The Road Home (2 page)

One day, Jon and Sherry were telling us about their lives, how they had lived in so many different places and done many different (often wild and dangerous) things before finally coming to California and meeting—by coincidence, they said.

Suddenly something occurred to me. I drew a rough map of the United States on a piece of paper and had Jon and Sherry put a dot on all the places they had lived before they met. Then I had them connect the dots. Both of their meandering trails led to one spot—a little town in California. Then I took the map and I said to Jon, “Do you know how I know God loves you?”

He looked at me strangely and then said no, he didn't. I traced his
journey with a pencil as I said, “I know He loves you because over the years, He led you through all these places in your life, watched over you, and kept you safe so that at this time in your life, He could bring you to California and give you Sherry to love.”

Well, I saw the penny drop. Jon stared at the map and then at his lovely fiancée and then at the map again. A huge smile broke on his face and he said, “I guess God really does love me.”

Coincidence? Some say coincidence is God choosing to remain anonymous; others say coincidence simply means you're on the right path. Often in writing, coincidence is regarded as a weak literary device—a quick way to advance a plot or move characters from one place to another without the need for a clever story line. But when we look at our own lives—especially those of us who believe God is real and that He has a plan for us—don't we discover a lifelong thread of “coincidences” that have moved us ever onward toward a specific purpose for our lives? And if God is the author and finisher of our faith, would He use a weak device to write our story?

The Road Home
is a story about God's desire to fulfill His intention in people's lives. In particular, in Jenny, who, though surrounded by a loving family and a satisfying life, is still a mystery to herself and to her adoptive parents, and also in Jonathan, a young man seeking answers to the questions we have all asked in our own lives. This is a story based on what some would call coincidence, but the truth is, there is really no such thing as coincidence.

For if God is working all things together for good, then each moment, each event, each step, is somehow governed by His plan. And as for Jenny and Jonathan, the story of their lives brings them both to a little town called Apple Creek, where they pass through a series of “coincidences” that in the end…

Well, I'll let you read the story and find out.

Part One

A
PPLE
C
REEK
A
GAIN

T
HERE
'
S SOMETHING ABOUT AN AGRICULTURAL TOWN
that's unique and wonderful—a deep link to the land, which brings a sense of being settled and permanent.

All the bright days of youth in such a place are held in the mystery of God's eternal circle of life and death, winter and spring, summer and fall. The cycles of the seasons dictate the deepest feelings in the hearts of those who live there, with days marked not by events, but by smells and colors and sounds and all the other sensory signals.

The temperature of a morning's rising can tell you everything about the day ahead, be it the coolness of a daybreak in spring; the heat of the long, languid days of summer; the crisp bite of a fall day; or the chill of winter that pushes you with icy fingers back under the welcoming warmth of a lovely down quilt.

The lilting chirp of a robin outside an open window or the haunting call of the Canada geese heading south can manifest the procession of days more surely than any calendar. The solemn silence of a winter night, with your feet softly crunching on the snow as you make your way toward the light in the window ahead, or the grinding of the machinery and the smell of the thick harvest dust…these things mark
the passage of time and bind one surely to the beloved land and the life so graciously granted by the Master of the vineyard.

Apple Creek, Ohio, is such a place. It's especially beautiful in the fall. The leaves of the Buckeye trees turn bright red, and the green, spiked pods that hide the horse chestnuts split open and drop their beautiful brown seeds on the ground. Children pile the leaves into forts and arm themselves with the shiny brown nuts against the trespasses of intruders from down the street.

Mornings come armed with the warning bite of winter yet to come, and the air is alive with the promise of families gathered at festive tables and the wonder of frosty nights that delight the heart with cathedrals of starry splendor. Soon the soft snow will blanket all living things in the quiet death of winter, but not yet, for it is harvest time, and the cycle of life is at its peak.

The fields surrounding the village are ripe with bounty, and the air is heavy with the fecundity of the yearly progression coming to its fullness.

The rest of the world changed greatly after World War II and the Korean War, but Apple Creek remained much the same. Even as the nation wandered into the disaster in Vietnam, the Amish community in Wayne County remained above the growing conflict and social revolution that would follow.

It was as though Apple Creek had been captured in a backwater eddy of time and now slowly drifted in a lovely continuity of days while the main current of civilization rushed by into an unknown and frightening future.

The Amish in Apple Creek were connected to the land, and the land was forever. The fields stretched to the horizon, and the days were like the fields, reaching back into the permanence of the past and extending forward into a future that they knew held the same tasks, the same demands, the same feasts, and the same succession of birth, life, and
death. And yet they were not afraid of death, for they had their God and His promises, they had the land and its harvest each year, and they had the children, who were their inheritance and also a down payment on the continuance of their lives. And above everything, they had the simplicity of their way. And it was enough…for some.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Jenny

“
Du Schlecht'r!
”

“Jenny Springer! You should not say such bad words! You should be ashamed.”

