September 1, 2014 · 2:50 am

Dancing

Grandsons are pretty wonderful things to have.

One day, while at our house, our youngest grandson, Frankie, wanted to not eat something.  His Mama told him he had to eat them and he decided to call upon his Daddy and appeal his case.  Raph told him, “Frankie, it doesn’t work for you to ask Daddy when Mommy says you have to do something.  Mommy and I are a team and what she says is what I will say.  Eat what Mommy tells you to eat.”Their oldest son, Si, sitting on the floor, already liberated by reason of having finished his plate looked up at his Auntie Rach and said with great confidentiality,  “I know dat don’ work.  I be learnin’!”

And on that note, I’d like to share that we have a court date for the adoption of Simon Mark Yutzy,  Liam K. Yutzy and Franklin L. Yutzy that is in the very near future.  And they have all “been learnin’!”  Still very much little boys, but the agency would like to use Raph and Gina for their “poster family for adoption” once things are finalized, so impressed are they with the progress the boys have made.

Our family gives grateful praise!  There’s been a lot of broken dreams along the way and days when Raph and Gina didn’t know if they were going or coming.  In the beginning, I worried some about our son’s eyes and the desperation that I saw there.  They went from being this carefree couple, doing what they wanted, both working and hoping for one little one — maybe two to foster with the hopes of adopting, but their world was shaken to its core one February night when they were asked to take THREE little boys, ages three, two and one on a day’s notice.

The boys were frightened and confused and so, so wild.  Certain Man would sometimes ask Raph how he was doing, and he would say, “To tell you the truth, Dad.  I’m really overwhelmed.”  I would sometimes try to comfort him when things were especially bad that “not all placements are a good fit.” and that it wasn’t a bad thing to be cautious and wise.  I said to him one night, “You know, Son, our God is so big that he won’t make something right for the boys that is wrong for you.”  He was quiet.  Pensive.

And so the weeks went by, and as the days passed, on the rare times we were together, I noticed a change in our tall son’s demeanor and his way of dealing with his three little boys.  And then, one day, he told me this story:

“One day, Mama, I was in my truck (he was a delivery man for Troyer’s Furniture in Sugar Creek, Ohio) and I sorta’ had like an epiphany.  I was complaining to the LORD and I was saying, ‘God, I can’t do this.  It is just too hard.  I want my life back, I want my wife back.  I want to come home from work and get on the couch and watch T.V. and not have to worry about anything.  It’s just too hard  I can’t do it!”

He said that it was like the presence of the LORD filled that truck and he felt like God said to him, “Raph, I didn’t redeem you for ‘easy.’  This IS hard, and it’s going to be hard.  But I am going to be with you, and if this is what I have for you to do, you CAN do it.”  That may not be word for word, but it is how I remember him telling me, and it has helped him so much — and not only him, but me, too, when things just feel too hard or too deep or too long to press through, I keep hearing, “I didn’t redeem you for ‘easy’!”

And so, our family is planning a celebration.  The boys have been a part of our family for almost 17 months, and very soon, LORD willing, it is scheduled to be made official.  Bring on the bells and whistles!  This family is ready to dance!!!

the boys
Simon, Liam and Frankie

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August 27, 2014 · 4:05 am

Ordinary Days of grace . . .

It’s been a day when I should have been counting my blessings, I suppose, but it has been quite a day.  Actually, my week has been less than wonderful.  Cecilia has been sick, coughing until it sounds like she is going to drown herself with whatever it is in her lungs.  I had an order for a chest X-ray, blood work and urinalysis in her big black book, so I took her in yesterday morning and got that all done and scheduled an appointment for today.

So she has been home, sitting in the sun room, listening to music and to the sounds of the open windows; birds chirping happily just outside on the feeders, Jays screaming their protests at the passing cat, traffic going along on the road, and even cicadas and crickets making their noisy addition to the late summer sounds.  I go in and out, making one sided conversation, and worrying a bit about how sick she seemed.  Then last night, I suddenly had a vicious sore throat of my own.  I decided to see how it was when I took her to the doctor today.

The good news was that she didn’t have pneumonia, didn’t have anything our of line on her bloodwork, and didn’t have a urinary tract infection.  She sat miserable and hot and silent in the doctor’s office while he listened and thumped around.

