Growing Up Amish (8 page)

But I digress.

Gradually, other families had trickled in from settlements in various states, and before long, Bloomfield became a fashionable destination for outcasts, misfits, and malcontents from other, mostly larger, communities. Families had come from fairly progressive places like Kokomo, Indiana, and Arthur, Illinois, and from such regressive areas as Fortuna, Missouri, and Buchanan County, Iowa. And from every shade between.

It was fall when we came. Late October. The mornings were white with frost, and the farmers were harvesting their crops. And over the course of those first few weeks, we quickly established a routine and rhythm of life in this new place.

Rhoda and Nathan trudged off each day to the little Amish schoolhouse, two miles away. Stephen, Titus, and I worked hard from dawn till dusk milking cows, plowing the fields, and repairing the tattered remnants of old rusty fences.

One of our first critical tasks was to enlarge the house. We staked out and built two wide new wings. A larger kitchen for Mom on one end. Bedrooms for the girls on the other. And a larger basement. Our days were so busy that we didn't really have much time to get homesick for our old world of Aylmer.

All in all, we really liked Bloomfield. Things seemed more relaxed here. Less tweaking of the rules than there had been in Aylmer. And even though there were vast cultural differences among those who had moved here, the leaders seemed to have a pretty good grip on things—at least early on.

We assimilated with our new peers pretty easily, though we quickly realized that the people of Bloomfield were not like those in Aylmer. These people had emerged from varied communities with strange customs and even stranger surnames. Names like Lambright, Beachy, Hochstedler, Gingerich, and Yutzy. To us they sounded funny. But these people were real. And they seemed cool enough. Mostly, anyway.

That made for an interesting mix of young people. I was a part of this group. These were my people. And although I sometimes felt detached and alone, I mingled, immersed myself in the vibrant details of life around me.

I enjoyed the singings, mostly. The buggies clattering as we gathered, around six thirty or so, on a Sunday night. Small knots of youth drifting toward the house, where supper would be served. Hanging with my buddies as we gathered. The house father calling everyone to attention and all heads bowing for silent prayer.

Then the serious business of eating the evening meal: mashed potatoes, noodles, some form of hamburger-laced casserole, baked beans, potato salad, and bread. Then dessert and coffee and more hanging out, with boisterous talk, local gossip (who was dating whom), and conversation about hunting, fishing and trapping, or work on the farm.

As eight o'clock approached, my friends and I often filed back into the house early, so as to grab the treasured back bench against the wall. There were two reasons for this: We'd have a wall to lean against, and we could get away with more monkeyshines. Bloomfield didn't use tables at the singings, just rows of benches. A row of boys, a row of girls, a row of boys, a row of girls.

At 8:00 sharp, the first song was announced. As the minutes crept by, we sang and sang. It seemed to me sometimes, as the harmony swelled and my spirit soared, that I could never leave, never forsake this ancient heritage, this priceless legacy. That no sacrifice would be too great to draw these things inside and keep them in my heart.

Shortly before nine thirty someone announced and led the parting song. After its last notes faded, the young men got up from the benches and walked out single file. The singing was over for one more week.

We milled about outside. Socialized and chatted for a while. Those who were dating were the first to hurry away. In Bloomfield, courting couples tended to leave posthaste for the girl's house, because dates were decreed over at midnight.

Then, one by one, my friends and I hitched up our horses and left, a long convoy of buggies with blinking orange lights.

* * *

Gradually, even more families arrived. Bloomfield was suddenly the “hot” place to be. And soon enough, the single district was bulging at the seams.

It had gotten too big.

And that meant only one thing: It was time to divide it.

Every Amish district must have its own contingent of at least two preachers and a deacon. A newly created district meant there would have to be ordinations to fill these positions.

And so it was decided. A dividing line separating the two districts was drawn, and an ordination was scheduled. As the day drew nearer, the young married men in the community grew increasingly somber and burdened.

Church was at our house the Sunday of the ordination. The winds whipped and swirled that afternoon, and storm clouds gathered. Inside, a large group of people were sitting in row upon row of wooden benches. We were having a Communion service, or “Big Church,” as we called it. It was an all-day affair.

But this particular service was different, because at the end, a new preacher would be ordained. Every corner of the house pulsed with palpable tension.

Near the close of the service, Bishop George, a slight, bald man with a long gray beard, stood to recite the rules of ordination. He explained that he and the other preachers would retire to a separate side room (which happened to be my parents' bedroom). Then one preacher would open the door a crack and place his ear in the opening. Members would vote by whispering their choices into the preacher's ear, and a tally would be taken. Any married man with three or more votes would be in the lot.

With that, Bishop George and the preachers retreated to my parents' room and closed the door, and the voting began. The older men went first. Walked up to the door, paused briefly, then whispered their choices before returning to their seats. After that, according to age, younger married men, then young unmarried men, married women, and finally, single women.

Not being a member, I didn't vote. My buddies and I took a break from our normal wisecracking and watched somberly. No surly antics. No smart-aleck actions. No smirks. The air was heavy, oppressive.

The voting took awhile. Then, after the last member had voted, the door shut on the cloistered preachers while they tallied the votes. Minutes passed. Then Deacon Menno popped out of the side-room door, gathered five songbooks, and popped back in. Everyone pretended not to notice, but all eyes took a careful count: five songbooks. There would be five men in the lot.

Minutes later, the preachers filed out in somber procession and took their seats on the bench along the wall. The tension escalated. Deacon Menno arranged the songbooks on a little table. Each book was tied shut with a thin white string.

Then Bishop George stood and cleared his throat. “There are five brothers in the lot,” he announced in his high, squeaky voice. “They are . . .” and he slowly, concisely pronounced the five names. Each man sagged visibly as he heard his name.

