Life was not simpler then.
My name was Amos Bracken, and I was Amish. I grew up in a Community in Ohio.
I remember it well. I can still taste the home-churned butter on the home-baked bread. Hear the clopping of the horse's hooves as it pulled our buggy down the road. Smell the sweat and manure as I walked behind the plow in the field.
But life was not so simple as you might think. As they might have you believe.
The weight of God was always upon me. The weight of the Community. Their rules and expectations a relentless crushing force.
If you stepped out of line, you were punished or shunned. Your own family would turn against you if the elders decreed it.
I used to long for a truly simple life, like the lives of the Englishers around us. The rules on them were not so strict. The weights on their shoulders, I thought, seemed not so great as the weight upon mine.
As a teenager, I began to drift. When we went to town for business or supplies, I'd wander off to watch the girls on the street and the TV sets in the restaurants and shops. I would daydream I was part of that world—just another Englisher walking along on my way to somewhere interesting. Flashy clothes and car keys instead of tattered overalls and a sugar cube for the horse.
But the weight upon me held me down. Nothing came of my daydreams until years later.
I met a girl in town. Her name was Lydia. This was after I was betrothed to a girl in the Community.
I couldn't help myself. Lydia was full of light and excitement. She was an artist and musician; her work overflowed with beauty and honesty.
She had flashing blonde hair and blue eyes like the sky on the brightest summer morning. She dressed like no one else I'd ever seen—clashing mixtures of style and color, wild tangles of homemade jewelry, elaborate footwear.
She was like no one else in my world. She was my every dream of freedom and change brought to life in one person.
Of course I fell in love with her. And she returned the favor.
You can't imagine what that was like. After a lifetime of being buried alive, I could finally see daylight. I could finally breathe.
After a lifetime of never seeing a flower, I held one in my hand.
I began to think about leaving the Community to be with her. In my heart, I had already left the day we met.
I would gladly leave behind my family, my bride-to-be, my neighbors. I would happily abandon God and the Church. If I never again felt that crushing weight upon me, I would be the better for it.
My life was about to begin.
I decided to surprise her. I packed some things and said goodbye to my mother and father. Took my leave of the Community, burning all my bridges behind me.
This was on a Saturday night.
I hitchhiked into town and showed up on Lydia's doorstep. When she came to the door, she was not as happy to see me as I'd expected.
This was because she was a freer spirit than I'd realized. I soon discovered she had another man in her apartment.
For the first time in my adult life, I gave in to rage. Without the weight of God upon me, it was easy to do.
I pushed my way into the apartment and attacked the other man. Pounded him black and blue and bloody. Threw him out on the sidewalk.
And then Lydia threw me out after him. I waited there in the rain until the police came and picked me up, answering her call.
I spent the night in a jail cell. Lying on a cot, facing the wall, crying over what had happened. What I'd done.
The next morning, Sunday, the police drove me home. They took me to church, because of course that's where everyone would be.
Hanging my head in shame, I pushed open the doors and walked inside.
One of the two policemen gasped. That was when I raised my head.
That was when I saw what had happened in the church that morning.