Has God not inspired any new hymn writers for the past six centuries?
Jude blinked at this distracting thought. He hastily found the verse everyone else was singing and followed it with his finger, keeping his voice low as he sang. His question simmered on the back burner of his mind . . . because he’d also wondered now and again why no new books had been added to the Bible for the past several centuries. Did God have no modern prophets? Had no one since the apostle Paul and the four Gospel writers felt compelled to pen letters or accounts of God’s presence and direction in their lives?
Jude sighed to himself. Here’s the real question: Would our Amish bishops even accept additions to the hymnal—or just let us sing these old songs faster? Would they sanction using a more modern translation of the Bible? How many of our young people do we lose because the Amish faith seems outdated and irrelevant to them?
Even though Jude believed he was as faithful to God as every other person in the room, he knew of old, conservative bishops who might consider him a heretic if he dared to ask such questions aloud. And even though his brother was considered more progressive than most Amish bishops, Jude suspected he knew how Jeremiah would answer his questions, too—even though the future of their faith might be at stake.
What if God’s been talking to us all along, and we haven’t been listening? What must He think of us, His creation, if we no longer recognize His voice?
Jude sighed sadly. The Amish believed their faith was the one true way to gain salvation, yet no one dared to prophesy as the Old Testament prophets had, or to admit that he’d gotten advice directly from God—had clearly heard His voice. Once again Jude lost his place in the hymn they were singing, but it seemed inconsequential compared to the questions he was pondering.
When he glanced across the room, he noted that Alice and Adeline weren’t singing or even looking at the Ausbund as the long, slow hymn finally came to an end. In recent months he’d wished his daughters would participate more fully in church activities—and their remarks this past week about the burden of the Amish lifestyle had startled him.
If the leaders of our faith are so resistant to change, I’ll have to change my approach—the way I relate to my daughters and live as their example—if I’m to see them married to Amish men.
This revelation startled him.
After the service, everyone shared in the common meal and visited for most of the afternoon. As always, the young people went outside to socialize in the barn and play volleyball after they ate, the women clucked together in Anne Hartzler’s large kitchen, and the men sat solving the world’s problems around the tables that had been set up in the front room for the meal.
During the buggy ride home, Lenore sat in the seat behind Jude and Leah, with the kids filling the seat at the back of the family-size vehicle. Leah’s mamm bubbled with enthusiasm. “I was so tickled that the ladies in your congregation were asking about my special quilts,” she said, “and I was even happier when a few of them suggested we have a quilting frolic someday soon. What do you think of that idea, Leah? I know quilting isn’t your cup of tea.”
“Ah, but a frolic would be a gut way for me to get better acquainted with the women hereabouts,” Leah said quickly, turning to look at her mother. “They’re all very interested in Betsy now. And maybe having a baby to look after has made me seem less . . . odd to them.”
Jude grimaced to himself as he drove, although he sensed the accuracy of his wife’s remark.
“And truth be told,” Leah went on, “I’d feel more comfortable about such a gathering if you were there to keep the conversation lively, Mama. And if you girls would see to baking and serving the refreshments, it would be a nice party—a nice break from our daily routine—don’t you think?”
Alice sighed loudly. “Jah, whatever.”
“I guess we could tolerate it if the Flaud sisters and the Miller girls come,” Adeline put in. “It’s a sure bet we’ll be looking after Betsy and all the other little kids who’ll come with their mothers.”
“And speaking of kids and mothers,” Alice said with an edge to her voice, “you can forget about that talk you’re supposed to have about baby making and sex before marriage and all that. We already know that stuff, so let’s spare everybody the embarrassment, jah?”
Jude pivoted in the seat to gawk at his daughters, who had the nerve to smile at him as though sexual matters were an everyday, run-of-the-mill topic of conversation. “So who told you?” he blurted out.
Alice raised an eyebrow. “Our real mother. Years ago.”
“Certainly not Mammi Margaret,” Adeline said with a laugh. “She got so red in the face during Uncle Jeremiah’s sermon, I thought she was going to pass out.”
Jude turned around so he could keep his eyes on the road. His heart was hammering rapidly, even though he doubted the girls had received all that much pertinent information from Frieda. How was he supposed to respond to their nonchalance? Should he be worried that they’d gained their sexual information from close encounters with the English boys they’d been seeing?
“If that’s the case,” Lenore said boldly, “maybe we adults should have a question-and-answer session so you girls can fill us in on details we might not be aware of.”
“Or at the very least, we should write out a quiz and you can put your answers on paper,” Leah suggested without missing a beat. “It would be far less embarrassing to write about these matters than, say, to find out you’re carrying a baby and you don’t know how it happened—and you don’t know how to tell your family
