My Scandalous Mennonite Diary #1

Where do I start?

The image in the mirror mouths the question with me.

My eyes are bleary, and dull, as I stare into the mirror at my thin body. My sparkling blue eyes are empty; my full red lips droop downward in an apathetic expression of my emotion.

What did anyone see in me?

The mirror laughs insults behind my back as I head through the exit door of my bedroom.

The empty dampness of the basement looms.

A musty scent swirls around my nose as I walk toward the staircase.

I halt at the top of the stairs, just before the wooden door that opens onto the porch.

My eyes blink with barely restrained tears.

My hands straighten the creases, first in my head covering, and then in my plain blue dress.

The muscles in my face force the corners of my lips upward into a semblance of a smile. That done, I was ready to face the day. I push open the door and, with a deep breath, enter the porch.

It is a little room. To the left is the door to the washroom. Immediately in front of me stands a row of clothing hooks. To the right, there are two doorways. One leads outside, and one leads into the kitchen.

My Father is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and staring down at his Bible.

His build is rugged, fifty years old but looking sixty. He wears a black suit, a head of grey thinning hair, and a frown.

“Good morning Mary,” he mutters with a world-weary voice.

“Good morning!” I reply in a vague attempt at cheerfulness.

“We’re about to leave for the ordination service. Your mother will come with me, but I’d rather have you and your brothers stay at home.”

I did not understand that logic, but I nodded.

My father’s face wrinkles as he smiles without enthusiasm.

“Make sure to do your chores.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” I say slowly, watching my father raise himself from his chair and start walking toward the porch.

I press my lips together forcefully to stop a slight tremor.

My father stops in the doorway, turns, and smiles crookedly. Looking for a moment like his old mischievous self.

“I must say, Gerald needed that wake-up call!”

I must’ve looked flustered, for my father elaborated.

“Look in the paper, they printed your letter.”

On that note, Father walks toward the porch, turns right twice, and then walks through the exit door and into the sullen heat of summer.

I can see his head bobbing past the kitchen window as he stumbles down the concrete steps toward the ground.

He is smoking again. He’s been doing a lot of that lately.

I turn away from the window and face the kitchen table.

A loaf of bread, already sliced, catches my attention. I help myself to a piece, spread it with butter, and then begin to eat.

I halt. Ashamed of myself. I had forgotten to pray! I close my eyes, bow my head, and then mumble the incomprehensible German words that we always recited before meals. Duty done, I can eat without guilt.

I munch my food slowly and carefully, savoring the homemade flavor of the gooey bread mingling with the salty butter.

The newspaper lies in wait before me. Crouching innocently where Father had been sitting only moments before. Inside the paper was my condemnation of our neighbor, Gerald Neudorf, and his maniacal driving habits. Every day, he drove at least one hundred kilometers an hour through the stop sign, and our corner was blind in two directions! What if someone else followed his lead and the two vehicles collided?

It was worse because Gerald also happened to be our local fuel truck driver. Imagine the disaster of a crash with a truckload of explosive fuel!

I did, and it and it had made me angry enough to write a letter to the editor.

What had I been thinking?

I took a last bite of bread and then stood from my chair.

I couldn’t force myself to read my letter, it would be too embarrassing. The people at our Church would say that I was being proud to go public like that. Besides, the rules were clear, a woman should be silent.

What can I say? Sometimes I liked to talk.

Two blue couches lounge temptingly in the living room, just off the kitchen. They promise rest. However, I have other things to do.

I head toward the silver kitchen sink filled with dishes. It promises hours of work. It is always good to have something to look forward to in life, isn’t it?

The silver tap twists in my hand.

Rust-colored water dribbles slowly into the sink.

I need someone to talk to, someone who cares. A soulmate was what the women in those paperback books always had. Someone to share the burdens of everyday living and sprinkle them with the essence of romance.

The rules said that I shouldn’t waste my time on those works of fiction.

Still, I wish that my life wasn’t so empty.

Rusty orange water floods over the edge of the sink to splash against the floor.

Startled, I snap out of my daydream and turn off the faucet. Luckily, the mess is minimal; I can swipe it clean with one sweep of a rag.

Tick, tick, tick. I could hear the rhythm of the clock keeping time with my heart. Tick, tick, tick. Each second is a grain of sand in the hourglass.

Falling, forever gone.

The morning passes as dishes move through my hands. It is a monotonous cycle of washing, wiping them dry, and putting them away.

Mother and Father would be at church by now.

My Father took his ordination very seriously. Far too seriously. He had locked himself in his study for hours after he was selected for the position.

Was he meditating? Praying? I don’t know. I only know that he had changed for the worse after that.

I care about my Father. I love him! How have those emotions rewarded me? With emptiness…with the lying words of despair that I love to hear.

I wipe the last plate and then place it into the large wooden cupboard that dominates the kitchen.

Now what? I need to keep busy!

As I turn away from the gleaming steel sink, my eye catches the gleam of sunlight shining on the newspaper. Still lying open on the table where Father had left it.

Why had I been so proud?

I avert my eyes. Distraction is what I need. I can find it outside, working.

There is so much to do on a farm.

I need to stop wasting time.

Tick, tock, the clock clicks out a message of urgency. Soon my parents will return. They will expect to find my chores completed. I don’t want to disappoint them.

The door to the great outdoors swings open before me.

For now, the sun is beautiful, the air is fresh, and the warmth of day caresses my skin.

Before I know it, it will be evening.

The boys always come by then.

How I hate their idle, immature, chatter. Even though I struggle with loneliness, I have no intention of courting any of them. So, I will let Father visit with them.

It is hard to explain. I feel a vague craving…a thirst for something more than all this.

Chores.

Rules.

Church.

Get married.

Raise children to do the same.

Is this cycle all that I have to look forward to?

A love that is real. That’s what those paperback books always talked about. Is there such a thing? If there is, how would I recognize it if I saw it?

These weighty thoughts torment me even as I stumble down the concrete steps toward the ground.

A pigpen waits for me. It is full of filthy animals waiting for me to feed them.

I am a black silhouette, insignificant under the brilliant sun.

I hope that the future is good…but I can’t shake the fear that it won’t be.

***