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“Rob and I have decided,” said Youngest Daughter to me one afternoon shortly after Rob had gotten up the courage to ask her Daddy if he could marry her, “that we don’t want wedding cake.  We want pies.  And we would like it if you would make them.”

It was early summer.  October 19th seemed a long way off.  Besides, I like to make pies.  And I love this daughter and the man she had chosen to love, as well.  “Of course, Rachel,” I said without hesitation.  “I will be glad to make the pies for your wedding. Do you know how many people you are going to have and how many pies you will want?”

“Well, we aren’t having a big wedding,” she answered vaguely.  “Let me get back to you on that.”

This girlie of ours planned everything down to the last comma and exclamation point.  It wasn’t long until she told me that she was pretty sure that the maximum capacity for the reception was 110 to 115.  That was good to know.  “How many pieces do you want each pie cut into?” I asked her, “six or eight?”

“Oh, eight, of course,” she asserted stoutly.  “People won’t want more than a smaller piece after eating the dinner.”

“Well, then,” I said to her, “We should probably have about 15 pies.  What kind do you want?”

“Um, I don’t really know yet.  Let Rob and I discuss it and get back to you.”

“That’s fine,” I said.  “I will get the pie crusts into the freezer and then fill them just in time for the wedding.”

Sure enough, on August 5th, her list came through.

This looked very doable to me.  I was familiar with each one of these pies.  The only “hard” pie was the Lemon Meringue which just happens to be Youngest Daughter’s favorite.  I did wonder at the fact that there were eight different pies, but decided that if this was what was wanted, this was what was going to be done.  And I was going to make a Lemon Meringue Pie that would SING it would be so beautiful and taste so nice.

There came the day when Middle Sister and Youngest Sister came to help me, and we moved a lot of work that day.  Middle Sister (Sarah Slaubaugh) made cheddar cheese soup and washed dishes and helped weigh out pie crusts and assisted with making fruit slush for the rehearsal dinner.

Youngest Sister, (Alma Heatwole) is turning into a champion pie crust maker, and she mixed the pie dough, then I weighed it out into equal portions.

Then she rolled them out and I got them into their pie pans and crimped the edges and got them into the freezer.

It was quite an operation, but when all the things were done, it was a huge weight off the shoulders of this mother of the bride.  Middle Sister came back the next day and washed all 72 cylindrical vases for the tables at the reception as well as the 22 votive candle holders.  She also mended some of the boxes that they had come in so that they wouldn’t fall out and break on the way to DC.  It was an incredible help, and the days passed by so quickly that I was almost breathless.

If you read down through that pie list, you noticed that one of those pies was a French Silk Chocolate Pie.  This is a frozen pie.  It was also the only pie that I could make ahead of time and transport to DC without fear of disaster.  So I got busy on Wednesday and baked the pie shells and filled them.

       

(And yes, there were three of these pies because we had promised to leave one for our gracious hosts, Keith and Leah, who were out of town for the week, and we wanted them to have one that would still be good when they got back!)  I stashed those three pies away and felt so good about them.

Thursday.  It was  such a fun, interesting and profitable day.  I took all my recipes and copied off two copies of each.  I measured and calculated and put all the dry ingredients for each pie together in a heavy plastic bag and labeled them.  I measured as many of the wet ingredients as I could and put them into separate, tightly closed jars.  I put all the ingredients together into a larger ziplock bag along with one copy of the recipe.  I checked all the ingredients off as I finished each recipe so that I would have no guessing the next day, and also so that I would not be dragging a bunch of baking supplies along to DC that I would only use a little bit and then have to drag them all back home.  I put all the bags into one of my sturdy large gray totes along with the list and the sheath of recipes, and I was pretty pleased with myself when it was all done.

Then I figured out how much butter I would need, how many dozen eggs, how much whipping cream, and tucked in the bottle of vanilla, and I  felt like I was set.

Friday morning.  We couldn’t get into the church until noon, and we pulled up there around two or three minutes after 12:00. Les Graber, maintenance man and all around helpful guy, let us in and I got started right away.  I baked the four pie shells that I needed and set them aside.  The rest of the pies needed to be filled and then baked.  So I got the Apple Crumb in, then the Pecan, then the Vanilla Crumb, then the pumpkin and finally, the rhubarb.

Next I started the Lemon Meringue.  I expected this pie to be fairly “easy-peasy” because I had grated the lemon peel at home, juiced the lemon juice out and measured everything.  The filling went together super well. and it looked and tasted really good.  I beat the eight egg whites into huge and beautiful mounds, added the sugar and the cream of tarter, and started to spoon it over the hot pie filling.  All of the sudden, my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach.  Oh, no!  I had forgotten the vanilla.  I looked at the pies with several large dollops of meringue on them and pondered what I should do.  I decided first to just add vanilla to what I had left and beat it up good and maybe just cover it all up.  Then I thought that maybe I could at least scrape off the top of those mountainous peaks and put it in with the remaining meringue and “just beat it up good!”  I should have known better.  I really should have.  But I scooped as much of that meringue back into the big KitchenAid mixing bowl and started to whip.  My meringue sank lower and lower until it looked like a thin pudding of some sort.  Some of the lemon filling must have gotten in and done more damage than I had expected it to.  Oh, dear.

My next idea was to just start all over with it.  I checked my eggs.  Nope!  Not enough.  I still needed to make the Peanut Butter Pie and there weren’t enough eggs for me to just take eight.  Besides, what would I do with eight leftover egg yolks???

Wait a minute!  Egg yolks!  I needed six for my peanut butter pie and I didn’t need the whites because I top my Peanut Butter Pie with whipped cream, not meringue.  And besides, four egg yolks a pie when I use jumbo eggs, is way too much.  Three each would be plenty.  Before anyone noticed or told me not to, I poured that offending, pity-sakes of a bowl of meringue down the sink and turned on the water to wash away the evidence.  I procured my precious egg yolks and made my Peanut butter pie while the egg whites came to room temperature.

