Chapter 21
C HAPTER 21
A FTER HE LEFT ON THAT MONDAY, SHE FELT A NEW GRATITUDE FOR her home and the comforts she enjoyed every day without thinking. A glass of water, a chair to sit in, clean clothes, and a variety of food. The comfort of the back porch on a warm evening, the sound sleep after tumbling onto her mattress covered in clean sheets.
But there was something else that dogged her thoughts. She had done it. She had accomplished the impossible. Somewhere inside of her, she’d found the strength to walk those miles in three days. She relived the feeling of being strong, of being a warrior, which was embarrassing now, even causing her to cringe, but she had felt that way.
Perhaps there was a lesson somewhere, one she could not yet decipher on the blueprint of her life. And now there was Steve. He was in her life, and he was not going away. It was so scary.
But she mowed grass and worked in her garden, canned red beets and green beans, tomatoes, and zucchini relish. She went to work for Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Hatch, collected her cash, and drove Honey to the local bulk food store for groceries, humming and whistling like Steve.
He sang a song called “It Is Finished,” which was a beautiful song, one that made tears come to her eyes, the same way the Mennonite songs had done. She found herself humming the same tune, but certainly didn’t understand those complicated words. What was finished?
She greeted the proprietor, Annie Stoltzfus, a single girl who made a good living selling groceries to the local folk. Annie was a tall girl of considerable build, the traditional wide hips of the German ancestry, a pleasing smile coupled with confidence.
“ Vell, hiya Mary.”
“Hello, Annie.”
She drew a card from the line, turned to go back, and was stopped with a resounding, “I heard you went on a hike with your chappie from Lancaster.”
Mary went cold, then felt the heat rush to her face. Stalling for time, she dug in her purse for a Kleenex, her grocery list, anything.
“Who is he?” she asked, chortling in that way she used when she had latched on to an entertaining morsel of gossip.
“Oh, here it is. Whew. Thought I’d lost my list.”
Annie waited.
“Come on, Mary. You’re stalling.” Annie said, smiling broadly.
“Steve. His name is Steve Riehl.”
“So you’re schtick (dating)? “
“Uh, no. He’s a . . . a cousin. A cousin on my mother’s side.”
She felt the palms of her hands slick with perspiration.
“A cousin? Your mother wasn’t a Riehl.”
“No he’s . . . his mother is a sister. Well, not a full sister, but, ach , Annie. I’m not good with this type of thing.”
Annie pursed her lips, drew her eyes into sharp focus, brought a laser beam straight into Mary’s evasive, bewildered eyes.
“I’ll have to get out my Fisher book. What’s his dad’s name?”
Before she could think of a proper reply, she blurted out, “I don’t know.”
“ Ach Mary, now come on. A cousin and you don’t know his parents?”
Almost, Mary grinned and admitted her lie, but the fear of being caught by members of the ministry, those who were in authority and looked out for the well-being of her soul, kept her frozen. To be caught in a sin, to push the boundaries of the church, was humiliating and shameful, the following formal confession the worst thing she could imagine.
She followed up with some stumbling nonsense, pushed her cart away from Annie, and blindly searched for unknown items. She was only digging her hole deeper, with a cold fear gripping her, the fear of being caught in a lie. She was caught by God. He had his ears open, had heard every word.
Her heartbeat drummed in her chest as her ears roared with pressure.
She imagined a fearful God, cloaked in pure white, his eyes blazing with the wrath of his displeasure. A lie. She had spoken a lie outright. She had to fix this somehow, but her spirit flagged within. Her courage hid behind her pride, the pride coupled with fear and dogged by humiliation.
She inhaled deeply, exhaled, brought her watery eyes into focus, desperate to still the panic that was steadily rising. Oatmeal. Brown sugar. Flour.
Only by repeating the simple names of food items could she finish her shopping as she stilled the storm in her mind.
“Hiya, Rachie,” she heard Annie sing out.
“ Schoena myat ,” was the thin reply.
Mary tried to avoid Rachie, but then faced her as she approached the register.
“ Vell , Mary. Vee bischt ?” Rachel said quietly, her kind face without guile.
“ Goot .”
Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, as if she was choking on the large chunk of sin contained in her body. She kept her eyes averted, afraid that if one as pure as Rachel penetrated her gaze, she could see the startling depth of her turmoil. The lie sat on her nose like a hideous tumor, in plain view of these two women who were obedient, who carried their cross daily, and would inherit eternal life. She swallowed, turned away, the set of her shoulders giving away the tension in her body.
Luckily, Rachel turned away, pushed her cart into an aisle, and began to load items into it. Mary reached the register, keeping her eyes hidden from Annie. How had she found out? The question burned in her mind, creating an even bigger confusion. She had not told anyone, had she?
“You work for Erma Hatch, don’t you?” Annie asked in hushed tones.
