Abram's Daughters 03 The Sacrifice (22 page)

Lovingly, Leah slipped her own hands into the scratchy mittens and wrapped the long scarf about her neck, tears diHiding her vision. Would Dat rethink his desire to dispose ol' these precious things? But no. Best to simply give the scarf and mittens to Miriam Peachey or another of Mamma's friends, what with Dat behaving somewhat crossly these days. Better yet, she could slip them to Aunt Lizzie for safekeeping;

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that way they could ultimately remain in the family.

She didn't know if she ought to be thinking that way, yet she questioned Dat's demand to discard all that had belonged to their darling mother. She felt even more strongly when her hands discovered a grouping of many letters from Cousin Fanme written to Mamma over the years. And another letter hidden away, farther back in the drawer this one with Sadie's handwriting clearly on the envelope.

"What's this?" she said aloud.

Did Mamma go against the bishop and keep one of Sadie's early letters?

She could not stop looking at the postmark. She had to know.

Going to the dresser, she held the letter under the gas lamp and saw it had been sent in late December of 1947, not so long after Bishop Bontrager decreed Sadie's letters be returned unopened. Dat had laid down the law, as well, saying it was imperative to follow the "man of God on the matter of the shun."

Why would Mamma disregard both the bishop's and Dat's final word on this?

Leah battled right and wrong, holding the envelope, turning it over and noticing it was open already. Oh, she groaned inwardly. I have to know what Sadie was writing to Mamma.

Hastily she stopped herself and pushed it back, closing the drawer soundly. The notion that Mamma might have been also writing to Sadie crossed her mind. If so, did that mean Mamma's soul was hanging in eternal balance ? Had her spirit gone to the Lord God in heaven or not? She shuddered to think Mamma would willingly disobey the Ordnung and risk

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In i everlasting reward. Could it have been a misunderstandmi: dial allowed this letter to find its way into Mamma's

.IlilW'iT?

Sl e felt she knew her mother through and through M.imma would have confessed such a thing before passing Innn death unto life. Surely if Mamma viewed keeping and M.iilihf,! Sadie's letter as a sin, she would never have diso!'i-yol, Nlcmols!

( !inning to this conclusion, Leah decided if Mamma could ii .id I Ik- letter and hide it away and die peacefully then nliy couldn't she read it, too? Taking a deep breath, she re"I'eiH-d the drawer and reached for the letter, hurrying out of I Mi's bedroom to her own. There she put it away in her luiicau, where it would remain till she could take her time to

11.uI ii to savor and pore over every word and phrase, hoping lor some clue as to what on earth had happened between |< urns and herself.

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1 ou oughta reconsider this, Abram." Lizzie was glad to have cornered him in the milk house. "Mary Ruth is your daughter!"

"You have no right to order me around!"

She inhaled and held her breath in, then let the words come gushing out. "Ain't it awful clear you were wrong 'bout Mary Ruth?"

His face reddened. "Don't go sayin' I'm responsible for Ida's death 'cause of Mary Ruth's leaving home. Don'tcha dare."

Sighing, she said more softly now, "Seems I don't have to, now, do I?"

He slumped and went to the window, looking out through the streaked old glass. "I don't know how a thing like this Mary Ruth's stubbornness and goin' to live with Englishers can happen to God-fearin' folk like us."

She was more careful in choosing her words this time. "We let the bishop think for all of us, that's how. The preachers and Bishop Bontrager tell you how to feel 'bout your own

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tlnui dues . . . your own Mary Ruth."

Ahrain muttered something about ministers being chon ordained by God. But when he began to cough, he iililn'l seem to quit, and she worried he might vomit, so I' li'iuiis'ht he was.

"I'll leave you be," she said. "I didn't mean to upset you so."

"You best be goin' indoors. Check on that son of mine," Ahl'Bin said it low but decisively.

Ht' needed some time alone, probably, out here where he -i hup times wept so loudly she wondered if he might be making I iiitmelf' ill. But then she, too, was acquainted with such dreadful illness. Anyone who had lived as long as either she or Abram I new lull well the pain of disappointment. She wished she mij,;ht say he was merely passing through this life, that this old > trill was not his eternal home and the treasures of truth were i iiij up in Glory for him for all of them. We've got our eyes I*\M on what's all around us, she thought. Mistakenly so.

