The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  ‘‘There’s no need to apologize.’’

  ‘‘Oh, but there is .’’ Susie sniffled, then—‘‘Your sister—Ivy— would’ve been appalled at my behavior. I’m sorry, Sarah.’’

  Unaccustomed to entertaining expressions of regret, Sarah scarcely knew what to say.

  ‘‘I heard you’re comin’ to Miriam’s for another frolic . . .

  Thursday.’’

  ‘‘That’s right.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we can sit together at the quiltin’ frame, you and I.’’

  Susie did not make eye contact with her this time. She sat quietly now, sipping her coffee.

  ‘‘I’d like that’’ was all Sarah said.

  Sarah went around to each of the children’s bedrooms—even to Caleb’s and Josiah’s—tucking them in for the night. As she moved from room to room, she realized this was the first time she had done such a thing since her arrival.

  Hannah leaned up and kissed her cheek unexpectedly. ‘‘Well, aren’t you the quick one?’’ she said, hugging the little girl.

  ‘‘Mamma always kissed and hugged us.’’

  ‘‘And she told us how the Lord God heavenly Father loves us and sends His angels to watch over us while we sleep,’’ volunteered Anna Mae.

  ‘‘I think your mother must have loved you very much,’’ she replied.

  Anna Mae leaned up on her elbow, propping her head up. ‘‘You didn’t know her too awful gut, didja, Aunt Sarah?’’

  She pondered the question, wondering, Did I ever know Ivy at all?

  Hannah spoke up, her tiny face pensive. ‘‘You’re sisters, ain’t so?’’

  Sisters . . .

  Uncertain about her response, she said, ‘‘Your mother and I were never close the way you and Anna Mae are . . . not sisters who are also friends.’’

  ‘‘Well, why not ?’’ Hannah pressed, sitting up.

  ‘‘We just weren’t,’’ Sarah answered softly. ‘‘I really don’t know why.’’

  Anna Mae’s comment was even more thought-provoking.

  ‘‘Maybe Mamma wanted you to know who she was . . . by knowin’ us .’’

  The sting of tears prompted Sarah to get up quickly and turn off the light. ‘‘Maybe so,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Good night, girls.

  Sleep well.’’

  ‘‘God be with you, Aunt Sarah,’’ they said in unison.

  In some inexplicable way, Hannah’s and Anna Mae’s words seemed to belong to the moment, so much a part of this night that her sudden feeling of aloneness might have been the very invitation God had been waiting for.

  Embrace the solitude . . . so God can speak to you .

  She did not linger long enough in her stark solitude to hear a divine voice, however. Closing the door gently, Sarah slipped quietly down the hall to Ivy’s former bedroom. She had an important phone call to make.

  ‘‘Are we still on for tomorrow?’’ she asked when Bryan answered. ‘‘Sarah . . . hi! You must be feeling better.’’

  ‘‘Much better, thanks.’’

  ‘‘Great. So where should we meet?’’

  ‘‘How does right here sound? I want to show you around the farm.’’

  ‘‘Where exactly is this place?’’

  ‘‘Nestled deep in the heart of Lancaster County, on the outskirts of Strasburg.’’ She gave him directions to the Cottrell farmhouse.

  ‘‘When’s a good time for you?’’

  ‘‘How would you like a hearty home-cooked breakfast?’’

  He laughed softly. ‘‘You’re feeding me a line, right?’’

  ‘‘No . . . I’ll feed you cholesterol. Bacon-flavored.’’

  Their mutual laughter melted some of the cold hesitancy that had resided in the back of her heart since their college breakup. She could hardly wait to see him again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The fact that today was February 2, Groundhog’s Day, struck Sarah rather humorously as she dressed for the day. She took time to brush her hair more thoroughly than she had in the past few days, hoping to put a shine in it, while the children milked the cows.

  Bacon and eggs were planned for breakfast, just as she had envisioned, although she assisted Lydia and Anna Mae in making an extra large batch. Lydia never questioned her as to why so much food, but during cleanup Sarah mentioned, in passing, that ‘‘an old friend’’ was stopping by for breakfast.

