Behind the Amish
Adventures in the Basics
On an August morning a few summers ago, just as the sun was coming up, my family and I began the thirteen-hour drive from the suburbs of Chicago to South Dakota’s Black Hills. By noon, we were in Minnesota, not yet setting sail on that massive ocean of land that is South Dakota. My children are familiar with—or you might say desensitized to—the adversities that long car trips demand: having to “hold it” until a rest stop is located, scrunched and restless legs, the tedium of hour after hour (especially because their countercultural parents refused to allow DVD or videoplayers in the car), and one sibling or another reclining their seat too far back or migrating past an agreed-upon boundary line. All of these issues take their toll on children during car rides of more than a dozen hours.
You might have already guessed that those exotic journeys I dreamed of as a girl haven’t quite materialized for my family of six. We aren’t packing steamer trunks for a trip down the Nile or buying climbing gear for a trek to Mount Everest. Instead, the night before our decidedly domestic vacations, my husband and I put the kids into bed in their sweats and load up the van with pillows and books on tape and a cooler full of cheese sticks, fruit, and juice boxes. I make goody bags full of treats and distractions for each child—books, PEZ dispensers, and art supplies—and leave them on their assigned seats. The next morning before sunrise, David and I pull the kids out of bed, shuffle them into the car, and begin the long drive to end points such as Savannah, Boston, or—in this case—Rapid City. I start to doze off before we’re out of the county, the sound of PEZ dispensers clicking away behind me in the backseats.
As we barreled along Route 90 toward Sioux City that August day, I told my husband I was ready to take my turn driving, but first I needed a cup of coffee. Good coffee. Real coffee. I was not willing, I clarified, to accept a polystyrene cup of swill that had been sitting too long on a gas station hot plate. David was just beginning to protest that I didn’t need to be quite so particular about coffee on road trips when a sign caught my eye. Although I’d seen dozens of them that day, this sign—in contrast to those that trumpeted the imminent approach of a Burger King or truckstop diner—seemed somehow lit from above, as though a celestial spotlight was shining down on it. It felt like an answer, a gift. On a big brown star I read the words: Cabin Coffee Co.
“That’s it,” I told David. “Get off at the next exit.”
We found Cabin Coffee in St. Charles, Minnesota—a town whose population is fewer than four thousand. It’s a bit of a drive off the interstate, but I insisted to my time-conscious husband that we must make the effort to get there. After all, I’d seen a sign. We drove past an auto parts store, someone’s deserted yard sale, and scattered antique stores, realty offices, and other small businesses.
“How far is this place?” my husband moaned.
As we pulled deeper into St. Charles, we were further delayed when an Amish couple riding on a horse cart approached the intersection a few blocks ahead and then turned in front of us.
“Oh great,” David said darkly. “First you’ve got to have fancy coffee and now we’ve got the flipping Amish in front of us. We’re never going to get there.”
“David!” I scolded. “Really!”
David was in an uncharacteristically surly mood. He had been up late packing the car the night before, had woken up before four that morning, and was stressed about getting us to South Dakota in time to meet friends. For the record, he is of good, Pennsylvania Mennonite stock and usually exhibits nothing but respect for the Amish.
At their father’s outburst, the kids sat up and looked out the front of the car. It was their first time seeing Amish people up close, the husband in his straw hat and beard, the wife in her bonnet and simple dress.
“What’s with those two?” Theo asked.
“The flipping Amish,” Ian repeated, delighted with the phrase.
The kids erupted into raucous laughter, pointing at the two people primly riding their cart in front of us. I tried to bring them all to order. In my most sensible voice, I decided to give a lesson on the Amish in America. My need for caffeine, however, and the early hour of our departure rendered me incapable of thinking of how to describe this culture to my kids.
“Yes, they’re Amish,” I said. “They’re, um, Christians. And very peaceful.”
“Peaceful. No kidding!” Theo said. “Clippety-clop. Clippety-clop.”
The children were overcome by fits of giggles.
“What’s with the clothes?” Ian shouted.
“And the wagon!” Isabel said.
“They live simply,” I said.
“You think?” Theo said, his voice brimming in sarcasm.
“They don’t use electricity—” Here I was interrupted by gales of laughter from the back of the car.
“No lights? How do they see?” Mia asked.
“You know, they use sunlight in the daytime. And then . . . well, candles, I guess,” I said, beginning to giggle in spite of myself. “They live at a much slower pace.”
“Slower pace, all right,” David grumbled. “I can’t get around them.”
“Flipping Amish,” Theo said, in solidarity with his father.
Then we saw it—a pristine log cabin that looked to be plunked down in the middle of a new black parking lot. Cabin Coffee Co. Our Amish friends continued down the road as David hit the gas pedal and veered a little too quickly, in my humble opinion, into the parking lot. He parked the car, grabbed the leash, and stormed off to walk the dog in a vacant lot nearby.
