Redeeming Grace and the Prodigal Son Returns

by Emma Miller

  “Easier winters here than in Indiana.” Ebben returned his attention to his plate. “According to my sons.”

  “They’ll be here with their families Saturday,” Hannah said. “And your daughter. They all promised to come early and stay late.”

  “I can’t wait to see them,” Sadie replied. “We don’t have any means to visit anyone until Ebben can buy a new buggy and a driving horse. We had to sell our buggy when we held the farm auction. And the livestock. Too expensive to ship them east.”

  “It must have been hard to part with your animals,” Hannah said.

  “Ya,” Ebben agreed. “It was, but this place is much smaller than our old farm. I’m not a young man anymore.”

  “If you’re looking for a dependable driving horse, you should talk to my brother-in-law Charley,” Johanna suggested. “He deals in livestock, and I know he has at least two suitable horses for sale.”

  “And a cow,” Sadie put in. “I make my own butter and our David likes his milk.” She smiled at David. “Are you certain you can eat more turkey?” Her son nodded and kept chewing.

  “So you’ll be here Saturday?” Grace asked John.

  “Try and keep me away. I’d come for the apple pies if nothing else.”

  “I’ve never been to a cidering,” Grace confessed. “I’m sure Dakota will like it.”

  “I know he will,” John agreed. The others continued to talk about cows and horses, but his attention remained on her. “More children to play with than he can count. How is he doing? Is he settling in?”

  “Yes, he is. It’s kind of you to ask. And kind of you to offer me the job,” she added, “considering that you’re taking my word on it that I’ve had experience.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” John said, helping himself to a serving of chowchow and more coleslaw. He grinned and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a snowy-white cloth napkin. “It’s hard to find good help, and if we suit each other, you’ll be doing our practice a big favor.”

  But will I be doing myself a favor? Grace wondered. John was a nice guy, a sweet guy, from all appearances. He’d done or said nothing that would cause her to believe his interest in her was anything but professional. But that didn’t keep the oxygen from draining out of the room when he walked into it, and it didn’t help a bit that when she dreamed of an Amish husband later that night, he was wearing John’s face behind a neatly trimmed brown beard.

  * * *

  As Aunt Jezzy had promised, the weather did change. By Saturday, the temperature had risen to the sixties and the sun had dried up the soggy yard and fields. By eight o’clock in the morning, a stream of buggies was rolling up Hannah’s lane. Grace had never seen so many Amish gathered in one place at one time.

  “More than last year,” Anna said as she supervised a pair of blond-haired boys unloading endless pies and baskets of delicious-smelling baked goods from her family buggy. “Careful with that bowl of macaroni salad, Rudy,” she called to one of them. “We don’t want it spilled on the ground for the chickens.” She waved. “Naomi!”

  A tall girl, about ten or eleven, wearing glasses, helped two younger girls out of the buggy. “Ya, Mam. I’ll watch they don’t get under the horses’ hooves.”

  “Take them into the house, Schippli. The big girls are minding the children this morning. You find your friends and have a good time.”

  “What did you call her?” Grace asked. “I thought her name was Naomi.”

  Anna chuckled merrily. “She is my lamb, my sweet Naomi. Always she helps without me asking. The twins...” She shook her head and laughed again. “Full of themselves, Peter and Rudy, but good boys. Not a lazy bone in their bodies. See how they help Grossmama down from the buggy. They’ll make fine men. Grossmama, come. Meet our Grace.” Anna leaned close and whispered. “Don’t let her upset you. She has a sharp tongue, but she’ll make your son gingerbread cookies and spoil him endlessly.”

  “Grace!” Hannah called from the back porch. “We need you.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Grace said to the elderly woman, then dashed off gratefully to help in the kitchen. From what she could gather from Rebecca, and remarks Miriam had made to Ruth, their grandmother had been a difficult person before old age had begun to cloud her reason. Grace hoped for a good relationship with her, but she was afraid that Grossmama’s reaction to her son’s illegitimate daughter would be less than positive. Grace didn’t know if she was ready to confront the matriarch today.

