Amish Celebrations

by Beth Wiseman

Now it was time to go upstairs with her new husband.

  For the next two weeks Priscilla and Chester visited family and friends, sometimes hitting four or five houses in one day. They ate dinner and supper with someone different each day, and they received some wonderful wedding gifts. One of her favorites was a small red suitcase that was filled with towels, washrags, and homemade lavender soap—a gift from one of Chester’s cousins.

  In the evenings, Chester worked on their new house while Priscilla continued to help her mother with the regular chores. He was scheduled to start back to work at the furniture store the following day, but this evening he was home from working on the house earlier than usual.

  “I want you to come see the haus.” Chester kissed her after he looked around and saw that they were alone.

  Priscilla hadn’t seen the house since the wedding, at Chester’s insistence. He had been very tight-lipped about it, which made her wonder if they’d be staying even longer than the anticipated two months with her family.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to see it until everything was ready for us to move in.”

  He shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

  “Okay.” She was anxious to see how much progress had been made.

  A short while later Chester pulled into the dirt driveway. He jumped out, then went around and opened the buggy door for Priscilla. She glanced up at the roof and wondered if they’d made all the repairs. And what about the electrical issues and touch-up work that still needed to be done?

  Chester scooped her into his arms and laughed.

  “What are you doing?” She laughed along with him as she clung to his neck.

  “The Englisch aren’t the only ones who can carry a new bride over the threshold.”

  Chester eased his hand to the doorknob and turned. Then he pushed the door open with his foot and set Priscilla down in the entryway.

  She blinked her eyes a few times to make sure what she was seeing was real. “Chester . . .” She cupped her hands to her mouth as her eyes scanned the living room. On the floor, on the built-in shelves, and on the fireplace mantel were vases full of flowers. She swiped at a tear as she fell into Chester’s arms. “Danki! Danki! They’re beautiful!”

  “All for you, my sweet Priscilla.” He hugged her tight and kissed her lips.

  Priscilla took a closer look. There was a rocking chair from Chester’s house in the living room. She eased away from him and moved toward the kitchen. There was a pitcher on the counter, two canisters, and some kitchen towels laid out. Around the corner, she could see their bedroom. She hurried that way. Chester’s bed and all his furniture was in the room.

  “Why did you move some of your things in when the house isn’t finished?” She met his eyes, but he just smiled. Priscilla took a closer look. The fireplace mantel was sanded and finished, and it hadn’t been before. The floor wasn’t covered in sawdust anymore, but instead shone with a fresh layer of wax. All the little things that hadn’t been completed were done.

  “The roof and the electrical issues are fixed too.”

  Priscilla ran from room to room. Not one thing was left unfinished. “How did you do this?”

  “Several nights last week, about two dozen members of the community met me here, and we finished everything.” He winked. “Kind of like a mini barn-raising.” Then he walked to Priscilla and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. “Tomorrow we will get your things. It’s completely ready to live in.”

  Priscilla swiped at a tear. “I love you, Chester.”

  It was all a part of God’s perfect plan.

  A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

  PROLOGUE

  Bruce fumbled behind his ears, adjusting the elastic band necessary to hold his Santa Claus beard in place. His salt-and-pepper hair was mostly white around his temples, the only places not covered by a traditional Santa hat, so he fit the part well. Running a hand across his overly inflated stomach, he sighed. Joan had insisted he stuff a throw pillow under his red jacket at the last minute, but now the extra padding stretched the black buttons to a point where he feared they might pop.

  He took a deep breath and eyed the eager children waiting to sit in his lap. A long line ran the length of the toy aisle before it disappeared around a corner and returned to Bruce’s view near the sporting goods section.

  “I know this is a far cry from the boardroom, but I feel sure this is the best option out of the choices you were offered for community service.” Joan leaned close to his ear and spoke in a whisper, the familiar smell of an orange Tic Tac on her breath. “You’re lucky the judge is a friend of yours.”

