“You goin’ to please the Lord God or the brethren?” asked Jonathan.
“Ain’t that simple.”
“Well, ’tis so . . . the way I see it.” Jonathan held his old Bible out to him. “Everything we need to know is here, Reuben—all we need for life and godliness. I beg of you, read it. For the sake of your children and grandchildren. So they don’t end up . . . like Suzy.”
Reuben trembled. “What’s that?”
“I’m sorry, cousin. I never should’ve—”
Reuben felt his ire surge within him. “Getting myself shunned won’t bring my daughter back,” he interrupted, putting on his hat. “Sorry to take up your time, Jonathan.”
He bade his cousin a terse farewell, hurrying to the horse and buggy.
Out on the road, he seethed, needing the space of miles between Jonathan’s house and Bishop Joseph’s to quiet his thoughts. He’d brought along his eldest brother’s shovel to return and was mighty glad he had. Time to put some distance between himself and his shunned cousin.
A group of steers were on the move near the side of the road to the south. He noticed several cattle bunched together, vying for clumps of green sage. The yearlings stayed close to their mothers, some of them bawling as they went.
It was hard to take his eyes off the cows and their calves. His sons raised large herds of cattle, though he had always preferred horses. He observed the cattle crossing the stream, as if following him, some eyeing his horse while others paid no mind.
At the next junction, Reuben spotted a row of bedraggled late roses, the last blossoms of summer hanging on. The bishop’s place came into view, and he looked forward to exchanging a few kind words with his eldest brother before heading on home to Betsy and his work.
But as he tied up the horse and headed to the bishop’s barn, he happened upon another spur-of-the-moment meeting—the second such debate over the Ordnung in two weeks.
Several men were talking about tractors, and others were raising their voices in favor of electricity and cars, too. “We don’t just want ’em, we need ’em!” huffed one man.
Reuben’s own first cousin, Preacher Manny—short for Emmanuel—shook his head in response. “We can’t be unified for the upcoming communion if yous don’t stop and listen to yourselves. It’s impossible to make any headway with the order of things . . . not with such discord.”
Ephram’s neighbor, Abraham Zook, seemed bent on change, his eyes squeezing nearly shut as he spoke. “I call for an altering of the Ordnung come next month, before communion service and foot washin’.”
The bishop next district over and his two preachers—all from Chester County—raised their voices in accord with Preacher Manny against what looked to be a growing faction of discontented farmers.
But Abraham ignored them. “It’s high time we get some help. That freak summer drought nearly did some of us in.”
“That’s God’s business,” said Preacher Manny.
“Well, I say the Good Lord gave us brains and we oughta use ’em.” Abraham turned toward his three sons, who muttered their agreement. One of them egged him on by cuffing him lightly on the back. “We could use the tractor power. Now more than ever.”
When will it end? Reuben wondered, slowly stepping back to remove himself from the ruckus. Struggling from dawn till dusk was the expected way of the People—the way things had always been done.
Then Old Joe Glick and four of his brothers, along with a handful of their fired-up cousins, started defending the Ordnung. One of the younger men pointed his finger, and several more near Reuben mimicked the gesture, their eyes intent on Abraham and his sons. For sure and for certain, this meeting was even more heated than the last one, where many of these same men had gathered to voice frustration.
Placing his hat on his head, Reuben turned to go. But right then his brother spoke up from behind him. “’Tis time all of us head on home. We’ve got plenty-a work to be done, seems to me,” the bishop said.
Abraham frowned. “Jah, we’ve plenty-a work, Bishop . . . and tractors would ease the burden. We’re losin’ ground in more ways than one.”
“Such things are of the devil, the way I see it.” The bishop caught Reuben’s eye as he faced Abraham and the others. “’Tis best to do what you know you’re s’posed to, following what we all know is right and good. And, Abe—and those of you of like mind—you best be watchin’ your rebellious spirit.”
Abraham looked down at the floor, working his foot on something Reuben couldn’t see.
Their sixty-year-old bishop shook his head. “I must say, there’s far more to this than meets the eye. And it can’t be solved in these dog-and-cat fights.”
