Crossing Over (13 page)

Twenty-Four

I miss those egg hunts we had last year. Remember? Those were fun. Even what was on the inside. I also miss those thrilling, exciting, and very fun Pictionary games. That was usually one highlight of school.

—A
FORMER STUDENT

O
ccasionally, a letter would arrive that would lift my spirits. If it wasn't from Elson, it would be from relatives on my mother's side, or from former students of mine.

Like Elson's letters, the students' correspondence were breezy, filled with information about the weather, and school, and pleasant recollections. No preaching. No judgments.

One student wrote to wish me a happy twenty-third birthday, although she didn't quite say it that way. She wrote: “Remembering your birthday.”

In a letter spotted with smiley faces, she also told about a harsh winter, a couple having a baby, making paper balls in school, and a student who had to repeat third grade.

Another student wrote extensively about school activities, including a “Tip Toe Day'' in which students walked around on their toes all day. Not as a punishment, but as a rather silly game to break winter's doldrums.

She related some of the books they were reading in school, among them
Night Preacher, The Mysterious Passover Visitors,
and
Along Lark Valley Trail.
And she told how a big hollow tree near the school's basement entrance had been cut down.

Another former student's letter was even more pedestrian. He wrote about someone breaking their arm, people eating pizza and ice cream for a person's fourteenth birthday, and someone trying on a jacket.

The students' letters were fun to read and momentarily made me forget the intense campaign by my family to shame me into returning. If there was one thing the Amish couldn't take away from me—or my former students—it was the good times we had shared in school.

But even those fond memories were not enough to overcome the overly dramatic letters from my parents, siblings, uncles, cousins, deacon, and former friends. It took me days, sometimes longer, to rouse myself from the funk that would set in after their letters arrived. It became apparent that the lifting of the ban had not been the cure-all I had hoped for.

One cousin shared this story she had found in an Amish magazine after it was brought to her attention by a minister:

A certain man went hunting. He had a helper with him. They came upon a flock of wild ducks. The hunter shot into the flock, and a number of birds fluttered to the ground.

“Quick, go get the crippled and lame ones,” the hunter said to his helper. “Don't worry about the dead ones for now. We know we have those.”

The minister went on to say that is how Satan works. He is out to get those who are spiritually crippled and lame. He does not bother about the ones that are spiritually dead; he already has those.

A former friend wrote:

Oh-h-h Irene, you poor girl. Two years ago, you were leading a completely normal, carefree, girlish life, surrounded by family and friends—with peace, blessed peace, reigning in your heart and life.

I am certain you never did imagine what would happen in 1996. Oh that Satan: Why does he have to go around gleefully wrecking people's lives? The tears threaten to overwhelm me.

She was wrong on several accounts. Mine was not a normal, carefree life among the Amish. I clearly didn't have peace in my heart. And I will never view my departure as the handiwork of Satan.

But she unwittingly was right about one thing. I still longed to have closure with my mother and father, and in that way I was still seeking a peace. My first visit home when I saw my brothers left me feeling empty—as if I had not accomplished what I'd set out to do. I had faced my detractors squarely, but I had not confronted their leader. My father. And I had not been able to comfort my mother.

In the two and a half years since my first trip to Kalona, I had thought often about returning. And every time I did so, I shuddered at the torture that awaited me. I had learned in corresponding with my father that there was no room for debate when it came to what I had done. He considered me a disobedient child, and he would be full of preaching, disapproving looks, and tears.

The first visit was such an effort, such a mental drain, it took the better part of those two and a half years to build myself back up again. To repair my mettle for battle.

I also remained distraught that my family had not visited me in all that time. They had offered—if I gave them permission. But the truth is, I had invited them repeatedly. If they wouldn't come, why should I go?

Further, my family had made it difficult for me to visit on special occasions. In 1998, they had a mid-week Christmas dinner for my mother's family—in August. I wasn't told about it until it was too late for me to make travel arrangements. The following year, I wasn't invited to my brother Aaron's wedding.

Many times, Ottie would say to me, “If you want to go see your mother and father, I'll take you.”

More often than not, I would reply, “I don't want to talk about it.”

