She was relieved to see that Percival Eggar had insisted on meeting around a table, rather than the usual arrangement for school board meetings, where the board members sat in elevated chairs behind a long wooden desk and townspeople were left to present their positions from behind a railing, as if in a courtroom.
Mr. Brownley spoke from the front of the room. Naturally he had taken the seat at the head of the table.
“We agreed to this meeting,” he said, “and we will keep our word. But I must warn you that I see few grounds—if any—for altering the arrangement the law demands.”
Margaret ground her teeth. He had gotten what he wanted. The Amish children were in school. Now he had the gall to persist in his unflinching position even after he agreed to hear out the Amish fathers.
Percival Eggar spoke from the other side of the table. Margaret was glad to see he had chosen his seat in a manner that balanced Brownley’s position.
“We will now begin presenting our case,” Percival said. “We understand this is not a courtroom, and we trust that you will honor your word to hear us out.”
“I don’t have all day,” Brownley muttered.
Percival was unperturbed. “We have a number of people who wish to speak, beginning with Bishop Leroy Garber.”
The bishop rose and stood behind his chair. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. We are peaceful people and have no wish to antagonize anyone. You have acted in what you believe to be the best interests of children for whom you are responsible—on one level. This motivation is one we can admire. However, we respectfully disagree with the belief that what is best for your children is also best for ours. We ask that you hear not only our words, but also our hearts. I have asked Gideon Wittmer, one of the fathers whose children are affected by this crucial decision, to present the substance of our religious views and how they bear on our views of public education.”
Margaret wanted to applaud. She had never met the Amish bishop before, and no doubt Percival Eggar had coached him carefully, but she found his speech stirring even if it was merely a preamble to what Gideon had to say.
The bishop seated himself, and Gideon stood. Margaret laid her satchel flat in her lap and settled her hands against the leather.
“We find joy in work,” Gideon said simply. “We find joy in working with our hands, in laboring along with animals created by God, in tilling the soil, in cultivating our gardens. And we find joy in caring for one another, worshipping together in our church district, building together, harvesting together. We find joy in living apart from the ways which seem more ‘normal’ to you so that we may seek with all our hearts to be closer to God.”
Margaret leaned forward, watching Gideon closely as his feet began to wander away from the table.
“Nature is a garden,” Gideon continued. “Man is caretaker. God is pleased when man works in harmony with nature, the soil, weather, cares for plants and animals. Christian life is best maintained away from cities.
“We are preparing our children for eternity. Your concern is to educate them for life in the twentieth century, but our concern is that they be prepared to serve God both in this world and the next. The education you propose to offer them—to demand for them—will teach our children to despise the work which we have thrived on for hundreds of years. Colossians 2:8 warns us, ‘Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ.’
“It is our firm conviction that education beyond the eighth grade, which will lead our children into philosophies of this world, will not prepare them for eternity. Instead, it will lead them away from the ways of the people who know them best and love them most. How will advancing in the ways of this world be in their best interests if it takes them away from their own people?
“Because of these convictions, we cannot separate what we wish our children to learn in school from what we also teach at home. We do not put our religion in one stall of the barn and our learning in another with a wall in between. All of life is in God’s hands, and it is there we wish for our children to abide.”
Gideon found his chair again. Margaret let out the breath she had been holding, lest even this slight sound distract from Gideon’s message. It was Percival Eggar’s turn to stand.
“Gentlemen, as you can see, the Amish religion is not about believing something on Sunday and setting it aside for the rest of the week. The Amish truly believe. The course that Mr. Wittmer has so ably described is their way of following God. It is their deeply felt faith. I ask you, how can the freedom to demonstrate their beliefs in their actions be denied them in a place like America, which was founded on such liberties?”
“You should have gone,” Miriam said to James. “It would have made the most sense for you to stay in town all day.”
James shook his head. “What would I have done all day?”
“You could have stayed at Lindy’s and you know it,” Miriam said. “You should be at that meeting. You only came home because you think you have to look after me.”
James lifted the lid on the soup pot, trying not to think about how much of the afternoon Miriam had spent chopping the vegetables and browning the meat. At least she had done most of the work in the small dawdihaus kitchen. If she needed to, she could go lie on the bed for a few minutes. But moments ago the bus had dropped the children off at the top of the lane, and now Gertie pressed up against him.
“Are we going to make biscuits to go with the soup?” Gertie asked.
“Maybe there’s some bread in the bread box,” James said.
“But I like biscuits,” Gertie said. “I like when they are fresh from the oven.”
“We can make biscuits,” Miriam said. “But let’s do it in the big house. Then we can put them in the oven the minute your daed and Onkel James come home from the meeting. By the time they get washed up, it will be time to eat.”
Over Gertie’s head, James narrowed his eyes at his wife. He had planned to be at the meeting alongside Gideon, but he had already seen Miriam pausing to catch her breath three times that afternoon.
Gertie tugged on Miriam’s hand. “Let’s go now.”
