…there was something there incredibly near and
most familiar, only a word, a stride, a room, a door
away — only a door away and never opened, only
a door away and never found.

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

It’s an understatement to say that I have some very strong political opinions. I’m a libertarian. And I’m not shy about saying it as I see it, now and then. Agree or disagree, I’m fine either way. I know what I believe. Doesn’t matter what the majority thinks. I don’t write what I think my readers might want to hear, I write it as I see it. Or try to, anyway.

There’s one area, though, where I’m the most apolitical person out there. I mean apolitical as in completely ambivalent. And that’s when it comes to readers of my book. When it comes to that, I’m the most agreeable person you could imagine. I cheer folks of every political stripe, from the Earth First crowd to Secessionists. And every shade between. Including, of course, the mainstream Democrats and Republicans alike.

I don’t care who you are, I want you to read my book. I’d be honored to give a signed copy to President Obama, and hope that maybe he’d carry it openly with the title clearly visible to cameras as he walked across the White House lawn to board the helicopter to his next golf game. I’d sign and give a copy to Nancy Pelosi. John Boehner. Harry Reed. Both ex-presidents Bush, George H. W. and George W. And Mr. William Jefferson Clinton, he’d get a signed copy too, if I could get it to him. I’m very much an across-the-board kind of guy that way.

How far would I take it, this political ambivalence? I’d even give a copy to North Korea’s new young little pot-bellied tyrant, Kim what’s-his-name. And hope that he’d decree that all his brutally oppressed subjects must also buy and read it. Well, maybe that’s going too far. No one should be compelled to read a book just because a tyrant tells him to. So strike that. But I’d sign a copy of Growing Up Amish to the murderous young Kim himself. And give it to him, free. Yep, I would.

I don’t care who you are, I want you to read my book. And talk about it in your world.

I’ve always been very shy, though, about aggressively promoting myself or the book. Through the years, I have never promoted this blog in any way. Never. I just sat at my old beat-up metal Army desk in a corner of my cluttered little living room and wrote, and let the chips fall. And the chips fell in some very good places. At work, I have a little poster of the book hanging in front of the counter where I take walk-ins. If a customer happens to notice and inquires, I’ll tell him. But I’d never call his attention to it. And if he wants a book, well, it just so happens that I always keep a case right there beside my desk. Twelve to fifteen bucks, depending on what I figure the market will bear right at that moment. And I’ll be happy to sign it. I’m very laid back about it all.

So it didn’t really hit me, right at first, when I heard the radio commercials a few months back. Glenn Beck was coming to town, right here in Lancaster on Friday night, April 13th. A banquet of some sort. He was giving a speech. Get your tickets now, the radio announcer’s solemn voice intoned. They will be sold out soon.

And I thought about it. How cool would it be, to give Glenn Beck a copy of my book? I mean, the man has millions of loyal listeners. I listen to him myself, now and then. Not as rabidly as I used to years ago. But still, I respect him and agree with much of what he says. He loses me when he mocks Ron Paul and his foreign policy. Irritates me a lot, that does. Slice that out, and I’d be a decently loyal fan. And I figured if he’d read Growing Up Amish, he’d surely be compelled to mention it on the air. Well, maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t. One would never know unless he somehow got a copy.

I mulled it over a lot. How could I get my book to him? Here he was going to be, in person, less than fifteen miles from my home. Seemed like there had to be a way, somehow. I instinctively knew it would not work for me to attend the banquet and try to hand him the book. Every man and his dog who’s ever written a book is trying to get people of Glenn Beck’s status to notice it. It’s all so desperate and hopeless, when you push yourself out there like that. And besides, I’m not one for big rah-rah banquets anyway. Don’t enjoy that kind of thing. So that was out. I wouldn’t go myself.

Who, then? Who could give him a copy? I had friends attending the banquet, and one or two of them volunteered to take a copy and see if they could get through. But still, it didn’t feel right. It couldn’t be me, giving him the book, but it couldn’t be just anyone else either. It had to be someone with some credibility. Who would be the most credible person to give Glenn Beck a book titled Growing Up Amish? And the answer just kind of slid into my mind.

