A Mother's Gift

by Charlotte Hubbard

  After she’d mixed the frosting with the rotary beater—noting how lumpy it looked, compared to the frosting Mama always made—Leah went out to tend her animals. In the shadowy barn, while milking her goats by lantern light and feeding her ducks and chickens, she felt a sense of peace and predictability. It was such a blessing to work with animals that trusted her and were truly happy to see her. She found herself wishing such barnyard harmony could be cultivated in the house. Leah had hoped that her mother’s presence would inspire Alice and Adeline to be more tolerant and polite—at least for the first few days. Yet they continued to defy their dat’s decree about staying at home.

  A loud rumble made Leah scurry to peer around the barn. A large pickup truck was pulling in off the road, forming a dark gray silhouette against the pale sky of dawn. Its taillights burned red and its headlights sliced the horizon. Before the truck came to a complete stop, the doors on the passenger side opened and were slammed shut. The twins cried out in harsh voices.

  “Jah, we heard you—loud and clear!”

  “Don’t come back until you’ve gotten over yourselves!”

  Leah sucked in her breath, wondering if Alice and Adeline would be safely out of the way before the truck shot backward. Its tires spun and sent dust flying up in a cloud before the driver reached the road and drove off with a loud squeal of rubber. The twins grasped each other’s hands as they ran across the yard, their long hair streaming behind them. Their agitation was palpable even from a distance, so Leah felt compelled to set down her buckets of goat’s milk. She sprinted across the lawn to meet them. “Girls—wait!” she cried out. “Are you all right?”

  The three of them reached the big maple tree beside the house at about the same time. Alice and Adeline were crying, yet they glared at her.

  “What do you care if we’re all right?” one of them blurted.

  “Jah, are you happy now, hearing that we’ve sent those guys packing?” her sister retorted.

  Leah was relieved that they stayed on the ground rather than clambering up the tree, because their vision was surely blurred by their tears. “What happened that made everyone so angry?” she asked in a concerned voice.

  “None of your business!”

  “It’s all Dat’s fault, for taking our cell phone!”

  “Well, see, it’s not our phone—”

  “And Dex—the guy who’s paying the phone bill,” the twin nearest Leah amended quickly, “is really mad that he can’t call us or text us.”

  “So of course he wants the phone back.”

  “And we don’t know where it is! Dat has it!”

  Leah could anticipate her response being shot down, but she gave it anyway. “Seems the simplest thing would be to tell your dat whom he should return the phone to, and where this young man lives,” she said.

  “Right, like that’s going to happen!”

  “How stupid do you think we are? No way are we telling Dat where to take that phone!”

  Leah smiled, shrugging as she went toward the back door of the house. “The next simplest thing would be for that young man to stop paying the bill—to shut off service to the phone. Ain’t so?”

  The twins jogged in front of her, their faces turning deep pink with exasperation.

  “You think this is really funny, don’t you, Leah?”

  “Jah, and next you’re going to say that it’d be better if we never saw those guys again, anyway—that we should go back to being gut little Amish girls who don’t raise their voices or give their family any trouble!”

  Leah stopped with her hand on the doorknob to look at them. She still had trouble telling them apart, and she couldn’t deny that they were attractive—downright enticing in their tight jeans and tops, with their long brown hair falling loose around their pretty faces and shapely bodies. Although she didn’t wish they were ugly, she realized that her plainer appearance during her teen years—her lackadaisical attitude toward the way she’d dressed, and her tomboyish activities—had probably kept her away from temptation and compromising situations.

  “I’m very concerned about the places you go with those boys, and the lack of respect they show you—and your lack of respect for yourselves,” Leah said quietly. “The last thing I want is for you to get caught carrying babies those English boys won’t claim, and whom you’re not ready to raise as unmarried teenagers. Have you learned nothing from the desperation of the young woman who abandoned Betsy at our doorstep?”

  Alice and Adeline sneered, their faces identical masks of disdain.

  “What gives you any right to preach at us?”

  “You’re not our mamm, so we don’t have to listen to you.”

  With a sigh, Leah opened the door for them. As the twins hurried past her in a huff, she chided herself for believing she could make a difference in their attitudes, their lives. Even so, she’d felt compelled to drive home the reality they might be facing if they continued on their current collision course. Wearily Leah returned to the barn for the buckets of goat’s milk she’d left there.

  When Leah stepped into the kitchen, Betsy was wiggling in her carrier basket, which sat on the kitchen table. Leah’s mother gazed at her sadly from her place at the stove. “My word, but those girls can suck the life out of a room with their negative attitudes,” Mama said as she turned the sizzling strips of bacon in the skillet. “I had no idea their situation had escalated to such an extreme. It’s a sad example of what happens when our young people pick up nasty habits from the English—not that English folks are all bad.”

  Leah set her buckets on the mudroom floor and removed her barn coat. “I could be wrong, but I suspect the boys in the truck are drawn to Alice and Adeline more because it’s a novelty to date Amish girls than because they really care for them,” she mused aloud. “And the twins enjoy playing with fire, partly to defy their dat . . . and maybe as a reaction to me as well. I have no idea how to fix this situation.”