  “He’s not really a friend.” Bruce brushed white lint from the left sleeve of his red suit. “More of an acquaintance.” He rested his hands on the armrests of the throne he’d been assigned for the day.

  Joan scowled as she pointed a bright red fingernail at him. “But I didn’t get awarded community service, and dressing as an elf isn’t part of my job description.”

  Bruce locked eyes with his longtime assistant. He had been her employer for twenty-five years, but there was no question who the boss was in their relationship. Her. “Your Christmas bonus will reflect your generous spirit.” He smiled at her. “And isn’t this better than being at the office?”

  Joan rolled her big blue eyes as she blew a strand of short, silver hair from her face. “I suppose.”

  Bruce remembered when those locks were a mass of brown waves that fell well below Joan’s shoulders, tresses that were sun kissed a deep shade of blonde during the summer months. But a year ago, she’d stopped coloring her hair, and it had grown into a lovely shade of silver that complemented her youthful glow yet exemplified the wise woman she’d become.

  “You’d just better be sure I’m out of here by six o’clock or you’ll be answering to Phillip.” Joan tugged at her hat until it was snug on her forehead, the length of the green cone falling to one side, anchored by a bouncy red ball. “I haven’t worn this outfit since I served Christmas dinner at the women’s shelter years ago, and I must have been a bit thinner then.” She pulled on the green skirt she was wearing, then adjusted the black belt around her waist. “Anyway, you know how Phillip doesn’t like to miss a meal.”

  Bruce grinned. “That one’s never going to leave the nest, is he?”

  Joan had raised four kids, mostly by herself. Her husband died when her oldest child was only seven. Her children were all thriving and on their own, except for Phillip.

  “I’d bounce off the walls in that big house if Phillip wasn’t there. Besides, he’s only twenty.”

  Bruce had ventured out on his own at seventeen, with barely a hundred dollars in his pocket. But times were different forty-five years ago. He couldn’t begrudge Joan wanting to keep one of her children nearby. A house was lonely with only one occupant.

  Bruce started counting the kids in line. Five . . . ten . . . fifteen . . . But those were only the ones he could see before the line disappeared around the corner. “If we’re late, I’ll spring for your and Phillip’s dinner out somewhere.”

  She smiled, her cheeks dimpling beneath an extra layer of rouge for the occasion. “Well, then I’ll hope we’re late.”

  Bruce smiled. He’d paid Joan well for years of hard work and loyalty, and she’d put three of her four children through college. That hadn’t been easy for her.

  “It’s a good thing you’re doing here.” Joan’s eyes twinkled in the bright lights before she narrowed her eyebrows at him and frowned. “Even though I’ll tan your hide if I ever hear of you driving under the influence of alcohol again.”

  Bruce breathed in the smells of Christmas—a display of evergreen branches hanging on a rack nearby, comingling with the aroma of cinnamon coming from the bakery—all filling the store with holiday fanfare. But months after his run-in with the law, Bruce still carried a heavy dose of guilt about what he had done.

  He’d been out to dinner with three happily married couples, and he’d missed Lu
cy more than usual that night. Bruce wasn’t a drinker, and given his state of mind that evening, he should have passed on the cocktails. His emotions didn’t give him the right to put lives in danger.

  Thankfully, he’d been pulled over not long after he’d gotten behind the wheel of his car. He had deserved his brief stay in jail, and Joan was right—he’d gotten off easy by paying a fine and playing Santa Claus for a week, as opposed to being assigned a week of picking up trash alongside the highway.

  “Look at that cute little Amish girl.” Joan nodded toward the fifth child in line, dressed in a blue dress, black apron, and the traditional white prayer covering.

  Bruce had been in Lancaster County his entire life, so he knew the Amish folks didn’t participate in the whole Santa Claus thing. They were Christians and celebrated the holiday in a modest way, but he’d never seen an Amish child in a line to see Santa Claus.

  “Rather odd,” Bruce said softly as the photographer approached them to signal that he was ready.

  “Maybe she wants something really big.” Joan smiled, clasping her hands together in front of her. “You know, like the girl in Miracle on 34th Street. Remember? She wanted a house and a family.”

