Never Far From Home (The Miller Family 2) (21 page)

She would take baby steps along her new path. A person must know how to walk before learning to run.

James must have changed clothes three times that Sunday morning. He wanted to make sure he wouldn’t offend anyone with his appearance or stick out like a sore thumb. He settled on black shoes, black slacks, a plain white dress shirt, and he borrowed his dad’s black suit coat. He’d shaved his mustache off and the beard he’d been letting grow for ten days, ever since he asked Sam Yoder if he might tag along to his Sunday morning preaching service. His parents had exchanged puzzled glances but said little when he announced he wouldn’t be going to church with them.

Because he couldn’t keep Emma Miller off his mind for longer than ten minutes, he wanted to peek into her world. Would she be willing to turn English for him? What would she have to give up? Although he knew much about Amish dress, customs, and farming techniques thanks to his friendship with Sam, he understood little about the Amish Christian faith. If their relationship had any chance of survival, that was where he needed to start.

He arrived at the Yoder farm and parked his truck in the shade of an ancient beech tree. Sam came outside carrying two mugs of coffee when he heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. “You’re here bright and early,” he called from the porch.

“I had no idea how long it takes to get to the service,” James said, accepting one of the mugs. Accepting a ride to services in a pickup was out of the question. New Order Amish used horse and buggy for basic transportation, same as Old Order.

“Let’s bring my buggy around. We’ll go separately from my folks,” Sam said, finishing his coffee in two long swallows. “That way you can ask me all the questions you want without my sisters and brothers laughing behind your back.”

“That’s good to hear, thanks. How do I look?” James hooked his thumbs into the lapels of his dad’s dressy coat.

A slow smile deepened the dimples in Sam’s cheeks. “Like an
Englischer
playing at being Amish for the day. But that’s okay. I’ll get you one of my extra felt hats and you’ll blend in just fine.”

Sam had his own buggy and spirited standardbred, plus he was diligently saving his money to build a house on the family property. Like James, all Sam ever wanted to do was farm. But until he married, he would live in the big house with his parents and siblings.

With black hats in place, the two young men set off at an easy pace to the house hosting the preaching service. Unlike Mennonite, New Order Amish held church in a district member’s home, not in a separate meetinghouse.

James was soon glad the other Yoders weren’t there to hear his questions. “Okay,” he began, “Emma is Old Order. How exactly is that different from you?”

Sam tipped up his hat brim. “So, this is all about that blue-eyed neighbor of the Hostetlers, is it?”

“Maybe, or maybe I’ve just become curious now that I’m about to expand my mind with higher education.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam laughed. “Well, depending on the bishop, we use electricity and phones in our barns and in our homes too. That makes a big difference for dairy certification. We can sell our milk as grade-A direct to milk bottlers. Most Old Order sell their milk to cheese producers. We farm with tractors and diesel cultivators; the motors don’t have to remain stationary. But we can’t own cars, can we, pretty girl?” He shook the reins lightly over the horse’s back. He directed the question to his mare, who twitched her ears with interest.

“All of that I’d pretty much figured out,” James said. “What I’m curious about is how your Christian church is different from Emma’s…and different from mine, for that matter. Fill me in on what to expect before we get there.”

“You probably should’ve asked my ma, but I’ll try my best. We still use German for the singing and preaching, but you will hear some English thrown in. And the young people participate more in our service than in Emma’s.”

“So I’ll be able to understand the sermon?” James asked.

“Probably not. Maybe some of it. The big difference is that we
talk
about our faith a lot more than Old Order. We read the Bible at home and discuss what we’ve read. We can go to hospitals or prisons or on missionary trips to spread the Word of Christ. Old Order has a less personal, quieter form of worship. They want to be known by their deeds and their lifestyle instead of what they say.”

James nodded, trying to take it all in. “Sounds somewhat like the evangelical church we attend,” he said, relaxing upon hearing similarities.

Sam cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, I guess so, in some ways. We have assurance of salvation. Emma’s sect has the
hope
of salvation. But before you get too excited, Jamie, even New Order Amish would be no easy change for you: no alcohol, no tobacco, no card-playing, and no dancing.”

James shrugged his shoulders. “No big loss. I don’t drink, never smoked, don’t understand the first thing about poker, and nearly broke my date’s foot when I tried to dance with her at the senior prom.”

Sam laughed and shook his head. “Okay, but no more big green shiny pickup truck, my friend. And it takes ninety minutes to go ten miles in a buggy, doesn’t it, girl?”

The horse lifted her hooves higher into a fast trot as though she knew the conversation involved her.

James crossed his arms over his pressed white shirt. “Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting that part.”

“Why don’t you just start with our church service and not get too far ahead of yourself,” Sam said, his buggy joining a line of others headed to the same farmhouse.

“Okay,” James agreed, blushing slightly.

He knew he was getting way ahead of himself. Sweet, shy Emma Miller might simply be curious about him. Especially since this was her running-around time before getting baptized and settling down. Just because she allowed him to kiss her once didn’t mean she was ready to seriously court an outsider. More pressure would be placed on her by her family than he could imagine.

Her father was a deacon.

She was only sixteen years old.

