Though that logic flew in the face of the common practice of our people in trying to bring a lost soul home, I saw her point.
The curtain opened and Elias appeared. “Guder mariye, Seth.” His gaze settled on the two buckets resting beside the front door, and he brightened. “You were able to get my glaze. Danke. Leah, would you pay him from the cash register?”
I waved aside the offer. “How about a trade? Glaze for lessons. I saw some beautiful pieces yesterday and want to learn how to make them.”
“And you still need to learn to glaze your bowls.” He rubbed his hands together. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go throw some pots.”
He disappeared behind the curtain. I touched the round rim of my hat and nodded to Leah as I followed, but she had already dismissed me and returned to her work on the computer.
I suppose I should have expected Bishop Beiler’s visit the following day, but the sight of his buggy pulling down our long drive toward the house Thursday morning surprised me. The women were still cleaning up from breakfast, and the arrival of our bishop sent them into a flurry of activity.
“Saloma, make some fresh coffee,” Mamm directed. “Becky, slice some more of the apple bread and arrange it on a dish. Are the mugs clean yet?”
She addressed the question to Mammi, who replied by applying a final swipe with a towel and holding up a clean coffee mug.
Over supper Tuesday night, my family had questioned me closely about the trip to Philadelphia. I had described the meeting, though not my private conversation with Laura in the kitchen. They knew that our mission had not been successful, but I didn’t see the need to describe my part in angering the young woman or my outburst. They had clucked their tongues at Laura’s determination to stay in the world, and commiserated over the King family’s grief.
Daed opened the door before the bishop knocked. “Guder daag,” he said as he threw the door open wide. “Come in. Always a pleasure to see our bishop.”
My father and the bishop had been friends from childhood, back before the lot fell to him and he was merely Amos Beiler. I remembered Amos coming to our house many years ago, when I was a boy, shortly after our former bishop passed away. It was a Saturday night, the night before the church service where our new bishop would be chosen. Aaron and I had hovered at the top of the stairs, spying on the adults. We’d overheard Amos tell Daed, “Though I dread the idea, I feel in my gut that the lot will fall to me tomorrow.” My father had asked the reason for his dread when serving as bishop to the district was such an honor. Amos had answered, “An honor, yes, but what changes that would bring to me and my family. Selfishly, I am happy with my life as it is. But, of course, I will honor Gott’s will if that is what He deems best.”
One of my most vivid memories is of the service the next day, when Amos Beiler opened the book that held the slip of paper identifying him as our new bishop. I would never forget his expression of utter humility.
The expression he wore as he entered our house was wreathed in smiles, though perhaps only I detected a hint of strain around his wideset eyes.
“Danke.”
The bishop’s straw hat bobbed as he ducked his head at each of us in turn. His gaze lit on me for only a moment before moving quickly on to Aaron. I had no doubt I was the reason for his visit.
Mamm emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. “We have fresh coffee and apple bread.”
“I’ve just finished breakfast.” He patted his stomach and then grinned even wider. “But how can I turn down a slice of your apple bread?”
“Come into the living room.” Daed extended a hand to guide his friend farther into the house.
The children had lined up along the wall and stood watching with wide eyes. Bishop Beiler awarded each a smile as he passed. The twins didn’t move, but little Sadie giggled and waved a chubby hand.
I followed the men into the living room and took a seat between Aaron and Noah. I kept quiet during their conversation. They discussed the unexpected warm weather, and debated whether or not planting could be done early this year as a result. When the women joined us and passed around coffee and thick slices of sweet bread, talk turned to news of the district. A new teacher had been appointed for the school, a young woman from the next district over.
I cupped the hot mug in my hands and let the voices flow around me. Once I looked up to find Mammi giving me a shrewd look, which I deflected with a quick smile. After all the news had been discussed, a brief silence fell as everyone waited for the bishop to reveal the reason for this visit.
Finally, he set his empty mug on the floor beside his plate and looked across the room toward me. “I wonder if I might have a few moments alone with Seth.”
All eyes fixed on me.
I dipped my head. “Ya, of course.”
Curiosity erupted on my family’s faces, all except Mammi’s. Everyone stood, prepared to leave us alone, but Bishop Beiler also stood and waved toward the front of the house.
“I thought maybe we could walk outside and enjoy some of this pleasant weather we’ve been talking about.”
Out of the range of prying ears. I nodded, relieved at the suggestion.
We donned our coats and left the house. Though the sun shone brightly in a blue sky that promised another warm day, the morning chill had not yet released its grip on the air. Our breath steamed as we walked side by side toward the barn. I’d thought to take him inside, where we would be shielded from any cold breeze that happened to blow, but the air this morning was still. And besides, I felt suddenly reluctant to confine myself inside any structure. The vastness of the bright morning sky and the frosty air felt more appropriate for the conversation I knew was about to take place. Instead, I walked to the far side of the barn, where Schwein lay on her bed of straw, her huge belly swollen with unborn piglets.
“Looks like you’ll have a new litter soon,” the bishop commented, hands clasped behind his back.
