by Sarah Price
For the last time, the younger children began to sing another song.
Far from the east came the wise men of old
With myrrh and frankincense and treasures of gold
Led by a star they had come all the way
To worship the Christ child asleep on the hay
Just think! In a manger this Christ child was born
And that was our first glad Christmas morn.
The families seated before the children began to applaud, and as Grace looked around her, she saw the beaming faces of many parents. Of course, when she glanced at Lizzie, she noticed the distinct look of pride on her friend’s face. Grace smiled to herself and returned her attention to the teacher at the front of the classroom.
Catharine waited until the room was silent again before she stepped in front of her students. Once again, she scanned the room before she began talking. When her eyes caught sight of Grace, Catharine paused.
“While the children worked very hard on practicing their recitation and singing, there was another project they worked on,” she said, her eyes still on Grace. “A project to truly bring a little joy to the world, or, in this case, to one person in particular.”
A murmur of curiosity filled the room, and Grace felt the heat flush her cheeks as the rest of the audience began to look at her. Immediately Grace suspected she knew where this was leading. While she didn’t like being the center of attention, she was pleased that finally she might know the answer to the recent mystery of those secret sister gifts.
One of the smaller boys nudged the little girls next to him and they quietly slipped away. No one spoke as they returned carrying a plain brown wrapped package. Standing before Grace, they handed it to her.
“Oh my,” Grace gasped. “What is this?”
Catharine nodded her head and indicated that Grace should remove the wrapping.
With her cheeks still flushed from too much attention and too embarrassed to speak up, Grace did as she was instructed. No one seemed to mind that she had been singled out from the rest of the church district.
Inside the paper was a plain black three-ring binder. She looked at the binder and then looked at Catharine who, once again, smiled and nodded.
Carefully, for she didn’t know what was inside the notebook, she flipped the cover and saw plastic sleeves inside, each filled with two pieces of paper back-to-back. “Oh, help,” she muttered as she turned one page after another. Each paper had a Bible verse written on it with a note of encouragement for Grace during her time of mourning. She could hardly believe what she had been given by these wonderful children.
“The children wanted to do something special for Grace Beiler,” Catharine explained. “They created a book of scripture verses and letters to help Grace during her first holiday without Bishop Beiler.”
There were nods and murmurs of approval from the parents seated on the benches. It was important for children not only to respect but also to care for the elderly in their community. Their efforts to cheer up Grace during a difficult season were truly appreciated by everyone in the room and were a wonderful gift to give to a member of their church district.
Grace glanced at Lizzie and then handed her the black notebook so that she could peek through the pages before passing it farther down the bench. Each of the mothers would certainly want to see such a special and thoughtful gift, especially since their children had taken part in this project.
“Why, I . . . I don’t right know what to say,” Grace stammered. “I thank you children. Your gift will be treasured during the holidays and throughout the year, indeed!”
The children kept smiling, pleased with Grace’s reaction as well as the looks of praise from their parents. The book was making its way around the gathering as the children returned their attention to Catharine, waiting for her to guide them through the last part of the program.
“Now, before we close this program,” Catharine said, “we’ve had a special request to sing one last song, a very specific and secret request.” Again Catharine glanced in Grace’s direction when she said this. “We invite all of you to sing along with us.”
As the children began to sing, a chill went through Grace’s body. Memories of past holiday seasons flashed through her memory, and each one contained this song. She could barely open her mouth to form the words, although she knew them by heart. It was, without doubt, her favorite holiday song.
Silent night! Holy night!
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night! Holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing: Alleluia
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.
Beside her, she heard Lizzie sigh as the program came to an end. It was the sound of elation, a grandparent proud of a job well done. When Grace didn’t respond, Lizzie tapped her lightly on the knee and leaned over so that her words could be heard over the din of everyone talking at once. “Takes my Catharine to do something so special and thoughtful,” she said into Grace’s ear, almost as touched as Grace by this beautiful gesture. “How clever to integrate the scriptures with verses from different songs, ja?”
Grace couldn’t respond. While her eyes started to fill with tears, her mind was racing with different thoughts, so she merely acknowledged Lizzie’s words by nodding her head. But she wasn’t really paying attention to Lizzie; her mind was elsewhere. She searched her memory to early August when Catharine Yoder was sitting on the sofa, visiting with Menno when she had returned from shopping with Hannah Esh. The seeds of suspicion were planted, and Grace needed to see if there were any roots to them.
The black notebook made its way back to her hands, several people pausing to tell her what a special gift the children had made for her. Graciously, Grace acknowledged their words and commented that she wasn’t certain why the children had singled her out for such a memorable gift. It was but her attempt at modesty so that people wouldn’t think she had experienced any feelings of pride over receiving the gift.
