As I rounded the corner on the winding country road, I was greeted by a small herd of cows standing in the way, looking at me with big eyes. Here I was traveling through rural Ohio, headed to a consulting assignment dressed in a suit and tie. But having been raised in the country I knew you don’t just drive around bovines standing on the pavement looking both guilty and smug.
It wasn’t disappointing that the closest farmhouse belonged to an Amish Family. When I announced the escape, the farmer sighed and quickly clarified “They’re not mine—they belong to a neighbor down the road.” Since he was grabbing his hat as he spoke it was apparent I wasn’t being dismissed. “I’ll give you a hand,” I offered. “I’ve rounded up escaped livestock before.”
On the way to the scene of the crime, he chatted amiably. “You know,” he said, “not all of us Amish are great farmers. My neighbor doesn’t keep his fences mended and doesn’t pay much attention to a lot of things.” I noticed his tone wasn’t critical or angry—it was more just a statement of fact. “This happens a lot… we’re used to it… lots of people don’t realize the Amish are just as human as everyone else.”
We made short order of returning the wayward critters to their pasture and rigged a temporary fix to the broken fence. I noticed everything was actually calm and relaxed in a matter-of-fact way. When he thanked me, it wasn’t profuse but it was sincere.
That was over thirty years ago. I’m sorry I can’t remember his name but in retrospect, by his very few words and example, he taught me a deep appreciation of the Amish mindset. It’s hard to describe it in a few sentences, but “we’re sorta used to it” is a start. Some things just are. You expect the neighbor’s cows to break through a weak fence. You also expect another “neighbor” (even though he’s not Amish and is dressed in a suit) to help.
Gelassenheit is a German word often used to describe that spirit of humility, modesty, and informality that lies at the heart of the Amish way of life. It’s a calm acceptance of the world as it is and not as we think it should be. It is not an easy concept to understand and it is even more difficult to adopt and practice. It sounds fatalistic but for the Amish, it’s “God’s will be done.”
During a recent visit to a favorite Amish owned and operated bookstore in Pennsylvania—the Gordonville Bookstore, I opted to pay cash, even though it appeared credit cards would be accepted. Not only did I decide to pay cash, I decided to find the exact change. This proved a challenge as I dug through pockets and the Mrs. scrounged around in the bottom of her handbag… “We need another dime… now a penny…” The Amish girl waiting on us showed no impatience. When we found the last penny and I handed it to her, I looked heavenward and shouted, “It was meant to be!” This put our Amish cashier into a fit of laughter! I’d thought about shouting “Gelassenheit!” but didn’t want to mispronounce or misuse it. Given her reaction to “It was meant to be,” I suspect I’d have been on safe ground.
After all, “we’re just as human as everyone else.” A few days later, we visited an Amish owned and operated dry goods store—Fisher’s Housewares and Fabrics. Other than the hissing of the propane lanterns, it’s one of the quietest (and calmest) stores around. It was actually quite busy—mostly Amish shoppers, mothers with young children and preteens looking at fabric to make their own clothes. No one was yelling at the clerks because they couldn’t find things. No clerks were following people around offering to help, either. They expect customers will ask if they need help. Customers expect clerks will help if asked. It’s just the way it is and should be.
A small cluster of us was standing in line—actually it was a bit of a semicircle so we were all facing each other—waiting to pay for our purchases. Suddenly, from directly behind me came the loud strain of a rather lively country-western song. (I never did figure out where it came from.) Every Amish eye in that semicircle seemed to look at me. I instinctively cried, “I didn’t do it!” This evoked a few smiles, especially from the children.
It was a catchy tune and since some of the kids were watching I found myself tempted to engage in some exaggerated soft shoe until I remembered that dancing is verboten among the Amish. But I noticed one of the older children was looking at me with dancing eyes. Her expression seemed to say, “I know you’re tempted. I am too. We’re all human.” I’m proud to report that I might have swayed a bit but I didn’t yield to the temptation and neither did she.
We’re regular visitors to “Amish Country” and we accurately can be labeled “tourists.” But we try not to think and act like tourists. We think of ourselves as guests among some very special people and we hope they enjoy our visit. We certainly do enjoy it but we also always learn. I’ve joked that our visits mostly involve “Cows, Corn, and Calm” with a big emphasis on calm.
I’m certain I’ll never fully understand “Gelassenheit” but I’m trying because I see how it affects me. When I find myself behind a slow traveling horse-drawn buggy I’m not so quick to get upset. We’re going the same way. I almost hate to pass when it’s safe. But the car behind me, clearly annoyed and frustrated, is tailgating and making it apparent that in the driver’s mind, this is not the way it’s supposed to be. I think perhaps it is—particularly if there’s a young Amish child leaning out the back of the buggy.
When I’m behind a buggy I often think of my cow-herding Amish friend. Some things you just take in stride because they simply are—they are not “bad” or “good” in and of themselves. Gelassenheit. Stay calm, look at the cows and corn. We’re all just human and we really are all headed in the same direction.
