Next, I turned to the strongbox of my mother’s photos. Though I would leave them here with my father, I decided that I ought to bring a few home with me to show Mammi and Daadi. I thought perhaps they would find comfort in the knowledge that their prodigal daughter had spent her years in Germany trying to recreate, through photos, the world she had left behind in Lancaster County.
I opened the box and withdrew all of the envelopes of pictures, laying them across my bed so I could choose which ones I wanted. I flipped through the photos slowly, memorizing the images I wouldn’t be taking with me, trying to pick the ones I would bring home to show my grandparents. Once I’d done that, I also decided to keep one as a memento for myself, the only picture in there that featured not just me but my mother as well. I looked to be about four, small and innocent and completely unaware of how my life would change. We were at a duck pond somewhere in Germany, and she had probably asked a passerby to take the photo of us, or maybe my dad had done it. In the image, she was crouched next to me so that our cheeks touched, her right arm tight around my shoulders. We were both smiling, but my gaze was on the creatures who were vying for the bread that I held in my hands. It was a mere second in time as my mother and I fed ducks on a sunny day in a little town I didn’t even know the name of. I touched the edge of the photo, knowing Mom had also touched it many years ago, and then I reached into my backpack to slip it and the others into my Bible.
I gathered up the envelopes of photos and was about to lay them back in the strongbox when something round inside caught my eye. At first glance I thought it might be a coin, but when I looked closer I realized that it was a lock, a small metal circle with a keyhole at its center. Studying the box’s interior even more closely, I realized that there was a seam running around its perimeter. This had to be a little door, one that opened to reveal a narrow, separate compartment underneath.
Heart pounding, I lifted the box and shook it, listening for the sound of moving objects inside. I heard only the faintest whiffle of paper on metal.
More photographs? Something else entirely?
If only I had a key! Intrigued to my core, I set the box down and started for the garage, intending to get a small screwdriver to try and work the lock free. Before I even reached the bedroom door, however, I froze in my tracks.
The key.
I did have a key.
I had the key from the day my mother died, the one she’d been clutching when she collapsed to the floor, never to awaken. It was a small key. Surely it fit a small lock. Perhaps this lock.
I came back and sat on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding even harder now. I knew it seemed like a long shot, but somehow I felt certain, deep in my soul, that the key I’d kept in my cigar box all these years was for this very lock.
Heart pounding, I stared at the keyhole for a long moment then finally went out to the top of the stairs and called down to my father.
“What’s up?” he called back from somewhere not too far away.
“Can you come here for a minute? I need to show you something.”
I don’t know what I expected his reaction to be. Shock. Excitement. Enthusiasm. Instead, once he stepped into the room and I showed him the keyhole and the outlines of the hidden compartment, he just shrugged.
“Yeah?”
“What is this?” I demanded. Shaking the box, I added, “I can tell there’s something in here. Something she locked beneath this little door.”
His eyes narrowed as his expression grew distant. “I don’t think it’s any big deal, Tyler. I seem to recall…” His voice trailed off.
“What? Is it more photos?”
He shook his head. “Letters, I want to say. I think that’s where she kept her letters from home.”
“But why lock them away? Was there something secret about them?”
Again, he shrugged. “I guess there could’ve been. I never paid much attention. You’re welcome to them. Take the whole box. Maybe once you get home, you can jimmy the lock.”
I nodded, silent, not telling him that I was pretty sure I had the key.
“Thanks,” I muttered, and then I shut the box and lowered it into my duffel bag.
“Or we can try it here. Maybe pry it open real quick before we go—”
“No. It’s okay. I’ll wait.”
Without a doubt, we could have jimmied the lock with just a tool or two. But I knew I needed to resist that urge until I was finally home, no matter how excruciating the wait would be. Prying the little door off seemed disrespectful to my mother somehow, and far different from opening it with the key. Also, I was absolutely certain that this was what God expected of me. Patience was an important virtue—a vital one in Amish life—and I was already practicing patience by taking the train rather than flying. Now I would resist the urge to break open this lock. Shortcuts were not an option here, not if I wanted to be obedient to Him. I would wait until I was home to see what was inside.