“Our hearts can be deceitful,” Matthias said, quoting the words from the prophet Jeremiah.
“Not always, Matthias.”
His friend shook his head. “I never trust my heart.”
Something tugged on Friedrich’s fishing line, and he slowly reeled the hook toward him.
That was the difference between the two of them. Matthias was as loyal as anyone he knew, loyal to their friendship and Friedrich’s family and to the entire society of Inspirationists. Friedrich’s heart betrayed him at times, but even though he couldn’t always trust it, he couldn’t ignore it either.
He wouldn’t do anything against the Spirit of God, at least not willingly, but he wasn’t as convinced as Matthias that every word from their elders was delivered from the Lord. Testimonies were weighed against the Word of God, every word tested to see if it lined up with the nature of God. But still the testimonies were sometimes colored by human weakness, the Werkzeug’s desires and views mixed in with prophetic words and the heart of their Lord.
Even after he prayed for absolution from this war, his heart called him to the battle, tugged within him to fight for those who were being abused. If he couldn’t trust every testimony from the Werkzeuge, if he couldn’t trust his own heart, then what could he trust?
He blinked into the sunlight and he knew the only thing he could trust. He had faith that when he asked, God’s Spirit would direct him to do the right thing. He would have to search for God’s truth and embrace it.
Something hooked on his line, and he reeled it in. The black bass fought in his hands until Friedrich removed it from his line and rehooked the fish onto their stringer. They would clean it later for Henriette’s kitchen.
“You need to wait for Amalie to arrive,” Matthias said, “so the two of you can decide together.”
He shook his head. If he waited for Amalie, his heart would most certainly decide for him, and it wouldn’t be the right decision.
His friend stepped over and clasped his hand on Friedrich’s shoulder. “Don’t leave us,” he said simply.
Friedrich shook his head, his heart heavy. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
* * * * *
The aroma of fresh bread breezed through Libson’s streets like warm tufts of ribbon. Amalie relished the scent as she strolled alone down Market Street. Karoline was resting quietly in the doctor’s office as they waited for the other wagons to arrive.
Last night’s river crossing was a blessed blur in her memory. With Mr. Faust’s assistance, she’d made it across the river without tumbling and ridden into the town with the doctor and Karoline. Karoline had awakened in the back of the carriage last night, crying out for her mother. Amalie had tried to soothe her as best she could, but she was grateful that Karoline was able to cry out even if she was in pain.
The doctor had given Karoline another medication and she slept peacefully through the night. Amalie spent the night in the guest room of the kind doctor and his wife. Not only had they given her a fine feather bed to rest on, the doctor’s wife asked their house servant to draw a hot bath for her and she spent a good half hour soaking in the warm water to clean the grime off her skin. The servant made her a hot cup of chamomile before bed, and she slept better last night than she had her entire trip.
This morning Amalie had breakfast with the doctor and his wife, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a meal that she hadn’t been responsible to help prepare. Then the doctor insisted Amalie go outside and refresh herself in the morning air. At first she told him that she’d had plenty of fresh air the past two weeks, but she didn’t protest for long. She was curious about the worldly village.
Twenty-four years ago she’d been born in a German Dorf, but she barely remembered the village where she’d spent her childhood. Her family immigrated to Ebenezer the summer before her sixth birthday, and she hadn’t visited another town since their move. She knew their community was different than others, based on stories the visitors who came to their colony told and on the vivid descriptions of those Inspirationists who’d been to Buffalo. She had often wondered what it would be like to visit another town.
As she walked this morning, past a row of brick buildings, her hands fidgeted beside her. She wasn’t used to being alone nor was she used to being idle. Traveling alongside the wagons had occupied her for the past two weeks, but before that, her work in the kitchen kept her in constant motion with long hours of cooking, baking, and cleaning. She thrived in the midst of the busyness.
Lisbon’s businesses were all closed for Sunday, and the streets were quiet. Too quiet. The few people on the wooden sidewalks looked at her oddly, silently critiquing her plain dress, but she held her head high and ignored them. That was one of the many reasons she loved the villages of her community. No woman was singled out by her fine dress or her lack of gay attire. All the women looked the same, and they were content in their sameness.
Turning the corner, Amalie strolled past a funeral parlor and a store with musical instruments. On the grassy lawn to her right, dozens of people poured out of a white building with a narrow steeple that towered over them. A sign by the arched front doors read FIRST CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH.
The churchwomen all wore fancy dresses that reminded her of the colorful gourds the Inspirationists harvested every autumn, narrow in the center and then puffed out from their waists to the ground. Many of the men who flooded through the church doors wore full beards and stovepipe hats, tall and grand. Some of them strolled away from the churchyard while others climbed into carriages or wagons and rode up the street.
They talked and laughed as they walked. Two boys ran across the lawn with a shriek before they catapulted over a row of petunias. She watched the boys with curiosity.
