CHAPTER 7
C HAPTER 7
W HEN M ARY DID AWAKEN, IT WAS SLOWLY, BY DEGREES, AS IF she could only sip of the cup of reality a little at a time. She winced as she tried to shift position and a nurse quickly explained that she’d had a caesarean section. Tears slowly appeared on Mary’s lashes.
“Would you like to see your daughter?” the nurse asked kindly. “She’s doing really well. I checked with the NICU nurse and she said we could bring her to you.”
Mary just shook her head. Her disinterest was a dagger in Steve’s heart.
“Mary, she’s perfect. She has your hair! Just wait until you see her.” He was practically begging her to care.
Mary allowed Steve to hold her hand but would not make eye contact. “I’m so tired,” she whispered, and fell asleep again.
Steve’s parents came, and his mother said she had honestly never seen a sweeter, more perfect baby. But then, it was her first granddaughter. Steve was grateful to have someone share his joy. They passed the baby back and forth, exclaiming over her hair, her tiny toes, her bright eyes. But eventually, the weight of his situation settled back on his shoulders. Haltingly, his voice catching in his throat, he asked his parents if they’d be able to keep the baby for a while.
His mother responded with tears in her eyes. “Of course. Ach , Steve. Yes, of course. It will be a joy for the girls as well.”
O NE MONTH LATER , on the day Mary came home, the winds of winter were making a decided entrance, but Steve had a new wood stove in the basement and a nice stack of wood in the shop. The house was cleaned and there were fresh flowers on the table. It had taken time, but the doctors had reached a diagnosis and found the combination of medicine that was right for her. She had severe depression and bipolar disorder and was told she would have to be on pills for the rest of her life. “Don’t mess around,” the kind doctor ordered. “You need these meds, and don’t let anyone—even yourself—convince you otherwise.”
Mary cried when the doctors praised her strength and courage, telling her it was remarkable that she had lived a normal life as long as she had without the help of medicine. An amazing feat.
She would see a counselor every week, as would Steve, and she’d check in with the doctor again in three months.
Her doctor explained about how a healthy brain functioned with the right balance of norepinephrine, serotonin, and dopamine, and how people with bipolar disorder needed medicine to maintain that balance. Without medicine, no amount of willpower could prevent a depressive or manic episode.
Mary listened, rapt. All her insecurity, her fear and anxiety, her lows and maudlin highs were finally explained. It wasn’t her fault. All her life, she’d thought her lack of peace was from her disobedience, from being too strong-willed for her family and yet somehow not strong-willed enough to control her moods.
She felt like she’d been carrying around a weighty backpack that had crippled her posture, and now, with this new information and the help of medicine, she could extend her shoulders, slide it off, and let it fall to the ground. She tried out her new freedom in tiny steps, but each one turned in the right direction.
To be free of crippling guilt was too much to take in immediately, but the medicine supplied a steady stream of the necessary ingredient to live a normal life.
T HEY NAMED HER Margaret. Margaret Mary. Mary didn’t mind there was no one named Margaret in the Amish church, here in Lancaster or in New York. She’d always loved the name from Little Women . Besides, she looked like a Margaret.
Steve called her “Margarine,” then changed it to “Blue Bonnet,” till Mary made him stop. She had missed out on the first six weeks of her life, a fact that now caused a deep ache in her heart. Steve’s mom had offered to bring Margaret to the hospital to visit, but it really wasn’t until she got home that Mary suddenly longed for her daughter. It was like something just clicked, and she was ready. Steve felt his prayers answered and shed tears of deep gratitude as he and his parents set a day for his daughter to come home.
The baby had grown to eleven pounds when they brought her dressed in pink with the softest white blanket, and Mary held her in her arms and gazed into the tiny face for the longest time, before lifting soft eyes shining with unshed tears.
“She’s perfect. I don’t deserve her.”
Margaret looked at her with wide open eyes, as blue-green as her own, as if to say, “Where have you been, Mom?” And Mary laughed and cried, then sat down weakly. She didn’t think she could ever stop staring at her beautiful daughter.
Steve’s family stayed for the day doing laundry, helping with the wood, and talking about Mary’s illness.
“What is so freeing, though, is the idea that mental illness is a disease, like cancer or heart disease. For years, I blamed myself, was positive it was just a result of my own sinfulness. I only wish I had listened to Steve sooner when he asked me to see a doctor.”
She looked at Steve with so much love that his mother’s throat ached. Steve merely sat in his chair and smiled, returning the look of love. “I’m just so grateful you’re both okay,” he said, his eyes watering again.
His parents went home in profound gratitude and renewed faith that God would always provide, one way or another.
