Along Wooded Paths (12 page)

She’d flipped through the small book after she’d gotten off work and the words warmed her soul even better than the woodstove in the restaurant area warmed her body. It was filled with Scripture verses, nothing more, but they reminded her why she’d chosen to stay in Montana. It wasn’t because she was fearful of going back to Indiana. It wasn’t that she questioned her relationship with Aaron. And it wasn’t because she wanted a relationship with Ben. She knew full well that wasn’t possible. She’d met God in new ways in Montana. And as she’d prayed on the train for an answer, she’d opened her eyes to see her father’s face.

God wanted her here, right where she was, for a purpose. She had to remember that. And she needed to keep in mind that her relationship with God was different here. Back home during uncertain times she’d let her fears carry her away. In Montana . . .

She’d discovered where to take those worries.

It wasn’t as if everything changed overnight, or she had the answers immediately when she went to her Creator in prayer, but she did feel a difference. God was with her, even when she walked the cold wooded trails to and from work.
Especially
as she walked those trails. The cold air around her, the world muted by the snow, it all gave her the sense that she wasn’t alone.

Marianna sat on the cool, wood floor. She leaned her back against the log wall and felt the cold air filtering through the glass window above her head, penetrating her nightdress, her sleeping handkerchief. There was just enough light from the moonlight to read the verses laid out one on each page.

“Psalm 25:5.” She whispered the words out loud. “Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long.”

“Psalm 145:18. The LORD is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth.’”

She paused. One word stood out in both verses.
Truth.
What was truth? For so long she thought she knew. She still believed the Amish way was right and good. She’d planned on following it without question. But now, the more time she spent in Montana, she knew truth existed in the Englisch world too. And if those she met believed in God, didn’t they have His truth with them too?

Annie Johnson, Millie Arnold, Ben . . . They didn’t just
claim
to believe in Jesus. They lived like they did.

“Marwi . . .” Ellie stirred and reached her hand Marianna’s direction.

“Shh.” Marianna scooted across the floor, back toward the bed.

Just seeing her, Ellie closed her eyes and smiled. How content it made the small girl to know her big sister was there. A soft smile filled Marianna’s face. What a gift trust was.

She could give the same gift to God—be content in His presence. Just knowing He was there, that should be enough. It had to be enough. She couldn’t imagine going through six weeks while Aaron healed with such battles raging in her soul. Leaving for Indiana—leaving both Ben and Aaron here—seemed a better option than that.

But trusting God had a purpose for all of this—that was the best plan of all.

Lord, help me to have peace. To be a good friend. To trust. I’ll leave others opinions up to You . . . and while I’m at it, You can have my worries too.

Ellie’s eyes fluttered open again, and Marianna stroked her hair that stuck out from her sleeping kerchief, knowing the one thing that would get Ellie back to sleep. She cleared her throat and started to sing Ellie’s favorite song, her voice just above a whisper.

“Müde bin ich, geh’ zu Ruh,

Schliesse meine Augen zu;

Vater lass die Augen dein,

Über meine Bette sein.

Ja, Jesus liebt mich,

Ja, Jesus liebt mich,

Ja, Jesus liebt mich;

Die Bibel sagt mir so.”

Ellie drifted off to sleep somewhere before the chorus. Marianna’s heart expanded in her chest and she sang it again, this time for herself. The Bible meant so much more to her now. Its truth filled her with warm hope.

“Tired am I, go now to rest,

And close my eyes;

Father, let Thine Eyes

Watch over my bed.

Yes, Jesus loves me,

Yes, Jesus loves me,

Yes, Jesus loves me,

The Bible tells me so.”

Dear Rebecca,

Thank you for your short note. It made me laugh at your description of the cows passing on news with their moos, and the horses their neighs. As fast as word about Aaron’s accident and stay is traveling around the Indiana community, I wish we could blame it on the cows and horses. But I know some of the church ladies too well. They need no help in getting the word out!

You ask how I’m doing with Aaron here—if I’m able to sleep at night due to his closeness. I’m not sleeping as well as I used to. Aaron’s taken my room and I’m sharing a bed with Ellie. For a small thing she sure takes up a lot of room! Part of me is happy to have Aaron close. It makes me consider more what it would be like to be married to him. Another part of me feels like something has been robbed. For so long my imagination has built up what it would be like to live so closely with someone. Reality isn’t nearly as fanciful as my imagination. Is that bad?

To answer your question, Aaron and I have not talked about dating or marriage since he’s been here. Right now we’re just concentrating on getting him better. He’s concerned about getting home and checking on his house and herd. I don’t blame him.

There is much more I want to tell you, but I can’t do it justice in a letter. Just know that I’m planning on coming back to Indiana some day, and then I can tell you face to face.

What I can tell you . . . I’ve found God in new ways here. I feel so alive. Rebecca, I have a feeling you would never look to the world again for happiness if you experienced what my soul knows now.

Love,

Marianna

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ben drove down the mountain, his eyes focused on his headlights illuminating the road. This time of year the sky darkened at 5:00 p.m., and though it was only 9 o’clock it seemed like the middle of the night. He knew the way to Roy’s place by heart. His first summer in Montana he’d spent weekends there—still trying to bridge his old life with his new one. After he’d returned to Montana to stay for good, he hadn’t visited his old friend much. Yet he’d be welcome. Even more than a good friend, Roy had been a great business manager. Though Roy had sold his house in L.A. and bought a large place in Montana, he still had his finger in the business.

