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Because they asked . . .

(Preheat oven to 250)

1 – Family size (19.6 oz.) box of Honey Nut Chex

1 – 7.5 oz. bag of regular Bugle snack (or 10 oz.)

3 – 6 oz. bags of Caramel Sweet and Salty Bugle Snacks (or 10 oz homemade)

16 oz. Whales snacks – (Or any small cheese cracker of your choice)

1 box (7.5 or 8 oz.) Ritz Bits Sandwich crackers (peanut butter or cheese filled.  I take these apart while they are still warm when I first dump finished product out to cool on the kitchen table).

8  oz. mini Pretzels (I like the very skinny sticks, but some of my family prefers the regular ones)

1 box (11 oz.) Club Miniatures 

1 ½ lbs. pecans, large pieces

1 pound large Virginia peanuts

1 pound cashews (large pieces or halves)

3 cups (or 3 oz.) regular Cheerios

3.5 oz. Wheat Chex

3 oz. Corn Chex

3 oz. Rice Chex

Mix all together in a very large container.  

Then mix together thoroughly:
⅓  cup Lawry’s Season Salt
2 Tablespoons Garlic Powder (I round these up a bit)

I sprinkle this over the container of mix a little at a time, tossing often to distribute evenly.

Mix the following, using a whisk:

3 ½ cups vegetable oil
 ⅓ cup Worcestershire Sauce.

When that is thoroughly mixed, pour it over the mix, tossing again after each cup or so until it is gone.  The toss and toss and toss until the oil mixture is evenly distributed.

Take three of the large foil pans (like 21 x 13 x 3″) and divide the mix evenly between TWO of them, keeping an empty one in reserve.  Preheat oven to 250, and space the racks so that you can get both roasters in at the same time.  Put the two roasters into the preheated oven. Every 15 minutes, dump one of the roasters into the empty foil pan, and then dump the other into the one that you just emptied.  Put the party mix that had been on the bottom rack onto the top rack, and the top one on the bottom. Bake for two hours, changing the pans every time, and every 15 minutes.  After the two hours is up, empty onto a kitchen table that has been covered with paper.  When totally cool, store in tight containers until ready to use.  (Some of my relatives also store it in Ziploc freezer bags in the freezer.)  If you have questions, please call.  302-382-0418, or 302-422-5952

I do not know what it was that caused me to offer to help with meals that Milford Advocacy for the Homeless (MAH) provides, but I firmly believe it was a nudge from my Heavenly Father.  The appeal for regular contributors stirred something in my head and my heart, and so I made contact in January of this year, and before I knew it, was committed to providing a meal on the first, third, and (if there is) fifth Mondays of the month.

I enlisted the help of my fellow sisters at Carpenter Bridge Community Church, and there was enough support from them that it has become a regular happening.  Various women (and even my blood sister, Sarah) have pitched in and I think that in the course of these last ten months, there has only been one time that we didn’t deliver the food, hot and ready to eat on our scheduled night to the little Hispanic church on the edge of town, that we know as Iglesias.

I’m 72, as is my husband, and usually we deliver the food, and leave, and the Monday evening supervisor, Dana oversees the meal, with help from the staff of the church.  Honestly, by the time we deliver 3 gallons of hot soup with some extras, this old lady is plumb wore out, and though we’ve been invited to stay and help serve and meet our neighbors, it just hasn’t been part of what we have felt called to do.

But one week, I decided that we would do Taco Salad.  This calls for several servers, and I asked my good friend, Martha, who has helped make soup betimes, to go with me.  “Let’s go and stay and serve the taco salad,” I said to her.  “We will do it together.  It will be interesting.”  And she, good friend that she is, agreed to go with me.

So, on this particular Monday evening, we packed the minivan and set out.  When Martha and I came into the parking lot and parked, there were immediate helping hands to carry and hold doors, smiles, and words of welcome. The serving room at Iglesias is not pretentious.  There are tables and chairs, a serving area on one side with chafing dishes  and serving space, yet not even a stove or a kitchen sink.  Somehow, in its serviceable simplicity, it is both valuable and worthy. 