Miriam stumbled slightly, catching herself against the sink.
“Gertrude,” James said softly. Instantly, she dropped Miriam’s hand and crossed her wrists behind her waist.
“I didn’t mean it,” Gertie said.
“I know.” James reached for the girl’s hand. “Let’s go see what your brother is up to.”
“Lessons and lessons and more lessons,” Gertie said.
This was true. Gideon had spoken somberly with Tobias about his responsibility to represent the Amish well by working hard to catch up with the weeks of school he’d missed, even though they all hoped he could leave school soon. But between Tobias and Savilla, surely they could manage Gertie for a while.
“I’m fine,” Miriam said. “Leave her be.”
But James led Gertie back to the main house. He would get her settled within eyesight of Tobias and then he would make sure Miriam rested for a few minutes.
“I’m sorry, but Rachel isn’t home,” Ella said when Lindy turned up at the Hilty farm. “I know she’d be so glad to see you well enough to make a visit. Can you wait for her?”
“When do you expect her back?”
As she always did when she visited Rachel, Lindy had exchanged her English men’s trousers for a modest skirt and blouse. It seemed to Ella that despite living in town among the English and taking up a livelihood usually left for the men, Lindy never strayed too far from the rich hues of Amish dyes in her clothing.
“She took a meal out to the Bylers,” Ella said. “Mrs. Byler was feeling poorly on Saturday, and none of their children is old enough to cook properly.”
“I pray she is better soon,” Lindy said. “I admit I’d like to rest a bit myself. I feel so much better than I did that day you found me, but between you and me, I’m not quite myself yet.”
“Please sit down,” Ella said, gesturing toward the davenport.
Lindy sank into the cushions. “I wanted to tell Rachel in person how well David cared for me. I had to insist that he go back to school this morning. He’s such a tender boy.”
“Let me get you a glass of water,” Ella said. It couldn’t have been wise of Lindy to drive all the way out here on her own.
“Actually,” Lindy said, waving off the offer of refreshment, “I’m glad I caught you. James came to check on me this morning and make a few deliveries. I got the idea that Miriam is not as well as she might be.”
Ella sighed. “I’m not sure what to make of her. James says she has good days and bad days, but I think more likely she manages to push through better on some days than others. I do as much as I can. It will be easier after the wedding.”
“Let’s go see her,” Lindy said. “I have my car. It won’t take us ten minutes to drive over there.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“It’s only a few miles. I’ll rest better myself if I know Miriam is all right.”
Ella nodded. “Let’s go.”
Ella felt as if she had barely settled herself into the automobile seat before Lindy pulled onto Gideon’s farm.
“Let’s try the dawdihaus first,” she suggested.
James answered the door, but Miriam was right behind him.
“Well, now, there’s a sensible solution,” Miriam said.
Ella and Lindy looked at each other and then at Miriam.
“This old fool ought to be at that meeting in town,” Miriam said, “but he refuses to leave me. He thinks I’m going to fall into the soup pot or something.”
“It’s too late now,” James said. “By the time I get there, the meeting will be over.”
Miriam rolled her eyes. Ella laughed nervously.
“Ella can stand guard,” Miriam said. “You’ll have no excuse to stay. We’ll go over to the big house and make sure Gertie minds herself.”
“I’d be happy to,” Ella said.
Miriam pointed at Lindy. “And you, my dear niece, can drive your stubborn onkel into town in your motorcar while there’s still a chance for him to hear what is happening at that meeting.”
Lindy grinned. “I’ll crank it up.”
CHAPTER 40
Had the young man always been so arrogant?
At the whispered pronouncement that the meeting was nearly completed and spectators were not being admitted, James merely stared at the young man. No one could mistake James for anything but an Amish man, and denying admittance to the Amish would defeat the point of the meeting. James nodded slightly at Margaret Simpson and stepped past the young man.
As he approached the table, his eye on an empty chair, Superintendent Brownley scowled.
“You have presented some interesting ideas,” Brownley said, “but I am afraid I’ve heard nothing that allows me to interpret the law in a way that excuses your children from regular school attendance at least until the age of sixteen.”
James watched the faces of the other members of the school board. At least one of them appeared sympathetic, though James could not be certain what was going through the man’s mind.
Percival Eggar cleared his throat. “You may be right, Mr. Brownley.”
Amish brows furrowed around the table.
“You may be correct that this question is beyond the scope of your authority to decide.”
“I have wide authority,” Brownley said. “I assure you I don’t take my responsibilities lightly.”
“I would never accuse you of such a thing,” Percival said. “But it seems clear after today that the question is one for the courts.”
“That’s an extreme measure.” Brownley shifted in his chair.
“I am prepared to represent my clients right through to the Supreme Court of the United States, if that is how they will find justice and the freedom to exercise the religion of their choice.”
James blew out a loud, heavy breath, and attention turned toward him.
“I don’t believe this guest has been introduced,” Brownley said.
