Jenny's Choice (Apple Creek Dreams #3)

by Patrick E. Craig

  He walked to the fence and stared at the scene. There were men of all ages in the group. An old man with a long white beard operated the cutter. Behind him younger men with dark beards drove the horse teams as boys walked alongside them. It seemed that the men were teaching the boys as they moved through the field, pointing to the row of hay and calling the boys’ attention to the teams of horses and machines as they walked…

  The long file of machines turned the corner of the big field and came along the fence line…some of the men were singing.

  “Lassen Sie ihn, der gelegen hat, seine Hand auf dem Pflug nicht sehen sich um! Presse zur Absicht! Presse Jesus Christus! Derjenige, der Christus gewinnt, wird sich mit ihm von den Toten am jüngsten Tag erheben.”

  And then Richard was crying out on his hands and knees. “What does it mean? Oh, God, what is happening to me?”

  “Let him who has laid his hand on the plow not look back! Press on to the goal! Press on to Jesus Christ! The one who gains Christ will rise with him from the dead on the youngest day.” Rise up and walk, My son. Your faith will make you whole.

  Richard pulled himself up. He took a deep breath. He had to get out of this room. He opened the door and went out into the hall. The backstage area opened directly onto the stage. He stood while the band finished their song, and then he opened the curtain and stepped out onto the stage. Gary had just turned to check his amp, and he saw Richard standing there. Quickly he stepped over to the piano, whispered something to Deeny, and then turned back to the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have a very special guest. We are going to ask him to sing for you the song that started his career and ultimately led him to Christ and to Charis Records to be our producer. Would you please welcome…Richard Sandbridge!”

  The audience burst into loud and sustained applause. Richard felt a sense of desperation begin to crawl over him, like a fever chill. Then he heard another voice.

  Play the song. Today is the day of your salvation.

  Peace like a river washed over him. In a daze he moved to the piano. Deeny got up and made room for him. As he sat down, the keyboard looked strange and unfamiliar. He wanted his guitar, but then his hands were on the keys and he was nodding to Gary. The first chords flowed from his hands, and the band joined in. The sax player lifted up the familiar melody to the intro.

  Jenny rushed out the door of the club with Jeremy close behind her. He caught up and grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him.

  “Jenny, where are you going? I thought…”

  Jenny looked at his strained face, and then like a beautiful ray of sun breaking through dark clouds, the answer came to her.

  “I can’t, Jeremy.”

  “Can’t what, Jenny?”

  “I can’t marry you. Don’t you see?”

  “No, I don’t see. Help me understand, Jenny.”

  Behind her, Jenny heard footsteps on the sidewalk. She looked and it was Bobby.

  “Everything all right, Jenny?”

  “Just give me a minute, Uncle Bobby, and then we’ll go.”

  She turned back to Jeremy. “I can’t marry you because I don’t love you. At least I don’t love you that way. You deserve a woman who will cherish you, who will love you completely, who will be one heart with you. And I can’t do that.”

  “But why, Jenny? I don’t understand.”

  “When I was in the hospital the day my parents died, my papa passed first. But the monitor on his heart kept beeping. And then I found out why. He and my mama were holding hands, and my mama’s heart was beating through him. And then their life and their love became so real for me. They were two lives that shared one heart. They had truly become one flesh. And I saw that it was a gift that God gives rarely, but when He does, it is to be honored and cherished and treasured, for I believe He only gives it once.”

  “But—”

  “I had it, Jeremy, don’t you understand? I was one flesh with Jonathan. We were two lives with one heart, and there can never be another for me. I can’t marry you. That’s all I can say. I can’t marry you.”

  Inside the club, the music changed from loud to soft. Gentle chords drifted sweetly out the door as a lyric saxophone danced a sweet melody above them. And then a beautiful, clear voice lifted over the chords, and words that she never thought to hear again broke upon her senses.

  Tonight, I whisper in your ear,

  I always want you near.

