Category Archives: home living

November 20, 2015 · 6:25 am

The siblings break bread

It is a Tuesday afternoon.  I stir the white sauce that is slowly thickening on my front burner.  On the back burner, a large kettle is beginning to simmer with carrots, onions, celery, potatoes and seasonings.  The shrimp is thawed in the over the sink mesh colander, waiting for its turn to be added to the chowder that I’m putting together for our evening meal.

I hear the door into the laundry room entry way open and feel a surge of anticipation.  He walks into the kitchen with that familiar tread.  My brother is here!  I put down the  scissors I am using to cut the shrimp and dry my hands.  He is not a hugger, but he doesn’t mind a hug sometimes and this is one time when I get away with it.  His smile is steady, but there is a quiet in his bearing that stabs my heart.  He has traveled many miles alone over the last thirteen months, and today was no different.  There are 600 long miles from his home in South Carolina to Shady Acres, and he has driven them repeatedly in the last year.

It isn’t long until the door opens again and in come Uncle Jesse and Aunt Gladys.  We had invited them to join us this evening. These two. Our Daddy’s brother and our Mama’s sister.  Their presence and persons comfort me like no one else can.  Their support and understanding and love have been inestimable, and in them are the tangible remembrances of the two who were our parents.  It feels so right to have them here.

The doors keep opening and shutting behind my beloved siblings and their spouses.  Bert and Sarah come, bringing tender and delicious homemade biscuits.  Alma comes with luscious looking pumpkin pies, lamenting the fact that Jerrel has a DFA meeting, and then Mark and Polly complete our circle, with Polly bringing a marvelous tossed salad to round our the simple meal.  There are beloved faces missing.  Nel and Rose are in Pennsylvania.  Frieda is in Heaven.  Daddy and Mama — I fight back a catch in my throat, and purposefully put it away. We will be glad for who we have in this place, at this time.  We gather around the long dining room table, ten of us at this gathering, and Uncle Jesse prays the blessing.

How many times did I hear Daddy’s voice, raised in prayer at a meal time?  It’s been a long time, but the words of my uncle’s prayer wrap themselves around me with familiarity and quiet comfort.  He thanks God for the food, for the opportunity to be together and prays for blessing on this time shared and for the ones who made the food. Around the table, the hands are joined and we listen to his quiet voice.

And then the “Amen” is said and the food is passed and the conversation weaves a pattern of memories and laughter and tears.  We share so much common ground with each other and with these two whose genetic heritage is the same as ours.  There are stories of Grandpa Dave, and the laughter is vibrant and genuine.  We ask questions and talk about our childhood.  We wonder how our daddy would have handled getting old and infirm and dependent and agreed that God was incredibly merciful to him and to us when He took him HOME.

We don’t speak much about our Sweet Mama.  The missing has settled into a deep and dark chasm for me and there are days when I feel like my heart will burst with all the things I need/want to tell her. I know she is safe.  I know she is happy.  I know that it really was God’s timing.  And I also know that it won’t always hurt this bad.  But it’s hard for me to talk about her without the tears.  At least for now.  And so we remember the good times, several “safe” things, and draw strength and comfort and courage from the time we spend in sweet, sweet fellowship.

All too soon, the night is over.  Uncle Jesse and Aunt Gladys have a somewhat long trek back to their home in Dover and it’s dark.  I worry about them heading off into the November cold, but they are cheerful, dispensing hugs and thank yous and beaming good will to us all.  My brothers and sisters and their spouses gather their leftover food and also depart.  Certain Man takes down the table, puts away chairs and helps to straighten the dining room while I load the dishwasher and put away leftover soup.. The neight has been exactly what I’ve needed.  When I kissed my auntie good by, I smelled the sweet smell of cologne and her cheek was so soft against mine.  It wasn’t my Mama’s signature Chantilly, but it was reminiscent of how important it always was to our Mama that she smelled good.  Oh, Mama!  How I miss you!

The years did pass so swiftly.  Sometimes it seems like Daddy and Mama have been gone forever.  This isn’t something new or unusual or peculiar to the children of Mark and Alene Yoder.  It’s just life.  We had excellent parents.  Truly the best!  Human, flawed, and with their own foibles and peculiarities and sometimes follies.  But so right for us.  So full of faith that they lived before us, and they loved us.  This night reminded us so much of our Daddy and Mama.  But for me, the one thing that shone the brightest though the presence of our precious Uncle and Auntie was the faith mixed with that unconditional love.  We were so blessed.  We are so blessed.  The gifts that we’ve been given through no effort of our own, are gifts that many, many people all over this world have not been privileged to have.

For the gifts of Heritage, warm memories, siblings that are good friends and an extended family who cares — for these good gifts, —

My heart gives humble, grateful praise.

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September 4, 2015 · 1:48 pm

Learning Lessons From Hettie

“Mare-Ann,  I ‘on’t like ‘at soup.  I ain’ gonna eat it.”

She sat at the table, looking at the homemade beef stew that I had put in front of her like she expected something to crawl out of it.  I walked over to see what was wrong.

“Why not, Hettie?”  I couldn’t see anything amiss.

She shrugged.  “I ‘on’t like it.”

“Why don’t you like it?  What’s wrong with it?”

“It ‘on’t taste good.  I ‘on’t like it.  I ain’ gonna eat it.”

“It hurts my feelings, Hettie, when I make good food for you and you say it isn’t good.”

She was unmoved.  Her lips were in that familiar, straight. intractable line.

“You need to eat it.  It’s good, Hettie!.”  I looked at the soup to see if there were any mushrooms in it, but I hadn’t put any in it, knowing that she wouldn’t eat it if there were mushrooms.  “Look, Hettie!  It has our own beef, our own potatoes, our own carrots.  It is good.  You have to eat it.”

