A Simple Amish Christmas (12 page)

A sudden knock at the front door stopped their conversation mid-sentence.

Standing on the porch, clutching a small overnight bag, were Faith’s sister and brother-in-law. They’d heard from the midwife’s neighbor that Faith was in labor. By the time they’d received the message and driven through the snow, daybreak
had come—but they had arrived. And they planned on staying to help with their new nephew.

“Annie, Faith would like to speak with you.” Samuel touched her arm as she was bundling into her coat and scarf.

“Sure thing.” As Annie slipped back into the bedroom, she marveled at the completely different scene from when she’d arrived.

Faith’s hair was combed and she wore a fresh prayer
kapp
and clean bedclothes. She now lay propped against a bed with unsullied linens, obviously exhausted, but with a smile playing across her face.

The first rays of morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, which were partially open. A blue sky sparkled outside the window.

“How are you doing?” Annie asked.

“We’re fine. I wanted to say
danki
.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Faith.”

“I know I don’t, but it meant a lot to me, having you here. I was terribly frightened last night, Annie.” Faith gazed down at the child sleeping beside her, bundled anew, fist resting near his mouth.

Annie realized Faith’s next words were something rarely shared between women. She’d worked with enough mothers to know that it was natural to ignore such fears, to turn away from them and not acknowledge how close death had come.

Faith spoke softly at first, but she gained strength as her words expressed and healed what was in her heart. “Trying to have him here might have been a mistake. And not sending for help sooner, well, I know now that that was certainly a mistake. I don’t know, Annie. Perhaps living out here so remotely—perhaps that decision in itself is a mistake.”

Faith reached out, traced a finger down the face of her son. “But at three this morning, it was too late to right any of those errors,
ya
?”

Annie squeezed her hand.

“When Samuel came, I was in and out with the pains. I could tell he was concerned. I knew he’d do his best, but I realized something wasn’t right. A woman knows when a man is holding something back. I could see by the look in his eyes he wasn’t telling me what worried him.”

“It was a complicated birth, Faith.”

“I’m not blaming, Samuel. Not at all. I’m trying to say, I could tell a difference the minute you walked in. He needed you, Annie, and so did I. So I suppose I’m saying that I’m thankful the Lord sent you.”

Annie tried to speak, but her throat was suddenly clogged— stuffed with the answers to her doubts if not her questions. Words couldn’t make their way past. So instead she reached forward and hugged her new friend, gently touched her babe.

Then she turned and walked out into the fresh December morning.

12

 

S
amuel expected Annie to be tired. He expected her to sleep a little on the buggy ride back to Jacob’s place.

But then Annie Weaver rarely did what he expected.

The first few miles they rode in comfortable silence.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

She snuggled into the blankets. “How Faith’s baby reminds me of the Christmas child, and how that reminds me of the cross. I believe the bishop mentioned the connection between the two, but I don’t think I really understood it fully until just this morning. Life—birth, death, our heavenly resurrection— it’s all a marvelous circle, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.” He glanced at her, surprised at the path her thoughts had taken.

They passed a small herd of deer foraging in the early morning light, and she drew in a small gasp, reached out, and clasped his arm, turning to him with the smile he was learning to like… learning to need.

He shook his head and clucked to the horse, “Get on, Smokey.”

“Why did you shake your head?” Her voice was teasing.

She snuggled down into the blankets and seemed to study him as he attempted to focus on the horse and the snow-covered road. Drifts lined it on each side, but the morning light revealed that the snowstorm hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared.

Much of last night had not been as bad as he’d feared.

“Did I shake my head?”

“You know you did.”

“It’s just that you seemed so surprised by the deer.” He glanced her way, then quickly back to the road. “It’s interesting how you take such joy from the sight—like a child would.”

Instead of becoming prickly, she laughed into the blankets. “I feel like a child sometimes, as if everything here is new to me again. There weren’t a lot of deer on the streets of Philadelphia.”

“I suppose there are advantages to going away for a time,” he admitted. “Certainly on returning it would cause you to appreciate your home.”

