A View from the Buggy (10 page)

Miriam Schwartz

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies (Psalm 23:5).

W
HY AM
I,
OF ALL MY SIBLINGS
,
THE ONE CHOSEN TO HAVE DIABETES
?
I silently wondered as I prepared to test my blood sugar again.

After having diabetes for several years now, it had grown very monotonous to test my blood sugar four times a day and take shots every time I ate. Often I catch myself thinking that all this extra care takes too much time. But I also can't shirk my duty or I'll get uncomfortably sick.

So I was open to a new option when it was presented to me.

“Have you ever thought about switching to an insulin pump?” asked Alice, my nurse, on a recent checkup at Dr. Lisa's office.

“Well, I can't exactly say that we haven't given it any thought,” Dad drawled. “But we've heard of extreme lows someone else experienced when they used a pump for their insulin. This person passed out and they had to call the ambulance.”

“Oh, we'll help you with the lows,” the nurse told us. “We can adjust the pump accordingly so you have a normal range. And we actually prefer these pumps. They aren't as hard on the body. When you give shots it brings down the blood sugar fast, while the pumps have a more gentle action.”

So we accepted the advice and took lessons on how to use the pump. Later, the doctor's office inserted the hose. I was supposed to keep it in for three days to see how I liked the pump. I did like it, and a few weeks later I got the supplies and went through the final instructions. Now I'm on my own. It took a few weeks of further adjustments, but
I'm now taking my shots by punching buttons instead of poking myself four or five times a day.

I have to change my pump sites every three to four days, due to the danger of infection, but I wouldn't want it otherwise. We feel grateful for the connections we made with Dr. Lisa. At first she was too busy to take us, but in desperation Dad told her we had been referred to the office by another Amish family who had been helped.

We feel very grateful to God for overseeing the little details in our life. Dr. Lisa was indeed the doctor I needed.

“How do you feel about your diabetes?” Dr. Lisa once asked me. “Do you feel you can talk to anyone about it?”

I had to admit that I'm very self-conscious and not open about my problem. I worry people will think differently of me if they find out.

“Did you know one of our nurses is diabetic?” Dr. Lisa asked.

“No, I didn't,” I said, amazed.

“A lot of people don't know you're diabetic unless you tell them,” she said. “You're as normal as anyone else, except you have a bit more responsibility to look after. There's nothing different except your pancreas has stopped working. And it's very important that you talk to someone you can trust about this.”

“I talk mostly with my family,” I replied, “and sometimes a little with my friends.”

I didn't explain to Dr. Lisa that four months ago I had joined a circle letter with three other diabetic girls. This had proved to be another blessing from God as all four of us can identify with one another.

One girl wrote that she had an extreme high and couldn't figure out what was wrong. She changed everything on her pump, including the insulin, and still nothing changed. Her blood sugar just kept creeping up! Finally it hit her that the whole week had been extremely warm, and especially that day. She had been told that insulin is spoiled by humidity and heat. So she quickly changed her insulin again, this time from a vial that hadn't been exposed to the weather, and it helped. What a relief she felt once she found the cure!

Those are a few of the things we learn from each other. We talk
about what to watch out for so little events don't turn into big ordeals. But we still can expect bad days like that, though we also have the assurance that the next day we can try again. Hopefully we learn from the lessons given us. We know that God does not give us more than we can bear.

Those Lemon Bars

Delores Schrock

And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not (Galatians 6:9).

I
T WAS MIDMORNING ON A DAY IN
J
ANUARY
. S
NOW WAS FALLING
gently, adding to the drifts from the snowstorm the night before. I was by myself in the house. Dad and my brothers were working in the refrigeration shop while Mom and my sisters had gone to help with canning.

The clock was striking ten, and I was going over my options for baking. We needed either cookies or bars to serve with coffee and tea for the meal after the services the following Sunday. I paged through the
Walnut Creek Valley Cookbook
and decided I wouldn't be baking chocolate chip cookies. We were out of chocolate. Another choice I liked was whoopee pies, but they took too much time, and the last time I'd attempted whoopee pies, they had been a total flop. So I searched further and then right before my eyes appeared the perfect recipe: melting, gooey lemon bars. The recipe looked so easy. Surely it wouldn't fail me.

My spirits rose and I started humming, “My Jesus I love Thee, I know Thou art mine.”

I set out to gather the baking utensils and ingredients. I selected a pink mixing bowl and carefully measured the powdered sugar and flour for the crust. Next, I went to the refrigerator for the two sticks of butter I'd need.

Oh, no! No butter! I would have to make a trip to the basement. I raced down the steps, opened the refrigerator we kept down there, and strained my eyes to see. Yes! There was butter on the top left-hand corner. I grabbed a pound and dashed upstairs again. I reached into
the cabinet beside the propane gas range to retrieve a saucepan and plopped the butter in. I turned the burner on high and soon I had melted butter.

I poured the butter into the powdered sugar and flour, mixing it in a jiffy. Next, I patted the crust mixture onto a large cookie sheet. But dear me, how could I be so forgetful? The oven wasn't preheated. Quickly I turned the stove knob to 350. I slid the cookie sheet onto the top rack and now I was ready to mix the lemon filling.

I selected another bowl and studied the recipe. I needed four eggs, and of course there were only three in the refrigerator. I was sure from the earlier trip that there were none downstairs, so that meant a trip to the chicken house.

Rushing to the mudroom, I jerked the closet door open and slipped into my boots. Shivering, I opened the door. The cool air swirled around me and as I launched myself toward the chicken house (without my coat!) I promptly sprawled headlong into the snow. Quickly, I gathered myself back up. There was no time to lose. A few more steps and I was at the chicken house, where much to my relief I found four eggs. I hurried back to the house, kicked off my boots, and ran into the kitchen. I was way behind schedule and now breathless.

