Ira Wagler's Blog, page 13

Light in August…

To lose the earth you know for greater knowing;

to lose the life you have for greater life; to

leave the friends you loved for greater loving;

to find a land more kind than home, more large

than earth—

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

Well, it’s been an odd summer, in a lot of ways. And it sure has moved right along. Seems like just the other day that I was all hyped up about heading out to Germany, actually going to Europe for the first time ever. And all that came and went. Whoosh, just like that. And, of course, it took a few months just to write that tale, tell of those adventures. And now, it all snuck right up on me. August. Summer’s end. Or at least seriously winding down. But still, August is a month that has always been special to me.

I don’t consider myself antisocial. It’s just that I don’t mind being alone when I’m not at work. Mostly, anyway. Just fewer hassles to deal with, that way. And sure, I probably could be a little more hospitable, have people over and such, now and then. But I rarely do that, well, because I don’t allow just anyone into my house. So when I do entertain, it has to be outside, in summer. And every summer, sometime in August, I put out the welcome mat for one grand event. The Great Annual Garage Party.

Way back in April, it was, I chatted with a few friends about it after church. These guys have been faithful guests, ever since I reinstated the Garage Party a few years ago. Last year, one of them couldn’t make it, because the family had other plans. That wouldn’t happen again if I could help it. And so I asked them as we stood around, talking. I’m having the Garage Party sometime in August. Last year, I just picked a random date, and it didn’t suit everyone. This year, I want to make sure you all at least get to come. And we all pulled out our phones, checked our calendars. You tell me, I told them. I can make any Saturday work. And we had a little conference, right there. One was out of town here, another there. And we finally settled on about the only Saturday when nobody seemed to have anything going on. August 24th. Which also happens to be my birthday. But that wasn’t the reason the party was scheduled for that date. It was because that’s the day it suited my friends.

And I put the thing from my mind, as you do when something is a long way off. Don’t fret, don’t worry, don’t anticipate too much. It’ll all unwind in its own time. May came, and I took off on my trip. Returned, to a new house, almost. A newly re-pointed house. And the tenant took it upon himself to clean up the place. It was all looking good, I thought. This was the nicest this place has ever looked for the Great Annual Garage Party. I would stand proud this year.

And I messaged out the invitations, to the usual crowd. Almost all of them responded that it would suit. And this year, I thought, I have room for a few new guests, including the tenant. I had told him, when he got here. Nothing much ever goes on around here, but in August, I have one whacking big party. Once a year. I’ll expect you to be there. And he smiled and allowed he would stop by. The other “new” guest was an old friend, from way back. We’ve been estranged for a number of years. He’s never been to any of my garage parties, not since I’ve lived here alone. But lately, we’ve been working on rebuilding something, working our way back. And this year, it was time, I figured. He seemed pleased, but he asked me. “Are you sure? What will people say? Aren’t you worried about that?” No, I’m not worried, I said. And yes, I am sure. I am free. Free to live and free to invite anyone I want to my party. It really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Be there. And he told me he would come.

And so the guests were all invited. Around thirty people. Only a few couldn’t make it at the last moment. And last week, I walked out to check out my garage. Usually, the place is a mess, with lots of trash from last year’s party strewn about. That’s how much I did not use my garage over the years. But not so, this time. This time, the place was spotless, cleaned up. The floor swept so you could eat off it, I think. The tenant. He kept the place clean. He likes to putter around out there with his little projects. And he parks his car in there, too, now and then. And I just got about to getting things ready. I shifted stuff around, pulled out the big old rough table I built years ago from cutoff 2x12s. And I pulled the little portable bar out from the wall where it’s stored. Checked out the old radio and sound system. It still worked fine. Wood chips on the floor, that’s all it needed now, I thought. I’ll wait until Saturday to do that. I had told the tenant about those wood chips, how I spread them around, to make the place more authentically redneck. Hope he didn’t forget I told him that, I thought.

And the week moved right along. On Friday evening, on the way home from work, I stopped by Stoltzfus Meats in Intercourse. Bought about three dozen sausages. I usually buy more, but this year my friend Steve Beiler messaged me. They would bring about a dozen of his natural, home-raised pork sausages. With those, I’d have close to fifty. That should be enough to feed the crowd, I figured. And maybe leave a few for me the next week, to heat up and eat for my suppers. And that evening, on the way home from the gym, I stopped at Yoder’s in New Holland. A real grocery store. I do almost all my shopping at Amelia’s Discount Groceries. That stuff wouldn’t do, I thought, not for my party. I needed rolls, condiments, real paper plates. Amelia’s is spotty, with all that stuff. I’d go to a real grocery store for those things.

And I walked through Yoder’s, pushing my little cart. I gaped, just appalled by the prices. Inflation has hit this country hard, there’s no two ways about it. No matter what Obama and his detestable lapdog media sycophants claim. The guy lies when his lips are moving. Always has. Anyone who trusts a word the state says is living in la-la land. Inflation is here. Things are not getting better in this country. And the economy is not improving. I shudder to think what it’s like, to feed a family from regular grocery stores. I spend so little of my real income on food, and I was still horrified at the prices. After picking through and getting the things I needed, I swiped my Discover Card for about sixty bucks worth of stuff. And I still wasn’t done.

Saturday arrived, beautiful and cloudless. I couldn’t have asked for a better day. And it’s always a little tense for me as the hours wind down. What if some of the people forgot? What if only half show up? What would I do with all those sausages? I have one little rule that I always tell anyone who’s coming. Bring a salad or dessert. And it usually works out pretty well. Randomly even. The tenant had another event to attend that afternoon, so he disappeared. And it was time to spread the wood chips. Just like always. And a few hours before go time, it all was ready. Table set up. Chairs lined up all around outside. The grill stacked with charcoal. All I needed now was people.

My garage parties have always been based on a single, simple rule. If you’re invited, that means you are welcome. And if you are welcome, you are safe. It doesn’t matter who you are. This is a safe place for you, for as long as you are on my property. A safe place to be who you are, and to accept others as they are. So far, no one has ever had any problems with that rule. I don’t expect anyone to have a problem with it. And anyone who violates the rule of accepting others will be told to leave, and will not be invited back.

Around 4:30, the first car rolled in. One of my bachelor friends had texted the night before. What could he bring? Well, I said. I don’t have any beer, I’m not much of a beer guy. Could you bring a 12 pack or so? And bring it a little early, so it’s here, and cold. We wrestled out a massive, heavy cooler from his car. The thing had a pullout handle and wheels, it was that big. And it was filled with ice and a case of all kinds of micro brews. Good stuff, I said. Thanks for taking care of that for me. We dragged the cooler into the garage and set it up behind the bar. All the stuff for mixed drinks I had taken care of, set up on the back bench by the wall. Another guest trickled in, and then another.

Paul Zook and his new bride drove in and parked on the grass beside the house. Paul and Rhoda. They walked up, smiling, and I thought back briefly to the party two years ago. Anne Marie was fading fast, didn’t have long anymore. And Paul came by himself that night for a few hours, just to get away. And he had a good time, he told me later. He was grateful for a little break. Then my friends Dave and Anne arrived. Last year was the first time they made it, and Dave walked in and took over the grill for me, so I could look after other things. Right there, that little act got them a lifetime invitation to all my garage parties. I greeted them, and I showed him the charcoal I had fired up earlier, all nice and glowing now. It’s your baby, I told him. Let me know when you’re ready for the sausages. I got them in my fridge in the house. And more and more vehicles pulled up. My place was looking like a parking lot, trucks and cars parked about, everywhere on the drive and in the yard. Big pickups, little pickups, SUVs and cars of every type. I kept glancing out to the road. My friends Dominic and Jamie were riding up from West Virginia on their bike. I hope they’re OK, I fretted. Dominic told me they’d be here early. And right at six, his big old Harley rumbled in. I walked out and greeted them. Welcomed them and walked them in. Most of the people remembered them from other years. The crowd milled about inside and outside the garage. Cars pulled up now and then, and I ran out to direct the parking.

It’s always such a diverse group. And that’s the beauty of it. Here we all get together, for one evening. Just to hang out and hang loose. One night a year. Construction workers. A company executive or two. Business people. Entrepreneurs of all kinds. Builders. A professor. An accomplished artist. And a couple of writers, too. All hanging out, in one merry little group in my old garage. And it just works, the mix of all of us. Somehow, it does.

By 6:30, the sausages were grilled just perfect, and the food laid out. I hollered for everyone’s attention. Thanks for coming, I told them. The food’s here and ready to eat. Drinks behind the bar. Help yourself to all the bounty. We paused, then, and I prayed the blessing. Lord, we are grateful for this evening. For each other. For this food. Thank you for all the gifts of life. And then we ate. The tenant had wandered out, and mingled a bit and ate, too. He had another place to go to, he said. So he left soon after the meal. And after eating, we just lounged around. My brother Steve had brought a corn hole game. We set that up on the north side of the garage, in the grass. Two teams were soon going at it, fussing loudly about the rules.

And I hollered again. Anyone who wants to take a quick tour around the house, we’re doing that now. A little group came, and I proudly pointed out all the improvements on my place. A new-looking house. Replacement windows. Freshly painted porch. Flower beds cleaned up and mulched. A few tiny strings of real flowers planted. This is the best this place has ever looked, I told them proudly. Ever, in all the time I’ve lived here. We walked through the porch, and I pointed out my sky blue ceiling. And how white the pillars were. We walked around the back of the house then, and back to the garage, and I told them of the angel, standing under the shrub tree. Some of them had read my blog; others had not. I told them the story. And darkness closed in as the evening settled in. I wandered about, making sure everyone was comfortable. Mixing drinks, here and there. I plugged in the ancient radio and the speakers blared contemporary country music. Which I don’t even care for at all, and never listen to. But it’s the station the old radio was tuned to when I got here, so that’s what I’ve always played at my garage parties.

The place hummed with the crowd and the music. And soon enough, the Hi-Lo group gathered around the bar. It’s a basic, simple game, Hi-Lo. A game of cards and quarters that occasionally reaches a few dollars. The pot always gets swiped before the stakes get too high. And for the next few hours, the players drifted in and out, joining and leaving the game. All the other guests stood around or strung themselves outside on lawn chairs, talking in little groups. And around ten, some people began drifting away. “Thanks for another great year, great party,” they told me as they left. Soon a small die-hard crowd remained, just talking outside, and playing Hi-Lo at the bar. Loud shouts erupted from the bar now and then. I wandered over after a bit, and just stood there, watching.

And there, right there, in the next fifteen minutes, I saw a Hi-Lo pot reach dimensions I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. Not in all my years of wandering and playing, all the way back to my Drifter truck days in Florida. It was a remarkable thing. And it’s probably why some people get addicted to gambling. The money just expanded as people bet the pot and lost. I’m not mentioning any amounts, because I don’t want the thug Feds to send in a SWAT team to raid my party next year. Let’s just say that things got a little intense and quiet, real quick. The players knew they probably would not see such a thing again. There was hollering going on, sure, but it was subdued and tense. And slowly, bit by bit, the money was snaked back out. Back down to where someone could actually take the whole amount, and did. Whew. That was wild, we all told each other. And we sat around and talked as people just drifted away. Around midnight, the last people left. I cleaned up a bit, carried stuff into the house. About ten sausages left, a nice haul for next week’s evening meals. I felt good. It had been another good year, another fantastic party, I thought.

I woke up the next morning with a bit of a headache, I must say. And I slept in. It was the first morning in recent memory that I didn’t even bother to run down to Sheetz for my cup of coffee. I don’t think I’ve done that since last year’s Garage Party.

My birthday was a subdued thing. I didn’t even think about it much that day, except when my siblings called from all over to wish me a happy day. Most people at the party never mentioned it, because they didn’t know about it. But the years aren’t the only thing making me feel a little older, lately. Earlier this month, Big Blue, my truck, crossed the 100,000 mile threshold. You see it coming, and it’s like another birthday approaching. There’s nothing you can do. It seems so recent, and yet so long ago, that I traded in my old Chevy for the first and only brand new pickup I’ve ever bought in my life. When I got it, I told a friend. Oh, I’ll probably keep it five years, for a hundred thousand miles or so. Then I’ll trade it in. Such a time seemed far away, back when I said that. And it was so easy to say what I said. The truck would be old, in five years, was how I saw things back then.

But it doesn’t seem old now. Or maybe we’re just growing old together. It doesn’t seem that far from new. Big Blue was so much of who I was throughout most of my writings on this blog. I have loved that truck. And sure, I knew it was aging a bit. Changed the light bulbs in the headlights. And the tires a time or two. The muffler’s picked up a little hole from somewhere, which makes the truck grumble and growl menacingly. Sounds real cool. The cloth seat on my side wore through, somewhere in the early 90,000s. And I had both front seats fitted with a high quality camo cover, custom fitted to my make and model. I love my truck. I love those seats. It’s who I am. And even though it jolted me to see those many miles of life it represents, I think I’m good with Big Blue for another four or five years or so, and, say, oh, another sixty or seventy thousand miles. I think we’ll make it, if we both hang in there.

And a little note on the bulletin board, here. Beach Week is coming right up. A little early, this year. Sept. 8th through the 15th. We’re heading down to the same house we rented last year on the Outer Banks, right on the beach. I’m looking forward to it a lot. This year, I’m going fishing on the beach. Just like I saw it done all those years, but never got done myself. We talked about it last year as we were leaving, and we all agreed we’d do something about it this year. Even if we have to buy the tackle. Everything is half price after Labor Day, and I can pick up a saltwater rod and reel for around forty bucks. A license, some line, hooks, and bait, and you might get close to a hundred bucks. Well worth it, I think. Just to sit out there in the sun, pole stuck in the sand, sipping a cold beer. And maybe catching a fish to feast on back at the house. How can you even put a price on such a thing?

And I told Janice, last year. I had to write a blog, down here on the beach. That won’t happen again. Next year, if the blog date falls on the Friday I’m down here, I ain’t gonna worry none about getting it written. And this year, the date does indeed fall on that Friday. I’m not planning on spending a lot of time, writing down there. Life comes first. Then the writing of it. If something comes, I’ll write it. If a blog comes, I’ll post it. If it doesn’t, I won’t. And I’ll see you on another Friday down the road somewhere.

A few random thoughts to close. The writing’s been a little intense lately. At least it seemed that way. Maybe the beach is coming at the right time. The last few blogs have been pretty draining, to get told right. It felt good to just lay back a bit with this one, to chat about the lighter things in life. But still, I wanted to tell what happened as the angel was emerging in my last post. It hit me as the words were coming out, how it is now. And I marveled and thought about it, mulled it over a lot since. It snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking. And I can speak it right out, because it’s true.

I harbor no rage, no resentment or bitterness in my heart toward anyone involved in all that messy stuff, back when and where our marriage blew up all those years ago. And it seems strange, how free I feel. It’s so much easier to let all those hurts go, instead of dragging them around like a ton of baggage on your back. And a ton of dark tension in your heart. It’s a choice, really, to let it all go. And it’s the time it takes to get to the place where you can make that choice. Choice and time.

That doesn’t mean the things that happened didn’t happen, or that the broken pieces can ever be restored to what they once were. They happened, and they can’t. And there are memories still, sure, and flashbacks, too, sometimes. And you gotta deal with that stuff, face it when it comes. And work through it, work your way back. But at this moment, there’s no bitterness inside me. It just ain’t there. No rage, either. And no resentment. Not at anyone. And not a lot of regrets aimed at myself. Because none of it would do a thing but hold me back from where I want to go.

I want my heart to be free. And I want to walk with such a heart, unencumbered by the hard things of the past that cannot be changed. Just free to live all of life, and to speak it as I see it. Which doesn’t mean there won’t be more crap to face and slog through down the road. There will be. That’s how life is, now and then, and there’s no sense in pretending it’s not. But when the hard stuff comes from wherever it may, I can look at it and say, I’ve seen you before. I’ve dealt with you before. I can do it again.

And it’s not because I’m a mighty prayer warrior, or anything like that. And I’m definitely not a man of great faith. It’s more like a mustard seed, my faith, and I have to reach down inside sometimes and search for it. I always find that tiny speck, what little there is, because it’s there and it’s real. I believe. You can walk through the destruction of your world, all the way to a place where you can drink from the healing streams and cleanse your heart from all the trauma. I won’t say you can get through anything, because there are many people suffering out there from wounds far deeper than any I have ever seen or known. But I will say this. You can get through a lot of bad stuff if you just keep walking with the tiniest mustard seed of faith in your heart.

When you’ve seen it, when it’s happened to you, you can look back and actually grasp that God was there to mend the broken pieces and open a path to places you could not have imagined before. He always was there. He always will be, through all of life. And all of His children are free to walk, to live.

It’s a beautiful thing, to walk free like that.

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Look Homeward, Angel…

They are all gone away,

The house is shut and still,

There is nothing more to say.

—Edwin Arlington Robinson

_______________________

I remember the breath and feel of that Saturday afternoon, thirteen years ago. Cool and cloudy, pretty much a normal March day. I remember it as a special day, unlike any I’ve seen before or since. Because Ellen and I were going to check out a house someone had offered us for sale, to see if it would be suitable for our first home.

We didn’t have a lot, back in those days. Not even the credit scores needed for a standard home loan. And this was back when credit was easy, compared to now. The thing was, August was coming right up, real soon. And the wedding date. We needed a place, a home to live in. I mentioned as much to one of my Amish clients one day, and he told me he had a house he’d sell us. It would be just what we needed, he thought. Not only that, he’d finance it for us, too. We were eager to see it. It would have to be pretty rough, not to suit us, we figured. And that afternoon we picked up the Amish man and took him over to check it out.

It was a nondescript house, really, right along the main drag on Rt. 23. Just a big square, hip-roofed, two-story building on a small slanted lot. With a big old block garage off to the north side. But we were excited. And we walked through the place eagerly. It was pretty basic; four rooms and a stairwell leading down to a dank basement. And a small enclosed porch on the north side, with a very tiny bathroom and shower stall on one end. The kitchen was fine, just like it was, Ellen thought. And sure, the house was old and a little battered here and there, but we could see a home in it. Just tear out and replace some ugly old shag carpet, and it would be all we could ever dream of. We told the man we’d take it.

It was big and solidly built of bricks, the kind of house you see all around the area here. With a great many very large dull windows in every wall. Good grief, why so many windows? I grumbled. Didn’t they have electricity back then? And these were old wood-framed windows, too, from all the way back to when the house was built in the late 1920s. Windows that would have to be replaced before too long. But you don’t think about things like that, not when you’re reaching out to grasp something you’ve never done before. We were young and eager, as any engaged couple would be. And we were impressed with the house. The upstairs was a rental unit, income to help pay the mortgage. Which left the downstairs for us. It was functional, and that’s about all it was. But we didn’t need fancy. All we wanted was a home to call our own.

The price was good in the free market, the terms were good as well. And within a few days, we signed an Agreement of Sale for the place. After the wedding, we’d transfer it to joint ownership, as husband and wife. I handed the man a check for $5,000.00, money that Ellen had carefully scrimped and saved. There was nothing even close to that much money in my account. I had wandered pretty much all my life. And believe me, from what I’ve seen, that old saying is right on. A rolling stone does not gather any moss. I can tell you that firsthand.

The closing date arrived, and we settled. The man signed over the deed and we signed the mortgage. And I took it off to the county courthouse, where such things are filed and recorded. That’s where the real estate records reflect countless tales of dreams born and later shattered. As our own record would show, soon enough. And one Saturday soon after that, a few of my redneck buddies helped me move in. And I lived here by myself. Ellen was over all the time, of course, and we scraped together some furnishings for the house, for when we would live in it together. A new pale green couch from a discount warehouse. An old table and some chairs, scrapped from an auction somewhere. Just your odd mixture of stuff to live with, stuff that makes a home. And after the wedding, she moved in. Here we were, set up in our own little home.

And the neighbors hovered with watchful eyes. We greeted them, got to know them a bit. And they told us. This old house had a pretty bad reputation, over a lot of years. Tenants drifted in and out, came and went. And things got rowdy, pretty often. Lots of yelling and cursing and fighting going on. It was not unusual, the neighbors claimed, to see cop cars on the place with lights flashing, just about any time of the night. And they told us another astonishing thing. One of the previous tenants had wired up one of the small bays in the old garage. Set off a little room, insulated it and lined it with plywood. And his Dad had lived out there. Right out there, in the garage. Pretty wild stuff, to walk into memories like that from your neighbors. We just listened and smiled. Calmingly, I think. That kind of rowdiness was over in this house, we felt. No way anything like that will ever happen while we live here. And the neighbors seemed pleased and welcomed us.

The house was old and in disrepair, but sturdy. Built from bricks, it had once stood grand and proud. But now, not so much. A lot of the mortar was missing, in the brick joints. Long strips, and little pocked places, here and there. There was plenty of empty space between the bricks in the walls of the house. And all those windows were just flat out worn out. A few were stuck, you couldn’t even open them properly. And they were all old and leaky.

But it was soon visible to anyone who knew the place before. This time it was different. Not because of me, because I was pretty comfortable with the way things were outside. I’m a guy. Hey, if the place is half cleaned up, I’m cool with it. Just as it is. I’m not in competition with anyone, to have the nicest place. I don’t understand that mindset. Being that laid back is generally not acceptable to a woman, though. And Ellen had a few ideas on how we could improve the place, make it look better. The unkempt row of raggedy shrubs on the west side of the front porch, those had to go. “I want to plant flowers there,” she said. Yes, dear. I borrowed a skid loader and a friend helped me rip out the shrubs one fine Saturday morning. And then the flowers needed planting. And over here, more beds to till and mulch. It all had to be mulched. I never was aggressive about such things, but I did what I was told. And after the flowers came a garden. A little sliver of land, right on the west side of the garage. Probably ten by twenty feet, if that. I rented a little Honda tiller and broke and tilled the soil. And she planted her seeds. And soon the earth blossomed and brought forth its bounty. Tomatoes, lettuce and all manner of other stuff. By the work of your hands and the sweat of your brow shall you eat. And we worked and ate the fruits of our labor. Those days were good. And the memories of them are good.

And we lived here, in this old house of formerly unsavory repute, for close to seven years together. Good years, some of them, and turbulent years, too, some of them, especially toward the end. I won’t go into a lot of detail about how it happened, how we slowly spiraled to destruction. Much of that story, all that needs told, I think, has already been written and posted on this blog. Let’s just say that two deeply hurting and flawed people could not see past each others’ wounds and flaws. And things just went the way they did. There isn’t a whole lot more to say, about all that. But from here, from where I am, still in this old house, I will say a few words about the aftermath.

I’m divorced. That fact alone makes my writings go down hard in a lot of places. Who can speak truth from a place like that? It’s simple enough, such reasoning. It’s a lockstep thing, that reaction. I’m divorced. The first in my family to reach that wretched milestone. Among the first in a long broad lineage of purest Amish blood. How can you possibly get to that point, from where I came from, without hearing the echoes from all those voices from way back? That’s how they told you it would go. And they may have been right. If you walk away from the safeguards you were taught, bad things will happen. And there’s a whole lot of judgment coming at you from certain quarters, when you do and it does. And a whole lot of scripture spouted on how it all is sin. But not a lot of talking, eye to eye. Not a lot of listening, either.

And while I’m at it, I might as well say this, too. Yep. It’s true. I walked away from a lot of the stuff I was told and taught. And yeah, things blew up on me, big time, here and there. But that doesn’t mean bondage is superior to freedom. It’s not. And it never was. Rattle those chains of the law all you want, and tell me how sweet it is to be imprisoned and safe. We all choose how we will live. And I choose to walk free. I will face the battles life throws at me. I will take some pretty heavy hits from those battles, now and then. That’s how life is when you really live it. I will show you the scars from those hits, those wounds, tell about them. I will walk on. And I will concede this much. I rarely, rarely have explicit moral lessons to talk about. Not from where I am. Once in a while, maybe, when I get enraged by spiritual bullying or some such thing, I might go off on a tangent, down that trail. But it’s rare. Mostly, I just try to tell the story.

And this is the story of a little stone angel. A little stamped concrete statue, mass- produced in China, or some such place where labor is cheap. I’m not quite sure how it all happened, the thought process that brought a stone angel to our house. It’s not like any stone statue could have that much meaning to me. Except maybe for this one. Maybe it meant more than I thought.

And it’s strange, when I look back at it now. Strange how we functioned in those final months before our parting, that heavy season of silent, almost unfathomable sorrow. We both knew what was coming. And it was a hard thing to face and walk through every day. But still, we got along. It’s not like you can ignore each other, when you see each other every day. When you live together in the same house. Things were tense and very sad, but you had to keep walking. And we did. Just kept living. And even laughing, some. And one Saturday afternoon in December (I think it was December, it could have been earlier), we decided to go to the Park City Mall to do some shopping. It probably was my idea to go. And she may have needed a few things, maybe some Christmas gifts, and probably some things to take with her when she left. That date was looming, coming right up in March. “Mind if I go with?” she asked. Of course not. Come on. We’ll go in my truck, I said. And off we went, together to the mall.

We wandered about, mostly window shopping, chatting amiably. And we drifted in and out of stores. I forget the name of the particular store where the angel was. It’s not there anymore, hasn’t been for years. A place where they had all kinds of odd and fascinating stuff. And I saw it, standing there on display. A stone angel, about three feet high. Looking into the distance, wings spread, tiny hands clasped in prayer. I stood there, just engrossed. And it stirred in me, shades of Thomas Wolfe, my hero. His famous first novel, and the stone angel in his father’s shop. Even his descriptive words applied, I thought, “…its stupid white face wore a smile of soft stone idiocy.”

And I pointed and walked up to it. Look at this angel, I told Ellen. Isn’t it beautiful? I think I want it. And she was more than agreeable. “If you want it, buy it,” she told me. I forget the exact price. A hundred and thirty bucks sticks in my mind. Not the kind of money you just throw out there for nothing. Let me think about it, I said. And we walked around the mall some more for a while, dodging downstairs to the food court to grab something to eat. And it kept pulling me back, that store. I’m going to go back and buy it, I told her. We walked back. And I bought my first ever angel with my Discover Card. I proudly carried it out to my truck.

