Did you live with your husband before you were married?” She leaned in, looking precisely like a prim soldier taking aim.
Fifteen sets of Amish eyes watched me from beneath bonnets. The question came from Mary, a mouthy young mother of six. (Funny how I’d never thought of mouthy and Amish in the same sentence.) She said live with in the tone I’d use to describe stepping on a tarantula with bare feet, so I knew she was really asking if I’d slept with Trent pre-vows.
In a grand hurry to find something to say—anything!—I rushed into a makeshift apology. “I feel really bad about telling you this . . .”
Mary the Mouthy cut me off. “It’s good you feel bad about it!” she approved. The older ladies—some of them older than my grandmother—clucked their agreement, commending my guilty conscience with nods.
Maybe I should have just let them all feel good about me feeling bad, but I’d had quite enough religious guilt and wasn’t about to let a table full of women sex-shame me, even if they were wearing aprons.
I threw up my hands in a referee gesture. “Oh, no, no! I don’t feel bad about living with my husband. I feel bad that I’m telling you about it.”
All the air in the room disappeared into tension so icy and hard that even my clean conscience froze. I looked around the table. This is happening. I am discussing my sex life with a table full of Amish women.
SINCE THE AMISH WEREN’T trying to convert anyone—the whole “no electricity” thing being a tough sell—I had actually campaigned to be interrogated about my prenuptial living arrangements. Several months prior, when I was still selling nail and power tools, I had a sales appointment with Mr. Wiebe, a strict Mennonite gentleman with extensive gray facial hair and a scowl that said, “I am this close to smacking you with my old-fashioned hat.”
He picked up a power tool. “My wife has some Amish cousins who use guns like these. They like it ’cause it’s propane, no electric.”
Amish?! In my mind I was already wearing a bonnet. “Any chance your wife could introduce me to her cousins?” I asked, trying to act casual.
“You want to sell them some nail guns?” He scratched his whiskers in confusion.
“Something like that.”
Poor Mr. Wiebe. I called him every other day—ostensibly to check on business. When he finally said in an exasperated tone, “Miss, you really want to sell those guns!” I broke down and told him about Thirty by Thirty, bracing for a dial tone.
“Why didn’t you just say something? Let me just call Rachel and Eli; I’m sure they’ll host you.”
Well. Knock me over with a pitchfork.
“They have a phone?” I asked, incredulous.
“Not in the house—just in the cabinet shop.”
Explaining my project to Cousin Eli over the din in his shop was the next hurdle.
“Rachel will call you!” he shouted, reminding me of the proverbial breakup line and a call that never comes. Between his thick Pennsylvania Dutch accent and the background noise, I couldn’t tell whether I was invited or not, so I had all but given up hope when, several months later, an unrecognized number rang. In bed with the Sickness, I sent it to voicemail and forgot to listen to it until the following Saturday when Erin was visiting. I played it on speaker.
“Reba, this is Rachel, Rachel Yoder? We would like to invite you to spend the night so you do not have to drive too far on Sunday morning before church!”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m not sure if I’m more surprised that an Amish woman returned my call after six months, or that she left me a voicemail, or that she invited me to be a houseguest.”
“Voicemail,” Erin decided for me.
Should I continue as planned, drinking skinny-girl margaritas with Erin, or should I spend the night on an Amish farm? Would it be alcohol or aprons?
My decision hinged on my fear of outhouses. Specifically, outhouses I might have to stumble to in the dark if I needed to pee in the middle of the night, with only a candle to guide my way. An unwelcome mental image of accidentally falling into the latrine hole made up my mind in favor of margaritas. I called Rachel back and made arrangements for Sunday morning, but before commencing to fiesta, there was still the matter of what to wear, since my entire wardrobe was immodest by Amish standards
“Erin,” I said, “We’re going to the Goodwill.”
“WHAT DO YOU THINK of this one?” I said, posing in an appliqué jean jumper circa 1985. “Is the bedazzling too much?”
From her perch on a tiny triangle stool covered in paisley pastels, Erin studied me like an art dealer assessing a painting. “The bedazzling isn’t so bad; it’s the apple outlined in glitter puff-paint that’s your problem.”