With the notebook in one hand and her little bag of gifts in the other, Grace maneuvered through the other parents as she headed toward Catharine. It took a few minutes for Grace to have her turn to speak to the teacher. She waited patiently, knowing that the parents wanted their time to express their gratitude for a program that was different, interesting, and very well done. Grace, however, had something else on her mind that she wanted to discuss with Catharine.
Finally, her turn came.
“Grace!” Catharine exclaimed, a broad smile on her face. “I hope you will enjoy reading all of those letters from the children. They were quite excited about the project.”
“Oh ja,” Grace said, nodding her head. “It’s a lovely gift.”
Catharine tilted her head, still smiling as if waiting for Grace to continue speaking.
“I . . . I made some little gifts for the students,” Grace finally said, handing over the bag containing the crocheted bookmarks. “I thought they might like them.”
“Why, that was right gut of you to think of them!” She accepted the bag and took a quick peek inside. “Oh my! How thoughtful!” She gave a little laugh and looked back at Grace, her dark eyes staring directly into Grace’s gray ones. “My grossmammi used to make them all the time. Not Mammi Lizzie but Mammi Anna,” she added, clarifying which grandmother she referenced. “She’s passed now, but I still have all her crocheted bookmarks.”
“Ja, vell. . . ” Grace started and paused, uncertain how to proc
eed. It wasn’t usual to confront someone about being a secret sister. But there were too many signs pointing toward Catharine Yoder, especially after Grace received such an unusual gift and the children had sung her favorite Christmas carol. And there was still one more clue that pointed toward the young teacher. “I did have a question, Catharine, that mayhaps you might be able to answer.”
Something flickered in Catharine’s eyes, but she continued smiling. “If I have an answer . . . ,” she responded, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“Back in August,” Grace said, lowering her voice so others couldn’t hear. “I came home and saw you visiting with my Menno.”
“Oh ja!” Another soft laugh. “Such a wunderbarr gut man and such a strong faith! We had a lovely visit.”
Uncertain how to proceed and actually formulate the question that lingered on the tip of her tongue, Grace finally took a deep breath and just blurted it out. “I’m wondering if there is a coincidence between that visit and this gift.”
Catharine pursed her lips. “Why, no. Not at all.”
“Then you aren’t . . . ” Her voice trailed off again. She felt foolish for even asking the question. After all, the entire point of a secret sister was to remain secret.
“Aren’t what, Grace?”
The hope that she had finally found the person, the one person who had secretly been pushing her along, guiding her through the holiday season, suddenly vanished. “I’m awful sorry, Catharine,” Grace apologized. “It’s really not my place to ask, but I had so hoped that I had found my secret sister. I just have so many questions to ask her.”
An expression of understanding and empathy covered the young woman’s face. “I’m sorry, Grace,” she said, giving her head a slight shake to emphasize the point. “It’s not me.”
Feeling disappointed, Grace forced a smile. “Ja, vell, I’m not supposed to know anyway, ain’t so?”
“Mayhaps you’ll find out,” Catharine replied, her eyes sparkling once again. “You might be surprised after all.” And then her attention was turned to a waiting parent who wanted to tell her what a fine job she had done in creating this year’s school program.
Clutching the notebook to her chest, Grace wandered through the thinning crowd. For the first time she truly thought she knew the identity of her secret sister. While she knew that anonymity was an unspoken rule to the secret sister game, the small gifts and verses and songs had been so personal that Grace just felt she needed to know the truth.
The light pressure from a hand on her shoulder startled her out of her thoughts. She looked up to see Hannah standing beside her. “You ready, then?” Hannah asked. James had already gone outside to untie the horse and waited for them to join him so that he could bring Grace home before her company arrived.
Her company! When she remembered that Ivan and his family would be arriving soon, she hurried her way outside, Hannah practically having to jog in order to keep up with her.
The ten-minute ride back to her house seemed to take an eternity. She couldn’t wait to pore over the letters from the children, to share the love and caring of her community with her son. Maybe then, she thought, their relationship might change into one that was warmer and more compassionate. If only he knew that others cared and held her in such high esteem, maybe he would finally forgive her for that night twenty years ago, when Susan had walked out, James was killed, and she had done nothing to prevent either occurrence from happening.
The guilt lay so heavy on her shoulders all of these years! What if she had not supported Menno? What if she had gone after Susan? And more recently, what if she had supported Ivan’s decision to reach out to Susan? What if she had clasped her daughter in her arms, welcoming her home? What if she had refused to move away? But every time she questioned why she hadn’t done those things, she reminded herself of her vow to Menno, to love and obey him as long as they both should live. But now . . . now that Menno was gone, could she make her own decisions about Ivan and Susan? And if she did, what should those decisions be?
Back at her house, she hurried to light a few candles and the kerosene lanterns, which she had polished and refilled earlier that day. The soft glow made the room feel warmer and cozier. She took a look around to ensure that everything was in its right place and the house looked tidy.
