“In the great book of John you’re warned of the day, when you’ll be laid beneath the cold clay. The Angel of Death will come from the sky, and claim you’re poor soul when the time comes to die.” Hank Williams moaned and groaned from the speakers of Harmon’s Escort. Harmon sang along as he rolled down a back country road between Leola and Intercourse. Somehow the Hank gospel tape survived the post NBC cuts and Harmon was glad. The mournful voice cut through the darkness. “Can you face them and say with your dying breath, that you’re ready to meet the angel of Death.”
Harmon was ready to meet the Angel of Death but didn’t want to for a long time. His whole life lay before him. A life now muddled with uncertainty, but which probably would yield a wife, children, and a successful farming career.
Harmon was driving alone. It was Saturday night after the work night. He had been at an especially boring youth social which involved a mystery supper, lawn Dutch blitz, and many uncomfortable moments. Harmon felt restless. He wanted to go somewhere, do something, be somebody, but all he could do was go home to the farm in Bird-in-Hand and sleep because that was his lot in life. He drove over hills, around curves, and past farms in sleepy Leacock Township. Hank droned on. The wind blew through the open windows of the Escort, cool and crisp, with just a hint of manure. The smell was Lancaster County at its best.
On an especially dark section of an especially narrow and curvy road, Harmon pressed the gas especially hard. The Escort’s speed increased from 45 to 55 to 65 to 75. The bumpy road and the speed gave Harmon a feeling of exhilaration and excitement. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and pressed the gas pedal harder. At the end of a straight stretch of road was a small hill. Wild youth of the back country of Bird-in-Hand new that if you hit the hill at a high speed, you would gain a feeling of weightlessness as your car flew over the hill. Harmon was going about 80 when the escort groaned over the top. Hank droned on something about a mansion on a hill.
Harmon’s Escort topped the hill and almost left the ground. Harmon pressed the gas. Immediately upon reaching the crest, the feeling of exhilaration turned to one of fear and despair as he saw a buggy plodding along 10 feet in front of him. It was right there. Harmon’s survival instincts kicked in. But he had nowhere to go. Coming toward him on the narrow country road was an SUV. In the dark, the occupants of the SUV were staring at the buggy. Harmon saw a flash. Somewhere in Harmon’s subconscious he knew they were tourists. They were right beside the buggy and our Hero had nowhere to go.
Harmon gripped the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes. The car skidded and careened toward the buggy. He couldn’t stop. He shot forward. Harmon knew he couldn’t stop. The tourist SUV was blocking his path. At the last second something took over and the Escort was steered into the ditch, over a bank, and around the buggy. With a loud clunk, the Escort flopped back on the road. Harmon’s head slammed against the steering wheel. When he looked up again he saw a figure standing in the road before him. It was covered in a black cloak and holding a stick with a blade on the end. And then it was gone.
Harmon looked back. He looked at his hands and touched his face. “I’m still alive!” he stuttered, “I’m still alive!” His whole body was shaking and his heart felt weak, but he was alive and so was the Escort. He drove it slowly down the road. Hank droned on. Until he reached the farm in Bird-in-Hand, the speedometer never went above 28 and Harmon spent that time thanking God for saving his life.
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The next day, Harmon got up early, milked the cows, read his Bible and went to church. His heart was light as he drove the Escort up 340. The spring flowers were in full bloom and the trees were just starting to turn green. It’s a great day to be alive, he thought as he sat down near the front of the old church house. Harmon glanced over toward the girls’ benches, scanning the fresh faces for the one he loved. He found her in the fourth bench from the front. Her Sunday morning face was the one he always loved the most and this morning was no disappointment. Her brown hair was combed back neatly beneath her white covering and only a wisp or two fell across her face. Seeing her sing made Harmon want to sing even more.
Sunday school went well. The usual boys spoke their usual words and Harmon didn't say much. At one point he shared how he'd almost had a wreck the night before. Everyone in the class stared at him blankly. During Sunday School Harmon glanced repeatedly toward the girls' class a few feet away. Arvilla was there and he was trying to make eye contact with her but he never got that lucky.
They returned to the auditorium for the sermon. Harmon usually dozed off or drew pictures during the sermons but today he was wide awake. He clung onto every word Pastor Reihl spoke and felt richly blessed when the pastor sat down one hour later.
