Ira Wagler's Blog, page 6

A Hard Place To Leave…

But why had he always felt so strongly the magnetic pull of home,

why had he thought so much about it and remembered it with such

blazing accuracy, if it did not matter, and if…it was not the only

home he had on earth? He did not know. All that he knew was that

the years flow by like water, and that one day men come home again.

—Thomas Wolfe

____________________________

He walked into the door at work one day a few weeks back. And I didn’t think anything of it as I got up to meet him at the counter. A young Amish man. Married, with a nicely trimmed little beard. His young daughter walked beside him, hovering close to her father, looking around with large and wondering eyes. I greeted him. And he smiled and greeted me back. Then he got to telling me what he had come for.

He needed a few parts to finish up a sliding door at his father’s commercial manufacturing shop. He told me the name of the place. I knew his father. A nice guy, but very conservative. I’d always taken the father as a South Ender. Not sure why. I had no reason to, except for the way he looked, maybe. His full, long beard, and some remnants of hard, mirthless laughter. I can usually tell a South-Ender from those two components alone.

The thing is, I can look at an Amish man and tell you a whole lot about him, just by looking. I mean, I’ve always prided myself in that ability. I can tell you if the man is real plain, or somewhat progressive. Whether he’s modern (a relative term, when discussing the Amish, I know), middle of the road, or hard core plain. So it didn’t compute, in my head, when I connected the slicked up young man before me with who I knew his father was. Oh, well. It didn’t matter. I leaned over the counter and just got to talking with the guy.

And we figured it out, there, in the next few minutes, what he needed to finish up his project at his father’s shop. I wrote up the invoice, and smiled over the counter at his little daughter. And I asked her, all conversationally, in PA Dutch. Vee bisht Du hite? (How are you today?). She smiled shyly, astounded at my words, then shrank up a little closer to her father. To his credit, the man didn’t flinch, or anything. And just about then, his eyes landed on the little poster I have taped to my computer screen. The poster about my book. He looked sharply at the wording, and the picture, a much younger looking version of me without a beard. And then he looked back at me.

And he asked me. “Did you write this book?” It wasn’t an accusing tone, or anything. Just conversational. Yes, I said. I wrote that book. And he asked a few more questions. I told him. I have copies of the book right here, by my desk. I’ll sell you one, signed, for fifteen bucks. He hesitated a bit. And I moved right on in to close the sale. I really think you should buy one, I said. I’ll sign it. I think you’ll find it very interesting. There’s no money back guarantee, or anything. But I really think you would enjoy the read.

He chuckled, then. “You know what?” he said. “You’re a good salesman. I’ll take a copy. You convinced me. But I don’t have any cash on me. Can I mail you a check?” Absolutely, I said. Just send it to this address, to my attention. I took a book from the box beside my desk, and asked his name and his wife’s name. He told me, and I signed it to them both. I handed the book to him, and he took it from me. His little daughter stood, silent, wide-eyed, watching.

And I told him what I tell everyone I sell my book to. I hope you enjoy the book. Let me know what you think of it, when you stop back again. “I will,” he said. He signed for the stuff he came for, and I sent him out to the warehouse to load up.

And I thought about the young man, off and on, that day. The Lancaster County Amish are different from the places I grew up in. At least a lot of them are. Just like this young married man. He was open. He didn’t look at me all sideways. And he actually bought my book, to take home and read. I wondered what he’d think of it. Ah, well. I’ll probably never find out, I thought. I had never seen the guy before, and there was little reason to think I’d ever see him again. I didn’t fret about it, just mulled things over, in my head. I wonder. I wonder. I sure wonder what he’ll think of my book.

Well, it turned out I didn’t have to wonder long. Exactly two days later, the young man walked in again. I greeted him. He needed just a few more parts for that sliding door. The job was almost finished. Not a problem, I said. And then I asked him. Did you get the book read? I’m not sure why I thought he might have. It had been only two days since he bought it. But I might as well ask, I figured. I’ll probably never see the guy again.

He grinned at my question. “I did get it read,” he said. “I sat up late the last two nights, reading. And I got it finished late last night.” Wow, I said. I’m pretty impressed. And then the thousand dollar question. What did you think of it?

“Well, you sure can write,” he said. “My wife is reading it right now.” He leaned on the counter, and we stood there and talked for a few minutes. “You had a lot of turmoil, in your life,” he said. Yes, I said. Yes. There was a lot of turmoil in my life.

And he asked. “Was your home life hard?” I never thought much about it, that it was, I told him. There was turmoil inside, but I never connected that with a hard life on the outside. I mean, my world was what it was. It was the only world I knew. And we had a lot of really good times, there at home. As a family. I enjoyed life with my brothers. I just never thought about it that way, that my home life was hard.

He nodded. “I hear that,” he said. “But it made me think. All that turmoil you had made me think. I want my home to be a peaceful and loving place, a safe place for my children. I want them to be comfortable, living there.”

It was an insightful thing to say. I looked at him. A young Amish man with small children, telling me he wanted his home to be a safe place for them, that he wanted to them to be comfortable, living there. And he wasn’t thinking just today. He was thinking about what he had read. A tormented 17-year-old kid getting up in the middle of the night and walking away from the only home he had ever known. He was thinking about how he never, ever wanted his own children to feel that desperate and alone. He wanted his home to be a hard place to walk away from. A hard place to leave.

Not because of how things should be, from laws and legalism. But because of love.

And I thought about all that. I had never made a connection between my inner turmoil and an unhappy home life. Mostly, I think, I took the blame on myself that it could not work, that I could not be content, that I could not abide with my people. And I think, too, looking back on my father’s generation, and the generation following him. An observation like that would likely have been as foreign to them as anything they could have imagined. And I don’t blame them. It’s just who they were.

They saw hard things, my father and his peers. Hard times were all around them, when they were little children. They saw hunger, real hunger, and real poverty. They saw tramps with ragged knapsacks walking down dusty roads, unsure of where they were going or where they would sleep that night. And unsure of where their next meal was coming from.

In a setting like that, in such a world, I can’t imagine that there was a whole lot of reflecting going on about whether or not your children felt safe or welcome or comfortable at home. It was just assumed they would be grateful for the security of family. Not a lot of processing going on, there.

It all was what it was, I guess. And it all is what it is, now, too.

The Amish are not a monolithic people. That has been one of my persistent observations, scattered through my writings from the start. Rules and customs vary greatly from community to community. In the mid west, especially, each little settlement holds jealously to its own unique identity. This community won’t fellowship with that one, and that one won’t have much to do with the other one over there. And the other one over there looks down bemused and condescending on the first two. I mean, that’s just how it is in the Amish world I come from. Or at least a lot of how it was, way back when. And most people in all those little scattered settlements would scorn my book as a vile and unclean thing, that should not be touched or read. Because it speaks of things that should not be spoken.

And I’ve written about it, too, here and there. The Lancaster County Amish are a people separate and apart from all the rest of the Amish world. Blue bloods. Established. And very fascinating to me in so many ways. I guess that’s why I ultimately chose to live in one of the largest Amish communities in the world. Among my people, but not a part of them.

And I find it strangely comforting that among the Lancaster Amish, there are young men like the young man who read my book and came back and told me what he told me. How all that turmoil of my early years made him think. Made him evaluate what it is to have a safe and welcome home for his family. Made him think of his children, and how he wants his home to always be a safe refuge for his sons and daughters, whatever they are going through in their lives.

How many Amish fathers of any age think of such things, how many take such thoughts in their hearts and ponder them? I have no idea. I just know it’s more than it used to be.

And I find that a comforting and beautiful thing.

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

Well. I must say. I’ve rarely been as proud about calling something as I was the day after the election. The Friday before, on my last blog, I told my readers. I have consistently proclaimed from the start that Trump is gonna crush Hillary like a bug. There, publicly, when all the world told me I would be shown as a fool. I can’t claim to have any divine foresight, or anything. Sure, I read a few signs, but mostly I just stood by what I said and believed in. Well, he sure crushed her like a bug where it counts, anyway. Electorally.

It’s been delicious and fun, to see and hear all the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth going on. The viperous rage and madness of the left erupted instantly, its intensity has only increased. The more those people scream and shout and throw tantrum after tantrum, the more irrational and boorish they act, the higher Trump’s support soars among the common people. Of which I consider myself one.

It was beautiful thing to see, the race. It was a scary thing, too. Trump stood against all the world. One man, alone. He connected with the downtrodden masses, as no one has before, ever. And he pulled it off. Such a thing has never been done before in the history of this country, and maybe in the history of the world. Here is the most brilliant and incisive analysis I saw of what it was.

“They laughed at him when he announced, they sneered at him even as he was winning the primaries, and they unleashed more venom than an army of rattlesnakes when he won the Republican nomination, even as they claimed he was headed for a Goldwater-like defeat. The American ruling class lives in a world entirely separate from that of their subjects: even as the peasants with pitchforks gathered in the shadow of the castle, they never saw the Trumpian revolution coming.”

—Justin Raimondo, Antiwar.com

I expect no miracles from Trump, although I believe his enemies will keep right on underestimating him. Which will be a good thing. I figure he’ll get some good things done. But the fact that he won, that he beat the establishment and cast out the vile harpy, that fact alone is more than good enough for me. Not that I won’t judge him. I will judge him severely, but in only one area. I will judge him by how many wars he starts or doesn’t start. How many bloody conflicts he avoids or engages. He’s less a warmonger than the harpy would have been, that much simply cannot be denied. The Neocons were chomping at the bit to get a nuclear war started with Russia. Hillary was all willing and eager to lead that. Now, that possibility has at least diminished.

Still, innocent blood is innocent blood. I will judge every drop of such blood that flows because of the policies of president Trump, it doesn’t matter where, all around the world.

And one more thing in closing. Totally random, but important, I think, because it comes to mind as I write. Some areas of Mennonite culture and faith are hard, hard places. Not all. But some are. I’ve communicated with my friend, Trudy Harder Metzger, who emerged from the Russian Mennonites. Her stories have always shaken me. She came from a hard core place of superstition and darkness. As did a whole lot of other people. Compared to their journeys, I’ve said before, my own emergence from the Amish was a mere stroll through the park on a sunny day, with maybe a picnic lunch thrown in. And I hadn’t really thought about any of all that lately until this past week.

On Tuesday, over my lunch break, I was scrolling down through Facebook when I saw the link and title. How Pacifism Can Lead to Violence and Conflict. By Miriam Toews (pronounced “Taves”).

It was about the Mennonites. Intrigued, I brought up the article and read it. I was instantly drawn into the rare quality of her voice, and the beauty of it. And drawn into some of the most powerful and moving writing I have read in a long, long time.

She came from a dark and hard place, like my friend Trudy came from. I went and looked up her credentials later. But that moment, as I devoured the words she wrote, I realized. This woman came from a way harder place than I did. She feels no need to moralize. She just tells the story of her broken people. A bleak and brutal world, in all its heartbreak and misery and bondage and depression. You figure out the lessons yourself. That day, that moment, Miriam Toews gained one more lifelong fan. I will go and buy her books and read them. It doesn’t matter if she swears, or uses bad words in her novels. She’s real.

She has quite the literary record, it turns out. She emerged from the Mennonites in Manitoba, Canada. She ran away from that place when she was eighteen, and never looked back. And she took the educational track. Went to college and honed her writing skills. And then cranked out her first novel (Nah, look it up yourself). She has won many literary awards and has been lauded by “literary” giants like the New York Times, Chicago Tribune, and Boston Herald. Usually that makes me suspicious, when I see an author splattered with accolades from people like that. This time, it’s real, and it’s deserved. I finally have some grudging respect for literary awards.

Read her stuff. Compared to her voice, mine is raw and untrained, like a little Amish boy piping up out of turn, an Amish boy who graduated from eighth grade in an Amish schoolhouse in backwater country.

None of all that matters much, I guess. You speak because you have to. I’ll keep on writing, however rough my voice. I hope Miriam Toews keeps on writing, too.

Share

Vagabond Traveler: The Curse…

For by your words you will be acquitted,

and by your words you will be condemned.

—Matthew 12:37

_____________________

The winds of autumn swept the land. You could feel the season from the way it bit you, and from the smell in the air. And on this day, it was late afternoon. The road was deserted, the road that snaked in and out of the forest, then out again into the badlands. If you looked to the east, along with the slanting rays of the setting sun, you could just make out a small figure in the distance. The figure loomed larger as the moments passed. And if you stood there, looking, you would realize. That dim figure was a man, striding along. A traveler, passing through on a journey.

He walked alone. And you saw, when he walked up close. He was tall. The thing that defined him was his long black coat. Strapped across his waist, it hung down past his knees. The high collar almost obscured the traveler’s face. Almost. But still, you could see his features glinting in the mix of sunlight and shadows. A handsome, high-boned face. Bearded. You could not see his eyes, because his wide-brimmed leather hat was pulled down low. But you could sense it. His eyes were seeing you.

He’d been around. You could tell, by the way he walked. And by the way he was armed. He had two weapons. Well, at least two that you could see. Who knows what was hidden under that long black coat? And the weapons you could see were these. Strapped across his back was a well-worn leather scabbard. Protruding from that scabbard, ready to the traveler’s hand, across his right shoulder, was a great two-handed broadsword.

And that broadsword was probably the main reason you’d think twice, before accosting the traveler. Not that the sword was the only thing he carried. Far from it. It was just the most intimidating. A loaded leather backpack was strapped across his back. Below that, a bedroll. And a canteen attached to his belt, carrying precious water. A few other pouches hung loosely, here and there, from the traveler’s lanky frame. His most ready weapon was always in his right hand. A sturdy oaken walking staff. And you could tell, by looking at that staff, and looking at the way it was carried, all comfortable, like an extension of the traveler’s arm. That staff had cracked more than a few skulls, had opened more than a few doors, out there, somewhere along the way.

Other than that, the traveler wasn’t all that intimidating, really. Just a guy, walking along. His face looked a little worn and tired. There was a scar of some kind, slashing across his right cheek. His long gray hair spilled down from the edge of his broad-brimmed hat, and splayed across his shoulders. On this day, in this place, this would be what you saw along that road. Such a traveler as that.

The day was ending. The shadows slipped ever longer, ever closer. The traveler approached a stream off to the side of the road. He scanned the area for a good place to camp for the night. He found it, a flat high spot hidden among the bushes. Out of sight. He unlimbered his packs, and laid down his staff. But not his sword. Then he walked about, picking up small branches for a fire. He gathered enough for the night, and lit a fire as the darkness settled around him.

Always alert, always wary, he kept scanning the edges of the night. He sniffed the air, too, now and again. The monster was out there, that he knew. He’d been stalked now, off and on. for a long time. Months. No, years. There had been face to face confrontations, and a number of hand to hand battles. The traveler’s broadsword had bitten deep. The monster had been wounded. But not killed. And it would never stop stalking its prey until it was confronted and turned back. Either because it got slain, or because it fled. This much the traveler knew.

He settled in beside his small crackling fire. From a pouch in his backpack, he took a few pieces of hardtack, and a few slices of dried, salty meat. He ate, and washed down the meager meal with gulps of water from his canteen. After eating, he sat there motionless, legs folded crosswise, head bowed, as if in deep meditation. Then he stirred. Restoked the fire, then stretched out on his bedroll, the great broadsword close to hand. The monster attacked only at night. And a fire burning close was the only thing that deterred it. The fire burned, now. But still, it was best to be prepared. Keep your sword close. The traveler drifted into fitful slumber.

The cold hours passed. And he awoke with a start. The dark, dead night was all around him. He glanced to where the fire was. A few dying embers flickered. He jolted to full alert. The monster was close, out there. He could smell it, he could feel it, he could sense it. Quietly, he reached over to the little pile of sticks he had collected the evening before. He set a few pieces on the embers, then stirred the coals with another stick. A weak flame flickered, then flared to life.

As the fire intensified, the traveler looked out to where he could sense the monster. And he saw it. A pair of greenish eyes, glowing in the darkness. He flinched. But then, with the ease born of many such confrontations, he reached for his broadsword on the ground beside him. And then he did a strange thing. He pierced the ground with the sword, so that it stood between him and the glowing eyes, in the shape of a cross.

And then the traveler spoke. Go away, vile beast, he said in a firm voice. I command you to leave this place, under the sign of this cross. Leave, and be damned. The greenish eyes glowed more intensely for a moment. It seemed like the monster might attack. But then, the glowing eyes drew back and grew dim, then disappeared.

The traveler stoked the fire with more sticks, so it burned brighter, hotter. Then he stretched out again on his bedroll. The sword-cross loomed above him like a protective shield. And soon he drifted off to sleep again.

The next morning, the traveler was up and about with the dawn. He washed up, there in the stream, then ate a quick breakfast of hardtack and dried meat. And water from his canteen. A traveler’s diet is pretty bland, he thought to himself. By tonight, he figured, he would be in the city. The city. A strange place he had always shied away from. But now he was walking there because his choices were getting ever more limited. He had figured it out, not long ago. There was a man in that city who could guide him to a place where he would be free from the monster that pursued him. He hated the city, and all the teaming masses of people there. But he hated the monster more, and he resented the unrelenting energy it took to constantly face and battle the thing he feared.

And so there was a choice, he knew. Walk into that city, walk into that crowded, teeming place, and seek advice from his friend, there. Or stay out here in the wilderness, and fight the monster again and again, in a never-ending running battle. Until he killed the monster, or it killed him.

He was tired of all that the monster kept demanding. Ever more concessions, ever more encroachment. Darkness. The battles could only happen in darkness, because that’s when the monster chose to show up. And the monster had taken to showing up way too often, lately. The traveler was tired of it all, the constant pursuit, the constant threats, tired of weary battle after weary battle after the sun had set.

He had figured to get away from it all a few months back, the traveler did. And he walked to the sea, and camped there on the shore. He planned to stay there for a week or so, to get himself cleaned out inside. The sea, the incessant roaring waves, always spoke to him, always calmed his soul. He looked forward to breathing deep the salt air, and for healing for his wounds. He looked forward to long sunny days, and peaceful, sleepy nights. And he settled in by the shore, to welcome it all in.

And that first night, the monster showed up out of nowhere. It had stalked him, even to this place. Emboldened and hungry, it moved in and attacked. Even the campfire could not deter it. It just came lashing in. And the traveler was forced to draw his sword, and fight. He had little energy. But he kept fighting on, all night, slashing and getting slashed. The monster fled with the light of each new day as it came. And that was the traveler’s only reprieve, that whole week. He huddled in a corner every day, trying to rest up for the battle he knew the monster would bring to him that night. He soaked it all the way in down deep, the despair and fear and shame. It was a terrible, terrible place to be.

After a week, the traveler finally stood, and battled his way out of that place. And he took off, across the vast expanse of wilderness to the city on the other side. This time, his face was set. This time, he would stay the course until he got to where he needed to go. This time, he would do what it took to cast the monster out.

And on this day, late in the afternoon, he saw the city beckoning in the distance.

As dusk settled and darkness closed in around him, he walked through the city gates. A short time later, the traveler was relaxing and eating real food and drinking real drink in the house of his friend.

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

I’ve written it before, right along as it happened. Last spring, there was a lot of turmoil going on inside me from a single source. And I decided to go see Sam, my old counselor friend, for the first time in years and years. In May, I walked into his office. And in that first session, I told him what was going on, and what I needed to get cleaned out inside me. I want to be free, I said. I got some serious writing coming on, and my heart needs to be free to get it spoken right. I will do what it takes to get there.

I went back and saw Sam once a month, since then. And every month, we broke through to new and better places. I figured it was going to take a couple of years to get to where I needed to go. Well, with Sam pointing out the way, things moved along a lot faster than I thought would be possible. I walked toward some hard things and faced them, and spoke light from the darkness. It’s amazing, what happens when you do that, how you can break free from the chains that bind you.

But somehow, the monster always returned, always came roaring back. And it wasn’t until I got back from the beach a few months ago, that I finally figured out what the problem was. Why the monster kept stalking me, kept coming back, kept showing up at night. The turmoil that was going on inside me, it was based on a curse I had spoken in rage more than two years ago. And that curse was the last thing I spoke at the person who had enraged me. Words. Simple words. Spoken from my heart. Words of rage and cursing.

And Sam patiently kept talking to me. He never told me what to think. Never said, “this is where you are going wrong.” Instead, he quietly asked questions, made me speak of where I was and how I felt and why I thought it was the way it was.

And it gradually came to me. Words. I’d heard it in sermons all my life. Words define who you are. If you speak cursing, that curse will stay and affect you. If you speak blessing, those words will stay with you as well. But still. I fought it hard. I flinched and hedged and squirmed and dodged. No, no. I don’t want to reach out with new words. But my wise friend in the city never let it go. “You claim to want to be free,” he said. “You know what needs to be done. It can be done in your own time. Later, rather than sooner, if that’s how it will work for you. But it must be done.”

And so I did it. Reached out, with words of restoration. Reached out, with words of healing. And I felt it, almost immediately. The power of those new words. The first time the monster came up at me after that, I held up those words like a shield. No. Those old words now have no more power. I rebuke you, vile monster. I claim these new words as my own. Those words stand between me and the old curse like a wall. The old words are dead. They will never return.

And I was totally amazed at how it all worked. I mean, you hear this stuff in sermons all the time. It’s standard preacher fare. But until you go out and actually test the promise for yourself, you really got no idea of what it feels like when it turns out to be all it claimed to be. And now, before me, a new road rises.

