The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  THE

  POSTCARD

  By Beverly Lewis

  SEASONS OF GRACE

  The Secret The Missing

  ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS

  The Covenant The Betrayal The Sacrifice

  The Prodigal The Revelation

  ANNIE’S PEOPLE

  The Preacher’s Daughter The Englisher The Brethren

  THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER

  The Parting The Forbidden The Longing

  THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY

  The Shunning The Confession The Reckoning

  The Postcard The Crossroad

  The Redemption of Sarah Cain

  October Song Sanctuary* The Sunroom

  The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook

  www.beverlylewis.com

  *with David Lewis

  BEVERLY

  LEWIS

  THE

  POSTCARD

  The Postcard

  Copyright©1999

  Beverly Lewis

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Koechel Peterson & Associates

  Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, is a village located in central Lancaster County; however, with the exception of Bishop Jacob J. Hershberger, the characters in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Most Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Other Scripture quotations are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0340-4

  * * *

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:

  Lewis, Beverly.

  The postcard / by Beverly Lewis.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-7642-2224-4

  ISBN 0-7642-2211-2 (pbk.)

  1. Amish—Pennsylvania—Lancaster County Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.E9383 P67 1999

  813'.54—dc21

  99–6378

  CIP

  * * *

  To Dave,

  my beloved helpmate and husband.

  To the memory of my dear aunt,

  Gladys Buchwalter,

  who, along with her co-worker in the Lord,

  Dorothy Brosey,

  led many souls—young and old—

  to Calvary’s Cross.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Prologue: Rachel

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Part Two

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Part Three

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Beverly Lewis, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, fondly recalls her growing-up years. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain family heritage has inspired Beverly to set many of her popular stories in Amish country, beginning with her inaugural novel, The Shunning.

  A former schoolteacher and accomplished pianist, Beverly has written over eighty books for adults and children. Five of her blockbuster novels have received the Gold Book Award for sales over 500,000 copies, and The Brethren won a 2007 Christy Award.

  Beverly and her husband, David, make their home in Colorado, where they enjoy hiking, biking, reading, writing, making music, and spending time with their three grandchildren.

  A cloud, unforeseen, skidded across the ivory moon and darkened his room, if only for a moment. He lit the kerosene lantern and set about rummaging through his bureau drawers, searching for something—anything—on which to write, so eager was he to pen a prompt reply to his beloved’s astonishing letter.

  Amish words poured from his joyous heart as he wrote on the back of a plain white postcard. . . .

  Prologue: Rachel

  It’s all I have to bring today,

  This, and my heart beside,

  This, and my heart, and all the fields,

  And all the meadows wide.

  Emily Dickinson (circa 1858)

  I used to dream of possessing a full measure of confidence. Used to wonder what it would be like to have at least “a speckle of pluck,” as Mamma often said when I was a girl.

  Growing up Plain, I come from a long line of hearty women. Women like my grandmothers and great-grandmothers, who believed in themselves and in working hard, living out the old proverb “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

  Yet, in spite of all that hereditary determination and spunk, I was just the opposite—overly timid and shy. Nearly afraid of my own voice at times. A far cry from the stories told me of my ancestors.

  Elizabeth, my next oldest sister, seemed awful worried about me when, upon my sixteenth birthday, I was too bashful to attend my first singing. Turning sixteen was an important milestone in the Amish community. The wonderful coming of age offered long-awaited privileges, such as socializing with boys, being courted.

  Lizzy was so concerned, she confided in one of Bishop Fisher’s granddaughters, explaining in a whisper so I wouldn’t hear. “Rachel was born shy” came her tender excuse.

  I had overheard, though the reason my sister gave for my perpetual red face didn’t make me feel any much better. ’Least back then it didn’t.

  And it didn’t help that all my life one relative or another felt obliged to point out to me that my name means lamb. “Rachel puts herself out, she does. Never mind that it costs her plenty,” Lavina Troyer had declared at a quilting years ago. So my course was set early on. I began to live up to my father’s distant cousin’s declaration—working hard to keep the house spotless from top to bottom, tending charity gardens as well as my own, eating fresh in the summer months, putting up more than sufficient canned goods for the winter months, and attending work frolics.

  Now that I’ve been married for over six years—a mother of two with another baby on the way—I’ve come out of my shell just a bit, thanks to my husband, Jacob, and his constant encouragement. Still, I wonder what it would take to be truly brave, to develop the kind of admirable traits I see so clearly in my eleven siblings, most of them older.