Dr. Wilson was his usual cheerful self.  He praised all that was good, then said that she had an acute bronchitis infection and that he was going to write her a prescription different from the ones that she has had over the last six weeks.  I hate to give her antibiotics so frequently, but this particular individual has behaviors that lend themselves to infections.  She won’t cough unless she is overcome by one and then she tries to squelch it.  She sits compacted together and nothing seems to induce her to breathe deeply.  Of course, this lends itself to pneumonia.  And she has perfected the art of not going to the bathroom completely while on the toilet.  Instead, she holds it until she is in bed, then she can soak through her protective underwear, down to turning the protective pad into an almost dripping mess.  She has been a little out of sorts, anyhow, though I’ve thought it was from not feeling well.  Of course she never says, and I can only guess.

I had a terribly long wait in the doctor’s office today, with my appointment being at 2:45 and not getting back into the examining room until 4:20.  Because everything was so late, I almost didn’t mention my sore throat to him, but it was hurting “worser and worser,” so I decided I would at least run it past him.  I told him that I would pay for an office visit on my way out, and he did a quick exam.  Pronounced me sick as well, and wrote out a script for Amoxicillin.

It is somewhat of a circus when I take Cecilia anywhere, but it is especially difficult when I go to the doctor.  I have my purse, her big black book and any instructions that the doctor gives me plus HER.  And she has been stumbling more and more lately so that I need to be especially careful when I am walking her anywhere.  But I organized myself after this office visit, paid my co-pay for my “appointment” and then maneuvered Cecilia through the corridor, around a corner, through two doors and got her into the van and strapped in and we were on our way to the pharmacy.

Excepting that, when I got to the pharmacy, I couldn’t find Cecilia’s prescription.  I looked and looked and looked, through my purse, through her black book, in between the pages of her book.  Nothing.  Come to think of it, he had written the prescription on my paperwork for the state, he had written it on her record, but I honestly could not remember him handing me the actual prescription.  I couldn’t say that he hadn’t, but I certainly didn’t remember ever receiving it.  By now it was five o’clock, and a good bit past closing time at the doctor’s office.  But then, there were still at least four patients after me, still patiently waiting.  So I dropped off my prescription and flew back to the office.  One of the office gals was leaving.  One was emptying trash, the office nurse was going over charts.

“Is there any chance that the prescription for Levaquin get left in Cecilia’s chart?” I asked breathlessly, as I spread Cecilia’s black book out and continued to riffle through the pages in search of the elusive script.

They were not impressed.  Unfortudiously they never seem to be impressed by any of my desperation.  “I wouldn’t know,” said the one.  “She would have to look it up.” And she nodded in the direction of the nurse.  The nurse handed her the chart and she looked over it.  “Nope,” she said.  “It isn’t here.  It wouldn’t have been here, anyhow.  He always hands that to the patient.  We never see it.”

“I know, and he usually does, but when I got to the pharmacy, I couldn’t find it, and I don’t remember him handing it to me.”

“Well, you can just wait and when he comes out, you can see if he will rewrite it for you.”

So I stood in the long corridor again and waited.  Eventually he came out and obligingly rewrote the script.  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I must have just –”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted him.  “I may have misplaced it somehow.   I just can’t find it anywhere.”

“Well,” he said then, “I’m pretty sure that I remember writing it.  When you find it (and I think you probably will) just throw it away and use this one.”

“You got it,” I said, “and thanks!”  I took my precious prescription and headed out to my car.  I looked again through my purse, in my planner and organized a few things before taking off.  Suddenly, I was aware of the office nurse standing at my car window.  She was holding Cecilia’s precious black book.

“I think you might want this,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh, yes,” I breathed gratefully.  “I really need that.  Thanks so much!”  I headed out again for the pharmacy, hauled Cecilia in with me and waited for it to be filled.  It took hardly any time at all.  And then I came on home.

When I walked in, I noticed that Nettie was shelling lima beans for all she was worth.  I had picked a very full five gallon bucket this morning and I wondered briefly if she would be able to shell them all this evening.  She did!  I was so happy.  I decided to go ahead and get them into the freezer.  Nettie had said that a great deal of them were “no good,” and I had noticed a larger amount of discarded beans among the empty pods.  Ever the snoopy gal, I had checked them and found them to truly be less than “Grade A” so I began to sort the ones that she had kept.

It’s a funny thing about beans.  Sometimes you can put a picking that looks pretty good into the blancher and it comes out looking rather sorry.  And sometimes I will think, “These beans don’t look the greatest!” and then they come out looking pretty good.  But tonight it was one of those times when the beans went in looking rather inferior and came out clearly defined as needing a heavy handed sorting.

This morning in the patch, I listened to the many sounds and felt like fall was coming on.  I wondered how many more pickings I was going to get off the 2014 patch.  An early hail storm had set things back a bit and the stink bugs are sneaking around and wreaking havoc.  I had close to a half a pound of discards in my batch tonight of five pounds for the freezer.

