As we sat under the porch of the Blue Gate restaurant, there was nothing blue at all about the evening sky.   It was as ink splotched and torn as our hearts were light and joyful.

Why not?  Diana and I had just spent a day relaxing in Amish country—Shipshewana, Indiana.   We sampled 20 kinds of cheeses, shopped at 20 different stores (well...maybe not quite that many), played with unusual musical instruments, devoured a glazed cinnamon pretzel, and watched an Amish craftsman make a new belt for me.  We packed a lot in—and all of it was grand.   Please don't tell anyone we bought a few “hand fried pies” to take back with us.

We had just finished an Amish dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes, and had plopped down into polymer brown rocking chairs on the covered porch of the Blue Gate to watch the rain.  The whole experience was a study in contrasts:

We had come from the urban crush of Chicago.

            But Shipshewana was nothing except rural peace and quiet.

We had left a place of nasty traffic and snagging congestion.

            But Shipshewana is a landscape untouched by overcrowding.

Where we live, gas stations are crammed and noisy.  

At the Marathon station across from the restaurant, we marveled at two horse-drawn buggies tied to a hitch, while others clip-clopped up and down the street, buggies in tow. . 

We had left a culture that celebrates paganism at every possible turn.

But at Shipshewana, wonderful old hymns were played over sound systems:   What a Friend We Have in Jesus, There is a Fountain Filled with Blood, and Wash Me and I Will Be Whiter than Snow.

Sitting on those comfortable rockers, sniffing the rain and listening to the hymns playing, it was tough not to let your mind play tricks on you.  With very little difficulty, you could imagine a slight spelling change in the name of the gas station.  “Marathon” becomes “Maranatha.”  Which means, “Come, Lord Jesus!”

Amen!  Come quickly, Lord!