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Annual Christmas Open House, 2016, for Daniel’s office. Our Love Bug was growing up. A precious time was had, and even though I was in slow motion the next day, it was still worth it!

(But I never would have made it without the help of Middle Daughter, Deborah Yutzy, Eldest Daughter, Christina Yutzy Bontrager, and Beloved Son-in-Law, Jesse M. Bontrager, and the support and encouragement of Certain Man. Thanks all of you!)

Eight years ago this evening . . .

The years have slipped through our fingers like quicksilver, and this little girl is now a young woman. The annual Christmas Open House is no longer “annual.” The truth is, we cannot do at 71 what we did at 63.

But the message of Christmas, “God With Us” is as true as it ever was, and this sin-weary world needs the Angel’s message of Hope, peace and goodwill like never before.

The journey was one I didn’t want to make. But the reluctant obedience had brought blessings and happy, happy times. But now it was over and I was heading home. The travel was not without it pitfalls, not without its anxiety, and not without its danger. But I was purposefully heading home. The anticipation was real 

I came home to a familiar driveway. Thankful to be safely here, I came into the place that I have called Home for 35 years. It was familiar and warm and someone I love the very most on this earth wanted me here. This morning, I woke in my own comfortable bed without a worry or concern about who was already awake in the next room or who I may disturb if I start stirring around. It was restful and comforting and sweet. 

It makes me think about that other Home. There will come a day when I will come home yet again to another place. I believe that it will feel familiar, that I will be astounded at how beautiful and sweet it all is. There will be people there that I love and the one I love best, my Savior, Jesus, will be there. 

I love to think about that home, about what it will be like (and there is so much I don’t know) but to think about how I feel getting home here makes me know that getting Home there will be even better. 

#myheartgivesgratefulpraise

I was on my way home from Millsboro after a doctor’s appointment this morning. As I came North on 113, suddenly the sign announced, “Stockley Center” with an arrow pointing right. It would be hard to adequately articulate the memories crashing around my head and heart at the sight of that sign.

For over 35 years, Stockley Center was a familiar institution to me as I provided care for disabled adults.  I took my initial training there in 1984-85. Training sessions, educational meetings, paperwork drop off, Dental appointments for my individuals, first aid and medication classes, etc. were common.  In the last 15 years of my tenure, when I went to the Center for other required classes or meetings, I would drive back

the long, long lane to The Cemetery where we laid our beloved Gertrude’s body to rest in November of 2005. At first I went often. I would stand at the stone that marked her grave and sing to her.

“Knowing you’ll be there.”  “Jesus loves me.” “Suppertime.”  “Sojourner’s Song.”  She would sing along with me during her years at our house.  She had perfect pitch, knew the melodies of almost all the old hymns, even though the words were all jumbled up.

I would often shed tears at that Holy spot, remembering that my Daddy did the graveside Service for her and a short seven weeks later, on a cold December day, we covered his grave in another cemetery beside the church where much of  his life history resided.

I don’t think I have been to Gertrude’s grave since Covid, but I made a quick decision and made a quick turn into the road leading to the grounds that were once so familiar to me.  There is a new guard house at the entrance where everyone has to stop, and two friendly looking black guards were on duty.

“Good morning,” I say, and smile.  They return the greeting cheerfully, and I say, “I’m just on my way back to the cemetery.”  Their faces are immediately soberly compassionate, and they nod.  “Do I need to do anything?  Do you need my name or anything?”

“No, nothing,” they say, almost in unison.  “You are free to go.”

I head back the long road and around the corner and head back another long, long road.  There have been so many changes to this place since Gertrude and her two brothers, were brought here in 1932.  (Thank God)!  There have been so many in just the last five years that it blows my mind.  Even the cemetery has changed.  There is an adequate parking place, and the western part of it has become a veteran’s cemetery.  On this eastern side, there are probably a hundred graves of indigent disabled persons who died in state custody.  One of them was our Gertrude. 

