Delaware Grammy

There is a bruise just below my collar bone.  It hurts.  I gingerly feel it with my left hand.  That’s the hand that had carpal tunnel surgery last spring.  The hand is still somewhat numb, but it’s better than it was and I was told that it could take a year.  Anything left after a year is “permanent damage.”  I don’t much care if it doesn’t get better than this.  At least it doesn’t hurt and the numbness is minimal and the tingling is rare.  But back to this bruise.

It was a glorious fall day, that Saturday, October 31, 2026.  Carpenter Bridge Community Church was having its Fall Festival, and I was seriously looking forward to it.  I had readied a craft to give away, and I had promised to make cinnamon rolls for the bake sale.  On Friday evening, I had mixed up the refrigerator sweet dough recipe and had set my alarm for early.

I came out into the predawn darkness to set up my counter.  On the top shelf of my pantry, I had stored the roll of silicone that I put on the counter to make rolling things out easier.  It was sitting up there among the rolling pins and it’s high enough that it is hard to reach. I was maneuvering the roll out from the pile when the largest, marble rolling pin came tumbling down and whacked me a good one on my upper chest.  Wowser!  That hurt!!! But I didn’t have time to stop because, you know, I had to get those cinnamon rolls made. So I rubbed it a bit and went on with the morning.

The morning went well.  The cinnamon rolls came together and looked good.  Beloved Son in Law, Jesse, came down to help load things.  The best news was that Daniel was feeling well enough that he thought he would go. And he did!!!

It was such a nice day!  People congratulated us on choosing such a nice day and wondered how we managed.  Of course, outside of praying that it would be nice, we really had no control over it.  One of the activities provided was a photo opportunity and Daniel and I took advantage of that:

There were lots of friendly faces, lots of eager families, and the day was just plain fun! Daniel sat in the sun and watched the world go by. There were many friends who stopped by his chair and asked about how he was doing, and stayed to visit.  Around two o’clock he was tired, and the crowd was dwindling, so we decided to go home.  He had enjoyed the day so much, and I was so glad that he could be there, but home is best when a person is tired, and we came home to the old farmhouse at Shady Acres and he got onto his chair, and I got onto mine.

But the kitchen needed cleaning, and Monday was the day for soup for the homeless, so there was chicken corn noodle soup to make.  The afternoon flew by, and the soup got made, and evening came.  I was unloading the dishwasher when I turned and rammed my head straight into a cupboard door. Wowser!  That hurt, too!  I looked to see if Daniel had noticed.  (He has warned that I need to close my cupboard doors so I don’t bump my head! I TRY!  I really do)!  He was asleep.  I rubbed the spot and hoped that I wouldn’t have a bruise and went back to making order of the kitchen.

I was finishing things up, and I was thinking about ways that I could be a “Help Suitable” to Daniel in our current situation.  My hands were on automatic as I made our evening cups of tea, and I noticed that my Tupperware sugar canister was out of sugar.  I fetched a bag of sugar and dumped it in, filled the sugar bowl, put the lid on, and finished up the tea.  I took the tea over to Daniel and then came back to finish clearing the counter. The Tupperware sugar canister goes in the corner lazy Susan under the counter, and I picked it up to put it away.  The lid popped off and the entire canister with the four pounds of sugar dumped upside down on my kitchen floor, partly on the throw rug, and partly on the linoleum.

I stood there and looked at that mess, and I stopped thinking about how I could be a “wife suitable.”  My first reaction was pretty much, “Really, Lord Jesus??? Here I am, trying to do what’s right and YOU let this happen!”  I wanted to cry, but it was getting late, and no one was going to clean it up but me, so I gathered my broom and my courage and cleaned it up.

I also thought and thought.  At the back of my head a pivotal memory kept niggling at my conscious thought.  Over 36 years ago, I was pregnant with Rachel, our youngest daughter.  One Sunday evening after church, I was feeling especially rough, and I said to Daniel, “I’m not feeling good.  I’m going to the car.”  Which I did.  I crawled into the back seat of the minivan and hoped he would gather the family and take me home.  Daniel is a very social person and he got busy talking and the children were playing and the minutes passed.  I lay in that back seat and thought dark thoughts.  I was wishing that he would come, (and thinking he should care enough to hurry up!!!) and it didn’t take long for my thoughts to disintegrate down accusatory and presumptuous trails.

“Why doesn’t he come???” I thought.  “I’m pregnant and I’m feeling bad and he doesn’t even care!  If he really loved me, he would come and take me home.  He must not really love me, or he would understand what I need!”   Of course, by now, there were tears and anger and resentment and self-pity and all the feels. The lights of the church house made prisms of the tears in the dark in the back seat of that van, and then I heard that inner voice that started nudging into my other consciousness.

