“C’est La Vie, C’est La Vie – That’s just the way it goes (That’s life).”

—Robbie Nevil, lyrics: C’est La Vie
____________________________

I thought about it a few weeks ago, when I wrote it. That maybe I shouldn’t brag. Shouldn’t litter my blog with vain boastings. But I went ahead and did anyway. Now there’s plenty of time to repent at leisure.

Two facts used to be true. One: I hate cities. All cities, big or small. Two: I’ve never ever, ever been issued a ticket for any traffic violation. Of any kind. Never. It was a matter of some pride to me. Well, actually, a lot of pride.

Of those two facts, one still remains true: I hate cities. All cities.

It all started innocently enough last week. Thursday, it was. I had scheduled a day of continuing legal education. The annual requirement that I attend X amount of hours of legal classes, to maintain my law license. This one was in Harrisburg. Downtown. In the Harrisburg Hilton Hotel.

No problem, really. Harrisburg is a small city. Many would consider it not a city at all. I’d been downtown before, just not recently. That morning, I slipped in and parked in a large parking garage for the day. Went to the class and hung out with about eighty equally bored attorneys. Listening to a passel of state bureaucrats droning on and on about bidding on state building contracts. At least they served a decent lunch.

The afternoon inched on, and at last it was over. Free to go, shortly after four. I walked back to the garage, boarded Big Blue and paid my parking fee. Then turned left around the block and left again, on one-way streets and out of town.

I reached the light where I needed to make a last left onto my road out. A sign up at the light firmly proclaimed, NO LEFT TURN. No left turn? I couldn’t turn right, it was one-way. I had to turn left, or cross the bridge over the Susquehanna and beyond. I’d probably never find my way back. Wander forever, lost in the savage wilderness. Traffic was sparse. So just before the light turned red, I swung Big Blue to the left and stepped on it. Breathed freely. I was on my way out of the wicked city.

It was a trap. And just like that, he was on my heels, like a baying Blue Tick hound. Lights flashing, siren yawping. A cop. He’d been waiting. And he had me. Boy, did he ever have me.

I remained amazingly calm, as I stopped, right on the busy highway. No shoulder. As the cop emerged from his flashing chariot, I reminded myself of my own advice to my readers a few weeks back. He walked up to Big Blue’s window. Medium height. Fit, a bit stocky. Gray-haired, hatless, peering at me sternly.

“Your license. Proof of Insurance. Registration.” He said curtly. I said nothing. Fumbled for my driver’s license and handed it to him. Reached into the glove compartment for the Insurance and Registration. Unfortunately, in the past 18 months, each time new insurance/registration papers arrived, I just piled them all together in the envelope without removing the old ones. I had a serious jumbled mess.

I handed him the Proof of Insurance. “What else do you need?” I asked. And those were my only words. For a second, I thought about explaining to him that I wasn’t familiar with the city. That I had chosen to turn left instead of crossing the river, because I didn’t know the area. That I was forty-seven years old and had never ever gotten a ticket of any kind for any violation, and couldn’t he just let me off? Just this once?

But nah. It wouldn’t do any good. He was out to generate revenue for the city. He had me, dead to rights. Something told me he would savor and enjoy such desperate pleas. And I darn sure wasn’t going to beg any favors from the law. So I said nothing.

He stood there and I sifted through my papers until I found the proper document. And sifted and shuffled. For at least two minutes. I said nothing. He said nothing. I finally handed over the Registration. Still said nothing.

Discomfited by my silence, he finally spoke. “I stopped you because you didn’t obey the traffic sign,” he said querulously. I said nothing. He walked back to his car. Sat there and sat there. Probably checking out the red check marks that appeared beside my name, on my computer records (and no, I’m not paranoid).

At last he emerged and walked up to me with a little yellow paper. A ticket. He handed me my license and documents, then the ticket. “Follow the directions on the back,” he said gruffly. I took everything from his hand and placed it on the seat beside me. And said nothing. Not a word. He turned and walked back to his car. I shifted Big Blue into gear and got out of there. He got into his car and popped back into the spot from where he’d waylaid me. His trap.

