The Christmas Quilt (Quilts of Love Series)

by Vannetta Chapman

  “Ya. I did sleep well. How are my nephews?”

  “Hungry. They nurse often, every three hours, but they are so precious, Annie.”

  “Yes, they are. You’re going to need to nap in between feedings.”

  “No worries there.” Leah sat on the bed, swinging her feet. “I pass out as soon as I’m finished feeding them. What if I do that at home? Here it’s okay. There are nurses everywhere, but at home—”

  “At home you’ll have Adam to help. Yes, you’ll both be walking around in a daze for a while, but you nap when you can. Don’t worry that you won’t wake when they cry. I heard both of their lungs when they were born, Leah. No mewling kittens as Dr. Kamal feared.”

  “More like roaring lions.”

  “Did I hear there were lions in this room?” Penny walked in with a tray full of food.

  Leah felt her stomach growl, her stomach that was still entirely too large. “I’ll never lose this baby weight if I keep eating all that you bring.”

  Both Annie and Penny shook their heads.

  “I know. I know. Eat for the babies.”

  “Nursing moms do not need to worry about losing weight,” Penny reminded her. “You need your strength and you need your liquids.”

  Annie picked up the refrain. “And we don’t worry about weight, unless it’s a health issue, which it’s not in your case. It would be prideful to focus too much on what you weigh. You are as you should be, not to mention Adam adores you.”

  Leah sighed as she felt herself give in to their logic. She couldn’t resist because she knew they were both right, plus the food smelled pretty good—not as good as her own cooking, but not bad. She raised the lid that covered her breakfast. “Yum. Bacon for once. Share with me, Annie?”

  “Oh, no. Vickie fed me before I walked over.”

  Unfortunately, Leah’s positive feelings didn’t last. An hour later she started worrying again. What if the babies weren’t able to go home on Saturday? She would probably move to Annie’s room on Friday. How long could they stay at the boarding house? She didn’t want to go there. She didn’t want to be separated from her sons by half a mile. She didn’t want to be separated at all. She needed to be close in case they needed her. They would need her. They nursed every three hours!

  “You’re frowning again,” Annie said, pulling her needle and thread through another of the Dutch boy squares.

  “Ya. I know.”

  “Worrying?”

  “I suppose.”

  She appreciated the fact Annie didn’t try to talk her out of it, and she didn’t even attempt to list all the things she was fretting over—they were so obvious. Not to mention she was tired of sitting in the bed, tired of this room, and when she’d sneezed earlier she was sure her incision had ripped open. It hadn’t. Annie had helped her check.

  This day felt like it would never end.

  “Now your frown looks like dat’s when he’s unhappy about the weather.”

  “I’ve never seen your dat frown.”

  “Do you remember the drought before I left on my rumspringa?”

  “I was young.”

  “Ya, definitely not engaged to Adam yet. The drought didn’t last long, but it was extreme enough to threaten that year’s crops. Oh, how dat would pace and frown, as if he could bring rain from the sky. I can still remember mamm telling him to trust in Gotte’s faithfulness. Dat would stare at her, then traipse back out to the barn.”

  Leah shook her head. “You’re making that up.”

  “I’m not. We children made ourselves scarce that year. Things were tense in the house.”

  Silence filled the room as Annie continued to sew, and Leah pictured Rebekah and Jacob. She’d spoken to her own family once since Amos and Ben were born—they’d called from a phone shack near their home. She’d promised to write regularly about both boys’ progress. Rebekah and Jacob had traveled in the van though, and slept in the chairs in the waiting room. They were precious to her.

  “How did it end?” Leah asked.

  “With rain, as droughts always end.”

  Leah sighed. “There’s so much to worry about, Annie. I didn’t know being a mamm would include so much . . . well, so much fear!”

  Annie completed the stitching around the Dutch boy’s bright blue shirt and dark blue pants. “I suppose there is, but Gotte is always faithful. Ya?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Leah’s lips, in spite of her determination to hold on to her pout. “I suppose.”

