The darkness moved there in the house like something silent, palpable —
a spirit breathing… — speaking to him its silent and intolerable prophecy
of flight, of darkness and the storm, moving about him constantly, prowling
about the edges of his life, ever beside him, with him, in him, whispering…

—Thomas Wolfe
___________________

Well, it’s that time of year again. When the end comes rolling around. And you look back on how it was, and how it went. Another day older and deeper in debt, as the old song goes. Maybe not quite like that. But still. The grind of life goes on. And now twilight falls on one more year. The end of days for that year. At such a time, it’s good to stop and reflect on things a bit. I’ve often thought. The tides of everyday life would be mildly astonishing, if not so common. Those tides of life roll on.

I’m alive. Starting at the most basic point, there. If you aren’t alive, nothing else can follow. And at my age, simply staying alive for one more year is worth noting. And cheering a bit. It was only a few years back when I landed in the hospital with a malfunctioning heart. The low spot, health-wise, in pretty much all my life. It was nip and tuck for a while. I could easily have slipped away. I didn’t. I stayed. After that little incident, it means something to me, to simply be alive. All of it means a lot more. The colors, the smells, the tastes, you can never absorb any of them deeply enough. Life is a fragile and beautiful thing.

It’s Christmas. This year, I’m feeling the spirit of the season a little more than usual. It’s OK, I guess. I’m not a grinch. I don’t mind the holiday. But I don’t get too tore up about it. The cold came early this year. And Christmas was always cold. Maybe that’s why it’s even in my head at all.

I remember my brother Nathan telling me, years ago. One of the most vivid memories he had of growing up, in both Aylmer and Bloomfield. “I was always cold,” he said. “In the wintertime, it was always so, so cold.” I thought about it, when he told me. Yeah, it’s true. It was always cold. But you just didn’t think about it, because that’s how it was. You didn’t know anything else. In the winter, you soaked up short bursts of warmth in places like Mom’s kitchen, where the wood-fired cookstove was always hot, the coffeepot always simmering. You were warm right that moment. But then you stepped outside, out to do the chores or go cut wood or do whatever it was that needed to be done. And it got cold at night in the house, too, after the fire died down. Bitterly cold. That’s when you snuggled into your bed under big thick, fluffy feather blankets. Some of that was just plain old hard living, too. Cold and hard.

I’m still dry. Astoundingly enough, I am. That was probably the biggest accomplishment in my world in 2018. The first full calendar year of living free from the alcohol. And it wasn’t that hard, well, not after I got used to it. I never white-knuckled much, except during the first few months, last year. I always tell people how it went. I was driving Big Blue back then. And the hardest thing that happened was when I was going home from work. My truck wanted to turn left, to Vinola’s for a drink. I had to force it to turn right, to go home. That took some white-knuckling, more than a few times, to make the right turn. Seems like that’s about the only time Big Blue was a slow learner in all the ten years I drove that truck. But eventually it sank in, got through. No more socializing at the bar. No more whiskey. These days, I don’t even think about it anymore, that left turn, going home. Of course, I’m driving Amish Black now, and the Jeep never knew anything else. There were no bad habits to break it from.

And speaking of Amish Black, this was the year of the Jeep. Late last year, I spun Big Blue on the ice like a top. There was that little crunching incident with a railroad sign, followed by a nice dent and a tail light that popped out like a cork pops from a champagne bottle. Mere months later, I had ditched Big Blue for another vehicle. Callous and disloyal, that was, to my faithful truck that had never known another owner. I shrug. All roads are broken. It was time. Now I drive the black Jeep. I’m loving it. I get waves from the pretty Amish girls walking along the backcountry roads. It was startling at first, until I realized. The pretty Amish girls are not waving at this gray-haired, bearded man. They’re waving at the black hard top Jeep. But this gray-haired, bearded man will take those waves with great delight and a smile every time. I’m loving the Jeep overall, except if I ever get another one, it will have four doors. A classic Jeep is very small. You can’t haul much in it, and it’s a bit of an issue for my Amish friends to clamor into the back seat. You gotta flip the passenger’s seat forward, then slide it way up. All to make room to get in. Another set of doors back there would be just fine with me, I decided, not long after me and Amish Black were getting acquainted. No hurry, of course. I’m good for now. Just whenever it happens, if it ever does.

