The Atonement

by Beverly Lewis

  © 2016 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-2937-3

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This story is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures and events, all characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  In loving memory of

  Herbert Jones,

  pastor, missionary, encourager . . .

  and my dear daddy.

  November 28, 1925—January 9, 2014

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Books by Beverly Lewis

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.

  —George Iles

  Prologue

  AUTUMN 2012

  FILL UP THE EMPTY PLACES in your heart. . . .

  These were the words I’d written in the first of several journals back when I came up with the idea of doing charitable work. Looking at it now, my initial plan had been rather impulsive, like a New Year’s resolution. But the more I sought out new places to offer assistance, the more I craved doing so. Jah indeed, the more I helped others, the less helpless I felt myself.

  So here I was, three years later, still continuing my weekly volunteering: reading to hospice patients, serving food to the homeless, and organizing donations with other Amish workers to raise money for the Mennonite Central Committee. I also managed to squeeze in my housekeeper-nanny job for Martie, my married sister, and still keep up with daily chores at home. It could be a hectic pace, but I was determined to fill every inch of my emptiness with activity, the kind that made a difference for others.

  But it wasn’t easy. Sometimes, my sisters nitpicked about my time away. Like Lettie and her fraternal twin, Faye, did just this morning in the autumn sunshine as we worked together to toss hay to the mules. As if to dare me, Lettie looked me in the eye. “Don’t forget about Aendi Edna’s canning bee tomorrow, Lucy. You promised to go.”

  I groaned audibly. The work frolic?

  Lettie looked crestfallen as she took a swipe at the hay. “So you forgot again.”

  Faye gave a weak smile. “Between your chores and everything else, you don’t have much time left for us.”

  “We’re together now,” I pointed out.

  Faye looked sad. “Remember when we used to get up before dawn and go walkin’ to the meadow overlook to watch the sun come up? Now ya rush off right after breakfast for parts unknown.”

  Despite the cloud of tension, we kept working silently. After a while, I tried to clear the air with a joke I’d read in The Budget.

  Faye forced a little laugh, and Lettie looked pained.

  “You don’t even have time for a beau, do ya?” Lettie said out of the blue.

  Faye stopped working, as if waiting for me to respond.

  Lettie pressed further. “Not even Tobe Glick?”

  Tobe again . . .

  It was time to go inside and help Mamm. “We’ll finish this later,” I said.

  On our way toward the house, with Faye and Lettie trudging quietly behind me, I could feel the westerly breeze picking up, carrying the scent of newly harvested corn. Yet despite the whispering wind, I could still hear my sisters’ pleas.

  Early the next morning, I hurried up Witmer Road to Ray and my sister Martie’s place, just past a large Amish farm with a sign warning Private Drive, No Through Street posted near the end of its long lane. Multiple power lines scraped the pure blue sky above the familiar dairy, though of course none ran toward the house.

  Ray and Martie lived on a lush rise of land not far from Dat’s farm, their fields spreading out below the barn and house like an immense quilt. Younger than me by two years, Martie had tied the knot at just nineteen and already had two little boys: Jesse and Josh. Several times a week, I gave Martie a hand by redding up or cooking or caring for her towheaded sons, doing whatever was needed.

  On this particular day, as I came upon the tree-rimmed meadow on the left, I noticed an older Englischer gentleman on the footbridge, where Mill Creek’s banks met the golden cowslips. The well-dressed graying man looked somewhat schwach—feeble—as he leaned on a three-pronged cane while the creek gurgled past.

  Slowing my pace, I stared . . . then let out a sigh. I’d seen this man on the footbridge on other occasions, always around this time of year. Perhaps even on the same day, September twelfth, though I wasn’t certain.

  Today, however, the man was alone, without his wife or lady friend who’d always accompanied him before.

  The first time I’d spotted them, maybe ten years ago, they were holding hands and facing each other on the little bridge. I was struck by their affectionate gestures—the way the man sometimes slipped a strand of the woman’s light brown hair behind her ear, or touched her cheek, even leaned his head against hers. Such a tender way they’d had with each other, and in public, no less.

  Over the years, I’d wondered about the older couple. Perhaps the man had been widowed and found love a second time—most couples married for decades showed nary a speck of affection.

  When I’d seen them last year, the woman had been weeping, yet bravely trying to smile. The man had taken a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and patted her tears.

  Englischers, I remember thinking. Their emotions on display . . .

  Even so, it had been hard not to
stare, caught up in the wistful what-ifs of my own life.

