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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

It was a Saturday of catching up with home responsibilities.  The week had been a whirlwind of so many exciting things, but laundry was not one of them!  Monday I found out that my brother, Nelson, and his good wife, Rose, were coming to Delaware for a Breakfast for the women and wives of the Mark and Alene Yoder family.  I was so surprised and delighted.  It’s such an honor to have my brothers and their wives stay in our house.  My brothers genuinely love my husband, and I dearly love their wives, so it’s a win/win situation.  We had a lovely time, and I even got to win two games of Penny Domines (they keep reminding people that I was the score keeper, so, obviously . . . ) But I digress.

After Nelson and Rose pulled out on Wednesday morning, I found my phone and realized I had missed a call from my son, Lemuel.  Jessica had texted her mother, Lynn, and me the night before that she was having a serious flair, that they were treating it aggressively but that she was not responding, that they were trying to keep her out of the hospital and that they might need some help.  I had said that I would be available last week if they needed me, but that the last week of February was full of appointments and I could hardly get away then.  This phone call was in response to that offer.  Lem had left voice mail, and I looked at the transcript, then promptly listened to the message.  My heart caught as he asked if I really was available for another “day trip,” that he felt terrible asking, but—and then I heard his voice break but he plowed on after a hesitation and said something about the need, then apologized for getting emotional – and I knew immediately that I was going to Washington as soon as I could get off.

And I did.  I went in safety, had a splendid two days, Jessica started responding to the increase in medication and so on Friday evening I came home, again in safety, and crashed onto my beloved laZboy chair.  Shew!  It felt good to be home.  (Do any of you other Mamas of my generation wonder why there are no comfortable chairs in the homes of their adult children?  I mean, really???  It wouldn’t take me two weeks to get a chair that I could sit into and get out of without feeling like a spectacle of aging)!

And then it was Saturday. Certain Man had everything in order as far as housekeeping was concerned.  He had Flori come over and sweep the floor (it was obvious she had done more than just that) and things looked really good.  But there was an agitating amount of laundry to do, there was one lonely crust of bread in the bread basket, and I finally bestirred myself to get on with the tasks at hand.

The evening moved in, and the last of the laundry was folded, and the bread was out of the oven and the house smelled so good.  There is something about the smell of bread baking that makes me think about home, and My Sweet Mama, and how easy everything was back then for a little girl who loved jelly bread and milk.  I had a sudden memory of the old tin of King Syrup that was always in our cupboard.

I remember My Sweet Mama, buttering a slice of bread and putting King Syrup on it for me.  Oh, how good a fresh piece of homemade bread tasted with butter and King Syrup on it!

They still make King Syrup, only it comes in plastic bottles now.  I always have a bottle of it in my kitchen and use it in place of molasses in any recipe that calls for it, but particularly our family’s recipe of vanilla crumb pie.  I also put it on bread to eat with certain soups.  (This particular taste is not shared by Certain Man.  He spreads the strawberry jam to the edges of his bread and looks askance at my choice of spread).  But I stood there in my Saturday kitchen and thought about My Sweet Mama, and I sliced off a fresh slice of bread, buttered it up and slathered on the King Syrup.  I ate it, standing at the sink in my clean kitchen and the memories of what once was, but could never be again swirled around my head and heart, and the moment was bittersweet, but strangely comforting.

The week had been a contradiction on so many fronts, and I marvel again at how grief and joy run parallel tracks on this road of life. I’ve discovered that we do not choose the pain that enters our journeys, but in all of this, we can choose to see and acknowledge the joy.  It makes the difference between hope and despair for me. 

And sometimes a comforting slice of homemade bread with butter and King Syrup is helpful.

This, I know.

It is no secret to my family that I have absolutely no discernment when it comes to cars. Is it little and blue with a bit of a snub to the rear end?  “Hey, Look, Flori! Deborah’s car!!!” (Amused snicker.  “No, Grammy, that is NOT Beeba’s car!  It’s not even the same make!”)  Is it a white SUV?  “I think that must be Jesse and Christina’s car!” (followed by a furious wave that dies to a conventional Delaware “Howdy” upon seeing that the handsome black driver is neither of them).  Is that a red minivan?  It must be my sister, Sarah!  (I wonder what she is doing in Milford tod–? Oh, sorry.  Not her, after all)!