He began to squirm when her stare became over-long. “Do I have some snow on my face?”

“No, but I believe the long hours may have altered your personality. You’re actually being kind. Where is the other Samuel Yoder, the one who growls and snaps like a bear?”

Samuel laughed—the sound round and full and foreign even to him. “Now, Annie. I haven’t been as bad as you describe.”

“I suppose not. You weren’t a bear last night.” Her voice grew soft, thoughtful. “Without you, Faith’s baby wouldn’t have survived.”

Samuel didn’t respond, but the compliment passed over him like a welcome breeze on a hot summer day.

“I’m not merely saying words, Samuel. People in our community very much depend on you. Perhaps you’ve done this so long that you’ve forgotten, but they do.”

Samuel allowed the horse to slow, then stop to rest as they gained the top of the hill. The sun was risen fully now, and he wanted to enjoy the sight of undisturbed snow stretching for miles in front of him.

The Weaver place lay directly in front of them—a tidy frame house rising up out of the snow’s whiteness, barns painted red, large shade trees that had been planted long ago surrounding the buildings and marking the lane.

From where they sat, the home looked like the center of a wheel. Spreading out in every direction were fields, like spokes, growing wider as they moved away from the house—all well-tended and cared-for, ready to receive the spring planting.

One farm, surrounded by others that stretched off further than he could see—all connected like a patchwork quilt his
mamm
had once made. He hadn’t thought of the old quilt in quite some time, but he supposed it was still in the house somewhere.

“Did you hear me, Samuel?”

“
Ya
, I heard you. And I appreciate what you’re saying.” He clucked to the horse, though he allowed her a slow pace. “I suppose you’re right. To tell you the truth, I don’t think about it much. I’ve been farming and tending to our people for ten years now, Annie.”

He turned, looked her in the eyes, and fell a little deeper into the warmth of her honey-brown gaze. “I was younger than you are now when I started.”

She nodded, but didn’t interrupt him.

“I learned as I did my apprenticeship. Slowly, doctoring became a part of who I am, so as I don’t think about it anymore.”

A small flock of birds flew out in front of their buggy.

“I’m glad things turned out well for young Aaron and Faith and their
boppli
, but it doesn’t always.” He cleared his throat,
pushed on. “That’s the hard truth of trying to give medical assistance to our people.”

Annie looked down then, traced a pattern on the hem of the rough blanket covering her lap. “Even with our medicine at Mercy Hospital, it didn’t always turn out well. There were children who didn’t make it, despite our best efforts.”

“We can’t always understand the Lord’s will.”

He pulled the horse into her father’s lane. “Have you thought about focusing your skills to midwifery?”

Annie jerked her head up. “Belinda takes care of our district’s midwifing needs.”

“As you saw last night, it’s a big district. She can’t always be where folks need her. She’s mentioned to me before that she’d like an apprentice.” Samuel pulled the horse to a stop, set the brake on the buggy, then walked around to her side.

He opened her door of the buggy, but paused—studied her a moment. “Think about it. You did a fine job, and we could use your skills with the women and
bopplin
.”

Then he reached up and helped her out of the buggy.

It was the first time he’d touched her, other than a casual brush of fingertips. When their hands clasped together, he thought of his mother’s quilt again, of how the squares were sewn together and had remained so all these years.

A surge of energy flowed through him, a warmth that came from more than the rays of sunlight splashing across their entwined fingers.

“
Danki
,” Annie whispered.

“Annie—”

“There you are.” Adam opened the door to the house, bounded down the stairs. “I was about to drive out to the Blauchs’ and see if there was anything you needed. How is she? How’s the baby?”

Samuel stepped back while Annie updated Adam, and though they both insisted he come inside he politely declined.

As he turned his mare toward home, he looked back once— saw them walking arm and arm up the stairs. Something inside of him ached then, but he was suddenly too tired to examine it.

Breakfast, then some rest.

No doubt he’d be back to his old self afterwards—his old, grumpy-bearish self. He couldn’t help smiling at the image as he drove the rig toward home.

