by Tricia Goyer
“Ja, ja, of course.” He placed an arm around her and led her home. The moon made its presence known as the last rays of sunlight slipped away. The biscuits, chicken, and peas that Lydia had eaten at dinner turned into rocks in her stomach. Yes, it was easy for someone to hold a mirror up for another. It was harder when the mirror was turned, and the reflection was one’s own.
CHAPTER
25
Dat opened the door as they mounted the porch steps, and a smile filled his face. “Your Aunt Millie wrote. Annie brought the letter by with dinner.” He held it up. “Your aunts and uncles from Sugarcreek had a small gathering in memory of Mem.” He stepped aside, allowing them to enter.
The room was warm, inviting. She paused and offered her dat a hug. “I’m so glad she wrote and told us. Are they doing well?”
“They planted a rose bush for Ada Mae,” he said. “Yellow roses were her favorite.”
Lydia nodded and the tightness in her throat grew. She and Gideon sat on the couch side by side, and Dat settled into his favorite recliner, telling them about his day. He’d gotten the rest of the vegetables out of the garden. He’d had a nap. Lydia smiled softly and rejoiced inside over the simple things that made up her dat’s day.
Gideon asked about Sugarcreek, their home and family there, and Lydia was glad. It gave her time to consider how she’d tell Gideon the truth—what she’d say.
“We loved Sugarcreek. It’s pretty there.” Excitement caused Dat’s voice to rise in volume. “Not like this, but pretty with rolling hills. It’s much bigger than West Kootenai—four thousand people or so. The first people there were Swiss and German settlers. Some folks call Sugarcreek ‘Little Switzerland’ of Ohio yet. We had a really nice farm there. A young couple bought it from us back a few years ago.”
Gideon’s face brightened to see Dat’s excitement. “Sounds as if you liked it. Why did you move?”
Dat’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you know?” He pointed to Lydia. “Didn’t you tell him yet?”
“Tell him? I’m not sure myself.” She forced a chuckle. “All Mem said is that she heard about West Kootenai, and it sounded like a real nice place.”
Dat’s forehead folded into wrinkles. “That’s what she told you?”
Lydia leaned forward. “Ja, was that not the truth?”
“Vell, this place is nice, but the truth, Lydia, is that you were in Seattle. This was the closest Amish community to you.”
“Of course.” She glanced to Gideon. “And yet I was too busy with deadlines and meetings, and manuscripts to visit.” Her voice trailed off. “I was running…running from the truth.”
“I know, Lydia.”
She almost seemed to melt into the couch cushion to hear his words. If she’d ever wanted to open her heart—her past—to anyone, it was Gideon. She felt a closeness with him she hadn’t felt before, even after the kiss. She understood. It was easy to share a kiss. It was harder to share one’s pain and heartache. The same openness she sensed was reflected in Gideon’s gaze.
“I best git to bed.” Dat rose. Was there more going on between them than talk of farms and moves to Montana? He bid them good night, then shuffled into his bedroom.
A few minutes passed, and Lydia’s mind focused on the ticking of the clock. It had been a long week, and as she sat there her eyes grew heavy. Yet she couldn’t let another day pass without talking to Gideon. He’d already shared so much.
“See this?” She pulled the acorn from her pocket and held it up. “My heart is encased by something like this. It’s like there’s a shell around me.”
“Is it because of the secret?”
“Ja.” She placed the acorn on the side table and then looked at him. “I’m adopted, Gideon.”
He furrowed his brow. “Ja, I knew that.”
“What?” Lydia’s head jerked backward.
“Yer dat told me—the day I was helping to build your mem’s, uh, coffin.”
“He did?”
Gideon nodded. “He shared how much you meant to them. He said they never expected to have a child. I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t realize it bothered you so.”
“Oh, I’m not bothered too much.” She fiddled with the sleeve of her dress. “I jest wanted to be honest with you…after hearing your story.”
Lydia shifted in her seat. Could she stop there? She knew she should tell him more, but how?
