August 15, 2015 · 10:28 pm

Certain Man turns 62

Yesterday was Certain Man’s birthday.

I pulled out a brown manilla envelope that his sister, Lena, had sent several years ago containing the copied pages of a notebook that we had found when we were cleaning out his parent’s house when they moved to a nursing home.  It held vital information about my husband that went unknown for half a century.  Literally.

When Ralph Yutzy’s young wife, Katie Kauffman Yutzy, died one May morning in 1958, she left behind five children; Lena (10) Rachel (9) Joseph (7) Daniel (4) and Ruthie (2).She also left behind a grief stricken husband who couldn’t function without her.  He knew she had this information written down somewhere, but he didn’t know where.  And he didn’t remember a lot of the details.  Daniel started school, went through elementary school, went to junior high, and eventually to high school.  When he turned 16, he wanted his license, but they could not find a birth certificate for him.  The bureau of motor vehicles said that he had to have a birth certificate to get his license.  So he and his father went down to the bureau of vital statistics to procure one.  There was no record of his birth.  At all.  So they said that his mother had to sign that he was, in fact, born on August 14, 1953, and that he was her son and that she could swear solemnly affirm that it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  And then he could have a birth certificate.

But his mother wasn’t living.  And his father didn’t know where she had written everything down.  So they needed to get school records and who knows what else, to verify that he was, in fact, born.  And since there was no record of his birth, the magistrate told him that he could name himself whatever he wanted.  In keeping with his family tradition, he did not have a middle name, rather used the initial, “R” (in deference to his father’s name “Ralph”) in the place of a middle name.  However, there was another Daniel R. Yutzy, the very same age, on the same mail route, and after discussion, Daniel and his father decided to use the initial “J” instead of “R.”  I’m not sure of why, but I am very sure there was a reason.  To this day, Daniel insists that he told them “just the initial,” but when his birth certificate came, It was all spelled out, Daniel Jay Yutzy.  And so that is what it has legally been ever since.

Cleaning out the house, though, in November of 2009, we came across the spiral notebook where Katie had written about each of their five children.  Lena, showing much foresight, copied off the pages that pertained to each individual child and sent the copies to each one.  Yesterday morning, I pulled the copies out to look over the details concerning Daniel’s birth.

Our Fourth Baby. (She wrote.)
Was born at Marysville Hospital;
By: Dr. Herman E. Karrer.
Named Daniel R. Yutzy, Born; August 14-1953
At 11:50 A.M. weigh 9 lbs.  Length 21½ inches

There followed a listing of all the visitors that she had with the new baby, and she made a note that she was sharing a room with “Noah Lovina Beachy”– room 57.  (Lovina would eventually become a sister in law to Katie’s husband, Ralph, when twenty-eight months after her death, he married Sue Beachy, a sister of Lovina’s husband, Noah.  And this baby, now Wilma Troyer, would become a favorite, “almost a twin” cousin to Daniel.)  There were two pages of visitors, including many people from both families.  (Ralph’s parents, Emery and Florence Kramer Yutzy and Katie’s parents, Sylvanus and Lizzie Beachy Kauffman.)

And then there was a list of his childhood illnesses:
Daniel started with the whooping cough in May, 1954, at the age of 10 months.
Daniel had the measles on April 2, 1956, at the age of 2 yrs.
Daniel had the mumps, February 24, 1958, on both sides.

Less than three months after her last entry on Daniel’s page, she was gone, her conscientious records lost in the shuffle of the coming years.  I look at these careful entries and wonder about the woman who loved my husband first, and the woman that he has always wished to know.  He can’t remember what she was like.  His memories are few and sketchy, and the ensuing years were difficult and sad. He learned early to just “put his head down and push through” the unpleasant things in his life.  After she was gone, he doesn’t remember ever being hugged, ever being told he was loved, ever feeling like he was wanted just for being himself — until we found each other. This husband of mine — whose love language is touch, who has sought relationship with his children over having them agree with his every thought, who loves his siblings and his nephews and nieces and their families with unaffected enthusiasm — this man has made choices that have put him where he is today.

I can’t believe that he is 62.  He is strong and resourceful and cheerful and kind.  Most of the time, anyhow. He loves children — especially his grandchildren, gardening, nature, our church, and even working!  And even though he works too hard, he is always ready to drop things to help a neighbor or someone in distress.  I love him intensely, but even more importantly, I have a profound respect for him.  His abilities are endless.  He can figure things out that make me scratch my head.  He isn’t perfect, I know, but he’s one of the most interesting men I have every encountered, and I am never bored.

Happy Birthday, Daniel.

I still choose you.

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August 11, 2015 · 5:38 pm

Things That Didn’t Happen

She didn’t come for lunch on Sunday.  She wasn’t in church.  I thought about the potato salad, corn, and steaks on the grill and knew that she would really enjoy that lunch.  But she wasn’t there, so I couldn’t invite her home with us.  The memories of when she was there dogged my heart all day.  She would sit in my chair while we finished making lunch and play with Charis.  Silly little games that would have Charis helpless with laughter. Often on the way home, she would confide that the games made her so tired, “But I like playing with her so much.  She really gets into it, and it makes me happy.  I probably overdid it, but it was worth it to see her enjoy herself so much.”  There were no games in the corner chair this week.  Charis rode her bike while her Daddy and Grandpa minded the grill.  She didn’t mention anything about the empty chair.  The young are so resilient, but she sometimes crawls up on my lap and says, “Grammy, do you miss Grandma Yoder?”  (Oh, Girlie!  If you only knew . . .)

