My eyes snapped open to muffled silence, the kind of quiet you only hear when snow blankets the earth with its startling hush. It was the dead of spring, as Mama liked to call it, when winter's weather settled into April and made you feel like the world was never going to bust alive again with the color and sunshine of summer.

A cry pierced the dark of early morning, and I pushed the quilts off. I stepped onto the wooden floor and felt the ice cold run up from my toes to the tip of my nose. Fannie slept soundly, and I left her to sleep. No sense waking her. The family would be up in an hour or so for the morning chores, anyway.

I heard another cry, the distant sound of a baby crying, but it would be the cry of one of our sheep, or maybe a new lamb. The birth of new babies abounded on a farm in spring. New chicks, new lambs, new kittens, and most of my brothers and sisters were born in spring, too.

I dressed quickly, urging my fingers to move through the frosty air. Before I went downstairs, I stopped to pull the quilt up over my younger sister’s shoulders. At night, Fannie slept with the peace of God, a picture of innocence and tranquility. Once awake, the wildness of rumshpringa took fierce hold of her eighteen year old soul, with all the fierceness that had gotten our own brother killed.

The wooden steps creaked as I tiptoed down the stairs. Peter and Jonas were still sleeping in their room, and little Rachel in her crib. A quick glance towards my parent’s bedroom confirmed that they were already up.

I trudged through the April snow and made my way to the barn. All was quiet. I pushed open the barn door, and to my great embarrassment, Dat and Mama were engaged in a way wanting privacy.

Dat's belt hung from his hand, and Mama lay over a pile of hay, her bottom streaked with red welts. My stomach clenched, remembering the position and the pain all too well. Dat was never one to spare the rod when one of us needed straight’ning, as he called it. Evidently, that included Mama.

My face felt so hot I thought it would pop. I mumbled something apologetic, and took off the way I came as fast as I could.

I ran inside, tip-toed up the steps, and jumped into my sister's bed, cuddling close to her for warmth. We shared everything, but this was a secret I knew I had to keep. Sleep did not come, and I was already up when Dat called up the stairs at four-thirty.

“Do I have to wake up the sun, too?” Dat’s familiar call usually made me smile each morning. Not today.

We scrambled down to do our chores, me to the barn to milk my Tessie—the cow Dat gave me two years ago. Even though Dat and Peter did most of the milking on our dairy farm, Tessie was my own cow, and I milked her every morning.

I rubbed my hands together to warm them, and then grasped her teats. My eyes burned from lack of sleep, and as I thought over the scene I’d witnessed between Mama and Dat, Tessie stomped her foot and mooed.

“Jerking her quite a bit,” observed Dat as he walked into the barn. He came and stood behind me. "What’s bothering you, Katie?"

"Morning, Dat," I squeaked. Dat was a soothing man. He always spoke quietly, and I never really feared him. Not even when he took me into the woodshed and switched me good, did I feel afraid. But I felt nervous, now. Grown and twenty years old, I still felt like a child next to Dat.

He put a hand on my shoulder, and I paused in the milking and bowed my head, waiting for what he would say. Our Belgian workhorse, Big John, whinnied in his stall, impatient for his morning feeding.

I knew Dat would talk to me. He wasn’t one to believe in silence, not even when my oldest brother, Eli, had been shunned along with his wife, Betsy. It’d been three years ago, and it was the only time I’d ever heard him raise his voice. He’d even slammed his fist on the table, scaring little Rachel so much she’d burst into tears. For sure and for certain, we’d never heard anger before, not in slammed fists.

Dat had apologized, as was our way. He looked at me now, and apologized again. “Dut mir Leit,” he spoke in his soft Pennsylvania Dutch. “I’m sorry if we … surprised you.”

The barn door blew open with the help of Fannie as she stumbled in from the cold. She shivered, stomped the snow off her boots, and then looked between us. "What's wrong?" she piped.

Dat moved away from me and headed towards the exit. “Church is at Preacher Micah’s, so we’ll need to leave early.”

Fannie headed for the stalls, but twirled back to me as soon as the door slammed shut behind Dat. “Katie?” she asked, cocking her head like a cat.

I evaded her question. “Are you going to the Singing tonight?” My stomach clutched because I knew the answer already. “I don’t have anyone to ride with; we can go together,” I offered. This wasn’t true, but I would make it true if Fannie would agree. Most thought me Sam’s Aldi—girlfriend—but it was more a matter of convenience than anything.

Fannie’s bright face dropped into a sulk, and she went to muck out the stalls. Maybe she hadn’t answered me out loud, but I’d heard her answer all the same. The freedom of rumshpringa was luring her towards wild ways, and it scared me. It scared my parents, too.