One morning last week, I went to see Sam for the sixth time in as many months. We talked about things, and I told him of this new place. And I told him, too. When I first walked in here, I told you I want to be free. Today, this morning, I can tell you that I am where I wanted to be back then. I think we’re done here, at least for now.

Sam agreed. “Your heart is where it needs to be,” he said. “I bless you on your journey. Come back and see me when you need to. You’ll know, if that time comes again.”

We stood there, just inside the door of his office. Then we shook hands. Then we hugged. Thank you, I said. My friend. Thank you for showing me the way.

And then I turned and left him.

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

On the morning of his departure, the traveler walked out of the city gates as the sun rose in the east. He had rested well during his stay at his friend’s home. Now, his backpack bulged with fresh supplies. His broadsword blade gleamed, wickedly honed to a razor edge. He walked along with fresh energy, his oaken staff stumping along. Down the winding road, back out to the wilderness. Back to where he belonged.

The morning passed as he walked along, whistling a merry little tune. And by noon, he had reached the edge of true wilderness. Miles and miles from the city. To his left, a great gloomy forest, so thick you walked in darkness whenever you walked there. To the right, way, way out on the horizon, desolate wastelands. Sparse. Dry. Where not much could grow.

The traveler walked along as the road snaked into the dark woods. Surrounded by great trees on both sides now, the sun’s rays barely broke through to where he was. And suddenly he halted, abruptly. Threw back his head, and sniffed the air. His right hand instinctively reached over his shoulder for the hilt of his broadsword.

The monster. It was out there, close, lurking. He could smell the stench of the beast. And then the traveler did something very strange. He turned and walked directly into the thick woods, right toward the place where the smell was strongest. Through the underbrush he crashed, broadsword in hand. Walking slowly, deliberately, steadily.

And now it was the monster’s turn to flinch. What in the world was going on, here? The man was coming at him, sword in hand. Not rushing. Just walking. And the man was not afraid. The monster could smell fear in people. He had stalked the traveler mercilessly for years. And always, he could sense it, the fear and rage and shame. Not now, though. The monster turned and slunk off, deeper, ever deeper, into the darkness of the forest.

The hunter had turned into the hunted. The afternoon wore on, the early shadows moved in, and still the traveler pursued the beast. In a small clearing, then, as the sun was sinking in the west, the monster turned to confront the man.

The traveler stepped into the clearing. And there, a few hundred feet away, the monster crouched. I’m not sure how to describe a monster. It looked kind of like a dragon, I guess, except it was incapable of breathing fire. And it was wingless. Otherwise, it was scaly, clawed, with a long snaking tail. Ugly as death, it crouched there, baring deadly yellowed fangs.

The traveler walked slowly to the center of the clearing. There, he stopped. The monster crouched and snarled. And then the traveler bent, and placed his sword on the ground. And his staff. Unarmed now, he stood, facing the monster.

And then the traveler spoke. You have pursued me, stalked me these past two years and more. His voice was calm, steady. We have fought each other, hand to hand. I have cut you hard, and you have wounded me. There were times I sank so low that I wanted to die. Twice, my heart nearly gave out. And once, I walked right up to the gates of death. Even then, when I came back to travel again, you couldn’t wait to stalk and attack me. It’s been a running battle ever since. And you came closest to winning, down by the sea. Almost, you had me, there. The traveler paused. The monster still crouched, still snarled. But it made no move to approach or attack the unarmed man before it.

You are a vile beast, the traveler said. But you know what? You are what you are, and your nature is what it is. It was my own fault, that you ever had any power to make me fear you. I spoke a curse, a few years ago. And because of that, because of the darkness of those words, my defenses were weak. So weak that a monster like you could make me flee. Make me run. The traveler paused again. The monster listened.

I have spoken new words now, the traveler said. New words that offered restoration and healing. How they were received does not matter. What matters is that I spoke them from my heart, and meant them. Those words have blocked the curse that haunted me, they now stand between you and me like a wall. You have no power over me, and I no longer fear you.

And now, I speak to you one last time. I’m telling you. Be gone, vile beast. And know this. I swear to you. If I ever catch you lurking on my trail again, I will hunt you down and kill you with my sword. I’m not talking about other monsters in your family. I know some of them will pop up, down the road. They always do. That’s just how life is. And I’ll deal with them when they get here. I’m talking about you, and this specific curse. This specific time and place. These specific circumstances. I am done. I will hunt you down and kill you if you ever threaten me again. Understand that. Now, go.

They faced each other across the clearing for a few more moments. The hunter and the hunted. A man and his nemesis. And then the monster turned and disappeared into the underbrush. Bushes and branches crackled underfoot as it blindly fled.

Alone now in the gathering dusk, the traveler turned and picked up his sword and staff. He looked around. This clearing would make a fine camping spot. A rough camp. He was tired. He would sleep well. He spread out his bedroll, then took food from his backpack and ate. And then he settled in to sleep, pulling his bedroll tight around him. The night air was a little chilly.

But not chilly enough to light a fire.

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

Alrighty, then. And now we are here, in this place and time. I’ve shied away from saying much about the upcoming election, at least on this blog, I have. On Facebook, well, all’s fair in all-out war.

I have cheered for Donald Trump from the second he stepped up to announce he was running. I cheer for him today. Since that day, he has single-handedly exposed the vile and evil establishment for what it is. Never in all the course of the history of this country has the ruling class been so united to demonize one man. They have been exposed now. Never again will these “beautiful people” be able to claim they’re looking out for anyone but themselves. The funny thing is, they could not knock The Donald down. He’s still standing, and he’s dishing it right back at them, when they demonize him. I love it.

This country is done. I will tell you, if no one else will. It’s done. It’s an overstretched empire, addicted to endless murderous wars, and it is doomed to collapse upon itself. This is the judgment of history. And history will not be kind to the American empire.

It will be what it is, I guess, next Tuesday. From the beginning, I have publicly proclaimed that Trump is gonna crush Hillary like a bug. And now, here, on this spot, I’ll stand by my proclamations.

I hope Trump wins. We all better hope that. The country is doomed, either way. Trump will keep it going for a few more years. If the corrupt harpy Hillary wins, I’m going underground, at least when it comes to politics. Her grating voice alone is fingernails across the chalkboard. I cannot bear to hear her speak. She is a vile and despicable person, a monster breathing lies. If she is elected king, she will unleash a curse upon this land and over all the world. Mark these words, for they are true.

So. Go, Trump.

And finally, how about that World Series? Unbelievable, is what it was. The two teams that had not won since before I was born. Well, the Cubs had not won since before my father was born. Not since before the Titanic sank. Let that sink into your brain for a few moments.

I had no dog in the hunt for either team. Still, I leaned to cheering for the Cubs. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the lovable losers. And my brother Titus has always cheered for teams in Chicago. The Bears, the Blackhawks, and the Cubs.

There were times when I almost could not watch. Still, I hung out at Vinola’s at least twice, with friends. A loud merry time was had by all. And when the Cubs battled back from a 3-1 deficit, everyone could feel something special was coming down in Game Seven.

I sat at home and watched. Didn’t figure I would last until the end, and I almost didn’t. Rumors had been flying on Facebook that the Second Coming of Christ would occur when the teams were tied in the ninth inning of Game Seven. And by the time the Cubs blew their lead and the score was tied after nine innings, I would not have been the least bit surprised had the heavens split open and had the Lord returned with a great shout.

Instead, the Lord sent a rain delay. Exhausted, I went to bed. Of course, sleep would not come. So I got back up after half an hour or so. The Cubs had scored two more, and were leading into the bottom of the tenth.

It could not have been a closer game. When the final out came, the Cubs were standing. Eight to seven, was the score. Along with millions of others, I sat there and absorbed this historic moment. The goat curse was gone, rebuked forever. The lovable losers were World Champions. They are World Champions. You gotta love a story that ends like that.

Share

The Preacher and the Prophet…

…He preached magnificently, his gaunt face glowing from the pulpit,

his rather high, enormously vibrant voice husky with emotion. His

prayers were fierce solicitations of God, so mad with fervor that

his audiences uncomfortably felt they came close to blasphemy…

–Thomas Wolfe

_______________

It was a dark and stormy night. Just kidding. I always wanted to open a blog with that classic Snoopy line. (And yeah, I know that was a real literary line, way back. Snoopy made me aware of it.) Actually, it was a hot and sultry summer afternoon. A Saturday. You could feel the waves of heat, wherever you were. And you could feel the waves of heat coming up at you, along the highway. And this day, in this heat, there was a rider traveling on that highway.

He was a dark rider, on a dark horse. A Harley, throbbing along. Matte black. A bare-bones bike, with straight handle bars. A single leather saddle seat. Two leather saddle bags covered the back wheel. And there was something more. A leather scabbard, on the right side, right behind the rider. And from that scabbard, it stuck out. The pistol grip of an ominous thing. A sawed-off shotgun. A Greener, double-barreled and deadly, the barrels cut to eighteen inches. Perfectly legal. And fully loaded. You might notice those details, if you looked close. But mostly, you wouldn’t. Because your eyes would be focused on the rider.

He was dressed in black. Tough leather boots. And jeans. His shirt could have been just about any color. But his vest was black. As was his helmet. He wasn’t young. You could tell he’d been around. His face was seamed and leathered, his hair was gray. Long and waving, not quite a pony tail. And again, if you looked close, you could see. Real bikers wear long sleeves, and they wear leather. But on this hot summer day, the rider wore black jeans, and a short sleeved shirt, and a leather vest. On his right hip hung a leather sheath with a large bone-handled knife, a classic Bowie pig sticker.

And you’d never see them, unless he walked right up to you. The tattoos on his arms. On both biceps. On his left arm, there was a cross, with a banner. With the words, top and bottom. “You did not choose me. I chose you.” On the right arm, another cross, again, with another banner. And these were the words you read if you saw that cross. “Preacher to the Pagans.”

The bike grumbled along, in the summer heat. The rider was getting close to where he was going. And then he pulled in, to the pub. A bar. A few other hard core bikes were scattered about, parked here and there. The rider found a spot, and parked among them. He reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a leather sheath and covered the handle of his sawed-off shotgun. No sense, that anyone got tempted, here. He pulled out a canvas messenger bag and slung it over his right shoulder. And then he turned, and walked to the door of the bar.

Across the parking lot, outside the Dollar store, a young mother was loading the items she had bought into her minivan. Her five-year-old son stood beside her. The boy watched in fascination as the dark rider clanked to the bar. He tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “Mommy, Mommy,” he said.

She paused and looked down, mildly startled at the urgency in his voice. “Yes?” She asked. “What is it?”

The boy pointed across the lot as the dark rider approached the barroom door. “Mommy,” he said. “Mommy. I’m scared of that man.”

And that right there is about where I had figured I’d be by now, back last spring when I decided to get my motorcycle license. Out there looking all dark and sinister and mean and making little children shrink in fear behind their mothers. And preaching the gospel to the Pagans. But it’s not where I am. Strange roadblocks have popped up out of nowhere, about when I was figuring to move forward into new places. I’ve spun my wheels a little bit, here. Maybe the Lord is trying to tell me something. I don’t know. If He is, I sure want to listen.

It all started innocently enough, early last summer. In Pennsylvania, you need to get your permit before you actually get a license for a motorcycle. I googled the study guide, and took a bunch of sample tests. And one Saturday last May, I walked onto the DMV to take the test. It was a big place. And it was absolutely jammed with people. Still, I asked the guy at the front. How long? He figured a couple of hours. I took a number and walked to the back and found a seat, and kept right on studying for the test.

About three hours later, my number was called. I walked up and gave the man my paperwork. He pointed me to a computer at the far wall. My test was waiting. I had to get 16 out of 20 questions right. I sat down and signed in. And the questions came at me. Every single one was worded exactly like the questions in the book. In less than ten minutes I had answered the 16th straight question right. The computer blinked. My test was done. I had passed. I walked back over to my guy. And I wrote him a check and he printed out my precious motorcycle permit. I walked out of there feeling pretty good about myself. This was the new me, right here.

I don’t own a motorcycle. I have a few friends who do. There’s just not a lot of time or space or bike to practice and learn on my own. So I signed up for a learning class. In PA, those are free. Well, you pay for them with your taxes. So I got online and signed up for a class in late July. Classroom on Wednesday and Thursday nights. The real thing, the real riding would happen, then, half days on Saturday and Sunday.

And it happened for me, like such things always do. I don’t pay much attention, as the date approaches. And late July slowly came at me. The day. Wednesday. I told the others at work. Tonight my classes start. And I figured to head out of work a few minutes early, to make sure to get there. And then, right at 3:30, an email. From the PA motorcycle test people. Classes had been canceled that evening, and all that week. I gaped in disbelief. It couldn’t be. But it was. And no explanation. I grumbled savagely to the others. My classes got canceled. No reason. I bet the instructor had an accident on his Harley, that’s what I bet. He probably got maimed or killed.

There was nothing left to do, really, but to get online and see where I could sign up again. Late September was the first opening that suited me. And I signed up, along with my friend, Steve Beiler, and his daughter. We had planned on doing this thing together. And I put it out of my mind then, the motorcycle thing, pretty much. There was lots of stuff going on through August, and then September. Like my garage party, and Beach Week.

And then the date approached again. I told Steve. If this class gets canceled, I figure the Lord is trying to tell me something. I figure I’ll just let it go. He chuckled. We both thought, fat chance, that we’d have such bad luck two times in a row. And the first night approached, and came at us. No email came that afternoon. So I drove on over to the Ephrata High School. I met Steve and his daughter and his brother. This time, it was happening. And right at six, we walked into the classroom.

The instructor welcomed us. A nice loud man. And right up front, he told us. The original instructor had canceled the day before. He was called and asked if he would fill in. Whew, I thought. That close, the Lord took this thing from me again. But the instructor went on. He was here for the two classroom nights. He had no idea who was scheduled to be here on Saturday and Sunday, for the real bike riding. Or if anyone was. He’d let us know the next time we met.

And you can know what happened, before I even tell you. We met again on Thursday. The first thing he told us. Saturday and Sunday were canceled, due to lack of instructors. And so now I sit here, half qualified to ride. I’m pretty irritated. The state cannot run such a program competently. It’s just not possible. This was strike two.

I checked at the local Harley dealer. They offer private classes, and they do not cancel. They had a few openings, for late this month. All for $350.00. I thought about it, then just pulled back for now. I could cough up the money. But it’s just not in my budget. Since my hospital stay last year, and my heart ablation in February, I got some decent medical bills. I plug away every month, sending in my payment. And I try to be careful about my discretionary spending.

I guess I’ll see what 2017 will bring. Maybe it was just a dream, the tough old biker on a low slung Harley, matte black, rumbling into the wind on a hot summer day. Maybe it was just a dream, that preacher to the Pagans. The Lord will bring all things to pass, in His time. This I believe. And this I know. So now, I rest. And now, I wait.

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

I’ve heard the term here and there, over the years. Never paid much attention to it. It’s the charismatic groups, mostly, who speak it. The prophetic word. It’s when people speak prophetically into the lives of others, or another, often a person they don’t even know. I’ve always taken such stories with a few hefty grains of salt. Might be true. Might not. One thing is true. Speaking “prophetic words” can be easily abused. I mean, you can speak in such broad and general terms that it’s impossible to know if what you’re saying is coming from the Lord, or coming from you. That’s simply the way it is.

Well. Recently a good friend came to me and passed on a prophetic word from a total stranger. To me. For me. And this is how it happened.

I’ve walked some dark roads, these past few years. If you even halfway follow this blog, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Up and down and sideways, it seemed like I meandered. One week would be sunny, and then the valley swooped up at me again. And down, down, into the abyss I went. Over and over, it seemed like.

And then I broke free, earlier this year, from almost all the demons. Almost all. And I walked free, too, freer than I have in a lot of years. But still, that one monster lurked, that one I could not face. I knew something had to be done. And I knew it wouldn’t get done unless I stepped out and got some help.

So, some months ago, I went to see Sam, my counselor friend. I wrote about it, when it happened. And since then, I’ve seen him roughly once a month. Every four weeks. And they have been more than productive, our sessions. After each one, it seemed like I was walking a little closer to the light. After each one, I felt a little calmer and a little more free.

And it didn’t take long, for the dam to break. After the third session, I think it was, I announced to the world that I was starting my second book. I wasn’t sure about the path, I wrote back then. But I can see the destination. And I’m not afraid to start walking. It was a place I had desperately sought out on my own, these past few years. I simply could not find the way. And that’s why I went to see Sam. And he didn’t let me down. He didn’t just point out the way. He walked along beside me and showed me.

And I strode along, in this new light with great joy and much wonder. I announced to the world. I’m starting my next book. And I started writing. It’s come along, pretty well, the first few dozen pages. Still rough. But it’s real, so far.

And then it triggered, the very first night at Beach Week. It doesn’t matter what the trigger was. That one demon came roaring at me, that one fear I had not been able to confront. And it all affected me throughout most of Beach Week, I’m sorry to say. I brooded. My friends looked concerned. And I struggled with the overwhelming waves of shame and worthlessness that washed over me. The warrior in me dropped his sword and fled. And he stayed far away. I sat shivering in the darkness, in a corner on the floor, shielding my face from any light. It was a terrible, terrible place to be.

And I will say, here. I blame no person, and I blame no circumstances for that demon. It was concocted entirely in my mind. And created, in my head. Birthed from real events, of course. Most monsters come from actual places. But it was my choice to let the monster grow and grow, until I could not bear the thought of standing up to it, let alone walking toward it. Why did I allow that to happen? I think, sometimes. I get too sensitive, react way out of proportion. I feel things, way to intensely, way too deep. I guess it all just was what it was.

Anyway, back to the beach. By Friday or so, I struggled out of the darkness, and returned to some semblance of my real self. It was a choice I made, to walk into that darkness. And that choice came very close to ruining all that Beach Week ever was for me, or meant to me. And the next day, Saturday, we all headed for home.

After I got home, I worked my way back to a semblance of normal. I called Janice, and told her what had happened. “Why didn’t you just tell us?” she asked. “We were all concerned for you.” Well, people don’t want to hear about that kind of crap, I said. I just didn’t feel like going there, and talking to anyone. I’m better, now, though. But I thought about what Janice had said. It wasn’t right of me, to go brooding off into the darkness. It wasn’t fair to my friends. Beach Week is for joy and good times and happiness, not shivering and cowering in some dark and lifeless hellhole. And that next full week passed. And the following Monday morning, the last Monday of last month, I went to see Sam.

I was frustrated, my heart in turmoil. I can’t remember that I ever looked forward to seeing him as much as I did that Monday morning. We got the small talk out of the way in about five minutes. And I told him what had happened down at Beach Week. What had happened, that the darkness was triggered. How I had moped and brooded around, all week, to where the others got all concerned. And I told him the roots of the demon, the fear and the shame. He looked all thoughtful, like he always does. Asked all kinds of questions, like he always does. I faced him, and answered honestly.

It took a while for him to get there, but he did. “You allowed this thing to overwhelm you,” he said. “At Beach Week, you did that. A week when you should have been celebrating with friends. At the beach. You went into darkness instead.” I looked at him. Yes, I said. Yes, I did that. He looked at me, and he could not hide it in his eyes. He was astonished at how obtuse I was.

The thing about Sam is, he doesn’t scold you. That was about as astonished as I’ve ever seen him, about anything I told him. And we kept talking. He kept digging. And he kept talking. And I began to see.

I was stuck, in a rut. Not in all of life. Not in most of it, or much of it, even. But in that one place, that one sliver, that one monstrous demon, I was. This was the only one I hadn’t walked toward, the only one I had not faced, the only one I had not confronted. Still, it took my breath away, to think of actually confronting that fear, and speaking to it. Our session wound down, then, and I thanked Sam and left. I mulled over things a lot, during the drive back to the office, and all the rest of that day and evening.

I slept well that night. Mulled over things some more. And the next morning, it was clear to me. Whatever this thing was that I was so afraid of, I needed to walk toward it. Even a week before, that thought would have been paralyzing to me. But that was last week, and it was before my last session with Sam. And as the day came out me, I felt it all the deeper. Face the fear. Reach out. Not in anger. In honesty, sure, and in sadness. But not in rage. And I realized. Whatever was coming at me, whatever I was doing here, it was primarily for me. For my own heart. For my own peace.

The thing was heavy on my mind all that morning at the office. And late that morning, I walked back to Rodney’s desk to discuss a couple of upcoming jobs and scheduling. And we talked. As we were winding down, I stood to leave. I saw Rodney had something more on his mind. Seemed like he was hedging about something. And then he asked the strangest question.

“Do you believe in a prophetic word?” he asked cautiously. I stared at him, startled. Prophetic word? Umm, I can’t say I’ve ever paid much attention to such things. But my thinking is that it would be pretty easy to abuse, I said. I mean, anyone can say anything. And I asked. Why?

Rodney looked a little sheepish. “I’m about the same way,” he said. “I think it can be real, but it sure can be abused, too.” And he told me his little tale.

The night before, he had been at some meeting of some kind. Not sure what. Rodney is on all kinds of boards of all kinds of community projects. As things were winding down at this particular meeting, this guy yelled from across the room. “Rodney. Don’t leave. I have something to tell you.” So Rodney hung around and waited. The man came over, and told him.

And here, Rodney told me the man’s name. I’d never heard it before, and I don’t remember it now. I didn’t write it down. “You have to realize,” Rodney said. “This man is not a close friend. I mean, I know him. He has no idea where I work. He came up to me and told me. I have a word for your writer friend. He has no idea who you are. And after I got home, I thought to myself. Of all my friends who write, Ira is the only one who is actually working on something. So I figure his word was for you.”