  “He was faithful when he brought me home to Mifflin County.”

  Leah stared out the window. A light snow covered the tall buildings and even the tiny parked cars below. “He was faithful when He brought me and Adam together at the singing after church when I was seventeen. I rarely went to singings.”

  Annie laughed. “Adam never went to singings. He sings like an old bull.”

  Someone passed in the hall. The soft shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor, echoing until the sound faded away. “He was faithful when He gave me two sons. There are some women in our community who have none.”

  Annie nodded. “Ya, and I know that Gotte fills their home too—with nieces and nephews . . .”

  “And there is that one family in the other district who adopted children from the city. Gotte is faithful, Annie.” Leah’s fears ebbed away as she realized the truth of their testimony.

  “He is that.”

  “Our list could go on for a very long time.” She snuggled down into her bed.

  “Yes, it could.”

  “But I believe I’ll rest now. Our list is a gut story for your Dutch boy—for the fruit of faithfulness.”

  “It’s an excellent story.” Annie stood and closed the blinds so the light that came into the room was somewhat softer. The last thing Leah saw before sleep claimed her was the snow beginning to fall again. Her last thought was to wonder if it was also falling at home.

  23

  Adam stood with his hands in his pockets, frowning at Dr. Kamal. “But we agreed that today the boys would come home. I’ve waited all day, and Belinda—she brought the van. Everything is ready.”

  Dr. Kamal nodded in agreement. “Yes, I see why you are upset. However, babies, they do not always follow the plans we lay out for them. Isn’t this true?”

  Adam glanced around the crowded room. Leah, Annie, Belinda, and Dr. Kamal all stared back at him. No one seemed to know what to say. They’d been waiting all day long for Dr. Kamal to return. Now darkness was covering the city, and Adam had hoped they would be on their way.

  The boys had been in the room, but a man close to Adam’s age, Foster was the name written on his name tag, had taken the boys out after they’d fallen asleep. Adam couldn’t believe how they’d grown in less than a week. He couldn’t believe they needed to spend another night in Philadelphia.

  Dr. Kamal studied his shoes a moment longer; when he finally did speak, he held his hands out in front of him. They were large hands—Adam thought they looked like a farmer’s hands. Dark black on the outside, pink on his palms, they were hands that had helped bring his sons into this world.

  Because of that, Adam pushed down his impatience and listened.

  “In my country, especially in the villages, these babies would be home already. Here in America we are more careful. Are we too careful?” He shrugged. “We’ve found there are four things that are important to see before a baby goes home, especially the small ones like Amos and Ben.”

  Adam liked that the doctor remembered his sons’ names. He seemed to be a kind man, and no doubt he was doing what he thought was best.

  “First of all, they need to breathe without the use of oxygen.”

  “Amos has not needed the oxygen since Thursday,” Leah pointed out.

  Adam recognized the strain in her voice, and he moved closer to her bed. He’d vowed to be there for her emotionally. Reaching out, he placed his hand through the raised bar of the bed, covered her hand, and squeezed.

  “It’s true.
Neither boy has needed respiratory support.” Kamal ticked off one finger. “We also watch their heart rates and breathing patterns. The twins were nearly thirty-six weeks and had no problem with either of these things.”

  He ticked another finger, looked up, and winked at Annie.

  “The third thing we need to see is if they take all their feedings by mouth.”

  “How else—” Adam glanced over at Belinda.

  “Some babies need a feeding tube,” she answered. “We couldn’t do that in your home.”

  “Amos and Ben are doing well. They lost a little weight at first, which is normal, and have begun to gain again. I’m very happy to see this.” The smile on Dr. Kamal’s face was genuine and did much to ease the knot in Adam’s stomach. Releasing the boys to go home would have done a lot more.