“Really, Mary Ann?  You would doubt Daniel’s love for you because he doesn’t come and take you home when you think he should?  Hold still a minute, child, and think of the many, many ways he shows his love for you and your children.  Think of his provision for you and the family, for the support and freedom he gives you to be yourself, and how he doesn’t criticize.  Think of how he never asks you to chose between him and a child’s needs.  And while it’s okay to want him to take you home, the timing is not a proof of his love or lack thereof.” 

“Oh . . . yes.  About all that . . .”  My heart stilled.  Of course, about the time I had settled down, he came, rounded up the children, we went home, and all was well.

The temptation to think the same things about my Heavenly Father have sometimes rattled my faith in this last year.  One thing after another has seemed to hit our family with relentless force.  Sometimes the smallest things (four pounds of sugar on the kitchen floor, an aching head and a bruised chest) can upend an otherwise somewhat steady equilibrium and cause me to question the bigger whole.  “If He really loved me . . . “

Brothers and Sisters, is it really any different?  Do I question His love and His provision for us over our current perplexing and distasteful journey when our history is so rich with His Faithfulness?  Is my memory so clouded over by what we are facing that my eyes are turned away from the Eternal and the Bigger Story?  Am I so blinded by fear that I cannot see the awesome timing of the events of the last 30 days?  It’s truly been Providential. To turn away from His Goodness and chose to think He doesn’t care, in this our greatest hour of need looks exceeding unwise.  And lonely. And dark.

So while I do not pretend to understand, and I’m not going to pretend that I like it or that I never struggle with “why?” I want it understood that we know that we are loved by the Father.  We know that He is Good.  We believe He is with us.  We are held by that Love.  We are also held and helped and steadied by the love and prayers and support of you all.  Family, friends, acquaintances, and even people we don’t know have rallied to speak life and hope and help where it might be needed. We feel the prayers, we read the notes, we treasure the friendships, and we see Jesus through your love. 

Thank you, and I will update more later.

Daniel’s liver biopsy came back on Thursday morning.  He had the biopsy done on Monday, November 2, and they told us that it wouldn’t be back for seven to ten working days, which would have put it NEXT Wednesday at the earliest, and possibly even Monday, the 16th.  I had spoken to the local oncologist’s office on Tuesday, reiterating again that we wanted a second opinion from UPenn, and they said they would get right on it.

Imagine my surprise on Thursday morning, only three days later, when I got awake to “You have test results available in My Chart.”  And I did hurry over there to check which it was (as there were still some labs out).  It was the biopsy results that were posted. I felt my heart drop into my shoes as I read the results.

Daniel does, in fact, have liver cancer. The biopsy was very clear.  I called the oncologist’s office and told them that the results were already in and they brought them up while I was still on the phone.  She reviewed them and then said to me that, “while this is not something, (obviously!) that he would want to deal with, the good news is that it is a liver cancer, not metastasized from anywhere else, and there are any of a number of treatments available that are specifically directed to these types of cancer.”

They had already sent a referral to UPenn The day before, but when the results were in his “My Chart,” the local oncologist office sent the results to UPenn, alerting them for the second day in a row that we wanted a second opinion and a treatment plan. Within a very short time, UPenn Called, and made an appointment for this coming Thursday (11/12/2026) with their cancer center where they will discuss the nature of the beast, and give us options for treatment.  The local office told us that the oncologist that we have been seeing recommended that we go with a University Hospital because the knowledge and options and resources are “better.” It has been absolutely fascinating to see the unusual rapidity of the tests, results and ensuing appointments coming together, and we choose to see it as providential miracles of timing!

One of the things that has been difficult for us from the very beginning was that the local oncologist (probably to keep us from building our hopes too high) had said that there are very few liver cancers that are not metastatic in nature. In addition to telling us that the mass was too large for surgery, he intoned on several occasions that he was concerned that Daniel would not be able to withstand the treatment needed and spoke of palliative care through the hospital, or an organization of our choice.  Daniel was not doing at all well on either of our visits.  The stomach bug was still bothering him, and his right hip was (and is) very painful and it makes him walk with a gait that causes people to worry if they know him (and stand back to make way for him if they don’t) and I wonder if the doctor got an inaccurate impression.

I came out to where Daniel was sitting in his chair and pulled a kitchen chair in beside him.  I told him what the results were saying and the information sat quiet between us.  We didn’t say much, and then he disappeared for a while and went into our bedroom.  Some time later, he came out and informed me that he was going to go do chores.  He was out for quite a while, and eventually I heard the tractor running, and looked out the window.  He was zipping around out there and it looked like he was okay.  We are currently out of chickens (another timing of Providence) but he was getting hay out for the steers and doing “farmer stuff.”

