The Road Home Read online

  Endorsements

  Praise for A Quilt for Jenna,

  the first book in Patrick E. Craig’s

  Apple Creek Dreams series…

  “Patrick Craig writes with an enthusiasm and a passion that are a joy to read. He deals with romance, faith, love, loss, tragedy, and restoration with equal amounts of elegance, grace, clarity, and power. Everyone should pick up his debut novel in Amish fiction, turn off the phone and computer and TV, and settle in for a good night’s read. Craig’s book is a blessing.”

  Murray Pura

  author of The Wings of Morning and Ashton Park

  “A good storyteller takes a fine story and places it in a setting peppered with enough accurate details to satisfy a native son. Then he peoples it with characters so real we keep thinking we see them walking down the street. A great storyteller takes all that and binds it together with, say, a carefully constructed Rose of Sharon quilt and the wallop of a storm of the century that actually happened. A Quilt for Jenna proves Patrick Craig to be a great storyteller.”

  Kay Marshall Strom

  author of the Grace in Africa and Blessings in India trilogies

  “A touching tale of three people who have lost their way. In A Quilt for Jenna, Patrick Craig deftly contrasts the peaceful Amish lifestyle with the harsh World War II Guadalcanal battlefield, tied together with a lovely message of sacrifice, humility, and forgiveness. I was entranced.”

  Sarah Sundin

  award-winning author of With Every Letter

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Bigstock / Jan Marijs, VibrantImage

  Author photo by William Craig—Craig Propraphica

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE ROAD HOME

  Copyright © 2013 by Patrick E. Craig

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Craig, Patrick E.

  The road home / Patrick E. Craig.

  pages cm.—(Apple Creek dreams series ; bk. 2)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5107-4 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5108-1 (eBook)

  1. Amish—Ohio—Fiction. 2. Foundlings—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.R3554R63 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2013005873

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a non-transferable, non-exclusive, and non-commercial right to access and view this electronic publication and agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  To my wife, Judy,

  who over our twenty-five years together

  has shown me that the Lord truly sets the solitary in families

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Nick Harrison, my editor and strong advocate for the Apple Creek Dreams series,

  and to

  Steve Laube, for his wisdom and guidance through the sometimes treacherous and always challenging shoals of publishing novels, and for encouraging me to write this series in the first place.

  CONTENTS

  Endorsements

  Acknowledgments

  A Note from Patrick E. Craig

  Part One: Apple Creek Again

  Chapter One: Jenny

  Chapter Two: Memories

  Chapter Three: Johnny

  Chapter Four: The Long and Winding Road

  Chapter Five: Close Call

  Chapter Six: Connection

  Chapter Seven: Old Friends

  Chapter Eight: Come Find Me

  Chapter Nine: Roadblocks

  Chapter Ten: A Helping Hand

  Chapter Eleven: Bitter Words

  Chapter Twelve: Friendship

  Chapter Thirteen: A Meeting

  Chapter Fourteen: The Way

  Chapter Fifteen: Conflict

  Chapter Sixteen: Shunned

  Chapter Seventeen: The Bargain

  Chapter Eighteen: Trouble

  Chapter Nineteen: Missing

  Part Two: The Key

  Chapter Twenty: The Prisoner

  Chapter Twenty-One: Answers

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Darkness

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Call to Arms

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Blood

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Astray

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Stains

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Hideout

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Quilt for Jenny

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Light in the Darkness

  Chapter Thirty: Reunion

  Part Three: The Road Home

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Agreement

  Chapter Thirty-Two: A Key in the Lock

  Chapter Thirty-Three: More Answers

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Visit

  Chapter Thirty-Five: A Missing Link

  Chapter Thirty-Six: The Journal

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Robert

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Truth Will Set You Free

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Road Home

  Chapter Forty: Journey’s End

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  About Patrick E. Craig

  Ready to Discover More?

  A Note from Patrick E. Craig

  What connexion can there have been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world, who, from opposite sides of great gulfs, have, nevertheless, been very curiously brought together!

  CHARLES DICKENS

  BLEAK HOUSE

  WHEN I WAS A PASTOR, I once counseled two young people who wanted to get married. She was a Christian, but he was not. Like the character in this story, his name was Jonathan. My wife and I spent many days with this precious young couple, doing our best to share the Lord with Jon, but he seemed impervious to the pressing of the Spirit.

  One day, Jon and Sherry were telling us about their lives, how they had lived in so many different places and done many different (often wild and dangerous) things before finally coming to California and meeting—by coincidence, they said.

  Suddenly something occurred to me. I drew a rough map of the United States on a piece of paper and had Jon and Sherry put a dot on all the places they had lived before they met. Then I had them connect the dots. Both of their meandering trails led to one spot—a little town in California. Then I took the map and I said to Jon, “Do you know how I know God loves you?”