Couldn’t blame the guy. Just doing his job. Although it was a trap. But that’s what cops do. I couldn’t do it. Ruin a guy’s day for a minor traffic offense.

I glanced at the ticket. $109.50. For one illegal left turn. Now that’s tyranny. Highway robbery by the state.

I got the ticket because I’d bragged publicly about my perfect driving record. I’m convinced of that. Things have a way of balancing out. Oh, well. It was great while it lasted. And all good things must end, and all that. An illegal turn is probably one of the most benign tickets possible. If any ticket can be benign.

I bet I took the prize for being one of the least communicative traffic stops in that cop’s career.

And I still hate cities.

*****************
A few thoughts on last week’s post. It was intense, brutal to write. And draining to read. I sure couldn’t produce something like that every week. Wouldn’t want to. Always, after immersing myself into something at that level, it takes a few days to shake off the encroaching fog of brooding sadness that settles in. But I knew when I heard the devastating news that Monday morning that it would have to be written. For my own benefit, to work it out of my own system, if for no other reason.

The angel thing dropped into my lap about mid week. And just topped off the story line. I tried not to insert myself, just narrate those particular details. Such a story could only emerge from the Amish or similar related plain groups. In my opinion, anyway. Signs and wonders are a staple of their cultural history. I make no judgment as to what was actually seen, if anything. Or if, as some believe, only the child’s eyes were opened to see what others could not see.

My source was close to the event, and credible. After hearing the details, I double-verified two facts. One, that the child claimed to have seen angels. And two, that he told his mother of it before anyone knew anything of the accident. Both those things happened. It’s remarkable, any way you look at it.

And in its own way, it provides some solace to the grieving families. Let them grieve, let them ponder these things in their hearts, let them grasp and hold on to what small comfort they can from the ruins of this tragedy.

The story surged into the Amish world and went viral Saturday night as it was read aloud on the Amish chat line (Who even knew there was such a thing?? Someone’s come a long way, baby.) to more than 900 Amish/Plain people. A friend called me as the reading started. I got on the line and listened. It was mildly startling, to say the least, to hear my written words read aloud in a halting Dutchified voice. But the reader did an OK job, considering his audience of 900 silent listeners hanging onto every word. Afterward, they tried to figure out who wrote it. Nobody seemed to have any idea. I briefly considered identifying myself, but thought better of it. Wouldn’t want to be responsible for any heart attacks.

The post got a record number of hits. Just shy of 3500. By far the highest weekly count ever. By now, I would guess there are few Amish in North America, with the possible exception of the Swartzentruber groups, who have not heard the angel story. Either from my blog or from their own sources.

For the affected families, after intense shock and the rush of funerals, now comes the aftermath. Of days and weeks and months and years. Of jolting awake in the middle of the night, thinking it cannot be true, cannot have happened. Of getting up each day and realizing it was not all just a bad dream. Of facing and dealing with the new reality again and again. Of the empty places in their homes and lives that will haunt them for years.

They need our prayers and the community’s support. And will for a long, long time.

The boys of summer are back. Finally. Baseball has arrived. Slurp, slurp. The season opened Sunday night, when my Braves whacked the Phillies (World Champs, no less) 4-1. The Phillies managed to get their lone run in the bottom of the ninth. The Braves took two out of three, and should have swept. But lost the third game late. They will have closer troubles this year again, I fear.

For a few days, at least, I could crow at work, lord it over the arrogant Phillies fans.

I’m no basketball fan, but this year I watched all of ten seconds of March Madness. In the championship game, I tuned in to check the score. North Carolina was blowing out poor Michigan State. So back to baseball it was. Thank goodness March Madness is over for one more year.

A blessed Easter to all my readers.

Welcome to the world: Alexia Magdalene Miller. Born March 28, 2009. Welcomed by Lowell, Dorothy (my niece), Kali and Hunter.

Alexia Magdalene Miller

Both boys dead? but that’s out of nature. We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.
’Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall;
And, when Italy ’s made, for what end is it done
If we have not a son?

