The Parting

by Beverly Lewis

  “That one has always clung to the Old Ways . . . much like our Nellie Mae seems to be doin’. She’s come right out and said she’s opposed to anything involving change,” Betsy remarked.

  “I pray she’ll come around in time,” Reuben said, glad for this moment with Betsy. He needed her comforting presence after such a day. “At least Nan’s showing some interest, but Rhoda’s a harder one to read. Do ya think she’ll embrace the gospel?”

  Betsy shrugged. “Still findin’ her bearings, I daresay,” she said.

  “Seems so.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s pray for the Lord to lead all our dear ones to Him.”

  She nodded, tears welling up. “Jah, pray I will.”

  Reuben held her hand, looking down at their intertwined fingers. “We’ve been through some awful hard things, love.” He paused, attempting to stay composed. “I hate to say it, but the days and months ahead could be ever so trying.”

  Betsy’s eyes filled with tears. “Don’t know how I’ll manage. Yet somehow . . .” She tightened her lips. “Jah, somehow we will.”

  “We’ve placed our trust in our Savior . . . and I’ll do everything I can to spare you more pain.” Reuben didn’t go into what he foresaw in the near future, but just the same, he sensed it was coming. Like a bolt out of the sky, lightning would strike and divide the People smack down the middle.

  The first sign of serious trouble came in the form of a reply letter from Bishop Joseph the Tuesday nearly two weeks after Reuben had sent his request. It seemed his brother’s health had taken a swift turn for the better, and he and Anna were heading home right quick. Just so you know—Preacher Manny, too—it cannot be God’s will for any of you to come together to study that way, preacher or no preacher, the bishop wrote. Folk who do don’t stay Amish. I’ve seen it time and again. . . .

  Reuben’s courage wavered briefly as he read the short and pointed note. So that was that: His brother had denied them. Reuben had expected as much, but there had remained a small spark of hope.

  Reuben knew precisely what would happen if he and Manny forged ahead, disregarding the bishop’s wishes. Reuben had heard of families elsewhere who had held Bible studies and were found out, never having asked permission. Eventually, if they refused to “come under” the Ordnung, a six-week probationary shun was slapped on them. If that didn’t teach them, then they were shunned for life. The only way to get back into the church and the brethren’s good graces was to repent and say you were back on the straight and narrow.

  The Gospel was divisive; no questioning that. In some cases in Scripture, following God severed offspring from parents, and spouses from each other. Abram of old, for one, had followed the Lord God out of his father’s house and country, forever away from his kindred.

  Am I willing to obey God at any cost?

  Forcing air out of the side of his mouth, he decided that the minute his hay was raked for baling, he would go and talk things over with Preacher Manny, who was also in danger of being ousted if he crossed this line.

  Yet to stand still is to go backward, Reuben realized.

  Nellie exercised patience at the cash register while their English neighbors, Mrs. Landis and her daughter, Joy, chattered on and on right at closing time. Tired from being on her feet, Nellie was anxious to sit at Mamma’s supper table and enjoy the juicy ham she knew was roasting.

  Mrs. Landis swept back a strand of raven-black hair—noticeably dyed—into her neatly flipped shoulder-length hairdo. “Joy tells me her cousin Darlene knew your sister Suzy from school,” the woman said, startling Nellie Mae. “Quite well, in fact.”

  “Oh?” Nellie’s throat pinched up. What does she know?

  The woman’s daughter blushed quickly and shook her head. “Mom, please don’t bring that up.”

  That silenced Mrs. Landis, and after the two of them had left the shop, Nellie pondered what could have been on Joy’s mind. But her curiosity was not enough to make her crack open Suzy’s diary again. No, she would not open that wound tonight. She was much too tired to contemplate the further transgressions of her sister. Was her lifelessness, even melancholy, due to what she’d discovered through Suzy’s words, or was she coming down with something? She had been known to absorb tension in a way that made her ill. Come to think of it, is that what happened to Uncle Bishop?

  What on earth will he think when he finally returns? she wondered, what with Dat—a stalwart church member—making prideful talk of being “saved.” What would their bishop do about that?