  Bruce himself was a wealthy man, but the Amish were simple people and would never ask for anything like that. Bruce was on the lookout for children whose families might need a financial hand. That’s why he’d brought Joan along, to take notes if opportunities were presented. He supposed he’d been playing Santa Claus for a long time, just never in this capacity. He enjoyed helping others this time of year.

  He lifted his hand to scratch his chin, forgetting a long white beard covered it.

  “I know you didn’t really want to do this,” Joan said. “But do a good job. Some of these kids will remember this visit to Santa for the rest of their lives.”

  Kids. Decades ago Bruce had come to terms with the fact that he and Lucy wouldn’t have children, but he was never going to accept the Lord calling her home two days before her fifty-fifth birthday. He and Lucy had plotted out five years of travel plans, and Bruce was getting ready to retire when Lucy had a heart attack at home by herself. Since then he’d extended his retirement a couple of years, not ready to be completely alone. At least his business provided him normality and contact with other people, something he had needed after Lucy’s death. But he was ready now. Ready to pass the baton to a snappy young partner who had more of a technical grip on the ways the world was changing, which included the architectural components necessary to run a successful real-estate development firm.

  Yes, God, I’ll do a good job for these children. And I’ll do my best to be a good person. But I will do these things in my own name, not Yours. You no longer strengthen me. And I no longer accept my fate and destiny as Your will.

  Bruce had considered himself a blessed man prior to Lucy’s death. He had a loving and devoted wife of thirty years, more than enough money to sustain them for the rest of their days, and plenty of available cash to share with others. But as it turned out, Lucy didn’t have enough days left to see their retirement dreams to fruition.

  He’d gone through his own stages of grief following her death—denial, anger, and resentment. His final phase was blame, and the blame phase was where he remained now, years later. God was to blame. Sometimes he could picture Lucy looking down on him, shaking her head. They’d both been good Christians up until her death, before Bruce turned from his once beloved Father. He couldn’t seem to find his way back, nor had he tried very hard.

  Bruce turned his attention back to the present, to the excited children. He would let each of them sit in his lap to tell Santa about the items on their Christmas wish list, hopefully creating memories that they’d cherish. Bruce could do that.

  After the first four children had seemed satisfied with Bruce’s imitation of Santa and his promise that he’d do his best to get them their requests, the little Amish girl approached tentatively, her eyes cast down at her black leather shoes.

  When she finally got within a couple of feet of Bruce, he held out his arms like he’d done for the others. “Would you like to sit on Santa’s lap?”

  Her brown eyes met his as her eyebrows knitted into a frown. “Nee.”

  Bruce slowly dropped his hands to the armrests of his chair. “Okay. Is there something you’d like for Christmas?”

  The girl edged closer. “Ya, I would like to ask for something for mei mamm. My Englisch friend said you grant wishes.”

  Amish children were taught Pennsylvania Deutsch until they started school when they were five. Bruce figured this girl to be five or six, and her vocabulary was a mixture of English and their traditional dialect. “And what does your mamm want for Christmas?”

  The small girl blinked her eyes a few times but lowered her gaze back to her shoes. “She needs help,” the child said, barely above a whisper as she closed the remaining distance between them. She looked up at him and laid a gentle, tiny hand on Bruce’s knee. “Can you get her some help?”

  Bruce didn’t want to dash this child’s dream any more than the other children’s, but his first thought was that her mother was sick. And that thought led him to visions of Lucy on their living room floor, and for a few moments, he was lost in his own memories. Until the girl tapped his knee.

  “Are you really Santa Claus?” She blinked her eyes again as her lip trembled.

  Bruce swallowed hard. He suspected this girl knew he wasn’t. Surely her parents had told her that Santa Claus was a legend that only English children were led to believe in—“English” being the title reserved for anyone who wasn’t Amish. “Yes, I am,” he finally said, recalling Joan’s encouragement to make this a memorable event for each child.

