“I became a registered nurse, mamm. I worked in a hospital with sick kinner.”
Rebekah reached out, touched her face as gently as the breeze touched the vine they stood beside. “And I’m expecting you’d be missing those children some days.”
“That’s it?” Annie’s voice rose in disbelief. “That’s all you have to say? I must miss the kinner?”
“Well, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
Annie’s thoughts tumbled over one another, as she tried to grasp the gentleness in her mother’s voice, the compassion on her face. “That’s not the point, though. I thought. That is…”
She finally gave up and sat down on an upended milking pail.
“Are you so surprised I would have guessed what you were doing, Annie? You’re my oldest girl. I’ve watched you for twenty years. I know you better than anyone does.”
“But, what I did was wrong. It goes against our teachings, our ways. Tomorrow I’m to be baptized, and I hadn’t even told you of this. I thought you’d be angry with me. I thought…” Her voice fell away like so many leaves scattered in the wind.
“That you needed to hide who you are—what you are— from your parents? Oh, Annie.” Rebekah leaned forward, folded her in an embrace that was softer than the downiest quilt. “We love you because you are our dochdern, because you are a beautiful person God has shared with us. And we’re proud of you.”
Taking Annie’s face in her hands, she looked her straight in the eyes, as if this was the most important thing she’d said all morning, perhaps in many years. “Baptism is a committing of yourself to God, to our church and our community. We will speak with Bishop Levi before the service. He already knows of your time with the Englisch, but if he thinks a confession is necessary then so be it.”
Annie nodded, brushed at her tears.
“As for the gifts God has given you, I have no doubt he’ll provide a way for you to use them in our community, among your Amish schweschders and brethren. God has a reason for everything, dear one, even our rumschpringe.”
Annie stood, walked to the fence, and plucked at the dried leaves of the vine.
“Doesn’t mean it will be easy, finding a way to fit your Englisch gifts into our community,” her mamm continued. “Plain folks can be stubborn regarding any type of change.”
Swiping at her nose, Annie attempted a laugh. “And so our conversation has come around full circle. If we’re talking about stubborn Amish, you must be referring to Samuel Yoder. I’ve never met a man more mulish.”
Arms linked, they turned and began walking back toward the house.
“I won’t deny that, but tell me about the night you came home—about what Samuel said to you.”
So she did.
They discussed the evening Annie stepped into her father’s room and saw him lying in his bed, and how Samuel had challenged her willingness to stay and care for him. By the time they’d gained the porch steps, the sky had grown darker, though it was still early in the afternoon and the temperature had not yet turned.
“Annie, I wish you could have known Samuel before. He was quite a different person.”
“Before what?”
“The accident. Before his fraa and boppli died. Samuel was more like Adam then—maybe not as quick with a laugh, but always smiling, always with a light in his eyes.”
Rebekah sat down in the rocker, and Annie sat beside her, curious to hear the entire story, though some part of her wanted to turn away from it.
“It wasn’t his fault, but he blamed himself. He was out on a call, and Mary tried to drive the buggy over to a neighbor’s. She made it to the Lapp’s and should have stayed the night.” Rebekah’s voice came from a distant place—one full of heartache, one people knew existed but preferred to forget about until life thrust them into its path again. “No doubt Mary thought there was time for her to make it home.”
“There was a storm?” Annie asked.
“Ya. It had been threatening all day, but we all thought it might hold off until morning. When it hit, well, it had the fury of a hard, driving rain—only it was snow.”
Annie waited, barely daring to breathe.
“Later they realized the horse must have lost its way.”
Silence surrounded them as Rebekah sank into the memory. Finally, she sighed, shook herself from it.
“They weren’t found for a day. It broke that man’s heart. He’d helped so many, but he couldn’t help Mary and little Hannah. Samuel wasn’t the same afterward. It was as if he became frozen.”
“I remember a little of it, a bit of the funeral.”
“You children were very young. The community turned out for them, but I doubt Samuel noticed. His grief was a heavy burden, still is, I imagine. After the accident, being around other families became a difficult thing for Samuel. I think it reminded him of all he’d lost.”
“Is that the reason he’s sometimes so angry?”
“I don’t know if anger is the correct word. You know our ways, Annie. After watching you these two weeks, I believe you’ve accepted them.”
Annie began to interrupt her, but Rebekah held up a hand to silence her.
“I do believe you’ve put your rumschpringe behind you and fully embraced our faith.”
“Mamm, I’m joining the church tomorrow morning.”
“True. But occasionally sons and daughters will do so to please their parents. With you, I believe it’s more. With you, I believe it’s a true reflection of your heart.”
This time Annie didn’t interrupt, merely nodded and watched her mother intently, waiting.
“So I think you understand that we believe in giving ourselves up to what happens in life, to what God allows to happen.”
“Ya. It’s not always easy, like dat’s accident.”
“Or seeing small children fall ill, like the ones you worked with when you stayed in the city.”
Now Annie couldn’t speak, had to swallow past the lump in her throat as she thought of sweet Kiptyn. He was still receiving the new medication, still improving, but every day was a miracle.
