The Face of Heaven by Murray Pura

you.” She sat down next to him and saw that his eyes were dark and swollen just as hers had been.
    “You understand how difficult a day this has been for me as well as you?”
    “Yes, Papa.”
    “It is hard on the entire community. Please understand that.”
    “I do understand it.”
    His longer fingers tapped against a white envelope on the tabletop. It was stained with dirt and splotches of ink.
    “This came yesterday. I did not tell you. I wondered if there should be any mail passed on to you. I knew the Meidung would be coming into force. But as the day has worn on, as I have prayed and listened and worshipped, it has become clear to me this is your letter and you are meant to have it. There can be no others after this.”
    Lyndel sat up. “Do you mean to let me have that letter, Papa?”
    “I do. And it is right that you must be permitted to respond. Then there must be no further correspondence until he has laid down his weapons and repented.”
    “I may write him back once more?”
    “ Ja .”
    Impulsively, she got up from her chair and threw her arms around her father, the chair clattering backward onto the floor, her father surprised by the strength of her hug and the two kisses on his cheek and beard.
    “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she cried.
    “Hey, hey, my girl, it is only a letter.”
    “Papa, you know it’s not only a letter.”
    “So you love him?”
    Clutching the envelope she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t say that I love him. But I care about him so much. He is so sweet. And he has declared his love for me.”
    “Has he?”
    “ Ja , ja .”
    “Well, perhaps the day will come when he weds you in the way a good Amish man takes a good Amish wife to himself.” His eyes strayed to a window that overlooked the pasture. “It started with Charlie Preston. And in a way I cannot blame him—I too cut Charlie from the tree—no, I cannot blame him. He must lay down his whip, he must lay down the musket and bayonet, but God knows he saw great evil and wanted to right it. His intent is pure even if his path is violent and dark.”
    She sat back down and took one of his hands in hers. “Papa, may I ask you something?”
    “ Ja ?”
    “You said in your sermon the Amish are people who bless. Who heal.”
    “I did say it.”
    “Would it be wrong to nurse a wounded soldier back to health?”
    “What is this?”
    “You read in the papers how Clara Barton and other women helped tend the wounded in Washington after the battle last summer.”
    “After Manassas? Yes, I read that. They did good work.”
    “Holy work?”
    “Holy work?” Her father ran a hand over his dark beard. “Inasmuchas you did it to the least of these you did it unto me. Yes, I would have to say—holy work, the work of love.”
    “If I…if I were to do such work…someday…would I find favor… in your eyes?”
    He stared at her. “Is this what you are thinking? Will you also leave us for this terrible war?”
    “Not for the war, Papa, for the healing, to minister to the sick—”
    “Still. You are involved in the war. Clara Barton is not Amish. You are. Your calling is different.”
    “If we are both called upon by God to heal, it is not so different.”
    Her father shook his head and waved his hand, standing up from his chair. “The church would not approve. I would be called on to order the shunning of my own daughter. Would you take me to such a place?”
    Heat came to Lyndel’s face. “Why may I not heal others in the name of God?”
    “There are always sick here. You can nurse the sick of the church or Elizabethtown. You do not need a war.”
    “But the war is where I’m needed most. Here a few are ill with fever or stomach cramps. There young men are torn to pieces. Balls of lead are in their arms and chests. Their blood is pouring out onto the ground. They cry out for their mothers while the doctors saw off their legs. Tens of thousands, you said. There are not enough nurses to