Your country is desolate, your cities are burned with fire: your land,
strangers devour it in your presence, and it is desolate……

—Isaiah 1:7
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It’s been a brooding week. Things going on. Unexpected shock and stress from latent shadows. Old demons, asleep now for some time, stirring again in the hidden crevices of the heart.

And rage, like a sleeping dog disturbed, awakes again.

And the dreams. Sporadic. Vivid. Exhausting. Violent. Waking up drenched in torrents of cold sweat.

All of it uprooted by events beyond one’s control. And all the old memories wash back like a flood. What was almost laid to rest rises again, attacking with its viperous sting. Rips again into the soft fabric of the heart where the healing process had begun.

And one looks back over these last eighteen months. Each one an eternity. Yet moving along as all time does, at light speed. A year. Going on two. At all that transpired. From the first day, until the present hour.

And one reflects. On the two lives, supposedly joined forever, brutally sundered. On all the things that could have been done, but weren’t. The incessant haunting regrets, how they diminish only with time, but never entirely disappear.

On all the words that were spoken. In anger. Sorrow. Rage. Pain. Grief. Despair. And all the words left unsaid.

On the loneliness of one, living in a home where two had lived before.

It’s strange. I knew this day would come. Just not when. Or that it would be so soon. It’s not unwelcome. Just jolting. There is no real way to prepare.

All is truly vanity, as the Preacher wrote thousands of years ago. It was true then. It still is.

Everything. Wealth. Possessions. Knowledge. Passion. Power. Pride. Even love.

Everything, that is, outside Christ. The rebirth that’s possible only in Him. And the new life that follows.

A man can plan his path and pursue it. Make choices. Devastate his own empire, burn his bridges behind him and move to a far land. And yet, at some point, after he finds himself alone, after the corn husks meant for the hogs turn to dust in his hands, he may realize what a fool he was. Turn his hungry eyes again to the rich and fertile land he left behind. Long to return. Reseed the desolate fields. Pour new foundations. Rebuild the burnt and vaporized ruins of all he had so senselessly destroyed in his narcissistic passion and colossal pride.

If it’s even possible. Sometimes it is. And sometimes it’s not.

Because some inhabitants of that desolate land may have moved on. Picked up the shattered pieces. Rebuilt their lives. Made the flowers bloom again, as best they could. Their songs of joy, absent for so long, now returning hesitantly, slowly, now echoing tentatively from their wounded hearts.

They may not welcome him back. Ever.

Unless there is no other choice. Because of Christ. And His non-negotiable commands. If they even apply.

And that’s about all I choose to say for now.

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I pride myself on the matter. On never catching a serious cold. Never. Not beyond a few sniffles and coughs, sometimes for as long as a few days. While others are creaking around half dead. I credit my daily dozes of Superfood and a few other vitamins. Strict regimen. I stick with it.

That pride was shattered last Saturday morning. I woke up feeling groggy, my head ready to explode. A severe head cold had set in. All I need, I thought, as I headed off to work. I was disappointed in my Superfood, for not fending it off as usual.

It was awful. I could hardly breathe. Runny nose. Sneezing. The whole thing. But the not being able to breathe part drove me batty.

On the way home, I stopped at a drugstore for some medicine. A friend had recom-mended Aleve-D Sinus and Cold caplets as the best stuff out there. At least the best available without a prescription.

I asked the clerk for it. She reached behind the counter and got a packet. I stared. What was an over the counter drug doing behind the counter? I soon found out.

The clerk unlimbered a great black ledger book and asked me for my driver’s license. My friend had warned me. They don’t sell the stuff over the counter anymore because it’s used to make meth, or some such thing.

“This is insane,” I muttered as I dutifully handed over my license. She copied all the info into the great black ledger.

“It is a little silly,” she agreed, scribbling away, probably furtively planning to report my complaint after I left. She then asked me to sign my name on the appropriate blank. I did so, grumbling. She cheerfully gave me an instant dollar-off coupon, which I appreciated.

The stuff works. Opens my sinuses just like that. I can breathe. And that’s all import-ant. The cold is gone now, having worked its havoc. I have enough Aleve left for the next one. But I’m still quite irate that the government knows I bought it. It’s none of their business.

If I purchased several more packs of the stuff in the next month, my house would probably get raided without warning by the DEA goons, in their black masks, armor and machine guns. It’s a disgrace and a crying shame. Not to mention unconstitutional. We are not free.

It’s been a wild week. Events are unfolding at breathtaking speed. The world is a far different place than it was last Friday when I posted. Despite the bailout, or because of it, the stock market has tanked and bounced wildly and irrationally. Still no bottom. We are in the midst of global financial collapse. Global recession. And only downward from here, into Depression. For the forseeable future.

Business has slowed dramatically, all across the board. The air pulses with palpable fear.

We have, I think, arrived at a place we would not have recognized even a few short weeks ago. Government bailouts mean government ownership. Nationalization of banks. Fascism looms. Or worse. Even the best case scenario looks pretty dark right now.