Reuben was moved to speak at last. “Why not call the membership together? We’ll put this thing to rest.”
Both the bishop’s and Preacher Manny’s expression changed mighty fast. “Reuben, you have no idea what you’re talking ’bout,” said his brother.
The preachers from Chester County nodded, seemingly in agreement.
Then Bishop Joseph spoke again. “The die is cast . . . no turnin’ back to voting and such. Here lately, if it’s not one thing, it’s another: men wanting tractors . . . others wanting to do away with shunning practices.” He folded his arms over his stocky chest. “Seems we need more than just another gathering.”
“Jah, but ’tis best to keep the women out of this for the time bein’,” Preacher Manny said, eyeing Reuben.
“Well, our wives ain’t deaf, nor are they dumb.” Reuben stepped forward. “They surely know something’s a-brewin’.” He was tired of all this talking in circles; time to draw a line in the dirt. He was for the Ordnung as it stood, so why was Manny singling him out, anyway?
Manny’s eyes shot daggers. “Best be keepin’ your thoughts to yourself, cousin.”
Ach, I’m with ya, Preacher, don’t misunderstand, Reuben wanted to say.
Well, he was with Manny on most aspects of the Ordnung. He thought again of Suzy, departed before she could take the kneeling vow. It was impossible to erase from his mind the painful knowledge that baptism into the church was essential for any hope of heaven.
To think that some folk, in other churches, were allowed to say they belonged to the Lord—saved, as it were—and could rejoice in that assurance. His cousin Jonathan believed exactly that. Oh, to know where you were going when you died!
Poor, dear Suzy . . .
Reuben had a gnawing emptiness in his very soul, a festering grief he refused to express. Following the Old Ways had not fulfilled his spiritual longing, and his discussion this morning with Cousin Jonathan hadn’t made things any better.
CHAPTER 3
Betsy Fisher, mother of nine, thought of herself as a perceptive soul, though she would never boast of it. Reuben had surprised her once by saying she had an uncanny way of deciphering the things folk said, could cut right through to the truth.
Fact was, she sometimes felt most everything right and good had ceased when her youngest daughter drowned. She assumed this was how other mothers felt when their children’s lives were cut short . . . taken away too soon from those who loved them.
Sighing, Betsy gazed out the kitchen window at the clear sky, as blue as a piece of fine pottery she’d seen over at a shop north of Strasburg not so long ago. The color had stood out because it was so unlike the blue of the fabric sanctioned by the brethren. Not the royal blue of their cape dresses, but the soft yet distinct blue of a robin’s egg.
She found herself glad for the lack of rain this day—the weather made traveling pleasant, and Ephram had already come to drop off some preserves from Maryann, offering to take Nellie Mae over to see her when he was headed home again. It was awful nice how that worked out, seeing as how Nellie scarcely got a chance to visit with Maryann.
Betsy realized anew that she disliked having Nellie Mae farther away than the bakery shop. Since Suzy’s death, Nellie was the daughter who had watched over her most closely, as if more aware of the depth of h
er mother’s loss. When Nellie left a room, she took something along with her. Something I sorely need, Betsy thought.
There had been times lately when she felt sure Nellie Mae was stronger than she herself, even as a grown woman. Betsy had known it in her bones from her daughter’s earliest days just how confident Nellie was—at least since Nellie’s first determined baby steps at only nine-and-a-half months. It was no surprise that such a determined child had grown into the kind of young woman capable of running a shop almost single-handedly. Few girls could handle such responsibility, let alone thrive under its weight.
Jah, Nellie’s a strong one. Ever so steady on her feet . . . and otherwise, thought Betsy. Till recently.
She wiped her hands on her long black apron and hurried down the center hall of the farmhouse, heading for the back door. She had been awake since before sunup, glad for the few tender moments of Reuben’s usual morning natter and nuzzling before he arose for a long day of work.