I thought about this man I married. It was how he has always processed bad news- to go out alone and work. He wasn’t feeling so bad physically that morning, but the news was hard. He has had so much pain in his right hip and thigh since his back surgery, and has been looking forward to receiving Platelet Rich Plasma (PRP) therapy that had been recommended by his Orthopedic doctor.  An MRI of his right hip was scheduled for that afternoon in preparation for that procedure.  This diagnosis and the uncertainty of the compatibility of the treatments was especially discouraging to us, but we decided to go ahead and get the MRI of the hip and let the doctors figure things out. 

Thursday afternoon, we traveled to Middletown and had the MRI.  Things went well, and we had time to think and talk and by evening, we both felt a great deal of peace concerning what was ahead for us. Besides, our out of state adult Offspringin’s were coming in on Friday, and both of us were certain that sadness combined with panic would do nobody any good.

Friday afternoon, they were all here.  They stayed overnight, and the time was sweet.  They cared for us with understanding as well as providing realistic options for our future.  Some time even before any of us knew there was a liver mass, the family (unknown to Daniel and I) had become very concerned about their Dad and had started working on some propositions to present to us to attempt to get him to slow down.  (Another timing of providence, actually, because there had already been quite a bit of research done concerning legal aspects of the farm).  They came armed and informed.  There were no immediate or hard and fast decisions made, but there was direction given, love spoken, support offered and there was never a single time when Daniel or I felt like we were being pushed into anything.  There was a “meeting,” yes, and it was sobering, but there was so much more to the weekend than the meeting.

The family worked at putting the garden to bed.  They put picnic tables away, sorted lawn chairs and blew leaves out of the pavilion.  They gathered sticks and branches from the yard and broke them into smaller pieces for the fire pit.  Daniel supervised from the golf card and was present and able to enjoy the gloriously beautiful day.  It was chilly, but the weather was delightful and there was so much accomplished. And, yes!!! The granddogs were here, too, livening up the gathering, begging for treats and in general, being a good diversion.

It wasn’t all noise and work. Our Stella-girl managed to tuck herself away for some good reading!

Then, before we quite knew what was happening, and far too soon to suit us, it was time to say goodbye. There were hard hugs, hot tears, and promises of Thanksgiving visits. Suddenly the chaos was over, the shoes were out of the laundry room, the suitcases carried out and the taillights disappeared down the driveway. Deborah and Flori and Christina and Jesse came and put the house back together and all was well.

One of the things that I said to the family in the middle of our meeting was that it is so important to us to remember that we have this moment. There are happy times to be had, good memories to make, and we do not want to waste the time we have being sad. We do not pretend that this isn’t hard. We are often afraid. We do not know how this will turn out. But the other morning, I got awake and Daniel was sleeping there beside me, and I reached over and felt the warmth of him and I thought about how privileged I am to have him still here beside me. It was a splendiferous moment of love, awareness, and gratitude, but also a reminder of our mortality. Which turns my heart again to the future and the eternal. Jesus walks with us. And this Eternal God we serve is already in the future. He has made amazing provision to this 53 year old team in the last 5 weeks, and we choose to trust Him.

Our family is the best. Our friends couldn’t be better. The prayers are the best gifts, and we are grateful for every one. Thank you!


It was more than a Dove Promise when two separate members of our family (Regina, out in Ohio, and Rachel in Washington, DC) unwrapped the same timely promise. We do not intend to let the hard days win, but we cannot do it alone. We need Jesus, and we need the prayers of those we love.

The Annual Thankful Wall got hung last week. Deborah worked her magic, and she and Daniel and Flori hung it on Wednesday night after small group.

Our hearts were heavy then and I guess I could say they are even heavier now. Our Family is standing in the need of prayer!

On Tuesday, the 20th, (The day before these pictures) I took Daniel to Urgent Care in Milton because of nausea, fever and diarrhea that had hung on for a couple of days. They did a preliminary assessment, ordered a CT scan that revealed that he had two masses on his liver, one of which was 9 cm x 5 cm x 7 cm. (the other was considerably smaller). In the 10 days since we have had another CT scan, an MRI, numerous labs, three doctor visits (two of which were with the oncologist) and he is scheduled for a liver biopsy on Monday. We have asked for a second opinion from university of Pennsylvania, and the local doctors have agreed to facilitate that for us once the Biopsy is back. We are grateful for a baseline CT scan, because when he was in the hospital in July with pneumonia and a tickborne illness as well as a UTI, they did a CT scan with contrast (the same as they did last Tuesday) and it was clear at that point. The doctors feel that it is a probable malignancy, and given the size less than four months later, they feel it is fast growing, and so the prognosis is challenging.

