by Connie Cook
"Thank goodness for the wood stove. We can finish the pancakes on that. What should I do about the doctor, though?"
"Not much you can do. As you say, it might be hours till the baby's ready to come. We might as well eat. We could be in for a long wait."
"I should go check on Lily, let her know what's happening."
"Sit and eat," Mom commanded. "You might not get the chance later. Lily can wait ten minutes till you get some food in you. I told her to try and get some sleep if she could, so you sit and eat."
Ruth sat and ate.
* * *
An hour later, neither the telephone nor the electric was functioning, and Lily had learned what true pain felt like.
"Should I get some water boiling on the wood stove?" Ruth asked. She'd read enough books to know that boiling water was always the first thing asked for by those attending a birth (at least in books).
"Maybe you'd better," Mom answered, looking harried and pulling clean towels and washcloths off the wooden drying rack by the wood stove Lily was keeping her hopping. And she was beginning to worry that neither the power or the doctor would be available for this birth.
"At least you know what to do if we can't get a hold of Dr. Moffet," Ruth said.
"How would I know what to do?" Mom asked.
"Well, you've had two of your own," Ruth said, feeling slightly panicked.
"Sure, but I was busy having them."
"Well, you'd know better than I would. It's okay, Mom. We'll do what we have to. We'll figure it out. After all, women were having their babies at home without benefit of a doctor for thousands of years before this century."
Mom was tempted to mention that women were dying in childbirth at home without benefit of doctor for thousands of years, as well, but she bit her tongue.
"That baby's coming fast," she told Ruth the next time she checked Lily. "I think we'll have to give up on calling the doctor. Roads still aren't plowed, anyway. You'd better come up. I'll need your help. I suppose in theory I know what to do once the baby's out, and Lily will have to do the part that comes before that for herself.”
* * *
It was a boy. A perfect, healthy, beautiful baby boy. But after he was cleaned up, Ruth had no time to sit around admiring him or even to hold him.
There was so much blood. Ruth had never seen so much blood in one place before.
She'd never imagined it was like this. In the books and movies, childbirth was a joyous, if somewhat painful, event. Books and movies had failed to prepare her for the reality.
"She's lost too much blood, and I can't get it stopped," Mom hissed at her, hoping it was out of Lily's hearing.
Things weren't right. Even Ruth, with her lack of experience, knew it.
"I'm sorry, Ruth. I think you'd better try and go for the doctor somehow."
"I don't think the roads are cleared yet. Not out this far, any rate. I wouldn't be able to make it in the car."
"Can you slog through the snow? Just till the main road. Then maybe at the next farm, you could borrow a car."
"Except that we don't even know if the main road's been plowed. I have a better idea. Skis. Lily, hang on. I'm going for the doctor."
"Ruth."
"Yes, Lily."
"If I don't make it, promise me something."
"Wha'd'y' mean if you don't make it? You're going to make it. I'll be back as soon as I can with the doctor."
"But if I don't ..."
"You will. You have to."
"Ruth, promise me."
"What is it?"
"Promise me you'll look after him."
"The baby?"
"Yes, promise me."
Ruth hesitated. She didn't make promises she wasn't sure she could keep. But she made the promise to Lily.
Besides, Lily was going to be fine. Women had babies all the time. And she'd soon be back with the doctor.
Ruth hadn't taken out her cross-country skis since Graham and she ... but there was no time for old memories now.
As quickly as she could, she threw on her winter gear and strapped on the skis.
She considered sticking to the roads in hopes of borrowing a car at the next farm but decided that taking the short-cut trail to town was her best bet in case nothing had been plowed yet.
The trail crossed the Arrow River at the trestle and ran up and over a low piece of Arrow Mountain around which mountain the main road had been built. The trail was a more direct route to town.
The trestle was a little tricky on skis. She forced her eyes straight ahead, not looking down to see the river between the ties.
Then, there was the climb to be faced. The trail wasn't steep – not for hiking in summer, but it was a stiff climb on skis, and she was out of practice on them. Until the knack of turning her skis out at an angle came back to her, she found herself slipping back a foot for every two she progressed upward.
As she climbed, she found the rhythm of her skis turned into a rhythm in her head that turned into a song.
"Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie ..."
At the top of the hill, her chest heaving, she stopped for a moment to catch her breath and admire the little town of Arrowhead spread out below her.
Nothing was moving on its streets. It may, like the little town of the song, have been sleeping dreamlessly under its snow-laden roofs, the only sign of life being the woodsmoke rising from the chimneys above the roofs.
And yet.
And yet, under another snow-laden roof, a life was in danger. Under another of those peaceful-looking roofs, the scene Ruth had just witnessed which refused to leave her mind – a scene of bloody anguish and primal screaming – had taken place. It lent an air of irony to the song running through her head.
"How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven ..."
If "the wondrous gift" and the "blessings of God's heaven" had been given on that first Christmas in a manner even approximating the manner in which another of God's gifts and blessings had just been bestowed to humanity, there had been nothing silent and still and dreamlessly sleepy about it. The beginning of new life was a messy, perilous, costly business.
