The Forbidden (34 page)
Rhoda sniffled as Nellie reached to hug her. “
Da Herr
sei mit du—
the Lord be with you, Rhoda.”
On the ride home, Nellie fought back tears as her thoughts returned to Caleb and their many nighttime drives together. Oh, but she wished she could somehow influence him away from the grip of the ordinance. But that was his choice to make—or not make. If he jumped the fence eventually, he’d have a dear price to pay. Even though he’d said he had given up everything for her, she knew Caleb could never walk away from his family. David Yoder’s hooks were in him but good—just as Caleb supposed Preacher Manny’s were in her.
The stars on this clear night twinkled and beckoned against the darkness. Nellie Mae remembered all the times she and Suzy had laughed together under the canopy of twilight, imagining whom they’d marry and what their children might look like. The long jaunts through nearby woods . . .
She hadn’t gone to the woods Suzy had so loved since the winter snows, but she would return. Often she had found a reassuring solace there.
The horse drew the carriage along, and the stone mill came into view. Her eyes lingered on the wrought-iron bench near the still-frozen stream, the place where she and Caleb had sat enjoying love’s finest hours.
Please, God, help me not regret letting him go. . . .
With the dawning of February eleventh, nearly one hundred and fifty people withdrew from the Honey Brook Old Order church, forming two new distinct local congregations. Word has it, according to Dat, that almost a hundred Lancaster County families have left for the New Order, which is beginning to spread to other states, too. I can’t help but wonder about the courting couples sure to be caught betwixt and between, as Caleb and I sadly were.
Such a splintering of families and relationships. It’s hard to understand how the grace of God can both mend hearts and break them. Belonging to Jesus is often a thorny road.
Mamma is heartsick because Rhoda’s taken a second job as a waitress at the Honey Brook Restaurant. Seems my sister needs more money than the Kraybills are able to pay, although Rhoda’s still there three days a week. By the looks of her, wearing fancy clothes more often than not, I’d guess she’s got herself an English beau, though she’s mum on that.
Nan and I have become ever so close, sharing nearly everything, as she used to with Rhoda . . . and I with Suzy. Nan knows Caleb wanted me to run off with him. She knows my answer, as well. There
are
times when I miss him nearly more than I can bear, until I remember his adamant stand against saving grace, and the Scripture warning against being unequally yoked comes to mind. Such a splintering apart it would be had I agreed—our marriage torn in two directions, our children ferhoodled between their mamma’s faith and their Dat’s Old Ways.
Thankfully Rosanna had the wisdom to see that little Eli and Rosie did not experience a similarly traumatic separation. Tears spring to her eyes when I visit nearly every week, though. Rosanna’s quilt sales are thriving once again, and I daresay she has no time for raising babies. She and Elias will get through this murky, painful tunnel, but for now it is one step at a time.
Here lately Preacher Manny’s church is jam-packed every Sunday. It’s so nice having Rosanna there. She’s confided that Elias hasn’t talked further about tractors recently, not since his conversion. Wish that were true of my brothers, but Thomas and Jeremiah are planning to get one to share, of all things. When word reached his ears, Dat groaned and said, “Where’s all this goin’ to end?”
I’d say it’s better to soak up Scripture and share a tractor with your twin than to plow behind a mule team and be in bondage to the Ordnung.
There’s much to be thankful for, even though my greatest regret, when I consider it now, is my failure with Caleb.
I know I’m forgiven, but I gave away my first-ever kisses to him . . . and he saw my hair down, too. There’s no way to ever forget that.
I can only wonder how he’s doing since our final encounter at Nellie’s Simple Sweets. The grapevine’s tendrils haven’t reached my ears, so evidently he’s still in Honey Brook working for his Dawdi.
Occasionally I’ve wandered down to Cambridge Road and the woodsy atmosphere of the old mill—Caleb’s and my private haven. Right or wrong, I allow myself to relive our courtship days . . . and pray the Lord will call him to the truth.
Along this journey, I’ve met a number of lovely people— research assistants who tirelessly gave of their knowledge, their memories, and their own unique stories. Several who contributed time and energy, digging for hard answers, are the following: Dale and Barbara Birch, Dave and Janet Buch-walter, Frank Casatelli, Nick Curtachio, Fay Landis, Jake and Ruth Bare, and Priscilla Stoltzfus. I am so grateful.
Sincerest appreciation to my first-class editors—David Horton, Julie Klassen, and Rochelle Glöege—and to all of the Bethany House team.
Ongoing gratitude to my husband, Dave, who helps plot every story and makes my writing days less lonely. And to our daughter Julie, who reads the first draft with enthusiasm.
To the people that time forgot, I offer my earnest thanks.
With joy, I offer up this story to the greatest storyteller of all, our Lord Jesus Christ.
M
ORE
F
ROM
NY
T
IMES
B
ESTSELLING
A
UTHOR
Beverly Lewis
D
ON’T
MISS T
HIS
L
ANDMARK
T
RILOGY
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PPRECIATING
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ITH
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PECIAL
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EEDS
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EAVEN
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ITH
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OUR
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