Sarah's Christmas Miracle (4 page)

Both girls giggled as they nodded their heads.

Elizabeth loved this time of year when family and friends came to call, bringing sweet treats or healthy appetites. Not surprisingly, very little turkey and dressing remained from the feast two days ago. With that many hungry people—many staying the whole day—a huge amount of food had been consumed. But with so many women, the cleanup afterward hadn’t been any trouble.

The Troyers were a good family—every one of them hardworking, respectful of elders, and committed to the Christian faith. As far as she knew, none had caused much heartache to their parents, not even during
Rumschpringe
. Adam Troyer would make a good match for Sarah, although she had initially been surprised by her daughter’s interest in the solemn furniture maker. Frivolous thoughts never crossed Adam’s mind. He’d once mentioned that he scheduled his entire day after morning prayers, planning even a swim in the creek or a visit to a neighbor.

So very unlike my eldest daughter.

Sarah could be distracted by just about anything. Once she burned loaves of bread to cinders after hummingbirds in the morning glories had captured her attention. Another time she’d walked to town for toiletries but wandered into the library instead. After losing track of time, she ended up coming home without her drugstore necessities. Dreamy and sensitive, kind and gentle, Sarah returned wayward turtles to the pond, captured ladybugs on the screen to free outdoors, and rescued skunks that fell into the window well.

It had been Adam’s kindness to a litter of abandoned cats that had first attracted Sarah. The two had spent hours feeding kittens from a baby bottle after a Sunday preaching service. Sarah had taken the brood home, but Adam came each day to help and then found them all good homes. Perhaps his serious nature might offset Sarah’s absentminded one, although she appeared to be in no hurry to tie the knot.

Working at the bed-and-breakfast had done her a world of good. She’d grown more reliable, managed her time better, and had learned to handle money without elevating its importance. However, her
daed
would be quick to disagree. Eli thought she spent far too much time analyzing
Englischers
and held the inn responsible for her continued singleness.

Elizabeth had learned firsthand that you shouldn’t force young people to do things against their will. You could instruct them and try to encourage, but in the end each must make up his or her own mind. To remain Amish was to place God first and yourself second, and that decision had to be personal. Someday Sarah would be ready to become a wife and mother. Until that day came, there wasn’t a thing her parents could do but pray.

“When will Sarah be home?” asked eleven-year-old Katie. “She loves to make cutout cookies, and we’ve already finished making the others.”

“That’s because she likes to eat the frosting,” said fifteen-year-old Rebekah.

“I wouldn’t talk if I were you,” said Elizabeth, pulling back the kitchen curtain to peer outside. “Count the candy wrappers and then look at how few ended up in cookies.”

Like clockwork, she spotted Sarah sauntering down the private lane that connected their township road to the county highway. Sarah carried her outer bonnet in hand, had left her wool coat unbuttoned, and appeared to be traversing the path instead of walking a straight line. Elizabeth set the kettle on the propane stove and lit a burner. By the time Sarah reached the house, apple cinnamon tea would be ready.

“I’m home,” she called from the back hall. When she entered the kitchen, her face glowed from the cold.
“Guder nachmittag, schwestern.”
Sarah greeted her sisters and tugged their
kapp
strings in succession. She buzzed a kiss across Elizabeth’s cheek. “Have I missed the best part of cookie making?” She pushed up her sleeves and headed to the sink to wash. But instead of a using a towel, she shook the droplets of water over Rebekah’s head. Rebekah responded by sticking out her tongue.

“Sit,” Elizabeth ordered. “You’re just in time.” She placed the tree, bell, star, and heart cookie cutters in the center of the table. Katie grabbed the star, while Rebekah reached for the heart.

“Oh, good, I get to make green Christmas trees and silver bells this year—my favorites.” This was always Sarah’s reply, regardless of which cutters her sisters selected first.

Elizabeth rolled out the first batch of dough to the proper thickness, and then the three girls went to work. They had become experts in arranging the shapes for the maximum number of cookies. Any leftover scraps were rolled into balls, baked, coated with white icing, and dipped in sugar to make snowballs.

“Mamm,”
asked Sarah, “what do you suppose Caleb is doing today?”

Katie concentrated on her placement of stars, but Rebekah looked up with alarm.

Elizabeth swallowed with a dry throat. “I have no idea. What made you think of your
bruder
?”

Sarah met her gaze. “I don’t know. I guess I missed him at Thanksgiving dinner.”

“With your boss here, plus a houseful of Troyers, you should have had plenty to keep you occupied.” Elizabeth kneaded the next batch of dough with more energy than required.

“
Jah
, Adam’s nieces and nephews are a handful, aren’t they? I almost burst out laughing when that Brussels sprout hit the mashed potatoes. But I started to wonder what Caleb might be doing up in Cleveland. Surely he’s not still working on that public housing project.”

“If your
bruder
wanted us to know his whereabouts or how he’s getting along, he would tell us.” Elizabeth slapped the dough onto waxed paper, sending up a cloud of flour into the air.

Sarah cut out a perfect row of trees and then interspersed her bells between the hearts and stars. “Don’t you have an address for Caleb? Some way to reach him in an emergency?”