  Tonight, kiss me tenderly,

  Come so easily,

  Into my heart, tonight.

  Jenny’s breath caught in her throat.

  A lover’s symphony,

  The sweetest harmony,

  And all that I can be

  Is here with you tonight.

  I’ll do the best I can

  To be your loving man,

  And everything I am

  Is here with you tonight.

  With each line she heard, a deeper shock pierced Jenny’s heart. She turned and stared at the door.

  “That song…”

  In a trance, Jenny moved toward the door. Jeremy looked after her and then to Bobby.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, Jeremy,” Bobby said.

  Jenny walked through the door and back into the club. Bobby and Jeremy went after her. It took a moment for Jenny’s eyes to adjust. The bright stage lights were almost blinding, and she could barely make out someone sitting at the piano, singing a song.

  Tonight I sing this song of love,

  You’re the one I’m dreaming of tonight.

  Kiss me tenderly,

  Come so easily,

  Into my heart tonight.

  As the band picked up the melody, Jenny walked slowly through the club. She didn’t see the people. She only saw a man sitting at the piano—a man with shoulder-length dark hair and sunglasses. She couldn’t see his face because he was turned away from her as he played. She kept moving forward until she stood directly behind him. His clear voice lifted up, like an angel singing…

  A lover’s symphony,

  The sweetest harmony,

  And all I want to be

  Is here with you tonight.

  I’ll do the best

  I can To be your loving man,

  And everything I am

  Is here with you tonight.

  The words…Jonathan’s words…it was the song he wrote for her. She stood in wonder as the man came to the last verse. And then she lifted up her voice and sang with him, for she knew the song by heart.

  Tonight, I sing this song of love.

  You’re the one I’m dreaming of.

  Tonight, kiss me tenderly,

  Come so easily

  Into my heart tonight.

  As the band played the last chords and stopped, the man slowly turned. The lights glared off the sunglasses and Jenny still couldn’t see his face. She spoke.

  “Where did you get that song?”

  The man turned his head to the voice. “I wrote it.”

  “No, you did not. My late husband, Jonathan, wrote it.”

  The man recoiled as though he had been slapped. “Jonathan?”

  Jenny moved closer. “Who are you?”

  “I’m…I’m Richard…Richard Sandbridge. I wrote…I wrote…”

  Jenny reached up and gently removed the sunglasses. The face…so familiar, but different. The mustache…the…oh, Lord! The eyes! The eyes…the wonderful sea-blue eyes, just like her papa’s. The eyes that drew her in and in until she was one with him.

  “Jonathan? Jonathan?”

  The man looked puzzled. “No, I’m…I’m Richard…Who are you?”

  “Jonathan, it’s me. It’s your Jenny.”

  Richard reached out, his hand shaking. “Jenny?”

  Jenny took her hair and rolled it up into a bun. She grabbed a pin out of her purse to hold it. Then she lifted out her kappe and put it on.

  “Jonathan, it’s your Jenny. It’s me.”

 
; He stared at her, and then the light of recognition broke upon his face. Both of his hands reached out. Jenny took them in hers. The old shock ran up her arms and into her heart.

  “Jenny! Where have you been? It was so dark…oh, Jenny…”

  Jonathan moved off the bench and stood before her. Jenny reached out and touched his face, gently, oh so gently, and then she was in his arms and he was holding her and his strong arms were around her and…

  “Oh, Jonathan! Jonathan!”

  Bobby Halverson walked up behind them. He stood there for a moment, staring at Jonathan and Jenny. And then he put his hands gently on their shoulders and smiled.

  “Let’s go home.”

  And now the circle has come all the way around to its end and closed again. And all that was undone is born fresh and new in my heart. I am home, I am safe, and Jonathan is home with me, here in Paradise. My hopes have been fulfilled, and my prayers have been answered. “O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!”

