He’d been raised Amish and carried his childhood with him like a donor heart in a small white cooler that one day he might use to save his own life. As families do, his had aged into more moderate theologies, turned Mennonite. And this he had given to me. But I didn’t want it and tried to give it back.
Ah, I remembered the Midwestern insanity: laundromats that doubled as places of worship and Crock-Pots simmering cocktail wieners in stews of grape jelly and Worcestershire sauce.
Those days, those nights, it felt as though we moved within the carcass of a great animal, a maroon cavern so large we could not comprehend—and we didn’t, not even in that sweet-blooded darkness, we did not.
Love in Amish Country
Consider the love language of these people something similar to a moaning, choking agony addressed at the universe. Call it holy desperation. Call it devotion. Call it belief in inherent dignity. This is real Amish romance, as real as it gets.