Chapter 17

Daybreak on the Lord’s Day was accompanied by heavy rain. Marlena went to the crib and reached down for Angela Rose, recalling how her father often referred to such a steady downpour as a gully washer.

She kissed Angela’s chubby cheek, whispered, “Guder Mariye, Bobbli,” and laid her on the bed to wash her up, talking to her all the while. Marlena blew lip bubbles on her tummy, enjoying the way Angela’s wide eyes followed her fingers all around. “I daresay you’re a schmaert little one.” It wasn’t the wisest thing to talk so, but hopefully wide-eyed Angela Rose had no idea what she was saying.

Marlena carried her to one of the windows and looked down on Mammi’s yellow daisies outside, their graceful petals wide open, drinking up the much-needed moisture. Perfect for weeding tomorrow, she thought, but I’ll be in Mifflinburg. At Luella’s funeral . . .

She hated to think of Angela Rose going through life without her Mamma. Will anyone take my sister’s place permanently?

Downstairs, she spoon-fed some warm rice cereal to Angela Rose, opening her mouth wide to encourage the baby to imitate her. Her niece sat more solidly in her high chair now that she was more accustomed to it. Behind them, Mammi made scrambled eggs. A hot breakfast on a Sunday was still unusual for Marlena, who’d grown up in a home where cooking was done only six days of the week. So much of the past is ingrained in me, she thought.

When Mammi was seated, she and Marlena bowed their heads, and Mammi thanked the dear Lord Jesus for creating this most wonderful day to worship.

After they’d dished up their eggs and spread strawberry jam on their toast, Marlena brought up what had supposedly happened near the old church. “Did ya ever hear anything ’bout an angel sighting?” she asked as little Angela reached out, trying to touch her face. Marlena caught her hand and kissed it, making smacking noises, which made Angela Rose giggle.

“Now that I recall, jah, there was a gut deal of talk back a few years ago when all that happened.” Mammi took a sip of her warm tea. “And wise folk never reject the possibility of miracles.” She paused for a moment. “But, my dear, I want to share with ya something our pastor said about that . . . something I never forgot.”

Eager to hear, Marlena set down her toast.

“He said it’s less important to seek after miracles than it is to hunger after the miracle-giver.” Mammi stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea before drinking more. “Many folk wear out the path to a miracle or something they believe is of God, but they don’t bother to seek the Lord and Savior,” she restated.

“Oh.” Marlena wondered if in some way she was one who was grasping for a miracle. “I was just curious.”

Mammi looked inquisitively at the baby’s messy mouth and chin, and she pressed her lips together, as though trying not to smile. “Just look at ya!” Mammi exclaimed. “I wonder, little one, will this be your first visit to God’s house?”

Marlena had thought the same thing. “Did Luella ever attend church once she left home?” she asked.

“Whether she did or didn’t, only our heavenly Father knows the cries of our hearts.” Mammi rose then and went to get a washcloth.

“Only our heavenly Father knows.” Mammi’s words went round and round in Marlena’s head as she gently washed Angela’s chubby little face. She tried to dismiss them when she took Angela upstairs to get ready for church, but she knew for truth she’d much rather know the miracle-giver than see a miracle, including laying eyes on an angel.

In her room, she caught sight of her Bible on the bedside table and wished she had time to sit and read as she often did back home before leaving for the Beachy meetinghouse. Just now, she couldn’t get over the way she felt after hearing Mammi’s wise words—nearly at the point of tears.

This being an in-between Sunday, Small Jay had slept in till seven o’clock. When he finally got out of bed, disturbing Sassy, his first thought was of Boston Calvert. Had his friend slept soundly out there in the barn? With the livestock, Small Jay thought, knowing the makeshift pallet had been comfortable enough because he’d gone with Dat to see to it, giving Boston fresh straw to place beneath his blanket. Mamma, too, had seemed concerned enough to take a spare pillow out there.

It had been hard not to just go and stand at the back door last evening and gawk; he wanted to know how Boston was doing. Still, Small Jay was mighty thankful to Dat for letting Boston stay at all. Small Jay had tried to tell Dat this, long after his sisters had taken their baths in the galvanized tub and were upstairs for the night. He’d wanted to check one last time on Boston, too, but he figured their guest was just fine, especially after enjoying Mamma’s delicious chuck roast and cooked vegetables. Boston had eaten himself full, his eyes lighting up like the Christmas star their Englischer neighbors put up on their chimney every year. And Boston had scarcely found the words to express his delight when Mamma brought out a nice big slice of strawberry pie topped with real whipped cream. Small Jay had done the talking for him, though, even giving Mamma a hug for her thoughtfulness.