And I brought my stone angel home. Right there, on the north edge of your garden, under the shrub tree, that’s where I’ll set it up, I told Ellen. And that’s what I did. Set up the statue under the branches of that tree, on a little concrete slab. And it fit, the setting of it all, I thought. We were beyond help, we both knew that. But now an angel was standing there, looking at our home. Lifting its tiny stone hands in prayer.

And our world blew up in a spectacular fiery crash, not long after that day. Just blew up into smithereens. And not long after that explosion, she left our home. And I hunkered down, all alone, in the house we had bought together and lived in together for seven years. I was too shell shocked, probably, to do much else. But I instinctively held on to what I knew I would not do. I would not leave my home. I would stay here. By myself, if that’s what it took. I hunkered down, didn’t talk to a lot of people. Just a few close friends, mostly people at work. And then, for the first time in my life, I did what I had never done before in any serious manner. I began to write.

I never told any of the neighbors what had happened. They had eyes, I figured, to see something drastic had come down. And from what they saw, they must have wondered if anyone lived in the house anymore. I disappeared early every morning. Got back home every evening around seven or so. My truck parked out back, that and the lights burning late into the night as I wrote and wrote, those were pretty much the only signs that the place was even inhabited. And it’s not that I couldn’t have told them, couldn’t have faced them. I just didn’t feel like it. And so I didn’t.

And that spring, Ellen’s little garden lay fallow. It never got tilled or planted. The flower beds, too, all nicely mulched the year before, were simply ignored. Giant weeds sprouted everywhere and overwhelmed the flowers that had been planted. And again, it’s not that I couldn’t have taken care of things, made the place look good. It’s not that I wanted anything to look bad. It’s just that it all didn’t matter that much to me. I existed. Went to work every morning. From there, to the gym. And from the gym to home. A routine, focused cycle. That was me, at that time. And every night, I sat here at my computer, and the words poured forth in great torrents.

And that summer, the weeds grew wild and free in the garden. The shrub where the angel stood grew out too, extended its branches. And sometime during that summer, the angel just disappeared from sight. Under the embracing darkness of the branches of the shrub tree. And behind the weeds that grew wild. I looked now and then, but thought little of it. It’s not that I didn’t want to see my little stone angel friend. It’s just that I didn’t care enough to make it happen. And it languished there unseen, all that year, into the fall and winter.

A year passed. Then two. I kept on writing and writing. And just throwing my stuff out on this blog. Eventually, my voice calmed a great deal, and I settled in. Began to write about a whole lot of things. Stories from my childhood. This and that, from where I was. This was a new place in my life. And I walked it free. Spoke it as I saw it, whatever I wrote about. From where I was, and from my heart. And the angel remained standing there, completely obscured by branches and brambles and weeds, through all that time.

Looking back from where you are after you crossed it, a valley often seems a little deeper and a little more intimidating than it actually was, I think. I mean, sure it was tough, that road. No way I’d ever want to go back to that place. Not ever. And sure, it shook up a lot of things I thought I knew. But still, when you’re in a place like that, you do what you know in the moment. You plug along. You deal with all the crap, all the gripping pain. But mostly, you keep walking. And eventually you get through it. That’s what I can say, from where I am today, looking back.

And the Lord looked down upon me, and smiled. He really did. I kept on writing. And He blessed my efforts. First, with a large readership on this blog. And eventually, someone knew someone who knew and notified an agent. That agent, Chip McGregor, contacted me. I signed up. He took my stuff and shopped it around. And in all the publishing world, only one person out there nibbled. Carol Traver from Tyndale House. But she wanted a memoir. I’m not sure I can write it, I told them both. I’ve never done such a thing, but I’ll try, if that’s what you want. And things moved right along, and one evening Chip emailed me with the unbelievable news. He got me an offer for a book.

I took the offer, of course. Signed the contract they sent me. And soon enough, a nice little check arrived in the mail. A small down payment for the book. Half up front, half when it was done. I accepted the check gratefully. And I knew what needed to be done. The house. It needed new windows. Those had never been replaced. Every time a cold winter wind blew, you could feel the breeze inside from five feet away. But I wouldn’t do them all at once, I figured. That would take more money than the check was made out for. I’d do half the house first. The west and north sides. Upstairs and downstairs. I contacted an Amish contractor. And he came out, and gave me a quote. Decent price. Go ahead, I told him.

And his crew came out that summer. And for the first time since living here alone, I made improvements to my home. The neighbors stared. Ira was getting his house worked on. What’s the world coming to? Oh, well. His yard still looks pretty scraggly, though. And things didn’t change at all on the outside, on the grounds. The shrub tree by the shop still grew unchecked. And covered now with clogging vines. The weeds stood tall around the brush pile that had accumulated in what once was a rich and fertile little garden. And the stone angel stood with clasped and praying hands, completely out of sight.

Late that year, in 2010, I finished the manuscript. Well, I finished the raw mass of words that made up my manuscript. Pages and pages, with no chapter breaks, even, in much of it. The Tyndale people sorted it out from there. And the second check arrived. I had finished. And over that winter, I went back and forth with Susan Taylor, my editor, as she labored to fuse the book into what it is. And the next spring, I called the Amish contractor back. The windows on the south and east sides. I need those replaced. The man smiled and wrote up a quote. I signed it and gave him a check. And his crew came right on in and worked its magic. The neighbors stared some more at the new windows in my house. Now, when was he gonna do something about that yard? And the stone angel remained where it had stood since the day I bought it. Still out of sight.

And I got the yard thing taken care of, about the time I changed that last batch of windows. I was grumbling to one of my Amish friends about how I hate to mow, and he told me. “Check with your neighbor, a few places down. They have a couple of boys that might want to do it in their spare time.” And I stopped in where he told me to. Said what I needed. And the father and his sons were quite receptive. Yep. The boys would do it, they’d mow my yard once a week. We agreed on a price. And they did, pretty much, although once in a while in that first year, they let the grass slide. And it looked just like it did when I didn’t mow it. But in the last few years, they’ve been flawless. They keep it mown. They come once a week and do it. I pretty much keep up with my neighbors, when it comes to my yard.

And the book took off, and did what it did. From a writer’s perspective, you have to believe you got what it takes, to even throw your stuff out there to start with. But still, when it really does take off like that, it’s a little freaky. And humbling. And last year, some very nice checks came rolling in. I had to sit down when the first one arrived. And once again, I thought of my house.

The mortar between the bricks. That should be replaced. Around here, they call that re-pointing. It’s called tuck-pointing in other parts of the country. I knew it had to be done. And I knew it was an expensive process. From the labor involved, mostly. They have to grind out the old mortar, so the new mortar can be applied. It’s a dirty, grimy, endless job.

Being in the building trade, I had the contacts. I knew who to talk to. And I did. Called the guy, earlier this year. Hey, I’m heading out for Germany in the first half of May. I need a quote to get my house re-pointed. And I’d like it done when I’m gone. It was an Amish guy, of course. I’ve known him for years, he’s an Eagles fan. I always rib him about that. Thugs, the Eagles are, I tell him. And he claims a Jets fan got nothing to say about all that. And he stopped by and measured up the place, way earlier this year. They could do it for this price. And yes, they could do it while I was gone. I looked at the quote and recoiled a bit. Hard-earned money, just going out the window like that. It galled me. I grumbled to my Amish friend, the one who got me connected to get my yard mowed. It’s so expensive. Maybe I could just patch up the places that need it. He didn’t buy it for a second. “If you do that, the mortar will be a different color, and you’ll see that,” he told me. “If you do it, get it all done, and do it right.” I grumbled at his advice. But I knew he was right.

In the meantime, things were shaking on other fronts. In March, I rented the upstairs apartment to a new tenant. It had stood empty for more than two years. And it was in sad disrepair. The new tenant was “new” in a lot of ways. An older guy, separated from his wife after 27 years of marriage. I wrote about all that when it happened. And it didn’t take long, after he got here. The man was a restless fixer-upper. Something this place desperately needed. “Well,” he’d tell me. “I saw this needed painting, I saw where this screw was loose on the gutters on your house. I stopped by the hardware store and picked up a few things I needed. And I fixed it.” I gaped at him and marveled. And I told him. Bring me your receipts and keep track of your time. I’ll pay you for what you do.

So far, he’s the best tenant I’ve ever had, hands down. He’s honest, and he treats me right. He works with his hands to make the things around him more beautiful. And he always pays the rent on time, pays it early, even. And I don’t know if he even goes to church. I think not, but I never asked him. What am I going to say? He’s lived here in Lancaster County around “Christians” all his life. He knows them, he knows who they are, from how they live and how they treat him. And if he doesn’t go to church at his age, I figure he has his reasons. Maybe he’ll tell me about it some day.

And I told him, when I left for Germany. The crew will be here, to re-point the house while I’m gone. He seemed to think that was a very good plan indeed. And two weeks later, as my truck swept around the corner late that night, getting home, I saw it had been done. Even in the dark, the bright new mortar glinted in the headlights. The boys had done it. The next morning, I got up and walked out to look at my house in daylight. It was just beautiful, it looked new, almost. (I’d post a pic to prove my claim, except I don’t think it’s wise to post a picture of your house on public blog like this.) The boys had done it right. And that afternoon, the tenant ambled out, and we stood on the front porch and talked. The house looks new. Now this old porch looks ratty, I told him. Do you have any contacts, know anyone who wouldn’t charge an arm and a leg to get it all repainted? He figured he knew someone. And a week or so later, he brought me a very reasonable quote. From friends of his, to paint my porch. Do it, I told him.

A few days later, we stood out on the back side of the house, where I park my truck, just talking. He said something about how nice it would be to get those flower beds cleaned up around the house. And mulched. He knew people who would do it for a reasonable price, he claimed. Sure, I said. And while they’re at it, I need to get the branches trimmed on this big old pine tree. They hang down so low, they scrape my truck every time I drive out. And this old brush pile, I said, pointing to where the garden used to be. It’s pretty ugly. I need someone to clean it all up. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he replied. Get me some idea of what it’ll cost, I told him. And a few days later he came back with a quote so reasonable that I figured he’d done some arm twisting somewhere. Bring them on, I said. Get’em started any time. “They’ll be here Saturday,” he replied.

And the neighbors must have gaped some more, as his friends converged on the place. The painters came and power-washed the old paint from the porch. Then they left and came back and started painting. By hand. The floor a light gray. White pillars and railings. And the classic sky blue on the ceiling. They puttered about when they could fit it in, a few hours here, a few hours there. Which I didn’t mind at all. And the next Saturday morning, as I left to run some errands, two more of his buddies had parked their truck and trailer and were cleaning up the brush pile. I was in and out a few times. They plugged away. And I left that afternoon again, for a few hours. I returned later, around six or so. Pulled into my drive. And I looked out to the garage and just stared.

The brush pile had been removed completely. The weeds whacked down. The shrub tree had been trimmed back. All the crawly vines removed. And there in plain sight for the first time since Ellen left, the little white angel stood, exposed to all the world. It stood, wings spread, frozen in prayer. And it took my breath away.

I stood there and absorbed the setting. And a few minutes later, the tenant came strolling by. We stood around and talked, and I told him the story of the angel. What was going on back in those dark days when I bought it. How I had set it there, right where it stood. And how it had remained there, hidden, since almost the day I brought it home. Of all the things that you made happen here, this one is the most important, I told him. That angel symbolizes a lot of things. Believe me. A lot of things. And I told him something more. Thank you. Thank you for stepping in and getting this stuff done. You have been nothing but a blessing to me from the day you walked through my door. He smiled his quiet smile and beamed.

The stone angel stands now, looking to the south, lifting its tiny hands as if praying a shield of protection over my home. It stands there, right where I placed it when I bought it. Right where it has always stood for six years, covered by leaves and brambles and vines and weeds. For most of those years, you just couldn’t see it, because it was too much of a reminder of all that hard stuff from the past.

The thing is, I’m not sure when I ever would have dredged up the courage or the energy to uncover that angel, had the right person not showed up to nudge me through that door and get it done. And you see it, when it happens in real life, you see a path to freedom you could not find before on your own. It took a flawed man with a broken past, it took such a man to wander through and stop in for a while. And he didn’t even realize what all was going on, but he’s the one who made the little stone angel now stand as it was always meant to stand. In the open, and freely visible to all who pass by.

I’m just grateful that he showed up. And that he got here right on time.

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Spiritual Bullies…

…They are afraid that any betrayal of themselves into a gentler,

warmer and more tolerant speech and gesture, will make them more

suspect to their fellows, and lay them open to the assaults, threats,

tyrannies, and domination they fear.

—Thomas Wolfe

______________

I’m not quite sure how it ever got to where it did. Or why I let it happen as it did. Because I could have stopped it at any point along the way. Could have chosen to just not speak. And I knew enough to know that it would be best to walk away, silent. But I didn’t. Probably because it roiled in me, what I knew to be true, and I wanted to tell it how it really was. And when two people like that cross paths, they mostly talk past each other, seems like. Which usually means there’s a whole lot of talking going on, and very little listening.

The emails still trickle in now and then. They’re not as plentiful as they once were. I try to answer each one, although now and then I just don’t get it done. It’s not deliberate. I just don’t get to it. And this guy’s first email seemed benign enough, except something about it didn’t seem quite right. He had read my book, of course. That’s why he emailed me. To tell me that. He liked it, he claimed. But then he went on. He lived close to a sizable Amish community somewhere in the Midwest. He knew some of the Amish people in that community, interacted with them in his line of work. Fine people, they were. And he had a question. How could he best witness to them about Jesus?

And there’s nothing wrong with that question, on its surface. It’s legit enough. Any Christian wants people to know who Jesus is. But still, there was something about the way he asked it. I sensed where he was coming from. He thinks all Amish are lost. He wanted to “save” them. And I thought. That’s pretty arrogant. To just assume that. Who does he think he is? He’s looking from an outside world into a world that does not speak his language. And because he does not understand the language, he just figures it has to be how he sees it. What he sees is a primitive group of people that needs his help. And he’s gonna give that help to them, whether they want it or not. One way or the other.

Had I known what was coming, I would most definitely have ignored him from the start. But there’s no way I could have known. So I wrote back and told him. Don’t worry so much about “witnessing” for Jesus with your talk. Don’t go preach at them. That’ll make them all suspicious. Just be who you are, be their friend. Walk with them where you can. Talk to them face to face. Never speak from above. And you’ll get to slide it in, tell them what you know, in the course of things, if that’s where your heart is. And they’ll know what you’re saying is true, because they see you living it.

And he was a little too eager, writing back. Oh, yes. That’s exactly what he wanted to do. And, oh, no. He’d never dream of speaking from above. He wanted to be a servant to them. And again, something about his tone rankled me. And I thought about it. “Christian service” comes from below, the way most people see it. Except it doesn’t, often. A lot of it comes with a good strong dose of judgment. I’m here to lift you up, you poor lost soul. You are fortunate that I showed up to save you from your sins. Now, here’s what you have to do, to know Jesus. Here’s a copy of the sinner’s prayer. And don’t forget, I’m serving you, here.

I recoil from that mindset. And recoil from such methods. Judge me all you want, but I do. And I shrink from all that serving from below. Because this is how I see it. If you consciously think you’re serving someone from below, you’re serving one person, mostly. Yourself, and your ego. Stop consciously “serving.” Just live. Talk face to face, at eye level. Right where people are. There are a lot of people out there who have never seen a Christian stop and just listen to their voices and their stories and their hearts. And hear them, right there at eye level. Not from above. Not from “below.” But right there, in their world. Right there, without judgment. And that’s what I tried to tell the guy. Just listen, and be there, if you want to “witness.” That’s what I see as the heart of Christ.

I think he was suspicious of me when he first wrote, for some reason. Probably because my book wasn’t preachy enough for him. I know he wasn’t all that impressed with my response. It made him all the more suspicious. He didn’t let on, though, not for a while. And we emailed back and forth a few more times. He seemed amiable enough, and I thought nothing of it. But he was waiting out there, lurking. Waiting to nail me, waiting for me to post something he could possibly take issue with, fuss about. And it didn’t take long. I think it was my very next blog that made him decide that I was due for some serious correction and admonition.

It was back before I left for Germany, and the blog that triggered him was the one about the prison. That day, when I went to Philly and hung out with Janice and Wilm. And where I flipped out about the dehumanizing evil that is prison. And the vile false god that is the state. Went down in there and felt it, the despair of unjust and brutal incarceration. Decried it for the evil that it was and is and will always be. And when I go down deep, emotionally like that, it always takes a few days to work my way back up out of it.

And over the weekend, he must have thought about it a lot. How he could tell me I’m wrong. Where he could correct me. All in love, of course. I have no idea what motivated him. Maybe he was excited that he was actually communicating with a real “writer.” And excited that he could influence me. I don’t know. I just don’t understand people who do what he did next.

His email arrived that Monday morning, about the time my head was clearing up. He had read my blog, he told me. And just that close, he had sent me a rah, rah message, saying how much he liked it. But somehow, something held him back. The spirit of the Lord. He didn’t say that, just implied it. And he couldn’t send that message. He lowered the boom instead, right out of the blue. He felt compelled to tell me what I don’t know, he wrote (paraphrasing, here). Some dark thing, lurking, that I didn’t see. He could tell, from my writing. I’m in a prison, in my head. And there’s something, somewhere, that I’m not willing to confront. He didn’t say what that something was. They never do, those who accuse you like that, in that way. There’s something you’re not willing to confront, they say with smug assurance. But they won’t tell you what that is. Just that they sense something in your spirit. It’s the principle of the thing, you see. They know, from their judgment of your spirit. But they don’t call it judgment. They call it discernment. And how can any accused person stand against the discernment of the Lord? There is no doubt in my mind that he figured he had nailed me good.

But he wasn’t done. That wasn’t his only concern, that I was imprisoned in my head. Oh, no. He had discerned something else, too. I had a heart of pride. That magazine cover I was on, the one I linked and told my readers about at the end of the blog. That was really a shallow goal, not worthy of a serious Christian (again, paraphrasing, here). When would I learn that all such things are fleeting, like dust and ashes? Stop pursuing such goals, he told me. I should put my efforts into working for the real King. Jesus. And he was praying for me, that I’d do that. Just bring it all to Him. He’ll take care of your problems, your burdens. And you won’t be in a prison, in your head. You’ll be able to face that thing you don’t want to confront. He signed off piously, then, with lots of “Christian” love and all.

And I will admit. His message triggered something inside me. And not what he was expecting. A flashback to another place, a long time ago. Followed by a hot savage wave of irritation and rage. Who in the heck did the guy think he was? Did he really think I’d just agree with him? Prison in my head? What did that mean? And the magazine cover? I made that pretty clear when I wrote it. It wasn’t something I had ever pursued. But when it came at me, I took it. With pride, sure. And a lot of gratitude and satisfaction, too. What could possibly be wrong with that?

When someone comes out of the blue like that and accuses you like that, it’s jolting. Hits you right up the side of your head. And you think about it, the accusation. A prison in my head? Who’s to say he wasn’t right? I suspect we are all imprisoned in our heads, one way or another. My restless spirit, that’s where my writing comes from. I’ve said that before, and I’ll say it again. Most writers, I think, have some sort of restlessness stirring inside. That’s what makes them write. But still, I recoiled from the flashbacks his words evoked in me. What an idiot, I thought. I mean, why would you go around admonishing someone like that? Someone you don’t even know? And all from reading one blog. I have six years’ worth of blog posts out there. Six years of production, from every imaginable emotional place. You can check a few of them out. Get a sense of who I am before you come at me like that. Yet here he was, judging me from his contrived reaction to one measly little blog. I wasn’t just irritated. I was enraged.

I could have ignored him. I should have ignored him. But I didn’t. But I did hold back. Spoke lightly. You should have sent the rah, rah email, I told him. I don’t like conflict. I spoke from where I was, in the blog. Spoke my heart. That’s how I try to write. I write from where I am, as I am. And I sent it off. Surely he would understand that, not that I owed him any explanation. But we’d communicated some now, and I figured I’d try. I was extremely naive. Now he had me where he wanted me. Got me to respond to his accusations. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen a real adult bully working at his craft. He was fixing to change all that for me. And his next “measured response” came slithering in a few days later. It was much darker.

He could see his accusations were right, from my response. That’s what he said. And he admonished me again, just like the first time. He had me trapped, he figured. Like he’s probably trapped a lot of hapless people before, in his walk through life. He had the perfect formula, to bully people. I accuse you. You don’t respond like I think you should. That makes you guilty. Because your response makes you guilty. Just think about that for a moment. Maybe you know people like that. It’s maddening, is what it is. Just maddening. And I got mad. But still, I kept my response calm. Tried to shake him off, more or less politely.

Look, I wrote back. I didn’t mind writing back and forth a few times. But we have veered off into unproductive territory, here. I don’t like tar babies. I wish you well. In other words, just go away and leave me alone, was what I was telling him. And I would have been very happy, had he just done that. But that “bully” blood was wakened and throbbing strong in him. And he felt led to respond. Again. The same tired old line. Every time, he mentioned it at least twice. He could tell he was right, because of how I responded to him. He could tell. Just bring it all to Jesus, that prison in your head. And that thing you’re not willing to confront. Bring that, too. He’ll set you free from it all. Jesus saves.

And I lashed back. You are a tar baby. It’s hopeless, to try to correspond with you. It’s just entanglement. And back he came again. Same old song, same old verse. You’re guilty because of your response to what I’m saying, that’s pretty clear. And more rote admonitions about Jesus, and how He can unlock that prison in my head, if I’d only let Him. All right, I thought. It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Flamer Bob was the last one. It’s time to block you, buddy. But not before telling you what I really think. I wrote him back in what I like to think was a controlled rage. Maybe it wasn’t so controlled. I rebuked him. Called him what he was. A spiritual bully. It won’t work against me, so quit trying. I shudder to think how many weaker souls you have wounded along the way with your incessant judgmental braying. I come from a place where people did that as I was growing up. And instantly recognized you as a bully. I rebuke you and your methods. Repent while you can. I doubt that any of his victims had ever done that before. Bristled like that. Oh, well. Always a first time for everything, I guess.

And then I blocked him. I may hear from him again someday. Not saying I won’t. Maybe after he reads this, because it’s a pretty sure bet that he’s lurking out there, reading my posts. But it’ll be from a different email address if I do.

And I’ve thought about it all a lot. How it happened, and why I reacted so virulently to his attack. It’s never fun to be accused like that. I don’t know why anyone would even want to do such a thing. But this far out from it, I’ll give the guy this much. I don’t know his heart. Just like he doesn’t know mine. I figure he actually thought he was doing the right thing. Witnessing for Jesus. Problem is, you can’t force such things on people with accusations, as you would in a court of law. It just doesn’t work, and it never has worked. It doesn’t matter how carefully you couch those accusations with claims of concern and “Christian love.” It’s not Christian love. I come from a world where actions like his were all too common. Where you didn’t have a voice. And where you had to take it, when someone came at you like that. Because your response made you guilty, if you didn’t. I’m fine-tuned to that kind of thing. Hyper-sensitive. And my natural visceral reaction just wipes out any chance of real communication. I recoil, and anything constructive that might actually get said gets lost because I don’t hear it. It just is what it is. It’s who I am.

I’ll stand by what I said and what I did, though. How are you supposed to respond, when people come at you, all accusing like that? When they speak the language of a “concerned Christian?” Spout all the rote words, through every step of that tired old formula? How do you respond? You can’t, not on their playing field. Not unless you have a little discernment of your own. And it’s hard, to have the strength to stand up to a spiritual bully. It really is, when you’re trapped in that hopeless place. And I’m talking now to those who are trapped and being bullied, in whatever religious setting. I know where you are, how it feels. I’m right in there, with you. Talking face to face. I know the hopelessness of it all. I know how tough it is, to be trapped in a world where you don’t have the strength to break free. Because it’s just too impossibly hard. And how they accuse you, your inquisitors, using your natural reactions and emotions as weapons to prove your guilt and break your spirit. I know all this stuff. I was there, that’s where I come from. And I took a little flashback trip to that world, just now.

And if you hear nothing else I say on this post, please hear this. You don’t have to take it, you don’t have to accept the heavy burden of those accusations. Not from anyone who would inflict guilt and impose rules as measures to define the condition of your heart. That’s not who Jesus was when He walked the earth. It’s nowhere even close. And that’s not who Jesus is now. He never was about rules and guilt. He always was about embracing flawed people like you and me. The wounded, the rejected, the oppressed, the accused, the condemned, the hopeless. He always was about love and forgiveness. It doesn’t matter where you’re coming from or where you’ve been. He will always meet you where you are, as you are. And He will always set you free to live.

For me, I guess, the bottom line of my little tale is this. There are a whole lot of ways for people to come at you with “spiritual” accusations, then turn on you and use your response as proof of your guilt. From openly hostile confrontation to smarmy “admonitions,” all the way across the spectrum to subtle mind games and not-so-subtle judgment. It’s all bullying. It’s all manipulation. It’s emotional abuse in the name of the One they claim to know and serve. It’s so damaging. And it’s so wrong. I reject it. I rebuke it. And I will cut off anyone who persists in doing that to me at any level.

Because I will walk free. And I will live free. You can, too.

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The Lion in Winter…

Suddenly, at the green heart of June, I heard my father’s

voice again. For a moment he seemed to live again in his

full prime…And for a moment we believed that all would be

for us as it had been, that he could never grow old and die…

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

I fretted a bit as May passed on and June approached, then came sliding right on in. I had to pick a date, soon, to go up to Aylmer. To see Dad. I had told him, back when he called before I left for Germany. I’d come in June sometime. And he was expecting me. It sure would be nice, I thought, if someone could go with me. I figured Janice would be busy, and I didn’t want to pester her. But I texted her anyway. Can’t hurt to try, I figured. Hey, I’m leaving to see Dad next Friday, the 14th. Any chance you’re in the region somewhere, so I can pick you up? Like we did last summer? And she answered what I knew she would. “Sorry, they got me in Houston that week. I would if I could. I just can’t.” That’s OK, I said. It’s probably one of those things I need to do alone, anyway, I thought. It was what it was. I’d go alone.

