A Place of Peace by Amy Clipston Page B

eyelashes, her silky dark hair, her creamy white skin, and the infectious lilt of her laugh …
    Although she thought she was plain, ordinary, and too skinny, Miriam lit up a room when she entered. She’d captured Timothy’s heart the first time she’d smiled at him. She’d known just what to say to him, and she’d understood and forgiven his unpredictable moods. Timothy was sure Miriam was his soul mate, the love of his life.
    He’d never felt that with Naomi. She was a pretty and sweet young woman, but she wasn’t Miriam. He’d never felt that connection with her.
    Guilt rained down on him. How could he compare Naomi to someone who had broken his heart into a million pieces? He felt Naomi’s eagerness to be loved; he knew Beth Anne was right about that. But how could he marry someone he didn’t love with all his heart?
    And how can I string her along?
    Moving onto his stomach, Timothy groaned into the pillow. He needed to sort through all of these feelings. Maybe Beth Anne was correct when she said he needed to talk to Miriam.
    However, he knew one thing for sure —a funeral was no place for that conversation. It would be disrespectful to Bertha’s memory and to Abraham’s family to speak to Miriam then.
    How would he manage to keep his emotions in check when he saw Miriam for the first time since she’d left him nearly four years ago?
    Closing his eyes, Timothy fell asleep imagining how Miriam looked today.

6
    M iriam wished she could evaporate into thin air or melt into the hardwood flooring beneath her feet—anything to help her escape the pained glances radiating around her.
    Standing at the back of the large living room, she scanned the sea of faces before her —members of the community in which she’d been born. There were people present who’d been there when her parents were married and others who remembered when she took her first steps as a toddler. Yet she felt like a stranger, an alien visiting from another planet.
    She was clad in a plain black dress and her hair was gelled and forced into a tight ponytail.
    However, even though she was dressed so conservatively, the clothes felt strangely comfortable, which surprised her. She had to admit the paradox—she didn’t belong in the community, yet the clothes comforted her soul. Perhaps they served as a connection to her mother, whom she missed beyond words.
    Miriam had stood with Hannah during the morning of the visitation. Keeping with tradition, Bertha had been dressed in all white, including her white apron and cape that had been saved from her wedding. The color represented the final passage into a new and better life. Hundreds of members from the community had marched through Abraham’s house to offer their sympathy. Unlike the
English
funerals she’d attended in Indiana, which featured hugs and long discussions of memories of the deceased, the Amish were quietly respectful, giving a handshake and offering few words to Miriam and her family.
    The hour-and-a-half afternoon service had been beautiful. Miriam had sat with Hannah and found herself holding her sister’s hand during some of the sermon. At first, the Pennsylvania
Dietsch
was foreign, but after only a few minutes, the language came back to Miriam, and she hung on every word, frequently wiping her eyes in response to the emotion overflowing from her soul. The sermon emphasized the importance of yielding to God’s will and was followed by prayers and Scriptures.
    The graveside service was more painful for Miriam. Her mother was transported in her coffin by a horse-drawn hearse, which was a large black buggy. Bishop Gideon Swartzendruber read a hymn by the graveside before she was laid to rest in a grave dug by hand in an Amish cemetery located within their district. Her grave marker was simple and identical to those around her, keeping with the belief that in death, as in life, the Amish are all equal. The service and burial were plain and devoid of flowers.
    The finality of her