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I know, I know.  It’s been over a week.  The murmurs of complaint have begun to trickle in.  The thing is, I have some great stories from this week, but I just haven’t had time to put them out.  Even this posting will lack the “polishing” that I like to give my stories, but maybe some of you can enjoy it anyway!

The other day, I took My Sweet Mama to Cambridge for her yearly endoscopy.  It is a trip that neither of us like very much, but are always glad when it is over.  This year, we had the best news yet.  “I really don’t see any need in dragging her over here so often,” said Dr. Moran.  “She’s doing wonderfully, and I think you can easily wait two years for your next visit!”

WHEW!  What an incredible relief, not only to Mama, but to all of us.  I was tickled beyond relieved, and Mama and I were both rejoicing as we aimed our car towards home.  Problem was, about ten miles out, a tractor trailer pulled out in front of me and if I hadn’t slammed on the brakes, I would have hit him “right in the middle of his daily duty!” (To quote an old Laurel and Hardy Movie line)  But I digress.  Anyhow, the old geezer pulled out in front of me, and I was without my trusty GPS, so I was trying to read my google driving directions backward and took a wrong turn.  It didn’t look right, exactly, but Mama and I were chatting and the next thing I knew, I was desperately lost.  I drove and drove and finally saw a sign that said, “To Route 50” and that sounded vaguely familiar, so I went happily along until I came to a parting of the ways.  One of the directions went to Salisbury.  One went to Cambridge.  I had just been in Cambridge, some 30 minutes or so before, so I didn’t want to go there.  Right?  So I turned to Salisbury.  Wrong!  I drove and drove and drove.  There began to be tidal waters of some sort, and a long, lonely bridge. 

Mama, ever trusting and trying to see the best of it, spoke of beautiful scenery and nice houses.  I worried, but tried to make light of the sinking feeling in my stomach.  Eventually there came a sign that said, “Salisbury: 15 miles. Okay.  This was all wrong.  I found an opening and made a U-turn.  And drove and drove and drove and drove until I was almost back to Cambridge.  You would think they would put some gas stations along there where a gal could stop and ask directions, but NO!  Just miles and miles of nothingness.  I kid you not.  So eventually I got back to the outskirts of Cambridge where I could get route 16 and that took me to the road I wanted, which brought me back to the very crossroads where I made the fateful turn, which I was able to get safely through to the other side without yielding to the turn (which pulled me with all its might, because after all we had been through together, looked familiar!).  And so, we came on home. 

When I called Certain Man to complain of my great miscalculations and misdeeds, he laughed!  And said, “You might just as well have gone on and come home by Route 13.  That would have been a whole lot quicker!”

“I know that now,” I wailed, “but I kept thinking the way out would be right around the next corner, until suddenly I was all the way back to Cambridge!”  And of course, he laughed again.

And then I called Middle Daughter, whom had been informed that I would “be home shortly” just before I made the wrong turn, and she had the audacity to say, “Mom, you would have gotten home sooner if you had just gone on to Salisbury and come home on 13!”

“Daniel Yutzy, Junior,” I said with feeling.  “That’s exactly what your Daddy said.  I know that now.  But I didn’t then!”  And of course, I had to blame her just a little because she has commandeered the GPS for her Hospice Nursing calls, and I just didn’t feel like fetching it out as I was leaving home when I’ve been to Dorchester General Hospital five or six times over the last five years.   I had my Google driving directions, and any simpleton should be able to follow them backwards to get herself home again.  Right.  Anyhow.  I didn’t have trouble with being sleepy on that particular journey.

But the day was actually redeemed by a happening in the waiting room on the third floor.  And that story went like this:

Mama and I rode the elevator up to day surgery and she was taken right back to prepare for surgery.  Just ahead of her was a Downs Syndrome girlie, who appeared unable to speak.  She was there with her mother who was very elderly, had a walker, and didn’t seem to be following things very well.  She also had an aide of some sort that was helping her and bringing her mom along as best she could.  They called me back after Mama was prepped, and I heard some of the exchanges in the bed that held the girlie with Downs Syndrome, and it appeared that she was doing pretty well in spite of having some anxiety over the needles and preparatory procedures.