She set her jaw, stubborn, but didn’t say anything.  I finished chopping BL’s identical supper into small pieces, and got her started eating, and continued working in the kitchen, keeping an eye on Hettie’s progress.  She would occasionally pick up her spoon and stir it around, but not a single bite went to her mouth.  She nursed a can of caffeine-free pepsi a little at a time, and when she thought I wasn’t looking she ate her banana.  She burped loudly a time or two and watched with her owlish eyes while BL polished her plate off in her usual record time.  Then, when she thought enough time had elapsed, and I wasn’t watching, she ate her Schwan’s chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich, and then continued to sit in her chair with that stubborn, determined air.

I pondered my options. I knew that if this came down to a confrontation, it wouldn’t end well.  I was ashamed of how angry this whole thing made me.  It wasn’t just this incident.  It felt like a whole catalog of miniscule rebellions had been adding up over the last week.  In addition to being angry, I was soul weary.  A deep self-pity was washing over my heart as I realized that, once again, these two individuals that I care for are mostly incapable of understanding or even caring about what I was feeling or thinking or dealing with on any given day.  Not that they couldn’t have learned, somewhere along the line, but temperaments as well as life experiences have left them feeling like they have to watch out for #1 at all costs.

And so, I rattled around my kitchen for a while and fought an inner war with myself.  “It’s only a bowl of soup, Mary Ann.  For pity sakes!”  “But it’s the principle of the thing!”  “Do you really want a fight on your hands?  Is it worth it?  You know she’ll be angry and psychotic for the rest of the night.”  “I know, but –”  And on and on and on.  I finally decided that I was just going to go out of the house for a minute and find out what Daniel was doing.  That way, she could leave the table, dump the soup in the trash, or do whatever, and I wouldn’t have to deal with it.

So I cheerfully said to her, “Hettie, I’m going to go out and see what Daniel’s doing.  I’ll only be a minute.”  And I forced myself to smile at her.

“Alright,” she said, without any enthusiasm.

I toyed with the idea of traipsing around on the deck to look in the kitchen window to see what she did when I left, but I decided that was a little overdone.  I went on out, saw Daniel working himself silly in the hot evening sun, and then went back in.  Hettie was gone.  Her supper cleared away except for the white Corelle bowl, still filled with a thick beef stew, swimming with chunks of succulent beef.  It sat, lonely and defiant at her place at the table.  I sighed and scraped it into the compost bucket and cleared the rest of supper away.

We didn’t speak much the rest of the evening.  Whenever I did talk to her, I acted as if nothing had happened, and she, though not overly friendly, did not mention the uneaten beef stew.  The evening finished as usual, with bedtime juice and the usual routines.  I nursed my hurt feelings, and wondered if this was one of those things that I was just overreacting about.

Morning dawned, and with it, no lessening of my angst.  I try to keep mornings as happy as possible, with cheery greetings, silly songs and extra help for Hettie with dressing, breakfast and such.  But this morning, there was not much cheeriness.  Rather, there was a war going on in this carnal heart of mine.

“Maybe I should just turn the tables on her,” I reasoned in some of my lesser glorious moments.  “I’ll put out her meds, but she can just get the rest of her breakfast by herself!  She can get her own banana, fix her own tea, get her own ice water, and make her own oatmeal. And do without her strawberry yogurt.   If she doesn’t like the food I fix for her, she’ll just have to find out how far she gets by herself!”

It’s not that she can’t fix her own breakfast, but over the years that she has been here with us, I have found that fixing her breakfast for her sets her into a better frame of mind, makes her feel loved and, as a result, makes it an easier start to the day.  So I thought and pondered and practiced how I could say this in a way that would make her know exactly how wrong she had been, how she needed to suffer for what she had done, and learn her lesson from the (obvious) natural consequences of her behavior.  I almost had it down pat when that little voice came into my thoughts that always discomfits my best laid words.

I started thinking about our Hettie girl.  She isn’t a child.  She’s 67 years old.  Most of her life, all of her decisions have been made for her unless she provided enough disturbance to make things uncomfortable enough that someone would do things her way.  And by the time she got anything accomplished that she wanted, it was so long getting it done that she felt like it was only done because people were aggravated (not because they loved her).  Which, unfortunately, was probably true.  She has endured hurtful words, physical abuse, social ostracism, and dealt with paranoia, pain and misunderstanding over and over again.  In the years that she has lived with us, we’ve tried hard to make these years the best years of her life, and constantly reassure her that she is loved, that she is wanted, that she is NEEDED, that she is safe, and that she is a grown woman and that, as such, she has choices.  There will always be things that she wants that she cannot have.  She would like to live independently.  She would like to not take her psych medicine.  She would like to have massive amounts of money at her disposal to spend as she wants.  She would like to live on Pepsi and chocolate and chips.

And while I do try to make sure that she eats properly, it really isn’t my right to tell her what she likes and what she doesn’t like.  And if she really doesn’t like beef stew for some reason on a given night, how is that offense-worthy?  And if a person with a history of diminished value on almost every aspect of her life can’t even decide that they don’t want supper on a given night, is that cause to treat her with decided coolness?  Or to think of ways to “punish” her?  Well, I wouldn’t go straight to “punish” but make the “natural consequences” more difficult for her?

I decided that I would fix part of her breakfast for her.  She could get her own oatmeal, but I would do the rest.  I still wasn’t feeling all that gracious, but I knew I had my own heart work to do, and I also knew that God has been so gracious to me when it comes to things like this that I was pretty sure it would right itself without any help on Hettie’s part.  And she was more grudging that she had to fix her own oatmeal than she was grateful for what I had done.  But I decided that was okay.

The next day, at Byler’s Store, I found some breakfast sandwiches that looked wonderful.  She loves Jimmy Dean Sausage, egg and cheese croissants, and I thought these looked like they would be even better.  I brought them home.  I thought they were a little more work than Jimmy Dean, and they were on biscuits instead of croissants, but they really looked yummy.  When she came out to eat breakfast the following morning, there was a napkin with a note on it, her tea and yogurt and banana and ice water — and the new breakfast sandwich standing ready.

