now for the day to begin, for this life he’d come back to retrieve to begin, John gobbled down his breakfast. He set the dishes in water to soak and was out the door and on his way to meet Bishop Troyer and the second preacher before the sun was fully above the horizon.
* * *
Usually Luke, Greta and the children called for Lydia early on Sunday morning. Services were held every other week in one of the homes that made up the community. On this day the service would take place in the Yoder house behind the dry-goods store in town and, as was her habit whenever the venue was so close, Lydia planned to walk. There was one problem, though.
To walk from her place to the Yoder house she would have to pass by Luke’s shop—and the residence of John Amman. Her plan was to delay leaving her house until she had seen him go. That way there would be no possibility of running into him. And so, dressed for over an hour already, the morning chores done, her breakfast eaten and her dishes washed, dried and back on the shelf, she waited. And waited.
The clock chimed eight and still there had been no sign of life in the rooms above the livery. She would be late. Greta would be worried, perhaps send Luke to fetch her. Everyone would be talking about her, about whether or not she had decided against coming because of John, about...
“Oh, just go,” she ordered herself.
She tied the ribbons of her black bonnet and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. The morning air was still chilly although a soft westerly wind held the promise that by the time services ended she would have no need of the shawl’s extra warmth. She picked up the basket holding the jars of pickled beets and peaches that would be her contribution to the community meal that always followed the three-hour service. Then she stood at the door and closed her eyes, praying for God’s strength to get her through this day.
By the time she reached the Yoder house her sister had indeed worked herself into a state. “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” she whispered as she relieved Lydia of her basket and handed it to one of the Yoder daughters. “I know how difficult this—”
“I am here,” Lydia interrupted as she saw that most of the congregation had already taken their places in the rows of black wooden benches that traveled from house to house depending on where services were scheduled. “We should sit.”
Pleasant slid closer to the women next to her, making room for Lydia and Greta. She gave Lydia a sympathetic look, as did two other women who turned to look at her. Oh, will this ever end? Lydia thought even as she manufactured a reassuring smile of greeting for each of the women.
She and Greta had barely taken their places when the first hymn began. Lydia felt the comfort of verses that had been passed down from generation to generation for centuries as she chanted the words in unison with her neighbors. There was something so powerful in the sound of many voices chorusing the same words without benefit of a pipe organ or other musical support. By the time the hymn ended twenty minutes later Lydia felt fully prepared to face whatever the day might bring.
Of course, it helped that John was nowhere in sight. No doubt, he was sequestered in one of the bedrooms where the elders and bishop had met with him before the service. Either that or he had lost his nerve and run away again in the dark of night.
That thought gave Lydia a start. What if he had done exactly that? She struggled to focus her attention on the message as Levi Harnischer, the deacon of their congregation, preached. But as he rambled from one Biblical story to another she found her thoughts, as well as her gaze, wandering.
More than once she glanced toward the hallway that she knew led to the bedrooms. Was he there waiting to be called before the congregation to make his plea for forgiveness and reinstatement once the regular service ended?
Greta nudged her as the second hymn began and gave her a strange look. Are you all right? she mouthed.
Lydia frowned and nodded but Greta continued to stare at her.
“You are quite pale, Liddy,” she whispered.
“I am fine,” Lydia assured her, forcing a gentle tone through gritted teeth.
Bishop Troyer’s sermon followed the singing, and there could be no doubt of his message. He quoted the story of the prodigal son and then focused much of his attention on the young people seated in the front two rows of benches on either side of a center aisle. For over an hour he spoke of lambs wandering away from the flock, tempted by the promise of greener pastures. He spoke of the dangers that awaited such runaways and the importance of returning to the stability of the fold.
All around her Lydia saw her neighbors sitting up very straight as they listened with rapt attention to the bishop’s words. They knew what was coming. At the meeting following the service they expected John would enter the room and face them. Did not one of them entertain the notion that he might once again have lost his nerve and run away?
The final hymn began and as each verse was sung Lydia felt her heart beat faster. She focused her gaze on Gertrude Hadwell, who clearly could barely contain her joy at having John back in her life. If he left again, Gert would be devastated.
Please let him be here, Lydia prayed silently even as she understood that life would be far easier for her if John had surrendered yet again to the temptations of the adventures he’d found in the outside world.
* * *
John followed the sounds and silences of the service from his position in one of the small bedrooms near the two large front rooms of the Yoder home. The hymns, chanted slowly in unison verse by verse, had a beauty all their own. It was so different from the music he’d heard on the rare occasions when he’d attended an Englisch service. In the outside world hymns were always accompanied by some musical instrument—most often a pipe organ that huffed and thudded as the organist pushed or pulled the stops and pressed down on the row of pedals beneath her feet.
He had missed the quiet rhythm of hymns from the Ausband—hymns passed down through the generations, hymns that could run on for dozens of verses, hymns he had memorized as a boy. He heard the drone of the preacher’s voice as the first of the two sermons was delivered. Since the door to the bedroom was closed, he did not hear the actual words until he was called to seek his forgiveness.
He folded his hands and leaned his elbows on his knees. He ought to be praying for God’s guidance. He ought to be using this time to figure out how he was going to state his case without sounding either arrogant or insincere. He ought to be trying to understand exactly what he hoped to achieve by coming back here—what his life was going to look like after today. He ought to be doing all of that but, instead, his mind was filled with thoughts of Liddy.
She would be there sitting with the other women and girls, all of them dressed in the solid dark-colored dresses and aprons topped by the starched prayer kapps of their faith. They would wear their hair the same, as well, for in the Amish world sameness was a sign of commitment to the community at large; individuality in dress or style was seen as rebellious. Male and female would sit shoulder to shoulder on their respective sides of the room, their eyes either on the minister or lowered in prayer. None of them would be distinguishable from their neighbor. For that was their way. The community was everything and the individual was nothing.
That was, of course, why he had to apologize and seek forgiveness. He had put his personal dreams and plans above what was considered in the best interest of the community. In the outside world such actions would be considered laudable. He would be praised for his ambition and determination to make something of himself. But not in Celery Fields or any other
