so early that evening—might’ve put off giving in to fitful sleep—had she known the needlelike affliction would grow nearly unbearable.
She sat up the next morning to watch the sun rise, the very dawn she had always greeted with joy. In an instant, the tormenting images returned, and she cried out in agony, renouncing them. “No! I will not see these things. I will not see!” She repeated it again and again, closing her eyes, shutting out the persistent mental pictures as she rocked back and forth.
How long she remained crumpled in her bed, she did not know. But when at last she opened her eyes and ceased her weeping, the earliest rays of morning had turned to a dark and dreary shade of charcoal.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, groping her way across the room to the window. She and Jacob had stood and looked out together on this very spot, their last hours together. Yet no longer could she make out the rows of neatly tilled farmland beyond. So cloudy were the trees, the four-sided birdhouse, and even the neighbor’s silo that they might not have existed at all.
The darkness persisted as she attempted to dress, then brush and part her long hair. No longer could she see the golden brown hues of her tresses. Neither outline nor color was visible in the mirror. Only murky, shadowy images shifted and waved, taunting her.
She had to call on past memory to place her prayer veiling in the correct location. Fear and panic seized her as she let her fingers guide the Kapp . Jacob and Aaron were never coming back, no matter the amount of hoping. Her life as Jacob Yoder’s wife was a thing of the past. This was her life now. She’d had everything— everything right and gut and lovely—and all of it had been swept away in a blink of time. Why, she did not know, nor did she feel she could question the Almighty. Yet in the quiet moments—just before falling asleep—she had allowed herself to think grievous thoughts of anger and fear, sinful as they were.
Feeling her way along the wall, she stumbled back to the bed. This, the bed she and Jacob had shared as husband and wife. She dared not permit herself to recall the love exchanged here, nor the dreams spoken and unspoken. Denial was the only way she could endure the heartache of her life.
She made an attempt to smooth out the sheet and coverlet, to fluff the lone pillow. But the fiery pain in her head stabbed repeatedly, and in the depths of her troubled heart, she perceived that the light had truly gone from her eyes. Even as tears spilled down her cheeks, she resigned herself to the blindness, that self-imposed haven where no painful image could ever intrude.
“What’s done is done,” she whispered.
Part Two
Midway this way of life we’re bound upon,
I woke to find myself in a dark wood,
Where the right road was wholly
lost and gone. . . .
Dante
The Lord is slow to anger, abounding in love and
forgiving sin and rebellion. Yet he does not leave
the guilty unpunished; he punishes
the children for the sin of the fathers
to the third and fourth generation.
Numbers 14:18 NIV
Six
Two years later
P hilip Bradley checked into the first Amish B&B he could find off the main drag. Somewhat secluded and picturesque, Olde Mill Road was the kind of setting he’d wished for—made to order, actually.
The Lancaster tourist trade was like a neon sign, attracting modern-day folk who longed for a step back in time to the nostalgic, simple days—by way of shops offering handmade quilts and samplers, crafts and candles, as well as buggy rides and tours of Amish homesteads.
But it was the back roads he wanted, earthy places where honest-to-goodness Amish folk lived. Not the establishments that lured you with misnomers and myths of painted blue garden gates and appetizers consisting of “seven sweets and seven sours.” Above all, what Philip wanted was to get this assignment researched, written, and turned in. Bone-tired from the pace of recent
She sat up the next morning to watch the sun rise, the very dawn she had always greeted with joy. In an instant, the tormenting images returned, and she cried out in agony, renouncing them. “No! I will not see these things. I will not see!” She repeated it again and again, closing her eyes, shutting out the persistent mental pictures as she rocked back and forth.
How long she remained crumpled in her bed, she did not know. But when at last she opened her eyes and ceased her weeping, the earliest rays of morning had turned to a dark and dreary shade of charcoal.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, groping her way across the room to the window. She and Jacob had stood and looked out together on this very spot, their last hours together. Yet no longer could she make out the rows of neatly tilled farmland beyond. So cloudy were the trees, the four-sided birdhouse, and even the neighbor’s silo that they might not have existed at all.
The darkness persisted as she attempted to dress, then brush and part her long hair. No longer could she see the golden brown hues of her tresses. Neither outline nor color was visible in the mirror. Only murky, shadowy images shifted and waved, taunting her.
She had to call on past memory to place her prayer veiling in the correct location. Fear and panic seized her as she let her fingers guide the Kapp . Jacob and Aaron were never coming back, no matter the amount of hoping. Her life as Jacob Yoder’s wife was a thing of the past. This was her life now. She’d had everything— everything right and gut and lovely—and all of it had been swept away in a blink of time. Why, she did not know, nor did she feel she could question the Almighty. Yet in the quiet moments—just before falling asleep—she had allowed herself to think grievous thoughts of anger and fear, sinful as they were.
Feeling her way along the wall, she stumbled back to the bed. This, the bed she and Jacob had shared as husband and wife. She dared not permit herself to recall the love exchanged here, nor the dreams spoken and unspoken. Denial was the only way she could endure the heartache of her life.
She made an attempt to smooth out the sheet and coverlet, to fluff the lone pillow. But the fiery pain in her head stabbed repeatedly, and in the depths of her troubled heart, she perceived that the light had truly gone from her eyes. Even as tears spilled down her cheeks, she resigned herself to the blindness, that self-imposed haven where no painful image could ever intrude.
“What’s done is done,” she whispered.
Part Two
Midway this way of life we’re bound upon,
I woke to find myself in a dark wood,
Where the right road was wholly
lost and gone. . . .
Dante
The Lord is slow to anger, abounding in love and
forgiving sin and rebellion. Yet he does not leave
the guilty unpunished; he punishes
the children for the sin of the fathers
to the third and fourth generation.
Numbers 14:18 NIV
Six
Two years later
P hilip Bradley checked into the first Amish B&B he could find off the main drag. Somewhat secluded and picturesque, Olde Mill Road was the kind of setting he’d wished for—made to order, actually.
The Lancaster tourist trade was like a neon sign, attracting modern-day folk who longed for a step back in time to the nostalgic, simple days—by way of shops offering handmade quilts and samplers, crafts and candles, as well as buggy rides and tours of Amish homesteads.
But it was the back roads he wanted, earthy places where honest-to-goodness Amish folk lived. Not the establishments that lured you with misnomers and myths of painted blue garden gates and appetizers consisting of “seven sweets and seven sours.” Above all, what Philip wanted was to get this assignment researched, written, and turned in. Bone-tired from the pace of recent
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