This earth, this life, that is…that we have seen and known…
that has broken our hearts, maddened our brains, and torn
the sinews of our lives asunder….

Quick are the mouths of earth, and quick the teeth
that fed upon this loveliness. You, who were made
for music, will hear music no more: In your dark
house, the winds are silent…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

I don’t know the family, or the particular characters involved. But from the second I heard it weeks ago, the tragic drama of the story deeply moved me. With a keen sense of awe and horror and disbelief. I’d never heard anything quite like it before, and couldn’t shake it off. That’s why I took the time to write a “real” blog this week.

Tragedies unfold around us every day. People die unexpectedly. Sometimes violently. From accidents on the road, in cars and on motorcycles. And countless other fluky ways. Each time, we read about it, hear about it, and other than normal reactions of sympathy, shrug it off. If we don’t know the victims involved, at least, that’s what we do. And that’s fine. We can’t be walking around, burdened by every tragedy. Wouldn’t be healthy, the continuous mental strain.

Some few of you who read this will recognize the details and know the names. But it’s really not that important, who they are. Ordinary people, living their lives as best they can in accordance with the dictates of their faith. I know of them, near kin to a few of my closest friends in Lancaster County. And from my friends I heard the story.

The family used to live here, in Lancaster County. Solid Amish stock. Then, some years ago, they moved to upstate New York. Some plain community, Beachy or Charity or some such ubiquitous group. Anymore, from my perspective, those groups all seem pretty much the same. The family adapted well, both to the new area and the new lifestyle.

There were children. Eight daughters and two sons. A large family, by any standards other than the Amish. In time, the older children grew into adulthood.

They lived on a farm in their new community. Scrabbled a living from the tough rocky upstate New York soil. The father also had an outside business of some sort. Overall, the family prospered. And the children grew.

The back of their farm borders the Susquehanna River. The children liked to swim and wade the river during hot summer days. Over the years, they got to know the stretch of water that bordered their farm. They spent many happy hours there, splashing and swimming.

This year, the early summer drought took its toll on their farm and crops. Stifling heat, day after day, and no rain for weeks. One hot afternoon in early July, some of the children decided to head down to the river for a swim. Three or four of the girls. And the younger of the two sons, probably around 18 or 20 years old.

They walked to the back end of the farm to the river banks. The water was low, from the drought. On the normal stretch they knew, no spot was deep enough in which to swim. So they waded in, cooling down. Splashed about. And the story could have ended there.

Then the brother and one of the sisters, who was 16 years old, decided to go down the river, to unfamiliar territory, in search of deeper waters. They wanted to swim, not wade. And in that heat, who can blame them?

They told the others of their plan and set out. Around the bend they splashed, disappearing from the view of their siblings.

They waded on, the water was still shallow. Up ahead, another bend, and some large rocks. Maybe the water would be deeper there, so they could swim. They approached the rocks.

The actual details as told to me were sparse and sketchy. And even most of those are not that important. What happened as the two young people approached the bend and the rocks is the story that haunts the mind.

Blithely wading along, they suddenly, with no warning, plunged into an 8 ft. drop-off in the river bed. At the bend, around the rocks, the waters swirled in a vicious vortex. Sucking them both down into the depths.

They could swim. Not that well, but they could. As the waters closed around them and drew them down, down, they fought to resurface. Somehow, they both got back up, into the air. He struggled, closer to the shore. She was right behind him. Almost, he could drag himself out. But the hungry waters pulled at him. She flailed and struggled.

I don’t know if it all happened in silence, or if they had the breath and strength to speak to each other or shout for help. I don’t know if either of them panicked as they struggled in the water.

He would make it out. Just barely. And then she grabbed hold of him, her hands clamping on him like a vise. In utter desperation, she hung on. To her older brother. He would save her.

Mere seconds had passed. Exhausted and stunned, he hung on, either to the grass or maybe a branch by the bank. Still she held on to him. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.

And he felt his grip slipping; she was pulling him back in. If he let go, he would not have the strength to fight the water anymore.

At that instant, with absolute clarity, he knew he had to make a choice. Try to save himself and his younger sister. And drown if he slipped back in. Or save himself. But only if he shook her off, broke free of her deadly grip on him.

