May 15, 2015 · 9:31 pm

Youngest Daughter Walks

Tomorrow, Youngest Daughter, Rachel​, Graduates from Bryn Mawr’s School of Social Work, Master’s Program in Philadelphia, PA.  It has been a long road that led to this day, and her Daddy and I are so proud of her.    She has worked hard.  She has persevered when it would have been easier to give up.  She has held on when it seemed that life would wrench her dreams from her hands.  She has believed when doubt and fear laughed in her face.   She has overcome reversals, bulimia, and being a pacifist in a Baptist College.  She has endured loneliness, heartache, and hours and days of wondering what would be next in her life.  Even now, the unknowns in Rachel’s future are far greater than the knowns.

But for every single negative in her life, Rachel has had positives.  She has traveled, she has received accolades and awards and positive reviews and opportunities that few girls in her situation have been given.  She has worked hard, yes!  But she has also been given much, and as her parents, it has been so exciting to see how God has intervened time and time again to give incredible, “best gifts” to this girlie that we have been privileged to parent.

And so, our youngest walks.  A new chapter in her life —  and ours.  And even though it is sometimes hard to see a chapter close, in this case, it is exhilarating, exciting and humbling to think about the story that is Rachel’s life.

“We’ve come this far by faith, leaning on the Lord.  Trusting in His Holy Word.  He’s never failed us yet.”

He never will!

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May 13, 2015 · 2:58 pm

The Feetwashing Tubs

When our church burned almost six months ago, one of the things that did not melt was our stack of tubs for feetwashing.

Our church family still practices feetwashing.  For those of you who are not acquainted with this tradition, it is usually held in connection with two of our communions a year, in keeping with the passage in John 13:4-17, where Jesus washed his disciples’ feet.  In verses 14 and 15, Jesus said, 14 “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash each other’s feet. 15 I did this as an example so that you should do as I have done for you.”  We have chosen to believe that there is value in taking these words literally and beautiful symbolism in this act of humility, servitude and vulnerability.  Many, many sermons have been preached on what this really means, and I have found it incredibly precious in different ways at different times,

That being said, as we were preparing for communion this spring, Certain Man was under the impression that the elders were planning for feetwashing, and as the deacon, it is his job to take care of the physical preparation for the celebration.  So he stopped one evening on his way home from work and looked for the stack of eight, gray Sterlite tubs that we use for feetwashing.  He found them, alright.  For some reason, they were not melted as were most plastics in the church that terrible morning.  But they were blackened by smoke and dirty from water.  He brought them home.

“Hon,” he said.  “Someone has to clean these up.”  (“Someone,” I took it to mean, was his wife.)  They sat on the cupboard in my laundry room and I looked at them with distaste and dread.  I really didn’t want to scrub them up, but communion was only a week away and I knew I didn’t have much time.

Then the Elders decided that, given the shortened time frame, Sunday school being such a big part of our Sunday morning service, and us not being in our own place, that they were going to forego the feetwashing part of our communion this time.  And I, glad for the reprieve, did not scrub the tubs up.  They sat on my counter sometimes, in my laundry sink sometimes, sometimes being moved so I could work in the area that they were, and for some reason, they did not get any cleaner.  They just sat there and waited.  I kept thinking that maybe someone would get tired of seeing them and would do something with them, but it did not seem to be the case.  Last night I looked at them again (probably for the hundredth time at least) and decided that I would do something with them.  TODAY!

So this morning I drew a big sink full of water with bleach, fetched myself a magic eraser and set to work.  I watched the black spots come off, saw the smooth clear gray come clearer and clearer as the black water was rinsed down the drain.  I thought about our church and about feetwashing and how the brothers and sisters there are such an integral part of who I am and what I do.  I prayed for Alex and Joey and wondered what they would do differently that December night if they could do things over.  I thought about redemption and how, even though it seems so simple, it is never easy, and how, even for them, there is Grace enough, if they would only choose it.

The last tub was especially covered in soot and grime.  I thought about how washing these feetwashing tubs was something that came down to me being willing to do it, and I prayed that in this washing, God would reckon it as a way that I washed the feet of my sisters and brothers.

I took the tubs out, stacked them on the steps to the upper deck to dry.  They were so common in the morning sun, but so glorious in my eyes.  Another thing set wrong by the arson was back to order.  Slowly, one step at a time, things are getting done– not only in the building, but in our hearts.

