I guess I’m paying for the things that I have done.
If I could go back, oh, Lord knows I’d run.
But I’m still losin’ this game of life I play,
Losing and dying with the choices I’ve made.

George Jones; Choices
____________________

Three weeks ago, I got real sick and almost died. I can’t remember writing such an abrupt and brutal thing, ever before. So I guess I’ll say it again. Three weeks ago, I got real sick and almost died. Or, as I said on Facebook back then, after the fog had lifted some and my vital signs had balanced back from critical to stable. That was a bit of a near thing. I came very close to wandering off the reservation for good, there.

And there’s a couple of things I want to say, right here up front. There is no promise of tomorrow. Not for anyone, not ever, not anywhere. And the thing that stood out the most to me. I don’t care who you are, or what your work is here on this earth. You are expendable. I mean, you really are. It doesn’t matter what you’ve got going here. It doesn’t matter if you’re leading ten thousand people in a mega-church, or if you’re some wild-eyed prophet proclaiming the gospel to the poorest of the poor in the most remote wilderness. It doesn’t matter, your family, your sons and daughters. None of it matters. The Lord doesn’t need you, to fulfill his work. Sure, he may use you, and probably will, if you want to be used. But he doesn’t need you. You are entirely expendable.

OK. That all being said, I step back a few weeks. I hadn’t been feeling all that well, for the weeks leading up to that time. I wasn’t feeling all that badly, either, in all fairness. I mean, I had my normal aches and pains. When you’re fifty-four, you’ll have a few of those.

I don’t remember exactly when it was that I noticed my feet and legs were swelling up. It was a gradual thing, I think. I remember that Janice noticed my ankles had swollen some, down at the beach, in September. “You should see a doctor, when you get back home,” she told me. Yeah, yeah, I said. I didn’t mean it, that I agreed with her. I don’t like doctors. And I remembered all too well, how it went, back in March of last year.

I remembered it all. The bloody eye. The flutter heart. The ablation. And the aftermath. The Coumadin, that awful blood thinner they put me on, that made me sick. This time, I swore, the doctors wouldn’t get a chance to sink their claws into me. And so I kept an eye on the swelling in my legs. It would all get better soon, all on its own, I figured. Just give it a little time.

Well, it didn’t all get better, real soon or otherwise. My legs kept swelling. And then my stomach, too. Suddenly, there were only two old pairs of jeans that fit, anymore. Two pairs, from way back, when I was real heavy. I never hurt much, anywhere. And gradually, I got it figured out, of a morning when I got up. And late last month, on a Thursday, I made the decision. I would stop in at my family doctor in Leola, just to get checked out. I had no idea that morning when I walked out of the house. No idea that I was about to enter a strange and desolate land, a land where the death angel hovered close a few times. And it was just as well I didn’t know. It’s best not to know such things when they’re standing, lurking at the door.

My local doctor in Leola saw me after about an hour. The nurse checked everything. Height, weight, blood pressure. All was good, except the weight. I was about thirty pounds heavier than I’ve ever been. And it hit me why, and I told her. It’s the fluid in my legs. Everything is swollen. She smiled and wrote lots of stuff down on a chart. Next, the doctor came bustling in. He didn’t like what he was seeing. A short test, and he told me. “Your heart is beating way too fast. Almost double what it should be. I’m getting you into the Heart Group clinic this afternoon.” I thanked him, and waited in the waiting room until a nurse came out and told me the time and place of my afternoon appointment.

That afternoon, I walked into the Heart Group clinic on the edge of Lancaster. One of the main doctors there saw me. He looked at the numbers on the chart. “You really should be admitted to the hospital, at least until we can get the swelling under control,” he said. I don’t want to go to the hospital, I said. Can’t we do this as an outpatient? And he thought about it. “Come in to the hospital tomorrow, first thing,” he said. We’ll figure on shocking your heart back into the proper rhythm.” I thanked him, and left. I was relieved. At least I could get everything done as an outpatient. I knew I hated hospitals, from my last stay.

I was scheduled to check in at 6:45 the next morning. And I wasn’t supposed to drive in myself. So that night, I called Steve, my brother. Was there anyone around who could take me in at that early hour? “Yeah, someone would,” Steve said. “I’m planning on going to work, but I think Wilma can take you.” And that’s what we planned.

That Thursday night, I attended an Amish wedding feast, evening services. The daughter of a good friend of mine got married that day. As usual, I begged off, from attending all day. I’ll come in the evening, I said. And I went. I remember feeling a little tired, and a little short of breath that night. I ate supper at the side table with all the other ex-Amish, then begged a few pounds of fresh Roasht from the goodwife. And by eight or so, I was heading home with my loot.

