The
Sacrifice
BEVERLY
LEWIS
The
Sacrifice
The Sacrifice
Copyright © 2004
Beverly Lewis
Cover design by Dan Thornberg
The portion of a poem cited in chapter thirty-four is as quoted in A Joyous Heart by Corrie Bender, published by Herald Press of Scottdale, Pennsylvania, in 1994. The author of the poem is unknown.
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
Paperback: ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-2872-8 ISBN-10: 0-7642-2872-2
Mass Market: ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-0484-5 ISBN-10: 0-7642-0484-X
* * *
Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Lewis, Beverly, date-
The sacrifice / by Beverly Lewis.
p. cm. — (Abram’s daughters ; 3)
ISBN 0-7642-2875-7 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 0-7642-2872-
2 (pbk.) — ISBN 0-7642-2876-5 (large-print pbk.)
1. Lancaster County (Pa.)—Fiction. 2. Amish women—Fiction.
3. Young women—Fiction. 4. Sisters—Fiction. 5. Amish—Fiction.
I. Title II. Series: Lewis, Beverly, date. Abram’s daughters ; 3.
PS3562.E9383S23 2004
813'.54—dc22
2003028149
* * *
Dedication
For
Jeannette Green,
wonderful friend and “sister.”
Beautiful in every way.
By Beverly Lewis
ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS
The Covenant • The Betrayal • The Sacrifice
The Prodigal • The Revelation
THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY
The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning
ANNIE’S PEOPLE
The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren
THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER
The Parting
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, born in Pennsylvania Amish country, fondly recalls her growing-up years. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain family heritage has inspired Beverly to set a number 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, and The Brethren has been nominated for 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.
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Summer 1949
Come June, the first song of the whippoorwill reminds me of berry picking . . . and bygone days. Although it has been over two years since Jonas Mast left for Ohio, I still wonder about him, along with my older sister, Sadie, and am able to pray for their happiness more readily than at first.
Especially now, at summer’s onset, when strawberries are ripe and ready for pies and preserves, I think of Jonas. He loved strawberry-rhubarb pie like nobody’s business, and both his mamma and mine made it for him with sugar and raw honey, so it was nothing short of wonderful-good. “Desserts are s’posed to be plenty sweet,” Mamma has said for as long as I can remember. This, with her irresistible wide-eyed smile. These days Sadie is the one baking such delicious fruit pies for Jonas.
Now and again I feel almost numb for the way things turned out between Jonas, Sadie, and me. Close as I was to each of them, it seems they should have cared enough to send some word early on—prior to Bishop Bontrager’s strict decree—offering an explanation. Anything would’ve been better than this dreadful silence. It’s the not knowing how things got so ver-kehrt—topsy-turvy—that causes the most frustration in me. The lack of word from Ohio confirms my worst fears. I expect even now Sadie probably wonders if I have any idea she is married to Jonas, or that I feel strongly she stole him away from me. How on earth does she live with herself?
I’m slowly accepting the split between my beau and me, since it would be wrong to pine for a man who belongs to another. Most folk just assume I’ve passed the worst of it and am moving on with life. They will never know truly, because I tend to go about things rather cheerfully . . . and, too, so much time has passed since that devastating autumn. It does still puzzle me, if I think on it, how one minute we were so happily planning our wedding, and then, clear out of the blue, a most peculiar letter arrived saying Jonas suspected Gideon Peachey of carrying a torch for me. Even though I promptly wrote to reassure him of my devotion and love, I never again heard from him. Downright baffling it is.
Of course, if Jonas were privy to my present friendship with Smithy Gid, he might have a little something to go on. But, back then, nothing was further from the truth. Fact was, my heart belonged wholly to Jonas, and nothing and no one could make me think otherwise. Not Smithy Gid, nor his sister Adah, my closest friend. Not even dear Dat and Mamma, though my father has long hoped Gid might one day win my affections.
With the revelation of Aunt Lizzie’s secret to me— to Mary Ruth and Hannah, too—my father’s and grandfather’s health seems much improved and both Mamma and Aunt Lizzie have a new spring in their step, in spite of the vacant spot at the supper table. Sadie’s absence is a constant source of worry, especially since she’s been shunned from the Gobbler’s Knob church. And Dat was right; the bishop—after a reasonable time—insisted Sadie’s letters be returned unopened. It’s no wonder she stopped writing along about Christmastime after leaving for Ohio. I wish to heavens I might’ve been allowed to read those things she wrote to us.
