“Mammi, it’s okay.” Grabbing her arms, I gently lowered them and held them at her sides. “This is Leah, the granddaughter of my teacher Elias, who has come to tell me of her decision to return to the Amish.”
Outrage drained from her face as understanding dawned. She straightened. “Ah. Well.” She stepped back from me and brushed at her apron, and then she sidestepped so she could see Leah. A gleam appeared in her eyes—the same one that I’d seen in Mamm’s eyes whenever she mentioned Laura King. “In that case, come inside and be welcome.”
From the way her mouth twitched with a smile, Leah recognized the look as well. “Sadly, I must get home. Someone is coming this evening to buy my car.” She rested a hand on the hood. “But I would like to extend the invitation to you and your family to visit our church meeting on Sunday, when my bishop will present me to the district. And afterward, my grossmammi would be pleased if you will stay and enjoy supper with us.”
Mammi smiled. “I will make my pumpkin rolls.”
With the twitch of a grin, I told Leah, “You have never tasted anything until you have tasted my grossmammi’s pumpkin rolls.”
We shared a laugh, and then I opened the door for her. The soft touch of her lips still tingled on mine, and I would have kissed her again except Mammi did not leave my side. Together, we watched Leah drive away.
As we turned toward the house, she gave a satisfied nod. “I think that girl has a good head on her shoulders.”
My entire family traveled to Strasburg to see Leah presented to her new Amish community. She stood in the front of the room, flanked by the bishop and ministers, a kapp covering her hair and a Plain dress falling below her knees. As her bishop announced that she had made her confession and been accepted into the community, such joy swelled in my heart I could barely contain myself.
On my left, Elias wiped a tear from his eye, while on the other side of the room Lily cried openly if quietly.
When the service was over, and we filed out of the house into the bright June sunshine, so many people crowded around Leah to welcome her that I lost sight of her. My family and I stood to one side, waiting for Elias and Lily to lead the procession to their house for the meal.
Sadie tilted her head to look up at Becky. “I ride with Onkel Seth?”
“Me too,” shouted the twins in unison.
With a knowing glance at me, Becky shook her head. “Onkel Seth will have no room in his buggy for nieces and nephews today.”
When the last well-wisher drifted away, I approached Leah. “May I drive you home?”
A smile lit her face. “I hoped you would ask.”
It was not without a twinge that I helped her climb into my buggy. Would there ever come a time when I no longer had to fight that particular fear? As I climbed up after her, I formed a prayer—the only weapon I had at my disposal. And the best.
Elias went first, and I steered Orion onto the road after his buggy while my family followed behind. How could I not remember another day when I left church with a woman I loved at my side? But I did not have time to think about it, for Leah slid close.
“Grossmammi is so excited to have a big family dinner. She has been cooking for days.”
I anticipated the meal with pleasure. “I’ve missed her cooking for sure.”
“Well, on Monday you can start enjoying it again.”
I had decided to return to my job as Elias’s apprentice. “That will make the long drive from home worthwhile.”
She pressed closer to my side. “Is that the only worthwhile thing about working with us?”
A teasing response came to mind, but we had a serious matter to discuss. “That is not even the best thing.” I looked down at her. “You are.”
Leah smoothed her dress. “You know I will take the classes in the fall.”
“Ya, that is what I heard the bishop say.”
“And then I will be truly Amish.” She was playing coy, her eyes downcast but with a smile twitching her lips.
I played along. “That is the way it works.”
“And then after that…” She let the comment dangle.
After the fall baptism came the wedding season from October through December. Couples to be married generally kept their intention secret until just before their wedding, but that did not mean they didn’t select the date far in advance.
Leah gave up the pretense of coyness. She turned on the bench and faced me. “Are you going to make me propose to you, Seth Hostetler?”
I arched my eyebrows. “Do you intend to propose to me?”
“If you don’t, then I do.”
Leaning forward until we were so close her breath tickled my cheek, I whispered. “I do too.”
I covered her lips with a kiss that set my insides buzzing.
EPILOGUE
September, the following year
I stood in the doorway of the hospital room, quiet so my wife would not hear me. Would I ever get enough of watching her? The soft, flickering light from the quilt-patterned candleholder she’d brought from our home gave her skin a warm, glowing appearance that mirrored the warmth in my heart. How beautiful she was, and never more than at this moment as she gazed at the bundle in her arms, murmuring in the tender tones of a mother for her child.
Though I’d made no sound, she looked up. When she caught sight of me, she gave me a smile as bright as sunlight, and for a moment I could not breathe.
“Come here,” she whispered. “He is sleeping, and his little mouth is moving as though he’s trying to smile.”
I entered the room and lowered myself gently to sit on the side of the bed. “Infants less than one day old do not smile,” I told her.
“Others may not.” Love shone in the eyes she fixed on him. “But ours will be so happy, he will smile all the time, beginning now.”
My empty arms itched to hold him, and I reached for him. Leah carefully handed him to me, and I cradled the precious baby. My son. A gift from Gott, who had already blessed me abundantly, so much more than I deserved.