For just a moment while she caught her breath and gazed on her own peaceful, little town, Ruth wondered about it all and felt sick at heart for all the vast amount of pain and trouble in the world.
It looked beautiful, but what a fallen world it was!
* * *
The streets in town had been plowed, so Ruth left the skis by Mavis Bilberry's house on the edge of town and ran as fast as she could on the slick streets, stumbling in the cross-country boots that weren't made for running. Dr. Moffet lived five blocks from the Bilberry house.
He came hastily to the sound of Ruth pounding on his door. He was tying up his bathrobe. He had probably expected to enjoy a leisurely day in and to stay in his robe till noon.
"Doc, Lily's had her baby. She's bleeding a lot," Ruth gasped. She had breath to say no more.
"Let me get dressed, grab my instruments, and we'll be on our way," he said.
He wasted no time dressing. He came back in an odd assortment of garments, slipped bare feet into high boots, and followed Ruth out the door.
"Wait!" he said once out the door. "Better take some formula with us. Lily might not be in a condition to nurse the baby herself. I have a tin in the house."
He was back in a moment, looking around.
"Where's your car? How did you get here?"
"Skis," Ruth said, still getting her breath back. "Left 'em over at Mavis Bilberry's. I'll pick 'em up some other time. No time now."
"Right! We'll take my car."
The doctor backed it quickly out of the garage, and Ruth got in.
"Good thing you've got tall boots," she said. "The roads out our way weren't plowed when I left. We'll have to walk through some deep snow."
Dr. Moffet only grunted. He was intent on driving as fast as he cou
ld on the slippery, packed snow the plow had left.
* * *
The snow plows had reached the main road leading to the farm, but the side road and the lane to the farm were untouched.
It was a solid three-quarters of an hour of plunging through snow that brought the pair to the door of the farm house.
Mom met them at the door with a radiant face and a baby on one arm.
Ruth breathed a quick prayer of thanksgiving while she and the doctor took off boots and winter clothes.
"Lily's all right," Ruth said.
Mom's face sobered.
"I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm sorry, Ruth. It's too late. Lily's gone."
"No! If only we could've gotten here faster ..."
"It wouldn't have mattered, Ruth. Lily only lasted about another ten minutes after you left. Fifteen at the most. You couldn't have gotten to the doctor and back that fast. Even if you'd left before the birth. But we didn't know we'd need the doctor then."
Dr. Moffet said, "Don't either of you blame yourself. Don't imagine there was anything either of you could have done differently. Even if I'd made it while she was still alive, there's not much I could've done if we couldn't get her out to the hospital for a transfusion. And in this snow, there's no way we could've gotten her out to the hospital. There's no one at fault here. Other than the weather. Just one of those things, tragic though it is. Well, I'll come and see to her. Check over the baby, too. Hope Lily had a few things for him. D'you have bottles? I brought some formula."
"Yes, we made sure Lily had everything she needed to get her started. We'll be all right," Mom said, looking at the baby. Her radiance was back.
"Here you go," she said, motioning for Ruth to take the baby. "I'll go get a bottle ready for him while the doctor sees to Lily. She's in an upstairs bedroom, Doc. First right at the top of the stairs."
The doctor left to find Lily, but before Mom matched action to her words and passed the baby over to Ruth, she drew closer to speak to Ruth.
"Ruth," she said in an undertone. "There were two new births that happened here today."
"Wha'd'you mean, Mom?"
"I have to tell you what Lily said. Right after you left. She wanted me to pass on a message to you. She was very weak, but she managed to talk a little."
"What'd she say?" Ruth asked, overcome with curiosity.
"Well, first she started off by asking me if I could forgive her, and I said I could and I did. I meant it, too. It was no time to bear grudges. Then she asked if I thought you could forgive her. She was terribly upset that she'd let you leave without asking you to forgive her. She wanted to make sure I told you she wanted you to forgive her."
"What'd you tell her?"
"I said, 'She already has. Don't you think she'd already forgiven you before she took you in?' "
"Did she believe you? I should've stayed, so we could've talked. Didn't do any good to go for the doctor, anyways. Might've done more good to stay and talk to her."
"Well, I think she did believe me. It seemed to set her more at ease, anyway."
"Then what?"
"Then she asked me if I thought there was any way God would forgive her. I think she knew her time had come, you see."
"And?"
"Well, it seemed like we didn't have very long. I had to tell her things the shortest way I could. I told her that He would. All she had to do was ask. It was a promise. And hadn't she learned it in Sunday School when she was little: John 3:16, 'For God so loved the world He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life ... ' that God sent His Son to die for our sins? And she said she'd heard it all before, but it was too simple. She just couldn't make herself believe all she'd have to do to be forgiven was to ask and to believe that she could be. All this time, she was getting weaker and weaker. I was praying like mad the whole time. I didn't know how much more time we'd have, and I couldn't seem to get through to her. And then, just like that, just like an answer to prayer, the right words came to me."
"What'd you tell her?"
