“In summer, the song sings itself.”

—William Carlos Williams
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It’s August. Already. Wow, is all I can think. Seems like only a few weeks ago that I was absorbing the fact that 2008 had arrived. Now it’s more than half over.

It’s been a good year so far. A bit strange, in many ways. I’ve relaxed. Settled into the life of a bachelor. Into my natural flow of daily routine. Work. Gym. Writing. A break in routine, traveling to see my family. And then back home. Round and round. And the weeks and months roll by.

I’ll be forty-seven this month. Approaching that “fifty” plateau. If you’re above sixty, that’s young. If you’re thirty or under, you might be wondering when I’ll be unlimber-ing my walking stick. My answer: not anytime soon.

I’m doing pretty well emotionally. Have a grip on how things are. And how things will likely be for a long, long time. Once in awhile, in the morning I still jolt awake and think to myself that the last eighteen months have all been a bad dream. A nightmare. None of it happened. None of it is true. But I always crash to reality within seconds. It did happen. It is true. I get up and stolidly proceed with the remains of the day.

With time, I suppose, even those wake-up flashbacks will diminish and disappear. Can’t happen soon enough for me.

A few months ago, I returned to Chestnut Street Chapel for the first time since Jan-uary, 2007. Almost a year and a half. Slipped in after the service had started. Sat on a back bench. On a Sunday when they served a fellowship meal. I stayed to eat. Every-one was cool. No one drooled. No one simpered. No one oozed false sympathy. I felt grateful. Relaxed. Welcome to return.

Since then, I’ve alternated between Westminster Presbyterian and Chestnut Street. Slowly working my way back. One of these days, Chestnut Street will be my home church again. A place of rest, like before.

Life moves on. For all of us. And obstacles loom. My friends Paul and Anne Marie Zook continue their battle, fighting Anne Marie’s brain tumor cancer with natural treatment. So far, so good. But absolutely no assurances for tomorrow. A co-worker, Eli Esh and his wife Katie just had their first baby, a little girl. She was a preemie with her heart on the wrong side. Operations. Waiting in Hershey at the hospital. Worry. Intense stress. No assurances for tomorrow.

I look at them and wonder how they deal with it. But they do. With grace and courage.

Some carry one burden and some carry another.

And so the summer passes. I review the things I’d planned to do. Many remain un-done. Somehow the days slip by. It’s easy to procrastinate.

The house has not been thoroughly cleaned since I’ve lived alone. Oh, I vacuum and scrub what needs vacuuming and scrubbing. But the house itself has not been dusted, or the floors mopped and waxed for quite awhile. The windows darken steadily over time, from dust and spider webs.

But it’s my home. And just fine by me. It’s OK that books and magazines and news-papers are piled on the floor for weeks on end. Seems like a perfect spot for them. Men are a little more relaxed about their dwellings, I think, when women aren’t around to pester them. As long as I’m presentable in public, I figure, it’s no one’s business what the house looks like. Up to a point, at least.

The flower beds outside the house morphed into a little wasteland. Thorns, thistles and briars reminiscent of the land of Nod, east of Eden. Except for occasionally whacking a particularly obnoxious weed while mowing my yard, I paid the flower beds scant atten-tion, other than to marvel at the lesser weeds. Anyone else ever notice how some weeds resemble flowers if you look at them just right? Blossoms and all.

And so things stood until my friend Anne Marie Zook took matters into her own hands. With her children, Cody and Adrianna, she stopped by the house, usually while I was at work, and labored tirelessly in the flower beds. For hours and hours in the sun. She slew all the weeds and planted many bright new flowers. Left me with basic instructions on how and when to water them. And so the desert, the barren land of Nod blooms again, despite my shiftless indifference.

I haven’t fished a whit, other than those few moments at my sister Naomi’s place in Missouri. Somehow, with the approach of each summer, one dreams of sitting on a bank or beside a creek on a summer day, rain clouds swelling in the west. The best time to fish. But it takes effort and planning to get it done. I have not. Besides, home-owners are very protective of their ponds around here anyway. Unlike the Midwest.