She didn’t like it.  It was “too dry” and the flavor wasn’t good.  She coughed and snorted and carried on and sighed.

She was probably halfway through the sandwich when I started to cry.  I stood at the counter putting out her meds with my face averted from her and cried hot, bitter, disappointed, sad, misunderstood tears.  I really didn’t know why this all mattered so much to me.  I knew that the tears weren’t just for that silly sandwich or even Hettie’s stubbornness and independent quirks, but I felt such a deep, deep sadness and a good dose of frustration and a (teeny bit!) mad.  But Hettie never noticed, and it was time to get BL finished up and out the door.  I got the tears dried, packed the lunch, got BL into her wheelchair and pretended that everything was fine with Hettie.

When everyone was out the door, I may have cried some more.

But then God  (it’s always better for me when God interrupts my pity parties with a lesson from what’s troubling me) reminded me again of something that has nothing to do with how Hettie responds, but everything to do with how I respond to her.  To her, yes, but also to a Heavenly Father who provides me with everything I need, gives me more than I need, and loves me with an everlasting love.  And sometimes I sit at His table and refuse to eat.  Or protest that what He has given isn’t good enough.  That it doesn’t taste good.  That it goes down dry.  That it doesn’t satisfy me.  And it doesn’t cross my mind to think about what He thinks of my evaluation of His provision.

“Oh, Lord Jesus.  This hasn’t been about Our Girl Hettie at all, has it?
Create in me a clean heart, Oh God, and renew a right spirit within me . . .

And this humbled heart shall bring you grateful praise.”

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July 21, 2015 · 5:54 pm

The Story that is the Song

He took her very heart
into his young care.
And without really planning
or knowing he was doing it
he rewrote the staff and pitch and notes
for the music stirring there.
He encouraged a beautiful Melody,
then added the Tenor.
Their life together was
a (mostly) beautiful song.

And so the years passed.

They added verses and voices
and more harmonies
all carried by the sweet, strong Melody
and the rich, full Tenor.
Somehow they made the rest
of the world sound good.

Then one April day
the Melody faltered.
There were days and days
without a song.
And the Tenor could neither sing nor soar
without the Melody.

Somewhere in our hearts
we still heard the song.
So we stood around her bed
and sang it to her.
We prayed the song would
give her hope.

YES!!!

There came a day when
the eyes recovered the sparkle.
The spirit revived the spunk.
And the song
though tremulous and weak
in her damaged throat
went bravely on in the hearts
of the two we called
Daddy and Mama.

And this new harmony was
so beautiful, so pure, so sweet.
Like nothing we had ever heard before.
Haunting in its tenderness.
Tentative in its joy.
Careful in its hope
But tenacious in that thread of Faith
that defined the rest of life.

And then there came the day
when we stood around his bed
and tried to sing the song to a heart
that was already listening
for the Music of Heaven
He may have heard us.
But the other Music was more compelling.
And he took his full, rich tenor –
And went Home.

What became of the song?
The Melody was still sweet.  Still strong.
But I often saw the faraway look
Like she was listening for something, Someone.
And when we would sing the
Songs of Heaven,
The thoughtful look intensified.
Sometimes it seemed that if
She listened hard enough,
She could hear that familiar voice.
But no.  It was long gone.

But the song — The Song!
It went on and on and on and on.
I heard it in the sounds of the voices.
Of my brothers and sisters.
Our children.
Our grandchildren.
And I heard it still in the heart of
that Sweet Strong Melody.
My Mama.

And then there came the day
when the chords were broken.
We stood again, beside her bed.
And she, with eyes of
quiet intensity,
tried once again to speak
the words of this song
that her heart was
still singing.
We heard the message.
But there was no more music,
no more earth voice
for this song she so desperately wanted to remind us of.

We held her hands,
and sang her the songs of Heaven
while she struggled between
the loved and known,
and the Celestial Unknown.

She didn’t want to go.

But in the end, the Angel’s song won.
She heard the Heavenly music.
She heard, somewhere,
that Rich and Full Tenor.
Already in that Chorus, and
it drew her into the other world.
Suddenly peaceful, suddenly quiet,
she went Home.

These last few years,
She found it hard to sing.
But every day for almost six decades,
She sang a song to my heart.
A Song of Faith;
Of Hope; of Courage; of Love.
Of Heaven.

And I have heard it
so often and so long
that the music sings itself to me.
I hear it on sunshiny days
when the paths seem clear.
I hear it when the rain comes down
and speaks life to the earth.
I hear it when the night is dark
and I cannot find my way.
I hear it in the ice and cold
of winter.

I hear it still.

The harmony is
so beautiful, so pure, so sweet.
Like something I have heard before.
Haunting in its tenderness.
Tentative in its joy.
Careful in its hope.
But tenacious in that thread of Faith
that defines the rest of life.

How I love The Song!

But it will never be the same again
without the Tenor and Soprano.

 IMG_0355
One of my favorite sympathy cards from these last weeks.
Inside, it simply says, “In Sympathy and Hope.”

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July 16, 2015 · 1:40 am

Slivers of Soap on the Matrimonial Sea

I dislike soap slivers.  It just isn’t handy to wash with a piece of soap that is almost done, but not quite.  But it also grinds my gears to throw away perfectly good pieces of soap when I know that if they were collected together, you would have the equivalent of a nice new piece.  Over the years, I’ve dealt with this in various ways.  I’ve had those hand-crocheted bags that are supposed to collect them and somehow meld them into one nice large piece.  That didn’t work for me somehow.  It probably wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own, but I just didn’t like how it was working.  Most of the time, I try to stick the small piece on top of the larger one and intentionally squish them together until they are imperceptibly joined.  This has enjoyed fairly good success, depending on location.