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, excerpt: Mother and Poet
_____________________________________________

A quiet pall hangs over the Lancaster County Amish community this week. One can feel it, sense it all around. It seeps into every aspect of existence, permeates the days as they slowly pass. Is present in a thousand murmured conversations. A deep gut blow of shock and disbelief. Tragedy has once again been unleashed upon the land, with a suddenness that jolts the senses. And affects even those of us on the peripheral of things.

It descended early last Sunday evening, from a string of seemingly unrelated events. First, a furious thunderstorm whipped through, dropping inches of rain in minutes, accompanied by dime-sized hail in some areas. A tornado touched down in a trailer park about ten miles from my house. After the storm passed, the white specks of hail covered the ground. Water ran everywhere. Beside the roads, and over the roads in places.

Across the county, in the Nickel Mines area, a little nine-year-old Amish boy looked up at the receding banks of storm clouds and saw angels in the skies. He ran to tell his mother. Startled, she smiled kindly and patted his head. There, there, she said. Go and play. But he insisted. He had seen angels. And who can tell a child he didn’t see what he saw?

Shortly after that, around 7 o’clock, along Rt. 340, a few miles east of Intercourse, the dark thing came. Two pickup loads of Amish kids traveling in opposite directions, just east of New Holland Road. For reasons still unknown, one of the trucks skidded into the oncoming lane. May have hydroplaned. A horrific crash. A twisted mass of mangled steel and broken bodies. And fire and blood and death.

Two were killed. Almost instantly, or expired within minutes. Two young men, who were passengers in the truck that lost control. Eighteen and nineteen years old. Several others in critical condition. Flown away in helicopters.

And just like that, the two are gone. Mervin Lapp. Mahlon Lapp. Brothers, from the same family. Their lives extinguished in the prime of their youth. All they were or might have been, all their plans, all their tomorrows, snuffed out like a candle’s flame.

The community staggered. And yet, immediately the old traditions were triggered. Set into motion. Friends and relatives of the family gathered and stayed with them. Others quietly saw to the necessary logistics. Benches, tables, food. Tomorrow, two graves would be dug. About every year or two, it seems, something like this comes down. A tragedy, with loss of young life. Around here, they’ve seen it all before. And will again.

And the details ripple out, in the murmuring small talk. Where they were that day. Where they were going when it happened. A Sunday evening social gathering, with volleyball and hymn singing. But those details are not important.

The details ripple out too, of who they were. Of things that matter. The short chapters of their lives. They were the two oldest of six children. Solid steady Amish boys. In their running around stage. I don’t know if they were “wild.” And I don’t know their hearts. But they were hard working, clean cut. Basically decent kids, as the Lancaster Amish youth tend to be.

I don’t know the family. Of the brothers who died. I can hide behind that comfortable veil of protection. Of anonymity and emotional distance. But through the fog, the inconceivable pain of such devastating loss touches even strangers. I know what pain is, and loss. I’ve lived it, felt it, breathed it. But not at this depth. Not like this. Few of us have.

Parents are supposed to die before their children do. That’s the natural order of things. And when such an unseen and unexpected bolt strikes and takes two of six in one family, it’s impossible to imagine the shock and grief. Of saying good bye to your sons after they are gone. Of clinging to the memories of the last glimpse of them alive, their last conversations, their last words. Of the empty bedrooms, where they will not return to sleep.

And now, in a stoic culture where few emotions ever surface, the father breaking down in tears. The mother bent in grief, and her deep hopeless longing to reach out and gather to her the two sons who only a few short years ago, in her vivid memory, sat laughing on her knees.

It is a hard and bitter thing. For us to contemplate. For both of them to bear.

The younger siblings, they who looked up to their older brothers, will now listen in vain for the familiar sounds of their footsteps and their voices. Hear them in their minds, in the heavy silence that will echo through the emptiness. Or when the wind blows just right. But those footsteps and those voices will never come again.

They will, I think, grasp this new reality in time. Accept it, even. They’ll have to, to survive. But these events, this loss will be seared forever in their hearts.

There is no way to understand such tragedy. To really get hold of it. Or make sense of it. Not in human terms. Was it random chance? God’s will? Fate? The result of choices? Or simply a consequence of a fallen human world?