In the months leading up to this, I had often noticed a small, elderly Hispanic woman who hovered around, helping wherever she could.  She didn’t talk much, but what she said was almost entirely in Spanish.  She was very obviously a beloved member of the church.  She was largely inconspicuous, but still so fully present. On this evening, she was busily helping Martha and me set up, and then she stationed herself by the coffee bar and we waited for the van to arrive.

The van was later than usual.  Martha and I stood by our kettles, and the expectation felt a bit uncomfortable.  “I think we should have some music,” I said.  “Can anybody sing?”

“Sister Juana can sing,” said someone indicating the diminutive, little lady standing to my right.  “She sings in church!”

“Really?”  I asked her.  “Would you sing?” 

She looked a bit confused, but then her eyes cleared and in a small voice that gained strength she began to sing while a few neighbors that had drifted in and the rest of us listened.  The song was clear, the words in Spanish, but the tune familiar.  She sang with quiet dignity and feeling, and I felt a stirring in my heart that reminded me that I was on Holy Ground.  I found the teaching of acapella harmonizing from my childhood rising, first in my heart, then into my own voice as I found the notes that danced below hers in quiet harmony.  She sang in Spanish, I sang the words I knew in English, and when I didn’t know the words, I hummed.

It was a privilege, an honor, and a sacred moment for me. It has been easy to overrate our own importance when we get into something like providing food and serving the people that much of society looks down on.  It can feel like we are a pretty important cog in the wheel.  But I listened as the notes rang through the room that would soon be filled with people who needed to be seen and treated with dignity, rather than another charitable project.  People whose unwashed bodies, broken lives and uncertain futures are not the sum total of who they are. Behind every face, there is a story and a person who isn’t so different from me.

I listened to the words I didn’t understand, heard the notes die away as the van arrived and unloaded, and watched as the room filled with noise and people. The moment, lost then, came back to circle around in my head in the ensuing days with defining importance.  I realized that this was so much bigger than I am.  I am only an infinitesimal part of a huge chorus.  The music is strange and sometimes feels cacophonic, and I don’t always understand the words, but I know the tune and can choose to be a part of this choir, singing my own words, humming when I don’t know any right words, and harmonizing in the only way I know how.  The Choir has a Message, and in a very real way, my part is an offering of praise from a very grateful heart to Jesus who gave far more for me than I can ever give.

And sometimes when I can barely sing, when my voice falters, and the words escape me, He hears my song, knows my heart, just as He knows the hearts and hears the songs of each person who occupies space at the tables of Iglesias on Monday nights.

And it is enough.

Sunshine and Saltwater

I was asked to give my testimony on a Sunday in September in our Morning Service. I thought about the many things that have brought me to where I am, and how some of the hardest reversals of my first 30 years turned into God’s best for me. Since some of you have asked about it, I’m going to share here what I shared with my church family, with several additions and corrections.  Please know that, although this is drawn from the first 30 years of my life, there are so many, many things that have happened in the 42 years since then that are nothing but God’s incredible grace, but these are the foundational happenings that I shared in our Sunday morning service.

I was born to Mark and Alene Yoder on October 15, 1953.  I was their third child.  I was born the day after their fourth wedding anniversary.  Daddy was still 23, Mama was 24.  All I ever heard as a child growing up was that my Daddy and Mama were so happy to have a little girl after having two rowdy boys.  I was pretty old when I figured out that I was probably not “planned,” but I never suspected that as a child.  I was loved and protected and taught about Jesus.

I accepted Jesus as my personal Savior when I was nine, in revival meetings at the Brick Church (as we called it then) and was baptized nearly two years later, shortly before my eleventh birthday.  Did I understand the step I was taking?  No. Did I act like a Christian? Maybe some of the time, but often, I fell short. Not just then but over and over again as the years passed, I found myself (and still do) in need of a great Savior.  The thing is, I knew very young that I wanted to follow Jesus.  I wanted relationship with this God whom I believed had a plan for my life, even as a pre-teen, and I often wrestled in prayer during the long night watches, asking for His blessing, and that He would grant me purity and favor.