“I know Samuel well,” Rebekah continued. “He was able to accept what happened to Mary and Hannah, but over the years it seems he’s simply forgotten how to act around others. He tended to his farm and cared for the medical needs of others, and somehow life slipped past him. Make no mistake, Annie—Samuel’s a lonely man. But he’s like a cat who wants to be petted, then when you do, he swipes at your hand.”
Annie smiled at the image.
A cat described Samuel perfectly, and she had the scratch marks to prove it.
“It all happened so long ago, though. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but what does it have to do with me?” She sighed, stood, and walked to the porch railing. “I don’t know how to act around him.”
The low-lying clouds had begun to drop their burden of snow in giant fluffy flakes, though they melted when they hit the still-warm ground.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Annie continued. “It’s not as if we need to see each other very often.”
“You’re the only two people within our community of Amish folk with any medical training. I’d say that alone is enough reason for you to learn to tolerate one another.” Rebekah joined her at the railing, rubbed her back in small circles, then kissed her on the cheek. “And there is His admonition to do unto others as you’d wish—”
“I know the Scripture, Mamm.”
“I expect you do. Most of us know it. The knowing is easy. It’s the doing that gives us trouble.”
10
Samuel had seen the process a hundred times—probably more.
Water ladled from a bucket, poured out into Bishop Levi’s hands.
The bishop sprinkling the petitioner once, twice, three times.
It was the holiest of occasions.
Annie sat there with one hand covering her face—indicating her submission and humility to the church—the other hand calmly holding a handker
chief in her lap.
The bishop spoke openly of Annie’s time with the Englisch, of her pursuit of additional education, of her nursing degree. Since she hadn’t been a member of the church at the time, he was not requiring a confession from her, but he encouraged the members to pray for her‖that she would find humility, find a way to use what she had learned during her time of rumschpringe, and find her place among the community.
Samuel thought of the young lady who had stood up to his rudeness out on the front porch, the young woman who had met his gaze across the café table, and he felt a lump rise in his throat. This was like watching the birth of something special, which indeed it was.
He committed himself to praying for her, as even now they all prayed for her.
Sitting straighter on the backless wooden bench, he focused on the final hour of instruction and hymns, and wondered if he should have a talk with Jacob about young David Hostetler. Samuel’s skin prickled at the thought of the boy courting Annie, not that it was any of his business. Still, her dat should know it could be happening in the near future, especially given the circumstances of David’s working on the farm every day.
Wasn’t it his place as a family friend to at least broach the subject?
Certainly David was a fine young man, though awfully young now that Samuel thought of it.
He brought his mind back to the sermon and pushed thoughts of Annie away. He’d talk to Jacob later. It would be the neighborly thing to do.
After the baptism, Annie returned to her seat with her schweschders and mamm.
The entire baptism process had brought to mind one of her earliest memories, being wrapped in one of her grossmammi’s quilts and carried out to the buggy for the trip home. Her grandparents had lived only a little way down the road and the ride had been short, but the evening had been a very cold one. She’d awaken, seen the familiar stitching of the quilt, and felt warm and safe.
God’s mercy, Bishop Levi’s words, the water cascading down her face, and the murmured prayers of her family and friends had held the same warmth as that old quilt.
Now the room quieted, and the bishop stood once again. As it did, a peacefulness filled Annie’s soul.
She had missed her family when she was away in Philadelphia, missed the beauty and quietness of the farm.
But her heart and soul had ached for these simple Sunday services.
Of course, she had attended church while staying with her aenti, and even found a place to worship close to the hospital where she worked. But she’d never come to feel at home there like she did here among people she’d grown up with.
She joined in singing with the others. Her mother, Reba, and Charity sat so near she could smell the light scent of soap they’d used earlier that morning. Sunshine poured in, warm, yellow, and comforting, like a shawl upon her shoulders.
Annie reached up to swipe at the tears stinging her eyes.
She truly was grateful to be back where she belonged.
And this was where she belonged.
There were no doubts in her heart or her mind about that— Mifflin County was home.
As she focused on Bishop Levi’s words reminding them of gelassenheit, Annie felt as if God had prepared this message especially for her. No doubt she had heard the lesson many times as a child—a call to calmness, composure, and placidity.
But never before had she realized how much she needed His calmness in her life. She wanted His quiet spirit to fill her heart. And yes, she knew God’s serenity would be the only thing that would bring her joy—not the things she could or couldn’t accomplish on her own.
Peacefulness was not something that came naturally to her; perhaps it never would. But she knew, in that moment— surrounded by the community God had blessed her with, the family He had provided—that peace was something He meant her to have.
Regardless what lay ahead, for these few moments, that knowledge was enough.
Temperatures plummeted, and the snow continued to fall throughout the afternoon and all through the night. The cold front settled around them.
When Samuel woke on Monday, it was to a winter wonderland.
After so many winters and so many Christmas seasons, he should have been accustomed to the sight, but a part of his mind insisted on calling up the memories of Mary and Hannah, how they had looked that last day, the touch of her hand on his face. He remembered and ached still for what he had lost.
