THE
REDEMPTION
OFSARAH
CAIN
BEVERLY
LEWIS
THE
REDEMPTION
OFSARAH
CAIN
The Redemption of Sarah Cain
Copyright © 2000
Beverly Lewis
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc.
Cover and photo insert photography courtesy of Matthew Morgan.
Inset photo of Beverly Lewis with Lisa Pepper courtesy of David Lewis.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-0403-6
* * *
The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:
Lewis, Beverly
The redemption of Sarah Cain / by Beverly Lewis.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-7642-2388-7 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-7642-2329-1 (pbk.)
1. Lancaster County (Pa.)—Fiction. 2. Guardian and ward—Fiction.
3. Orphans—Fiction. 4. Aunts—Fiction. 5. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.E9383 R44 2000
813′.54—dc21
00–009407
* * *
In fondest memory of
my teacher and friend,
Dr. Mary Bainbridge Vyner.
Concert pianist, composer, teacher,
and the director of the
Lancaster Conservatory of Music since 1958,
Dr. Vyner instilled in generations of young pianists
a passion for great music.
By Beverly Lewis
SEASONS OF GRACE
The Secret • The Missing • The Telling
ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS
The Covenant • The Betrayal • The Sacrifice The Prodigal • The Revelation
ANNIE’S PEOPLE
The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren
THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER
The Parting • The Forbidden • The Longing
THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY
The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning
The Postcard • The Crossroad
The Redemption of Sarah Cain
October Song • Sanctuary* • The Sunroom
The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook
www.beverlylewis.com
*with David Lewis
About the Author
BEVERLY LEWIS, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, fondly recalls her growing-up years. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain family heritage has inspired Beverly to set many of her popular stories in Amish country, beginning with her inaugural novel, The Shunning .
A former schoolteacher and accomplished pianist, Beverly has written over eighty books for adults and children. Five of her blockbuster novels have received the Gold Book Award for sales over 500,000 copies, and The Brethren won a 2007 Christy Award.
Beverly and her husband, David, make their home in Colorado, where they enjoy hiking, biking, reading, writing, making music, and spending time with their three grandchildren.
Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
Forgive our foolish ways!
Reclothe us in our rightful mind,
In purer lives Thy service find,
In deeper reverence, praise.
O Sabbath rest by Galilee,
O calm of hills above,
Where Jesus knelt to share with Thee
The silence of eternity,
Interpreted by love!
Drop Thy still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease;
Take from our souls the strain and stress,
And let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of Thy peace.
—John Greenleaf Whittier from
The Brewing of Soma (1872)
Table of Contents
Prologue: Lydia
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Prologue: Lydia
Mamma slipped away to Glory one week ago today. The People laid her to rest on Glendorn Hill in a simple poplar coffin next to Dat ’s grave, under a stand of sycamores. The January sky sagged, gray and low, like an eternal sigh. Had there been a speck of azure in the heavens, I might’ve thought the Good Lord meant it as a sign of hope.
I stood tall and silent with my four younger siblings: Caleb, Anna Mae, Josiah, and Hannah, ranging in age from fourteen to six. We watched as the men from our church district shoveled the hard, cold dirt into the gaping hole. My throat ached, yet I did not so much as shed a single tear as little Hannah sniffled next to me at the graveside service.
Following the burial, I remained mute at the shared meal held at Noah and Susie Lapp’s place—some of our closest friends amongst the People. Susie’s plump face looked ever so concerned as she caught my gaze across her crowded kitchen. Still, I kept my emotions in check.
’Twasn’t till much later, when the house was dark and hushed, that I embraced my grief freely. Alone, and in the privacy of my room, I trembled with the sorrow of our loss. Mine, and my younger brothers’ and sisters’.
Mamma had drilled one thing into me before her passing: ‘‘Be strong and courageous. Keep the family together, Lyddie. Will you promise me this?’’ These were to be the last words on Mamma’s lips. And, indeed, I gave my word. I was bound and determined to do this thing. For dearest Mamma.
The next morning, the children and I gathered in the front room for Bible reading and prayers. ‘‘Remember, we’re strong . . . together ,’’ I told them.
Caleb, tall and blond, had accepted the substitute headship of the house when Dat passed away three years ago. Confidently, he carried Mam’s old Biwel to the nearest rocker, his frame almost too lean for the wide girth of the hickory rocking chair. Still, he sat erect and determined as could be.
Turning the pages, he located the familiar passage. He began to read in a clear, strong voice, just as Dat always had, from the Twenty-third Psalm: ‘‘ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’ ’’
Redheaded and chubby, Anna Mae, eleven, held hands with petite six-year-old Hannah as they sat on the large rag rug, e
yes fixed on Caleb. Josiah, a stocky eight-year-old, slid next to me on the sofa, a bit closer than usual, his flaxen hair schtruppisch — tousled—as always.
