An Amish Family Reunion

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture verses are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, IL 60189 USA. All rights reserved.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  AN AMISH FAMILY REUNION

  Copyright © 2012 by Mary Ellis

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ellis, Mary,

  An Amish family reunion / Mary Ellis.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-4487-8 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-4488-5 (eBook)

  1. Amish—Fiction. 2. Family reunions—Fiction. 3. Life change events—Fiction. 4. Partnership—Fiction.

  5. Holmes County (Ohio)—Fiction. 6. New York (State)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3626.E36A85 2012

  813'.6—dc22

  2011030460

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 / LB-NI / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  The Miller Family

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Recipes

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Can a Young Amish Widow Find Love?

  What Happens When an Amish Girl’s Prince Charming Is an Englischer?

  Can a Loving Amish Woman Be a Refuge for a Wounded Soul?

  Love Blooms in Unexpected Places

  How long will true love wait?

  AmishReader.com

  About the Publisher

  We know how much God loves us, and we have put our trust in his love.

  God is love, and all who live in love live in God, and God lives in them.

  And as we live in God, our love grows more perfect.

  So we will not be afraid on the day of judgment,

  but we can face him with confidence because

  we live like Jesus here in this world.

  1 JOHN 4:16-17

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Carol Lee Shevlin for welcoming me and providing my home away from home, Simple Pleasures Bed & Breakfast.

  Thanks to Rosanna Coblentz of the Old Order Amish for her delicious recipes and expert Deutsch translations.

  Thanks to my agent, Mary Sue Seymour, who had faith in me from the beginning; to my lovely proofreader, Mrs. Joycelyn Sullivan; to my editor, Kim Moore; and to the wonderful staff at Harvest House Publishers.

  Thanks to my friends Donna, Patty, Peggy, Cheryl, Nilda, Joni, and Carol—exemplary grandmothers, every one of them. And to my own dear Grandma Eles, who loved me with her whole heart, even though she barely spoke a word of English.

  And thanks be to God—all things in this world are by His hand.

  THE MILLER FAMILY

  Cast of Characters

  Brothers Simon and Seth Miller married the Kline sisters, Julia and Hannah

  Simon and Julia’s Family

  Emma, daughter of Simon and Julia

  —James Davis, husband of Emma

  —Jamie and Sam, sons of Emma and James

  Matthew, son of Simon and Julia

  —Martha (Hostetler), wife of Matthew

  —Noah and Mary, son and daughter of Matthew and Martha

  Leah, daughter of Simon and Julia

  —Jonah Byler, husband of Leah

  Henry, son of Simon and Julia

  Seth and Hannah’s Family

  Phoebe, daughter of Seth, stepdaughter of Hannah

  Ben, son of Seth and Hannah

  ONE

  Winesburg, Ohio

  You would think that a person might be able to enjoy some peace and quiet on a Sunday afternoon. After all, it was the Sabbath—a day of rest. Yet Phoebe Miller found herself hiding behind a tree to escape from her family. There were just so many of them. Living next door to Aunt Julia and Uncle Simon guaranteed plenty of drop-in visits, impromptu potluck suppers, and more unsolicited advice than any seventeen-year-old girl needed. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her family, because she certainly did. She simply needed more alone time than most people.

  Holding her breath, Phoebe stood stock-still until Uncle Simon headed into the barn in search of her father and Aunt Julia entered the house looking for her mamm. Hannah wasn’t her mother by blood, but she had earned the title during the past twelve years of bandaging scrapes, helping with math homework, and remaining near while Phoebe suffered with the flu on long winter nights. She couldn’t remember her birth mother anymore. She had been only five when an impatient driver in a fast-moving truck decided to pass on a blind curve. It didn’t hurt much anymore. She had Hannah, her daed, and her little brother to love. They were all she needed…except, perhaps, for a little personal solitude.

  Phoebe sucked in her gut as ten-year-old Ben ran across the yard, chasing his dog, who was chasing a rubber ball. When the two ducked under a fence into the cornfield, she ran pell-mell in the opposite direction, clutching her box of pencils and sketch pad tightly. She dared not look back for fear some cousin would be waving frantically from the porch. This time she didn’t stop to watch baby lambs nursing from their mothers or to pick a fistful of wild trilliums for her windowsill. On through the sheep pasture she ran until she reached her favorite drawing spot—an ancient stone wall constructed by long ago pioneers of Holmes County. Phoebe doubted these early settlers had been Amish. Not too many Amish men would take the time to painstakingly stack flat rocks just so to form a long fence line, not when dozens of tall trees fell over in the woods each winter that could easily be split into fence rails. And not when stampeding cows spooked by thunder, or marauding sheep needing no reason whatsoever to bolt, could knock the entire wall down within minutes. That was probably why this twenty-yard section was all that remained. But it was all Phoebe needed.

