The Auction

After my scheduled hair cut, I decided to drive on my favorite road.
The road of stillness.
The road of country beauty.
The road that takes me back to another time.

I had clothes and other items with me to donate to a country thrift shop.
I was playing music from my high school days.
I was remembering where I was when I heard a particular song.
I was singing along and tapping the steering wheel at appropriate times.

I was noticing more Amish buggies than usual.
Most of them were on the other side of the road.
They all seemed to be going in the same direction.
Each buggy was driven by a man with a long beard.

Occasionally, I would see a woman next to him wearing her bonnet.
Sometimes, I noticed children in the buggy as well.
Fresh air and hard work gives the Amish the most beautiful complexion.
Rosy cheeks and bright eyes seem to be the norm.

If you happen to drive on this road on a Sunday, you will see numerous Amish buggies.
They will be following each other in a line.
They will turn down a small road and pull into a specific farm.
Sunday is the Lord’s day; the Amish meet for church services in homes.

This was not a Sunday.
I assumed I would never know the reason for the many buggies I saw.
A few miles down the road, I noticed a crowd.
Each man in the crowd was wearing the same thing: a black suit and a straw hat.

Each man in the black suit and straw hat had a long beard.
The men were gathered in front of a barn.
I could see the women in their plain dresses and bonnets standing off to the side.
I still had no idea why the men had gathered there.

I have driven by quite a few Amish farms and witnessed a barn raising.
The speed with which the new barn is raised is astounding.
Amish men from all over the county come to help another build a barn or rebuild an old one.
The women prepare food to serve to the men at lunchtime, while the children play together.

It is fellowship in action.
It is cooperation.
It is one-anothering.
It is community.

I took the things I was going to donate to the shop I frequent.
I always save plastic grocery bags for the shop since they use them for people’s purchases.
As I was getting the plastic bags out of my car, I heard a voice.
So who goes there? a woman asked pointing to the window clings on my back window.

I have two college and one law school window cling on my car window.
She was pointing to one college in particular.
I have a son there now, she said.
I have a daughter there, I answered.

Three of my four children went there, she added.
I teased and said, I got you beat on that one; four of my five children went there.
We talked about the college and the different majors our children had chosen.
It was a delightful conversation.

She told me that she was from Alaska and moved here years ago.
We each gave a synopsis of our lives in the fifteen minutes we talked in the parking lot.
Don’t you love this store? She asked.
I really do, I answered.

This is where I go when I need stillness; the drive refreshes me, I added.
The music they play inside the store blesses me, she said and I agreed with her.
It was one of those God-ordained conversations, which began over a college window cling.
As we said goodbye I thought about how I could easily be friends with this woman.

I walked through the little country shop, found a few things and left.
I had to return home on the same road.
I had forgotten about the large group of Amish gathered at the barn.
As I was approaching the farm, I saw a sea of straw hats.

I could not count the number of Amish men standing shoulder to shoulder.
Behind the barn there was what seemed to be a parking lot of Amish buggies.
Each buggy was parked precisely, as if lines were painted on the grass.
Neat rows of buggies with beautiful horses tethered to a fence lined the field.

The women were still standing off to the side.
The young boys, without beards, did not wear straw hats.
Instead they had on a black knitted hat pulled close to their head.
They were all gathered on a small hillside watching the men.

Then I saw the sign: AUCTION.
There was primitive farm equipment lining the perimeter of the field that I had not seen before.
There were small tools displayed neatly in the center.
One person, who I assumed was the auctioneer, stood in front.

My heart hurt.
Auction signs always make me sad.
I always wonder why everything is being sold?
Did the owner die? Is the farm being sold?

Everything that meant something to someone else was now available for a price.
The Amish men would benefit from the auction and use the farm equipment wisely.
They would probably think of the man whose equipment they were buying.
An Amish auction tends to keep the items and the money in the Amish community.

I would never know the reason for the auction.
I never saw such solidarity.
The entire community was gathered on that farm.
They were standing together in support of one another.

You are not your own; you were bought at a price. (1 Corinthians 6:19)

We were not auctioned.
We were ransomed.
We were redeemed.
We were bought with the price of Jesus’ life.

In the Father’s eyes we are priceless because Jesus, His Son, is priceless to Him.
It is Jesus’ life for our life.
Do you believe that?
Do you know the great price with which you were bought?

Can you see all those who are in Christ standing shoulder to shoulder?
Can you see Jesus standing in front, His nail-scarred hands extended to you?
I have called you by name and you are mine. (Isaiah 43:1)
We are purchased with His blood; we are redeemed.