Love Finds You in Amana Iowa (8 page)

Friedrich had been in one of the evening prayer meetings when Brother Metz began shaking in front of the room, overcome with God’s Spirit. That night their leader delivered a powerful testimony, words Friedrich would never forget. Words that were then delivered by letter to the president of the United States and the Senate and House of Representatives.

And if ye do not hearken to the spirit of grace, the true peacemaker, then it will come to pass that innumerable voices will cry pain and woe upon you, because ye have torn and destroyed one another through your dissension and discord.

Metz’s warning proved to be prophetic. People across their great country were now crying out in pain. They were destroying each other instead of seeking peace.

In his heart, Friedrich wanted peace within their nation. He didn’t want them to fight. But if their leaders had sought peace and it didn’t bring freedom, perhaps they had to fight.

Down the pathway, he heard Matthias’s whistle, and he looked up to see his friend strolling toward him, a fishing pole resting over his shoulder. The villages were quiet on Sunday afternoon, many of their people napping or reading, but the river called to him and Matthias during these long summer days. If they caught anything, they took it back to the kitchen, but fishing wasn’t work for them. It was pure rest for their bodies and their souls.

Matthias opened the cover on his tin pail and removed a worm. When he threw his line into the water, it bobbed in the slow current and he began to reel it slowly back toward him.

“I spoke to Brother Schaube this morning,” Matthias said, his eyes on the water as he talked. “He said he will go to Marengo tomorrow and pay the commutation fees at the enlistment office.”

“You’re not going to enlist?”

His friend shook his head. “Neither of us are going to.”

A hawk flew through the trees and soared above the river, free to go where he wanted. Friedrich watched the hawk with envy. If only he wouldn’t hurt so many people by leaving the Amanas. Amalie. Matthias. His mother and father and sister.

The elders would be disappointed with his decision to leave, but they would welcome him back into the community at the end of the war. His family would welcome him back as well, but what would Amalie do?

“They need your letter,” Matthias said as he trolled along the bank. “Before tomorrow.”

Friedrich brushed his fingers over the crumpled paper in his pocket. “How can you be so certain you’ve made the right decision?”

“It’s not my decision to make.”

“You can’t believe that, Matthias.”

“How could I believe otherwise?” Matthias asked. “I’ve never heard the Spirit of God speak, except through our leaders. And the elders have clearly told us not to fight.”

“But your heart,” Friedrich insisted. “What does your heart say?”

“Our hearts can be deceitful,” Matthias said, quoting the words from the prophet Jeremiah.

“Not always, Matthias.”

His friend shook his head. “I never trust my heart.”

Something tugged on Friedrich’s fishing line, and he slowly reeled the hook toward him.

That was the difference between the two of them. Matthias was as loyal as anyone he knew, loyal to their friendship and Friedrich’s family and to the entire society of Inspirationists. Friedrich’s heart betrayed him at times, but even though he couldn’t always trust it, he couldn’t ignore it either.

He wouldn’t do anything against the Spirit of God, at least not willingly, but he wasn’t as convinced as Matthias that every word from their elders was delivered from the Lord. Testimonies were weighed against the Word of God, every word tested to see if it lined up with the nature of God. But still the testimonies were sometimes colored by human weakness, the Werkzeug’s desires and views mixed in with prophetic words and the heart of their Lord.

Even after he prayed for absolution from this war, his heart called him to the battle, tugged within him to fight for those who were being abused. If he couldn’t trust every testimony from the Werkzeuge, if he couldn’t trust his own heart, then what could he trust?

He blinked into the sunlight and he knew the only thing he could trust. He had faith that when he asked, God’s Spirit would direct him to do the right thing. He would have to search for God’s truth and embrace it.

Something hooked on his line, and he reeled it in. The black bass fought in his hands until Friedrich removed it from his line and rehooked the fish onto their stringer. They would clean it later for Henriette’s kitchen.

“You need to wait for Amalie to arrive,” Matthias said, “so the two of you can decide together.”

