The Preacher's Daughter, page 30
Epilogue
It would be downright pointless to deny that I’m waiting on pins and needles for the other shoe to drop, as they say—or as I’ve been saying to Lou: waiting for the next suspender to snap. What with my father eyeing me like I’ve got the plague, there’s plenty on my mind.
I recently attended the quilting at Sarah Mae’s with Mamm, while Louisa stayed at the Dawdi Haus with Mammi Zook, most recently intrigued by needlepoint. They talked about many things, Lou confided to me, and I know she and Mammi are becoming fast friends. It’s interesting to hear Mammi talking in Dutch to Lou now and then.
Julia’s in need of her attic to make room for Esther, little John, and baby Essie Ann. Having an art studio ready and waiting for me would be an awful temptation, I confess, so this is a good thing. It’s already been more than a full week since my hand has held either a colored pencil or a brush. I can’t say it’s easy, but I’m taking one day at a time. For Daed’s sake . . . and for the Lord God’s. When I get the jitters of withdrawal, which is what Louisa calls it, I go and cut quilting squares and arrange them in unusual patterns on the floor in the front room. Mamm must think I’ve lost my mind, but if it keeps me from sinning, all for the better.
Louisa’s friend, Courtney Engelman, says she misses ‘‘the runaway bride.’’ I don’t know what my father will say about Lou’s fancy friend wanting to visit, too, but it’ll just be for a long weekend. I figure if I keep myself away from drawing and painting, just maybe Daed will be in favor of yet another Englischer coming to experience the peace of Paradise. And I’ll find all the satisfaction I need in the acceptable art of my people, as Louisa encourages me to do.
I don’t know how many times I’ve bumped into Ben Martin recently, and not once has it been at the harness shop, not since the first time. For some odd reason, he keeps showing up where I happen to be—making a purchase at the Gordonville Bookstore and at the post office. Things like that. It’s downright uncanny, and I have no idea what to make of it. He smiles real big and says, ‘‘Hey, Annie,’’ and I say, ‘‘Hullo, Ben’’ back. Secretly, I’m beginning to hope he might ask me out yet again.
Lou’s driven me in the buggy over to see Esther and little Essie Ann twice now. Lou’s getting quite good at handling a horse, surprisingly so. I keep thinking one of these days she’s going to wake up and decide to wear her brand name jeans again, but so far she hasn’t. She’s careful not to let me see her with her sketchbook and pencils anymore, which makes me kind of sad. There’s no reason for her to hide her work. But I suppose if she were in the same boat as I am, I’d do the same for her.
Still, I don’t know how long I can let her sneak round like that. It doesn’t seem fair. She consistently sells her drawings, too. Takes them in for framing every other week. I suspect she misses our little hideaway in Julia’s attic, and no wonder. The place was the most delightful location to give our creative minds wings to soar. If Esther decides to live with her widowed mother, the attic studio will become enticing to me once again. And that will be the real test of my will. For now my beautifully framed painting lies hidden there, wrapped up, like my dreams.
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if the Lord God didn’t allow all this to happen, in just the way it did, to see what I’m made of. Am I ready to settle down and make my lifelong vow to God and the church? Some days I believe I could be, but then the hankering to draw one of the cow’s black and white patterns or to paint the first red sunset of winter tugs hard at me.
Honestly, I’m staying clear away from it. Like an addict who goes cold turkey, Lou says. Nevertheless I am mixing paints on the palette of my heart, trying in vain to match the shades of blue in the Creator’s ever-changing sky. God’s ways, after all, are higher than ours, Cousin Julia says.
These days, my thoughts, even my convictions, seem to shift with the fickle hues of a Pennsylvania sky . . . a blending of what was true for me as the young preacher’s daughter with what I now see and know. Is there no way to blend my opposing desires? Will I ever understand all of the shades of goodness, faith, and even someday, love?
Acknowledgments
I am blessed to have a small glimpse of God on this earth in the efforts and encouragement of some wonderful people. Among them are the following: Carol Johnson, Julie Klassen, David Horton, and Jolene Steffer, my remarkable editors; Dave Lewis, my husband, ‘‘first reader,’’ and constant encourager; Hank Hershberger, Monk and Marijane Troyer, Fay Landis, and other faithful, though anonymous, research assistants; Marilyn Stock-wood of London, England; Irmi Knoth and Joe Bohler, internationally acclaimed artists; Iris Stuart of Morton, Mississippi; and the good folk at The Budget in Sugarcreek, Ohio.
And, yes, the B & B mentioned in Pine, Colorado, is a very real and lovely place.
It must have seemed to my family as if I disappeared at times while musing, scribbling notes, and typing the pages here. But I was always gently nudged back to reality by their patience and love. Special thanks, especially, to Julie, Janie, and Jonathan . . . and to my darling parents, for steady prayer support. And to one prayer partner, in particular, abundant blessings for your faithfulness in lifting my work to the Lord Jesus.
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Beverly Lewis, The Preacher's Daughter