Yesterday morning, I came down to the kitchen and opened a window.  The oppressive heat had given way to an unusual August coolness, and the breeze came in with the sound of the mourning doves’ quiet calls.  The hummingbird feeder was empty again, and the jays were flying in for the peanuts on the platform feeder.  It was a good time to call my Sweet Mama.  There was weather to discuss, birds to report, and the pesky jays to criticize. But it was only a passing inclination.  Then there was just the mourning dove’s familiar call and I heard the echo in my stricken heart.

The day was a hard day.  I call it “grief work,” and it is not easy.  It stills my hands, makes it hard to do the things I know I need to do.  It keeps me from even the enjoyable some days because I just cannot get past the sudden, blinding moments when who my Sweet Mama was is now so far gone.  The moments she filled by being herself.

Often on Monday evenings, she would call me.  Monday is the day when it is almost impossible to get everything done, but she was looking forward to Tuesday (when she knew I would spend the day with her) so much that she would often “break down and call” me to see what the plans were for Tuesday.  Sometimes she called just to talk about the day, but often there were things she needed from the store, or prescriptions from Rite Aid that she wanted me to pick up for her before coming.  “I need creamer again — the kind with coconut flavor,” she would say, “if you can.  I seem to be going through it terribly fast, but I’m not the only one who drinks it.  Mark comes in and gets himself a cup of coffee and others seem to like it, too.  Oh, and I need some Tasters Choice.  I’m almost out.  If you see something that looks good, get it for me. I feel hungry, but nothing sounds good to me.”

Last evening, I was finishing up the laundry, came in from picking another five gallon bucket of lima beans, and was fixing supper for Cecilia and Nettie.  Things were in good order in the kitchen, thanks to the help for Middle Daughter and Youngest Daughter, and I was thinking what had to be done yet before getting my ladies to bed.  Suddenly, I thought, “Oh, I haven’t talked to Mama today.  I wonder if she called while I was out picking beans?”

She had not.   I stood in my kitchen as the reality hit me again.  “What is it with this day?”  I wondered to myself as the tears dripped down.  “Why is Mama’s absence cropping up at every turn?”

Because that is the way grief is.  I realize am revisiting these rooms where the memories are filling every crack and crevice and where the changes and losses of the last year and a half of Mama’s life have diminished to almost nothing.  It’s hard to remember how it was, and it’s easy to remember the essence of my Sweet Mama and to long for her to be here, as she was for most of my memories — active, engaging, and always, always interested in what was going on in my life.

And now those things just don’t happen.  And it is the way it is.  This Tuesday (still marked as “Mama Day” on my calendar) came in on the crest of rain and wind.  Cecilia had a fever, Nettie had a dentist appointment.  Youngest Daughter’s car is in the shop.  Middle Daughter is in Dover.  It would have been a dreadfully inconvenient day to have to go to Mama’s house.  I would have had to juggle and shift and maybe even ask her if I could please come tomorrow.  She would have said that it was okay, but I would have heard in her voice that it wasn’t.  “I don’t know why, Mary Ann,” she would say, “But whenever I know it’s Tuesday and that you are coming, I have such a good feeling!  But it’s okay.  Tomorrow will be fine.  I’ll just look forward to that.”

And she would have.  But this morning, it didn’t happen.  Not that she cares from where she is.  Not that she even knows.  If she does know, I think she would say, “Mary Ann.  It’s okay.  It always was okay.  There is so much more to life there than what we think.  It’s okay.  Just put first things first, and always remember Heaven.  You cannot begin to imagine!.”

No, I cannot.  I think about the “City of Light, mid the stars–” and about Mama, being in the presence of Jesus.  I try to think about how she is enjoying the LIFE that she has there, and about what it must be like for her to be with Daddy and her parents and other people she loved so much here on earth.  I think about what it is like for her to “know as she is known.”  There’s no pretense, no misunderstanding, no competition, no jealousy, no inferiority.  And what it is like for her to have a new body; no more pain, struggle or failing health.  No aging.

And even though I cannot just “smile for a while to forget that I am blue,” I can plug into what God said would happen to my Sweet Mama in that very moment that she breathed her last breath here on earth and entered into the presence of God.  And this I choose to believe for all the days full of the reminders of the things that will never happen again.

This is the promise.

1 Corinthians 15:53-56 (NIV)

53 For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. 54 When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.”

And while I honestly don’t know what that will look like, I do believe that The Victory is hers.  Already.  Forever settled.  And all these things here are, if anything, but a dim memory.  This is smile worthy.

And so, my heart will bring a sacrifice of Grateful praise.

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Sweet Mama and Charis, just 11 days before she fell.

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August 8, 2015 · 8:17 pm

Boys and Grapes and Helping Hands

So this week has been the week that everything seemed to get ready at the same time.

First, there were those wonderful Delaware limas that needed picking.  I picked a five gallon bucket to overflowing and brought them in on Tuesday morning.  Our Girl Nettie started in on shelling them as soon as she got home from center, and finished them before she went to bed.  I got them blanched and packaged. Four wonderful bags in the freezer.  So, so happy.

On the days preceding this, Certain Man was mentioning the fact that the tomatoes really needed picking and that someone should do something with them.  So Middle Daughter picked them all and brought them in.  There were some peppers and some onions, too, so they all went into a pot along with some celery and fresh basil and stewed for an afternoon.  The tomatoes from our garden this year are so good.  The 14 pints of tomato soup that I canned will be good eating this winter and it looks nice on the shelf of our “dungeon.”

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And then there was the mention, also, about the grapes on the arbor that divides our side yard.  I would stop and check them now and then, but realized that if we wanted to maximize our yield, we needed to move on it.  So Wednesday morning, Carson and Nevin came with their strong arms, sharp eyes and youthful energy and harvested our concord grapes. Youngest Daughter supervised the operation and they finished in good time.  Whew!  Was I ever unprepared for how many grapes we were going to have!