Back in my element, I whipped those egg whites up and added the Cream of Tarter, the sugar and the vanilla, and got them onto the pie.  Middle Daughter, Deborah, attended to the final smoothing of the tops and we popped them into the oven and set a timer.  I pulled them out a little later and felt like they could maybe use a little bit more time, so I put them back in and set the timer for another five minutes.

Well.  When that timer went off, I slipped my flat cookie sheet under the first pie and slid it out.  It was a tad bit darker now than I wanted, so I hurriedly went to get the second one out.  I was using the top oven which was a one rack oven.  I had already gotten burned on my cookie sheet earlier, so I was trying to just slip it in as fast as I could and not linger.  In went the flat cookie sheet and the heat rose out of the open oven door.  I  needed to hurry!  I quickly pulled my cookie sheet out.

Oh, no, Oh, no!!!  I looked down at my cookie sheet and all that was on that cookie sheet was the meringue!  I kid you not.  Somehow that sharp, flat cookie sheet had gotten between the pie and the meringue and slid right on through to the other side.  When I pulled it out, there was the meringue, perfectly round and unscathed by the trauma.  I looked at it in disbelief.  I pulled my now naked Lemon Pie out of the oven and still just could not believe it.  Daniel and Christina came to see what was going on when they heard my cry of dismay, and they started to laugh.

This was no laughing matter.  “What am I going to do?”  I wailed.  “What in the world am I going to do???”

“We are going to put it back on,” said one of my laughing sidekicks.

“How in the world are we going to do that?” I asked almost in tears, “I don’t think it’s possible!”  But then I kinda caught the vision and thought about possibilities.  We hauled a large pancake turner out of the church’s drawer and carefully slid that meringue right back onto the pie.  It didn’t break, it didn’t dent, it just went back to where it was before it was so rudely removed from its rightful place.  The cook’s critical eye was not very happy.  It wasn’t as high as it should have been, and it (for sure!) was not sealed to the outer crust, but it was on, and it didn’t look too bad for what it had been through.  I had to be content.  I stashed it in the fridge for the night and decided not to look at it again.

Saturday was busy from morn till night, and the wedding happened and our youngest chick got married.  The wedding was beautiful, and the food at the reception was incredible.  Kelly and her husband, Doug, from Lemons and Grace Catering did an absolutely fabulous job with the food, and–

Yes, there was no cake.

But there were pies.  And some of them got totally gone, and some of them did not.  The Lemon Meringue, bless its heart, was not as popular as some of the others.  It wasn’t as pretty as some of its neighbors, but it had been through a lot.  No one said a negative word.  The ones who knew the story held their peace, except for the guilty one.  She never could keep a secret, and so now the whole world knows.

It could have been so much worse.  This is for sure.  And so, once again, for all the things that might have been — and weren’t, and all the things that came together and made this weekend a happy time —

My heart gives humble, grateful praise.

It’s fuzzy, but it’s My Girlie and me, and I love her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1

The one room in my house that stays orderly is our bedroom.  (My RBI roommates probably have a hard time believing that, but it is true!)  I make that bed every morning, and I do not make piles of things on the furniture.  There are (almost) never misplaced items on the floor, and if I stub my toe on anything it’s the edge of the dresser, or the bed leg under the dust ruffle, or the corner of the night stand.  Certain Man has an uncanny knack of finding anything sharp with his bare feet, so I am especially careful about dropped pins from my prayer veiling, or anything that could possibly pierce the tender skin on those feet that work so hard, every single day.

So this morning, I was making my way across the bedroom after my alarm went off.  It was somewhat dark in the room, and I didn’t have my glasses on yet, and I felt my bare foot step on something kinda flat and hard down beside the dresser.  I peered at it from afar and pondered what it might be.  It was about the size of a dime, dark colored and I thought that maybe it was a piece of bark that fell out of somewhere with all the woodcutting that Certain Man has been doing for his friend, Gary.  I reached down to pick it up, but when I touched it, it moved!  I felt a leg kinda squiggle under my tentative finger.

Yikes!

“It must be a Stink Bug,” I thought.  “Miserable creatures are such a menace!”

So then I stood for a bit contemplating if it would run away, or if I should go get a tissue and flush it down the toilet, but finally decided the best thing to do was to just pick that thing up and fling into the toilet.  I carefully reached down and caught it between my thumb and forefinger — .

And it was nothing but a dark colored rubber band, all wrapped up around itself that sprang to its healthy round shape in my grasp.  The “leg” I felt was nothing more than the under part of the band where it had been wrapped around itself.  Shew!

I felt relieved.  Then foolish.  Then amused.  And then, because I’ve been wanting to write some more stories, I decided to write it down.  There have been so many stories in my life in the last couple of years that are not mine to tell.  Many are sad.  Some are heavy.  This one is not.  It’s just another story about a Delaware Grammy and her everyday life on a chicken farm in Rural Delaware that has so many stink bugs that I’m getting paranoid.

It was about ten days ago that our family came home for a few days — and even though some were here at one time and some at another, we did have some time when EVERYONE was here at once, and that was sweet.

By Saturday noon, everyone was gone.  Rach and Rob had helped to put down the table and set furniture right before they left, and it was looking a bit more like our home.  I listened to the sounds of the empty house and my heart was full.  When these offspringin’s come home with the grandchildren, life rips along at an unbelievable pace, and I hardly have time to savor the moments like I would like. There are meals to make and laundry to do and one (or a dozen) more thing that just needs picking up or putting away.  I love to hold babies, talk to the older grandchildren, Listen in on the conversations of our adult children and their loved ones, plan special events, etc., but the events leading up to this year’s family time made it impossible for me to think in terms of what I should I do, how I could make things extra special, and what were they really interested in?

