Crossing Over

by Ruth Irene Garrett

  I’ve always loved black horses. For as far back as I can remember.

  Betting on horses is not the surest way to supplement one’s income, and some people might wonder why I don’t get a job to help support the household. But the reality is: I have one. More than one, actually. I do most of the chores around the house, help with Ottie’s paperwork, and take care of my husband. Ottie, meanwhile, likes to say he uses his head to help the family.

  “I can’t go out and dig a ditch,” he says, “but I can use my mind.”

  Sometimes, he’ll even make light of the situation.

  “She married an old, crippled man,” he once told a person. “Now, she’s got to support him.”

  Deep down, though, Ottie, a once-active outdoorsman who welded on off-shore oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico and cut trees in the Pacific Northwest, feels awful that he’s not able to do more. It is a source of great internal stress. An all-too-frequent gnawing at his pride.

  And in my “Field of Dreams,” I am compelled to do what I can to ease his pain.

  Seventeen

  A greeting of love and hope you can obtain eternal salvation. Oh, come home and make peace with God and the church. . . . The man that you have left with is an adulterer and is on the wide and broad way, but you can come back if God moves you.

  —LETTER FROM DAD

  Rev. James Bettermann is a handsome man, one of those too-handsome-to-be-a-minister kinds of people.

  And he has a mustache of all things. What the Amish would say about that.

  But it was clear from the moment I first saw him, first met him, that he was a Christian of the first order; that he not only believed in God, he worshiped him.

  It showed in the red and white sign just inside the entrance to Holy Trinity Lutheran Church:

  “We are here as a church to win the lost for Christ and help them and each of us grow as his responsible disciples.”

  It showed in the inclusive messages in the weekly church bulletin:

  “We extend a warm and hearty welcome in the powerful and precious name of Jesus Christ to all who are worshiping with us today. . . . May our Lord bless your worship with us today and may he go with you as you leave to witness and serve.’’

  And it showed in Rev. Bettermann’s compassion when he hugged parishioners, and in his easygoing, love-all-people manner of speaking.

  He’ll tell you he’s that way because he wants the Christian experience to be “as real and as concrete as possible. When you show love, when it’s expressed, it’s more concrete, especially if it’s done without ulterior motives.

  “I want people to know that God cares about them—and that the pastor cares about them.’’

  It wasn’t always this way for him. In the sixties and seventies, he’ll tell you, he ingested enough chemicals to last a lifetime. He was part of a drug scene that ultimately would lay waste to many a great mind and many a precious hope. His was a soul desperately searching for meaning—until he found God.

  “I woke up one day,” he says, “and realized God hadn’t quit on me because I was wild. And then I knew I couldn’t quit on him.

  “The words in the Bible aren’t stories to me. They are real, and I believe in them. That’s the A to Z motivation for me.”

  We arrived at Rev. Bettermann’s doorstep through Faye, who belonged to the church and taught Sunday school there. Though we had continued to pray in private, having a public anchor for worship was something we desperately needed.

  In the back of my mind, I also hoped that the church would one day lift the Amish ban. It was a silly concern when you get right down to it. The Amish would never honor such a move, and it would therefore be little more than a symbolic gesture. But I also hoped that perhaps, with the ban lifted by the Lutherans, it might be easier to visit my mother—if and when such an opportunity arose.

  Rev. Bettermann knew little about the Old Order Amish when Ottie and I first began attending his church in Bowling Green. My head covering, he thought, was a bit odd. And I was as shy as they come, slipping in and out of church with barely a whisper.

  But over time, as we increasingly sought him out to talk about our ordeal and my upbringing, he came to know the Old Order Amish traditions, and I came to realize there were more than just the two segments professed by the Amish—the Amish and the evil world. There was a third faction. Christians of the world. And they, to my surprise, preached about nonbelievers.

  We began going to public Wednesday night Bible study classes conducted by Rev. Bettermann, and we also met privately with him. I was apprehensive at first, expecting all of my Amish learning about the English to bear true. But instead, I discovered a man who preached just as passionately about God, who followed the Bible in all its glory and wisdom, and who was more interested in the word than the denomination.

  It helped, of course, that Faye was a member of the church, that Ottie had been baptized Lutheran, and that I had joined the church choir. But more important was that we acted like Christians in all that we did. With the Amish, it was the Amish first. With the Lutherans, it was God first. Faith to the Lutherans was a relationship with God, not with an institution.

  After being somewhat adrift in a sea of abandonment since the ban, I began to feel a sense of belonging again, and Rev. Bettermann came to be a trusted friend whose views on religion coincided with those I had clutched dearly for so long.

  “Christianity,” he’d say, “is about what’s in your heart. I’ll concur that the Amish are terribly religious. But I struggle to see how they’re Christian, because they are so legalistic, they are so works-oriented. We may use the same terminologies, but they don’t mean the same things.

  “Unconditional forgiveness, for example. There isn’t anything in the Amish system that gives me any picture of unconditional forgiveness. Everything is tied to behavior, and that moves it dangerously close to being outside the Christian realm.”

