The Postcard (37 page)

He picked up the phone and dialed Janice. “I’m back,” he said. “Is Kari around?”

“She’s standing right here, dying to talk to you.”

“Well, put her on.”

“Uncle Phil, hi! It seems like forever since we talked.”

“Forever—yeah, I know.” He stared at a wide bank of windows just beyond the next row of cubicles, spying the sides and tops of buildings, one column of them after another, as far as the eye could see. “Do you and your mom want to watch the leaves change with me?”

“In London?”

“In Vermont . . . at Grandpap’s cabin in the woods.”

“But you promised London,” she insisted.

“London can wait.”

“Okay, if Mom can get away.”

“She’ll say yes, trust me,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I sat still and watched green turn to red. Maybe too long . . .”

Philip was packing for the trip to Vermont when the doorman rang his apartment. “You have a registered letter downstairs, Mr. Bradley. Would you like the mail carrier to bring it up?”

“I’ll come down. Thanks.”

When he had signed for the letter, he noticed that the return address was Fairview Nursing Home in Reading, Pennsylvania.

“Lily?” he said aloud, waiting for the elevator.

Quickly, he opened the long business-style envelope and discovered a typewritten letter addressed to him.

Dear Philip,

I was quite relieved that Shari, our receptionist, had saved your business card. I never could have found you, otherwise, to properly thank you for Gabe’s postcard . . . and for your visits.

Perhaps by now you know that I am Adele Herr. I didn’t intend to deceive you, but years of great sorrow and denial on my part had taken their toll, and I grew to trust few people. I must confess that I have lived an embittered, hopeless life, and by your coming, I know how wrong I was.

The postcard is a reminder of God’s faithfulness to me, that He had His hand on me from the beginning, though I allowed great disappointment to rob me of my faith. I have given myself to my Lord and Savior once again.

So thank you, Philip. The message from Gabe, though quite belated, has altered my life and given me a reason to live.

I wish you well, my friend.

Sincerely,
Adele Herr

Philip refolded the letter, his heart filled with gladness, and he thought again of the Scripture reference Gabe had so aptly placed next to his signature, some forty years ago.

He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. . . .

Epilogue

T
hings seem a bit unsettled ’round here since our New York guest left for home. Mam’s on edge more than ever, ’cept she still does insist on having frequent prayer times as a family, where Dat reads one pointed Scripture passage or another, directed toward me.

There’s plenty of apple-cider makin’ and apple-butter churnin’ in the area, and I have to say that I hope we’ll be making some candied apples, too. ’Least for Annie’s sake.

We’re hosting ever so many more guests, now that it’s peak foliage, and I’m right grateful to be keeping busy. Still, it’s mighty hard to tidy up the southeast guest bedroom or take a walk with Annie over the footbridge without thinking of the young man from New York. Seems the longer time goes, the harder it is to believe everything that happened while Philip Bradley was here.

Most surprising is the story behind it all—how a humble young fella, born sensitive and timid as anybody, mustered the courage to stand up to Bishop Seth Fisher and all the preachers, too! In the end, the obvious heir to the powwow “gift” chose to follow the call of the Cross, becoming a joint heir with Jesus.

It’s a pity that Gabe died so awful young, missin’ out on his sweetheart for a lifetime. I ’spect sometime here real soon, they’ll be meeting again over yonder for all eternity. Gabe was surely right, after all, ’bout what he wrote:
Soon we’ll be together, my love
.

Thinking ’bout the Glory streets and that wonderful-gut heavenly reunion to take place over yonder, I’m surprised that Jacob doesn’t come to mind just now. Still, it’s Philip Bradley who takes up much of my thoughts here lately, though not a soul must ever know—not even Cousin Esther—how brave I felt when I was with him. And even though he’s a fancy Englischer and long gone, just thinking back to the way he said my name—like it was right special somehow—how we laughed together on the ride home from Reading, the way he saved Annie’s life . . . well, every speckle of that memory leaves a right pleasant feeling.

Every so often, I catch myself thinking: Wouldn’t it be something if Philip came back around—workin’ on some project or another? ’Course, the way Mam talked to him on the phone—grabbing the receiver out of my hand like she did and tellin’ him I wasn’t really blind, that I was mental— who knows what he thinks ’bout me now? Well, next time— if there ever
is
a next time—maybe I won’t be so timid-shy around him. Maybe not . . .

I still don’t know if that dusky vision of little Annie was real or not, don’t know if Blue Johnny ever truly came to my room that night. Mam refuses to talk about it, so I ’spect it
did
happen. I do know
one
thing, though: Powwow doctoring is not of God. For sure and for certain.

Thanks to Lavina, we’ve been attending my former church again. Clear out of the blue, the dear woman offered to pick up Annie and me in her little carriage for Sunday preaching at the Beachy church. I’m learning as much as I can about God’s healing plan for His children. Trusting, too, for His perfect timing for me. Esther sends me wonderful-gut Scripture verses on our taped letters, back and forth. I’ve still got plenty of growin’ to do in the Lord before I discover all He has planned for me. But I do have a strong feeling that the postcard was sent by an unseen, yet divine hand, arriving at just the right time—across the years—winging a message of truth to each of us.

News travels fast amongst the People, so it’s not surprisin’ how many folk have heard Gabe’s story. In a way, he’s still preachin’ the sermon God gave him back when, maybe more powerfully than ever before. Sometimes I think my great-uncle must be looking down from on High and smiling at the way the Lord has overcome evil with good. Here in Lancaster County, we call that Providence.

Acknowledgments

S
pace doesn’t allow me to describe the way in which this story took root in my heart, but I can say with assurance that God planted the seeds in me, regarding my study of various types of “sympathy healings,” to include powwow doctoring and other kinds of alternative healings. Out of my inquiry came a better understanding of the “curious arts” and the tools that Satan uses to seduce and ensnare.

I don’t often talk about my writing “pilgrimage”—the process by which I craft a novel—but I can say that the Holy Spirit is always on time, preparing the way for research and inspiration as well. And without certain key people of God, this book would be languishing in a file.

So it is with great appreciation and thanksgiving that I recognize my wonderful husband and first editor, Dave, who literally made it possible for me to meet book deadlines. Always my friends and discerning editors, Barb Lilland, Anne Severance, and Carol Johnson offered gracious support and prayerful encouragement; so did BHP editorial, marketing, and publicity teams. My parents, Reverend Herb and Jane Jones, helped with numerous book resources and prayer, along with other prayer partners: Barbara Birch, Alice Green, Carole Billingsley, Jean Campbell, Judy Verhage, Bob and Aleta Hirschberg, and John and Ada Reba Bachman.

Special thanks to nurses Kathy Torley and Rita Stahl, who answered medical questions. I am also indebted to Marianna Poutasse, curatorial assistant at Winterthur Museum, who shared her knowledge of antiques.

In addition, I extend heartfelt gratitude to the countless readers who have written to me this year, offering prayers of encouragement, sharing Scripture, and requesting more stories. May the Lord bless and keep each of you always.

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