Mary's Home

by Jerry S. Eicher

She was not used to Willard’s praise. Thankfully, Betsy and Ronald were deep in their own conversation and had not noticed.

  Willard filled his bowl of porridge again and glanced at Mary. “I’d like to show you around the city today. Would you like that? See more of what I do here?”

  “Certainly! That would be great. I’m sure I’ll be impressed.”

  “You do much more than I deserve or ever imagined that you would,” he told her.

  “Please, stop saying these things,” Mary begged. “I’m still Amish at heart, and we don’t sing praises this early in the morning.”

  Willard laughed. “Or perhaps ever.”

  “Oh, sometimes,” Mary objected. “Everyone needs a little encouragement, but within limits.”

  “You’ll just have to get used to it.”

  “Maybe I won’t,” she warned.

  The warmth in his eyes flowed all the way through her. His were the most wunderbah words she had ever heard. But was that not how love felt? She was very much in love. Josiah Beiler had never been anything like this.

  Willard reached over to hold her hand before he stood and announced, “Don’t stop eating, but it’s time for our Scripture reading.”

  Tambala must have anticipated Willard’s move because she was ready to hand the book across the table.

  “Thank you, Tambala.”

  He opened the Bible and turned a few pages before he began to read. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters…’”

  Mary listened to the familiar words. She had heard them so often in the community, where the open fields of the farm lay outside the living room window, and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves passed on the road outside. Here she heard the distant roar of automobiles on the streets beyond the landscaped front yard, and the crush of a populace squeezed into small places. Yet the words of the psalm were the same, and so was the peace that came over her heart.

  Willard finished and closed the book. “These words of the Lord are fresh and new this morning. They speak to my heart. I have been gone from the mission awhile, but I am back and have brought a lovely lady, Mary Yoder, with me for a short visit.” Willard’s voice caught as chuckles rose from the Americans at the table. Most of the boys stared with uncomprehending looks.

  Mary clasped her hands under the table as Willard collected himself and continued. “I cannot begin to explain what Mary means to me, or the wonder I feel that she has come, along with Betsy and Ronald, to Kenya. Truly the Lord has been my Shepherd, and He has led me to green pastures.”

  Laughter rippled at the table this time, and Mary lowered her head to hide the heat that colored her face. A few of the boys across from her smiled once comprehension had begun to dawn. Love was a universal language that could be understood by even the most street-hardened children.

  “Let us pray and give thanks for the great things the Lord has done, and for the good food we have eaten,” Willard concluded. Everyone bowed their heads.

  Mary waited for the “amen” to open her eyes. Willard’s warm smile was the first thing she saw above her. He was so handsome, standing there with his hands by his sides, and the words of his prayer still on his lips.

  “Come.” Willard reached for her hand. “We should be on our way.”

  “Where are you going?” Betsy called after them as Mary followed Willard out of the dining room.

  “I’m showing Mary the streets,” Willard told her. “Do you want to come along?”

  Betsy made a face. “I don’t think so. I’ll help with the dishes and work around the house.”

  “You’re welcome to come with us,” Willard assured her, but Betsy shook her head and returned to her conversation with Ronald.

  Willard and Mary walked out the front doors hand in hand. She let go when he opened the passenger’s side of the pickup.

  “I’m driving,” Willard said with a big grin. “Mind that?”

  “Of course not! I trust you.”

  He hopped in and turned the key.

  “Where are we going?” she inquired.

  He drove down the landscaped driveway and into the street before he answered. “The slums.”

  “Did we go past them yesterday?”

  “No.” He gripped the steering wheel as they lurched into the traffic. “Ashon brought us past the market, but the slums are much worse. The mission is based in the better part of town. The boys come here in the daytime, but few can stay the night in the streets. The police are too vigilant, and getting caught isn’t a pleasant experience.” Willard frowned. “We don’t offer a place to stay at the mission unless the boy is willing to enter the programs we have in place. We want them to get off the glue, stop stealing in the streets, and take any education course we are offering at the time.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a sacrifice,” Mary mused.

  “You wouldn’t think so.” His face was pensive. “But things can get turned around easily. God has made us social creatures, and we are adaptive to our environments. We feel at home with what we are used to or have grown up with. We Americans can forget that when we deal with cultures unfamiliar to us. Even the slums can become home for many. Thieving becomes their way of life. The streets tug at the hearts of these boys, and glue sniffing is like the familiar embrace of a father. Strange how that works, but it does. I have seen boys leave the mission and return to the dirt, the grime, the filth, and the suffering of the street because they were homesick.” Willard shrugged. “That’s the only way I can explain it.”

  “Do you think I will become homesick for the community?”

  “I know you will.” He gave her a quick glance. “That’s not a guess.”

  “Is that the real reason I’m here?”

  He took a moment to answer. “Partly. You have more reason to return than these boys do.”

  “How am I going to persuade you, Willard?”

  “It’s not a matter of persuading me. It’s simply walking through the valley that lies ahead of you and seeing things as they are. I want you to have a choice in that valley before you commit. The worst thing for me would be to see tears of loneliness well up in your eyes and know there was no way back.”

  “I love you, Willard. You know that.”

