Delaware Grammy

Before we ever left . . .

There has been some surprise expressed over the fact that Daniel and I suddenly took out for California, not only without telling anyone, but without permission, for cryin‘ out loud!  I never really thought I needed permission.  Not only that, but sometimes I think that people really don’t listen very well when I say something, and when things like this happen and I start hearing things like, “Mom! (or “Sis!” or “Mary Ann!”) I didn’t know anything about this!” — That’s when I’m a little suspicious that people aren‘t listening.  The thing was, we’ve been planning our California trip for a very long time.

Daniel’s oldest sister, Lena, has lived in San Diego for over twenty years.  When she started to noise about retirement back a few years ago, Daniel expressed great interest in visiting her before she left the area.  The thing was, My reputation is such that Lena really didn’t expect that it would ever happen.  Although we have discussed it frequently, when Daniel specifically asked me (probably about a year ago) if I would consider going, He must have caught me at a time when I was feeling at least a little bit adventuresome.  At least, I thought that it sounded like a great idea.  Daniel had never been to San Diego, either, but every single one of the offspringin’s had, and loud was the encouragement for Daniel and me to pursue this dream.

And so, after Lena had visited Delaware yet again for Thanksgiving, we decided to start planning our trip with intent.  There was one thing called “chickens” to organize our lives around, as well as care for Nettie and Cecilia  When the wonderful gals who attend the Thursday Morning Bible Study at Shady Acres gave me coupons for “Time away with your husband, we will take care of your ladies” for Christmas, my heart was more hopeful than it had been in a very long time that it just might happen.  So Daniel went to the calendar and determined that his chickens were going to be leaving the first week of February and he and his sister began to look for ticket deals in earnest. They settled on a flight that left at 6:10 AM on February 8th.

It has been a thing of wonder for me to observe how God has brought all these pieces together for us.  Situation after situation just kind of worked itself out, and the plans seemed to be going right along quite well.

Until last week,

It was one of those kinds of weeks — started out with a bang, and did NOT stop.  Daniel was fighting an upper respiratory infection that seemed to worsen as the week went on.  When he stayed home from work on Wednesday, I was secretly concerned.  Daniel NEVER stays home from work except under the duress of feeling really, really bad.  The chickens were going out on Thursday, and he had already changed his Alternate Work Schedule so that he was off Thursday instead of Monday because the chicken company somehow feels it’s a good idea for the farmer to be present at chicken catching time.  With that in mind, I knew something was seriously amiss as it was very much unlike him to stay home when it meant he would be off two days in a row.

Wednesday, I heard him call our family doctor to see if he could get an appointment.  I guess he was figuring that he only had a week to get better before he left for California, and decided that he had better get on with it.  Dr. Wilson had no openings on Wednesday and was going to be out of town Thursday and Friday.

“We could see you Monday morning,” said the ever helpful receptionist.

“I could be dead by then,” said Daniel in his usual manner of responding.

“–or, you could go to one of the walk-in,” was the helpful advice from the office.

He got off the phone and came to complain to me.  “It doesn’t make no sense,” he intoned.  “Where am I supposed to go to a walk-in?”

“They have one here in town,” I said.  “And then there is that ‘Doc in a Box’ place up by Camden Wal-Mart.”

“I guess I’ll see if I can’t knock it out by myself,” he said, “I’ll see how I feel.”  And out he went to work in his chicken house.  Coughing and snorting and looking like he could hardly put one foot in front of the other.  He spent a great deal of the day on the chair.

Thursday came, and he was feeling no better.  One thing about Daniel Yutzy is that when there is something to be done, he just kinda’ gets busy and does it.  And on Thursday, there were chickens to get moved, so he would come in and crash on his La-Z-boy, drink a cup of tea, take some cold medicine and sleep if he wasn’t coughing too hard to sleep.  Sometimes I would find him on sacked out on the floor of the sun room, while he waited for another coop truck or when he found he couldn’t push it anymore.  Sometimes he would sit in his chair and try to prepare for his Sunday sermon.  I kept watch, and wondered mightily, but I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.  Some things a man just has to decide for himself.  But the days were getting shorter and shorter until our expected departure date.  That was something that made him push himself even harder.

“Hon,” he would say stubbornly when he saw me looking askance at yet another bout of raucous coughing, “I HAVE to get this done.  It HAS to be done before we leave, and if I don’t do it, no one else will.”  And I guess it was pretty well the truth– especially if he wasn’t going to ask someone for help.  Something he likes just about as much as he likes macaroni and cheese.  Which is not at all.