Then slowly, one by one, they got up and walked the long path to the table. Each man chose a book and then took a seat on the bench before the table. Five books. Five men. Everyone waiting.

After a short prayer, Bishop George slowly approached the bench where the five men sat. He took the book from the first, untied the white string, and opened it.

Nothing.

The first man almost collapsed with relief.

Bishop George then took the book from the next man's trembling hands. Fumbled with the string. Opened the book.

Again, nothing.

The three remaining men viewed the situation with increasing alarm and accelerating heartbeats. No one moved. No one breathed. Original odds were one to five. Now they were one to three. Bishop George approached the third man and held out his hand. Took the book. Untied the string. Opened it.

Again, nothing.

Now it was down to one of the remaining two. Two young men. What passed through their minds at that instant remains known only to them and God. They sat there, frozen. Mercifully, Bishop George did not prolong their agony. He approached the fourth man and held out his hand. Took the book. Untied the string. Opened it.

Inside the book, on page 770, was a little slip of white paper. Bishop George's hand shook slightly as he took the little slip of paper. He looked down at the young man before him and pointed his right index finger, signifying, You are the one.

The young man struggled to his feet. And there, before us all, Bishop George ordained him, proclaiming him a minister of the gospel from that day forth until his death.

The young man briefly lost control of his emotions; his body shook with quick, choppy sobs. But just as quickly, he recovered and stood there quietly, his head bowed, as he accepted the office and the duties he would henceforth carry.

The other men in the lot, vastly relieved at the outcome, now clustered around the young man who had just been ordained and comforted him. The preachers, too, all of them, came and welcomed him into their midst.

Then it was over. The congregation was dismissed. The young man sat down on the bench. He looked around him, at all the shadowy figures meshing in a hazy blur.

He was now a preacher.

Until his death.

His life would never be the same.
Never
.

Nor, for that matter, would my family's. The young man ordained that day was my oldest brother, Joseph.

And that's how it all comes down. An Amish man gets up in the morning, a regular member of the church, goes to the service with his wife and children, and returns home that evening, ordained to the ministry for the rest of his life.

A preacher.

Lots of work for no pay.

Just like that.

The process is based on the New Testament account of the choosing of Matthias by lot to replace Judas after he betrayed Jesus. The whole thing takes less than an hour. There is no counseling session, no discussion with the ordained to see whether or not he even
has
a calling. It's the only system the Amish have ever used.

It has its flaws, but overall, it works amazingly well. A quiet young man who has never had much to say is ordained, and one month later, with no training whatsoever, gets up to preach for the first time. It's sink or swim, and somehow, he swims. And over the course of many years, he develops into a gifted speaker and a powerful preacher.

Of course, sometimes the reverse is also true. I've heard many a sermon from preachers who could not speak publicly to save their lives. Men who spent the first ten minutes of their sermons bemoaning the “heavy burden” of their calling. Men who, in my opinion, should never have been ordained. But the lot chose them, just as it chose Matthias. Granted, nothing more is ever written of Matthias, other than the fact that he was ordained by lot. So perhaps he wasn't that great a speaker either.

My brother Joseph, it turned out, was a swimmer. He soon developed into the premier preacher in Bloomfield. When he stood to preach, the congregation sat alert, absorbed in his message, and much to the children's delight, he always stopped on time.

For me, the other preachers suddenly seemed more human, because now my brother was one of them. And to Joseph's credit, although he strongly disapproved of my subsequent life choices, he was always there for me through the turmoil that would characterize the next ten years.

11

It's a law of human nature. The young will defy and test the previous generation's boundaries and push them to the limits. It has always been so and will likely always be.

This is particularly true in the Amish culture, with its austere lifestyle, where the rules prohibit all things modern and, therefore, sinful: cars, radios, and television.

Very few young Amish kids with a spark of life and an ounce of willpower will simply accept their leaders' admonitions not to touch “unclean things.” Most need to experiment, experience, and decide for themselves.

My friends and I were no different.

There were six of us.

Marvin and Rudy Yutzy were my first and closest friends in Bloomfield. They were first cousins and had known each other all their lives. I was the new guy on their turf, but they gladly made room for me.

Rudy, the youngest—and yet somehow the tallest—was the orator of the group. He could weave and stitch and thread the most fascinating, vivid tales from the most mundane, everyday events. No detail was too small. No comment too obscure. He included and expounded on everything in fantastic, colorful narratives that flowed in a continual rolling stream.

Marvin was a bit more reserved. He was intelligent, thoughtful, and observant, with a keen, dry sense of humor. He could deadpan a joke and move on before the true incisive humor of his observation ever hit you.

Then there were the Herschberger brothers—Willis and Vern—who moved to Bloomfield from the large, troubled settlement of Arthur, Illinois, about a year after we arrived. They were tough, cynical, talkative, friendly, and extremely knowledgeable in the ways of the world.

Mervin Gingerich's family had been one of the first to move to Bloomfield. Mervin was my age—a muscular hunk of a kid with a ready smile and a round, perpetually red face. His father was Bishop George Gingerich, so his family had excellent standing in the community.

Me? Well, I'm not quite sure where I fit in. I was the one who brooded and mulled things over. Or perhaps overmulled is more accurate, if that's a word. I was the one who spoke the occasional comment that made absolutely no sense to the others. Tall, skinny, a beanpole of a kid with a ready smile, I was intensely loyal to my friends.

The six of us met in Bloomfield, and somehow we were drawn to one another. We were intelligent and hungry for knowledge. We read voraciously, mostly trashy bestsellers—picked up at yard sales and used-book stores—that we kept carefully stashed under our mattresses or in little nooks about the house.

We were an exclusive group, a tight nucleus, huddled together and protecting one another from the storms that occasionally engulfed us.