Christmas at Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Amos shifted on the bed. His quick grimace suggested he might not be feeling as chipper as he was trying to appear. “How’d the rest of church go, after the excitement died down?”

  “Eli suggested that he and Marlin—and you—would be fine leading the colony until we see whether Floyd recovers,” Roman replied. “He had us spend the rest of the morning in prayer and silence, even while we ate—listening for God’s counsel rather than finishing the regular service or chatting with each other.”

  “Really? Peterscheim did that?” Amos bit into a slice of bread, thinking. “That sounds more like what I’d expect Marlin to say. I always considered Eli pretty heavy on the traditional, conservative side—but every preacher’s got a few surprises up his sleeve.”

  Roman wondered if Amos would elaborate on that statement, or reveal his thoughts about his upcoming wedding. He had heard some of the ladies discussing this topic before church—and he suspected Mamm was very curious about Amos’s plans, what with the ceremony only six days away.

  Roman’s eyebrows rose as another thought occurred to him. “If Bishop Floyd’s laid up, who’s going to conduct the wedding service for you and Mamm next Saturday?”

  Amos blinked. “That’s a very good question, son. And right now, only God knows the answer.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “That snow we got Sunday afternoon did us a real favor,” Mattie remarked as she and her sisters yanked the shriveled squash and pumpkin vines from the garden plot nearest the lodge. “It made these last plants easier to clear away—”

  “And it stopped before we had to do any shoveling or plowing!” Rosetta chimed in. “Missouri weather isn’t a bit different here than it was in Coldstream. If you don’t like it now, wait fifteen minutes and it’ll change.”

  Christine dropped her armload of vines onto the tarp and stood up to stretch her back. “I’m so glad the men got the roof on Roman’s house before winter hit us. Now they can take their time with the interior finishing work.”

  “Marlin’s told me again and again how much he appreciated you and the girls doing his painting,” Mattie remarked as she, too, stood up. “Now that he and Harley have moved their furniture into the house, Minerva’s been sewing the curtains and making everything look real homey. She’s really happy to be out of the cabin. Said it was getting chilly at night, without any heat.”

  “Those little cabins have served us well. We’ll hope more folks want to join us here at Promise Lodge come spring,” Rosetta said in a wistful voice. “I thought we’d have more residents by now—”

  “But what we lack in quantity we make up for with quality,” Christine insisted. “We couldn’t ask for any nicer renters than the Kuhns. And who would’ve thought we’d have a cheese factory here, not to mention Marlin’s barrel business and the Lehmans’ window and siding company?”

  Mattie shielded her eyes with her hand, gazing at two cars driving slowly down their lane. The first car parked in front of the cheese factory, and the second one continued until it was a few yards in front of them. “Wonder who this is?”

  The lady driving rolled down her window. “Where might I find the gift shop?” she called over. “I want to see that goat-milk soap mentioned on the sign out front.”

  Rosetta’s face lit up like the morning sun. “You’re almost there! Follow me to the lodge just ahead of you.”

  Mattie chuckled and resumed pulling squash vines alongside Christine. The sun was bright, but she was glad to be wearing her flannel-lined barn jacket, which blocked the brisk wind. “Hard to believe we’re just a week away from Thanksgiving,” she said. “I saved back some of the nice acorn squash we grew to have for our—oh! There’s Truman’s truck!”

  Mattie waved eagerly as the pickup rumbled under the arched metal entry sign. Truman had taken Amos for his follow-up visit at the medical center in Forest Grove. She’d been on pins and needles all morning, wondering if the doctor had revealed anything new—or promising—about Amos’s concussion and his inability to walk. Amos had hurt her feelings a bit when he’d insisted that she not go to his appointment with him, but Mattie had chalked it up to Amos having a tough morning. His headache was back, and he’d complained long and loudly about being cooped up in a dark bedroom for a week. Amos had appeared very downhearted about Truman and Roman making a chair with their arms beneath his bottom and behind his back to carry him to the truck.

  “How’d the appointment go?” Mattie asked when Truman stopped alongside them.

