Free Growing Up Amish by Ira Wagler

palpable tension.
    Near the close of the service, Bishop George, a slight, bald man with a long gray beard, stood to recite the rules of ordination. He explained that he and the other preachers would retire to a separate side room (which happened to be my parents’ bedroom). Then one preacher would open the door a crack and place his ear in the opening. Members would vote by whispering their choices into the preacher’s ear, and a tally would be taken. Any married man with three or more votes would be in the lot.
    With that, Bishop George and the preachers retreated to my parents’ room and closed the door, and the voting began. The older men went first. Walked up to the door, paused briefly, then whispered their choices before returning to their seats. After that, according to age, younger married men, then young unmarried men, married women, and finally, single women.
    Not being a member, I didn’t vote. My buddies and I took a break from our normal wisecracking and watched somberly. No surly antics. No smart-aleck actions. No smirks. The air was heavy, oppressive.
    The voting took awhile. Then, after the last member had voted, the door shut on the cloistered preachers while they tallied the votes. Minutes passed. Then Deacon Menno popped out of the side-room door, gathered five songbooks, and popped back in. Everyone pretended not to notice, but all eyes took a careful count: five songbooks. There would be five men in the lot.
    Minutes later, the preachers filed out in somber procession and took their seats on the bench along the wall. The tension escalated. Deacon Menno arranged the songbooks on a little table. Each book was tied shut with a thin white string.
    Then Bishop George stood and cleared his throat. “There are five brothers in the lot,” he announced in his high, squeaky voice. “They are . . .” and he slowly, concisely pronounced the five names. Each man sagged visibly as he heard his name.
    Then slowly, one by one, they got up and walked the long path to the table. Each man chose a book and then took a seat on the bench before the table. Five books. Five men. Everyone waiting.
    After a short prayer, Bishop George slowly approached the bench where the five men sat. He took the book from the first, untied the white string, and opened it.
    Nothing.
    The first man almost collapsed with relief.
    Bishop George then took the book from the next man’s trembling hands. Fumbled with the string. Opened the book.
    Again, nothing.
    The three remaining men viewed the situation with increasing alarm and accelerating heartbeats. No one moved. No one breathed. Original odds were one to five. Now they were one to three. Bishop George approached the third man and held out his hand. Took the book. Untied the string. Opened it.
    Again, nothing.
    Now it was down to one of the remaining two. Two young men. What passed through their minds at that instant remains known only to them and God. They sat there, frozen. Mercifully, Bishop George did not prolong their agony. He approached the fourth man and held out his hand. Took the book. Untied the string. Opened it.
    Inside the book, on page 770, was a little slip of white paper. Bishop George’s hand shook slightly as he took the little slip of paper. He looked down at the young man before him and pointed his right index finger, signifying, You are the one.
    The young man struggled to his feet. And there, before us all, Bishop George ordained him, proclaiming him a minister of the gospel from that day forth until his death.
    The young man briefly lost control of his emotions; his body shook with quick, choppy sobs. But just as quickly, he recovered and stood there quietly, his head bowed, as he accepted the office and the duties he would henceforth carry.
    The other men in the lot, vastly relieved at the outcome, now clustered around the young man who had just been ordained and comforted him. The preachers, too, all of them, came and