Its 8:15 am on the last hump day of May, 2019; we find ourselves in a rental car, driving the winding, country roads through Sugarcreek, aka The Little Switzerland of Ohio. There has been an abundance of rain this spring and all the fields are green and lush. We are surrounded with rolling hills. We turn off the paved, two lane highway, onto a gravel, dirt road, plunging into the heart of Amish country. Lonely farms dot the landscape: you can tell they are Amish and not English by the lack of automobiles, by the simple, clean, austere home exterior, and by the presence of clean laundry swaying on the wash line. Given all the laundry that large families produce, and the absence of the modern convenience of a clothes dryer, the lines are always full.

These are Larry’s relatives, one or two generations removed. His dad grew up in these parts. Ralph was a handsome, ambitious, straight-backed young Amish man with an eye for excellence. He wooed and won the hand of Sarah, a doe-eyed Amish beauty from Winesburg, Ohio. Ralph first laid eyes on her as she rode past in an open, horse-pulled cart. In later years, he loved to tell that story to the family, just to get a reaction from her, usually a playful scolding in Pennsylvania Dutch to, “be quiet.” As a young husband and father and a farmer, Ralph decided that working the fields with machinery powered by horses rather than a tractor was not for him; the family left their Amish roots for greener pastures and more freedoms within the Conservative Mennonite Church.

On this cloudy May morning, in our rental car, we are on our way to the funeral of the last of Ralph’s siblings, Aunt Bena. There were eight children and now all have left this earth; when their offspring look up through the branches of the family tree, all they see is open blue skies. We are driving to the home farm, where Ralph spent his childhood. Many Amish churches choose to hold services in their homes rather than owning a church building. This funeral is being held in a large garage/shop on the farm property, where Bena and some of her family lived, in her parents’ later years and then after they died.

As we approach the farm, we pass the field designated for valet parking, with a long row of buggies under the trees, and horses being tethered to hitching posts. We pull slowly up the driveway, passing between the house and the barn, under the watchful eyes of a row of Amish men. They are dressed exactly alike: handmade black pants and black vest, white long sleeved shirts, black shoes and wide brimmed hats, appropriately, in black. Conformity is highly valued in this subculture because it removes the element of prideful attention that individual expression might draw to oneself.

As we park in the grassy area designated for non-Amish, car drivers, Larry and his wombmate, Linda (for the record, his twin hates to be called that but he loves to tease her), reminisce about coming to this farm as children to visit their grandma. They say it seems like only yesterday that they were running in this yard, playing kick-the-can and tag with their cousins. As a testament to how welcoming Aunt Bena and Uncle Lloyd were to everyone, nearly all the cousins materialize for this funeral. All ten of Ralph and Sarah’s children are here, coming from five states to pay their last respects.

In the past few decades, whenever we traveled to Ohio to see family, we often carved out a few hours to visit Amish relatives. Once, our young kids took a buggy ride. Our daughter-in-law, Tiffany, saw her first cow pie in these pastures, as we walked through the field to visit the old family cemetery. :) On one visit, I remember Larry asking Aunt Bena something about “the good old days.” In her wise, pragmatic way, she corrected him with, “THESE are the good days. Things were hard back then.” She and Lloyd both personified humility and strong moral character. And they always asked us about our lives and our own family. Unselfishness was part of the fiber of their being.

We sat on backless benches, knees nearly pressed into the backs of those in the row in front of us, for most of the morning. We changed positions only twice: once to kneel for prayer and then again, as we filed in rows past the simple, handmade wooden casket for a final viewing. Larry guesstimated there were 300 people in attendance, squeezed in backless benches in this shop. This building, used for processing butchered animals or as a handy man’s shop for wood work, was cleaned to within an inch of its life. All machinery was moved out, the walls were freshly painted white, the windows sparkled without a streak, and there was not a cobweb in sight. Along one wall, garage doors rolled up to let in sun light, since there was no electricity.

The family sat in the middle of this shop, around the casket, with the Amish men on one side and the women on the other. The non-Amish were sprinkled around and in between; we stood out like yellow dandelions on a green lawn. There were three sermons, given by three different preachers, each one being at least 30 minutes long (not that I looked at the clock very often). Sitting on those backless benches provided a stellar opportunity to practice good posture and work on strengthening your core. Two sermons were delivered in Pennsylvania Dutch with an English one sandwiched in between. None of the preachers used any notes and they all quoted an impressive amount of Scripture from memory.

Since I understand very little Pennsylvania Dutch, two sermons were mostly an exercise in patience for me. The preaching had a certain cadence to it, with an almost sing-song quality to the voices. I was tracking with the English sermon, until it was mentioned that Bena was such a good example of a Christian woman in that she kept silent in church, as the Scripture commands. One thing you have to say about the Amish is that they have well defined roles; there is never a question about what one should or shouldn’t do. Later, Larry whispered something to me and I told him that I couldn’t reply because I was keeping silent in church. Immature, I would agree.

Finally, everyone filed, row by row, past the casket one last time. I watched the women walk by; from my vantage point I saw side profiles. Like the Amish men standing outside the barn as we drove in, the women were all dressed alike: plain, modest, black, multi-layered, handmade dresses. Their long, uncut hair was pulled back from their faces, secured in buns, and covered with boxy, white caps that tied under their chins. There was no make up or added adornment. Their beauty was well hidden beneath their garb. And they all seemed to have their faces set with the exact same expression: a studied seriousness that dropped a curtain over their emotions. I had such a strange stirring inside, since I wore similar Mennonite, handmade clothes in my tender years. I remembered that feeling of looking starkly different from the general population and feeling prying, curious eyes following me as I walked through the shopping mall. I would have liked folks around me to know that I was really just like them on the inside.

After the funeral, we all trudged up the hill behind the farm, to a family cemetery, whose earliest occupants date back to the mid 1800s. It stood out in a cow pasture with a white fence encircling the graves. A special buggy was used to carry the casket to its final resting place. After the box was lowered into the ground, various men from the group took turns shoveling dirt back into the grave until it was all filled in, as a last show of respect. Aunt Bena’s large family stood together and sang a few hymns about heaven, drawing comfort from each other’s presence and thoughts of a future reunion.

We walked back down the hill and into the garage/shop; tables had been set up and a simple lunch buffet was served for family and friends. The funeral lunch menu is as unchanging as the church standards: cold ham sandwiches, sliced swiss cheese, cooked noodles, potato salad, and a plethora of desserts to sample. As we all came under the covering of that building, the pregnant skies that had been threatening for an hour, broke loose with pelting rain and thunder and lightning. I kept imagining if that had happened half an hour earlier, when we were all standing in the hill top cemetery.

Lunch was filled with conversations as relatives re-connected: funny stories remembered from childhood, discussions about health issues (for some strange reason, Larry seemed to find himself engaged in a number of those), talk of children, and stories of places visited. Many Amish have a subtle, but well-developed sense of humor, and love to tell stories with good punch lines. We discovered that several of Bena’s sons (Larry’s cousins) love to fly fish and we had a lively conversation about our shared interest. If you dissect deep enough, there is always a common thread to be found that unites people.

In this subculture, conformity and simplicity and humility are paramount to godliness. Looking from the outside in, as I now do, it is easy for the beauty to be eclipsed by the level of control exerted to maintain order and allegiance. If you look below the surface, the comeliness is there: the quick, gentle hand squeeze that speaks of warmth and acceptance, the attitude of servanthood that cannot imagine self promotion and only focuses on the other, the sense of community and belonging that all our hearts long for. I appreciated the reminder today that despite outward appearances, we do all bleed the same. And Aunt Bena will be so missed!