Plain Wisdom (9 page)

Just outside of town stood another old barn, which the owner wanted torn down and removed from his property. Its dimensions fit the foundation of the burned barn perfectly. So arrangements were made to tear down, transplant, and rebuild.

On the day of the barn raising, three busloads of Amish men from Lancaster County came to help, and by sundown a recycled barn stood on its adopted foundation.

Days after the barn raising, one of the Amish school board members was milking his cows in the evening when the owner of the old brick schoolhouse stopped by. With tears streaming down his weathered face, he walked up to the dairy farmer and said, “I want the Amish to have my brick schoolhouse as my way of thanking everyone for what they did for my brother in replacing his barn. You see, I grew up on that farm.”

The farmer bowed his head in humble gratitude, with tears in his own eyes, and then he shook hands with the English fellow. Feeling unworthy of such a great gift, he thanked God for the friendship, acceptance, and unity of their new community.

The man’s earlier decision not to sell the schoolhouse had been a disappointing one. As the parents and scholars rose extra early to travel to the Mennonite school and arrived back home late each school day, I’m sure there were some frustrations. Yet when the man’s barn burned, I witnessed my community respond to him according to the Golden Rule (see Matthew 7:12). And that situation planted seeds of understanding in me: following God’s principles always yields a good crop. Eventually.

Tommy and I have been blessed with two daughters-in-law. One is a first-generation American who moved here from India at the age of eight years old. She and our oldest son, Justin, met while attending the Medical
College of Georgia. At first he found her intelligent, beautiful, and annoying. Her opinions about life were every bit as strong as his, and most were different. He began a study group and invited anyone from class who was interested in attending. She came. Over the next few months, they discovered that they agreed on much more than they disagreed on. As opportunities arose, he sprinkled into conversations his strong belief in God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. She became a believer, and their interest in each other grew.

But if they pursued a romantic relationship, acceptance from her relatives wouldn’t come easily. In the Indian culture, children are to choose a spouse from their community with strong guidance from their parents. Starting a relationship based on attraction or love is forbidden.

So they had to be patient yet unyielding. Gentle yet adamant. With each step they took, they fell deeper in love, clinging to the hope that they could win her family’s approval.

Since his infancy I had prayed regularly for Justin to find the right spouse. I couldn’t assume she was the wrong one just because her parents had deep concerns or because she’d been raised in the Hindu religion. But I understood and respected her family’s position; her parents are good and loving, and they only wanted to do what they believed was right.

Justin and Shweta sought the wisdom and counsel of their pastor and continued to be patient, but when they knew the time was right, they set a wedding date. The time that followed was tremendously stressful for everyone and often filled with tears.

But much to our joy and as a testimony to her parents’ fervent love, they came to the wedding.

In the first photo of me as a toddler, I’m holding a damp washcloth in my hand, scrubbing my older brother’s face. In the next photo, I’m using that same rag to dust the furniture. I’m sure I was mimicking what I’d seen my mother do—dust furniture and wash children’s faces—although I’m confident she didn’t use the same rag for both.

Cleanliness was important to my mom—especially for hands and faces—before my brothers, sister, and I came to the kitchen table. My mom often sent us back to the bathroom to “try again.” Mark, a true outdoorsman and bicycle mechanic from an early age, had the hardest time passing inspection. One day when my mom told him his hands were still dirty, he studied them, held them up to her again, and said, “Mom, I think it’s your eyeballs that are dirty. Have you tried washing them?”

She burst into laughter, agreed that maybe he was right, and let him take a seat at the table. It seemed to me that she was never as picky about clean hands after that.

Whenever I have a negative opinion about something a person put effort into, I ask myself if my eyeballs need washing. Am I being too picky? Is the problem how I’m viewing the situation? If people in your life are having a difficult time passing your inspection, it’s possible that your eyeballs need washing.

Finding peace with our imperfect world and its imperfect people isn’t always easy, but if we don’t find a way to let go of our stringent ideals of how things should be, we’ll never be free to enjoy the greatest gifts life gives us.

One crisp, breezy November morning, I stepped out the back door of my home and headed toward the clothesline, carrying a basket loaded with clean, wet clothes. For weeks I had sewn feverishly—new white shirts and black pants for my husband and five sons, and traditional matching dresses for my daughter and myself—in preparation for my second son’s wedding. The wedding had taken place the day before, and the celebration had been even more than I’d hoped for.

As I hung the white shirts on the clothesline, a lump formed in my throat. I have always counted my blessings by how many Sunday shirts I had to wash and hang out after a church day. If I had six, that meant my whole family had attended church the day before. Any fewer probably meant that one of the teenage boys had not attended, which always brought heartache.

So there I was with a shirt missing. With mixed emotions I choked back the tears. My son was no longer mine. As thrilled as I was for him, I hurt.

