The Sacrifice

by Beverly Lewis

  “Jah, I’ll look in on Abe, but Leah’s doing a right gut job of taking care of him and Lydiann.” She turned to leave, glad to have sobbed away her initial grief, having cried herself to sleep plenty of nights following her sister’s funeral. To suffer was a part of living; how well she knew it. Best to simply move on, make the best of life, and trust the Lord, as she had learned to do. And love what family they had left.

  Hannah sat in her bedroom with her diary in her lap while Lydiann napped on the side of the bed where Mary Ruth had always slept.

  With pen in hand, she began to write, reliving the night of Mamma’s death.

  Tuesday, January 3, 1950

  Dear Diary,

  One week and one day have passed since Mamma breathed her last. For me it is the worst pain I’ve known. I wish I’d agreed to Dan Nolt’s suggestion—calling in Dr. Schwartz might have spared Mamma’s life. I feel fairly responsible, but I have shared this with no one. If only I had given a simple nod of my head that night at the Nolts’ front door! Oh, what a difference a single choice might have made.

  Leah says Mamma’s passing was serene, that she did not seem to fight the final throes of death but embraced it, once she knew Abe was healthy and had cuddled him near. It breaks my heart that my baby brother will never know our mother.

  The night Mamma died, I rode to get Mary Ruth to bring her home with me, thinking it necessary. Dat must not have thought so, for he met us in the hallway just outside their bedroom door. When he greeted me but did not speak to Mary Ruth—not at first—it pained me nearly as much as to think of Mamma struggling terribly in childbirth. Mary Ruth spoke up, though, inquiring of Mamma’s condition . . . and the unborn babe’s. And she offered a heartfelt apology for having spoken disrespectfully to Dat prior to his sending her away.

  Obviously bewildered, Dat said nothing about my fetching Mary Ruth to the house. Honestly I’d hoped he might’ve opened his arms to her and welcomed her back. But such was not the case, and we stood quietly, tears glistening, as Mamma’s cries became fainter.

  If Dat doesn’t feel he caused Mamma great distress in the last days of her carrying wee Abe, I don’t understand. Truly, the upset between him and Mary Ruth must have played some part. If my twin still lived here, she would surely have her say; then again, maybe not. Things are awful tense when it comes to Mary Ruth claiming salvation “full and free” while living under a worldly roof . . . not to mention her membership at an English church.

  All that aside, I’m beginning to wonder if Ezra will ever attend another singing. He doesn’t come to Preaching anymore, either. What’s to become of him? I’ve told no one this, but I saw him on Main Street in Strasburg recently when I went to deliver more embroidered hankies to Frances Brubaker at her consignment shop. Ezra was dressed in blue jeans and had his hair cut like an Englisher—and was smoking a cigarette!

  I worry for his dear mother. What she must be going through, losing two sons: Elias to death and Ezra to the world—the flesh and the devil. If Ezra doesn’t soon get back on the right path, he’ll be in danger of the shun, just as Sadie was.

  Along with the guilt I bear for Mamma’s death, I also wish to goodness I’d stuck my neck out and talked to her about how to be ready to meet one’s Maker. I could kick myself, because I missed my chance forever. Who can I ever share my heart with now?

  Oh, I fear I might worry myself sick, and I might, too, if Dat didn’t need me helping with the milking and other outdoor chores. Such work helps me a lot, and I do enjoy working alongside Smithy Gid. He has a right gentle way, and it’ll be ever so nice when he marries into our family, probably next year, I’d guess. Leah deserves some happiness, and, at long last, I’ll have me a big brother. I ought to be counting my blessings more, but it’s hard these days. What an awful way to welcome a new year with Mamma gone from us.

  Each day I observe Leah going about her responsibilities—rising before dawn to cook breakfast and on her feet all day long, up several times in the night with Abe. A shining example, for certain. Never does she complain, and I know she must be tuckered out each and every night as we head upstairs to bed. When I can, I help her with Lydiann, but Leah’s fulfilling a labor of love. Not only is she a wonderfulgood big sister to Abe and Lydiann, she is becoming a tender and loving mamma to them, too. The light in her hazel eyes when she tends to Abe, especially, gives me hope during these dark sad days.

