Prologue

AUTUMN 2012

Fill up the empty places in your heart. . . .

These were the words I’d written in the first of several journals back when I came up with the idea of doing charitable work. Looking at it now, my initial plan had been rather impulsive, like a New Year’s resolution. But the more I sought out new places to offer assistance, the more I craved doing so. Jah indeed, the more I helped others, the less helpless I felt myself.

So here I was, three years later, still continuing my weekly volunteering: reading to hospice patients, serving food to the homeless, and organizing donations with other Amish workers to raise money for the Mennonite Central Committee. I also managed to squeeze in my house-keeper-nanny job for Martie, my married sister, and still keep up with daily chores at home. It could be a hectic pace, but I was determined to fill every inch of my emp-tiness with activity, the kind that made a difference for others.

But it wasn’t easy. Sometimes, my sisters nitpicked about my time away. Like Lettie and her fraternal twin, Faye, did just this morning in the autumn sunshine as we worked together to toss hay to the mules. As if to dare me, Lettie looked me in the eye. “Don’t forget about Aen-di Edna’s canning bee tomorrow, Lucy. You promised to go.”

I groaned audibly. The work frolic? 

Lettie looked crestfallen as she took a swipe at the hay. “So you forgot again.”

Faye gave a weak smile. “Between your chores and everything else, you don’t have much time left for us.”

“We’re together now,” I pointed out.

Faye looked sad. “Remember when we used to get up before dawn and go walkin’ to the meadow overlook to watch the sun come up? Now ya rush off right after breakfast for parts unknown.”

Despite the cloud of tension, we kept working silently. After a while, I tried to clear the air with a joke I’d read in The Budget.

Faye forced a little laugh, and Lettie looked pained.

“You don’t even have time for a beau, do ya?” Lettie said out of the blue.

Faye stopped working, as if waiting for me to respond.

Lettie pressed further. “Not even Tobe Glick?”

Tobe again . . .

It was time to go inside and help Mamm. “We’ll finish this later,” I said.

On our way toward the house, with Faye and Lettie trudging quietly behind me, I could feel the westerly breeze picking up, carrying the scent of newly harvested corn. Yet despite the whispering wind, I could still hear my sisters’ pleas.

 

Early the next morning, I hurried up Witmer Road to Ray and my sister Martie’s place, just past a large Amish farm with a sign warning Private Drive, No Through Street posted near the end of its long lane. Multiple power lines scraped the pure blue sky above the familiar dairy, though of course none ran toward the house.

Ray and Martie lived on a lush rise of land not far from Dat’s farm, their fields spreading out below the barn and house like an immense quilt. Younger than me by two years, Martie had tied the knot at just nineteen and al-ready had two little boys: Jesse and Josh. Several times a week, I gave Martie a hand by redding up or cooking or caring for her towheaded sons, doing whatever was needed.

On this particular day, as I came upon the tree-rimmed meadow on the left, I noticed an older Englischer gen-tleman on the footbridge, where Mill Creek’s banks met the golden cowslips. The well-dressed graying man looked somewhat schwach—feeble—as he leaned on a three-pronged cane while the creek gurgled past.

Slowing my pace, I stared . . . then let out a sigh. I’d seen this man on the footbridge on other occasions, al-ways around this time of year. Perhaps even on the same day, September twelfth, though I wasn’t certain.

Today, however, the man was alone, without his wife or lady friend who’d always accompanied him before.

The first time I’d spotted them, maybe ten years ago, they were holding hands and facing each other on the little bridge. I was struck by their affectionate ges-tures—the way the man sometimes slipped a strand of the woman’s light brown hair behind her ear, or touched her cheek, even leaned his head against hers. Such a tender way they’d had with each other, and in public, no less.

Over the years, I’d wondered about the older couple. Perhaps the man had been widowed and found love a second time—most couples married for decades showed nary a speck of affection.

When I’d seen them last year, the woman had been weeping, yet bravely trying to smile. The man had taken a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and patted her tears.

Englischers, I remember thinking. Their emotions on display . . .

Even so, it had been hard not to stare, caught up in the wistful what-ifs of my own life.

The picturesque footbridge was an exceptionally tran-quil spot. Maybe that brought out feelings of nostalgia for the couple. Or was it something more?

Momentarily, I thought of going to meet the man simply to offer him a smile—willing to make a fool of myself—but he was clearly deep in thought and, if I wasn’t mistaken, muttering to himself. Then I noticed his white SUV parked nearby and decided to keep on walk-ing.

Although it was none of my business, I had asked around about the mysterious couple, but no one seemed to know anything, which wasn’t surprising.

Still, I couldn’t help wondering, Where is the woman? Why did he come without her?

