Mail began to flow into Nickel Mines, filled with donations and sympathy cards from every state in the Union. Even sympathizers in foreign countries wished to contribute to the families. Many of the donations were delivered by the mail carriers, even though Nickel Mines has no post office. A committee of Amish and English people were assigned by the Amish bishops to handle the thousands of letters. The donations were placed in a large box to pay the hospital bills, which were huge even after the hospitals and doctors reduced their rates. Everyone wished to show their sympathy. The amount of funds was kept confidential, but it was made known that the committee was able to pay all the expenses, even the undertakers’ bills.
Food was brought into the firehouse for the hundreds of visitors and volunteers, all of whom wished to help where they could. Letters were sorted. Some of them had the names of the bereaved families and were from far-off places like Montana, Maine, Texas, Sweden, Poland, and Australia. Many were simply addressed to Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania. Volunteers spent days sorting this mail.
Packages also arrived containing gifts of dolls and books as well as numerous tokens for the wounded girls. The committee also shared many of these donations with Mrs. Roberts. All her husband’s funeral expenses were paid and she received hundreds of sympathy letters from the Amish people.
The five survivors were released from hospitals after having undergone surgery. Rosanna King had been shot in the head, which left her in a coma for months. She received therapy and was finally able to return home to live with her parents. Rosanna is still under the constant care of friends and relatives. As of today, she cannot talk or walk, and may be crippled for life. Her mind is fairly sharp, though. Rosanna attends church and the Sunbeam School for special needs children.
The Nickel Mines schoolhouse was razed a week after the shootings. No parents wanted their children to attend a school where the daily memory would be of such a tragic event. A new one-room schoolhouse was built half a mile away and is called the New Hope School.
The heartbroken families have filled their lives with forgiveness and have moved on in their search of a life pleasing to God.
To Market, To Market
Rachel Troyer
But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear (1 Peter 3:15).
AT EASTERN MARKET IN DETROIT ON A SATURDAY MORNING, VENDORS and customers stir early. It might still be dark or cold and windy, but when it’s Saturday morning, it’s all about another big day at the market. From my spot in Maple Ridge Farm’s booth in the north wing of shed two, I had a view of the eastern sky as its gray turned to an orange-pink around the skyscrapers of Detroit.
“Pretty, huh?” I said to my friend Shannon as we wrestled our banners into position with ornery bungee cords.
“Yes!” she replied. “But we might have bad weather coming. You know, ‘Red sky in the morning…’ ”
I nodded and shrugged. Bad weather was all in a day’s work here in our country’s oldest open farmer’s market. In the summer, it’s sweltering weather in the concrete and steel city. Shannon’s jars of Slow Jams pop their seals from the heat. And in the winter, a stiff wind whips up from the Detroit River, chilling our bones and setting our teeth to chatter.
My fingers were red and achy from the cold as they dug through the chest freezer for beef tenderloin, smoked bacon, or a nine-piece cut chicken to display for purchase for our many passersby.
As the morning inched toward 7:00, the surrounding booths filled with folding tables and a medley of vendors and wares. The small shops opened around the perimeter of the market. The parking lots jammed and the center aisles of the sheds became noisy pedestrian highways.
On my immediate left, Mr. Lore busily handed out samples of his famous chess pies. Ethel’s Edibles sold their delicious Pecan Sandies. Great Lakes Coffee was always freshly roasted, and Danielle in the Urban Grounds coffee car made an excellent Eye Opener with it. There was Pasta and Pasta, McClure’s Pickles, The Spice Miser, Golden Wheat bakery, Drought organic beverages, and ever so much more.
Customers took samples of Farm Country cheese and homemade granola from my display. They bobbed their heads in definite approval as I told them about the benefits of our healthy meat. I enjoyed it when they came back for more week after week.
“This cheese is to die for,” they would say. Or, “I have to come here for your granola. I send it to my sister in Oregon. She can’t do without it.”
