Chapter 13
When Jude bowed his head the following Sunday to begin the time of silent prayer during the church service at the Hartzler place, his fingertips reveled in the crisp, smooth texture of the new white shirt he was wearing. Denki, Lord, for Lenore’s sewing skills and for the way her presence has brought peacefulness into our home, he prayed. It’s a pleasure—and a relief—to see my girls wearing dresses of a more appropriate size, and to watch Stevie blossom like a springtime flower in the sunshine of his grandmother’s love.
At the end of the prayer, Deacon Saul Hartzler stood up with the large German King James Bible to read the passage of Scripture that Bishop Jeremiah would expound upon during the morning’s second sermon. Saul was a burly man, and his rolling voice filled the huge room, which had been expanded by the removal of some interior walls. “Today’s reading comes from the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, beginning with verse thirty-one. Hear the word of the Lord,” he said as he located the verse with his finger. “ ‘When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit on the throne of his glory: And before him shall be gathered all the nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats,’ ” he read with gusto. “ ‘And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.’ ”
Stevie elbowed Jude, smiling brightly. “We keep Leah’s sheep separate from the goats, huh, Dat?” he whispered.
Jude nodded, his finger across his lips as he hugged his perceptive young son. It was wonderful, how much Stevie had learned since Leah had become his mother, his teacher.
“‘Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world,’ ” Saul read in a grand voice. “‘For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger and ye took me in: Naked and ye clothed me: I was sick and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.’ ”
Stevie’s eyes widened. “Naked?” he mouthed in silent surprise.
Jude smiled, recalling how such a word captured a boy’s attention—especially in church—at Stevie’s age. It was such a blessing that his son was paying attention to this important story instead of doodling with paper and pencil, as he and the other young children often did during church.
Deacon Saul’s eyes widened with the drama of the story, as though he were one of the puzzled disciples listening to Jesus’ teaching. “‘Then shall the righteous answer him, saying Lord, when saw we ye hungred and fed thee? Or thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger and took thee in? or naked and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee?’” he asked as he gazed out over the crowd.
Everyone sat quietly, in focused expectation, awaiting the answer to one of the Bible’s most important questions even though they’d heard the story many times.
Saul kept them waiting an extra moment before he continued. “ ‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, 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.’ ” Saul closed the big Bible with a satisfied thump. “Thus ends this reading of His holy word. Let all those who have ears hear it and believe.”
When the deacon had taken his seat, Bishop Jeremiah stood and began the longer main sermon of the morning. Sunday clothing rustled as folks shifted on the pew benches. Jude peered between the heads of the older men who sat in front of him, and gazed at Leah, who sat about halfway back on the women’s side, across the huge front room. She, too, wore new clothes today, and the pumpkin-colored cape dress Lenore had made showed off her lovely complexion. When she smiled and lifted little Betsy to her shoulder, Jude’s heart sang at the sweetness of the picture they made. Someday soon, he hoped it would be their new wee one she looked after during church.
“Since we last met to worship Him, our Lord has provided yet another opportunity to care for someone to whom He refers as ‘the least of these,’ ” Jeremiah began in a resonant voice. “You may have heard by now that Jude and Leah Shetler found a baby on their front porch a little while ago. I was pleased to hear that so many of you responded generously, loaning them baby clothes, bottles, and other supplies,” he continued with a nod. “As we hold little Betsy in our daily prayers, let us also remember the young mother who felt so desperate and incapable of raising her child that she abandoned it.”
All around him, Jude saw folks nodding—although a few, who were hearing about Betsy for the first time, raised their eyebrows in surprise.
“It also behooves us to talk about this situation with our young people, whether they be your children or your neighbors’ children,” the bishop insisted. For a moment, Jeremiah’s gaze lingered upon his twin nieces before he scanned the rest of the congregation. “While it’s not our purpose here to condemn the English, we must remember that their ways are not our ways—and that their worldliness often leads to temptations and a separation from God that might have caused Betsy’s anonymous mother more problems than we can imagine.”
Again Jude noted that folks were nodding in agreement, following the bishop’s message with concern etched on their faces. Most families in the Morning Star church district had teenagers or kids in their early twenties. Over the years he’d known of a few girls who’d left town supposedly to care for elderly relatives—and had returned after several months with secrets they weren’t telling. It was sad to think about the babies they’d given up . . . and unfortunate that other girls resorted to urgent courtships with unsuspecting young men who married them only to discover a different sort of secret shortly after the wedding.
