Shunning Sarah (10 page)

“Garnett and I talked this morning,” I said.

“Really?” Malik replied. “Are you back together?”

“No. I don’t know what we are.”

Malik always had a front-row seat to our on-again-off-again relationship. He was still happily married to his college sweetheart
and couldn’t understand why my love life was always a wreck. I couldn’t really either. Most of the time I blamed myself, but lately I’d started blaming God.

•   •   •

God was definitely a character in my Amish romance book. Continuing the read that evening, I learned that the heroine was resisting wild passion in favor of inner peace to please God and her family. If she followed this path, her reward would be obedient children.

It might be admirable, but was it realistic? The book was more spiritual than I could handle just then, so I guiltily put it down. Then I started thinking more about Sarah Yoder, and what fatal error might have caused her death.

Her eyes didn’t watch me that night while I slept. Maybe having a name again had calmed her. But Sarah was still the first thing I thought of in the morning.

•   •   •

Moving from rental to rental the last couple years, something happened I had vowed never would: my newspaper subscription lapsed.

I love the feel of paper and ink on my fingers, but the customer service desk put me on hold so long I finally hung up and decided getting my news online wasn’t so bad.

Of course, when you read unwelcome news in an actual newspaper, you can rip the article to pieces. Or burn the pages. Or throw the whole thing in the garbage along with pizza boxes and coffee grounds. The physical act of destruction can be cathartic.

But when you read bad news on the Internet, clicking to another site or turning off the computer screen doesn’t make the bad news disappear. Online is eternal.

As far as journalism went in previous years, once I’d filed my
story, I was done. Whether the news changed or not. Now online means my work is never finished. And my competition is younger and hungrier. I may have more news experience, but their phones are smarter than me.

Even though I wanted to smash my fist against my computer when I read the Minneapolis newspaper’s lead story, I knew that wouldn’t change the fact that I’d been beat on the job. Badly.

“Exclusive.”
Newspaper reporters used to mock TV news for using that word so liberally, but recently they’d adopted the term themselves. Usually as an exaggeration for mediocre content. But not today.

The headline taunted me.

Murder Gives Glimpse Inside Amish World

The story killed me.

A cloistered Amish community in southeastern Minnesota reacted with shock at the discovery that one of their own had been murdered. But a strict moral code that values forgiveness over anger is apparently impeding the criminal investigation into an Amish woman’s homicide.

The body of a woman discovered a few days ago has been identified as eighteen-year-old Sarah Yoder of Harmony, MN.

Law enforcement officials are frustrated. “If any of the group witnessed anything useful, they’re keeping quiet,” said Sheriff Ed Eide. “But that’s the norm for them. If a buggy is vandalized, they never press charges. Same if property is stolen from a homestead. And we’ve respected that. But this is murder. So we are going to continue to ask questions.”

For Amish bishop Abram Stoltzfus the rules of the church trump the laws of the court.

“We must not think evil of this perpetrator,” he said. “We must forgive him in our hearts. This deed is not something we can change. We must accept this course as God’s will.”

The story went on to quote an Amish neighbor of the Yoders who seemed to echo the bishop’s philosophy of hate the sin, not the sinner. The article also recapped the Amish schoolhouse shooting in Pennsylvania five years earlier, after which the victim’s families forgave the killer and even donated money to his surviving family.

The reporter gave good perspective on tourism in Harmony benefiting both the Amish and English, but the accuracy wasn’t what bothered me.

Sources are everything in news. One of my top news-gathering skills has always been in getting people to talk to me, scooping the competition. Sure, there are news events in which people revel in their fifteen minutes of fame and insist on talking to every reporter who wants an interview. In other cases, people hide from public view and refuse to be interviewed by anybody.

But there are enough times when people choose to talk to me—and only me—that have made my reputation as a top journalist.

But that didn’t happen this time. Bishop Stoltzfus spoke to the newspaper instead of me. When I introduced myself, he turned away like I was the plague. Yet he found time to give print reporter Jack Rhodes quite a sermon.