  “Our problem is in the fourth area—maintaining a stable temperature. Amos has managed to do this. It is Ben whose temperature dipped a small amount in the wee hours this morning. It was not much and not for long, but I like to see an acceptable, stable temperature for twenty-four hours before I release an infant to go home—”

  Adam began to interrupt him, but the good doctor pushed on.

  “And I’m aware while Amish homes are comfortably heated for adults with your wood stoves, it might not provide the level of warmth a premature infant with temperature instability would need.”

  Adam was shocked. “You know how we heat our homes?”

  Dr. Kamal shrugged. “It’s my job to know about my patients, Adam. Also, we are in Philadelphia, not New Guinea. You’re not my first Amish parent.”

  Adam stared down at the floor, thinking and praying. When he looked up, he asked, “If we weren’t Amish, would you send him home?”

  “No! Not until twenty-four hours have passed. Maybe tomorrow. With the promise that you will find a way to maintain a steady temperature in the babes’ room of—”

  “Ya. Annie already told us. The bishop has approved the use of a generator and it’s all in place. We have the extra heaters, if need be. I assure you, the workmanship on my house is gut. I’ll put it up beside your fancy city dwelling any day.”

  Dr. Kamal nodded as if he expected as much. “Then we will hope for tomorrow, and I will make my rounds early.”

  Belinda and Annie had gone to sleep at the boarding house. Adam was moving things around so that he could sleep in the chair which stretched out into a bed, when Leah began giggling.

  “What do you find funny, fraa?”

  “You won’t fit in that chair as easily as Annie did.”

  “I won’t?”

  “Nein. Your legs will hang off the end, and you’re going to have to sleep on your side to fit at all.” Then her voice grew wistful. “I wish you could sleep here with me.”

  Adam glanced around the room, shrugged, and began to drag the chair over next to her bed.

  “You’re going to rearrange their furniture?”

  “Why not? I’ve missed you, Leah.”

  “And I’ve missed you.”

  “At least we can sleep side by side.” He finished positioning the chair, then noticed Annie’s quilt draped across the arm. “Are you two still working on this?”

  “Ya. It’s taken a little longer than we thought it would.”

  Adam held it out in front of him. They’d only left one light on in the room as they’d prepared for bed, but he could make out the pattern. Leah and Annie had always been good quilters, but he didn’t see anything particularly hard about this design, certainly nothing that should have caused them trouble.

  “I guess you didn’t have as much free time as you thought you would.”

  “Oh we had a lot of time, but we kept stopping to tell stories.”

  “Stories?” Adam unfolded the sheet the nurse had given him to cover up with. “What kind of stories?”

  Leah reached for the quilt. “A story for each child. It started when I first came here, before I apologized to you about my behavior—”

  “No need to speak of that again. We’re past those days. Forgotten and forgiven.”

  “Ya, but I mention it because Annie had been reading the Bible, and she read Galatians five, verse twenty-two.”

  “I should remember what that is. I know Paul wrote it.”

  As Adam stretched out on the chair and deep night settled around them, Leah told him the stories from the quilt and how they matched up with the fruits of the Spirit.

  “All we have left is the boy she finished yesterday and the heart, here in the middle at the bottom. She decided to add it to make the quilt different. To make it special.”

  “So you’ve done seven of the nine fruits. The two you have left would be—”

  “Gentleness”—Leah’s voice was a whisper—“and self-control.”

  “The final two fruits of the Spirit.”

  “Ya.”

  Adam had never been one to read stories very much—Annie did that. He read The Budget, and occasionally he’d read a mechanics magazine he saw at the library. He read the Bible, more now than ever before, though he couldn’t say he understood everything he read. Maybe with each year that passed, he would understand more.

  Curling up on the chair in the hospital room, staring into his wife’s beautiful eyes, he searched his heart, and he found the story she needed to hear. It was a story about a man, who had been a boy. He had spent nearly three weeks alone while his wife and unborn children had been at the hospital. During that time he had learned a lot about himself, about self-control, and about love and the importance of treating one another with gentleness. He touched the heart on the quilt when he came to that part.

