Growing Up Amish

by Ira Wagler

  One Saturday night that fall, in the Flamingo Bar, located in some faceless strip mall in suburban Sarasota, someone tutored me on the intricacies of the game of football. I’d never understood it before, but that night I saw for the first time what a great and brilliant game it was. On an old color TV on the wall, the New York Jets were playing some other team I don’t remember. It was preseason, and the Jets were engineering a furious but futile comeback in the closing minutes. And on the spot I rashly declared myself a Jets fan. It has been a long and mostly dreary journey since that night. But hope springs eternal.

  As the weeks trickled by, we did the things that young men did back in those days, and while we didn’t necessarily prosper, we survived.

  Of course, our survival did not include much thought about the future. Not in any coherent sense. Vaguely, we figured we’d return to Bloomfield. And the Amish church. Someday. And make it work, as we had seen so many others do. As some of our buddies had already done. But there was no set date; in close to the purest sense, we lived from day to day and from week to week. Nothing more than that. It was as if we existed in a mental fog.

  I still smoked. Ever since my Nebraska days I had been hooked on tobacco. I couldn’t imagine starting a day without that first delicious cigarette. No, it wasn’t healthy. But at that age, youth believes it will live forever.

  * * *

  It was a strange thing, and I don’t quite understand it, even today, but when we were out there, living and working in normal society, thoughts of home, the good things— the security, the family, the comforts—somehow always crept in and drew us back. And so it was that year in Florida.

  Sometime that fall, probably in September, we both knew that we would be back home in Bloomfield by winter. It didn’t seem like a bad thing. We’d been gone for the better part of a year, and we longed for our old haunts, our old friends.

  By late October, both of us had returned. This time, we were determined to make it work. This time, we would do it. This time, we really meant it.

  That vague and distant future, never more than two weeks out, was now upon us. The time had come for us to do what we had seen so many others around us do, including wild youth we had met and befriended in Pinecraft. (A good many of them are settled and married today, with families. Amish.) Now we, too, would walk that path. It was time.

  In my head I figured I could make it work. I knew I could. Somehow. But in my heart, well, those were days when promptings from the heart were quashed. Ignored. Buried, somewhere, out there on the edges of my consciousness, where they belonged. So I trudged doggedly onward, determined to endure whatever it took to settle down and remain Amish.

  * * *

  The preachers greeted us kindly enough when we made known our plans to join church the next spring. As rigid and unbending as the Amish might appear, one thing is true: Any wayward son (or daughter) who returns to the fold of the Amish church is always welcomed, regardless of what he has done in the past. He might be viewed a bit warily, and sure, he has some things to prove. But he is still welcomed, and genuinely so.

  Marvin lived in the east district, so we didn’t get to join together. Instead, he followed church with a little group of slightly younger youth. By now, my district had ordained its own bishop, our neighbor Henry Hochstedler, who had been a preacher for years. In my district, I took the baptismal instructions with one other young man, Chris Hochstedler. Bishop Henry’s son.

  Bishop Henry was originally from Arthur, Illinois. He was a kind man, mostly, but pretty set in his ways. A plodding, methodical worker, he kept his little farm impeccably tidy. All his animals were well cared for, his horses fat and gleaming. He milked a few cows and raised a flock of sheep, struggling bravely to pay his bills.

  He preached the same way he worked: slowly, methodically, the words rolling effortlessly from his tongue in a rhythmic, lulling flow. As a bishop, he was unexceptional but steady. Under this man, then, I began my second try at joining the Amish church.

  For me, the summer was one of deep, quiet desperation. I seemed to be walking down a long, dark hallway with no light at the end. And no end, for that matter. But I was determined this time to stick it out. To go all the way. It would not be an easy road.

  From a distance, or from outside, my decision makes no sense. But it made all the sense in the world to me in that moment, to keep slogging on, to walk the road that equated eternal life with earthly misery. Besides, I figured, if others could do it, so could I. And why wouldn’t I have thought that?