“Yes,” Mary answered in a stifled voice.
“She said you canceled, then went on to tell me why. She said you went hiking with your boyfriend. She was so glad to tell me you had a friend.”
Almost, Mary confessed the lie, but her fear of being less than perfect kept her from it. She mumbled a denial of having a friend, said she wasn’t dating anyone, that Erma Hatch was mistaken.
Wisely, Annie kept her peace, smiled, and totaled the line of grocery items, but bent toward her and whispered, “Come visit me sometime, and we’ll talk.”
Mary couldn’t answer, only shot her a frightened look, before digging in her purse for her wallet. She found the amount she needed and began to throw items in plastic bags, her heart racing. Thoughts of losing her mind terrified her, the times she’d barely managed to hold it together, and now her sin was compounded, one piled on top of the other. The things she’d done! The unspeakable ways in which she had indulged the flesh. God’s displeasure rode on her shoulders as never before.
She remembered nothing of her ride home, the specter of accusing demons bringing down the reins on Honey’s back, the horse startled into a fast trot, then faster as Mary applied taps of the buggy whip. It was only when she was putting her groceries away, opening cabinet doors, wiping pantry shelves before emptying flour and sugar into Tupperware containers, that her rapid breathing slowed, and tears of frustration rose to the surface.
Oh, pathetic mortal she was. Vile, filled with sin rotting her from the inside out.
A thought broke through the shame and misery. Yes. She would change the color of her blinds, the last admonition from her sainted father. She would bring all the lust of the eyes into subjection, would obey his words to the letter, carry her cross gladly, willingly, if only it would allow her to rise above this.
She measured the windows, adrenaline flowing through her veins now as she worked, measuring from tip to tip. Then she wrote a letter to the store, promising a check in the mail as soon as the blinds arrived.
Dark green blinds were the required decor for many years, a signal for passersby that a plain family dwelt within. The only other acceptable curtains were homemade, stretched on a rod halfway up the window frame, necessary for privacy only. Over the years, the rule for curtains had been pushed to the limit, plain housewives who were hungry for beauty or fashion lifting the curtain rods higher and higher until they were on top of the window frame, with tie backs, creating a thing of beauty like they saw in magazine pictures.
Eventually, there were many other forms of window coverings, until there was no difference in one house from the neighbor’s, whether they were English, Mennonite, or whatever.
Here in conservative New York, however, the rule of green roll-down shades was observed, mostly. Complying with the rules assuaged her guilt over lying to Annie. What a relief flowed through her veins as she told herself the final victory was within reach, the last bit of the flesh and earthly desires conquered, in spite of her misdeed at the store.
W HEN THE BLINDS arrived, she eagerly took down the almond-colored ones and replaced them with forest green. She stood back with her arms crossed and surveyed her domain. Very Amish. She pursed her lips, squared her shoulders, exulted in the sight of her own obedience.
She took a deep breath and waited. She cleared her throat, sat on the reclining chair, and waited again. The clock ticked, the muted sound coupled with the sound of chirping sparrows on the porch.
Honestly, she felt nothing at all. But then, a blessing was invisible, which meant no one could actually see or feel it, so she would go about her day’s work and believe she had attained it.
Oh, it was good and precious, this giving up your own desires. Nothing more would be required of her now. She had reached the pinnacle of self-denial.
She fixed a salad for her supper, with fresh tomato and cucumbers from the garden, sat on the back porch in her lovely chair, and surveyed the backyard garden with appreciation. Yes, she was grateful, more than grateful, for the comforts of her home, and the health to work and make the small mortgage payment.
There really was nothing more she would need in life. Her mind wandered back over the days of hiking with Steve, and the discomfort of a few days of hard walking. Always, her thoughts returned to the episode at the falls, and the need to stand fast to her truth. But now, since she had come under full obedience of the ordnung by changing the color of her blinds, she should be able to help Steve even more, having chosen the way of truth. Yes, her father had often warned her of these fer-fearish times, and now she’d encountered one and remained steadfast.
A sense of peace washed over her, and she sat back, relaxed. But that evening, when the twilight was erased by nightfall, the crickets set up their grating clamor and nighthawks screeched from tree limbs, the peace was replaced by remembering the outright lie she’d told Annie, together with the fact she’d paid four hundred dollars for a porch chair that was far too worldly, and she’d pleased the lust of the eyes when she bought it. The knowledge of wrongdoing kept her awake, her breath coming in short hard puffs until her bed tilted at wrong angles, and she felt as if she might faint.
Despair gripped her. She climbed out of bed, drew on a light housecoat, and groped her way to the kitchen. She found the battery lamp and clicked the button, flooding the room with light.
She knew she had to make the lie right at all costs. She had to tell Annie. Humiliation must be borne. It was good for the soul. The desperation for a clean conscience, for lasting peace, became a driving force as she picked up the battery lamp and carried it into the living room to view the forest green blinds.
