An Uncommon Grace (10 page)

“Okay.” Grace rinsed out her orange juice glass and put it in the sink.

“You should take something to contribute to the funeral dinner.”
Elizabeth glanced around the kitchen. “I wish I had known when it was going to be. I would have had you bake something. Oh—I know.”

Elizabeth dumped out the keys Grace had tossed into the wooden bowl that sat on the table. “Wash this out and fill it with some of that fresh fruit you bought. They seldom purchase out-of-season fruit. Tell Claire the bowl is a gift from me. She’s always admired it.”

Levi and his brothers pushed his mother’s borrowed wheelchair into the barn, which the men had prepared for the funeral service. Claire held little Daniel in her arms. The three other children followed close behind. The benches were all set up as they were for church: the women’s side facing the men’s. The only difference was that Abraham was now dressed in his church clothes, lying in a handmade casket that one of Levi’s cousins had built out of some poplar lumber that Levi had cut last season.

There was a small, hinged door cut into the lid of the casket that, when opened, showed only the top part of Abraham’s body.

The circumstances of Abraham’s death, and the delay in the funeral because of the autopsy, had given people plenty of time to hear about it, and there seemed to be a larger turnout than usual. He estimated there were around three hundred people there, perhaps more.

Ezra Weaver, their bishop, stopped him on his way into the barn. “This is a sad day.”

“Truly sad,” Levi replied.

Ezra had been bishop for only three years, but he was even more conscientious in performing his duties than the elderly bishop he had replaced. Their particular church district,
already ultraconservative by anyone’s reckoning, was becoming even more rigid under Bishop Weaver’s oversight. Some of the congregation was pleased over this. Others, like Levi, were worried.

He waited for the bishop to move aside and allow him to get his family seated. Instead, the bishop seemed intent on having a chat with him.

“
So an shlim ding
to happen to your family,” the bishop said.

“Yes. A very terrible thing,” Levi agreed.

“At least your stepfather is no longer part of this sinful world anymore. But a man should live long enough to raise his children.”

Levi nodded. “Our
Daed
would have wished to do so.”

The bishop gave him a stern look. “It is your duty now to be a father to these little ones and to help your mother.”

“A duty I willingly accept.”

“You intend to work your stepfather’s eighty acres by yourself?”

“I will, with Albert and Jesse’s help.”

“Good. It would be a shame for such fine land to grow into weeds.”

Levi wondered what the bishop was getting at.

“It would be a great help to your mother if you were to select a
gute Frau
.” The bishop stared at him meaningfully. “Most Amish men your age already have a
gute
wife and two or three children by now.”

“True.” His voice was steady, but inside, Levi was beginning to seethe. He now understood why the bishop had led the conversation down such a path. Land in Holmes County was at a premium. Eighty prime acres was a prize. A steady man who could farm as well as Levi was an even greater prize to a man with an unmarried daughter. The bishop was such a man.

The bishop bent over Claire. “That is a fine child. Holding him will comfort you in your sorrow.”

“God’s will,” Claire said.

“Yes,” the bishop agreed. “God’s will.”

It was as it always was. Any tragedy—no matter how major—was attributed to God’s will. In Levi’s opinion, this murder was the work of a vindictive Satan instead of a loving God. But he said nothing. His people’s way of accepting tragedy and going on with life was admirable. The Amish could not afford to sit down and stop living because someone they loved had died. There were children and grandchildren to care for. Livestock to be fed. Crops to be harvested. The sound of a herd of cows bawling to be milked did not stop from respect for grief.

The bishop moved aside while Levi maneuvered his mother’s wheelchair around a root sticking out of the ground. He would get a mattock tomorrow and grub that root . . .

“Hello.”

He glanced up, surprised to see Grace standing nearby. She was holding a walnut bowl filled with fruit, apparently for the funeral dinner later. The children would love that. It had been a long winter and there would be many more weeks before the fruit trees began to bear.

As a growing child, he had made himself sick every spring eating green apples and raw rhubarb straight out of the garden—both so sour they made his eyes water—simply because his hunger for something fresh would be so great.