When Marlena and Mammi arrived with the baby, the redbrick meetinghouse was surprisingly full, in spite of the continuous heavy rain. Marlena assumed that the members who’d left their Amish churches over the years to join this fellowship were thankful not to have to hitch up horses and buggies on such a day. Yet does that make it right to abandon the Old Ways? The question plagued her as she scanned the pews for a place to sit near the back with Mammi and Angela Rose. The congregation reverently filed in, many carrying Bibles.

Angela took her bottle without a fuss during the four-part congregational singing of hymns, a few of which were new to Marlena. Thankfully, before the start of the minister’s message, Angela fell asleep. Marlena’s mind was in a haze as she anticipated Luella’s funeral right around this time tomorrow.

She followed along as Mammi held the Good Book, trying to rein in her thoughts during the sermon text—Psalm 28: “ ‘Blessed be the Lord, because he hath heard the voice of my supplications. The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped: therefore my heart greatly rejoiceth; and with my song will I praise him.’ ”

Marlena felt uncomfortable. The sermon somehow seemed to speak directly to her, especially the idea of supplication, or prayerful entreaty. The minister went on to explain how to pray openly from one’s heart with a contrite spirit.

Truthfully, Marlena had not expected such a convicting message. At that moment, she was caught off guard by a sincere sense of anguish, in part for not following her parents’ and grandparents’ wholehearted worshiping and praying. She felt even more sorrowful as she rehashed the what-ifs that shrouded her broken heart—the unresolved matters between her and Luella. Everything was so terribly jumbled up, even intertwined, in her mind.

Marlena did yearn to trust God more, just as the psalmist David had. She also desired for the Lord to hear her prayers, yet she was not sure that was possible, not like for Mammi Janice or others. They have such a tender, joyful approach toward the Lord.

She sighed, unsure of her own faith. Even so, what if the teaching of Mammi’s preacher could become a reality for her?

After the noon meal of cold ham sandwiches, strawberry-rhubarb Jell-O, cottage cheese, and sugar cookies, Small Jay was permitted to go out on the porch and talk with Boston again, just as he had earlier following breakfast. He’d tried to explain that the People gathered every other Sunday for worship, and that the next meeting was to be held at their house, but Boston didn’t seem to understand—didn’t even know it was the Lord’s Day, of all things. But of course the man had no calendar, so how could he keep track of the days of the week?

“I contemplated many things last night,” Boston told him presently, while they sat on matching porch rockers. “For one thing, I have never been one to accept handouts. Therefore, if your father agrees, I want to pull my weight here. I prefer to work for my meals and lodging.”

Small Jay worried about Boston’s ability to do so. “You want me to ask Dat if you can work for him?”

“I will speak to him . . .” Boston paused as though struggling to find the right word. “Well, directly,” he added at last.

Small Jay could see by the look of anticipation on his face that Boston meant business. Just maybe, this might make it possible for him to stay longer.

“But before I do”—and here Boston reached down for his bag—“will you read another letter from Abigail?” He frowned hard. “Or is it Eleanor?”

He doesn’t remember her name!

Boston shook his head. “I’m all mixed up again today.”

“Maybe not,” Small Jay replied. “I mean, if you think you are, then you ain’t nearly as confused as ya think. Verschteh—Understand?”

A grin spread across the man’s face. “Quite brilliant, young man.”

That brought a good laugh.

“Which letter should I read next, Boston?”

The man shrugged his frail shoulders. “Why don’t you choose one this time?” He opened the satchel wide and encouraged Small Jay to reach inside.

Small Jay felt candy wrappers, snippets of papers, and what looked like a clean pair of folded trousers. Choosing a letter toward the top, Small Jay wondered what had happened to the extra changes of clothing Boston had mentioned. “Did ya leave your other clothes at the mill, maybe?”

Boston stared right through him, like he hadn’t heard at all.

“What about takin’ a shower? It might be time.” Small Jay pointed in the direction of the makeshift shower in the barn, not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings. “I’m sure Dat won’t mind. Mamma might actually be glad. She sure is when I clean up.”

At that, Boston looked worse than ferhoodled, which made Small Jay nervous. Was he ill? He looked around to see if Dat was anywhere nearby, in case they needed to run down to the phone shanty to call an ambulance. “Can ya hear me, Boston?” He waved his hand in front of the man’s eyes. “Boston?”

The man shook himself. “Sorry . . . so sorry.”

“What happened just then?”

Boston was silent, his eyes cloudy again.

Not sure if he should repeat his question, Small Jay began to read the letter dated February 15, 1961.