114

If it wasn’t so disgusting, it would be interesting, A bean can look almost perfect, but sometimes I will notice a small irregularity in shape and if I tear off the thin skinned outer covering, this is what the inside looks like.   While other gardener’s beans have broken records this year for production, I can honestly say that this has been my least productive year by a long shot and the ratio of misshapen “I should probably not ingest that” kind of  beans to the pretty ones  is disproportionate.

Does this mean I am going to give up?  Not pick?  NOPE!  I’m so grateful for the beans I’ve been able to get into the freezer. (21 lbs. as of tonight) and if Nettie can shell them, I can sort and wash and blanch and sort and bag them up.  I will be so glad next winter.

And now, I’m taking this sore throat and achy body to bed.  It’s about time.

And in spite of this disappointing day, My heart gives grateful praise.

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August 24, 2014 · 9:18 pm

Missing Church

I didn’t get to go to church this morning.  Cecilia is ailing again, and when her fever was 101 last night, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to go.

Can I just say that I HATE missing church?  When I came out of her bedroom last night after taking the final temp for the day, I said to Certain Man, “It’s a hundred and one.  I hate to think of not going to church tomorrow!”

“Why would that be?” He asked, half absentmindedly.  He was working on a sermon and this negates lucid conversation at least part of the day while he is putting the finishing touches on the message.

I was more than a little vehement.  “For one reason,” I said, “This is the last sermon you are preaching before your sabbatical.”  (Certain Man is taking a six month leave of his position on the leadership team beginning September 1st.  He will continue serving as deacon, but he has asked to be relieved of all the other responsibilities.)  “And the other thing is,” I went on, “every single time I miss church it seems like something important happens.  I’m afraid to stay home for fear I will miss something!”

He didn’t say much.  He is used to his wife going off on such tangents.  His way of dealing with it is to neither agree nor disagree.

This morning the fever was still hanging around 100 and Cecilia was coughing a deep, troublesome cough.  I resigned myself to staying home and sent my good husband off with promises to pray for him while he was preaching and settled in for a quiet morning.

But boy!  Oh, boy!!!  Did I ever miss important stuff by being home.

The service started off with an announcement of an engagement.  Our very own Amy Jones is going to marry that Tyler Schrock.  Not that we are surprised, but I really wanted to HEAR it for myself, see the shining faces, rejoice with our church family at the good news and congratulate them for myself.  I am so happy for them.  Tyler and Amy make a good team, and I am always glad when young people embark on the sea of life and love with some moorings.  They have them.

But then, after church, there was another engagement announcement.  Mary Beth Sharp is marrying Preston Tice!  Mary Beth and her family were absent, so there wasn’t the chance to do the congratulating, but it still would have been fun to be there when the message came through.  I missed it.

In addition to all the excitement, I missed the good, good fellowship of our “older” women’s Sunday school class.  I draw strength from these women, beloved sisters.  We listen to each other, laugh together, cry together and seek to encourage each other.  It is a precious time and I look forward to it each week.  I missed hearing what was going on in their lives and the easy camaraderie that we share in the forty-five minutes we have on Sunday morning.

And then, in addition to missing Daniel’s sermon, I missed the singing before the sermon and the sharing period that follows.  There is just much feeding for my soul that goes on and when I have to miss, I feel out of sorts, out of sync, out of the loop.

And I REALLY hate to miss good stuff like engagement announcements.

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August 21, 2014 · 6:50 pm

Poured Out

I was standing in my sunny kitchen. It was the morning after our family reunion. It had been a glorious weekend — lots of good exchanges, wonderful food, incredible singing and familiar faces. It was well planned and things went smoothly. I had reasons to rejoice, but I felt so incredibly sad.

Most of the weekend had been colored by my Sweet Mama’s nasty fall, with ensuing concerns about her coumadin blood thinner and the ever increasing bruising that kept showing up on her face. I had made decisions to the best of my ability and tried to be as careful as I could to not miss anything — but her trip to my brother’s house in her beloved Pennsylvania mountains had to be scrapped.

I wondered at the depth of my sadness, and thought about the many things that were tugging at heart. There are difficult faith journeys of several people whom I love deeply that keep me on my face before The Father. There was my Sweet Mama’s fall, of course, but there are also the difficult questions about her care and ongoing aging issues. There is a precious sister in law who is dealing with serious health issues and a brother whose melancholy temperament and tender heart is suffering, too, as he watches his beloved’s pain. Youngest Daughter’s internship in inner city Philadelphia has been stretching and wrenching in so many ways. And though she cannot tell me the stories, she lets me pray, and it is despicable the crimes that adults commit against defenseless children. Sometimes I hear snippets from other avenues and it feels as if my heart will break for the children. And I know my girlie. Her heart is not hardened. Yet. And though things hurt her so deeply, I still pray that she will not allow the sin she is exposed to daily to harden her heart against all that is pure and good and right. There are others who are making life choices that make me sad. There is grief and conflict and fractured families. And this old world is “hell-bent for disaster” on too many fronts.

