Category Archives: Uncategorized

But on this day, she made the decision to do as suggested by Eldest Daughter.  It seemed right to, somehow.  So she pulled up to the unusually empty gasoline pumps and waited.  A fresh‑faced young man of Middle Eastern descent came out to pump her gas.  He made no conversation and did not clean her windshield, but dutifully stuck the nozzle into her tank and then disappeared.  The gas totaled up and stopped at $18.78 or some such odd number.  CMW took a twenty dollar bill from her wallet and waited. 

“Mom,” said Eldest Daughter, “aren’t you going to give a tip?” 

“A tip?  No, I’m not going to give a tip.  You don’t tip when you’re buying gasoline.” 

“Yes, Mom.  You need to give a tip.  When it is full service, it is nice if you give a tip.  I think you should.”

Now CMW does not agree with this.  She never has, and still doesn’t.  But it seemed as if the Lord spoke to her heart and said, “No Change, Mary Ann.  Just give the twenty and don’t take change.”  And so she agreed in her heart that she would take no change. 

But the fresh‑faced young attendant was nowhere to be seen.  Turbaned Man walked back and forth in front of his gas station.  He did not swagger.  He walked old and tired.  His shoulders spoke of burdens.  He finally walked over to the car, and topped off the tank at $19.00.  He came up to the window, and his face was guarded. CMW smiled into his bearded, brown face and handed him the twenty. 

“No change.” she said, and began to close the window.  He didn’t understand and began to fumble with his roll of money. 

She smiled her best at him and said again, “No change.  Just keep the change.” and averted her eyes and closed the window and left.

Now Turbaned Man did not dance a jig or swagger.  He did not thank CMW and he did not act grateful.  (It was, after all, just a dollar.)   But the incident has rolled around all day in her heart and she has come to realize something very important in the hours since then. 

It has nothing to do with dollars or tips or even gasoline.  It wasn’t for Turbaned Man that she needed to do this.  It was for her own heart.  To delineate where the allegiance really lies. To clarify what obedience to the Father truly means in (yes!) Slower Lower Delaware.  You see, it is all well and good for us to debate what should be done to the terrorists.  We can argue the abilities of our government to make good decisions or bad decisions.  We have the intelligence to see where given choices might lead us, and to determine whether they are worth the risk or not.  We have the right to chose our opinions and responses to the situation.  But any of these things will be just that‑‑ our determinations, our opinions, our choices.  The chances of that affecting how this tragedy is played out in the rest of the world are minimal.

But before God, the thing all of us should do is to figure out how we can live fearlessly and lovingly in a world that has gone so wrong.  We need to determine what we can do to stop conflict and injustices that occur under our noses every day.  We need to watch for opportunities to exercise our hearts in ways that go beyond the hurts and fears and agony of these days and brings healing and restoration in our corner of the world.  We need to seek to be Jesus with skin on to those who see us every day.  That’s a lot harder to do than to have an opinion on what the Government should do about terrorism (at least it is for CMW).  But something hard is no less right.

And that is the news from Shady Acres, where CM’s job has brought him face to face with this crisis in ways he never had to think of before,  where CMW needs to get off her soapbox and practice instead of preach, and where all the children will someday wake up and realize that they have lived in times that will be forever stamped in history.

 

Our Girl, Nettie

Yesterday was an incredibly busy day — with grapes to pick and can into concentrate, butternut squash to pick, and my patch of pole limas to pick.  I was so pleased with Our Girl Nettie.  She volunteered all day down at Stockley Center, came home, watered her birds, and then started shelling lima beans.  She shelled a five gallon bucket (that was filled to overflowing) all by herself!

Nettie has had some health issues over these last months,
and sometimes lives with back pain that is debilitating.
But she loves nothing better than helping, and is happiest when she does.
My “Best Helper Award” for shelling lima beans goes to Nettie!

Thank-you, Nettie-girl!

You were a big help!

We love you!

 

Picking Grammy’s Grapes

 

Grammy’s Flowers

This morning, my daddy’s brother, Amos, went home to Heaven.  He went peacefully.  My cousin, Velma, was with him when he slipped away around 4:30.