The next Thursday after work I stopped at Enterprise in New Holland, to pick up my rental car. Something like a Ford Fusion, I’d told the guy earlier over the phone. But I asked when I got there, like I always do. Any Chargers on the lot? “Sorry, not this time,” the nice young man told me. “I got a new Fusion, though, just brought it over from the dealer’s lot. Brand new. You’re the first driver to take it.” Wow, I thought. If I can’t have a Charger, that’s gotta be second best. A brand new car. He went out and brought it up, a sleek silver bullet. “It’s got three miles on it,” he said, handing me the keys. It took me a few minutes to figure out all the glitzy controls. It’s like driving a rocket ship in there, new cars like that. I drove it home, and packed my bags that evening. Ready to leave the next morning for the long slog up north over the border.

And it is a long old slog, especially if you’re alone. The next morning by seven, I was on the road. Heading west and north, up Rt. 11 and Rt. 15. The interstate, then, to Buffalo. There, the border. It lurked in the back of my mind, how long it had taken Janice and me to cross last summer. We had putzed along in clogged lanes for over an hour. The Fusion glided along. Decent car, except for its low headroom. I had to set the seat all the way to the floor to keep my head from brushing the ceiling. But I adapted, and it drove real nice.

And once again, in upstate New York, my GPS insisted on dragging me off the interstate onto two-lane back roads. I’d meant to look at a real Atlas, before I left. To see the layout of the interstate, to see if I couldn’t just stay on it. But I forgot. The GPS led off. I’d better follow those roads. All the way over almost to Buffalo, the back roads led me. I had the time, I thought. This is back country, small towns you’ll never see from the interstate. I stopped for fuel and a greasy slice of pizza at some little hick town place. All the pumps had crude paper signs taped to them. You couldn’t pay with a credit card. You could pump gas, but you had to prepay inside. Amazingly enough, it looked to be a hopping little place.

Less than an hour later, I was looping through Buffalo, toward the Peace Bridge. Different place, from where Janice and I had crossed last summer. And it was a breeze, right through. A two-car wait. I’ll take that any time. I crossed into Canada and headed out to connect with Highway 3 into Aylmer. It was a beautiful sunny day. A few clouds shifted about above. I felt good, but a little strange. I was on a new road, here.

It sure would be nice to have Janice along, I thought. But I don’t. And I just sat back and cruised along and thought of things, back through so many years. How I had so desperately longed to reach my father’s heart after I left the Amish. How I had tried, again and again and again, stories that were never written and never told. How we simply could not communicate, not outside the boundaries of his world. And it’s probably not that he didn’t want to, at least I can think that, from where I am today. He just didn’t know how. And neither did I.

It’s a universally powerful thing, one of the most powerful of things, the yearning of a child for his father’s blessing and acceptance. The heart can be rejected and crushed and rejected and crushed, over and over, year after year. Until that yearning just sinks down, somewhere deep down inside, and you think it went away. And you give up. But the seed of that yearning never dies. Not in the heart. It never dies.

And it was all so real to me in those moments as the miles flowed along, the memories of all those hurts, of all the frustrations and bitterness and rage. How it was for all those long years. And how, at this late date, something had changed. And why. My father is old now, there is no other word for it. And he has been tired for a long time, really, when you look back and remember. Sure, he held onto the fire of who he was for as long as he could grasp it. But then it just came seeping in with age, a certain mellowness. That’s what age does, when you think about it. It grinds things down. All the way down to where I was going to see Dad because he wanted me to come. There was a wall there, once, a wall of solid rock he could never reach through. Now he wants me to come, he wants all of us to come. Now he wants to see his children, all of them, even the ones who left the Amish. Now. And you think back to all those years and wonder what it would have been like, had it always been this way. The thing is, though, it couldn’t have always been this way.

Because it wasn’t. Because it all happened as it did. The wall was what it was. There are a lot of old wounds buried in the rubble of that wall. And not just mine. They are the wounds of all his children. But that wall couldn’t have come down any other way, I don’t think. That’s the only way to look at it. It couldn’t have, because it didn’t.

Amd it’s not that I was all that tense or pensive, getting close. I really wasn’t. But it was different, this time. I could feel it, a new road rising. And the ghosts hovered, in my head. Memories of what was versus a little glimpse of what might have been. I was eager and excited to see my father, and just talk to him. About a lot of things. About Germany. And Switzerland. And about something I never thought I would. My book.

Because he had read it. He didn’t, for a long time. Refused to, for a year and a half. But late last year, he got a notion to. Well, he got a notion that was fed to him by poisonous whispers in his ear. He’d always bragged about my writing. “Ira will not write bad things about me.” And the poisonous voices whispered. Ira did write bad things about you. Blamed everyone but himself for his problems. He really blames you. He was very disrespectful. And those vicious little whispers stirred in my father’s brain and worked his blood into a rage. He locked in. He wanted to read the book, he declared. Now. They tried to deflect him. My sister Rosemary, to her huge credit, refused to give him a copy. “Not in this state of mind,” she told him. “Not until you calm down.” Which, by some miracle, he eventually did. Calmed way down. Then, when she saw that he was ready, she gave him my book. And my father sat down to read what I had written from my heart.

And it moved me deeply, what they told me happened next. It was the dead of winter, January, when he read it. Bitter cold and snow. He was pretty much housebound. The winter just went on and on, the cold seeped in and dulled everything it touched. And there he was, in his little house, reading. His reaction after finishing the book? They told me. There wasn’t a whole lot of reaction. Just silence, and quiet sadness.

Somehow that hit me hard, and I felt sad with him. Seeing it, feeling it from his perspective. His son had told the whole world some pretty heavy stuff. About a lot of things. I don’t know how you’d deal with that, being confronted with that, from where he was. After all he’d seen and done. After who he had been, after all he had written. And now, when he’s gray and bent and old, now comes this. I just don’t know how that would have been. But I knew he was sad. And that moved me. I felt his sadness with him.

The Fusion sliced along Highway 3, a nice two-lane road running over the rich black flat lands of southern Ontario. Through little towns and villages. I pushed along, pulling out and around lumbering tractor-trailers that clogged the road now and then. The afternoon slipped by as I drove and drove. And shortly after four, I pulled into Aylmer. It was just impossibly small, from the great metropolis I’d remembered as a child. A bare little town, with a little row of shops huddled forlornly around a stop light at a crossroad. I crossed through the light and headed on out west toward St. Thomas.

St. Thomas is a bigger place than Aylmer. I remember the name from my childhood, but I don’t remember the town. Because it was out there, just a bit outside the edges of my world. And I was going there now to find a motel room. I’d looked it up on the web, and knew there was a good selection. And sure enough, right there on the east side of town as I approached, right there was a brand new Comfort Inn. I’ve seen some trashy Comfort Inns. This wasn’t one. I pulled in and chatted with the clerk, a nice lady. I’m here from PA, to see family, I told her. Turned out she was the auctioneer Les Shackleton’s niece. Les Shackleton, the guy who had sold our stuff at the farm sale in 1976, when we moved to Bloomfield. I remember Les, I told the clerk. How is he? “He’s doing pretty good, just getting up there in age,” she said. And I booked a room for two nights. It was late afternoon, past five. I carried in my bag, and settled in a bit, then headed out to my sister Rosemary’s farm to hang out for the evening.

I headed back east to Aylmer, then out through the main road through the community. It’s barely recognizable, from the place I knew as a child all those years ago. Way more built up, with a lot more Amish homes scattered along the way. No one knew me, or knew I was there. I passed through the heart of the settlement, then left on the road to my sister Rosemary’s home farm. They’d be looking for me. I pulled in and walked into her home. She smiled and welcomed me. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. Yeah, me too. And we just sat there and caught up. I hadn’t seen her since last August, when we went up to see Mom. “Joe will be home soon,” she said. “Just stay here for supper, then you can go over to see Dad for the evening.” So that’s what I did. Mom was not feeling well, Rosemary told me. She had a fever now, for the second day. The nurse was stopping by that evening, to check it out. Soon Joe arrived home from Tillsonburg, where he had been peddling strawberries door to door. Some things never change. I used to do that as a child. And we sat down at their little table to eat. A simple meal. Soup and homemade sausage. Homemade stuffed sausage, hickory smoked, just like we used to have way back. Rosemary has kept the tradition, and to me, there is no better sausage anywhere than the stuff I grew up with.

After supper, we walked over to the little house where my parents live. It’s a tiny place, a little shack, really, probably twenty feet wide and maybe thirty feet long. A nice clean little place with a tiny kitchen, a bedroom and a little office in the corner where Dad writes. And he was sitting there, at his typewriter. He heard us walking in and looked up. Hi, Dad, I said. He’s old, but he’s there. You can see his concentration when he listens to you talk. He smiled at me, and we shook hands. “Well, you made it,” he said. His voice cracks, now, when he talks. Yes. And we went through our normal little routine, our normal little dance. “How was the trip?” he asked. Oh, good, I said. I left PA this morning. It’s a long old drag up here, but I made pretty good time. “Where are you staying?” I got a motel room in St. Thomas. As we talked, Rosemary slipped into the bedroom where Mom was. I walked in behind her. And there she lay. Curled up. Unaware. “She has a fever,” Rosemary told me again. And I bent down close to my mother’s wrinkled face. Mom. It’s me. Ira. There was no response, of course. Dad came stumping into the kitchen then, and I sat down with him to visit. And it didn’t take him long to get to it. “How was your trip to Germany?” he asked. It was great. Absolutely great, I said. And I sat there with him and we talked.

Back home, I had printed out a dozen or so pictures of the trip. In color, at the office. And I went and got them. I showed him, as we just chatted right along. Here I’m talking to a crowd at Leuphana University, I said. He took the picture and looked at it closely. “That’s quite a crowd,” he said. Around two hundred, I said proudly. “My, my,” he went on, chuckling. “It seems like there’s mostly girls in the audience, there. Weren’t the men interested in what you had to say?” I laughed. Yeah, I said. Seems like mostly women show up at my talks. But there are some men in there too, if you look close. And I showed him pictures of Muenster and the cages. Do you remember that story, of the violent Anabaptists? I asked him. He seemed fairly vague about it. Yes, he remembered the name, Muenster. But he never paid it much mind, he said. Those were violent Anabaptists, not the real ones. I didn’t argue, just told him the story of the cages. We moved on through the stack. And I showed him the real treasure from Germany. The pictures of Family Life in the little Museum. They were just there, in a glass case, I said. I was completely surprised. He smiled. “Did you tell them?” he asked. “Did you tell them your father started that magazine?” Oh, yes, I did, I said. I waved my arms, like this. Pointed and shouted it, when I saw them. He leaned back in his chair and beamed.

And he asked me. “How many copies of your book have sold?” Oh, right at 140,000, I said. I wasn’t sure. Last I’d heard from Carol, she’d told me it was in the 130Ks and counting. But that was a while ago. So I figured it was safe to slip it up there to the next level. He grappled a bit with that figure. “How many?” 140,000, I said again. He seemed impressed. Then five minutes later, he asked again. “How many copies?” And I told him again. Seemed like he had to hear the number a few times to grasp it. Or to make sure he hadn’t heard wrong.

And we sat there and talked, the two of us, and it was good. After a bit, the nurse stopped in to see Mom. She disappeared with Rosemary into the bedroom. Ten minutes later, she emerged. “Her vital signs are all strong,” the nurse said. “She has constipation.” And she and Rosemary talked about what to do about that. The evening was moving right along. It was soon time for me to head to the motel. And I told Dad. I’m here to see you. What do you want to do tomorrow? Do you want to go somewhere, to see someone, to visit? And I could see the wheels turning in his head. He knew I knew that he wouldn’t ride with me in my car. He never has. His calculations led to the only place they could. And he asked, looking at me kind of sideways. “Well, will you drive with me in my buggy?” Sure, I said. If your horse is safe. He laughed. “Oh, yes, my horse is an old plug.” All right, I said. That’ll work. Maybe we can go see David Luthy at his historical library. I haven’t been there in a lot of years. Dad agreed. That would be fine. He seemed a little astounded, that I’d ride with him in the buggy. It’s not a big deal, I said. I came to see you, and we’ll go do what you want. I said good night then, and headed back to St. Thomas and my room.

The next morning around nine I headed out to the farm. Stopped in Aylmer at Tim Horton’s and bought coffee to drink and a box of a dozen donuts to take out with me. Tim Horton’s is a Canadian phenomenon. Every little burg has one. And they serve some of the better donuts I’ve ever tasted. Way better than what we have here with Dunkin’ Donuts. And their coffee, too, is just quality. I wish that chain would make it to the US. Anyway, out I drove into the beautiful cloudless day. All day, I’d spend all day out there. Mostly with Dad, but I’d spend some time with Rosemary and her family, too.

I arrived and carried the box of donuts into the house. Rosemary smiled her thanks. Her daughter and my niece, Edna, was flitting about, working this and that. Dad and I are leaving for David Luthys in his buggy, I told her. Can someone get the horse hitched up? We need to leave around ten or a little after. I’ll drive the horse, but I want nothing to do with going to the barn or hitching him up. Edna laughed and disappeared. Ten minutes later, she returned. “The horse is hitched up and tied up, out by the rail,” she said. “Ready for you and Daudy any time.” Thanks, I said. I’ll go over and chat with him now. We’ll leave soon. And I walked over to Dad’s little house. He was in his office. I sat in the chair across from his desk, and we talked. Ready to go soon? I asked.

In the bedroom next door, I heard voices. They were getting Mom up for a few hours. They get her up in her wheelchair, just to change the pressure points on her body. And she sits there and reclines, and mostly sleeps. A few minutes later, they wheeled her out into the kitchen. I heard Rosemary talking to her. “Ira is here,” Rosemary said. “He came to see you and Dad.” And I heard the murmur of her voice, soft but very clear, in the only lucid moment she had while I was there. “You mean our Ira?” she asked. “Yes, our Ira,” Rosemary answered. And I stepped out to greet her. Mom, it’s me. But in that instant, she was gone again. “She knew there for a second you were here,” Rosemary said. “But she’s gone again.” Yeah, I know, I answered. I heard her. I’m grateful for that.

The horse is hitched up and ready, I told Dad. We need to leave soon. We have to be back for dinner (noon meal). He was all hyped up and ready. Grabbed his big old black hat and put it on. We walked out to where the horse was tied up. He hobbled slowly, and I walked slowly. We came up to his buggy, specially built for him. It’s in the old classic Aylmer style, with rubber-tired wheels. But they set it down lower, somehow. It sits close to the ground. So it’s easier for him to get on and off. I untied the horse and took the reins. Backed him up a bit, then turned out onto the lane. And out to the road. There I stopped and looked both ways, for traffic. I wasn’t feeling all that safe right that moment, I have to say. Those buggies just aren’t safe on the roads. Nothing was coming, so I pulled on the right rein and clucked. The horse, whose name escapes me, lumbered out and down the road. And we were off.

It’s been a lot of years since I rode with my father in a buggy. Decades, probably. Maybe longer. Somewhere in there, I’m sure I have since I was a child. I just can’t remember when. We didn’t have far to go. A mile, maybe. And we just chatted right along as the buggy quietly rolled along on rubber-tired wheels. “Junior lives here now, with his family,” Dad said as we passed the old Jake Eicher place. “He had some kind of accident a few years ago, crushed his heel. They have a real nice family.” We passed Pathway Publishers on the left. Then right at the corner, and on past a few more homes, and the old school house where I went for first grade. Well, those grounds. They tore the old schoolhouse down years ago, and built a new one. But the old pump still sits there, right where it was. And the swing set. Still the same one.

Then we arrived at David Luthy’s place. The preeminent Amish historian in the world, David Luthy has assembled the world’s largest collection of old books and other paraphernalia that were Amish family heirlooms. He has written extensively in Family Life over the decades. Real research, is what he does. Historical articles, a great many of which detailed and described failed Amish communities through the years. And it was a special thing, to have an inside track to his library. It’s not open to the public. You have to have an appointment, and then maybe not, depending on who you are. That’s how hard it is, to get in there. But I was with Dad. He can get in anytime, almost. And I could get in with him.

David greeted us. He was there in his office, typing away. He’s older now, his long magnificent beard is no longer dark, but gray. His wife Mary rushed out, too, from the house, smiling. She welcomed me. They knew me as a child. And we walked to a back room and sat around a table. For more than an hour, David told me fascinating tale after fascinating tale of his library, and about some of his acquisitions. He unveiled and showed me an exact replica of an original Gutenberg Bible, complete with gold plated pages and illustrations. We examined ancient copies of the Martyr’s Mirror and the Ausbund. He talked and talked. Just before noon, Dad and I got up to leave. He stepped into his low-slung buggy. I untied the horse and stepped in, too. Then we were off, back to Rosemary’s house and dinner.

Things were bustling at the farm when we got back. It had been wet for weeks, and Lester, Rosemary’s married son who farms the home place, had hay down in the fields. It had been rained on to where it was pretty much ruined, he told me. But he figured he could bale it and get it out of his field late that afternoon. It was junk, but he had to get it off the field, so the next cutting could grow. I spent a few hours in Rosemary’s home, while Dad returned to his desk and his writing. And they stopped by to see me for a few minutes, a few of my nieces and nephews. Eunice came with a couple of her daughters. Philip and his wife stopped by early that evening.

And then, around five or so, I wandered over to see Dad again. He was sitting at his desk, typing away. They got rid of his old manual model. Probably ran out of parts. It’s an electric typewriter he uses now, adapted to a 12-volt battery. It hardly makes any noise. Sure doesn’t clatter and clack and ding, like the one I remembered him using. He stopped typing and leaned back in his chair. And the two of us just talked.

We chatted for a while about this and that. And I knew he wouldn’t bring it up. So I asked him, right out. What did you think of the book? And he leaned back some more and smiled self-consciously. “Well,” and he sat there a bit. “I guess I’d ask this. What do you think the world thinks about the Amish and about me?” So that was it? That was his sorrow? I chose my words carefully. And I told him. They will think you are a talented and driven man, who got a lot accomplished in your life as an Amish person, I said. And they will know you were flawed. But we are all flawed. All of us. You are. I am. It doesn’t make any sense, to pretend we’re not.

Maybe he grasped that. Maybe not. I think he did, a little. And then he talked some more. “People have told me they were impressed, and I agree,” he said. “You tried, you really tried to make it work. I’ll give you that. You came back and tried again and again.” That was pretty huge, to hear him say that. To recognize that. But then he balanced it out. “I still think it was a mistake, to hang around that café so much,” he said. And he talked some more about this scene and that. “You sure got it right, about your horse,” he said. “That’s exactly as I remember it. I remember how beaten down you were, and how I offered to buy you another horse. But you wouldn’t take it. I never could quite understand why.”

I was depressed, I said. I just needed to get out. I knew I couldn’t make it. That’s why I turned down your offer. He seemed to absorb that. And we talked a bit more. I wanted to mention Nicholas, to get his thoughts on that. I just didn’t get it done. And then he talked about Sam Johnson. Dad seemed to understand why Sam cut me off. And he approved of it. Sam had to cut me off, because I didn’t stay. OK, I said. Doesn’t make much sense to me, but if that’s how it had to be, then that’s how it had to be. And he talked about Sarah, too, and how I’d wronged her. He looks fondly on her as a daughter he lost. Respects her a lot. Yes. I said. I did. I did wrong her, very much so. I made that pretty clear, I think. Like I said, we’re all flawed. I certainly am. But I just tried to tell the story. That’s the only way to write a story. Tell it like it was. Be honest about who you were when you tell it. And who you are now.

Rosemary clattered into the kitchen, then, carrying a large tray. Food for our supper. “They’re out baling hay, so we won’t eat until later,” she told us. “So I brought your supper. Come to the table and eat.” Dad and I got up and walked to the kitchen. I sat down. He paused where Mom was sitting, a few feet away, napping. He spoke to her, some lighthearted question. “Every day, I try to say something that makes her smile,” he said. And then he stumped over to the little table and took his seat. This is a remarkable moment, I thought. Not that long ago, he wouldn’t sit with me at any table. He wouldn’t eat with me. Because he was shunning me. I had told him, back then. I’m not excommunicated. The Goshen Amish church where I left was more progressive. And I wasn’t excommunicated. Well, I was, but after I joined the Mennonite Church in Daviess, they lifted it. Made it like it never was. And I told Dad that. But he’d still shun me, he told me, because he felt like that was the right thing to do. And he did. Back then. For a lot of years.

But not now. I uncovered the dishes on the tray. Meat, chips, lettuce, freshly chopped tomatoes, and cheese. And dressing. A taco salad, I said. Dad pulled up his chair then, and we paused and bowed our heads. I wondered if he’d pray aloud. He used to, years back. And sure enough, he spoke it. The meal blessing prayer. In his cracked voice, with that old rhythm he always had. “Alle Augen worten auf Dich, oh Herr, denn Du gibst Ihn Ihre Speise zu Seiner Zeit…” I sat there and drank it in. He finished the prayer, and we took the food on our plates and ate. Just the two of us together, at that little table, in that little room in that little house.

After the meal, I sat with Dad in his office, and we just talked. He’s working on his own memoir, now. Two binders of notes were spread out beside his typewriter. Recently, he sent a few dozen pages of the first draft to all his children. So we could check it out. I liked it, I told him. I learned things I never knew before about you. Keep it up, keep writing. I want to read what you have to say. I liked it a lot. Don’t worry about the moral lessons, though, in your story. Just write it. Trust your readers. And respect them. If there’s lessons to be learned, they’ll pick those up on their own. You don’t need to tell them. He pondered that a bit. I’m not sure he quite grasped what I was trying to say, because he never wrote like that. Just the story. He pretty much always had an explicit lesson poked in there somewhere at the end. Because that’s how he wrote. We sat there, and I looked at him from across the desk as the sun slanted to the west. And I saw the moment, what it held, what it symbolized. I slipped my iPad from my briefcase and quietly snapped a picture.

And later that night, after I returned to my motel room and darkness closed in, I thought about it. The whole day. The time I’d spent with Dad. Especially our meal together at the little table. And hearing him pray that prayer, that was a special thing. It was a gift, all of it, every minute of this day. And at that moment, I saw it in my mind, as clearly as if I were standing back there, what was going on about now in the little house where my parents live.

Mom was in bed for the night. They’d tucked her in earlier. And Dad, well, Dad was doing what he does almost every evening. Sitting in his office, pounding away at his typewriter. Except these days, he shuts down early. He can’t stay up half the night. Not like he used to. He’s ninety-one years old. And he’s just too tired, he simply doesn’t have it in him anymore. And now, he was getting up to get ready for bed. He carried the lamp into the kitchen and set it on the table. Opened the bedroom door, so Mom could hear. And then he knelt there by a chair.

And in a cracked and faltering voice, still laced with remnants of the comforting rhythmic flow his children have always known and will always remember, he prayed that beautiful old high German evening prayer by heart. Beautiful, is what all those old formal German prayers are. Just breathtakingly beautiful. And he spoke it, the prayer for this evening. Thanking God for His love and the gift of salvation. Thanking God for all His blessings. Asking the Lord to lift His benevolent hand of protection over him and his family, those he loved. All alone now, he prays every morning as the day breaks. And every evening, after the sun has set.

Kneeling there, in the bleakness of his bare surroundings, he prays for all his family. He prays for Mom. For his children and his children’s children. Wherever they may be scattered on the whole earth. And the children still to come, he prays for them, too, the generations beyond. He prays for all of them in the only way he knows how. Just like he always has.

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Distant Roads: Mainz and Beyond…

We are the sons of our father, and we shall follow the print of his foot forever.

—Thomas Wolfe

______________

“It really is that simple,” they had assured me. Over and over again. “All you’re doing is getting on and getting off. It’s all set up. Someone will show up at the other end.” And looking back, it seems like such a little thing. I don’t know why it loomed so large inside me. But it did. Not fear, really, but a tension. It pulsed inside me, probably visible on my face, as I stepped onto that train to Mainz. With no one to guide me, for the first time since getting here. And the realization settled in. This is how it feels to be a stranger and alone.

The doors swished shut behind me. Lugging my bags, I stepped in and looked around. No one paid any attention to me. I’m just another passenger. Now, where was that seat Maryann had reserved for me? I glanced at the numbers. And realized my seat was clear at the other end of the coach. Oh, well. Nothing to do but drag my bags all the way down the narrow aisle. “Entschuldigen,” I muttered as I struggled through. And finally I reached my seat, the very last window on the left. An elderly lady sat on the aisle seat. She had parked her bags on mine. I’d have to bug her. I’m sorry, I said in English, pointing to my seat. That’s my seat. I parked my luggage off to the side, by the door as she got up and cleared my seat. Amazingly, she smiled at me. I slid in and sat down, clutching my messenger bag. That stayed right with me at all times. The nice lady took her place beside me. Whew. I was on. I was in my seat. On the train. I looked out the window as we slid from the station. Muenster. Only yesterday, I got here. Only yesterday. It seemed so long ago. Now it was today. Now I was leaving.

I can’t remember who broke the silence first, but somehow the nice lady and I started talking. In broken German, I told her. Leuphana University had brought me over to talk about my book. I pulled the copy from my bag and showed her. Ich bin von die Wiedertaufer. I am from the Anabaptists. I came to Muenster to see the cages. Now I’m going to Mainz, to speak at another University. She smiled, genuinely interested. In broken English and rough German, we chatted right along, the two of us. She had a house up north of Muenster and one in another city further south. She spent time in both places. And that’s where she was going now. To her southern house.

And there, on that first train ride by myself, a complete stranger I never saw before, this elderly German lady, settled me down and soothed my spirit. I’m not sure how. But she did. Maybe it’s because I realized there, in that moment, that people are people the world over. It didn’t matter that I was alone in a strange land. There would always be people like her along the way. We chatted, off and on, for the next couple of hours. The train slowed for the next stop, and she got up to leave. “You know,” she said, “we’ll likely never meet again. But maybe we will, one day.” I glanced at her sharply. She was smiling a secret little smile, the smile of one believer to another. Yes, I said. Yes, we will meet again one day. “By the way, my name’s Dorothy,” she said. We had never even spoken our names. Thank you, I said. You have blessed me. You really have. Her wrinkled face lit up. She beamed. Then she turned and was gone.

I sat alone through the remaining hour to my destination. Thought about things. Jumbled thoughts. Leuphana. Muenster. And now Mainz, coming right up. You can’t process things when they’re coming at you this fast, I thought. It’s a big deal, every day, day after day. And tonight I have a talk. I hadn’t even thought about that at all, hardly. No need to, I figured. I had addressed a packed-out crowd, back at Leuphana. It had gone OK. And tonight, when the time came, the words would be there to speak. Of that I had no doubt.

