The Postcard (31 page)

There came a day of testing, when his own mother was so ill with a high fever and convulsions, Gabe’s father declared that her brain might burn up if Gabe didn’t at least attempt to exercise some of his supernatural powers over her. But Gabe refused, petitioning God to heal his mamma, quoting the New Testament as he offered a fervent prayer. Angry, John Esh went out and brought Bishop Seth back to the house with his powwow cures and remedies instead.

By the time Gabe was twenty and showing no signs of taking the expected baptismal class necessary to become an Old Order church member, the People wondered if they might be losing one of their own to the world. Bishop Fisher was enraged over the situation—this haughty course the wayward young man had set for himself—and it was mighty clear to everyone that Gabe was avoiding the bishop like the plague. “John Esh’s son won’t amount to much of anything if he don’t join church,” the bishop was reported to have said to Preacher King, who in turn told Gabe’s father.

So John took his son aside one winter afternoon while the womenfolk were having a quilting frolic. Gabe’s father walked him out to the barn, to the milking house. “You know, Gabe, we named you Gabriel for a very gut reason.”

“What’s that, Dat?”

“Well, honestly, I handpicked the name myself on account of it being your great-grandfather’s name before you. You see, son, Gabriel means ‘God is my strength’—right fitting for a scrawny lad such as yourself.”

He’d heard the story often enough, though never the part his father was about to reveal.

“Your great-grandfather, old Gabriel Esh, was a powerful healer in the community, looked up to and revered by everyone whose life he touched. He died at the ripe old age of ninety-seven, but long before he did, he graciously passed on his gift to Bishop Seth, the bishop we now have.”

“Why didn’t he transfer the gift to someone in our family?” Gabe asked, knowing that was the way things usually happened.

“Because the woman—your grandmother’s sister and
your
great-aunt Hannah—who was most expected to receive it died in childbirth. There was no one else in the Esh family with the same inclinations toward the ‘curious arts,’ so the gift fell to our present bishop.”

Gabe contemplated his father’s explanation. “Ain’t it true that my great-grandfather could’ve chosen
anybody
, even someone with no inclination at all?”

“Jah.”

“Then why Bishop Fisher?”

His father looked down at his work boots. “Seems that after your great-aunt passed away, there was a lot of pressure comin’ from Seth Fisher’s elderly grandfather for Seth to have the gift. And that’s just how it went.”

“What sort of pressure do ya mean?” Gabe asked, eager to know. Because he, too, had felt a burden, almost an obligation, to follow through with Preacher King’s invitation “to go and see the bishop,” even now, after all these years of avoiding the austere man.

“I s’pose it’s not for us to say, really.”

“But there must be a reason why you think that, Dat.”

John Esh shook his head, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just a downright shame that you ain’t interested in the bishop’s blessing, son. ’Twould give us another healer in the community, and the good Lord knows we sure could use more than one.” He paused, wrinkling his face up till Gabe thought he saw the man’s eyes glisten. “Such a wonderful-gut honor it would be to the Esh family, havin’ our son become the new powwow doctor.”

So it was the family Dat was thinking of! Gabe should’ve known, but he had no idea the “blessing” was so important to his parents.

“God’s called me to preach,” he said boldly. “To expose the wickedness in high places.”

His father’s mumblings were not discernible as the farmer walked away, kicking the stones in the barnyard as he headed back to the warmth of the house.

That brought the discussion to a quick end, though Gabe often wondered about the things Dat had said. He searched the Scriptures even more vigorously, together with his Christian friends. It was becoming clear to him that there were certain patterns in families, ways of thinking or behaving that seemed to influence as many as three and four generations from the original sin of a particular family. Some patterns affected the continuation of blessing in a lineage; others gave full sway to chronic sickness and money-related troubles, relationship problems, and barrenness. And there were those who seemed accident-prone or who had emotional or mental breakdowns, all of which seemed to run in families.

On the other hand, there were folk in the community who seemed to enjoy prosperity and health, happy relationships with both their spouses and parents, and had their quiver full of many children. He was so intrigued by the lessons he was learning, he began to teach others, and not long after that, he discovered a column in the
Budget
, written by an Amish bishop in Virginia. The writer spoke out against the patterns of wickedness in the conservative communities, going so far as to say that the black deeds of sympathy healers and powwow doctors were from the bottomless pit itself. The writer’s ideas confirmed everything Gabe himself had come to believe.

Week after week, Gabe devoured the columns by Jacob Hershberger and even wished he could go to Virginia and meet the Beachy Amish bishop. But an urgency gripped his spirit, and he began to share the liberating truth of the power of Jesus Christ to break generational bondages to all those who would listen.

There were some in his community who wagged their tongues about the formerly shy and reticent son of John and Lydia Esh. What had happened to transform the frail boy into a self-appointed evangelist, driven and outspoken? Was it truly God’s power that had changed him?

Bishop Seth seethed in anger at having been scorned these many years, more determined than ever to set Gabe straight on the path of his “true calling.” Now approaching his mid-fifties, Seth Fisher was more than eager to get the young man alone in a room, just the two of them. The community was ready for a young healer, someone who could carry on the gift into the next generation and beyond. John Esh’s only son was the bishop’s first choice, though he had his eye on a teenager outside the Amish community, a humble boy nicknamed Blue Johnny.

