Where Love Grows Read online

  “You’re my kind of girl,” Maurice said. “Lead us to the food!”

  Susan laughed. “This way to the kitchen!”

  “Where’s Menno?” Mamm asked, pausing to listen for sounds coming from the washroom.

  “I told Daett to come right away, and I invited Steve to join us. I hope that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine with me. But isn’t Ada expecting him?” Mamm stepped outside the washroom door and hollered, “Supper!”

  “I sent word back with Joan that he might be having supper with us,” Susan explained after her mamm stepped back into the kitchen.

  As if they’d been waiting for the final call, Daett and Steve came out of the barn and rushed across the yard.

  Mamm bustled about the kitchen, double-checking everything while they waited for the men to wash up. Sounds of splashing water came from the washroom sink, followed by footsteps. Daett led the way in. Steve followed, his face still wet and red from the cold water and towel rub. Susan almost laughed. He must be nervous if he scrubbed that hard.

  “It’s good to meet you,” Daett was saying as he extended his hand to Maurice.

  “I’m so glad to be here, Mr. Hostetler,” Maurice said. “My daughter hasn’t looked better or happier in her life. I can’t thank you folks enough.”

  “Please call me Menno. And this is Steve Mast, our hired hand. We’ve enjoyed having Teresa here. It is Da Hah’s doing.” Daett continued. “We have Him to thank for what we have and for what we can give.” He turned to Mamm. “Is supper ready or not?”

  “It’s been ready for a long time,” Susan told him. “So don’t be acting like we’re to blame if it’s cold.”

  Daett smiled, twinkles in his eyes.

  “You have a lovely family, Mr. Hostetler,” Maurice said. “And a beautiful wife.”

  “Yah, that is true,” Daett agreed. “Anna’s been a jewel all the years I’ve known her. There couldn’t be a better wife anywhere. And, please, it’s Menno. We don’t do mister and missus around here. At least not if you’re part of the community or family.”

  “I’m honored to be considered part of your family and community, even if it is only for a week or so,” Maurice said.

  Daett nodded. “Now, let’s eat!”

  “We will as soon as you stop talking long enough to pray,” Mamm said with a straight face.

  They sat down at the table. Daett bowed his head, and the rest of them followed.

  “Our gracious and heavenly Father, we give You thanks tonight for the rich and plentiful food on this table, for the willing hands that prepared it, and for the lives that are gathered here,” Daett prayed. “Bless us, O Father, with Your Holy Spirit and guide us in our walk with You. We seek to do Your will and to obey Your Word. We give You thanks tonight especially for Teresa and her mamm, Maurice. You have blessed Maurice with a safe trip and with a daughter who has blessed our lives these many months. Bless them now as they have blessed us. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  “Thank you,” Maurice whispered when they had raised their heads. “That was a nice prayer, and you are such wonderful people.”

  “Well,” Daett protested, “we’re not all that wonderful. We’re just flesh and blood. Give Da Hah the thanks if there is any to be given.” He smiled to soften his words.

  “That’s right,” Mamm added. “Please pass the potatoes, Susan. And you can start the gravy, Teresa. There’s plenty for everyone. I know we’ve all worked hard today, and there will be plenty of work tomorrow.”

  “Wow! I haven’t seen this much food in a long time.” Steve rubbed his flat stomach.

  Mamm glared at him. “Now don’t tell me Ada doesn’t cook up a good meal for you.”

  “He’s teasing,” Susan said, looking at her mamm. “And Joan told me he comes home starving every night. I’m sure he gets plenty to eat.”

  “Yah, I was just teasing,” Steve assured Mamm as he took a large helping of potatoes. “A growing boy needs lots of sustenance! Where the food goes, I have no idea.”

  “A working man needs his food,” Daett said. “You do more than your share in the fields. I know where the food goes.” Everyone laughed.

  Daett turned to Maurice. “How was your trip?”

  “Just great, thank you,” Maurice replied. “And when I got here, I realized I needed different clothes. Your daughter Ada was kind enough to lend me some dresses.”