And the next morning right at six, Wilma pulled in. I was ready. I had packed a few extra clothes, just for anyhow. You never know, when you walk into a hospital, when you’ll get out of there. I remember thinking about all that, clearly. And just before walking out to where Wilma was waiting, I did what I always do when leaving on a trip, or when leaving for the doctor’s office. I crossed myself. And I spoke to the Lord. Lord, I said. Bring me safely back to my home, I pray. Bring me safely back to my house again.

And right on time, Wilma dropped me off outside Lancaster General, at the James Street entrance. I’ll call you when it’s done, I told her. And I’ll be waiting outside, when you get here. I walked in to the check-in desk. After signing in, I was taken back to a corner that was curtained off. There, a cheery nurse checked all my vitals. All seemed in order. They would shock my heart back to regular rhythm around 9 or so. I settled in to wait, blissfully unaware that all I knew and loved as a normal world was just about ready to spiral, spiral down, down, down into a dimension I had never seen before.

A nurse stopped by to prep me for the treatment. She asked routine questions. Had I taken the drugs the doctor had prescribed the night before? Yes, I took them last night. But not this morning, because no one told me to. And right there was the first glitch. She called around, and the operating doctor said he would not do the shock treatment on my heart, because I had not taken that pill. I could feel it, all semblance of order passing away. Look, I told the nurse. Whatever we have to do, to get the treatment today. And eventually the head doctor came in and negotiated with me. They would give me the drugs, but I would have to wait four hours before they did the treatment. OK, I shrugged. I want it done today, and I want to get out of here today. Whatever works. So the nurse brought me a few pills and water. I swallowed those, and settled back to wait.

And the spiral just continued. Right at 1:30, a nurse fetched me and took me downstairs to the operating room. Here is where they would shock my heart into a regular beat. Everyone seemed all cheerful. This wouldn’t take long. I’d be out of the room in half an hour. They knocked me out, right there on the table. And twenty minutes later, I woke back up. My first words: Did the shock work? And the nurse answered, all matter of fact. No. It did not work. My heart was still in an irregular beat. I instantly felt it settling in me, the depressed state of mind. Now what? They trundled me back up to the waiting room, where I had spent all morning.

A young nurse practitioner walked in to see me. He spoke carefully. They were very concerned about all that fluid in my legs and stomach. He wanted me to check in, and get some treatment over the weekend. Then, on Monday morning, first thing, they would try the shock treatment again. I groaned. I don’t want to stay here, I said. Can’t we do this as an outpatient? The guy was really good. “Yes, we could. But we are very concerned. We feel like you should check in.” Of course. Doctors always feel like you should check in.

Give me half an hour to think about it, I told the man. He agreed, and turned and left. I made a few phone calls, and talked it over with family and friends I trusted. The advice was all pretty much the same. Check in for the weekend, then see what it all looks like on Monday. There are worse things than spending a weekend at the hospital, although I couldn’t really think of any right that moment.

The nurse practitioner returned in half an hour. And I told him. OK. Check me in. I’d way rather do this as an outpatient, but I’m going to trust that you guys know what you’re telling me. He nodded, and looked satisfied. He had done his job. He had kept me there. A nurse came in soon, and trundled me off to my room over at the Heart floor, on level six. I settled in, feeling sorry for myself. Hospital and hospital food. Those were just about the last things my mind would accept, right at that moment. Oh, well. It was what it was. Hopefully, I’d be out of here sometime Monday, by mid day.

And right that moment, from a dimension far away, the death angel looked on at the scene before him. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun. Well, well. This was interesting. Very interesting, indeed. They were admitting a new patient at Lancaster General. The guy didn’t seem all that willing. But the death angel could see from where he was. The unwilling new patient was sick. Very sick.

“Ah,” the angel thought. “Why couldn’t they have waited a few more days? Then it would have been too late. Then the call would have come.” He marked the incident in his mind, though. This was worth keeping an eye on. Only the Lord knew. But when and if the call came, the death angel would be ready. He was always ready. He prided himself in always being ready.

And that first night went about like I had figured it would. I dozed off, fitfully. No beeping machines in the room. Just an interruption every few hours, as a nurse or an aide stopped by to check my blood pressure and take my temperature. And Saturday morning dawned.

Steve and Wilma and my friend Gloria had stopped by the night before, to see me. And I had told them all. I feel just like I did when I wasn’t in here. I expect to be out by Monday sometime. Saturday morning passed, slowly. Noon. College football was on. I watched, switching between games listlessly. And by mid afternoon, suddenly I felt ill. In my head. And in my stomach. I hated to bother the nurses, but I pushed the call button. And soon enough, my nurse appeared. I don’t feel good, I told her. I feel cold. And my stomach hurts. She took my blood pressure. It was low. Another nurse brought in a bag of some liquid or other, and I was hooked to the IV line.

