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Show in my father's house/ 172 ly, "I can't go without Helga. I need her." They were both crying. Aunt Sarah sighed. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out who is left. When shall I be ready to go, Rulon?" My father worked in Albequerque with micro-tools that strained his eyes and agitated his ulcers. Soon the stomach sores ruptured and Aunt Sarah hovered over him fearing for his life as he retched blood. "Rulon, we've got to do something," she insisted. "I'm going to call an ambulance." He held up his hand. "I won't let you interfere in the Lord's will, Sarah. Besides, we can't afford a big hospital bill." "Well, I'm not going to stand by and watch you die." She called her four children in. "Kneel by Daddy's bed and pray. Don't one of you leave until I get back." She raced from the tiny apartment for the phone booth at the corner where she called Utah, Nevada, and Idaho. "Pray for Rulon," she blurted each time. "Now!" By the time she returned, my father was sleeping peacefully. The bleeding had stopped. But my father gave up microtechnology. It was too hard on his stomach and too hard on his eyes. "I might need these old peepers to stitch cuts and peer down throats again," he explained on his next visit. "I've moved Sarah to Oregon and Rachel to Montana. That takes a lot of pressure off Idaho. Still I'm mighty nervous |
