I’d been to San Marcos by horseback before, taking the back trails to stay off the main road. That shortened the distance considerably. But I’d never walked it, and I should have told Joseph no. We had horses and could easily have ridden them. But Joseph wanted to walk. Lots of other people had done so, he said. He wanted to arrive with his Sunday clothing unruffled or some such reason. And Alvin Miller did the trip in three hours all the time. So we allowed ourselves an extra hour and set forth.
It was one of the stupidest, dumbest adventures I’ve ever been involved in. Looking back it’s as if I’d lost my mind. It was on a Sunday morning, so maybe that’s why I thought none of the normal rules applied. We didn’t even take along canteens. All dressed up in our Sunday shirts and shoes, we were planning to walk though miles of wilderness. Dumb. We left around five o’clock in the morning. Soon after dawn we trudged through Guaimaca and then went down to the river and crossed on some stones so we wouldn’t damage our Sunday shoes. We headed up the road and into the wilderness.
Thirst soon became an acute problem, which we solved by detouring higher up the mountain until we found a small spring, making sure no huts lay beyond before drinking the water. As the morning wore on, the San Marcos Mountains seemed to come no closer. At least the brief glimpses we could catch of them through the foothills.
We didn’t have to tell each other. We were hopelessly lost.
So we asked for directions from the people at the huts we came to. The answers were a general waving of the arms toward the San Marcos Mountains and assurances that the river wasn’t far away.
Time dragged on. My nagging fear was that somehow we’d get stuck in these mountains and not find our way out in time for my baptism the next Sunday. I knew that was ridiculous, but that was the dark cloud hanging over me nonetheless.
We finally reached the river sometime after ten, when the services in San Marcos would have been well under way. We pressed on, taking off our shoes and rolling up our pant legs to wade across the river. In some places the depths came to our knees. We continued across and made our way up the main road to San Marcos exhausted and thoroughly discouraged.
We arrived at Minister Richard’s house before twelve, but there was no sign of any church people around. That they had all left we could clearly tell. That we were not only late, but really late, was also apparent.
“Where have you been?” Minister Richard asked, looking grim.
“We got lost,” Joseph told him.
Obviously Minister Richard had heard that excuse before.
“What time did you start out?”
“Five o’clock,” he answered.
We all did the calculation in our mind, glancing up at the clock on the wall. That had been more than six hours ago. We were not gringo tenderfoots. Joseph and I were well versed in the culture and language and in the mountains—something Minister Richard was well aware of.
“Over six hours,” he said, leaving the implication hanging. We were lying, and something was seriously amiss here.
I knew there was no answer. What had just happened had no logical explanation. I would have been the first to admit the fact. If it had been up to me, I would have offered no further justification. There was none to give. And my tail would have been fried. I knew it by the look on Minister Richard’s face. Baptismal candidates are watched closely for signs of moral weakness and for evidence their conversion had been faked. And I had just raised valid suspicions in both categories, none of which could have been satisfied in time for the baptismal the following Sunday.
“We got lost,” Joseph repeated, not blinking an eye. “Really lost.”
Minister Richard eyed him for a long moment.
I think we both ran Joseph’s credentials in front of our eyes as the whole story hung on the peg of his credibility. And he came out smelling like a rose. Joseph was a pillar in the community and above rebuke. If he said we were lost, then however impossible that seemed, it was so.
“Okay,” Minister Richard said. And he never brought the subject up again. On Monday morning we caught a ride back to Guaimaca and walked out to the community.
The next Sunday morning the church house was full as usual. We had one more session on the hillside where Bishop Monroe went over the last two articles of faith. Then he informed us male applicants that he would be requiring something from us that wasn’t in the articles of faith. We perked up.
“I want our youth to mature rapidly in the faith,” he told us. “And I want your input during church activities. So with that in mind, I will be asking each of you boys for your testimony on the sermons soon.”
We knew what that meant. Amish tradition has two or three witnesses testify after each sermon on whether what was said was in accordance with the Scriptures. The male witnesses perhaps adding a few comments of their own to further edify the congregation.
It’s not hard to figure out what that meant to me. I was going to be embarrassed in front of the whole church now, and not just in front of one person as was usual. But what could I do? I wanted to be baptized.
