Monthly Archives: April 2025

I looked at the basket of laundry that had been sitting in our bedroom for (ahem!) a week.

Early in our marriage, I purposed that I would not allow unfolded laundry to sit in the dryer, a basket or lie on a surface, unfolded.  I especially purposed that my husband would never have to root through unfolded clothes to find his socks and underwear.  But there it sat and I feared for the simple basic coverings of the good man. There had been unusually heavy traffic through our lives over the last week, and I had “hidden” the basket in our bedroom so that people wouldn’t notice.  The problem was/is that when it is out of the public’s view, it is also out of my view, and consequently, out of my mind.  Until bedtime.  Then I sigh and promise myself that I will get to it tomorrow.  Which hadn’t happened.

“I really need to fold that laundry!” I said to Certain Man.  “I’m afraid you are almost out of socks and underwear!” 

He laughed a bit and then said, “I am, but this morning I lessened the amount of folding you will need to do.”

“What???” I asked, a bit warily. “Did you –?”

“Yep,” he said, his grey eyes twinkling, and the smiley lines chasing themselves around themselves. “I got myself a pair of socks and some underwear out of the basket this morning.”

“Oh, Daniel,” I said remorsefully.  “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he said calmly.  “it really is no trouble at all.”

“I know, but—”

I got to thinking about it later.  About why I’ve washed, dried, folded and put away his laundry these fifty years, and I realized that the impetus comes partly from being the wife of such a good man.  It isn’t fear that has motivated me all these years.  Certain Man has NEVER reproached me, much less scolded me for the way I do laundry, or for being late with his clothing.  I do it because I want to. This man has always worked so hard, and he provides so well for us.  He’s kind, and he isn’t one person at home and another in public.  Oh, he can get riled up as any man worth his salt will, and I’ve learned that there are certain things “up with which he will not put!!!” but for the most part living with him is easy.

There was a statement made to me one day when I was going out of my way to do something for my husband. Someone was observing me and said, very condescendingly, “You only do that so he will like you!!!”

I thought that was an interesting statement.  I mean, “Duh!” Of course I wanted him to like me!  I really wanted him to like me, and so, (I thought) that was a good enough reason for doing something for this good man.  

But something didn’t feel right . . .

I pondered and pondered, and something kept simmering at the edge of my conscious thought.  But so often, things get crowded out by the stuff that seems to fill our days and I just didn’t take the time (kinda like getting around to fold that basket of laundry) to dissect and figure it out.  But there came a day when I told the story of “You just do that so he will like your!” and the ending hung in the air like a dangling participle. It suddenly felt important to find a better reason than, “So he will like me!”  

Then one day while I was mulling this over, I suddenly remembered something that happened back in February of 1980.  I had traveled to Delaware with Rosedale students, taking 3-year old Christina, our almost 2-year old foster son, Raynie, and our 3-month old Deborah. Our family was in the aftermath of saying good-bye to our 11 year old foster daughter, Anna, and it is safe to say that our hearts were breaking. Certain Man stayed behind to work because he had to. But it felt like taking the children home to Grandpa and Grandma Yoder would be healing.  We had a 15 passenger van, and there were a goodly number of Delaware students headed home for the winter break, so the deal was that they could use our van, do the driving, (Thank you, T.J. Tennefoss) and I could ride along, spend the week, and come back with them.

A few days after arriving in Delaware, Raynie spiked a fever of 105. He was lethargic and nothing I did brought the fever down. We took him to Milford’s Emergency Room, and Dr. David, the local pediatrician, attempted a spinal tap.  The spinal fluid was thick, it was pretty certain that it was spinal meningitis, and Raynie needed to be airlifted to the Wilmington Hospital for specialized care (there was no Christiana Care).  Raynie was comatose at this point, and I wasn’t allowed to go with him.  Daniel was back in Ohio, I had a three month old and a three year old at my parents’ house, and it was late evening.  I had all the necessary papers to have him treated, but as a foster parent, I didn’t have any legal authority regarding the treatment plan.  I remember standing in the cold parking lot, watching the helicopter carrying our precious toddler, lift off.  It was raining,and I was weeping uncontrollably, feeling completely helpless.  I had been Raynie’s mama since he was 11 weeks old, and he was very much “ours.”  Not only that, he was frantic whenever he was separated from Daniel and me for any length of time, and I was so afraid. 

My Sweet Mama, beside me in the cold darkness,  wrapped her arms around me and said, “Mary Ann, you need to come home.  There is no way for you to go to Wilmington tonight, and there is nothing you can do there.  You need to get home to Christina and Deborah, and we will decide in the morning what we will do.” It broke my heart, but I knew she was right.  I went home, nursed my infant, settled my three year old and spent a restless night.  In the morning, we went to Wilmington, my family shared babysitting responsibilities, and I got the plan of treatment — at least 15 days of IV antibiotics.  I looked through the glass window at my baby, clad only in a diaper, in a very cold room, completely motionless, IV leads hanging, and I felt like my heart was ripped out.  They finally allowed me to suit up, go in and caress his little body, but I was not allowed to pick him up or cuddle him.  I talked to him, sang to him, whispered words of love to him, and when I wasn’t in his room, cried buckets.