And I wondered, too, how it would go, how she would be, my contact there at Johannes Gutenberg. Professor Dr. Birgit Daewes (pronounced Davis). We had emailed back and forth a few times. She’d read the book, and was quite complimentary. But she was a real Professor. And a Doctor. Top of the line, academically, in Germany. Is she even in the real world? I had asked Sabrina and the others. Or is she out there in the ether somewhere? “Oh, no,” they had all assured me. “Professor Daewes is real and she’s genuine. She’s not stuffy at all. You’ll like her. You’ll get along great.” OK, if you say so, I said. Her emails had been pleasant enough, and she had insisted I call her Birgit, not Professor Daewes. But that’s probably pretty common, when you’re corresponding with a visiting author, I thought. Who can really tell what a person is like from that? I’ll know when I meet her.

The train swooshed along, and soon enough it slowed for Mainz. My stop. I waited at the door with a small crowd of passengers, watching. When the train stopped, one of them pushed a button on the wall to open the door. So that’s how you do it. I got off, trundling my bags behind me. Downstairs with the crowd, into the main station. Looked for the entrance. I walked out and scanned the buildings across the street. And there it was. The Koenig Hotel. I walked over the broad expanse of bricks in front of the station and crossed the street. Approached the hotel. Pushed my way in. The clerk, a young man in a suit, turned to me. Ira Wagler, I said. There should be a reservation. “Yes,” he said. He handed me a key and directed me to my room on the third floor. And just as I turned away, I thought of it. Turned back. A Laundromat, I said. Is there a place close by where I can get some clothes cleaned?

Somewhere, at some point along the road, I needed to do one load of wash. Mostly T-shirts, underwear, and socks. And I had time right now. Birgit was coming over to fetch me a little later, around six or so. I had an hour. And here, at the counter, the nice clerk smiled. Spoke in perfect English. “Oh, yes, right over across the street, beside the station on the left.” He scribbled my room number on the back of a hotel card and handed it to me. “Just give them this, and they’ll deliver your laundry right to your room.” Thanks, I said. Great, I thought. How cool is that, to get your wash delivered right to your room? I’ve never had such a thing done before.

I took my bags up to the room and unpacked. Half a room, is what I had here. A tiny place, with a half bed and a bathroom. Very nice, and very clean. I had smashed all my laundry in a little white garbage bag packed just for that purpose. After settling in a bit, I headed out, clutching my white trash bag. Full of clothes that needed washing.

I walked from the hotel and scanned the little shops beside the station. And there it was. The Laundromat. Off to the left, there. Just like the clerk had claimed. Dodging through the crowd, I walked up and walked in. The proprietor approached. He looked Italian. I plunked the garbage bag on the counter. Opened it. The hotel people said you do laundry, I said, showing him the clerk’s card. “Yes,” he said in broken English, all smiles. “Of course. We will bring it to your room.”

And I showed him what I had. T-shirts. Underwear. Socks. He pulled out the T-shirts first, and smiled. Of course. We will clean them. But he quit smiling when he saw what all else there was. “No, this will take three days. I send it off.” Ah, come on, I said. Don’t you have a washing machine around here somewhere in the back? Something that washes with water? I don’t need my T-shirts dry cleaned. I need a Laundromat. He was apologetic, I’ll give him that. He probably never saw anyone like me before, not referred from the Koenig Hotel. But he dealt with it, right as it came at him. He couldn’t do it, he told me. Well, he could, but it would take three days. So I thanked him, picked up my white garbage bag, and trudged back to my room, dejected. All I needed was one washing machine, I thought. To do one load of wash. I’ll have to find a real Laundromat somewhere, soon, along the way.

Back in my room, I freshened up a bit. Unpacked my jacket. Changed to khaki pants. Book talk tonight. Can’t be showing up in jeans. I stretched out on the bed then, to just unwind for a few minutes. A short time later, the phone jangled. Yes? “Ira?” A very pleasant voice. “This is Birgit. I’m here at the front desk.” I’ll be right down. A few minutes later, I stepped out of the elevator and there she stood, smiling. I was startled by how young she was. She walked up and greeted me. “We’re so excited to have you. Thanks for coming.” And she handed me little bag with a gift. A bottle of organic wine. I thanked her. My, what is it with these Germans and their gifts? In the culture I come from, there’s not a whole lot of emphasis on gifts. I took the wine up to my room, returned, and we walked across town to the off-campus bookstore where I would speak later.

We chatted right along as we walked, and I was instantly comfortable. Sabrina and her friends had been right. Professor Daewes was who they claimed she would be. We arrived at the bookstore and walked in. Birgit introduced me. “They have forty people or so signed up,” she told me. “And now the phones are ringing. We don’t know exactly how many will show up.” That’s great, I said. And then we walked around the corner, to a little café to grab a bite to eat before the talk. Birgit was bubbling with a bit of news of her own. She had just been offered a position at another University. And she had accepted. In February, she will be Chair of American Studies at the University of Vienna. In Austria. Wow, I said. Just flat out wild, is what that is. That’s pretty much the pinnacle of your profession. The University of Vienna. And Department Chair, yet. Congratulations.

And events just moved right along. After eating, we strolled back to the bookstore, where things were breaking loose. A large crowd had gathered. Way more than forty people. They were dragging out chairs and benches from wherever they could be found and setting them up. A hundred people, Birgit told me. A hundred people were here. Far more than they had expected. I drifted about, scoped out the little podium up front. That’s where I would speak. From the crowd, a man approached me. “I’m Michael Werner,” he said, shaking my hand. Ah, yes. My friend John Schmid’s friend. John had told me to contact Michael earlier, and I had. We messaged back and forth. I told him I was speaking in Mainz, and sent him a link to the book talk poster. And somehow, I mentioned that I had some free time the next day, Saturday. And he wrote that he would have time to show me around a bit. Thanks for coming, I told him. We’ll talk later, after it’s over.

And then it was time. I can honestly say I wasn’t all that nervous. It rushed up too fast to get nervous. Birgit stepped up to the podium to introduce me. A few words about the Amish, first, then: “This is Ira Wagler, who came from the Amish. He wrote this book, Growing Up Amish. And from his blog, I got this. He has led the Lob Song in Amish church a dozen times. And his favorite TV show is The Simpsons. So we can see he has a very broad spectrum of interests and experiences. Let’s welcome him.” And all the people politely clapped their hands.

Introduction by Professor Dr. Birgit Daewes.

I’m hastily reviewing my notes.

And I got up behind the little podium and stood there. And spoke, a version of the talk I gave back at Leuphana. There was no mike, so I had to speak up. I hope those sitting in the back heard me. After half an hour or so, I read two scenes from the book. Then I opened for questions. And they came, right along. And again, at some point, I slipped it in. The Amish could not live here, in this country. You are not free enough. You all need to do something about that. And the questions kept on coming until Birgit said, “One more.” And then it was over, and all the people clapped again. I’ll be happy to chat and sign your copies, I said. They have some for sale up front. Turns out they had 26 copies. And those sold out in minutes. I stood in the back at a little table and smiled and greeted people and signed their books. The oddest thing that happened was when two young guys, students, walked up to thank me. They didn’t have a copy of my book. And they hadn’t read it. They just wanted to tell me. They had attended the talk (maybe it was a class requirement, I don’t know), fully expecting to be bored. They weren’t, they said. And I posed for pics with one of them, as he held up a borrowed copy of my book.

So much went on in those few minutes that it’s hard to sort and tell. A stocky middle-aged man approached. The pastor of a local Mennonite church. He had come, along with several others in his congregation. Somehow, they had heard that I’d be here. We chatted for a few minutes. There were so many things I would have liked to ask him. But there just wasn’t time. I thanked him for coming. Another couple approached with a book. What name shall I address it to? I asked mechanically. They stood there, silent, smiling. And then I recognized them. I had not seen them in twenty years, when we all graduated from Bob Jones University together. Mike and Janan Kreger. They lived in Germany. Janan was my Facebook friend. I had sent her a link about the talk. And they had actually driven over an hour to be here. I hugged them both. I’m honored. It’s so good to see you again. They stepped back, then, while I signed more books and chatted with anyone who wanted to talk.

We wrapped it up soon after that. Birgit seemed very happy with the turnout. As were the people who worked in the bookstore. The place had been packed out. And I did what I had done at Leuphana. Asked for a one of the posters they had hanging on the door. I took it and signed and dated it. They gave me a little tube to store it in. I’m taking these home, these posters, I said. This one, and the one I got from Leuphana. Signed and dated, both of them, on the days the talks happened. And I’m getting them framed.

And then we walked back toward the hotel, a group of us. Birgit and a couple of her assistants. Mike and Janan. And Michael Werner, the guy who was going to show me around the area the next day. We settled at a few tables, at an outdoor café within sight of my hotel. We all ordered drinks. Mike and Janan ordered food, as they had not eaten, yet. And there we sat, in a group, talking like old friends. In the ancient city of Mainz. Outdoors, at night, under the lights. Across the way, the trains slid in and out. People got on and off and on and off. The crowds flowed and swirled around us.

Mike and Janan asked about my trip, how it had been so far and where I was going next. I’m heading to Switzerland soon. Probably tomorrow or maybe Sunday. Michael Werner, my friend here, is taking me around tomorrow, to see the area. And they just locked in. “Hey, come and stay with us tomorrow night. Maybe Michael can drop you off at our house. We’ll get you on a train to Zurich on Sunday.” Michael agreed instantly. Yeah, he would do that. They exchanged phone numbers. I sat there, amazed. And then it came to me. I asked Janan. Do you have a washer and dryer I can use? I need to wash some clothes. “Of course we do,” she said. And it all came together, just like that. I sat there, amazed again. Maybe I wasn’t as much of a stranger around here as I’d thought.

Around eleven or so, people were making noises to leave. My hotel was right next door, so I didn’t have far to go. Birgit thanked me one more time. “Thanks so much for coming. It was just a great turnout, all around. Safe travels. We’ll have to bring you back again,” she said. I’d like that a lot, I said. It was my honor, all the way. I’d love to come back sometime. But I won’t look for anything like that until I see it coming. Michael Werner left, then, after we had agreed to meet outside the hotel at nine the next morning. And Mike and Janan took off, too. They had more than an hour’s drive to their home. See you tomorrow night, I said. And thanks so much for inviting me over. I walked back to the hotel and to my room. And tried to relax, to unwind and absorb. What a day. What a fantastic day.

You never sleep that well, traveling that long and that far. At least I don’t. And for sure not on this trip. The days were too intense to allow me to fully relax at night. Because you’re always thinking of what you just saw, all while trying not to think of what was coming tomorrow. It’s like a little vortex, a little twilight zone, a dimension you’re not quite sure is real. And I didn’t sleep that well that night in Mainz. Just dozed fitfully.

The next morning, I got up and walked into a new day. A few minutes before nine, I dragged my bags out of the Koenig Hotel. And there he stood, by his little van. Michael Werner. He waved at me. I walked up and we loaded my luggage in the back. We got in. And he took off. Out of the city and out into the country.

He is actually Dr. Michael Werner, a successful business executive. On the side, he is an amateur linguist. And he writes and publishes Hiwwe wie Driwwe, a biannual newsletter, in Amish Pennsylvania Dutch. He knows the culture. And every couple of years or so, he travels to Amish lands. Mostly in Pennsylvania. But Ohio, too. Let’s just say the man is very knowledgeable about the Amish. He knew my book was out there, at least I think so. But he hadn’t read it. He had bought his copy the night before, at the bookstore where I had my talk. He was one of the lucky 26, I guess. We just chatted right along, from the moment I boarded his van. There’s nothing like having someone local show you around in a place like this, I told him.

Michael at the book talk.

And we shot out along the highways. I don’t know if we were ever on what is officially known as the Autobahn, but we sure drove some roads that had no speed limits. And now and then, Michael swung into a clear left lane and ratcheted up to speeds you’d never drive back home. Mostly, though, we just drifted along with the traffic. And often, as we did that, cars shot by us on the left as if we were just sitting there.

And we just talked. About who we were, where we came from. And he told me what he had mapped out for the day. First, off to a village to see family, his wife’s uncle, aunt, and their two sons. They owned a butcher shop. He turned off the main roads onto back roads, clogged with farmers driving tractors. We putzed along, on and on, to a village way back in the hills. And he pulled into a little parking space by a shop. We got out and walked in. A tiny glass meat counter, stocked with various cuts of this and that. Sausage links dangled from the walls. A buzzer in the back rang. And a lady emerged from the door separating the living quarters from the shop.

She greeted Michael as family. They chattered back and forth. He introduced me. And she invited us into her home. We squeezed past the counter and entered the kitchen. Sat at the table. Coffee? Of course. And she brought us food, an assortment of those amazing German bread rolls and a little slab of meat. We sat there and munched. Well, I munched, as Michael talked. Asked the questions I would have asked. About the history of this place. How old was this shop? How was the place set up, way back? Where did the family butcher the cows and hogs, way back when they actually butchered on this place?

The shop has been open continuously for 130 years, run by the same family, in this village. Right at this spot. I drank it in, absorbed it, as Michael told me. This would be the last generation. There were no offspring, in this family. The sons never got married. And never had children. Within ten years, he figured, the place would be closed down. After more than 130 years, it would be closed down. It was tough for me to grasp the history of the place, and to know at the same time that a story that had lasted so long was ending very soon. I mean, how do you grasp opposite details like that, all in the same instant? You can’t.

On our way out, I bought a couple of small links of sausage to take with me to the Kregers that evening. One Euro each. We took our leave, then. Headed out to the next stop. “A museum,” Michael told me. Great, I said. This would be the second museum on this trip. I can’t remember the last time I was in one, back home. But here, in Germany, you bet I wanted to go see what was there when someone invited me to a museum. You bet I did.

We drove along little two-lane back roads. We were running a bit early, Michael said. So we pulled off into another little village, into the parking lot of an old church. Got out and strolled about outside, among the graves. And Michael told me a startling thing I never knew. In Germany, you rent burial plots, usually for twenty-five years. The grave sites are quite elaborate. Each family cares for its own, waters the flowers, keeps things trimmed up and looking nice. Then, after the rental time is up, the coffin is dug up. The corpse is exhumed and disposed of. (Who would want THAT job?) Disposed of? I asked. How? What do they do with it? Michael was fairly vague on that point. So I’m not sure what happens to the bodies. But it doesn’t matter, really, when you think about it.

Because what I got from that story is that there will be no permanent marker of your passing. When you’re gone, even the record of who you were will be eliminated in time. They throw it all away, it’s all destroyed, the tombstone, the coffin, the body, everything. All you ever were will be wiped from the face of the earth as if it never was. Which will happen to all of us eventually, anyway, I suppose. The Germans are just more upfront and efficient about it. But that 25-year burial span shocked me. I’m not knocking the practice. It is what it is, and it’s not my business to criticize how they do things in other countries (well, except when it comes to those ghastly windmills, then I can’t help myself). I’m just surprised that I never heard of it before.

On, then, to the museum. We pulled into the little village of Oberalben, in the Palatine. And there it was, tucked away right on the main street. The Palatine Emigration Museum. The place was closed, but Michael knew the lady who had the key, and she met us there at the front door. We walked in. And for the next hour, I got a private tour. The exhibits were all about the stories of people from this area who had left, way back. Most of them had sailed to America. It was hard, life back then. You could see that from the exhibits and the pictures on the walls. But the Germans had done well in the new lands. They will always do well, wherever they go.

And then it came at me, the most startling thing I saw on the whole trip. Startling, because it was so unexpected. On the one wall hung a big poster, a family scene from Amish country in Lancaster County. Those are the people I come from, I said. And I live in Lancaster County right now. I wonder where that picture was taken. The Germans are just fascinated by the Amish, seems like. Somehow, they feel connected to this little group of pilgrims that emigrated to America hundreds of years ago. Mostly, I suspect, because the Amish have retained a form of the German language. Pennsylvania Dutch.

After admiring the poster, I wandered into another room. Off to one side stood a glass display case. In that case, several publications, spread out. And there they were. Copies of the magazines my father co-founded, way back in the 1960s, the big three. Family Life. Young Companion. Blackboard Bulletin. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Look, I practically hollered. Look at these magazines. Mine Vater hat Diesen geschrieben. My Dad wrote these. These are the magazines he founded. How in the world did they get here? And I just stood there, in that remote little museum, and absorbed my father’s presence. There is no escaping who you are and where you come from, no matter where you go.

My father’s presence in the Museum.

Dad always wanted to go to Europe. To Germany, to Switzerland, and to Alsace-Lorraine in France, where the Waglers come from. He always wanted to get to the lands of his ancestors, somehow. He dreamed of it. Hopelessly, probably. He knew he’d never make it. And he was right. He never made it. But his voice did. He simply wrote from where he was in his Amish world. And his was a powerful singular voice that spoke to his world and to his people. And reached a lot of other places, too, distant lands he could never hope to see.

From where he was coming from, that’s quite an accomplishment, any way you look at it. And I am very proud to be one of my father’s sons.

We thanked the lady, then, and left. Off to our next destination. A good distance away. Back onto the main roads, into the streaming traffic. It was past lunch time, so we looked for a place to eat. A McDonald’s sign swept by. At the next exit, it said. Michael motioned at the sign, and asked me. “Do you want to eat at McDonald’s?” No, no, no, I said. Anywhere but there. I won’t eat American fast food, not here in Germany. So we raced on. Eventually we pulled off in a military town and ate at a classic American Diner close to the base.

And then it was on to the next stop. The little village of Weierhof. The Mennonite Research Center there, that’s where Michael wanted to take me. I thanked him again. The man took off for a whole day, a Saturday when I’m sure he had a thousand other things he could have been doing, just to show me around. Where does such hospitality come from? There’s no way I can ever repay you, I said. You have a lot of contacts in Lancaster already. But when you come again, let me know, and I’ll give you whatever time you need. I can’t imagine that I’ll be able to show you anything even close to what you’re showing me here.

We drove to the home of Dr. Horst Gerlach, the man who devoted much of his life to the little Research Center. An older guy, in his eighties, I’d say. Still quite alert and quite active. We visited, and he pressed a large hardcover book into my hands. A gift. He had written it. I thanked him, and handed him a signed copy of my own book for the Research Center. We all want our voices to remain after we are gone. That’s just how it is. It’s kind of a hopeless thing, really, because very few written voices long survive their authors in the open market. Actually, most die long before their authors do.

After chatting a bit, we set off for the Center. A little place in the village. Dr. Gerlack told me of the last Amish people in Europe. The last few remaining members switched over to the Mennonites way back in the 1930s, I think it was. “The Amish in Europe weren’t distinct, like they are in America,” Dr. Gerlach said. “They had all the modern farming equipment of their times.” He told us tales of people in the village around us. Names, houses, dates. When Napoleon came through, he pressed some of their young men into his army. He showed us through the Research Center. And I paged through a copy of the Martyr’s Mirror, published in 1782.

With Dr. Gerlach and the Martyr’s Mirror at the Research Center.

And then it was time to go to the home of my hosts for the night. My friends, Mike and Janan. They lived in a village not far from Heidelberg. By six o’clock, Michael pulled up outside their door. We unloaded my bags. Mike met us and welcomed me in. I shook Michael’s hand and thanked him again. What you gave me today was priceless. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Thank you. Look me up next time you come to Lancaster County. “I will,” he said. And then he left us.

Mike and Janan and their three children and their large dog welcomed me into the clamor of their home. It was a comfortable and welcoming place. “We are so happy to have you. We don’t get many visitors from back home,” Janan said. And I looked to the first order of business. Unpacked my garbage bag of laundry. Mike took me downstairs to the washer, and we threw in my clothes and started the load. Pretty amazing and pretty simple, how that all worked out. Later, we went out to eat in a local restaurant. Then returned home and sat around and caught up. Rehashed our old BJU days. Tomorrow, they said, they would skip church. Instead, we’d head out for the old town of Heidelberg, tour that a bit, then they’d put me on a train to Zurich.

And that’s what happened. I woke up to a huge, scrumptious breakfast. Then before we left, they went online and helped me locate and reserve a room for that night at a nice hotel outside of Zurich, for about a third of the price of a room inside the city. Zurich, I would discover, is an evil little place. And it would leave its mark on me.

And then we headed to Heidelberg. What can I say about that city? It’s so old, and so full of stories. Mike told me of how the French attacked the town and pretty much leveled it, way back. No wonder there is such deep and heavy animosity between the French and the Germans, I thought. This is like a Kentucky blood feud that never stops. It’ll always bubble up again. We walked up the steep hill to the grounds surrounding Heidelberg Castle. The French blew much of the place to smithereens. And the ruins still remain, just as they were back then. It’s simply overwhelming, to try to take it all in.

Ruins of the massive tower at Heidelberg Castle.

With Mike and Janan Kreger at the Heidelberg Bridge.

Then it was off to the train station, right at three o’clock. The parking lot was packed out, so Mike circled around with the van and children as Janan walked in with me and helped me purchase a ticket to Zurich. Then she walked downstairs with me to the tracks. Chatting right along about how to ride the train, what to look for, how to make connections. We stood there, waiting, until it pulled in. We hugged, I thanked her, and then it was onto the train and off to Zurich. And this time, I was nervous, sure. But somehow the tension I had felt in Muenster, that wasn’t pulsing so strong within me. Whatever happened, I’d make it through.

Germany was done. Behind me, all the magic and wonder and mystery of it. Before me, the ancient lands of Switzerland beckoned. And inside me, way down deep, the old, old ancestral memories stirred.

******************************************************

Well, last weekend I got it done. Went up to Aylmer to see Dad and Mom. It was a remarkable experience, and I’m still processing it. One of these days, after I get done telling about my European trip, I’ll get it written, how it was to see my father and talk to him about the book.

And looking back at all that Switzerland was to me, I have a couple of options. Or maybe three. Break my recent promise, and just crank it all out in one long, long post. Or break it up in two. Or just condense it. I don’t know which way it will come. But I’m about ready to get it all relived and told, so I can wander off to other fields.

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Distant Roads: The Cages of Muenster…

What is it that we know so well and cannot speak? What is

it that we want to say and cannot tell? What is it that keeps

swelling in our hearts its grand and solemn music, that is

aching in our throats, that is pulsing like a strange wild

grape through all the conduits of our blood….?

—Thomas Wolfe

_____________

It might as well have been a city on the moon, for all I knew of it growing up. And even after I was grown up. Countries in Europe were never even remotely on my radar screen, not in any real sense. Sure, I knew those countries existed, like Germany. And I read about Berlin, because of the Wall. But not Muenster. I might well have lived my whole life and never even heard of the place. And you don’t know what you don’t know, until you do.

And right at twenty years ago, I learned a little bit of what I didn’t know. It was sometime during my first year at Bob Jones University, that timid and self-conscious time when I was wearing my detestable straight-cut suit coat to classes, as any good plain Mennonite would. And now and then, while studying at the library, I searched for any books that would shed a little more light on my Anabaptist heritage. I don’t know what I was looking for. Some original writings, maybe. And to its credit, BJU had a few volumes tucked away on some remote shelves in the religion section. I picked them up and paged through them. Sat there and read chunks from different chapters.

All I ever knew about the Anabaptists, all I’d learned growing up, had come from two sources. From the sermons of Amish preachers, and from the Martyr’s Mirror. My spiritual forefathers were always a persecuted people, always harassed and hunted and tortured and drowned and burned at the stake for their faith. That’s all I had ever heard and that’s all I knew. Or thought I knew. Until I paged through those few books at the library at BJU. And it just jumped out at me. Some of those vaunted Anabaptist forefathers weren’t all they’d been cracked up to be, in those sermons. Nah. Some of them were real scoundrels. Radicals. Riff raff. And it was startling to me. It really was.

Because some of them had not been all that quiet or peaceable. Some of them had taken up the sword. Some of them had embraced violence, and inflicted blood and fire and death on others. I sat there, shocked. It’s like saying black is white, I thought. It can’t be. Anabaptists can’t be violent like that. They’re the ones everyone else hunted and killed. Both the evil Catholics and the Protestants. I’ll have to tell Dad about this. I wonder if he knows. I bet he does, and never told me. And I kept on reading. (Side note: The next time I went home to visit, I told Dad about my discovery. Did you know that, that some Anabaptists were crazy and violent? I asked him. He folded his arms and chuckled. “Har, har. Those weren’t real Anabaptists,” he said. Well, uh, yeah they were, I said. They were all re-baptizers. You can’t just pick and choose which ones were “real” or not. And we left it at that.)

The most brutal Anabaptist violence against others came down in the city of Muenster. There, a whacked-out firebrand of a leader named Jan von Leiden and his followers seized the city and proclaimed a new heaven on earth. Of course, the local king was not at all amused. Actually, he was quite furious. He besieged the city. But Jan and his followers weren’t about to give up their newfound heaven. They met force with force and violence with violence. Fire with fire and blood with blood. And they ruled the terrified inhabitants of Muenster with savage force as well.

It was a different time back then, obviously. And it’s tough, to grasp how it really was so long ago. Those were turbulent and dangerous days. You could easily lose your life, for thinking wrong. It was the struggle of the western world, to reach the place we now are. A place where you are free to think and believe what you want. Mostly, anyway. A post-Christian world, one might say, in Europe. Where most people recoil from any kind of personal profession of faith. A natural progression, maybe, a reaction to the cesspool of corruption that will always flow when people are taxed against their will to support any state-sponsored church. Any entity connected to the state will be corrupt from its inception. By nature. There’s no way it can be anything else, because the nature of the state is always corrupt and evil. But I digress. Bunny trail territory, right there.

The siege of Muenster dragged on for four brutal and bloody years, from 1533 to 1536. I won’t go into a lot of details. Let’s just say things got really hard and really messy inside those walls. Jan von Leiden ruled with an iron fist. Forced the city residents to either be re-baptized or face something a whole lot worse. Like being expelled from the city, turned over to the king’s murderous troops, lurking right outside the walls. Or stay and get murdered right in the city. There were no good choices for the common people trapped inside those walls. Food was scarce. And many of the men fell, either from starvation or during battles. Their widows needed husbands. So Jan took sixteen wives to himself. And lived in luxury, bedecked in gold and all kinds of finery, as the city starved around him.