And life went on.  I had dreams of college and a career.  I dreamed of being a missionary doctor.  I studied hard, was valedictorian of my tenth grade graduating class from Greenwood Mennonite School.  It was decided for me that I would finish my final two years at Woodbridge, and in the fall of ’69, I began my junior year.  It was the first year of Consolidation. Greenwood people thought I belonged to Bridgeville.  Bridgeville people thought I belonged to Greenwood. It was lonely sometimes. I was outspoken about my faith, (probably obnoxious or condescending) but I made friends.  I made excellent grades in the college prep courses, and even made friends with my teachers.  I was chosen as one of the representatives from Woodbridge High at the state Science Symposium in the spring of 1970, and it felt like things were on track for college and pre-med.

But there was a young man who paid special attention to this Mennonite girl, and I kinda liked him.  The relationship was strictly platonic, I didn’t even entertain the idea of accepting his invitation to the Junior Senior prom.  But my Daddy found out about him and my Daddy did not approve.  This resulted in one of the early, big reversal of my life.  One Spring day, Daddy said to me, “Mary Ann, your choices are not acceptable.  We’ve decided that you will not be returning to high school this fall.  You will be going to Rosedale Bible Institute for the three terms.  You can finish your high school at a later date, through adult ed, or whatever, but you are not going back to Woodbridge this fall.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  “Daddy,” I said through tears. “If you won’t let me go back to school, I don’t think I can stay home.”

That was not the right answer.  “Your attitude tells me that you need to not go back,” he said.  And that was that.

Please understand.  This was not the loss of the relationship, because it really was not that serious.  It did feel like the loss of a dream.  And I struggled mightily in the weeks that followed. Lots of Saltwater. I began to pray, “Lord, if this is your will for me, please change my attitude.”  And He did just that.  I began working at the Country Rest Home as a CNA, and I spent the summer getting ready for the adventure of being away from home for the first time in my life.  So complete was the change in my heart that when, just before school started, Daddy said to me, “Mary Ann, if you want to go back to Woodbridge, you may,” I was able to say, “No, Daddy.  I’m fine with not going back.  I’m going to go to Rosedale.”  I will admit that the first day of School was hard.  I was working the morning shift and the buses were running, the corner of 16 and University Road. I tried not to look, tried not to think, and decided that pitying myself wasn’t helpful, and God was so gracious to me.


Most of you know the result of that reversal.  It became the best earthly thing that happened to me.  God knew that I needed a husband like Daniel Yutzy.  I didn’t think so at first, but God changed my mind about that, and we ended up married at 19. That was Sunshine.

Daniel and I began our lives on very little.  We lived in a travel trailer for the first months, then moved into the unfinished basement of an unfinished house that was supposed to become our home. The kitchen was a board between two folding chairs.  We carried water from a line coming into the basement, and heated it for washing dishes  We did have a cookstove, and a few pieces of furniture that we bought from The Trading Times, (a popular second hand sales publication in Columbus, Ohio) I was home alone on April 3, 1974 when an F5 tornado destroyed Xenia, Ohio, a town less than 50 miles from where we lived, killing 33 people.  I sat in what was going to be the basement laundry room, water pouring into the room through the six inch pipe holding our water supply and prayed.  The reason I remember this so vividly is because two days later, I lost a 14-week pregnancy. It was planned (although I’m not sure we had thought it through very carefully) and our grief was coupled by the fact that an Ohio family member told people in the church family, “I don’t know why they are acting like it was a loss.  They would be better off admitting they weren’t planning for it and moving on!”

Eight months later, I lost a second early pregnancy.   Daniel and I decided to go on with our lives, and we became foster parents. We had two adorable children, Joseph, who came to us at eight months, and Callena, who came to us at three years old.  We still wanted a child of our own, and in May of 1976, we were expecting again.  This time we had a heartbeat.  I was taking injections to maintain the pregnancy, and things seemed to be going better than ever before.  But in September, I had a terrible migraine, and something didn’t seem quite right.  I went into the doctor’s office, and there was no longer a heartbeat.  I couldn’t believe it was happening again. 