“David …” I started, and then stopped myself. Why bring up our brother now? The People never hesitated in reminding us of the lessons to be gleaned from his death.

God’s will, God’s choice, that’s what everyone said when David died two years ago. My brother, dead in a motorcycle accident while driving drunk. Dead before he could take his kneeling vow. That meant he went straight to hell, right? I’d asked at the baptism class last year, but not gotten much of an answer from anyone, especially not from Preacher Micah.

He’d just looked at me for a long moment as the class settled into respectful silence, and then bowed his head in prayer. I’d wondered if it was reproach in his eyes. I’d wondered if he thought I was setting myself against God, still feeling grief after those two long years. I’d quit the classes and put off my kneeling for awhile longer, after that.

Fannie grieved somethin’ awful, too. I know she did, but she showed it more in rebellion than anything else. But at least Fannie was going to Church, which was a lot more than most of Racers, the wild rumshpringa gang she ran with.

As I left Tessie’s stall with her milk, Fannie stepped out of Big John’s stall. Leaning on her pitchfork, she gave me the same charming smile she’d had when she was six. “Quit fretting, Katie. I learned the same lessons you did, ain’t so?”



My heart warmed, but it did nothing to quell the restless, worried feeling in my bones. “That’s what I’m ever so afraid of.”***I always looked forward to Church Sundays, the slow, quiet buggy ride to a kinsman’s house, and the solemn excitement before service. I love the woman congregating together with the babies and children, and the fun and conversation amongst the Young People. The ride to Preacher Micah’s house was beautiful; the snow melted into the bright green grass, and the air warmed up to a balmy promise of summer. I breathed in the clean air, and everything smelled new and fresh and green.

By common consensus, Dat was the Vorsinger—song leader—during the service. He chose an appropriate hymn to begin with. After a period of silent prayer, he began the Lob Lied. We were not an easy church, and so we sang the Lob Lied at a slower pace than most other districts. When Dat’s voice led us, it became a haunting melody full of love, community and faith.

Today, he nodded towards Eli, my older brother, after finishing the first hymn. My heart skipped as I knew that could only mean one thing: Dat wanted his son to lead the Lob Lied. Eli would never say it out loud, but I knew he’d dreamed of leading the Lob Lied nearly his whole life.

I felt ever so grateful when Eli began to sing. He sang in a smooth and high falsetto, as true a sound as any Vorsinger. It was as if he sang pure love, and it took my breath away. I glanced over at Mama. She had her head slightly bowed, but I saw her wipe a tear away.

About fifteen minutes into the hymn, his voice began to tire, and Dat’s voice joined and strengthened his son’s. As the congregation answered their leads, a slow, meditative peace settled in the room. No one would say so—wouldn’t be our way—but it was the most moving Lob Lied we’d ever sung.

It put me in such peace, that I hardly minded when the strict Preacher Micah stood to preach “es schwere Deel,” or the main sermon. He spoke on length about “das alte Gebrach,” the old ways, and obedience to God and church. He admonished the Young People to consider joining the baptism classes in May, and to come home from our ‘away time.’ He had presence when he spoke, a strength and confidence that lent richness to his words.

When he spoke with particular passion on obedience, his eyes settled on me for a period. I held my breath as he held my gaze.

The room stilled, and my face grew hot. I cast my eyes down, wondering what I’d done to inspire his reproach. My eyes watered. I ordered myself to breathe. My Sunday black Kapp strings felt tight under my chin, and the room felt ever so hot.

I couldn’t think what he would know. True, Mama and Dat had been disappointed and concerned when I took a job at the restaurant, but what other choice did I have? It made good money, too. And it’s true, I’d picked up a few curse words from the Yankees, but it’s not like I’d cut my hair or taken to wearing jeans.

After my brother David had been killed while driving his motorcycle drunk, my parents had rethought the People’s tradition of letting Young People sow their oats in the old way. So I was allowed to Singings, of course, and allowed to run with a very conservative rumshpringa gang, but I was not allowed the many other things people my age got away with.

Except Fannie. She gave Dat and Mama long silences when they questioned her about her away time. I couldn’t do that, not to Dat, and especially not to Mama. And so I endured their strict control over my rumshpringa, but with a rebellious heart.

As Preacher Micah ended his sermon with the chapter in Isiah, where the children of Israel disobediently lapsed into idolatry while Moses was praying in the mountains, I wondered. With all of Preacher Micah’s talk on the beauty of obedience, what would he think of the obedience I saw Mama endure from Dat? I wondered what to think of it, too, but all I heard was what I had been told every day and week of my life: Honor thy father and thy mother.

For sure and for certain, a lifetime of obedience to the church and to a husband looked to me a heavy burden to carry.