And for the next few hours, they checked my blood pressure and took my vital signs again and again. Things did not improve. And by four or so, they called in the nurse practitioner who was in charge. No doctors were around over a weekend, on the regular floors. So a nurse practitioner filled in. She had my blood pressure checked regularly. It kept plunging. And by five or so, she made the call. I would be transferred to intermediate ICU. Intermediate intensive care. I remember feeling mildly alarmed about it all. Would this mean I couldn’t get out of here on Monday? But mostly, I remember being cold. Very cold.

And in the IICU, they poked and prodded and did all kinds of tests. A whole bunch of company showed up, too. That’s one thing that amazed me throughout, the people who showed up. Family. Friends. Church people. And people I was surprised to see. And by ten, everyone had cleared out. I was getting colder and colder. And they kept testing me, taking my blood pressure. Around 11:00, the nurse practitioner abruptly made the call. I would be taken downstairs, to an operating table. A team would be called in. And the team would install a catheter into my neck vein. So they could shoot a bunch of drugs into me at the same time.

I was always conscious, through all of what happened that night. I remember clearly most of the details. As the team was being called in, I called my brother Steve. And I told him. They’re doing a procedure, installing a stint thing in my neck. So they can administer more drugs. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Steve said. Let the family know, on the Facebook page, I told him. He promised he would.

Less than twenty minutes later, Steve walked in. He looked a little stunned. But he was upbeat. At that moment, I had a pretty good idea that I was in pretty bad shape. I asked for a moment alone with my brother. And we spoke there intensely, me and him, there in that room that night. I told him where my important papers were, in my house. My will. And when I finished, he held my hand and prayed a short prayer. For healing. For comfort and rest. And then the IICU people pushed me off, down the hall, and around to the elevator. Down a floor, to the operating room. It was after midnight.

An aside, here, a few words. I’ve wondered sometimes why people fight so hard to stay alive, to hang in there one more day, when death comes calling. Especially older people. Why? Why fight for more time on this painful vale of tears? What good will a few more moments do you? Or a few more days? Or a few more weeks, or months, or years? In the end, the end will always be the same. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. In the end, all of us will die. All of us, without exception.

For me, that night, well, my vital signs were plunging. The lowest blood pressure I heard was 50 over 35. That’s almost comatose. But I was awake, and totally alert. There were a whole lot of emotions that waved through me. But there was one emotion I never felt. And that was fear. I felt none. None at all. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe I was just exhausted. But I remember thinking, quite clearly. Lord, you know who I am. If you take me home tonight, then so be it. Sure, I want to live. But I got no immediate family. No wife. No sons or daughters. No one, really, who will long remember. So it doesn’t really matter to me what happens. Some things are worse than death. Like a stroke, where you’re totally helpless. Or Alzheimer’s, like Mom had for all those years. Spare me from such a fate. If that means you take me tonight, then take me tonight.

The operating team had me in and out in about half an hour. The catheter was installed in a vein in my neck. And the next thing I knew, I was being wheeled up and up. The ICU, the real intensive care unit. That’s where they were taking me. They wheeled me in right at 2 AM. A male nurse (I think his name was Noah, but I was a little groggy.) and his assistant greeted me. And right there at that moment, as I was being wheeled in, I was as close to death as I have ever been. I was immediately hooked up to many bags of powerful drugs, to make my heart beat stronger. At that moment, my heart was functioning at 30% strength. I knew none of this until later. And for the next two hours, the nurse and his assistant worked feverishly, to get all the right drugs hooked up and flowing to all the right places. By 4 AM, they were done, and I settled back and actually drifted into slumber.

And late that night, the death angel hovered near, his dark sword drawn to strike. He lurked there like a giant specter, waiting for permission. All was silent. The word did not come. And still, the death angel waited. And still, no word. The angel stirred, then, and turned and spoke to his boss.

The death angel was disappointed. But he shrugged, resigned. His time would come, soon enough. And then he turned, and left the room.

And that night, as I slept, the battle raged for my life in the desolate wilderness. My legs were filled with fluid. As was my stomach. And my lungs had started to fill up, too. Another week without treatment, the doctor told me later, and I would have been gone. That night, the drugs worked in overdrive to shore up a greatly weakened and damaged heart.