She hated Stockley Center.  In those early years, whenever we would travel down 113 to “The Colony,” (as she always called it) she was usually fine until she caught sight of the water tower and she would immediately become agitated and fearful.  My heart ached for her.  She had suffered much there, and for most of her life, all decisions were made for her.  Daniel and I had tried to start a fund for her burial so she wouldn’t have to be buried at Stockley, but it seemed futile.  In the end, all that was available to her was a pauper’s grave.  She did not have a pauper’s funeral, though.  The undertaker said, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like this.  You cannot imagine how often in this place, it is a graveside service with a preacher and me and no one else.” The chapel on the grounds of Stockley Center was packed out, and our family and our church planned a funeral for her that was full of love and memories and laughter and song.  Some of her natural family, case managers, supervisors, nurses and aides joined us. There were printed programs with her picture on the front, and she would have loved it. Our church planned a meal afterwards, served in the basement of the church where she often went during her 19 years in our home. It was comforting and affirming.

In the months following her funeral, I often felt sad to think that on the resurrection morning, Gertrude would find herself rising from the ground of the place she hated so much.  It just didn’t seem right or fair.  It felt like one more injustice to this incredibly sweet songbird who loved Jesus, babies and Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And she loved our family . . . But as time went on, my thinking got itself “righted” again, and I thought about the fact that not only will it not matter then, it doesn’t matter now.  The first thing she will see on that resurrection morning will be Jesus, and everything will be good.

I looked out across the graveyard as I came through the entrance and was startled to find a flat field.  All the tombstones had been lowered into the ground so that a mower could pass over the field without weed eating around the stones.  I hated it. Certain Man said that is the way it has always been Maybe. But the ground was still not gobbling the markers up like it is now.

I searched for Gertrude’s grave and finally found it.  I am not sure that it is where it was, but the familiar marker was there, and I decided that I would never know for sure.

I stood for a while, thinking about all the years, about this precious lady whose mannerisms, peculiar sayings and actions are a part of our family to this day.  I felt something prickling my leg and I looked down and there were sand burrs firmly attached to my stockings. I thought about things that prick and irritate and wondered at the prolific crop of these tiny burrs that attach and try their best to get a ride out of where they grew. I picked them off, and they pricked my fingers and held on until I managed to dislodge them.  They hurt!  But then, so did my heart in this October cemetery on a perfectly glorious day.  So many heavies right now, but so much hope.  I decided to look around, trace the names of people who we gave respite care to, and who had homes with friends.  I was astounded to realize that in this particular section, the graves stopped abruptly around 2012.  I saw that there were some that were recent in a small section between the veterans and the Stockley Center Cemetery.  Curious, I walked over to check it out.  I thought my heart would break.  Apparently this is the cemetery of the babies of documented immigrants.  Baby after baby, most with merely a small marker and name, some with the name bleached off by the sun, and a very few with a stone.  Like this:

The one matchbox car was lying off to the side.  I picked it up and thought about a Mama, far from home and family, afraid to seek adequate pre-natal care, who loved and lost and buried here, in an indigent cemetery, a part of her heart.  Yet another injustice in our current world.

I traipsed back to my car, started it and made the trip back to the entrance.  At the end of the first stretch, as I made the corner, the tears came, hot but sweet and releasing.  I wound my way up to the exit, and didn’t need to stop.  The window on the exit side of the Guard house was darkened and shut.  It was a relief. I gave a perfunctory wave at the window as I went by, and then I was on my way home.

It has been a week of miracles for this Delaware Grammy.  There have been moments of “reluctant obedience” that have resulted in affirmation and peace.  I’ve been so blessed with warm memories, happy moments, people who love me, and hope for the tomorrow that awaits people I love.  I do not always like the diagnosis.  I sometimes chafe under the circumstances.  And I am not always satisfied with outcomes.  But I have a promise from Jesus that I cling to and He has never failed me yet.  He never will.

“Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.”

“He has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

I do not need to be afraid, grief-stricken of discouraged.

And my heart gives grateful praise.

Sunday morning.  I was in that almost awake state that usually precedes the decision to get up for me.  I often have strange dreams of concerning situations in those minutes (i.e. Company coming and nothing prepared, church starting in 10 minutes and my hair is still not doing what it’s supposed to do while the family waits in the car, or people standing around at a social gathering and I’m not properly clad).  I’m actually often entertained by these dreams once I’m awake enough to realize that they are, in fact a dream!

This morning was different.  We were in church, everything was very proper, and the meeting was appropriate except that we were sitting in the pew we usually occupied when the children were young.  About the time that the service was dismissed, I looked across the auditorium and sitting midway back, alone on a bench was My Sweet Mama!  She was young, healthy and happy.  Her smile was absolutely radiant, and I said, “There’s Mama!!!”

Nobody else seemed to see her, and in that strange, dream reasoning, I somehow knew that I was the only one who could see her.  I felt strongly that I didn’t have much time, and I tried to get over to where she was now standing, smiling at me.  “She can’t stay,” I told myself.  “This isn’t where she really belongs!”

Just about the time that I got to her pew, she disappeared into thin air, leaving me with one last glimpse of that smiling face.  And I awoke, freshly bereft of the best Mama I could have ever asked for.

Sunday.  Monday.  Tuesday.  The image of her face is constantly with me, and I miss her fiercely.  Certain Man took me to see Uncle Jesse and Aunt Gladys last evening, and it helped to dull the intensity of what has felt like fresh grief.  I am grateful, but still somewhat melancholy.  What would she think if she were here?  What would she say to me? To my beloved siblings and in-laws?  To these grandchildren who have grown and multiplied and are the parents of adult, adolescent and younger children?  Would she be proud of her family?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  

But she would listen and she would love us. That knowledge is enough for me to begin to turn the grief into gratefulness.  Right now, that fills a lot of cracks in this heart that is holding some hard, sad stories for which there seem to be no viable answers.

She would listen!  She would love us!

#myheartgivesgratefulpraise

Covid has reared its ugly head again at Shady Acres. Both Certain Man and I have caught it for the third time. Certain Man has not made out too badly, but I lost my sense of smell and taste and my head feels like it weighs at least 30 pounds, my ears are plugged, and I am just so tired! Thankfully, I’m not short of breath, but the congestion in my head certainly makes me feel like I am in a fog.

I went to bed last night feeling so grumpy and discouraged. I didn’t even kiss Certain Man good night because I just didn’t feel like it. He laughed at my reasoning, but promptly fell asleep and didn’t seem to0 be too offended. I could hardly think through the fuzziness in my brain, but I was pretty sure I was miserable. All of a sudden, I felt a sharp prick in the side of my leg like something bit me, and I absentmindedly moved my foot up to rub the spot. I knew nothing was biting me because I am accustomed to these sudden unexplained neuropathic twinges in my lower extremities.

But then I got to thinking about all the things I have for which to be thankful. For one thing, that twinge! I had no need to throw back the covers and look for a spider or an asp or a bitey bug. And I didn’t need to worry about Malaria-causing mosquitoes to be flying about my room. I didn’t need to light a candle or an oil lamp or primitive light source in the event that I did want to check it out. My bed was comfortable, and I wasn’t alone. My husband does not snore offensively. The fan was moving the air and making sleeping easier. It wasn’t long until I drifted off and I slept well.

This morning, the electric was off, the generator was running and I slept through it. I finally bestirred myself at 8:30 to discover that two neighbors had asked about the outage, my husband had been out working for literally hours, and that, even though I still couldn’t smell or taste, I wasn’t feeling quite so grumpy. I decided to comb my hair, wash my face, get dressed, make my bed and walk out to see what Certain Man was up to. He was washing down a manure spreader that he had borrowed from a neighbor, so I picked 4 or 5 ripe peas and checked on the garden, and suddenly felt very hot and tired. He said that he was going to come in and sit a spell, and that sounded pretty good to me. We came in, I made him breakfast and we both “sat for a spell.”

