A View from the Buggy

by Jerry S. Eicher

“It’s February, man! No wonder you got cold.”

  I figured my cheeks colored a bit at my ridiculous situation, so I came right out and said it. “I used to be Amish. I left home last night.”

  “What’s it like being Amish?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s okay, but it can get a little boring sometimes. I want to get out and do some traveling.”

  He seemed happy with that, so I purchased a snack and sat down at one of the tables. My eye was drawn to the magazine rack. “Mind if I look at some of these?” I asked.

  “Sure, go ahead.” He seemed eager, somehow. There was a trace of a grin on his face as he watched me filling my mind with the suggestive pictures in those magazines. Soon I was back on the street again. It was still dark…and cold.

  A car drove by, and then it slowed down and stopped just in front of me. Oops! It had lights on top.

  Two officers got out of the car and came toward me. Keep a business-like attitude, I told myself. That’s your only hope.

  “Where are you going?” one of the officers asked.

  “Just out for a morning stroll.” I desperately hoped I sounded offhanded.

  “At four-thirty in the morning?” They glanced at each other knowingly. “How old are you?”

  “Almost seventeen,” I said.

  “Do your parents know you’re gone?”

  “No,” I admitted, and soon found myself escorted to the police car.

  “You can put your backpack in there,” I was told, and then I received a pat-down.

  “We always do this,” the officer apologized. “Just to make sure.”

  “Can I see your ID?” came next.

  I meekly handed over my birth certificate, which would give access to my family’s information. My travels were over.

  Through the haze of my imagination I tried to envision the situation I would face when I returned home. How would I cope? One slight comfort was the woods and wilderness areas around home. At first I would spend as much time out there as possible to avoid the shocked gaze of people everywhere I went. Perhaps I could even arrive at church late and leave immediately afterward. I would skip out on all the gatherings possible. My family wouldn’t return to normal for weeks. I would be seen as the boy who ran away. They would wonder why I had suddenly gone wild.

  The officer was waiting. Well, there was no way out of this predicament. The first streaks of dawn had already started their work on the eastern rim of the morning sky. I concentrated on the hills, the sky, the fire lanes in the jack pines, and the gravel road beneath the police car on the trip home.

  “I’ll go to the door with you,” one of the officers said when we arrived. He knew 16-year-olds and what they did under pressure. When Mom opened the front door, he excused himself and went on his way.

  “We’re glad you came back,” Mom said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “No, I had some snacks,” I said, still standing at the door. “But I’m tired.”

  Dad appeared and greeted me. “Good morning. We’re glad you’re back.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Mom said. “Then you can change your pants.” She fussed over me, just like a good mom would.

  All my siblings were seated around the kitchen table. Dorcas had been crying. Mary was still blowing her nose. She gave me a welcoming look through watery red eyes. Stephen sat looking at his plate, and Jonathan stared at me. Ruby was only ten and didn’t know what to do with herself.

  I fled upstairs. Back in my room things seemed comfortably normal. There was the bunk bed where Stephen slept last night. Here was the nightstand, the closet, the dresser. I opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of pants—one with suspenders. I turned and looked out the window. Had it been only yesterday that I had climbed out of this room through that window? Everything seemed surreal, my brain dazed with tension.

  When I went back downstairs, Dad cleared his throat and said, “I want to say that if there is anything I did to make you want to leave, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  Like a mother hen, Mom couldn’t seem to get finished clucking over me. “Where did you sleep last night?” she asked.

  “Under a pine tree in Cadillac,” I said.

  “I was so concerned about you,” Mom continued. “Before we went to bed, we prayed as a family that you would come back. I lay there listening all night long to all the sounds of the night. Every little sound I heard, I thought it might be you returning. Several times I thought I heard you and got up to look out the window. Always it was just something else—the wind, the dog, one of the children upstairs, a vehicle going by…”

  Suddenly I saw it—me standing at the door to a den of sin and my family at home praying for me. Me trying to check into to a motel and Mom and Dad kneeling beside their bed praying for me. Me trying to find shelter in the gas station, Mom lying in bed listening for me. Those prayers had come before the throne of God. He had sent two of His angels in police uniforms to put me into a patrol car.

