The Parting

by Beverly Lewis

  If Caleb and his family came over to the New Order side after the ninety days the bishop had allowed for decision making, how sad for them. But no, Nellie Mae wouldn’t allow herself to think that way. She must live a joyful life, all the while knowing if she converted, she’d be saying good-bye to Caleb . . . and if she remained, she would say good-bye to Suzy’s gospel.

  Pausing to sit on the bench, she closed her eyes. There was something sweet in the air, or was it the fresh smell of December after a bitter cold snap? Beneath the dampness of the creek bank, the promise of spring was buried deep within the soil. But the sweetness she sensed wasn’t that found in the earth. Perhaps it came from knowing spring would come again, no matter how far off it now seemed.

  Maybe our corn will reach its full height next summer. . . .

  It was getting cold and Nellie hadn’t planned to come this far at the outset of her walk. She thought she might end up crying if she lingered here in this place.

  She rose, wanting to go have one last look at the mill creek. Walking to the bank, she leaned against the cold trunk of a tree.

  A rustling sound . . . then a familiar voice.

  “Nellie Mae, is that you?”

  She turned and saw Caleb coming down from the frozen pond. “Hullo,” she said, her heart in her throat.

  Had she spoken his name aloud? She wasn’t sure.

  “Nellie, what’re you doin’ here?” His eyes were bright at the sight of her.

  She laughed. “I should ask you that.”

  “So we’re both here spontaneously,” Caleb remarked.

  They looked at each other awkwardly, almost as if they’d just met, so surprised were they.

  “Would ya like to walk with me?” he asked at last.

  Without waiting for her to respond, Caleb reached for her hand and they strolled together, like old times . . . reexperiencing the delight of first love.

  Yet she knew as well as he that things were different. Preacher Manny had said in a sermon that the Word of God was as powerful as a two-edged sword. Were they about to witness this divisiveness firsthand?

  “I couldn’t stop thinking ’bout this place . . . wanted to walk along the millstream again,” Caleb confessed.

  She listened, enjoying the sound of his voice, the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled. “It’s perty here, that’s for sure. Even on a cold day.”

  “We sure picked a fine place, jah?”

  She smiled at him. “You picked it, Caleb . . . remember?”

  “I certainly do.” He paused as though considering what he wanted to say next. “I must tell you something, Nellie. Something I despise saying.”

  She braced herself.

  “My father forbids me to take you as my bride. He said so earlier today.” Caleb shook his head, his eyes fixed on the ground. “He’ll withhold his land and all he’s promised me if I marry you, Nellie.”

  A fury rose in her, and she wanted to declare his father unfair. But that was false—David Yoder had every right. It was his land to give, and he did have other sons already married and walking in the way of the Old Order church.

  “What will you do?” she asked, not sure she could bear to hear the answer.

  He was silent for a time, clearly frustrated. “We must do as my father demands and part ways.”

  Ach, no . . .

  She stopped walking to face him and study his dear face, his hairline, the way his eyebrows framed his beautiful eyes. “Are you goin’ to—”

  “Make it appear so,” he added. “Till I can think this through.”

  “You’ve spoken up to your father on this?” It was forward, but she had to know.

  “More than once. Believe me, it’s not the wisest thing to do.”

  She understood. There were a good many stern fathers and grandfathers amongst the People, some harsher than others, but most unyielding all the same.

  Unexpectedly Caleb reached for her, pulling her toward him. “I can’t think of losin’ you. I won’t.”

  She pressed her lips together to make them stop trembling and willed herself not to cry. “I would never do this to my son or daughter, would you?”

  He reached to lift her chin, his face ever so near. “We cannot be seen together . . . ever. Even though we might attend the same Singings and whatnot, I won’t take you out ridin’ afterward—not because I don’t want to. Do you understand, love? Rebekah, who’s always been fond of you, will now surely become a spy for Daed.”

  Nellie nodded, the lump in her throat nearly choking her so that she could not speak.

  “Nothing will stand between us. I’ll see to that . . . somehow.” He pressed his forehead to hers, lingering ever so near. “We’ll find a way, I promise.”

  “I pray so” was all she could bring herself to say.

  Caleb kissed her cheek tenderly, holding her hand till her fingers slipped away.

  Honor thy father and thy mother, she thought as she walked toward Beaver Dam Road alone, wondering how following that arduous commandment could yield a blessing of long life. The way Nellie Mae felt now, she couldn’t imagine wanting to live to a ripe old age without her beloved by her side.

  EPILOGUE

  I dreamt of Suzy last night, at long last. She came walking toward me in a meadow of red columbines and bluebells, wearing a purple cape dress and white church apron. She was as radiant as a bride, and in the dream I thought she must be wearing her spotless heavenly robe, her tears over her misdeeds all wiped away.