In the back of my mind, I suspected the time would come when I'd have to go back. But I kept putting it off. I kept working on strengthening myself and my marriage, and on learning everything there was to know about my new environment, which continued to offer silly oddities as well as uplifting discoveries.

One of the strangest things struck me during Horse Cave Days, a little come-as-you-are downtown festival with live bluegrass music, sidewalk sales, a two-dollar-pet-a-boa cage, lemonade, and a NASCAR race car. But what caught my attention was a makeshift dunk station, where a beefy teen sat on a folding chair beneath a bucket of water and let people douse him with cold water by hitting a bull's-eye with a softball. Why, I wondered, would anyone want to do that? What was the purpose? Where was the thrill? I was completely befuddled.

Conversely, one of my greatest finds was the spectacle of the English Christmas.

The Old Order Amish are very reserved about celebrating Christ's birthday, and at the farmhouse we unceremoniously got one gift apiece on Christmas morning. Unwrapped.

The gifts were always things we could use, not necessarily things we wanted. Shoes, boots, gloves, a coat. And except for the shoes, they were all homemade.

Sometimes we'd also have candy or orange slices as treats. But there were no Christmas trees, no Santa Claus, no decorations.

People in the young folks group were a little more demonstrative, and they would exchange wrapped presents and go caroling throughout the community.

The difference had everything to do with age. Once an Amish person becomes an adult, gets married, and has family, they are expected to be more serious and less frivolous. Christmas, at that point, takes on a somber, workmanlike tone. The weight of the world is upon a person.

The greed with which some English children accord Christmas was unsettling at first. Tearing the paper off presents one after another, never bothering to savor the joy of each gift and never bothering to preserve the colorful wrappings. Associating love with the expense of an item. Being enamored with useless novelties rather than presents with purpose.

But there is so much more that is wonderful about the holiday, and the preparations alone were cause for glee. The wrapping of presents. Putting up the Christmas lights around the house. Decorating the tree. Making fudge, cookies, pies, and bread. All of it done to the sound of Christmas music wafting from the stereo.

Then there are the holiday movies and TV shows, and the downtowns bedecked with banners and lights and window displays.

The Amish believe the English have commercialized Christmas, and that they worship Santa Claus, not Jesus. But this commercialization, if that's what it is, is a glorious way to herald the coming birthday of Christ. Further, English churches don't preach about Santa Claus, they focus on the Savior. Santa Claus is nothing more than a warm, harmless, comforting tale for children.

My first Christmas in Kentucky, I decorated the house from one end to the other with lights, tinsel, and nativity scenes.

I wasn't the easiest person to buy presents for. I was, after all, accustomed to getting only one and it was always a practical gift. Ottie would ask me what I wanted for Christmas and I would reply: “I don't know what I want. Just get something.”

I was also appalled when we'd buy four or five gifts for each family member.

“We're going to spend two thousand dollars on Christmas, and they've already got everything they need,” I complained.

But for the most part, I resisted my urges and immersed myself in the spirit of the season. And on Christmas Day, I gave Ottie a watch and he gave me a gorgeous diamond heart necklace. They were my first diamonds and, like many English women, I spent a considerable amount of time watching them sparkle in the sun.

I even learned, eventually, that not all things must be purposeful. One day when walking through a store, a giant plastic sunflower I had passed began singing “You Are My Sunshine.”

I persuaded Ottie to buy it and propped it in our living room, where it sang to everyone who walked by. Sometimes, I even sang along with it.

Those were the good days, and there had been many others like it since leaving Kalona. Marrying Ottie and being befriended by his family. Growing closer to Christ. Getting to know Rev. Bettermann. Having the ban lifted. Learning to drive. Acquiring my GED. Learning to laugh more often. And making many new friends.

For all of it, though, the distance between me and my family had remained a painful, almost constant thorn.

Growing up Amish, a person's chief concerns—beyond an allegiance to God—are complying with the rules, being approved of by the people around you, and blending in. In short, being accepted.

And despite my acclimation to the outside world, despite my acceptance in my new home, I still felt the tug of wanting to belong to my birth family—in some small way, at least.