  Going to the shop door, she stood on her tiptoes and turned the Open sign around to Closed.

  Oh, how she wished she could take comfort in Rosanna’s company. She wondered how things were for her friend as she readied her household for the coming babies. Won’t she have fun with two to care for!

  Nellie thought ahead to what it might be like to hold a baby of her own . . . hers and Caleb’s. She smiled in spite of herself. She and her beau planned to ride over to the millstream this coming Sunday afternoon in broad daylight—Caleb’s suggestion.

  He’s getting mighty bold. Nellie laughed softly, pulling the door shut before heading toward the house.

  Supper was set out—pork chops, fried potatoes and onions, and buttered lima beans, with a small dish of chowchow. Rosanna had taken great care to prepare a fine hot meal for her husband.

  Before they could begin eating, though, she quickly showed Elias the matching reversible cradle quilts she had been making for the babies. One side featured a pattern in pastel pinks and green, the other one in blue and lavender. “That way if we have two boys, or two girls, or one of each, we’ll be just fine,” she said, putting them away before she sat down.

  Elias frowned at the head of the table. “Two girls, you say?”

  She nodded, hoping her husband wasn’t opposed to the idea of daughters.

  “These are to be our firstborn, Rosanna.”

  “Jah.”

  “For pity’s sake, do we want girls, really . . . if we have a say-so?” His frown grew deeper.

  “Well, I figure if we can’t ever have any babies of our own, then why on earth not take what we’re given? Besides, the more the better.” There—she’d said at last what she had been wanting to say for days.

  Elias rose abruptly. “Why not wait and decide when your cousins’ babies are born? See what they turn out to be.”

  “Wait till they’re born? But, Elias—”

  “No, you ain’t listenin’.” He stood with both hands on the back of the chair. “I aim to have a son. At least one.”

  She didn’t understand what was bothering him so. Surely the possibility of their raising two girls wasn’t all there was to it.

  He marched to the back of the house, where she heard him muttering out in the summer porch. She knew better than to go to him. He obviously was trying to hold his peace about something. Elias was not a man who would usually quibble, and initially he had appeared as grateful as she for Kate’s offer—maybe even more so. But the past few weeks had been a trial for him.

  Was it the slim harvest? Even with less of a hay crop to bring in than usual, he was beyond tired. They all were, working from sunup to sundown.

  Lord, won’t you bless my husband . . . give him peace?

  She didn’t know what had come over her, thinking a prayer like that. Maybe she’d secretly visited Jonathan Fisher’s place one time too many. Dear shunned Linda was a fountain of information on canning pureed food for babies, though Rosanna’d never once let it be known that all the questions she was asking were for herself.

  So much to learn . . . and Linda is ever so prayerful.

  As far as she knew, Cousin Kate had not yet told anyone that she planned to give her babies away. How will the womenfolk react, especially with twins? Everybody loves two little ones in a baby buggy, side by side.

  Sighing, Rosanna ate the delicious meal alone, not happy about the idea of sitting here while Elias fumed. Will he settle down tonight long enough to eat supper?<
br />
  Surely his hearty appetite would bring him back to the table.

  Jah, he’ll return in a few minutes. Then, when he’s filled up, he’ll tell me what’s really troubling him.

  Caleb headed toward the barn to check on the bedding straw for the animals, particularly for the new calf. He whistled a tune he’d heard in town, a snappy melody he’d liked immediately. His Mennonite cousin Christian Yoder had told him it was a “jingle” often used on radio stations right before the news or a sports report. Of course, not having been around radios much, Caleb wasn’t aware of such things. The tunes Cousin Christian liked to whistle were as foreign to Caleb as the worldly jingle he found himself whistling repeatedly tonight.

  The young calf seemed to like the sound as Caleb moved into the pen with her and petted her soft coat. He gave her more straw, pushing it around to even it out, and was getting ready to return to the house when he heard his father talking to someone up in the upper level of the two-story barn.