“Ya, any day.” I came to a halt a few feet from the fencing, wrinkling my nose against the pungent odor that permeated the air around her pen.
“You heard that Nathan Yoder will divide his farm and portion it out to his sons?”
I had heard mention of that at the last church meeting and nodded.
“Young John will have need of livestock soon.”
“I’ll let Aaron know.”
He became quiet, and I battled impatience while waiting for him to get to the reason for this talk. I glanced at the position of the sun. Robbie would arrive to pick me up in an hour to drive me to my next pottery session.
His chest expanded with a breath, and he spoke while keeping his gaze fixed on Schwein. “Yesterday did not go as I had hoped.”
A sarcastic reply about his penchant for stating the obvious rose to mind, but I swallowed it and said instead, “I am sure all of us wished for a different outcome.”
“After you left the house, we spent some time convincing Laura that you were not there to declare your interest in her.” He cleared his throat. “Romantic interest, that is.”
For a long moment, I battled a flare of temper. After Josiah’s revelation on Sunday, how did Bishop Beiler expect me to respond to that? Should I tell him I felt as Laura did, that I’d been manipulated and used as a romantic lure? And that the idea not only infuriated me but also dishonored the memory of my dead wives?
When I could speak calmly, I said, “I hope you succeeded because I have no interest in her or any other woman.”
“That I gathered from your…” He seemed to grasp for a word. “Your conversation in the kitchen.”
“My outburst, you mean.” I turned to face him. “I apologize for losing my temper, and I will gladly apologize to Susan and Irene and Daniel too. I will even write to Laura asking her forgiveness if you believe that will help.” I drew in a breath. “But I meant what I said. I will not marry again.” I did not add and the sooner everyone realizes that, the better.
He, too, turned, so that we stood face
-to-face. Being several inches taller, I looked down on him, which forced him to tilt his head back to see me from beneath the round rim of his hat.
“I have spent much time in prayer for you, Seth Hostetler.” My surprise must have shown in my face, for a small smile curved his lips. “I pray for every person over whom the Lord has given me authority through my position, but the plights of some lie more heavily on my heart than others.” His voice became little more than a whisper. “You have suffered much pain in your young life.”
I would far rather be lectured or even shouted at than to face the heartfelt compassion of my bishop. To my surprise, tears began an unwelcome prickle in the back of my eyes, and I fought hard to douse them. My answer came out gravelly. “Die Bibel says the suffering we have in this life will be forgotten in the next.”
“I know what die Bibel says.”
Just yesterday Laura had dared to use the Bible to answer the bishop, and I was chagrined to realize I’d done the same thing.
But his smile became softer, letting me know that he was not offended, and I relaxed a fraction. Then he turned away again, facing the pigpen, and spoke seriously. “You ask my forgiveness for your outburst, and I give it freely. But I must also ask your forgiveness. The reason you were included in yesterday’s visit was not merely to offer wisdom concerning the comfort of our Amish ways in the face of loss.” He straightened and lifted his head. “I hoped that the plight of an unmarried young woman would soften the heart of a grieving widower.”
Did he think I had not already figured that out? Judging by his shamefaced expression, apparently so.
I worked hard to keep my tone even but didn’t bother to stop a caustic reply. “I did not realize it was part of a bishop’s role to play matchmaker for the community.”
He ducked his head in acknowledgment of my accusation. “I listened to the advice of others and did not spend sufficient time in prayer before making that decision. And that is why I must ask your forgiveness.”
So even the bishop was not immune to gossip. Apparently, Ella Graber’s “sources” had a wider reach than I realized. But I couldn’t doubt the sincerity of the man’s request.
“I forgive you.” I spoke the words required by our Lord, and as they left my lips I realized I meant them. I held no ill feelings for Bishop Beiler, who sincerely wanted the best for those the Lord had placed in his spiritual charge.
“Danke.” He drew in a breath and released it.
He was quiet for a few moments, and I sensed that our conversation was not yet over. Finally, he faced me again. “Seth, I cannot forget the anger I heard in your voice yesterday. Such anger is not pleasing to God.”
My emotions slammed shut like a door. The inner turmoil with which I struggled was a private battle, not one I cared to discuss with the bishop or anyone else. He waited for a reply, which I did not give.
“I believe there is something unresolved related to the tragic deaths of Rachel and Hannah. Their deaths were not your fault, Seth.”
Though the words stabbed at a raw place inside, I snapped, “I know that!”
“Do you?” Wise eyes tried to pierce mine, but I refused to return his gaze.
Eventually, he realized I would not answer his query. With a nod, he stepped away from Schwein’s pen and we began our walk back to the house in silence. When we rounded the side of the barn, the door to the house opened, and Mamm appeared holding a wrapped bundle. The rest of the family filed out after her.
Just before they came into earshot, Bishop Beiler whispered, “I will continue my prayers for you.”
I was saved from replying when my family gathered around us.
Mamm pressed the bundle into the bishop’s hands. “For Sarah and your family. Fresh loaves of apple bread and some apple butter we put up last year.”
The man’s wide smile held no trace of our conversation. “Sarah will be delighted. Danke for your kindness.”