The sores on my mother's legs were the impetus that provided an urgency for a visit, although it was a kind of compassion I apparently shared alone.

In the spring of 2000, I went to the hospital to have a benign lump the size of a golf ball removed from the left side of my abdomen. I had written my family telling them of the impending operation, but had heard nothing in return.

Inasmuch as it was my first surgery and there was always the chance the growth might be malignant, it would have been nice to have received some encouraging words from my family. Something to tell me they were thinking of me, praying for me.

My mother sent a get-well card a week after the surgery. But as it turned out, my biggest support system was Ottie's family, members of the Lutheran congregation, neighbors, and God.

Rev. Bettermann visited Ottie and me in preop before the surgery, held our hands, and prayed, letting us know God was with me.

Faye stayed at the house my first night out of the hospital, did laundry for the next couple of days, washed dishes, and ran errands, and neighbors Don and Betty Gumm brought us food. People from the church, meanwhile, called with offers to clean our house.

God, as always, was there, too. Guiding me. Enlightening me. Comforting me.

There is a passage from Isaiah (41:10) that has always been by my side: “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

It was armed with this promise and Ottie's unwavering devotion that I set out for Kalona again, this time with my aunt and uncle, determined to set the record straight.

Ottie, alas, stayed behind. To demonstrate to my parents that I was free to come and go as I pleased. To show them there was no basis for the fanciful rumors the Amish had drummed up.

I would have loved to have had him with me. We had, after all, become joined at the hip and heart. And, we had never been apart for more than a day since leaving Kalona.

Twenty-Five

February 5, 2000

I
t took awhile, but eventually the conversation with my mother mercifully turned from the wild rumors to her health.

The subject of rumors came up only twice again. In town, we heard that Ottie was in prison for child molesting, which of course wasn't true. Later in the day, after my father had returned to the farm, he also mentioned a few tall tales.

For the moment, though, it was nice talking to my mother alone, unencumbered by my father's stifling presence. My fourteen-year-old brother, Earl, would occasionally stand nearby and listen. But he said no more than six words, bashful as he is. It didn't help, I suppose, that I mentioned his voice had dropped since I'd last seen him.

My mother threw a few guilt trips my way.

“Oh, it's just such a shame,” she said at one point. “Such a waste.”

But much of our conversation centered on her guilt about my leaving.

“If we could have gotten to you sooner after you left, would you have changed your mind?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I had my mind made up.”

“What if I had never told you about my life?” she asked, alluding to things she'd told me about her life before she'd gotten married.

“No,” I said. “That wouldn't have changed anything, either. I've seen enough on my own in this house without you telling me.”

Less than an hour after I arrived, a driver took Mom and Earl to Iowa City to get eyeglasses for my brother. I agreed to return later in the day, along with my aunt and uncle. Then we went to see my married brothers, Wilbur, Elson, and Aaron.

The visit with Elson went well enough, the visits with Wilbur and Aaron less so.

While Aaron and his wife, Martha, showed me around their new home, they began talking to me about returning to the Amish. Once we'd reached their bedroom, they offered a surprise.

“You can go get it now if you want,” Aaron told his wife.

“Okay,” she said, and she walked to the dresser, retrieved a letter and card I had sent to Aaron for his birthday, and handed them to her husband.

In a rare show of affection, Aaron put his arm around me and said, “You know how we feel about this and I guess you know why we can't accept it.”

It was as if he felt bound to do something he didn't want to do, and I privately felt sorry for him.

“That's up to you,” I told him. “It's your choice.”

For the rest of the house tour, we sparred about Amish beliefs and traditions, going over some of the same issues I had addressed with my father and would later discuss with my former bishop, Elmer T. Miller, the uncle who had formally notified me of the ban.

Aaron and Martha brought up the matter of English churches letting their parishioners go to war.

“You can look at it that way, but if no one in this country had ever fought, there would be no Amish, no Christians,” I said. “Hitler would have seen to that a long time ago.

“Besides,” I continued, “did you ever think that the Amish came to this country seeking religious freedom, and that you can enjoy religious freedom because of those who gave their lives?”

