The Love Letters

by Beverly Lewis

  Every dawn is different, thought Jake that Saturday as he walked with Dat in the early morning darkness along the familiar road toward the old mill. This dawn was the first he’d go fishing with his father.

  Over the one-lane bridge and on down the creek bank to the opposite side, they carried their fishing poles without a sound except their shoes on the road.

  Silently, they opened the tackle box and began baiting their hooks in the light of Dat’s big flashlight.

  “Mighty quiet this time of day,” Dat remarked, his voice a mere whisper.

  Only a few yards away, Conestoga Creek rippled past, and Jake’s mouth watered at the thought of the pan-fried bluegills and carp Mamma would be cooking up for dinner this noon. Maybe even a catfish—though, thinking of Sassy just then, he wished whoever’d named the latter hadn’t put the word cat in there. Sassy had meowed and fussed when Jake left her in his room back home. “Just Dat and me this time,” he’d gently insisted.

  They cast their lines, then perched themselves on the leaf-strewn grassy bank.

  “What would ya think of goin’ hunting with me this fall, son?”

  “This fall?” Jake sure hoped he’d heard right.

  “Why not? Grouse and pheasant huntin’ starts soon enough. Thought I’d get ya ready by teachin’ ya to shoot,” Dat replied, leaning forward when he had a pull on his fishing line. “If you’re willing.”

  Jake waited to answer, lest he scare away Dat’s catch. He turned to look at his father, still taking in his words, and watched him reel in a nice-sized bass. “You think it’s time, then?” Jake asked, his heart pounding.

  “I say you’re more than ready,” Dat said, nodding his head emphatically.

  I think so, too! Jake sat up a little straighter, and when his line tightened and jerked, he leaped right up and reeled the fish in faster, even, than Dat had.

  Triumphantly, he held high his catch for Dat to admire just as daybreak brightened the sky, the sun’s rays brilliant over yonder green hills.

  In October, Marlena’s entire family came to visit for several days, and the reunion was a joyful reminder of earlier gatherings when Dawdi Tim would set up the cider press in the barn. Everyone helped to make apple cider, and Marlena couldn’t help but remember Luella working with her, washing the apples from Benuel Miller’s orchard up the hill. An assembly line of love.

  Privately, Dat suggested that Marlena ought to remain with Mammi Janice through the winter and possibly into next spring. “I think the baby might need some constancy ’bout now,” he said while Mamma and her mother sat in the kitchen, looking at old photos and reminiscing. Marlena didn’t even need to stop to think—she eagerly agreed.

  Subsequent family visits were the high points of that fall and winter, and Angela Rose took her first timid steps on Christmas Eve, putting the biggest smile on Mamma’s face, and even winning some applause from Dat.

  Each month, Marlena received airmail letters from Gordon as he finished his first tour of duty. He included generous checks for Angela Rose’s needs and kindly requested regular updates—his fatherly affection for his daughter had not ended when he surrendered Angela Rose to Marlena’s care. As a surprise for him, Marlena purchased a small camera to take pictures, which she enclosed in her return letters, something for which Gordon seemed grateful.

  On Angela’s first birthday in January, a package arrived from Gordon—a journal-like letter chronicling the events of the past year. “Prayer, and my love for Luella and our baby, gave me the will to live,” he’d written. Gordon also asked if Marlena would please save the letter till Angela was old enough to read it for herself and understand and appreciate the painful ordeal her father had suffered in the war and in the loss of his wife.

  The following spring, Marlena’s fascination with the New Order Amish church became a genuine pursuit of their beliefs. Attending that church held in Amish homes satisfied her soul’s deepest yearning. No longer was there a smidgen of doubt in her mind—she belonged to the Lord Jesus.

  It was during this special season of new life that Marlena began to realize that Luke Mast must be planning his Sunday afternoon “prayer walks” to coincide with her own long strolls with Angela Rose.

  Hope sprang into her heart that verdant springtime.

  “You see, Marlena, you were the young woman I was talking ’bout last summer,” he told her, blue eyes shining.

