Growing Up Amish (24 page)

I took what money I had, loaded the Drifter, and headed down to Pinecraft, the Sarasota Amish suburb where my brother Nathan lived. There, I rented a room and found a job as a mason's helper. I had not been back to Florida since Marvin and I lived there in 1981. Nathan and his friend Eli Yutzy lived in an apartment in the very center of Pinecraft, and we hung out almost every night, playing cards and partying.

I'm sure I appeared relaxed to those around me during those winter months. I enjoyed life and, to some degree, enjoyed living. But always, deep down, a thread of desperation pulsed inside me. I was a drifter, a rolling stone with no goals and chronically short of money. I was living day to day. I had zero long-term plans, or short-term plans for that matter. It was not a good place to be—financially, emotionally, or spiritually.

And always the old thoughts crept in and tormented me. I could not squash them, could not escape. I brooded quietly, intensely. What would happen to me if I were killed? I knew, deep down, there was no hope, none at all, that I would ever make it to heaven. I'd done so many bad things, hurt so many people. I had left the Amish church for the world after promising—on my knees when I was baptized—to be faithful. Breaking those vows was a very serious thing. There could be no hope of ever righting those wrongs. Not unless I returned and repented and rejoined the church, which was not an option.

But I could not shake the thoughts of my sins and of the afterlife. I knew I was lost and frankly admitted as much. There was no salvation for me. Not in my current state. I had escaped the box of the Amish lifestyle. That was a simple matter of making a decision and walking away. But the box that bound my mind wasn't that easy to escape. Entrenched inside my head, powerful and persistent, my fear of eternal damnation would not be denied. And I could not shake it off.

Once again—in spite of myself and in spite of the fact that it had never worked out before—thoughts of returning sprouted and grew. Frightful thoughts of returning to the fold of the Amish church. It was the strangest thing. I had returned three times before over the years, and not once had it worked. In time, I always despaired, always chafed at the confines of the culture. And yet I felt that this time might be different. This time, I could make it work.

It was tricky, the way things played out in my mind. The Amish have always taught, always preached, that once the desire to return leaves, that's when you are truly lost. Because that's when your conscience has been seared with a hot iron and you won't know right from wrong. You're a walking dead man. Preachers have polished off many a sermon with tales of such people, people bereft of hope who yearned for the desire to return and could not grasp it. Tales of woe and loss and tears of regret and eternal damnation.

And in my head, I still held on to that spark, that remnant of desire to make it work. I seized on that remnant as proof that I could make it work. Simply because there was a shred of desire. Desire based on fear to be sure, but desire nonetheless. I could return. I would return. In the future, of course. At some distant date, maybe the next summer. That was still far enough away that I could consider it without freaking out. Inside me, the restlessness stirred, as it always had. Wherever I was, I wanted to return to where I'd been before. Not the real place, but the idyllic place in my mind. The place that
could
be, if only I could get it right. And do it right.

I mulled over the issue and mentioned guardedly to my friends that I was thinking of returning once again to the Amish church.

Their reactions were pretty unified, mostly a mixture of horror, disbelief, and astonishment. My “wild” buddies were incredulous. Why would someone do such a thing? I'd just torn away from Bloomfield. How could I even think of going back into that mess? It wouldn't work. Even my Christian friends, the Wagler family, responded with polite disbelief. They were much nicer about it, but clearly skeptical nonetheless. From their perspective, why would someone ever want to return to the darkness of that cold and legalistic world?

And so, surrounded by doubters, I found myself alone again. Alone and confused. But I could not shake the idea. Why couldn't I go somewhere
else
and try it? Some other community instead of Bloomfield? That way, I wouldn't have to face all those people from the past. Especially those I had hurt so cruelly. Especially my parents. And Sarah.

I still thought of her sometimes. Mom wrote to me of her and how she was doing. In one letter Mom dramatically informed me that Sarah had had a date with someone else. Another guy. Now she was gone, Mom wrote. It was too late for me to ever get her back. Mom's message was crafted to make me feel bad, but instead, I read her words and felt nothing.