We had a great time.  They took in the beach, made pots of coffee, swam in a neighbor’s pool, were here for the picnic and the days flew by.  The last evening, when Lem and Jess were looking to head down to Ocean City to spend time with her parents, we decided to order pizza in instead of going to Grotto’s in our usual manner.  That was a whole lot less hectic for our last night together.  Strangely enough, it was a whole lot better atmosphere around our big dining room table.  There are 17 of us these days, and with one or the other of the babies in a high chair, we still fit around that old table that Ralph Yutzy made for his family 50 some years ago.

And then, before I could really assimilate it, they were gone.  All of them.  The Sugarcreek Yutzys, the DC Yutzys, the Ambleside Cottage Maiden, and the Bontragers from the Big House on Shawnee Road — all disappeared into the hot Saturday sun and left us in the old farmhouse at Shady Acres.

As the hours passed and became days, the ache in my heart grew and grew.  For one thing, having everyone home reminds me of how much I love these grownup offspringin’s and the people they have brought into our family, and those Grandchildren!  They fill in spaces in my heart that I didn’t even know I had.  Along with realizing how much I love all of them, I also realize that I have so many dreams for them, prayers yet unanswered and concern for the world in which our grandchildren are growing up.  So many things so wrong, and so little hope for righting the mess, and the imagination of this Delaware Grammy sometimes runs wild, as I think of my beloved children and grandchildren.

One afternoon this week, I was doing something in Cecilia’s room.  Charis was here and hanging out with my tablet in the kitchen.  I was thinking about all the events of the past week, words I’d overheard that I really wish I hadn’t.  I was praying much for Rachel, subpoenaed to court in a distasteful custody proceeding that was so intense it was making her physically ill.  The proceeding, drug out by cross examining of a different witness, had gone long – and she hadn’t been called to testify.  She was mandated back the next day, Friday, her day off, Rob’s birthday, and a host of plans for the day went slithering down the tube.  I knew it wasn’t mine to worry about, and I brought it to the foot of the Cross, but my heart ached for my girlie, and for her state of discomfiture over this proceeding.  How I wished that she could just lay it down and not worry so much.  So this Delaware Grammy was mulling all this over in her head, and I just. felt. so. sad.

And then, a song began to make its way into my head.  I had heard it several times already, but it suddenly impressed itself on my brain enough that I stopped and listened.  It was a YouTube production, and it was well done, but over the well played strains of music, I heard the clear high voice of a child, singing every word along with Youtube, hitting every note, tone on.  I listened and then I followed my heart to the kitchen.  Charis stopped, mid note, and looked up, embarrassed.

“Were you singing along with that song?”  I asked her.  She nodded shyly.  “That’s beautiful, Charis.  Who taught you that song?”

“Daddy,” she said quietly, proudly.

Daddy.  My heart was instantly alive with delight.  “Oh my Charis, Darling!  That’s wonderful!  Will you sing it for me again?”

She ducked her head, embarrassed.  She wasn’t willing to sing it right then.  But that was okay.  Hearing the voice of my granddaughter, singing a song that she learned from her Daddy on this dark, discouraging day was like a special voice mail of Hope from my Heavenly Father.

Several days later, we got to talking and had a sweet, sweet time together.  I told her what her song had meant to me – how it felt like a gift to me from God and that I was so thankful for it.  She listened carefully, and then, when I asked her if she would sing it again, she agreed.    Of course, I got a video clip of it to remind me of that special gift.  It won’t mean as much to anyone else as it does to me, I am sure, but it makes my heart give grateful praise, and it just may bless someone else as well.

Charis sings: 

 

It was about ten days ago that our family came home for a few days — and even though some were here at one time and some at another, we did have some time when EVERYONE was here at once, and that was sweet.

By Saturday noon, everyone was gone.  Rach and Rob had helped to put down the table and set furniture right before they left, and it was looking a bit more like our home.  I listened to the sounds of the empty house and my heart was full.  When these offspringin’s come home with the grandchildren, life rips along at an unbelievable pace, and I hardly have time to savor the moments like I would like. There are meals to make and laundry to do and one (or a dozen) more thing that just needs picking up or putting away.  I love to hold babies, talk to the older grandchildren, Listen in on the conversations of our adult children and their loved ones, plan special events, etc., but the events leading up to this year’s family time made it impossible for me to think in terms of what I should I do, how I could make things extra special, and what were they really interested in?

We had a great time.  They took in the beach, made pots of coffee, swam in a neighbor’s pool, were here for the picnic and the days flew by.  The last evening, when Lem and Jess were looking to head down to Ocean City to spend time with her parents, we decided to order pizza in instead of going to Grotto’s in our usual manner.  That was a whole lot less hectic for our last night together.  Strangely enough, it was a whole lot better atmosphere around our big dining room table.  There are 17 of us these days, and with one or the other of the babies in a high chair, we still fit around that old table that Ralph Yutzy made for his family 50 some years ago.

And then, before I could really assimilate it, they were gone.  All of them.  The Sugarcreek Yutzys, the DC Yutzys, the Ambleside Cottage Maiden, and the Bontragers from the Big House on Shawnee Road — all disappeared into the hot Saturday sun and left us in the old farmhouse at Shady Acres.

As the hours passed and became days, the ache in my heart grew and grew.  For one thing, having everyone home reminds me of how much I love these grownup offspringin’s and the people they have brought into our family, and those Grandchildren!  They fill in spaces in my heart that I didn’t even know I had.  Along with realizing how much I love all of them, I also realize that I have so many dreams for them, prayers yet unanswered and concern for the world in which our grandchildren are growing up.  So many things so wrong, and so little hope for righting the mess, and the imagination of this Delaware Grammy sometimes runs wild, as I think of my beloved children and grandchildren.

