In an Amish cemetery outside Apple Creek, Ohio, the writer walked along the row of graves. The names were like a litany, a roll call of these plain people who had entered his life long ago and now seemed like family—Hannah Hershberger, Jerusha Springer, Reuben Springer, Jonathan Hershberger, and now, at last, Jenny Hershberger.
Hearing a light step behind him, he turned. A lovely Amish woman stood there, dark auburn hair tight beneath her kappe, but with a stray lock escaping to challenge the world, so like her mother. Beside the woman stood a tall, handsome, blonde man who reached out to take his hand.
“Daniel, Rachel,” the writer exclaimed. “So good to see you again. I came as soon as I heard.”
Daniel nodded and Rachel patted his arm. “And it is good to see you, my friend.”
“She passed a few weeks ago.” Rachel nodded at the grave. “Her last words were of Jonathan, but she mentioned you, for she read the final book. When she finished, she said, ‘Now, at last, I have completed my work. With the help of my friend, I have told my family’s history through the eyes of the Hershberger women. Now, I can go.’”
Rachel brushed away a tear. “She so appreciated your help. When she knew she could not publish her books on her own, she wondered how she would tell the stories that burned inside her. Then du Lieber Gott sent you to her. As she saw the books unfold under your care, she knew you were the perfect one to write them. Now her journey is over. I thank you on behalf of my family for recording our chronicles with such a skillful hand.”
His looked down at Jenny’s grave, remembering his visits to her through the years. He remembered the way she smiled, how her kappe was always slightly askew, and her rebellious curls that fought to escape at the slightest breeze.
Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope. “She asked me to give this to you.”
He thanked her and opened it. Inside was a letter written in Jenny’s beautiful script.
My Friend,
I may not see you again, and so I write to you this last time. Thank you for being part of my life and sharing all that has made me who I am. Thank you for telling the story of Isabella. The story would not be complete without me adding that seven years after she died, her son, King John Sigismund, passed the Edict of Torda, which granted religious freedom to every faith in Hungary.
And with the telling of Isabella’s story, my story ends, too. As I write this, my memories of Apple Creek and Paradise are like early morning dreams—bits and pieces that emerge into sharp focus for just a moment and then fade to the dark edges of sleep. I see my mother, sitting at her quilting frame, her lovely brow knit in concentration as she works the magic of her gift. I feel her strong heart beating close to mine, reminding me once again that she was my place of safety and strength.
And there is my father, Reuben, sitting in his chair before the fire, the Bible in his strong hands, his face stern as he reads. Then he looks up at me and I see a smile behind his beautiful blue eyes. I remember Grossmüdder Rachel and my Englischer Grandfather Robert, snapshots in an album, yet always a part of me and who I am.
And Jonathan—I see my Jonathan as he was the day I met him—strong, handsome, but so lost. Yet, somehow, the hand of the Lord was guiding him even then, and he brought me Jonathan as the most precious gift I have ever received. From Jonathan came my Rachel, my daughter, a bright ray of sunshine amid the trials of this life.
Before me in my mind’s eye is the land, the land of my youth, the land of my marriage, the land of my old age, rolling away to the horizon, fertile and verdant. My people walk upon this land, their labor and love wrenching life from the soil. The land and the plain people, my family and my faith become one stream in my dreams—flowing from the distant past into a future yet unseen. These are my Apple Creek Dreams and my Paradise Chronicles.
Now it is time for you to tell your stories, the ones in your heart. When you do, keep spreading God’s message of hope. And if you find a place for me in those stories, remember me well.
Goodbye,
Jenny
The rays of the setting sun reached out to him in a golden embrace. The writer stood by the grave, head bowed. Feeling something run down his cheeks, he reached to wipe it away. Tears? For a moment, they surprised him—but then… He smiled and shook his head. No, not at all surprised...