Rebecca's Choice (7 page)

“Emma,” he said, “was the exception, and God had blessed her also. The life Emma lived was one of service to others, to children, and to the church.”

“If one were to ask,” he said, “there would be many here today whose lives had been deeply touched by the care Emma had shown her pupils.” He knew this to be true because he had been told so by several parents yesterday soon after he arrived.

“Emma had placed God first,” he said, “and so had been able to serve others. This is an example to those who are left behind. The time will come when we all have to meet our Maker.” He paused for effect and let his gaze move over the congregation.

“Emma’s life had been a life lived in holiness,” he said. “Emma lived in obedience to God and at peace with the church.” He knew this because Bishop Mose had told him so. Such a testimony was not a thing to be scoffed at.

He went on to say that Emma was also an encouragement to the young people of the church. Her life was a pattern they could follow whether married or single. The world was out there and called with its allurements, tempting many to sin. Yet Emma had never given in to them. She had never wavered from her commitment to God and the church.

The preacher almost closed his eyes, looked toward the ceiling, clasped his hands on his chest, and quoted, “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.” He spoke the Scripture in German, emphasizing
lebendes opfer
and
heilig.

When he sat down, Raymond Weaver, one of the home ministers, got up. Rebecca knew him. He spoke a few words, then sat down with a nod in Bishop Mose’s direction. The bishop got up and closed the service, without the usual testimonies about what had been said. This was a day for family and remembrance.

Bench by bench the congregation stood and filed past the coffin. Few stopped for long. Most of the older folks were not directly related, and the schoolchildren whom Emma had taught paused. A few wiped their eyes and moved on.

Rebecca went with Leona when their turn came. Thankfully Leona understood her feelings and waited as Rebecca held up the line. Emma’s face was still lined with the severity she had in life, the edges only lightly softened by death. Behind that face had always been a soft heart, Rebecca knew.

No one seemed impatient behind her. Leona had taken Rebecca’s arm to show her support but made no effort to hurry her on. Rebecca lingered, caught up in her memories.

This had been the face of school for Rebecca. Numbers and grammar lessons she had not always enjoyed, but this woman she had always loved. From the day she had walked in as a frightened second grader, her fears of attending school with a strange teacher had melted away. Rebecca had felt secure and at home in school.

Their bond had continued even after her eight years of school were completed. The advice Emma gave her, only a few months ago, had meant as much as that given by her own mother. In this case it had meant more—partly because Emma wasn’t as close to the situation, Rebecca supposed, and so was able to give help in a different way.

Now Emma was gone. Only a likeness of the Emma she had known was left behind. Was this what the preachers talked about? Was this the clay God used to mold the first human?

Rebecca wondered whether Emma walked the streets of gold. Were there schoolrooms in heaven—something for her to do? Rebecca thought there should be because Emma was so good at her work.

Leona pulled on her arm. Just a gentle tug, but Rebecca knew it was time to move on—time in more ways than one. She was no longer a schoolgirl but soon to be a married woman and perhaps a mother herself of young girls. The thought startled her, as did a glance around her. The line in front of them was gone.

Rebecca stepped forward quickly. Self-consciousness creeping over her, she hoped she hadn’t attracted too much attention by pausing too long. She really wasn’t family. Outside Leona and she waited in the line of women for Stephen to pull up with the buggy. The wait took some time as the family still needed to pass through first, leading the way to the Amish cemetery.

When the line of buggies started, Stephen took his place in line, and they climbed in with Leona’s girls in tow. The procession moved slowly down the county roads and then at a faster clip on the state road. Here they left spaces between their buggies, so cars could pass in sections.

At the gravesite a Scripture was read, Bishop Mose led another prayer, and then the coffin was lowered by ropes into the ground. Rebecca moved closer. The men and boys took turns shoveling dirt into the hole. They stopped when the mound had become rounded and left a simple wooden stake as a marker. Rebecca knew the family would place a more permanent stone later.

The crowd broke up, and the people made their way back to their buggies. Conversations were whispered. Leona and Stephen consulted with each other in the buggy and decided to go back for the prepared lunch. Rebecca had the feeling they would have gone home if she hadn’t been along. Their duties at home, no doubt, called. When Rebecca mentioned they didn’t need to return, Leona would hear nothing of it.

Back at Emma’s place, the house had been cleared of the benches, and tables were set up. Women filled the kitchen, busy with food preparation. Lunch was soon served, dished out by servers to those waiting in line.

Rebecca got her plate and for the first time looked around for familiar faces. The house was full of people. Her eyes slowly surveyed the room, as she tried not to attract attention. Although she noticed a few English faces, most of the crowd was Amish. A lot of them she knew—some were unfamiliar. The two preachers she didn’t know from the morning were over in the corner with their wives, and children gathered around them, plates of food in front of them.

Ready to sit by herself, Rebecca was startled by a touch on her elbow. In the tightness of the room, a touch was not a surprise, but this one was done with intention.