An Amish person. That’s who would be the most credible. An Amish person giving him a book about the Amish.

I have many Amish friends in Lancaster County. Friends I hang out with because they are just that. Friends. And Lancaster County is different from any other Amish community I’ve ever seen or lived in. These people, at least the ones I hang with, know what’s going on. They are intelligent, wary, street smart.

After I figured out the ideal conduit to get my book to Glenn, I immediately thought of the ideal couple. Good friends of mine. Young, thirtyish. With young children. Dave and Anne. I’ve known Anne for a long time, since she was a child, through her family. After she married Dave, I got to know him too. He runs his own small manufacturing shop. He’s a realtor and a real estate investor and shares his insights now and then. He’s always moving. Shaking. Connecting, always connecting. So I called him on his cell phone. Yep, in Lancaster, as in many other Amish communities, cell phones are grudgingly allowed. For business, and such. And Dave is among the most wired of all the Amish in the land.

He answered. Dave here. And I launched right in. Did you know Glenn Beck’s coming to town for a banquet? He’d heard something, but hadn’t paid much attention. He had several of Glenn’s books. And I told him. I’m trying to get my book into his hands. If I bought tickets for you and Anne, would you take a copy and give it to him? Dave seemed taken with the idea. Free tickets. Free banquet. All he had to do was slip a book to Glenn Beck.

“Let me talk it over with Anne,” he said. “I’ll get back to you. But yeah, I’d say we’d be into that.” Great, I said. It’s next Friday night. Let me know.

And he did, the next day. Yeah, they would love to go attend the banquet and help me carry out my little plot. No guarantees of anything, though. He’d do what he could. All right. I had found the source to get my book to Glenn. Now for the tickets. Those were all sold out, long ago. So I called a local businessman, Jeff Smoker, owner of Smoker Door Sales. We deal with Jeff a good bit at Graber, buy Overhead doors from him for our buildings. It was time to call in a little favor. After hearing my request, Jeff was most agreeable. Yes, he had bought several very good tables up front, close to the stage. “I’ll gladly sell you a ticket,” he said. “So you can give your book to Glenn.”

No, no, I said. I’m not going. That won’t work. I don’t want to be anywhere close to the place. Every writer tries to push his book on people like Glenn. I’ve got some Amish friends, a young couple. They said they’d go and do it for me. I want to buy two tickets for them. And Jeff was instantly intrigued. Pulled into the excitement of the plot.

“You know what?” he said. “I’ve got a few VIP tickets left, to go in the back room and meet Glenn. I’ll throw those in for free, to help you out. And tell Dave and Anne I’ll pick them up and take them with me on Friday night.” And just like that, it all fell into place, better than I could have dared to hope. I had the right people. I had access. Now, plan out the details and see what happens.

I stopped by to see Dave and Anne that Tuesday after work. Sat at their kitchen table. We talked. Plotted. Connived. I want you dressed in Sunday finery, I said. Wear your “Mutza” suit coat. White shirt. And Anne, look as Amish as you can. Bonnet. Halzduch. The whole works. And then they offered something I hadn’t thought of. They would give Glenn one of their copies of the book, a copy I had signed to them. That way, the gift would be from them, not from me. I left, feeling mildly exuberant. Hey, when there’s a job to do, get the right people to do it. That’s what I’d just done, I figured, for a mission such as this.

Friday evening rolled around, and I went to the gym as usual. Little ripples of tension pulsed through me. It would be happening right around 6:30 or so. That’s when the VIPs would get to meet Glenn for pictures. After my workout, I went home, ate my supper, then sat at my command center, my computer. I felt like a devious spymaster, in hood and cloak, behind the scenes in the shadows. I’d pulled all the right levers, seemed like, for a covert operation. Now everything depended on the people I had chosen for the task.

