Growing Up Amish (26 page)

I meandered up to Chuck's Café once in a while, but not often; too many eyes were watching my every step, too many people hoping I would stumble. Too much time at Chuck's would not be viewed as repentant behavior, so I dropped by only now and then. I told my old friends what was going on. They didn't understand, but they listened and sympathized. And slowly, I began to withdraw from them emotionally. I knew I could not hang around them often. It would remind me too much of all I was giving up.

Finally, after six long weeks, the glorious Sunday arrived when I would be “taken up,” restored as a full member of the Bloomfield Amish church. I walked along behind the preachers that morning into the conference for the final time. Ever. After the usual admonitions, I was dismissed for the last time to return to the congregation.

I don't remember who preached that day. It might have been my brother Joseph. The hours dragged. I knew what was coming, and it would not be pretty. Finally, the service wound down, and the last song was sung. Bishop Henry announced where church service would be held in two weeks, and then he dismissed the congregation, requesting that all members remain seated for a few moments.

The youth who were not members got up and walked out, as did all the children. I walked out, too, and stood uneasily just outside the house. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed. Inside, the preachers were announcing that in their opinion, I had shown the proper degree of repentance, and it was now time to reinstate me as a member. They requested counsel from all members. Anyone who objected could speak or forever hold his peace.

And then the deacon popped out of the house and looked around for me. I approached. “Come along,” he said kindly. He walked back inside, and I followed close behind him, right up to the front, where everyone could see me. I sat on a bench before the bishop. The room was completely still.

Bishop Henry rose to his feet and addressed me. They had counseled with all members who were present, and no one had any objections. If my desire was still to be reinstated as I had expressed that morning in the Obrote conference, I should get down on my knees.

And for the second time in my life, I knelt before God and the Amish church. Bishop Henry recited a rote list of questions. I don't remember exactly what they were, but something to the effect that I had realized the error of my ways, confessed my sins, repented, and requested to rejoin the church as a full member. After each question, he paused. And after each question I answered yes.

It was an inverse version of my baptism. The somber stillness. The rote ceremony. The restrained joy of a lost sheep found. After the final question, Bishop Henry paused, then spoke. “Before we proceed further, we will pray. Will the congregation please stand?” And all rose to their feet. I remained on my knees.

Bishop Henry launched into a long, recited prayer, his voice rising and falling in a rhythmic flow. After the prayer ended, everyone was seated once again. Bishop Henry approached and stood before me. He extended his hand, and I reached out and grasped it.

“In the name of God and the church, I extend my hand,” he intoned. “Arise.” I stood. Before that room of witnesses, in the silence reflecting ancient ritual, we greeted each other with the holy kiss. I stood there, unmoving, as Bishop Henry kindly wished me well in the future and hoped that I would always remain true to the vows I had just spoken. Then it was over. I was restored as a full member. Bishop Henry motioned me to my seat, and I sat there as we were dismissed.

It's hard now to describe my feelings in that moment. I suppose I felt as lost as I ever had. But I smiled and shook the hands of those who came to wish me well. This would be my last Sunday in Bloomfield, Iowa, as a member of the Old Order Amish church.

And then the day ended, as all days must. I planned to leave the next week and head back to northern Indiana. Back to Phillip and Fannie and their large, empty home. Back to a new community for a fresh new start, where I would make my mark in life.

Before leaving, I sold my buggy, the Mullet model, still as good as new, with its shiny, black velvet interior. It had not been used much in my absence. I advertised it in the local
Penny Saver
at a hugely discounted price, and it sold the first day.

Before the next Sunday arrived, I shook the dust from Bloomfield. I never returned—as an Amish person.

32

I boarded the train in Ottumwa and traveled back to Ligonier, where Phillip and Fannie welcomed me. They were solid, simple people, happy to do what they could to help.