  Sorrowfully,

  Hannah

  Hours before supper Leah hurried out to the barn and found Dat sweeping, looking somewhat dazed. Her heart went out to him, and she wondered if she ought to wait to speak with him later, giving him more time to grieve before she unburdened her soul.

  She started to turn to leave when Dat stopped his sweeping. “Somethin’ on your mind, daughter?”

  She contemplated simply leaving him be but found herself nodding. “Jah,” she said slowly. “I was thinkin’ I best be talkin’ to Gid ’bout my promise to Mamma. But I wanted to speak to you first.”

  “Well, what’s to say?”

  Leah went on to tell him she assumed Smithy Gid would urge they now marry quickly, merely going before Preacher Yoder to make their lifelong promises to God and each other. “I’m fairly sure he’ll offer to help me raise Lydiann and Abe . . . the two of us, as a family.” She couldn’t help but wonder how Dat would feel, this coming from her.

  “Gid’s a right fine man,” Dat began, “but I’ll be raisin’ my children myself, and no two ways ’bout it.”

  She wasn’t surprised. Dat was fiercely possessive when it came to his family.

  “I say you should go ahead with plans to marry Gid when the time comes and let Lizzie or Hannah look after Abe and Lydiann here.”

  “But Mamma asked me to raise them.”

  Dat sighed loudly. “Your mamma was awful befuddled with the pain of childbirth. I daresay she’d never expect ya to keep such a promise. Besides, you made your betrothal vow to Gid before the one to Mamma, ain’t so?” At that he set about pushing hard his wide broom again, making a rhythmic swooshing sound.

  Mamma knew my heart, thought Leah. She trusted me to do the right thing for Abe and Lydiann . . . befuddled or not.

  Before supper Leah hurried over to the blacksmith’s shop on the Peacheys’ property. She found Smithy Gid and his father both shoeing horses, each mare facing the cement wall. The wide plank-board flooring was dry, having been swept free of snow and other debris. Gid chewed gum as he worked, not tobacco as his father often did, and wore a tan leather apron that covered his legs down to his ankles and mischdich black work boots—covered with manure. Unaware she was standing in the corner observing him, he spoke quietly, even gently, to the mare, bringing the animal’s leg up between his own, clamping his thighs against it as he positioned the new shoe, hot from the forge, with the end of a rasp. Gid’s hair was disheveled as he leaned over, his toes pointing in slightly to better keep his balance.

  Glancing at the square-shaped brick forge, she saw the opening, where the blower kept the cinders hot. Smithy Peachey was almost too busy juggling his many Amish clients—and occasionally an Old Order Mennonite customer, too—most of them on an eight-week schedule. Because of this, his father sought out Gid’s help several days a week, and Leah was fairly certain he was hoping to pass on his livelihood to his only son.

  She waited to let him know she was present till Gid was finished with all four hooves and had accepted the exact amount of money from the farmer. Gid waved a cheerful farewell as Old Jonathan Lapp led the animal away, an obvious shine on the new horseshoes. The older man hitched his mare to a long sleigh and was gone.

  While Gid organized the long tongs, hoof nippers, rasp, and other smithing tools, she moved out of the shadows and, coughing a little so as not to startle him, said, “Hullo, Smithy Gid.”

  “There ya are, girl. How’re you today?” His grin was as infectious as ever, and she hoped for a lull between customers.

  “Do ya have time to talk?” she asked.
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  “Why, sure. Always have plenty-a time for my girl.” He removed his heavy leather blacksmithing apron and brushed his hands off on his trousers; then he went to get his work coat, which hung on a hook near the wide door, and slipped it on. “Let’s walk a bit.” Smiling, he reached for her hand and rubbed it between his own.

  “I need to tell you something, Gid,” she began. “Mamma asked me to raise her babies . . . as she lay dyin’, and I said I would.”

  Smithy Gid nodded his head as if he’d suspected as much.

  “I can’t go back on my word,” she said. “I wouldn’t even if I could.”

  “No . . . no, you oughtn’t be thinkin’ thataway.” He continued. “We could go to the preacher and have us a short wedding as soon as this weekend, if you’d want to. You and I could live in my folks’ empty Dawdi Haus, bring up the little ones there as our own.”