Then the time came for testimony. One old man named David Kauffman, who testified every Sunday, got up and spoke for five minutes. Usually his words didn’t make sense to Harmon, but on that April morning everything made sense. A few other men testified. The ushers walked around with microphones and gave them to the speakers. Just when Harmon and everyone else thought the testifying was over, a red bearded man near the back signaled for a mic. He got up and began speaking about his family’s hardships and trials and how their son, Jimmy, had broken his ankle and his wrist. Jimmy sat beside Horatio with a cast on his right ankle and right wrist. Horatio thanked the congregation for all the gifts and money they had given during the Johnsons’ recent rough stretch.
The Johnsons had come to Bird-in-Hand in an old brown van. They drifted in from somewhere out West. They came with 6 children, a recent conviction to go plain, and not much else. Their story was remarkable. Living somewhere out West, they were drawn to a life of plainness. So they sold all their worldly possessions, said goodbye to their family and friends, and drove their old, brown van to Lancaster County.
Their plan was to join the Amish. Horatio fit right in with his large, red beard. His wife’s large rag on her head didn’t really fit in though. She’d tried the butterfly covering, but couldn’t really figure out how to press the edges and so on. Soon it became clear that the Johnson’s weren’t really fitting in with the Amish. Horatio couldn’t handle a horse and the language barrier was quite a problem.
So the Johnson’s gave their horse and buggy back to the neighbors, took the ‘for sale’ sign off the old van, and headed for Bird-in-Hand Amish Mennonite church. The members of Harmon’s church were a little more receptive to the Johnsons. They gave them more attention and a few people were genuinely interested in them and their story. They helped integrate the Johnsons into the church. Some people gave the Johnsons strange looks. Others made fun of them. But most people were friendly and helpful.
Before long, Horatio and Marge and their six children felt right at home in the church. Some things they still didn’t understand. They often drifted into church at 9:15 or 9:45 or 10: 20. One Sunday they even came at 10: 40. But people were friendly and didn’t seem to mind. Ninety-nine percent of the people in the church were born and raised Amish or Amish Mennonite. They knew the Johnsons were a little different because they were from the “outside.” But that was all right. They were a mission project.
On that Sunday morning in April, Horatio droned on in his western accent. Harmon was getting tired of him. It seemed Horatio always had a lot to say about him and his family and their troubles. All the other people here have the same troubles but they don’t have to get up on Sunday and tell the whole church, Harmon thought. I think they’d fit in better at Charity.
And then Horatio sat down. The congregation sang the closing song and Harmon fellowshipped with the other worshippers. Willard and Henry were excited about the start of baseball season. Harmon was too, but he wished they could talk about spiritual things after church. He didn’t really know how to talk about spiritual things so he talked about baseball too. James Weaver came over. He was the Chorus director. He had a black unibrow. He asked the boys if they were coming to chorus practice. It was to start on Wednesday. They all said yes.
When James walked on Willard turned to Harmon and said, “Yeah, I dunno why I even wanna be on the chorus.”
“Well, it’s ok,” Harmon replied with a chuckle, “I know you can’t sing, but tour is fun.” Too bad your girlfriend doesn’t live around here.”
“Yeah too bad,” Willard said, “This long distance relationship stuff is not fun.” Hey I’m going to visit her next weekend.” You should go along.” He turned to Henry and punched him on the shoulder. “You too Henner.”
Henry and Harmon looked at each other and grinned. Then they looked at Willard. “Hey, why not,” Henry said, “I’ll go with you.”
Harmon looked at the floor. “I dunno if I can go or not.” We’re really busy on the farm right now.” Guess Pete can help a little more.”
Later Harmon walked out of the church house. While walking he scanned the crowd for Arvilla but didn’t see her. She and Karl were probably long gone. Driving around Intercourse or frolicking in the green grass of a Lancaster County meadow. Whatever, thought Harmon. I don’t even care about her. I’m young. God has so much more in store for me. As he pulled out the drive he craned his neck and looked around the parking lot one more time.
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That night, near twelve, two figures met again high atop the Welsh Mountain. For five minutes they exchanged words. They also exchanged envelopes and then they were gone. The white bearded man left the clearing on foot and the Amish Mennonite jumped into his car and drove away. (by ilw 4/30/09 to be continued).
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Comments:
Rueben Wagler wrote: 5/6/2009 6:59 pm
Gee I wish I knew the author of this story cuz it sure seems like he's writing about himself.
Read Our Hero Harmon next week for a story about chorus practice and a road trip by the boys