Top 10 Favorite Novels

I just discovered blogfests this week, and here I am taking part in a second one.  Madeleine Maddock at Scribble and Edit  is doing a blogfest called “Share Your Ten Best Novels.” Madeleine, this is a great idea! Thank you.

I will give favorites roughly in the order that I discovered them and give a reason why they became my favorites.

Heidi by Johanna Spyri

Heidi is the first book I ever owned. I was in the fourth grade in public school when I got it. We had a gift exchange in the class, and someone had given me a necklace, apparently not knowing that I was not allowed to wear jewelry. My friend, Debra Model, had just gotten a gift of the book, Heidi. She said she had already read it. I asked if she wanted to trade gifts, and she did. It was like magic to own a book! I didn’t have access to many books at the time, so I loved it all the more.

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

The reason for this being one of my favorites is probably obvious. Mark Twain is one of my favorite writers of all times. He could make any story interesting. I read his stories as a child, and then again as an adult.

Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery           

I was in my early twenties, teaching school in the Amish community when my friend, Susan Kurtz, first told me about the Anne of Green Gables series.  I was halfway through the first chapter when Anne stole my heart. I read the whole series, not able to put the books down. In yesterday’s blogfest about writing compelling characters, there was much talk of how a character needed flaws. If Anne had any, they became invisible to me. She was just so honest. I still love her. And it was uncanny how the films that were made years later captured the characters, setting, and everything exactly the way I had imagined them. I need to see those again!

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

When I left the Amish, I had a lot of catching up to do in reading good literature. David and I were in a reading group when we read and discussed To Kill a Mockingbird. I absolutely loved it because it provided such a wonderful example of how a responsible adult (Atticus) protects and cares for his children. One interesting aspect of the story is how Scout accepts her life for what it is, without a mother. She is well cared for by her father, so she feels secure and loved, which allows her to be a child.

The Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean Auel

The Amish absolutely do not believe in evolution. In fact, it was considered heresy and a terrible sin to even think of it in my home community. So, when I first found out David (my boyfriend at the time) believed in evolution, I cried, because I loved him, and I didn’t know how I could be in a relationship with someone who believed in evolution. It took me years to get out of the Amish mindset and think of evolution as a possibility for explaining the world, the universe, and everything in it.  Reading The Clan of the Cave Bear was pivotal in opening me to new ways of thinking.

My Ántonia by Willa Cather

When I was living in a rural town in Vermont with two young children, I was trying to catch up on reading classics, but I didn’t even know what titles I wanted to read. One day I told the librarian that I had grown up Amish and had very little exposure to literature, but I would like to make up for lost time, could she recommend some books to me.  She kindly recommended My Ántonia, which kicked off the start of me reading classics. The story was intense, but very well written.

The Seal Mother by Mordicai Gerstein

I know this is cheating just a tad, because picture books are not really novels. But The Seal Mother has got to be one of my favorite stories.  I discovered it during the weekly visits to the local library for the stack of books that I would sign out with my boys. I don’t know if my boys enjoyed hearing the story as much as I liked to read it, but I selfishly took the book out of the library every few months. It is about the great grey seals taking human form and coming out onto the rocks to sing and dance on midsummer’s eve. A local fisherman fell in love with one of the seal women and captured her sealskin so she could not take her seal form again. She married him and had a child, only because he promised he would return her sealskin after seven years. He does not keep his promised, but the son helps his mother find her skin. She returns to the sea, and she visits her son often. The reason this story spoke to me as it did, is because I felt like the seal mother — when I left the Amish, I found my true form.

The Summer of the Monkeys by Wilson Rawls

I loved reading to my boys. And lucky for me, they liked it too. I used to read chapter books to them, even after they could read themselves. I read The Summer of the Monkeys to Tim one summer.  One day we were lying in our hammock in the backyard, reading the book. I read about a character in the book who was lying in a hammock reading. Tim looked at me and said “Mom!” and we both laughed at the synchronicity of it all.  It is a sad story, but has a bittersweet ending. When we finished the book, Tim and I were both crying.

The Romance Reader by Pearl Abraham

A friend called me one day and said she had just discovered a book that reminded her of me. She offered to loan me the book, which I devoured. It was very much my story, set in a Chassidic family instead of an Amish family, so I could definitely identify with “Rachel.” I have read it several times since.

All Men Are Mortal by Simone de Beauvoir

I love when philosophy and literature come together as they do in All Men Are Mortal. This story explores the question of what it would be like for someone to live forever. Not a good scenario, if one thinks about it, as this book is prone to make one do. I love the philosophical passages woven into the story.

So, here are my favorites (at least of the ones I can think of now). Are any of these your favorites, too? 

Next I will be heading over to Scribble and Edit to look at other people's picks. 

Writing Compelling Characters

Tonight I am taking part in the Great Blogging Experiment about writing compelling characters. At first I wondered what I could possibly add to the discussion — we all know that compelling characters need to be believable and come alive, and have a host of other attributes. But what makes a character believable or come alive? For fun, I pulled books off my shelves and started picking parts of them that include a compelling character.  For each example, I will write a reason why I think these are compelling characters. 

