We were polite, but firm and insistent. And innocent. He stroked his long reddish beard thoughtfully, perhaps trying to imagine how he could incorporate this experience into a fire-and-brimstone sermon the next time he preached. But we remained polite and respectful, giving him nothing about which he could wring his hands over and preach. No shocking behavior, no back talk. After some moments of consideration, he gulped and cleared his throat several times.

Then he said carefully and deliberately, aI can believe it, and I want to believe it, and I will believe it, that you didnat do it.a His stern visage did not soften, not even a fraction.

We thanked him and left it at that.

He was true to his word, whether he actually believed us or not. For that one statement, at least, I have always respected him.

19.

As Iave said, when I look back, I believe Marvin might have stuck it out had I not influenced him. But being the true friend he was, he hung in there with me. Gradually we made our plans to leave once again, saving up a few bucks where we could. I even sold my shotgun for some quick money.

Iam not sure that we would have chosen to leave, had the walls of our world not been closing in around us. I mean, Iad left twice already and returned. Marvin had left once and returned. Itas not an easy thing, to pick up, pack up, and head out. And itas not an easy thing to return. Either physically or emotionally. In a sense, I guess, we were acting like bugs on a hot stove top. Moving around instinctively to the edges, where there was less heat. And right then, the heat was on in Bloomfield. It might be less so in, say, Florida.

They all knew we were going, our families, even though we never came out and said so. They could tell. Then one evening, after everyone else had already retired, I got up to get ready for bed. Dad was sitting on the couch, reading The Budget. As I walked by him, he cleared his throat, his cla.s.sic method of triggering a conversation. I stopped and looked at him.

aAhem.a He cleared his throat again. aI have a question for you.a He paused. I stood there silently, looking at him.

aWill you be around over the winter and to help with farming in the spring?a That was it. A simple question. But I was astounded. It was the first time in my life that Dad gave even the slightest indication that I might have a choice in the matter. It was the first time in my memory that such a subject was broached without all the strident admonitions of how I should straighten up, behave myself, and settle down.

I stood there, gaping at him. Speechless. What had gotten into the man? He was asking me if I was going to leave or stay home to help with the farmwork.

In retrospect, I think, it was the first time ever that he spoke to me as a man. Man to man. And thatas why I was so surprised. Sad to say, I did not rise to the occasion. I stuttered a bit, hedging. I knew I was leaving. Our plans were firming up every day. It was just a matter of weeks now.

Finally I spoke. aI donat know,a I mumbled. It was a lie. Of course I knew. And he knew I knew. I just wasnat brave enough to tell him straight out. I wasnat used to being treated as if I had a thought of my own. Or choices. But he let it go.

aWell, it would be nice if we knew whether or not weall need to hire some help this spring,a he said. Then he turned back to his paper. Still stunned, I went off to bed.

We left a month or so after that, in January 1981. Again. The third time for me in as many years. My deeds and choices were rapidly cementing my reputation as a hard-core rebel. And yet, through it all, I can honestly say that I harbored little anger in my heart. Some, sure. But mostly sadness. And increasing desperation. Each time I left made it that much harder to imagine ever returning for good.

We left, this time, in the full light of day. No sneaking out at night. No notes under the pillow. And no disappearing during the day without any word or warning. I still remember the heaviness in the house that day. Mom flitted about, not saying a lot, making sure I had some clean clothes packed. I didnat have the heart to tell her that there wasnat much sense packing Amish clothes because where I was going, I wouldnat need them. So I let her pack some in my suitcase. Dad didnat formally say good-bye; instead, he disappeared into his little office to write. Rhoda, my younger sister, chatted amiably, but I could see she was tense and sad. She told me to be careful and gave me a candy bar, a precious treat, to eat on the road. Nathan lurked about somewhere, out of sight. Silent. Watching.

I wasnat particularly joyous; all I wanted was to be out of there. Away from this oppressive place. To new experiences in new lands.

After lunch, one of my English friends drove in with his car. I picked up my bags and walked out. Marvin had found his own way to town. We met in Bloomfield, boarded the bus, and headed south. Our destination, Florida, seemed like a good place, especially during the middle of an Iowa winter.