Daniel is a very sick man. I’ve been concerned for a number of months because I kept feeling like something wasn’t right. In addition to this, he is dealing with hip and leg pain that is debilitating (Medical personnel do not believe it’s connected but he does have an MRI scheduled for that). He’s also been so tired over these last weeks, as well as complaining of a tightness just below his rib cage. This man who has been the strongest man I’ve ever known, who never gave up, and never let anything stop him is very different from his usual busy, outgoing self.

But listen, Brothers and Sisters, Friends (and acquaintances), we’re not alone! We have been blessed with adult offspringin’s and in-laws and grandchildren that are stellar. They are supportive and involved. Our siblings and their spouses are people who know what it’s like to suffer loss and they know how to pray. Our Church family has rallied, and are doing everything they can to help. And we have friends and neighbors who have assured us that they are praying for us, people we don’t even know have joined the ranks and are praying, too. These are best gifts, and we appreciate each and every one of them. We love the people who care enough to pray.

We do not know how this will turn out, and I do not like to think of the months ahead. But God has promises to keep, and we choose to trust a God who keeps his promises. This is Life. We are human. We wait, but we choose to trust while we wait, and to give thanks for the splashes of joy in this storm.

So, Yes! It’s appropriate to hang this Thankful Wall. There is living to do, memories to make, and so much for which to be thankful. Come by, sign the wall and say a prayer for This Man I love the Most. It will be a blessing to have you!

The week leading to my birthday was an eventful week.  We had an appointment for Certain Man to see if there was something we could do for the recurring pain in his hip and thigh.  For clarification, this pain is not the pain that he had before surgery.  Thankfully, that debilitating, burning nerve pain that went down both legs is gone.  We are very grateful.  However, ever since surgery, there has been an ongoing pain in his hip that affects his walk and puts him off balance.  He’s had x-rays that determined that he does not need a hip replacement, and he has had injections three different times with less success each time, and this past week, his specialist recommended Platelet-Rich Plasma therapy for him.  He cited the fact that Daniel’s pain is not coming from arthritis, but rather a tendon issue, and that, as such, he is a good candidate for this procedure.  Of course, we don’t know that it will be helpful, but we are certainly ready to try something. Even though his problem isn’t stemming from arthritis, the weather seems to affect it, and he has had some really bad days.  It’s hard for me to see this husband of mine who has been such a strong and capable man struggle to do everyday tasks, but I’ve come to realize that it’s even harder for him. 

There were other appointments that kept us busy in the week.  We continue looking for a vehicle since ours got totaled earlier this month. (No injuries, thank God)! Also, I picked tomatoes and peppers to (hopefully) finish off that part of the garden.  The Pole Limas are still producing and on my birthday, I picked two five-gallon buckets from my 23 plants, and with the help of Daniel, Flori, and Christina, got them all shelled before an outing to Cracker Barrel to celebrate 73 trips around the sun.  When we got home, I got the beans blanched, cooled and into the freezer.  Our beans have done very well this year.  I have almost 60 pounds in the freezer from those 23 plants, and (at least until frost comes) they look like they will give even more! I happen to like to pick beans, and I don’t mind shelling them, either.  I have no complaints about our bean patch this year.

My birthday was a quiet day.  The Thursday Morning Bible Study got cancelled because of scheduling conflicts and illness.  It was such a sweet day, filled with texts, sweet Facebook messages and phone calls.  I heard from every one of my offspringin’s, and the words were full of love and respect and warm wishes. As noted before, I picked beans, helped shell them and then went to Cracker Barrel with all of our local family except Granddaughter Charis. We did come home early because Daniel suddenly felt unwell and we decided it was best to just come home.  He’s not been feeling well ever since – off and on tummy upset, and tonight he is running a low-grade fever.  There has been a bug going around, but I do not intend to ignore this.

On Saturday morning, there was what we call “Yoder Breakfast.”  Any of the cousins who are descended from David and Savilla Yoder will upon the whim of a certain Paul Yoder, gather at Rudy’s Restaurant in Harrington for breakfast. The dynamics change, depending on who remembers, who can shuffle schedules and, as of this last time, who can manage to stay upright on a step stool over a concrete garage floor (sorry, Ken Yoder) but it is always well worth our time.  This past Saturday was one of those times, especially for this Delaware Grammy.