I was intrigued. Actually, I felt a little shiver slicing down my spine. And what word was that? I asked. Rodney handed me a little orange sticky note.

Deuteronomy 2:7 has a word, the note said. And then the note said this: Embrace your current state, and sustain your spirit for a journey. Wow, I said to Rodney. Wow. You have no idea how powerful this is to me. I told him a little bit of what I had experienced at Beach Week, and what Sam and I had talked about the day before. And I walked back to my computer and googled the verse. Deuteronomy 2:7. The Lord your God has blessed you in all the work of your hands. He has watched over your journey through this vast wilderness. These forty years the Lord your God has been with you, and you have not lacked anything.

I gotta say, from here. That experience with that little prophetic word was one of the wilder things I have seen and felt in a long time. Of course, it could be random, the skeptic in me warns. Yes. Yes, it could, my heart speaks back. But it could be real, too.

Winding down, then. I can’t tell you how encouraging it was, to get that prophetic word from a total stranger. I consider it a miracle. And on that day, I walked forward into a place I had not seen before, not when it comes to confronting your fears. It was a hard place. It was a dark place. And it was a fearful place. Of course it was all that.

But it was also OK. And I will say this. That final fear was faced down, because I spoke to it. The details of what happened and how it happened are not important, not here. They are private.

Let’s just say I spoke my heart. I spoke restoration, where before I had spoken curses. I spoke light, where before I had spoken darkness. I spoke pain, where before I had spoken rage. I spoke healing, where before I could only speak to wound. I spoke these things right into the face of the biggest fear I’ve harbored inside me for a long, long time. And let’s just say it’s been a lot of years since I’ve felt this free.

I have embraced my current state, and my spirit is sustained for a journey. To where, I do not know. It doesn’t matter. I’m thinking all of what happened was probably important for the shaping of my next book. I feel that. But I don’t know that. All I do know is I’ll keep walking.

And may the prophet prosper, that brave and resolute soul who boldly proclaimed those special words of confirmation and blessing to me, a total stranger.

Share

The Bishop at Rest…

They had been young and full of pain and combat,

and now all this was dead in them; they smiled

mildly, feebly, gently…spoke in thin voices…

looked at one another with eyes dead to desire,

hostility, and passion…

—Thomas Wolfe

______________________

I had heard about him a few times over the years, from my Amish friends. He was the senior bishop in all of Lancaster County. Enos Beiler. The Amish pope, some called him. Not that I remembered his name for long. But still, my friends got ever more quietly persistent. He’s still sharp as a tack, mentally. You really should stop by, sometime, just to talk to him. And it happened again last weekend, as I was hanging out with some good Amish friends. The bishop came up again, in the conversation. He’s a hundred years old, now, they told me. You really need to stop by and see what he has to say to you. And finally I agreed. All right, all right, I said. I’ll go on Monday. On Labor Day. Stop pestering me. Still, I thought to myself. If you’re going to see a man who’s a hundred years old, you better get it done.

And it’s not that it would be a hard thing, to go see an old man like that. But still, I flinched a little when Monday morning came. What would old Enos think, when a total stranger came knocking on his door? And I knew from the little snippets I’d heard. He used to be all hard core, years back, when he was young and strong. He still had the reputation as one of the strictest of the strict, when it came to bishoprics. And I thought to myself. What will an old hard core guy like that do, when an ex-Amish renegade like me walks in? Lord knows I’ve had my share of bad luck over the years when it comes to Amish bishops. The mad bishop of Ligonier always comes to mind in such a moment, scowling darkly at me from the recesses of my memory.

I figured to play my “Dad” card, this time. Old Enos knew Dad years back, when my father was a Conscientious Objector during WWII. Dad served in camps at Sidling Hill, and later, in Boonsboro, MD. And I remember him telling me. The people from Lancaster County came around, just about every Sunday, to hold church services. And I wasn’t sure how it had happened, but I knew they had met, old Enos and Dad, back in those years. The bishop remembered Dad well, from what I heard. Surely he wouldn’t mind meeting Dad’s son. With such thoughts as these I calmed myself as the day came at me, then the hour.

Right at midmorning, I was fixing to head out. I loaded a few things into my trusty canvas messenger bag. My iPad, just in case. A notebook and a pen. And a copy of my book. You don’t walk into a new place like this unprepared. Play it all by ear, sure, but have what you need when you get there. That’s what I figured. I punched the address into my GPS and took off. West to Leola, then south. Then west again on Eby Road. It was a beautiful sunny morning. Old Enos had no idea I was coming, but I figured he’d be home. The Amish pay no attention to a holiday such as Labor Day. It’s like any other day to them.

On then, past vast rich fields of corn and tobacco and hay. The breadbasket of the east, Lancaster County is. The Amish are woven into the very fabric of the land, who they are and what they are. The blood of all their generations in America is buried here. The road curved and twisted, and soon I saw the old farmstead, off to the left. Where Enos lived. Enos Beiler. The elder statesman of all the Amish bishops in Lancaster County.

Oh, well, I thought. Here goes. I turned into the gravel drive and drove up to the big farmhouse. The big white barns with slatted sides were bulging with hundreds and hundreds of bundles of drying tobacco hanging from the rafters. Only in Lancaster County, I thought. The Amish have always raised tobacco here. And they’ve never made any excuses for it. I’ve always respected that about them. Just be who you are. Walk before God, like you always have.

I parked, then slung the messenger bag over my shoulder and walked up to the big farmhouse. I knocked. A rather plump Amish woman opened the door. She looked at me quizzically, but smiling. I’m looking for Enos Beiler, I half stammered. I’m Ira Wagler, one of David Wagler’s sons. The writer. My Dad was, I mean. I just wanted to meet him and visit a bit.

And she smiled. “He lives on this farm, but not in this house,” she told me. “He lives in that red brick house, halfway out the lane.” Is it OK if I stop and see him? I asked. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Just knock on the door. He should be home.”

So far, so good, mostly, I thought to myself. I thanked the plump woman and walked back out to Big Blue. A few minutes later, I was approaching the screen door of the little brick house. The inside door was open. Looked like a washhouse in there. I lifted my hand and knocked hard on the door. No one seemed to be stirring inside. Maybe the old man wasn’t home. Maybe the bishop had gone out to visit someone this morning.

And right then the plump Amish lady from the first house came walking up. She smiled. “I’m not sure if he’ll hear you knocking, so I came to help you get in.” I looked grateful. She opened the door and walked right on in. I followed closely. “Dad,” she hollered toward the back of the living room. There was a shuffling noise. And a few seconds later, he came rolling out of the back room in his wheelchair. Enos Beiler. The Amish pope. The oldest living bishop in Lancaster County, and probably the oldest living bishop in all the Amish world.

He wheeled up and greeted his daughter, and looked at me. I held out my hand, and he took it. I’m Ira Wagler, I said. One of David Wagler’s boys. He beamed and his eyes flashed, and I saw my father’s name evoked something strong in him. I heard you met him years ago, at the CO camp during the war, I said. And he seemed all eager to talk. He settled down in his wheelchair, and I sat down on a chair by the kitchen table. And we just went at it, the old man and me.

And he told me. He remembered my father well. From way back in the 1940s, when Dad was in service in Boonsboro, MD. The people from Lancaster County went down there and bought the farm, where the young COs would stay. They enlarged the house, and sent a married couple to act as house parents. Enos told me. His parents were house parents. That’s how it happened that he ever even went down to visit.

And I looked at him, as he talked to me. In those first few minutes, the thought flashed through me. Here he sat, an old man, a hundred years old, all ready and excited to visit with a stranger. As a bishop, years ago, he was the strictest of the strict. He observed every jot and tittle of the Amish Ordnung. And I wondered, there. How many innocent lives had withered under his rule? How did the fire of all that ever die in him? Was it for him as it had been for my father? Dad held onto the fire of who he was for as long as he could grasp it. Only with age did the flames die down and recede, only with age did a certain mellowness creep in. I think that’s the way it goes with a lot of those hard core prophets of long ago. The fire dies down, simply because they get too old. No other reason. But I guess that’s a better reason than none.

We settled in then. His daughter sat off to the side for the first ten minutes or so, just listening. “This is all so interesting,” she smiled as she got up to leave. And the old bishop and I talked about a lot of things. I asked the questions, and he spoke his answers.

There were eleven districts in Lancaster County back in 1916, when he was born. Eleven. That’s pretty small. Now there’s probably more than two hundred. And he told me of how he remembered walking on the dirt road to the little country school half a mile west. The road was dirt. “Today, the young people get fussy when their buggies get a little dusty,” he said. “And I always think. They have no idea what real dirt is. Not dirt like we walked over back then.” I laughed, and he laughed, too.

He was born on this farm, he told me when I asked. Not in this house. Up there in the bigger house, where his youngest daughter lives with her family. He lived on this farm all his life, except for a brief period after he got married. He rented a small place across the road. But he worked this old home farm all his life. That’s just amazing, I said.

And I asked him, then, about the Amish culture and where he thinks it’s going. He thinks it’s moving too fast, away from the old ways. I pulled out my iPhone. What do you think of this, that the local Amish people have them? “Oh, they’re not supposed to have cell phones,” he told me. But they do, I said. I deal with them every day, out in the field. He didn’t know quite what to make of that. But he half grinned at me. “I like to hold back a little,” he said. “I’ve always liked to hold back.” Yeah, I bet you did, I thought. I didn’t say that, though.

I asked him. Do you still preach? He smiled a little shyly. “Yes,” he said. “When it’s my turn, I do.” I half gaped. Do you preach sitting down in your wheelchair? I asked. “No,” he said. “I have a walker. I can stand pretty well and when I lean on the walker.” I marveled. Here was a man, a hundred years old, telling me how he still takes his turn, how he still gets up and preaches in the Amish church he was born in.

And he spoke of his memories of my father, there at camp. “He had dark hair, and he was a striking young man. The first time I saw him, he was typing. He was the editor of the little camp newspaper, The Sunbeam. He sat there and typed away so fast that I told him. You’re typing faster than I can think.” I laughed again. Yeah, I said. I know all about the sound of that typing. I grew up going to bed with that sound clacking away downstairs. It’s a fond memory for me.

And somewhere in about here, I pulled out the copy of my book I had brought. I handed it to him, and he looked at it. I wrote this book, I said. “You mean, your Dad wrote it?” he asked. No, I said. I wrote it. I’m not sure if he grasped it, what the book was. But I asked him, kind of shyly. Would you take the book as a gift, if I gave it to you? He told me. “My eyes are still good enough to read.” I took that as a yes. So I signed it to him, and gave it to him.

And at that moment, I fiddled a bit with my iPhone. I snapped a few pics of the man. He had no clue at all that I was doing it. And yeah, I don’t know the ethics of all that. I walked into his door uninvited. He was giving me his attention and hospitality. So how right was it, to invade his space and take a photo I knew he would have objected to? I don’t know. All I know is I wasn’t going to leave that place without snapping a few pics of the old man. I just wasn’t. The Lord will judge my heart.

He never asked the nosy questions, like he probably would have thirty years ago. He never asked if I had ever joined the Amish church. He knew I was David Wagler’s son. We spoke PA Dutch about half the time in our visiting. But he never went there, to find out how much of a heretic I am, or if I am excommunicated (I’m not). The fire of all that had burned out in him.

It was soon time to wind down, then, I figured. I asked what he does with his time. He beamed and smiled some more. “Come and I’ll show you,” he said. And he wheeled into the back room, where he had emerged from earlier. And there he showed me what he does, all day. He hand-weaves little baskets. Two sizes, both fairly small. He had a stack of each size off to the side. Some retailer takes all the baskets he can make. I never asked what he gets for them. How many can he make a day? Three. I guess that hand weaving is a lot of work. But still. It’s so typical of the Amish people. When you get old, for as long as you’re able, you work with your hands. You keep busy. His little work station looked very comfortable. And it was right by a large window, where he could look out over the farm he’s lived on almost all his life.

We moved back out to the kitchen, then, and I made noises to leave. “But wait,” he said. “I think I have an old picture of the camp house where your Dad served, down there in Boonsboro. Let me look.” And he wheeled over to a cabinet drawer and pulled out a large binder. Dozens and dozens of plastic slip-in pages, all containing old letters and old correspondence from long ago. Slowly and painfully, he paged through, while I stood there beside him. He could not find the picture. It’s OK, I said. It’s OK.

I took the book from his hands, then, and placed it in the drawer and slid it shut. It was time to leave now. I walked to the table and he wheeled along beside me. Thank you, I said. Thank you for taking the time to visit. I really enjoyed it. I enjoyed talking to you. I reached out my hand again, and he shook it. He was smiling, half beaming. “Thank you for stopping by,” he said. “And thank you for the book. I’ll look at it.”

He turned, then, and wheeled to his little workshop, back to weaving his baskets. And I turned to the door, and walked from his world back into mine.

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

And it’s that time of year, again. Beach Week. It seems surreal, almost. We head out tomorrow. A whole week of not doing anything I don’t want to do. It’s been a crazy year. I have seen and walked through many things since last year’s Beach Week. And in my heart, I am grateful for all of life.

I don’t know if the boys plan to go shark fishing this year, or what. Guess we’ll figure all that out when we get down there. I do know I’ll be doing some serious writing. I’ve got about a fourth of those fifty pages roughed out for Chip, my agent. I just need the time to sit and feel them in, the details. I’m giving myself until New Years to get it done. Maybe if the next week is productive, I might beat my own deadline. No pressure, though. We’ll just see how it goes.

Share

Vagabond Traveler: One More City…

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don’t do it…

if you’re trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it…

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you’re not ready…

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

—Charles Bukowski, excerpts; So you want to be a writer

____________________

It’s always been stirring around down there, deep inside. I’ve felt it, shifting, twisting, struggling to get out, to get told. And always, when I looked down inside to check things out, there was a small persistent voice that came. No. Not now. Don’t do it. Not this moment. It will come when it gets here, the story you need to tell. Not right now. One day, it’ll get here. You’ll know. It will come on its own, it will speak its own voice, and when it does come, you won’t be able to keep it silent.

And I remember it all so clear, looking back. How that first journey was, to my first and only book. It was an impossible and hopeless dream, that I had back then. And I never got in anyone’s face about it. Nah, I figured. Ten million other people are out there in the market, frantically hawking their words to whoever they can get to listen. They got formulas, they go to seminars, they got all kinds of time-tested ways of making things work, when it comes to selling your book. I instinctively recoiled from all that noise and hassle. I don’t want to walk out there in that loud and messy market. And I thought to myself. Just sit in your little corner and write. Write your heart. It’s a long shot, but maybe you can make the market come to you.

It was a spectacularly naive game plan. Looking back, there was almost zero chance that it would work. But I never fretted much about it. I focused on what I wanted to do. Write. Write and post. And in those first few years after my marriage blew up, that was pretty much the focus of my life. Tell your story. Throw it out there. Someone who knows someone will eventually have to notice.

And a few years in, here comes a prophet, striding along, leaning wisely on his staff. Gray-haired and gray bearded. Well at least salt-and-pepper-haired and bearded, back then. He was a man I have known all my life. Jerry Eicher. A well-known writer of Amish fiction, Jerry had broken into the market in his own unique way. He won some sort of writing contest, I think. And he connected with Harvest House, his publisher. And he got a slew of books written and published, all without an agent. As of now, he has sold over 800.000 books, total, from a series of titles, which dwarfs the sales of my book. Our connection goes way back. We were both born in Aylmer, the same year. All the way up to second grade, we were neighbors, then Jerry’s family moved to Honduras with Peter Stoll and his group. We connected sporadically over the years. And when I started writing and blogging, Jerry read my stuff.

And he’s the man who first came striding through the wilderness, to show me the way. At least the way he knew. We communicated off and on, via email. And Jerry offered to connect me with his guy at Harvest House. I’d appreciate that, I said. One way or another, I will get published someday. I know that as surely as I’ve ever known anything in my heart. I forget the guy’s name at Harvest House, the one Jerry connected me with. I sent him a few of my blog stories. He got quite excited. Harvest House would publish me, he assured me. And I dared to believe, dared to hope, that all of it was happening as I had dreamed it would.

Jerry’s friend took my stuff to the board at Harvest House. He urged them to publish it. But a couple of people on that board shook their heads in horror. We can’t put writing like this on the market. It’s not sweet enough. Amish stories have to be sweet. And the sad message came back to me. Harvest House won’t publish you. And it seemed like the twilight of my dream had come, as the darkness settled and night closed in. I felt the disappointment, all the way down deep. But still I sat at my desk, and still I wrote and wrote and posted my blog. That’s all I knew to do.

I had always believed. Someone who knows someone who knows someone will get me connected. And in that dark hour, that’s exactly what happened. The Harvest House guy was extremely disappointed. And we talked one night, on the phone. And he told me. “I know an agent, a good friend of mine. Let me talk to him about this.” I was pretty disillusioned by the Harvest House board. My stories weren’t sweet enough. What kind of a moron would say such a thing? I didn’t know Amish stories were supposed to be sweet. But I thanked the guy. I would appreciate that. If this was how the publishing world worked, well, I might as well just keep posting on my blog. None of my blog readers had ever suggested such an inane thing, that my stories weren’t sweet enough. So I didn’t expect much to develop from the guy’s agent friend. Still, one always clings to a sliver of hope in a time like that.

A few weeks later, sure enough, here comes an email from the agent the guy claimed he knew. Chip MacGregor, the only person in the publishing world I still communicate with today. He asked to talk on the phone, which we did. He didn’t seem like a wordy man. Almost shy and quiet. He asked for some of my stuff and other info, and I sent him what he wanted. And then he just disappeared for a few months. Hmm. I sure wonder what that was all about, I thought to myself. There’s sure not much fuss or hassle going on. And as always, I sat and wrote and wrote and posted my blog.

The rest, I guess, is history. About eight months later, Chip brought me an offer from Tyndale House. They wanted a memoir. I don’t know if I can write one, I said. Which was true. I didn’t know, and actually doubted that I could. I might have heard of Tyndale House before, but I had no idea that they were as big and respected in the industry as they are. When you look at the publishing world and publishers, and all the would-be authors out there, when you look at an equation such as that, you’ll know I had no clue of much of anything back then. I had about as much chance of getting published by Tyndale as I had of getting struck by lightning on a clear day. Maybe less, even. I know that now, looking back.

It all came together, then, and the book came out and took off and did some crazy things. I won’t go over all that again. That little journey has been well documented, right here. The thing is, what happens after you get something like that accomplished? I didn’t know, really. Enjoy the ride, I guess. Then in late 2011, a small nudge from Chip, in an email. Tyndale would like to check about the possibility of another book. The sequel. I was freaked out a good deal by that, but once again, I said. I don’t know if I can write one, but I guess I can try. So I went off and tried for a while.

It did not go well at all. When writing my first book, all the way through, I told myself. You’re not “writing a book.” You’re writing on your blog. Talk to your blog readers. They’re the ones you’ve always talked to. So I focused on that, when the going got tough a few times. Focused on speaking to my readers. And mostly it worked, pulled me through. Still, my “manuscript” was one big mess. Stories ran together, or out of order. There were few chapter breaks, and no chapter titles. I just spewed it all out and sent it in. My Tyndale team took it from there. And I have always given those people all the credit in the world. I wrote the words, and they cut and fused the book from that. They could not have done a more professional job. I wouldn’t change ten words in the book if I could.

Back to the sequel. That’s what you do, when you write a successful first book. Get the second one out while the market’s hot. The time-honored formula. And that’s the main reason most sequels are just flat out flops. You can’t force real writing. You can nudge it along a little, maybe, but you can’t force it. And I could not find my voice, to come out right with a second book. I went down dark roads, that had been lurking in my subconscious mind for decades. That little torrent was unleashed. And it did not go well.

So I told the people I was talking to back then in the publishing world. I’m pulling back. I’m going back to where it all started, and just speak my voice on my blog. Maybe another book will come one day. I believe it will. But maybe, too, it won’t. I’m fine with whatever comes, either way. It’ll just be what it is. That’s what I told them.

And that’s what I’ve done, ever since that day. Just rolled along, and lived. And come close to dying at least once, maybe twice. Not being dramatic, it’s just a fact. And I wrote it all on my blog. Up and down and through deep dark places and over great soaring mountains. I walked through it all. And I’ve always been pretty honest about it, right here where I can speak my voice. Here, I am comfortable. Here, I just write my heart. Here, I trust my readers enough to speak to them straight. There is no filter between me and them.

And I gotta hand it to Chip, my agent. We’ve always stayed connected, loosely. We’re Facebook friends, and I’m a faithful reader of his blog. He’s got the best insider’s perspective on the publishing market out there. Some of what he says I should do, I pay no attention to at all. Like attending seminars and joining a writer’s group and treating your writing as a business and working so many hours a day and producing X amount of words. I never have done any of that, and I never will. It’s just not who I am. Don’t get me wrong. I love the money my book brought me, and I wish it had been ten times more. But money had nothing at all to do with the reasons I wrote it. Look. You can write for any reason you want to. It’s none of my business. But I’ll tell you this. If you’re writing for the money, it’ll show up in your words. It has to. You’re a mercenary, not a writer.