Peeling the jumper over my head, I got hopelessly stuck, a denim tulip with naked legs for a stem. “Help!” I yelled, my cries muffled by the heavy fabric.
Erin grabbed the skirt just as I pulled my body in the other direction, and I popped out of the jumper with so much force that I smacked hard against the dressing room wall, knocking me off balance. As I fell to the ground, the freestanding structure gave a great shudder and the lights flickered on and off.
Erin and I burst out in the kind of laughter reserved for best friends when one of them is collapsed in her underwear.
Six dresses later, our stomachs still sore from giggling, we settled on an oversized blue cotton jumper. It was high-necked, stretched to the ankles, and promised to make any wearer resemble a beached whale. Perfection.
THE NEXT MORNING, I finished off my look with flat black shoes, a bare face, and a demure bun.
“Stunning!” Trent teased when I appeared à la Amish on Sunday morning. “All the boys are gonna beg you to ride in their buggies.”
Minutes later, Andre saw me in the driveway. “Hi . . . ?” he cocked his head at my outfit.
“The jumper was only three dollars,” I said. “But the embarrassment is priceless.”
TWO HOURS LATER, I pulled into the Yoders’ farm. Rachel appeared in the front yard and directed me to park next to the buggy. With a strong, slim frame beneath her modest dress, and dark hair with wisps of gray tucked into her bonnet, she looked to be in her late fifties.
“Welcome,” she sang out. I expected her to act like the nuns in The Sound of Music—proper and restrained—so I was surprised to meet an actual, nice person, with a wide grin. We shook hands and then, as if thinking better of it, hugged.
After pleasantries, she showed me around the house. Though I’d filed the archetypal Amish—a mishmash from literature and film—somewhere between the Pilgrims and Little House on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls would have been shocked by Rachel’s modern kitchen—complete with all major appliances—and bathrooms that were nicer than mine. (No outhouses in sight!) I asked about the power obviously humming through the house.
“Kerosene,” Rachel explained, gesturing through a window to a large fuel tank and generator.
“This woodwork is beautiful!” I exclaimed over walls of built-in bookshelves in the cozy living room—shelves that held only Bibles, religious books, and several encyclopedias. As if on cue, Eli entered the room.
“That would be Eli’s work,” Rachel said, gesturing to him.
“Welcome,” said Eli, folding his large, rough hands in front of him. “We’re glad to have you.”
They led me to the buggy. “Don’t be worried if anyone looks at you twice; we’ve never had an English visitor at church,” Eli said.
I gulped—no pressure or anything.
Rachel asked questions. “Are you married? Do you have any children? When are you planning to have children? How many children do you want to have?” (Not if I wanted children, but when.)
“We’ll see about kids,” I replied.
“Children are a blessing from the Lord!” she rejoiced.
Hitching up the horses, Eli chimed his agreement. “They are indeed!”
“Well . . . I’m not ready yet, with Trent being in school and all.” I didn’t say what I was really thinking: Not being sick would be the first blessing I need.
Rachel stopped. “You work to support your husband?” she said, eyes as big as saucers.
“Most days,” I replied in a light tone. Most days when I’m not in bed.
Black with mint-colored crushed velvet seating, the buggy was a much more posh affair than I would have expected, but also less sturdy. When Eli helped me climb in, the whole buggy dipped under my weight, springing back only when I sat down. Thank God I don’t weigh more, I thought. I might have capsized. I can see the headline now: “Woman crushed by spiritual quest!”
Eli sat holding the reins; once Rachel alighted to the passenger seat he signaled the horses and we began clomp-clomping down the drive. I’m riding in a buggy! I thought, looking through Eli and Rachel to the horses’ brown tails waving ahead.
“Can I take a picture?” I asked. “Not of you—I know you don’t allow pictures—but of the horses?”
“I’m sure the horses won’t mind,” Rachel laughed. She and Eli leaned to either side so I could snap away. I had a few questions of my own for the couple: How many children did they have? (Nine!) Did they believe the Bible was the literal Word of God? (Yes.) And what is up with rumspringa, a time before Amish youth officially join the church and have a brief opportunity to rebel and live in the English world without condemnation, sort of like a hall pass from the Amish life?