We traveled to Sarasota, Florida, and the little suburb of Pinecraft, which for decades has been a winter hot spot for vacationing Amish and Mennonite peoplea"and for wild Amish youth. We knew few people when we got there. Even so, we soon found a room and jobs.

Our money was tight, as always. And the first few weeks were tough. During the day, we toiled in the hot Florida sun, mixing mud and slinging heavy concrete blocks on a mason crew. And gradually, as the days and weeks pa.s.sed, we settled in.

We pooled our funds that summer and bought an old 1971 Mercury Cougar, an old-style powerhouse with a 351 Cleveland engine. Being Amish farm boys, we had no clue what a 351 Cleveland was, but everyone seemed impressed when we bragged about it.

With our own wheels, we were as free as wead ever been. We worked shirtless in the sun all that summer. Hard, lean, tanned to a deep, deep brown, and impossibly fit, we were in the prime and pa.s.sion of young adulthood.

And life was pretty good. We lived in a tiny one-room shack, a converted garage behind someoneas house. It was truly small, probably twelve by fifteen feet, with a tiny bathroom and shower, a bed in one corner, and a pullout couch. But it was our own. We made friends among Amish youth from other settlements across the land and found they were a good deal like us. On weekends, we partied hard. (This was back when the legal drinking age was still eighteen.) We hung out in bars on Sat.u.r.day nights until they closed, then drove home, solidly impaired, yet always arriving unscathed. In those bars I imbibed and enjoyed shots of Wild Turkey whiskey for the first time and marveled at the way it made me feel.

One Sat.u.r.day night that fall, in the Flamingo Bar, located in some faceless strip mall in suburban Sarasota, someone tutored me on the intricacies of the game of football. Iad never understood it before, but that night I saw for the first time what a great and brilliant game it was. On an old color TV on the wall, the New York Jets were playing some other team I donat remember. It was preseason, and the Jets were engineering a furious but futile comeback in the closing minutes. And on the spot I rashly declared myself a Jets fan. It has been a long and mostly dreary journey since that night. But hope springs eternal.

As the weeks trickled by, we did the things that young men did back in those days, and while we didnat necessarily prosper, we survived.

Of course, our survival did not include much thought about the future. Not in any coherent sense. Vaguely, we figured wead return to Bloomfield. And the Amish church. Someday. And make it work, as we had seen so many others do. As some of our buddies had already done. But there was no set date; in close to the purest sense, we lived from day to day and from week to week. Nothing more than that. It was as if we existed in a mental fog.

I still smoked. Ever since my Nebraska days I had been hooked on tobacco. I couldnat imagine starting a day without that first delicious cigarette. No, it wasnat healthy. But at that age, youth believes it will live forever.

It was a strange thing, and I donat quite understand it, even today, but when we were out there, living and working in normal society, thoughts of home, the good thingsa" the security, the family, the comfortsa"somehow always crept in and drew us back. And so it was that year in Florida.

Sometime that fall, probably in September, we both knew that we would be back home in Bloomfield by winter. It didnat seem like a bad thing. Wead been gone for the better part of a year, and we longed for our old haunts, our old friends.

By late October, both of us had returned. This time, we were determined to make it work. This time, we would do it. This time, we really meant it.

That vague and distant future, never more than two weeks out, was now upon us. The time had come for us to do what we had seen so many others around us do, including wild youth we had met and befriended in Pinecraft. (A good many of them are settled and married today, with families. Amish.) Now we, too, would walk that path. It was time.

In my head I figured I could make it work. I knew I could. Somehow. But in my heart, well, those were days when promptings from the heart were quashed. Ignored. Buried, somewhere, out there on the edges of my consciousness, where they belonged. So I trudged doggedly onward, determined to endure whatever it took to settle down and remain Amish.

The preachers greeted us kindly enough when we made known our plans to join church the next spring. As rigid and unbending as the Amish might appear, one thing is true: Any wayward son (or daughter) who returns to the fold of the Amish church is always welcomed, regardless of what he has done in the past. He might be viewed a bit warily, and sure, he has some things to prove. But he is still welcomed, and genuinely so.