I’m still doing OMAD. One Meal a Day. Of all the lifestyle changes I’ve made, this one may be the most significant. More so than giving up the whiskey, even, I think. Not saying it was harder to do. Not at all. I wouldn’t want to do what it took to give up drinking very often. It was hard. And it still hits hard, once in a while, how much I’d love a drink. Still, again. This consistent, day after day OMAD feels great and gives me a lot of energy that had been missing for many years. I’m convinced of it. It’s been almost strange, how easy it is to have one meal a day. It’s way easier than quitting drinking. The long-term benefits are better. Because you can drink, when you’re doing OMAD. For that one meal, in your window, there’s no rule against it. I see it all the time in the online fasting groups, posts with pictures of food and wine and food and whiskey. I don’t do the wine or whiskey, because my best choice is to abstain. It’s not a moral issue for me, and never was. It’s simply a choice.

This was the year of Vincennes University. One of the more beautiful memories of the year, a journey I traveled in my head over and over again since last spring. The VU people were a class act. They treated me like a mini rock star. Not that I’d know what a rock star feels like. I can imagine it might be something like my time at Vincennes. The people I met, the old friends, and the friends I made, all of it was just first class all the way. I’d do a trip like that again, any time.

And then, of course, there was that little excursion up to Aylmer to see Dad, back in June. When I asked the Lord to let me see Dad together with his great-great grandson, Jaylon Eicher. Just for a moment, so I could record it. It needed to be done, I argued. Something told me this was my last and only shot, that there would be no other chance. I knew there was some urgency going on. It was hard to walk calm into a situation like that. There was so much that might go wrong. I remember thinking. God, it’s out of my hands. You do what You want. For whatever reason, events unfolded as I had hoped they would. As I’d prayed for. And I got that picture for future generations to treasure. That whole trip up there seemed half surreal even as it was unfolding. When I left, we shook hands in farewell, me and Dad. Somehow, it seemed that this might be the last time I saw him when he was alert. He was old. I mean, you could tell. He meandered in his speech. But he was there. I didn’t know, of course, that this would be the last time. It had never been before. But I thought about it, that it might well be. It was.

It all came at us abruptly late last summer. I don’t remember exact dates. Not long after my trip up there. They were making the usual plans for Dad, to get him down to Pine Craft later in the fall. But first, they were taking him to Kansas for a while. To the little apartment my sister Rhoda and her husband Marvin fixed up for him. Well, it’s a nice guest quarters for any visitors who show up. But they built it a few summers ago, so Dad could come out and stay. Now, they were ready to host him again. The trip from Aylmer to Kansas was all planned, the driver scheduled. And the day before, the very day before they wanted to leave, Dad spiraled down and got real sick. I don’t think there were any instinctive choices going on with Dad, that he didn’t want to leave. I think it just happened, that it was so close. A few more days, and he would have been bogged down on the road, or stuck in Kansas.

He went downhill pretty fast. Just sank without a sound, right before their eyes. He didn’t know people anymore, much of the time. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t hold a coherent conversation. He simply wasn’t well in any sense, mentally. None of it is all that surprising, I guess. That’s what you’d figure would happen at some point when you get real old.

They took him in to see the doctor, of course. Still. What’s any doctor going to do with an old man like that? Poke and prod around a little. Figure out what’s going on. Prescribe some pills. And somewhere in all those checkups, Dad was diagnosed with full blown prostate cancer. There is no treatment, other than making him as comfortable as possible. But at his age, I don’t know if the cancer will affect him much. I don’t think it will. I guess we’ll see.

Early last week was my father’s birthday. The record now shows that David L. Wagler is ninety-seven years old. And that record now stands. Dad is the oldest of any people in his family. He held on longer than anyone else, so far. The last few months have been hard. He sank fast, mentally. He doesn’t know much of what’s going on, anymore. It’s an uneasy new reality for the family in some ways, just to know that he reached that door. He’s a tough man, of strong blood. You don’t get to ninety-seven unless you’re tough.

A strange thing happened one day last summer. After I’d been up there and left. Soon after that. I don’t know all the little details that would be told here had I witnessed this first hand. I didn’t, I couldn’t have. It was a warm day last summer, up in the Aylmer Amish community, there where Dad is. Around mid-morning, a buggy pulled up the long drive leading to the farm where my father lives in his little Daudy house. My cousin, Simon Wagler, son of Dad’s older brother, Abner, slapped the reins and clucked to the horse. Move along, now.

Simon was always a character in my childhood world. About my sister Magdalena’s age, he grew up with my older siblings. He was ordained a preacher there in Aylmer, a year or so after the great orator, Elmo Stoll, got hit by the lot. They were both ordained in our house, right there on the north end of our dining room where the benches were set up. I witnessed them both in those moments. I remember how Simon sobbed hard and deep, but briefly, then went silent as the bishop pronounced him a minister for life. He never was well-known, like Elmo was. An extraordinarily successful businessman, he was content to labor as a preacher in relative obscurity. I have good memories of hearing his sermons. He always stopped on time, a good habit that will make all Amish children everywhere overlook a host of other faults and failures in any preacher who practices it. Thus, I have kindly thoughts of my cousin from the time I heard him in my childhood.

