Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [88]
Bishop Henry rose to his feet and addressed me. They had counseled with all members who were present, and no one had any objections. If my desire was still to be reinstated as I had expressed that morning in the Obrote conference, I should get down on my knees.
And for the second time in my life, I knelt before God and the Amish church. Bishop Henry recited a rote list of questions. I don’t remember exactly what they were, but something to the effect that I had realized the error of my ways, confessed my sins, repented, and requested to rejoin the church as a full member. After each question, he paused. And after each question I answered yes.
It was an inverse version of my baptism. The somber stillness. The rote ceremony. The restrained joy of a lost sheep found. After the final question, Bishop Henry paused, then spoke. “Before we proceed further, we will pray. Will the congregation please stand?” And all rose to their feet. I remained on my knees.
Bishop Henry launched into a long, recited prayer, his voice rising and falling in a rhythmic flow. After the prayer ended, everyone was seated once again. Bishop Henry approached and stood before me. He extended his hand, and I reached out and grasped it.
“In the name of God and the church, I extend my hand,” he intoned. “Arise.” I stood. Before that room of witnesses, in the silence reflecting ancient ritual, we greeted each other with the holy kiss. I stood there, unmoving, as Bishop Henry kindly wished me well in the future and hoped that I would always remain true to the vows I had just spoken. Then it was over. I was restored as a full member. Bishop Henry motioned me to my seat, and I sat there as we were dismissed.
It’s hard now to describe my feelings in that moment. I suppose I felt as lost as I ever had. But I smiled and shook the hands of those who came to wish me well. This would be my last Sunday in Bloomfield, Iowa, as a member of the Old Order Amish church.
And then the day ended, as all days must. I planned to leave the next week and head back to northern Indiana. Back to Phillip and Fannie and their large, empty home. Back to a new community for a fresh new start, where I would make my mark in life.
Before leaving, I sold my buggy, the Mullet model, still as good as new, with its shiny, black velvet interior. It had not been used much in my absence. I advertised it in the local Penny Saver at a hugely discounted price, and it sold the first day.
Before the next Sunday arrived, I shook the dust from Bloomfield. I never returned—as an Amish person.
32
I boarded the train in Ottumwa and traveled back to Ligonier, where Phillip and Fannie welcomed me. They were solid, simple people, happy to do what they could to help.
And so began my time in northern Indiana. I settled in, landing a job at the Starcraft RV factory in Topeka. I would make it this time. I would force myself to make it. Too much was riding on this effort, including my own salvation.
It was not an easy road, settling in a strange land like that. Not being from the area, I found little social structure geared to my needs. Too old to run with the local youth and not really interested in the singings, I hung out with Phillip and his social circle, which I found to be daunting and ultimately very discouraging.
The northern Indiana Amish were good, steady people, just a bit different from anything I’d ever known. Actually, a lot different. They were entrenched in their own ways and their own habits, and none, as far as I could tell, had the slightest interest in the world outside the boundaries of their communities. Many were willfully ignorant and seemed determined to remain so.
But having traveled this far, I bravely soldiered on. I applied for membership in the Ligonier District. The mad bishop smiled grimly but kept his promise to accept me as a member of his church—even though it was clear he did not expect me to make it. To him, I was plainly a heathen, someone not to be trusted. I wouldn’t last. He had sensed that from the moment he met me. Maybe