  He looked at me strangely and then said no, he didn’t. I traced his journey with a pencil as I said, “I know He loves you because over the years, He led you through all these places in your life, watched over you, and kept you safe so that at this time in your life, He could bring you to California and give you Sherry to love.”

  Well, I saw the penny drop. Jon stared at the map and then at his lovely fiancée and then at the map again. A huge smile broke on his face and he said, “I guess God really does love me.”

  Coincidence? Some say coincidence is God choosing to remain anonymous; others say coincidence simply means you’re on the right path. Often in
writing, coincidence is regarded as a weak literary device—a quick way to advance a plot or move characters from one place to another without the need for a clever story line. But when we look at our own lives—especially those of us who believe God is real and that He has a plan for us—don’t we discover a lifelong thread of “coincidences” that have moved us ever onward toward a specific purpose for our lives? And if God is the author and finisher of our faith, would He use a weak device to write our story?

  The Road Home is a story about God’s desire to fulfill His intention in people’s lives. In particular, in Jenny, who, though surrounded by a loving family and a satisfying life, is still a mystery to herself and to her adoptive parents, and also in Jonathan, a young man seeking answers to the questions we have all asked in our own lives. This is a story based on what some would call coincidence, but the truth is, there is really no such thing as coincidence.

  For if God is working all things together for good, then each moment, each event, each step, is somehow governed by His plan. And as for Jenny and Jonathan, the story of their lives brings them both to a little town called Apple Creek, where they pass through a series of “coincidences” that in the end…

  Well, I’ll let you read the story and find out.

  Part One

  APPLE CREEK AGAIN

  THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT AN AGRICULTURAL TOWN that’s unique and wonderful—a deep link to the land, which brings a sense of being settled and permanent.

  All the bright days of youth in such a place are held in the mystery of God’s eternal circle of life and death, winter and spring, summer and fall. The cycles of the seasons dictate the deepest feelings in the hearts of those who live there, with days marked not by events, but by smells and colors and sounds and all the other sensory signals.

  The temperature of a morning’s rising can tell you everything about the day ahead, be it the coolness of a daybreak in spring; the heat of the long, languid days of summer; the crisp bite of a fall day; or the chill of winter that pushes you with icy fingers back under the welcoming warmth of a lovely down quilt.

  The lilting chirp of a robin outside an open window or the haunting call of the Canada geese heading south can manifest the procession of days more surely than any calendar. The solemn silence of a winter night, with your feet softly crunching on the snow as you make your way toward the light in the window ahead, or the grinding of the machinery and the smell of the thick harvest dust…these things mark the passage of time and bind one surely to the beloved land and the life so graciously granted by the Master of the vineyard.

  Apple Creek, Ohio, is such a place. It’s especially beautiful in the fall. The leaves of the Buckeye trees turn bright red, and the green, spiked pods that hide the horse chestnuts split open and drop their beautiful brown seeds on the ground. Children pile the leaves into forts and arm themselves with the shiny brown nuts against the trespasses of intruders from down the street.

  Mornings come armed with the warning bite of winter yet to come, and the air is alive with the promise of families gathered at festive tables and the wonder of frosty nights that delight the heart with cathedrals of starry splendor. Soon the soft snow will blanket all living things in the quiet death of winter, but not yet, for it is harvest time, and the cycle of life is at its peak.

  The fields surrounding the village are ripe with bounty, and the air is heavy with the fecundity of the yearly progression coming to its fullness.

  The rest of the world changed greatly after World War II and the Korean War, but Apple Creek remained much the same. Even as the nation wandered into the disaster in Vietnam, the Amish community in Wayne County remained above the growing conflict and social revolution that would follow.

  It was as though Apple Creek had been captured in a backwater eddy of time and now slowly drifted in a lovely continuity of days while the main current of civilization rushed by into an unknown and frightening future.

  The Amish in Apple Creek were connected to the land, and the land was forever. The fields stretched to the horizon, and the days were like the fields, reaching back into the permanence of the past and extending forward into a future that they knew held the same tasks, the same demands, the same feasts, and the same succession of birth, life, and death. And yet they were not afraid of death, for they had their God and His promises, they had the land and its harvest each year, and they had the children, who were their inheritance and also a down payment on the continuance of their lives. And above everything, they had the simplicity of their way. And it was enough…for some.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jenny

  “Du Schlecht’r!”

  “Jenny Springer! You should not say such bad words! You should be ashamed.”