During the five years that she and Menno had lived here, her children had visited only a handful of times. On the few occasions when Menno arranged to visit Linda, they hired a driver. But the cool reception at Linda’s had not encouraged them to plan many more visits. While Grace longed for a relationship with her oldest daughter, she felt an invisible wall between them, and she didn’t even begin to know how to breach it.
When she heard the rhythmic sound of a horse and buggy approaching, she could hardly breathe in anticipation. Unlike other buggies that passed by her house, this one pulled into the driveway. Nervously, Grace paced a few steps and then smoothed down her apron. She had just changed it after finishing the meal preparation so that she wore one that was freshly laundered and ironed.
The door opened and Grace pressed her lips together, willing herself not to become emotional as Ivan stepped through the doorway.
To her surprise, he was alone.
“Maem,” he said. Just one word softly spoken, and she suddenly didn’t care that he had come alone.
“Oh, Ivan,” she whispered, unable to stop a tear from trickling down her cheek. “It’s so gut to see you here.”
There was an awkward moment of silence as he stood there, his eyes glancing at the table that was set for his family.
“I felt it best that I come alone, Maem,” he finally said. “Verna has a cold anyway and Jane’s feeling poorly.”
Verna. The last grandchild Grace had held in her arms. And now she was already five years old.
“How . . . how are the kinner?” she asked. The question sounded so ordinary: a grandmother asking about her grandchildren. But they felt so far away, almost strangers now after five years of living apart and only occasional visits.
“Gut,” he answered. “They’re gut.”
She’d only seen them most recently at the funeral. During the first month after Menno’s death, Ivan had stopped by twice to check on her, Linda only once. There hadn’t been a lot of dialogue then, Grace still being in shock and neither of her children having much to say.
“I was glad to get your letter, Ivan. It was most unexpected and greatly appreciated.”
He lifted an eyebrow and stared at her. “You know why I’m here, ja?”
A moment of panic coursed through her veins. There was a reason? A reason that she should know? All along, she had thought his visit was just to reconnect. Now he was telling her that there was a specific reason?
When she didn’t answer, Ivan removed his hat and wiped at his forehead. Despite the cold weather, he was sweating. Is he nervous? she wondered.
“Mayhaps we best sit down, Maem.”
Obediently, she walked toward the sitting room and sat down in her recliner. Her palms grew sweaty and she felt as if her heart would jump right out of her chest. What on earth was he going to tell her? She didn’t think she could handle any bad news.
“I received a letter,” Ivan said slowly, reaching into his coat pocket. He withdrew an envelope and held it between his two hands. The envelope was crinkled, as if it had been handled frequently, either by the sender or by Ivan, Grace couldn’t tell. But when he turned it around, slowly and with his eyes watching her expression, she saw something right away that caused her to gasp. She pressed her hand against her chest with one hand and reached out for the envelope with the other.
“That’s your daed’s handwriting,” she exclaimed, lifting her eyes to look at Ivan. “How long ago did you receive this?”
She expected to hear Ivan tell her that the letter was old, perhaps several years, for he certainly could not have written so clearly after his stroke. So when he responded, “Last month,” she felt as if all of the air escaped f
rom her lungs.
“Last month?” The idea was inconceivable. He had died in August!
But Ivan nodded his head. “Last month, Maem. Oh, he wrote it long ago. It’s dated 2013. But the postmark is from November of this year.”
“Oh, help.” She sank back in the recliner. A letter from the grave. That’s what she held in her hand. A message from her Menno, written when he was healthy and able, but sent months after his death. “And what, if I may ask, does the letter say, Ivan?”
Ivan took a deep breath and leaned forward. Hesitantly, he reached out for her hand and held it between both of his. The feeling of warm skin against hers startled her. When was the last time anyone had done such a thing? And to have her son, of all people, extend such a gesture? Her head began to swoon as if she were dreaming.
“Maem,” Ivan said, staring her straight in the eyes. “It’s time for you to come home.”
Words evaded her. She merely concentrated on breathing. In, out, in, out.
“What happened twenty years ago may have been God’s will,” Ivan said, speaking in a deliberately slow manner as if he had practiced this speech numerous times before now. “This letter from Daed asked for my forgiveness, Maem. And he asked me to come to you. To bring you home.” He looked around the small sitting room, taking in the shelf of books and the windowsill with plants. “This is your house, Maem, but it will never be your home. You need to be with family. It was Daed’s last wish, and I choose to forgive him.”
She still could not speak, but merely sat there in stunned silence.
“I’ve even prayed for forgiveness for my role in the matter.” Ivan released her hand and sank back into the sofa. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I reckon I was just angry about James. And then when Susan came back, she needed help, and I couldn’t imagine a father turning his back on his own dochder.” He went on. “Verna! Look at Verna. She needs our help on a daily basis. Could I deny her that?”