One afternoon this week, I was doing something in Cecilia’s room.  Charis was here and hanging out with my tablet in the kitchen.  I was thinking about all the events of the past week, words I’d overheard that I really wish I hadn’t.  I was praying much for Rachel, subpoenaed to court in a distasteful custody proceeding that was so intense it was making her physically ill.  The proceeding, drug out by cross examining of a different witness, had gone long – and she hadn’t been called to testify.  She was mandated back the next day, Friday, her day off, Rob’s birthday, and a host of plans for the day went slithering down the tube.  I knew it wasn’t mine to worry about, and I brought it to the foot of the Cross, but my heart ached for my girlie, and for her state of discomfiture over this proceeding.  How I wished that she could just lay it down and not worry so much.  So this Delaware Grammy was mulling all this over in her head, and I just. felt. so. sad.

And then, a song began to make its way into my head.  I had heard it several times already, but it suddenly impressed itself on my brain enough that I stopped and listened.  It was a YouTube production, and it was well done, but over the well played strains of music, I heard the clear high voice of a child, singing every word along with Youtube, hitting every note, tone on.  I listened and then I followed my heart to the kitchen.  Charis stopped, mid note, and looked up, embarrassed.

“Were you singing along with that song?”  I asked her.  She nodded shyly.  “That’s beautiful, Charis.  Who taught you that song?”

“Daddy,” she said quietly, proudly.

Daddy.  My heart was instantly alive with delight.  “Oh my Charis, Darling!  That’s wonderful!  Will you sing it for me again?”

She ducked her head, embarrassed.  She wasn’t willing to sing it right then.  But that was okay.  Hearing the voice of my granddaughter, singing a song that she learned from her Daddy on this dark, discouraging day was like a special voice mail of Hope from my Heavenly Father.

Several days later, we got to talking and had a sweet, sweet time together.  I told her what her song had meant to me – how it felt like a gift to me from God and that I was so thankful for it.  She listened carefully, and then, when I asked her if she would sing it again, she agreed.    Of course, I got a video clip of it to remind me of that special gift.  It won’t mean as much to anyone else as it does to me, I am sure, but it makes my heart give grateful praise, and it just may bless someone else as well.

Charis sings: 

 

Tonight, in the same country cemetery where we’ve laid our loved ones down, we added another little grave.  Mighty Mack Shiery, my niece, Carmen’s eagerly anticipated son, died a month short of his due date.  There was a tiny grave, carefully dug by Jeffrey, his grieving father.  A small alabaster colored coffin was in a plain wooden box that was also built by his daddy.

I thought tonight about the incongruities of life and death, and wondered once again, how we can sing at time like this, through the tears hot and bitter, filled with all the broken dreams of a young Mama and Daddy.   But sing, we did.  “It is Well With My Soul” and “Jesus Loves Me” and “Lift Your Glad Voices.”  I listened to Mighty Mack’s sister, the one who gave him his name, and heard her two year old voice, singing with all her might in a voice as clear as the hot May evening sunshine, “Jesus loves me, this I know.  For the Bible Tells me so . . . ” and the tears coursed down my hot cheeks, thankful for the reminder that “the children know!” 

Lord Jesus may we all know . . . and believe!

Little Boy Shiery
You slipped away and
Left behind the shell
Of your earthly existence.
No one knew that you were leaving.
No one saw the angels pick you gently
From the warmth of your Mama’s body
And carry you into the presence of Jesus.

Little Boy Shiery
So many earthly dreams disappeared
In the split second it took
For you to go from darkness into
The Ethereal Light.
There, in that Land of Perfect Day
You skipped the stage of Helpless Humanity
To be whole, complete and alive.
Are you laughing? Talking? Running?
Did your curly red hair go with you there?
Are your eyes a beautiful blue like your sisters’?
Have you met people there who know you?
Did your Great Grandma hold you to her heart
In gladsome welcome?

Little Boy Shiery.
What is a wondrous beginning for you
Is a heart rending ending for those
Who have loved you from before your first heartbeat.
The grief is raw and the sorrow deep.
There are no answers to the questions
That pound our hearts with unrelenting anguish.
And for the pain to which
Our humanity binds us
We plead the Grace
That carried you safely Home.

 

I’m really old fashioned in so many ways.  And even though it is an odd phrase, I love the implications and memories that are associated with melding of the two words, “Traveling Mercies.”  An acknowledgement that we have a Heavenly Father who watches over his children, who protects and provides and guides them on the highways of our country and the journeys of our lives.

So Saturday morning, when Daniel and I started out for Washington, DC, for a “Parent’s Work Day,” I asked that Heavenly Father for Traveling Mercies.  We were loaded with a plethora of “stuff,” it was looking like rain, and it felt right to acknowledge that, without the mercy of our Almighty God, we could be in a heap of trouble.

Daniel had made an monstrosity  of a picnic table for Lem and Jessica’s little patch of a yard.  He had been working at it for weeks, and it was everything that it was supposed to be.  Too large for his regular workshop, he had fashioned it in his machine shop that is at one end of the old chicken house.  Thanks to the help of Deborah and Jesse, it was now in pieces, carefully labeled to be put back together once we were on site, and loaded and tightly strapped down onto Daniel’s open trailer (that gets pressed into use for anything from carrying calves, or pigs, or mowers or trash or large woodworking projects that he cannot fit into anything else).

Rachel had asked for an additional shelf for her record cabinet/book shelf  that Certain Man had made for her a few months back.  He had gotten the shelf ready to go, and tucked into a safe spot where it wouldn’t get knocked about. (This is a picture of the original piece before it got taken to Washington earlier this year)

She also had requested that her Dad bring along his pressure sprayer to do some cleaning up under the deck and in the basement entryway.  “And would you please bring some roundup so we can get rid of some of the weeds where it is impossible to mow?”  The pressure sprayer was on the back of the pickup along with necessary tools for the yard work and the installation of the picnic table at Lem and Jessica’s house.  There were also a number of empty planters on the deck at Rachel’s house, so I was hauling along potting soil and a flat of flowering plants and Coleus to see if there was a place for them.  These items were on the back seat of Daniel’s Colorado so as not to be blown all over the place on our trip across the bay.