And so began my time in northern Indiana. I settled in, landing a job at the Starcraft RV factory in Topeka. I would make it this time. I would
force
myself to make it. Too much was riding on this effort, including my own salvation.

It was not an easy road, settling in a strange land like that. Not being from the area, I found little social structure geared to my needs. Too old to run with the local youth and not really interested in the singings, I hung out with Phillip and his social circle, which I found to be daunting and ultimately very discouraging.

The northern Indiana Amish were good, steady people, just a bit different from anything I'd ever known. Actually, a lot different. They were entrenched in their own ways and their own habits, and none, as far as I could tell, had the slightest interest in the world outside the boundaries of their communities. Many were willfully ignorant and seemed determined to remain so.

But having traveled this far, I bravely soldiered on. I applied for membership in the Ligonier District. The mad bishop smiled grimly but kept his promise to accept me as a member of his church—even though it was clear he did not expect me to make it. To him, I was plainly a heathen, someone not to be trusted. I wouldn't last. He had sensed that from the moment he met me. Maybe that's why I disliked him so much. The man had me pegged from the start, and the truth was more than I could take, especially from someone like him. A spiteful, power-mad husk of a man.

As the weeks passed, then the months, I developed a daily routine. Went to work each day on my bicycle and rode the five miles home each night, in every kind of weather. The factory was my only social outlet, and I made a few friends there. Good guys. Decent guys. They were my age or younger, and all of them were married. But outside of work, we rarely socialized. They attempted to include me a few times, and I accepted now and then, but mostly, their social groups held little appeal. So I had a lot of time to kill on my own.

Around the farm, I helped Phillip and Fannie with their chores each night and chatted with them about their day and mine. It was all pretty idyllic.

And stifling.

I immersed myself in books. Each night I read and read in the flickering flame of the oil lamp in my bedroom.

And slowly, slowly, the truth seeped into my brain. It was not working. I had probably realized that fact long before admitting it to myself. I was stuck in a deadly dull routine. And there seemed no way it would ever improve. I simply could not do it. Could not fit in. The northern Indiana Amish were unassuming; good-natured; and unlike me, utterly content within the confines of their community and their world.

I loved these people. They were the salt of the earth and would have done anything for me. They wanted me to make it, to succeed there. They wanted me as a part of their church and their community. I appreciated that then. I still do.

But we simply could not connect beyond a certain intellectual point. Not that they were stupid. They weren't. It's just that, well, their world was not mine. It was not like any I had ever known. And when we were together, bantering and talking, I sometimes felt as if I simply could not take it anymore. I couldn't take one more breathless tale of whose cow broke through the fence and got out on the road. Who ran his bicycle into the ditch and broke his leg. Whose horse ran away and crashed the buggy into a car. Not one more story of who said what and who did what and wasn't it all just awful?

In time, their perceived faults accumulated in my mind and rankled me deeply. I recoiled instinctively from the provincial banality of my surroundings. And, sadly, I even recoiled from my good-hearted friends. I began to see them as uncouth and couldn't stand their hard, mirthless laughter at some silly, utterly senseless joke. Their smug, deliberate ignorance.

And from there, it was only a matter of time until I realized it was all in vain. All my efforts. All my plans. Utter failures. These kind, simple people were not my people and would never be. The mad bishop had been right. I could not make it here. I would not make it here. I could not stay.

I had exerted so much effort and invested so much time in this last attempt. Always, I really had believed that in some vague and distant future, everything would work out. Always I had faith there would be rest from the weary road just ahead. A peaceful place of green pastures, where I would see and be satisfied and content to live in quietness and peace as an Amish man.

But that vague and distant future, where it would all work out, had arrived. And it wasn't working out. The whole thing had been a figment of my mind, of my hopes, of my imagination. It had been long and arduous, this latest journey of return. So much time. So many miles. And now it was crumpling. All that effort, for nothing.