  Mama concentrated on removing the bacon from the skillet to a platter covered with paper towels. “The twins remind me of this grease, so hot and unpredictable they might burn us—or themselves—without warning,” she remarked. “Truth be told, I wonder if they have thoughts about jumping the fence. I’ve never known Plain girls to speak and behave so rudely.”

  Leah sighed as she poured the goat’s milk into a large soup kettle and lit the burner beneath it. “Stevie has overheard them say they want to leave the Amish faith. Alice and Adeline think our way of life is all work and drudgery,” she added as she clipped the candy thermometer to the side of the pan. “I really wonder if they’ll settle down enough to help you sew our new clothes—so don’t take it personally if they’re nowhere to be found when you’re ready to start.”

  Mama chuckled softly. “Well, after all these years I’ve gotten used to sewing by myself—don’t take it personally, dear,” she quipped quickly.

  Leah laughed, grateful for her mother’s sense of humor. She went to the table and lifted Betsy from her basket. Was it her imagination, or did the baby flap her arms and make excited little noises because she was happy to see Leah?

  “Often when I’m working alone, I have the chance to sort things through in my mind, and to pray over situations that trouble me,” Mama continued in a pensive tone. “Something tells me it’ll be easier to talk with God and listen for His suggestions if Adeline and Alice aren’t in the sewing room because they have to be instead of because they want to be.”

  Chapter 13

  When Jude bowed his head the following Sunday to begin the time of silent prayer during the church service at the Hartzler place, his fingertips reveled in the crisp, smooth texture of the new white shirt he was wearing. Denki, Lord, for Lenore’s sewing skills and for the way her presence has brought peacefulness into our home, he prayed. It’s a pleasure—and a relief—to see my girls wearing dresses of a more appropriate size, and to watch Stevie blossom like a springtime flower in the sunshine of his grandmother’s love.

  At the en
d of the prayer, Deacon Saul Hartzler stood up with the large German King James Bible to read the passage of Scripture that Bishop Jeremiah would expound upon during the morning’s second sermon. Saul was a burly man, and his rolling voice filled the huge room, which had been expanded by the removal of some interior walls. “Today’s reading comes from the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, beginning with verse thirty-one. Hear the word of the Lord,” he said as he located the verse with his finger. “ ‘When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit on the throne of his glory: And before him shall be gathered all the nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats,’ ” he read with gusto. “ ‘And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.’ ”

  Stevie elbowed Jude, smiling brightly. “We keep Leah’s sheep separate from the goats, huh, Dat?” he whispered.

  Jude nodded, his finger across his lips as he hugged his perceptive young son. It was wonderful, how much Stevie had learned since Leah had become his mother, his teacher.

  “‘Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world,’ ” Saul read in a grand voice. “‘For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger and ye took me in: Naked and ye clothed me: I was sick and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.’ ”

  Stevie’s eyes widened. “Naked?” he mouthed in silent surprise.

  Jude smiled, recalling how such a word captured a boy’s attention—especially in church—at Stevie’s age. It was such a blessing that his son was paying attention to this important story instead of doodling with paper and pencil, as he and the other young children often did during church.

  Deacon Saul’s eyes widened with the drama of the story, as though he were one of the puzzled disciples listening to Jesus’ teaching. “‘Then shall the righteous answer him, saying Lord, when saw we ye hungred and fed thee? Or thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger and took thee in? or naked and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee?’” he asked as he gazed out over the crowd.

  Everyone sat quietly, in focused expectation, awaiting the answer to one of the Bible’s most important questions even though they’d heard the story many times.

  Saul kept them waiting an extra moment before he continued. “ ‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ ” Saul closed the big Bible with a satisfied thump. “Thus ends this reading of His holy word. Let all those who have ears hear it and believe.”

  When the deacon had taken his seat, Bishop Jeremiah stood and began the longer main sermon of the morning. Sunday clothing rustled as folks shifted on the pew benches. Jude peered between the heads of the older men who sat in front of him, and gazed at Leah, who sat about halfway back on the women’s side, across the huge front room. She, too, wore new clothes today, and the pumpkin-colored cape dress Lenore had made showed off her lovely complexion. When she smiled and lifted little Betsy to her shoulder, Jude’s heart sang at the sweetness of the picture they made. Someday soon, he hoped it would be their new wee one she looked after during church.

  “Since we last met to worship Him, our Lord has provided yet another opportunity to care for someone to whom He refers as ‘the least of these,’ ” Jeremiah began in a resonant voice. “You may have heard by now that Jude and Leah Shetler found a baby on their front porch a little while ago. I was pleased to hear that so many of you responded generously, loaning them baby clothes, bottles, and other supplies,” he continued with a nod. “As we hold little Betsy in our daily prayers, let us also remember the young mother who felt so desperate and incapable of raising her child that she abandoned it.”

  All around him, Jude saw folks nodding—although a few, who were hearing about Betsy for the first time, raised their eyebrows in surprise.