  His revelation took her breath away.

  “It might seem now like I was speaking in some sort of code, which I guess I was.” He gave her a sincere smile. “I needed to know how you felt about my pursuing someone who was already promised.”

  She recalled his confidential sharing and how certain she had been that Luke was talking about the brunette she’d seen riding with him and Sarah. But, of course, that girl turned out to be his cousin. Hearing him reveal that Marlena had been the object of his affection all this time made her blush.

  “So when I heard of your breakup with your beau, I knew I should wait for a while longer to tell you how I feel,” he added.

  Sarah must’ve told him, Marlena thought, all the more thankful for their sisterly relationship.

  Luke went on. “I wanted to give ya time to recover from Luella’s passing, too. That was mighty heavy on my heart.”

  He was so sympathetic and understanding, Marlena found herself looking forward to their weekly walks and the way he kept their conversation flowing in such a fun-loving manner. Equally important, Luke was gentle with Angela Rose, even offering to carry her around after the shared meal on Sundays, or holding her dimpled hand as they walked together, his steps made short to accommodate Angela’s tiny ones.

  Marlena also noticed Luke continue to befriend Jake Mast, who’d abandoned his youthful nickname. Truth be told, Luke’s bighearted manner with everyone—so like Dawdi Tim’s—made him a favorite with all ages amongst the People. Sarah’s handsome older brother is everything a young woman might desire in a friend. And more, Marlena caught herself thinking.

  So they agreed to be just that, taking their time to get to know each other. “Lord willing, next September you could take baptismal instruction,” Luke suggested. “And after that, I’ll court you in earnest, if you’re ready.”

  Marlena approved, appreciating his willingness to take things slow for her sake, as well as Luke’s obvious fondness for Angela Rose. Mammi, too, thought it was better that she didn’t rush into a new dating relationship, given all Marlena had been through . . . though Mammi let it be known that Luke Mast would be a mighty fine choice for a husband, “Someday.”

  But by the time Marlena realized how very attracted she was to Luke—and how ready she was for rides in his fine courting carriage—summer was beginning. Thankfully, there was plenty of time for their romance to unfold.

  Their summer as friends seemed to pass leisurely. And not only did Marlena feel completely at ease in Luke’s presence, she’d begun to feel lonely when she wasn’t with him. She also discovered that his favorite dessert was caramel cake, so she baked it for him on several occasions—things were even sweeter when his eyebrows lifted and that winning smile appeared on his suntanned face.

  Their courtship, which followed their baptism into the New Order Amish church, took a turn one fall evening when Luke insisted on having Angela Rose along on one of their buggy rides. Surprising Marlena, Luke stopped over at his parents’ farm and hopped out of the highly polished black buggy with twenty-one-month-old Angela and, after offering to help Marlena down, walked with them both toward the house.

  “Are your parents expecting us?” She felt giddy seeing Sarah wave from the kitchen window just then. Luke was known to spring things on Marlena, and he seemed to enjoy the air of mystery.

  “Thought I’d show ya the house where I grew up,” he said, stopping in the large front yard, standing on the thick roots of a majestic oak tree jutting up from the ground. He smiled mischievously and tickled Angela’s chubby cheek, then reached for Marlena’s hand in the secluded
, shady spot. “This is the wonderful-gut house,” he said and glanced over his shoulder at the large white clapboard farmhouse, “where I’ll be bringin’ my bride . . . and her little one, to live one day.” Luke looked down at Angela, then back at Marlena. “If you’ll have me, dear.”

  Her heart swelled with love for this, her truly adoring beau.

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “Will you let me love you all the days of your life?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she couldn’t speak. He opened his free arm to her, and she nestled against him. “I will,” Marlena said at last, thankful to God for bringing Luke into her life.

  He smiled handsomely and, reaching for her hand, motioned toward the house. “I want my parents and Sarah to hear this first,” he said with a wink. “All right with you?”

  She agreed. “Then I’d like Mammi Janice to be next.”

