Amish Home: False Worship Complete 4-Book Boxed Set Bundle: Amish Faith (False Worship) Series, #5

By Rachel Stoltzfus

GET ALL THREE BOOKS AT ONE LOW PRICE -- MUST READ FOR LOVERS OF SWEET AMISH ROMANCE!

Books 1-2: When Beth Zook's daed starts courting a widow with a mysterious past, will Beth uncover this new family's secrets before she loses everything?

Sixteen-year-old Beth Zook has already lost so much -- first her sister in a tragic accident and then her mamm a year later to cancer. As Beth and her daed Marcus struggle to rebuild their lives in the Amish community of Indianasburg, Marcus finds love awakening in his heart when a new family -- a widow and her two sons -- move into their quiet community. But things are not as they seem, and the more Beth learns about this new family, the more reason she has to fear. Will Beth uncover this new family's secrets before she loses everything?

Book 3: When Beth Zook's daed decides to move to Hope Crossing to get a new start, little does he know that his course will take them straight into the heart of evil.

With his sixteen-year-old daughter, Beth Zook in tow, they hire a driver, pack their stuff and head for Hope. After a tragic accident on the road, their driver heads off for help, and they are left to be picked up by the mysterious people from Westington. All is not as it seems, and it becomes a race against time for them to get out of this creepy Amish community called Westington. Will Beth and her daed live to uncover the town's secrets before it's too late?

Book 4: Pursued by the imposters who tried to murder her in Westington, Bethany Zook stands at a terrible crossroads. With God's help, will Beth find the strength to stand up to those who would silence her forever?

I remember it all now.

They killed Daed and wanted to kill me.

I’m Bethany Zook.

And I was murdered.

Pursued by the imposters who tried to murder her in Westington, Bethany Zook stands at a terrible crossroads. If Beth keeps running, she can save herself, but if she wants justice for herself and her father, she must make a terrifying return into the heart of darkness with an unlikely ally and an even more unlikely chance at love. With God's help, will Beth find the strength to stand up to those who would silence her forever?

Will Beth Zook survive, stand for justice, and create a loving future for herself? Find out in Books 1-4 of the False Worship - Amish Faith series by Rachel Stoltzfus.

If You Love Amish Fiction, Scroll up and Grab a Copy Today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Global Grafx Press
• Release date: Feb 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507080184

Book preview

False Worship Complete 4-Book Boxed Set Bundle

By

Rachel Stoltzfus

This is Books 1- 4 of the False Worship series. If you enjoy this collection, please look over the other Christian books from Global Grafx Press, and other great books from Rachel Stoltzfus.

Published by Global Grafx Press, LLC. © 2015

The Pennsylvania Dutch used in this manuscript is taken from the Revised Pennsylvania German Dictionary: English to Pennsylvania Dutch (1991) by C. Richard Beam, Brookshire Publications, Inc. Lancaster, PA 17603

The Bible quotations used in this manuscript are either taken from the King James Bible or the English Standard Bible.

Copyright © 2015 by Rachel Stoltzfus

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BOOK 1

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

BOOK 2

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

BOOK 3

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

BOOK 4

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

AMISH CINDERELLA #1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOK 1

CHAPTER ONE

I’m running, my heart pounding in my chest, veins swollen with rushing blood.  The faster I run, the faster it courses through me, threatening to rupture my arteries and leave me to a slow bleed-out, before I have the chance to escape.

I look back, but I can’t see who (or what) is chasing me.

I turn just in time to avoid running face-first into the sturdy trunk of a northern red oak, and I twist my ankle on one of its upraised roots as I run past.  I trip, hands reaching out to protect me as I fall into the thorny ground, a thick carpet of mulch and broken twigs, little rocks and littler bugs.

Feet and hands scrambling, I’m back up and running, after missing only a beat.

But I’m afraid it’s enough to make all the difference; just a quick moment, a second or two, is all the margin my pursuer needs to gain the ground that separates us.  I can imagine myself in the predator’s sight: his feeble prey, bent forward and awkwardly pushing through this maze of fallen logs and low-lying branches, prickly shrubs and flittering birds, crying out in panic as I continue my futile flight.