Chip writes a lot about market trends, too, and I find all that more than fascinating. So we stay connected, loosely, like I said. He sends me an email once in a great while, just to “see how you’re doing.” In other words, any writing coming through the pipeline in the foreseeable future? And I always smile, and tell him. Thanks for checking. Right now, I’m good. And as each new year came in, lately, I emailed him. I can feel things stirring down there. Maybe this will be the year I can get you something. I’ll let you know when it gets here. And I gotta hand it to the man. He has never, never, pressured me in any way. I’ve always respected that about him. He has left me alone when I wanted to be left alone. Letting me know he’s there, of course. But otherwise, he hasn’t bothered me much at all.

And now, it’s today. Five years have passed since Growing Up Amish was released. Six, since the summer I wrote it. That’s a long time, for a rank new author to just disappear like I did. And it’s not that I haven’t thought about it often along the way, about writing the second book. I don’t like the word, sequel. Second book is better. And I’ve looked inside myself, and thought about things. Why doesn’t it come churning out, like the first book did? Why can’t I just walk on down that road, and crank it out?

A big part of it, I think, was fear. Well, a lot of it was. You get to thinking. There’s a quarter million people out there who have read your story, your quest to break away. They read your innermost feelings, they know who you were and what you did. They know how you hurt people, in your past. Something like that can freak you out, when you stop and actually absorb it.

A part of it, too, is just you figuring out who you are. My book did some pretty crazy things, it brought me honors and some acclaim. And I had to sit down and figure it all out. Am I a “writer?” Or am I just a guy who goes to work in his pickup truck every day, and writes evenings and weekends in his spare time? The high accolades proclaimed me a “writer.” A new and singular voice.

But my gut instincts told me. I’m the guy in the truck, going off to work every day. Do not ever talk down to your people. Their blood will always be your blood. Don’t talk yourself up. Respect where you came from. And speak your voice from where your heart is. I went with my instincts. And I’ve tried hard to stay true to who I know I am.

But mostly, I think, the second book hasn’t come because it wasn’t time. There’s a whole lot of reasons as to why. Part of it may be because my father is still alive and fairly alert. My book pierced him pretty hard. It hurt him. A great lion of the Amish people, in his final years, when he should be basking in the honor of his life’s work. And here comes his son, writing to all the world about his father’s human flaws. How fair is that? Who deserves such a thing? And what do you think the second book will be about, a lot of it? Yeah, it’ll be about my Dad. The struggles we had, even since Growing Up Amish came out, to face each other and speak real truth. That was a hard row for both of us. But especially for him, I think. What is the ethical thing to do? I don’t know. I guess you just tell the story.

And jumping around a little bit, here. We’re in late August. More than half the year is gone. I turn fifty-five next week. Next March, I’ll have ten solid years of writing under my belt. Which is nothing, compared to Dad at that age. He had tens of thousands of pages printed by then. I got one book, and this blog. My father was the real writer, if you look at production. Whatever. This is not where I meant to go, here in this paragraph. It’s so easy, to meander off sideways down bunny trails.

What I set off to say was this. This year is more than half gone. And this has been one of the freest and wildest years I’ve ever seen in my life. All of it comes from the sheer joy of living, after the death angel came real close to getting his wish, last November. He lost, though, and had to lay down his sword. And I came out of that dark place, I came back to where life was, and realized. I was never afraid, back there. That seems so strange. But it’s true. And I lifted my face to the heavens and raised my arms in triumph and fiercely exulted. And shouted out, to anyone who would hear. I AM NOT AFRAID. I WILL NEVER BE AFRAID AGAIN.

It changes things, when you look death in the face and feel no fear. It changes everything, when you get back. And I’ve written about it until y’all must be getting sick of hearing it. Hear me one more time. I’ll shut up, soon. I promise. But anyway. At first, I kind of sat back in wonder. And I wondered if it would last, this new knowledge. Could it last? It waves, sure, some. But mostly, the fearlessness grows stronger. The path to freedom more real.

And that’s what almost all of my adult life has been about. A relentless quest to be free. Free from cultural chains. Free from legalistic bondage. Free from fear. Free from shame. Free to walk before God and speak my heart honestly to Him, and to my readers, right from where I am. Free to live, just live, and free to go get counseling when I get nudged to. I will be free, I will be free, I will be free. That has been the battle song of my heart, for about as long as I can remember. And yeah, I’ve been beaten and battered around a good bit. I’ve lost a lot of battles. It doesn’t matter. I’m still standing. And I have never wavered in my unrelenting quest.

And in this year of freedom, lately there came something else. The writing I had kept pushing off came stirring. I’ve known the road I need to walk for some time, now. I’ve known the story line, the setting, what needs to get told. I just never got up the nerve to start walking. About a month or so ago, I emailed Chip. I got something coming, inside me. I’ve been real happy with what’s been coming on the blog. I’m writing free and relaxed. I think I’ll have something for you, soon. And I asked him. What do you think the market will be like? Can you show my stuff around? He emailed back. There are plenty of publishers out there who will be very interested in seeing what you have to offer.

And that wasn’t a guarantee of anything. The market is there. That’s all Chip was telling me. Send me your stuff. And he also needs an updated bio, four or five suggested titles, and forty or fifty pages of actual writing. Good grief. I got no problem with working on the writing. But all that other stuff is just tiresome. I’m not sure I even know what a bio is. Just tell your publisher people to go look at my blog. I got everything posted there that you’ll ever need to know about me. Ah well, let me get those fifty pages worked up, and then we’ll talk, I emailed back. You can shop what I write to anyone you want.

I don’t know. It feels almost like I’m starting all over again. Except this time I have a record. Last time, I didn’t. We’ll see how it goes, I guess. Maybe lightning can strike the same place twice.

Moving along, then. A few weeks back I got a message from my gray-haired friend, Jerry Eicher. He was coming through the area that Saturday afternoon, and wondered if I wanted to meet. Of course, I said. Let’s get together at Vinola’s around five or so.

I arrived early and sat at the bar. And soon he came walking in. I stood and greeted him. And he sat at the bar with me. Give him the nonalcoholic “Ira,” I told Amy the barmaid. She smiled her dazzling smile. And she got all busy juicing oranges and throwing other things together. She filled a large glass and poured in the mixed juices and some seltzer water, threw in some cherries, then shook it all up. Jerry lifted the glass and tasted. That’s my special drink from Amy, I told him proudly. She named it after me. How do you like it? “It’s good,” he said. “I really like it.”

We ordered greasy bar food, then just sat there and talked. It’s been a while. I respect Jerry’s take on the publishing market almost as much as I respect Chip’s. And he told me. “You were so lucky that Tyndale got hold of your book and published it. They had the credibility to market it to both the Christian and secular worlds. Not a lot of publishers have that kind of credibility. They got it done.” I am grateful, I said. I always will be. And we talked. I told him. I’ve been very happy with the blog writing lately. The new writing’s stirring in me, and I’m working on getting started on my second book.

He nodded. “You know,” he said. “You could just take a bunch of your blogs and make a book out of them. That would sell. Your writing’s that good.” But the blogs are out there for free, I protested. Why would anyone pay for what they can get for free? He scoffed. “People aren’t going to go dig them out. The blogs disappear, down the line as you post new ones. If you put the best ones in a book, that book would sell.” I thought about that for a moment. You know what? I said. There’s been at least one publisher who approached Chip with that very idea. I told him no, because I want to try to write another real book. Maybe if my stuff doesn’t get picked up, my fifty pages, maybe then I’ll go back and make a book out of the best blogs. Hmm. I hadn’t ever considered that seriously before. We’ll see.

And we just talked along as our food came out and we ate. Jerry has seen a lot, when it comes to the publishing world. Way more than I ever will. It’s always fascinating, to hear his perspective. I told him. The Amish fiction market has collapsed. He agreed. He’s still writing those books, but you have to be established, these days, to get your Amish fiction published. Most of the fly-by-night authors are long gone. My words, not his. I’ve always been suspicious of the genre. But I respect Jerry. I always will. He’s the one who opened the door to the publishing world to me. I don’t forget a favor like that.

And I’ve thought about things a lot, since Jerry and I talked at Vinola’s. I’ve made noises, here and there these last few years, about a second book. But even as I was writing those noises, I could not feel it inside me, that anything was coming soon. Now, it’s different. And now, I’m telling you.

Something is coming, soon. And no, it’s not something wicked this way comes. It’s something real will finally be written. And it’s like I told Sam, my counselor, last session we had. We talked, and nothing was off the table. And I told Sam, there at the end. I can see the path to where I need to go. I can feel the chains breaking from me. But still, that path needs to be walked. And hard things need to be faced. Real hard things. I’m focused on the destination. I’m not sure how I’ll get there. But I’m not afraid to start walking. That’s how I feel right now, about a lot of things. Including my writing. Including my second book.

So I guess I’ll be taking a little side trip, here, real soon. I won’t be posting on the blog as regularly as I have been. Oh, I’ll check back, once in a while. I always have. I’ll tell you how it’s going. If I get stuck, I’ll come back and tell you that, too. And if my stuff gets rejected, I’ll just throw it out for free right here on my blog. We’ll see how it all goes when I get there.

I remember so well when the journey of the first book started. I wrote about it back then. I called it a shining city on a hill, the place where I was going. And it was just that, in all the ways I could have imagined. The thing is, I look back on it now and realize the cold hard truth in what King Solomon wrote, long ago. The man knew what he was talking about. Because in the end, all of it was vanity, that shining city, all of it was a weariness of the body and the mind. From where I am today, I can see that and say that. Not from where I was back then. It was a vision and a dream. It was a beautiful gleaming place, whatever else it was. And today I know. There will never be another shining city like the first one.

But still, the vagabond traveler blood in me stirs. And as the sun sets and twilight closes in on one more chapter of my journey, I see it way out there on the horizon, out there in the hills. A distant light glowing. So faint, but so clear. And now, I turn my face to those hills and walk.

And I believe, like I always have. One more shining city waits for me to get there.

Share

A Day That Will Never Come…

And now, because you have known madness and despair, and because you will

grow desperate again before you come to evening, we who have stormed the

ramparts of the furious earth and been hurled back, we who have been maddened

by the unknowable and bitter mystery of love, …and savored all of life, the

tumult, pain, and frenzy, and now sit quietly by our windows watching all

that henceforth never more shall touch us – we call upon you to take heart,

for we can swear to you that these things pass.

—Thomas Wolfe

___________________

Well, it’s been a little more than nine years since my first blog was posted, back in 2007. Nine years, and the journey has twisted and turned in ways I could never have imagined or foreseen. I try to stop and take stock once in a while. And I’ve written about it, a lot at first, then more sporadically as the months and years rolled on. If you go dig around in some of those early blogs, it won’t take you long to figure out what was going on. The catalyst, the event that pushed me out, that made me write my voice for the first time ever, in my life. The trigger. My marriage exploded, and my world blew up.

It was a brutal and bitter place to find my writing voice. I guess you don’t get to choose when something happens organically on its own like that. It just is what it is, and gets here when it gets here. And I hunkered down in those early years, and spoke from deep pits of darkness and pain such as I had never seen before and have not seen since.

And I muddled on through, those first few months. Ellen moved to a faraway city, way out west. I stumbled along at home. And that first summer, she filed the divorce papers from where she was. I didn’t fight anything. I signed where I needed to sign and sent the papers back. And I will say this. It was a numbing and painful time. But through all that, our divorce could not have been more amicable than it was. We never even hired any lawyers at all. Just signed an agreement written up by an attorney friend of mine. We listed her stuff, and listed mine. Before leaving, she lugged in some big old tubs and loaded them with her things and I carried the tubs out to the garage and stacked them there against the wall. And there they remain, and I got no problem with any of all that. There were a few pieces of furniture, too, that stayed. And I was OK with that as well. It was pretty strange, how relaxed it all came down in some ways, when I stop and look back at it now.

The divorce got finalized that fall, sometime in November, if I remember right. It was kind of funny how that happened. From here, anyway, it was. Back then, it wasn’t. I had gotten the official notice. On such and such a day, at 4:30 my time, the judge would call me from the bench. And we’d go through with the hearing. I dreaded the moment, but still, you just walk forward in a time like that. That’s all you can do. The day came. 4:30 came. No phone call. Then it was closing time, 5:00. I got into my truck and headed for home. Over the mountain. And as I approached the little town of White Horse, sure enough, my cell phone rang. Blocked number, I couldn’t see where it was coming from. I answered. Hello.

An authoritative female voice. “Is this Ira Wagler?” I hedged. Depends on who’s asking. “This is Judge (I don’t remember her name),” she said. “Is this Ira Wagler? Please identify yourself.” I was done hedging. It is, I said. I was driving right by the fire station, so I pulled in and parked. And we proceeded right on with the hearing. I answered a few questions, and I heard Ellen’s voice answering the same questions on the other end. It was all pretty laid back. And after ten minutes or so, the Judge was done. “I hereby declare you divorced,” she proclaimed. And then it was over. I hung up and just sat there for a moment.

It felt so very strange. I remember thinking. I’m divorced. Then, before driving on, I called my brother Steve. I just got divorced in the parking lot of the White Horse Fire Station, I told him. Steve had known it was coming, but he was just silent for a moment. He said something, then, I don’t remember what. And I told him. I’m sure it’s probably the first time in history that anyone got divorced in the parking lot of a fire station. We both chuckled. It was funny, when you thought about it. And then I drove on out toward home.

And the months moved on. I wrote and wrote. And raged and raged, once in a while. Mostly, it was rage against the pain that life is, so often. One thing I never, never did. I never blamed Ellen for the failure of our marriage any more than I blamed myself. It wasn’t her fault, any more than it was mine. Had I been the man I should have been, a whole lot of crap would likely never have happened. Not that it does much good to say that from here and now. But still. That’s how I always felt, in my heart.

And we never communicated much those first few years, Ellen and me. Once in a while, a strained email about some logistical thing. And when I settled on our house, then we communicated some, too. I got the house appraised, then remortgaged. And I bought out her half of the equity that was there. There weren’t a whole lot of pangs in me about all that. Some, sure. It was so final, so irrevocable, seemed like. With every step like that, the separation just got that much more firm, more deeply poured in concrete. But mostly, it all went well.

And I won’t pretend otherwise. The ghosts of who we were lurked there in the old brick house we had shared as our home. I stayed rooted there, because I was too stubborn to get pushed out by the memories of what had been, or the hauntings of what might have been. So now and then, I wrestled with the ghosts, when they came. Go away, I told them. Leave me alone. And mostly, they did. But sometimes they returned with a vengeance, and the battle started all over again. That’s just how it was.

The years just kind of slide together, here, in my memory. I can’t quite remember the dates of what happened when. Anyway, it wasn’t all that long after Ellen moved out west that the word trickled back. She’s dating some guy she met, there. About my age, the man was. His name was Tim. I brooded a good bit when I heard that. Still, you just keep walking. And I will say. I never, never blamed Tim for anything. He was just a guy who came wandering along long after me and my ex-wife had blown up our marriage. I always figured he’s probably a pretty likable man. But still…but still.

And I remember the turmoil inside me when I heard. Ellen and Tim were engaged. They were going to get married in July of 2010, if I remember right. That was the summer I was writing my book. So there was a lot going on. Still, as the date approached, I brooded a good bit. It wasn’t right, that I sat here all alone, while she went gallivanting around, and now she’s getting married again. That’s the concept that was so strange. From where we both came from, you just didn’t see such a thing. No divorce. And for sure, no divorce and remarriage. And the ghosts kept pushing themselves forward, into my mind. There she was, way out there. And here I was, back where our future dreams together had been launched, not all that many years ago. I brooded and drank and brooded and wrote. How a book ever came out of me that summer is more than a miracle.

The date approached, her new wedding date, I mean. And as it got close, I had to get out of the house. That Friday, the day before, I boarded Big Blue and headed west to Daviess, the land of my father’s blood. There was a little gathering going on that I figured to attend. Some old historic Amish house in Daviess was going to be torn down soon. And that Saturday, the place was open to all who wanted to walk through one last time. The house had been in my blood lineage, on my mother’s side, I think. Anyway, I just figured. Go hit the road and drive. Maybe you can get your head cleared.

It was a real good trip, more than I could ever have hoped for. I connected with the Freundschaft that Saturday, and hung out with friends and relatives. I thought of it now and then, but only fleetingly. Ellen is getting married this afternoon. Overall, it went better than I had dared to hope it would. And the next morning, early, I headed on back east toward home.

I got back late that afternoon. And I walked into my home. And it was one of the strangest things I have ever felt. The ghosts were gone. There was no vestige, no hint of their presence. Whatever had ever existed between Ellen and me, that time was past, now. It was so clear. Now she belonged to another man. Coming from where I came from, this was a very strange place to be. But there I was. And since that day, the ghosts of our pasts, Ellen’s and mine, have never returned. That’s not saying Billy the Ghost isn’t around. He might be, even though the tenant hasn’t heard him in a while, now. But he’s not associated with any of all that. If he’s there, he’s there for his own reasons.

And sometime later that year, Anne Marie began the last leg of her long journey home. And sometime in the spring of 2011, I think it was, Ellen flew in to see her good friend and say good-bye. We spoke over the phone a few times, leading up to her trip back. And she told me. “I want to come and spend time with Anne Marie while she’s still here, and we can still talk. When she passes, I won’t be coming to the funeral.” And we planned to meet, Ellen and me, while she was around. She needed to pick up a few things from my house, and she also asked me. Would I consider giving her the Bosch Mixer that my Dad had given to us as a wedding present? She sure could use it, for her own cooking.

Sure, I said. (And yes, I know what a Bosch Mixer is. It doesn’t matter.) You can have it. I’ll never, never use it. And we arranged a time, one evening after work, that she would come around and pick it up. I went straight home from work that afternoon, and waited. And soon, a little SUV zipped into my drive. I looked out and watched as Ellen got out and walked up to my house. I opened the door, and we hugged a little awkwardly.

She sat at the kitchen table, and I stood and leaned against the sink. And we talked. We were both a little nervous, of course we were. But we chatted right along. My book was just coming out that June, so she had all kinds of questions about what it had taken to write it. She knew from our past that writing a book had been one of those hopeless dreams I figured would never happen. So she knew how important it was to me. And we talked along about it, as I dragged out the Bosch. We packed the Mixer and a bunch of attachments into a sturdy cardboard shipping box she had brought. She would UPS it back to her home out west.

Since that time, I think, Ellen and I have looked after each other and cared for each other about as much as two people coming from where we came from could have. We emailed briefly now and then, about this and that. When Anne Marie passed away, I immediately called her. And we grieved together and talked about our memories of our friend.

And from that time, I’ve always said, pretty much. I don’t mind talking to Ellen and even seeing her here and there. I would be OK if I randomly ran into her and her husband, Tim. I’d be good with that, as long as I wasn’t expecting it. But then I always poured a little bit of concrete. I will not deliberately go to a place where I know they both would be. A day like that is a day that will never come.

And time drifted on. Two years ago, Mom passed away. And last year, her father, Adin, died. We communicated both times. She contacted me before Mom’s funeral. And she told me. “Back when we separated, you told me you didn’t want to go alone to your Mother’s funeral. I promised then that I would come and go with you. Do you need me to?” I was deeply touched that she remembered. But I told her. I’m OK. Janice will be there, and she can walk beside me. Thank you for remembering.

And when Adin passed last September, I called her. And we simply spoke for a few minutes. I remember how you tried hard, so hard, to reach your Dad, I said. And he never would let you. He always rejected you. I never forgot how that was. And we grieved, there, for a few minutes, at the tragedy of all we had seen together. And we cried a little bit together, too.

And that was how things stood, back last November when I went into the hospital for what was to be a routine, one-day procedure. The night before, I got a call from Ellen. Somehow she had heard about it. Oh, it’s OK, I told her. I got some issues. But I’m not afraid of whatever will come at me. That was a mouthful. I had no idea of what was about to come at me. Over the next ten days, I found out. I was right about one thing, though. I never was afraid, going into any of it.

Ellen texted me a few times, there in those ten days I was in the hospital. And I always talked back about where I was. She was a nurse. And she cared that I was getting through and getting better. And then I got out. And all of life looked a whole lot different than it had before. I will walk forward into this new place, I said to myself. It’s a beautiful thing, all of life. And it’s a beautiful thing, to walk free through it.

It’s been a different road, since that time. One of the first things I did was cut out unnecessary noise. You come at me harsh, you come at me in a bad way and threaten me, I just cut you off, and all the noise and fuss you’re making. I don’t have to listen to a negative vibe. That was a new free little path for me. And life moved on, like it always does. I looked forward to it, and walked forward into it. Mostly, anyway.

And sometime earlier this year, I don’t remember when exactly, I got the usual invite from my brother-in-law, Paul Yutzy. Well, I guess he’s my ex brother-in-law, now. He’s Ellen’s older brother. We have remained close friends, through all the years of all the crap that me and his sister went through. After getting through such a thing, there’s not a whole lot out there that’s gonna make you see each other any different than you always did. He’s my friend. And he’s a good man.

And this year, the invitation rolled in like it always does. Paul’s White Party, in July. It happens out on his patio deck every year. The formal tables set up. He cooks up a great feast. And all the guests dress up in white. This year, I looked at the invitation. All other years, I was all ambivalent in my response. Maybe I’ll make it. Paul and I both knew I had no intention of showing up. That’s how it always was before. But not this year.

This year, the invite came. And this year, I looked at it in a way I never had before. Yes. I will do this. A White Party. I can wear my white pants, a white shirt, and my seersucker jacket. And my little white hat. I think that would work out just fine. This is the new me. Now, I will go to places like Paul’s White Party. That’s what I thought to myself, all excited and confident.

