He sat in the dark, in the formal front room, where he could contemplate the events of the last week without interruption. Life-altering days when opinions and perceptions had radically changed. How could one twenty-four-hour period be so drastically different from the next?
He replayed the entire week from Sunday to Sunday in his head. Visions of Elias’s body sprawled pitifully out on the road . . . recollections too painful to ponder.
Elias’s mother at the funeral, how she looked as if her knees might give out, leaving her too weak to stand.
The Deacon Stoltzfus, as he had been reintroduced to Robert prior to the service, had worn a solemn face, sitting erect with his sons, the weight of the world on his back. Robert had recognized the invisible burden, because he, too, carried one linked to all the misery of the day.
He had heard the sniffling of one young woman in particular. She was surely not more than a teenager, likely Elias’s own age, perhaps younger. A girl with a look-alike sister, possibly a twin—both with strawberry blond hair—had struggled through the endless funeral service, even leaning, at one point, on the shoulder of the other girl. Elias’s sweetheart, he had surmised at the time, for no other woman, apart from the mother, had appeared to be as distraught.
Robert had noticed the same girl and her sister at the Quarryville church. On the final night of meetings, just last evening, he had spoken with her briefly as she made her way out the door with Dan and Dottie Nolt and their son. Dan had introduced her to him as “Elias’s former bride-to-be, who came along with us tonight.” He wanted to say how very sorry he was, say the accident was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but any words of sympathy he might have offered remained locked behind his lips. He could not recall the few words he’d said in response to Dan’s brief introduction, but he remembered offering his hand and shaking hers quite gently, lest it break, requesting forgiveness with his eyes.
Thinking back, he suddenly realized there would have been no spontaneous meetings at all—no rejoicing of the heavenly hosts when dozens of grieving, repentant Amish young people came to the Lord Jesus—had he driven home last Sunday night without incident. “Things happen for a reason,” one of his professors often stated with conviction. “Therefore the sovereignty of God can be wholly trusted. You can throw your life on His mercy. . . .”
Contemplating these things in the quietude, he was startled when his father wandered into the darkened room and sat on the leather chair, put his feet up with a sigh, and merely sat silently for more than a full minute. Robert felt obliged to be the first to speak, and he began by simply saying he wondered if the whole village of Gobbler’s Knob hadn’t turned out for the funeral of Elias Stoltzfus . . . as well as the revival meetings that followed.
His father frowned disapprovingly, changing the subject to the weather. Not to be daunted, Robert rose and offered to pour some freshly brewed coffee. To this his father agreed. Robert hurried from the parlor, toward the kitchen, glad for some common ground, inconsequential as it was.
Chapter Fourteen
Ida, now at the end of her eighth month of pregnancy, had not slept soundly for three nights straight. She shared this in passing with Leah, who had come in from the barn. “Catch your breath a bit, dear,” she said. “And I will, too.”
Leah settled down nearest the window with a cup of tea. “Soon we’ll be using the one-horse sleigh to get to and from Preaching and market and all.”
Ida sighed, glad for this rare quiet moment. “And we’ll soon have us another sweet babe to hold and warm us in the midst of our winter. I’m ever so eager. Can’t help but thinkin’ this one might be Abram’s first son.”
“Oh, Mamma, really?”
She didn’t want to make too much of it, Leah having been Dat’s longtime sidekick for these many years. But if she were forthright, she’d have to admit this baby was mighty different from his sisters. He kicked harder and poked deep into her ribs at times. He jumped and leaped and ran in place all night long, chasing sleep away. “What shall we name him if he’s to be a boy?”
“Well, the name Abram does come to mind.” Leah smiled broadly.
Ida had thought of that, too. “Well, now, ’tween you and me, I think there’s room for only one Abram under this roof.” She paused momentarily before continuing. “What would ya think if we named the baby Abe?”
“It sounds similar to Abram, for sure. Like a wee chip off the old block.” Leah glanced up at the ceiling like she was thinking it through. When her gaze drifted back down, she offered another smile. “I think Abe’s a right fine name. So why not see what Dat says to it?”