Forgive me, Lord, for dredging up old resentments and for wondering what my life would be like had Frieda not deceived me, Jude thought with a sigh. Remind me what a blessing Frieda’s children have been through the years. Remind me that forgiveness demands more than lip service—that it’s meant to wipe the slate clean and bring a peaceful resolution.
Jude felt anything but peaceful, however, when he saw Adeline and Alice rolling their eyes at the bishop’s words. Would they comply with Amish ways more willingly if their mother were still alive? It was a useless question, yet Jude had often wondered how much Frieda’s passing had affected their daughters and how much of the twins’ rebellion stemmed from their association with English boys.
“Young Amish men and women must realize the consequences of sexual relations outside of marriage—the ways a child conceived out of wedlock can disrupt their lives and their families,” Jeremiah continued urgently. “I realize that generations of Amish modesty have often prevented parents from discussing the facts of life with their kids, but perhaps it’s time to rethink our position of silence on this subject. We don’t do our young people—especially our daughters—any favors by leaving them uninformed about sex and conception.”
Several red-faced women in the room stared at Bishop Jeremiah as though he’d sprouted a second head. The men around Jude were shifting on the benches and glancing doubtfully at each other, too. Although their children often witnessed the mating of the animals on their farms and the births that followed, it was another issue altogether to discuss the specifics of human reproduction. Amish parents tended to let nature take its course, or to speak only in generalizations about proper behavior on dates and during courtship. Jude recalled that Dat had stammered only a few words about what the stallions and bulls were doing—and his mamm had never brought up the subject of sex to her two sons at all.
“What’s he gonna talk about now? Birth control?” one of the men behind Jude muttered under his breath. “If the bishop gets that progressive, I’m walking out.”
Jude bit back a smile when he noticed his mother’s flushed, downcast face across the room. His brother seemed to realize he’d pushed the envelope with his sermon, because he clasped his hands in front of him and remained quiet for a few moments.
“Mostly I’d like us to remind our young people to keep God’s commandments and to honor the Plain ways of peace and patience,” Bishop Jeremiah continued. “If I’ve made any of you uncomfortable, I apologize—but I believe God chose me years ago to be your bishop because He felt I had important things to say about how to keep our Amish lifestyle relevant as the rest of the world spins faster and faster around us. If you have comments or complaints, I’d like to hear them while we’re gathered for our common meal after the service.”
“Easy for Bishop Jeremiah to say, seeing’s how he’s got no kids,” Zeke Miller, who sat a couple rows ahead of Jude remarked to the man beside him.
“Jah, there were just no easy words—no convenient times—to discuss that subject when my youngsters were still at home,” Carl Fisher, seated on Jude’s other side, admitted softly. “The wife’s better at that sort of talk, but as far as I know she only told the girls about female stuff when they came of an age to deal with it.”
Jude nodded. “I suspect my brother has rubbed a few folks the wrong way, and that he’s going to hear about it.”
Bishop Jeremiah announced the number of the final hymn, so everyone picked up a hymnal and flipped through its yellowed pages. Carl’s brother Dan sang the first phrase, leading the congregation in a song that Amish believers had sung from the Ausbund for centuries. The words were in German, printed in phrases resembling poems without any musical notation. The tune had been passed down through the generations since the early days of the faith, led by men with an ear for singing the age-old melodies on pitch.
As they sang slowly, purposefully, through more than twenty verses, Jude’s mind wandered. He realized that this song—like many of their hymns—spoke not only about the necessity of loving God, but also warned against Satan and his wiles, describing the unwavering path a believer must follow to attain everlasting life. It occurred to Jude that the newest of the Ausbund’s hymns dated back to the 1800s, and most of the songs had been written in the 1500s.
Has God not inspired any new hymn writers for the past six centuries?
Jude blinked at this distracting thought. He hastily found the verse everyone else was singing and followed it with his finger, keeping his voice low as he sang. His question simmered on the back burner of his mind . . . because he’d also wondered now and again why no new books had been added to the Bible for the past several centuries. Did God have no modern prophets? Had no one since the apostle Paul and the four Gospel writers felt compelled to pen letters or accounts of God’s presence and direction in their lives?
Jude sighed to himself. Here’s the real question: Would our Amish bishops even accept additions to the hymnal—or just let us sing these old songs faster? Would they sanction using a more modern translation of the Bible? How many of our young people do we lose because the Amish faith seems outdated and irrelevant to them?
