A Mother's Love

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “I’m being realistic, Bishop,” she insisted in what she hoped was a respectful tone. “I appreciate the way you’ve offered to cover Mamma’s burial expenses with money from the church’s funds, but I can’t depend on charity forever. Mamma and Dat raised me to be a giver rather than a taker. A doer, not just a talker.”

  Vernon placed the index card back on the table. He sat down at the place where Rose was putting his cinnamon roll and hot coffee. “What if we set a time frame—let’s say five months—for the church to support you?” he mused aloud. “That would get you and Gracie through the summer and give you time to consider better options for employment. Meanwhile, I would also search out some reasonable ways for you to earn money from home. Gracie starts school in September, correct?”

  Rose nodded. She kept quiet so Vernon would continue to spin out his plan for her—and so she wouldn’t irritate him by refusing to go along with it.

  “With the rest of her family gone now, your little girl will look to you for everything, Rose,” he continued pensively. “It’s crucial to Gracie’s well-being that you be at home with her these next several months, preparing her to be a scholar and sewing her clothes. Being here to welcome her home after her day at school.”

  Vernon stopped uncurling his cinnamon roll. “Surely, you can recall how wonderful it was to return to your mother’s kitchen after a school day, Rose—to feel welcome because she was home for you, and because she enjoyed your help and company as she prepared the evening meal for your dat,” he insisted gently. “You owe Gracie the same love and security.”

  Tendrils of resentment and pain curled around Rose’s heart. Even before she spoke, she knew she was getting herself into trouble. “Jah, my mother loved me and gave me everything she had, Vernon—including the truth, that she and dat weren’t my birth parents,” Rose whispered, tapping the top of the stationery box. “These letters from the girl who birthed me don’t change the way I was raised—the thirty years of life I’ve lived in the Fry and Raber families—but they’ve made me reexamine everything I thought I knew about who I am.”

  Vernon stared at her. He put his cinnamon roll on his plate. “Oh, my. I counseled your parents to remain silent about your being adopted—because it really doesn’t matter—”

  “How can you say that?” Rose blurted defiantly. “How would you feel if you’d learned—from letters your birth mother wrote to you—the truth about your own circumstances? It was the last gift Mamma gave me. She told me about Roseanne’s letters right before she went into her coma.”

  Rose stood up, hoping not to burst into tears. “I—I wish I’d had just ten more minutes of conversation with Mamma before she slipped away. I think she would’ve explained a lot of things that are agitating me now.”

  “Roseanne wrote you letters?” the bishop whispered. “Addressed them to you, Rose?”

  “Jah—they’re in that box,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “Go ahead and read them—they’re short. I know them by heart now.”

  As Vernon reached for the stationery box, Rose busied herself at the sink, wiping the countertop—anything to avoid watching him—until curiosity got the best of her. When she turned, the lines and planes of the bishop’s face shifted as he set aside the letters. He studied the picture of Roseanne.

  “My father did that portrait of her,” Rose murmured. “He was an accomplished artist even before he left the Old Order to go to art school.” When Vernon looked up at her, Rose said, “You knew Roseanne, didn’t you? You met her while she stayed here for those eight months.”

  “Roseanne was a girl tossed upon the stormy seas of misplaced passion,” Vernon stated. His blue eyes, ordinarily as clear as a summer sky, had frosted over. “Something tells me you’re following in her footsteps, Rose. You want to find this woman and be drawn in by her romantic notions—and you expect this adventure to read like a fairy tale where everyone lives happily ever after. Don’t even think about looking for her, Rose. Leave it alone.”

  Rose scowled. Vernon was saying exactly what she’d anticipated, but his attitude rankled her. “How can I just leave it alone?” she challenged in a stiff whisper. “The cat’s out of the bag now and it’s got claws—I’ve felt torn to ribbons ever since I found her letters. Of course I realize that Roseanne was only sixteen and full of fanciful ideas,” she continued, pleading for the bishop’s compassion. “But she’s my mother, Vernon. Just when I’ve lost everyone else I’ve ever loved—except for Gracie—I’ve learned that I have another mother.”

