Matthew appeared to be of his children earlier that day. How full of love his eyes had been. He was a good father, there was no question. But obviously the children missed their mother very much. In this they were no different from children Jenny had seen in the war-torn, poverty-stricken countries she'd visited.
Too often the Englisch world looked upon the Amish with a list of stereotypes and generalizations. But she knew from her summers here that beyond their unquestioning faith in God's will, the Amish loved their children with a deep and abiding belief that they were truly the most precious part of their lives, God's greatest gift to them.
The day had been a happy one—but very tiring. Jenny leaned over to put the journal and pencil on the bedside table. Yawning, she stretched out and savored the comfort of her bed. After she'd wondered earlier if she was going to freeze, it felt good to lie here all tucked up in a soft, warm bed.
She thought back to a conversation with her grandmother. She still wondered if she hadn't been grateful enough for what she had before the accident. Although she knew that the time she'd spent in impoverished locations overseas had helped her to realize just how much she had to be grateful for.
Tonight, she lay in a simple bed in a simple room and was grateful for the warmth, especially after her time sitting in the snow. She was also grateful for the warm welcome from Matthew, his children, and his sister.
And as she slipped into sleep, she sent up a prayer that the dream of the night before would come again. She wanted to run barefoot through the summer grass on the farm, laughing, feeling so free and joyful, as she once had done.
She would be so grateful for that.
"It was nice to have Jenny for a meal."
Matthew sat at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee, enjoying a rest after a long day of chores, and waited. He was a patient man who knew his sister well. She never indulged in talk for talk's sake. No, this conversation would have a point, although she wouldn't always be quick about it.
Knowing her, he was pretty sure where the conversation was headed. So he nodded and waited. "Yes."
"She's changed a lot since she was here last."
"A lot of time has passed."
"It's more than just being older," Hannah said, putting a last dish in the cupboard and closing it.
She brought a mug of tea to the big wooden table and pulled out a chair to sit opposite him. "I hated to see how hard it was for her to move. She tried to hide how she was hurting from the kinner, but I could tell."
She stirred her tea and stared into it. "And her eyes."
Lifting her own, she looked at him. "Phoebe told me about the work Jenny's done, the places she's been. She said it's given her eyes age, Matthew. She's seen too much sadness, too much tragedy."
He had thought he knew where she was going with the conversation, but suddenly it seemed the direction had veered.
"What will she do now?"
"Now?"
"Will she be able to do her job again? I know the Englisch world values beauty so highly—"
"Jenny is still a beautiful woman," he interrupted her.
Hannah raised her brows. "But that world within a world that she worked in, television. It seems only perfect people are allowed on it."
Now it was Matthew's turn to raise his brows. "How do you know so much about it?"
"Mary Ellen spent some time away from home as a teenager during her rumspringe, remember? She told me about many of the Englisch ways when she returned."
"I remember there was some doubt she would return."
"She said she liked many things. The clothes. Music. Being able to have alcohol if she wished. And television." She fell silent for a moment and stirred her tea.
"Mary Elizabeth chafed at the life here," Matthew pointed out.
"But she returned. Most do, after all."
He nodded.
"You never wanted to leave."
It was a statement, not a question. The land had always held Matthew. The hope, the continuity, the connection. The desire to make it
Too often the Englisch world looked upon the Amish with a list of stereotypes and generalizations. But she knew from her summers here that beyond their unquestioning faith in God's will, the Amish loved their children with a deep and abiding belief that they were truly the most precious part of their lives, God's greatest gift to them.
The day had been a happy one—but very tiring. Jenny leaned over to put the journal and pencil on the bedside table. Yawning, she stretched out and savored the comfort of her bed. After she'd wondered earlier if she was going to freeze, it felt good to lie here all tucked up in a soft, warm bed.
She thought back to a conversation with her grandmother. She still wondered if she hadn't been grateful enough for what she had before the accident. Although she knew that the time she'd spent in impoverished locations overseas had helped her to realize just how much she had to be grateful for.
Tonight, she lay in a simple bed in a simple room and was grateful for the warmth, especially after her time sitting in the snow. She was also grateful for the warm welcome from Matthew, his children, and his sister.
And as she slipped into sleep, she sent up a prayer that the dream of the night before would come again. She wanted to run barefoot through the summer grass on the farm, laughing, feeling so free and joyful, as she once had done.
She would be so grateful for that.
"It was nice to have Jenny for a meal."
Matthew sat at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee, enjoying a rest after a long day of chores, and waited. He was a patient man who knew his sister well. She never indulged in talk for talk's sake. No, this conversation would have a point, although she wouldn't always be quick about it.
Knowing her, he was pretty sure where the conversation was headed. So he nodded and waited. "Yes."
"She's changed a lot since she was here last."
"A lot of time has passed."
"It's more than just being older," Hannah said, putting a last dish in the cupboard and closing it.
She brought a mug of tea to the big wooden table and pulled out a chair to sit opposite him. "I hated to see how hard it was for her to move. She tried to hide how she was hurting from the kinner, but I could tell."
She stirred her tea and stared into it. "And her eyes."
Lifting her own, she looked at him. "Phoebe told me about the work Jenny's done, the places she's been. She said it's given her eyes age, Matthew. She's seen too much sadness, too much tragedy."
He had thought he knew where she was going with the conversation, but suddenly it seemed the direction had veered.
"What will she do now?"
"Now?"
"Will she be able to do her job again? I know the Englisch world values beauty so highly—"
"Jenny is still a beautiful woman," he interrupted her.
Hannah raised her brows. "But that world within a world that she worked in, television. It seems only perfect people are allowed on it."
Now it was Matthew's turn to raise his brows. "How do you know so much about it?"
"Mary Ellen spent some time away from home as a teenager during her rumspringe, remember? She told me about many of the Englisch ways when she returned."
"I remember there was some doubt she would return."
"She said she liked many things. The clothes. Music. Being able to have alcohol if she wished. And television." She fell silent for a moment and stirred her tea.
"Mary Elizabeth chafed at the life here," Matthew pointed out.
"But she returned. Most do, after all."
He nodded.
"You never wanted to leave."
It was a statement, not a question. The land had always held Matthew. The hope, the continuity, the connection. The desire to make it
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