I’d have some explaining to do at the station, where I was due in two hours. The only way to avoid a whole lot of yelling was to not go into work. Or to wear earplugs. I considered calling in sick. Instead, I called my mom for support. Something I hadn’t done since high school when I ended up as salutatorian rather than valedictorian.

“Mom, the Amish talked to the newspaper and not me. I got scooped.”

A few seconds passed before my mother processed my words over the phone and realized her daughter was a loser. “Oh Riley, I’m so sorry. You’ll get them next time.”

“You don’t understand. My new boss is going to flip over this. This was not a story that was dumped on me. I campaigned for this story. And I didn’t deliver.”

She made some soothing “now-now” noises before saying something that put the whole mess in a different perspective.

“You couldn’t have actually expected the Amish, if given a choice, to talk to you instead of a newspaper reporter?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Amish think TV is evil.”

“Why? Because it uses electricity?”

“More likely because it represents the corruption of the modern world. They fear the messages on television will entice family members to leave the Amish fold.” She went on to explain that Amish consider rooftop TV antennas the “devil’s tail,” and the box inside the house his “tongue.”

I loved the vivid metaphors. But I was certain Bryce would never accept that the newspaper had an unfair edge over us for this story and that their scoop was the devil’s fault, not mine.

“Maybe learning a little more about the Amish faith might help you better relate to them,” my mother said. “You might have more luck in another round.”

“Where can I get a crash course?”

That’s when she told me that Father Mountain, my childhood priest, knew a lot about Amish religion from earlier days in his rural parish. Looking at the clock I realized I might have time to dash over to his church in St. Paul for a quick lesson and still make the morning news meeting.

And while in the vicinity of holy turf, I vowed to whisper a prayer for some breaking news—nonfatal—to divert my boss from my failings.

M
iriam Yoder’s favorite memories of Sarah came when she was a happy girl, catching sleepy pigeons in the barn.

Another time she remembered her child bringing in the sheets off the clothesline as part of her chores, running with them draped over her body as if flying herself.

“Fly here, young bird,” she laughed with her. “Show me your wings.”

She never imagined, years later, her daughter would fly away from their family nest and land in dangerous hands. Other Amish would now warn their children, this is what happens when you join the English. The scandal of Sarah would be whispered about in Amish circles afar.

Hannah was off to school and Gideon was in the barn, so for the first time since the English lawman delivered the news of her daughter’s body cast off in a pit, Miriam wept.

She wiped her eyes with the shirt she’d been mending. Sewing a tear or fixing a loose button required less concentration than cooking on the woodstove. And in her rattled state of mind she’d rather prick a finger than burn down the house.

The English had offered Miriam the sketch of Sarah, not understanding his affront. She tried not to think about her daughter, focusing instead on the funeral plans which lay ahead. But her mind kept dwelling on the past. And the past left her heartsick.

As Sarah grew older and headstrong, their relationship became strained. Most of their conversations ended in arguments like “Why are you always so stubborn?”

Raising her family alone, Miriam moved from spank to strap to teach her daughter. The bishops always supported her, as did the Bible. She urged Sarah to pray harder to end her troubles. At first the girl tried to obey, but then fell back to her old habits.

When Sarah finished eighth grade, she did not want to stop schooling, but no compromise existed. Soon after, Miriam found a diary under Sarah’s mattress. The early pages talked of enjoying her time as a scholar and hoping to teach school herself one day.

Miriam recalled smiling at an entry where her daughter wrote about playing kickball during recess.

I was the first girl picked because I am the fastest. Once I even caught a brown rabbit. That’s how fast I am.

Another day, Sarah wrote of a boy in class smiling at her during a history lesson.

I thought Caleb to be looking at Anna, then understood it to be me, and I smiled back.