Even though Jude believed he was as faithful to God as every other person in the room, he knew of old, conservative bishops who might consider him a heretic if he dared to ask such questions aloud. And even though his brother was considered more progressive than most Amish bishops, Jude suspected he knew how Jeremiah would answer his questions, too—even though the future of their faith might be at stake.
What if God’s been talking to us all along, and we haven’t been listening? What must He think of us, His creation, if we no longer recognize His voice?
Jude sighed sadly. The Amish believed their faith was the one true way to gain salvation, yet no one dared to prophesy as the Old Testament prophets had, or to admit that he’d gotten advice directly from God—had clearly heard His voice. Once again Jude lost his place in the hymn they were singing, but it seemed inconsequential compared to the questions he was pondering.
When he glanced across the room, he noted that Alice and Adeline weren’t singing or even looking at the Ausbund as the long, slow hymn finally came to an end. In recent months he’d wished his daughters would participate more fully in church activities—and their remarks this past week about the burden of the Amish lifestyle had startled him.
If the leaders of our faith are so resistant to change, I’ll have to change my approach—the way I relate to my daughters and live as their example—if I’m to see them married to Amish men.
This revelation startled him.
After the service, everyone shared in the common meal and visited for most of the afternoon. As always, the young people went outside to socialize in the barn and play volleyball after they ate, the women clucked together in Anne Hartzler’s large kitchen, and the men sat solving the world’s problems around the tables that had been set up in the front room for the meal.
During the buggy ride home, Lenore sat in the seat behind Jude and Leah, with the kids filling the seat at the back of the family-size vehicle. Leah’s mamm bubbled with enthusiasm. “I was so tickled that the ladies in your congregation were asking about my special quilts,” she said, “and I was even happier when a few of them suggested we have a quilting frolic someday soon. What do you think of that idea, Leah? I know quilting isn’t your cup of tea.”
“Ah, but a frolic would be a gut way for me to get better acquainted with the women hereabouts,” Leah said quickly, turning to look at her mother. “They’re all very interested in Betsy now. And maybe having a baby to look after has made me seem less . . . odd to them.”
Jude grimaced to himself as he drove, although he sensed the accuracy of his wife’s remark.
“And truth be told,” Leah went on, “I’d feel more comfortable about such a gathering if you were there to keep the conversation lively, Mama. And if you girls would see to baking and serving the refreshments, it would be a nice party—a nice break from our daily routine—don’t you think?”
Alice sighed loudly. “Jah, whatever.”
“I guess we could tolerate it if the Flaud sisters and the Miller girls come,” Adeline put in. “It’s a sure bet we’ll be looking after Betsy and all the other little kids who’ll come with their mothers.”
“And speaking of kids and mothers,” Alice said with an edge to her voice, “you can forget about that talk you’re supposed to have about baby making and sex before marriage and all that. We already know that stuff, so let’s spare everybody the embarrassment, jah?”
Jude pivoted in the seat to gawk at his daughters, who had the nerve to smile at him as though sexual matters were an everyday, run-of-the-mill topic of conversation. “So who told you?” he blurted out.
Alice raised an eyebrow. “Our real mother. Years ago.”
“Certainly not Mammi Margaret,” Adeline said with a laugh. “She got so red in the face during Uncle Jeremiah’s sermon, I thought she was going to pass out.”
Jude turned around so he could keep his eyes on the road. His heart was hammering rapidly, even though he doubted the girls had received all that much pertinent information from Frieda. How was he supposed to respond to their nonchalance? Should he be worried that they’d gained their sexual information from close encounters with the English boys they’d been seeing?
“If that’s the case,” Lenore said boldly, “maybe we adults should have a question-and-answer session so you girls can fill us in on details we might not be aware of.”
“Or at the very least, we should write out a quiz and you can put your answers on paper,” Leah suggested without missing a beat. “It would be far less embarrassing to write about these matters than, say, to find out you’re carrying a baby and you don’t know how it happened—and you don’t know how to tell your family about your predicament, either.”
When Jude heard the girls suck in their breath, he reached for Leah’s hand. “Gut answer,” he whispered. “You nailed them, sweetheart.”
As he steered the horse into the lane that led to their home, however, Jude realized that it would take a lot more than the present-day prophets and the quicker singing he’d pondered in church to keep his daughters involved in the Amish faith.
Any help You can suggest would be extremely welcome, Lord, Jude prayed. Then, with a smile, he added, And I thank You for sending me Leah, who is truly the answer to the greatest questions of my everyday life.