Mennonites

All of a sudden they were there. Strong, quiet men, and women in odd, little, gauze hats. They served food and water to the stunned survivors of Hurricane Andrew, which severely damaged or destroyed eighty thousand homes in south Dade County, Florida in 1992. They provided sustenance of two kinds: body and spirit.

Typically, there was no fanfare, and very little TV coverage of the Mennonites’ gentle gesture, although the Miami stations were all over Ground Zero where the hurricane, with its winds in excess of 160 miles an hour, had ripped and slashed peoples’ homes and lives.

It took nearly a week before the federal authorities sent in the army and that was only after a courageous woman went on television and asked, “Mr. President, where’s the cavalry?” In the meantime the Mennonites worked in ninety-plus degree heat, in stifling humidity and tropical cloudbursts. I’m sure many of the Latinos in Homestead were bemused by the Mennonites, but they cherished them.

They brought back memories of another group of Mennonites in or near Mount Joy, Pennsylvania, in the so called Amish country. My wife, Lois, and I had arrived at the Benners’ bed and breakfast late of a winter’s eve, with snow and ice everywhere. It had been a grueling trip and we were exhausted. We stood at the door and knocked in the near-zero cold, and a quiet Mennonite woman opened the door, bade us welcome, and took us to our room. There was a fire in the fireplace and a small candle flickered in the winter window. We were most grateful.

The next morning brought us to the table of Galen and Eileen Benner of the widespread Benner clan, farmers in this rich farming country. The table was literally covered with breakfast foods: sausages, ham, bacon, eggs, biscuits, cheeses and milk directly from their large dairy herd. The Galen children were busy demonstrating farm-breakfast appetites.

There is something about being in the midst of a vital family, a sense of the goodness of life, its richness and promise. I’ve experienced it in Greek and Italian homes where the family being together is a celebration unto itself. Food, voices raised, wonderful smells and a strength in numbers. I think of my children scattered all over the nation and sense that I am missing something. So it was that winter morning when Galen took me for a short tour of the farm and its wonderful stone outbuilding which, he explained, had been a stop on the Underground Railroad prior to, and during, the Civil War. Their quality of mercy is strained by neither time nor distance. These Mennonites practiced what they preached and their anti-war views, including anti-nuke posture, tells of their communion with their God and the Bible. Their quite extraordinary power came from Faith, Family and Farm and it was bedrock.

It was only later that Galen stopped, looked at the horizon and said that his children didn’t want to be farmers. There was nothing to say to assuage his regret. We watched the small cumulus clouds gather and move across the frozen fields as he looked into the future.

I wrote the story and it became part of Backroads USA, and I thought it was a closed chapter until the opportunity to do a documentary presented itself and I had occasion to go back to the wonderful Benner family and farm. The second night of my stay, Galen asked me if I would like to go to an auction in Gettysburg, pronounced “Gettisburg,” more than a hundred miles away. He explained that a cousin had heard that there was a moose head for sale as part of an estate auction. I agreed, and we were joined that night by three other Mennonite farmers who were interested in me because I was “out there,” in a place and world which they didn’t quite inhabit. It surrounded them, they read newspapers, and some watched TV news, but what was important was their families, farms and neighbors.

We arrived at the auction and I watched the dealers/vultures from the major cities sorting through every conceivable item of possible value. The bidding was quiet yet intense. The farm families really weren’t interested in the old pewter and silverware. Their interest was in more mundane, day-to-day things, and of course we were there for that moose head.

It was gigantic, and our neighbor’s eyes were full of longing. When the auctioneer asked for a bid of fifty dollars on it, his hand was about to go up when I grabbed it. It was like holding a piece of oak. He looked confused and I shook my head, the time for a bid wasn’t right. The price went to forty, thirty, ten and even five dollars, without a bid, and still I stayed his hand. Finally, laughing, the auctioneer asked, “will anyone give me two bucks for it?” and I released his arm. He bid two dollars, a youngster bid two-fifty and I told him to raise his bid to five dollars. Within one minute he was the proud possessor of this gigantic trophy.

The auction ended and we helped him carry the critter to the car. It was almost too big for the trunk and we had to tie it in and leave the lid open. Every car that pulled up behind us that night would, invariably, pull back in fright or awe. It was past midnight and these men were farmers and would be up in less than six hours. Galen looked over at me and said, “Tom, you’re out there and know things which we don’t. The election is coming up and we are going to support Pat Robertson for President, although some of us have mixed feelings. What do you think?”

Approaching one o’clock in the morning on a two lane road in winter, a group of very decent men were asking about their decision regarding a president. I hesitated and said that I wouldn’t vote for any religious leader running for that office. I said it didn’t work, and brought up the founding fathers’ great concern about government demanding that a people worship a certain way and no other. I cited religious persecution over the centuries and told them I felt the constitution of the United States was used as a template for many emerging countries because of the spirit and genius which went into it. I spoke of the vital separation between church and state and they listened, asking few questions.

They quietly thanked me as we left them off at their homes and bed. I told my wife the story over breakfast, and the oddness of the surroundings for a exposition on church and state. She listened and smiled as Galen came over. “Tom,” he said, “You’ve given us a lot to think over and you are both welcome in this house whenever you’ve a mind.” We did go back, as friends, and they actually wanted us to buy an adjoining farm; said they would sow and harvest the corn. But things led us in other directions, and the memories began to fade until that day in devastated Homestead when I watched the quiet Mennonites mending broken lives, and I remembered that, for a short while, I had been honored to be among them.