Percival answered, “This is Mr. James Lehman, the man who first engaged my services on behalf of the Amish. I would be quite interested in what he has to say at this juncture.”
Brownley leaned back in his chair. “Very well.”
Percival nodded at James, who looked from Percival to Gideon. What had the others already said?
“I’m at a disadvantage,” James said. “I was not able to be present for the earlier portion of the conversation.”
“That’s no problem,” Percival said quickly. “We will all benefit from your individual expression of your views.”
“All right, then.” James adjusted his hat. Miriam hated that nervous habit. “We accept that others do not believe as we do. We do not judge or try to convert anyone who does not come to us sincerely seeking to follow God and with a willingness to make whatever sacrifice that requires.
“Our work, whatever it may be, is for the welfare of the community we share. We do not seek individual prestige. Jesus said, ‘My kingdom is not of this world.’ The apostle Paul said, ‘Be not conformed to this world.’ Our people seek to believe these statements wholeheartedly, as the true word of God.”
James glanced at Percival, uncertain whether to continue. He had not intended to speak at all. Surely Gideon and the bishop had explained these matters.
“Please go on, Mr. Lehman,” Percival said.
“As I’m sure you have already heard,” James said, “we do not separate school from life. But how can our children know this connection if we send them from our world into a world far from our homes to learn from teachers who know nothing of our ways? And if they are trained for a way of life that is at odds with our community, then how are they to know where they belong? Have any of us served the best interests of the children if we create this confusion for them?
“It is our firm belief that eight years of schooling, close to home and focused on the basics of reading, writing, and mathematics, suffice for preparing our children to contribute to the community to which they belong. Beyond this, public schools impart worldly knowledge that is not useful for living spiritually in this life and for all eternity.”
James swiftly pulled out the empty chair and occupied it. From the back of the room came the sound of two hands patting each other with enthusiasm.
Margaret rose to her feet, letting her satchel slide to the floor, and applauded with as much gusto as she could muster. Around the table from which she had been excluded, every head turned in her direction. One pair of startled eyes after another fixed on her.
“Bravo, Mr. Lehman,” she said. “Bravo.”
Mr. Brownley let one hand fall heavily against the table. “Miss Simpson, please contain yourself.”
At first, Margaret pressed her lips together, but before a single second passed, she began to march to the front of the room.
“I cannot hold my tongue any longer,” she said. “Have you not heard the fine rhetoric of Bishop Garber, Mr. Wittmer, and now Mr. Lehman? Does it not strike you that each of these men has achieved an impressive level of articulate expression without the benefit of education in a consolidated school? I cannot think of a more remarkable illustration of the power of values that come from the heart, rather than a textbook.”
“Thank you, Miss Simpson.” Mr. Brownley glared, as he always did. Scowl and glare, scowl and glare.
Margaret ignored him. “Mr. Brownley originally asked me to serve on the consolidation committee. My approach was very different than his, however. While at first I was eager to present the virtues of our town schools and the many benefits the rural students would enjoy, gradually I realized the error of my way. If the Amish children are to have any benefit from attending our schools, it can only come if we make an effort to understand them.
“I am a classroom teacher, and I have spoken with teachers of other grades. It has been
clear to all of us that the Amish children are more than capable of completing the work we assign, which is a credit to the Amish families and a testament to the schooling they received in the smaller settings that we have arrogantly come to regard as insufficient. I have not heard one account of an Amish child instigating a disturbance among the students. In contrast, I am ashamed of some of the town children, who have been rude bullies intent on ridiculing people they don’t know just because they are different. And where, I ask you, did they learn such behavior?”
Margaret stared hard at Mr. Brownley, then moved her eyes with deliberation to the other members of the board.
Mr. Brownley pushed back from the table and stood up. “Miss Simpson, I must ask you once again to contain yourself. This is not a matter for you to decide.”
“Isn’t it?” Margaret retorted. “Would you rather it go to the Supreme Court, as Mr. Eggar suggests, than we learn from our Amish friends and find a way to care for our own? If the state truly wants what is best for the Amish children, we will listen to what the parents have to say. We will find a way to work together, rather than at odds.”
“Please take your seat.” Brownley nearly growled.
Margaret glanced at the chair she had abandoned against the back wall. Then she walked to an empty chair between two board members and sat down.
CHAPTER 41
Gideon could hardly believe that Miss Simpson was capable of such oratory, and in the presence of men. He watched Brownley carefully.
“I must insist that we return to some semblance of order.” In his chair again, Mr. Brownley shuffled papers in front of him. “I fail to see how threatening to take a local matter to the Supreme Court of the United States accomplishes anything. We all know that such a process takes years.”
“I have all the patience in the world,” Percival Eggar said. “I will ensure that my clients receive due consideration.”
“My hands are tied, Mr. Eggar,” Brownley said.
“We would be glad to help you untie them, Mr. Brownley.”
Gideon moistened his lips. “May I suggest what I consider to be an ideal solution?”
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