  “I know, Mary.” He forced a smile. “I feel the same, which makes things worse, I think.” A horn blasted beside them, and Willard swerved away from the offended vehicle. “Looks like I had better pay attention to my driving.”

  Mary moved closer to him and reached for his hand. “I will be honest with you. I know there will be pain if I join you in Kenya, but there will also be joy in a life spent ministering with you.”

  “You are a saint,” Willard said. His attention focused as they weaved in and out of the traffic.

  “You are a better driver than Ashon,” she finally told him.

  He chuckled. “That wouldn’t be difficult to beat.”

  Mary stared as they reached the edge of town. The changes had begun a few streets back, but that didn’t diminish the stark devastation in front of them.

  “Welcome to the slums,” Willard told her, as if words were needed.

  A railroad track cut through the shacks, which were constructed with boards set on end and bound together by the flimsiest of means. The roofs were rusted metal, and in some cases strips of metal laid horizontally on top of each other. Laundry hung on wires that were strung from one side of a structure to the other. The pieces of clothing were brightly colored but threadbare. People walked slowly in the streets, the pattern haphazard and fuzzy, as if no one was certain where they were bound.

  “We’re stopping here.” Willard brought the pickup to a rattling halt. “We can walk in a ways, but we can’t leave the vehicle out of sight. There wouldn’t be much left when we came back.”

  Willard jumped out, and Mary didn’t wait for him to open her door. The ground squished under her feet, but she kept her gaze on the people around the
m. Most stared blankly, except for a young boy who stood alert at the street corner.

  Willard waved to him, and the boy moved closer. “You want me to watch your vehicle, Mr. Willard? I will for a price.”

  “Thank you, Chane,” Willard told him. “You keep asking, but you know I can’t. We’ll stay in sight as always. Anything going on that I need to know about?”

  The young lad spat on the ground. “The police raided here yesterday. What they looking for, you know? They found nothing of that sort, but two of my boys were taken. I send someone to look this morning, but I know what I will find—if I find them.” Chane spat again. “Bloody and beaten, that I find. Can I bring them to you?”

  Willard nodded. “You know you can. In fact, we will wait and take them back with us.”

  “They come soon,” Chane assured Willard. “You can take them.”

  The lad resumed his post at the street corner. Several young boys appeared from a side street, engaged Chane in a short conversation, and left again.

  “The gangs,” Willard confirmed. “They are experts at stealing. Somehow they manage to keep things hidden from the police raids. None of them would survive if caught.”

  “Will you ever let him guard your vehicle?” Mary asked.

  Willard shrugged. “He never stops offering. Someday I’ll take the chance, I guess.”

  “I can tell Chane already trusts you.”

  Willard gave Mary a smile. “That’s what I want, but I never know how to read these street boys. That would be one advantage of having you with me. You read people well.”

  Mary looked away. She had not read Josiah well at all. Thankfully, Willard didn’t notice her grimace.

  His attention was focused down the street. “Here they come now.”

  Mary followed his gaze to where four skinny lads struggled with a blanket strung between them in a makeshift litter. Chane also noticed and ran toward the approaching party. Willard followed with Mary close behind him. Chane’s face was contorted with rage when they arrived. “One is dead. The other looks like this. The soldiers, we hate them. Now you see why.”

  Mary peered into the blanket at the frail form crisscrossed with lashes. Blood oozed from the open wounds, with dirt crusting the edges. Mary reached for the boy’s head and cradled the matted hair in her hands.

  “Bring him over to the pickup truck,” she ordered. “I will ride in the back with the boy on the way home.”

  “The hospital,” Willard corrected her. “We are going there first.”

  FORTY

  Mary awoke in the early morning hours to the blasting horns and the faint roar of street bustle outside the mission’s thick walls. Big cities never slept. Surprisingly, she had adapted well in the few days they had been in Nairobi. Betsy had done well until Mary returned to the mission in the back of Willard’s pickup truck holding the bandaged head of the street urchin.

  Mary studied her sister, who slept in the bed across from her. Betsy had two pillows stacked on her head, as if to shut out the horror she had witnessed. For the last two nights, Betsy had moaned and cried out frequently. Thankfully, she slept soundly at the moment. Betsy would emerge for breakfast bleary-eyed and short tempered until Ronald teased her back into goot spirits.

  Mary exited the bedroom and made her way down the hallway. Betsy belonged back in the community. Ronald managed city life a little better, but he had also begun to mope around during the day with a homesick look in his eyes. Their scheduled departure at the end of next week would not come soon enough for those two.

  Mary paused to catch her breath. The truth of how she felt was clear this morning. She didn’t want to go back to the community. Only pain awaited her there. Distance and time might heal the wound between her and the ones she loved, but immediacy would deepen the cut. That certainty had increased each day she had been here. This was where she belonged. Nairobi and Willard’s mission work were not a dream, but her dream had led her here. Would Willard allow her to stay? Would he ask her to marry him? Was he satisfied with how she had adjusted to life in the big city? If not, she would have to walk the road back to the community, agonizing though that would be.

