Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [85]
What a nut, I thought. But I said nothing. Instead, I mumbled something under my breath, turned, mounted my bike, and fled from the mad bishop of Ligonier, Indiana.
Most Amish preachers and bishops are not bad men at heart, not when you dig down deep. Most want to do what they can to help a person. Somewhere, down below that somber facade, a kind heart beats. In most of them, at least. But that particular bishop, the absolute dictator of the Amish church district in Ligonier in 1987, holds the dubious distinction of being one of the meanest, flat-out nastiest men it has been my misfortune to meet. Ever. In all my wanderings, Amish or otherwise. There was no joy in him or kindness. Only rage and vindictiveness.
I should have given up right then. Wrapped up my scant affairs, left, and returned to Daviess. And I seriously considered that option. But ultimately, I could not do it. I felt stuck. I had made too much of an effort already, come too far. What would people say? I’d been in northern Indiana only a week or so. I could almost hear the snickers. Besides, that’s what the mad bishop expected, what he wanted me to do. He was sure I was a fraud and that I’d give up and go away and stop bothering him. If I did that, it would only prove him right. He’d probably even smile for real, something he likely hadn’t done in years.
But I refused to give him that satisfaction. Furious, I was determined to prove him wrong.
Back at the farm, I sadly told Phillip and Fannie what the mad bishop had decreed. That I would have to humble myself. Crawl. And after being restored as a member in Bloomfield, I could return. They sat there in utter shock. In all surrounding districts, my request would have been honored. Every other bishop would have fallen all over himself to assist me on my difficult journey. The mad bishop was the lone exception in all the land. But now that he had spoken, he would be supported by the others. Church politics and all. The others would be forced to back him up in his irrational decision. There was nothing to be done except obey. Quietly, carefully, Phillip and Fannie told me these truths. I would have to do as the mad bishop had instructed: return to the source of so much pain and sadness.
It was unfathomable that I would have to walk right back into the lions’ den. Bloomfield. The place swarming with so many dark memories, where they knew me inside and out, all my history. They would not make it easy. It would be a tough road. But my course was set. I would do what I had to do. I had no other choice. At least none that I could see.
The following week I boarded the train in Elkhart and settled in for the journey west. The train clacked along to my connection in Chicago, and from there, the final sprint toward Bloomfield.
As the miles flowed by, I sat, unmoving. Inside, I felt almost nothing. I could not even think of what awaited me. What I would experience back in the community I had fled a year ago. I could focus only on doing what needed to be done and on getting back to Indiana in one piece.
An English driver met me at the train station in Ottumwa. I boarded the van, and we were off.
Home still looked the same. Everyone greeted me eagerly. Marvin and Rhoda. Titus and Ruth. Mom and Dad. They all seemed happy to see me, especially now that I had returned to rejoin the church. That’s all that was important, even though everyone knew I would not stay in Bloomfield. That was fine with them. As long as I remained Amish, it did not matter where.
The week passed slowly. On Sunday, Bishop Henry and the preachers would await me. In their defense, I know they were all genuinely happy that I had decided to return and right past wrongs, to come home and face the music. The Amish always welcome returning sinners.