“Everyone go to the bathroom here,” he ordered, calling over his shoulder. “Twice if possible. We’re not stopping again until dinner.”
“Yep. I’ll go twice,” Ian giggled. “Maybe even three times.”
The kids and I made our way into the coffee shop, punchy and unkempt after so many hours in the car. They were still whispering to each other about the Amish couple, giggling over the unfamiliar sight.
Cabin Coffee Co. had a playful, Western theme and a friendly air about it. Its company slogan, “Just be happy . . . and have fun!” called to us from signs, T-shirts, and coffee mugs.
Isabel pointed to a mug. “That should be our new family motto!” she said.
“Great idea! I love it,” I said. “All in favor?”
The five of us raised our hands.
“All opposed?”
No one moved; the motion was passed.
I ordered a latte, fruit smoothies, and bagel sandwiches. The girl behind the counter chatted with me, smiling affectionately at my gaggle of children. My kids shuffled in and out of the restroom and then dropped one by one onto the wood-framed sofas and looked contently around the store.
“The bathroom’s actually clean,” Theo whispered to me, aware that his mother has just the teeny-tiniest case of germophobia. (By “teeny-tiniest,” I mean that it’s actually a bit of a problem. You should see the drawer in my kitchen that is stocked with individual handy wipes and small bottles of hand sanitizer.)
“And you’ll like what they painted on the walls,” Theo added.
Along the top of the restroom walls was hand-painted, in whimsical text, “Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.” The fruit of the Spirit.
Everything seemed right in the world.
Back on the highway, the squall of crabbiness, sarcasm, and mockery had blown over. The gas tank was full. David had fallen asleep in a flash, his pillow crushed against the window. I cradled my latte in my hand and clicked on the cruise control and the stereo. My daughters had sketch pads spread out on their laps and were drawing the “Just be happy . . . and have fun” logo with their markers. The boys pulled chunks of strawberries from their smoothies. The dog was stretched out on the floor. I felt like I was swimming in a pool full of gratitude as we passed the green hills and farms of Minnesota with Van Morrison crooning about fields of wonder and a bridge where angels dwell.
Thank you, God, I prayed.
That stop in Minnesota is the kind of experience my friend Cathleen Falsani describes in her book Sin Boldly: A Field Guide for Grace.,1 In each of the book’s chapters, Falsani finds God’s presence and, yes, gift of grace in what may at first glance seem like unlikely places. A preacher on late-night TV. A Kenyan slum. The grocery store. When she talks about grace, Falsani waves away theological arguments over whether one kind of grace (common? divine?) is superior to another.
Common grace, by the way, is understood as God’s provision to all people and can refer to anything from medical advancements that benefit humanity to the sun rising every morning to—yes—the discovery of an idyllic, perfectly placed coffee shop on the prairie. Divine grace, theologians explain, is the love and mercy of a God who became incarnate to bring redemption to humankind.
But both types of grace are outpourings of God’s love for us, and Falsani writes that splitting hairs as we define different types of grace is “like bickering about what color God’s eyes are.”
She then adds, “They’re hazel, in case you were wondering.”2 (I love that.)
Family life affords us countless opportunities to receive and dispense grace. Grace is the way our kids forgive us after we lose our tempers. Grace is a baby’s fever breaking after a long, frightening night. Grace is sprouted marigold seeds in a Styrofoam cupful of dirt. Grace is building sandcastles, playing soccer in the backyard, and dancing with our kids. Grace is seeing a child bloom in adolescence, the beauty and strength of his adult self shining through.
Too often when we travel at the speed of modern family life, we’re in a blur. We fail to slow down, take a breath, and see God’s grace all around us. Maybe modern families would do well to clip-clop along like our Amish friends once in a while instead of strapping ourselves in, tucking in our ear buds, and keeping our eyes glued onto brightly lit screens as real life flies by us.
The simplicity of Amish life is attractive to a fast-paced culture that’s on information overload. That longing to slow down and experience grace—both common and divine—might explain why any novel whose cover features a woman wearing a bonnet seems destined for the bestseller lists these days. We wonder what would it be like to live without the constant distractions of advertisements, ringing cell phones, and e-mail notifications.
For one thing, I bet our children would be less stressed than they are.
After all, if my kids would be done with school once and for all after eighth grade like the Amish, I doubt I’d give their report cards a second thought. If they had guaranteed jobs on the farm or in the woodwork shop, I’d never worry about their future in what is an unpredictable—or predictably dreary—economy. If I knew that their identities were simply to “be Amish,” I wouldn’t spend so much mental energy puzzling through how much time and money to invest in music lessons, sports, or other pursuits that might shape who my children are and bring them satisfaction in later life.
