A View from the Buggy Read online

  “Sure!” I agreed.

  But before I could step out of the buggy, Keturah shouted, “Whoa, Lady! Whoa!”

  Lady had gotten spooked. She started to run forward with one of the harness snaps still fastened to the buggy. The harness pulled back across her rump as she took off. Lady panicked and tried to escape what she thought was a crawly creature on her back.

  Keturah acted quickly, grabbing for the bridle. “Whoa, Lady! Easy now!” Keturah tried to calm down the horse in reassuring tones.

  Still inside the buggy, my eyes were getting bigger as I watched the action outside. Knowing Lady was a nervous horse, I realized I should get out of the buggy right away. But before I could do so, Lady started going in circles, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Keturah still hung on to the lead strap, yelling, “Whoa!” but to no avail.

  Anxious to get out of the buggy, I ventured out onto the step and bang! Lady turned sharply, causing the buggy to overturn. I was thrown to the ground and landed hard under the buggy, hitting my head.

  “Ohhhh!” I yelled in pain, seeing stars. I lifted the buggy off my head and crawled out from beneath.

  In the meantime, Lady’s lunging and twisting had torn her harness free. Keturah let go of her, turning quickly toward me when she heard me cry out.

  By then I had managed to get to the barn, where I collapsed beside the water hydrant with a loud moan. Completely forgetting about Lady, Keturah raced to where I lay. Kneeling beside me, she anxiously asked, “Regina! Are you okay? Are you alive?”

  “I don’t know,” I finally responded in a weak voice.

  “You’ll be okay! You’ll be fine!” Keturah kept telling me. She was trying to reassure me, and also her own doubts, I suppose. I know her words helped me relax.

  “Where are you hurting?” Keturah asked. “There where your hand is?”

  I moaned as tears ran down my cheeks. I couldn’t speak because of the intense pain. My head throbbed as if a hammer was pounding on it. “Ohhhh…!” was all the sound I could make.

  Keturah, determined to find the source of pain, peeled away my hand from my scalp. “Oh!” She jerked back, then quickly did her best to appear normal, all the while saying, “Regina, don’t move! Stay where you are! I’ll go get Mom!”

  Not move? I asked myself. Where did she think I would go? Was I okay? That was the important question. I felt suddenly very scared and I sat up. Was I dying? It hurt terribly, but I was still conscious. That was a good sign.

  Then I saw a patch of blood on the cement where my head had been. Was I bleeding to death? I felt warm trails of blood trickle down my face. My hand cautiously approached and touched the soft bulge on my scalp.

  Keturah had told me I’d be okay, but how could she know? My thoughts raced. The way Keturah had jumped up and fled for the house made me feel like I was already living on borrowed time. For all I knew, I might be dying. Another mighty blast of pain shot through me. “Oh!” I muttered as I weakly lay down again.

  More pangs hit sharply. Time and again, I almost passed out. Where was the help? I screamed as the pain became unbearable. Terrified voices soon broke into my wails. “Regina! What’s wrong?”

  I peered out from under my arm to see my friend Eunice standing there with a worried look. Her little niece Lois stood beside her, now crying at the sight of my bloody face. They had come to buy eggs and had been drawn to my screaming. I kept on wailing as if I hadn’t heard them.

  Eunice, seeing that I was breathing and conscious, started running toward the house for help. Just then Mom and my four siblings burst out the door and ran toward me.

  “Regina! Regina! Are you okay?” Mom kept calling. “Children, step back so I can get a better look.” Mom took charge, speaking to me soothingly as she washed away the blood. “Oh good. It isn’t bleeding anymore,” she said. “Relax, relax, relax. That will help a lot.”

  “Dad’s home!” The cry rang out as Dad rode in the driveway on his bicycle, returning from his school teaching job. The scene that met him must have been astounding. The whole family on practically one spot by the barn, the neighbor ladies standing off to the side, and the flipped buggy on the other. Bits of harness were strewn in the driveway. And one of the girls had tied the half-harnessed Lady to the hitching post.

