Weddings at Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “We’ll go with you,” Phoebe put in as she started upstairs with Laura. “Gloria could use a friend after losing her aunt and cousin. It’ll just take a second to get our coats.”

  When Rosetta noticed the wonderment on Allen’s face, she smiled at him. “You could go along to visit with Gloria, as well,” she teased. “The more the merrier.”

  “You know my answer to that—but you’ve also reaffirmed the rightness of my coming to live here,” Allen said. “I’m happy to be surrounded by folks who care about what happens to me, and who believe in me. That wasn’t happening when I was living single in Indiana.”

  Rosetta squeezed his shoulder, and she and Christine tied on their black bonnets. When they stepped outside with Phoebe and Laura behind them, the day reminded her more of May than March: the sky was blue and bright with promise, and her five goats were peering at them through the barnyard fence, with chickens walking around them. In the distance she heard the bleating of Harvey Kurtz’s sheep, followed by Queenie’s authoritative bark. Everything seemed so peaceful. So pleasant.

  “It’s going to be hard to pass along Lester’s sad news,” she remarked to her sister and her nieces, “but when Allen talked about Promise Lodge being a place where he felt welcome and appreciated, I felt a big surge of happiness and faith. He was always a bit of a loner—”

  “Jah, Allen rebelled at every little thing when he lived in Coldstream,” Phoebe put in.

  “Maybe because his dat was a strict preacher,” Laura speculated. “Preacher Amos has changed, though. He’s mellowed.”

  Christine was nodding. “We’ve all changed, don’t you think? Buying this property was a huge risk for three Amish women, but—with Amos’s help—we’ve made it work,” she said proudly. “Every one of us has stepped up to meet new challenges, and we’re stronger for it.”

  “Folks are taking us seriously,” Rosetta added. “If Allen feels welcome here—and if Lester’s returning alone—then we’ve done what God asks of us. We’ve loved our neighbors as ourselves. We’ve let our light shine so folks can see our gut works, and they’ll glorify the Lord because of it.”

  She gazed at Christine and her daughters, sighing contentedly. “We are so blessed, girls,” she murmured.

  * * *

  Monroe opened the door and immediately knew something was wrong. Although it was a joy to see Christine, her daughters, and her sisters on the front porch, looking at him with expectation in their bright eyes, their expressions warned him of a challenge.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he asked as he set aside his tool belt and stepped outside with them. He noticed that Phoebe was holding a coffee cake, but he sensed it wasn’t for him.

  Mattie spoke first. “We just received word from Lester that his wife and son were killed in a bad accident last week—”

  “Sounded like they didn’t stand a chance when a big truck hit their buggy,” Rosetta added sadly.

  Monroe’s heart thudded in his chest. He knew all about the fog of pain and mental anguish a man suffered following the loss of his wife. “That’s terrible,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s raise Lester and his family up in prayer for a moment. He has a couple of daughters, jah?”

  “They got hitched a day before the accident,” Christine replied. “He said they were insisting that he should stay in Sugarcreek so they could look after him—”

  “But when I told him about your house and barns going up, along with the Helmuths’ buildings,” Rosetta continued, “Lester knew he wanted to be here with us, looking forward instead of back. He didn’t have the heart to break the news about his wife and son to Frances by leaving a message on the answering machine.”

  Monroe nodded, and then bowed his head. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Lord of all being, we believe that in life and in death we belong to You, and we ask Your presence with Lester and his girls. Bless him with Your comfort and keep him safe as he returns to us. Make us aware of his needs and feelings and help us to provide him a new life and new vision as we welcome him. We ask it in Your name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the ladies murmured. As they opened their eyes, they looked to him for guidance. Monroe felt grateful that they’d included him in this solemn errand when they could have comforted Frances, Floyd, and Gloria without him.

  “I’ll grab my coat and hat and we’ll be on our way,” he said.

  A few minutes later, Monroe and the ladies walked down the hill to the off-white house on the next plot of ground. He considered what he’d say and was glad that these women were with him to comfort Frances in ways he couldn’t. They all stepped up onto the front porch.

