Fearless Hope: A Novel

by Serena B. Miller

  He also wished he had gone to bed at a reasonable hour last night, gotten up earlier, and had enough time to grab a cup of coffee. The lack of caffeine and lack of sleep made him feel like he might topple over if he wasn’t careful.

  The next thing he knew, everyone—men and women—rose as one, turned around, knelt in front of their benches, put their elbows on the bench, and bowed their heads. Once he saw what was happening, he scrambled to his knees as well.

  Not a word was said. The praying was silent and it went on for a long time. At first, he was simply grateful for the chance to move into a different position. Backless benches tended to make a body ache. Then he grew uncomfortable with being on his knees. Finally he found himself rising with the rest of the group and he sat back on the bench with the other men.

  That was how the next three hours went, alternately sitting in a half-daze while various men addressed the group in unintelligible German. Then sudden movement as they all kneeled in prayer. Then everyone would sing from a hymnal he could neither read nor understand, as his bladder grew more and more uncomfortable and his desire for a cup of coffee grew, and his back and bottom ached from the hard benches.

  With all his heart, he wished he had never asked to take part in an Amish worship service. They didn’t even have so much as a band to break up the monotony—just that strange, in-unison singing where each song seemed to go on forever.

  He had his elbows on his knees and was leaning with his chin resting on his steepled fingers, trying to give his back a break. His eyes were closed and he was far away in his mind when he realized that a few of the words had just made sense to him.

  He sat up quickly and looked around. Had someone spoken in English?

  No, the preacher was droning on and on in impenetrable German.

  He leaned over again, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander.

  There it was again! He sat upright and received sideways looks from his seatmates. He knew the meaning of that German word. It was not English being slipped in at all—it was his brain processing the German into an image he knew and understood.

  How had this happened? He closed his eyes again and concentrated. He could not understand a word, no matter how hard he tried. It was only when he allowed his mind to slip into neutral that he understood some words and phrases.

  He had heard that there was a method of learning a language that consisted of simply being around it long enough that eventually one’s mind began to understand it.

  He didn’t give the idea much credence, and the method took days, months, years, as far as he knew. It didn’t happen in a couple hours.

  He leaned forward into his original position, and cleared his mind by concentrating on the grain of the wooden floor beneath him. The German words flowed over and around him. It took all his discipline to keep himself from trying to process them, but when he came out of his self-imposed trance, he knew that it was not his imagination. He was hearing individual words and some phrases that made sense to him. He actually had a smattering of an idea what the preacher had been talking about.

  How could this happen?

  He didn’t believe in multiple lifetimes, but some of his new age friends did, and some even had put themselves under hypnosis to try to ascertain who they had been in ancient times. It was always interesting to him to note that these friends never had lived previous lives as slaves or ditchdiggers or coal miners. Without fail they all had been princes or kings or some kind of important personages in their previous existence. One of Marla’s friends was convinced that she had been a mistress of Genghis Khan.

  But for himself? A past life that involved being a humble, German-speaking Amishman? He doubted it.

  And yet . . . why the strong déjà vu again? Why this strange and sudden ability to understand a few German words?

  The déjà vu feeling was not at all uncomfortable. Instead, it brought with it, just like when he’d first entered this house, a feeling of peace.

  The singing started up again, and the melody of it sounded vaguely familiar. Church ended and even the rustle of the women’s dresses sounded familiar. He heard conversations starting up all around him in another language, and understood snatches of what he was hearing.

  Worst of all, or best of all—he didn’t know if it was good or bad—he felt some sort of wall break down inside his heart and he had a terrible and pressing need to just . . . cry. Not from a feeling of pain, but from relief.

  It was as though all his senses had opened up, little by little, as he sat there bookended by two Amish men, and he couldn’t figure out why it felt so right to be with these people. Was this what a religious experience felt like? Was this what people who became Christians experienced?

  He didn’t know, but he didn’t think so. This wasn’t about God or Jesus. This was something else entirely.

  He realized that if he didn’t get out of there fast, there were going to be a few Amish people getting an eyeful of an Englisch man sitting there sobbing . . . and worst of all, if anyone inquired why, he had no idea what to tell them!

  The minute services ended, he made his way politely toward the stairway, as quickly as possible.

  “Aren’t you having dinner with us?” Hope asked, just as he made it to the foot of the stairs.

  He shook his head, so choked up he was unable to speak, and then bolted up to the second floor and the bathroom. After relieving himself, he splashed water on his face. There was a polite knock, and he opened the door to half a dozen Amish women who had lined up at the door.

  Nodding to them, he went to his bedroom, closed the door, and sat down in a rocking chair beside the window. As he looked out over the rolling fields, the flock of black buggies, and the people now milling about on his lawn, another flood of “memories” came pouring in. He had the sensation of being very small and being held in someone’s arms as the two of them gazed out this very window. A wave of grief hit him so hard it nearly took his breath away.

  Grief? How could he experience grief from simply being part of an Amish church service?

  Perhaps his mother had forgotten something. Perhaps there was a reason for this after all.