We are not shower gel or body wash kind of people.  That is, Certain Man and myself.  It just makes the shower too slippery for any kind of safety.  Also,  when we had our knees replaced, the doctor told us that the best soap for bathing/showering was Safeguard.  So almost six years ago, we began using Safeguard exclusively for the master bathroom, and it has been very satisfactory.

I had used expensive body wash for Cecilia, always getting the high moisture kind to keep her skin supple and and moisturized.  A few months ago, she was standing on the bath mat while I was showering her, and proceeded to lean back against the wall.  “Whoosh!”  Out from under her slid the mat and down she went.  The abrasions were impressive.  She didn’t break anything, but she surely did huff and puff indignantly at me.  I was really puzzled.  It was the kind of mat with suction cups under it, and should have stayed put.  When I checked things out, I realized that there was a sort of slippery film under the mat and it was just as slick as all get out.  I immediately took up the mat, and got those stick-on things that give good grip, and stuck them on that floor in a geometric pattern.  And I got rid of that slippery Dove Extra Moisture Body Wash.

I started using that good old Safeguard soap and it wasn’t so bad.  In fact, I began to notice an interesting development.  Cecilia had a significant blackhead right in the middle of her back.  It had resisted all ministrations intended for removal.  It only seemed to grow bigger and bigger.  When I started using Safeguard soap for her shower, that ugly, black pockmark on her back started to shrink.  Yepper.  Just like that!  Until it almost isn’t even there.  I like that!  But I digress.

However, now that Cecilia is also using bar soap, and Daniel, and I, as well, the slivers just seem to add up.  So I’ve been working on trying to combine the slivers into a soap that I can at least use in the sink.  Every now and then, I will notice that the one in the shower is miniscule enough that it will almost not stay in my hand, so I will take the sliver out and replace it with a nice, new cake of soap.  And when Cecilia’s is too small for my liking, I will haul the remnants up to my our bathroom and attempt to join it with the others. I tried for a while to just stick it on the top of the new bar.  In fact, I worked hard at getting it to stay.  I usually thought that I was pretty successful but almost always, I would come to the shower to discover that it was no longer attached.  I gave up on that one and decided to just use the slivers at the sink where I could do a better job of keeping things together.

For the past week or so, I’ve had pretty good success with three slivers, working at getting them to stay together, but then I noticed that the one in the shower was needing replaced, so I grabbed it the other morning, soaked it until it was just a little bit squishy, and stuck it tightly on to the other three.  Success!  I had a very tight fit, and I now had four slivers that almost were equal to a full bar.

But last night, I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed and I looked down at my soap dish and was dismayed to see this:

IMG_0368
“I can’t figure this out,” I said to my long suffering spouse.  “I keep trying to stick these things together and they keep coming apart.  I hate to throw away soap slivers, when I can use them, but they just don’t stay together!”

He came to peer over my shoulder at the offending soap.

“I know,” he said, without a trace of remorse.  “I keep prying them apart!  I hate how soap is when it is all stuck together like that.”

“But why???”

“Because it doesn’t fit in your hand right, and it just isn’t right.  I’d a thousand times rather have a little piece of soap than a great big one.”

“But Daniel, these are too small to really work right in the shower.  I just thought I would stick them together and that way the little pieces wouldn’t be wasted.  I had just stuck them to the big piece, but that didn’t seem to work so well –”

“I know!  I REALLY hate that.  I would take those off, too!” He paused as if he was thinking about what he just said, and then he amended, “I mean, they would come off when I was using them and that was irritating, too.  I just don’t like it!”

Alrighty then.  The Man has spoken.  I didn’t know.  I will mend my ways.  I think I will still stick small slivers of soap together for use at the sink, but maybe not more than two at a time.  Maybe I can get by with that.

And that is the news from Shady Acres, where I give grateful praise that the disagreements between Certain Man and his Wife are trivial and clean!

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May 20, 2015 · 2:49 am

To think it Happened in Wal-mart.

I had just found a cart that seemed to work okay and was heading into Wal-Mart to do some quick shopping.  I stopped to look at a display right inside the door beside Dunkin’ Donuts when a young man walked up and stood maybe six feet away from me.  He had a buzzed haircut, and was nice looking.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said.  My kids say I never know a stranger, and I smiled at him.  “Would you possibly have change for a twenty?”  He held a folded twenty dollar bill in his hand, “My nephew wants to play the arcade and it won’t take a twenty.  I’d pretty much settle for any kind of change — two tens, four fives or a mix.  I could stand in line, but I would like to not have to wait that long.”

I almost never carry change like that, but I was pretty sure that I had some this time.  Not a bunch, but probably at least a ten and two fives or something.  “I just might,” I said to him, digging for my wallet.  “Let me see.”  I scrounged  around in the depths of the big old purse that I had plunked into the seat of the cart.  I found it, peered inside, and sure enough, there were two tens.

“I do have it,!” I said triumphantly.  I handed him the two tens and he gave me the folded money.  And bee-lined it out the door.  H-m-m-m-m.  The arcade was in the other direction.  Oh, well, Maybe it wasn’t the Wal-mart Arcade.  I started to stuff the twenty into my wallet when I suddenly noticed that it felt strange. I unfolded the bill and saw that it was laminated on one side.  It looked mostly okay, but that lamination really bothered me.  The bill was extremely raggedy under the lamination.  I was immediately suspicious, but the young man was long gone.

I pushed my cart through the store having imaginary arguments and conversations with the young man.  Things I could have said or things I could have done.  I pretty much covered the gamut and still came up with the conclusion that  I had probably just been stiffed out of twenty bucks.  I thought momentarily about trying to use it to pay part of my bill at the checkout, but decided that it might be better to just take it into a bank.  I didn’t want to get arrested to for trying to pass a counterfeit bill.   I brought it home and showed it to whomever would look at it.  Almost no one was willing to state unequivocally one way or another  Then I showed it to my friend who works in the money center at Wal-mart, and told her my story.  Emma is a sharp cookie.  She would NEVER be stuck like that.  She held it in her hand, felt it, held it up to the light and finally said, “I’m sure it’s a fake, Mary Ann.  It doesn’t have a water mark.  And it doesn’t feel right, though it might be the tape they have on it.”

