The Promise Box (15 page)

“We want to offer Lydia the teaching position at the school. In the last month or
so many of us have spent time with her. She seems to be serious about her return to
the Amish. Today was evidence of that,” Will Shelter said.

“Still…” Mrs. Peachy used a clean paper plate to fan her face. “We know so little
about this young woman. I mean, if we offer her this position we are setting her up
to be an important example in the lives of our children. We are claiming that she
is a spiritual example for our children to follow—”

“What we really want to know,” Deborah Shelter cut in, “is what you know about her.
We know you’ve spent time together.”

“Not, much time, uh…” He paused to choose his words wisely. “What I’m trying to say
is that I haven’t spent every
day with her—not even close—but I have seen Lydia enough to see a change. I saw her
the first day she drove into town, and I didn’t trust her. She’d left the Amish. We
all knew that. We all saw the pain in the eyes of her parents, especially her mem.”

He lowered his head, swallowed hard, and then lifted it again. “I didn’t know what
to think at first, because I was there, helping Jacob Wyse build his wife’s coffin,
and he had nothing but good things to say about his daughter. I didn’t see it at first…mostly
because all I saw was her
Englisch
car, her
Englisch
dress, her
Englisch
ways.”

Gideon took a breath and continued, realizing he did know her—or at least was starting
to. “But things started to change. Maybe it
vas
her mem’s death, but maybe something else too.” He looked around. “I think for the
first time she’s living the truth of who God made her to be. And only God working
in one’s heart can bring such transformation.”

Many faces filled with smiles at his words—except for Mrs. Peachy. Gideon glanced
past her. He didn’t know why the woman had reservations about Lydia, but he guessed
her Mama Bear instincts for her daughters had something to do with it.

Ruth Sommer clapped her hands together. “Thank you. That does help.”

Gideon nodded and then sat back and listened to them discuss Lydia. They discussed
her strengths and he liked their logic: she edited books, so surely she knows a thing
or two about teaching from them. She’d also been raised Amish and knew all about an
Amish school.

Gideon decided to slip out. He grabbed his hat from the hook and waved his good-bye.
This was their decision; he just hoped his words helped them.

His own comments—his defense of Lydia—put voice to
all he’d been thinking. When had he come to admire her so? The change had come as
silently as the chilling August nights, pointing to the autumn to come. As Gideon
had shared with the Amish couples about Lydia’s transformation, he’d realized he could
no longer wait. His words had confirmed in his mind what his heart had been telling
him for a while. She was not the same woman who’d driven into their community full
of questions and doubts.

More than that, Gideon couldn’t imagine his life changing for good without her.

L
ydia didn’t know which she liked best—the short slips of Scripture that Mem had tucked
into the Promise Box, the longer letters that she had written to Lydia, or the notes
of Mem’s own thoughts and doubts. Sometimes reading Mem’s doubts helped her most—it
helped Lydia know she wasn’t the only one who had questions. She wasn’t the only one
who doubted God’s promises at times.

She pulled out another letter and noticed the date. Just two days after the day she
was born. How had she not seen this before?

Lydia held her breath as she unfolded the letter. It wasn’t folded as neatly as the
others and there were spots on the page. Tears?

Lydia moved to Mem’s cupboard, pulling out the ingredients for cracker pudding. She’d
been up early thinking about it. Even though nearly two months had passed since Mem’s
death, it was the strangest memories and longings that drew her. Mem had been her
real mother—there was no doubt about that. She just wished she told her more often
when she’d had the chance.

The note from Mem she’d read last night made her ache for her mother something fierce.
In all her growing-up years, Lydia had never doubted Mem loved her, but as she closed
her eyes tight, the weight of Mem’s care pressed down on her even heavier than her
thick quilt.

In addition to the cracker pudding, Lydia decided to make a pie. She cut the round
for the crust, just as Mem always did, and her eyes teared up to see the long, thin
bit of crust that remained.

“Our secret treat,” Mem would tell her. They’d take the strip of dough, add butter
and sugar, and then roll it into a small pinwheel and bake it just so.

“You got your daughter to bake with, Mem,” she whispered to the empty kitchen, emotion
heavy in her throat. And as the pie baked, dozens of other memories filtered through
her mind. It would be impossible to be in Mem’s kitchen without thinking of her…remembering.

“
Koon essa
,” Mem used to call before dinner. Hearing those words, Lydia would run to the table.
The words meant that the food would be
gut
, plentiful.

Lydia had gotten the idea to write a cookbook during her first trip to West Kootenai.
She’d been away from home long enough to realize that while she knew how to cook and
bake, there were dozens—a hundred more—of recipes she wanted for herself, and so she’d
sit with Mem and write them down. She also asked Mem to write down her recipes as
she cooked.

