Once the grave was nearly filled, the pallbearers ceased their shoveling and Preacher Yoder stood tall and read a hymn from the Ausbund. The People did not sing on this most sobering occasion, and every man and boy in attendance removed his black hat.
Leah could scarcely wait for the sunset, hours from now, that would bring an end to this heart-wrenching day. The prevailing gloom triggered the familiar helpless feeling she had often wrestled with in the black of night as she lay quiet as death itself, wishing for sleep to come and rescue her from her memories of Jonas. Of course, there was far less of that these days than before she and Smithy Gid had begun spending time together. If things went as she assumed they might, she and the smithy’s son would be husband and wife come next year; she felt sure Gid was looking toward that end. As for herself, she understood fully why her father had been adamant about Gid being a “wonderful-gut young man,” not to mention his first choice as a husband for her. What was to fear?
Hannah put her hand over her heart, taking short little breaths as the soil was mounded. The burial complete, she felt like she might break into a sob, and just then Mamma reached over and found her hand, holding it for the longest time. Listening intently, perhaps too much so, she was scarcely able to draw a breath as Preacher Yoder admonished the People, “Be ready when your time comes.”
She could only hope that she would be . . . if or when her number should be called. How can I or anyone be ready for that day? she pondered, not knowing in the slightest.
She felt she should talk to Mamma about her worries. After all, she’d heard her mother praying beside her bed several times—typically in the late-night hours, when Mamma surely must have assumed her girls were fast asleep. Honestly it seemed maybe both Mamma and Aunt Lizzie knew more about the Good Lord than they were ever allowed to let on, and it was time for her to ask a few important questions. With Elias’s funeral taking up much of this day, she hoped to find some time soon to talk quietly with Mamma before Thanksgiving. They wouldn’t be observing the day as an all-out holiday the way the English did, nor with prayer and fasting as Plain folk in Ohio did. They were taught to be grateful for every day as it came, though they did gather as families around a bountiful feast table, especially because it was their season of weddings. Attending this funeral of her sister’s beloved at such a normally joyous time was the most difficult thing Hannah had ever done.
The afternoon crept along ever so slowly for Mary Ruth, particularly during the shared meal. About three hundred mourners had returned to Deacon Stoltzfus’s home, passing by the location of the actual calamity there on the road at the end of the long dirt lane. Mary Ruth had refused to look; she’d kept her head tilted back, eyes on the stark tree branches lining the way.
She observed Ezra sitting at the table with his younger brothers. His face was swollen, and the stern set of his jaw betrayed something of his pain, making her flinch. Their custom of eating a meal with the family of the deceased created a strong sense of comfort and belonging for all of them, to be sure, yet she was painfully aware of the hole in the very middle of her heart. Elias had brought energy and excitement into her life. His keen attention had given her even more reason to spring out of bed each morning and, if she were truthful with herself, was equal to her pleasure in book learning.
But now . . . what was she to do? She’d completely missed joining church with Hannah this year, deciding to put it off because she and Elias wanted to enjoy rumschpringe longer. Much longer, truth be known.
Now it surely seemed as if Hannah and Ezra were the wiser.
Mary Ruth felt herself sinking into a gray despair such as she had never known.
Chapter Twelve
Dejected and in urgent need of prayer, Robert left his father’s house and drove to Quarryville for Wednesday prayer meeting the night following Elias’s funeral. At the church, he prayed silently before the service began, pouring out his great woe to God. When he raised his head, anticipating the beginning of the meeting, he was aware of a number of Amish youth gathered there—serious, distraught young people more than likely searching for consolation on the heels of the startling death of Elias. Yet their attendance was highly unusual, to be sure.
Following the singing of hymns, the pastor invited those with a testimony of grace to stand and “give a witness.” One church member after another praised the Lord publicly, expressing the ways they believed God was at work in their hearts.
