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
It 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,” h
e 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.
Special Thanks
Rick Farrant
I owe a great debt of gratitude to those people who encouraged my talents, confirmed my compassion and, in some cases, literally saved my life.
Among them:
Susie, Amber, Tyler, and Nicholas Farrant, who give me love, inspiration and unwavering support, no matter my transgressions. I love you all.
Ottie and Irene Garrett, who trusted me implicitly and have became good friends during the course of our work together.
Phyllis Rogers and Joan Warner-Engel, who believe more in me than I do in myself.
Sandy Thorn Clark, Steve Penhollow, Jason Stein, and Carroll Ann Moore, who read this manuscript and provided invaluable feedback. You are journalists, writers, and colleagues of the highest order.
Jim Plessinger, Gay Cook, Clint Wilkinson, Mike Whitehead, Chuck Morris, and Lawrence Pettit, who saw a fire in me and took the time to help fan it.
Jim Carrier, whose words “to someone who also dreams of words beyond newspapers” have stuck with me all these years, and to countless others whose written words have buoyed me.
Gideon Weil and the fine folks at Harper San Francisco, who believed Irene’s story was worth telling.
Bill Gaither, Rebecca St. James, Ginny Owens, and Father Joseph Girzone, who have been brief but powerful spiritual spark plugs.
All of my other interview subjects along the way—from John Mellencamp to Debbie Reynolds—who shared their deepest thoughts and sterling wisdoms.
James Perkins, an estranged but once-important friend who brought light to an unhappy childhood, and Ruby McGown and Rhea Edmonds, newfound friends who prosper because they believe and dream.
The Robys, Wilsons, and Gilchrists, who made an adopted child feel like a full-fledged member of the family.
Dr. Basil Genetos, who repaired a broken heart and kept it running long enough to see this project through. Keep it up, doc.
And, finally, God, who led me to his altar in my darkest hour and taught me how to receive and revere him.
Special Thanks
Ruth Irene Garrett
I hope this small gesture shows my gratitude to so many people who have given me support, kindness, understanding, and love.
Our friends and family in Christ, Rev. James A Bettermann and family, The Holy Trinity Lutheran Church, Mark and Kathy Tooley and daughters, Ron and Kathy Zielke, Martha Zielke, Arthur and Fletta Diamond, Neva and the late Bob Gielow, Caroll and Susan Smiley, Ann Padilla, Starlot and James Pierce, Ray and Carol Penhollow, Dallas Flowers, Mark and Marion Easterday and family, Connie and Bill Beach, “Mama” Ellen, Patrick and Christina Stewart and family, Robert and Judy Stokes and daughters, Nanette Varian of Glamour magazine, and Beth Polson of Polson Productions.
My Aunt Edna and Jake Schmucker and those in my family who had the courage and kindness to come visit our home.
Betty and Don Gumm, Mike, and the late Freda Jewell for their friendship and letting us live on their “Home Place.”
My husband’s family and his children, I love you all. A special thank you to my father-in-law, Ottie Garrettt Sr. Our home is beautiful.
A special thank you to Monte Garrett and his four friends, Fred McDonald, Chris Chase, Richard Hoover, and the late Wayne Wilson for their midnight escapade, moving Ottie’s household belongings from Iowa to Kentucky in record time.
Gideon Weil, Liz Perle, and Harper San Francisco for publishing my story.
In closing, my family and my Amish heritage will remain a part of me and I love them all unconditionally.
About the Author
RUTH IRENE GARRETT left the Amish faith in 1996 and was ultimately excommunicated. She currently lives with her husband, Ottie, in Kentucky where they devote their time to helping Amish families who have left their communities. RICK FARRANT is an award-winning journalist and an editor at the Fort-Wayne Journal Gazette.
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Copyright
CROSSING OVER: One Woman’s Escape from Amish Life. Copyright © 2003 by Ruth Irene Garrett with Rick Farrant. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978–0–06–052992–5
Epub Edition © FEBRUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780062277107
08 09 10 11 12 RRD(H) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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