A View from the Buggy (11 page)

Right next to the door was an open window. A young fellow, not much older than myself, greeted me. “Let me see your ID,” he said.

“ID?” I stammered. “I have a birth certificate.” I opened my wallet.

“Birth certificates won't work,” the young man said. “It has to be a photo ID.”

Dripping disappointment, I cast a lingering look through the window. But there was apparently no way inside. Back on the sidewalk I turned my face south again and started walking.

I arrived at the motel soon enough. I tapped the bell at the check-in window and waited. I tapped again, and from somewhere inside
the building footsteps sounded. A lady appeared. “Can I see your ID?” she asked.

Why was everyone asking for my ID? Was there some kind of conspiracy going on?

This time I didn't ask before reaching into my wallet and pulling out my birth certificate. The lady looked at the certificate with mild irritation. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You have to be eighteen to check in here,” she told me.

Gulp!
Now where would I go? Apparently I could accomplish nothing until morning. Well…I had my sleeping bag with me. I could curl up under a tree somewhere. I retraced my steps to the railroad. I leaned my pack against the tree and crawled inside the sleeping bag. I awoke frequently to shift positions, but I couldn't stay warm. After several hours of this, I rolled up my sleeping bag and made my way to a nearby Shell gas station. It was still the middle of the night.

The fellow behind the counter looked up when the door opened, greeting me with a friendly “hello.” He probably didn't get too many customers at this hour.

“Hello,” I replied.

My, it was nice and warm in here. I looked around and saw a rack of magazines and a good selection of snacks and sweets. The young man behind the counter was still eyeing me. He seemed curious and I figured I owed him an explanation.

“I don't really need anything,” I explained. “But if it's okay, I might stay in here awhile. I was sleeping outside and I got cold.”

“Whereabouts?” he asked.

“Next to the railroad,” I said.

“It's February, man! No wonder you got cold.”

I figured my cheeks colored a bit at my ridiculous situation, so I came right out and said it. “I used to be Amish. I left home last night.”

“What's it like being Amish?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It's okay, but it can get a little boring sometimes. I want to get out and do some traveling.”

He seemed happy with that, so I purchased a snack and sat down
at one of the tables. My eye was drawn to the magazine rack. “Mind if I look at some of these?” I asked.

“Sure, go ahead.” He seemed eager, somehow. There was a trace of a grin on his face as he watched me filling my mind with the suggestive pictures in those magazines. Soon I was back on the street again. It was still dark…and cold.

A car drove by, and then it slowed down and stopped just in front of me. Oops! It had lights on top.

Two officers got out of the car and came toward me.
Keep a business-like attitude
, I told myself.
That's your only hope.

“Where are you going?” one of the officers asked.

“Just out for a morning stroll.” I desperately hoped I sounded offhanded.

“At four-thirty in the morning?” They glanced at each other knowingly. “How old are you?”

“Almost seventeen,” I said.

“Do your parents know you're gone?”

“No,” I admitted, and soon found myself escorted to the police car.

“You can put your backpack in there,” I was told, and then I received a pat-down.

“We always do this,” the officer apologized. “Just to make sure.”

“Can I see your ID?” came next.

I meekly handed over my birth certificate, which would give access to my family's information. My travels were over.

Through the haze of my imagination I tried to envision the situation I would face when I returned home. How would I cope? One slight comfort was the woods and wilderness areas around home. At first I would spend as much time out there as possible to avoid the shocked gaze of people everywhere I went. Perhaps I could even arrive at church late and leave immediately afterward. I would skip out on all the gatherings possible. My family wouldn't return to normal for weeks. I would be seen as the boy who ran away. They would wonder why I had suddenly gone wild.

The officer was waiting. Well, there was no way out of this predicament. The first streaks of dawn had already started their work on the
eastern rim of the morning sky. I concentrated on the hills, the sky, the fire lanes in the jack pines, and the gravel road beneath the police car on the trip home.

“I'll go to the door with you,” one of the officers said when we arrived. He knew 16-year-olds and what they did under pressure. When Mom opened the front door, he excused himself and went on his way.

“We're glad you came back,” Mom said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“No, I had some snacks,” I said, still standing at the door. “But I'm tired.”

Dad appeared and greeted me. “Good morning. We're glad you're back.”

“Let's go inside,” Mom said. “Then you can change your pants.” She fussed over me, just like a good mom would.

All my siblings were seated around the kitchen table. Dorcas had been crying. Mary was still blowing her nose. She gave me a welcoming look through watery red eyes. Stephen sat looking at his plate, and Jonathan stared at me. Ruby was only ten and didn't know what to do with herself.

I fled upstairs. Back in my room things seemed comfortably normal. There was the bunk bed where Stephen slept last night. Here was the nightstand, the closet, the dresser. I opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of pants—one with suspenders. I turned and looked out the window. Had it been only yesterday that I had climbed out of this room through that window? Everything seemed surreal, my brain dazed with tension.

When I went back downstairs, Dad cleared his throat and said, “I want to say that if there is anything I did to make you want to leave, I'm sorry.”

“It's all right,” I said.

Like a mother hen, Mom couldn't seem to get finished clucking over me. “Where did you sleep last night?” she asked.

“Under a pine tree in Cadillac,” I said.

