Fearless Hope: A Novel (41 page)

The grandfather, seated up front on the men’s side, welcomed his little grandson, who was holding a toy tractor and proceeded to run it over the grandfather’s knee and large Bible throughout the rest of the service. The grandfather looked dour to me, and I expected him to make the child stop. Instead, he fondly patted the little guy’s head and went back to listening to the preacher, unconcerned that he was being used as a runway.

As the service continued, I noticed that the children’s trips to
the rented Porta-Jon were becoming more and more frequent. Also, a great thirst had apparently overtaken many of them. Several walked in and out of services, using the bathroom, drinking out of a large Igloo cooler situated at the back of the tent. It surprised me to see that the health-conscious Amish had provided only one cup for this community water supply. I wondered if it was because they considered themselves such a close family unit that they did not deem it necessary to provide individual paper cups.

The preaching continued unabated throughout all this activity. Although the preachers paused often to gather their thoughts, the children wandering in and out did not seem to upset their concentration.

The bride and the groom sat together in the front row, along with their carefully chosen witnesses—usually the bride’s best friend or sister and the groom’s best friend or brother. These “side-sitters,” along with the bride and groom, do not do anything except listen intently. This bride, a naturally happy person, was more solemn than I had ever seen her as she absorbed the words of the preacher. She wore a dark navy-blue dress with a white apron. She also wore a black bonnet. This was to emphasize the solemnity of the occasion. After the wedding, she would once again wear the white head covering. She carried no bouquet. There would be no exchange of rings.

Suddenly I heard the preacher say a complete phrase in English. “Divorce is not an option,” and I wondered if he spoke these words for the benefit of the bridal couple, or was trying to make a point to the
Englisch
visitors.

Then the whole church rose, turned around, and knelt in front of their bench, bowing their heads and engaging in silent prayer. The preacher apparently had given a cue that I did not understand.

This was not the first time I had experienced the Amish
way of praying silently even within a group. I don’t know why they do this, nor does the husband of one of my Amish friends, whom I asked later. I was used to being “led in prayer” at my church services and at shared meals. My guess is that they believe for one man to attempt to “lead” the prayers for the many would be arrogant.

I like their custom of silent prayer. Having allowed my mind to wander too many times during public prayers, I notice that when I am with my Amish friends and left to my own devices to pray in silence for a few moments, I truly do pray.

So, kneeling, I gave thanks for being allowed to be in this place, at this time, with these good people. I asked God to help me portray their culture accurately and with respect. I also prayed for this young couple, that they would learn early in their marriage the importance of being kind to each other—whether they felt like it or not.

We rose and seated ourselves again. The steady stream of the foreign language lulled me into a pleasant, dreamlike state. I was startled when the preaching abruptly ended, and the bride and groom stood up. The preacher said a few words directly to them. They answered and nodded and then suddenly the wedding was over. The actual wedding ceremony itself, after three hours of preaching, took less than three minutes.

Now that the wedding was over, the feasting and visiting began. We walked outside, and I noticed men plucking their hats out of the mountain of black hats stacked in a pile outside. They looked identical to me, and I wondered how they knew whose was whose, so I asked.

“They write their name inside the brim, of course,” Deborah told me. I laughed at such an obvious answer. Deborah was already rushing around in the cool September weather. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were alive with the excitement of hosting this wedding. In spite of having so many other people
around, she took time out to make sure Joyanne and I were inside her house and comfortably seated before she rushed off to check on last-minute food preparations.

The main floor of her house has two large rooms. One is a well-appointed kitchen. The other is lined with chairs in which many older women were sitting quietly visiting with one another. In the kitchen, I met with a young cousin who I understood to be in nursing school.

“How will your people respond to you becoming an RN?” I asked.

“An RN?”

“You know . . . a nurse.”

“I’m not getting an RN,” she said. “I’m getting certified to be a nurse’s helper.”

This made sense. Certification is allowed by the Old Order Amish. High school and college are, like divorce, not an option. I apologized for having misunderstood.

Our semiprivate conversation was cut short, since privacy is apparently not part of the Amish culture. Seeing an
Englisch
woman sitting alone talking with an older cousin is a curiosity. A group of children soon joined us, drinking in every word of our conversation. I realized that my mere presence was entertainment to the little ones.

A few moments later, after she’d swept the sidewalks, Mary, an aunt of the bride, took me aside. “So, what did you think of the wedding?”

“I enjoyed it, but I only understood about five words,” I said. “What were the preachers talking about?”

“They were telling the stories of biblical marriages down through the ages. That’s what they do at every wedding,” she said.

“I thought I recognized the names of some of the biblical patriarchs.”

“Were you bothered by the children coming and going so much during the preaching?”

“No,” I said. “The children at my church seem to need quite a few drinks and trips to the bathroom during worship, too.”

“Oh.” She gave a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad. I was worried you would think badly of us.”

It was a revelation to me that she had been worried about this. I’m always concerned about what visitors will think of our church. It never occurred to me that the Amish would feel the same way.

People began to gravitate toward the large workshop, where tables and benches had been set up. Luke came and ushered us to the correct table. We were among the first to enter, and the sight made me gasp. Snowy tablecloths covered long stretches of tables. Golden-colored mint tea glistened in narrow goblets at each place setting. Fresh flowers were positioned at intervals on each table between the lovely dinnerware, along with candles, white netting, and gold-colored ribbons. Sunshine streamed through sparkling windows and winked back at us from the polished silverware. I was absolutely stunned at the simple, tasteful elegance. This was nothing at all like the church potluck affair that I had once envisioned.