Steve and Mary took little Margaret to church and showed her off good and proper. They went out of services at the necessary time when the deacon announced the amount of their hospital bill. They discussed the discount they would likely be able to get from Lancaster General and then voted to pay monthly installments until the entire amount was paid off.
To be provided for by the giving of alms was a matter of profound gratitude, and after services Mary felt humbled at the genuine smiles of love and caring. To be a part of a loving group of people concerned about each other’s welfare was something they never wanted to take lightly, and didn’t.
Every morning Mary and Steve read their devotionals, prayed together, and sang a hymn of worship they felt from the heart, and Mary never once imagined the English pages of spiritual guidance to be misleading. She asked Steve if he thought her father might have been diagnosed with this same disorder, and after a brief contemplation, said it could very well be the case.
“But we’ll never know, right?” she answered, lifting a baby bottle to squint at the ounce markups on the side.
“No. We don’t have to. He’s gone now, and grace is sufficient for him, as well as for us.”
“Absolutely. Your turn or mine?”
“Mine,” Steve answered, reaching happily for Margaret to feed her.
It was a winter of gratitude and joy, and of being awake at night. Baby Margaret lay between them in the cold of night, and Mary and Steve were often both too amazed by the hand of God, the love and care over them, to actually relax and drift off to sleep while Margaret slept.
Mary kept her appointments, talked to a professional counselor, and began to understand her disease more and more. She began to learn to live in the moment, to appreciate each hour more fully.
S TEVE BUILT HIS shop, took out a frightening loan at Susquehanna Bank, and started up “Precise Masonry.”
When Margaret was two and a half, Mary gave birth to another little girl, this one delivered at the birthing center by a certified midwife after a long, strenuous labor, but a successful one.
They named her Rebecca Ellen, a namesake for his mother, Becky, who beamed and smiled. Rebecca had a fuzz of blond hair, blue eyes, and a strawberry birthmark beside her belly button they both loved to tickle and to blow kisses on. They loved their little Becky as much as any parents could, and reflected on how precious, how uncomplicated, her arrival had been.
More time passed, and they raised the roof of the brick rancher and added an upstairs after the birth of their son, Logan Grant. A fancy name, the in-laws stated, but without reprimand. Logan Riehl had a nice ring to it, and ach , it was time for a few new names. Not everyone could be named Amos or Davie or Dannie. Didn’t the postal service say they had fifteen David Stoltzfuses on one route?
Logan was all of nine pounds nine ounces, with the same mop of red hair as Margaret had, and Mary’s features. He was content, sleeping in his battery-operated swing, his eyes watching any kind of movement from only a few days old.
On Margaret’s first day of school, Mary stood on the porch holding Logan with Becky clinging to her skirts, waving goodbye, her chest exploding with pride at her role as a mother, while tears ran down her cheeks. Here was her firstborn, the darling girl who had no mother the first six weeks of her life, leaving her.
Dear God, go with her. Forgive me all my weaknesses and help me to be a better, more patient mother.
Margaret was a handful, no doubt. She was a strong six-year-old, tall, well-built, and a runner like an antelope. Extremely competitive, she did not always play fair with children her age, and wasn’t always gentle with her younger brother and sister.
When she came home at lunchtime, she waved five papers, stapled at one corner, and Mary duly exclaimed over them and admired the alphabet she’d traced and the way she’d colored in the cat illustration.
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Mom, Chonnie said I have a funny name.”
“Your name is different, but it’s a nice one.”
“I don’t want to be called Margaret anymore. It’s a dumb name.”
“Oh now, come on, Margaret.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Okay, so what would you like to be called?”
“Rosie.”
“Oh. Well, we’ll ask Daddy when he comes home.”
When Steve came through the door that afternoon, Margaret threw herself at him.
“Daddy, you have to listen to me.”
He hunkered down, grasped her shoulders in his callused hands, and listened to her explain how Chonnie disliked her name, and how she needed to change it to Rosie.
“Chonnie who?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just Chonnie. I guess.”
“Margaret is at least as nice as Chonnie. His real name is John. Or Johnny.”
That seemed to do the trick, and Margaret dropped the subject, went to play house with Becky, and forgot about it.
Mary told Steve how much she’d felt like a real mother, waving at Margaret, holding Logan. Steve smiled, put an arm around her shoulder, and said she wasn’t getting any younger—forty was fast approaching and they should have one more.
Life was so good, so full of endless possibilities. Just to sit at the sewing machine, humming a nameless tune, not worrying, was a priceless gift, an undeserved blessing. When Logan cried and Becky needed attention, it was a privilege to care for them. She’d asked Steve if he was sure she wasn’t drugged, like a sick animal, or a horse that was crazy, or something, and he asked if she wanted to go back to her former life.
