MEN OF LANCASTER COUNTY 01: The Amish Groom

by Mindy Starns Clark

I nodded, silent, not telling him that I was pretty sure I had the key.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, and then I shut the box and lowered it into my duffel bag.

  “Or we can try it here. Maybe pry it open real quick before we go—”

  “No. It’s okay. I’ll wait.”

  Without a doubt, we could have jimmied the lock with just a tool or two. But I knew I needed to resist that urge until I was finally home, no matter how excruciating the wait would be. Prying the little door off seemed disrespectful to my mother somehow, and far different from opening it with the key. Also, I was absolutely certain that this was what God expected of me. Patience was an important virtue—a vital one in Amish life—and I was already practicing patience by taking the train rather than flying. Now I would resist the urge to break open this lock. Shortcuts were not an option here, not if I wanted to be obedient to Him. I would wait until I was home to see what was inside.

  At least I couldn’t help feeling that this obedience was going to be rewarded. With patience comes knowledge, I could almost hear Daadi say in an oft-repeated Amish sentiment. And knowledge was something I still needed. Specifically, I needed knowledge about what my mother had been doing with that key when God called her Home.

  Together, Dad and I headed downstairs, where Liz and Brady both did a bit of a double take at my transformation back into an Amish man. They didn’t seem displeased, just surprised. I hugged Liz goodbye as Dad and Brady went into the garage to start the car.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said as we embraced. “And for my gardens. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  “You’re welcome. And thanks for sharing with me about my mom. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  When we pulled apart her eyes were misted.

  “She would be so very proud of you. I know I am.”

  Her words both cheered me and pierced me. “I’m sorry if I ever made it seem that I didn’t need you as a mother.”

  Liz shook her head and dabbed at her eyes. “And I’m sorry if I ever made it seem that I didn’t love you like a son.”

  We embraced again.

  “Will you come to see me?” I asked when we parted a second time. “And I don’t mean in Philly. I want you and Dad and Brady to come spend some downtime with me and Daadi and Mammi at the home place. And I want you to meet Rachel, even before she becomes my wife.”

  “I’d really like that.”

  “Goodbye, Liz. Take care of that ankle.”

  “Will do.”

  My next farewell was for the little pup yipping at my heels. Impulsively, I bent down and scooped him up for a quick hug, marveling at how light and tiny he was. Frisco was no Timber, but he was okay.

  I handed him off to Liz, hiked my duffel to my shoulder, and stepped into the garage.

  The drive to Union Station in Los Angeles was relatively quick. Though the tension between Brady and me was gone, I could tell he was struggling to accept my decision. As I embraced both him and my dad at the station, I again reiterated my invitation for them to come out and visit in the summer.

  “We’ll make a farmer of you yet,” I teased my little brother, chucking him on the arm with my fist.

  I was kidding, but his expression remained serious. “I just don’t get how you could want to live that way for the rest of your life.”

  “I can only say God has given me a desire to live simply. You have a bit of that desire too. I saw it in you just the other day.”

  He rolled his eyes like the fourteen-year-old he was. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”

  “I’m sure I did. When you told me you wanted to go backpacking in New Zealand, you said it would be nice to get away from school and homework and even other people.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “Not ‘whatever,’ Brady. This is important. When you said that, you were responding to that call on everyone’s heart to live a simple, surrendered life. It might be a just barely perceptible itch for you, but it’s there nonetheless.”

  He thought for a moment. “Okay. So?”

  “So for me, it’s not an itch. It’s an irresistible, all-encompassing longing. And that’s how I can live that way for the rest of my life.”

  Brady furrowed his brow as he considered the truth of my words.

  “Come out next summer. Spend a month with me. Unplug.”

  Finally, he smiled. “I’ll think about it, but I’m not making any promises. Especially if you try to make me milk a cow or slop a pig.”

  We shared a laugh.

  With my time up, I gave Brady one last embrace. Then I turned to my dad. Though our hug was quick and our words simple, his final “I love you, son,” stayed with me, keeping me warm my entire journey home.

  I reached Lancaster County two and a half very long, uneventful days later. At least I’d had my thoughts and God’s calming presence for company. From time to time I’d touch the strongbox inside my duffel and would sense there was one last thing I needed to do to complete my journey, and it had to do with what lay inside that locked compartment. I couldn’t shake the notion that I had been given an opportunity to do something for my mother all these years after she had passed from this life to the next, something that only I could.

  The trip had been exhausting, to say the least, but the last hour made every moment of it worthwhile. Watching the scenery outside my window grow ever more pastoral, ever more familiar, my heart began to race with a childlike anticipation. Drifted snow lay across the rolling hills like folds of white muslin. Pine trees seemed ready for Christmas. The subdued November palette was very different from California’s perpetual vibrancy, and yet I found it comforting. As we rumbled on toward the Lancaster station, I could see Amish buggies here and there on the streets among the cars and trucks and motorcycles. I was almost home.

