Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [96]
Only to the widow Barbara was I honest. I told her my plans, and where I was going, that I was leaving the Amish and joining a Mennonite church in Daviess. She was sad, but only because I was leaving and because I wouldn’t come around anymore to read The Budget and drink her coffee. Of all my friends in northern Indiana, she would miss me the most. I stopped by as often as I could during those last few days.
And then the day arrived. I got up early and walked down the road to say good-bye to Barbara, my surrogate mother. In the final moments, she wept quietly, grasped my arm, then hugged me tight. For a minute or so, she could not speak. But then she smiled through her tears.
“Go,” she said. “Go in peace, and go with God. Stop in and see me when you are in the area.”
“I will,” I promised. And we stood there in heavy silence. There was nothing more to say. We knew, both of us, that this might be the last time we saw each other. She was elderly, in her seventies, and might not survive many more years. We both knew full well that I would most likely never come around again.
Dean’s younger brother, Nate, arrived a short time later, and we quickly loaded my few belongings in his van. I walked through the house one last time, checking for any misplaced items, locked the door, placed the key under the mat outside, got into the van, and we were off.
We pulled onto the road and passed the widow Barbara’s house. I saw her wrinkled face clearly, watching through the glass. She waved. I waved back.
I never said good-bye to Sam. Things between us were tense, really tense, by then. Our hearts were hardened toward each other. And so even this departure, so different from all the others in my past, was tinged with sadness and regret.
But my face was set to the south, to a new beginning. My heart was calm. My soul content. Behind us, the Amish settlement of northern Indiana receded in the distance as, in time, it would recede into the mists of the memories of my past.
I was leaving the Amish. Again. There was no plan, long term, except perhaps in some vague, undefined sense. But I was quietly confident it would all work out. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. In five years. And beyond.
For the first time, I was not running in frantic despair into some wild and dangerous horizon. For the first time, I was leaving with a clear mind, quietly focused on faith, not fear. For the first time, I was leaving behind all the baggage, all the tortured, broken dreams, all the pain of so much loss and heartbreak.
For the first time, I was focused on an unknown future. Whatever it held, it would be okay. I would be okay. This I knew in my heart. I felt it deeply. Calmly.
And this time I knew there would be no return.
Epilogue
More than two decades have passed since the morning of my final departure from Goshen, Indiana, and the last vestiges of my Amish past. I could not have known that day of the many and tremendously varied experiences that awaited me. It’s been a great, grand journey, unique in so many ways. Exhilarating at times, and frightening at others. Here and there the road has been rough, but always vastly exciting and mostly fulfilling.
I have never looked back. Except to reminisce, remember, and reflect. On how it was. And how it went.
The good things. And the bad.
Despite harboring some resentment at the Amish in general for a number of years, I have come to terms with the aftermath of that hard and desperate journey and the bitter turmoil of nearly a decade of wasted years. Would I wish such a journey, at such steep cost, on anyone, ever? Of course not. But had I not traveled that long and troubled road, I would not be the man I am today.
Sadly, after I made the choice to leave, my good friend Sam chose to turn his face from me in sorrow. Soon after my departure, I attempted to reach out to him once or twice, but my olive branch was ignored, rejected by his silence. After that, I gave up and let it go. We