A View from the Buggy (22 page)

The parents of the Miller sisters made their way to Philadelphia to find their one daughter there, but she had already passed on into eternity. They waited for 30 minutes for information on where their other daughter had been taken. By the time they were told, that second daughter had also died.

Back at the schoolhouse, the news media had arrived, but the police kept them away out of respect for the grieving families. None of the Amish wanted their pictures flashed all over the world. Could their milkman have done such a thing? But Teacher Emma insisted. The shooter had been no one else.

Mr. Roberts's body was taken to the morgue while parents waited at the hospitals for further news on their daughters. Three more had died for a total of five dead. The Amish community gathered in the homes of those affected and began to make funeral arrangements. Grave-diggers were assigned for the five graves. One would be a double grave for the Miller sisters. Many, many tears were shed. No tragedy had ever touched the hearts of the community like this.

The Amish expressed great sympathy also for Mrs. Roberts and her small children. Several of them traveled to her home and cried with her. She knew her husband had been having some depression problems, Mrs. Roberts told them, but this was beyond anything she could have imagined. She wept on the Amish women's shoulders and expressed her heartfelt regret. It was made clear to Mrs. Roberts that no one blamed her for her husband's actions. The tragedy would be left in the hands of God.

Before dark the shooting was on the news everywhere. Thousands who watched on TV claimed that Mr. Roberts must have been a man of the devil. And no doubt he did a devilish act, but the Amish decided to let God be the judge in that matter. They remembered how an evil spirit sent from God had entered King Saul's heart in the Old Testament, which drove him to seek the life of young David, the anointed of the Lord.

In the days that followed, many people from all denominations shared their sympathy with the bereaved families. Three funerals were held in one day and two the next. The news media stood along the road with their huge cameras set up like clusters of trees in a forest, and the police kept them all at bay the best they could.

In order to express their sincere sympathy, the local police force had mounted police on horseback to escort the first funeral procession. The procession of buggies was two miles long. Mrs. Roberts watched them pass her home and wept uncontrollably.

After the five bodies were buried, Mr. Roberts's funeral was held the following day. Dozens of Amish people attended and shared their deepest condolences. Many tears were also shed that day.

English
neighbors attended the funerals of the Amish girls but were unable to understand the sermon, since it was preached in Pennsylvania Dutch. The scriptures in which Jesus spoke of loving our enemies and blessing those who curse us were read in
English
.

Mail began to flow into Nickel Mines, filled with donations and sympathy cards from every state in the Union. Even sympathizers in foreign countries wished to contribute to the families. Many of the donations were delivered by the mail carriers, even though Nickel Mines has no post office. A committee of Amish and
English
people were assigned by the Amish bishops to handle the thousands of letters. The donations were placed in a large box to pay the hospital bills, which were huge even after the hospitals and doctors reduced their rates. Everyone wished to show their sympathy. The amount of funds was kept confidential, but it was made known that the committee was able to pay all the expenses, even the undertakers' bills.

Food was brought into the firehouse for the hundreds of visitors
and volunteers, all of whom wished to help where they could. Letters were sorted. Some of them had the names of the bereaved families and were from far-off places like Montana, Maine, Texas, Sweden, Poland, and Australia. Many were simply addressed to
Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania.
Volunteers spent days sorting this mail.

Packages also arrived containing gifts of dolls and books as well as numerous tokens for the wounded girls. The committee also shared many of these donations with Mrs. Roberts. All her husband's funeral expenses were paid and she received hundreds of sympathy letters from the Amish people.

The five survivors were released from hospitals after having undergone surgery. Rosanna King had been shot in the head, which left her in a coma for months. She received therapy and was finally able to return home to live with her parents. Rosanna is still under the constant care of friends and relatives. As of today, she cannot talk or walk, and may be crippled for life. Her mind is fairly sharp, though. Rosanna attends church and the Sunbeam School for special needs children.

The Nickel Mines schoolhouse was razed a week after the shootings. No parents wanted their children to attend a school where the daily memory would be of such a tragic event. A new one-room schoolhouse was built half a mile away and is called the New Hope School.

The heartbroken families have filled their lives with forgiveness and have moved on in their search of a life pleasing to God.

To Market, To Market

Rachel Troyer

But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear (1 Peter 3:15).

A
T
E
ASTERN
M
ARKET IN
D
ETROIT ON A
S
ATURDAY MORNING
,
VENDORS
and customers stir early. It might still be dark or cold and windy, but when it's Saturday morning, it's all about another big day at the market. From my spot in Maple Ridge Farm's booth in the north wing of shed two, I had a view of the eastern sky as its gray turned to an orange-pink around the skyscrapers of Detroit.

“Pretty, huh?” I said to my friend Shannon as we wrestled our banners into position with ornery bungee cords.

“Yes!” she replied. “But we might have bad weather coming. You know, ‘Red sky in the morning…' ”

I nodded and shrugged. Bad weather was all in a day's work here in our country's oldest open farmer's market. In the summer, it's sweltering weather in the concrete and steel city. Shannon's jars of Slow Jams pop their seals from the heat. And in the winter, a stiff wind whips up from the Detroit River, chilling our bones and setting our teeth to chatter.

My fingers were red and achy from the cold as they dug through the chest freezer for beef tenderloin, smoked bacon, or a nine-piece cut chicken to display for purchase for our many passersby.

As the morning inched toward 7:00, the surrounding booths filled with folding tables and a medley of vendors and wares. The small shops opened around the perimeter of the market. The parking lots jammed and the center aisles of the sheds became noisy pedestrian highways.

