by Murray Pura
Lyyndaya sat very still, then began slowly to speak. “Very well. I will do as you wish. May I meet with him again to tell him what we have discussed, or should I write a note?”
Her mother smiled in a sad, lopsided way and nodded. “I think a note would be best, dear. Ruthie can deliver it.”
Lyyndaya pushed back her chair and stood up. “May I go to my room now?”
“Of course, dear,” her mother responded. “Are you sure you don’t want your coffee?”
“No, thank you. Good night, Mama. Good night, Papa.”
She avoided looking at her father as she went up the stairs to the room she shared with Ruth. When she opened the door a lamp was lit on a table, but Ruth was not there. Often she read Bible stories to the younger ones at bedtime and prayed with them before Mother and Father came up to tuck them in. Lyyndaya wanted Ruth’s company with one part of herself, and wanted to be alone with another part, so she accepted her sister’s absence with a sense of what was meant to be, flopped down on her bed, and cried as quietly as she could manage into her pillow.
When all her tears were exhausted, she rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling of plain boards. How could an evening that had begun so beautifully, in an aeroplane flying through the sunset, end so badly, with her parents telling her she could not see Jude again? Oh, God, she prayed, what am I going to do? How can I tell Jude? He just lost his mother in February and now he will lose our friendship as well. She sat up on her bed, opened the drawer of her night table, took out a fresh white handkerchief, and blew her nose into it. On top of the small table was a thick black Bible and another book bound in red leather. She took the red book and lay on her stomach.
This dear book was the most precious possession she had. Great-grandmother Kurtz, who loved playing with words and had given her the unusual name of Lyyndaya, had also written a devotional book for her great-granddaughter. The book, bound by hand by her great-grandmother’s husband, Grandpapa Moses, contained Grandmother’s own ideas about various scriptures, which were combined with her vast store of life experiences so that she was able to produce unique day-by-day readings for the whole year. Lyyndaya had been using the red book since she was ten, a month before her great-grandmother died, and had been reading it through every year since then. It had inspired and encouraged her more than once, and now she turned to it again, her heart a stone in her chest.
She opened it to June twenty-seventh.
The Bible verse her great-grandmother based the day’s passage on was from Philemon 15: For perhaps he therefore departed for a season, that thou shouldest receive him for ever. Lyyndaya was startled and read the verse twice. Then she looked over what her great-grandmother had written in her neat, precise hand. It was about the goodbyes and farewells of life.
Sometimes you see the person again on earth, sometimes in heaven. If it is on earth, the separation may be due to war or employment or illness. It might be, if the person is meant to be a close friend, that neither of you are quite ready to be close friends yet. Or it might be, if you feel the person is destined to be your husband, God has more work to do in each of your lives before he entrusts you to one another forever. One must rely on God above all. One must learn not only patience and perseverance, but a deeper faith in him, in his goodness, and in his ways.
Her great-grandmother had underlined the word rely three times.
Suddenly Lyyndaya felt light as air. A warmth and a freedom swept through her mind and body and she felt like God was in the room with her, granting her joy in the midst of sadness. The Bible’s words ran through her thoughts over and over again: for a season, that thou shouldest receive him for ever. She went to a corner of the room, where there stood a fold-down writing desk with three drawers and two glass sides for books. Her favorites were on one side, Ruth’s on the other. She lowered the writing surface and sat in the chair. Taking a sheet of paper from one of the small shelves within the desk, she began to copy what her great-grandmother had written. When she was finished, she took another sheet of paper and penned,
Dear Jude Whetstone,
We cannot court as we might have wished for Mother and Father do not approve of aeroplanes nor of my spending time with a man who flies them. Their disapproval is exactly the opposite of my own feelings, for I approve of you very much, and if I could have things my way, we would be taking the one-horse buggy or the ninety-horse buggy home from Sunday singing together every week.