And I give grateful praise.

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May 3, 2015 · 8:45 pm

Sunday Grumpies

This was the Sunday morning when I felt just plain grumpy.  It’s a ridiculously beautiful day.  I had a wonderful lesson for my little people at church.  I had made fairly good preparation.  We moved Youngest Daughter home from Philadelphia yesterday. Certain Man and I had a very nice afternoon together, walking by the water at Delaware City, stopping for a quick supper at Chick fil a, and coming home in good time after our Philadelphia run.  I was terribly tired last night, to the point of finally going to bed early and sleeping soundly most of the night.  But I woke up grumpy and irritated.

It shouldn’t have mattered that Nettie was up and dressed by 6:30.  This was a good morning for her to do that, but she looks at me so reproachfully when things don’t move according to her schedule, and things did not move  according to her schedule  this morning.  And she didn’t like the music I put on for her.  I was in no mood to hear Johnny Cash or Conway Twitty or The Oak Ridge boys while I showered and dressed Cecilia.  Usually I just keep the music off on Sunday mornings but this morning, I felt like my spirits could use some music, so the choice was classical.  She didn’t want that.  It didn’t have words.  After I left the room, she asked Deborah to change it.  Deborah, not knowing that I had chosen the station with intent this morning, called out to the kitchen that she was changing it for her.

“No, you’re not,” I said more sharply than I intended.  “I do not feel like hearing country music this morning.  I put that on on purpose.”

“But she doesn’t like it,” said my surprised Middle Daughter.  “It doesn’t have words.”

“I know it doesn’t,” I said testily.  “I don’t feel like hearing words.”

“Oh.  Okay, then!” Said Deborah, and went and told Nettie that she wasn’t changing it after all.  Whereupon Nettie came out to the kitchen to tell me that she wanted the channel changed.

“No, Nettie,” I said, again, more firmly than necessary, “I don’t want you to change it.  You can listen to that this morning.  I don’t feel like hearing Country.  You listened to that all day yesterday.  This is Sunday morning music.  You can listen to this for a change.”

She looked at me like I had just told her that I was withholding her daily sustenance.  Disgusted she went back into her room without another word.  I felt even more out of sorts.  Probably in part from the exchange immediately preceding this. (Which went like this:)

“Hon, we need to get the holders for the communion cups out here.”  It was Certain Man, helping to get stuff together for communion.

I looked at him blankly.  “Um.  I think those are up at church,” I said.

“We never kept them up there before,” he said emphatically.

“Yes, we have,” I said just as emphatically.  “I never thought to tell someone to get them, but I’m sure they are up there.”

“Hon, we always bring them home and wrap them in plastic and put them in there on the shelf.”

I knew they weren’t in there, but I went in to check anyhow.  ‘I think,” I said, “That I have been storing them up at church ever since I forgot them that time  and you had to run back for them.  But I never thought about it when we were getting things together.  I’m sorry.”

He came and looked  over my shoulder at the empty spot where they should would have been if they were there.  “Well, they certainly aren’t there.  I’m going to have to run up to church and see if I can find them.  Hard telling where they are.”

“Why don’t you ask Deborah.  She would know if they were up there.”

“She’s still sleeping.  I don’t want to wake her up.  I’m gonna’ go do my chores quick and then I will run up there and see.”

“Whatever you think, Daniel.”

That’s what he thought.  And he went out to check his chickens, feed his livestock and check on the general state of affairs at Shady Acres.  He came back in shortly.

“Is Deborah up?”

“I haven’t seen her yet.”

“Well, I’ve gotta get going.”

“Wake her up, Daniel.  I’m sure she would go with you”

“Hon, I can’t wait that long.  It will take her a good 20 minutes to get ready and I can’t wait that long!”

“I think she would throw things together in a hurry and go with you, Daniel.  She and Chris and Amy did the sorting up there after the fire, and I think she would know right where they were.  You could at least ask her if she knows where they are.”

I went back to my morning things, but noticed that he did go over and call quietly from the bottom of the stairs.  I heard them converse for a  bit and then he left, and Deborah came down to the  kitchen to help out with morning things.  She worked at ironing the linens for the communion table, talked to Nettie, and did any of a number of helpful things for me.