And before I go further, I will say one of the attributes that brings characters to life or makes them believable for me is authenticity. That is, characters need to convey a sense of “self”— they need to know who they are.

In the following passage, I like the simplicity of the language with which the character is being described. I like that the narrator’s identity is emerging along with the character he is describing. And I also like the surprise element —that the narrator is obviously meeting his grandmother for the first time.

A tall woman with wrinkled brown skin and black hair, stood looking down at me; I knew she must be my grandmother. She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of my bed.  ~ Willa Cather, My Ántonia.

One of the reasons I love literature is because I get to learn new things through the characters’ thoughts, feelings, and storytelling.  I most especially love when those new ideas are philosophical in nature, as in the following passage. What a simple, yet elegant way to describe love, in all its forms.  This is my favorite passage in the book. The correlation between love and understanding is such an obvious one that I wonder now why it had never before occurred to me.

And when they would be talking and Granma would say, “Do ye kin me Wales?” and he would answer, “I kin ye,” it meant, “I understand ye.” To them love and understanding was the same thing, Granma said you couldn’t love something you didn’t understand... ~ Forrest Carter, The Education of Little Tree.

Sometimes characters come alive because the writer allows us to “observe” them closely through their reactions to their surroundings and circumstances, as in the following passage. The writer conveys that the character has poise, even in the face of her base circumstances.

She sat perfectly erect, barely moving, holding her head high, chin slightly down, breathing, in small measured breaths because the acrid smell of female urine, intensified by the sun which beat down relentlessly in the open patio of the Recojidas was not one you could ever get accustomed to. ~ Amy Ephron, White Rose

I wish I knew what makes the grandmother so compelling in “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” Flannery O’Connor’s writing defies being analyzed — at least I’ve never been able to. How does she keep me so riveted?

The old lady settled herself comfortably, removing her white cotton gloves and putting them up with her purse on the shelf in front of the back window… had on a navy blue straw sailor hat with a bunch of white violets on the brim and a navy blue dress with a small white dot in the print. Her collar and cuffs were white organdy trimmed with lace and at her neckline she had pinned a purple spray of cloth violets containing a sachet. In case of an accident, anyone seeing her dead on the highway would know at once she was a lady. ~ Flannery O’Connor, “A Good Man is Hard to Find.”

Another “hook” for me is when I experience the reaction to a character through the protagonist in the story.  Once I have come to identify with the heroine, I cannot help but experience the same feelings toward the character as she does.  The following scene is very vivid, partly because “Rachel” provides sensory details that allow me to experience this scene with her.

Father sits in a chair at the head of the table, and I sit at the end of the bench, the length of the table between us….

I’m afraid. He never raises his voice or hits me; I don’t know what to expect. In his hand he holds the first book of Isaiah. He opens the book and reads, his voice hard, harder than I’ve ever heard it…. ~ Pearl Abraham, The Romance Reader.

There is no better way to get to know a character quickly as through a crisis, right from the start. In this opening scene, I had to read on to find out why?! By the time I was done reading through this scene, I was right there with the protagonist and rooting for her — in this case memoir. By the way, for me memoir lends its own form of authenticity. In my mind, novels have to work harder at getting me to “believe” the story, because I know that someone made it up. If this scene had happened in a novel, I could have relaxed more, knowing that the character did not actually go through the crisis.

Mother spooned the poisoned corn and beans into her mouth, ravenously, eyes closed, hands shaking. We, her seven children, sat around the table watching for signs of death, our eyes leaving her only long enough to glance at the clock to see how far the hands had moved. ~ Barbara Robinette Moss, Change Me into Zeuss’s Daughter.

Another way that characters can be established as “real” or believable is when they are placed in context — in family, in a time frame, or in history.  In the following passage, the rich details of the wagon ride and the character mulling over what it means to go off and do his part in the Civil War, we get to know he is young, studious, and unassuming. And when he hopes that he will travel back up that same road again, so do I hope he will.

Norman Pelham was barely seventeen, but he was well built in his homemade fine-stitched suit of clothes. His silent manner and extra height deflected any question of age. His father drove him in the wagon and neither spoke during the hour trip to the depot in Randolph. The summer dust rose up through the trace chains and settled on the braided bogs of the team’s tails. Norman was a serious youth who doubted that the secession of the near half the stated in the union would be quickly resolved. Still, his death seemed remote and unlikely. He planned to do his part as well as he could, but no hero’s blood pumped through his veins. He had no desire for glory beyond traveling back up that same road one day. ~ Jeffrey Lent, In the Fall.

So, here is a sampling of ways that characters come alive or get me to believe in them. I am sure there are countless ways to hook the reader — as numerous as there are characters.

I look forward to reading what others wrote in this Great Blogging Experiment. 

A Difficult, Yet Inspiring Memoir

The first time Daddy found out about me, it was from behind glass during a routine visit to prison, when Ma lifted her shirt, teary-eyed, exposing her pregnant belly for emphasis. ~ Liz Murray


So begins Liz Murray's book, Breaking Night: A Memoir about Forgiveness, Survival, and my Journey from Homeless to Harvard. The first sentence gripped me, and then her matter-of-fact prose style of telling her compelling story held me for the entire time I was (and even when I wasn't) reading the book. It kept getting worse... and then it got worse. I kept reading because I needed to know the end of the story. Liz Murray neither inflates nor deflates her story, which exposes the reader to the raw and stark reality of the circumstances of her childhood.


