© Copyright 2011 Robert J. Yoder.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage retrieval system, without permission of the copyright’s owner, except for the inclusion of brief quotations for a review.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9847-2811-4
Published in eBook format by R.J. Yoder
DEDICATION
Dedicated in loving memory to my dad
JACOB A. YODER
(08-07-1917 — 11-22-1971)
whose prayers for his son were answered in a most unexpected way, and who must have loved me more than I ever realized.
CHAPTER 1
Jake
The sled riding accident was so typical of my childhood. I was constantly collecting cuts and bruises, breaking a bone, and on one occasion, ripping open a gash on my knee so deep that it exposed my knee cap.
One winter, it was a sledding accident. Our neighbors had a beautiful sled-riding hill. We used the terrace at the bottom of the hill as our ramp, launching from there and soaring through the air. On one winter day, the snow was just right, the sun was out, and the neighbor kids were having a great time together, riding down the track of snow and flying over the ramp.
That night was cold; and while we slept, the snow that had slightly melted in the sun during the day froze, making the downhill path something like an Olympic sledding track—sheer ice.
The next morning I was up bright and early. Eager to have the ride of my life, I trudged all alone to the very top of the hill. I put the sled down and away I went, not recognizing the danger that lay ahead. Once I started, there was no stopping.
I was going too fast, and my pleasure quickly turned to fear. I hung on, just hoping I would somehow get through this. Hitting the ramp, I went airborne as the sled started to turn sideways. The sled and I both landed, my wrist under the runner. Luckily, I came through that ride with only a broken arm.
Little did I realize that my life would soon be very much like that sled ride, hurtling downward and out of control.
On a bright, sunny spring day, the fresh smell of new life was bursting forth, grass turned brown by the harsh winter was now green, women were hanging out wash, and farmers were turning soil and getting ready to plant spring crops.
As I drove to my hometown of Walnut Creek, the memories were too real and tears started to flow. I could hardly see to drive. Yes, I wished I had my dad right there beside me so that I could ask him questions about the Bible and we could discuss the Word of God, which was so dear to him. I still miss him.
I miss the little town with the grain elevator where we used to bring the wagon filled with grain to grind into feed. Horrisberger Implement is gone, and now there is the Carlisle Inn. Fire destroyed Schlabach’s Store, and today there’s a library and a new museum. The little dairy treat where we’d stop after school for the best ice cream this side of the Mississippi has been replaced by a post office. Another little ice cream stop became what is now known as Der Dutchman Restaurant. Mom and Dad once owned a house on the town square, and my brother James lived there when he married; now a doctor’s office sits on that spot.
The school I attended for eight years still stands. I’d walk a mile to school, through the fields with our neighbors, the Masts. Junior Mast and I were the same age and in the same grade. We were together so much as little boys that we were almost like brothers.
The circus came to town one day and the tent went up on the school grounds. Both Junior and I knew we would not be allowed to see the show, but we managed to find an excuse to head to town that evening, probably saying we were going to buy an ice cream cone. Instead of going into the tent and risk someone seeing us, we peeked under the canvas and watched the circus acts. The clowns, the elephants, and the show girls in tight outfits were all very fascinating for two little Amish boys.
I grew up on a small, fifty-five acre farm, the youngest of four boys with one older sister and three younger sisters. Yes, there were eight of us.
On the farm, there were cows to milk, chickens, horses, and pigs to feed, wheat and oats to thresh, and corn to pick. I have many fond and wonderful memories of growing up on the farm. We worked hard, but we also rode bicycles (and anything with wheels), swung from our big spruce in the back yard, and kept an assortment of pets—goats, a fox, and crows that actually talked.
In the Amish community where I grew up, feelings of love and affection are not often expressed in words but in action, in deeds of kindness and friendship—like helping a neighbor in need or sharing recipes or inviting someone for a meal.
There was one day that Dad expressed his love for family, his love of the outdoors, and his desire to just have fun. It was an expression of love we children will probably never forget.
It was a blustery winter day, with blowing snow making the roads unfit to drive. We kids were in the mood to go sledding, but we needed a toboggan. We knew that Mom and Dad didn’t really have the money to buy a new toboggan, and besides, the stores were all closed.
But Dad was determined that we would have a day of fun in the snow. He took off in the car, drove to Millersburg, and somehow talked the owner of Jane and Sandy’s to open the doors so that Dad could buy our toboggan.
We had fun riding down the hill behind our barn, with Dad on the tractor pulling us back up to the top of the hill. But the memory that lingers in my mind to this day is the expression of love that Dad showed for his family. I have kept that toboggan as a memorial and as a symbol of the man I remember as my dad.
Dad developed a heart condition at a young age, a result of a bout with rheumatic fever. Even though his heart was not in very good shape, he did the farming with the help of us boys, worked away as a painter, plus fulfilled the duties of the ministry—all the time, knowing that he could die at any moment. Raising eight children is not an easy task for healthy people, yet Mom and Dad did it, even under the shadow of his poor health.
I remember one time in particular that Dad had a stroke during the night. Mom came upstairs and woke us, telling us to come downstairs; something was wrong with Dad. He was sitting up in bed and looked at us but couldn’t say anything, which was very scary to me. Mom told us to kneel by the bed and pray. Eli Mast, our neighbor, came over, the doctor arrived, and by late morning Dad’s speech was coming back. He seemed to recover and things went back
