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| Amish Girls play in our backyard after Sabbath Services |
Rebecca and I share a love of gardening. Every once in a while she will walk by when I am working and stop to see what I am planting or ask how my vegetables are growing. She once admired my neat little raised strawberry beds; a week later, they put in about a 1/8 acre of berries. When I first started my flock of a dozen laying hens, she lamented that a fox had killed all of hers some time ago. Pretty soon, they had 50 hens next door. Rebecca is full of practical old wisdom learned from her mother and grandmother, and a fierce work ethic instilled by her community. She is a sweet, humble person, genuinely interested in what I have to say--although I'm sure there's nothing new I can teach her about gardening. I do love to talk to her.
That is, when we find the time to talk. The Zooks are some of the hardest working people I have ever met. Many mornings, I awake to hear David's generator charging his tools and when I am closing up the chickens for the night, I hear the sounds of them still outside, calling the cow into the barn or rounding up the horses. Though I suspect they are probably 10 years younger than me, they have seven children, all of whom do their fair share of work. I saw the 8 year old with a weed eater just the other day. I have been known to say--half-kidding, half-serious--to my children: "Why can't you help out like those Amish children?"
In the weeks leading up to the auction, their farmette has been a hive of activity. The fields are evenly mowed in bright green squares, the garden tilled and smooth, the strawberries weeded. In an act of supreme faith and generosity, the family put in rows and rows of vegetables this week. It makes me weep to think of them leaving a plot of land which they have built up with a tractor trailer load of mushroom soil each and every year for the last seven years. "How is the soil at the new farm?" I asked her. "It needs work," was all she said. The time, the aching muscles, the disappointing crops that must be invested before the soil becomes as rich and as black as theirs is considerable. I hope the new owners will appreciate it.
This morning, we were rushing out to church. The kids were playing their instruments for "Youth Sunday," there was the Easter Play, Joe was a greeter and Cleo had to try on her costume. I knew that after I got home, I had three loads of laundry to do from the camping trip and then there were the replacement blueberry plants to get in and the asparagus and perhaps some potatoes. And what was I going to have for dinner? As my minivan rounded the first bend in our road, I spotted David and Rebecca leisurely strolling side by side, surveying their little field. The children were quietly playing around the porch of the farmhouse, dressed in their Sunday best. They were in motion, but there was no work. The Amish keep the Sabbath.
Once every few months, the Zooks host their community's church services. By the time we leave for church at 8:30 a.m., the buggies already line their lane and everyone is inside. Not until mid-afternoon do they emerge from worship. After everyone leaves, we can hear the family across the field, jubilant in their rest. I'll never forget the sight of David playing baseball with his brood. David, whose lanky frame I see striding back and forth across his property in a deliberate, business-like manner all day, six days of the week.
Today, it occurred to me that one of the reasons the Zooks are able to work so hard all week is that they truly know how to keep the Sabbath. Another bit of old wisdom. I have a lot to learn.
