Mer misse glawe an sell was unser Harr un unser.

Heiland Jesu Christi uns g’sagty hot.

Ja, sell hot er g’sagt. Ja ich glab, sell is recht.

We must believe in that which our Lord and our

Savior Jesus Christ told us.

Yes, that’s what He said. Yes, I believe that is right.

The hymn is followed by a period of silence. I should be observing those around me. Taking an inventory of the number and ages of the children present. Scrutinizing those children for signs of abuse. Instead, I close my eyes and the old prayer from Die Ernsthafte Christenpflicht—The Prayer Book for Earnest Christians—pries into a brain that doesn’t necessarily welcome it.

O God and Father of all light and comfort …

The words come back to me with astounding clarity and ease. When you’re Amish, some things are so entrenched, become such a sacred and immovable part of your life, that you can’t escape them. Worship is one of those things, and not for the first time my roots threaten to overshadow who I am today and why I’m here: to infiltrate this group, ask questions, and, hopefully, glean new information that will either exonerate them from wrongdoing—or put me closer to unraveling the mystery of Rachel Esh’s death.

I’ve moved on to a silent reciting of the Lord’s Prayer when a male voice calls out the number of the next hymn. I open my eyes to see an older Amish man with a long salt-and-pepper beard standing at the bench where he’d been sitting. He begins to sing and within a few syllables, the rest of the congregation joins him until everyone is standing and singing.

When the second hymn is finished, the congregation falls to silence once again. The squeak of a hinge echoes within the room. The steady tread of boots thuds against the wood plank floor. I glance toward the front to see a tall, black-clad Amish man approach the preaching table. His beard is shot through with gray and reaches his waist. He moves with a masculine grace and a certain physical power that reveals he’s comfortable with who and what he is. When he looks out at his audience, I can’t help but notice piercing eyes the color of a nor’easter. A full mouth that would have been feminine on another man. His face seems to be cut from sculpted leather, the kind that’s weathered sun and sleet in equal measure but never lost its sheen.

I know immediately that the man is Eli Schrock.

Looking at him, I’m reminded of a painted portrait, the kind in which the eyes follow you, judging and weighing, and never look away. I know that’s not the case, but in the seconds before he speaks, I feel his eyes on me, as if he’s sought me out. I actually experience a rise of alarm, as if he knows my weaknesses, my lies, the sins of my past.

He sets large hands against the preaching table, leans slightly and begins the Anfang, the introductory sermon, in a deep, singsong voice. For the next three and a half hours, Schrock takes his congregation through the main sermon, several prayers from Die Ernsthafte Christenpflicht, benediction, and, finally, the closing hymn.