  ‘‘Who’s coming?’’ Josiah asked, offering a quizzical look.

  ‘‘A man from Boston,’’ she felt comfortable saying.

  ‘‘Have a gut time,’’ Lydia said, then she left to meet the car that was driving into the lane—one of their non-Amish raw milk customers.

  Sarah watched through the kitchen window, marveling at Lydia’s ceaseless energy. The young woman kept up so efficiently with everything. She gets her dash from the Cain side of the family , she decided.

  Wouldn’t be long, by Amish standards, that Lydia would manage her own household just as efficiently. Ivy had trained her oldest daughter well.

  Turning from the window, Sarah helped Hannah out the door. She cautioned Josiah not to leave his lunch on the kitchen counter again. ‘‘You’ll definitely need this along about noontime,’’ she said, handing over the gray metal box.

  ‘‘Denki, Aunt Sarah.’’ He surprised her by hugging her arm, then turned pink in the cheeks and headed for the utility room with the others.

  ‘‘Have a nice day at school,’’ she called to all of them as they rushed out.

  She did not search for candles or any other romantic trappings as she prepared the table for a quiet, intimate breakfast with her friend—though it would have been most appropriate for this quaint countryside setting.

  Bryan was prompt. He rang the front doorbell, something she was not accustomed to. No one in the Amish community, at least no one she had encountered in her time here, had ever used the front door for entrance. Everyone came in the back way.

  ‘‘Please, come in,’’ she greeted him, opening the door wide.

  ‘‘You look lovely, Sarah.’’ Their eyes met and held.

  ‘‘Thanks.’’ She was the first to break the gaze. ‘‘May I take your coat?’’

  Quickly, he removed it. ‘‘Wow, what a gorgeous drive out here.’’ His eyes darted about, taking in the room. ‘‘There’s something nostalgic . . . terribly peaceful about this place.’’

  ‘‘The house or the landscape?’’

  ‘‘Both.’’ He sniffed the air comically. ‘‘And something smells delicious.’’

  ‘‘Follow me.’’ She led the way to the kitchen, draping his coat on a chair as they passed through the front room and past the corner cupboard, where many colorful china cups and saucers and other glassware were on display.

  Once he was seated—she had him sit at the head of the table—she poured some coffee for both of them. They engaged in casual chitchat. ‘‘So . . . when are you heading back to Portland?’’ he began.

  ‘‘I don’t know yet.’’

  ‘‘What will happen to the children—your nieces and nephews— when you go?’’

  She placed a platter of eggs and bacon in the center of the table, then sat down to his left, facing the window. ‘‘I do have a plan. At least, I’m working on it.’’

  His grin warmed her heart, and he reached for her hand. ‘‘Before you tell me your plan, do you mind if I say a blessing for the food?’’

  He wants to say grace?

  ‘‘Go ahead,’’ she said.

  ‘‘What do Amish do?’’ he asked, suddenly.

  ‘‘Silent prayer, before and after the meal.’’

  His dark eyes searched hers. ‘‘That’s really quite unique, isn’t it?’’ He didn’t wait for her to respond but squeezed her hand gently, then began to pray audibly. ‘‘Dear heavenly Father, I thank you for the food set before us. Bless Sarah for preparing it, and . . . grace us with your presence at this table. Amen.’’

  Bless Sarah. . . .

&n
bsp; She wondered when he had learned to speak to God so comfortably. The prayer, his hand on hers, his placid demeanor—all this took her off guard. ‘‘Have some breakfast,’’ she said when the prayer was finished, reaching for the platter. A good excuse to release his hand.

  He took a sizeable portion of eggs and two strips of bacon.

  ‘‘When did you start cooking?’’

  ‘‘Things can get very hectic in a house filled to the brim with five children.’’

  ‘‘Sounds like a good enough reason to me.’’

  ‘‘And, too, the children have so many chores—the boys work outdoors and in the barn, and the girls clean and sew and, in general, do the inside chores. Cooking is something I actually enjoy . . . again. At home, I never have the time.’’

  ‘‘Helping out here is the reason you came, right?’’