He shook his head. If he waited for Amalie, his heart would most certainly decide for him, and it wouldn’t be the right decision.

His friend stepped over and clasped his hand on Friedrich’s shoulder. “Don’t leave us,” he said simply.

Friedrich shook his head, his heart heavy. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

* * * * *

The aroma of fresh bread breezed through Libson’s streets like warm tufts of ribbon. Amalie relished the scent as she strolled alone down Market Street. Karoline was resting quietly in the doctor’s office as they waited for the other wagons to arrive.

Last night’s river crossing was a blessed blur in her memory. With Mr. Faust’s assistance, she’d made it across the river without tumbling and ridden into the town with the doctor and Karoline. Karoline had awakened in the back of the carriage last night, crying out for her mother. Amalie had tried to soothe her as best she could, but she was grateful that Karoline was able to cry out even if she was in pain.

The doctor had given Karoline another medication and she slept peacefully through the night. Amalie spent the night in the guest room of the kind doctor and his wife. Not only had they given her a fine feather bed to rest on, the doctor’s wife asked their house servant to draw a hot bath for her and she spent a good half hour soaking in the warm water to clean the grime off her skin. The servant made her a hot cup of chamomile before bed, and she slept better last night than she had her entire trip.

This morning Amalie had breakfast with the doctor and his wife, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a meal that she hadn’t been responsible to help prepare. Then the doctor insisted Amalie go outside and refresh herself in the morning air. At first she told him that she’d had plenty of fresh air the past two weeks, but she didn’t protest for long. She was curious about the worldly village.

Twenty-four years ago she’d been born in a German
Dorf,
but she barely remembered the village where she’d spent her childhood. Her family immigrated to Ebenezer the summer before her sixth birthday, and she hadn’t visited another town since their move. She knew their community was different than others, based on stories the visitors who came to their colony told and on the vivid descriptions of those Inspirationists who’d been to Buffalo. She had often wondered what it would be like to visit another town.

As she walked this morning, past a row of brick buildings, her hands fidgeted beside her. She wasn’t used to being alone nor was she used to being idle. Traveling alongside the wagons had occupied her for the past two weeks, but before that, her work in the kitchen kept her in constant motion with long hours of cooking, baking, and cleaning. She thrived in the midst of the busyness.

Lisbon’s businesses were all closed for Sunday, and the streets were quiet. Too quiet. The few people on the wooden sidewalks looked at her oddly, silently critiquing her plain dress, but she held her head high and ignored them. That was one of the many reasons she loved the villages of her community. No woman was singled out by her fine dress or her lack of gay attire. All the women looked the same, and they were content in their sameness.

Turning the corner, Amalie strolled past a funeral parlor and a store with musical instruments. On the grassy lawn to her right, dozens of people poured out of a white building with a narrow steeple that towered over them. A sign by the arched front doors read F
IRST
C
ONGREGATIONAL
C
HURCH
.

The churchwomen all wore fancy dresses that reminded her of the colorful gourds the Inspirationists harvested every autumn, narrow in the center and then puffed out from their waists to the ground. Many of the men who flooded through the church doors wore full beards and stovepipe hats, tall and grand. Some of them strolled away from the churchyard while others climbed into carriages or wagons and rode up the street.

They talked and laughed as they walked. Two boys ran across the lawn with a shriek before they catapulted over a row of petunias. She watched the boys with curiosity.

Why didn’t anyone stop their antics? The adults in her community would never let the children trample flowers. Inspirationist children played in their village, silly games like “The Cutest Pig in the Parlor,” but their play was never rough or loud like this. Boys and girls alike learned to quietly read and write and knit, and at a very early age, the children learned to respect older people. They also learned to respect each other in the established, orderly world of their community.

Did the children and their parents know how close danger had been to them, just yesterday? Surely they knew about the burnt bridge to their east and how close General Morgan and his troops had come to warring against their village. If they were aware of these dangers, she couldn’t tell.

