Where the Oak Tree Still Stands

The Old Red Oak at Bru's Acres II

In the early hours of the day, when the house is still and the lamp beside my chair casts its faithful circle of light, I find myself deep in the sequel — The Matriarch’s Legacy.

But writing forward often requires walking back.

This morning, I stepped again onto the Amish farm where Florence was raised. I felt the worn plank floor of the warm kitchen beneath my feet. I heard the soft rhythm of chores in the sturdy barn. I stood beneath the old oak tree that once shaded her girlhood thoughts.

It is impossible to return there — even in fiction — without feeling something catch in my throat.

When I recently shared The Philadelphia Matriarch with my book club and other readers, many thoughtful questions rose to the surface:

Did Florence ever go back?

Did she keep in touch?

Did she see them again?

The questions lingered with me long after the discussion ended.

The answer is yes — but carefully.

Florence did return to visit her Mamm Sara and Daed Amos. Not casually. Not freely. In a community guided by the Ordnung — the lived rules and spiritual structure that shape Amish life — departures are not simple, and returns are not assumed.

Special permission would have been sought through the bishop. Such visits would have been quiet, respectful, contained within understood boundaries. Florence could return as a daughter, but not as someone stepping back into what she had left behind.

She could not intrude upon the life that continued without her.

And so she came gently.

She brought her husband and children.

I imagine her standing once more in that kitchen, now as a mother herself. I imagine Mamm Sara watching her carefully, not with reproach, but with the deep knowing of a woman who has already grieved and already forgiven.

During one visit, Florence glanced across the fields toward another farm — one that once held a different thread of belonging. Mamm Sara noticed. Of course she did.

It was then that she mentioned Mary Weaver.

Mary — sweet, newly married, fond of gardens. A young woman rooted in the life Florence had stepped away from. There would have been no crossing of those paths. Florence understood that some doors close quietly and must remain closed for the sake of everyone within.

But knowing Mary was well — knowing life had continued, seeds planted, families formed — would have brought a kind of peace.

There is something about writing sequels that feels like opening old trunks.

You lift the lid thinking you are searching for a document or a date — and instead, you find a whole landscape waiting. Sometimes, if you are very still, someone walks back toward you across a field.

This week, it was the farm.

And perhaps that is why my Uncle Dean once drew me a simple map — so I could find my way back, even if only on paper.

Writing this series has taught me that leaving and belonging can exist at the same time. That love does not dissolve simply because geography changes. That sometimes the most faithful thing a person can do is step forward —

even when her heart still knows the shape of an old oak tree.

And perhaps this is what grace looks like —

a doorway opened just wide enough,

a return allowed but not reclaimed,

love that does not erase the leaving.

The fields remained.

The oak still stood.

The kitchen fire burned on without her.

There is a time to dwell

and a time to step forward.

And sometimes mercy is found

in being permitted

to touch what once was —

and then release it again in peace.

And so, before dawn,

beneath the small circle of lamplight in my writing cave,

I return too.

Not to live there.

Not to disturb what has grown without me.

Only to walk the fence line once more,

to stand beneath the old oak in memory,

to warm my hands at a kitchen fire

that still burns on the page.

Then I close the gate gently.

The sequel waits.

The day begins.

And the light —

faithful as ever —

rises right on time.