———

Up the road, I could see Tobe Glick coming this way in his two-wheeled cart, his hand shooting high in the air when he spotted me. “Guder Mariye, Lucy Flaud. Wie bischt?”

I smiled back and wondered if my friend had ever no-ticed the older couple on his trips past this area. When Tobe slowed his cart, I asked him.

He squinted into the sunshine, straw hat pushed down over his blond bangs. “Nee, can’t say I have.”

“It seems strange.” I added that I’d seen the man and a woman a number of times. “But only around this time of year.”

“Might be some sort of anniversary,” Tobe suggested. “Would ya like me to go an’ ask? You’re dyin’ to know.”

“Ach, Tobe.”

“Well, ain’t ya?”

Puh! He knew me well.

“Never mind,” I said right quick. “See you at Preachin’.”

“I’ll be countin’ the hours, Lucy.” He winked mischie-vously. “By the way, we all miss seein’ you at Singings. It’s been the longest time.”

I laughed a little, and he grinned. Our private joke—Tobe had been hounding me about returning for several years. “You know I’ve outgrown youth gather-ings.” Truly, nearly all the fellows my age in our church district were already married and starting their families. And I was reminded of my single status each and every Sunday, when I was required to walk in with the younger teens and others who weren’t married.

“Well, I’m not exactly a Yingling, but I still enjoy attend-ing.” Tobe paused a moment. “Even though it’d be more fun if you started goin’ again.”

One year younger than me, Tobe was twenty-four and still unmarried, oddly enough. Despite his attendance at Singings, he didn’t seem all that earnest about his search for a life mate. Most Amish girls in East Lampeter Town-ship thought he was too picky, but that didn’t stop them from competing for his attention. He was handsome and very hardworking, yet there was more to his appeal. To-be was a kind young man with a reputation for integri-ty—had a good sense of humor, too.

“Gut seein’ you, Tobe.” Tears were welling up. I had to get going.

“You too, Lucy.” He clicked his cheek and the mare obeyed, pulling the carriage forward.

I kept my face forward. What’s the matter with me?

Forcing my thoughts again to the older man on the footbridge, as well as to the missing woman, I knew I would never celebrate any sort of romantic anniver-sary—not in my best of dreams.

CHAPTER 1

Christian Flaud stepped out of the dark blue passenger van and paid his driver. Considering how glum he felt, he would have preferred to walk the three-mile stretch to the white clapboard meetinghouse. But his wife had urged him to call for a driver, following the strenuous day filling silo. After all, he was sixty-four now and not the young man he’d once been. In fact, Christian had almost nixed the idea of going, but for some time now, his friend Har-vey Schmidt had been talking about the newly offered grief support group, unique to this community church. The small-group approach was an effective way to han-dle one’s sorrow—or so Harvey said, having attended the launch of the Thursday-night program some months back. Christian, however, wasn’t exactly mourning a typical loss, and Harvey wouldn’t be there to sit with.

Sighing, Christian made his way across the parking lot toward the modest church building, taking note of the large pots of orange and gold mums on either side of the main door and regretting anew his past mistakes. Peering up at the quaint white bell tower, he recalled the last time he had been here. It was summertime, and he had been seventeen and in the middle of the worst running-around season—“es Schlimmscht Rumschpringe,” his father had called it. His younger sister Emma had even scorned his given name. “Christian, indeed!”

At the time, he had stepped outside the Old Order church of his upbringing. But even so, it was with some degree of reluctance that he’d agreed to meet his then girlfriend, Minerva Miller, at the unassuming meeting-house. Despite being raised with strict boundaries like Christian, Minerva had left their church for the Beachy Amish, but her path out of the Old Order was problemat-ic. And the community meetinghouse, where a nightly revival was being held, had been their secret compro-mise one sultry July evening more than forty years ago.

Christian glanced at the line of gnarled oak trees at the far end of the paved lot, tempted by another memory. There, with the moon twinkling through the tree branches, he’d had the nerve to reach for her slender hand. Minnie, he’d affectionately nicknamed the beguiling brunette then. The recollection was dusty with the years, and he knew better than to let himself reminisce a second long-er.

No need to relive that defiant chapter.

Still, it was odd the sort of memories a place could trigger. Like Christian, Minnie had long since married, and his short friendship with her had nothing to do with at-tending the grief group tonight.

This approach to getting help was so foreign to his way of thinking. “Help I should’ve gotten before now,” he whispered as he neared the church door.

Inside, the entryway was profuse with flourishing plants—scarlet wax begonias and purple coneflowers, and a tall weeping fig tree, similar to some he’d seen in Saint Paul, Minnesota, at the Como Park Conservatory he and Sarah had visited last year. Christian wandered over to one side of the vestibule, to a large corkboard displaying notices and announcements and some tear-off pizza coupons for an upcoming youth outing. He was reaching to look more closely at a business card adver-tising a Shetland pony for sale when he heard footsteps behind him.

