Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [87]
And then I was dismissed to return to the congregation. I walked back into the crowded room, head held high. I would not cower before these people. The room echoed with the roars of slow tune singing, but all eyes were glued to me as I took my seat on a bench among my peers.
Usually, it takes about four weeks to be reinstated. Church is every two weeks, so that means you trail along behind the preachers twice. And then it’s enough. Then there’s a special ceremony at the end of the service after the nonmembers and children are dismissed, and the repentant sinner is officially welcomed back into the fold.
But four weeks was not long enough in my case. Not according to Bishop Henry. Because of the seriousness of my sins, it would take at least six weeks, maybe eight.
During that time, I stayed close to home and didn’t socialize much. Officially, my family was required to shun me, which consisted mostly of not eating at the same table. When Mom prepared the meals, she set a plate for me on a little side table. We all dipped food from the same dishes and ate at the same time, a few feet apart. When the married children came home for supper during the week, we ate cafeteria style, again dipping Mom’s delicious food from the same dishes. I always made sure to sit a bit apart on a side bench. In all other respects, I was treated as usual. We separated only when we ate. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense back then, and still doesn’t. But that’s the way it was.
I saw Sarah at least twice in informal settings. We talked. She was as beautiful as ever, except her face was drawn and sad. I felt sorry for her and for what I had done, but I still didn’t regret it. We spoke, publicly and privately, from depths of pain that could not be expressed or even acknowledged.
I meandered up to Chuck’s Café once in a while, but not often; too many eyes were watching my every step, too many people hoping I would stumble. Too much time at Chuck’s would not be viewed as repentant behavior, so I dropped by only now and then. I told my old friends what was going on. They didn’t understand, but they listened and sympathized. And slowly, I began to withdraw from them emotionally. I knew I could not hang around them often. It would remind me too much of all I was giving up.
Finally, after six long weeks, the glorious Sunday arrived when I would be “taken up,” restored as a full member of the Bloomfield Amish church. I walked along behind the preachers that morning into the conference for the final time. Ever. After the usual admonitions, I was dismissed for the last time to return to the congregation.
I don’t remember who preached that day. It might have been my brother Joseph. The hours dragged. I knew what was coming, and it would not be pretty. Finally, the service wound down, and the last song was sung. Bishop Henry announced where church service would be held in two weeks, and then he dismissed the congregation, requesting that all members remain seated for a few moments.
The youth who were not members got up and walked out, as did all the children. I walked out, too, and stood uneasily just outside the house. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed. Inside, the preachers were announcing that in their opinion, I had shown the proper degree of repentance, and it was now time to reinstate me as a member. They requested counsel from all members. Anyone who objected could speak or forever hold his peace.
And then the deacon popped out of the house and looked around for me. I approached. “Come along,” he said kindly. He walked back inside, and I followed close behind him, right up to the front, where everyone could see me. I sat on a bench before the bishop.