The berry patch calls to me even now as I help Dat with morning milking. Seems there’s something nearly sacred about creeping along the mounded rows, the blissful buzz of nature in my ears, long runners tripping at my bare feet as the blistering sun stands high and haughty in the sky and the tin bucket steadily fills with plump red fruit. Being out there alone with the birds and the strawberry plants, beneath the wide and blue heavenly canopy, soothes my soul and sets my world aright. At least for a time . . .
Part One
What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?
—Micah 6:8
Chapter One
The morning Mamma quietly announced her baby news, Leah hung back a bit, standing near the kitchen door, while her twin sisters, especially Mary Ruth, were overjoyed at Mamma’s being in the family way again. Many of the Old Order viewed it as shameful to share such things with unmarried children, but both Mamma and Dat felt otherwise and didn’t hesitate to include their four eldest daughters, though discreetly.
“Since Lydiann’s a toddler and not so little anymore, it’ll be fun to have a baby around again,” declared Mary Ruth.
“And wonderful-gut for Lydiann to have a close-in-age brother or sister.” Hannah’s smile stretched from ear to ear as she seemingly took the news in her stride, much as Dat must surely have, too, when Mamma told him in private earlier.
Leah had suspected nothing of this from Dat, although he’d had plenty of opportunity to say something during early-morning chores. Her father had never been one to speak of personal things; she knew this firsthand, because, for some time now, she had been asking for information relating to her own birth, to no avail. “For goodness’ sake, Leah,” he would say each time she brought it up, “be grateful the Good Lord made you healthy and strong, that you were born headfirst. What else wouldja care to know?”
But there were certain things she did ponder, such as who her first father might be. Lizzie, however, seemed unable to discuss the subject. Is it too hard to dredge up the past? Leah wondered. Or was Lizzie simply unwilling to bring it up for fear of implicating a member of the Hickory Hollow Amish church, miles away? There were also nagging questions concerning the day Leah was born in the Ebersol Cottage, but she couldn’t bear to ask them of Lizzie.
Mary Ruth broke the stillness, glancing furtively at Leah as she said, “Maybe Dat will finally get a real son.”
“Aw, pity’s sake,” Mamma said, shaking her head at Mary Ruth. She went to sit on the wooden bench next to the kitchen table, fanning herself with the hem of her long black apron. Her round face was flushed from the heat of the wood stove, where she had two strawberry pies baking.
“But . . . if the baby is a girl,” Hannah spoke up, “there’ll be less sewing to do.”
Leah spoke at last. “Only if we get busy and make plenty of little afghans ’tween now and December. Lydiann was a spring baby, don’t forget.”
At this Leah caught Mamma’s sweet and gentle smile. “That’s my Leah, always leaning toward the practical.” Mary Ruth continued to chatter, asking where Lydiann would sleep once the wee one came.
Quickly Hannah suggested, “Why, she can sleep with us. Ain’t so, Mary Ruth?”
Mamma laughed at that. “I daresay there wouldn’t be much sleeping goin’ on. Not as wiggly as that one is!”
Leah turned and slipped outdoors, going to the hen house, where she scattered feed to the chickens. Inside, she leaned against the rickety wall, watching them peck the ground near her bare feet. “Honestly,” she said right out, “I don’t know whether to be happy or sad about a new baby.”
The hens paid her no mind, but the lone rooster cocked his head and eyed her curiously. In all truth, she had forced a smile about Mamma expecting a little one come next Christmas. Here, with only the chickens for company, she recalled the months before two-year-old Lydiann came into the world. Mamma had been ever so tired . . . nauseated, too. At close to forty-five, she was not nearly as energetic and strong as in years past, but there were a good many women that age or older in the family who had no trouble birthing babies. Leah was glad her mother came from a long line of such women. Indeed, she was happy at the prospect of Dat’s having his first son should the baby turn out to be a boy.
Heading out of the hen house toward the barnyard, Leah was suddenly aware of Smithy Gid calling to her from the brink of the cornfield. “Wie geht’s, Leah. Do ya have a minute?”
Out of habit, she glanced toward the back door, curious if Mamma or one of the twins was observing her with Gid, who was not only breathless from running, but his eyes were strangely aglow. “What is it?” she asked.
