Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [50]
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The preachers greeted us kindly enough when we made known our plans to join church the next spring. As rigid and unbending as the Amish might appear, one thing is true: Any wayward son (or daughter) who returns to the fold of the Amish church is always welcomed, regardless of what he has done in the past. He might be viewed a bit warily, and sure, he has some things to prove. But he is still welcomed, and genuinely so.
Marvin lived in the east district, so we didn’t get to join together. Instead, he followed church with a little group of slightly younger youth. By now, my district had ordained its own bishop, our neighbor Henry Hochstedler, who had been a preacher for years. In my district, I took the baptismal instructions with one other young man, Chris Hochstedler. Bishop Henry’s son.
Bishop Henry was originally from Arthur, Illinois. He was a kind man, mostly, but pretty set in his ways. A plodding, methodical worker, he kept his little farm impeccably tidy. All his animals were well cared for, his horses fat and gleaming. He milked a few cows and raised a flock of sheep, struggling bravely to pay his bills.
He preached the same way he worked: slowly, methodically, the words rolling effortlessly from his tongue in a rhythmic, lulling flow. As a bishop, he was unexceptional but steady. Under this man, then, I began my second try at joining the Amish church.
For me, the summer was one of deep, quiet desperation. I seemed to be walking down a long, dark hallway with no light at the end. And no end, for that matter. But I was determined this time to stick it out. To go all the way. It would not be an easy road.
From a distance, or from outside, my decision makes no sense. But it made all the sense in the world to me in that moment, to keep slogging on, to walk the road that equated eternal life with earthly misery. Besides, I figured, if others could do it, so could I. And why wouldn’t I have thought that?
I managed to kick cigarettes, at least temporarily, but only because I used smokeless tobacco instead. It was odorless, and much easier to hide. Then one day someone saw me buying a tin of Skoal at Chuck’s Café in West Grove and told the preachers. The next Sunday, as the instructional conference was winding down, Bishop Henry momentarily deserted his usual impersonal comments and confronted me.
“Ira,” he said in a firm tone. I jolted, fully alert. I’d never been addressed by name in any previous instruction class. Panicked thoughts flashed through my mind. This could not possibly be a good thing.
He continued. “An English neighbor stopped in and told me that he saw you buying tobacco at Chuck’s Café. I, of course, hoped it was not true. But I wanted to ask you here.”
Sadness, or what he figured passed for it, lined his face. He looked right at me. The other preachers sat there, mostly looking at the floor.
“Is it true?” Bishop Henry asked simply, still gazing at me intently.
I sat there, almost frozen with shock and surprise. Fear and desperation rippled through me in waves. Hot denials sprang to my lips. Who in the world could have seen and tattled? Which English neighbor would be so idiotic, so stupid, as to go to my bishop and tell him what he saw? But, after a few eternally long seconds, during which a thousand scenarios flashed through my mind, I looked right back at him. In the eyes.
“Yeah, I guess it is true,” I admitted ruefully.
He arched his eyebrows and looked officially and properly grieved. Still, he smiled a sad smile.
“I’m very glad you were honest. If you had lied, it would have made things a lot worse,” he said kindly. “But,” he added somberly, “this will, of course, delay the date of baptism until we can see true fruits in your life.”
I nodded, still stunned. And then, mercifully, Chris and I were dismissed. I stumbled from the room, my mind in turmoil.
And that’s the way it went. Over the summer,