A gnawing sense of guilt defines my life, yet I am too obstinate to fess up to the sin which so easily besets me. What I want to do and what I ought to do get ferhoodled in my head and in my heart. This is especially trying when it comes to my twice-weekly visits to Cousin Julia Ranck’s, where I am hired to help with her two young children and do some light housekeeping . . . and where I spend time working alone in the little attic room created just for me, my undisclosed haven. There, I take a measure of joy in the world of forbidden color—paint, canvas, and brushes—this secret place known only to my Mennonite kinfolk, and to the Lord God himself.
Deep on the inside, though, where it matters most, my heart is torn. I have striven to follow in the Old Ways since childhood, to match the expectations of my parents and the church, only to fail.
It annoys me no end that some Amish bishops allow for artistic expression, permitting their people to create and sell art, while our bishop does not.
I was just six when my preacher-father’s probing brown eyes did all the reprimanding necessary to stir up shame in my soul when I was caught wistfully drawing a sleek black kitty, high in the haymow. From then on, I learned to hide my art from prying eyes, even though I wished for a way to put a stop to it altogether.
Usually Daed had only to read out loud the Fifty-first Psalm for me to see the folly of my ways: Have mercy upon me, O God . . . blot out my transgressions. . . . King David’s words rang ceaselessly in my ears until the next ‘‘holy scolding’’ for other acts of childish immaturity, though not again related to my pencil drawings . . . till I was caught again at age fourteen.
Have mercy, indeed.
There were times as a girl when I would sooner have welcomed a lickin’ than the righteous gaze of my lanky, bearded father. It seemed he could see straight through to my heart. He had an uncanny way about him when it came to that, as well as the way his sermons stuck in my head for months on end. More times than I can count, I endured his deliberate silence, followed by his deeply drawn sigh and then a belabored reading from the Scriptures.
Unlike my six brothers—three older and already married, and three younger and looking to get hitched—I have never had the switch applied to my ‘‘seat of learning.’’ Seeing as how some mules round these parts are less stubborn, it sure says a lot for the patience of my father, at least toward me.
Here lately, I have been urged to join the communion of earthly saints—our local Amish district. And since I marked my twentieth birthday back the end of April, I am keenly aware of concerned faces at nearly every gathering. Daed is doubly responsible under God on my behalf, Mamm says frequently, beseeching me to heed the warning. If I keep putting off my decision, well, that alone will become a choice, and in due time, I will have to leave the community of the People. I don’t see how I could ever up and leave behind my family and all that I know and love.
But what gets my goat is the intense expectation regarding my upcoming decision. Joining church won’t make me a good person. I know that. I live in this community; I know what makes most of these folk tick. Some live double lives, just as I’m living now—teen boys who take advantage of tipsy girls behind the bushes at corn-husking bees, and young women who parade around in pious cape dresses but whose hearts do not measure up to the Holy Scriptures. Most of this comes from our unbaptized youth, during rumschpringe. Still there is plenty of two-facedness. We’re all human after all.
Alas, another sin has embedded itself within my soul: loving Rudy Esh and leading him to think I would marry him one day. Rudy formerly held the number one spot in my heart, even ahead of the Good Lord. But now, after three solid years of courting me, he has found a new sweetheart-girl. I’m obliged to show kindness where they’re concerned, the utmost tolerance, too . . . things expected of me but increasingly difficult to demonstrate with any amount of sincerity. Handsome Rudy is soon to become a baptized church member and, no doubt, husband to his new sweetheart. Although I cared deeply for him, and he for me, I never shared with him my obsession with fine art. And since I wasn’t ready to put any of that aside to join church, which is required before a wedding can take place, I am largely at fault for our breakup. He must surely be relieved, having pulled his hair out, so to speak, because of my resistance. ‘‘Heaven sakes, Annie,’’ Rudy would say time and again, ‘‘why can’t you just make the church vow and be done with it?’’ My answer always exasperated him: ‘‘I’m not ready.’’ But I couldn’t say why.
So I’ve lost my first and only love, which saddens me no end. Not that I should be bold enough to plead for his affection again, even though I was steady in my fondness for him from age seventeen till he decided he preferred Susie Yoder’s company. All this adds up to three wasted years of faithfulness, to be sure . . . and now I am as lonely as ever a girl could be. A few years ago I would have shared this sorrow with my best friend, Essie, but lately my former playmate seems weighed down with her own set of grown-up problems.
Truth be told, only one other person knows about my fractured heart. My secret thoughts are safe with Louisa Stratford, an English girl who lives far away in Colorado. At twenty-two, she is engaged to be married, and for that I am most happy, seeing as how we’re wonderful-good friends. Even though Louisa is fancy and I’m Plain, she’s been reading my letters and writing back since she was nearly eleven years old. And if she hadn’t sent that first drawing in her little letter—those delicate blossoms of forget-me-nots—so long ago, I might never have wondered if I, too, possessed any real talent.
I wish I could honor her by attending the splendid wedding she and her mother are planning. The thought of a big-city wedding in a faraway place surrounded by flowers and candles and girls in colorful dresses entices me terribly . . . things never, ever seen at an Amish wedding. Such things described in Louisa’s letters have me completely intrigued, I daresay.
Naturally, I would stick out to kingdom come if I were brazen enough to go. Still I stare curiously at the pretty invitation with its raised gold lettering and wonder what it might be like.
Mamm would say it is out of the question to consider such a trip, even though I’m a grown woman. I can hear her going on and on about her fears. You might get lost or worse in the maze of the hustle-bustle. You’ve never left Lancaster County, for pity’s sake! You might get yourself kidnapped, Annie Zook! Even so, I have yet to turn down my dear friend.
Honestly, my mother is wound tighter than a fiddle string when it comes to her children and grandchildren, often reminding my eldest brother, Jesse Jr., twenty-six, and his wife, Sarah Mae, to keep close watch on their two youngest, especially come dusk. ‘‘You can never be too careful,’’ she has said for the ten-thousandth time. It’s not her fault, only an indication that not a soul has ever forgotten how dreadful it was for one of our own little ones to be stolen away, right here in the middle of Paradise. A heavenly-sounding sort of place, but one that’s seen its share of heartache and mystery.
Here lately I’ve been going and standing beside Pequea Creek, staring at the well-known thicket of trees where little Isaac was snatched from the People . . . where I sometimes would swing double with him on the long tree swing. Where Isaac and I—and our brothers—often tossed twigs into the creek, watching them float away to who knows where.
Now I can’t help wondering if I dare paint that setting in all its autumn beauty, as another side to the sad story. Perhaps by spreading the radiance of pastel gold on a canvas, I might somehow lessen the ominous side of the now-tranquil scene . . . even though my hand will surely tremble as I do, recalling Mamm’s telling of the terrifying ordeal. When a bad thing happens to one family, it happens to us all, my mother says.
If that is true, then Rudy breaking off our courtship will also cause a wrinkle on the page of my life and everyone else’s, too. For one, my future children—Daed’s and Mamm’s would-be grandchildren—will not have his gentle eyes and auburn hair, nor his fun-loving disposition. But even worse, I may never have babies at all. Yet if I were to abandon my paints and brushes in order to join church and marry, would I ever be truly happy? And yet . . . since I gave up the chance to wed a good Amish boy like Rudy, will I ever again know love? Oh, such a troublesome dilemma I face, and one that continually torments my soul.