Thinking ’bout the Glory streets and that wonderful-gut heavenly reunion to take place over yonder, I’m surprised that Jacob doesn’t come to mind just now. Still, it’s Philip Bradley who takes up much of my thoughts here lately, though not a soul must ever know—not even Cousin Esther—how brave I felt when I was with him. And even though he’s a fancy Englischer and long gone, just thinking back to the way he said my name—like it was right special somehow—how we laughed together on the ride home from Reading, the way he saved Annie’s life . . . well, every speckle of that memory leaves a right pleasant feeling.
Every so often, I catch myself thinking: Wouldn’t it be something if Philip came back around—workin’ on some project or another? ’Course, the way Mam talked to him on the phone—grabbing the receiver out of my hand like she did and tellin’ him I wasn’t really blind, that I was mental— who knows what he thinks ’bout me now? Well, next time— if there ever is a next time—maybe I won’t be so timid-shy around him. Maybe not . . .
I still don’t know if that dusky vision of little Annie was real or not, don’t know if Blue Johnny ever truly came to my room that night. Mam refuses to talk about it, so I ’spect it did happen. I do know one thing, though: Powwow doctoring is not of God. For sure and for certain.
Thanks to Lavina, we’ve been attending my former church again. Clear out of the blue, the dear woman offered to pick up Annie and me in her little carriage for Sunday preaching at the Beachy church. I’m learning as much as I can about God’s healing plan for His children. Trusting, too, for His perfect timing for me. Esther sends me wonderful-gut Scripture verses on our taped letters, back and forth. I’ve still got plenty of growin’ to do in the Lord before I discover all He has planned for me. But I do have a strong feeling that the postcard was sent by an unseen, yet divine hand, arriving at just the right time—across the years—winging a message of truth to each of us.
News travels fast amongst the People, so it’s not surprisin’ how many folk have heard Gabe’s story. In a way, he’s still preachin’ the sermon God gave him back when, maybe more powerfully than ever before. Sometimes I think my great-uncle must be looking down from on High and smiling at the way the Lord has overcome evil with good. Here in Lancaster County, we call that Providence.
Acknowledgments
Space doesn’t allow me to describe the way in which this story took root in my heart, but I can say with assurance that God planted the seeds in me, regarding my study of various types of “sympathy healings,” to include powwow doctoring and other kinds of alternative healings. Out of my inquiry came a better understanding of the “curious arts” and the tools that Satan uses to seduce and ensnare.
I don’t often talk about my writing “pilgrimage”—the process by which I craft a novel—but I can say that the Holy Spirit is always on time, preparing the way for research and inspiration as well. And without certain key people of God, this book would be languishing in a file.
So it is with great appreciation and thanksgiving that I recognize my wonderful husband and first editor, Dave, who literally made it possible for me to meet book deadlines. Always my friends and discerning editors, Barb Lilland, Anne Severance, and Carol Johnson offered gracious support and prayerful encouragement; so did BHP editorial, marketing, and publicity teams. My parents, Reverend Herb and Jane Jones, helped with numerous book resources and prayer, along with other prayer partners: Barbara Birch, Alice Green, Carole Billingsley, Jean Campbell, Judy Verhage, Bob and Aleta Hirschberg, and John and Ada Reba Bachman.
Special thanks to nurses Kathy Torley and Rita Stahl, who answered medical questions. I am also indebted to Marianna Poutasse, curatorial assistant at Winterthur Museum, who shared her knowledge of antiques.
In addition, I extend heartfelt gratitude to the countless readers who have written to me this year, offering prayers of encouragement, sharing Scripture, and requesting more stories. May the Lord bless and keep each of you always.
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The Postcard Page 25