“Couldn’t the machine be wrong?” I asked the doctor. 

He was very gentle with me.  “It’s a machine,” he said quietly.  “It could be wrong.  But I don’t want you to hope.” 

I went to the parking lot and cried my heart out against the steering wheel.  “Lord Jesus, you know that I love Joseph and Callena but I feel like it’s ‘second best’!” 

“If it’s what I have for you, I will make it the best.” The words inched their way into my aching heart, but it wasn’t enough.

“I know, but you promised me the desires of my heart if I delight myself in you, and I’ve done that to the best of my knowledge and—“ my sobs echoed in the empty car.

“I am God, you are human.  Who are you to tell me what the desires of your heart truly are?” The quiet words imprinted themselves on my heart, and I know that this sounds really strange, but it was honestly so comforting to me that I dried my tears and went to find Daniel.  It was, by no means the end of our tears, but there was a strength and calm that I could not explain.. 

 It was ten days later, September 21, 1976,  when the baby would have been 20 weeks gestational age that, after a hard labor of 20 hours, I delivered our stillborn baby boy.  We were going to name him “Samuel John.’  Samuel- “ Asked of the Lord” and John –“Gift of God.” And yes, there was a lot of Saltwater.  But physical pain can also be cathartic, and I was empty and spent and quiet in my heart.

My doctor came in the next morning and sat down on the chair in the corner.  “I need to tell you,” he said, compassion furrowing his face, “That I do not think you will ever carry a baby to term.”  I sat in that bed on the maternity floor, babies crying around me and tried not to cry while he explained the technical reasons.   “What do you want to do?” he asked me.
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“I just want to go home,” I whispered. 

He looked relieved, and stood up abruptly. “We can do that,” he said.  And left me to my tears.

We had no way of knowing that, just 7 weeks earlier in that very same hospital a baby had been born who would become our very own Christina.  People say so many things about coincidence and happenstance, but I KNOW that God had Christina for our family. I wish I had time to tell the whole story, but suffice it to say, there came a day when it looked like hope was gone, and I wanted to demand of God that He would allow us to adopt this precious baby. 

I felt strongly that God said, “Mary Ann, whom do you choose?  Do you choose me, whether I give you Christina or not?” 

I remember standing in my sunny kitchen in Plain City, Ohio, while my curly haired toddler played in the playpen in the middle of the room.  The battle was real, and I realized that my fists were clenching and unclenching as I battled with this Heavenly Father whom I had learned to trust, but who had not given me what I thought I wanted so many times – and finally bowing my head while the tears ran down and whispering, “I choose YOU, Father God.  No matter what, I choose YOU!” And in the relinquishment, there was a peace that held me steady through 6 permanent Custody hearings until she finally became our legal child.

We were living in the back yard of Daniel’s parents at the time.  I had come from a home where the father took the Christian walk very seriously. He was very careful with his words, and if he said it, you could count on it.  I married into a family where the father made comments like, “I just don’t think coffee drinking belongs to the Christian!” (while his wife drank probably a pot a day).  It was very confusing to me. I mean, if my Dad had said that, we would have known that he thought drinking coffee was going to keep you out of Heaven.  I had a lot to learn, to be sure.  I knew little of Daniel’s traumatic childhood, but I purposed that I would make a difference in this family and I took two sayings from Pamela Reeve’s book, Faith Is . . .  as my Mantra.

“Faith is . . .expecting God to do a miracle through insignificant me, with my five small loaves and two small fishes.”

And —

“Faith is . . .expecting a sea of golden grain from a bleak and barren field, watered only by my tears, where I walk alone.”  (No drama queen here, right?) 

But I believed it, and I put my heart and soul into making a difference.  I was happy.  We had Christina, Deborah and Raphael.  I loved the church we were a part of. I loved our open, sunlit house on the hill. I knew my neighbors, we had lots of company . . . and I thought things weren’t going too badly with the relationship between us and Daniel’s parents.  However, the truth was that I was overlooking some very deep hurt in my husband’s heart.