Long-term, Jan could not win, of course. The king’s forces eventually broke through. The people inside Muenster were too weak and too starved to resist, after four years. And the king made an example of the leaders, so an uprising like that would never happen again. Jan and two of his henchmen were tortured to death in the public square. And this is where it all gets just a little creepy. After they had been dispatched by stabbing after having chunks of flesh torn from them with hot iron tongs, the king had the bodies of Jan and his two buddies stuffed into three cages. And hung them high on the steeple tower of the old church where Jan had ruled and preached and dictated the lives of others. Hung the cages up there on that steeple, and let the bodies decompose to the elements. As a warning to others. Don’t even try to rebel against the powers that be. Look what happens to those who did.

And that’s why I wanted to go to Muenster so badly. Because those cages still hang on that church today.

Thursday morning. I woke up feeling a little strange. And a little sad. It was all flying by so fast. The first week, more than half over now. And Leuphana University, the reason I had even been invited here, that was over, too. I’d leave today. Probably never see this place again, I thought. I puttered about, packing my things into Big Red and the little burgundy carry-on. The bags bulged at the seams. Heavier, now. People had given me gifts, here and there. A book. Another book. This and that. It all had to be packed in. After checking the room top to bottom to make sure nothing was left behind, I pulled my bags out and down to the front desk. The nice lady smiled at me. Well, she wasn’t actually that nice, but cordial enough. And she spoke a little English. I’m leaving, I told her. Is there anything I have to sign? “The University took care of everything,” she assured me. I thanked her and lugged the bags outside, into the little courtyard. Maryann and the taxi should be here right soon. At nine, she’d promised me.

We had plenty of time to catch our 9:30 train, Maryann had claimed. We had our tickets. It’s ten minutes, to the station. But I insisted on leaving early. Get there, so you’re there. It doesn’t hurt to wait. That’s what I do at airports, too. The few times I fly, I mean. Get there early, and just hang out. Wait, make it tight, and who knows what will happen? A little traffic jam will make you miss your flight. Or your train. The taxi showed up right on time, and we were off. I looked out the windows, got my last glimpses of Luenberg as the taxi cruised down the deserted streets. Ascension Day. A holiday. Not a lot going on. I looked around and thought, this town sure has been good to me. It really has. And now I’m leaving it. You absorb one thing as it comes at you, you walk through it. Then it’s gone and the next one comes.

I don’t know how efficient it actually is, what with the government running it and all, but the train systems I saw in Germany and later in Switzerland were pretty astounding. The coaches are roomy and comfortable. The trains run on time. And if you miss the one you wanted, another train will come along, usually before long. Our train hissed in and stopped. People piled off first, then on. Maryann found the right coach, and I followed her on board. We found our reserved seats in a little walled-off room, by the windows. I want to see the land, I had told her. And she got us window seats. I pretty much just looked out to see what I could see as the train slid out, picked up speed, and swooped across the ancient landscape. Muenster, I said. I can’t believe it. Here we come.

It’s built to last, pretty much everything you see in Germany. Their building codes would drive me crazy, I’m sure. So many hoops to jump through. These people don’t even know what a pole building is, I thought. Back home, the buildings I sell, those poles are warrantied not to rot in the ground for forty years. Forty years around here, they’ve barely started using the building. They’d never construct something so, uh, temporary. If you build something, make sure it has a good chance to last for a good long time. Generations. Hundreds of years, if not a thousand. Or more. Doesn’t matter, really, what it is. Houses, office complexes, old churches. And they all flashed by as we rolled on and on. Farmers toiled in the fields on their tractors, tilling the earth. Just like back home, I thought.

And something else stood out that I surely hope won’t be around in a thousand years, although the Germans probably built them to last that long. They stabbed into the sky like giant aliens, great forests of them, hundreds of feet high. One of the ugliest atrocities ever devised by humans. Giant windmills, with those huge three-pronged propeller blades that never seem to be turning when you see them. I couldn’t believe the Germans got taken by that scam. Those things are just flat-out appalling, I grumbled to Maryann. Why would they install something so revolting? Gashes in the sky, is what they are.

It’s the price of buying into the political correctness of the “Green” gospel, those massive, abominable windmills. All to get away from traditional forms of energy, to “save the earth”, this Garden of Eden that humans have defiled. And are in the process of destroying. Within a few generations, the time will come when people will look back, aghast, that such an obviously devious scheme was ever foisted on the populace. That such atrocities were ever allowed to mar the natural beauty of their ancient landscape. They will tear them down, people in the future, they will tear down those monuments to colossal stupidity as if they never stood. And they’ll shake their heads in disbelief at this hopelessly naïve generation. They will. That time will come. I am convinced of it.

The train pulsed along. Maryann and I talked and talked, even though I was peering out the window most of the time. She told me of how it was, to live in Germany, her adopted country. How she first came over, years ago, as a student. And pretty much stayed on. She talked of the classes she taught in American Studies, about writing in general, and my book. Now and then, the train slid into some station along the way and stopped. Passengers got on and off. And after one such stop, she told me. “Muenster is next. It’s coming right up.”

And it stirred inside me, the nervous tension and excitement. Here I was, approaching the site of some really dark history from my people. Here, this is where all that terrible stuff unfolded, evil stuff that was never told and never taught. I can’t express, really, why it was so important to me. But it was. I wanted to see the church. I wanted to see the cages. Stand there and look at them. Stand on the ground where the evil had come down from all sides. Confront it. Speak it.

The train slowed and stopped. We struggled out of the little compartment with our luggage. Walked out onto the platform and down the steps. A stranger in a strange land, I stayed close to Maryann as we plunged through the crowds and headed toward the station entrance. Outside, we approached the line of taxis, and boarded the first one. Maryann told the driver the name of our hotel, and off we went. Less than ten minutes later, we unloaded in front of a classic old hotel close to the old town section. We walked in, and signed in. I pulled out a roll of Euros and paid up front for our rooms. Might as well get rid of some of these Euros Sabrina gave me, I figured. I can’t spend them back home.

Half an hour later, after unpacking and settling in our rooms, we headed out. A beautiful perfect day. My trusty messenger bag was strapped across my shoulder, as always. With my passport, some cash and my iPad, to take some pics. And a copy of my book. I always carried one of those in my bag, just for anyhow. “The old church is right over there,” Maryann pointed to a steep Gothic steeple piercing the skies. “That’s where the cages are.” OK, I said. Let’s go. I can’t wait to see them. We walked down the worn brick sidewalks. All the stores were closed for Ascension Day. Crowds of holidayers strolled about. Down the sidewalks we walked, around a curve. The old church loomed. I scanned the steeple. No cages, from this direction, I said. “I think they’re on the other side,” Maryann replied. We walked on.

Approaching the “cage church”.

It was a huge, looming, gloomy church, with a tall, tall black steeple. We walked past the front, around to the courtyard on the other side. And Maryann stopped, and pointed up. “There they are,” she said. And I stood there and looked up. And there they were. The cages of Muenster. Right there, above the huge steeple clock. Hanging there, where they’ve hung for almost five hundred years. I stood there and looked and looked. Stared and stared. The cages. There are the cages. You don’t understand, I said to Maryann. This is part of my history they never told me. They never taught it. Anabaptists were always poor innocent people, in my world. Always persecuted because of their faith. Always hunted like animals. They never told me this story. They never told me of the dark side. That’s why it’s so important for me to see for myself.

In the presence of the cages.

The cages up close.

I stood there on those ancient bricks in the sunlight and absorbed the place. For a long time. This, then, is where it happened, that dark chapter in the history of my spiritual forefathers. Back in those turbulent, turbulent times, back when people pretty much from every side had blood on their hands, one way or the other, in some form. This was the spot. Anabaptists. Rebaptizers. They rose up in this city, and they hung up there in those cages, I thought. Wiedertaufer, the Germans call them. It’s a dirty word, in mainstream church history. From both Catholics and Protestants.

And I thought, too. Because of what happened here, maybe that’s why the Martyr’s Mirror has so many stories of persecution and death. Because you can bet the powers that be went after the Wiedertaufer with full force, after what happened here. Didn’t matter if they claimed to be nonresistant, as in fact a great many if not the majority of them were. They were deeply tainted by Muenster. And I can understand why. Not from today’s perspectives. But from a tiny glimpse of the perspectives of the times. We can’t judge history that far back by our standards. We can say with absolute certainty that certain actions were wrong. But we can’t actually judge those people, not without taking into consideration the times in which they lived. Had we been there then, would we have been any different? It’s simply hubris, to claim we would have been.

The cages are completely empty. No shreds remain of the bodies that were encased in them. They have decomposed completely and scattered to the winds. Someone once told me that in the early to mid-1800s, some sun-bleached bones could still be seen in the cages. But time and the elements have claimed even those. Jan von Leiden and his two thug henchmen have been wiped completely from the face of the earth. Only the stories remain, of who they were and what they did. That, and the cages, silent specters, witnesses to the awful fate to which they were condemned.

After twenty minutes or so, we slipped through a little side entrance into the old church. The interior was just huge and breathtaking. Off in one corner stood an elderly nun, at a little information table. She was chatting with another tourist. We waited our turn respectfully. After the tourist wandered away, we approached. She smiled at us in welcome. Her name was Sister Huberta. Maryann spoke to her and the two of them rattled back and forth in German so fast that I hardly understood a word. “The cages,” Maryann told her. “This man is a descendant of the Wiedertaufer. He came to see the cages.”

“Oh, yes, the Wiedertaufer and the cages,” Sister Huberta was all smiles. Genuine smiles, too, considering where I came from. She opened a folder and showed me. Sketches of the evil Jan von Leiden and his two main henchmen. And she told us. “They ruled the city for four years, from 1533 to 1536. This church is where he preached and ruled. Things were not good. He beheaded one of his wives.” A fact I had read, and knew to be true. I chatted with Sister Huberta, through Maryann. Any chance I can get up in that tower and actually look at those cages close up? Her face fell a bit. “No, because of legal issues.” Maryann translated. That figures, I thought. Legal issues. I smiled at Sister Huberta. Then I asked. Would you take a picture with me? “Of course,” she told Maryann. “But not inside the church. I’ll walk outside with you.” Do you think she’d hold a copy of my book for the pic? I asked Maryann. I have one right here in my bag. So Maryann told her. “This man comes from the Amish and wrote a book about it. Would you hold it for the picture?” Of course she would, she beamed.

Jan von Leiden as depicted in Sister Huberta’s folder.

Maryann, Sister Huberta, and me.

Catholics are supposed to be all guilt-ridden, I know. Amish guilt is very close to Catholic guilt, and I’ve been there, done that. But Sister Huberta exuded mostly joy, not guilt. She was simply welcoming and joyful, even to a descendant of the despised Wiedertaufer. She chattered right along with Maryann, then smiled and wished us well and took her leave. Walked back to her post inside the church.

We strolled back into the church and looked around. The pulpit tower was still there, the spot where Jan had stood and preached. That, and the remnants of the bases of many statues of saints he and his rabid iconoclastic followers had smashed. Off to one corner stood a couple of tables with candles. A stack of unlit candles off to one side, by a little collection box. For a small donation, you could light your own candle, say your own prayer. I clinked a few Euros into the little collection box. Then Maryann and I both lit candles and stuck them on the tables with the others. I didn’t think to say a prayer, so I didn’t. My prayer was in my heart. And before the Lord, the heart speaks powerfully without words, whatever its condition, whether you want it to or not.

Jan von Leiden preached and ruled from this pulpit.

Maryann planting her candle.

Our adventures with the cages weren’t quite done, though. We strolled on out to the courtyard toward the old shops lining the streets. And an elderly gentleman approached us. “You are from the Wiedertaufer?” he asked. I don’t know how he knew that. Maybe he’d been watching us, or maybe he had been inside the church and overheard our conversation with Sister Huberta. “Yes,” Maryann responded, motioning at me. “He is.”

“I live here in Muenster,” he said proudly. “Back in such and such a year (It was in the 1990s sometime), Muenster was voted the most beautiful city of its size in all the world.” He beamed. We beamed back. How nice. But he had something more to tell us. “Right here,” he said, pointing down to the bricks on which we stood. “Right here is the spot in the public square where they tortured and killed the three Wiedertaufer leaders, before they hung them up there in those cages.” I looked down. And there was a little plaque, inserted among the bricks. Marking the spot where the scaffold had stood. And again, I just stood there in awe, absorbing this moment and this place.

“You’ll want to go to the Museum,” the man said pointing. “It’s just over there, a few blocks. They have some displays of when it happened, there. With real things from that time in our city.” Maryann chatted with the nice man for a few more minutes, then he turned and strolled away, quite satisfied with himself. I looked at him as he walked away and marveled. He was the only person on the whole trip who popped out of nowhere to speak to me like that, then just disappeared. It was more startling in retrospect than it seemed right at the moment. Later, I thought about it. He was waiting for us. What chance was there that he would show up to show us this spot? And direct us? What chance was there of that?

The stranger who showed up to guide us.

After a quick bite of pizza and a glass of beer in the courtyard right below the cages, we set off for the museum. There were a dozen or more rooms of displays. Numbers six and seven dealt with the Muenster Wiedertaufer rebellion and the cages. We walked through slowly, I drank in every display. The information signs were all in German. I pestered Maryann. Was sagt Das? Was sagt Das? What does this say? And she cheerfully translated for me. They had exact replicas of the three cages, hanging there. Odds and ends of this and that, including a set of torture tongs. The sign said these were likely the actual tongs used to tear chunks of flesh from Jan von Leiden and his two deputies. They hung there, on the wall. There were many other stern signs, too. In English and German. Do Not Touch. But I touched those tongs. And a few other forbidden items. I think Maryann was a little horrified at me. It didn’t matter. I was here. And I was going to experience this all the way.

By late afternoon, we returned to our hotel. My room was small but very nice. You could open up the window from the third floor and lean right out over the street. Where I come from, you could never do that. But right that moment, I couldn’t appreciate my surroundings much. I was just exhausted, physically and emotionally. After a brief nap, I met up with Maryann and we walked back out to find dinner. We stopped at a very nice little outdoor café. And afterward, we strolled through the lit streets and sidewalks of the old town, window shopping. The whole setting was just surreal.

Night walk. Window shopping. Muenster. Duetschland.

The “cage church” at night.

The next morning, after a scrumptious breakfast in the hotel dining room (European hotels got breakfast down, big time), we took a last quick walk about the old town. Past the dark old church where the cages hung, a few blocks to another huge church. I shudder a bit to think where all the labor and materials came from, to build those huge old monuments of churches, centuries ago. Taxing the poor peasants to death, probably. That got the materials. And I don’t know, but I bet the laborers were pressed into service for the church, when they would have rather been out there working for themselves. I don’t know that. But I suspect it was so.

We walked into the massive old stone church. A huge statue stood there, toward the front, towering over everyone who walked in. “St. Christopher,” Maryann told me. “The patron saint of travelers.” Great, I said. This is an apt place to come, the morning I take off on my own for the first time. I felt the tension inside me from that. So far, someone had always been with me, to guide me, to take me, to show me. This morning, Maryann was heading back to Luenberg, back to her work and school. This morning, I was heading on over to Mainz, to speak at Johannes Gutenberg University that night. I could do it, travel alone. It was all set up. My hotel in Mainz was just across the street from the train station, they told me. Simple. Just walk out, look for the King Hotel, and go in. They’ll be expecting you. Still, I figured this little stop to see St. Christopher was a good thing. Can’t hurt, to cover all your bases. We each lit a candle in that church, as well.

St. Christopher and the Christ child.

Planting my candle.

Back, then, to the hotel, to pack up to leave. And right on time, the taxi pulled up outside. We loaded our luggage, got in, and headed to the train station. I thanked Maryann over and over, profusely. Thanks for bringing me, for taking the time when you had a lot of other very important things that needed your attention. Thanks for realizing how important this was to me. And she gave me a hundred detailed instructions about trains, train schedules and such. We walked out to the platform. Our trains were departing minutes apart, going in opposite directions. Mine pulled in first. “Good luck. You’ll be OK,” Maryann assured me. We hugged good-bye. And I stepped onto the train for Mainz. All by myself.

A stranger in a strange land, I had seen and lived wondrous, wondrous things. And where I was going, there would be many, many more.

**********************************************

A couple of housekeeping notes. First, my last blog post was too long. I apologize for that. I wanted to cram in at least the first four days, the traveling and the Leuphana experience. It was too much to condense any more. And before I knew it, there were eleven pages of writing. Plus the pics. It was about as bad as an Amish preacher who doesn’t know when it’s time to shut up and sit down. Y’all come here to read a few pages on a blog, not a freakin’ chapter in a book.

And that’s why I broke this blog down to the single experience of Muenster. It would have been too much, to try to cram Mainz and its aftermath into this narrative. I figure there’s probably two more blogs about the trip. One for Mainz and beyond (still in Germany), and one for my week in Switzerland. I may wander off onto other trails before they all come out, but I’ll get them written eventually. Bear with me. And I promise. No more long-winded blogs.

I had planned to travel up to Aylmer to see my parents before my trip to Europe, but somehow it didn’t work out. So I told Dad I’d come up sometime in June. It’s looking like it might happen next weekend. I’m looking forward to seeing him. Just talking to him. I haven’t seen him since he’s read the book. And I want to print out and show him a few color photos of scenes from the trip. He’ll like that a lot, I think.

We’ll see how it all works out, and how the writing of it will come.

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Distant Roads: Leuphana University…

Suddenly he thought of Germany, and thought of it with

intense longing. Of all the countries he had ever seen,

that was the one, after America, which he liked the most,

and in which he felt most at home…It was also a country

above all others whose mystery and magic haunted him.

—Thomas Wolfe

_____________

I don’t know what it is, I grumbled to myself, that it always has to be like this. Just throw some stuff in a bag, and go with that. You don’t have to pack your entire wardrobe. Underwear, socks, a few shirts, some jeans, and maybe a pair of khakis and a jacket. Should be simple enough, for a two-week foray. Sadly, though, those little musings went right out the window the second I actually started packing for my trip.

I have a big old red suitcase on wheels, part of a set Ellen and I bought way back. She took the smaller pieces, and left me with the big one. And it’s always worked well for me on road trips. Throw in anything you think you might need, and that way you’ll have it with you. But this wasn’t a plain old road trip. This time, I was heading out on a jet plane. A large plane, to places I’d never even dreamed of seeing before. And since I was lugging the big red suitcase along, I might as well fill it.

I needed a carry-on bag, too. Keep a change of clothes and a few other necessities with you, in case the big bag gets lost. So the week before departure, I wandered into the mall to check out luggage prices. I was pretty horrified. Little carry-on’s with wheels ran right at $100 or more. No way I was going to pay that. Then good old TJ Maxx came through for me. A Chaps carry-on with a pull-out handle and rollers for fifty bucks. Sure, it was a deep burgundy color, but who cared? Burgundy and red was cool with me. Matching luggage has never been even remotely on my priority list.

I waited until Friday night to pack, the night before leaving. Stuffed in way too many shirts, my trusty old sports jacket, and a couple of shirt-jacs, and my black camo fleece jacket. I like to stay casual. It’s way more comfortable. Or maybe I’m just old and set in my ways. I packed my vitamins and my cold medicine. Still nursing my savage head cold, I went to bed late, my head buzzing from the cold meds. I tossed restlessly all night.

I woke up early, tense and nervous. This was the day. The day that was a long time coming. I was leaving for Germany. Setting out on a journey unlike any I had ever seen before. It was a big thing, in my mind. Still nursing my cold, I got up and followed my normal routine. Putzed around, ran down to Sheetz for coffee. Packed the last stuff in my bags. Fretted about what I’d forget. Departure time was 6:10 PM. And I left my home around One that afternoon. Drove over to Graber Supply, to park my truck there. A friend had agreed to run me to Philly, so I wouldn’t have to pay to park for two weeks at the airport.

He dropped me off at British Airways Departure gate shortly before 3 PM. And I walked into an airport to board a plane for the first time since Tyndale flew me out to Chicago back in 2010. I can do this, I thought. I will do this. The counter guy scanned my passport, tagged my luggage, and handed me my boarding pass. Directed me to security, where I knew they’d be waiting for me. The TSA thugs.

I approached them as a lamb. Whatever happened, I would take it. I would tell it later, too. My demeanor must have been sufficiently submissive, because they didn’t single me out. I did what they told me to do. Took off my shoes. Took everything out of my pockets, placed all my stuff in little tubs. Then stepped into a space-age booth and stood there, shoeless and beltless. Holding up my hands up to fit the profile on the glass. An utterly submissive citizen. No peep from me. They weren’t done, though. After passing through all that hassle with no trouble, one of the thugs on the other side approached me. Spoke. “I’m going to do a patdown,” he told me. OK, I said. He felt around my stomach a bit. Didn’t dig down, much further, with his hands. “You may proceed,” he said. So I did. As any good sheep would.

There’s a special law out there in the universe about me and planes. An obscure law, but one that always holds true on flights of over two or three hours. Wherever I sit, there will be a child within ten seats, more likely six. A child, anywhere from an infant to, oh, say, five years old. And that child will always have a voice. A great loud orator’s voice.

I crossed myself as I stepped onto the intercontinental jet, a huge tub of plane. The crowds slowly jostled through Business Class. I looked enviously at the broad expanse of space in those seats. It sure would be nice, to land up in one of those. But no, on back we went, through a curtain, to economy class. Rows and rows and rows of seats, tightly packed together. By some miracle, I landed up in an aisle seat. At least I could stretch my legs. And in front of me, three seats away to the right, the appointed flight orator was warming up. A four-year-old, probably. A tousle-headed little urchin with puffy lips. He was not happy at all. And he didn’t care who knew it. The great orators of history had nothing on this kid. Someday, he’ll probably end up in politics, which would be a sad waste of such a powerful, piercing voice.

I settled into my seat, beside a nice middle-aged couple. And the plane took off, right on time, right to the minute. Off we swooped, then up and up to 38,000 feet. It’s a different world in there, in that plane. Everyone is just so used to flying that no one thinks of the million little details that must connect and coordinate precisely to make it even possible. I thought of that, though. And it was just a strange flight, all around. First, they came trundling around with a little cart. Whiskey, wine, or beer. Take your pick. It’s part of the trip. No extra cost. I asked for scotch, and the nice man poured a little bottle of Johnny Walker Red into a plastic cup, added the ice I had requested, and handed it right over. This is wild, I thought. Very soon, another cart came trundling. Food, this time. A full meal, I forget what it was. Edible enough.

After that, we just settled in. I slumped in my seat. Dozed off. Jolted awake to the orator’s howls, now and then. A few hours passed. We had taken off in the evening, and flown into the night. And suddenly, it was dawn. Right outside the window, the sun was coming up. I glanced at my watch. It was around 1 AM, home time. I slumped back into my seat and slept. Off and on as the orator roared and roared again. They should have a special walled-off section for people traveling on planes with little children, I thought groggily. Why has no one thought of this before?

And right on time, we approached Heathrow Airport in London. That’s another “holy” place I’ve always wanted to visit. England. But I never got there yet. My time here would be brief. Just changing planes to my destination. A layover of just over an hour. It should be simple enough. Of course, it turned out to be far from simple. Heathrow is an evil, evil airport. I walked in cheerfully and quite innocently. How hard could it be, to change planes? The gate I needed probably was close by somewhere, I figured. I figured way, way wrong. It was a jungle, a minefield, that place. I looked for my boarding gate. No such number to be found. So I followed the signs. Downstairs, a crowd was gathering. I stood, forlorn and puzzled. A nice lady approached me, an airport employee. I told her where I needed to be, and she waved me toward the crowd. “Take the train,” she said. Train? In an airport? A minute or two later, the little train swept in. I packed myself into the crowd on the second car. The train bucketed along at frightful speeds for a few minutes, then slid into a station. I poured out with the crowd. Just walk. Go where they’re going.

Up a huge escalator and round about, we plunged into a big, big room, like a herd of stampeding cattle. There, people stood on point, glancing at every person’s ticket, and then directing them to the right place. I approached and showed my ticket to a balding bespectacled man. “Down that line,” he said in clipped tones, pointing. “But, no, wait. I’m putting you in the express lane.” Express lane. That sounded ominous. Am I in a time crunch, here? But faster is always better. Don’t ask questions. Just go. I shot through the crowds, up another escalator, and circled around to a security line. Security? I just got off a plane. Why more security?

There was no choice but to walk forward. At least you didn’t have to remove your shoes. I dropped my stuff into plastic tubs, including half a bottle of water I plucked from my shirt-jac pocket. The tall guard lurking nearby stirred and swooped in. “You cahn’t take this on the plane with you,” he barked accusingly, waving the bottle around in a most agitated manner. OK, OK. I waved dismissively. Throw it away, you blithering idiot, I thought to myself. Earn some of that colossal waste of funds we’re throwing at people like you to harass people like me. It’s water, for crying out loud. You know that as well as I do.

And then I was through, and followed the signs downstairs to my gate. A bus was parked outside, not a plane. I approached the young lady sitting at the station by her computer, a Muslim girl in full head covering. Timidly showed her my ticket. Am I in the right place? The English are often rude and thoughtless people. But this girl was not. She smiled and told me to have a seat. She would announce when it was time to board.

And she did, about twenty minutes later, after a small crowd had assembled. We all walked out and piled into the bus. The driver slid the bus along, on the left side of the road, and pulled up next to a small jet, parked way out on the edge of things. A stairs had been pushed up to the jet. We got off the bus and walked up the stairs onto the plane. Outdoors, like they used to do way back when commercial flying was in its infancy. That’s how Heathrow treated me. Primitive, that’s what that whole operation was.

It was a short flight to Hamburg, so of course no orator showed up. They never do, when it doesn’t matter. I felt tense and strange inside. This was the second leg of the journey, the short jaunt over. Next stop, Germany. The plane swooped down. We landed and bumped to a crawl. I had arrived. I walked into the airport and stood on German soil for the first time in my life. Exhausted and drained, I stared about me. The signs were all in German. Everyone around me spoke in German. A wild strange journey it had been, indeed, but here I was. It‘s been a long, long road from the horse and plow to this point, I thought. A long, long road.