Ben pulled off the main road onto the long driveway. The tall iron gates were open. In Los Angeles, Roy couldn’t give his address out. If he did, dozens of wannabe musicians would be lining up outside or ringing the doorbell all hours of the day and night. In Montana, all Roy had to fear was a black bear breaking in and getting into his trash. Montana was a great neutralizer. People were just people here, important or not.

He parked his old truck next to the shiny Suburban in the driveway and jumped out. The pavement had been cleared all the way to the front door, and Ben guessed the guy who did maintenance around Roy’s house got paid more than most folks up in West Kootenai.

A front porch light lit the tall front door made of solid wood. Ben rung the doorbell, even though it wasn’t necessary. From Roy’s media room he had a camera on the front door. With one push of a button, Roy could open the door.

Sure enough, after five seconds the door swung open. Ben stepped inside, closed it behind him, and looked to the curved stairway that led up to the second story. There, looking down from the foyer balcony, Roy waited, a smile filling his face.

“So the prodigal son has come home. I was hoping when money was tight that you’d return.” He chuckled. “You have too much promise as a musician to spend your time playing taxi driver.” He motioned for Ben to join him, and Ben took the stairs two at a time.

For years Ben had found peace in doing simple tasks, delivering log furniture, driving the Amish, and working with his hands, but lately it hadn’t satisfied. Things couldn’t stay that way forever. If he ever hoped to marry—to provide for a family—he’d have to find something that paid better. Like a farmer being drawn back to the land, Ben returned to what he knew.

Roy squinted at his empty hands. “Did you bring your guitar?”

“Of course. It’s in the truck. Do you want me to get it?”

“Maybe later. The night’s still young. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.” Roy patted his shoulder, as Ben expected he would. There was no prodding, no questioning. Being with Roy was easy. No matter how much time passed, once he and his old friend were together, they were both just themselves.

Ben followed Roy into the second floor media room. The expansive space was bigger than the West Kootenai store. A theater screen filled one wall and six rows of leather couches faced it. On the far wall there was what appeared to be an ordinary door. What was behind it was more impressive than anything in the house—a complete recording studio that had been graced with the presence of many of music’s most popular stars. Roy had a way of finding new talent, knowing deep down in his gut who was going to hit it big. A million musicians no doubt wanted what Ben had. The honor of knowing Roy, calling him a friend.

Roy moved to the stainless steel fridge in the small kitchen area behind the sofas. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer?”

Ben shook his head. “No beer for me, but I’ll take a soda if you have it.”

“That’s right. You still sending out the letters?”

Ben nodded. “Every week. My old parole officer sends me an address of some kid who got caught with booze and I get to tell him or her Jason’s story. I write it out.”

“Sheesh, seems like you should just print up something on your computer, stick it in an envelope, and be done with it.” Roy approached, a cold soda in his hand.

Ben accepted it and sat on the white leather. “I thought about that. Would be easier, take less time, but I think they’ll pay more attention if they see it’s written by hand. Besides, no letter turns out the same. I always pray and ask God to tell me what to say. I know He gives me the words. I can’t bring Jason back, but maybe something I say will click.”

Roy nodded, then took a long swig of his beer. He looked at Ben, but Ben could tell he wasn’t interested in this conversation. Both of them knew why Ben had come—the only reason he’d return.

Roy sat on the next sofa over and kicked up his feet on the matching ottoman. “So what are you thinking? Ready to go on the road? I can get on the line and ring up some of your old gigs and fill out the calendar for most of the year.”

“Actually, as tempting as that is, I’d like to stick around here. At least until spring. Do you think I can get some local gigs? Try out some new stuff.”

“You’ve been writing?”

Ben nodded. “Got a few new songs.” He looked away. He had a few that were decent and one . . . one Roy would really like. The thing was, Ben didn’t know if he wanted to play that one for his friend. He pictured Marianna’s face. Pictured her smile. He’d written it for her and his plan had been for her to hear it first.

Ben swallowed hard. Of course, things weren’t turning out like he’d hoped. Marianna wouldn’t listen to any of his music since it wasn’t the Amish way. Then there was the matter of her friend from Indiana. Ben still didn’t know what to think about that.

“I can get you some gigs around here. Some coffeehouse things, private parties. Won’t make as much as a venue in Frisco or Vegas . . .”

“Yeah, I know.”

Roy set down his beer on a side table and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “In that case, it must be a girl you’re sticking around for.”

Ben nodded and chuckled. He pressed his hand to his forehead. If Roy only knew. Roy wasn’t the kind that had a new woman every weekend, but . . . well, Ben was sure Roy would be surprised to discovered an Amish girl had captured Ben’s heart.

“That’s too bad, Carrie will be disappointed. Me too. I always thought you’d get together.”

Ben tried to remember the last time he’d seen his former girlfriend—Roy’s youngest daughter. It had been three years at least. She’d been sweet and pretty enough, but once he’d given his life to God . . . well, sweet and pretty weren’t his main priorities.