The minutes passed. It should be happening about now. I sat there. And then my iPhone beeped. An instant message. I pawed at the screen. From Dave. A few brief words. “Mission accomplished.” And I sat there as relief flooded through me. Whatever else happened or didn’t happen, Glenn Beck had my book. In his hands. There’s not a whole lot of people out there who can say that. I texted back. Thanks much. I’ll stop by for a full debriefing tomorrow sometime.

The next day, around mid morning on a Saturday, I pulled in. Dave and Anne met me with smiles and coffee. They still seemed on a high from what they had seen and done the night before. And he told me in detail how it came down.

They arrived early and got in line to get into the back room. Jeff slipped in first, to case the joint. He saw they were confiscating everything. Many people had brought books Glenn had written, for his signature. But this was immediately nixed by security. They were here to meet Glenn for a few seconds, to get their pictures taken. Nothing else was allowed. Put everything in these boxes here. Books. Purses. Jeff quickly texted Dave. (My team in action, there.) Hide the book, or they will seize it. And Dave tucked the book into the inside pocket of his “Mutza” suit coat. And there it remained, undetected, as the line slowly moved forward. When they entered the room, even Dave’s hat was confiscated. You can’t take anything in. Nothing but yourselves.

The room was full of eager fans, all lined up. As each person approached Glenn, they shook hands and turned to the camera man, who snapped a picture. Budda boom, ten seconds or less, just like that, and then move on out. Lots of people here. Keep the line moving. Security hovered everywhere.

I’ve seen Dave in action many times. He’s friendly, charming and outgoing. Not afraid to talk to anyone, anywhere. But he admitted that as the line slowly snaked toward Glenn, and it was time to walk out to the spot where it would be their turn next, he shivered a bit inside. Steeled himself. What had he gotten himself into this time? Or more accurately, what had Ira talked him into this time? Those thoughts, and many others, he said, flashed through his head. And then it was their turn to approach the man who was the target of our plot.

I give Dave a lot of credit. A lesser man might well have shriveled under the pressure. Might have just smiled, shook Glenn’s hand, and turned to pose for the picture. But not Dave. He and Anne walked up and he positioned himself so his back was actually turned to the camera. Anne stood beside him. They were Amish. Not here for a picture.

Glenn smiled and greeted them, probably the first Amish people he’d ever met. And Dave boldly plunged in. He smiled back. Shook Glenn’s hand. “Hi, I’m Dave. This is my wife, Anne. We’re not here for a picture. We came to give you a gift.” And he reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out my book. Security guys almost lunged in for the tackle, but drew back when they saw what he held. And my friend Dave offered a copy of Growing Up Amish to Glenn Beck. And Glenn Beck took the book from his hands.

“This is Amish country, and I thought you might want to know a bit more about us.” Dave continued. “This is the most authentic book out there, if you want to know the inside story of how it can be. How it really is for some.”

Glenn responded with one word. “Fantastic.” A tap on Dave’s shoulder then. Security. Time to move on. But amazingly, Glenn waved his guys back. And chatted with Dave and Anne for another ten or fifteen seconds. And then they turned and left him. Mission accomplished. I don’t know if their knees were weak as they walked away. Mine would have been.

They enjoyed the banquet and Glenn’s speech later, of course. But the real rush of the evening came from smuggling in that book, and getting it to where it was going. We sat there at their kitchen table and talked, glowing in the success of it all. It felt pretty good. We had done it.

Sure, to some it might seem devious, maybe even to Glenn himself if he ever finds out what we did. But people at his level must inherently know that an incident like that doesn’t just happen. Nothing is innocent, however much it might appear so. People plan and plot and scheme, to get their stuff into the hands of public figures. And that’s what I had just done. Planned and plotted and schemed. I just happened to know and enlist the right people to actually pull it off.

The following Monday, I listened to Glenn’s show, as best I could with everything else going on at work. And toward the very end, in the last segment, he talked about his Lancaster experience. And how he met this nice young Amish couple. How they thanked him, for generally supporting the Amish. He seemed puzzled. How in the world did these Amish folks know of him, know who he was? You don’t know the Lancaster Amish, I thought to myself. I waited then, holding my breath. But he never mentioned my book. Not a word. Which was about what I’d expected. But still, after the triumph of the plot, it was a bit deflating that it didn’t play out all the way like it could have.