On my immediate left, Mr. Lore busily handed out samples of
his famous chess pies. Ethel's Edibles sold their delicious Pecan Sandies. Great Lakes Coffee was always freshly roasted, and Danielle in the Urban Grounds coffee car made an excellent Eye Opener with it. There was Pasta and Pasta, McClure's Pickles, The Spice Miser, Golden Wheat bakery, Drought organic beverages, and ever so much more.

Customers took samples of Farm Country cheese and homemade granola from my display. They bobbed their heads in definite approval as I told them about the benefits of our healthy meat. I enjoyed it when they came back for more week after week.

“This cheese is to die for,” they would say. Or, “I have to come here for your granola. I send it to my sister in Oregon. She can't do without it.”

I loved telling them about our Cow Share Program—a legal way for them to enjoy the benefits of raw milk.

“I get so excited when I see you bringing my jug of milk from the ice chest,” a Cow Share owner told me.

“I can't wait to start chugging it,” said another.

One man poured a generous amount of cream straight from the jug into his travel mug of black coffee. He then moved off into the crowd with his precious share of the milk from our cows on Maple Ridge Farm.

Customers strolled by in groups, in pairs, in families, or alone. They came from all over the world—France, Denmark, New Orleans, and New York. Eastern Market is a famous spot and a huge tourist attraction. Every week there would be wide-eyed people who would say, “This is the first time I've been here. Where do I start?”

Thousands of people are in that enormous, sprawling market, and there I was, a young Amish girl. But I loved it. I loved Shannon and my other vendor friends. I loved the diversity, the conglomeration, and the people.

I even loved the questions. Once, after explaining to an Iraqi who the Amish are, Shannon asked, “Don't you get tired of the questions? I mean, everyone is always so curious.”

“You know,” I told her, “I don't blame their wondering. I understand
that to them we look, well,
weird
. There are so many misunderstandings about our culture that all these questions are a way I can give a fairer picture of us. But I have a reason for being different. Being a Christian impacts every area of my life. It's my life, so no, I don't mind talking about it.”

I won't pretend though, that all the questions are easy ones. I give answers about my headcovering, technology, simple living, Amish youth, and our distinctive dress. I enjoyed describing a traditional Amish wedding meal to my friend Christina, who is an event planner. I told one lady that “Amish” is not necessarily synonymous with “organic.”

One type of question I always find tough is, “Is this Amish cheese?” or “Do you have Amish eggs?” My customers were not always interested in a long-winded explanation on whether or not the chickens live an Amish lifestyle, or just a chicken lifestyle on a farm owned by an Amish family.

Often in the vast crowds I feel small and helpless, observing the spiritual warfare and crying voids in American society. Encounters with my customers, conversations with people I meet, and questions they ask make my answers feel insignificant—like a lone star in a night sky.

Then it dawned on me that one country girl cannot satisfactorily answer all the questions of seven billion people worldwide, or 40 thousand at Eastern Market, or even for my best friend. That takes faith in Jesus Christ, and His redemptive, empowering grace.

It takes living, boot leather testimonies to bring many lives one step closer to the God who is the Truth. That is what gives my life purpose.

Penny

Luke Weaver

And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him (Genesis 2:20).

T
HE MORNING SUNSHINE SENT HEAT WAVES SHIMMERING ACROSS THE
pavement as our tiny buggy rattled along. I was ten years old and had the back of the buggy all to myself this morning. Mom and Dad were up front. We were on our way to help unload the belongings of a family who had moved into our community from Iowa.

Only a few months had gone by since we were newcomers to Michigan ourselves, having moved there from Missouri. I was wondering if the new family had a boy close to my age. They lived about four miles from where we did, off a dusty gravel road. I could see a few buggies were already there as we drove in. The truck with their household items hadn't arrived yet, so everyone sat under a tree and visited while we waited.

Soon a red semi pulling a trailer rumbled slowly up the road. The top of the trailer scraped a few tree branches as the driver eased into the lane. With a
whoosh
from the airbrakes, he parked close to the house.

Both cab doors swung open and a Mennonite man climbed down from the driver's side. From the passenger side, a boy who was surely close to my age jumped down. He grinned and waved a tanned arm. In a flash, he scampered around the back of the trailer ahead of the Mennonite man. The back end of the trailer was stacked high with boxes, wooden crates, and a few bales of straw. On top were some chickens in a wire cage, and beside their cage, a dog carrier.

The boy nimbly scrambled up the back of the trailer. He stood on his tiptoes, and, holding tight to a straw bale with one hand, he opened
the carrier door with the other hand. A little black and tan Beagle looked out, wagging its tail rapidly, whimpering for joy, no doubt glad the long ride was over.

The boy laughed and beckoned to the dog with his arm, “Come, come.” The little dog looked down and hesitated. “Come down,” the boy pleaded, and the little dog jumped right into the crook of his elbow. In a flash, the boy let go of the straw bale, hopped to the ground, and set the overjoyed dog down.

“Hi there,” the boy said as he skipped over to where I stood.

“Hi,” I returned. “Did you have a long ride?”

“Sure did,” he replied. “We left Iowa in the afternoon and drove all night. I liked riding in a semi, but I'm glad we're here.”

The little dog trotted over, “This is Penny,” he said, and bent down to pat her back. She hadn't stopped wagging her tail since getting off the trailer. Now she looked up at me and wrinkled one side of her lip to show her teeth. It looked like she was trying to smile.