When a short lull ensued, Robert felt compelled to stand. Turning to face the people, he directed his solemn remarks primarily to the Amish youth. He began by sharing his anguish and then faltered. “I humbly beg . . . your forgiveness . . . for having been the driver of the car last Sunday night. I pray you might find it in your hearts—all of you here—to forgive me for accidentally killing your own Elias Stoltzfus.” Shuddering as he spoke, he was aware of sniffling and then a single sob. Unable to go on, he sat down, fighting back tears. His feelings of guilt over not having been charged with involuntary manslaughter or even a lesser charge continued to preoccupy his thoughts, although Reverend Longenecker had kindly pointed out when he had met with him privately before the service that Robert’s guilt was unfounded. Nevertheless, the minister’s words had not lessened the fact Robert sincerely wished the Stoltzfus family had not let him off scotfree. When the minister stood behind the pulpit and began to pray, not a sound was heard except his earnest voice. “Our Father in heaven, we come this night, carrying our burdens to you, O Lord. . . .”
Mary Ruth volunteered quickly when Mamma asked for someone to take one of two batches of graham-cracker pudding over to the Peacheys’ the Thursday following Elias’s funeral. Glad for an excuse to clear her head in the chilly air, she headed across the cornfield to the neighbors’, low in spirit and dressed in the black garb of a mourner. Spying Adah’s younger sister driving into the lane, she hurried to deliver the pudding to Miriam, then returned to help Dorcas unhitch the horse from the carriage.
“Are ya doin’ all right, Mary Ruth?” asked Dorcas, who reached for and squeezed her hand.
“No . . . not so gut. Not at all, to be honest.”
“I’m ever so sorry for ya, truly I am.” Dorcas let go of her hand and looked around like she wanted to say something private. “Have ya heard tell of the meeting last night in Quarryville?” she asked.
Mary Ruth had not.
Dorcas leaned closer and whispered now. “You could go ’n’ see for yourself.”
“How’s that?”
“ ’Cause there’s another gathering tonight. I wish I could go again, but maybe you could. Might help ya some.”
She urged Dorcas to tell her more and was surprised to hear the Englisher who’d hit and killed Elias had stood up in the meeting and made a sober apology. “Ever so odd it was, yet awful sad, too. I mean, we Amish just wouldn’t think of holdin’ a grudge against someone, yet there he was, talkin’ like that. I tell ya it made us all cry. Every one of us.”
Mary Ruth didn’t bother to ask who all from Gobbler’s Knob had gone, but she assumed from what Dorcas was saying that a sorrowing bunch of the youth had made the trip, seeking for something more than the Amish church could offer.
By Thanksgiving night, the very evening following Robert’s apology, the Mennonite meetinghouse had filled to capacity simply by word of mouth—the local Amish grapevine was evidently lightning quick. Robert was surprised to see an even larger group of Old Order youth there to mourn their friend Elias and hear of God’s goodness and grace—some for the first time, he was certain.
When Reverend Longenecker asked Robert to stand and give his testimony, he did so with confidence.
Later, when the minister gave the altar call, ten more Amish young people came forward to open their hearts to the Lord Jesus.
The first Saturday after Elias’s death, Leah happened to overhear Mary Ruth squabbling with Dat out in the barn. “I need to take the family buggy tonight,” she was insisting.
“Where to?” Dat asked.<
br />
“Quarryville.”
“What’s down there?”
“A gathering of young folk, is all.”
“Amish youth?”
“No.”
Dat drew in an audible breath. “I forbid you to go, then.”
She wondered if he, too, might’ve heard all the talk—the reports of a throng of Amish young folk finding God at the Mennonite church. “Well, I’m goin’, anyway. One way or the other, I am!”
“Just ’cause you’re in the midst of rumschpringe . . . doesn’t mean you should be back-talkin’ your father!” Dat shot back and rather loudly at that.
“Well, if I’m old enough to run around with boys, shouldn’t I be allowed to speak my mind ’bout some things?”
Leah felt terrible about standing there behind the wall of the milk house, just off the main part of the barn. Yet she hardly knew how to make her presence known. And, truth be told, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Mary Ruth didn’t wait for Dat to give his answer; she simply ran out of the barn, crying as she went.