After Mama and girlie had gone back for surgery, we were all waiting there in the room until the doctors came out to speak to us.  There were quite a few people in the waiting room.  Some were quietly sitting, others were engaged in animated conversation, some were reading.  Believe me, it was the usual motley crew and I learned some things that I would have just as soon not heard.  There was a pair of guys talking, both probably my age or so, who were about as typical “redneck” as you could find.  I read awhile, and then looked up to see the doctor for the Downs Syndrome girlie come out to talk to her mama.  He said that things were going well, and that the girlie was getting awake and that there were no surprises,  he expected that she would soon be good as new, etc.  The mother asked a few confused questions and then the doctor left. 

Another gal across the room who also looked a little bit challenged said to the mother, “What sort of procedure did your daughter have done?”

“A D&C,” said the mother.  (For the unlearned, “female problems.”)  The mother started talking to the aide, then, voicing concern about the girl and wondering why it was taking so long to wake up. 

“She’s okay,” the aide reassured her.  “The doctor said that she was doing okay, and she’s getting awake.  She’ll be fine.”

The mother continued to voice worrying thoughts.  She seemed concerned about whether the daughter was going to be traumatized by the events of the day, and the aide continued to comfort her, and reiterated that she thought the girlie was going to be okay.

Across the room, taking this all in, was one of the older fellows. Gray hair was sticking out below his baseball cap, and a beard bedecked his pleasant face.  He had on jeans.  His friend had left to take someone home, and he had been viewing the waiting room like he was looking for a chance at another interesting conversation.  He jumped in with both feet. 

“She’ll be okay,” he said, smiling at the old woman.  “T’ain’t nothin’ to it, really.  I had that same procedure yesterday, and I don’t remember a thing.  Last thing I remember was signin’ my name on the dotted line, and then I got awake, and I was passin’ gas — ” he laughed a little uncomfortably, and said, “(Ya’ know, they want you to do that before they let you go) and that was all there was to it.  She’ll be okay.  She won’t remember a thing!”

I did NOT laugh. 

I promise you, I did not laugh. 

At least, not then. 

Okay, I might have smiled behind my magazine.  And I’ve gotten some mileage out of it since then, but I didn’t laugh then at the poor misguided fellow.

Our Girl Nettie has had a bee in her bonnet for the past couple of weeks.  Her hearing aids aren’t working right, and that has necessitated me speaking more loudly to her.  And she never wants something when a given person is in the area — it seems like whenever something needs heard, the person she’s addressing is across the room, and she can’t hear them.

“–Can’t hear wha’cha sayin’,” she’ll say and lumber over to where I am, working her mouth in all directions as she tries to form the words.  I repeat and repeat and repeat — and I have to ask her to repeat and repeat and repeat because, if the truth be told, she is very troubled by Seasonal Affective Disorder and when she get depressed, her speech becomes even more garbled.  And her paranoia rears its ugly head with a vengeance.  We are pretty much right there, right now.

This past week, maybe because I’ve done more “hollerin’–”  (HAD TO) she got in her head that I was upset with her.  Numerous times she has come to me with “Mare-Ann.  I wanna’ ass you sumppin’-“

“What’s that Nettie-girl?”

“I wanna’ know.  I juss get the feelin’ that you’re mad at me ’bout sumppin’.”

“No, Nettie, I’m not mad at you.  Why do you think I’m mad at you?”

“I dunno’.  I juss get the feelin’ that you’re upset ’bout sumppin’.”

I reassure her, make a joke about it, try to tell her that maybe it’s because I’ve been trying to talk louder, so she can understand, and she usually is able to laugh and go back to her business, but it seems like a very short time and I hear, “Mare-Ann.  I wanna’ ass you sumppin’-” — and we are back to the same old, same old all over again. 

The problem is, it doesn’t take too often of someone thinking you’re mad at them to feel just a little irritated.

And couple that with a few other irritations, I’ve been trying hard to hang on to my patience.