  As for church, Jacob and I left the strict Old Order behind when we married, joining the ranks of the Amish Mennonites, which broke Mamma’s heart—and she never forgot it! I ’spect she’s still hoping we’ll come to our senses and return someday.

/>   Beachy Amish, that’s what the non-Amish community (“English” folk) call us now—after Moses Beachy, who founded the original group in 1927. Our church does not shun church members who leave and join other Plain groups, and we hold public worship in a common meetinghouse. Often our bishop, Isaac Glick, allows the preachers to read from the newly translated Pennsylvania Dutch version of the New Testament instead of High German, which the young people don’t understand anyhow. We embrace the assurance of salvation, and we use electricity and other modern conveniences like telephones, but a few church members rely on horse-drawn carriages for transportation.

  Still, we dress Plain and hold fast to our Anabaptist lifestyle. Besides my husband, I am most grateful that the Lord has seen fit to give me a confidante in my cousin Esther Glick. Confiding my deepest thoughts to my Pennsylvania turned-Ohio cousin is always a joy. It seems easier to pour out my heart in a letter than face-to-face with any of my sisters. Esther and I had often shared our deepest secrets as youngsters—we go back as far as I can remember. Maybe further. I’ve heard it told that Esther’s mother—Aunt Leah— and my mother experienced the first twinges of labor at the exact hour. So my cousin and I are a faithful reflection of our mothers’ sisterly love.

  Every Friday, without fail, I stop whatever I’m doing and write her a letter.

  Friday, June 17

  Dearest Esther,

  It has been ever so busy here, what with the summer season in full swing. Jacob says we will soon have enough money saved to move to Holmes County.

  Oh, I miss you so! Just think—if we do live neighbors to you, we’ll quilt and can and raise our children together once more!

  Tomorrow’s a busy day at Farmers Market. Jacob has handcrafted lots of fine oak and pine furniture for our market stand. He’s worked especially hard at restocking the little wooden rocking chairs and toy trucks. Lancaster tourists snatch them right up—hardly think twice about opening their pocketbooks. We cater too much to outsiders, I fear. But then, tourism is our main industry these days. Not like it used to be when Lancaster farmland was plenty and not so dear. Things are changing rapidly here.

  Remember the times I hid under the market tables at Roots and the Green Dragon? Remember how Mamma would scold? Every now and then, I look in the mirror and still see a young girl. Running alongside Mill Creek at breakneck speed, through glimmering shadows of willows and maple, I used to pretend I was the wind. Imagine that! I did enjoy my childhood so, growing up here in the country, away from the noise and bedlam of Lancaster.

  Speaking of childhood, I see signs of friskiness in young Aaron. So much like Mamma he is, and only five! Annie, on the other hand, is more like Jacob— agreeable and companionable. My husband laughs when I tell him so, though deep down I ’spect he’s awful pleased.

  As for our next little Yoder, I do believe he or she will be a mighty active one. The way this baby wrestles inside me is a new experience altogether. I daresay the baby is a boy, probably another mischief in the making! Not a single one of my children shows any signs of shyness, like their mamma, and I ’spose I’m glad ’bout that.

  Ach, forgive me for going on so.

  Stopping, I adjusted the waistline of my choring dress, letting my eyes roam over the letter. Jah, I was downright uncomfortable these days. Oughta finish hemming the maternity dress I started yesterday. But first things first . . .

  Jacob’s itching to get his fingers back in the soil. Won’t be long and he’ll have his twenty-sixth birthday. I’m close behind at twenty-four, still young enough to hold on to certain dreams, you know, trusting the Lord to help make them come true. Even though we married young, we’ve worked mighty hard for a chance to buy some land, like you and Levi. We’re both eager for that day—farming’s im blud—in the blood.

  Jacob’s a good provider and a kind and loving husband. We’re good friends, too, which isn’t too often the case among some husbands and wives. (I have you to thank for setting us up. If it hadn’t been for you, I might never have gone to my first singing back when!)

  ’Course, I’d never want to return to my single days— ach! My face was always that befuddled pink. Remember? When I look into Aaron’s bright eyes, I can’t help but see the hope of the future. Such a spirited disposition he has, and I am indeed grateful. When Annie points out the colors of a dewy rose garden at early morning or the changing sky at sunset (she really does have a keen eye for nature at just four)—it makes me stop and count my blessings. So very many!

  Sometimes I think the dear Lord has showered too many wonderful-gut things down on me. But you know my reticent heart, Esther, that I do have much to be thankful for.