  I managed to kick cigarettes, at least temporarily, but only because I used smokeless tobacco instead. It was odorless, and much easier to hide. Then one day someone saw me buying a tin of Skoal at Chuck’s Café in West Grove and told the preachers. The next Sunday, as the instructional conference was winding down, Bishop Henry momentarily deserted his usual impersonal comments and confronted me.

  “Ira,” he said in a firm tone. I jolted, fully alert. I’d never been addressed by name in any previous instruction class. Panicked thoughts flashed through my mind. This could not possibly be a good thing.

  He continued. “An English neighbor stopped in and told me that he saw you buying tobacco at Chuck’s Café. I, of course, hoped it was not true. But I wanted to ask you here.”

  Sadness, or what he figured passed for it, lined his face. He looked right at me. The other preachers sat there, mostly looking at the floor.

  “Is it true?” Bishop Henry asked simply, still gazing at me intently.

  I sat there, almost frozen with shock and surprise. Fear and desperation rippled through me in waves. Hot denials sprang to my lips. Who in the world could have seen and tattled? Which English neighbor would be so idiotic, so stupid, as to go to my bishop and tell him what he saw? But, after a few eternally long seconds, during which a thousand scenarios flashed through my mind, I looked right back at him. In the eyes.

  “Yeah, I guess it is true,” I admitted ruefully.

  He arched his eyebrows and looked officially and properly grieved. Still, he smiled a sad smile.

  “I’m very glad you were honest. If you had lied, it would have made things a lot worse,” he said kindly. “But,” he added somberly, “this will, of course, delay the date of baptism until we can see true fruits in your life.”

  I nodded, still stunned. And then, mercifully, Chris and I were dismissed. I stumbled from the room, my mind in turmoil.

  And that’s the way it went. Over the summer, I stiffened in resistance. Fretted inside, vehemently. What did they think I was, some lame-brained weakling? And by late July, I was traveling on the same path as the last time I had tried to join. With each passing week, I became more convinced that I couldn’t make it. It was just too hard. I didn’t want it that badly.

  Then came August.

  20

  My brother Titus was working the home farm that summer. A tall, lanky young man of twenty-three, he was in a serious relationship with Ruth Yutzy, Marvin’s older sister. The two of them had dated a few years earlier, broken up for a couple of years, and now had gotten back together. And when that happens, it usually doesn’t take long—any astute observer could see that their wedding was not too far off. Probably the next spring.

  On August 3, 1982, a warm, muggy summer evening, Titus hitched up his powerful stallion and headed out the drive. He was going to Ruth’s place for supper. Some of the Yutzy clan was gathering for a wiener roast. I remember seeing the open buggy, hitched to the stallion, as they clattered away. He arrived at Ruth’s house, and they all had a loud, jolly time, laughing and feasting on hot dogs. After supper, the boys, my friends Marvin and Rudy among them, decided to go swimming in the pond out in the field west of the house. They splashed and swam. Frolicked and laughed. Since there was no diving board, they took turns pitching one another into the air and out across the water.

  Then it was Titus’s turn. A boy stood on each side, cupping his hands. Titus stepped into their hands, balanced himself by placing his hands
on their shoulders, and shouted, “Go!” They launched him up and out. He sliced cleanly through the air, then bent and dove straight down into the water. So clean was his dive that he created hardly a ripple on the water’s surface.

  The others stood about. “What a beaut!” they said. A perfect dive. Seconds passed, but Titus did not resurface. Then more time passed, and the boys grew restless. One of them, wading out from shore, suddenly bumped into Titus just below the surface. He had drifted back in. Marvin and Rudy grabbed him and pulled him onto shore, where he coughed and sputtered. He had almost drowned.

  On his beautiful dive, Titus had hit the bottom headfirst, crushing his fifth vertebra.

  When the news reached us at home, it was dark, and I had already gone to bed, although I was not asleep. A vehicle came barreling into our lane. Through the open window I could hear the engine roar and tires crunching on the gravel. Shadows bounced and pitched on my bedroom walls. Then the vehicle slid to a halt in our driveway. I heard a truck door slam, followed by a staccato of footsteps up the walks and a great clattering up the steps.