It still might. The way the book’s been looping down some wild and crazy roads, this episode might well yet bear some fruit. Maybe if Glenn or one of his minions reads this blog, and sees the humor in what really happened. How a few simple country folks, all from “Plain” background, connived so successfully in their little scheme. So if you do read this, come on, Glenn. Give my book two minutes. Or five. Or better yet, have me on your show sometime. I can answer every question you’ve ever had about the Amish. Without even thinking. Because that’s where I come from.

But if you do none of those things, just know this much. The covert quest of getting my book into your hands was a grand little adventure for a small band of plotters in Lancaster County.

Of human sacrifice, and parents tears,
Though, for the noise of Drums and Timbrels loud,
Their children’s cries unheard that passed through fire
To his grim Idol.

—Milton: Paradise Lost
____________________________

The day began like any other, for the family. A recent Friday morning at the little farm of William and Jenica Keim, in Mansfield, Ohio. William was raised Amish, but had broken away years before. And met and married Jenica. They had two young sons, Malachi (age 4) and Dalton (age 2). After years of dreaming and saving, they had just recently purchased and moved onto the eighty acres that was their new home. A place where they could live in peace, live off the land as much as possible, and raise their children.

That morning, before dawn, William got up and went turkey hunting. I don’t know if it was on his own farm or at some other local spot. In any case, he was successful. Called in and bagged a nice gobbler, and returned in triumph to his home and family. He skinned the bird and his wife put it into a large pot and placed it on the stove to boil. The little boys were excited. Daddy had shot a turkey. And now Mom was fixing it to eat. Oh boy. They couldn’t wait.

After hours of boiling, the turkey was ready. Jenica turned off the stove and turned her back for just a moment, doing something else. And that’s when it happened. Right there, while she was in the room. Little Dalton, eager to see for himself, walked up and tried to pull himself up by the stove handle, so he could peek at the turkey. His weight tipped the stove forward. The large pot slid off and crashed to the floor. Dalton was severely burned by the boiling water, mostly on the front of his legs and feet.

And that’s what happened. A terrible, tragic accident. One of those things that life throws at you, now and then. What happened next is why I’m writing this.

William and Jenica were very familiar with burn treatments. They knew what happens to burn victims at hospitals. The scraping, the screams of agony. The painful skin grafts that would follow for years and years. They also knew very well of the only known natural treatment that heals burns. B&W Ointment. They knew of it because William’s father, John Keim, had invented it. B&W will actually regrow new skin over burned areas, even third degree burns, something the most sophisticated modern techniques cannot do. It has been proven over and over again. They also knew that if they took Dalton to the hospital, he would undergo the painful scraping and grafting. The folks at the local hospital wouldn’t hear anything of B&W Ointment. And they wouldn’t release Dalton, either, so he could be taken to a hospital that allowed the treatment.

And so, because they feared the consequences of state-mandated burn treatments, they made their choice. And rushed their child to a relative 10 miles away, a relative trained and certified to treat burns with B&W. And she applied the ointment. For the next sixteen hours, they watched him closely. He showed no signs of pain. The next day, they decided to take him to a hospital in Pennsylvania, a rare island in the hospital world where the B&W treatment was permitted. And as they were making their plans, it happened. The worst possible thing imaginable. Dalton’s eyes started fluttering, and within minutes he stopped breathing. They immediately called 911 and applied CPR. But by the time the ambulance arrived, he was gone. Their beautiful two year old son. Just…..gone.

The furies of hell were about to be unleashed upon William and Jenica. But here, I stop. Pause. Think about it. The loss of your child. The intense shock, the grief. I’m not a parent, but that’s one fear I’ve tried to imagine, now and then. The fear of such a loss. Maybe you get over it, sometime. Maybe you never do, quite. Whatever the case, you will walk through desolate fields of intense grief for a very long time.