In recent years, Simon has been a faithful companion to my father, Uncle Dave. He comes around and takes Dad to wherever it is he wants to go. On errands and such. Dad always has business at the schoolhouse phone, too. No one knows for sure what that business is, but that’s OK. This particular morning, they had a few stops over on the north side. Simon helped Dad into the buggy and got him settled on the seat. Then he picked up the reins and clucked to the horse again. They were off. My father and his nephew, heading out in the buggy on a sunny summer day.

I’m not sure where all they went that morning. It’s not that important, I guess. They trundled along, they stopped here, and they stopped there. At some point, Simon swung over past the school house on the corner beside the old Herrfort farm. That schoolhouse has been around for a generation, now. It wasn’t there when I lived in Aylmer as a child. It got built a few years after my family moved out. Simon tied up the horse, and they walked slowly inside. It went like it did, I suppose. Dad doesn’t hear well these days. It’s tough, for him to hold a conversation over the phone. After a while, he was done. They headed west a mile, then turned south onto one of the rare gravel roads that’s still around up there. Almost all their roads are paved. This gravel road led past the graveyard.

Rosemary told me why that roads stays graveled. Just randomly, in a conversation, a few years back, she told me. The Township wanted to pave it. But then they discovered. The graves were too close to the road, so they couldn’t make the setback requirements. The inefficiency of government. Just pave the road anyway. But no. The setbacks. They decided to just let that one stretch stay graveled, from crossing corner to crossing corner. And I remember Rosemary telling me. “It’s just alright that the road stays graveled, if that’s what they decided. We don’t need to think we’re too good for graveled roads.” I remember agreeing with her. Yes, it’s certainly OK to have a graveled road around.

The buggy rolled along on silent wheels. Rubber tires. The clopping of the horse is all you hear in an Aylmer buggy, unless it’s a rattletrap. They drove along, Simon and Dad. They didn’t talk a lot. I guess there isn’t much to say, sometimes. On over the old railroad tracks, all overgrown now, where the fast trains screamed as they whistled through, many decades ago. Then past the woods on the east side. They approached the graveyard, the only plot of ground where the Aylmer Amish have ever buried their dead.

I remember hearing how that graveyard got to be where it is. My brother Jesse always told the story. He claims to have seen it firsthand, or at least he was told right after it happened. The community fathers staked out the west schoolhouse, at that time the only schoolhouse, from a corner of the Homer Graber farm, close to the center of the settlement, there on the main drag. This was back in the mid-1950s, probably. Homer would have been willing to part with another half-acre or so, attached to the school grounds. That would have been the graveyard. But then someone asked, all concerned. Won’t that traumatize the schoolchildren, to be out there playing right next to where people are buried? I attended that school, and I don’t think it would have been that big a deal. But I can see the point. Whoever made the objection convinced the others. And so the men of Aylmer went to the next crossroad west, then north a quarter mile. There, they bought an acre of land on the west side of the road from a very accommodating English farmer. And there is where the Aylmer Amish are returned to the earth after they leave this vale of tears. That’s how it happened, why they rest in that particular spot.

Dad and Simon reached the tree line on the north side. The graveyard is rimmed by trees on three sides. Only the east is open, to the road. Simon looked at Dad. My father was stirring in his seat. Looking off to the right. Straining, as if to hear. The graveyard came at them, then they were passing. Simon looked at the silent stones standing guard over the spots where someone lay sleeping below. The buggy rolled quietly on rubber-tired wheels. Simon thought of his own parents, buried there side by side. Abner and Katie. It’s been years. Katie went first. Then Abner, a few years later.

Dad spoke. “There,” he said, motioning toward the graves. “There they are resting.” His voice caught, and he stopped. Tears rolled unchecked down his seamed and wrinkled face. He didn’t sob. But the tears kept coming. “They are calling me. I can hear them,” he said. “I can hear them calling me.”

The moment passed, then. The buggy rolled on. A few minutes later, they arrived at Dad’s little house. His face was still wet with tears. Simon helped him down and walked inside with him. A lot of times, an event like that doesn’t hit you right when it’s happening. It’s later, when you think about it. Simon thought about it, as he drove home alone. Pondered it in his heart, what Uncle Dave had said about hearing the voices calling. It was worth pondering, such a thing as that. And Simon told the story to our family, then.

It’s just that, I suppose. A story. A thing that happened. But I have thought about it a lot since I heard it told. What did Dad mean? What voices did he hear? Was it just an Amish thing? It sure seems like an Amish story. That’s about the only culture where you’ll hear such a thing as that told as truth. Well, maybe in some of the Plain Mennonites, too. It’s fascinating and intriguing to me, at the same time.

