The Promise Box

by Tricia Goyer

  In the three days since she’d arrived, she’d buried her mother and discovered a secret gift. A box of promises.

  In these three days she’d been part of this community—their burying and their caring. She’d forgotten how the Amish supported each other.

  Gideon stood by the corral. Seeing her, he lifted his hand and waved.

  She’d also forgotten how attraction could reach up and grab one’s throat, seizing excited breaths. And while many men had warmed her with their smiles, Gideon lit a match, tossed it inside her heart, and heated a blaze. And the thing was…she couldn’t imagine Gideon not being Amish. It was who he was. His mannerisms, his speech, his care for horses, his care for others. Lydia wouldn’t be as attracted to him if he were just another guy she’d met at a coffee shop.

  What did this say about her?

  Lydia approached and leaned against the top rail of the corral. “You’re really making progress here, aren’t you?”

  “Ja, I’d say so. I didn’t even have to call, and I saw bright eyes and a happy gait coming toward me.”

  She chuckled. “Are you talking about me or the horse?”

  “Vell, I hadn’t thought about it before, but now that I am, maybe both.”

  “Oh, gut. We’re on an equal playing field, vying for your attention—me and Blue.”

  A chuckle burst from his lips. “I wouldn’t say it’s equal. I’m getting paid to care for Blue.”

  “Hey, not so fast.” She held up her finger. “How come you just assume I’d come for a social visit? Turns out I’ve actually come to offer you a job—tending to me.”

  “You? Do you have a horse you’re hiding somewhere? With yer vehicle, I’m not sure I’m the man for your task.”

  “Not that. My dat asked if you’d be interested in helping with the chores. After he fell, he promised Annie he’d get help.”

  Gideon took a large brush and set to work at brushing Blue down. “Ja, of course, but I should have offered.”

  “Just as long as you say yes.” She reached out and pet Blue’s nose. “I’m not one to muck stalls, especially after being away from it for so long.”

  “Can I tonight, after I finish here?”

  “Ja. Gut, then, I’ll make dinner. I insist you stay.”

  He paused. “That’ll be nice, but just as long as it’s only work.”

  His words shot like an arrow to her heart. She took a step back, and her shoulder bumped against the wooden post of the corral. “Of course. I understand. Me being Englisch and all.”

  “Oh, it’s not that.” He reached a hand toward her as if wishing he could take back his words. Then he shook his head and turned back to Blue. “It’s jest that Micah and Amos, well, they were both talking about callin’ on you. I told them that it seemed only proper to give you time and space to heal after just losing your mother.”

  Gideon looked like a nervous boy whose mother had just found a frog in his pocket. “Oh, really? How much time did you tell them I needed?”

  “Two weeks.”

  She ran her fingers over the rough wood on the corral railing. Why did he want the other bachelors to stay away?

  Does it matter?

  It did. It mattered a lot. And that’s what worried her. She was intrigued by this kind, handsome Amish man.

  “Two weeks. I see.” She crossed her arms, guarding herself from reading too much into this. “So you’ll be by later?”

  He ran a hand down Blue’s velvety coat. “Ja, I just need to finish up here.”

  “Dat’ll be happy.” She wanted to say more—that she’d be happy too—but she couldn’t.

  She’d walked away from being Amish. That was her decision. And she couldn’t live with herself if she thought she had any part in drawing someone away. To open her heart up to Gideon would cost her nothing. For him to open his heart up to her, everything—all he was—would be at stake.

  Lydia offered a quick wave, turned, and headed back to her parents’ house.

  Then again…maybe she was actually the one being drawn.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Lydia opened the door to the pantry for the third time. Although she saw the items, they blurred before her. Her mind was not on dinner. Not at all. She’d never be able to get the cooking done if she didn’t talk to someone about all that was happening—so much in her mind and heart.