  The picturesque footbridge was an exceptionally tranquil spot. Maybe that brought out feelings of nostalgia for the couple. Or was it something more?

  Momentarily, I thought of going to meet the man simply to offer him a smile—willing to make a fool of myself—but he was clearly deep in thought and, if I wasn’t mistaken, muttering to himself. Then I noticed his white SUV parked nearby and decided to keep on walking.

  Although it was none of my business, I had asked around about the mysterious couple, but no one seemed to know anything, which wasn’t surprising.

  Still, I couldn’t help wondering, Where is the woman? Why did he come without her?

  ———

  Up the road, I could see Tobe Glick coming this way in his two-wheeled cart, his hand shooting high in the air when he spotted me. “Guder Mariye, Lucy Flaud. Wie bischt?”

  I smiled back and wondered if my friend had ever noticed the older couple on his trips past this area. When Tobe slowed his cart, I asked him.

  He squinted into the sunshine, straw hat pushed down over his blond bangs. “Nee, can’t say I have.”

  “It seems strange.” I added that I’d seen the man and a woman a number of times. “But only around this time of year.”

  “Might be some sort of anniversary,” Tobe suggested. “Would ya like me to go an’ ask? You’re dyin’ to know.”

  “Ach, Tobe.”

  “Well, ain’t ya?”

  Puh! He knew me well.

  “Never mind,” I said right quick. “See you at Preachin’.”

  “I’ll be countin’ the hours, Lucy.” He winked mischievously. “By the way, we all miss seein’ you at Singings. It’s been the longest time.”

  I laughed a little, and he grinned. Our private joke—Tobe had been hounding me about returning for several years. “You know I’ve outgrown youth gatherings.” Truly, nearly all the fellows my age in our church district were already married and starting their families. And I was reminded of my single status each and every Sunday, when I was required to walk in with the younger teens and others who weren’t married.

  “Well, I’m not exactly a Yingling, but I still enjoy attending.” Tobe paused a moment. “Even though it’d be more fun if you started goin’ again.”

  One year younger than me, Tobe was twenty-four and still unmarried, oddly enough. Despite his attendance at Singings, he didn’t seem all that earnest about his search for a life mate. Most Amish girls in East Lampeter Township thought he was too picky, but that didn’t stop them from competing for his attention. He was handsome and very hardworking, yet there was more to his appeal. Tobe was a kind young man with a reputation for integrity—had a good sense of humor, too.

  “Gut seein’ you, Tobe.” Tears were welling up. I had to get going.

  “You too, Lucy.” He clicked his cheek and the mare obeyed, pulling the carriage forward.

  I kept my face forward. What’s the matter with me?

  Forcing my thoughts again to the older man on the footbridge, as well as to the missing woman, I knew I would never celebrate any sort of romantic anniversary—not in my best of dreams.

  Chapter 1

  CHRISTIAN FLAUD STEPPED OUT of the dark blue passenger van and paid his driver. Considering how glum he felt, he would have preferred to walk the three-mile stretch to the white clapboard meetinghouse. But his wife had urged him to call for a driver, following the strenuous day filling silo. After all, he was sixty-four now and not the young man he’d once been. In fact, Christian had almost nixed the idea of going, but for some time now, his friend Harvey Schmidt had been talking about the newly offered grief support group, unique to this community church. The small-group approach was an effective way to handle one’s sorrow—or so Harvey said, having attended the launch of the Thursday-night program some months back. Christian, however, wasn’t exactly mourning a typical loss, and Harvey wouldn’t be there to sit with.

  Sighing, Christian made his way across the parking lot toward the modest church building, taking note of the large pots of orange and gold mums on either side of the main door and regretting anew his past mistakes. Peering up at the quaint white bell tower, he recalled the last time he had been here. It was summertime, and he had been seventeen and in the middle of the worst running-around season—“es Schlimmscht Rumschpringe,” his father had called it. His younger sister Emma had even scorned his given name. “Christian, indeed!”

  At the time, he had stepped outside the Old Order church of his upbringing. But even so, it was with some degree of reluctance that he’d agreed to meet his then girlfriend, Minerva Miller, at the unassuming meetinghouse. Despite being raised with strict boundaries like Christian, Minerva had left their church for the Beachy Amish, but her path out of the Old Order was problematic. And the community meetinghouse, where a nightly revival was being held, had been their secret compromise one sultry July evening more than forty years ago.