  For the first time I also saw something else. The story that Jesus told was about me—a young boy tired of listening to his dad, leaving home, spending his treasure (or trying to anyway), the father listening for his footsteps, watching for his familiar figure, waiting for his return. Always ready to roll out a welcome.

  I had been angered at Dad, but I had undoubtedly hurt Mom more deeply than I had Dad. I wasn’t ready yet to embrace what I saw, but the tears came anyway. I was nothing but a prodigal son. From any angle I looked at it, the truth stared at me like a wildcat with gleaming eyes. There was no escaping it.

  Mom didn’t cry much, evidence she had already cried herself out. I didn’t say much that morning. What else could I say? But I wouldn’t be leaving home again. Not like this.

  A Day in My Amish Country School

  Rachel Miller

  And they shall teach my people the difference between the holy and profane, and cause them to discern between the unclean and the clean (Ezekiel 44:23).

  CHILDREN’S VOICES FILL THE SCHOOLHOUSE AS THE BOYS AND GIRLS sing, “I’ve got more to go to heaven for than I had yesterday…”

  I enjoy hearing my 31 students raise their voices in song each morning, some singing in clear sopranos and tenors and all the rest joining in to create a lovely mixture of praise to our ever-present Lord and Savior.

  Bible story hour this morning is an in-depth review of the children of Israel and their 400-year stay in Egypt. The discussion becomes quite involved. Questions like…Why were the Israelites enslaved? How must it have felt to have frogs in your bed and in your food? Why did the Egyptians loathe shepherding? Where were the pharaohs buried?

  Pictures and stories about Egypt bring the story to life. Papyrus made from bulrushes help the younger students envision the basket baby Moses was laid in at the edge of the Nile. The fact that the base of each pyramid is as large as the neighboring hayfield awes us all. After a heartfelt prayer thanking God for His many blessings upon us and a plea for protection throughout the day, we recite our Bible memory verses and spend two minutes quietly studying them.

  Several of the students are working diligently where the early morning sun bathes them in golden rays through the windows. The pink geranium on the side table also enjoys the sunshine, and the water-filled prism casts a beam of rainbow hues across the ceiling onto the far wall.

  A cute floral green sock monkey nestles amid the flower plants and wooden letters spelling out “For This Child We Prayed.” The monkey is waiting for Logan to come swing him by the tail once Logan is dismissed from his special education class in the basement. How he loves that monkey—and even punishes him when he thinks he might have hopped off the windowsill!

  My attention is drawn to the clock hanging over the bulletin board. Two minutes are not yet past and I gaze at the painting of a bright sunset with majestic mountains and a tranquil lake. On the lake is one lone sailboat and the words Sailing for Jesus. I know that in our life we have rivers to cross and mo
untains to climb. We must always remember that the sunset is coming, but someday at the sunrise we’ll see heaven—if we are faithful.

  Our globe is turned to India, the land of Hinduism, temples, idols, and masses of people. It is also a land of poverty where we would love to serve the Lord someday by sharing with His children there. How many of my students will catch that vision of helping other people groups—our neighbors across the globe? Will one of them someday join in humanitarian aid work? Will they be willing to sacrifice for the sake of others?

  My students love hearing about the 400-year-old house my friends and I painted in Bethlehem, close to the cave where Jesus was born. I also tell them stories about my visit to Egypt and my other work among the poor of the world. They want to know the names of the Iraqi children we cared for at the children’s home.

  “Could you speak with them?” asks one student.

  “No,” I told them, “but kindness is the thing you do when you want to say in a special way, ‘God loves you and I love you.’ ”

  The two minutes are now past and Javan passes out yesterday’s checked papers while hurrying up and down the aisles. At the back of the classroom he brushes past the row of nature and science books we often use for reports. There we identify things like the kind of butterflies we’ve caught. We find pictures of the rainforest and Antarctica or we recognize the warbler outside our window. The World Book Encyclopedias are often grabbed for quick reference. Just now, Loren strides past and pulls down the M volume, looking for a picture of a mongoose. That’s one way my students learn new things.

