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November 22, 2013 · 3:33 pm

November 22, 1963 Fifty Years ago today.

So, for those of us who can remember– Where were you and what were you doing when you heard the news that John Kennedy had been assassinated? I was a fifth grader at Greenwood Mennonite School. Carolyn West Mast was conducting art class when there a a knock on the door. She answered it, and was immediately distraught but would not tell us what had happened except to say that “Something terrible has happened.” These were the days of the Cuban Crisis, and air raid drills and I don’t know about the rest of the class, but I was sure that someone had dropped an atomic bomb on our fair land somewhere.

Dave Hertzler was our home room teacher, and he came into the room and had us get ready for an early dismissal. We stood beside our desks, with our chairs all up on top they way we always had to before leaving and he announced in a tight and sad voice, “President Kennedy has been assassinated.” Which was the proper way to tell us except that a lot of us slower lower Delaware Mennonite elementary students didn’t know what that big word meant.

“What??? He’s been what???”

“Assassinated. Killed. He’s been shot.”

Talk about terror settling into the heart of a child. I was sure the Russians were gonna’ get us for sure. But they didn’t. And the country pulled together in the next drama filled days to say Good-bye to the youngest president we had ever had. We know now that he wasn’t a good man by any moral measure, but the country loved the First Lady and the young children and the man who said, “My Fellow Americans. Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.

“And the lights went out all over Camelot.”

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November 22, 2013 · 5:57 am

Searching for a Meaningful Christmas

He is only eleven, but he looks fifteen.  He reminds me so much of our first foster child, and when I look at him I wish that we could fill his heart as easily as we can the stomach as he shovels down his second bowl of cheddar cheese chowder, polishes off a piece of homemade bread with butter and homemade strawberry jam, then downs some ice cream.  He helped me make the chowder, following my directions with precision and energy when time was short before church the other night.  I just love him so much.

He has been loved.  He knows he is loved, and when he writes his thankful list he always lists, “I’m thankful for my loveful family.”  He has been bullied in school, though, and he can go from calm and reasonable to rowdy and, well, “eleven year old boy” in about three seconds flat, depending on what happens.

I’ve been searching for something suitable for my class to do for the Christmas program.  I know he can sing.  Last night, as he rattled around the sun room, waiting for us to be ready to leave for church, I was listening to the Mennonite Hour Singer’s Christmas Album.  I enjoy it greatly, and that is an understatement.  The songs bring back a thousand memories and there are times when I feel like a little girl in the living room of a house that still stands on Greenwood Road, listening to the old stereo, a boxy thing on four legs, while the rich, full music of four part harmony spills over and around.  It is my childhood Christmas and all is right with the world.

So I listen to the old, old songs of Christmas and ponder ways to work them into something that would be doable for my class.  And then the sound of a male voice comes out of my kitchen CD player.

Sweet little Jesus boy
They made you be born in a manger
Sweet little holy child
We didn’t know who you were
Didn’t know you’d come to save us Lord
To take our sins away
Our eyes were blind, we could not see
We didn’t know who you were

Long time ago
You were born 
Born in a manger Lord
Sweet little Jesus boy
The world treats you mean Lord
Treats me mean too
But that’s how things are down here
We don’t know who you are

You have told us how
We are trying
Master you have shown us how
Even when you were dying
Just seems like we can’t do right
Look how we treated you
But please Sir forgive us Lord
We didn’t know it was you

Sweet little Jesus boy
Born a long time ago
Sweet little holy child
We didn’t know who you were

Suddenly, I got this sweet, sweet picture.  This eleven year old prince is standing in the candlelight at the Christmas program of our little country church, and he is singing this song.  Someone is accompanying him on a quiet guitar, and the congregation is moved. It is a holy moment.

I was so excited.  I thought about it, got more excited, and then called him out to the kitchen.

“Do you like to sing?”  ( I thought he did.  I mean, he sings in church . . .)

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on.  Can you sing?”

“Um.  Not really.  Not very good.”

“Would you want to sing something for the Christmas program?  I mean, if someone would help you learn it and help you practice?”

“Um.  I don’t know.  I don’t really think so.  Maybe.”

“Listen to this song –”  I back up the track and the music fills the room again.  I can tell he isn’t impressed.  At all.  “Just listen!  Here.  Where it talks about ‘the world treat you mean, Lord.  Treat me mean, too.’  That is something you can kinda identify with –”

I can tell I’ve lost him.  We scurry around, getting ready for church and then get off.  Later, on the way home, the kids are talking about the Christmas program and what they would like to do.

“Ms. Mary Ann wants me to sing this old slow song,” I hear him tell the others. And then they are off!

The dreams of old songs by candlelight die quickly as they talk of writing their own rap for the program.  I hear “manger” and “danger” and some pretty creative ideas floating around and I look again at this sixty year old heart that has a hard time letting go and wonder when I will learn.

Isn’t it far better for them to write about Jesus in ways that are meaningful to them, with songs they can “stand” and that spark interest in their hearts and start their creative juices going than for me to get my picture perfect cameo in the Christmas program?

