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Show in my father's house/ 12 beams across the breakfast table. "How did it go, Rulon?" my mother queried softly. "Beautiful! Just beautiful! Sister Ruth was a good girl, a brave little mother. And what a giant she had -- eight pounds, fifteen ounces! I believe we're bringing a race of supermen into the world these days!" Aunt Helga reappeared in the doorway, purse in hand. "My Isaac was at least that big. Of course, he was a month late." She watched my father eat. "I'm always so grateful when the baby's born and the mother's all right," she said finally. "I still can't forget that Steed baby." My father's face darkened and he stared for a long time at his oatmeal. Usually, he could take care of problems: if the infant were tongue-tied or club-footed or the mother especially weak, my father came home and gave special praise to the Lord in his morning prayer that he had been given the knowledge to correct such things. Sending group-members with complications to the hospital always caused trouble for our people. But the Steed case had been beyond anyone's help. The mother labored so long and hard she nearly died. And the baby was stillborn. My mother had tried to explain the deep chill that settled over our household the morning after. "A baby was born dead, and the mother is so bitter. She blamed the baby's death on your daddy, even though the poor little soul passed away a week before she went into labor. The |