Historically, economic collapse is always followed by the tramping sound of the jack-booted feet of great marching armies. There will be war.

Like I said a few weeks ago, store some food and water. Keep your powder dry and hold on to your guns. They’re coming for them soon enough. Hunker down quietly. Don’t make a big scene about what you’re doing. Cherish your family and friends. If events dictate a “gathering of the clans,” these people will be your support. And you will be their’s. Don’t be afraid. Be prepared.

Those who think I’m pedaling hysteria are mistaken. I’m simply a lone guy, with a little blog, commenting on events as I see and interpret them. As for making preparations, we western Christians are far too fatalistic. We sit around, don’t prepare, and say what will be will be. Because if the worst comes, we’ll all go home to be with Jesus. That may well be true, but it’s quite immature. As for God’s promised protections, I think He would expect us to take care of ourselves as much as possible. Including making some basic preparations for unknown but possible disasters. Or bad economic times.

Someone emailed me an excellent article on the issue. Instead of trying to paraphrase it, here’s the link. Should Christians Prepare? Read it for yourself. While I strongly disagree with the guy’s eschatology (If I hear one more prophecy about end times and Russia being “Gog and Magog,” I will need to wrap my head with duct tape to keep it from exploding.), it makes a lot of sense otherwise.

Quaker’s meeting has begun.
No more laughing, no more fun.

—Children’s rhyme
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It’s fall again. Harvest time. Lancaster County’s Amish churches have now held their baptismal services. Next come the Ordnung’s services. Then two weeks later, Big Church. Then the flood of weddings in November.

But before that, one other tradition unfolds. They gather twice a year. Semi-annually. For one long day. The Amish Bishops of Lancaster County.

They came last week from all corners of Lancaster County. The neighboring counties of Lebanon and Perry. And from out of state. One hundred and forty-four of them.

It boggles the mind on several fronts. Or at least my mind. First, that there are so many of them. Around 150 Bishops total. Each usually is responsible for two districts. Do the math. Second, that they all actually assemble twice a year. To keep unified. On the same page. A united front. That’s admirable.

It must be quite a sight. A sea of somber gray-haired leaders, all gathered in one spot, standing about in their broad-brimmed black hats, stroking their beards. Humor would have been at a premium, I would imagine. Perhaps a few strained smiles and restrain-ed chuckles. I’d wager Big Blue there were no guffaws to be heard the entire day. Their frontless buggies all parked neatly in long rows. Had I known of it, I might have driven by in Big Blue and tried to snap a few pictures from the road. But my sources didn’t inform me until it was all over. Probably on purpose, but just as well. Wouldn’t want to antagonize the few connections I have around here.

Preachers’ meetings of all kinds still make me shudder, because where I grew up, they inevitably resulted in trouble for everyone. But apparently that’s not the case here in Lancaster County. They’ve been doing it for years. Quite successfully.

Lancaster County churches are quite diverse. Northern and eastern districts are generally pretty permissible. Progressive. But in the southern end, not so much. There, people tend to cling tightly to the old ways, and the old traditions. You see grown men running around the farm barefooted in summer. They raise lots of tobacco down there too. Like they always have. The Surgeon General can stuff it. Their forefathers raised tobacco, and by George, they will too. Not that I have anything against raising tobacco. Or smoking it.

And so they gather, the Bishops do, to meet formally and discuss the issues of the day that are affecting their churches. I know little of the structure of their meetings. Cultural secret, I guess. I suppose the hierarchy centers on their age, or how long they’ve been in office. At the end of the day, I’m sure each one sees things from his own perspective. Thus, they return to their flocks, some to emphasize one issue, some another. However it’s done, it works. Lancaster County is probably the most stable large Amish community in the world.

I don’t know if they do the same in northern Indiana. Meet regularly like that. If they do, I’ve never heard of it. When I lived there in the late 1980s, all the districts were unified, even though some were much more progressive than others.

It would be impossible to hold such an inclusive gathering in Holmes County, which consists of a patchwork hodgepodge of all kinds of groups who don’t fellowship with each other. Old Orders. Swartzentrubers. Andy Weavers. New Orders. New New Orders. Abe Troyers. And maybe a few other groups I’m missing. They co-exist. But they don’t fellowship.

But maybe they do hold similar but smaller gatherings in both Holmes and northern Indiana. I just don’t know. Perhaps my readers can enlighten me.

When I was a young man in Bloomfield, we had a saying: “Nothing good can come from a preachers’ meeting.” The truth of that saying was proved again and again.

Bloomfield had two or three districts back then. A full contingent of preachers and a deacon in each one. They usually met once a year, on a Saturday. An all-day affair. Everyone held their breath, because at church the next day, we would learn what they had decided would no longer be allowed. Picky little things. Bigger coverings for the women was an old tried and true favorite. And longer, baggier dresses. Always admonitions for the youth, their attitudes, the way they combed their hair, the length of their sideburns, whether the top buttons on their shirts were properly closed, blah, blah, blah.

