A Simple Christmas

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Rosalyn blinked. The three of them had lived in Dat’s shadow all their lives, tiptoeing around his whims and moods, but she couldn’t recall sweet, kindhearted Edith ever speaking so harshly of anyone. “I suspect we’ll find out more than we want to know at the meeting tomorrow,” she said ruefully. “Folks might wonder if we girls are also guilty by association—if we knew what Dat was up to but didn’t tell anyone. Why would folks who haven’t known us all that long assume we’re innocent bystanders?”

  Edith pulled the stopper from the sink drain. “I guess we’ll find out where we stand tomorrow, ain’t so?” she asked softly. “Depending on what Dat says and does—and what folks vote to do about him—we might find ourselves wishing we could move back to Roseville.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Worms of worry squirmed in Rosalyn’s stomach as she, her sisters, and their husbands entered Preacher Ben and Miriam’s home Wednesday morning. Folks were removing their coats with whispered conversations and concerned expressions—and why wouldn’t they? Their questions buzzed like bees in the big front room.

  What’s so urgent that Bishop Tom couldn’t wait until after the service on December thirty-first? Why didn’t he call a meeting after church three days ago?

  Rosalyn remained silent, nodding as Savilla and Lena Witmer greeted her. Miriam’s identical daughters, Rachel and Rhoda, holding their toddlers against their hips, preceded Loretta into a pew bench on the women’s side. Rosalyn sat down between her sisters, happy that little Louisa was beaming at her from Edith’s lap—Leroy was sitting with his dat so the little twins’ chatter wouldn’t disrupt the meeting. Across the large room, Asa and Drew appeared somber, as though they anticipated a lot of unpleasantness before all was said and done.

  Because this wasn’t a church service, they didn’t begin with the usual singing of a hymn. When white-haired Bishop Vernon entered the room, his hands clasped before him, all talking ceased. Bishop Tom and Preacher Henry took their places on the preacher’s bench alongside Vernon, their faces somber as they surveyed the crowd.

  “Where’s Dat?” Edith whispered.

  “What if he doesn’t show up?” Loretta shot back.

  Rosalyn shifted uneasily. The Hooleys’ front room was too warm and stuffy. The wooden bench felt unusually hard, probably because she’d gone a second night without getting much sleep.

  When Marcus entered the room, however, Rosalyn’s heart fluttered. He searched her out, his smile telling of his support—his belief that she was still worthy of his attention. She reminded herself to breathe. She sat up straighter, despite the tension that tightened the faces around her.

  Bishop Tom stood up to speak, scanning the crowd one more time—looking for Dat, no doubt. It was odd, seeing the bishop dressed in broadfall pants and a blue shirt rather than the black suit and white shirt he wore on Sundays. By the expression on his taut face, however, his everyday clothing wasn’t making him feel any more comfortable about the day’s topic.

  “Folks, let’s quiet our hearts and minds,” he intoned, raising his hand for silence. “We’ll begin with a word of prayer to ask for God’s guidance—”

  Footsteps in the kitchen made folks look toward the doorway. Everyone’s eyebrows rose when Dat entered the front room with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, just a few steps ahead of Preacher Ben, who appeared unusually stern.

  One look at them tells the story, Rosalyn thought, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. If Ben hadn’t gone to fetch him, Dat wouldn’t be here.

  When she saw her father’s woeful expression, a different thought occurred to her. He’s putting on that forlorn look so folks will feel sorry for him! Instead of appearing penitent, he’s playing the victim—planning to weep and wail about his overwhelming grief.

  As though they were thinking the same thing, her sisters let out disgusted sighs. They watched closely as Dat and Ben sat in two of the three folding chairs that faced the congregation, which was the customary place for members preparing to give a confession. Ben appeared somber, sitting with his hands folded in his lap. Without looking at anyone, Dat quickly wrapped his arms around his knees and laid his head on them. His dejected moan accompanied the shuddering of his shoulders.

  “I may have to leave,” Loretta muttered under her breath.

