The Atonement (2 page)

C
HRISTIAN
F
LAUD
STEPPED
OUT
of the dark blue passenger van and paid his driver. Considering how glum he felt, he would have preferred to walk the three-mile stretch to the white clapboard meetinghouse. But his wife had urged him to call for a driver, following the strenuous day filling silo. After all, he was sixty-four now and not the young man he'd once been. In fact, Christian had almost nixed the idea of going, but for some time now, his friend Harvey Schmidt had been talking about the newly offered grief support group, unique to this community church. The small-group approach was an effective way to handle one's sorrow—or so Harvey said, having attended the launch of the Thursday-night program some months back. Christian, however, wasn't exactly mourning a typical loss, and Harvey wouldn't be there to sit with.

Sighing, Christian made his way across the parking lot toward the modest church building, taking note of the large pots of orange and gold mums on either side of the main door and regretting anew his past mistakes. Peering up at the quaint white bell tower, he recalled the last time he had been here. It was
summertime, and he had been seventeen and in the middle of the worst running-around season—
“es
Schlimmscht Rumschpringe
,
”
his father had called it. His younger sister Emma had even scorned his given name.
“Christian, indeed
!”

At the time, he had stepped outside the Old Order church of his upbringing. But even so, it was with some degree of reluctance that he'd agreed to meet his then girlfriend, Minerva Miller, at the unassuming meetinghouse. Despite being raised with strict boundaries like Christian, Minerva had left their church for the Beachy Amish, but her path out of the Old Order was problematic. And the community meetinghouse, where a nightly revival was being held, had been their secret compromise one sultry July evening more than forty years ago.

Christian glanced at the line of gnarled oak trees at the far end of the paved lot, tempted by another memory. There, with the moon twinkling through the tree branches, he'd had the nerve to reach for her slender hand.
Minnie
, he'd affectionately nicknamed the beguiling brunette then. The recollection was dusty with the years, and he knew better than to let himself reminisce a second longer.

No need to relive that defiant chapter.

Still, it was odd the sort of memories a place could trigger. Like Christian, Minnie had long since married, and his short friendship with her had nothing to do with attending the grief group tonight.

This approach to getting help was so foreign to his way of thinking. “Help I should've gotten before now,” he whispered as he neared the church door.

Inside, the entryway was profuse with flourishing plants—scarlet wax begonias and purple coneflowers, and a tall weeping fig tree, similar to some he'd seen in Saint Paul, Minnesota, at the Como Park Conservatory he and Sarah had visited last year. Christian wandered over to one side of the vestibule, to
a large corkboard displaying notices and announcements and some tear-off pizza coupons for an upcoming youth outing. He was reaching to look more closely at a business card advertising a Shetland pony for sale when he heard footsteps behind him.

A clean-shaven, tall blond fellow wearing a blue-and-gold tie greeted him. “Welcome, I'm Dale Wyeth.” The young man looked Christian over, apparently curious about his Plain attire. “Are you here for the grief support group?”

Nodding, Christian removed his best straw hat and accepted the firm handshake, glad he'd worn his Sunday trousers.

Dale Wyeth blinked awkwardly. “We'll be meeting downstairs. I'll show you the way.”

Amused, Christian followed him to the basement room.

Downstairs, a handful of men and women were milling about, some already seated. He spied a vacant chair at the far end of the room and, amidst stares, hurried to sit down.

What have I gotten myself into?

———

During the preliminary remarks, the middle-aged leader, Linden Hess—a cordial man in short sleeves and blue jeans who introduced himself as one of the staff pastors—shared briefly that his eight-year-old daughter had died two years ago.

Christian inhaled deeply, shaken by the admission.
Eight years old.

Dale volunteered to distribute the syllabus to the dozen or so folk in attendance as Linden emphasized the need to talk about one's grief with at least one other person as an important first step toward healing.

Christian shook hands with the couple sitting beside him—they had lost their young son to leukemia a mere three weeks earlier. There was such a depth of sorrow in their eyes that Christian wondered if he, too, carried his private pain on his countenance.
For all to see.

When the minister began to read from Ecclesiastes 3, Christian's shoulders stiffened. He forced himself to listen, even though he had read the first four verses many times in the past few years: “‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die . . .'”

Christian looked straight ahead. Why did it feel like he was the only one sitting in the room across from the minister? The warmth from his neck crept quickly beneath his beard.

“Grief comes in like the waves of the sea, and sometimes it's deeper than expected—takes us off guard,” Linden said, beginning the session titled “Shattered Dreams.”

“Remember, grief is unique to each person . . . and at times it may be so distracting that you feel like you're trudging blindly through the day.” He glanced about the room, asking for any comments or questions from the group.

One woman raised her hand and explained how unclear her thoughts had become since her sister's passing.

