All around him, Jude saw folks nodding—although a few, who were hearing about Betsy for the first time, raised their eyebrows in surprise.
“It also behooves us to talk about this situation with our young people, whether they be your children or your neighbors’ children,” the bishop insisted. For a moment, Jeremiah’s gaze lingered upon his twin nieces before he scanned the rest of the congregation. “While it’s not our purpose here to condemn the English, we must remember that their ways are not our ways—and that their worldliness often leads to temptations and a separation from God that might have caused Betsy’s anonymous mother more problems than we can imagine.”
Again Jude noted that folks were nodding in agreement, following the bishop’s message with concern etched on their faces. Most families in the Morning Star church district had teenagers or kids in their early twenties. Over the years he’d known of a few girls who’d left town supposedly to care for elderly relatives—and had returned after several months with secrets they weren’t telling. It was sad to think about the babies they’d given up . . . and unfortunate that other girls resorted to urgent courtships with unsuspecting young men who married them only to discover a different sort of secret shortly after the wedding.
Forgive me, Lord, for dredging up old resentments and for wondering what my life would be like had Frieda not deceived me, Jude thought with a sigh. Remind me what a blessing Frieda’s children have been through the years. Remind me that forgiveness demands more than lip service—that it’s meant to wipe the slate clean and bring a peaceful resolution.
Jude felt anything but peaceful, however, when he saw Adeline and Alice rolling their eyes at the bishop’s words. Would they comply with Amish ways more willingly if their mother were still alive? It was a useless question, yet Jude had often wondered how much Frieda’s passing had affected their daughters and how much of the twins’ rebellion stemmed from their association with English boys.
“Young Amish men and women must realize the consequences of sexual relations outside of marriage—the ways a child conceived out of wedlock can disrupt their lives and their families,” Jeremiah continued urgently. “I realize that generations of Amish modesty have often prevented parents from discussing the facts of life with their kids, but perhaps it’s time to rethink our position of silence on this subject. We don’t do our young people—especially our daughters—any favors by leaving them uninformed about sex and conception.”
Several red-faced women in the room stared at Bishop Jeremiah as though he’d sprouted a second head. The men around Jude were shifting on the benches and glancing doubtfully at each other, too. Although their children often witnessed the mating of the animals on their farms and the births that followed, it was another issue altogether to discuss the specifics of human reproduction. Amish parents tended to let nature take its course, or to speak only in generalizations about proper behavior on dates and during courtship. Jude recalled that Dat had stammered only a few words about what the stallions and bulls were doing—and his mamm had never brought up the subject of sex to her two sons at all.
“What’s he gonna talk about now? Birth control?” one of the men behind Jude muttered under his breath. “If the bishop gets that progressive, I’m walking out.”
Jude bit back a smile when he noticed his mother’s flushed, downcast face across the room. His brother seemed to realize he’d pushed the envelope with his sermon, because he clasped his hands in front of him and remained quiet for a few moments.
“Mostly I’d like us to remind our young people to keep God’s commandments and to honor the Plain ways of peace and patience,” Bishop Jeremiah continued. “If I’ve made any of you uncomfortable, I apologize—but I believe God chose me years ago to be your bishop because He felt I had important things to say about how to keep our Amish lifestyle relevant as the rest of the world spins faster and faster around us. If you have comments or complaints, I’d like to hear them while we’re gathered for our common meal after the service.”
“Easy for Bishop Jeremiah to say, seeing’s how he’s got no kids,” Zeke Miller, who sat a couple rows ahead of Jude remarked to the man beside him.
“Jah, there were just no easy words—no convenient times—to discuss that subject when my youngsters were still at home,” Carl Fisher, seated on Jude’s other side, admitted softly. “The wife’s better at that sort of talk, but as far as I know she only told the girls about female stuff when they came of an age to deal with it.”
Jude nodded. “I suspect my brother has rubbed a few folks the wrong way, and that he’s going to hear about it.”
Bishop Jeremiah announced the number of the final hymn, so everyone picked up a hymnal and flipped through its yellowed pages. Carl’s brother Dan sang the first phrase, leading the congregation in a song that Amish believers had sung from the Ausbund for centuries. The words were in German, printed in phrases resembling poems without any musical notation. The tune had been passed down through the generations since the early days of the faith, led by men with an ear for singing the age-old melodies on pitch.
As they sang slowly, purposefully, through more than twenty verses, Jude’s mind wandered. He realized that this song—like many of their hymns—spoke not only about the necessity of loving God, but also warned against Satan and his wiles, describing the unwavering path a believer must follow to attain everlasting life. It occurred to Jude that the newest of the Ausbund’s hymns dated back to the 1800s, and
