Along Wooded Paths Read online

  “Do you think anyone will follow our trail?” Josiah’s voice raised in pitch. “Maybe if they’re lost they can come, and Mem will give them something to eat.”

  David nodded but didn’t comment. Marianna could almost see his response in his gaze. If someone were lost, would our line make a difference? Especially a line in the middle of the road.

  Marianna smiled, and then her lips fell. If only she had a clear path to follow on her own heart’s journey. Even a thin line nearly hidden in white snow would help. Would it lead her to Aaron, as she expected? Of course it would.

  She just needed to remind her heart.

  Aaron was alone downstairs when they entered the house. Mem was upstairs with the two younger children, and the boys decided to stay outside and work on their snow fort before it got too dark.

  Marianna went to sit by Aaron on the couch. “What are you doing?”

  “Just writing home. My mem asked what my plans were. I was telling her as soon as my leg is mended, I’ll be heading back. Dat’s been having an awful hard time keeping everything running without help.”

  Marianna nodded. “You know, I don’t think you should go back by yourself. I mean, even if the cast is off, you’re not going to be completely better. I was thinking when you do go back I should go with you. I can stay with Aunt Ida, and I’ve been wanting to look at that cabin anyways. I think it’ll really help with some of the decisions I have to make.”

  Aaron’s eyes grew wide. “Really, Mari?” He took her hands in his and gently kissed the tips of her fingertips. “You’ve made me so happy.”

  She smiled and pulled one of her hands from his, stroking his face. “I’m happy too, Aaron.” She spoke the words with a smile.

  If only she truly felt them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Marianna’s knees pressed against the quilt frame. It was Saturday, quilt circle day. Mem sat to her right. Mrs. Peachy to her left. Eve and Hope sat farther down, lost in their own conversation. Across from her sat Sarah.

  Marianna couldn’t count the number of hours she’d spent in quilting circles like this. She’d started when she was ten or so. Through the assistance of the ladies in the circle she learned how to sew, how to set pieces, how to do a running stitch, how to appliqué. She enjoyed the task, it was true, but she enjoyed the conversation even more. Here, she learned how to be an Amish woman. She listened to stories about chores, and family, and baking, and caring for kids. She heard about talk of husbands and tips on cutting expenses.

  Quilting day was something she wouldn’t miss unless she was ill, and even then some women showed up with a fever. Men weren’t allowed. Even if a husband gave his wife a ride, he’d get out of there as fast as he could. The one time her granddaddy had come in—trying to get out of the cold and hoping to be sociable with the women—she’d thought for certain the women would chase him out with a broom. It didn’t come to that, but close.

  Marianna looked down at the quilt in front of her, moving her needle through the quilt top, batting, and backing.

  Mrs. Shelter spoke up first, as usual. Even though she had a soft voice, she got her point across. “I know that many of us have been helping Jenny with childcare. I’ve seen it’s made a difference, haven’t you?” Apparently she’d asked the question not expecting an answer, as she continued on. “I took Kenzie home the other day because she’d had an accident and soiled her pants. While I was there, I noticed their cupboards were nearly bare. I thought if we all had a few jars to share . . . Canned goods. Extra flour.”

  The women murmured their agreement. Not one woman protested, even though Jenny was an Englischer.

  “She doesn’t cook gut.” At Marianna’s comment, all eyes turned to her. “Not saying anything against Jenny, she jest never learned. I’m teaching her some at work, but I thought if you could include an easy recipe.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you, Marianna.” Mrs. Shelter’s expression was both appreciative and thoughtful. In the Amish community, a young girl growing up not knowing how to cook was unheard of.

  Mrs. Peachy spoke up next, talking about the dinner she was going to prepare for all the bachelors at Thanksgiving. Marianna worked to hide her tight-lipped smile. It seemed the Peachy family was more interested in the single men than vice versa, but she guessed if the family tried hard enough, they’d find beaus for their girls.

  Marianna looked down at the quilt she was making. This one was for Annie. It was nearly ready to stick in a frame. After that . . . should she make the wedding quilt Aaron designed? She teared up at the thought of using their handprints for the border. But even as that idea moved her, she couldn’t help but think of the quilt she’d given Ben.

  Will he ever be out of my thoughts? Will it always be this hard?

  When she’d first started quilting, she’d planned for that original quilt to go into her hope chest and—if everything went as planned—use it on her wedding bed in her first home. She’d always pictured Aaron as her groom. Now . . .

  Heat rose up her neck. She’d given her wedding quilt to an Englischman. What had gotten into her? Giving her quilt to Ben was giving him a piece of her heart. Yes, that’s what it was. Each passing day that she hadn’t heard from him confirmed that fact.

  On some days she’d convinced herself that she’d just given him the quilt as a way of saying thank you. He’d helped them in so many ways. He’d also been the one to talk to her about God—to model what a closer relationship with Him looked like.

  But on days when she was more truthful with herself, Marianna knew she gave it to him because she wondered what it would be like to cuddle under the quilt with him as her husband. It was a shameful thought and one she’d confess to no one, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t let her mind wander there once or twice. She just didn’t let her mind dwell there when the thoughts did come.