A clean-shaven, tall blond fellow wearing a blue-and-gold tie greeted him. “Welcome, I’m Dale Wy-eth.” The young man looked Christian over, apparently curious about his Plain attire. “Are you here for the grief support group?”

Nodding, Christian removed his best straw hat and accepted the firm handshake, glad he’d worn his Sunday trousers.

Dale Wyeth blinked awkwardly. “We’ll be meeting downstairs. I’ll show you the way.”

Amused, Christian followed him to the basement room.

Downstairs, a handful of men and women were milling about, some already seated. He spied a vacant chair at the far end of the room and, amidst stares, hurried to sit down.

What have I gotten myself into?

———

During the preliminary remarks, the middle-aged lead-er, Linden Hess—a cordial man in short sleeves and blue jeans who introduced himself as one of the staff pas-tors—shared briefly that his eight-year-old daughter had died two years ago.

Christian inhaled deeply, shaken by the admission. Eight years old.

Dale volunteered to distribute the syllabus to the dozen or so folk in attendance as Linden emphasized the need to talk about one’s grief with at least one other person as an important first step toward healing.

Christian shook hands with the couple sitting beside him—they had lost their young son to leukemia a mere three weeks earlier. There was such a depth of sorrow in their eyes that Christian wondered if he, too, carried his private pain on his countenance. For all to see.

When the minister began to read from Ecclesiastes 3, Christian’s shoulders stiffened. He forced himself to lis-ten, even though he had read the first four verses many times in the past few years: “‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die . . .’”

Christian looked straight ahead. Why did it feel like he was the only one sitting in the room across from the min-ister? The warmth from his neck crept quickly beneath his beard.

“Grief comes in like the waves of the sea, and some-times it’s deeper than expected—takes us off guard,” Linden said, beginning the session titled “Shattered Dreams.”

“Remember, grief is unique to each person . . . and at times it may be so distracting that you feel like you’re trudging blindly through the day.” He glanced about the room, asking for any comments or questions from the group.

One woman raised her hand and explained how un-clear her thoughts had become since her sister’s passing.

A dapper-looking gentleman in a red cardigan sweater, a three-pronged cane by his chair, admitted how hard it was to sleep through the night in recent days. “I keep re-living my wife’s diagnosis.” He covered his eyes with his handkerchief, and another man went to sit next to him. “I’m in the process of losing her . . . daily,” the older man said.

Linden nodded sympathetically before continuing, his voice low as he glanced now and then at the man slowly regaining his composure. “Personally, I couldn’t believe how unpredictable my grief was, and for the longest time. And even though we all know that death is a natural part of life, I never realized the debilitating pain it would bring.”

Christian’s heart went out to the older man, still wiping his eyes at the far side of the room. It was all Christian could do to stay put in his chair and not try to console him. I can’t imagine losing my precious Sarah tha-taway. . . .

———

Later, Dale Wyeth and Christian were partnered for the sharing time that followed the session.

“Tomorrow it’ll be one month since my father passed,” Dale began. “I looked after him for a full year before the end came.”

“Did he live with ya, then?” asked Christian, feeling uncomfort-able engaging in such personal talk.

“My place was too small to accommodate my parents, so Mom and I took turns caring for Dad in their home.” Dale’s chin twitched. “They had no long-term care insur-ance. I did everything I could to help . . . and to give my mother a break.”

The People had always assisted their ailing and elderly, even building Dawdi Hauses onto the main house to pro-vide for aging relatives. But while Christian didn’t put all fancy folk in the same box, he hadn’t expected such a revelation from a Yankee. Dale’s compassionate attitude struck him as atypical. “That’s quite admirable.”

“Well, I loved my dad—thought the world of him.” Dale bowed his head briefly. “I still do.”

Christian fell silent, remembering his own father, no longer living.

“Dad worked long hours at his hardware store to take care of Mom, and my sister and me, growing up.” Dale glanced away for a moment. “It was the least I could do.”

“Nee, ’twas the best.”

Dale studied him, light brown eyes intent.

“I understand . . . lost my own father three years ago.” Christian was taken aback by the connection he felt with Dale. He’d rarely talked of Daed’s death to anyone.

“I’m very sorry,” Dale offered.

“My Daed lived a long and fruitful life. But losin’ him . . . well, it’s a grief that’s been mighty hard to shake.”

More plainspoken sharing came from the young man. “I’ll never forget the prayer Dad offered for our family before he closed his eyes for the final time.” Dale’s voice was thick with emotion. “It made me want to step up my prayer life; he valued it so.”

Christian listened as Dale spoke freely of his family and the fact that he’d inherited his father’s hardware store. “A fair number of Amish frequent it.”