  Mary pushed open the door into the injured lad’s bedroom. The boy appeared to be resting well, so she seated herself beside his bed and took his hand. Fever had wracked the thin frame since they had brought him home from the hospital. The emergency staff had washed and sewn up the worst of the boy’s cuts, but that had been the end of their care.

  “Gang warfare,” several of the nurses had muttered darkly. “We no want him here.”

  Willard hadn’t objected. Apparently, protests would not be believed. That they were Americans who could pay was likely the only reason the hospital would treat the boy at all. The nurses had helped place the boy into the pickup bed with a clean blanket under him, and Mary and Willard had headed back to the mission. Tambala had resumed his treatment from there, with the help of antibiotics purchased at the corner drugstore. No prescription had been given at the hospital.

  The fever had come fast, but the boy had lived. They still didn’t know his name. Street Boy, Tambala had called him, until something better would develop. The name sounded familiar on Tambala’s lips. She must have used the moniker before to peg the children who came through the mission doors. In a way, all the boys from the street were nameless, faceless children caught in a world without a home.

  Willard supplied them a place where they could be something beyond unwanted cogs in the city’s wheels. Where would this child go when he awakened and was able to move about? Would he wish to stay, or would the strangeness of the place, removed from the dirt, filth, and violence of the street, be too much change? How strange that this mountain must be climbed, a mountain she had never seen before. Mary had imagined the boys would line up outside the mission for a chance at a fresh start, a chance to live in a real home where you were loved. Perhaps the definition of love changed on the streets. Chane, with his street corner, cared in his own way for his charges. Did that suffice or pass in this boy’s heart for affection and acceptance?

  From what she could see, Willard didn’t offer freebies to the boys as enticements. He required a lot of those who stayed. They were cut off from the freedom of the streets, from the excitement of city life, from unexpected disruptions, and from the promise of thievery to supply needs without labor. In the slums, the deprived were surrounded by those with abundance. The temptation to take must be overwhelming, and this boy had succumbed. Would he be able to resist temptation, once wellness returned to his body?

  A soft knock came on the bedroom door, which cracked open to reveal Willard. A smile crept across his face. “At your post early again. How’s he doing?”

  “His hands are cooler.” Mary brushed the boy’s forehead. “I think the fever has broken. He’s sleeping soundly.”

  “You are quite the nurse. Tambala is impressed.”

  “So I passed the test?” Mary teased.

  Willard chuckled. “With flying colors, but you always do.”

  Mary stilled a quick intake of breath. This was a conversation made in jest. She had to keep that in mind.

  “Can I talk to you?” Willard motioned toward the hallway.

  The boy stirred, and Mary waited until his breathing evened. Willard had left the doorway, so he must be in the kitchen where Tambala would be busy with breakfast.

  A flood of light from the kitchen appeared ahead of her, where Willard leaned against the counter.

  “Good morning,” Tambala called to her. “How’s the street boy? Willard told me you were up early to see him.”

  “Much better, I think, due to your excellent nursing.”

  Tambala shook her head knowingly. “That was you and not me. The boy can feel your love. That’s what brought him through so quickly.” Tambala turned toward her. “And don’t you argue with me, Mary. Willard knows this is true. Don’t you?”

  “You know I do,” Willard agreed with a broad grin. “But you also are a
n excellent nurse and cook, Tambala.”

  “See, you are the goot one,” Mary insisted.

  Willard glanced at her. “I was just ready to ask Tambala for a favor this morning. I want her to fix us a breakfast that we can take along to the park.”

  “The park!” Mary exclaimed. “You have a park in this city?”

  The question was lost to Tambala’s wagging finger. “You know I cannot do that, Mr. Willard. I make you food right now, and you can eat early, and then you go. Breakfast is not in a box you can take with you. Now you listen.”

  Willard chuckled. “I guess taking breakfast to a park is a little impractical, but I wanted Mary to see the sunrise with me away from the city.” Willard turned his attention to her. “I discovered this place by accident one morning, driving in from a trip into the country. From the park, the city lies on the horizon, and the sun is a beautiful sight coming up over the skyscrapers. This morning the skies should be clear.”

  “Then let’s go!”

  Tambala’s finger punched the air. “You eat here! I not tell you again.”

  Mary joined in Willard’s laughter before she asked, “Will there be enough time to eat and still get there when you want to?”

  “Depends how fast we eat,” Willard replied.

  But she could tell there would not be. “Let’s take something with us and go,” Mary decided.

  A look of alarm filled Willard’s face. He apparently was not used to defiance in the face of Tambala’s orders.

  Mary hurried on while Tambala stared at her. “We can take fruit, cheese, and bread. We ate like that in Paris.”

  Tambala finally found her voice. “You would starve Willard of his breakfast?”

  “I’ll pack it myself,” Mary told her with a sweet smile. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “But…but…Mr. Willard…” Tambala sputtered.

  “I’ll take care of him. He will live.” Mary gave Tambala another smile as she began to gather up what she needed.

  Tambala sent a few baleful glances her way but soon gave up. The bridge had been crossed safely. Mary could tell from the look on Willard’s face that he was impressed. He followed Mary out the front door, and they climbed into the pickup. Willard gave her a wink but said nothing as they drove out of town toward the south.