Anna Mae was next to give her opinion of her brother’s hair.
‘‘Mamma was forever gettin’ after him ’bout it. Ain’t so, Josiah?’’
The boy seemed to enjoy the attention. He folded his arms across his chest and sat smugly between Caleb and Anna Mae. ‘‘Seems to me I can do better . . . if I want to.’’
‘‘You best be wantin’ to,’’ Caleb scolded.
‘‘Jah, listen to your big brother,’’ Hannah said, turning around and staring at Josiah.
They continued bantering and chattering about how they would have to endure six more weeks of winter since the groundhog saw his shadow yesterday.
Anna Mae was silent now, staring out the window. Sarah saw her brush a tear from her cheek. Poor girl—she seemed to be hurting just as Megan Holmes had been, when Meggie first came to Stonington Elementary School.
The wispy second-grader had been an island unto herself—a loner—and by the end of the first week, Sarah found herself becoming strongly attached. Her heart went out to the girl. Easy to understand why. Here was another ‘‘little Sarah,’’ a youngster continually tormented by her inability to fit in with her peers. Meggie demonstrated some symptoms of autism, as well, so it was natural for her to withhold herself from the other children. She had very few friends, and the ones who claimed to like her often ridiculed her, along with the others. No wonder Megan Holmes had a fear of connecting. So it was Sarah, her teacher, whom Meggie trusted above all.
The Peach Lane schoolhouse came into view, its tall white belfry standing out against the blue sky and the patches of melting snow on the playground.
‘‘Here we are,’’ she said, flicking the automatic lock, opening all the doors. ‘‘Does Lydia let you go outside for recess when there is snow on the ground?’’
‘‘Jah, just depends how cold ’tis,’’ Josiah spoke up. ‘‘Susannah Stoltzfus did, too, when she was our teacher.’’
‘‘Are you extra careful during recess, especially in the winter?’’ ‘‘It’s the best time to build snow forts,’’ Hannah said with glee.
‘‘But is Lydia always nearby, watching over you?’’ Her four nieces and nephews were staring at her skeptically.
‘‘Why’re ya askin’ us all this?’’ Anna Mae said, holding her little sister’s hand.
‘‘Are ya afraid something might happen?’’ Josiah asked.
She said, ‘‘Well, no . . . I hope not.’’
‘‘You can ask Lyddie ’bout how she keeps watch so ev’ryone’s safe,’’ Caleb said, his voice strong.
‘‘No . . . no, that’s not necessary. Just be careful, all right?’’
They waved and turned to run across the school yard, past the white picket fence, toward the narrow, sagging porch.
Please, please be safe. . . .
Sarah knocked on Miriam Esh’s back door, waited for more than a few minutes, then realized from the sound of the chatter inside, she should apparently just enter.
Susie Lapp was talking as Sarah came into the kitchen. ‘‘I just wish more young folk would keep to the Old Ways.’’
‘‘I know whatcha mean ’bout the unclean talk and whatnot amongst our young people,’’ another remarked. ‘‘Seems to be gettin’ worse with each new generation, not to mention the low courtship and moral standards of the young. Parents have been ignorin’ such things far too long.’’
‘‘We’re just lackadaisical sometimes, I’m afraid,’’ said another. ‘‘Well, here’s Sarah. Hullo!’’ called Miriam Esh, putting down a dishcloth and going over to greet her. ‘‘I’m awful glad you came.’’ She went around introducing Sarah to the women, ten or more.
The discussion regarding Amish young people ceased once all of them were aware of Sarah’s presence. They began work on the old quilt binding as soon as coffee was finished and cups were washed and put away ‘‘for later on.’’
Sarah recognized the task at hand to be far less difficult than the quilting bee she had attended last week. Today’s stitching involved the easy slip stitch her mother had used when hemming a dress or skirt. In her estimation, with this many hands, the binding would be finished in a few hours.
When the babble had died down some, Miriam said softly, ‘‘I feel a Telling comin’ on.’’ Exactly what Miriam meant by that, Sarah was soon to discover.
‘‘Seems there was once a smithy with a horse that was a slowpoke, not so old as he was downright slow in the head. But that little horse was also well trained and obedient. The horse would do for the smithy anything he said.’’
