Heart Full of Love

by Kathleen Fuller

  It was one of the things Etta appreciated most about her friend and neighbor. They could talk of the things that mattered the most, the things that often remained beneath the surface of everyday life.

  “Not since the message he left at the phone shack—”

  “Last spring when he was in Pennsylvania. I’m sure he’s fine, or he would have called.”

  Etta didn’t argue the point, but she wondered about its truthfulness. If David were hurt, how would he call? If he were homeless, he could receive help from any Amish community, but would he? After all, he’d left to sample life in the Englisch world. She didn’t think it likely that he would turn to Amish folk should he encounter trouble. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was David’s stubbornness.

  “Are you worried about the harvest? Ours was less this year, though the hay crop did well.”

  “Not really.” Etta glanced out the window. “We still have a little savings, though Mose is concerned it won’t be enough. Every year is difficult on a farm. Somehow it always works out.”

  Rachel nodded and waited for Etta to continue. When she didn’t, Rachel pursed her lips and finally asked, “Are you worried about carrying this baby to term? Forgive me if I’m prying but—”

  Etta shrugged.

  “Because many of us have miscarried once or even twice . . .”

  “But I didn’t miscarry Sarah.” Tears clouded Etta’s eyes, but she pushed the words, the fears, out. “She was perfect in every way, only so small.”

  Now the tears fell and splashed onto her hand. She would be embarrassed, but this was her closest friend. This was the person who had patiently sat with her afterward and visited every day that Etta’s heart refused to heal.

  “I remember. Gotte had a special plan for little Sarah, and it didn’t include this world.”

  Etta nodded. Gotte’s wille was something they were taught to believe in, to accept, even to trust from a very young age. And she did. Honestly, she did trust her savior and Lord, but that didn’t erase the ache or the fear.

  “If my guess is correct, you’re nearly as far along now as you were when Sarah was born.”

  “Ya. I think so.” Etta swiped at her tears and attempted a smile. “Another month and perhaps that worry will fade.”

  “It can fade now.” Rachel reached across and grasped her hand. “I will keep you and your boppli in my prayers. There’s no reason for you to be afraid.”

  They sat that way for a moment until the cat scratched at the back door. “The girls taught him to do that.” Etta stood, found the leftover milk from Martha’s breakfast, and set it outside. They’d kept a chipped bowl for the small tabby and regularly left little pieces of their meal for it.

  “Tell me about the twins now. If I’m not mistaken, you were clutching a letter when you walked in.”

  Rachel’s twins had joined a different community in Montana. They were both married, had children of their own, and visited each winter. They wrote to their mother at least once a month, a rambling letter that usually included notes from each member of both families.

  How had the years swept by so quickly? Etta could clearly remember Silas and Samuel cutting across their fields, heading home in the twilight after they’d been out fishing or swimming. The water had plastered their hair to their heads. In her memory, the boys’ laughter rang out as Etta’s girls had called out to them.

  But it was clear Rachel wasn’t ready to talk about her twins. She was still focused on the subject of the new baby.

  “We will help you, Etta. You won’t be going through this alone. Perhaps I could let some of your dresses out for you. I imagine you don’t have much energy left for sewing in the evenings.”

  “Let them out? That worked when we were in our twenties, but I’m afraid I’m going to need entirely new dresses before this child arrives.”

  “Then we best go to town and purchase some fabric.”

  Instead of answering, Etta stood and resumed putting together the beef and barley soup. Rachel read the letter she’d received from the twins—full of information about their harvest, children, and a recent trip fishing for trout in the Bighorn River.

  After they’d fully discussed every aspect of the letter, Rachel stood and rinsed out her kaffi cup. “I should head back home. Let me know when you want to go to town for that fabric. We’ll go together and then follow it up with a sew-in.”

  “Danki.” Etta linked her arm through Rachel’s and they walked to the front porch.

  “When will you go to see Doc Bennett?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t put it off.” Rachel enfolded her in a hug.

  “I wanted to be sure . . .”

  “And now you are, so you should go. You know with women our age, they watch for things.”

  “I’ve heard . . .” Etta crossed her arms tightly, as if she were suddenly cold, though the day was a fine fall one and the breeze was from the south. “I’ve heard . . . you know . . . that they will want to do special testing, because of . . . that is, due to my age.”

  “Not Doc Bennett. He might suggest it, but he won’t insist. He understands our ways.”

  Etta shrugged. She wasn’t so sure. She was surprised Doc still delivered babies. He had to be in his sixties. Most Englischers retired by that age—most Amish did too, passing the bulk of work on the farm over to a son.

  “They’ll watch your blood pressure and sugar levels more closely. That’s what I was referring to.”

  “I suppose.”

  “We’ll go together, then stop by Lolly’s to purchase some fabric.”

  Etta realized there was no use arguing with Rachel. Her friend would keep after her until she agreed, and honestly, she knew that it was time to see the doctor. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in prenatal care. It was more that she’d been waiting, to be sure about her pregnancy.

  Rachel hadn’t moved and wasn’t about to give up, so Etta pulled in a deep breath and smiled. “I’ll send one of the children to the phone shack this afternoon. They can call Doc’s office and make me an appointment.”

  “Then send them over to let me know the day and time.”

  Etta nodded. Leave it to Rachel to turn a doctor’s visit into an excursion into town. But despite her reservations, Etta found herself humming as she added the ingredients to the soup pot—mixing in the stewed tomatoes, fresh carrots, onion, barley, and bouillon granules. The day before she’d pulled thyme and oregano from the garden. She tossed it in the pot as well, along with a pinch of garlic powder, pepper, and salt.

  It had helped to speak to someone of their little miracle. To think . . . another child after all these years.

  She remembered the Scripture about Abraham and Sarah. Their bishop had spoken on it a few weeks ago, and Etta understood completely why they’d chosen to call the child Isaac, which meant laughter. Best to laugh with life when unexpected blessings came along.

  The swollen ankles, indigestion, and birthing would be no laughing matter. But Gotte’s timing? Well, it was perfect, that she knew. Even when it was something that she could not understand.

  The story continues in An Unexpected Blessing by Vannetta Chapman.