{"id":626,"date":"2009-05-29T18:20:20","date_gmt":"2009-05-29T22:20:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=626"},"modified":"2009-05-31T00:27:19","modified_gmt":"2009-05-31T04:27:19","slug":"gone","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=626","title":{"rendered":"Gone…"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
\nIn silence from the living, and no friend
\nTake note of thy departure? All that breathe
\nWill share thy destiny. <\/p>\n

—William Cullen Bryant: Thanatopsis
\n______________________________<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve wondered sometimes, as the years have slipped by, how it would feel to be old. To reach that age when, as a matter of course, those you knew and loved passed away in rapid succession. What my parents have seen and felt, as they have watched old friend after old friend being returned to the earth. Until there are but few left. And their own passing is imminent. <\/p>\n

This week, I got a small taste of what that feeling might be like.<\/p>\n

When I first came to Lancaster County, back in the early 1990s, I somehow met and got to be friends with an old Amish guy. A preacher. Open, kind, always eager to visit and discuss anything and everything under the sun. His name was Benuel Blank.<\/p>\n

I stopped by often on Saturdays during those early years, just to hang out and talk. Ben had known my Dad well, and had even contributed a monthly column to Family Life for a year or two. Until the hard-core Lancaster County Amish machine convened an inquisition and shut it down. With pious proclamations and sanctions. Which affected Ben deeply.<\/p>\n

Ben was always curious about what I was learning in college. I delivered more than one of my old History and Political Science textbooks to him. A voracious reader, his eyes always gleamed as he took them from my hands.<\/p>\n

I never heard him preach. And that\u2019s my loss. Never really had the opportunity, as I don’t have a habit of attending Amish church services here or anywhere else. Others have told me he always delivered a powerful emotional sermon of grace and love. Unashamedly preached the gospel. Mingled with his message his tears. <\/p>\n

He had known Elmo Stoll well. Was a good friend of his. Even after Elmo moved to Cookeville, he came to Lancaster County to visit Ben at least once.<\/p>\n

In the past ten years, Ben and I drifted apart. Didn\u2019t see that much of each other. I was busy with my life. Didn\u2019t stop by as often as before. Saw him sporadically here and there, maybe every couple of years. <\/p>\n

Ben called me once or twice after Ellen and I separated a few years back. He could not grasp, could not comprehend such a thing, but he called. To let me know he cared. <\/p>\n

He read my blogs as and when he could get hold of them. Once or twice, I stopped by and dropped off the latest copies. He eagerly devoured The Shepherd Chronicles, and complimented that effort with an enthusiastic \u201cWell done!\u201d <\/p>\n

Ben\u2019s wife Annie passed away last year from cancer. Some months later, I stopped by to visit him. He talked incessantly of her, and how much he missed her. Tears flowed from his eyes; he wept openly.<\/p>\n

It was the last time I saw him alive.<\/p>\n

On Wednesday, an Amish friend called me at work. Early that morning, Ben had passed away from a heart attack. At age 76. His fondest wish was granted. He had left this earth. And gone to join his wife. <\/p>\n

Having barely absorbed the news of Ben\u2019s death, I arrived home that evening. To find a message on my home phone. From another friend. Call him right away. I did. His voice broke as he told me the news. My old friend Ralph Stanley had passed away that morning.<\/p>\n

He had a benign tumor on his brain. All they had to do was cut it out. He should have been fine. But then something went dreadfully wrong. He never recovered from the surgery. <\/p>\n

Ben was older, his death a shock, but really not that unexpected. Ralph Stanley was three years younger than me. We had been friends for twenty years. <\/p>\n

I first met Ralph when I came to Lancaster in 1989 or 1990. From \u201cEnglish\u201d back-ground, he had joined the Beachy Amish and was running with the local Pequea church youth. Tall, thin, a hard sculpted intelligent face. I remember meeting him for the first time. I thought, \u201cnow here is an intelligent young man I can talk to.\u201d<\/p>\n

We hit it off immediately. And began to hang out. Neither of us had much in the way of family or relatives in the area. I had one cousin. He had a sister. <\/p>\n

Ralph was a Licensed Practical Nurse, an LPN. I was a student and worked construction in the summers. Not a lot in common. But we became best friends. <\/p>\n

He talked of his experiences at the hospital where he worked. I mumbled about my job. We both loved to read. Ralph dissected and discussed in minute detail the books he was reading. I mumbled about Thomas Wolfe. <\/p>\n

He was intrigued by the fact that I was attending college. Such a thing was as remote a possibility in his background as it was in mine. I encouraged him, told him he could do it too. Eventually he did. Attended Millersville University and attained his RN degree. <\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t really have a lot in common, on the surface. I think we jelled so well because we both emerged from hard, plain roots, a tough background. He came from the hardscrabble hills of Gallipolis, Ohio, where nothing was ever taken for granted. And little was expected. <\/p>\n

He had fine long fingers, and taught himself to play piano. I marveled. To me, it would have been like teaching myself to speak Latin. On many a Saturday afternoon, I stopped by his place, and was lulled to sleep on the couch as he pounded away and sang at his sister\u2019s piano, his high clear tenor echoing through the house.<\/p>\n

And throughout these last twenty years, he was always there in the background. We embarked on countless adventures together. Laughed a lot. He was one of the funniest guys I\u2019ve ever known. Sometimes we didn\u2019t see each other for months on end. But when we did, we picked up right where we had left off. <\/p>\n

About ten years ago, he made some lifestyle choices that alienated him from some in his family and from most of his old friends. He was utterly rejected by those closest to him. He felt the pain to the core of his soul. <\/p>\n

After that, he preferred to be addressed by his middle name, Allan. <\/p>\n

He was my friend before. He remained my friend. And I his.<\/p>\n

He was among my closest supporting pillars during my latest troubles. About one Sunday night a month, he faithfully came out to see me. I grilled dinner and we sat and ate. For as skinny as he was, the man could pack away a lot of food. We talked. About life. The books we\u2019d read, in minute detail. Our plans. How they didn\u2019t always work out. Our dreams. And how life could kill them, if we allowed it to happen.<\/p>\n

And our friendship could fade too, if we allowed it to happen. I last saw Allan earlier this year, in January or February, when I met him in town for a late lunch one dreary Saturday afternoon. We talked. Didn\u2019t seem to have much of a connection, which was strange. I wondered about it at the time. I scolded him good-naturedly. Told him next time he would have to call me. I wouldn\u2019t bother him again.<\/p>\n

We parted. He walked away into the cold winter mist.<\/p>\n

I never heard from him again. I\u2019m sure we would have connected this summer, when I have my great annual cookout. <\/p>\n

But now we won\u2019t. Because he\u2019s gone. <\/p>\n

They\u2019re both gone. Benuel Blank, the Amish preacher. And Ralph Allan Stanley, my old faithful friend. <\/p>\n

How does one process, how does one grieve the same-day loss of two such long term relationships, two such old friends? Who so suddenly were called away before we could say good-bye, who have now crossed the bar to the other side. From which there is no return. <\/p>\n

I know what it is to process loss. And what it is to grieve. But right now, somehow, it seems like I don\u2019t. <\/p>\n

This is how it must feel to be old.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. —William Cullen Bryant: Thanatopsis ______________________________ I\u2019ve wondered sometimes, as the years have slipped by, how it would feel to be old. To reach that age when, […]<\/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-626","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/626","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=626"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/626\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=626"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=626"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=626"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}