The Amish Groom ~ Men of Lancaster County Book 1 (42 page)

He was quiet for a long moment. “I can’t believe Dad let you go like that. He would never let me stay somewhere just because I wanted to. He should have made you come.”

“I think he wrestles with that decision too. But I also know he was torn by wanting to do what would honor my mom. When she died, he didn’t just lose a wife, you know? He lost the mother of his child. There were no easy fixes. I understand, and I have forgiven him. None of us is perfect.”

Outside the window, the whirring sounds of the skateboard wheels had all but faded.

“You’re going back, aren’t you,” he said, his voice flat. “For good this time.”

“I am going to join the Amish church, yes. It’s what I want. It’s where I belong.”

“Because we’re not good enough for you.”

I sought his gaze, but he still wouldn’t look at me. “Because I am Amish to my very core. Because I can see now that this is God’s will for my life.”

He grunted.

“You told me, Brady, just after I got here, that you love football but that you would give it up before you would live your life as a slave to it. You have the right to decide what kind of life you’re going to lead and if football is going to be a part of it. We all have the freedom to decide what kind of life we will lead. I am choosing to go back because it’s the life I love. It’s who I want to be. It’s who God made me to be.”

Finally, he turned to look at me, his eyes still filled with accusation. “If you’d made the right decision the first time, none of this would be happening now. Don’t you get that?”

I let his question settle between us, his pain hanging there in the air.

Lord, show me how to make him understand.

A burst of laughter wafted up from far down the street. Chris and his friends were racing back our way, and in that moment, I knew what to say.

“Look at Chris,” I said, pointing out of the window.

Brady did as I said, turning back. “Yeah? So?”

“So what do you see when you look at him?”

He shrugged, defensive. “I don’t know. He’s a kid.”

“Right. He’s young. In fact, he’s still just a child, right?”

Brady glared at me, as if to say,
Enough already.
“Fine. Yes. He’s just a child. So what?”

I waited a beat and then replied, “So he’s just about the same age I was when our father left the choice of where to live up to me. The same age I was when I made the choice that ended up having such a big impact on your life. On all our lives.”

I wasn’t trying to excuse what had happened. I wasn’t trying to justify it. I was just trying to get my brother to see the truth, that a very adult decision had been thrust upon me when I was still just a little boy.

After a long moment, understanding began to dawn in his eyes. It was there for only a flicker and then he blinked it away, but I knew what I had seen.

My point was made. Maybe now Brady would finally find it within himself to forgive me.

T
HIRTY

O
ver the rest of that evening and the next, sure enough, my little brother slowly came around. As the chip on his shoulder melted away, he began to smile at me more, hang out with me more, take an interest in me more. By the end of Thursday night, we were lounging on the floor of the living room, fighting it out on the digital football field like any two brothers in any family in any house anywhere. It felt good, especially when Dad and Liz settled on the couch behind us, picked sides, and began hollering along with us as ad hoc cheerleaders.

My dad seemed to settle back into home life with ease, showing a tenderness with his still-injured wife that I hadn’t known he possessed. As he took over my duties one by one, caring for her and serving up meals and managing things around the house, I found my own time freeing up more and more. By Friday morning, I knew I could start making plans to head home. Dad was expecting me to stay through Thanksgiving, but that meant waiting another whole week. I just didn’t think I could risk taking that much time. I needed to get back to Rachel as soon as possible, to save what was left of our relationship. To convince her that all of our years together had not been in vain.

To convince her my commitment was real. And for a lifetime.

Once I explained the situation to Dad, he seemed to understand—especially when I told him that my intention was to marry Rachel in the following fall. He actually got tears in his eyes when I said that, and then he cleared his throat and clapped me on the back and said he wished us all the best.

After he and I talked, I decided to go online to try changing the date on the airline ticket myself. But as I logged in and started to pull up the website, I had an odd feeling, as if there was something important here I needed to understand. Confused, I sat back in the chair and thought about what else God might have for me to learn.

Closing my eyes, the image that came to mind was that of
Daadi
and of the bishop and elders who had so kindly and wisely given their blessing on this trip. That’s when it struck me. By flying home, I was exercising the privilege they had granted me as the son of an
Englischer
and one not yet baptized into the church. That was all well and good, but if I truly wanted to come home in the right spirit—as a man ready to commit to the Amish life in full—then I should not fly, no matter how eager I was to get there. I should follow the standard Amish custom and go by ground instead. I hated risking more days away from Rachel, but I knew God would bless this sign of submission and patience and obedience. I would take the slow way—the Amish way—and trust Him to handle the rest.

After exploring my options, I ended up reserving a seat on the train. I’d be leaving Sunday evening at seven, which would get me home early Wednesday afternoon. That meant I would still get there before Thanksgiving—and I would have almost the entire weekend here to enjoy my California family before it was time to go.

Once the trip was booked, I called and left a message for
Daadi
, giving him the date and time of my arrival. I was going to tell my dad about the change in my travel plans as well, but Liz said he’d just run out to the store, so I went up to my room instead and spent the next half hour getting myself organized and partially packed.

