Following Your Heart (10 page)

“Okay, enough of this,”
Mamm
said, taking control. “You can preach about the
Englisha
some other day, Menno. We are almost there, and thankfully we aren't late. So Susan, who will keep Samuel during the services?”

“I'll keep him,” Susan said, looking down at his little face.

“I don't think so,”
Daett
said. “I think it's best if
Mamm
keeps Samuel with her.”

“Are you afraid the people will think he's mine?” Susan asked.

“
Nee
, it's just not proper. It will be best if
Mamm
keeps the child,”
Daett
asserted.

“I think he's right,”
Mamm
agreed. “It will be more proper, and the people will feel better about it.”

It was sad, but it was true, Susan thought. And it might help Teresa in the long run. If they saw
Mamm
with the baby, they would think she approved of Teresa in some measure.

“Whoa!”
Daett
called to Toby as he pulled the horse to a stop at the end of Deacon Ray's walk.

Susan pushed open the door and waited until
Mamm
got down and came over to her side of the buggy. She handed Samuel to her before climbing down herself. With the blanket protecting Samuel's face, they went up the walk to the house. Behind them the buggy clattered on toward the barnyard.

Miriam met them at the washroom door, reaching for the bundle in her
mamm
's arms.

“So you did bring him!” Miriam whispered. “I heard the news, and I thought ‘
Mamm
will still bring the child, as sure as I know her.' ”

“It was the mother's idea,”
Mamm
whispered back. “And Teresa is the girl's name. This is little Samuel.”

More women's faces appeared in the kitchen opening. Susan smiled at them before taking off her shawl and bonnet.
Mamm
carried baby Samuel into the kitchen, shaking hands and greeting the women as she went. She looked just like she must have looked years ago when she arrived at church with her own children. Samuel was getting the best of treatment, Susan thought as she followed
Mamm
around the line of women.

T
he four ministers came down the stairs, their heads bowed, as singing filled the house. Bishop Henry was in the lead, with Deacon Ray at the end. They seated themselves on the bench between the kitchen and living room, the line falling into place with order and grace.

A visiting minister rose to his feet, clearing his throat. His eyes swept over the congregation, and he clutched his hands together on his chest beneath his lengthy beard. “Dearly beloved brothers and sisters in the Lord, we have come together again on this our Lord's most holy day to refresh and encourage our souls unto holiness. I hope our hearts are all drawn toward heaven this morning and to the home that lies on the other side.”

The minister paused, lowering his eyes to the floor as if to ponder the implications of what he had said. He cleared his throat again and quoted from Psalm 29: “Give unto the L
ORD
, O ye mighty, give unto the L
ORD
glory and strength. Give unto the L
ORD
the glory due unto his name…”

Menno watched the minister's face, trying to draw his thoughts away from Teresa's baby across the room. The child stayed quiet, which was
gut
. What wasn't
gut
were the thoughts rushing into his mind. Thoughts that hadn't come while he was at home and should have been gone forever a long time ago. He had made his peace with the past, had he not? He had left behind the world and all its lusts. Had he not begged forgiveness from
Da Hah
many times? Had he not wept tears of regret? Why today, then, did seeing the baby in Anna's arms bring back what should have been forgotten—and indeed
had
been forgotten for so many years? His thoughts were too shameful to speak of. One expected such sin from the world's people, and from those who were weak among his own people. But he had not been known as a weak man. And yet he had been.

Yah
, but there was forgiveness. There had to be. There was forgiveness for every other sin known to mankind. Even for murder, and he had not murdered. Pulling his thoughts back to the visiting minister, Menno kept his eyes on the man's face. What a
gut
job the minister was doing this morning. They could use new voices like him, speaking to them from time to time, warning against sin, and making valiant efforts to hold back the temptations of the world.

Moments later Menno's eyes wandered toward Teresa's baby again. Why should he be thinking of the baby now, or of Teresa? They had been here all week, had they not? Was it coming into the Lord's presence on His day that was causing this? Was the fear of
Da Hah
awakening what had been dead for so long?

Yet he had been coming in the Lord's presence for all these years, and there had not been this problem in his heart. No doubt the decision had been correct in keeping Teresa away from the gatherings. Look at what just having her child with them had brought into his heart. Perhaps it would be best if even the child were kept away. But such a thing seemed so wrong and would never be agreed to anyway. There were limits to where Bishop Henry would allow this to go.

Menno pressed his eyes together, rubbing them. Somehow he would have to live through this, but how? The emotions rose like a mighty wave in his chest, threatening to show on his face. That awful moment from the past rose up to stare into his eyes. He had sinned greatly. What if Anna knew? Or his daughters? Or Deacon Ray? It was too painful to consider.

But the child he had fathered so long ago had not lived. The
Englisha
girl had assured him herself. There was nothing for him to worry about, she had said. She had lost the child before it ever moved inside of her.