I’m not happy we got Covid, but I keep thinking about how this is probably the best timing for us to have it. We had houseguests from May 7-29th with a day off in between to change sheets, and it would not have been very fun to be sick while they were here, (although we didn’t have much interaction with the one couple). Besides, even if they didn’t care, we would have! And even though we missed some fun things (visits with friends and family scheduled for last week, the GMS school festival, a Yoder family gathering at the old home place, hymn sing at church) yet we did have time to rest, (still do!) and the potluck planned for “First Sunday” at our church got postponed a week because we aren’t the only ones who are sick in our congregation. How’s that for making people feel important?

The days have been nothing short of gorgeous. Cool, breezy, and colorful. Someone said, “It’s a shame to waste such pretty days on being sick!” Well, to be honest, these beautiful days are such a gift to me. I can go outside and sit on the upper deck, or lazily swing on the porch swing, or just sit in a lounge chair on the lower deck and the birds are singing, the Humming Birds are flitting about, there’s probably even a butterfly if I watch close, and I am content.

Below is the one view from our upper deck.

And here is a cheery hanging basket that my friend, Krista Sweigart gave me about a month ago. It convinced me to buy begonias for my deck rail planters!

I may be sick, but #myheartgivesgratefulpraise !

It flashes on the Skylight Photo display on my kitchen counter. I see it every single day.

I see it, and I pray that somehow, sometime, somewhere, someway the storm will abate, the tide will turn, and the last chapter will gladden my heart, and be the answer to this Grammy’s prayers.

It’s all there.

The hugs, the smiles, the triumphs, the dreams, a strong body, a fine face. 

The losses, the reversals, the disappointments, the charades, the squandered investments of love and time and materials. 

The sounds. Some hard, some good, so many circling in my head. The laughter, the words of love, the affirmation of faith, the promises made and believed, but broken. 

But now it feels like the only sound I hear triggered by the sight of this face is the breaking hearts of the people who have loved him. The silence of breaking hearts is unbearably loud.

There really are no words for grief that has the flavor of finality mixed with failure and fear.  But over these last tumultuous months, and as we’ve entered into this empty place, this song has become a reminder of how we can go forward. 

And I will bring a sacrifice of praise.

Shady Acres Farm*7484 Shawnee Rd* Milford*DE*19963

Dear Family and Friends,

The best blessings of this happy season to all of you!  It’s that time of year again, and I’m sitting down to write yet another edition of the Yutzy Family Christmas Letter. I wrote another one, but it wasn’t right somehow, so here goes again!

As you may have guessed from the accompanying picture, we’ve been married for 50 years! Half a century! That’s a pretty big chunk of time. The adult offspringin’s wanted to throw a big party but we asked them instead for time together as a family. So, the 17 of us gathered in a big house in Canaan Valley, WV, and had a noisy, happy couple of days together. We played games, interacted with our adult offspringin’s, their spouses and the grandchildren. We visited a remote park where almost everyone tried to give themselves hypothermia by swimming in a creek that surely came straight off a glacier. We walked on scary places, saw impressive scenery, laughed, ate, talked (had normal family conflicts!), shopped in local shops, and had a most satisfying time together. 

In November, (Only 3½ months late) Daniel and I took a trip to celebrate these 50 years.  We visited The Ark and The Creation Museum in Kentucky, then meandered our way through Missouri, Nebraska, back to Missouri and Iowa, visiting a sister’s family and numerous cousins on Daniel’s side of the family. A high point of the trip was that several of Daniel’s Amish cousins have a weaving business and they took clothes of Daniel’s late sister, Lena, and made them into a handbag and a couple of rugs for Deborah and Christina.  We came home by way of Ohio, sharing Thanksgiving with our son Raphael and his wife Regina’s family. Another high point of the trip was that Daniel was able to visit with the two remaining siblings of his birth mother; his Aunt Lucy Mast in Bloomfield, Iowa, and his Uncle Chris Kauffman in Eaton, Ohio.  We were gone 14 hours near two weeks, and as most of you can probably guess, this old Grammy was good and ready to be home! (I might not have been the only one, but the other party probably wouldn’t admit it)!

