The Preacher's Daughter Read online

  The

  Preacher’s

  Daughter

  BEVERLY

  LEWIS

  The

  Preacher’s

  Daughter

  The Preacher’s Daughter

  Copyright © 2005

  Beverly Lewis

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Koechel Peterson & Associates

  Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0105-9

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lewis, Beverly.

  The preacher’s daughter / by Beverly Lewis.

  p. cm. — (Annie’s people ; 1)

  Summary: ‘‘Annie Zook—the preacher’s eldest daughter—is expected to join the Amish church, but at 20 she is ‘still deciding.’ Because of the strict rules that guide the Plain community, she must continually squelch her artistic passion, although it has become her solace’’—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 0-7642-0120-4 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-7642-0105-0 (pbk.) — ISBN 0-7642-0121-2 (large print pbk.)

  1. Children of clergy—Fiction. 2. Women artists—Fiction. 3. Amish— Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Lewis, Beverly. Annie’s people ; 1.

  PS3562.E9383 P74 2005

  813'.54—dc22

  2005018581

  * * *

  Dedication

  To

  Madge S. Bowes,

  a preacher’s daughter times two . . .

  and dear family friend.

  By Beverly Lewis

  SEASONS OF GRACE

  The Secret • The Missing

  ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS

  The Covenant • The Betrayal • The Sacrifice The Prodigal • The Revelation

  ANNIE’S PEOPLE

  The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren

  THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER

  The Parting • The Forbidden • The Longing

  THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY

  The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning

  The Postcard • The Crossroad

  The Redemption of Sarah Cain

  October Song • Sanctuary* • The Sunroom

  The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook

  www.beverlylewis.com

  *with David Lewis

  BEVERLY LEWIS, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, fondly recalls her growing-up years. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain family heritage has led Beverly to set many of her popular stories in Lancaster County.

  A former schoolteacher and accomplished pianist, Beverly is a member of the National League of American Pen Women (the Pikes Peak branch). She is the 2003 recipient of the Distinguished Alumnus Award at Evangel University, Springfield, Missouri. Her blockbuster novels, The Shunning, The Confession, and The Reckoning, have each received the Gold Book Award. Her bestselling novel October Song won the Silver Seal in the Benjamin Franklin Awards, and The Postcard and Sanctuary (a collaboration with her husband, David) received Silver Angel Awards, as did her delightful picture book for all ages, Annika’s Secret Wish. Beverly and her husband make their home in the Colorado foothills.

  Moonlight created a silken halo around two small figures as they emerged from the dark covered bridge. The younger boy dragged a shovel, while the older carried a handmade wooden box carefully so as not to tip it, having sanded the miniature coffin smooth with his own hands.

  They hurried around the north side of the bridge and down the grassy slope to a grove of black locust trees. Near the creek bed, they determined the location for burial—eight long steps past the first tree, then a sharp turn and four short ones to the soil most pliable from recent autumn rains. The box laden with the beloved pup was placed on the grass, and the older boy took up the shovel and began to dig.

  When the hole was deep enough, the box was laid gently inside. The little boy inched back, sobbing at the grievous sound of dirt hitting the small coffin. Big brother worked the shovel faster, and with each heave and thud, the younger boy winced, squeezing hard a peach stone in his tiny palm.

  Farther he crept back, away . . . away from the shadowy grave.

  Soon the hole was filled. A proper burial. The boy responsible for his small brother peered into the darkness, calling repeatedly. When there was no answer, he scurried along the creek, then out to the road, seeking but not finding.

  In short order, the People began to comb the area by horse and buggy, and on foot they joined stalwart arms in an unending thread to search for the wee child who had vanished into the silvery twilight. . . .

  Ever let the fancy roam,

  Pleasure never is at home.

  —JOHN KEATS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  A gnawing sense of guilt defines my life, yet I am too obstinate to fess up to the sin which so easily besets me. What I want to do and what I ought to do get ferhoodled in my head and in my heart. This is especially trying when it comes to my twice-weekly visits to Cousin Julia Ranck’s, where I am hired to help with her two young children and do some light housekeeping . . . and where I spend time working alone in the little attic room created just for me, my undisclosed haven. There, I take a measure of joy in the world of forbidden color—paint, canvas, and brushes—this secret place known only to my Mennonite kinfolk, and to the Lord God himself.

  Deep on the inside, though, where it matters most, my heart is torn. I have striven to follow in the Old Ways since childhood, to match the expectations of my parents and the church, only to fail.

  It annoys me no end that some Amish bishops allow for artistic expression, permitting their people to create and sell art, while our bishop does not.