She would instantly remember and become grateful for every moment of happiness, every instance she experienced joy.
These days, she felt so ordinary, like her friends, the other mothers in church who had their ups and downs, exchanged recipes and cape patterns, gave unsolicited advice on everything from viruses to essential oils.
She loved her social life, the outings with friends, going for coffee or out for lunch, a wake of little children behind them.
They even spent a weekend in New York when her sister had church at their house, something Mary would not have done before her diagnosis, afraid of everything, guilty about Bennie Lapp and cringing beneath her father’s words.
After services, she asked the name of the very young minister, his voice strident, but mellow, reminding her of Jesus.
“Oh, that’s Eli Allgyer’s Elam. He had leukemia as a child. You must remember, you were his teacher. Didn’t you spend time with him in the hospital?” Lydia asked.
“Why yes, I did! Oh, my goodness.”
So, this boy had been spared from death for this purpose, to spread the gospel, to give comfort to the needy, to make known the power and riches of His Kingdom. God had a reason and a purpose for everything. Mary had not found her own purpose until she’d hit rock bottom and found a true diagnosis, and now life as it was meant to be was given to her through grace, and grace alone.
A thousand hallelujahs welled up in her soul, and she had to turn away from Lydia to hide the mounting emotion.
She wished she could remember Elam’s mother, but she seemed a blurry figure. She did remember the kitchen, the soft glow of their orderly house, the beige window blinds. How amazing were God’s ways, really. Had that kitchen glowed for her alone, a light to her soul, whispering of her own disease and healing?
At any rate, it seemed as if God was everywhere, through everything, and every Christian could only worship with a thousand hallelujahs.
On the way home, as the vehicles’ headlights shone along the curving mountain road of New York, Mary marveled at the peace, the lasting calm of her thoughts. She reached over to kiss Logan’s cheek in his car seat, patted Becky’s knee, and thanked God she was allowed to be a mother to her children. She giggled quietly to herself, thinking about her brother Abner’s rumbles, so like her father. “Aren’t you concerned about their souls?” he’d asked. “Margaret . . . Logan . . . such strange names. They leave a bad taste on my tongue.” Years ago, this would have been branded into her, the pain and injustice of such a remark, but now, she merely appreciated the conservative way, and respected his love of tradition. But these children were hers, not his, and it was none of his business what they named their children.
And she fell sleep soon after they hit the interstate, her chin resting comfortably on her chest.
W HEN M ARGARET WAS in third grade, Becky started first grade, a thin, winsome child with thick blond hair and a tendency to mispronounce her Rs. Margaret was fiercely protective of her and wouldn’t allow anyone to mistreat or annoy her if she could help it.
They had to go with a school van, a distance of a little over three miles, a constant chafing at Margaret’s well-being. She hated riding the van if everyone else scootered, and what was three miles? She could easy scooter that.
Mary explained patiently, telling her Becky was too small, and no, it wasn’t safe on winding back roads with dogs, strangers who could lure them into their cars, accidents going downhill. The answer was no.
She was appalled when Margaret stamped her foot, balled her fists, lifted her face to the ceiling, and howled.
“Margaret. Stop this instant,” Mary said firmly.
In answer, Margaret stuck out her tongue, crossed her eyes, and flapped her hands above her ears, which Mary caught out of the corner of her eye.
“Come here,” she said, very low, but firmly. Margaret flounced away, lifting her skirts above her knees.
Like a flash, Mary reached out and caught her by the shoulder, spun her around, and lowered her face within inches of hers.
“You will not make a face at your mother. Neither will you scooter to school. We said no, and we mean it. Now go to your room and stay there till I call you for supper.”
Margaret stared back at her mother, a flattened look in her eyes, like a horse with its ears laid back, a look that told her, “Don’t mess with me.” And Mary felt a cold draft, even when there was no chill in the room.
She confided in Steve, who shook his head, saying he always figured she’d be a handful, seeing how determined she was, but that, too, could be used in a positive way. She just needed a hand to guide her in the proper direction.
Mary bit her lower lip and told him Margaret took every ounce of patience she possessed.
Steve smiled, “And this is only third grade.”
W HEN M ARY WAS thirty-nine years old, a dark-haired son was born on a stormy night when thunder and lightning seemed to rip the sky apart. The midwife was as calm as possible with the electricity blinking twice, then leaving them in darkness.
They named him Christopher Riehl, but took some time to decide the middle name. Christopher was a long name in itself, so they considered just using the first letter of Mary’s maiden name, an old tradition. Christopher G. Riehl. G for Glick.
