CHAPTER ONE

 

Marie Burkholder was in the deepest pit, and she couldn’t see crawling out of it anytime soon.  She stood at the well house with a pout, the winter wind swirling the hem of her navy cape dress against the frozen brown grass.  It was a cool, crisp Monday, but not as chilly as last years’ December fifteenth, when they were snowed and iced in for days.  Her nervous hands reached down and grabbed one of Bertha’s tanned dresses.  As she clamped the damp dress onto the clothes line, she thought about her earlier pregnancy and how she had disobeyed the doctor’s order for her to stay away from sweets. 

But the rare health problems that Boppli Bertha had experienced surely hadn’t been entirely caused by her gestational diabetes.  She’d known a couple of cousins who had the short-term problem, and their bopplis had been born healthy.  Could it have had something to do with eating too many of her neighbor’s orange Whoopie pies?  Maybe she had consumed too much sugar and acid at the same time?  Margot, the little neighbor lady and master baker had trouble seeing, but was confident in her daily activities.  Daily, she had brought her a plate of the thick, cake-like pies.

That might explain the weird tickling that sometimes fluttered her stomach after eating them.  Now, as for stomach activities, her stomach felt fine, which was good since she’d been up all night was Bertha.  The poor child cried and was cranky all night.  Marie bet that she had kissed the little tots’ red-curled head at least a hundred times while she had tried to rock her to sleep to no avail. 

Marie reached down to grab more wet laundry.  A gentle western wind softly blew across the sprawling back yard, dangling light strands of her blonde hair from beneath the front of her heart-shaped prayer kapp. A faster wave followed it, pricking her neck and reminding her of the sore throat that she had just gotten over.  Her husband, Andy had gotten it first, and then passed it down to the three boys, Benjamin, Ricky, and Bobby.  Eventually, it had trickled down to her, but she had fought off half of it by sipping hot lemon-honey tea.  Her hands grabbed one of Benjamin’s blue shirts.  It was amazing how tall boy was growing.  At nine years old, he was almost to Andy’s shoulders. 

As the wind became more constant, shaking the clothes line back and forth, she turned to see if it was still stabilized at the barn.  The clotheslines in most Amish homes extended from the well house or a work shed to the barn. Her mind switched back to her throat as she grabbed it with her left hand to protect it from the rough flow of frigid wind, the kind that had winter swirled into it. 

Winters were always harsh in upper Indiana, and Shipshewana got pounded on a lot.  But she loved living in Shipshewana and would never move, even if someone offered to buy them a new farm.  The milking equipment was expensive, and Andy needed a new part, but they hadn’t been able to scrape up the extra one-hundred dollars, so they improvised.  Nonetheless, they were content where they were at, and nothing could shake them from their tight-knit Old Order Amish community.

Her heart-covered head titled a soft, gentle smile as she grabbed a pair of Andy’s dark blue trousers.  The man had an intriguingly tall statue, dark and handsome wavy hair, and a set of sparkling baby blue eyes, and he hadn’t gained or lost a pound since the day that they had said their wedding vows in front of Bishop Yoder. At the wedding reception, which was held in the basement of her mamm’s house, he had proudly leaned over and talked to his family at their table, and she had eagerly watched him.  They had overly approved of her, and it had made her feel good to be accepted.

Although her family’s table joined his at the “L” intersection of the two tables, she had her mind on bonding with his family, for she had just become a Burkholder.  Before that, she had always been a Yoder, being a cousin to the bishop.  It was custom for the bride and groom to sit at the merging of the two tables, and the wedding helpers sat next to each of them, followed by the grooms’ familye on his side, and the bride’s familye on her side.  She had liked the way that each of their familyes had their own table, and it had always been like that in her Amish community.

Marie grabbed a pair of Ricky’s pants and could see that he had spent a lot of time on his knees during his temporary construction job.  Being a carpenter was hard work, but Bobby wanted to do it because a special Man, one who later became a Savior for mankind, had spent years as a carpenter across the Atlantic Ocean. She couldn’t argue with that statement, and she was glad that Bobby had skipped Rumspringa and had decided to join the church at sixteen years of age.