She had done it, denied all her earthly desire for beauty. Why was she consumed by more thoughts of sin? The lie. It was the lie.
As she struggled to quiet her racing heartbeats, she was consumed by the inner conviction that she must hitch up Honey and go to see Annie.
Yes, that was all it would take.
Calmed now, she made a cup of chamomile tea, carried it to the back porch, and sat in the dim, starry light, the fir trees surrounding her etched against the night sky. She could sense the cool moisture of fallen dew, the scent of wet grass and dew-covered vegetation in the garden.
She would tell Annie, then write a stern letter to Steve, which would multiply the blessing she deserved. A vehicle passed on the road below, and somewhere, a cat screeched hideously, then another. She shivered, thought of her father’s warning, how the devil took on the form of a lion, prowling around and seeking whom he may devour. She should look that up in the Bible, but had no idea where it would be found. Besides, her father’s words were true and good, but you could take anything out of the Bible and twist it around to your own way of thinking. That’s what he always said.
H ER FACE WAS pale, the freckles darkened by the sun, her breathing in short, hard puffs, her covering drawn forward over her red hair and most of her ears, the plain fabric of her navy blue dress faded by many washings as she stepped through the door of the store, the bell tinkling, like the knell of perdition announcing her sin.
Annie looked up from writing at her cash register, her small eyes alight with interest.
“Why Mary. Hiya. Guta marya .”
“ Guta marya .”
“Did you forget something?” Annie inquired.
Mary’s eyes darted furtively, searching the small store for customers, then came to rest somewhere between Annie’s eyes and mouth.
“Uh, no. I didn’t forget anything. I mean, yes, I guess I did. I have to make something right. I . . . uh . . . you know, I told you I went hiking with a cousin. He isn’t my cousin. He . . . I mean, I said a schnittza .”
Annie’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t want to have to confess in church?”
Annie’s eyebrows lowered, and she made a grunting sound in her throat.
“Why would you do that?”
“It would be found out, and someone would disapprove and tell the ministers.”
“ Ach , Mary. Just for hiking together?”
“At any rate, can you forgive me for lying?”
“Of course. I’m just sorry you felt you had to lie about such a trivial matter. I’m sure Jesus forgave you the moment you asked Him to, but thank you for coming to tell me. I do appreciate it.”
Almost, Mary nodded, but she caught herself. She had not thought to ask Jesus for forgiveness. She had a hard time with the thought of Jesus, let alone asking Him for something He wouldn’t supply without making it right first. She’d ask God tonight. Not really Jesus. She felt more comfortable approaching the Gott she had always heard about, the one who sat on His throne and scowled down on wrongdoers, giving them what they deserved. The thought of talking to Him wasn’t pleasant, but at least she could understand that God. Jesus, not so much.
“Mary.”
Mary looked up, startled to find the small eyes filled with a tender light.
“You seem to be anxious. Is there something else you wanted to say?”
Instantly, Mary was defensive. “No, of course not.”
Mistrust clouded her vision. Nosy old thing, digging around with more information to spread through the community. She spun on her heel and walked out, her head held high. Annie watched after her, then shrugged her shoulders and went back to her writing.
Driving home, Mary was filled with indignation and embarrassment. Well, Annie didn’t have to know she hadn’t even thought of asking Jesus for forgiveness. Anyway, she had to make it right with Annie first. It was complicated, this forgiveness thing.
You had to repent first, then go to the person you sinned against, then begin to pray, and often, it took repeated applications. And even then, the sin was to be kept as a reminder that you were nothing but a worthless person with a wretched heart. In her father’s words, “no one knows how often we sin, nor how much we sin against God. Even King David cried out in despair for God to search his heart.”
Yes, the road was very narrow, and few would be chosen. That was the truth, the real and awful fact. She would have to write to Steve this very evening to save him from the broad way filled with worldly views and attitudes.
She concocted a letter, which started with the danger his soul was in and ended with rejoicing that she herself had finally attained the elusive blessing through replacing her blinds. She only needed to sell the four-hundred-dollar chair now. She hoped he would see his error, realize he’d been misled by those men at the waterfall, turn from his ways, and find the same peace that she was now experiencing.
W HEN HE RECEIVED the letter, the smile on his face turned to a scowl, then a slight shaking of his head. He crumpled the letter and threw it on his bed.
He was outraged, then patient, then filled with pity, after which he was consumed with the need to help her see. The obstacle to his path was her stubborn will and the voice of her father banging around in her head, blocking the light she so badly needed.
He trembled, he prayed, but in the end, he unwrinkled the letter and showed it to his parents, asking their opinion. He waited till the clamoring sisters had taken themselves off to bed, the only time of the day when a measure of peace existed in the farmhouse. His father read the letter aloud, his mother’s facial expression one of disbelief, then pity, then a shaking of her own head.