  He fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket. His mother usually spent Sunday afternoons volunteering at the local food bank or doing pro bono work at one of the domestic violence shelters she helped support. Some parents complained that their grown children never had time for them, but not Deborah Parker. She had her own agenda unless he needed her. But if he needed her, he knew she would drop everything. He dialed the phone, knowing that wherever she was, and whatever she was doing, she would answer when she saw his name on her caller ID.

  “Logan!” She picked up on the first ring. “It’s so good to hear from you.”

  “Hi, Mom. Are you busy?”

  “Not at all. How are you?”

  “I’m not good.”

  He could almost feel her grabbing her purse and reaching for her car keys.

  “What’s wrong and what can I do to help?”

  “Are you absolutely certain that I’ve never been in Ohio Amish country? Is there anything you might have forgotten?”

  There was a long pause. “You need to chalk this déjà vu thing up to one of those unexplained happenings in a person’s life.”

  He tried out an idea that had been floating around in his mind. “Mom, if you say yes to this, I won’t think any less of you. It won’t change anything between us, but is there any chance that I was adopted?”

  “I swear to you, Logan,” she said. “You were not adopted.”

  “Oh.” He had begun to hope that he was adopted. That was far preferable to the suspicion that he might be losing his mind.

  “Why are you asking me about this again?” Her voice grew tight with concern. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  He sighed. “This morning I was in an Amish worship service and I realized that I was starting to understand some German words.”

  It sounded ridiculous, even to him.

>   “A lot of foreign words resemble English.”

  “They were not English-like words, Mother. And even though things were completely alien to me at first, everything in the worship service started feeling familiar, as though I’d been part of an Amish church before. By the time it ended, I wanted to start bawling, and it’s been a lot of years since I cried about anything. Ever since I lost Ariela, nothing ever seemed bad enough to waste tears on.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to come home.” She warmed to the subject. “You’ve probably been working too hard. Take a break and we’ll go somewhere nice together. My treat. How does Ireland sound? We could rent a cottage for a couple weeks and just relax.”

  His mother had talked about going to Ireland for years, but something always came up at work. She must be very worried if she was offering to actually take time off and go there.

  “It sounds great, Mother. We’ll talk about it after I meet this deadline. Thanks.”

  They said their good-byes and he leaned his head back against the hickory rocker he had purchased for his bedroom. If his mother had no answers, there was no one else left to ask.

  He would be tempted to think he was losing his mind except for the fact that he’d done enormous research into deviant mental behavior for his psychological thrillers, and not once had he read about a phenomenon where someone suddenly, for no discernible reason, started understanding a foreign language.

  There was a cautious knock on the door.

  “Are you all right?” Hope looked in on him, her face pinched with worry. “Am I intruding?”

  “You are never an intrusion, Hope. Come in.”

  She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. “I know our services last a bit long for Englisch people. I’m sorry if we wore you out.”

  “The service wasn’t too long.”

  She got a good look at his face. “Logan! You’ve been crying! What is wrong?”

  “I have no idea. Hope, I . . .” He hesitated. Should he risk telling her what had happened when even he didn’t understand it?

  She sat down on the edge of his bed. “You can tell me.”

  “You should be downstairs with the others,” he said.

  “I am fine where I am. The others and the children are fine where they are. All are eating their lunch. You are not fine. Tell me what is wrong. Did one of my people say something that offended you?”

  “No. Your people have treated me well. It’s just that either I’m having a mental breakdown, or I’m having some sort of past-life experience—which I don’t believe in—or I have been in an Amish service before. The more time I spent sitting in that service, the more Amish words and phrases I began to understand. Even the melodies of the hymns started sounding familiar. Then I was hit with such a deep feeling of grief that I had to get out of there before I made a fool of myself. It’s all somehow connected to the feeling of familiarity I had when I first saw this house, and the weird knowledge I had about the Troyers’ home when I ate over there.”

  “Have you tried talking to your mother again to see if she remembers anything?”

  “I just got off the phone with her. She is as mystified by this as I am.”

  “Forgive me, but could your mother be lying?”

  The thought had never entered his mind.

  “I don’t think so. One thing I have always been able to depend on is her integrity. She’s always been deadly honest. I just got off the phone with her and she denies I was adopted.”

  “Then that is that.” She held out her hand and urged him to his feet. “We have a mystery we cannot solve. Give it up to God for now, and let us get some good food in you and some coffee—I know you didn’t have any this morning, or breakfast—and let’s see how you feel then. Maybe it is just weakness from lack of food?”

  “Maybe.” He liked the feel of her hand in his. It was the most she had ever touched him. He knew it was simply a gesture of sympathy and compassion, but it meant a great deal.

  Such an overwhelming rush of appreciation for her kindness washed over him, he pulled her toward him, enfolding her in an embrace that was meant, at first, to be nothing but a brief hug of gratitude.

  That’s all it would have been except for one thing. Once he had her in his arms, he never wanted to let her go.

