Crossing Over by Ruth Irene Garrett

Author:Ruth Irene Garrett
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2012-11-22T05:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

I feel so sorry for your family! I wish you could get a glimpse of the great sorrow and grief they are suffering!! Your mother is going downhill and Dad looks pale-faced! Oh how sad! I hope and pray that they will not lose their minds through all this!

—LETTER FROM PERRY MILLER (UNCLE)

They say a person can’t truly know something if they haven’t experienced it, or can’t acquire perspective if they haven’t been on the outside looking in.

Both of these notions would serve me well as I entered the English world and saw for myself that not all English are evil—and not all Amish are good.

Ottie said I was like a sponge, soaking up everything I could about my new life as fast as I could.

“Honey,’’ he would say, “slow down. It ain’t gonna go nowhere. You’ve got time to learn.’’

But I couldn’t be swayed. I had prayed to God, asking that he allow me to keep an open mind about what I would witness on the outside. Confident in his guidance, I became a magnet, drawn to every little detail, thirsting for a knowledge denied for too many years.

I marveled at how friendly everyone was. From Ottie’s family, to strangers on the street, to the minister and congregation at our new place of worship—Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Bowling Green, Kentucky.

The church was truly something to behold. Families sat together, creating a warmth of spirit absent in Amish services. When the Amish gather for church, the men sit with the men, the women with the women. It is a segregation born of centuries of tradition.

I was also amazed when, at the close of services at the Lutheran church, the Rev. James A. Bettermann hugged every parishioner who walked the greeting line. Such affection and caring I had never seen before in God’s house.

Nor had I witnessed another grand religious ceremony of the South. Some Saturday nights between 7:00 and 10:00 P.M., people would cart lawn chairs to a department store parking lot in Glasgow and settle in for a night of listening to free gospel music performed by local musicians and singers. Marvelous, I thought. Simply marvelous.

I was equally impressed one day when Ottie pulled to the side of the road as a stream of cars with their lights on passed in the other lane.

“Why are you stopping?” I asked.

“Because it’s a funeral procession. That’s what we do to honor the dead.”

Honor. What a nice word, I thought.

Among the Old Order Amish, such reverence would be unheard of. They believe that when a person dies, there is no sense in paying extended homage to them because they aren’t there to witness it. They don’t even place flowers on graves.

Beyond the compassionate social customs of my new world, I also reveled in the modern conveniences and entertainment offerings. The electric appliances. The cars. The movies. Television.

I instantly fell in love with washers and dryers, which could not only clean clothes spotless but do it quickly. Back on the farm, we’d have to fire up the gas generator to pump water into the washing machine.

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