The Fiddler

L
ate-afternoon sun blinded me as I threw open the back door and stepped onto the porch, duffel bag in hand. The screen door caught my foot and dug deep into my ankle, and I dropped my bag with a thud.

Despite my anger, I took a deep breath and wondered if I should just suppress my urge to run off, and stay put in Hickory Hollow. But
Daed
’s stinging words were fresh in my mind.
“You’ve got one foot in the world and the other in the church, Michael. Go on with ya—and don’t come back till you decide!”

At the height of this latest spat,
Mamm
winced and fled the kitchen for the next room, her prayer
Kapp
strings flying. I’d like to have fallen in step right behind her, to reassure and comfort her somehow. Yet what could I tell her that wouldn’t break her heart?

No, I wouldn’t turn back. I hurried down the road to my Mennonite uncle’s place, where I kept my car, and sped away toward his cabin, not far from here. Far enough, though, to find some solace from this latest wrangle.

Soon, though, once I calm down, I’ll be a fugitive on my knees praying, not only for wisdom in dealing with my ill-tempered father, but for my future. And it wouldn’t hurt if I put Marissa Witmer out of my mind, too.

Awhile there, I’d actually thought she might become Amish for me, which is the worst reason to join any church. But it’s mighty hard competing with a girl’s
“first love,”
which is just how she put it to me months ago on our final date. There, near the old covered bridge in Gordonville.

Shortly after that, Daed started pressuring me to settle down . . . and marry.
“What’s a-matter with
our
girls?”
he’d asked.

But getting hitched in the Amish church would mean giving up my computer and other fancy gadgets, as well as my car—especially my car!—in order to commit to the People.
“A lifer,”
some of my former Amish friends describe it.

Sure, I’m expected to honor my parents and obey the fifth commandment; I know that. But when you’ve had a taste of higher education and the Internet, how do you go back to reading the
Farm Journal
and relying on the Amish grapevine?

I considered all this as I sped away, my foot heavy on the gas, gravel spraying up after each stop sign. Cranking up the car radio, I relished the feel of the booming bass in my gut. Bishop John Beiler had taken me aside more than once to warn about my interest in worldly music, shaking his finger in my face. Not because I’m a baptized church member, but because I’m approaching twenty-five and still balking about bending my knee to make the church vow.
“A mighty poor example for the young folk,”
the bishop said recently, his face clouded with disapproval.
“Especially your niece!”

Bishop John’s words hit close to home, considering that Elizabeth—my parents’ only granddaughter among many grandsons—was charging down the path of disobedience. Since she’s always looked up to me as her favorite uncle, I couldn’t help but wonder if I really am to blame. Doubtless Daed thinks so.

Things might seem less futile now if I hadn’t lost my fiancée prior to all of this. The memory of Marissa’s infectious smile and,
ach,
those adorable blue eyes is still before me. There’s no denying she stole my heart away.

“I’m so sorry, Michael,”
she said with tears rolling down her pretty face. It was all I could do to keep from holding her till she came to her senses. Surely she would.

Surely . . .

But last I heard from her cousin Joanna Kurtz—our bishop’s niece—Marissa had not changed her mind.
“She’s followin’ her heart,”
Joanna told me, eyes shimmering.

Sure isn’t following me . . .

———

Now I was holed up in this small cabin hidden away in the woods, miles from home so Daed couldn’t come looking for me by horse and buggy. I had plenty to keep me busy, including work for my online course of study, wrapping things up for an associate in arts degree. Not that I needed a degree in anything, really, what with all the work I’d already been doing for several years now, drafting blueprints for custom houses and even a stately colonial-style church.

What a way to spend a summer vacation,
I thought as I worked offline on my laptop. There was no access to the Internet in this remote cabin.

After a time, I wandered to the small washroom on the other side of the room and studied my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Clean-shaven . . . blond hair cropped just below my ears, with the usual old-fashioned bangs. I glanced down and took stock of my bare feet, my black “barn door” trousers, beige suspenders, and long-sleeved blue shirt. I looked like all the other young Amishmen I knew. And it made me feel even more lost.

Deserting the mirror, I went to kneel beside one of the bunks in the main room. “Hear my prayer for guidance, O God
,”
I whispered, feeling guilty as I was reminded of my disobedience to the wishes of my parents. Could I expect my prayers to reach past the ceiling?

A single gas lantern brightened the gloom. There was really no need for the lantern when the cabin had electricity, but seeing it there gave me a semblance of comfort. It reminded me of the very thing that had brought me to this momentous day. Because I knew full well if I continued to walk the fence, I might end up on the other side—the outside, looking in.

I inhaled deeply, knowing my father would want me to pray for forgiveness, too. But I didn’t honestly believe that driving a car and listening to music from someplace other than the
Ausbund
was a bad thing, even in God’s eyes. Yet the Old Ways ran deep in me, so I pressed on, spending more time on my knees before rising.

Then, eyeing the small table where I’d put my duffel bag full of clothes, CD wallets, and fresh batteries, I attempted to shrug away my melancholy. Music was my consolation . . . but I wouldn’t give in to the craving just yet. I’d wait till sundown.

After a long sprint through the woods, I returned to the old log cabin and stood in the doorway, staring out. The truth began to sink in—what I should’ve realized all this time. Marissa was never going to have second thoughts no matter how much I’d cared for her. Her new path was firmly set.

I watched the sun slowly fall over the secluded woodlands. And in the stillness, the psalm my father read aloud that morning came to mind.
Even the night shall be light about me.

It wasn’t easy to push away the painful past; I knew that. But it was high time. I breathed in the spicy scent of pine, aware of distant thunder.

A
melia Devries stood waiting in the wings, her well-polished fiddle tucked beneath her right arm, bow in hand. The rhythmic vibration of guitars and a banjo buzzed in the floorboards of the outdoor theater, beneath her stylish boots. No matter the venue for her performances—classical or country, indoors or out—she often experienced a slight twinge of nerves before a concert. Normal stage fright, nothing more.