Free Plain Pursuit by Beth Wiseman

worse professions. I like my job.” She took a bite of pie. “What do you mean ‘ just a reporter’? What’s wrong with that?”
    He lifted his shoulders, dropped them, and said, “Nothing’s wrong with it. I just thought maybe you utilized your talent to serve Him in some way.”
    “Who?”
    His fork halted halfway to his mouth. “God.” He seemed surprised at the question.
    Carley thought about his answer. “Reporting is a service to God. I report the truth to people.” Maybe her voice was a little defensive, but who was Noah to judge her?
    “I guess it depends on what you’re reporting.” His eyes held hers. She looked away.
    “Back to my original question. Do you have anything to contribute to my article?”
    “Shunning is supposed to keep others in the district from following in brazen footsteps and to keep the church pure. However, it’s not necessarily issued with the type of resentment my brother has displayed over the years.” He paused. “Is that what you had in mind?”
    “Yes, I’d like to include information about shunning. I don’t think people really understand it—at least the why of it. So whatever you’d like to tell me would be great.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small pad and pen.
    “Granted, the Lutheran religion I’m part of now is a far cry from my Amish upbringing, but I’ve never regretted my calling.” Now it was Noah who sounded defensive. “I’ve saved dozens, if not hundreds, of lives over the years. And I’ve made mistakes.” A sigh escaped, but regret was quickly replaced with resentment. “But why can’t Samuel see past the rigid ways of the Amish and try to understand and forgive me?”
    She scribbled information on the small pad, hoping he would continue.
    “Samuel was the most distraught about my decision to leave the district,” he went on. “He and I are the youngest out of the five of us and the closest in age. When I left at eighteen, Samuel took it the hardest. He was seventeen at the time.”
    Carley sensed it was difficult for Noah to talk about this, but her reporter instincts prevented her from offering a way out of the conversation. She continued, “And . . .”
    “Ivan, Mary Ellen, Rebecca, and even Mamm sent letters while I was living in the city of Lancaster. Even after I moved to Minnesota to do my residency, they kept me apprised of events in Lancaster County—the births of my nieces and nephews and deaths of those I cared about. The bishop allows letters to be written to those who are shunned, so Samuel could have written, but he practiced the shunning to the fullest extent, refusing to answer even one of the letters I mailed him over the years.”
    It was a few seconds before Carley realized she had stopped writing. Her reporter zeal had momentarily shifted into neutral as she listened with empathy to Noah’s story—a story laced with heartache. She couldn’t imagine not having her family. Not by choice, anyway. It would be unnatural for him not to harbor resentment at the way the Old Order operated, she surmised.
    “Most of the time, I’m able to put them all out of my mind. But seeing Samuel and his family brought everything back to the forefront.”
    The depth of his loss was mapped across his face. His heart was laid out before her, his usual arrogance gone.
    “But you said it yourself,” she consoled, leaning in. “You’ve saved so many lives. How can that be wrong?”
    His eyes lightened, but she sensed his heart was heavy, in spite of his attempt to mask his emotions. “I don’t think it’s wrong. I just have a difficult time accepting a practice that excludes me from the love of my family.” He shrugged. “But I knew the rules when I got baptized.”
    “Well, I think the rules are cruel and uncalled-for. And I just might put that in my article.”

    I must be crazy , Noah thought. Airing his bitterness to her would only further alienate him from his family. If she printed it. Of course, if she