“Christopher George?” Steve lit up, looking down on the perfect face with eyes like a half-moon, blond hair like a tiny thatch of wheat.
Mary smiled. Christopher George it would be. And Steve looked deeply into his wife’s eyes, conveying so much love, she knew she had obtained the long sought-after blessing without effort of any kind, only an opening of her heart, receiving the Holy Spirit.
C HRIS PROVED TO be a content newborn who slept the day away, cuddled by his sisters. Logan was unhappy at the prospect of sharing his mother with anyone else, but Mary felt perfectly capable, dividing her time between both boys as the seasons came and went.
Margaret was in eighth grade now, a young lady of fourteen, pushing uncomfortably against any boundary set for her. She was undoubtedly turning into a beauty, with hair neither red nor blond, but a rare, true strawberry blond, with large blue eyes fringed by black-tipped red lashes, as unusual as her name. She created her own world of drama, her outgoing personality and sense of leadership coupled with a raucous sense of humor, a group of adoring friends surrounding her.
In January of eighth grade, her last year of schooling, she informed her mother she had a boyfriend.
Mary was breaking up ground beef in a sizzling pan, so she didn’t quite hear and asked her to repeat what she’d just said.
“I like someone.”
Mary left the wooden spoon in the skillet, turned slowly to meet her daughter’s gaze, clear and unperturbed.
“You like someone? You mean, like as in a special guy?” she asked slowly, measuring her words.
“Yeah. He’s cute. Jonathan. You know. John King’s Jonathan.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed. “In your grade?”
“Yeah. He likes me, too. We’re dating.”
“Dating?” Mary turned her back, resumed breaking up the ground beef, buying time as she whispered a quick prayer for guidance.
“I mean, basically. Everybody knows he likes me and I like him.”
“Hm. Be careful, Margaret. I’m sure this kind of puppy love is not allowed in school.”
“See, there you go again. Negative. Everything I do or say you turn into something bad. What’s wrong with liking someone?”
“Nothing, but you are very young.”
“Not so young. I bet you had a boyfriend in eighth grade.”
“Oh my, no. Life was very different growing up in New York.”
“Yeah, I know. You told me all that stuff. But plain people are allowed to have romance in their lives. How else would they get married?”
“Not at fourteen, we didn’t.”
Mary broke the seal on a jar of her homemade spaghetti sauce, poured it over the ground beef, lifted the lid of the boiling lasagna.
“Well, I do. It makes school less boring. I can’t stand Lydia Mae.”
“Come on, Margaret. She’s a good teacher and you know it.”
“She’s so predictable. Penmanship every morning, then arithmetic, then drilling the first graders with flash cards. She never changes a thing.”
“Children thrive on repetition. Knowing what to expect brings a sense of security.”
“Hm. Really? Well, I, for one, do not thrive on boring.”
Mary watched her leave the kitchen, no doubt to hole up in her room. At fourteen, she showed none of Mary’s substantial build, but remained slim, her figure already blossoming into young womanhood, aware of her own looks and the effect she had on those around her.
Never satisfied with her clothes, her room, her shoes, always demanding new things, Margaret was a handful. She would need to obtain a job after vocational class, being finished with school at fifteen, the way of all young Amish girls. There was no doubt in Mary’s mind that she would excel at any form of work, the way she flew through all her duties at home.
Their home had become quite a showplace, with Steve’s masonry business booming. Over the years they’d added a stone patio with a firepit, an outdoor cooking area, and many pieces of fine lawn furniture. They’d done another addition to the house, and the vinyl siding and red brick had been replaced by stone and board and batten siding. Landscapers groomed the many shrubs and trees, and Mary’s love of gardening and flowerbeds showed across the property.
Blessed, Mary thought. I am blessed . The turmoil of former years faded as time went on, a dim memory occasionally welling up, causing a certain dark sadness, but like a well-balanced object, righting itself in time.
But she was worried about Margaret.
Well, she reasoned, life was not meant to be a bed of roses, a smooth easy road without sorrow or challenges. She recognized the challenge taking seed in her oldest daughter, the one who had always been difficult. Rebecca was hardly able to be compared, an unassuming twelve-year-old with blond hair, a soft, porcelain complexion and her own green eyes, a quiet child who followed Margaret, worshipping the ground she walked on. Which, Mary was quick to realize, was a double responsibility, knowing Rebecca would copy anything Margaret attempted.
So she sat and shared her concerns with Steve, the one she knew would always lend an ear. And he assured her that Margaret inheriting her mother’s strong will was not a bad thing. “We’ll just keep guiding and loving her,” he said, without a hint of worry.
Mary drank in his confidence, deciding there was nothing to fear.