“I just thought—”
“I tried, Mamm; I truly did.”
Her mother looked sad.
“All I ever wanted in life was to be a sweet wife and mother.” Rose’s lip quivered.
“Oh, honey-girl, I know . . . I know.” Mamm opened her arms and Rose knelt at her mother’s knee and wept.
Rose bumped into Nick two weeks later, as he was coming out of her father’s woodshop. He smiled but kept walking, and for the life of her, she wanted to call to him . . . tell him she and Isaac were no longer seeing each other. But that was presumptuous. And anyway, by now surely he knew of her singleness—there wasn’t much the grapevine missed when it came to courtship, even though the People tried to keep serious relationships mum.
Rose stood near the door and watched Nick head toward the shortcut to the bishop’s land. Our path, she thought.
So much had altered in the past year. It was still remarkable to think that Nick had decided to take Bishop Aaron’s family name as his own. This was all the talk, especially amongst the older folk. Nick Petersheim, indeed.
Rose poked her head in the woodshop door. “Anything I can get ya, Dat?”
“Not that I can think of.” His face was dusted with wood particles, like a pan floured for baking.
“I’ll be spending the day with Hen and Mattie Sue. Hen could use some help.” Her sister was coming up on her delivery date and moved rather slow these days.
“Sounds like a fine idea,” he said, “but I’ll be needing the family carriage.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she replied quickly. “It’s a gut day for walkin’.”
“Have yourself a nice time,” he said. “Is Sylvia with your mother?”
“Barbara’s over visiting,” Rose said.
“Des gut.” Looking up from his work, Dat frowned as if there was more on his mind. “Say, Rosie, remember that old market tin you told me about some time ago? Ever think of surprisin’ your mother and bringing it home?”
Rose had thought of the tin plenty of times but hadn’t bothered to go to the ravine. “Would ya want me to get it?”
He smiled. “Just sometime.”
“All right, then. I’ll try an’ find it again.” She gave a little wave and left for Hen’s.
The morning was fair, slightly warmer than a typical late October day. They’d had snow flurries yesterday, and the bright-colored leaves were nearly gone. Rose told Mattie Sue that a gray sky meant snow, and Mattie Sue clapped her hands with glee.
They made grilled cheese sandwiches to surprise Hen, who admitted she was quite uncomfortable. Mattie Sue said her mommy liked homemade tomato soup, and there was “a big batch of it” in the freezer. So Rose heated the soup to piping hot and sprinkled Parmesan cheese on top before serving it with dill pickles and cottage cheese.
After the noon meal, Rose encouraged her sister to lie down and rest while she took Mattie Sue out for a brisk walk.
“When do kids get to go to Amish weddings?” Mattie Sue wanted to know as they walked.
“If you’re Amish, you go when you’re courting age—at sixteen.”
Mattie Sue seemed to think on that. “That’s a long time away. Do you think Mammi Emma will be better by then?” she asked, gripping Rose’s hand.
“The doctors don’t think she’ll ever walk again, if that’s what ya mean, but she sure feels better than she used to.”
Mattie Sue nodded, then pointed to an abandoned hornet’s nest high in a tree along the road. “Lookee there!” she called. “Nobody’s home anymore.”
Rose had to smile. “They’ve all flown away.”
“Where to?”
“The queen hibernates through the winter.”
“Oh.” Mattie kept pointing out things all around her, asking questions. Then she was quiet for a time, her short legs working hard to keep up with Rose’s pace.
“You’ll soon have a little baby in the house,” Rose told her.
“Mommy says it’s a boy. Do you think she knows?”
“Sometimes mothers do, I guess.”
“Guess what else, Aendi Rosie.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“I’m putting my Amish dresses away.”
“You are?” This was a surprise.
“I don’t want my baby brother to get mixed up. He might think he’s in the wrong house.”
Rose chuckled. “Do ya honestly think so?”
Mattie Sue squeezed her hand. “He’ll peep open his eyes and see me.” She paused a second. “He might think he should be Amish, too.”
“I see.”
“Today’s my last day to dress like you.”
