A View from the Buggy (29 page)

Once I arrived, James looked me over and announced that I looked tired. “Time to drive the team again,” he said. I was just grateful he didn't ask what had happened to me.

After lunch I took a turn at packing down the silage and was unprepared for Harold's pointed question. “I thought the cutter ran empty longer than normal this forenoon when you were unloading. Did something go wrong?”

Looking at the ground, I replied, “Yes. I started to jump on the web to unplug it, since that seemed much faster. But I ended up falling headfirst on the web. I only reversed it just in time.”

I glanced at Harold and noticed he was quite pale.

“Philip,” he said, “God still has something important for you to do. He spared you when you were within inches of being chopped up. How awful I would have felt for being responsible for your death. I trust you won't do that ever again.”

Harold had a fair amount of dampness around his eyes as he spoke. And I was a much chided boy with a lot to think about. The greatness of God's mercy in saving my life swept over me. The day seemed brighter, clearer, and warmer. I even sang as sometime later the wagon bumped back out to the field. It all seemed like a fitting response that day, and God has given me the desire to serve Him faithfully wherever He may call.

Babies Don't Wear Watches

Esther Weaver

But thou art he that took me out of the womb: thou didst make me hope when I was upon my mother's breasts (Psalm 22:9).

I
T
'
S
1:50
A.M.
I
SLOWLY WAKE UP TO MY HUSBAND
'
S DEEP BREATHING
beside me. Bright headlights stream through the slatted blinds. Is that a car going by, or is it someone pulling in the driveway? No, I decide optimistically, surely it's only a car passing by. Seconds later, my heart rate hits the roof. Beep! Beep! Beep! Three shrill blasts from a car horn rip the night air. This sounds all too familiar. But why tonight? Why must new babies come in the middle of the night?

Six weeks ago my mother-in-law, Ella Weaver, who is also a midwife, underwent major hip surgery. Her recovery has been fantastic, but she still doesn't have her full strength back, so she needs occasional assistance with the births. Daisy, Ella's youngest daughter, and I offered to help Ella when she needs us. And most of the babies we've helped with were born during the night. So either the babies don't know how to tell time, or they just don't care how much they inconvenience us. Of course I'm beginning to believe the latter. Could this be the reason my peaceful night is being so rudely interrupted?

“Honey,” I call gently, hoping my voice will somehow penetrate my husband's sleep-addled brain, “Someone's here!”

“Wha…oh…uh…,” he mumbles as he stiffly lumbers out of bed.

I dizzily race around the room trying to decide what to wear. I settle for a comfortable as well as practical blue dress, yank it over my head, and follow my hubby in his hasty tumble out of the bedroom.

In the meantime, Daisy has somehow managed to find her way inside our house, even though most of our doors are locked. She mumbles, “Oh, you're already up.”

“What's happening?” I ask, although I already know.

“A mother from Jonesville is in labor. Ella's waiting in the car.”

“Okay.” I continue my dressing and pull my hair into a lopsided bun. I hastily pin on my covering.

I run out to the kitchen where my faithful husband is getting my purse ready. He's stuffing it with all the essentials: snacks, money, a water bottle, and my headlamp. The lighting system in some Amish houses is slightly lacking so it's always best to be prepared.

“Thank you so much, honey.” I sigh gratefully as I swing the purse over my shoulder. I tell him goodbye and wish him a good rest of the night. I dash out to the waiting vehicle, jump inside, and slide the door shut.

I glance over at Daisy, who's trying to catch a few winks of sleep on the seat beside me.

Mrs. Carol Cousineau, our chauffeur for the trip, carefully wheels out of our driveway and onto the quiet road. I chat a few minutes with Ella, who's in the front seat, before I settle down for a snooze on the 45-minute drive.

Unfortunately, we aren't the only creatures up at this insane hour. Carol brakes suddenly and violently, throwing us forward and narrowly avoiding three deer. Bambi blinks at us and trots off unhurriedly. We cautiously roll on with Carol on guard for more daring creatures.

