The Christmas Quilt (Quilts of Love Series)

by Vannetta Chapman

  “Let me see if I have this right.” Samuel raised his fork, using it to accentuate his points. “You both apologized, both agree you were fools, but now you feel as if you should do something more—”

  “Ya. Ya, that’s it.”

  Samuel dug back into the celery casserole as Rebekah beamed at the two men. “This is nice. I like Thanksgiving when families are together.”

  “Mamm, we’re together every week.”

  “I know. Isn’t it nice?”

  She patted him on the back and moved over to where Charity and David were sitting together.

  “Maybe Gotte’s spirit is urging you to do something special, Adam. You have a little time on your hands, I’m guessing.”

  “A little. I’m busy in the shop, but the evenings, well, the nights are lonely as I’m sure you know.”

  “I do.” Samuel wiggled his eyebrows and forked a piece of ham. The man’s appetite was causing Adam’s stomach to growl. “It’s why I’m working on a special project for Annie. I finished her Christmas gift a month ago, but I miss her, and I might as well channel those feelings into a special gift for her.”

  “Okay. So it’s not exactly a repentance gift.”

  “Nein. It’s a gift of love, something to express your affection.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You’re young.” Samuel broke a roll in half, releasing steam into the air between them, and added a pat of butter to it. “Can’t be expected to think of everything.”

  “I’m not that young.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  “Who’s old?” Jacob asked, sitting down with a plate heaped with food.

  “Did you all leave anything to eat in the kitchen?” Adam asked.

  “Perhaps a little, but he who waits last—”

  “Is in danger of starving,” Samuel finished with a wink.

  Adam groaned. The women in his family sometimes quoted proverbs. The men in his family usually quoted nonsense, though in this case they could be right.

  He stood and made his way to the kitchen, happy to see there was plenty of food left. As he filled his plate, it occurred to him there was something he could make for Leah. Something she had once asked him for, but he’d told her he was too busy. The question was, could he complete it in the next week?

  Certainly he could try. He’d begin this evening, after he used Samuel’s phone to speak with Leah—something he found he was looking forward to even more than his mamm’s pump-kin pie.

  Annie was surprised when Dr. Kamal walked into Leah’s room after they’d finished their Thanksgiving meal. Most doctors did not do rounds on holidays, and Leah had been doing well for several days. The heart rate for both babies was good, and the contractions had not resumed.

  She and Leah had taken out the quilting, something they hadn’t done since Monday—the week had sped away from them. Annie was learning, surrounded by so many women carrying precious children who were under critical care, that what day the quilt was finished wasn’t the important thing. Leah’s vision of the quilt had helped calm Annie’s nerves over the exact finish date and whether they’d be done by the end of the next week, when the babies would probably deliver.

  Annie wanted to begin another Sunbonnet Sue, her apron a light teal on top of a darker green dress. Leah worked on another nine-patch square. They’d divided up the material and pulled out their needle and thread when Dr. Kamal walked into the room.

  “I’m in time for the quilting bee.” His voice was a combination of bass baritone and sweet molasses.

  But why had he stopped by, on a holiday?

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here on this lovely, festive afternoon. In my country, Africa,”—as he said the word he rolled the syllables as if he were playing an instrument, like the musicians who came to the town festival—“We do celebrate to the Lord with Thanksgiving, but on a different day. It’s difficult for an old man like me to adjust to new ways when it comes to family celebrations.”

  He smiled broadly and walked forward. “May I touch the babies today, Miss Leah?”

  She nodded, and he put his hands on her stomach, moving them around, as if he could tell more by that than he could by studying her chart—which he had done standing outside the door. “Yes, we celebrate to God . . . some to the gods of old, to the god of the harvest, but more and more Christianity is coming to Africa. It is good. The celebrations of old continue, the harvest celebrations, but now the people, they call out Yahweh’s name.”

  He stepped back and Annie pulled up the covers over Leah’s stomach. “This quilt you are making, it is for the babies?”

  Annie nodded, Leah nodded, and Dr. Kamal smiled. He sank down into the chair beside Leah’s bed. “The women in my country still sew. It’s rare for me to see it here though.”

  Leah fingered the small squares of fabric on her bed. “Quilting is a skill we pass down, from mother to daughter. We sew anything we can, and only purchase what we must.”

  “That is good, too. It brings you peace, I suspect, working with the needle and thread.”

  Leah turned her gaze to Annie. They’d been talking about peace, the third fruit of the spirit, both trying to think of a story that might match the Sunbonnet Sue Annie was beginning to appliqué.

  “Leah’s looking at you oddly because we are telling stories as we stitch the quilt.”

  “One story for each Dutch child,” Leah explained.

  “And what is today’s story about?”

  “We were stuck,” Annie admitted. “We both were trying to think of a story about a girl.”

  She positioned the dress and the bonnet—pieces she was about to appliqué—on her square.

  “A girl who has something to do with peace.” Leah emphasized the word as if it were some rare quality. “In truth, both Annie and I were a little unruly as children.”

  Dr. Kamal’s smile widened. “Hard to imagine.”