There was no Ronald McDonald house available, but hope appeared in the form of an offer for housing in Wilmington that would make seeing him much easier.   I gratefully accepted it, and My Sweet Mama, (who spent time with Raynie when I wasn’t available) Christina, Deborah and I descended upon the house.  I’m not sure what our host was thinking, because it wasn’t long before we knew that it wasn’t quite how she expected it, and one evening she cornered me and said (something to the effect of), “You need to think about how guilt is propelling you to care about this child.  He’s a foster child, and you are allowing your guilt to put you into this ‘need to be close by,’ and it’s just too much!” 

I felt like I had been slapped.  Mama and I talked, and decided that it would be better to return to Greenwood, and work out a plan.   Before I left, I thanked her for having us, but tearfully said to her, “You know, not everything hard that we do is because of guilt.  Sometimes it’s done because we love someone.”

So! As I was thinking about this whole thing of why I do things for my husband that people sometimes think (or say) are unnecessary, (or for ulterior motives) I came to the honest conclusion that, yes, I do things for Certain Man because I want him to like me.  This is true.  But I also do most of what I do for him because I not only like him and want him to like me, but I love him.  And for me, that is reason enough.  And I intend to keep on doing them as long as I’m able.

So there! 

And just so you know:
-The laundry got folded.
-Raynie got better.
-Our host apologized for what she said.
-Because the stay in the hospital was longer than term break at Rosedale, our van went back to Ohio without us, and our Agency paid for airline tickets to fly the four of us home when Raynie was discharged from the hospital. (Franklin County Children’s Services did ask me if I was singlehandedly trying to build a wing on Children’s Hospital. Yikes)!

There were far more lessons learned that week than I can begin to tell, some of which may have had to do with a Good Man, but nothing to do with unfolded laundry! The truth is, our God is able to bring good out of the hardest circumstances, and even in our pain, fear, confusion, reversal and loss, He has a plan, and we are not alone.  He cares, and if we look for Him, He can be found.

THIS, I Believe!

Friday.

I had spent the day at Middle Daughter’s house while she worked so that someone would be there in case Flori, who was two days past ankle surgery, needed anything. (I was also there so that if Gordita, Flori’s puppy, needed to go out, or needed cleaned up after her frequent potty accidents, or needed shushed so that Flori could sleep, someone would be there to ride herd)!

The day wasn’t hard, but it was long, and for some reason, this 71 year old grammy was dragging. Mid afternoon, two of Flori’f family showed up with pizza, and I came home for a brief interlude, then went back. Certain Man had been working hard all day, and he was picking up sticks in the yard, running the lawn roller over some of the uneven places, and doing all manner of things that are imperative to his peace of mind in the spring. I noted that he was walking slower than usual, and I worried.

MIddle Daughter got home around 4:45 and another of Flori’s uncles showed up with a McDonald’s meal. Then Eldest Daughter and Beloved Son in Law#1 showed up about the same time, and I was feeling a little unnecessary.

“I’m going to go home,” I announced around 5:15. “I’m really tired, and I don’t think I’m needed here anymore.” There was some general discussion about that, and then it was decided that I should “take two slices of pizza home to Grandpa” (Flori’s insistence) since he had probably not had much to eat all day.
–
The day was waning, as were the last of my energy reserves. I loaded up my minivan, and headed out, down the road and around the corner, and just as I came to our chicken house lane (but too late to turn in) I saw CM in the yard, still picking up sticks. I pulled into the yard beside the road and he walked over to the minivan. He opened the passenger’s side door and slid into the seat beside me.

“Hey, Sweetheart! I have pizza for you! Are you almost done?”

“Just about,” he sighed, and I noticed the way he sat on the seat, and knew that he was almost too tired to go on.

“Why don’t I come help you finish up?” I said.

“No!” he said, “I don’t have that much to finish up. You go on in.” But then he sat there and we talked a good 15 minutes about everything else. I was convinced that he was sitting long because he was so tired, and several times I mentioned that I should just help him. Every time, he objected. “No! I’m almost done. I really don’t need any help!” And at the final offer he said, “I will be fine. Go ahead and take the Pizza in and I will be in pretty soon.”

For some reason, it felt like his instruction lacked authority, so I turned the minivan around, parked it on the chicken house lane and went to help him. There was some mumbling about “I said I didn’t need any help, mumble grumble, I said that you should just go up to the house, grumble, grumble,” but he did not actually order me to go, so I went about picking up the sticks in my little corner of the yard in the space between the road and his trailer.