Back in May, I wrote a blog about Shoes and my childhood struggle between the wide feet I’d inherited and the Mary Jane buckle shoes I so desperately wanted. 

Someone was listening.

Daniel and I walked into the back room at Rudy’s where cousins had already begun to gather, and I saw an empty chair beside my cousin, Lucy Bontrager Yoder.  There really isn’t any cousin I don’t want to sit beside, but Lucy is always good for conversation, and I was glad the seat was empty.  I sidled up and plopped myself into the chair beside her.  We exchanged brief pleasantries and then she looked at me, her eyes shining.

“Mary Ann.  Would you do something for me today?”  My mind raced.  Lucy is seriously affected by MS, and I wondered what in the world she might ask me to do.  But she is not unreasonable, and I was pretty sure I was safe so I said, rather puzzled, that I would.

“Okay,” she announced.  “I want you to pretend that you are a little girl coming into Lou’s Bootery, and I’ll be Mr. Lou!” (What in the world???). “Just pretend you have just come into my store.”

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly, still unsure what was happening. “Hello,” I said.

“Hello, little girl.  How can I help you?  What Kind of shoe would you like today?” Lucy was putting all the dramatics into this and it was suddenly fun!

“Oh,” I said, “I would really like a pair of black patent leather Mary Jane shoes with straps!”

“Well, guess what!  I think we just might have exactly the thing for you, minus the patent leather!’  Lucy reached below the table and hauled out a bag, holding a shoe box that held a pair of black Mary Jane shoes, just my size, with at strap that was long enough and fastened with a Velcro fastener.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I took off my tie shoes (with the toe almost coming through the front) and slid my feet into these beautiful new shoes.  I held my breath until my feet settled comfortable and snug inside them, and then I cried.

I’m not eight years old.  I’m 73.  And I have no visions of grandeur when it comes to thinking a pair of shoes will somehow make either me or my feet more acceptable.  It isn’t that at all.  It’s the fact that someone listened, someone cared, and I feel seen somehow.  It is such a gift.

Oh, my sweet cousin.  You have faced challenges, reversals, rejection and loss that would have turned a lesser person into a bitter, selfish recluse, but you have lived with Grace and thought beyond yourself and the injustices that life has handed you.  It is a gift that you have given, not only to others, but to yourself as you have allowed the Light to shine through you.  It has made you beautiful.

Thank you for my shoes.  They are far more than a childhood wish fulfilled and I will treasure them for all they represent.

Another Church Retreat is in the books for Carpenter Bridge Community Church.  The leftover food got divvied out, the floors got swept and some of them mopped, the bathrooms and kitchen cleaned, and the mountain of supplies loaded and toted home. The  Leech Hall at Mardella Springs Campground is quiet and, true to our policy, left in better order than we found it.

I remember that, years ago, when we first moved to Delaware there was a discussion in the pepper patch one evening as we worked on yet another missions pepper project.  “Why,” queried one hot and bothered teenager, “do all the other churches go on retreat weekends, and our church  never does?”  It was the fall of the year, and “things” were being discussed at school about how much fun the area teens had on the yearly pilgrimages the other churches made to Denton Weslyan Camp.  “Well,” said another fellow laborer, “Laws church doesn’t go on retreats.  We raise peppers for missions.”

There was general laughter, but the question hung around.  Laws Mennonite Church (now Carpenter Bridge Community Church) had raised peppers for years on land donated for such an endeavor, and it had been profitable.  It was hard work from beginning to end, and Delaware climate isn’t exactly encouraging for eager participation.  There was planting, weeding, and picking that involved manual, back breaking work.  However, there was camaraderie in those pepper patches.  Families would come together to help and children worked alongside of adults and there was intention and a sense of mission. However, those with the vision grew old, and there were years when it was hard to get help, and the market was not as good, and one year, quietly, the project was dropped. I do not know if that was the same year that we decided to have a church retreat or not, but it was certainly around that time that there was enough interest to decide to move forward with establishing our yearly Church Retreat Weekends.