The Amish always have stories, as time slips on and death comes calling. Stories. There were stories when Mom passed. Stories of angels singing and dreams and visions and ghostly voices calling. Stories of what others saw and others heard. Not the dying one. But this time, this scene, this came from Dad himself. The man who is making the journey. That’s a little different.

Moving on, then. There have been recent developments. Dad had a major stroke last Friday afternoon, four days after his 97th birthday. I didn’t hear about it until Sunday morning, more than a day later. That’s just how things work, sometimes. And I was told. He is bedridden, he can’t talk plain, and he mostly can’t eat. That was right at first, that he couldn’t eat. He has stabilized some. My brother Jesse and my sisters Rachel and Rhoda traveled up to Aylmer to be there for a few days and to help in any way they can. He is as comfortable as they can make him, there at home in his little Daudy house, resting where Mom passed away four years ago.

I absorbed the news. Told my friends. I called and left a message for Esther, my Amish friend, and her family. She and her husband David met Dad decades ago, when they lived in Indiana. I hang out with them often on Saturday mornings, drinking strong black coffee. When I went up to see Dad last summer, she sent along a few of his books for him to sign. We both figured this would be the last chance for such a thing. It was. Esther called back later that day, after I left the message. We chatted.

She asked me. “Has anyone told your father he can leave? It’s important, when someone’s dying like that, to tell them it’s OK to go. Did anyone?” I shook my head. Not that I’m aware of, no one did. I don’t know. Why would you tell a tough old man it’s alright to leave? She was adamant. “Someone needs to tell him. Often, old people like that hold on for way longer than they should, because no one has taken the time to tell them. You need to make sure someone does.” I don’t know, I grumbled again. You know how tough and cantankerous Dad can be. But I conceded, then. OK. If I get up there before he passes, I’ll tell him myself. It’s alright to let go.

In the last blog, I wrapped up with a little story about Levi, my Amish contractor friend. I guess I’ll close with Levi again. He stopped one afternoon this week and sat down at my desk with me to work on a material list. He’s remodeling a big old barn that the owner wants to convert to a wedding venue. We chatted as we figured out his quote. I thanked him for the Roasht he snuck out from the last wedding he attended last month. He kept it in the freezer at home until he got it over to me one day last week. I’ll probably feast on that this weekend, I told him.

We chatted right along. I poured us some hot coffee. And I told Levi about Dad’s stroke. He’s not in good shape. He’s stabilized some, but he’s barely eating, if at all. We’re praying that he can leave. There’s nothing left for him here. Levi listened, looking sympathetic. His Mom passed a month or two ago, after a long illness. I repeated. I hope Dad can leave in peace very soon. There’s nothing left for him here. But still, life is life. You care for the living as long as they remain.

Levi nodded. “I understand completely,” he said. “It was the same way with Mom. We were praying she could just leave. When she went downhill, she went fast. We buried her and we grieved her. But in reality, it was also a big relief. And I could not believe how the stress just rolled away. You don’t realize the stress of caring for someone like that until you don’t have to anymore.”

I hear that, I said. I know there’s a lot of stress in caring for Dad at home every day. That’s one of the reasons I’m thinking about heading up there soon, to where he is. Me and my Jeep might go on a little trip north and west right after Christmas. To go see my father, or go bury him. Maybe both. I’ll see how things shake out, I guess.

And thus, the year draws to a close at a level of high uncertainty. It looks like there will be one more journey down one more broken road. A murky fog lurks all around. It’s OK, though. You just keep walking through the patches of light that you can see, until you get to where you’re going. And so I will. I am grateful for life, and all that life is. Even for those parts where there is suffering on every side, for no discernible reason. Either the Lord rules, or He doesn’t.

I know He does.

********************************************
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my readers.

. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door.
And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know
our mother’s face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the
unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his
father’s heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent?
Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

—Thomas Wolfe
_________________

It was seven years ago, or so. Right about the time my book was coming out, back in 2011. Back when that impossible dream was unfolding around me. I remember the excitement and anticipation, as Tyndale rolled out the big red carpet for me, right here in my home town. They posted a quarter page ad in the local morning paper, back when there were two. Morning and afternoon. Two days in a row, that ad ran. I cut them out and saved them in a box somewhere. I shuddered to think of how much it cost to run that ad two days. I guess it didn’t matter, really. What mattered was the message. Ira’s new book is here. Growing Up Amish. And there will be a book signing at Berean Book Store (It’s changed names at least twice since then.), there across from Park City Mall. The public was invited to come. Meet the author, get your book signed. It was a big deal, in my head, as first things usually are. My first real book signing at a real book store.