As we wheel through the town of Jonesville, our GPS blinks and loses its satellite reception. “You can't do that on us,” gasps Carol. “What was the next road?”

A few seconds later, it wakes up again and faithfully guides us on. Carol and Ella sigh with relief. Maybe the satellites are also wondering why we're waking them at this hour.

I relax and vainly wish I knew the roads and had a better sense of direction. Five minutes later the GPS directs a right turn in half a mile. We obediently turn right at the next crossroad only to be rebuffed by the GPS's flat, nasal, “Recalculating.”

“What did I do wrong?” Carol questions in a concerned voice.

“I think we're all right. Just keep going,” Ella assures us.

“But it says
recalculating
. I must have made a wrong turn,” insists Carol.

“I wasn't paying attention,” I apologize from the backseat. “But there was no place else to turn.”

Thus reassured we drive on. A few uneventful miles later, we arrive at the address and pull into the driveway of a large, well-kept farm.

It is precisely 3:00 a.m. All of us except Carol pile out. Ella hurries inside the dimly lit house to assess the situation while Daisy and I grab all of the birthing paraphernalia from the trunk and waddle toward the house with our arms overflowing. We manage to safely deposit all the gear on the kitchen floor without losing our balance among the shadows.

Ella reenters the kitchen from the even more dimly lit bedroom and tells us the baby should come soon. We hope. I run out to converse with Carol. I feel bad that she has to wait. “I guess you have an agreement with Ella to hang around,” I state more than ask. “Would you like a bed to lie down?”

“No,” she says. “I'll stay out here until I get cold and then I'll come in.”

“Okay. That's fine,” I say, and hurry back to the house. Inside we start digging through the bags, getting everything ready, while the young farmer and father-to-be thoughtfully lights a bright gas lamp. First, we get all the baby things out on the kitchen table—the scales, tape measure, blue and pink inkpads to take the baby's footprints, a waterproof pad, and an old but clean blanket to wrap the baby. Daisy digs out the mother's birth records and starts recording information. I dig out the birthing tub, lay it out on the living room floor, and start laboriously inflating it, using a hand pump. Daisy takes her turn, cheerfully commenting on the hopeful possibility of us developing strong, lean back muscles from all this exercise.

The young farmer steps out of the bedroom carrying his first-born 14-month-old daughter and takes her across the yard to Grandma's house. When he returns, he takes over the slow tub inflation process. We gratefully turn it over to his much stronger arms and back. After he's done, he fills it with warm water. His wife by this time is in active labor, and ready for the much more spacious birthing tub. We help her get in and try to make her as comfortable as possible, although any
mother knows that
comfortable
is not the right word to describe any part of the birthing process.

We fan her flushed and sweating face, let her squeeze our hands, put a cool cloth on her forehead, verbally encourage her, and try to keep her focused.

Finally, after two more hours of hard, painful labor, she gives birth to a handsome, kicking, and screaming little son. We all sigh with thankfulness and relief. Daisy takes the baby, bathes, weighs, and measures him, and dresses him in clean, soft baby clothes. The young farmer helps Ella and me lift the weary mother out of the tub and situate her comfortably in bed. We slowly drain and deflate the tub and pack up our gear. We are almost ready to leave when the shrill ringtones of Ella's pager penetrates our weary minds. “Oh, no!” we sigh. “Not another baby!”

Ella goes to call at the nearest phone and confirms our fears. Daisy and I, though, will not travel to this one. Thankfully there are enough grandmas there that they don't need our help. We sigh in sheer relief.

Faithful Carol has managed to sneak a couple winks of sleep and drives us home without event. Once there, Daisy and I hit our comfortable pillows and conk out. No more ringtones—for a little while anyway.

