Mr. Henderson drove up Tuesday in a blue pickup. Stood by the fence, removed his cap, waited. Didn't come in — knew with the Amish you stand and wait.
Josiah Miller came out after five minutes. Wiped hands on his apron (had been woodworking). 'Good morning, Mr. Henderson.' 'Morning, Joe.' (The English called him Joe. Josiah didn't correct them — not his business what people called him.)
The Problem
Mill Creek flooded in spring and washed out the wooden bridge. Now the road from Maplewood to town went around — twelve miles instead of three. School bus couldn't get through. Neither could the ambulance.
'Joe, you're the best carpenter in the county. You know it. We raised money — six thousand. Will you build a bridge?'
Josiah looked at the creek (visible from the porch, about two hundred meters away). Four meters wide, steep banks, a meter and a half of water in spring. Needed oak beams, stone footings, railings. A month's work.
'Need to think about it,' said Josiah.
Community
That evening Josiah told his wife Sarah. Sarah said: 'Bishop won't allow it. Working for the English is one thing. A bridge is another. A bridge connects us to them.'
She was right. Bishop Samuel said exactly the same: 'Why do we need a bridge to the English? We have our own roads.'
Josiah didn't argue. Went home. Sat on the porch. Looked at the creek. Thought: a child from Maplewood breaks a leg — ambulance goes twelve miles around. In winter. On ice. Child isn't Amish. But a child.
Next morning Josiah went to the bishop again. 'Samuel, Dirk Willems went back for his pursuer because the man was drowning. He didn't ask whether the drowning man was Anabaptist.'
The bishop was silent a long time. Then said: 'Build.'