“Jah, Abram might enjoy namin’ his boy.” She went and poured herself some hot tea, stirring two teaspoons of honey into the steaming brew. Ida knew Leah was right. It was fitting to include Abram in all the excitement of a new little one. He’d gotten somewhat lost in the shuffle with the previous births, except for the day Leah came into the world.
She sipped her tea and recalled the autumn day, suddenly feeling compelled to tell Lizzie’s first and only child the events surrounding the day of her birth.
Rather impulsively, she began. “I understand from Abram you’re quite curious ’bout your birthday—your very first one, that is.”
Leah’s hazel-gold eyes brightened instantly. “Jah, Mamma, what can you tell me?”
“Only as much as I know,” she said. “That October day was a busy one, what with potato diggin’ in full swing. As I recall, the sun was warm and the skies were clear, although we’d had the very first frost of the season—quite heavy, in fact. That morning I thought of all the weeds blackened by the killing frost, not one bit sad ’bout that. But . . . the flowers, well, I was awful sorry to see their perty heads all wilted overnight.
“Lizzie and I had awakened quite early. She’d come down from her log house to eat breakfast with us here, and after a bit we decided to make some apple dumplings, then redd up the kitchen.
“Several hours after I’d gone to help Cousin Fannie with her fall housecleaning, Lizzie’s labor began. There was no way for Abram to get word to Grasshopper Level ’bout Lizzie without leaving her alone, and she was fairly terrified, puttin’ it mildly. He hollered for the smithy and Miriam, but the Peacheys were out diggin’ potatoes clear on the other side of their barn. So poor Abram, if he wasn’t beside himself, wonderin’ what the world to do.
“Then things began to happen awful fast, and there was no time to call for the Amish midwife, not the doctor, neither one. By the time I arrived home, late in the afternoon, you had already made your entrance into the world.”
Stopping to catch her breath, Ida felt again some of the surprise and excitement of that day. She drank a little more of her tea. “Abram was the one who came to our Lizzie’s rescue, bless his heart, and helped with your birth. He delivered his little niece—you—and we raised you as our own second daughter. And, ’course, you know all the rest.” She felt she might cry now as she remembered Abram’s account of the special day.
“Dat, you see, was the first to hold you and speak softly to you—‘welcome home,’ he said—and kiss your little head, covered with the softest brown peach fuzz.
Oh, how Abram loved you, Leah. Right from the start he did. Honestly, I believe he fixed his gaze on you like no other man might have, maybe ’cause your own birth father was nowhere to be found . . . or, far as we knew, even known.” She reached over and covered Leah’s hand with her own.
Leah was still now, eyes wide. “Oh, Mamma, no wonder Dat took me under his fatherly wing. No wonder . . .”
“Jah, ’tis for certain. And not only that, but Dat had it in his head that he’d spared your life back when, after Lizzie first knew she was carrying you, which was prob’ly true, too. It was during that time your outspoken uncle Noah was bent on sending Lizzie away to end her pregnancy.”
Leah clasped Ida’s hand. “Mamma, why is it Dat has never wanted to talk ’bout my birth to me?”
She’d wondered i
f Leah might press further. “I daresay he may be embarrassed, really, recounting all the day entailed, ya know. . . .”
“I just thought there was more to it, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “You now know all I know, Leah. If it’s your first father you’re thinkin’ of, well, I don’t know a stitch more than I’ve already said.”
Leah glanced out the window and Ida slipped her hand away. “You mustn’t ever think you weren’t longed for or dearly wanted by Lizzie . . . and Dat and me. Just ’cause, well, you know—” “Because Lizzie didn’t have a husband? Is that what you mean?”
Neither of them spoke for a time. The warmth from the wood stove encircled them like a sheer prayer veiling as both women brought their teacups to their lips.