I decided that the next time I went to the bank, I would see what they had to say.

So today, on my way home from Sweet Mama’s house, I took my twenty dollar bill into the bank and told my story.

“It looks fine to me,” said the young teller.  “Someone probably just taped it because it is so ratty.”  She felt it, looked at it, and then called the other teller over.  “What do you think?” She asked the other gal,  “Is this real or is it fake?”

“It looks fine to me,too,” said the other teller, “but let me take it back to see what they say back there.  I’m pretty sure it is okay.  And if it is, we will trade you out a good one for this one and take this one out of circulation.”

For just a little bit, I felt relieved.  My faith in human nature was starting to revive.  I took care of some other business while I waited for the second teller to return.  Just as we were finishing up, she came back out, holding the twenty and looking apologetic.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.  “It isn’t legit.  And I’m also so sorry, but we can’t give it back to you.  When a counterfeit bill comes through, we are required by law to confiscate it and send it to the authorities.”  She showed me the back of the bill, then and two long brown marks crossed over the back of it.  “If it was good,” she said, “these marks would have instantly turned yellow, but they didn’t change at all.  I’m so sorry!”

“That’s fine,” I said, glad that I was given some time to suspect the truth.  “I was pretty sure that it wasn’t any good.  But I’m also pretty sure that I’ve given money to just as worthless a cause in other situations, and this will be okay.  It makes me sad, because of the deception and the dishonesty, but it is the way it is, and it will be okay.”

The teller murmured something about, “Never knowing, maybe it is being paid forward,” but I wasn’t sure how it applied in this situation.  I gathered my things and came on home.

I’ve been doing some thinking about that money the rest of this day.  Wondering what it was used for.  Sometimes wishing I knew — but usually glad I don’t.  And I don’t know,  Maybe it got used for something good and wholesome eventually.  I don’t know.  But I can hope.

But I also am choosing to  just let it go.  There were numerous places along the way where God could have raised a warning flag in my heart, or stopped me somehow, and He didn’t.  (Or, at least I didn’t hear Him– which, sadly might be more likely.)  So even though I am tempted to think of the good that I could have done with that twenty dollars, I am choosing not to even go there.  For one thing, I probably wouldn’t have specified it for “good.”  I’ve been known to use twenty dollars rather quickly in A.C. Moore or Barnes & Noble or Hobby Lobby or Michael’s.  And it is rather exciting to think about just where that money might be going and how God is going to use it.  Because I did pray for that young man and dedicated both him and the money to God  in those first minutes after the money was out of my hand, and I believe that God can use even desperate people and ill-gotten, misdirected money for His Glory. And I may as well trust Him.  I can’t really think of anything better to do.

And so,my heart will glory in a God who sees, who cares, and who tells us “not to trust in uncertain riches but gives us richly all things to enjoy.” (1 Timothy 6:17)  This is more than enough for me.

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May 13, 2015 · 2:58 pm

The Feetwashing Tubs

When our church burned almost six months ago, one of the things that did not melt was our stack of tubs for feetwashing.

Our church family still practices feetwashing.  For those of you who are not acquainted with this tradition, it is usually held in connection with two of our communions a year, in keeping with the passage in John 13:4-17, where Jesus washed his disciples’ feet.  In verses 14 and 15, Jesus said, 14 “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash each other’s feet. 15 I did this as an example so that you should do as I have done for you.”  We have chosen to believe that there is value in taking these words literally and beautiful symbolism in this act of humility, servitude and vulnerability.  Many, many sermons have been preached on what this really means, and I have found it incredibly precious in different ways at different times,

That being said, as we were preparing for communion this spring, Certain Man was under the impression that the elders were planning for feetwashing, and as the deacon, it is his job to take care of the physical preparation for the celebration.  So he stopped one evening on his way home from work and looked for the stack of eight, gray Sterlite tubs that we use for feetwashing.  He found them, alright.  For some reason, they were not melted as were most plastics in the church that terrible morning.  But they were blackened by smoke and dirty from water.  He brought them home.

“Hon,” he said.  “Someone has to clean these up.”  (“Someone,” I took it to mean, was his wife.)  They sat on the cupboard in my laundry room and I looked at them with distaste and dread.  I really didn’t want to scrub them up, but communion was only a week away and I knew I didn’t have much time.

Then the Elders decided that, given the shortened time frame, Sunday school being such a big part of our Sunday morning service, and us not being in our own place, that they were going to forego the feetwashing part of our communion this time.  And I, glad for the reprieve, did not scrub the tubs up.  They sat on my counter sometimes, in my laundry sink sometimes, sometimes being moved so I could work in the area that they were, and for some reason, they did not get any cleaner.  They just sat there and waited.  I kept thinking that maybe someone would get tired of seeing them and would do something with them, but it did not seem to be the case.  Last night I looked at them again (probably for the hundredth time at least) and decided that I would do something with them.  TODAY!

So this morning I drew a big sink full of water with bleach, fetched myself a magic eraser and set to work.  I watched the black spots come off, saw the smooth clear gray come clearer and clearer as the black water was rinsed down the drain.  I thought about our church and about feetwashing and how the brothers and sisters there are such an integral part of who I am and what I do.  I prayed for Alex and Joey and wondered what they would do differently that December night if they could do things over.  I thought about redemption and how, even though it seems so simple, it is never easy, and how, even for them, there is Grace enough, if they would only choose it.

The last tub was especially covered in soot and grime.  I thought about how washing these feetwashing tubs was something that came down to me being willing to do it, and I prayed that in this washing, God would reckon it as a way that I washed the feet of my sisters and brothers.