  Settling comfortably on a smooth flat stone, she gazed over acres of rolling pasture, lush with thick clover and alive with honeybees and hummingbirds attracted to morning glories. Those climbing vines would entwine her if she sat too long. Beyond this pasture, where mamm’s beloved sheep frolicked and capered like small children, lay alfalfa and cornfields, peach and apple orchards, and stately pines in the distance. Like sentinels, they guarded the property line between their farm and the westerly neighbor, while a pond and lowland bog separated them from Uncle
Simon and Aunt Julia to the east.

  Phoebe turned to a fresh page in her oversized tablet and selected a charcoal pencil from the box. What would she draw today? Horses nibbling on fresh green grass? Sunlight glinting off dewy treetops at dawn, while the rest of the land remained cloaked in darkness? It was well past midday, but Phoebe had witnessed the dawn enough times to remember what it looked like. Maybe their three-story bank barn with open hayloft doors against a stark backdrop of pristine, unbroken snow? Everyone loved the serenity that could be found within a winter landscape. It didn’t matter that it was May—and an exceptionally warm day at that. A good artist worth her salt possessed a memory capable of retaining visual imagery until the moment she re-created those images on canvas…or in her case, on a sheet of white paper.

  “I thought I would find you up here.”

  Phoebe practically jumped out of her skin, dropping her sketch pad and spilling her box of colored pencils, charcoals, pastel chalk, and various erasers and sharpeners. “Dad! You nearly gave me a heart attack.” She fell to her knees to retrieve her supplies.

  Seth Miller brushed off a spot on the wall and sat down. “You’re too young for a heart attack. And I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I came up the same path along the same fence that you took. You were too absorbed in your masterpiece to see me.”

  With her supplies safely returned to the box, she plunked down next to him, clutching the tablet like a shield.

  “Nothing is even started yet. I was waiting for the perfect inspiration.” She giggled, knowing how full-blown that sounded.

  “Plenty of pretty scenery up here to pick from. It would be hard to narrow it down to just one thing.” Seth bumped his shoulder into hers.

  Phoebe sighed. “Jah, but nothing I haven’t sketched a hundred times before.”

  Seth shifted his position on the wall to offer his profile. “How about me? Or am I too old and wrinkled?”

  She shook her head. “You’re not old, daed, even if you do have some serious crow’s feet.” She bumped his shoulder in return. “But once Uncle Simon caught me doing a portrait of cousin Emma and he scolded me. He said drawing a picture of an Amish person was no different than capturing their likeness with a camera.” Phoebe then lapsed into mimicking Uncle Simon’s stern voice, forgetting the person she was talking to for the moment: “‘As a deacon of this district, I won’t have my niece and my daughter committing such a sin.’”

  Her father merely shrugged. “In that case, you could draw our old buggy horse. Now that he’s been turned out to pasture, we no longer have to worry about capturing his image.”

  “I think I’ll stick to wildflowers today.” With her piece of charcoal, she pointed at clumps of purple violets, green mayapples, and elusive jack-in-the-pulpits. “Sam usually has too many flies buzzing around his head to contend with.”

  Seth stretched out his long legs. “I saw you hiding from your bruder behind that tree. Has he been pestering you? Is that why you didn’t want him to follow you?” He shielded his face from the sun, deepening the wrinkles webbing his eyes.

  “Oh, no. Ben’s been all right. It’s just that he’s ten years old. He doesn’t understand the concept of sitting still or remaining quiet. If I let him come with me down to the river or to the duck pond, he expects me to catch tadpoles or butterflies with him. Once he dropped a two-foot black snake at my feet and told me to draw him.” Phoebe met her father’s gaze. “I let him come along as seldom as possible without hurting his feelings.”

  “Mind if I have a look-see?” Without waiting for her answer, Seth pulled the giant pad from her grasp.

  For a moment Phoebe felt a familiar wave of panic. Her art was a private collection, showcasing her limited abilities. But the moment quickly passed. She was Phoebe Miller of Winesburg, Ohio, not Michelangelo of Italy. “Sure, why not?” she said, willing herself to relax.

  Seth paged through her assortment of sketches, some barely begun and others filled with vibrant color and intricate shading. “These are quite good, daughter.” He paused to study a picture of a small child kneeling in prayer beside a trundle bed. With white walls and dark pine floorboards, and the girl’s black prayer kapp and white pinafore, the drawing was a contrast of light and shadows. One could feel the presence of God in the rays of moonlight streaming through the open window.

  She smiled with pleasure, leaning over his arm. “That’s one of my favorites. Not bad for someone with no talent and no training, huh?”

  He shook his head. “You have talent—make no mistake about that. And what kind of training does an artist need? Either a person has the gift or they don’t.”

  “A few classes would have been nice in school. My teacher’s idea of art was coloring a seasonal mimeographed page. All the trees were green and every autumn leaf either red or gold. Everyone’s picture looked exactly the same.”