  Dat says Suzy’s gone to Jesus, and I think of it every morning as I rise to greet a new day, wondering if it is true.

  As for Mamma, she’s ever so busy passing on her new faith. She and little Emma were doing a bit of stitching this morning when I left the house to go to the bakery shop. Emma was curled up on Mamma’s lap, leaning on the kitchen table while my mother showed her how to do a simple cross-stitch on a pillow slip. I had to stop and listen when Mamma said, “You know Aunt Suzy’s in heaven.”

  Emma looked up from her embroidery square and blinked her big eyes. “What’s she doin’ there?”

  “Oh, all kinds of wonderful-good things, I ’spect.”

  “Like what?”

  “Spendin’ time with the Lord Jesus, for one,” said Mamma.

  “God’s Son?”

  “That’s right . . . let me tell you more ’bout Him.” Mamma’s voice went on, but I had to leave.

  Seems in this house, there is much talk of “the Savior.” In all truth, my parents speak of Jesus quite a lot, which is very different from what I heard all of my growing-up years. I guess they think some of us have a lot of catching up to do, myself included, though I’m ever so guarded in my curiosity. How can I be otherwise?

  Nan, surprisingly, is warming up to me; we’ve been distant for so long. Her heart must still be broken, though she won’t come right out and say so. I sometimes see the pain in her eyes, just as I see my own in the small hand mirror on my dresser.

  I’ve decided not to part with Suzy’s Kapp strings. I’ve been slipping them into my dress pocket again. At times I think it’s peculiar to keep them at my fingertips, an ever-present reminder, but they bring more comfort than sadness nowadays. Mamma would probably not care at all if she knew.

  Besides, Mamma showed me something of Suzy’s that she, too, sometimes carries with her. A small pillow, stitched as finely as any I’ve seen—one made to alleviate headaches, of all things.

  Dat says he knows now why so many of our crops failed last summer. He believes we were supposed to learn something important about trusting God. It was a message of hope to look to in the time of struggle. He says it’s as if our heavenly Father were saying, Look to me, even amid your uncertainty and loss—whether crops or loved ones—I am here, calling you to my joy and peace.

  In spite of my bewilderment over Caleb’s father’s demand, I am hopeful as I go about the duties of my life, knowing love can win out in even the worst of circumstances. Of all the stories Dat reads from the Good Book,
the best example of great love is God’s Son, seems to me. To think He would give up all of heaven to meet us here—to court us, wooing our hearts. Such a surprising thing, really.

  Mamma says the best part is we will never be separated from that love, neither here nor over yonder. She figures Suzy must know that already—she says she can’t imagine what Suzy’s experiencing. So now when I think of my departed sister, I try to think like Mamma does, with jubilation and maybe a bit of envy.

  Soon it will be Christmas Day, and this year will mark a special celebration of the Lord’s birthday round here. Sometime before then, I’m going to settle in my mind what happened on Suzy’s final day on earth. I want to thank her good friends, too, for looking after my wayward sister, helping to rescue her from the evils of the world.

  Sometimes I wonder if I ought to visit the tabernacle come summer, if for no other reason than to honor my close sisterly connection to Suzy. Ach, but I hope my reticence won’t keep me from meeting Zachary and his brother. I’ve already avoided them once, not accepting the chance to go boating with them that dreadful day. I was selfish, not wanting to spoil my chances with Caleb by being linked to his English cousin. In the end, though, I paid a terrible price for not going—yet if I can follow through and find them, what will this meeting cost me?

  No matter what the days ahead may hold, I will keep baking the goodies my customers crave, extending kindness and good deeds to all I meet. And somehow, I hope the Lord God will watch over Caleb and me, even though our future looks mighty bleak. After all, the peaceable parting offered to the People by the bishop was a true miracle.

  Why can’t Caleb and I be a miracle, too?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While doing research for this series, I learned of two schisms that occurred among the Old Order Amish in 1966, a time of great upheaval . . . and saving grace. And the mercy of one Amish bishop.

  Much gratitude to my cousins Jake and Ruth Bare for their careful research, as well as to those from whom they received valuable information and memories.

  Many thanks to my wonderful editorial team—David Horton, Julie Klassen, and Rochelle Glo..ege—and everyone at Bethany House who helps make my writing journey a joyful one.

  Loving appreciation to my husband, Dave, for his terrific plotting advice, to Carolene Robinson for her medical expertise, to Barbara Birch for her excellent proofreading, to each of my Lancaster County research assistants, and to my partners in prayer in various places.

  Above all, my deep thankfulness to our heavenly Father, who guides me in all my ways.

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