Free Crossing Over by Ruth Irene Garrett

was within reach. So off we went to Key West.
    We drove Duval Street from one end to the other, over and over, watching the drunks, the transvestites, the sidewalk artists, and the motley-attired crowds. When we tired of that, we traveled the fragrant side streets of small homes, scampering geckos and lovers kissing under giant, twisted tree limbs.
    Many Amish might have considered it hell on earth, and it certainly was a side of the English world I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams. But the energy of the place was fascinating. And I was away from Kalona—and my father.
    Later that night, after discovering we couldn’t get a motel room in Key West on Memorial Day weekend, Ottie parked by the beach and we slept in the van until the big southern sun began its climb over the Atlantic. Ottie and I went for a walk on the beach that morning and watched the seagulls hover like helicopters in the breeze. We didn’t hold hands, because Bertha and my cousin and her husband were watching from the van. We didn’t even look at each other when we talked, lest someone should conclude we were acting too chummy.
    But the stroll was nevertheless romantic, and Ottie told me it could be this way all the time—only better.
    I knew what he meant.
    On our way back from Key West, we stopped in Berlin, Ohio. Bertha, who like Ottie had always had trouble with her feet—arthritis, I think—wanted to see Dr. John, an Amish doctor who’d developed a good reputation for treating such ailments.
    She had initially planned to stay only a day or two, but decided to stretch it to two weeks when she secured lodging with an Amish girl in nearby Sugar Creek. Ottie then arranged for Bertha to work during her visit at a printing company he had done business with.
    It looked like Ottie and I would finally be able to spend some unsupervised, unhurried time alone.
    Ottie had booked three rooms at the Berlin Village Inn. One for me, one for him, and one for my cousin and her husband. Bertha would have shared my room if she hadn’t extended her stay.
    Ottie told me ahead of time that if I didn’t want to come down to his room that night, he’d understand.
    â€œBut if you do come down,” he said, “you’re mine and you’re staying the night.”
    For the first time, I was free of apprehension. I had already asked for God’s forgiveness—many times. And I was secure in the knowledge that I had amply demonstrated my trust in him.
    Psalm 32:7–10: “Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance. I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye. Be ye not as the horse or as the mule, which have no understanding: whose mouth must be held in with bit and bridle, lest they come near unto thee. Many sorrows shall be to the wicked: but he that trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about.”
    Maybe, I told God, what I’m about to do is a sin. Maybe, under any other circumstance, it is wicked. But I have prayed to you, and I have asked for your guidance, and here we are. How could something so sweet and true be so wrong, so misguided?
    I put a housecoat over my nightgown, walked to Ottie’s room, knocked softly, and looked around to make sure no one had noticed me, especially my cousin and her husband. When he opened the door and let me in, I felt like I was finally home.
    We sat in bed for hours, clothes on, talking, embracing, holding hands, kissing, experiencing the aura of two beings as one. Then I took my head covering off and let my hair down—something Amish women reserve only for their husbands.
    Ottie asked if he could brush my hair, I consented, and a spectrum of passion I had never felt before enveloped me. I could see the love and affection in Ottie’s eyes as he ran the bristles through my hair. I could feel him gently caressing me with