An Unexpected Amish Christmas

Book 3: Surprised by Love

by Rachel J. Good

Genres: Amish & Mennonite; Christian Romance

Synopsis

A crackling fire, the promise of snow, the delicious smell of fresh-baked cookies and fallen pine needles . . . when Christmas is coming, every heart lifts in song. In this moving Amish romance series by Rachel J. Good, a bountiful farmer's market is the source of all kinds of goodies—especially love . . .
 
Recovering from a horse and buggy accident that took the lives of his family, Jacob Zook is struggling to regain both his spirit and his body. While his legs remain stubbornly opposed to moving, he exercises his hands by writing, and finds the perfect outlet for his grief in inspirational letters to the Amish newspaper. When Keturah Esch, a woman who works at the Green Valley Farmer's Market, responds with gratitude, Jacob has no idea that his hardship is about to become a blessing . . .
 
Dealing with her own loss, and responsible for her three siblings, Keturah's new correspondence with the anonymous letter writer becomes a source of joy. And when a shy young man confined to a wheelchair begins to visit the market, Keturah is happy to make his acquaintance—never knowing that Jacob is afraid to reveal himself as her pen pal. After all, what can he offer her, when he can't even walk? Can faith bring two lonely people together in perfect union? As Christmas approaches, Jacob and Keturah get a chance to make their gifts to each other worthy of the blessing of love . . .


 

Release date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Jeremiah Zook gritted his teeth and shifted in his wheelchair. Pain shot through him as he angled his body to make it easier to write. Then, each movement an agony, he forced his fingers around the thick cushioning on the pen. He had to do this. He just had to. Not only for himself, but for her.

Every day, he fought a new battle—a battle for control of his body. And control of his life.

Until he could do basic physical tasks and take care of himself, they wouldn’t discharge him from rehab. And he desperately wanted to escape the torture of therapy and the daily reminder of his loss. He longed to be in his own home. To be independent.

Lord, please give me the strength and patience to face this day.

He wanted to pray for the pain to be taken away—not only the physical pain, but the deeper heartache. Nothing could ease his loss but time . . . and concentrating on others rather than himself.

He bent his head over the sheet of paper. Wrestling his hand into position, he formed one laborious letter at a time. The words came out crooked and jagged across the page, but he poured his heart into every sentence.

Ever since he’d read the story about the four orphaned sisters, they’d been on his mind. The writer had indicated Keturah, age twenty-two, now had custody of her three younger sisters. Jeremiah’s own struggles seemed minimal compared with this older sister who’d taken on such a heavy responsibility.

He hesitated. Should he share his own tragedy? Would it help her to know he, too, had suffered?

After a moment, he decided against it. He should focus on comforting her.

Jeremiah had many such nights. He prayed Keturah’s would be fewer and less intense than his.

Even when you’re racked with guilt and feeling unworthy of being alive. Even when you’re blaming yourself for the tragedy. Even when . . .

Once again, Jeremiah pulled himself back to the letter. He needed to focus on Keturah rather than himself.

Jeremiah sent up another prayer for God to ease Keturah’s pain. Then he began the laborious task of writing several Scripture verses that spoke of God’s comfort and healing.

Following another break to rest his cramped fingers, he wrote a few lines about things that had helped him cope. What else could he say? Bending his head, he added one more paragraph.

Jeremiah paused to wriggle his hand. While immersed in the letter, his own grief had receded. Temporarily. He’d even forgotten his physical pain. Now it came back full force.

His muscles refused to cooperate. He’d have to finish this letter another time.

Just before bed, he headed to the desk and penned a few more words.

Jeremiah agonized over the closing. Sincerely sounded too businesslike, but he couldn’t write Love. Many blessings seemed a bit jarring after a death. Maybe he should just sign his name.

If he did that, she might feel obligated to reply. Better to remain anonymous. But not signing the letter seemed cold and impersonal. Words for the rest of the letter had flowed, despite his aching hands and messy handwriting, but the signature eluded him.

Please, Lord, give me inspiration.

He finally settled on A Friend Who Cares.

With a loud sigh, he set down his pen and rutsched around to ease the pressure points from sitting so long in one position. Then he reread the letter and corrected a few mistakes. Tomorrow he’d mail it.

But as he set the sealed envelope on his desk, one niggling question remained: Had he written this letter to help Keturah or to ease his own guilt?

Keturah Esch breathed a sigh of relief. She had the house to herself for a few hours. While her aunt took her three sisters to a Stop & Shop after school, Keturah had opted to stay home. She needed some time alone. But her footfalls echoed in the silent house, emphasizing its emptiness. And her loneliness and loss.