Now there have been several parking lot mix-ups when I’ve tried to get into the wrong silver minivan, and when I’ve traversed the parking lot looking for said vehicle, but usually I come out of it feeling foolish, but at least without witnesses.

Well.  This week I had some extra chicken soup and some canvas bags that I wanted to take in to Brandywine Counseling & Community Services Center, and decided that it would be as good a time as any to run it in on my way to Walmart yesterday morning.  I loaded up the silver chariot and checked my list and was off.  I pulled up to the center, parked, and surveyed the surroundings.  A woman came out of the front door, and stopped beside the large trash bins and rummaged through until she found something that she had obviously stashed there before going inside.  She came down the steps and sidled over to the van parked a parking space away and the guy in the front passenger’s seat rolled down the window an inch or two, and took the prize find—a perfectly good cigarette.  The two of them talked through the window a minute, then she went over and got into the driver’s seat.

Huh!  Well, I decided it was none of my nevermind, and I gathered my items, took them into the center, and conversed minimally with the ones in charge and then bid farewell, my spirit feeling that sort of lightness that I often feel when I find a place for some of the extra things in my fridge. I came carefully down the steps, and watched my feet as I came down the sidewalk so that I didn’t catch my toes on a crack and faceplant on this terribly windy morning.

We replaced the fob on our minivan a few months ago, and sometimes it doesn’t respond immediately to the urgent pushing on the unlock button, and it was really cold.  I started pushing the unlock button as I came up to the minivan, watching the button to see if it would pop up.  It wasn’t budging.  I proceeded to hold it up close to the door handle and pushed it again and again.

Suddenly I heard a tapping.  Insistent, almost frantic.  Coming from the window in front of me.  I raised my eyes from the lock button to see a surprised face looking at me from inside the van.  What in the world?  Believe me, a very surprised face looked back at the car occupants.  I very hurriedly said, “Oh, I’m so sorry!!!  Wrong car!!!” And was rewarded by a quizzical, silly smile.  Then I did some more hurrying — away from the side of the van, back around the corner to where my own van was sitting complacently exactly where I left it ten minutes earlier.

I took my red faced self into my van and looked across the one empty parking place to where the offending vehicle smugly sat, and wondered how I could make such an embarrassing mistake.

I want to make something clear. 

This was not a result of my lack of discernment when it comes to vehicles.  I hadn’t noticed when I parked there, but the vehicle next to mine was a Silver Town and Country Minivan, just like my own.  I’m not going to pretend it was in the same state of repair, but it was the same make and model and pretty much anyone could have made the same mistake. 

So there!

It was dark and cold as I backed our minivan out of the garage at 6:00 Friday morning.  I was headed to our DC family for the day, and the drive stretched ahead of me with two hours of solitude and the hope of some good music.

The moon hung full and bright in the western sky.  It was a comforting reminder that some things never change.  I reached for my car charger before turning on my music and realized that the two cords present were both for Daniel’s phone.  I know my phone well enough to know that it would not handle running the GPS as well as playing my playlist before going dead – likely in the muddled streets of Washington, DC, leaving me in need of rescue.  Oh, well.  I decided it was going to be okay.

There were some appropriate songs that I could sing to encourage me on my way, there was no one to hear me, and it was just me and Jesus in that car.  The miles rolled away, and in my rearview mirror the sun started to come up.  The stark contrast between the moon in the darkened sky ahead of me and the breaking morn in the sky behind me was beautiful, and the colors of the sunrise gave the promise of a clear day.

I could not have asked for better traveling conditions that morning.  The roads were clear, the traffic cooperative, and the sun was to my back.  I came to Lem and Jessica’s house and pulled into the open space from the alley behind their house.  I often come to DC loaded for a several day stay, but this was only for the day, so I could take it all in one trip, my trusty blue cooler on wheels trailing along behind me up the sidewalk to their house.