And I told Paul. I’m coming, this year, for the first time ever. I’m excited about it. I think he was a little surprised. But he didn’t let on. “Great,” he said. And that’s how we left it, early on. But then, a few weeks later, he had something to tell me.

I don’t remember if he called me, or just sent me a message. It’s not that important, either way. But somehow, he told me. “Ellen wants to come for the White Party this year. She and Tim are going to be here. Are you OK with that?”

And right there it was. The day I had told myself would never come. I would not walk deliberately into a place where I knew my ex-wife and her husband would be. It wasn’t something I got showed how to do, growing up. It was always the outside English people who got caught up in traps like that. And I remember hearing of such a thing here and there, and wondering how it could be. How can any former husband and wife be at the same place in peace, especially when a new spouse is right there, too? I’ve always wondered. And I’ve always thought. That’s for those people to figure out. It’s not me.

But now, it was me.

And I wrote back to Paul. I don’t have a problem with that. I plan to be there. And that’s how we left it as the date slowly drifted in and came at us.

The party was in late July. And as the day approached, I got to thinking. It might be real hot that evening, too hot for a suit coat. And then the week arrived. And man, was it ever hot all week. The sun scorched down every day, and the hottest temps of the week were forecast for Saturday afternoon. And then the day arrived.

It felt so strange, walking up to a new door like that. I felt no stress at all, and no flashbacks came at me all week. The actual morning dawned, and the day crept by. And by four I was dressed and ready. White pants, seersucker shirt, white hat. And Big Blue and I cruised on up north toward Lebanon and Paul’s big mansion.

I pulled in right at five and parked. I was a good bit early. I had planned it that way. I couldn’t stay late, because of other plans. So I figured to get there early and get some visiting done. I walked into the garage, where Paul greeted me. I’m early, I said. “That’s totally all right,” he said. I turned toward the house. And she came walking through the foyer and out into the garage. She was smiling.

It was Ellen. The woman I had married almost precisely sixteen years ago as I write this. It’s been nine years since it all blew up, and we’ve both aged a bit. I’ve aged the most, of course. I’m old, and gray-haired now. Gray-bearded, too. But she was still as beautiful as ever. Her smile was exactly as I remembered it. She greeted me, and her voice was the same, too. I smiled and spoke back. We walked to each other, and we hugged each other hard.

And it seemed like it all washed away from both of us in that moment. The horror and the hurt and all the pain and darkness of long ago. I swore back when it happened that the pain of it would sear me inside forever. And in a sense, I guess it’s always there somehow. It bubbles up now and then in the sadness of all the memories, and all that was lost. But you can reach a place where you look back and realize you have grown beyond any point you ever thought you could have. And you can walk calmly through a new door as it opens, in a day you swore would never come.

It all seems so strange, but that’s how it is. I can tell you that, from where I’ve been.

We chatted for a minute, then walked into the house. In the kitchen, Malinda was bustling about with two helpers, preparing the vast feast that would be served outside, later, on white tablecloths. I’m early, I told her. She smiled and welcomed me. Ellen and I sat at the table, then. I kept glancing around. “Oh,” she said. “Tim is upstairs, changing. He’ll be down in a few minutes.” And we just chatted along and caught up until I saw the man approaching from across the room. We are Facebook friends, so I recognized him. Tim. Ellen’s husband.

I stood and held out my hand. He gripped it hard. We looked each other in the eye and smiled. I’m happy to finally meet you, I said. “Same here,” he said. And he sat with us, and the three of us just talked about a lot of things. I told them about my hospital stay, and my heart, and how I’ll never be afraid again. And when Ellen wandered away for a few minutes, Tim told me almost shyly. He’d read my book, and he liked to read my blogs. I thanked him for taking the time. I’m always honored, I said.

And soon the other guests began trickling in. I walked about, greeting the people I knew and introducing myself to those I didn’t. When Ellen came around, I introduced her, too. This is my ex-wife, Ellen. Some people looked startled, but mostly everyone seemed very OK with everything.

The evening came at us, then. As we were getting seated, Ellen asked me. “Would you like to sit with us?” I hadn’t really thought about it, but I accepted. Yes, I’d like that very much. And we sat and ate together, the three of us. Me and Ellen and Tim.

Paul’s White Party is a big, big deal. He and Malinda had prepared an enormous and delicious feast. Five or six courses, I can’t remember. Salad, then soup. Then the main dishes, which included grilled salmon, lamb chops, and steak. The food was beyond delicious, the wine robustly red. And sitting right there, I sinned grievously again, with my feasting.

The hours wore on, and we were comfortable and relaxed. Right at eight, I told Ellen. I need to leave now. And I told her the reasons why. She understood, and Tim did, too. I stood and he reached over, and we gripped hands again. I wished him well. And then Ellen asked. “Can I walk you to your truck?” You may, I said.

I thanked Paul on the way out, and waved good-bye to my other friends. I went inside to grab my keys, and Ellen met me in the garage. We walked over to the open door. And we stood there and looked at each other.

And we wished each other well. I had a lovely time, I told her. I enjoyed meeting Tim. He’s a good man. I’m sure you guys have to work through things, like every couple does. But I wish you every blessing. “Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time, too.”

We were done. There wasn’t a whole lot more to say. We faced each other, and then we hugged. Good-bye, I said. “Good-bye,” she answered.

And then I turned and walked out to my truck.

Share

Ida’s Children…

It is not all bad, but it is not all good, it is not all ugly,

but it is not all beautiful, it is life, life, life…It is savage,

cruel, kind, noble, passionate, selfish, generous, stupid,

ugly, beautiful, painful, joyous — it is all these, and

more, and it’s all these I want to know…

—Thomas Wolfe

__________________

I remember hearing about it now and then, over the years. Every July, it came around. But I never paid it much mind, I have to say. The Yoder Reunion came from Mom’s side of the family. Those people were strangers to me, pretty much. And it just didn’t register in my head, that attending their annual gathering in Daviess might be an important thing to do.

I’ve touched on the subject, here and there. And there’s even a paragraph or two in my book about it. Dad didn’t get along well at all with Mom’s family. Which was fine. He didn’t have to. But it wasn’t fine, what he did about it. After John “Pappy” Yoder and most of his sons and daughters left the Amish for the Block Church, Dad cut them off from us. And he cut them off from Mom. It was a cruel and brutal thing to do. Her family could only stand by, helpless, as Dad pontificated to the whole world what it is to live right, and what it is to raise your children right, so they stay Amish. And Mom’s family mourned the loss of their Ida, or Idey, as they say her name in Daviess.

And we were raised as pure Waglers. The Yoder blood in us was never recognized or acknowledged. Oh, sure, we knew who they were, Mom’s siblings. They came around now and then, to visit, to see their sister. They were strangers to us. Dad built his wall high and wide. In one sense, he was doomed to fail. He should have known that one day we would set out on our own to break down that wall and find those he had shut off from us. But in another sense, he succeeded mightily in every way he could have hoped to.

Because Ida’s children never really got to know their blood kin. We were strangers to each other.

In 1961, the year I was born, they held their first get-together, Pappy Yoder’s family. I’m not sure if they even called it a reunion, those first few years. Just a family, the children and grandchildren, getting together and hanging out for the day. The third Saturday in July. That’s when they did it. I’m sure Mom was invited that first time. I’m sure she had an open, standing invitation every year. But she never got to go, not even once. My father’s wall stood tall and strong and searingly divisive. And it grew and grew every year, higher, wider, stronger. And time went on, like time does. And for decades and decades, it looked like the wall would stand forever.

And in all the years that passed since I left the Amish for good, I never attended the Yoder Reunion once. It’s not that I couldn’t have. It just never occurred to me that I might or should. I lived in Daviess briefly for two years when I attended Vincennes University. Back from 1989 to 1991. I don’t even remember hearing about the Reunion. I’m sure I would have been welcomed with open arms. I would have been too shy to show up, in any case.

And in the years since, I heard it now and then, probably from my sister Rachel. She stays on top of these things. “Are you going to the Yoder Reunion this year?” she would ask. “It’s the third Saturday in July.” And I always just looked at her strangely and shook my head. Nope, I got no inclination to go, I told her. I can’t see any reason to go. I don’t know those people. And I never went.

I guess sometimes it takes the next generation to see things clearly. And at least three men from that generation did. Maybe there were more, but I know of at least these three. Joseph’s oldest sons, John and David and Reuben. Good solid Amish names, right there. John and David and Reuben. In 2013, John somehow connected with my sisters, Rachel and Rhoda. They attended the Reunion, the three couples. Then last year, John went again, this time with his family and David and Reuben and their families. Around fifty people showed up for the Reunion. A pretty small group.

And as things were winding down, the Daviess Yoders looked at Joseph’s sons, all interested. Here was new blood. Ida’s grandchildren. They needed someone to host the Reunion in 2016. They talked to John and his brothers. And soon it was decided. David lives up north of Daviess, not far. In Worthington. He’s got a nice little wooded acreage. And he agreed to host the Reunion in 2016. The Daviess Yoders were delighted and maybe a little stunned. New blood. And now, a new host. From Ida’s family. That was pretty wild stuff, from what all they had seen over the years.

And so things were set, for this year. And I gotta hand it to those three nephews, Joseph’s sons. John and David and Reuben. They’re the ones who got me and my siblings all wired up to go. They sent word. Yoder Reunion at David’s place. Fill in the date. July 16, the third Saturday of the month. And I talked to my brother Steve about it, months and months ago. I’m going. If you want to go, let’s travel together. He allowed that he wanted to, and maybe his son, Ira Lee, too. And maybe even Clifford. Good, I said. Don’t sweat it, if the women don’t want to go. We’ll make a man trip out of it. And I didn’t think or fret all that much about it, as the months slowly crept by. Until last week. All of a sudden, the time was here.

We all met at Steve’s house right at six last Friday morning. I parked down by the shop. I had packed light again, for me. Just a bag, and three shirts wrapped in plastic. That should do, I figured. Clifford roared up in his Camaro. Then Ira Lee arrived, right on time. Diving a shiny black SUV he had rented the day before. We all had to fax in our driver’s licenses the day before, so we could take turns driving. I usually rent cars that look like they could be running moonshine. This black SUV was all chromed and flashy. It looked like a drug runner’s vehicle. Oh, well. It had Wisconsin plates. Maybe the cops will leave us alone, coming from a straight-laced state like that. We loaded our stuff in the back, and by a little after six, we were off, Ira Lee cruising at the wheel. Worthington, Indiana, here we come. Yoder Reunion, 2016, here we come.

We pushed along hard all day, each taking a turn at the wheel. Right at 4:30, we pulled into the wooded drive that led to David’s home place. It was a beautiful setting, with camping spots out under the trees. We pulled up and parked out by the shop, where the Reunion would come down the next day. We walked down to the house, where a few of my nephews lounged on the front porch. We joined them. Lots of people were on the road and getting close, we were told. Tonight would be Wagler family night. We leaned back and relaxed and got started with our visiting.

People drifted in, then. Marvin and Rhoda. Lester and Rachel. Ray and Maggie. Jesse and Lynda. Joseph and Iva had already arrived earlier. With Steve and me, that made seven of us. Seven of Ida’s children gathered for a singular event. David had rented an entire Bed and Breakfast, and late that afternoon, he led us over to check in. A beautiful old restored mansion, back a few blocks from the main drag in the small town of Worthington. All the rooms were self-sufficient and impeccable. I picked a corner room with a firm bed. Probably from back in the early 1900s, the old house reminded me of the scenes and settings in Thomas Wolfe’s stories of his Mama’s boarding house down South. I can’t imagine what an old restored inn like that is doing in Worthington, Indiana. I’m sure it’s gotta be a money pit. But there it was, and we were delighted to have it as our own for a few days.

Back, then, to David’s place for supper. Glen had loaded the smoker with two big old chunks of brisket way earlier that day. And there was a huge pot of country baked beans. And all kinds of fresh bread and butter, and great tub filled with cold chunks of cantaloupe and watermelon. Someone asked the blessing over the food, and then the Waglers gathered in to the feast.

Joseph was puttering around in his little battery cart. The man has seen and endured a lot in the past six years, fighting the disease that fights to kill him. He has approached the door of death more than a few times, right up close. And always, he somehow battled his way back. He got his food, and he and Iva sat at a long table off to one side. And as we got our food, we gravitated over to that table, all us siblings. And soon all seven of us were seated and eating together. We just chatted along, visiting about whatever. It was a beautiful moment, a thing all too rare and precious in the past.

I caught up with Marvin, my best friend from way back. We don’t get to see each other that often anymore, but when we do, we pretty much just pick up where we left off. He got to telling me. A month or so ago, he went up to Valentine, Nebraska, to attend the funeral of an old friend he knew real well back when he worked on the ranch, in 1979. Of course, I was all full of questions. How did the place look? Did he recognize anyone? Did he see the people I worked for that summer? He told me all about how it went, and a lot of our old memories of that time got mixed into our talk.

Out in the campground clearing, David had built a big fire ring. And we sat outside and settled around the fire as dusk closed in. And quite a fire it was. David and Glen had cut four-foot chunks off a big log. The middle of the log was hollow, just at the core. And they set the chunk up on end over the fire. The flames came shooting right out of the hollow middle. I’ve never seen such a thing done before. And we sat around talking. The two historians, well, there were three, but two sat there, talking. The three are Jesse and Reuben and Dorothy. Jesse and Reuben talked about the history of the Daviess Waglers. And they got to telling us.

I’ve mentioned it a few times before, over the years. My great-grandfather, Christian Wagler, shot himself in the head back in 1891 when he was thirty-six years old. His widow remained, and his sons and daughters. They buried Christian outside the graveyard, there in Daviess. Outside the fence. In those days, they didn’t mess around. They knew that Christian was damned forever, and that the shameful stain of his suicide would haunt his seed forever. And Jesse told us. The graveyard was eventually expanded, and Christian landed up well inside the fence. He got into the graveyard, Jesse said, without ever passing through the graveyard gate. We all mulled it over in silence for a moment. It was a strange and startling thing to contemplate.

The Wagler tales don’t stop with Christian. And it was Reuben, I think, who told us a story I had never heard before. Christian had several brothers and sisters. One of his brothers, John C. Wagler, died many years later, an old man. He decreed that he did not want to be buried in the same graveyard where his brother Christian was. He felt the shame of the family stain deeply, even after all those years. Maybe he was being over dramatic to prove a point. He was pure. He didn’t want to share any place with someone who had taken his own life. So they took John C. a few miles down the road and opened a new graveyard. The Wagler graveyard. And there he was buried, satisfied that he could rest in peace in this untainted ground.

Years and years later, John C’s own grandson did pretty much the same thing Christian had done. Knocked himself off, somehow. I don’t know what it is with these Waglers. They must have brooding blood. By then, the people paid little heed to John C’s wishes. Maybe they didn’t remember. Or maybe they just didn’t care much. They buried the grandson right there in the Wagler graveyard, close to John C’s grave. And since that time, it is said, there have been far more such troubled souls buried there close to John C. than ever were buried over where Christian was laid to rest outside the graveyard. That’s just the way it goes sometimes, I guess. Especially when you get all hifalutin’ about who you will or won’t be buried close to.

Almost exactly two years ago, little Abby left us. The anniversary of that tragedy was very much on Dorothy’s mind, on all our minds. When we met after I arrived, I hugged her hard. You’re my little niece, I told her. She laughed. “Yes, I am,” she said. And that Friday evening, right as the sun set, we had a little memorial for Abby. Not really all that formal. At the funeral, we had released hundreds of red balloons, red being her favorite color. And now balloons were handed out again. We stood around as all the little children got one. And then Dorothy led us, counting down from ten. And then we released the balloons again. Up and up, glinting red from the fire and from the setting sun, up over the trees, then north with the wind.

And then Dorothy opened a large package of Chinese candle lanterns. By now it was dark. And in the next twenty minutes, dozens of the lanterns floated up and up and headed north with the wind, glowing in many vivid colors in the darkness. After that, we all sat around the great roaring fire, and just talked and enjoyed the setting and each other. It was late when I settled into fitful sleep at the old refurbished inn. I must be getting old. Seems like my travel sleep is increasingly broken and not sound.

Saturday morning. The big day. The Reunion meal was scheduled for that afternoon at 4:30. This morning, there would be a big campfire breakfast. By 8:30 or so, we were sitting around the fire, sipping coffee. My nephew Andrew stood over the fire, tending to many pots and pans and a vast kettle hanging from an iron pole. I poked around, all interested. The vast kettle was filled with gravy, and Andrew kept stirring it vigorously. And then soon, he uncovered three or four flats of eggs. He cracked dozens of eggs into a big cast iron pan, and set it on a grate over the fire. Things were stirring, and things were looking good. Smelling real good, too.

And right at ten, we feasted on brunch. A kettle full of gravy, fresh biscuits, piles of scrambled eggs, and loads and loads of fried bacon strips. At a place like that, I sin grievously with my diet. It was Martin Luther, I think, who said: If you sin, sin boldly. That morning, I feasted boldly. It was simply the best breakfast I’ve enjoyed in a long, long time.

Afterward, Jesse and Reuben and Dorothy gathered whoever wanted to go to Daviess and tour the graveyards and Dad’s old home place. Steve went along, with his sons, Ira Lee and Clifford. Those two had rarely been to Daviess at all, I’m thinking. And they had never seen the places we keep talking about. So off they all went, the rented SUV sagging under the load.

The night before, we had discussed it. And that morning, John came around with the necessary stuff. A couple of large white posters. Blank. I helped Rhoda spread the two pieces on a table and tape them together. And she took a pencil and started drawing. And soon we could see the large family tree. John and Magdalena Yoder on the trunk. And then branches sprouting out, a branch for each of their children. Rhoda left plenty of space between the branches. That afternoon, the people attending the Reunion would sign their names below the proper branch. Rhoda is the artist of the family, and she drew a real nice tree. We felt pretty proud of our grand idea. And I just settled in and relaxed as midday came and went. The afternoon slowly wore on. Soon it would time. Soon the Daviess Yoders would come.

The chairs and tables were all set up in David’s shop, where we had feasted the night before. And the women soon began laying out the food. Grilled chicken, prepared by Marcus Marner and his wife, Joanne. And everyone who came would bring a dish of some food or other, David told us. That’s the rule of the Yoder Reunion. You bring food with you. And we were all pretty much set. And around 3:00 or so, the first people began to come.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it justice, the way things went and the way things felt that day. Guess I’ll just speak it as I remember it. If you come from Daviess, you can tell when you see other people who are from there. That’s about as simply as I can say it. The first cars arrived and people got out and lugged in great bowls and trays of food. We all smiled and shook hands and greeted each other. I knew the names of a few, I didn’t know the names of most. Still, it didn’t matter. I’m Ira, I said, as I shook hands. Ida’s son. Oh, we know who you are, most of them said back. And the crowd grew as the people arrived and drifted in. Amish people. English people. Daviess people. Daviess faces. Daviess blood. Daviess kin.

She arrived early and was greeted with great honor. The only person remaining from Mom’s immediate family. Aunt Sarah. She’s 91 now, and widowed. And spry and alert as ever. Way back, when she was young, she fell in love with an English man named John McGuire. They married, I don’t know when. The thing is, I never even knew a thing about her, growing up. I remember when I passed through Daviess, once, during my wanderings. I went to a cookout with friends one evening. And that night, I met my uncle Joe, Mom’s brother I never knew. And that night, this strikingly beautiful woman walked up to me and told me she’s my aunt. My Mom’s sister. It was Sarah. I was just flat out astounded.

And now, here she was. I had not seen her in a few years. We surrounded her and hugged her. She reminds me so much of her sister, Ida Mae, when she talks. My Mom. Everyone wanted to talk to her, so I tried not to intrude too much. Someone showed her the table with the family tree, and she took the pen and signed her original branch. That was a special thing. And the family tree will be a special thing for future generations to see.

And people kept coming. Walking in with trays and trays and bowls and bowls of food. And soon the table groaned under the weight of almost any kind or flavor of food you can imagine, at least food from Daviess. It all looked and smelled beyond delicious. I walked about, chatting here, shaking hands there. Jonas Schrock arrived with his daughter and some of his sons. He’s on oxygen now, and in poor health. He was the husband of Mom’s younger sister, Anna, who died a decade ago from cancer. Jonas was a transplant from Holmes County, and for many years he was a powerful bishop in his Plain Mennonite church circles. He was a kind man, from all I’ve ever heard. Now, I walked up and shook his hand and spoke my name. He nodded and smiled and smiled. It took a moment for me to grasp that the man could not speak. He sat in a chair at the end of a long table, and he mightily enjoyed the place and time he was in. You could tell by his smile.

People kept drifting in with food, and the shop filled up. And soon after four, David called everyone to attention. The food would be served in fifteen minutes. He had a little mic system hooked up, and it worked very well. And a few minutes after his announcement, two people were called up front to speak a few words. My cousin, Dick Yoder, Ben’s oldest son. He usually takes care of the announcements at the Reunion. And the other person who spoke a few words was me.

David had asked me, a few hours before. “Would you speak a few words, for our family?” Sure, I said. I’ll be happy to. Now I stood back, as Dick addressed the crowd. He welcomed everyone, and thanked David and his wife Barb for hosting this event. And then he called each family out by name. All of Mom’s siblings. And as the family name was called, those people stood and held up their hands. And this year, perhaps for the first time ever, Ida Mae’s name was called. And we stood and held up our hands, me and my six siblings. And all the grandchildren who were there. It was a beautiful and powerful feeling. This year, Ida’s children stood right where they belonged.