The weeks rolled by, and I finally caved to the mental pressure. I decided to at least explore the idea of going back again to the Amish church. This time, I thought I might go to northern Indiana. There was a huge Amish community there, stretching from Ligonier in the southeast to Elkhart in the northwest, more than a hundred districts, total. Maybe even a couple hundred. Either way, it was a big place and a long-established settlement. I could try it there, I figured, without causing a lot of waves. They had seen about all there was to see when it came to wild youth. Besides, the place was so big, odds were nobody would even notice me or make a fuss.

I wasn't looking forward to the effort it would take to go back: moving again, getting rid of my truck, and forcing myself back into the mold. But a more powerful force was compelling me, pushing me forward—the force of fear. Not that I talked about it much to anyone, but it was there, a fear planted deep within me. The raw fear of hell and eternal damnation was the only thing that could ever have made me consider returning to any form of Amish life.

We all long for inner peace. And I was simply following the only path I knew to try to reach it. Not that there were any guarantees. Only “hope.” No assurance of anything.

I had a contact in the northern Indiana area, which is probably why the idea occurred to me at all. That contact was Phillip Wagler, one of my first cousins, who was born and raised in Aylmer. I'd known him all my life. A quiet guy a few years older than I was, he had married a local girl in the Ligonier area and settled on a farm. So I located his address and wrote him a short note. I told him what I was thinking and asked if they would consider providing a place for me to live. Of course, I'd expect to pay for my room and board, whatever they thought was fair. I hoped to find work in one of the many local factories that employed primarily Amish people.

Phillip replied almost immediately, and I knew his response before even reading it. Phillip and his wife, Fannie, would be delighted to put me up and provide room and board. He was certain I'd be able to find work in the area, and he wanted me to know that he and his wife were eager to have me.

I read the words he wrote. Absorbed them. I had taken the first step, the exploratory step. Now the offer lay there before me in black and white. The doors seemed to be opening for my return. All I had to do was walk through.

Although that was just about the last thing I wanted to do, the invisible force of raw fear compelled me to seriously consider an option so repulsive. This was a chance to redeem myself. To return. If not to Bloomfield, then at least to the fold of the mother church. Return and make good.

It wasn't easy, considering going back. But it wasn't easy, either, to consider the alternative, an eternity in hellfire. Pretty scary stuff. This was my last chance, I figured. I was twenty-five years old. If I didn't make a decision soon, it would be too late. The desire to return would leave me. And like Cain, I would wander the earth alone. Lost. With no mark on my forehead for protection.

I thought it through for a week or two. Or three. Then, in February, through sheer force of will, I made my decision. I would return, for one last try. One last attempt to make it as an Amish person. Strangely, my decision did little to relieve my inner tension. I wrote back to Phillip. I would move up in June, which somehow seemed like a safe distance. But I knew it would come soon enough. I told my friends of my decision. And Nathan. Of the choice I had made—again. He said little, but he supported me. If that's what I wanted, then that's what I should do. They all, I think, recognized instantly and instinctively that it would not work.

I tried to put it out of my mind and focus on the time I had left on the outside. June lurked out there in the distance like a Montana mountain storm, approaching slowly, relentlessly, soon to be unleashed with savage force.

It was only a matter of time. From that point, the days passed at hyperspeed. Soon March rolled around, then April. I wanted to return to Alberta and help Ben Walters with the planting that spring, so I packed up and left Florida. Nathan wanted to settle in Daviess for a while, so I dropped him off on the way. After a few days of hanging out with the Wagler family and other friends, I headed for Alberta.

On the way, I passed close to Bloomfield, so I stopped for a few days. I don't know why, particularly. To see family, I guess. I told them of my plans to settle in northern Indiana and rejoin the Amish church there. I don't know why they would have thought it would be any different this time, but they believed me. My parents smiled with joy. I was returning to the fold. That's all that mattered. Whatever I had done in the past could be overlooked, forgiven, if only I returned.

