The soft-spoken man’s granddaughter and husband were the only family Lucy had met thus far, though during only one visit, as they lived in Illinois and the husband couldn’t readily get off work—or so Wendell had excused them to Lucy. Surprisingly, soon after he’d arrived at the center, Wendell had declared Lucy to be one of his family. She’d smiled, humored that he was so accepting of a young Plain woman like her.
Closing the magazine after the story, Lucy couldn’t help but see Wendell’s tears in the crevices of his wrinkled cheeks.
“You must be tired, Miss Lucy.” He gave a faint smile.
She shook her head. “I can keep reading, if you’d like.”
His eyes were moist as he glanced toward the window, then back at her. “You must have better things to do than to keep an old geezer like me company.”
Lettie’s recent remarks came to mind. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The man struggled to breathe, then started to cough. The backs of his hands were marked with crusted brown age spots, and it crossed Lucy’s mind that someday Mammi Flaud’s little pink hands might look like this, too.
Wendell motioned for Lucy to lean closer. He drew a shaky breath. “When you’re here reading or just sitting near, I feel peaceful . . . less afraid.” He opened his palm. “There’s something real special about you.”
Lucy smiled, embarrassed.
“I know something about your culture,” he revealed. “Most Plain girls your age are married and having a family, but you . . . you’re here. Why is that?”
She gave a good-natured shrug. “Just haven’t met the right fella, I s’pose.”
Wendell frowned. “Well, you must be running from the boys.”
“My family probably thinks the same thing.”
Wendell folded his gnarled hands. “I wonder if you might consider reciting the Lord’s Prayer for me?”
She nodded. “I only know how to say it in Deitsch, if that’s all right.”
“No doubt the Lord will understand.” He chuckled and she enjoyed the sound, never having seen the man so jovial.
Slowly, she began to recite the words. When she finished, Wendell’s face was wet with tears again.
“I studied German for two years in college, eons ago,” he told her. “If I’m not mistaken, I picked up the words for heaven and father.”
She was moved by his pleasure.
“I also attended church when I was a teenager . . . even into my adult years. Not so much in a long while, however.” He paused, his breath labored. “These days I try to pray, but the words are like dust.”
Lucy felt ill at ease. He was describing how she felt every day, though it didn’t seem that Wendell was admitting to being angry with God. Truth be told, she couldn’t imagine such a meek man feeling that way toward the Almighty, yet he seemed so discouraged.
His eyes, dim as they were, sought hers.
She patted his arm. “All of us feel lost at times.”
He nodded. “Some of us more than others, I presume.”
“You need your rest.”
Wendell closed his eyes and chuckled again, more softly this time, whispering, “Rest has escaped me for many years, Miss Lucy.”
She swallowed, feeling helpless and uncomfortable. Oh, if only her parents were here at this moment, one of them would have an appropriate response on the very tip of the tongue.
That night in bed, Lucy watched the moon slide slowly across the dark sky and thought of Wendell and the anguished look on his face. “Rest has escaped me,” he’d said.
If only she’d had the presence of mind to remember the Bible verse she’d heard so often before. Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. How well she knew the verse, but embracing its meaning was another thing yet. Besides, she thought, who really has time to rest?
Getting out of bed, she went to sit on the chair beside her desk, praying Wendell wouldn’t die before someone might offer him renewed hope. She wondered what Tobe might have said to help. She’d observed him with folk who needed support, offering solace and advice.
Jah, she thought. Tobe would have known what to say.
“But what would he say to me if he knew the truth?” she murmured into her hands, leaning on the desk.
Alas, that was something she could not afford to find out.
Chapter 7
THURSDAY EVENING WAS CHILLIER than the past few nights, and Christian lingered at the table, having another cup of coffee and a second helping of angel food cake. “Mighty tasty and light,” he complimented Sarah, who sat to his right, waiting till he finished to clear the rest of the table.
“My Mamm always says it’s like eating sugary air,” Sarah said with a smile.