I don’t know what thoughts flashed through his mind, and don’t really care to know. But at some point in that frozen moment, he knew that unless he shook her off, they would both die. He did not have the strength to pull both of them out of the water’s vicious unrelenting grasp.

So he made the only choice he had. He shook her off and broke free. The churning, pitiless waters instantly swallowed her, pulled her under. She disappeared and did not resurface.

His little sister, who had tagged along with him all her life. His sister, of his blood and bone and flesh. His sister, whom he loved. Gone, below the waters.

He dragged himself onto the bank. Lay there for a brief moment, in total shock. Then he stumbled to his feet and staggered back to his other sisters who had stayed in the shallow waters back around the bend.

He gasped out his tale, and they rushed back to the farm for help. He knew it was a futile thing, that no help existed anywhere that could do any good now.

And he was right. It was too late. There was no hope. None. Their sister was dead. Later that afternoon, the rescue workers retrieved her limp body from where it rested at the bottom of the hole in the river. Sixteen years old. Gone.

The family reeled from the shock and grief. Four days later, on a Saturday morning, they buried her in the graveyard by their little church. Their relatives and friends, including many Amish from Lancaster County, attended the funeral. And deeply mourned their loss of one so young and innocent.

Even from a safe emotional distance, it is a hard and bitter thing to contemplate. The loss of a vibrant young life. Of a beautiful girl of sixteen, on the threshold of adulthood, who had everything before her. Family. Friends. Eventually, in the natural course of things, a husband and children of her own. Now snuffed out. All her tomorrows, all her dreams, all she would have been in the course of a long and fruitful life. All cut short in one brief and terrifying instant.

We are told to mourn with those who mourn. And in this case, it is not hard to do. We can, even now, pause and reflect on the family’s loss and say a prayer for their well being.

But to me the true drama, the real story resides in the cruel choice. It simply defies comprehension. The choice her brother was forced to make in the span of a few fleeting seconds. It is very rare, for any human to be confronted with such a stark decision in such brutal circumstances. With such tragic consequences. But it does happen, as it did here. A choice of life or death. Your own or another’s.

He made the right call. The right choice. Had he done otherwise, the family would have mourned the deaths of two of their children at a double funeral. And that day would have been far more tragic than it was.

But that truth is probably cold comfort to him. I don’t know him, but my heart goes out to him. The utter devastation in the desolate fields of his mind. Drained of tears, wracked by waves of guilt and grief. The bitter pain of loss increased a thousandfold.

How will he ever get past that? How will he deal with it, and go on to live a productive life? How will he even go on at all? His future forever tinged, his dreams incessantly haunted by vivid nightmares of memories from that day.

It seems impossible, to those of us viewing from a distance. Impossible that a young man could ever heal from the searing memories, the scars, the brutal shock of such unfathomable emotional trauma.

But it’s not impossible.

From my own experiences in the not-so-distant past, I know that the Lord extends grace to those of His children who are passing through the fires of unimaginable shock and loss. It seems like such a trite and clichéd thing to say. It’s the kind of stuff people always spout. Often by rote, with no real concept of what they’re saying.

But it’s true. Simple specific grace. That’s what got me through a few years back. And continues to.

Not that I would consider my experiences as even remotely comparable to these events. But still, the grace was there. I could feel it. Even though I didn’t think to ask for it, particularly. I could feel it, as I huddled helpless in the eye of the savage storm. Enveloping me. Not those who weren’t involved, those who stood in sympathy on the sidelines and wondered how I could take it. Just me. It was enough. More than enough.

And the Lord will pour out the necessary grace for this family, too. Especially for the brother. Not that he won’t have to deal with the guilt and grief and upheaval, again and again. And the flashbacks. For a long time. He will. And not that he shouldn’t get some serious heavy counseling. He should.

Life is a gift for the living. All the living. Including the wounded. And the deeply traumatized. A gift to receive. To live. To heal. To move forward into the future. To walk in awareness. To acknowledge and accept the past, however difficult or painful. To live, in time, in settled contentment. And joy, too, can and will return with a new dawn.

Ultimately, our choices define who we are and how we live. It’s all there for the taking. It can all come in time. Even in the aftermath of harrowing, heartbreaking loss.

Even in circumstances such as these.