I can feel the heartbeat of my pursuer as the distance between us closes.  I can hear the feet pounding the earth behind me, almost as loud as my own strained breath, in the deepest crevices of my ears.

And I know, with the silent inner voice of doom, that I won’t make it.

I almost want to stop running, to finally succumb to the cruelty of nature and the casualness of nurture.  Nothing could have prepared me for this: only God, and He seems to have deserted me.

I start praying, my mind desperately launching pleas and promises: for delivery, and for eternal debt.

Please, God, spare me from the hellfire I can’t outrun, from the pain which I know is craving the taste of my soul in its putrid belly.  Please, God, don’t let me die.

No answer comes, no lightning bolt from On High, no great hand to reach down from the clouds and lift me to safety, high above the bramble and brush.

My nose fills with the stench of wood rot and mold, and my own sweat, dripping down the sides of my face, collecting in the nape of my neck, retreating down the crevice of my spine.

I keep running, even as the predator’s panting gets louder behind me.  I can almost feel the hot snarl of that churning hatred, frothing over with a desire to end my life, in a way most swift and terrible.

At least, I hope it will be swift.

Something grabs me from behind, but I slip free; fingers or talons or claws, I can’t be sure.  But it doesn’t matter, because with the second strike, I am captured and knocked to the ground, that murderous weight about to fall upon me from behind, and finish me off.

I bolt up with a start, looking around my quiet, dark bedroom.  All is well.  I am alone and unhurt, sheltered in the place of my childhood.  Just a dream, I tell myself, heart pounding in my chest, skin clammy with sweat.  Thank God, it was just a dream.

***

The quilt slowly takes shape beneath my sure and steady fingers.  I’ve often wondered how many little stitches it takes to create one of these cozy and colorful quilts.  A hundred thousand? I silently wonder once more.  A million?

Does it matter?

It doesn’t matter to the Englischers who buy them, souvenirs from their weekends among us, ornaments for their homes, gifts for their friends.  They don’t care how much work these quilts require, but they can certainly appreciate it.

We usually sew in quilting bees, and mine includes Greta and a few older ladies.  But I don’t always wait for them to collect in our quiet, somber home.  There’s work to be done, and it helps take my mind off of how quiet the house has become in these last few, terrible years.

When I’m focusing on the intricate diamonds and fine lines of the quilt, I don’t have to think about Mamm: those awful months she spent in bed, getting weaker and smaller, until, finally, there was nothing left of her at all.  When I’m dipping that sharp needle into the cotton, making sure the line is straight and the weaves are even, I’m distracted from thinking about Margaret, struck down by a carriage, just a year before Mamm took ill.  I knew then (and I always will be sure of this) that Mamm didn’t die from cancer, but from a broken heart, over the death of my kid sister.  I’m not a doctor, and I have to admit that even those Englischer doctors may have been right about the tumors growing in her stomach, preventing her from eating.  But the cancer was only God’s way of answering Mamm’s own prayers for death.  She didn’t want to live after what happened to Margaret.

All prayers are heard, I remind myself, even the horrible ones.

I stop and pray that my daed won’t turn himself over to the same sorrowful resolution.  He’s always been steady; a calm surface over a deep, still sea.  But even the seas themselves can part, even the bowels of the Earth can rip apart and swallow us whole, especially if we ask God to make it so.

So I ask God to prevent it, to give his servant Marcus Zook (and his sole surviving daughter Beth) the strength to endure our losses, and enjoy our blessings.  We still have each other, I remind myself, and our friends here in Indianasburg, and Aunt Sarah in Clarion, just a few counties away.

Maybe it’s time we brought Aunt Sarah here to live with us, it occurs to me.  She can’t be very happy since her own husband died, and that was years before our family tragedy turned its attention to our own household.

What did this family ever do to invite such heartache? I ask God, not for the first time.  Daed is a good man, even-tempered, and reasonable.  Doesn’t he deserve to be happy?  Won’t you turn your loving light upon him, Lord?  I don’t care for myself; but for his happiness, I’d offer any sacrifice.

No answer, at least not in the form of a lightning bolt or a burning bush; just silence, thick and cold and heavy.

All prayers are heard, and they are answered.

But not all answers are what they appear to be.

