In my room I closed the door and sat on my bed with the strongbox in front of me. I snapped open the metal clasp and lifted the lid, tilting it back on its hinges. Inside were dozens of envelopes, each one fat with photos and coffee-brown negative strips. I pulled out the first envelope, dated the year my parents were married, and began to go through it. It looked as if the pictures had all been taken in Germany and focused primarily on the rural countryside there. They weren’t especially good—nothing like what Lark would have done—but they were okay.
Returning them to their envelope, I moved on to the next and then the next, pleased to see that my mother’s talent as a photographer grew as time went on. I’d learned enough from Lark to notice the slow, subtle mastery of composition, exposure, technique.
From the packet dated the year I was born, I finally ran across a few shots of myself as an infant. But otherwise, my mother had continued to take mostly landscape shots, the only difference being the ongoing growth in her abilities as a photographer. Once we returned to Germany for a second tour, her pictures got even better, as they were especially sharp and clear and colorful.
I kept looking with great interest, occasionally running across another picture of myself as a child, usually outside, playing ball or patting a horse or jumping into a pile of autumn leaves. But primarily these were beautifully composed photos of rural Germany. There were farmhouses, fields of grain, half-timbered barns, horses, cows, laundry on the line, flowering hedges, hills of green, glistening brooks, and budding trees. No urban landscapes, no street scenes, no skylines. Every envelope that came after was that way as well, a few shots of me here and there, but mostly scenes as pastoral and peaceful as any Amish farm on any day of the year.
The envelopes came to an end once our second tour ended, the very last photo an aerial shot of the German countryside, probably snapped through the window of the plane that flew us home.
I sat back against the pillows and looked into the box, taking in the pictures in their entirety. Almost immediately, I realized what my mother had done here. Through the camera lens, she had managed to recreate an Amish-like world for herself from an ocean away. By focusing on scenes of the bucolic European countryside, she had found a way to tease out scenes reminiscent of Lancaster County.
This was what the photography had given her in the end, the ability to capture scenes that took her home, even if only in her imagination.
Feeling sad but settled somehow, those questions finally laid to rest, I said a prayer of thanks and then set the box on the dresser and headed back downstairs, expecting to find my family still gathered at the table, chatting happily and catching up with each other. Instead, Dad was gone, Liz had returned to the couch and was dozing there, and Brady was sitting on the floor wearing headphones and silently playing a video game on the TV. He didn’t even glance my way when I came in the room, so I went in search of my father.
I was afraid he might have gone on to bed, but I found him in his study, going the through mail that Liz had sorted each day and had me put on his desk. He looked up as I came in, his eyes wide with curiosity.
“Well?”
I smiled, somewhat wistfully I’m sure, as I settled into the chair that faced the desk.
“I went through every single picture.”
He grinned. “Didn’t I tell you? Aren’t they something?”
“They are. It was fun to see her grow as a photographer over the years, you know? She started out a little rough, but then she got better. Eventually, she was very good.”
He nodded.
“Any idea what started her on that in the first place? I mean, photography isn’t exactly a natural fit for someone who’s been raised Amish.”
Dad smiled. “You’re right about that. Actually, it came from a dependents class at the army base.”
“Dependents class?”
“Free courses offered to the dependents of military personnel stationed there. When we first went to Germany, she was struggling a little, trying to find her place both in the non-Amish world and as a new officer’s wife. I talked her into taking a class or two, really just hoping that would give her something to do, maybe make a few friends. She chose photography—and almost right away she really got into it. As you saw when you looked through the pictures, she kept going with it, long after the course was over. Said it was sort of therapeutic, a way to help her merge her old life with her new one.”
“You can say that again.”
My father’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”
I shrugged. “All those scenes of the countryside…”
“Oh, I know. Your mother was always zipping out of town on her bicycle, heading off on the open road to take more pictures. Sometimes when I was gone, she would even bring the two of you on overnight car trips into the country. She’d find these little farmhouses in the Black Forest that took in renters. Half of the owners didn’t speak a lick of English, but that didn’t matter to her. She’d stay for four or five days just soaking up the rural scenery and letting you run around like a farmer’s kid.”
“Like an Amish kid, I think.”
I realized that Dad hadn’t put two and two together until that moment. His eyes widened, and then he sighed audibly.
“Of, course. They reminded her of home. I can’t believe I didn’t figure that out before now.”
I nodded, and we both grew silent for a moment.
“I’m glad I gave them to you,” he said at last.
I shook my head. “I’ll keep the box with me, if you don’t mind, but I’m not taking the pictures with me when I go, Dad. I am leaving them here with you.”
He frowned. “Can’t your grandfather make an exception just this once? They’re your mother’s photos, for crying out loud.”
“This has nothing to do with that. I want you to have them. I want you to look at them whenever you need to picture what it’s like to live a simpler life. I don’t need the photos for that. But I think you and Liz and Brady might.”