I took the tubs out, stacked them on the steps to the upper deck to dry.  They were so common in the morning sun, but so glorious in my eyes.  Another thing set wrong by the arson was back to order.  Slowly, one step at a time, things are getting done– not only in the building, but in our hearts.

And I give grateful praise.

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May 1, 2015 · 2:56 am

As an Evening Proceeds

5:00 pm

Today I had to have a molar extracted.  This process went FAR BETTER than I expected, and I give thanks that I live in this era and that the time is now and not even the time of my childhood. The worst part of it was the shot.  The best part was that Dr. Otto Tidwell sings to his patients while doing procedures.  It is a most soothing and consolatory gesture.

“You’re doing very fine,” he sang.  “Hold very still, we are getting done.”  Anything he said to me was a quiet, musically framed intonation.   (He did stop and speak a few disquieting things in a normal tone to his nurse, but I tried not to listen because he wasn’t talking to me.)  Yesterday in my regular dentist’s office, Dr. Steward had told me about this peculiarity, and that it was an excellent diversion, but there was a whole lot more about the man than his singing prowess that inspired confidence.  I was particularly comforted by the fact that He has pulled over 160,000 teeth in his career.  Yes.  That!

But now?

Well, between a the roots coming out in three different pieces, an abscess that needed cleaning out, and some stitches, I suspect that the easy part really is over now, and that the rest of this might not be much fun.  Eldest Daughter, Christina​, (who was my kind and encouraging chauffeur) had Dr. Tidwell just a little over a week ago, (also for an extraction) and she was numb for 12 hours.  I’m less than two hours post and it is ANYTHING but numb. But ice and pain medication and Middle Daughter, Deborah​, as a willing and capable helper  — well, let’s just say that’s a pretty stellar health care package, and I’m looking forward to a quiet night.  (I can at least hope for such!)

Thanks for all the well wishes and prayers on my behalf. Having a tooth pulled feels like such a violation, and with this being the last molar I have on the upper right, it feels like a rather severe statement of my age.  Tonight I am feeling every one of my 61 years, six months and 15 days. I’m sorely tempted to huddle in my chair with my blanket and brood until I get to where I can just sleep these hours away.  But then I might miss something.  And these are exciting days at Shady Acres.

And even though it suddenly looks like it will be anything but quiet around here tonight (Deborah just got asked to work tonight because the on duty Hospice nurse just had a car accident) I think it is time to redirect my heart and choose offer some grateful praise.

8:15 pm
. . . And guess what else!?!?!  I got off my chair to help with supper, and suddenly felt absolutely wonderful.  So there has been no sitting on my chair tonight.  This has to be the easiest tooth extraction I have ever had!  I just cut our best cutting of asparagus out of the garden, and now want to package up some chicken for the freezer that we got in bulk.  Certain Man went to visit his friend, Gary Burlingame.  He has the day off tomorrow, and this gal is eagerly looking forward to a trip to the greenhouse, looking for tomatoes and other vegetables for the garden.  I just might get some hanging baskets of flowers for our pavilion.

What a wonderful day this has turned out to be!

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April 17, 2015 · 9:35 pm

Spring has Sprung

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“Sum’ping happened to mine parrel . . .”

The squirrel is on the fruit and nut block again. I tap my fingernail against the glass. He looks briefly in my direction, then darts up the tree and out to the sunflower seed feeder. I give up on the window tapping and go to the sun room door and open it to encourage him to move on.  He flits about in the upper branches, scolding and watchful.  He makes me laugh and I go back inside.  I have a hard time being venomous with the squirrels.  26 years ago when we moved to Shady Acres, the name, though old and established, was a misnomer.  There was almost no shade.  There were no wild animals to be seen, either.  We moved from our house at the edge of the Andrewsville Woods and I missed the squirrels and birds and woodland fauna that surrounded our house there.  A tree farm in its earliest stages bordered our new property, and held some promise, and Certain Man wasted no time in planting trees wherever he could imagine one growing.  Over the years, the shade has made welcome inroads, the tree farm has been home to woodland creatures, and the squirrels are frequent visitors to the feeders and feeding stations around the yard.  Certain Man will shout and scold them sometimes, but he also loves the fact that the environment is hospitable to the creatures.

This was a rainy morning.  I took my camera and strolled about catching some pictures in the morning light.  There were raindrops on my tulips, glimmering jewel-like against the rich colors.

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And that whiskey half-barrel that has served me so well so many years really has given up the ghost.  Last year, it showed signs of great disrepair, but I decided that its dilapidated state only added to its beauty, and I carefully nursed it through another year.  I don’t think I can do that this year.

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All around the yard, there are signs of spring and new life.

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The tulips along the grape arbor are really putting on a show.

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The bluebirds are building their nest.

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As is some other bird in the blue spruce.  I haven’t figured out what kind of bird this is.  Usually a Mocker builds in this particular tree, but I don’t think this is a Mocker’s nest.  Too messy.

This afternoon, our trusty helper, Grant Miller, is mowing the lawn.  The smell of fresh cut grass is coming through the open window, and the birds are singing.  Certain Man is home from work and looking at a busy and full evening.  He has planted some of his vegetable garden, and there are some tender shoots making their way up.  I cut my first cutting of asparagus a few days ago and lo!  And behold!  There are bunches more to cut tonight. Certain Man just said that I had better get at it.  And so, I shall!  The evening of this wonderfully ordinary day is moving in, and I give grateful praise.

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March 7, 2015 · 5:26 am

Letting Jesus Out

Lent caught me flat footed this year.  I was in the produce aisle at Wal-Mart, looking for onions when I noticed the heavy ash cross on the forehead of another shopper.

“What???  It’s Ash Wednesday already???” I wondered.  “That means that Lent starts today and I’ve not even thought much about it!”

