Chapter 4
Moses forced himself to stand in the sitting room and watch as two uncles nailed down Dawdie’s coffin lid. They pounded the nails into place, and Moses felt like every nail stole a little bit more of his breath.
“Are you okay, sohn?” Daet asked quietly.
Moses looked over at his father. “I feel like I can’t breathe.”
Daet nodded. “Yah. But Dawdie is in a better place now. He’s not in that box.”
Tell that to Moses’s chest. He sucked in a deep breath, reminding himself that he could still get oxygen.
Those who had been talking outside started moving inside, including Miri, who moved to the women’s side of the room and then fixed her attention onto her shoes.
“I understand that feeling,” Daet murmured. “People aren’t created for death. It shocks the system when we’re faced with it.”
So maybe it was a good sign that he felt like he couldn’t breathe when that casket closed. It was a reminder that this wasn’t Gott’s plan for them. Not ultimately.
The closed coffin stayed where it was in the center of things, and the bishop began the service with a slow, mournful a cappella hymn, “In the Sweet By and By.” And that old, familiar hymn sung by the voices of his friends and family started to loosen Moses’s tight chest. There was agreement in prayer, when people prayed together for the same thing.
And there was agreement in song, when a congregation lifted their hearts with the same music.
“‘In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore . . .’”
The sermon was familiar—about their hope of heaven and Gott’s plan for them that included eternity.
The bishop talked about Tom’s own faith in Jesus and a life lived well.
Amish folks often said that if someone wanted to know if a man was a good neighbor, ask his neighbor.
And Tom’s neighbors could all attest that he’d been honest, reliable, and a good friend.
Moses noticed that Miri looked up then, and there were tears shining in her eyes. Dawdie had been a good neighbor to Miri, too, even though Moses had never quite understood his elderly grandfather’s friendship with her.
When the service was over and the last of the hymns were sung, a sea of black-clad friends and family followed the funeral buggy up the drive and out onto the road in a steady line of black-topped buggies headed toward the graveyard.
There were more hymns at the graveside, and after a prayer, it was time to lower the plywood casket into the ground.
Moses, Benuel, their daet, and their uncles each took a rope that went underneath the casket, and on the count of three, they all lifted and helped to lower Dawdie’s simple plywood casket into the hole.
Then Moses picked up a shovel, pushed down that rising feeling of claustrophobia inside of him, and helped to shovel the moist black earth back over the top of the casket until they’d filled the hole back up.
They would come back another day to plant grass over the mound.
This was all a heart could take for one day.
Daet clapped a hand on Moses’s shoulder.
“Bishop Hertzler has invited the family back to his house for the reading of the will,” Daet said.
“Why at the bishop’s house?” Moses asked. It was customary to have all the close family listen to the will being read, just so that there was no confusion over what was there, but normally one of the deceased’s sons would read it, not the bishop.
Daet shrugged. “Dawdie left the will with the bishop. I don’t know why.”
“Have you seen it?” Moses asked.
Daet shook his head. “Nee. Dawdie was very private about it. But we’d best be on our way to his place so we can hear who Dawdie left the farm to.”
Honestly, Moses hoped he’d be the one to inherit it. Benuel was married, but he also had a good job as a carpenter. Moses was the one helping Daet on the farm at home. He was the one who needed something of his own, some piece of the family pie to steward for the next generation.
“Dawdie didn’t give you a hint, at least?” Moses asked.
“Nee. He said he didn’t like to talk about death too much. Your grandfather was very set in his ways once he decided upon something.”
And that was either a good thing for Moses’s inheritance or a bad thing.
This farm had been in the family for six generations, going all the way back to his great-great-great-great-grandfather Anselm Yoder.
It would stay in the family for another six generations to come, if the Lord didn’t return first. But though it was expected that the farm would pass through Daet’s line, Moses and Benuel weren’t the only grandsons who could inherit.
“Dawdie told me years ago that he meant for you or Benuel to have the farm,” Mamm said, joining them. “And you and Benuel have always planned on sharing the land between you. Your brother wouldn’t cut you out of your plans together. Have a little faith in your family, sohn. It will be fine.”
Moses cast his mother a small smile. She was always the encourager, and she was right, of course. So while the rest of the community got into their buggies and headed to their homes, Moses and his family headed to the bishop’s dairy farm.
Bishop Hertzler’s dairy was quite large for Amish standards, and his house was bigger than most too.
The lower level was larger than the top, two extensions having been added over the years.
Then the entire congregation of eighty-five adults plus children could fit into the lower level for a church service when it was the bishop’s turn to host. The sitting room that doubled as a worship room was separated from the kitchen and dining room with an accordion partition that could be collapsed during a church service to open up the whole space, or closed when they didn’t need it. And today, it was closed.
The bishop led the family into the sitting room.
He had arranged a collection of mismatched chairs and one wooden church bench in a semicircle, and the older people—Moses’s parents and aunts and uncles—sat first. Moses stood behind.
Benuel sat next to his wife. Sadie kept her gaze dropped—not wanting to betray her feelings either, it would seem.
Benuel’s inheritance was hers, too, after all.
Benuel and Moses exchanged a somber look, and everyone waited in silence as Bishop Hertzler rustled around in the other room.
The partition slid open a span, and the bishop’s wife, Willa, bustled out. There were some low voices in the other room—someone needing the bishop, perhaps? This was a private meeting, though, and they’d likely be sent away until it was over.