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I looked at their harvest and worried about my stamina and my ability to ever get this done.  There were two 5-gallon buckets and nine 10-quart buckets, plus a 6-quart ice cream pail.  I looked at those beautiful grapes and didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  I have two wonderful steamers that produce concentrated grape juice for canning, but the thing is, I don’t like to steam the stems with the grapes.  There are various arguments as to whether or not it is necessary to strip the grapes, and my instruction book even says that it is unnecessary.  Well, I am here to tell you that if you really can’t tell the difference, you probably have a mouth that can’t tell the difference between canned tuna and fresh crab.  Or fresh squeezed orange juice and Tang.  Or a chocolate bar from Dollar General and Ghirardelli’s own.  The flavor is definitely different, and I’m always disappointed in the color/cloudiness when I don’t take the extra time to strip the fruit from the stem.

But that meant that every single grape had to be manually pulled from the stem.  And these grapes were picked in August, in Delaware, from a mostly undisturbed arbor.  There were crawly beasties in unexpected places.  Click bugs.  Stink bugs.  Centipede-looking little bugs with pinchers at both ends.  SPIDERS.  And though I knew that help from the daughters of Certain Man would be given if I asked, I also knew the magnitude of their other responsibilities and also the drama that would accompany such an endeavor.

“Probably,” I reasoned with myself, “I would be better off seeking help from the same stalwart young bloods who assisted with the picking of the grapes.  I think they would be amicable company, unafraid of the beasties and able helpers.”  So I texted their Mama and asked about the possibility.  She was glad to glad to have them assist, and they seemed willing, and so it was set.  I stripped twenty pounds off the first night and did two steam kettle loads.  That took ten pounds and left ten more pounds for the next morning.  I wanted to be ready!

My steamers take about five pounds per load and after an hour or so of steaming,  produces about two and a half quarts, more or less, of the highly concentrated purple liquid.  It is the purest, finest concentrate with no additives, no sprays.  And even though it is hard work, it surely is worth it.  However, I found that one person, working alone with the responsibility of filling the jars, keeping them and the lids hot until filling, dumping the pulp after the steaming, refilling the steamer, checking the water levels in the steamers, etc., just couldn’t keep up with the stripping process as well.  I went to bed very thankful for the promise of helping hands in the morning.

Thursday morning dawned bright and clear.  My helpers arrived, eager and willing and we set to it.  The steamers ran non-stop.  The bugs were abundant, and Carson and Nevin were delighted with the supply.  They kept a cup of hot water by their chairs and plopped the hapless victims into the stew whenever they discovered one — which seemed like it was every two minutes.  The grapes came off the stems and were put into the collection containers with unmitigated enthusiasm.  I remembered that these boys were sports enthusiasts, and this particular job lent itself well to exercising their basketball skills. The targets were usually right on, but sometimes missed, and the kitchen floor became hazardous to traverse.  Conversation was interesting, but when Middle Daughter came for a bit to lend them a hand, tell stories and discuss important issues, I realized that this 61 year old Auntie doesn’t really have the energy and enthusiasm that sustains young men in arduous jobs.  Deborah certainly was timely in her help, and much was accomplished by noontime.  We were well ahead of the steamers, and the grape-stripping process was to the half-way point.

Then Youngest Daughter took a break from studying for her GRE exam, and took the boys for lunch.  They brought their Chick-Fil-A bags home and took a much deserved “eat and refuel for the fray” break.  When their hour was over, they went back to work.  The afternoon moved right along, and along about 3:30, they pulled the last grape from their designated buckets and their Mama came and fetched them home again.

A large cup with a vast array of dead bugs sat on the table and made me smile.  The difference between these boys and my girls continually amuses me.  Where there had been chasing after bugs and exclaiming over sizes and determining the pedigrees of the spiders, ALL. DAY. LONG., there would have been great protests, probably shrieks, maybe even tears, and definitely shudders, over the wild life populating the picked grapes.  After the boys left, Youngest Daughter pulled up a chair to help finish the remaining small bucket of grapes and bravely stuck to it until the last grape was ready for the steamer.  Her Daddy got home from work just before we finished that task and looked with interest upon the scene.

I smiled at him over the bent head of Youngest Daughter.  “Sweetheart, what you are seeing here is sacrificial love in its purest form,” I told him.  He looked at me with that look of bemusement that I love so much.

“What do you mean?” he asked, fully knowing, but wanting to see her reaction.

“She’s right,” said Youngest Daughter, grimly.  “That’s the only reason I would ever do this!  I really cannot stand these bugs!  They’re hateful!”

He teased her a bit, but we knew she was trying hard to be brave.  A most unfortunate situation in Thailand where she awoke to find tiny spiders, just hatched, crawling all over her, has left her with a severe case of panic when it comes to the bugs and spiders of any time and any place.  But she did persevere to the end and helped a bit around the kitchen before returning to her books.  Deborah had gone to work at this juncture, and Daniel went to chore.  I quickly made supper and kept the steamer going.  It was close to midnight when Youngest Daughter took the last buckets of pulp and stems to the composter and I finished washing the last bucket, steamer pan and accessory, wiped out the sink and surveyed the final yield.  About 45 quarts of juice sat on the cupboard, all sealed.  How beautiful it was!

How staggeringly tired I was!!!

The next morning, the same helping hands — Carson, Nevin and  Youngest Daughter, took off the rings, wiped the jars down and carried them to the basement.  When I got home from getting a tire repaired on the mini-van, the cupboard was clear, wiped off and there was no trace of the arduous work of the previous day.  I was still aching from the marathon of the day before, but I had to see these jars on the shelf.  So I betook myself to the dungeon and surveyed the work of the morning.