My thoughts have been so much with Velma today. I wonder if the vigil held Glory for her.  I wonder if she felt the extreme privilege of handing off the hand that she was holding into the very hand of God.  I wonder if the ground felt Holy.  So very much I pray that it was so for her.  Somehow this business of keeping watch over Godly parents who are making the crossing is truly a privilege like none other.  It is so true that it is a time of incredible joy, even while it is a sense of loss.

Uncle Amos has been “missing” for a long time.  There were days when his children would report that it was a good day, and maybe he recognized someone, but most of it has been so clouded for so long, that this day of being “absent from the body and present with the LORD” is one of great rejoicing.  We know so little about the other side and how it will be, but the promise of health and peace and everlasting LIFE is something that rings into our hearts with such a glorious hope that it is hard to think of anything except the fact that he is “Home, Free” and there is no more Alzheimer’s to contend with.

The morning here was busy — 19 for brunch and now we are trying to finish up loose ends before Middle Daughter flies to Ireland for ten days (leaving this evening).  And in between all the physical activity was the sad, sad “God appointment” of talking with young friends who just learned this week that the baby she is carrying is no longer living.  It has been a long time since something has sat on my heart with such a sympathetic sorrow.  I heard the news on Thursday evening, and wondered if they would make the trip here from Ohio as planned, but Youngest Son said they felt the need to be “loved on” and prayed for — something that people at home could certainly do, but maybe they needed the diversion.  They were going to come.

All day yesterday, they were on my mind.  I felt sad and slow and almost sick all day.  I cried alot!  The overcast day with the thread of storm was reminiscent of another September day, 34 years ago, when the rain was slapping against the hospital windows of Mt. Carmel Hospital in Columbus, Ohio.  I had just lost my third pregnancy, a little boy, who died at 18 weeks and was stillborn two weeks later. 

My doctor sat on a chair in the corner and gave me the details of what had been the cataclysmic ending of so many prayers and hopes and dreams.  He hated the whole business, and he was trying hard to be as honest as he could be.  He said, “I really do not think that you will ever carry a pregnancy to term.  You have a really bad track record and the chances are very slim.”  I huddled on the bed and his words slid somewhere into the pit of my stomach and felt like Muriatic Acid, eating away somewhere inside.  The hospital had given me a private room, but it was on the maternity ward and around me were the cries of newborns, and passing in the hall were people pushing clear sided carts with exquisite little bundles of squirming, healthy babies.  I could feel my heart breaking into a zillion pieces.  He was compassionate.  And I knew he really did care, but he couldn’t begin to understand what those words were doing to my soul.  There was silence and then he said, “What do you want to do?”

“I just want to go home,” I whispered. 

He looked relieved.  “We can do that,” he said briskly.  “You can go today.  I’ll write the orders now.”  And he took his sheaf of papers and was gone.  The Man that I Love Most came and gently loaded me into our car took me home. We went back to our little house on West Avenue in Plain City, and we grieved and people loved us and prayed for us and we healed.  I look back to that day and can trace God’s hand, and the picture is so good and so much more complete than I ever dreamed possible.  God had a PLAN!!!

But when someone is in the same boat that we were in that long ago day, I remember, and I think about how I felt that day, and I remember all the ways that people cared and how, even when they said something that maybe wasn’t helpful (and people do — they don’t mean to, but they do!) they were trying to help, trying to comfort us.  They let us know they cared; that they believed in us, and they (I truly believe) prayed for us.  Best, best gifts at such a difficult time.

I prayed a lot yesterday for this young couple, and wondered what I could do to help.  Some years ago, I purchased a gift book, I’ll Hold you in Heaven, by Debbie Heydrick, for such a time as this.  I slipped into the local Christian bookstore to pick up a small willow tree figurine to go with it, and thought and thought about what I could possibly say that would be helpful. Really, there isn’t much that I could think of.