As I slumbered on, the valley bottomed out before me. And I started struggling, struggling weakly, up and out the other side. It was as close as I’ve ever come to letting it all go. All of life, and all that life is. And I was exhausted enough that none of it mattered much to me, one way or the other. Only the Lord knows how hard the battle raged. But I remember coming up, awaking from a deep sleep. I glanced at the clock on the far wall. 8:30. And then I heard a familiar voice outside my room. Steve. He had decided to skip church, and come in. I called out to him, and he approached, smiling almost shyly. He reached out and held my hand and asked how I felt. A lot better than I did last night, I told him.

They had brought me food. Breakfast of some sort. It was not appealing at all. Smelled like slop. I could think of only one thing I was hungry for. A fruit cup, with mixed fruit. Can you get me some fruit from the cafeteria? I asked Steve. And he immediately left and went downstairs to bring me the first of dozens of servings of fruit. That’s all I was hungry for, those first few days. And that’s all I ate. Fruit. Fresh, life-giving fruit.

And that was as low as the valley got, on that little journey. That first morning, the drugs had obviously taken hold, and I felt a lot better. For five long days, I stayed in ICU, in critical condition for at least the first two if not the first three. Five days, and I was so tired during most of that time that it never occurred to me to grumble about anything. Well, except for the food, maybe. That stuff was just flat out inedible. But otherwise, I settled back and rested. Each day brought more color to my face and more life to my body.

And the family closed in, in ways I simply could not believe. Janice took over, from her home in Phoenix. And she scheduled things. On Tuesday, my nephews, John and David Wagler (Joseph’s two oldest sons) arrived from their homes in the Midwest. They had left their families, and would stay a few days. Then their younger brother, Mervin, arrived on the train from his home and family in upstate New York. And they all came in to see me, kind of awkwardly. They weren’t used to seeing their uncle, laid out flat and helpless like I was.

Steve provided the base for all the visitors who needed a place to stay. On Wednesday, my younger brother Nathan showed up with our nephew, Ivan Gascho, one of Rosemary’s sons. Ivan had left his family to get there and to travel with Nathan. I was happy to see everyone as they came. And definitely a little awed and humbled, that family took so much time and made so much effort, just to come and see me.

Wrapping it all up, then. After five days in ICU, I was moved to a “regular” room on the sixth floor, where the heart patients go. The next morning, early, they took me downstairs and stuck a camera up through one of my veins to check out my heart cavities. I was told. There will likely be some clogged arteries. And the first bit of all-good news came at me, there. My heart was totally clear. Totally. No obstructions at all. I could see the doctor was surprised. But he tried not to let on.

And the days were winding down, then. Sometime late that week, my heart jumped back to normal sinus rhythm, all on its own. Well, with the help of lots of drugs, of course. A lot of drugs that I’ll be taking daily, for the foreseeable future. The heart-failure doctor gave me strict, strict orders. A low-sodium, no-salt diet. Drugs, every morning and every night. And no alcohol at all, not even a drop. That’s my world right now. And it will be my world for a while.

A quick word here, about all the people, all the friends who flocked in to see me. I mean, I look back at how many people I’ve visited in the hospital, and I think I can count them on one hand. It’s been that sparse for me. But people showed up at my room every day, and every evening. Friends. Church people. The last Saturday I was there, in late afternoon, a tall, familiar figure walked through the door. My friend and fellow author, Jerry Eicher, had driven 4-1/2 hours from his home in Farmville, VA, just to see me. Jerry was instrumental in connecting me to the publishing world through people he knew, years ago. I will always be indebted to him for that generosity. And here he was, in person. I was astounded. We visited about the publishing world in general, and the old days in Aylmer. And he told me it’s time to get serious about a sequel to my book. After less than an hour, he turned and took off for his home, 4-1/2 hours away. I was impressed and deeply touched to see him.

The doctor thought that I might get released the following Monday, if all went well. I was excited and eager to hear the news. Sometime on that last Sunday, I was unhooked from all IV tubes. I felt unbelievably free. I could get up and just walk around, whenever I felt like it. It was all pretty simple and it was all pretty amazing.

My nephew, Andrew Yutzy (Rachel’s oldest son) was scheduled to fly in from his home in Missouri to be with me for a few days early that week. It turned out that he would arrive at almost exactly the time I was being released. He texted me when he landed in Baltimore, and I texted back my location and room number. Just get here when you get here, I told him. And shortly after 2 PM, he strolled through my door, all decked out in Iowa Hawkeye gear. Those Midwesterners sure aren’t shy about which team they’re rooting for. We hugged. And then we picked up my bags and a few bouquets of flowers that had appeared from somewhere in the last few days. And we walked out of that hospital, ten days after I had entered it. I was almost exactly thirty pounds lighter than when I had walked in. That’s how much fluid was extracted from my legs, my stomach, and my lungs.