It was obvious that Grace was trying hard to be sensitive to the situation. She had made a real attempt at dressing appropriately. The blouse she wore was more form-fitting than he was comfortable with, but for an
Englisch
woman it showed restraint.

It was almost time for the service to start, but Grace didn’t
seem to realize. She crouched down beside his mother’s wheelchair, the wooden bowl balanced against one hip.

“Grandma wanted to come, but she’s still pretty feeble. She sends her heartfelt condolences and says you are to keep this bowl as a gift.”

“When I am better, I will make some bread in this kneading trough and bring it to your grandmother.”

“She would love that.”

Levi saw Grace’s face as she looked up at his mother, and his heart lurched at the compassion he saw there. This was not an
Englisch
person coming to sightsee—a problem they sometimes had to endure at funerals. Grace actually cared.

“Is there any way I can help you in the coming days, Claire?” Grace asked.

Levi was certain there was no way his mother would allow this
Englisch
girl to help her. He doubted Grace even knew which end of a wringer washer to shove the wet clothes through, let alone any of the other myriad chores his mother did each day.

“Could you come tomorrow?” Claire asked, much to Levi’s surprise. “Daniel is not feeding well, and I think there is something wrong.”

Grace’s face registered immediate concern. “Have you told the doctor?”

Claire shook her head.

“Why not?”

The bishop had noticed the holdup. He looked pointedly at Levi, and then at Grace, as though to instruct Levi to shoo the
Englisch
woman away.

Levi pretended not to see. Bishop Weaver did not realize all that Grace had done for their family.

Grace laid a hand on his mother’s wrist. “Why haven’t you said anything to the doctor, Claire?”

His mother leaned forward and whispered something in Grace’s ear. It was embarrassing to see all the heads turned their way, watching this strange exchange between Claire and this outsider. Suddenly, he wished Grace had not come. This was not her world. She did not belong here. Even if she was only trying to be kind, this was not a place she should be.

With everyone still watching, and the bishop impatiently waiting, Grace sat the fruit bowl on the ground, pulled the baby blanket away, and gave Daniel what appeared to be a quick examination. The baby, disturbed, howled in protest.

“He certainly has a healthy set of lungs.” Grace wrapped the baby back up and laid him in Claire’s lap. “I think he’s okay for now. I’ll come by tomorrow and check on him.”

“Thank you,” Claire said.

For the first time, Grace seemed to realize that a hush had fallen over the crowd as over approximately three hundred people watched her and waited for her to finish.

“Um, I’ll just go put this someplace and . . .” She glanced around and saw all the faces turned toward her.

“You may put the bowl in the house,” Levi said. “It is time for us to get started.”

She seemed unsure whether to go or stay. He decided to help her make the decision.

“There will be no
Englisch
spoken here today,” he said. “But my mother and I thank you for coming.”

“I am so sorry for your loss,” she said.

And then Grace Connor walked away while a barnful of people watched.

Except for him. He kept his eyes conscientiously facing forward. It would never do for the bishop to observe him—a baptized, single man well into marriageable age—gazing after a young, female,
Englisch
neighbor.

“H
ow did it go?” Becky was stretched out reading, taking up one entire couch. Elizabeth, on the other couch, moved some dark blue knitting and a how-to book aside as Grace fell onto the couch beside her.

“When did you take up this hobby?” Grace pulled a stray knitting needle out from where it had been sticking up from between the cushions.

“While you were gone.”

“I was gone less than an hour and you took up knitting? Why?”

“I’ve had this yarn for ages and I figured this is as good a time as any for me to figure out how to be a really good old woman. That’s what old women do, isn’t it? Knit?”

“Not you. You don’t even sew.”

“I’ve let you down. A grandmother who doesn’t sew. Shocking.”

“Seriously. Why are you doing this?”

“I need a hobby, and this seems more productive than crossword puzzles. Now, tell me how it went at the funeral.”

Grace sighed. “How do you know if you’ve made a complete fool of yourself in front of a bunch of Amish people?”

