by Beverly Schmitt, Michigan
How I met the Mennonites is a story of stories which began in the early seventies. One glorious May Wednesday, my husband and I drove from our southwest Michigan home to the rural Shipshewana, Ind., community with three hundred some residents, for the weekly flea market and auction we’d heard so much about. On Wednesdays, however, an extra twenty thousand people, from all over the Midwest and beyond, showed up for the festivities: for the fruit and vegetable market, home-baked goods, and auctions of livestock, household goods and tools; acres of wares for sale and… the local community of Amish and Mennonites.
Yes, as we shared the road with horse-drawn buggies, we’d noticed the simple, white farm houses, no power lines, cheerful gardens, colorful laundry, teams plowing the fields, children at the one room schoolhouses, and bake sales of cookies, pies, breads, egg noodles and angel food cakes, tended by gentle people whose dress and language reflected another place and time. We stopped and sampled the quiet hospitality of folks living their faith with simplicity, in harmony with the land and others, not for show, but clearly in a way that set them apart. We were smitten, and wanted our Catholic grade-school children to experience this culture and its values – a spirit caught, not taught.