  I was annoyed. Doesn’t whoever it is know that it’s bedtime? People are trying to sleep here. Then I heard my sister Rachel’s voice, speaking a rush of words so fast I could not grasp what she was saying. “A terrible accident . . . Titus . . . dive . . . pond . . . hospital . . . bad . . . can’t feel anything.” Then came my dad’s voice, calm and disbelieving. Then hurrying steps in the house as he and Mom prepared to leave with Dick Hutchins, the English man who had brought Rachel to our house. I got up and was quickly told what had happened. After they left, I returned to bed, but I did not sleep that night.

  The next morning we learned that Titus had been flown to Iowa City in a helicopter. A helicopter? I thought. It must be bad.

  Mom stayed at the hospital, but Dad returned later that day, looking drained. He tried to put on a good face, but I could tell he was shaken. The doctors’ diagnosis had been grim. Titus was paralyzed. They would do what they could. Some feeling might return. But they thought not. We listened in a haze of disbelief. The words were clear, but we could not grasp them. The first full day passed in slow motion.

  When the second morning dawned, we got up and did the chores, then ate a somber breakfast. No one was really hungry. As was the custom in our home, after breakfast Dad took his German Bible and read a passage out loud. We then knelt for morning prayer, which was always recited from a little black prayer book. Dad didn’t use the book because he knew the prayers by heart. He got through the five-minute prayer with no trouble until the end, which closes with the Lord’s Prayer. With barely a pause, he began the familiar refrain, his rich, mellow voice rising and falling in the rhythmic, comforting flow we’d heard a thousand times before: “Unser Vater in dem Himmel, geheiligt verde Dein Name. Zu uns komme Dein Reich.”

  “Our Father Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come—”

  Abruptly his voice broke, and he faltered. He struggled silently for some moments. Through the vast gulf that separated me from him at the time, and in the grip of my own shock and grief, my heart cried out for him. A tough, stoic, hard-bitten old Amish man. Broken. Hurting. In anguish before God. For his son. Fighting emotions he could not show.

  He wept silently and cleared his throat. Began speaking again, then stopped. Silence. Struggle. Cleared his throat again. But then he said the words, and I have always believed from the bottom of my heart that he meant them with all of his: “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

  The tragedy invaded every breath and corner of our lives that summer, fall, and beyond. The weeks crawled by as we absorbed the heavy truth. Titus would never walk again. After some months at the hospital, he moved to the rehab center for many more months. And then, sometime that winter, he came home. In his wheelchair.

  The Amish have one of the strongest and most efficient support structures in existence. When tragedy strikes, the community rallies around and provides whatever physical and financial support is needed, as it did for us. But the system is also lacking in at least one very important aspect. It offers no real way to cope with the emotional aftereffects of tragic events, especially unexpected ones. This is not a criticism, merely an observation. It’s just the way it is. Communication is sparse or nonexistent. Feelings are quashed. One is expected to accept and bear one’s burdens in silence. And one does.

  This stoicism comes from a mixture of faith and tradition. Underlying everything, there rests a degree of faith. The actual degree of faith depends on the individual person, of course. But on the surface, often, the structured response to tragedy is a recitation of broad generalizations, like baptismal instructions. Traditions, going way back. Traditions that will endure as long as the Amish endure.

  And that’s what the public sees and hears. Both the English public and the Amish public.

  After the accident, I pulled back from the brink of one more rebellious explosion and continued taking instructions for baptism. We were all in shock, and it was unthinkable now for me to even consider any alternatives. There was too much to do. I was needed to stay home and take care of the farm. I wasn’t that willing, really. I didn’t care for farming. But there was no alternative. Anything less on my part would have been considered hugely selfish. Especially since I was already joining church. So I stayed.

