Growing Up Amish - A Memoir Part 14

aI wonat lift your excommunication. I will not do it. So you can decide,a he thundered. aGo back and make things right, where it happened, or donat.a His dark face reddened. At least the part I could see, what with his beard and large black hat and all. He was way too stirred up. He was flat out raving mad, as in crazy. And also as in angry. Every definition of mad there was. It was no use. I would get nowhere arguing with him.

What a nut, I thought. But I said nothing. Instead, I mumbled something under my breath, turned, mounted my bike, and fled from the mad bishop of Ligonier, Indiana.

Most Amish preachers and bishops are not bad men at heart, not when you dig down deep. Most want to do what they can to help a person. Somewhere, down below that somber facade, a kind heart beats. In most of them, at least. But that particular bishop, the absolute dictator of the Amish church district in Ligonier in 1987, holds the dubious distinction of being one of the meanest, flat-out nastiest men it has been my misfortune to meet. Ever. In all my wanderings, Amish or otherwise. There was no joy in him or kindness. Only rage and vindictiveness.

I should have given up right then. Wrapped up my scant affairs, left, and returned to Daviess. And I seriously considered that option. But ultimately, I could not do it. I felt stuck. I had made too much of an effort already, come too far. What would people say? Iad been in northern Indiana only a week or so. I could almost hear the snickers. Besides, thatas what the mad bishop expected, what he wanted me to do. He was sure I was a fraud and that Iad give up and go away and stop bothering him. If I did that, it would only prove him right. Head probably even smile for real, something he likely hadnat done in years.

But I refused to give him that satisfaction. Furious, I was determined to prove him wrong.

Back at the farm, I sadly told Phillip and Fannie what the mad bishop had decreed. That I would have to humble myself. Crawl. And after being restored as a member in Bloomfield, I could return. They sat there in utter shock. In all surrounding districts, my request would have been honored. Every other bishop would have fallen all over himself to a.s.sist me on my difficult journey. The mad bishop was the lone exception in all the land. But now that he had spoken, he would be supported by the others. Church politics and all. The others would be forced to back him up in his irrational decision. There was nothing to be done except obey. Quietly, carefully, Phillip and Fannie told me these truths. I would have to do as the mad bishop had instructed: return to the source of so much pain and sadness.

It was unfathomable that I would have to walk right back into the lionsa den. Bloomfield. The place swarming with so many dark memories, where they knew me inside and out, all my history. They would not make it easy. It would be a tough road. But my course was set. I would do what I had to do. I had no other choice. At least none that I could see.

The following week I boarded the train in Elkhart and settled in for the journey west. The train clacked along to my connection in Chicago, and from there, the final sprint toward Bloomfield.

As the miles flowed by, I sat, unmoving. Inside, I felt almost nothing. I could not even think of what awaited me. What I would experience back in the community I had fled a year ago. I could focus only on doing what needed to be done and on getting back to Indiana in one piece.

An English driver met me at the train station in Ottumwa. I boarded the van, and we were off.

Home still looked the same. Everyone greeted me eagerly. Marvin and Rhoda. t.i.tus and Ruth. Mom and Dad. They all seemed happy to see me, especially now that I had returned to rejoin the church. Thatas all that was important, even though everyone knew I would not stay in Bloomfield. That was fine with them. As long as I remained Amish, it did not matter where.

The week pa.s.sed slowly. On Sunday, Bishop Henry and the preachers would await me. In their defense, I know they were all genuinely happy that I had decided to return and right past wrongs, to come home and face the music. The Amish always welcome returning sinners. Always. It doesnat matter what theyave done. Erring members who left in disgrace, those who have been excommunicated and shunned, they are always welcome to return to the fold. Of course, if they return, certain requirements are made. Repentance must be shown. Abject submission is absolutely required.

Bishop Henry and the preachers would see to it that I walked through fire and groveled in the dust, that there was no remaining shred of rebellion in me. They would hector me until I was witless, half-mad with stress. And I would submit, utterly, basely, to their satisfaction before they would restore my members.h.i.+p and lift the excommunication. I was trapped, completely at their mercy.

Even so, I was welcomed that first Sunday morning as we stood around outside before the service. People shook my hand and smiled. I walked inside and sat with my peers in my normal spot. Feeling a bit like a lamb walking to slaughter, I got up during the first song and followed the preachers to their Obrote, or conference, as I had done years before during baptismal cla.s.ses. But this time I was the only one. There was no baptismal cla.s.s. Just me. I followed the preachers into the side room and shut the door.

