting the money from each family.

  Twenty-eight dollars. That wasn’t bad, they said.

  Who made the cabinet? they asked.

  Sol King?

  Oh, he was one of the best.

  Wasn’t that cherry wood different, now?

  Did Teacher Catherine have other cherry ­pieces?

  Levi sei Rachel thought her bedroom suit was cherry, but she wasn’t sure.

  The women nodded their heads, pleased. It was a good choice. Teacher Catherine was worth it, that was one thing sure. She had such a nice way with the children, didn’t she?

  The blanketed horses were becoming restless, stomping their feet in the snow at their stand where they were tied to the board fence. Mothers collected gifts, stashed them in bags or leftover cardboard boxes, and herded their children into their coats.

  Fathers carried the boxes and empty trays and containers, stuffing them under buggy seats, as children clambered in, still munching that last piece of chocolate.

  Doddy Stoltzfus pulled at Isaac’s sleeve. “Isaac, vee bisht?” (How are you?)

  “Goot. Goot!” Isaac answered, grinning happily.

  “You did good!” High praise from Doddy. Isaac grinned, basking in the kind words from his grandfather.

  Sim walked up, extending his hand, greeting Doddy. Doddy beamed as he lifted his head to meet Sim’s eyes.

  Isaac walked away, irked at Sim. Sim would be as old as Doddy and still would never have asked Teacher Catherine for a date.

  Oh, well.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DAT AND MAM WERE one of the last ones to leave. Sim, of course, the now deeply entrenched bachelor, was one of the first to hitch up his horse and head home.

  Mam bustled about the classroom like a puffed-up little biddy hen, clucking about the mess. She had no idea this is what it looked like after a program. My goodness!

  Catherine seemed a bit flustered, her cheeks about the color of her dress, but she remained polite, laughing frequently.

  Mam noticed the gorgeous poinsettia, asking who gave it to her. “Oh, someone,” was Catherine’s answer, same as she told her pupils when they clustered about her desk in the usual way.

  So Isaac rode home slouched in the back seat, his eyelids becoming heavy, rocked to a blissful state by the motion of the buggy.

  It was all over now. He could relax and look forward to the Christmas dinner at home. He’d do his chores, then make himself comfortable with one of Calvin’s books.

  Dat talked to Mam about the singing. He’d never heard a school sing better. It must be that Catherine had a gaub (talent) in bringing out the best in her pupils. Mam said yes, it wasn’t often you heard something like that. It seemed the children put their heart into it, didn’t they?

  Isaac grinned, wondering if they forgot he was in the back seat.

  Back at the schoolhouse, a lone buggy retraced its steps, the horse a high-stepping sorrel Saddlebred, his ears bent forward in the typical heart-shaped fashion.

  Sim got out slowly, led Fred into the buggy shed, slipped the neck rope around his neck and knotted the rope securely in the ring attached to the wall. After throwing a blanket over the horse’s back, he wiped down the front of his coat before striding purposefully to the front door.

  Teacher Catherine was pouring hot water from the kettle on the stove into a plastic scrub bucket, when she heard a knock.

  Was it a knock?

  She froze, then tried to get ahold of her fear. It was still broad daylight; no one was going to hurt her; no one knew she was here; it was the Christmas season; she would be fine.

  With her heart beating heavily, her eyes wide, a hand to her throat, she answered the knock. She couldn’t think of one word to say, so she didn’t say anything at all. She just stood there and looked at Sim Stoltzfus, all six feet of him, and thought there was simply no reason for him to be there.

  “I thought maybe you would appreciate a bit of help,” he said.

  She looked into his green eyes and could form no words, so she stood aside and ushered him in.

  Sim whistled, soft and low.

  “What a mess!”

  “Yeah.” She had found her voice. “If you don’t mind, you could burn the trash.”

  “Sure.”

  Eagerly, he grabbed the plastic garbage bags.

  She added a dollop of Pine-Sol to the warm water in the plastic bucket, while trying to calm her racing heart.

  Sim came back and took over with the mop, shedding his coat as he spoke. She watched him with large blue eyes and wondered if she should say something about the poinsettia or wait until he mentioned it first.

  She began unpinning the curtains, taking them down. He talked of everyday, mundane things that put her at ease in a surprising way.

  He said it was a shame to erase the camels and wise men, but she said she was glad to do it. There was a time for everything, and she was glad the Christmas program was over, that it was a lot of work.

  Sim nodded his head and watched her stretching to reach the pins that held the curtains to the wire. He told her she was a bit too short for the job and proceeded to help.

  That was when her heart went all crazy again, and she could hardly breathe. She became so flustered she went out and swept the porch. When she returned, he had folded the sheets and was back to mopping floors.

  He talked about the program, then asked why everyone was hugging the one eighth-grade girl. What was her name? Ruthie? He leaned against the wall and held the mop handle, while she forgot herself and launched into a vivid account of Ruthie overcoming her stuttering problem, the SOS group, and the grand way she had grasped the concept of speaking slowly.