At sixteen, he was a man, having finished his schooling.  The Old Order Amish schooled to the eighth grade, and families depended on the help of the teenagers in their home-based businesses.  For the Burkholder family, it was their butcher shop and small General Store that they ran two miles on the outskirts of Shipshewana.  Even though, there were lots of shops for the warming tourists, there was no competition.  Everyone made a good living at what they did, and they were able to pitch in to help their fellow neighbor during storms, fires, and personal disasters. The church had taken up an offering for the expenses for Sister Margot’s outstanding hospital bill from the terrible carriage accident.  Her orange triangle, warning motorists to slow down, had fallen off during a strong horizontal storm, and she hadn’t noticed it. 

Speaking of missing things, Marie missed her eldest two dochders, who had gotten married to good Amish men two wedding seasons ago. They had always come up with the cutest things for the Christmas play.  She wished that they had decided to settle in Shipshewana instead of Nappanee.  Grabbing the last pair of soaked trousers and pinning them onto the clothesline, Marie thought about the Christmas play.  In Amish Country, Christmas was celebrated for weeks, and everyone looked forward to it. 

“Mamm!  Margot’s been hit by a car!” Benjamin scraped the back right side of the haus as he curbed the turn, his round-brimmed straw hat bobbling mid-air.  “She didn’t make it!”  His eyes popped open, his mouth in shock as he got closer and added, “They killed her.”

His bare feet spun across the frozen ground at a record pace before he slammed against the clothes line, nearly leaving cut marks across the front of his neck. 

Marie scolded him, “Be careful, you could have gone to the barn with the wash, Benjamin!” She tilted her left hip to hold the empty wicker basket.  Margot, with her ailing eyesight, had been known to lead a team of horses into a ditch or two, so his words didn’t alarm her.  Being nine years old and having quite an imaginary mind, he was known for spreading the truth as big as a hefty fifty-foot oarfish.  She said now, “I am sure that Margot is okay, Benjamin.” She reached down and straightened his blue collar.  His suspenders looked worn, and she knew that she was close to having to break down and sew him, and his siblings some new clothes before the full force of winter was upon them. 

He paused as if he couldn’t speak, and then tears sprouted from his little eyes. He finally titled his chin and rolled his eyes, explaining what had occurred, “You see, those teenagers that speed down the road had passed by my lemonade and cookie stand this past summer, nearly running her off the road as she was slowly pulling the reins to turn the horses into her place.”

Her motherly instincts had been right; he was a very creative boy for nine years old.  The wind feathered his soft hair, repositioning his straw hat sideways on his head.  Her right hand impulsively jerked over to straighten it just as she saw the Bishop turning the corner, his round-brimmed straw hat fighting the wind. 

He tried to persuade her. “Mamm, they ran her off the road.  The police are on their way.” He grabbed her right hand and started leading her through the backyard. He appeared to be telling the truth, although a little exaggerated. Had Margot really ended up in the ditch again?  The teenagers had been known for speeding.

Benjamin broke her grip and ran to the bishop, who met him in front of the back steps of the haus. He swung his hands over his tanned straw hat, pushing the backs of his fingers tightly against the top to keep the wind from tossing it.  Why had his mamm not believed him? If he couldn’t persuade her, then he couldn’t persuade the church community during the play.

The Bishop spoke up, “The coroner is on the way; the sheriff said that it is a requirement because the driver of the car was drunk with strong drink.  Gott will pull us through this, Marie,”

Marie froze, her face drew white, and her throat choked up.  Word of shock tried to come out, “She’s…”  Her head gave a slight tilt, her eyes staring at the frozen brown ground.  She swallowed several thick knots, slowly looked up, and blinked her eyes.  She was speechless, and the bishop gave her silence.  After a couple of moments, her eyes leveled up, and her face drew a half-frozen smile.  She uttered, “I guess she won’t be needing her walker anymore or her bifocals.” The bishop nodded, and so did Benjamin, who was glad that she was finally reacted to his story.

“Mamm, I love you.  And I think that you’re doing a good job at your part in my Christmas play.  It is about how special each one of us is, and how at any moment, Jesus can come get us and take us to heaven, so we need to be ready.”  He turned and looked up at the bishop and saw him nod.  “Won’t the whole church like our play?” 

“They sure will, and your mamm is the best actress.  Why, she really will stir up people’s hearts; get them right with their loved ones and with the Lord.”