For a brief moment, his eyes settled on me again. Startled, I wondered if he could hear my thoughts. Crazy thinking, I told myself, as his gaze wandered back to his reading.

A few of the men got up to testify on the changes of their life since baptism, and the joys they’d reaped after joining church. The rest of the service flew by, and soon I joined Fannie out by the woodshed as we waited for our turn at the tables for the afternoon meal.

I pulled her aside, before she could join her friends. “Will you go to the Singing tonight?” I asked again.

She huffed. “Will you go with me to the barn hop tonight?”

“How can you? Mama and Dat—”

Fannie shook her head at me. “You’re too obedient,” she said. “I am obedient in here—” she pointed her heart “—and disobedient in my actions. You’re the opposite. You’re a picture of obedience, but with the heart of a—”

I cut her off, because she was too right for comfort. “You talk about obedience? You, who go to wild barn hops and drink beer and run with the Racers?”

Her friends waved to her from the kitchen, and she left me without a word.

“Fuck obedience,” I muttered. I glanced to the right, and I realized that Preacher Micah stood within earshot, speaking to a group of men. They laughed with each other and seemed not to hear me or even know of my presence.

But then Micah turned his eye on me and frowned. I blushed. The men followed his gaze, and I felt exposed. His repeated public admonitions of me were a humiliation, for sure and for certain, however quiet they had been. I bowed my head appropriately.

Except I didn't feel sorry.

He was the strictest Preacher ever, especially with the Young People who hadn’t even joined church. Even though it had been a small thing, if I had been a member of the church, he would have made me confess for sure. He was a popular Preacher, though, because he was surprisingly lax about shunning. Maybe it was from the near split in the congregation during the trouble with the Old Bishop Miller, and how he’d tried to excommunicate Eli and Betsy. The New Bishop Miller was such a kind man, in comparison.

Micah broke away from the group of men and headed towards the house. He paused as he passed me, not even looking at me. “I’d like to come for a visit, Katie.”

My stomach clutched something awful. Official visits from a Preacher usually meant discipline from the church. But the only discipline they could give me was a Proving before allowing me to join church. What good would that do, when they were trying to persuade me to join the church in the first place?

Maybe Fannie had it right. My heart seemed fixed on disobedience. I looked up, trying to think of a right response to Micah, but Micah continued towards the house, not waiting for an answer. ***After church, I joined Annie and Sarah for an afternoon of friendship and games before Annie’s brother took us to the Singing in his new open-air buggy. As soon as we were alone in Annie’s room, she rounded on me.

“Preacher Micah had his eye on you today.” She looked at Sarah for confirmation. “Ain’t so?”

I blushed. “Maybe Dat talked to him about my job.” I reached up and unpinned my black Kapp, gently hanging it from the corner of Annie’s bed. “Could be he’s afraid I’m in danger of yankin’ over.”

“Leaving our People?” Sarah’s eyes got wide. “You’re not thinkin’ that way, are you?”

It was a tempting thought sometimes. I didn’t have to answer, because Annie jumped in.

“He’s paying an awful lot of attention to you.” Annie grinned. “You know, it’s been three years since his Rebecca died.”

Sarah jumped in. “You’re one of the oldest. His children need a mother, and who else is he going to choose in our district?”

I could only shake my head in denial. Not even my best friends knew the disobedience in my heart.

Annie pulled out a stack of games from a drawer, and piled them in the middle of the floor. “Your beau had better watch out, ain’t so?” She opened the box of Scrabble, and laid out the game board.

I passed a letter holder to Sarah. “Your beau can’t take his eyes off you, for sure and for certain.”

She blushed pretty. “I’m thinking I’ll join the baptism classes next month.”

Annie squealed and my heart warmed. “Oh that’s ever so gut, Sarah.” Annie had announced her intentions to join church months ago, even though she had no steady beau.

They both looked to me.

I looked down at my row of letters. The only word I could make of the letters was ‘obey.’ My Auntie Maggie would have called it a sign. Most overlooked her superstitious ways, but some called her ‘verhoodled,’ or crazy. Mama always said that I would hear a little voice whisper in my ear, when it was time to join church. Softer than a whisper, she’d told me as I was growing up. I arranged the four letters into the word on the little rack. “Obey,” said the letter holder, for sure and for certain.

Was that the whisper? I felt a ripple of fear in my stomach. What if I died before I knelt? The whisper didn’t seem soft, and it didn’t seem so much restless as it felt unsettled and fearful.

I saw the word “obey,” but my mind saw Mama bent over the hay piles, Dat strapping her good. Promising obedience to God and church scared me. Disobeying scared me. And for sure and for certain, promising obedience like that to a future husband, terrified me.