A dapper-looking gentleman in a red cardigan sweater, a three-pronged cane by his chair, admitted how hard it was to sleep through the night in recent days. “I keep reliving my wife's diagnosis.” He covered his eyes with his handkerchief, and another man went to sit next to him. “I'm in the process of losing her . . . daily,” the older man said.

Linden nodded sympathetically before continuing, his voice low as he glanced now and then at the man slowly regaining his composure. “Personally, I couldn't believe how unpredictable my grief was, and for the longest time. And even though we all know that death is a natural part of life, I never realized the debilitating pain it would bring.”

Christian's heart went out to the older man, still wiping his eyes at the far side of the room. It was all Christian could do to stay put in his chair and not try to console him.
I can't imagine losing my precious Sarah thataway. . . .

———

Later, Dale Wyeth and Christian were partnered for the sharing time that followed the session.

“Tomorrow it'll be one month since my father passed,” Dale began. “I looked after him for a full year before the end came.”

“Did he live with ya, then?” asked Christian, feeling uncomfortable engaging in such personal talk.

“My place was too small to accommodate my parents, so Mom and I took turns caring for Dad in their home.” Dale's chin twitched. “They had no long-term care insurance. I did everything I could to help . . . and to give my mother a break.”

The People had always assisted their ailing and elderly, even building
Dawdi Hauses
onto the main house to provide for aging relatives. But while Christian didn't put all fancy folk in the same box, he hadn't expected such a revelation from a Yankee. Dale's compassionate attitude struck him as atypical. “That's quite admirable.”

“Well, I loved my dad—thought the world of him.” Dale bowed his head briefly. “I still do.”

Christian fell silent, remembering his own father, no longer living.

“Dad worked long hours at his hardware store to take care of Mom, and my sister and me, growing up.” Dale glanced away for a moment. “It was the least I could do.”

“
Nee, '
twas the
best
.”

Dale studied him, light brown eyes intent.

“I understand . . . lost my own father three years ago.” Christian was taken aback by the connection he felt with Dale. He'd rarely talked of
Daed
's death to anyone.

“I'm very sorry,” Dale offered.

“My Daed
lived a long and fruitful life. But losin' him . . . well, it's a grief that's been mighty hard to shake.”

More plainspoken sharing came from the young man. “I'll
never forget the prayer Dad offered for our family before he closed his eyes for the final time.” Dale's voice was thick with emotion. “It made me want to step up my prayer life; he valued it so.”

Christian listened as Dale spoke freely of his family and the fact that he'd inherited his father's hardware store. “A fair number of Amish frequent it.”

After the benediction, Dale stayed around, seemingly interested in continuing their conversation. “I realize this has nothing to do with the meeting here,” he said, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. “Frankly, I've been curious for a few years now about how I might live more simply, less dependent on the grid. The current solar storm activity and other natural events make me realize just how easily disrupted modern life can be.”

Christian frowned. “Really, now?”

“I'd like to be more self-sufficient.”

“Well, ain't something most
Englischers
would consider doin'.”

Dale laughed. “If you knew me, you'd know I'm not like most ‘
Englischers
,' as you call them.”

“I'm just sayin' you might find it harder than you think.”

Dale nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt.” He hunched forward as if to share a deep confidence. “I've always had a do-it-yourself streak and have been doing a lot of reading about this. Besides, it's not too hard to imagine that we English could wake up one morning with no way to sustain the life we've become accustomed to . . . at least temporarily.”

Christian ran his fingers through his long beard, suddenly leery. Dale sounded like some of those survivalists who spent decades preparing for the end of the world. “Not even your cell phone would work, if it came to that,” Christian told him. “But I daresay all of that rests in God's hands.”

“Definitely,” Dale replied. “I believe that wholeheartedly, but I don't think it's wrong to prepare a backup plan. I think of it
as getting closer to the way the Lord may have intended for us to live.”

Christian noted the sincerity in the young man's reply, but he'd known a few folk who'd dabbled in the Old Ways and fell short, quickly becoming disillusioned and finding their way back to their familiar modern environment. Even so, Christian enjoyed his conversation with Dale and appreciated his respectful manner.

They said good-bye and parted ways.
An unusual fellow,
Christian thought as he waited for his ride. He certainly hadn't expected to meet anyone like Dale tonight.

Lucy leaned on the kitchen table to read her Bible in
Deitsch
, the room lit by the gas lamp overhead. She was pressing onward through yet another chapter when she saw her father enter through the back entrance. He bent low to straighten the large rag rug in the mud room, talking to himself as he removed his straw hat and shoes. Recently, she'd noticed the dark circles under his gray-blue eyes.

“Is your Mamm
around?” Dat asked as Lucy rose to offer him something to drink or nibble on. After all, he'd left right after supper, where he'd merely picked at the roast beef and potatoes on his plate.

“She's upstairs early.” Lucy motioned toward the stairs. “But I made a snack for ya.”