  And as this great joy fills my heart, I see the plan of God with such clarity. The future runs away before me like a great broad river flowing down to the ocean, and the past stands like the memorial stones in the waters of the Jordan. And I see that the roots of my faith are bound to the roots of my life, unbreakably mingled, and I know that we, Jonathan and me, are Amish, and we will always be Amish. And we rest in the arms of those who went before us and were faithful and loved us, and I remember them and the memory keeps me here, where I belong.

  These memories are moments of the purest joy that often find me when I am most in need. They come when I am burdened by the troubles of the day, or wound tight in the snares of the world, or numbed by an undeserved wound. An isolated thought or a fragrance or an unbidden reminder will creep into my heart, and in an instant I will be transported on spirit wings to my beloved home in Apple Creek, Ohio.

  In my mind’s eye I see Mama, sitting at the quilting frame, a small smile playing about her lovely face as she allows God to move through her heart and hands to bring forth such beauty that just remembering it is enough to steal the very breath from my body and leave me gasping in wonder. There is my papa, the smile behind his eyes keeping me warm and safe as his strength and love protected me all my life.

  Outside the sky is painted with God’s brilliant palette of purples and pinks, and the smell of the fields is an intoxicant of the purest measure to my soul. How I loved those days! How they live in my heart and my memory, bringing me the beauty of another time that was unsullied and without blemish. How can I tell you of the love that rises in my heart, the joy that springs forth with each remembrance? No, I cannot. For unless you have been there, unless you have the same yearning in your very being, you cannot know of what I speak. And so I hold these times in my heart. They are mine, mine alone. They are my Apple Creek dreams.

  Epilogue:

  Among the Trees of Eden

  THEY SAT TOGETHER ON THE front porch of the old farmhouse—the little Amish woman and the tall writer. Cups of tea sat on the small table in front of them, and a warm summer breeze heralded the coming of another beautiful evening in Paradise, Pennsylvania. The writer had come all the way from California to meet her, and now they were talking as if they had known each other for years.

  “So what happened after you found Jonathan?”

  “I brought Jonathan home to Paradise. It took him a long time to remember his life leading up to the explosion on the boat, but with the Lord’s help and a lot of love, he eventually recollected most of it.”

  “Was it hard for him to come back…I mean, to being Amish, once he had so much success in the music business?”

  “Ja, he did struggle with that, especially on the days when he got confused.”

  “Confused?”

  “Jonathan sustained a serious injury when the boat exploded. Then he drifted on a piece of wreckage for almost two days, and after he washed ashore, he wandered the streets of Sandbridge for a whole day in the storm before anyone found him and realized he needed help. A few days before I came to New York for the announcement party, he was injured in an attack by a mugger. It all had a lasting effect on his health. Some days he thought he was Richard Sandbridge. Those were the hard days. But in spite of that, thank the Lord, we had thirty wonderful years after I found him.”

  “Had?”

  “Yes, Jonathan passed two years ago. His injuries finally took their toll. He had a hemorrhagic stroke one afternoon while he was cutting hay. He was in the field behind the house, and I heard him call me.”

  The writer looked at Jenny. She was looking somewhere far away.

  “He died in my arms.”

  “What about Rachel?” the writer asked.

  “It was hard for Rachel when her papa came home. She was fourteen, becoming a young woman, and Jonathan had missed such a big part of her formative years. They were at odds for a long time. I think Rachel had finally reconciled herself to Jonathan being dead—she had moved on. And then when he came home, she had to learn that relationship all over again. I think she felt like he came between her and me. Eventually they found what they once had when Rachel was little, but it took a long time.”

  “And Bobby Halverson?

  “Bobby is still here with me. He lives up there in the bungalow on the knoll.”

  She pointed past the barn. The writer could see the small house through the trees. An old pickup was parked in front of it.

  “He’s ninety-four now, but he’s as fit as a fiddle and a great comfort. He’s been family to me since I was four years old. He’s helped me through some very hard times.”