Outside the room, the congregation roared joyfully the ancient hymns of my childhood. I took a seat facing all the preachers. Quite a lineup that morning, including a few from the north district. Maybe theyad heard I was returning and had come over to join the action. Get their digs in. I sat silently. A brief moment pa.s.sed. Bishop Henry cleared his throat.

This time, he addressed me directly. Broad, vacant bromides would flow soon enough, but first, the rules must be established. Bishop Henry opened with a short welcome. He was so glada"he claimed with a frozen smilea"to see that I had changed my att.i.tude and now was willing to seek redemption and forgiveness from G.o.d and the church. All the other preachers nodded in a.s.sent but remained silent. I said nothing. I wasnat expected to say anything.

Then Bishop Henry looked right at me. aTo seek forgiveness from sin, one must first confess those sins,a he intoned. aWe now request that you confess all your specific sins, here to us in this room. As best you can remember.a So that was how it went. I didnat know. Iad never done this before. Now I was expected to speak. Directed to speak. To confess my sins. All the bad stuff Iad done. Oh boy. They had me. Did they ever have me. I sat in that somber room and looked at them. Faced them all. They leaned toward me, restrained but eager. It might have been my imagination in the stress of that moment, but their eyes seemed to s.h.i.+ne hungrily. At least the eyes of some of them. Whether or not that actually was the case, one fact cannot be disputed. I was surrounded and alone.

This, then, is what the mad bishop of Ligonier had wrought by his rigid refusal to reinstate me in his church. It would have been so much easier to confess my sins to strangers. To preachers who knew little of my past, preachers who had seen it all before. Now, before these men, all of whom were quite familiar with my history, I was expected to confess the sins I had committed. To speak of them, recite them in minute detail. It was a harsh and bitter thing.

I swallowed. Stuttered a bit. And then, speaking in a halting monotone, pausing now and then as I tried to remember specifics, I told them all my sins, all the things I had done on my latest flight. All the bad stuff Iad done over the past year. How I had drunk. Got stoned. Run around with English women. All the things one did when one stepped outside the box. I didnat even bother to mention the obvious things like driving and owning a pickup truck. They already knew that. They wanted the juicier details, and I didnat let them down. Surprisingly, it didnat take that long. When I finished, Bishop Henry and all the preachers looked properly and officially grieved. Actually, they seemed a little stunned. I donat know what they were expecting.

After regaining his composure, Bishop Henry claimed to be very glad at my honesty. Then he proceeded to admonish me at some length. Iam sure his head was spinning from my long list of sins. After he wrapped up, the other preachers all spoke for a few minutes, also sternly admonis.h.i.+ng me while simultaneously claiming to be overjoyed at my return and repentance. They didnat seem too joyous, but in that room, at that awkward moment, I was certainly willing to take their word for it.

And then I was dismissed to return to the congregation. I walked back into the crowded room, head held high. I would not cower before these people. The room echoed with the roars of slow tune singing, but all eyes were glued to me as I took my seat on a bench among my peers.

Usually, it takes about four weeks to be reinstated. Church is every two weeks, so that means you trail along behind the preachers twice. And then itas enough. Then thereas a special ceremony at the end of the service after the nonmembers and children are dismissed, and the repentant sinner is officially welcomed back into the fold.

But four weeks was not long enough in my case. Not according to Bishop Henry. Because of the seriousness of my sins, it would take at least six weeks, maybe eight.

During that time, I stayed close to home and didnat socialize much. Officially, my family was required to shun me, which consisted mostly of not eating at the same table. When Mom prepared the meals, she set a plate for me on a little side table. We all dipped food from the same dishes and ate at the same time, a few feet apart. When the married children came home for supper during the week, we ate cafeteria style, again dipping Momas delicious food from the same dishes. I always made sure to sit a bit apart on a side bench. In all other respects, I was treated as usual. We separated only when we ate. Which didnat make a whole lot of sense back then, and still doesnat. But thatas the way it was.

I saw Sarah at least twice in informal settings. We talked. She was as beautiful as ever, except her face was drawn and sad. I felt sorry for her and for what I had done, but I still didnat regret it. We spoke, publicly and privately, from depths of pain that could not be expressed or even acknowledged.

I meandered up to Chuckas Caf once in a while, but not often; too many eyes were watching my every step, too many people hoping I would stumble. Too much time at Chuckas would not be viewed as repentant behavior, so I dropped by only now and then. I told my old friends what was going on. They didnat understand, but they listened and sympathized. And slowly, I began to withdraw from them emotionally. I knew I could not hang around them often. It would remind me too much of all I was giving up.

