“Oh, Mamma . . . you needn’t worry over that just now. Beseech the Lord God to let you live instead.”
Ida felt she might be left hanging in the balance between earth and heaven if she did not know what was to become of her little ones. “Promise me this thing?”
Leah paused; she was silent for too long. Then slowly she said, “I promise, jah . . . to look after Abe, and I’ll care for Lydiann till she’s grown, Mamma.” Leah whispered the words, kissing her face repeatedly. “But only if need be.”
Little Abe . . . Lydiann. You’ll be greatly loved with Leah. Oh, be safe . . .
The power in the dying was too strong to oppose, yet she labored against it—an unmistakable desire kept her alive and living—till that “acceptable time.”
Her baby nursed, making the familiar sucking sounds she cherished. Stay alive, she told herself. Let little Abe have this important start.
Annie Mae touched her wrist, checking her pulse again. She heard muffled words . . . fading fast away. “I’m so sorry, my sister and friend. May the Lord be with you.”
Yet again Ida was keenly aware of her mother’s voice . . . closer, it seemed, than before. She felt the cool touch of her mamma’s gentle hand, guiding her along. She felt more than she could see, vividly aware of the cross, Jesus’ sacrifice made on Calvary’s hill for her sins, for all humanity . . . for the People lost in a web of rules and tradition. For her family, for young Lydiann, and now her only son . . . Abe.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, yet she was too weak to brush them away. Leah was seeing to that, darling girl. Lizzie’s first and only child, here, caring for her in these fragile moments . . . connected to Ida as closely in death as Sadie had been in life. Leah, filling her elder sister’s shoes. Beautiful Leah, inside and out.
Sadie . . . share your burdens with the Lord Jesus. She breathed the prayer.
The babe in her arms went limp, resting . . . full of life-giving sustenance . . . for now. He would sleep soundly, she knew.
Bless this child, Lord. Make him a blessing all of his days. . . .
“I’ll help you go to Jesus, Mamma,” Leah said, wet face against her own.
“Tell Mary Ruth I love her . . . that I wish . . .”
“Jah, Mamma, I will. And I’ll tell Hannah, too.”
“But Mary . . . ach—” “Mary Ruth knows, Mamma. She’s known all along.”
Abram whispered trembling words in her ear.
“Ida . . . dear wife of mine.”
“Oh, Abram . . . be there. When the Lord . . . calls you, be ready.” She felt his strong arms beneath her, intertwined with Leah’s. “I’ll be . . . waitin’ . . .”
Breathing her last, she relinquished her grasp on the mortal and utterly gave in to overwhelming love, the purest discerning of it. The Lord Jesus was present, standing next to her own mamma, His nail-pierced hands extended to her. “Welcome home, child,” she heard ever so clearly.
And all was well.
Chapter Twenty
More crucial than Leah sitting through the solemn two-day wake with Miriam Peachey and dozens of Ebersol and Brenneman relatives was planning how to care for and feed newborn Abe, keeping her promise to Mamma hour by hour.
She followed Aunt Lizzie’s suggestion and gave the baby a small bottle of sugar water the first full day. On the second day she fed him goat’s milk diluted with sterile well water, purchased from a meticulous family who shaved their goats for exceptional cleanliness and flavor. Tiny Abe took to it with much eagerness, as if to say, I’m mighty hungry for life!
Leah felt honored to look after Abe and Lydiann, tending to them as she might have her own wee ones. She suppressed sorrowful tears during the daylight hours, only succumbing to deepest grief in the privacy of her room after nightfall.
The raw memory of her helplessness and the utter desperation of Mamma’s final moments distracted Leah in all her domestic and, now, motherly duties. She would never forget the earnest plea in her mother’s sunken eyes, as if calling out to be surrounded by their love.
Ever so near. As close as Leah had ever dared to be, paying no mind to the midwife or Dat when she followed her heart and slipped into the deathbed alongside Mamma. She had felt irresistibly pulled to do so, wanting to help her beloved mother die peacefully.