  She figured he’d suggest that. “Just today I talked to Dat ’bout this, and he wants to do his part raising Lydiann and Abe.”

  He turned and gazed at her. “Surely ya know I would do whatever it took to make ya my bride.” There was a strange hesitancy in his voice. “But, Leah, I want to have my own family with you . . . make a home separate from our parents. Don’t you?”

  “ ’Course I do, but things have changed now since Mamma died.” Breathing deeply, she stared ahead at Blackbird Pond, where they’d played as youngsters. “I just . . .” She felt she couldn’t go on.

  “What is it, dear?”

  She felt his arms around her unexpectedly. “Living apart from Abe and Lydiann just doesn’t fit with my promise to Mamma.”

  “But we’re meant for each other,” he broke in, fervor in his words. “I love ya so.”

  She tried not to cry. “Honestly I don’t know what to do,” she said softly. She didn’t tell him she’d moved Abe’s cradle into her own bedroom, that she knew clearly her infant brother had bonded with her . . . that she couldn’t imagine passing the responsibility nor the maternal love off to either Aunt Lizzie or Hannah, as Dat had suggested.

  “I’ve waited this long for ya, Leah. Surely I can get Abram to see the light—to let us raise his little ones in our own house.”

  “My father won’t change his mind on this,” she replied sadly. “I know that for sure.”

  They clung fast to each other, there beneath the lone willow tree, where the recent snow weighed down each slender branch and the pond was frozen over rock hard. Where they, their sisters, and parents had ice skated, built bonfires on the shore, and played hockey on sunny winter days.

  “How can I let you go?” Gid caressed her face. “I’d be crazy to.”

  “Oh, Gid,” her voice trembled.

  “There must be some other way.”

  “Surely there is,” she whispered. “Surely.”

  Sitting at the supper table, Gid stared hopelessly at the meat loaf, marbled mashed potatoes, and scalloped asparagus. He could hardly bring himself to pick up the serving dishes when they were passed.

  “Something botherin’ you, son?” Mamma eyed him curiously.

  He would have to make himself eat. There was no sharing his and Leah’s problem tonight. Romantic difficulties were never spoken of to parents, though at times, he felt such a tradition was to an extent ridiculous, especially when his older and wiser father might have some powerful-good advice to offer.

  Somehow or other, something had to give. If it meant talking privately with Abram, he would. He couldn’t simply let his engagement to Leah come to an end. Nothing must be permitted to put a wedge between them . . . not even a dying mother’s plea!

  Robert Schwartz paced the college corridor, eager for posted results of a pre-Christmas theology exam. He recoiled at the memory of both Thanksgiving and Christmas: Elias Stoltzfus’s death . . . and Derek’s surprise visit. Still, the Plain young man’s passing had caused a tremendous religious stir among Elias’s own people. God had reached down in goodness and grace, turning the tragedy into a spiritual victory.

  Robert wished he could say the same of his brother’s brief return home. Christmas Day had been a far cry from his boyhood memories of baked-ham dinners and laughter as the family gathered to decorate the tree on Christmas Eves. Derek had been not only irritable but dreadfully sullen after coming home from a “long walk,” as he’d put it, and no amount of persuading on either Dad’s or Mother’s part could bring him around. He’d wanted “something strong to drink” when he stormed back into the house. After not having seen him for much of the afternoon, their parents spent a miserable evening waiting for the prodigal to return, which did not happen until long past midnight.

  Robert had been reluctant to leave Dad and Mother alone, but he wanted to get away and pray for a time. Following supper, he drove to Quarryville and found solace in the stillness of the vacant church, pleading for God’s help on behalf of his lost brother . . . and the grieving Amish family who had suffered the greatest loss of all.

  Leah could think of nothing else but her talks with both Dat and Gid as she dressed Abe in his tiny pajamas, kissing each little hand as she guided it through the sleeve opening. She was truly glad for Hannah’s offer to help with combing Lydiann’s hair and getting her ready for bed, though she knew dear Hannah had her share of things to do in the kitchen and elsewhere. She has a knack for sensing my mood, Leah thought, grateful for Hannah and missing her other sisters terribly.

  The house feels too empty, she pondered, carrying Abe downstairs to warm his milk bottle. Having Smithy Gid live here surely would fill up the place . . . and Dat wouldn’t be so outnumbered.