The last book that gripped me and held me in this same way was The Glass Castle. I was at Smith at the time, and I literally stayed up until the birds began to sing, and I had class to go to that morning. I had to put Breaking Night down sometimes, because I had to go to work, and because the book is 334 pages long. And sometimes I just needed a break, even though a part of me really wanted to keep going.


When I read Breaking Night, I realized my childhood might have been difficult, but Liz Murray's was absolutely horrendous. It is a great testament to just how much the human spirit can endure and still prevail -- not only did Liz Murray survive her childhood, she is now thriving in the life she chose and created for herself. I can certainly relate to an important part in her book -- when she vowed to turn her life around, she felt like she was starting with an empty slate and that she could choose what to put on that slate. That is pretty much how I felt the first time I left the Amish. And though she didn't actually write this in her book, I wonder, as Liz gets older, whether she will feel like I do, that she has lived two lives in one lifetime -- the one she was born into and the one she chose.


Liz Murray now makes public appearances to inspire others. My guess is that for people who have read her story, she has to merely show up for that to happen.

Are Amish Women Happy?

Erik Wesner posed a question on his latest post on the blog Amish America that asked, "Are Amish women happy?" I responded with these comments:

The answer to this first question posed is probably as varied as the question of “Are American women happy?” It is impossible to make a generalization.

Yes, Amish women have a vote in church, but at least in the community in which I grew up, a woman was expected to voice her disagreements to her husband, who was then the designated spokesman. It was never clear to me who I was supposed to go to when I disagreed. I had to stay silent about my disagreement and vote “yes” with every other woman in the congregation, even though every fiber in my being sometimes protested.

As for me, I was not a happy Amish woman. My independent nature was a problem. The “why” questions that boiled up from within were a problem in a culture where one doesn’t ask questions. And above all the domination that the men in the community lorded over me was a problem, whether it was the bishop admonishing me in public for jogging, my father getting violent with me for a perceived slight, or my older brother bullying me into doing exactly what he wanted me to — making a meal for him, washing his buggy, getting his bath water ready, cleaning the floor after his haircut… it didn’t matter how small the demand… it had more to do with whether or not I did it submissively.

I was not the only unhappy Amish woman. There are those who feel stuck, perhaps by their family circumstances (many children, for instance) making it nearly impossible for them to leave, or else they don’t have the courage to leave the only culture they know. I feel for these women.

I would agree there are also happy Amish women. In fact, I knew some of them. Theirs was a submissive, quiet nature, and I often envied them that. It is also why they are still there and I am not.

Autumn Bounty

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. ~ Marcel Proust

Monica's post is a hard act to follow. What a heartfelt and important message! Thank you again, Monica.

While I am on the subject of gratitude, as we go into the harvest season, in which we gather the bounty for the long winter months, I am reminded of the bounty in my life in general. Sometimes it is important for me to stop and send a prayer of thanks heavenward for all that I have and for all that my life is. For tonight's post, I thought I would touch on at least a few of these things.

I love living in the Pioneer Valley, which David and I now call home. Besides it being a rich cultural experience, being the home of the five colleges, we also enjoy the bounty of the food grown in the valley -- anything from asparagus (affectionately called Hatfield grass) in the spring to apples, pumpkins, and squashes of the late fall. In between we enjoy every kind of fruit and vegetable one can imagine, all grown right here in the valley. Because it is a river valley, the soil is a fine, rich silt that is reputed to grow anything. Rumors are you could plant a stick in the ground and it would grow.

I have really been enjoying biking this summer. I have a favorite route for that, in which I roll past a whole host of various crops, small farms, and the village of Sunderland. I see mountain views on one side and views of the winding Connecticut River on the other. Sometimes when I am coasting down a hill, heading toward Sugarloaf Mountain, I feel as though I am flying. Perhaps my appreciation for the feeling of freedom that bike riding gives me comes from the fact that bikes were forbidden in the Amish community where I grew up. Nothing like being deprived of it to appreciate it all the more.

I am also grateful for my job. It feels right to have landed in a German department in which my communication, organization, and creative skills come in handy for the varied work required of my position.

I am very happy with my writing life. I just love having the freedom to say what is on my mind here in this blog. And it would make no sense to write it if there was no audience. So thank you for reading. And I love getting reader feedback... it really makes blogging fun. I am also happy that my book will be out in January. (I will be writing more about that in a few days.) This book has been a long time coming, and to hold it in my hands for the first time will be a wonderful thrill.

I just love the home David and I are renovating. Every room in our house is my favorite... every one of them feels homey and lovely. The day our countertops were installed in our kitchen, I said to David, "When I was playing house in the woodshed as a little girl, I imagined many beautiful kitchens, but none so beautiful as this. And I could not have imagined sharing my beautiful kitchen with someone as wonderful as you." I cannot help but remind myself of my humble beginnings every now and again. It just makes me appreciate all my blessings so much more.