  As Monroe knocked, he glanced through the glass in the door. Soon Gloria came out of the kitchen, followed by her mother.

  “Bishop Monroe, we were just thinking we should come and get you,” Gloria said as she let them in. “We . . . we can’t get any response from Dat.”

  “Oh, you’re an answer to our prayers,” Frances said with a hitch in her voice. “I—I couldn’t convince Floyd to get out of bed this morning and now . . . I just don’t know what to do. Please come in, all of you.”

  Monroe had a sinking feeling about what he’d find when he went upstairs to check on the previous bishop. He was relieved when Mattie slung her arm around Frances’s shoulders, and he suspected the ladies might delay telling Frances about Lester’s situation so they could deal with her concerns first.

  “I suspect the Gut Lord was steering us up here because He knew we could be helpful,” Mattie assured her friend.

  “And we brought a coffee cake,” Phoebe said, handing it to Gloria.

  Gloria took hold of the gift by clasping Phoebe’s hands around the glass pan. She looked very fragile as she focused on catching her breath so she wouldn’t cry. “Let’s all go in the kitchen while the bishop heads upstairs,” she suggested.

  Frances clasped her hands in front of her. “I haven’t made any coffee or—not a very gut hostess, I’m afraid,” she fretted.

  “Leave it to us,” Christine said as she and the others removed their bonnets. “We’ll brew a nice big pot of tea, and you can sit at the table while we wait on you.”

  A tremulous smile flickered over Frances’s features. “What would we do without our friends?” she asked softly. She looked up at Monroe. “Bishop, why don’t you and I go upstairs now. Maybe you can help us decide if Floyd needs to go to the hospital—”

  “But you know what Dat would say about that,” Gloria insisted ruefully.

  Monroe draped his coat over the sofa and placed his hat on top of it. He did know what Floyd would say, because he’d heard the stories about how the bishop had tried to catch Amos as he fell from the roof of the shed—and about how Floyd had declared that God was his doctor, so he needed no earthly physician. As Monroe gestured for Frances to precede him up the stairs, he prayed for wisdom and understanding.

  When he entered the shadowy bedroom, Monroe sensed that Floyd’s soul had already left his emaciated body. The curtains were drawn. The stillness was absolute. A sense of peace surrounded the bed. Floyd lay utterly still beneath the quilts with his head lolled to one side and his mouth hanging open. Monroe’s instincts were confirmed when he felt how cool Floyd’s cheek was. He detected no pulse when he pressed his hand to the vein in Floyd’s neck.

  With a little gasp, Frances placed her arms on her husband’s shoulders. “Floyd!” she whispered, and then she began to weep. “Floyd, have you really left me? Oh, dear Lord, what am I to do now?”

  When Monroe opened his arms, Frances flung herself against him, quaking with sobs. He held her, keeping his silence, knowing that her mind and soul would fill soon enough with desperation and grief that mere words could not relieve. “He’s at peace now, Frances,” he murmured. “I didn’t know Floyd when he was healthy, but I can tell you he’s been relieved of the pain and the weakness that plagued him these past months. He’s gone to his reward, and to be with his Lord.”

&n
bsp; Frances nodded, easing out of his embrace. “Denki for being here with me, Bishop Monroe,” she whispered. “At least now I can stop checking him every few minutes, wondering if he’s breathing, or hurting, or beyond hearing what I’ve tried to tell him. And now Gloria can relax, too,” she added sadly. “Poor girl hasn’t faced death before, and it’s bothered her to see her dat in such a state, out of his head and saying such crazy, cantankerous things to her.”

  “Do you want me to bring her up here?”

  Frances shook her head, gazing at Floyd’s slack features. “I’d like some time alone with him. But you might let Mary Kate and Roman know what’s happened. He’s finished the milking by now.”

  “I’ll do that.” Monroe pulled a nearby chair closer to the bed for her. “Take all the time you need, Frances. We’re all here for you.”

  As he descended the stairs, Monroe ached for the Lehman family. He wasn’t one to question God or His will, yet he had to wonder why Floyd and Lester’s wife and son had been called away mere days apart. It seemed a harsh blow for folks who had left family and friends in Ohio to come here for a fresh start—mostly so Mary Kate could raise her baby without censure. It was no time to burden these folks with his questions, however.