Half an hour later, Andrew pulled his car into my drive and parked. We carried my stuff into the house. And I told Andrew. When I left for the hospital that morning ten days ago, I stood right here in the kitchen and crossed myself. And I asked the Lord to bring me safely back home again.

“Well,” Andrew said. “He certainly heard your prayer. You are safely home, now.”

Yeah, he sure did that, I answered. And believe me, I’m thankful to be home. It just took a lot longer to get here than I figured it would when I left.
****************************************************
Aftermath: It’s been different, since I got back home. A whole lot of lifestyle changes kicked right in. I can’t eat any food that tastes halfway good. The main doctor, the one that saved my life, has been all grim about a lot of things. This past Monday morning, during a follow-up checkup, he told me I’ll be on drugs for the rest of my life, a statement that spiraled me into real depression. I just couldn’t believe him when he said my heart will always be weak.

And on Wednesday, my hunch was backed up by the A-Fib doctors. I sat down with a real nice lady, and we just talked for a solid hour. She told me many things. My heart has stayed in rhythm, and is at 60% strength, up from 30% when I checked in. The drugs I’m on are toxic and they want to get me off all prescriptions ASAP, probably within a few months. They are hoping the heart will get strong enough to go in and do an ablation. Sear some muscles. And she told me. There is no single definitive factor that caused my heart to go off-beat like it did. I’m an enigma.

And she chided me a bit. “Keep closer track of your heartbeat. If it goes A-Fib again, it’s not an emergency. But let us know within a day or so.” And she told me. “You went right up to the edge of the hole and looked down, into the pit. We don’t ever want you to do that again.” No, no, I said. I won’t ever do that again.

And that’s how our conversation went. Compared to all the gloom and doom the heart-failure doctor had dumped on me, I was just ecstatic at what the A-Fib doctor told me. Yes, I am on some strict restrictions. And yes, I will walk the line I need to walk. But I’m hoping pretty strongly that one day my heart will be normal, or close to normal, again.

As always, the Lord holds the future in his hands. So I can only wait and see what tomorrow will bring.

We shall not come back again, we never shall
come back again. It was October, but we never
shall come back again…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________________

It gets a little wearying, to tell the hard things, sometimes. And there’s been some hard stuff going on, lately, in certain branches of my family. I can only look on in shock and disbelief, seems like. And I guess there’s really nothing left to do, except just tell the story as I saw it happen.

It was a joyful day, that Friday a few weeks back. October 30th. A day long looked forward to, by my sister Rhoda and her family, out in Kansas. It was a special time, because Marvin and Rhoda’s oldest daughter, Sara, was getting married that afternoon. A wedding. With all the fixings and fuss and finery a wedding has. It’s a Beachy Amish church that Marvin and Rhoda attend, out there in Hutchinson. A car church. The service was scheduled for early afternoon, at 1:00 o’clock.

And of course, all the extended family was invited. I told Rhoda, though, a few months back. You can’t make it to every wedding. So I probably won’t be there. I have fifty-nine nieces and nephews. A lot of them are married, and a lot of them still aren’t. So it’s all a bit random for me. I make it when I can. And I don’t, when I can’t. And it’s never anything personal at anyone. I just can’t get to every wedding.

The extended family sure showed up, though. I chatted with my brother Steve a few days before. “Oh, yes,” he said, when I asked. “Wilma and I are flying out on Thursday. And we’re leaving for home on Saturday, the day after the wedding. We won’t be hanging around too long after it’s over. But we’re going. Don’t you think you should come, too?” And I told him what I keep saying to anyone who will listen. You can’t make it to every wedding. Or every funeral, either, when you think about it.

And they traveled from all over, and converged on Marvin and Rhoda’s home. The Waglers and the Yutzys, the brothers and sisters, the uncles and aunts. And a whole horde of cousins, too. This was a big deal. Sara, Marvin’s oldest daughter, was getting married. As had been the case with her mother years before, the hounds have bayed in hot pursuit of my niece for years and years. Undeterred, she fended them all off and traveled on her merry way. And I don’t know, it was around a year ago, I think, when she and Reuben Miller started dating. You could see it was different, this time, for Sara, when you saw the pictures on Facebook. You could tell by the excitement shining from her eyes and by the huge smile on her face. This time, it was going all the way. And so it was, that Friday, as family and friends gathered around from all over.

There’s usually some kind of gathering the night before the wedding, that’s how it’s been from the ones I’ve attended. Everyone just kind of gathers around and sits and visits. And vast tables of delicious food are laid out. It’s time to feast, it’s time to celebrate, it’s time to walk around and meet all kinds of people, and talk. It’s always a good time, a fulfilling time. And after a long evening, everyone kind of ambles off, real late, to their lodging places. Tomorrow would be the big day. The Freundschaft had gathered from many different places, to honor the happy couple. It’s a big thing, all of it is. It’s a wedding, and it’s a party.