But a tiny part of him, a part he had kept buried and hidden for a very long time, considered taking a sled out and inviting a certain young lady for a ride.
He didn’t, of course.
He had animals to tend and a barn to close up tight. Between chores and staying warm, he was exhausted by day’s end, which was when the buggy arrived from Faith and Aaron Blauch’s place.
Aaron’s brother Micah banged on his door. A young man of nearly sixteen, he was all hands and feet, awkward even as he waited on the porch.
“Come in, Micah. You must be near frozen.”
“True, I am, but there’s no time. Faith has the pain down low, and Aaron told me to fetch you now.”
Samuel wiped his hands on the dishtowel he’d been using and motioned the young man inside. “I’ve been by a few times to see Faith, but she’s a bit early. Are you sure it’s real labor?”
“Ya. She says the pains are real.”
“All right. My understanding was that Belinda, the midwife from Pine Grove Mills, would be assisting with the birth.”
“I tried calling from the phone shack, but I couldn’t reach Belinda. Finally called her neighbors—the Smiths. They said she’d been gone for hours. Turns out she’s on the road in that little car of hers, and the road is closed in several places because of the snow.”
“Is she coming?”
“No. She did call me back, but only to say she’s gone to the far side of the district on an emergency birthing. Told me to come and ask you.”
A sort of you’re-our-last-resort tone crept into Micah’s voice. “Faith won’t go to the hospital—she’s determined to have the babe at home. I’m not sure how we’d move her there at this point anyway. The roads are fairly impassable and snowplows won’t be out before morning. Aaron said to ride out, plead with you to come.”
“All right. Of course I’ll come. Do you know how far apart her pains were?”
“Couple an hour.”
“Gut. We have time. I’ll follow you in my buggy, but I need to put a few extra things in my bag first.”
Samuel went to his supply room, grabbed the medical bag he kept ready, and the emergency labor supplies stacked on a shelf to the left of the door. Putting it all together, he shrugged into his coat, made sure he banked the fire in his stove, then went out to his barn to hitch up his buggy.
Night had fallen, but the snow hadn’t let up any.
The drifts looked to be at least four to five feet high, and his mind insisted on returning to that other night. He forced his attention back, though, watched Micah’s buggy, thought of the woman waiting and the boppli about to be born.
Perhaps God didn’t intend to bless him with a fraa or kinner of his own, but he could at least be a part in helping others. As he pulled the blanket and his coat more tightly about him, he told himself ushering life into the world would have to be enough.
It seemed ironic, even to Samuel, that the last farm they passed on the way to Aaron and Faith’s was the Weavers’.
He thought of Annie and was grateful she was tucked safely inside, surrounded by her family, protected from the harshness of the storm.
Aaron Blauch’s place was another twenty minutes past the Weavers’. He had built his home a few hundred yards back and behind his parents’ smaller log cabin. The older Blauchs had passed a few years ago. Samuel remembered attending both their funerals, but the house still stood—a sturdy presence against the winter blizzard.
Both places were tucked against a hillside, quite off the county road. Both families were staunch Old Order Amish.
They preferred the remote location and rarely came into town. The Blauchs enjoyed their solitude.
The younger Blauchs took care of what trading needed to be done, but they’d inherited much of the older Blauchs’ attitudes. Samuel knew Faith was determined to have her child at home.
Given the weather’s worsening condition, he’d have a hard time moving her to the Englisch hospital anyway. Unlike some of their congregation, Aaron had never petitioned the bishop for a phone in the barn—though he might have for his work or because of his remote location. Calling a driver in this weather would be difficult. In fact, there were no neighbors closer than the Weavers to run to for assistance.
Pulling up to the front of the house, Samuel gathered his supplies from the seat, handed his reins to young Micah who had already tied his horse’s lead rope to the post, and strode up the front steps.
On entering the house, the first sound to greet him wasn’t the occasional cries of a first-time mother in labor. Instead, he could make out small, incoherent whimpering sounds from the front bedroom.
“Aaron?”
A young man in his mid-twenties stepped out of the room. Worry creased his eyes, and by the looks of his dark beard and hair, he’d spent quite a bit of time tugging on both. His hair cropped out in odd angles.
“She’s in here, Samuel. Danki for coming.”
“Of course. When did the pains start?”
“Two days ago.”
Samuel stopped, pulled the man back into the living room. “Did you say two days ago?”
“Ya. At first Faith thought it was the backache she gets sometimes, but now we’re thinking it was the child.” Aaron’s eyes darted from Samuel’s face to the darkness beyond the windows, then back again. “She’s in a bad way. I’ve stayed by her the entire time, tried to help as best I could.”
Samuel strode past him, into the bedroom, alarmed now.
Faith lay there, sweat matting her blonde hair against the pillow. She was a small woman, perhaps five foot four inches, and right now she was all belly. Blue eyes stared up at him, pleading, even as her hands sought to comfort the child fighting for life in her womb.
A Simple Amish Christmas Page 9