I stood there in my kitchen, praying against the darkness in my soul. I knew that there was more going on here than the proverbial “Yoder Blues,” but I felt powerless against the magnitude of it all. It seemed there wasn’t even room for my favorite weapon of grateful praise. Maybe if I would take each thing that was troubling me and bring them individually to The Father, it would help. And so, I began, but it wasn’t long before I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of my task. The broad expanse of need (both mine and others) was so great. And then a strong impression overwhelmed my conscious thought.  “Pour it out!”

“Pour it out???”  The thought was so full of hope. I wondered what would happen if I could envision taking this heart, so full of negativity and pouring it all out into the love and joy of The Father. The mental picture energized me and I picked up the largest tumbler I could find and filled it to the brim. I imagined that tumbler, full of all the things that were making me so sad, and I held it over the sink and prayed as I poured it all out and watched, weeping, as it went down the drain.

Unbidden, Psalm 51 came to my mind in song.

v. 10 “Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a right spirit within me!”

(Yes, Lord Jesus, A clean heart! A right spirit!)

v. 11 “Cast me not away from thy presence;
and take not thy Holy Spirit from me.”

(Please, Father God!)

v. 12 “Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation;
and uphold me with thy free spirit.”

(Ah, this I need, I need!!!)

v. 13 “Then will I teach transgressors thy ways;
and sinners shall be converted unto thee.”

(And may your strong arm be seen in this weakness in such a way that others will be attracted to you and come to know you and love you!)

“Pour it out!” I looked at my empty tumbler and turned to face the day. There were still things to pray about, things that concerned me. But the sadness had retreated and no longer overwhelmed me.

And my heart gave grateful praise.

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August 14, 2014 · 9:34 pm

Oh, Bummer~

So my Sweet Mama took an awful tumble yesterday morning. It was face first, down the two steps into the garage, right on her face, onto the cement.  She looks terrible.  It really hurts, too.  We’ve been keeping close watch and, as of now, she seems neurologically sound, but a lingering headache has been troubling her somewhat, and she really wanted her doctor to have a look at her.  I feel like we’ve done all that we should have — someone with her, making sure she woke up during the night at intervals and checking pupils and such more than is probably necessary, but finally decided to send a picture of her damages to her doctor and ask if he would stop over to see her when he comes to the Country Rest Home — hopefully today.

Today, I was out at Sweet Mama’s house, working on her medication planner, checking over the mail, and trying to make sure all would be well if she decides to go home with Brother Nelson and his good wife, Rose for a visit after our family reunion this weekend.  I sent the doctor the text and then sorta’ waited around, hoping to hear from him.  When I hadn’t heard back for quite some time, I decided to betake myself home.  It is Certain Man’s birthday, and I have things to get ready for this weekend, and I had already spent the day on Tuesday with her, so I needed to be getting on home.

When I left the house, I paused for some minutes at the front flower bed where Middle Sister, Sarah, her youngest daughter, Edie and niece Holly were industriously removing the weeds from the petunias that were bravely trying to bloom there.  We discussed what we should do with our dear Mama/Grandma, made some plans for someone to spend the night with her and then I got on my way.  There are two ways for me to go home from Sweet Mama’s house, but today, I needed to put some checks in the bank, and that meant that I needed to go through the town of Greenwood.  So I made a right turn at the end of the driveway, and headed on out.

Greenwood is famous for a very infamous reason.  They have very mean traffic cops.  I do not speed in Greenwood.  I learned this a long time ago.  I’ve never been ticketed there, but people I love have, and I have been exceedingly careful.  Accordingly, today, as I came into  the 35 mph zone that precedes the 25 mph zone, both strictly enforced, I even braked a bit to make sure I wasn’t speeding.  Good. 23 mph, coming into the zone.

At that very minute, my cell phone beeped.  A message from Dr. Wilson. I flipped open the phone and read the two sentence text.  I did not talk on my phone.  (I don’t need to — my mini van has “in-house” wireless.)  I did not text.  I did nothing but hold that cell phone in my hand.

