done things to him, to his memories, and to his body. He groaned and shifted in his seat, but when it came to Emma, he still remembered.
Strange that I’ve never married, he thought. Yet, is it so strange? He didn’t know sometimes. The strangest thing was how well he had been accepted in his church world as an unmarried man. Men in Mennonite and Amish worlds were expected to marry. Manny had been the exception. Things had just kind of happened—or rather not happened.
He was an old man now, in more ways than one. He was weary in body and soul. Life had been good to him, though, he often told himself. Not everyone got to do the kind of work he did and enjoyed. His work had begun as a missionary at the Mennonite mission in Haiti. Later he became its director, and now he was the executive director of all mission activity on the island. He sat on a half dozen American church and university boards, a respected and sought out voice when it came to missions.
There were days when he wondered whether life would have turned out like this if things between him and Emma would have been different. Would his passions have been directed toward a more earthly goal—wife, family, children, and now grandchildren?
Outside the plane window, low banks of clouds hung on the horizon. The sun was about to set, and its last rays lit up the sky above and the clouds beneath with multiple layers of color. Gold, red, and orange set that side of the universe on fire. Manny took the sight in, the display soothing his spirits.
He saw others in front of him react too. A woman brought her child up to the glass. A man nudged his wife and nodded his head to direct her vision outside. God had once again displayed His glory, Manny thought. In unexpected and startling places, He reminded humans of who He was. They were all drawn to the vision almost by reflex, whether they worshipped Him or not.
“We are now descending,” the calm voice of the pilot said over the intercom. The plane creaked and groaned as if it heard his voice. Manny felt his ears sting and then pop. He rubbed them with his index fingers and felt better. Old man, he said to himself. But he knew his ears always popped on flights just as he knew his love for Emma had always been there.
Few knew of their long-ago relationship—at least that’s what Manny believed. He certainly never spoke of it. Others would, no doubt, consider the story a tragedy, a thing to shake their heads over and pity him for. Manny wanted no pity, and he didn’t want to think of the past at all.
Manny believed thinking of the past was an unhealthy exercise. It was always best to leave things alone, and that was how Manny had left them—very alone. The letter in his briefcase, addressed to him from a law firm he had never heard of, had brought the past home to him.
That summer, now so many years ago, he had attended an Amish social of some sort. Manny couldn’t remember exactly what sort because normally Mennonite youth didn’t go to such events. But this time his Amish cousin had persuaded Manny to accompany him. The cousin had been visiting from Pennsylvania and needed the company for courage, he said.
Manny didn’t believe in love at first sight even though he had been thoroughly smitten that night by the tall Amish girl dressed in a dark blue outfit. Her white apron only added to the charm. He caught her eye when she walked past him. He knew there were things in his eyes he wished weren’t there, and he knew they showed. He also knew she knew.
Apparently things were obvious enough to cause his cousin to whisper in his ear, “Don’t make a scene. Quit looking at her. You’re not Amish. I’ll ask her afterward.”
Later that night—late even for Manny, the Mennonite boy—after the social ended, the cousin discretely talked to the tall Amish girl and made arrangements.
She had planned to walk home, the cousin said, because she didn’t live far away. The cousin found a way home with someone
Strange that I’ve never married, he thought. Yet, is it so strange? He didn’t know sometimes. The strangest thing was how well he had been accepted in his church world as an unmarried man. Men in Mennonite and Amish worlds were expected to marry. Manny had been the exception. Things had just kind of happened—or rather not happened.
He was an old man now, in more ways than one. He was weary in body and soul. Life had been good to him, though, he often told himself. Not everyone got to do the kind of work he did and enjoyed. His work had begun as a missionary at the Mennonite mission in Haiti. Later he became its director, and now he was the executive director of all mission activity on the island. He sat on a half dozen American church and university boards, a respected and sought out voice when it came to missions.
There were days when he wondered whether life would have turned out like this if things between him and Emma would have been different. Would his passions have been directed toward a more earthly goal—wife, family, children, and now grandchildren?
Outside the plane window, low banks of clouds hung on the horizon. The sun was about to set, and its last rays lit up the sky above and the clouds beneath with multiple layers of color. Gold, red, and orange set that side of the universe on fire. Manny took the sight in, the display soothing his spirits.
He saw others in front of him react too. A woman brought her child up to the glass. A man nudged his wife and nodded his head to direct her vision outside. God had once again displayed His glory, Manny thought. In unexpected and startling places, He reminded humans of who He was. They were all drawn to the vision almost by reflex, whether they worshipped Him or not.
“We are now descending,” the calm voice of the pilot said over the intercom. The plane creaked and groaned as if it heard his voice. Manny felt his ears sting and then pop. He rubbed them with his index fingers and felt better. Old man, he said to himself. But he knew his ears always popped on flights just as he knew his love for Emma had always been there.
Few knew of their long-ago relationship—at least that’s what Manny believed. He certainly never spoke of it. Others would, no doubt, consider the story a tragedy, a thing to shake their heads over and pity him for. Manny wanted no pity, and he didn’t want to think of the past at all.
Manny believed thinking of the past was an unhealthy exercise. It was always best to leave things alone, and that was how Manny had left them—very alone. The letter in his briefcase, addressed to him from a law firm he had never heard of, had brought the past home to him.
That summer, now so many years ago, he had attended an Amish social of some sort. Manny couldn’t remember exactly what sort because normally Mennonite youth didn’t go to such events. But this time his Amish cousin had persuaded Manny to accompany him. The cousin had been visiting from Pennsylvania and needed the company for courage, he said.
Manny didn’t believe in love at first sight even though he had been thoroughly smitten that night by the tall Amish girl dressed in a dark blue outfit. Her white apron only added to the charm. He caught her eye when she walked past him. He knew there were things in his eyes he wished weren’t there, and he knew they showed. He also knew she knew.
Apparently things were obvious enough to cause his cousin to whisper in his ear, “Don’t make a scene. Quit looking at her. You’re not Amish. I’ll ask her afterward.”
Later that night—late even for Manny, the Mennonite boy—after the social ended, the cousin discretely talked to the tall Amish girl and made arrangements.
She had planned to walk home, the cousin said, because she didn’t live far away. The cousin found a way home with someone
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