I worked late last night, partly because I had been so slow all day that I just didn’t get done, partly so that I would be so tired that I would sleep soundly when I went to bed, partly so I wouldn’t have anything much to do this morning when time always gets away from me. 

I got up this morning, and brought up my google account, and one of the first things I saw was a message from my cousin, Judi Nafziger, and on the subject line, three words: Amos is Home.  The family has been waiting for this transition for a good while, as the man they knew as their father slipped farther and farther away from them, until the things that were familiar were so obscured that it was hard to find their Daddy.  Was he really there?

All of this has made me think a great deal about Death today.  From our vantage point, one of these deaths is so regrettably untimely.   It just doesn’t feel like the way we would do it if we were choosing the big plan of God’s love for these young people.  The other death has been longed for, prayed for, and is the gentle “going out” of an unpretentious man who did the best he could for as long as he could for God and the people he loved.  Even when Alzheimer’s stole his abilities to cope with everyday living, his servant heart kept on showing him ways to help those around him, long after a lesser man would have retreated into useless solitude.  Uncle Amos.  He is safely Home today.

And when I had a quick moment to hug the two clearly grieving young people and to cry with them a little, and to try to give inadequate words of understanding, I knew again that it’s not by might, not by power, not even by carefully chosen words that come from the best of intentions, but rather by His Spirit that any real comfort is given.  And I remember that more clearly than anything else: the sweet, sweet comfort of the Holy Spirit in our darkest hours.  The Holy Spirit was called “The Comforter” by our Lord Jesus, and I have found it so.  These two know the Father.  They are His children.  I believe it will be so for them, too.

And I don’t envy them the pain.  It’s real.  It’s cutting.  It’s lonely.  But I do remember that there is nothing like being held in the comfort of the Holy Spirit, and the knowledge that sat in my heart and comforted me that said a pain like this would not be wasted in our lives if we would only trust Him.

And I do envy them the excitement of knowing that God Himself is walking these sad days with them and that He has a plan..

 

We stood in the bedroom that would be hers, the bunk beds creating a feeling of being penned in, and the blanket hanging lopsided on the bunk above hers.  I knew it was going to bother her.  Her blueberry eyes were clouded, and her face a guarded study.  I hugged her tightly and prayed that I wouldn’t blubber, even though it was what I wanted to do.  No, wait — what I really wanted to do was wail.  Loudly.  My baby girl.  Going away for a year.

I had watched the night before as the daddy of one of her teammates, his face a mask of unreadable emotion sat at a table with a group of parents and held his daughter like she was three years old.  We parents just don’t do this good-by thing very well.   Especially with youngest daughters.   This dad had been incredibly quiet all evening, and I wondered what he was thinking.  But he sat there, his bright eyed teen on his knee, and I caught a look at his face,  I knew that he, also was trying hard not to let his heart out where people could see what was really going on inside.

And now we were standing in her room, saying our good-byes, and I thought my heart was going to break.  The memories were dripping off the edges of my mind faster than the tears that I was trying so hard to hold back.  I felt her athletic build inside my hug and she put her head down on my shoulder where it has always fit.  This was the time that,when the boys were leaving, I would try hard to say something important and impacting and strengthening and Godly.  Something they could remember when they were alone or afraid or discouraged. 

My mind was scrambling for something profound.  Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, I heard myself say to her, “If I‘m ever going to have any fun, I’m going to have to go someplace without my mommy!”  She laughed, then, her low, delightful chuckle, while the Man I Love Most looked at me like I had taken leave of my senses.

“What is that about?”  He asked, astounded to see us both half laughing, half crying.  “Who said that?”

“I did,” said Youngest Daughter, ruefully.  “When I was three years old!”

She was right.  She had said it. 

