Grounded

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Bishop Kauffman agrees to my rumspringa request with little concern. In fact, the way he claps me on the shoulder suggests he expected the turn of events. Literally, rumspringa means "running around," the only time in Amish life when the Ordnung overlooks transgressions. The Amish only baptize adults, so as a teenager I'm not bound to church law, but at seventeen, I'm considered old enough to make my own decisions. That means between now and the time I choose to be baptized, I am free of all expectations except those of my conscience.

But my conscience has a loud voice. My father has made sure of that.

"Lydia," Bishop Kauffman says, placing a calloused hand on mine, "where you are going, they don't have rules like we do. The reason we've come to this, living behind this wall, is because they chose a life without limits, without conscience, and we chose to preserve ours. I want you to go and experience that life so that you know what it is you're giving up, the good and the bad. But remember your roots. Remember who you are. You may walk through the valley of darkness, but remember you come from the light."

I smile and nod. "I won't let their world change me." As the words leave my mouth, I truly believe them.

His eyebrows dart toward the ceiling. "Oh, child, that's not what I'm saying at all. You should let it change you. When you leave here, there is no halfway. You will live, dress, and speak the English way. There's something wrong if living that life doesn't change you."

"Oh," I say. I knit my eyebrows.

He gives my shoulder a gentle shake. "It should make you more committed to our way of life."

I bob my chin. "Okay." My stomach twists with my impending reality. I will have to live English. All of my lessons, my schooling, it was all for this moment—so I could walk among them if I had to.

"Then, go. We'll take care of your father's farm while you're gone. I will miss you."

Tossing my arms around his neck, I squeeze hard enough for the hug to last until I return.

* * * * *

Balanced between reluctance and excitement, I pack my father's small brown suitcase. I start with a kapp to cover my head and the box of pins I use every morning to bun my hair under it. Will they make me cut my hair? Winding a loose tress around my finger, I watch the honey brown tighten like a noose against my pale skin. I bite my lip. I don't want to change my hair.

Head shaking, I resolve not to worry about a problem that hasn't even happened. Keep busy, I tell myself. The modest gray dress I pack is without zippers or decoration, and the tights I've sewn myself. Leather shoes made by an Amish neighbor go in next. It all fits easily. I won't be able to wear this clothing once I'm on the outside, but I want a change of clothes for the trip home. Plus, it feels good to bring something of my life with me into the void.

I clean my house spotless and turn off the gas that powers the lamps and refrigerator at the tank. Both run on methane collected from heating pig dung—an Amish invention. The Yoders will use our pigs' chips while I'm away. As for the water, I turn that off too and empty the pipes, in case I'm not back before the first freeze.

Everything is prepared, but I startle anyway when Jeremiah knocks. I scurry to the door, a mess of jittery limbs.

His smile melts when he sees me. "Are you all right?" He takes my waist as if he expects I might fall over at any moment. "You look pale."

"Just nervous," I answer.

"Do you need to sit down? Some water?"

"No, I'm fine." I turn to grab my suitcase. "Besides, I shut the water off."