  “Dinner can wait ten minutes.” She hurried toward her bedroom, where she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and pulled out her cell phone. She had less than half a bar of battery. She should save it since there was no place in Dat’s house to plug in the phone and charge it, but she couldn’t wait. If she didn’t talk to someone, she’d burst. She pressed the speed dial for Bonnie, then crawled onto her bed and pulled the quilt over her head to muffle her voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Bonnie, it’s me.”

  “Lydia, are you all right?”

  “Ja…yes,” she mumbled.

  “Are you sure? You said you were going all the way during the few weeks that you were with your dat—no cell phones, no driving.”

  “I know, but I had to talk to you. Otherwise I’m going to go crazy.”

  “Is it that bad?” She could hear an echoing sound as if Bonnie was driving down the highway.

  “It’s worse. I’ve got a crush.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Okay, maybe not a crush-crush, but there is this guy. I’ve never known anyone like him. He’s so handsome and kind. He seems to have a good heart, but maybe it’s just attraction. Dumb, confusing attraction.”

  “Uh-oh, that’s going to cause a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was serious about what I told you as you left. I think you should stay there, start being Amish again, and write about it. I don’t want a guy—a handsome cowboy—distracting you.”

  “You don’t understand. He’s Amish.”

  Bonnie chuckled. “Amish. You have a crush on an Amish man?”

  Lydia balled her fist and pushed the quilt back from her face. “Why did you say it like that? Do you think you—your people—are the only ones who got the beauty gene? He has dark hair and eyes that are almost black. You’d think he was cute if you saw him—homemade shirt and suspenders included.”

  “Yes, maybe I would. But is that all you like about him? His curls and sexy swagger?”

  The quilt pressed heavy on her body, and Lydia pushed it to the side. “I said nothing about his swagger.”

  “No, you didn’t need to. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “You can?”

  “Yes, and I’ll stop bothering you now about returning to the Amish. I have a feeling circumstances will make that inevitable.”

  “It’s not that easy. Not at all.”

  “But you’ve been thinking about the book—your story—right?” Lydia could hear a smile in her voice.

  “I’ve been jotting down notes.”

  “Notes? Are you kidding? We’ve had long talks about this. Remember? Your ‘someday’ book? You have something to say—”

  “They’re just musings, observations about the Amish lifestyle from someone who’s been away far too long.”

  “Do you hear yourself? That’s amazing stuff. I’m not saying you make this a sensational, tell-all book about the Amish. But carry us—the reader—into the world with you. Share inside facts only someone like you could know. Let us feel your struggle, your conflict.”

  “Observing brings no conflict,” Lydia stated flatly. “It’s only a story if I return—go all the way. And I won’t do that unless I feel this can be my home.”

  The other end of the line was silent, but she knew Bonnie was still there, giving her time to think. Allowing time for truth to seep in like rain on freshly tilled soil.

  She liked the idea that at any moment someone “out there” could be reading her words. It had given her some satisfaction when she’d edited, but it wasn’t the same. There was a diffe
rence between making spaghetti sauce from the tomatoes, onions, and peppers she’d grown in her garden, and opening a can of prepared sauce and adding a few seasonings. Even if she made the sauce better with her seasonings, it still wasn’t her creation.

  Lydia had known that about cooking for years, but she appreciated it with her words now too. In the last few days she’d jotted down little notes about the community, the people, and questions about where she really belonged.

  “Maybe I’ll write my story, but it’ll be just for me—and maybe for my husband and children someday, if God ever blesses me with such.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” A horn blared through the phone, but Bonnie paid it no mind. She chuckled.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “If you start writing, a book will come out of it. Circumstances will make that inevitable too.”

  Lydia bit her lip and knew Bonnie was right. Even as she wrote down her thoughts, she could already see how easy it would be to structure them into scenes, chapters.

  “You process through your pen, Lydia,” Bonnie continued. “Don’t run from that. Put your words on the paper and see what they tell you. I have a feeling you’re on the right path. You just have to give yourself permission to follow your heart.”