On the day of the funeral Leah sat with Aunt Lizzie and the other women folk and raised her voice in song as best she could, singing the old familiar Ausbund hymns with over two hundred souls gathered in their home. She pondered the strength it would take to carry out her new role. I must be strong today, she thought, refusing to cry as she held Lydiann on her lap while Abe slept soundly upstairs in his cradle.
The ache in her throat threatened to choke her midway through the second long sermon. She’d spotted the back of Smithy Gid’s head just now, and the unexpected mission of raising Mamma’s babies weighed heavily on her mind, accompanied by her great sorrow at their loss. The future, indeed, seemed to stretch beyond her reach.
My help cometh from the Lord, she reminded herself. Please let it be so, O God.
As the service drew to a close and the People began making their traditional line to await the viewing, she was keenly aware of her own weakened spirit. It was painfully obvious to her that Peter and Fannie Mast and their family had not cared enough to attend Mamma’s funeral service. The news would have easily traveled to their ears over in Grasshopper Level, she knew; nonetheless, far as Leah could tell, Mamma’s cousins were nowhere to be seen today. She did not crane her neck in hopes of finding them.
With steadfast heart, she squared her shoulders in reliance upon God, clinging to the hope that one day, Lord willing, the two families might somehow be reunited.
In the week that followed Mamma’s death, Leah knelt at her bedside at dawn and dusk, calling on the Lord God heavenly Father for help and strength. But when Hannah came privately to confide her most secret concern, Leah felt nearly powerless to know what to say.
“I hesitate to speak my heart on this,” Hannah began, her face ashen as she stood against the bedroom door. “Yet I must say it, or I fear I’ll burst apart.”
Leah reached for her sister’s cold hands. “Don’t mince words . . . please, what is it?”
“Don’t know how to put this, really.”
“Start with a deep breath. It’ll come out better that way.”
Hannah began again, faltering a bit. “Could it be . . . do ya think Mary Ruth’s leavin’ home was partly the cause of Mamma dyin’?” she asked. “Did Dat’s wrath cause mortal trauma in our mother?”
Honestly Leah didn’t think so—at least she didn’t want to think such a thing. Poor sorrowful Dat needed their kindness, not their finger-pointing. Besides, Mamma had struggled all during this pregnancy, Leah reminded Hannah. “She truly did.”
When Leah hinted of Hannah’s worries to Lizzie, her aunt was adamant in her response. “Seems to me Abram has a mighty gut chance to redeem himself by askin’ Mary Ruth back home. That’s what I think.”
Leah was surprised. “Do you mean to say you think Dat would actually do that?”
Lizzie stood at the cook stove, wearing her long black apron over a purple cape dress. “Well, why not? ’Tis a mighty big man who looks back on a bad decision and has a hankerin’ to make things right.”
Aunt Lizzie had hit the nail smack-dab on the head. But just who among them was going to bring this up to Dat? Leah shivered a little, contemplating the conflict that was sure to arise.
Holding Abe, who was tightly swaddled in a soft blanket, she went to sit at the table next to Lydiann. She watched as her little sister made broad red crayon strokes on the paper.
“Where’s my mamma?” Lydiann looked up at her with big blue eyes.
Right then she thought of Sadie’s poor baby, gone to heaven. All those months of her sister’s deep grief, her loss . . . never having held her son close as Mamma had so tenderly before her death.
“Our mamma’s in heaven.” Leah forced a smile.
“I want her here,” Lydiann said, making a round circle with her crayon.
Leah sighed. This was ever so difficult, yet she must be strong for her youngest sister. “I know, dear one. I miss Mamma, too.”
Lydiann put down her crayon and leaned against Leah.
Leah signaled for Aunt Lizzie to take tiny Abe, then lifted Lydiann up onto her lap. She rocked her gently and whispered, “I’ll be your second mamma for as long as you need me.”
This brought a little smile to Lydiann’s face, though Leah didn’t know how much Lydiann comprehended.
Turning, Lydiann clung to her, and Leah rose with the toddler still wrapped in her arms and carried her into the front room. From the window, she drank in the white splendor of snow and ice . . . the stark blackness of tall trees against a merciless gray sky.
The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. She thought of one of Mamma’s favorite psalms.
Then she whispered a promise, “We’ll have us a happy life, dear one.”
