River of Mercy (41 page)

Then he called Reuben in from the barn and instructed him to deliver each message to the two bishops. “Go on horseback—that will be faster than taking the buggy. And waste no time, son,” he told him. “There are important matters that must be dealt with right away.”

Late into the evening and night, he longed yet again for his beloved wife, Phoebe. Not that he could have discussed private church matters with her—that simply wasn't done. But with her at his side, he always felt stronger, wiser—more a man. Not a typical or a particularly righteous way for an Amish man to feel, but he thought God would understand. They had been so close, he and Phoebe. Most of the time they seemed more one than two. Small wonder he missed her so much he sometimes thought his heart would break for the pain of it.

39

My soul, wait thou only upon God;
For my expectation is from him.

P
SALM
62:5

G
ant worked late in the shop, mostly cleaning up paperwork and organizing new orders. Gideon had offered to stay and help, but something about the boy's restless mannerisms and air of distraction lately told him to give his young apprentice some time for himself. Besides, when it came to paperwork, Gideon's mind seemed to wander off to anything else but what he was doing.

Something was eating at the lad, he was almost certain. His work hadn't suffered so far, but clearly he had something pretty heavy on his mind.

Ah, well. He was young. Probably girl problems. Maybe that pretty Emma Knepp, although he would hope the boy had enough sense not to get tangled up in a forbidden relationship with an Amish lass. A sure road to heartbreak, that. Not to mention trouble.

And hadn't he learned enough about
that
himself?

Gideon Kanagy knew what God was prodding him to do. He had sensed it for days and fought against it for just as long. He had little doubt that carrying out the Lord God's will in this instance would cost him his job.

Yet in moments of brutal clarity, he had to admit that the loss of his job with Captain Gant might be not be the worst of it. It might cost him something even more precious. The loss of Emma. Because even if he were to give up his employment with the captain, there was still no guarantee that Samuel Beiler, in his power as the new bishop, would grant him permission to return to the People. It was well within Beiler's authority to question Gideon's repentance for so long he wouldn't be able to make his vows and join the church for years.

By then, Emma would have forgotten about him and married someone else. For that matter, Beiler might never allow him back into the community of the People. He might end up always standing outside and looking in. Who could predict what a man like Samuel Beiler might do?

He shivered a little as he walked the riverbank, although his coat was heavy and usually more than enough to ward off the early evening wind. A chill seemed to run all through him, and he had a hunch it wasn't from the January weather.

Gideon wasn't one to dwell too much on what he couldn't change, but lately he'd taken to brooding about his future. Ever since he'd finally given up on his own judgment and begun to seriously pray for God's guidance, he'd felt what Rachel called a “conviction” to return to his Amish faith and way of life.

He wasn't exactly sure how he could know whether God was convicting him or he was just bringing it on himself. It was a kind of pressure, as if someone or something were bearing down on him, continually pushing at him with the same thoughts time and time again. It was a little like when he'd seen Mamm or Rachel kneading bread, pressing carefully but firmly into the dough over and over.

At first, hoping he might be wrong, he'd tried to ignore the pressure. When it didn't go away, he tried to push back, mentally defending his own reasons why he couldn't afford to give up the life he'd made for himself among the
Englisch.
He had to make a living, didn't he? And he had no desire to do it by farming. He wasn't cut out to be a full-time farmer, and he knew it. Besides, it wouldn't be right to leave the captain on his own. The man had treated him well right from the start, paying him a fair wage and training him as a carpenter. He'd been patient with his mistakes and not short on praise when he approved of his work. He'd feel uncomfortable walking out on the captain after all this time.

But trying to justify his reasons for staying put didn't help either. He had eventually accepted that the changes inside him must be God's doing. There didn't seem to be any other explanation.

If that was the case, he'd better deal with it. He'd done a lot of foolish things in his life so far, but he wasn't about to defy God, at least not knowingly.

The problem was, he didn't quite know where to start. Should he tell his family first? Or would it be better to talk to Emma before anyone else, to try to get a sense of how she really felt about him? That didn't seem right either. If God really was guiding him to go back and live Amish, he needed to do it out of obedience, not because he wanted to court Emma.

Maybe the right thing to do was to talk with Captain Gant before anyone else. After all, he would be the one most affected by his leaving.

No. He should probably face Samuel Beiler first thing, before mentioning his decision to anyone else. After that he'd speak with the captain.

He dug his hands down deeper into his pockets and ground his teeth at the thought. He'd rather take on a wounded bear. But sooner or later he'd have to steel himself and approach the man.

The man.
He still found it almost impossible to think of Beiler as the bishop. Somehow he just didn't fit the title.

40

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead:
Lead me aright.

A
DELAIDE
A. P
ROCTER

F
our days later, as January was nearing an end, an unannounced meeting assembled at Samuel Beiler's farmhouse. Only Malachi, the two hastily summoned bishops, and Abe Gingerich, the other preacher besides Malachi, attended.

Samuel Beiler was told only that they would meet with him and each of his sons one at a time, and that there would be no conversation among them between meetings.

One after another, the men entered, walking heavily, as if burdened by the awareness that after this night the community might never again be the same. Every face was serious, even grave. No words were spoken before the meeting commenced except for a brief and solemn greeting. No smiles were exchanged, for this evening held nothing to smile about. The deepening twilight, this gloaming time of day, somehow seemed appropriate for the events to be discussed and the decisions to be made.

They questioned Beiler's sons first, warning them not to discuss their meeting with their father. They brought them into the room one at a time and talked to each alone. The two younger boys were reluctant but ultimately cooperative, although the youngest, Joe, was obviously shy and nervous about saying anything against his father.

As a preacher and without the authority of a bishop, Malachi would be asking no questions. All the same, he would be listening closely.

He knew Jacob Lehman to be a kindly and thoughtful bishop. Clearly, the man was doing his best to put young Joe at ease during his questioning. “Understand, Joe, you are in no trouble. None at all. But some are concerned about how you received those bruises and marks on your face. We mean merely to help you, but you must be completely truthful with us. Now, tell us what happened.”

The boy's glance darted around the room as if he were looking for a way out. At first he shrugged, but Bishop Lehman prompted him. “It's all right, Joe. Tell us who did this.”