Please read over what my great-grandmother Kurtz wrote so many years ago. The verse for today, the day we flew into the sun, was Philemon 15, and it is about letting someone depart for a short amount of time, so that they can come back to you later, when everything and everyone is ready, and then stay forever. I believe the verse is meant to speak to you and me.
I will see you at the Sunday gatherings or barn raisings or picnics. I will say hello, but that is all I may do—for this season. If you fly over the settlement and you wave to me, I will wave back—but only once. If I pass you on the road, whether I am walking or there is a buggy, and you doff your hat to me, I will incline my head—but only briefly. I must obey my parents. But I pray and believe that one day, in God’s time, I will be able to put my arms about you and ask you to put your arms about me.
Your friend, and someday much more,
as God wills,
Lyyndaya Kurtz
When Ruth came softly into the room a half an hour later, Lyyndaya had brushed her teeth, combed out the snarls in her hair, put on her white summer nightgown of cotton, crawled under the covers, and was asleep. A letter in an envelope lay on Ruth’s bed with the name Jude Whetstone on it. Ruth had been told it was her task to take her sister’s note to Jude and bring back any reply, whether verbal or written—but only once—for her mother had spoken to her about it. By common consent, they had agreed it was best to give Lyyndaya more time to herself, so Ruth had sipped a cup of tea in the kitchen and listened to her parents tell her why they had to do what they were doing to Lyyndaya and Jude.
She took the envelope in her hand and sat on her bed and thought about purposely losing it or destroying it. Then Jude would be none the wiser and would show up at the door or at the Sunday singing with a horse and buggy for Lyyndaya. Mother and Father would have to explain themselves to Jude at the house or in front of the whole colony at the singing instead of hiding behind the letter.
Ruth sighed. Of course, she would not do that. She was a good daughter and tried very hard to be a good Christian. The day Jude returned on the train, hoping to see her sister, she would be the bearer of bad tidings that would crush his spirit. Oh, she liked him—she thought he was perfect for Lyyndaya. Her younger sister needed someone as strong-willed and adventurous as she was. Why couldn’t Mother and Father see past aeroplanes and propellers and focus on the young man at the smithy who worked hard, sang the hymns like an angel, and who had wept unashamedly at his mother’s funeral? He was a man with heart and soul.
She looked over at Lyyndaya, fast asleep, bright hair fanning across her pillow like a bird’s wing.
“Oh, my little Lyyndy,” she whispered, “what Jude wouldn’t give to be sitting where I am right now and looking at your beauty. Will there ever be such a day for him or you? I fear that before there is even the remotest chance of that happening you will both have to go through waters that are too deep, too dark, and too chill. I will never stop praying. But may God have mercy on you both.”
FOUR
The train whistle blew twice, long urgent notes, telling Paradise it had arrived. Lyyndaya stopped milking her cow a minute and looked out the open barn door to the main road. There were still buggies, carts, and wagons moving along toward the station—some to pick up supplies or tools, others to meet family or visitors or bring members of the colony back to their homes. Ruth would be there, ready to greet Jude and give him the letter at the train or follow him back to his house. Perhaps he would give her sister a note to bring back, the last exchange of messages Mother and Fat
her would permit.
She went back to milking and tried, unsuccessfully, to put the matter from her mind. A few cows down from her, her younger sister, Sarah, who was fourteen, struggled to get Primrose to cooperate and muttered away in Pennsylvania Dutch. Daniel, who was nine, and Harley, who was twelve, were helping their mother at the butter churn in an adjoining shed. Luke, at fifteen, was with Papa examining their second hay field to determine when it should have its first cut. Lyyndaya leaned her head gently against Cynthia and kept working, holding the teat in one hand and expressing the milk with the strong slender fingers of her other hand. One of the fingers had a small white bandage. Lyyndaya looked at it and thought of the aeroplane ride and that first thrilling barrel roll. She smiled at the memory and prayed, Please, God, I hope you do not see this as a frivolous request, but may there be many, many more aeroplane rides with Jude. Yet once she had finished her short prayer a part of her felt sorrow at something that she feared might never be again.