  Christian glanced at the line of gnarled oak trees at the far end of the paved lot, tempted by another memory. There, with the moon twinkling through the tree branches, he’d had the nerve to reach for her slender hand. Minnie, he’d affectionately nicknamed the beguiling brunette then. The recollection was dusty with the years, and he knew better than to let himself reminisce a second longer.

  No need to relive that defiant chapter.

  Still, it was odd the sort of memories a place could trigger. Like Christian, Minnie had long since married, and his short friendship with her had nothing to do with attending the grief group tonight.

  This approach to getting help was so foreign to his way of thinking. “Help I should’ve gotten before now,” he whispered as he neared the church door.

  Inside, the entryway was profuse with flourishing plants—scarlet wax begonias and purple coneflowers, and a tall weeping fig tree, similar to some he’d seen in Saint Paul, Minnesota, at the Como Park Conservatory he and Sarah had visited last year. Christian wandered over to one side of the vestibule, to a large corkboard displaying notices and announcements and some tear-off pizza coupons for an upcoming youth outing. He was reaching to look more closely at a business card advertising a Shetland pony for sale when he heard footsteps behind him.

  A clean-shaven, tall blond fellow wearing a blue-and-gold tie greeted him. “Welcome, I’m Dale Wyeth.” The young man looked Christian over, apparently curious about his Plain attire. “Are you here for the grief support group?”

  Nodding, Christian removed his best straw hat and accepted the firm handshake, glad he’d worn his Sunday trousers.

  Dale Wyeth blinked awkwardly. “We’ll be meeting downstairs. I’ll show you the way.”

  Amused, Christian followed him to the basement room.

  Downstairs, a handful of men and women were milling about, some already seated. He spied a vacant chair at the far end of the room and, amidst stares, hurried to sit down.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  ———

  During the preliminary remarks, the middle-aged leader, Linden Hess—a cordial man in short sleeves and blue jeans who introduced himself as one of the staff pastors—shared briefly that his eight-year-old daughter had died two years ago.

  Christian inhaled deeply, shaken by the admission. Eight years old.

  Dale volunteered to distribute the syllabus to the dozen or so folk in attendance as Linden emphasized the need to talk about one’s grief with at least one other person as an important first step toward healing.

  Christian shook hands with the couple sitting beside him—they had lost their young son to leukemia a mere three weeks earlier. There was such a depth of sorrow in their eyes that Christian wondered if he, too, carried his private pain on his countenance. For all to see.

  When the minister began to read from Ecclesiastes 3, Christian’s shoulders stiffened. He forced himself to listen, even though he had read the first four verses many times in the past few years: “‘To every thing there is a s
eason, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die . . .’”

  Christian looked straight ahead. Why did it feel like he was the only one sitting in the room across from the minister? The warmth from his neck crept quickly beneath his beard.

  “Grief comes in like the waves of the sea, and sometimes it’s deeper than expected—takes us off guard,” Linden said, beginning the session titled “Shattered Dreams.”

  “Remember, grief is unique to each person . . . and at times it may be so distracting that you feel like you’re trudging blindly through the day.” He glanced about the room, asking for any comments or questions from the group.

  One woman raised her hand and explained how unclear her thoughts had become since her sister’s passing.

  A dapper-looking gentleman in a red cardigan sweater, a three-pronged cane by his chair, admitted how hard it was to sleep through the night in recent days. “I keep reliving my wife’s diagnosis.” He covered his eyes with his handkerchief, and another man went to sit next to him. “I’m in the process of losing her . . . daily,” the older man said.

  Linden nodded sympathetically before continuing, his voice low as he glanced now and then at the man slowly regaining his composure. “Personally, I couldn’t believe how unpredictable my grief was, and for the longest time. And even though we all know that death is a natural part of life, I never realized the debilitating pain it would bring.”

  Christian’s heart went out to the older man, still wiping his eyes at the far side of the room. It was all Christian could do to stay put in his chair and not try to console him. I can’t imagine losing my precious Sarah thataway. . . .

  ———

  Later, Dale Wyeth and Christian were partnered for the sharing time that followed the session.

  “Tomorrow it’ll be one month since my father passed,” Dale began. “I looked after him for a full year before the end came.”

  “Did he live with ya, then?” asked Christian, feeling uncomfortable engaging in such personal talk.

  “My place was too small to accommodate my parents, so Mom and I took turns caring for Dad in their home.” Dale’s chin twitched. “They had no long-term care insurance. I did everything I could to help . . . and to give my mother a break.”