Jenny's face burned as she reached behind the quilting frame with her left hand and pushed the errant needle through the quilt to complete her stitch. The finger of her other hand, showing a tiny red drop where she had pricked herself, went into her mouth. She stared angrily at the quilt she was working on. The design was awkward, and the edges of the pattern pieces were puckered where she had attempted to sew them together.

“Oh, Mama, I will never, ever be a quilter like you. I just can't do it.”

Her mother's shocked expression softened somewhat, and she put her arm around the girl's shoulder. “Quilting is a gift from God, and it's true that you don't yet seem to have the eye for it. But you're gifted in so many other ways. Don't be disheartened. Sometimes you're a little
eigensinnig und ungeduldig
, and these qualities do not fit well with quilting. You must learn to still your heart and calm the stream of thoughts rushing through your head.”

Jenny reached behind her head and rubbed her neck. She took a deep breath and stuck the needle back into the pincushion with finality.

“I need to stop for a bit, Mama. This quilt is making me
vereitelt
!”

Even in her present state, Jenny was a lovely girl of nearly twenty. Her reddish gold hair framed a strong brow and deep violet eyes that could flash with annoyance in an instant or radiate the most loving kindness a moment later.

Jerusha Springer reached down and enfolded Jenny in her arms. “
Sie sind meine geliebte dochter
,” Jerusha whispered softly into the curls that refused to be controlled by the heavy hairpins and happily tumbled out from under the slightly askew black
kappe
on Jenny's head. Jenny turned on her stool, and her arms crept around her mother's waist. She held on as though she would never let go.

“Are you ever sorry that you got me instead of Jenna, Mama?” Jenny whispered.

Jerusha paused before replying. “I was given Jenna, and then I was given you, my dearest. Jenna was a wonderful little girl, and your papa and I were blessed beyond measure by having her. When she died, we didn't know how we would ever go on with our lives. But God in His mercy sent us a wonderful child to fill the emptiness in our hearts. That child was you. Sorry? No, my darling, I will never be sorry that you came to us. There will always be a place in my heart for Jenna, but now I have you to love and hold. I couldn't hope for a better
dochter
.”

Jenny clung even tighter to her mother. Her mother's arms had always been a safe haven for her since the day Jerusha rescued her from the great snowstorm so many years ago. Jerusha had kept Jenny alive by holding the child next to her heart all through the long nights until Papa and Uncle Bobby had rescued them. That was the earliest memory Jenny had of her mother. The calm, steady beat of her mother's heart comforted her, and it was always in this place of refuge and life that she felt the most secure. But today, even in her mother's arms, she
couldn't still the turmoil in her heart. She pulled away from Jerusha and began to talk in a rush.

“Mama, don't you ever wonder where I came from and who my birth mother was? Maybe I'm the daughter of criminals or murderers. Maybe there's a bad seed in me that will come out someday. It makes me afraid sometimes.”

Jerusha stroked her daughter's hair. “There are some things we can never know, and you must not worry or fret about them. ‘Be careful for nothing—' ”

“I know, I know, Mama, but sometimes I do worry. I would never want to do anything that would bring shame on you or Papa. But sometimes I think that I'll never find real peace until I know…and yet that's impossible.”

Jenny released her grip on her mother and grabbed up a scrap of material. She wiped another drop of blood from her finger, crumpled the cloth, and threw it down.

Jerusha took a breath and then answered. “You are so
standhaft
in all your ways. Many times your papa and I have had to pick you up and dust you off when you went too far. But that same quality has helped you to overcome difficulties. The accomplishments in your life are proof of that.”

Jerusha reached over and softly stroked Jenny's cheek. “You're a
gut
student. No one in our community has such a grasp of the history of our people as you do. Someday you will be a teacher who can pass down to your children the things that keep the Amish separate and distinct from the world.”

Jenny looked away and shrugged her shoulders. “I don't think I will ever have children, Mama.”

Jerusha stiffened, and a fleeting frown passed over her face. “Why not, my darling?” she asked quietly.

“I don't think any man could put up with me, for one thing, and
for another, I think I'm just too independent. I'm not sure I could ever submit to a husband ruling over me.”

Jerusha's mouth tightened slightly. “If I were true to our
ordnung
, I would tell you what my grandmother told me when I was a girl, and insist that you follow it,” Jerusha said. “She used to say that marriage is not built first on love but on the needs of our community and our faith.”