There’s one place where the family didn’t come from, though, to help celebrate. And that place is Bloomfield, Iowa. My old home stomping grounds, from years ago. Bloomfield is a little different from a lot of Amish settlements. It’s a very progressive place, in some ways. If you leave the Amish and move away, and make no trouble for anyone, the Bloomfielders will not excommunicate you. They’ll leave you alone, to go your own way. There are a whole lot of people here in Lancaster County who could only dream of leaving from an enlightened place like that.

But Bloomfield is extremely regressive in some ways, too. Extremely hard-core. I’ve grumbled about this particular thing before. And here’s why.

If you leave the Bloomfield Amish, like Marvin and Rhoda did fourteen years ago, if you leave and join a car church, well, there are repercussions. And one of the cruelest is this. The people from Bloomfield are forbidden to attend any weddings of the children of the people who left. Or even visit much. It just is what it is. And it all seems so senseless. I mean, it’s a joyful day for someone in the family, and you are not allowed to go and participate. You’re not allowed to rejoice with those who are rejoicing. I’m not saying a lot of Bloomfielders wouldn’t go, if they could. They would, heaven knows. They’re simply not allowed to.

And, oh, yeah, they may attend all the funerals. Any person dies, anywhere, they may go. They’d be allowed to attend my funeral, even. But I’ve always said. What good does that do for anyone whose life has fled? What good does it do, to pay your last respects, when you didn’t respect that person enough while he was alive to visit him? None of any of that policy makes a whole lot of sense to me. But it doesn’t have to, I guess. Any church is free to make its own rules, and stick by them. And I am free, too, to criticize those rules. OK. I’ll bite my tongue, now.

And so it was that Friday morning, as the sun rose, and the wedding guests stirred to meet the day. No Amish from Bloomfield would be there. That included Titus and Ruth, and their boys. And Norman and Ida, Marvin’s parents. And a couple of other sisters and their families. But there were plenty of other people there, at the wedding, to make up for those who should have been there, but weren’t. And that morning, I felt a little tinge of guilt. Maybe I should have gone. Ah, well, too late now. I texted Rhoda. Blessings to all today. Sorry I couldn’t make it. And as busy as she had to be that morning, looking after everything, she texted back, right soon. “Thank you for your prayers….we will miss you.”

And here is where the telling of it all gets a little tricky. And I go back and relive that morning, from the sidelines where I stood and watched in horror as events unfolded around the wedding people and their guests, and around the Bloomfield people, too. Events that will be seared forever in their minds.

Midmorning. Around 10:00 AM. A few hundred miles to the north and east of where the wedding guests had gathered, a few hundred mile away, in Bloomfield, Iowa, the sun was shining, too. A beautiful day. And a busy Friday for everyone. And Norman Yutzy, Marvin’s father, hitched his faithful horse to a two-wheeled cart. He was heading over to help out at the Produce Auction, about a mile north on Drakesville Road. He stopped in to chat a few minutes with Titus, at his truss shop across the road. And then he slapped the reins. The horse and cart lurched off. Down the gravel road, then left onto the pavement. A familiar road, a road that Norman Yutzy had traveled thousands and thousands of times before.

Back in Kansas, things were all astir. There was much bustling about. There was so much to get ready for. The service would be at 1:00 PM. And Rhoda and my other sisters and sisters-in-law were all busy with last minute preparations. Sara beamed and beamed, and disappeared with her bridesmaids to get ready. This was her day, her time. The day she and Reuben had looked forward to for so long. Now it was here, and now it was unfolding. Her wedding day.

Back in Bloomfield, Norman Yutzy may have been humming to himself on that beautiful, cloudless morning, as his horse and cart rolled along right merrily. And as he approached the left turn into the Produce Auction, a large tractor trailer approached from the south, from behind Norman. When the rig’s driver saw the cart in front of him, he slowed way down, below the speed limit. The cart was off to the right shoulder, so the driver began slowly edging his way around, to pass. And that’s when it happened.

No one knows why. No one knows if Norman never saw the approaching tractor trailer, and just turned his horse left, across the road, and onto the drive to the Auction place. All that anyone knows is that the horse did turn left, abruptly, and pulled the cart smack dab in front of the tractor trailer. As slow as the driver was going, there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. There was a crash. And Norman Yutzy was killed instantly, at that spot, on that road, in that moment.

