Mary's Home

by Jerry S. Eicher

  “I think so.” A smile finally came. “I have something to help me along.”

  “That would be?” He tilted his head toward her.

  A blush rose into her face. “I’m not saying it.”

  “You don’t have to. I already know,” he whispered.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, and I feel the same. I love you, Mary Yoder, more each moment that I am around you.”

  Her blush deepened, and she lowered her eyes, burying her face in his shoulder.

  “You are a sweet girl.”

  A soft sob escaped her, but Willard held her close.

  “Betsy and Ronald will see us,” she finally whispered.

  He looked over his shoulder. “They are quite involved in themselves at the moment, and we are not doing anything wrong.”

  “I know.” She sat up to reach for a handkerchief in her dress pocket.

  He waited as she wiped her eyes. “Don’t the Amish believe in excommunication?” he asked. “Has the deacon spoken to you about that?”

  Mary covered her face.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have brought that subject up at the moment.” He held her again until her sobs ceased.

  She sat up straight and composed herself. “You’re right, Willard. We shouldn’t bury my pain, so let me explain how the community thinks. Their belief goes back many years to a time when heretics and false prophets were drowned, strangled, or burned at the stake by the church. Many of our people suffered that fate, all while they rejected violence as a method of resolving church disputes. Instead, they believed that casting the person out of the community was the extent to which the church was allowed to go in its defense of heartfelt beliefs. So that’s what they do. They cut you off.”

  Willard waited a moment. “What does that mean for you practically?”

  “I…we…” Mary sniffed. “First the deacon talked to me, warning me that I am doing what the community does not approve of. There is a further consultation, which has already happened. After that comes the informing of the church. In the meantime, I imagine that Deacon Stoltzfus has spoken with Bishop Miller and the others on the ministry team. If I had listened and called off the trip, I suppose the matter would have been dropped. Anyone from the membership may speak with me at the service, to add any further warnings—but because I am not there, everything will be on hold until I return. After that, if I persist in my supposed rebellion, a set time will be determined, perhaps four weeks or so. By then, if I have not repented and am willing to make a confession of my sins in a church service, a vote is taken. That vote will pass because no one will want to support my actions, and I will be cast out.”

  Mary paused, and Willard cleared his throat. “I am so sorry, Mary. I really am. So what happens with your family?”

  “I can go back to the valley, but contact with me, other than brief conversations, is forbidden. I can’t help around the house or live at home, or do any of the other things I’m used to.”

  “This is so wrong, Mary. I have no right to ask you to go through this.”

  “You are not asking. I want to. You are not to blame, Willard. Perhaps the community isn’t to blame either. They have to uphold what they believe is right, and I have to…” Mary’s voice died out.

  “You have to what?” he prompted.

  Her gaze found his. “You already know. I have to be true to my heart.”

  “I love you, Mary, so very much,” he whispered.

  She avoided his eyes. “Enough about me! Tell me where we are going. You said we would stay an extra day in Paris.”

  Willard took a deep breath. “We will come back to this, Mary. There is more to be said.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “I planned a two-day stay in Paris, if you count tomorrow and we can stay awake. They’ve had a mild winter on the mainland this year, so there shouldn’t be too much snow.”

  “Won’t that cost a lot of money?”

  He squeezed her hand. “You are worth any money I spend on you, Mary, so stop saying that.”

  “I am not,” she protested.

  He continued with a smile. “I want you to see Paris, not just Nairobi. Either one would be half the story, but together you will have a better, more complete picture of what lies out there, as your people would say.”

  “Out there,” she muttered. “I never planned to go out there.”

  “You never dreamed of moonlit walks by the Eiffel Tower with me by your side?” he teased.

  “I barely know what the Eiffel Tower is, Willard,” she scolded. “I read of the place in school, and of other things in Paris, but I never thought I would see them.”

  “Really? What else did you read about in Paris?”

  A smile formed on Mary’s face. “There is the Louvre Museum and the Mona Lisa.”

  “You know of her?”

  “Yah. Why? Is that wrong?”

  “Mary, stop the guilt.” He touched her hand. “What did you think of the Mona Lisa? That’s what I want to know.”

  She sighed. “I thought her beauty of the sad sort, or rather a prettiness that comes out of enduring the troubles of life.”

  He chuckled. “Are you always this deep?”

  Mary grimaced. “No, I’m just common Mary Yoder, an Amish woman.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “Did you write poetry about the Mona Lisa?”

  Color crept up Mary’s neck as she stared at him. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “But you asked!”

  “You write poetry, and you were obviously moved. It was a guess!”

  Mary took a deep breath. “There is one, I will admit. I haven’t read it since…” Mary rushed on. “Anyway, I went into my cedar chest upstairs when Betsy told me we were staying in Paris. I didn’t expect you to ask, though. It’s…”

  “Let me see.” Willard held out his hand.

  Mary’s face flamed, but she bent forward to find her satchel under the seat, and soon she handed him the piece of paper. Willard read silently.

  The world is drawn to your face,

  To your quiet beauty and your grace.