  Because so many in the community would be gathered at the Yoder farm for the cider making, she hoped she’d meet some of the eligible Amish bachelors. Aunt Jezzy had hinted as much, explaining that there were nine church districts in the area, and Rebecca or Grace might meet someone they liked. Grace wished she was dressed like her sister in a neat blue dress and white apron and Kapp, but she felt pretty in the green calico dress that Hannah had hemmed just in time for Saturday’s celebration. If she didn’t look exactly Amish, Grace thought that she looked properly Plain, and she’d taken care to get her smaller cap pinned on so tightly there’d be no chance of it coming loose during the busy day.

  She hoped that it wasn’t the wrong thing to do, actively searching for a husband, but if she didn’t make an effort, how could she expect someone to court her? Court her. A shiver of excitement made her chuckle. It sounded so old-fashioned, so wholesome. She and Joe hadn’t had much of a courtship. He’d stopped and picked her up along a lonely road where she’d been hitchhiking. It had been an unconventional relationship from the first night she’d laid eyes on Joe, and it never got much better. But that was all in the past. God willing, things would be different here in Seven Poplars, and she’d get a chance to live her life in a better way.

  “Grace!” Rebecca poked her head around the door. “Hurry! It’s Bishop Atlee. He’s in the front room and he wants to see you.”

  Grace opened the door a little wider. “Did your mother ask him?”

  Rebecca grimaced and threw her hands up to signify that she had no idea. “But he wants to talk to you. And he looks—”

  “As though he’s going to agree?” Grace suggested with more optimism than she felt. Her heart plunged. If she hadn’t been prepared to face her grandmother, she was twice as unready to meet the bishop.

  “Serious,” Rebecca finished. And then as Grace hurried through the kitchen, crowded with busy women, her sister called after her, “Good luck.”

  Chapter Seven

  Grace clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling as she stepped through the wide doorway into the Yoders’ parlor. She’d never been inside, other than to dust the table, fireplace mantel or window seat, but she knew this room was used only for company or important events. As she prepared to face Bishop Atlee, her mouth went dry, her heart raced. She wanted to be respectful, but knowing that her plans for finding meaningful work—indeed, her very future among the Amish—depended on Bishop Atlee’s decision made her determined to emphatically state her case. She would not take no for an answer.

  She stopped just inside the entrance. Standing at a window, gazing into the side yard, his back to her, was a short, stocky man in black shoes, black trousers and a long black coat with a split tail. Grace took a deep breath and waited. When seconds dragged by without him noticing her, she cleared her throat.

  The man turned to face her, a wide-brimmed, black felt hat in one hand. “Grace, it’s good to meet you.” He tilted his head and smiled sheepishly. “Forgive me. Have you been standing there long? My wife says I’m getting hard of hearing, but I think I just concentrate so hard I forget to listen. I was going over tomorrow’s sermon in my head.” His cheeks dimpled as he studied her with warm blue eyes.

  Grace swallowed, unsure what to say.

  He studied her. “Ya, ya, you do have the look of your sisters.” He stroked a flowing white beard that made hi
m look like an Amish Santa Claus.

  Not that the Amish believe in Santa, Grace thought, glad that he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  He chuckled. “Jonas’s girl, for certain.” Spreading open his hands in a gesture of welcome, he said, “Child, we are happy to have you in Seven Poplars.”

  Relief made her insides somersault. She’d expected a tall, stern cleric, not a jolly grandfatherly type. Was it possible that this man was the senior church elder? Or had she made another of her many mistakes? “Bishop Atlee?” she stammered.

  “Ya. Ya.” His vest-covered belly quivered with amusement. “What were you expecting? You’re white as new lard. Did you think I would reject you for your parents’ sin?”

  “I...I didn’t know. I thought...Old Order Amish...all the rules,” she managed, before she ran out of breath.

