By His Grace

This week, I watched my sister walk into marriage. We grew up together, fought as children, shared good times, and as young adults grew somewhat close, over buggy rides to and from the singing, and when I was courting her best friend. That was some 15 years ago. Then came the earthquake: our move to Indiana, a life chosen without a bishop or the traditional Amish Ordnung. After that, our paths diverged.

With the birth of our daughter in 2014 and as the events of 2015 transpired, I became increasingly disillusioned with the prospect of raising a family in our beloved Aylmer. When I arrived as a wee helpless one back in the 80s, the prevailing idea was that babies are born perfect and innocent. However, they are also born in sin and with an old fallen nature. This old self-will needs to be broken. “He that spares the rod spoils the child.”

Some day I want to write about my Grandparents, for now here is a short story about my Dad's father as told by Ira Wagler.

I only knew one or two English words when I started school in the fall of 1995, but it was not because I was stupid or had a speech impairment. Walking the hundred yards to school that first morning was a gigantic leap for my six-year-old self. Dad walked with me to the end of the drive and then watched as I trudged slowly towards the white block schoolhouse at the corner of the farm we lived on. This was unfamiliar territory; life would never be the same again.

After Tina and I married and set up house at 10986 Carter Road, we soon realized that life wasn’t just honey and roses. We spent a lot of time those first weeks in the corn field husking corn. This was something I enjoyed and was a pro at. Tina on the other hand didn’t have experience husking corn. The first day I helped her strap the hook onto her right hand and showed her how to grasp an ear with the left hand, swipe across it with the hook, then pull the remaining husk together with the left hand while grabbing the now exposed ear in the right hand, by this time the left hand has moved to the base of the ear to provide support and a quick twist and jerk dislodges the ear from the stalk and sends it flying into the wagon all in one smooth series of motions. Simultaneously, you never skip a beat as you already have your focus on the next ear and take a quick step forward to repeat the rhythm. It was possible to pretty much launch another ear by the time the first hit the wagon, keeping a continuous stream of ears thudding onto the metal sides.

I was born in 1989. It was the golden era of the Aylmer community. My grandparents had returned from their brief move to Honduras a decade and a half earlier. Great Grandfather Pete who died a foreigner in that distant land had made several attempts at trying something different, and always it came back to the Aylmer Amish life. This was the apex of society, the best of the best. Aylmer was free of the vices that plagued many of the more strict communities, there was no smoking or drinking, the youth didn’t do any rumspringa stuff, hands off courtship was the norm and strictly enforced. In Aylmer we were also free of the modern distractions that more liberal churches allowed, we didn’t have bikes or cars. Of course, radio, and TV were completely unheard of and unthinkable.

The big day dawns, October 3, 2013. This is a pivotal day in my life. I take one last look at the bedroom that has been mine for the last few years. There were nights I battled loneliness in this room. I haven’t had a hug in years; the only thing to hug here was pillows. There were also nights where I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, thinking about the huge responsibility of selling a backlog of vegetables for the growers who were depending on me.

After returning from my time as shop foreman at Whispering Hope, I moved in back at home. There were adjustments, but the next couple of months were pleasant enough. By this time I had taken on considerable responsibility at the produce dock. I was functioning as the manager for HOPE Produce. (This was the organic side of the vegetable growing cooperative which operated in the same facility as Stoll Family Farms.)

In the midst of this developing horror movie, I was going through puberty and increasingly needing to deal with hormones I was not equipped to handle. I remember realizing that I had reached the age where I could sire offspring. I was like Superman with a German Tiger tank and nothing to shoot at. A demonic principality was at the wheel and there was no one to take it out.

It was summertime. The year was 2002. Life was good on our Amish homestead. Except our family was a mess. Dad and Mom were in over their heads.

At the age of six, I started school in the white block building at the intersection of College Line and Carter Road — Four Corners School.

It is 3 am. I just had a dream. In the dream, I was a teenager out by the barn with a team of horses. It was evening and chore time, I was finishing something and then went to put the team away. I unhitched the horses and walked them ahead of me to the horse barn. As I rounded the corner of the barn the horses ran head-on into an officer. He was there for me. I do not recall the alleged offense, but in my dream, I asked Dad what is going on. I looked him in the eyes and asked him “Why are you doing this?” He could not answer the question, and things got really emotional, and then I woke up.