I suppose so, young prince.  That’s why I gave you and your friends permission to try to see what you can come up with.  God help me to keep my wits about me!  I’m just not a jammin’ and a tappin’ and a rappin’ woman.  Ask Youngest Son.  He knows what happens to this mama when there is just too much of a hip-de-do-dah thing agoin’.

And with that, I leave you with this final tip of the hat to what I saw in my head for a few brief minutes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8bEOVi-qJ4

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November 18, 2013 · 2:40 am

Of Funerals, Full Moons, Nasty Bugs and Tornadoes

Certain Man came breezing in last evening around nine o’clock.  His uncle, Joseph Beachy, passed away in Plain City, Ohio, and the funeral was yesterday morning.  CM left Friday morning around eight-thirty.  He actually spent less time in Plain City than he did on the road, if my calculations are correct.  He saw a bunch of people, ate supper at Der Dutchman with his Brother in law and sister, Ivan and Rachel Zehr, saw Youngest Daughter for a few happy hours, took in the funeral and the burial, talked to one of our “foster kids” (now grown) stopped by Yutzy’s Farm Market for some lunch meat, cheese and trail bologna, and got on his way home by 12:30pm yesterday.  He seems none the worse for wear.  And I am so glad that he is home again, I could almost dance.  Nothing seems quite right when he is gone.

The full moon casts its shadows over Our Girl Nettie these days.  I hear her rattling around in her room during the night through the room monitor.  Drawers open and shut and there is much rustling about.  Just when I think that I will need to get out of my lair and trudge down there to see what is the matter, the bed squeaks and everything is quiet again.  In the morning, she either doesn’t remember a thing or claims that she didn’t sleep at all.  This morning she lay quiet, without even her usual snoring until ten o’clock.  Then I reached in under the covers and tickled her feet to wake her up.  She seemed like she was doing pretty well, but by the time she came out for breakfast, she was walking half bent over and nearly crying.

“I jus’ cain’t make it, Mare-Ann,” she said, “I’m hurtin’.”

“It’s a rainy day, Nettie-girl,” I told her as gently as I could.  “It will be okay.”

“I know, but I cain’t make it,” she said again.  “I feel bad.”

“It’s okay,” I told her again.  “There is nothing you have to do today, so you can sit and rest.”

“I know, but I don’t think I can do my room,” she said sorrowfully.

“That’s alright, too,” I said, trying to be cheerful.  “You don’t have to clean your room.”

She ate her breakfast and got a banana and ate that, too.  She drank her tea and took her meds.  And then started again.

“Mare-Ann,” she said mournfully, “I don’t think I can do my room.”

“Nettie!  What did I tell you?

“About what?”  She asked, blinking like an owl.

“About your room today.”

She looked at me like I was the one who wasn’t thinking straight.  Then put both hands up in a hopeless gesture.  “I dunno.”

“I said,” said this somewhat disgruntled care provider, “THAT YOU DON’T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT CLEANING YOUR ROOM TODAY!”

She looked at me sideways, like she really didn’t believe me.  In the very least, she hates me to raise my voice at her.  “Alright,” she said resignedly.

I went back to putting meds into their places and organizing stuff in the med boxes.  I looked over and saw the frowny lines between her eyebrows.  I know that look.  She’s getting ready to say it all over again.

“There’s something else,” I said a bit forcefully.  She looked at me with her guarded expression.  “I don’t want you worrying yourself to death all day over your room and whether you should clean it or not.  Just don’t worry about it.  It’s all right.  I don’t want you fretting and stewing about not doing it.”

“You know I will,” she said, and then laughed ruefully.

I laughed, too.  “But you don’t have to!” I told her.  “You aren’t feeling good today, so you are supposed to just rest.”

She looked at me like I didn’t know what I was talking about, but took herself to her room and her chair and her heater and her television.  I’m pretty sure she wasn’t feeling up to par though because every time I checked on her, she was asleep.

But now, it is Sunday night and I’m really feeling under the weather myself, so I have a great deal of sympathy for how she felt yesterday.  Maybe mine is from the unseen reaches of the full moon, but I have a feeling that it is a nasty bug that is making its rounds.  However,  Certain Man is home, taking a huge load off my shoulders, our revival meetings with Dale Keffer at our little country church have already been an incredible encouragement to me, and if this cough and wheezing doesn’t keep me awake, I should be able to have a fairly good night’s rest.

And that is the news from Shady Acres, where Youngest Daughter has survived evacuation from her apartment to safer shelter on the Campus of Cedarville University, and where some of my extended family are suffering huge losses from the same storm that ripped through Illinois.  Steve and Lois Ulrich, Phil and Holly Hostetler, our prayers are with you tonight.

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Aside

The weather and some excitement around Shady Acres.

It has gotten cold in Delaware.  We even saw a few snowflakes this week.  Okay, more than a few, but not enough to make any impression.  Except on Certain Man.  He saw a whole lot more than he likes to see for an entire season.  Never mind that he says the same thing when he only sees one.

