A View from the Buggy

by Jerry S. Eicher

  “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).

  DAD AND MOM HAVE GONE TO ALBERT AND ADA MARIE’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.

  Usually I sit and relax for a few minutes at this point, but I know Martha needs help so I keep going. Katie would no doubt arrive before me at Dad and Mom’s place, since she doesn’t have a farm and only three children. And I am right. Katie’s buggy is there when I arrive. Martha and Katie have finished Grandma’s morning sponge bath and taken care of the open sore on her back. They dressed Grandma and placed her in the wheelchair. Even with the two of them, they had found this quite a job, they told me. But Grandma is now eating breakfast.

  Mom had shown me how to soak and dress the sores on Grandma’s feet. Grandma is a diabetic, so sores are a constant concern and hard to heal. With Grandma’s breakfast finished, I tackle the job. I prepare two bowls of water, one hot and the other cold. I begin by soaking Grandma’s feet—four minutes in the hot and half a minute in the cold. Back and forth, back and forth.

  Grandma’s a patient soul and seldom complains. Frequently she doesn’t recognize us and will talk about people and things the rest of us can’t see. Today she hasn’t recognized my sisters, but she now knows who I am and she’s patient with my inexperience.

  When the soaking is done, it’s time to clean the sores. This one especially is bad. I hand over the task to Katie for a moment, stepping outside in the fresh air. I’m soon able to go on, and the two of us re-bandage the foot with burdock leaves and salve.

  With everything completed, we give Grandma her pills and settle her back into her wheelchair. Things are as comfortable for Grandma as we can make it. Katie and I sit down and look at each other. It’s nearly lunchtime. We have been busy most of the forenoon taking care of Grandma—all three of us.

  I think for the first time we realize everything Mom does. It’s only in the last months that Grandma has become so helpless. We had been trying to stop by and help. But even with the best efforts of us sisters and sisters-in-law, the bulk of the work falls to Mom.

  We soon make lunch and eat. It’s later in the afternoon when we help Grandma with her first bathroom trip. She tells us in her soft, quivery voice, “Ach…I never dreamed I would come to this.”

  Tears prick my eyes as I tell her, “We’re glad to do this for you. Someday it might be one of us.”

  I tried to imagine how that would be. I know it can’t be easy, becoming ever more helpless and suffering these indignities. My mind went back through the years to when Grandpa was still alive. That was 25 years ago. He also wasn’t well before he passed away. I remember Grandma helping Grandpa with the same things we were now helping her with. During his last weeks, we had visited them. I sat beside Grandpa at the table and his hands trembled when I passed the dishes to him. Once he dropped a dish and Grandma reached over and steadied it for him.

  Grandpa had been a farmer. He knew about long, full days of working in the fields. His last days contained none of that, though. His body succumbed to Parkinson’s. His feet shuffled. His hands shook. His voice was weak. Grandpa was bedridden the last month. I was only 13.

  Now Grandma is where Grandpa had been. The years keep marching by, and if time continues for us, we too might someday come to this place. It’s a sobering thought.

  At the end of the day, we go home with a greater empathy, not only for Grandma and Mom, but for all the elderly who must give up everything they’ve been used to. Bit by bit, they lose out. We pray they will have faithful caregivers.

  Life begins for us when we are young. We grow up and see the same thing happen with our own children. We diaper and bathe our babies. We dress and feed them. We do it year after year with each new arrival. There are sacrifices and it’s a lot of work, but it’s a joyful calling full of rewards and filled with promise and expectation. With training and prayer we expect our children to grow up and live a life of service.

  It is different when we reach the other end and our life of service is over. The mind and body are ebbing. There’s a beauty that comes with the acceptance of this, as there is in the devoted services of the caregiver, though both are tinged with sadness. We consider caring for Grandma a priceless privilege, and one which places our own lives in a clearer perspective. We do it gladly, knowing God has a purpose and a plan, and it is good.

  New Beginnings

  Nathan Miller

  Excerpted from Out of Deception

  For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast (Ephesians 2:8-9).

  I TURNED INTO MY BROTHER ALVA’S DRIVEWAY WITH APPREHENSION IN my heart. What would my new life in Evart be like? It had been hard to leave what I knew…but after having broken free from what was a cultlike experience with self-proclaimed prophet Wilbur Lee, I was ready to move on. Hopefully it would be here in Evart.

  Alva’s wife, Elnora, gave me a warm welcome—hopefully that was a sign of good things to come. I carried my luggage in the house and got everything situated in my room. Soon Alva came home from work for lunch. After he welcomed me and showed me around the place, we went inside to eat.

  Throughout the next several days, Alva and I had many long discussions about my life with Wilbur Lee. Freely sharing my experiences allowed me to view them from a completely different perspective. Many times I was embarrassed to relate what we had believed as a group.

  On Sunday, church services were held at Alva’s house. I sat in rapt attention as the ministers expounded God’s Word. I felt like a dry sponge soaking up the living water of truth.

  “Jesus was here as a human being, yet He was without sin,” the minister preached. “His purpose was to bring hop
e to lost mankind. He is the great healer of our souls. One of His missions on earth was to bring physical healing. This was God’s way of getting people to believe Him. He healed a number of lepers. Leprosy was a terminal illness, yet He healed them every time.”

  Wilbur Lee had never healed anyone. He could not even heal Mary’s cancer. Suddenly I remembered the vision of Jesus I had had after leaving Wilbur Lee’s. I hadn’t thought about it for months. I began to think maybe Jesus was the Son of God after all. The minister certainly seemed confident that what he was preaching was the truth. And he didn’t spend time knocking other churches; he simply presented the Bible.

  “The Bible is absolutely true,” the minister continued. “How do we know it is true? First of all because of the difference it makes in our lives when we believe its truths and live them. Jesus tells us in His Word what we are to do.”

  My mind flashed back to my vision. Oh, so that’s what Jesus meant when He told me, “Do as I say.” Perhaps if I had searched the Bible and believed everything it said, things would have turned out differently. Instead, my life was sure a mess now. I needed to find the truth.

  After church the bishop walked up to me. “So you are Alva’s brother?”

  “Yes, I am,” I responded.

  “My name is Omer Miller. I’m glad to see you here. You’re welcome to come to our house to visit anytime,” he said.

  That evening Alva and I sat in the living room visiting. My thoughts returned to the sermon.

  “Alva, how do you know the Bible is true?” I asked.

  “I simply believe it is true,” he stated with confidence. “It has made all the difference in my life.”

  “When I left Wilbur Lee the first time, I read the first chapter of Romans. I could really identify with that.”