  They hang your portrait in their lofty halls,

  They captured you upon their walls.

  Some man conceived with paint and brush

  To touch your heart and show the hush.

  Which sorrow wrote upon your life,

  The peace that came amidst the strife.

  For beauty does not rise in mortal eyes,

  Unless the lines are written from the skies.

  With pain you showed us heaven’s touch,

  And so your smile is loved so much.

  “You wrote this?” Willard held out the paper.

  “Yah!” Her fingers brushed his as she took the paper back. “Are the words terrible?”

  He blinked back the sting of tears. “No. You moved me deeply.”

  “Is that okay?” Mary leaned forward to replace the poem in her satchel.

  “Of course,” he said. “You seem to know a lot about suffering.”

  “Not really, unless you count what Josiah put me through. I should have known better than to open my heart so wide to him.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t blame yourself. I don’t have a better record.”

  She settled back in her seat. “Shouldn’t we get some sleep if we plan to tour Paris in the morning?”

  He grinned. “You expect me to sleep after reading your poem?”

  She made a face at him. “I’m going to doze off and forget I showed the poem to you.”

  He laughed and glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like those two are in la-la land.”

  “See?” Mary chided. “We should follow their example.”

  “I agree,” he said, as Mary leaned back on the headrest. “We are in unity.”

  Mary seemed not to hear. The faint smile on her face didn’t fade as her breathing deepened. Mary had fallen asleep in the blink of an eye. She was either exhausted, totall
y at peace, or both. A lifetime of honesty and openness before the Lord and others had shaped her spirit and written grace in every line.

  Willard looked away. That such a woman would love him took his breath. The beauty of her face would fade as the years passed, but the glory of her heart would grow brighter with each new day. He should never ask Mary to walk with him through life as his wife. She was much too good for him.

  Willard studied the bright twinkle of the stars outside the window. Showing Paris to Mary was the least he could do for her.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Betsy hung on to Ronald’s arm in the brisk early morning air. She should be exhausted after the seven-hour flight across the Atlantic and scant hours of sleep on the plane, but energy ran through every muscle. This was Paris, the city of love, and she was here, a scarred Amish girl who had planned to jump the fence. No fence jumping would have accomplished this. Not with the happiness that filled her heart to overflowing.

  “We’re in Paris!” Betsy squealed. She let go of Ronald’s arm to dance a jig in the street.

  Ronald grinned. “I would say I was sleeping, but I know I’m wide awake. This is nice, even in the wintertime.”

  Betsy pinched him and he hollered.

  “That’s to convince you that you really are awake.” Betsy giggled.

  He chuckled and moved away a few steps for a better view of the gaunt, four-legged tower. “Sure is ugly, this Eiffel Tower thing,” he muttered.

  “Ronald!” Betsy scolded. “How dare you? I thought you were educated.”

  He made a face at her. “I’m an Amish farm boy far from home.”

  Betsy linked arms with him again. “You’re not going to convince me of that. I know you too well. You are my hero, my lucky star, my dream come true, my love.”

  “Oh, my. Such sweet praises.” Ronald’s smile split his face. “My hat won’t fit once we’re back home.”

  “You should have brought your hat. No goot Amish man leaves the house without his hat.”

  “Who says I’m an Amish man?”

  “I do.” Betsy puckered her lip. “You’re not changing your mind because of Mary, are you? Not after you didn’t think I had a case to stand on.”

  Ronald glanced toward the other side of the tower, where Mary and Willard stood holding hands. “Your sister has a rough road to walk, but that doesn’t change my plans. Further, let me assure you that you did have a complaint about your scars. But you are beautiful, Betsy, just the kind of girl I like. Fit for Paris.” He leaned toward Betsy to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

  She hugged him and didn’t let go for a long time.

  “Pretty soon I’ll be kissing you on the mouth in public,” he warned.

  Betsy giggled again. “This is the city of love.”

  “I know,” he said. His gaze drifted back to Mary and Willard. “How do you think they are really doing?”

  “Mary’s happy,” Betsy replied. “Which is a miracle after what she’s been through. Deacon Stoltzfus came over twice, and Mary just sat there and didn’t say much. I know, because I heard both conversations from the stairwell.”

  “You should act your age,” Ronald scolded.

  Betsy pinched him again.

  He regarded her soberly this time. “How are you going to take this, Betsy? Seeing your sister suffering up close? People you both love will injure her, and it will be hard to take—worse than a fire and scars on your face. I’m sorry to tell you that.”

  Betsy considered his words. “I was angry, but Mary, the saint, counseled love and forgiveness. Maybe my first bout with bitterness was a warning not to indulge myself.”

  Ronald appeared quite pleased. “That’s goot. There will always be things in life to cause us injury. Injustice is baked into a pie. Wasn’t our Lord crucified for His efforts to reach this world with love and goot deeds?”

  “Yah!” Betsy agreed.

  Ronald’s spiritual observations still caught her by surprise. Everything about the man caught her by surprise. That was what she loved about him.

  “You want to go up there?” Ronald motioned toward the line at the lift, which Mary and Willard had joined.