I owed Lark a proper goodbye, not to mention her payment as my tutor, and it seemed as good a time as any to take care of both. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and texted her to see if she was free for a few minutes.

She was.

Before I left, I brought the Leica downstairs to put back where it belonged. Dad had returned and was in the study, but before I could even tell him about the train trip, he looked up and spoke.

“I see you found your mother’s camera.”

I froze, staring first at him and then down at the device I was holding. “What?”

“The camera. It was your mother’s. I gave it to her.” He stood and came over to me for a closer look.

I blinked. “Are you serious? I figured it belonged to Liz.”

“Nah, I bought it in Frankfurt for your mom at the beginning of our second tour to Germany.” He took it from my hands. He held the thing to his eye and twisted the lens, and then he pulled back and shook his head as if to say he didn’t understand the attraction. “She wasn’t thrilled to be back, and I was trying to find a way to lift her spirits. I realized she hadn’t fooled with photography for a while, so I sprang for the best German camera I could afford and surprised her with it.”

I gaped at him, thinking of the photos in her box, of the gap in time and how much sharper and more beautiful the pictures had been when she’d started up again. Of course. She had taken them with the Leica.

My father handed it back to me and I took it from him carefully, as if it were a priceless vase or a newborn chick. “It’s yours if you want it,” he said. Then he added, “I mean, I know there are restrictions and all, but it was your mother’s. Maybe you could just keep it as a souvenir and not actually use it.”

Finally, I found my voice. “Are you sure? Lark said it’s pretty valuable. You could probably sell it for a thousand dollars, maybe more.”

He shrugged. “It’s not mine to sell.”

I thanked him, but a strange sadness filled me as I imagined taking it back to Lancaster County where it would cease to be useful to anyone. My mother had loved this camera. She had loved what it could do to a snippet of time and light.

When I got to Lark’s, we headed to a neighborhood park a few blocks over, looking like two good friends out for a stroll in the generous California sun. But there was uneasiness between us.

“Did your dad get home okay?”

“He did. Thanks.”

We took a few more steps in silence.

“You came to say goodbye, didn’t you?”

“I came to say thank you.”

She cracked a weak smile. “And then goodbye.”

I felt bad for her, remembering how kind she had been since the night we met. As I glanced at her there beside me, I realized afresh how much she had helped me sort things out while I was here, and not just with Dad and Brady. With her kiss she had, unknowingly, shown me how much I loved Rachel and yearned for the life that awaited me back home. “Yes,” I said. “I’m leaving Sunday night.”

She shook her head and laughed lightly. “Just like that.”

“No.”

Lark looked at me. “What do you mean? If you’re leaving, you’re leaving.”

“Lark—”

“Is it because I kissed you? Is it because I told you how I felt about you?” Her voice was tight with disappointment. “’Cause we can go back to being just friends for now, if you want.”

I shook my head, wishing she could understand. “It’s because that’s my home. It’s where I want to be, where I’m supposed to be.”

“You’re choosing Rachel over any kind of life here.”

“I’m choosing to be Amish, Lark. That’s who I am. That’s the life I am suited for.”

She was silent for a few moments. A runner jogged past us.

“You didn’t even give living here a chance. And this thing with your brother? You’re just going to take off with him so mad at you? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“A lot has happened in the last couple of days. Brady and I finally talked. My dad and I finally talked. We understand each other now. And they understand why I need to go back.
I
finally understand why I need to go back.”

She said nothing.

“Do you remember when I first met with you and I told you how I came to be raised by my grandparents? You said it was crazy how I ended up with them.”

“I didn’t say that.” She frowned.

I smiled. “You did. I told you my dad made it my decision on whether or not to stay with my Amish grandparents and you said, ‘Wow. That’s crazy.’ ”

I glanced at her, seeing that her cheeks had turned a faint but rosy pink.

“No, it’s okay,” I assured her. “You said I belonged with my father, and you were right. Kids do belong with their parents. Most of the time, that’s the best place for them to be. But when my mother died, my dad faced a decision no dad is prepared to make. Maybe what he did wasn’t the wisest choice or even what my mother would have wanted him to do, but God brought good out of that decision, Lark. That’s what He does. He can take even our most misinformed choices and make good out of them. And I can’t help thinking that whatever desirable qualities you see in me were born out of the way I was raised. I was raised Amish.”

“But you don’t have to stay Amish.”

We had reached the park. I motioned to a bench in a sunny alcove by a bed of still-blooming impatiens.

“You’re right,” I said as we both sat down. “That’s the very thing I didn’t realize until I came here. I thought I had to discover who I was. But who I am is not something I need to discover. Who I am is something, with God’s guidance, I decide. Just like you will decide who you will be.”

“But what about your family here? What about the life you could have here?”

I knew that there was more to her question than that. What she was really wondering was if I’d stopped to consider what part she might play in my life if I stayed.