“I saw a snowflake today,” he will announce with that glint in his eye, “and that was already two too many.”  He thinks that strong statement puts his dislike of snow into pretty plain perspective.  I learned a long time ago that it does little good to argue with him.  Or to even act delighted about falling snow.  I won’t win anyhow.  You know, that business about
“A man convinced against his will
is of the same opinion still.”

Yes, that.

It is true.  At least it is true with the man that I know best.

He’s been working on getting things settled down for the winter.  He hauled out his chainsaw and “lopper-offer” thing that is long handled with a rope that comes down.  He uses this to prune off the higher up branches that are not quite so large.  He has done a remarkable job of taking down the old Mimosa tree that died, and thinning and pruning the swamp maples that stand like sentries at the road side of the big lawn.  He has developed a serious interest in making it a little easier to see across the lawn from the road to the house and vice versa.

This is because there has been a prowler at Shady Acres.

And because of the trees, it is hard to see anything that is going on under the cover of darkness.

It seems to have begun sometime last summer.  He and I were attempting to sleep one night a few months back when we smelled cigarette smoke.  Our windows were open, and we both wondered a bit, but people do walk on the road beside our house, and we have neighbors who smoke, so we just figured that it was someone on the road or a neighbor enjoying a smoke that was wafted in on the night air.  We discussed but didn’t investigate.

Then a short time later, while weeding the flower beds, we found a cigarette stuck firmly between the ends of two deck floor boards — like someone had put it there to store it somehow.  It wasn’t something that was accidental at all and we had some speculative moments as we wondered how in the world that got there, but again, we are pretty clueless and it didn’t ruffle our feathers too much.  This summer, there were times when we heard things, but we attributed it to a cat or some such things.  Sometimes, if I were down on my chair reading, and there was some strange, muffled thumps, I would quickly outten the light and head up to where brave Certain Man was sleeping.  And I would creep in beside him and feel really safe once I was up there and that was good enough for me.

But over these last few weeks there have been a few things we could not ignore.  Black tire tracks all over the cement between the chicken house and the manure shed.  Endless lines of circles that seemed to be just mischief, but disconcerting just the same.  We thought maybe a feed truck had done it  — gotten misdirected some how and had gone up to that area and turned around.  But there were a few too many circles, plus we were not due a delivery and had no feed ticket for that night.  Certain Man did report it, but the state police came and looked, but appeared unimpressed.

Then about three weeks ago, we found more cigarette butts in the rose garden beside the back deck that goes out to the wash line, and one lying up on the deck, against the house in a small pile of leaves.  This I found one day and was a bit startled as well as mystified.  I saved everything to show Certain Man.  When he perused the whole area, he decided to leave the deck lights on out to see if it would discourage the trespasser.  So, that night we went to bed with the yard lit up like a Christmas tree.  The only problem was, our hospice nurse daughter was working that night, and when she came home, she turned the back lights off before going to bed.

The next morning, on my way to the washline, I found an Hawaiian lei in the rose garden, wrapped around a three inch tree and stretched out to the full length with a single twist to it.  The lei had been in the pavilion, in a box where I kept prizes for the fourth of July picnic.  The night had been calm.  Certain Man and I had been out there late the night before, trying to figure out about the cigarette butts lying around.  This was obviously someone who wanted us to know that someone had been around.

Certain Man called a friend who is a state trooper, and she said that he should report it so that there would be a paper trail if anything more serious happens.  And so a friendly State Policeman came by and took notes and observed and agreed with us that it did not appear to be malicious, but more just mischievous.  He agreed that someone had been trespassing and encouraged us to keep a closer watch.  And then he went away again after a friendly chat with Certain Man about chickens and chicken companies and flock supervisors.

Since then we have installed some surveillance.  There are motion sensor lights on that side of the deck.  And we’ve received pictures of the area from the middle of the night.

A cat, making its way across the yard.

A feed truck, dispensing feed at the chicken houses.

Middle Daughter’s lights, shining across the yard when she made the corner to drive into the garage in the wee hours of the morning

The lights from the garage windows that shown across the patio at 1:47 a.m. when Certain Man, awake with his bothersome restless leg syndrome, went to the garage to fill a milk pitcher.

And one very windy night, the camera sent me 527 pictures of what appeared to be NOTHING, just picture after picture of dark outlines of deck rails and window boxes with waning summer flowers.

But no prowler.  Oh, the motion sensor lights come on at times, and we never know what it is, but the surveillance has not caught the picture of anyone or thing that looks even remotely suspicious.

“What are you thinking,” I asked Certain Man the other morning.

“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully.  “I’m sorta’ thinking that it has gotten cold and that will make people less likely to prowl around.”

“But what are we trying to do, here?”  I asked him.  “What if we do get a picture of a prowler?  What are we going to do then?  Are we going to confront him?  Report him?  And do we want to catch him or are we just trying to discourage him from coming around?”

I didn’t get an answer on that.  Certain Man and I may not be exactly united on this front.  I honestly don’t want to “catch” anyone.  And whomever it is hasn’t done any damage (heretofore, anyhow) but I just don’t feel very secure with thinking that there is someone lurking on the dark side of my house.