Trundling along with the little burgundy carry-on, which turned out to be an excellent, excellent purchase, I followed the signs to Baggage Claim to find my big red suitcase. As inefficient as they were at Heathrow, I more than half expected it hadn’t made it. On the way over, I stopped at a little booth to show my passport to a nice man behind the glass. He glanced at my document, and welcomed me to Germany. That was real nice, I thought. Customs sure was simple, right there. I walked on out, and sure enough, Big Red was bumping along on the baggage belt. By some miracle, the Heathrow people had transferred it to the right plane on time. I grabbed it and followed the signs to the exit. Sabrina must be waiting. I was running a little behind. And just as I approached the exit, three stooges in uniforms accosted me with merry waves. Gleefully. “Hey, stop. We must inspect your bags.” I hadn’t cleared customs after all, according to these guys. And since I had no reason to doubt them, I followed them back into another room. I’m a sheep, I thought. At least as far as these guys will ever know, I am.

The head stooge was quite full of himself. Pompous and abrupt. How long would I be in the country? A week, I said. “Well, we must inspect your bags.” Go ahead, I said. I lifted Big Red onto the little table. Opened my suitcase. The Pompous One pawed through my stuff. Asked a few more inane questions. And found me harmless enough. “All right. Take your bags and go.” I took them and went. Buncha’ thugs, I thought grimly. I detest borders. All borders.

I walked through the exit, and there they stood. Sabrina and a colleague, Lynette. Sabrina introduced us to each other, and we trundled my bags out to the parking garage. Lynette had driven her car here to meet me. We chatted as we walked out. My head felt woozy. Yes, I had a good flight. I’m feeling a little strange, from the time change. I can’t believe I’m in Germany. I want to see what there is to see. I want to see the land.

We drove out of the city, through little villages on two-lane highways. German roads seemed quite normal. People drove on the right, just like back home. And just like that, it hit me. An overwhelming weariness. I hung my head and almost drifted off, as Sabrina and Lynette chatted and chatted right along. Here is such and such a thing. This area is known for thatched roofs on houses. They’re getting more and more scarce these days, because of the insurance. But those thatched roofs are out there, and we’ll see some.

Well, who wouldn’t stay awake for that? I roused myself. We puttered past fields and through village after village. The lay of the land reminded me of Lancaster County. Black rich fertile earth. It smells the same, wherever you are in all the world. German farms are very different from what I’m used to seeing. The buildings are clustered in little villages. Barns, houses, stockyards, chickens pecking about. Way back, the farmers clustered together like that for mutual protection. From their village buildings, they go out and till their fields. It’s quite unique, from what I’m used to. But I guess it works. They’ve been doing this for far longer than there were farms in my country.

We cruised along, and soon enough, Lynette pointed. There. And I saw it, for the first time in my life. A real thatched grass roof on a real house that someone lived in. It was surreal, that little road trip from the airport. It really was. My head drooped, now and then. Not wanting to be rude, I always pulled myself back. And then, just as I was sliding off into delicious sleep, we stopped and walked into an ancient church in a little village. And I came back from where I wanted to be, to see this sight. Wake up, and look around.

Thatched-roof house across from the old church.

A while later, the ladies dropped me off at a nice little hotel close to the University. Sabrina helped me check in, and I trundled off to my room on the third floor. A single room, they called it. Small, with half a bed. Nice enough, except for one thing. No wireless connection. Well, they had wireless, but they charged for it. And that’s my only grumble about the place. But it was what it was. I threw my bags against the wall and collapsed on the bed for a short nap. At six, Sabrina and her family showed up to take me out into the old town, and to find something to eat.

The Völz family.

They were all the same as I’d remembered them from last August. Hans-Jurgen, Sabrina, and their children, Maximilian and Emily. I sat up front and we headed out to old town Lüneburg. It’s a small city, way up in northern Germany. I’d never heard of it before. But like every city, town and village in the country, Lüneburg has its own rich, rich history. It was once an extremely wealthy town, because of its salt mines. Wars have been fought over salt. It was a critical component for curing and preserving meat. And the Lüneburg merchants grew fat and rich. The area is quite proud of its past.

We walked through the old town. I just couldn’t grasp it, the history of the place. This would be the case throughout the entire two weeks I spent in Europe. How old it is. Little churches and vast cathedrals and lots and lots of old houses dot the landscape, places far older than the country I live in. It’s hard, to process all that when you’re around it. To really grasp what you’re seeing. That first night, I stood by a surviving section of the thick old brick wall that once surrounded the town. That’s almost biblical, a walled town. It’s so strange, I told Sabrina and Hans Jurgen. All that material and effort to protect people from intruders who would attack and kill them. Humans are their own worst enemies.

Schnitzel smothered with mushrooms. Excellent food.

We ate a little later, at a small bar and Gasthof. They wanted me to try the authentic German schnitzel, a flat, breaded pork product that reminded me of the tenderloin sandwiches I’ve eaten in small cafes in the Midwest. That, and fried potatoes, an old Amish staple. German food is heavy food. But delicious. And you must drink German beer with it. That’s pretty much a universal law in the country, near as I can tell. I’m not much of a beer guy, never have been. I drank more beer during my two-week trip than I have in the past five years, total. It was just part of the scene. And who am I to argue?

After dinner, Hans-Jurgen and Sabrina took me out to see the new home they had built about five years ago. A lovely house, designed to last a thousand years. I sat outside with them in the cool evening air, and we sipped one more beer and talked. They dropped me off at my hotel then, and I crept timidly up to my room on the third floor. I grumbled savagely to myself about the lack of wireless. Can’t check my email, or Facebook, so I might as well get some sleep. The bed was good and firm, and I quickly drifted off into fitful slumber. That was Day One. Tomorrow, the University.

The next morning, I awoke and got ready for the first day of the University adventure. Downstairs, in the hotel’s little restaurant, a great breakfast feast was spread out. One thing the Europeans got down is breakfasts in hotels. The tiniest rattiest place lays out hard-boiled eggs, three or four cheeses, plates of ham and and other sliced meats, a half dozen types of bread, granola and yogurt, and juice, and of course, strong black coffee. I’m not much of a breakfast guy, but who can turn down a spread like that?

Later, I drifted out through the courtyard and waited for someone to fetch me for the first class. The sidewalks swarmed with students, most of them on bicycles. The sidewalks there have designated bike paths, and these people whooshed back and forth and up and down with great abandon. Seemed like they would run right over you, if you didn’t watch your step. Time passed. I’m tense and nervous anyway, in strange settings like that, so I got a little tenser and a little more nervous. Come on, whoever was picking me up. That’s all I need, to show up late for my first speaking gig at a class, after all the trouble they went to, to get me over here. Time crept up, closer and closer to twelve. The class started at 12:15. Bicycles kept rushing by. Everyone knew where they were and where they were going. Except me. I stood there forlornly, clutching at my messenger bag strapped diagonally across my shoulder. I kept most of my money and my passport in that thing, and it stayed on or very close to me at all times. Lose it, and I’ll never make it back home.

I can only speak from where I was on this trip, and from what I saw. My first impression of the Germans around me was that they seemed rather dour and reserved. I didn’t see a whole lot of smiling going on. Maybe it’s those long, hard winters they have up this far north, I thought. And right then, she arrived. Julia, Sabrina’s student assistant. “Hi, you must be Ira,” she greeted me, smiling. I am, I said, smiling back. “Sorry, I’m running a bit late. We’re close to the classroom, though, so we’ll be on time.” We crossed the street and followed the bike path/sidewalks onto the University. I gaped around a lot. Great hordes of bikes stood parked in rows and rows. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Crowds of students strode purposefully about.

There wasn’t a whole lot of time to get nervous about speaking to a group of students in a foreign University, so I didn’t, mostly. When you’re walking through a door like that, stay who you are. Don’t try to be who you aren’t. But mostly, stay as calm as you can. We got to class a few minutes early, as Julia had promised. Sabrina met us and introduced me to her colleague, Maryann. Their classes would be combined today. They were all smiles. “The students are eager to hear you and meet you,” they both claimed. Yeah, yeah, I thought. Who’s eager to hear anyone lecture about much of anything? The room was packed out with probably about sixty students. Mostly young ladies, all of them quite beautiful, with a few guys scattered in here and there. I’m totally cool with that, though, speaking to roomful of beautiful women. I sat at a table up front. A few latecomers slipped in and sat at the back. All right, I thought. Here’s what I came for. Here we go.

Sabrina called the room to order, and introduced me. I saw that at least a few of the students clutched copies of my book. Wow. Maybe they really were eager to hear what I had to say, I thought. Sabrina’s introduction was quite long and quite complimentary. And then she turned to me. I smiled and thanked her. The students clapped a bit. And I just sat there and talked to them. When it comes to my book, and the Amish, I don’t have to prepare a lot. I know the subject matter.

And it was pretty much as it is back here at home, except for the location. American Studies in Germany are conducted in English. These students were all fluent in English. And I spoke to them in English. They looked at me as I spoke, focused on my words. And it seemed like Sabrina was right. They were eager to hear what I had to say. I’ve never been to Europe before, I told them. I’m excited and grateful to be here with you. You really have no idea how big a deal this is to me, to be here. It’s just flat out wild. My friends back home are quite in awe, as I am, too.

And then I spoke about where I came from, my childhood, and how it was to be raised Amish. A horse and buggy world, surrounded by modern society. And how it was to be torn from world to world as I left and returned and left again. About twenty minutes or so in, I read a passage from the book. And then I opened up for questions. I always like to do that, so you can talk about what people actually want to hear. And boy, did they have questions. Can I go home to see my family? Of course. How are my parents? Where is Sarah?

They grappled a bit with some of my answers. What do I think of the Amish now? I admire some the things they have preserved, like their work ethic. The West has lost that, mostly, now. What it is to really work. I deeply respect the culture, even though I could never, never live like that. That’s not the issue. To me, the issue is always freedom. I am free. The Amish should be free to live as they choose. To raise their children as they see fit. Who do the children belong to? I asked. The parents or the state? To me, it’s not even close. They belong to the parents. And if you tell me that Amish children don’t have much of a chance in life, I’ll tell you this. I was raised that way. It was really, really tough, to break away. But I did. I went on and got an education. Sure, I was older than the average student. But life’s not fair. People should be able to live freely as they choose, as the Amish live, if they want to. It’s none of my business what choices they make. As long as the freedom is there to make those choices.

This was a strange message, I think, to some of the students. Here I was, defending the people I had come from. When they knew from reading my book how I had almost lost my mind, breaking away. But that’s how I feel, and that’s what I told them. For true freedom to exist, there must be the ability to make free choices, even if the choices others make might be appalling to us.

Time flowed, and very soon, the hour and a half had passed. You’re welcome to bring your books up to sign, I said. And they lined up, those who had their copies with them. It all just seemed so surreal. Here I was, in a German University, signing copies of my book. And these people didn’t seem that reserved. They were very friendly, they stood there and smiled and smiled at me. And chatted and chatted, as well.

Afterward, Maryann took me to a nearby bakery, where we bought sandwiches and water and walked to a nearby park to eat. Like Sabrina and Lynette, Maryann was an expatriated American. She had lived in Germany for years, she told me. We chatted about a lot of things. She asked what all I’d like to see in Germany. I’m not going to make it, but I’d really like to see the city of Muenster, I told her. That place has some really dark Anabaptist history, the kind of stuff that was never taught to me. Because they were violent. I never knew that until after I was in college. I’d really like to go. But I guess I won’t make it.

After that first morning, things just came at me like a whirlwind. That evening, I spoke at a local high school, or Gymnasium, as they call it over there. A group of probably thirty or forty students and faculty. I’m always a little nervous, speaking to high school kids, because they tend to be unfocused. These kids were not. They locked right in as I talked, and actually came up with a good many very intelligent questions. After that was over, I signed a copy of the book I had brought along and donated it to the school library. And then a group of friends and faculty took me out to eat in old town Lüneburg.

Pub meal on Monday night.

I sat there with them in a pub that was older than the country I was born in, and we just laughed and chattered like old friends. That night, I tried fresh German asparagus, or Spargal, as they call it. White asparagus. The short harvest season was in full swing, and farmers were selling their produce from little farm stands. My food was very good, especially to a guy who never has been much of an asparagus fan. Washed down with a large glass of beer, of course. The evening came to a close, then, and Sabrina dropped me off at my hotel. Tomorrow would be pretty open, except for the big talk scheduled for Tuesday evening. The big talk, the one they made the posters for, the one open to the public.

Sabrina’s colleagues all genuinely welcomed me, at least the ones in her immediate group in American Studies. In Germany, the academic levels are a little different than here. These ladies all had post graduate degrees, but I get confused as to exactly where they were in the pecking order. A Doctorate in Germany is not the top. You have to have something more, to call yourself a Professor. A Post-Doctorate Doctorate, maybe, or something like that. Whatever. These people were all quite friendly and insisted that I call them by their first names. They all teach classes in the American Studies Department at Leuphana. And I can’t say enough about how gracious and welcoming they all were. Every one. “We’re so glad you could come,” they claimed. You have no idea, I replied. You have no idea how big a deal it is for me to be here. To be invited like this. It’s just beyond anything I’ve experienced before.

Sabrina’s gang, from Left: Lynette Kirschner, M.A.,

Dr. Maria Moss, and Maryann Henck, M.A.

The tension of that night’s talk pulsed inside me a good bit. But I pushed it back, mostly. I’ve spoken to large college audiences before, I told myself. The biggest crowd was at Grove City, last fall. You know your stuff. Don’t sweat it. But still, I felt it, the looming time, out there shadowing me like a ghost. This is Germany. These are German students. They’ll have high expectations.

Sabrina and her colleagues not only welcomed me, they insisted on showing me around the area. Ah, you don’t have to do that, I said. At least let me put some gas in your car. They wouldn’t hear of it, none of them. And that afternoon, Lynette was scheduled to show me about the town a bit. “The Salt Museum,” she suggested. “Would you like to see it?” Of course, I said. The Germans seem to have museums scattered about in every town, and even in some small villages. So early that afternoon, off we went. What could there be to see in a salt museum? Quite a bit, it turned out. Salt was the gold of the town for many centuries. Only in the 1980s was the mine finally shut down. The exhibitions were quite good.

After that, we took a walk about the old town. A certain section of Lüneburg is sinking, because of the mines below ground. Those streets have a lot of very old, very crooked houses. Lynette chattered on about the history of many of the places we walked past. The old houses were just fascinating status symbols of a time long ago. We also entered and toured an old church. Lynette filled me in on the story of the place. There are so many places and so many stories.

A typical home in the old town. A person with wealth built this home a long, long time ago.

And then it was back to the hotel. Evening approached. I changed into my khaki pants and jacket. Put on a long-sleeved shirt. Gotta be half presentable tonight, I figured. I had suggested that perhaps I could wear jeans and the jacket, since writers are generally considered weird anyway. No one cares how they’re dressed, and besides, jeans and jacket are quite presentable about anywhere, if you ask me. But Sabrina had kindly hinted that it might be good to dress up a notch from jeans that night. OK, I said. So I did.

Sabrina picked me up at six, and we drove over to the auditorium. Not a real large place, probably 175 seats or so. Sabrina had asked me earlier. “Would you donate a copy of your book? We’ll get the students to sign their names on slips of paper, and have a raffle when you’re done.” Sure, I said. A student stood outside each doorway, handing out the slips. And the place began filling up. About five minutes before go time, it was pretty much packed out. And still more people came. At 6:15, the steps up both sides were crammed with people, seated and standing. Sabrina seemed delighted and surprised. “We don’t usually have this many people showing up,” she told me. Usually forty to fifty is a good crowd.” Well, there were a heck of a lot more than forty to fifty people crammed into that room. I paced about nervously and leaned back against the wall behind the podium. It was time. Past time.

And then it just came down. Sabrina approached the podium with her notes. Again, her introduction was long and very complimentary. “Let’s welcome Ira Wagler,” she wrapped it up. The crowd clapped politely. Now it was my time, my turn. This right here was the reason they had brought me over. For this moment. I stepped up with my book and my page of scrawled notes. And I looked into that crowd and talked.

And it was good, pretty much right from the start. I speak better when there’s a little tension inside me. Keeps me focused. It’s a balance, really, between just the right degree of being relaxed and tense. I spoke of the things I always speak of. Where I come from, that world. How it was, to live in that world as a child. And how it was, to grow to the point where you wanted and desperately needed to see what was outside. A whole lot of faces, all of them, I think, were focused intently on me as I spoke. And time slid by. I glanced at my watch. I would make it through.

I read two passages that night, for the first time ever. Much of Chapter 12, about Rumspringa. And the first date scene with Sarah. That’s the one I usually read. And after the second reading, I wound it down. Opened up for questions. The part I like the most. And they came, oh, yes, they did. Boom, boom, boom, and boom again. The threads led from one point of interest to another.

And I slid it in, kind of tongue in cheek, for the first time over there. I judge a country by whether or not the Amish would be allowed to live in it in peace. They could not live here in Germany, I told the audience. Your country is not free enough. You all need to work on that. I have a lot of issues with America, primarily because it is the most murderous, warmongering country in the world. I’m as anti-war as my father ever was. More so, if that’s possible. But I deeply respect the fact that the Amish can exist there. There aren’t a whole lot of places where they’d be allowed to live as they do.

Question after question poured in, and finally Sabrina walked over to the mike. “One more question, then it’s time to close it down,” she declared. So I took one more. In Germany, they often show appreciation by clapping their open palms down on the table. As I wrapped it up, Sabrina walked to the table beside the podium, lifted her hand high, and clapped it down. No, whacked it down. Hard. The students didn’t follow her lead. They didn’t clap the desk tops before them. Instead, the whole room erupted into real clapping. And it went on and on. (It was probably only ten seconds or so, but to me it seemed a lot longer.) I stood there, smiling gratefully and a little sheepishly. I even waved a bit. Still they clapped. It was a weird moment. And a beautiful one. What a fantastic crowd. Finally I stepped back up to the mike. Thank you. Thank you. If anyone has a copy of the book they want me to sign, I will be honored. The applause slowed and died. A minute later, about twenty-five people had lined up, holding their copies of the book. I took a moment to speak to each one. Thanked them for attending. Thanked them for reading my stuff.

Afterward, it was out to another ancient pub, hanging with good friends, eating fantastic food and drinking a tall, tall glass of Weizen beer. That was the night the waiter rebuked me for pouring ketchup over the thin but delicious potato cakes on my plate. “No ketchup, that’s bad,” he scolded. I grinned at him and kept right on shoveling.

And the next morning, at eleven, I spoke to my last group at Leuphana. A class of probably thirty-five students. A writing class. Life writing, they called it. I sat there at a table up front, totally comfortable in jeans, shirt-jac and camo T-shirt, and just talked to them. About how it is for me, what it is to write. How it all began, right here on this blog. And how this place is where I can speak my voice right now. So that’s where I’m writing. In your story, you have to be honest about yourself, I told them. Otherwise, your narrative won’t be credible. Don’t play the innocent victim. Few are innocent. I’m sure not, in my story. After class, a few of the students lingered to chat and ask questions. And get their books signed. I was honored.

Off then, to lunch with Sabrina and her colleagues at the dining hall. We sat around a table with a few other teachers. The food was quite tasty, for cafeteria food. And then we walked over to Sabrina’s office. Maryann accompanied us. “Come with me,” Sabrina said. We walked down the hall into another office. “Mr. Wagler is here for his money,” Sabrina told the nice lady behind the desk. And the nice lady counted it out in cold, hard cash. Nine hundred Euros. Sabrina had told me that’s what I’d get. I never could understand why, quite. The University had flown me over. Put me up. Fed me. And now, this. You people really are quite mad, you know, I said. There’s no way I earned this. “It’s what we pay our Writers in Residence,” Sabrina replied. “Of course you earned it.” Writer in Residence, I thought. So that’s what I was. Writer in Residence, I said. How cool is that?

We walked back to Sabrina’s office, and I sat there, talking to her and Maryann. The next day, Thursday, was a national holiday. Ascension Day. We hadn’t quite figured out what I would be doing, but it was time to move on, I felt. I got some cash to burn here, I said. All these Euros. I can’t take them home. I have to spend them here. Maryann grinned at me. “I could go with you over to Muenster tomorrow on the train, and show you around,” she said. “I lived there for a year, way back. I know the place.”

Yes. Yes. Yes. I half-shouted. If you take me to Muenster, I’ll pay your train ticket and your hotel room tomorrow night. Then I can head on over to Mainz on Friday, and you can come back here. “I do have a presentation paper to finish before next week,” she said. Write it on the train, I told her. Take me to Muenster. Please. I don’t have the nerve to travel down there by myself. And look, I have all these Euros, I said, waving them in her face. I have to spend them somewhere. Take me to Muenster. She picked up her phone and called an old hotel she knew of close to the center of old town Muenster. And minutes later, she had two rooms booked for Thursday night. We stopped by the train station later and I bought our tickets. Muenster. I was actually going. I couldn’t quite believe it. The old city with so much history, the city that harbors the darkest and most unique stain in all of Anabaptist history.

And there was still one more adventure, there in Lüneburg that afternoon. Maria, Sabrina’s colleague, wanted to take me over the line into old East Germany. It wasn’t far, she claimed. “I want to take you. Show you what it was like.” East Germany, I thought. I definitely want to see that. And after lunch, we took off in her vehicle. Maria and Maryann and me.

And she told me how it used to be, to cross over. And what a nightmare it was to come back. She showed me the spot where the guard shack was, at the border. The border guards were always suspicious of everyone. And for any reason or none, they’d wave your car off to a side lot. And you’d wait there for hours, and they wouldn’t come. “That’s how it was,” she said. “There was nothing you could do.”

And she pointed to the bike path set way back off to right of the road, going in. “That was a dog run,” she said. “Miles and miles and miles of it. Those poor dogs ran and ran and ran endlessly up and down the runs. The dirt was packed so hard, they couldn’t do much with it. So they made a bike path.”

Maria wanted to show me an old guard tower along the river. There were two of them still standing in one area, she told me. “They tore most of them down before they realized they should leave a few. To show how it was and what it was. Still, the locals don’t like to talk about it. That part of the past they want to forget.”

And we drove around for quite a while, the three of us. We stopped and asked people. Where are the guard towers? And after recoiling a bit, the people always pointed and spoke. Over there. Such and such a street. By the river. It’s easy to find.

But it wasn’t easy to find, and we almost didn’t. In despair, we stopped and asked a farmer who stood out beside the road with his little son, collecting the mail. It was getting on to late afternoon. We had to find the tower soon. The farmer smiled and pointed. Gave specific directions. Directions that were wrong.

The tower had to be beside the river. And we kept plugging along until we found it. Kind of half following the farmer’s directions, but persistently moving toward the river. And then we saw it. A tower. Off in the distance. An evil needle of concrete and steel. A stark and brutal reminder of how it was back then, when people trapped behind that tower would be murdered in cold blood if they tried to escape. A symbol of the vile, pure evil that is the state.

And later that evening, Sabrina picked me up, and off we went again, to one of the old town pubs. An impromptu Pub Night with a small group of the students I had spoken to in the last three days. It was the eve of a holiday weekend. So only a few showed up. We sat about and talked, like old friends. Relaxed. Drank a glass or two of beer. It was all good.

And that was my experience at Leuphana University. I’m thinking it sure would be a lot of fun to go back and do it all over again sometime.

**************************************

Next post: To Muenster and Mainz

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Distant Roads: Leuphana University

Suddenly he thought of Germany, and thought of it with

intense longing. Of all the countries he had ever seen,

that was the one, after America, which he liked the most,

and in which he felt most at home…It was also a country

above all others whose mystery and magic haunted him.

—Thomas Wolfe

_____________

I don’t know what it is, I grumbled to myself, that it always has to be like this. Just throw some stuff in a bag, and go with that. You don’t have to pack your entire wardrobe. Underwear, socks, a few shirts, some jeans, and maybe a pair of khakis and a jacket. Should be simple enough, for a two-week foray. Sadly, though, those little musings went right out the window the second I actually started packing for my trip.

I have a big old red suitcase on wheels, part of a set Ellen and I bought way back. She took the smaller pieces, and left me with the big one. And it’s always worked well for me on road trips. Throw in anything you think you might need, and that way you’ll have it with you. But this wasn’t a plain old road trip. This time, I was heading out on a jet plane. A large plane, to places I’d never even dreamed of seeing before. And since I was lugging the big red suitcase along, I might as well fill it.

I needed a carry-on bag, too. Keep a change of clothes and a few other necessities with you, in case the big bag gets lost. So the week before departure, I wandered into the mall to check out luggage prices. I was pretty horrified. Little carry-on’s with wheels ran right at $100 or more. No way I was going to pay that. Then good old TJ Maxx came through for me. A Chaps carry-on with a pull-out handle and rollers for fifty bucks. Sure, it was a deep burgundy color, but who cared? Burgundy and red was cool with me. Matching luggage has never been even remotely on my priority list.

I waited until Friday night to pack, the night before leaving. Stuffed in way too many shirts, my trusty old sports jacket, and a couple of shirt-jacs, and my black camo fleece jacket. I like to stay casual. It’s way more comfortable. Or maybe I’m just old and set in my ways. I packed my vitamins and my cold medicine. Still nursing my savage head cold, I went to bed late, my head buzzing from the cold meds. I tossed restlessly all night.

I woke up early, tense and nervous. This was the day. The day that was a long time coming. I was leaving for Germany. Setting out on a journey unlike any I had ever seen before. It was a big thing, in my mind. Still nursing my cold, I got up and followed my normal routine. Putzed around, ran down to Sheetz for coffee. Packed the last stuff in my bags. Fretted about what I’d forget. Departure time was 6:10 PM. And I left my home around One that afternoon. Drove over to Graber Supply, to park my truck there. A friend had agreed to run me to Philly, so I wouldn’t have to pay to park for two weeks at the airport.

He dropped me off at British Airways Departure gate shortly before 3 PM. And I walked into an airport to board a plane for the first time since Tyndale flew me out to Chicago back in 2010. I can do this, I thought. I will do this. The counter guy scanned my passport, tagged my luggage, and handed me my boarding pass. Directed me to security, where I knew they’d be waiting for me. The TSA thugs.

