The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,143

and my baby quilt were safely packed inside my suitcase. James drove his rental—I’d already returned the borrowed Datsun—and I directed him to Klara’s.

From the road, I could see buggies parked in front of the house as James and I turned down the lane. There were extra horses in the field, eight or nine at least, and streamers were strung across the railing of the balcony of the house.

“It looks like a party,” he said. I couldn’t imagine.

He parked behind a buggy and I climbed from the car, my Coach bag over my shoulder and the other things in my hands. Marta’s car was parked over to the side.

I spotted Will and his girls first in the side yard. He and Christy were batting a volleyball back and forth over a net, and the twins were twirling around his legs. Rachael came around the corner with a bratwurst in her hand.

“Lexie!” she called out and then ran toward me.

Will looked up and smiled. “Everyone is in the backyard.”

“Everyone?” I asked, astonished.

James had to introduce himself to Will and the girls as I was in a daze. I floated around the corner of the house. Alice was there, sitting beside Mammi. Someone had moved my grandmother’s recliner outside. Hannah was holding Elizabeth Alice. Esther was holding Caroline and sitting beside Marta, and Zed was playing with Simon. Ella and Ezra stood at the edge of the yard, laughing, next to a long table covered with food. John and Sally, who was well into her seventh month, sat together, and Ruth was off to the side, pretending to listen to her sister but keeping an eye on Ezra all the while.

Alexander stood beside the barbecue grill as smoke swirled out from under the lid. Beyond him was Klara, her arms wide.

“Wilkom,” she said as she hugged me.

After only a moment’s hesitation, I found myself hugging her in return. I had expected the process of forgiveness to take a while, but already my resentment seemed to be floating off to the sky and dissipating away, just like the nearby smoke. Surely, God was doing a mighty work in me.

For the next several hours, James and I both immersed ourselves into the gathering—devouring the food, enjoying the people, soaking in the warm afternoon sun. I relished the relationships we were forging here, and already I wondered when we might come back for a visit. At one point, I looked out across the yard at the babies and children and adults young and old, and my heart was so full I thought it might burst. Heaven had to be something like this, I thought, but with Mama and Dad and the folks from back home and even Giselle as well. Wrapping my arms around myself, I simply took it in, uttering a silent prayer of thanks to God, who had finally led me here, had finally led me home.

Thinking of home, I made a point of texting Sophie and apologizing for the angry words I had sent her the day before. Of course, I still wished she had told me all that she had known about my past, but what’s done was done. In keeping silent, she had simply been respecting my father’s wishes, not willfully attempting to deceive me.

After a few moments came her reply: Thank you for this grace. Now come HOME, Lexie. We miss you! Smiling, I wrote back Will do, miss you too, and put away my phone.

As the shadows began to grow long on the lawn, I managed to steal a quiet moment with Ada so that we could talk. We sat in the car, which was parked in the driveway, a rousing game of volleyball taking place off to one side of the yard. At the cottage earlier, I had carefully halved the locks of hair, turning the two into four. Though I would keep a set for myself, I gave Ada an envelope containing the other set now, along with copies of Giselle’s email and of the old letter. Ada was fascinated by the wooden box, and as she ran her delicate hands over the surface, she asked me if I planned to go to Switzerland.

I shook my head. “Maybe someday. For now, I just plan to go home.” James and I had tickets for the evening flight from Harrisburg to Portland, and our packed bags were already in the car. I was going back to my job, my house, my orchard. I’d called the Realtor the night