The Sacrifice

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by Beverly Lewis


  Leah could not simply stand there and overhear the truth of the rhymed verse, spoken so clearly by her young charge. Honestly, she couldn’t help herself; she smiled. Quickly pushing the wood into the belly of the stove, she hurried to Lydiann’s side. “God’s mercies are new every morning, ain’t so?” she found herself saying as she slipped her arm around her.

  Looking up at her with shining eyes, Lydiann said, “You must’ve heard me sayin’ my poem, Mamma.”

  “Indeed I did, and I hope you never forget those perty words, ’cause they’re ever so true.” Leah’s heart was filled anew with love for her dear ones. She kissed her girl’s forehead and rose to make pancakes, eager for this shining new day.

  Epilogue

  It’s nearly Christmastide again, and Hannah continues to worry about her new little one coming so close to Abe’s seventh birthday—Mamma’s going-to-Glory date. I wish she would trust the Good Lord more. Fortunately Sadie’s homecoming has seemed to help Hannah some. Actually, all of us are better in spirit since Sadie’s return to Gobbler’s Knob.

  Dat and I had a much-needed talk following her return. Both hurt and befuddled, I expressed my disappointment over the role he had played in Jonas’s and my breakup. His keen desire for Smithy Gid “to have his chance” was the culprit . . . the one and only motivation for my father’s deception. Ever so adamant about my choice of a mate, he sadly shared with me that he had lost his head to dogged aspiration, and one wrong turn had simply led to another. In the end, Dat pleaded my pardon, and I surrendered to his open arms, with a clearer picture of the past. Some might say I have every right to carry a grudge, but an unforgiving spirit eventually destroys the soul, and I have better things to do.

  This week Dat and Smithy Peachey are out chopping wood with a group of other men, filling up the woodsheds round Gobbler’s Knob while the women folk have been swapping dozens of cookies and recipes, everything from snowballs and coconut cookies to snickerdoodles and whoopie pies.

  I try never to think of Jonas any longer. Knowing him, he’s happily married and busy with his carpentry work, with plenty of little mouths to feed. I have to admit I’m glad he didn’t end up with Sadie, because then, who knows, he might’ve been helping to build that silo, same as Harvey Hochstetler was the day he died. Who’s to know really, except the Lord. He knows the end from the beginning and sees Jonas Mast and his dear ones wherever they are. ’Tis not for me to ponder.

  The gray pallor of grief has flown away; I know this to be true. There was a spring in my step early this morning as I donned my boots and trudged through the snow to scatter feed for the small birds that stay with us during winter. While out in the crisp air, I noticed the hydrangea bushes bare against the side of the house. How Mamma loved their colorful summertime clusters! Yet each autumn they shed their pretty pink blossoms, and next year’s buds lie dormant on the bough, waiting to burst forth and bloom again.

  As for Aunt Lizzie’s remark to me in the woods, I’m making a conscious effort to keep my eyes off myself and what I had viewed as a rather bleak future as a maidel, once Lydiann and Abe are grown, that is. I’m looking more compassionately on Sadie—helping her walk through yet another Proving because of our severe bishop. He’s setting her up as an example for other young people, just as she always worried he would.

  Preacher Yoder’s death left a mighty big hole in our midst. We had ordination for the new minister back in October, a week following Sadie’s kneeling confession. The divine selection—the lot—fell on Smithy Gid, so he’s become Preacher Peachey now, which gets Lydiann’s tongue tied up at times. I told her to simply call him Brother Gid, and she does.

  Dat’s standing up more and more to the bishop and beginning to talk to the Lord on his own, is what Aunt Lizzie tells me. She and Dat still go round and round sometimes, fussing over the least things. I guess she feels she must keep Mamma’s beliefs alive with her own voice.

  Yesterday Abe came bouncing home from school with a Scripture verse on his lips. “ ‘Be not conformed to this world,’ ” he said, eyes big as buttons. To which Sadie nodded her head, genuinely in agreement. Her motto these days, and she tells it to the children every other minute seems to me, is “ ‘For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life.’ ” Come spring and the first song of the robin, I will go in search of the honey locust tree. I’ll take Lydiann and Abe along and introduce them to the beauty and the tranquility of the deep forest—make some new memories. And when berry-picking time creeps up on us again, we’ll go and pick a pail of juicy ripe strawberries and bake some strawberry-rhubarb pies for no other reason than that they taste so wonderful-gut. After all, desserts are supposed to be plenty sweet.

  Lately I find myself staring far less at the night sky, contemplating the number of stars, than I do counting the smiles on Lydiann’s and Abe’s faces, the dear ones Mamma gave to me. Providence, some might say. I call it love, plain and simple.

  Acknowledgments

  I offer heartfelt thanks to each research assistant and prayer partner, for each helpful encounter, and for each wonderful person who gave expert advice in the thrilling journey-mission of writing this book.

  Fondly I think of Eli and Vesta Hochstetler of Berlin, Ohio, who opened their hearts and delightful bookstore to me last fall, and who drove me to visit a working blacksmith shop deep in Amish country. Thank you! Great appreciation also goes to the young Amish smithy who gave a crash course in the art of shoeing horses.

  Hank and Ruth Hershberger were a tremendous help, inviting me to their lovely Sugar Creek home and answering numerous questions, including Amish ins and outs of “going on a lark” and “pest hunts.” I am truly grateful!

  Monk and Marijane Troyer discovered information regarding the horse disease the “strangles,” as well as other vital information. Thanks for inviting me to a joyful evening of food and fellowship with your newlywed son and daughter-in-law. I enjoyed every minute of Monk’s storytelling, as well.

  My thanks to Sandi Heisler, who graciously offered medical information regarding home births and midwives.

  A big thank-you to Aleta Hirschberg and Iris Jones, my Kansas aunties, who shared their memories of Saturday-night baths in a large galvanized tub. And to Priscilla Stoltzfus, who helped with many Amishrelated questions.

  As always, to my devoted friends in Lancaster County Amish country who help with research but who wish to remain anonymous . . . I am forever indebted. May the Lord bless each of you abundantly!

  I am so appreciative of my publisher, Gary Johnson, whose wit and wisdom brighten our days, and whose ongoing vision and prayers make books like this one possible.

  Many thanks to my superb editors. To Carol Johnson, who knows my readers as well as anyone and who is a treasured friend indeed. To Rochelle Gloege, a remarkable editor who makes my writing sing. And to David Horton, whose astute perspective and attention to the nitty-gritty details are so vital.

  To Steve Oates, Bethany’s VP of Marketing, and his amazing team, an enormous thank-you for the earnest prayers, the behind-the-scenes work that gets my books into the hands of readers, and for Steve’s perpetual humor, a welcome relief from the stress of writing deadlines!

  To my faithful (and affectionate) readers, who offer a wealth of encouragement. Every letter and email message is read with keen interest and appreciation.

  My dear family is my underpinning of support. Much love and gratitude to my husband, Dave, for his tender encouragement and practical help. To Julie, Janie, Jonathan, and Ariel for their infectious smiles, energizing food, and solid editorial input. And I’m ever grateful to my wonderful parents, Herb and Jane Jones, whose life and ministry of faith are the heritage that has brought me this far. Thanks for your persistent prayers, Dad and Mother, so critical to my writing journey.

  Finally I offer up my heart anew to my dear Lord Jesus, who has called me to walk with Him all the days of my life.

  Watch for Book 4,

  The Prodigal.

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