  “Susan mentioned it.” Daett laughed. “It wasn’t necessary, but you look very nice. I thought perhaps Teresa influenced you.”

  “I suppose she has—perhaps more than I know,” Maurice said. “I do know Teresa is really coming along well. I can’t wait to meet this young man of hers.”

  “Oh, he’s nice enough,” Mamm said. “You’ll like him, I’m sure.”

  “If Teresa likes him, that’s good enough for me,” Maurice said.

  Minutes passed in silence while they ate. Susan broke the quiet. “Do you have to go back out tonight yet, Daett? Is the hayrack fixed?”

  Daett looked up. “Nee, but we can finish in the morning.”

  “I’ll stay and help. You know that,” Steve said, looking down at his empty plate.

  Daett shook his head.

  “Anyone have room for pecan pie?” Mamm asked when everyone was finished.

  Everyone eagerly admitted they did.

  Mamm got up and brought the pie over. She sliced it and spooned whipped cream on top of each piece before passing it down the table.

  After eating a bite of pie, Maurice said, “This is delicious. And it’s so peaceful around here. You can almost hear yourself breathe.”

  “I guess I’m used to it,” Mamm said.

  Steve placed his napkin on the table, pushed back his chair, and rose. “Thanks for supper. I do believe you’re as good a cook as your daughter Ada.”

  “I should be!” Mamm said with a smile. “I taught her all she knows.”

  Steve laughed and left by way of the washroom door.

  “I want to help with the supper dishes, Anna,” Maurice said. “I don’t know much about the life you people live, but I do know how to wash dishes.”

  “You don’t have to,” Mamm told her. “You just arrived today. You should relax.”

  “Please, I want to.”

  Mamm smiled and pointed toward the sink. “Yah, then. You can wash while we clean off the table. One of the girls will dry the dishes.” Noticing Menno heading toward the living room, she added, “Menno, there’s a letter that came today for you on the desk.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Menno sat in the living room, the latest copy of The Budget unfolded in his lap, the letter Anna had mentioned in his hands. He glanced at the return address. Carol Hale, PO Box 3716, Fairway, Kansas. Menno read the name again. Do I know a Carol? He froze. This surely couldn’t be…could it? The Carol he knew years ago? He took a deep breath. Her last name wasn’t Hale. At least it wasn’t back then. But she could have married by now…

  Menno’s hand shook. He thought of the kafuffle over Teresa’s arrival in the community months ago. Her arrival with Samuel had, much to his surprise, stirred up memories he’d tried so hard to forget. His nerves must still be on edge, he decided. He had never confessed his transgression to Anna. Some things were simply too awful to bring up. Dating Carol had been one such sin—and it led to even more sins. But hadn’t Da Hah shown great mercy even before he’d fully repented of his sin? And then Carol had told him the baby had been lost. So what was there to confess now? He had confessed to Da Hah, of course. And He was the One who already knew everything.

  With his hands still shaking, Menno opened the letter and read slowly.

  Dear Menno,

  I apologize first of all for using the term “dear” in the greeting, but Menno alone sounded too impersonal. I couldn’t stand it. I’m sure you’re surprised—to say the least—to receive a letter from me, if indeed this letter finds you. I’m guessing you’re still part of the Amish commu
nity in which you were raised, but perhaps not. If this letter does find you, I’ll trust that it was God’s will. I’m surprised that I’m even writing to you. I never thought it would come to this, but it has.

  Our child has found me, Menno. I guess first of all I owe you a confession. I lied all those years ago when I told you I had miscarried. In telling you I lost our child, I thought I was doing what was best for you and for me. Even so, I should have told you the truth.

  And now, Menno, I have advanced ovarian cancer. I’m nearing the end and trusting I will soon see the face of God. I wish to be clear of this matter before that day. Even without Donald showing up, I have been greatly troubled through the years by how I treated you and our son.

