by Linda Byler
He knew every dog, and they knew him. Puppies clambered over each other to reach him, and he greeted each one by his own nickname, creating his own special bond with every animal in the kennel, large and small.
John watched with something akin to envy, knowing he had been a flop, never coming up to the standards Alvin and Lydia had hoped for.
Well, he’d tried. Perhaps he could make it up to them somehow, eventually.
John still had plenty of trouble with that left knee, but he was alive, with a promise of love in the sweetest, most unselfish girl he could ever hope to meet.
He caught her eye at the dinner table, smiled. She smiled back. They bundled up in coats and scarves, walked for miles and miles in the biting wind, unaware of distance, time, or what the family would say.
A few long months and they could be together.
The brown hills fell away like an enormous pan of apple dumplings, the forests and fence rows of black tree limbs like burnt sugar.
Gravel crunched under their shoes, tired, passing dusty weeds hanging from their dry roots, dying for winter, knowing they’d be resurrected in spring.
Blue jays screamed from oak trees, scattering the nervous little wrens and nuthatches that gorged themselves on goldenrod seeds.
Chipmunks and squirrels watched bright-eyed from perches in branches by the side of the road, going unnoticed by the young couple.
They spoke of autism, of Down syndrome and special-needs children, how God blessed folks with the ability and ambition to become wealthy, and what the future held for them.
“I don’t know what kind of farmer I’ll turn out to be,” John said quietly. “I just know nothing else interests me. I couldn’t keep up with Abner and Amos, roofing. My legs would never take that kind of torture.”
He stopped, looked at her with all the soft humility he felt.
“I hope you realize, Lena, you might be saddled with a husband who turns out to be worthless. I mean, what if the Lyme comes back and I’m flat on my back, yet again?”
“It won’t. And besides, who says I’ll marry you?”
Embarrassed, color swept across John’s face.
“I’m sorry. I have a habit of thinking out loud.”
“Oh, John.”
She grabbed his arm, stopped him, and stepped into his arms, wrapping her own securely around his waist.
“You are the sweetest guy, the most humble person I know. Don’t apologize for saying that. It was like fine music, those words.”
John looked down at Lena, his beloved friend who had encouraged him over the roughest times, the thought of her always like a beacon, a light of hope.
“Thank you.”
The kiss they shared held a new reverence, a new appreciation, a dedication of their love for the future.
They walked hand in hand, a silence between them like a golden web, binding two hearts with the knowledge of their belonging.
Was love, then, always like this? The joy of your existence, the anticipation of what was to come? A marriage of two souls blessed by God, living in a perfect world?
John knew better. Having lived in a world of pain and disease, watching his family hide their angst, bite their tongues to avoid more disagreement and ill feelings, he knew they, Lena and he, would have their moments, their days, when things went awry and tempers flared.
He smiled, squeezed her hand.
She looked up at him.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” Still smiling.
“You’re thinking about something.”
“I’m just happy.”
Satisfied with his answer, she left well enough alone, spoke of missing her family at Christmas, although the holidays meant much less to them than many other families.
“My parents are extremely frugal people, as you’ve seen. So Christmas at our house holds very little in the way of presents or elaborate, expensive foods. It’s just . . . well, different. And I worry, afraid of what you’ll think.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, but it will, I’m afraid. My father has a bad attitude about the festivities of any holiday. He talks harshly, actually condemns the Amish church for allowing the shopping and gift giving most families enjoy. I see the longing in my mother’s eyes but she would never let on. We get German books for our gift, and nothing else. So, you see, we’ll have things like that to take into consideration.”
“Of course we will. But we’ll cross that bridge as soon as we get to it, right?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
They returned to the old yellow house packed with family, children underfoot like slippery rugs. Everyone turned to see them step inside, faces red from the cold, by all appearances, a healthy, happy couple flushed with the joy of living.
Mam’s eyes filled with tears. Dat’s mouth shook, a slight tremor that wobbled his graying beard. Their eyes met.
We’ve come this far, together. We made it. Things weren’t perfect, we argued, had our share of ill feelings, too many unnecessary expenses, but we did it.
Lydia peered over the steam that rose from the pan of roasht she was taking from the oven, thought John must have bumped his brain around real good in that accident, felt a bit miffed that she couldn’t claim any honor for his well-being.
There you were. Went to all that trouble, did what she could, and nothing ever amounted to a hill of beans. He lay in his bed and carried his anxiety and weakness around like a flag for everyone to examine, didn’t even try to bond with the dogs the way Dewan did.
It irked her. He went home and got into an accident that could have killed him, and here he was, as healthy as a horse, for Pete’s sake.
She stirred the roasht with the force of her frustration, flipped a sizable portion onto the cracked linoleum, snorted, and scooped it up with her hands, shaking them to avoid the heat, her shoulders hunched as she scuttled to the wastecan. She tripped over little Benuel, who set up a fierce howling, his mouth wide, his eyes mere slits in his round, red face.
“Oops, sorry. Ach my, Benuel. You poor thing. Here, come here.”
She bent to pick him up, thought what a homely, clumsy child he was, blessed with his father’s florid face. How Sara Ann could stand to live with that man and his controlling ways was beyond her. But she just smiled and apologized when Sara Ann came bustling over, said it was all right, it was all right, she should have watched him, and met her sister’s eyes and knew the spark of irritation meant she was in agreement with that.
John reached out for little Benuel, smiled at Sara Ann as he did so, then sat on the couch, the large child with the homely features settled in the crook of his arm. He produced a white handkerchief, wiped the tears gently, then produced a keychain, which he dangled and Benuel grabbed, the beginning of his good humor returning.
Lydia saw.