Why didn’t anyone stop their antics? The adults in her community would never let the children trample flowers. Inspirationist children played in their village, silly games like “The Cutest Pig in the Parlor,” but their play was never rough or loud like this. Boys and girls alike learned to quietly read and write and knit, and at a very early age, the children learned to respect older people. They also learned to respect each other in the established, orderly world of their community.
Did the children and their parents know how close danger had been to them, just yesterday? Surely they knew about the burnt bridge to their east and how close General Morgan and his troops had come to warring against their village. If they were aware of these dangers, she couldn’t tell.
She rested beside the steps of the church, mesmerized by the many colors that radiated from the stain on its windows. The bright colors of glass blended together to form a lion on one side of the window and a lamb on the other. An arched window in the center of the others depicted a picture of Christ on the cross, His eyes pleading with the heavens. Her breath was stolen away from her as she contemplated the horror of His death. And the beauty of His sacrifice.
The summer rays warmed her skin, and she pulled her sunbonnet closer to her face.
Christ had given His life for her, for all the people in this town and across their country, for sweet souls like Karoline Baumer and even for those like General Morgan, who were intent on following the path to destruction. Christ’s sacrifice offered her and all of them the free grace they desperately needed to eradicate their sins, and her heart filled with a renewal of gratefulness for all He had done for her. She didn’t need anything except His love and grace.
Did the people in this church live like they believed this provoking portrayal of their Christ? Did they know how much He loved them? She prayed they did.
Even with God’s grace, she still struggled daily to follow what He wanted her to do. And even to know what He would have her do.
Most of the congregation had dispersed as she continued her walk through the village, turning onto High Street. There were more storefronts before her, and she stopped to gaze into their windows. In one store, a beautiful woman stood in the display window arrayed in a pin
k and yellow dress. Amalie stared for a moment, waiting for the woman to move, but when the woman didn’t even blink, Amalie realized she wasn’t real at all. The woman was a giant doll, molded to look like a person.
Embarrassed, Amalie backed away from the display before anyone realized she thought the doll was real. Hurrying down the street, she glanced into the other windows. One store was filled with crockery and hand-painted pieces of china. Another window displayed a spinning wheel and yards of colorful fabric.
Amalie had never seen so many items for sale. In the colony at Ebenezer, they had only a small general store where the Inspirationists could obtain anything they needed for their basic needs—writing paper and shoes and even candy for treats. Since they didn’t have money, every member of their society received a credit at the beginning of each year for purchases at the store, and the storekeeper kept track of what they’d purchased in their credit-book.
At the window of the next store, Amalie rolled her fingers over the warm glass. The sign said it was a mercantile, and she could see the barrels and shelves filled with many different items. Shiny copper pots, glasses, candles, tin cookie cutters. And there were books—stacks and stacks of them beyond the window. What did one do with so many things?
As she was trying to read the titles of the books, she saw something move behind the display. When she lifted her eyes, a man with a bushy brown beard and wiry glasses was looking back at her. At first, she thought he too was a giant doll. When he waved, she gasped and her hands froze on the window as he motioned for her to come inside.
The store in Ebenezer was closed on Sunday, but she didn’t know how people acted outside Ebenezer. Were they allowed to shop on the Sabbath? She reached for the doorknob, but she didn’t step forward.
There wasn’t any harm in looking at his inventory, was there? She couldn’t buy anything, of course, but maybe the shopkeeper wouldn’t mind if she opened the covers of the books and peeked inside. Then she would go back to check on Karoline.
A bell chimed overhead when she pushed the door, startling her, and she almost ran back outside like a spooked rabbit. Before she ran, though, the man stepped forward and introduced himself as the owner of the shop.
“How can I help you?” he asked in a soothing tone that helped calm her fears.
She pushed her sunbonnet off her hair, revealing the small black cap she wore underneath. The sunbonnet rested on her shoulders as she glanced around the room, overwhelmed and strangely exhilarated by all the merchandise in the store. “Are you open?”
“Not officially,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. “But I’d never turn away a customer in need.”
She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t need anything.”
The twinkle dimmed a bit. “Well, I’m just cleaning up a bit. You are welcome to look around if you’d like.”
She glanced over the kitchenware and hats and shoes. Her eyes rested on the shelves at the far corner of the store. “Can I look at the books?”
“Certainly.”
Amalie walked over, and her fingers reverently rolled over the dozens of hardcovers on the shelf. She’d only read a handful of books in her life. The Bible and the book of inspired testimonies from their Werkzeuge. The only fictional book she’d ever read was Pilgrim’s Progress, and every word of the pilgrim’s journey delighted her. When Christian arrived at the Celestial City, she celebrated with him.
She’d longed to read another story like Pilgrim’s Progress, but most works of fiction were idle pleasure. If only she could find another story that encouraged Christians on their journey instead of distracted them from it.
She carefully picked a book off the shelf and then replaced it seconds later without even opening the cover. There were too many books to look at. She didn’t know where to start.