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Oh, those wonderful Helping Hands — Of Middle Daughter, Youngest Daughter, Carson and Nevin.  I was very satisfied with this result, quite delighted with what had been accomplished, but quite depleted in every way when that day was over.  It was very apparent that I would never have made it by myself.  No matter how good my intentions, how solid my martyrdom, how determined my self-sufficient heart.  I thought again about families, about the extra people that have come into my life that have none of my genes and chromosomes (as in Carson and Nevin) and those that do (As in Beebs and Rach — who, incidentally, are Middle Daughter and Youngest Daughter, respectively).

. . . and my humble heart gives grateful praise.

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August 3, 2015 · 4:32 pm

Clear Moon Sky and Thunderstorms

Saturday night was winding down.  Both Nettie and Cecilia were in their beds for the night, Certain Man was finished with his Saturday catch-up work, took his shower, and called Oldest Son for his birthday.  The conversation was animated and going strong.  Middle Daughter was working a short shift for Hospice and Youngest Daughter had set forth to spend some time with Cousin Holly.  I looked at the grocery list still lying on my counter and decided that ten-thirty was almost too late to go get groceries — but not quite.

It had been one of those days when joy and sorrow had mixed their dregs to where the day was a diversified and wild contradiction of emotion. What I really wanted to do was sit on my chair by myself in the dark.  But that wouldn’t really help much.  I might as well go get groceries while I was able. At this time on a Saturday night, it shouldn’t take more than an hour to go and come.  I collected my list, my phone, my purse and money and set off.  I wanted to cry, but that would have to wait until I was on my way home.  I don’t think that Walmart is a very good place for a Christian woman to navigate late at night while crying her silly eyes out.  It doesn’t speak well for faith and grateful praise.

But I could talk to my Father.  I watched the full moon in a beautifully clear summer sky and thought about the song, “If He Hung the Moon.”  The chorus kept rolling about in my heart and I personalized it the way I often do when I need something to be all mine.

” . . . And if He hung the moon,
I know He will help me,
And if He holds the sparrow in flight,
He’ll hold me too,
Consider the lilies of the field,
How much more He loves me,
In the beginning of time, I was on His mind,
When He hung the moon.”
(words and music by Kirk Talley)

I pulled into the parking lot at the grocery store, took some deep breaths, and headed into the fray.  It was very empty, and the expedition went smoothly.  I had pretty much to restock, but in less than 45 minutes, I was done!  Whew!  Great feeling!  I loaded my car and headed towards Shady Acres.

There was that brilliant moon, still hanging high in the clear sky with a shoal of clouds just above the horizon.  It was breathtaking.  I wheeled around the corner and was watching the moon out of the corner of my eye when I saw a flash of light out on the right hand side of the vault of Heaven.  I jerked my head in that direction and was rewarded momentarily with a most spectacular lightning display.  There was this huge billow of  cumulous clouds, and the lightning was dancing from place to place among the various layers and openings and thunderheads.  There were jagged slashes and gentle lightings, but all was silent.  Whatever it was, it was too far away for me to hear anything.  But oh!  How impressive.  The thing that felt the most incongruous, yet divinely given, was the fact that the full moon in absolute, splendid glory, shone on without any mind to the competition going on in the same night sky.

My heart, my heart.  A broad expanse of a night sky right now, if truth be told.  And there are storms that rage — sometimes on the perimeters, sometimes obliterating the light.  And there have been days when I’ve begged for grace to just weather the storm, and wondered when the skies would clear enough to see anything except the rain.

But somewhere, the One Who Hung The Moon is watching over His Property.  And the moon is hanging steady somewhere off the edges of these storms.  Somewhere the skies are clear, the night is beautiful, and there is nothing out of His Control.

And there is one more thing.

Morning is coming!

For night skies, full hung moons, tumultuous thunderstorms, and mornings coming — but most of all, for Promises Kept —

My Heart gives Grateful Praise.

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August 2, 2015 · 1:03 am

Six weeks Gone

Six weeks ago today, we had a funeral.

Today was the day when I keenly felt the absence of my confidant and sharer of tidbits of information and answerer of questions from other generations and giver of family opinions and general exclaimer over adventures.

Today I missed my Sweet Mama.

I looked  at a picture of my cousin and his new wife at the wedding of his son, and felt a sudden lurch in my heart.  For there, I suddenly saw my Grandpa Yoder’s face.  At least it seemed like the likeness was so strong.  I started to go to get the phone.  I wanted Mama to check in on her computer and look at the pictures of this happy day and tell me what she thought.

“Don’t you think Jon looks an awful lot like Grandpa Yoder in that picture?”  (She would have said she didn’t know — Maybe, a little bit –.)

“Isn’t Stephen’s wife beautiful?  Did Aunt Gladys tell you how they met?  It’s too bad that Uncle Jesse and Aunt Gladys couldn’t go for the wedding, but were they able to watch it online?” (Then we would have discussed the current health issues and travel issues and such –.)

“I thought her dress was so pretty.” (And we would have to discuss the colors and the bridesmaid dresses and the location and — well, just all of that–.)

Do you know when Robert and Michelle’s baby is due?  Has Aunt Gladys said?”  (And then we would have talked about how many grandchildren Uncle Jesse and Aunt Gladys have.)

And then I would have had to detail the wedding of Laura Jones and Seth Fair if she hadn’t been able to be there.  She would have wanted to know every detail, down to what was worn by the mothers and grandmothers.  She would have enjoyed hearing what we had to eat, and how beautiful Laura was, and how Seth struggled for composure when she walked down the aisle.  She would  have wanted to know how her grandson, Josh Slaubaugh did with the ceremony and how grandson Christopher Yoder and his wife Alicia and Laura’s cousin’s husband, Lee Sverduk, did with the music.  And it would have been such a happy report all around.

But she isn’t here.  And in the words of my friend, Lynn Lee, “No one wants to hear my ‘stories’ anymore.”