“Huh!” I thought.  “Dr. Wilson is on vacation, but he is still is going over to see Mama tonight or tomorrow.”  I was so relieved, so weary, so numb from the weeks adventures that when I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the cop behind me with his lights flashing that it didn’t register.  I kept going down the street.  Suddenly I looked again at the rearview mirror again.  Yikes!!!  He was after me!!!  ME!!!  Who wasn’t speeding!!! What in the world???  Oh, dear.  That stupid cell phone.

He got my license and my registration.  I offered a bit of protest, and he wasn’t rude.  But he didn’t listen.  Went back to his car.  Wrote me a ticket.  $106.00.  I decided that I didn’t need to go to the bank.  I didn’t want to explain why I was crying.  I rounded the corner at 36 and 16 and thought about stopping at my Daddy’s grave for a few minutes.  I’ve shed a lot of tears there and when I’m troubled, it is so comforting to go there, but time was short and I needed to get home.  Besides, I could cry all the way home if I wanted to, and I could talk out loud between my sobs to my Heavenly Father who is the healer of broken hearts and the Friend who will not fail me.

And so, that’s what I did.  Sobbed all the way home,lowered my sun visor, and turned my face from oncoming traffic so they wouldn’t see my tears.  Somewhere around Fitzgerald’s Road the tears abated somewhat , and by the time I got into our home, I was no longer crying.  Certain Man and Middle Daughter were profuse in their sympathies and their general indignant outcry against the powers that be.  If the language of the paper telling you how to contest wasn’t quite so acrimonious, I might try contesting this ticket.  But reading through the small print makes me feel like it isn’t worth it.  Certain Man says that is their point — that they try to discourage you from even trying to get out of it.  I don’t know.  Sweet Mama is so upset that she is vowing to pay the fine.  Again, I just don’t know.  Somehow it isn’t as much the money as it is the principle of the thing.

But then I saw this butterfly . . .

IMG_0013

. . .  enjoying himself in the afternoon sun on my window box flowers and I went out to capture that moment on my camera, and I felt better.  There is so much beauty in my little corner of the world that lifts my heart and makes my spirit sing.  There is much to be somber about, and sometimes I think that old saying should be, “God’s in His Heaven, and all’s wrong with the world!”  But looking for joy and beauty and reasons for gratitude are not just something I do, it has to do with who I am.  Negativity and a critical spirit changes us inside — in our very souls somehow, and dwelling on the injustices, real or perceived is something that I have been encouraged not to do — for physical and mental health, yes, but for my soul’s sake.

And so, for this day, with all the twists and turns, for hummingbirds and raucous jays, for bees on the bird feeder and a clean refrigerator, for a Sweet Mama whose pulverized face makes me want to cry and for brothers and sisters who help to bear the burden, for traffic tickets on busy streets in small towns (embarrassing!) and butterflies on verbena flowers.

For all of these . . . and more! 

My heart gives grateful praise

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August 3, 2014 · 12:06 am

On Hummers and Conflict and OGN

The air is warm and damp with the recent rain. All the birds are busy at the feeders around the farmhouse at Shady Acres. The hummingbirds have been fighting all day. I hung one of the four feeders closer to the one that has the feistiest male and hoped for some peace in the hummerhood, but it has been to no avail. The dominant male now dominates both.

I know, I know. Never hang hummingbird feeders within sight of each other. I have four and they have never been within sight of each other, but the fighting going on at the busiest one was getting next to my peace loving heart, so I thought “Maybe!” . . .

Our Girl Nettie has been fighting with herself this week. Pneumonia, new meds and general living has combined to knock her shaky props askew. She came in last night, clumping up the ramp in a way that I thought there was something wrong.

“Well, Nettie!” I greeted her brightly, hoping for the best. “Did you have a happy day?”

That was the wrong question.

“Tell ya’ troof, NO!” and she pushed by me without so much as a glance. “I di’n’ do cups today.”

She usually washes up the cups from the morning coffee break at center. She seesaws between being proud of her accomplishment and being cross at them because they won’t pay her. Sometimes she complains of backache so much that they tell her not to do it, but that doesn’t really please her either. I wasn’t sure whether this was her choice or their call.

“Why didn’t you do the cups?”

“‘Cause I was too depwess!” She said with great aggravation.

“What???” I wasn’t sure I heard right.

“I was too depwess!” There was a hint of defiance in her voice.

“What were you depressed about?”

“I ‘on’t know. Sumpin’. I ‘on’ know. I tole Areefa (her health aid at the center) to take me a jail.”

Of course we redirected this conversation immediately. But today she has had her moments and between her and the hummingbirds I’ve done some ponderings on what it is that makes conflict in our souls and our world. What makes hummingbirds (and humans) fight their own kind when there is more than enough to go around? And what causes us to tell ourselves lies until we are fighting with ourselves over things that are forgiven or are merely a figment of our imagination?