Her gaze rolled over the titles, resting on a bright blue cover. She reached for it and stared at the silver foil on the front, a man and several children playing near a log home of sorts. She smoothed her fingers over the cloth binding, reading the author’s name. A woman wrote the book. A woman named Harriet Beecher Stowe.
She turned and looked back toward the counter, holding the cover up so the man could see it. “What is this book about?”
He glanced up from the ledger in his hands and set his glasses on top of it. “You’ve never heard of Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
“No.”
He shook his head. “Some people call it the book that began this darn war.”
She turned it over in her hands. How could a book possibly begin a war?
“Is your husband fighting for us?” he asked
She shook her head. “I’m an Inspirationist.”
One of his eyebrows slid up. “A what?”
“Our community believes that the United States should pray for peace instead of fight for it.”
“Oh—”
She held up Uncle Tom’s Cabin. She didn’t want to talk about her community’s views of peace or the fact that she didn’t have a husband. “Is it a book about a Christian?”
He tapped on his ledger for a moment, thinking. “It’s more of a book about Christ.”
About Christ? Then maybe it would be a story she’d enjoy.
“You should read it,” he continued.
She looked down at the cover again, the silver gleaming in the light. “I would like to.”
“I’ll sell it to you for two dollars,” he said.
“Oh, no.” She quickly placed the book back on the shelf and backed away from it. She hadn’t meant to give him reason to think she would purchase it.
He paused for a minute. “I suppose I could go down to a dollar seventy-five. You won’t be able to find it any cheaper than that.”
She stepped back, toward the door. “I can’t buy it.”
She could feel him critiquing her dress, her hair pinned neatly behind her head.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I—I don’t have any money.”
He paused for an instant, like he wasn’t sure if he believed her. “You don’t have any money?”
Amalie tapped her tongue against her teeth, trying to find a way to explain to him the way they lived, in words he could understand. “I live in a colony,” she said. “We don’t need any money because everything is provided for us.”
His eyebrow shot up again. “Everything except books.”
“We have books,” she said, wanting him to understand. “Just not novels.”
He closed his ledger on the counter and sighed. “Well, you have to read this book.”
She backed toward the door. What would she say to the others if she brought a novel to Amana with her? A novel that started a war. “I should probably be going.”
The man scooted around the counter and marched toward the shelves. He plucked the blue book from the mass of browns and reds and held it out to her. “It’s a story that will change your life.”
“I don’t want my life to be changed.”
“Aah,” he said as he pulled the book back. “You are satisfied with your life.”
“I am.”
“Smug?”
“Oh, no,” she stopped him. “Nothing like that. I’m just content.”
“And is the world content around you?”
She thought back to General Morgan and the smirk on his face as he told her what he was doing to the people in the North. There was a reason the Inspirationists chose not to live in the world. It was partly to stay away from people who chose to pursue worldly passions and desires more than their journey with Christ.
Even when General Morgan succeeded in burning the bridge in Lisbon, he longed for more destruction. Lust is what the Bible would call it. Without God, there was no contentment in worldly pursuits. Why should she care about the world?
“We choose to live apart from the world.”
The man took the book to the counter and began to wrap it in brown paper. “Someday the world will come to you, whether or not you want it to. You might want to
know why so many people have chosen to give up their farms and their families to fight in this war.”
“I’m on my way to Iowa,” she told him. “Our new community is separated from the rest of the world.”
“No matter how hard you try, you and your people will never be able to completely separate yourself from the world.”
A protest bubbled on her lips, but she choked it back down. There was no use disagreeing with him. People on the outside could never understand the tight bond of the Inspirationists or their pursuit of righteousness. They couldn’t seem to understand how her community could be content living away from the luxuries of a town, but she and the others had everything she needed in her village. And their focus wasn’t on things. It was on following God.
The man handed the package to her. “Please take this.”
She looked at the brown paper, her hands unmoving. “I don’t have any money,” she repeated.
“Consider it a gift,” he replied, and then he pulled it back. “But only on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“That you read it.”
She considered his offer for a moment. She didn’t know when she could read it, certainly not while she was on the trail. There were too many people watching her, watching each other. But perhaps she could read it when she got to Iowa. If the man were wrong, if the story was corrupt, she would dispose of it.
“Is the story truly a picture of Christ?”
When he nodded, she reached out. “Then I will read it.”
He slipped the package into her hands. “Your heart will never be the same.”
Lord, Thy grace for me has charted the direction I must take.
Now my journey I have started on to heaven’s narrow gate.
Joachim Neander
Chapter Seven
Candlelight flickered along Friedrich’s wall as he huddled over his desk. Before he lit the candle, he drew the green muslin curtain over his window so the night watchman wouldn’t see the flame in his room and come knocking to check for a fire. The clock on his bureau read 3 a.m. and while most of the Inspirationists were early risers, no one besides him and the night watchman should be awake. And he didn’t want the watchman checking on him.
Love Finds You in Amana Iowa Page 6
