Amish Mystery

For years, ever since I’ve been attending writer’s workshops, Amish fiction has been a big deal. I’ve never been a fan myself, but it seemed like every acquisitions editor was seeking it. In fact, I was in a mentoring group at Mount Hermon Writer’s Conference with a middle aged man who was told if he’d write it, Harvest House would publish it. So he did. It didn’t seem that they were concerned about it being good writing—just something to satisfy those readers obsessed with anything Amish. That’s not to say, of course, that there aren’t exceptional authors of Amish fiction who stand out.

But as a writer, struggling to get published, I often wondered what the big deal was about this genre. I remember talking to Randy Ingermanson (who was another of my mentors) about how one chooses the genre in which he/she writes. He told me to write the books God puts on my heart and not chase after the “new” craze, because every genre has its season. However, it does seem that Amish fiction’s season was (still is?) unusually long.

Here in mid-Tennessee, we have a large Amish community. When I was getting ready to head to Franklin’s Farmer’s Market, my friend (who moved out here from California six plus years ago) encouraged me to check out the Amish vendors, as their goods were top notch. “You’ll recognize them by the sad and disappointed look on their faces.” I wondered why this was so. Is it because they have to mix with the general population in order to sell their wares? Or do they fear that if they show joy in the midst of us worldly people, God would be disappointed?  Are they unhappy with the lives they’re living? I don’t have an answer, but I didn’t doubt my friend’s assessment was accurate.

Last week, my husband and I were invited to drive to Amish country by friends from church. I had told them I was looking for a corner cabinet and couldn’t find what I wanted. They assured me that an Amish furniture maker could create anything I had in mind, and the quality would surpass anything found in our typical furniture stores. So off we went. It was a cold and drizzly day that fit in well with the Amish farms along the roads—which were easy to recognize as they have no electricity, so no power lines.

The first place we stopped, a woman sat on her porch, gray dress, white bonnet pulled low onto her head. She didn’t engage in conversation—it was as if we weren’t there. A young man and boy passed us in a horse-drawn wagon on their way to the fields. Although the furniture shop was open, there was no one around to man it. But the furniture was stunning. Sleigh bed sets with dressers and nightstands made of beautiful oak. One sign, written in picture-perfect print, said “Ten percent down, ballance dew upon receipt.” Not unexpected when their education stops at the eighth grade—and their teachers have no more than an eighth-grade education themselves.

The next farm we went to, a young man stood in the shop—bearded, wearing simple black clothing and sporting the traditional hat. I spotted who I assumed was his young wife and small daughter crossing the pathway and slipping into the house. They wore simple dark dresses and white bonnets. And, although it was cold, both were barefoot. But the woman offered us a shy smile, and the little girl stayed at the door, her nose pressed up to the screen to watch us.

I stepped fully into the simple, two-room shop, warmed by a crude wood stove. I couldn’t even tell you what pieces of furniture were in that room except for the stunning, red oak corner cabinet. The top section had glass-framed doors, just as I’d envisioned, with three shelves. The bottom, wood doors and another three shelves. Could it be this simple? I waved my husband over, afraid the price tag would be exorbitant. As we’re in the middle of a kitchen remodel, I’d already pushed my frugal husband close to the breaking point.

Eyes scanning the piece, he ran a hand down its silky-smooth side. “It’s just what you’re looking for? How much is it?”

I looked over at they young man (Peter), who was following our dialogue. “$400,” he said.

Ten minutes later, as we left the shop, our friend said, “Y’all need to go to church on Sunday and confess your sins, ‘cause you just stole that piece from that young man.” And it almost felt like we did!

It wasn’t my successful shopping trip that feeds my recent need to know more about the Amish. It’s that they are so different from those of us who live in the world. In 2006, students in an Amish school in Lancaster, Pennsylvania were victim to a shooting. A movie was made from this incident. Not because of the shooting per se, but because violence came upon such a non-violent, peaceful community. And the world was stunned when those in this community publicly forgave the shooter.

There is a mystery surrounding these quiet, simple people. And don’t we all love a good mystery? But I fear the romanticism of the Amish far outweighs the reality. When my husband and I visited Lancaster, Pennsylvania years ago, he commented that he’d like to be Amish—just for a year or so. But they don’t get a break; this is their life, 24/7. How do they maintain their communities when they must inter-marry like the Israelites settling in the promised land? It would seem they want to be self-sufficient, but who would they sell their wares to if not us worldly people, who pose the greatest threat to them? 

I don’t have the answers, but my interest is certainly peaked. 

Share this...

Facebook

Pinterest

Twitter