Sarah's Christmas Miracle Read online

  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.

  FOUR

  Mondays 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.

  “Nobody’s here but us mice, and I have no reservations for tonight.” Mrs. Pratt opened the refrigerator door and bent over to look inside. “I know there’s fresh fruit in here somewhere.”

  “Well, what shall we do today?” Sarah asked. They usually tackled major cleaning projects while the rooms stood empty.

  “I think we should wash windows before it turns any colder. But first, let’s eat! How about oatmeal?” Mrs. Pratt found the tub of blueberries she’d been hunting for and straightened her spine.

  “Of course. I’ll get it started,” said Sarah. They always had oatmeal on slow days, topped with fruit or cinnamon and brown sugar.

  During the meal they chatted about the weather, their plans for the upcoming weekend, and the local Christmas displays. Although Sarah loved the manger scenes and electric candles flickering in the windows, to her most of the plastic inflatables seemed silly. They were usually lying face down in front yards as though exhausted by their efforts.

  After breakfast, while they washed dishes together, Mrs. Pratt again offered Sarah a ride. She felt guilty about her little white lie because she didn’t plan to visit her friend but one of Caleb’s. And it hadn’t been her only deception that day, either. She had also led her mother to believe she would be visiting Josie instead of merely passing by on her way to the Sidley house. Albert Sidley had been Caleb’s only Amish friend after he’d started working for the English construction company. If anyone knew her bruder’s whereabouts, it would be Albert, but after five years it wasn’t likely.

  Yet how could she have told her mother the truth? Sarah had seen how upset mamm had become with questions about Caleb. She’d specifically asked Sarah to drop the subject. Why hadn’t she realized her mother still suffered from him leaving the Order?

  I’ve been too preoccupied with my own life to notice another person’s pain.

  She sent up a silent prayer of forgiveness for her deception and for her self-absorption. If she could obtain Caleb’s current address and perhaps a phone number, maybe her mother wouldn’t feel cut adrift from her firstborn. Knowing a person’s whereabouts, or having the ability to call in an emergency, gave a person security…even
if you never chose to write or call in the foreseeable future.

  After the two women had washed the windows with vinegar water, Sarah ran the sweeper and dusted. A few hours later, with the inn clean and sparkling, she hitched up her horse and headed toward Caleb’s former best friend.

  Small by Amish standards, the Sidley farm stood on one of the last unpaved township roads. Sarah’s buggy bounced from side to side for a mile and a half. Just when she thought her kidneys might suffer permanent damage, the one-hundred-fifty-year-old farmstead loomed into view, the last house before the dead end. She remembered visiting here once a long time ago, and her response remained the same—sheer pity.

  Mrs. Sidley had passed away after the birth of her fourth son. Her husband and four boys scratched out a bare living on twenty hardscrabble acres of hilly, rocky ground. Even the three dairy cows looked forlorn as they chewed their cud beside the sagging fence.

  Sarah drove up the rutted driveway, got out of the buggy, and tied the reins to the barn’s hitching post. The house, in desperate need of paint, looked empty. Then Albert Sidley walked onto the rickety porch.

  Why is it that some homes look full of life even when owners vacation, whereas this house seems empty while inhabited? It appears to suffer from a terminal illness. Sarah tried to put these thoughts away as she stepped forward and stood in the thin sunlight.

  At first Albert didn’t seem to recognize her. Then, “Sarah? Sarah Beachy?” he asked, walking down the steps. His wool chore coat was frayed at the hem and sleeves, while his boots were caked with dried mud. And he had come out of the house in those boots.

  “Jah, it’s me. I’m surprised you remembered.” She forced a nervous smile.

  Albert took a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his mouth and hands. “Of course I remember you. Hasn’t been all that long.” He approached with uncertainty. “Are you lookin’ for my pa?”

  “No, I was looking for you.” She stepped closer and ran her sweating palms down her skirt. What had seemed like a good idea this morning no longer did. Her courage began to wane. “I’d like to talk to you about my bruder.”

  Albert squinted at her, though the sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of clouds. The sunny morning had changed into a gloomy, overcast afternoon. “Caleb?” he asked. “What would I know about him? It’s been four years or so.” He shuffled his boots in the dirt. Driveway gravel had long ago sunk beneath a layer of mud.

  “Five years, actually, but you were his closest friend, Albert. He trusted you and confided things he didn’t tell his family.”

  “That was a long time ago, Sarah. After he took up with those carpenters, he didn’t have much use for his old friends.” The pain of rejection could still be heard in his words. “He let me try my hand at carpentry one summer on his crew. They were building barns for Amish and English. I wasn’t any good with math, so the foreman wouldn’t hire me permanently with all that measurin’ and firgurin’. They wanted everything exact, and I had made a couple bad cuts. He said the next time I cut a board short, the price of that piece of lumber was coming out of my pay.” His mouth thinned into a sneer. “I don’t know why you can’t just lay one board atop another and cut it about the same.”

  Sarah had no answer to that, but she didn’t wish to alienate the sole person who might be able to help her. If anyone in Fredericksburg knew Caleb’s address, it would be Albert. “Well, that job didn’t turn out so good for Caleb either, as far as his family is concerned.”

  He gazed off to where two dogs chased a rabbit across a barren cornfield. When the rabbit escaped down a burrow, the dogs pawed the frozen ground, yipping with dismay.