I got lunch into the oven and kept thinking about Nettie, stewing in her room over the music.  I finally went in.

“Nettie, I am going to turn your music on, but I am closing the doors.”

She made little response except to acknowledge that she heard me and to act like it was about time I saw the light.  She said she didn’t care if I closed the doors.  And I did.  I did not slam them, but It was a pretty firm closure.

I went out to the kitchen to finish class and communion preparation.  Our lesson this morning was from the parable of the yeast.  How the Kingdom of Heaven is like the measures of leaven that the woman put into the dough and how it grew and grew and grew.  I had been looking forward to this lesson for some time.  I love working with yeast products, and it fell on communion Sunday, and there was this simple recipe for making bread in my teacher’s manual.  I had made arrangements to use the bread from the lesson for the communion celebration. I had made a batch ahead of time, and wasn’t very impressed with how it turned out.  However, it held promise, and I knew instinctively of some things that I could do to make it better.  It was imperative, though, that I make a batch ahead of time that would be for our communion service this morning, and then the children would make a batch in class that would be theirs to take home.  I stood at my kitchen counter and thought that it just wasn’t such a great idea.

“I don’t know about this,” I said to myself.  “I’m thinking that this is going to be  a hot mess.   The Sunday school room isn’t all that big.  There will be flour and water and who knows what else on the floor before I’m done and the kids will be dirty.  If I make this first batch at home and take it in, it’s liable not to turn out if I’m moving it around while it’s rising.  And how am I going to liken the Kingdom of Heaven to baking bread, anyhow?   Besides, what does the “Kingdom of Heaven” mean to these kids?  I am not sure they really are understanding what this is trying to say.  And I am using yeast when it should be unleavened bread.  And I don’t know how to make yeast bread out of Gluten-free flour, so what am I trying to do?  Someone is likely to feel left out or rejected or not part of the body.  This just feels like such a mess!”

I looked at my ingredients and kept plugging away.  Partly because I didn’t know what else to do.  Partly because I had promised the children.  Partly because it was too late to try to do something else.

And then, at the edge of my conscious thought, came that familiar nudging.  “It just might be a mess.  It might not turn out right.  But think about this.  The crucifixion, to borrow your vernacular, was a hot mess.  There was nothing predictable, easy, clean or orderly about it.  It was messy.  It was awful.  It was anything but nice. Somewhere, you’ve gotten this idea that communion has to be perfect, aesthetically pleasing, tasting just right, looking just right and inoffensive to anyone — particularly you!  That’s not how it was . . .you need to let this go.  Think of why you wanted to do this in the first place and remember that ‘nice and easy’ and ‘discipleship’ are not synonymous.”

It was a thoughtful Delaware Grammy that finished mixing up the bread, and got ready for church.  Certain Man found the cup holders and got home in plenty of time,  He loaded the van with the communion supplies, Sunday school supplies, checked to make sure everything was packed that was needed.  He was his usual pleasant and kind self.  Middle Daughter helped and encouraged and the rest of the morning went quietly along.

And things went well at church, too.  The Three Littles were their usual exuberant selves, and participated heartily and happily and even shared with each other. The bread baked beautifully golden and smelled wonderful, and the Kingdom of Heaven was talked about repeatedly as we mixed yeast, watched bread rise and repeatedly checked the baking process.  What a special time we had together.  How I love these three little people.  They make me laugh and they teach me things about human nature, and they cause me to dream dreams about what they will be someday and how they might change the world.  And they compel me to pray for them by the newness of their raw materials, the light of Heaven in their eyes and the prospect of the world that they will live in.  Charis, Katie and Judah:  You cannot imagine how much Jesus loves you.  How I pray that you catch just a glimpse of what you can do in this old world for Jesus’ sake.

And then our communion service was sweet and celebratory and the church family was so kind.  Not a single murmuring word against the leaven or the gluten.  We remembered our Lord’s death and celebrated the sacrifice that was made for us.  We celebrated our church family, and the love that holds us together, causes us to overlook the irritations, and even hears honest confessions of repentant hearts with reassurance and encouragement.