  He leaned forward, black forearms braced against his white lab coat. “I might have the right story for you though. When I saw you sewing, I thought of this child. Her name was Nailah. You are my last patient to visit today. If you have the time, I will tell you about her. It isn’t a long story, but perhaps it will serve for your purpose and even, I think, be appropriate for this day.”

  Annie set aside her sewing and reached to put up Leah’s, but Dr. Kamal protested. “No, no. You can sew and listen. Continue, please.”

  So he spoke, with his deep lyrical voice, and they heard the story of Nailah, the African girl.

  Nailah’s family lived in a modest home in a village in western Africa, in Ghana. There they have the Yam Festival. It’s also called Homowo or To Hoot at Hunger. Famine is still a real problem and food considered a blessing, and because of this the people celebrate each September. The rainy season is ending and the crops are ready to harvest. So you see, it is very much like our Thanksgiving here.

  Nailah was probably eight years old that year, and I was a young doctor—there was no white in my hair yet! Her mother was nearing the time to give birth to her second child, and both she and her husband prayed fervently it would be a boy. In Africa, it is still important for families to have a male child, though this family had converted to Christianity and they reminded me each time I visited any healthy child would be a blessing.

  In those days births were at home, much as they are in your community, yes? Each time I came to the home, Nailah would be patiently waiting by the front door, in the small amount of shade afforded by a vendor stand her father had made. Though she was young, she could weave baskets with skill, and she would be there waiting and weaving.

  I would say hello, and go in to check on her mother. She would nod solemnly but not speak until I was on my way out. Then she would ask me, “Is my mother’s time near? Will my brother be born soon?”

  Nailah understood we didn’t know if her mother was to have a girl or boy, but always her question was the same, and always my answer was the same—that
only God knew the time and place of our comings and goings. I expected her to persist, but each time she would say, “Thank you very much, Dr. Kamal,” though of course she said it in her native tongue.

  As her mother’s time drew near, the Festival of the Yams began. The streets were filled with people watching the parade, singing songs, dancing and drumming. The crops had been good that year, and the celebration was . . . how do you say? Over the top! The day Nailah’s mother went into labor, I noticed there were no baskets left in the little girl’s booth. She had sold every one, for all the women of the village had dug up the yams the day before and had carried them home in baskets on top of their heads. And though Nailah could have joined in the festivities, or even gone into the house to sit in comfort, she remained in her booth as if it were any other workday.

  When I asked her about that, she said, “My mother is laboring, so I will labor as well.”

  “And when the babe is born?” I asked.

  “Then we will celebrate together.” Her eyes were serious and her tone even. She reminded me she would be outside praying to our God, Yahweh, for as many hours as it took for her brother to enter this world from the heavenly one.

  It was one of my more difficult home births. Perhaps that is why I remember, but I like to think God has placed the family in my heart because of Nailah, because of the peace that child embodied and her strong belief.

  The morning sun had risen on the next day, the second day of the festival, when I walked back out the front door. The father, he had wept and prayed through the entire night. Perhaps his prayers had saved the mother—who survived, but wouldn’t bear more children. He sent me out to fetch Nailah, to bring her in to meet her little brother.

  She lay curled in the corner of her booth. Four or five baskets were stacked at her feet, evidence of how she had spent her night. It was plain she was awake though. Her eyes sought mine as soon as I trudged around the corner.

  “Does he look like me?” she asked. Those were her first words. She didn’t ask if it was a boy or if he was well. Her faith had long covered those questions.

  “Perhaps in the eyes. Yes, I think he does.”

  She jumped to her feet and threw her arms around my neck. Squeezing tightly, she whispered, “May God’s angels ever be with you.”

  And then she was gone, running into the house, her sandals slapping against the hard-packed dirt yard.

  “Did you ever see her again?” Annie asked.

  “I didn’t. Soon I was called back to Johannesburg, where I had done my residency. Not long after that, my wife and I made the decision to move to the United States, and I received even more training.”

  “She’s a woman now,” Leah whispered.

  “Yes, I suppose she is.” Dr. Kamal stood. “And one day your children will be grown as well. Perhaps they will ride to Philadelphia on a bus, and see an old black man from Africa, one who was given the privilege of helping them into this world.”

  He paused, touched Leah’s stomach once more and said, “A blessed Thanksgiving to you both.”

  After he’d left the room, Annie focused on finishing her Sunbonnet Sue. When Leah had clipped the thread to her nine squares, she placed it on the side of the bed and sighed. “He can tell a story.”

  “That he can,” Annie agreed.

  “Love, joy, and peace.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear patience.” Annie folded their quilt pieces and placed them in her bag.

  Six quilt squares to go, and eight days until Leah’s babies would be born.

  18

  Adam stood beside Charity looking at the rows and rows of quilts hung on the clotheslines behind Annie and Samuel’s house. The one thing more surprising than the quantity of quilts was the amount of cars and buggies lining the lane.

  “Where did they all come from, Charity?”

  “The quilts or the people?” She bumped him with her shoulder, a slow smile spreading across her face.