Poor Daed, I think to myself, pounding away at that pig iron every day, still plying the trade he learned as a boy, his own daed’s trade.  His hardware holds the whole town together; his hinges keep doors on jambs, his bolts and braces keep carriages running smoothly and safely.

I often wonder what goes through his mind when carriage repair is the order of the day, having lost our own dear Margaret the way we did.  Does he imagine that every carriage he fixes is the one that took our baby from us?  Does he strain to blot out flashing images of his next repaired carriage doing even greater damage to yet more innocent lives?  He’s so easygoing and relaxed, especially compared to other Amish men; yet he must have such strength and will to be able to keep doing what he does, after having lost the way he has.

Lord, I know you have some intention (I say, not nearly for the first time) and some plan, some reason for taking half of our family from us.  What are you preparing us for?  What window of opportunity should we expect, or be alert for, in exchange for all of these slamming doors?

My stomach growls, and my eyes are pulled to the window on the west wall of the large living room.  The sun dips lazily toward the horizon.

Four o’clock: time to prepare dinner.

I fold the quilt and pack up my sewing kit before retiring to the kitchen to cook supper for me and Daed.  It’s just the two of us, like always, so I don’t have to make the usually huge meals that we Amish are so well known for.  I prepare a nice chicken pot pie, with a bird fresh from our neighbor’s coop.  The carrots stay firm and crisp in the creamy filling.  A lot of people present pot pies as soup, with chunks of floating crust, but my pies are always firm, chunky with meat and veggies, a proud crust remaining firmly over the top.  A slice of one of my pot pies holds its shape better than most fruit pies would!

Several rooms away, the front door opens, and Daed enters.  Without a word, we go straight to the bathroom to wash up.  I gather up my own strength, inspired by his.  I know how hard he works to maintain a cheerful disposition, and I know he does it for my benefit, as much as for his own.  He wants to prevent me from falling into the chasm of depression that he is ever on the verge of slipping into, and, like all good parents, he leads by example.

And if he has the strength to do that for me, I remind myself, then I have the strength to do that for him.  So I take a deep breath, press a smile on my face, and step out of the kitchen to greet my poor, miserable daed.

When I see him, I almost drop the buttered beets before getting them to the dining room table.

Beth, honey, he says, his voice cheerful and rich, a genuine smile stretching across his face.  How was your day?

How was my...?  Um, it was fine, Daed.  I almost hesitate to ask.  Yours?

He stretches his arms out, as it to exaggerate the width of his smile (if it can be exaggerated, which I doubt).  Quite extraordinary.

Really?  I can feel my body becoming excited, hairs standing up on the backs of my arms, blood running just a bit quicker in my veins.  What happened?

He sits down and leans back in his chair at the dining table.  He mutters a quick prayer, both our heads bowed in respect.  Afterward, we look back up at each other, my unanswered question still hanging in the air between us.  You were saying, Daed?

What?  Oh yes, well...I fell in love.  My mouth falls open as his stretches even wider.  Well, perhaps I exaggerate, just a bit, he adds, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the Hand of God finally touching my shoulder once more!

Well, um, that’s great, Daed, I say, setting down the basket of biscuits, and sitting down to prepare my own plate.  And did this angel just waft down from heaven, or—?

May as well have, he says, dishing out a slice of chicken pot pie for each of us.  Rolled her carriage into my shop; needed a new rear axil clip.  She was so sweet and graceful, very feminine—

Daed, please!  Not at the dinner table.

He chuckles, but just a bit.  A thousand pardons.  Ruthie said she was on her way to Westington, looking for a place to settle with her boys.  I suggested she stay right here in Indianasburg.  After a hopeful little silence, he adds, And I think she just may!

Westington? I repeat to myself.  Nobody ever seems to come in from Westington, it occurs to me, and nobody I know has ever been there, close as it is.

I ask, She’s got sons...but no husband?

Widowed.  He reads my expression, which seems to reflect some skepticism.  It can happen to the best of us, Beth.

Of course, Daed, I didn’t mean—

They came in from Maryland, looking for a fresh start.  Now, surely you can sympathize with that.

