Over Labor Day weekend we drove up to Maryland to visit Tim’s family. They live toward the mountains in a gorgeous area of the country, surrounded by green rolling hills and pastures and farmland. Their area has a fairly high Amish and Mennonite population, and one evening we attended an event at a local Amish family’s farm. This family was hosting a fundraiser for their neighbor who had fallen off the roof of his barn back in the spring and has major medical bills to pay off.
Aside from the beauty of their farm with a gorgeous old barn nestled into rolling hills, and the warm evening light as the sun dipped behind the trees, the outpouring of support for this family was incredible. When we arrived, we waited in line on this narrow country road as they directed each car and tractor to park in the pasture across the street. There were huge gentle horses hooked up to wagons to give hay rides, and men roasting ears of corn by the dozens over an open fire. There was roasted chicken and potatoes and cole slaw, homemade ice cream and huge pans of brownies and chocolate chip cookie bars, cheese curds and tiny handmade pies. Even the kids were helping out – dressed in their flowery shift dresses or their little navy slacks – each helping carry buckets of corn or potatoes, or restocking the cheese curds.
We figured our way through the line to fill our plates and then settled into one of the many tables that were lined up inside the barn. It looked as if they’d cleared out the barn and decorated it, just for this purpose. As we were finishing up our dinner, a few Amish men got up on the makeshift stage (a pile of hay bales), and after a short introduction began to sing hymns. They let everyone know they didn’t want to be seen as performers – this, for them, was an act of worship. I was surprised that most of the hymns were familiar to me – the words at least were familiar from the hymnal in the church where I grew up. But the tunes were different. The melodies sounded older, more melancholy, as if they were steeped in history, and this family, and all the generations before them, had been singing the same tune. It was beautiful. And hard to put into words. But somehow I felt like God was smiling down on this little farm on a country road in Maryland – smiling on his people acting out what community is supposed to look like.
I wish we’d taken more photos, but here are just a few that don’t really do it justice. You can imagine the rest. Or see one more photo I took that day over on my Instagram of course.
