Have you ever read the story about "living between the dash"? It turns out there's more to it than that. I'm honored to feature my friend Shawn Smucker today. I never fail to learn from his writing and today is no exception.
Incidentally, Shawn offered me a complimentary copy of his book My Amish Roots (disclosure: affiliate link) and I am absolutely captivated by his family history. Not being one who normally seeks out Amish material, it's worlds better than anything Beverly Lewis could dream up. Be sure to add Shawn's blog to your Reader and follow him on Twitter.
My story does not begin with my birth.
Part of it began in the 1600s with a wandering peasant somewhere in Germany. And the story of me continued with his son, the Lutheran minister, and his son’s son, the wig maker (I have lived part of this man’s story, the pressure a preacher’s kid feels to follow in the footsteps of his father).
Much of my story was shaped by a man named Nicholas who lived in the 1700s. His parents died when he was young, and he left the Lutheran church to marry an Amish girl. In doing so, he gave up his rights as a citizen and could no longer own land or live wherever he wanted. A hopeless romantic.
And in him I see other pieces of me, ten generations before I was born.
* * * * *
Nicholas sailed to the new world on a ship named Polly. Not exactly a luxurious crossing, since the regulations of the day only required that
there must be room for each passenger, and that these rooms must be three feet nine inches high in the forepart and two feet nine inches high in the cabin and steerage, and that no more than two passengers shall be put together in one bedstead except if the Father and Mother want their children in the same bedstead with them they may do so. These berths were 18 inches wide and six feet long.
In Nicholas I see glimmers of my restlessness, my adventurous spirit, my willingness to leave home.
* * * * *
When my great-great-grandfather Amos died, and his farm was sold, they tore down an old barn. But they found something remarkable etched into the boards: his writing. He often wrote there, his smooth script waving along on the wood.
Even his Amish culture, with its lack of higher education and ignorance of art, could not keep the words from coming out. And in him I see another piece of myself.
* * * * *
I am learning that my life did not begin with my birth but began a long time ago, in these people that led to me. I am also starting to understand that a person’s story does not end with their death – it continues on long after they are gone, in the lives of the people on whom they had an impact.
When you die, what will the continuation of your life look like? What heritage are you leaving for those who will come after you?
Shawn lives in Paradise, Pennsylvania with his wife, four children, four chickens, and a rabbit named Rosie. His most recent book, My Amish Roots, explores the roles of family, death, life, tradition, and legacy against the backdrop of his Amish ancestry. He blogs daily at shawnsmucker.com about writing, the strange things his children say, and postmodern Christianity.