Yes, of course I can, Daed.  And she’d be lucky to find someone as wonderful as you to share that new start with.  I lean over and give him a little kiss on the forehead.  Where are they now?

Taking a few rooms at the Norton’s bed and breakfast, while they get a feel for the area.

I almost want to wink, but I don’t want to be disrespectful.  For the area?

Beth, please, not at the dinner table.  We share a little chuckle, and return our attentions to the meal.  The beets are quite tasty tonight, he says.

I imagine everything tastes a little better now.

Y’know, I was beginning to wonder... he says, head dipping down, eyes finding his plate.  Not needing me to cajole him, he adds, Whether God ever intended for me to be happy again, or if...if it was my fate to remain alone, isolated—

You’ll never be alone, Daed, not as long as I’m here.

His smile is bittersweet, and it cannot hold on for long.  And I appreciate that, Beth.  But I’m your daed; it’s not for you to take care of me.  You’re sixteen now, you’ll find a husband of your own soon, raise your own children.  And that’s as it should be.  At least now I can see that God, in His infinite wisdom, hasn’t forgotten us; that his plan does include a happy ending for us both.

Now mine is the smile that struggles and fails.  How could you ever doubt it? I ask, even as I already know the answer; I understand perfectly well how it is that he doubts it, because I doubt it too, perhaps even more!  It’s easy to doubt, even with faith as strong as ours.  In the face of all this loss, all this sadness, even in the midst of so much happiness among the others in our community, it’s easy to forget the God is watching out for us.  It’s easier still to believe that He is not only still watching, but taking some twisted pleasure in our misery.

But ours is not to know the ways of the Lord, or to wield them for our own pleasure.  Isiah 45:9 reminds us, Woe to those who quarrel with their Maker, those who are nothing but potsherds among the potsherds on the ground. Does the clay say to the potter, ‘What are you making?’ Does your work say, ‘The potter has no hands?’

So if this is God’s plan, if Daed is seeing things as they truly are, and his joy has been returned, then I couldn’t be happier.

But it remains a pretty big if.

***

The next morning, Daed and I take the carriage to Norton’s, to take Ruthie and her sons on a guided tour of Indianasburg.  A town of only twenty thousand people, there isn’t much to see beyond our quaint Main Street, and the other few services and retailers, including my daed’s iron smith’s house.

The spring air is heavy with the sweet aroma of the purple nicotiana flowers and the water lilies, floating on the glassy surface of Baller’s Pond.  White oaks and American beech trees rise up in the distance, cluttering the foothills of the Appalachian Mountain range along the horizon.

What a lovely place, Ruthie says, looking around the simple, country-style buildings and old-fashioned iron street lamps.  So many cars for such a little Amish town.

Only about three thousand citizens of Indiana County are Amish, my daed says, Ruthie nodding as she considers.  She’s very attractive, with piercing blue eyes and creamy white skin.  Judging by her eyebrows, her hair is golden blonde under her bonnet.

I sit in back, scrunched in with the two Graber boys.  Older Daniel looks around, with the brooding air of a caged, red-haired gorilla, snorting and dissatisfied.  Beside him, younger, blond-haired Vincent seems nervous, his mouth stretching in a smile and then dipping in a self-conscious pout.  He seems disinterested in my daed’s tour of the town, and much more interested in the tiniest movements of his older brother.  But, besides their last name, they don’t seem to share much in the way of physical resemblance, although Vincent does look a little bit like Ruthie, with a bit of effort on my part.

Well, they could just as easily resemble their poor, deceased father, I tell myself as I look back at them.  When they notice my attention, I say, You guys think you’ll be happy here?

Daniel shrugs.  Happy as anywhere, I suppose.  I think I notice Ruthie shooting a hard look at him from the front, and Daniel clears his throat to add, What I mean is, it’s not for us to be happy, but to be faithful and dutiful and humble in all things.

As if satisfied, Ruthie turns back around, but I’m still interested in these two boys and their vaguely disturbing air.  I think I’m more curious about them, than in their interest in our little town, but it doesn’t really matter.  When I ask Vincent, What do you boys do? neither one of them has much choice, but to answer.

Vincent says, Farming.

Daniel adds, When we have land to farm, that is.

How long have you been traveling like this?