I remember many things about that Saturday morning. The sun shone bright from a blue summer sky. A few fluffy clouds drifted aimlessly overhead. My brother Steve met me in the parking lot. He was about as excited as I was. He had a camera, with instructions to take lots of pictures. I remember the little colored signs taped on the sliding glass doors as we walked in. Signs with my book and my picture. The manager greeted us, a nice, rather rotund man. To him, I was just one more eager, hungry author. Not that he let on, much. He shook my hand and welcomed me. Made me feel important. Then he led me to the table off to the side a bit, a table stacked with my books. I pulled up a chair and set out some pens. My. Hope my hand don’t get cramped from scrawling my name in all those books.

Steve hovered with his camera. Soon, a line had formed. A small line. But a real line of real people. Here. To see me. Well, to see my book, but I was the one who wrote it, so that made me part of the equation. I sat behind the table and smiled at the first two ladies as they walked up. They had purchased fresh new copies and handed them to me. I thanked them, and scrawled my signature inside on the front. That, and the little phrase. “All the best.” We chatted a bit. They were sisters. The tallest one did the talking, mostly. I never forgot her face, because I never forgot what she told me after I signed my first two books in public.

She spoke their names, both of them. Hannah and Rebecca. I smiled. She wanted to tell me. She and her sister came from the Amish, right here in Lancaster County. They were both older, now. Widowed, maybe. I don’t know. They had left way back before I was born. Back in the 1950s. They were completely English, near as I could tell. And I can tell, usually. They had been born and raised Amish in Lancaster County. In the Ronks area. And they had lived most of their adult lives in the outside world, right here in Lancaster County. They never got far from the home where they were born. Well, not physically. In most other ways, they were strangers and exiles, cut off from their people, aliens among their own. It takes a lot of nerve and it takes a lot of strength to live in such a place as that.

We couldn’t talk real long that morning. There were people in line, waiting. But I gave them a few minutes. Asked questions. Heard a few brief details of their lives, and how they broke away, way back. It was a remarkable thing to me, meeting those two ladies. They came from the world I came from, only they had left a long time ago. And another thing was burned into my brain, too, a thing of wonder and some astonishment. They were women. They grew up as Amish girls. It’s a hard road, to break free from the Amish as a girl. That’s not a politically correct thing to say. You ain’t supposed to talk about women that way. As if something is harder for them than it is for men. But it’s true. It’s a lot harder for a girl to break away from the Amish world than it is for a guy. It’s a patriarchal structure, the way the Amish live. The men are in control, or at least they think they are. The women have way more influence behind the scenes than anyone ever acknowledges. This much is true, as well. But still. It’s so, so much harder for a girl to break free. The path is so much more intimidating, the road so much more rocky and steep.

The morning flashed by, then. It was a very respectable book signing, I thought. The store sold out of my books. The nice manager looked a little startled. And I wasn’t done, after leaving that place. That afternoon, I had my second ever book signing across town at Costco. I’m not a member, never have been. But Tyndale made it happen. I walked in, all shy and timid. The Costco people had some real nice posters hanging around. I still have a few, they’re quite faded now. I set up at a table over by their book section. They had a huge stack of my books, hundreds of copies. The traffic came and went. Lots of nice people stopped and got their books signed. By late afternoon, it was over. I packed up and got out of there. I felt like a grizzled old hand, with two book signings under my belt.

Since that day, I have signed thousands and thousands of books for people who asked me to. At formal gatherings here and there, in all sorts of venues both local and far away. The wandering son went back to Old Bloomfield and signed a hundred books, back in the fall of 2011. Twice I went to Germany. And there were all those times over the years when people came walking through the door at work, clutching a copy of Growing Up Amish. It has always been an honor and I have always signed each one cheerfully. I’ve learned a few basic things. It doesn’t matter what your name is, I’ll probably ask how you spell it. (One of the rare exceptions is if your name is Ira. There’s only one way to spell that.) Is it Jane or Jayne? Steven or Stephen? I try to get it right. I usually scrawl “All the best” just above my signature. And I always, always mark the date. You show me a book I have signed, and I can make a decent guess as to where I was, just from the date.

The years have slipped by. And I never forgot those first two ladies who showed up at my first book signing. What were the details of their stories? How hard was that, all those years ago, to walk away from their Amish world? What did they face in life, what all did they endure? Did they stay connected to where they came from? I have wondered about it fleetingly now and then in the days that have passed.