The night before we left, I had texted with Jessica and discovered that our schedule was a bit different than we had planned, which made time at Rachel’s house to make some soup and a batch of bread if I planned carefully, so tucked in among everything else was my trusty soup kettle, a chicken, some celery, onions, carrots, corn, Fordhook Limas, and Ramen Noodles, and all of the pre-measured ingredients for three loaves of bread.  There was also the fixin’s for a gallon of Daniel’s favorite Garden Tea, some fresh asparagus for the DC Yutzys to share, some frozen beef for Lem’s freezer, books to read to Stella, and a couple other things that we thought might be needed.

I am not exactly comfortable riding in city traffic, even with a minivan, but when you add a trailer to the back end of the pickup truck, it felt like the Traveling Mercies were really needed.  Daniel is an alert and observant driver.  He has traveled many a mile with a trailer on behind, and he did well.  He realigned his load in Denton before we hit any serious traffic and he skillfully maneuvered his little one man convoy to our destination.  It was a smooth trip and even though we had some rain, it wasn’t terrible.  I was extremely grateful!

The day went well, and things progressed as planned.  We finished up at Rachel’s house (with the help of Rachel and her boyfriend, Rob) in acceptable time, with missions all accomplished.  Then we trekked over to Lem’s house for the biggest job of the day.  After a quick lunch of chicken corn noodle soup and fresh bread, the troops were ready to get at it.  And so, the huge project that Lem had envisioned and his Dad had brought to life began to be set into place.

What a wonderful time it was!  Hard, hard work and so much satisfaction when Daniel was able to say, “It went together better than I expected, and turned out like I wanted it to.  Stella and Grammy got to watch while the rain came down and it got chilly.  Such a happy day!

And then, suddenly, everything was done and it was time to go home.  Time for something that I had been dreading all day.  Rachel’s car needed to come home to Delaware for an oil change and some other repair work, and since I was NOT going to drive that pickup with its trailer on behind, I was the one to whom was given the task of driving the little roller skate of a car that belongs to our daughter.  (At least it had automatic transmission!)

It had started to rain in earnest now, and I had a quick instruction from Rachel as to where the wipers and lights were, and how they worked.  I adjusted the driver’s  seat from my long-legged girlie’s position that was almost in the back seat and I prayed for Traveling Mercies.   There was a light on in the panel of the car, but I didn’t know what it was.  I figured that Rachel knew what it was, so it must not have been important, and so we got on our way.  Daniel led the way.  I figured he could get us out of the city better than I could, and at least I wouldn’t be the one responsible if something we got lost.  I also figured that, with the trailer on behind the pickup, once we got out on the freeway, I could logically “keep up” with this man (who has a reputation for a heavy foot) without having to speed.  Too much.

I was wrong.

In all fairness, it was raining heavily, and he thought that someone that was in fairly close proximity to him was me, so he went as fast as he wanted to as long – as that car kept up!  Trailing woefully behind, I was under great duress!  It wasn’t hard to keep Daniel and his trailer in my sights as long as I kept up a little, but the man was really flying.  My left hand that suffers from De Quervain’s tenosynovitis began to ache intensely.  I realized that I was gripping the steering wheel with a death grip like I thought it was going to get away.  I thought dismal thoughts about what would happen if someone lost control in that mess.  I thought about telling him go on ahead since I knew the way home once we were out of the city, but when I tried to call him, he didn’t answer.  Without blue tooth, trying to call was dangerous under any circumstances.  Given the present set, I decided to do my best and prayed for Traveling Mercies!

Then he saw he had missed a call from me and called me back.  He was immediately remorseful when he heard my distress, and said that he was going to slow it down for me.  We were almost to the Bridge by then, and he wanted to stop and get a drink at the Dairy Queen after the Bridge.  Did I want to stop, too?  I did not.  All I could think about was getting HOME.  So at the Bridge we parted ways.  I took myself to Shady Acres, (Oh, Boy!  Did it look good!) arrived shortly before he did, and parked Rachel’s car outside the garage.  I came into the warmth and light of home where Deborah had carefully watched over things and cared for Blind Cecilia while we were gone.  I found my chair and put my feet up!  Wow!  I was exhausted!!!  When Daniel came home and had gotten everything unloaded from the pickup, he parked the car in the pavilion out of the rain, and we called it a day.

Sunday Morning.  We needed to take Cecilia to church with us and Daniel needed to pick up our friend, Gary, so we decided to use Rachel’s car since it is easier to get Cecilia in and out of it than it is our minivan.  Daniel was going to drive the minivan to give room for Friend Gary’s long legs, and I was going to drive the car.  Daniel loaded the big stuff in the minivan, (Cecilia’s transport chair, my box of Sunday School supplies, bibles and quarterlies and such) then went out to bring up the car so we could get loaded.

I was in the house, and wondered what in the world was taking him so long.  Then I looked out of the window and saw him out at the shop, and realized that he must have needed to put air in a tire or something.  I got everything ready to go – Cecilia in her chair and myself all ready — and he still hadn’t come in.  So I went out to look what was keeping him.  It was raining and he was standing out in the rain looking at that rear tire.  Then he got into the car and slowly backed it all the way in from the shop to the pavilion and parked it, got out and walked across the black top towards me, holding something in his hand.

“I take it that we aren’t using Rachel’s car this morning,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

He looked at me with a sort of disbelief and wonder on his face.  “It’s a wonder you got home last night, hon!” he said.  “When I went out to bring the car around, the back tire was totally flat.  I knew she was having tire pressure problems, but I didn’t know it was a major issue.  But I can’t believe you didn’t have a blowout or something!  All that was holding the air in that tire was the little screw on valve cap.  The valve was broken off inside the cap and there were only a few rounds of the cap screw holding it on!  If it had come loose —,”  He held out the tiny piece.  “Put it in on the stand, and we will deal with it later!”