Youngest Daughter was the biggest “Mama’s Baby” we had of our five.  She was the one who would camp out on our bedroom floor so much that I finally made a pallet down there for her on my side of the bed in the two foot space between our bed and the wall.  I can’t tell you how many nights I would hang my arm down over the side so she could hold my hand while she went to sleep.  I had to hang it down far enough that her forearm was against the floor because if she fell asleep and released her hold on my hand, she would wake up when her hand hit the floor.  Sometimes I thought my arm would be permanently paralyzed until she was enough asleep that I could bring it back to the plane of my mattress and the safely of the covers.  I know, I know.  I can almost hear the general indignant outcry.  I would never have put up with such shenanigans with the older four.  But I was older and way more tired than I had been with the others, and I got more sleep this way than if I put her in her own bed across the landing. 

Her Daddy would smile and say, “It’s alright, Hon.  She won’t be sleeping there when she’s ten!”  Sometimes I wondered!!!

Youngest Daughter started to say words at ten months.  She was using sentences by the time she was eighteen months.  I sometimes would look at her and say, “I always wondered what a toddler thought, and it is so nice to know!”  She was a sober baby, and often appeared to be thinking and thinking about stuff, and would sometimes come off with some pretty interesting concepts.  She began to understand relationships, and discovered that she had cousins and friends that were outside the walls of the house that held the people with whom she felt the most comfortable.  She liked them best when they would come to the big old house at Shady Acres that she still calls home.
 
I left her one day with her Aunt Alma while I was going somewhere, and by the time I got back, her Auntie wasn’t so sure that she ever wanted to watch her again.  “You need to do something about that child,” she informed me.  “She pretty much cried the whole time for her Mama.  Nothing I did to distract her helped for very long.  There’s no sense in that!”  She was right, of course, and I hated it that she was so attached to me that it made problems for other people.  I also knew that homeschooling the four older children, while we also cared for mentally retarded adults, caused me want to have all the time with her that I could — and sometimes, the dependency made certain that I had time with my youngest child.  Otherwise, it would have been extremely easy to allow the older kids, particularly Eldest Daughter, to do the fun things of having a little one in the house, and I felt like that really belonged to me.  Furthermore, I believed that the time would come when she wouldn’t need me so much, and that she would grow up and be strong and independent and courageous and okay.  I just didn’t want to hurry it along!

One day, when she was still very young (though I don’t know exactly how old) she had been asked to go on some sort of an outing with either cousins or friends or Sunday School teacher or someone that was not in the immediate household.  Her anxiety was high, but the desire to go was also rearing its mighty head.  I could tell that she was pondering and pondering what she should do, and that she was thinking big thoughts in that little head.

Finally, almost to herself, I heard her say, “If I’m ever going to have any fun, I’m going to have to go someplace without my Mommy!”  That phrase was destined to become part of the verbal history of our family!

That was the beginning of the march that led her to this weekend and this day that I had refused to think about in the last few months since we knew that she had planned to take a year long assignment with Rosedale Mennonite Missions.  “I’m not going to think about it,” I would remind myself fiercely.  “I will think about it when we make that long, long ride to Ohio to take her out to training.”  And so, I busied myself with a myriad of things, stopping now and then to watch her as she worked and planned and savored the days.  Sometimes I’d wait until she was out the door to cry some tears and beg the Lord for strength and then remember that I “wasn’t going to think about it now” and would mop up the face and smile for her sake when she came breezing back in.  She isn’t a person who is given to tears.  She claims to wish that she could cry, but she probably has seen her old Mama cry so much over these last few years that she decided somewhere along the way that it doesn’t help a whole lot.  She would feel a lot better (in my humble opinion) if she would just cry sometimes.  “Tears wash the windows of your soul,” I tell her on occasion. “It really does help to cry!”

I never have felt that she feels contemptuous of my tears, but maybe uncomfortable.  That is one reason why I try hard not to do a lot of crying around her.  Over these last months, while I’ve put off thinking about it, I’ve also put off the tears a great deal of the time.  And choosing to quote her childhood saying made the last good-by a lot less messy.  Laughing can a great deal of pathos out of a situation.

I’ve certainly made up for it on the way home.  Sitting here beside this Man that I Love Most, fishing for tissues, grabbing napkins because they are more available, trying to not be too unpleasant of company, I’ve had to think that this might be a good thing.  If I cry as much in the next weeks as I’ve cried on the way home from Ohio, I just might not have any tears left for that last weekend in November. 

