Say not in grief, “He is no more,” but live in
thankfulness that he was.

—Hebrew proverb
________________

Tuesday night. After supper. I was settled in at my computer, ready to work on the draft of the blog for this week. My cell phone clattered. Titus Wagler. He hasn’t called much, lately. We connect now and then, but either he was at the phone shack at the end of his drive in Bloomfield and calling to chat. Or there was something else going on.

I answered. This is Ira. And Titus didn’t hem around, or anything. Told me the reason for his call. Chuck Leonard had been killed that evening, an hour or two before.

I reeled. No. I knew the man was old. In his eighties. But still. I just saw him right at six weeks ago. In Bloomfield, at my book signing.

“Was it an accident on the road?” That’s the first thought that hit me. Chuck had trouble with his eyesight the last, oh, decade or so. He worked as an Amish “taxi.” Hauled people around in his old van. I knew he had trouble seeing, and just figured maybe he’d run off the road or smashed into another vehicle.

“No,” Titus answered. “He was changing the oil on his truck, and somehow it rolled down and pinned him to the wall.

Changing the oil on his truck. An eighty-three year old man, who had been a mechanic for decades. Yeah. He’d done that thousands of times before. Still, this time it got him.

“Aaah.” I half groaned, half breathed. “Seems impossible. I guess it was his time.”

And Titus told me of how they had heard the sirens in the distance, heading west. Wondered what was going on. He had called an acquaintance in West Grove. Ronnie Harris, Chuck’s neighbor. Ronnie told Titus what had just come down. Chuck was still alive when the medics reached him. Spoke to them. But then, he just left. And now he’s gone.

We talked a bit more, then. Half-stunned, I thanked Titus for thinking of me right away. And for calling with the news. We hung up.

And I think of the grieving family, and I see them all as they were way back when. Chuck. His wife, Mrs. C. His daughter, Margie. And his sons, at least the ones I knew. Chuckie and Jamie. I see them all in the bustling flow of their lives when I first knew them. And remember so much of who he was. Chuck. Charles Leonard.

During the course of my long and often troubled journey, I have known very few people with a kinder heart. And I have known a lot of people. It wasn’t even a conscious thing, to him. I don’t know if he would even have considered himself kind. But he was. It was just a part of the essence of the man.

I know few details of his background. He came from somewhere west and south of Bloomfield. Appanoose County, I think. From a hardscrabble background. Where you worked, if you wanted to eat. Once in a while, he told me tales of how it was. And it was tough. He joined the Army during WWII, but never saw combat, thankfully. He married. Had children. Then divorced. Then met and married Margaret, a devout Catholic. And the kind and caring woman I always knew as his wife. He practically adopted Linda, Margaret’s daughter from a previous marriage. They had three children of their own, he and Margaret. Charles, Jr., forever known as Chuckie. Margie. And Jamie. I saw them grow into their teenage years. Listened to the tales they told in those turbulent years of their lives.

For years, Chuck and Mrs. C ran a truck stop close to the intersection of Rt. 63 and Rt. 2, west of Bloomfield. By the time my family moved to the area, though, they had opened the little café and repair garage in West Grove.

I didn’t hang around the café that much, for the first few years. Stopped in shyly now and then for a Mountain Dew or an ice cream bar. Mrs. C always smiled in welcome. I had no idea that one day she and her family would mean the world to me.

I had my first dealing with Chuck after Marvin Yutzy and I headed down to Florida in 1981. Sometime that summer, I think it was August, we headed back home for a few days to visit. In the old 1972 Cougar with the 351 Cleveland engine. On the way up, somewhere in Georgia, the 351 Cleveland started overheating. We pulled into a gas station along the interstate, a ramshackle place, and conferred with the bearded redneck mechanic.

He found the problem, some sort of hose that was clogged or something. And, of course, he had no parts to fix it. So the bearded mechanic ambled to a nearby tree, broke off a slim branch and sharpened it with his pocket knife. Unhooked the hose from the engine and forcefully pounded in the sharpened stick. Wherever the hose was taking the water, it didn’t matter much if it didn’t get there. That’s what the bearded one claimed. Marvin and I were extremely dubious, but we knew nothing of engines and such. Besides, the bearded one seemed confident, and he didn’t charge us a cent. So off we went. And, miraculously, we drove straight on through to Bloomfield.

That week, I stopped by to see Chuck. Clad in his old green, greasy coveralls, he greeted me cheerfully. And I asked him. Could he possibly rig up something less, well, primitive? So we could make it back to Florida. He opened the hood, leaned in and looked. Exploded in a high-pitched guffaw. “You got a stick stuck in your engine block,” he hollered. “Never seen anything like it before in my life. Oh, boy.” His high cackling laugh echoed through the little shop.

And then, talking all the while in a rambling flow of words, the man grabbed a section of hose and some fittings and got to work. In less than half an hour, he had everything where it should have been. But I had another problem. Marvin and I were traveling on a shoestring budget. Our normal state of living. You pretty much winged it, to get to where you were going. And our cushion of cash was very small. “How much?” I asked timidly.

I forget the total. Maybe thirty bucks or so. Whatever the amount, it wasn’t enough, for what he’d done. Still, I stammered nervously.

“Any way I could charge it and get the money to you later?”

“Sure,” Chuck said agreeably, as I sagged with relief. “But I’d really like to at least get paid for the parts. Twelve dollars.” I’m sure he figured that was all he’d ever see. I gladly paid him the $12, thanked him and left. He wished me a safe trip back to Florida.

And that was Chuck Leonard. Good-hearted. Kind. Even to a relative stranger like me. For all he knew, he might have never seen me again. Yet, he was always way beyond willing to help out, even if he probably figured he’d never see a cent for his labor. He got paid, though, for what he did for us. Marvin and I made sure of that. But how many other forlorn wanderers never got it done? I’m sure there were more than a few, throughout the years.

It was after we returned from Florida, settled in and joined the Amish church, that I “discovered” the café. Began stopping in, now and then. Quietly, nervously at first. But not for long. They all welcomed me, Chuck and his customers, as one of their own. Many a time over the years, Chuck retold the tale of how I had showed up with a pointed stick pounded into the engine of my car. He never could get quite finished without almost doubling over with laughter.

I couldn’t grasp it at the time, how much the café and its people meant to me. I just couldn’t. And the anchor of that place was solid. Chuck and Mrs. C. They held it together. Kept it going. Looking back, I’m sure there was never quite enough money to go around, never quite enough to pay all the bills. But somehow, they managed to make it work. All while raising their three children.

After Titus had his devastating accident in 1982, all my friends at the café rallied around me. Comforted me as best they could. And after Titus returned home from rehab, Chuck decided to step in. He offered to come and get Titus once a week, and take him to the café to hang out for a few hours. Just to get away. And somehow, strangely, Dad didn’t fuss much, if at all. And so Chuck came, every week. Rolled in with his old car. Always cheerful and excited. We pushed a smiling Titus out in his wheelchair and helped him into the car. Sometimes I went along, sometimes Chuck took him by himself. A few hours later, they returned. All that took time and effort from Chuck’s busy day. And yet, he never asked for a cent. And we, of course, never thought to offer.

And the day came when I left Bloomfield for good. For many years, I’d keep in touch with what was going on by calling now and then. Chatting with Mrs. C. Of who was doing what. And who said what. Gradually, though, I drifted away. But always, when I returned to Bloomfield to visit, usually over Christmas, one of my most important stops was at the home of Chuck and Margaret Leonard.

His little shop burned to the ground, around 1990 or so, I think it was. Or thereabouts. From this distance, the years kind of blend together. He had no insurance. Lost all his tools. People from the community, including the Amish, rallied and built a new shop for him. But he never recovered from that loss. It never was the same. He bought a fuel tanker truck and began hauling and selling heating oil and gasoline. Delivered to most of the Amish, at one time or another. He was well known before in and around West Grove. But after he began delivering fuel, he became a legend in the entire Bloomfield Amish community.

And here I want to say that Chuck was widely known and well-loved by the English people in Bloomfield, too. He was simply a local legend. But I come from the Amish world, so that’s the anchor of my perspective. I am in no way detracting from what and who he was to his myriad English friends and customers.

His old fuel truck was soon a familiar sight on the gravel roads around Bloomfield. He puttered about, faithfully making his deliveries. If he ever had a bad day, you wouldn’t know it. Always smiling, always cheerful. Genuinely friendly to all. And in the cab of his truck, he carried a bucket full of magical goodies for the children. A bucket full of bubble gum.

They always waited in small clusters to meet him as his truck rolled in. Most of those children are now young adults or older. And their memories pour forth. On the day Chuck was scheduled to deliver, they made sure to lurk about, waiting. Tousle-haired, and barefooted. And he always rumbled in, smiling and waving. He chatted with them, treated them with respect, took the time for them. Gave them gobs of bubble gum. And they loved him for it.

And as they entered their Rumspringa years, the troubled ones confided in him. Told him of how it was. Of their confusion, of their rage and pain and fear. He listened sympathetically. And he spoke compassion to them. Don’t you think you should wait to leave until you are at least eighteen? Sixteen is really young. It’s a tough world out there. You want to be careful with your choices. I’m sure they didn’t always follow his advice, the troubled Amish youth of Bloomfield. Maybe not even often. But they heard him speak.

I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure his home was always open to those youth. Even after the café was closed and torn down in the mid-90s. That’s just who he was. He never had a reputation of actually helping them leave. He was too wise to do that; he knew their parents, too, and could see things from both sides. But the youth knew he was their friend.

You never really sense it in the moment, the impact a person has. Only in a time like this, in retrospect, does the true measure of a man like Chuck emerge. He never had much in material things. But he possessed great treasures in his heart. And he freely shared those treasures. There’s hardly a person, Amish or English, around Bloomfield who doesn’t have his or her own favorite “Chuck” story. Fondly recalled and fondly told. And there are a lot of Amish and ex-Amish men and youth out there who owe this man a great debt. A debt that can never be repaid.

He’s gone now. But we can honor the memory of who he was, those of us who knew the man. And experienced first-hand his heart of kindness and compassion.

You were there for me, Chuck Leonard. You and your family. Way back when I was struggling in despair through the tough slog of daily life. Searching for something beyond, something I could not find. You opened to me the doors of your heart and your home. You didn’t question the how or why of it, you just reached out and embraced a lost and traumatized Amish youth. Not to guide, necessarily. But just to be there, to offer a safe haven. And here I speak to all the world of my debt, my deep gratitude to you.

The Lord of the whole universe now holds you in His hands. And may you know in all eternity the true fullness of Christ’s love. Which is a deeper measure of the same love you gave so freely on this earth, to even the least of those around you.

Charles (Chuck) Raymond Leonard. 1928-2012. Rest in peace.

All things proceeding from the earth to seasons, all things
that lapse and change and come again upon the earth —
these things will always be the same…

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

An ordinary morning at the office a few weeks back. I was working at my desk when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the number. Unfamiliar, but local. I answered. Ira here.

The caller stated his name, and briefly, his reason for calling. He had just picked up a copy of my book yesterday. A mutual friend had recommended it. Last night he had sat up way late. Read all the way to the end. He just now called to tell me.

And with barely a pause, he launched. Unleashed a torrent of words. His story. From way back. He had left the Amish decades ago. Been excommunicated. All his life, he carried the frustrations of that choice. The deep wounds of being cut off from his family. Of the bitterness he battled again and again, all through the long years. He nearly wept as he thanked me over and over. Thanks for telling your story. It was time someone did. And still the words spilled from him as he talked, on and on.

I listened. Silently, sympathetically. Not that I could have gotten much in edgewise, anyway. The guy had obviously been deeply touched. And he was calling to tell me. Finally, someone he knew would understand. After five minutes or so, I gently interrupted him. I’m at work. I really appreciate your call. I really do. But I have to get back to work. Stop by sometime, and we’ll go have lunch. We’ll talk. Sure, he said. He thanked me and hung up.

At the book signing in Bloomfield last month, a stubble-faced guy walked in a few minutes early. I’d never seen him before, don’t know where he came from. He wasn’t one of my old West Grove buddies or anything. He stood in line, then approached me with his book and spoke his name. He had already read it, several times, he said. I thanked him and signed his copy. But he had come to tell me something more.

“This is an important book,” he declared solemnly. “It will be read for a long, long time. It’s an important book.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m very grateful that I had the chance to tell my story. And that my book was published by a major company like Tyndale.”

He seemed to think I hadn’t heard him. So he repeated. “It’s an important book. It will be read for a very long time.” The crowd behind pressed in on him then, so I didn’t have much of a chance to discuss why he thought my book was important. I thanked him again, and he moved on and out.

But I thought about his words later. A lot. Is Growing Up Amish an important book? Maybe. Maybe not. Readers will decide that. The market. And time, I suppose. It’s certainly not why I wrote it, to be important. Start out with a goal like that, and it’s a sure-fire way to never reach it. I write to write, to tell my story. Others can decide whether the book is worth reading, and whether it reaches the status of being “important.”

And those were two of the more memorable reactions to the book. I’ve seen and heard just about everything between. Along with some pretty strident criticism, too. Everyone has an opinion, one way or another. And I’m fine with that.

It’s been a good year. And I mean good. A year of harvest. When so many things fell into place. When so much came to pass, the stuff dreams are made of. When dreams come true, though, it’s not necessarily a relaxing time.

I’ve experienced just about every type of stress there is. Intense freaky stress. And the more reserved, silent stress, the type that really wears you down. I’ve gained twenty pounds, simply from not taking care of myself. A New Year’s resolution might be in order. Get back in shape.

I’ve recorded a lot of book-related experiences on this blog, as they happened. So I won’t go through all that again. Right now, I feel grateful and deeply thankful for all my blessings. I have to pinch myself sometimes, just to make sure I’m awake, that it’s all real. The Lord’s promises have never failed, but still, until you walk through that long, dark place where you desperately need them to be true, you don’t know what it is to really see those promises unfold. At least, that’s how it was for me.

Some numbers on the book. People are always asking. How many have sold? Are you quitting your “real” job? Are you rich? No. And no. I happen to like my “real” job a lot. The book has certainly achieved for me some degree of fame. But the fortune one instinctively associates with a bestseller in one’s mind, well, I’m still waiting on that. Sure, I’ll make a few bucks. And that’s great. I’ve already had replacement windows installed in my house, upstairs and down. And rebuilt my very tiny bathroom. All with the money from the book. It was way past time for both those little projects. And, of course, the evil, greedy tax man lurks out there, waiting to grab his share. So there won’t be any fortune, not unless the book sells a LOT more copies than it has to date.

As of now, there have been five printings. A total of around 50,000 hard copies. And around 15,000 eBook units have sold. Of the hard copies, around 10,000 remain out there in the market place, and Tyndale has about 5,000 stored in their warehouse. So a total of around 50,000 units, hard copy and eBook, have actually sold.

That’s more copies sold than most books ever dream of seeing. A respectable number. Very respectable, for a first-time unknown author. But it’s not huge. Plenty of other books out there have made a far larger splash, sold tens and hundreds of times more copies. My book has been a medium success, I’d say. Kind of like my blog. It gets a medium flow of traffic.

Probably another 10,000 copies would have sold, were the Amish and Mennonites not so maddeningly frugal. “Oh yes,” they write me cheerfully. Or even tell me to my face. “I bought a copy of your book and loved it so much that I’m passing it around to all my extended family.”

Which means anywhere from 10 to 50 people will read that one copy. That’s very nice, of course. The more people that read the book, the better. But it would be far nicer if some people in those extended families bought their own copies as well. Nothing anyone’s gonna do about it, though. That book-sharing habit is so ingrained into Amish and Mennonite culture that it’s useless to even grumble about it. All I can do is smile and nod.

I don’t know if the numbers out there represent the harvest of sales that have peaked and now will slow down. Or if the numbers represent the seed to be harvested. I hope it’s the seed, of course. That the book will keep selling and spreading. Wherever it goes, whatever happens, I’ve had my real shot at the real deal. And I’ve done OK. It’s just that, well, from an author’s perspective, it’s never enough. You always want more.

Whatever the case, I have to remain who I am. Can’t let it go to my head, that my book was moderately successful. My writing voice, silent for so long that I despaired of ever finding it, is one of my most treasured possessions. I don’t ever want to lose it. Which will happen, if I try to be something other than what I am.

The book has made its waves inside the Amish culture. It will continue to do so, I think, this coming year. It will be interesting to see what kind of structured response might emerge from those communities that are hostile to the book. I think that response might be forthcoming in 2012. Or maybe not.

Bloomfield, of course, has its problems with my work. And Aylmer, too, I’m sure. The official response has been muted. At some point, someone is going to say something. If not publicly, then privately. I’ll hear about it.

And in northern Indiana, too, I hear the book is not being well received among the Amish. Including my old friends, the people I knew there. I haven’t heard any specifics, just that they have recoiled from the book and are pretty hostile toward me. I’m not sure how many Amish people there have actually read it. Probably a few scanned it, and spread the word that the story is scandalous. I regret those reactions. I really do. I had hoped for at least an honest response. Tell me where I’m wrong. Show me what I wrote that wasn’t true.

And strangely, some few intellectuals (Certainly not all, or even many. Could be a tiny handful.), from certain slivers of the more progressive, mostly western Beachy-Amish and Mennonites, have been quite resistant to the book. In subtle ways, sometimes. And sometimes openly.

I’m not sure why. I guess they figured they were the gatekeepers. The ones who speak authoritatively about plain cultures, including the Amish. Their views are delicately nuanced, of course. And they recoil in horror at the raw, unvarnished details of my story. Their distaste shivers from their words and actions. They are stunned, pretty much in denial that a hick who graduated from Bob Jones University could get his story out there like that. Through Tyndale House yet, one of the largest and most respected Christian publishers in the world.

To them, to those stunned intellectuals, I say, relax. I’m as amazed as you are that my book got published.

That point of amazement, though, is pretty much all we have in common. You would have wished my book to be stillborn. To die before it could live. I wanted my book to hit the stratosphere. Which it hasn’t. So we both have to give a little, seems like, from what we would have wanted. One more thing, though. Stop reading my book through the skewed lenses of what you consider “literary criticism.” Which usually degenerates into just plain old criticism. I simply wrote my story. How it all came down. Sometimes, a story is just a story. And sometimes, a story honestly told reflects a lot of deeper things in life.

But apart from all the noise, I want to speak to you, my readers. The ones who have faithfully traveled with me, this past year. And before. You are the ones who made it happen. The ones who bought my book, and told your friends about it. You are quite a force, and I salute you all. Thank you so much for making this one of the best years of my life. Thank you. So much. I’m humbled and grateful.

The next year, 2012, will be a year of great challenges. And, always, opportunities as well. The future seems frightening, in so many ways. The world reels, from all the unrest and upheaval unleashed by the oppressive policies of increasingly tyrannical governments. The savage fruits of brutal and corrupt political power. Everywhere, we see and smell the fear. The uncertainty.

How it all will play out, no one knows. I’m not looking for anything pretty. In fact, I’m very pessimistic in the short term. Our 2012 presidential election will be the most vicious, scorched-earth political contest in our country’s history. There will be a lot of blood and fire and death across the world in the next twelve months. More so than usual, I think. It’s just shaping up that way. Some of that unrest, that blood and fire, will crash uncomfortably close to our communities, and our homes. I’m convinced it will.

And as those times, those events, invade our consciousness and encroach upon our lives, we will have to decide who we really are. All of us. Where we stand, and how we will choose to live. Where we place our trust. Both in each other, and in God. And as it all unfolds, we will be called to make our choices, to use or not to use the talents that we were given.

Whatever happens, I will write. Not because of any particular message. And not because I have anything particularly important to say. But just to speak. Of what I see from where I am. If no one hears what I’m saying, then it is what it is. I’ll write anyway. It doesn’t matter if no one’s listening. What matters is that I will have expressed myself.

A new year dawns. The old is gone. Never will there be another quite like it. It was a year of good things, a year heavy with the harvest of great blessings.

I look for great blessings in the coming year, too. Whatever happens, 2012 will bring new goals, new destinations. I’m tired, who isn’t? But eager. Eager to leave behind the safe walls of this shining city. Eager to strike out across the vast unknown one more time. I’m ready to battle the old dragons again. They’re still lurking out there. I’ll face and confront them. As I did before. Whack them back. And keep pushing on.

There will be times when I won’t quite know what’s going on. At least, if the past is prologue, that’s how it will be. But that’s where faith kicks in. Whatever the obstacles, they can be overcome. Will be overcome. In time, one at a time.

The new year, the future beckons. I’m thankful to be who I am, where I am. I walk forward with confidence. Calmness. And a little fear, along with a whole lot of other emotions. But mostly, I walk with a grateful heart.

Happy New Year to all my readers.