Some of our conflicts come from our sense of entitlement that looks as ridiculous to the ONE who is watching over the universe as the behavior of the dominant male hummingbird outside my kitchen window appears to me.

And some of our inner conflicts come from reasoning that condemns us to a jail of our own making that is every bit as restrictive as the bars and locks of the jail that OGN is convinced she deserves.

The thing that comforts me on this warm Saturday evening is that God has a plan and He wants to help. There’s not much I can do to bring peace in the Hummerhood, or even to change OGN’s mind about the state of her guilt. But God has a plan in place for peace in my heart as I choose HIM and HIS WAY of living. He is strong and wise and good and ABLE.

But the choice is my own.

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July 27, 2014 · 12:30 am

Well, now . . .

She was a cute smart medical assistant, taking my medical history at my latest yearly exam.

“Do you exercise?” She asked brightly.

I HATE that question.  But I’ve learned not to justify.  Too much, anyhow.

“No, I don’t,” I admitted flatly.  “I work hard, but I do not have an exercise routine that I follow.”

And she wrote down that I don’t exercise.

Like I said, I HATE it.  I feel guilty and cross and it makes me want to eat french fries.  I don’t even really LIKE french fries.

This morning at Shady Acres, involved in my Saturday morning routine, I watched out of the window as four young adults headed out for a walk.  All four of them are big into exercise, and they completed a 2+ mile hike before brunch and came back in various states of energy and excitement and flushed accomplishment.  Youngest Son and his father and I were standing in the laundry room afterwards, discussing the state of the world and the need to exercise.

“You guys just walked over two miles,” I said, “but as of now, I’ve stripped three beds, made two of them back up, done two loads of laundry, done the meds, did my ladies morning routines, made sausage gravy and baked oatmeal.  But I haven’t exercised.  I honestly haven’t had time!”

“That’s right.  You haven’t,” said Youngest Son,

“But this week when I was having my check up, they asked if I exercised and I had to say I didn’t.  I tried to say that I worked hard, but it didn’t count.”

“That’s because it doesn’t raise your heart rate,” said Youngest Son agreeably.

“No, it doesn’t,” I said, ruefully.  And that was that.

However, the fact that all my hard work doesn’t count as exercise does raise my dander.  Do you think that might count for something?

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July 18, 2014 · 9:38 pm

Braiding Onions.

Certain Man has planted two long rows of onions down his garden for the last several years and we have had a difficult time with storage and methodology of such. We had spread them out on a large wooden wagon, let them dry and then used them up straight from the wagon (until the wagon was needed, then we had to put them some place else.)

Certain Man’s favorite method has been to take old nylon stockings and drop an onion into the bottom, tie a knot, drop in another, tie a knot and continue on until everything is safely tied into these long, hideous looking strings — which he then hung from nails in the “dungeon” (our canning cellar that is a small, cramped space that holds an air handler for our air conditioner and our canning shelves). These things would hang there in the very limited space and watch for me to come down the steps and they would wrap themselves around my unsuspecting neck or brush against my cheek, causing me to fling my hands around in great frantic motions to dislodge the tarantula that I was sure had suddenly descended from somewhere upon my personage. It was disconcerting to say the least and it would make me feel rather peevish when I discovered that it was, after all, just those onions in the nylon stockings, dangling from the ceiling.

Last year, we thought we would learn to braid them, and try to store them that way. However, the days went by, the onions got dug late, and we eventually let them dry on the wagon and used what we could salvage. This year, Middle Daughter, our cohort in gardening affairs, decided that we would make it happen. So last week, Sister in law, Lena, dug the onions and spread them out to dry on the same old wagon. Certain Man did some mutterings and grumblings about what we were going to do with them, and Middle Daughter announced with a great deal of firmness that she was going to learn how to braid them. Certain Man said that he thought we should just get some nylon stockings and just do it the way we always have.

Middle Daughter was not deterred. But she didn’t know what she was doing, so she went online and found a visual that would help her and she proceeded to try to learn to braid the monumental pile of onions. It was hard work, and the onions were not at all co-operative. She got about six or eight in a nice rope before she had to stop to go to work. But last night, the four of us, Certain Man, Middle Daughter, CMW and SIL, Lena, all went out to the shed and we persevered and struggled and —

(Drum Roll, here!)

IMG_0511

WE DID IT!!!!!!!!!!

Some are neater than others, but we have ten or so ropes hanging in the shop, ready for our winter.

I’m so proud of us,  It was hard work, but once we knew what we were doing, it went really quickly.