This caught Becky’s attention and she raised her head
from the book she was reading. “What did you do, Grace?”

“Nothing, except try to give my condolences to Claire.”

“And?” Grandma prompted.

“There was this big barnful of people sitting around on benches. Kids milling about. People talking. I saw Levi pushing Claire along in a wheelchair. She had the baby in her arms. I stopped and said hello. She asked me a question about the baby. I bent over to take a look at him, and when I straightened back up again, no one in the place was talking, Levi was red in the face, and everyone was staring at us.”

Becky closed her book. “What happened then?”

“I gave them my condolences and got out of there. Levi—very pointedly, I might add—informed me that the funeral would be not be in English.” She traced a seam on the couch with her finger. “It was obvious that he wanted me out of there as quickly as possible. I wish I hadn’t gone.”

“The Amish are hard to read sometimes,” Grandma said, “the Swartzentrubers especially. For all you know, the women might have been wondering where you bought your shoes and all the single men wishing you were Amish.” Elizabeth compared her handkerchief-sized piece of knitting to the picture in the how-to book.

Grace lifted one foot and inspected her burgundy, oiled-leather Birkenstock clogs that she had ordered over the Internet in a fit of “retail therapy” after one especially bad night patching together wounded soldiers in Afghanistan. “You really think the women wanted to know where I got these?”

“Are they comfortable?” Grandma asked.

“Extremely. That’s why I bought them.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that Amish women don’t exactly wear pointy-toed high heels. They go for comfort and durability—intelligent women that they are.”

“I doubt they were admiring my shoes. I think I just looked utterly out of place.”

Becky giggled. “Well . . . you were.”

“You should have gone instead of me, Becky. You’re the one who’s been living here all this time.”

“I was busy trying to find Grandma’s yarn and knitting needles in the storage room upstairs—which wasn’t exactly a picnic.”

“I just remembered something else that puzzled me,” Grace said. “All the men were still wearing their hats, although they were at a funeral—even Levi. I thought it odd that they didn’t take them off.”

“That would be paying too much respect to the dead. The Swartzentrubers take their hats off only to honor God. If you ever drive by the Shetlers’ on a Sunday morning when they are hosting church, you’ll see a huge pile of black hats near the entrance.”

“They pile all those identical hats together? How can they tell them apart?”

“I asked Claire that once. She gave me a very commonsense answer. They write their names inside the brim.”

“Well, that makes sense. But they don’t take their hats off inside buildings or for the national anthem or anything?”

“Only for God,” Grandma said. “Did Claire like the bowl?”

“She was very pleased. She said she’s going to make a batch of bread in it and bring it to you when both of you are better.”

“What did you say?”

“That you would love a visit.”

“Good.” Grandma shoved her glasses higher on her nose, unraveled two rows of stitches, and took another stab at her knitting. “I think you did well, all things considered. Your mission was to let Claire know that we cared about her and
you accomplished that. You didn’t go to impress everyone else at the funeral.”

“I guess you’re right, it’s just that . . .”

“Just what?”

“Levi seemed downright annoyed that I came.”

Grandma laid the tangle of blue yarn down on her lap. “He probably
was
annoyed.”

“Why? Claire wasn’t. She was glad to see me.”

“It doesn’t take much to start the Amish gossiping. You’re a neighbor, unmarried, and lovely. Levi is a catch. You spent several hours with him the day Claire got hurt. You will probably be the subject of many conversations today and for several more days until something more interesting comes up. Levi knows that.”

“Then why did you send me up there?”

“Because this wasn’t about you and it wasn’t about Levi. It was about Claire. She was burying a husband today, and I wanted her to know we cared.”

“Then I guess I did the right thing,” Grace grumbled. “I just wish it didn’t feel so . . . messy.”

“Life is messy, Grace.” Grandma began to unravel the nest of yarn again. “Because people are messy. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life will become.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll stop expecting perfection.” She examined her how-to book again and restarted her knitting. “From other people and yourself.”