  Not one to eavesdrop, he almost headed out of the barn, but the topic of conversation swayed him. A man whose voice Caleb could not place was talking about someone who’d served out his conscientious objector status in Civilian Public Service years before. While doing so, the young man had been introduced to lively prayer meetings and Bible studies. “He even started watchin’ television,” the man said, sounding indignant. “Well, if this here fella didn’t start second-guessin’ the absence of a tractor in his father’s fields and the lack of electricity flowing through the house, mind you.”

  “I’ve heard similar tales,” Caleb’s father replied. “Too much mixing with Englischers ’most always comes to a bad end.”

  “No doubt of that, David. And same thing can happen when the youth start attendin’ gatherings where the Good Book’s discussed every which way. A march starts toward this enticing new path—a new order, some call it—and you hear every excuse under the sun for changing the Old Ways. ’Tis harder to turn your back on ‘thus saith the Lord’ than on ‘thus saith the church,’ some say. You just watch, David, if it don’t come to that here . . . that tabernacle nearby’s invitin’ trouble.”

  Caleb realized he was holding his breath. He slowly exhaled, waiting to hear what Daed might say. “We were all young once, so I can’t be talkin’ against the youth. But to go against the Ordnung as a baptized church member? There’s just no excuse for crossin’ that line.”

  “I say it’s Uncle Sam’s fault all this got started,” the unfamiliar man replied. “Far as I can tell, trouble reared up when he forced our hand and made us serve our time, even though we were conscientious objectors.”

  “Jah, look where that got us.” Daed huffed loudly, and Caleb darted out of the barn while he had his chance. He felt terribly guilty for listening in as he had, but with Nellie Mae’s family stepping so close to this same dangerous edge, he was anxious to know all he could.

  CHAPTER 28

  Sweet breads and anything made with pumpkin were the most-requested items at Nellie’s Simple Sweets now that they were into deep October. The demand for such goodies moist with pumpkin always rose near Halloween, though Nellie Mae never cared to acknowledge the day. While the practice of trick-or-treating mystified her, Nellie found the idea of dressing in costume to be most curious—she especially couldn’t picture grown-ups dressing like storybook characters or favorite animals the way neighbor Diana Cooper described.

  She expected the market for harvest-time desserts to last well into November and the start of the wedding season. Keeping up with the ever-increasing orders was so much of a chore for both Nellie and Nan that Mamma sometimes helped with the baking. Nellie could scarcely keep count of the quantity of pumpkin whoopee pies she was making between her dates with Caleb. They aimed to see each other every few days now that the silos were full.

  Twice this week, Caleb had surprised her with thoughtful notes, none marked with a return address. Unable to wait until Sunday afternoon after all, Caleb had taken her driving last night to their spot near the picturesque stone mill. There they had huddled against the cold on the wrought-iron bench, sitting so close they could have squeezed into Caleb’s heavy woolen coat if they’d tried. They had wandered up and down the creek after a time, walking over to the millrace and back, talking and trying to keep warm by moving alongside its gurgling waters.

  Nellie had noticed how Caleb reached for her hand almost absentmindedly. Like I’m a comfortable part of him somehow.

  There had been moments during last night’s conversation, though, when Caleb had seemed tentative, as if holding back something important, although she wouldn’t think of pressing him. He would tell her when he was ready, and until then she must simply swallow her fears that it concerned her parents, who were planning an upcoming meeting at Preacher Manny’s . . . minus the blessing of Uncle Bishop. Might Caleb have heard of that?

  She did not understand her parents’ decision, but it was not her place to question. Dat and Mamma had made their promise to the church and to the Lord God long ago—who was she to remind them? According to Caleb himself, as well as her customers in the bakery shop, there were plenty of people who were still holding firm to tradition.

  Here lately, she was glad she hadn’t been born a boy and therefore more privy to the bishop’s fury as his will clashed with those pushing for change. She’d heard Dat and Preacher Manny describe it in just that way as they talked openly yesterday morning while drinking coffee in Mamma’s kitchen. They had not pretended to talk of other things when Nellie came to fetch a batch of pumpkin sticky buns for Mrs. Kraybill.