  “Be very careful, Rose,” the bishop warned solemnly. “Just as Eve listened to the serpent—believed him when he coaxed her to ignore God’s commandment—you are falling for the alluring words of temptation. These letters spin a spellbinding fantasy, but your mother—Lydia—and Roseanne were right about one thing. Do not try to find her, Rose.”

  Rose wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t want to hear what the bishop was saying, but there was no stopping his lecture.

  “For all we know,” Vernon went on in a softer voice, “this woman has a houseful of kids and a loving husband now. Think of how you’ll upset that family if you show up from out of Roseanne’s unfortunate past. Think of how betrayed Saul will feel, knowing she lied to him—or didn’t admit the truth about you, her love child—when he took her as his wife.”

  “Do you know Saul Hartzler? Do you know where they live now?” Rose asked in a tiny voice.

  Vernon’s blue eyes widened in disbelief. “Do you really think I’d tell you, after I’ve insisted that you leave this whole situation alone?”

  Rose sighed. Vernon did know Saul Hartzler. She was sure of it.

  “I can better understand now why you’re looking for work—just how confused and scattered you’re feeling after your mother’s death,” the bishop observed. He gazed at Rose with the love of a father who’s disappointed about his child’s attitude, yet won’t give up on her or stop caring for her . . . the way Dat would’ve dealt with her. “Please consider my suggestion about waiting at least five months before you make any major changes, Rose,” he pleaded. “After losing so many important people in your life in such a short time, you don’t realize how vulnerable you are to . . . imprudent, hazardous fantasies.”

  Rose looked down at her arms, crossed over her black apron. Vernon was the wisest, most reasonable man she knew, but . . .

  “Sit down, dear,” he said, pulling out the chair next to his. “We’ll pray on this together. It’s the least—and the most—I can do for you, to wrap the mantle of God’s love and protection around you.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Rose sat down beside the bishop and allowed him to take her hand as he bowed his head. His kindly features softened as he whispered words of encouragement and an invocation of God’s presence and power in her life.

  “. . . and we trust, Lord, that Your will shall be done, for the benefit of our Rose and her little Gracie,” Vernon prayed fervently. “Grant us all Your wisdom as we grapple with perplexing issues, that we may see the way You would have us go. In Your Son’s name we pray, amen.”

  Rose quickly shut her eyes and bowed her head so Vernon wouldn’t know she hadn’t prayed with him—although she’d followed along without mentally protesting his words or challenging God to listen to her wishes instead. When Rose looked at Vernon again, he held her gaze.

  “The choice is yours, of course. God has granted us free will,” the bishop reminded her. He squeezed her hand before releasing it. “The consequences of our actions often go far beyond our anticipation—certainly beyond our control. Keep Gracie’s welfare uppermost in your mind, Rose. I’m confident you’ll do and say the right things for her benefit.”

  “Denki, Bishop,” Rose said as he stood up to take his leave. “And denki again for fixing the door and the window.”

  Vernon smiled. “Doors and windows,” he said gently. “ ‘The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth and for evermore,’ just as the Psal
mist told us long ago. Grace and peace be with you, Rose. Let me know how I can help.”

  Rose walked the bishop to the door and watched him drive away in his open rig behind a fine, prancing bay gelding.

  Gracie will indeed be with me, but peace? I’m not so sure about that.

  * * *

  Even though there was no church on Sunday, Rose awoke early, still agitated after the bishop’s visit. Sleep had eluded her most of the night. She dressed in her black clothes and white kapp, going downstairs quietly so she wouldn’t waken Gracie. As the first ribbons of peach and pink lit the horizon, Rose went to the barn and got fresh water and feed for Daisy, their mare. She wanted to plant more of the garden because she’d lost so much time during the past week, but that was more work than was allowed on Sunday.

  It’s going to be the longest day of my life, she thought as she walked back to the house. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Just Gracie and me trying to muddle through.