“There is more than that, Lydia. I can see it.”
“How could you? How could you know?”
“Because I’ve seen the same look in my mother’s eyes—my father’s eyes—a hundred times.”
Gideon made her a cup of tea, and Lydia took a long deep breath. She’d never told another soul about her birth mom. Never shared how the truth made her feel…
“There were tears in my eyes when she told me.” Lydia fingered the edge of her apron. “I’d known for as long as I could remember that I was adopted, but Mem sat me down and told me there were circumstances.” She dared to glance up to Gideon. “I still cringe whenever I hear that word.”
“Was there a reason why she told you?”
“I had just turned sixteen. I told her I was old enough to know the truth.” Lydia shook her head. “I don’t think there’s anyone, any age, who wants to know a truth like that.”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Does it have to do with your birth mom?”
Lydia nodded. “I’d always known I was adopted. I look nothing like my parents. Strangers would always ask, ‘Where did you get that red hair?’ But even when I got old enough for my parents to explain adoption, I knew they weren’t telling the whole story. They’d stumble with their words and pass a knowing look between them. Finally, after months of prodding and fussing, Mem told me my birth mother’s name was Grace. She was an Amish woman, and I had three older brothers. That didn’t settle anything in my mind.”
Gideon studied her face. Hung on her every word.
“As a young girl, one of my friend’s older sisters got pregnant by an Englisch boy during her rumspringa. I always thought my birth mother’s story would be more like that. But why would a woman with three boys already not want her fourth child? Why wouldn’t she want a girl? After three boys, anyone would want a girl, right?”
Pain filled Gideon’s eyes, and she knew his heart ached. Maybe it was simply a reflection of the pain in her gaze. Her shoulders tensed, and her legs twitched as if urging her to get up and run—run from the story as she’d been doing for the last five years. Run from the truth. Run from the look of horror that was sure to come in Gideon’s gaze.
Would he look at her differently when he knew?
“There’s no easy way to say it, Gideon. Mem told me that Grace’s husband died of cancer. It wasn’t long after her third son was born. The community helped to care for her. She’d taught school—” Lydia paused for a moment. She’d forgotten that. “She’d taught school before she was married. So many in the community cared for her. After a year or so Grace started giving away her husband’s things. There was this traveler…” The words caught in Lydia’s throat. “She saw the man sitting on the bench in front of the general store. She told him her husband had died—that she had some clothes. Would he like some?” Lydia lowered her head. “The man seemed eager. She told him she’d get some things and return.” Lydia covered her face with her hands. “But Mem told me he must have followed her home. Grace was in shock…after…She didn’t know who to talk to or how to tell. And then she found out about…me.”
“Oh, Lydia.” Gideon’s arms wrapped around her and he pulled her to his chest. She closed her eyes and focused on the cotton of his shirt. He smelled of the mountains and the tall grass that Blue trotted through. It was easier to focus on Gideon’s arms around her rather than on the story she’d just confessed.
“No woman should ever have to go through such a thing.” His words filled the quiet room. “But although my heart aches for her, I’m thankful…for you. For your life.”
She tilted h
er head back and looked up in his face. “That’s gut of you to say, but after hearing the truth from Mem, I understood why she didn’t want to keep me. How could one face such a painful memory every single day?”
“But you were innocent. It wasn’t anything you did that had caused Grace’s pain.”
“Ne, but my life—my birth—added to it.” She pushed against him, sitting up. “I suppose that’s why I was mad at God for so long. Why would a loving God do that? Grace had already faced enough. How could God have allowed even more pain to happen to a sweet woman like that?”
Gideon didn’t stay much longer. She could tell their conversations weighed heavily on him, and she understood.