And that’s the news from Shady Acres, where there is a cookout tonight in honor of Sister in Law Lena, whose visit with us comes to a screeching halt in the morning as she heads out for some more adventures of her own.  It has been such a pleasant time together.  We are going to miss her so much. But My Sweet Mama always said it was important to share, so I guess there are a whole lot more people who want a chance to visit with her, too.

Happy Trails, Lena-girl.  It’s been so good!

 

WE DID IT!!!

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July 16, 2014 · 2:13 am

Eventide

The house is quiet again. I came home from the funeral to find the table down, the house almost orderly again. Sister in law, Lena, had been very busy. People I love (Eldest Son and His Ohio Heart Throb with their three little munchkins) are on the road, heading home. Youngest Son went home to his Girl with a Beautiful Heart in Alexandria, VA and since there are no cousins to pull her in, Love Bug is home with her parents on Bontrager Road. The toys are still strewn in the sun room, and I have some kitchen work to do.

I’m getting old. I’ve realized this more and more over the last few months, but tonight I feel that deep, deep sadness, heart weariness and an “earth doneness” that reminds me that this isn’t all there is, and though this isn’t the back of the book yet, I’m a lot closer to it than I ever was before, and that there is no promise for tomorrow.

Tonight I am thankful for tight hugs and affirming words from sons and nephews and friends. I’m thankful for words that encourage and bless and though I am so aware of my failures and my shortcomings and sin, I am also grateful for grace — extended so freely to this Delaware Grammy who desperately needs it in her humanity tonight.

My heart WILL give grateful praise.

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June 25, 2014 · 3:53 am

“Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth, and keep the door of my lips.

I love being a foster care provider for handicapped adults.  I love Nettie and Cecilia fiercely, protectively and I am so grateful that our family has had the opportunity to have them as part of our family.  And I will be forever grateful that our family had the chance to know and love and care for Old Gertrude.  (Some days I long to hear her funny sayings, to french braid that thin old hair, and fry up some scrapple for breakfast.)  I believe that the delight that I have enjoyed as a care provider is one of the ways that God has confirmed in my heart that it is what He wants me to do.

But I HATE the paperwork that goes with being a provider.  And over the last couple of years, there has been a gradual increase in the forms we need to file, the records we need to keep, and the deadlines that are imposed.  The thing is, I do like well kept records.  If I must  write a report every month on Cecilia and Nettie, saying what they did, how they participated, and what I did to help them realize their hopes and dreams, I try to make it complete.  And interesting.  Often my social reports are lengthy.

And then there are medication reports that detail the medications refilled, how many refills are left, and were they taken according to prescription.  Nettie takes 20 pills a day divided between five different times.  Cecilia takes 17, divided between three.  This has to all be accounted for.  And any doctor visits must be documented and a form signed by the doctor and turned in.  Anything having to do with the medical aspects of their care has to be carefully documented.  And rightly so.  At least, I guess.

And then there is the financial reports.  Every single penny must be accounted for, must be used for an acceptable expenditure and receipts must be provided.  A monthly bank statement must be filed for each individual.  Nothing belonging to one person can be on another receipt.  Nothing purchased along with family groceries is to be counted.  This is the report I labor over most of all because Nettie is always out of money at the end of the month.  Cecilia always has too much.  Sometimes I feel like my head is spinning round and round and round.

And then there is a compliance report that I need to file each month, too.  What is the water temperature?  When did I take it?  Is it between 110 and 115 degrees? Did I do the fire drill?  Are the fire extinguishers working?  Do I have disaster supplies?  Are exits clear of clutter?  Many other questions, including whether I got my paper work all in in a timely fashion and then a daily log as to whether my individuals spend part of every day in our home.  This one just became more compulsory because Medicaid has decided that they are not going to pay us unless we fill this particular sheet out and have it to their office by the 5th of the month for the previous month.

December was a really big month for me.  I labored long and hard over the reports because there were so many things going on.  I put all the reports except the compliance report (which gets faxed) in the same brown manila envelope, put the proper label on it and sent them to my case manager.  Whew!  That was done.  I was so pleased with the social reports because of the happy things that had gone on, but the financial records were a bit more challenging.  I was very relieved when everything was finally done.

A few months later I got a phone call from my case manager, asking me to please file my December paperwork.  I couldn’t believe my ears.

“We don’t have none of it,” said my case manager.

“But I did it,” I protested.  “I KNOW I did it!!!”

“Well, Ms. Yutzy, if you say you did it, I believe you,” she said.  “They’ll just have to figure it out.”

“Well, I KNOW I did it,” I said, more than a little perturbed.  (How could anyone lose my precious paperwork???)