Eli and Rachel both laughed heartily. “English people are always so curious about that!” Rachel said, turning around from the front passenger seat to face me while Eli drove steadily on. “In our community it’s never been very wild, though we hear some places it is. Here it’s nothing like the media reports—just kids being kids. We rarely lose a youth to the English world.”
Silently, I noted her use of the word lose, phrasing that implied death. I changed topics. “Will your family be here today?” I asked, hoping to meet all nine children.
“Oh yes,” Rachel said joyfully, “you’ll meet four generations this morning, including our oldest and youngest!” Eli and Rachel had grown up, met, and married in the area, and she’d borne their last child at fifty. “He’s now fourteen. Perfectly healthy!”
Sixty-four? I thought, viewing her profile. That revelation certainly blew through my earlier guess that she was in her fifties. She had fewer wrinkles than the Botoxed Real Housewives. I wondered if it was her lifestyle, good genes, or—I looked again—happiness? She smiled at Eli as we rode along, thrilled to tell me about her children and grandchildren. Rachel and Eli were an absolute conversational delight, and by the time we pulled into a drive thirty minutes later, I felt I’d known them forever.
I saw a host of parked buggies in front of someone’s home. About a hundred people milled about the lawn—men dressed in hats, vests, and trousers clumped around the horses, women holding babies and watching over the children. Rachel turned back around, looking the slightest bit uncomfortable.
“We believe in greeting one another with a holy kiss, like the New Testament instructs,” Rachel said, “but please don’t feel that you need to participate.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I assured her . . . until I discovered that greeting one another with a holy kiss meant kissing On. The. Lips. Hello, literal reading of The Holy Bible!
Even if the snogging did serve the dual noble purposes of spiritual growth and making Amish friends, I just wasn’t that committed, folks. Fasting for thirty days? Sure. Kissing strangers on the mouth? No, thank you.
Astonished, I watched the holy greeting. Eli greeted the men with a quick peck; Rachel greeted the women with the same. Now, before anyone gets overly excited about this development, I should pause and explain that it was about as sexy as giving your grandmother a sponge bath. The pecks were done so quickly, with such nonchalance and efficiency, that you could blink and miss the whole affair.
In lieu of kissing me, everyone said, “Peace be with you,” and looked like they were trying to avoid openly staring at me. Except the kids. They stood, mouths agape, looking my way like I was an alien life form. I suppose I was.
“Why are you here?” a young boy asked, disappearing behind his mom’s knees.
I just smiled and reflected on what caused me to harass poor Mr. Wiebe and make this trip, even though I suspected the exertion would put me in bed for a few days. Aside from the novelty, I wanted to know what the Amish had that makes living without the conveniences of this world worthwhile. I watched Rachel greet her family, kissing her mother, sisters, daughters, and granddaughters. Half this room is Rachel’s family, I realized. They were all laughing about something, and as Rachel stroked the cheek of a newborn grandbaby, I considered that I might see this many members of my family in one place twice a year (maybe). Rachel saw them every week, maybe even every day.
No one looked at a watch wondering when the service would start; no one was distracted by the ringing of a phone; none of the teenagers texted in a corner. I had left my cell in my car and felt lighter without it, almost like I was on vacation. I worked so hard to “live in the present” and “make time for the important things”; for them, the important things were a way of life. I felt I was witnessing absolute engagement: with God, love, and family, values we “English” say are important even while we pass them by in search of something else. I knew I was romanticizing their lifestyle; these women had worries I knew nothing of and faced challenges I would never see. But still, as I watched Rachel’s sister help their mother up so she could hold her great-grandbaby, I realized that while I had many things the Amish lacked, I also lacked many things they took for granted.
I hung back, afraid to disrupt the family party, until a teenager with Down syndrome flounced over. She stepped around Rachel to hug me.
“I’m Esther,” she whispered, leaning her head in and holding fast to my arm. “I’m so happy you are here!”