Then came the evening when our pastors paid a visit, and in the course of the evening, Walter Beachy said to me, “It would seem to me that you care more what your father in law thinks than what your husband thinks.”  I felt like I had been slapped.  I looked at Daniel, barely able to speak and said, “Is that how you feel?”  He couldn’t look me in the eye, but he said, “Yes, it is.”  I rushed to explain, “But Daniel, you know that it isn’t that I love him more –”   He didn’t let me finish.  “I’ve always known why,” He said quietly, “but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

That was the catalyst for our move from Ohio to Delaware.  The summer before I turned 30 was exceptionally difficult. Our already decrepit orange station wagon was hit by a hit and run driver (thankfully no one was hurt) I had to have a biopsy of a breast lump, Daniel’s parents were hurt, furious and silent, and I didn’t want to move.  Not to New York (which we checked out), not to Delaware, not to anywhere!  But Daniel believed that it was what we should do, and I decided I had to believe that God wouldn’t make a mistake in my life if my attitude was right towards my husband. So, amidst a lot of saltwater, we moved.

Some months later, I stood in the middle of my “dark and orangely decorated” house on a back road in Greenwood, Delaware and wept.  “Lord Jesus!  What have you done to me?  I’ve lost my church family, I’ve lost my friends, I’ve lost that sunny house on the hill.  I don’t know who I am or where I fit!”  But some months later, my neighbor across the hedge row gave her heart to Jesus one evening sitting at her dining room table, and I began to believe that God had a place for me here, in this place, in this time, and Sunshine began to peak through.

This is somewhat my life before we moved back to Delaware in 1983.  There have been countless reversals, and marvelous interventions time and time again.  And I’ve said so much about how God turned what seemed hard into good for me, for us.  That doesn’t mean that I can see the good in everything.  I don’t know why a granddaughter had to face cancer at four, and still struggles with the effects of radiation on her growth plate that necessitated surgery and a halo and so much inconvenience and pain. I don’t understand why her brother had to break his leg last week playing football.  I don’t know why a daughter in law struggles with such deep chronic pain and a rare disease that defies treatment.  I don’t know why a beloved grandson chose to leave our family.  I don’t know why a daughter struggles with a seizure disorder.  I don’t know why another daughter has had so many health issues, including breast cancer. I don’t know why Daniel is suffering like he is with unmanageable nerve pain.  I don’t know why I had to fall and bust my face again last week. And hardest of all for me, I don’t know why some of the people I love most have chosen not to follow Jesus.  I don’t know!

But this I do know.  We serve a God who is good.  He will give us grace in times of need.  He’s never failed me yet.  I’ve given my life to this, and this, I believe!

The news from Shady Acres, while scarce on Delaware Grammy’s blog, has, in reality, been far from scarce!  We have been having quite the time of our lives over here, with gardens and farm and company and even dealing with some hard, hard things that have come into our lives, (as will happen, any time there are people involved and real living).

But this account is not to speak about the down side of living, except that it may be a comment on the frazzled brain of this Delaware Grammy.

It so happens that our family is going to be together over this coming week/weekend.  I have been so looking forward to having our adult offspringin’s and grandchildren around for a few days.  It’s always so much fun to plan and think up things that they might enjoy doing and eating and – well, my heart has been eagerly anticipating our time together.  It’s spurred me on to do some cleaning that I’ve put off for a long time. 

For one thing, the rolltop desk that hides everything when I shut it, got organized and sorted through, prompting Certain Man to say, “That’s the cleanest I’ve seen that desk in 20 years!” (Really, Daniel???)

This struck our Flori-girl as terribly funny, and when I called her in to see the study (yes, the study!) that I had also cleaned, she said in her sweet Guatemalan accent, “Oh!  Iss bery good!  That be the cleanest I see that room in 20 years!” and she laughed uproariously as I looked at her in bewilderment. 

“You’ve not been here 20 years!” I said to her. “How can you–?” 

“I be 20 years old, and I not see it ever clean in my life!”  Alrighty then.  Point taken.