  As soon as I reached the station and spotted Daadi and Mammi waiting for me there, I could tell they had gotten my letter. Gone were the worried looks and shared glances from prior to my trip. Now they were all smiles, so glad to see me, so eager to hear of every last adventure, so relieved and pleased to know I had made my decision for the church at last.

  Back at the house, after an effusive greeting from Timber, I sat at the table while Mammi served me a late lunch of ham and cheesy potatoes and green beans and my favorite peach and raspberry crumble. She and Daadi both joined me there as I ate, asking all about my father and Liz and Brady and how they were, and then catching me up on all the news from home and from Jake, who was doing fine at farrier school out in Missouri.

  As my grandparents and I sat in the warm Amish kitchen, I couldn’t get over the quiet and peace that surrounded us, the lack of interruption. The absence of devices to divide us. Finally, I showed the two of them my mother’s photos from Germany, explaining what I had managed to conclude from the entire collection, that she’d taken pictures as a way to capture scenes reminiscent of home. Gazing at the photos, they both seemed deeply touched at the thought—and somehow deeply healed as well.

  I didn’t want our time around the table to end, but before I saw Rachel, I wanted to take care of what lay locked inside the strongbox. Suddenly I didn’t think I could wait another minute.

  I excused myself to unpack and headed up to my room.

  I retrieved the key first from the cigar box and then removed the strongbox from my duffel. I felt a strange sense of calm as I inserted the key into the lock. I knew it would fit. I knew it would open the lock.

  The key turned as easily as if it were only a lever to open a door. Sure enough, inside was a small stack of envelopes—letters from home, just as Dad had said.

  I gingerly pulled the stack from the box and laid each one out on the bed in front of me, counting seven in all. Studying the exteriors of the envelopes, I noted that five of them were all in the same handwriting, and though they bore no return addresses, they had all been mailed to my mother. The other two envelopes had nothing on them at all, no addresses or stamps or postmar
ks or anything. Taking a quick peek inside each, I saw that they were both in my mother’s handwriting.

  Perhaps those two were letters she’d been writing in return.

  I sat back on the bed and considered how to proceed. After a moment, I reached out and arranged the five addressed envelopes by order of their dated postmark. I decided I would read through those first, in order, and save the other two—the ones she had written herself—for last.

  With trembling hands, I picked up the oldest dated envelope and pulled out the letter from inside. Skimming its contents, I soon realized that it was a love letter, from someone named Jonah. He must have lived in Lancaster County, because throughout the whole thing he kept pleading with her to “come back home.” Setting that one aside, I continued on with the next and then the next. Each one was more of the same, filled with urgings to come home and pledges of undying affection—apparently unrequited—all from this Jonah guy, whoever he was. It wasn’t until I got to the fourth letter that the hairs on my arms began to stand on end.

  As I read through various details in that note—about his family, about his personal life—I realized that this wasn’t some random guy named Jonah my mom had won the affection of. This was a Jonah I knew—and knew well. It was Uncle Jonah. Jonah Bowman. Cousin Anna’s father. Aunt Sarah’s husband.

  I gasped, looking up from the note as if the man might materialize right there in the room in front of me.

  Jonah had been in love with my mother before he married her sister?

  I couldn’t believe it. In all the years I had been here, I’d never heard one whisper of rumor or insinuation about a relationship between my mother and her future brother-in-law. In fact, I was having trouble believing it now, until I continued my reading and put more of the pieces together. From what I was seeing here and from what my aunt Sarah had already told me, Jonah had courted both my mom and my aunt when the three of them were on their rumspringa. Apparently, it had become something of a love triangle the day he secretly confessed to my mother that he loved her, even though they both knew that Sarah loved him.

  Feeling as if I were moving through a dream, I read the fifth note.

  Dearest Sadie: I know you told me you don’t feel the same for me, but over time you could learn to love me. I know you could. I also know Sarah would understand eventually. She would forgive you. We are meant to be together, Sadie…

  So many emotions were pounding inside my head as I tucked away his notes and moved on to the two unsent letters written in my mother’s handwriting. I sensed only a momentary jolt of guilt as I opened the flaps and withdrew each one. Still, I knew I was meant to read all of this. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew I was meant to. Even my dad thought so.

  I smoothed out the stationery on the older of the two letters and began to read. It had been dated the year I was born.

  Dear Jonah,

  I am so pleased to hear the news that you and my sister will be wed at last. I know now you have come to understand that you and I were never meant to be together. Sarah is the soul mate I never could have been.

  You should know that I don’t blame you for what happened, but I do wonder, often, if you realize I had no choice but to leave so that Sarah could be spared the heartache of knowing the man she loved was in love with someone else—her own sister, no less—and so that you might forget about me and turn to her instead. Making this whole situation even more painful is the fact that she can never know the truth of my leaving, lest it break her heart twice over.

  Hearing now that the two of you are to be wed, I am finally at peace about my decision to go. If it spared my beloved sister such heartache, and it led you to love her at last and to make a life with her as your wife, then it has been worth all of the sacrifice in the end.

  That is why I am writing now, to say that I forgive you and that I am so happy to hear the news. May your life together be blessed!