"I said, 'You believe that Ruth has forgiven you, don't you?' And she said she had to believe it because how else could you have taken her in and treated her as you did if you hadn't forgiven her. Then I said, 'Well, Ruth's only human. Do you think she could have forgiven you and taken you in like she did if she didn't have some help?' And she admitted you probably couldn't have. So I said, 'So whose help do you think she had?' She thought about that one for a little while. Then I said, 'If God helped Ruth forgive you, don't you think He wants to forgive you, too? Don't you think He has forgiven you? The forgiveness is there, bought and paid for, but like in any relationship, you have to accept it, or it doesn't do you any good.' Then I used you as an example again, how you could have forgiven Lily and offered her a home when she needed one, but if she refused your forgiveness and your offer, it wouldn't have done her any good. I think that made sense to her."
"Wow! I'm glad I wasn't here. I'm glad it was you. I don't think I could have put things so well to her."
"Well, like I say, I think I had some help, too. Anyway, she didn't say much after that. I thought she'd gone to sleep. I don't think I realized how very near the end she was. I still hoped you might make it back with the doctor in time, so I let her rest. But then she looked up at me and said something like, 'I asked Him, and He did it.' And I said, 'You asked Him to forgive you?' and she said she had, and He'd done it, just for the asking, just like I'd told her, that she knew it. 'Peace.' That was the last word she said. She just whispered it with a sort of smile on her face. Then she was gone."
"Mom, I'm so sorry. I wish ..."
"Don't bother wishing anything, Ruth. I'm not sorry. I can't be. I can't be sorry I was the one who was left behind to talk to her. I wouldn't have missed seeing Lily Turnbull change into a different person right before my very eyes for anything. I'm trying to be sorry that she died, but I can't even feel that. The peace I felt – I think both she and I felt it – in that moment was so strong that I can't forget it. It's still with me. Maybe there was no other way she would have found forgiveness and peace, and her life was miserable without it, and she was intent on making everyone else's miserable, too. I am sorry that we never got much time to mend bridges, but even though the time was short, our bridges got mended, I think. I ... I don't know. I don't know how to explain it. I can't explain how I feel about it all. Peace. I guess that's the best word for it."
"Why don't you come and see her. You'll see what I mean," Mom said.
Something in Ruth shrunk back. She'd faced more death in her life than she'd ever wanted to, and she had no desire to face it again. But curiosity won out.
In Ruth's mind, Lily had never been beautiful.
She had been able to see her as pretty in a cheap, tawdry, artificial kind of way. Lily's beauty had been the kind of beauty that could be bought, and to Ruth's way of thinking, beauty that could be bought was not beauty.
But in her death, Lily was indisputably beautiful. Ruth drew a sharp intake of breath when she saw her. Her bottle-created, golden-red hair shone like a halo as the sun found its way through the window and onto the pillow. Her skin was a match for her name. The porcelain white, contrasted with the gold of her hair, made Ruth think of a china angel. But it was her face that finally succeeded in giving Lily true beauty and not for its perfection of shape and feature but for its expression. It was an expression Ruth had never seen Lily wear in life.
"You see what I mean?" Mom whispered.
"Yes, I see it. Peace," Ruth whispered back. She felt it, too.
* * *
While Mom heated a bottle in a pan on the wood stove, Ruth looked at the sleeping baby in her arms and understood Mom's radiance.
Feelings she had only before imagined feeling caught her off-guard and swept her away.
He was so helpless.
It was his smallness and his helplessness and his aloneness that struck her through the heart. He was perfect and beautif
ul, too, of course, but it was his need that drew her.
As he began to wake, she watched his little head shift from side to side and his little mouth opening, searching instinctively for a life-giving breast, but searching uncomplainingly and soundlessly.
A passion more powerful and fierce than any she had ever known, even for her husband, enveloped her. There was nothing she wouldn't do for the little, helpless, alone person in her arms. If necessary, she would have died for him. It made no difference that it was not her body that had carried him for nine months or that had given up life to give him life. From that instant on, he was hers just as much as if she had borne him.
Then she saw it.
The moment she'd had, looking down on a sleeping Arrowhead, of questioning God's wisdom in ordaining such a method of entrance into the world came back to her, and the questions she'd had were satisfied in a moment of looking down on the sleeping infant.
What a picture it was! Since the very moment that our fallen world had become a fallen world, what a picture of the true nature of things had been built into its nature! Because of the fallenness of our world, new life could come about only through blood and anguish.
And that blood and anguish did not belong to the new life making its way into the world. The blood and anguish were the undisputed property of the one responsible for bringing the new life into the world. Yet the one responsible for bringing that new life into the world counts it all worthwhile in order to bring about that new life.
There was no sacrifice too great. Like Lily, she too, would have given her life for the little one she now marvelled at. All the bloody anguish was worth it for the sake of the new life.
Ruth had, somewhere along the line, come to see the death of Joshua Bella as a kind of a picture in her own mind of a greater reality. She now saw Lily's death as a different picture of the same greater reality.
Lily's death was not a waste. Her death had given life to her child. And in the midst of her death, she had met the One whose death had given life to her.
Yes, bringing new life into the world was a messy, perilous, costly business. But from the point of view of the one bringing it into the world, it was worth all the mess and peril and cost. That was what it meant to love. She had a new understanding of God's heart. Toward herself. And toward even one like Lily.