  “Listen, Manny, the lines have been drawn and erased and redrawn near endless times over the years,” Dat had let fly from his lips. “Don’t you see the contradictions?”

  Preacher Manny had wholeheartedly agreed, which was evidently part of the reason the two of them remained so determined to begin their Bible-study meetings, starting on this next no-Preaching Sunday. To Nellie the whole thing sounded dangerously as though they were not only questioning the Ordnung but outright refusing to obey the bishop, too.

  Setting themselves up as God . . .

  Nellie shivered and glanced around the shop, taking inventory of her bakery items. Being out all hours last night had sapped her energy today for sure . . . though she wouldn’t have minded the weariness if things were more settled at home. She couldn’t begin to fathom why Dat and Preacher Manny would want to willfully go against the grain, so to speak.

  Elias held Rosanna in his arms on this first no-Preaching Sunday in November, and as they relaxed, waiting for the morning sunrise, he spoke. “It’s not so important that we get boys or girls or one of each, dear,” he said. “Tell ya the truth, I’m still hopin’ we’ll have some of our own.”

  She cherished his nearness, relieved to know at last what had been troubling him. “Jah, doctors aren’t always right . . . and we’re still young, too.”

  “Lots of years ahead to keep tryin’ for a little woodchopper.” He stroked her long, thick hair. “Was it almost four years ago we got hitched?”

  “I’m not a bit sorry for not waitin’ longer, are you?”

  He kissed her again, lingering this time. “Who’d be sorry to have such a pretty wife?”

  She smiled. Elias had a way of saying the right things at the right time. “Well, maybe, Lord willin’, we’ll have us a baby someday. But won’t it be fun having two wee ones here, right quick? Special delivery in a way.”

  “Not soon enough for you, that’s for sure.” Elias grinned in the dim light.

  “Well, since twins tend to come early, it’s a good thing we’re all ready with the cradles and whatnot.”

  He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at her with adoring eyes. “We’ll fill this old house with lots of little ones, jah?”

  She hoped so, partly to please Elias. Truth be known, she would rather have a baby in her arms than most anything. But for now, Elias was cradling her in his, drawing her ever so near. His lips found hers aga
in, and Rosanna was heedless to the dawn as it crept under the window shade and spilled light over their bed quilt. Not even the rooster’s crowing succeeded in getting the two of them to rise and shine.

  With a sense of joy mixed with trepidation, Reuben rode up with Betsy to Preacher Manny’s farmhouse. Bishop Joseph had returned from Iowa mighty upset, far beyond the proverbial righteous indignation. Now Manny was under a watch for the Bann by his own ministerial brethren. They had warned him that he would be brought before the membership if he did not cease his activities.

  But Manny had made his stand—he was immovable. To some extent it was Manny’s doggedness to “push forward with God’s calling” that had brought them here today.

  Reuben paused at the back stoop with his Bible. “O Lord, go before us,” he whispered, noticing seven buggies parked off to the side.

  “The People are hungry, looks like to me,” Betsy said softly as they made their way into the preacher’s roomy kitchen.

  By now a dozen or so folk were seated on folding chairs in the next room, rather than the long wooden benches common to Preaching services. Many had their Bibles open on their laps, ready for Preacher Manny to begin. Among them were Reuben’s own four sons, Ephram being the only one missing.

  Spotting his cousin in the corner of the kitchen, Reuben hurried to his side. “Manny, are you ready?”

  The preacher’s eyes were bloodshot. “I was up most of the night prayin’,” Manny said, wearing his best white shirt and black broadfall trousers. “Will you offer a few words before I say what the Lord has put on my heart?”

  Reuben flinched. “You want me to speak?” He shook his head. “I’m no preacher, mind you.”

  Manny gripped his arm. “I said nothing about preachin’, Reuben. Just talk some about what God’s been showing you in His Word.”

  “Well, I s’pose . . .”

  Manny leaned closer. “Nothin’ at all hard about it. The power that raised up God’s Son from the dead lives right there in you.” Manny pointed to Reuben’s heart. “Remember that.”