My heart was suddenly very, very quiet .  I thought about that ride home in blinding rain and speeds that were too much for this Delaware Grammy.  I thought about all the “might have been’s,” and “What if’s” and even the discomfort I felt in driving an unfamiliar car.  I thought about the term, “Traveling Mercies” and all the arguments (and scoffing) against the term that I’ve heard lately.  And I thought about a God who knew the heart of his daughter and knew that I wasn’t praying out of a lack of faith in His presence or His care over me, but rather the confidence that His Eye was on me for good – that He could bring me safely Home if that was His Will.  That I was not alone in that car, driving home, that HE was with me.  That I can ask, that I SHOULD ask, and then trust that He will do for me what is best.

It’s just a term, and it means different things to different people.  I’m not hung up on whether it is biblical or proper or archaic.  I only know that for this Delaware Grammy, who has been extended mercy one more time while traveling, it’s comforting!

My heart gives grateful praise!

It has happened! Thanks to you, Heavenly Father, it is done!

Babysweete is Elise Evelyn Yutzy — or “Ellie” as we now call her.

The adoption was solemn, but sweet.  There were tears, there was laughter, lots of legalese, and then the gavel fell and Ellie was legally “ours.” The two gathered families, a motley crew of 27 in addition to the Babe of the Hour drew an almost audible sigh.  Ah, what delicious relief!

I look back over these last months and realize how much this whole issue of Ellie’s future has played into the symphony of our family.  Sorrow, ecstasy, uncertainty, miraculous intervention, days when we held on by the tips of our “faith fingers,” a dark day when it seemed that all was lost, and a day when even people unaccustomed to their knees, were on their faces before you, with tears and entreaties.  On that terrible day, You, Heavenly Father, intervened, gave us back what had seemed gone forever, and our mourning turned to dancing.  “The Miracle of our Baby” (her oldest brother, Si’s words) brought hope and light and so much joy.  What a precious gift!

Five times, Heavenly Father.  Five times she was scheduled to leave and each time you intervened.  How very grateful we all are!

“For this child we prayed, and the LORD hath granted our petition.”

“This is the LORD’s Doings and it is wondrous in our eyes.”

Father God, how very grateful I am for this wondrous miracle.  I am awed and humbled and incredibly encouraged by this whole display of your power and personal intervention in the lives of Raph and Gina and Si, Liam and Frankie.  May this family NEVER forget.  May You write upon our hearts a Book of Remembrance so that none of us will ever forget what Great Things our God has wrought.

My heart gives humble, gladsome, grateful praise.

On days when disappointment wants first place in my heart, when I’m homesick for my out of state kids and grandkids, when the thumb on my left hand protests every move and old songs make me teary, there is an old principle that my Aunt Naomi gave me a long time ago.

“When I was discouraged or down in the dumps and wanted to give up,” she told me, “Monnie would tell me to find someone to do something for before I felt sorry for myself.”  She was inclined to obey him, no matter what she may have been personally feeling, and it not only changed her attitude, but the involvement of this “Yankee”  in the lives of the people of Florida gave her a place that caused them to forget that she was ever an outsider.

Sometimes I feel sorry for a young Naomi Yoder – a thousand miles from her parents, siblings and the familiar, a young mother who left behind a tiny grave in the Greenwood Mennonite Church cemetery, making her way in a culture when the first response to the northerners was mistrust in the least and malice in the fore. But LIFE proved what she was worth , and it also showed the rest of us that JOY is a matter of choice. (And people are drawn to a happy person who wants to love on them!)

And so, today, a batch of bread rising in my kitchen, hard boiled eggs for deviled eggs and a pretty jello salad in a vintage Tupperware mold –

these things bring me joy and remind me to look out instead of in.  There are many things right in my world, and there are plenty of people to love.

I’m going to go looking!

And so this Delaware Grammy is encouraging her reluctant heart to give grateful praise.

We sit in Dr. Varipapa’s office, Cecilia and I.  It was time for her six month checkup and this was the date I agreed upon last fall.  For some reason, it went longer than the six months, but it still rolls around too quickly.

Cecilia sits in her transport chair.  She has complained about almost everything this morning, but now, we are sitting still and the atmosphere is not wracked with noise.  No squalling babies, rambunctious children, spatting spouses or loudly streaming office music.  She sits quietly and there is a gentle companionship in the silence.

I look across the floor to where the sunshine is spilling in, and the cheery brightness calls to me.  If there was a way, I would hug it to my chest.  There’s been so little of it this year.  Across the room, there is a woman swinging her feet like a pendulum gone berserk, but she is quiet.  I smile at her and she smiles back. This is a neurologist’s office.  Most of the people here aren’t here for the fun of it. I wonder if she is a patient or if she is waiting on someone.  There is a plethora of people here, all silent today.  There are the aged, and the middlers  and the young.  The thing that gets to me the most are the very young – the toddlers and the babies.  There are so many neurological issues on every economic scale, and I wonder at the courage and hope and love that are within these walls.

I look at BL’s hands, twisted on her lap,  Her head is down, and she sometimes taps her foot impatiently.  She hates going to the doctor.  She hates any upset to her carefully laid out routines.  She hates to be hurried.  She hates going out in the cold.  She hates to wait. On this particular morning, she’s had hearty aberrations in all areas of preference.  I think about life for her and the comforting patch of sunshine on the floor seems to stand in sharp contrast of all the things her life holds.

Cecilia turned 70 this week.  Her entire life has been at the direction of people who make the rules, decide where she is going and when she is going.  She lives in darkness.  She lives with needs she cannot express.  She is dependent on the whims of a caregiver who, though I care very much, often has to guess at what she wants and what she needs and what is best to do for her.  I often think her grimaces and noises of protest are because she has pain – but I cannot prove it, and I am unable to say where it originates.  What would it be like to be her?  If only I could understand!

There are mysterious patterns crisscrossing the patch of light on the floor of the pleasant waiting room.  I think about the mysteries of life – “That shadows fall on brightest hours, that thorns remain . . .”  (See link at the end of this post to hymn written by Adelaide Proctor, 1858, sung by Vision Quartet)  There have been a lot of shadows on our brightest hours over the last months.  I would be remiss to pretend those things haven’t affected us deeply, but there is the Light!  That comforting patch of light where the Sonbeams dance around the shadows, where the dust particles are transformed into glitter, where tears become prisms that can draw the focus away from the darkness.  If only I could understand!