Faye sat patiently, too, and asked if he wanted anything else to eat while Lettie forked up the last crumbs on her dessert plate. Lucy looked lost in thought. Restless as she’s become. Christian felt unsure about asking her to the meeting tonight. In fact, he wasn’t certain he wanted to make the effort to go himself. Even so, he’d tracked down last week’s handout from the driver, and had his own writing tablet and pen nearby to take out to the carriage, once he’d hitched up.
“You could’ve called for a driver again, love,” Sarah suggested softly. “Go easy on yourself.”
“Jah, I know.”
“I’ll help ya, Dat,” Lucy offered without looking at him. Rising from the bench, she went to the sink and ran the water, washing her hands. “I’ll groom Sunshine for ya right quick, too.”
Ever helpful Lucy, he thought.
“All right, then.” Smiling at Sarah, he pushed his dessert plate back and his chair, too.
Sarah followed him out to the mud room, where she kissed his cheek. “I’ll wait up for ya this time. Sorry ’bout last week.”
He reached for his best straw hat. “You were tired, dear. No need to apologize.”
“I hope it’s beneficial, ’specially considerin’ it’s an evening meeting.”
“I’ve thought the same thing ’bout the later hour.” He mentioned that the majority of those present last week were working folk.
“Havin’ the extra cup of coffee was schmaert.”
He liked Sarah’s doting, having her near. “Well, I best be goin’,” he said, glancing around the corner to see where Lettie and Faye were before bending down to kiss her soft lips.
Sarah smiled sweetly, and his heart was full.
Outdoors, he and Lucy made short work of hitching Sunshine to the enclosed family carriage. Glancing at Lucy a time or two, Christian decided to ask straight out. “Are ya busy this evening?”
Avoiding his gaze, she paused, and he realized he was holding his breath. O Lord above, is she considering it?
“It’s not for me, Dat,” she said at last.
He sighed inwardly. It had been so long since they’d even ridden anywhere together alone—father and daughter.
Lucy looked down at her black apron and brushed it off with her hands. “Besides, I’m not dressed for public.”
“Well, it wouldn’t take ya that long to change, jah? I’ll wait.”
Ol’ Thomas came scampering over and meowed loudly at her feet. “Hullo, boy.” Lucy leaned down to pick up the enormous gray tom and carried him back into the stable.
Christian waited a good five minutes or longer, but Lucy did not return. Quietly, he reached for the driving lines and encouraged Sunny forward, around the barnyard and out to the road.
Just as last week, Dale Wyeth was the greeter, standing in the church lobby as though waiting for Christian to arrive. Sunshine’s harness had gotten loose somehow on the way there, and Christian was quick to express regret for showing up a few minutes late.
Downstairs, they took their seats in the second row—Christian was relieved to be more sheltered there. The older man with the red sweater was sitting off to the side yet again, in the selfsame spot. His head was bowed as Linden Hess reviewed the first lesson and gave more handouts t
o the middle-aged woman on the far end of the front row, over where Christian had sat last time. She began to pass them down while the leader shared, much as he had last week, that the Lord is near to the brokenhearted. “I know this from experience,” he said, then asked for volunteers who might have specific things to share regarding that.
After the testimonies, they began the night’s lesson, which dealt with understanding “the seasons of grief.” Linden also shared that grieving was like a tunnel, one longer than anyone who hadn’t lived through loss could imagine. “It’s a journey of the heart and the emotions,” he added.
Christian listened, but his mind wandered back to Lucy, wishing she understood how much he cared for her, that he was sorry for the way he’d handled things. Was it only three years ago?
Linden changed the topic a bit now, discussing ways to change up the holidays, potentially emotional landmines. Grief could also peak around the anniversary of the death or the birthday of the deceased. “Women are more naturally able to express their emotions. We men, however, want to control things . . . especially our feelings. We need to know it’s okay to break down. Letting your guard down is a beneficial part of the healing process . . . a gift from God.”