  “It also behooves us to talk about this situation with our young people, whether they be your children or your neighbors’ children,” the bishop insisted. For a moment, Jeremiah’s gaze lingered upon his twin nieces before he scanned the rest of the congregation. “While it’s not our purpose here to condemn the English, we must remember that their ways are not our ways—and that their worldliness often leads to temptations and a separation from God that might have caused Betsy’s anonymous mother more problems than we can imagine.”

  Again Jude noted that folks were nodding in agreement, following the bishop’s message with concern etched on their faces. Most families in the Morning Star church district had teenagers or kids in their early twenties. Over the years he’d known of a few girls who’d left town supposedly to care for elderly relatives—and had returned after several months with secrets they weren’t telling. It was sad to think about the babies they’d given up . . . and unfortunate that other girls resorted to urgent courtships with unsuspecting young men who married them only to discover a different sort of secret shortly after the wedding.

  Forgive me, Lord, for dredging up old resentments and for wondering what my life would be like had Frieda not deceived me, Jude thought with a sigh. Remind me what a blessing Frieda’s children have been through the years. Remind me that forgiveness demands more than lip service—that it’s meant to wipe the slate clean and bring a peaceful resolution.

  Jude felt anything but peaceful, however, when he saw Adeline and Alice rolling their eyes at the bishop’s words. Would they comply with Amish ways more willingly if their mother were still alive? It was a useless question, yet Jude had often wondered how much Frieda’s passing had affected their daughters and how much of the twins’ rebellion stemmed from their association with English boys.

  “Young Amish men and women must realize the consequences of sexual relations outside of marriage—the ways a child conceived out of wedlock can disrupt their lives and their families,” Jeremiah continued urgently. “I realize that generations of Amish modesty have often prevented parents from discussing the facts of life with their kids, but perhaps it’s time to rethink our position of silence on this subject. We don’t do our young people—especially our daughters—any favors by leaving them uninformed about sex and conception.”

  Several red-faced women in the room stared at Bishop Jeremiah as though he’d sprouted a second head. The men around Jude were shifting on the benches and glancing doubtfully at each other, too. Although their children often witnessed the mating of the animals on their farms and the births that followed, it was another issue altogether to discuss the specifics of human reproduction. Amish parents tended to let nature take its course, or to speak only in generalizations about proper behavior on dates and during courtship. Jude recalled that Dat had stammered only a few words about what the stallions and bulls were doing—and his mamm had never brought up the subject of sex to her two sons at all.

  “What’s he gonna talk about now? Birth control?” one of the men behind Jude muttered under his breath. “If the bishop gets that progressive, I’m walking out.”

  Jude bit back a smile when he noticed his mother’s flushed, downcast face across the room. His brother seemed to realize he’d pushed the envelope with his sermon, because he clasped his hands in front of him and remained quiet for a few moments.

  “Mostly I’d like us to remind our young people to keep God’s commandments and to honor the Plain ways of peace and patience,” Bishop Jeremiah continued. “If I’ve made any of you uncomfortable, I apologize—but I believe God chose me years ago to be your bishop because He felt I had important things to say about how to keep our Amish lifestyle relevant as the rest of the world spins faster and faster around us. If you have comments or complaints, I’d like to hear them while we’re gathered for our common meal after the service.”

  “Easy for Bishop Jeremiah to say, seeing’s
how he’s got no kids,” Zeke Miller, who sat a couple rows ahead of Jude remarked to the man beside him.

  “Jah, there were just no easy words—no convenient times—to discuss that subject when my youngsters were still at home,” Carl Fisher, seated on Jude’s other side, admitted softly. “The wife’s better at that sort of talk, but as far as I know she only told the girls about female stuff when they came of an age to deal with it.”

  Jude nodded. “I suspect my brother has rubbed a few folks the wrong way, and that he’s going to hear about it.”

  Bishop Jeremiah announced the number of the final hymn, so everyone picked up a hymnal and flipped through its yellowed pages. Carl’s brother Dan sang the first phrase, leading the congregation in a song that Amish believers had sung from the Ausbund for centuries. The words were in German, printed in phrases resembling poems without any musical notation. The tune had been passed down through the generations since the early days of the faith, led by men with an ear for singing the age-old melodies on pitch.

  As they sang slowly, purposefully, through more than twenty verses, Jude’s mind wandered. He realized that this song—like many of their hymns—spoke not only about the necessity of loving God, but also warned against Satan and his wiles, describing the unwavering path a believer must follow to attain everlasting life. It occurred to Jude that the newest of the Ausbund’s hymns dated back to the 1800s, and most of the songs had been written in the 1500s.

  Has God not inspired any new hymn writers for the past six centuries?

  Jude blinked at this distracting thought. He hastily found the verse everyone else was singing and followed it with his finger, keeping his voice low as he sang. His question simmered on the back burner of his mind . . . because he’d also wondered now and again why no new books had been added to the Bible for the past several centuries. Did God have no modern prophets? Had no one since the apostle Paul and the four Gospel writers felt compelled to pen letters or accounts of God’s presence and direction in their lives?