  “And what about your books? Jeremy King told me you had written some wonderful books.”

  Jenny looked at the writer, and a strange look passed over her face.

  “Ja, the books. Well, Jeremy would be interested in those. After all, he helped me write the first one, and he is a publisher.”

  Jenny paused again as though she were hearing something the writer could not. And then she stood and motioned to him.

  “Come with me.”

  They went into the house and up the stairs to the second floor. Jenny opened the door to one of the rooms. Books and papers were piled on the floor, and shelves on every wall were stuffed full. Under a long window on the front wall stood a beautiful desk made of pale wood. The top of the desk was strewn with papers and notebooks with an old Underwood typewriter in the middle.

  Jenny ran her hand over the wood. “My papa made this for me when I first became serious about writing.”

  In the corner of the room stood an old cedar chest. Jenny knelt in front of it and opened the lid. The scent of cedar and lilacs filled the room. Jenny reached into the chest and pulled out several bundles tied with string. She laid them on the floor, and then she reached into the chest and took out a larger bundle that was at the bottom. She stood up.

  “Could you pick those up for me?” she asked.

  The writer stooped and picked up the bundles. There were six of them. Jenny cleared a space on a low couch and motioned to him.

  “Put them here.”

  Then she opened the first bundle. It was a manuscript, typed in old-style courier font.

  “This is the story of the quilt and how my mama made it so she could run away from God.”

  She pointed to the others, one by one.

  “This is the story about how Jonathan and I met and married and came to live on this farm, and this is the story of Jonathan’s…his death and resurrection, so to speak, and how I came to be a writer.”

  “What are these others?” the writer asked.

  “These stories are about the women of my family, going back to the beginnings of the Amish faith in Switzerland. And one of these is the story of my Rachel and her husband, Daniel, and the great trial they faced before…well, you read it.”

  “You’re letting me read these?”

  Jenny ran her hand
s over the books. “When I came back to Paradise with Jonathan, the Lord made it very clear that this was my home and my life. I am Amish, my ancestors were Amish, and here is where I belong. But He allowed me to write these books. I did not know why until you came today. I am giving them to you.”

  “Giving them?”

  “Ja. I read your book. It was well written and honest. I believe the Lord wants these stories told, but not by me. Jeremy tells me you are trustworthy, so I’m giving them to you. I want you to take these books and rewrite them, your way. I want you to tell the stories in your own words. I believe the books will bring healing to many people as they have to me.”

  The writer stood with the first manuscript in his hands. He knew he had been given a great gift.

  “I’ll tell the stories as you have written them.”

  Jenny patted him on the shoulder. “I know you will.”

  Then Jenny laid the large bundle on the couch and unwrapped it. She took out what was inside and unfolded it. It was a beautiful quilt, unlike any other Amish quilt the writer had ever seen. The cream-colored backing was stitched to a stunning blue silk piece. In the center of the blue section was an incredible red rose. The hundreds of petals were cut perfectly, and the whole quilt was a masterpiece. The soft afternoon light coming through the window made the rose shine with a wonderful luminescence.

  “This is the Rose of Sharon quilt—the most beautiful quilt my mama ever made. But it is more than a quilt. It’s as though God wrote the story of my family here with His own hand. All of these stories I’m giving you were written because my mama made this quilt. Remember that when you tell them.”

  The writer stared at the beautiful quilt. The deep red was indeed like a rose…or—and the words sprang unbidden to his mind—the blood of Christ.

  Jenny pointed to the rose. “That is Jenna’s story. Mama named the quilt after Jenna, her little Rose of Sharon.”

  She turned the quilt over and showed him the exquisitely repaired corner and the faint stains.

  “The quilt got stained and ruined when my mama was carrying me through the great storm. This corner was torn when she pulled the lining out to start the fire that saved my life. When I was searching for Mama Rachel and in great danger, the Lord told my mama to repair the quilt. As Mama restored it, He showed her how to pray for me. This part is my story.”