I could no longer ignore the brutal truth of my circumstances. And dull panic stirred inside me, because I knew that if I left this time, there would be no return. This time would be the last time. This time, I would be admitting to all the world that I was lost, with no hope of ever attaining salvation. This time, it would be over.

Forever.

As the realization set in, I sank into quiet, desperate despair. I became depressed, silent, and brooding, with no one in whom to confide. Phillip and Fannie were kind and supportive, but there was no way they would understand or comprehend what I was going through. I knew that if I tried to talk to them, they would simply spout the usual clichés: “Just decide to do what's right, and then do it.”

But that's what I had been trying to do, all these many months, these many miles. Doing what was right, or what I believed was right. It wasn't working. I was, in fact, failing spectacularly. There was no sense in continuing. No sense in constantly knocking my head against the wall. And so I remained silent, confided in no one, and slipped ever deeper into that mental trench of darkness from which I could see no way out.

And then, sometime during the darkness of those desperate days, it came to me. A sliver of light, an idea. I don't know how or from where. Although I'd been taught all my life to pray, I never did much, because I never saw that it did any good. Not for those around me, at least. Every day the Amish launched some of the most beautifully written prayers out there. It was a formal thing, praying. Approach God, read some poetic lines from a little black book, and then get up and go about your day, secure in the knowledge that you had done your duty, that you would be protected. In church, of course, every single syllable in every prayer was scripted, read from a book or memorized, word for word. That's all I knew about praying. All I had ever seen.

Normally, I wouldn't have considered praying, not for a second. It would never have crossed my mind. Even if it had, I would have shrugged it off. But this was not a normal time.

I decided that I could simply talk to God. Ask for his help. Not by reading from a little black book, but by talking to him, man to man. Or man to God. Whatever.

I thought about it. I figured it wouldn't work. But, hey, it couldn't hurt to try. What was there to lose? So one day I did. I spoke to God. Informally. I don't remember my specific words, only that I prayed. I had no desire to remain Amish. In my mind, I equated that with having no desire to do what was right.

My request was a simple, desperate plea:
God, I don't expect you to hear me. I mean, why would you? But if you do hear, give me the desire to do what's right. I don't have even that much.

And that was it. Nothing profound. No
Amen
, even. No flash of enlightenment struck me. I still felt exactly the same and trudged on through the dreariness of everyday life, forgetting even that I had prayed. I had little hope—actually none—that my prayer would be heard, much less answered. God didn't have time for wicked people like me. Not after all I had done. Not after so deliberately, so frequently, turning my back on everything I had been taught from childhood. Most likely I had blasphemed the Holy Spirit, which meant there was no hope for me. Ever.

I was lost. And I knew I was lost.

33

He walked into my life less than a month later, unexpectedly and abruptly, as I was strolling along the sidewalk in the small town of Topeka after work. I didn't pay any attention to him as he approached. Topeka swarmed with Amish people, from morning until night. Bearded men of every type. Women bundled in bonnets and shawls, lugging squalling babies. And Amish children everywhere. They were total strangers to me, except for the few I had gotten to know at work and in church. Mostly, I paid them no mind. And mostly, they ignored me.

But this man glanced at me sharply and then walked straight toward me. He was tall and thin as a rail. He was obviously married, with a long black beard, and he had finely honed, sensitive features. The ubiquitous black felt hat perched on his head, covering a full head of straight-hanging hair. Closer, closer we walked toward each other. His piercing gaze never left my face. I would have brushed past him and continued on my way, but he stopped and smiled, looking right at me. So I stopped too.
Who was this wacko, and what did he want?

“Hello. You must be a stranger in these parts.” He smiled, extending his hand.

Sure a friendly chap, whoever he was
. I smiled back and grasped his hand. “I am.”

“I'm Sam Johnson,” he said. “Who are you?”

Johnson. Johnson. Strange name, for an Amish man
. “Ira Wagler,” I replied. I waited for the inevitable flash of recognition.
Wagler. Wagler
. And sure enough, it came.