******************************
As I post this, they are assembling. From points all across the nation. From the east to the west. From Pennsylvania to Montana. Well over a hundred people, by all accounts. Maybe as many as two hundred.

It’s the first ever ex-Amish reunion held in Bloomfield, Iowa. The brainchild of Ed Yoder and my nephew John Wagler, among others. This weekend at a park close to town. It will be an interesting and exciting time.

Any ex-Amish person who ever lived in Bloomfield is invited. That would include a lot of people I wouldn’t know, because I left back in the late 80s. More than twenty years ago. Some ex-Amish who attend might not even have been born then. But it still would be a huge blast to attend. Meet old friends and acquaintances, and make new friends.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it. Well, I could have, but it would not have been a responsible thing to do. Not with deadlines looming like Judgment Day, and so much yet to write. As I explained to Ed Yoder, the only thing that could possibly keep me away is the thing that is keeping me away. So I’m home, plugging away, wishing I were there.

The Bloomfield church fathers, it seems, are not at all amused about the whole thing. They are quite grim, in fact. A week or so ago, Bloomfield’s most powerful Bishop even stood in church and sternly forbade any church member to attend. Ah, well. Bearish as ever, they are. Some things never change.

I hope this event is so successful that there will be another reunion before too long. Maybe in a few years. Next time, I will make every effort, including procrastinating on then-current deadlines, to attend.

The summer comes again, heat-blazing summer, humid,
murked with mist, sky-glazed with brutal weariness…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

It’s been one of those summers. Half gone, already, seems like. As is the year. Hotter than a biscuit in the East. Record temps. Much moaning about “climate change,” and how we’re all going to die in the next year or so, if something isn’t done. Strangely enough, AlGore remains silent. Mostly because of his masseuse problems, one would suspect. Not that I’d wish ill on anyone. But his troubles couldn’t have befallen a more deserving man.

Anyway, it’s flat out hot out there. And no, I don’t mean it’s warm. It’s hot. The paved parking lot at work shimmers in the sun. The work crews slog through the day, gulping gallons of cold ice water. And I am hugely thankful for my air-conditioned office job.

I’ve wondered sometimes, when looking at old photos from back a hundred years ago. People standing there in a crowd, in a small town somewhere, or a city. Outside in the summer heat. No air conditioning. All the men wearing suits, most wearing ties. And hats. The women bundled up in large billowy dresses, also wearing hats. It’s hot. You can see it. And back then, most people didn’t bathe every day. Maybe once a week. And their deodorants, if they even had any, certainly weren’t what we have today.

I’ve looked at the old photos and wondered. What it would have been like to stand in that crowd. And I can’t help but wonder how those people smelled. I bet it wasn’t very appealing. Likely quite rancid. Maybe that’s why the dainty maidens of the time carried smelling salts. Probably they needed it to revive themselves and to quench the stench.

Anyway, it’s hot. And I’ve been stressed. More stressed than I’ve been for awhile. More so than I’ve been since the spring of 2007, for those who remember that dark time. Different stress, certainly. But comparable in its intensity.

Stress from this and that. But mostly from working on the book. It’s not that I’m not producing. I am steadily working my way through the picture board chart. But still, seems like no draft is ever quite done, not good enough.

Now July 4th has come and gone. I hadn’t planned a whole lot, but ended up at two different parties in two different states. Which isn’t bad for someone who hadn’t planned a lot. Big Blue was cruising, puttin’ on the miles. First, on Saturday afternoon to my ex-brother-in-law Paul’s home in Lebanon. With a few close friends. We grilled steaks. Hung out late, playing Hi-Lo. I slept on the couch.

The next morning, it was west and south to Hedgesville, West Virginia. Dominic Haskin, my close friend, always throws a great party on the Fourth. This one was no exception, except it was for one day instead of the usual two. Again, lots of great food (but no pig roast). Hanging out by the pool. Chilling with the West Virginia crowd. And after darkness fell, real tube fireworks. Quite the show.

On Monday, it was back home again, in time to get a few hours of writing logged in. And that’s going to be my game plan for the duration. I have no plans for any trips, short or long, in the near future. Not until after late October. Then, maybe.

And so the summer slogs by. As usual, I’m assailed on all sides by a host of minor irritations.

This year, there was the Census. I don’t even remember the last one. Must have been ten years ago, but I wasn’t paying any attention back then. This time, I was.