Just a few weeks, Ruthie says, interrupting their possible answers.  We’re up from Maryland, where we grew all kinds of things, vegetables mostly.  Then we lost our Gilbert, and, well, we finally had to move on.

Quite innocently, I ask the boys, You two couldn’t run the farm?

Daniel and Vincent exchange worried glances before Ruthie once more steps in.  Too many memories; it was just too painful.

The boys lean back, and, having little choice myself, I accept her answer and turn around to face forward.

I’m sorry for your loss, I say, as Ruthie nods, and turns her attention back to my daed.

Our tour loops around the town and through the craggy hills, caked with scraggily yellow birches and lush eastern hemlocks.  It’s calm; almost too calm.

And things are often not as they appear.

I think of Galatians, 6:7, which says, Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows.

But what deception? I have to ask myself, hearing in my mind’s ear the words of 1 Corinthians, 15:36-38, which says, How foolish! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.  When you sow, you do not plant the body that will be, but just a seed, perhaps of wheat or of something else.  But God gives it a body as he has determined, and to each kind of seed he gives its own body.

Surely, I tell myself, there is nothing here that is beyond the abilities of God, nor beyond His sight.  The trees stand unworried, the birds chirping without care.  What troubles must plague me then?  Am I so different, that I am beyond God’s blessings, beyond the calm of his natural creation?

I sit quietly, trying to emulate the calm of the forest.

Trying.

Ruthie focuses most of her attention on my daed, which makes sense, and doesn’t bother me in the least.  I certainly don’t have much interest in Ruthie’s attention myself, and my daed is truly the only reason she, or her sons, would be in our carriage to begin with.

So I’m not standing in the way of God’s plan for my daed’s happiness.  But something is interfering with my own happiness, something I can’t explain, but can’t deny.

***

Beth, that’s wonderful!  Greta looks up at me with a hopeful smile on her chubby face, cheeks round and shiny.  We stroll down Baker Street toward the grocer’s, to get some things we both need and can’t get anywhere else (a new toothbrush and other toiletries), each with an empty basket to carry our goods home in.

And, I agree, the idea that my daed is in love is a wonderful thing, a wonderful idea.

Greta takes a closer look at my worried expression.  Something wrong?

No, Greta, of course it’s great.  I just...I dunno; something about them doesn’t sit right with me.

She’s new in town?

I nod, not needing to explain that this is one of the reasons I’m cautious about being too excited.  Has two sons, too, I add. Teenagers.

Greta smiles, her own mind roaming to private corners.  Really?  Are they cute?  I do not return Greta’s smile.  Well, I’m sure they’re perfectly fine, Greta says.  Did they say if they were Old Order or New?

They didn’t.  Old Order, I hope.

Well, of course.

We walk on, a gentle spring breeze offsetting the growing heat of the sunlight streaming down between the trees.

Not like your daed to be so quickly impressed, Greta says.  And he’s got plenty of common sense, so that should reassure you.

I smile, but it isn’t easy.  He’s also lonely, and loneliness makes a fool of common sense.

Bethany Ann Zook, don’t tell me you’re jealous?

I can’t hide my short-tempered shock.  Of course not!  I’d like nothing more than for my daed to find another wife, not have to spend the rest of his years alone.

And this way, you won’t necessarily have to spend the rest of your days taking care of him.

Greta!  I’ll never leave my daed’s side, no matter who either of us marries.  Our family has been separated by too much as it is: death, tragedy.  I’m going to add love to that list.

Greta’s little head shifts as she thinks about it.  Then, could it be that you feel threatened, that your place beside your daed is going to be usurped?

I’m losing my patience with Greta, even though I can see she means no harm.  She may even have a point, loathe as I am to recognize that fact, much less admit it.

CHAPTER TWO

Ruthie is so grateful for the tour, and our hospitality, that she insists on coming to our house so her boys could help with a variety of chores that need doing.  I won’t hear any more about it, Ruthie says, as my humble and unassuming daed leads Chantilly, our paint, toward the house, our carriage rolling steadily behind her.