He grinned down at her. “I’ve got a whole new litter of German shepherd pups, and I think there’s another dog Abram—your pop—might just take a shinin’ to.”
It was common knowledge Dat wanted a third dog, after having purchased from Gid his second German shepherd, Blackie, well over a year ago. “With a houseful of women folk, another male dog might be worth thinkin’ about. ’Least I won’t be so outnumbered anymore,” he’d said that very morning, chuckling heartily.
She walked alongside Gid to the barn, listening as he described the various puppies’ coloring.
“Does Dat know about the recent pups?” she asked.
“He oughta, ’cause I ain’t been talkin’ to myself all these weeks.” They both laughed at that; then Gid added, “I believe Abram’s just waitin’ for the gut word.”
She felt her cheeks warm. “Then you best be tellin’ him.”
His eyes lit up. “Well, now, I wanted to tell you, Leah.”
She held her breath, scared he might take this opportunity to say more, them alone this way.
And he did, too . . . at least started to. “I’ve been wantin’ to ask ya something.”
She took a small step back. In fact, she had been inching away from him, romantically at least, her whole life long, and for all good reason. She had always loved her second cousin Jonas, though she had made a conscious effort to bury her bitter sadness, hiding it from her family and especially from Smithy Gid, who remained a right good friend as he’d always been—even more so lately. Yet Leah shuddered at the thought of Gid showing kindness to her out of mere pity. Surely their friendship was more special than that. But she had no intention of leading him on just because he was clearly fond of her.
Ach, she groaned inwardly, wishing someone—anyone—might come flying into the barn. But no one did, and not even the barn doves, high in the rafters, made a sound as the smithy’s son reached for her hand. “Uh, Gid . . .” What she really wanted to tell him was please don’t say another word, but the words got trapped in her throat. She knew all too well the ache of rejection, and the way his eyes were intent on hers just now, it would be downright unkind to hurt him.
He was still holding her hand as the slow creaking of the windmill behind the barn broke the stillness. “Adah and her beau are going for supper in Strasburg next Saturday night. I thought it might be fun if you and I rode along.”
No two ways about it, riding along simply meant double courting and Gid knew it. Sighing, she gently pulled her hand away, staring down at her toes. What should I say?
“If you want to talk it over with Adah, I don’t mind.” His words were like thin reeds in a swamp compared to his usual self-assured manner. Inside, Smithy Gid was most likely standing on tiptoes. Furthermore, she suspected he had been ever so eager to spend an evening with her for quite some time, hoping to double up with her first cousin Sam Ebersol, Uncle Jesse’s youngest son, along with Gid’s sister Adah. But Leah also knew Gid wouldn’t be asking her twice. If she didn’t give her answer no
w, she’d have to seek him out in the next day or so. Because at twenty-two—three years her elder—Smithy Gid was to be treated with the respect he deserved.
“I’ll think on it.” She trembled, afraid he might take her reply as a maybe.
Truth be told, she figured he was working his way to ask her to go “for steady,” and right soon. To be true to herself, she knew she ought to refuse. Yet looking on the bright side, allowing Gid to court her would convince the People, especially Mamma and Aunt Lizzie, that she’d regained her balance, so to speak, that her shattered heart was on the mend. Wasn’t it about time for that, anyway? Jonas was happy with someone else; why shouldn’t she marry, as well? And, too, it had been ingrained in her all her days that to follow the Lord God’s will for her life, she must marry and bear many children, as many as the Good Lord saw fit to give her and her future husband.
One thing was sure, Leah enjoyed her barn chats with Gid while pitching hay to the field mules or redding up the haymow for summertime Preaching services. It was downright pleasant to have a young man of Gid’s reputation thinking of her as a good friend. Other times, she almost wished he might fix his gaze on a girl whose heart was truly available, like, for instance, any number of her cousins—dozens of Ebersols to choose from in Gobbler’s Knob alone.
Naturally Gid wanted to marry well before his sister Adah. Even his youngest sister, Dorcas, was seeing someone seriously, or so Adah had confided in Leah recently. A knotty problem for Gid, being the eldest of the family and the only son and still unmarried, though it was clear thus far he’d set his cap for no one other than Leah.
Daily this weighed heavily on her mind, especially because Smithy Gid was such a fine young man. Why should she forfeit having a family of her own just because things between her and Jonas had fizzled? She could simply marry the farm boy who’d waited for her all these years, couldn’t she?
The Sacrifice Page 1