And then a connection came, when I wasn’t looking for it. Out of nowhere, from a most unlikely place, I thought. From the office at work. It wasn’t some stranger walking through the door, though. Not this time. It came from Rosita, my coworker at Graber Supply. Her title is Operational Manager, but she actually runs the place, or much of it. The day to day bookkeeping and such. She looks after all that. And she told me, one day. One of the ladies from her small group at church was reading my book. Their group had hung out for the weekend somewhere, and somehow it came up. It was discovered that Rosita worked with me. I laughed at that thought. I hope you told them, I said. I hope you told them all that you boss me around every day. Rosita looked grieved, or tried to.

And then Rosita told me. Her lady friend had led quite an interesting life. She was widowed some years ago, then remarried. She had lived out west in LA for many years. Now she had returned to her roots. Most importantly, she had been born and raised Amish. And she had broken away as a young single girl. Wow, I said. I sure wouldn’t mind meeting a lady like that. I mean, she would have a lot to tell me. I’m sure we could exchange some battle stories.

The lady’s name was Elizabeth, maiden name Lapp. Her first husband’s last name was Bell. After he passed away, she moved back to Lancaster County. And she connected with a kindly widower, a man named Ezra Stoltzfus. Now she goes by Elizabeth Bell Stoltzfus. And she would be very interested in meeting me, Rosita claimed. We talked about it, how it might come together. Rosita went back and forth, between Elizabeth and me. And we agreed. Rosita and her husband Ken would accompany me to where Elizabeth lived in a nearby retirement complex. And last Saturday, it worked out that we went.

The day dawned cold and windy. I always like to sleep in a bit on Saturdays. And I did that morning. Got up, and cleaned up and ran some errands and got my coffee at Sheetz. Haven’t seen anything of the greasy little weasel man lately. Maybe he’s still coming around and butting in line when I’m not there. Back then, to my house for a bit. Right at 9:45, Ken and Rosita arrived. I walked out with my messenger bag and got into Amish Black and followed them over back roads to where Elizabeth and her husband lived. I stuffed a few books into my bag when we got there. I knew she had a copy of my book, but I’ve learned to drag a few of those with me into any kind of meeting like this. Rosita had told me. Elizabeth had asked if it was OK if her sister would come, too, to meet me. Of course, I said. We parked and walked into the very nice apartment building that made up this wing of the retirement center. Rosita seemed to know where she was going. I followed her and Ken onto the elevator and up to the floor where Elizabeth lived. Through a long hallway, then to the right number. Rosita knocked. The door opened.

She stood there, small and smiling and spry and looking younger than I had figured she would. I took her hand. Spoke my name. She welcomed us and introduced her husband, Ezra, a quiet, beaming man. And back there beside the couch on a chair, that was her older sister, Hannah. I walked over and shook her hand, as well. And I recognized Hannah. I know you, I told her. You were at my first ever book signing. She smiled. “Yes,” she said. “My sister and I were the first in line that day. You signed our books and we talked for a few moments. We couldn’t talk long, because you had a line.”

Wow, I said. I never forgot you. I remember how you told me you had left the Amish many years ago. I always remembered that, and always wondered how your journey was. And they told me, then. Rebecca, the sister who had been with Hannah at the first book signing, had passed away very unexpectedly, not long ago. Within the last year, I think. And they found my signed book in Rebecca’s stuff. The book was marked up some with the notes she had written as she read. Elizabeth had claimed the book and read it. She had never heard of it before. But she read right through, absorbed it. And somehow, she had discovered that Rosita works with the guy who wrote it. She was a little astounded that Rosita could just make it happen, that the guy would come to her home to see her and chat. We all sat, then. And we talked about many things. Me and Elizabeth talking to each other, that’s a lot of what was going on.

Elizabeth spoke freely of her past, her journey. Well, with a little nudge now and then from me, she did. I told her a little about my roads, too, how broken they were and the things that I had seen along the way. She already knew much of my past from reading the book. She showed me the copy I had signed to her sister, Rebecca. I held it in my hands again, the second book I had ever signed at a public event. And it gradually dawned on me as we talked. The reason that she had invited me, and the reason that I had come to see her.

She had done it way before I had, she had fled from an Amish world that was a little different than the one I left. I mean, when you look at the details. It was another place and another time. She was born decades before I was, and in the blue-blooded enclaves of Lancaster County. That alone made her very different from me. But the Amish world we both knew was so similar that there was no denying the connection we made when we met each other. She knew what my journey had been, how brutal and hard the road. And I knew enough about hers to realize that in a real and powerful way, I had walked in this woman’s footsteps. Even though we had never seen each other before.

