Serena B. Miller - An Amish Wedding Invitation; An eShort Account of a Real Amish Wedding

An

Amish W edding

Invitation

An eShort Account of a Real Amish Wedding

So, how many chickens do you think well need to butcher in order to feed everyone? Luke Beachy asked the group seated around the yard as we relaxed and visited after supper. Everyone was close kin to him, except me.

Luke was the father of the bride-to-be, and the wedding was weighing heavily on his shoulders. This was his oldest daughters wedding, and she was the first of his many chicks to leave the nest. As with most Englisch weddings, there was a bittersweet quality to discussing the upcoming event. They liked the boy, but Luke and his wife, Deborah, grieved the fact that the daughter was moving so far away.

Five miles.

I know that doesnt seem like so much to you, Deborah had said to me earlier, but with a horse and buggy, it is a lot to us.

At the moment, we were watching a group of young cousins, ages five to twenty-one, playing volleyball in the front yard. The girls were barefoot and wearing Old Order Amish dresses made from pastel-colored fabric. Two of the older boys were dressed Englisch and had short, modern haircuts. Their cars were parked discreetly behind the barn. They were having their Rumspringa their running around timebefore settling down. All were laughing and having a good time. It was a pretty sight.

Well, well need to feed around five hundred people before the day is over, the grandmother said.

No one ran for the calculator, because Lukes question was rhetorical. They knew exactly how many chickens they would need, and how many quarts of home-canned green beans, and how much celery, and flowers and everything else they would have to grow or gather or borrow. The Amish are experts at marrying off their children, and the chicken would be one of the greatest expenses. Fortunately, the father of the bride was a chicken farmer, which, under the circumstances, seemed a lucky thing.

There were ten of us relaxing in folding chairs around a small campfire beneath the comforting shade of an ancient maple tree. We had come together to celebrate the successful publication of my first book, Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio, which was a story set in a nearby town and had involved Amish characters. This family had been kind enough to allow me to spend months pestering them with questions, trying to truly understand their culture.

The book had debuted to great reviews, but the opinion that mattered most to me was theirs. Had I gotten it right? Had I portrayed their people accurately?

Yes, they said. I had gotten it exactly right. Deborah especially enjoyed it. She commented that she wished I could speak German.

Why? I asked. Her comment puzzled me.

Because then I could tell you what is in my heart, she said. It is so hard to say in English the things I feel.

This was intriguing. Can you try?

Because you did not make our people look... I could see her translating in her mind. Weird.

Weird? This was not a word I had ever heard an Amish person use.

After I read your book, she explained further, I felt a lot better about being Amish.

Oh. Her comment was unexpected and felt like a gift to me. I am so glad!

I was beyond grateful to this Old Order family who had allowed me, an Englisch woman with jeans and short hair, to enter their world and become part of their lives. As a small thank-you, I was giving the women a break from cooking supper and had ordered a towering stack of pizzas. I wanted to make sure everyone could eat their fill, and they hadincluding the children, who broke away from their play from time to time to run over and grab another piece. Deborah had brought a large sheet cake.

We were eating outdoors with the food stacked on makeshift plywood-and-sawhorse tables. This was not for want of room inside. This is the land of ultralong dinner tables and homes built large enough to seat two hundred church members. We were outside tonight because it was a pleasant day to watch the children play volleyball, and a small campfire is always a cheerful thing even if you dont need it, and well, outdoors is a cooler place to be on a summer evening when you dont have air-conditioning.

The publisher is interested in more books, I said. Do any of you have any stories you can think of that you would want me to tell?

What kind of stories? Deborah asked.

Love stories about the Amish.

Oh, lots! Her sister-in-law Mary practically jumped up and down in her seat. We have lots and lots of love stories.

I grabbed for my ever-present notebook and pen.

But we can only tell them to you in German, she teased, and everyone laughed.

They laughed because I had recently entertained them with a story about my experience taking a high school German class from a teacher with an unfortunately deep southern accent. I had demonstrated the extent of my knowledge of their language by drawling an exaggerated. Danke schn, yall.

Susan, Marys five-year-old daughter, ran up to her mother and rattled off a question.

We have a guest, Mary gently reminded her. You are interrupting.

The child glanced over her shoulder, gave me an apologetic grin, and switched smoothly to English as she asked permission to have another piece of cake.

Such a sweet tooth, Mary said fondly, and gave her permission.

It is unusual for a five-year-old Amish child to speak English so fluently. Usually they speak only German until they begin school at six, but Susan had grown up playing with a little Englisch boy her mother babysat. She was a bright child and picked up this foreign language of English very quickly.

Our conversation turned once again toward the fascinating subject of the upcoming marriage. This visit was the first time Id heard anything about a wedding, and I wanted to go so badly. I assumed it would be an informal affair along the lines of a barn-raising, a sort of come-as-you-are function with piles of food laid out pot-luck style on makeshift tables. I envisioned, after a brief ceremony, the couple riding off in a buggy decorated with flowers.

I figured it wouldnt be too much of an imposition to ask if I could attend. I mean, whats one more person at a big church potluck, right?

I apologize for asking, I said, but would it be rude if I came to the wedding? Ive been thinking about putting an Amish wedding scene in my next book.

There was a hesitation as they pondered my request. I attributed that hesitation to what my husband and I call the Amish pause. These people take time to think before they speak, so it came as no surprise that my abrupt question required a few beats of quiet contemplation before answering. I have read that this is a matter of humility with the Amish. They do not want to be like Englisch people, who answer off the cuff as though they already know everything.

To me, whose talking style has frequently been described by my family as shooting from the hip, this pause is fascinating. Try as I might, I cant seem to achieve it.

It is a full two months later before I realize that this particular hesitation had more to do with the fact that the father and mother of the bride were mentally shifting seats around in their heads while wondering where on earth they would put me. They had not expected an Englisch woman suddenly popping up and inviting herself, but they politely agreed that it would be fine if I wanted to come, and I eagerly wrote down the date.

Sometimes it seems as though I have a great talent for making a Dumkopf of myself around my gracious Amish friends. I never mean any harm, and so they have made a habit of forgiving my ignorance. At the time, I had no idea how carefully planned out this wedding already was. To this day, I wonder who gave up their seat for me.