The Judgment (29 page)

Over the period of an hour, a handful of church members gave their say-so, one way or the other. While much of the talk surrounded Nick, a couple men present also reluctantly faulted the bishop for giving sermons that were too long—something they said smacked of pride.

Sol could scarcely believe anyone would accuse humble Aaron of anything near pride, but he held his tongue until he was called upon to sum up his own thinking. He then restated what those present already knew. “From the first day onward, our bishop has been a faithful, diligent, patient, and compassionate father to Nick . . . never wavering even in the face of the boy’s belligerence. An exemplary minister, to be sure.”

The men listened intently as Sol continued in that vein, emphasizing Bishop Aaron’s repeated efforts where Nick was concerned. When he’d concluded, the ministerial brethren dismissed Sol and the other church members from the deacon’s wife’s kitchen. As Sol turned to leave, Aaron caught his eye, and in that instant, he realized anew how gracious and benevolent a man their bishop had always been.

How could anyone force such a man out of leadership?
Sol trudged across the driveway to his horse and carriage. He reached for the buggy’s ice-cold frame to pull himself inside, wishing he’d worn gloves. He pondered the real possibility of Aaron’s being forced to step down as bishop.
Silenced, they call it. And for what reason? A rebellious son not even of his own flesh?

It was beyond Sol how the actions of Aaron’s foster son could shed a speck of light on the nature of
his
spiritual influence in their church district. Surely the Lord God, who’d chosen Aaron in the first place, would not allow such a sad end to come of his ministerial calling.

How can mere men make such a judgment?

Sol blew his warm breath on his hands and rubbed them together briskly before picking up the reins. For all the many years he’d lived neighbors to Aaron Petersheim, Sol had known his friend to be a man who wholly followed the Lord, always openhearted to what was right and good.

“O Lord, make your will known in this,” Sol pleaded as he drove.

Sol lay next to Emma, who was sleeping so serenely he dared not doze off. His wife had passed a new threshold of lethargy, and he could hardly stand to see her this way. Yet which was worse—the uncommonly cruel pain, or this near stupor? Emma did seem less afflicted, which was a blessing after all these years.

Perhaps it was partly because of an endearing—and surprising—conversation he’d overheard between Beth and Emma earlier today. And as he lay there, resisting sleep, the scene played over in his head. Beth had apparently had a rather vivid dream, and she’d explained to Emma that God cared for her so much that Beth believed He had shown her a doctor who could help her.
“I have peace that God will answer my prayers, and you will be healed from your pain,”
Beth had said, eyes ever so hopeful.

But what had surprised Sol even more was Beth’s ability to impart the optimism she herself clung to. For a fleeting moment, Emma had seemed to catch a glimpse of it, too, before going away, back into herself.

He didn’t know if this was a sign he should pursue a new doctor, or even take another look at the list of specialists Emma’s original doctor had strongly recommended.

Was this God’s answer to Sol’s own fervent prayers for his wife? To be sure, there had been something too special for words that passed between Beth Browning and his dear wife. Even his Rose had witnessed it.

What now?
Sol didn’t honestly know but would take it to prayer this very night. And reaching over to touch Emma’s frail hand, he began to beseech the Almighty.

Later, in the absence of any inclination to rest, Sol rose from the bed and went over to the antique bureau. He pulled out an old tan folder containing the names and addresses of Pennsylvania specialists and surgeons.

Going to the kitchen, Sol lit the gas lamp and scanned the page, moving his finger down the row, stopping at the only orthopedic surgeon in York, about forty miles away.

Might this one help my Emma, most gracious Lord?

Hen sat all curled up in bed the night before her required meeting with Brandon’s lawyer. Mattie Sue was already asleep in the next room as Hen plumped her own pillow and paged through the small wedding album she’d brought from home.

Our home.

She studied her husband’s face, his expressions. In several photographs he looked humorously like the cat that caught the mouse. She’d never noticed it before. Then, in yet another picture, she was very sure she saw love in his alluring blue eyes, just as her own face reflected the same, standing next to her handsome groom.

Surely, we loved each other. . . .

Her mind had been in turmoil all week, contemplating tomorrow’s grilling at the lawyer’s office—questions no doubt focused on her parenting abilities and intentions. She broke out in a cold sweat at the uncomfortable nature of what was ahead.

Even so, she would follow through with her promise to Dad to honor the way Brandon wanted things done.
I’ll simply bite my tongue.
She imagined the awkwardness of the psychological assessment. The whole process seemed so unnecessary.
Why must I be the first to be questioned? Has Brandon told them I’m unstable?

She could just imagine her brother-in-law Lawrence having set things up in favor of Brandon. But would he also prejudice the judge against her, when all was said and done?

There were times when her grief and anguish moved easily toward anger. But because she desired to demonstrate a meek and gentle spirit from here on out, Hen slipped out of bed and knelt to pray.
May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven, O Father, at tomorrow’s meeting. This frightens me terribly, dear Lord. You know all things, and you see deep into my quivering heart.

