Garment of praise, p.1
Garment of Praise, page 1
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
GARMENT OF PRAISE
Copyright © 2024 by Linda Byler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Byler, Linda, author.
Title: Garment of praise / Linda Byler.
Description: New York, New York: Good Books, 2024. | Series: New directions; book 3 | Summary: “The final book in the New Directions series delves into the complexities of a blended Amish family”--
Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023041723 (print) | LCCN 2023041724 (ebook) | ISBN 9781680999068 (paperback) | ISBN 9781680999129 (epub)
Subjects: LCGFT: Christian fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3602.Y53 G37 2024 (print) | LCC PS3602.Y53 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20230929
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023041723
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023041724
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-906-8
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-912-9
Cover design by Godfredson Design
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY LINDA BYLER
CHAPTER 1
TITUS MILLER SURVEYED THE SCENE BEFORE HIM, TUGGED AT HIS work gloves, and wished he were anywhere but here. He lifted his Carhartt beanie, ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair, and wondered again how his father could reasonably justify the felling of these magnificent trees.
Chainsaws whined, the sound of destruction and death to a haven for birds and small creatures, the depletion of life-giving, earth-saving oxygen.
The mountain stretched beyond the logging area, untouched, amazing in its height and beauty, the sky above it a brilliant blue with scudding white clouds hurrying before the stiff gale.
He’d given in to his father’s pleading to learn the trade, to accompany him to the foot of the Bighorn Mountains and areas beyond, some of them a hundred or more miles away from the small Amish settlement in the rural areas of Wyoming.
He’d worked on local ranches, suffered through his father’s marriage to Susan Lapp from Pennsylvania, taken life lessons from his teacher, Darlene Yoder, and had no interest in social gatherings or girls. At almost twenty years of age, he’d finally agreed to take part in his father’s logging business, and here he was, reeling from the onslaught of negative emotion yet again.
It was the trees, the natural beauty of them, that put a lump in his throat, made him feel like screaming at his father to stop. Stop the madness. But he knew there would always be a demand for lumber, the building, the construction of new homes, garages, pole sheds, and so many numerous uses all across the United States.
And so he climbed into the skidder, the huge piece of equipment that was indispensable to every logging project. Skidding the logs meant dragging or hauling them from the cutting area to the landing, an area filled with cut trees. As he worked the controls, steered the giant wheels in the general direction of the whining saws, he swallowed his resentment yet again, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
He watched his father make an expert undercut in the side of the tree that was to fall to the ground, then swing his massive chainsaw to the opposite side to begin the job of felling it. His thick shoulders heaved, his coat torn at the seams from hours of cutting. His massive hands gripped the saw as if it were a spoon or a fork. His feet were planted in just the right position, his thick legs all the support he needed.
Titus knew the tree would crash to earth in the exact spot his father wanted, before his employee, Jason Luhrs, would begin the work of sawing limbs, preparing it for Titus to haul away.
Over and over, his father had explained forestry to him, trying to get Titus to see the beauty of taking out the mature trees, leaving the saplings, replanting, sowing grass to eliminate erosion, but he remained obstinate in his own opinion. He could butter him up all he wanted, he was still destroying natural habitat for owls and ravens, songbirds, chipmunks, and squirrels. Every creature of the forest he knew would be misplaced, driven out of their home by man’s greed for lumber.
And so his days were spent, performing his duties well on the outside, resentment eating away on the inside.
SUSAN SIGHED AS she turned the chicken in the cast iron pan. Too dark. Isaac would notice. Well, nothing to be done about that now.
It was too hot in the house, as usual. That woodstove in the basement was way too big, and burned like a roaring monster all winter long, and that was all there was to it. She’d fussed about it for a few years now, but Isaac turned a deaf ear every time she mentioned it.
She lifted the chicken—the burnt pieces irritating her—and plopped it on a foil-lined pan, shoved it into the oven, banging the door to make herself feel better. Then she moved to the window above the sink, snapped the lock and wound the lever furiously, basking in the cold air of early winter.
The Bighorn Mountains in the background gave her the usual sense of peace, the momentary pause she so badly needed.
Her eyes took in the snow-tipped peaks, the lines creating dark and light, the ridges cascading vertically along the mountains’ sides. She felt the presence of a higher power, the Creator who had designed all things, including her love for Isaac, and the willingness to join him in Wyoming, to be a mother of his two children, and to have children with him.
On some days, none of it was easy.
Titus was the one who could wreck her days as thoroughly as a fast-moving tornado, leaving everything she had ever built in shambles.
She’d tried everything, including taking his side as a protection against the strong will of his father, keeping the logging at bay.