Her pail full, she carried it to the nearest milk can sitting in the cool shadows. After pouring her pail into the can she moved on to Vivianne, who always made such a fuss. She continued to milk down the row of cows, now and then stopping to help Daniel or Harley—Sarah always refused help of any kind. After more than an hour she began to fret about Ruth’s absence. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that her sister was gone so long? She had no sooner begun to wonder than she heard Trillium’s smart step in the drive and the sound of buggy wheels. Luke and Papa had returned and she could hear them talking to the horse and to Ruth. Then she heard her mother’s voice. She hurried with her milking of the second to the last cow. Just then Papa appeared in the barn doorway.
“Lyyndy?”
“Yes, Papa.”
She looked up. He was smiling at her.
“Come, have some fresh buttermilk. We will talk in the kitchen.”
“I just have Bella here to finish and then Trinket.”
“All right. Join us when you are done. Are the children still in here?”
“No, they finished about ten minutes ago. I think they went to check on the robin’s nest by the stable.”
Her father lingered in the doorway. He removed his straw hat and held it in his hands, turning it. “My girl. You know I have a temper. May God forgive me. I know that Jude Whetstone is not a wicked boy. He is just young and full of dreams.”
Surprised, Lyyndaya watched as her father sat down on a milking stool nearby.
“I build up steam like a locomotive,” he went on. “It drives me forward too quickly. Then I am out of steam and I sit on my tracks and I go nowhere. I think what it is for me, when it comes to Jude, is that I once thought as he does now. Oh, yes. When I heard that the Wright brothers had made a plane back in 1903 I knew the whole thing would get much bigger. And I myself wished to soar among the hawks. But there was the question of whether to join the Amish faith or not. I was certain then, just as I am certain now, that the Amish will not permit their people to fly the planes. They are still considering the matter, but that is what they will come to in the end. So I turned my back on my dreams of flying so that we could be a good Amish family. I suppose that’s what irritates me about Jude, my girl. He is living what I forsook for the gospel’s sake and I resent it. God forgive me, I resent it.”
He stood up and put his hat back on his head. “He is not a bad boy. Forgive me for treating him as such. But he has no future with the Amish people if he continues to fly. He is not a man who can ever be a husband for you.” His face was sad as he walked out of the barn.
Lyyndaya rushed through milking Bella and Trinket, emptied her pail, then half ran to the house, taking her apron off her dress as she did so and wiping her hands on it. The kitchen table was crowded and noisy, Daniel and Harley half-shouting about the robins and Sarah scowling and arguing with them, disagreeing about everything they said. Ruth sat beside Mama and had been talking to her when Lyyndaya came in, but then she abruptly stopped. Papa and Luke were speaking about mowing the second hay field in a week if it did not rain. Ruth beckoned with her hand and Lyyndaya took the empty seat by her sister. A glass of cool buttermilk was waiting for her.
She sat and sipped the fresh buttermilk and tried to decipher her sister’s mood. Ruth’s blue eyes, framed by her oval face and raven black hair, flashed with annoyance as she told Sarah to calm down. Then she asked Lyyndaya how the cows had been, especially Vivianne, and her blue eyes softened. She patted Lyyndaya’s arm gently.
“All right, good,” Papa finally said. “Everyone outside. Luke, we will go to our third hay field after I am finished in here. Please get the horse ready. We’ll take the gelding.”
Luke quickly got up from the table and took his glass to the sink. “Yes, Papa.”
The kitchen soon emptied, leaving Ruth and Lyyndaya and their parents. Papa did not waste any time. He lifted his thick eyebrows at Ruth.
“So, my girl, what did we find out?”