“Have ya told Mommy?”
“Not yet.”
Rose leaned over and kissed Mattie’s Sue cheek. “I’m glad you’re my niece, honey-girl,” she said, thinking how much fun it was to see Mattie Sue growing up and hearing her express herself so wonderfully. Such a sweetheart.
They turned toward home, the skies beginning to powder them with snow. Rose was glad for the scarves beneath their coats and reached into her pockets for a set of mittens for each of them. “Let’s go home and make hot cocoa, jah?”
Mattie Sue raised her head and grinned up. “With marshmallows on top?”
“Abselutt—absolutely!”
The flurries had ceased by the time Rose was ready to head home. Hen offered to drive her the short distance, but Rose refused, urging her to keep warm at home. A black-and-white tabby cat and her three matching kittens scampered across Hen’s front lawn as Rose headed out toward Salem Road.
The sky had cleared some in the west and the air was very still. She let her mind wander back to the many times she and Hen had walked this road as youngsters . . . and the times she had ridden here with Nick. Good days.
A fox crossed the road in the distance and a flock of geese flew in a V-shape toward the south. Winter’s coming fast, she thought, recalling Mattie Sue’s excitement about attending the Christmas play again—this time with her entire family. Soon they would be ice-skating on the deacon’s pond and taking sleigh rides, too.
And caroling. Even though Rose was single, she wanted to go caroling this Christmas. She didn’t fit in with the young couples going door to door, but she could take Mattie Sue . . . and maybe Beth Browning, too. It would be fun to have them over to bake and decorate cookies. Maybe the school-age Petersheim grandchildren would join them, too.
Dreaming up all sorts of interesting things to enjoy with the people in her life, Rose thought again of Hen’s coming baby. How wonderful it would be to hold a newborn infant. Oh, and such a dear thing for Mamm, and Rose’s widowed grandmother.
Ever so healing, Rose thought, making the turn onto the narrow road that led home.
In the distance, Rose spied the location where she’d often met Silas and Isaac in their respective buggies, a good stretch away from her father’s lane. She was glad now that neither of them had lip-kissed her. Mamm had sweetly suggested some years ago that she and Hen save their kisses for the man they knew they’d marry. “Not many do anymore,” Mamm had said.
Clouds brewed in the north and covered the sun as Rose approached the all-too-familiar spot.
Nick met me here, too, sometimes . . . with Pepper.
But she wouldn’t allow herself to ponder Nick. The fact he was single was no business of hers. It seemed they’d kept missing each other. Some things just weren’t meant to be.
She’d given her life and her future to God, so why should she fret now?
After breakfast the next morning, while Mamm and two of her sisters did piecework for a quilt, Rose slipped away with her horse and retrieved the tin money box from behind the boulder in the ravine. No sense in letting it lie there another long winter.
She returned George to his stall and carried the tin carefully to the house. Inside, she gave it to Mamm, who smiled upon seeing it. “This old tin has been in the family a long time.” Rose’s aunts nodded in agreement. Mamm didn’t ask how R
ose found it, which was a relief, since her aunts were all ears.
Mamm pried it open and peered inside. “Well, what’s this?” She held up a folded piece of paper.
Rose frowned.
“Goodness me.” Mamm gave it to her. “It’s for you, Rosie.”
What? Had the letter she’d written to Nick somehow reappeared?
But no—her name was written on one side: To Rosie. In Nick’s handwriting.
“Excuse me,” she told them, her face growing warm. She slipped out the back door again and made a beeline to the hayloft for privacy, self-conscious at having her aunts and Mamm make such a discovery.
Quickly, she climbed the ladder and went to sit in the far corner, very near the spot where she’d cried after declining Isaac’s marriage proposal. She cautiously unfolded the paper and began to read, her heart in her throat.
Dear Rosie,
I hope you find this note soon.
It may sound strange, but I don’t want to be friends anymore.
Let’s talk about it, jah?
Nick
She stared at the words. “What on earth?”
Is this a joke? He doesn’t want to be friends?