The memories of those first years are awash with good memories for me. There were activities and crafts and games into the night, sweet cabins and laughter and conversation and good food. But the years passed, our numbers dwindled, and the prices at Denton Camp became cost prohibitive, and we looked for other venues.  It has been a few years now that we have used Camp Mardela, a children’s camp run by the Church of the Brethren, also in Denton.  The first years were a bit of an adjustment after the amenities of Denton Wesleyan Camp, a very large complex of cabins and gymnasiums and beautiful dining halls and meeting spaces.  Camp Mardela has almost none of the updated features of the other camps.  We’ve discovered, however, that a campground can be somewhat what you make it, and we have come to love the rustic, backwoods atmosphere at Camp Mardela.  It is remote, back a very long lane, and has paths for hiking, kayaks for renting, water and more water for exploring, and it is child friendly.  Bikes are welcome, and there is playground equipment, places to park campers, dorms and individual room and a huge dining hall complete with fireplace.    And this year, as an added attraction, they have a wild turkey that has been hanging around since spring.  The camp administration have named him Jim, and according to printed information available, he has become the camp mascot!  He has not been aggressive, and he wanders around, much like he owns the place.  His markings are unusual, but there hasn’t been given a reason why.  Does anybody know?

The annual 2026 Church Retreat was this past weekend.  A storm was battering the east coast, and there was repeated downpours, lots of wet children, two dogs, sand that got drug into the conference/dining room, and even a ten year old that fell into the river.  It was cold outside, the fireplace did not draw properly so there was a smoky smell, and there would have been plenty of reasons for people to be out of sorts with each other.  The children were noisy, the outside activities for Saturday had to be cancelled.  Most of the playing was still done outside, in between the raindrops (or not!) but there were definitely very wet children.  There were babies and children and some young people and parents and grandparents all together in that environment and it could have been unpleasant. 

But it was anything but unpleasant.  The atmosphere was tolerant and joyful and accepting. There were table games, lots of coloring, crafts for the women, and big bubbles for the children. There was even a Trivia Pursuit game on Saturday night  The conversations were informative, encouraging and so much more.  It was just plain one of the sweetest times we’ve had, and Certain Man and I came home with more good memories to hold in our hearts. 

Please understand.  I am not against pepper projects for missions, but the atmosphere in the pepper patch does not begin to provide the same kind of memories that warm our hearts that we find in being with our church family even when the weather is terrible and the children are loud and there is smoke in the room.  We are so blessed.

If your church hasn’t done something like this, maybe you should consider a weekend camp gathering.  Elect a good committee (ours was excellent this year and it does help to choose carefully) and start planning now for next year.  I will admit that our church family usually enjoys being together on any given Sunday, but even if you find that it doesn’t come easily to your church, I promise you, it is worth a try.  And may God bless the efforts.

#Myheartgivesgratefulpraise

We stood at a serving table in a little unpretentious church, waiting for our neighbors who have next to nothing to come for a simple meal. She stood there beside me, a little woman quietly doing what she did on Monday evening, arranging napkins, plastic utensils, water, prepackaged cookies, and we waited for the van that had gone to pick up our neighbors. It was late. The time lay loosely on our hands. Somebody said that sister Juana could sing. I asked if she would, and she did.  And then we sang together, she in Spanish and I in English, and the ground was holy, and the air was full of Jesus.

The months passed, and one thing I looked forward to on the Monday nights that our church provided meals for the homeless was Sister Juana. She was almost always there, quiet, but with a warm smile and a hug that felt as warm as my own Sweet Mama’s.  In the last months, she has been missing some. She went to Puerto Rico to provide Health Care for a family member who was ill, but she came back.  She seemed more fragile than ever, but not critically so, and then, yesterday I heard that she had gone to Heaven.

I hadn’t planned on going to Iglesia last evening. It was Carpenter Bridge Community Church’s night to take food, but my friend Shirley had planned to do it all because of an inordinately busy couple of weeks for me. But when I heard yesterday morning that Sister Juana had passed away, I wanted to be with her people. I asked Shirley to please pick me up on her way in to deliver her food, and she graciously stopped and took me along.

I walked into that familiar room, and she was not there. But the people who loved her were. And they hugged me and let me weep, although their loss is way larger than mine, and they talked to me about Heaven and that she was THERE and that she was well and that she was happy. Nothing would ever trouble her again. The loss was acknowledged, and the grief validated, but there was the unmistakable flavor of Eternity with God and my heart was redirected from loss to what really matters.

And I am comforted.

Fare thee well, Sister Juana.  I am so much the better for having you as a friend.

Shoes

I’m sitting on my Hickory rocker in the corner of our bedroom. It was given to us by my Daddy probably 30 years ago. It’s a perfect place for thinking and remembering.  On this morning, I’m polishing my shoes. For some reason this particular activity gives me pause for reflection and a whole lot of memories.

My shoes are black. They are tie shoes. They are sensible. They fit me. I have worn the same SAS brand of footwear for at least 25 years. About every two years, I will go and buy a new pair. The same style, usually the same size, and relegate my older pair to second best, and my third oldest pair to garden shoes.

