{"id":615,"date":"2009-04-03T18:47:08","date_gmt":"2009-04-03T22:47:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=615"},"modified":"2009-04-12T01:16:55","modified_gmt":"2009-04-12T05:16:55","slug":"angels-in-the-skies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=615","title":{"rendered":"Angels in the Skies"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a> <\/p>\n

Both boys dead? but that\u2019s out of nature. We all
\nHave been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.
\n\u2019Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall;
\nAnd, when Italy \u2019s made, for what end is it done
\nIf we have not a son?<\/p>\n

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, excerpt: Mother and Poet
\n_____________________________________________<\/p>\n

A quiet pall hangs over the Lancaster County Amish community this week. One can feel it, sense it all around. It seeps into every aspect of existence, permeates the days as they slowly pass. Is present in a thousand murmured conversations. A deep gut blow of shock and disbelief. Tragedy has once again been unleashed upon the land, with a suddenness that jolts the senses. And affects even those of us on the peripheral of things.<\/p>\n

It descended early last Sunday evening, from a string of seemingly unrelated events. First, a furious thunderstorm whipped through, dropping inches of rain in minutes, accompanied by dime-sized hail in some areas. A tornado touched down in a trailer park about ten miles from my house. After the storm passed, the white specks of hail covered the ground. Water ran everywhere. Beside the roads, and over the roads in places. <\/p>\n

Across the county, in the Nickel Mines area, a little nine-year-old Amish boy looked up at the receding banks of storm clouds and saw angels in the skies. He ran to tell his mother. Startled, she smiled kindly and patted his head. There, there, she said. Go and play. But he insisted. He had seen angels. And who can tell a child he didn’t see what he saw?<\/p>\n

Shortly after that, around 7 o\u2019clock, along Rt. 340, a few miles east of Intercourse, the dark thing came. Two pickup loads of Amish kids traveling in opposite directions, just east of New Holland Road. For reasons still unknown, one of the trucks skidded into the oncoming lane. May have hydroplaned. A horrific crash. A twisted mass of mangled steel and broken bodies. And fire and blood and death. <\/p>\n

Two were killed. Almost instantly, or expired within minutes. Two young men, who were passengers in the truck that lost control. Eighteen and nineteen years old. Several others in critical condition. Flown away in helicopters. <\/p>\n

And just like that, the two are gone. Mervin Lapp. Mahlon Lapp. Brothers, from the same family. Their lives extinguished in the prime of their youth. All they were or might have been, all their plans, all their tomorrows, snuffed out like a candle’s flame. <\/p>\n

The community staggered. And yet, immediately the old traditions were triggered. Set into motion. Friends and relatives of the family gathered and stayed with them. Others quietly saw to the necessary logistics. Benches, tables, food. Tomorrow, two graves would be dug. About every year or two, it seems, something like this comes down. A tragedy, with loss of young life. Around here, they\u2019ve seen it all before. And will again. <\/p>\n

And the details ripple out, in the murmuring small talk. Where they were that day. Where they were going when it happened. A Sunday evening social gathering, with volleyball and hymn singing. But those details are not important. <\/p>\n

The details ripple out too, of who they were. Of things that matter. The short chapters of their lives. They were the two oldest of six children. Solid steady Amish boys. In their running around stage. I don’t know if they were \u201cwild.\u201d And I don’t know their hearts. But they were hard working, clean cut. Basically decent kids, as the Lancaster Amish youth tend to be. <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know the family. Of the brothers who died. I can hide behind that comfortable veil of protection. Of anonymity and emotional distance. But through the fog, the inconceivable pain of such devastating loss touches even strangers. I know what pain is, and loss. I\u2019ve lived it, felt it, breathed it. But not at this depth. Not like this. Few of us have.<\/p>\n

Parents are supposed to die before their children do. That\u2019s the natural order of things. And when such an unseen and unexpected bolt strikes and takes two of six in one family, it\u2019s impossible to imagine the shock and grief. Of saying good bye to your sons after they are gone. Of clinging to the memories of the last glimpse of them alive, their last conversations, their last words. Of the empty bedrooms, where they will not return to sleep.<\/p>\n

And now, in a stoic culture where few emotions ever surface, the father breaking down in tears. The mother bent in grief, and her deep hopeless longing to reach out and gather to her the two sons who only a few short years ago, in her vivid memory, sat laughing on her knees. <\/p>\n

It is a hard and bitter thing. For us to contemplate. For both of them to bear. <\/p>\n

The younger siblings, they who looked up to their older brothers, will now listen in vain for the familiar sounds of their footsteps and their voices. Hear them in their minds, in the heavy silence that will echo through the emptiness. Or when the wind blows just right. But those footsteps and those voices will never come again. <\/p>\n

They will, I think, grasp this new reality in time. Accept it, even. They’ll have to, to survive. But these events, this loss will be seared forever in their hearts.<\/p>\n