I heard the news around noon. And you think about that, you think about the tragedy of it all, and it just takes your breath away. Over on this side, you have the wedding, and all the expectant and excited guests. The deliriously happy bride and groom. And all of it laid out, and waiting to happen, in just a few hours. The wedding. The reception. The feasting and rejoicing. The blessing of a new family. The honeymoon.

And over on the other side, cold hard unfathomable death. The grandfather of the bride, the father of my best friend Marvin, instantly and violently killed. All on the same day, within a few hours of each other.

And I thought to myself. Sometimes life throws a curve at you that is almost impossible to take, almost impossible to absorb. This is such a thing, and this is such a day.

But then I thought. Yes. This is such a day and this is such a thing. But you walk forward through it, because there is no other choice. You can and you will and you do.

And what to do? What to do? That’s what the Bloomfield people asked themselves. Titus and the other children. They knew Sara’s wedding was scheduled to happen in a mere few hours. Should they try to keep the news from Marvins, at least until the wedding was over? And I can’t blame them for considering that option. They were all in shock, and it’s hard to keep a clear head sometimes. And I’m not sure quite how it all came down, but somehow they called my sister, Rachel, and told her. Her instant reaction. “We have to tell Marvin and Rhoda. They must know.”

And somehow, Rachel found the strength inside to go and tell my sister and her husband that Norman was gone. And after the initial shock, the thought came to all of them. Would it be possible to keep the news from Sara, at least until after the wedding was over? But they caught themselves. These were extraordinary circumstances. Sara had the right to know. And Marvin and Rhoda called all their children, all their family, off to a private room on the side. And there they spoke the news. Their grandfather, Marvin’s Dad, had been killed a few hours before. Everyone recoiled in shock. And so much of it was swept away like dust, the joy and eager anticipation of that day.

There is some strong, strong blood, buried back there somewhere in the lineage of both the Waglers and the Yutzys. And that blood flows strong today. It showed that day, from the way Marvin and Rhoda and all their family reacted. Marvin spoke gently to his daughter, there in that room. “Let’s focus on the wedding. You don’t have to decide now, about what you want to do later. If you want to go on your honeymoon, that’s completely alright. You don’t have to decide that now. Let’s be joyful, here on your wedding day.”

And Sara did not flinch, and she did not hesitate. She looked right at her father. And she told him. “We will be attending the funeral. The honeymoon can wait. We will be with our family.” And he nodded, relieved. At least the pressure of all that was gone, now. They walked out, then, to join all the guests, as a family. And right on time, the wedding service proceeded.

And I texted Steve, that afternoon. Call me when you can. He called later that evening, and I asked how everything had gone. “It went real well,” he said. “The preacher made a short announcement, right at the beginning, about what had happened. And then they went right on and had the wedding, just like normal.” I’m happy to hear that, I said. “Well, Marvin was going to have a part, a reading of some kind,” Steve told me. “He just got someone else to do it for him. And otherwise, you wouldn’t really have noticed that much was out of the ordinary. It was a wedding. And it was very nice.”

We chatted, then, about Norman. The funeral would be on Monday morning, Steve told me. And most of the Wagler and Yutzy guests changed their traveling plans to include the funeral. They were all heading on up to Bloomfield tomorrow, Steve said. Well, I want to hear all about it, when you get back, I told him. And we hung up.

And I thought a lot about a lot of things, just as I had since I had heard of Norman’s death earlier that day. Of who he was, and of how well I knew the man, years ago. That afternoon, I had quietly decided not to attend the funeral. There are reasons for that, reasons I won’t hash out here. But I did call Marvin on his cell, on the off chance that he might answer. He didn’t, so I left a short and heartfelt message of love and condolences.

My heart was heavy over the next few days, with my sister and her family. And Sara and Reuben. And Titus and Ruth, too. It all hung heavy on my mind, as I combed back through the decades, and sifted through my memories of who Norman Yutzy was.

I remember the first time I saw him. Back in 1976, when a bunch of us came to Bloomfield to build the dairy barn on the farm Dad had bought out north of West Grove. The Yutzy brothers and their sons had already laid the concrete blocks for the barn’s foundation, when we arrived. And they rattled over every day, in their buggies, to keep the building moving along. Those were the ten days or two weeks where I first got to know my future blood brothers, Marvin and Rudy. Right there, that summer, that August, is when and where we first connected.

The Yutzy men liked to holler and carry on a lot, as they were working. Might as well have a little fun while you’re at it, is how they saw it, I think. And of all his brothers, I remember Norman as the quietest. That doesn’t mean he didn’t make noise. He did. He just wasn’t as loud as his brothers. He had a handsome face, and that large Yutzy/Roman nose. And a straight-wired beard. I can’t remember that I ever was intimidated by the man.