After the benediction, Dale stayed around, seemingly interested in continuing their conversation. “I realize this has nothing to do with the meeting here,” he said, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. “Frankly, I’ve been cu-rious for a few years now about how I might live more simply, less dependent on the grid. The current solar storm activity and other natural events make me realize just how easily disrupted modern life can be.”

Christian frowned. “Really, now?”

“I’d like to be more self-sufficient.”

“Well, ain’t something most Englischers would consid-er doin’.”

Dale laughed. “If you knew me, you’d know I’m not like most ‘Englischers,’ as you call them.”

“I’m just sayin’ you might find it harder than you think.”

Dale nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt.” He hunched forward as if to share a deep confidence. “I’ve always had a do-it-yourself streak and have been doing a lot of reading about this. Besides, it’s not too hard to imagine that we English could wake up one morning with no way to sustain the life we’ve become accustomed to . . . at least temporarily.”

Christian ran his fingers through his long beard, sud-denly leery. Dale sounded like some of those survivalists who spent decades preparing for the end of the world. “Not even your cell phone would work, if it came to that,” Christian told him. “But I daresay all of that rests in God’s hands.”

“Definitely,” Dale replied. “I believe that wholehearted-ly, but I don’t think it’s wrong to prepare a backup plan. I think of it as getting closer to the way the Lord may have intended for us to live.”

Christian noted the sincerity in the young man’s reply, but he’d known a few folk who’d dabbled in the Old Ways and fell short, quickly becoming disillusioned and finding their way back to their familiar modern environment. Even so, Christian enjoyed his conversation with Dale and appreciated his respectful manner.

They said good-bye and parted ways. An unusual fel-low, Christian thought as he waited for his ride. He cer-tainly hadn’t expected to meet anyone like Dale tonight.

 

Lucy leaned on the kitchen table to read her Bible in Deitsch, the room lit by the gas lamp overhead. She was pressing onward through yet another chapter when she saw her father enter through the back entrance. He bent low to straighten the large rag rug in the mud room, talk-ing to himself as he removed his straw hat and shoes. Recently, she’d noticed the dark circles under his gray-blue eyes.

“Is your Mamm around?” Dat asked as Lucy rose to offer him something to drink or nibble on. After all, he’d left right after supper, where he’d merely picked at the roast beef and potatoes on his plate.

“She’s upstairs early.” Lucy motioned toward the stairs. “But I made a snack for ya.”

He looked surprised, his eyes softening, and she felt obliged to explain. “Mamm asked me to.”

“Oh, of course.”

She opened the fridge and removed the tuna and Swiss cheese sandwich with sliced dill pickles, made the way her mother had instructed. She put it on a small plate.

“Lucy, listen.” He made his way to the counter and rested against it, his hands on his anguished face. “I did a peculiar thing tonight.”

“Dat, you look tired.” She moved the plate nearer to him.

He nodded. “Jah, but I can’t go up just yet. But you go on if ya want.”

Heading for the stairs, she paused and glanced back to see him still standing there, his expression unsettling. “You all right, Dat?”

He looked at her, opened his mouth. “I, uh, went to a class for grieving folk,” he said.

She looked at him, stunned.

With a frown, he fixed his gaze on her, then bowed his head for a time. “You’re long past it, ain’t ya, Lucy?”

Her heart constricted, the old defenses kicking in. Without a word, she moved back to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and took out a tumbler. “I’ll make ya some chocolate milk. It’s your favorite.”

“No need to.” He started toward the fridge, waving his hand nonchalantly. “I can mix it up myself.”

She stepped ahead of him. “Go an’ sit at the table, Dat. I’ll bring it over to ya.”

He lingered for a moment, tugging on his chest-length graying beard. Then he made his way across the kitchen, and the wooden chair made a sharp scraping sound as he pulled it out to sit with a moan. “Denki, Lucy . . . a gut and kind daughter you are.”

She observed her father, obviously wanting her com-pany. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to join him.

“If you don’t need anything more, I’m feelin’ tired,” she said softly. And with that, Lucy made her way up the stairs.

CHAPTER 2

Christian stared absently at the green-and-white-checked oilcloth, still nibbling on his tuna sandwich long after Lucy had gone. Lettie and Faye had briefly wandered into the kitchen for some oatmeal cookies, offering him one. Presently, they stood over by the counter to chatter be-tween themselves. They have each other, he’d thought many times over the years.

He raised his arms to stretch, hoping Sarah might still be awake when he headed upstairs. She alone was his solace. Lettie and Faye were dear sisters; that was ap-parent. Lucy, for her part, had always seemed more bonded to Martie. Christian felt sure the twins would marry within a few years, and at one time he might have thought the same about Lucy. She’d had such a winning way about her during her early courting-age years. Back when we were close. He sighed.