This morning Josh preached about our expectations and how our expectations affect how we look at other Christians, and how our expectations are what motivate us, not only in ordinary living, but in the spiritual realm, as well.

I had a child on my lap most of the sermon, preventing me from taking notes, but it sure didn’t prevent me from listening and pondering.  And (as usual) I’ve gotten more than enough to think about. The thing is, Nettie has been really needy this afternoon.  I think she got me off my chair at least three times to “help” her solve problems that could have waited — or to ask me questions about when she should do something.  (It doesn’t matter how often I tell her that it doesn’t matter when she “gets the paper” or “feeds the birds” or “gives the birds fresh water” or “takes her shower” she still wants me to set a time for her to do those things.) 

I’ve been guilty of saying things like, “I think you should probably give the birds fresh water around three o’clock.  That way it would be done.”  Or, “Probably 7:30 would be a great time for you to take your shower.  That way you can get your hair dried before you go to bed.”   Or, “Why don’t you feed the birds around four thirty tonight.  That will be before supper, before it gets dark, before things are too finished for the evening.”  I say those things when it doesn’t make a hill of beans difference when she does any of those things.  And I don’t know why it irritates me that she can’t just follow, “Whenever you want to do it, Nettie.  If you feel like doing it now, that’s fine.  If you want to wait until later, that’s fine.”  Even when I go into long explanations like, “You know, Nettie, why don’t you break up your afternoon a little.  When you get tired of sitting on your chair, watching television, just go and feed the birds.  It really doesn’t matter at all.  You are a big girl.  You can do what you want.  And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, too.”

That really throws her off.  I guess she sits in there and nearly drives herself to distraction, trying to figure out what she really should do.  Whether I really want her to and just won’t say it, or if I really think she shouldn’t, but don’t want to say so, or maybe she thinks I think she doesn’t want to, but she really does, or maybe she thinks I just say what I say because I think she wants to and I’m just making it hard for her.

Whatever.

Most of the time, I can just let it go and not worry about it.  Most of the time, I realize that she does the best she can with what she has, and even though it sometimes seems to me that she is looking extra hard to find somewhere to remind me of where I am coming up short, yet she is probably just being Our Girl Nettie.  And most of the time, Nettie is delightful.  She truly is my friend, in spite of the circumstances that brought her to our house.  I love her dearly, and believe that God has a plan here for her, yes, but also for us.  I learned a long time ago that sometimes the hardest people that God brings into our lives haven’t been put here for us to “help” them, but rather it is GOD doing a work in our hearts to bring about His Image in us.  And if we “help” them?  Well, that’s only by the Grace of God.

Tonight I realize that I have the hardest time dealing with the “inconveniences” that come into my life when my expectations turn out to be unrealistic.  I think Josh pretty much made the point that some expectations are fair, normal and needed.  I couldn’t agree more.  But sometimes we expect things of people that they just cannot give, and holding them to our expectations only results in frustration on both sides.  So how do we set realistic expectations that result in mutuality in relationships, satisfaction in the exchanges we have with others, and keep us from looking down on people when we realize they aren’t capable of meeting the expectations we have?

I’ve said it before, so you don’t have to keep on reading if you don’t want to.  The truth is, we are all handicapped before the Father.  When He looks at us poor mortals, there is certainly a lot less discrepancy in ability between me and Nettie than there is between me and Him.  How can I expect Him to look upon the many things I do that “inconvenience” Him with any mercy at all, if I can’t do that for Our Girl Nettie?

And then I read over what I’ve written here and realize how very trivial all the offenses are and how out of proportion my reaction!

And so I raise again the white flag of Surrender.  There is no other way.   

It’s raining in Delaware.  I happen to love rainy days.  (I know, I know.  Those of you who read my blog with any consistency know that I love rainy days and Mondays and being snowed in and all those things.)

Today, though, it feels like it is raining a monsoon in my heart.  This Momma’s heart is incredibly heavy for a number of reasons.  I stood at the back door, looking out, and realized that I didn’t even know where to look if I wanted to look towards Thailand.  Well, I know not to look West, but our house sits very strangely when it comes to directions.  To tell the truth, I hardly even know where to look when I want to look towards Philadelphia or Holmes County, Ohio.  Oh, I have a very general direction, but I like to know that I’m beaming prayers in the exact right direction . . .