Lydia walked him to the door, gave him her flashlight to use, and sent him off with a wave. As she closed the front door she thought about one of Mem’s Scripture verses that she’d read a month ago. It said, “The truth shall make you free.” Ever since then she’d been trying to understand those words. The truth had not freed her. Not one little bit. And even though sharing with Gideon made her feel closer to him, she had a feeling of disconnect within herself once again. She was thankful that Mem’s letter said the red hair was from Grace’s side of the family, but what about the rest of her? What traits did she have from…him?
She turned out all the lanterns and blew out all the candles but one. The lone flame lit the way to her room, and she walked down the wooden floor with stockinged feet. She changed into her bed clothes, but didn’t put on her sleeping handkerchief. That was one thing she hadn’t gotten used to since returning. She’d been use to combing out her hair and letting it splay on her pillow as she slept.
Lydia ran her fingers through her hair and then picked up the Promise Box. She didn’t have enough energy to read one of Mem’s longer notes. Instead, she pulled out a small, pink slip of paper with a Scripture verse:
“Know therefore that the Lord thy God, he is God, the faithful God, which keepeth covenant and mercy with them that love him and keep his commandments to a thousand generations,” Deuteronomy 7:9.
Under the verse Mem had written two sentences: Write the story. Share His loving-kindness for a thousand generations.
Goosebumps raced up Lydia’s arms and the tiredness of a moment before disappeared.
Write the story. She picked up the Promise Box again. Mem had done just that. She hadn’t typed a manuscript or sought a publisher, but she’d shared her life—her story—in pieces of paper folded up in a box.
Lydia was returning the slip of paper when she noticed another pink slip. She paused. Why had Mem written those on pink paper? On the outside of that slip there were the same words: Write the story.
Lydia opened it.
“Be not afraid of their terror, neither be troubled; but sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you,” 1 Peter 3:14–15.
Dear Lydia,
When I started writing down the promises of God, I did it for me. I wanted to remember. The first thing I wanted to remember was the promise of God bringing you to us. Then I wanted to remember the moments in yer growing-up years when I felt God do something special. It was only as you got older that I thought my notes might be something that you’d want to read.
I thought about this more when I read this Scripture verse this morning. It was something I read, and something I’m eager to share with Annie when she stops by later. There are promises I feel God whispering in my heart. First, not to fear. This speaks to me because of the fears that like to creep in: What if Lydia does not return to her faith? What if my heart continues to turn for the worse? Who will care for Jacob when I’m gone?
Dear Lord, take my fears. You are Lord. You ARE Lord. More than that, I want to thank You for putting it on my heart to write these notes. And I pray that someday my daughter will be able to read of the hope that I had. I pray she will not only accept the faith—the hope—but that she too will share it.
For as long as she was a young girl she’s been making up stories. Her creativity never surprises me, and after I’ve read those books she’s edited, her talent is clear. I keep thinking, though, about what could happen when Lydia returns to the faith. How could her words impact others…those she cares about most?
Lydia, as the Word says, be prepared to give an answer for the hope that you have. I’m writing this in faith. If you’ve been impacted by my words at all, then think of how you can use your own words. Your own story.
Love, Mem
She sat there a minute, thinking of her mem’s words. Lydia had been writing the story of her return, but she’d considered her words only for herself. But what if her words were for someone else too? Or more than one person?
Lydia hurried to the dresser and pulled out her small stack of notebooks. Sitting under them was her cell phone, still turned off, still with half a battery. Three of the notebooks were already full, and she’d just started the fourth. She wrote in them every day. The only thing was Lydia wasn’t collecting promises. She was recording God’s faithfulness in one woman’s life in a way that could be shared with generations coming after her.
As she flipped through the pages, she was amazed at how much was captured. Her emotions on the day of Mem’s funeral. Her attraction to Gideon, nearly right from the start. Her friendships with Amish and Englisch.
And as Lydia looked at the record of God’s faithfulness, she knew what she had to do. She picked up her cell phone and turned it on. How many weeks had it been since she’d used it?
She saw that she had five messages, but Lydia ignored those. Instead, she typed out a text to Bonnie.