“Steve, Steve,” she said sadly, as his father’s voice faded away.
His father nodded in agreement.
“You sure you want to get involved?” he asked.
“I did. I mean, I do. But . . .”
“What happened on that hike, at the waterfall? What is she talking about?”
He told them in detail, including the two men who were through hikers, two men who would not appear to the Amish as being believers, but who felt the presence of God, and had shared their Christian faith. Mary had taken offense, saying he was misled and they were wolves in sheep’s clothing.
His father laughed, then shook his head soberly. “I don’t know the girl. I only know she seems to be misled herself and is completely unaware. She’ll never find salvation in the rules of the church, the poor thing. Is this how she was brought up?”
“Oh my, yes. Her father’s voice is her conscience.”
“And he died?”
“Yes.”
His father sighed. “Well, he did what he knew. We have no right to judge, and I’m so glad of that. We’re all at different places in our walks with God, so we leave all the judgment up to Him.”
His mother nodded. “Absolutely.”
She gave Steve a piercing look. “I would rather you forget about this girl, Steve, really. She is so embroiled in her own doctrine, and now, living in New York, she seems to be worse than she was here. She seems a bit . . . unhinged.”
For a long moment, Steve was quiet, his eyes downcast.
“You’re probably right, Mam. But I need to talk to her a couple more times, see if I can get through to her. I have never felt this way about anyone and was convinced this way was my future. But this letter is a tough one, for sure. She’s just so afraid. She’s afraid of her own confusion, afraid of what others think . . . she’s even afraid of Jesus, I think.”
“Well, there’s one thing for sure,” his father said, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. “She’s sincere, and I believe she feels she’s doing the right thing. But let me tell you one thing. Right now, she is not capable of love. Not the real kind. If you do decide to include her in your future, I assure you, you will have your work cut out for you. A long, bumpy road. She will mistrust you, criticize you, be jealous of you—the list goes on and on. I wish she could find a good counselor.”
“Not happening, Dat,” Steve said sadly. “They are the worst of the false prophets.”
“Then we suggest you let her go. Save yourself a life of heartache.”
“But I was so sure.”
“Give it time, Steve. Be patient and see what God has for you.”
His mother knew what she hoped God had for him, in the form of the girls’ new teacher, a Miss Sylvia King from Drumore, coming to board with her sister and her husband about half a mile down the road. Tall and willowy, graceful, with dark hair and a shy smile, well known in her area as the best teacher to put a problem school back on track, in her late twenties, it was a match made in Heaven, she was convinced. As so many mothers will do, she saw only the good in her son, expected the best in a potential wife, and would rail at the throne of grace for exactly this.
To saddle beloved Steve with this hive of bees was too much to contemplate, so she trusted God to steer him gently away, and hopefully straight into the long, graceful arms of Sylvia King.
But his father watched the struggle on Steve’s face and thought perhaps he was meant to pursue this troubled girl. If so, God would need to supply the love and wisdom to deal with the future. But to his way of thinking, it was like walking through a war zone, rife with land mines, or swimming an Amazonian river filled with ravenous crocodiles.
When Steve rose from his chair, he seemed aged, his movement slow as he thanked his parents. But once in the safety of his room, he fell on his knees and put his face in his hands, finding no words, only the groaning of a deeply troubled soul.
He saw her walking along, her face red from the heat, her feet crosshatched with blisters, the heavy pack chafing her shoulders, scowling in misery, but moving on, determined to keep up. She was honest, flopping at the base of that tree when she was exhausted, and he loved her for that rare glimpse of vulnerability. He loved her when she yelled at him, the pack hiking up her skirt, and he loved her when she sucked up ramen noodles, the juice running down her chin.
And when she walked ahead of him, and he saw the width of her, he found her attractive, a strong, well-built young lady who seemed to hold a place in his heart he didn’t understand himself.
She had so much going for her, but so much against her. If he carried out his own desire, he’d hop on a bus and leave for New York tomorrow morning. But he needed to be careful, to seek advice, knowing she wasn’t the ideal companion at all. But his feelings mattered, too. The hardest thing to do was to exercise patience, and often the answer lay in the path of most resistance.
He found himself smiling, thinking of her refusal to accept the thought of the through hikers as Christians. Well, for her, it was a tall order, but what a thrill it had been for him, to find the spirit of God swirling like beautiful, invisible banners above humanity, to touch down here, then there, in all manner of folk, in all manner of dress, each and every one a believer in Jesus, called to His service in all walks of life. In all honesty, nothing disgusted him quite like the spirit of the Scribes and Pharisees, the ones who elevated a person’s thinking of himself far above others. But Mary. Ach , but she’d been steeped in it, raised by the instruction to be above others, in word, in deed, in dress, in every aspect of life.
Would he need to understand that somehow?