The hardest part was that Mem’s manner of cooking was the same as most of the Amish
women she knew. The recipes weren’t written down, but were known from long experience.
Lydia had tried to scribble down notes as Mem added flour and spice and lard, but
the measurements didn’t matter as much as “it jest feels right.”

“Mem, how did you know to add an extra tablespoon of sugar?
”

“I knew ’cause it
vas
jest so
.”

“And shortening, Mem—how much do you add?
”

“The size of an egg
.”

That was the hard part too. Egg sized, handful, pinch, and sprinkling weren’t easy
to replicate.

And with the recipes, Lydia also jotted down familiar Amish sayings. Those had been
easier to capture.

“‘Them that work hard, eat hearty,’” she mumbled to herself.

Looking back, collecting the recipes, was Lydia’s way to keep close to Mem. It was
her safe way of keeping a connection. It made her feel creative too, as she cooked
the recipes. But had that cookbook actually hindered her real desire?

Now that her book—the story of her returning mixed with memories of her childhood—was
well under way she wondered why she’d waited so long. Bonnie had known where the true
story was. It simply took Lydia putting pen on paper to discover it.

This place, these people, Dat’s home, returning. There was a story in all of it—just
not for the audience she first thought. The message wasn’t what she thought either.
She thought Mem had wanted a
gut
Amish daughter, but in truth she simply wanted one who believed.

When the pie was finished, Lydia cleaned up the scraps from all her cooking and baking,
putting them into a bowl to take to the chickens.

“I believe You. I want to believe You more,” Lydia whispered as she hugged the bowl
of scraps next to her body, stepping outside and hurrying toward the garden. The ruts
in the grass were evidence of the day’s events with the church gathering, but her
heart and soul felt as if they had been torn up even more—in a good way. Even though
tears had flowed as she read Mem’s letter, the words worked as a plow tip, breaking
up the hard parts of her heart.

Reading about the moment that Mem saw her for the first time brought just as much
hurt as healing. Mem could do nothing for the other woman’s pain. Had her birth mother
ever gotten past the trauma? The loss?

What about the boys—her brothers.
Brothers
. They most likely hadn’t understood at the time what was happening. How could a newly
widowed woman explain such a thing to her sons? But did they understand now? Did anger
fill them?

Lord, if the dear woman hadn’t already faced enough with the loss of her husband.
Why this?

Lydia entered the chicken coop and scattered the scraps at her feet. The small flock
hurried around her, pecking at their dinner as she slipped out of the tall gate, locking
it.

She told herself to focus on the good—celebrate Mem’s joy, Mem’s gift. But like two
sides of a coin, the joy of one person—one couple—was another’s pain.

She also didn’t understand God’s part in it all. For one woman to receive a promise,
another had to face heartache. Yet she couldn’t think of that. Evil ruled in the world,
and it was only by God’s grace that anything good came out of it. That’s what she
needed to focus on—focus on faith. On believing.

The air smelled of lilacs from the bush behind the house, heavy with flowers. Lydia
paused and breathed in, considering how Mem and Dat had chosen her name. She’d never
known
she was named after a woman who’d believed. She knew it was a name from the Bible,
but the meaning encouraged her now.

She plucked a lilac cluster from the bush and moved around the house to the front
door.
Lord, help me to live up to my name
.

The empty bowl swinging in her hand hit her leg when Lydia rounded the house and stopped
short.
Gideon
.

He walked toward her with a long stride. She hadn’t seen him like that except when
he was mad at her. Except this time she knew he wasn’t, due to the big smile he wore
on his face.

“Lydia!” he called to her and waved.

She paused and tilted her head. Gideon was even more handsome when he smiled than
when he frowned.

“
Ja?
Where are you headed off to? It seems you’re on a mission.”

“I am. I’ve come to ask you something.”

“Let me guess: did you want my apple pie recipe? Because that was what I was asked
most today.”

“
Ne
. I was wondering if you had time tomorrow for a walk?”

Emotion thickened her throat. “A walk? Like to the store?”

He removed his hat and ran a hand through his dark hair. Sweat beaded on his brow,
and Lydia knew it wasn’t from the heat. If anything, the air was a bit chilly as the
sun set.

“No. A walk to the lake. I would like to spend time with you. I thought it would be
nice to talk.”

She took in a quick breath. “I, uh…”

His eyes widened, filled with worry. “I mean if you don’t want to—”

“No, it’s not that.” She waved her hand. “It’s my editor’s mind. I was trying to figure
out what word to use. I’d
love
to, or I’d be
honored
to. Either way, the answer is yes.”

He nodded once, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ten o’clock?”

“Make it eleven o’clock, and I’ll pack a lunch.”

She didn’t think it was possible, but his smile widened.

He licked his lips. “Will that include a piece of apple pie?”

Lydia nodded. “
Ja
. I’m sure there’s an extra piece or two around here. I was saving it for something—someone—special.
And you jest might fit the bill.”