She rested beside the steps of the church, mesmerized by the many colors that radiated from the stain on its windows. The bright colors of glass blended together to form a lion on one side of the window and a lamb on the other. An arched window in the center of the others depicted a picture of Christ on the cross, His eyes pleading with the heavens. Her breath was stolen away from her as she contemplated the horror of His death. And the beauty of His sacrifice.

The summer rays warmed her skin, and she pulled her sunbonnet closer to her face.

Christ had given His life for her, for all the people in this town and across their country, for sweet souls like Karoline Baumer and even for those like General Morgan, who were intent on following the path to destruction. Christ’s sacrifice offered her and all of them the free grace they desperately needed to eradicate their sins, and her heart filled with a renewal of gratefulness for all He had done for her. She didn’t need anything except His love and grace.

Did the people in this church live like they believed this provoking portrayal of their Christ? Did they know how much He loved them? She prayed they did.

Even with God’s grace, she still struggled daily to follow what He wanted her to do. And even to know what He would have her do.

Most of the congregation had dispersed as she continued her walk through the village, turning onto High Street. There were more storefronts before her, and she stopped to gaze into their windows. In one store, a beautiful woman stood in the display window arrayed in a pink and yellow dress. Amalie stared for a moment, waiting for the woman to move, but when the woman didn’t even blink, Amalie realized she wasn’t real at all. The woman was a giant doll, molded to look like a person.

Embarrassed, Amalie backed away from the display before anyone realized she thought the doll was real. Hurrying down the street, she glanced into the other windows. One store was filled with crockery and hand-painted pieces of china. Another window displayed a spinning wheel and yards of colorful fabric.

Amalie had never seen so many items for sale. In the colony at Ebenezer, they had only a small general store where the Inspirationists could obtain anything they needed for their basic needs—writing paper and shoes and even candy for treats. Since they didn’t have money, every member of their society received a credit at the beginning of each year for purchases at the store, and the storekeeper kept track of what they’d purchased in their credit-book.

At the window of the next store, Amalie rolled her fingers over the warm glass. The sign said it was a mercantile, and she could see the barrels and shelves filled with many different items. Shiny copper pots, glasses, candles, tin cookie cutters. And there were books—stacks and stacks of them beyond the window. What did one do with so many things?

As she was trying to read the titles of the books, she saw something move behind the display. When she lifted her eyes, a man with a bushy brown beard and wiry glasses was looking back at her. At first, she thought he too was a giant doll. When he waved, she gasped and her hands froze on the window as he motioned for her to come inside.

The store in Ebenezer was closed on Sunday, but she didn’t know how people acted outside Ebenezer. Were they allowed to shop on the Sabbath? She reached for the doorknob, but she didn’t step forward.

There wasn’t any harm in looking at his inventory, was there? She couldn’t buy anything, of course, but maybe the shopkeeper wouldn’t mind if she opened the covers of the books and peeked inside. Then she would go back to check on Karoline.

A bell chimed overhead when she pushed the door, startling her, and she almost ran back outside like a spooked rabbit. Before she ran, though, the man stepped forward and introduced himself as the owner of the shop.

“How can I help you?” he asked in a soothing tone that helped calm her fears.

She pushed her sunbonnet off her hair, revealing the small black cap she wore underneath. The sunbonnet rested on her shoulders as she glanced around the room, overwhelmed and strangely exhilarated by all the merchandise in the store. “Are you open?”

“Not officially,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. “But I’d never turn away a customer in need.”

She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t need anything.”

The twinkle dimmed a bit. “Well, I’m just cleaning up a bit. You are welcome to look around if you’d like.”

She glanced over the kitchenware and hats and shoes. Her eyes rested on the shelves at the far corner of the store. “Can I look at the books?”

“Certainly.”

Amalie walked over, and her fingers reverently rolled over the dozens of hardcovers on the shelf. She’d only read a handful of books in her life. The Bible and the book of inspired testimonies from their Werkzeuge. The only fictional book she’d ever read was
Pilgrim’s Progress,
and every word of the pilgrim’s journey delighted her. When Christian arrived at the Celestial City, she celebrated with him.