I began cracking the eggs into the bowl, ending up with the first one on the floor. Grabbing a towel, I wiped it up and continued cracking eggs. This time I got all of them where they belonged. I proceeded to beat the eggs at a high rate of speed, my arm twirling.

Next was the sugar. I reached for the canister and dumped two cups into the bowl. Now I needed lemon juice, and I opened the refrigerator.
Very good!
I thought. We had lemon juice. But wait! I couldn't believe my eyes. I was short two tablespoons to reach my third of a cup. My mind raced. I was sure there wasn't a single ounce of lemon juice on our whole 80-acre farm, but what could I do but check?

Frantically I rummaged through the pantry searching for a familiar green bottle, but no lemon juice could be found anywhere. My only option was to go across the road and ask our neighbor Rosanna for lemon juice.

I headed once more for the washroom, but oh! The crust was in the
oven.
It's probably black by now
, I thought. I made haste for the kitchen and jerked open the oven door. What a relief, the crust was perfect. I took it out of the oven and set it on the counter.

Once more I prepared to go out. I put on my old blue denim coat, a royal blue scarf, mud boots, and pigskin gloves. Outside, a gust of wind blew into my face and I pulled the denim coat tighter as I headed up the lane to Rosanna's house. I trudged through the soft snow, reached her house, and knocked on the door. Rosanna greeted me warmly as I told her about my need for lemon juice.

She was happy to help and I handed Rosanna the Tupperware container I had brought along. We chatted pleasantly about Joe's new baby while she measured out the lemon juice. Rosanna handed me the container when she finished, and I thanked her and then started home.

Once home I resumed making the lemon filling. I stood beside the sink and pried at the stubborn lid of the Tupperwear container. There was an awful
whoosh
as the lid popped off and the container fell into the sink, dumping the contents. I couldn't believe my eyes as the lemon juice gurgled down the drain.

I felt all the energy leaving my body and tears were threatening to come. My lemon juice was gone. But I had to finish what I'd started, so there was no choice but to make another trip to Rosanna's place.

I dressed again for the outside and made my way up the lane. Humbly I knocked on the door, and Rosanna opened. Somehow I got the words out. “Um…I was opening the lemon juice and…”

Sympathetically Rosanna told me she'd be more than happy to give me more lemon juice. I mentioned my fears that I might have harmed my planned lemon bars by the delay. She assured me that she thought they would still turn out okay.

I arrived home to carefully open the container and pour the lemon juice in with the eggs and sugar. I then added flour and baking powder. Vigorously I beat everything together and poured the filling on top of the crust. Then I slid the pan in the oven to bake. I set the timer for 30 minutes and plopped exhausted into the nearest chair, totally drained from my hectic morning.

Soon, the
beep beep
came. The 30 minutes were up. I opened the
oven door to take out a beautiful pan of lemon bars. I generously dusted the bars with powdered sugar and cut them into squares.

The next Sunday after church my friend Regina told me, “Those lemon bars are the best!”

I smiled. Little did she know the tale of those lemon bars.

My Night Away from Home

Samuel Chupp

And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country (Luke 15:13).

S
CATTERED PATCHES OF DIRTY SNOW DAPPLED THE SIDE OF THE
railroad as I walked between the rails, knowing they led south to the town of Cadillac, about ten miles away.

I shifted my pack. In it were the supplies I needed for my journey. Some clothes, food, and a little money. There was also a stack of tourist magazines. The pictures showed mountains, rivers, woodlands, covered bridges, ranches, vineyards, ski slopes, dog teams…the stuff of poetry.

I was a young Amish farm boy, with never enough time to explore these things. And there had been too many restrictions placed on me. But that was all behind me now. I had ripped off my suspenders moments earlier. They would be a dead giveaway as to my former identity. My denim overcoat was stuffed in my backpack. I was wearing a tan
English
undercoat Mom had picked up at a secondhand store with the intentions of using it as a cheap coat liner for me. I had now put it to better use.

I didn't wish to attract attention. I had chosen my route carefully—through the bedroom window, into the spruce woods behind the barn, across about a mile of wilderness area, and down a few miles of back road surrounded by mostly woods and swamp.

Now I was safely at the railroad tracks. This was a lonely stretch of rails, and I shivered. The pale warmth of the afternoon sun was fast slipping westward, but the air still had a springlike feel to it. I took a deep breath, savoring the stirring in my heart. I had decided I would travel a
year or so, taking in work at some of the beautiful ski resorts, orchards, or other fun places listed in my tourist magazines. No more of Dad's scolding, no more restrictions. Only in time would I return.

A familiar song came into my mind, and I began humming softly. “Redeemed how I love to proclaim it; redeemed by the blood of the Lamb…”

The utter hypocrisy of it struck me. I was deliberately ignoring the blood of the Lamb by walking away from my home. But I didn't know any worldly songs to hum. Deep down I knew I was overreacting to my situation at home. Still, I was leaving. I had dreamed of this for years.

Darkness was softening the woods when I caught sight of Cadillac's twinkling lights. I paused for a moment and found a log away from the tracks where I could watch the world without exposing myself. All I could hear was the normal drone of traffic on the adjacent US 131 and an occasional car on Boon Road in front of me.

I started walking again. I would need a place to stay for the night. Maybe the motel on Mitchell Street.

I made my way in that direction, stopping in along the way at a place on Kindal Alley. The name was Topping, which didn't give much of a clue about what went on there. I had wanted to see the place myself for a long time. So I approached the building. The front door was obviously not used, so I went around the back. Yes, there were vehicles in a small parking lot. There was also a well-used door. I squirmed in my shoes, thinking that it was nice that it was dark, and certainly it was nice to slip in the back way.