He recalled when Lucy was just four, and he had taught her to ride his brother Caleb’s pony. Her coy little smile was all it took to lift his spirits on a difficult day . . . the way she’d peek around the corner of the stable at him. “Kumm do, little Lucy!” he would call, and she’d run barefoot straight to him and leap into his arms.

One night during her Rumschpringe, Lucy had insisted on staying with him far into the wee hours, holding the lantern when one of the cows was birthing. Always at my side, Christian remembered, before Travis Goodwin came along.

The honey-colored wood planks shone in the light of the gas lamp. Sarah and the twins had scrubbed away the dirt that morning after breakfast, and he reminded himself yet again how blessed they all were. Lucy, as usual, had been off somewhere, probably volunteering. Neither he nor Sarah could complain, since she and the twins pulled their weight with domestic chores, making Sarah’s load less heavy. Once they marry, Sarah will want us to move next door to the Dawdi Haus. He pon-dered how that might work when his mother was already settled over there. Perhaps they’d have to build another addition onto the main house like his older brother had just last year.

Christian was glad to sit there and fold his hands at the table he’d made for sweet Sarah decades ago. The most beautiful bride ever. He remembered his first glimpse of her that long-ago November morning as she took her place on the first row of benches, there in her father’s farmhouse, a picture of loveliness and virtue in her newly made royal blue dress and sheer white apron. His bride for life, handpicked by the Lord God above.

Christian rose from the table, drifting out to the white wraparound porch, where the hickory rockers still sat even this late in the season. Last fall, he’d created a me-andering walkway through Sarah’s flower beds with large, flat fieldstones as a surprise for her while she was over in Williamsport visiting a cousin. He’d filled in the gaps with low-growing moss to make it extra nice. Well, Sarah could hardly believe it when she returned, calling it the prettiest garden path she’d ever seen.

Smiling at the memory, he drew in the night air. The grief meeting was something he really didn’t want to think about . . . there’d been such a burden of sorrow in that room. The porch seemed to sigh under the weight of his thoughts.

Christian looked south toward the dark fields, and in the distance, the windows of farmhouses flickered gold. Crickets pulsed in rhythmic chorus, and one of the barn toms wandered over and rubbed up against his leg, me-owing loudly. “It’s nearly bedtime, Ol’ Thomas,” he said with a glance down.

He thought of Dale Wyeth, his assigned partner for the duration of the sessions, and looked forward to seeing him again next Thursday at the group. For certain, the world would be a better place if everyone yearned for a less complicated life.

———

Upstairs, Christian reached for the flashlight he and Sarah kept on a low shelf near the bed and made his way to the bureau for his pajamas. After pulling them on, he found Sarah asleep, her waist-length hair spilling over one shoulder. She had taken to putting her graying light brown locks into a thick ponytail at night, and he rather liked it.

In the dimness, Sarah moved in her sleep. “Just now home?” she murmured.

“Nee, was downstairs sittin’ a spell.” He moved to her bedside and perched there, reaching to stroke her soft face.

She raised her head slightly. “Wanna light the lamp?”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Just rest, love . . . we’ll talk in the mornin’.” Switching off the flash-light, he wished he felt up to telling Sarah about the sur-prising things he’d learned this strange yet enlightening night. Especially that grief can last for years, he thought. All the same, where does my grief fit with the group?

Christian shook his head. “Maybe nowhere at all . . .” he whispered.

———

“Gonna stay up all hours?” Lucy asked, standing in the doorway of her twin sisters’ shared room. They had been whispering and attempted to squelch their merriment the moment Lucy made her presence known.

“We might,” Lettie giggled, her wheat-colored hair in a loose braid.

Lettie would much rather be married than still living at home. Faye, on the other hand, seemed content to wait patiently for God to bring the right fellow around.

“Where’d Dat take himself off to so quickly after sup-per?” Lettie asked from where she sat on the small loveseat, facing Faye on the edge of the bed. The moon-light poured in through the windows, the green shades still up.

“If Dat didn’t say, then maybe it wasn’t important,” Faye suggested gently as she brushed her long blond hair. “Sometimes he looks ever so sad when he doesn’t know he’s bein’ observed,” she added.

“Could be he still misses Dawdi.” Lucy stepped toward the window to peer out at the landscape below. The moon’s white light made everything dreamlike.

“Say,” Lettie spoke up, “Rebekah Glick heard that To-be and you were talkin’ out on the road.”

Lucy sighed. “You and Tobe’s sister have too much time on your hands.”

Lettie giggled. “Well, you two should stop pretending you don’t like each other and get hitched before you’re too old to have kids.”

Lucy shook her head.

“Ach!” blurted Lettie. “Surely you find him ever so lika-ble, don’t ya? Everyone else does!”