  “So, Marianna, how’s your young man coming along? I hear he had an awful break.”

  “Oh, Aaron, yes.” Marianna pushed Ben out of her mind. “It was a pretty bad break, but he’s getting better. Not in so much pain. He’s up and around.”

  “So are you returning with him to Indiana when he gets better?” Mrs. Peachy’s hand moved her needle through the layers of fabric in neat stitches.

  Marianna scanned the faces—all leaned forward, awaiting her response, slight smiles on the women’s faces.

  “I’m still thinking about that. I think it will happen, although there are no exact plans—”

  “Is it true he’s already built a cabin for you?” Eve Peachy’s eyes were dreamy. “And to think he came all this way. I suppose it’s nice.”

  “I haven’t seen the cabin, but I’d like to some day.” Marianna turned her attention back to her stitching, hoping they’d get the hint. “Aaron is a nice man. I’ve know him since we were in school.”

  And that’s where her storytelling started. Before she knew it, Marianna had shared about when her and Aaron played Joseph and Mary in the school Christmas pageant. She’d talked about the herd of cattle he was building, the youth sings, and the way they’d watch each other over the fire. She even shared how he’d watched their train leave from the platform as they left Indiana. And with each story she remembered again why she’d cared for him so.

  Hours passed, more stories were shared, and when they were finished Marianna joined the ladies around Mrs. Peachy’s kitchen table. They’d all decided they’d be working on Marianna’s quilt next month, the one she was making for Annie. While the women passed around the plates of cookies, Marianna busied herself by helping Mrs. Peachy with the tea, spooning loose leaves into a strainer and boiling the kettle on the kerosene stove. While Marianna handled the tea, Mrs. Shelter sliced thick pieces of apple bread and apologized for her younger daughters not being there. Both were up the road caring for Hannah Shelter, who’d just had twins. Marianna smiled. What a gift for Sarah’s older brother and his wife. She also shook her head. She couldn’t imagine caring for two babies at once
.

  “Mari, we should be leaving.” Mem approached, tension clear on her face. “Dat just showed up with the buggy.”

  “Already, so soon?” Marianna glanced over at the desserts. “But why did he come already? We never leave this early.”

  Mem leaned close, lowering her voice. “I asked him to. Tomorrow’s church at our house.”

  “Mem, the house is already clean. We’ve been working on it for days.” But from the look in Mem’s eye, it was no use to complain. So Marianna rose and said good-bye to the others.

  Besides, remembering that tomorrow was church had made her anxious. Not that the house wasn’t clean enough—but nervous about what Dat was going to say.

  He’d been reading the English Bible, would it be evident in his words?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Their family had hosted church in their home many times over the years, but Marianna hadn’t ever been as nervous about it as she was today. The bench wagon arrived last night, and volunteers brought in the benches and set them up. Then today, as morning dawned, their neighbors arrived. The women sat on one side, in the kitchen area, and the men gathered in the living room. The service began with song.

  Marianna joined the others in singing the words from the Ausbund, their special hymnal. “Mer mis-se gla-we an sell was un-ser Harr un Un-ser. Hei-land Je-sus Cri-sti uns g’saagt hot.” And as she sang, the words translated in her mind. “We must believe in that which our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has told us.”

  Next came the ‘S Lobg’sang, “The Hymn of Praise.”

  O Gott Va-ter wir lo-ben dich

  Ynd dei - - ne . . .

  O, God, Father, we praise Thee,

  And extol Thy many blessings;

  That Thou hast, O Lord, proved

  Thyself again so merciful to us;

  And hast brought us together, Lord,

  To exhort us though Thy word;

  Grant us Thy mercy.

  As Marianna sang the words, they resonated in her heart. These hymns were old, written by martyrs who lost their lives in the sixteenth century. They represented deep humiliation and dependence upon God, their deliverer. This was important, but she’d never liked before how the words were sung with great sorrow and loneliness. Now she understood. The message was supposed to be sad. Giving up something you loved was hard.

  Yes, she had to give up Ben. But her ancestors gave up their families, their lives, their homes. Should she be consumed by such a small thing as surrendering her love for one man? It was big in her heart, yes, but not so big when she considered she’d still have someone to love and spend her life with, and that they’d live in a community that cared for each member.

  One more song was followed by a short sermon by one of their neighbors, and then all knelt for silent prayer. More often than not, Marianna’s mind wandered during this prayer time. As a child growing up she’d often count, seeing how high she got before the minister stirred and rose, alerting others to do the same. Later, she often used this time to think about Aaron. She replayed in her mind any looks or glances passed between them. She thought through the week and considered any conversations they’d had. And she imagined all the things she’d say when they were older and could share their feelings unhindered.

  But today her heart seemed to crack open within her. Everything she’d been holding inside all week poured out to God in prayer. The thoughts filled her mind, and her lips moved as she pictured Jesus sitting there, listening to every word. Yet it wasn’t in her home, next to her that she imagined Him. In her mind’s eye she saw Him at the pond behind her home. She imagined it was spring again, and they sat side-by-side on a log. She didn’t see His face, now as she could look into Aaron’s or Ben’s faces, but she felt His smile upon her. He wanted to be there for her. He wanted to listen and, in listening, carry her burdens too.