The footsteps came closer, and Moses turned to see Miri and her parents, Wilhelm and Gweneth, behind her. They eased into the room, looking uncomfortable.
Then another man arrived—Elder Johannes Blank. He was an older widower and a respected man in their church. What was he doing here? Johannes caught Moses’s eye and looked away quickly. But he did fall in next to Moses at the back of the room.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Moses,” he murmured.
“Danke, Johannes.”
The bishop came into the room, a manila envelope in his calloused hands. He looked around the group, his solemn blue gaze landing on the Schrocks, and he rubbed a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard.
“I’m glad everyone is here,” Bishop Hertzler said. “Danke, everyone, for coming. This is a sad day, and before we begin, I’d like to have a word of prayer that Gott’s spirit will be amongst us in these dealings.”
Two of Moses’s cousins gave up their seats for Miri’s parents to sit down, bobbing their heads in a polite greeting as they stood up and moved to the side.
When Moses looked over at Miri, she appeared mildly confused, as was Moses.
Why was she here? This was supposed to be a private family reading of the will.
Maybe it was her cattle. Moses wondered if his grandfather had included a stipulation that they continue to board them for free.
It would be a kind gesture—one very much in line with his grandfather’s gruff-but-generous character.
And Moses would be happy to oblige. He didn’t like the idea of charging Miri, anyway.
It wasn’t like she was making a penny off her herd right now, unless she sold them.
After the prayer was said, the bishop held up the sealed envelope.
“Now, I want to assure you that this is the will that was signed by Tom Yoder before his death. He asked me to write it down for him, and he signed it. Both my writing of Tom’s last wishes, his signature, and the sealing of this envelope that has Tom’s signature over the seal was witnessed by two elders, one of whom is present today. ”
Moses glanced over at Johannes, and the older man looked straight ahead.
“Now, not everyone present is mentioned in the will,” the bishop went on. “In fact, most of you are not mentioned, but I thought it would be important for the whole family to hear what Tom Yoder dictated in his will so that there is no misunderstanding later on.”
Bishop Hertzler tore open the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. He pulled out a pair of reading glasses, adjusted them on his nose, and began to read.
“‘I, Thomas Abimelech Yoder, being of sound mind and less sound body, do bequeath the entirety of my estate—including land, cattle, house, and household contents, except for personal items that might have meaning to my children or grandchildren—to . . .’”
The bishop paused, and for a moment all that could be heard in the room was the sound of breathing and some shuffling of feet.
“‘Miri Schrock.’”
Moses’s heart hammered hard in his chest, and his ears rang. Had he heard that right? He looked at the bishop in shock, and the older man met his gaze with a pained expression on his face.
“What?” Moses’s father demanded, his voice reverberating off the walls. “To Miri?”
“Yah, I’m afraid that’s right,” Bishop Hertzler said. “The sole inheritor in Tom’s will is Miri Schrock.”
All eyes turned to Miri, and she just stared, eyes wide and cheeks as white as milk. For a second, Moses thought she might pass out, except that Miri wasn’t the wilting kind.
“Me?” Miri turned toward her own father. “Why me?”
Wilhelm just shook his head. “I have no idea. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Is that all he said?” Benuel asked, his voice rising above the hum.
“He also left a letter for his grandsons Moses and Benuel,” the bishop replied. “It is a private letter, and it is meant for their eyes only.”
Moses started forward, but Benuel stood up and accepted the sheet of paper first. He unfolded it, then shook his head.
“This is all?”
“Why did he leave everything to this girl?” Uncle Ben demanded. “He has grandsons, granddaughters, nieces, and nephews. He had children of his own, and this land has been in our family for generations! Why would he do that?”
“I don’t think he was in his right mind,” Aunt Lovina said. “He was old, he was suffering. . . . When did he make this will?”
“Four weeks ago,” the bishop replied. “And I can assure you that he was in his right mind. He convinced me, Johannes, and Abram Schmidt that he was clear, lucid, and knew exactly what he was doing.”
There was another rumble of everyone talking at once, to each other, to the bishop .
. . Moses kept his mouth shut, unwilling to voice the swirl of disbelief in his heart.
His grandfather’s farm was leaving the family?
Moses’s emotions hadn’t caught up yet, but anger was stewing deep inside of him.
He and Benuel had been helping their grandfather on his farm for years.
They’d done the extra work, obeyed his instructions, learned all they could about that particular property. They had expected to inherit the place!
“Did you manipulate him?” Uncle Ben asked, turning toward Miri. “He was sick and vulnerable—”
“I had no idea about any of this,” Miri exclaimed. “I knew the bishop and elders came, but they talked privately. This decision had nothing to do with me. Tom never mentioned it to me.”
“My daughter does not go around manipulating vulnerable elderly people,” Wilhem insisted.
“Please stop accusing her. You all asked her to help Tom by doing some light cooking and cleaning and keeping an old man company. And she did it because she’s a kind young woman who cares about her community. None of this is her idea.”
Wilhelm was partially right about that. But it was Dawdie who’d asked for her specifically.
Benuel looked over at Moses, his eyes snapping with anger. For a moment, he met his brother’s gaze, and the shared shock and dismay passed silently between them. They’d both lost out. What had Dawdie been thinking?
Moses squeezed around Elder Johannes and went to his brother’s side. He plucked the letter from their grandfather out of his hand and looked down at the older man’s familiar scrawl in blue ink. It was short—almost as brief as their grandfather’s usual conversation.
Moses and Benuel,
This was for the best.
Dawdie