With the class finished, we filed back to our places in front of the church body. We sat down, and I felt exposed. Looked at. Mortified. Around me the service dragged on. I moved as little as possible until we were asked to kneel.
Bishop Monroe started with the oldest and moved down the line.
“Do you confess that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God?”
“Do you promise to lay aside the world, your flesh, and the devil?”
The water he poured on our heads trickled down our faces. Bishop Monroe believed in getting his candidates wet.
“I baptize you,” he said, “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Going back to the head of the line, he gave each of us his hand of fellowship, lifting us to our feet at the same time, and kissing us—except the girls. He handed them off to his wife, who had slipped up to stand beside him for the final greeting.
I sighed with relief as the service closed and the crowd stirred behind us. No longer did it feel as if everyone was looking at me. I had survived my baptism.
Chapter 42
As events continued to head toward the final exit from Honduras that spring, another farm auction was planned. This would be a big affair, and Dad would contribute livestock. Uncle Joe and the other Stoll brothers found the auctioneer and managed all the details. The day arrived with the auction held out under Grandmother Stoll’s mango orchard. Temporary seating had been knocked together stadium-style next to the ring where the animals would be driven through.
People came from every corner of Honduras it seemed, and even from some neighboring countries—mostly businessmen, I suppose. They bid wildly, buying what the Amish had to offer. Prices went to levels not seen before. It was as if, after all these years of work, the civilized world had come to say thanks for a job well done.
That evening the huge trucks—dozens of them—rumbled out the lane loaded mostly with cattle, along with a few horses. Through the sideboards we could see their heads and tails as they jostled against each other. I stood there and watched, thinking of so many years of work all gone in one day. But the worst for me was yet to come. The truck carrying Lightfoot drove by. The dusty-white horse I’d ridden around the community for years. I don’t think he was looking at me, but I saw him as the truck disappeared over the knoll below our house.
I felt joy and pain in that moment. The love I had for that country. The loss I was experiencing. If heaven has horses, there will be a white one there. And he will know me because I’ve ridden him before into the places we both loved. He was tireless and could run like the wind. There was no place he wouldn’t go when I asked. I didn’t know who his new owner was. I hadn’t watched my horse being sold. But I hoped whoever the person was he or she would love my dusty-white horse like I did.
Uncle Joe’s family left soon after the auction, traveling back to Aylmer by public bus, already abiding by the “no air tra
vel” rules that would soon be placed on them. Now their house sat forlorn and empty on the little knoll. I heard someone from the community had purchased the farm, but I never saw signs of anyone around the place.
Dad was busy trying to find buyers for our properties. He’d gotten a bite before the auction on Uncle Stephen’s place from a rich businessman who lived in the capital city. And that man did buy our property as part of a package deal that included both of our places, plus the irrigation pump, plus the Brahman cattle. Fausto got thrown in the mix, sort of Dad’s way of taking care of him. He would stay on as the manager for the new absentee owner. Fausto had already lived for some time in his new, block, two-bedroom home built by his old hut. No doubt he considered himself greatly blessed with the deal.
He regretted us going, he said, but he seemed confident he would fare well on his own. I had no doubt he would. The man was quite capable.
Dad had a Fruehauf semi-trailer brought in from the capital. It sat in our driveway for more than a month as we loaded his shop tools. Everything was going stateside in hopes that Dad could start another machine shop once we settled in. (I think the real reason was Dad couldn’t find any buyers for the equipment.)
Mom and Dad talked, deciding that an exploratory trip north was needed in an attempt to ease our arrival stateside as a family. So Dad set out on a two-week trip. Once he left, Mom told us we were moving back to Aylmer. On that point, Mom was emphatic.
I took her word at face value, unaware that she was trying to overcome Dad’s reluctance. I suppose she was trying to get us children on her side. I really didn’t care where we went. It was the leaving that was my problem.
Five of my siblings: Miriam, Susanna, Sarah, John, and Jacob.
When Dad came back from his trip, we all raced out to see what news he had. With all of Mom’s promoting, we wanted to know if everything was ready at Aylmer for our arrival. Dad grinned and refused to answer, looking as if he had eaten something he shouldn’t have.