  Dad had all the information he needed by the time he was off his bicycle.

  “I’m going to call Pat,” he said, “and see if he can take us to the emergency room to check this out.” Dad disappeared into the shed where our phone was kept. Pat was a local taxi driver for the Amish. We often hired him when we had to travel distances farther than our horse could handle.

  Meanwhile the others helped clean me and prepare me for the trip. A dark blue head veiling was brought out since the white starched cap was now dirty and dented, with one string torn off. My bare feet were put into Crocs just as Pat came bouncing up the driveway with his truck.

  I walked with jittery steps over to the truck and climbed in, with Mom right at my side supporting my head. Dad hopped into the front on the passenger’s side, and off we zoomed to the hospital.

  The visit to the ER stretched into two hours as they cleaned and checked out the bump on my scalp.

  “Well…it looks like a slight concussion and a bad road burn,” the nurse told us. “The X-rays showed no internal bleeding, so you should be fine soon. Here’s some medication for the pain, and for the first week you should rest a lot.”

  “What a relief it isn’t worse!” I remarked to my parents. “I already feel better.” I rejoiced as the nurse bandaged my scalp.

  So I spent time on my back the next week as I waited for my head to heal. I was sore all over, but I repeatedly thanked God for His protection of my life.

  Beyond the Stars

  Wilbur Hochstetler

  He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings (Psalm 40:2).

  IT’S 5:30 ALREADY, I TOLD MYSELF AFTER A QUICK GLANCE AT THE CLOCK. I grabbed my coat and headed out the door of the shop for home. Joann would have supper ready soon.

  The early April sun was fast making its descent after a gorgeous day. The stubborn snow piles still lying in the ditches were giving way to the sun’s warmth. God had been good to me for many years now, drawing me to Himself and healing a past I often wished to forget. I shivered as I headed toward the house, feeling the temperatures plunging again.

  I paused to watch a log truck roar past, slowing down to turn into our mill yard. Another load coming in, I thought. Tomorrow would be a full day again.

  I had begun working here 15 years ago, in a business owned by my wife’s father and brother. They had taken me on as a partner three years later. We had grown the business over the years until we now put out over 3,000 fence posts a day.

  I enjoyed the daily interactions with the workers and customers, so when the two of them moved on to other ventures, another partner and I had taken the operation on.

  I watched now as the log truck came to a halt and the driver hopped out to begin unloading the small-diameter logs.

  Moments later I pushed the front door to the house open and stepped inside. Joann met me with a smile. “Supper will be ready in forty-five minutes,” she said.

  “I’m going to check on the cows,” I said. “Are the boys doing their chores?”

  “They are,” she said, “and Jaylin ran in to tell me his rabbit has little ones.”

  I grabbed my headlamp and headed for the barn, where I found the boys feeding their rabbits.

  “Dad! Flopsy had six babies,” eight-year-old Jaylin announced, hardly able to contain his excitement. I gazed down at the pile of fur. New births on the farm were always exciting events, even if they were only rabbits.

  “My rabbit is having her babies tonight or tomorrow,” Jeffery declared, joining us at Flopsy’s box.

  “That’s great,” I told him, turning my attention back to Jaylin. “How do you know how many are in there? Al
l I see is fuzzy white fur.”

  “Look,” he said, taking up a stick. “You don’t want to touch them the first couple of weeks. You might make the mother reject them.” He prodded in the fur, revealing the squirming pink bodies.

  I smiled. “The rabbits might not be the only ones who have babies. I think Queeny’s about ready to deliver too.”

  “We might have a baby calf ?” Jeffery exclaimed. “May I go with you to see them?”

  “Better not,” I cautioned. “Cows can get aggressive when they have a newborn.”

  Disappointment filled Jeffery’s face. With that I left the boys to finish their other chores and found my cattle prod. I always took the white fiberglass stick with me when checking on cows. The beef cows were generally docile, but when they have newborns they could turn protective.

  I reached the corner of the field where Queeny lay. I couldn’t see if there was a calf beside her. I moved closer and Queeny stood to her feet.