Marvin lived in the east district, so we didnat get to join together. Instead, he followed church with a little group of slightly younger youth. By now, my district had ordained its own bishop, our neighbor Henry Hochstedler, who had been a preacher for years. In my district, I took the baptismal instructions with one other young man, Chris Hochstedler. Bishop Henryas son.

Bishop Henry was originally from Arthur, Illinois. He was a kind man, mostly, but pretty set in his ways. A plodding, methodical worker, he kept his little farm impeccably tidy. All his animals were well cared for, his horses fat and gleaming. He milked a few cows and raised a flock of sheep, struggling bravely to pay his bills.

He preached the same way he worked: slowly, methodically, the words rolling effortlessly from his tongue in a rhythmic, lulling flow. As a bishop, he was unexceptional but steady. Under this man, then, I began my second try at joining the Amish church.

For me, the summer was one of deep, quiet desperation. I seemed to be walking down a long, dark hallway with no light at the end. And no end, for that matter. But I was determined this time to stick it out. To go all the way. It would not be an easy road.

From a distance, or from outside, my decision makes no sense. But it made all the sense in the world to me in that moment, to keep slogging on, to walk the road that equated eternal life with earthly misery. Besides, I figured, if others could do it, so could I. And why wouldnat I have thought that?

I managed to kick cigarettes, at least temporarily, but only because I used smokeless tobacco instead. It was odorless, and much easier to hide. Then one day someone saw me buying a tin of Skoal at Chuckas Caf in West Grove and told the preachers. The next Sunday, as the instructional conference was winding down, Bishop Henry momentarily deserted his usual impersonal comments and confronted me.

aIra,a he said in a firm tone. I jolted, fully alert. Iad never been addressed by name in any previous instruction cla.s.s. Panicked thoughts flashed through my mind. This could not possibly be a good thing.

He continued. aAn English neighbor stopped in and told me that he saw you buying tobacco at Chuckas Caf. I, of course, hoped it was not true. But I wanted to ask you here.a Sadness, or what he figured pa.s.sed for it, lined his face. He looked right at me. The other preachers sat there, mostly looking at the floor.

aIs it true?a Bishop Henry asked simply, still gazing at me intently.

I sat there, almost frozen with shock and surprise. Fear and desperation rippled through me in waves. Hot denials sprang to my lips. Who in the world could have seen and tattled? Which English neighbor would be so idiotic, so stupid, as to go to my bishop and tell him what he saw? But, after a few eternally long seconds, during which a thousand scenarios flashed through my mind, I looked right back at him. In the eyes.

aYeah, I guess it is true,a I admitted ruefully.

He arched his eyebrows and looked officially and properly grieved. Still, he smiled a sad smile.

aIam very glad you were honest. If you had lied, it would have made things a lot worse,a he said kindly. aBut,a he added somberly, athis will, of course, delay the date of baptism until we can see true fruits in your life.a I nodded, still stunned. And then, mercifully, Chris and I were dismissed. I stumbled from the room, my mind in turmoil.

And thatas the way it went. Over the summer, I stiffened in resistance. Fretted inside, vehemently. What did they think I was, some lame-brained weakling? And by late July, I was traveling on the same path as the last time I had tried to join. With each pa.s.sing week, I became more convinced that I couldnat make it. It was just too hard. I didnat want it that badly.

Then came August.

20.

My brother t.i.tus was working the home farm that summer. A tall, lanky young man of twenty-three, he was in a serious relationship with Ruth Yutzy, Marvinas older sister. The two of them had dated a few years earlier, broken up for a couple of years, and now had gotten back together. And when that happens, it usually doesnat take longa"any astute observer could see that their wedding was not too far off. Probably the next spring.

On August 3, 1982, a warm, muggy summer evening, t.i.tus. .h.i.tched up his powerful stallion and headed out the drive. He was going to Ruthas place for supper. Some of the Yutzy clan was gathering for a wiener roast. I remember seeing the open buggy, hitched to the stallion, as they clattered away. He arrived at Ruthas house, and they all had a loud, jolly time, laughing and feasting on hot dogs. After supper, the boys, my friends Marvin and Rudy among them, decided to go swimming in the pond out in the field west of the house. They splashed and swam. Frolicked and laughed. Since there was no diving board, they took turns pitching one another into the air and out across the water.