Honestly, I am not given to great observances on the Christian calendar, but the season of Lent carries an introspective, self-denial that has been meaningful to me in the past.  I try to prepare my heart in a special way for Easter during the weeks leading up to this “Best of All Holy Days Day.”

This year has been so different.  Our household, never “normal” by any standard, has been crazy, so “un-normal” even for us, that I’ve heard myself asking The Father if He could please bless us with an “ordinary” day.  One that is unmarked by weather and sickness.  It has been over two weeks since the schedule at our house has been right.

I find it so hard when I cannot count on a schedule to practice the disciplines I need for sanity and Godliness. It isn’t that I lose my Salvation, as much as it is that I feel very vulnerable to wrong attitudes; jealousy, suspicion, impatience, indifference, sadness and self pity rear their ugly heads and wreak havoc with my head and heart.  Faith seems like a slippery slope and it is so easy to see all the places where Christians are unloving, unreliable, unthinking, or just plain rude.

And so, I came to the season of Lent with some very late resolves.  It dawned on my fur brain tonight that Easter is 30 days away.  For about 5 days, Youngest Daughter and I have been trying to observe a Lenten fast from candy, cookies, cakes and pies.  I’ve been saying during these last five days that we were going to do this the last 30 days of Lent, not realizing that we actually had 35 days left.  But I’ve messed up in these last two days. with Doughnuts for the snow day, and Apple Dumplings for the Quiz Team Fundraiser today. (I mean, it wouldn’t be supportive not to at least eat one in honor of all their hard work, now would it???)  And I thought about how easily I make excuses and think that this once won’t matter, and so, the days slip on by.

Some years back, I purchased an advent/lent wooden “path” (with appropriate markers and extensions for the journeys) from Author Ann Voskamp’s son, Caleb.  We’ve used it often in the seasons since, and this year, I’ve staked the days with candles that I bought from the Jewish section of the grocery store.  I started at the outside edge and was working my way to the inside.  The figure of Jesus, carrying his cross, made its way steadily along the path that was getting narrower and narrower.  And then Middle Daughter,  looking at my Lenten Journey display, made this observation.

“You know Mama, I wonder what would happen if we started Jesus on his journey at the center of the wreath and walked him out to the outside.  It wouldn’t be so crowded and difficult to get around in the center that way.  After all, Jesus did go “out” when he was carrying his cross.”

That really impacted me..  For one thing, this business of denying self and taking up our cross, while it is something that we are commanded to do, it is not supposed to be introspective.  Too often, I do this for me.  It’s supposed to be all about Jesus.  All about Him being so big and good and Holy that we disregard what we think we want, to focus more on Him, to “get him out” of the boxes we’ve put Him in, out of the confines of our little circles to a world that needs the hope of a Savior who loved them enough to die.  The thing is, when we, for whatever reason, or by whatever means, think we need to keep Jesus in our little world, we are really missing out on seeing Him, knowing Him, honoring Him.

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30 days left until Easter.  How can those days be used to break the strongholds in my life that “hold Jesus in?”

“Oh, Lord Jesus!  Change our focus and direction.  Live your life and resurrection power in and through us. your people, in ways and through days that are anything but ordinary.”

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February 16, 2015 · 11:03 pm

Beyond the glitz

It is Valentines Day in the good old USA.  People everywhere are speaking of their wonderful Valentines and the wonderful gifts they have been given.  Certain Man’s Wife has been guilty of the same.  Her heart was delighted with two dozen multi-colored roses delivered on Thursday afternoon — ahead of the rush.  Practical as ever, Certain Man has found that it’s a WHOLE lot cheaper to order on line and have things delivered ahead of time.

This morning, standing in the kitchen, Youngest Daughter rehearsed her good friend, Anna Downing’s take on Valentines Day — that it is a day to tell everyone you love that you love them and to say something noteworthy about them in the love message.  Youngest Daughter got one this morning thanking her for being a good friend and wishing her a happy Valentines Day.

I like that very much.

I also got to thinking about the  ways Certain Man has tied the stuff that life is made of to speaking love to his unobservant and often clueless spouse.

For one thing, he has loved our children so intently(I did mean intently) and well.  Certain Man is not perfect and does not claim to be, but his children had better not hear anyone rehearse his faults.  I’ve seen his children struggle with having Christian Charity towards people who have, however unwittingly, said or done things that have hurt their Dad, and it is no small thing to them.  (They tend to rise up snarling!)  Certain Man did not get that kind of loyalty and love by being a selfish or distant father.  He draws them into his interests and into sharing his serving heart.  For example, this morning he hooked his trailer to his farm pickup, loaded his tractor, corralled Middle Daughter and Youngest Daughter and headed up the road to stack wood for an older man in our church who is having a tough time.  I looked at my girlies and knew that the last thing in the world they wanted to do this morning was go out in this bitter cold and pick up wood, but there was not a single word of complaint.  “Sure Dad,” they said, and grabbed gloves and old sweatshirts and warm tzibble kops and piled into the old truck and away they went.  He was jovial and exclaiming loudly about any of a number of things.  They were marching to their father’s music and “ever’thin’ was good.”

That is something that always melts my heart.  In this day when there are so many fathers who refuse to be dads and so many fathers who name the Name of Christ but whose hearts selfishly demand to be first or best or most, this Certain Man has never — and I truly do mean NEVER– made me choose between serving him or meeting a child’s needs.  I sought to put him first, would often protest when he would encourage me to comfort a child or talk late to a teen or take a late night phone call from a adult child.  “It’s fine, Hon,” he would/will say.  “Don’t worry about it.  There’ll be time later.”