"Jiih, I'll look in on Abe, but Leah's doing a right gut job

'I inking care of him and Lydiann." She turned to leave, glad

111 luive sobbecL. away her initial grief, having cried herself to

11 cp plenty of nights following her sister's funeral. To suffer

.is a part of living; how well she knew it. Best to simply in. ivr on, make the best of life, and trust the Lord, as she had I' .11 nod to do. And love what family they had left.

1 lannah sat in her bedroom with her diary in her lap wink1 Lydiann napped on the side of the bed where Mary NmiIi had always slept. : ;. . -,.,-

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With pen in hand, she began to write, reliving the night of Mamma's death.

Tuesday, January 3, 1950 Dear Diary,

One week and one day have passed since Mamma breathed her last. For me it is the worst pain I've known. I wish I'd agreed to Dan Nolt's suggestion calling in Dr. Schwartz might have spared Mamma's life. I feel fairly responsible , but I have shared this with no one. If only I had given a simple nod of my head that night at the Note' front door! Oh, what a difference a single choice might have made.

Leah says Mamma's passing was serene, that she did not : seem to fight the final throes of death but embraced it, once she knew Abe was healthy and had cuddled him near. It breaks my heart that my baby brother will never know our mother.

The night Mamma died, 1 rode to get Mary Ruth to bring her home with me, thinking it necessary. Dat must not have thought so, for he met us in the hallway just outside their bedroom door. When he greeted me but did not speak to Mary Ruth not at first it pained me nearly as much as to think of Mamma struggling terribly in childbirth. Mary Ruth spoke up, though, inquiring of Mamma's condition . . . and the unborn babe's. And she offered a heartfelt apology for having spoken disrespectfully to Dat prior to his sending her away.

Obviously bewildered, Dat said nothing about my fetching Mary Ruth to the house. Honestly I'd hoped he might've opened his arms to her and welcomed her back. But such was not the case, and we stood quietly, tears glistening, as Mamma's cries became fainter.

If Dat doesn't feel he caused Mamma great distress in the last days of her carrying wee Abe, 1 don't understand. Truly,

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i/u1 iij>sc.t between him and Mary Ruth must have played some jmi /. If rn3> twin still lived here, she would surely have her say; //ii'm at\ain, maybe not. Things are awful tense when it comes m Mitry Ruth claiming salvation "full and free" while living muter a worldly roof . . . not to mention her membership at fin English church.

All that aside, I'm beginning to wonder if Ezra wiU ever intend another singing. He doesn't come to Preaching anymore, either. What's to become of him? I've told no one this, but I saw him

I worry for his dear mother. What she must be going through, losing two sons: Elias to death and Ezra to the world the flesh and the devil. If Ezra doesn't soon get back on the right jhtth, he'll be in danger of the shun, just as Sadie was.

Along with the guilt I bear for Mamma's death, I also wish in goodness I'd stuck my neck out and talked to her about how to be ready to meet one's Maker. I could kick myself, because I missed my chance forever. Who can I ever share my heart with now?

Oh, I fear I might worry myself sick, and 1 might, too, if I hit didn't need me helping with the milking and other outdoor ehores. Such work helps me a lot, and 1 do enjoy working idongside Smithy Gid. He has a right gentle way, and it'll be ever .so nice when he marries into our family, probably next year, I'd guess. Leah deserves some happiness, and, at long lust, I'll have me a big brother. I ought to be counting my blessings more, but it's hard these days. What an awful way tu welcome a new year with Mamma gone from us.

Each day I observe Leah going about her responsibilities

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rising before dawn to cook breakfast and, on her feet all day long, up several times in the night with Abe. A shining example, for certain. Never does she complain, and 1 know she must be tuckered out each and every night as we head upstairs to bed. When

1 can, 1 help her with Lydiann, but Leah's fulfilling a labor of love. Not only is she a, wonderful-good big sister to Abe and Ly diann, she is becoming a tender and loving mamma to them, too. The light in her hazel eyes when she tends to Abe, especially, gives me hope during these dark sad days. : ...', . . : . ,. , V Sorrowfully, : ' ;,- .'-.. '.. ... Hannah , ... -,. .,

Hours before supper Leah hurried out to the barn and found Dat sweeping, looking somewhat dazed. Her heart wenl out to him, and she wondered if she ought to wait to speak with him later, giving him more time to grieve before she unburdened her soul.

