These times are so uncertain.
There’s a yearning undefined,
And people filled with rage.
We all need a little tenderness.
How can love survive, in such a graceless age?

–Don Henley, lyrics: The Heart of the Matter
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Eight years ago, a small crowd of guests gathered at a beautiful little wedding chapel in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Quaint, cute, rustic and almost impossibly small, the chapel sat nestled in the remote and wooded hills a few miles outside of town.

They had decided this would be the simplest way. To get married. Leave town, tell their friends and family, and let come who may. Rent a chapel, rent the preacher. No fuss, no hassle, no six months of all the strain and stress and planning almost universally associated with weddings.

They were both independent. Had lived on their own. He was a bit older. Both were transplants in the area where they lived. People would have to travel anyway to get there. Besides, neither of their sets of parents would attend their wedding. That made the decision easier. Get out of town. Get it done. Then return.

And so the plans were made. And the date set. Friday, August 4, 2000. Twenty days before his 39th birthday. She located the chapel and made the calls. Planned the details. He shuffled about and tried to stay out of the way, emerging when needed, clutching his credit card to make the necessary reservations.

The date approached. Their excitement grew. Especially hers. He was more even-keeled, stoic. He had been comfortable on his own. He’d always figured he wouldn’t marry until he met that one exceptional woman. If she never came, he wouldn’t worry about it. He was pretty happy as he was.

Then he met her. And they hit it off. Had a lot in common. Both had emerged from plain backgrounds, and all the drama associated with such a journey. Both possessed that unquantifiable inner strength needed to really break away. And both had.

Less than a year after they met, he proposed. Asked her to marry him. She said yes.

They packed her car and headed out the day before the wedding. Drove south. After a full day’s drive, they arrived in Tennessee. And the house rented by his brother and nephews for the occasion. A great party ensued, with much celebration.

The wedding day dawned. Beautiful, clear, cloudless. They rushed about in final preparation. Drove to the courthouse and picked up their marriage license. Back to the house. Then to the chapel. The service would be at four that afternoon.

They met the pastor, a slight elderly man with a shock of gray hair, dressed in a long black robe. He carefully wrote down their names, and they chose the vows they would use. She then disappeared into her dressing room with her bridesmaids. He would not see her again until she walked the aisle toward him.

The groom retired to his dressing room. Donned a new black suit. New shoes. New shirt. And a new tie, trimmed in black and gold and burgundy. He swore he would never wear the tie again after the wedding, but always keep it as a memento of that day.

Guests arrived and wandered into the little chapel and seated themselves. About eighty in all. His siblings. Her siblings. A few friends. But not their parents. They refused to attend such a worldly affair. Or bless the union. Thereby releasing the equivalent of a curse instead.

And then it was time. The elderly pastor led the groom and his attendants through the little door in the rear of the chapel. The pastor stood behind the podium. The groom to his left, the groomsmen spread to either side.

The music started. Their little nieces walked up first, carrying baskets. Spreading silk flower petals along the aisle. Then the bridesmaids, one by one.

The wedding march. All rose and turned, their eyes glued to the door. And she entered, a vision in white, a wisp of white veiling obscuring her lovely face. Her older brother by her side. They walked up slowly and stood before the pastor.

“Who gives this woman to be married?” he intoned dramatically.

“Her family and I do,” her brother answered almost inaudibly.

She stepped up onto the little platform and faced the groom. They held each other’s hands. Looked into each other’s eyes.

The pastor had performed a thousand such little ceremonies. For people he never saw before or since. With practiced ease, he opened with a prayer, then read a short passage from the love chapter, I Cor. 13. His calm voice rumbled through the tiny chapel. He then turned his attention to the excited, eager couple before him.

He addressed the bride. Love your husband. Meet him at the end of each day with a smile. Comfort and encourage him as a man. The man. Your man. Be true to each other.

And then the groom. Honor and love your wife. Look to her as you did during your courtship days. Let not sorrow cloud her brow or her eyes be dimmed with tears.

They exchanged vows. Slipped the rings on each other’s hands. By the power vested in him by the state of Tennessee, and before God, the pastor pronounced them husband and wife. Together they lit the large unity candle as Michael W. Smith sang her favorite song.

The pastor then presented them to the assembled guests as husband and wife. And they walked out as such. Received accolades and congratulations from their friends. The entire service lasted nineteen minutes.

After the reception, during which everyone was amply fed, a group of their friends escorted them to a nearby nightclub for champagne and dancing. In the glitz of the nightclub lights, they laughed and celebrated with uninhibited exuberance.

As the night hours slipped away, they held each other close and slow-danced across the gleaming hardwood floor in the soft strobing lights. Their futures, their entire lives, lay before them. Together from this day.

They knew they would grow old together. That God’s gentle hand would reach down and touch them, and bless their lives with children. That they would live to see their children grow. That their sons would be as plants grown up in their youth and walk the land, tall and strong and confident. That their daughters would be as corner stones, and bring them great joy and honor.

That they would live lives rich and full of years. Until that inevitable hour when death called one of them away. And separated them.

This they knew. In their hearts.

As they danced the hours away on that enchanted, magical night.
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Earlier this year, I read a book someone gave me. Written by Rob Bell, a pastor who has authored several best sellers. At the end of the final chapter, Rob described a wedding ceremony he conducted years ago in an open pasture one summer day. The simplest of ceremonies, with only a few guests.

Both the bride and the groom had been previously married, and both carried tons of baggage into this one. Rob described how after the ceremony, the couple walked up to the top of a nearby hill. Just the two of them, carrying two white balloons. There they paused, then together released them into the skies. Watched as the balloons floated higher and higher, then disappeared. A symbol of all the crap, all the pain and bad decisions, all the sins from their pasts. Now released forever and carried away. So they could start a new life together.

Rob wrote that the scene is seared forever in his mind. I got a lump in my throat just reading his powerful imagery.

Could it only have been that simple. Of course, it wasn’t. Symbolism alone, however profound, proves little. And means little. A few short years later, the couple’s lives lay in shambles. Their marriage had deteriorated. They separated. Then divorced.

Rob’s conclusion: Life gets messy. It’s risky to take chances.

I concur. It does. And is.

He closed by writing that we can recover from anything. That God can pick up the pieces and mend shattered lives. Can put anything, and anyone, back together. That one should not build walls and close off access to the life that is there for the taking. And the joy. That He wants us to have.

Again, I concur. What he wrote is true. Without any doubt.

This I know. In my head.

But not yet in my heart.

“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.