Then it was t.i.tusas turn. A boy stood on each side, cupping his hands. t.i.tus stepped into their hands, balanced himself by placing his hands on their shoulders, and shouted, aGo!a They launched him up and out. He sliced cleanly through the air, then bent and dove straight down into the water. So clean was his dive that he created hardly a ripple on the wateras surface.

The others stood about. aWhat a beaut!a they said. A perfect dive. Seconds pa.s.sed, but t.i.tus did not resurface. Then more time pa.s.sed, and the boys grew restless. One of them, wading out from sh.o.r.e, suddenly b.u.mped into t.i.tus just below the surface. He had drifted back in. Marvin and Rudy grabbed him and pulled him onto sh.o.r.e, where he coughed and sputtered. He had almost drowned.

On his beautiful dive, t.i.tus had hit the bottom headfirst, crushing his fifth vertebra.

When the news reached us at home, it was dark, and I had already gone to bed, although I was not asleep. A vehicle came barreling into our lane. Through the open window I could hear the engine roar and tires crunching on the gravel. Shadows bounced and pitched on my bedroom walls. Then the vehicle slid to a halt in our driveway. I heard a truck door slam, followed by a staccato of footsteps up the walks and a great clattering up the steps.

I was annoyed. Doesnat whoever it is know that itas bedtime? People are trying to sleep here. Then I heard my sister Rachelas voice, speaking a rush of words so fast I could not grasp what she was saying. aA terrible accident . . . t.i.tus . . . dive . . . pond . . . hospital . . . bad . . . canat feel anything.a Then came my dadas voice, calm and disbelieving. Then hurrying steps in the house as he and Mom prepared to leave with d.i.c.k Hutchins, the English man who had brought Rachel to our house. I got up and was quickly told what had happened. After they left, I returned to bed, but I did not sleep that night.

The next morning we learned that t.i.tus had been flown to Iowa City in a helicopter. A helicopter? I thought. It must be bad.

Mom stayed at the hospital, but Dad returned later that day, looking drained. He tried to put on a good face, but I could tell he was shaken. The doctorsa diagnosis had been grim. t.i.tus was paralyzed. They would do what they could. Some feeling might return. But they thought not. We listened in a haze of disbelief. The words were clear, but we could not grasp them. The first full day pa.s.sed in slow motion.

When the second morning dawned, we got up and did the ch.o.r.es, then ate a somber breakfast. No one was really hungry. As was the custom in our home, after breakfast Dad took his German Bible and read a pa.s.sage out loud. We then knelt for morning prayer, which was always recited from a little black prayer book. Dad didnat use the book because he knew the prayers by heart. He got through the five-minute prayer with no trouble until the end, which closes with the Lordas Prayer. With barely a pause, he began the familiar refrain, his rich, mellow voice rising and falling in the rhythmic, comforting flow wead heard a thousand times before: aUnser Vater in dem Himmel, geheiligt verde Dein Name. Zu uns komme Dein Reich.a aOur Father Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom comea"a Abruptly his voice broke, and he faltered. He struggled silently for some moments. Through the vast gulf that separated me from him at the time, and in the grip of my own shock and grief, my heart cried out for him. A tough, stoic, hard-bitten old Amish man. Broken. Hurting. In anguish before G.o.d. For his son. Fighting emotions he could not show.

He wept silently and cleared his throat. Began speaking again, then stopped. Silence. Struggle. Cleared his throat again. But then he said the words, and I have always believed from the bottom of my heart that he meant them with all of his: aThy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.a The tragedy invaded every breath and corner of our lives that summer, fall, and beyond. The weeks crawled by as we absorbed the heavy truth. t.i.tus would never walk again. After some months at the hospital, he moved to the rehab center for many more months. And then, sometime that winter, he came home. In his wheelchair.

The Amish have one of the strongest and most efficient support structures in existence. When tragedy strikes, the community rallies around and provides whatever physical and financial support is needed, as it did for us. But the system is also lacking in at least one very important aspect. It offers no real way to cope with the emotional aftereffects of tragic events, especially unexpected ones. This is not a criticism, merely an observation. Itas just the way it is. Communication is spa.r.s.e or nonexistent. Feelings are quashed. One is expected to accept and bear oneas burdens in silence. And one does.

