Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [69]
After untying the rope from the Stud’s hooves, I drove back to the barnyard, gathered a massive hedge-wood corner post, a posthole digger, and a chain saw, and returned to the spot where the Stud’s body lay.
The soil by the creek was moist and soft, and within a couple of hours, I had dug the hole. A grave for my horse. I shoveled the damp earth over him and piled it high.
Dusk was settling around me as I sank the post into the ground and tamped the dirt around it. I fired up the chain saw and cut the Stud’s date of death into the post. Then I fastened his halter and his lead rope around the post. And with that, it was finished.
I stood there, a solitary figure in the lengthening shadows. The sun sank low, then disappeared. In the settling night, bats flitted and zipped about. In the southern skies, a white half moon appeared, then the first stars. From the brushy hillsides all around, whip-poor-wills whooped and called. I stood there, silent, unmoving for some time. Finally, I stirred, picked up my gear and turned toward home. I slept that night in utter exhaustion—a deep, dreamless slumber.
My horse was dead. He’d passed, after wilting into a weak and helpless shell, for no discernible reason. And was now properly buried, by my own hand. A signal event, unexpected and tragic, followed by a symbolic act. In my exhausted and traumatized mind, it seemed like a sign. There was nothing left to keep me here. Not even my horse.
* * *
Those around me sensed and felt my despair, but they seemed helpless to offer any comfort or assistance. There was no rage. No lashing out at anyone, no seething. I don’t remember the exact moment that I realized I could not do it. A few months later, I suppose. Or maybe I always knew it, deep down, but could not face it honestly. Whatever the case, I fully and finally realized and admitted to myself that if I married Sarah, I would one day leave her. Period.
My final withdrawal from her was painful and protracted. Instead of confronting my options and making decisions, I continued mentally drifting away from her. She sensed she was losing me for real this time and fought hard to hold me. Still, I avoided the matter as much as possible because I didn’t want to hurt her. What I didn’t realize was that my actions and eventual choices would hurt her far worse than they would have, had I just told her how it was.
Looking back, there really was no reason why it couldn’t have worked, at least on the surface of things. We were very compatible, she and I. She loved me honestly and deeply. She would have been intensely loyal. But in my heart, I felt nothing. No love. No feelings at all. Except a sense of pity for the pain I knew was coming. For what I would put her through.
During the years of our courtship, we got to know each other pretty well, up to a point. Beyond that, I would not allow her closer, would not allow her to explore the boundaries of my heart. Had I known then even a fraction of what I now know, the issues would have been confronted. I would have spoken, confided in someone. But there was no one—not one soul—I trusted enough to reveal what was in my heart. That’s just the way it was.
And there was one other thing Sarah and I never did together. An important thing for any couple considering marriage, according to our preachers in the Amish church.
We never prayed together. Never approached God to ask for his blessing on our future. Never. We should have, I suppose. But we didn’t. And the blame for that omission was mine alone. I was the man. In Amish culture, as in many others, the man is expected to lead. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
I did not. Didn’t have the nerve, I guess. And besides, I wasn’t sure it would do any good. There were times