  Once again, Rose realized how much time Mamma’s care had required, and how all those hours stretched before her now, empty. It was the Old Order custom to visit with family on non-church Sundays, but even if she had any family left in this area, folks would understand if she and Gracie stayed home right after Mamma’s funeral.

  Rose sorted through the food on the countertop and in the fridge, because it would be a horrible waste if it spoiled. Loaves of bread, whole cakes, and pans of cinnamon rolls went into the freezer, as did the casseroles in disposable foil pans, which friends had brought.

  How much food do they think Gracie and I can eat? Rose sliced the roasts, a ham, and a turkey, and put portions of them into plastic bags.

  “Whatcha doin’, Mamma?”

  Rose turned toward the kitchen door and smiled. “You got dressed all by yourself. Gut job, Gracie,” she said, even though her daughter’s hair hung loose beneath her slightly crooked kapp, and she’d chosen her brightest pink summer dress. “I’m freezing this food, because there’s no way you and I can eat it all before it goes bad.”

  Gracie scooted her little wooden stool closer to the counter and stood on it, surveying what remained. “Can we have turkey for breakfast? With cookies?”

  Rose almost suggested something healthier than the cookies, but what difference did it make, really? Nobody else would see what they were eating. “That sounds yummy,” she said as she placed slices of turkey on a plate. “Here’s some bread—”

  “I’ll get the mayo!”

  “—and we’ll have cookies and milk—and there’s applesauce, too,” Rose continued.

  They were eating their unusual breakfast, talking about what they might do during their Sabbath day, when someone knocked loudly on the front door.

  “I’ll get it!” Gracie said eagerly.

  After her little girl raced through the front room, Rose heard the familiar voices of Vernon and Jerusalem Gingerich. She sighed. While the bishop and his wife saw it as their duty to visit her today, Rose was still smoldering from Vernon’s rebuff concerning finding a job—and finding her birth mother. She filled the percolator with water and coffee. Vernon had probably told his wife about Rose’s concerns, so Rose would have to be especially patient if both of them started in on her. It might turn into an even longer day than she’d anticipated.

  “We got all sortsa cookies, and turkey, and applesauce!” Gracie exclaimed as she led the Gingeriches into the kitchen. “It’s a feast!”

  “And you might as well join us,” Rose added, finding a smile for their guests. “We’ve got so much food, I’ve been putting some of it in the freezer—”

  “And here’s your dinner for today,” Jerusalem said, holding out a foil-covered pan. “Easy enough to make you girls a pan of scalloped potatoes and ham while I fixed it for us yesterday.”

  “Seems your friends have indeed looked after you,” Vernon remarked as he glanced at the remaining plastic bags of food that were ready to go into the freezer. “ ‘Behold the fowls of the air, for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; but your heavenly father feedeth them,’” he recited in his mellow voice. “You won’t need to buy groceries for weeks, Rose.”

  Rose turned to put more cookies on a bigger plate. She couldn’t miss the sermon the bishop had tucked into their conversation before he’d even sat down.

  “Come here, Gracie, and I’ll coil your hair up,” Jerusalem said kindly. “Your mamm’s been busy—”

  “I got dressed all by myself!” Gracie crowed.

  Rose pressed her lips together. Now the bishop and his wife were convinced she was a negligent mother, allowing her daughter to wear bright pink on the Sunday following her mammi’s funeral—and not winding Gracie’s hair into a proper bun beneath her kapp.

  “Even Solomon in all his glory wasn’t arrayed like you, Gracie,” Vernon quipped kindly. Then he gazed purposefully at Rose. “‘Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?’”

  Rose bit back a retort, but then a reply sprang into her mind. “I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,” she paraphrased softly. “And I was sick at heart and you visited me, Bishop. Denki for all you and Jerusalem have done, but please understand that I’m weary and I might not be the most gracious hostess today—or the most tolerant lamb of your flock.”

  Vernon’s unflinching gaze told Rose she’d stepped over the line, flinging Scripture back at him—even though she hadn’t quoted it verbatim. Most bishops believed that members of their congregation should leave the reading and interpretation of Scripture to those whom God had chosen as leaders. Rose lowered her gaze, acknowledging her blunder.