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

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May 1, 2015 · 2:56 am

As an Evening Proceeds

5:00 pm

Today I had to have a molar extracted.  This process went FAR BETTER than I expected, and I give thanks that I live in this era and that the time is now and not even the time of my childhood. The worst part of it was the shot.  The best part was that Dr. Otto Tidwell sings to his patients while doing procedures.  It is a most soothing and consolatory gesture.

“You’re doing very fine,” he sang.  “Hold very still, we are getting done.”  Anything he said to me was a quiet, musically framed intonation.   (He did stop and speak a few disquieting things in a normal tone to his nurse, but I tried not to listen because he wasn’t talking to me.)  Yesterday in my regular dentist’s office, Dr. Steward had told me about this peculiarity, and that it was an excellent diversion, but there was a whole lot more about the man than his singing prowess that inspired confidence.  I was particularly comforted by the fact that He has pulled over 160,000 teeth in his career.  Yes.  That!

But now?

Well, between a the roots coming out in three different pieces, an abscess that needed cleaning out, and some stitches, I suspect that the easy part really is over now, and that the rest of this might not be much fun.  Eldest Daughter, Christina​, (who was my kind and encouraging chauffeur) had Dr. Tidwell just a little over a week ago, (also for an extraction) and she was numb for 12 hours.  I’m less than two hours post and it is ANYTHING but numb. But ice and pain medication and Middle Daughter, Deborah​, as a willing and capable helper  — well, let’s just say that’s a pretty stellar health care package, and I’m looking forward to a quiet night.  (I can at least hope for such!)

Thanks for all the well wishes and prayers on my behalf. Having a tooth pulled feels like such a violation, and with this being the last molar I have on the upper right, it feels like a rather severe statement of my age.  Tonight I am feeling every one of my 61 years, six months and 15 days. I’m sorely tempted to huddle in my chair with my blanket and brood until I get to where I can just sleep these hours away.  But then I might miss something.  And these are exciting days at Shady Acres.

And even though it suddenly looks like it will be anything but quiet around here tonight (Deborah just got asked to work tonight because the on duty Hospice nurse just had a car accident) I think it is time to redirect my heart and choose offer some grateful praise.

8:15 pm
. . . And guess what else!?!?!  I got off my chair to help with supper, and suddenly felt absolutely wonderful.  So there has been no sitting on my chair tonight.  This has to be the easiest tooth extraction I have ever had!  I just cut our best cutting of asparagus out of the garden, and now want to package up some chicken for the freezer that we got in bulk.  Certain Man went to visit his friend, Gary Burlingame.  He has the day off tomorrow, and this gal is eagerly looking forward to a trip to the greenhouse, looking for tomatoes and other vegetables for the garden.  I just might get some hanging baskets of flowers for our pavilion.

What a wonderful day this has turned out to be!

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April 23, 2015 · 11:19 pm

Unexpected in the Miele

One of the things I do daily in this household of five (and sometimes six) is unload the dishwasher.  It is just one of those things that needs to be done, and I often combine a phone chat while I’m doing it to distract me from the mundane.  So, the other day I was on the phone with someone (if it was YOU would you please remind this fur brain) and I had finished the first rack and was on the middle rack (my Miele model has three levels) that holds mostly cups and drinking glasses and measuring cups and then lids stuffed in among the drinking utensils (so that they can stay upright and are not as apt to collect water).  Between the water and juice and coffee and tea, this rack is always the first to fill up.

Things were moving cheerfully along and I was in fine spirits until I reached for something to put away and I saw the strangest thing.  There was this thing!  A greyish lumpy thing, hung up over one of the grids of the dishwasher rack.  It looked like a small, melted mouse, all hung up and drowned, hung up on a wire.  Its long, skinny tail hung down dejectedly.

I felt sick.  I gingerly pinched its back where it was doubled over the vinyl covered strand and pulled it off, trying not to gag. It was very soft and squishy.  What about that load of dishes, now mostly put away?  How had a mouse gotten into my dishwasher?  I felt like not looking at it, but this thing begged my attention.

Oh.

It wasn’t a mouse.  It was a large tea bag.  The string trailed its deceptive ruse of a tail, as the grey-brown bag hung from my pinched fingers.

Really???

Oh, well.  That’s actually a better scenario.  I put the offending tea bag in the trash and went back to my job.  Nothing like the unexpected to break up the monotony of an ordinary job.

