To live is to be slowly born.

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
______________________

I’ve never considered myself a public speaker, in any sense. Never. I’m not a preacher. Or a teacher, either. Don’t have the patience, to painstakingly work my way through an outline, or whatever it is those guys use. And I don’t particularly enjoy the sound of my own voice. Mostly, though, I’m pretty much petrified by the thought of speaking in front of a whole room full of people. And the thought of stuttering and freezing up in front of a crowd. That’s the stuff of nightmares.

Seems like when it comes to doing new things, especially the unfamiliar, intimidating stuff, I always have to be dragged kicking and screaming through that next doorway.

In 2007, my world imploded in shambles around me. From the ashes of the fiery wreckage, I began to write. Something I should have been doing for decades. I always knew it in my heart, that I should be writing. But I never did, because it was just too hard.

While negotiating my contract with Tyndale two years ago, I fussed and fumed and grumbled savagely but silently to myself when Carol Traver insisted on a continuous, connected thread throughout the book. That was something I had never done before. Ever. But she was adamant. No “sketches.” She wanted a real memoir. I was terrified, but smiled and promised her I would write it. I wasn’t quite sure how, but figured I’d worry about that later. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and all that. The continuous, connected story turned out pretty well, I think.

After the book was released, the Tyndale marketing team lined up a slew of radio interviews. And it was quite daunting, at least the first one. A fifteen-minute live slot. The producer called. Put me on hold. The music cued. Then the host came on live. Today we have Ira Wagler as a guest. Author of “Growing Up Amish.” Welcome, Ira. At that instant, it was sink or swim.

Somehow, I stayed calm. At least, my voice did. And somehow, after we got into the subject matter of the Amish and the book, I relaxed. Let it flow. A few minutes in, I was good. I knew this stuff. Instinctively. With no forethought or planning. I knew it. After that first interview, I never again freaked in even the slightest sense as the next one loomed.

The connecting thread spiraling through my little anecdotes: I never did any of those things until I was pretty much forced to. Except for the writing, maybe. No one forced that on me. It was just a natural reaction to severe emotional trauma. But still, it took that trauma to get it triggered. And in every case, once I took that first step through the door that somehow had swung open, it all worked out. Every time.

And I didn’t really think much of it, one way or another, when a nice lady called me a few months ago. Would I consider attending her book club meeting sometime? To discuss my book? Of course. I’d be honored. She was from Garden Spot Village, a premier retirement center located right in New Holland. They had a small book club there, about fifteen people. And someone had recommended my book. They would read it, then we would discuss it when I came. We settled on a safely distant date. December 7th.

They seemed quite excited that I would attend, the people in the little book club. I’ll say that much. They even did a press release, a tiny notice that appeared in the Sunday News about a month ago. Invited the public to attend. Ira Wagler, local author. Wednesday afternoon, Dec. 7th, at 2 PM. As the date approached, I got a few “reminder” calls from the excited people. I was planning on being there, right? Oh, yes. Yes, I was, I always assured them.

I didn’t fret about it, hardly at all. Or think much about what I’d say. I knew my stuff. And soon enough, the day rolled around. Around 11:30, I left work and headed on over to New Holland. My hosts met me in the main foyer. They would take me to lunch first, then we’d set up in the room where they met. They had reserved a much larger room, they informed me. Plastered posters all around Garden Spot Village. They were looking for a good crowd.

I’d never before toured Garden Spot Village. Never been inside, except the main foyer. That’s where the locals vote. Where I wrote in Ron Paul’s name, in the last presidential election. And will again, in the next one. Garden Spot is famous in the region as a very desirable retirement facility. It’s like a little city in there. And pleasant enough, surprisingly. Huge apartment complexes connected by a center hub. A cafeteria. A full service restaurant. I mean, one could live in there and never have to leave for anything. Which is kind of the idea, I guess. But you can leave on excursions into the outside world anytime you want to.

We sat at a reserved table in the restaurant and ate a fine meal. And it was fantastic. We chatted about this and that. I quickly gathered that the place was very much like any small town. Everyone knows what’s going on, who’s doing what, and who said what. I wouldn’t call it gossip, just chatter. Mostly newsy stuff, sprinkled with opinions.

At 1:30, we headed to the meeting room on the third floor. I had brought a full case of books, which we trundled along on a little cart. You always take your own books to a signing. Just in case anyone wants to buy a copy. We stepped out of the elevator and walked into the room. Good-sized, with over a hundred chairs, a small podium at the front. I was amazed to see the room already filling with people. Twenty or so when we arrived. And in the next 25 minutes, the place filled up. People from within Garden Spot, and people from without. Many clutched copies of my book. I sat at the table and signed and sold books for a while before we started. And then 2 o’clock rolled around. The nice lady walked to the podium and introduced me, to a great storm of clapping. And then I stood to address the crowded room. More than a hundred people. Assembled, to hear me speak.

And amazingly, I was fine. A brief five-minute intro. Who I am. Where I come from. And the book. How it came to be. How I consider it a miracle, the way it all came down. The fact that it exists at all. And then I said, from here on we’re going to talk about what you all want to talk about. Are there any questions? Half a dozen hands shot up.