Lucy took a breath. The twins were staring at her, eyes wide, questioning in the girls’ usual spirited way. A mo-ment passed before Lucy smiled, and her sisters seemed to relax.

“Well?” Lettie asked.

Lucy crossed her arms. “Fine. If you’re really so curi-ous—”

“We are!” Lettie and Faye cried nearly in unison.

“Tobe’s a nice enough fella, but—”

“You’re not interested,” Lettie said. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

“But what if he’s the only one left?” Faye interjected before Lucy could answer.

Lettie rose from the loveseat and headed for bed. “Have ya thought ’bout that, Lucy?” She pulled the quilt up to her chin.

Lucy tried to keep her composure. “If Tobe’s the only one left, then that’s how it’ll be, I ’spect.” She moved away from the window, toward the footboard and leaned on it, looking down at her sisters there in bed.

“Could you outen the light for us?” Lettie asked.

“If you’re ready to sleep . . . I’ll spare ya havin’ to get up again.”

The twins agreed they needed a good night’s rest—they were planning to get up extra early to help Dat with shearing sheep over at their closest-in-age brother’s place. James’s farm was within walking distance down Witmer Road, since Dat had parceled the last bit of land off to his youngest son.

“You’ll be servin’ food to the homeless again tomorrow, I ’spect,” Faye said, smiling sweetly. “Like each Friday noon.”

Lucy nodded. “I’ve come to know those poor people,” she said, going to put out the lamp. “I’ll see yous in the mornin’.”

“I realize I grumble sometimes ’bout missin’ ya,” Faye said. “Still, I love that ya care so for others.”

“And I love you,” Lucy said.

“Gut Nacht,” Lettie murmured softly. “Maybe we should dress in tatters. We might see ya more often.”

Lucy smiled as she left the room. Lettie, Lettie, she thought.

Her sisters began talking again, and she paused in the hallway.

“I think she does like him but won’t say,” Lettie said, revisiting the discussion about Tobe.

“Jah,” Faye replied. “You might be right.”

“What’s more, I think Lucy knows where Dat went to-night,” Lettie said.

“Does it matter?” Faye replied.

Lettie was silent for a moment. Then she said in a loud whisper, “Why does everything have to be a mystery round here?”

Lucy didn’t need to hear more and slipped off to the end of the hallway, where she opened the door to the third floor and made her way up the steep stairs. For some years, she had enjoyed the privacy of this spacious bedroom, complete with a sunroom at one end. Mamm had seen to that when it was decided, Lucy recalled now.

On a night like this one, with a splendid moon, she had the benefit of the silvery light spreading across the hard-wood floor and the large multicolored rag rug beside the bed. Like the twins, she, too, had a loveseat made by Dat and upholstered in leaf-green by Dawdi Flaud before his passing. It was set near the hope chest under one win-dow. And by the windowsill, five African violet plants blossomed—pinks and purples, her favorites.

She made her way to the double bed and lay down on the green-and-yellow Bars quilt. She ran her hand over the pattern, a quilt she and Dat’s Mamm had made to-gether. A widow for three years, Mammi Flaud lived in the connecting Dawdi Haus, something for which Lucy was grateful. Her elderly grandmother had a way of temper-ing nearly everything with her lighthearted and positive outlook on life.

Like Tobe . . .

Despite feeling all in, Lucy rose to get her knitting—a surprise she was making for a homeless teen mother. While she finished off the final rows, she thought of Lettie and Faye in the bedroom below. Sometimes she envied their close sisterly bond. What would it be like to have a twin? Naturally, she had great affection for all three of her sisters, and she was thankful for Mamm’s kindheart-ed way with Lettie and Faye. Our mother knows how to manage those two . . . keep things private.

Staring into the darkness outside, Lucy recalled the twins’ endless curiosity about Tobe, always so sure they were on to something.

“Surely you find him ever so likable, don’t ya?” Lettie had blurted.

Jah, Lucy thought wistfully. Ever so . . .

 

Restless in the wee hours, Christian realized he’d left his papers from the grief support meeting in the hired driver’s van. Clad in his hand-sewn blue pajamas and long tan bathrobe, he rose from the bed and walked downstairs to the front room. He was amazed by how light it remained outside. The pompous grandfather clock, bequeathed to Sarah by her maternal grandmother, chimed twice, the sound so strident in the stillness that Christian recoiled as he stood at the front window.

He contemplated the course outline, wishing he had kept it in his care. At this quiet hour, he felt the need to reread its pages.

Moving from the window, he wandered to the kitchen, lit the lamp, and noticed Lucy’s Bible still lying on the ta-ble. He wasn’t in the habit of looking at his daughters’ personal things, but he found himself opening the Penn-sylvania Dutch translation and saw what Lucy had written inside the front cover: I don’t want to do what’s wrong, really, but I seem to do it anyway. Then she’d copied the eighteenth verse of Romans chapter seven word for word: “For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not.”