If the bishop hadn’t been there, she would have given Benjamin a good talking to, but since he was there, she would refrain. She smiled and then asked the bishop, “Where is Margot?  I would like to go get a couple of orange Whoopie pies.  They sound awful good.”  Regret of accusing her neighbor’s food for causing her gestational diabetes emerged and all she wanted to do was to see Margot’s face and share an orange Whoopie pie with her.

If truth be told, Marie was the one that snuck down to the kitchen at night and got the marshmallow crème and milk chocolate bars.  She’d guzzled sweet kaffi all day too; her own careless behavior had caused the gestational diabetes, not the daily Whoopie pies.  Margot hadn’t told her to eat half of the plate.  She had blamed her own self-indulgence on her church sister and neighbor.

Ever since Bertha’s health started weakening, she’s coped with anything sweet.  Of course, sweet little Margot hadn’t known about her loss of willpower.  As the bishop nodded and turned to leave, Benjamin grabbed his hand and jumped bare-footed through the cold grass.  He always liked to escort visitors back to their buggies.  At the tender age of nine, he had taught her a valuable lesson.  What else had his little creative mind come up with to help mend and heal the community’s hearts? She’d have to see at the Christmas play. It would have been good to have known about her part in the play.  Benjamin had somehow forgotten to tell her, so she had really thought that Margot had been killed by the speeding teenagers.

 

******

 

Benjamin followed his daed like sparrows follow their leader, being proud to be his son. Marie was peeling potatoes at the dry sink when she glanced over her right shoulder to see both men give a smile and nod before crisscrossing across the hardwood kitchen floor.  Grabbing another potato, she slid her eyes back to her work. Benjamin loved helping his daed with the evening milking. It was good to have hard-working kinner. Running a farm and two businesses weren’t for the faint-hearted, and they spent a lot of hours down on their knees in reverence to Gott.

Speaking of praying, she needed to repent one more time to make sure that Gott heard her remorse for accusing Margot for her own carelessness and addiction to sugar.  She would do that as soon as the supper plates were cleared, scraped, and washed.  She would make a trip over to her haus in the morning.  Benjamin had already been over to Margot’s place and fetched the oval platter of orange Whoopie pies. 

She leaned over the sink and tossed the potato into the wooden bowl.  Eyeing her crème-colored serving dish that rested to the right on the counter, she decided to peel two more potatoes.  Her mouth watered as the steam of homemade chicken soup filtered through the angled pot lid, across the counter, and to her nostrils.  She inhaled, thinking that she could fool her hungry stomach.  In fact, she was nauseous again, and she’d only eaten two orange Whoopie pies.  Her stomach tilted as she tossed the last potato into the wooden bowl.  Why was she getting sick after eating sugar again?

First, the potatoes had to be sliced for creamy German potato salad.  Next, would be the Shoofly pie, which was already ready to go into the oven of the wood-burning stove. A long, drawn-out yawn slowly left her mouth as she quartered the potatoes.  Maybe the singing at Margot’s haus would wake her up.  She’d been so scared for Margot, after the bishop and Benjamin’s skit that she had enticed her family and the Millers, who lived two miles down the road, to join them in singing hymns from The Ausbund to Margot. 

If truth be told, she wanted to do everything for Margot to alleviate some of the guilt that she had hidden in her chest.  What she had done wasn’t right, and she knew it.  She was glad that only Gott and she knew her secret accusations. The doctor had told her to eat more protein during her gestational diabetes, so she had added extra chunks of farm-raised chicken into the broth.  She preferred her own chicken because it had a sweeter, moister texture that the fast-food places that they stopped at on their way down to Pinecraft, Florida for vacation.

Putting the potatoes into the boiling water, the chicken soup from the pot that sat next to it teased her palate.  She slid the lid off, dipped the wooden ladle into it, and lifted it up to her mouth.  The simmered broth already warmed her bones before she even blew to cool it and then tasted of it.  Her palate thought it was delightful, but another half hour of simmering would make it exceptional, so she slid the lid back on.  Life was perfect, and she vowed to never say anything negative about anyone else.  The Christmas play had been successful: it had changed her life.  She walked over to the flickering oil lamp and seen a ting hand-written note, in Benjamin’s writing style: 

Mamm, you, Margot, the Bishop and I, are in a play.  Margot gets killed, and you are to explain that life is better with Jesus that without him.  Get creative, mamm!

 

Love,

Benjamin