Friday Morning:
I came down to find Daniel on the La=Z-boy when he normally would have been out doing chores.  I thought briefly that there were no chickens, so maybe he was going to just flee out there at the last minute and check on things and feed the cows.  One look at his face, and a touch to his forehead and I knew he was really sick.

“There’s no way I can make it,” he wheezed.  “Where is there a walk-in that I can get to first thing this morning?”  I got on the phone and began calling.  The one in Milford didn’t open for walk-ins until noon.  I had an old phone book and couldn’t find a number for Doc in a Box.  The local hospital gave me a few numbers, but all of them were pretty much dead end leads, too.  “I’m going to go feed the cows,” he suddenly said, on his feet and looking pale, “and maybe you can figure something out until I get back in.  Then I am going to get a shower and find somewhere to go.”  No offers to help were accepted, and I was in the middle of getting ladies on the bus, so he tottered out, and I went back to looking for the elusive phone number in between showers and meds and packing Cecilia’s lunch.  Tucked away on one of the shelves of our bakers rack was a newer version of the Yellow Pages.  I quickly took a gander through the business section.

Finally, SUCCESS!!!!  I called Doc in a Box, found out that they opened at 7:30, were not especially busy at the moment, and that they only accepted credit cards for co-pay.  When he drug himself back in from his chores, it took about fifteen minutes for him to be on his way.

When he came back he had a report of all sorts of “cute” things wrong with him.  “aCUTE Sinusitis.”  “aCUTE Pharyngitis.”  “aCUTE asthmatic-type Bronchitis.”  He had a great experience at “Doc in a Box“ where he found my own cousin, Dr. Bonnie Yoder, the attending physician.  The upshot was FOUR prescriptions that would hopefully make everything right as rain!

. . . MORE LATER!!!

I’m sitting in San Diego, waiting for my sister in law to get home from work.  Certain Man and I awoke in the very early morning, and were so encouraged to have Beloved Son in Law drive us to the airport. 

We landed at O’hare in Chicago:

and it was rainy and chilly.  I took this picture through the window of the plane, and tried to upload this one and some others.  This is the only one that came through.  Daniel and I didn’t even get off the plane.

Then we came on to San Diego where it is warm and beautiful and the flowers are blooming  and I took a whole bunch of pictures — but there isn’t any way for me to get them from my computer to this computer, so I will wait for the wifi at some other place and then I will put them on.

Oh, yes, there is one thing I didn’t take a picture of, and I am so glad of it!

We got the plane in Washington and stayed on it until we arrived in California.  The last flight was to last about four hours and I think perhaps 90% of the passengers used the bathroom during that flight.  The bathrooms were extremely small, as plane bathrooms are wont to be, and there was no time for adjusting clothing, combing back hair, etc.  You pretty much got in and got out and hoped that the line wasn’t too impatient whilst you were in there.

I’ve mentioned before Certain Man’s penchant for being the last to leave somewhere.  This was true again today when we were disembarking from our plane.  He had gone to use the restroom after we had landed, because he always plans to be the last to leave anyhow.  I scrunched around on the seat, gathering my computer bag, folding our lightweight blanket, collecting our neck pillows, making sure I had my phone, my camera and everything safely stashed in the purse.  When he came out and everyone else had gone, the stewardesses were waiting for us to finally get ourselves on out of there.  They were gracious, of course, and bid us a fond farewell, and we thanked them, and stepped off the plane — and suddenly there was this dreadful feeling of something tripping me up, and sure enough, with all that scootching around on the seat, my slip had worked itself down and was in the process of trying to fall off.  (I know, Mama, I know.  Always wear a full slip when traveling so these things don’t happen!)  Six inches of white were making themselves known.  I didn’t look back to see who of the crew may have been watching, but it was surely one time when I was glad that my husband likes to lag behind.  There were NO PASSENGERS in the long hall ahead of us, so I discreetly (I hope!) grabbed at that slip through my skirt and pulled it back up.  I held on to it until I found a Ladies’ restroom, and then I safety-pinned it securely so it wouldn’t slide down again. 

Whew!  It is my hope that I have my embarrassing moment over for the rest of this week, and won’t have to worry about what might happen.  But, unfortudiously, I know myself pretty well, and I suspect that there is another moment waiting for me around the corner.  Oh, Dear.  If I wasn’t afraid I would miss something, I’d be more careful.

But I don’t want to miss anything.  Look out, San Diego.  Here I come!

Going on an adventure!

Just me and Certain Man!

I will try to keep you up to date!

Do you think this gal knows anything about it?

California, here we come!

Last week I wrote a poem for a Baby Shower. 