Leah scarcely knew what to do or say, though she hurt something fierce for both Dat and Mary Ruth. She also felt awkward to know how to get herself out of the milk house without Dat spotting her and wanting to know what the world she was doing sneaking around like that, listening in on a private conversation.
So she set about cleaning out the place once again, sweeping, then rinsing down the floor, stopping only when she happened to realize Dat had come in and was standing there staring at her, for who knows how long, waiting.
“Your sister’s bent on havin’ her own way, as you already know. Might be best, next time—should there be a next time—to cough or sneeze or something, Leah. Eavesdropping is out-and-out deceitful. Best be more respectful from this time forth.”
Before she could speak, he turned and left, his work boots making powerful clumps against the ground. She was glad he’d left, in a way, because she would not have been able to defend herself, nor did she want to. Truth was, she felt nearly as innocent as the dogs—King, Blackie, and Sassy—who’d also been privy to Dat’s wrath and Mary Ruth’s foolhardy determination.
Put out with herself and, if she dared admit it, with Dat, too, Leah hurried to the house, her father nowhere in sight. She could hear Lydiann wailing her lungs out.
“There, there,” she said, running upstairs to rescue the napped-out tot. “Did you get left up here all by your lonesome? Did Mamma forget ’bout ya?”
Such a thing was no way near the truth. Mamma had probably gone to the outhouse. Hannah, meanwhile, was redding up her and Mary Ruth’s bedroom, and Mary Ruth was right now running pell-mell down the lane, heading toward the road. Just where she thought she was going was anybody’s guess. Leah was concerned about her grieving sister and wished she might help in some way, do something to ease not only the tension between Dat and Mary Ruth, but lessen the ache in Mary Ruth’s heart.
“Let’s go downstairs and see what Dawdi John’s doin’,” she whispered to Lydiann. The tiny girl’s eyes were wide and bright from awakening, though tears still glistened from her attention-getting cries. “Your grandfather hasn’t seen you yet today, so it’s time we go over and visit, ain’t so?” She continued to coo as she carried her sister down the stairs, through the front room, and over to the small attached home built onto the main house. The Dawdi Haus was a refuge for elderly or single relatives. For Leah, it was a comfort to be able to go and sit with Mamma’s father in his cozy front room, situated close enough to the cook stove in the tiny kitchen to keep it warm on even winter days.
“There, now.” She set Lydiann down near Dawdi.
“Did you come to see your ol’ Papa?” He reached for her and Lydiann held up her chubby arms.
“That-a girl,” he said, putting her on his knee and bouncing her gently. “Here’s a horsey, a-trottin’ and a-goin’ to market . . . to market.”
Her sister giggled, and Leah sat down across from them, watching with pleasure the joy Lydiann brought to Dawdi—to all of them, for that matter. Soon, within another full month, there would be a baby sister or brother for them to hold and love . . . for Lydiann to grow up with, too.
How nice for all of us, ’specially Dawdi, she pondered, knowing he was slowing down more all the time, even though his health had greatly improved and his good days seemed to be very good.
She pondered whether to ask the question she was almost too curious about—and how to ask it without causing a stir.
“Dawdi,” she began, “I sometimes wonder . . . I mean, what do you know ’bout my father?”
A serious look on his face, her grandfather replied, “Well, now, I’ve been workin’ with your father all morning, Leah.”
“Ach, you know what I mean, don’tcha?” she said.
He grew more somber. “I know you’ve had yourself some difficult times, getting adjusted to who the mother was that birthed you. Guess you feel like you have two mammas, ain’t?”
“Sometimes, jah, I s’pose I do, though I can’t say I think on that so much.”
He tilted his head, gazing lovingly at Lydiann. As he did, Leah noticed his beard was thinner than she’d remembered and whiter, too. “I wish it could stop right there. Wish you could be content with simply knowing ’bout your first mamma, Lizzie, and the woman who raised ya as her very own. Seems to me the rest of it, well, ain’t all that important.”