And that stops me cold. 

I know what direction to beam the prayers. 

UP ↑. 

It doesn’t matter where those kids of mine are, the place to beam the prayers is Heavenward. 

I can do that.

And knowing that, my heart is comforted.

And the monsoon in my heart turns to a gentle, life-giving patter.

“Lord Jesus, hold the people I love in your tender care, giving them strength for this particular day, courage to live Godly, wisdom to choose the right, and your love for their fellowmen.  Remind me once more that your hands reach where mine cannot, and that you love them more than I do.”

Stored in my mind bank,
the memories sneak out–

And wrap themselves around my heart

And warm me in this season of winter.

Ah, yes, my friends . . .

Cherish each precious day.

There was a CD playing in the new “under the counter/CD player/radio.”  (I just cashed in some of the points that I’ve accumulated over the years of being a “Silkies” customer.)

As the music and lyrics to the praise song, “Holy is the Lord” filled the kitchen, I was surprised to suddenly find the tears crashing down my face.  Middle Daughter was immediately concerned.

“Momma, whatever is wrong?”

I tried hard to explain it, but really, what it came down to was this, “This music always makes me miss my faraway kids.”

She was clearly puzzled.  “Really, Mom, they didn’t really listen that much to this music.”

That was true.  They usually played their music through their headphones when they were downstairs, and I really didn’t hear it very much if they were in their rooms.  So that made me think about why I felt such a sense of loss when I heard the music on this particular CD.  (Blessed Be Your Name: PRAISE & WORSHIP — bought off the “LIFESCAPESthebeliever”  rack at Target.

“You know, Deborah, it’s true that they didn’t play this that much here, but — ” I struggled to put my finger on what that feeling was that came over me when I heard the music.  What picture came into my head when I heard it that moved me so deeply with a sense of loss?

And now you all are going to think that I am hardly even Christian.  I really should associate this music with joy and victory and success and really, really CHRISTIAN feelings, because what it “sits me right in the middle of” is the commissioning service that is held just before sending out the REACH teams each year.  Part of that service is an extended time of praise and worship.  And when I have that music swirling around my ears (and heart) it feels like I am right there — getting ready to say good-bye to one of my kids.

Sometimes when I finally identify what it is that is bothering me about something, I am able to put it away, and let it go.  For some reason, this morning, I am missing all three of my absent kids incredibly much.

And I don’t think listening to PRAISE & WORSHIP music is going to help very much.

I think I’ll go listen to an old 60’s album called “Blue Velvet.”

And that probably isn’t very “Christian” either, but Cecilia will like it.

“. . . but Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me.

Don’t stop them,

because the kingdom of heaven

belongs to people

who are like these children.”

Matthew 19:14  NCV

I sit on the bench — always the same one.  Not because it has to be, but because I learned a long time ago that I can concentrate better if I always sit at the same place.  But it isn’t MY bench, or OUR bench, it’s just the place we sit when it’s available — and it ususally is.

Earlier this week, I had spoken to my neighbor about the three children coming to Sunday School.  They were very interested, and it was because of their interest that I had them over on Thursday night.  I felt like I needed to know them a little better, have somewhat of a relationship with them before “setting sail” on a Sunday morning.  Most of my interaction has been with their Mom, and because of her willingness to give life details, I have felt like I knew these children somewhat — even though I hadn’t really had much personal time with them.

On Thursday night, we had about two and a half hours together.  We played games, baked cookies and I read to them.  They were hungry for hugs, very responsive to suggestions, and NOISY.  And BUSY.  And HUNGRY.  And so incredibly precious.  And they really, really wanted to go to Sunday School.

