It’s getting toward 7:30 when the Yoders leave. Gretchen comes over to me and says, “I need a bath. Will you walk with me to the hot springs?”

        “Of course!” I say. “Will you be doing your hair? Should we stop at the outhouse for some corn cobs?”

        She laughs for, I’m pretty sure, the first time all day. “I’ll NEVER get that image out of my mind,” she says between raucous snorts.

        “Well, then you’ll never have a totally bad, in-the-tank kind of day ever again for the rest of your life,” I say, then add, “You’re welcome.”

        We’re halfway to our destination when her phone chirps. I watch as Gretchen gapes at the screen then shrieks, “It’s Tova! She wrote ‘Coming!’!!” Then she cries out, “Oh noooo! Now I’m totally out of juice.”

        “I TOLD her not to contact us,” I grouse. “That woman never does what she’s told. Her life’s mantra has always been: You’re not the boss of me. I’m so sorry, Gretchen.”

        “It’s okay,” Gretchen says. “At least we know she’s en route. That helps.”

        “That definitely helps,” I say as we reach the hot springs. I take off my clod hopper work boots and soak my feet in the bubbling waters below. “This is so heavenly,” I say with a sigh, closing my eyes.

        “Whadd’ya think?” asks Gretchen. “I know it’s not a ruined silk leopard ‘swim dress,’ but will it do?”

        I open my eyes to discover she’s shimmied out of her cute shorts-and-shirt combo and is modeling an even cuter simple black tankini.

        “I’m telling Ezra, you Englisher strumpet, you!” I say.

        Now she’s doubling over. I love this about Gretchen; she is definitely not a wallower, and she makes the best of any situation she’s in.

        “I heard the kids singing Amazing Grace,” she says as she wades down into the hot springs. She dips under and, as she breaks the surface again, her long dark hair, now shiny-wet and clinging all over her shoulders and back, like seaweed, evokes thoughts for me of a trained Sea World performer.

        “I knew I should’ve brought along a corn cob,” I shout out to her. “You could be balancing it on your nose now and entertaining me!”

        “Allen, don’t you make me pull you under in all that Amish splendor you’re wearing,” she says in a teasing No Nonsense Mom voice.

        “The kids made me cry, they sang it so beautifully,” I admit to her.

        Gretchen says, “I don’t even like Amazing Grace, and I found myself feeling spellbound.” She begins lathering up with a big white brick of Amish-made soap.

        “You don’t like Amazing Grace?” I ask, incredulous. “Oy! Don’t ever mention that to our fellow FanStorians. They’ll have your hide for heresy of that biblical magnitude!” I continue. “All three of those sibs inherited their mother’s musical gifts. They’re just naturals.” I pause a minute then say, “I’m going to suggest to Rebekah that she come with us, Gretchen. She’s been contemplating doing Rumspringa – you know, that ‘sow your wild oats before you choose to commit yourself to the church’ thing? I’d love for her to explore some musical options.”

        “OY!” says Gretchen.

        I give her a smirk and say, “You are so bad,” and flick water at her with my big toe. “In my heart of hearts, I don’t think she’d ever leave this lifestyle – or her brothers, certainly – but I’d love for her to have another facet of music to know about besides just hymns. It could be her special treasure to hold inside and nurture forever.”

        Gretchen stops mid-armpit-scrub and says, “And to think what I was feeling excited about for this evening was the prospect of learning how to make faceless cornhusk dolls.”

That sends us on a much-needed laughing jag. If we just had a bottle of wine here, this would be the perfect Girls’ Night Out.

        Afterward, at the house, Rebekah and I are hand-stitching quilting squares again while, instead of whittling, the boys are helping Ezra with something in the barn. Out of the blue, she says, “May I hear you sing something? It doesn’t have to be a hymn. Just something beautiful that you love.”

        “Of course,” I say. “I’m going to give you the full effect of it, though. I’m going to stand and perform it as if I’m on stage and doing it for a huge audience.”

        She smiles broadly and sits up straight to give me her full attention.

        I choose my all-time favorite aria: O Mio Babbino Caro by Giacomo Puccini from the opera Gianni Schicci.

         As soon as I begin, I watch Rebekah’s eyes grow wide and her mouth form an ‘O,’ and although I’m sensing incredulity, I also get the feeling it’s laced with anguish. I continue on, somewhat pleased that the music is touching her, but my Little Voice is growing more and more unnerved. Something is amiss here.

        By the end of the first verse, Rebekah’s hands are covering her face, and she is sobbing with abandon. I stop at once and rush to sit beside her. “Sweetie, what?” I ask, completely alarmed.

        “My mamm sang that song,” she chokes out. “She studied opera during her Rumspringa, and she sang that song whenever Daede and the boys were in the fields and she and my sister and I were together.” She looks me square in the eyes. “I know that it’s a song about a girl who is singing to her father because there is a man she loves and wants to go away with. That was my mamm during Rumspringa. She met an Englisher who was a musician, and he wanted to marry her. But she knew if she did that, her Daede – and EVERYONE – would have to shun her. Our Ordinung – our laws - say that if someone leaves the Order, they have to be shunned. So, she came back home and married my Daede. She loved him, but she never forgot the Englisher.” She is inconsolable, and between her sobs, I hear her whisper, “This is just too much! I feel her here soooo much!”

        “Rebekah,” I say, wrapping her in a Mom-hug, “I think you need to come with Gretchen and me. I still have contacts and friends in the music industry in NYC, and I think you need to take the gift your mamm imbued within you and let it grow.” I can feel the dampness from her cheeks soaking through the shoulder of her mamm’s dress that I am wearing. I’ve never met or even seen a picture of the woman, but I can feel her presence so strongly at this moment that she is all but palpable.

        It cements for me the notion I expressed earlier: our being stranded here is no coincidence. Thank you, G-d, for arranging this, and you, too, Old Reliable, for your part in making this gift possible for us all.