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was Esther, attentive as ever.
    Rachel needed help walking to and from the buggy and into the Yoders’ farmhouse. There had been times after her hospital release when her vision actually seemed to be improving. Today, however, things were rather dim again.
    A blistering sun beat down on the People, nearly two hundred strong, as they traveled for miles—most of them by horse and carriage—to gather at the farmhouse of Jacob’s father, Caleb Yoder. The Yoders, both Caleb and his wife Mary, had wanted the funeral at home, due to the tragic nature of the deaths and the fact that it was a combined funeral for father and son.
    “Has nothin’ to do with us bein’ Old Order,” Caleb had assured her. “A home setting always makes for better.” He said this with eyes hollow, his wrinkled face gray as death itself.
    Rachel knew enough not to question, for Caleb Yoder was not a man to tolerate interference. And she wouldn’t have thought of doing so anyway. Being submissive was a result of having been the last daughter in a string of siblings prob’ly. And one of the twelve character gifts her father liked to talk about. Benjamin Zook believed certain traits were handed down through all families, through the ages. “Old” gifts, he chose to call them. Values such as generosity, responsibility, serenity, and simplicity. And, yes, submission.
    Three expansive rooms had been prepared by removing the wall partitions so the People could see the preachers from any corner. The air was thick with heat and humidity as folks gathered, sitting on closely spaced wooden benches the length of each room. Women sat on one side of the house, men on the other. A large number of Jacob’s English woodworking clients and friends also showed up to pay their respects. The house was filled to capacity, chairs being added here and there at the end of a bench row, squeezing in an additional person wherever possible.
    Rachel sat stone-still, facing the coffins—one large, the other heartbreakingly small—seated with her relatives, Jacob’s and Aaron’s closest kin. Her back to the minister, Rachel recalled the painful, nagging memory of how they’d scurried about that last morning. She held her daughter close, letting Annie lean back against her, careful not to bump the broken arm. Rachel was glad her little one was still small enough to hold on her lap this way. There was something comforting about embracing a child, and she thought perhaps it was because she had lost the tiny baby growing inside her.
    While they waited for the service to begin, she struggled with her circumstance, wishing she could go back and unravel the hours, relive their last morning together. A thousand times a day she wished it.
    What was it Jacob had said—that they had plenty of time? She dismissed her keen thoughts for now, till her dear ones were safely buried in the ground, though the tragedy was as real to her as the precious child in her arms.
    The People waited silently, reverently, for the designated hour. Then the various clocks in the house began to strike nine times, and the first minister in a lineup of several preachers removed his straw hat. The others removed their hats in unison.
    The first preacher chose a spot, standing between the living room and kitchen. Rachel didn’t have to turn and try to focus her eyes on him; she knew the scene by heart, from having attended a number of traditional Amish funerals. It was her place to face forward, to keep her eyes, though cloudy and dim, on the handmade pine coffins.
    “The gathering here today is an important one,” the preacher began. “God is speaking to us—all of us—through the death of our brother and his young son.”
    Rachel listened intently, adjusting Annie’s position on her lap. Her little daughter might never even remember this solemn day, but Rachel wouldn’t have considered not bringing her.
    The preacher continued. “We do not wish either our brother Jacob Yoder back into this life or