  “Yep,” I said out loud, “she’s got a calf.” The little thing was as black as its mother.

  Queeny mooed nervously and began to lick her calf. I was 20 feet away or so, and she eyed me, blowing through her nose. I could tell she didn’t like my presence in the least.

  “Hey, Queeny,” I spoke softly. “You’ve got a nice calf there. I’d like to take a look at it.”

  I watched for any signs of aggression. If she lowered her head or took a step toward me, I was out of there. So far she just glared at me. I paused and assessed the situation, all while continuing to speak gently to her. She even seemed to calm down a bit.

  I took another couple of steps to test her, always keeping the calf between us. I knew she would either begin to move away with the calf or put herself between the calf and me. And then I would be leaving.

  Thankfully she turned and mooed for the calf to follow. I moved on up. Queeny had done a good job of drying it. I lifted the calf ’s tail to discover it was a bull. The calf leaped into the air, running to its mother. Queeny mooed softly, washing it again with her rough tongue.

  It always amazes me how agile a newborn calf can be so soon after birth. I could tell this one had definitely been on its feet before I arrived. But had it sucked? Without nourishment it would not survive the cold night. And if a calf didn’t get that milk within the first six hours its chance for survival became slim.

  I took a guess that the calf must be three hours old, and it kept bumping the side of Queeny’s flank looking in vain for nourishment.

  I moved closer. Maybe Queeny would allow me to help the calf, but no, she took off, pacing away from me. The calf trotted along behind her.

  Frustration raced through me. Queeny stopped some ten yards from me and turned her attention to her calf again. By now the darkness was falling fast, and I turned on my headlamp. It seemed the sun had slipped behind a wall. There was little lingering daylight as there had been during the summer months.

  I approached Queeny again. The calf was still bumping around trying to find the source of nourishment. I kept speaking words of encouragement. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I would have to get Queeny and the calf into the corral and show the calf where to get the milk. I had done this before, and it was never an easy task. Usually any attempts to get the mother inside turned her into a raging monster.

  “Lord God,” I prayed, “You made the cow and the calf. Only You can make that calf suck without my intervention. Please, if it is Your will, show the calf where to find the milk.”

  I let out a long breath as my frustration melted away. In its place came a calmness. I turned my headlamp on the calf and adjusted it to see better. Sure enough, the calf was now sucking. Queeny was reaching back and licking the best she could. She appeared as relieved as I was.

  Looking up into the stars I said, “Thank You, Lord. You care about us—even our little problems.”

  With one last glance at the twinkling lights above me, I headed back toward the barn. My thoughts went back to a time when I wouldn’t have sought God’s help. In those days I even wondered whether God existed. Yet it was on an evening like this that God had reached me.

  Up until my early teens, my Amish experience had been typical. Growing up and enjoying the community. When I was 14, my parents left to join a more liberal church. They called it a spirit-led and spirit-filled group. I joined in willingly, thinking we were on to something good.

  As time went on we laid Scripture aside and depended heavily on spiritual revelations for guidance. Confusion reigned as revelations were given to our leader. He even had a revelation that only he was qualified to read the Bible. Any member caught reading the Scriptures was sharply reprimanded.

  Sinful practices were now revealed as acceptable to God. And since our leader’s wife had died, my brother and I moved in with him—all by “spirit revelation.”

  I was to endure a great despondency in that living arrangement. And one evening I went outside feeling especially low. I couldn’t stand the man who was our leader anymore. I hated what he was doing to me. I felt trapped. Defiled. But this was supposedly God’s will.

  I stared into the dark night, longing for peace. The sky was full of twinkling stars that evening.

  “My life is so messed up,” I muttered. My stomach lurched at the thought of what our leader would ask of me later in the night. I hated him. Yet I couldn’t sort out my angry feelings. One moment I was angry at him; the next I was angry at God.

  On sudden impulse I cried out to the heavens, “If there is a God who loves me, show me!”

  Instantly a meteor blazed across the sky.