Christian tuned him out. This would’ve been a good session for Lucy, he thought, wondering what he might have done differently to encourage her to join him.
Later, during the discussion time, Dale again shared openly about his father. “The loss seems more final as each day passes,” he told Christian. “Sometimes I wonder how life can go on . . . but I know Dad wouldn’t want me to live in the past. He’d want me to keep my eyes focused on the prize God has for me.” Then, brightening some, he added, “The blessed hope of seeing him again one day really makes heaven seem closer.”
Christian agreed. “I look forward to that reunion with my father, too, Lord willing.”
After the meeting, Christian was in no rush to leave, since Dale seemed interested in talking about Amish life.
“I’ve been thinking about raising goats for milk and cheese, and chickens for eggs,” Dale said. “Would you have some pointers for me, perhaps?”
Christian nodded.
“I’m also curious about hydraulic and pneumatic power,” Dale added.
“Ah, that’s Amish electricity,” Christian said, going on to tell him about his own brother’s tools, such as saws and planers, which were powered by a diesel-run line shaft system in the floor of his furniture shop. “Caleb owns the next farm up from me.”
“Man, would I love to see that!” Dale’s enthusiasm was palpable.
Christian tried to describe the setup at Caleb’s place in more detail, explaining how the various machines in the shop drew power by connecting to a series of belts that rose from the line shaft. And, before he realized what he was doing, Christian had invited Dale to drop by after work tomorrow.
“Thanks.” The young man’s face lit up. “I never expected this.”
Christian gave him directions to the farm, and Dale said he’d call before he came, most likely in the afternoon.
“No need. No telephones in my house or barn,” Christian reminded him, trying to keep from grinning. “We’re off grid, ya know.”
Dale was laughing now. “Naturally!”
On the way home, Christian began to have second thoughts. Why on earth had he thought it was okay to invite a stranger to visit the farm, or to his brother’s shop? He didn’t actually know the man, even though Dale had seemed convincingly sincere.
“’Tis a gut thing Dale doesn’t know I have three single daughters still at home,” Christian whispered as he made the turn onto Witmer Road, hoping that might somehow excuse his decision.
Chapter 8
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, instead of reading the Bible, Lucy removed her wall calendar from the nail and sat at her small writing desk to look over the upcoming week. She enjoyed reviewing where her charitable work and regular commitments would take her.
Lucy opened her journal, too, and took pleasure in writing about today’s scheduled work downtown with the food truck. I hope Kiana and Van show up again!
Then, leaning her head into her hands, she sighed, wishing she could do more to help not only Kiana and her son, but all the weary homeless in Lancaster County. But she’d come to her wits’ end about how to extend herself further. And, too, it wasn’t as if she had oodles of money to fund her benevolent hopes. As it was, she brought in very little each month for her parents, only a portion of what she earned from Ray and Martie.
She put her journal and pen in the desk drawer, still determined to do her part to rescue as many people as was humanly possible. Then she returned the calendar to the wall, where she could see all of next week laid out before her, as well as the week following. If Lucy were someone whose prayers didn’t bump the ceiling, she might have asked the Lord God for strength.
She stared at the pretty landscape on the calendar—Amish farmland in Ethridge, Tennessee, according to the small print. She rose to make her bed, recalling last month’s cornhusking over at Bishop Smucker’s, where the deacon’s wife had told Mamm that over four hundred settlements in thirty-some states were now home to Amish. Mamm had seemed surprised at the time, but considering the desperate need—and diligent search—for adequate farmland in the more established communities, such as Lancaster County, Lucy thought it only made sense.
She got cleaned up and dressed for the day, then slipped quietly down the two flights of stairs to start breakfast with Mamm. Lettie and Faye had gone out to the hen house together, according to Mamm, who’d reassigned the early morning egg gathering to the twins to accommodate Lucy’s schedule. Late afternoons, however, were still her responsibility.
“You’ve got yourself another big day,” Mamm said, looking perky in her violet dress and matching apron, a color she didn’t often wear.