“I’m Reba,” I whispered back. “Can I tell you a secret?” Esther nodded enthusiastically. “You’re my favorite person I’ve met today.” She squeezed my arm. If everyone else in the room had shunned me, Esther’s exuberance alone would have made me feel welcome. And when she hugged me again, I felt the press of an otherworldly kiss, the holiest of holy greetings.
The meeting place, a plain outbuilding away from a main house that usually served as the host family’s place of business, had been cleared to make room for the 120-member Amish community. The room was filled with long, backless benches in two sections—right side for the men and boys, left for the women and girls. People filtered into their assigned places, oriented by family status. Youngsters and singles sat in the front, married and the elderly in the back. Rachel guided me to a middle bench and sat next to me.
“Do I have time to grab some water before the service?” I asked.
“Go right ahead,” she smiled, pointing to a table at the back. Next to a large punch bowl full of water was a ladle and exactly one cup. Hmm: Choose your own adventure—stay thirsty or cozy up to germs? I decided to take a drink.
I slid back into my seat just in time for the bishop to greet the people . . . in German. The closest I had ever come to speaking German was Oktoberfest, so I tried to listen with my heart instead of my ears. Then the hymns started, and I listened with my whole body. For nearly an hour, melody wrapped around me, reverberating in four-part harmony as a multitude of voices stretched and shaped the vowels.
If Rachel had called me six months ago, I thought with my eyes closed, soaking in the music, I would have hated this. Now, the sheer beauty raised gooseflesh on my arms, and I didn’t care that my backside hurt from slouching on the hard bench. Next to me, Rachel’s wee granddaughter had fallen asleep over her lap. I smiled. My peace is as deep as your sleep, little one.
The sermon began; I understood nothing save the little Rachel translated for me. The lay minister preached from John 15:5, reminding me of a song I used to sing in Sunday school: “He is the vine and we are the branches, / His banner over me is love.” Sometimes the men took turns speaking or reading Scripture, and I could catch a word here or there. It didn’t matter: Every few minutes Esther turned around and waved at me, smiling like she’d been waiting her whole life for me to visit and sit behind her in church. Or maybe I’d been waiting my whole life to sit behind her.
Two hours into the speaking, I shifted uncomfortably. Why didn’t I consider my small bladder before drinking half the punch bowl? I excused myself to the outhouse and was thrilled to find a Porta-Potty. The ground beneath it sloped, making it rickety. When I stepped inside, the Porta-Potty rocked so much that I imagined another headline about my demise: Woman Buried in Spiritual S***! I braced my hands on the walls, which put me in the uncomfortable position of looking straight down the hole, the contents of which offered proof positive that the Amish were real people, too.
AFTER THE SERVICE, THE gathering took on the celebratory feel of a quiet, well-organized party. “It’s time for fellowship and food!” Rachel explained, pulling me toward the back as the men rearranged the seating and the women bustled to prepare lunch.
“They’re so fast!” I said to Rachel, watching the action.
“Lots of practice,” she said, patting my shoulder before going to join the women. I offered to help, but in the manner of hostesses the world over, she refused.
It wasn’t long before Rachel came up behind me bearing a huge platter of food. Children and their mothers clamored for seats, excited to eat. I was excited too, imagining the gravy-covered extravaganza of homemade chicken and noodles served at Amish restaurants, so when Rachel put down the platter with sandwich fixings I was perplexed. Sandwiches? I thought. I became even more confused as the mothers started making them; they piled two slices of homemade bread with peanut butter, jelly, thickly sliced ham, cheese, condiments, and pickles. It was every sandwich I’d ever eaten smooshed into one.
Rachel saw my expression. “This isn’t just any peanut butter,” she said, as if that explained everything. “It’s a homemade mix of peanut butter, marshmallow cream, maple syrup, and sugar.”
I decided it was wisest to eat the peanut butter, jelly, meat, cheese, marshmallow cream, and maple syrup sandwich without comment, but once I took my first tentative bite I couldn’t help myself. “Oh my Go—Oh my goodness, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted! It might be the best sandwich in the history of the world.” It was the perfect juxtaposition of salty and yum.
“You’ve never had one before?” asked a girl with a lisp. She looked as confused as I’d been a minute earlier. Mouth full, I shook my head.