Then Dick handed the mic off to me. And there I stood. I had not jotted down any notes. And it took only a few minutes, to speak what was on my heart to say. I thanked the hosts, of course. David and Barb. And I spoke of how grateful I was to be here, at this Yoder Reunion. Ida’s children are here this year, I said. And I just plowed right on in. We all know the reasons Mom’s family never was represented here before, I said. Choices were made years ago that were bad choices, wrong choices. But they were what they were and now we are where we are. Whatever it all was, I am grateful for this day.

And I told them. One of the hardest things I had to deal with when I was coming to grips with who my father was, was the fact that he cut us off from Mom’s family. He built a big wall. He thought he was doing the right thing. And we can never change what was, we can never change the past. Today, we are here, Ida’s children. We are honored to be here. And then I told them. It’ll never be what it would have been. It’ll never be what it should have been. But it can be something.

David took the mic, then, and I walked back to where I had been standing. Stephen Schrock, one of Jonas’ boys who took his place as bishop, then took the mic and prayed the blessing over the meal. And then the people lined up to fill their plates. It was as delicious a spread of food as I ever hope to see. There’s something about Daviess food that always takes me home. It’s Mom’s cooking. And there ain’t no better cooking anywhere. And soon the tables were full, as everyone got seated. I lurked about at the family tree table, just kind of waiting and watching. And I took my iPad up to the second floor to snap a few pics.

A funny little thing happened later as I was strolling around. A group of four or five women sat there at a table. I may have known one or two, and I may not have. They knew who I was. “Ira,” one of them said cheerfully. “You know you look like a Yoder, right? You look like Ben.” Yes, I’ve heard that before, I said. I got no problem if I look like Ben. And then one of the other ladies turned to her companions. “No, no,” she said. “He looks like Pappy Yoder, don’t you think? He looks more like Pappy than Ben.” I was a little startled. And I told her so. All my life, I’ve heard I look like Uncle Ben, I said. But I’ve never, never heard that I look even remotely like old Pappy Yoder. I’m going to have to digest that. But I guess I have no problem if I look like Pappy, either. They all laughed, and I laughed, too. Then I drifted on. Wow. I look like my grandpa. How wild is that? I thought to myself.

The afternoon just slid on by, like such times do. At some point, then, after everyone had eaten. David took the mic again. “Everyone move out to the campfire,” he told us. “There will be homemade ice cream for dessert, and fresh peach cobbler baked over the open fire. The crowd soon drifted out. I sat on the couch, visiting with my cousin Stephen Schrock, and Marvin. We got to talking about a lot of things, and next thing we knew, dusk was settling outside. We walked out then to join the others.

The crowd had stayed. No one left for home early. People lounged about in lawn chairs in a large circle around the fire, eating ice cream and chatting. Off to one side, a little band had set up. David, his brothers Glen and Sam, Dorothy, our cousin Norman Stoll, and one or two others. They belted out a good many gospel songs. I hadn’t seen Dorothy play in years. She’s a natural with the guitar and she’s a natural singer. And you could tell as you watched and listened. She was singing for us, and she was singing for Abby.

Time drifted on, and it got late. I sat here and there, chatting with different people. At a place like that, you can’t talk to everyone. It’s just not possible. So you don’t worry about it, you just talk to those you run into. And it all wound down late. People slowly got up and gathered their chairs and left. Back to Daviess it was, for most of them. And by midnight, those of us staying at the old inn had settled down for the night. Tomorrow morning there would be a brief service, there at David’s place, for those who stayed, and for the Daviess people who returned. But we were heading for home before all that came down, me and Steve and his sons. What a day it had been, this third Saturday in July, 2016. This was a Daviess Yoder Reunion like none other had ever been before. And now it was over for one more year.

It will take a while, to digest what it all was and what it all means. For me, it was a beautiful and powerful thing to connect with my roots in a way I never had before. It was time. It was way past time. But then, sometimes it takes some time to figure out the right way.

The walls of long ago can be torn down. The connections, the relationships will never be what they would have been. And they will never be what they should have been. But they can be something. It’s never too late to tear down a wall.

I like to think that the Pappy Yoder family, Mom and her parents and her brothers and sisters who have passed on, I like to think that maybe their souls can rest a little easier now. It was a long hard road, but Ida’s children have returned from exile, they have circled back to their roots. After all those years, after all those long and weary miles, they are back home where they belong.

Family is family, and blood is blood. And that’s about all there is to say.

Share

The Long Road: Life and Leaving…

The war had got in everything: it was in things that moved,

and in things that were still, in the animate red silence of an

old brick wall as well as in all the thronging life and traffic

on the streets. It was in the faces of the people passing, and

in ten thousand familiar moments of man’s daily life and

business…

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

It had been coming to me, lately. And it has closed in close, how strange and fleeting life is. And how random. And the strangeness and randomness of it all was triggered in me, when two people I knew traveled on from this life, real recently. And no, I can’t say I knew either of them that well. And no, I don’t know all the details of who they were and what they were to the world around them every day. I just know their lives impacted mine in their own time and in their own ways.

And it’s like the Tyndale people told me, way back when I was writing my book. Your story is your story, and the people whose lives touched yours are part of that story. And you can include them in the narrative, as long as you stay within the boundaries of what you saw and lived and felt, and what you know.

Well, this is a little sliver of my story. And I saw and lived and felt every shred of that little sliver.

A brief review, to start. We all know how my heart gave out last November, and how I almost didn’t make it through. Well, if you read my stuff now and then, you know that. If you don’t, there’s no reason you should. I came that close, and I’m holding my thumb a smidgen from my forefinger here, I came that close to passing on along. But somehow, I didn’t. I guess it just wasn’t my time. The doctors got me pulled back, and I returned to my home after ten days, feeling fragile, very alone, and a little frantic.

And the doctors told me, when I left. You will always be weak. Your heart will always be like an old man’s. That’s what they tell anyone who had congestive heart failure. I went home and felt my way along for a few weeks, like a blind man fumbling his way through the night. And then I started working my way back.

In late February, I went back to the hospital for my heart ablation. That’s what they do when you have A-Fib, which is what I had and what caused the congestive failure. I wrote about that little journey back when it happened. It was like taking a hike out into the wilderness, going under for the operation. It all went well, better than I could have hoped for. And Dr. B called Janice right after the operation, before I even came back up, like I had told him to. “Everything went fantastic,” he said to her. And then he added one more thing. “There is significant improvement in his heart strength.” Janice dutifully called me later that afternoon and told me what Dr. B had said. And I thought. Hmm. Significant improvement, eh? I sure wonder what he means by that.

What he meant by that was that my heart had improved back to 100% strength, a thing they had told me would never, never happen. I simply rejoiced. And no, I didn’t make any vows about what I would or wouldn’t do to keep my heart that way. I was simply gonna live, because every day I lived my life was a gift that I should never have seen, not when you look at the odds. I’m still grateful every day. And I realize that my life is just a vapor, that it could end, just like that. My heart could collapse without warning. Or I could walk in front of a truck, or some such thing. Tomorrow is promised to no one. No one. Not for any reason. That’s the bottom line, and that’s the knowledge and perspective I try to keep close to me in my heart.

And I know. This all seems like a bunny trail, if you’re a regular reader. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking. I know all this. What’s your point? Well, I can tie it all together if you hang in there with me. I think I can, anyway.

I’m not sure if it was just before or just after that operation. It was close to one side or the other. And I was feeling pretty good every day. And one day, here comes a phone call from my sister, Rachel. She texts me now and then, with news. And she calls to chat, now and then, too. This time she was calling. And she told me. “Magdalena Eicher is in serious condition in a hospital in Kansas City. She has serious, serious heart issues, and she has refused any corrective surgery because the chances of success are so low. She plans to return to her home community soon. In the meantime, here’s the number for her hospital room. You need to give her a call, now. Today.” Well, I mean, there were some grunts scattered in there, from me. But that was the gist of what she said.

Well. When my sister Rachel calls and tells me to call someone, I generally listen pretty close. I don’t always do as she tells me. But I always hear what she’s saying.

Magdalena Eicher. I had not seen or spoken to that woman for decades and decades. I thought about her now and then, and kind of kept track of where she was and how she was doing. And she was strong enough in my memory that she came out in my book, in my childhood years. Ms. Eicher, my teacher in first and second grades. I don’t know what it was about her. She was just an ordinary Amish girl, teaching school, totally untrained. But I have always remembered her quite vividly, and her impact on my life. I’ve never really analyzed why. From here, looking at it, I think it’s because she was the one who formally introduced me to the magical world of reading. And writing, too, although that world was one I detested early on. Under her instruction, her tuition, the letters of the alphabet came alive to me. I guess one never forgets the person who opened the door to such a place as that.

I listened as Rachel talked. And the memories from long ago washed over me like a flood. And I heard Magdalena Eicher’s voice and saw her smile again, in that old one-room schoolhouse that was torn down years ago. Yes, I said to Rachel. Yes, I will call her. I’m not sure what I’ll say, but I will call her. Text me the number. And we hung up and Rachel did.

And I stood there and looked at the number. There it was. Right there, I could call. I don’t know. Should I? I mean, I had not seen or spoken to Magdalena Eicher for probably forty-five years or so. Not long after she taught me in second grade, she moved to northern Indiana and taught school there for years. And later, well, later she lived a hard life. Endured a lot, that much I knew. She married a real plain man from a remote little community in Missouri, and he dragged her off to live with him there. His name is not worth telling. He turned out to be mentally unhinged. He did not respect his wife, or much care for her at all. An Amish woman in a position like that doesn’t have many options. She saw hard things, and she lived through many hard days that turned into hard years. They had two children, she and her deranged husband. A daughter, then a son. Her children brought her the only joy she saw in all the remaining years of her life.

And now, now she was lying in a hospital room with a defective heart for which there was no cure. I walked out through the warehouse, then out into the sunlight. And then I called her number.

She answered. Her voice sounded exactly the same as it did all those years ago. I was a child again, in her classroom. Except I wasn’t. Hello, Magdalena, I said, half stammering. My sister Rachel told me you’re in the hospital. And before I could say my name, she told me. “You sound like a Wagler. Is this Joseph?” No, I’m not Joseph, although I’m sure he’ll call you, too, I said. This is Ira. She didn’t hesitate. And her voice sounded pleased. “Ira? Oh, I remember you.” You were my teacher in first and second grade, I said. I’ve always remembered those days. I just wanted to call and wish you well.

“I remember all my pupils from those early years of teaching,” she said. “You were all always special to me.” And we chatted a bit about those old days. And then I asked about her heart, and told her a little bit about my own. I was in pretty bad shape with A-Fib. I almost didn’t make it. But I’m feeling pretty good, now. And after a few minutes, there wasn’t a whole lot more to say. I have to go, now, I told her. I wish you every blessing. She thanked me for calling, and it sounded like she meant it. And then we hung up.

A few weeks after that, I walked into The Heart Group one morning for my 30-day checkup after my heart ablation. The nurses checked me in. All vital signs were optimal. Heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen. Dr. B came bounding into the room a short while later. “Ira,” he said. “You are looking good. And you heart is back to 110%. You really have made remarkable progress.” And he went on. “I never knew you were a NY Times bestselling author. They were talking about it while you were on the operating table. I asked what in the world they’re saying. And they told me. I usually do a little research on my patients I’m operating on. I completely missed that about you.”

I laughed. Yeah, I don’t go around telling people I’m a writer, I said. That’s beautiful, what you said about my heart. Now let’s talk about some of these drugs I’m on. I’d like to get off all the drugs I can. I’m not gonna fight you. But I want to get off.

I was on four drugs at that time. And I knew he planned to take me off the most toxic one. Which he did. Now, what about the other three? I asked. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Most doctors would keep you on those remaining three for the rest of your life. But I’ll tell you what. Come back in three months, and we’ll talk about it. We’ll see.”

I appreciate that, Doctor, I said as we shook hands. Like I said, I’m not gonna fight you. I’ll be back in three months. And tell you what. I’ll drop a signed copy of my book out front for you on my way out. He smiled at me. “I really appreciate that. Thank you,” he said. And that’s what I did.

A month or two passed. I don’t have the exact time line, here. The exact dates of what happened when. Those don’t really matter, not when you’re telling a story. You get bogged down with the details of stuff that’s not important. You have to feel it, to get it told right. And then, one day, another text from Rachel. My sister always knows what’s going on. The text was pretty simple. Magdalena Eicher is very low, not expected to live long. Not even days. And I thought about what I knew. Her sorrow stayed with her right through to the end. Her husband made no effort to care for her, so her nephew and his family took her in. She stayed in a little trailer by the side of their house. There, they loved her and cared for her. That’s what family is for, I guess. And I’m not judging anyone, here. Just telling it like it was.

Her siblings and some childhood friends made the trek to the remote little Missouri community to say good-bye. She could only sit comfortably in a chair. And there she remained, until a few days after Rachel’s message. Early one morning, then, she quietly slipped away.

And no one outside her immediate family will long remember her name or who she was. Just an obscure old Amish woman out there in the middle of nowhere. She passed away, and was mourned by her children. And she was buried with very little fuss or honor from others.

But here, I remember her, and I speak her name.

Magdalena Eicher, you were brave and strong and resolute in the face of so much sorrow and grief and pain in your life. I salute you. May you rest in peace.

I felt a little nervous the day after I got back from my little road trip to see Dad a few weeks back. I had a doctor’s appointment first thing the next morning, a Monday. Dr. B was going to see me, check me out. The week before, I had been hooked up to a Holter monitor for a day, a little electronic thingy that recorded every beat of my heart for twenty-four hours. So that was done. Still, I fidgeted a bit. Who knows what my heart does at night when I’m sleeping? And that morning, I was real tired from the drive home the day before. Stay calm, heart, I told myself as I drove over to The Heart Group.

I was plenty early. I sat and waited and watched all the other heart patients come and go. Wow. Some of them looked like they were having a pretty rough time. The nurse finally stuck her head out and called my name. I got up and followed her. It’s getting to be almost routine with me, such a thing. She took my blood pressure and heart rate. Absolutely optimal. I’m a little overweight, though. No one grumbles much about that. She took me off to another room and left. And a few minutes later, Dr. B came bounding in. I swear, the man doesn’t walk. He bounds.

It went about like before. My heart was back to 110%. Dr. B even said, “It couldn’t be in better shape if we wanted it to be.” Wow, I said. That’s great news. Now, let’s talk about some of these drugs I’m on.

He laughed. “Yeah, I remember you asking about that before,” he said. Look, I said. If my heart’s back the way you say it is, why can’t you take me off some of these drugs? Like the blood thinner? He agreed. He’d take me off the Eliquis. And he told me again. “Ninety percent of doctors would leave you on the other two drugs.” And I told him again. Look. I’m not gonna fight you. But I got three cards on the table. Three drugs. You dealt me one card. Now how many more will you deal?

I think my willingness to talk about it and not fight is what swung the man. We chatted for a while about the Lisinopril. I don’t need my blood pressure regulated, I said. “OK,” he said. “I’ll take you off that one, too. I’m leaving you on the third one, though. I’m thinking you’ll be on Metoprolol for, well, for the duration.” I didn’t flinch. I thanked the man. I’m not fighting you. I’m happy you took me off two drugs. When can we talk again, about the third one? He chuckled. “You’re a pretty good persuader,” he said. “Come back and see me in six months.

I will, I said. We shook hands. And I floated from that place on fluffy white clouds drifting gently under bright blue skies.

And that should be about it for this blog, seems like. Except it’s not. One more little trail to go down, then I’ll be done. Or maybe it’ll be a big trail. I walked out of that doctor’s office with a deeply grateful heart. Walked into life and living, and all that such a thing was. It seemed so strange. It’s all so unpredictable. One day you’re almost dead, and the next day you aren’t. And then you reach out and touch death in the face again. And you go or stay. That’s how things were. Life, just walking along, making plans for the summer, and my garage party. When you live with real gratitude in your heart, all of life seems like a dreamy dance. At least for a little while it does, anyway.

Then last week, at almost exactly this time, here comes a text from an old friend. Gloria. I hadn’t heard from her in a while. And I sensed instantly from her question that something wasn’t right. “Have you heard from Freiman or Tim?” And I texted back. No, I haven’t heard from anyone. What’s wrong?

Her return text was terse and simple. “Linda is leaving us.” And I groaned aloud and then we spoke to each other briefly on the phone, Gloria and me. Linda Beiler was back in the hospital, and fading fast. This time, she wasn’t going to make it. That’s what Gloria told me. I’d heard it before, in the past few years. She’s back in the hospital. And every time, she returned. This time, the feeling swept through me like a cold fog and I knew what Gloria was telling me was true. This time, Linda wasn’t coming back. This time, this time, well, we all knew that one of these times would be the last. Always before, it was just not this time.

It took some soaking in. In my heart and mind, it took some soaking in to really grasp what I had just heard.

Linda Beiler. She was so much to so many. I almost shudder, to even open the door to talking about who she was to me. Except, it’s like the Tyndale people told me. Your story is your story. And the people in it are a part of that story. You can tell of them, from what you saw, and how you knew them.

I don’t remember when or where or how I first met Linda. It was back in the 90s, I think, at some artsy event or other. I don’t recall when I first laid eyes on her. I never was a part of Linda’s inner circle. And if I ever was in her village, I was way out there on the edge of things. I’m an introvert. I don’t like the city or noise or large crowds. So we connected very sporadically, over the years. But when we did, well, that’s what I want to tell you about.

Things are foggy, about when we first made a real connection. We saw each other here and there. After my marriage blew up, and I started writing, we met now and then, mostly through my good friend and one of her closest friends, Freiman.

And somehow, when I launched my first garage party, I invited her. Oh, yes, she bubbled. She’d love to come. I was probably a little suspicious. People tell you they’ll be there all the time, about things like that, when they have no intention of showing up. I didn’t need to fret about Linda, though. She arrived, back at that first party, lugging in some sort of delicious dish or other. Tomato pie, I think it was. She knew most of the other guests, and the ones she didn’t know soon weren’t strangers. And I have a small surge of pride, here. That night, the first time Linda was at my garage party, that night she learned what it was to play Hi-Lo at my bar.

I remember half keeping an eye on things, like a good host should. And I remember much shouting and confusion at the bar. I walked over after a while, to take a look. And there stood Linda, smiling and smiling. And raking in everyone’s cash, just like she had a right to it. The thing was, she smiled and laughed so brightly that all the losers smiled and laughed with her. It was a strange and wondrous thing.

And after that, I saw Linda a bit more frequently. I got invited to her little parties, and to her Sunday lunches now and then at her apartment on North Lime Street. There, I briefly met many of her friends. I saw Linda and her daughter, Sarah, together. If there ever was a mother’s love for her child, and a child’s love for her mother, that’s what I saw when I saw Linda and Sarah.

My book got published in June, 2011. Linda called me one day, soon after that, out of the blue. She had read the book, and she loved it. I blushed and said, aw, shucks, tain’t nothing. But it was something. She knew it and I knew it. And from the book, then, flowed some of my fondest memories of me and Linda, walking through a small slice of life together.

Things moved along, then. Linda came to my garage party that year, as always. That’s when we always connected, most closely. She was just so exuberant and alive and free. And she always scooped up the money from the Hi-Lo games at my bar. And she always held the fan of $20 bills high and wide, with the biggest smile you ever saw. I always tried to take a picture of me and her together, at that moment. I figured I had the right to stand with her, being the host and all.

In the fall of 2011, my friend Joanna Miller King scheduled a book signing for me at her business in Shipshewana, Indiana. Joanna was an old friend I knew from way back in my Florida years. I had not seen her in decades. She wanted me to come out to Davis Mercantile and sign books at her store on a Saturday. I made plans to drive out the day before, a full day’s travel. And then Linda called me. Somehow, she had heard I was going. Turns out she and Joanna were best, best friends for years. And she asked me. “Can I ride out with you? Don’t tell Joanna. It’ll be a surprise.” Of course, I said. Of course. I’m happy to have company on a long road trip like that.

When you travel ten hours one way with someone, you either hit it off or you don’t. We talked and talked. We told our stories of who we were and where we had been and what we had seen. We told each other of our marriages, and how they blew up. She spoke of her hopes and dreams, and I spoke of mine. The hours flowed by as we rolled along the toll road, on and on, north and west.

I’m sure she thought my anarchist views were a little uncouth, but she just smiled and never let on. I’ve never seen a person who smiled so much. And a funny thing happened as we approached our destination late that afternoon.

Linda was driving. I had been grumbling pretty savagely about the toll road and how much it cost to use it. It’s highway robbery. And as we approached the toll booth to pay and get off, I told Linda. Now, these toll people work for the state. They’re robbers. I don’t want you to smile at the toll person who takes our money. I want you to look all grim. “I will,” she promised. And she deliberately pinched her lips together and tried to frown. We slowed and stopped at the booth. Linda rolled down the window and handed over our ticket, and then a wad of cash I had given her. The toll booth guy, obviously smitten by such a lovely woman handing him money, got all smarmy. “Oh, thank you,” he said, smiling at her plaintively.

And Linda just couldn’t stop herself. “No, thank you,” she said, brightly. And she shot him the most dazzling smile you could imagine as we pulled away. The poor toll booth guy looked grateful. I was horrified. Oh, Linda, I groaned, slapping my forehead. No, no. Don’t thank him. He just robbed you. And you smiled at him. You weren’t supposed to smile. Good grief, woman. And she laughed and laughed and I laughed and laughed with her.