She also saw the look of reverence from Lena, who clearly adored John. In sickness and in health, she would be there for him. Chills washed over her. Seriously, she was becoming soft in the head.
Who was to understand the way of the Lord? Who could see the entire picture of life, a jigsaw puzzle of pieces put together by the Father’s hand, glossed over and hung on the wall?
She went back to the Christmas dinner preparations, nudged Susie away from the steaming kettle of potatoes, saying, “My turn.”
“I just started.”
“Let me.”
Always the same, this potato-smashing ritual at holiday dinners. It was a huge sixteen-quart kettle of soft, boiling potatoes, into which would go salt, butter, milk, and cream cheese. Steam came in hot waves as the women took turns hunched over the kettle, stomping around in the huge kettle with the too small potato mashers, arguing about saving the water the potatoes had been cooked in, when to add the butter, what was the best time to add milk, how much salt.
Mam stepped away, leaving her daughters to argue.
She pictured herself as she’d been throughout John’s illness, trying to make
sense of one perplexing path after another. Sometimes she’d had her husband’s support, but often, she’d felt so alone.
Ah well.
Perhaps it had been unnecessary, but she’d done the best she could. John was so much better, and with Lena now. A gift. A gift.
Seated around the Christmas table, Elmer Stoltzfus sat at his son-in-law’s right and bowed his head to give thanks for the food, for the gift of the dear Son who was born this day, and for his family.
He lifted his head and surveyed the line of sons, misty-eyed.
Each one would find a partner, a life companion, one who pledged her love and dedication, for the remainder of their lives. A miracle. Another gift.
He smiled his inner appreciation, passed the steaming bowls and platters, listened to the talk that fell like rain, easily, naturally. Talk that nurtured, drew together, strengthened bonds of family, informative, easy to listen to.
Realized this, too, was a gift from above, from the Father of light. One it had never occurred to him, not once, as a thing he should be thankful for.
All those supper tables, when John was absent, or sat silent and sick, always producing stilted, unnatural sentences, eye rolling, looks of contempt. Mam scurrying like a nervous cat, aching to patch things up, keep the peace, just for this one meal.
And here they were, with girlfriends like bright, happy poinsettias.
The parting was even more difficult than John had imagined. He knew it was only till May, but five month seemed like five years.
Lena clung to him.
“Oh, John. I know this sounds stupid, but I already miss you and you haven’t even gone yet.”
He drew her closer, closed his eyes as he laid his cheek on top of her bright, blond head, crushing her white head covering effectively.
“I love you so much, Lena. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll still love you as much as I love you now.”
“I would hope our love would increase,” she said, coyly.
John laughed. “They say it does.”
“They’re probably right.”
And John knew a bright vision for his future, the love of a girl like Lena, an undeserved gift, given to him by the same God who had plucked him from good health and set him in a dark valley of Lyme disease, finished him off with a near fatal accident, before presenting him with Lena, free and willing to spend the remainder of his life with him, sending Emily to heal Samuel’s broken heart.
He saw himself working in the fields, his beard graying, Lena with a thickening waistline, wrinkles on the sides of her eyes, children picking the tomatoes and peppers and eggplants, in various stages of growth. He imagined a fat little boy with riotous waves of brown hair and a petite, beautiful girl with a headful of hair like spun gold.
And five months seemed like a falling star. A streak of flashing light in a dark sky, and she would be at home in Jefferson County, where he would drive his horse and buggy to her parents’ home every weekend until the day they became as one, bound by a love that had been intensified by the trials of the disease, the hard choices she had encountered. Each one proved its worth, purifying their souls by the fire produced by the Master’s hand.
THE END
GLOSSARY
Ach, vell, so gehts—Oh well, so it goes
Auskund—hymn book
Ausry—the English, outsiders
Chvischtot—relatives
Daudies—grandfathers
Deifel—devil
Denkscht net?—You think not?
Der Herr—the Lord
Dick-keppich—thickheaded
Die uf-gevva-heit—giving up one’s own will
Eck—the table where the bride and groom sit at their wedding
Eissa kessla—iron kettles
Fersark—see to their needs
Gehorsam—obedient
Gel? —right?
Grosfeelich—proud
Gyan schöena—You’re welcome
Himmlischer Vater—Heavenly Father
Hya. Kommet rye.—Hi. Come in.
Ich sauk denke.—I say thanks.
Kaevly—basket
Kaite sup—fruit soup
Knecht—hired boy
Mein Vater im Himmel—My Father in heaven
Multza—coat
Ordnung—rules
Pucka—pimples
Rumschpringa—a time of courtship, in which Amish teenagers participate in organized social events
Schnitza—lie
Schtick—snack
Shick dich.—Behave yourself.
Verboten—forbidden
OTHER BOOKS BY LINDA BYLER
About the Author
LINDA BYLER WAS RAISED IN AN AMISH FAMILY AND IS AN ACTIVE member of the Amish church today. Growing up, Linda loved to read and write. In fact, she still does. Linda is well-known within the Amish community as a columnist for a weekly Amish newspaper. She writes all her novels by hand in notebooks.
Linda is the author of six series of novels, all set among the Amish communities of North America: Lizzie Searches for Love, Sadie’s Montana, Lancaster Burning, Hester’s Hunt for Home, the Dakota Series, and the Buggy Spoke Series for younger readers. Linda has also written five Christmas romances set among the Amish: Mary’s Christmas Goodbye, The Christmas Visitor, The Little Amish Matchmaker, Becky Meets Her Match, and A Dog for Christmas. Linda has co-authored Lizzie’s Amish Cookbook: Favorite Recipes from Three Generations of Amish Cooks!