She’d held herself together the past few weeks for her sisters’ sakes, but she could let her guard down while they were gone. First, though, she needed to pay several bills before the postman collected the mail.

Grimacing at the balance in the checkbook, Keturah wrote out the amounts due and carefully subtracted each one, leaving her with a much lower total. Thank heavens, she’d be going back to work at their family pretzel stand tomorrow. Mrs. Vandenberg, who used to own the Green Valley Farmer’s Market and still liked to oversee things, even though she’d turned the management over to Gideon Hartzler, had found staff to fill in for Keturah and her sisters temporarily.

Keturah would be glad for the distraction of making and selling pretzels four days a week. On market days, they stayed so busy, she’d barely have time to think . . . or grieve. But this time, they’d work there without Mamm and Daed.

With a hard shove, Keturah pushed back her chair, along with the tears threatening to overwhelm her. She picked up the bills, shrugged into a jacket, and carried the envelopes to the mailbox. A freezing wind whisked the last of the brown, brittle leaves from the trees. The weather had gotten chillier much earlier than usual this year. Keturah pulled her jacket closer around her.

When she opened the black metal mailbox, it was stuffed so tightly she could barely pull out the mail. And, unfortunately, she’d missed the carrier. After dislodging the thick stack of envelopes, she set the bills inside and raised the red flag to alert the mailman to collect them tomorrow.

She riffled through the pile in her hands. More cards. For some reason, the cards that had consoled her the first few weeks now only stirred sadness. Perhaps because during the early days, she’d moved by rote, but as each day passed, the haze of disbelief cushioning her from the truth slowly dissipated, exposing harsh reality.

Each card she read now shot a sharp arrow of reminder through her heart. Never again would she sit at the table across from Mamm. Never again would the whole family gather while Daed read Scripture. Never again would she and her sisters swelter in the kitchen helping Mamm can vegetables.

Although Keturah tried not to let her thoughts wander too far ahead, she couldn’t keep her mind from the upcoming holidays. Thanksgiving dinner without her parents, without Mamm’s pumpkin pie. Christmas without Mamm’s special presents. Presents that always touched their hearts.

She needed to fill in for her mother and come up with the perfect gift for each of her sisters. But she didn’t have her mamm’s talent for giving. That was one more area where she’d fail her sisters.

Keturah sat at the table again and lowered her head into her hands. So much responsibility. Her relatives would help, but how would she ever take her mother’s place? How could she do her father’s job of running the market stand and handling the finances? And how could she be both a parent and a sister to her siblings?

Shaking off her gloom, she opened the cards, trying to distance herself from the pain they brought to the surface by thanking God for the sender. Then she set each card on the mantel.

Next, she turned her attention to the letter. Unfamiliar handwriting scrawled across the envelope. The jagged, spidery script indicated it might have come from one of her youngest sister’s second-grade friends, but neh, the letter bore Keturah’s name and no return address.

Curious, Keturah slit open the envelope and unfolded the yellow paper inside. She traced her finger down the page to the signature, A Friend Who Cares.

She crinkled her brow trying to make out the almost illegible words.

Dear Keturah,

The writer seemed to know her. The next lines contradicted that. Neh, he—or she—had read of her parents’ passing in Die Botschaft. Keturah didn’t even know the accident had been mentioned, but she hadn’t had the time, or the energy, to read the newspaper the past few weeks.

Her eyes followed the crooked trail of letters across the page. She read through the next paragraphs with amazement.

She had no idea if this letter had been sent by a man or a woman, old or young. For some reason, the writing appeared more masculine. But whoever had sent it had intimate knowledge of her grief. The anonymous letter writer understood her burdens, offered support, and lifted her spirits.

She reached the end of the page and ran a finger over the signature again.

How did this person know her so well? As if the letter writer had stepped off the page and peeked into her mind, the words reflected all of her feelings and doubts. A few tears trickled down her cheeks. Of all the condolences she’d received, this one had reached deep inside and touched her heart.

A knock on the door interrupted her second read-through of the letter. She tucked the page in her pocket to keep it close all day. Swiping at her cheeks with her sleeve, she rose and rushed to the front door.

“Mrs. Vandenberg?”

The elderly woman stood on the stoop, wobbling on her cane. The wind was strong enough to blow her over.

“Come in, come in.” Keturah stepped aside so Mrs. Vandenberg could totter across the threshold.