I loved telling them about our Cow Share Program—a legal way for them to enjoy the benefits of raw milk.
“I get so excited when I see you bringing my jug of milk from the ice chest,” a Cow Share owner told me.
“I can’t wait to start chugging it,” said another.
One man poured a generous amount of cream straight from the jug into his travel mug of black coffee. He then moved off into the crowd with his precious share of the milk from our cows on Maple Ridge Farm.
Customers strolled by in groups, in pairs, in families, or alone. They came from all over the world—France, Denmark, New Orleans, and New York. Eastern Market is a famous spot and a huge tourist attraction. Every week there would be wide-eyed people who would say, “This is the first time I’ve been here. Where do I start?”
Thousands of people are in that enormous, sprawling market, and there I was, a young Amish girl. But I loved it. I loved Shannon and my other vendor friends. I loved the diversity, the conglomeration, and the people.
I even loved the questions. Once, after explaining to an Iraqi who the Amish are, Shannon asked, “Don’t you get tired of the questions? I mean, everyone is always so curious.”
“You know,” I told her, “I don’t blame their wondering. I understand that to them we look, well, weird. There are so many misunderstandings about our culture that all these questions are a way I can give a fairer picture of us. But I have a reason for being different. Being a Christian impacts every area of my life. It’s my life, so no, I don’t mind talking about it.”
I won’t pretend though, that all the questions are easy ones. I give answers about my headcovering, technology, simple living, Amish youth, and our distinctive dress. I enjoyed describing a traditional Amish wedding meal to my friend Christina, who is an event planner. I told one lady that “Amish” is not necessarily synonymous with “organic.”
One type of question I always find tough is, “Is this Amish cheese?” or “Do you have Amish eggs?” My customers were not always interested in a long-winded explanation on whether or not the chickens live an Amish lifestyle, or just a chicken lifestyle on a farm owned by an Amish family.
Often in the vast crowds I feel small and helpless, observing the spiritual warfare and crying voids in American society. Encounters with my customers, conversations with people I meet, and questions they ask make my answers feel insignificant—like a lone star in a night sky.
Then it dawned on me that one country girl cannot satisfactorily answer all the questions of seven billion people worldwide, or 40 thousand at Eastern Market, or even for my best friend. That takes faith in Jesus Christ, and His redemptive, empowering grace.
It takes living, boot leather testimonies to bring many lives one step closer to the God who is the Truth. That is what gives my life purpose.
Penny
Luke Weaver
And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him (Genesis 2:20).
THE MORNING SUNSHINE SENT HEAT WAVES SHIMMERING ACROSS THE pavement as our tiny buggy rattled along. I was ten years old and had the back of the buggy all to myself this morning. Mom and Dad were up front. We were on our way to help unload the belongings of a family who had moved into our community from Iowa.
Only a few months had gone by since we were newcomers to Michigan ourselves, having moved there from Missouri. I was wondering if the new fam
ily had a boy close to my age. They lived about four miles from where we did, off a dusty gravel road. I could see a few buggies were already there as we drove in. The truck with their household items hadn’t arrived yet, so everyone sat under a tree and visited while we waited.
Soon a red semi pulling a trailer rumbled slowly up the road. The top of the trailer scraped a few tree branches as the driver eased into the lane. With a whoosh from the airbrakes, he parked close to the house.
Both cab doors swung open and a Mennonite man climbed down from the driver’s side. From the passenger side, a boy who was surely close to my age jumped down. He grinned and waved a tanned arm. In a flash, he scampered around the back of the trailer ahead of the Mennonite man. The back end of the trailer was stacked high with boxes, wooden crates, and a few bales of straw. On top were some chickens in a wire cage, and beside their cage, a dog carrier.
The boy nimbly scrambled up the back of the trailer. He stood on his tiptoes, and, holding tight to a straw bale with one hand, he opened the carrier door with the other hand. A little black and tan Beagle looked out, wagging its tail rapidly, whimpering for joy, no doubt glad the long ride was over.
