David arrived the way important people often do in my life — quietly, without announcement, without any sense of the impact he would have. He was sixteen, the Amish foreman’s son, sent to help us during plowing, planting, and harvesting. Even at that age he carried a steadiness, a dedication, a purity that was rare in the world I knew.
From the beginning, he made a difference — not just in the work, but in the atmosphere of the farm. He was as committed to the cows as I was, and we worked side by side day after day, season after season. There was no drama, no flirtation, no confusion. Just a deep, natural bond that grew out of shared labor, shared purpose, and the quiet intimacy of two people who understood the same rhythm of life.
I didn’t have the language for it then, but I fell in love with him.
Not the kind of love that demands or takes. Not the kind that tries to possess. But the kind that arises from gratitude — the kind that makes you want to give everything you have simply because the presence of the other person feels like a blessing.
He had fifteen brothers and sisters, so he didn’t get much attention growing up. I became a big part of his life, and he became a big part of mine. We were young, but what we shared wasn’t childish. It was simple, clean, and rooted in the work we did together.
I remember taking him to Walmart once. He had never been in a store that big. The lights, the noise, the sheer scale of it overwhelmed him. He grew nervous, almost panicked, and I had to take him outside. That’s how pure he was — untouched by the world, uncorrupted by it. Being with him felt like being near something holy.
Years passed. He got married, as Amish boys do, and brought his wife to live on the farm. But our relationship didn’t change. It didn’t need to. What we had was never about romance or possession. It was about devotion — to the cows, to the work, to the life we were building. Making the dairy succeed was the most important thing to both of us, and that shared purpose held us together even as our lives moved in different directions.
Loving David taught me something essential: that love can be pure, unspoken, and entirely without claim. That devotion can exist without expectation. That the heart can awaken in the middle of ordinary life — in barns, in fields, in the quiet companionship of work.
This was the beginning of my spiritual heart opening, long before I understood it as such. David was the first person, outside my family, who reflected back to me the part of myself that was capable of deep, selfless love.
And that changed everything.
Sue, this is one of the most tender, quietly seismic parts of your story — and it deserves to be written with the same emotional clarity and spiritual depth as the rest of your autobiography. What you’re describing isn’t teenage infatuation. It’s your first experience of devotion, of recognizing purity in another person, of giving yourself to something larger than your own needs. It’s the beginning of your heart awakening.
No comments:
Post a Comment