  He pulled her tight against his chest, one arm around her shoulder, his hand on the back of her bare neck. A small curl had escaped her Kapp. He suddenly wanted to kiss that curl, and that neck, and that lovely face.

  For a brief, breathless moment, she melted into him, as though she had been waiting for this embrace. Then he felt her stiffen in his arms and pull away.

  “Tomorrow, I will find someone else to work for you,” she said. “Go home to your almost-wife, Logan. There is no future for us.”

  • • •

  He ate, but only by trying to swallow food past a huge lump in his throat every time he glanced at Hope. How foolish he had been!

  Now she was leaving him. He could not allow this to happen, but he did not know how to keep her from it. She had trusted him, and he had broken that trust.

  “Go back to your almost-wife,” she had said.

  The idea of going back to Marla now left him cold. It was as though a fog had parted in his brain and now he clearly saw that marriage to his fiancée would be a disaster. He cared for her, he was grateful to her, but he simply did not love her as a man should love his wife.

  Today he finally admitted to himself that he would rather have this pregnant Amish woman in his life, no matter what the price.

  He watched as Hope sat at one of the long tables holding Carrie on her lap, bending her head to listen to some small request by Adam, smiling at something the older woman on her right said. He felt a wild surge of protection toward her and her children.

  The truth was, he was desperately in love with his housekeeper. He already loved her two little children and her unborn baby. His very soul resonated whenever she entered the room, and he had been lying to himself about it for a long time.

  Dreams and doubts rolled in his mind as he worked his way through a piece of apple pie that he did not taste.

  He heard his name being called, and saw Ivan Troyer wandering over from his home, evidently just back from his own church. Ivan was wearing black dress pants and a white dress shirt. He did not look completely Amish, but he did not look entirely Englisch, either.

  “Got some room at this table?” Ivan asked the men with whom Logan was sitting.

  The others at the table scooted over to give him a place to sit across from Logan.

  “I wondered how long it would take before they converted you,” Ivan said.

  “Hope needed to borrow the house for today.” Logan glanced uncomfortably at Henry, who had sat across from him with a scowl on his face for the past fifteen minutes without saying a word. “I was happy to oblige.”

  Ivan dug an elbow into the ribs of the man sitting on the other side of him. “Did he stay awake through the whole service or did you have to prop him up, Jake?”

  “He did good . . . for an Englischer,” Jake said with a grin. “I had a pitchfork out on the porch to jab him if he started to snore.”

  “Always a handy thing to have,” Ivan said. “Now, over at the new Mennonite church, they have amplifiers, guitars, and drums to keep the congregation awake. I visited there one morning. It worked real good. I had so much energy when I got back home, I built a new barn that afternoon.”

  “I will stick with my Ausbund and my strong voice.” Jake shook his head in mock despair. “That is the only instrument I need. It is sad when a church has such bad singers they have to make up for it with electrical instruments.”

  “Just saying . . .” Ivan teased. “You ever need a good trumpeter to wake everybody up, they got a couple at that church that can blow the roof off.”

  Logan wasn’t sure how to take this conversation. It seemed good-natured enough, but he sensed an underlying friction. Knowing that Ivan and his
family had left the Amish for the Mennonites made him wonder.

  Ivan turned his attention back to Logan. “Mary sent me over to ask when you’re coming to see us again.”

  “I don’t know. Caleb is uncomfortable with my being there. He is under the impression that I’m planning on exploiting you and Mary by writing about you in a book.”

  “Are you?” Ivan asked.

  “No.”

  “Too bad.” Ivan preened a bit. “Personally, I think writing about me would make an excellent book. You can ride on the tractor behind me while I do my spring plowing and I’ll give you the benefit of my years of wisdom.” This time Ivan elbowed Henry sitting on the other side of him. “By the way, Henry, that tractor of mine is a sweet, sweet ride. You don’t have to do a thing except turn it on and steer. Doesn’t require any hay, doesn’t kick you in the rear end when your back is turned . . .”

  “Does not reproduce itself,” Henry replied. “Requires expensive gasoline. Compacts the ground. Too many fumes.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Ivan said in a stage whisper to Logan. “Henry’s just jealous of my superior farming skills.”

  “And you are too lazy to train a horse to plow well,” Henry retorted.

  Logan watched the back-and-forth and kept quiet. He couldn’t tell if they were joking or if they were serious. If Ivan had left the Amish church for the Mennonites only because he didn’t want to fool with horses, there had probably been some hurt feelings somewhere along the way. He didn’t think Amish people left their faith quite so lightly.

  Hope would never leave, and he would not ask her to. The impossibility of the situation made him half sick. He shoved his plate away.

  “Do you mind taking a walk with me down to the barn, Ivan?” Logan said. “I think Simon Hochstetler might be hiding out down there. I haven’t seen him all morning and I want to check on him.”

  “Simon? Of course I don’t mind.” Ivan grew serious. “Excuse us, please, gentlemen.”

  Simon was in the barn when they arrived, currying one of the horses.

  “Have you been down here all day?” Logan asked. “I didn’t see you in church.”