My dearest darling,

I must confess that I observed the startled look that came over your face yesterday when we met with your doctor. During this difficult time, please cling to the promise of our love and our wonderful life together. We’ll focus on what we have, as well as the beauty of God’s creation all around our homes here in the States and overseas. Let us be thankful for our many gifts and talents, far-reaching as they have been and continue to be. I’m not ready to throw in the towel and say the best years are behind us. Remember that your doctor hasn’t come to a firm diagnosis, though he shares our concern over your pronounced confusion and forgetfulness.

Neither of us can refute that we’ve suffered our trials, but staying close has made us all the stronger. Never forget what we promised long ago: to take care of each other until the end.

Nothing really has changed. We still possess all that is essential for our daily joy. We have great music, spontaneous laughter, good literature, and most of all, through God’s abundant grace, we embrace our deep faith.

I’m writing this note and tucking it into your briefcase, hoping it raises your spirits during your morning break, dear. How I want to see your endearing smile return!

Yours always,
Abigail

Small Jay refolded the letter and handed it back to Boston. “Ach, I think this woman loves ya like no other.”

“Hmm . . . I do like her choice of words.” Boston looked toward the meadow, lost in thought. “How can I meet her?” He wore a mischievous grin now.

“All the letters so far are from Abigail.” Small Jay considered that Abigail might be Boston’s sister—perhaps even a twin. Even with those other possibilities, Small Jay guessed it was Boston’s wife who’d written the love letter. But was she still alive?

“Who’s Eleanor, then? Do ya remember mentioning her just now? You wrote her name on a piece of paper with funny marks on it.” He wondered if he should keep prying. “Is she a relative or friend?”

But Boston was preoccupied again. He ran his fingers along his dirty shirt collar and talked under his breath. Then he searched in his bag, seemingly distressed.

“Did ya lose something?” Then it hit Small Jay. The bow tie was missing!

“It must be here somewhere,” Boston said.

Small Jay looked toward the barn. “Did your tie fall off in your sleep, maybe?”

Boston’s head popped up. “How could you have known what I was thinking, young man?”

Small Jay shrugged and grinned, because he felt even more connected to this wonderful friend. “I don’t know; I just did.”

Boston’s eyes twinkled. “Well, my bow tie can wait. Right now I’d simply like to sit here with you a little more while Allegro naps.”

“Sounds gut to me,” said Small Jay.

They talked further, and Small Jay asked if he’d ever wondered why a pony never grew up to become a horse. Boston chuckled and said he’d wondered that himself on occasion.

“I asked my father ’bout it once,” Small Jay confided.

“And might I ask what sort of answer he gave?”

Small Jay wondered if Boston had already guessed how things were sometimes with Dat. The man could be awful quick when his mind was working right.

“Come, now,” Boston said. “A smart young man like you. Surely your father had something to say in response.”

No one ever talked to Small Jay like this. “I honestly don’t remember,” he said, not sure where to begin. And next thing he knew, he was telling Boston how he wished he could talk this openly to his Dat. “But I’m like en Eiszappe—an icicle—around him. Too frozen to say what I want to.”

Boston nodded his head. “Just remember, we’re haunted most by the things we never attempt, rather than the things we attempt and fail.”

Small Jay let his brain work on that.

“I believe in you, young man,” Boston said, reaching over to pat his shoulder. “Therefore, I encourage you to venture forth boldly.”

Frowning, Small Jay admitted he didn’t understand.

“Step out in faith, as the saying goes,” Boston declared. “If you do it in the right spirit, God will be with you.”

Small Jay considered this, the idea of freezing up around Dat still skulking like a cat in the back of his mind. But maybe he could do something when he saw his father next. Just maybe.

———

Ellie stood behind the screen door, wiping away tears. It was impossible not to detect the friendship developing between her son and this poor homeless man. Small Jay had been craving Roman’s attention since he was a toddler, and here was this stranger, trusting their son to read such a beautiful and moving love letter aloud. And to think they were talking of Small Jay’s desire to talk freely with his father.

One of the letter’s phrases still rang in her memory. Neither of us can refute that we’ve suffered our trials, but staying close has made us all the stronger. . . .

How she wished for a relationship with Roman like that. Dabbing at her wet face, she dropped the hem of her apron and returned to heating the water for the dishes, glad the girls, who were clearing the table, hadn’t asked her what she was doing hovering over there. Eavesdropping, in all truth.

Later, while Boston played his harmonica for Small Jay, who looked a bit dazed from the music, perhaps, Ellie slipped out to the barn and searched the area where Boston had slept, looking for the man’s lost bow tie.