Certain Man is doing some serious trimming.  We continue to monitor, and make use of the motion sensors.  I don’t run out to the back yard after dark with quite the abandon that I have enjoyed in the past.

But most of all, I continue to Pray.  It is still the best thing I have found to do in situations such as these.  “The angels keep watch,” I told Our Girl Nettie the other night when I was telling her about our escapades.  “We have the Angels.”

“And Jesus, too,” she reminded me in quick repartee.  “We’ve got Jesus!”

Ah, yes, Nettie-Girl.  We’ve got Jesus, too.  The hosts of Heaven have kept watch over this house through many dangers, and I believe they are watching still.

Besides that, in spite of all we do, the Bible says,

Psalm 127

1 If the Lord does not build the house,

    it is useless for the builders to work on it.
If the Lord does not protect a city (or in this case HOUSE)
it is useless for the guard to stay alert.

And so, while we will do what we can to be safe, and try to be responsible, we are in God’s hands, and under His watchful care.  May we live faithfully and joyfully and thankfully.  For HE is worthy of our praise.

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November 15, 2013 · 3:51 am
November 5, 2013 · 11:28 pm

Harvest Joy, the Season of Grateful Praise

There’s been lots of activity around Shady Acres, the farm we call Home.  Harvest is everywhere.  The farmers run up and down the roads with their full grain trucks and wagons, interfering with traffic, and causing short tempered people to be even more short tempered.  Delaware’s harvest looks, (at least to my unpracticed eye) like one of the best we’ve had for a few years.  Our squirrels are busy, trying to steal from the bird feeders the winter supply they seem to think they will need.  And, sadly enough, there are hungry people almost everywhere I look.  The food stamp cuts are affecting people I love.

The people in the old farmhouse are looking forward to Thanksgiving and the gathering in of family and friends.  Middle Daughter made and hung this year’s Thankful Wall while I was gone today.  The wrong kind of paper made it necessary for her to do the picture in crayon, and I am just as pleased with the result as I would be with an oil color.  Simple and sweet.

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Tonight the candles are burning,

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. . . and the pilgrims are stuffed in their various corners and crannies.

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And this is Guy Fawkes Night (Bonfire Night) in England and our world traveling Middle Daughter is making a fire in the fire ring and having some friends over to celebrate this happy day.  Eldest Daughter and Beloved Son in Law and Only Granddaughter will join from our family.  Over in Alexandria, VA, Youngest Son is juggling a new job, and lengthy commute to Philadelphia for Grad school as well as a side job as a research assistant, while the Girl with the Beautiful Heart is back at work after the Government shutdown, and needing to exercise her adjectives every day in the situations that she is in.  Out in Cedarville, Ohio, Youngest Daughter is dealing with car troubles, pending tests and presentations and as wonderful an internship as anyone could wish for.  Up in Sugarcreek, Oldest Son and His Ohio Heartthrob are guiding and loving and teaching Oldest Grandson, Middle Grandson and Youngest Grandson that there are things in life that can be trusted (and doing a great job at it, I might say).

And so, with the Thankful Wall hung, the Pilgrims out and the candles burning, the Hot Chocolate Mix is waiting.  Come and see us, sign the Thankful Wall, and have a cup of hot chocolate with us.

Nothing is perfect for any of us, but Certain Man and I are grateful and glad from the bottom of these old hearts.

It is the Season of Grateful Praise, and we give THANKS.

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October 31, 2013 · 10:23 pm

Certain Man’s Wife does a fire drill

Certain Man’s Wife has a home visit every month with her case manager from the State Department of Disabilities.  The assigned casemanager picks up spending records, medication reports, documentation of doctor visits, and social reports from each of the ladies in the home at Shady Acres.  Once every quarter, CMW needs to do a fire drill and document that for someone somewhere in the hierarchy of the state.  So often, CMW thinks that whoever is reading these things must find it the most boring thing in the world.  And it is great fun to write a report that has surprises or details in it that will cause someone to take a little notice.

Mandatory fire drills are things that make little sense to CMW.  Both of the ladies who reside with CM and CMW will never get themselves out in the event of a fire.  Someone will need to physically get Cecilia on her feet and guide her out.  Someone needs to explain to Nettie why she needs to get out — and supervision is very much needed.  This may explain why Certain Man’s house has six smoke detectors and they are careful to keep them in order.  The family at Shady Acres knows it will take time to get people out in the event of a fire.  However, the state still wants each foster care home to run a fire drill every three months, and to fill out their detailed form.

When CMW went to awaken Cecilia one this particular morning, she suddenly remembered that she hadn’t done a fire drill within the allotted time.  With everything that has been going on at Shady Acres, it was one of many things that went right over her head.  And this was the morning for the monthly visit from the case manager.  So in a sudden burst of inspiration, CMW decided that this would be a good morning to do a drill, and decided that maybe it would be good to have it start while both ladies were still in bed.  “After all,” reasoned CMW, “how often do we plan a convenient time for our house to catch on fire and we will need to evacuate?”