She turned toward the person and found the familiar face of Mary Coblentz, the Mennonite van driver she met last year.

“I’ve been watching you all day,” Mary whispered, her hand empty of a plate. “Never had a chance to get close enough. I hoped you would be here.”

“Hi,” was all Rebecca managed, caught up in the memory of the conversations she had with Mary and of Mary’s connections with Atlee.

“Let me get some food,” Mary said. “Hold a spot for me beside you.”

Rebecca nodded and found her way to an empty bench. The girl behind her fully intended to fill the bench, until Rebecca smiled and said, “There’s someone coming.”

The girl nodded and left a space. On the other side of the table, the bench was full of older women, some of whom she knew and smiled in her direction.

Mary, her plate full of food, easily slipped in a moment later. The women across the table gave her glances. Mary’s age, Rebecca knew, caused questions, and so she supplied the women with the information they obviously needed.

“You driving a load?” Rebecca asked Mary, loudly enough to be heard across the table.

“Holmes County,” Mary said with equal volume, as if she knew the purpose of the question. “Had a bishop and his wife along, a couple of young people, and a deacon too, I think. Quite a load. Going back in the morning first thing.”

Mary chuckled at her own joke, and the women lost immediate interest, just as Rebecca had hoped. A van driver had a perfectly legitimate reason to be here even if she was young. The murmur of the conversation on the other side of the table picked up, and Rebecca and Mary were left alone to visit.

“You staying around long?” Mary asked, sticking her fork into the potatoes.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning too.”

“You’re a little closer than we are, if I remember correctly.”

“Suppose so, but not by much.” Rebecca had a feeling about what would come next.

“Atlee told me you two talked.”

Rebecca nodded. “He stopped me in the buggy along the road.”

“Don’t think a Mennonite and Amish belong together?”

“It wasn’t just that.”

“Surely it wouldn’t be too bad. You two did love each other.”

Rebecca pretended to glare. “Shhh… He’s engaged he said.”

“I know,” Mary said, like she wished it wasn’t true. “You threw away his ring too. That’s what he told me.”

“I didn’t want it. I went to the bridge, but he wasn’t there.”

“He told me that. After he saw you again, I think he wishes he had gone to the bridge to meet you.”

“That’s an awful thing to say. What about the other girl?”

Mary shrugged. “I suppose they’ll work things out.”

“Atlee said they were getting married.”

“You are too, aren’t you?”

“In the spring,” Rebecca said, smiling at the thought, “to John.”

“Like him?” Mary teased.

“A lot.”

“Still wish you and Atlee could have gotten together? What a love story that would have been.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“That’s what Atlee says.”

“You shouldn’t meddle in such things.” Rebecca pretended to glare again.

“That’s what Atlee says too,” Mary said chuckling. “So tell me about this school teacher. She was yours too?”

“Yes she was,” Rebecca said, then told Mary stories of Emma and life as a student under her tutelage.

Seated across from Rebecca and the young van driver, Rachel wondered what she had just heard. Had her fears from the night before been wrong? Was there really some agreement between Rebecca and Emma? Under the table, her fingernails dug into her palms in frustration.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

O
n the day after his parents returned from Emma’s funeral, John arrived home from work to find the pile of mail still on the kitchen table. Usually his mother sorted everything and placed any letters or items for him off to the side. Today everything was still in one big pile.

Tired from his work as a salesman and all-around handyman at Miller’s Furniture Store, John was ready for an evening at home and something interesting to read. He found the stack of mail held the latest copy of
The Budget
but tossed it aside. It was for older people, he figured, and he wasn’t even married yet.

A farm magazine caught his attention, and he set it over to his left. He would set anything else he found of interest with the magazine. There was a bill from a hunting company addressed to him. He presumed the bill was from a purchase he had made last fall and used during hunting season. He must have neglected to pay it when the accident laid him up.

That was strange he thought. Surely his mother would have brought any bills to his attention after he was well again. He set the bill to his left, to be taken care of soon, before the matter got any worse.

There was a copy of
The Blackboard Bulletin,
one of three papers published by the Amish publishing house in Ontario. Why his parents still got a school paper when they had no children in school he had never been able to understand, but his mother liked to keep up on things. She was just that sort of person.

If the magazine had been a copy of
Family Life,
one of the other three published in Ontario and due soon, the paper would have gone to his left. Because it wasn’t, he kept going.

During his illness numerous get-well cards had arrived, sometimes daily. He had gotten used to it and enjoyed the remarks and Bible verses people sent him. Some of the people he had never met—the news of his accident had spread far and wide. That was one good use of
The Budget,
he thought and grinned.

The last piece of mail in the pile was a letter. He turned the envelope over and discovered it was addressed to him, the handwriting simple and unimpressive. That was strange, but perhaps a child had mailed him a get-well card. This would also explain the timing—well-meaning but late.

He placed the letter to his left, straightened up the rest of the mail, and gathered up his stack. On the way upstairs, his mother called to him from the sewing room.