My case manager knew that I was upset.  “Just don’t worry about it, Mrs. Yutzy.” she said matter of factly.  “I know it’s all gonna’ be alright.”

But about a month ago, she called me again.

“Ms. Yutzy, your paperwork hasn’t turned up.  Are you sure you sent it?”

“I’m SURE I sent it.  I have Stamps.com for my postage, and I remember printing that postage and getting the envelopes into the mail.”

“Well, we don’t have them, so what you’re gonna’ have to do is, you’re going to have get copies of the spending records and of the bank statement and send them in.”

“I don’t keep copies of that,” I said.  “I have so much paperwork that I just cannot make copies of everything.  I figured once I’ve sent it, then it is in your hands.”

“You don’t have copies?”  She asked, like she couldn’t believe it.  “Well, then you’re going to have to write a whole new one and just make up the receipts and I will sign off on them.  Just do it to the best of your ability.”

“I just can’t do that,” I said.  “I have no idea of what I spent that money on.  I did it once.  I shouldn’t have to do it again.”

“No, you shouldn’t.  But we must have something in the record.  Just do the best you can.”

I don’t know when anything has irritated me so completely nor frustrated me into such inertia.  I just didn’t want to do this.  I began thinking about things and trying to piece the month together somewhat.  I took both of my ladies into the bank so that we could get copies of the December bank statements.  When I saw the statements and pulled out a calendar, I began to have some hope.  But I still didn’t want to do it.  I was just so irritated with the whole mess.

Even more irritating to me was the fact that when I talked to my nurse, I discovered that someone had passed on to her ALL of the medical records for the month.  So someone had to have had my precious paperwork at some point to have turned over all the medical reporting from the month.

“Yes, Ms. Yutzy, it’s probably sitting on someone’s desk right now and someone will come across it.  But for now, we don’t have it and we have to satisfy the higher ups, so you still have to do it.  Just do the best you can.  Please.”

How I chafed!  How I grumbled!  How I procrastinated!  I was sick.  We had a family reunion.  It was difficult getting things in order afterwards.  I decided to make one more appeal.  I have a good friend in administration that I needed to discuss something else with, and so I called her and in the course of the conversation, bewailed my lack appreciation for what I was being made to do.

“Maybe you could do something for me,” I said hopefully.  “I just really don’t think it is at all fair for me to have to do this when I already did it and someone else is the one who messed up.”

“I know,” she said, “but I don’t think there is anything you can do.  I am sure you have to do it.  Sorry!’

Why this pushed me over the edge, I don’t know, but I had had enough.  I needed a word picture so that she would know how utterly unfair this was, how completely irritated I was and how I felt like I wasn’t really being heard.

“I’m telling you,” I said rather heatedly, “this makes me so cross I want to go into “J’s” office (head of financial records), lie down on the floor and KICK!”  That should show them.  A mental picture of unflappable Ms. Yutzy lying on the floor and kicking should for sure impress them with how aggravated I was.

There was silence.  Then:

“‘J’s’ father just passed away.  She won’t be in all week.”

Ouch.  Somewhere in my gut, I felt the old familiar “oh, no!  What have I done?  There goes the wind right out of my sails” feeling. I felt so ashamed of my rant, so sorry for “J” and her family.

There are things a whole lot more stressful, more important, more devastating than having to redo a month of paperwork.  Like losing a Daddy.  I had great cause to repent and wish that I could get my words back.  But they were out there.  I apologized and ended the conversation as quickly as possible.

The next day, in the flush of remorse, I got busy and worked on my paperwork and as of Saturday morning, it was all caught up.  It wasn’t quite as challenging as I thought it was going to be.  I put it out for the mail with an incredibly light heart.

In Sunday School this week, we were asked what one thing we would do differently this past week so that our lives would more accurately reflect the values of living in light of Eternity.  I immediately thought of those hasty words and realized that so often, out of a selfish heart, I say things that don’t really speak Jesus to those around me.  Sometimes the desire to be understood, or the desire to impress, or the desire to change the way something is going that makes things harder for me takes over and it feels like I need to use these words (that I really do love so much!) to make my point, convince my opponents, or somehow elevate my reputation.

And when I was reviewing that paragraph I was struck by how many personal pronouns were used, and how often the word “desire” popped up.  It can’t be all about Jesus when I want it all about me.

I’m not saying that Jesus wanted them to lose my paperwork.  And I believe that He understands that this isn’t much fun.  But —

I’m pretty sure that He stands ready to help me have the right attitude about it and that how I respond is always important to The Kingdom.

Because it really IS all about HIM.

My heart gives humbled praise.

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