CMW hit the button on the smoke detector in their bedroom several times and neither lady budged an inch.  So she made note of the time on her wrist watch and went over and Nettie a nudge on her ample rear that was sticking up under the mound of covers.

“Nettie!  Hey Nettie!  Wake up!”

“Ummmpfff!”  She said in a complainy sort of way.

“Hey, Nettie, wake up!  We are having a fire drill.  You need to get up and get out to the garage!”

“Huh??? “  She said sleepily, “Wha’d’ya say???”

“I said,” Repeated CMW clearly, “We are having a fire drill.  You need to get up and get out to the garage.”

“Oh.  Um.  Okay.”  She grunted, and began to swing her legs over the side ponderously.

CMW went over to Cecilia’s bed.  Cecilia was awake.  “C’mon, Cecilia-girl.  We need to have this fire drill.  Come on, let’s go.”  Cecilia wasn’t impressed, but she got up out of bed and shuffled along with CMW  towards the door.  As CMW looked back over her shoulder, she saw that Nettie wasn’t really moving much.

“Nettie, come on.  We are pretending the fire is in the kitchen.  Come on.  You don’t have time to get dressed.  Just come!”  CMW guided Cecilia through the bathroom where she had to forcibly take her past the toilet where she usually sits down immediately after getting out of bed.

“Sorry, Cecilia-girl.  I’ll bring you back in just a little bit.”  Cecilia was not at all happy with this development.  She was in her jammies, barefoot and it was cold.  CMW thought about the cold cement at the bottom of the ramp and decided to have some mercy on her.  They moved through the laundry room, through the entry way and to the top of the ramp.  Right about now, Cecilia had just about had enough.  STAMP!!!  STAMP!!!  Went her stubborn little foot at the top of the ramp.  “Huff!!! Puff!!! Snort!!!”

CMW looked over her shoulder.  There was no sign of Nettie.

“Here, Cee-Cee,” she said, using a pet name, “You stand right here with your hand on the railing until I come back.”  She curled the fingers around the railing and made sure that Cecilia was safely holding on and then flew back to the bedroom to check on Nettie.

Nettie was busy making her bed.

“Nettie, Come!” she said more than a little forcefully.  “We are having a fire drill.  You need to get out.”

“Wha’?” asked Nettie in her usual slow way.  “Wha’d’ya sayin’?”

“I said,” said CMW with just a bit of exasperation, “that we are having a fire drill.  Your case manager comes this morning and I have to have a fire drill to report.  Come on.  You just need to go to the top of the ramp.”

Nettie looked down over her nightgown and back with distaste at CMW.  At this point, CMW got a firm grip on her hand and assisted her across the room and through the bathroom, through the utility room, through the entry way and to the landing at the top of the ramp.  It was more than a little crowded there with CMW, Cecilia and Nettie.  CMW looked at the motley crew, all three barefooted in the morning chill, she and Nettie were in their nighties and Cecilia was in her P.J.’s.  Cecilia was mad at the interruption in her morning routine, Nettie blinking owlishly and looking like she couldn’t believe the indignities heaped upon her, and CMW couldn’t help but cover a grin as she checked the time on her wrist watch.  She had managed a fire drill!!!  One minute and forty five seconds.  Not too bad.  Hopefully, whoever read it wouldn’t have to be bored at the details, and even though she felt sorry for her two ladies, sometimes their irritation at CMW is a cause for mirth.  CMW doesn’t blame them a bit for being provoked.  But when she accomplishes something that she really needs to do, and they are both looking so out of sorts – Well, to CMW’s biased eye, they are just plain cute.  And somehow, more normal in their aggravation than they are at almost any other time.

And that is the news from Shady Acres where the fire drill got reported, all the reports got filed, and CMW’s day was off to a grand start!

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October 19, 2013 · 10:03 pm

Colossian 4 makes its inroads in my comfort

5 Be wise in the way you act with people who are not believers, making the most of every opportunity. 6 When you talk, you should always be kind and pleasant so you will be able to answer everyone in the way you should.

Being kind has always been so important to me.  My Daddy often said, “It’s always right to be kind,” and he proved it over and over again by the way he lived and the way he dealt with people.

Yesterday morning in my quiet time, this verse popped out at me, impressing itself enough upon me that I stopped and wrote it off and stuck it up to my cupboard door.  My intentions were good.

We had our annual bonfire and hayride last night.  I have been looking forward to it for so long, and I really wanted everyone to have a great time.  But a family showed up an hour and fifteen minutes early with an extra four kids in tow in addition to their own four and you know what?  I kinda blew my good intentions.

It could be said that the children broke every trike on the place except one.  It could be said that the mother had been asked to not bring extra children, but had said that if she did, she would watch them  — and didn’t.  It could be said that they went through the line first, took an inordinate amount of food as well as a lions share of the best desserts and this after bringing nothing to the potluck.  It could be said that the mother, instead of watching the kids was in the house trying to convince me to buy her a new phone and put minutes on it.  And it could be said that when it came time for the hay ride, both parents went and hid in the car and sent seven of the eight children on the hay ride unsupervised.  At least by them.