“I was so concerned about you,” Mom continued. “Before we went to bed, we prayed as a family that you would come back. I lay there
listening all night long to all the sounds of the night. Every little sound I heard, I thought it might be you returning. Several times I thought I heard you and got up to look out the window. Always it was just something else—the wind, the dog, one of the children upstairs, a vehicle going by…”

Suddenly I saw it—me standing at the door to a den of sin and my family at home praying for me. Me trying to check into to a motel and Mom and Dad kneeling beside their bed praying for me. Me trying to find shelter in the gas station, Mom lying in bed listening for me. Those prayers had come before the throne of God. He had sent two of His angels in police uniforms to put me into a patrol car.

For the first time I also saw something else. The story that Jesus told was about me—a young boy tired of listening to his dad, leaving home, spending his treasure (or trying to anyway), the father listening for his footsteps, watching for his familiar figure, waiting for his return. Always ready to roll out a welcome.

I had been angered at Dad, but I had undoubtedly hurt Mom more deeply than I had Dad. I wasn't ready yet to embrace what I saw, but the tears came anyway. I was nothing but a prodigal son. From any angle I looked at it, the truth stared at me like a wildcat with gleaming eyes. There was no escaping it.

Mom didn't cry much, evidence she had already cried herself out. I didn't say much that morning. What else could I say? But I wouldn't be leaving home again. Not like this.

A Day in My Amish Country School

Rachel Miller

And they shall teach my people the difference between the holy and profane, and cause them to discern between the unclean and the clean (Ezekiel 44:23).

C
HILDREN
'
S VOICES FILL THE SCHOOLHOUSE AS THE BOYS AND GIRLS
sing, “I've got more to go to heaven for than I had yesterday…”

I enjoy hearing my 31 students raise their voices in song each morning, some singing in clear sopranos and tenors and all the rest joining in to create a lovely mixture of praise to our ever-present Lord and Savior.

Bible story hour this morning is an in-depth review of the children of Israel and their 400-year stay in Egypt. The discussion becomes quite involved. Questions like…Why were the Israelites enslaved? How must it have felt to have frogs in your bed and in your food? Why did the Egyptians loathe shepherding? Where were the pharaohs buried?

Pictures and stories about Egypt bring the story to life. Papyrus made from bulrushes help the younger students envision the basket baby Moses was laid in at the edge of the Nile. The fact that the base of each pyramid is as large as the neighboring hayfield awes us all. After a heartfelt prayer thanking God for His many blessings upon us and a plea for protection throughout the day, we recite our Bible memory verses and spend two minutes quietly studying them.

Several of the students are working diligently where the early morning sun bathes them in golden rays through the windows. The pink geranium on the side table also enjoys the sunshine, and the water-filled prism casts a beam of rainbow hues across the ceiling onto the far wall.

A cute floral green sock monkey nestles amid the flower plants and
wooden letters spelling out “For This Child We Prayed.” The monkey is waiting for Logan to come swing him by the tail once Logan is dismissed from his special education class in the basement. How he loves that monkey—and even punishes him when he thinks he might have hopped off the windowsill!

My attention is drawn to the clock hanging over the bulletin board. Two minutes are not yet past and I gaze at the painting of a bright sunset with majestic mountains and a tranquil lake. On the lake is one lone sailboat and the words
Sailing for Jesus
. I know that in our life we have rivers to cross and mountains to climb. We must always remember that the sunset is coming, but someday at the sunrise we'll see heaven—if we are faithful.

Our globe is turned to India, the land of Hinduism, temples, idols, and masses of people. It is also a land of poverty where we would love to serve the Lord someday by sharing with His children there. How many of my students will catch that vision of helping other people groups—our neighbors across the globe? Will one of them someday join in humanitarian aid work? Will they be willing to sacrifice for the sake of others?

My students love hearing about the 400-year-old house my friends and I painted in Bethlehem, close to the cave where Jesus was born. I also tell them stories about my visit to Egypt and my other work among the poor of the world. They want to know the names of the Iraqi children we cared for at the children's home.

“Could you speak with them?” asks one student.

“No,” I told them, “but kindness is the thing you do when you want to say in a special way, ‘God loves you and I love you.' ”

The two minutes are now past and Javan passes out yesterday's checked papers while hurrying up and down the aisles. At the back of the classroom he brushes past the row of nature and science books we often use for reports. There we identify things like the kind of butterflies we've caught. We find pictures of the rainforest and Antarctica or we recognize the warbler outside our window. The World Book Encyclopedias are often grabbed for quick reference. Just now, Loren strides
past and pulls down the M volume, looking for a picture of a mongoose. That's one way my students learn new things.

The daily lesson plan has been written on the dry erase board. With only a brief glance at the schedule, students pull their textbooks, workbooks, and dictionaries from their desks and a quiet rustle prevails. Names and the day's date are written down and lessons are begun.

Each grade takes their turn being called up to the table in front where I teach by demonstration or through diagrams on the dry erase board. I also add verbal expressions on the many varied subjects. We have the mean, mode, and median in math today, plus fractions and measurement skills. In language there are the eight parts of speech and proper punctuation.

I am blessed with industrious students. No one lags behind, but all bend diligently over their lessons. At ten o'clock I quietly announce, “Recess time.”

The students quickly rise and row by row disappear into the balmy sunshine and pure country air. It takes only 30 seconds to empty the classroom. Kickball is soon in full swing outside. I roll the ball for each child to kick with a mighty
wham
! When Aden Ray kicks the blue ball, it flies to the right, then left, then up and over; but it always comes back to me at the pitcher's mound where I yell, “Stop.” All those not on a safe base are counted out.