In other news, the first big bouquet of lilacs is on the table, making the house smell wonderful.  How I am enjoying these glorious days of spring!

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April 22, 2015 · 9:29 pm

First Hummer and Thoughts of Grace

The wind is  blowing wild, wild.  The rain, like a cloud of mist from my spray bottle when I’m ironing, blows around the shed, into the garden and across the yard at Shady Acres.  I feel it smooth over my face as I scramble to cut the last few stalks of asparagus that can be called “ready.”

The house feels safe and dry and warm.  Cecilia rocks to the gentle music of Fisher Prices “Baby’s First Hymns” in her chair and I call my Sweet Mama to see if it is raining there.  We chat about the surprise storm and then, suddenly–!

“Oh, there’s a hummingbird!”  My Mama’s voice is light and full of joy.

“Really???” I ask, almost enviously.  I’ve been looking for hummers for a couple of days, and even put two feeders up last evening, hoping to entice early scouts to our yard.

“Yes,” breathes my Sweet Mama.  “And I don’t have any food in mine yet.”

I come out of the study into the kitchen and mosey on over to the window.  At that very moment, a flash of green with a ruby red throat caught my eye as it made a dash for my most protected feeder on the deck.  I catch my breath.

“Mama!”  I say, almost unable to believe my eyes.  “I have one, too!  Just now!  It’s the first one I’ve seen this season!  I can’t believe it!  I am so happy!!!”

He darted around for a lengthy amount of time for such a flighty little bird.  He looked healthy and fit and ready for another summer.  I wonder how he likes this unpredictable weather, even while noting that it probably was somewhat the weather that drew him to a stable source of sustenance.  And I gave thanks for the unexpected gale.

The days since just before Easter have been tumultuous for this Delaware Grammy.  Just hard decisions to make, trying to please the right people while not making enemies of the ones who may or may not have the right to speak to the situation.  Wishing with all my heart to spend time with the Ohio grandchildren, but understanding that it just isn’t going to happen right now.  I’m feeling keenly some losses, and also feeling sad over choices made that were not mine to make, but never the less, are still heavy on my heart.  And there have been some difficult psychotic moments with Nettie and some trying, anxious moments with Cecilia.   More than once, it has felt like gale force winds and blinding rain. Today, at a funeral for an old lady that I barely knew, I found myself crying and knew it had nothing to do with the funeral and everything to do with how life is on several fronts right now.

I watched that little hummer at the feeder, blown by the wind, but seemingly indifferent to it, and realized again how it is really all good!  All these things that drive us to the stable source of soul sustenance are all good.  And I do not need to fret or worry or be dismayed.  The One who loves me and knows what I need is on the watch, and He will provide.

In my heart ring the lyrics of my Grandpa Dave Yoder’s favorite song:

  1. If, on a quiet sea,
    Toward Heav’n we calmly sail,
    With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee,
    We’ll own the fav’ring gale;
    With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee,
    We’ll own the fav’ring gale.
  2. But should the surges rise,
    And rest delay to come,
    Blest be the tempest, kind the storm,
    Which drives us nearer home;
    Blest be the tempest, kind the storm,
    Which drives us nearer home.
  3. Soon shall our doubts and fears
    All yield to Thy control;
    Thy tender mercies shall illume
    The midnight of the soul;
    Thy tender mercies shall illume
    The midnight of the soul.
  4. Teach us, in every state,
    To make Thy will our own;
    And when the joys of sense depart,
    To live by faith alone;
    And when the joys of sense depart,
    To live by faith alone.
    ~Lowell Mason

The sun is suddenly peeking out on this unpredictable day, and women I love are coming for our own small group while the men go to see Gary Burlingame.  There will be kind words, prayers and encouragement.

These days are made better by these glimpses of glory, touches of grace.

My heart gives grateful praise.

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April 17, 2015 · 9:35 pm

Spring has Sprung

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“Sum’ping happened to mine parrel . . .”