“I’m sure you’re busy, dear,” the elderly woman said, “but this won’t take long. I’m only dropping off the check.”

“Check?”

“The money the stand took in over the past few weeks.”

Keturah waved it away. “That belongs to the people who worked there while we were . . . um . . .”

Mrs. Vandenberg shook her head. “They’ve all been paid. The profit belongs to you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Still, Keturah hesitated to take it. When she did, she gasped. “This can’t be right.”

“Well, people added donations for you girls too, but if it’s not enough to tide you over, please let me know. I’d be happy to help out.”

“Not enough? It’s too much. The church will help if we need it.” Keturah tried to hand it back.

Mrs. Vandenberg waved it away. “I’m sure God had a reason for sending this money. Why don’t you pray and ask Him what He wants you to use it for?”

“I—I will.” Dazed, Keturah slid the check into her pocket next to the letter. Two unexpected blessings in one day.

“I have a favor to ask. Olivia Hoover, one of the Mennonite girls who helped at your stand, is working her way through community college. The market days of Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday fit her Monday and Wednesday class schedule perfectly. She can’t work most Saturdays, but your younger sisters will be available then.”

Keturah did need someone to help during the day while her two youngest sisters were in school. Maybe that’s how God wanted her to use the check. She tried not to think about Olivia replacing Mamm.

“I’ll pay Olivia,” Mrs. Vandenberg said, “so you won’t need to worry about that.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“She’ll only be working three days a week, but I want her to earn enough to cover her tuition. I can’t ask you to pay that much. My charity will handle it.”

Keturah couldn’t believe it. A paid worker to help on the days she and her sister Lilliane needed help. That made three unexpected blessings today. Or was it four?

By the time Mrs. Vandenberg left, Keturah had only enough time to straighten the house and start supper. She pasted on her best imitation of a smile and prepared to meet her sisters’ needs.

The paper crinkled in her pocket, and she rested a hand there as if to draw comfort from the words.

A Friend Who Cares. How she needed a friend like that. Jah, she had relatives and neighbors and her buddy bunch and the Amish community, but Keturah didn’t want to burden anyone with her pain.

This letter writer understood the rawness of her misery and had come alongside her to lift her burdens. With no return address, she’d never be able to thank the letter writer. She did the only thing she could.

Lord, please reach out and bless my “friend” with as much comfort as I’ve received and many times more.

Although she dreaded facing the dark days ahead, she thanked God for Mrs. Vandenberg, the new worker, the check, and the letter—all special signs of His care and comfort.

After her sisters had gone to bed, Keturah lay awake dreading tomorrow. Her father had always checked the inventory, packed the needed supplies, and taken charge of the finances. She’d been too busy with her own responsibilities to pay attention to how he’d handled everything. Now she had to keep up with that as well as Mamm’s jobs, plus serve customers.

How would she do it all?

The paper she’d tucked under her pillow crinkled. Maybe it was foolish to gain so much reassurance from a letter, but she slipped her hand under the pillowcase. She’d read the page so often she’d memorized the words. Touching the folded paper brought back the message.

The sentences floated through her mind, along with one of the verses. She repeated the words of John 14:18, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you,” over and over until she drifted off asleep.

When she woke the next morning, the verse stayed with her as she packed everything for the market and helped her younger sisters get ready to go to school. Mamm had always done Maleah’s hair, and Maleah bawled while Keturah worked.

“I want Mamm,” her little sister choked out.

“I know, liebchen.” A lump rose in Keturah’s throat after she said the endearment Mamm always used. But she remained stoic. Her sister depended on her, so she needed to be strong. But Keturah longed for Mamm too.

“I don’t want to go to school today. Let me come to the market with you,” Maleah begged.

“I wish you could.” Keturah wanted to keep all four of them together, but Maleah and Rose couldn’t miss school. “What would Teacher Emily say if you didn’t come in?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” Rose gave a perfect imitation of Teacher Emily’s voice. “Where were you yesterday, Maleah?”

Maleah giggled. “You sound just like her.”

Rose put an arm around Maleah. “Besides, I don’t want to stay here at the house alone after Keturah and Lilliane leave.”

The word alone vibrated with a different meaning than it had when both their parents were alive. And Keturah regretted she couldn’t take Rose and Maleah with her.

She’ll be all right, Rose mouthed over Maleah’s head. I’ll take care of her.

Keturah’s heart overflowed with gratitude for Rose, who led Maleah to the kitchen to wash and dry the breakfast dishes. Keturah and Lilliane had to leave, and now, while Maleah was occupied, would be good.