She didn’t admonish or wheedle, never tried to force him to change, always staying low key, without ruffling feathers. But lately, she picked up an even greater resentment from him, a disapproval of everything she said or did. She felt she was walking a narrow path along the side of a steep cliff, desperately watching every step she made in order to clear up his bad attitude.
She jumped when she heard the mudroom door open. Lost in her reverie, she’d failed to hear the throbbing of a diesel engine, heralding her husband’s return. A cry from the bedroom, then a distinct wail.
Thayer.
At two years old, he was old enough to climb off his youth bed and make his way out to the kitchen, but he preferred the luxury of having his mother come to him, hugging and kissing, showering him with her love. It was so easy, this natural biological love for the children you had borne yourself, flesh of your flesh, and all that.
There is a special place in every mother’s heart for her children. No greater truth had ever been instilled in her own heart, but this truth often served the purpose of filling her uncomfortably with guilt for the irritation she felt toward Titus.
Thayer was sitting up in the middle of his little bed, his dark hair matted, a distinct odor giving away the fact he was soaking wet, as was the clean bedding she’d put on yesterday.
She reached for him, smoothed his hair, and kissed his cheek, carrying him by his armpits to the bathroom, quietly telling him he’d need a change of clean clothes. Should have taken him before his nap, but it was too late now.
“Hey!”
Isaac, yelling from the kitchen.
“In here,” she called.
A shadow filled the door.
“Hey, little man!”
She drew up the suspenders, tucked his shirttail into the elastic waistband, and got up from her knees. She gave him a small shove in the direction of his father and turned to take the wet clothing to the wringer washer in the mudroom, without meeting Isaac’s eyes. She didn’t feel like greeting that overabundance of enthusiasm shining from him, that level of clear-eyed happiness and overflow of the great outdoors, the invigoration of fresh air and hard work. Did he even care that she was stuck in this overheated house with the little ones all day?
She heard footsteps behind her as she walked through the kitchen, but made no move to s tart a conversation. Titus was slouched in a chair, his face impassive, his blond hair tousled.
“Hey, Titus,” she managed.
“Hey.”
“How was your day?” Isaac asked her in his booming, much too loud voice carrying over from his day of logging.
“Good. A day at home with the children.”
“That’s good,” he remarked, watching her face.
Good. Yes. Everything is always good. It’s the way we live, our lives, skimming the froth over the top and thinking it’s great, afraid to dig deeper and see the true bitterness of the bottom of the glass.
“Supper ready?”
“Not for another hour. Sorry. I was trying to finish Kayla’s dress.”
“It’s okay. I need to spend time in the barn anyway. You coming, Titus?”
They shrugged back into their coats and went back outside.
“Mom?”
Kayla stood in the doorway, a petite little girl of four, her brown hair neatly braided, her large green eyes opened wide, her eyebrows lifted.
“Thayer is getting my Play-Doh.”
Susan hurried to remedy the situation, shaking her head when Kayla told her he had some in his mouth.
“Thayer, no. Do not eat this. No. It’s not good for you.”
Thayer’s face scrunched into a grimace, and howls of indignation erupted, setting Susan’s teeth on edge. Burnt chicken, wet bedding, Play-Doh ingested, time for supper and no potatoes peeled.
Oh, motherhood, where is thy joy? she thought. Someone should have warned her the minute she even thought of coming to Wyoming, thousands of miles from her family, to a man she most certainly had not known well enough to marry.
She set Thayer on his high chair, scattered a few Cheerios on the tray, filled a sippy cup with apple juice, and turned to peel potatoes. If they didn’t eat so much, she’d have a break sometimes, but you’d think they hadn’t eaten for a week when they came home from work.
The mudroom door opened again, and Sharon walked in, her face red with exertion, her breath coming in gasps.
“Whew! Glad to be home. That wind!”
“It’s too far on your bike, Sharon. I wish you’d let Lucille drive you home.”
“No, Mom. I love biking.”
“I know you do.”
Susan turned to look at her twelve-year-old, a happy, energetic girl who would soon have her thirteenth birthday, loving school and her friends, having spent time with her best friend Rhoda after school. She was the opposite of Titus, her carefree nature a blessing for a stepmother. She loved her as if she were her own, which she was, though she hadn’t birthed her. She and Titus were both her own and had been since she married their father, and yet it was so much easier to feel it with Sharon.
“Mom, Rhoda’s Mom made chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese icing in the middle. Like, down in. On top, there was chocolate icing with tiny little chocolate chips. The best thing ever. Hey there, little Thayer honey. Hi! Give me a Cheerio. Come on. Just one.”