“I need to talk with Mom first,” he said.
Mom looked quite grim-faced as they left for their private conference.
It turned out Dad was as determined not to return to Aylmer as Mom was convinced this was our only choice. After all, that was where we had come from. And it was where all the Stolls were returning to.
Perhaps Dad’s memories of his trials in Aylmer had resurfaced. Whatever the reason, we were never told. What we were told was that while Dad was on his trip, he’d purchased a small place in Belle Center, Ohio. That was why he’d looked so sheepish upon his return. The house was in Bishop Wallace Byler’s district, the same bishop who had helped Grandfather Stoll found the community in Honduras. Impeccable enough credentials for Dad, but Mom didn’t look at all happy.
We were going to try the community, we were told. And if things didn’t work out, we would continue on up to Aylmer. A compromise of sorts between the two of them, I suppose.
At church, I had one last nightmare to live through. Bishop Monroe’s threatened testimony giving. He’d said he would soon ask all of us newly baptized male members to speak a word of testimony about a sermon. And “soon” to me meant any Sunday was possible. I sat in abject terror each Sunday as the names were called after the sermon for testimony. I couldn’t imagine the horror of what would happen when I tried to speak in public. I had memories from another time to prove my point. During one of my school years, when we practiced for a program, a girl who also suffered from stuttering was given a piece to say. It was some Bible verses in Matthew. The Beatitudes—all of them starting with “B.”
Strangely, I’d never had trouble speaking in school. I could recite pieces from memory at a school program without a stutter. But this girl practiced for weeks. Try as she might, she just couldn’t get “Blessed” out. Mercifully, she was finally given another section of verses.
But I expected no mercy from Bishop Monroe. If he even thought about it, I figured he would think I needed “help” in growing out of my problem. I was, after all, baptized now. So Sunday after Sunday names were called to testify…but never me. At last, unable to stand the stress of the last two Sundays, I left some minutes before each sermon ended, going outside ostensibly for a bathroom break. This was something Bishop Monroe also didn’t like, but I figured unauthorized leaving was better than the mess that would occur if he asked me to speak. Having escaped my terror, and with the last Sunday behind me, I sighed in relief.
Before we left, I walked down near Uncle Stephen’s place where I’d built a tree house years earlier. I was too old for tree houses now, but I climbed up anyway. Sitting on the rotting boards, I looked over the countryside around me. I knew that I was leaving it all behind. That life would never be the same, even if I ever did return. Not just the mountain rising in its grandeur to the north, or the wispy clouds clipping its highest peak, or the fruit trees hanging heavy with tangerines, oranges, and mangoes, or even the smell of the tropics. But also that joy which is the balm of childhood. The awakening each morning convinced the day will be better than the one before. The natural ability to see beauty in the worst of circumstances. I knew there would be no coming back. After long moments I said my goodbye and climbed down.
We flew out of the capital that September of 1977 loaded down with our luggage. The plane was late, as usual, but it finally appeared, coming in low over the tiled rooftops. We got in line, and eight years and one month after our arrival, we boarded the aircraft for our new “old” world stateside.
The Honduras capital lay open and bare, awash in tropical warmth and splendor in the afternoon sun as we took off. We swept over the outer ring of mountains, climbing ever higher as I watched the countryside go past until we neared the coast. After landing for the stopover in San Pedro Sula, we were soon in the air again and over blue ocean water. I settled back into my seat. The land I loved now lay far behind us. Ahead of us was the unknown. A new community. A new life. A new beginning among our people. I knew I would never think of myself as a child again.
The Eichers and Mrs. Wright.
About Jerry Eicher
Jerry Eicher’s bestselling Amish fiction (more than 400,000 in combined sales) includes The Adams County Trilogy, the Hannah’s Heart books, and the Little Valley Series. After a traditional Amish childhood, Jerry taught for two terms in Amish and Mennonite schools in Ohio and Illinois. Since then he’s been involved in church renewal, preaching, and teaching Bible studies. Jerry lives with his wife, Tina, and their four children in Virginia.
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My Amish Childhood Page 25