He had come home to the community from his service in the St. Louis Hospital, thankful that he was spared the worst of his sin. He was thankful to be accepted again by his people without anyone finding him out. He was thankful
Da Hah
was gracious and slow to anger. He had meant the girl no harm. And she had also been willing, had she not?

Perhaps he should have confessed to Old Bishop Bender back then, but it had seemed unnecessary since the child had not been born. And few questions were asked of Amish boys returning from their alternative military service. Was it not enough that they had withstood the temptations of joining the wars of the world and served in hospitals instead?

The pain of her beauty stabbed at Menno even now.
Yah
, she had been beautiful. A sheer vision of glory in her white uniform and short skirt. How he had longed for her, after growing up around girls and women wearing dark colors and long dresses. Could he be blamed for having fallen hard?
Yah
, he could…But he had repented, had he not?

Few people at the hospital had known he was Amish. He wore the same garb the other laundry people did, so there was really nothing to give him away unless it was his accent. That had been hard to conceal, as it had been for the other men who grew up speaking Pennsylvania Dutch.

An Amish man from Iowa worked at the hospital in the same department but on another shift. Here and there among the vast hospital were other Amish boys, but only one from his home community. Benny John Ray—known as Deacon Ray now. And he had never found out. Menno had made sure of that. And even if Benny had, there was a code of silence they kept among themselves about their time in the city. Were they not all aware of how hard the world was pulling on their hearts? So they freely granted each other the forgiveness they desired themselves. Was such forgiveness not
Da Hah
's way? He sighed as his thoughts went back in time.

The woman came past his station often before he dared speak to her. He practiced English for hours at the apartment, trying to get his accent muted. Finally, after several weeks, he gathered his courage. “Hi, Carol,” he said.

“Hi,” she said, not even slowing her brisk walk down the hall.

The next day he tried again. “Hi, Carol.” He smiled his best.

She slowed down long enough to glance at him. “You're one of those Amish boys, aren't you?”

“How did you know that?” he asked. “Do I have hay sticking out of my hair?”

She laughed. “I didn't notice any hay, but they told me we had some of those—what do they call them? Objectors of the war. I thought you might be one of them.”

His face fell. “Do you have a problem with that?” he asked.

“No, I don't,” she said with a relaxed smile. “I'm very much against the war myself. I'm glad to hear there are people willing to stand up for what they believe. You must come from a proud people.”

He smiled. “My people do not think in those terms.”

After lingering for a few seconds she said, “Well, I've got to be going.”

He watched her until she turned the corner of the hall, her white uniform framing her slender figure. He saw her again a week later.

“We're having a get-together downtown this Saturday,” she said. “I thought you might like to come.”

He stood up straight, meeting her dark-brown eyes. They sparkled with excitement. “Of course,” he said. “Where is it?”

She tilted her head. “You don't have a car if you're Amish. I know that much about you.”

“No, I don't,” he said. “But I can hire a taxi. I can pick you up. That is, if you wanted to go together.”

She smiled. “Why I don't I pick you up in front of the hospital Saturday evening at six?”

“I'll be there,” he said. And then she had disappeared like a dream from which he was sure he would soon awaken. Was this not the world the preachers warned us about for so many years? Was this not the pull the dark one used to tempt a man's soul down the wide and fallen road?
Yah
, it was. But he had been too excited and curious to pull himself back.

On Saturday morning he went out and purchased an
Englisha
pair of jeans and a dark shirt. At least it wasn't bright red or green.
I must keep some Amish sanity
, he decided. On schedule, she picked him up in front of the hospital in her car. He climbed in, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
It sounds like the clanging of chains, like the closing of a lock upon my soul, like a bell warning of eternal damnation
, he thought. But then he lost himself in the sound of her voice, in the brightness of her smile, and in the toss of her beautiful hair.

“Have you heard of the Beatles?” she asked as she drove through town.

He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair.

“I doubted if they'd come to Amish country yet,” she said with that sparkle in her eyes.

“What do they play?” he asked.

“Music that makes people feel alive and full of goodness and virtue.”

“Must be something,” he said, his mind on her hands. They were spread out as she gripped the steering wheel and made the turns on the streets.

“I hope you enjoy it,” she said.

“I know I will,” he said. “I certainly am enjoying being with you.”

“Oh! Do people come right out and say things like that on Amish farms?”

“I don't know.” He kept his eyes on the road. “I've seldom talked to girls.”

“You look old enough,” she said.

“I suppose so,” he allowed.

“Someone break your heart?” she teased.

“No,” he said, relaxing at the sound of her laugh. “I just didn't want to get involved before this thing was over.”

She tilted her head, her face showing a question.

“My service to the government,” he added. “Until after I've given my years for the war.”

“Oh that,” she said. “Well, it's not that awful, is it? You get to see me once in a while.” She smiled.

He dared not look at her.

“It's better than shooting people, isn't it?” she insisted.