  The daily lesson plan has been written on the dry erase board. With only a brief glance at the schedule, students pull their textbooks, workbooks, and dictionaries from their desks and a quiet rustle prevails. Names and the day’s date are written down and lessons are begun.

  Each grade takes their turn being called up to the table in front where I teach by demonstration or through diagrams on the dry erase board. I also add verbal expressions on the many varied subjects. We have the mean, mode, and median in math today, plus fractions and measurement skills. In language there are the eight parts of speech and proper punctuation.

  I am blessed with industrious students. No one lags behind, but all bend diligently over their lessons. At ten o’clock I quietly announce, “Recess time.”

  The students quickly rise and row by row disappear into the balmy sunshine and pure country air. It takes only 30 seconds to empty the classroom. Kickball is soon in full swing outside. I roll the ball for each child to kick with a mighty wham! When Aden Ray kicks the blue ball, it flies to the right, then left, then up and over; but it always comes back to me at the pitcher’s mound where I yell, “Stop.” All those not on a safe base are counted out.

  Logan, from special ed, makes his first grab of the day and sits on the ball, grinning happily. His teammates laugh and urge him to throw the ball to the pitcher. The runners gleefully race to the next base. How happy Logan is to have a chance to play. Is that not how life is for all of us? There are so many chances to enjoy our work, our play, and each other. Do we grab the ball, sit on it, and rejoice in childish glee? Probably not.

  The handbell soon peals from the open door and recess is over. We’re summoned back inside the little country schoolhouse where in art class we do freehand drawings of orange, yellow, and green farm fields and falling leaves.

  The poem we write down declares,

  Golden leaves are fluttering, down toward the ground.

  Golden years are passing, we are onward bound.

  I wonder where my 31 students are bound in the coming years. Am I directing them toward paths of worldly fame and fortune? Or are they gathering knowledge and wisdom to serve our great Creator in their youth and adult life? Is our time well spent while we study?

  They always seem ready to learn more, ready to dig deeper into the wellspring of knowledge available to each young Amish student eager to learn. I pray that they all will be just as willing to find their life’s calling under God.

  Joe, the Pet Crow

  Harvey Yoder

  But I have said unto you, Ye shall inherit their land, and I will give it unto you to possess it, a land that floweth with milk and honey: I am the LORD your God, which have separated you from other people (Leviticus 20:24).

  AS WE WALKED THROUGH THE TIMBERED HILLS OF RURAL OHIO, MY brother David and I knew our destination. Our home lay nestled on a hillside overlooking a valley. The woods, creeks, and meadows we traipsed through were familiar to us. We loved nature and the country life. The outdoors always beckoned us, and all the plants, animals, and birds lived in a world we loved to study and explore.

  But tonight we gave the evening beauty scant attention as we walked along, searching for a certain pine tree standing amongst all the others. A cry of victory soon broke from David’s lips. “There it is! The tree with the crooked branch.”

  David was good at this. He could find a stone, a gnarly tree, a thornbush, or even a cohosh plant that might house a crow or hummingbird nest. This time we were looking for a pine tree with a crow’s nest in it.

  As we approached the tree, we could hear the faint feeding call of the baby crows.

  We had been told that the crow was an intelligent bird and would make a good pet. It could even be taught to talk, we were told. We already had dogs, cats, squirrels, and raccoons, but a talking crow would top them all.

  “Now it’s time for you to do your duty,” David said. “You’re more agile than I am. Shinny up the tree, but be careful!”

  Throwing my straw hat on the forest floor and flexing my muscles, I set off. I enjoyed climbing, but going up as high as this nest would be scary. The red pine was straight and didn’t have any limbs at the bottom, but I wrapped my legs and arms around the trunk and slowly inched my way up. When branches became available, my progress was easier.