We talked and talked. Her journey was laced with hardships and a good deal of pain. From all the way back there in 1962, the year after I was born. She was a young girl then of twenty-two, I think she said. She had joined the church. Hannah and at least one of her other older sisters had already left. Not to any kind of Plain place. They didn’t just step over to the Mennonites, like so many people do and like I did at first. They were completely and unabashedly and gloriously English. Cut hair and all. And one night there came a moment when Elizabeth made a stark and simple decision. She would leave. It was late already, and very dark. She had some sort of house slippers on her feet. In those slippers, with the clothes on her back, she set off for her brother’s place. He had left the Amish for some Plain group, and he would help her. And she walked eight miles through the darkness. Alone, along rutted gravel roads. An Amish girl of twenty-two. I don’t care what you say, there are not a whole lot of girls today, at least in western society, who could ever dredge up the raw nerve and strength it took to do such a difficult thing. There are some young women out there like that, of course. Some. What few there are very likely come from the Amish or some lesser Plain group. Which reflects a lot of things on a lot of levels, I guess, when you think about it.

She looked at me as she spoke her story. She walked those eight miles in the darkness sometime after midnight, all on back roads. And at one point, she saw the lights of an approaching car in the distance. It was 2 AM. She quickly decided that it was best to not be seen. So she ran out into the field beside the road and lay down on the ground. In a little ditch of some kind, or maybe the ground was sloping just right. You could see her reliving that moment as she told it. The car came roaring right up even with where she was hiding on the ground. And roared right on by. She lay quiet for a few moments, to make sure the car didn’t turn around and come back. Then she got up and continued on her walk into the darkness in her flimsy, light house slippers. When she reached her brother’s house, her sisters came around and moved her to a new place every day. They kept her moving until they could develop a long-term plan. It was pretty intense stuff, for a single Amish girl fresh off the farm.

Her life took many twists and turns down some crazy roads, of course. You don’t come from such a place without that happening. But she always returned to one simple refrain. The Lord guided her steps. Even when she had other plans, even when she really wasn’t quite sure where she was going, He guided her. Quietly, often with little nudges, not hard whacks over the head. There were some of those, too, I’m sure. There always are. But mostly, she can look back and see now, plainly. How God was always there, even during the times when He seemed far away.

She went to work in a mission place in Canada. Red Lake, maybe. I don’t remember exactly where. In her heart, she wanted to be a teacher, there in the mission to the natives. But she couldn’t without a high school diploma, and college, too, I think. She went to classes to get her high school diploma. In Philadelphia somewhere. And somewhere in that time, she met the man she would marry, the guy named Bell. They settled out in LA around his family. She went into nursing, instead of teaching. LPN, at first. She worked at that level for a good many years, then decided to go get more education. She got her RN degree right around her fiftieth birthday. I could tell she enjoyed all that living of life to the fullest, just from the way she told the story. She could not hide the joy of looking back and seeing it again, to tell me. I listened and spoke a few thoughts, too. The conversation flowed between us quite naturally, I thought.

She saw hard things, too, from her family. All the Lapp sisters did, the ones who left. Hannah and Rebecca and Elizabeth. When their mother died, they were forbidden to attend the family disposal sale. They were never invited around to any Amish weddings in the family, either, of course. That’s a given in much of the Amish world, including where I come from. You don’t get invited to the celebrations. Funerals are another matter. In most places, you can show up for funerals. But sometimes not. I saw the pain in Elizabeth’s eyes when she told me about that. They were told to stay away, when a young niece was tragically killed. They were allowed to attend the viewing only. But not the funeral. And a brother-in-law, too, passed on some years ago. They were called, Elizabeth and her sisters. And they were told. You are not welcome to come, not even to the viewing. I can’t imagine that it was their widowed sister, telling them that. It was the men. It’s always the men, grim, bearded, combative, and legalistic. Telling a family member to stay away from a funeral is a brutal and senseless thing. It’s unnatural, unless you got a dead heart of stone in you. That’s the only way you could ever do such a thing. From a dead and stony heart.

It happens more out there in the stricter places. The really hardcore settlements like, oh, a few places up in Wisconsin and elsewhere in the Midwest. And the Swartzentrubers are that way, too, wherever they are. But they are considered half whacked out by most mainstream Amish, anyway. So that’s not a surprise. Whatever level, it’s hard for me to fathom how any human person can be so cold and cruel.

Not long ago, a young mother related to me by blood was barred from attending her own mother’s funeral. I don’t know her, but I know of her. She had left the Amish with her husband and young children. When they showed up for the viewing, they were allowed in, but they had to wear Amish clothes. The next day, at the funeral, the young men met them at the door and rebuked them for showing up and refused to let them in. It’s beyond my descriptive powers to express the horror and repulsion I felt upon hearing what happened. What kind of messed up people could possibly believe they are pleasing God by being so brutally inhumane? They aren’t worshiping God, they are worshiping idols. It’s idolatrous, to cut ties to family blood for pretty much any reason. Such severe shunning is a deep and dark stain among the Amish people who practice it. I call on all such hardcore Amish to repent from their wicked ways. May the Lord rebuke you.