  Was this real or a coincidence? I wondered. I had prayed a desperate prayer, but I hadn’t expected an answer.

  I must make sure, I told myself. Slowly I lifted my face, and whispered the same prayer, “If there is a God that loves me, show me!”

  The second meteorite seemed to take the words right out of my mouth.

  I wondered in amazement. Did God really love me? My heart pounded against my ribs, but I had to know. I prayed again, and there was a third meteorite. This time the meteorite exploded in the midst of the twinkling stars, forever impressing in my heart the love of God.

  I believed that night, and the road back wasn’t easy. But God helped me.

  So that was the background of my prayer the night of the calf ’s birth. And now, at peace, I entered the barn to finish my chores and join my family for supper.

  Yes, I mused, God does truly bless those who believe on Him, and He gives them a peace that surpasses understanding.

  The Beginning of My Journey

  Miriam Schwartz

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters (Psalm 23:2).

  I GROANED WEAKLY, FLOPPING ON OUR HOMEMADE LOUNGE. “MOM, I don’t feel well!”

  So began 2005 and my journey toward a serious illness. We came from the Amish church in Berne, Indiana, whose Ordnung forbade such things as stuffed couches and recliners. So my resting place that day was our lounge—as we called it. It was really a foldout English bed with a headboard. We folded it up and made a homemade cushion for it, and that was our lounge.

  We lived one day at a time, committing each day to God, not knowing what He had in store for us in the months ahead. But we trusted Him.

  I was nine years old that year, and still in school. We thought my getting sick on the first of March must be due to one of those unwelcome flu bugs going around. But it was not so.

  While I lay on the lounge my thoughts started running. I’m not sick, I told myself. I feel perfectly okay. So why am I lying here? I should get up and join my family who are having a lively time at the supper table. But, oh…I feel so weak!

  I realized how weak I actually was while trying to get up. So I flopped back down and softly cried myself to sleep. Upon my awakening, Mom offered me a sandwich, but thinking about food made me want to throw up. But both of my parents told me I had to eat a little something to keep my strength up. Gaggin
g, I got two bites of my usually favorite sandwich (peanut butter and strawberry jam) down my throat before giving up.

  From then on, every day I got worse and eventually Mom began to get alarmed. “What do you suppose is wrong with her?” she asked Dad one evening.

  “Oh, it’s probably just the flu that’s going around,” Dad answered casually.

  I awoke the next morning to a supposed fresh start. I felt quite a bit better and crept downstairs to find everyone except little Melvin Jr. ready to eat breakfast. Slipping in beside my younger sister on the bench, I asked my parents why they hadn’t woken me.

  No one said anything, so I asked, “May I go to school today?”

  “Miriam,” Dad said sadly, “you don’t look well enough to go.”

  How heartbreaking! And on my way downstairs I had been rejoicing that I felt well enough for school. I had already missed the whole week. What I didn’t realize until I heard Dad and Mom talking about me later in the day was that my skin appeared shrunken on my face and I had a bluish tint.

  By forenoon, Mom asked me if I’d be able to walk the half mile down the road to Grandpa Wengerd’s place. They were Mom’s parents, and she needed to give Grandma her bath. Grandma had been an invalid for six years from several stokes that had paralyzed her left side. She also had diabetes and couldn’t take care of herself, and was thus dependent on her husband and children.

  I agreed, since Grandma was very special to me. Mom’s youngest brother, Johnny, had married Marianna Schwartz, and they lived in the big house while Grandpa and Grandma were nestled in the dawdy haus.

  We set out walking with Mom pulling our flyer wagon. Melvin Jr. at four years old considered himself too big for a wagon ride. So when I, his big sister, climbed on the wagon a quarter mile down the road, Melvin Jr. thought this very funny. He marched along beside Mom, glancing back every so often at me and jumping up and down with glee.

  When we arrived, Melvin Jr. soon forgot about me. Grandpa gave him some of his bubblegum—which was Grandpa’s usual custom when grandchildren came. I didn’t want any, as my jaws felt too stiff to even think of chewing gum.