  At all costs, she would avoid the topic of Ivy and her will and what that entailed. ‘‘I’m surprised that the children, as griefstricken as they were, kept going as they did before I arrived.’’ She also explained that a number of Plain friends and neighbors had looked in on them periodically. ‘‘The Amish take care of their own. I’ve come to know this firsthand.’’

  Their chatter took on a familiar cadence—the way things were naturally between them. It was Bryan’s allusion to a ‘‘lifechanging experience’’ that caused her to be more circumspect, put up her guard once more. ‘‘Do you mind if I share something personal with you?’’ he asked, keeping his eyes on her.

  Sarah felt the coldness creep into her. ‘‘Sure, Bryan.’’ But she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  He hesitated for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to begin. ‘‘I guess you could say I feel like I’ve finally come home. I can’t really explain it. I realized I’d been running from something . . . or rather Someone . Sounds hokey, I know. But I have a feeling I’ve never had before. Forgiveness. Peace.’’

  He paused again. ‘‘All my life I’ve been searching for a reprieve from nagging guilt. And I finally found Christ.’’

  She had no idea why Bryan was saying this. He was the kindest, dearest man she had ever known. Guilt was her department. She fully associated herself with blame. She was no stranger to it.

  But Bryan . . . what had he done?

  ‘‘I think you’re a good person,’’ she said, sighing. ‘‘Why do you need God?’’

  He reached for a piece of toast, buttered it, and spread rhubarb preserves on top. She could tell he was arranging his thoughts.

  ‘‘We all need God,’’ he said. ‘‘We’re all in need of redemption and forgiveness—’’ ‘‘So this is about religion?’’ she interrupted.

  ‘‘Not really . . . not in the sense that you mean. It’s about a person. A Savior.’’

  She wouldn’t snicker, but Bryan definitely seemed a bit out there. But she couldn’t help feeling somewhat intrigued in spite of herself. At the same time, she felt distanced by his experience. Like she was losing Bryan somehow. Losing him to God?

  ‘‘I want to apologize to you, Sarah,’’ he said, catching her off guard. ‘‘Sometimes I’ve been pretty headstrong about things. I suppose just keeping in touch with you, persisting in our friendship, is one way I’ve been stubborn, not always caring whether you even wanted me in your life. But about other things, too. About insisting on a large family. I think my stubbornness about children may be why you’ve kept me at bay, and I understand now. I hope you can forgive me.’’

  Of course, she could. But it seemed his apology was closely connected to his recent religious experience. ‘‘I’ve never believed the way my parents did. I didn’t want to clutter up my life with that sort of thing.’’

  ‘‘My life was cluttered before I let Christ come in,’’ he replied softly, yet very firmly.

  The silence between them was suddenly charged with discord. Sarah felt it and shivered slightly. ‘‘That’s your business.’’

  He wiped his hands on the paper napkin, studying her with a penetrating gaze. ‘‘I’d hoped you might feel differently.’’

  His words tumbled over in her mind, even as she got up to pour more coffee. With an unspoken agreement to disagree—at least for now—their conversation turned to lighter topics through the early morning hours, stretching into midmorning and beyond.

  She showed him around the two-level back barn, the lower stalls where the mules and driving horses bedded down for the night and the upper level haymow. Bryan insisted on climbing up the long ladder to the top and marching around in the dry straw strewn on the timbered floor above her. She laughed at his antics, playing with three kittens that wandered over to ask for some petting.

  ‘‘Tell me about your nephews,’’ Bryan said, reaching for the rope swing high in the rafters.

  ‘‘Caleb’s fourteen, rather quiet, and on the verge of manhood. From what I understand of Amish customs, he’ll start attending social events when he turns sixteen. Then the dating and courtship begins.’’

  ‘‘That young?’’

  ‘‘I know. I was surprised, too.’’

  He was poised to swing down but paused, holding on to the taut rope. ‘‘What about the other boy?’’

  ‘‘Josiah is eight and a big talker.’’

  ‘‘And the others?’’

  ‘‘Lydia will probably be married within the year. She runs a tight ship around here. She’s the new teacher for the one-room school down the road.’’

  ‘‘How old is Lydia?’’

  She smiled. Bryan was really into this. ‘‘She’ll be seventeen next month.’’

