He Used to be Amish

There was an attendant at the recovery place where I stayed. He was young, fresh faced and genuinely concerned about people. He moved about quickly, stopping at tables to greet people by name.

He couldn't do enough for his folks. "Get you some water?" And he did.

I mentioned that I had slept through lunch one day. I was happy to, I needed the sleep. But he was so concerned about it. "I'll never let that happen again," he told me. "I'll look for you."

He had wheeled me back to my room. Before he left he looked at me closely. "I used to be Amish," he said, reading my face. He saw neither approval or astonishment. He continued. He seemed to need to confide.

"My father cried over me three days. He thought I was going to hell. You can imagine how I felt about that. I thought I would go to hell too. So I lived it up for five years. Might as well."

He told me about the issues that came from separating from his dad. But he had made a clean break.

Apparently he had grown tired of attempting to win his way to heaven by good conduct. "My righteousness is as filthy rags," he told me. He had found out about grace.