Christmas Visitor by Linda Byler

carry the box between them.
    Quickly, she scrambled eggs for the children, hurriedly combed Esther’s hair, and pinned her black apron around her tiny waist as she also goaded the boys along. “Brush your teeth!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried to her bedroom, responding to the morning sounds from Lillian and Benjamin.
    Instead of opening the door the whole way, Ruth peeped through the small crack and said, “Peep!”
    Mesmerized, Lillian sat straight up, watching the narrow opening. Up came Benjamin’s head, his eyes wide with surprise.
    â€œPeep!” Ruth said again.
    Lillian bounced happily and then pitched herself onto her stomach, knowing Ruth would fling open the door and pounce on her, which was exactly what happened. Shrieking, she scrunched her little form into the farthest corner, and Ruth grabbed her warm, cuddly body and kissed her cheeks soundly.
    â€œMorning, Lillian.”
    â€œLook, Benjy’s awake!”
    When Benjamin saw his mother approaching, he laid his head back on the crib sheet and kicked his little legs in anticipation. Lifting him, she inhaled his sweet baby smells and then carried them both out to the rocking chair for some cuddling, glad they had both slept through the washing.
    As the school children went out the door, Ruth told them to be good and listen to the teacher. Their lunch boxes each held one of the containers of Jello. Ruth had told them they could only have one special treat each day. That way the food would last for a month, perhaps longer. They solemnly agreed, and Ruth was so proud of them.
    Pride was something that wasn’t named, since they were Amish. It was wrong to be proud of anything — one’s home, husband, children, quilt-making abilities, baking skills, whatever.
    So if Ruth was pleased, she didn’t name it as pride. Compliments were often met with a shamefaced dip of the head or a word of denial. Even if true humility was actually in short supply, there was still an outward show of it.
    Yes, this small ray of pride she would allow herself. She often felt inadequate and overwhelmed, raising these six children, so when the school aged ones readily agreed to make the treats for their lunchboxes last longer, she felt rewarded by their grave acceptance of her wishes. And she was proud of them.
    Today, she would quilt. She would pin the new quilt top into the frame, the one her mother had given her when Ben died. It was a sturdy, wooden one with two rails resting on a stand at each end, allowing the quilt to be rolled as one side was completed.
    She loved to quilt. It would be nice to have Mamie pop in to help her pin the back of the quilt to the fabric on the rails, but Ruth supposed she was still resting up from that hymn singing.
    Ruth smiled. She loved Mamie. She was the epitome of every verse or poem ever written about friendship. Those words all held much more meaning since Ben had left her alone, to carry on raising the dear little ones on her own.
    Not so little now, though. Elmer was turning into a miniature Ben with his shoulders held so high, his stance one of premature obligation as the man of the house.
    And then, because the thought of Elmer’s shoulders made her cry, her whole living room blurred and swam, and she couldn’t see Mamie’s form very clearly when her friend knocked on the storm door. Ruth thought it must be the UPS man and couldn’t think what she had ordered that she’d be receiving a delivery.
    When Barbara emerged from the girls’ bedroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she looked at the door and asked why no one let Mamie in.

“Hey!” Mamie decided enough was enough. That air was cold, and she let herself in through the back door into the kitchen.
    â€œI’m here,” Ruth called. “Just come in, you don’t have to knock.”
    Mamie walked over, looked closely at Ruth, and said gruffly, “You were crying.”
    â€œNow, I