She paused and breathed deeply, attempting to surrender her will to God’s. Why was it so hard to trust her Maker?

Hen realized that, as much as she desired to follow God in returning to the ways of her past, she had been doing so without regard for her husband. Had she driven a deeper wedge between him and the heavenly Father through her actions?

O Lord, I’ve been so blind. . . .

Yet at the same time, Hen wasn’t ready to admit that this way of life wasn’t the best for her and her daughter—for all of them, really. Her heart heavy, Hen began to pray once more.
I know you are working in Brandon’s and my life, to will and to do of your good pleasure. But, Lord, it is so hard to see a good path through this. Please save our marriage . . . our family.
Guide us for Jesus’ sake. Amen.

Feeling quite weary, she rose to stand at the frosty window.
“Keep showerin’
dei Mann
with love,”
the bishop’s wife had told Hen when she first returned home. Somehow, Hen must find a way to do that even in the difficult circumstances of tomorrow.

Lantern light flickered from the upstairs windows across the long meadow, and she wondered if the man of God might still be up as she was, pacing and pleading for divine guidance, as well.

Hen wasn’t the only one for whom Brandon’s tardiness brought uneasiness on Friday. As Lawrence Orringer, attorney-at-law, briefed her on the various forms she was required to fill out, he glanced repeatedly at the open office door.

She had interacted with Brandon’s brother on a number of occasions, namely New Year’s and Easter. Brandon had always referred to Lawrence as his closest brother of three. The other two lived on the West Coast near LA and were too busy climbing corporate ladders to keep in touch with their small-town brother—or so Brandon had often quipped.

Sitting now in the comfortable office chair, across the gleaming desk from Lawrence, Hen wished Brandon would arrive. Her neck and shoulders tensed as each minute passed and still there was no sign of him. Was he testing her, guessing she would not show up? She pushed away the ridiculous notion and willed herself to have a kinder attitude. This was what Brandon wanted, right?

Yet secretly, she hoped he might’ve gotten cold feet. If only that were so!

Lawrence apologized several times for his client-brother’s delay, although Hen could see by his impatient expression that he, too, was weary of waiting.

At last, there were hurried footsteps in the hallway, coming this way. Both she and Lawrence turned to see a woman dressed in a burnt orange tweed suit knock on the slightly open door and then breeze in. The young woman, no older than her late thirties, gave Hen a rather professional once-over, then introduced herself as Dr. Greta Schmidt. “I’ll be handling the parental evaluation.”

“My client has obviously been detained,” Lawrence stated, glancing now at Hen. “This is Mrs. Orringer—Hannah.”

“Please call me Hen,” she said, accepting the woman’s firm handshake.

Before Dr. Schmidt could continue, Lawrence pulled at the sleeve of his navy blue sports coat and looked at his watch. “Uh, excuse me, but perhaps it would be best not to move ahead just yet.”

“How necessary is it for Mr. Orringer to be present?” Dr. Schmidt asked before admitting to an exceptionally tight schedule. The psychologist glanced at Hen again, appearing to take in her long dress, her gaze coming to rest on the Kapp.

Lawrence rose from behind his desk and moved toward the door, motioning for Dr. Schmidt to follow. Hen could hear them talking in muffled tones as Lawrence pleaded with her to wait around a few more minutes.

Oh, what stress!
Hen thought, a knot in her stomach.

Hearing their footsteps moving farther away, Hen leaned back and attempted to relax. She recalled the first time she’d met Brandon’s brothers, following her and Brandon’s elopement. It was after Christmas, a few days before New Year’s Eve, when Brandon’s brothers and families had gathered at their parents’ sprawling home in New York’s Finger Lakes region. She’d sat in an upholstered leather wing-back chair similar to the one she sat in presently, but in Brandon’s father’s aristocratic home office, with its duo of cherrywood desks and matching credenza. Custom-made Italian drapes had swept down from the high ceiling and fell in puddles against the polished hardwood floor. Hen had waited to fully take in the magnificence of the room until Brandon stepped outside with his father, who smoked a cigar. The pungent scent had seeped through the French doors as she sat there, marveling at her choice in a mate—and his family.

Why did I marry Brandon—and he me?
she’d mused that day. Although she’d known very little firsthand of love, she’d quickly concluded she was eager and ready to love him for all the days of her life. What else could she call her feelings for the man with whom she’d fallen head over heels? There was no other relationship to compare her strong feelings to, but even then, Hen had suspected their affection was a fragile thing. Neither had really known how to nurture that love to maturity.

She thought back to their wedding, so simple compared to the opulence in which Brandon had been raised. The justice of the peace had been a tall woman who had recited the required legal words with little or no feeling. At the time, Hen had felt cheated somehow, remembering how zealous Bishop Aaron and their two preachers were in their instruction of young couples during Amish weddings.