“Is there more to Lizzie’s secret than she’s willin’ to share? I don’t know . . . she seems almost closed up about it.”
Dawdi said softly, “Or is it something else altogether?”
Her heart quickened and she sat there in the tiny room, not taking her eyes off Dawdi, hoping this might be the moment of revelation. “Do you know who my blood father is?”
He began to shake his head back and forth, slowly at first, and then faster. Then he stopped abruptly and looked straight into her face . . . into her heart, too, it seemed. “I just never thought you’d care a speck ’bout Lizzie’s wildest days. ’Tis long forgotten . . . why dig up the shameful past?” He sighed loudly. “And ’tis hurtful, I must say, dear girl.”
“For Lizzie, too?”
“Above all.”
She considered this moment here with Dawdi and the soft babble of Lydiann as the moment when she felt she understood something of her grandfather’s love for herself and for Lizzie. No matter which woman she claimed as her mother, Dawdi John Brenneman was her devoted grandfather, and nothing she could do or not do, know or not know, would change that. Dawdi John was her flesh-and-blood grandfather for always, and what he might know about her paternal origins no longer concerned her. She had asked and not received the information she desired.
She must simply wait for it to unfold before her, as surely it would in time.
All day Mary Ruth waited for the tension to diminish between herself and Dat. At the noon meal she found the strain even harder to bear, as her father refused to ask her to pass the potatoes and gravy, even though they were clearly in front of her. Instead, he asked Hannah or Leah, making it seem as if she wasn’t even present at the table.
Is this what it’s like to be under the Bann? she thought.
She could not get used to the fact her own father did not come close to understanding her. Not only did he not understand or attempt to, she felt he was too harsh in his stance.
When dusk fell and she was still wishing to attend the nighttime church meeting, she asked Dat once again if she might borrow the family buggy. This, after supper dishes were cleared off the table, washed, and put away. She attempted to soften her voice and her approach, though she felt as if she might boil over with eagerness. “I’ll take gut care, Dat, honest I will. If you’ll just think ’bout letting me go . . .”
“You should not be goin’ alone after dark,” Dat said.
“I could take Hannah, if you’ll let her come along.”
She wondered momentarily how that would set, since Hannah was already a baptized
church member.
“What’s the urgency to go all that way?” he asked.
She refused to confess the rumors that Plain teenagers were getting religion. “I’ll know better once I get there,” she said best as she could muster. “Ach, just say I can go.”
“Why not stay home, help your mamma bathe Lydiann and whatnot?” He wasn’t budging.
“Please, Dat, won’tcha let me take the buggy and Hannah, too? We won’t be gone long.”
He turned beet red and pulled hard on his beard, making his lower lip protrude. “I’m not in favor of it; no way, no how.” He stared at her, a frown crossing his brow. “But . . . I s’pose ’tis better to have ya goin’ in my family carriage than out runnin’ round with emptyheaded boys all hours.”
He was referring to Elias’s reckless buggy driving, no doubt, before it got him killed. But she kept her mouth closed. Stunned that she was actually allowed to go, however reluctantly Dat had granted permission, she did not voice her gratitude. She took off running to the barn to get the horse and carriage hitched before he could change his mind.
Mary Ruth had unconsciously retained the image of tall young Robert Schwartz from Elias’s funeral, and when she saw him sitting on the men’s side of the meetinghouse, her anger was rekindled. Yet she was strangely conscious of his demeanor, his compelling and kind, yet sad eyes. The minister introduced the young man as having a zealous testimony of God’s forgiveness and grace before asking him to rise and stand behind the pulpit. Already this was not at all like an Amish preaching service.
Beside her, Hannah fidgeted, glancing at Mary Ruth, probably wishing she hadn’t come along now that they were settled into the seventh row on the left side with the other women. Surprisingly there were numerous youth present, a good many of them from their own church district.
When Robert read his sermon text in English, she wondered how this could possibly be. She had never known a gathering where the Scripture was read, and so freely, not from the High German but in a language understandable to all present. And to think that this young man was the preacher tonight!
The Sacrifice Page 9