  “I don’t know.” Betsy hesitated. “It’s nice enough down here. What will we see, more of the city?”

  “I thought you would jump around on one foot the entire day in Paris,” Ronald teased.

  “I am excited! But…well, it is Paris, I guess.”

  He winked at her. “I knew you were a down-to-earth girl at heart from the moment I laid eyes on you. You are just like me. You enjoy the world, but you’ll settle for home.”

  “You know way too much about me. I tell you what. I’ll climb the tower to the second floor with you, but no lift.”

  Ronald grunted. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “You stay here,” she teased. She made a dash for the much shorter line at the base of the exterior steps.

  He followed moments later. “I didn’t come to Paris to work.”

  “You are grumbling,” Betsy gloated.

  “I am. And I like it for some reason. Seems I like everything about you, even the bad parts.”

  “Ronald!” Betsy warned. “I can get the next plane ticket home, and you can stay in Paris by yourself.”

  “You can’t because you have no money,” he retorted. “But I will be nice and behave myself.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “You say such kind, tenderhearted things.”

  She paused on the first step to reach back and ruffle his hair. “I like you very much, Ronald. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “No!”

  “Liar.” She slapped his head.

  He laughed, and Betsy joined in as they raced up the steel steps. They fell silent as they climbed higher. “It is nicer up here than I expected, and not too cold,” Betsy observed.

  “Changing your mind about Paris?”

  “You know I’m not. Like you said, we do enjoy the world.”

  “Do you think we’ll come back here after we’re old and settled down?” he mused, his gaze fixed on the meandering river far below them.

  “I’m not thinking that far ahead. Look what has already happened. Who would have thought?”

  “But at your sister’s expense,” he observed wryly.

  “No, from supporting Mary,” Betsy corrected. “That’s why we’re here now, and we are going to help her in the future.”

  He paused to survey the city below them. “You know we’re only getting away with this because we’re still on rumspringa.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “But let’s talk about something else. We are in Paris.”

  He laughed. “The view gets better the higher we climb.”

  “That’s because we’re working for it instead of riding up to the deck on man-made contraptions.”

  Ronald grinned from ear to ear. “Only an Amish girl would think in those terms.”

  “Well, I am Amish,” Betsy grumbled. “But I’ll probably never be a goot one.”

  “Goot enough for me.” He tugged on her hand and winked.

  “Stop teasing me, Ronald,” she warned. “I’ll tumble over the railing.”

  “I’ll catch you, or fly after you like Superman.”

  “Who is that?” Betsy turned a puzzled face toward him.

  Ronald grunted. “You are an Amish girl.”

  “And you are my Superman. I do know that.”

  His eyes grew big. “She sings my praises even in her great wrath.”

  “Isn’t that the kind of girl you want?”

  “You know too much about me,” he grumbled this time.

  She didn’t really. Each moment simply tumbled into the next, devoid of much knowledge on her part. But hadn’t life been that way for her? The stove, the flames, the scars, the bitterness—and here she was with a man who tugged on every heartstring.

  “I do like you,” Betsy whispered.

  Ronald was not supposed to hear, but from his smug look he clearly h
ad. She made a face at him, and his smugness increased. Nothing she did seemed to faze him.

  The second floor drew nearer, and the line ahead became thinner. People had been dropping out behind them, but she had hardly noticed. In a dash, Betsy scaled the last steps with Ronald right behind her. She glanced around for any sight of Mary and Willard, but they must have been here and gone again. Mary and Willard would wait for them on the ground below. They had the day and tomorrow yet to explore the city.

  “Whee!” Ronald exclaimed from beside her. “What a climb.”

  Betsy drew a long breath. That she wasn’t huffing and puffing was a matter of pride, and Ronald was impressed. She could tell by the glance of admiration he had given her. She wanted to stay up here forever with him, and yet he was right. This only made home, in spite of its troubles, seem dearer.

  “Shall we see the other side?” Ronald suggested. He led the way around.

  The viewing deck was just as crowded on that side, and the view much the same. Once seen, Paris was Paris, apparently.

  Ronald pointed. “There is the Arc de Triomphe. See that spot where all the streets run together? The structure was inspired by the Arch of Titus in Rome many years ago. I read that it’s the fifth most popular tourist site in Paris.”

  “Will we see it up close?”

  “There may not be time.”

  “We should see everything,” Betsy muttered.

  Ronald chuckled. “Be practical, my dear. Practical.”

  Chills ran up and down Betsy’s back at Ronald words, enhanced by the high altitude and the empty space beneath her. Maybe the effects of the city of love came simply from a combination of elevation and sleep deprivation. Betsy giggled.

  “Is something wrong with you?” Ronald asked.

  “I was born with something wrong with me,” Betsy retorted. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

  “Care to share with me?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, please, Betsy,” Ronald begged. “No words are so sweet as those that drip from your lips.”

  Betsy dissolved into laughter. “Even you have outdone yourself.”

  He joined in her laughter. “It’s Paris, I suppose.”

  “So you didn’t mean them?”

  He came closer. “I meant every word. Now tell me what you were thinking.”