Ida set her cup down and leaned on the table, studying Leah. “I’d like you to know something,” she said at last. “You comin’ into the world, the moment you did . . . well, it turned my wayward sister round right quick . . . away from the lure of worldly things. She had a change of heart even while she was expecting you. You gave her purpose to live a holy and upright life. She nursed and tended to you—with plenty of help from me—and began to seek after the Lord God and His ways.” Here she couldn’t help but sigh, remembering. “Lizzie became nearly childlike in her faith. Truly, the grace of God was upon her. She wanted to learn how to pray . . . and I taught her, just as Abram’s mother had taught me long ago.”
“So Lizzie wasn’t content with the memorized prayers of the People?”
“She had a yearning to share from her heart is the best way I can explain it. She wanted to learn to listen more to the Lord, as well.”
Leah’s eyes widened at that. “Ach, Mamma, whatever do you mean?”
She wondered how to describe the deep longing in both her heart and Lizzie’s. “I s’pose at one time or ’nother, most all of us yearn after the Lord Jesus in a way that may be difficult to understand.” She hoped her comments might whet Leah’s appetite to walk with the Lord God heavenly Father in a similar manner.
“I promised, at the time of my baptism, to uphold the Ordnung.” Leah fiddled with the oilcloth on the table before going on. “You’re not sayin’ you go beyond what the brethren teach at Preaching service in the prayers you speak of . . . are ya?”
“To honor the unwritten code of behavior amongst the People is all well and good, but it’s equally important to obey God’s Word, the Holy Bible.”
Leah looked up just then, catching Ida’s eye. “Aunt Lizzie taught me to talk to God from my heart, as she likes to say. After Jonas and I . . . after we didn’t end up getting married, when I was ever so brokenhearted, Lizzie helped pick up the pieces of my life by showing me the way to open up my spirit to the Holy One.”
“I pleaded with her to do so,” Ida admitted. “I felt this was something you and she could share—mother and daughter, ya know.”
Leah got up abruptly and came around the table.
She sat next to her and leaned her head on Ida’s shoulder. “Oh, Mamma, I don’t know what I ever did to deserve two such loving women in my life. You and Lizzie . . .” She brushed away her tears. “I’m mighty grateful . . . and I hope ya know.”
Drawn anew to Leah, she patted her girl’s face. “The way I look at it, God must’ve loved Lizzie and me a lot to give you to both of us. Such a dear one you are.”
At this Leah straightened and reached around her and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’m all the better for it, Mamma.”
“All three of us are,” Ida declared, getting up to warm her tea.
“In case you’re wonderin’, it makes no difference when it is that I find out who was my first father. I’ve decided to be patient in this and simply wait till Lizzie’s ready to share with me . . . and not before.”
You may have to wait forever on that, Ida thought but did not voice it.
Leah hurried to the cellar to help Mamma run the clothes through the wringer between Monday morning milking and breakfast. Hannah and Mary Ruth were already working in the kitchen, and Leah was glad for that. She could stay put near Mamma, aware of an extra-special closeness on this dawning of a new day, wanting to continue the conversation from last night.
“Why don’t the ministers teach us to pray the way you and Aunt Lizzie do?” Leah asked when it appeared they might be alone for a while longer.
Mamma glanced toward the stairs. “ ’Tis best you keep such things to yourself.”
“Why’s that?” She felt strangely intrigued, as if sharing something forbidden.
“The brethren need not know of this.” Mamma looked a bit worried now. “There are different ways of lookin’ at things, far as I’m concerned. If a body wants to speak directly from the heart to the Almighty—not use the rote prayers—then who’s to stop him or her?”
She nodded her head. “This happens to be one of those big issues that, sad to say, is downright niggling. Divisive, even, amongst the People.”
“Hinnerlich?”
“Oh my, ever so troublesome, jah.”
She wondered what other things Mamma might be referring to; the not knowing caused even more of an urge to question. Still, she was obedient and held her peace, trusting God to bring things to light in His own timing and way.
When lunch had been cleared away, Mamma sent Leah over to Miriam Peachey’s with a large casserole of Washday Dinner, consisting of a hearty layer of onions, an ample coating of sliced new potatoes, tomato juice, and sausages.