Christian closed the Bible reverently and sat on the wooden bench that ran the length of the table. “Dear, dear Lucy,” he said tenderly. “We’re both stuck in the past, but one of us denies it,” he whispered.

Leaning his head into his hands, he wondered what to do about next Thursday’s meeting at the community church. Should he return?

He considered asking Lucy along, wondering how she might respond. It was probably out of the question, since she wasn’t the same daughter to him—altogether unlike the youngster with adoration shining from her eyes, proud of her big, strong Dat.

She’s lost faith in me, he thought. Besides that, some-how or other, Lucy had managed to free herself from the heartache. Either that or she’d shoved the pain away, where it couldn’t gnaw at her heart.

Like I’ve tried to do . . .

CHAPTER 3

On the ride into town the next morning, Lucy considered the verse she’d read earlier in her devotional book. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

She stared out the window, clutching the large bag filled with items she’d gathered over the past week and her finished knit surprise as her driver pulled into the parking lot for the local Salvation Army. Ken Rohrer, Laurita Robinson, and Jan Scott—regular English volun-teers—were already loading up the soup truck for the noontime run. The vehicle was on its last legs, she’d been told, with a shaky transmission, and Ken liked to joke that it resembled a silver Winnebago. During the winter, the heater barely kept their hands warm enough to serve food through the opening in the side, and in the deep of summer, the air conditioning frequently went out, leaving them with only two small rotating fans as defense against the pounding sun. Inside, with hot food in close quarters, Lucy and the other servers perspired until their clothes were damp, but no one complained.

Today, however, the weather was ideal, and Lucy paid her driver, reminding him when to pick her up that after-noon. She rushed over to the food truck to see what was left to be done. From inside, Laurita called, “Roast beef today!”

Smiling, Lucy climbed the back steps of the truck, placed her sack with two scarves and a warm blanket inside, and then perused the shelves and drawers, taking note. They were short on sugar packets, plastic forks, and napkins, and they needed another large serving spoon.

“Ken’s getting the coffee,” Laurita said, rushing out. “I’ll check on the donations.”

“Gut, I’ll get the rest,” Lucy replied, hoping there was enough sugar this time.

Once the truck was ready to go, Lucy settled in with Laurita and Jan on the side seats while Ken drove across town to the designated vacant lot where typically up to a hundred hungry and homeless folk would be waiting.

I hope there are no fistfights today, thought Lucy, sighing. The last run, she’d actually abandoned her serv-ing station, rushing out with Ken and another guy to get between two angry and clearly intoxicated men. Fortu-nately they were able to get them calmed down without anyone having to call 9-1-1.

As they rode to the site, Lucy thought of Kiana and her little boy, Van, with whom she’d become acquainted early last spring. During her pregnancy, the slight, dark-eyed teenager had been kicked out of the house by her wid-ower father after refusing to tell her boyfriend, who’d later found out anyway and wanted nothing to do with the ba-by once he was born. The poor girl had gone from one friend’s house to another until her options had dried up. She’d been forced to choose the only viable alternative for herself and little Van—a homeless shelter.

Kiana had shared her heartbreaking story early on in the friendship with Lucy, who could scarcely wait to see the young mother and her two-and-a-half-year-old boy each week.

But a couple of weeks had passed, and Kiana and Van hadn’t come to the Friday meal. Where can they be? Lucy wondered as the food truck pulled into the parking lot. The people began to form a line, but Kiana and Van were nowhere in sight.

Lifting her long dress a bit, Lucy got out of the truck to open the back door, where Jan passed the folding table down to her, followed by the coffee and water canisters, cups and condiments, and trash can. Once the drinks were set up next to the truck, Lucy opened the side serving window.

While Ken, Laurita, and Jan passed food down to the line, Lucy handled the drinks outside, her favorite duty. Most of the women who volunteered preferred to serve food. It seemed safer, more protected and insulated somewhat from the pain and suffering, but Lucy jumped at the opportunity to mingle with people, many of whom she’d come to know by first name.

“Lucy, my Amish angel,” Old Chip said with a toothless grin as he meandered up to the refreshment table, hold-ing his plate. “Roast beef? How do we rate?”

Lucy smiled and poured his coffee the way he liked it, handing him several packets of powdered cream. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said, glad he was one of the first in line.

Wearing ragged jeans and an oil-stained long-sleeved shirt, Chip laughed. “What’s for eats tomorrow?”

“Maybe your favorite—mystery meat loaf.”

Once a high-level engineer, Chip had fallen into alco-holism and as a result lost his wife, family, and home. Now living on the streets and suffering the early signs of dementia, Chip grimaced good-naturedly at Lucy’s re-mark. He gingerly carried his plate and coffee as he made his way to the curb, where he sat with a dozen or more other men.