‘‘ ‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters,’ ’’ Caleb continued.
My mind wandered back to many-a springtime day, when Mamma packed us picnic lunches—after morning chores were through—letting us romp in the thick meadow grass out behind the barn. Robins and whippoorwills flew low overhead, chirping private messages back and forth, while cool blades of grass refreshed my callused bare feet. Once, when no one was lookin’, I pressed my face into the lime-colored fronds, holding my breath ever so long, lest the wonderful-gut moment slip away all too soon.
‘‘ ‘I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’ ’’ Caleb’s youthful voice intruded on my carefree thoughts, reminding me that the Lord was with us, indeed. Almighty God had promised never to leave us nor forsake us. I’d learned from Mamma, through the years, to cling to that promise with all my might.
Truth be told, I did harbor fear inside me. Had nothin’ whatever to do with fearing evil , like the words of the psalm. Yet I was worried. With Mamma gone to heaven, I wondered whatever was to become of us. I was fretful, too, ’bout my chances of marryin’ the sweetest, kindest—and most handsome—Plain boy in all of Lancaster County. Jah , my hopes and dreams were wholly bound up in Levi King. Best of all, he loved me, too. Said so a year ago, when first I started goin’ to Sunday night Singings.
At almost seventeen, I’m no longer a child; ’specially not in a community where young people start pairin’ off come sixteen. Many-a girl is hopin’ to marry at my age and to be bearin’ her first little one nine months after. Might be happening to me soon if Dat hadn’t had the farming accident that took his life. And now Mamma’s gone, too.
‘‘ ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’ ’’ Caleb finished reading the Scripture, yet as we all knelt for prayer, I wondered what goodness could ever come of us bein’ orphans.
God’s sovereign will was not to be questioned, I knew. Still, I felt for sure and for certain He must be lookin’ down from on high, seein’ our fresh and bleeding heart wounds. Surely the God of heaven and earth was weeping right along with us.
Nearly every day now, I go and stand quietlike between two cemetery plots high on the hillside of Grasshopper Level. ’Tis freshly blanketed with snow, and acres of rich farmland spill down toward the valley, a panorama of beauty far as the eye can see. Truly, a promising sight. And if I’m very still, a sheen of sunlight seems to whisper through stark trees overhead. I gaze over the wintry ridge, and I glimpse what must be Glory lights, playing off dormant fields below.
In my mind’s eye, I recollect last summer’s long, humid days when first I suspected there was somethin’ wrong with Mamma’s heart. Dozens of birds flapped their wings, preening in the birdbath behind the house, while moss spread over the springhouse, turnin’ it a musty green. Anna Mae, little Hannah, and I did our best to help Mamma with the inside chores. One way we helped was by hanging out the Monday mornin’ wash all by ourselves.
Ancient frogs brooded in the well, yet creeks shriveled up nearly dry, and flaxen cornstalks stood high, burstin’ with the sweetest ears of corn the Lord God ever made. The white tips of the neighbors’ wheat rippled in the breeze, reminding me of the bay waters off the shore of Watch Hill, Rhode Island, just a few blocks from Grandpa Cain’s weather-beaten Cape Cod cottage. A place we loved to call home when Mamma, Dat, and I visited in the summer, years before we ever became Amish.
Leaning on Mamma’s simple grave marker now, I let my eyes roam a bit farther, down past the Amish schoolhouse on Esbenshade Road, then east and beyond to Rohrer’s Mill Road where a working mill, powered by an old-fashioned waterwheel, grinds grain for Amish friends and neighbors. Facing back toward the northwest, I looked hard in the direction of Strasburg Borough— population: 2,950. Quaint and warmhearted Strasburg, where it all began. Our Plain life, that is.
I can never stop thinkin’ about the first day we came here from bustling Bridgeport, Connecticut, with only two suitcases in hand. ‘‘In shedding nonessentials, one sheds vanity,’’ Dat had said, though at the age of five, I scarcely understood any of it. Still, those words became my father’s motto, and I sensed our lives were about to change.
Seeking a closer walk with God, my parents went in search of a covenant community—a people set apart. ’Course, not a single one of our city friends thought we’d ever last as Plain folk, ’specially since none of us back then had been born into the Amish culture. But, honestly, it took hardly any time at all learnin’ the customs of our Anabaptist neighbors and church family.