Praying she’d remembered everything they needed, Keturah hustled out to the buggy. This first day back would be the worst. If they made it through, things would only get easier. At least she hoped they would.

When they arrived at the market, Keturah faced another problem. Normally, everyone helped unload supplies, but Daed carried the heaviest containers. She’d have to do it, but she couldn’t lift these herself.

“Lilliane,” Keturah called, “can you help me?”

A sober expression on her face, sixteen-year-old Lilliane left the smaller items and came over to assist. “Daed always did this.” She swallowed hard.

“I know. We’ll have to do it from now on.”

Her sister blinked back tears. “I miss him.”

Keturah’s eyes clouded for her sister’s pain. Of all the girls, Lilliane had been closest to their daed.

Once they’d unloaded everything, she and her sister fell into their regular routine, but without Mamm, their timing was off. Mamm had kept everything moving smoothly. Missing her mother more than ever, Keturah assisted Lilliane in preparing the first few batches of pretzels. By the time they came out of the oven, Olivia had arrived. She washed her hands and hung the pretzels in the warmer.

“Danke for helping us, Olivia.”

The girl, who at nineteen was three years younger than Keturah and wore a peach dress with a tiny floral print and a lace doily over her bun, gave her a wide smile. “I should be thanking you. Finding a job to fit around my class schedule seemed impossible. But God always provides what we need, doesn’t He?”

Keturah nodded and slipped her hand into her pocket to touch the comforting letter. She’d been drawing strength from the verses and the letter writer’s encouragement this morning as she faced handling Mamm’s and Daed’s tasks as well as her own.

Now someone else needed to take over one of Mamm’s jobs. “Olivia, could you keep an eye on the pretzel warmer and let Lilliane know what kinds of pretzels are getting low?”

Lilliane, who had her back to the warmer, drew in a sharp breath. “I could switch places with Olivia.”

Keturah understood Lilliane didn’t want a stranger doing Mamm’s job, but it didn’t make sense for her sister to move. “How will you get to the water bath?”

“I—I could . . .” Lilliane hung her head. “I couldn’t.” She picked up a few pretzels and, averting her face, dipped them into the boiling water and baking soda.

“I’m sorry,” Keturah whispered.

“It’s not your fault,” Lilliane mumbled.

Then why does it weigh so heavily on me? Keturah disliked making decisions that added to her sister’s heartache. She headed for the counter and faced the long line that streamed in when Gideon opened the market doors.

Many of their regular customers stared sadly at her and offered their condolences. Although Keturah appreciated their kindness, each expression of sympathy pierced her and reminded her of what she so desperately wanted to forget. The line grew longer, and Keturah rushed to fill the orders. Olivia joined her once or twice to help, but then headed back to make more pretzels.

Keturah made her best attempt at a smile as the next customer stared up at the sign. The Englisch woman, a stranger, didn’t say anything about the deaths, and Keturah sighed in relief.

“I’ll take your half-dozen special.” She scanned the sign. “Make it two regular, two cinnamon sugar, and two raisin.”

Keturah reached for the tongs, opened the warmer, and stopped. They were all out of raisin. She turned toward her sister. “Are the raisin almost ready?”

Olivia clapped a hand over her lips and glanced at Lilliane.

Lilliane looked stricken. “We just put batches of regular in all the ovens. I’m so sorry,” she said to the customer. “It’ll be at least twenty minutes until we have raisin ready.”

“I can’t wait that long.” The Englischer huffed. “Fine. Give me three plain and three cinnamon sugar.”

Ach, they had only two cinnamon sugar, and no plain pretzels they could coat with cinnamon sugar.

Keturah motioned to Olivia and whispered, “Can you take the salt off this pretzel as best you can and roll it in cinnamon sugar?” She took the pretzel from the warmer and set it on a prep tray.

Olivia nodded and turned her back so the customer couldn’t see her fixing the pretzel.

Keturah lifted the plain pretzels off the metal rack and slipped them into a bag. “It’ll just be a minute for the cinnamon sugar.” She took the payment.

The woman sniffed and said to the lady behind her, “I don’t understand why so many of the Amish let their children work in their businesses. The adults should at least be here supervising.”

Nick, from the candy stand in the market, stood several places behind her in line. He frowned. “These girls just lost their parents. Maybe you should think before you speak.”

Spots of red blossomed on the woman’s cheeks, and with downcast eyes, she muttered Sorry.