And it was very soon after that road trip that the dark night descended. Cancer. She had cancer. I remember the sinking feeling in me when I heard the news. I waited a few days, then called her. I don’t know what to say, I told her. I’m so sorry. What do you need from me? I’m here, for whatever. And she thanked me and told me. “I know how close you walked with Paul and Anne Marie, through all those long years,” she said. “I know how draining it had to be. You don’t need to do that for me. I have a lot of family and friends who will.” Thank you, I said. I’m here, for whatever you need.

And I just kind of stayed out there on the outskirts of her village, where I had always been. We connected sporadically, but when we did, well, we had a blast. Through Facebook, I kept up with her life and how it was going. She went down low, got close to the door of death, that first round. But somehow, she bounced right back. And every August, she came to my garage party. Smiling and smiling and carrying a great plate of some kind of food or other. After dinner, when things had settled a bit, she always rounded up her willing victims at the bar. And there she skinned everyone in Hi-Lo. And it got to where everyone knew. If you play at my bar, Linda is going to walk away with a bunch of your money. People flocked to my bar, anyway.

And every year, she told me as she was leaving. “Thank you so much. I will be back next year. Let me know.” Oh, I will, I always said, as we hugged.

And I’m not sure what year it was, 2013, maybe. I had been contacted by a group in a retirement home in Mechanicsburg. We had scheduled a book talk one Friday afternoon. After that, I planned to head on down to see my friends, Dominic and Jamie Haskin in West Virginia. Linda and Jamie had hit it off pretty well when they met at my garage party, so I called Linda. I’m heading out for a book talk, then down to West Virginia. Would you like to go along? Would she? Of course she would. And so it was set, our second and last road trip together.

She showed up that morning in her convertible. She had bought it not long before, after her first bout with cancer. And she offered to drive. I agreed, of course. I mean, who could turn down such a thing? I threw in my bag, and we were off. It was just a perfect, beautiful sunny day. We passed around Harrisburg and headed south on the Interstate. Linda cruised along at well over seventy, top down, radio blasting. I recognized the moment as the rare and beautiful thing it was. And I reveled in it.

And after that, life just kind of flowed on. A few years ago, she called and asked if I could bring Big Blue to help move some of her stuff from her Lime Street place to Hollinger House, the great, grand old inn she remodeled and opened over in Willow Street. Of course I could, and did. Later, I attended the grand opening of the inn and gave her half a dozen signed copies of my book, so she could gift or sell them to her guests.

I’m not sure when the last time was I saw her. I think it may have been at my garage party last August. I guess it doesn’t matter much. A few months ago, I messaged out my invitations for this year. August 27th. Ira’s Great Annual Garage Party. Come if you can. Linda messaged right back. “I can’t wait. Bring your quarters!” The last three or four years, when I invited her and she came, I thought quietly to myself that this time will likely be the last time. It never was. This year, such a thought never crossed my mind. I had no doubt at all that Linda would be there.

I stood there after Gloria and I had hung up. So this was it. The end of a long, hard road. And the realization settled in, deep inside me. So much of life is a battlefield. You don’t choose your battles. You take them as they come. But you can sure choose how you fight them. Linda was a warrior. She lived intensely. She fought with grace and courage and joy and great anticipation of good things to come.

But mostly, she lived and fought without fear.

We waited, those in her village, for the final news. We knew that this time it would come. She slipped lower and lower. And last Sunday evening, as the sun sank into the fiery hues of the western sky, the great warrior laid down her sword. And now, the battlefield stands, empty and quiet. And now, she rests.

Linda Sue Beiler, you were my friend. It seems so surreal that you’re actually gone. It was an honor to know you. One day, when I get to where you are, we’ll head out together on another road trip again. And this time I won’t scold you when you smile at the toll keeper. Because the passage to where we’re going will be free.

Share

Sons and Fathers…

…His life seemed to have revived again out of its grief of

pain, its death of joy, its sorrow of irrevocable memory. For

a moment he seemed to live again in his full prime…

And for a moment we believed that all would be for us again

as it had been, that he could never grow old and die, but that

he must live forever, and that the summertime, the orchard

and bright morning, would be ours again…

—Thomas Wolfe

________________

We had it all set, my father and me. And I had planned on traveling up to Aylmer to see him last fall. For Thanksgiving, I told him. And he was all excited and looking forward to it. Well. Last fall, right over that time, I landed up flat on my back in the ICU, instead. So that little trip got canceled. Dad was disappointed, I think. I know I was. Still, it all was what it was. The bottom line for me, I was just happy to be alive.

Dad calls me now and then. Roughly every month or so, just to visit. And since last fall, he has kept pesking me. “So when are you coming up to see me?” A few weeks ago, he asked again. And this time, I didn’t shrug him off. I looked at my calendar. I can come over the weekend of the 18th, I told him. He claimed he didn’t have any other plans, and I should come on up. Only later did I realize that the date I had picked was Father’s Day weekend.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen my Dad. I didn’t make it to Florida to be with him last winter. I was pretty much hunkered down at home, getting a grip on things like life and living. Trying to find a balance in my new world. And time rolled on. And suddenly I realized I had not seen Dad since February of last year, down in Pine Craft. It seemed like the time was overdue, for me to go and see him again. And that’s why it all came together like it did, and that’s why I drove up to Aylmer to see him last weekend.

The Enterprise man just grinned at me when I told him my name. It was Thursday after work. I always pick up my rental car the night before. I’m not enough of a regular that they actually remember me. I think they keep notes in my account on the computer, maybe. Anyway, the guy just grinned when I asked what kind of car he had for me. It was a little Chevy of some kind, I forget the model. He dug around for the key. And I asked him. You got any Chargers on the lot? My usual question. He glanced at his inventory. “I don’t have a Charger,” he said. “But I got a Chrysler 300. Same car, except it’s the luxury model. Leather seats, and fully loaded. This car will move.” How much? I asked him. And he told me. Basically twice as much as the car I had reserved.

You know what? I’ll have to pass, I said, sadly. I’d love to try that car, but I can’t justify that kind of money. And I let it go, in my heart. And waited for the key to my little Chevy. But the guy wasn’t about to give up that easily. Oh, no. “Well,” he said. “I really want to see you driving that Chrysler. How about if I….” and he named a price about halfway between the Chevy and his original quote for the upcharge. I froze. Here it was. I’d given it up, but here it was.

OK, I said. I’ll take the Chrysler 300. He grinned a huge grin and filled out my paperwork. Then he fetched the car. It was clearly a powerhouse, a rum-running vehicle. Gleaming burgundy, and brand new. “Only 300 miles on it,” the guy told me proudly. I thanked him profusely. After signing off, I parked Big Blue and drove off in my mean machine. This was a good, unexpected start to things, I thought to myself. You don’t look for it, but you sure take it when it comes.

I packed light that night. Well, light for me, anyway. I’m learning not to throw in the kitchen sink when I’m heading out for a short road trip. A week, two weeks, yeah, I’ll load down the car. But only a few days? A duffle bag and a few fresh shirts on hangers. And I’m good. For me, that’s coming a long way.

The next morning, by seven, I was heading west and north. The Chrysler was going to be all the man had claimed, I could feel that pretty quick. Step on the gas, and the car jumps like a jackrabbit.

And the morning swept in at me, and then the day. And I thought about things, like I always do on the open road. I had driven this road many times, in the past. Back when Mom was sinking into darkness, back through all those years and miles I wandered in my head. And now, now, well, now my father is an old, old man. He and his sister Rachel are the only ones who remain from their world from their generation. And yes, my father is well cared for by my family. He has all that an old man could ask for. Comfort, security, and love. And yet. And yet.

He was once a powerful man, a leader, an undisputed force in his world, the Amish world. A man of renown and reputation. A man of passion who fearlessly pursued his dreams, no matter what. He never had much time for his family, his wife and children. And I want to be careful, here. He provided for us all, he always did. Unhesitatingly. Without complaint. But still, when it came to taking time, real time, for his family, and for his wife, he fell sadly short. It was not because of any ill intent in his heart, I’ll give him that. It was life. It just was what it was.

The thing is, now. Now he is old, and all alone. And now, he sits and grieves for his children, his sons and daughters. Now he has all the time, all the monotonous hours of every endless day. And now, his sons and daughters have about as much time for him as he used to have for them. And there is no ill intent in anyone’s heart, that such a thing came to be. It’s just the way it is.

The Chrysler 300 throbbed along, on and on. You could haul a lot of moonshine in a car like that, and it would never flinch or know the difference. On up north into New York, then west toward Buffalo. And as the hills passed alongside me, I saw them again, and flinched and turned my face. Those ugly, ugly giant windmills, those jarring gashes in the skies. There is no thing uglier to mar a beautiful landscape than that. And there is no thing uglier to mar the beautiful open skies.

I am convinced that one day, perhaps hundreds of years from now, sons and daughters will ask their fathers. “Father, up here in these hills, what are these deep foundations, these remnants of a previous people? Why were they here? And what did they build, way up here on high like that?”

And the fathers will tell their children. “What you see, those remnants, these foundations dug deep and poured with ancient concrete, these come from a foolish people who lived here long ago. Those foolish people worshiped the wind god, and these remnants are all that remain from the huge idols they built on the high places all around. The wind god, of course, let them down like all false gods do. And in time, their massive idols fell on their faces and disappeared into the earth, from whence they came. What you see is all that is left of those foolish people and their false and foolish religion.”

One day, these things will happen. One day, they will. That’s what I thought grimly to myself as the ugly giant windmills flashed by on both sides of me.

The border came up, then, right on schedule. I was making decent time. The Canadians are always pretty friendly. It’s coming back, that’s when the American guards are thugs. I pulled up to the guard gate window and gaped a bit, I will concede. The guard was an astonishingly beautiful woman, probably in her thirties. Oh my, I thought. I wouldn’t mind getting questioned out a little more closely by her. Maybe I should mumble my answers and act suspicious. She took my passport and asked a few rote questions. I’m going up to see family, I told her, not even remotely mumbling or suspicious. She looked bored and waved me through. So much for that. I wish the American guards were half that attractive. I’m sure, going back, some guy with a chip on his shoulder will bark at me like I’m some kind of common criminal. That’s how American guards are.

On then, to Highway 3 and west. The lovely Canadian landscape was marred with dozens and dozens of those ghastly giant windmills. The “Green” gospel spreads to all nations. It is a harsh and relentless thing, demanding endless sacrifice to pointless and insatiable idols. The Friday afternoon traffic clogged the road, but I kept pushing on and on. And by five or so, I was pulling into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn on the east edge of St. Thomas. The place where I always stay. I’m generally suspicious of Comfort Inns, but this one is relatively new and clean. I walked in and asked for a room for two nights, like I always do. It’s never been a problem, getting a room there. This time, it almost was.

The nice lady behind the desk was on the phone for a few minutes. I stood there patiently. I need a room, I told her after she hung up. “You’re in luck,” she said. “I got one room left. You can have it.” One room left? I half hollered. I always stay here, and you have never been even close to full. What in the world is going on? “The air show,” she looked at me as if I were dense. “Every motel for miles around is full. The air show is tomorrow and Sunday.” And right there, I learned that St. Thomas has an annual air show, where all kinds of stunt planes show up and do all kinds of dangerous and stunty things. Who knew? It’s certainly not something I remember from back in my childhood. I don’t guess it was going on, then.

Around 5:30, I pulled into the drive of my sister Rosemary’s place. It was very warm outside. I parked the car under a shred of shade from a small tree and walked into my sister’s house. Rosemary stood there in the kitchen, smiling and smiling in welcome. “We’ve been looking for you,” she said as we hugged. “Dad is over at his office, looking for you, too. He’s so excited, he could hardly sleep for his nap. Sit down for a few minutes, here, before going over.” I laughed. OK, I said. I’ll stay here and visit for a bit, before going over. Here, I brought you this. And I reached into my messenger bag. I got Edna’s message last night and printed about ten blogs. It’s good that she called and told me, because otherwise I wouldn’t have. I don’t go around pushing my blog on people. I handed her the hard copies. “Oh, good,” she said. “Thank you. It’s been a long, long time since we got any fresh copies. We’ll enjoy these.”

And we just sat there and caught up, me and my oldest sister. Her husband, Joe Gascho, had still not returned from his daily produce peddling route in Tillsonburg. Right now, the strawberries are coming in full force. Umm, I said. Fresh Canadian strawberries. I would love some. And I’d love some smoked sausages for supper, too. “Oh, I was going to ask,” she said. “I wasn’t sure what your restrictions are, when it comes to food and salt. I don’t want to feed you something you shouldn’t eat.” Don’t worry about it, I told her. I’m eating just about anything I’m hungry for, now. The salt doesn’t bother me. I keep a pretty close watch on everything. But I’d sure love some smoked sausages for supper. “Then that’s what we’ll have,” she smiled. And I got up to go over to see Dad.

I walked out and across the yard to the tiny little house where he and Mom used to live. The house Mom died in. Dad stays and works there during the day, and then goes over to the big house for the night. They have a nice little bedroom in the corner, and that’s where he sleeps. I reached for the door and opened it and walked it. It was cool and dark inside. Back in the back room, I could hear noises. That was Dad’s office, back there. I walked through the tiny kitchen and stood in the doorway to his office. And there the man sat at his desk.

It’s a scene I’ve seen ten thousand times before, but now I always catch my breath. The man who is my father, sitting and doing what he has loved to do all his life. Writing. His typewriter sat off to the right side of his desk, and he was peering at a large open bound volume of The Botschaft from years past. He must have heard me or maybe he saw the shadows shifting around him. He looked up and saw me and smiled. Hello, Dad, I said. “Why hello, hello, Ira,” he replied. “Come in and sit down.” He closed the large bound book and pushed his wheelchair back from his desk.

Doing some writing? I asked. “Yes, I’m doing some research for my writing,” he said. And I told him. Writing is hard work. He pressed his hands together. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s hard work, but I like it. I don’t know what I would be doing if I wasn’t writing.” And he asked, then. “Are you writing? Are you working on your next book?” I was a little surprised that he thought to ask. Yes, I said. I’m writing. Mostly on my blog. But yeah, I’m playing around with the structure of the second book. Mapping it out, and getting a little writing done. I’m getting things cleared, in my head. One of these days, it’s going to get here. Pretty soon, now.

I pulled up a chair and sat down by his desk. And the two of us just sat there and talked. He was pretty excited to see me, I must say. Excited and eager. He asked what I wanted to do the next day. He thought maybe we could hitch up his horse and go and visit the graveyard where Mom is. Of course, I said. I definitely want to go with you to see her new gravestone. He kept saying, “We’ll take the horse and buggy.” I guess he figured I might try to get him to ride with me. I would never dream of such a thing. But he doesn’t know that. Either that, or he keeps forgetting. “Rosemary can go with us, and she can drive. She has a real safe horse that she drives,” he told me two or three times. Yes, yes, I said. I’m good with that. That’s what I want to do.

Dad is old now. He has lived way beyond the lifespan of most people. He’ll be ninety-five this December. And, yes, the family is there, around him. He has people, and he has loving care. But the man is also achingly alone. He has seen so much and lived so much and told so much. Now, he’s not in the present so much anymore. And his stories of the past are all he has left to say.

I prodded him with a few questions about his childhood, about Daviess. How big was the community, back when he was little? It had four districts. There were three when Dad was born, and by the time he remembers anything, they had divided into four. That’s a small community, by today’s standards. Today Daviess has around thirty or thirty-one districts. It’s a big place, Dad told me, compared to what it was when he was a child.

And a name I can’t remember hearing before kept coming up. Somehow, it got stuck in Dad’s mind. John Raber. He was older when Dad was young, and he was the wealthiest man in Daviess. People always came to him to borrow money. He’d tell them. “Come on in, and tell me about what you need the money for. I want to help you out, but I don’t want to help you in.” John always listened carefully, and he freely lent his money if he judged the loan to be a wise investment. His wife died, and he soon sought the hand of my Mom’s aunt, the widow Fanny. She rebuffed him and he went back home. Two years later, he asked again. Again, she said no. And some time after that, he asked again. By this time she got to thinking. This man won’t leave me alone. So maybe I should say yes. She did, and they were married, the two wealthiest people in Daviess. That’s what Dad told me that first evening, a story like that.

Rosemary came walking in, then, to tell us. Supper was ready. Joe still wasn’t home from town, and Edna was busy at her bakery. So it was just me and my Dad and my sister. Dad usually walks over with his walker. It takes some time. Can I push you over in your wheelchair? I asked. “Sure,” he said. And we trundled over. The table was set with delicious food. Homemade, all of it, and home cooked. Vegetable soup, and smoked sausage and bread and mayo. It all smelled and tasted like my childhood home of long ago. We sat around the small table and feasted to our hearts’ content.

The motel was crammed with air show people when I got there later. I retired early and slept fitfully that night. There’s just something about traveling and sleeping in motel rooms. I don’t rest well. The next morning, I got up and meandered out through the main drag of the community. I had cruised past the old home place the night before. Nothing looks the same anymore. And now the old house, the house that was the only home I ever knew as a young child, that house has been torn down, and a new monstrosity built in its place. It was time, I guess. The old house was old, and Rosemary told me. Once, years ago, when the house was full of people for church, there was a loud cracking sound right during the service. And the entire living room floor settled a bit. Everyone felt it. So the old house wasn’t safe to live in, anymore. Still, I felt a surge of sadness as I drove slowly by the old home place. It’s just not recognizable anymore.

The next morning, I arrived out at my sister’s home around nine, sipping my large cup of fresh Tim Horton’s coffee. I had asked timidly, at the counter. Do you take American money? Oh, yes. And it was just outstanding coffee. Tim Horton’s coffee always is. Rosemary was in a bit of a tizzy when I walked in. She and Dad had expected me earlier, and they were ready to go to the graveyard to visit Mom. I’m sorry, I told Rosemary. I thought I told you I’d be here around nine. I’m here. We walked out and hitched up the horse that Joe had harnessed before leaving that morning. Sally was a tame old plug, and the only horse my sister will drive. We chatted as we hitched her up. It’s been a few years for me. Then Rosemary led the horse and buggy over to the front of Dad’s little house, and I walked in to fetch him. He was dressed and ready to go. That coat looks a little warm, I said, holding the door open as he slowly hobbled out with his walker. We’ll take it off after you get loaded. All right. Let’s go.

It was a beautiful cloudless morning. And the day was going to get real warm. They’re having a heat wave, these days, up there in Aylmer. And the fields are dry and thirsty. There’s never been a drought, in all the years the Amish have lived there. This year, there will be, unless the rains come soon. It’s a strange thing. Rosemary and Dad sat up front. We loaded Dad’s wheelchair in the back, and I sat back there with my messenger bag and my faithful iPad. Rosemary slapped the reins and spoke to the horse. And Sally slowly lumbered out the drive and north toward the corner. We were off.

We trundled along. Dad asked. “Why isn’t Ira driving?” Oh, that’s quite alright, I said. I’m good back here. He kept fussing, though. OK, I said. I’ll drive on the way home. Over the old railroad tracks, then, and down toward the corner. There’s a school there, has been for decades. There wasn’t, back in the day. Left then, and west. Past Solomon Herrfort’s old place. It used to be all overgrown and dark and gloomy around there. No more. The place is cleaned up, all spic and span. There’s a strange story they told me again, as we were driving past. Years ago, Solomon sold the place to Nathaniel Stoll, and moved away. And some years after that, Nathaniel was cleaning out the well, for some reason. And he dug up and brought up an old gravestone. It was dated in the mid-1800s, and the young girl’s name was Mathilda. Nathaniel notified the authorities, and the local newspaper did a write-up, complete with pictures. No one knows how the gravestone got down there. Does anyone know where it is now? I asked. Dad and Rosemary didn’t know if anyone knows. Well, someone should be preserving a thing like that, I said.

All the roads around the community used to be gravel, years ago. Now they’re all paved. Except one. The road that goes by the graveyard remains graveled. The township planned to pave that road, too, but the needed setbacks would have disturbed the first row of graves, out close to the road. So they decided just to leave it graveled, Rosemary told me. Nothing wrong with that, I said, as we turned left onto that road and trundled along. The graveyard was almost at the south end of the graveled stretch, on the right. Sally plugged along, and then we pulled up to the graveyard.

It used to be all raggedy and unkempt. Not anymore. The place was neat and mowed. Most noticeably, there was a brand new wooden fence along the road, with a brand new metal gate. Wow, I said. That sure looks good, that new fence. It sure wasn’t that way when we buried Mom. Rosemary smiled, and there was pride in her face. “It was Lester (her son),” she said. “When we came over to place Mommy’s gravestone, Lester was horrified at how bad the place looked. And he got the committee together, and scheduled the frolics. The youth boys came and worked a few evenings. And now, here it is.”

Rosemary guided Sally up to a new fence post, and tied her up. I got Dad’s wheelchair and set it up beside the buggy. Then I helped him step out and sit down. I opened the shiny new green steel gate and pushed him in. We bumped over the short grass, over to the second row of gravestones. There was one long row, out along the front edge. Then there was a second row, the length of a coffin in. And then a third row, or partial row. That was where Mom was, kind of off the one end, alone, by herself. The wheelchair bumped along, through the grass. And we crossed the second row, and approached the newest gravestone in the graveyard. Mom. This was where she lived, now, in her dark new house, where the cold and bitter winds can never reach her.