I approached them as a lamb. Whatever happened, I would take it. I would tell it later, too. My demeanor must have been sufficiently submissive, because they didn’t single me out. I did what they told me to do. Took off my shoes. Took everything out of my pockets, placed all my stuff in little tubs. Then stepped into a space-age booth and stood there, shoeless and beltless. Holding up my hands up to fit the profile on the glass. An utterly submissive citizen. No peep from me. They weren’t done, though. After passing through all that hassle with no trouble, one of the thugs on the other side approached me. Spoke. “I’m going to do a patdown,” he told me. OK, I said. He felt around my stomach a bit. Didn’t dig down, much further, with his hands. “You may proceed,” he said. So I did. As any good sheep would.

There’s a special law out there in the universe about me and planes. An obscure law, but one that always holds true on flights of over two or three hours. Wherever I sit, there will be a child within ten seats, more likely six. A child, anywhere from an infant to, oh, say, five years old. And that child will always have a voice. A great loud orator’s voice.

I crossed myself as I stepped onto the intercontinental jet, a huge tub of plane. The crowds slowly jostled through Business Class. I looked enviously at the broad expanse of space in those seats. It sure would be nice, to land up in one of those. But no, on back we went, through a curtain, to economy class. Rows and rows and rows of seats, tightly packed together. By some miracle, I landed up in an aisle seat. At least I could stretch my legs. And in front of me, three seats away to the right, the appointed flight orator was warming up. A four-year-old, probably. A tousle-headed little urchin with puffy lips. He was not happy at all. And he didn’t care who knew it. The great orators of history had nothing on this kid. Someday, he’ll probably end up in politics, which would be a sad waste of such a powerful, piercing voice.

I settled into my seat, beside a nice middle-aged couple. And the plane took off, right on time, right to the minute. Off we swooped, then up and up to 38,000 feet. It’s a different world in there, in that plane. Everyone is just so used to flying that no one thinks of the million little details that must connect and coordinate precisely to make it even possible. I thought of that, though. And it was just a strange flight, all around. First, they came trundling around with a little cart. Whiskey, wine, or beer. Take your pick. It’s part of the trip. No extra cost. I asked for scotch, and the nice man poured a little bottle of Johnny Walker Red into a plastic cup, added the ice I had requested, and handed it right over. This is wild, I thought. Very soon, another cart came trundling. Food, this time. A full meal, I forget what it was. Edible enough.

After that, we just settled in. I slumped in my seat. Dozed off. Jolted awake to the orator’s howls, now and then. A few hours passed. We had taken off in the evening, and flown into the night. And suddenly, it was dawn. Right outside the window, the sun was coming up. I glanced at my watch. It was around 1 AM, home time. I slumped back into my seat and slept. Off and on as the orator roared and roared again. They should have a special walled-off section for people traveling on planes with little children, I thought groggily. Why has no one thought of this before?

And right on time, we approached Heathrow Airport in London. That’s another “holy” place I’ve always wanted to visit. England. But I never got there yet. My time here would be brief. Just changing planes to my destination. A layover of just over an hour. It should be simple enough. Of course, it turned out to be far from simple. Heathrow is an evil, evil airport. I walked in cheerfully and quite innocently. How hard could it be, to change planes? The gate I needed probably was close by somewhere, I figured. I figured way, way wrong. It was a jungle, a minefield, that place. I looked for my boarding gate. No such number to be found. So I followed the signs. Downstairs, a crowd was gathering. I stood, forlorn and puzzled. A nice lady approached me, an airport employee. I told her where I needed to be, and she waved me toward the crowd. “Take the train,” she said. Train? In an airport? A minute or two later, the little train swept in. I packed myself into the crowd on the second car. The train bucketed along at frightful speeds for a few minutes, then slid into a station. I poured out with the crowd. Just walk. Go where they’re going.

Up a huge escalator and round about, we plunged into a big, big room, like a herd of stampeding cattle. There, people stood on point, glancing at every person’s ticket, and then directing them to the right place. I approached and showed my ticket to a balding bespectacled man. “Down that line,” he said in clipped tones, pointing. “But, no, wait. I’m putting you in the express lane.” Express lane. That sounded ominous. Am I in a time crunch, here? But faster is always better. Don’t ask questions. Just go. I shot through the crowds, up another escalator, and circled around to a security line. Security? I just got off a plane. Why more security?

There was no choice but to walk forward. At least you didn’t have to remove your shoes. I dropped my stuff into plastic tubs, including half a bottle of water I plucked from my shirt-jac pocket. The tall guard lurking nearby stirred and swooped in. “You cahn’t take this on the plane with you,” he barked accusingly, waving the bottle around in a most agitated manner. OK, OK. I waved dismissively. Throw it away, you blithering idiot, I thought to myself. Earn some of that colossal waste of funds we’re throwing at people like you to harass people like me. It’s water, for crying out loud. You know that as well as I do.

And then I was through, and followed the signs downstairs to my gate. A bus was parked outside, not a plane. I approached the young lady sitting at the station by her computer, a Muslim girl in full head covering. Timidly showed her my ticket. Am I in the right place? The English are often rude and thoughtless people. But this girl was not. She smiled and told me to have a seat. She would announce when it was time to board.

And she did, about twenty minutes later, after a small crowd had assembled. We all walked out and piled into the bus. The driver slid the bus along, on the left side of the road, and pulled up next to a small jet, parked way out on the edge of things. A stairs had been pushed up to the jet. We got off the bus and walked up the stairs onto the plane. Outdoors, like they used to do way back when commercial flying was in its infancy. That’s how Heathrow treated me. Primitive, that’s what that whole operation was.

It was a short flight to Hamburg, so of course no orator showed up. They never do, when it doesn’t matter. I felt tense and strange inside. This was the second leg of the journey, the short jaunt over. Next stop, Germany. The plane swooped down. We landed and bumped to a crawl. I had arrived. I walked into the airport and stood on German soil for the first time in my life. Exhausted and drained, I stared about me. The signs were all in German. Everyone around me spoke in German. A wild strange journey it had been, indeed, but here I was. It‘s been a long, long road from the horse and plow to this point, I thought. A long, long road.

Trundling along with the little burgundy carry-on, which turned out to be an excellent, excellent purchase, I followed the signs to Baggage Claim to find my big red suitcase. As inefficient as they were at Heathrow, I more than half expected it hadn’t made it. On the way over, I stopped at a little booth to show my passport to a nice man behind the glass. He glanced at my document, and welcomed me to Germany. That was real nice, I thought. Customs sure was simple, right there. I walked on out, and sure enough, Big Red was bumping along on the baggage belt. By some miracle, the Heathrow people had transferred it to the right plane on time. I grabbed it and followed the signs to the exit. Sabrina must be waiting. I was running a little behind. And just as I approached the exit, three stooges in uniforms accosted me with merry waves. Gleefully. “Hey, stop. We must inspect your bags.” I hadn’t cleared customs after all, according to these guys. And since I had no reason to doubt them, I followed them back into another room. I’m a sheep, I thought. At least as far as these guys will ever know, I am.

The head stooge was quite full of himself. Pompous and abrupt. How long would I be in the country? A week, I said. “Well, we must inspect your bags.” Go ahead, I said. I lifted Big Red onto the little table. Opened my suitcase. The Pompous One pawed through my stuff. Asked a few more inane questions. And found me harmless enough. “All right. Take your bags and go.” I took them and went. Buncha’ thugs, I thought grimly. I detest borders. All borders.

I walked through the exit, and there they stood. Sabrina and a colleague, Lynette. Sabrina introduced us to each other, and we trundled my bags out to the parking garage. Lynette had driven her car here to meet me. We chatted as we walked out. My head felt woozy. Yes, I had a good flight. I’m feeling a little strange, from the time change. I can’t believe I’m in Germany. I want to see what there is to see. I want to see the land.

We drove out of the city, through little villages on two-lane highways. German roads seemed quite normal. People drove on the right, just like back home. And just like that, it hit me. An overwhelming weariness. I hung my head and almost drifted off, as Sabrina and Lynette chatted and chatted right along. Here is such and such a thing. This area is known for thatched roofs on houses. They’re getting more and more scarce these days, because of the insurance. But those thatched roofs are out there, and we’ll see some.

Well, who wouldn’t stay awake for that? I roused myself. We puttered past fields and through village after village. The lay of the land reminded me of Lancaster County. Black rich fertile earth. It smells the same, wherever you are in all the world. German farms are very different from what I’m used to seeing. The buildings are clustered in little villages. Barns, houses, stockyards, chickens pecking about. Way back, the farmers clustered together like that for mutual protection. From their village buildings, they go out and till their fields. It’s quite unique, from what I’m used to. But I guess it works. They’ve been doing this for far longer than there were farms in my country.

We cruised along, and soon enough, Lynette pointed. There. And I saw it, for the first time in my life. A real thatched grass roof on a real house that someone lived in. It was surreal, that little road trip from the airport. It really was. My head drooped, now and then. Not wanting to be rude, I always pulled myself back. And then, just as I was sliding off into delicious sleep, we stopped and walked into an ancient church in a little village. And I came back from where I wanted to be, to see this sight. Wake up, and look around.

Thatched-roof house across from the old church.

A while later, the ladies dropped me off at a nice little hotel close to the University. Sabrina helped me check in, and I trundled off to my room on the third floor. A single room, they called it. Small, with half a bed. Nice enough, except for one thing. No wireless connection. Well, they had wireless, but they charged for it. And that’s my only grumble about the place. But it was what it was. I threw my bags against the wall and collapsed on the bed for a short nap. At six, Sabrina and her family showed up to take me out into the old town, and to find something to eat.

The Völz family.

They were all the same as I’d remembered them from last August. Hans-Jurgen, Sabrina, and their children, Maximilian and Emily. I sat up front and we headed out to old town Lüneburg. It’s a small city, way up in northern Germany. I’d never heard of it before. But like every city, town and village in the country, Lüneburg has its own rich, rich history. It was once an extremely wealthy town, because of its salt mines. Wars have been fought over salt. It was a critical component for curing and preserving meat. And the Lüneburg merchants grew fat and rich. The area is quite proud of its past.

We walked through the old town. I just couldn’t grasp it, the history of the place. This would be the case throughout the entire two weeks I spent in Europe. How old it is. Little churches and vast cathedrals and lots and lots of old houses dot the landscape, places far older than the country I live in. It’s hard, to process all that when you’re around it. To really grasp what you’re seeing. That first night, I stood by a surviving section of the thick old brick wall that once surrounded the town. That’s almost biblical, a walled town. It’s so strange, I told Sabrina and Hans Jurgen. All that material and effort to protect people from intruders who would attack and kill them. Humans are their own worst enemies.

Schnitzel smothered with mushrooms. Excellent food.

We ate a little later, at a small bar and Gasthof. They wanted me to try the authentic German schnitzel, a flat, breaded pork product that reminded me of the tenderloin sandwiches I’ve eaten in small cafes in the Midwest. That, and fried potatoes, an old Amish staple. German food is heavy food. But delicious. And you must drink German beer with it. That’s pretty much a universal law in the country, near as I can tell. I’m not much of a beer guy, never have been. I drank more beer during my two-week trip than I have in the past five years, total. It was just part of the scene. And who am I to argue?

After dinner, Hans-Jurgen and Sabrina took me out to see the new home they had built about five years ago. A lovely house, designed to last a thousand years. I sat outside with them in the cool evening air, and we sipped one more beer and talked. They dropped me off at my hotel then, and I crept timidly up to my room on the third floor. I grumbled savagely to myself about the lack of wireless. Can’t check my email, or Facebook, so I might as well get some sleep. The bed was good and firm, and I quickly drifted off into fitful slumber. That was Day One. Tomorrow, the University.

The next morning, I awoke and got ready for the first day of the University adventure. Downstairs, in the hotel’s little restaurant, a great breakfast feast was spread out. One thing the Europeans got down is breakfasts in hotels. The tiniest rattiest place lays out hard-boiled eggs, three or four cheeses, plates of ham and and other sliced meats, a half dozen types of bread, granola and yogurt, and juice, and of course, strong black coffee. I’m not much of a breakfast guy, but who can turn down a spread like that?

Later, I drifted out through the courtyard and waited for someone to fetch me for the first class. The sidewalks swarmed with students, most of them on bicycles. The sidewalks there have designated bike paths, and these people whooshed back and forth and up and down with great abandon. Seemed like they would run right over you, if you didn’t watch your step. Time passed. I’m tense and nervous anyway, in strange settings like that, so I got a little tenser and a little more nervous. Come on, whoever was picking me up. That’s all I need, to show up late for my first speaking gig at a class, after all the trouble they went to, to get me over here. Time crept up, closer and closer to twelve. The class started at 12:15. Bicycles kept rushing by. Everyone knew where they were and where they were going. Except me. I stood there forlornly, clutching at my messenger bag strapped diagonally across my shoulder. I kept most of my money and my passport in that thing, and it stayed on or very close to me at all times. Lose it, and I’ll never make it back home.

I can only speak from where I was on this trip, and from what I saw. My first impression of the Germans around me was that they seemed rather dour and reserved. I didn’t see a whole lot of smiling going on. Maybe it’s those long, hard winters they have up this far north, I thought. And right then, she arrived. Julia, Sabrina’s student assistant. “Hi, you must be Ira,” she greeted me, smiling. I am, I said, smiling back. “Sorry, I’m running a bit late. We’re close to the classroom, though, so we’ll be on time.” We crossed the street and followed the bike path/sidewalks onto the University. I gaped around a lot. Great hordes of bikes stood parked in rows and rows. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Crowds of students strode purposefully about.

There wasn’t a whole lot of time to get nervous about speaking to a group of students in a foreign University, so I didn’t, mostly. When you’re walking through a door like that, stay who you are. Don’t try to be who you aren’t. But mostly, stay as calm as you can. We got to class a few minutes early, as Julia had promised. Sabrina met us and introduced me to her colleague, Maryann. Their classes would be combined today. They were all smiles. “The students are eager to hear you and meet you,” they both claimed. Yeah, yeah, I thought. Who’s eager to hear anyone lecture about much of anything? The room was packed out with probably about sixty students. Mostly young ladies, all of them quite beautiful, with a few guys scattered in here and there. I’m totally cool with that, though, speaking to roomful of beautiful women. I sat at a table up front. A few latecomers slipped in and sat at the back. All right, I thought. Here’s what I came for. Here we go.

Sabrina called the room to order, and introduced me. I saw that at least a few of the students clutched copies of my book. Wow. Maybe they really were eager to hear what I had to say, I thought. Sabrina’s introduction was quite long and quite complimentary. And then she turned to me. I smiled and thanked her. The students clapped a bit. And I just sat there and talked to them. When it comes to my book, and the Amish, I don’t have to prepare a lot. I know the subject matter.

And it was pretty much as it is back here at home, except for the location. American Studies in Germany are conducted in English. These students were all fluent in English. And I spoke to them in English. They looked at me as I spoke, focused on my words. And it seemed like Sabrina was right. They were eager to hear what I had to say. I’ve never been to Europe before, I told them. I’m excited and grateful to be here with you. You really have no idea how big a deal this is to me, to be here. It’s just flat out wild. My friends back home are quite in awe, as I am, too.

And then I spoke about where I came from, my childhood, and how it was to be raised Amish. A horse and buggy world, surrounded by modern society. And how it was to be torn from world to world as I left and returned and left again. About twenty minutes or so in, I read a passage from the book. And then I opened up for questions. I always like to do that, so you can talk about what people actually want to hear. And boy, did they have questions. Can I go home to see my family? Of course. How are my parents? Where is Sarah?

They grappled a bit with some of my answers. What do I think of the Amish now? I admire some the things they have preserved, like their work ethic. The West has lost that, mostly, now. What it is to really work. I deeply respect the culture, even though I could never, never live like that. That’s not the issue. To me, the issue is always freedom. I am free. The Amish should be free to live as they choose. To raise their children as they see fit. Who do the children belong to? I asked. The parents or the state? To me, it’s not even close. They belong to the parents. And if you tell me that Amish children don’t have much of a chance in life, I’ll tell you this. I was raised that way. It was really, really tough, to break away. But I did. I went on and got an education. Sure, I was older than the average student. But life’s not fair. People should be able to live freely as they choose, as the Amish live, if they want to. It’s none of my business what choices they make. As long as the freedom is there to make those choices.

This was a strange message, I think, to some of the students. Here I was, defending the people I had come from. When they knew from reading my book how I had almost lost my mind, breaking away. But that’s how I feel, and that’s what I told them. For true freedom to exist, there must be the ability to make free choices, even if the choices others make might be appalling to us.

Time flowed, and very soon, the hour and a half had passed. You’re welcome to bring your books up to sign, I said. And they lined up, those who had their copies with them. It all just seemed so surreal. Here I was, in a German University, signing copies of my book. And these people didn’t seem that reserved. They were very friendly, they stood there and smiled and smiled at me. And chatted and chatted, as well.

Afterward, Maryann took me to a nearby bakery, where we bought sandwiches and water and walked to a nearby park to eat. Like Sabrina and Lynette, Maryann was an expatriated American. She had lived in Germany for years, she told me. We chatted about a lot of things. She asked what all I’d like to see in Germany. I’m not going to make it, but I’d really like to see the city of Muenster, I told her. That place has some really dark Anabaptist history, the kind of stuff that was never taught to me. Because they were violent. I never knew that until after I was in college. I’d really like to go. But I guess I won’t make it.

After that first morning, things just came at me like a whirlwind. That evening, I spoke at a local high school, or Gymnasium, as they call it over there. A group of probably thirty or forty students and faculty. I’m always a little nervous, speaking to high school kids, because they tend to be unfocused. These kids were not. They locked right in as I talked, and actually came up with a good many very intelligent questions. After that was over, I signed a copy of the book I had brought along and donated it to the school library. And then a group of friends and faculty took me out to eat in old town Lüneburg .

Pub meal on Monday night.

I sat there with them in a pub that was older than the country I was born in, and we just laughed and chattered like old friends. That night, I tried fresh German asparagus, or Spargal, as they call it. White asparagus. The short harvest season was in full swing, and farmers were selling their produce from little farm stands. My food was very good, especially to a guy who never has been much of an asparagus fan. Washed down with a large glass of beer, of course. The evening came to a close, then, and Sabrina dropped me off at my hotel. Tomorrow would be pretty open, except for the big talk scheduled for Tuesday evening. The big talk, the one they made the posters for, the one open to the public.

Sabrina’s colleagues all genuinely welcomed me, at least the ones in her immediate group in American Studies. In Germany, the academic levels are a little different than here. These ladies all had post graduate degrees, but I get confused as to exactly where they were in the pecking order. A Doctorate in Germany is not the top. You have to have something more, to call yourself a Professor. A Post-Doctorate Doctorate, maybe, or something like that. Whatever. These people were all quite friendly and insisted that I call them by their first names. They all teach classes in the American Studies Department at Leuphana. And I can’t say enough about how gracious and welcoming they all were. Every one. “We’re so glad you could come,” they claimed. You have no idea, I replied. You have no idea how big a deal it is for me to be here. To be invited like this. It’s just beyond anything I’ve experienced before.

Sabrina’s gang, from Left: Lynette Kirschner, M.A.,

Dr. Maria Moss, and Maryann Henck, M.A.

The tension of that night’s talk pulsed inside me a good bit. But I pushed it back, mostly. I’ve spoken to large college audiences before, I told myself. The biggest crowd was at Grove City, last fall. You know your stuff. Don’t sweat it. But still, I felt it, the looming time, out there shadowing me like a ghost. This is Germany. These are German students. They’ll have high expectations.

Sabrina and her colleagues not only welcomed me, they insisted on showing me around the area. Ah, you don’t have to do that, I said. At least let me put some gas in your car. They wouldn’t hear of it, none of them. And that afternoon, Lynette was scheduled to show me about the town a bit. “The Salt Museum,” she suggested. “Would you like to see it?” Of course, I said. The Germans seem to have museums scattered about in every town, and even in some small villages. So early that afternoon, off we went. What could there be to see in a salt museum? Quite a bit, it turned out. Salt was the gold of the town for many centuries. Only in the 1980s was the mine finally shut down. The exhibitions were quite good.

After that, we took a walk about the old town. A certain section of Lüneburg is sinking, because of the mines below ground. Those streets have a lot of very old, very crooked houses. Lynette chattered on about the history of many of the places we walked past. The old houses were just fascinating status symbols of a time long ago. We also entered and toured an old church. Lynette filled me in on the story of the place. There are so many places and so many stories.

A typical home in the old town. A person with wealth built this home a long, long time ago.

And then it was back to the hotel. Evening approached. I changed into my khaki pants and jacket. Put on a long-sleeved shirt. Gotta be half presentable tonight, I figured. I had suggested that perhaps I could wear jeans and the jacket, since writers are generally considered weird anyway. No one cares how they’re dressed, and besides, jeans and jacket are quite presentable about anywhere, if you ask me. But Sabrina had kindly hinted that it might be good to dress up a notch from jeans that night. OK, I said. So I did.

Sabrina picked me up at six, and we drove over to the auditorium. Not a real large place, probably 175 seats or so. Sabrina had asked me earlier. “Would you donate a copy of your book? We’ll get the students to sign their names on slips of paper, and have a raffle when you’re done.” Sure, I said. A student stood outside each doorway, handing out the slips. And the place began filling up. About five minutes before go time, it was pretty much packed out. And still more people came. At 6:15, the steps up both sides were crammed with people, seated and standing. Sabrina seemed delighted and surprised. “We don’t usually have this many people showing up,” she told me. Usually forty to fifty is a good crowd.” Well, there were a heck of a lot more than forty to fifty people crammed into that room. I paced about nervously and leaned back against the wall behind the podium. It was time. Past time.

And then it just came down. Sabrina approached the podium with her notes. Again, her introduction was long and very complimentary. “Let’s welcome Ira Wagler,” she wrapped it up. The crowd clapped politely. Now it was my time, my turn. This right here was the reason they had brought me over. For this moment. I stepped up with my book and my page of scrawled notes. And I looked into that crowd and talked.

And it was good, pretty much right from the start. I speak better when there’s a little tension inside me. Keeps me focused. It’s a balance, really, between just the right degree of being relaxed and tense. I spoke of the things I always speak of. Where I come from, that world. How it was, to live in that world as a child. And how it was, to grow to the point where you wanted and desperately needed to see what was outside. A whole lot of faces, all of them, I think, were focused intently on me as I spoke. And time slid by. I glanced at my watch. I would make it through.

I read two passages that night, for the first time ever. Much of Chapter 12, about Rumspringa. And the first date scene with Sarah. That’s the one I usually read. And after the second reading, I wound it down. Opened up for questions. The part I like the most. And they came, oh, yes, they did. Boom, boom, boom, and boom again. The threads led from one point of interest to another.

And I slid it in, kind of tongue in cheek, for the first time over there. I judge a country by whether or not the Amish would be allowed to live in it in peace. They could not live here in Germany, I told the audience. Your country is not free enough. You all need to work on that. I have a lot of issues with America, primarily because it is the most murderous, warmongering country in the world. I’m as anti-war as my father ever was. More so, if that’s possible. But I deeply respect the fact that the Amish can exist there. There aren’t a whole lot of places where they’d be allowed to live as they do.

Question after question poured in, and finally Sabrina walked over to the mike. “One more question, then it’s time to close it down,” she declared. So I took one more. In Germany, they often show appreciation by clapping their open palms down on the table. As I wrapped it up, Sabrina walked to the table beside the podium, lifted her hand high, and clapped it down. No, whacked it down. Hard. The students didn’t follow her lead. They didn’t clap the desk tops before them. Instead, the whole room erupted into real clapping. And it went on and on. (It was probably only ten seconds or so, but to me it seemed a lot longer.) I stood there, smiling gratefully and a little sheepishly. I even waved a bit. Still they clapped. It was a weird moment. And a beautiful one. What a fantastic crowd. Finally I stepped back up to the mike. Thank you. Thank you. If anyone has a copy of the book they want me to sign, I will be honored. The applause slowed and died. A minute later, about twenty-five people had lined up, holding their copies of the book. I took a moment to speak to each one. Thanked them for attending. Thanked them for reading my stuff.

Afterward, it was out to another ancient pub, hanging with good friends, eating fantastic food and drinking a tall, tall glass of Weizen beer. That was the night the waiter rebuked me for pouring ketchup over the thin but delicious potato cakes on my plate. “No ketchup, that’s bad,” he scolded. I grinned at him and kept right on shoveling.

And the next morning, at eleven, I spoke to my last group at Leuphana. A class of probably thirty-five students. A writing class. Life writing, they called it. I sat there at a table up front, totally comfortable in jeans, shirt-jac and camo T-shirt, and just talked to them. About how it is for me, what it is to write. How it all began, right here on this blog. And how this place is where I can speak my voice right now. So that’s where I’m writing. In your story, you have to be honest about yourself, I told them. Otherwise, your narrative won’t be credible. Don’t play the innocent victim. Few are innocent. I’m sure not, in my story. After class, a few of the students lingered to chat and ask questions. And get their books signed. I was honored.

Off then, to lunch with Sabrina and her colleagues at the dining hall. We sat around a table with a few other teachers. The food was quite tasty, for cafeteria food. And then we walked over to Sabrina’s office. Maryann accompanied us. “Come with me,” Sabrina said. We walked down the hall into another office. “Mr. Wagler is here for his money,” Sabrina told the nice lady behind the desk. And the nice lady counted it out in cold, hard cash. Nine hundred Euros. Sabrina had told me that’s what I’d get. I never could understand why, quite. The University had flown me over. Put me up. Fed me. And now, this. You people really are quite mad, you know, I said. There’s no way I earned this. “It’s what we pay our Writers in Residence,” Sabrina replied. “Of course you earned it.” Writer in Residence, I thought. So that’s what I was. Writer in Residence, I said. How cool is that?

We walked back to Sabrina’s office, and I sat there, talking to her and Maryann. The next day, Thursday, was a national holiday. Ascension Day. We hadn’t quite figured out what I would be doing, but it was time to move on, I felt. I got some cash to burn here, I said. All these Euros. I can’t take them home. I have to spend them here. Maryann grinned at me. “I could go with you over to Muenster tomorrow on the train, and show you around,” she said. “I lived there for a year, way back. I know the place.”