Finally, after six long weeks, the glorious Sunday arrived when I would be ataken up,a restored as a full member of the Bloomfield Amish church. I walked along behind the preachers that morning into the conference for the final time. Ever. After the usual admonitions, I was dismissed for the last time to return to the congregation.

I donat remember who preached that day. It might have been my brother Joseph. The hours dragged. I knew what was coming, and it would not be pretty. Finally, the service wound down, and the last song was sung. Bishop Henry announced where church service would be held in two weeks, and then he dismissed the congregation, requesting that all members remain seated for a few moments.

The youth who were not members got up and walked out, as did all the children. I walked out, too, and stood uneasily just outside the house. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes pa.s.sed. Inside, the preachers were announcing that in their opinion, I had shown the proper degree of repentance, and it was now time to reinstate me as a member. They requested counsel from all members. Anyone who objected could speak or forever hold his peace.

And then the deacon popped out of the house and looked around for me. I approached. aCome along,a he said kindly. He walked back inside, and I followed close behind him, right up to the front, where everyone could see me. I sat on a bench before the bishop. The room was completely still.

Bishop Henry rose to his feet and addressed me. They had counseled with all members who were present, and no one had any objections. If my desire was still to be reinstated as I had expressed that morning in the Obrote conference, I should get down on my knees.

And for the second time in my life, I knelt before G.o.d and the Amish church. Bishop Henry recited a rote list of questions. I donat remember exactly what they were, but something to the effect that I had realized the error of my ways, confessed my sins, repented, and requested to rejoin the church as a full member. After each question, he paused. And after each question I answered yes.

It was an inverse version of my baptism. The somber stillness. The rote ceremony. The restrained joy of a lost sheep found. After the final question, Bishop Henry paused, then spoke. aBefore we proceed further, we will pray. Will the congregation please stand?a And all rose to their feet. I remained on my knees.

Bishop Henry launched into a long, recited prayer, his voice rising and falling in a rhythmic flow. After the prayer ended, everyone was seated once again. Bishop Henry approached and stood before me. He extended his hand, and I reached out and grasped it.

aIn the name of G.o.d and the church, I extend my hand,a he intoned. aArise.a I stood. Before that room of witnesses, in the silence reflecting ancient ritual, we greeted each other with the holy kiss. I stood there, unmoving, as Bishop Henry kindly wished me well in the future and hoped that I would always remain true to the vows I had just spoken. Then it was over. I was restored as a full member. Bishop Henry motioned me to my seat, and I sat there as we were dismissed.

Itas hard now to describe my feelings in that moment. I suppose I felt as lost as I ever had. But I smiled and shook the hands of those who came to wish me well. This would be my last Sunday in Bloomfield, Iowa, as a member of the Old Order Amish church.

And then the day ended, as all days must. I planned to leave the next week and head back to northern Indiana. Back to Phillip and Fannie and their large, empty home. Back to a new community for a fresh new start, where I would make my mark in life.

Before leaving, I sold my buggy, the Mullet model, still as good as new, with its s.h.i.+ny, black velvet interior. It had not been used much in my absence. I advertised it in the local Penny Saver at a hugely discounted price, and it sold the first day.

Before the next Sunday arrived, I shook the dust from Bloomfield. I never returneda"as an Amish person.

32.

I boarded the train in Ottumwa and traveled back to Ligonier, where Phillip and Fannie welcomed me. They were solid, simple people, happy to do what they could to help.

And so began my time in northern Indiana. I settled in, landing a job at the Starcraft RV factory in Topeka. I would make it this time. I would force myself to make it. Too much was riding on this effort, including my own salvation.

It was not an easy road, settling in a strange land like that. Not being from the area, I found little social structure geared to my needs. Too old to run with the local youth and not really interested in the singings, I hung out with Phillip and his social circle, which I found to be daunting and ultimately very discouraging.

The northern Indiana Amish were good, steady people, just a bit different from anything Iad ever known. Actually, a lot different. They were entrenched in their own ways and their own habits, and none, as far as I could tell, had the slightest interest in the world outside the boundaries of their communities. Many were willfully ignorant and seemed determined to remain so.