  He wasn’t sure his story was very good, but his wife had tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips, so he supposed it was good enough. They fell asleep holding hands, and they were awakened two hours later by the sound of two crying, hungry little boys. Adam was groggy, and he felt like someone had rubbed dirt in his eyes. Something told him that before the year was out he’d be used to their new routine—and besides, all things passed.

  Leah walked through her home slowly, touching each item as if she’d never seen it before. She remembered the day they’d married, the first night she’d spent there with Adam. Even those memories couldn’t compare to this evening.

  “The bassinets are in our room—one on each side of the bed.” Adam joined her in the sitting room, looking quite pleased with himself. “And I’d say this house is toasty warm.”

  “Ya. Dr. Kamal should come visit and see for himself.” Leah couldn’t believe that just the night before they’d been worried they wouldn’t get to come home. Twenty-four hours could change so much. “Do you think we should have let Annie stay?”

  “Nein. We can handle the bopplin. I’ll help you, Leah. And if I know my mamm, she’ll be here in the morning.”

  “It was gut of her to leave the food.”

  “They’ll all bring food. You won’t need to worry about cooking until the boys are sleeping at least six hours straight.”

  Leah sat on their couch, then ran her hand over the arm. How long since she had sat on a couch? It had been hospital beds and hospital chairs for weeks. Then she closed her eyes and listened.

  “Sleeping?” Adam’s voice was very close to her ear.

  Goosebumps popped out down her neck and along her arms as he sat down next to her.

  “I was listening.”

  “Ya?”

  “Listening to the silence. It’s beautiful.”

  “I like it.”

  “Mercy was a gut place, but it always had sounds. This is better.”

  “It’s better now that you’re here—you and Amos and Ben.”

  The wind rattled the window, but the house remained snug and warm.

  “Do you know what I think we should do, Leah?” Adam’s voice teased her ear again.

  She shook her head. When she looked into his eyes, she saw the old Adam, with the mischievous grin.

  “Help ourselves to the plate of oa
tmeal raisin cookies mamm left, with some cold milk.”

  “It’s so late—”

  “All the better. Before the boys wake up. Makes me hungry getting up so often during the night.”

  “You’ve done it once!”

  “Exactly. I know what it’s like, so I’m fortifying myself.” He made his way to the kitchen. She listened to him pull out glasses from the cabinet, open the refrigerator, pour milk, and bring everything into the living room.

  She was home.

  The word resounded through her heart.

  And it was as sweet as the fresh-baked cookie Adam offered.

  24

  Annie sat in her sewing room on Christmas Eve, grateful she had a few free hours to put the binding around Leah’s quilt. How had the weeks slipped away? It seemed yesterday they were walking down the streets of town, looking in the windows, and planning for Thanksgiving.

  That holiday had come and gone and now another was upon them. Life would slip by like leaves in the wind if she wasn’t careful. Her mother had warned her. “Don’t blink, Annie. Don’t get caught up in worrying over the little things. You’ll miss the daily blessings Gotte has in store for you.”

  The baby kicked, as if agreeing with her mother’s words of wisdom. Would she ever take anything for granted again? After being away from her home for so long? After being through such a time with Leah?

  And yet it had been a blessing. She’d known it the moment Adam had walked into the hospital room. The second his eyes had landed on his wife. Her brother had changed in those weeks. Much as Leah had matured in Philadelphia, Adam had learned to cherish and adore what mattered the most in his life—a young woman and two precious children.

  “You’re concentrating awfully hard in here.”

  Annie turned in her chair. Samuel was leaning against the doorframe, watching her. He stood with his arms crossed, and she could see his hands were clean so he must have been inside for a while. She’d never heard him come in from the barn!

  “I suppose I am,” she admitted.

  “Anything you’d like to share?”

  Annie sighed and continued stitching the binding to the quilting. It lay nicely, attaching the back of the quilt against the front. It provided an edge around the rows of Dutch children, safely tucking them together, binding them together.