Once at the house, Vincent and Daniel quickly take to their duties.  I watch quietly as they go about fixing a broken fence plank on the east side of the property, before moving on to fix another on the west side.  They work hard, but they do a lot of looking around, a repeated behavior that can’t help but grab my attention.

Inside, meanwhile, Ruthie begins washing the windows, rubbing hard with some of the cleansers I got at the local grocer’s with Greta, the day before.

I’m grateful that they’re taking their time and energy to return my daed’s hospitality (and mine, to a much lesser degree), and I’m not about to complain that some of my least favorite chores are getting done.  But, it feels odd to have these strangers in our house, especially while I’m here alone.  I’m not afraid, exactly, because I don’t know that I have anything to be afraid of.  Anyway, I know I’m under the protection of the Lord Almighty, that He would never deliver me into a situation I couldn’t survive.

But all the faith in the world doesn’t change the basic fact, that being surrounded by strangers while home alone is frightening, especially for a girl of only sixteen.  I suppose if I were a boy, or older, I might feel differently.

So, I watch Ruthie while I sweep.  I don’t notice anything in her behavior that seems odd.  She isn’t doing anything, other than cleaning the windows, then moving on to the dusting, once she’s done.

Silly Beth, I have to tell myself, maybe Greta is right, and you’re just being jealous or insecure.  And how ungodly to harbor suspicions of these fine people, even as they bend down to help with these lowly and difficult chores.

Still, I remind my own inner skeptic, this is my house.  These are my chores.  I don’t mind doing them.  And I don’t like strangers getting too close, too fast.

But I know it’s not what I like, or don’t like, that matters, it’s what God desires.  And my only true goal is to understand what that is, and to do everything I can to further God’s intent, whatever it may be.

My gaze returns to the Graber boys, finishing up with the first stretch of fence.  They seem to be lingering over it, chatting, while the minutes that should be dedicated to labor waft away like smoke in the breeze.

My boys, Ruthie says, suddenly behind me.  Which one?

I’m sorry?

Ruthie waves me off.  Which one of my boys are you interested in?

What?  Oh, Ruthie, no, I’m not really—

It’s okay, Beth, Ruthie says, there’s no shame in it.  Unless you’re...already seeing someone?

Unable and unwilling to lie, I can only say, Um, no, it’s not that...

Really?  Ruthie sets her hand on my arm.  Why?  Beth, you’re a very pleasant young woman.  I’m sure a lot of the local young men would want you for a wife.

Well, I...  I’m not accustomed to talking about these things with anyone other than Greta, my best friend, much less with a nearly total stranger.  Again, the truth comes out; it’s the only thing I ever say.  I had a suitor, but he found interest in another girl.

Ruthie shakes her head.  Boys, am I right?  Well, don’t you worry about it.  Y’know, even though your daed and I are...becoming close, doesn’t mean that you are the sister to either of my boys.

They’re not...  I clear my throat, and push out the rest of my question, against my better judgment.  They’re not seeing anyone?

The girls back in Maryland all wanted to marry my boys, Ruthie says, her eyes finding her sons, as they linger by the fence.  But none were good enough.  Of course, none of them had your...soul, your spirit.

My spirit? I repeat silently.  It’s okay, I suppose, but I find it pretty hard to believe that my soul is so far above everybody else’s.

I very nearly quote Deuteronomy 9:4-6, but I hold my tongue, letting those wondrous words echo in my head, and in my heart:

After the Lord your God has driven them out before you, do not say to yourself, The Lord has brought me here to take possession of this land because of my righteousness. No, it is on account of the wickedness of these nations that the Lord is going to drive them out before you.  It is not because of your righteousness or your integrity that you are going in to take possession of their land; but on account of the wickedness of these nations, the Lord your God will drive them out before you, to accomplish what he swore to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  Understand, then, that it is not because of your righteousness that the Lord your God is giving you this good land to possess, for you are a stiff-necked people.

I reflect on the scripture, wondering why God would remind me of these particular verses.  Which ones among us are the wicked? I have to wonder.  Are we all not stiff-necked and unworthy?

I think of Ephesians, 2:8-10, one of my favorite passages: For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.  For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them.

I just say, Well, that’s very kind of you to say, Ruthie.

I’m not just being kind.  She looks out at her sons.  "Daniel certainly is well