writeLOVER

In my past life, I lead a simple life one where I was a young Amish woman no more than 22 years old. They called me Beatrice. Beatrice Miller. I was filled with joy, spending my days filled with modesty while exerting energy at a slow tempo and pace. I followed the committed practices that were upheld and carried throughout my town. Life did not serve me struggle or despair. Life was simple. Separated from the outside world in order to maintain my faith, which served a higher purpose. Oftentimes I were left in a profound muteness. Fluently speaking English with an accent but gained knowledge in learning German. I’d help my mother construct, sew, and sell handmade quilts. My head covering with its matching three piece dress was always equipped with my apron. In my neighborhood, famously I gained status for my signature “shoofly pie” and traditional Amish friendship bread. For some time I allowed myself to be courted by Eli Jacob King, who was a church elders son. Sometime we would hold hands. His hands were always so sweaty, but I did not mind. I figured my hands could not have been much better. Eli was the man that spoke for me. He was the man I was to marry, and we knew piece of solid information since we were 17 years old. In my past life, I was a young Amish woman.