An Unlikely Amish Match. Vannetta Chapman
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Day—practical items, lovingly made. And his mammi and daddi visited occasionally, though certainly not every year.
In truth, Micah felt as if he hardly knew his grandparents, and though he loved them as he thought grandchildren should, he didn’t think they had much in common. In fact, from the expression on his daddi’s face he wasn’t sure the man really wanted him there. So why had he agreed to this ridiculous plan? How was Micah supposed to become a different person—a more mature person in the words of his dat—by living in a different state for six months?
Daddi didn’t look up until they’d finished eating. Then he cradled his coffee mug in his left hand and waited until he was sure he had Micah’s attention. “We expect you to work every day.”
“Okay. That’s fair.” Micah brushed his hair away from his eyes and sat up straighter. “I can start looking for something today.”
“No need to do that. I have it all arranged.”
“All arranged?”
“To begin with, you’ll be expected to carry your share of the work around here—the same as any grown man. I realize that will be different from what you’re used to back home. I’m aware that your parents have coddled you.”
Micah frowned at the last biscuit on his plate and focused on not saying the response that immediately came to mind. His thoughts scrambled in a dozen different directions, trying to think of a way to forgo the lecture that was surely headed his way.
“It’s true, Micah.” His mammi peered over her reading glasses at him. “There’s no need to look hurt when your daddi is only stating the obvious. I spoke to your dat and mamm about this on several occasions.”
“This?”
“She’s referring to the way your schweschdern spoiled you—all of them did, really. It’s not a surprise, you being the last child and only son.”
Micah had seven older schweschdern, and it was true that they doted on him. He’d never washed a dish or helped prepare a meal. If he suddenly had to cook for himself, he’d probably perish from starvation. When he was young, he’d thought that was the life of every Amish boy, but as he grew older he’d learned his situation was a bit unique. The entire family had treated him as if he was a special gift left on the doorstep on Christmas morning.
Spoiled? Ya. He had been, but who in their right mind would turn that down? What was he supposed to do? Ask his siblings to be mean to him?
“You’ll work with me in the fields every morning,” his daddi continued. “There will be no more sleeping in.”
Micah nearly choked on the sip of coffee he’d been in the process of swallowing. His mammi had called up the stairs at 5 a.m. sharp to wake him. That was sleeping in?
“After lunch you’ll go to the bishop’s and help in his farrier shop.”
“The Beilers are wunderbaar people.” His mammi might have winked at him, or she might have a twitch in her right eye. Micah couldn’t tell. “This way you’ll be learning two trades. Your daddi can teach you everything about farming—”
“Something your dat should have done already.”
“And the bishop can teach you about horses.”
As if he didn’t know about horses. He was Amish, in spite of the way they were speaking to him. Micah felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, like a cat that had been brushed the wrong way. Why had he ever agreed to come to Indiana? What they were describing sounded worse than boot camp, which he only knew about from his friend Jackson, who had given him a ride from Maine.
Up before the birds.
Early-morning drills.
Work all day.
Collapse into bed at night.
Rinse and repeat.
His daddi gulped down the rest of his coffee, pushed his chair back and stood. The sleeve of his right arm had been sewn into a pocket, so that his stump rested inside it. He held his left hand in front of him—palm down—and made an invisible circle that included the three of them as well as the empty chairs, which he supposed his cousins had occupied before moving to Maine. In fact, it seemed the entire family was there, so what were his grandparents still doing in Goshen?
“We are your family—your mammi and me and all of your kinfolk here in Goshen. Your family in Maine loves you, as do we, but it’s time for you to grow up, Micah. It’s time to become a man.”
And with that pronouncement, he turned and strode from the room.
Micah pulled in a deep breath, pushed himself away from the table and started across the room after him, but Mammi called him back.
“Best go upstairs and change first. I put proper clothing in your dresser and on the hooks. Your daddi—well, he won’t abide the blue jeans and T-shirts.”
The day seemed intent on continuing its slide from bad to worse.
“Anything else I should know? Any other changes I need to make?” He tried to sound lighthearted, but the words came out sarcastic and gruff. Too late to bite them back, and his mammi didn’t seem to even notice.
“When you’re done with the day’s work, I’ll cut your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“And he knows about the phone. As long as it isn’t in the house—as long as he doesn’t see it—he’ll tolerate it. Just don’t push him.”
“I shouldn’t push him?”
“He’s old-fashioned, I know.”
“You think?”
“But he’s also a fair man.” She stood and walked over to where he waited. His mammi barely reached his shoulders, but she was a formidable woman, and for some reason he couldn’t identify, Micah wanted to make her proud. Reaching out, Mammi put a hand on his shoulder and waited until he met her gaze. “He’s a gut man, and he cares about you. I suspect the changes will be difficult at first, but in the end, you’ll thank him.”
Micah seriously doubted that.
A quick glance at the clock told him it wasn’t 6:30 a.m. yet.
The day was shaping up to be a long one.
He cheered himself with the thought that he only had 179 to go.
By the time they stopped for lunch, Micah was yawning and eyeing the hammock strung up in the backyard.
“Thomas expects you at one o’clock sharp, so you best hurry.” His daddi nodded toward the sandwich on Micah’s plate. “You can eat that on your walk over.”
Micah started to protest but then realized he’d probably prefer eating alone. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to his daddi’s plans for their work the next day. He was too tired to even consider more fieldwork, and the day wasn’t half-over.
Why had he never listened to the stories of how severe his daddi was?
If he had, he wouldn’t have agreed to this exile.
He tried to hold on to his bad mood, but the weather was fabulous, and he had over a dozen comments on his social media pages. He’d fetched the phone from the barn as soon as he’d left the kitchen. He paused at the fence line long enough to answer the comments and snap another picture to post.
It would probably be a bad idea to take the phone over to the bishop’s. Thomas Beiler was no doubt even more strict than Micah’s daddi.
He