I realize that there are people who would listen, and be at the ready for me to call them and talk — but no one listened to me like she did.  No one enjoys the stories like she did.  And I don’t really want to tell them to anyone else.  For years, I’ve tried to grasp details of the places I go and the people I see, thinking that she would enjoy them so much.  I would try to stock up so she would feel almost like she had been there.  I thought I was doing all that  for her.

Tonight, I know that isn’t  altogether true.

I was doing it for me, too.

Tonight, I try to keep the salt water out of the pie dough and determine, in vain, not to think.

But the evening closes in, and all that I can think is, “How dark it is without her.”

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July 28, 2015 · 8:06 pm

Incredible!SweetCorn, Incredible Sadness

It was two of the kind of days that seldom come at the end of July.  Cool, breezy, and so nice for the jobs at hand.  We worked in the refreshing coolness on Friday, making short work of over 1200 ears of gorgeous Delaware Sweet Corn, named (appropriately) “Incredible!” by some foresightful agriculturalist.

“I don’t remember ever having this nice a day for doing corn,” I said repeatedly to my sometimes skeptical co-workers, members of my family that are suckers for this kind of punishment on an annual basis.  They would look thoughtful.  Some agreed and some did not.  But no one could dispute the fact that it was almost perfect..  We finished in good time and put things aside for the 750 ears that would be coming the next morning.

Saturday.  By 9:30, a familial crew descended upon the grounds of Shady Acres and we got those 750 ears done and all cleaned up by three o’clock.  It was, again, a wonderful day .  The weather was almost as wonderful as the day before, the company was good, and the camaraderie was so sweet. It felt really good to have the year’s supply of corn in the freezer.  Then everyone scattered — taking the freezer bags of corn home to their own freezers.

Certain  Man, who had been working on his sermon, came outside to do the final washing and put the pavilion and driveway back to order.  I carried the clean wash baskets, muck buckets, pans, knives and put them away.  The afternoon sunshine was dappling down through the shade in the side yard and the pavilion’s cement floor was clean and wet.
corn day clean up

There were loose ends in the house to round up, and there were several loads of laundry from the morning still hanging on the line, warm and dry from the long hours it had spent there.  I stirred around in my house, started a bleach load of laundry from the day’s gathering and loaded the dishwasher.  I put away the corn utensils, pots and pans and felt that deep, deep satisfaction of a good day’s work.  I still needed to retrieve my dry laundry and do some Saturday night straightening, but I kept landing on my chair and taking breaks.

A little before seven, the phone rang and it was Eldest Daughter.  “Mom, did you know that Lem and Jess are stopping on their way home from the beach?”

“I had texted him, Chris,” I said, “and asked if they were stopping.  I hadn’t heard back.  I decided they had just gone on home.  I might have missed something, though.  My phone was almost dead and I have it plugged in.  I may not have heard.”

“Well, he said that he told you guys that they were going to be there around eight.”

Certain Man picked up my phone from the phone booth where it was charging and said, “Oh, yes.  There is a message here.”  He read it.  “It says they are going to be here around eight.”

Around the phone receiver, I mouthed to him,”Tell them it will be fine!”  And then went back to Christina and learned that the Alexandria Yutzys were hoping for some burgers on the grill.  That was fine because there was still nothing decided upon for late Saturday Supper.  Eldest Daughter was making some zucchini bread, and we decided that she should bring that on down to the oven at Shady Acres to bake and add to the late night snack.

And so the happy evening passed.  Burgers and fresh tomatoes and lettuce and garden tea and other snacks pulled from the pantry mixed with the smell of baking zucchini bread and a pot of Dolcés Jamaican Me Crazy Coffee.  I looked at this small gathering and was grateful for the gifts of this day.  The conversation and laughter and stories and the smell of good coffee wrapped around me with the love of those gathered there and I counted blessings.

Then, in the middle of it all, the phone rang.  I was surprised to see the phone number of my sister in law, Polly Yoder, appear on the caller I.D., and even more surprised when I answered, and it was my brother, Mark, Jr. on the other end.

“Mary Ann!  How are you this evening?”  It was my brother’s voice, subdued but strong.

“I’m good!” I answered, feeling good to the core.  “How are you guys?”

It was Polly’s voice as well as Mark’s that answered.  “Well–”  “We aren’t so good–”  “We’re feeling kinda’ sad this evening.”  And I heard the tremble in one of the voices.

Bravely, one of them went on.  “We just left Jeremy and Cheryl’s.  They got the results of the testing for Jase.”  I felt my stomach tighten.  I felt like I couldn’t breathe.  “. . . and Jase is positive for SMA.”

SMA.  Spinal Muscular Atrophy.  Our family already knew enough about this terrible genetic disorder. Jeremy and Cheryl’s sixteen month old daughter had the same disorder and, after brightening our lives for what seemed but a moment, flew home to Heaven one April night in 2014.  It is difficult to put into words how the days that marked her short live affected us all.  She had a smile that could light up a whole room, a deep affinity for her family that was a result of being known and loved and cherished and tenderly cared for all the days of her life.  Her short life spoke joy and value and God to us all.  It was the hardest of times.  But the valley was ablaze with GRACE and GLORY and HOPE.

Jeremy and Cheryl, their two sons, Max and Boaz, and Mark, Jr. and Polly and the rest of their family finished strong.  Their Anchor did not fail them.  And when we heard that there was another baby on the way, we all prayed for a healthy child.  It seemed like it would be the right reward for their faith and for their faithfulness in the storm that would have destroyed so many others. God gives good gifts to his children, doesn’t He?  He’s promised the desires of our hearts when we delight ourselves in Him, and delighting themselves in God has been the heart cry of this family.  I cannot erase the sounds of Cheryl’s voice, lifted in unmitigated praise and trustful relinquishment in a small church in Baltimore where we gathered to celebrate Ariel’s life.  There was a small white casket, and this brave young mother exalted a God who could do no wrong, who was worthy of our praise, even when we couldn’t understand.  Surely God would reward/honor that kind of faith.