  “So help me, if he doesn’t speak the truth—if he puts on an act—I’m going to stand up and call him on it,” Edith whispered vehemently.

  Rosalyn’s eyes widened. As she took her sisters’ hands, she was relieved when Bishop Tom bowed his head and began to pray.

  “Father God, we come before You today imploring Your presence and Your wisdom as we discuss a very difficult situation,” he said earnestly. “As the truth is revealed, have mercy on our human frailties yet hold us fully accountable—just as You will on the judgment day that lies ahead for each of our souls when You call us home. Amen.”

  As folks lifted their heads, they also sucked in their breath when Bishop Tom took the third folding chair rather than returning to his spot on the preacher’s bench. When Bishop Vernon rose to speak, Preacher Henry appeared apprehensive—vulnerable and lonely—being the only church leader who remained on the preacher’s bench.

  “As a godly man of conscience, your bishop has asked me to oversee this meeting while we address issues of a very serious and unusual nature,” Vernon began in his resonant voice. “Because Tom and Ben are more aware of the questions that will elicit a full response from Deacon Cornelius, they will conduct his confession before going to their knees to give their own.”

  Folks gazed at the three leaders in the folding chairs with widened eyes, now painfully aware of the seriousness of the meeting’s purpose.

  “This is an unfortunate and unprecedented situation—yet even so, our Lord has been present all along. If we listen, He will guide us to the proper conclusions,” Bishop Vernon continued calmly. “During these proceedings, we must maintain the same respect and reverence we would display if we’d just finished a church service. First, I wish to attune our hearts and minds to what Jesus taught His followers concerning the proper stewardship of the gifts God has bestowed upon each and every one of us.”

  The white-haired bishop paused, gazing at the crowd with earnest blue eyes. “Although it may seem irregular—perhaps too progressive—I wish to paraphrase the parable of the talents rather than reading it from the Bible,” he said solemnly. “My intention is to render Jesus’s teaching in clear, unmistakable language, because the situation we face today calls for all the clarity we can muster.”

  The room rang with silence. Rosalyn glanced around—and saw that everyone else was doing the same thing. Folks seemed stunned by the magnitude of the apparent wrongdoing that involved three of their four church leaders. She was grateful that Bishop Vernon was handling the day’s situation with the same compassion and discernment he’d shown on Edith’s original wedding day, when Drew had drugged his twin brother so he could marry her in Asa’s place. Folks had since forgiven Drew and accepted him as a valuable member of the community—but Dat’s gambling habit would rock the foundations of Willow Ridge a lot harder than Drew’s deceit had.

  “The parable of the talents—like most of the parables—begins with Jesus saying, ‘the kingdom of heaven is like—’” Bishop Vernon began in a resonant voice. “In this case, the kingdom of heaven is like a man who’s traveling to a far country, and before he goes, he’s entrusting his money to his servants. The Lord is instructing us in the way our current everyday lives serve as preparation for the everlasting life He has promised to those who confess and find their salvation in Him.”

  Bishop Vernon paused, allowing his words to sink in.

  “In this story, you’ll recall that the man gives five talents to one servant—a talent being worth several thousand dollars, as best we can tell,” Vernon explained patiently. “To a second servant he gives two talents, and to a third servant he gives one talent. For whatever reason, this man has entrusted quite a fortu
ne to his employees, just as God has blessed us with spiritual and monetary riches beyond what we deserve.”

  The people in the room were listening closely, nodding as their understanding matched what the bishop was recounting for them. Rosalyn closed her eyes, wondering again just how many thousands of dollars her father had lost . . . and wondering how these neighbors would react when they heard Dat’s confession.

  “When the man returns from his journey and requests a reckoning of accounts,” Bishop Vernon went on, “the servant who’d received the five talents reports that he’s invested the money wisely and has earned five talents more—and the servant who’d received two talents has doubled those, as well. ‘Well done, good and faithful servant,’ the man declares. ‘You were faithful with a few things, so I’ll put you in charge of many more. Enter into the joy of your lord.’”