  ‘‘Who else?’’

  ‘‘Anna Mae is eleven.’’ She didn’t comment on Anna Mae’s emotional problems. ‘‘And Hannah is the baby . . . six years old.’’

  ‘‘That’s some age span,’’ he said. ‘‘I’d like to meet them.’’

  ‘‘They’ll be home in a few hours. Stay around, and I’ll introduce you.’’

  The grin that burst upon his face seemed to spread to his torso, and he reached high above his head and seized the rope. He came sailing down past her, then up . . . up to the far, lofty beams on the opposite side of the barn.

  Sarah watched as he came swinging across again—almost close enough to touch—then up to the haymow where he found good footing and let go of the rope. He dropped down to sit on the edge of the hayloft, his long legs dangling in midair. ‘‘It’s lonely up here,’’ he said.

  She headed for the haymow ladder, climbing it for the first time.

  ‘‘Watch your step,’’ he cautioned.

  She reached the top of the ladder and planted herself beside him. ‘‘What are you doing here with me anyway, Bryan?’’

  ‘‘I came to visit.’’

  ‘‘No . . . I mean why do you keep coming back?’’

  He sighed. ‘‘I know you, Sarah. I knew you before the accident. Underneath all the pain of your life, I know there is a part of you that will flower someday. I want to be there when that happens.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know what to say,’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘Say you love me, too.’’

  ‘‘I can’t . . . not now, Bryan. There’s so much for me to work through.’’

  ‘‘Talk to me, Sarah.’’

  Sighing, she began to open her heart. ‘‘Ivy’s death—her children being orphaned and hurting, and me visiting here—well, it has been a real struggle.’’

  ‘‘Making the decision to come must have been difficult for you.’’

  ‘‘More than anyone knows.’’

  He reached for her hand. ‘‘I love you, Sarah. Is it all right for me to tell you again?’’

  ‘‘I’m not a good risk,’’ she admitted, shaking her head. ‘‘I’m not worthy of your love.’’

  ‘‘Let me be the judge of that.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Bryan, my sister’s world has spilled over into mine. I don’t know when or how I can ever find contentment with the past.’’

  ‘‘G
rieving Ivy’s death would be a good starting place . . . to peace, my darling.’’

  An overwhelming sadness encompassed her, and she did not fight back the tears. Bryan reached for her, holding her tenderly, silently. And in the serenity of the sweet-smelling haymow, at last Sarah mourned for her sister.

  When the children arrived home, Bryan greeted them enthusiastically. Sarah marveled at his relaxed approach to both Caleb and Josiah, as well as the girls. He seemed reluctant to say good-bye after supper. Tall, handsome, and strong, Bryan Ford was infinitely more than was evident on the outside, Sarah decided with a certain tingle of discovery. He was also one of the most patient men she had ever known—especially with youngsters. No wonder he had talked of wanting a half dozen back in college.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sarah drove the younger children to the Peach Lane School on Thursday morning. ‘‘I’m going to Miriam Esh’s house today,’’ she told them as they rode along. ‘‘I’ll be back when school is dismissed.’’

  ‘‘Does Lyddie know you’re goin’?’’ Hannah asked, sitting up front.

  ‘‘She knows about the quilting. Why do you ask?’’

  ‘‘I thought Lyddie might like you goin’ to quilt at Miriam’s, that’s all.’’

  Josiah spoke up from the backseat. ‘‘What ’bout Uncle Bryan? Does he know you’re going to Miriam’s?’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Your friend from Boston.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘Why did you call him ‘uncle’?’’

  Josiah explained. ‘‘Dat and Mamma taught us not to say older Englischer’s names just plain . . . just so.’’

  She glanced in the rearview mirror, noting Josiah’s boyish grin and tousled hair. ‘‘Uncle Bryan doesn’t know about the quilting, no. But I think you had better run a comb through your hair before we get to school.’’

  Caleb said, ‘‘Ach, his hair always looks like that.’’

  ‘‘Well, maybe it’s time Josiah was more careful about his personal hygiene. I’ll bet your mother wanted your hair clean and neat, right, Josiah?’’