May you never be afraid, my son. I formed the blessing in my mind, as a prayer. May you always be happy. May you live in the peace that comes from the Gott who loves you.
Little Eli’s eyelids fluttered, and a soft, breathy coo caressed my ears. His lips, the same shape as the ones I loved to kiss, twitched in his sleep.
“I think you are right,” I whispered. “He is smiling.”
My son, may you always smile.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Though Seth has lived in his family home for most of his life, he feels like an “extra.” Name several reasons he may harbor these feelings.
2. Seth’s family and Amish district believe one year is long enough for him to grieve Hannah’s loss. How do they let him know that they believe he has grieved long enough? Do you think there is a specific time period for grief after the loss of a loved one?
3. When Laura King ran away from home, the people in her community wrote many letters to convince her to return to her Plain life. What was different about Seth’s letter to her? Can you think of any ways that difference may apply to your life?
4. How is Seth’s guilt and grief evident in his everyday life and attitudes?
5. Robbie Barker is also tortured with guilt. How does his reaction to his personal guilt differ from Seth’s?
6. In what ways does Seth blame himself for aiding in the deaths of both Rachel and Hannah? Is his self-recrimination correct? How are his feelings of guilt resolved?
7. What does Seth find so appealing about pottery? Name several ways working with Elias helps Seth heal.
8. What are the sources of Leah’s bitterness? If she hadn’t moved away from her previous district, do you think she would have eventually returned to a Plain life and her Amish beliefs?
9. Seth describes forgiveness this way: “I think forgiving is what we do when we can no longer stand the pain of not forgiving.” Discuss your reaction to that statement.
10. Identify s
everal ways in which the characters in The Amish Widower practice forgiveness. In each case, who was affected, and how?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Several years ago I wrote a series called The Amish of Apple Grove (coauthored with Lori Copeland). Those books were set in the Wild West when the Amish weren’t the only people who wore long dresses and rode around in wagons, and they were infused with a wacky kind of humor. Writing a serious story about the Amish of today presented an entirely new challenge for me. But I believe that’s how the Lord stretches us, by presenting us with challenges and assuring us with an “I’ll help you.” He most certainly did help me with this book, and I thank Him from the bottom of my heart.
I’m also grateful to a bunch of others, including…
Kathleen Kerr from Harvest House Publishers, who invited me to write this book. Kathleen, you have encouraged me through many books and in so many ways, both professionally and personally, and I thank God for you.
Kim Moore from Harvest House Publishers, who also has helped me through many books. For this one I am so appreciative that she gave me the freedom to write the story I believed in, and worked with me to make it the best it could be. Kim, you are the most awesome cat lady in the world!
Georgia Varozza, an excellent editor who shared her in-depth knowledge of the Pennsylvania Amish culture. Thank you for instructing me in so many subtleties that made this story richer.
The entire team at Harvest House Publishers, far too many to name, who work so hard to release God-honoring books. I’m thrilled to be part of the Harvest House family!
Wendy Lawton from Books & Such Literary Management, my friend and agent, whose advice is based on godly wisdom and a knowledge of the publishing industry that astounds me.
Mindy Starns Clark, for her wonderful book Plain Answers About the Amish Life, and for answering my emailed questions quickly and thoroughly. And a special thanks to Mindy and Susan Meissner, the writing team who wrote the first three books in the Men of Lancaster County series. Ladies, well done! I’m honored to have the opportunity to follow your lead with this book.
James Robertson, potter extraordinaire, who spent many hours teaching me the basics of throwing pots. James, you were my Elias during the research for this book, and I thank you.
John Zogg, a friend and an extremely creative potter who read this book to make sure I didn’t say anything stupid about pottery. Thank you, John, for tearing up in the right places, and for telling me about boat anchors.
Anna Zogg and Marilynn Rockelman, for brainstorming Seth’s story. Anna also read my very rough first draft and made some excellent suggestions, and she’s the one who suggested the candle canister idea for Seth’s artwork. I love your enthusiasm and your creativity, my sister-in-Christ.
The members of the Utah Christian Writers Fellowship for their enthusiasm for Seth’s story, and especially Leslie Coleman and the late Jim Cook, for pointing out specific elements that made the book so much stronger.
The members of the Capital City Round Table, for helping me decide, and especially Ray Peden, author of One Tenth of the Law, for telling me, “Just do it!”
The group at the Bear Lake Cabin, for listening to me whine and complain and ponder and consider when we should have been relaxing in the mountains. Patti Chauza, Annie Baker, Melissa Mondragon, and Sandie Coffman, you have no idea how I value your encouragement, your ideas, your advice, and your friendship.
My mom, Amy Barkman, for teaching me about true forgiveness. Considering the theme of this story, that is an incredible acknowledgment.
My husband, Ted Smith, for his patience and support, and for answering 1001 questions about pigs and cows and milking and plowing and planting. And for loving me. You can’t imagine how much I love you in return.
Soli Deo Gloria.
