jr_ - The Witness Carol

George DeTellis Jr.

The Witness Carol

George DeTellis, Jr.
with David Wimbish

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are products of the authors
imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Editorial development by
Hazard Communications, Inc.

P.O. Box 568

Round Hill, Virginia, 20142
Phone:(540)338-7032
Email:

This book is dedicated to my grandparents
Charles and Anna DiPietro.
Your lives have been the greatest witness.

King Davids Prophecy

Psalm 22:30

A seed shall serve him; it shall be accounted to the
Lord for every generation. They shall come
and declare his righteousness unto a people that
shall be born that he hath done this

Thursday, November 15th

It was cold and raining as the mourners slowly spilled out of the church and onto the hilly countryside of central Virginia.

The dull gray of the afternoon sky above the broad Shenandoah Valley, with its patchwork of farms, was a stark contrast to the fiery autumn foliage on the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains.

Six men in dark suits, shoulders hunched beneath their small load, carried the simple coffin up the hill to the cemetery. Nick Romano was the only one of those men who had not been born and raised within a stones throw of the small Mennonite Church from which he and the other pall bearers were emerging into the overcast afternoon.

Out in the yard of Singers Glen Mennonite Church, Nick stepped into a soft spot and his left foot sank in mud up to the top of his shoe. He could feel his muscles strain as he stumbled; then he breathed a silent prayer of thanks as he quickly regained his balance and tightened his grip on the brass handle of the coffin.

Behind them came the mourners. Beyond the low stone wall of the cemetery, a freshly dug gravesite yawned black and moist amidst the rows of plain marble headstones.

Once theyd set the coffin in the straps that would lower it into the grave, Nicks eyes searched the small crowd. There was his wife, Rachel, standing on the opposite side of the grave with the women. With her blond hair loosely styled, she stood out among the other women who were all wearing traditional Mennonite head coverings. Rachel kept her gaze to the ground, dabbing at her eyes with a cotton handkerchief. Nick wanted to go to her, to stand beside her with his arm protectively around her slender shoulders. But he was careful to respect the traditions and beliefs of his wifes Mennonite roots: traditions and beliefs that kept men gathered on one side of the grave and women on the other. So he stood quietly, his hands clasped behind his back, aware too, that he stood out from the other men with their collarless suits and clean-shaven faces.

Bishop Witmer cleared his throat and began the graveside portion of the funeral. The lengthy service held earlier in the primitive clapboard church had been primarily in German, with a little English interspersed for the benefit of the non-Mennonite visitors.
But it wasnt the differences in culture or language that made Nick feel so alone. Something deeper that had been troubling him for months chose this moment to work its way to the surface.

The nasal drone of the bishop, as he read from The Ministers Service Book, drew on one part of Nicks mind while deeper personal matters fought for another place in his thoughts.

Servant of God, well done, the Bishop read. Thy glorious warfares past...

Nicks mind wandered back to their last visit here, when Rachels grandfather, Isaac Keener, now resting inside this coffin, was still alive and vibrant. Nick had only met him a few times, but he had always admired the old mans fervent spiritual convictions. There was a fire in his old soul that fascinated Nick. Maybe that was why he felt so troubled at this moment.
Rachel had never lost her childlike adoration for her grandfather. She often told stories about watching him at his blacksmiths shop, hammering out horseshoes and plows for the Mennonite community here in Singers Glen, Virginia.

It was odd, Nick thought, how the man they were about to lower into the ground could be so humble and unassuming yet so firm and alive in his devotion to God. Nick had never spoken to Isaac without being impressed by the older mans knowledge of the scriptures and his commitment to live out its teachings.

Grandpa had lived to be ninety years old. He had raised his children and his grandchildren. But Nick found himself wondering, What is Gods purpose for my life? Is this all there is to it--you raise your family and then die? Isnt there something more than this?

... the battles fought, the race is won... said the Bishop, loudly.

Today, as was true every time he came here, Nick was struck by the differences between his family and Rachels. Their cultures couldnt have been more different. Rachels relatives were strong, quiet Mennonites who strove to be gentle and humble in everything they did. He came from a large and boisterous Italian family where nobody minded a little shouting every now and then. Whereas Rachels family had farmed the Shenandoah Valley between these ridges for nearly 200 years, the Romanos had come to Boston from Italy in the early 1900s.

... and thou art crowned at last, Amen.

Nick had met Rachel when they were working together as missionaries in Haiti. Nicks father, who was a pastor, had gone to Haiti as a missionary when Nick was still a teenager, and now theyd been there for nearly twenty years. Despite their differences, Nick and Rachel had immediately sensed a mutual attraction--an attraction made stronger by their shared love for God.

But for Nick, something was missing. And it had been missing for some time.

The bishop seemed to be ending the eulogy, and Nick redirected his attention toward the lowering of the coffin. Many of the women were crying openly now, and his heart ached for Rachel in her grief. At her side cousin Greta, her first pregnancy beginning to show, placed a comforting arm around Rachels shoulders, and Nick was grateful. Every time he and Rachel had visited, these people had proven to be a caring, close-knit community.

As the mourners turned away from the grave to make their way back to the house that Nick thought of as the parsonage, they consoled each other with firm handshakes and quiet embraces. Jacob, Gretas husband, patted Nick on the shoulder as he walked beside him.

Its a sad day, but a joyous one as well, Jacob said with a grim smile. Nick only nodded, noting that the other mans supply of encouraging proverbs seemed to have dried up. He slowed his step and waited for Rachel.

Are you all right? he asked gently. She slipped her hand into his and laid her cheek against his shoulder for a moment.

Yes, Ill be fine, she answered. How about you? You okay?

He kissed the top of her head. Yes. Im good, he said and let her pull away to follow the rest of the women into the house. Watching her go, he added to his thought, just a little dead inside, thats all.