So we made arrangements to pick them up.  This morning, while I finished last minute Sunday morning things, Certain Man went down the road to retrieve the children.  While he was gone, I started to think about what big mess we were into now.  And I thought again about this man I married — and his willingness to be inconvenienced for Jesus’ sake.  Especially when it comes to children.  There are a great many men out there who would be disgruntled, peevish or would even forbid the kinds of involvement that we often find ourselves in.  But he has almost never been anything but supportive, encouraging, and affirming.  I really do have a husband who is one in a million.

So he cheerfully went off, retrieved the three kids and came back home to load up ladies and his scatterbrained wife and we got to church on time (for a change!).

Sunday school went well.  I continue to love teaching this class — which today included two of the three we had brought along.  I was pretty sure that class would be okay — there is plenty of activity, moving around, things to occupy heads and hands and no one is too quiet, at least in the basement class where we meet.  But then Sunday School was over, and the church family that meets at the corner of Canterbury and Carpenter Bridge Roads does not have any separate provision for children during the sermon.

So here we all were, on the bench, and Certain Man was bringing the message.  I got out my Bible and notebook so I could take notes, as is my custom.  I love these Sunday morning times and have a strong commitment to not only staying awake, but listening carefully enough so as to have some insights to carry with me.  Except that this morning, there was no spare time for taking notes.  I watched distractedly while there were stickers and notebooks and markings and whisperings and thumpings and munchings on anything that was remotely edible.  From the standpoint of having extra children in the church, it was wonderful.  It was an answer to my prayers.  It was so exciting.

But there was something else going on in my heart.  It has been many a year since I have had a row of children that I was more or less responsible for.  And all through the sermon, there was a conflict waging in the battlefield of my soul.   You see, I have come to enjoy my quiet bench.  I like just “blending in” and having the freedom to think and pray and take notes and just be my own (selfish) self.  This bench was a radical difference.  And I am all for settling kids down and teaching them proper church manners and how to behave, but I also know these things take time.  And the issue cannot be forced.  Too often children have been made to conform to certain standards of behavior so that a church is satisfied, and the result has been temporary acceptability, but a damaged concept of what it is that God really wants of them.

And so I look at the faces of these kids, and realize that so much more is being caught than taught right now.  And if I am going to be frustrated and impatient and even resentful, they are certainly going to catch that.  So what do I do with this dilemma?

I don’t know.  But I know that God cares about this.  He loves these kids.  It is no accident that they are a part of our lives in this time, in this place, in this way.  And so, I intend to ask Him for the answers.  For wisdom.  For creative ideas in how to keep them excited and enthusiastic and COMING.  And for creative ideas in harnessing the energy, directing the hearts and minds towards things eternal (they are not too young for this!) and for the patience I (and all of us in our complacency) will need.  In the past, I’ve made the mistake of thinking that the children that rode to Sunday School in the Yutzy Van were somehow our “property” to maintain in the church family.  The years, and some heartbreaking failures have shown me how wrong that mindset is.  It’s important for there to be a family that is their primary support/contact and authority, if you will, but it is imperative that these children form relationships within the church family that they look forward to exploring and expanding and enjoying.  Friendships with other children.  Exchanges with trustworthy adults.   All things that can help to point them to a God who wants to be an integral, vital, living part of their lives.

It’s a big order.  And inconvenient.  And it doesn’t feel very “comfortable” or “tidy” or even “safe.”

And that bench that has been so quiet and peaceful and somewhat orderly will just have to embrace the change.

As will the graying grandma who likes to sit there.

“I intend to be inconvenienced for Jesus’ sake!” 

These words are ones that often ring in my head when
I have decisions to make about involvement in other people’s lives.

Do I really mean this?
They are very hard words, to be honest. 
And the very word “inconvenienced” is something that goes against my grain.

Sometimes I tell myself that I am getting older.
That I deserve some peace and quiet.
That my heart has been walked on enough. 
And when all is said and done, how much difference will my contribution to the Kingdom really make?  How much of it is wood, hay and stubble?
How much is gold, siver, precious jewels?

And how much is my “inconvenience” enabling someone else to ignore what God wants to say to them through the struggle?  Do I allow people to struggle just because it is “good for them” and “they’ll never learn if they don’t hit bottom” (or some other inane thing I like to say when I really don’t feel like being involved)?