After a day or two, the Drifter and I headed into the Dakotas and then on into Canada. Ben and Donna welcomed me. By the next day, I was driving a four-wheel-drive tractor as big as a house, pulling an eighty-foot-wide harrow across the fields. For days and weeks on end, I tilled the vast fields of southern Alberta.

All too soon, in late May, it was finished. And June approached. I fought the sinking feeling in my stomach, the dreaded thought of returning. But I held fast to the plan. There was no backing out. This was my last chance. It had to work this time. It simply
had
to. There was no other choice.

I sold the Drifter in Lethbridge to one of my friends from the previous fall. After cashing out, I said good-bye to Ben and Donna and boarded a bus for the long trip back to Daviess, where Nathan would meet me. I'd stay with him a few days; then he would take me to Ligonier, Indiana, for my final return to the Amish church. One way or another.

31

After an exhausting three-day trek, my bus finally reached Daviess. Nathan was there, waiting for me, grinning. He was doing well. He had rented a small house in Odon, bought an old T-Bird, and made friends. He was getting established in the area.

I hung out with him until the weekend. Then, on Saturday, we loaded all my stuff into his car and drove north. Four hours—the amount of time it took to reach the new land where I would try it all over again. I was running on pure adrenaline, fighting the rising panic inside me, focusing only on this final brutal sprint.

Looking back, I don't know how I did it. Given my history, this attempt was doomed to fail. I had left the Amish four times over the years. Each time brought its own degree of serious trauma, and there was not a single time I had returned with joy. Not one. Mostly it had been homesickness and nostalgia that lured me back. Or economic stressors. And after each return I realized almost immediately that I did not want to be there.

But I was stubborn. Something of my father's blood stirred in me. Unwilling to admit defeat, still trapped inside that box in my head, I would do what needed to be done. The Amish way provided my only chance at salvation, of this I was convinced. I knew it in my heart, and no one could tell me otherwise.

I wonder now if my father would have been proud, had he known how deeply his influence and his teachings had invaded my soul. How strongly his presence and the craving for his approval and his love haunted me. Despite all I had experienced through the years, I was returning one more time.

Nathan's old T-Bird pulsed along, heading north around Indianapolis toward Ligonier. Closer and closer. Our conversation was muted and terse. Nathan could not understand what I was doing or why, but he would do what it took to get me there.

And then, way too soon, we were pulling up to the farm. Phillip and Fannie walked out to greet us, smiling in welcome. Their farm was a tidy little place with a rather ramshackle farmhouse. They were childless, so there was plenty of space in their house, and they very much looked forward to having me around.

Nathan helped me carry my bags inside and upstairs to my room, then politely declined Fannie's invitation to stay for supper. After visiting for a bit, he turned toward the door, ready to leave.

I fought back wave after wave of panic. After Nathan left, I would be stuck here on this little farm, with no way to get around. Trapped in a strange land, where I knew no one but my cousin and his wife.

I walked Nathan to his car, shook his hand, and thanked him. He got in, started the engine, and shifted into gear. The car slowly pulled out, tires crunching on the gravel lane. I watched as he turned onto the paved road and then was gone, heading back to his world in Daviess.

I turned back to the house, where Phillip and Fannie stood smiling. I walked toward them, smiling in return, but my heart was sinking. In that desperate moment, I was as lost as I'd ever been.

* * *

The days and weeks that followed are blurred in my mind, as are some of the things that happened while I struggled to settle into this strange new place. It was Amish, but it was vastly different from Bloomfield—or Aylmer, for that matter. I had always lived in small communities of one or two districts. This settlement was massive, stretching many miles in all directions. These people had been here for many generations. Some of their habits and customs seemed strange to me. Small things, probably indiscernible to anyone from the outside. Differences in dress. The area is one of the few where galluses are optional for men in many districts. Distinctive head coverings for the women. Even the cadence of their talk seemed odd. Other than that, I can't put my finger on exactly what was different. It just was, the entire area, I mean.