Perhaps the aspect of my life that I appreciate most of all is my relationship with David. I could write a book about David and his wonderful qualities, which is beyond the scope of this post, but I will say I cannot imagine my life without him in it. Not that we haven't had our share of difficulties together... our vastly different parenting styles led to many challenges when our boys were still at home, most especially during their teenage years. We didn't have much time as a couple before our son, Paul, showed up in our lives, and three years later, our second son, Tim. Now that they are out on their own, we are fully enjoying our "empty nest." We look forward to finishing the house project, traveling to new and different places together, and embarking on shared endeavors, including a shared memoir about how we met, were broken apart by circumstances, and then came back together. For fun, I am posting several pictures of David from the time I met him until more recently.

When we met, David was a toymaker, peddling his wares on Church Street in Burlington, Vermont (minus the long hair). Isn't that train exquisite...? Did I tell you David is very creative?

More than four years after we first met, we got married in Burlington, Vermont. It was the happiest day of my life. It makes me happy just to recall it.

So Handsome!

A year and a half later -- the new Daddy.

Family of Three (David's Grandmother's Funeral)

Daddy Again. I think David and Timmy are enjoying their shared cup of tea, don't you?

Three boys... David loved playing with the little ones.

Family of Four

Rolling in Dough... When I had a baking business, David would knead a batch of bread before going to work... did I tell you David is hard-working?

Doing the Dishes

Our home in Shelburne, Vermont

Our garden in Shelburne: did I tell you David is a wonderful gardener?

At a Cousin's Wedding in Ohio

Ferry crossing between Vancouver Island and the mainland. Did I tell you how much we enjoy traveling together?

David at his parents house with his uncle.

In Trub, Switzerland

By Lake Interlaken

So, here are snapshots of our life together. I do believe our enjoyment of one another is as good as it gets. For this I am most thankful. 

Disquiet in the Land

Today I have another guest blogger. Some of you are probably familiar with Monica the Mennobrarian, but if not, you'll want to visit her blog. If you've every tried any of her recipes, you know she has got to be a great cook. Her recipe for Bruschetta is phenomenal! Besides being a good cook and homemaker, Monica is also an awesome writer. I warn you that you may cry when you read this post... I did. The scene with her friend is what got me. That and what followed.

Here's Monica:

About three years ago, I was sitting in a conference session at the Elizabethtown College for Anabaptist Studies. The audience of this session was very diverse -- academics, researchers, sociologists, Amish women, and at least one Old Order Bishop. A woman, well spoken and articulate, took the podium and recounted her personal story of living as part of a "black sheep" family in the Amish community in which she was raised, due largely to her father's mental illness. This woman told candidly of the isolation her family felt in their church community, how they were held up of the example of "how not to be" among her own people. And as she retold of her own personal struggles among a people who are often romanticized and held to a higher standard, every hair on my head stood up. Because if you had changed her story from an Amish setting to a Mennonite one, her story could have been mine.

That morning was my introduction to Saloma Furlong, though she was unaware of it. Imagine what it would be like to have an experience that you never speak of, something dark and shameful, and then someone gets up in front of a room full of people and tells of their own experience which matches your own in so many ways. That is what that moment was like for me. Although I had lingered after the session in hopes of speaking to her, Saloma was surrounded by people and I could not overcome my shyness to interrupt and introduce myself. But I didn't forget her, and her story stayed with me. It was my story too.

The fact is, no matter what your church or belief system, having a mentally ill parent will affect you in ways that you aren't even aware of until moments happen in your adult years that bring it to light. For me, an inability to know what a "normal" family looked like was a heavy price to pay and took much work to overcome. As a child, we walked on eggshells constantly because there was no way to know when my father's next mood swing or violent outburst could occur, and we feared doing something innocent that would trigger an episode. Knocking over a glass of orange juice could cause an eruption that would end in smashed household objects or walls. Equally unsettling was his random propensity to fly high as a kite, in near manic moods of euphoria. You would smile along and agree readily with everything he said, in hopes that this mood would not pass and there would be no more dark days. Episodes triggered by his illness often led to physically and verbally abusive behavior. Where there is mental illness, there is always some for of abuse or neglect taking place. Dealing with such behavior in your own family is hard enough, but having to cope with it as part of a church community brings a new set of challenges. Families, churches, and communities all have limited power in these situations. No one can demand that a mentally ill person get treatment or seek help. And yet the power they do have can be easily misdirected to penalize the very people they want to help. I'm not blaming any one person or church, people do the best that they can with what they know. But the feelings Saloma described of being part of and yet separate, completely alone, from those around her were feelings that I could identify with in the deepest way.

Once, I can remember as a little girl sitting on the front steps of my friend's house, crying after one of my father's episodes. The confusion I felt as to why he acted that way, and my mother's inability to articulate the cause of it weighed heavily on my young mind. My childhood friend found the compassion and maturity to wrap her arms around me and comfort me in whatever small way another little girl could. Soon, her mother opened the door to see what was going on, and as I tried to explain my anguish and the happenings in our home, she coldly declared that she did not want to hear about this and closed the door. And that was symbolic of how many people chose to "help" us. By saying they did not want to know about it and closing the door. Because if you bury your head in the sand, it will all go away. I got the message loud and clear. If you didn't talk about things, then they didn't exist. That notion still appalls me to the bone. When dealing with abusive situations where families are in jeopardy, silence is the enemy. Always.