“Have ya seen Kiana and her son?” Lucy asked the man next in line. Stout “Stan the Man,” as he called him-self, was cradling his plate with its generous helping of mashed potatoes and gravy.

“I’m not sure I know who you mean,” Stan said as he grabbed the coffee Lucy offered.

“You know, straight brown hair, loud neon shirts, a little boy ’bout so big.” Lucy indicated Van’s height with her free hand.

Stan smiled with recognition. “Can’t say I’ve seen them. Not in a while anyway. Any Kool-Aid today?”

She shook her head. “We rarely have it,” she told him, deciding not to pursue her question with the others wait-ing. She kept an eye out for Kiana, hoping she’d still come. At one point during a lull before folk started re-turning for seconds, Lucy wandered over to catch a glimpse of the end of the line. But Kiana just wasn’t there.

Maybe it was a good sign—Lucy certainly hoped so. Lucy had fretted, as well, back in June when Kiana hadn’t shown up. But the following Friday, Kiana had re-turned and made a point of explaining that someone from a church near their shelter had come with a bus to take them, along with others in need, to a potluck meal in the church annex. “It was wonderful,” Kiana had told her, eyes sparkling. “Like a Thanksgiving feast.”

Lucy couldn’t blame her. Sometimes the soup kitchen meals were tasty, like today; other times they were hard-ly edible. It largely depended on donations, and the time and materials available to the cooks for food preparation. Nothing like the meals Mamm makes!

Lucy considered Kiana’s circumstances yet again and wondered how a father could put his daughter out on the street.

She noticed Ken just beyond the food table, gesturing to Lucy’s right. Turning, she gazed across the lot and spotted Kiana in her long black skirt, her little boy in her arms. Lucy’s heart leaped up.

They’re here!

Kiana and Van joined the very back of the line, and Lucy filled a number of cups ahead of time with cold wa-ter and coffee, hoping it would be enough to last a few minutes while she went to greet the young woman with dark hair and expressive eyes.

“Hey, Lucy.” Kiana grinned when she saw her.

“I’ve been wonderin’ if yous would come.”

Van smiled up at her, his blue shirt stained with food, perhaps, and there were holes along the hemline of his little gray hoodie.

Lucy patted his head, and he giggled, leaning closer to his mother.

“It’s gonna get cold soon, so I brought you a few things,” Lucy said. “Don’t leave before I get my sack to you, all right?”

Later, after Lucy returned to her post to pour more cups of coffee, she watched Kiana sit on the ground to eat, talking occasionally to her son. What must her life be like, living this way . . . not knowing what her future holds?

When it was time for mother and son to head back to the shelter, Lucy brought her sack from the truck and gave it to Kiana. Little Van hurried over and got another bowl of applesauce and one more chocolate chip cookie.

Peering eagerly inside, Kiana pulled out two small blankets and woolen scarves. Last of all, there were two pairs of knitted mittens—one for an adult and the other for a small child. “Did you make these?” she asked, eyes wide.

Lucy shrugged. “Didn’t take long, really.”

Kiana paused, studying Lucy. “You’re so nice to us.”

“I worry ’bout ya,” Lucy said with a glance back at the other workers. “And I understand your situation better than ya know.”

Tears filled Kiana’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and gripped the bag, her son clinging to her skirt. Her fingernails were long, some split and dirty.

“Will I see ya here next Friday?”

Kiana nodded and blinked away more tears.

With a lump in her throat, Lucy went back to take her place once again. Yet all the while, her eyes followed Kiana and Van as they plodded across the wide grassy lot.

How do they survive?

She began to pray silently. O Lord, please keep them safe, along with all the others . . . the middle-aged man who calls himself Spider, and young Kat, who reminds Spider to wear his old sweater—remember her, God? And help stooped-over Nannie Rose, and Mort and Allen, and Dean and his sister Dawn.

Lucy felt at a loss to recall each of their names. Be-sides, the familiar sense of futility was returning, suffo-cating her words. That same horrid feeling that had taken away all hope after she’d pleaded with God, night after night . . . with nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing.

But Lucy wasn’t the type to give up or give in. Not even when it felt like her heavenly Father had quit on her, even if praying felt like talking to a closed barn door. No, the Almighty surely couldn’t ignore everyone she prayed for, could He? And if God answered only one of her countless prayers for those who suffered, it would be worthwhile to continue.

“Even if heaven’s silent,” she whispered, “I won’t quit knockin’.”

The Atonement
by by Beverly Lewis

• Genres: Christian, Christian Fiction, Fiction
• paperback: 336 pages
• Publisher: Bethany House Publishers
• ISBN-10: 0764212486
• ISBN-13: 9780764212482