But when I cannot understand; when I sit in God’s waiting room, wringing my hands and tapping my feet; when I’m blind to the beauty around me- then may the warmth of His Light, streaming through the windows of my soul, comfort me and distract me from my introspective sadness and turn my heart towards His Light and give me hope for a brighter tomorrow.

And my heart gives grateful praise.

The manuscript lay on the kitchen counter where I had dropped it the day before.   That morning, I had dug an old file from a dusty box under the end table on my side of our bed.    I opened the file with an old name on it, and dug through the papers there.  I found what I was looking for, and I brought it down and wondered if I could bear to read it.

“I found Raynie – I mean Freddie’s Story,” I told Certain Man, dozing in his chair.

He opened his eyes, and the hope was written all over his face.  “Really???”

“Really.  It’s hard to read because of the typewriter,” I said.  “But I think I can make it out.”

Later, in the quiet of my chair, I read the story from beginning to end and the tears slid down my cheeks in rivers as I remembered.  I lived the memories all over again, some of which I had honestly forgotten the specifics, some that I remembered differently than they had actually happened, but reading it made me remember as clearly as if it was yesterday.  Later that day, Certain Man devoured every word of the single spaced, over  eight page document, and I saw him wiping tears as well.

This Story.  Our Story.  His Story.

The story is of a call late one night on May 31, 1978 that brought us a ten week old baby boy who was “our baby” until his second birthday.

The night he came to our house.

Probably my favorite picture of our little man.  1 Year old

The parting was wrenching to our little family, and there were days I thought I could not bear the grief.  We sent a photo album with him when he left, and in the weeks that followed his adoption, I worked feverishly to write His Story for him about the important days that he spent with our family on a little farm in rural Ohio.  My typewriter didn’t want to work right, and my heart was breaking.  I had to be careful not to use the name that we knew him as, and the new name took concentration to be sure to get it right each time.  It felt like the new name somehow flew in the face of the reality of the almost 22 months that we loved him.  Where had our baby gone?  I finished it, though, and got a copy made and sent the case manager the original to pass on to his adoptive parents.  We had one or two messages after he was adopted, via his case manager, but then things went silent and we never heard from him again.

Then last summer, I was trying yet again to find him.  I knew his legal name, and had done some sleuthing before, but had never found him.  Then I came across a Facebook profile that almost had to be him.  I hesitated some time, but finally, in August, sent him a friend request and a message explaining who I was.

There was no response.  I didn’t want to offend or rush him, so I decided to wait.  Then in early February, I noticed that he had accepted my friend request.  H-m-m-m-m-m!  I decided to wait a bit longer to see if there was any more movement on his part.  Then when I posted the Valentine’s Day post about Certain Man’s and my day, I noticed that he reacted to it.  I also saw that he was still active on Facebook at that very time, so I took a chance and messaged him again.

This time, he responded.

I don’t know what to say, I am so humbled and grateful! I have taken this long to reply because I simply don’t know where to start. First, thank you! I had these vivid memories of a man with a beard that I could simply not account for growing up. When I initially read your post I immediately knew it to be true. I would love to meet you and your family in person and thank you for the care you gave me at such a critical time in my life. I wasn’t aware that I was adopted until well into adulthood when my adoptive father was literally on his deathbed. I also just found my biological family four years ago. There is so much I would love to share with you and find out about your life. I have read just about all of your blogs and feel like I know a little bit about you and your kind family, yet I have so many questions. I look forward to learning about you and your family and of course my time with you. Please tell your husband I said hello and I look forward to re-meeting you both soon.

Of course that started a correspondence that filled in a lot of gaps for us as well as for him and it also prompted my looking for his story to copy off and send to him.

It was this copy that was lying on the kitchen table when Middle Daughter came in.  She picked it up and read it.  “What are you going to do with it, Mama?” she asked.

“I’m sending it to Raynie – or, I mean, Freddie Lee,” I answered.

She hesitated a bit then said, “Aren’t you going to ‘fix it’ a little?  Like correct the misspellings and mistakes that you have in it?”

“I didn’t plan to,” I said.  “I just thought I would send it like it is.”

“But there are mistakes,” insisted my grammar police daughter.  “I just think that you would want to correct the errors and stuff . . .”

“No, Deborah, I don’t . . . ”  I thought a bit about why I felt so strongly and then I said, “You know Deborah, when I read that story, I see a 26 year old woman whose heart is breaking, and I feel a deep sadness for her.  The typing was on an old typewriter, and it was difficult for her to write.  I somehow feel like it needs to be just the way it is.  If I write it up for a blog or something sometime, I will at least correct the mistakes, but for now, that was how it was.  That was what I wrote.  That is what I’m going to send.”

And so I did.

This is only one chapter of the story.  Lord willing, there will be more chapters for which his family and our family can write paragraphs together, but even if that doesn’t happen, there is much to be grateful for.  There are questions that have been answered.  Life has been a journey for him, to be sure, but I’m so grateful to God for watching over “our baby”  while we could not.  I’m sure there are parts of the story that will hurt my heart, as well as much that will make it sing.  But what I hear most of all ringing down these almost 40 years is “Amazing Grace,”  and the sound of it is sweet.

And my heart gives humble grateful praise.

Last week, as all of you know, was Valentine’s Day. This day has always held a special place in my heart as it was when A Certain Young Man and A Certain Young Woman had their first date. (If you wish, you can reference that story here: https://maryannyutzy.com/2007/02/14/943/   
— but even though that’s a funny story, it isn’t this story.)