But it could also be said that my heart was very wrong.  I did not even think of my Bible verses for the day.  I was able to respond with kindness to the four extra children.  They were sweet, respectful and grateful.  But I chafed.  Oh, how I chafed at being so inconvenienced by the early arrival and the intensity of the whole evening.

You could say that the lights went out in my heart.  And I am not at all sure that my words were kind.  The thing is, God said that I should make the most of every opportunity.  Why?  So that I, as a believer, will be able to speak hope to the people who are without hope.

“It’s always right to be kind.”  

Last night, I got it wrong.

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October 16, 2013 · 3:16 am

Thoughts on this October day

I turned 60 today.

I don’t quite know how I got this old this quickly.  I don’t understand how this person who feels like myself is trapped in this body that the calendar says is 60.  I’ve never minded the passing of years, to be honest with you.  But maybe I just never took time to think about the sand in the hourglass and how it would, some day, run out.  I look at the years that lie behind me and realize, with the proverbial jolt, that the years ahead are far, far less than all those happy years that I’ve already lived.

Today has been such a happy day.  Each one of my siblings wished me a happy birthday.  My far away Oldest Brother and Middle Brother called, as did Youngest Brother.  I saw Youngest Sister at Sweet Mama’s this morning and talked to Middle Sister on the phone this afternoon.  And all the offspringin’s and the ones they love have called or texted or visited.  I have a little grandson in Ohio who shares my birthday, and I even talked to him on the phone tonight.  It has been a glorious day.

I’ve done some thinking this week about many things.  It’s been a season of missing my Daddy rather intensely.  I cannot always say why things sit heavy on our hearts at particular times, but it seems to me, after what is now the eighth summer without him, that the one thing that triggers it for me is putting the garden to rest for the season.  Certain Man has been taking down “them thar tomato thingies” and mowing off the spent vegetable plants.  I gathered the peppers and green tomatoes last week and made hot dog relish.  The few ripe tomatoes got put into a few last quarts of juice.

But the pole limas are still standing.  Yesterday, I picked what I am pretty certain is my last big picking from the twenty three plants that made it through this summer.  They have done exceptionally well this year.  When I finished the last bags for the freezer last night, I realized that I have seventy 3-cup bags in the freezer from this summer.  I’ve done them along, four bags here, six bags there, and a time or two there has been ten.  Wonderfully tender, vibrant green, and so, so good.  I am so grateful for the way the bags have added up this summer.

It is the eighth summer without our Dad.  When Daddy died in December of 2005, there were so many things that were the essence of him that we knew we could never replicate, never replace.  The man he was, and his influence on our lives.  His prayers.  His vibrant interest in each of us, and his steady encouragement.  We really can do nothing to fill in these spaces that were left when God called him home to Heaven.

But there were other things that we could do.  I could grow lima beans.  At least I thought I could.  I honestly didn’t know very much about it, seriously had no idea how much WORK was involved, but decided that it would be one way that I could maybe feel close to this man who was so HUGE in my life and was suddenly so gone.  Maybe I was somehow trying to capture a tangible part of Mark Yoder, Sr., and make it my own.  Certain Man was more than willing for me to try, and in the summer of 2006, at my request, he built the pole, wire and twine lattices for two rows of beans.  He asked for advice and got healthy plants from the experts.  He did the planting and the weeding and slowly the plants grew and blossomed and began growing beans.

I was impatient for beans.  The first ones I picked made barely a cup in the smallest pan I had.  They were so good, and Certain Man and I shared them, delighted with the first fruits of our labor.  Then I checked and rechecked and finally decided that I could actually do a real picking.  I think I got a basket.  They were little and piddly and wonderful flavor, but clearly not ready.  I’ve thought so much about that summer as I’ve picked big, full pods of limas off of my plants this year.  The truth was, when I barely got anything in those first pickings, I grew more and more discouraged.  My grief was so deep and terrible, and when I was in the bean patch, I missed Daddy with an ache that often had me wiping tears on my sleeves as I searched for the beans.  I didn’t really know what I was doing, and I had to feel each bean to see if it was ready, and the task seemed interminable.  I found myself more and more just staying out of the patch, not thinking about the passing of the days.

And then we had a hard, killing frost.  The leaves on the bean vines shriveled and died and the pods that I had never picked hung brown on the vines.  It looked like thousands of pods; good, good lima beans that had gone to waste.  I hated the sight so much.  Certain Man finally took them down, put the garden to rest, and I didn’t have to look at them anymore.  I didn’t know if I could even try to raise limas again.

Certain Man is not a man who allows me to wallow.  He understands grief.  He’s certainly had his share, and honest emotions are treated with gentle kindness.  But he dislikes moping almost as much as he likes lima beans.  And he had built those really good supports and I’m not sure he even asked me the next year if I wanted to have pole limas or not.  Had he asked, though, I probably would have said “yes.”  Spring always does that to me, and there is a hope and a deep belief that this year things will go better than they ever have, that the garden will stay weed-free, that there will be not produce left go to waste, and that no one will resent anything that might grow there.  Anyhow, Certain Man planted limas again in the summer of 2007 and things went a whole lot better.