My fingers ached with the cold by the time I hung up the last shirt, grabbed the clothesbasket, and trudged inside. As I stood by the wood-burning cookstove, warming my hands, I looked out the window and across the field. In the distance I saw a white shirt hanging on a neighbor’s clothesline, and it reminded me that my son’s shirt wasn’t missing. It was simply on someone else’s clothesline—his wife’s. All his hopes for his future and his family’s future hung in the same crisp November air.

I had not lost a son. His life was no longer under my roof, but it was in the same place I’d put it when he was born: in the hands of God.

In the play yard of our one-room schoolhouse, snowballs flew by me, and occasionally one hit its mark. I fired my own snowballs in return. The weather had turned warmer, but the melting snow was perfect for a snowball battle.

It was my last day of school before my family moved to a new Amish community forty miles away, and I knew I’d miss all my friends. Giggles, laughter, and yelps abounded as we made the most of the last half hour of recess.

Suddenly the noise hushed, and all my schoolmates looked at me. Someone launched a snowball in my direction. Then a few more joined in. Soon the whole school was throwing snowballs at me. I was their only target.

At first I laughed with them. But as the snowballs whizzed faster, they hit me harder, stinging me. I darted from one snow fort to the next—the ones we’d been building for many days during recess—dodging the frozen missiles the best I could.

I knew this was all in fun, but for me it wasn’t fun anymore. I’d never felt so scared and alone. Just when I was about to give in to the tears that
threatened to spill down my cheeks, I felt someone at my side. It was my friend Susie, and she was dodging the balls with me. She could have stayed on the other side, but she chose to come alongside me and help me find shelter.

As I left school that day, I knew I’d miss Susie the most, and I wished I could take her with me to the new school. But remembering her, our friendship, and her bravery would help me face the new beginnings that lay before me.

No other house was in sight as I stood outside my home with my brother, waiting for the bus to arrive for the first day at our new schools. Unlike our home in the suburbs of DC, the old farm we’d bought that summer didn’t have a neighbor within sight. All the folks who lived around here knew each other, because my dad said most of the families were living on dairy farms that had once belonged to their parents and their parents before them. We, on the other hand, were outsiders. That had seemed sort of cool when we first arrived. Now I felt awkward and lonely.

The bus pulled up, and I boarded with my brother. He wasn’t going to the same school, but he’d be with me until the bus stopped at my elementary school. I sat beside him, and we rode in silence as the huge vehicle went down one long, narrow road after another until I lost all sense of direction.

The other seats filled with strangers who kept looking at us and whispering.

Finally the bus stopped at a school, and my brother nudged me and whispered, “This is it. Get out.” When I looked up at him with wide eyes, he added, “You’ll be fine.”

At least half of the riders got off the bus with me. Most were boys, who looked at me funny, but no one said a word.

I overheard that the fourth-grade class was on the second floor, so I navigated up stairwells and down unfamiliar hallways until I found my
room. I was barely inside when someone said, “There she is.” Before I took two more steps, I was surrounded by a group of frowning boys.

“What’s your name?” one asked.

I told him.

“What kind of last name is that?” The boy wrinkled his nose, looking me dead in the eyes.

“The only one I got.” An unfamiliar knot formed in my stomach. I’d been to new schools before, but this one seemed awfully unfriendly.

A girl with a kind face, old-fashioned clothes, and a small bonnet covering her head stood at the outer edge of the group of boys, watching. My first thought was that the school was going to have a play about pilgrims. But it seemed odd to have a play on the first day of school.

A boy moved his head, blocking my view of the girl. “Frank said you ride on his bus.”

I wondered who Frank was.

“He said your dad ain’t a farmer. Everybody around here owns or works a dairy farm.”

I shrugged. “My dad works in DC and drives back and forth.”

“DC?” the boy mocked.

The squeals of laughter made the teacher glance up from his desk. “Settle down. You have three minutes before you need to take your seats. Make sure you have pencil and paper ready.”

The boy lowered his voice and moved in closer. “So why’d your dad buy all that land with barns and fences if he don’t intend to farm?”

“It’s a hobby farm … I think.”

The whispery scoffs spoke louder than the boys dared to. “Every one of us has been up since four this morning doing chores. Farming ain’t no hobby.”

The girl with the bonnet pressed forward, and the group parted, much as I’d imagined the Red Sea parting for the Israelites. “I think you guys are coming on a bit strong, no?”

“We’re just asking questions.”

“Would your mother want you talking to her that way?” The girl’s voice was soft, as if cooing to an infant rather than standing up to a bunch of rowdy kids. A couple of the boys moved to their desks and sat down. Others asked a few more mocking questions, and the girl repeated herself, never raising her voice: “Would your mother want you talking to her that way?” She took me by the hand and led me to the back of the room, where it was quiet. The boys kept a wary eye on us as they walked to their desks.