Thayer shook his head, his mouth wide open, saying, “No, no. Mine.”
Susan put the potatoes on to boil, smoothed a hand over her apron, and smiled at Sharon.
“They sound good. What else did you have?”
“Just them. We were working on turkeys for Teacher Darlene. They’re made from paper plates, but we’re using real turkey feathers. You have to come visit school, so you can see how neat they are.”
“I bet.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s in the barn.”
Which was where Sharon would be as soon as possible, Susan thought, as she ran hot water over a Zip-loc bag of frozen corn.
She watched her race to the barn, throw the door open, and disappear, leaving Susan alone with her thoughts. As she made gravy and shredded cabbage for coleslaw, she thought she might need to call Kate, her sister who was married to Levi Yoder now, the only man Susan had thought she could ever love. Well, that certainly hadn’t worked out well, and most of the time she was relieved. God surely did work in mysterious ways, and Kate was designed to be a true helpmeet to a man who had been unfaithful to Susan. She felt as if she could use a large dose of Kate’s sweetness, her absolute devotion to Levi.
Isaac was a good husband and father, just an absent one, and one who became easily self-absorbed, talking only of himself and his logging enterprise.
When they all clattered through the door again, Susan was dishing out the buttery mashed potatoes, pouring gravy, the kitchen warm and inviting.
“How come that window’s open?” Isaac asked.
“Guess why.”
Her tone was more disgruntled than she meant it to be, so she quickly looked at Isaac and smiled. He met her eyes and raised his eyebrows, then burst out laughing.
“Don’t put so much wood on the fire,” he shouted.
She swallowed a surly comeback.
She watched the men pile on the mashed potatoes, dump copious amounts of gravy. Titus’s plate was running over, so he drew a finger through his potatoes to keep the gravy from spilling, then licked it off. Susan opened her mouth, then closed it, thought of walking the slippery path along the cliffside. She glanced at Isaac, saw he hadn’t noticed.
“Mm, crispy chicken,” Sharon trilled.
“Very crispy,” Isaac mumbled around a mouthful of potato.
“You say one word about this supper and I’m getting out the cast iron frying pan, and it won’t be to fry more chicken, either,” she said, her voice rising slightly.
Isaac, good natured as always, threw back his head, opened his mouth, and guffawed. Titus’s mouth twitched. Susan glared as Sharon’s laugh mingled with her father’s.
“Sorry, my dear. It’s delicious. Just a little darker than normal,” Isaac said, wiping his eyes with his napkin.
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you marry a girl from Pennsylvania. I have to learn how to make an apron for Kayla. Nothing went right. They’re not like ours at all. I ruined one and the second one doesn’t look promising.”
Titus busied himself removing the skin from his chicken. He leveled a look at her and told her he was sorry they were such a burden.
“You’re not, Titus. I was just saying.”
The snort was accompanied by flashing eyes, a taunt, a look that sent her sliding down into her chair only a bit.
“You wish you’d never met us,” he finished.
“Titus, that’s enough.”
Sharon looked at her plate, choked on her chicken, picked up her water glass, and took a swallow.
The remainder of the meal was stiff, with only the scraping of utensils, the polite remarks about the weather. After the dishes were done and the children bathed and put to bed, Susan swept the kitchen and enjoyed a long, hot bath, a few drops of lavender oil and a eucalyptus candle burning on the ledge. She fully expected Isaac to be snoring in his favorite chair, but was surprised to see him awake, sitting on the couch as if ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
“You’re awake.”
More a question than a statement.
“You’re worrying me, Susan.”
Straight to the point, as always.
She sighed, sat beside him. Keeping her distance, her arms wrapped around herself. This was the part about marriage she had not been quite able to comprehend, even now. The stuff that wedged its way between them. Metaphorical trash. Neglect, bad table manners, resentment, caring only for oneself and not for the other, control, all these stupid niggling little things that turned into a mountain, making it hard to be open and honest and vulnerable to each other. It was far easier to go to bed, turn your back, to hang onto whatever wrong had been done at the time, than to bring it out in the open and risk appearing foolish and needy.
“I can’t see why.”
“You didn’t like me today when I got home from work.”
“Yes I did.”
“Huh-uh. You wouldn’t even look at me.”
“But …”
“Tell me.”
“It’s too stupid.”
“Nothing is stupid if it comes between us.”
“You’re just so away all the time. And when you’re home you don’t notice me or anything. You don’t talk. It’s the kids, supper, the horses, and asleep on your chair.”
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“But you have nothing to say. Nothing except trees, trucks, skidders, and chainsaws. The occasional raccoon.”
