Crossing by Gilbert Morris

that; most young people look forward to that time of being together.”
    Yancy snorted. “Skip the sing? Singing in German, which I don’t speak, with no instruments? Sitting across the tables from the girls and taking turns singing—which, again, I can’t do—and then barely talking to a girl before her father and brothers swoop in like bobcats and hustle her off like I’m a criminal or something? Can’t imagine why I’d miss all that.”
    “It is very different from the life you’ve known, Yancy, but it’s a good life. It’s a clean, orderly, rewarding life.”
    He shook his head. “Good life for some, I guess, but I don’t think it’s for me.”
    “Your father thought that, too, when he was your age, and was on
rumspringa
. He left because he thought this life wasn’t for him. But he came back to us.”
    “I know, Grandmother. And I know he’s happy now.” Yancy played with some leftover eggs on his mostly empty plate then asked moodily, “So what did you mean? What’s rumspringa?”
    Zemira hesitated for a few moments, staring into her coffee cup. “We’ve debated about telling you this, because your father thought it might just—confuse you. But you’re a smart young man, Yancy, and old for your years, so I think you should know.” She lifted her head and continued. “The Amish realize that young people must have some leniency, some … leeway. And so we give them a time, called rumspringa, which means ‘running around.’
    The church rules are relaxed, and it’s understood that in these times there will be a certain amount of misbehavior. It’s neither condoned nor overlooked, but it’s understood at the end of this period, the young person will be baptized into the church, will marry, and will settle down in the community.”
    “So this is letting me run around?” Yancy asked with astonishment. “This is running wild? Seems to me like I’m watched like I’m a prisoner most of the time.”
    “We let you wear your own clothes, which violates the Ordnung,” Zemira answered gently. “And as I said, we pretty much let you decide what you’re going to do every day. We don’t hold you to chores, and we let you ride around all day without questioning you if you wish to. In other words, we’re letting you make your own decisions.”
    Yancy stared at her. “What if I decide to leave? To go back to the Cheyenne?”
    “Would you do that? Leave your family?”
    He dropped his gaze. “No, ma’am. I don’t want to leave Father … or you. You’re the only reason I haven’t gone stark raving crazy.”
    She reached over and patted his hand. “I love you very much, Yancy, and you can’t know how glad I am that you and your father are here. I’ve been very lonely since your grandfather died. To have family again is precious to me.”
    He kept his head low, his gaze averted, and Zemira could sense his discomfort. She withdrew her hand then asked lightly, “Has your father told you about our family? The Tremaynes?”
    “Not much. He—I think he feels bad about leaving, about Grandfather and all.”
    “So he does. But he’s making up for it now, and your grandfather loved him always. Anyway, his great-grandfather Tremayne, and my great-grandfather Fisher, along with the other families, came to the valley in the 1730s. They found a good land, a fruitful land, and established our community. All of the families here can trace their land back to that time. When they started, there were only eight families. Now there are twenty-two, and we’re still growing. It was a good thing, to find this place,” she said dreamily. “It’s been a good home.”
    “It is a good home,” Yancy agreed quietly. “I do like the valley, very much.”
    She smiled warmly at him. “When our great-grandfathers came here, there were several tribes of Indians. Mostly Kiowa, but also Iroquois, Shawnee, and Algonquin. And our great-grandfathers made fast friends with them. We traded with them, we sometimes