Each year I think I’ve gotten more comfortable with our patch of beans.  I often think of Daddy while I’m out there picking, but I seldom need my sleeve for more than wiping sweat off my face.  The memories are warm and good and they often make me smile when I remember the man who probably picked thousands of bushels of lima beans in his time.  I remember his eyes and the laugh lines around them.  I remember the way he would sit on his chair and shell beans with drive and attention.  I think about how he liked to get a pan for the grandchildren and rope them into helping.  I remember his delight in a pot of lima beans, made by Sweet Mama, exactly the way he liked them, and the way he could put them away at a meal.

There are life lessons here, I know, and over the summer, there have been many life applications for this old gal that came from the bean patch.  But on this night, of the milestone birthday and realizing that Dad only had 16 years left when he was my age, and thinking about being faithful in small things and leaving memories behind us, and how, no matter how much people may want us to stay and think they need us, we don’t really have a choice as to when God calls us home– all these things somehow feel like they really have to do with the lessons I’ve learned in two rows of pole limas in a small garden patch on a Delaware Poultry farm.

Common, ordinary days that are touched with Heaven.

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Aside

Exercise for a Reluctant Heart

This morning in the bean patch, it was easy to feel like complaining.  It was muggy, and the flies were biting and leaving blotches of blood on my ankles.  I searched about the leaves and on the vines and the pickins were slim in comparison to other years.  The stink bugs had laid eggs on some of the beans and the wasps and the bumblebees droned about.

Sometimes when I’m in the bean patch, I find it helps to sing, and often, because I cannot think of what to sing next, I start with the alphabet and try to sing a song for each letter.

A — All Thing Bright and Beautiful

B — Be Still and Know

C — Come, Ye Disconsolate

D — Dare to be a Daniel

E — Every day with Jesus is sweeter than the day before

F — Follow the Path of Jesus

G — Going Down for the Last Time (That’s how you found me, Lord)

H — Heaven will surely be worth it all

I — I Owe the Lord a Morning Song.

And “I” always gets me.  If there is any song that I remember us singing as a family in family worship, it was this song.  So much so that I remember every word of every verse and am able to sing it (if the tears don’t choke it out, that is).  I think it must have been one of my Daddy’s favorite songs, his strong tenor would swoop and soar over our childish voices and Mama’s clear soprano.  When I look at when it was written, and by whom, I realize that it was one of the “newer songs” of the church in my Daddy’s youth, written by a Mennonite minister, Amos Forrer Herr, one Sunday morning when the snow was too deep for his horse to make it to church.

It’s a good song for the bean patch on a morning in August when you are running a race against the rain.  It makes the memories brighter, the load lighter, the job seem shorter, and the heart glad.

The next time you have a job that you don’t feel like doing, try this little exercise — with your own songs, of course.

It will help.  I promise.  Almost every single thing except maybe those biting flies.

You can use insect repellent for that,

The songs are good for the rest of what ails you.

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August 29, 2013 · 3:19 am
August 27, 2013 · 1:08 pm

” . . . That shadows fall on Brightest Hours”

This weekend was the kind of stuff that the best of memories are made of.  All the offspringin’s home, and the four grandchildren.  This Mama/Grammy was at the height of happiness.

Before the light dawned on Friday morning, everyone was in Delaware.  There were twelve bodies sleeping in the nooks and crannies of the old farmhouse.  Middle Daughter had offered to make English Breakfast for the family and I slept solidly for the four hours that I was able to snatch after the last conversation was done and Cecilia and Nettie needed to get up for center.

There are always so many things that demand attention when a family is together, but this Grammy has been looking forward for many a day to having all four of the grandchildren together and going outside to play.  It didn’t take too long on this gorgeous Friday morning to gather them up and take them out to the blacktop circle where they could ride their trikes and various wheeled toys to their hearts’ content.  We took a long golf cart ride, and looked at all sorts of things around the back pasture.  Four children, age four and under, are wonderful companions for a grammy on a nature ride on a cool morning in August in Delaware, and the conversations were to be cherished.

We came back up to the house, and the boys and Charis were busily riding around and around the circle.  We have some specific rules in place at this house, and the one that I am not in the habit of bending (ever!) is that they may not go beyond the front walk in the driveway.  However, for these children, ages 4, 3, 2, and 1, the rule was different.  They had to stay in the circle area.  I was keeper of the lane and watcher of the children.  We were having a wonderful time.

But then I noticed that Liam, the two year old, had started to stray towards the lane.  I was probably twenty feet away and I said in a calm voice, “Liam-honey, stay here with Grammy.  You can’t go to the road.  You might get hurt.”

He put it in high gear and headed straight for the road.  I started in his direction.

“Liam!  Stop!  You cannot go to the road.”  I might as well have been talking to a post.  This little guy really put it into gear.  He was riding a very free wheeling little tractor that was powered by pushing off the ground with his feet.  He was exactly the right size.  With each push of his powerful little legs, the toy was traveling an unbelievable distance.  I started to run.  It became obvious that he was not going to stop.  I began screaming at the top of my lungs.

