Grandpa Quinn. Of course, after Grandma died and he moved to Florida, we didn’t see much of him. But he was around for a while anyway. It’s not like he disowned me.”
Beth’s flippant tone spoke clearly of the hurt she tried so valiantly to conceal with a facade of anger. Marie battled tears as she listenedto her daughter share her thoughts.
“But your father. . .and the people in this town. . . That’s a different story.” Beth popped the sweater onto a hanger but then just stood, holding it two-handed against her ribs. She sucked in her lips, her brow creased. Suddenly she whirled to face Marie. “It’s because Dad wasn’t Mennonite, isn’t it? I’m like a. . .a half-breed to them.”
Marie sank onto the cot, causing it to squeak with her weight. She ran her finger around the edge of the neatly appliquéd heart nearest her hip. In her mind’s eye, she saw Aunt Lisbeth’s veined hand guiding the needle through layers of cloth. A smile tugged at her lips. And then another hand flashed in her memory: her father’s hand reaching for her head to flick her curls. She flinched, pushing aside the thought.
“There’s so much. . .history. . .behind my father’s feelings, Beth. I’m not sure I can explain it in a way that will make any sense.”
Beth put the hanger in the closet, then sat on the floor crosslegged. Folding her hands in her lap, she turned her hardened gaze on her mother and barked a one-word command. “Try.”
Marie pursed her lips, organizing her thoughts. “I suppose the simplest explanation is this. Outsiders bring in new ideas that don’t match the teachings of the church. The church’s doctrine is very important. We are to be separate from the world—peculiar, even. When others look at us, we want them to see an outward difference that leads them to the heart, where Jesus resides.”
“I don’t like it when you say ‘us,’ like you’re a part of them, too.” Marie’s heart turned over at her daughter’s belligerent tone. “I say ‘us’ because it’s my heritage. Yours, too, even though you weren’t raised with it.” Beth’s frown didn’t encourage Marie to continue that line, but she added, “It isn’t the doctrine that’s wrong here, honey, but the extreme to which it’s carried by a few.”
Beth scowled. “What I remember about Jesus from Sundayschool is that He was loving to everybody. If Jesus resides in a heart, shouldn’t a person’s behavior show that? I sure didn’t see much lovingkindness in the way your dad treated us today.”
Marie turned away, pain stabbing with the reminder of her father’s stern, condemning posture. She sighed. “Yes, Christian means Christlike . And sometimes people don’t do a very good job of emulating Him.” Turning back to Beth, she leaned her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together. “But you can’t let the way my father treated us today make you think ill of all Christians or all Mennonites. That wouldn’t be fair.”
Beth pushed to her feet. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and reached for another sweater. “Of course not. That would be like your father thinking all non-Mennonites are horrible people. I sure wouldn’t want to be like that.”
Marie sat in silence, watching as Beth emptied the box of clothing, then reached for a second box. When Beth continued to work without looking in her direction, she finally sighed, rose from the cot, and moved to the doorway. “Well, I guess I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, then—”
“My phone’s recharged. I’m going to try to reach Mitch again.” Beth closed the door in her mother’s face.
Marie stood for a moment, staring at the wooden door, battling with herself. She understood Beth was upset. Angry. Hurt. When Beth was little and had a problem, Marie had always insisted she talk it out until they reached a workable solution. But now? She wasn’t sure they would find a solution to
Beth’s flippant tone spoke clearly of the hurt she tried so valiantly to conceal with a facade of anger. Marie battled tears as she listenedto her daughter share her thoughts.
“But your father. . .and the people in this town. . . That’s a different story.” Beth popped the sweater onto a hanger but then just stood, holding it two-handed against her ribs. She sucked in her lips, her brow creased. Suddenly she whirled to face Marie. “It’s because Dad wasn’t Mennonite, isn’t it? I’m like a. . .a half-breed to them.”
Marie sank onto the cot, causing it to squeak with her weight. She ran her finger around the edge of the neatly appliquéd heart nearest her hip. In her mind’s eye, she saw Aunt Lisbeth’s veined hand guiding the needle through layers of cloth. A smile tugged at her lips. And then another hand flashed in her memory: her father’s hand reaching for her head to flick her curls. She flinched, pushing aside the thought.
“There’s so much. . .history. . .behind my father’s feelings, Beth. I’m not sure I can explain it in a way that will make any sense.”
Beth put the hanger in the closet, then sat on the floor crosslegged. Folding her hands in her lap, she turned her hardened gaze on her mother and barked a one-word command. “Try.”
Marie pursed her lips, organizing her thoughts. “I suppose the simplest explanation is this. Outsiders bring in new ideas that don’t match the teachings of the church. The church’s doctrine is very important. We are to be separate from the world—peculiar, even. When others look at us, we want them to see an outward difference that leads them to the heart, where Jesus resides.”
“I don’t like it when you say ‘us,’ like you’re a part of them, too.” Marie’s heart turned over at her daughter’s belligerent tone. “I say ‘us’ because it’s my heritage. Yours, too, even though you weren’t raised with it.” Beth’s frown didn’t encourage Marie to continue that line, but she added, “It isn’t the doctrine that’s wrong here, honey, but the extreme to which it’s carried by a few.”
Beth scowled. “What I remember about Jesus from Sundayschool is that He was loving to everybody. If Jesus resides in a heart, shouldn’t a person’s behavior show that? I sure didn’t see much lovingkindness in the way your dad treated us today.”
Marie turned away, pain stabbing with the reminder of her father’s stern, condemning posture. She sighed. “Yes, Christian means Christlike . And sometimes people don’t do a very good job of emulating Him.” Turning back to Beth, she leaned her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together. “But you can’t let the way my father treated us today make you think ill of all Christians or all Mennonites. That wouldn’t be fair.”
Beth pushed to her feet. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and reached for another sweater. “Of course not. That would be like your father thinking all non-Mennonites are horrible people. I sure wouldn’t want to be like that.”
Marie sat in silence, watching as Beth emptied the box of clothing, then reached for a second box. When Beth continued to work without looking in her direction, she finally sighed, rose from the cot, and moved to the doorway. “Well, I guess I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, then—”
“My phone’s recharged. I’m going to try to reach Mitch again.” Beth closed the door in her mother’s face.
Marie stood for a moment, staring at the wooden door, battling with herself. She understood Beth was upset. Angry. Hurt. When Beth was little and had a problem, Marie had always insisted she talk it out until they reached a workable solution. But now? She wasn’t sure they would find a solution to
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