The women listened, some seemingly more interested than others. Sarah kept her needle busy, looking up every so often as she sat with Susie Lapp, intrigued by the process of sharing a story in this setting.
Miriam continued in a low voice to tell her tale of an Amish blacksmith and his beloved horse. ‘‘The animal was out in the pasture one summer day, chewin’ on some grass, just a-grazin’ with all the other horses. Several mules fed alongside the horses in the meadow, too.
‘‘The smithy—a long piece of grass between his teeth— stood, leanin’ on the fence just observing things, minding his own business, when a clap of thunder rumbled out of the sky. Near out of nowhere it came.
‘‘Quick as a wink, more and more hair-raisin’ thundersmacks exploded from the sky, and the blacksmith started roundin’ up his animals. He’d had himself a look at the clouds and knew, sure as rain, a big storm was a-brewin’. And fast!
‘‘He got his straw hat a-fannin’ and a-wavin’ at them horses, calling for them to head for the barn, getting ’em going in the right direction and following them, too, making a beeline for safety.
‘‘A single powerful bolt of lightning split the sky, silver and sizzlin’. And, well, if it didn’t up and strike that slow little horse of his.
‘‘ ‘Nee —no . . . no!’ the smithy hollered, running out of the stable, past the barnyard, toward the clearing. When he got to the pony, the animal lay on the ground, dead.
‘‘Some folk still say the reason the poor creature got hit by the only thunderbolt for miles around was due to the horse’s dawdling. Others say the smithy was at fault for neglecting to take better care, not seein’ to it that all the animals were safe from the storm. But the story has nothin’ whatever to do with any of that, really.
‘‘Truth was, the smithy blamed himself for his horse’s death. Clear to his own dyin’ day, he did. And folk who knew the blacksmith say his own guilty conscience took him in the end. For sure and for certain, he never forgave himself for what happened. Had he done so, the very deed of forgiveness, workin’ its way and will in him, would’ve freed him from the ropes that bound him to his mortal wound.
‘‘A farmer in Wisconsin quit farmin’ after his barn burned to rubble. Instead of lettin’ the brethren come and raise a new one, he was bitter and ended up losin’ everything. Somewhere in Virginia, a schoolteacher let discouragement overtake her and stopped instructing her pupils. Over in Ohio, a mother mourned hard her daughter’s shunning, givin’ up hope the girl would ever come to her senses and return to the People. The woman can’t seem to forgive herself for whatever part she surely must have played in the rebellion of her dear girl.
‘‘Jah, it’s always the same when we can’t—or don’t—forgive others or ourselves,’’ Miriam said, sighing, tears glistening in the corner of her eyes. ‘‘My grandfather was the one who had the little horse with half a brain that got struck by lightning,’’ she said. ‘‘I first heard this story at the knee of my own father.’’
The womenfolk put down their needles and clapped a little, nodding their heads, eyes bright. ‘‘I never tire of that one, Miriam,’’ Susie Lapp said, smiling at Sarah.
‘‘Me, neither,’’ said the elder Elizabeth. ‘‘I think you tell it better each and ev’ry time.’’
Miriam did not say thank you or show any visible reception of the praise. But when the woman looked her way, Sarah began to wonder just how well Miriam Esh must have know
n Ivy Cottrell before she died.
On the drive home, Sarah replayed the story of the black- smith and his horse in her mind.
I have found forgiveness and peace . . . a reprieve from guilt .
Bryan’s words, coupled with Miriam’s story, continued to echo in her head. She longed for freedom from the pain of her own guilt. She wished she could forgive herself for Meggie’s accident. Forgive Ivy for her obsession with being the only child, missing the parent-baby relationship she’d had for six beautiful years with Mother and Daddy when Ivy was their one and only. When the playroom door shut out the rest of the world, and she alone was the cherished child.
Sarah remembered that Ivy, as a teenager, had once told her that she desperately longed for the ‘‘old days,’’ before Sarah had come along and spoiled everything. This, Ivy had shared with utter disgust in her tone. Yet somewhere, through the years, Ivy had changed radically. She had found and accepted God’s forgiveness— had heard His voice.