  The Sidley harvest was sparse this year, judging by the number of dried cornstalks, she thought.

  Then Albert returned his focus back to her. “What do you hear from him? How’s he making out in the big city?” His tone had softened somewhat.

  “We haven’t heard from him since he left.”

  “That happens, I s’pose. My pa says not everybody’s cut out to be Amish. Some ain’t got the spine to turn their backs on the temptations of ease and comfort.”

  Sarah watched the two dogs lose interest and then trot off toward the barn. If lack of comfort and convenience was what it took for assurance of heaven, the Sidley family had an easy path. But discussing salvation would be better left to the bishop or deacon. “Maybe so, but I’d still like to talk to him.”

  Albert stared at her while scraping his boot toe in the dirt. “Can’t help ya.”

  “Did he ever contact you after he left?” The question hung in the brittle cold air. Sarah could almost see his mind whirring with possible answers or ways to evade the question, yet somehow she knew he wouldn’t lie.

  “Jah, I heard from him once or twice. He sent letters to our post office box in town.” Albert crossed his arms over his tattered jacket. Sarah felt a barrier was being raised. “But I never wrote back. What would I have to talk about with an Englischer? ’Cause that’s what he was. Making that kind of money, driving around in his pickup truck, living in a place where you could look out and see some big lake. He’d said in the letter he was joining the carpenters’ union. You got any idea what kind of money they make?” Jealousy flashed in his dull gray eyes.

  Sarah shook her head. “Nope. I don’t have a clue about union wages.” What she found more unsettling was that Albert knew these details. He’d known things about Caleb that his family hadn’t for all these years.

  “That much money just makes it easier to get into trouble.” He lifted his chin. “You go on home now, Sarah. Your bruder is better off forgotten.” Albert turned his back on her and marched toward the house.

  Sarah’s belly churned as her only chance slipped away. “Wait!” she demanded in an unfamiliar voice.

  He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Please, Albert. Give me another minute.” He turned around but didn’t come back. “Those letters,” she continued. “Do you still have them?”

  “Sarah Beachy, there’s no sense in—”

  “Do you still have them?”

  “Jah, I’ve got them. Couldn’t bring myself to throw them in the woodstove like I should have. I never had that many friends.” He met her gaze and then focused on the frozen ground.

  His hollow eyes had bored a hole through her heart. Tomorrow she would talk to her parents or the bishop about ways to help the Sidley family, but today she had her own agenda. “May I see them, please? I would like the return address if there is one.”

  “It’s been four years.”

  “I know that, but it’s all I have.”

  Albert stomped into the house and slammed the door. The aura of abandonment returned to the farmstead. He was gone so long she began to think he wasn’t coming back. Then the door creaked open and he reappeared. Sarah ran up the porch steps without hesitation.

  He held up a hand. “Wait, girl. Caleb said in his letters that he didn’t want anybody knowing his whereabouts. I don’t owe him any loyalty, but I do want to know why you’re so interested all of a sudden.”

  Sarah stood paralyzed. Now it was her turn to consider possible reasons and excuses, yet she knew only the truth would get her what she wanted. She sucked in a breath. “I’m thinking about getting married. It’d never bothered me much that he took off and broke my mamm’s heart until now. I want to know why he left before I start having my own kinner.” She looked into his eyes, and he stared back for a long moment.

  Then he slowly extracted two folded envelopes from his coat pocket. They were wrinkled and smudged, but Sarah spotted handwriting she recognized in the upper left-hand corner: Cal Beachy, followed by the information she had come for.

  Adam’s trip home from work took twice as long as usual. His boss let him go two hours early in exchange for making a delivery on his way home. Two hand-carved oak doors had been finished that afternoon and were needed for Christmas. As the buggy rolled down a township back road, he had time to ponder possible g
ifts for Sarah. He could buy a quilt she’d admired in the shop in town, but he knew several quilts would be made for her as soon as they announced their engagement. He thought about the basket of bath salts, lotions, and powders she’d liked in the fancy gift shop, but would her father think that gift too frivolous from a man with serious intentions? He’d probably buy a cardigan sweater, something to keep her warm this winter—his usual gift of choice.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, he clucked to the horse to pick up the pace. At this rate it would be fully dark by the time he got home. He hadn’t brought along battery-powered lamps for the back window, and his buggy had only red reflectors. Light snow began to fall as he spotted another buggy approaching the stop sign ahead from a gravel side road. He slowed his horse, though he had the right of way. Something about the horse and buggy even in the dim light made the hair on his neck stand on end. After another moment he recognized the driver pulling hard on the reins. His initial suspicion was correct—Sarah Beachy was turning from the gravel lane onto the township road.

  Sarah. What on earth is she doing out here? His mind clouded for a moment as he tried to remember who lived down there. Then he remembered Albert Sidley, a tall, thin fellow who seldom smiled or socialized within the Amish community.

  Why would Sarah be visiting another single man in the district? Was this why she was dragging her feet and wouldn’t allow him to announce their engagement?

  FIVE

  Cal! Cal, you in there?”

  The incessant pounding grew louder, until Cal opened one eye and then the other. He had been dreaming that he was pounding in a dowel while straddling a barn beam. The season was summer; the sun felt hot on the back of his neck, and down below boys scurried to-and-fro delivering materials and hauling off debris. His father worked only a few yards away, securing the other end of the beam.