Nearing the Dawn

Laura Yoder

But if any widow have children or nephews, let them learn first to show piety at home, and to requite their parents: for that is good and acceptable before God (1 Timothy 5:4).

D
AD AND
M
OM HAVE GONE TO
A
LBERT AND
A
DA
M
ARIE
'
S WEDDING
. The couple is older than the usual marrying age. Albert has been a widower for some time. As I thought of Dad and Mom driving to Albert's wedding, my memories returned to the past, to Albert's first wife, Rosanna. I can remember playing dolls with Rosanna when we were girls. We used to climb trees together and talk of our grown-up years lying ahead of us. I remember I was eight years old the day we solemnly promised each other we would be friends forever.

Then we both grew up and married. She soon moved away to a neighboring community and then later the news of her cancer came as a shock. Rosanna was 38 with five young children when she died. I was standing on my sister's porch when the news arrived. The rest of the day is lost to my memory, but that moment remains, standing there on the porch with the sun shining and the wind whipping my skirts.

Albert was a widower for over a year, which wasn't easy with five children, I'm sure. He is marrying Rosanna's older sister, a bittersweet time, which Dad and Mom have been invited to share.

With my parents gone to the wedding, someone needs to care for Grandma. Grandma's mind is almost gone, although she has lived a full and happy life. Grandma married Grandpa in Ohio, and they moved to Indiana while their children were still young. After Grandpa passed away, she lived alone until her failing health caught up with her. Mom is her only daughter, and moving here to Michigan from her settled place in Indiana where her roots were deep wasn't easy. But Grandma
has come to feel at home here. Though she misses the family in Indiana, when she went back to visit, she missed the family here too.

In the days when Grandma's mind was clear, I enjoyed visiting with her. She'd talk of days gone by, of the little sister Mom never knew, who died a few hours after she was born. Grandma remembered the tragic things in life—the boy in the community who passed when he was four, the time my uncle lost his foot in a farm accident.

Then Grandma would smile as her thoughts turned to better times. One of her favorite things, she told us, was going on a buggy ride in a slow rain.

“It seems like such a little thing,” Grandma said. “But it remains one of my favorite memories.”

I could picture that buggy ride in the slow rain quite well. I could see Grandpa and Grandma going down the road with their faithful driving horse, Darkie, the rain drizzling against the storm front, running in rivulets down the glass.

But those years are gone now. Grandma is 94 and nearly helpless. Someone has to stay with her all the time, so my sisters and I have volunteered. There are six of us, but two live out of state, and my oldest sister, Ruth Ann, has back problems, so that leaves three of us to stay with Grandma today.

Martha, my youngest sister, is married to Jacob Byler. She will arrive early to help with Grandma. She has two small children who still aren't in school. Katie and I have children to see off, so Martha will be at Dad and Mom's place to get Grandma out of bed.

My morning also began early on the farm. With seven children it's always busy. We were out of bed at 4:30 to begin the milking. There are 25 cows needing tending to. Afterward my husband, Mark, and our older children, Alan, Sarah, and Mahlon, finished the feeding and bedding. I cleaned the milk house.

Sun rays were lighting the sky in the east by the time I hurried to the house. First, there were the rest of the children to get up: Senesa, Elmina, Melvin, and Eunice. The younger ones need help getting dressed before breakfast is begun and the school lunches packed. In the meantime the other children come in from the barn. There are
now four schoolchildren hustling about, getting washed up, changing from chore clothing into school clothes, putting on shoes. There's never enough of me to reach around in the morning.

When things settle down, breakfast is a quiet interlude with everyone filling up on eggs, toast, and cereal. A couple hours of chores outside in the cold makes for empty stomachs and a good appetite. After breakfast the pace picks up again as the schoolchildren dash about, gathering up books, lunches, coats, and mittens. Usually there are at least one or two lost items to search for. Finally, with cheery goodbyes, they rush out the door, and the house settles into silence. I have time to think about my planned visit to Grandma today.