I don’t know William and Jenica Keim. I’ve never met them, never communicated with either of them. But my heart goes out to them both in the loss of their son. Two years. They had him for two years. Ample time for him to develop his own distinct personality. To be his Mama’s “little man.” And now they will know him no more on this earth. Even from a safe emotional distance, it is a harsh and bitter thing to contemplate.

After the ambulance arrived at the hospital, all the corrupt machinery of the state was unleashed upon the couple. Two police officers awaited them and questioned them at length. I would have told them never to speak to any law enforcement investigators without an attorney present. Never, under any circumstances. Never, for any reason. But they didn’t know. They thought they had to, I’m sure. The officers intimidated them, I’m sure, too. And after they returned to their home, the vile vultures of the press closed in. Eager to peck at the carcass of grief, eager for such a sensational story, reporters camped outside the home and practically assaulted anyone who came or went. TV news crews closed in as well. And the headlines screamed from the newspapers. The Keims had not taken their son to the hospital and now were under investigation for negligence in Dalton’s death. Think about that. You’ve just lost your two year old son. And then you are forced to deal with a nightmare like this.

The community, the common people, rallied, though. As did the local churches. Support poured in for the grieving family. More than 800 people showed up for the viewing, and around 400 attended the funeral. And people came to the farm and worked. Cut down trees, removed limbs, cut the grass, fixed a broken well, cleaned up and repaired the barn. That’s what real people do, people with a heart. Show up and help. Mourn with those who mourn. But show up with support.

And now the dark cloud of the vengeful state hangs over William and Jenica Keim. Will they be charged? Will their remaining son be ripped from their arms and forced into the jungle of state foster care? Will they go to jail? And it all boils down to one simple question. In a case like this, where there is no hint of any history of abuse, who gets to decide what is best for a child? The parents? Or the state?

I come down way, way on the side of the parents. It’s not even close. Life, and living, includes risks. And it includes choices that can go dreadfully wrong, the choices of parents who truly love their children, and want what’s best for them. Why should the lack of certain actions of such parents be criminalized? William and Jenica wanted Dalton to live. To heal and be free to be the man he would one day be. They bear the loss of their son. They will always bear the regrets, the not knowing for sure whether or not they did the right thing. They were deeply vested in their son. With all the love of which parents are capable. They made their choice. The best choice they knew. And we all know the state cares nothing for Dalton. Nothing. The state is incapable of compassion. In this case, it cares only that its power might have been challenged. And it is all too willing, too eager, to lash out, to crush and punish any perceived dissent. That’s how I see it. And I know no other way to say it.

The Amish have their faults and failures, I know all too well. It took me long enough to break my way out of that culture. But I am very proud of many aspects of my heritage. I am proudest of all of a single, defining Amish characteristic. And that is their quiet, persistent, relentless resistance to the state, when they deem it necessary. They don’t march. They don’t make a lot of noise of any kind. But they refuse to yield. They simply won’t comply. No matter the cost.

In the past few months, the Swartzentruber Amish faced down the state of Kentucky over the simple issue of safety signs on their buggies. (Yes, of course I think they are insane. No, it doesn’t have to make sense to me, what they believe. I strongly support their right to be left alone.) And recently I saw some old film footage of a row of darkly-dressed, black-hatted Amish men walking into the courthouse here in Lancaster. Walking in to be jailed for refusing to send their children to high school. The footage shocked me. These men were willingly giving up their freedom for their beliefs. Quietly. And back in those days, the 1950s, the Amish were far from the media darlings they are today. Back then, they were very much viewed as second class citizens. Looked down upon. Despised. It didn’t matter to them then, how they were perceived. It doesn’t matter to them now. And it will never matter. They will always be who they are, when it comes to conflicts between their religion and the state. They will always stand firm. They will never surrender.

And that’s a beautiful thing. I strive to be worthy of such a heritage. I differ a bit from the traditional Amish resistance, though. I’m most definitely not shy about raging against the machine and throwing my stuff out there. I’m not shy about calling the state what it is, either. Right to its face. And so I’ll just say it here, out loud.