“Mamma heard you were under the weather,” Leah said, handing the meal to the smithy’s wife, her someday mother-in-law, Lord willing.
Miriam’s face warmed with the gesture as she accepted the tasty offering with a smile and a joyful “Denki!” then asked, “Tell me, how’s your mamma now?”
“Oh, she has her energy back and is doin’ all her regular work—and keepin’ up with Lydiann, too,” Leah assured her.
Miriam nodded her head and thanked Leah once more. “I’ll return the favor next week.”
“No need to, really. Mamma’s feelin’ wonderful-gut. Has some trouble sleepin’ at night but that’s all.” Leah turned to go, noticing Gid in his father’s blacksmith shop, running the blower, stirring up the coals to make the forge hotter. She wouldn’t bother him by going over to say a quick hello when it was obvious how occupied he was just now.
Returning home, she found herself imagining how busy Smithy Gid would be as her husband, managing his blacksmithing obligation to his father, as well as his work with Dat, which would take Gid back and forth between the Peachey and Ebersol farms. Not to mention his own work hauling and splitting wood for the cook stove and mowing and keeping things tidy outdoors, wherever he and she might end up living. She wondered if Aunt Lizzie might possibly move down to the Dawdi Haus to care for Dawdi John at some point, making it possible for Leah and Gid to live as newlyweds in the little log house half in and half out of the woods. No one had ever suggested such a thing, but she smiled at the idea, thinking how much fun it would be to get her pretty things out from her hope chest, making a home at last for herself and Gid . . . and, eventually, their children.
She wondered if Lizzie had ever stopped to think about her own future, back when she was Leah’s age.
Was she at all like me when she was young? Did she think some of the same thoughts as I do now? She tried to imagine Lizzie Brenneman wandering outside as a young girl, talking quietlike to a favorite dog—like Leah often did to companionable King—or looking up at the black night sky, speckled with bright stars, and wishing she could count them, so many there were.
Just who will I be? Leah wondered. In the future, will I be satisfied with the choices I make now? Who will I become in the eyes of the Lord, and will He be pleased with me?
Nobody knew it, but the night Leroy Stoltzfus had come into the kitchen to tell the news of Elias’s accident, Mary Ruth had felt her heart turn nearly hard as a stone. She could scarcely hear what Leroy was saying—only the words Elias died tonight had
broken through.
It was as if she had willingly stopped up her own ears somehow. She didn’t know for sure if the tuckeredout feeling she had just now was a delayed reaction to the funeral, this being the eighth day since the shocking news had come. She felt heavy inside as she headed upstairs and sat on her side of the bed, on top of the colorful handmade quilt made by Mamma and Mammi Ebersol years before.
She ought not to have been surprised when, nearly thirty minutes later, Leah tiptoed near, settled on the floor near the bed, and leaned her head against the mattress, her hand resting on Mary Ruth’s. “You can cry for Elias all ya want, but I won’t have you up here cryin’ alone.”
Tears continued to seep out of the corners of her eyes, spilling down the bridge of her nose. “Oh, I miss him so . . . I just can’t say how awful much.”
“Mary Ruth, honey . . . I believe I understand,” Leah replied.
She knows ’cause she lost Jonas . . . just not to death, thought Mary Ruth, at least glad of the latter for poor Leah. “But I can’t begin to know how you must’ve felt, Leah . . . you-know-who doin’ what she did.”
They fell quiet, the two of them there together, both acquainted with similar sorrow.
When Mary Ruth got the strength to speak again, it was a whisper. “Would you help me talk to Dat ’bout getting my education? He’s ever so fired up these days.”
A flicker of a frown creased Leah’s brow. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Please, sister? See if you can gain some ground for me.”
Leah sighed. “All right, I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You’ll go and speak to him, then?” She wanted to get up, she felt that much encouraged, but she sat there without moving, still exhausted.
“I’ll do what I’m able.” This was Leah’s promise to her.
“That’s ever so gut and I’m grateful.” She gripped Leah’s hand. “I don’t like shouting matches,” she declared. “Not one little bit.”
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