  When I reached the nest, I pushed a needled branch away and peered at the four baby crows snuggling together, waiting for their mama.

  Before starting back down I paused for some sightseeing. I could see for miles across beautiful farms dotting the countryside. In the distance I could see my uncle’s farm. A closer look revealed them baling hay on the hillside above the barn. In front of me was one of the highest hills in the community, nicknamed Red Hill. The old-timers said the Indians used it as a lookout point. The artifacts, arrowheads, and even a tomahawk that I had found in the adjacent field testified to that fact.

  The harsh scolding caw of the mama crow circling overhead brought me out of my reverie. Gently I reached in and retrieved one of the babies. I would need both hands free for the descent, so I opened one of my shirt buttons and secured the crow in the bosom of my shirt.

  When I arrived at the bottom, David took a look at the bird and said, “My…it sure looks ugly. It only has black fuzz for feathers and an odd-shaped head. Half of it is beak.”

  I agreed and we began the trek home.

  We found a cardboard box and put in a few rags for bedding. This was the crow’s nest and was safely stored in the corner of the kitchen. Before taking our seats at the supper table the family all had a peek at this new resident.

  The discussion was lively.

  “What will we call it?” asked Wyman.

  “Joe seems like a fitting name,” suggested Esther.

  So we called him Joe. Joe, the pet crow.

  “I’ve heard that the tongue of the crow has to be slit in order for it to talk,” said David. “Is that true?”

  “No, that’s a fable,” Dad answered. “They can mimic sounds, count, and even laugh without the aid of the surgeon’s knife.”

  “I hope he doesn’t carry off my clothespins or pull out plants in the garden,” Mom mused.

  “Will he carry off my toys?” little Rueben asked fearfully.

  We laughed and finally sat down for supper.

  For the next several days, we fed Joe bread and dog food soaked in milk and he grew rapidly. When he was hungry he gave
his feeding call, spread his wings, and opened his mouth, waiting. When the food was dropped in he gave a funny cry and the food readily slid down the hatch. Other delicacies we fed Joe were small frogs, tadpoles, minnows, and insects.

  When Joe had feathered, we took him outside for a few hours to help him adapt to his natural surroundings. Sometimes, if we left him unattended, he would simply disappear and we would become anxious, thinking he’d flown off and left us. We wouldn’t take any rest until we found him—usually under a rhubarb leaf or hiding in a pail.

  When we thought he was mature enough to stay outside for the night, we left him there. We probably had a tougher time of it than did Joe as we thought about all the nocturnal animals prowling about who could easily make a meal out of our inexperienced pet. In the mornings we dressed and raced outside. As if to assure us that all was well, Joe came swooping down to meet us.

  Before Joe learned to forage for his own food, he’d caw from a nearby tree and glide in to land a few yards away. He’d spread his wings and give us his feeding call. Even after he was an adult he liked handouts. Joe would often follow us around hoping for an easy meal.

  “Let’s take Joe on a walk down to the creek bottoms,” I’d suggest on summer evenings.

  Joe had caught on by then, and he followed us kids down the narrow dirt road to a small creek at the bottom of the hill.

  “Looks like he’s showing off his flying abilities,” David said as we watched Joe move from branch to branch, swooping and swerving.

  Joe soon joined us along the creek bank, getting impatient as he waited for minnows. We’d herd the small fish into the shallow water, catch them with our net, and toss them to Joe. He quickly dined on them.

  “I think Joe’s had his fill of minnows,” Esther suggested. “Let’s find multiflora bushes.”

  Japanese beetles feed on the leaves of the multiflora, and when touched they would let themselves drop to the ground. We’d capture them in our closed hands where they became quite active, putting up a fight and trying to escape through the cracks between our fingers. Joe waited while we’d see how long we could hold the beetles and endure the tickling. When we gave out, we’d throw the beetle on the ground in front of Joe. He’d toss them in the air and swallow them.