  One of the first discussions we had with Rev. Bettermann was the concept of grace—that it is a free gift from God, no strings attached, and that God loves and forgives us unconditionally.

  We also talked about how divorce was not an unforgivable sin. About how my marriage to Ottie was okay in the eyes of God and would not banish me to hell.

  It took me awhile to truly believe he wasn’t just saying such things to make me feel good. That he wasn’t simply telling me what I wanted to hear.

  But once I was convinced, I couldn’t wait to ask him the question I’d held in for months.

  “Can you lift the ban?” I asked.

  “Yes, I can,” he said. “It won’t be recognized by the Amish, but, yes, I can.”

  And so, on June 8, 1997, a year to the day after I left the Amish, Rev. Bettermann made plans to lift the ban.

  I awoke early that morning, filled with a sense of excitement and anticipation. As much as I had tried to hide my feelings—in the stoic way of the Amish—I had broken down on several occasions. It was embarrassing, this weakness of mine, but I couldn’t seem to stop it. Pain has a way of bubbling forth, no matter one’s resolve, and my pain was deeper than I had allowed.

  Ottie would hold and comfort me during these times of despair, making it both more tolerable and more intense. Because the more sympathy he showed, the harder I wept.

  Sometimes, to spare him the agony of my grief, I would hold in the tears until I ran an errand or until he went to sleep.

  It wasn’t that I wanted to return to the Amish, or that I was unhappy. I merely missed my family.

  Knowing that, Ottie would often offer to call neighbors of my parents in Iowa so I could talk to my mother, although each time I declined. I didn’t let on why, but I can say now that I didn’t want to bother other people and, strange as it sounds, I worried my father would think it was a misuse of the phone.

  Ottie was then—and is now—my rock, but on this special day of absolution I would have to forge ahead without him. He was laid up in bed with a serious case of gout.

  I dro
ve the thirty-five miles to Bowling Green, alone in the physical sense but joined in spirit by my faith in my husband, pastor, and Savior. And when I got to the church, seeing Rev. Bettermann and the congregation I had come to love further enveloped me with conviction.

  The defining moment came at the close of the 10:30 A.M. sermon, which was based on 2 Corinthians 4:18: “While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.’’

  Rev. Bettermann led me to the altar and told the congregation what he was about to do. The room was packed. Three to four hundred people maybe. The modernistic blue, green, purple, and white-stained glass on either side of the altar glowing bright in the morning sun.

  “She has not only been rejected by her family, but told she is eternally damned by Christ,” he told the parishioners. “We want to extend to her our love and our friendship and our acceptance. And we want to lift the ban.”

  “Yes,” several people said in unison. “Amen.”

  “Those who agree that this should be done should show your support by raising your hands,” he said.

  Nary a person abstained.

  Rev. Bettermann would later say that as he carried out the ceremony, he suddenly was moved in a way he hadn’t imagined possible.

  “It was more emotional than I’d thought it would be,” he said. “I didn’t think about it ahead of time, but then I got caught up in the moment.”

  So did I.

  I was nervous and comforted at the same time, drawing strength from God and the loving eyes and voices of the congregation before me.

  When Rev. Bettermann uttered the final words—“. . . the ban has been lifted and we accept Irene into our fellowship”—some of the parishioners wept, all of them applauded, and many came forward to hug me.

  “If there’s anything we can ever do for you,” many of them said, “let us know.”

  How wonderful it was to be embraced by so many people, strangers some of them but friends in Christ all of them.

  Four days later, Rev. Bettermann sent a letter to my uncle and former bishop, Elmer T. Miller, notifying him of the church’s action:

  Dear Mr. Miller:

  Greetings in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

  This letter is sent to inform you that this past Sunday, June 8, 1997, we received into our fellowship Irene Miller Garrett.

  It is our understanding that she has been placed under the ban by your church for reasons with which you are most familiar. As a Christian fellowship, our congregation voted to rescind said ban and to accept Irene as a member in good standing.

  I am aware that our action may not meet with your approval, but I believe what has been done is both pleasing to the heavenly Father and a blessing to Irene. Out of courtesy and concern, I share this with you on behalf of the people of Holy Trinity.

  Sincerely,

  Rev. J.A. Bettermann

  My uncle never responded to the letter, not that we expected him to. But at the very least, the lifting of the ban had served a purpose for me. It had given me a temporary peace of mind. It had confirmed what I’d known all along about God.

  And when I left the church that day, the landscape around me at once seemed more striking and vivid. The blue in the sky was bluer, the songs of the birds more robust, and the leaves on trees sharper, more clearly defined.

  Another meaningful thing also happened that day. I wore my full head covering for the last time. Of all things Amish, the head covering was one of the hardest to part with—as difficult, certainly, as shedding Amish guilt. I had worn it every day—every night—of my life. It had become as much a part of me as my own skin and was at the core of my spirituality.

  But on that day, I quietly, unceremoniously, retired the head covering to a box in my closet, where it now rests with my other Amish clothes.

  Sometimes, people will ask about my Amish attire and I’ll pull out the old stuff for an impromptu show-and-tell. I’ll even let people try them on if they’re interested.