The squirrel is on the fruit and nut block again. I tap my fingernail against the glass. He looks briefly in my direction, then darts up the tree and out to the sunflower seed feeder. I give up on the window tapping and go to the sun room door and open it to encourage him to move on.  He flits about in the upper branches, scolding and watchful.  He makes me laugh and I go back inside.  I have a hard time being venomous with the squirrels.  26 years ago when we moved to Shady Acres, the name, though old and established, was a misnomer.  There was almost no shade.  There were no wild animals to be seen, either.  We moved from our house at the edge of the Andrewsville Woods and I missed the squirrels and birds and woodland fauna that surrounded our house there.  A tree farm in its earliest stages bordered our new property, and held some promise, and Certain Man wasted no time in planting trees wherever he could imagine one growing.  Over the years, the shade has made welcome inroads, the tree farm has been home to woodland creatures, and the squirrels are frequent visitors to the feeders and feeding stations around the yard.  Certain Man will shout and scold them sometimes, but he also loves the fact that the environment is hospitable to the creatures.

This was a rainy morning.  I took my camera and strolled about catching some pictures in the morning light.  There were raindrops on my tulips, glimmering jewel-like against the rich colors.

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And that whiskey half-barrel that has served me so well so many years really has given up the ghost.  Last year, it showed signs of great disrepair, but I decided that its dilapidated state only added to its beauty, and I carefully nursed it through another year.  I don’t think I can do that this year.

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All around the yard, there are signs of spring and new life.

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The tulips along the grape arbor are really putting on a show.

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The bluebirds are building their nest.

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As is some other bird in the blue spruce.  I haven’t figured out what kind of bird this is.  Usually a Mocker builds in this particular tree, but I don’t think this is a Mocker’s nest.  Too messy.

This afternoon, our trusty helper, Grant Miller, is mowing the lawn.  The smell of fresh cut grass is coming through the open window, and the birds are singing.  Certain Man is home from work and looking at a busy and full evening.  He has planted some of his vegetable garden, and there are some tender shoots making their way up.  I cut my first cutting of asparagus a few days ago and lo!  And behold!  There are bunches more to cut tonight. Certain Man just said that I had better get at it.  And so, I shall!  The evening of this wonderfully ordinary day is moving in, and I give grateful praise.

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April 7, 2015 · 3:01 pm

Of Life and Hope and Frieda and Heaven

It’s the first Easter without her. Somehow the resurrection and the promise of The Eternal comfort me like never before. My brother was here this weekend, moving though our lives with grace, some tears, but also a determination to remember the good. He saw family, laughed and watched the activity that never stops when the Yoders are together, visited with Frieda’s family, fellowshipped with old friends, laughed with his cousins, comforted his aging mother with his presence and his tender care, ate pickled eggs and read old books. He was home, but he wasn’t. Never more than a breath away are the memories, drawing him to another time and another place. So many things to remember. He is a more pensive, gentler version of the man he has been, and though the grief has changed him, it hasn’t made him angry or bitter.

Saturday would have been her birthday. It is strange to mark the day without her. Even as I know that this is the way of LIFE, I hate this death business. Even stranger to me is how we mark a death and rejoice in a resurrection on the same weekend, but live as if we aren’t really paying attention to the fact that we have this hope within us. Most of the time, we don’t want to think about dying.

Tonight, I think of those who are already there, and wonder what they are doing. Has it been a split second for Daddy, these nine years since he crossed over? I just cannot comprehend. Sometimes I think I have to wrap my mind around it somehow. But how can a mere mortal understand Eternity, the very presence of God and His GLORY?

I stopped at my Daddy’s grave last week to think and pray and cry. In the next row, Freida’s gravestone, newly placed sat in its simple beauty. I hadn’t seen it there before, and in that moment I acutely missed the grace and honesty and fire that was my red-haired sister in law. I stepped over to her monument and touched the rough top of it, crying now so hard that I couldn’t see.

“We miss you so much,” I said. “I wish I had told you more often how much I loved you!” And then I went through the sharp Delaware wind to my van and came on home.

Home. My favorite place in all the world to be. Here are the people I love most. Here are the memories and the familiar. But even here there are scary things — medical issues, aging, auto accidents, bills, disappointment and reversal and loss. But when we get to THAT Home — ah, there will be nothing to disappoint, destroy, alarm or regret. There will be all the good and none of the bad. And I believe that the people I love most will be there, with good memories intact and none of the bad.

One time, in a desperately difficult time in my life, I dreamed that my Daddy came to me and he said, “Where I am, relationships are so easy because there are no regrets.” Sometimes that aspect of Heaven lures me more than anything else. And gives me pause to consider how to do relationships here with no regrets.