But, having said all of that, I don’t envy the Amish. I like our lives “out here.” I like the color, vibrancy, and commotion a diverse world affords. I like going to movies, attending concerts, and otherwise seeing what my culture is saying about what it means to be a human being right now. And I really, really like being able to press a button to let a machine clean the clothes or wash the dishes. (Don’t get me started about my robot vacuum. Let’s just say it was love at first sight.)
A few years ago, one hundred children’s authors, teachers, and other experts on childhood wrote an open letter to the Daily Telegraph newspaper in the United Kingdom, expressing their concern about how modern society is “mis-shaping” and even killing childhood.3 The group included children’s author Philip Pullman and child development expert Penelope Leach. They asserted that our culture has changed too much and childhood has become too complex in recent years. One writer said what is poisoning childhood is “a sinister cocktail of junk food, marketing, over-competitive schooling and electronic entertainment.”4 The result? An epidemic of pediatric anxiety and depression.
“[Children] still need what developing human beings have always needed, including real food (as opposed to processed ‘junk’), real play (as opposed to sedentary, screen-based entertainment), first-hand experience of the world they live in and regular interaction with the real-life significant adults in their lives,” the letter said.5
(I imagine Amish children do have all of those things.)
Reading that letter reminded me, deep into the parenting of my children, of some of the essential components of raising a healthy family. Real food. Real play. Real interaction with adults. Without those things, the letter writers assert, children suffer. Countless physicians and researchers agree. And more and more kids are suffering; stress and depression among children are on the rise.6
When we wax eloquent about childhood, we describe it as a happy, peaceful time. There are few demands on children as they ride their bikes around the neighborhood, stare at ant trails on the sidewalk, and get lost in their daydreams. These kinds of childhood pastimes, however, are fading. We’ve gone way past “the right kind of busy”—whatever in the world that could mean—into a spinning world where children are closely managed, overscheduled, and lacking time and space for free play.
And play matters.
In an article in the Atlantic titled “All Work and No Play: Why Your Kids Are More Anxious, Depressed,” pediatrician Esther Entin asserts that there are lifelong, detrimental consequences to children having too little free playtime. She writes, “When parents realize the major role that free play can take in the development of emotionally healthy children and adults, they may wish to reassess [their] priorities.” She suggests that parents “back off” from scheduling so many supervised activities, hover less, and let the kids roam a bit in “free, imaginative, kid-directed play.”7
When I think of my interactions with my kids, I see myself too often holding a pad of sticky notes in my hand, jotting down a chore list. Or checking their homework assignments and grades online. Or reminding them to put away their shoes, empty their backpacks, or fill the dog’s water bowl. Managing a houseful of kids, taking care of a dog, and being—as is true for most of the women I know—the coordinator of medical appointments, menu planning, social gatherings, and myriad other details for a family of six requires strategic organization.
And I’ve gotten quite organized over the years. I have an inbox for school papers, permission slips, and birthday invitations. The kids have regular chores. Every morning—thanks to instructions I learned years ago from Fly Lady8—I have a routine that I think of as “the sweep through.” I jog through each room of the house, starting in the kids’ bedrooms. I pick up stray socks and dirty clothes and put them down the laundry chute. I wipe down bathroom counters. I make sure there are bars of soap, shampoo in the bottles, and rolls of toilet paper where needed. I start a load of laundry, plan what we’ll have for dinner, and then get to the work that results in a paycheck. Once I know the house is set for the day, I can focus.
I must confess, though, that as I think strategically about the home I’m creating and the children I’m raising, I rarely give thought to how much “free play” time each child is getting.
Fortunately, they seem to work that bit out for themselves. Maybe what I can do as a parent is leave space in my children’s schedules, as much as possible, for them to get bored. When they’re “bored,” my kids hop the fence and play lacrosse or soccer at a nearby college football field with their friends. They shoot funny videos with their cell phones. They construct forts and complicated Rube Goldberg machines with the wooden blocks, dominoes, and train sets of their earlier childhoods. They play baseball games in the backyard, with trees and the play set assigned the roles of first, second, and third base. They still love grabbing flashlights, whatever the season, and playing Ghost in the Graveyard outside at night. The younger ones spin themselves into a dizzy stupor playing a game called Texas Star Gazing, staring up at the sky while twirling around.
They do these things when nothing else is on the calendar, and when they have the chance to get a little bored and restless.
I try to ignore the gargantuan corn on the cob, molded in plastic, that floats above my head. As I stand in line at Target, I can almost feel it stirring up there, threatening to drop from the wires that suspend it from the ceiling. I take a few steps forward to get out from under it and then notice the enormous sunglasses—as big as a kayak—that hang from the ceiling twenty yards from the corn. Their presence shouts to me that, despite the recent cold weather and storms, summer is actually here.