  She opened her other hand, the one she’d had fisted at her side, and she slid Bruce a piece of paper. “This is our address. If you can help mei mamm, please send the help to this address.”

  The child sucked in an unusually long breath of air, as if she was straining to fill her lungs. Maybe she’s the one who is sick, instead of her mother. Maybe the family needs money for medical bills, regardless of which one is ill. Bruce glanced up at Joan, then returned his gaze to the child.

  “Is your mommy sick?” Bruce spoke as softly as he could, glancing over the girl’s shoulder at a restless little boy who was tapping his foot, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Nee. She’s not sick. But she needs help.”

  Bruce stared at the child for a few moments. “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Rachel Marie King.” The child took another long, deep breath, and Bruce felt certain she was the one who needed help.

  He nodded, smiling. “Help is on the way, Rachel Marie King.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Mary glanced around the room, evaluating which one of her five children needed her attention the most. She started with her youngest, one-year-old Leah, who wailed from where she was nestled on the couch. Probably a soiled diaper.

  Next, her eyes drifted to Katie. Only a year older than Leah, Katie was the quiet one, known to sneak off when no one was looking. Mary was glad to see her sitting quietly on the floor thumbing through a picture book.

  Her oldest daughter, Rachel Marie, was the chatterbox of the family, and at five years old, she’d already decided that she was going to be an Englisch doctor when she grew up. Mary attributed that to the fact that Rachel had been going back and forth to Lancaster, to the same doctor, since she’d been born with a congenital heart defect. But Mary thanked the Lord that Rachel’s cheeks were rosy, not pale or bluish, and that she was content building a tower out of blocks in the corner.

  Mary scooped Leah into her arms and headed to where the diapers were folded on the coffee table when she remembered that John and Samuel were home from school sick. Not really sick, but with pinkeye, which was contagious to the other children. Mary prayed that her three daughters didn’t come down with it. She’d done everything she could think of to prevent it. Each child had his or
her own towel and washrag, and she’d taken care to keep the girls away from the boys as best she could.

  Mary walked to the landing at the base of the stairs and hollered to her seven-year-old twin boys. “John! Samuel! Can you please come downstairs?”

  Mary could smell the trash in the kitchen from where she was standing in the living room. Her boys were supposed to take turns taking the trash to the burn pile, but it was a constant battle to get them to do so. She called their names again.

  “They aren’t here,” Rachel said as she carefully placed another block on her tower.

  “What do you mean they aren’t here?” Mary hoisted Leah up on her hip, the feel of the heavy diaper against her arm. She walked the length of her living room until she could see into the laundry room. Mary cringed at the laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes that needed to be run through the wringer washer. She wound around to the mudroom in the back of the house before she returned to her two daughters.

  “Rachel, do you know where John and Samuel went?”

  Mary’s daughter nodded, still focused on her building. Mary waited a reasonable amount of time before she said, “Can you please tell me where they are?”

  The Englisch doctor had said that Rachel needed to avoid as much emotional upset as possible, so Mary tried to keep her voice calm and steady, even though John and Samuel were known for mischief. Then her heart hammered against her chest.

  “And where did Katie go?” Mary had barely taken her eyes off the two-year-old to look for her boys.

  Leah began to wail in Mary’s ear.

  “Rachel, where is Katie?” Mary’s heart thudded even harder against her chest. John and Samuel were older, but Katie was only two. “Rachel!”

  “Stop yelling!” Rachel slammed her hands against her ears, shaking her head back and forth. “Don’t yell at me! Don’t yell at me!”

  Sometimes Mary wasn’t sure if Rachel took advantage of her health situation, but Mary wasn’t going to take the chance. “I’m not yelling,” she said, much calmer. “But Katie is just a baby, and I need to know where she is.” Hurrying from room to room, Mary wasn’t convinced Katie wasn’t hiding somewhere in the house, but a gut instinct pulled her out onto the porch. She didn’t see Katie and was almost back inside when she heard noise coming from overhead. Her heart thudded against her chest as Leah sobbed in her arms.