Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [52]
“Our Father Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come—”
Abruptly his voice broke, and he faltered. He struggled silently for some moments. Through the vast gulf that separated me from him at the time, and in the grip of my own shock and grief, my heart cried out for him. A tough, stoic, hard-bitten old Amish man. Broken. Hurting. In anguish before God. For his son. Fighting emotions he could not show.
He wept silently and cleared his throat. Began speaking again, then stopped. Silence. Struggle. Cleared his throat again. But then he said the words, and I have always believed from the bottom of my heart that he meant them with all of his: “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
The tragedy invaded every breath and corner of our lives that summer, fall, and beyond. The weeks crawled by as we absorbed the heavy truth. Titus would never walk again. After some months at the hospital, he moved to the rehab center for many more months. And then, sometime that winter, he came home. In his wheelchair.
The Amish have one of the strongest and most efficient support structures in existence. When tragedy strikes, the community rallies around and provides whatever physical and financial support is needed, as it did for us. But the system is also lacking in at least one very important aspect. It offers no real way to cope with the emotional aftereffects of tragic events, especially unexpected ones. This is not a criticism, merely an observation. It’s just the way it is. Communication is sparse or nonexistent. Feelings are quashed. One is expected to accept and bear one’s burdens in silence. And one does.
This stoicism comes from a mixture of faith and tradition. Underlying everything, there rests a degree of faith. The actual degree of faith depends on the individual person, of course. But on the surface, often, the structured response to tragedy is a recitation of broad generalizations, like baptismal instructions. Traditions, going way back. Traditions that will endure as long as the Amish endure.
And that’s what the public sees and hears. Both the English public and the Amish public.
After the accident, I pulled back from the brink of one more rebellious explosion and continued taking instructions for baptism. We were all in shock, and it was unthinkable now for me to even consider any alternatives. There was too much to do. I was needed to stay home and take care of the farm. I wasn’t that willing, really. I didn’t care for farming. But there was no alternative. Anything less on my part would have been considered hugely selfish. Especially since I was already joining church. So I stayed.
And the following month, on a Sunday morning in mid-September, the day of my baptism arrived. Bishop Henry Hochstedler would officiate. That morning, in the Obrote conference, we received our final instructions and then walked back to join the congregation for the final time as nonmembers. We sat on a bench specifically for us, directly in front of the preachers’ bench. Soon the preachers returned as well, and the service proceeded. After the opening sermon and Scripture reading, Bishop Henry stood and preached the standard baptismal sermon, going on for well over an hour. And as the end approached, he paused. Then he turned and addressed us. If we still felt as we had earlier that morning, we should get down on our knees.
We had reached the ultimate moment. Too late now to turn back. Not that I would have considered it, even remotely. Not now. I had forced myself to trust all those