But people do the best they can with what they know, and that was the best that we knew. I loved the best of what my upbringing had to offer, but it took many years to find comfort in those things and incorporate them into my life after years of healing. That I can find many things to love in my family, church, and growing up years, is a true mark of my recovery from the unstable and chaotic environment that family life often was. That I could find joy in Jesus after years of a deafening silence, can only be attributed to God's work in my life, and I can take little credit for the positive changes that have happened since.

I have been blessed to see some positive changes in our churches, including a greater awareness of mental health issues and treatment options. There is still much work to be done. It will always be my passion to break the silence about these issues, as hard as it is for me to talk about it, being a somewhat naturally reserved and private person. How we respond to the "black sheep" among us not only affects our relationship with God, but can either encourage or obliterate the spiritual state of someone else. God does not have black sheep in his family, though there are some of us who seem to be set apart, separated for some unknown purpose. Having been raised in an environment that values uniformity, that is a hard thing to acknowledge even today. The painfulness of having a mentally ill family member is eclipsed only by the pain of feeling like an outsider. It serves well to remind us that Jesus was considered an outsider too. Lets reach out and help one another and be an encouragement, not in silence, but with a joyful noise. 

Amish Church Singing

Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days. ~Doug Larson

On a late Sunday morning, around the time many Amish church services have progressed to the last "song", I am listening to Amish church singing or chanting, which sounds much like a Gregorian chant. The German songs from the book called the "Ausbund" were written by our ancestors back in the old country, often while they were imprisoned for their religious beliefs. 

Listening to these Amish chants reminds me of what it was like to sit in an Amish church service. I found the singing to be the best part of the services. I felt they connected us to our ancestors. Because the tunes are slow, unaccompanied by instruments, and joined by nearly everyone, the chorus of varied voices has depth to it -- the kind that allows for deep thoughts, even while joining in with the singing. It gave me the feeling that the culture was going to be like this for many generations, because change was so slow, it was nearly imperceptible. I used to feel connected to other Amish everywhere during the second song called the Loblied (Praise Song), because I knew that in every other Amish church service in our time zone, they were singing the same song. I used to wonder what would be like to hear them altogether, as I imagined it would be heard in heaven. 

I will never forget, how on a rainy, late October day in 2005, Amish men sang by my mother's graveside, as the pallbearers lowered her body into her grave, and then filled the grave, one shovelful at a time. It felt as though the pallbearers were tucking her body into her final resting place as the singers were sending her soul off on her journey.

In the wake of the news last week of the struggle an Amish community in Missouri is going through with sexual abuse, I need to remind myself of the things I miss about Amish life. There was definitely the dark, secretive side that one tried not to dwell on, especially if there was no way to change it, but there were also the parts of the culture that had that community atmosphere. Hearing the church singing evokes the nostalgia for the feeling I used to have in an Amish church service -- a connection to the past, present, and future. 

Earlier I wrote about other aspects I miss about Amish life. See also Homemade Fun.

I will have much more to write about the abuses I know exist among the Amish, but on a Sunday morning of reflection, I pause to remember a few of the good parts of my childhood and young adulthood.

An Introduction to Pietism

by Dr. Lucinda Martin

Saloma has asked me to write a guest blog to explain what Pietism is. By way of introduction, I should say that I have studied and written extensively on various aspects of Pietism. I am currently a Research Fellow at the Universitaet Halle in Germany where I am working on a book on women in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Pietism.

Explaining Pietism is no easy task, since historians and religious studies scholars disagree about a definition. Pietism included many different groups and sub-groups with varying beliefs, making it difficult to find one definition that fits all. Should only German groups be included? Was it mainly Lutheran? Were its leaders church pastors or should lay leaders also be included? Which theological beliefs were central and which were extraneous? Historians thus hold a variety of conflicting views about the basic parameters of Pietism: what it was, when it took place, and even what its geographic boundaries were. Then again, eighteenth-century Pietists also did not agree on what it was, or at the time, what it should be. Despite all this haggling among historians, it is important to note that Pietists with greatly differing views understood themselves as part of the same movement to reform church and society, even if they had very different plans for doing so.

Starting in the mid seventeenth-century, Pietism swept through the German-speaking lands of Europe. The religious and social reform movement stressed a personal experience of God over doctrine or tradition and had deep connections to other religious movements throughout Europe and the American colonies such as Quakerism, Quietism and Jansenism. Pietism was a broad movement, encompassing many competing theological and social models. Some Pietists simply wanted the old churches to adopt more discipline and to involve the laity more, while more radical Pietists, believed that the old churches were corrupt and beyond repair. The most radical formed new groups, or else eschewed institutional churches altogether, believing in an “invisible spiritual church” that included the “born again” in all confessions, as well as those with no church affiliation. Some of these most radical Pietists eventually settled in North America to practice their religion freely. Groups such as the Inspirierten (today: Church of True Inspiration) and the Neutäufer (today: Church of the Brethren) contributed to social and cultural developments in the North American colonies.