And why are the most heartrending stories on my back door step?

And why are they so incredibly cute?

“Lord Jesus, the children, THE CHILDREN!!!

May you have mercy on us all!

And in that mercy, may your greatest gift be that of showing us the way to love as you do,

Inconvenienced, or not.”

The 2010 Christmas Village . . .

. . .that gave us all so much enjoyment, (but especially the Small Fry) . . .

Has been taken down . . .

And (along with the manger scenes) been boxed up . . .

And put away.

The Sun Room at Shady Acres is back in place.

And it feels good to have it back to normal after two months of Christmas village.

Now that we can get out of the front door of the Sun Room, we are celebrating our finished deck railing

We are so very happy with how it turned out. 

Thanks, Davey!

I’ll try to remember to post a better picture when the weather turns warmer, but we think it’s really, really nice!

I celebrated the end of the Season by making a big pot of Chicken Rice Soup.

It has been warm and comforting on these wet, cold and silvery winter days.

There is much to be thankful for.
  My heart is full.
And I give grateful praise.

This morning, in our church gathering, our song leader, Joel Bontrager, chose the song, “God of Grace and God of Glory“  (from the Mennonite Hymnal, song #434).

It’s funny, yet delightful, how certain songs will trigger memories that make you smile on a Sunday morning that has been difficult (at best) and made more difficult by a bad attitude (that was me this morning, sorry to say!).

But Joel led the song, and I suddenly remembered Chorus practice at Greenwood Mennonite School.  The year was ’66-’67, and there were two new teachers at our school that year.  A very, very young Don Yoder and a new EMC graduate, Henry Shank. The two of them took the Greenwood community by surprise, and I dare say that more than just a very impressionable eighth grade girl were never the same again. 

Some times I wish I knew the adult dynamics of those days.  (I suspect that I’m better off not knowing.)  But Don Yoder was a much loved cousin who had actually boarded with my family on weekends while he went to LMS, and in my eyes, he could do no wrong.  And then there was Henry Shank who somehow looked at this insecure and often ridiculous teenager and decided that he saw some things to encourage and bless, and did so with an open and generous hand.  It wasn’t long until he was also a trusted and much loved advisor.

Mr. Shank directed the high school Chorus that first year that he was at GMS, and Mr. Yoder also participated, lending his great voice to the young men’s section of the choir.  One of the songs we sang was “God of Grace and God of Glory” and one day after practicing it at great length, Mr. Yoder, having observed that it was a great favorite of Mr. Shank, made one of his quiet snide remarks about it being “Mr. Shank’s wedding song.”  Of course, this little joke went around the students, who were quite interested in the fact that Mr. Shank was planning his wedding to a certain beautiful Lois Bechtel in the near future. Somehow the lyrics made us snicker when we applied them to a marriage.  How little we knew!

And then, one day at practice, as we prepared, once again, to sing the song, a student happened to mention, sotto voce, but still heard by our director, “Humpf!  Mr. Shank’s wedding song!”

First a look of puzzlement, then one of enlightenment, and then one of humor passed across Mr. Shank’s face.  And soon he was laughing out loud as he gleefully said to a somewhat amused but red-faced Mr. Yoder,  “You’re responsible for that!!!”

Ah, Mr. Shank.  We couldn’t know then that your life would be cut short — that you would marry that girl you loved so much, and together would have three beautiful children, and then, only 5 days after your 40th birthday would go to be with the Lord.  Sometimes  I think of the days when you introduced us to some of the great songs of the church, and how music will always be a part of the memories I have of you.  And “God of Grace and God of Glory” will always be “Mr. Shank’s Wedding Song” in my head, though it was, of course, NEVER sung at your wedding.  Today I looked at the words of this great song, and from the standpoint of a marriage of over 37 years, think it might just be one of the best wedding songs I have ever heard. 

If more of us could live the principles found here, truly petition the requests found here, and invite this “God of Grace and God of Glory” into the heart of our marriage, what a difference it would make in our homes.

God Of Grace And God Of Glory :