  The truth is that I was afraid of what you would do if you knew. The demands you might make. Your community—the little I knew of it—seemed threatening to me. And I didn’t know how our baby would be accepted. I know it wasn’t fair of me to keep this from you, and I apologize.

  Donald, our son, was indeed born healthy, and I put him up for adoption, believing that was for the best. I do admit that part of me hoped he might eventually look for me. I left the best trail behind I could through the legal documents. And when he searched, he found me. He’s a good young man, Menno. His adoptive father passed away several years ago, and his adoptive mother, Ruthann Fry, encouraged him to find me if that was his desire. I wish I could meet her, but it’s not likely to happen. She did a wonderful job raising our Donald.

  Now that I have met our son, I truly know what I have missed. Even my marriage and the birth of my three children—two boys and a girl—did not ease the pain of what I lost with Donald. I feel I owe you and him at least an opportunity to meet. I’m coming clean on this matter, Menno. I’m leaving Donald my journal, and your name is in there.

  I’m sorry, Menno, that this must come as such a shock. Perhaps I should have come to you in person to ask your forgiveness. Maybe I’m still not handling this correctly. But with my health, I’m not able to do anything beyond writing this letter.

  I’m sure you’ve married and probably have a family of your own. I regret any pain and trouble this might cause you. But Donald has come to me, and I can’t keep this secret any longer. Enclosed is Donald’s address. I’ve told him about you, but I haven’t revealed where you probably live.

  He wants to meet you, Menno. And surely in your heart you wish to know him. Write to him, please.

  With my sincere apologies again,

  Carol (Henderson) Hale

  Menno laid the letter aside, covering it with a page from The Budget. He closed his eyes. What would Anna think about this? An Englisha child! His Englisha child with his Englisha girlfriend from his service days during the war. He’d worked in a hospital in St. Louis instead of going to Vietnam as a soldier because he was Amish and, therefore, refused to fight. And what would Deacon Ray say? He couldn’t confess it to him…not Deacon Ray.

  Anna had to be told. He had no choice. But when? He couldn’t tell her now. There would be time later. They had a guest in the house, and Teresa’s wedding was coming up. Nothing should be done before that. His past shouldn’t mar the festivities. Teresa deserved that much consideration.

  Sliding the letter into his pocket, Menno tried to read The Budget, but the words kept running together on the page.

  That same evening, across two state lines, Donald Fry held a package in his hands. Carol had said to open it after her funeral. And the service had been today. He was nervous. So much emotion happening so quickly, but he had to know. Too many years had passed already. So much had been lost. All those years he could have known his birth mother. He wouldn’t allow the same thing to happen with his birth father.

  Donald sat down at the kitchen table and opened the box. Inside was a hard-covered journal, its edges bent and worn, the cover faded. Little scuffs pockmarked the surface. Apparently someone had handled the book roughly or frequently. He took out the journal and flipped open the pages to the last entry, about three quarters of the way toward the back.

  May 10, 1969

  My dear Journal, I have great news to report today. News that takes my breath away. I’m expecting again. The doctor confirmed it, or I wouldn’t believe it. I’m sitting here in tears, feeling like a total wreck. Why I should break down like this after so many years is beyond me. I do know the reason. Somewhere in the back of my mind I believed God would never allow me to have another child. Not after giving up my dear baby boy. Even though I felt I had no choice and it was the best decision possible, that’s not much comfort when my heart cries for my lost child.

  I sit here taking deep breaths, telling myself that it’s true. That just as Benjamin is real to me as a husband—just as his love is real—so this child will be real. After all I have lost, I’m being given another chance. I have to believe…to hope…that the broken pieces can really be put back together. Surely God can do that. My mind tells me He can, even when my pain says otherwise. How can God be so good to me after what I’ve done? His grace is amazing.

  I think this will be my last entry. There has been too much sorrow recorded in these pages. The record laid down of my transgressions…of my losses. I’ve kept the worst parts from my dear Benjamin, but I know I’ve allowed myself to wallow in them. That must stop, and so too must this journal.