When it comes to our children, the state is Moloch, demanding sacrifice. And those who impose its edicts are Moloch’s priests. As are a good many (not all) of the minions who enforce those edicts.

A rash accusation, you say? Hyperbole? OK. Fair enough. Let’s take a little peek at some of the actions of the state, and see if my claim might hold water. Here goes.

It is the state that imprisons many of our children in the morass of failing public schools, and then criminalizes them for simply being children. It is the state that assaults and terrorizes four-year-olds at airports. It is the state that sends our sons and daughters to shed others’ blood and too often their own in countless, senseless, endless wars all around the world. All the while trumpeting the preposterous vacuous slogan that they, our sons and daughters, are “protecting our freedoms” by killing hundreds of thousands of innocent people ten thousand miles away. It is the state that persecutes and destroys Amish farmers for producing and selling raw milk. It is the state that criminalizes farmers for making a living, by suddenly redefining as a felony the act of owning the livestock they are producing, and have always produced. And sends its goons right out to farms to kill hogs worth thousands of dollars each. It is the state that blatantly robs its citizens for carrying more than arbitrarily dictated amounts of cash. It is the state that casually and ruthlessly destroys lives, just because it can. It is the state that is trying to gain control of every aspect of our lives, with the vile abomination that is Obamacare. It is the state that has incarcerated more than 2.3 million people in this country, which boasts the highest prison population in the world. The number of people under correctional supervision now totals six million, more than were in Stalin’s Gulag at its apex. And the list could go on and on. It is the state…It is the state…

And as the state’s devastation is unleashed upon the land, the cries of innocent children echo to the heavens. The untold millions of children of the state’s victims all across this land, and across the world. Often, no one is there for them except the state itself, which steps in as the “provider” for those children. As a benevolent father figure, as a “god” to replace the family it has destroyed.

Why, then, should we even listen to Moloch’s priests, as they piously bray about the tragic but accidental death of a child? A child about whom they couldn’t care less, except as a bludgeon to destroy the parents who dared to defy them. What can one do, in the face of such tyranny? How can we respond? How should we react? We can be aware of the true nature of the forces at work here. We can speak out. And as a Christian, I can choose to pray for the oppressors in this case. As counter-intuitive as that seems. Yes. Pray for them. Not that they would have wisdom. But that they would change in their hearts as individuals, and cease their worship of the beast. And cease demanding by threat of raw and brutal force that we worship the beast as well. (To those who would challenge me with Romans 13, consider maybe for the first time in your life what many believe that chapter really means.)

And then, of course, I am called to lift the parents, William and Jenica, in prayer before the Lord in this their time of intense grief and loss. And in this their time of persecution. And you can, too, wherever you are. If you live in the Mansfield area, get involved. Let them know you support them. Help them out where and when you can. Be there for them, provide what comfort you can. And stop the gossip when you hear it. It’s slithering around out there, oh yes, it is. A bane of the Amish culture, it’s pulsing from person to person, from mouth to ear, a poisonous stream of words. Rumors. Told as facts. Stop them, stop it cold. These people are hurting. Rebuke the gossipers. And don’t pass the venom on.

If you just want to keep informed of what’s going on, or send William and Jenica a personal message, check out this web site now and then.

One day, I am convinced, the time will come when the Amish “popularity wave” will crest and crash and recede. And they’ll go back to being what they were when I was a child. Second class citizens. And when that day arrives, the state will be all too ready, all too eager, to step in and declare the Amish lifestyle a crime, a felony. The lifestyle itself. It’s so primitive. And it’s abuse on its face, the way they raise their children. The way they discipline them. The way they make them work, and deny them an education. Such a time will come. Maybe not in my lifetime. Maybe not for a long time. But it will happen.

But until then, and even after it all comes down, the quiet persistent Amish will always stand in defiance to the vile false god that is the state. They will not waver. They will not comply. They will never surrender their children to Moloch’s priests.

And we must never surrender ours.