Virginia Smith
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Virginia Smith is the bestselling author of thirty-one novels (and counting), an illustrated children’s book, and more than fifty articles and short stories. An avid reader with eclectic tastes in fiction, Ginny writes in a variety of styles, from lighthearted relationship stories to breath-snatching suspense. Her books have been finalists for many literary awards, and two of her novels received the prestigious Holt Medallion Award of Merit.
A firm believer in research, Ginny immerses herself in the lifestyles of her characters in order to write the details of their lives believably. Her dedication to research has taken her many places, from the depths of the Caribbean to the cages of African porcupines while volunteering as a zookeeper. During her research for The Amish Widower, she took pottery lessons and managed to produce a few acceptable pieces amid many clay disasters. She fell in love with the craft and plans to continue her lessons.
Learn more about Ginny and her books at www.VirginiaSmith.org.
Meet the other Amish men in The Men of Lancaster County series.
Tyler Anderson
A groom-to-be who has to make a decision between two very different women.
Jake Miller
A blacksmith who loves to fix things, but can he fix a broken heart?
Clayton Raber
A clockmaker who is a gifted craftsman, but he hides a devastating secret.
Enjoy the following excerpt from The Amish Groom from bestselling authors Mindy Starns Clark and Susan Meissner.
free sample: The Amish Groom
ONE
The surface of the pond was glassy smooth, a deep liquid oval beckoning through the trees. I headed down the path, my dog at my side. When we reached the clearing, Timber darted forward, chasing a duck into tall reeds. I came to a stop right at the edge of the water, work boots and pant cuffs damp from the morning dew, and paused to take it all in.
This secluded little farm pond was always so striking, so peaceful, but never more so than at this time of day, when the sun was just coming up—not to mention at this time of year, when the trees lining its banks offered riotous bursts of reds and yellows and oranges among the green. Whatever the season, I could never get enough of it. The fish that darted in and out of sight below. The dense and rocky overgrowth on all sides. The weeping willow at the far end, its branches dangling down to the water, tickling the surface.
I set down the tools and other items I was carrying and then turned my face upward just as the sun broke across the stillness. I watched as the horizon lost its sleepy purple cast, turning auburn. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and I knew a perfect day lay in store for my cousin Anna’s wedding. As if on cue, Timber barked from somewhere off to my right, reminding me that there was much to do between now and then. Time to get to work.
Not far away, the old wooden rowboat rested upside down on the grass where I’d left it the last time I’d used it, the oar tucked securely underneath. I flipped it over and brushed out a few spiders who’d been living inside. Then I put the oar and the stuff I’d brought into the small craft and slid to the water. When it was all loaded, I glanced around for Timber and was glad to see that although the duck had flown off, the yellow lab was now fully occupied with sniffing his way around the pond’s perimeter.
I placed one foot in the boat’s hull and gently pushed off with the other, the small vessel cutting through the water with ease. When it slowed about ten feet short of my goal, I lowered the oar into the water and paddled toward the buoy that floated near the center of the pond. As I did, I breathed in the new morning air, filling my lungs with its earthy, October fragrance.
According to my grandmother, this pond had been my mother’s favorite place to go when she was young and wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She had come here often, and I had a feeling I knew why. When the morning sun slashed across the top of the trees on mid-autumn dawns like this one, I could see my reflection in the water as clear as in the mirror in my bedroom back at the farmhouse, as if there were another me beyond the surface, looking back. I was always drawn to that other place, to the what-ifs of it all. No doubt my mother, who was so full of wanderlust, h
ad felt the same.
Easing the boat alongside the buoy, I brought it to a stop once the floating brown orb was within easy reach. I rested the dripping plank beside my feet, gave the straw hat on my head a pat to make sure it was secure, and then slid my hands into the cold water, feeling under the buoy for the rope. Grasping it, I began to pull slowly upward, working my hands along the taut line, wishing I’d thought to wear gloves for a better grip. The more I pulled up, the slimier it grew, coating my palms in a nasty brown goo that smelled of mud and dankness and rot.
I’d known last spring that something needed to be done when the ice began to melt away and I’d spotted more than a few silver, bloated bodies floating sideways in the black water. Too many fish had not survived the winter, which confirmed what I’d suspected for a while, that there was a problem with the aerator.
Not that this pond mattered all that much in the grand scheme of things. No one ever even bothered with it except me anyway—and, in her youth, my mother. Hidden among the trees on a far back corner of my grandparents’ farm, it was no longer necessary once wells were dug on the farm, but that didn’t mean it was unimportant—at least not to me—or that it could be ignored. Busy with my work in the buggy shop, I’d managed to put off dealing with the issue for months. But now that fall was here, and another winter just around the corner, I knew it was time to get this thing repaired.
As I pulled on the rope, an old airstone emerged from the surface, with long strands of what looked like seaweed dangling down from its round head. I put it into my lap—wetness, slime, and all—pressed my elbow against the boat’s rim to hold the tubing in place, and then grabbed the wrench to disconnect the rusting adapter. After considerable effort, I finally broke the valve free. The rest of the installation was easy by comparison, and soon I had the new diffuser attached and ready to go, while the old one lay in a puddle at my feet.
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