He should, shouldn’t He?

He would, wouldn’t he?

Jase Marius was born exactly a month after his great grandmother went to Heaven.  July 16, 2015.  9 pounds, 9+ ounces. Beautiful. So incredibly beautiful.  I looked at his pictures, and searched for any clue of SMA.  I prayed that the testing, done once he was born, would come back totally clear.  I thought of all the things that would indicate it was okay. The truth is, SMA isn’t immediately evident, and all the looking to see signs that all is well in the first days of life won’t really reveal anything.  But I really thought it would be.  I thought it had to be.

But now, I couldn’t escape this report, these results.

Mark and Polly and I talked for a little bit.  The conversation around the table had stopped when my side of the conversation had indicated something was terribly wrong.

“Did somebody die?” Hissed Christina anxiously.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very anxious Charis hovering at my elbow, listening intently.  I shook my head, and tried to reassure them, but they knew that there was some sort of bad news.  My heart ached for Mark and Polly and their family.  My heart ached for this old world where the very state of being human begs for Redemption.  These disorders of genetic nature happen because we are a part of a world where things can go so wrong — Sometimes because of our sin, or because of our wrong choices, but often because we are mortals and subject to the laws and accidents of this natural world.

And now I sat, the reality of what this little guy and his family were facing, crashing over my heart while the tears streamed down my face.  But we have a six year old granddaughter.  She was obviously troubled by my distress.  She sidled up to me and threw her arms around my neck.  I took her on my lap and felt the warmth of her healthy body.

“Grammy — what will happen to the baby?”

“I don’t know, Charis, but I do know this, that his family will love him, and Jesus loves him and He can heal Jase.”  Her eyes were earnestly seeking mine.  “But Charis, if he does go to Heaven, just think about it!  Grandma Yoder will be waiting right there to just snatch him right up and hold him and squeeze him.  And that will be wonderful, too.”  I fought back the catch in my throat as I tried to think of hopeful words for her.

And so the evening passed.  Lem and Jess left for Alexandria, Charis went home with her Daddy and Mommy.  Certain Man went to bed so he could get up and finish his sermon.  I folded laundry, stirred about and thought and thought and thought.  And cried.  Deborah came home from Shakespeare in the Park and helped me clean the kitchen and we talked about life-important things.  Mostly about trusting God when things aren’t the way we want them to be.  About letting Him be God when it feels like everything is out of control.  About knowing that He is ruling and reigning and controlling, even when we hate what is going on.

After midnight, I climbed the steps to bed, took my shower, washed my hair, and finally slept.  The morning was here before I was ready.  I came downstairs to organize the morning, and it felt like a cloud was covering everything I did.  I stood at the counter, methodically counting meds and getting ready to get Nettie and Cecilia up and ready for the day.

“Oh, Lord Jesus!” I was going over the same row for the umpteenth time. “This looks so big, so hard, so overwhelming.”  The tears kept falling and I felt so incredibly sad.  “I thought your promise was that this child would be okay!”  Somehow the words settled into my anxious heart.  “Okay???  Are you saying he isn’t ‘okay?'”  “I know, but we asked for health!  And you could have made it that Jase was born without SMA!”  Then the words from Jeremiah 1:5 kept coming insistently to my head.  They were so strong that I finally went and looked them up.  I heard what God was saying to Jeremiah and I knew that it was true for this much prayed for, much loved, much anticipated Jase Marius.

“Before I formed (Jase) in the womb, I knew (him). Before he was born, I set him apart for my holy purpose.”  Jeremiah 1:5 GW.  God’s purpose for Jeremiah was that he was to be a prophet.  What is God’s purpose for Jase?  I don’t know.  But I do know that God has a purpose for Jase.  And He will show us what that is.

The other verse that was cross referenced from this verse was this one: “I saw (Jase) before (he) was born. Every day of (his) life was recorded in (my) book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” Psalm 139:16 NLT

God’s eyes are on this family for good.  He is neither surprised nor dismayed; neither stymied nor baffled.  This is hard.  We don’t understand. But He is God!  He has a plan.  He can be trusted. He is worthy of our praise.

And so, today, this heavy heart will choose to give HIM (grateful) praise.

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July 21, 2015 · 5:54 pm

The Story that is the Song

He took her very heart
into his young care.
And without really planning
or knowing he was doing it
he rewrote the staff and pitch and notes
for the music stirring there.
He encouraged a beautiful Melody,
then added the Tenor.
Their life together was
a (mostly) beautiful song.

And so the years passed.

They added verses and voices
and more harmonies
all carried by the sweet, strong Melody
and the rich, full Tenor.
Somehow they made the rest
of the world sound good.

Then one April day
the Melody faltered.
There were days and days
without a song.
And the Tenor could neither sing nor soar
without the Melody.

Somewhere in our hearts
we still heard the song.
So we stood around her bed
and sang it to her.
We prayed the song would
give her hope.

YES!!!

There came a day when
the eyes recovered the sparkle.
The spirit revived the spunk.
And the song
though tremulous and weak
in her damaged throat
went bravely on in the hearts
of the two we called
Daddy and Mama.

And this new harmony was
so beautiful, so pure, so sweet.
Like nothing we had ever heard before.
Haunting in its tenderness.
Tentative in its joy.
Careful in its hope
But tenacious in that thread of Faith
that defined the rest of life.

And then there came the day
when we stood around his bed
and tried to sing the song to a heart
that was already listening
for the Music of Heaven
He may have heard us.
But the other Music was more compelling.
And he took his full, rich tenor –
And went Home.