“Liam!!!  Stop!!!  You are going to get killed!!!  Stop!!!  Liam!!!  Stop NOW!!!”  I screamed and ran and screamed and ran.  Every time I almost got a grasp on him, he gave another shove and flew another ten feet.  There were no appendages on this little toy to grab.  Down the lane we went, little guy laughing like it was a big joke.  Grammy desperate and frantic and so, so scared, running as fast as her two replaced knees and almost 60 year old body could manage.

He never broke his stride for a second, out past the end of the fence,  and straight onto the road.  A car passed on the other side just as he got to the road, and he plowed on.  I was so traumatized I couldn’t think straight.  The way our lane is ordered, people coming down the road cannot see anything coming out until they are beyond the fence with the rose hedge going out to the road.  I barely even looked to see if anything was coming, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a car at our neighbor’s house two doors down with two more cars behind it.  I dashed out onto the road and grabbed the little guy and tried to pull him and the toy off the road.  He started to resist, and I picked his sturdy little body up, threw it under one arm grabbed the toy with the other and flew out of harm’s way.

I was so distraught and upset that I didn’t even look to see who had brought their car to a complete stop on the road.  I couldn’t bear to look at them.  I have wished a thousand times since that I would have gone and hugged them and thanked them and offered to do something for them in sincere gratitude, but I just couldn’t think.  My knees would scarcely function, and my heart was going two hundred beats a minute.  I carried him rather unceremoniously under my arm like a sack of wheat until we got to the edge of the garage.  I think it was then that I realized that Charis had followed me out, adding her voice to the fracas.  She was also more than a little worried.

“Come on, kids,” said this very trembly Grammy.  “We are going in.”

“Not want go in,” said a determined little voice from under my arm.

I pulled him into an upright position and said in a tired but convincing voice, “We are going in.  We need to tell Daddy and Mommy that you got onto the road.  Grammy cannot watch you if you do not listen.  You could have gotten hit out there and been killed.”  He squirmed and fussed and tried to get down.  It would have taken a much stronger guy than he was to pry him loose.

Si and Frankie began to protest as well, and Grammy put on her terrible voice.  “We are going in.  NOW.  All of you.  Maybe you can come back out later, but we need to go in now!”  For some reason, there was no more protest.  I herded the other three and carried Liam into the kitchen that was milling about with people.  Our house is so tight that no one had even heard the terrified screaming outside.

“We almost had a disaster,” I announced.  Everyone was instantly to attention, and I retold the tale, out of breath, still almost unable to keep from shaking violently and still scared spitless.  Liam’s parents were immediately on it, and I left him to them and their wisdom.  I found me a chair and sat down.  I felt so terrible, and all the “what if’s, and “might have been’s” and horrible scenarios went crashing through my brain.  I  have such a crazy imagination, and when I closed my eyes, I could see a crumpled and broken little boy body flying through the air after being hit by a vehicle.  Our road is so busy, and the possibility was so real.  I wanted to weep and weep and weep.

“Mama,” said Eldest Son gently after things had settled down with the parental admonition.  “You are hating it, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” I said tearily.  “It could have been so terrible.”

“Mom,”  he said a bit firmly, “you are going to have to let it go.  It didn’t happen.  That’s what matters.  It didn’t happen.”

“I know, but–” (I just had to say it–) “I could not have borne it it if something had happened to him while I was supposed to be watching him.  And it so easily could have!”

“I know, Mama,” he said, ” and I think about it, too.  It would have been terrible for something to happen to him, and I don’t know what we would have done, legally and all, (since the boys are still under Ohio’s Foster Care System) but the truth is, it didn’t.   And we have to think about that.”

I was comforted some, but it didn’t help much, to be honest.  My knees felt like jelly for the whole rest of the day.  My heart was given to strange accelerations whenever certain reminders popped up,  and my whole body felt like it had run a marathon.  Well, maybe a hundred foot dash.

He tried it again, later that day when his Mommy and Daddy were there.  They are younger than me, Eldest Son has a more terrible voice and longer legs and he got stopped before he got too far.  We parked a car in the driveway at the front door then, so there would at least be an obstacle.  And continued to keep close watch.

This weekend was a wonderful time.  We saw so many people that we love, and had just the best time ever!  I don’t think our wedding reception was as much fun as this party.  (But then, I don’t remember much of that wedding reception, to tell you the truth!)  And our offspringin’s did themselves proud.  I cannot find fault with a thing.

But there was an understanding that made its quiet spot in my heart through all the festivities — the knowledge that all of this could have been changed in a single split second.  The realization that every single minute of happiness that we enjoy is truly a gift from God, and that He is to be praised for His watchful care and generous provision for us.  Does that mean that if Liam had gotten hit on the road that God wasn’t on His job?  No.  It means that God is God, and that for whatever reason, He protected and provided and allowed us to have a wonderful time with friends and family instead of grieving a terrible accident.

And Lord Jesus, Master of the Wind, Maker of the Waves, Blessed Controller of All Things, my Savior and Lord, I love you.

My heart gives grateful praise.

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