“Well,” Aaron said, “we'd like to think that prayer had a lot to do with stopping that war.”

“I'm sure it did,” I said. “But what about all the mothers' sons who died?”

He didn't answer. Instead, he posed another question:

“What's so bad about the Amish, anyway?”

I wanted to say: “What's so good about them?” But I didn't.

“There's good and there's bad,” I said.

More of the latter came when we returned to the farm. Seconds after I entered, looking every bit liberal Amish with a jumper, blouse, and small head covering, my father arrived and took a long, stunned look at me. I tried to reach out and hug him, much the way I had done with Ottie's father years before, but he pushed me away, swept across the living room to my mother, and began weeping.

“Oh Irene!” he cried. “I just think it can't be. We wanted to see you, but not like this. Not like this.”

When his crying eventually subsided, the room turned to deafening silence, each of us awkwardly trying to make conversation—and failing miserably.

Finally, my father announced that he would summon my uncle to talk to me. Or better put: He asked Earl and Benedict to summon him.

“I didn't come to see the bishop,” I said.

“What's wrong?” my father asked. “You don't want to talk to him?”

The truth was, I didn't want to talk to him, was even slightly afraid of talking to him. But I didn't dare let my father know.

“I don't care,'' I told my father. “I can talk to him, though I already know what he's going to say. But I'll tell you this: If he brings other people with him—a bunch of ministers, for instance—I'm not staying. I'm just letting you know that right now.''

My father didn't exactly agree to the terms, but he didn't exactly disagree either. He just kept asking the boys to fetch my uncle.

“Well, you gonna go tell him she's here?”

The boys stood motionless, without uttering a word. They seemed hypnotized by the moment—or, more likely, frozen with fear.

“Why don't you go tell him?” my father urged again.

And again, there was no response.

The third time, my father's urging became a command.

“Take the buggy,” he told Earl.

And off he went.

The bishop, a short, lean man with sad eyes, talked with me on a side porch for forty-five minutes.

“Well, you've heard you're in the ban,” he began.

“Am I?” I asked. “The Lutheran church lifted the ban. The minister of the church wrote you a letter telling you I was no longer in the ban, but you never answered it.”

“Oh?” he said with mock astonishment. “I didn't think that's what the letter said. Still, you know how we feel about you marrying a divorced man.”

“Yeah, I do. But which is the greater sin: Living together and fighting and hating each other, or getting a divorce?''

“Well, I guess you're talking about your parents now, but. . . .”

He didn't, or couldn't, finish, and our talk disintegrated into trading Bible verses to support our arguments. It was an unpleasant way to conduct a debate.

“You know,” I said toward the end, “we could stand here and do this all day and not get anywhere.”

“We could,” he agreed.

And that was pretty much that. An impasse.

Rev. Bettermann wrote another letter to my uncle, but it wasn't answered, either. My family, meanwhile, with the exception of Elson, slowed the flow of letters to me after my coauthor told them he had been reading them.

I still go to the mailbox every day, hoping, praying that I will hear something from Kalona. I don't understand how it is that a family can turn its back on a daughter whose only transgression was building a more solid relationship with God, whose only pursuit continues to be the truth, and who's need to learn, thankfully, was greater than any fear.

I hold on to my faith that God will continue to lead me in the right direction and that he will one day help my family understand, if not accept, my decision. Although my visit didn't have the outcome I had hoped for, I know that in their own sometimes small ways, despite being tied to centuries of tradition, members of my family do love me even if they can't come right out and say it.

There is evidence in a few precious moments tender and fleeting.

When I was about three, my father held me in his arms and rocked me after I'd burned my hand on a stove.

In October 2000, several relatives on my mother's side, some of whom were still Amish, briefly—and unexpectedly—visited our house in Horse Cave.

My mother and father sent me a birthday card early in 2001 that said “Somebody Misses You,'' accompanied by conciliatory letters that skipped the fire and brimstone.

And when I left the Kalona farm after my February visit, I hugged my mother and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

My mother whispered back in Pennsylvania Dutch, the language void of the word “love.”

“Ich du dich, aw,” she said.

I do you, too.