  They were united in this plan, and when Angela Rose clapped her little hands, completely unaware—surely—of what had just taken place, Luke chuckled, a spring in his step when he took his “two girls” into the house.

  Luke held the screen door for her and called for his mother to come right quick. “I’ve got the best news!”

  Never was there a sweeter day! Marlena thought as she stepped inside.

  Epilogue

  It was soft-spoken Jake Bitner who first told pretty Angela Rose about the bow-tie man he’d met at the old mill a decade ago. Luke and I had just celebrated our ninth wedding anniversary and were hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for our families, including dear Mammi, who’d ridden over for the day in Bitners’ family carriage. Their unmarried son, Jake, now twenty-four, drove the horse-drawn sleigh with his three single sisters all bundled up, including nine-year-old Esther, born a year after Abigail came for her dear Boston. Dorcas and her husband and baby boy joined us at our home, too.

  Angela Rose and Esther Bitner, close in age, sat next to each other on the long wooden bench and folded their hands and bowed their heads as Luke pronounced the blessing over the feast. My dear husband thanked God for the struggles that make us strong and for the blessings of an abundant harvest.

  After the amens echoed, Luke reached under the table and squeezed my hand. I must’ve blushed because Mammi Janice caught my eye and beamed over at me.

  The next day, while our baby son napped snug in his cradle, I sat down with Angela Rose and her younger sister—Luke’s and my daughter, six-year-old Emma—to show them how to make quilt stitches on a practice sampler. Little Emma screwed up her face, having a hard time, but Angela managed to put three on her needle right away. She was so excited as she tried to get stitches that I decided to tell her the background behind her favorite quilt . . . the one I’d sewn from her Mamma’s dresses. Emma wandered off to play with her homemade faceless dolls as I shared.

  “I want to tell you a true story, honey-girl. I have a feelin’ you’ll tell it to your own children on chilly autumn nights as you sit around the fire, and they’ll retell it to their youngsters one day.”

  Angela’s eyes were wide with wonder beneath her white Kapp. “My mother, Luella, was fancy like my first father, ain’t so?” she said.

  “For a time, jah.” I explained that Luella had grown up Amish, then left to become an Englischer and married Gordon before he’d gone off to war. “But she never forgot what it meant to be Plain, and she wrote about it in one of her love letters to your father . . . before she died.”

  “Can I read the letter someday, Mamma?”

  “Let’s ask your first father when he and his wife and little boys come for their Christmas visit, all right?”

  That seemed to satisfy Angela, and I leaned over to kiss her.

  “I’d like to make a crazy quilt, too,” Angela said, returning to her stitching again. “Will ya teach me, Mamma?”

  “I surely will. And ya know what I think? My sister Luella would’ve been very happy if she knew of your interest in quilting.”

  Angela Rose smiled up at me. “So I ain’t too young, then?”

  “Well, my Dawdi Tim used to say, ‘Listen for God’s voice when you’re young, and quickly answer His calling.’ ”

  My darling girl nodded her head. “And do it with all your might, ain’t?”

  That night I gathered my daughters to me as we sang “Jesus Loves Me” in Deitsch. Then I tucked them into bed with a prayer.

  I headed across the hallway to Luke but thought I heard the breathy strains of a harmonica and stopped to listen. Where’s it coming from?

  Lured by the music and the rising moon, I walked to the end of the hall and looked down over the fenced pastureland. The mules’ coats were thickening up for winter, and it wouldn’t be long before more snow and sleet clattered against the windows.

  The solitary melody seemed to drift back to me over the years. And as I sat down to nurse my young son, rocking him to sleep and stroking his fuzzy little head, I hummed along with the hushed refrain.

  I was brimming with ongoing thankfulness for Luella’s precious love-gift, and for all that God had brought my way—dearest Luke and our darling second daughter . . . our newborn son, too. My gratitude blended with the unexplained music . . . and a heritage of enduring wisdom.

  The light of the moon accentuated the white church spire in the near distance, and seeing it, I smiled and remembered. “Wise folk never reject the possibility of a miracle,” I whispered.