  Monroe entered the kitchen. He placed his hands on Gloria’s shoulders as she sat with the other ladies at the table, sipping tea.

  “I’m sorry, Gloria,” he murmured. “Your dat has gone home to be with Jesus.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth, and her brown eyes filled with tears. When Phoebe and Laura scooted closer to her, she slumped and accepted their condolences, their embraces. Mattie, Christine, and Rosetta gazed at him sadly.

  “How’s Frances?” Christine asked.

  “She’s spending some time with him. I think she’ll be okay.” The apple coffee cake they’d cut enticed him, but he had more important matters to attend. “I’ll go talk with Mary Kate and Roman, and then I’ll confer with Amos, Marlin, and Eli. We’ll figure out where our cemetery should be and contact a funeral home that understands about Plain burials.”

  “You have a lot on your mind, Bishop Monroe,” Mattie said. “If you’d like, I can break this news to Mary Kate. I think Roman’s probably working at the Helmuth place.”

  Monroe nodded gratefully. “We’re blessed with young men who work hard with one another,” he remarked. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d do that, Mattie.”

  “We’ll stay here with Frances and Gloria for a while,” Rosetta said softly. “Then we’ll make plans for the funeral meal—”

  “And Gloria, we’ll go into town and buy the white fabric for your dat’s burial clothing, so your mamm won’t have to worry about that,” Christine put in. “We’re so sorry you’ve lost your father. Never forget that you’re not in this alone. We’re here for you, and God never leaves us.”

  Gloria nodded miserably.

  Monroe took his leave, relieved that the women would be spreading their consolation while he attended to other details. The sound of hammers, a generator, air-driven drills, and nail guns came from farther up the hill as he strode toward the two-story house where he would soon be living . . . with Christine. That thought—and Queenie bringing him a big stick—cheered him as he waved at the men who were shingling his roof.

  Monroe lobbed the stick down the hill, delighting in the Border collie’s excitement as she fetched it. “When you reach a gut place to stop, come on down,” he called up to the men. “We have some urgent business to discuss.”

  Preacher Marlin immediately set aside his nail gun. Within minutes, he and Preacher Amos, Harley, and Preacher Eli were clambering down the scaffolding and the ladders. They approached him with cautious faces.

  “First of all, denki for starting work without me,” Monroe said. “I got waylaid by the ladies, telling me that Lester’s wife and son have died in a buggy accident—and when we got to the Lehman place to share this news with Frances, we discovered that Floyd has also passed away.”

  The men sighed sadly, shaking their heads. “Lester’s got a hard row to hoe,” Marlin murmured.

  “Guess Floyd had to pass sometime, but it seems too soon to be losing one of our new friends,” Amos said, shaking his head. “And I can’t forget that if Floyd hadn’t been trying to break my fall, he would’ve remained perfectly healthy. Building his coffin is the least I can do.”

  “We’ve got a plot that’s fairly level on the back side of the orchard,” Marlin suggested, pointing in that direction. “It’s smaller than most families would want to settle on, far as putting stock out to pasture, so maybe that’s a gut place for a cemetery.”

  “I’ve heard Truman mention the funeral home in Cloverdale—the one his Mennonite church uses,” Harley put in. At Queenie’s nudging, he took the dog’s stick and tossed it down the hill. “I’m guessing they’ll know about Plain customs and won’t insist on embalming Floyd. Want me to check it out?”

  Monroe nodded. “Let’s see if they can have his body ready for visitation on Sunday night and the funeral on Monday, to give Lester and other folks from Ohio a chance to get here.” He sighed, feeling the weight of all the sadness that had descended upon them today. “This news might prompt Lester to find a driver who can haul his household belongings a little sooner than he’d anticipated. His girls were insisting he should stay in Sugarcreek with them, but he told Rosetta he’d still be coming to live here.”

  Preacher Amos nodded. “I’ll give Lester a call right now about Floyd’s passing and service, and then I’ll go visit with Frances and her girls. The Lehman family’s in for some tough times, dealing with so much loss.”