Because for all of us, especially those who emerged from an Amish background, there, but for the grace of God, go we.

I look back and recall the things I got into, the things I did, some of the foolish choices I made a lifetime ago. The stupid chances I took. And marvel that a similar misfortune did not befall me, or my friends.

Just as well as not, it could have happened. My life snuffed out, like theirs. But it didn’t. And so I’m here today, writing my blog, instead of being a distant fading memory in the minds of my parents and my siblings. It seems so random.

Take a fresh young Amish kid from the farm, throw him out into the unfamiliar world of motor vehicles, alcohol and a host of other strange and wondrous things, and chances are actually pretty decent that he’s going to get hurt, if not killed. Or self destruct.

I’m not saying that was the case here. These guys lived at home all their lives, worked in the neighborhood. By all accounts, they were quiet, decent, hard working. Riding along in their friend’s truck that night. And for them, death came calling.

But in many other Amish communities, especially in the Midwest, kids leave home and live hard dangerous driven lives. Like I did. Like countless others do today.

Where I grew up, we never had such a tragedy. Such sudden, unexpected death. But we heard the preachers from other, larger communities when they passed through. Grave, dramatic eerie tales spun in distinctive sing song rhythms. Of young men who had left to live in the world. Who shook their fists at God. And were killed in some bloody fashion, usually in a car accident. Running into trees or telephone poles. Their lives cut short in a split second. The stories came from Arthur, Illinois, Daviess County and northern Indiana. From Holmes County, and Lancaster. We drank them in, wide eyed. Resolved never to follow such a path to destruction.

And yet, some of us did follow that path. Only the prophesied destruction didn’t fall. It could have. But it didn’t. We made it through the gauntlet. As most do. Some few don’t. It seems so random. And so unfair.

Statistically, such accidents are bound to happen. The sheer number of Amish youth who drive vehicles, and take passengers who might not, dictates that much. And so it does, every year or so, in almost all the bigger settlements. Everyone clucks, talks about it, sympathizes and moves on. The preachers preach it. And it fades away. Until the next one falls.

This one was here and this one was now. They came home for the final time on Monday night at 10 o’clock. The two sons. Home, where they were raised and where they grew and lived and worked. The viewings would be at home, not in some cold antiseptic impersonal funeral home.

The two caskets were carried inside and set up for viewings the next day and evening. The all night wake, as the dark hours slowly passed. Friends and neighbors gathered round, the family never alone.

And the next day the people flooded in for the viewings. In Lancaster, viewings are open to anyone who wants to come. But you must have an invitation to attend the funeral. I’d never heard of such a thing, before I got here. But that’s the way it is. Probably about the only way to control the potential overflowing crowds that would descend otherwise. Especially in a case like this.

I didn’t go to the viewing because I didn’t know them and did not want to intrude upon the family’s grief. But many of the Amish I know did attend. And told me of how it was.

Wednesday morning. The funeral. A dreary day. By late morning, a steady drizzle as even the heavens opened up and wept. They gathered again, those who were invited, for the service. The somber preaching. Two sermons. Then the long period of viewing in the home. The trip to the graveyard, a long snaking line of black buggies. To the same destination in Nickel Mines where the little murdered Amish school girls were buried a few years back.

There, the coffins were opened for one last viewing. Everyone filed through, then stood in silence and tears as the family gathered around for their final farewells. Stricken, exhausted, drained of tears from the sorrow and shock of the past few days, yet they wept again.

Then the coffin lids were closed. The pallbearers stepped to their positions. The crowd followed and quietly surrounded the open graves.

The little boy who had seen the angels in the skies stood there with his family. And watched with tear-stained eyes as his two oldest brothers were returned to the earth.

Ira Wagler
April 3, 2009
______________________________________________________________________

POST NOTE: This afternoon (April 3rd) at 2:30 PM, another passenger in the truck that lost control, Stephen Beiler, Jr. passed away. He never woke up from a coma since the accident. At least one other young man remains unresponsive.

Pray for all the families involved and for the young man who still clings to life.