  Jenny’s face burned as she reached behind the quilting frame with her left hand and pushed the errant needle through the quilt to complete her stitch. The finger of her other hand, showing a tiny red drop where she had pricked herself, went into her mouth. She stared angrily at the quilt she was working on. The design was awkward, and the edges of the pattern pieces were puckered where she had attempted to sew them together.

  “Oh, Mama, I will never, ever be a quilter like you. I just can’t do it.”

  Her mother’s shocked expression softened somewhat, and she put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Quilting is a gift from God, and it’s true that you don’t yet seem to have the eye for it. But you’re gifted in so many other ways. Don’t be disheartened. Sometimes you’re a little eigensinnig und ungeduldig, and these qualities do not fit well with quilting. You must learn to still your heart and calm the stream of thoughts rushing through your head.”

  Jenny reached behind her head and rubbed her neck. She took a deep breath and stuck the needle back into the pincushion with finality.

  “I need to stop for a bit, Mama. This quilt is making me vereitelt!”

  Even in her present state, Jenny was a lovely girl of nearly twenty. Her reddish gold hair framed a strong brow and deep violet eyes that could flash with annoyance in an instant or radiate the most loving kindness a moment later.

  Jerusha Springer reached down and enfolded Jenny in her arms. “Sie sind meine geliebte dochter,” Jerusha whispered softly into the curls that refused to be controlled by the heavy hairpins and happily tumbled out from under the slightly askew black kappe on Jenny’s head. Jenny turned on her stool, and her arms crept around her mother’s waist. She held on as though she would never let go.

  “Are you ever sorry that you got me instead of Jenna, Mama?” Jenny whispered.

  Jerusha paused before replying. “I was given Jenna, and then I was given you, my dearest. Jenna was a wonderful little girl, and your papa and I were blessed beyond measure by having her. When she died, we didn’t know how we would ever go on with our lives. But God in His mercy sent us a wonderful child to fill the emptiness in our hearts. That child was you. Sorry? No, my darling, I will never be sorry that you came to us. There will always be a place in my heart for Jenna, but now I have you to love and hold. I couldn’t hope for a better dochter.”

  Jenny clung even tighter to her mother. Her mother’s arms had always been a safe haven for her since the day Jerusha rescued her from the great snowstorm so many years ago. Jerusha had kept Jenny alive by holding the child next to her heart all through the long nights until Papa and Uncle Bobby had rescued them. That was the earliest memory Jenny had of her mother. The calm, steady beat of her mother’s heart comforted her, and it was always in this place of refuge and life that she felt the most secure. But today, even in her mother’s arms, she couldn’t still the turmoil in her heart. She pulled away from Jerusha and began to talk in a rush.

  “Mama, don’t you ever wonder where I came from and who my birth mother was? Maybe I’m the daughter of criminals or murderers. Maybe there’s a bad seed in me that will come out someday. It makes me afraid sometimes.”

  Jerusha stroked her daughter’s hair. “There are some things we can never know, and you must
not worry or fret about them. ‘Be careful for nothing—’ ”

  “I know, I know, Mama, but sometimes I do worry. I would never want to do anything that would bring shame on you or Papa. But sometimes I think that I’ll never find real peace until I know…and yet that’s impossible.”

  Jenny released her grip on her mother and grabbed up a scrap of material. She wiped another drop of blood from her finger, crumpled the cloth, and threw it down.

  Jerusha took a breath and then answered. “You are so standhaft in all your ways. Many times your papa and I have had to pick you up and dust you off when you went too far. But that same quality has helped you to overcome difficulties. The accomplishments in your life are proof of that.”

  Jerusha reached over and softly stroked Jenny’s cheek. “You’re a gut student. No one in our community has such a grasp of the history of our people as you do. Someday you will be a teacher who can pass down to your children the things that keep the Amish separate and distinct from the world.”

  Jenny looked away and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think I will ever have children, Mama.”

  Jerusha stiffened, and a fleeting frown passed over her face. “Why not, my darling?” she asked quietly.

  “I don’t think any man could put up with me, for one thing, and for another, I think I’m just too independent. I’m not sure I could ever submit to a husband ruling over me.”

  Jerusha’s mouth tightened slightly. “If I were true to our ordnung, I would tell you what my grandmother told me when I was a girl, and insist that you follow it,” Jerusha said. “She used to say that marriage is not built first on love but on the needs of our community and our faith.”

  “But, Mama…” Jenny said.

  “Let me finish, dochter,” Jerusha said quietly. “I loved your father very much before we were married, and someday that may happen for you. You’ll meet a man whom you will love so deeply that you will gladly surrender everything of yourself into his care and protection. I used to be so bound up in my quilting that I thought there was no room in my life for love or marriage. But the first time I looked into your father’s eyes, I was lost forever.” Jerusha’s face softened, and she smiled at a secret memory.