Religion is often assumed to be a conservative force in society, but in its early days, Pietism was a medium for progressive social change. Historians agree that Pietism ranks second in importance only to the Reformation in the history of Protestantism. With its emphasis on individuality, Pietism helped prepare the way for the Enlightenment and modernity. Motivated by their religious beliefs, Pietists experimented with everything from family structures to education and politics. Relying on the doctrine that everyone is “equal in God,” Pietists disputed social hierarchies, fraternizing and even marrying outside their social rank — a scandal in eighteenth-century Europe, at a time when people were very much expected to associate exclusively with those of the same social class.

Some Pietists also asserted that women had the same access to God as men and, therefore, should have the same access to public speaking and publishing on religious topics. This was a radical view at the time, because women were expected to stay out of the public eye. Pietist reformers also tried to improve their world through charity schools and programs to address poverty. These were groundbreaking ideas at a time when there was not yet a social security or a public school system. Pietist experiments even extended to economic practices, with some groups trying out communal forms of living.

 Lay men and women played leading roles in the development of Pietism, its spread, and indeed, in its survival. A useful way to understand Pietism is to see it as part of an international network of religious seekers, male and female. The German part of this transatlantic movement came to be called Pietism, but at the time those who participated simply saw themselves as fellow “children of God,” or “born again.” This web of religious activism was held together by common beliefs and experiences. These were sometimes overtly religious in nature, such as a greater emphasis on Scriptures, the experience of being “born again,” or a belief that the “Last Judgment” was near. Yet Pietists often felt most connected by shared practices, such as a rejection of fancy clothing, the use of Pietist language, or the experience of meeting in conventicles  -- small cells of the “born again” who met for Bible study and fellowship. Pietists read the same books, they exchanged letters, and they visited one another across confessional and national boundaries, regardless of gender or social rank. All of these practices set Pietists apart from the “worldly” and helped them build up a special group identity. Often, groups and individuals with very different theological beliefs saw themselves as fellow “children of God” because of such shared practices.

 Pietists were Biblical fundamentalists who interpreted the plagues, wars and catastrophes of their period as signs of the “last times” referred to in the apocalyptic passages of the Book of Revelations. These religionists believed that God was calling the “born again” together to build his “New Jerusalem.” Of course, the mortal world did not end in 1800, 1830 or any of the other dates predicted by Pietists. In later generations, Pietism changed, becoming something much more domestic and more conservative (although still influential). Nonetheless, early Pietists’ preparations for the Second Coming made long-lasting contributions to our world. Pietists were not only the leading religious reformers of their day, but also the leading social reformers. Through the medium of dissenting religion, Pietists challenged the oppressive hierarchies of their day, contesting injustices based on “worldly” differences such as gender or social rank. By making the individual’s character the only valid measure of humanity, Pietists helped pave the way for a modern understanding of human rights.

For more information about Pietism, please visit my website.  

More about Sexual Abuse among the Amish

Thank you all for your supportive and insightful comments. I'm sorry that I don't have time to respond to each individually. Susan, you are absolutely right... I've written and said those words many, many times. -- "I think people over-romanticize the Amish. They are people like everyone else, and the same problems exist among them that plague the non-Amish." The truth had to come out at some point. No one knows how widespread the problem is, but I know of quite a few cases myself and I've been reading about it as much as I can. There is nothing that can bring out the passion in a person like having experienced it personally.


It has been hard for those of us who have known about this problem and could not tell about it, because no one wanted to hear. The Amish have been our model of a good society, which means that people want to close their eyes when they see things that don't belong there. But there have been a few voices out there, telling it anyway. I would like to commend Nadya Labi for her courage in this regard, when she wrote an article called "The Gentle People" published in Legal Affairs back in 2005. She did not shy away from the sometimes shocking details, which makes it excruciating to read. Having grown up Amish and knowing how things did get covered up, and also knowing I had no power as a young woman to do anything about the injustices, I would say Labi got it right -- everything she wrote sounds authentic to me.


There is more of Mary's story in an ABC 20/20 report. 


I am grateful that SNAP (The Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests) has responded to the issue of abuse among the Amish in a press statement and in the New York Times. 


My hope is that as this issue becomes more public that the Amish will not see this as an attack on their culture, but rather as a way of accepting outside help from professionals for a problem they cannot handle internally. It is clear that the Amish method for dealing with pedophiles -- expulsion, confession, and forgiveness -- is inadequate in protecting children from abuse. 

Sexual Abuse among the Amish

I have been enjoying writing the fun posts about my stay in Germany. However, today I turn to a more serious topic. On September 2, 2010, there was a report in the New York Times about sexual abuse within an Amish community in Missouri. I commend Malcolm Gay for reporting on this little known problem among the Amish. Even though I was born and raised in an Amish community and endured sexual abuse myself, it is hard for me to say just how prevalent sexual abuse is among the Amish in general. But what I do know is that Amish men are dominate in the culture and that girls are taught they should be submissive to the men (and boys) from the time they can understand the concept. Most Amish do not educate their children about sex, so girls can easily fall prey to sexual abuse. They often have no reference to know what is happening to them, even as the abuse takes place. And to make matters worse, the usual avenues for getting help are not available to Amish children. Very often abuses are first noticed and reported by schoolteachers in mainstream society, but even that avenue is blocked for most Amish children who attend their own parochial schools.