“What do you mean?”
I pondered how best to say it. “Your lives are very full here but also very complicated. Complex. Filled with distraction. I want you guys to consider coming to visit me more often. In fact, I think I am meant to show you the joys of a simpler life. I’ve been out here, doing it your way. Now it’s your turn to come there and do it mine, at least for a little while.”
Dad laughed lightly. “Trying to get us to become Amish, are you?”
I laughed too. “Merely trying to get you to unplug from time to time. Reconnect with each other. And with God. I think it would be great if the three of you came to Lancaster County for a quiet retreat from all of this.”
He was thoughtful for a moment. “That sounds great, but I’m afraid Brady won’t go for it. Not the way he’s acting.”
“I know. He and I still have a few things to figure out.”
“Want me to talk to him?”
“Thanks, Dad, but this is between us. Brother to brother.”
“I hear you.”
He was just returning his attention to his mail when I added, “But you do need to talk to him about something else.”
He looked up. “What’s that?”
I told him what Brady had said about playing football and the pressure he was under from all sides—especially from his own father.
“He doesn’t want to quit the team. He never did. What he wants is to be able to decide for himself how big a role football will play in his life. It needs to be his decision and only his. Not yours.”
My father let out a long, slow sigh.
“I think the more you push,” I added, “the more he’s going to push back. If you keep going like you have been, I’m afraid you’ll cause him to do the very thing you most don’t want him to do, which is to quit the team.”
“Okay. You’re right. I know. Liz has been saying the same thing for a while now. I just didn’t want to hear it.”
“You need to hear it, though, before it’s too late.�
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“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”
There was a sound behind me, and I turned to see if someone was there. I didn’t see anything, but I realized we’d been speaking with the door not fully closed. Had Brady been standing just out of sight, listening to our conversation?
A part of me really hoped that he had.
I left my dad to his mail and returned to the living room to find Liz snoring gently from the couch and Brady nowhere in sight.
It was time to start thinking about what we should do for dinner, but before I went to the kitchen to rustle something up, I decided to search for my brother. I found him upstairs in his room, just sitting on the side of the bed and gazing out of the window.
Summoning my nerve, I gave a light rap on the doorway and stepped inside.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
From somewhere in the distance, I could hear the distinct whoosh of wood on metal. Skateboards. Stepping further into the room, I moved to Brady’s bed and sat as well, watching through the window as Chris and some of his friends skated past on the street, whooping and hollering all the way.
“I heard what you said to Dad about football,” Brady told me, his eyes still on the kids. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I glanced at him, at his innocent young face, so unmarked by time, and I could clearly see the sadness of too many lost yesterdays that we as brothers had never shared and never would.
“My mom was born Amish,” I began softly. “I know you know that. And I’m sure you know she gave up everything about her Amish life when she married Dad. But she passed something on to me before she died. She passed on her love for that other life.”
Brady shifted, his eyes still on the kids outside who were now just specks in the distance. “Why are you telling me this? You don’t owe me any explanations about why you decided to stay.”
“But you’re wrong. I do. When Dad came back for me, I could barely remember that I had ever lived anywhere but right there in Lancaster County. My mother’s parents treated me like their own son, and I felt safe and loved there. I was afraid to give up that security because I’d been forced to give it up once before, when my mom died and Dad sent me to live with people I had only just met. I didn’t have the maturity to figure out what I was turning my back on, Brady. I didn’t stop to think that my staying meant you would grow up with an older brother you hardly ever saw. The truth is, the three of you seemed complete without me. I didn’t want to mess with that. And I confess I didn’t want to be messed with, either.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I can’t believe Dad let you go like that. He would never let me stay somewhere just because I wanted to. He should have made you come.”
“I think he wrestles with that decision too. But I also know he was torn by wanting to do what would honor my mom. When she died, he didn’t just lose a wife, you know? He lost the mother of his child. There were no easy fixes. I understand, and I have forgiven him. None of us is perfect.”
Outside the window, the whirring sounds of the skateboard wheels had all but faded.
“You’re going back, aren’t you,” he said, his voice flat. “For good this time.”
“I am going to join the Amish church, yes. It’s what I want. It’s where I belong.”
“Because we’re not good enough for you.”
I sought his gaze, but he still wouldn’t look at me. “Because I am Amish to my very core. Because I can see now that this is God’s will for my life.”
He grunted.
“You told me, Brady, just after I got here, that you love football but that you would give it up before you would live your life as a slave to it. You have the right to decide what kind of life you’re going to lead and if football is going to be a part of it. We all have the freedom to decide what kind of life we will lead. I am choosing to go back because it’s the life I love. It’s who I want to be. It’s who God made me to be.”
Finally, he turned to look at me, his eyes still filled with accusation. “If you’d made the right decision the first time, none of this would be happening now. Don’t you get that?”