Her eyes shone with tears as Elizabeth spoke softly of the pain of that level of rejection. It was buried deep inside her and it was real. The kind of pain that always bubbles up, fresh and biting. I could only express my sympathy. I know a little bit how that is. Still. I told her. I respect the Amish. They are my people. However flawed they might be. I defend their right to believe as they see fit. Even their right to bar me from coming to a funeral. I know it hurts. It doesn’t have to make sense to me or any of us. They still have that right. I know about the rejection, the hard things, the pain. Life isn’t fair. It never was and never will be. We are who we are and we come from where we come from. We can’t change the hearts of others. Only the Lord can do that. We can pray that He will.

We drank the strong black coffee she brewed and served in heavy coffee cups. She also brought out a large, moist, delicious-looking apple pie and offered us each a slice. I declined and explained my One Meal a Day lifestyle. I told her. I quit drinking whiskey in August of last year. In November, I started OMAD. I love it, and wouldn’t change a thing about it, except I regret having to turn down a good slice of pie like that. She accepted my explanation graciously.

From Left: Ezra, Elizabeth, Ira, Hannah

It was right around noon, I think, when we left. I need a pic before we go, I said. So we posed for a few. And that was my meeting with Elizabeth Lapp Bell Stoltzfus. The lady who left the Amish by walking eight miles through the night. A long time ago, when I was an infant. She saw hard things. She walked on broken roads. I’m glad I got to hear her story. And one day, if I ever reach a similar place, I hope I can reflect the joy of a life well lived as she expressed that joy to me.
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It’s Amish wedding season. We’re right in the thick of things, around here. Every Tuesday and Thursday, the buggies clog the roads. It’s a real hazard, really, but it’s just part of the local scene. I have mentioned it before, about the Amish. They have a special food that’s served at every single one of their weddings in Lancaster County. It’s got a one-word name. Roasht My knees tremble and I start shivering when I get to be around where that food is served. All the vain boastings, all the hifalutin’ airs of the Lancaster blue bloods, all that is entirely justified by this one single mouth-watering dish. Such a claim as that I make.

I got a few contacts around here, people who are Amish and attend Amish weddings. Last month, as I do every fall, I pestered a few of them. I bring up the matter well in advance. Hey. What’s your wedding schedule this season? Any chance you could smuggle me some Roasht? Levi is one such Amish builder friend I’ve worked with closely for more than a decade. And this year, I nagged him like I nagged a few others. Please get me some wedding Roasht sometime this fall. He allowed that he had a couple of nieces getting married, so there’s a decent chance that he might snag some for me. I was almost overjoyed. This was a realistic shot at real authentic Roasht. One of those weddings was this past Tuesday, the other one is coming up. I told Levi I’d call him the day before both, to remind him of our little conversation. Get Roasht for Ira. He agreed to that plan. And that’s how we left it.

Life’s little bunny trails are far more fascinating than any you could make up. So off we go, on a small one. Levi’s elderly Mother has not been well for some time, and late last week we heard that she had passed. I knew she was poorly, but I didn’t figure Levi and his family were expecting something this imminent. Apparently she sank pretty fast when it happened. I didn’t want to bother Levi, so I called another builder, a mutual friend, to confirm that the news was true and that we had made the right connections. It was. And we had. I left a brief message of condolence on Levi’s phone.

Then the day before the wedding, this past Monday, I called as I had promised, to remind him about the Roasht. He answered, and we chatted. I asked about his Mom, and he thanked me for my message. He appreciated that I thought of him. He told me about the funeral. I listened. We only go one Mom, I said. He agreed. That’s right. We do.

And then I hemmed around a bit. Not disrespectful or anything. Just kind of casual like. Are you still going to that wedding tomorrow? How’s it looking for my Roasht? Levi chuckled and assured me that he had not forgotten. So, I got my fingers crossed. Maybe I’ll score some authentic Amish Wedding Roasht at least once this season. I figure to find out next time me and Levi chat.

We got ready to wind down. I asked where the wedding would be, and he told me. It’s on the home farm just down the lane from his home, where his Mom had just passed. “It’s pretty strange, when you think about it,” he said. “On Saturday, we had a funeral on the home place for my Mother. Tomorrow, there will be a wedding at that same place.”

And we talked about it. One generation moves on, the next one comes along and takes its place. Our time is coming, we agreed. We’re not young, anymore. Soon enough, it will happen. And I thought about it as we hung up. The Amish recognize and respect the cycle of the seasons as very few cultures do. They walk calmly through life, just as they step calmly through the door when death comes calling. They live close to the land, and in that land is where they sleep.

These are my people.
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Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers.