I get around,
I kicked the habit (kicked the habit, kicked the habit),
Shed my skin (shed my skin).
This is the new stuff (this is the new stuff),
I go dancing in (we go dancing in)…

—Peter Gabriel, lyrics: Sledgehammer
______________________________

He walked in the other day at work to pick up a few things for a job he was finishing up. A small-time builder, a guy I’ve done business with for years. I got up and met him at the counter. I smiled and greeted him. And he smiled back, and spoke my name. “Ira. It’s good to see you,” he said. “I called in the other week, and they told me you were in the hospital. How are you doing?” And I filled him in a little, in the next few minutes. I’ve been back for a few weeks. Part days, at first. I’m back to almost full-time. I come in a little late in the mornings, and work til closing. I’m feeling pretty good. I figure I’ll be back to full-time before long.

He asked about what had happened, and I told him. My heart. A-Fib, turned into congestive failure. The fluids, and how I was filled with them. He listened, all sympathetic. I asked what he was after, kind of edged it in sideways, and wrote it up when he told me. And we kept talking about where I had been. It was close, I told him. It got a little tricky there, early on. I came very close to leaving it all behind, that first Saturday night. And I told him how it was. It was the strangest thing. I knew I was in bad shape, right there. I knew I might not make it. And he asked. “Did you see a white light, or anything?” The man never was particularly religious, at least not around me, so I was a little surprised at the question. I mean, we’ve always got along real well. But we have never, never discussed what we believed, when it comes to faith. And now, here he was, asking me what I had seen when death came stalking close.

Nope. There was no light, I told him. I was always conscious. But I can tell you one thing. I wasn’t afraid. I felt no fear at all. “Wow,” he said. “I wonder if I’ll be afraid when the time comes. I don’t know.” And we just stood there and talked about it, what it might look like to die, and what comes after. It’s amazing how easy it is to talk to just about anyone about the hard stuff, when you were as close to death as I was.

And that odd little scene right there is only one among many in the brave new world I’ve been walking through this past month, ever since I’ve been home from the hospital.

Home from the hospital. To anyone who’s ever been trapped in a place like that, those are beautiful, magical words. Home. Out of this crazy place, where bells and whistles and all kinds of beeping noises of every imaginable tone and volume go off at random at all hours of the day and night. Home, from this place where people come in and wake you up and stab you with needles to draw blood, and poke and prod you all over late at night. Home, from this place where rest is a mirage and sleep is impossible. Anyone who’s ever stayed at any hospital knows what that feeling’s like, to be told that they can go home, tomorrow or the day after. It’s like being told there is light after the deepest darkness, hope after despair, life after death.

And it’s all still pretty close for me, the whole experience. I remember so many things that happened, there at the hospital. Good stuff, and bad. A couple of defining incidents remain especially vivid in my mind.

Monday morning. I woke up in good time. Just coming out of that frightful weekend, when the death angel had come that close to taking me. Saturday night into Sunday morning. That was the lowest point. And then, on Sunday, I improved a bit. And now, it was Monday morning. And the doctor, the guy who had made the calls from afar, that doctor was standing in my room, looking all grave and glum. A small crowd had assembled around. A couple of nurses. The doctor. My brother, Steve. And my friend, Gloria, had stopped in for a few minutes on her way to the college classroom where she teaches art history.

The doctor stood there, in his white doctor’s gown. Like I said, he looked pretty grave. As he certainly had a right to do, I guess. I mean, the man had brought me back from the brink. He’s the one who had discovered my heart was actually failing, that I was filled to the brim, almost, with fluids. And here he was in person for the first time, at least the first time that I saw him. He stood there, close to the door. All eyes focused on him. All was silent. It reminded me for all the world of an Amish church service. The doctor surveyed the room, kind of like an Amish preacher does. I don’t remember that he cleared his throat, or anything, like an Amish preacher would. He looked around, looked at me, looked at the people assembled and standing around.

He never said my name, at least not that I remember. My head was a little foggy, I will admit, so I might be wrong. But he spoke. “The patient’s heart is very weak, working at only fifteen percent strength. (Fifty percent of capability is considered full strength, so if you multiply it out, I was actually at thirty percent of capability. But they never tell you that. They want that scare factor figured in.) The doctor went on, dramatically. “Had he not gotten treatment, he would have died sometime this week.” (That shocked me. Good Lord. That was a close thing.) The Amish sermon continued. “He had his last drink of alcohol before he came in. There will never be another drop of anything. No wine, no beer, no non-alcoholic beer. No nothing.” And I thought to myself. What does he think, that I’m asleep, that he keeps talking about me in third person like I’m not here? But I was too tired to be all that offended. Or to be shocked, much, at even that last astounding and horrifying statement about no alcohol. Right then, I just wanted to rest.

And I wanted this pesky doctor to go away and leave me alone. After a few more grave proclamations, one of which was the assertion that I would be in the hospital for at least two weeks, the man did leave. The small crowd dispersed with him. The nurses went out. Gloria left for her classroom. Only Steve stayed with me. He didn’t say a whole lot of anything. He was still too shocked by the doctor’s proclamations, probably. Which was all fine by me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, anyway. I sank back and closed my eyes. That morning, I was a pretty sick man.

And that was Monday, and about all that’s worth remembering about that day. And time went on, there in the ICU. I wasn’t focused on much of anything except resting over the next few days. I had one major complaint, though. The food. It was just atrocious. Inedible. It didn’t matter what they told you they were serving you. You lifted the heavy lid off the plate, and whatever name the food had, it looked the same and smelled the same. Slop, is what it was. And no one ever bothered to tell me that it was salt-free slop. During the first few days, I had no clue that I was even on a low sodium diet. No clue at all. So it never occurred to me, that what I plotted next was strictly against the rules.

My nephews, John and David, had arrived that Tuesday from points in the Midwest. They hung out a lot during the day, just chatting about things. And they went out to Steve’s house a lot, too, to clean up and sleep and eat. And I think it was Thursday, when I couldn’t take it any more, when it came to the food. And I told my nephews. When you go out for lunch, bring me back something to eat. I’m hungry for cheese sticks. Their younger brother, Mervin, had arrived by this time. And the three of them allowed that it should be no problem. If Uncle Ira was hungry for cheese sticks, then cheese sticks he would have. I mean, look at the poor guy, all wasted away, there in the ICU. The boys disappeared, to go downtown to eat. They were gone for quite a while. A couple of hours, at least. They were hanging out, the brothers. John and David were heading for home late that afternoon. They planned to drive all night, to get back.

Somehow, while they were gone, the nurse found out they were planning on bringing me food. She scolded me. “You can’t do that. You’re on a strict diet.” No one told me that, I said. I’m hungry for some food from outside. She left it at that, or seemed to. And soon enough, the three of them came shuffling back into the room. One of them carried a folded paper bag. I took it eagerly. The cheese sticks. Oh, yum. And dip, too. Good stuff, right there. I quickly scarfed down two of the greasy sticks, while the nurse was gone. That’s about all I could handle. I had the boys hide the bag in the back room, where there was a couch and a chair, and some shelves. Keep those things out of sight. No sense getting everyone all riled up about nothing. That’s what I figured.

The nurse returned while the boys were sitting around, just chatting. John and David wanted to leave around four, or so. The nurse did not seem very happy. She grumped at my visitors. It’s two o’clock. Only one person was allowed to be in the room with me from two until four. We had known this was the rule, but so far, no one had paid any attention to it. And no one had enforced it. This nurse got all bossy. The boys pretty much ignored her, and she walked out soon. Stay for a little, yet, I told John and David. Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s just mad that you brought me food.

The boys left soon, then, heading out for home. Mervin stayed with me. He soon wandered off, as I took a nap. I stirred and looked out of the room. The grave doctor was strolling by right that moment. The bossy nurse had stopped him, and was talking to him in an animated manner. The doctor’s face turned grim as well as grave. When the nurse had finished, he turned and walked right into my room. A short, curt greeting. Then he asked, ominously. “Did you just eat a cheeseburger and French fries?” I did not, I said. I ate two cheese sticks. He understood me to say “cheese steaks,” I figured out later. “That’s even worse,” he said. How could two cheese sticks be worse than a burger and fries? I wondered. But I didn’t argue. And he told me. That food is full of salt. If I eat it, it will trigger more fluids in my body. I had no idea, but I didn’t bother arguing with the man. But I did bristle a bit. The food here is slop, I muttered. It’s not fit to eat.

The doctor continued to look grave, as well as grim. “Look,” he said. “We’ve got you back this far. Work with me, here, as a team.” OK, I said. I’ll do that. I don’t like your food here. But I won’t eat anything more from the outside. He was satisfied with my weak promise, and left me then. I was relieved. The man had saved my life, that much was true and remains true. But he was also God-like and intimidating, always. I can’t say I have or ever had any personal liking for him. I respect him tremendously. But I don’t like him.

And that’s how I found out about the brave new world that awaited me when I ever got home. From those two little incidents. And they loomed there, on the edge of things, two massive changes, cold and menacing. These medical people had me trapped. They had saved me from myself, from my own stupid choices. And now they were dictating the conditions of my life. And I could accept that. Still, I didn’t want to think about it.

Home looked pretty barren and desolate, all of a sudden. I was an invalid. Walking along, weak and wounded. My food would be pretty much tasteless. No hot dogs again, ever. Or sausage sandwiches. And there would be no alcohol in my world. Either one of these things would have been bad enough, all on its own. Combined, they lurked out there like monsters, dark and frightening. I averted my eyes and my thoughts from such a dismal world as that. And as the week’s end approached, and my health improved dramatically, I chafed to get out of that place, the hospital. But I shrank, too, at the thought of going home. Of going home and facing that hard stuff I didn’t want to face. Alone. It all seemed like such a harsh and bitter thing.

And Monday came again. Today, I would get out of this place. Not in two weeks, as the grave doctor had foretold. But in one week. Well, if he was that wrong about such a thing as that, maybe he’d be wrong about other things, too. That desperate thought flashed through my head a few times that day. And noon came, then, and my last plate of slop. I actually was eating the food by then. It was tasteless, most of it, being salt-free. But it was food. And around two, my nephew Andrew walked in. It was time to leave this place. We picked up my stuff and walked out.

I felt numb as we drove along the highway toward home, and I felt it pulsing down there, deep inside. Fear. Fear of a lot of things, but mostly fear of the unknown. I was in a new place, here, a place I had never even imagined before. And yet, I felt gratitude, too. I was grateful just to be alive, to be here, to be able to go home. Yeah, things would be different. Tough, and a lot different. But life is life, wherever you find yourself. And I figured I’d live through whatever was coming at me. I always had before.

But still. God, I thought. I don’t know about all this. I need your help, getting through. You know that. I’m gonna figure you’ll be there, just like you always promised you would be. I’ll try not to whine too much. But I feel like I’m in the middle of a desolate land, here, with no way out. I need you to guide me. Help me. We got home then, and Andrew helped me carry my stuff in. Then we headed out in Big Blue to the health food store. If you gotta be on low sodium, I figured, go talk to the people who can help you with the right foods. I walked out with a small paper bag filled with sixty bucks worth of low sodium foods, spices, and vegetables.

And the first evening at home was a little surreal and strange. Not so much from the food. But because of the alcohol, or lack thereof. I know the family had some doubts about it all, that I’d be able to quit for any measurable length of time. There had been a few subtle inquiries, sliding in from here and there. Are you going to be OK, not drinking? How about getting rid of all your bottles? Don’t you think you should? No, I said. If you think getting rid of all the alcohol in my house is going to do a lick of good, well, you don’t know what it is to face a thing like that. It’s a matter of the mind. It’s choices. You choose to drink. And you choose to not drink. And if I’m gonna sneak around and drink, a dry house won’t do much good. Heck, I’ll just run out to the bar. So no, I won’t get rid of the alcohol in my house, and I won’t keep people from drinking around me. I don’t want people to be all nervous, to feel like they have to tiptoe around me. I want people to be who they are.

That first evening, I snacked on some of the stuff from the health food store. Andrew took a nap on the couch for a while. And then it was dark outside. And soon Steve stopped by, to see how things were going. I was tired, I got tired very easily those days. And I told Andrew, when he asked. I don’t really have a place for you to sleep, except the couch. Go on over to Steve’s house. I’m fine. I’m going to bed very soon. I’ll stop over tomorrow morning, before you have to leave for the airport. And that’s what happened. Andrew followed Steve to his home. And that night, for the first time in ten days, I was all alone in my home.

It was strange and it was scary, those first few days. At least for the first week. The low-sodium diet scared me more than not drinking. For the alcohol, it was very simple. The grave doctor had pretty much told me. One drop, and you’re dead. Well, not dead, but I might as well be, the way he talked. I knew he was way overstating his case, but I was determined to listen to what he told me. No alcohol means no alcohol. Just don’t drink. But the food with no salt? Well, that was a minefield, right there.

I learned pretty quick. Almost all prepackaged food at the grocery store is loaded with sodium. I had never bothered to check the labels before. I mean, who does that? Why would you? But now, I had to. And that first week, I stuck pretty much with veggies and organic meat from the health food store. I cooked up a mixture of some sort in the crock pot. No salt at all. Just spices, pepper, and Mrs. Dash. The food all tasted quite bland, those first few weeks.

And I went back to work, at least part time, right from my first full day back home. You gotta stay busy, doing something. And it was a relief, to get back in the swing of things at work. My builders all welcomed me back when they called in or stopped by. Glad you are here and doing well. That was their sentiment, across the board. I’m happy to be here, and I’m glad to be back, I told them all.

And now it’s been almost exactly one month since I walked out of the hospital. I’ve had three or four follow-up checkups in that time. After the first full week, the grave doctor had me stop by. He checked me out. Everything seemed good. Blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen. The drugs, I said. They’re giving me vivid dreams. Every night. Not nightmares, necessarily. But strong dreams. He glanced at me, rather disdainfully. “No, those drugs do not give you dreams,” he said. And that was that. OK, then. I didn’t speak much more with him about anything after that. What good does it do to talk, if the person you’re talking to isn’t listening? I did ask one more question, though. How long will I be on medication? “The rest of your life,” he told me. Which was not a very nice thing to say. It threw me for a serious loop, into a real depressed state of mind.

A few days later, the A-Fib doctor disabused me of that notion. The drugs I’m on are toxic. They want to get me off all drugs, as soon as they can. Definitely within months. I rejoiced and thought dark thoughts about the grave doctor.

I’ve been getting comfortable with my new lifestyle. Don’t get me wrong. Of an evening, especially when I’m sitting at my computer, writing, I sure would like a drink. I would really like one. But it’s never been even close, so far. No alcohol means no alcohol. And right now, that’s the world I live in.

The sodium, too, doesn’t scare me as the monster it was a month ago. I’m learning to cook at home, now. I fry up a lot of potatoes, and cook up a lot of eggs. And now and then, I eat foods that I know are loaded with salt. Cheese. Sliced summer sausage. A bite here, a bite there. Just not much, at any single time. And every morning, I weigh myself. Just to keep track, to make sure the fluids are not building up. And over the holidays, the weight has fluctuated, sure. But it’s been because of all those goodies that people keep pushing on me. Coming right up, real soon here, it’s going to be time to get serious about a few things, like exercising at the gym. And I plan to.

Last Saturday, I was driving around in Big Blue, running a few errands here and there. Around late morning, I found myself close to the Waffle House along Rt. 30 in Lancaster. I’ve always loved the Waffle House breakfast of hash browns, smothered in onions, eggs over-medium, and buttered toast. I thought about it. Could they fix it without salt? Can’t hurt to try, I figured. So I went in and sat at the counter. The waitress, a cheerful hard-eyed woman in her fifties, took my order. I don’t want any salt on anything, I told her. Will that be a problem? She assured me it would not be.

She slung my plate down a short time later. The food looked as greasy and delicious as it always does. I settled in and just chowed. The eggs were fine. The toast was fine. The hash browns, well, those were pretty much laced with salt. I chewed and swallowed bravely, every last shred of food went down. And I could feel the taste in my mouth and throat. Salt. Lots of salt. I was careful the rest of the day, to eat only bland salt-free food. And the next morning, I was relieved that the scales showed I had actually lost a pound from the day before. My little foray to the Waffle House had come off OK, seemed like. I felt relieved.

And the next Monday, I had another checkup scheduled at the grave doctor’s office. But when I got there, he had handed me off to an assistant. A nurse practitioner. My vital signs all checked out at optimum levels. Blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen. All perfect. I feel real good, I told the doctor. I haven’t felt this good in over a year. I think my heart was running wild for months, I just didn’t know it. The doctor looked very pleased. And she asked me. “How’s the diet coming along?” Good, I said. But then I told her of that salty breakfast a few days before at the Waffle House. She seemed unconcerned. “We figure you’re going to splurge once in a while,” she said. “We just don’t want you to go out and eat a whole pizza, or anything like that.” I was pretty relieved. I’m sure the grave doctor would have been way less kind or understanding. I won’t do anything like that, I assured her.

And then she asked about what I knew she was going to ask. The alcohol. From my records on the charts, they all pretty much figured I was a drunk. There was no way I could have kept from drinking this long. And she looked at me, a little resigned. She knew what my answer would be. But she asked the question bravely. “How’s it going, with the alcohol?” And I told her. It’s a remarkable thing. I haven’t had a drop. But that don’t mean I don’t want to. I can’t tell you how bad I want a drink.

She didn’t scold me at all, or talk down to me in any way. She looked me in the eye and told me a little bit about how it was and why it was that way. And she got me talked out of having a drink, at least until the next check-up, right at two months out. And then, we’ll see. Two months. That was about all I could find in me to promise.

Two months. I guess we’ll see how it goes when I get there.
********************************
Well, the New Year has arrived. A few words, and a few reflections, about all that.

Last year was a dark and brutal time. The last two years were. I remember a year ago, writing about how I’m ready for whatever comes, even if it’s worse than the year that had just passed. And I guess I was ready. I could not have imagined at the time what 2015 would bring. It came, it brought a few days of light and many weeks of darkness. And now it’s gone. Passed on, like all things must pass.

It was a tough time for the family, the last twelve months. Two of us almost crossed over to the other side. My sister Maggie and me. We walked right up, both of us, to the banks of the River Styx. And yet, somehow, we did not board the boat for that final crossing over those dark waters. Somehow, the death angel stayed his hand. We drew back, into life. And we stayed.

And through all that, Dad is still rolling along like he always has. His children may be dropping like flies, but the old man chugs along. He just turned ninety-four, and he just traveled to Pine Craft, Florida, for his annual winter stay. He’ll be there until March, sometime, writing and holding court. The man just cranked out the third volume of his five-volume memoir. Our Stay in Canada. His memories and reflections of the twenty-three years he lived in Aylmer. To me, this was the most interesting volume, because I was born during that time. And the world he describes is the world I grew up in.

And the rest of the extended family rolls along, too. All going about their lives, busy and industrious. One generation ages and will soon pass, the next generation pushes up to replace the one before. People come and go about their lives. They now rise and live; in time, they will fade and fall. So it is, and so it has always been.

And looking forward to 2016, I suppose I should be anticipating all the great things that might come. But mostly, I feel ambivalence. After the last two years, I don’t have a whole lot of expectations about anything. About the only thing I can say with any confidence is this. Whatever the year brings, whatever the future holds, I will walk forward into life. And I will face whatever comes without fear.

Happy New Year to all my readers.

He understood that men were forever strangers
to one another, that no one ever comes to really
know another, that, imprisoned in the dark womb
of our mother, we come to life, without having
seen her face…

—Thomas Wolfe
___________________

The day was rolling right along, like any other day last week. And the phone rang again. Around midmorning, I think it was. Rosita answered, then beeped me. “An Amish guy asked for you.” Which is not unusual at all. I deal with lots of Amish builders, so an Amish guy asks for me a few times every day. I took the call. Hello, this is Ira. “Ira?” the man asked. A high, kind of squeaky voice. Definitely sounded Amish. Yes, I said. Yes, that’s me. “It’s good to speak with you,” he said in PA Dutch. “I’ve been wanting to chat with you for a while.” And he settled in to tell me how he knew who I was.

He was from down south, from the Peach Bottom area, he told me. Oh, my, I thought. A South-Ender. What in the world is he calling me for? I mean, those people are pretty much hard-core Amish. I don’t have a whole lot of connections down there, in the south end. I wasn’t sure about it all, but I thought to myself. This cannot possibly be a good thing. Still. I smiled as I spoke to the man, on the phone. What can I do for you?

And he told me. He had found my book at a yard sale a few months back. Oh, my, I thought again. My book at a yard sale? What’s the world coming to, that my book is at a yard sale? And local, yet? Good grief. He probably got it for a quarter. My book, speaking blood to blood, and heart to heart. It’s been four years. I guess it’s natural, that it shows up at local yard sales. It kind of freaks me out, though.

And the man rambled on, still in flawless blue-blood PA Dutch. He had read the book. Yes? I asked. And what did you think of it? Next thing you know, he’s gonna ask me if I’m in the ban, if I’m excommunicated. That’s always one of the first questions the South-Enders ask. They want to make sure I’m not a heathen. But surprisingly enough, he didn’t go there. He didn’t ask that. He hedged a little. “Well, I read it all the way through, that’s for sure,” he said. “And I have a few questions for you. Would you come around to see me some evening, so we can talk?”

And now it was my turn to hedge. He was from the south end. They’re real conservative, down there. More hard core. And way more strict. I mean, you’re talking about Lancaster County blue-bloods, the way all the blue-bloods used to be, way back. That’s what the south end is. I groaned a little bit inside, thinking of it. This is all I need, some Inquisitor from the south end, harassing me about my book. I’ve never made a habit of wandering into the lion’s den the south end can be. It’s just better, not to tempt things. Not to venture in to places where you know they’re waiting to trap you, places where the conversation can only spiral down.

I mean, I’ve fought all those battles before, over the years. Tried to defend, tried to explain, tried to excuse. It does no good, any such talk. It never did any good. It just made your interrogators feel all the more smug, seeing you squirm. And I remember, back in the 1990s, when I went back home to visit over Christmas. I was done, making excuses. Done defending my choices. And I told my brothers, Stephen and Titus. I’m not Plain anymore at all. I reject all forms of Plainness. Sure, if you want to live that way, I’m fine with it. I’m fine with how you live. That’s your choice. But I am completely English. And I lingered over those words, and savored them, as they came out. I am completely, completely English. And no one was ever gonna see me all squeamish about it. I don’t care if you judge me, or reject me, even. I am who I am.

Somehow, this South-End guy stirred up all those latent memories in me, just from his short phone call. And I steeled myself against him. I just don’t need that baggage. And I’ll never travel with such baggage again, if I can help it. I will not do it. I will not defend the choices I made, way back, to any Amish man hunting me down. This guy was knocking on doors I had not opened in a long, long time. He was real tricky, I thought. He wanted me to come down to where he was, to talk about my book, and what I had written. I recoiled, ever so slightly, on the phone, as all these thoughts and memories flashed back through my mind. But I talked back at him, real polite like. And all in PA Dutch.

Ah, I don’t know, I told him. What kinds of questions do you have in mind? He seemed a little evasive. “Oh, just some questions, some thoughts and such,” he said, still talking PA Dutch. It had been a while since I’d held an extended conversation with any Amish person in PA Dutch. I didn’t struggle to keep up, though. Not much. I grappled a little, to grasp his words, what he was saying, sometimes. But mostly, I ran right along with him. And I told him. Nah, I don’t think I’ll make it down there. It’s pretty far. You know where I work. You are welcome to stop in sometime and ask me any questions you have a mind to.

He seemed a little disappointed, but he took it OK. “Ah, well,” he said. “I would have liked to visit with you in person. You are welcome to stop by anytime.” I hear that, I said. And you’re welcome to stop by here, too, whenever you’re in the area. We could do lunch, if you stopped by. A vague silence beamed back at me. And then we said so long and hung up.

And I mulled it over, some, the rest of the day. Thought about the guy. He had not sounded all that hostile, really. Maybe he wouldn’t have chewed me out. And I thought, too. If my book moved him enough to where he actually reached out to me like he did, maybe he was looking for a way out. I doubted that, but still. You never know. Seemed to me if that were actually the case, the man could have at least briefly mentioned as much. And I thought, nah. Follow your instincts on these things. You’ve been around plenty of Amish people who did not appreciate your book. And chances are this guy from the south end was one of those people. No sense, tempting things, by walkinging into places you shouldn’t.

I didn’t have to wonder long about it all, though. Because the very next day, the next afternoon, the phone rang again. And Rosita beeped me again. “It’s that same Amish guy, from down south,” she told me. Well, I thought. This is interesting. I’ll feel it out a little more thoroughly today, to see where the guy’s coming from. And I spoke. This is Ira.

It was the same guy, all right. Speaking in PA Dutch again. He’d been thinking, he told me. Since I wouldn’t come down to his place, he figured he’d just call me with a few questions. Sure, I said. Go right ahead. What do you want to ask me?

The thing is, I got no fight inside me, when it comes to religious confrontation. Not about things like this. I am where I am. I want to be left alone. I want to walk in peace. So it was a bit of a step out for me, to tell the guy to ask me what he wants. I’m here. I’m open. Give me your question.

And I could feel him squirming a little, over the phone. He hemmed and hawed and cleared his throat. This is a real production, I thought to myself. Then he asked the question that had pressed him to call me twice in two days. The question that burdened his heart.

“Do you still feel the same as you did at the end of the book, or are there some things that would change if you wrote it today?”

That was the question he asked. The question he wanted me to talk about, face to face, down there in the south end. And I felt the vibes. This man is not attacking you. He honestly wants to know. He’s called you twice, now. That takes more than a little nerve, to be that persistent. So at least treat him respectfully.

I chuckled. No, I said. I would not change any of the story, if I wrote it again today. “You wouldn’t?” he asked. No, I said again. It’s just my story. I don’t know why I would want to change anything. I mean, I wrote what happened. Why would my writing of it change, today? Oooh. He hadn’t quite thought of that, he admitted. We settled in, then, and just talked. Or visited, as my father would say. We just visited.

How old are you? I asked him. He told me and it’s just a few years younger than me. Children? I asked. Are any of them married? His oldest daughter is married, yes, he told me.

We talked then, about the Amish in general, and I didn’t feel hostility from him at all. Just curiosity, and general interest. He said “Unsere Leit” a lot. Our people. Our people are this and our people do that. It seemed like he included me in the phrase.

And then he asked. “Do you know what I found really sad in your book?” No, what? I asked. “The fact that you were in your mid-twenties before you ever felt you could talk to God,” he said. “It seems like we could do better, our people, so our young people don’t ever get as lost as that.” Yeah, I said. It was a pretty brutal road. But I don’t hold anything against anybody, from here, from where I am today. It’s just what happened. It’s just my story.

And we chatted, then, about other things. He told me a bit about himself. He’s been knocked around a good deal, in life. He told me a little bit about his children. And then he paused, all of a sudden. When he spoke, there was a catch in his voice. And he just kind of slid it in, sideways.

“Last year my youngest boy got killed in an accident. He was eight.” He spoke the words softly. I recoiled instantly, in empathy and sorrow.

Ah, man, I am so sorry, I said. How did it happen? And he told me. It happened out in the fields. (No actual details, for the man’s protection) I’m so sorry, I said again. No parents should ever have to bury their eight-year-old son. I don’t care what the circumstances are. I’m so sorry you lost your young son. It had to be hard. It still has to be hard.

“Yes,” he said. “It was. And it is.” And we kind of wound things down, then. I needed to get back to work, I told him gently. He invited me to stop by, again. Some evening, just to talk. I heard him way more clearly than I did the first time. But still. I hedged. You know where I work, I told him. Stop by sometime when you’re around and we’ll go for lunch. He allowed that such a thing might be possible. He told me. He had my office number. He wanted to give me his phone shack number. Down south, I think they still have phone shacks. He gave me the number. And I wrote it down.

“Call sometime,” he said, almost wistfully. You never know, I said. I might.

And that was about all there was to say.

******************************************
It’s been a while. So a little update, here, on my sister Maggie. I wrote back in early June of how she was diagnosed with stage four cancer throughout her body. Well, in her colon, liver, and lungs, anyway. The family gathered around her, went down to her home in South Carolina to see her. Eventually, I think, we all got there to see our sister.

And things just kind of drifted along. Maggie was on some kind of natural regimen. And she seemed to be doing fairly well. Some pain, of course, from all those lumps, from all that cancer spread throughout her body. And the blood clots, too. There was an exceptionally large clot in her right thigh. She faithfully soaked it multiple times a day with some sort of treatment mixed in hot water. She stayed pretty weak and could not get her blood counts up to normal levels, or gain weight. But despite all that, she was still up and about and staying real busy.

And life just went on. Dorothy, her oldest daughter, stayed for about a month or so, to take care of her Mom. And then she took her children and returned home to Kalona, Iowa. And Maggie kept on taking her natural stuff, all while getting her blood checked weekly. And the test results were always steady. No one quite knew what all that meant. But it was good news, it was life, we figured, if she was holding steady. And the days drifted into weeks, then months.

Eventually, the family decided it would be good for Maggie to go back to a doctor for a second opinion, and take the follow up tests required, to see exactly where the cancer was. This happened a few months ago.

When the results for the MRI came back, the doctor said the cancer was pretty much isolated to the large tumor in her colon. They planned to remove the surrounding lymph nodes and her appendix. And yes, there were a lot of cysts that they needed to check out, as the first tests had revealed. But if the cancer was actually isolated, there was a real simple procedure to go in and get it. By incision. They wouldn’t even have to cut her open, or anything. We were all pretty shocked. And we all rejoiced.

The Lord still works in mysterious ways, I guess. Last week Maggie went in for her surgery. All went exactly as the doctor had told the family. He went in and removed the cancerous lump from Maggie’s colon, along with the lymph nodes, and the appendix. And then they checked out all those lymph nodes, and her liver. There was a decent chance some of them would be cancerous. And the results came back, a few days later. The lymph nodes were clear, and the liver is clear. All the blood tests were improving. The doctor felt like he had removed all the cancer. But he can’t pronounce her cancer-free until follow-up check-ups are completed. It truly was an astounding thing to see, to experience as an extended family.

Maggie was released from the hospital just a few days ago. And she returned to her home. She’s in a good bit of pain, still, but that’s to be expected, I guess. She rejoices that one of her heart’s greatest desires may now well be fulfilled. She so longed to see her grandchildren grow. To enjoy them in their childhoods, and to see them grow into adulthood.

So that’s how things stand today. I thank all of my readers who took a few minutes here and there over the last few months to pray for Maggie. Thank you. We rejoice in life and light, when we expected to be weeping in the darkness. That much is true, and Maggie’s journey is a miracle to us all.

As she walks into the future, I’m sure Maggie would appreciate any prayers any of y’all would care to present to the Lord on her behalf.