  “We are all human, Grace, none more so than me. Every day, we try to follow God’s word, but from time to time we stumble.” He rocked his head sideways, one direction, then the other. “Then we must ask forgiveness and do our best to live as He instructs us. That’s all any of us can do. It would be a hard heart indeed who could turn away a child for being born.”

  A wave of relief washed over her. “So, it’s all right if I take the job?” She struggled to find words. “With the animals...at the clinic?”

  He shrugged. “Fine by me. Work is always good. Like prayer, for building character. But why are you asking my permission?”

  “Hannah said... I thought I had to.”

  “Ah.” The blue eyes narrowed, his expression became serious. “I can see that you don’t understand what a bishop does in our church,” he explained gently. “I’m an ordinary man, chosen by God to serve our community. I do rule on our members’ behavior, because it’s my duty to give judgment as best I understand His plan for us. But you aren’t one of us, Grace. You would have to be a baptized member of our faith for me to instruct you. You must do as you see fit.”

  “But that’s just it,” she said. “I want to be one of you. I want to be Amish, like my parents were, to live like you do, to worship and serve God as you do.”

  He sighed and folded his arms over his broad chest. “So Hannah has told me, child. And I wish you well. We all do. We would like nothing better than to welcome Jonas’s girl to our fold, but it is hard. Harder to give up the world than you can imagine. I’ve seen others try, but never have I known a woman or a man to succeed. The pull of the outside life is too strong.”

  “But I can try? You won’t forbid it?”

  “Forbid it?” His eyes widened. “I will pray for you, Grace. We will all pray for you, but...” He shrugged. “I fear your row will be long, rocky and thick with weeds. Try your best and come and talk to me again in...a year, maybe two. Then we’ll see.”

  “But...”

  “Two years would be better.” Bishop Atlee settled his hat over a gray-streaked head of thinning hair. “Now, I must get myself to the barn or my friends will think I’m hiding in the house, trying to avoid the work of sorting apples.”

  A year? Maybe two? Grace watched as the man made his way out of the parlor and down the hall. “Two years,” she murmured, half under her breath. She didn’t have that long. How could she stand the wait? In a year, maybe less, she’d hoped to be one of them, to have a husband and a home of her own.

  She was sure that the bishop meant well, but he didn’t know how determined she could be or how many obstacles she’d already overcome. And most of all, he had no idea why she needed this life for herself so badly...why this was the only way. She would show him. She would show them all. She wouldn’t fail in this—she couldn’t.

  “Grace?” Anna’s voice penetrated Grace’s musing as she appeared in the doorway. “We need your help.”

  As Grace allowed herself to be pulled back into the noisy hubbub of the kitchen and the preparation of food, she pushed the bishop’s warning to the back of her mind. She wouldn’t allow his cautiousness to take away any of her excitement and joy over being allowed to take the job...or of the cidering.

  She had a plan today. Grace loved a plan. Between working with the other women and keeping an eye on Dakota, she would scout the territory for a new father for him and a husband for her. She hoped he’d be a farmer. It would be good for Dakota to live surrounded by animals and growing things.

  And trees...she thought wistfully. She hoped that there would be trees around her new home. Trees were solid. They sank their roots deep into the earth and endured...exactly what she wanted to do.

  * * *

  In the barn, John and his uncle had easily found a place in the cider-making process where they could be useful. Uncle Albert washed apples, while John carried baskets of them to dump onto the hand-crank conveyer belt. The apples dropped into a crusher before moving on to the press. Fresh, sweet juice poured in streams out of the press into a vat and finally into clean gallon jugs.

  Around him Amish men and boys laughed and talked, sharing jokes half in English and half in Pennsylvania Dutch, sometimes interjecting German words into an English sentence and vice versa. Not everyone taking part in today’s cidering was Amish; a few outsiders had come to share in the work and camaraderie. Uncle Albert knew most of them, either as clients, friends or both, and John watched as he exchanged good-natured ribs with them. A person didn’t spend thirty years in a small county without getting to know nearly everyone.