And he had at least two, if not four, years of college ahead of him. The prospect of their friendship growing into something more permanent looked bleak. But as Sam’s buggy turned into the driveway of the family holding the service, James could only think about two things:

All he had ever wanted to be was a farmer.

And the only girl he could imagine spending his life with was Emma Miller.

S
eth gazed over the acres of new corn, standing tall and green in tidy rows. The plentiful rain and abundant sunshine had brought the crop further along than expected. Some men in the district had counseled against planting more corn after his first hay had been harvested, but his decision had been sound. Ears were forming on the tender green stalks, and he felt confident this crop of hybrid would reach maturity.

But a stroll in the opposite direction presented a different dilemma. Turkey Red winter wheat, their plump brown heads nodding in the breeze, stretched for as far as the eye could see. These acres of grain grew on the highest and best land in the area. The fields were well drained, well fertilized, and free from rock debris. Usually, he sowed alfalfa after the wheat was harvested. But the price paid for dairy cow feed was nothing to crow about.

Dare he plant this field too with corn? Planting more this late was unheard of, but these acres received more hours of daylight than anywhere on the farm. While his bottom acres became shaded by late afternoon by the western hills, these fields received plenty of light until dusk. But would it be sufficient to ripen another crop before the first frost? He didn’t know. Sometimes the growing season stretched far into November. Other years, an early October blizzard reduced plants to flaccid stalks, suitable for chopping into silage and not much else.

Seth pulled on his beard, ran a hand through his hair, and chewed on a long weed, yet still no great insight occurred. Seeing little alternative, he headed toward the house to the counsel of his wife. Although a man made the final decision in a Plain household, especially in financial matters, only a fool failed to consult with a spouse when uncertain.

And this was one of those times.

Hannah possessed good intuition about these things, and right about now he could use a second opinion. “Hannah,” he called, stomping up the steps. “Hannah?” He entered the back hall, catching the screen door with his boot heel.

“I’m in here, Seth. Why all the shouting?” Her voice floated from around the corner.

Seth hooked his hat on a peg and walked into the kitchen, but the room bore little resemblance to the orderly, austere heart of the Amish home. It had taken on the appearance of some sort of vegetable disaster zone, what one might expect if an explosion occurred at a Del Monte plant. Tomatoes, peppers, onions, celery, carrots, and unrecognizable vegetables in various stages of being cleaned, sliced, chopped, pureed, or blanched covered every surface of counter and table. Pots the size of cauldrons simmered and spattered, throwing off a mixed bouquet of scents. Peels, stems, and seeds overflowed the trash can and littered the floor.

“Good grief, woman, has there been an accident or explosion of some sort?” Seth chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Ha-ha, very funny. No, no mishaps,” Hannah said. “Things are coming along fine, I’d say. I’m canning a nine-vegetable juice—adding one more than the competition, while I’m also stewing and canning tomatoes.” A grin filled her speckled face. “And I intend to try my hand at making homemade salsa with the hot peppers I grew this year.”

Her
kapp
was askew and spattered red, her face flushed from the steamy heat, and her apron would probably never be white again, but Hannah looked positively joyous.

“Good work then,
fraa
. A tidy kitchen is highly overrated!” He picked his way gingerly over to the refrigerator. “Could you take a short break? I need your point of view. Let’s sit and have some tea.” Seth poured two glasses and pulled a pair of chairs to the table. He pushed a mound of beets with their lacy tops still attached to one side to clear a spot.

Hannah peered at him curiously before running her hands under the faucet and wiping them on her apron. She turned down the heat under her pots so their contents wouldn’t scorch. “You are seeking my opinion, dear husband? Have you suffered heatstroke?” She sat down and took a dainty sip of tea.

“Maybe so. You can judge that after hearing me out.” Seth also drank some tea and then explained his idea for the wheatfield. He tried to sound logical and pragmatic without unduly influencing her.

Hannah watched him with eyes as round as an owl’s, but she didn’t interrupt. Once he concluded she asked softly, “Are we talking about the wheatfield still standing?” She aimed her forefinger in the general direction.

He nodded.

“You plan to cut those acres with a grain binder pulled by draft horses, then feed those tied bundles through the threshing machine to get them out of your way, then re-plow the field and set young corn plants?
That
wheatfield, Seth Miller?” The smudges of tomato sauce on her chin enhanced the amused, comic effect of her teasing.

“
Jah
, that’s the one—the only wheatfield I have.” He shook his head. Hearing his idea put in Hannah’s terms made it sound as impractical as it was.

“Hmm, let me think about this before jumping to a conclusion.” She placed a finger on the side of her jawbone and gazed toward the ceiling.

Seth grabbed her hand and mimicked taking a bite. “I suppose there isn’t enough time unless winter bypasses Holmes County altogether this year,” he said, kissing her fingers instead of chomping down. “And I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Dear
ehemann
, content yourself with the corn already planted. It should be sufficient to generate the income you desire. Don’t put all your eggs into one basket.”

Seth held her hand for another minute. It felt small and soft against his calloused palm. He would think on this long and hard. She was probably right—it was too late to set more corn
.
But what profits could be made with those additional acres. He dared not even add them up in his head, lest the Lord learn just how money oriented and greedy he had become.