  But that’s not the only reason I keep them. Ottie says I should have them to show our children so they’ll know about my heritage and, in turn, theirs too.

  I look forward to the day when I can do that.

  Eighteen

  (Lasz das blut Christe dich reinichen als der schnee. Wir hoffen der feind sein macht wird genommen und dasz du zurück kommst.)

  Let the blood of Christ cleanse you like the snow. We hope the devil’s power will be taken so that you come back.

  —LETTER FROM DAD

  I’m not sure our lives ever really slowed down after the first year. There were breaks along the way. Very short ones. Then things would speed up again.

  The rhythm had nothing to do with the letters from Iowa. They remained constant and nagging, and over time began to chip away at the euphoria I felt after the ban was lifted.

  For the moment, though, we were too busy with other things to dwell on the negative.

  Ottie and I were about to become stars. Public figures, anyway.

  A conversation with a former Amish woman in Kentucky gave Ottie and me the idea of compiling a book of true stories about people who had left the Amish. Because the Amish are a people of few words, we thought these testimonies would be enlightening to others in the outside world. And though our intent was not to condemn the Amish, we hoped it might give people thinking of leaving the fold the courage to fulfill their dreams.

  We formed a corporation (Neu Leben, Inc., which means “new life” in German), got the names of former Amish through groups that annually hold X-Amish reunions, and traveled to Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Minnesota, Missouri, and Iowa to conduct audio and video interviews.

  Not everyone we contacted wanted to participate; even ten to fifteen years after leaving, some X-Amish were concerned their comments might adversely affect relationships with family members still among the Amish.

  But we gathered about twenty-five testimonies, returned to Kentucky, winnowed the list to ten, and hired Western Kentucky University students interested in being published to help do the writing.

  The result was True Stories of the X-Amish, a 124-page series of essays about real people. It was accompanied by forty-three of Ottie’s photographs.

  Rev. Bettermann wrote the introduction, which served to set the tone for the book:

  There is one word which serves as the linchpin, connecting all of these stories of the X-Amish, one word which weaves through each account as a thematic backdrop. The word is freedom. Freedom to choose where to live and how to live, freedom to choose what to believe and what to reject. Freedom to make the basic decisions of life.

  While most of us take such freedom for granted, the stories that follow describe people who longed for yet lived without the fundamental right to choose the course of their living. . . .

  Ottie worked the network of distributors to get the book in stores and on-line. We also contacted media outlets far and wide, seeking stories on the book—the most inexpensive advertising one can acquire.

  The response was overwhelming. Not for the book, much to Ottie’s chagrin, but for our own story of struggle and success. Every newspaper in every city we went to for book signings did a story. Local television affiliates also jumped on the bandwagon, and later the TV news magazine Extra and a French TV station.

  Then Glamour magazine called. A senior editor said she was interested in having someone at the magazine do a story on me.

  “What about the book?” Ottie asked.

  “Oh, I’m not interested in the book,” she said. “I’m interested in Irene.”

  Poor Ottie. It was a pattern that would continue for months.

  As always, he would keep a game face on and try to find humor in the situation.

  At one book signing, he found himself leaning against a wall beside the bookstore’s manager, watching as people crowded around me.

  The manager asked him: “Wh
at do you think about taking a backseat to all this?”

  “Well, I don’t really mind,” Ottie replied, “as long as it’s a Lincoln.”

  Glamour’s story would bring him little consolation. The senior editor decided to take the assignment herself, spent three days at our Horse Cave home, then sent a photographer, photographer’s assistant, and makeup artist to do the photo shoot. The ensuing four-page spread didn’t say much about the book, but it said a lot about our lives.

  It was part of a series called “Wow Women,” and ran in August 1999 under this headline:

  “Escaping Amish Repression. One Woman’s Story. Fearing a future of near slavery, Irene Miller fled her family and a sequestered life that forbade her an education, a career and marriage to the man she loved. Here’s how she’s dealing with her new modern world.”

  The reaction to the article was almost instantaneous. The Nashville Tennessean did a big story on its “Living” cover under the headline:

  “An individual is born. Kentucky woman casts off conformity of Amish life, gingerly enters modern world.”

  Next came award-winning movie producer Beth Polson inquiring if we’d be interested in giving her rights to do a CBS-TV movie based on our lives. Loosely based, it turned out.

  Once again, Ottie had to swallow his pride.

  “Did you like the book?” he asked her.

  “What book?” Beth said.

  “True Stories of the X-Amish.”

  “I haven’t even seen the book,” she said.

  Ottie sighed.

  In the end, we sold the movie rights to Beth, even though several other film companies also came calling. Beth’s credentials were simply too sound to ignore. Her Pasadena-based Polson Co. had produced numerous heralded TV movies, including The Christmas Box, Go Toward the Light, This Child Is Mine, Not My Kid, A Place to Be Loved, and Going Home.

  We expected a close rendition of the story we gave the screenwriters, who were two Mennonites from Goshen, Indiana. But when we read the shooting script for “This Side of Heaven,’’ we were shocked. The locations and most of the names had been changed; I was now Rachel Beachy and Ottie was Jack Dunbar. Even more alarming, the script took great liberties with the facts.