Brothers and sisters. In these days when we are so often bogged down with the things of living, may we fix our eyes on Jesus, believe His Words to us when He says, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me will have life even if they die. And everyone who lives and believes in me will never die!”

And may we live like we believe it.

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March 19, 2015 · 10:19 am

I just get that same old feeling . . .

There is a feeling I get, heading up Canterbury Road, that I’ve come to realize is a joy-mixed longing, accompanied by a familiarity. It has caused me to want to stop (in years past) at the white church on the corner of Canterbury and Carpenter Bridge, to unlock that front door and step inside, to sometimes pray a little, think a lot, and to drink in the smells and sights that are the physical embodiment of the building that houses our church. I’ve written on here before about how I miss our church building and how homesick I have been for that place of worship.

Earlier this week, I was caught flat-footed by that same feeling. Excepting that I wasn’t anywhere near Felton, DE. Nope, I was rounding that corner from Woodyard Road onto U.S. 13 South on my way to my Sweet Mama’s house, when I had this warm and sweet familiar feeling, and an urge to turn into the Nanticoke Business Park Drive. It startled me, as my mind was far away from this temporary gathering place that we’ve been using the last three and a half months.

“What in the World???” I thought as I kept my van on the forward mode. It was so strong that it jolted my thinking about this group of believers that I call my church family. I realized with a start that we are making warm and good memories in this “Place of Grace.” It has been an adequate, full of light and comfortable place of worship for us, and more than that, we’ve been the recipients of such open handed generosity that it blows my mind. The congregation that owns the facility has been so unselfish with everything and gone the second mile with their kindness. We’ve been free to be ourselves and we’ve been encouraged to “do church” with as many familiar routines as possible.

When the fire was lit on December 2nd, the intention was to hurt and to destroy. But as the old building is being renovated and restored, something stronger and more serviceable and beautiful is rising from the ashes. And the things that hold us together as a church family were impacted, but strengthened in the time since that unsettling morning. Especially encouraging has been how the people of the broader church family have rallied around us, prayed for us, given gifts of time, expertise, and money. It isn’t “too good to be true,” because it is true! And these responses come as a God of Truth moves on the hearts of ordinary men.

What I felt when I rounded that corner was just a feeling. And we all know that feelings are not to be trusted. But may I just say that feeling a sense of delight when I am near to the place where our church family meets, even though it is temporary — well, that’s the kind of thing that I call a bonus gift. Something extra special that God does for His child in situations that challenge, reminding me of His care over, not only our church family as a body, but over His daughter and the emotions of my heart.

And this daughter’s heart gave grateful praise.

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Filed under Laws Mennonite Church, Praise

March 13, 2015 · 3:27 am

One Left Behind

Our chickens went out today.  It has been a mess, to be honest.  They were scheduled for yesterday, and Certain Man had asked for the day off.  Then, as things are wont to do, things got messed up at the plant, and so they were delayed a day.  Certain Man had a mandatory seminar today from 8-4, and even though he could “run home” at lunch, nothing makes up for the farmer being on the property.  Of course, everything went wrong.

For one thing, the wife of Certain Man has not had much experience with raising the water lines in preparation for the catch.  And the water lines are the things that are left down until the last minute.  Certain Man instructed her in the things that needed to be done in case he wasn’t home, and she duly noted everything — except she failed to notice that there are EIGHT sections per house that need to go up.  I still do not know how this was missed.  If she looked down the row and there were still water lines to go up, she should have know to put them up!  Right!  Well, I didn’t.  I was thinking that there were four feed lines that usually go up — (they were already up) and I took that Milwaukee Hole Hog that almost shook my teelh loose, and ran those drinker lines right up, being careful not to bend the stand pipes.  I checked things carefully, turned off the water as instructed, and took the drill and put it away, because we have had catching crews that took things and we really didn’t want that to happen.  And then I went back to the house.

When Certain Man got home, he found a very disgruntled crew leader.  It seems that they had to roll up four lines of drinkers without the benefit of the electrical appliance.  Certain Man apologized for his wife’s oversight, but then found two manual cranks in the litter by a wall.  And they weren’t his cranks.  They were the old style cranks that often have a nail replacing a bolt near the handle.  Certain Man, some years back, ran one of those vicious nails into his hand, causing great damage.  It also caused him to go forth and purchase cranks that were steel, one piece, all good quality, that would not inadvertently damage him.  Someone had taken his good cranks and replaced them with these old cranks.  One was even badly bent.  He was more than a little upset.