Stella met me at the door, wearing the Christmas pajamas her Auntie Chris had gotten for Yutzy Christmas.  Oh, my heart!  She has grown so much. She was incredibly happy, digging through a big bag of Valentine’s Day surprises from her Daddy and Mama. Our daughter in law, Jessica was there, finishing up her boring breakfast of the one of the few things her tummy is tolerating, oatmeal. Lem left shortly before I got there to do a presentation at a local school for parents and students.  Jessica was trying to get her food down, and then she was hoping to work as much as possible. 

Stella and I were looking forward to a great time together, and the day did not disappoint.  We played Fish, and she solidly trounced me four out of five games (I managed to tie her on the last one, but it did little to reassure me that I’m not coming down with some disease of magnitude in the dementia realms).  We did a simple craft in the afternoon and made some valentines for her family.  We ate the soup that Grammy brought and some of Grammy’s bread, and interspersed through the day were intervals of interaction with her beloved Daddy and Mama.  Out of 10, the day was a 10, and I was so grateful.

The evening got furhuddled and delayed because of a mixup in food delivery, and my intended 7:00 departure got pushed off until around 8:40, but I felt strangely at peace about everything. I have family members who cannot understand this, but I’ve lived long enough to decide that there are certain things that are out of my control and I might just as well not waste emotional energy on things I cannot control.  I believe that my times, and especially the interruptions and delays are under the control of My Heavenly Father and He said He will work things out for my good if I set my affections on His Kingdom, and trust Him with the outcomes. So even though I got off later than I had planned, the ride home was uneventful (except that I realized just before the Bay Bridge that I wasn’t going to make it home unless I stopped and got some gas) and I listened to a Bible reading program that I’ve been enjoying since the first of the year.  Once again, traffic was light, roads were clear and that moon?  Well, it was a “Ghostly Galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas . . .” (from The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyles), and I remembered that Daniel had said that it was to be stormy on Saturday.  But for the ride home, there was no rain, no tempest, just a pull towards a little farm called Shady Acres and the Man That I Love Best.

I pulled into the familiar driveway around 10:40, and came into the house, tugging my now empty cooler behind me.  The sight that greeted me first was a bouquet of red, pink and white carnations, sitting squarely in the middle of the counter! 

It was absolutely stunning and I caught my breath at its beauty. I was pretty sure that he was going to get me the traditional Valentines Day bouquet, but it got me to thinking about these 51+ years that we’ve been married.  It’s interesting to me how things change with the years, how love begins to be something intrinsically different that what brought us together all those years ago.  I’ve heard it said so often how in those early years there is youth and energy and passion and a hope for the future that drives so much of what we do.  And then in the middle years it’s “Love is more than feelings.  It’s fixing bikes and painting ceilings.” Now we no longer can even pretend that we are in the middle years. These two 71 year old people find that love is the quiet companionship of an evening at home in our chairs.  It’s getting a sub to share at home instead of looking for a fancy dinner out to celebrate. It’s trying to figure out how to deal with the bumps in the road that growing older has brought, and it’s knowing, without speaking a word when the other is in pain.  It’s wishing we could fix the things that are different and “wrong” that remind us of our mortality in ways we’ve never had to think about before. And it’s the wonderful feeling of being home safe and sound and together after one or the other is away.

I don’t know about your worlds, dear friends.  But there has been a significant amount of heartache and joy running straight parallel in our lives the last five years.  It’s easy to focus on the heartache, and I’m not suggesting we ignore it.  I am suggesting that it has been helpful to me to recount the blessings that we’ve been given, and to think on the things listed in Phillipians 4:8:  “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

In our perilous times, when we are drawn into much that is none of the above, could we as the followers of Jesus  seek to align our thinking with that sort of a list? I certainly want to try.

Also, I’ve never been a person that picks a word for the year, but as this year has progressed along, I have chosen a word that I want to live by.  That word is “Hope.”  It feels like a lot of us are mighty short on hope.  I cannot change the world, but I want to be a catalyst in my corner for good, and I need hope to do that.

May you be blessed in your world.