This stoicism comes from a mixture of faith and tradition. Underlying everything, there rests a degree of faith. The actual degree of faith depends on the individual person, of course. But on the surface, often, the structured response to tragedy is a recitation of broad generalizations, like baptismal instructions. Traditions, going way back. Traditions that will endure as long as the Amish endure.

And thatas what the public sees and hears. Both the English public and the Amish public.

After the accident, I pulled back from the brink of one more rebellious explosion and continued taking instructions for baptism. We were all in shock, and it was unthinkable now for me to even consider any alternatives. There was too much to do. I was needed to stay home and take care of the farm. I wasnat that willing, really. I didnat care for farming. But there was no alternative. Anything less on my part would have been considered hugely selfish. Especially since I was already joining church. So I stayed.

And the following month, on a Sunday morning in mid-September, the day of my baptism arrived. Bishop Henry Hochstedler would officiate. That morning, in the Obrote conference, we received our final instructions and then walked back to join the congregation for the final time as nonmembers. We sat on a bench specifically for us, directly in front of the preachersa bench. Soon the preachers returned as well, and the service proceeded. After the opening sermon and Scripture reading, Bishop Henry stood and preached the standard baptismal sermon, going on for well over an hour. And as the end approached, he paused. Then he turned and addressed us. If we still felt as we had earlier that morning, we should get down on our knees.

We had reached the ultimate moment. Too late now to turn back. Not that I would have considered it, even remotely. Not now. I had forced myself to trust all those vacant promises, the cultural clichs that told me if only I joined and settled down, everything would work out. That I would never regret this choice. Of this I was a.s.sured, countless times, over and over.

It was like swimming across a raging river, fighting the silent, hungry undertow of the waters. Fighting to stay afloat. And now I had crossed more than halfway. I was approaching the distant sh.o.r.e. It made no sense to turn back. There was only one path open, one way to swima"forward.

We slid from our bench and knelt. Chrisa"the bishopas sona"and I. The deacon approached, hovering off to one side, holding a small pitcher of water. The bishop stood before us and paused. All was silent. It was a holy moment. All in the congregation strained to see, to witness this event.

And then the bishop spoke. aDo you believe and affirm your belief that Jesus Christ is the Son of G.o.d?a We repeated the refrain as we had been told to do that morning in our final cla.s.s. I spoke first. Then Chris.

aYes, I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of G.o.d.a aWill you remain steadfast to the church, whether it leads to life or to death?a aYes.a And then a few more rote questions. We answered in the affirmative. aYes.a Bishop Henry paused again. aBefore we go further, these two applicants have requested our prayers. Everyone please stand.a The congregation stood as we remained on our knees. The bishop intoned the short prayer from a little black prayer book, his voice rising and falling in an almost hypnotic flow.

Then the prayer was finished, and the congregation was seated. The bishop stepped up and cupped his hands over my head, and the deacon stepped forward, ready with his pitcher.

The bishop proceeded with practiced ease, the words rolling from his tongue, aUpon your confession of faith, I baptize you in the name of the Father . . .a The deacon sprinkled a few drops of water on my head. a. . . in the name of the Son . . .a Another sprinkle. a. . . and in the name of the Holy Spirit.a Final sprinkle. aAmen.a The bishop then flattened his cupped hands and wiped the water drops into my hair.

Then he stepped before his son. Repeated the refrain, while the deacon sprinkled water during the proper pauses. We were now baptized. The bishop turned back to me and extended his hand. aIn the name of the Lord and the church, arise,a he said. I grasped his hand and stood. We greeted each other with the holy kiss. He did the same to his son.

We stood there, Chris and I, full members of the Old Order Amish church. Bishop Henry officially welcomed us. We were now no longer pilgrims and strangers, he proclaimed, but brothers in Christ, in the church of G.o.d. I was twenty-one years old.