I pushed Dad right up to the stone. As we got near, he removed his big black hat and placed it on his lap. I removed my hat, too. And we sat and stood there with heads bowed, me and my father, in silence for a moment. Rosemary stood behind us, closer to the fence. There were no words to speak, really, right that moment. Here, on this spot, here is where I last saw my mother’s face on this earth. Here is where Dad last looked upon the woman who had been his wife for seventy-two years.

He spoke, then, and told me. Feel the stone with Mom’s name engraved. The letters are cut in there pretty deep. He wanted something that would last, he wanted her name to be legible for a while. Longer than some of those earlier stones up in the front row. Go and feel that writing on those. It’s almost gone, almost worn away. And you won’t be able to tell, who all is buried in those spots. Not after the names get wiped away.

And we spoke, too, of the names on the stones in the second row. Familiar names to me, all of them. All of those people were alive and vibrant, all were characters in the world I knew as a child. Many of the original founders of Aylmer lived until their eighties, and a few reached the nineties. Two of Dad’s older sisters, Anna Stoll and Martha Yoder, lived the longest of all. Anna was a few days shy of ninety-six. Martha was ninety-five, if I remember right. My figures might be a bit off, but not by much. And now my father is the only one left, of all those original Aylmer settlers. Of them all, he alone remains in Aylmer. His younger sister, Rachel, lives in Iowa. The two of them are all that’s left of the original crowd. And it seemed that he knew and felt the burden of that knowledge, there that morning, sitting on his wheelchair beside my mother’s grave. One day, perhaps soon, perhaps not, he will join his people there in that spot. And one day soon, his generation will be gone. No one will remain.

We wound down, then. And I’ve got to wind down this blog, too. It’s getting way too long. That time, those moments at the graveyard that sunny Saturday morning, that brief span of time was the highlight of my trip. A powerful and moving and symbolic thing that either happens on its own or doesn’t.

I pushed Dad back to the buggy, and he got in. I loaded the wheelchair while Rosemary untied the horse. And then she got in the back, and I got in the driver’s seat and took up the reins. OK, Sally, let’s get going. Sally lurched along slowly. This time we headed south, to the corner. Then left and east, right through the main drag of the community. We got home in plenty of time for dinner (lunch).

I sat with Dad for a while and visited, then. Later that afternoon, Rosemary’s children drifted in. Eunice stopped by for a few hours. Then Phillip and his wife came over. Everyone sat and visited, just like old times. Late in the afternoon, Dad got some company from around the community. Bishop John Martin and his wife came by. We shook hands. I saw you last at Mom’s funeral, I told him. Then Mark Stoll dropped in, too, to visit. I was impressed. The Aylmer people make sure Dad gets his full share of people stopping by to see him. That’s a good thing, and so typical of the strong ties in any Amish community. You respect your elders. You care for their needs. And you go see them and spend time with them.

Rosemary bustled about, making food for supper. Lester and Tina and their family and Naomi and her husband, Peter, were coming. They usually come for supper on a Saturday night, Rosemary told me. And they all eat outside, on the deck. And soon enough, those children trickled in. The food was spread on a table outside, and we all sat around and enjoyed the feast and each other’s company. It was a calm and relaxing time. I hung out until after nine, then took my leave and headed to St. Thomas and my room.

The next morning, it was time to head for home. My Aylmer trips are always brief. I headed out through the main drag of the community one last time. The roads were clogged with horses and buggies and swarms of people walking. There would be church at Bishop Pete Yoder’s old place. My cousin, Ezra Wagler, lives there now, and has for decades. I saw all the buggies packed together and parked as I slowly drove on by. Forty years ago, that was me, walking along the road to church at that farm.

I pulled in and parked under a sliver of shade at Rosemary’s place. I walked into the big house first. My sister sat there with her husband and their youngest daughter, Edna. Their district had Sunday School that afternoon, so they were in no hurry to get anywhere. I sat and drank coffee and visited for a while, then walked over to Dad’s little house to say good-bye.

He was sitting at his desk, as usual. But on a Sunday morning, he wasn’t typing. He was reading. The Bible, I think. I didn’t look that close. I stood there just inside the door, and we chatted for a few minutes. It had crossed my mind before on this trip, but this was the first time I told him. Well, I guess this is Father’s Day, I said, kind of awkwardly. Happy Father’s Day.

“Father’s Day?” he asked, and then he looked a little shy and chuckled. We observed the day, when I was growing up. But nobody made any kind of big fuss. And that’s how he was taking what I said. Without any kind of big fuss. I’m leaving now, I said, offering my hand. He took it and held it for a brief moment.

He is an old man, now. He has seen and lived and felt more than most men will ever see and live and feel. He is surrounded by family and love and communal support. But still. He is more alone now than he has ever been. And he sits and grieves every day for his children, his sons and daughters who live far away.

Good-bye, Dad, I said.

“Good-bye,” he said. “Thanks for coming to visit. I hope you have a safe trip home.”

And then I turned and left him.

Share

Vagabond Traveler: Walking Lame…

…When you were younger, you used to gird yourself and walk

wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch

out your hands and someone else will gird you, and bring you

where you do not wish to go.

—John 21:18

____________

It’s been coming at me right along, life has. And it’s been going pretty well. Still, it’s felt a little strange, lately. I’ve been walking, traveling through. And in more ways than one, it feels like I’m walking lame.

I wasn’t looking for anything out of the ordinary when they told me. Well, I wasn’t looking for much of anything at all back when those shell-shocked days were winding down. I was focused on one thing, pretty much. I was getting ready to leave the hospital after ten intense and brutal days. After where I’d just been, it didn’t matter much to me where I was going, just as long as it was out of that place.

And the doctors came at me, all rat-a-tat, in my face. Eat this. Don’t eat that. Watch your diet, take your meds. Walk real careful for a while. Well, walk real careful for the rest of your life. You’re pretty much an invalid now, and you will always be weak. Your heart will never beat strong again, not like it did before. And then they flung it in sideways, just kind of tacked it on as an afterthought. Oh, and go get a colonoscopy. You’re over fifty. It’s time. We’ll schedule it for you. And I just nodded obediently at everything they said. There wasn’t much else to do, looking back. I felt like an old man, beaten and battered and bruised by life. I’d figure out how lame I was walking soon enough.

I got home, and gradually worked my way to a new balance in life. Got to where I didn’t panic or freak out at every little bump that came along. And, in time, I got my heart strength back, too. Back to full strength, a thing they had told me again and again would never come to pass. I wrote that journey as it came at me.

And the doctor’s people got me scheduled to go see a colonoscopy specialist. Like I said, I didn’t think much about it, one way or the other when they yammered at me to do it. You’re supposed to go get your colon checked out when you’re fifty, at least that’s what I vaguely remember hearing. Not that I ever paid much mind to such things. You think you’re invincible until you walk up and peer down the dark deep hole like I did. After you pull back from such a thing, you go and do what they tell you.

I didn’t pay it much mind as the date approached. And it was sometime in late January that I strolled in for my appointment. Dr. Brown, the guy who saw me, was extremely competent and gracious. He looked over my records on his computer. We chatted a bit. “So you had some heart issues?” he asked. Yep, I said, holding my thumb close to my forefinger. More than just issues. I came this close to leaving. He made the proper astounded noises, and then he told me. “You’re on different meds. This is a routine checkup procedure. Let’s wait a few months and see how you get along. Maybe you’ll be off a few of those meds by then.” Works for me, I said. And on the way out, I made another appointment about two months down the road. And I went home and settled back into my daily routine. I didn’t think about the upcoming colonoscopy for a long time. Out of sight, down the road, out of mind.

And the two months shot by, and next thing I knew, I was sitting and talking to Dr. Brown again. Yep, I told him. I got rid of the most toxic drug. I don’t have to take it anymore. And I’m figuring to get rid of a few more, too, down the line a ways. My heart’s been beating good. And he told me. “We’ll schedule you right in, for the procedure. You can come here, to this facility. The whole thing won’t take long at all. You should be in and out of here in less than two hours.” I stopped up front on my way out, and me and the nice lady found a date and time that would work for me. She penciled me in. “And just wait a minute,” she said. “I have some instructions here for you.”

And it was right at the moment she got the instructions laid out on the desk there, right then that I realized this little procedure was a bit more involved than I had ever figured it would be. She went over everything with me. All three pages. She circled a line here with her pencil and highlighted a paragraph there with her marker. And she talked and talked. No solid foods for a full day before the procedure. Go pick up this prescription for a cleanser, and do that right away. And here’s what you do with that. And blah, blah, blah, and instruct, instruct, instruct, and so on and on. I looked at her and nodded, half stunned. And muttered, yes, yes, as if I grasped everything she was saying. One thing was clear. This was way more complicated than I thought, and it wasn’t going to be a picnic. No part of it was.

But I left, then, and didn’t worry about it much. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and all that, is what I thought to myself. And soon, very soon, the evil day approached. And I got serious. Dug up the printed instructions and pored over them. Go buy 32 ounces of Gatorade. The day before, you eat no solid food. And after six that night, you eat no food at all. It didn’t sound like fun. But I dutifully followed the instructions, right down to the T. Do what you have to, to get to where you need to go. And it was all going pretty well, I thought, the day before. Until lunch time, at least. I had brought my lunch along to work, a little bottle of apple juice. That would be my lunch. I drank down the cold liquid. I didn’t feel half bad. And a few minutes after that, it hit me. I tried to make like nothing was wrong, but it was just impossible to ignore the sharp and stabbing and absolutely unbearable pain of a rear lower wisdom tooth that wanted out.

There was a cavity in that tooth, I knew. It had been hurting some, off and on, for a few months. And I did what I always do when a tooth starts acting up. I ignored the warnings and hoped the pain would go away on its own. Or at least not hurt so bad. Oh, sure, I figured it would hurt enough eventually that it would have to come out. Some day. But not that particular day. And I gritted hard when the pain came stabbing in. It’s been years since I’ve felt pain like that. There is no pain like a real toothache. And I dug around the medicine cabinet and grabbed a Motrin, or some such thing and swallowed it. That should help. It didn’t. That tooth was hurting bad, and it was gonna keep hurting bad. I could tell. And I thought, good grief. Here I am, half lame and wounded from getting ready for one medical procedure. And now this comes along. I mean, I guess you could figure it would. I shouldn’t be surprised. And the pain kept shooting out in great piercing stabs. And I knew I had to find a dentist. An emergency dentist. It didn’t matter who, as long as he could pull a tooth.

Any yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t have a dentist. I had to go find one. Here’s how that is. I brush and floss my teeth every day. Religiously. I’ve done that for decades and decades. But I don’t have a dentist. I avoid those people like the plague. They always launch into great pious lectures about everything you did wrong in not taking care of your teeth. They look disdainfully down their noses at you. I’ve seen it and heard it all before. And I just don’t feel like hearing it again, ever. I’ll go to see a dentist when I have to, was my motto. Not before.

Well, I was going to have to go now. That I knew right after the tooth started stabbing. It’s been a decade since I’ve had my teeth worked on. Last time was right at ten years ago, when a filling fell out. Ellen knew a dentist over in Lebanon, and I managed to slip in and out with minimal hassles. And that was the last time. So now, I had no idea where to turn.

You do what you gotta do in a time like that. Google emergency tooth extraction. And Google delivered. There was a list, of course. There always is. Lord, let this be a good dentist, I breathed, as I dialed the top number. A man answered. I didn’t hem or haw around, just launched right in. I got a tooth that needs to get yanked, I told him. Can you help me? “We can fit you in as soon as you get here,” he said. “Dr. _____ is here now. He can help you.” And he gave me directions. I thanked him and got ready to head out. Not sure what to think about any dentist who can fit you right in, I thought. Maybe he’s no good. Half an hour later, I pulled into the drive of a small house with a sign out front. Dentist. Looked like a one-man operation. It also looked like a non-scolding operation. Good.

The assistant’s name was Greg, and he and the dentist were the only two souls in the place. I filled out my information sheet and told Greg I had no insurance. I’ll just pay with a check. I need this tooth pulled. Greg took some X Rays of my jaw and then led me to the back room. I settled in the dentist’s chair for the first time in a long, long time. And the man came strolling in, dressed in white scrubs. The dentist. An older guy, tough, hard bitten. Looked like he’d been knocked around a good deal by life. He greeted me curtly. “Looks like we need to get that back lower tooth out of there,” he said. No lectures about anything. That was good. Just yank it out, I said. And then I happened to mention. I’m on a blood thinner, for my heart. The hard-bitten dentist recoiled. “You’re on what?” he snapped. “I’m glad you happened to mention that. I’m not sure I can help you.”

And I groaned. Something always has to crop up, to make things more complicated. Let me call my doctor, I said. I got the number right here. And sitting there in the dentist’s chair, I made the call to Dr. B, my heart doctor. Someone actually answered, a guy. I told him what was going on. I need to know if the dentist can pull my tooth, I said. And after some haggling and dealing back and forth, I was told. Stop taking the blood thinner today and tomorrow. The morning after that, he can pull your tooth. I passed the info on to the hard-bitten dentist. “That’s fine,” he said. I can take you Thursday morning, first thing.” But what am I gonna do with all this pain? I asked. “I’ll drill down and kill the nerve,” he said.

And he numbed my jaw and grabbed his drill. That high shrill scream has always made me shiver. That and the hot smoky smell of burning tooth and seared and severed nerves. He had my tooth drilled and dead in twenty minutes. He packed it out and told me to bite down. That will hold until you get back. Greg wrote out a bill, and I wrote a check. Now, on for home, and an evening of fasting and drinking that cleansing crap for my colonoscopy the next day. Walking out and driving home, I felt like an old man, beaten and battered and bruised and lame.

That evening I drank lots of Gatorade, mixed with a lot of that vile white cleansing powder. It cleansed me, all right. It wasn’t all that bad, though, nothing like the horror stories I had heard told. And I slept OK that night, and woke up and drank the remainder of the vile concoction the next morning. And soon after lunch my sister-in-law, Wilma, pulled in. She would drive me to the clinic for the procedure. I got in, and off we went. We chatted. I remember the last time you took me to the doctor for a simple procedure, I told her. Last November. I didn’t get back home for ten days. I hope this trip doesn’t turn out like that.

It didn’t. Everything went more smoothly than I could possibly have hoped for. Right on time, a nurse stepped out and called my name. And she led me back and into a little curtained room. Explained how things would come down. I changed into a gown, and minutes later my stretcher was being pushed over to a side room. A couple of people were waiting. Blood pressure. Heart rate. An attendant stabbed a large needle into my wrist and hooked up a hose. And I was off, for a little nap. A very short time later, I awoke back in the curtained room. I felt rested. The nurse popped in and told me everything had gone great. And then Dr. Brown stopped by. He’d removed one very small polyp, and it wasn’t malignant, he was 100% sure. He would send me a report. We chatted a bit, and I thanked him. I’m sure glad it turned out well, I said. I’m relieved. We shook hands. And he told me. “Come back and see me in ten years.” I think I can do that, I said.

Wilma took me back home, and I wasted no time cooking up a nice little feast of real food. No more fasting for me. I felt relieved that it was all over. But still. One more little barrier remained. Tomorrow morning. My tooth would come out. Oh, well. Tonight I will eat and be merry. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

A few minutes after nine the next morning, I was sitting all tense in the dentist’s chair again. The hard-bitten dentist numbed my jaw again, and laid out his instruments. And as he got ready to go in and drill, he told me. “A tooth like that, back there like that. It’s either going to pop right out, or it’s going to take an hour to get out.” Oh, God, I prayed. Please let the thing just pop right out. The hard-bitten dentist stuck a pliers back in there and started prying and yanking around. No good. And then, out came the drill. The man knew what he was doing, and he knew what he was talking about. He hacked and sawed and drilled and cut and swore and drilled and hacked and sawed some more. After about fifteen minutes, I figured the Lord wasn’t hearing me, so I quit praying.

And exactly to the minute, one hour in, the tooth came popping out. By this time the hard-bitten dentist was so exhausted and exasperated that he simply laid the tooth on the little table beside me and walked out of the room. Greg the attendant gave me penicillin pills and water and packed the gaping hole with gauze where the tooth had been. “Bite down,” he told me. “Keep the pressure on. Take the gauze out in an hour. If it keeps bleeding, repeat.”

I nodded and muttered incoherently. There wasn’t a whole lot I could say. I followed Greg back up to the front, and he wrote out my bill. I wrote him a check, then hollered into the back room as I turned to leave. Thank you, Dr. ______ . And the hard-bitten old dentist yelled back in a muffled voice. “You are welcome, Ira. You did good. You were a trooper.”

Nursing my frozen jaw, I walked out and got into my truck and drove off. Right about then, I needed some tender loving care. I felt pretty beaten and battered and bruised and lame.

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

I’ve been feeling a little bruised and battered and lame in a few other ways, too. It’s strange, how it came to be. Right after I got out of the hospital last fall, the world was a very scary place. The doctors yelled at me. Make sure you take these meds on schedule every day. No salt. Not one drop of alcohol, ever again. You touch one drop, and you will fall over dead. I grumbled at them in my mind and quietly rebelled against them in my heart. But I listened. Not a lot of choice there, I figured.

The months slipped by, and the first thing I knew, I had found a decent rhythm. I felt pretty confident. There was joy, there, in life again. And the next thing I knew, I had been totally dry for four solid months. That’s a long stretch of time. You detox naturally, when that happens. And the thing was, I felt it. And it felt real good, to wake up in the morning, all fresh and ready for the day. I marveled at the difference. And yeah, I still pined in my heart. And grieved, some. A drink. It was never far from my mind, I always wanted a drink. And those first four months came and went, and not once did I consume even so much as a single drop.

And it was around that time, just before my colonoscopy was coming up and my tooth went haywire. About right then, so help me, there came a voice inside my head. Persistent, small and still, but there. You’ve come a long way, my son. You got your head cleared from that fog, that alcoholic haze. Never mind that you got it done because there was no other choice. You got it done. Now I want you to look inside you. Examine your heart. Can’t you see how it’s full of dark, hard things? It’s full of unforgiveness and rage and shame. I want you to do something about that. Now that you know, now that you can see. I want you to go and get yourself cleaned out. I want you to do that so you can walk free, so you can live free.



I recoiled, startled. And I bristled back pretty hard, especially right at first. Ah, come on, Lord. I was just minding my own business, here. Why are you sneaking up on me like that? It’s not nice. Haven’t I been through enough crap, don’t you think? And now you want me to look inside myself? What kind of freedom is that? Of course there’s some rage in there, and of course there’s some unforgiveness and shame. Of course there is. But isn’t that understandable? I mean, look at where I’ve been. Look at what I’ve seen and felt. And it’s not my fault, either. I got a right to hold on to a few little shreds of what I’m holding on to, I claim. So what do you mean, you want me to examine myself? What do you mean, you want me to do something about it? Can’t I have a little peace and rest, here? Why do I have to go looking for more stuff to feel bad about?

That’s how I grumbled at the Lord. With thoughts like that and words like that.

The small, still voice stayed small and still. But it would not stop, would not go away. It stayed. Persistent. I wasn’t losing sleep, and the voice wasn’t incessant, as in always there, twenty-four hours a day. But I could never quite shake it off, the quiet noise of it. Listen to me. I know what’s best for you. You claim you want to be healed, and I believe you. I know you want to be free. Free to live and free to write, and free to speak your voice. Go, then, and get yourself some help. I will show you the way.

And so I finally gave up and shrugged. Out of sheer exhaustion, I suppose. I mean, how long can a guy go walking around arguing with voices in his head? Not for long. You’ll get locked up in some padded room, somewhere. OK, I said. I’ve come this far. I’ve been to the gates of death. I have seen the outer darkness of the wilderness. I looked at it all, right up close, and never flinched. You brought me back from that desolate place, you brought me back to a land where there is life and joy. I will never be afraid again. And yes, I want to be free. If you want me to examine what’s inside me, I’m listening. I’ll do what you want me to. Just show me how.

And the small, still voice was very calm. You need a man to talk to, a friend, someone who will listen and not judge. And you need to tell him what you have kept hidden inside you. The rage and the shame. Especially the shame. It must be someone you can totally trust. And right then, a name and face drifted in and out of my vision like a mirage. Yes. That was the man. Sam. My counselor. The guy who had tried, had labored so tirelessly to keep Ellen and me together, way back. Those were brutal and bitter days. And it didn’t work, then, in the end. I guess we were beyond help. But he was a good man, and my good friend. We had not connected in years. Now, it was time again.

All right, Lord, I said, resigned. I got it. I will reach out to Sam and see if he’ll see me. The small, still voice went quiet, then. And my heart was very calm.

One morning not long after that, Sam smiled in welcome as I walked into his office for my first appointment. And we shook hands and chatted and caught up, two comfortable old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while. We’re both a lot more worn and battle-scarred than we were years ago when we first met. And then we got down to the reasons I had sought him out after all this time. I didn’t want to come, I told him. But I got my head cleared from the alcohol. And there didn’t seem to be any other way out. So here I am. I have some hard things to tell you. Some things I’ve kept covered up inside, some things I need to work through. I’m not sure how it’s going to go, the telling of it. Or the healing of it. All I know is I just want to be free.

I think it’s going to take a while to get to where I want to go. And it feels like I’m walking lame to get there. But still, I guess I’ve always figured. It doesn’t matter if you’re walking lame. As long as you’re walking.

Share