But in my heart, what I’m really saying is, “I don’t have to think about this too much until Thanksgiving when she’ll be home for about a week before flying out to Thailand.”  I suspect that when we get to there, she’s really going to get wet.  I’ll probably blubber.  I might even wail.

My Sweet Mama and her siblings got together last week for an informal sort of reunion.  Uncle Lloyd Wert and his wife, Aunt Bev, provided the place and the food.  All that the rest of them had to do was show up.  And they did. 

My Grandparents had eight children.  The oldest was a Son, Harold, and then followed five girls (Orpha, Alene, Gladys, Freda, Alma Jean) before another boy (Lloyd) was born, and then, after him, the final child, another girl, Ruth Ann. 

There were 37 grandchildren.  Three were killed in automobile accidents, so that leaves 34 of us.  Of the 37 grandchildren, 7 inherited the “Wert” last name.  There were that many (7) Gingerichs, 4 Zehrs, 3 Shirks, 16 Yoders.

Harold married Mary Hepner.

Orpha married Lloyd Gingerich.

Alene married Mark Yoder.

Gladys married Jesse Yoder (Mark’s brother).

Freda married Vernon Zehr.

Alma Jean married Harvey Yoder (not closely related to the other two Yoders as far as we know).

J. Lloyd married Beverly Shreiner.

Ruth Ann married Allen Shirk.

When they got together last week, they were all there — except my Daddy.  (And because of Alzheimer’s, one of our beloved Aunties wasn’t quite herself.) The eight siblings are all surprisingly pretty much together and “with it” enough that they really enjoyed the day.  It was hard for my Sweet Mama.  The tears were close almost every time she talked to me in the days before the gathering .  She hated to go without Daddy, but believed that it would not be wise to stay home.  And so, she went, and she survived.  I was so proud of her.  I know it was terribly hard, since this is the first time they were together like this since Daddy died, and it was bittersweet for all of them.  Uncle Allen got a decent picture of the eight of them together and Unkie (Uncle Lloyd Wert) took the rest.  I wish I could have been a mouse in the house that day, but I’ve heard the account, and I’ve seen the pictures.  That is almost as good!

 

In the back, from the left, Aunt Ruth Ann, Aunt Alma Jean, Aunt Freda, Aunt Gladys, Uncle Lloyd
In the front, from the left, Aunt Orpha, Uncle Harold and My Sweet Mama, Alene.

 

Uncle Harvey with Aunt Alma Jean, Aunt Freda, Aunt Gladys

 

Uncle Lloyd’s wife, Aunt Bev, and Aunt Mary Wert (She belongs to Uncle Harold)

 

 

Aunt Gladys and Uncle Lloyd.

 

Aunt Gladys, Aunt Ruth Ann and Aunt Alma Jean

 

Uncle Harold Wert and Aunt Orpha Gingerich

 

 

My Sweet Mama with her lifelong friend, Aunt Mary (Hepner) Wert

 

Uncle Allen Shirk and Uncle Harold Wert

 

 

Uncle Vernon Zehr talks to Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Bev’s son, Phil Wert.  (Phil is one of the five male grandchildren that carries the Wert name) and that is Aunt Gladys Yoder sitting there with what looks like a halo. 

 

This is half of Aunt Alma Jean Yoder, talking to Uncle Lloyd Gingerich, and Uncle Jesse Yoder

 

Aunt Ruth Ann Shirk and Aunt Orpha Gingerich

 

 

Aunt Mary Wert talks to Aunt Freda Zehr, and Uncle Vernon Zehr holds down the other end of the couch.

 

I am just about kaput! 

Since we came home from the Yutzy Reunion in Ohio, I have picked three bushels of lima beans off the 24 plants that Certain Man planted and conscientiously tended for me. (He does NOT pick beans, though!)  I have them all shelled and safely into the freezer. 