Fast forward, then, a few years. To the time that Marvin and I took to running around together, and leaving home and all that. There were a few years, there, that Norman had plenty of reasons to tell me off, to not be kind to me. I mean, it’s always a classic thing, when parents blame someone else’s son for influencing their own son in a bad way. But in all the years that Marvin and I ran around together, in all the years that we got in trouble together, in all the years that we left home and traveled to distant lands, in all those years, I gotta say one thing.

Norman Yutzy never, never took it out on me. And he never blamed me publicly, for influencing his son. He never tried to straighten me out. I have always deeply respected him for that. When I came around, he was always, always kind. Sure, he may have had some personal thoughts about different matters, but he never let on. And right up to real recent times, when I met him at Titus’s truss shop, where he used to work part time, I can say the same thing. He would come up, shake my hand, and just visit a bit. There was no hint of any kind of resentment in his demeanor. None at all. Ever.

The funeral home people weren’t sure that the body could be viewed. But the family insisted. It’s pretty important, to the Amish, that there is a viewing. So they arranged the viewing, and by all accounts, he was recognizable, there in the coffin. It was all set up in my brother Titus’s big new truss plant. Plenty of room there, for the viewing and for the funeral.

And Bloomfield came together, like only an Amish community can. Everything gets taken care of. The bereaved family has no worries about anything. The grave is dug by hand, by others. Vast amounts of food are prepared and served by others. And that Sunday afternoon and evening, hundreds and hundreds of people, both Amish and English, came to pay their respects to Norman Yutzy. He was seventy-seven years old.

And the next morning, on Monday, more than eleven hundred people showed up for the funeral. The big new truss plant was filled to overflowing, and a second service was set up in Titus’s little shop up by the house. The Yutzys came from all over. Every single one of Norman’s deceased brother David Yutzy’s children attended. And most of Ellen’s family attended, too. Norman was her father Adin’s younger brother. We communicated some. I sent her my sympathies. She was going, she texted back. And she knew I would be welcome, too. I thanked her and declined.

After the traditional Amish funeral preaching, the family gathered, one family at a time, around the coffin. And they wept bitter tears of grief and loss for their father, their grandfather, the patriarch of their clan. Then all eleven hundred people walked slowly past, single file. And then the lid was closed, and Norman’s coffin was trundled a few hundred yards down the road to the east, to the little graveyard just east of the schoolhouse that all sits on land that was once part of his farm. The grave had been dug, and the coffin was lowered respectfully. The pallbearers took up their shovels, and soon the earth was piled high on Norman’s new house.

And then it was back to the truss plant, where the Bloomfield Amish fed more than a thousand people. And almost immediately after that, the Freundschaft started drifting away, to distant airports for the long flights home. The clans had gathered one more time to lay one of their own to rest. None of it was planned. It all just happened as it happened.

And I think, too, of what the aftermath will be for Norman’s family. For Marvin and Rhoda, and for all Norman’s children and grandchildren. After the shock, then the rush and fuss of the funeral, after meeting and greeting kin from all over, after that, one must go home. To where everything is eerily quiet, all of a sudden. And that right there is when and where it will all close in.

The aftermath, the grappling with the horror of it, the cold sweats, the nights when sleep will not come. The questions, as to why, and all the if-only’s. And the rage at God, that He could ever allow such a tragic thing, especially on the wedding day of a beautiful bride and her groom. None of any of it makes any sense, and it never will.

The thing is, it’s all OK, the grappling, the horror, the questions. And yes, the rage. The Lord is the Lord. And He can take all that we speak from an honest and hurting heart. He can and He will. Not only that, He can heal all the hurts and all the wounds, in time, of course. He can and He will.

This moment is all there is, here on this earth. It’s all anyone has, or ever had. And now is the time to live.

Before heading back to his home in Kansas, Marvin had one more thing he wanted to do. A couple of Amish men, neighbors, had been the first to arrive on the accident scene where Norman was killed. Marvin wanted to meet those men there, right on the spot. And he wanted them to tell him what they saw, he wanted to hear their stories first-hand.

And they met, the day after the funeral, in late afternoon, I think it was. Most of Norman’s children, and the two or three men who were the first on the scene. And the men shared what they had seen with the family. And as they stood there and spoke their stories, they all suddenly looked up into the sky to the north. And saw a strange and wonderful thing.

A giant bird, flying low, really low, just gliding along at about a hundred feet. An eagle, in all its majestic glory. And everyone looked in awe. A rare sight in these parts, indeed. The eagle swept right along the road until it reached the little group of people below. Then it turned abruptly to the right, to the west, and flew off with short thrusts of its powerful wings.

And all eyes below watched as the great bird gradually receded in the distance, then disappeared into the western skies.