Yes. Yes. Yes. I half-shouted. If you take me to Muenster, I’ll pay your train ticket and your hotel room tomorrow night. Then I can head on over to Mainz on Friday, and you can come back here. “I do have a presentation paper to finish before next week,” she said. Write it on the train, I told her. Take me to Muenster. Please. I don’t have the nerve to travel down there by myself. And look, I have all these Euros, I said, waving them in her face. I have to spend them somewhere. Take me to Muenster. She picked up her phone and called an old hotel she knew of close to the center of old town Muenster. And minutes later, she had two rooms booked for Thursday night. We stopped by the train station later and I bought our tickets. Muenster. I was actually going. I couldn’t quite believe it. The old city with so much history, the city that harbors the darkest and most unique stain in all of Anabaptist history.

And there was still one more adventure, there in Lüneburg that afternoon. Maria, Sabrina’s colleague, wanted to take me over the line into old East Germany. It wasn’t far, she claimed. “I want to take you. Show you what it was like.” East Germany, I thought. I definitely want to see that. And after lunch, we took off in her vehicle. Maria and Maryann and me.

And she told me how it used to be, to cross over. And what a nightmare it was to come back. She showed me the spot where the guard shack was, at the border. The border guards were always suspicious of everyone. And for any reason or none, they’d wave your car off to a side lot. And you’d wait there for hours, and they wouldn’t come. “That’s how it was,” she said. “There was nothing you could do.”

And she pointed to the bike path set way back off to right of the road, going in. “That was a dog run,” she said. “Miles and miles and miles of it. Those poor dogs ran and ran and ran endlessly up and down the runs. The dirt was packed so hard, they couldn’t do much with it. So they made a bike path.”

Maria wanted to show me an old guard tower along the river. There were two of them still standing in one area, she told me. “They tore most of them down before they realized they should leave a few. To show how it was and what it was. Still, the locals don’t like to talk about it. That part of the past they want to forget.”

And we drove around for quite a while, the three of us. We stopped and asked people. Where are the guard towers? And after recoiling a bit, the people always pointed and spoke. Over there. Such and such a street. By the river. It’s easy to find.

But it wasn’t easy to find, and we almost didn’t. In despair, we stopped and asked a farmer who stood out beside the road with his little son, collecting the mail. It was getting on to late afternoon. We had to find the tower soon. The farmer smiled and pointed. Gave specific directions. Directions that were wrong.

The tower had to be beside the river. And we kept plugging along until we found it. Kind of half following the farmer’s directions, but persistently moving toward the river. And then we saw it. A tower. Off in the distance. An evil needle of concrete and steel. A stark and brutal reminder of how it was back then, when people trapped behind that tower would be murdered in cold blood if they tried to escape. A symbol of the vile, pure evil that is the state.

And later that evening, Sabrina picked me up, and off we went again, to one of the old town pubs. An impromptu Pub Night with a small group of the students I had spoken to in the last three days. It was the eve of a holiday weekend. So only a few showed up. We sat about and talked, like old friends. Relaxed. Drank a glass or two of beer. It was all good.

And that was my experience at Leuphana University. I’m thinking it sure would be a lot of fun to go back and do it all over again sometime.

**************************************

Next post: To Muenster and Mainz

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A New Road Rising…

In my eager mind, the great shining vistas of distant horizons gleamed

and beckoned. A world that would fulfill the deep yearning, the nebulous

shifting dreams of a hungry, driven youth. And it would be mine, all of it,

to pluck from the forbidden tree and taste and eat…

—Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish

___________________________

It’s not quite the same. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since that night almost exactly thirty-four years ago when I got up and walked away from the only world I had ever known. And it wasn’t that big a deal back then, even, if you look at where I was going. To a desolate ranch in the Sand Hills of Nebraska. Nah, the big deal wasn’t where I was going. It was where I was coming from.

And that’s pretty much how I feel about tomorrow, when I’ll head out to places I have never seen before, places I have rarely imagined, even in my dreams. Because they were just so far out there, especially to a guy who’s pretty set in his ways, and finally content staying close to familiar boundaries. I look back at that seventeen-year-old kid clutching a black duffle bag, walking determinedly out the drive and down the road into the darkness. And I feel some of that old stirring within me. There’s a new world coming right up. A new road rising before me leading to new places, new things, new experiences. The thing is, I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m fifty-one.

It’s such a minor thing, to so many. A hop and skip over the pond, to all the experienced world travelers who have seen places I will never see, and done things I will never do. It’s not minor to me, though. It’s a big, big deal. I have never been to Europe. And it’s a little scary, to think of stepping out that far from the world I know. I’m pretty provincial, when it comes right down to it. Pretty happy to stay within a comfortable range of my little home in New Holland, PA, and to live life there as it comes at me.

Everything has come together well for this foray, I have to say. I’m packed and ready. How I got to this point is a bit of a mystery. There was so much I didn’t know about traveling overseas. Like a child in the woods, I just kind of stumbled along in good faith. And people told me things. Hey, you have to get online and fill in your passport info, for your plane ticket. Hey, you have to buy your Swiss Rail Pass here, in the US. You can’t get it over there. And on and on, seemed like. I think I have it all together now. I better have. There’s no more time for unpleasant discoveries.

I loathe flying. And it’s not just the TSA goons. It’s the compressed, recycled air on a seven-plus hour overnight plane ride that makes me flinch. I wish there were a bridge or tunnel to Europe. I’d drive whatever time it took in my truck to get there. But, of course, such a thing exists only in a fantasy world. In the real world, there are only two options. Plane or ship. And last time I looked, ship travel was way too slow and expensive. So the plane it is. A big, big plane with three rows of seats. I’ve never been in such a place. I’ll cross myself when I step onto that thing. Guarantee you that.

And, of course, right on cue, I came down with a savage head cold last Friday. I felt it creeping in and tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. I rarely, rarely catch a cold. Maybe once a year. Or less. Never had one, all winter. But now I do. I hunkered down and gobbled pharmaceutical pills by the handful, stuff I normally abhor. When you gotta breathe, you gotta breathe. I’ll take what it takes, to do that. I ingested huge amounts of vitamins and Superfood, and drank shots of Super Tonic, a home-brewed mixture of awful tasting stuff that my old friend Anna Beiler Lapp gave me. Sour and bitter, oh, yes, it was. But she claimed it would burn out the germs, and from the taste of it, I find no reason whatsoever to doubt her claims. That, and the fact that the stuff actually worked.

And other than the cold, which has receded a good bit, I’d say my state of mind is this. I’m quietly nervous and very excited. I’m going to Europe. It’s just mind-boggling to me. It’s really happening. Way back when, I wrote Sabrina. When it gets close, I’ll contact you, to see what the weather’s like over there and what clothes I should pack. We’ve been emailing back and forth. Seems like they’ve had a late cold spring, just like we’ve had here. Step aside, global warming. Global cooling is more like it. The weather alarmists know that, which is why they’ve quietly been shifting their talk to terms like “climate change.” But that’s a bunny trail. What I meant to say is that northern Germany is having a cold, late spring.

It’s always an honor, to be asked to come and speak at any University. At the local level, and at the international level. It really is. And I’ll leave it at that, because to me that’s not the most important thing. It’s the people I’ve met and will meet, it’s the experience of just living life as it comes at you and walking forward into it, that’s what all this means to me. If you focus too much on the reason you are somewhere, you’ll lose your gratitude for just being there. The honor will pass soon after it comes. They all do. And it detracts from the experience if you focus on the honor, instead of just living it. Sure, it’s a big deal. And I will always recognize that. But it’s not the the most important thing, in this moment or in any other. I try to keep a firm grasp on that perspective, always.

It’s looking like the trip will come down in two very distinct phases. Week one and week two. My time with Sabrina and her University students is pretty much scheduled. They’re basically taking care of me, putting me up in a hotel. There will be people there, to tell me what’s going on and when. And to show me the town and the surrounding areas. I’ll know what’s going on. I’ll do the book talks, and take part in a couple of classroom discussions. A few people at that little spot in the world will know who I am, and I’m feeling their welcome before I even head out. I’m very much looking forward to meeting them. I’m looking forward to hanging out with friends.

Next Thursday is Ascension Day, a holy day I grew up to respect. And Sabrina told me, it’s a national holiday in Germany. That day, she suggested, they could show me around the area. And the next day I would leave for Switzerland. Except she arranged one more stop, before I got there. At Johannes Gutenberg University in Mainz. Would I consider it? She had asked me. They won’t be able to come up with a stipend for your talk, but they’d love to have you, and they’d put you up for the night in a motel. Well, let me think. An offer to speak about my book in the town where the printing press of the western world was born? I’d pay for that privilege. Of course, yes, I emailed her. And earlier this week, they sent me the poster, to show me that it was no dream, that I was really going there.

And so that’s scheduled. Germany is pretty much all scheduled, all the way to the day I leave it. For Switzerland. And there, there is no schedule at all. I’ll go from a comfortable place to an unknown one. That makes me a little nervous. It’s a world I’ve never seen before. And I’m walking into it, almost blind. I know one family that I’ll be spending a day with. Otherwise, I’m a wanderer with no plans, a stranger in a strange land. With no guidebook, either. Yeah, I know places I want to see. I have my Swiss Rail Pass. But I have secured no lodging, because I don’t want to commit to any place at any time. I’ll get there when I get there, and it will be what it is.

Last weekend I was chatting with my good friend, John Schmid, who was in the area to sing at the annual Gospel Express fundraiser. I don’t usually go around such big crowds, but John was there this year, so I went. Afterward, we talked and he asked about my plans in Switzerland. I’m just meandering, I told him. Don’t really have any connections. Besides, I don’t want to bother people. If I bug them, they’ll feel obligated to put me up. John laughed. “That’s not how I see it,” he said. “You’re a little more shy than I am. I usually just figure people are going to be glad to see me. And put up with me.” I laughed, too. Yeah, we are different that way, I said. I didn’t think about it until later, but I should have told him. You sing to them when you get there. You got your songs to offer. I got no songs.

But I’ve thought a good bit about what he said. So I guess I’ll throw this out there, to see what happens. If you know anyone in Switzerland who would be willing to meet and chat with me for a bit, over coffee or a meal, or even put me up for a night, tell them to contact me at my email address, the one on the Contact Me page. Don’t send me their email address for me to contact them. I’m a little shyer than John. I don’t figure people are necessarily going to be eager to put up with me. So I ain’t gonna bug nobody. I’ll accept invitations, that’s pretty much it. At least the ones I can.

From what I hear, it’s pretty expensive to get connected online over there. It’s not like here, where there’s free wireless in every motel and cafe. So I’ll have to see how that works out. I hope to post pics on Facebook now and then, from where I am. And, of course, check my email. (I do have several emergency contacts in Switzerland, friends of friends. So if anyone gets an email from me claiming I’ve been robbed and need money, that means I’ve been hacked. Ignore it.) And I seriously doubt I’ll post a blog from there in two weeks. I’ll be writing, but I think it’ll work best to wait until I get back to post on here again. So it might be three or four weeks. We’ll see.

Tonight feels a little like the night before I walked out the lane at two in the morning with a duffle bag, thirty-four years ago. I got my bags packed. (Well, I’m working on it, I mean.) I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. There’s a big difference from that first departure, though. I’m not sneaking out in the darkness. I’m leaving in broad daylight instead. And I’m telling the world before I go. But still, I can feel a bit of what was inside that seventeen-year-old kid back then.

And tonight I’m feeling something more, something I can’t say I’ve ever felt before. If I did, it was a long, long time ago. A couple of days ago. I was at work on a busy morning, trying to get stuff done before I leave. My cell phone rang. Unknown number, from Canada. I answered. It was my father, calling from Aylmer. I got up and walked out to the warehouse, so we could talk in private.

He was just calling to see when I’m leaving for Germany, Dad said. Oh. I said. I’m leaving Saturday evening, flying all night. I’ll get over to Hamburg around mid day on Sunday. And we just talked, visited a bit. He asked about the book, how it was doing. It’s taking me to Germany, I told him. He seemed impressed.

“Do you think they’ll understand your German?” he asked. I doubt it, I said. I’ll try it on them. We’ll see what happens. We both chuckled together. And chatted a bit more. “When are you coming up to see us?” He asked. Sometime in June, I told him. I want to come over a weekend. We closed it down, then. “Well, I hope you have a safe trip to Germany,” he said, almost wistfully.

I thanked him for calling, and we hung up. And I just stood there. Absorbed the moment, absorbed the emotions going on inside me. I’m still absorbing that moment when my father wished me well as I was leaving on a journey he could never take because of who he chose to be. All my life, I have yearned to hear such words of support from him as I was going to places he never went. And now he spoke them. It’s like I’m stepping onto a new road, a road I’ve never seen before.

I’ve been to a lot of places in my life. Set out on a lot of journeys where you just walked to keep walking. Traumatic excursions, some of them, of every imaginable type. Beautiful and breathtaking, others of them, on roads that led to destinations I could never have imagined. And on this road, at this moment, I know not what journeys may yet come.

But I do know there will never be another departure quite like this one.

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Charlie…

They are still-burning, homely particles of the night, that light

the huge tent of the dark with remembered fire, recalling the

familiar hill, the native earth from which we came…

—Thomas Wolfe

_____________

I was busy that day at the office a few weeks ago, talking to a customer when the iPhone in my shirt pocket quivered and pinged. A text from somewhere. A few minutes later, when I had a chance, I checked it out. The message was from my sister, Rachel. She’s still connected to what’s going on, as she always was. And that day, she was passing on news I needed to know, as she often does. A simple message. Charlie Newland died. Funeral is tomorrow.

I wasn’t that surprised. But still, I paused from work and let it sink in. Charlie Newland. I’d heard through the grapevine that he hadn’t been doing that well lately. And when someone’s 91 years old, there usually is only one ending to news like that. But still. I let the emotions sink in, absorbed them. Charlie Newland. One more character gone, from the English world of my Amish childhood.

Sixty years ago last month, my parents bought a 110-acre farm in the new little fledgling Amish settlement struggling to life in Aylmer, Ontario. That farm would be the home place, where all my siblings from Rachel on down were born and raised. That farm was the only home I ever knew until I was fifteen years old. The place as it once was is branded into my brain. All the sights and smells and sounds and tastes of it. And the man who sold that farm to my parents was Charlie Newland.

I’ve always marveled at how the Aylmer settlement was born. How the young families managed to buy farms in such close proximity to each other. Nicky Stoltzfus lived a half mile east of us. The road separated Jake Eicher’s farm from ours. A half mile west, LeRoy Marner settled with his family. And just west of them, barely a quarter of a mile, Homer Grabers. Across the road from them, my uncle, Bishop Peter Yoder. And my uncle Abner Wagler a half mile west of there. How could that happen, so many farms so close to each other, all for sale at the same time?

Seems like I recall murmurs from my childhood, something about the real estate guy who was their buddy. The one who sold them all their farms. He went out and shook up the English farmers. The Amish were coming. Strange people who drive horses and buggies. I’m talking, strange. There’s nothing you can do. If you’re thinking of selling, sell now. Who knows what will happen to farm prices, after they get here? Land prices will probably collapse. And a lot of the English farmers bit and took his bait. Makes a lot of sense to me, that scenario. Or maybe those times were just different from what we know, times where such things came down naturally, now and then, on their own.

Charlie was almost exactly the same age as my father back then, barely thirty years old. They were almost twins, both born in December, 1921, only a few days apart. I don’t know when he and his wife Ruth had bought the farm and settled on it. It couldn’t have been that long. And the funny thing is, he didn’t leave the area. He bought another farm a few miles southeast of ours, over close to Richmond, along Highway 3. Well outside the borders of the Amish community at that time. And that’s where he lived, in all the time I knew him.

Charlie didn’t just disappear onto his new farm. We rarely saw his wife, a school teacher. And if you asked me, I’d tell you they didn’t have children. Because I can’t remember ever seeing any. But they did. Two daughters and a son. Of them all, Charlie was the only one who made any attempt to stay connected with us.

It’s one of the earliest memories I have of any English person, seeing Charlie standing out there in the barnyard, talking to Dad. Standing there in the dirt and gravel by the old water tank by the windmill, a slim man of medium height with a flushed red face and a ready smile, hands stuck in the front pockets of his jeans. Once in a while he’d reach up and adjust his John Deere bill cap. I was just a raggedly little barefoot kid, pre-school age. Charlie looked you in the eye, I remember. And he looked down at the ground a lot, too.

He liked to haul Dad around, on the occasional trip to London and such. And once, I got to go along. I sat there beside Dad in Charlie’s pickup as we sped down the highway, excitedly drinking in the new lands flowing past me. We headed north to 401, then west to London. It’s my first memory of ever seeing a four-lane road. I don’t remember a whole lot about what happened in the city that day, but I do remember that. Two lanes of traffic going in the same direction. How wild was that? Charlie and Dad chatted right along. The two of them were real friends, good friends. It may seem like a paradox from the outside, but it’s not. People are people, wherever they are. And friends are friends.

Charlie didn’t go to church. From my memories, which may be inaccurate, he was pretty much irreligious. And I’ve thought about it some, since those years. The English people around us in my childhood, how they weren’t religious at all, a lot of them. Guys like Charlie. Carl Sansburn. Max Firby, who lived right across the road from Carl, in the center of the community. They never went to church. Never displayed the slightest indication that they believed in much of anything. And it’s not that they weren’t honest decent people. They were. But I’ve wondered, and still do, sometimes. How did that develop, such a culture? Where you just worked and worked, seven days a week? What stories were told, when someone passed on? How was it dealt with, explained? And how would it be, to be raised like that? Where you know nothing else. It’s always been hard for me to grasp, that picture. So I can’t fully grasp the place those people were coming from, either. Who knows what they saw and lived?

Charlie was there, a part of the community, but not of it. He knew everyone, and the Amish all knew him. And one day, he was called on to do one of the hardest jobs he ever faced. I’ve written before of how my uncle, Peter Stoll, moved to Honduras with a small group of family and friends, back in 1968. The Stolls of that particular family and that particular generation had serious heart problems. And Peter was not spared. Sometime in 1971, he collapsed from a heart attack and died. In Honduras. His son, preacher Elmo Stoll, had remained in Aylmer with his family, working and writing for Family Life. And redefining what the Aylmer Amish were. The Honduras people passed the word on up to their relatives in the States and Canada. And someone had to go out and tell Elmo his father had passed away. Someone they could trust to get it done. They called on Charlie Newland.

The news was a huge shock to Elmo and his family, and to everyone in Aylmer. And I remember how it flashed through the community. How my parents, too, grappled with the suddenness of the loss. Peter was married to my father’s older sister, Anna. The next Sunday, church was at LeRoy Eicher’s place, a half mile east of us. We sat there, completely still, as Elmo somberly rose to preach. His face was drawn and drained from all the grief and shock and stress. He stood there for a long time, just looking at the floor. But then he found his voice, as he always did. “It’s not sad,” he said softly. “It’s not sad. It’s hard, but it’s not sad. My father is in a better place.” And he went on to tell of how it happened, how this English man came out that day. He never mentioned Charlie’s name, not in the sermon. But we knew that’s who it was.

Charlie had pulled in and stepped out of his truck. He greeted Elmo somberly. Today he wasn’t the smiling, cheerful Charlie we all knew. And then he just stood there, shuffling his feet, staring at the ground, mute. He could not find the words to tell another man’s son that his father had died. I mean, who could? Elmo felt sorry for him, he said, even after Charlie finally stammered the message he had come to tell. I felt sorry for him, too. Who would ever want a job like that? I couldn’t imagine it. But the bottom line is, he did it. Faced a hard thing. He did what his friends in Honduras had asked him to do.

And time slid on, and things happened as they did. In 1976, my father uprooted his family and moved to Bloomfield, Iowa. It was just the flow of life, but I’m thinking guys like Charlie and his friend Carl Sansburn were sad to see us go. They had seen it, the Amish settlement planted there around them and take root. And now, 23 years later, one of the original founders, my father, was picking up and leaving.

They accepted this new development with good cheer, though. The summer before we moved, in August, Charlie hauled a load of us to Bloomfield to build the new dairy barn we would need that fall. Dad and Joseph, Titus and me, and a couple of my sisters. A merry lot we were, off to new lands and new adventures. Of course, Carl piled in, too. He wouldn’t have missed that little trip for anything. Charlie had a cap cover on the back of his pickup and that’s how we traveled. Packed in the back on cushions and mattresses.

After we moved, that was pretty much the end, we figured. We wouldn’t see our English friends from Aylmer much, anymore. But Charlie and Carl weren’t having any of it. Every couple or three years, the two of them headed out in Charlie’s late model pickup. Two old friends, hitting the road. They always headed south to Marshfield, Missouri, first. To see my uncles, Homer Graber and Bishop Peter Yoder and their families. Then they would drive the three hundred miles almost due north to Bloomfield. Pull in, all smiles, to stay and hang out for a day or two.

And we were always genuinely delighted to see them. All of us were. I’ve never seen Dad more relaxed than when those two guys showed up. They’d sit there and visit and visit, catching up on all the latest gossip and reminiscing about old times. Mom smiled and smiled and chattered, and Dad threw back his head and laughed a lot. And always the three men, Dad and Charlie and Carl, headed up to Ottumwa for at least one full day to run around and do some shopping. It was like old times. They always returned by late afternoon, Charlie’s pickup sagging under the load of groceries and other stuff Dad had bought.

And sometime in the 1990s, I can’t pinpoint exactly when, Charlie hit a pretty rough snag on the road. I never knew his wife that well, saw her maybe half a dozen times in my life. And I know nothing of the details. Of who said what and who did what. But, after raising their children, at a time they should have been settling in to enjoy life and grow old together, something snapped. And they divorced. I wasn’t there and didn’t see it. I don’t know how it affected Charlie. But he came out to my sister Rosemary’s place, where Dad and Mom were staying at the time. He told them. He was divorcing. “It’s wrong, but it just is what it is,” he said. Dad and Mom clucked and sympathized with him. And he was still their friend.

I have no clear idea of the time frame of some of the details that followed. But I know they happened, because Mom told me. Smiling and chatting, back in those days when she could, back when I knew her in no other world.

“Charlie wanted to ask out this nice widow lady he knew,” Mom told me, chuckling. “And she told him. She’s not going to go out with anyone who wasn’t baptized. Go take care of that, then come back and see me.”

And for the first time in his life, whatever his motives, wherever his heart, Charlie Newland made a profession of faith. Went through whatever it took, to take instructions and be baptized. There was probably a good bit of judgment going on around him among the Amish about the whole situation, right there. (Might be a good bit of judgment going on in some of you who read this, too.) I didn’t sense any in Mom, though. She was just happy for him. Anyway, after he he was baptized, the nice widow lady was receptive. They began seeing each other quite regularly. And somewhere in that time frame that eludes me, they got married. “And Charlie is so happy,” Mom said, smiling. “He brought her out to meet us. She’s such a nice lady.”

And it’s strange, really, when you think of it. How my parents and Charlie were right there around each other, in Aylmer, as the encroaching twilight closed in around them. Mom has left us, for all intents and purposes. And as she was sinking, Charlie showed up now and then to see her and Dad. She left before Charlie did, except she hasn’t. Dad, meanwhile, is slowing up a good deal, too. I’ve wondered sometimes how that must feel. To see all those you knew from long ago take off and leave you like that. And you remain. Receding, but you remain.

I knew Charlie wasn’t doing all that well, lately. And I look back to when I was up there last August. He was frail then, they said. I can’t remember if he was still at home, or in some facility somewhere. I do know that I didn’t make the effort to go see him. I thought about it a few times. But I was there to see Mom, and that took up about all the emotional strength in me. So I didn’t go see Charlie.

I last saw him probably four years ago, or so. The door at the office opened one day, and a smiling Charlie walked in. I had no idea he was even around. I gaped, then hollered and welcomed him. Rushed to him and shook his hand in welcome. He smiled and smiled and talked. He was just traveling through the area with another couple, he said. He introduced me to his lovely new wife. She smiled at me and chatted. And we stood around and talked for a good half hour or more. I showed them around the place. Told them what I did.

That was before my book was anything but a dream, but at a time when my blog was pretty well known, especially to those who had any kind of Aylmer connection. And he’d heard of it. He read my stuff on his computer at home, he told me, smiling. “I enjoy your stories. Especially the ones about Aylmer.” I laughed and thanked him. Yeah, I said. You know, one of these days I’m going to have to write a blog about you and Carl. Charlie and Carl, I’ll call it. About you two guys being our friends, and how you traveled together to come see us for years after we moved to Bloomfield. How we all stayed connected. I’m going to have to write that. And I will, one day. He beamed and beamed at me.

And I never got that story written. I thought about it now and then, tried to scratch it out a time or two. I figured it would come, but it never did. You can’t harvest a field that has no crops. So you go to fields that do, and speak from there. And now Charlie’s gone. And now I’m writing about him. Maybe that’s how it was supposed to be, all along. I don’t know.

I do know that I’m honored, to tell of who he was. But I kept only half the promise I made to him, back when we last met. Because somehow, it seemed like his name alone was all the title this post needed.

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Earlier this week, I attended a continuing legal education (CLE) class over in Mechanicsburg. I have to do twelve hours of those things every year, to keep my law license active. I try to pick classes that halfway interest me, and last Monday’s was actually a pretty good presentation. But I always dawdle in such places. You pay your fee, they don’t care what else you do. Sleep all day, it doesn’t matter.

Anyway, that day, as I sat there bored, fiddling with my iPad, I googled my name for the first time in a long time, just to see what would come up. I was pretty astounded. Hundreds of pages. One caught my eye, and I clicked to check it out. Reviews on Goodreads. Over 5,000 votes on my book. I flicked down through them, checking out anything from one star to five. I read a dozen or two. Some of them weren’t very kind. And I thought to myself, good grief. Some people really need to get a life. But then I thought, I’m the one googling my own name, and reacting to what others wrote. I’m probably the one who needs to get a life, here.

When a big thing’s coming at me, I normally don’t pay that much attention until it gets close. Kind of eye it off to the side and watch it approach. And that’s how it’s been with my upcoming trip to Germany.

Sabrina and I communicate, now and then. She has fretted a bit, and reassured me a few times. I’ll get the itinerary to you. Let you know what’s going on. And I responded. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you plan will be fine. I’m totally OK with it. I’m excited, just to be coming over.

And just this week, she sent me the poster they designed. I was pretty impressed, still am. And it really focused me a good bit. It’s getting closer and closer. I can feel it. Departure time. My next blog will be posted on the eve of my journey. I’ll fill you in then about some of my plans and what I’ll be doing.

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