  Seth dispensed his usual daed look. “Plain folk have no need for individuality as long as you’re known personally to God.” He shut the sketch pad and handed it back to her. “But providing you get your chores done, I see no harm in capturing the beauty of nature in your pictures.” He rose to his feet. “Which of the lilies of the field will my artist choose to draw today?” He waved his hand toward the multitude of flowers and weeds growing along the vine-shrouded wall. “It’s going to be time for the evening meal soon. Don’t be late, Phoebe. You know how your Uncle Simon hates not eating at the appointed hour.” Seth started down the path and did not glance back. He didn’t have to. He knew she wouldn’t be late for supper, or neglect her chores, or forget to say her nightly prayers…because she never did.

  Phoebe was a good girl. She had never painted her face with makeup as Emma had during her rumschpringe, nor taken up with an English boy with a fast green truck. Everything was well and good now that Emma and James were married, raising two little boys, and sheep farming in nearby Charm. But when they first converted to New Order, both sets of parents lost more than one good night’s sleep.

  And Phoebe had no desire to go into business like her cousin Leah. Running a diner with a business partner as naive as she had almost landed Leah in the county jail. Who knew not collecting sales tax to send to the State of Ohio was a crime? Phoebe shuddered remembering how long it had taken Leah to pay her share of the debt incurred by the diner. Meeting Jonah Byler had been the only good thing to come out of that fiasco. Apparently, he hadn’t been looking for a wife with any business savvy.

  No, Phoebe was a good girl. She helped with cooking, cleaning, and laundry, and she did her fair share of gardening, canning, and berry picking despite having no particular fondness for domestic duties. Her mamm and Emma had their beloved sheep, along with the spinning, dyeing, carding, and weaving that came with the woolly creatures. Both women knitted such exquisite sweaters and sofa throws that tourists would pay more than a hundred dollars for one of their creations. Leah had her pie-making cottage industry. Bakeries throughout the county clamored for Leah Byler pies. But Phoebe’s heart had never thrilled over a particularly flaky piecrust or the perfect sweet-tart balance of her fruit filling. Only her art held any joy for her. Painting with acrylics from the Bargain Outlet or sketching people while they were unaware lifted Phoebe’s spirits like nothing else. Not exactly a practical pastime for someone Plain, but what else could she do?

  With a sigh she selected a moss-covered log for today’s subject. The dark moist wood, where decay added a blackish-green hue, along with the sun-baked topside, striated and gnarly from wind and weather, would provide a stark background to delicate yellow buttercups in the foreground.

  For almost an hour, feeling the warm sun on her face and a cool breeze on her neck, Phoebe surrendered to her creation. Adding a bold slash here or light shading there, the flowers on paper became almost as real as those growing near her feet. She lost herself in her work, unaware of hunger or thirst or the pesky hornet circling her head. Funny how mopping the floor, hanging laundry on the line, or slicing peaches for cobbler couldn’t hol
d her interest like this. When she was busy with those chores, all she could think about was snitching another cookie or refilling her glass with lemonade.

  Finally, as the drawing neared completion, she leaned back with a satisfied sigh. There had to be something she could do with her “gift,” as her parents called it. She’d been out of school for three years, yet she seldom brought to the household income more than a few dollars from selling eggs. She’d once hung up an index card at the grocery store that announced “Artist for Hire” with her name and address at the bottom in block letters. She landed two commissions from the advertisement. One, a local farmer needed an autumn replacement for his produce market sign once peaches, organic lettuce, and berries were long gone. Phoebe created a four-foot by six-foot masterpiece showcasing colorful apples, pumpkins, butternut squash, eggplant, and Indian corn. She tried to turn down the second project. An elderly widow needed someone to actually paint the white picket fence around her vegetable patch. But, of course, her daed made her take the job. Painting was painting, he declared.

  Packing up her supplies, she started down the well-worn path to the rambling farmhouse filled with her parents, brother, aunt, uncle, and cousins. Lately, it felt as though she’d wandered into the wrong house but the residents were too polite to tell her. How could she live surrounded by affectionate and endearing people, yet still feel utterly, completely alone?

  Julia stepped down from the buggy gingerly, always a little nervous to see if her legs would hold her. It had been years since her double knee-replacement surgery, yet she remained skeptical about the stainless steel substitute parts.

  Simon took her arm to steady her. “Easy does it, fraa. Did you take your pills today?”

  “Jah, of course, like I do every day. I’m just stiff from sitting. Run off now and find your brother. With these perfectly fine store-bought knees, we should have walked here. What’s the advantage of living next door to Seth and Hannah if we must drag out the horse and buggy even in perfect weather?” Julia leaned heavily on her husband’s arm despite her assertion that she could have walked half a mile through scrub forest and bog.