She started to turn to leave when Dat stopped his sweeping. "Somethin' on your mind, daughter?"

She contemplated simply leaving him be but found herseli nodding. "Jah," she said slowly. "I was thinkin' I best be talkin' to Gid 'bout my promise to Mamma. But I wanted to speak to you first."

"Well, what's to say?"

Leah went on to tell him she assumed Smithy Gid would urge they now marry quickly, merely going before Preacher Yoder to make their lifelong promises to God and each other. "I'm fairly sure he'll offer to help me raise Lydiann and

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If ... rhe two of us, as a family." She couldn't help but Buls'i how Dat would feel, this coming from her.

"I "id's a right fine man," Dat began, "but I'll be raisin' my lldien myself, and no two ways 'bout it."

She wasn't surprised. Dat was fiercely possessive when it hflf to his family.

"I suy you should go ahead with plans to marry Gid when I |lint' comes and let Lizzie or Hannah look after Abe and plnnn here."

"But Mamma asked me to raise them."

Hill" sighed loudly. "Your mamma was awful befuddled with I'pnin of childbirth. I daresay she'd never expect ya to keep |h n promise. Besides, you made your betrothal vow to Gid fere I lie one to Mamma, ain't so?" At that he set about ill Ing hard his wide broom again, making a rhythmic poshing sound.

Mamma knew my heart, thought Leah. She trusted me to do

right thing for Abe and Lydiann . . . befuddled or not.

I Before supper Leah hurried over to the blacksmith's shop I I he Peacheys' property. She found Smithy Gid and his jhtT both shoeing horses, each mare facing the cement wall.

1c wide plank-board flooring was dry, having been swept If of snow and other debris. Gid chewed gum as he worked, It lobacco as his father often did, and wore a tan leather Ion that covered his legs down to his ankles and mischdich Itk work boots covered with manure. Unaware she was biding in the corner observing him, he spoke quietly, even

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gently, to the mare, bringing the animal's leg up between his own, clamping his thighs against it as he positioned the new shoe, hot from the forge, with the end of a rasp. Gid's hair was disheveled as he leaned over, his toes pointing in slightly to better keep his balance.

Glancing at the square-shaped brick forge, she saw the opening, where the blower kept the cinders hot. Smithy Peachey was almost too busy juggling his many Amish clients and occasionally an Old Order Mennonite customer, too mosl of them on an eight-week schedule. Because of this, his father sought out Gid's help several days a week, and Leah was fairly certain he was hoping to pass on his livelihood to his only son.

She waited to let him know she was present till Gid was finished with all four hooves and had accepted the exaci amount of money from the farmer. Gid waved a cheerful farewell as Old Jonathan Lapp led the animal away, an obvious shine on the new horseshoes. The older man hitched his marc

to a long sleigh and was gone.

While Gid organized the long tongs, hoof nippers, rasp, and other smithing tools, she moved out of the shadows and, coughing a little so as not to startle him, said, "Hullo, Smithy Gid."

"There ya are, girl. How're you today?" His grin was as infectious as ever, and she hoped for a lull between customers.

"Do ya have time to talk?" she asked.

"Why, sure. Always have plenty-a time for my girl." Heremoved his heavy leather blacksmithing apron and brushed his hands off on his trousers; then he went to get his work coat, which hung on a hook near the wide door, and slipped it on. "Let's walk a bit." Smiling, he reached for her hand and rubbed it between his own. , , , ; .. ,, :-,

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^V'l need to tell you something, Gid," she began. "Mamma

^Hii mi" lo raise her babies ... as she lay dyin', and I said I

Hhl."

^HiSmii hy Gid nodded his head as if he'd suspected as much.

^|"l I'iin'r go back on my word," she said. "I wouldn't even

^HtutiM."

^H"No . . . no, you oughtn't be thinkin' thataway." He con-

^Hlt\L "We could go to the preacher and have us a short

^Hdlng ;is soon as this weekend, if you'd want to. You and I

^Hltl live in my folks' empty Dawdi Haus, bring up the little