  Yet she’d seen the look of disappointment in Gid’s eyes, and she knew she couldn’t take away his rightful place as head of his household. Besides, their own babies would most likely come along soon enough, and how complicated would it be for Gid to assume the fatherly role for his flesh-and-blood children but not for Lydiann and Abe? The problem nagged at her till she was altogether weary of it.

  As soon as Abe was nestled in his cradle and asleep, Leah closed the bedroom door and went to the bureau. Taking out Sadie’s letter to Mamma, she curled up on the bed and hugged her sister’s former pillow as she read.

  December 15, 1947

  Dearest Mamma,

  I hope at least one of the letters I’ve written ends up being read by you eventually. Christmas is coming soon and the Mellinger children are ever so happy. David and Vera’s new baby is already a month old and as sweet as can be.

  Jonas loves playing with the little ones, maybe more so than some young men I know. He’s been so kind to me, Mamma—you just don’t know. I think it’s because he wants things to turn out well for me. I suppose I should tell you that I broke down one night and cried out my woes to him—about having a baby out of wedlock with an Englisher and all. He’d offered to go walking with me after supper, and I just couldn’t keep the truth inside any longer. You probably wonder how I could tell him such a thing, especially when I wanted to keep it a secret from everyone else back home.

  When all was said and done, I did the right thing by sharing with Jonas that I was “damaged goods.” He said he wanted to help me, felt sorry for me . . . wanted to make sure I was cared for. That I should be looked after by a kind and good husband. I thought he meant himself . . . and he did. He said he would marry me then and there.

  Of course, I argued it might be too soon, what with his having been in love with Leah and engaged and all, but he insisted we get married following my six-week Proving time. We talked a lot about that, too, and how the brethren here seemed to understand my plight, not sharing my sinful past with the People. Honestly I felt the Lord God must be looking out for my sin-weary soul. So in my next letter to you, I’ll be writing to say I am a happily married woman. Jonas’s Sadie, I’ll be. I know you don’t approve, Mamma, but I had to share these things with you.

  I trust you, Dat, and Aunt Lizzie are all right. Don’t cry for me, Mamma. God has a way of leading wayward souls to Him. Write to me again,
please? I miss you so . . . and my sisters, too.

  I know you can’t tell Dat or anyone else in the family how much I love them—if you read this letter, that is—but I surely do. I hope there might come a day when we will see each other again face-to-face.

  All my love,

  Your firstborn, Sadie

  Holding the letter, Leah stared at it, unseeing. The welcoming curve of the familiar handwriting blurred all too quickly. Sadie had shared her sinful ways with Jonas, as well as the news of her stillborn baby, after having resisted doing so to the brethren here, when and where it was most necessary. How was it so easy for her to do that in Ohio? Had she fallen for Jonas’s dear smile, his gentle eyes?

  Not wanting to dwell on this, she let her angry tears flow freely, pushing the pillow aside. Had Sadie somehow used her wicked past to purposely play on Jonas’s sympathy, kind and compassionate man that he was? My sister dared to combine her sin with yet another— stealing my beloved beau! How could she?

  Reaching over, she pulled Sadie’s pillow toward her and rose, carrying it with her. She thought of pushing it under the bed where cobwebs and clumps of dust formed faster than she could keep up, especially now that she was busy caring for a newborn, as well as a two-and-a-half-year-old. Beneath the bed was a good idea, because she would not have to look at the pillow hidden there, recalling the nights she and Sadie had shared their fondest hopes and dreams, lying side by side, their heads resting happily on their pillows.

  But no, she’d had enough of those memories. Breathing hard, Leah carried the pillow all the way downstairs to the cold cellar, where she stuffed it deep into the heart of Sadie’s old hope chest, giving it a good solid pounding before closing the lid. I never want to see this again!

  With that she felt she was also willing to live out her whole life long without ever seeing Sadie again.

  Back upstairs, she took the letter and began to rip it into as many as pieces as her anger would allow. I do this for poor Mamma, she thought, giving in to a rising resentment she’d thought she had long put to rest. And this is for Dat and Aunt Lizzie . . . for Hannah and Mary Ruth . . . Lydiann and Abe.