“I’ll draw,” I said, throwing the four letters in the box and selecting four new tiles.***

Fannie often thought I joined in with the Dove gang because I was too obedient to go wild with the Racers. Truth was, from the time I’d first overheard a Singing, I’d wanted nothing more than to go to Singings every Church Sunday night. Dat was strict with us after David passed, so even though most of my Buddy Group went to Singings when they were fourteen and fifteen, I was sixteen before I attended my first Singing.

Since Preacher Micah had hosted Church in his home that morning, he also hosted the Singing. Because he was a widower, his Mama made the half-moon pies and served some homemade bread and jam. Preacher Micah even joined in for a song or two, before leaving the Young People to enjoy their fun.

We sat around a long table, boys on one side and girls on the other. I sat across from Sam, and soon became aware that he was acting a little doppich, a little goofy.

But the Singing was as fun as ever, and we sang fast songs for hours.

Rosy-cheeked, Annie called out, “Wie ein Freund—” and then we all joined up with her sweet voice. After a few hours, we lapsed into conversation and teasing, digging into the cookies and punch.

Sam winked at me when no one was watching. We were fond friends and a comfortable match. We paired up for convenience’s sake, but we both kept an eye out for someone else to be our life mate.

I followed him to his buggy, where Preacher Micah helped Sam hitch up the horses. While Sam helped me into the buggy, Micah stood tall and silent, waiting. After we were settled in the buggy, Micah lifted the buggy blanket up to me.

“To keep you warm,” he said. His expression was unreadable under the brim of his hat.

I swallowed. “Thank you.” His gentle gesture did little to reassure me. When would he visit? I half-hoped it would be tomorrow so I could get it over with. On the other hand, a little time to figure out what I’d done to offend him would be even better.

Preacher Micah stood off to the side, watching and waiting, until Sam clucked at the horses. We took off into the night, mostly riding in silence.

He turned down a deserted lane that led into the woods, a ways up from Preacher Micah’s house. Without looking at me, he said, “I’m thinking to kneel, come next fall.”

I bit my lip. He slowed the buggy down to a stop, softly admonishing the horses.

He turned to me, his eyes sparkling with their blue promises of honesty and safety. “Join me?” he asked.

My stomach lurched. For sure and for certain, he was going to ask me to be his helpmate. Sadness and regret clutched my heart, because I knew I couldn’t. “Sam …”

“Will you marry me?”

“Oh, Sam, dutt mir Leit,” I said softly. We sat in awkward silence, until I felt I needed to explain. “Sometimes, I get so restless. Don’t you ever? Don’t you ever feel like you need to bust outside and be free?”

He frowned.

“I mean, I’m supposed to sow my wild oats and I haven’t sowed a single one. I’m supposed to explore the world and have my ‘away time’ so that I can choose to join church with a free and obedient heart.”

Sam leaned back and sat quietly for a full minute, but I could feel his impatience and anger between us. The buggy seat creaked under his movement. Finally, he spoke, “You started working at that restaurant last month, and all it’s done is change you. You’re cussing all the time now and you’re restless. Now you’re talkin’ like you don’t want to join church.”

I stared at my hands, folded neatly on top of the buggy blanket.

“You’re gettin’ fancy, Katie. You go among the Englischers and they’ll yank you over to their ways.”

Tears jerked out of my eyes. “Damnit, everyone gets the freedom to choose. Everyone else can go among the Yankees and come back, but my parents … and you …” I shook my head. “No one lets me have my away time for my rumshpringa.”

I heard it, even though he didn’t say it. It’s why no one wanted me to have my rumshpringa, why if I so much as lingered in WalMart too long, they thought it, too. It’s why when I dared take a job in a restaurant, like so many in my rumshpringa crowd, they gave me that look that said the same thing.

Look where that got your brother, it said. Look how that got your brother killed.

Sam was set to take over his father’s farm. I’d be a farmer’s wife, living the Old Ways, the way our People had lived for years and years. Sam wouldn’t have to lunch-pail it in town. Among the brethren, Sam was a catch. When word got around that I’d turned him down, I knew I could expect story after story from neighbors and family, about pride goeth and all that.

“Sam, I need my away time.”

He snapped the reins in frustration, and the horses fidgeted. “You’re twenty, already.”

I didn’t know what else to say, and evidently he didn’t either. After a few minutes of staring out into the dark night, he clucked to the horses and snapped the reins. The buggy lurched forward at a clip, his young horses as spirited and fast as any in the whole district. For sure and for certain, he’d have a pretty girl planting a celery patch for her wedding feast by summer.

It just wouldn’t be me.

We rode home in silence, listening only to the clippety-clop of the horses and the chirping of the crickets.