There is no way to understand such tragedy. To really get hold of it. Or make sense of it. Not in human terms. Was it random chance? God\u2019s will? Fate? The result of choices? Or simply a consequence of a fallen human world?<\/p>\n

Because for all of us, especially those who emerged from an Amish background, there, but for the grace of God, go we. <\/p>\n

I look back and recall the things I got into, the things I did, some of the foolish choices I made a lifetime ago. The stupid chances I took. And marvel that a similar misfortune did not befall me, or my friends. <\/p>\n

Just as well as not, it could have happened. My life snuffed out, like theirs. But it didn\u2019t. And so I\u2019m here today, writing my blog, instead of being a distant fading memory in the minds of my parents and my siblings. It seems so random. <\/p>\n

Take a fresh young Amish kid from the farm, throw him out into the unfamiliar world of motor vehicles, alcohol and a host of other strange and wondrous things, and chances are actually pretty decent that he\u2019s going to get hurt, if not killed. Or self destruct. <\/p>\n

I\u2019m not saying that was the case here. These guys lived at home all their lives, worked in the neighborhood. By all accounts, they were quiet, decent, hard working. Riding along in their friend’s truck that night. And for them, death came calling. <\/p>\n

But in many other Amish communities, especially in the Midwest, kids leave home and live hard dangerous driven lives. Like I did. Like countless others do today.<\/p>\n

Where I grew up, we never had such a tragedy. Such sudden, unexpected death. But we heard the preachers from other, larger communities when they passed through. Grave, dramatic eerie tales spun in distinctive sing song rhythms. Of young men who had left to live in the world. Who shook their fists at God. And were killed in some bloody fashion, usually in a car accident. Running into trees or telephone poles. Their lives cut short in a split second. The stories came from Arthur, Illinois, Daviess County and northern Indiana. From Holmes County, and Lancaster. We drank them in, wide eyed. Resolved never to follow such a path to destruction.<\/p>\n

And yet, some of us did follow that path. Only the prophesied destruction didn\u2019t fall. It could have. But it didn’t. We made it through the gauntlet. As most do. Some few don\u2019t. It seems so random. And so unfair.<\/p>\n

Statistically, such accidents are bound to happen. The sheer number of Amish youth who drive vehicles, and take passengers who might not, dictates that much. And so it does, every year or so, in almost all the bigger settlements. Everyone clucks, talks about it, sympathizes and moves on. The preachers preach it. And it fades away. Until the next one falls. <\/p>\n

This one was here and this one was now. They came home for the final time on Monday night at 10 o\u2019clock. The two sons. Home, where they were raised and where they grew and lived and worked. The viewings would be at home, not in some cold antiseptic impersonal funeral home. <\/p>\n

The two caskets were carried inside and set up for viewings the next day and evening. The all night wake, as the dark hours slowly passed. Friends and neighbors gathered round, the family never alone. <\/p>\n

And the next day the people flooded in for the viewings. In Lancaster, viewings are open to anyone who wants to come. But you must have an invitation to attend the funeral. I\u2019d never heard of such a thing, before I got here. But that\u2019s the way it is. Probably about the only way to control the potential overflowing crowds that would descend otherwise. Especially in a case like this. <\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t go to the viewing because I didn\u2019t know them and did not want to intrude upon the family\u2019s grief. But many of the Amish I know did attend. And told me of how it was. <\/p>\n

Wednesday morning. The funeral. A dreary day. By late morning, a steady drizzle as even the heavens opened up and wept. They gathered again, those who were invited, for the service. The somber preaching. Two sermons. Then the long period of viewing in the home. The trip to the graveyard, a long snaking line of black buggies. To the same destination in Nickel Mines where the little murdered Amish school girls were buried a few years back. <\/p>\n

There, the coffins were opened for one last viewing. Everyone filed through, then stood in silence and tears as the family gathered around for their final farewells. Stricken, exhausted, drained of tears from the sorrow and shock of the past few days, yet they wept again. <\/p>\n

Then the coffin lids were closed. The pallbearers stepped to their positions. The crowd followed and quietly surrounded the open graves.<\/p>\n

The little boy who had seen the angels in the skies stood there with his family. And watched with tear-stained eyes as his two oldest brothers were returned to the earth.<\/p>\n

Ira Wagler
\nApril 3, 2009
\n______________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

POST NOTE: This afternoon (April 3rd) at 2:30 PM, another passenger in the truck that lost control, Stephen Beiler, Jr. passed away. He never woke up from a coma since the accident. At least one other young man remains unresponsive. <\/p>\n

Pray for all the families involved and for the young man who still clings to life. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Both boys dead? but that\u2019s out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. \u2019Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy \u2019s made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? —Elizabeth Barrett Browning, excerpt: Mother and Poet _____________________________________________ A quiet […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-615","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/615","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=615"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/615\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=615"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=615"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=615"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}