you.”
“Verla says that’s how the Amish teenagers keep their cell phones charged, with a car battery.”
“You are living among such interesting people.”
“I think so,” he said.
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
After a few more comments, they hung up. There really wasn’t much more to say. In-depth conversations were not a big part of their relationship.
chapter S IX
L ogan awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing at the farm next door. He cracked open an eyelid. The sky was growing lighter, but it was barely dawn. This rude awakening, he had discovered, was going to happen every morning. He burrowed back down into his pillow, but the rooster was an insistent alarm clock that he could not shut off. He now knew from experience that he might as well give up.
A few minutes later, he was bundled in a sweater and jeans against the chill of an autumn morning, with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, sitting on a porch rocker. The sound of the rooster was no longer an irritation, but part of the joyful cacophony of the world around him awakening.
The mist-covered, rolling farmland was a feast to his eyes, and the covered porch felt like the arms of a good friend enfolding him. He settled back and allowed the peace of the place to seep into the raw cracks of his soul.
There was no doubt about it, he loved it here.
The coiled spring that seemed to be so tightly wound inside him felt as though it were loosening a little more each day. He’d slowly begun to cut down on his depression medication and was feeling no ill effects. Although it was still a struggle, especiallyin the evenings, his desire for alcohol was diminishing with each day.
He had not experienced a feeling of peace this deep since before his wife had died.
Ariela would have loved it here, too.
He allowed the feeling of grief to linger only a moment before he gently put it aside. Ariela had been a generous person. She would want him to enjoy this lovely place with or without her.
It had been nearly a month, and he still had not overcome his inability to write again. It was the first true writer’s block he had ever experienced, and it was brutal. His New York editor contacted him to inquire how the book was coming, and was not amused by the news that he had chosen to bury himself here. He had built his career within easy reach of everyone who was anyone in the publishing business. He also had built a reputation for meeting deadlines on time with quality work. As Harry had pointed out during their lunch together, he had been the perfect, uncomplaining, writing machine, churning out bestseller after bestseller, until the perfect writing machine had broken down.
Now he was desperate to fix that machine and didn’t have a clue how to do it.
No writer’s trick he knew would prime the pump, and he was starting to get scared.
• • •
“Thelma and I want to help.” Bishop Schrock handed Hope an envelope filled with cash. He had stopped early in the morning on his way to work. She was glad that she had already milked the cow and hung out her wash. It would have been humiliating had he found her in the same shape that Claire had.
With reluctance, Hope accepted her father-in-law’s gift.
“You are our daughter. You are raising our grandchildren,”he said. “Neither we nor the church want you to be in want. There will be more money when you need it.”
“I am very grateful,” she said, “but I wish we did not have to take this.”
“Don’t worry right now about finances. You should concentrate on these children and keeping yourself strong and healthy so that you can care for them.”
“Thank you, Bishop,” she said.
It felt so strange to be on the receiving end. She and Titus had frequently given what they could for others. It was the Amish way, to share with those in need. They had been happy to help.
Now she was learning that having to be the taker was much, much harder for her than being the giver.
As willing
“Verla says that’s how the Amish teenagers keep their cell phones charged, with a car battery.”
“You are living among such interesting people.”
“I think so,” he said.
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
After a few more comments, they hung up. There really wasn’t much more to say. In-depth conversations were not a big part of their relationship.
chapter S IX
L ogan awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing at the farm next door. He cracked open an eyelid. The sky was growing lighter, but it was barely dawn. This rude awakening, he had discovered, was going to happen every morning. He burrowed back down into his pillow, but the rooster was an insistent alarm clock that he could not shut off. He now knew from experience that he might as well give up.
A few minutes later, he was bundled in a sweater and jeans against the chill of an autumn morning, with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, sitting on a porch rocker. The sound of the rooster was no longer an irritation, but part of the joyful cacophony of the world around him awakening.
The mist-covered, rolling farmland was a feast to his eyes, and the covered porch felt like the arms of a good friend enfolding him. He settled back and allowed the peace of the place to seep into the raw cracks of his soul.
There was no doubt about it, he loved it here.
The coiled spring that seemed to be so tightly wound inside him felt as though it were loosening a little more each day. He’d slowly begun to cut down on his depression medication and was feeling no ill effects. Although it was still a struggle, especiallyin the evenings, his desire for alcohol was diminishing with each day.
He had not experienced a feeling of peace this deep since before his wife had died.
Ariela would have loved it here, too.
He allowed the feeling of grief to linger only a moment before he gently put it aside. Ariela had been a generous person. She would want him to enjoy this lovely place with or without her.
It had been nearly a month, and he still had not overcome his inability to write again. It was the first true writer’s block he had ever experienced, and it was brutal. His New York editor contacted him to inquire how the book was coming, and was not amused by the news that he had chosen to bury himself here. He had built his career within easy reach of everyone who was anyone in the publishing business. He also had built a reputation for meeting deadlines on time with quality work. As Harry had pointed out during their lunch together, he had been the perfect, uncomplaining, writing machine, churning out bestseller after bestseller, until the perfect writing machine had broken down.
Now he was desperate to fix that machine and didn’t have a clue how to do it.
No writer’s trick he knew would prime the pump, and he was starting to get scared.
• • •
“Thelma and I want to help.” Bishop Schrock handed Hope an envelope filled with cash. He had stopped early in the morning on his way to work. She was glad that she had already milked the cow and hung out her wash. It would have been humiliating had he found her in the same shape that Claire had.
With reluctance, Hope accepted her father-in-law’s gift.
“You are our daughter. You are raising our grandchildren,”he said. “Neither we nor the church want you to be in want. There will be more money when you need it.”
“I am very grateful,” she said, “but I wish we did not have to take this.”
“Don’t worry right now about finances. You should concentrate on these children and keeping yourself strong and healthy so that you can care for them.”
“Thank you, Bishop,” she said.
It felt so strange to be on the receiving end. She and Titus had frequently given what they could for others. It was the Amish way, to share with those in need. They had been happy to help.
Now she was learning that having to be the taker was much, much harder for her than being the giver.
As willing
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