I let his question settle between us, his pain hanging there in the air.
Lord, show me how to make him understand.
A burst of laughter wafted up from far down the street. Chris and his friends were racing back our way, and in that moment, I knew what to say.
“Look at Chris,” I said, pointing out of the window.
Brady did as I said, turning back. “Yeah? So?”
“So what do you see when you look at him?”
He shrugged, defensive. “I don’t know. He’s a kid.”
“Right. He’s young. In fact, he’s still just a child, right?”
Brady glared at me, as if to say, Enough already. “Fine. Yes. He’s just a child. So what?”
I waited a beat and then replied, “So he’s just about the same age I was when our father left the choice of where to live up to me. The same age I was when I made the choice that ended up having such a big impact on your life. On all our lives.”
I wasn’t trying to excuse what had happened. I wasn’t trying to justify it. I was just trying to get my brother to see the truth, that a very adult decision had been thrust upon me when I was still just a little boy.
After a long moment, understanding began to dawn in his eyes. It was there for only a flicker and then he blinked it away, but I knew what I had seen.
My point was made. Maybe now Brady would finally find it within himself to forgive me.
THIRTY
Over the rest of that evening and the next, sure enough, my little brother slowly came around. As the chip on his shoulder melted away, he began to smile at me more, hang out with me more, take an interest in me more. By the end of Thursday night, we were lounging on the floor of the living room, fighting it out on the digital football field like any two brothers in any family in any house anywhere. It felt good, especially when Dad and Liz settled on the couch behind us, picked sides, and began hollering along with us as ad hoc cheerleaders.
My dad seemed to settle back into home life with ease, showing a tenderness with his still-injured wife that I hadn’t known he possessed. As he took over my duties one by one, caring for her and serving up meals and managing things around the house, I found my own time freeing up more and more. By Friday morning, I knew I could start making plans to head home. Dad was expecting me to stay through Thanksgiving, but that meant waiting another whole week. I just didn’t think I could risk taking that much time. I needed to get back to Rachel as soon as possible, to save what was left of our relationship. To convince her that all of our years together had not been in vain.
To convince her my commitment was real. And for a lifetime.
Once I explained the situation to Dad, he seemed to understand—especially when I told him that my intention was to marry Rachel in the following fall. He actually got tears in his eyes when I said that, and then he cleared his throat and clapped me on the back and said he wished us all the best.
After he and I talked, I decided to go online to try changing the date on the airline ticket myself. But as I logged in and started to pull up the website, I had an odd feeling, as if there was something important here I needed to understand. Confused, I sat back in the chair and thought about what else God might have for me to learn.
Closing my eyes, the image that came to mind was that of Daadi and of the bishop and elders who had so kindly and wisely given their blessing on this trip. That’s when it struck me. By flying home, I was exercising the privilege they had granted me as the son of an Englischer and one not yet baptized into the church. That was all well and good, but if I truly wanted to come home in the right spirit—as a man ready to commit to the Amish life in full—then I should not fly, no matter how eager I was to get there. I should follow the standard Amish custom and go by ground instead. I hated risking more days away from Rachel, but I knew God would bless this si
gn of submission and patience and obedience. I would take the slow way—the Amish way—and trust Him to handle the rest.
After exploring my options, I ended up reserving a seat on the train. I’d be leaving Sunday evening at seven, which would get me home early Wednesday afternoon. That meant I would still get there before Thanksgiving—and I would have almost the entire weekend here to enjoy my California family before it was time to go.
Once the trip was booked, I called and left a message for Daadi, giving him the date and time of my arrival. I was going to tell my dad about the change in my travel plans as well, but Liz said he’d just run out to the store, so I went up to my room instead and spent the next half hour getting myself organized and partially packed.
I owed Lark a proper goodbye, not to mention her payment as my tutor, and it seemed as good a time as any to take care of both. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and texted her to see if she was free for a few minutes.
She was.
Before I left, I brought the Leica downstairs to put back where it belonged. Dad had returned and was in the study, but before I could even tell him about the train trip, he looked up and spoke.
“I see you found your mother’s camera.”
I froze, staring first at him and then down at the device I was holding. “What?”
“The camera. It was your mother’s. I gave it to her.” He stood and came over to me for a closer look.
I blinked. “Are you serious? I figured it belonged to Liz.”
“Nah, I bought it in Frankfurt for your mom at the beginning of our second tour to Germany.” He took it from my hands. He held the thing to his eye and twisted the lens, and then he pulled back and shook his head as if to say he didn’t understand the attraction. “She wasn’t thrilled to be back, and I was trying to find a way to lift her spirits. I realized she hadn’t fooled with photography for a while, so I sprang for the best German camera I could afford and surprised her with it.”
MEN OF LANCASTER COUNTY 01: The Amish Groom Page 28