Echoes from Amish Country: My First Trip Home
The van heater hummed while the sky was still black outside, and I was deep asleep when—
Rap tap tap, rap tap tap, rap tap tap.
“Hey, Haley, are you awake?”
David B’s baritone voice jolted me upright. I blinked at the clock. 6:00 a.m.
Seriously? I thought. Don’t these Amish let their drivers sleep? Apparently not.
I slipped out of bed quietly so I wouldn’t wake the children, fumbled for clothes in the dark, and stepped out into the cold morning to start loading the van.
One by one, I carried my still-sleeping children out and tucked them into their seats. Before we left, I went back into the shop where we had stayed. Another driver had once told me he always left a note of thanks when staying with an Amish family, so I scribbled a quick note and left a small gift on the folding table.
My children were still asleep when we pulled away, bundled into the van with me. Truthfully, I was too—I just pretended otherwise.
We picked up Ezra and Becky at their son Billie’s house. They were all standing outside waiting in front of a white two-story home—Billie and his wife Rosanna, along with their eleven children, from nearly grown down to a baby in arms.
The children were darling in their simple, solid-colored handmade clothing—bonnets, hats, suspenders—and they were running everywhere… except for the two being held.
I watched closely as Ezra and Becky said their goodbyes. I expected hugs, maybe tears.
Instead, the entire family lined up facing the van. Ezra and Becky walked slowly down the line, one by one, shaking hands—bending down for the little ones, reaching up for the older ones—saying their goodbyes that way.
It struck me how different it was. No hugs. No outward emotion. Just quiet, steady connection. I didn’t fully understand it then—but I noticed it.
By the time we got on the road, the sun was just starting to rise. The countryside was beautiful—rolling hills, stones pushing up through the soil, green fields, old oak trees. I remember feeling grateful just to be there.
But as we headed west, the sky darkened. Rain came first. Then wind. Then thunder and lightning. The farther we drove, the worse it got. Within a hundred miles, creeks had risen, fields were flooding, and water was creeping dangerously close to the interstate.
“Now Haley,” David said from the passenger seat, “this is pretty rough driving, isn’t it?”
I shot him a look. “No, David. I’m from Oregon. I can drive in this.”
“Maybe so,” he said calmly, “but those tires look worn. You’d better take it easy.”
“The tires are fine, David,” I replied, a little more sharply than necessary.
(Truth be told, I think he was nervous. At the time, I just thought he was annoying.)
Then the temperature dropped. Rain turned to sleet. Sleet turned to snow. And not just snow—a full-blown blizzard.
The road iced over. My windshield fogged, then froze. Snow piled up faster than the wipers could keep up. Visibility dropped to almost nothing.
Fear settled in my stomach. I eased off the gas and carefully moved into the slow lane while vehicles flew past me.
“You don’t know how to drive in snow, do you?” David asked.
“No,” I admitted. “Not really. Where I’m from, if we get half an inch, everything shuts down.”
That didn’t seem to comfort him. It didn’t comfort me either.
A while later, from the back of the van, I heard Ezra’s slow, steady voice:
“One… two… three… four…”
“Ezra,” I called back, “what are you counting?”
“The cars in the ditch,” he said. “So far—thirty-six cars, twelve trucks, and three semis.”
I paused. “Well… thank you, Ezra.”
And oddly enough, that helped. We were still on the road.
By the time we reached Mt. Vernon, we had about six inches of snow, and it had taken us five extra hours to get there. I still had a long drive ahead—two-lane roads, hills, curves, ice.
“Inhale, exhale… relax,” I told myself over and over.
When we finally got close to Ezra and Becky’s home, Becky turned and kindly offered for us to stay the night so we’d be safe and warm. It was such a generous offer. But I just wanted to be home.
Getting into David’s driveway was its own ordeal. I didn’t think the van would make it, and after a few failed attempts, one of the boys went to get a sleigh to haul their things the rest of the way.
Alma gently suggested we stay the night. I didn’t answer. David did.
“No, she’ll be fine,” he said.
So I nodded, even though I wasn’t so sure.
Once everyone was safely home, I turned up the heat, put on some quiet music, and started the final stretch back with my children. Just me, the road, and a whole lot of adrenaline.
We made it.
The next day, I read about a massive storm that had torn through the Midwest—flooding, ice, wind. They had named it Goliath. That’s what we had driven through.
~
Sometime later, I came across a news headline that about made me fall out of my chair.
The middle-aged Amish man whose parents I had driven to visit through that blizzard had been arrested for murdering his wife.
I just sat there staring at the screen.
Up until then, I think I still saw the Amish the way most outsiders do — beautiful farms, hard-working families, homemade bread, children running barefoot through the yard, people helping neighbors.
And to be fair, those things are real too.
But that was one of the first moments I started realizing Amish communities are made up of human beings just like the rest of us. There is goodness there. There is kindness there. There is faith there.
But there can also be secrets, heartbreak, abuse, mental illness, and terrible tragedy.
Looking back now, I realize that first trip home gave me more than just a good story to tell.
Haley Straw is a barefoot homeschooling mom of six who somehow ended up becoming an Amish taxi driver.
From her century-old jailhouse home in rural Missouri, she writes true stories about late-night Amish rides, frolics, disasters, awkward moments, unexpected wisdom, and the kind of community most people don’t realize still exists. Her stories help readers slow down, laugh a little, and remember what matters most.
You can find her signed books, free Amish-inspired goodies, and more at haleystraw.com