  I was just six when my preacher-father’s probing brown eyes did all the reprimanding necessary to stir up shame in my soul when I was caught wistfully drawing a sleek black kitty, high in the haymow. From then on, I learned to hide my art from prying eyes, even though I wished for a way to put a stop to it altogether.

  Usually Daed had only to read out loud the Fifty-first Psalm for me to see the folly of my ways: Have mercy upon me, O God . . . blot out my transgressions. . . . King David’s words rang ceaselessly in my ears until the next ‘‘holy scolding’’ for other acts of childish immaturity, though not again related to my pencil drawings . . . till I was caught again at age fourteen.

  Have mercy, indeed.

  There were times as a girl when I would sooner have welcomed a lickin’ than the righteous gaze of my lanky, bearded father. It seemed he could see straight through to my heart. He had an uncanny way about him when it came to that, as well as the way his sermons stuck in my head for months on end. More times than I can count, I endured his deliberate silence, followed by his deeply drawn sigh and then a belabored reading from the Scriptures.

  Unlike my six brothers—three older and already married, and three younger and looking to get hitched—I have never had the switch applied to my ‘‘seat of learning.’’ Seeing as how some mules round these parts are less stubborn, it sure says a lot for the patience of my father, at least toward me.

  Here lately, I have been urged to join the communion of earthly saints—our local Amish district. And since I marked my twentieth birthday back the end of April, I am keenly aware of concerned faces at nearly every gathering. Daed is doubly responsible under God on my behalf, Mamm says frequently, beseeching me to heed the warning. If I keep putting off my decision, well, that alone will become a choice, and in due time, I will have to leave the community of the People. I don’t see how I could ever up and leave behind my family and all that I know and love.

  But what gets my goat is the intense expectation regarding my upcoming decision. Joining church won’t make me a good p
erson. I know that. I live in this community; I know what makes most of these folk tick. Some live double lives, just as I’m living now—teen boys who take advantage of tipsy girls behind the bushes at corn-husking bees, and young women who parade around in pious cape dresses but whose hearts do not measure up to the Holy Scriptures. Most of this comes from our unbaptized youth, during rumschpringe. Still there is plenty of two-facedness. We’re all human after all.

  Alas, another sin has embedded itself within my soul: loving Rudy Esh and leading him to think I would marry him one day. Rudy formerly held the number one spot in my heart, even ahead of the Good Lord. But now, after three solid years of courting me, he has found a new sweetheart-girl. I’m obliged to show kindness where they’re concerned, the utmost tolerance, too . . . things expected of me but increasingly difficult to demonstrate with any amount of sincerity. Handsome Rudy is soon to become a baptized church member and, no doubt, husband to his new sweetheart. Although I cared deeply for him, and he for me, I never shared with him my obsession with fine art. And since I wasn’t ready to put any of that aside to join church, which is required before a wedding can take place, I am largely at fault for our breakup. He must surely be relieved, having pulled his hair out, so to speak, because of my resistance. ‘‘Heaven sakes, Annie,’’ Rudy would say time and again, ‘‘why can’t you just make the church vow and be done with it?’’ My answer always exasperated him: ‘‘I’m not ready.’’ But I couldn’t say why.

  So I’ve lost my first and only love, which saddens me no end. Not that I should be bold enough to plead for his affection again, even though I was steady in my fondness for him from age seventeen till he decided he preferred Susie Yoder’s company. All this adds up to three wasted years of faithfulness, to be sure . . . and now I am as lonely as ever a girl could be. A few years ago I would have shared this sorrow with my best friend, Essie, but lately my former playmate seems weighed down with her own set of grown-up problems.

  Truth be told, only one other person knows about my fractured heart. My secret thoughts are safe with Louisa Stratford, an English girl who lives far away in Colorado. At twenty-two, she is engaged to be married, and for that I am most happy, seeing as how we’re wonderful-good friends. Even though Louisa is fancy and I’m Plain, she’s been reading my letters and writing back since she was nearly eleven years old. And if she hadn’t sent that first drawing in her little letter—those delicate blossoms of forget-me-nots—so long ago, I might never have wondered if I, too, possessed any real talent.

  I wish I could honor her by attending the splendid wedding she and her mother are planning. The thought of a big-city wedding in a faraway place surrounded by flowers and candles and girls in colorful dresses entices me terribly . . . things never, ever seen at an Amish wedding. Such things described in Louisa’s letters have me completely intrigued, I daresay.

  Naturally, I would stick out to kingdom come if I were brazen enough to go. Still I stare curiously at the pretty invitation with its raised gold lettering and wonder what it might be like.