Sighing once more as she opened the door, Betsy breathed deeply of the crisp air. Just yesterday she’d noticed moths had clustered in the dark trees like tiny umbrellas, foretelling the cold snap. She looked out over their vast spread of land, a gem of a place nestled in a green hollow—“away from it all,” as Reuben liked to say. His grandfather had bestowed this land upon them when they’d decided to up and marry nearly the second they’d started courting. Their youth had stunned the bishop, but he was happy enough when the babies started coming a full year later.
Betsy smiled. Such a long time ago, but, oh, the good days of hard work and raising youngsters. The familiar lump in her throat threatened to return, but she willed herself not to cry. One step at a time, someone had told her. You didn’t get over the loss of a child in a mere three months. It could take years and even longer.
Whatever might come, Betsy must not let this crush her heart as she’d seen happen to others. Grief-ridden mothers, some who’d lost little ones at the hands of Englischers who drove recklessly around the buggies, speeding up on purpose, or so it seemed.
Does this pain the Lord God, too?
She was squinting hard, knowing she ought not to give place to anger. Even so-called accidents were the will of the Sovereign One, Jehovah God, whose ways were lofty—higher than her own. Trials made one stronger, didn’t they?
The Good Book itself spoke of such profound sadness—weeping only lasting so long, then joy coming in the morning. Even for her, the time for the singing of the birds and spring would come eventually, if the Lord God saw fit to turn her sorrow into gladness. When dear Reuben read Scriptures like these, she often felt comforted, and she took refuge in the fact.
Betsy whispered to the air, “Are there others who fret like me?” She expected there were, even though they, too, had been taught to adhere to the Ordnung; many of its rules had been handed down for generations. They embraced whatever life brought, knowing that in God’s providence, it was meant to be.
Forcing her mind on to the task now at hand, Betsy headed toward the chicken house. The old frame structure had recently been made sturdier by her husband’s frugal ingenuity. She recalled her days as a young bride, gladdened by Reuben’s natural skill in breeding and raising horses. He had gotten his start by purchasing half a dozen lame racing horses at local stockyard auctions, mostly Morgan trotters, taking care to flawlessly mend their injuries. Over time those horses and their offspring became some of the best for harness use, thanks to Reuben’s gentle, yet persistent nature and knack for training colts. His reputation was such now that Amish farmers from all around the area turned to him whenever they required a reliable horse. Truly, Betsy knew she’d married a good man; one with a good heart, too.
She caught herself in a rare smile and stopped to glance across the yard at the bakery shop, all freshly painted and done up. Wonder how Nan’s faring today. Most days, she’d much rather help Nellie Mae’s customers than tend to the chickens. Who wouldn’t? Nice warm, cheery room. Friendly faces, pleasant chatter . . . a bit of gossip. She felt too alone here lately, but all of that was another thing yet. ’Twas Reuben’s say-so where she spent her days for now.
She made her way across the yard, still wet in patches from the heavy dew. She remembered sitting there on the lawn with five-year-old Emma, her son James’s daughter. How she’d enjoyed eating strawberries from Kauffman’s Fruit Farm in the shade of their old maple.
Was it just this past June—before Suzy died?
A sudden longing sprang up for the youngster who looked ever so much like Suzy, but who possessed more sense of right and wrong, hopefully. She wished Emma would slow down some and not grow up so quicklike. The times she crawled onto her Mammi’s lap were already becoming scarce. Thinks she’s too big for that now, Betsy supposed.
What was it about summertime? Children and weeds.
Sighing loudly, she pushed open the door to the chicken house. The hens flapped and cackled greedily. “Kumm get it.” She reached for the sack of feed, knowing right then why she cared not one bit for this job. She’d only begun doing Suzy’s chore the day after she’d drowned, reluctant to let anyone else take it on.
Several times since, she’d considered stepping aside. “Think like Nellie Mae . . . be strong,” Betsy urged herself. Still, it was all she could do to complete the chore and get herself back into the house to sit awhile. If only her nowyoungest might somehow sense how much she was needed at home.
Rosanna King’s blue eyes shone brightly with tears, and her blond hair was pulled back tightly in a large bun beneath her white head covering—her prayer Kapp. The expression on her face made it clear to Nellie her friend’s tears were joyful ones. “Oh, Nellie Mae, you’ll never guess what I have to tell ya. You just never will.”
