The Setting Sun
A reprint from my blog May 2020
As the day is fading into twilight, I’m relaxing on my sofa with a glass of wine while idly scrolling through my Facebook news feed. I’m alone this evening. My oldest daughter is at work, while the second one is away on a grand adventure in Taiwan. The two youngest are with their mother.
The house is quiet—much quieter than usual because our power has been off for a while. No, I didn’t forget to pay the bill. A tornado roared through our neighborhood a few days ago, crushing buildings, uprooting trees, and of course knocking out power for thousands of people. Utility crews are busily working to restore power, but meanwhile, life slows down as we wait. Being without electricity makes it hard to be productive, so I’m just sitting quietly on the couch waiting till it gets dark so I can move to bed.
I could go outside and crank up the generator to have a few lights, but that seems rather pointless. I choose to just relax quietly and absorb the uncommon stillness of the house without the usual hum of refrigerators, freezers, etc. Instead, there’s dead silence except for the purple martins scolding each other outside and the faint tick-tock of the wall clock.
I guess it’s the silence and the ticking of the clock that bring back the memories . . . memories of almost 40 years ago when we lived in Windsor, Missouri. Having nothing better to do, I indulge in memories. I lay aside my phone with the alluring comedy and dysfunction of my Facebook feed and reminisce about the past.
Sitting on the sofa, I notice something else that I overlook when we have electricity. Usually at this time of evening, I start flicking the lights on, but there are no lights to turn on now. I watch the living room wall as the rays of the setting sun paint the wall with hues of yellow, orange, and red. It’s a vivid choreography I usually don’t see because it’s drowned out by the bright electric lights.
I remember evenings spent at my grandparents’ house, and how quiet it was. Even as a child, I always noticed the deep silence of their house. Being Amish, they of course had no electricity, so the sounds of modern life were absent. I remember sometimes being at their house by myself after supper, the only sounds being the ticking of the wall clock and the quiet hiss of the pressurized kerosene lamp on the wall. My grandfather sat on his rocking chair holding his big, heavy German Bible, squinting down at the pages through his round, horn-rimmed glasses. At times his head would sink forward and his eyes close as he dozed off. I might be curled up on the couch with the latest issue of Fur-Fish-Game. My grandparents were both people of few words, so the silent hours were broken only occasionally by a comment from one of them.
I have vivid memories of my grandfather. He was an austere man, hardcore Amish, and he believed in strict adherence to the rules of the community. From the age of 7 to 13 years old, I spent a lot of time with him working in the fields or helping with tasks around the farm. He could be a hard master, harsh and unrelenting in his expectations for performance and obedience. Grandpa also had a hot temper which would sometimes flare up against a person or a hapless animal on the farm. But in his kinder, more benevolent moments he would patiently teach his grandchildren about trapping or take us fishing.
We learned at a young age to appraise him, hoping he was having a good day and trying to tread softly and stay out of sight if he wasn’t. I realize now that in spite of his harsh exterior, Grandpa was simply a man much like I am on a journey through life, doing the best he knew. No doubt he was hampered by a lack of education and the confines of his small Amish world. He knew nothing apart from being loyal to the Amish, having been taught his entire life to fear and distrust everything “out there.” No doubt he was fighting inner battles that no one knew about.
With that in mind, I look back at him with more compassion and respect than I used to. I think we do well to be cautious about passing judgment on people of the past based on the knowledge and standards we have today.
As I ponder that scene of long ago and watch the rays of the setting sun in my living room, I think about the fact that those years were the sunset of my grandparents’ lives. They were born and raised and lived their whole lives as conservative, Old Order Amish. They were very strict, with little room for anything except working and following the rules, feeling guilty about any kind of pleasure or fun. Life was hard for my grandparents. They worked without many comforts or pleasures, believing it would help them win approval from God. They believed this lifestyle was important—being different from other people, wearing homemade clothes, and driving a horse and buggy.
I was born into that system myself. Even though I didn’t always feel like I fit in, that’s where I was throughout my childhood. As the memories flood back, it seems like a lifetime ago. In fact, I find it hard to believe that I ever was a little Amish boy, but I was. The colors of the setting sun change from yellow to orange to red and then fade away as my house becomes dark. Still I sit there, pondering about my grandparents in their sunset years, still focused on doing what they thought was most important. Eventually, the sun did set for them, just as it will for you and me. I’m 46 years old as I write this, and by the time you read it, I will be 47. I’m considered middle-aged; realistically, I’m probably past the midpoint of my life. Living to 94 sounds pretty optimistic to me.
I think about the work I do each day. Like my grandparents, I spend most of my life working. Between caring for my children, doing household chores, working outside, and conducting my business, work never seems to end. The things that are most important to me are a little different from what was important to my grandparents, and yet, maybe not so different after all. I think we’re all just dealing with each day’s joy, sorrow, happiness, or disappointment. We’re searching for answers to questions about life and why things happen. We all grapple with unanswered questions; perhaps they’re not meant to be answered.
The direction of my pondering makes me restless, so I get off the sofa and walk to the patio door to watch the brilliant colors of the evening sun receding behind the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Someday the sun will set for me just as it did for my grandparents, and all the things that are important to me will fade away into nothingness. Day to day work that was very important to my grandparents seems trivial to me today. That how my work and my daily life will seem to my children and grandchildren.
In the meantime, what am I doing with my life as my sun reaches its apex and starts the slow journey toward sunset? I struggle with thoughts of, What should I be doing? Why am I here? Where will this all end? Is what I’m doing today what I want to be doing for the rest of my life?
I feel restless and unsettled. I don’t really have the answers to any of these questions. The sun has set, and my house is dark and silent. When I look outside again, the last hues of color have faded away into blackness. I’m sitting alone in the dark. The clock is ticking on the wall.