When sexual abuse is uncovered among the Amish, they focus mainly on the perpetrator’s repentance, rather than on the welfare of the children, which allows pedophiles to walk freely among innocents. They are simply not equipped to deal with these issues, and their isolation from mainstream society means that public services are largely out of reach, especially for children. Even if people in the community know of abuse, they will usually not intervene on behalf of the children, because they do not want to be seen as meddling in other families’ everyday lives. This leaves those Amish children who are being abused with few or no advocates, just when they need them the most.

What is unusual about this particular case of Chester Mast is that the Amish actually sought help from law enforcement. Normally the Amish deal with a perpetrator by expelling him for from the church for several weeks (the time period varies by community), having him make a public confession, and then forgiving him. They believe in “forgiving and forgetting,” which means the slate is wiped clean and people are asked to treat that person as if he hadn't transgressed at all. Once the confession has been made, no one is allowed to speak of it again. While the perpetrator is being forgiven, the Amish children, who just lost their innocence, are often being overlooked. 

The case related in the New York Times, is no different in this regard — the Amish are concerned about Chester Mast pleading not guilty when he has already admitted the wrongs in a public confession in his church. They are quoted as saying that his lying is worse than the abuse. I found myself saying, “Not so! With the abuse, there were children involved! There is more involved here than this man’s redemption — what about the children?!”

The article in the New York Times barely mentions the known victims — six girls between the ages of five and fifteen, and that there are possibly more victims. There is no mention of whether authorities are continuing their investigations into abuse in this community or an Amish reaction on behalf of these children. Nor is there mention of whether the children are receiving treatment and counseling by social services. I am hoping there will be a follow-up story that focuses on the fate of the victims.

I agree with the sociologist Dr. Donald Kraybill’s assessment that the Amish believe these types of behaviors are spiritual failings and therefore don’t recognize a psychological basis for deviant behavior. In my experience, they look inside their communities for a spiritual solution, when the more appropriate solution would be to seek help from professionals who are trained to deal with psychological problems. People (including the Amish) need help from psychologists, social workers, and law enforcement officials. That is why we have them.

I once had a conversation with an Amish woman who had endured physical abuse from her husband until she finally sought outside help. Several professionals who stepped in to help said to her, “We don’t know how to deal with abuse among the Amish.” Her response was, “Deal with it just like you would with anyone else.” I thought that was aptly put.

To the counselors, social workers, and law enforcement officials who are involved in this case, or any other abuse cases among the Amish I would say, “Please, speak up on behalf of these children — you may be their only advocates.” 

Photo by Sarah Weaver

What a Difference One Connection Can Make, Conclusion

Then, sadly, the enchanted summer did come to an end. As my classes wound down, David and I began preparing for our departure. Our last full day there, we had brunch with the Kaisers in their garden. What a lovely couple! We talked about Fussball (soccer), and what it had done for Germany to be able to host the World Cup — they said they had never seen such a joyful celebration of Germany since the Second World War. Because of Germany’s Nazi past, it is problematic for Germans to do anything smacking of nationalism. Flying a German flag was often frowned upon until their hosting of the World Cup.

Hamburg Welcomes the World! (click to enlarge)

The Kaisers and we also talked about more mundane things, such as moose in Maine. Herr Kaiser said, “Moose, what are moose?” We tried describing them to him, and he finally got out his dictionary that described a moose as "a great American elk."  He said, "Americans are very special, they have everything big — even their own big elk." David and I loved his dry sense of humor. Frau Kaiser and I talked about our common passion — philosophy. We also talked about visiting one another, and promised we would and invited them to visit us in the states. All too soon, it was time to say good-bye. 

Lucinda and Helge took us out to a fine dinner as a way of saying good-bye the night before we left. We had dinner in the garden of a German restaurant that was a typical Northern German Reetdachhaus (thatched roof house) with white-washed walls surrounded by giant oaks on one side and a rose garden on the other. We lingered over dinner for two hours, not wanting our summer — or the evening — to end.

The night before traveling home, I could not sleep. I worried that I might forget something important, as I tossed and turned. David and I had to get up at four in the morning to catch our separate flights. Around three o'clock I thought I heard footsteps, but told myself I was dreaming. I wasn't. When we opened the door to take down our luggage, there were papers, one on each step: “Good... bye....we... will... miss... you... and on the landing... Auf Wiedersehen!” It was Frau Kaiser’s flair again. It moved me to tears, and I had the urge to knock on her door and get one last hug. I refrained, but her kindness will be forever remembered. And I do hope we get to see them again, either here in the states, or in Germany.

And Lucinda. What a serendipitous and important connection that was! What if she hadn’t signed that guest book in Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania when she was doing a fellowship there? No one can tell me that was a mere coincidence.