“The children look forward to this all week,” said her mother. “It is their favorite! We have it every Sunday and at events: weddings, funerals—it is easy to prepare for a crowd.”
I practically drooled while making my second plate. “It’s so good I’m forgetting all my manners!” I exclaimed to Esther with my mouth full and two elbows on the table.
“Want some of mine?” she offered.
I winked. “Maybe when I finish this one.”
AFTER LUNCH, I VISITED with the Amish women for hours without a sense of time passing . . . well, except when Mary the Mouthy plopped down to interrogate me about my sex life. That felt like three hours, until I started to laugh. Mary the Mouthy followed my lead, and soon the whole table was giggling. I’m sure they were laughing a little at me, but at least I was laughing with them, too. Once they got over my prenuptial sins, they treated me like a minor celebrity, asking about my house, hobbies, family, job, and project. I could barely get a question in edgewise.
“What don’t the English know about you that you wish they did?” I finally asked in a mixed-age group.
“That we like to laugh and have fun!” one mother shouted. “We’re not serious all the time!”
When Rachel signaled it was time to leave, I felt a little sad. Even though I was tired, I wasn’t ready to leave this kind and gentle circle. I hugged at least twenty people on my way out. The last few pulled me over to the freezer, Mary and Esther among them.
“This is for you to take home to your husband,” our hostess smiled beatifically.
“What is it?” I asked, peeling the lid from a frozen container. “The special peanut butter!” I squealed.
“Now you can make our sandwich for Trent,” Rachel said.
“And you can remember us when you eat it,” chimed Mary, “and come back again soon.”
I can’t say I’ve teared up over peanut butter before or since, but on that day, their kindness overwhelmed me.
WHEN WE ARRIVED BACK at the Yoder farm, Rachel and Eli invited me to sit on their porch and tell them about the adventures I’d had with Thirty by Thirty. Rachel and I rocked slowly on the swing and Eli sat opposite us, fetching iced tea and snacks as the hours wore into late afternoon. At first I held back, thinking they would be judgmental, but Rachel and Eli shocked me with their openness. Sometimes we just sat in companionable silence, rocking away the minutes. “The English think we give up so much,” Rachel said quietly, “but really we gain so much. What we do not have frees us to concentrate on our many blessings: family, community, faith, and work.”
The rest was so absolute that I couldn’t help but be reminded of my fast, and I wanted to sit on the porch forever with Rachel and Eli. But I could tell they were growing tired, so I stood to leave.
“Wait,” said Rachel. “Before you go, you have to tell me two things. After your journey, what is your faith now? And what do you think about God?”
I paused. No one had asked me these two huge questions, at least not since I finished my fast. “Maybe I’d better sit back down. Those aren’t easy to answer.” I thought for a minute, then spoke—hesitantly at first, but gaining steam as I went.
“I think my faith is a lot like your Sunday sandwich. To outsiders, it’s a sandwich with an identity crisis, but to your family it’s a mishmash of deliciousness. I’ve taken a lot of faiths and jammed them together in a way that may look confusing to others but makes perfect sense to me.” My new faith embodied opposing forces, but felt mysteriously in balance. “As for God, well . . . I think God is a lot like a disco ball.”
They stared at me blankly, as though I’d spoken Klingon.
“Wait,” I said, reality dawning. “Do either of you know what a disco ball is?”
They shook their heads.
Laughing internally at my epic fail, I doubled back. “I think God is like a round diamond with millions of facets. You have a facet; I have a facet; everyone has a facet. God spins in the space between us, reflecting the light in each of our perspectives.”
“I think a diamond is such a beautiful way to explain God,” Rachel said, hugging me tightly good-bye. “But what’s even more beautiful is how your face shines when you talk about it, like you’re lit up from within.”
My face: Shimmering with belief. Thankful tears gathered in my eyes. Rachel pressed a Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread community cookbook into my hands, inscribed with her address.
“So you can cook for your husband,” she said.
“And my children?” I added. Something about the day made me believe I would be well one day.
Rachel beamed, her face luminous in the fading sun. “And your children.”