I looked at him as he spoke to us. He was smiling in genuine welcome. If fragmented memories of my rough and wicked past flashed through his mind at that moment, he didnat let on. The wild and wayward son, the wanderer, had taken the long road. But now, at long last, he was home. Safely in the fold. Safely inside the box.

Iam sure his joy was genuine and sincere. As it was for my parents. Dad would never have told me, but he was relieved and truly happy that I had actually joined the church. And Momas joy shone from her face as she smiled and smiled. I had put them through so much. But they gladly forgot the past, gladly forgave all I had done, and simply rejoiced in this moment.

I had done it. Gone all the way this time. But even as I stood and joined my brethren after the service, even then, a strange emptiness lingered inside me.

There had been no epiphany, no sudden explosion of light and awareness. Or joy. Actually, other than the stress of the ceremony, there wasnat a whole lot of anything, except a nagging feeling that somehow I had just walked through a doorway into another place, a place from which it would be impossible to return.

I felt pretty much the same as I always had these past five years. Confused. Half-scared. Trapped. Resigned. And, deep down, desperately lost.

21.

After t.i.tusas accident, he remained in critical condition at the Iowa City Hospital for several weeks. He had faced death back in that farm pond and had barely escaped. It was a close thing. Very close. Had the wind been blowing away from sh.o.r.e, the waters would have swept him out toward the center of the pond as he hovered, powerless to move, just below the surface. He would have died. As it was, the wind was blowing toward the sh.o.r.e and, thus, drifting him in. He had been under the water for close to two minutes.

After moving out of intensive care, he remained hospitalized for several months before being transferred to a rehab center in Waterloo, Iowa. And there he began the long, arduous process of learning how to live as a quadriplegic. Most quads are paralyzed from the neck down and donat even have the use of their arms. But a tiny bit of fortune smiled on t.i.tus that terrible night. Although technically a quad, he could freely move his arms. Not his fingersa"they were curled and lifeless. But he had his arms. And his brain.

Still reeling from the shock of this harsh new reality, we slogged on with our lives week to week. Dad and Mom spent a lot of days with t.i.tus. Especially Mom. She stayed at his bedside for days on end, both at the hospital and later in rehab. Once or twice I stayed with him for a couple of days. We struggled as we spoke. It was beyond strange to see my brother, chopped at the core, felled like a maturing oak before its time, and forced to enter a new existence, a new world. It was one I could observe but never, never comprehend. We talked of life as it had been, from our memories. We flinched and hedged from speaking of life as it was and as it was to be. But ultimately, we did even that. Awkwardly, almost lightheartedly, because that was the mask t.i.tus wore.

Although well meaning and certainly helpful, many of the Bloomfield Amish people turned into annoying pests. Eager, hungry they were, for all the latest tidbits. So they could send them on down the gossip pipeline, as interpreted by themselves. They launched an incessant barrage of simple questions, with one repeated a thousand times: aDoes he have a lot of pain?a What does one say to that? aWell, let me think. Heas lying there with a metal frame screwed to his head. He can move his arms. And his head. Nothing else. What do you think? Would that be painful?a It got so wead just mumble incoherently and turn away.

We had no medical insurance. Most Amish people donat. t.i.tus was twenty-three and technically on his own, so Dad wouldnat have been responsible for the bills. He could have shrugged his shoulders, bemoaned his sonas plight, and feigned helplessness.

But he took it upon himself to look after the bills. To accept them as his own. The decision created a lot of problems. The bills continued to mount, and there was no way Dad could pay them all. He conferred with the Bloomfield church fathers. They counseled him to accept the bills. Somehow, the church would help get them paid. The church fathers also appealed to other Amish churches in surrounding communities. But it seemed hopeless. The bills were mounting inexorably, tens of thousands of dollars.

And then a strange and wonderful thing happened. It came out of Aylmer. Old Aylmer, the place where I had been born and raised. Aylmer, still the shining city on a hill. At least publicly.

The Aylmer people were quite shocked by the news of the accident, and they were sympathetic. In the next issue of Family Life, preacher Elmo Stoll, Aylmeras powerful undisputed leader, wrote poignantly of our plight in his lead editorial. Briefly he wrote of t.i.tus and of the tragedy that had struck that August night.