  There was no graceful way to say it: Rose was tired of Vernon’s preaching at her. He wanted the best for her and Gracie, but she was in no mood to receive another heaping helping of his counsel today.

  Somehow Rose endured another hour of the Gingeriches’ company, and Jerusalem finally suggested that they should leave. Vernon led them in prayer, and they departed—but not before the bishop got in one last word.

  “Pride goes before a fall, Rose,” he reminded her as Gracie accompanied his wife outside. “Please don’t assume you can shoulder your burdens alone, or that your way of handling them is the best way. Wait upon the Lord, dear. He never fails us.”

  Rose nodded, swallowing any sort of reply. As she watched the bishop’s rig roll toward the road, she knew he was right—and she wished she could obey him without second-guessing what the future held.

  We’re like sheep that have gone astray, she thought as she watched Gracie bounding across the yard toward her. Forgive me, Lord, for my prideful, willful ways and show me what to do. Spell it out in big, bold letters so I can’t miss Your sign, and the direction You want me to go.

  Chapter 10

  Early the next morning, Rose hitched the mare to the buggy. She didn’t have to coax Gracie to come along, because her daughter was bubbly and happy, still recounting the details of her sleepover with Katie.

  “Where we goin’, Mamma?” Gracie asked eagerly. “We walk to the mercantile, unless we need a whole lotta stuff.”

  “You’re right, sweetie,” Rose agreed as she clapped the lines lightly over Daisy’s broad back. She reviewed the story she’d planned, and decided to go ahead with it. “But today we’re driving to Willow Ridge, and to New Haven and Morning Star—”

  “Wow! That’s a lotta places!”

  “—and first we’ll stop at our mercantile, but only if you promise Mamma to do exactly as she says, right down to the letter,” Rose finished. She held Gracie’s gaze, watching her green eyes get wide and bright.

  “What’s letter A?”

  Rose smiled. She was so blessed to have a daughter who already loved to recite her letters and numbers, and who adored little games. “Letter A, we go into the mercantile—”

  “Jah, I’m likin’ this so far,” Gracie said with a nod.


  “—and B, you ask Sam to help you choose a toy or game that costs less than two dollars,” Rose continued.

  Gracie’s brow furrowed. “How do I know what stuff costs?”

  “That’s why you’re asking for Sam to help you,” Rose explained. “He’ll show you how to read the price stickers, so you can decide which toy you can afford. He really likes teaching kids about careful shopping, and how much their money will buy. This early on a Monday morning, there won’t be many folks in his store, so he can take his time with you.”

  Her daughter’s bright smile rivaled the sun. “And what’s letter C, Mamma? I like this game!”

  Rose reached into the pocket of her black apron for two folded one-dollar bills. “C is for cash. This is your money, so you can learn to be a gut thrifty shopper. Thrifty means that you don’t waste money on things you don’t need.”

  Gracie took the money, gazing raptly at it. “Is this a lesson, Mamma?”

  “It is. You’ll do well, Gracie, because Sam’s a gut teacher—which is one reason God chose him to be a preacher,” Rose added as she watched for traffic on the county highway. “Geddap, Daisy! We’re almost there, girl.”

  The mare trotted across the blacktop and into the parking lot, heading to the hitching posts along the side of the mercantile. Rose was pleased to see only one other buggy. As she strode toward the door, trying to keep up with Gracie, she prayed that her little plan would play out smoothly.

  Rose opened the door and her little girl rushed inside. When Gracie spotted Sam restocking a display of cleaning supplies, she hurried over to greet him.

  “Sam, I’m playin’ a game and you’re s’posed to help me—pretty please?”

  The lanky storekeeper placed a few more sponges in the display’s bucket. “What sort of a game, Gracie-girl? My gut-ness, and you’ve got a handful of money, too.”

  “C is for cash!” Gracie recited proudly. “Mamma says you’ll show me how to read the stickers on the toys so’s I can pick out somethin’ fun for my two dollars.”