A Secret Identity by Gayle Roper Page A

got pressured into joining the church.”
    “He races cars!” Mary said, scandalized.
    “And I bet it kills Big Nate that he’s successful at it. I saw him in a race on TV last weekend.”
    “Big Nate doesn’t even know, Jake,” John said.
    “Kristie wants me to be on TV,” Mary all but whispered as if saying the thought would earn her the reproach of her people, which it probably would. Certainly Big Nate.
    “What do you mean?” Jake asked.
    “She said something about a page that showed my work so more people would see than come to the store.”
    “She wants you to have a Web page, Mom.” Jake laughed. “That would be so cool. You should do it.”
    “But I have to get my picture taken. Kristie says.”
    “Only if you want. You could put up pictures of your paintings without a photo of you. Come on over to my place, and I’ll show you some Web sites.”
    There was another short silence. I guessed Mary and John were considering stepping over that Ordnung line, though probably the rules didn’t say you couldn’t have a Web page because no one ever thought it would be an issue.
    “Do you think Kristie has one?” Mary asked.
    “Come on. We’ll look.”
    I stood and went to my rooms. Later, as I lay in bed, I thought about Big Nate’s visit and about Mary and John’s precarious balance on the edge of obedience to their beliefs. How much could they give in the name of family and in the name of a God-given ability without breaking something?
    Family was caring and loving, Jake said. Certainly they were part of family, no one would argue that. But I kept coming back to the psalms that talked about family. It was generation to generation. It was DNA and genes and bone and sinew. It just was.
    And that was why I needed answers.

Chapter 6
     
    W hen I woke up Monday morning, I lay in my sleigh bed and stretched contentedly. If change could bring such wondrous things as Amish farms and families and handsome lawyers into my life, I might have to reassess my lifelong aversion to it. I felt myself tense as I thought of actually becoming flexible, but when I remembered I didn’t need to achieve that goal today, my shoulders relaxed.
    I pushed aside the crispy white sheets that smelled of sunshine from their drying on a clothesline and went into my new little bathroom. I decided that I’d bring some towels from home to add a little color to the utilitarian white, but it was a delight to be the first to shower in the new-smelling stall, the first to steam up the mirror, and the first to drape a damp towel over the rack.
    I put on tan shorts and a white T-shirt and brown sandals. I braided my hair loosely so that it might actually dry before I went to bed this evening and tied off the braid with a rubber band. It flopped back to fall below my shoulder blades. Then I went to my laptop on my desk.
    I sat down, intending to pull up my Bible program and have my devotions, writing my thoughts in my electronic journal. Instead I became mesmerized by the glorious June day outside my window. I slid the window open. Muzzy pale sky indicated heat and humidity were ahead, but the faint morning coolness made that threat seem toothless at the moment. I stared at the fields of tender corn stalks, golden winter wheat, and tomato shoots, and sniffed in greedily the rich scent of dew-moistened earth.
    God, You are so good to me! I typed. Thank You, thank You!
    I opened to Psalm 78 and read verses 5 through 7 as I hummed “From Generation to Generation” under my breath.
     
He decreed statutes for Jacob
and established the law in Israel ,
which he commanded our forefathers
to teach their children ,
so the next generation would know them ,
even the children yet to be born ,
and they in turn would tell their children .
Then they would put their trust in God
and would not forget his deeds
but would keep his commands .
    I turned to my journal again.
    I want to know the missing generations in our family. I want to meet them, to find out