  “Circumstances will make that inevitable.” The words replayed in Lydia’s mind as she peeled potatoes and started scrambling eggs. With their chickens out back, eggs were something she could always count on.

  She whipped up some biscuits and took out a jar of Mem’s apple butter. Inevitable? A book? A romance? A new life? If it was only that easy.

  If Bonnie had used the word inevitable last week, she would have argued. But now…Lydia couldn’t describe how comfortable she felt in Mem’s kitchen. Joy seeped through her veins at the thought of waking up tomorrow morning and sipping coffee on the front porch with Dat. Of walking to the grocery store for supplies and offering a wave to Ruth Sommer as she passed her house. Of looking out into the pasture and seeing Gideon there, working with Blue.

  But if she did that, something else was inevitable too: in a small place like this, she couldn’t hide from her past. Maybe Mem had already told Annie the truth behind Lydia’s adoption. Annie knew about the Promise Box, didn’t she?

  Her breaths came short, quick, but she told herself not to think of that now. Tonight she didn’t have to dwell on the pain. Today—if she allowed it—could be the first step into a new beginning.

  Lydia peeked out the window. Gideon stood out back with Dat, and for some reason it seemed right that he was here now. There weren’t many chores. Dat had only his mare for the buggy, one cow, and some chickens. There was a small garden to tend. Dat limped around, pointing out the rows of squash, beans, and carrots as if the garden were a blue-ribbon affair. Gideon nodded and smiled at Dat, warming Lydia’s heart. She leaned over the sink and swung open the kitchen window.

  “Dat, if you see any tomatoes, I can use them in my scramble!”

  Dat eyed the tomato bushes and nodded, but it was Gideon who kneeled down and inspected the plants, choosing the reddest tomatoes.

  Ten minutes later they were seated around the table. Dat lowered his head in silent prayer. Lydia and Gideon did the same.

  Thank you. The words were heavy in her heart. She was thankful to be here. To have time with her dat, and to be able to hold Mem’s promises in her hands. She was also thankful for Gideon’s friendship. Even if their relationship never got beyond that, she was thankful.

  They lifted their heads, almost in unison, and Lydia filled their plates.

  “Looks wunderbar!” Gideon took a deep breath and then forked a large portion into his mouth. When he finished chewing, his eyes locked with hers. “Danki for insisting I stay.”

  Heat rose up her cheeks, and Lydia waved a hand. “Nothing special. I really need to go shopping, but Mem’s tomatoes do make a delightful touch.”

  The mood sobered, and Lydia glanced to her left. It was hard to ignore Mem’s empty chair.

  “I could see your mem loved to garden and tend her chickens, but who’s the reader?” Gideon pointed to the glass-encased bookshelf by the fireplace.

  The shelf had been there for as long as she could remember. It held her favorite childhood books and stacks of Family Life magazines.

  “I’ve always been a reader. Without siblings, books became—” Lydia’s words paused as she eyed the shelf behind the glass doors. Many of the old books were gone, and inside was another stack. How had she not noticed that before?

  One book was on decorating. Another a memoir about a service dog who worked in hospitals. The third a mystery novel for kids—not the type of books one would typically find in an Amish home.

  Lydia gasped. “Dat…you…those…Who bought copies of my books?” She placed her fork to the side of her plate.

  Gideon’s eyes widened. “Your books?”

  “Not mine. I mean, I didn’t write them. But I worked—work—for a small publishing company in Seattle, and those are books I edited. I just had no idea…” She blinked back the tears.

  “It was your mother.” Dat placed his fork on the table and smiled, as if she’d just caught on to an inside joke. “Any time you mentioned a book in one of your letters she had me take her to the Kraft and Grocery, and she’d ask Annie to order it on her computer. She couldn’t even wait until Mondays when Annie came to the house. She was so proud.”

  Lydia lowered her head, fiddling with her napkin on her lap. “I—I didn’t know. I didn’t think you understood my work.” She focused on her lap, forcing herself to breathe.