Lavina Troyer was present, along with her mother and sisters, that warm April day the People had a barn raising at Preacher King’s place. The preacher’s barn had been destroyed by a lightning bolt six weeks before, and without the aid of telephones or email—though announcements were given in local church districts the Sunday before the scheduled event—word spread, and four hundred men from the county showed up to help build and raise a new barn in a single day.

Gabe, too, was on hand to assist, though no longer living in his father’s house due to his unwillingness to join the church. One of his new friends, Paul Weaver, had taken him in, and together the two were working for Paul’s father in a carpenter apprenticeship.

The women brought all kinds of food to eat, as was their custom. One church district of women brought meat loaf and white potatoes. Another group brought macaroni and cheese, bread pudding, and sweet potatoes. Other food included roast beef, chicken, ham, stewed prunes, pickled beets and eggs, doughnuts, raisins, applesauce, cake, and lemon pies. Theirs was a set dinner menu for a barn raising, and often the women had to plan ahead for up to seven hundred workers.

So Lavina was there, along with all the women from the Bird-in-Hand Old Order district, including young Leah Stoltzfus and her sister, Susanna Zook, both women with toddlers and babes in arms.

It was Bishop Fisher who took Gabe aside and ordered him to climb the beams and help fit the pieces together at the pinnacle of the wooden skeleton, high above the concrete foundation. Lavina pointed Gabe out to her sisters and cousins. “Watch him work,” she said of the lightweight and nimble-footed man who had confided his prayer secret to her years back. She kept her eyes focused on the young fellow dangling perilously in midair.

Right before the nine-thirty snack break, she saw him slip and fall; watched in horror as he skimmed the long beam, breaking his downward course on something that slashed open his side. She cried out when she saw the gash give way to dark red blood. She sped across the yard to the place where he lay, now surrounded by the workers and Bishop Fisher.

“He’s hurt awful bad!” she hollered, and one of the women held her back, though she fought them off, thin as she was.

Gabe groaned, still conscious, holding his left side and feeling the sticky substance against his fingers. The bishop knelt beside him and placed his hand on the open wound, whispering something, though neither Gabe nor Lavina could make out what.

“I want no powwowing done . . . on me,” Gabe managed to say.

Bishop Fisher straightened, glaring down at him as he lay there in great agony. “Gabriel Esh, you will repeat after me: ‘Blessed wound, blessed holy hour, blessed be the virgin’s son, Jesus Christ.’ And you will repeat it three times.”

Gabe refused. “I choose the healing power of . . . Jesus, my Lord and Savior over . . . your charms . . . and incantations.”

This infuriated the bishop, who proceeded to place his thumb inside Gabe’s wound. “Christ’s wound was never—”

“No! You will not pronounce . . . your witchcraft on me.” He paused to gather his strength, to breathe, though it was excruciating, every breath torturous. “In the name . . . of the Lord Jesus Christ, I command you, Bishop Fisher . . . to stop.” It was all he could do to raise his voice this way, knowing full well that he was dangerously close to death.

The bishop bent low and whispered, “Choose to receive the blessed gift at this moment . . . or bleed to death.”

Gabe could no longer speak, so weak was he from the loss of blood.

“Call an ambulance!” someone shouted in the crowd. “For pity’s sake, call for help!”

Gabe recognized Lavina’s voice and silently thanked God for his feeble-minded friend as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Lavina was the one who ran and pulled an unsuspecting horse out of Preacher King’s barn and rode it bareback to the non-Amish neighbors’ to place the emergency call. No matter that she had done so poorly in school and didn’t have herself a beau—she could dial the operator. And she did just that, saving Gabe’s life.

Lily stopped her story, her eyes bright with tears. “I’m sorry, I guess I got a bit emotional just now.”

“No . . . no, that’s quite all right.” Philip was glad she’d paused from her story so he could check on his tape recorder. Sure enough, it was time to flip the tape over. Before pressing the Record button, he asked if she was feeling up to continuing.

“If you hand me that glass of water, I think I’ll be able to go on, at least for a while.”

Philip was glad to hear it, as he was eager for more, and promptly handed the glass to the woman. She drank slowly, taking several long sips. Then, returning the glass to Philip, she began once again.

The Lancaster countryside was ablaze in sugar-maple reds and autumn-radiant oranges, golds, and yellow-greens the year Adele Herr filled in for Mary King, who had been the children’s Amish instructor for a little more than two years. Mary, Preacher King’s daughter, was getting married, which meant no more schoolteaching, and it was unfortunate because the students had grown attached to her.

It didn’t take long, however, for them to switch loyalties and reattach themselves to a bright-eyed brunette woman with a jovial smile and good sense of humor. The children took it upon themselves to make Adele feel right at home, bringing jars of homemade applesauce, beans of all kinds, carrots, corn, beets, sauerkraut, and jellies. In no time, they taught their new teacher to read and speak their language, too.

One day after school, there was a ruckus going on outside the boys’ outhouse. Thirteen-year-old Samuel Raber and his stocky younger brother, Thomas, had their fists up, ready to take each other on. Adele rushed outside to put a stop to it, but the boys were all fired up, hungry for a good scrap. “I’ll fight ya to the finish!” Samuel shouted, swinging the first blow.

Thomas, who was about the same size, hollered back and swung, too. The two were having it out, right there near the boys’ outhouse and the tree swing.