The Face of Heaven by Murray Pura Page A

help. I could make a difference, Papa.”
    “You would be part of the war. The Amish are never part of a war, never—not in any way are they part of a war.”
    “Not even in a good way?”
    He shook his head again, slowly and forcefully. “There is no good way.”
    “Not even if it is Christ I nurse? Not even if it is Christ whose skin is burnt black from the explosion? Not even if it is Christ who is crying out as the life flies from his mangled body? ‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”
    Her father did not move, listening, thinking. Then he turned away.“If this is what you will do, please say goodbye to your mother and me first. Will you do that?” He stopped at the door, partly opening it so that the laughter of his three younger daughters filled the kitchen. He looked back at Lyndel. “Do you find it in yourself to at least give us that?”
    She wiped at her eyes with her fingers. “Of course, Papa.”
    He gazed at her, nodding. There was a very faint, faraway smile. “I am grateful to the Lord for you.” Then he went out and closed the door gently behind him.
     
    Lyndel made it to her room, threw herself full length on her bed, and wept. It took more than ten minutes before she was able to prop herself on an elbow, her eyes red, tears still running across her face, and open the envelope with Nathaniel’s letter inside.
     
    Dear Lyndel,
     
I hope this letter finds you well, you and your family and the entire community. All I can tell you is we are marching back and forth in Virginia. The bread is not soft Amish bread and the cooking is not like what I’m used to at my place or yours. Corinth and I are the only Pennsylvanians mixed in with the boys from the 19th regiment and we tell everyone we are from Elkhart County, Indiana, which is true enough as that is where our Amish settlement is located. A few others are from that county, but most hail from different parts of the state. Along with the Hoosiers—that is what the Indiana boys like to call themselves—our brigade is composed of troops fromWisconsin—the 2nd, 6th, and 7th volunteer regiments (I hope it is all right to say so in my letter and to give out the numbers). We get along well enough but it is no Amish church meeting as you can imagine. Our brigade commander, General Gibbon, is tough as a plowshare and not liked too much, but the officer who is in charge of the 19th Indiana, Long Sol Meredith, well, we all respect him and will pretty much follow him anywhere.
     
But that’s enough soldier talk. Since I last wrote I have been going through Isaiah in the Old Testament and Ephesians in the New. I also reread all your letters and the boys rib me about this but I don’t care. I love the way you write and what you have to say and I love the scent you leave behind on the paper—it’s that soap your mother makes with lilacs, cinnamon, and roses. I keep your letters in my Bible in my knapsack and sometimes I stick that Bible in the blanket I roll up for a pillow—so there are your letters and Paul’s letters and Peter’s all jumbled together and holding up my head.
     
I must go—a corporal’s duties. Will write you again when I can. It takes forever for the mail to catch up with us but I hope the next mail call will have a card or note from you. Lyndel,you mean so much to me. May God keep you safe .
     
Are we courting yet?
     
Love, Nathaniel
     
    Lyndel smiled as she read and then quickly got up from the bed and went to her desk. She laid out a fresh sheet of paper, lit the lamp at her elbow, and dipped the tip of a goose quill in her bottle of ink. Then she began to smoothly spread her flowing script across the page, dipping the quill after every third or fourth word.
     
    My dearest Nathaniel,
     
I have just read your latest note to me and I have to write to tell you they will not let me send you