A Secret Identity by Gayle Roper Page B

things I don’t know, to learn family stories that are missing from our heritage. And, Lord, I want to make certain the generations still living know about You .
    When I finally came down for breakfast at eight o’clock, Mary insisted on cooking for me even though I knew the family had eaten hours ago. She left a huge pile of cut strawberries sitting on the counter, and in no time two eggs and toast made with her own whole-wheat bread sat before me.
    “Are you making strawberry jam?” I asked when she returned from a trip to the basement with her arms full of small Mason jars.
    “I am,” she said. “I love this job. When I’m done, I have this wonderful feeling that I’ve done something worthwhile. And next winter when John and Elam enjoy the jam on their potato rusk or oatmeal bread, I’ll feel pleased all over again.”
    I thought about my ignorance of tasks such as making jam and decided that though I thought Mary was clever, conscientious, and to be admired, I had no desire to learn this particular art. I’d rather just eat Mary’s…or even Smucker’s.
    Mary put her hand to her mouth, looking distressed. “I hope I didn’t sound proud just then. I only meant that I like making jam, though I forget that sometimes in the middle of the job when I’m hot and tired.”
    “You didn’t sound proud,” I said, thinking she should meet some writers I knew if she wanted to hear talking proud. “You sounded like a woman who is fortunate enough to do something that gives her satisfaction.”
    “You don’t do things you like?” she asked, looking at me carefully.
    “Oh, but I do,” I assured her. “I love what I do. But many women don’t.”
    “Many women don’t?” Mary was surprised by this statement. “Everyone I know is content with what they do.” And she went back down to the basement at a rapid pace.
    I thought about Mary’s comment. I couldn’t say the same thing about many of my friends, even the successful ones. And my friends were women with a wide range of life choices, especially compared to Mary’s friends and their limited options. Interesting.
    I rose, washed and dried my breakfast dishes, and thought about how much I was going to miss a dishwasher during my stay with the Zooks. Some modern conveniences were required for quality of life, weren’t they?
    I was looking out the window above the sink when Mary reappeared with another armful of jelly jars.
    “There goes Jake,” I said. “First day at college. You must be proud of him.”
    I looked at Mary and found her watching Jake back the van from the drive. Her face reflected great misgivings and no little sorrow. She felt my glance, gave a small smile, and turned back to sorting her jars.
    Mary started to speak at the same time I realized how inappropriate my comment had been, given the family’s culture. Eighth grade education, I remembered. College must seem strange and frightening.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, but she waved me off.
    “I guess I’m happy for him in one way.” She filled a large pot with water and put it on the stove to boil. “I’m glad he’s making a life for himself in spite of his injury, but—” She paused. “Watching him go off to college is hard. It’s just another proof that he’ll never choose to come back.”
    I knew she meant back to the Amish community, and while my heart ached for her pain, I knew she was right.
    “It’s funny,” she said. “John and I tried so hard to teach them right. I’ve never been able to figure out what we did wrong.”
    “Maybe you did nothing wrong,” I said as I opened cupboards, looking for a place for my cleaned dishes. “Children make their own choices.”
    “I keep telling myself that,” Mary said. “But it hurts. And I know some of the people in our district sit in judgment on us. Lots of families have maybe one child who turns from the faith, but we have three of our six who have left.” She turned and faced me. “Did you know that most Amish