Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [90]
But that’s what I had been trying to do, all these many months, these many miles. Doing what was right, or what I believed was right. It wasn’t working. I was, in fact, failing spectacularly. There was no sense in continuing. No sense in constantly knocking my head against the wall. And so I remained silent, confided in no one, and slipped ever deeper into that mental trench of darkness from which I could see no way out.
And then, sometime during the darkness of those desperate days, it came to me. A sliver of light, an idea. I don’t know how or from where. Although I’d been taught all my life to pray, I never did much, because I never saw that it did any good. Not for those around me, at least. Every day the Amish launched some of the most beautifully written prayers out there. It was a formal thing, praying. Approach God, read some poetic lines from a little black book, and then get up and go about your day, secure in the knowledge that you had done your duty, that you would be protected. In church, of course, every single syllable in every prayer was scripted, read from a book or memorized, word for word. That’s all I knew about praying. All I had ever seen.
Normally, I wouldn’t have considered praying, not for a second. It would never have crossed my mind. Even if it had, I would have shrugged it off. But this was not a normal time.
I decided that I could simply talk to God. Ask for his help. Not by reading from a little black book, but by talking to him, man to man. Or man to God. Whatever.
I thought about it. I figured it wouldn’t work. But, hey, it couldn’t hurt to try. What was there to lose? So one day I did. I spoke to God. Informally. I don’t remember my specific words, only that I prayed. I had no desire to remain Amish. In my mind, I equated that with having no desire to do what was right.
My request was a simple, desperate plea: God, I don’t expect you to hear me. I mean, why would you? But if you do hear, give me the desire to do what’s right. I don’t have even that much.
And that was it. Nothing profound. No Amen, even. No flash of enlightenment struck me. I still felt exactly the same and trudged on through the dreariness of everyday life, forgetting even that I had prayed. I had little hope—actually none—that my prayer would be heard, much less answered. God didn’t have time for wicked people like me. Not after all I had done. Not after so deliberately, so frequently, turning my back on everything I had been taught from childhood. Most likely I had blasphemed the Holy Spirit, which meant there was no hope for me. Ever.
I was lost. And I knew I was lost.
33
He walked into my life less than a month later, unexpectedly and abruptly, as I was strolling along the sidewalk in the small town of Topeka after work. I didn’t pay any attention to him as he approached. Topeka swarmed with Amish people, from morning until night. Bearded men of every type. Women bundled in bonnets and shawls, lugging squalling babies. And Amish children everywhere. They were total strangers to me, except for the few I had gotten to know at work and in church. Mostly, I paid them no mind. And mostly, they ignored me.
But this man glanced at me sharply and then walked straight toward me. He was tall and thin as a rail. He was obviously married, with a long black beard, and he had finely honed, sensitive features. The ubiquitous black felt hat perched on his head, covering a full head of straight-hanging hair. Closer, closer we walked toward each other. His piercing gaze never left my face. I would have brushed past him and continued on my way, but he stopped and smiled, looking right at me. So I stopped too. Who was this wacko, and what did he want?
“Hello. You must be a stranger in these parts.” He smiled, extending his hand.
Sure a friendly chap, whoever he was.