 

Annie was surprised when Samuel stopped by to check on her
daed
the next evening. He was carrying this Jacob-is-my-patient excuse much too far.

He found her in the barn, grooming Blaze. They spoke of the weather and the upcoming school Christmas pageant. Samuel mentioned that her
mamm
had convinced him to stay for dinner. The chicken and dumplings would be ready in ten minutes.

Then he admitted that he’d been by the Blauchs to see Faith and the baby.

“They’ve picked a name.” He smiled as he helped her put up the grooming supplies for Blaze.

“Are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me ask?”

“I thought I’d make you ride out there and find out for yourself.” He sidestepped her swipe, but barely.

“I’ve no time to drive out to Faith’s this week. It’s all I can do to keep my
dat
from breaking his leg again on this snow. If
I were to leave him for a full day, he’d probably be out there digging up the garden with a snow shovel.”

Samuel tugged on his beard. “Giving you a bit of trouble, is he?”

“I’ll say. David and I have taken every possible project we can find into the house.”

“Might be a few things around my place I could use some help with. ’Course I’d have to pay him—”

“Samuel Yoder. My father is not going to accept payment from you.” Annie put her hands on her hips and by the time the words popped out of her mouth she not only sounded like her mother, she felt like her too.

The realization had her drowning in a fit of giggles.

Samuel cocked his head and stood staring at her, waiting for an explanation, but she didn’t even try. Pushing him out of the barn, into the cold, she closed the barn door.

“It’s best you don’t know.” She hollered as they both ran for the porch.

A light sleet had begun to fall. Eleven days until Christmas and winter was still settling in, so why was she longing for spring?

When they reached the steps to the house, Samuel reached out and steadied her arm. “Careful, Annie. We don’t need two Weavers with broken legs.”

“All right, all right. I’m fine.”

She turned on him as if she were a child on ice skates. “Now tell me the
boppli’s
name or you’ll have to go home with no warm dinner, Mr. Yoder.”

“You would send a poor Amish farmer home hungry?”

“I would.” She darted in front of the door, blocking his path.

He rubbed his chin, as if considering which was more important, his secret or Rebekah’s cooking.

“It’s dumplings remember, and I made peach strudel for dessert.”

“Well if you made the strudel, I best be telling you, then.” He stepped closer, close enough for her to smell the soap he must have used that morning. “Noah. They named him Noah, and they asked me to tell you hello. As soon as the weather clears Faith wants to see you.”

“Both are doing well?”

“They are. Her
schweschder
is still there.
Boppli’s
nursing well, and Faith is healing fine.”

“That’s
wunderbaar
, Samuel. I’m very glad to hear it.”

“I knew you would be.”

They stood in the cold, smiling at each other, and Annie knew they should go on into the house.

“Okay, then. I suppose you’ve earned your dumplings and your strudel.” She turned back toward the door.

“Annie?”

Swiveling, looking up into those eyes she thought of each night before sleep claimed her, Annie felt her breath catch in her throat.

“How would you like to come and help me on Saturday?”

“Help you?”

“It’s third Saturday of the month.”

“
Ya.
”

“That’s always my busiest Saturday. Folks come to the barn with whatever ails them. It would help them a lot… that is, it would help
me
a lot if you could be there.”

Annie thought back to their first discussion, here on this porch, just after she’d arrived home. She’d wanted his approval so badly, wanted him to approve of her nursing.

He’d put his hand on this same door, and lectured her on how little she knew about helping the Amish. He’d dismissed her as a mere girl.

What had changed since then? Was it that she’d earned his trust? More importantly, was she going to let that memory, which still rankled a bit if she allowed her mind to wander to it, was she going to let the rudeness they’d first shown to one another stand in the way of doing what she enjoyed?

And doing it with Samuel.

She looked up into his eyes, even as she heard the door behind them open, heard the laughter of her family and Reba calling them in to dinner.

“Will you come by on Saturday?” he asked again.

“I’d like that very much,” she said, then turned and walked into the comfort of her parents’ home, knowing he would be following her.