  Bishop Vernon gazed imploringly at all in the room. “It should be the sincerest goal of every one of us to hear the Lord say those magnificent words to us someday—well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your lord.”

  Rosalyn swallowed hard. Every person present knew the rest of the story. Folks were frowning as they glanced at their deacon, their bishop, and one of their preachers.

  “But the servant who’d received one talent had hidden the money in the ground, claiming that he was afraid, and that his master had reaped where he hadn’t sown,” Vernon continued in a harsher voice. “The man rebukes the servant for his presumptuous attitude, saying that he could’ve at least put the money in the bank to earn some interest. ‘You wicked and slothful servant,’ the man says angrily. And he casts the servant into the outer darkness, where there would be much weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

  The bishop’s shoulders sank sadly as he shook his head. “May God preserve us from such a bleak state of eternal damnation,” he finished in a dramatic whisper. “And may God’s will be done this day, as the men seated before you give a reckoning of accounts.”

  Except for the whisper of fabric against fabric as folks shifted uncomfortably, the room rang with a frightened silence. Even though Rosalyn knew the details that were about to be revealed, she quaked at the picture Bishop Vernon had painted with his words. Would Dat come clean? Would he be cast into the outer darkness by his enraged neighbors when they learned what he’d done?

  Bishop Vernon turned to face the three men seated in the folding chairs. “Deacon Cornelius, because your unfortunate behavior is the root of the problem we’re facing, and because you did not confess before your fellow church members several weeks ago when Bishop Tom urged you to do so, you will kneel before us first.”

  Rosalyn’s throat got so dry she couldn’t swallow. Her sisters’ hands tightened around hers as Dat rolled forward out of the folding chair and onto his knees rather than walking to the center of the room. The sound of his rapid, shallow breathing filled the air, until folks probably wondered if he was going to keel over and die on the spot.

  “I want to confess that I—I have failed,” Dat began in a thin voice. It was the customary statement made by a member giving a confession, but the words sounded oddly out of kilter, considering the resounding tones in which Dat usually read from the Scriptures on Sunday morning. “I want to make peace and—and continue in patience with God and the church, and—”

  Dat’s voice cracked and he began to sob. “And in the future to take better care,” he finished. He pulled a bandana from his pocket to mop his face.

  If I didn’t know what he’s been up to—just how deceptively and thoughtlessly he’s betrayed his neighbors, Rosalyn thought, I would feel very, very sorry for the poor man kneeling before us.

  Folks were craning their necks to get a better look at their deacon. A few of the women glanced speculatively at Rosalyn and her sisters. Painful as it was, it seemed best to focus on her father rather than face the neighbor ladies’ frowns. Even though she’d met them all at church services, Rosalyn hadn’t spent much time with some of the women—and it was even more difficult to see the doubt-filled expressions of the ladies she considered her friends.

  Bishop Tom stepped closer to Dat. “What is the nature of your failure, Brother Cornelius?”

  Dat remained curled inward, shaking. “I . . . I have behaved irresponsibly with money.”

  The bishop sighed, as though he anticipated having to pry every word from Dat’s mouth. “You must be more specific,” he stated. “If your neighbors are to grant you the forgiveness you seek, they must know exactly what you’ve done wrong, Cornelius.”

  Rosalyn winced when her father’s agonized groan filled the room. Folks shifted nervously on the benches.

  “I have . . . misappropriated some of the district’s money,” Dat finally admitted in a theatrical whisper.

  Preacher Ben rose from his chair to stand beside Bishop Tom. “Cornelius, you can either state your case and get your sin out in the open,” he said sternly, “or you can prolong everyone’s discomfort by forcing us to ask you the questions you’d rather avoid. This situation has gone on for far too long—”

  “And you’ve compounded the problem by breaking the promise you made to Ben and me in September, to mend your ways—and repay your debt—when we allowed you to continue as our deacon,” Bishop Tom continued sharply. “So, not only have you misspent the district’s money, you’ve lied to us.”

  Several folks gasped, appalled by what Tom and Ben had said. The men across the room leaned forward, determined to catch every word from the deacon, who remained on his knees in a fetal position.