  Mam and Dat are finally settled one hundred percent in their new place. Just didn’t seem right, them moving out of the old farmhouse. But they’re happy about the new business—Zooks’ Orchard Guest House B&B—not far off Beechdale Road, on Olde Mill Road. I’m amazed, at their age (Mam’s already sixty-three!), yet they want to do something completely different now that Dat thinks he’s too old to farm. At least the homestead didn’t change hands to strangers. It stayed in the family the way Dat always wanted. My two older brothers and their wives are keeping the place going. The dairy farm, too. I think my parents really do have a ministry to the weary traveler. Offering a retreat in the midst of Amish country is something more of us ought to consider.

  Well, this is getting long, and news is scarce. Please write soon.

  I remain your loving cousin,

  Rachel Yoder

  Ohio and Esther were both on my mind as I folded the letter, then placed the envelope on the buffet at the far end of the kitchen.

  “Time for evening prayers,” Jacob said, looking up from the Budget. He’d spread the weekly Amish newspaper out all over the kitchen table, open to the ads for carpentry tools.

  “I’ll go call the children.” I watched from the back door as Aaron and Annie came running, their hands and faces smudged from digging in the dirt. “Pop’s gonna read the Bible,” I said, hurrying them to the sink to be washed up.

  Jacob took the Bible down from its usual place in the corner cupboard and sat in his grandfather’s old hickory rocker—his favorite chair. “Listen carefully, children,” he said, his face tanned and smiling.

  Aaron and Annie sat cross-legged at their father’s knee. “What Bible story will it be tonight?” asked Aaron. Then, not content to wait for an answer, “Can we hear about David and Goliath again?”

  Jacob grinned and ruffled the boy’s head. “Something friedlich—peaceable—will do.”

  I pulled up a chair next to Jacob, grateful for our special time together. But the house was so warm, nearly too hot and humid to expect our little ones to sit still. Both the back and front doors stood wide open, the screen doors allowing circulation through the house, yet keeping out flies and other pesky insects. There had been an abundance of mosquitoes, my least favorite of the summer pests.

  We listened as Jacob read from Psalm 128—a hymn of celebration, possibly sung by King David himself. Yet I found my thoughts drifting off to the move to Ohio. Probably wouldn’t happen till the dead of winter. Still, the realization of our dream was fast approaching.

  Jacob’s soothing voice brought me out of my reverie. “ ‘The Lord shall bless thee out of Zion: and thou shalt see the good of Jerusalem all the days of thy life.’ ” He paused, his eyes bright with affection as he looked over the heads of the children . . . at me. I felt a little giddy as our eyes met and locked.

  Dearest Jacob, I thought, smiling back at him.

  He began to read again. “ ‘Thou shalt see thy children’s children, and peace upon Israel.’ ”

  I was delighted with the Scripture Jacob had chosen for this summer night. This balmy evening, brimful of peace and contentment, before the chaos and stress of market day. . . .

  Once Aaron and Annie were safely tucked into bed, I scurried down the hall to Jacob’s waiting arms. I recalled the words of the psalm, still clear in my memory. Thou shalt
see thy children’s children. . . .

  Sighing, I smiled into the darkness. Ohio was just around the corner. At long last, we would see the desire of our hearts. The Lord willing, we would.

  We talked into the wee hours, yet it seemed the night was young. “We have much to look forward to,” Jacob whispered. I felt a twinge of confidence. “A new beginning, ain’t so?”

  He gave a chuckle, and we sealed our love with a tender kiss before settling down to sleep.

  There was no way I could’ve known then, but that night—that precious, sweet night—was to be our very last. Nor could I have foreseen that my sensitive, shy nature—a persistent hound throughout my life—would change my course and, in due time, plunge me into darkness and despair.

  Part One

  The best mirror is an old friend.

  German proverb

  One

  Something as insignificant as sleeping past the alarm— getting a late start—always set things spinning out of kilter.

  The hurrier I go, the behinder I get, Rachel thought, feeling awful frustrated about having to rush around. Quickly, she washed her face, glancing in the oval mirror above the sink. That done, she brushed her longer-than-waist-length hair, parting it down the middle and working it into the plain, low bun at the back of her neck, the way she arranged it each and every morning.

  She had lived all her life in rural Bird-in-Hand, in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country. Her parents and siblings had found great fulfillment in working the land, all of them. But, as was their custom, only the youngest married brothers had been given acreage, divvying up sections of the original family farm. There was only so much soil to go around, what with commercialism creeping in, choking out precious land—the very reason Levi and Esther Glick had packed up and bid farewell to their close-knit families. All for the sake of owning a parcel of their own.