Both my charcoal grills feel quite abandoned. I’ve grilled maybe three times all summer, usually when my friends Allen and Bill stopped by on a Saturday evening. Sometime this month, though, I plan to have a group of friends over. I’ve got a lot of “Steve Beiler” organic sausage that needs to be enjoyed.

I’ve neglected the hiking trails. Except for a few local hikes, close to home, my walking shoes have been idle. My favorite, the Tucquan Glen, is about forty-five minutes south, and I have simply not scheduled the time to go down. Big Blue’s thirsty requirements for a ninety minute drive were also a factor. But I plan to hit the trail at least once, perhaps as soon as this Sunday, if it’s not too hot.

The Tucquan Trail on a summer morning.

Besides, it’s summer. One should be allowed to be lazy during the summer months.

Overall, though, if someone pressed me, I would admit to being happy. Not because it’s summer, but because I have a grip on my life. On where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going. I look forward to the future and all (or almost all) it might hold.

Years ago, as children in Aylmer, my sister Rhoda and my brother Nathan and I used to run and play in the yard and fields as the summer sun was setting. It was a magical time in a magical season. The end of day as dusk was settling. The white moon rising in the eastern sky. Southwestern winds rustled through the maple trees. Purple Martins swooped for insects in the air. Cornstalks crackled in nearby fields. The brilliant hues of the western skies remain vivid in my mind. Never since those enchanted childhood days have I so keenly felt and absorbed a sunset.

We chattered and laughed as children do, with no thought of tomorrow. Unaware that all too soon it would all be gone. That the years would flow like water, that we would soon emerge from our innocent state. That there would be no return.

And yet, occasionally at dusk in the summer months I feel the southern winds and relive those moments in my mind. And come tantalizingly close to grasping them once more. Only to a point, and then they recede again into the mists of time.

I reflect on those memories. What they are and what they mean to me. And feel a bit pensive and sad.

We were children. Blissfully oblivious of all that life would bring. We were happy. And we were free.

We were children. Running barefoot through the windswept grass.

And it was summer.
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Well, I finally met the man. The guy who sings all those hilarious PA Dutch songs. John Schmid. (web site: Johnschmid.com) He was in the area for a few days to help with Nelson Coblenz’s revival meetings this week and honored me with his company one evening. A friend directed John to my blog last winter and he contacted me via email. Since then, we’ve spoken and emailed regularly, but had never met.

He and an Amish friend and I dined at the grand old Revere Inn and Tavern in Para-dise Monday night. (No, the place has nothing to do with Paul Revere, but I think George Washington slept there at least once.) Great food and a lovely time. After dinner, they made noises about stopping by my house for awhile. I rushed home to clean it up a bit, mainly by piling most of my books and junk into the bedroom and out of sight. The house was moderately presentable when they arrived.

Ira and John in Ira’s messy kitchen

The next day John stopped by at work to tour the place and we had lunch at the local restaurant. I get a kick out of him. No one is a stranger. He struck up a conversation with a pudgy elderly man in the next booth. The elderly man approached our table as they were leaving. A retired United Church of Christ pastor, he laboriously regaled us with a detailed (and surprisingly accurate) history of the Mennonites and Amish. This was after John identified himself as a Mennonite. (I scrunched down and didn’t say what I was.) Guess it never occurred to the elderly pastor that John might know much more about such history than he does.

After a few minutes, the elderly pastor’s equally elderly wife walked up, probably to drag her husband away. He was on the verge of overstaying his welcome. Without blinking an eye, John turned to the old man and said, in all seriousness, “And this must be your daughter.”

The old man blinked, mildly startled, then smiled delightedly. The old lady positively glowed. The years seemed to drop from her, and she smiled and beamed. And for a moment she might actually have been his daughter.

“Oh, you are SUCH a sweet young man,” she gushed.

John is fifty-nine.

The old couple walked out, hand in hand, floating on air. I gaped, astounded. Couldn’t have pulled off something like that to save my life. John returned to his food and our conversation as if nothing had happened. All in the day’s work for him, I figured.

“Life is the sum of all your choices.”

—Albert Camus
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It’s a small group, in the big scheme of things. Not small as in elite, but small because there just aren’t that many of us out there. There is no gray area. Either you’re in the group, or you’re not.