I stood off to one side as the rest of them gathered around the buggy to bid him farewell. Daed and my bruder did not act as though anything out of the ordinary had occurred, but the women threw curious glances my way as the buggy pulled down the long driveway. Mammi studied me with a shrewd stare, which I ignored.
A private battle raged in my mind. I should be pleased that my bishop took the time to pray for me, but I found the thought more disturbing than comforting. Exactly what did he pray? For my soul, or for me to find a new wife?
I kept my promise to the bishop and wrote a letter to Laura that night. I struggled over the wording. Would something I said make a difference in her decision on whether to return to her Amish home or remain in the world? Probably not, but as I wrote, her angry face hovered in my mind, and guilt gnawed at me for causing such anger with my own lack of control. My pain was private and should remain that way lest it hurt others.
On Friday, when Robbie drove me to the pottery shop, I took my letter with me. I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted Leah to read it. Maybe because she’d been in Laura’s place, and I wanted to make sure nothing I said offended the girl. In the back of my mind another reason hovered. Though I refused to think about the explanation why, I wanted Leah to know I regretted my part in causing Laura any discomfort.
She smoothed out my letter on the counter beside the cash register and spent some moments studying it.
Dear Laura,
I have not been able to forget our conversation in the kitchen. I hope you will accept my apology for losing my temper and forgive me for shouting at you. I would hate to think that anything I said caused you pain.
When I said that there were many men who would be honored to court you, I was telling the truth. But I hope you know I was not talking about myself. I meant a number of other young men, both in our district and in the neighboring districts. I do not have a particular man in mind, but I am certain many will be happy to court an attractive girl like you if you decide to come home.
I am not writing to try to convince you to come home. I know if you decide to, it will make your family very happy and everyone in our district too. And I do think that you will be able to find happiness in a Plain life because that is how you were raised. But that is a decision you will have to make on your own.
Sincerely,
Seth Hostetler
My stomach tensed awaiting Leah’s verdict. Her expression was hidden from me. Today she wore her hair unbound, and waves of brown locks fell forward as she read, creating a dark veil through which I could not see.
Finally, she looked up, her lips curved into their typical cynical arrangement. “Your handwriting is terrible. She’ll be lucky if she can decipher it.”
An unexpected comment but completely in character for Leah. The tension in my gut erupted in a laugh.
She smiled in response, and the unusual expression warmed my insides. “It’s a good letter, Seth. Heartfelt and caring. Not at all the kind of letter I received. If I’d gotten one like this, I might even—” The sardonic grimace returned. “No, I wouldn’t have.” She refolded the letter and handed it back to me. “I think you should mail it.”
“Danke.”
When I took the paper from her hand, our fingers touched. She jerked her arm back as though I’d burned her. A spasm erupted in her scarred cheek, and she turned quickly away. The momentary peace that had settled between us fled in an instant, leaving me confused and more than a little curious. The harsh line of her spine and rigid set to her shoulders repelled any question I might have posed.
The curtain parted, and Elias emerged, his wide smile in sharp contrast to his granddaughter’s scowl. “I thought I heard your voice out here. Come and see how your bowls have turned out. I think you will be happy with that glaze.”
With another glance at Leah’s stiff back, I followed Elias into the workshop.
The glaze had turned out much better than I’d hoped. I lifted one of my bowls and turned it in my hands to examine all sides. I’d been hesitant to try the color my teacher suggested, because it looked
blue in the bucket, and I wanted a more natural look. But the second firing had transformed the unnatural blue into a darkened hue that resembled a stormy winter sky. Accent colors had appeared, a truly beautiful blend of browns and rusts that rimmed the lip and highlighted the rougher portions of the bowl’s sides.
“Becky will like these.” I set down one bowl and picked up a second, nearly identical one. I turned the object over and noted with a sense of satisfaction that the stain inside the carving of my simple potter’s mark had been transformed into a dark rust that stood out starkly.
“Ya, any homemaker would.” Elias took the piece from my hands and returned it to its tray. “Now let us make her a serving bowl to go with it. The concept is the same, but working with more clay to produce a bigger piece requires a deft touch and a different skill.”
Though I itched to try my hand at throwing something besides a bowl, I deferred to my teacher and set about gathering my tools for another instructive lesson.
NINE
My pottery sessions with Elias continued, and though my family said nothing, I was always careful to finish my chores at home before leaving for the shop. By late March we no longer called my time with Elias lessons. I’d gained enough skill that the pieces I made were added to the display shelves and sold. At first I refused payment, insisting that any profits from my pieces would hardly come close to reimbursing my teacher for his time and the supplies I used since he refused to let me pay for his tutoring.
“That’s not true,” Leah told me when I thrust my hands behind my back as she tried to force money on me. “We sold a set of six of your bowls, plates, and mugs yesterday, and we made more from that one sale than any single week since we arrived in Strasburg.”
I refused to take credit. “Word of Elias’s work is spreading. Sales are bound to increase as more people become aware of the shop’s existence.” I tapped the top of the computer screen. “And your work on the computer has no doubt raised awareness as well.”
The Amish Widower Page 11