But all of that aside, a few days ago, I went on an Amazon shopping spree to get some things ahead for the weekend coming up.  I found some water toys for the swimmers and landlubbers alike that looked fun, and even broke down and bought silly string (which I’m sure I will regret) and then I looked for snacks.

Aha!  Beef Jerky.  We have a number of people that are lovers of jerky, and I looked at that pound and a half of free range beef jerky and decided that it would be worth the $18 it cost just to see the delight of my family, and I gleefully ordered it and then went about my business for the next few days until it would arrive.

I got notice this morning that it had been delivered yesterday, and I went out and retrieved the package from the front stoop.  We were expecting lunch guests today, so I decided to open the package and store the jerky out of sight because I didn’t want them to think I was having that on the menu.

I opened my package and pulled out the nice looking bag of All Natural, Glycerin Free, Full Moon, Natural Essentials, Jerky Tenders, Free Range Beef Recipe, 100% USA made, Human Grade (and in very small letters) DOG TREATS

What???  I scrambled for reassurance that I was somehow not seeing right.

I was seeing right.  I had in my possession an expensive bag of dog treats and we don’t even have a dog.

“I’m gonna just send them back,” I told Certain Man.

“Shoot, Hon,” he said, laughing. “They are  ‘human grade!’  Feed ‘em.  It won’t hurt anybody and nobody will probably know the difference!”  He didn’t mean it, and even if he did, he knew I wouldn’t ever do it, but still! 

I’m rather deflated, but I am going to send them back.  I can buy a lot of real jerky for $18 and I won’t have to worry that I’m going to poison any one.

And that is the news from Shady Acres, where anticipation is high for the adventures ahead.

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

Yesterday, Certain Man had the Minimally Invasive Lumbar Decompression procedure that he has been waiting for (for a very long time)! Over the last year, he has had several CT scans, numerous doctor appointments, steroid injections, Chiropractic treatments, Physical Therapy, and pain management consults that included epidurals, muscle relaxants, prescription and OTC anti-inflammatory meds, essential oils, lidocaine rubs, massage therapy, and he still struggled with debilitating pain.

Over these last months, it has been an increasingly difficult journey for this man that I love the most. He is not one to let anything stop him, and more than once I heard, “Hon! Someone has to do it. It won’t get done unless I do it. I know these things!!!” Even though I knew that people would be happy to help if he would just ask them, he was loathe to even try. (He’s a powerful determined and proud man). Night after night for almost eight months, while I rubbed those hurting legs and back, I prayed for resolution — for something to help him, and for relief from the pain and pretended not to see when he was fighting tears of pain, frustration and hopelessness.

About two months ago, after yet another referral, he met with Dr. Shachi Patel, a doctor of some renown here in Delaware who specializes in what they call MILD or Minimally Invasive Lumbar Decompression. The result was a scheduled procedure for over a month out, but this procedure held so much promise, and the success rate was in the 85% range.

Certain Man started counting the days. Time seemed to drag, and the last week was especially hard when he couldn’t have any NSAID’s at all, and the activity level was extremely high as we had chickens going out, and two funerals in eight days’ time. He was unusually quiet yesterday morning on our way to Elkton Maryland, where the procedure was scheduled to be done. I wondered what he was thinking, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His doctor had warned him that one of the possible results of this surgery was paralysis (along with other heinous outcomes, none of which impacted him quite like the possibility of not being able to walk). I knew that the thoughts and the “What if’s” were tumbling through his head, as he drove, and his face was a mixture of pain and quiet apprehension as well as hope.

We came into the Upper Bay Surgical Center, and the prayers of so many people seemed to wrap themselves around us and there was peace, The atmosphere in the center could not have been more welcoming, and the service couldn’t have been better. The nurses were cheerful, kind and efficient. The anesthesiologist was confident, happy and completely professional and Dr. Patel was on time and reassuring. Less than an hour after Certain Man went to surgery, he was back into his cubicle for recovery, and less than an hour later, we were on our way home with instructions to “take it easy for a bit, and no lifting of more than 10 pounds for at least 5 days.” (I made sure they told him and not just me)!