The boy laughed and beckoned to the dog with his arm, “Come, come.” The little dog looked down and hesitated. “Come down,” the boy pleaded, and the little dog jumped right into the crook of his elbow. In a flash, the boy let go of the straw bale, hopped to the ground, and set the overjoyed dog down.
“Hi there,” the boy said as he skipped over to where I stood.
“Hi,” I returned. “Did you have a long ride?”
“Sure did,” he replied. “We left Iowa in the afternoon and drove all night. I liked riding in a semi, but I’m glad we’re here.”
The little dog trotted over, “This is Penny,” he said, and bent down to pat her back. She hadn’t stopped wagging her tail since getting off the trailer. Now she looked up at me and wrinkled one side of her lip to show her teeth. It looked like she was trying to smile.
“Penny,” I said, and stroked her short little ears. She showed her gratefulness with more wagging and rubbed against my leg.
It seemed like Penny liked people because she then trotted over to the group of neighbors and “smiled” at everyone, wagging her tail all the while.
Soon we started to unload the truck. The household items were in boxes of varying sizes, so we formed a line and simply passed boxes from person to person. Someone removed a window from the basement and box after box of canned goods was squeezed through the space.
By lunchtime everything was unloaded except a few small boxes in the cab of the semi. Everyone washed up at the sink and got in line to fill up their plates. Almost everyone ate outside under the trees, because the day was clear and sunny with only a mild breeze. Penny was sound asleep in the middle of the group, her head between her front paws, the picture of contentment.
I heard somebody laugh and looked over to see everyone point at Penny. On top of her head was a toy helmet with the “D” of the Detroit Tigers. Penny liked baseball, it seemed, because she only peered out from beneath the helmet, wagged her tail, and went back to sleep.
The next Sunday the little doggie came to church too. She smiled and begged to be petted. Everyone smiled back even though it was unusual for a dog to come to church. Penny soon became a regular guest at church and all other community gatherings. She simply trotted along behind the buggy wherever her family went.
Anyone who took a minute to say hello was her friend for life. Cries of delight from the toddlers usually welcomed her on Sunday morning. One Sunday our white-haired minister pointed out lessons from the life of the apostle Paul.
“We can see from Paul’s epistles that he loved everyone he met. You know, maybe it’s like that little dog that comes to church so often. She loves everyone, and no one is left out,” he said with a smile.
One winter day our English neighbor Bob drove up in his black Ford. On his lap, looking over the wheel, was Penny. For once it seemed someone didn’t like her. The neighbor across the road fed wild deer, and Penny would run over and bark at them. The neighbor didn’t appreciate his deer being chased off. “Get rid of her, or else!” he warned.
And so, for the sake of neighborly peace, Penny’s family asked if we would take her. We were delighted, of course. We always had a dog or two around, and Penny was a perfect addition.
This was of course no easy choice for the family. One of their sons had died in a farm accident some years earlier. Just before they left Iowa, they had all visited his grave site. When they arrived, two little beagle pups were sitting on the grave. One ran away, and the other one was Penny.
And so this very special dog came to live with us. She was about a year old that winter of 1998. The following spring, five puppies arrived, followed soon after by litters of seven and eight. Twenty puppies in less than two years was too many, so when Wendy, our neighbor, offered to take her to the vet to be fixed, we made an appointment and off she went. Penny was delighted with the truck ride and the new friends she made at the vet’s office. By then she liked to ride in anything that had wheels, as long as she could see out.
Over the next few years Penny gained a little weight and continued to make a lot of new friends. Seemingly, she had an agreement with the local UPS driver, because she would wait right outside the truck door while the driver took the packages inside. Before he left, the driver would toss out a treat, and Penny would happily trot off with her prize.