  Author’s Note

  The rural setting of Brownstown, Pennsylvania, is a reminder of some of my happiest childhood memories. It is the blissful location of my uncle Amos and aunt Anna Jane Buchwalter’s home, where they raised their four children. Their large white clapboard house was situated within yards of the picturesque stone Brownstown Mill, built in 1856 as a lumber mill, though it later served as a grist mill and woolen mill, owned by DeSager, before being renovated into offices and boutiques. Presently it is a private residence. And the topping on my research came when Sarah Hartman Shanely, a fan of my books, contacted me to say that she had grown up in the mill after her parents purchased it in 1994. What a small world! I’m so pleased at Sarah’s eagerness to answer questions about her beautiful childhood home.

  My sister and I and our cousins looked forward to exploring this area, especially near Conestoga Creek and the one-lane bridge not far from the historic mill, where we tossed pebbles into the water below like Small Jay Bitner in this book. We also ice-skated on that creek during the winter, and fished and played in it—often up to our waists—in the good old summertime.

  Buchwalter family gatherings were held in the three-story house surrounded by Amish and Mennonite farmland, the familiar clip-clop of driving horses hitched to buggies regularly coming from the road in the predawn hours on visiting and Preaching Sundays.

  As occasionally happens, the splendid setting presented itself to me first, eventually giving way to three cherished story threads for this novel, as well as a cast of endearing characters. Marlena Wenger, however, had been in my heart for some years, waiting her turn as one of my gracious leading ladies. I sometimes think Marlena is, perhaps, one of the most tenderhearted protagonists I’ve written to date. Perhaps you agree.

  As is always true, there are a host of remarkable people who helped to bring this book to its completion. They are the following: David Horton, my fine acquisitions editor and wonderful friend, who was keenly interested in this storyline from the outset; Rochelle Glöege, my brilliant line editor, who partnered with me in delving into medical treatment for mental disorders in the ’60s (which was woefully lacking!); Aleta Hirschberg, Nan Best, Sarah Shanely, Dale and Naomi Hartman, and David Buchwalter, for period research; Dale Birch and Dave Lewis, for relevant aspects of the Vietnam war; and Erik Wesner, for helpful input into Amish settlements near Mifflinburg, Pennsylvania. (Don’t miss Erik’s new book, 50 Fascinating Amish Facts.)

  I’m grateful to my husband, David Lewis, for his brainstorming help (so fun!), double-checking Plain facts and tradition, a
nd reading the hundreds of pages of rough drafts; our granddaughter Ariel for suggesting the name Anderson for Gordon’s father; Jim and Ann Parrish, Donna De For, Noelle Buss, and many other prayer partners for consistent and faithful devotion to prayer; Steve Oates for driving me all over Mifflinburg during the fall 2014 book tour; and Amy Green, my adventuresome publicist, who reminded me on a sunny September afternoon how daring it is to wade across Conestoga Creek.

  Many thanks also to Hank and Ruth Hershberger for answering Amish-related questions and offering correct Deitsch spellings; Barbara Birch for expert proofreading and always warm encouragement; and to my numerous cheerful and cooperative Amish and Mennonite friends and relatives, who read my drafts but choose to remain behind the scenes.

  Finally, abundant thanks to you, my devoted and caring readers. You are so very dear to my heart, and I am sincerely appreciative of your interest in my work.

  Soli Deo Gloria!

  Beverly Lewis, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, is the New York Times bestselling author of more than ninety books. Her stories have been published in eleven languages worldwide. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain heritage has inspired Beverly to write many Amish-related novels, beginning with The Shunning, which has sold more than one million copies and is an Original Hallmark Channel movie. In 2007 The Brethren was honored with a Christy Award.

  Beverly has been interviewed by both national and international media, including Time magazine, the Associated Press, and the BBC. She lives with her husband, David, in Colorado.

  Visit her website at www.beverlylewis.com or www.facebook.com/officialbeverlylewis for more information.

  Books by Beverly Lewis

  The Love Letters

  The River

  HOME TO HICKORY HOLLOW

  The Fiddler

  The Bridesmaid