Dr. Lucinda Martin -- An angel along my life's journey

Lucinda and I were out of touch for about two years, but we recently reconnected. We picked up from where we left off. I am currently writing my second book (memoir) and she is writing her book about women in Pietism. Her work will shed light on the role of women in both the Pietist movement and the Enlightenment and will be published by Johns Hopkins University Press. In a future posting, Lucinda will give a synopsis of what Pietism is.

To read some of Dr. Lucinda Martin’s work, please visit her website. 

What a Difference One Connection Can Make, Part III

Lucinda’s love of flowers fit right in to German culture — her balconies were laden with flowers of all shapes and colors. She and I had many talks among her flowers. We had intellectual discussions about German and American culture and about religions such as Quakers and Anabaptists. We discussed her research on Pietism. She gave me feedback on an intercultural children’s story I was writing in German for my children’s literature course. I often confided in her about the difficult time David and I were having around our younger son’s troubled behavior. Lucinda was not only a good listener, but she also had a helpful way of reflecting things back to me. She helped me with practical things, such as doctor visits. She and I attended several Quaker meetings and we visited a Mennonite church, where she introduced me to one of the ministers there who has a connection to the Young Center. We also visited Menno Simons’ printing cottage in Bad Oldesloe.

Among Lucinda's flowers

I love birds, as Lucinda loves flowers, so I often interrupted our conversations to watch yet another new kind of bird – they are so different in Germany than in New England. I was learning their German names and their calls. One night when we were sitting on the back balcony, Lucinda asked me what that bird was that we were hearing. At the same time I said, "It's a zilp-zalp, Helge pointed up in the sky and said, "It's a Beluga." Helge thought birdwatching was silly, but he was definitely into planes —  he had an engineering job with a subsidiary of Airbus. The "Beluga" was a plane that resembled the beluga whale, and was used to transport wings for a giant model of Airbus to the other side of the Elbe, where Airbus had its German headquarters. Ever afterwards, whenever Helge saw a bird, no matter what size, shape, or color, he would call it a "zilp-zalp." I suppose I should have called all planes "belugas" after that.

A Stroll through Blankenese (click to enlarge)

Lucinda and Helge and I hung out together a lot — we had dinner on their balcony; we played Scrabble, using both English and German; we visited the Botanic Gardens; we took walks down to the Elbe River, where we saw container ships heading for the port of Hamburg, the second largest harbor in Europe. We also joined the festivities for the 817^th. Hafengeburtstag (harbor birthday) in Hamburg. More than 800 years old! — as an American, it’s hard for me to fathom anything being that old. I have never seen so many people in one place before in my life (okay, maybe one other time at a march in New York City back in 1982 when there were eight million people who attended). Usually the Germans were quiet and stoic, but not on this night — it was loud and chaotic wherever we went. At some point we witnessed several young people being hustled to the ground by the police.

Container ship heading for the port in Hamburg

Hafengeburtstag (click to enlarge)

Ferries were a mode of transportation that evening. The three of us boarded one, and it took off really fast. I got butterflies in my stomach. Lucinda and I were leaning out over the railing, when I just went with what felt good. I looked at her and let out a “Whooo-hooo!” She looked back at me and responded with a “Yeeee-haaaw!” I noticed the Germans around us were eyeing us with criticism. Later I asked Lucinda, “So if the Germans felt excited about something like that, how would they express it?” She responded with, “They wouldn’t.” We laughed, while Helge just smiled his amusement and said nothing.

Ferry ride in Hamburg

David arrived in Hamburg on our twenty-fourth anniversary. Frau Kaiser had already given us permission to use the bedroom with the double bed in it before David got there. I took David out to dinner for our anniversary. When we got back to the apartment and opened the door to our bedroom, there was the most romantic scene awaiting us. This could only have been Frau Kaiser — Lucinda had told me that she had strewn rose petals on the stairs the weekend Lucinda and Helge had gotten married. Now, for our first night together in three months, David and I had a bed made up with white, ironed linens, including two feather ticks with clean, ironed, duvet covers. The pillowcases were embroidered white on white, and she had lain green leaves next to the embroidery, and several chocolate hearts, wrapped in bright red, to make it look like the hearts were growing on vines. There were flowers in vases on the nightstands. It took our breath away.

After David got there, the visits with Lucinda and Helge continued, on their front and back balconies, or in their living room. Lucinda and Helge took a vacation to southern France for several weeks, and when they came back, they showed us the pictures of their trip, including many of them in fields of lavender. It seemed like our summer would never have an end. One night we had dinner by candlelight and kerosine lanterns with the Kaisers and Lucinda and Helge in the Kaisers’ “Laube” in the back yard. 

David and I traveled to Switzerland and Austria for ten days, during my semester break. Our trip is another whole story, but we had a fabulous time.

Riding the "Bernina Pass"

During the two months that David was in Hamburg, he would often go and “explore” the region, by taking day trips while I was studying. He came back with many pictures, including the whimsical one below of someone’s “Gartenhaus.” In Germany, it is common for people in the city to have a spot outside the city center with a little garden house among flowers and shrubs, where they can get away on weekends.

Das Reich der Zwerge (The Kingdom of the Dwarfs)  

Quite so!

To be continued…