Sarah knew her sister had found peace, as Bryan had so boldly announced at the breakfast table yesterday. Because Ivy’s place of peace was alive and evident on the faces of each of her five children.
Lydia heard a sound on the porch of the schoolhouse. All the children, even her sisters and brothers, had gone home for the day. It was a nice day, and the children were eager to get started on their afternoon chores so they would have some time for playing before supper. Lydia was grateful for any warm spell in early February.
She was organizing her desk when the door at the back of the classroom inched open. Levi King walked in, removed his black felt hat, and turned to close the door, locking it. He approached her desk, almost like a shy little boy in trouble with the teacher.
‘‘Sorry if I startled ya, Lyddie.’’
‘‘Hullo, Levi . . . s’nice to see you again.’’
He stared at the floor, then sighed, breathing in like he was tryin’ to muster up the strength to talk to her. Really talk.
‘‘Things haven’t been right for me for the longest time . . . ever since last week, well, when your aunt caught us together.’’
‘‘For me, neither.’’
He switched his hat from one hand to the other. ‘‘I’m still hopin’ you think of me as a friend, at least.’’
She felt weak in the knees, so she sat down at her desk. ‘‘Jah, at least . . .’’ She didn’t want to say much more. Didn’t want to spoil the chance of hearin’ whatever Levi wanted to say to her.
‘‘Has your aunt Sarah made up her mind ’bout staying on here or not?’’ He sounded more bold just now.
‘‘I have a feelin’ we may not be leaving, if that’s what you’re askin’.’’
‘‘Ach, that’s gut news!’’
‘‘She’s hopin’ to find someone to take us in, and between you and me, I’m thinkin’ it’s Miriam Esh. But you won’t say anything, will you?’’
He promised not to. ‘‘I’ve prayed awful hard ’bout us, Lyddie.’’ ‘‘I have, too. Ever so much.’’
Just then, he came ’round the desk and pulled her to her feet. ‘‘I never stopped lovin’ you. Not even when you put me off.’’
Honestly, she tried to say something dear back to him, but he had her in his arms, holding her tight as she’d ever been hugged by a boy or a relative, neither one. ‘‘Levi, I . . .’’
‘‘Don’t say nothin’, please, Lyddie. Don’t say nothin’ but what I want to hear.’’
She leaned her head against his chest, listening to the quick pounding of his heart. ‘‘I won’t ever hurt you again,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Then you will marry me?’’
She sighed, looking into his face. ‘‘Come the wedding season, jah, I will.’’
‘‘You’ll make me the happiest Amishman in Lancaster County!’’ He leaned down close to her face, kissing her forehead, then his lips brushed hers lightly.
She gave in to his embrace, returning his kiss. With all her heart, she did.
Chapter Thirty
Searching through Ivy’s journals, Sarah found—at long last—the one entry she had been anxious to read.
Pentecost Sunday, 1991
It’s truly hard to say, but I do believe, as I think on it, that my father’s love for God and all of creation was one of the reasons I turned to the Lord when I did. Looking back, Gilbert, too, was hungry for what his heart was missing. One night, the two of us sat down together, opened up Dad’s old Bible, and read the passages in John’s Gospel. We clasped hands and prayed the sinner’s prayer found written in the flyleaf of his well-worn Good Book.
Daddy would’ve been mighty happy if he were alive to know what happened that wonderful-gut night. Honestly, I felt clean inside. Gone was the tension of sin, along with my need to dominate those around me, especially Sarah. I’ve set my mind to sharing this experience with her, though it may not be well received. My sister has every right to be put out with me. Goodness’ sake, I kept her under my thumb for so long. No wonder she as much as renounced our sisterhood. Still, I won’t give up on trying to reach her .
Sarah and Lydia cleaned the kitchen together after supper. Lydia seemed especially eager to share more stories of her first days of teaching. Then suddenly, she asked, ‘‘Did you teach all the subjects when you were a schoolteacher?’’ asked Lydia.
‘‘Only the curriculum the public school system required for second grade,’’ Sarah replied.