Elizabeth stopped kneading and stared at her daughter as exasperation inched up her spine. However, Sarah sat transferring trees one by one to the baking sheet, unaware of the distress she had caused. “I have no address for him. He’s not interested in our family emergencies, or he wouldn’t have burned that bridge years ago.” She began rolling out the ball of dough, pouring her irritation into the effort to avoid losing her temper. When she’d finished and lifted the rolling pin, three pairs of eyes were staring at her.

Sarah spoke in a gentle voice. “
Mamm
, that dough is too thin to cut out. Let me roll the next batch.”

Elizabeth gazed down at the table and saw that she had rolled the dough paper-thin. Not sure if she should laugh or cry, she chose the former, to the great relief of two of her girls. Katie and Rebekah giggled good-naturedly.

But Sarah, looking concerned, reached over and clasped her hand. “Did I upset you? That wasn’t my intention.”

Elizabeth fought back the sting of tears and the egg-sized lump in her throat. “I suppose it’s normal for you to be curious about Caleb.” She had said his name
,
a hard thing to do as her husband refused to even mention the word. “I think about him from time to time, especially around Christmastime. But thinking doesn’t change things, and dwelling on the one who flew the nest might make me lose sight of the fledglings who have stayed.” She forced a smile and scraped the dough back into the bowl. “Let’s put this into the refrigerator for a while to make it easier to reroll. Otherwise it’ll be too sticky.”

When she returned to the table, the younger girls had started frosting the first batch of cookies from the oven, but Sarah was still watching her. Elizabeth grabbed the bag of flour to measure out the next batch of dough.

“I thought you had an address and phone number where he could be reached,” said Sarah. She acted like a stubborn dog, refusing to let go of his end of the stick.

Elizabeth released her best weight-of-the-world sigh—the one mothers used to discourage additional comments or questions. But this time, the sigh failed her. Sarah merely waited with a spatula in one hand and a cookie cutter in the other. “We
had
his address and phone number, but when I wrote to him after six months, my letter and all thereafter came back marked ‘Return to sender—no forwarding address.’ And when I called, the number had been disconnected, and ‘no further information is available.’” She heard the recorded message ringing in her ears as though it were yesterday. “That was the end of it. It was his choice. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to change the subject. No sense talking about something we can’t do anything about.” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice. Making cookies with the girls was one of her favorite holiday pastimes, but suddenly her harsh words echoed off the kitchen walls.

Sarah looked as though she might cry. “Sorry,
mamm
,” she whispered.

Elizabeth felt worse, if that was even possible. “No harm done. I’m going to the cellar to see if we have any apricot preserves left. Why should all the thumbprints be strawberry?” She winked at Katie.

Once she was away from the overheated kitchen, she exhaled slowly. After all these years, the subject of her errant son, the one who had broken his parents’ hearts, still hurt.

Will I never be able to let go of my anger and disappointment? Will I never be able to accept Caleb’s rejection of the Amish way of life? Why can’t I surrender my son to God and let the One who sacrificed His own Son care for him?

Memories of the year before Caleb left came flooding back, ripping open old wounds. By eighteen, Caleb was pushing every limit and breaking every rule set for him. He took to staying out late with his English friends, drinking beer and playing loud music at bonfire parties down by the creek. He’d gotten his drivers license and had bought an old pickup truck. When his father tried to clip his wings, he’d only grown more belligerent.

This is my Rumschpringe. You’ll not tell me what to do!

His father had washed his hands of him. Then Caleb left for Cleveland on what should have been an eight-month construction project. Elizabeth had had a bad feeling when her son took an apartment close to Lake Erie with three other carpenters, all
Englischers
. He didn’t come home on weekends as promised, and he didn’t write or call to keep them from worrying.

By December she knew…he was never coming back.

Most young Amish men test the waters or try a little Englishness before joining the church and settling into the Plain lifestyle, but Elizabeth had known it would be different with Caleb. And that difference separated him forever from his family.

She hadn’t forgotten her eldest son as she implied to Sarah. Memories of him would forever remain in her heart—a quiet, dull ache until the day she died.

F
OUR

M
ondays were usually slow days at work, and today was no exception. Country Pleasures seldom had guests on Mondays, especially not in December. Although city folk loved winter getaways, they usually arrived on Wednesdays or Thursdays and stayed for long weekends. Nevertheless, Sarah hitched up the buggy and drove to the inn. Mrs. Pratt kept several ponies in the fenced paddock close to the house to offer pony rides to children during milder weather. Because Sarah’s mare got along with any equine breed, she turned the horse out to graze on sparse grass but plentiful hay.

“You drove to work today?” Mrs. Pratt asked when Sarah walked into the kitchen. “Afraid of a little exercise on such a beautiful day?” She handed Sarah a cup of coffee fixed how she liked it—with plenty of milk and two sugars.

“
Jah.
I have an errand to run after work, so bringing the buggy spares me a walk back home.”

Mrs. Pratt’s forehead furrowed with creases. “Where are you going, child? I’d be happy to drive you and get away from the house for a while. Besides, there’s always something we need on the shopping list.”

That is so like my boss…always eager to help a neighbor even with a list of chores planned for the afternoon
. “No,
danki
. I’m not going far. Just to visit a friend.” Sarah smiled and then finished her coffee in two long swallows. “Will there be guests tonight? Did you have any last night?” She peeked into the dark, empty dining room. She never knew what she would find on Mondays because she never worked on the Sabbath. Mrs. Pratt’s sole helper that day was her husband—a dear man, but not blessed with a single domestic ability.