  And the following month, on a Sunday morning in mid-September, the day of my baptism arrived. Bishop Henry Hochstedler would officiate. That morning, in the Obrote conference, we received our final instructions and then walked back to join the congregation for the final time as nonmembers. We sat on a bench specifically for us, directly in front of the preachers’ bench. Soon the preachers returned as well, and the service proceeded. After the opening sermon and Scripture reading, Bishop Henry stood and preached the standard baptismal sermon, going on for well over an hour. And as the end approached, he paused. Then he turned and addressed us. If we still felt as we had earlier that morning, we should get down on our knees.

  We had reached the ultimate moment. Too late now to turn back. Not that I would have considered it, even remotely. Not now. I had forced myself to trust all those vacant promises, the cultural clichés that told me if only I joined and settled down, everything would work out. That I would never regret this choice. Of this I was assured, countless times, over and over.

  It was like swimming across a raging river, fighting the silent, hungry undertow of the waters. Fighting to stay afloat. And now I had crossed more than halfway. I was approaching the distant shore. It made no sense to turn back. There was only one path open, one way to swim—forward.

  We slid from our bench and knelt. Chris—the bishop’s son—and I. The deacon approached, hovering off to one side, holding a small pitcher of water. The bishop stood before us and paused. All was silent. It was a holy moment. All in the congregation strained to see, to witness this event.

  And then the bishop spoke. “Do you believe and affirm your belief that Jesus Christ is the Son of God?”

  We repeated the refrain as we had been told to do that morning in our final class. I spoke first. Then Chris.

  “Yes, I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God.”

  “Will you remain steadfast to the church, whether it leads to life or to death?”

  “Yes.”

  And then a few more rote questions. We answered in the affirmative. “Yes.”

  Bishop Henry paused again. “Before we go further, these two applicants have requested our prayers. Everyone please stand.” The congregation stood as we remained on our knees. The bishop intoned the short prayer from a little black prayer book, his voice rising and falling in an almost hypnotic flow.

  Then the prayer was finished, and the congregation was seated. The bishop stepped up and cupped his hands over my head, and the deacon stepped forward, ready with his pitcher.

  The bishop proceeded with practiced ease, the words rolling from his tongue, “Upon your confession of faith, I baptize yo
u in the name of the Father . . .” The deacon sprinkled a few drops of water on my head. “. . . in the name of the Son . . .” Another sprinkle. “. . . and in the name of the Holy Spirit.” Final sprinkle. “Amen.” The bishop then flattened his cupped hands and wiped the water drops into my hair.

  Then he stepped before his son. Repeated the refrain, while the deacon sprinkled water during the proper pauses. We were now baptized. The bishop turned back to me and extended his hand. “In the name of the Lord and the church, arise,” he said. I grasped his hand and stood. We greeted each other with the holy kiss. He did the same to his son.

  We stood there, Chris and I, full members of the Old Order Amish church. Bishop Henry officially welcomed us. We were now no longer pilgrims and strangers, he proclaimed, but brothers in Christ, in the church of God. I was twenty-one years old.

  I looked at him as he spoke to us. He was smiling in genuine welcome. If fragmented memories of my rough and wicked past flashed through his mind at that moment, he didn’t let on. The wild and wayward son, the wanderer, had taken the long road. But now, at long last, he was home. Safely in the fold. Safely inside the box.

  I’m sure his joy was genuine and sincere. As it was for my parents. Dad would never have told me, but he was relieved and truly happy that I had actually joined the church. And Mom’s joy shone from her face as she smiled and smiled. I had put them through so much. But they gladly forgot the past, gladly forgave all I had done, and simply rejoiced in this moment.

  I had done it. Gone all the way this time. But even as I stood and joined my brethren after the service, even then, a strange emptiness lingered inside me.

  There had been no epiphany, no sudden explosion of light and awareness. Or joy. Actually, other than the stress of the ceremony, there wasn’t a whole lot of anything, except a nagging feeling that somehow I had just walked through a doorway into another place, a place from which it would be impossible to return.