  “Didn’t learn a lot new,” Truman murmured. “Amos wants to get to bed now. Maybe he’ll feel more like telling you about it later.”

  Peering into the truck, Mattie gazed at Amos on the passenger side. His head was bowed as though his wide-brimmed black hat was weighing it down.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Christine murmured. “We’ll check on him after a bit.”

  “Denki for taking him, Truman—and for all the ways you’re helping him.” Mattie gazed purposefully at their neighbor, hoping he’d stop on his way out to tell her more about Amos’s situation. “He’s got clean sheets and towels, and I gathered up his dirty clothes to wash with our laundry tomorrow.”

  Truman nodded. I’ll be back, he mouthed as he rolled up his window.

  Mattie’s heart thudded as she watched the big white pickup roll on down the road toward Amos’s house. What could be so wrong that Amos hadn’t even looked at her? She’d sensed he wasn’t doing well yesterday when she’d taken him the noon meal—he seemed fidgety and depressed—but she didn’t know what to do about it. Until Dr. Townsend told them Amos was allowed to open the curtains and spend time out in the sunshine, she intended to be sure he followed the original instructions. Too much was at stake—for her, for Amos, and for everyone at Promise Lodge—if Amos’s health deteriorated.

  Christine sighed. “I wish Truman had had better news for us. Or even just a hopeful expression on his face.”

  Mattie nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I’ll go in and make coffee and cut one of the pumpkin pies we baked this morning. The least we can do is feed Truman while he talks with us.”

  “I’ll finish up here and send him inside when he comes by,” her sister said as she slipped her arm around Mattie’s shoulders. “Maybe Truman just didn’t want to go into any details while Amos was feeling so poorly.”

  As she headed for the lodge, Mattie reminded herself that Dr. Townsend had predicted a recovery time of several weeks or maybe months—and who would be in a good mood, having to endure Amos’s pain and lack of activity? She was doing everything she could think of—or at least everything Amos would allow—to make him comfortable and cheer him up, but they had a long haul ahead of them. Mattie trudged up the steps and into the lodge, sighing.

  “Rosetta, I’m so delighted I’ve met you. I can’t wait to try these soaps!”

  Mattie closed the lodge door behind her and smiled at the English woman standing in front of Rosetta’s display. Her plastic sack bulged with several bars of soap, some jars of honey, and she held a covered pan of Deborah’s orange bars.

  “We’re glad you stopped by to check us out, Pam,” Rosetta replied, handing her a business card. “Let me know which kinds of soap you like best and I’ll keep them on hand for you. With the holidays coming, our Deborah’s hoping to take orders for cookie trays or other goodies you might like, too. And the Kuhns are making cheese today, so you might want to stop by their factory before you leave. You can watch them through their showroom window.”

  “I’ll do that—and I’ll bring my sisters with me next time!” Pam said with an emphatic nod. She breezed out the door with another smile for Mattie, who couldn’t help noticing how depleted the soap and honey display was.

  “Gut for you, making a new customer so happy,” Mattie said. “Truman’s just come back with Amos. He’s going to stop by on his way out—and I have a feeling his news isn’t going to be nearly as cheerful as your visit with Pam.”

  Rosetta stopped taking
fresh soaps from the top drawer of the dresser. “Oh dear. Sounds like we’d better sweeten things up with some of that pumpkin pie—”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Mattie turned when she saw motion through the lobby window. “Here comes Truman now.”

  Mattie added fresh water to the coffee that remained in the percolator and lit the burner beneath it, thinking it would take forever to make a fresh batch. She was grateful for Truman’s patience with Amos, and glad that preparing a snack kept her from wringing her hands. Worrying about Amos wasn’t a productive way to spend her time—or a good excuse for losing sleep—but Mattie had been feeling the strain of caring for him the past few days when she’d seen no visible signs of improvement.

  “Always smells so wonderful-gut in here.” Truman closed the door against the chilly breeze and paused in the lobby. “My word, look at your soaps, wrapped in pretty ribbons—and Deborah’s been giving her new oven a workout, by the looks of these goodies.”

