women dressed in long print dresses with plain-looking white or navy blue sweaters and others looked like tourists and other English folk.
None of it made sense.
She tried to sing along, conscious of the sound of Cousin Lydia's hearty alto voice and Edna's wavering soprano. Each time they came to the refrain, the words this is the crowning day stuck in her throat. She'd been taught all her life that no one could truly know the assurance of salvation while alive. You only hoped that the Lord God heavenly Father would welcome you into His eternal kingdom on Judgment Day. But to say with all faith you were saved--or to sing
words to that effect--was nothing short of boastful. Pride. The deadliest of sins.
As if to dispute her thoughts, the Mennonite sisters, all four of them, sang the words about going to heaven and what a glad day that would be. It seemed to Katherine they lifted their voices with complete confidence in what they were singing. And she wondered what made the Ordnung so much more important--in Amish eyes--than the Bible itself.
As a child it had all seemed acceptable and right--those regular teachings of the bishop and other preachers. Katho erine's best friends were her first and second cousins and classmates at the one-room Amish school--girls and boys in her own church district. Girls like Mary Stoltzfus, who knew her nearly inside out. They dressed alike, wore their hair the same, spoke the same two languages--English and Pennsylvania Dutch--and thought pretty much alike, too.
None of them, except some of the carpenters and
66
furniture-makers in the community, ever had to associate with outsiders, and they'd been taught that Mennonites, Brethren, and other Christian groups around them were living in sin. If you weren't Amish, chances were good that when you died, you'd be thrown into Outer Darkness or cast into the Lake of Fire. Both, probably. So who'd want to be friends with wicked folk like that?
The Ordnung ruled--shunning or no. And even on this bright and shining day--the blessed Lord's Day before Katherine planned to step into her future, her fancy English future--the Old Order reached out to discourage and dismay her.
"Tell me one of your stories, Rebecca," Annie Lapp said as she and her mother-in-law sat together in Annie's kitchen.
Rebecca's knitting needles made a soft, rhythmic click- ity-click pattern in the silence, but she did not speak.
"It's been ever so long since [ heard one of your stories," she pleaded.
Still Rebecca declined, shaking her head.
"Storytellin's a gut thing," Annie insisted. "For the teller and for the listener, ya know."
Sighing audibly, Rebecca folded her hands, staring at her knitting. "Jah, I reckon." Yet she made no attempt to start up one of her stories.
Something was terribly wrong with Katie's mare; Annie could see that. The pain in Rebecca's eyes, the bend of her back, ach, how she'd aged. And in such a short time. Annie supposed it had to do with Katie, but she dared not mention the wayward woman's name.
Elam, Annie's husband, had taken a firm stand against anyone referring to his shunned sister about the house--or
67
anywhere else, for that matter. He'd gotten the idea from his father. Both men had decided that neither the immediate family nor the extended family must ever mention her again. Which turned out to be a whole lot of folk, so interconnected were they, what with all the marrying and intermarrying amongst themselves.
Fact was, it had gotten so, here lately, that nobody was talking about Katie Lapp anymore. Truth be told, Annie felt like the People were trying to put the agony--of losing one of their own to the devil--clear behind them. Not out of anger or hatred, no. They were simply trying to go on with
the life God would have them lead in Hickory Hollow. With or without Katie.
"What if I tell you a story this time?" she spoke up. "Gut, des gut," Rebecca replied.
Annie rocked her newborn bundle in her arms, telling her
None of it made sense.
She tried to sing along, conscious of the sound of Cousin Lydia's hearty alto voice and Edna's wavering soprano. Each time they came to the refrain, the words this is the crowning day stuck in her throat. She'd been taught all her life that no one could truly know the assurance of salvation while alive. You only hoped that the Lord God heavenly Father would welcome you into His eternal kingdom on Judgment Day. But to say with all faith you were saved--or to sing
words to that effect--was nothing short of boastful. Pride. The deadliest of sins.
As if to dispute her thoughts, the Mennonite sisters, all four of them, sang the words about going to heaven and what a glad day that would be. It seemed to Katherine they lifted their voices with complete confidence in what they were singing. And she wondered what made the Ordnung so much more important--in Amish eyes--than the Bible itself.
As a child it had all seemed acceptable and right--those regular teachings of the bishop and other preachers. Katho erine's best friends were her first and second cousins and classmates at the one-room Amish school--girls and boys in her own church district. Girls like Mary Stoltzfus, who knew her nearly inside out. They dressed alike, wore their hair the same, spoke the same two languages--English and Pennsylvania Dutch--and thought pretty much alike, too.
None of them, except some of the carpenters and
66
furniture-makers in the community, ever had to associate with outsiders, and they'd been taught that Mennonites, Brethren, and other Christian groups around them were living in sin. If you weren't Amish, chances were good that when you died, you'd be thrown into Outer Darkness or cast into the Lake of Fire. Both, probably. So who'd want to be friends with wicked folk like that?
The Ordnung ruled--shunning or no. And even on this bright and shining day--the blessed Lord's Day before Katherine planned to step into her future, her fancy English future--the Old Order reached out to discourage and dismay her.
"Tell me one of your stories, Rebecca," Annie Lapp said as she and her mother-in-law sat together in Annie's kitchen.
Rebecca's knitting needles made a soft, rhythmic click- ity-click pattern in the silence, but she did not speak.
"It's been ever so long since [ heard one of your stories," she pleaded.
Still Rebecca declined, shaking her head.
"Storytellin's a gut thing," Annie insisted. "For the teller and for the listener, ya know."
Sighing audibly, Rebecca folded her hands, staring at her knitting. "Jah, I reckon." Yet she made no attempt to start up one of her stories.
Something was terribly wrong with Katie's mare; Annie could see that. The pain in Rebecca's eyes, the bend of her back, ach, how she'd aged. And in such a short time. Annie supposed it had to do with Katie, but she dared not mention the wayward woman's name.
Elam, Annie's husband, had taken a firm stand against anyone referring to his shunned sister about the house--or
67
anywhere else, for that matter. He'd gotten the idea from his father. Both men had decided that neither the immediate family nor the extended family must ever mention her again. Which turned out to be a whole lot of folk, so interconnected were they, what with all the marrying and intermarrying amongst themselves.
Fact was, it had gotten so, here lately, that nobody was talking about Katie Lapp anymore. Truth be told, Annie felt like the People were trying to put the agony--of losing one of their own to the devil--clear behind them. Not out of anger or hatred, no. They were simply trying to go on with
the life God would have them lead in Hickory Hollow. With or without Katie.
"What if I tell you a story this time?" she spoke up. "Gut, des gut," Rebecca replied.
Annie rocked her newborn bundle in her arms, telling her
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