What became of the song?
The Melody was still sweet.  Still strong.
But I often saw the faraway look
Like she was listening for something, Someone.
And when we would sing the
Songs of Heaven,
The thoughtful look intensified.
Sometimes it seemed that if
She listened hard enough,
She could hear that familiar voice.
But no.  It was long gone.

But the song — The Song!
It went on and on and on and on.
I heard it in the sounds of the voices.
Of my brothers and sisters.
Our children.
Our grandchildren.
And I heard it still in the heart of
that Sweet Strong Melody.
My Mama.

And then there came the day
when the chords were broken.
We stood again, beside her bed.
And she, with eyes of
quiet intensity,
tried once again to speak
the words of this song
that her heart was
still singing.
We heard the message.
But there was no more music,
no more earth voice
for this song she so desperately wanted to remind us of.

We held her hands,
and sang her the songs of Heaven
while she struggled between
the loved and known,
and the Celestial Unknown.

She didn’t want to go.

But in the end, the Angel’s song won.
She heard the Heavenly music.
She heard, somewhere,
that Rich and Full Tenor.
Already in that Chorus, and
it drew her into the other world.
Suddenly peaceful, suddenly quiet,
she went Home.

These last few years,
She found it hard to sing.
But every day for almost six decades,
She sang a song to my heart.
A Song of Faith;
Of Hope; of Courage; of Love.
Of Heaven.

And I have heard it
so often and so long
that the music sings itself to me.
I hear it on sunshiny days
when the paths seem clear.
I hear it when the rain comes down
and speaks life to the earth.
I hear it when the night is dark
and I cannot find my way.
I hear it in the ice and cold
of winter.

I hear it still.

The harmony is
so beautiful, so pure, so sweet.
Like something I have heard before.
Haunting in its tenderness.
Tentative in its joy.
Careful in its hope.
But tenacious in that thread of Faith
that defines the rest of life.

How I love The Song!

But it will never be the same again
without the Tenor and Soprano.

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One of my favorite sympathy cards from these last weeks.
Inside, it simply says, “In Sympathy and Hope.”

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July 21, 2015 · 12:04 am

Nine years ago . . .

Yoder Breakfast
07-19-06

On Wednesday mornings, various of the males of the Yoder family get together for breakfast.  Some time ago, our cousin, Joe Bontrager and his fair wife, Gloria, hatched a plan to have us all come to Uncle Eli’s house in celebration of the 88th birthday of both Aunt Ruth (July 16th) and Uncle Eli (July 20th) on the Wednesday that fell between those two days.  Another milestone celebrated in April was their 65th wedding anniversary.

Breakfast -- Mom and Uncle Eli's best

Uncle Eli and Aunt Ruth at the breakfast table, talking to my sweet Mama.

 Breakfast -- Chris, Esther and Ilva

I don’t remember what was funny, but here the second and third generations enjoy a chuckle. (Or is it third and fourth?  Someone help me here!)
Christina Bontrager, Esther Leese, Ilva Hertzler

 Breakfast -- gloria, frieda, chris
For all I know, this could have been the same chuckle, because this was the other side of the table.
Gloria Bontrager, Frieda Yoder, Christina Bontrager

 Breakfast -- Joan
I hate it that Joan had her eyes closed on this picture because she looked so GOOD this morning.
(Oh, well, she still looks good, even with her eyes closed!)
You can just see Esther over there to the left, and Gloria sneaked in here beside her daughter, Sherrie, and then, of course, it’s Joan Mills

 Breakfast -- Joe, Dave, Aunt Dottie
In Uncle Eli’s sunny dining room, left to right was Dave Hertzler in the blue shirt.  Next is Joe Bontrager (Celebrating his birthday, too. 60 years!  I don’t see how anyone who looks so young could be sixty!  It must be Gloria’s good care.) There is an empty chair there beside Aunt Dottie.  Uncle John had just gone into the kitchen to pass on greetings from Uncle David to those congregating there.  And at the end is Aunt Dottie.

 Breakfast -- Kathy, Clint and Mom
Ken’s youthful wife, Kathy, sitting beside my brother, Clint.  Mama was getting ready to leave to go to our house to do CORN (of all things!) so she was saying her goodbyes.  I understand that Clint’s behavior went slightly downhill after she left.  Maybe she should have stayed and kept an eye on him.

Breakfast -- table talk
It is my understanding that that misbehavior was egged on by the young man on your right, Ken Yoder, hisself.  Yes, sir!  He is talking to Uncle Daniel, very sedately and calmly.  But don’t let that fool you. We of the family all know that genial, engaging exterior is but temporary.  But what would we do without Ken???  Smile less, I am sure, but maybe worry less, too.  Beside Uncle Daniel is Uncle Jesse and then Aunt Gladys.

Breakfast -- lucy, joan, ilva
One last picture of the kitchen gals.  I am including this one because I believe it is the only one that captured Lucy.  She looked great, too.  So perky and trim.  Here the cousins, Ilva, Joan and Lucy enjoy the “after breakfast” conversation.  It was a sweet time, and we missed those who couldn’t be there.  Maybe next time???
(I surely hope so!)

        And then it was time to get home and get on that last day of corn.  But the good time gave me energy and the memories made my heart light as I went back home to the job that was waiting.  I am so thankful for my aunts and uncles and cousins and the in laws that have come into our family.  I am thankful for the fourth generation of young people that are coming on, many of them committed Christians, and concerned about living the life of the Lord Jesus to the world around us.
I confess that I missed my Daddy very much that morning.  He loved getting people together for Wednesday morning breakfasts, and he reveled in being in the presence of his brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces.  I came down the road to Shady Acres and cried some tears for what was missing there that day.   But while that almost kept me away, I am glad that I went.  The memories of him are sweet, and being with our family brings them back with new clarity.  And that is a good gift.  Thank-you, my family.