Getting up, she hurried to the hay hole and slid down. She dashed to the woodshop. There, she waited for her father to turn off the generator-run air compressor powering his woodworking tools. “Dat, why’d ya ask me to retrieve the tin box?”
He shrugged, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable.
“There was a note inside . . . for me.”
“Well.” A smile creased his mouth. “You’d better ask Nick Petersheim ’bout that, don’t ya think?”
Then Rose began to laugh. She knew Nick better than anyone, and he knew her. She understood—Nick surely meant to say he didn’t want to be just friends. Rose ran to her father and hugged him, getting wood shavings all over her dark dress.
“Nick’s a worthy fella, Rose Ann,” Dat said and motioned toward the door. “Better go an’ talk to him.”
Her heart swelled. “Oh, Dat! Denki ever so much.”
Rose found Nick on the shaded path that linked the farms, walking this way. He stopped suddenly when he saw her. “You went somewhere with George,” he said, smiling. “To the scary ravine, maybe?”
“Jah, and I got your note,” she said.
“What note?”
She laughed as his eyes sparkled with mischief. The best part of the old Nick was still alive and well. “You don’t have to write me notes. We can talk anytime, ya know?”
His eyes were fixed on hers. “Oh, Rosie . . . I love you.”
Her throat closed up at his words.
“And . . . I’ve never stopped,” he said, moving closer.
Her heart opened wide to what Nick had always meant to her. And try as she might to prevent them, tears sprang to her eyes. “I love you, too.”
He reached for her gently. “Come here, my Rosie-girl.”
She let him hold her, drawing comfort from his strength for all the lonely days, the sorrow-filled nights. She remembered the scruffy little English boy who had looked so forlorn that first day in the bishop’s kitchen.
God must’ve planned this from the start.
She moved back slightly, looking into his eyes. “So you don’t want to be friends anymore, jah?”
Nick smiled and drew her near again to kiss her hair, her cheek . . . every fiber of her alive at his touch. “Will you marry me, Rosie, and be my love?”
An autumn breeze rippled the last leaves overhead. “I will,” she said. “With all of my heart, I surely will.”
Nick’s gaze lingered over her eyes, her lips . . . and then he was kissing her—his lips on hers. She didn’t hesitate, surrendering to his enthusiastic embrace. Oh, the incredible delight! Wrapped in his arms, Rose felt the old yearning. “Mrs. Nick Petersheim,” she whispered.
He laughed joyfully as he cupped her face in his hands, his cheek against hers. And then he kissed her again, more times than he ought. His affection was like honey, and Rose was glad she’d saved her kisses for him alone.
Only God could have imagined this moment!
The sky lowered around them, and it started to snow.
“Look, Rosie,” he said as the enormous flakes fell like a sacred canopy. “The Lord’s in agreement, too!”
“I believe He knew . . . all along.” Snug in Nick’s arms, Rose smiled up at her handsome husband-to-be, amazed at what wondrous things a single day could bring.
October 1987
The treed pathway is covered again with leaves of yellow, orange, and shades of red. The path is a beautiful reminder of Nick’s and my journey of love, and of his return to God and the People. Each time I take the shortcut between Dat’s land and the bishop’s, I’m ever thankful for divine mercy and grace.
Nick’s baptism was certainly evidence of that. So often I think back to that inspiring day when my dearest friend, now my husband, said yes to Christ and His Gemeinde—the local community. A whole new spiritual world opened up inside his heart on that special Sunday, preparing Nick for possible ministry amongst the People. I secretly wonder if the Lord was showing him that someday he might serve as a deacon or preacher. If nothing else, Nick will continue to extend compassion to those in need, just as he did when he helped Mrs. Schaeffer at the homeless shelter where his mother spent her final days. Showing God’s grace to others is one of our callings as husband and wife.
It has been heartening to see how warmly Bishop Aaron was received back into the esteem of the ministerial brethren after his silencing was lifted. Prior to our sunny wedding day in late November last year, my father-in-law asked Nick to go into partnership with him to farm the land. So we’ve been living in the large Petersheim farmhouse, and the bishop and Barbara moved to the Dawdi Haus. According to Barbara, who is truly my second mother, they enjoy having a son and daughter-in-law running things and living on the premises. Barbara and I have become ever closer this past year, although she still can’t succeed in getting me to indulge in every single chocolate dessert or pineapple upside-down cake she loves to bake!