Lydia turned to face her, leaning against the counter. ‘‘Then you had just second-grade pupils in your classroom?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Did you ever wish you had older children in the room to help the younger ones?’’
‘‘The way the school was set up, we had occasional teachers’ aides come several times each week. But older students never assisted.’’
Lydia described the process by which the Amish schools were generally run, sharing their philosophy of education. Pupils’ studies were based on the belief that the future generation must be preserved for the church by semi-isolation, essential for the devout practice of their faith.
‘‘The beliefs of Amish children must be protected, it sounds to me,’’ Sarah said.
‘‘Jah, so much so that parents sometimes go to extreme measures to make sure of it.’’
When the dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Sarah and Lydia sat at the table again. ‘‘Days ago, you asked me a question, Lydia—about an accident your mother referred to in her journal. I want to give you a satisfactory answer . . . now.’’ Anxious to open up to her sister’s daughter, Sarah felt the urgency ignite within.
‘‘Don’t feel you have to share with me, Aunt Sarah.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘No, it’s time I told you. . . .’’
Lydia nodded, her face earnest.
‘‘The day of the school accident, the weather was exceptionally cold,’’ she began. ‘‘I remember dreading having to fulfill my recess duty. There was snow and even a few icy patches on the playground, too, which most schools now use as a measure against having outdoor recess.’’
She continued on, reciting the details of the day of Megan Holmes’ accident. Then she felt she should tell Lydia about Meggie herself. ‘‘She was such a needy little girl, and she trusted me implicitly. I must admit, I loved Meggie dearly—even as I might have loved my own child. But I made a dreadful error in judgment that day. It cost Megan her life. . . .’’ Her voice trailed away.
Lydia’s eyes were more serious now. She leaned her elbows hard on the table.
‘‘The recess bell rang, signaling the end of play. Meggie, who was impatient to line up with the other children, stood shivering at the end of the line, jumping around, trying to keep warm. She must have known she would have to stand there for a long time, being the last child to wait for the school doors to open.’’ Bowing her head, Sarah inhaled deeply. ‘‘Meggie was always fidgety.’’
Lydia touched her hand. ‘‘There’s no need to grieve yourself more, Aunt Sarah.
’’
‘‘I need to tell you what happened.’’ She forged ahead with her sorrowful story. ‘‘Meggie pleaded with me repeatedly to run back to the playground and go down the slide. ‘Just once more, Miss Cain? Please, please ?’
‘‘Judging by the crowd of children at the door, I assumed she had plenty of time. Reluctantly, I gave my permission—‘Be very careful,’ I cautioned her.
‘‘I lost track of the moments—perhaps they were only seconds, I don’t know—but when I heard a child’s scream, I turned to see Meggie lying on the ground only a few yards behind me.’’
Lydia gasped, covering her mouth. ‘‘Himmel ,’’ she whispered.
Choking back tears, Sarah continued. ‘‘Meggie—my precious Meggie—must have slipped on a ladder rung near the top of the slide. Falling, she had torn her coat as her little hands groped for safety. In one horrifying moment, Meggie fell, hitting her head on the frozen ground. She died instantly.’’
Lydia wiped her eyes. ‘‘No one could save her?’’
‘‘Oh, I tried to revive her, but there was no pulse.’’
A ghastly silence invaded the kitchen. Then Lydia said in a near whisper, ‘‘Was that why you quit teaching and moved to Oregon?’’
Sarah let out a long sigh. ‘‘What followed the accident was an ongoing living nightmare. Meggie’s parents acquired an attorney and threatened to sue the school for negligence. There was lots of talk, a growing swell, that I, the playground teacher in charge, should be suspended. Empathy from a handful of people in the school community grew to a frenzied rage. In the end, I resigned.’’
Leaning back in the chair, Lydia crossed her arms. ‘‘After Mamma died, I didn’t understand why you took so long to come here. Now I think I do . . . a little.’’
‘‘I was frightened to be around children,’’ she confessed.
‘‘No wonder . . .’’
Sarah looked into the face of Ivy’s firstborn. ‘‘But my visit here with you has helped to change all that, Lydia. Truly it has.’’
The Redemption of Sarah Cain Page 23