  Sim watched her face, the way she moved her hands when she spoke, and knew this was the girl he wanted to marry and live with for the remainder of his days.

  When he finished mopping the floor, they moved the teacher’s desk back to the front of the room. They washed the blackboard. Catherine stood back admiring the smooth blackness of it.

  They found two containers of cookies someone had forgotten, so they sat by the teacher’s desk and ate.

  Sim asked her what she thought of the poinsettia. He watched her lovely face light up, listened to her blushing thanks.

  She said, “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I wanted to let you know I was your friend.”

  “Thank you. It was nice of you to remember me.”

  Sim’s one eyebrow lifted.

  “Remember you? I never stop thinking about you, so how could I remember you?”

  He laughed easily when she became flustered. Then he became very sober. The classroom was silent. The winter sunlight was fading fast as the sun became veiled by cold gray clouds, then slid behind Elam’s windmill, putting it in stark contrast to the evening light.

  Out on Route 340, a diesel engine shifted gears. The cry of a flock of crows echoed across the stubbles of the cornfields as an approaching horse and buggy chased them off. A child cried out at the adjacent farm, all sounds of a thriving community, lives interwoven, a reed basket of old traditions and new ways, yet so much remained the same.

  For hundreds of years, young men had sought God’s leading in asking for a young girl’s hand. The world turned on its axis, and life was continually reinvented. New hopes, new dreams, a young man seeking a worthy companion, someone to love, to share their lives, the cycle was still moving from seed to harvest, to every season under the sun.

  And so Sim found the God-given courage to tell her what was on his mind and in his heart.

  “I know I don’t stand much of a chance, but I won’t have any rest until I ask. Will you accept my offer of friendship? Will you allow me to take you to the Christmas supper on Sunday evening?” Catherine
sat very still, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed.

  As long as Sim lived, he carried the sight of her face as she lifted it to the sun’s last rays, her brilliantly blue eyes holding a light of gladness. Before she spoke he knew. And when she spoke, he carried the remembrance of her words in his heart always.

  “Oh my, Sim Stoltzfus.”

  Then, she laughed, a soft, happy sound.

  “Yes.”

  That was all she said.

  When he helped her into the buggy, he wanted to crush her light form to his, but he didn’t. He could wait. Sitting beside her in the coziness of the buggy’s lap robe was more than enough. He was blessed beyond anything he deserved.

  He held her hand much longer than was necessary when he helped her from the buggy. Was it just his own craziness, or did her hand linger as well?

  That evening, in the barn, Isaac was tired, grumpy and in a hurry to finish the chores. He had no time for Sim. When Sim asked him to take the baler twine to the burn barrel, Isaac said no, Sim could do it himself.

  Dat heard him and said sternly, “Go, Isaac.”

  So that was the reason Isaac had nothing to do with Sim at the supper table. Life wasn’t fair, when you were the youngest son. You always had to do what no one else wanted to do. Just being the smallest made everyone naturally assume it was his chore.

  Taking out Mam’s slop pail from under the sink, for instance. That vile little plastic ice cream bucket with a lid on it, setting there for days with apple peelings and cold, congealed oatmeal or Cream-of-Wheat, bacon grease, and spoiled peaches. No one had to smell it except the person taking it out and dumping it in the hog’s trough.

  His Christmas spirit was all used up, fizzled out, sputtered, and cold.

  There was potato soup for supper, on top of all life’s other atrocities. And the potato soup had hard-boiled eggs in it, which made him shiver. Gross.

  Sim acted as if the potato soup was the finest thing Mam had ever cooked, opening his mouth wide to shovel the filled spoon into it.

  Isaac ate bread-and-butter pickles, then felt slightly sick to his stomach. He swallowed hard when Sim cleared his throat and asked Dat if it was proper to bring Catherine to the Christmas dinner.

  Dat looked up, surprised.

  Mam’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth, then resumed slowly.

  “Since we’re dating now, I wondered if you’d object?”

  “You’re …? What?” Dat said.

  “I asked Teacher Catherine.”

  Dat smiled, Mam became all flustered and teary, and Dat nodded soberly and said he guessed it would be all right. Then he tried to look stern, but failed completely.

  Isaac’s mouth fell open.

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Yes, Isaac, I did. She said yes.”

  Isaac said nothing at all.

  Later though, he said a lot. He said it to Sim, his Christmas spirit flaming brightly as he congratulated Sim in the best way he knew how. He hit him in the back of his head with a snowball, then took off running, Mam’s plastic slop pail abandoned in a snowdrift, where Catherine found it in the spring.

  The End

  —

  Christmas Reflection

  I hope my heart has heard the song

  The shepherds heard that night.

  I hope my heart has found the star

  The wise men kept in sight.

  Then maybe I will find my way

  To the quiet manger, too.

  So my heart can kneel in worship,

  Bringing gifts sincere and true.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Good Books, Intercourse, PA 17534

  Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Design by Cliff Snyder

  978-1-4532-7593-1

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