I took all the questions, one by one. Spoke back. Naturally. Relaxed. And more questions poured in, thick and fast. All were valid, some more so than others. A few, whether by accident or design, tried to back me into a corner. Tried to get me to pour some concrete, to say negative things about the Amish. I stayed on message. On what I believe. About the Amish, and about Christians in general. Sure, there are fakes out there. People who are focused on works, on rules. Sure, there are Amish people like that. Of course there are.

But the Amish are not that different from any other people. A little different, maybe, because of their austere lifestyle. But they are human, just like anyone else. And sure, among the Amish, there are people totally depending on their works to save them. Such people exist in a whole lot of other denominations, too. A whole lot. But just because you are Amish does not mean that you are lost. I fought that theme, again and again. No. I will not condemn the culture. No. I won’t. In fact, I highly respect the Amish people. I could never live like that, but I will always defend their right to believe as they see fit. Religious freedom is key to any free society. Whether or not the beliefs of any specific group make any sense to me, or to the mainstream. Details don’t matter, not when weighed on that scale. Freedom does.

The minutes rolled by. Many questions focused on the details of the book. Sam Johnson. Did he really cut you off like that? Yes. He did. But he also heeded the call, way back, when my soul was at stake. Did what he was asked to do. What happened between us after that doesn’t matter all that much. God uses His flawed children to call His lost children home.

There were a lot of questions about Bloomfield. And Sarah. Where is she now? That was of great interest to all. I answered carefully. Her identity was totally changed in the book. Some remnants of the Amish world might know who she is. But the English world will never know, not from me. Had there been any way to omit her completely from the story, I would have. But there wasn’t. Not without gutting a good portion of the heart of the narrative. Whatever the repercussions, my story is my story. And, as the Tyndale people told me, I have the right to tell it. As we all have the right, and sometimes the obligation, to speak of where we’ve been, and where we’ve come from.

It went fast, and all too soon 3 o’clock rolled around. Time to stop. One last question. Then they all clapped. And I returned to the table and signed and sold books. And chatted briefly with each person in line. Thanked each one for coming. Pretty much all of them seemed thrilled. Then it was over.

I had stepped through one more doorway. And it felt great.

I’m ready now, for the first time ever, to offer to speak before groups of people. Groups, say, within a two-hour radius of Lancaster. And beyond, really, if there’s a big enough crowd. And if my travel expenses are paid. I never could quite imagine that this day would come, but it has. So if any of you, my readers, would like to arrange a book talk, contact me. In the next few weeks, I’ll post a specific page up there on the top of my blog. Probably gut and remodel “The Ellen Years” page. It’s about time for that, I’m thinking. In the meantime, if you’re interested in setting something up, just shoot me an email from my “Contact Me” page.

The journey of the book has been so much more than I could ever have imagined. At least to this point. And that journey, I think, is far from over. There will always be another doorway ahead. Somehow, I’ll get pushed through each one as it looms.

And I’m OK with that. Looking forward to it, even.

I haven’t mentioned his site since a few years ago when he launched it. But lately I’ve been perusing Wagler Wisdom, my brother Jesse’s blog. Jesse has that Wagler drive to express himself, and he does it well. Mostly just his personal take on things. He’s certainly not shy with his opinions, which is cool. Gotta keep up the old family traditions.

He also does something I usually don’t. My stories are mostly from memory. From the things I saw, the things around me. From my childhood on. Jesse does actual research on stuff. Digs up old articles of interest and such. Posts links. And lately he came up with a rather startling document.

It was written by Joseph (Joe) Stoll, my cousin, Dad’s nephew. Joe co-founded Pathway Publishers with Dad, way back in the 60s. A little fact that I’m pretty sure was included in the first draft of my book, but somehow got edited out. In 1966, when I was five years old, Joe Stoll wrote a brief article on the then-current state of the Aylmer Amish community. Complete with history, and statistics.

Many, I know, will find such stuff dry as chalk on a blackboard. But it’s amazing to me that somehow, lurking around on Google, Jesse found that article that someone (NOT Joe Stoll) had posted. And linked it to his blog. The first-hand account of the founding of the Aylmer Amish community pretty much backs up my version. I wrote what I had always heard, the things I remembered. I never saw this article before. To me, it was just fascinating to see that the actual written details so closely resemble the stories I heard as a child.

And it’s almost Christmas time again. Seems like it snuck right up on me, like it does every year. I don’t get too riled up about any of it. Accumulate and consume, if that’s your thing. Spend next month’s rent on gifts. Or spout grave noble proclamations, decrying the crass commercialism of the times if that makes you feel better. So be joyful. Or be sour. Whatever works. I’m all for leaving people alone to make their own choices about such matters.

I buy gifts for very few, and expect gifts from no one. It’s the freest way I’ve found, to celebrate the season.

I’ll share the Christmas feast with my brother Stephen and his family. Celebrate and watch some football. And if I’m lucky, somewhere along the line, maybe I’ll snag some Roasht from my Amish friends.

Meanwhile, if you are casting about for gift ideas, may I offer my suggestion?

Merry Christmas to all.