But having traveled this far, I bravely soldiered on. I applied for members.h.i.+p in the Ligonier District. The mad bishop smiled grimly but kept his promise to accept me as a member of his churcha"even though it was clear he did not expect me to make it. To him, I was plainly a heathen, someone not to be trusted. I wouldnat last. He had sensed that from the moment he met me. Maybe thatas why I disliked him so much. The man had me pegged from the start, and the truth was more than I could take, especially from someone like him. A spiteful, power-mad husk of a man.

As the weeks pa.s.sed, then the months, I developed a daily routine. Went to work each day on my bicycle and rode the five miles home each night, in every kind of weather. The factory was my only social outlet, and I made a few friends there. Good guys. Decent guys. They were my age or younger, and all of them were married. But outside of work, we rarely socialized. They attempted to include me a few times, and I accepted now and then, but mostly, their social groups held little appeal. So I had a lot of time to kill on my own.

Around the farm, I helped Phillip and Fannie with their ch.o.r.es each night and chatted with them about their day and mine. It was all pretty idyllic.

And stifling.

I immersed myself in books. Each night I read and read in the flickering flame of the oil lamp in my bedroom.

And slowly, slowly, the truth seeped into my brain. It was not working. I had probably realized that fact long before admitting it to myself. I was stuck in a deadly dull routine. And there seemed no way it would ever improve. I simply could not do it. Could not fit in. The northern Indiana Amish were una.s.suming; good-natured; and unlike me, utterly content within the confines of their community and their world.

I loved these people. They were the salt of the earth and would have done anything for me. They wanted me to make it, to succeed there. They wanted me as a part of their church and their community. I appreciated that then. I still do.

But we simply could not connect beyond a certain intellectual point. Not that they were stupid. They werenat. Itas just that, well, their world was not mine. It was not like any I had ever known. And when we were together, bantering and talking, I sometimes felt as if I simply could not take it anymore. I couldnat take one more breathless tale of whose cow broke through the fence and got out on the road. Who ran his bicycle into the ditch and broke his leg. Whose horse ran away and crashed the buggy into a car. Not one more story of who said what and who did what and wasnat it all just awful?

In time, their perceived faults acc.u.mulated in my mind and rankled me deeply. I recoiled instinctively from the provincial ba.n.a.lity of my surroundings. And, sadly, I even recoiled from my good-hearted friends. I began to see them as uncouth and couldnat stand their hard, mirthless laughter at some silly, utterly senseless joke. Their smug, deliberate ignorance.

And from there, it was only a matter of time until I realized it was all in vain. All my efforts. All my plans. Utter failures. These kind, simple people were not my people and would never be. The mad bishop had been right. I could not make it here. I would not make it here. I could not stay.

I had exerted so much effort and invested so much time in this last attempt. Always, I really had believed that in some vague and distant future, everything would work out. Always I had faith there would be rest from the weary road just ahead. A peaceful place of green pastures, where I would see and be satisfied and content to live in quietness and peace as an Amish man.

But that vague and distant future, where it would all work out, had arrived. And it wasnat working out. The whole thing had been a figment of my mind, of my hopes, of my imagination. It had been long and arduous, this latest journey of return. So much time. So many miles. And now it was crumpling. All that effort, for nothing.

I could no longer ignore the brutal truth of my circ.u.mstances. And dull panic stirred inside me, because I knew that if I left this time, there would be no return. This time would be the last time. This time, I would be admitting to all the world that I was lost, with no hope of ever attaining salvation. This time, it would be over.

Forever.

As the realization set in, I sank into quiet, desperate despair. I became depressed, silent, and brooding, with no one in whom to confide. Phillip and Fannie were kind and supportive, but there was no way they would understand or comprehend what I was going through. I knew that if I tried to talk to them, they would simply spout the usual clichs: aJust decide to do whatas right, and then do it.a But thatas what I had been trying to do, all these many months, these many miles. Doing what was right, or what I believed was right. It wasnat working. I was, in fact, failing spectacularly. There was no sense in continuing. No sense in constantly knocking my head against the wall. And so I remained silent, confided in no one, and slipped ever deeper into that mental trench of darkness from which I could see no way out.

And then, sometime during the darkness of those desperate days, it came to me. A sliver of light, an idea. I donat know how or from where. Although Iad been taught all my life to pray, I never did much, because I never saw that it did any good. Not for those around me, at least. Every day the Amish launched some of the most beautifully written prayers out there. It was a formal thing, praying. Approach G.o.d, read some poetic lines from a little black book, and then get up and go about your day, secure in the knowledge that you had done your duty, that you would be protected. In church, of course, every single syllable in every prayer was scripted, read from a book or memorized, word for word. Thatas all I knew about praying. All I had ever seen.