Lucy nodded. “You must be goin’ to market, all dressed up like that.”
“Thought I’d sell some of my homemade soaps at your aunt Edna’s market table. She’s welcomed my company.” Mamm washed her hands and went to peek outside. “Looks like a mild day—only a few clouds in sight.”
“Does anyone ask why ya make soaps, when it prob’ly costs nearly the same as buying ready-made at Walmart?”
“Oh, they ask, all right. But I tell them makin’ soap is part of my heritage. Besides that, I just like doin’ it.”
“And I like knowin’ what’s in it.” Lucy laughed, glad for the small talk, something she appreciated all the more after the unfortunate flare-up with Lettie. Little conflicts were becoming more and more common.
———
Lucy stirred the batter real good before pouring an ample amount onto the cast-iron waffle maker. Lettie and Mamm stood side by side at the stove frying eggs in one skillet and potatoes in another while Faye set the table.
Dat walked in the back door, going to the deep wash sink to clean up in the mud room. He was earlier than usual, maybe hoping for a few nibbles before they all sat down for breakfast. Then, wandering into the kitchen, he peered down at the frying pans, smacking his lips. He said something to Mamm, then to Lettie, but Lucy couldn’t hear what.
Finally, taking his place at the head of the table, he picked up the old German Biewel, which Faye had put near his placemat. He held it up as he began to read, as if hiding from them. Once again last evening, Lucy had experienced the ongoing awkwardness between them. He had startled her by suggesting that she get ready to go with him to his peculiar church group. She’d rarely heard of any other devout Amishmen doing such a thing. So unnecessary, too! Honestly, Dawdi Flaud died three years ago. Why seek out help now?
When Lucy had piled up all the hot waffles, she carried the platter to the table and took her usual place on the wooden bench next to the windows. Dat looked at Mamm before bowing his head for prayer once the rest of the food was ready to serve. Lucy bowed her head, too, feeling self-conscious—she knew all too well that she hadn’t lived up to his expecta
tions back when.
Pondering this anew took away her appetite, and she picked at her food, leaving most of the waffles and fried potatoes untouched.
“Is something the matter?” Mamm asked.
“Oh, the food’s delicious, really.”
“Well, then . . .” Lettie started, then stopped herself. Undoubtedly, she remembered the last time she’d talked up to Lucy.
“Just ain’t very hungry.” Lucy pushed her plate back slightly.
Dat’s head came up, and he finally looked her way, seemingly concerned—or was that annoyed?
“Are ya ill, honey?” Mamm asked Lucy.
She shook her head.
“James’s apple orchard is just a-waitin’ for you girls,” Mamm said. “Lucy, you’d have time to go and pick a bushel or more with Lettie and Faye before goin’ to Martie’s later, I’m thinkin’. That is, if you’re up to pickin’.”
Nodding, Lucy said she would. “If I take my push scooter, that’ll save time getting to Martie’s.”
Dat dished up a second helping of waffles, this time spreading strawberry jam over the top.
“Gut thinkin’,” Mamm said, reaching for the jam herself and mimicking Dat.
Faye cast an encouraging smile at Lucy. “It’ll be real nice to have you along, sister.”
Lucy couldn’t help noticing how pleasant, even helpful, the twins were as the three of them picked apples after they’d cleaned up Mamm’s kitchen. It was encouraging so soon on the heels of what Lettie had gone and said Wednesday at breakfast.
Stopping to smell one of the delicious apples, Lucy pressed it right up against her nose and was tempted to take a big bite. The mildly tart flavor of a ripe, juicy McIntosh apple would do something for her, she was convinced, but she rejected the notion, determined to keep up her sisters’ pace.
“Are ya feelin’ some better?” Lettie paused to ask, looking over at Lucy.
“I’m getting my appetite back, surrounded by all these delicious apples.” She wondered if Mamm had said something to Lettie, maybe.
The Atonement Page 5