I’m aware that our world is full of a lot of turmoil and strife and unanswered questions, and I am not ignoring that, but when I went back through family pictures of this last year, I realized that our family, while having some hard and disappointing times, have had some sweet times together, and there have been triumphs and joy mixed with the failures and sadness.

Christina and Jesse built an attractive chicken house and are the proud proprietors of a small flock of laying hens.  Jesse holds a pretty detailed record of numbers and production. Christina loves her “Babies” and they respond to her call. However, the rooster, handsome though he may be, is not her favorite. Charis, 14, and as tall as her Grammy, started attending church with a friend and was recently baptized upon confession of Faith.  #myheartgivesgratefulpraise

Deborah has had another eventful year.  She finished her BSN last year, walked in June of this year and we celebrated!  She has two new cats (Bella and Baby) that brighten her days and keep her entertained.  The birds at her feeders, and her yard and garden have been a good diversion in a year that has had some unexpected twists and turns. The best news is that she is healthy!

Raph and Regina are still in Canton, and Raph has gotten a promotion at NuCamp while Regina has begun a full-time job as an insurance authorizer that allows her to work from home. The children are growing up, and the youngest is in school this year. The boys are active in sports and Ellie is always busy with something.  Her scans are still at every 3 months, but the outlook is promising.

Lem and Jessica, still in Washington, DC, are both at their same jobs.  Jessica’s health has improved somewhat over this last year with occasional setbacks. It’s been a joy to see her delight in being able to be more engaged with life. The year ahead holds promise for them and it’s exciting to watch. Stella keeps them busy, and she’s growing up at an alarming rate.

Rachel and Rob, also still in DC, are continually surprising us with something else that they are going to do.  Rob has a new job at a fancy restaurant, and hopes to finish his Master’s in the spring.  Rachel continues as a therapist while looking at advancing her education.  They are presently planning a trip to Guatemala in January for the 15^th birthday of our family’s “other daughter,” Lupe’s oldest daughter, Nicole. We considered accompanying them, but this Grammy is ready to stay home for a while!

So, our children continue their pursuits. Job challenges can be daunting, but they have persisted and none of them have asked to move home because they can’t make it out there. We never see enough of those who aren’t here, but we do enjoy spending time with our local family. They have been faithful in looking out for us (and bossing us betimes). The family plans to be home for early Christmas this year (the weekend of the 15^th-17^{th —} which may account for this letter getting out earlier than the usual last minute) and we are certainly looking forward to seeing the beloved faces and hearing the cacophony of familiar voices.

But most of all, let’s not forget the message of the angel to the world that long ago night:

“Fear not: For, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ, the LORD.”

                                                                      THIS, We BELIEVE!

Merry Christmas!

Daniel and Mary Ann Yutzy

(Edit) The family coming home for Christmas did not happen, as COVID hit the Ohio Yutzys, nixing plans for travel. So now we have plans to have our family Christmas the weekend of January 12th, Lord Willing, and this household is somewhat on hold until then. The Christmas we did have was sweet with the locals coming for Shrimp Chowder and “Little Christmas,” and that will certainly hold us over for now.

Blessings, Dear Friends. May the season hold abundant sparkles of joy, even in the ruins of family plans, marred relationships and even funerals. Jesus came to bring us Salvation. He also came as a Redeemer, and in these closing days of 2023, I choose to remember that when things are too broken to fix, our only hope is in Redemption – that He can redeem the broken for something beautiful, strong and good.

“Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards men . . . “

I turned seventy last week. Seventy! Really???

Really.

It was such a happy day, full of friends and family and texts and phone calls and mini celebrations and all sorts of good things.

It was a happy week leading up to it

Last Sunday evening, my brother, Nel and his lovely wife, Rose came with their friends, Patty and Martin to spend the night on their way home from vacation and later in the evening, my “almost a twin cousin” Gloria came as well. That day, (the eighth) Gloria turned 70, and she came straight to our house from biking 70 MILES to celebrate her birthday. That girl has a totally different thing going on than most 70 year old women! “It really wasn’t all that much,” she said to our exclamations. “It was almost all down hill!” Yeah, right. I know about “down hill!”

Anyhow, Gloria came because there are five granddaughters of David and Savilla (Bender) Yoder that turned 70 in less than 10 months, and we took the occasion to get away together for a little bit. Judi Morgan, Shirley Miller, Karen Miller, Gloria Diener and Mary Ann Yutzy. As a group, we could make a formidable foe if we really wanted to do anything but we just wanted to be together and catch up on each other’s lives It was a marvelous time. We laughed and cried and sang and laughed and cried and sang some more. We ate some wondrously good seafood in various forms, according to our individual tastes, and walked briefly on the beach.

Gloria, Shirley, Me, Judi and Karen

We went home to our various places with memories that will last as long as we have our right minds. (Which, unfortunately, I know may not be that long!) Shirley and Gloria to Virginia, Karen to Indiana and Judi and I back to Delaware. We got home on Wednesday afternoon and the days clicked by. We had small group here on Wednesday night, and then Thursday, more friends came. Jim and Ruthi Gochnauer, from New York C,ity came for the Region 1 MDS meeting that was held here in Greenwood last weekend. Jim and Ruthi are old friends, but we rarely get to see them. They visited us in 2019, and, unlike this weekend, got a picture of them then when we took a trip to Tangier Island.

Jim and Ruthi Gochnauer

The weekend slipped by before we knew it, and Sunday settled in with a surprise donut celebration at church, provided by daughters Christina and Deborah, in honor of my birthday, and the whole church sang the traditional birthday song for me.

“A happy birthday to you, a happy birthday to you
Every day of the year, may you feel Jesus near
A happy birthday to you, a happy birthday to you
May God bless you the whole year through”

This song has been sung for birthdays at our church ever since I can remember. When I was a little girl, we would give a dime for every year that we were old, and the accumulative moneys from all the church birthdays for the year would go to a special project. Somewhere along the line, that song was chosen to sing while participants paraded to the front to put their dimes in a designated container. Years ago, as I recall, it was a glass jar with a screw on top with a slot in it. Children could put their dimes in one at a time, revealing their ages. And then we were given a birthday pencil. Older people had the privilege of the top being taken off so that the right amount of dimes could just be added. I remember a year when a particularly opinionated older person went to put in their dimes, and the superintendent wanted to know how old they were and feigned being unable to open the lid. He was quickly brought into submission and the lid came off and the sum total of dimes clinked to the bottom and that was that. As the years have passed, the dimes have given way to quarters (inflation hits the birthday bank, too) and those of us that are older tend to write a check or give bills. We usually give a check, but Daniel forgot the checkbook and so he said I should just give cash. He rounded the donation up to a twenty dollar bill which he had in his billfold, and so I went on record this year as being 80 years old! But that’s okay. It all goes to a good cause.

The week since then has been quite an incredible week. It’s been heavy with extended family things; sickness, grandchildren heartache, Guatemalan family crisis and things that weigh heavy on this 70 year old heart. I find myself lying awake in the night hours, singing to myself and praying, and trying to solve all the problems of all these people that I love.

You know what? I can’t.

But I can lay them down, and I’ve found again that there is a place for the burdens that are too heavy for me. It’s the foot of the Cross. “Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows . . . “

This I believe, and my heart gives grateful praise.