Normally, I wouldnat have considered praying, not for a second. It would never have crossed my mind. Even if it had, I would have shrugged it off. But this was not a normal time.

I decided that I could simply talk to G.o.d. Ask for his help. Not by reading from a little black book, but by talking to him, man to man. Or man to G.o.d. Whatever.

I thought about it. I figured it wouldnat work. But, hey, it couldnat hurt to try. What was there to lose? So one day I did. I spoke to G.o.d. Informally. I donat remember my specific words, only that I prayed. I had no desire to remain Amish. In my mind, I equated that with having no desire to do what was right.

My request was a simple, desperate plea: G.o.d, I donat expect you to hear me. I mean, why would you? But if you do hear, give me the desire to do whatas right. I donat have even that much.

And that was it. Nothing profound. No Amen, even. No flash of enlightenment struck me. I still felt exactly the same and trudged on through the dreariness of everyday life, forgetting even that I had prayed. I had little hopea"actually nonea"that my prayer would be heard, much less answered. G.o.d didnat have time for wicked people like me. Not after all I had done. Not after so deliberately, so frequently, turning my back on everything I had been taught from childhood. Most likely I had blasphemed the Holy Spirit, which meant there was no hope for me. Ever.

I was lost. And I knew I was lost.

33.

He walked into my life less than a month later, unexpectedly and abruptly, as I was strolling along the sidewalk in the small town of Topeka after work. I didnat pay any attention to him as he approached. Topeka swarmed with Amish people, from morning until night. Bearded men of every type. Women bundled in bonnets and shawls, lugging squalling babies. And Amish children everywhere. They were total strangers to me, except for the few I had gotten to know at work and in church. Mostly, I paid them no mind. And mostly, they ignored me.

But this man glanced at me sharply and then walked straight toward me. He was tall and thin as a rail. He was obviously married, with a long black beard, and he had finely honed, sensitive features. The ubiquitous black felt hat perched on his head, covering a full head of straight-hanging hair. Closer, closer we walked toward each other. His piercing gaze never left my face. I would have brushed past him and continued on my way, but he stopped and smiled, looking right at me. So I stopped too. Who was this wacko, and what did he want?

ah.e.l.lo. You must be a stranger in these parts.a He smiled, extending his hand.

Sure a friendly chap, whoever he was. I smiled back and grasped his hand. aI am.a aIam Sam Johnson,a he said. aWho are you?a Johnson. Johnson. Strange name, for an Amish man. aIra Wagler,a I replied. I waited for the inevitable flash of recognition. Wagler. Wagler. And sure enough, it came.

aWagler?a he exclaimed. aNot related to David Wagler? Are you his son?a I admitted that I was, though rather sheepishly.

He chuckled. aWell, well. Imagine that, meeting the son of that famous man on the streets of Topeka.a And somehow, strangely, I was instantly at ease and chuckled back at him.

Sam was different. I sensed that right off. He was sharp and intelligent, asking keen, incisive questions. From anyone else, it would have been offensive. But somehow, from him, the questions were okay. He was curious, and that was fine. I was intrigued. We stood there on the sidewalk in Topeka, Indiana, on that sunny fall afternoon and talked comfortably, like old friends. Like wead known each other our whole lives.

His story flowed freely from him. He had not been born or raised Amish. As a young single man, he had joined from the outsidea"learned the language, joined the church, married, and had a family.

It is almost impossible to pull off something like that, to join the Amish from outside society. A lot of people think they want to, even believe they will, until they try it. Over the years, hundreds have made the attempt, but probably fewer than a dozen or two have actually pulled it off. Once they get inside the culture, the romance wears off in a week or two. The harsh, plain lifestyle. The endless hours of labor, from dawn to dusk and beyond. And even if they clear those hurdles somehow, the language barrier nails them. You gotta want it, really want it, to hang in there. Itas an almost impossible accomplishment, especially long term.

I stood there and gaped openly at him as he told me his tale. aHow could you do something like that?a aWhat in the world possessed you to even want to?a I actually asked those questions the first time I met him. And a whole lot more. And I didnat even know the man. I was entranced, almost mesmerized by our conversation. It was like an oasis, out here in the middle of this barren desert in which I was dying of thirst.

He sensed my eager, hungry mind, and we stood there talking as time pa.s.sed. First minutes, then an hour. Suddenly then, he pulled back, startled, and glanced at his pocket watch. He must be getting on home. His wife was expecting him, and he was already running way late.