  “I bet your mamm’s ready for a fresh bar of soap—and here,” Rosetta added, “I want you to have a bar of the orange cornmeal soap for scrubbing up, Truman.”

  “I’ll pay you for these when I have—”

  “No, you won’t,” Rosetta insisted as she pressed the two bars of soap into Truman’s large hands. “Now join us for pie while you tell us about Amos.”

  “I want to hear about him, too,” Christine said as she came in from outdoors. “Maybe you can tell us what else we can do for him. He looked so despondent when you brought him back.”

  When the four of them were seated around the worktable in the kitchen with coffee and pie, Truman let out a sigh. “There’s gut news, and not-so-gut,” he began. “Dr. Townsend says Amos’s healing seems to be on target, far as his concussion goes. But he has no idea why Amos’s legs are so weak.”

  Mattie frowned. “But he’s a doctor. And he ran so many tests, you’d think—”

  “Jah, Townsend said the same thing,” Truman murmured. “Amos didn’t like it one bit that his doctor didn’t have an answer—except to recommend some physical therapy sessions. But Townsend wants to give the concussion another couple of weeks to heal before Amos starts any sort of moving around. Needless to say, Amos wasn’t happy to hear he’s got to stay cooped up in that gloomy room, dependent on folks to help him.”

  “Can’t say I blame him.” Christine reached for Mattie’s hand. “But if his concussion has improved, then we should keep following the doctor’s recommendations, don’t you think?”

  Mattie nodded emphatically. “Jah, we’ve seen what happened to Floyd when he didn’t do as he was told.”

  “The bishop’s in a bad way, but at least he’s getting treatment now,” Truman said. “Amos and I peeked into Floyd’s room at the hospital. He was out getting physical therapy so we chatted with Frances. Dr. Townsend has told them Floyd will be paralyzed—useless—on his left side unless he works with the therapists. I sure don’t want that to happen to Amos.”

  “Nobody does,” Rosetta agreed. “I’m just glad Frances convinced the bishop to stay in the hospital.”

  “This time they didn’t give Floyd any say about it,” Truman said as he cut into his pie. “He’s hooked up to monitors so they can watch his blood pressure, and they’ve put him on a medication to dissolve blood clots, and meanwhile he’s getting speech therapy and seeing other specialists, too,” he added. “Might be another day or two before he’s released, and Frances says home care therapists will be coming after that.”

  Mattie set down her fork, no longer enjoying her pumpkin pie. She was pleased to hear about Floyd’s treatments, but some of his earlier remarks hadn’t set well with her. “Right before Floyd had his stroke, he told Amos it was God’s will that he’d always be crippled because he refused to believe he could walk,” she murmured. “What’s your opinion of that, Truman? You Mennonites sometimes see things in a different light.”

  Truman grasped her hand and gazed earnestly at her. “I’ve thought about this a lot lately, Mattie. Amos chose to climb up on that weak roof—just as Floyd, of his own free will, dashed beneath Amos to catch him,” he said softly. “I don’t believe God wanted that accident to happen, or that He has condemned either man to be an invalid. I do believe the Lord provided emergency services and a gut, concerned doctor to help their healing.”

  Truman’s expression grew more pensive. “Now, Amos and Floyd have the choice about accepting medical help. God watches over us all, but He gave us free will—and our bad choices bring on most of our problems, rather than God causing them.”

  Mattie sighed, nodding along with her sisters. “Religion gets tricky sometimes,” she murmured. “I hope we can all have the faith to love and help Amos—and Bishop Floyd—the way God wants us to care for them.”

  “Amen to that,” Rosetta whispered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That afternoon Amos sat in his wheelchair in his gloomy room, praying for God’s guidance one moment and cursing his condition the next. Why had Dr. Townsend not provided an answer—or at least a timetable for his healing—so he could make plans? Set some priorities? If his concussion was improving, why did his head still feel as if someone was banging on it with a hammer?

  “Why can’t I walk?” he muttered. “What’s happened to my legs? Is this to be the way of it for the rest of my life, God? I am so tired of this darkness in my home—and in my soul.”