My parents, on the other hand, still reside where they’ve always lived. Mammi Sylvia moved to the Dawdi Haus where Brandon and Hen stayed . . . and Dat’s eldest sister will live in the smaller house, come spring.
Ah, spring, that green and glorious season of new life! Like our dear friends Silas and Rebekah, Nick’s and my first child will be a springtime baby. Nick is so anxious to hold our tiny babe in his strong arms. He says he can’t wait to take him—or her—on a pony ride, or to show our little one how to make leafy sailboats, just like we did, growing up here on Salem Road.
Hen and Brandon’s towheaded son, Andrew Solomon—named in part for Dat—is almost a year old and has an appetite “like a horse,” or so Mattie Sue says with a giggle. She relishes her role as big sister. All of us were invited to attend Andrew’s dedication at the little country church where Hen is content to worship with Brandon. Mattie Sue was also included in this lovely day, having never been dedicated to God as an infant. The four of them come to visit us often, and it’s remarkable to see Brandon’s keen enthusiasm for the bishop’s companionship . . . the way he interacts with the man of God. Both he and Nick have embraced the call of the believer and are living accordingly. Ach, I’ve never seen Hen happier, which makes me smile, just as I do when I catch a wink from my darling husband.
It is a joy for Nick and me to live together in accordance with God’s sovereign will. Patience plays an enormous part in perseverance as we wait and trust for what is to come—what God has in store for those who worship Him.
Take yesterday, when Dat, Mammi Sylvia, and I were having coffee with Mamm. Mamm’s eyes grew wide all of a sudden, and her eyebrows shot straight up. “Ach, I just felt some tingling in my legs!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright with tears.
It made me want to cry for joy.
Dat leaned over and kissed her cheek in front of us. “Well, glory be!” he sai
d. Then Dat charged out the back door, running across the field to the phone shanty, where he reported the good news to her doctor. Who knows what might lie ahead?
It’s also a joy to think of how life has improved for the Brownings in the past year. Gilbert Browning married his longtime friend, Jane Keene, last Christmas. Beth was the maid of honor and delights in her father’s choice of a bride—an understanding and loving stepmother. The timing worked out nicely, because, as is our way, I’d stopped working there when I married Nick. I still keep in touch with Beth, of course, who will always be precious to me. How can we ever forget the blessed role she played in Mamm’s life?
Every day, Nick and I are overjoyed at the divine providence we witness around us. We marvel when we rise at dawn, when we eat, when we labor, and when we lie down to rest. Just as Dat and Bishop Aaron have always said—their life’s theme—God is truly at work in all of our lives.
Oh, we can hardly wait to pass this precious truth on to our firstborn child . . . and to all of our Kinner yet to come, Lord willing.
From my earliest days in Lancaster County, I have been intrigued by Amish tradition. The People themselves, their sense of tranquility, self-sufficiency, devotion to God, family, and community—and their remarkable work ethic—continue to draw and inspire me.
As for my research, I am gratefully indebted to my astute assistants and consultants, and to my husband, David Lewis, who enjoys brainstorming my story lines, and who reads my chapters hot off the proverbial press.
My great appreciation goes out to my editorial team—David Horton, Julie Klassen, Rochelle Glöege, and also Ann Parrish and Helen Motter—for their skilled and tireless efforts. To the many wonderful people who are involved in publishing my books, thank you!
In addition, I wish to acknowledge the lingering effect the old English classics have had on my writing muse, especially in regard to The Rose Trilogy.
Also noteworthy is the Amish table blessing referred to in chapter five of this book. It was taken directly from my book Amish Prayers, a newly translated collection of some of the treasured prayers offered by devout Anabaptists for the past three hundred years, now available for contemporary readers’ enjoyment and inspiration.
The Mercy Page 24