The Road Home by Patrick E. Craig Page A

he was standing next to him.
    â€œAre you all right, son?” a quiet voice asked.
    Johnny looked up with tears streaming down his face. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and then tried to answer.
    â€œI…I don’t know what happened to me. I was just watching you harvest this field and listening to the song and it was so beautiful and it just touched something in my heart…” Johnny choked up for a minute and then went on. “Who are you and why are you using horses and…”
    The man smiled at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “We are the Amish, the Plain people. We don’t use modern tools because they’re of the world, and we have separated ourselves from such things. We live the simple life, and that’s what keeps us faithful to our God.”
    â€œAmish. Of course! I met a girl today who said she was Amish, but I didn’t really know what that meant except I know that the Amish don’t get drafted.”
    â€œAh, the draft. Yes, that’s true; we don’t fight in wars. Jesus tells us it’s wrong to kill other men.”
    â€œWhat does the song mean…the one you were singing?” Johnny asked.
    â€œLet him who has laid his hand on the plow not look back. Press on to the goal! Press on to Jesus Christ! The one who gains Christ will rise with Him from the dead on the youngest day.”
    Johnny looked into the kindly face and the soft eyes of the man, and suddenly a longing to be safe came over him. He felt more tears rolling down his cheeks. In the distance he heard a man’s voice calling.
    The man squeezed his shoulder. “Maybe you have troubles that you should give to Jesus Christ, my boy. If you do, He will help you.” Then the man looked away at the group passing by. “I must go then. The men need my help. God’s blessing on you.”
    The man turned and walked away, and Johnny wanted to jump over the fence and run after him and join the men as they worked and sang, but instead he just stood looking after the retreating figure.

    About a half-hour later, Johnny pulled up in front of Dutch’s Garage in Apple Creek. Inside, he found a thin man with bushy eyebrows bent over a bench. He was dressed in blue mechanic’s overalls with a welder’s cap on his head. The place smelled of oil and metal, and a large stove made out of two fifty-gallon drums stacked on top of each other stood in the middle of the shop. The stove was glowing red. The man looked up and smiled when Johnny walked in. He put down the part he was working on and stepped out from behind the bench. He picked up a rag and wiped some kind of grease off his hands as he walked over.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, hoss?” he asked.
    â€œI think I need some work done on my front-end suspension. I ran up on a curb, and I think I bent something. A sheriff named Bull over in Wooster was kind enough to send me here. He said that Dutch’s place was the best, so I guess you’re Dutch?”
    â€œThat would be me,” Dutch said, offering a grimy hand. “And you are…?
    â€œJohnny, Johnny Hershberger.”
    Dutch gave him an odd look. “So Bull Halkovich sent you my way. He’s a good friend. How is Bull?”
    â€œWell, it wasn’t exactly a social call. He was trying to run me out of town, but I couldn’t get very far with my van banged up.”
    â€œOkay, let’s take a look,” Dutch said.
    They walked out to the van, and Dutch got down and looked under the front end. After a few minutes he popped back out.
    â€œYep, the tie bar is bent. You must have banged it good.”
    â€œCan you fix it?” Johnny asked.
    Dutch fixed a stare on Johnny. “Son, I can fix anything. That is, if I have the part. I don’t keep parts handy for this here German-made car since I mostly work on American cars. But I can make a few phone calls and get the part shipped over here. Shouldn’t be more