Over the years, I have developed a private, extremely judgmental, and nonscientific predictor about marriages. I have a theory that the longer the guests are made to wait for the bride and groom to appear at the reception dinner, the shorter the marriage will last. This hypothesis was developed one Saturday afternoon as I and the other guests waited at the reception dinner for nearly three hours, while the bride insisted on a picture-taking marathon. That marriage didn’t last even to the first wedding anniversary.

With no wedding pictures to pose for, it took less than a half hour to get everyone in place. It felt like I’d barely had time to
get seated before there was a silent prayer. Then the group sang a song that had been printed on a card left on every plate, and the food began to arrive. Dish after dish was handed down the table as people helped themselves to the bowls and platters of steaming home-cooked food.

Sprinkled throughout the salad was a new type of tomato I had never seen before. It was sweet and approximately the size of a blueberry. Those tiny tomatoes looked so pretty sprinkled among the various greens that I asked about them later, and was told that Deborah had discovered this particular seed and had made sure to grow plenty.

The chicken was so tender it could be cut with a fork; the bread dressing that the bride worked so hard to season was perfection. The two hundred and fifty pounds of potatoes had been whipped into fluffy clouds; green beans were passed, seasoned with ham raised and cured on a relative’s farm. Homemade rolls arrived, along with fresh-churned butter. We were plied with coffee and water in addition to the mint tea. Two kinds of dessert arrived, along with ice cream.

Competent, smiling Amish young people—friends of the bride and groom—glided up and down the aisles and saw to everything. I had never seen even a professionally catered dinner served as smoothly or as gracefully.

The bride and groom were seated in a corner called an
Eck
with what we
Englisch
would refer to as their wedding party. Their table and surroundings were carefully arranged. Not only were there flowers and a wedding cake, but even the walls behind them were decorated. I noted a prayer plaque hanging behind them.

The words to a song had been professionally printed and placed beside each place setting. At some point during the dinner the guests serenaded the couple with what I think was another hymn. Apparently everyone except me and Joyanne was
familiar with this song, written in German, and they sang with enthusiasm, the strong voices echoing off the walls.

I was seated at the very end of a long table. A little girl approximately nine or ten years old stood at the end beside me. From what I could tell, her job was to watch and make sure everyone at our table had everything they needed. She took her responsibility very, very seriously and stood proudly. I noticed that there were other children her age assigned to each table. I saw them also carrying empty bowls to the kitchen to be refilled. From what I could see, every child over the age of eight seemed to have some small job.

There was a short space of quiet as we concentrated on eating, then a second round of food began. Fresh platters of chicken, dressing, green beans, and baskets of rolls were all carried in from the kitchen and started down the table so we could have seconds.

Through a window, I saw the canopied area where a dishwashing area had been set up. It involved three tubs on one side of a table and three tubs on the other. There were six women washing dishes. I could see that they were having a great deal of fun. Even though I could not hear their words, I could see them chatting with one another and laughing. I was impressed with the practicality of this dishwashing system. Six sinks, six faucets, six women up to their elbows in soapsuds. How quickly a potluck at our church could be cleaned up if we had such a station! Everyone who was helping seemed to have a deep sense of belonging. The organizational skills being exhibited were impressive. Everything worked like clockwork. No one seemed to be overwhelmed. There appeared to be real pleasure on the face of everyone who was serving in some capacity.

This did not happen by accident. It’s part of the Amish psyche. Service to one another and to others is deliberately modeled for the children from early childhood on.

I had also seen the impressive planning behind this well-oiled
wedding machine. The day before, Rebecca had shown me her bride’s notebook. It was approximately three inches thick, filled with hand-lettered tabs. One section dealt with job titles:
Eck
servers, parent table, wedding coordinators, water servers, coffee servers, guestbook, dishwashers, gift receivers, babysitters, and hostlers. Beneath each title was a list of family members and friends who had agreed to be responsible for the job.

Cooks
headed another section of the wedding book, with a list of each item of food and who would be responsible for preparing it. Another section had instructions for each dish. These pages had been copied and posted all over the house from the kitchen to the basement to her grandmother’s nearby
Daadi Haus
so that everyone would know exactly what they were supposed to be doing, and when they should be doing it. There was information on where to order the invitations, where to find the vases for the simple flower arrangement on each table, where to purchase the netting and ribbons to be used to decorate each table. Even the children’s jobs were listed, along with the name of each child who would carry out that function.

As I flipped through this bridal book, I couldn’t get over the amount of planning that goes into a “simple” Amish wedding. My preconceived idea of a couple standing up in a barn in front of the bishop and saying a few words seemed incredibly naive. I was convinced that there had been wars fought and won with less planning than had gone into this wedding.

After the meal, everyone was welcome to follow the bride and groom back into the barn, where there was a table set up with gifts. Not everyone came to this. Most of the men stayed outside and visited. Many of the women were involved in the cleanup.

I was seated between Joyanne and Frieda, the bride’s grandmother. Frieda is one of my favorite people in the whole world. She has twelve children and seventy-three grandchildren. At
the moment, the number of her grandchildren exactly matches her age. She is a small, slender woman and it is hard to imagine her having given birth to all those children—but it certainly does not seem to have hurt her. She is as nimble and hardworking as any of her daughters.

As we sat and watched the couple opening their gifts, I noticed a line of six or seven little boys perched upon the top board of a stable, watching. They were all dressed in identical outfits, of course. Black pants, black suspenders, white shirts, black hats—all miniatures of their fathers. They reminded me of little birds lined up on a wire. It was obvious from the smiles and whispers that they were enjoying watching the proceedings.

The opening of gifts was different from anything I’d ever observed at non-Amish weddings. It appeared that it was traditional for the groom to open each gift, and that it was his responsibility to thank the giver. There was no effusive, over-the-top gratitude for an especially nice gift, but merely a dignified nod and thank-you. Every gift was equally appreciated. The bride silently read and kept track of the cards. She seemed content to allow him to take the leading role.