“I said hello to Jude at the station,” Ruth replied, “and told him I had a letter to give him. He asked where Lyyndaya was, and I told him the letter was from her and that it would explain. That worried him a little, I could see, but he had no time to think about it for so many wanted to talk to him.”
Father’s brow creased sharply. “What do you mean so many?”
“Well, a good number of the colony were there to welcome him back. All the leadership and the bishop as well. The children were all over him.”
Lyyndaya felt a pang. So many there to greet her young man, to touch his hand, make him laugh, but not her. Papa was rubbing his hand over his mouth and beard at this news, no doubt worried that the Kurtz family might be looked upon in a bad light for not being there with the old families.
“Well, but then you followed him back to the house?” Mama spoke up.
“Yes, I followed him and his father. They invited me in and we chatted a bit about the warm weather and how hot that made the work at the forge. They asked after our dairy herd.”
“Ja, ja,” said Papa impatiently, his rough, squat hands playing with the empty buttermilk glass.
Ruth’s blue eyes snapped with an inner light. “I gave him the letter and he got up from the table and walked to the window to read it.”
“And what did he say?” pressed Father.
“He said—”
“Did he write a note?” asked Mama looking worried, glancing at Lyyndaya.
Ruth shook her head. “There is no note. He simply came to me, thanked me for bringing the letter, wished our family well, said he was making up several dozen horseshoes, if we needed any now was a good time to let him know, he’d be happy to serve us, and then—”
Ruth hesitated and in a gesture just like Mama, bit on her lower lip.
“And then what?” demanded Father.
Ruth closed her eyes and let her words out with a deep rush of air. “And then he said, ‘Tell your father and mother, and Lyyndaya, that I am very sorry to have been a burden and a trouble to them. It was not my wish.’”
Father spread his hands as Lyyndaya felt her throat and eyes burn. “That is all he said? Nothing more?”
Ruth’s eyes flew open and the blue in them flamed. “What did you expect him to say? His mother is in the grave, we cut him out of our lives, cut him off from the girl he loves, all because he flies an aeroplane—you’d think he were a murderer the way we treat him!”
Father rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. “That is enough, young lady—more than enough.”
Ruth dropped her head and closed her eyes again. “I’m sorry, Papa. What’s done is done.” She looked at her mother. “It does not matter anyway. The women are all around him like hummingbirds at a flower. He will be courting one of them in no time. Anna Lapp, Katie Fisher, even Bishop Zook’s daughter, Emma—”
“Emma?” asked Lyyndaya in a weak voice. Despite her faith of a few days before, she suddenly felt she had lost Jude forever, lost him to Emma and all the other young girls who had been dy
ing to get their hands on him—all because her father and mother thought flying was a sin, an unholiness, a wrong in the eyes of God. The tears erupted. She pushed herself away from the table and fled up the stairs.
“Lyyndy, please, wait!” called Papa. “We are not finished.”
“Papa, she has heard enough,” Mama said. “Let her be.”
“I wished to say I care for the young man. I do not hate him, Rebecca.”
She placed a hand gently on his. “That is very good. That is very kind. But try to understand that your daughter is eighteen and a woman and in love and in great pain because of a decision we made, Amos.”
Lyyndaya could hear them talking even with her face buried in her pillow. Then it was quiet and soon afterward the door to the room opened and Ruth sat on the bed beside her. She began to smooth Lyyndaya’s hair with her hand.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said, “I didn’t mean for it to be so rough. I didn’t want to see you hurt more than you already are. I just wanted Mama and Papa to realize how wonderful everyone in the colony thinks Jude is—everyone except them—and that it is you he loves. I know he does. But if they will not let you have him then a dozen other girls are eager to take your place—with their parents’ good favor. Mama and Papa are wrong. I feel in my soul they are wrong, that this is not God’s will—but what can you and I do?”
Lyyndaya groaned in her misery and burrowed her face even deeper into her pillow. “You make it sound like the colony already knows Papa and Mama have forbidden me…to court him—”