  “The quilts. Surely you women didn’t sew them all since Leah was taken to the hospital.”

  “Nein. Women quilt. Amish women quilt constantly. Tell me you haven’t noticed this.”

  Adam scuffed his work boot against the ground, grateful that the day had dawned sunny and not too cold. The little snow they’d had on Thanksgiving eve had melted. “So you’re saying—”

  “Every woman I know has three or four quilts put back, for such a time as this.”

  “And then they—”

  “They give them, Adam.” Charity pulled the strings of her prayer kapp forward, then ran her fingers from the top of the string to the bottom as she studied him. “Think of it as money in the bank—put back for an emergency. This is an emergency, and everyone is happy to help. Oh, look at the woman in red heels fingering mamm’s double wedding ring. I should go and see if she wants to make an offer.”

  His sister was off before he could say another word. Nor did he have time to be alone. His Onkel Eli replaced her before Adam was able to take a single step.

  “Nice to see the community pulling together.” Eli slipped his thumbs under his overalls. Though the day was cool, he wore no coat, only a long-sleeved blue shirt and black suspenders with his customary black pants. “And a real blessing this happened at a time that there are so many tourists in the area.”

  Adam studied him, waiting.

  “Think, Son. If the babes had been born sick, and we’d had the auction after Christmas? Not many tourists on a cold, snowy January Saturday. I’m sure Gotte would have provided, mind you.” Eli nodded toward Rachel. “Could be He’s even using this to soften the hearts of others among us.”

  “You think so?”

  “She closed down her shop to help today. Asked me to pick her and the boys up. Said if folks wanted to spend their dollars, they could spend them here. Doesn’t sound like the entrepreneur I’ve come to—” Eli stopped himself, looked left and then right, as if to see who might be listening. “To tell you the truth, Adam, she didn’t sound at all like the business woman I’ve come to care for.”

  “You? And Rachel?”

  “Don’t have to publish it in the paper.” Eli grinned and rocked back on his heels. “I figured being a newly married man yourself, you’d understand.”

  “But . . . Rachel?”

  “Never limit yourself to looking on the outside, son. Though she’s a beautiful woman, I understand she’s presented a hard shell to the world. I think it may be because of the difficult past she’s had. Rachel has shared a little of her history with me the last few weeks.”

  As they watched, Rachel knelt beside both of her sons and spoke with them, pointing toward the area where Rebekah was accepting payment for goods. Jacob was directing children to help folks carry their purchases back to their cars and buggies. Matt and Zeke nodded once, and then hurried toward Adam’s parents. Rachel stood, then scanned the crowd until her eyes found Eli. Instead of walking toward him, she smiled and turned to help the women preparing lunch.

  Adam shook his head. “I suppose I never thought of you, well, of you . . .”

  Eli’s grin was answer enough. “I had begun to wonder myself, if Gotte had such plans for me. It would seem maybe he was allowing me to wait, so I could be a father to those two boys.”

  “Not that I’ve asked yet,” he added.

  “Oh.” Adam couldn’t think of what else to say. His head was spinning. His Onkel Eli? Married? To Rachel?

  “I should go and help those young children with my toys. They seem at a loss as to where the on button is for a pull horse.” His laughter followed him as he walked away.

  Wow. Adam had a lot to talk to Leah about when he called her. He was sure there was something serious going on between Charity and David, and possibly Reba and Trent, and now Eli and Rachel. Not to mention describing all the people who had shown up for the auction. How he wished his wife could be here.

  He trudged toward the barn where the men had set up the food tables, when his youngest sister joined him.
r />   “Bake sale is going well,” Reba said. “And we’ve nearly sold out of tickets for the luncheon.”

  “It’s . . . a lot to take in.” He waved one arm toward the tables holding crafts, including a good deal of Onkel Eli’s wooden toys. With the other hand, he pointed at the pen of animals. “Are we auctioning those goats and sheep?”

  “Ya. Folks love to see an animal auction. Adam Weaver, you act as if this was your first benefit auction.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention before. The last few years, I was more interested in sneaking off alone . . .” He stopped suddenly, realizing who he was talking to—his little sister!

  Reba’s laughter pealed across the yard, mingling with the sounds coming from the dozens of children, Amish and Englisch. “You think I didn’t figure that out? Tell me something new about my bruder, something worthy to be published in The Budget.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence on you, is all. And don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Trent. He’s your boss, you know, and an Englischer to boot.”

  Reba stepped closer, looping her arm through his. “What does love feel like, Adam?”

  Instead of answering, Adam groaned.

  “Does it make your stomach hurt a little? Does it make you want to sing sometimes, and other times long to hold your head in your hands? Is that what love is like?”

  “If you want to know about love, read Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.”

  “Ya, I know. It’s patient, kind. It doesn’t envy or boast.”

  “Fine. You know the scripture. Then you know you should be thinking of someone from within our own community of faith.”

  Reba pulled him to a stop, right next to the baked goods table. “He’s speaking to the bishop, Adam. About converting.”

  “Reba, you know how difficult that is. Since I’ve been a kind, only three, no, four people have tried and all have failed.”