“Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We’ll
smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill
of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure.”

—Thomas Wolfe
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We almost made it, all of us. But once again, a few didn’t. The record remains intact. I have not been together with all my brothers and sisters and our parents at the same place at the same time for close to forty years.

Two brothers couldn’t make it this time. Just the way it worked out. A few years ago, I was the only who didn’t show. And so nine of us, with our parents, gathered with other guests last week for the wedding of my niece, Mary Ann Wagler, and Jason Stutzman. Mary Ann is the daughter of my oldest brother Joseph.

The service was held on Friday, Oct. 2, at the little New Order Amish community of Worthington, IN. Just north and west of Daviess County, the land my father left more than fifty years ago.

I headed out Wednesday afternoon. Didn’t feel like doing the 12 hour drive in one stretch. Not through the desolation of western PA, which only seems to get worse, each time I travel through. After passing into Ohio, I searched in vain for a Holiday Inn, but had to settle for a Hampton. Not as classy. Not as comfortable. But it would have to do. And it was OK.

I arrived in the Worthington area about mid afternoon on Thursday and hung out with my nephews, Joseph’s sons. Seems like we see each other mostly at events like this. We chilled and chatted, drinking coffee and catching up on the latest. And running last minute errands. Meeting the happy couple. Mary Ann smiled and smiled.

Later, everyone gathered at a neighbor’s shop for supper. We were among the first to arrive. Before long, many of my siblings trickled in. Maggie and her husband Ray from South Carolina. Rachel and Rhoda and their husbands from Kansas. Naomi and Alvin from their new home in Arkansas. And of course, Joseph and Iva, the bride’s parents. We greeted each other cheerfully and sat about and talked.

There’s always joy, in such a gathering. Or should be. Ten years ago, we would not have gathered like this. Couldn’t have. Now we can, and it’s a beautiful thing.

And then, just as the food was being set out, the door opened, and they shambled in, both leaning on canes. Dad and Mom, with my oldest sister Rosemary. Mom walked between them, supported on each side. They helped her to a seat. She looked small and very frail, certainly worse than when I saw her last at Christmas. But she was smiling.

After waiting a few minutes for her to settle on her chair, I walked over to her. Would she still recognize me? She had slipped a lot lately mentally, I’d heard. To the point where she sometimes does not even recognize her own daughters. I greeted her and took her hand. She smiled and spoke my name. I sat beside her and we talked.

She was there, and yet she wasn’t. Aware of some of us, some of the time. She lives now in her childhood world in Daviess County. She speaks in soft halting tones of family, neighbors, places, things. All from that safe dimension from long ago, where her heart has remained all these years. A world to which she has returned.

It’s gut-wrenching. And yet, somehow, I think her state of existence brings its own degree of peace. At least, one hopes as much. And grasps what solace one can from that hope.

She is in the depths of a winter that has been long and cold. And after winter comes the spring. Soon she will enter that new spring, unlike any she has ever known. There, her smile will not be dead and vacant, but alive with a joy that can never be taken from her. Her mind will be clear again as she walks into eternal peace.

We assembled the next morning at nine o’clock for the wedding. The service was held in a large tent beside Marcus Marner’s shop. Although rain had been forecast, the day broke clear and cool. Perfect weather. I walked the gauntlet, shaking hands with a hundred strangers, mumbling greetings. Yes, I was Joseph’s brother. The bride’s uncle. No, my wife wasn’t with me. Actually, I’m not married. And so on.

Soon it was time to file in to be seated. I followed Titus on his motorized wheelchair and sat beside him on a backless bench. Up front with the married men. It’s not often that I get to be with him, so I was honored for the opportunity.

It was, I think, my first New Order Amish service. Or maybe I attended before, but it was long ago. Things are done loosely the way the Old Orders do it. Same old slow songs, but fewer verses. The entire Lob Song in all its glory. The main difference was the preaching. It was mostly in English, which would never happen in an Old Order service. Old Orders preach only in the “Muttersproch,” the mother tongue. A defining symbol of their survival.

Things rolled along smoothly, and around 11:15 the couple rose and stood before Bishop Monroe Hostetler and exchanged their marriage vows. A few testimonials, another song, and it was over. We filed out.

Mary Ann and Jason at the “Eck” for the noon meal

After a delicious meal of grilled chicken and all the fixings, we mingled and visited. I sat about with my siblings and we talked. About this and that, the little things. And the fact that so many of us could make it to this place for this special day.

And it suddenly struck me as I sat there in the low dull hum of a hundred murmured conversations and observed. That we are no longer what one would call young. We are gray or graying now, all of us. The years have flowed unchecked, they have accumulated, and from each of us they have extracted their toll. The fires of youth no longer burn. And the rage of youth has died.

And I looked on their worn tired faces, each reflecting the wisdom only years can bring, each interwoven with the stories only siblings know, each wrinkled with the deep tracks of time, the passage of long and weary decades. And the somber fact sank in, absorbed as never before.

That we had entered autumn. The autumn of our lives.

It is a hard thing to grasp, to turn in our minds and examine. That morning was so long ago, that the youth we thought would last forever has fled, that we have entered the fields of age from which there is no return. That approaching winter looms.

For me, it’s not particularly a sad thing, or a happy thing. It just is. But it heightens my awareness of my own mortality. We all too shall pass, the young men and women of the next generation will rise and replace us, until they too enter their own seasons of autumn and finally winter. The way it’s always been. And will always be until the end of time.

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Perhaps it’s because I’m knocking at autumn’s door. I don’t know. But lately, in the last month or so, I have been extremely restless. Unsettled. Mid-life crisis, or some such thing. I’m sure there’s a label for it.

I haven’t felt remotely this restless since my Amish youth days, when I churned with inner turmoil about my identity and my future. So it feels a bit strange. A lot strange.

I don’t know if the restlessness triggered my decision to write less, or vice versa. I do know that since less time is spent writing, the void must be filled with something.

I’m not freaking out or anything. But it’s not particularly fun either. I’m plugging along. Life goes on. It always does.

And life goes on, too, for my friends Paul and Anne Marie. A few weeks ago, after several days of severe headaches, Anne Marie went to the hospital for an unscheduled MRI scan. They received the results within hours.

The brain tumor has returned. Full blown. Virulent. Deadly. Larger than ever.

They called me the next morning, a Saturday. I stopped by to see them. The third time now that they’ve had to deal with same grim news.

Strangely, it’s different this time. Maybe they’re used to it, not that you could ever get used to such things. But they were utterly calm. Matter of fact, almost. We discussed the options. This time they wanted to go to Johns Hopkins for the surgery.

The following week, they traveled to JH. The tumor was golf ball sized. Strangely, Doctors did not consider it necessary to operate immediately. Yesterday, after more severe headaches, Paul rushed her down to JH, where she was admitted into Intensive Care. A CAT scan showed that the tumor was bleeding. This morning, after loss of some motor skills, she was rushed into surgery. Paul called this afternoon to tell me everything went well, and she is awake and alert. She might be able to return home as soon as Monday, which boggles the mind.

Other than that, I don’t have a lot to say. As always, they would appreciate your prayers. They are grateful for the gift of almost two years that Anne Marie has been granted since the tumor was first discovered. Naturally they hope for many more years, but they will accept the future as it unfolds. Not that there’s much choice. The Lord may choose to give. He may also choose to take.

I ain’t askin’ nobody for nothin’, as the song goes. But for those who wish to send support in the form of cards and letters, their address is as follows:

Paul and Anne Marie Zook
588 Meetinghouse Road
Gap, PA 17527