It was always something. I can’t remember a single preachers’ meeting where they met and decided all was well and they could just go home. Guess they figured if they went to all the trouble of meeting, they might as well make a few “improvements.” A few of the younger, inexperienced preachers let their passions run, their pet peeves blossom into causes, then crusades. Their power swept to their heads and made them giddy. They always convinced the older graybeards to go along with them, when the graybeards should have known better. Taking away existing rights and privileges from members never goes down well. It’s always a bitter pill.

Of course, those who grumbled at the incessant rule changes were considered rebel-lious. The young preachers figured that if they decided as a unit to ban something that was allowed to that point, their proclamation was the equal to a word from God. There was always much braying about how they, the preachers, were actually our servants, and not petty tyrants. It was sin to grumble or resist.

One fateful year, the preachers decided that the youth would no longer be allowed to sing in four part harmony at the Sunday evening singings. It had always been allowed, and we enjoyed it. Then, just like that, because one or two of the younger preachers were against it, they decided to unilaterally ban it. Singing in harmony was prideful, they opined piously, stroking their golden beards.

Bloomfield had only two districts back then. That day, church was at our home. My buddies and I weren’t members, but we knew what was coming. Sure enough, after the last song, Bishop George announced that all members should remain seated.

Half an hour later, they were dismissed. Our friends who were members emerged glumly. No vote had been taken. The preachers had just decreed that four part harmony singing should no longer be done. But they didn’t go so far as to say it was absolutely outlawed. Just strongly discouraged. They fully expected their proclamation would be heeded.

We had other ideas. That afternoon, my buddies and I huddled in the shadows and craftily plotted our rebellion. After some somber discussion, we decided that when the English songs started that night, we would just go ahead and sing the four part harmony anyway. One of us would announce a song, lead it and force the issue. We knew that if the ban wasn’t confronted that first night, it would forever be too late. Once harmony singing was gone, it would never return. That’s just the way it worked.

After supper, the singing started. We filed in and sat down. German songs for the first fifteen or twenty minutes. Then the English songs.

The four of us, Marvin Yutzy, Mervin Gingerich, Rudy Yutzy and I sat together. I forget who announced the song or who led it. One of us. The song was “Living by Faith.” Which had clear harmony parts in the chorus.

In the first chorus, the four of us loudly bellowed the parts. Painfully off key, I’m sure. The rest of the youth, most of them church members, stumbled and stuttered a bit, then joined us. The first verse. The second. The third. Then the last. My father sat on a back bench, frowning rather darkly. To his credit, he didn’t make a scene. Then it was over. We sagged on the bench, triumphant. We had done it. All the rest of the songs that required parts singing that night were heartily sung the way we always had.

And so harmony singing was saved in Bloomfield. As far as I know, it’s still done today. But just that close, it was nearly lost. Four young rebels rescued it. With admittedly less than pure motives. But we knew demagoguery when we heard it.

And the trouble all started at one of those infernal preachers’ meetings.

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Last Saturday night I attended a birthday party. Anne Marie Zook’s 40th. Paul and Anne Marie invited a sizable group of friends to their house. Delicious food was served, grilled pork sausages and all the fixings.

Anne Marie is doing well. She’s still on her natural treatment program, fighting the malignant brain tumor that was diagnosed almost a year ago. Because of all the natural foods, she has more energy than she’s had at any time since I’ve known her.

She’s not out of the woods, by any stretch. But her last PET scan about two months ago showed no traces of the cancer. They live day to day, fully aware that circum-stances might change dramatically for the worse without warning. But hope is a beauti-ful thing, and they cling to that and their faith as the months and, God willing, the years pass by.

The baseball postseason is upon us. Around here, Phillies fans walk about with exaggerated swaggers. They’ve done it again, won their division in a tight race with a close finish. Gotta’ give them credit. Ryan Howard just might take them all the way.

The poor Mets choked again in the last game of the season, same as last year. I do take great solace in the fact that the vile Yankees are out of postseason play for the first time in thirteen years. Evil Jeeter walks around forlornly, unsure of what to do with himself.

My prediction for the World Series: The Rays and (how this pains me) the Phillies. Go Rays.

My condolences to all those in the south who are experiencing gas shortages. If the government would get out of the way and allow the market to function naturally, you’d have all the gas you needed. Remove the price controls, and watch it flow in. Sure, you’d pay higher prices for a week or two, but the prolonged shortage would never have materialized. It’s basic economics. Too bad our esteemed leaders are blithering idiots.

It’s been a tumultuous week economically. I’ve seen nothing that would make me retract anything I wrote last week. The next seven to fourteen days will be interesting and probably a little frightening. Something’s gotta’ give, and it will. The craven Senate passed the boondoggle bailout bill in the late hours Wednesday night. This afternoon the spineless House caved and passed the abomination into law. Our Congress has rarely sunk this low in its corrupt and shameful history.

We are entering uncharted terrain. Night is coming on. And after November, it looks like a child will be leading us into the darkness.