  From somewhere in the room Marianna heard Joy fussing, and children shuffling in their seats. As the prayer time ended, Marianna couldn’t hold back a smile. Her soul held a lightness that hadn’t been there that morning. She rose, renewed, as if she’d just taken a sip from a cool spring.

  They all stood for the reading of a Scripture—the women facing their bench, and the men facing the opposite direction. Uncle Ike was reading today. He opened the German Bible and read the Scriptures in High German—just as had been done from the time of their ancestors. As he read the words, tears filled his eyes and Marianna’s heart clenched tight within her.

  What caused those tears? Many of the bishops and other ministers back home cried and poured much emotion into their message, but that hadn’t been her uncle’s way.

  His pitch and tone rose, and the emotion in his voice did too. Deep down Marianna had a feeling his tears came from finally understanding what he was reading. It was not just words—just tradition. The words were written for them.

  Next came the longer sermon. Dat rose to preach. He stood by the front door so he would have a clear view of both groups, and all eyes were turned upon him.

  “We will be reading from Acts, chapter 4 today, but first I must tell you I have more questions than answers. I’ll be speaking of caring for our neighbor, and too often I’ve fallen short. I’m unworthy to share a message with you today, but I hope that maybe just a few of my words will be worthy of consideration.”

  The people around the room nodded, as they did for any bishop or teacher. One would never start a sermon in a prideful way. Instead, ministers let the others know they were flawed humans, with many weaknesses of their own.

  Marianna held her breath as Dat reached down to the bench for his Bible. Did he dare bring the English book out? Seeing the German Bible, she released a breath, surprised at the disappointment that struck her. Reading in English would have helped everyone understand so much better.

  “The passage I’m reading is from Acts 4:32–33. `Alle in der Gemeinde waren ein Herz und eine Seele. Niemand betrachtete sein Eigentum als privaten Besitz, sondern alles gehörte ihnen gemeinsam. Mit großer Überzeugungskraft berichteten die Apostel von der Auferstehung Jesu, und alle erlebten Gottes Güte’.” After he finished, he paused, scanning the crowd.

  “And for those of you who would appreciate hearing the words in English, I have memorized it for you.” He cleared his throat and then continued. “‘All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of their possessions was their own, but they shared everything they had. With great power the apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus. And God’s grace was so powerfully at work in them all.’”

  It was not good to be prideful, and yet that’s what welled up within her. Dat hadn’t brought out the English Bible, yet he’d shared its message. Marianna scanned the crowd, looking for anger on the faces. Amazingly everyone continued to listen as Dat talked about how the Amish community supported each other in numerous ways. Folks in the room seemed to be listening intently.

  As her father preached, he presented his message in the singsong manner of the Pennsylvania German dialect.

  “Ya, ich glaab sell isz recht,” Uncle Ike called.

  All eyes turned to him. Though he’d only said he thought what Dat was preaching was right, the other men looked displeased. Calling out like this was not their way, yet Marianna wished she was brave enough to do the same.

  When it was time for the second, longer sermon, Marianna’s full attention was on her father. His face seemed flushed. Had the room gotten too warm for him? Or maybe it was all the eyes upon him.

  Dat paused, as though to collect his thoughts. Like every other minister, he spoke without notes. “The Scriptures, we know, speak of judge not that ye be not judged. It is important, and I believe as a community we can be an example to others. I’m not only talking about being an example to other Amish, but to the Englisch. It is not accident that God has brought us here to live among them. Yet are we living the type of lives they could model themselves after? ’Tis a good question to ask, ja?”

  Marianna
looked around the room. As always happened, a few of the older men had dozed off. A few men—Uncle Ike and Sarah’s father, Mr. Shelter—nodded. But most of the others seemed distracted. Small children snacked on cereal. One mother opened her handkerchief to show her child a small toy tucked away. The woman gazed at her son as he played, and from the look on her face she didn’t even notice Dat was speaking.

  “Even though we have chosen to live by the traditions of our ancestors, we must remember our salvation comes through Jesus Christ alone.” Dat scanned those listening. “We do not judge each other because that is not our place. But some day Amish and Englisch alike will stand before God in heaven and He’ll have one question to ask, ‘Did you know My Son?’”

  Dat continued for an hour, sharing stories from God’s Word about men and women who’d done great things for God. He also shared stories of those who’d failed at having faith in God as they should. After each story, he returned to the point. “They too will be asked the same question. Jest like you and I. Jest like our neighbors down the road. ‘Did you know My Son?’”

  When he finished, Dat followed tradition and asked for zeugnis—for other men to testify that what he’d preached was God’s word. Marianna’s heartbeat quickened as many men shared their encouragement.

  As the service came to a close, announcements were made about the women’s Saturday morning gathering at the West Kootenai Kraft and Grocery, and the fact the service in two weeks would be held at the Shelter’s home.

  The service ended, and everyone rose and spoke among themselves. A few men hurried outside to grab the legs that would convert their benches into tables for lunch.