“Well, what on earth?”
“Nearly too good to be true, it is.” Rosanna reached for Nellie’s hand. “Ach . . . but my cousin Kate has offered Elias and me a most remarkable gift.”
The first thing that came to mind was Kate Beiler’s antique hope chest, which was a lovely sight to see. Handcrafted from the finest wood, it was perhaps the prettiest piece of furniture Nellie had ever seen. Was Kate going to part with it?
“Kate’s in the family way—due near Christmas.”
She’s had many-a baby, thought Nellie, not quite sure what Rosanna meant to say.
“Kate wants to give the baby to me . . . to Elias and me.”
Witnessing the joy-light in Rosanna’s eyes, Nellie Mae’s heart leaped. “What unbelievable news, Rosie!” She had heard of an Amish mother in another state offering to give an infant to relatives, but learning her barren friend was to receive such a gift was another thing altogether.
“Ain’t it, though? And to think the Good Lord told my cousins to do this—well, put it in their hearts, I s’pose I should say.”
“Jah, ’cause God scarcely ever talks to folk, ya know,” Nellie said.
“Well, in this case . . . He surely must have.”
“I’m ever so happy for you,” Nellie said, smiling at this woman who was as dear to her as the day. Though Rosanna was but twenty-one, she knew too well the sorrow of losing her babies to miscarriage. This last time, the presiding doctor had declared she would probably never carry a baby to term. The shock of the news had been terrible for both Rosanna and her young husband, and Nellie wondered if Rosanna had confided the doctor’s startling conclusion to Kate just as she had to Nellie.
Suddenly she felt nervous as worrisome thoughts flitted through her head. What if something happened and Kate couldn’t . . . or didn’t follow through with her offer? But Nellie held her peace, not wanting to bring a sad thought to her friend, who had yearned for a little one with no success.
“Please sit, Nellie Mae. Have some hot cocoa with me. Time to rejoice.” Rosanna didn’t wait for her to agree. She scurried over to the stove and set a kettle on the fire. “’Tis such a gift, ain’t? There’s no other way to look at it.”
“I should say so.” Yet Nellie could not
understand how Rosanna’s cousin and her husband could give away their own precious baby—their flesh and blood. She’d seen the adorable wee ones Kate had birthed over the years, six youngsters in all.
How can Kate relinquish her baby? Won’t she pine for this child all the days of her life?
Despite her questions, Nellie’s spirits had risen at Rosanna’s news. She couldn’t help but think, and hope, that just maybe Kate’s promise of a baby—a Christmas babe—might somehow dispel some of the ridiculous church tittle-tattle. If a baby can do such a thing.
CHAPTER 4
Betsy rolled out the dough for her chicken and dumplings dinner, glad Nellie Mae was back from her visit over at Ephram’s. She had tried her best to chat with Nellie upon her return, but her daughter had seemed distracted. She wondered if Nellie Mae had taken the opportunity to open up to Maryann and share her secret. Close as she had been to Suzy, surely Nellie knew more about Suzy’s death than she was telling.
Sighing, Betsy expertly shaped each dough ball, washing her hands at the sink when she was through. How convenient it was to no longer have to carry well water indoors from the pump.
Reuben’s doing . . .
Thinking of her husband’s insistence on bringing water into the house two months back, she hoped Reuben would not fall prey to the urging of his farmer friends and relatives’ current progressive talk. Yet her husband had voiced nary an interest in modern farm equipment over the years, despite their living alongside English neighbors who owned such things. Of course, as a newly married couple, she and Reuben had sometimes talked privately of the hard reality of doing things the Old Way, which kept them working long hours, day in and day out. Truth was, Betsy did sometimes envy the Englischers, who could plow, plant, and cultivate their fields in record time.
With time left to rest of an evening . . .
Momentarily she wondered what that must be like, but immediately she rejected the thought, just as Reuben certainly would. It was not the path they had chosen.
The Parting Page 3