  After a few moments of silence, Bishop Vernon stepped closer to Dat and cleared his throat. “What do you have to say, Cornelius?” he prompted. “The longer you wait, the more time you give your neighbors to imagine the worst.”

  Dat sighed dolefully. “I—I fully deserve your censure,” he said. “May the Lord grant me mercy and peace and—”

  “Tell us where you went and how much you’ve spent, Cornelius!” Preacher Henry blurted out from the preachers’ bench. “The mercy and peace you crave will be a long time coming when everyone hears that you went to—”

  “Let Cornelius say it,” Bishop Vernon cut in, silencing Preacher Henry with his raised hand. “It’s best if a sinner comes before God and his neighbors with a contrite heart, while we await the opening of his soul. Considering that your deacon’s revelation won’t change the situation your district faces, we can afford him some patience. However, Cornelius,” he added, “folks will wonder about the sincerity of your confession if your leaders have to ask you for every little detail. Shall we proceed?”

  Folks murmured more earnestly, exchanging troubled glances. Lydia Zook, seated a couple of rows in front of Rosalyn, flashed her and her sisters a worried frown. “What in the world’s going on, girls?” she whispered. “It’s one thing to run up a bill at the market, but—”

  “Quiet, please!” Bishop Tom insisted above the rising chatter.

  The room suddenly rang with an accusatory silence that made Rosalyn wish she could leave—and made her wonder if these people would make their lives in Willow Ridge so miserable that she and her sisters would have to live elsewhere because of Dat’s transgressions.

  But where could we go? Rosalyn wondered. If the local folks stop buying Asa and Drew’s refurbished furniture, we’ll be unable to pay our bills—and we’ll get the same embarrassing letters Dat’s been receiving . . .

  “I was so consumed by grief after my wife’s passing,” Dat began in a quavering voice, “that I turned to gambling. I simply couldn’t help myself—”

  “Gambling?” Naomi Brenneman cried out. “I’ve never heard of such a thing amongst the Amish.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Gabe Glick demanded from the front row of the men’s side. He tapped his cane on the floor, his wrinkles deepening with his scowl. “When I was a preacher and Reuben Riehl was our deacon, our funds were accounted for down to the last penny—”

  “Silence is in order,” B
ishop Vernon insisted, raising his hand to quiet the restless crowd. “Every member is entitled to a full rendering of his or her sins.”

  “Jesus taught that only a person without sin has the right to cast the first stone,” Bishop Tom reminded everyone. “When Ben and I preached sermons back in September, urging guilty souls to confess, you might recall that Cornelius wasn’t the only one squirming in his seat.”

  The room became quiet again, but it was the silence of folks suppressing a bothersome cough. Rosalyn met her sisters’ nervous glances. As the eldest, she wished she knew how to comfort Edith and Loretta, yet she was at a loss—and grateful that they’d supported her when she’d moved out of Dat’s house. It was humbling, to feel so dependent upon the younger women who’d looked up to her all their lives.

  “Please find it in your hearts to forgive me,” Dat bleated like a lost lamb. “When Tom and Ben believed I could stay away from the casino—when they counseled me and set up a repayment plan—I failed them. I let them down.”

  “How much of the district’s money did you lose, Cornelius?” Bishop Vernon prompted after a few moments.

  Dat, still curled in on himself, let out another sob. “I don’t know. I—I lost count because I lost money of my own, as well.”

  “That’s no answer!” Naomi’s husband, Ezra, blurted from his wheelchair. “I’ve been paying into the aid fund all my life—and my father before me did, as well.”

  “What are you saying?” Miriam asked in a strained whisper. “When my family needed their hospital bills paid this past week, Ben wouldn’t elaborate about how low the aid fund had gotten. But I’ve never seen him so worried.”

  “Ben told me that if the hospital administrator hadn’t greatly reduced the bill because we Amish pay cash rather than carrying insurance,” Andy Leitner put in, “we wouldn’t have had enough money to cover the charges.”