Are these decorations meant to deliver panic attacks to customers? (Or is that just me?)
I have nothing against the season. I like knowing I have a break from packing lunches and unpacking backpacks. I like the sound of a Cubs game on the radio and the buzz of a lawnmower and the warble of the ice cream truck as it winds around town, playing tunes as crazily varied as “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” and “The Entertainer.”
But summer’s been less about Popsicles and the smell of freshly mown grass for me the last few years. Now that my kids are older and I’ve become a full-fledged “working mom,” it’s been more about driving them to activities, coordinating babysitters, and trying to squeeze in hours of work while still seeming accessible and like I’m home. (By the way, that smell wafting in from the grill is charbroiled guilt.)
The other day, my youngest asked my husband, “When’s your last day, Dad?”
When he explained that he doesn’t get the summer off, she frowned. I noted that it didn’t occur to her to ask me the same question. As a work-from-home parent, I’m always here, more or less.
Carla Barnhill has written on her blog about creating happy summers for ourselves as well as for our children. “I am trying to keep our calendar low on plans and high on free time,” Barnhill says. “That has meant a lot of saying no, something that doesn’t come naturally for me but that I find to be terrifically rewarding.”9
Barnhill says no to camps or lessons that span over more than a week and activities that require most of the family to be observers, such as one child’s baseball games. She also keeps one day a week completely free of commitments. Her good ideas inspired me to come up with some summer strategies of my own. As much as possible, I register my kids for activities they can do together. I make a summer schedule of working hours and force myself to clock out each day when the kids tromp in from camps, caddying, or when the babysitter’s allotted hours are done.
I want to be intentional about being present with them.
In her blog post, Barnhill also addresses the dreaded “I’m bored” proclamation that too often emerges from our children’s lips over the course of summer. She writes, “Boredom is a kid’s best friend . . . there is research that suggests that the brain needs downtime to process information and cast a vision for the future. . . . Nothing gives the brain space and time like boredom. . . . This isn’t a problem that needs a solution.”10
As a semiprofessional daydreamer, I absolutely agree with her about boredom. I’ve decided that when one of my four kids says she or he is “bored,” I will respond by reciting something the great Indian sculptor Anish Kapoor has said: “It’s precisely in those moments when I don’t know what to do, boredom drives one to try . . . a host of possibilities . . . [to] either get somewhere or not get anywhere.”11
I printed several copies of that quote and issue them, like a combination traffic ticket/gift certificate, to my kids when they utter the dreaded b word.
Who knows? Maybe in that moment of not knowing what to do, the kids will be inspired to go to the library and conduct a little research. Maybe they’ll even learn about Anish Kapoor, or the Amish.
Summer break and family vacations, of course, afford the most time for boredom and free play. The kids roam, explore, and invent. On our vacations to South Dakota with our friends Mark and Mary and their girls, the kids disappear for most of the day. In the morning, they spring from our cabins and make themselves scarce with their unofficial cousins until the ringing of a brass bell draws them for meals. They pretend to be pirates in the forest. (Fallen tree trunks make ships, and black eye patches are easily procured from the drugstore in town.) They invent complex games involving squirt guns and jumping, cannonball-style, into the pool. They play roller-blade basketball. The bigger ones climb up the side of a mountain and scamper up rock walls—yes, all by themselves. And no, they’ve never fallen down a cliff. (Not yet, anyway.) We parents sneak them out of bed at night to lie on picnic tables and stare at the stars. When they scrape their knees or get splinters, they appear out of the woods, but after a quick first-aid pit stop, they are off again. Admittedly, these trips are not comparable to visiting the Great Wall of China or the Pantheon, but our summer vacations are a source of grace—and play—for all of us.
The evening after we discovered Cabin Coffee Co., despite the unplanned stop in Minnesota and being slowed down by the Amish, we made it on time to meet our friends in South Dakota. On arrival, we traded our crumpled clothes for swimming suits and jumped in the pool. Later, as we unpacked our cars, we told stories of the road.
“Dad was crabby,” Isabel said, tattling on her father.
“He almost ran over this Amish family,” Ian said.
David apologized for being gruff toward his Anabaptist brother and sister, and he was forgiven.
We told our friends the story of the perfect coffee shop, the slow-moving horse cart, and our new family motto. Just be happy . . . and have fun. Maybe in parenting, much like making a cross-country trip, the key is to begin with the destination in mind. If we want to raise whole, confident adults, we need to remember that they need what is real. Real food. Real play. Real interactions with others. And while making that journey, with its necessary—and unnecessary—detours and moments of boredom, we need to keep our eyes open for moments of real grace.
Whether or not we’re Amish.