A Rose Revealed by Gayle Roper

farm as a home health nurse, caring for a newborn infant with the improbable name of Trevor Stoltzfus. Not that either Trevor or Stoltzfus was unusual. It was just that the combination in an Amish household was far from common.
    “What a lovely name,” I told his young mother Becky as I weighed the baby.
    She grinned. “Not very Amish, is it?”
    “How did you decide on it?” I asked.
    “I read it once in a novel and liked it. The hero was Trevor.”
    I cuddled little Trevor, praising him to Becky as a fine boy, but he was so ill that I secretly doubted that he’d ever grow up to be anyone’s hero.
    As I passed the house, I wondered how the little guy was doing. Indeed, as I thought of the tiny chest with the great red wound from palliative heart surgery, I wondered if he was even alive. I hoped so for Becky’s sake. Being a single mother at her age was hard enough even when there were no health complications.
    I heard the clop of hoofs and moved to the side of the road as a buggy pulled from the Stoltzfus lane. I smiled at the driver, an old man with a wondrous white beard, but he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead though I knew he must have seen me. I thought of Becky and Trevor, having to live with him every day and shivered.
    I turned and walked back to Zooks’.
    It was mid-afternoon when Mary, Esther, and I sat down at the kitchen table for a cup of tea. We had just begun a conversation about the best way to put up pumpkin, something about which I knew very little and had no desire to learn more, when there was a knock at the door.
    Esther answered and welcomed Becky Stoltzfus in. She was bundled against the weather, little Trevor wrapped in so many blankets that he resembled a roll of batting.
    Esther immediately took the baby and began unwinding. Mary rose and took Becky’s coat. I got another mug from the cupboard, this one reading John Deere, and poured Becky some tea.
    When we sat back down at the table, Esther kept little Trevor, smiling at him as she hand-brushed his sparse hair. The baby smiled back, and Esther melted.
    “He’s so wonderful, Becky.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “Du bischt an scheeni bubbli .”
    He might be a nice baby, I thought, but he was still a very sick one. He should weigh more than he did, and he had the coloring of someone whose system wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
    “How is he, Becky?” I kept my voice casual.
    “He’s doing fine,” she said, eyes shining. “We were at the doctor’s last week.”
    I didn’t know what the doctor told Becky, but my instinct and training didn’t say fine.
    Oh, Lord, it doesn’t look good. A miracle here would be much appreciated .
    Esther’s tea grew cold as she played with the baby. She rocked him, cuddled him, offered him her finger to grasp. She lifted her hand with his fist clamped about her index finger to her mouth and kissed his thin little hand. He giggled.
    “Scheeni botchi,” she said, stroking his hand. “Scheeni botchi.”
    “Some days with a baby is hard, ain’t?” Mary asked the young mother.
    Becky nodded. “But he’s not really any trouble.”
    “Does he sleep gut?”
    “He sleeps gut but not long.” She smiled. “I’m always tired.”
    “Does your grandmother watch him sometimes so you can get some sleep?” I asked, setting down my almost empty mug. The tea spiced with spearmint Mary had grown was both delicious and refreshing.
    Becky hesitated a minute. “No. My grandfather has told her not to touch Trevor.”
    I was stunned. Such action was not at all the typical attitude of the Amish toward babies and little children. They were loving and indulgent toward their offspring for the first two or three years of their lives, giving them unlimited love and lots of attention. Whenever I went into an Amish household for home health reasons, I enjoyed watching how the whole family doted on the babies and toddlers.
    “Why ever not?” I asked. “Certainly they don’t think that Trevor’s illness