  The feet of a chair scraped against the wooden floor, and footsteps sounded. Lydia lifted her head and watched as Gideon walked to the bookshelf. He gingerly opened the glass and pulled out a book, holding it up. Montana Hunting Stories.

  “You edited this?”

  “Ja, it was one of my first projects. I wrote a few of the stories too. But don’t tell the author I confessed that.”

  “I have this book. I read it. I bought it in the train station in Whitefish. It’s a great book.”

  Butterflies danced in her stomach, and the sadness of a moment before was replaced with awe. “I can’t believe you’ve read a book I edited.” She sat up straighter in her chair. “Do you read much?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. Dat never understood boys who would rather sit under an apple tree with a book, so I usually only allow myself the pleasure before bed or sometimes on a lazy Sunday afternoon.”

  He returned the book to the shelf and then hurried back to the table. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin dinner. Where were we?”

  Lydia picked up her fork, but the food no longer held her interest. She felt so unlike herself—or rather the self she’d been the last six years—but in the same way strangely at home. “You didn’t ruin dinner. You made my day. I’ve never met anyone—outside of the publishing house—who has read one of my books. It’s just amazing that it was you.”

  They continued dinner, talking about many things, but throughout the meal Lydia caught Gideon glancing in her direction. Did he feel the attraction too? Was he concerned she was Englisch? He should be. Now what? Did she really want to return to Seattle? What about Gideon and the book? What about Dat?

  Gideon hadn’t stayed long. He ate dinner, and they chatted for a while before he took a shortcut across the pasture to the cluster of bachelor cabins located just up the road from the Amish school and the West Kootenai Kraft and Grocery.

  She’d watched until she could no longer make out his form in the darkness, then bid Dat good night and retreated to her room.

  Even though she’d packed a flashlight, Lydia lit the kerosene lantern on her nightstand. It seemed like the right thing to do when reading more notes from Mem’s Promise Box.

  Her story started with Mem’s story. She knew it was within this box that her book would start.

  She opened the box with expectancy and looked through the dates until she found the oldest
one. It was a note written almost six months before her birth. Lydia gently unfolded it and smiled again to see Mem’s familiar script.

  I’m not sure how to write this note. It seems to me I never liked to consider myself cursed, but when the smallest glimmer of hope has appeared I see that fact more clearly.

  When folks look upon the Amish, they think us to be all the same. We see the differences. The size of a hat brim, the hooks or buttons on a garment, and the style of the buggy classify better than words. Yet no matter if one is Old Order, Swartzentruber, or even Mennonite, there are things the same: trying to live Plain and growing large families. And there is no curse greater on an Amish woman than to be barren. It’s a thunderstorm in one’s mind and heart even on sunny summer days.

  That’s why the promise means so much. It was given to me by a visiting bishop just today, and I want to get every word down before I forget a syllable. He was an old man, older than our bishop by many years. If he were any younger than that I wouldn’t believe him, but I figured at his age he knows not to take promises lightly.

  I was minding my own business, helping in the kitchen. Since he was new to our church, I don’t understand how he knew my fate, except for the fact I’d been slicing pies in neat, even pieces for twenty minutes and hadn’t one kinder tugging on my apron. The other ladies were placing thick loaves of bread on the tables. The bishop walked straight into the kitchen as if he owned it. That’s when I knew his words were important. No man—bishop or not—enters a woman’s kitchen when her mind is intent on getting food on the table.

  “What is yer name, ma’am?” His voice had a rumbling to it as if it were filled with marbles. I realized once I looked up that it was emotion making that sound, for his eyes watered too.

  “Ada Mae Wyse.”

  He nodded once. “Our good Lord has a promise for you, Ada Mae.” Then he said by this time next year I was going to have a baby. I felt like Sarah from the Bible at that moment. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh for joy. Or cry because I couldn’t take my heart aching when it didn’t come true.

  Instead I just nodded and turned back to that pie. I know pies. I don’t know what to do with promises. With this promise.