I did think about the fact that I was exceedingly weary, and that if felt like those crazy sticks felt unusually heavy, but I was starting to limber up a bit, and I was glad to be helping. Not five minutes into my good deed, I came up to the trailer, and I honestly do not know what happened, but suddenly I was on the ground, smashing my face into the soft ground, knocking my glasses askew, and something was really hurting on my cheekbone.

I was in full view of the road, and Certain Man wasn’t saying anything, so I figured he hadn’t seen the show, so I hurriedly got up on my hands and knees. About then I heard a very surprised voice saying, “Hon!!! Where–? What in the world??? Did you fall???” (“No, my dear husband, I’m just crawling around down here for the fun of it!”) I got myself up in a big hurry because we have a very busy road, and I was only about 20 feet off the shoulder and I was hoping no one was looking.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have another shiner,” I said to Certain Man. I gingerly felt the offended cheekbone and felt the familiar egg rising. “I think I will go and get some ice on this.”

“I think you had better,” said CM. “It’s already bruising.” I walked over to where I had landed and there was a softball size indention in the ground where my face had hit. And I’ve been pondering this ever since. Why is it that whenever I trip, my face lands first? Everyone who knows me knows that what sticks out most is my tummy. Why can’t I just land on that and be done with it? But, no! The old face has to plant in whatever happens to be there, and then all the evidence of my klutziness is out there for everyone to comment on. “What did the other fellow look like?” “I didn’t know football tryouts were starting yet!” “What did Daniel do to you?” And the one that I hate most from every professional person I encounter, “Do you feel safe at home?”

I was so grateful that nothing else was damaged, though, and it got to be a little bit funny when I thought about it. But then, last night, lying in bed, I had to cough and was uncomfortable in my mid region. “Oh, boy!” I thought. “I probably have something really wrong with me. Probably pancreatic cancer or something.” My mind was going in all sorts of directions when I suddenly thought about the fact that I had taken a tumble and I had hit my tummy pretty significantly. “H-m-m-m-m,” I reassessed. “I believe I did hit something besides just my face.

And I went straight to sleep without anymore concern.

Yesterday was a ladies luncheon. Last evening we had dinner guests. Today was potluck at church. I’ve had to repeat the story over and over again. I’m tired of telling it. (Except it is kinda fun to see people’s reaction when I tell them, “This is what happens when you don’t listen to your husband.” Certain Man seems to like me to say that, too. 🙂 In any case, this is an attempt to inform the general public what happened. You may laugh if you wish. I certainly have (in between feeling sorry for myself)!

And there is still much to be grateful for, and I am, I am!

About 53 years ago, a barely 19 year old Daniel Yutzy started to make a cedar chest for a girl he was intending to propose to. (I said “Yes!” on the eve of my 19th birthday, on October 14, 1972). It was made over the same pattern as the cedar chest that his father, Ralph, had made for his fiancé, Katie, back in the mid 40’s. Back in those days, an engagement ring was unheard of in our circles (Daniel and I still do not wear wedding bands) but a watch or a handcrafted item like a cedar chest were the usual gifts given to a girl to seal the promise. Daniel and his Father finished it before the wedding, and it became a constant in every home we lived in.

Usually it was a part of the living room furniture, situated under a picture window. Through the years, first our foster children and then “The Five Offspringin’s” used it as a craft table, a coloring stand, a window seat or anything else for which it might be deemed handy. The years were hard on it. It looked really rough. A broken leg, a cracked top, lots of deep scratches, even evidence of some permanent markers. It troubled the heart of Certain Man a lot. It was not how he intended The Cedar Chest to be used, much less look. Sometime ago, he decided that he was going to refinish it, and he hauled it out to his workshop where he has been working on it off and on ever since. There have been other projects that have come in between, but last week while I was in Virginia, he finished it. I came into the house after a harrowing journey, and there it sat in its refinished splendor. The man I love most had done another labor of love and the result was amazing.

I am in a far better position to know the quality, artisan workmanship, and time that went into restoring this nostalgic piece of furniture than I was as the recipient of this gift as a nineteen year old. I liked it then. This young man that I was marrying had put so much labor into it, and he was modestly proud of what he had done, but I didn’t quite realize the value of such a gift. The years of living with a man who grew up with a knowledge of wood, and whose experience in cabinet making has taught me so many lessons, and I’m in awe of his many giftings.

The 50+ year old Cedar Chest is incredibly beautiful to me, and precious. It holds more than a plethora of blankets. It holds memories that rattle around in my head and warm my heart. Memories of love, forgiveness, compromise, teamwork and friendship that have made a teenage marriage not only endure, but thrive. And memories of the sweet, sweet years when our children were all home and a familiar old Cedar chest sat intrinsically present, but little noticed in the variegated and colorful fabric of our lives.

Once again, it sits under a window in our home. Between the two chairs where Certain Man and I often sit. It is at home, and the restoration is something I will always treasure.

#myheartgivesgratefulpraise