Adopted by the Amish

I think of him often, and pray I’ll see him again in heaven. His name was Samuel and he was the kindest, sweetest soul I’ve ever known. There are times I wished I had a picture of Samuel to take out of my wallet and look at when my heart is full of his dear memory. I long to see his face, but guess my mental image will have to suffice until we meet again.

Samuel was a widower, and the father of David, the Amish brother I’d worked with on the town project. Samuel’s wife had been deceased several years when I met him. White-whiskered, frail, with sloping shoulders, arthritic hands, and ears a little too large for his head, Samuel looked as though he would break if one hugged him too hard.

Introducing himself after church one Sunday afternoon, he approached me and said, “I’ve always had a keen interest in the English, and the way they live. Would you like to come to my farm sometime for tea and a visit? We could talk about your experiences as an Englishmen. I’d like to hear some of your stories.”

“I’d be happy to,” I answered.

“And I’ll be honored to share information with you about the Amish that I think would be most helpful to you and your family. I’ll see you next Sunday then.”

“I’ll be there,” I replied, watching as he climbed into his buggy, sat down on the hard wooden seat, snapped the reins lightly on the back of his aged, sway-backed, black gelding, and trotted away.

Friday afternoon as we were putting our tools away, I told Eli I was going to have tea with Samuel on Sunday and asked what he could tell me about him. Eli said Samuel had never remarried after his wife’s death, that he enjoyed reading, and helping children with their school work.

He said Samuel had suffered from poor health for many years, and that his children kept his farm up for him.

“One day,” Eli said, “Samuel’s children will build a small house for him on their property, or he’ll move in with one of them. Samuel is highly respected among the Amish for his knowledge of the world,” Eli continued, stepping up to his buggy. “You’ll enjoy your visit with him.”

Work in August is slow for the Amish, as the bulk of their field work has been completed by this time of the year. Taking this opportunity to visit distant relatives, they hire English drivers known as “toots,” to drive them where they would like to go.

One of the stipulations of the Ordnung, the governing rules of the Amish church, is that they cannot own a vehicle, but they can ride in one. Even this means of conveyance was denied to Samuel as his increasingly poor health did not allow it. His traveling days were over. His journeys were now limited to reading the English newspaper, or looking through travel magazines, which he enjoyed immensely.

Sunday came quickly. I crawled out of bed, washed my face, put on my clothes, and walked outside to greet the still morning air. The days were growing hot and humid by mid-afternoon. I planned to eat breakfast, hitch up Maggie to the buggy, and spend a few hours with Samuel before the afternoon sun had a chance to blister my neck and arms.

Samuel opened the front door and asked me to come in. I followed him inside, hung my hat on a hook and sat down in a large comfortable rocking chair. A Book of Martyrs sat on a table next to a partially folded quilt. A Bible rested on a rocking chair across the room. A thin red cloth book marker hung loosely from its pages.

Excusing himself, Samuel stepped into the kitchen and returned carrying two cups of hot tea, his hands trembling as he re-entered the room. I couldn’t help but think, as I took the cup from his hand and placed it on a nearby table that I’d been there before: another time, another life.

My mind went back to Grandpa and Grandma Bolin’s farm house. I remembered the smell of grandma’s freshly washed and ironed dress, her hair in a tight bun, pinned behind her head, the fragrance of grandpa’s Old Spice aftershave lotion. The distinct and familiar scent of their home that even today takes me back to the sweet memories of being there. I looked down at the hardwood floors, and across the room at the wooden rocking chair where Samuel sat, almost expecting to see Grandpa sitting there, his Bible in his hand.

“I’m glad you came,” Samuel said in a whisper, picking up the Bible from his rocking chair and placing it on his lap as he sat in his rocker. “I heard about you from a few of the church members. My son David said you and he worked together on the new store in town. Tell me about your family,” he said, leaning slightly forward in his chair.

“My dad’s family lives in Arkansas. His oldest brother Jack is a farmer, and Crittenden County Judge. Two of his other brothers are truck drivers. Another brother owns a restaurant. Dad’s two sisters are housewives.”

“Are your father’s family members Christian?”

“They’re believers, but seldom attend church.”

“What about your mother’s family?”

“Mother’s father is a church pastor, and three of her brothers are also pastors.

“And you’re family?” Samuel asked.

“I have three children from a previous marriage.”

“You must miss them terribly?”

“I do. The pain is sometime more than I can bear.”

“Bless your heart. I will pray, and ask God to give you and your family strength in this matter.

Tell me about your grandfather, the pastor.”