I wasnat ready to let him go just yet. aWhen can we talk again?a I asked.

He seemed as excited as I was. aWe can meet again, here in town, after work. Soon, very soon. Iall check with my wife, so we can talk longer,a he answered.

As we parted, he spoke words that jolted me: aItas not by chance we met this afternoon.a I could only nod. I biked home in a daze. Finally, a man who understood me. A man with whom I could actually communicate. It seemed like a miracle.

That night, over supper, I told Phillip and Fannie about the man Iad met. Who in the world was he? Where did he come from? They knew him. Of course they did. Everyone, it turned out, knew Sam Johnson. Phillip and his wife seemed excited that I had met someone who had impressed me so deeply.

In the weeks that followed, Sam and I met regularly. Usually in town. And our friends.h.i.+p grew. He invited me to his house for supper one evening. I met his smiling, beautiful wife, Ellen, and his two rambunctious young sons. It was a lovely little household, and something stirred inside me, seeing him with his family. He had it all, it seemed. Why couldnat something like that be mine as well?

It could have been, of course, with Sarah, back in Bloomfield. But somehow, it didnat seem the same, what he had and what I could have had.

Within a month, we were fast friends. Best friends. I learned to trust him as I had trusted no one in my life before.

He listened a lot and spoke a lot. He challenged me, both intellectually and mentally. When I grumbled about the Amish, their simplemindedness and their shallow uncouthness, he heard me. And he agreed, to a point. But he always came back with a question.

aIf itas so bad, why donat you stay and make it better? We desperately need people like you in the Amish church. You are a born leader. You could tremendously influence the culture and the church in your lifetime.a And his perspective always left me silent, groping for a comeback. I came back a time or two. aYou donat understand, donat realize the bad things Iave done. You donat know where Iave been. And besides, I donat know if I even believe in G.o.d. What use can the Amish possibly have for a man like me?a Even those words, anathema to any ordinary Amish man, did not shock him.

And in time, I told him who I was. Of how I was so lost and so afraid. Of how I was approaching the end here in this area. Of the mad bishop of Ligonier and how I couldnat take it anymore. I told him of my past, sparing no details. What Iad done, how Iad left home again and again. The people I had hurt, so senselessly and so deeply. I told him of Sarah and of all the guilt a.s.sociated with that terrible experience. Haltingly, brokenly, I let the words flow from me. I left out nothing. Spared no details.

aYou have done nothing that cannot be forgiven,a he answered after I finished. aNothing. I donat care what youave done. There is a place where you can let it all go, let it rest, and return to life. Trust me on this.a And so it went, back and forth, for weeks. We talked of many other things too. My irritation at the Amish in general, my disconnection with the culture, and of his own journey to where he was. It seemed strange, and I told him so. We were traveling in opposite directions. Born of English blood, he was more Amish than the Amish. And I, born of the purest Amish bloodlines, was heading away, out into the world from which he had come. And yet somehow, we had met on our journeys and connected so strongly. Strange, indeed.

I absorbed all the things he said about forgiveness and about new life. And gradually, his words began to penetrate my mind. He explained that there was no human penance for my sins. No way I could ever atone for all the things I had done. But, Sam reminded me again and again, there was someone else who could atone. Who could wipe the past away and give new life. Heal all the woundsa"my own and those I had inflicted on so many others through the years. It seemed impossible that it could be true. But I listened, and I desperately wanted to believe him.

He never pressured me. Never told me to ajust decide to do whatas right.a Or ato just straighten up and settle down.a I guess thatas because he wasnat raised Amish. He didnat buy into those trite, simplistic lines. He was simply my friend. Quietly there, just there, regardless of who I was or what I had done.

And gradually, gently, the man calmed my spirit and gave me hope. He led me to realize that my rough and rowdy past could be forgiven. That all the pain and all the wounds could be healed. That there was real hope and a new life for me, should I choose to take it. Accept it. Live it.

Gradually, too, the struggles and doubts that had haunted me since my early teens began to fade. I could do this. I could change. I could choose to believe. I thought it through for a long time. Days. Then weeks. It could be true. It must be true.

And then one day, the moment arrived. I would do it. See what happened. Iam not sure what motivated me. Exhaustion, I guess. That, and a tiny seed of faith that had somehow sprouted from somewhere. That day, that afternoon, I spoke to G.o.d again. Informally again. Not in despair this time, but as a man who dared to hope. A man who wanted to do what was right. From his heart.