 Shoes have always been somewhat of an issue with this girl. I was born with very wide feet, and also a genetic deformity that is predisposing me to serious arthritis in my feet.  I remember as a little girl that one of the things I wanted was a pair of patent leather Mary Jane buckle shoes like my cousins had. I remember that my parents finally gave in to my five-year-old pestering and brought home the perfect pair of Mary Jane shoes. Like Cinderella’s stepsisters I forced my feet into them, and they were long enough, and almost wide enough, but alas! The strap did not even meet the buckle on the other side of this shoe. My Daddy, ever the practical one, voiced the opinion that there would never be a pair of Mary Janes that would fit me.

 I kept hoping though. One year when my shoes were worn out, and I desperately needed a new pair, daddy and Mama took me along to Milford, and took me into the Bata Shoe store on North Walnut Street, where pair after pair did not fit.  Mr. Bata was very kind. He eventually brought out a pair of Girl Scout shoes. Brown. Tie. Masculine.  He gently put them on my feet and tied them up. They fit perfectly. They were comfortable.

And I hated them!

 I remember standing in that store with boxes of shoes around me on the floor and crying. Mr. Bata put his arm around my shoulders and gently said, “What is wrong?”

“They’re boy’s shoes,” I sobbed, trying desperately not to blubber.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Bata, his arm still around my shoulder.  “They are not.  Would I put my girl in boy’s shoes?”  It certainly looked like it to me, but his earnest kindness was genuine, and I was comforted by that.  A little. 

However, the teen years were ahead of me.  The tiny spike heels, with the dainty pointed toes were in style and a lot of girls had them.  Shoes mattered in my circle, and there was more than once when I overheard things whispered (or not so whispered) along with giggles about the shoes I had to wear.  The truth was, I could not fit into that dainty kind of shoe, and somewhere along the line, I decided that I didn’t care.  That I wouldn’t care.  That I couldn’t care.  It took blisters and pain and wasted money on shoes that I thought I could somehow bear to wear and couldn’t, but there seriously came a day when I decided that it just wasn’t worth it.

And so the years passed.

I will never forget that when Certain Man and I were getting married, I shopped for suitable shoes and I think I found them at the famous Lou’s Bootery here in Milford.  They were a sweet pair of white Hush Puppies, wide width, with a very low heel and a classy basket weave.  I was working for Dr. and Mrs. Crabb at the time, and Mrs. Crabb was hospitalized in her final, vicious battle, just days before she slipped away from us.  She had an inordinate curiosity about the details of the wedding, and I trundled shower gifts and my wedding dress and penciled plans to her hospital room to show her everything. 

One day she said to me, “Mary Ann, have you bought your shoes yet?”

“Yes!” I said, happily.  “I have!”  And I tried to explain them to her.

She hesitated, then said, “Would you mind bringing them up and showing them to me?”  Well, this was different.  She wanted to see my shoes? Oh, well.  I fetched them along on the very next visit.  I laid the box on her bed and removed the cover.  She lifted them out, almost reverently, and examined them carefully.  Then she said, “Oh, Mary Ann.  I’m so relieved!  These are beautiful!  You do have the frumpiest tastes when it comes to shoes, but these will be okay!”

Frumpy, eh???  I laughed.  I was a 19-year old bride who loved the woman who delivered that statement with a loyalty that would have survived almost anything she said to me, and I wasn’t in the least offended.  But over the years, I’ve polished serviceable black shoes with shoe laces (that I can–at least– walk in) and I hear her voice and remember.

What if I am truly more comfortable in those “frumpy” shoes.  What if, instead of opting out, I can stay longer, walk further, and think about something besides my aching feet when they are frumpily ensconced?

I have heard (and suspect that it is true) that there are people in this world who notice shoes first and form opinions.  If you are one of those individuals, and you see my frumpy shoes, and have an opinion, it’s okay.  Think what you will.  I’m going to try to be comfortable.

The Peonies are blooming. The ones beside the lane have been growing there for over 30 years . . .

And the ones that grew on Certain Man’s Mother’s grave are also blooming, but almost done. These are Heirloom plants and they look different from the ones beside the drive.

Every time the peonies bloom I remember the woman I never met who gave birth to this man I love, and I’m grateful.

I also remember this musing from a file in my desk from long ago.

Spring Musings

Her Daddy loves growing things. Along our walk and hither and yon he has planted peonies. They grew on his mother’s grave and he loves their lavish colors and extravagant fragrance.

She is our youngest: twenty months of energy, smiles and personality. Like her daddy, she loves growing things. She has just discovered that peonies have flowers and flowers have smell. I’m working in the flower bed beside the house tonight, and she is fighting a loosing battle with wanting to pick the posies.