  Let today begin a new book, I whisper. Let this day of the news of our baby—Benjamin’s and mine—be a new beginning. A day when I will again live life to the fullest. A day when I will drink in all it has to give.

  Today I begin a new journey with Benjamin and our child. A journey hopefully without so many tears. I will be a mother again, and, if God is willing, again and again. Oh, God, I can’t thank You enough for allowing this to happen. Thank You for Benjamin, for our love together, and for this child. Thank You, thank You.

  Goodbye, Journal. Let me kiss you one more time and then that will be it. Good night now and sleep well.

  Donald wiped his brow with the back of his hand. This was his birth mother speaking to him from across the years. A voice he’d only heard in person during the short time after he’d found her. The fault was his own because he’d delayed his search for so long. Caught up in the dramas of his own life—his marriage to Sonia, Charles’s birth, his father’s illness, and then the divorce. Regardless, he should have looked for his birth mother much sooner.

  He stared at the journal. At least he had this now. A token of her love, if nothing else. A touch of her even though she was physically gone. An opportunity to know her better. So he would read more. He would find more of her here. Her sorrow written in black and white. The pain she’d experienced while he was a child growing up in a good family and totally unaware of her existence.

  Flipping to the front, Donald read the first entry.

  June 6, 1960

  I’m fifteen years old today, the first summer of living on the farm Mom and Dad purchased outside the city limits. Dad’s a doctor, and he’s worked hard to save enough for our new place. Mom grew up in Iowa as a farmer’s daughter, and she’s always wanted to get back to something resembling what she was used to.

  Dad joked many times that love was enough. They would laugh, so I was always sure it was enough. But maybe one does need more than love. Mom is sure happy about the move—or maybe love brings what the loved one wishes. That’s a nice thought. And it even looks good written down on the page.

  I think I will also start a new venture—one brought on by our move. I will keep writing in this journal. I think it will be fun many years from now to look back over my life to see the highs and the lows. Hopefully there will be only a few lows. One needs some, I suppose, to deepen the soul. That’s what Father Frank says, anyway. He said sadness brings out the color in life.

  I guess that’s true, although my life has plenty of color right now, inside and out. The front yard is blooming with a thousand dandelions. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Mom likes them, but Dad said something about white f
luff balls appearing soon that will mess up the countryside. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but we shall see. Mom gave him a kiss after his muttered remark, saying, “Thank you anyway, Joe. It’s so nice of you to indulge me like this.”

  I hope I meet a man someday who indulges me like Dad does Mom!

  The other evening I saw a gorgeous sunset. Such colors you have never seen in all your life. Nothing like what we had in the city. The sky was painted with yellow, red, blue, and even purple mixed all together in long streaks. For some reason I started thinking about my future husband—whoever he will be. Sometimes I feel so other-worldly. I wonder why the man I will love couldn’t be from someplace else, like another world maybe. Perhaps Mars or Jupiter. He could at least be from someplace I haven’t been. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? He’d speak another language, maybe French or Spanish. We’d laugh together and tell each other tales of how we were brought up. It would take weeks and weeks just to cover all that. We could fill the time between kisses right well.

  Mom wants me to help with the laundry now, so I’d better run. I will keep this our little secret and visit you as often as I can.

  To a long and happy summer and to many happy years ahead of us!

  Donald turned the page to the next entry. He read, skipped a few pages, and read again. He would return later for a more thorough reading. Somewhere in here was the information he wanted.

  June 14, 1960

  Hello there! I’m back. Not as quickly as I had hoped, but I haven’t forgotten you. Life on a farm is much busier than I ever thought possible. Right now I’m so happy I could burst! I don’t care how hard I have to work. This joy of country living is worth all the sweat and pain.

  Mom took me into town today, a small place not far from us. It’s nothing like the big city. We stopped in at a dusty old feed mill, its name written in faded letters over the front door. Inside they had a wire cage with three of the cutest little puppies inside, all bundles and bounces. Mom didn’t say a word. She just took me up to the cage and pointed.