  Was that the front door opening? Amos stopped his ranting to listen, hoping his visitor hadn’t overheard him complaining to God.

  “Who’s there?” he called out. Amos hated it that his well-meaning friends came and went whenever they saw fit. Whenever they pitied him.

  When he saw Mattie stop in his bedroom doorway, Amos swallowed a loud sigh. He’d figured she would come by, and he wasn’t ready to address the issues that loomed between them. How could he say what he needed to without crushing her gentle, loving spirit?

  “Amos.” Mattie hesitated before coming in, as though she might be afraid of him. When she sat in the armchair, facing him, she put on a smile that looked out of kilter. “It’s gut to see you sitting up. I hope you feel better—”

  “I wish I felt better,” Amos snapped. “And I wish I knew why I don’t.”

  Mattie nipped her lip. “We’ve all been praying for you.”

  “I suppose Truman told you all the bleak details about Townsend not knowing why I can’t walk,” he blurted.

  “He did. I—I’m so sorry this has happened to you, dear Amos.”

  Dear Amos. He felt like a monster, laying out all his woes like slick mud over ice, knowing that no matter what Mattie said or offered him, she would slip and fall and get hurt in her efforts to care for him.

  Mattie reached for his hand. “Let’s postpone the wedding, shall we?” she murmured. “We need for you to be feeling better—and it’s not like we’ve got a bishop who can perform the ceremony on Saturday. I doubt you’d want Bishop Obadiah to come from Coldstream to do the ceremony—and I certainly don’t.”

  It had clearly taken all of Mattie’s strength to say that, but she’d also opened the door for him to state the obvious. Amos squeezed Mattie’s hand, so small yet so strong, already regretting what he was about to say.

  “Mattie, I can’t allow you to endure another marriage of caring for a sick husband,” he began in the strongest voice he could muster. “I can’t bear to have you spend the rest of your days playing nurse rather than being the wife we’d both figured on when you agreed to marry me.”

  Mattie’s face fell. In the darkness, Amos saw tears trickling down her cheeks. “Wh—what are you saying?” she whispered. “I believe we’re to be together in sickness and in health, or I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you. You can’t just—”

  “You’re a strong, desirable woman, Mattie,” Amos interrupted. He had all the best intentions, even though he knew he was shredding her heart into tiny pieces. “You have a lot of love to share, so I want you to focus on managing our new
colony and your produce business. Take up with another fellow—if one comes along who’ll take gut care of you,” he insisted, forcing the words from his mouth for the benefit of both of them. “I love you but I can’t marry you now, Mattie. Don’t waste your efforts on a man who’ll never be strong again. And don’t grow old alone.”

  Mattie stood up and turned away, covering her face with her hands. “You’re having a bad day,” she reasoned. “You surely don’t mean—”

  “A few days ago I was sure I could lick this situation and get on with my life,” Amos said bitterly. “But that’s changed—I’ve changed. I’m not the man you deserve anymore, Mattie. Please don’t make this any more difficult. For your own sake, I can’t marry you.”

  With a sob, Mattie fled his room.

  Amos slumped in his chair. He’d said what needed saying, but now his headache was pounding even harder and his heart was broken, too. With a groan he pushed himself up out of the wheelchair and fell toward his bed. It seemed the perfect time to bury his face in the pillow and remain here in the darkness, alone. The way he saw it, he might as well get used to living out his life in this sorry, useless state.

  * * *

  Mattie sat on the side of her bed, staring through her tears at nothing in particular. Why had Amos given up—on himself, and on the love they’d shared for most of their lives? He’d triumphed over many adversities when he’d been younger, remaining strong in his faith. Even when he’d been too poor for her father to consider him a good match—even after his wife, Anna, had died—Amos Troyer had forged ahead, doing the best he could, confident that God would see him through.

  Where was God now?

  Don’t fall into the same trap Amos did, moaning and groaning so loud that you don’t hear what God might be trying to tell you, the voice in Mattie’s mind warned. But she had a right to feel miserable. The man she loved had just shut her out of his life. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall any of the Bible verses that had been written for desperate moments such as these. Her mind felt as empty as her soul.