This evening, we went out for a Valentines Day early dinner, and looking back on our trek, I have to smile when I think about how this evening could sort of define not only this man, but our marriage.  Certain Man worked all day at one thing and then another, reminding me now and then that we were going out to eat “somewhere” and “sometime before it gets too late.”  And also, “Maybe we could pick up those shop lights at Lowe’s when we are out.”  He had helped Gary and Elaine with their firewood, he had taken extra care of his animals and equipment because of the cold,  He had noted that some of the bird feeders were getting empty and he filled the feeders and replenished the suet hangers.  It was a great aggravation when ACE Hardware was out of, not only ear corn but out favorite “nutsie” block that we particularly like for woodpeckers and for diverting the squirrels from other feeders, but he decided that we would look at Lowe’s when we got there.

So, along about four o’clock this afternoon, we got on our way.  He had decided Outback! and I had gotten him a good gift card for there for Christmas, and there is a Lowe’s in this Lewes town, so he thought it would be the best destination.  Heading down Route 1 to Lewes, he surprised me by suddenly getting into the left hand lane and turning on to the road to Argos Corner.

“I’m just gonna’ see,” he said, “if I can figure out where they live.”  We both knew of whom he spoke — “Our Kids” as we’ve been wont to call them over the past few years.  They were homeless for almost two years, shuttling between counties and motels and trouble until about a month ago when they landed in a trailer “where the store had burned” in this small Sussex County community.  I had made a trip through a couple of weeks ago, but hadn’t been able to discern which trailer was theirs.  But Certain Man has discerning powers that I lack, and the trailer was soon found.

“That’s it, right there!” Said Certain Man.

“I guess it is,” I agreed.  “Same vehicle, and look!  He still has his old classic car.”

I noted the completely curtained windows, the big “No Trespassing” sign in the window.  He noted that the trash was already beginning to pile up in back.  Certain Man made a U-turn at the deserted intersection and we resumed our trip to Lewes, considerably more pensive than we had been.  Traffic was heavy as we came into the seaside town, and as we pulled into the turn lane that went to Outback, I noted the crowded parking lot.

“I’ll have trouble finding a parking place,” said Certain Man, “So I’ll just drop you off at the door and you can put our names in and then I’ll come on in.”  He pulled up to the curb and I bailed out, and went in.  The waiting area was crowded, and a hostess took my name and handed me a buzzer.

“Do you know how long the wait is?” I asked when I could get an word in edgewise.

In response to a quick question, a harried looking co-hostess looked up briefly and said, “60-70 minutes.  At least.”  I clutched the buzzer and decided to go and talk to Certain Man.  I looked all around the parking lot to no avail  and finally called him.

“Hon, it’s going to be a 60-70 minute wait.  We don’t want to wait that long, do we?”

“No way!  I’m having to park way out in the far parking lot anyhow, and I wondered how long a wait it was going to be.  I’ll be right back up to pick you up.  Let’s go up to Cracker Barrel and see how long that wait will be.”  And that was just fine with me.  I happened to have even better gift cards to Cracker Barrel.

“Go in and see how long the wait,” said Certain Man five minutes later as we pulled into the parking lot.  “I’ll go park.”

“Maybe five minutes,” said the pleasant hostess at the crowded Cracker Barrel.  “Not long.”

I put our names in under “Daniel” and called him with the news.  Actually, by the time he was walking across the parking lot, he heard them page us for our table.  We had a very nice time at our “early” dinner.  He had fish, I had chicken.  (Is anyone who knows us surprised?)  The conversation was good, and I even sent a picture of Certain Man and a short note to his children:

Me and my Valentine went to Outback to dine.
60-70 minutes to wait just wasn’t fine.
Off to Cracker Barrel we go-
got seated just so-
and decided that we wouldn’t whine.

(Poor rhyme, I know, but I was in the middle of organizing  it into something impressive when Certain Man proceeded to tell me about a restaurant that gives a percent off if you do not use any electronic devices while in the establishment and I considered that a hint to put my cell phone away!  Besides, we had plenty to talk about.)

We did not linger long over our meal, and soon we were on our way to Lowe’s to pick up lights for the shop that Certain Man has been working on for some time now.  First, we got a bag of ear corn, and a mealyworm cake and feeder for our beloved Bluebirds and then we picked out four shop lights and the bulbs for them.  Then I waited while Certain Man looked for hinges to fix a cupboard door that has been giving his orderly soul distress.  I looked at our loaded cart, thought about this Valentines Day Date and it made me laugh.  I just really like this guy  who is always taking care of farm and family and birds and people.  He made one more stop at the Best ACE Hardware in Lewes where he found the seed, nut and fruit roll that he wanted and we bought TWO so we wouldn’t run out, and finally we were done.

We came home in the cold winter twilight to our warm house and the lights of home.  We unloaded the shop lights and then he fixed the door that was bothering him, bedded down his animals for the cold winter night, checked his chickens, put pellets in the pellet stove, went up to Gary’s and filled his outdoor furnace as full of wood as it would hold, put out his corn and the other bird seed that he had gotten and puttered around pondering many things.

He has no idea how loved the ordinary things of this day have made me feel.

And so I thought about this man that I’ve loved for so long- and it reminded me of a song of that Steve and Annie Chapman sang.

(Wherever the seasons of life find this Certain Man, I still pick him!)

Seasons of a Man

I am the springtime, when everything seems so fine

Whether rain or sunshine, you will find me playing

Days full of pretending, when a dime is a lot to be spending

A time when life is beginning, I am the springtime

 

I am the summer, when days are warm and longer

And the call comes to wander, but I can’t go far from home

When the girls become a mystery, and you’re barely passing history

Thinking old is when you’re thirty, I am the summer

 

I am the autumn days, when changes come so many ways

Looking back I stand amazed that time has gone so quickly

When love is more than feelings, its fixing bikes and painting ceilings

Its when you feel a cold when coming, I am the autumn days

 

I am the winter, when days are cold and bitter

And the days I can remember number more than the days to come

When you ride instead of walking, and you barely hear the talking

And goodbyes are said too often, I am the winter

But I’ll see spring again in heaven, and it will last forever.

(You can listen to this here:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3us8-U9-4s)

 

 

 

 

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