They said that he had to have a driver on the way home, but quite honestly, I think he would have been fine driving himself home. I kept my eye on him again, and it was obvious that he was already feeling a significant change in the pain level in his legs. He would move them gingerly and say, “I can hardly believe it. I don’t feel that pain!” Of course he had pain from the small incision, but the pain that has been his constant companion for a year? Greatly diminished.

We came home to the farmhouse at Shady Acres and Home looked wonderful. We spent a quiet evening, and this day had been extraordinarily ordinary.

Certain Man can hardly believe the results of this surgery! I heard him tell someone that “It’s the difference between night and Day!!! I can hardly believe it! It’s so wonderful!” He does have to take things easy, but and there has been no shortage of people bossing him. This has caused some resentful mumbling, but I finally said to him “Okay, then! I don’t think that I should be the one to be telling you what you can or cannot do. You heard what she said, and you want this to be a success. You are smart enough to know your own body and to listen to what it’s saying to you! I do not want the responsibility, and I don’t want to be faulted for being bossy!”

The good man seems to have heard me, and seems to be settling in to the suggested protocol for recovery. He’s doing so well, and I cannot get enough of hearing him tell people (who call to check on him) just how wonderful it is to have relief from that stabbing burning pain that made every activity such an effort. It’s a beautiful day, and it’s hard for him to see it slipping by without working in the yard or garden, but he knows that he doesn’t want to undo anything that has been done, and he is cheerfully subdued.

He is allowed to walk, and a few hours ago, he pulled on his slippers to go and fetch the mail. He was barely out of the front door when I heard him calling. “Hon! Hon!!! Come here and see this!” He was excited and I dropped everything to trot out to see what was so important. The crocuses were blooming their hearts out! Neither of us have ever seen them as glorious as they are this year!

“Ah, Sweetheart! I think they did this just for you!”

It’s a new day, and the future looks much brighter than it did just a week ago, and we are grateful!

For answered prayer, freedom from pain, for friends who love us and for spring crocuses, putting on a show, for these and so much more–

#myheartgivesgratefulpraise

Aunt Gladys

In the days since David asked me to do do a tribute to Aunt Gladys, thoughts and memories have been crashing around my head and heart.  What Can you say in five minutes or less about a woman like Gladys Irene Wert Yoder?

She was born to a school teacher Papa and a stay at home Mama. She inherited so much from her Papa.  A fine mind, the ability to teach, a love of music, and a sometimes-unconventional sense of humor.  From her Mama, she inherited her good looks, a culinary skill like no other, a love of her babies, and the ability to not only hold on, but triumph  when it felt like her world was crumbling beneath her and that life would never be okay again.

She may have inherited personality strengths through her genes, but there was a Grace that held her steady, and it never wavered. And it was she, saying “yes!” to that Grace, choosing to live in that Grace, that made all the difference in a life that could have been so different.

She was the fourth of eight.  It was The Depression, and life was hard. It was difficult to feed eight children on a school teacher’s salary, and at nine years old she went to work for an Aunt and Uncle to help out with their younger children.  She was often homesick and marginalized. The plan was for her to come home on weekends, but that sometimes didn’t work out and a little girl nurtured a sense of humor, learned skills, and came to trust a God that would walk with her through life events that would have stymied, crushed or destroyed many people.

She had a sister, just older than she, who became her confidant and also her sister in law when she married my Daddy’s youngest brother, Jesse, and moved to Delaware. 

Alene and Gladys.  Two peas in a pod. They had their own comedy show without trying.  Sometimes, they really were a hot mess! But they shared their deepest secrets, their acid disappointments, their broken hearts, their children and their shared memories of a childhood that, by today’s standards, was hard.  Aunt Gladys’s humor, sharper by far than my Mama’s, lifted burdens, made the hard days easier, and sometimes made husbands and children, nieces and nephews and even (maybe especially!) her own Mama, shake their heads.

There was a time when Uncle Jesse, Grandma Wert and Aunt Gladys were together, and Aunt Gladys said something that caused both Grandma and our very proper Uncle Jesse look askance.  I do not know what she said, and even if I did, nine chances out of ten, it wouldn’t bear repeating in this assembly. 