“These are not my cranks!” he said to the crew leader.

“I got them in your chicken house,” the man said.  “I got one over there and one over here.”

“I tell you, these are not my cranks!  Mine are fairly new, all one piece, going down so there is no nail in them.”

The man was unmoved.  “They are yours,” he said again.  “I got them in your house.”

“They are NOT MINE.  And somebody had better give me back my cranks before they leave here today.”

Of course, they didn’t.

And then there were so many big beautiful chickens just lying dead.  Over sixty in each house, for no apparent reason.  Certain Man’s birds are big.  Probably close to nine pounds a piece.  I saw the wheels turning in his head as he calculated his losses.  “That is half a ton of chicken,” he sad to me sadly.  “And that can make a bunch of difference.”

He went back out to chicken house to finish up for the night.  Around nine o’clock he came in.  He was walking slow, the weariness pulling him back on his heels, his eyes were grey and tired behind the chicken house dust.

“There’s one big beautiful chicken out there that is alive,” he said.  “I don’t suppose you want to do anything with it.”

“Sure, I want it,” I said.  “I’ll just go and quick butcher it and it can soak in salt water overnight.”

“Well, if you are going to do it, you’re going to have to do it alone.  I am just too tired.  I’ll go get it for you, but I don’t think I can do any more.”

“That will be fine,” I said.  “I’ll get some water started, and if you go get it, that’s all I need from you.”  He helped me get the big pot down from the high shelf and then went out.  I got the water started and then went out to see how things were going.  He already had the hapless victim hanging from the twine hangers on the side of our old garage.  The chicken appeared to be calmly surveying the surroundings, oblivious to the fact that time was fast running out for him.

“I want the water hot before I kill it,” I say to my spouse.  He looks relieved.  Butchering chickens is not his department — especially the part where the head leaves the body.  “I think we will just let it hang for a bit and I’ll get the water and come back out.”

“Then if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go get a shower and call it a day.”

“That’s fine, Daniel.  It’ll be okay.”

My knife was sharpened to a fine, cold flint.  I do not like to kill chickens, and I especially do not like it when they look at me just before I cut their heads off.  It was dark tonight, and I usually find the space in the neck and make a quick sharp draw and it is over.  And because I do it more by feel that by eyeballing it, I often shut my eyes once the knife is in place.  Which I did tonight — right after I caught the beady eye of my victim looking at me.  I shut my eyes and with one swift slice, the head was off, and on the ground and I was out of the way.  It made me feel so sick.  But there is always the next thing to do, so once he stopped moving, I took the headless chicken off the twine hanger and plunged him into the boiling water.  I got a good scald on him, hung him back up, and the feathers came off relatively easily.  And then I took him down again, rinsed him off, dumped my bucket of water, severed his feet and carried him into the kitchen.

Middle Daughter came home from a Hospice call about that time and when she heard I was going to butcher a chicken, she was daft enough to want to be involved.  She is a game helper (pun intended) in this situation, and once the pin feathers were off, she went to it.  Conversation was lively, and it wasn’t too long before the neck, liver, heart and gizzard were submerged in a sink  of iced salt water along side a fat, beautiful chicken.

“What are you going to do with it? asked Certain Man, on his way through the kitchen to get something to drink.

“I think I’m going to have it for Sunday dinner,” I say.  We are expecting company and it is a fairly large group.

Certain Man looked down at that chicken and his eyes clouded over.  “I wouldn’t think that would be enough to feed everybody,” he said dubiously.

“I did think of roasting it and having stuffing,” I said, “but I think I will just cook it and take it off the bones and have chicken-etti.”

That pleased him, as this particular casserole is an old family favorite that can feed a crowd.  I finished putting some stuff away, and decided it was time for me to get some shut-eye, too.  It’s been a busy week at Shady Acres, and tomorrow!  Ah, tomorrow, I am going away (just overnight) for a Beth Moore conference with some of my favorite people.

I can hardly wait!

My heart gives grateful praise.

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