  I am not even sure if I will be able to send you this letter. I do not have an address for you where it would be assured to escape the notice of others. I shall end it here and try to figure out how to get it to you. If you are reading these words, it means that I succeeded.

  Please know that I wish the two of you all the best and I hope you find love as deep and true and everlasting as I have with Duke.

  All the best,

  Sadie

  I sat back, realizing that I held in my hand the final answer I sought.

  My mother left Lancaster County out of love for her sister. But because of the circumstances, she could never tell that to another living soul.

  I reached for the final envelope, expecting it to be dated around the same time as the other. Instead, what I saw in the date line made me gasp aloud. It hadn’t been written then. It had been written eight years later.

  On the day before she died.

  It, too, was a letter, but to Sarah this time. Far less formal than the one she’d written years before to Jonah, this seemed to be an olive branch of sorts, a reaching out from sister to sister. I held it up and began to read.

  My dear sister Sarah,

  I don’t know how many times I have tried to write this letter to you. And here I am trying again. I only have a few minutes before Tyler gets home from kindergarten, so I’ll make it quick.

  This time of year, my heart always grows so heavy as I think of you celebrating your birthday without me there at your side. It has been eight and a half years since I left, and every year I have thought of you on this day and missed you more than words can say.

  We are back in the States now, as Mamm may have told you, and I am eager to finally, finally come home for a visit. I spoke to Mamm on the shop phone just a few days ago about coming to visit. Her heart was still as hardened to me as ever, but I plan to persist. If I do make it home, perhaps you will bring yourself to speak to me this time? That is my most fervent prayer!

  You should know that I believe God gifted me Duke in a way I don’t think I could explain to anyone, least of all Mamm and Daed. I am aware of how very much I have grieved them, but I will honor my commitment to my marriage vows. And though I miss Lancaster County with every breath in my body, I know I cannot return, at least not for more than a visit. I will be forever torn, but it helps to know that you are happy, as Mamm said. On the phone, she spoke of your sweet little ones, your beautiful girls. And I am so grateful to God that Jonah has found his soul mate in you.

  I know you have forgiven me for leaving because that is your way, as it is mine. All I can say is that I had my reasons, and I am at peace with them. Regardless, you still are and will always be my best friend. Even as time and distance separate us, I hope

  The letter ended there, midsentence. I could almost picture it, the sight of my mother scribbling away until I came home from school, then being interrupted before she was done. She must have tucked the letter away and planned to finish writing it the next day.

  But the next day she died. She died with the key in her hand.

  I folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope, knowing without question I would give it to my aunt Sarah. It wasn’t quite complete, but it said enough. It said what my mother had longed to say for years. That she loved her sister. That she had held on to hope. That she thought of Sarah as her best friend to the end.

  Her other letter, the one to Jonah, I would not deliver. I knew it would serve no purpose. Nor was there any reason to keep any of the notes he had written to her either. After setting the one for Sarah aside, I took all of the others and stuffed them into my pocket. Downstairs, I grabbed some twine from the mudroom, pulled on my jacket and boots, and headed outside to the pond, thankful that it was not yet frozen solid.

  I looked about for the right-sized rock, and then I withdrew the pages from my pocket. With the twine I secured to the rock the pages that revealed the truth of why my mother left, making sure the knots were taut. Then I flung the rock with its cargo to the center of the pond my mother loved and missed so very much, where it sank out
of view.

  The paper would become fragments, the fragments would become nothing. Even the twine would eventually disintegrate. In time, there would be only a rock at the bottom of a lovely pond.

  I waited until the water’s surface was calm again and then I turned back toward the house. I would save the delivery of Sarah’s letter for another day, as God would lead.

  Right now, there was someone vitally important I needed to see.

  I made it to Rachel’s a little after five, though it felt later. Thanks to the early-setting sun, it was already dark. The moment she opened the door, the blue of her eyes was the only spot of color I saw in the whole room.

  “Rachel,” I said, removing my hat.

  “You’re back,” she said softly.

  “Ya. I’m home.”

  I wanted her to drop the pan and towel she was holding in her hands and run into my arms. Instead, she simply turned and led the way back to the kitchen.

  “Can you come out for a walk?” I asked, now gripping the hat brim nervously in my hands.

  She shared a look with her mother, who was busy dropping dumplings into a large vat of bubbling broth.

  “Ya,” Rachel said finally, and then she went to pull on her winter coverings.

  Outside, we ambled down the driveway in the crisp evening air toward a small grove of walnut trees that flanked the nearest pasture. We were silent as we moved from the shoveled pavement of the drive to the crunchy snow of the lawn and then continued on, side by side, our boots breaking twin paths in the snow as we went. I wanted so much to hold her hand, but I knew I didn’t dare try. Not yet, anyway.

  For the first time that I could ever remember, I felt nervous around her. If only I could know what was going through her mind. She seemed deep in thought. Far, far away. Before I began what I had come there to say, I asked if she’d had a chance to think things over herself since we talked.