They weren’t doing so well at first.  The first time I picked them I barely got enough to fill the cup of my two hands.  While I did that first picking, I noticed that the plants were turning yellow from the inside out, and many of the beans that were there were hanging limp.  I went down those rows of beans and started praying over my decrepit looking bean plants.  I asked the Lord to be gracious to my little garden, and could He please turn things around so that I could have a good harvest.  And I sang while I picked — songs of Heaven, songs of praise, songs of the Soon Return of Jesus (Which I am thinking really could be any day now!).  And then I waited.  About ten days ago, I went back out and things were looking better.  I got a fairly decent picking and was able to put five bags in the freezer.  Then we went off to the Yutzy Family Reunion.  I thought that maybe they ought to be picked while we were gone, but decided that I would just check them when I got back.

Wowser!  We got home on Monday evening, and I went out early on Tuesday morning and the beans were hanging thick and full.  I got started picking but had to stop at the end of one side of one row.  I had a bushel already, and the sun was so hot and the one med I take says to limit exposure to the sun, so I took my very red face into the house, and decided to wait until it got down to around eighty degrees.  The thing was, it was still eighty-seven at seven in the evening.  I was sure I couldn’t wait any longer, so I headed on out, and it actually wasn’t too bad.  There was a breeze, and the sun was going down so I picked another bushel.  Of course, then I was forced in because it was getting dark. 

Wednesday it rained almost all day.  We got over six inches.  Eldest Daughter and I canned 29 quarts of pizza sauce in the morning, and then I went to My Sweet Mama’s for the day.  When I got home, it was time to get ready for small group– and clean up the kitchen, and shell the beans, so I put them into the fridge and decided that I would blanch  them on Thursday.  So, Thursday morning, I went out to finish the one side of the last row and picked another bushel.  Believe me, I got busy in earnest to get those things shelled, blanched and into the freezer.  I got 28 bags (3 cups each, although, when I put three cups into a measuring cup, it made almost four, so those are really almost quarts).  I am one grateful girl!  It feels good to have picked them all myself. I actually enjoy picking the pole beans, but I guess i would not be adverse to some of the family helping.  They do help with the shelling.  (Sometimes, a little bit.  Sometimes, a lot.)

The thing is, I feel so close to my Daddy in the bean patch.  Thoughts of him keep invading the spaces of my heart and the memories are so good. Thankfully, most of the time, they don’t make me cry any more. 

 

Last night I was talking to Mama, and I said, “I think Daddy would be pleased with my bean patch this year!” 

 

She said, “He would be so pleased!  It would really tickle him to know how well it’s doing and how many beans you are getting from it.” 

 

I said, “I can almost see his smiley crinkles and hear him say, ‘I don’t know what to say ’bout ‘cha!  Well, Sweetie, that’s really good!'”

It’s been so long since I’ve heard that voice.  I remember that when he died, the feeling I felt the most was incredible joy at his safe homegoing –and the fact that he slipped so easily from mortality to immortality.  My sister, Alma, said that one of the reasons we were able to be strong those days was that we hadn’t had time to miss him yet.  It’s funny how you can hear something and know that it is entirely more accurate than you really want it to be.  Those words were so terribly true.  I missed him every single day for so long that the physical ache in my stomach almost became an expected part of me.    It honestly doesn’t hurt like that very often anymore, but sometimes when it seems like I don’t quite miss him so much, another person I love takes it upon themselves to make the journey from here to There.  Counting him, we’ve laid to rest five of the David and Savilla Yoder children in less than five years.  Daddy, Uncle John, Aunt Ruth, Uncle Luke, Aunt Naomi.  And other family members and good friends.   Sometimes it is so incongruous how glad I am for them, and at the same time, how sad for us.  And because I am mortal, most of the time when I think about it, I’m just desperately sad for our losses.  Significant losses.  Every one of them.

These days when I am getting ready to let go of Youngest Daughter, trying to think of all the last minute things I have to tell her, trying not to cry when I look at her face, fold her laundry, listen to her voice, I keep thinking about life and why we do the things we do.  I wonder sometimes what all our angst is going to look like from The Other Side.  I wonder if all the separation, heartache and sorrow of this sin sick world will be a part of a long forgotten past, and we won’t even remember?  Or if we remember at all, will it be only to realize that all of this was nothing, NOTHING in comparison to what God has in store for us?