Promptly, my parents joined church as soon as they could be baptized. The People welcomed us with friendly smiles and open arms. Noah and Susie Lapp took to us right off, as did their grown children and grandchildren—an enormous clan of about two hundred souls—almost enough to form a church district all their own. They, along with the preachers’ and bishop’s families, must’ve sensed our earnest spirit, that we could be trusted in the fellowship of the believers.
Often Dat would say, all smiles, as we sat ’round our supper table, ‘‘I’m glad we came to Lancaster County when we did.’’
Mamma’s reply brought out her deep dimples. ‘‘We sacrificed near everything.’’
Here, Dat might glance ’round at the kitchen and the bounty of food. His words still rang in my ears. ‘‘We’ve never been happier in all our born days, jah?’’
Mamma’s sweet answer brought reassurance to my soul. ‘‘God brought us here. I know it sure as I’m Ivy Cottrell.’’
Never happier?
I let the question tumble over in my mind. If only Dat and Mamma hadn’t died so awful young. ’Cause now five of us are left to look after our small farm, unless Aunt Sarah comes and takes us away, that is. Hopefully, we’ll get to stay put, biding our time till Gabriel’s trumpet blows. Staying put—that’s what I’m hopin’ for, yet who’s to say if my wish counts for much.
‘‘Nary a promise for the morrow,’’ Dat used to say, his blue eyes shining with conviction. ‘‘Live ev’ry day as if it’s your last. . . .’’
So I must learn to trust God for our needs, each and every day. ’Course, our Plain friends are just as kind as can be. There’s even been some talk of the brethren and their families dividing us up and takin’ us in as foster children. That’s what happened to the seven Glick brothers over in Northumberland County, here recently. ’Cept they were sent off to English—non-Amish— homes for a while, and how terrifying for them. Mamma never would’ve wanted us separated, not even amongst her closest Amish friends. She had her heart set on a much different plan.
Hannah, Josiah, Anna Mae, Caleb, and I are mindin’ our business now, waitin’ for our mamma’s sister—a fancy Englischer , of all things—to come fetch us and cart us off a continent away. Away from the close-knit community of the People. Our people. Ach, the Plain life’s all we know or dare to remember.
What life will be like with Aunt Sarah, I care not to guess. She lives out in Oregon—at the opposite end from where we are now, in more ways than one. She was a schoolteacher for a few years in Stonington, Connecticut, but something soured her on teaching—don’t know exactly what, really. Anyways, next thing we heard, Sarah Cain had headed out west right quick and become a real estate agent. Only the Good Lord knows why she gave up passing on knowledge to bright young minds in favor of making money hand over fist, hiding her teaching talent under a bushel.
All in all, it was Aunt Sarah who gave us the sharpest tongue over our goin’ Plain. Poor, dear Mamma suffered so, saying her sad good-byes and a-frettin’, trying to explain such a decision to her friends and to her only sister, too.
Guess I shouldn’t be worried ’bout things, ’cept Sarah’s voice sounded ever so hollow a
t the news of Mamma’s heavenly homegoing. If I hadn’t known better, I’d think she was sore vexed at Mamma for up and joinin’ Dat over in Gloryland. ’Course, now thinking on it, being named guardian for a houseful of children might come as a big surprise to any single woman. Fancy or not.
I doubt Mamma ever told her sister ’bout the last will and testament she and her lawyer drew up several months ago. Guess she was smarter than to tell Aunt Sarah such a thing. Why did Mamma have to go and appoint her younger sister to be our second mother, anyways?
Ach , Sarah Cain or no, I fear we’ve got some awful big changes ahead. Sure as daybreak, we do.
Chapter One
Sarah perched on the edge of her king-sized canopy bed, thinking ahead to her day as she did each morning, before she ever skimmed her pedicured feet into lush slippers and plodded across the bedroom suite of her urban town home.
Still drowsy, she turned up the volume on her clock radio, preset to Portland’s premier classical station. She reveled in the music of Schumann’s Piano Concerto in A Minor, never tiring of the piece—especially the Intermezzo with its colorful, refined harmonic language. She allowed the fantasia-like work to sweep over her. As she did, she focused on a brass picture frame on the round bedside table. A doll-faced child with wide blue eyes and an eternal smile gazed back at her.
Sighing, she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, staring hard at the youngster’s angelic face. No matter the pain the picture evoked, she must keep the memory of this child alive. Because, at twenty-eight, Sarah fairly flew from one appointment to the next—morning, noon, and night—never sitting still after this one brief retrospective moment each day.
Bright and unseasonably warm, the day was marred only by occasional clouds dotting the western horizon. The local meteorologist declared the noon hour ‘‘shirt-sleeve weather.’’ Unusual for Oregon in winter.
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