The buds are nearly ready to burst. The plants are loaded. One flower more or less won’t matter, I tell myself as her little fingers begin to dismantle a bud. She works industriously to free some petals, and beaming, toddles over to me. Proudly she shows me her handful of crumpled flower petals, smells them with long effusive breaths, and then holds them up for me to smell.

At first I smell but sweaty baby hand, but the the haunting, lingering smell of spring peonies comes bravely through.

I watch her glowing face, think of our delight in this child, and think of my own Heavenly Father. Far better than I is He at seeing the beauty and smelling the fragrance in the broken petals I bring to Him. Some of it has been done in innocence, as my Toddler’s joyous enjoyment of life reminds me.

But some has not been so innocent or carefree. Yet still, this Father of Love can take what has been lost beyond repair and accept what brokenness I offer Him and loves me and gives me hope. He smells the fragrance when others cannot. His love for me transforms something worthless into a thing of great treasure.

And that is Grace Enough!

I Wish I Hadn’t Said It . . .

She is my Auntie.

When the phone rings at our house, I listen for the caller I.D., and if it is a day that I’ve already answered and talked to her, I let it ring.

She usually leaves a voice message.  If it is the second or third one for the day, I already know that it’s not a good day.  If I’m not home (or otherwise occupied) when the message is left, I can tell from her voice whether it’s a good day or one of those days when things are not right for her.

It seems the darkness grows deeper by the day.  I make it my goal to bring back to life happy memories, stories of her childhood printed on my heart from my own sweet Mama, accomplishments now forgotten, things done right, said right, and especially sweet things about her husband, now gone these 14 years.  If I can get her to laugh, it makes my day.

I hear, laced through the repetitive questions, the shadows of what she wishes had been different.  She remembers a papa, brilliant, talented, but caught in the throes of a violent mental health crisis. She remembers coming to a new community and feeling safe, and loved and accepted for probably the first time in her life.  She remembers betrayal that turned to blessing and still feels the shakiness of a faith that wasn’t nurtured in Grace but in performance and punishment for failure. She worries about eternity and questions that are way beyond her and me.  She repeatedly tells me that she misses the community, feeling that, if she had just stayed here, it would fix everything.  I remind her gently that what she (and all of us) miss is our youth, our strength, and the people we love who have gone on before, and she hears me for the moment and acknowledges the truth, but she will forget in the next paragraph because she cannot help it.

Some days are harder than others.  Today was one of those.  I answered the phone that rang earlier than usual, and the voice at the other end was troubled. She asked about old friends, (long gone) and inquired about their health, and thought that she hadn’t heard of their passings.  She grieves that she wasn’t at her sister, My Sweet Mama’s funeral, nearly 11 years ago, (she was there) because she thinks her “death would be more real to her if she had just been there.”  For some strange reason, she doesn’t forget that her three older sisters are gone, but she confuses her youngest sister with her youngest daughter and tells me that her daughter’s husband has passed away. Usually, she is able to be steered back to reality without causing her too much embarrassment for forgetting.

I’m asked repeatedly why I answer her calls, and why I spend time talking to her when she won’t remember in an hour that she talked to me, and if I don’t answer for a week, she will leave messages, but never remember that I didn’t answer.

This is all true.  She won’t remember.

But I will.

So, though I will continue to set parameters, I will continue to answer my auntie when her name comes up on my caller I.D. when I can.

Why?  Because I remember the woman she was, and how her heritage shaped her with her love of words, her intelligence, her expressive emotions, and even the brokenness that has been more evident since she lost her husband who helped to hold her steady through many difficult years.

Why?  Because I know that this encroaching darkness is robbing her of not only her fierce independence, but also the good memories of her varied and happy life.  They are getting lost with the onslaught of the difficult inconveniences of growing older, and it is so hard for her as she tries to muddle through.  The emotions are crashing around her very soul, and she isn’t sure why she feels so much grief, so much confusion, and why she cannot make even the smallest decisions about her life. Yes, it’s a normal process, but my heart aches for her.

WHY?  (And this may be the most selfish reason of all).  Because I know the time is coming when she will not only not know my phone number, but she will not know my name.  This Auntie who was in the house when I was born, who has always been a cheerleader and an encourager.  Who even now tells me things that aren’t true, but it makes her feel normal to say things that she thinks will make me feel good about myself, my husband and my family.  Like so many things, what does it matter?  She believes it for this moment, and it’s okay.

The day will come when the progression will have taken its toll, and the voice will be silent and there won’t be tangible memories for her to repeat . . . and I will weep. 

But by God’s Grace, not with regret.