The ex-Amish. And by that I don’t mean those who left and now remain with some sort of plain Beachy or Mennonite church. I mean those who, for their own reasons, have shed every vestige of plainness. The ones who, when you meet them, exude not a single clue of their background through dress, actions or speech. Completely “English.” The ones out in the “world,” who provide an endless supply of dramatic fodder for fiery Amish sermons.

For them, the Amish culture that birthed them is the road not taken.

A tremendously diverse group, almost all ex-Amish I’ve ever met express varying degrees of relief for the choices they’ve made. I can’t recall a single one who lamented the fact the he had left the Amish. Although many such stories were recounted in sermons I heard as a wide-eyed child. As dire warnings to any who might ever consider such an evil choice.

The sermon stories were all pretty much the same:

The old man stroked his short gray beard and his hand trembled as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a faded blue bandanna. His troubled gaze settled in the distance, far beyond the earnest young man standing before him. He blew his nose loudly. Then a tear trickled down his weathered cheeks. And another. He cleared his throat, unsure of his words.

The young man was shocked. This was not what he’d expected to hear. After a moment, he somberly thanked the old man. He untied his horse, got onto his buggy, and rattled off. He was very glad he’d asked for advice. He resolved not to make the same mistake. He would stay Amish. And be thankful and content.

I’ve often wondered if the stories were actually true or if the preachers just fabricated them. Who knows? They seem a little corny. The stories, that is. Not the preachers. Except for a few, maybe.

The great majority of ex-Amish are men, although an increasing number are women. It is substantially more difficult for a woman to leave than it is for men. For a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the ability to make a living in “English” society.

The ex-Amish exist in every walk of life. Most work in the trades; builders, craftsmen. A few pursue education and professional lives. The one quality almost universally shared among them is the ability to work hard long hours, to forge ahead on their own, to expect no handouts.

It’s a tough road, to break away. Takes an enormous amount of discipline, determin-ation, inner strength and old fashioned grit. Very few actually get it done. Most don’t really want to, deep down. And don’t. They “settle down” or maybe move on to a more progressive church, where the foundational doctrines remain the same. Along with some plainness, a few shades less than the actual thing. Something to cling to from their past. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

The ones who left chose to. They didn’t “escape.” They didn’t “flee.” Although some love to use those terms, I think they’re overly dramatic. They left. Broke away. Now they are where they are. And that’s it.

All are scarred, to some degree, by their experiences. All have stories. Of hardships. Abuse. Condemnation. Estrangement. Shunning.

They have stories of the good things too, such as they were. Of family, growing up and laboring in the fields. Of home, of mother’s cooking, of reading by lantern light in the cold winter nights.

Almost universally, those who left talk openly about their backgrounds and their jour-neys. The experiences that define them. Some are hostile, wounded and bitter. A few never really move on. Or get over it. They claim to, but they don’t.

Lancaster County has a few such ex-Amish. One, about my age, writes angry vicious letters to the editor upon occasion, criticizing all things Amish. Including their response to the 2006 school shootings. For thanking the cops for responding. How whacked is that? (He has a blog, but I won’t bother with a link. It gets few hits and fewer com-ments.) It’s gotten so that no one pays him much attention. And that’s kind of sad, because he does have valid perspectives. His bitterness overwhelms anything con-structive he might have to say.

Some write books. Tell-alls. Take whacks at the culture. And all the evil things. A few years back, a young Midwestern ex-Amish lady wrote such a book. Not particularly well written, it flared up, caused a little stir, then died. Guess the market’s a bit limited for such things.

Some are silent. Some are just laid back, content to live and let live.

In central Missouri, south of Clark, there is an ex-Amish reunion every summer. By authentic hard core ex-Amish. Attended by hundreds. My nephews from Iowa have attended frequently. Someday, I’d like to as well.

Whatever the personal experiences, some sort of bond remains, some sort of con-nection, between each such individual and his background. And among all ex-Amish to each other.

My point in all this? In a sense, just musings. In another, well, it bothers me at times when I hear virulent criticism of the Amish from those who emerged from the culture and then left it behind.

The Amish have their faults, heaven knows. I’m not blindly defending all they are or have been. I try to be honest in writing about my own experiences, many of which were very negative. But I deeply believe they have the right to exist as they do, to worship and live as they see fit. Even if it makes little sense to me, who’s been there, and no sense at all to most outsiders.

