Beverly Lewis [Amish Country The Crossroad (epub)

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.’Course, someone had the presence of mind to wrap the finger, along with the missing piece, and hasten him off to the Community Hospital.Then yesterday our cocker spaniel puppy, Copper, knocked over the birdbath in the backyard, breaking several terra-cotta pots along the walkway.Mam scolded the poor thing up one side and down the other; really, ’twas a shame the way she laid into him.But that’s her way of handling most any conflicting situation—take the bull by the horns and show ’um who’s boss.Other than those mishaps, we’ve had a real pleasant autumn, I’d say.But just the other day, Mam remarked that she hated to see the ‘‘chillin’ winds come and benumb the posies.’’’Course, I agreed with her, though I can’t actually see the nipped blossoms any more than I can make out my own little girl’s features, but I do remember how the early frost used to make bedding flowers turn dark and shrivel up.Mam and I, with some help from Annie, who pushed up a kitchen chair to stand on, baked a batch of molasses cookies to serve to our B&B guests at our afternoon tea.We topped the morning off with a steamy mug of hot cocoa, and all the while Mam bemoaned the fact that snowy months were just around the corner.My heart feels more like the onset of springtime, though I don’t exactly know what’s come over me.Even little Annie seems to notice the bounce in my step.Mam, on the other hand, acts as though she’s downright put out with me, and if what I ’spect is true, she has it in her head that the fruit basket got upset back in September when a New York City journalist paid a visit here at the Orchard Guest House.I’ll have to admit, Philip Bradley did raise quite a ruckus, findin’ Gabe Esh’s love note the way he did.But I believe God put that old postcard in Philip’s hands, and, honestly, I don’t care what the People say or think, or anybody else for that matter.Out-and-out timely was his discovery of Great-Uncle Gabe’s story—hushed up under a covering of mystery far too long.“Rachel,” my father said to me last night at supper, “you have no idea what that New York fella did, comin’ and diggin’ up the past, finding Gabe’s note thataway.No idea a’tall.”Oh, but I did know.For sure and for certain, Philip was the best thing that had happened here in Bird-in-Hand in recent years, and whether or not the journalist ever returned to do research or write more Plain articles was beside the point.Fact was, he’d changed the entire landscape of a gut many lives.’Specially mine.Part One’Tis the gift to be simple,’Tis the gift to be free,’Tis the gift to come downWhere we ought to be.And when we find ourselvesIn the place just right,’Twill be in the valleyOf love and delight.When true simplicity is gain’dTo bow and to bendWe shan’t be asham’d,To turn, turn will be our delight’Til by turning, turning we come round right.—Shaker Hymn, 1848OneManhattan’s skyscrapers jeered down at him as he flung open the door of the cab and crossed the narrow, congested street.Behind him, yellow cabs zigzagged in and out of indefinable traffic lanes, blaring their horns.Side by side, late-model cars, shiny limousines, mud-splashed delivery trucks, and pristine tour buses waited for the light to change, exuding puffs of exhaust.Each contributing to the chaos typical of New York City’s business district.The glassed entrance to the Lafayette Building, where the editorial offices of Family Life Magazine were located on the thirty-fourth floor, revolved with an endless tide of humanity, ebbing and flowing.Pulling his overcoat against his tall lean frame, Philip Bradley pushed through the crush of the crowd, leaning into the bitter December wind.At the portico, he nodded to the Salvation Army volunteer ringing a small but mighty brass bell, the plinking of which added to the hubbub.“Merry Christmas,” he called to Philip, and the young journalist stuffed a five-dollar bill—his first contribution of the season—into the donation box.“Bless you,” the volunteer sang out.May the Lord bless you always….The words had echoed in Philip’s brain these past months, and immediately his thoughts sped back to the unassuming and beautiful Plain woman he had met while staying at an Amish B&B in Lancaster County.A young widow with a delightful little daughter named Annie, Rachel Yoder lived in the quiet farming community of Bird-in-Hand.While on assignment for the magazine, he had gone to research Amish Christmas customs, staying—by mere chance, he’d thought at the time—at Rachel’s parents’ Orchard Guest House on Olde Mill Road.“May the Lord bless you always,” had been Rachel’s parting words, and the impact of her blessing and gracious Christian witness had resonated unceasingly in his mind.So much so that Philip had begun to read his Bible again, after years of indifference; even attended church services with his married sister and family, the very church he had once privately sneered.Inside the atrium-style lobby, businessmen and women bustled to and fro, their well-polished shoes clattering and scuffing against gleaming tiled corridors.The security guard addressed Philip with a nod and “Morning, Mr.Bradley.” He returned the smile and greeting, making his way toward the elevators, where a large cluster of people extended out to the atrium itself.Though not an impatient man, Philip glanced at his watch, wondering where he might’ve been in the earlymorning scheme of things if he hadn’t left his apartment twenty minutes earlier than usual.He made a mental note to give himself an extra ten tomorrow.It might help alleviate his increased feelings of stress, what with traffic surging in ever-increasing swells—weekly, it seemed.Philip shifted his briefcase, waiting for his turn in the elevator, recalling a recent predawn stroll—a ramble, he’d called it—while in Amish country.There had been something exceptional about that particular day; the memory lingered fondly in his mind [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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