“Happy . . . with Mamma Leah.” Lydiann snuggled hard against her.
She hummed a hymn and pondered the future. Just how would the Lord aid her efforts? She knew not the answer. She had only to listen to God’s voice one day at a time. I must not fear the morrow. . . .
With a kiss on the head, she put Lydiann down, and the two of them wandered back to the kitchen.
Abe slept in his cradle not far from the cook stove, where Aunt Lizzie was frying up some chicken.
“There’s something I’ve been thinking ’bout.” Lizzie’s voice startled her.
“What’s that?” Leah turned slightly, watching Mamma’s sister at the stove.
“You oughta get out some this week. Goodness’ sake, for a girl who nearly grew up outdoors—” “It’s all right, really ’tis. Dat’s got himself two hired hands, so I’m not much needed outside anymore. Besides, Hannah’s right happy to help Dat some these days, seems to me.” She stared down at Abe’s smooth forehead, his light tuft of hair. Liewi Boppli . . . “As for me, I like bein’ with these beloved babies.”
“Smithy Gid won’t be able to help Abram near as much once the two of you get hitched, ain’t so?” Aunt Lizzie was looking down at the frying pan—and rightly so. “Don’t ya go sayin’ you ain’t marryin’ him . . . I see how the two of you look at each other.”
Leah said nothing. Let Aunt Lizzie say what she wanted. Truth was, she needed to talk to her beau here before too long—needed to share with him the important promise she’d made to Mamma. Pledges, nay, even covenants made to a dying parent could not be taken lightly. She would keep her word and raise Lydiann and Abe as her own. But the more she thought on it, the more the problem increased in her heart and mind. She did not want to hurt Gid, nor herself by parting ways with the man who planned to marry her. Yet she had no idea how to make Mamma’s wishes come to pass in light of that.
To soothe herself, she reached down into the cradle and picked up Abe, enjoying his sweetness tucked so close to heart. What am I to do?
Following the suppertime meal, Dat took Leah aside before evening prayers. “I know you have your hands busy with the little ones, but when you have a breather tomorrow, could you begin sorting through your mother’s things?” he asked, puffy eyes betraying his mournful spirit.
She suspected Dat privately grieved out in the barn, when he was alone with the animals and his somber thoughts, remembering all the years spent as his wife’s confidant and lover.
“Jah, I’ll see to it, Dat, first thing tomorrow.” She touched his arm gently. “You must know . . . I miss Mamma, too. Something awful.”
He nodded quickly, then straightened and went to the corner cupboard, where he picked up the big German Bible. His voice sounded dreadful this night, a husky monotone. She knew his heart was not in the reading of God’s Word.
First, last, and foremost, Leah thought of herself as a compliant sort; except for the years given to her dream of marrying Jonas Mast, she had generally obeyed her father’s bidding. But she felt rather bold when Dat asked her not only to go through Mamma’s personal effects but to “discard everything but her old Bible . . . and her clothing, which can be given away to friends and older relatives.” She spoke up, telling Dat there might be certain other things she or the twins might wish to save, perhaps as keepsakes. But observing the unyielding look in Dat’s swollen eyes, she held her peace and said no more.
The night of Mamma’s passing, she and Hannah had moved both Lydiann’s little bed and Abe’s cradle into Hannah’s and Leah’s respective bedrooms. At night Leah was comforted by the soft sounds of Abe’s breathing as she tucked him in, and his gurgling as she fed him every three hours or so around the clock. This arrangement also made it possible for Dat to have himself a good night’s sleep—if he was able. Thankfully Abe wasn’t nearly as fussy as Lydiann had been during her infancy. For this Leah was glad, not so much for herself as for poor Dat, who was obviously aging with each passing day. Without Mamma to seemingly soften his harsher side, Leah worried he might swiftly grow into a cranky old man.
After Dat rose early the next morning, Leah got up and checked on Abe, who slept soundly, then hurried to do the difficult work of sorting through her mother’s clothing. She pulled out one drawer after another, folding Mamma’s things and making small piles on the bed. Opening the bottom drawer, she discovered a woolen gray scarf and matching knitted mittens, something she hadn’t seen Mamma wear in the longest time. She must’ve made these long ago, when Dat was courting her.