  Mamm would say it is out of the question to consider such a trip, even though I’m a grown woman. I can hear her going on and on about her fears. You might get lost or worse in the maze of the hustle-bustle. You’ve never left Lancaster County, for pity’s sake! You might get yourself kidnapped, Annie Zook! Even so, I have yet to turn down my dear friend.

  Honestly, my mother is wound tighter than a fiddle string when it comes to her children and grandchildren, often reminding my eldest brother, Jesse Jr., twenty-six, and his wife, Sarah Mae, to keep close watch on their two youngest, especially come dusk. ‘‘You can never be too careful,’’ she has said for the ten-thousandth time. It’s not her fault, only an indication that not a soul has ever forgotten how dreadful it was for one of our own little ones to be stolen away, right here in the middle of Paradise. A heavenly-sounding sort of place, but one that’s seen its share of heartache and mystery.

  Here lately I’ve been going and standing beside Pequea Creek, staring at the well-known thicket of trees where little Isaac was snatched from the People . . . where I sometimes would swing double with him on the long tree swing. Where Isaac and I—and our brothers—often tossed twigs into the creek, watching them float away to who knows where.

  Now I can’t help wondering if I dare paint that setting in all its autumn beauty, as another side to the sad story. Perhaps by spreading the radiance of pastel gold on a canvas, I might somehow lessen the ominous side of the now-tranquil scene . . . even though my hand will surely tremble as I do, recalling Mamm’s telling of the terrifying ordeal. When a bad thing happens to one family, it happens to us all, my mother says.

  If that is true, then Rudy breaking off our courtship will also cause a wrinkle on the page of my life and everyone else’s, too. For one, my future children—Daed’s and Mamm’s would-be grandchildren—will not have his gentle eyes and auburn hair, nor his fun-loving disposition. But even worse, I may never have babies at all. Yet if I were to abandon my paints and brushes in order to join church and marry, would I ever be truly happy? And yet . . . since I gave up the chance to wed a good Amish boy like Rudy, will I ever again know love? Oh, such a troublesome dilemma I face, and one that continually torments my soul.

  Chapter 1

  A late October mist draped itself over fields beseeching the harvest as Annie Zook walked along the narrow road to her Ranck cousins’ house. Waving at a half dozen Amish neighbors out raking leaves, she felt all wound up, hoping for at least a few minutes to slip away to Cousin Julia’s attic to work on her latest painting. Once her chores were done.

  A gray and dismal sort of day was quite perfect for artistic work. Something about the anticipation of eventual sunshine, its warming glow held back by the cheerless clouds, made her feel full, yet achingly empty . . . and terribly creative, all at once. Even though the desire to express oneself artistically was considered by her particular district as wrongdoing, she saw no way out whatsoever.

  She was still in her rumschpringe, the ‘‘in between’’ years— that murky transition between juvenile immaturity and adulthood . . . and church membership. Still, being the daughter of an ordained minister put an unwelcome clamp on her as she struggled to find her bearings. And yet, the thought of disappointing her parents went against the grain of her existence—it was the primary motivation for concealing her love of art.

  Annie turned her thoughts away from her life struggle to adorable two-year-old Molly Ranck, Julia’s youngest, who had been scratching herself nearly raw with chicken pox two days ago. Dear thing. It had been all Annie could do to keep her occupied, what with the oatmeal bath and repeated dabs with calamine lotion. So there had not been a speck of time to work on the waiting canvas last visit.

  She quickened her pace, somewhat surprised to see Deacon Byler’s new house under roof already, and just when had that happened? Then, when she came upon the intersection, she became aware that the Lapps’ corn was already going down and they must be filling silo, thus making it easier to see at the crossroads once again. How’d I miss that?

  She realized she must have been walking in a fog of her own making since Rudy’s parting words three months ago this coming Saturday. How had the changing landscape not registered in her brain?

  This must be grief! When you hurt this bad, you push it way down inside. She remembered feeling this gloomy once before in her life, when, as a little girl, she’d stumbled upon Mamm in a mire of tears. But there was no sense in pondering to death that day.

  She made a point to be more mindful of the details around her now—shapes, shadows, and depths of color. She took in the hazy morning splendor as it arched freely over muted green stalks, the burgundy-red barn of their English neighbors—the Danz family— coming into view, and the dark roof of the red-sided covered bridge not far from the old gray-stone London Vale Mill.

  I’m painting God’s creation! she thought, justifying her ongoing transgression.

  She thought of her pen pal in Colorado, wanting to squeeze in a few minutes to write a letter to Louisa, who seemed to understand her best these days.