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July 20, 2015 · 5:02 pm

I found this blog from nine years ago while I was looking for another post. It holds so many dear faces, and I wanted to relive that happy morning — Some of you, at least, will enjoy!

delawaregrammy's avatarDelaware Grammy





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July 18, 2015 · 2:41 am

Golf Cart Rides, Little People, and Evening Praise

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The summer evening is perfect.  Certain Man invites Delaware Grammy to go for a ride with him on the golf cart. Our only Granddaughter is chomping at the bit, dancing in eager anticipation.  She knows is fairly certain that she is going along.

There is a little guy here tonight.  He has a new baby brother and his Auntie Chris is babysitting for him while his Daddy is visiting his Mommy.  He had his turn to observe this new blip on his horizon, but he was more troubled by his Mommy being in the hospital bed than he was impressed with the beautiful baby brother.  He is always up for a tussle with Uncle Daniel, and tonight they run around in the way that Certain Man always does with little people.  I love how Certain Man is fully engaged as he tosses and hides around the corner to jump out and tickle and laugh.  He just likes little ones so much!

Charis is pensive.  She sidles up to her Mama and whispers, “I don’t think Grandpa likes me any more because he is being so nice to Jamison!”  I notice the whispering, and Christina tells me what is worrying Charis’ little head.

“What???” Says Grammy, more than a little indignantly. “You KNOW that isn’t true, Charis-girl!  Grandpa loves you just the same.  Besides.  Who is going along on the golf cart ride?”

“I am, but — ”

“Oh, Charis-girlie!  You don’t need to worry.  Grandpa loves you!”

Her little face was a mask of worry, and she shrugged her shoulders, unconvinced.  I heard a deep sigh.

Then Grandpa took matters into his own hands and said, “Are you ready?  Let’s go do the golf cart ride!”

She jumped up, ready to go!  But then little Jamison doesn’t want to be left out!  He begins prancing around, clapping his little hands and saying what sounds like “Me, me, me!”

“Aw, he wants to go, too,” says his Auntie Chris.  Charis looks a bit taken aback, but her cute little cousin wins her over, and she decides that we should take him, too.  She and Grandpa decide who is going to ride where, and we pile on.  Grandpa drives, Jamison is squished between us, and Charis rides in the back, giving directions.

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(Not exactly a flattering picture, but oh, well–)

“But don’t go through the woods, Grandpa,” she instructs.  She has lately taken a dislike for the neighboring tree farm, a tangle of undergrowth and vines.  Certain Man has an understanding with the neighbors, and there are quiet paths and a sort of almost sinister beauty among the tall trees.

“Oh, Charis,” says Grandpa emphatically.  “We have to go through the woods!  It isn’t any fun if we don’t go through the woods.”

He heads out across the lawn at a fast clip, and she says, “Grandpa, Grammy’s gonna’ fall off!  Be careful!”

“Oh, she’s okay,” says this Grandpa on a roll.  “She won’t fall off!”

“I’ll hold on to her,” announces a voice behind me and I feel a little hand take a less than secure hold on mine.  I look back and see that she isn’t holding on to anything besides my hand.

“Hang on, Charis!” I tell her.  “Hold on tight!  Grandpa is driving fast!”  We make a sharp turn into the woods and I look back to see a look of dismay on her face.  “Hon–” I speak quietly to the brash navigator.  “Our girlie is worried.”  Then over my shoulder, I ask, “Hey, Charis!  Do you want to come up here with us?”

“Yes, I do,” came the instant reply.

“Just wait until I get up here to the edge of the woods, Charis,” says her Grandpa.  “That way you won’t need to walk on the weeds or through any brush to get around.”  Back out of the woods and into the sunshine, he stops and she clambers to the front.  “Where are you going to sit?” He asks her.

“On Grammy’s lap,” she asserts while doing just that.  And now we are off in the direction of the neighbors sunflower field.  The weeds are growing as thick there as the flowers, but we stop and Charis looks for the “perfect” one to pick for “Auntie Karen.”

IMG_0374

We try hard to get Jamison to help find a flower, too, or to even just stand by one that is his size for the sake of a picture, but he wants nothing of it.  He marches right back to the golf card and climbs back in.  He isn’t able to quite get up on the seat, so he plants himself on the floor, ready to ride some more.

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Well, that’s okay with the powers that be.  Charis has three flowers and she is ready to go.  Grammy is just along for the ride, so she is okay with going.  Our fearless Chauffeur makes sure we are all in our places and heads out for a few more quick turns and sharp ditch banks, enjoying the protests from his girls with that amused look on his face.  And then it is back to the farmhouse at Shady Acres.  The night is coming in, and Grandpa wants to work in the next  door trailer for a while yet tonight.  Charis is spending the night here at Grandpa and Grammy’s house, and Jamison’s Daddy will be by to pick him up after a while.

Delaware Grammy listens to the evening sounds of a family settling in for the night.  There is a bath in the laundry sink for a little guy, and a sleeping bag spread out for a tired girlie.  Certain Man and Youngest Daughter head out to try to get a little bit of work done at the trailer while the night is still somewhat young. Jamison has a story and devours some fruit snacks and animal crackers.  In the distance, I hear Nettie’s television, probably tuned to Family Feud while she sleeps in her chair.  Cecilia coughs to remind me that she needs to be taken to bed.  Charis is sleeping soundly now, and Caleb comes to pick up his boy, so Christina heads home.  The house is quiet except for the ticking clocks and occasional chime.

So many things to be happy about.  Family, little ones, quiet conversations, adventures that are especially suited for a Grammy as well as the little ones, love, and sweet, sweet memories of other times and other places.

For all of this, and so much more, my heart gives grateful praise.

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