So last week was extremely full. Certain Man had things to do in his chicken house, he had things to ponder about church. He had a sermon to prepare, and he was not thinking at all about Valentine’s Day. So it was that Valentine’s Day slipped up on him. Not only did he not order his usual flowers for his wife, he also didn’t even think about ordering the flowers for his daughters, in the order of his yearly tradition.

Last Thursday dawned, and nary a word was spoken about it being Valentine’s Day. It was Bible Study morning, and because of other considerations, we were meeting at the Big Bontrager House on Shawnee Road for our weekly lesson. Sometime during the course of the morning, Middle Daughter muttered to me quietly, “Do you think Dad forgot flowers this year?” She looked a bit embarrassed and then said quickly, “I mean, he doesn’t have to get me flowers, he has done so much for me this year, but I just wondered if he decided not to do it this year, I mean, he always does!“

“I don’t know,” I said back to her. “He hasn’t said anything to me about it, but I’m pretty sure he will be getting you flowers. I’m not sure what he’s going to do about Rachel, though. She has Rob to get her flowers for Valentine’s Day, so maybe he isn’t getting her any, but I’m sure he will get you some. They might be there when you get home today.”

When Bible Study was over, we decided to go to lunch with Certain Man, and as everybody was going into the restaurant, I held back a little and whispered to Certain Man, “Did you get the girls flowers for Valentine’s Day?”

He looked like he was aggravated with himself. “I plumb forgot until this morning,” he said, “But I took care of it. I called Lem, and he said he would get Rachel’s for her (you need to Venmo him the money) and I ordered Deborah’s, and she’ll get hers tomorrow.” Okay then. The girls were taken care of, and knowing my man the way I do, I suspected that I would “get mine tomorrow” as well.

The day passed pleasantly and Friday dawned bright and clear. I had lots of plans for that day, but then we remembered that we were to go to lunch in Georgetown with two of CM’s friends from the plumbing department at Sussex County. Before we left, Certain Man left “to pick up Deborah’s flowers” at the Beaver’s Branch, our local florist shop. He soon returned. carrying a lovely arrangement for me as well. A few years ago, I begged him to skip the roses and bring me carnations instead. They were all he could afford back years ago when he first brought me flowers, and I honestly prefer them. They last longer, they have such nice color and I have all those memories tied up in this flower. Besides, they are a whole lot cheaper!



As you can imagine, I was tickled pink with this  arrangement, and I sincerely hoped that he could tell that I was.  The mood was sweet, and conversation was pleasant.  We got ready and left for Georgetown and had a good-humored and amicable ride.  We pulled up into the parking lot beside the restaurant where we were to meet our friends, and I was finishing a message to someone on my phone.  Certain Man got out and strode purposefully around the front of the Mini-van.

“Well, I’ll be!” I thought delightedly, watching him out of the corner of my eye.  “He’s gonna’ come around and open the door for me!” 

But then, about the time he got across the front of the car to the right fender, he stopped.  He seemed to be looking at something across the parking  lot to his left, where a new motel was being built. 

“He’s just distracted a bit,” I thought, and I dropped my phone into my purse and zipped it shut, smoothed my skirt and looked to see if he was coming.

He wasn’t.  He was just sanding there, looking at the new motel.

I decided that it was probably in my best interest to get on out and get on with our trek, so I opened the door and he looked over from his perusal of the construction.  I couldn’t help it.  I had to say something.

“I thought you were coming over to open my door,” I said, laughing.

He looked surprised, then immediately contrite.  “I’m sorry!” He said, falling all over his words, “I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking, I should have -“

“It’s okay, Daniel,” I told him, laughing at his discomfiture.  “It’s really okay! I can get myself out of the car.”

And it really was okay.  I was thinking about it later, and about what love really is.  What love looks like after 45 years of being married and what it’s all about.  Is it really a man opening a car door while you wait for him to do it?  I mean, REALLY???

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not criticizing anyone who feels that this is a necessary expression of love.  I’m not saying they are wrong, but I’ve been thinking about all the ways this Certain Man says “love” to me and our family that has nothing to do with opening doors or even buying flowers.

Love is getting milk for our family every single time it’s needed, without being asked, or even being told that it’s needed. He never complains, he never looks for praise.  He just does it.  

Love is making sure there is a supply of pellets at the top of the ramp for our ever hungry pellet stove on these cold days.  Love is carrying those 40 pound bags in and putting them into the stove so that it doesn’t run out – and so I don’t need to carry them – at least not usually.

Love is building things in his workshop for his adult children, answering questions over the phone about plumbing and giving practical advice that works.  Love is pulling on his shoes and jacket to run up the road to help with a project at the BBH. (Big Bontrager House)  Love is respecting our Offspringin’s as adults, loving them as individuals, and loving the people they have chosen to love and loving the grandchildren that have come into our lives.  

Love is filling the bird feeders that I love so much.  It’s bringing the filled laundry basket down to the laundry room the night before laundry day.  It’s carrying the same basket, filled with folded laundry as well as the “hang up clothes” back up once the laundry is done.  It’s clearing the table and putting away the leftovers after a meal.  It’s making his own lunch when I’m not feeling well.  It’s giving me support in the things that he knows are important to me and giving me space to be myself.  I have always known that there are men out there who would have been extremely unhappy if they were married to me (That’s okay, I don’t particularly like them, either!) but there is a Certain Man who makes me feel cherished, protected and loved – and like he’s happy to be married to me.  

We’ve been married a long time.  We are both 65.  I look back on the years since we married at 19 and a deep sense of gratitude for what we’ve been allowed to enjoy all these years nearly overwhelms me.  There have been hard times.  Relationships are costly in terms of self-will and pride and personal space and compromise.  There will always be a lot of giving up and giving in and letting go and forgiving if a marriage is to thrive.  And that is what we’ve always wanted.  We are certainly not perfect, and maybe not even always healthy, but we didn’t want to just survive. We wanted to thrive.

We burned the ships, and my heart gives grateful praise.(Listen to Steve and Annie Chapman sing, “The Ships are Burning.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7wwNOZzGXM