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The Amish Voice
MAP
P.O. Box 128
575 U.S. Highway 250
Savannah, OH 44874
(419) 962-1515
July 2016
Welcome to part one of Emanuel
Schrock’s true life story.
1. Church
The sound of the steady beat of Betty’s
hooves on the pavement mingle with the
soft, rumbling din of the family
buggy wheels. It’s a sound that is
so much a part of who I am that it
is like music in the background of
my life, constantly reminding me of
who I am and what I belong to: I
am Amish, not by choice, but by
birth. I was born into a family of
twelve, and since my parents and
grandparents were Amish, fate had
already decided that I was destined
to be Amish as well – like it or not.
To me it is strange how this works:
Except in a few rare cases, the only way
to be Amish is to be born that way, and
the only way to stop being Amish is to
become a sinner and turn one’s back on
everything one has been taught. It is as
though a sheepfold has been prepared in
which exists the one true way to live and
the right way to please God; to be born
into that fold is to be privileged and
chosen above the rest of the world. One
is on the right road to God because of his
Amish birth and not by choice.
Being Amish, then, becomes your life,
and to you, nothing else matters more.
Your existence becomes a life-long
mission of preserving this precious
heritage into which you were born and
had no part in creating. You accept it
without question as the right way, simply
because your ancestors have always done
it this way. You trust that somewhere in
the history of your heritage there was a
person who had the authority and the
information to know what way in life is
the right way; that he had some special
revelation of God or a deep insight into
the ways of righteousness that gave him
the right and power to create this blessed
fold into which you were born, and in
which, if you remain, you are assured
that you are safely on the right road to
being in favor with God. This is the
Amish way.
It is Sunday morning and my family is on
the way to church. I am nestled in the
front seat of the buggy with my
father, who is driving, and my two
brothers. My mother and my
sisters are in the back seat. Dad is
sitting silently on the edge of his
seat with a blank expression on his
face. Mom is giving occasional
orders to the young girls on how to
be behave, while chatting with my
older sister in anticipation of
meeting with the other women at
church.
In my mind, I am secretly dreading
the ordeal of church. Why couldn’t today
be an in-between Sunday? There were a
few things about church that I didn’t
mind. I enjoyed some of the singing, and
if there was a good preacher, I enjoyed
the preaching as well. But generally,
going to church was a matter of waiting
for the day to be over. I didn’t really
fit in with my friends very
well, and I didn’t try very
hard to. I was a quiet
thinker, and would
My Story, Part 1
—
By Emanuel Schrock