  They couldn’t have asked for a better day. The sun was out; the air was crisp and cool without being raw, and there wasn’t a hint of a breeze. Best of all, the Yoder barn, clean and neat as always, smelled of hay, apples and healthy animals. It was John’s idea of what heaven must smell like. He’d been working for the better part of an hour when Bishop Atlee joined them. The bishop greeted Uncle Albert with a grin and a handshake before pulling off his black church coat and hanging it on a nail.

  “Let me take over here, John,” the older man offered, when he’d been welcomed by the others. “It will do me good to do a little physical work before we sit down to the noon meal. It’s quite a spread those women are fixing, I can tell you.”

  John wanted to ask him if he’d given permission for Grace to come to work at the clinic, but this wasn’t the time or place. Over the past few days, it had somehow become important to John that Grace join the practice, and he didn’t want to spoil the day if the church elder had given the wrong answer.

  John hadn’t caught sight of Grace yet, but he had picked out small Dakota, riding in a child’s wagon pulled by an older boy. In his straw hat, denim coat and trousers, he looked exactly like every other Amish boy, although his complexion was somewhat darker than the fair German/Swiss faces surrounding him. He couldn’t help wondering about Dakota’s father, and if he was honest with himself, hoping that the man was out of Grace’s life.

  John stepped back and handed the bishop an empty bucket, nearly colliding with Rebecca Yoder, who barely managed to avoid spilling the mugs of coffee she carried. “Sorry,” John said. He looked around, hoping to see Grace, but was disappointed. There was a girl in a lavender dress with Rebecca, one of her cousins, but John couldn’t remember her name.

  Rebecca laughed and dodged around him to hand a cup of coffee to his uncle Albert. She offered the second to Bishop Atlee, but he shook his head. Roland Byler accepted it with a nod, and Rebecca smiled warmly up at him. Roland was a brother to Charley Byler, who’d married Rebecca’s older sister Miriam.

  John had been treating one of Roland’s milk cows for mastitis. He didn’t know Roland well, but what he’d seen of him, he liked. Roland was a widower with a son close in age to Grace’s Dakota. The Amish didn’t usually remain single long after the loss of a husband or wife. Roland was a good-looking man, well-spoken and a hard worker. He had a nice little farm. John wondered if there might be something brewing between him and Rebecca. She was young, but not too young t
o consider marriage to someone as well-regarded in the Amish community as Roland.

  One of the young men from Rose Valley called out to Rebecca’s companion. “Dorcas! I like coffee. Didn’t you bring me a cup?”

  Dorcas giggled and held out the mug to John. He shook his head and thanked her.

  His uncle Albert used a long-handled wooden paddle to stir the floating apples in the wash tank, and then glanced back over his shoulder at John. “Can you check if we’ve had a call from the office? I want to make certain that Bernese puppy is still stable.”

  John nodded. His uncle had performed emergency surgery the night before on the sixteen-week-old puppy that had swallowed a bottle cap. Normally, John would carry his cell phone with him, but he’d just replaced one that he’d accidently dropped into a horse’s watering trough. Considering the process involved in making cider, he’d decided to leave his new one in his glove compartment for safety’s sake. He crossed the farmyard to his pickup and had just opened the passenger’s door when he heard a child shriek.

  By the time John pushed through the circle of children crowded around the swing under the big oak tree, Dakota was sitting up on the ground and screaming at the top of his lungs. Susanna knelt beside him, crying, blood on her hands. “What happened?” John squatted down by the injured child. Whatever had happened couldn’t be too serious, he decided. No one who could scream that loud could be critical.

  Susanna sobbed and mumbled something, but John couldn’t understand.

  “What happened?” John repeated. He’d located the site of the injury, a cut on a swelling lump on the back of Dakota’s head.

  Most of the kids stared wide-eyed as John gathered the hysterical child into his arms, but Johanna’s son Jonah spoke up. “Swing,” he said. “Caleb fell off,” he said carefully in English. “The swing hit Kota.”

  Susanna rubbed her hands on the grass, threw her apron over her head and cried louder.