When we had chicken for supper, Penny loved to eat the scraps. Often she would carry off the bones to bury somewhere. Usually it was in the garden. The dirt was soft, which meant it was easy to dig. Much to Mom’s dismay, she would often find the bones the next spring when she planted peas or radishes.
In the winter of 2003, Penny adopted a more sedentary lifestyle. She slept behind the woodstove, which became her favorite pastime. Dad’s recliner was another favorite spot. She no longer ran along behind the buggy, but started to ride inside. As soon as we’d start to hitch up, Penny would begin to whimper and plead until she was lifted into the buggy. She wanted the door to be open enough for her to look out. This made an unusual sight, as Dad’s old, slow, “retirement horse” clomped along with Penny’s head peering out the side.
Sometimes when we visited neighbors, she got confused about where she was or would become too busy at play to go home. When this happened, Penny seemed to know where all the married siblings lived. She would go to the nearest one’s doorstep. They would hear a little scratch and open the door to see Penny wag her tail apologetically. She seemed to say, “Sorry to bother you, but could I stay here for the night?” They would make a little bed on the floor and Penny would gratefully curl up and go to sleep. They would leave a message for us and the next day we would pick her up.
Along with her sedentary lifestyle, she developed a fondness for people’s food. And not healthy food, either. Cookies, ice cream, chips, you name it. If we ate it, Penny begged to try some. Our attempts to make sure she ate enough real dog food became a challenge.
For example, she once stayed overnight at my sister Myriad’s house. Mom and Dad had dropped in to say hello, and Penny was too busy at play with Rob and Myriad’s hyperactive cocker spaniel named Jake to notice when they left.
The next morning they offered her a dish of dog food for breakfast. They said she sniffed it a little and turned up her nose. They then mixed in a handful of crumbled Oreos, and that did wonders. Rob declared, “She ate the whole thing and then licked the bowl!”
As the years went by, life continued to be one big party for Penny and her two doggie buddies we had acquired: a snorting pug named Duke and a long-eared basset named Jean.
Salesmen, the mailman, friends, and neighbors, all were welcomed by that motley trio. None of these canines ever thought of being watchdogs. Any burglar would have been welcomed with wags and smiles, just the same as anyone else. Especially if he had Oreos.
Most of my nieces and nephews can
credit at least part of their ability to walk with Penny. Her back was the perfect height for them to grab on and pull themselves up. She patiently took small steps as they tottered along. All of them adored her and would play with her for hours.
The last two years of Penny’s life were marked by declining health. The first sign of her age was her hearing loss. Then the effort to get up onto Dad’s recliner became an ordeal. She would stand in front of the recliner, look up, and take a step forward or back, trying to gauge the distance. Then with all the effort she could muster, up she went. Sometimes another jump would be required to make it. Once upon the cushion, she would sigh with relief and settle down for a long nap.
Then she developed diabetes, and we all knew she couldn’t hang on much longer. None of us could bear the thought of parting with her because she had been a part of our lives for so many years. We tried to keep her comfortable with a nice soft bed and a few extra treats. But around Christmastime of 2012, a few sore spots on her leg and flanks simply would not heal. The sores began to bleed, which was certainly not a good sign.
Regretfully, we all knew that the time had come. Penny suffered and no longer enjoyed life. Kindly, our neighbor and friend Terri took Penny on one last ride. Penny had enjoyed many rides in Terri’s minivan. Our local vet wrapped Penny in a soft blanket, where she went to sleep.
Thus ended Penny’s long and fulfilling life. If a dog’s life can be lived well, Penny’s life qualified. Her memory lives on in the hearts of our family, as evidenced by this eulogy of sorts written by two of my nieces. At my mom and dad’s place, the fridge is sort of a media hub. The doors are covered with a dry erase whiteboard, and it serves well for announcements, poems, and quotes from favorite authors. The girls wrote this the week after Penny left us:
A View from the Buggy Page 16