In any event, Grandma looked at Uncle Jesse and said, “I’m so sorry, Jesse.  I tried to raise her right!”

“It’s alright, Mama,” he said comfortingly.  “I’ve had her longer now than you did, and I haven’t been able to do anything with her, either!”

But quite honestly, neither Uncle Jesse nor any of us would have wanted her different than she was.  Besides always smelling so good, Aunt Gladys’s life was one of strength, vision, grace, forgiveness, and music.  But her best human quality was that she was full of love.  She loved God, Uncle Jesse, her family, her church, her friends, (not always in that order), but people in general.

Her love was a resource for my aching heart when there was no Mama for me to turn to.  Knowing she missed my mama as much as I did was comforting, and she somehow knew that I needed to hear the words of love she so freely gave.  Her welcoming smile and her hug and kiss were genuine and warm. In these last months, she was the one person who sounded disappointed when I answered the phone.

“Oh.  So, you are home.  I thought maybe you were on your way up here to visit us!  I prayed and prayed that you would come!”  (There is that’s one thing — She did know how to do what I call “The Lauver/Wert Woman Guilt Trip!”) but she never held the fact that we weren’t on our way up there against me, always ending every call with at least one, “Love you much!”

I never doubted it.  It was one of my anchors in a world that felt so out of control.  I knew that she, like all of us, would not be here forever, but I hated to think about it. In the days since she is “Over There” I’ve tried to think of the cloud of witnesses that were waiting for her, and of her joy to see and be with some of the people she loves so much. We know it was a glorious reunion, as she stepped from this body into the very presence of Jesus, free of the inconveniences and losses of this life.

But this past week, we sat around the table in that family dining room down Pleasant Cove Lane, and the voices were familiar, the laughter and the tears were present (as is common).  Uncle Jesse and most of her children and their spouses were there, and it was sweet. But there was a huge hole.

I felt it deeply, but somehow, it seemed that, If I listened hard enough, I could hear that cheerful voice calling back, “Love you much!”

I love you, too, Aunt Gladys.  I’ll see you in the morning.

They tell me the angels are hovering, ready to carry her home. I keep telling myself that there’s a party being planned and that the great cloud of witnesses is eagerly watching, but I cannot stop the tears. She’s been a part of my life from the very beginning to this present moment. 

She is My Sweet Mama’s sister next to her in age. She married my daddy‘s brother. She and Uncle Jesse have been the ones I go to when my heart has been hurting to see my own mama and daddy. They’ve probably seen me cry more than anyone else in these last 10 years (beside my husband). I know it’s time for her to go home, and I’m sure her family is “singing to her of Heaven” and I want to be glad that she knows the Author and Finisher of her faith— 

 And I am! I am!!! 

 But I have long dreaded this time, this day. And I am missing my own mama so intensely. This morning, I asked my beloved cousins, Shirley and Naomi, to get close to her ear and whisper that I loved her and that she should tell My Sweet Mama that I love her when she gets there. 

I don’t really know what happens on the other side, but I believe that My Sweet Mama is watching and eagerly anticipating her arrival as part of that “Great Cloud Of Witnesses!” Once again Aunt Gladys will hold her beloved sons, Robert and Joseph who have been gone now for almost 48 years. She will see her own Mama and Papa, and her oldest brother, Harold, and her oldest sister, Orpha, as well as My Sweet Mama, already there. 

She told me just last week that she wanted to go to Heaven, so she’s getting what she wants. She’s getting what she has given her 93 years to, and that is to see the face of Jesus and to hear “Well done, Good and Faithful Servant”. And so I’m not sad for her. She has lived faithfully and well, she has laughed and loved and forgiven and for her, this is sweet victory. 

But how very much we will miss her.

https://youtu.be/MMu6vy8rODc?si=SyZWjw28mtSIoLKX

About 30 minutes after I wrote this, I received word that Aunt Gladys had Gone HOME.
“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.” Psalm 116:15