Sending u 3 notebooks. Have them typed & edited (spelling). Make two copies & send back to me…bill me cost. Will pay out of substantial teacher’s salary. Haha.
Lydia smiled as she turned off the phone. She could almost picture Dat and Gideon’s faces as they read God’s story in her life—the parts they knew—and the parts that might surprise them.
Then she hurried back to bed and pushed her pillow against the wall, leaning against it. There was a lot to capture today in her words. School, the visit from Gideon, the kiss, and the sharing of her heart with another. It was a day of highs and lows, but wasn’t everyone’s story?
Lydia took the cap off the top of the pen and began to write.
CHAPTER
26
A gentle rain plunked against the metal roof of the schoolhouse, and Lydia’s soul felt as if it, too, were being washed by rain from the heavens. She lit the lanterns and woodstove and soon the small building radiated with warmth.
At first, after hearing Gideon’s story—and sharing hers—the truth had stung. It reminded Lydia of the time when she was a little girl and skinned her knee by falling off the concrete steps at the grocery. Bits of dirt and rocks had embedded themselves into the wound.
At home Mem had taken soap, water, and a clean cloth to the cut. The cleaning had stung, and it was only when she stopped crying and looked up that she saw tears had been in Mem’s eyes too.
“I’m so sorry, dear one,” Mem had said. “But you can’t heal unless the junk is cleaned out. If I were to let it be, an infection would surely come, ja.”
Had God said the same thing yesterday? Lydia’s lower lip trembled as she pictured tears in His eyes. Thinking of that warmed her even more than the woodstove.
By letting so much of her past go unattended, the wounds had only gotten worse. Yesterday was just the first step of getting the junk out, but she trusted that God would continue to work from there.
She pulled corrected papers from her satchel and laid them out on the students’ desks, humming as she did. It was only as she returned to her desk to spend a few minutes writing in her journal that Lydia realized the song she’d been humming. It was the hymn that the congregation had read together at Mem’s funeral.
Just over yonder, beyond the river,
There is a City of pure delight,
W
here many loved ones are congregating
With palms of vict’ry in robes of white.
Just over yonder, there’ll be no heartaches,
No lonely days will ever come.
There’ll be no crying, there’ll be no dying,
Oh, what rejoicing when we get home.
Just over yonder, I’ll soon be going
To see my Savior upon His throne;
And hear a welcome ring out through heaven,
Oh, weary pilgrim, this is your home.
The words resonated in her heart, and she was struck again by how far God had brought her. Not only here to Montana, but steps closer to a healed heart too.
Lydia sat down with her notebook and pen.
The sound of rain on the metal roof of our house did not hinder my mood as I woke. God’s grace falling. That’s what it sounded like: plunk, plunk, plunk.
I rolled over and looked at the Promise Box, and a smile filled my face. If Mem had not been faithful to write down God’s promises, where would I be now? Ja, God could have used someone else—something else—to get my attention, but I’m thankful for Mem’s faithfulness. The words are ink on paper, but they’re also linking spirit to spirit—with God’s truth as the white dove that carries them to my heart.
One of the things I prayed for is that I will learn to be faithful with my story. I think doing so would make Mem happy. Memories fade, but our testimonies—our stories—can live on. Mem’s words have not only eased my return home…to my father’s house. They point me to eternity…my forever home. And carrying that truth on my heart makes every day more precious.
This morning I made Dat pancakes, and he started the coffee. He offered to hitch up the buggy and give me a ride to school, but I told him that wouldn’t be necessary. It’s less than two miles and the quiet path has become a prayer walk.
Lodgepole pines hug the road I walk on, as if trying to reclaim the property taken from them. They also sway and lean in, as if they’re listening in to my whispered prayers.
A weathered cowgirl drives her truck down the muddy dirt road. I believe her name is Millie, and when she gets to me she asks if I need a ride. I tell her I’m almost there, and I point to the school. She tells me she’s glad they found a new teacher and reaches out of her truck window. I give her my hand and she shakes it, squeezing tight.