Nick had provided a temporary distraction, which gave Olivia time to coat the pretzel in cinnamon sugar. Keturah slid the three pretzels into another bag, handed it to the Englischer, and turned her attention to the next customer.

“I heard you don’t have raisin, right?” The lady smiled sympathetically. “I’ll take two regulars.”

Keturah said in a low voice, “Tell Lilliane we’re out of unsalted pretzels.”

Olivia rushed back with the message while Keturah filled the next few orders. By the time Nick reached the counter, Olivia was loading the warmer with plain and salted pretzels. A trayful of pretzels waited to be rolled in cinnamon sugar, and Lilliane was shaping raisin dough.

“Nick, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any raisin pretzels.” After Nick had been so kind, she regretted not being able to fill his usual order. “They’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take two salted ones for Gideon and Fern. Nettie, Caroline, and Aidan all want cinnamon sugar. I guess I’ll have that too.”

Keturah couldn’t believe Nick was buying a pretzel for his son. For years, Aidan and Nick had made no secret of their disdain for each other. Things must be going better between them. That was a blessing. She’d learned the hard way not to let things come between you and others—especially family members.

As she handed Nick the bag, he lowered his head and muttered in a gruff voice, “So sorry about your parents. They were good people.”

That, too, was out of character for Nick. He usually avoided sentiment of any kind. His shuffling feet revealed his discomfort.

“Danke for that and for helping with the Englischer.” Keturah wouldn’t have added Nick’s final sentence to the lady, but for him, that had been only a mild reprimand. Nick seemed to be softening.

“Nick, wait!” Gina Rossi, the owner of Plant Paradise, the stand next to the pretzel stand, waved a stack of papers. “I can talk to both of you at once.”

She handed a flyer to each of them and gave an apologetic smile to the Englischer behind Nick. “All of you might be interested in this. Pass it on.” Gina handed a small stack of pages to the lady.

Keturah glanced down at hers. Christmas Extravaganza: A Raffle to Feed the Homeless. The word Christmas pierced her. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of the upcoming holidays without her parents.

“Christmas?” Nick practically screeched. “Back in my day, we didn’t start talking about it until after Thanksgiving. Now it starts at Halloween.”

“I know it’s early,” Gina soothed, “but I wanted to give all of you stand owners a chance to decorate your stands.”

“We don’t decorate.” Lilliane’s flat comment came from behind Keturah.

“Oh.” Gina’s face fell, but only for a second. “Could you come up with something? It’s for charity. People will vote for their favorite decorations.”

“I’m not into decorations either.” Nick headed off.

“Please, Nick?” Gina called after him. When he didn’t answer, she turned to Keturah. “You’ll try, won’t you?”

Keturah hated to disappoint her. “I’ll try.” Behind her, Lilliane huffed, and Keturah knew exactly what her sister was thinking: Daed would never agree to do this.

She folded the flyer and slid it under the cash box. But she couldn’t get away from the Christmas Extravaganza. All the stand owners in line chattered about the upcoming event.

The day proved to be unusually busy. Keturah suspected people were making an excuse to pay a sympathy call and perhaps to help support her and her sisters by buying pretzels. The increase in customers, though, made it impossible to keep up.

Several times, they completely ran out of pretzels, and people had to wait while they mixed up dough, shaped, and baked the pretzels. They lost some customers, mainly new buyers who didn’t want to wait that long.

During a rare five-minute break, Keturah headed back to talk to her sister. “Lilliane, I know it won’t be easy”—Keturah kept her voice low so Olivia couldn’t overhear—“but can you keep an eye on the pretzel warmer to be sure we don’t run out?”

“I’ll try. I never had to do that before. Mamm always—” Lilliane bit her lip.

“I know.” Keturah squeezed her eyes shut to get her own feelings under control. Mamm had anticipated what they needed before they ran low. She’d study the lines to gauge what people wanted, and she remembered all the regular customers and prepared for them before they arrived. Lilliane had her back to the warmer, so she’d never had to pay attention to that.

Olivia moved closer. “I’m sorry we ran out of pretzels. It was my fault.”

She looked so guilty, Keturah wanted to reassure her. “It takes time to learn what regular customers order and plan ahead. And we’ve had so many more customers than usual.”

“I noticed that.” Olivia looked over and checked the warmer. “I’ll try harder.”

Stocking the warmer took more than noticing what pretzels were running low. One customer could wipe out almost full racks if they ordered half a dozen or a dozen. Knowing who might request that many and spotting them ahead of time helped to avoid long wa. . .