  Amos returned to the roof to gather his tools, and Harley headed for the phone shanty he shared with his dat.

  “Shall we stake out the boundaries of our cemetery?” Monroe asked Marlin and Eli. “I still have the sticks and string we used to mark my foundation stashed in Lester’s barn.”

  As they started down the hill to fetch these items, Queenie ran circles around them. Preacher Eli said, “Once we get the cemetery marked, I’ll measure the perimeter. Noah and I can make a nice wrought iron fence so folks will know it’s hallowed ground rather than just a patch of pasture. If we get right on it, we might even have it finished in time for Floyd’s burial.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Monroe said. As he considered all that had to be accomplished before the funeral next week, he was grateful for the way the folks at Promise Lodge looked after each other—and him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tuesday morning, Christine stood shivering as the three preachers and Bishop Monroe spoke final words at Floyd’s graveside. Seven inches of snow had walloped the area on Sunday, delaying Lester and the other folks coming from Sugarcreek, so they’d postponed the funeral by a day. A large rented motor coach carrying fifty folks had arrived Monday afternoon, followed by the moving van that carried Lester and his belongings, so nearly eighty people had filled the meeting room for Floyd’s funeral service. Except for Leola, who’d stayed in her room with a bad cold—and Maria, who’d gone to her bakery—everyone at Promise Lodge stood reverently as the six pallbearers lowered the plain wooden casket into the open grave with ropes.

  “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” Monroe intoned, “we commend the spirit of our brother Floyd into Your keeping, Lord. We ask Your comfort and peace for his family in this difficult time.”

  After a few moments of sad silence, Noah, Roman, and the four pallbearers from Sugarcreek shoveled dirt into the grave. Folks in the crowd began to pay their respects to the Lehman family. Lester and Frances appeared haggard, their pale faces a stark contrast to her black bonnet and his broad-brimmed black hat. Mary Kate and Gloria clung to each other, struggling with the finality of their father’s passing. Several folks from Sugarcreek lingered around them, so when Christine saw Ruby and Beulah start toward the lodge, she and her sisters followed. The tables were set and the pans of food were staying warm in the ovens, but serving dinner for eighty people
would take some additional last-minute effort.

  Christine walked quickly between Mattie and Rosetta along the wide path Truman had so kindly plowed for them after the snow had stopped. He had also cleared the area around Floyd’s grave site, and he had offered to dig the grave with his backhoe. But in keeping with Amish tradition—and grateful that a March thaw had softened the ground—Lester and Roman had dug it by hand.

  “Preacher Eli and Noah made us a very nice wrought iron fence—and managed to install it before the snow came, too,” Christine remarked as they approached the gate. “The top border of oak leaves and acorns took a lot of work.”

  “They worked in the forge all day Friday and Saturday. Noah had already made the ornamental pieces for one of Truman’s landscaping clients, but they scaled back on the project, so he kept them,” Mattie explained. “At first he was concerned that the design was too fancy for a Plain cemetery fence, but Bishop Monroe insisted that because oak trees are God’s creation—and we have a lot of them here—the ornamental work was appropriate.”

  “And oaks are a symbol of strength,” Rosetta remarked. “Everyone who’s lost a loved one needs that.”

  As they were passing in front of Amos’s house, a loud racket pierced the silence. Christine scowled. “What on earth—?”

  “Sounds like a chain saw—or two of them,” Mattie put in beneath the noise. Queenie had been waiting outside the wrought iron fence during the graveside service, but she ran toward the strange noise, barking frantically.

  “Look—on the road,” Rosetta said, pointing. “There’s a big truck pulling a building on a trailer. And Maria’s car is behind it.”

  “Must be her bakery,” Christine mused aloud, shielding her eyes with her hand. “But what are they cutting—”

  A loud whump filled the air. A large area of sky suddenly became visible above the entry to Promise Lodge. On one side of the road a huge old lilac bush was missing, and on the other side a maple tree had been felled—and it was one of the trees that had shaded Mattie’s produce stand.