We can’t know what it’s all going to be like, of course, on this side.  But what a comfort to my heart are these words from Jesus our Lord:  (Listen!)

 “Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust in me. ² There are many rooms in my Father’s house; I would not tell you this if it were not true. I am going there to prepare a place for you.³ After I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me so that you may be where I am. ⁴ You know the way to the place where I am going . . .I am the way, and the truth, and the life. The only way to the Father is through me.” John 14:1-4,6b  

He promised!  We can count on it! 

Home again, with so much to tell–

So little time, I can’t do it well-

So it is off to bed for me.

Tomorrow???  Well, I guess we’ll see!!!

There’s laundry to do,

And calls to make.

There’s appointments to schedule

And naps to take.

For every single day away

It seems like it takes two to pay.

I think we finally finished up the corn today.
Alma’s friend, Peggy, made some corn available to us, and we put our hands to the husks, and never looked back!

 

Roxie, Edie, Elmer and Sarah get busy on what seemed like a really little pile of corn.

 

 

The other end; Sarah, Christina, Friend Emma

 

This is what we call the “Cow” and it is a new edition.  I was trying to get the original edition down from the rafters, and suddenly it came bouncing down and broke into irreparable pieces.  Certain Man never said a murmuring word, but got busy and made us a new one, and this is a greatly improved edition.

 

Here we gather to solve all the world’s problems. 
(Almost get it done, too.)

Then Elmer brings the tractor and loader up so we have somewhere to throw the cobs.

Roxie and Sarah begin the big job of cutting off kernels.

 

Alma lends her able hands

 

This is pretty much the bravest one of us all.
With feet that almost never stop hurting, she still came to help.
I suspect she’s paying dearly for it tonight!
What would we ever do without her???
She urges us on to a strong finish.

 

 

There’s lots to drink.  Tea.  And tea.  And Tea.

There’s a hornet buzzing around here.  Someone needs to get him!

Emma tries her hand at a new experience and finds out that she really isn’t too bad at it!

Roxie is a helpful and pleasant addition to our corn days.

 

Sarah is the one who “LOVES” to do corn.  She is our corny professional.

We really do laugh a lot!
This crew specializes in finding something to entertain each other through the long, hot hours.

The long, long line of cutting and packaging.

Of course we had help from another sector!
Charis “washes” her ear of corn before eating it raw.

“If I pour often enough, maybe I can empty one of these muck buckets!”

“Wait a minute.  That’s corn in there.  I really, really, really like corn.”

 

“I believe I’ll go fishing!”

 

“Aha!  I caught a big one!”

 

“I found a spot to eat my corn where no one will bother me!”

 

 

“This is just the best lunch ever!  It’s so yummy!”

 

“Mommy, can’t you see I’m busy here?!?!?”

 

 

“Maybe I’ll just take my ear of corn and go someplace else!”

 

The day went so well, and we had about 450 ears of corn (some of which we divvied up for eating fresh) and we got over sixty packages of corn (of various sizes)  So, so pleased!  And hopefully that is it for this year.  I am just about husked/corned/kernel-ed out.  It has been a long week and half since we started, and I really don’t know how much we’ve done all together, but it is ENOUGH, ALREADY!!!

 

The little one cleaned up pretty well for prayer meeting tonight!

 

CM and CMW at prayer meeting tonight.
Yepper, that’s two tired people!
But prayer meeting has a way of filling up the cracks and crannies of hearts that are heavy,
and provides the oil of joy for mourning
and gives a reminder of how good we really do have it,
so it was worth every minute.

Tonight, Youngest Daughter is ill with a very nasty summer cold, and I am not sure just what to do to help her. 
I think a good night’s rest is probably the best thing for what ails her.
I know it’s the best for what ails me, so that is where I’m heading my own weary self!

Good night, all-
May the Grace and Mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ rest and abide with each one!