Lovingly, Leah slipped her own hands into the scratchy mittens and wrapped the long scarf about her neck, tears clouding her vision. Would Dat rethink his desire to dispose of these precious things? But no. Best to simply give the scarf and mittens to Miriam Peachey or another of Mamma’s friends, what with Dat behaving somewhat crossly these days. Better yet, she could slip them to Aunt Lizzie for safekeeping; that way they could ultimately remain in the family.
She didn’t know if she ought to be thinking that way, yet she questioned Dat’s demand to discard all that had belonged to their darling mother. She felt even more strongly when her hands discovered a grouping of many letters from Cousin Fannie written to Mamma over the years. And another letter hidden away, farther back in the drawer—this one with Sadie’s handwriting clearly on the envelope.
“What’s this?” she said aloud.
Did Mamma go against the bishop and keep one of Sadie’s early letters?
She could not stop looking at the postmark. She had to know.
Going to the dresser, she held the letter under the gas lamp and saw it had been sent in late December of 1947, not so long after Bishop Bontrager decreed Sadie’s letters be returned unopened. Dat had laid down the law, as well, saying it was imperative to follow the “man of God on the matter of the shun.”
Why would Mamma disregard both the bishop’s and Dat’s final word on this?
Leah battled right and wrong, holding the envelope, turning it over and noticing it was open already. Oh, she groaned inwardly. I have to know what Sadie was writing to Mamma.
Hastily she stopped herself and pushed it back, closing the drawer soundly. The notion that Mamma might have been also writing to Sadie crossed her mind. If so, did that mean Mamma’s soul was hanging in eternal balance? Had her spirit gone to the Lord God in heaven or not? She shuddered to think Mamma would willingly disobey the Ordnung and risk her everlasting reward. Could it have been a misunderstanding that allowed this letter to find its way into Mamma’s drawer?
She felt she knew her mother through and through—Mamma would have confessed such a thing before passing from death unto life. Surely if Mamma viewed keeping and reading Sadie’s letter as a sin, she would never have disobeyed. Niemols!
Coming to this conclusion, Leah decided if Mamma could read the letter and hide it away—and die peacefully—then why couldn’t she read it, too? Taking a deep breath, she reopened the drawer and reached for the letter, hurr
ying out of Dat’s bedroom to her own. There she put it away in her bureau, where it would remain till she could take her time to read it— to savor and pore over every word and phrase, hoping for some clue as to what on earth had happened between Jonas and herself.
Chapter Twenty-One
You oughta reconsider this, Abram.” Lizzie was glad to have cornered him in the milk house. “Mary Ruth is your daughter!”
“You have no right to order me around!”
She inhaled and held her breath in, then let the words come gushing out. “Ain’t it awful clear you were wrong ’bout Mary Ruth?”
His face reddened. “Don’t go sayin’ I’m responsible for Ida’s death ’cause of Mary Ruth’s leaving home. Don’tcha dare.”
Sighing, she said more softly now, “Seems I don’t have to, now, do I?”
He slumped and went to the window, looking out through the streaked old glass. “I don’t know how a thing like this—Mary Ruth’s stubbornness and goin’ to live with Englishers—can happen to God-fearin’ folk like us.”
She was more careful in choosing her words this time. “We let the bishop think for all of us, that’s how. The preachers and Bishop Bontrager tell you how to feel ’bout your own dear ones . . . your own Mary Ruth.”
Abram muttered something about ministers being chosen—ordained by God. But when he began to cough, he couldn’t seem to quit, and she worried he might vomit, so distraught he was.
“I’ll leave you be,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you so.”
“You best be goin’ indoors. Check on that son of mine,” Abram said it low but decisively.
He needed some time alone, probably, out here where he sometimes wept so loudly she wondered if he might be making himself ill. But then she, too, was acquainted with such dreadful sadness. Anyone who had lived as long as either she or Abram knew full well the pain of disappointment. She wished she might say he was merely passing through this life, that this old earth was not his eternal home and the treasures of truth were laid up in Glory for him—for all of them. We’ve got our eyes fixed on what’s all around us, she thought. Mistakenly so.
The Sacrifice Page 16