First, I got the notice proclaiming the form was on its way. Big whoop. How many millions were spent, doing that? Days later, it arrived. I opened it suspiciously. Ten or twelve questions. Name. Address. Income. Blah, blah, blah. Near as I could tell, I was obligated to fill out only one. The first one. How many people live in your house?

So I carefully penciled in the number “1” and mailed it back. Nothing else. No other info. Take that, Census people. I heard nothing for awhile. Then, one evening, a tiny note tucked in the screen door. From a Census worker. Local. Call me, it said. Listed the full name and phone number and convenient evening hours. I glanced at it, then tossed it aside. Come and see me yourself. When I’m home.

A few weeks passed. I always glanced at my drive when pulling up, checking for any suspicious vehicle that might indicate a Census worker lurking in ambush. Never was. Then about three weeks after the first note, a second one. Stuck into the screen door again. Different name. Must be the supervisor, I figured. I was here, the note said. A telephone number. Call me, we can do this over the phone, it suggested cheerfully. And maybe a little hopefully. Again, it listed convenient evening hours, up until 9:30 or so. Unimpressed, I read the note, then tossed it aside with the first one.

And that was the last I heard from anyone. They know how many people live in my house, at least downstairs. That’s all they need to know. And no, I’m not paranoid. Well, maybe a little.

I’ve yawned my way through the long, exceedingly boring coverage of the World Cup. Along with most other Americans, I suspect. All the hype on Sports Center, all the breathless coverage, all the rah, rah, just swooshed right over my head. I don’t understand any of it. Don’t care to. Guess that might make a bit of difference.

Somehow, soccer seems to be by far the most popular sport in the world. Except in North America. Watching a squad of guys running back and forth across a vast field, kicking and head-butting a round ball, that will never be popular here. Never. Not like other sports.

So I yawned when the US team was unceremoniously booted out by Uruguay. Who even knows where that is? I yawn at the upcoming finals. I’ll yawn at the winner, as other countries riot. Bring on real football, American style. And how about them Braves? They’ve been on a roll ever since I publicly scolded them on Facebook a couple of months ago. A most timely happenstance on my part.

And speaking of FB, I have mixed feelings about it. So far, it’s been a good experience, mostly. Sometimes I catch myself surfing when I should definitely be writing. Overall, though, it’s a very good way to keep up with family and friends.

Fifteen years ago, we didn’t even have cell phones. Think about that. Think how different the Seinfeld show would have been, had the characters been equipped with even the most basic cell phones. But it wasn’t an option then. Which makes Seinfeld reruns seem increasingly quaint.

Now, we have cell phones that can access our FB and we can post pictures almost instantly. We’re wired, is what we are. And I don’t even do Twitter, and whatever other new stuff is surfacing out there.

It’s a good venue for quick thoughts and observations. Causes. Short political screeds. Bashing this guy, praising that one. It’s also great for connecting after a tragedy, and for info on deaths and funerals.

I’ve had to learn. On FB, to be careful when disagreeing with someone. Because no one can hear your voice inflections. It’s all written. So a sentence that’s read might seem a lot more harsh than the same words spoken. Because of voice inflection.

I know a few people who have left FB. Didn’t like how it was hogging their time. I respect that. I’d be tempted to do the same thing, except I write the occasional blog, and am working on a book. FB is a perfect medium to announce a new post and to update readers.

I wonder, if a blog like this would even be possible to launch now. I doubt it would attract a similar readership. But then again, it might. Content, I think, is what makes or breaks a blog. But still, it seems strange. When I launched this blog a little over three years ago, FB was barely a blip in the public’s consciousness.

I chuckle sometimes, at the stuff posted. Guys post pictures of the road, grilled steaks or ribs, prate about football, Nascar and boasts of the hunt, and taunts about politics. And battles about religion. Merrily whack each other, amidst much name calling. Thugs and such. Perhaps taking it too far, sometimes. Girls…well, some girl moans she’s having a bad day. Instant response: a cascade of, uh, support. Hang in there. You poor thing. Praying for you. We really must get together soon. And so on and on. Not that I have anything against any of it. Mostly, I don’t even read the stuff. Just saying, is all.

And no, I’m not grumpy. It’s hot out there.