But the later pages of the diary shocked Miriam, jeopardizing Sarah and even their entire family standing. She had begun to think her future more important than her brother’s.

Miriam confronted the girl with her discovery. “Look, my child, I found your guilty secret.”

Sarah swallowed nervously and asked for her journal back. “Please, Mamm, it is my life.”

“Your words are unclean,” Miriam said. “You must never utter such things again. No more journals for you.”

She burned the book in the kitchen stove and waited until all the pages were destroyed so Sarah could not reclaim her life story. Then she handed her daughter a Bible and instructed her to turn to the book of Deuteronomy. She pointed to a verse. “Read this.”

So Sarah read aloud, “ ‘The secret things belong unto the Lord our God: but those things which are revealed belong unto us and to our children for ever, that we may do all the words of this law.’ ”

“Do you understand your sin?” Miriam asked.

Whether she did or not, Sarah quickly apologized for her writings. “Please, Mamm, forgive me for my misdeeds.”

And as was the Amish way, Miriam forgave Sarah. But she was never convinced her daughter forgave her.

Over time, she suspected Sarah might be keeping other journals, but though she checked her room when the girl was outside, she found nothing.

F
ather Mountain was finishing breakfast at the rectory when I pounded on his door. His ability to sense unspoken despair was a job requirement for clergy, so he poured me a bowl of cold cereal and offered to take my confession.

“Unless you’d prefer accompanying me to daily Mass.” He glanced at the clock on the stove. “I have to be changing into my vestments in half an hour.”

“I’m all confessed out, Father.” My last confession was epic. He should know. He was there for it. “And I need to be at the station just about when you’d be saying opening prayer. What I really require is a quick class in Thinking Amish.”

“Is this what brings you?” He held up the newspaper front page and I swatted the Amish article away defensively.

“Yeah. I didn’t do so well covering that story.”

I gave him my mother’s theory that my hot TV job got me the Amish cold shoulder. “I want to cover this murder investigation without feeling humiliated by my competition. To do that I need to convince those folks that talking to me is not flirting with the devil.”

“Well, Riley, to truly understand the Amish you have to start with their religion. Their life choices stem from their spiritual beliefs. Let’s test your knowledge. How many Amish does it take to change a light bulb?”

Father Mountain enjoyed using religious humor to illustrate serious issues. When I was a little girl, his jokes delighted me. With each jest, he would remind me that God gave humans the gift of laughter. But today I was low on patience.

“None,” I answered his joke about the Amish and light bulbs. “Amish don’t believe in electricity.”

“That’s right. They believe God will provide light unto the world.”

“I’m more familiar with their self-reliant lifestyle than their piety, Father. I’m hoping to get a deeper sense of their faith at Sarah Yoder’s funeral. Providing my boss gives me another chance with the story.”

Funerals often reveal secrets about murder victims and their lives. Who showed up and who didn’t says a lot. Sometimes the police even videotape the attendees, looking for clues, even suspects masquerading as mourners.

“That’s not going to happen this time,” Father Mountain said.

“I know, no cameras for this funeral, but I’d be content just to sit quietly in the back of the church and assimilate.”

“That’s not going to happen either,” he said. “Amish services are held in homes, not chapels. They believe in simplicity. They would consider our formal churches to be opulent and a deterrent to true worship. The same with dressing up in fancy ‘Sunday best’ attire. Believe me, none of them are going to let you hide in a corner and watch them pray.”

Father Mountain was right about one thing. In order to stand a chance of mingling with the Amish, I needed to learn more about their religion.

“So how do Amish differ from Catholics?” I asked. “Are they a Protestant sect?”

“Heavens, no,” Father Mountain said.

As I crunched cornflakes, he took me through the history of the Amish church, starting with the sixteenth century. But as his
lecture became engaging, I traded spoon for pen and made some scribbles in my reporter’s notebook.

He explained that while Martin Luther was leading the Protestant Reformation, another significant movement was also attempting to change the Roman Catholic Church.