That’s not the point. Their “freedom to be” is.

It’s easy to blast their weaknesses. To emphasize their inconsistencies. To mock their old fashioned ideals. Their so 18th-century lifestyle. Their patriarchal family structures. Especially for those who’ve felt the sting of the lash and brutal rejection for not con-forming, not fitting in.

The Amish teach, subtly or blatantly, that those who are born Amish and leave will burn in hell. Fear of eternal damnation is a powerful, debilitating thing. I know the mental stress involved. I struggled with it for years.

A lot of ex-Amish still do. Many live in hopeless despair. Because they crossed that line, they figure, there are no more lines to cross. They live hard wild desperate lives.

My heart goes out to them. I want to grab them and shake them. Shout the truth. Being Amish will not cause you to be saved. Or lost (as many who leave and move on to more progressive churches piously like to claim, which is a subject for a future blog).

In my mid-twenties, I realized that one’s acceptance of and relationship with Christ is the only factor to salvation. And once I grasped and claimed that amazingly simple concept, I left. I have never looked back. (That’s about as much preaching as you’re ever going to read from me.)

Like most who leave, I harbored deep resentment toward the culture that had entrap-ped me so cruelly and senselessly for so many years. I wanted nothing to do with anything Amish. I scorned the culture and all it represented.

But something strange happened as the years passed. As I grew a bit older. I mellow-ed. Began to see the positive aspects of the culture. To realize there was a lot of value in the ancient traditions they clung to so tenaciously. Over time, my mellowness turned to acceptance. Then developed into quiet respect.

And that’s where I am today. A place of rest. Acceptance. Respect.

If I hear something silly or foolish that some Amishman said or did, I let it pass. Can’t judge a group by one person. Like I wouldn’t judge all Methodists because of some-thing silly or foolish a Methodist said or did.

I’m quick to rise to the defense of all things religiously or culturally Amish. Especially from outside criticism. It’s like your extended family. You can criticize your own family members, but by George, an outsider had better not.

The culture has it dark aspects. Most notably abuse in many forms. Including sexual abuse. A closed society whose secrets remain locked up. But great strides have been made in the last decade to deal with it. Counseling centers are sprouting in the larger communities to give help and hope to those who struggle from such issues in their pasts. For both perpetrators and victims. There’s one right here in Lancaster County, not a half mile from my house.

For a lot of ex-Amish, it’s not enough. Nothing good can come from Nazareth. The negatives must be highlighted and pounded until the culture changes to their liking. To how they think it should be. Which means the critics will be pounding for a long, long time. Because the Amish won’t change just to satisfy critics.

The Amish are who they are and I accept them as such. I’ve developed deep friend-ships with a few. I enjoy hanging out with them.

I have no regrets for the road I chose. I would never dream of returning. I alone am responsible for my choices.

I rarely wonder how life would have been on the road not taken.
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He hasn’t commented in awhile. A few months at least. I’d wondered if maybe he’d quit reading my blogs. Uncle Jess, later known as Happy Grandpa Jess (after the birth of his first grandchild), seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. So I was relieved last week to hear that indeed my older brother is still alive and kicking. He’s been quiet because he’s been plotting his own blog. He launched it recently under the bold and rather audacious title of Wagler Wisdom.com.

So check it out. He has much wisdom and old fashioned advice to dispense. Leave a comment. Tell him I sent you.

I finally figured it out. From that old 1983 picture posted on last week’s blog. Why I was wearing a lined denim vest on such an obviously hot summer day. It’s because I wanted to hide my galluses and look as “English” as possible. Even back then. But the black hat kind of defeated that purpose. Either the galluses OR the black hat would have been OK. But combined, they were unbearable.

Tuesday’s front page headlines blazed the news. Levi Stoltzfoos (see June 27th blog) was sentenced to three consecutive prison terms for a possible total of up to fifteen years . The judge lectured him piously from the bench. I was so upset I had trouble sleeping that night. And so our country continues its downward spiral into lawlessness and the heavy-handed persecution and destruction of innocent lives.

Revolution slouches toward Gomorrah.

Ira at a local firing range.