It wasn’t meant to be profound.

Just fun.

At Middle Daughter’s urging, I’m sharing it here.

And no, this isn’t the baby it was written for
(She has not yet been born!)

. . . But this little one has changed our lives in a thousand ways.
And she’s my favorite grandbaby!

And this is the poem —

Baby Clarke

Where love takes wing, and The Blackbird Sings,
There’ll be a baby swing, and teething rings.
There’ll be sleepless nights, and nursing plights
Frilly tights, and sweet night lights.

There’ll be rocking chairs, and teddy bears,
Tumble scares, and bedtime prayers.
Searches for a binky, a Ring for a pinkie,
A Boardwalk prize, dinky, and diapers so stinky.

There’ll be tricycle crashes, resulting in gashes,
And naked streak dashes, and red diaper rashes.
There’ll be Desitin Cream, and vaporizer steam.
Sweet wistful dreams, and “kill spider!” screams.

There’ll be butterfly kisses, and tooth fairy wishes
Cheesy Gold fishes, and baby food dishes.
Dinner time spills, yucky vitamin pills.
First lisping word thrills, and so many bills.

When the bright lights are out and you feel the cold doubt,
And you think all about this day in, and day out
job you’ve taken on, and you don’t feel at all strong.
And something is wrong with the Blackbird’s Brave Song.

Hang in there, dear one. No bright crown is won
While the runners still run and the race isn’t done.
So gather your wit, your faith and your grit.
Being tired is legit, but don’t you dare quit!

(*The reference to the “Blackbird’s Song” is what makes this personal to the baby for which it was written.   “Blackbird Sings”   is this baby’s Mama’s blog.)

Ah, Ethel, I remember, I remember.  And remembering, I miss you, still . . .

She would have liked it.  The service she so carefully planned.  We all did our best, and I could almost see her peering over the edge of Glory saying, “You’d better get it RIGHT!”  (We tried, Dear Friend, we tried!)

I have been trying to remember how it was that we became friends.  There were so many years of laughter and suppers out and confidences shared and good, good times. 

 I remember one time while Certain Man was still a self employed plumber that we girls, Ethel and I, decided to go out for lunch together.  This was something we never did without our husbands, but we felt like doing something different for a change, so we made our plans and were amused at our husbands’ exaggeratedly aggrieved airs.  They made some mention of having a secret of their own, but these fellows often made such statements that were intended to arouse curiosity.  We settled ourselves comfortably in the restaurant of our choice on this particular day, and had just gotten our salads, when who should come down the aisle but our two men.  We were both surprised, but even more astonished when they continued past our table, on around the restaurant to a table on the other side.  (They had gotten the hostess to take them on this deliberate parade around the restaurant)   There they ate their lunch with the highest, mightiest air imaginable.  We thought maybe they came to be nice to us (NOPE!)  or to pay our lunch for us.  (They didn’t.)  We thought maybe they wanted us to come join them.  (Negatory!)  Something!!! We could hardly believe that they were miffed about us going out without them.  (They were!)  We secretly thought it was pretty funny, but I suppose you could say the guys won that one.  We never did that again.

The road was not all easy.  We didn’t always understand each other, and sometimes, understanding,  chose different ways of responding.  I am so thankful for these last few years when we could reconnect, forgive each other, learn to extend grace to each other, and there, found a friendship that was was rich and full and rewarding.

Ah, my Ethel Friend.  You were a friend that sharpened me as iron sharpens iron.  You made me think, you made me go back again and again to God’s Holy Word to see just what it REALLY said.  You were full of courage, you didn’t ever consider anything more important than TRUTH, and you were never afraid of confrontation.  I can truly say that I do not remember a time when you were cowed by what people thought.

You were strong.  You were consistent.  You were beautiful.  You loved JR and John and Brian and Evanna and Brianna and Briar with a love that sought their good, knew them intrinsically, and in the harsh, heartbreaking knowledge of your soon homegoing,  equipped them for life without you, and made incredible memories.

Today, surrounded by so many people whom you loved and who loved you, I find my heart so numb.  The busy-ness of these last few days was easier for me than the waiting of the last few weeks.  There was finally something to DO besides wait.  But in that busy-ness, I feel a numbness, a sense of the surreal.  Right now, I am so thankful that you are done with this old world and its heartache and pain and suffering and disappointment and grief and loss.  But there will be a time — No, there will be many times when I will look for that smile, when I will listen for that inimitable voice that so often said, “Yes, but, Mary Ann——-!!!!”  and I will miss the friendship of a gal whose very difference from me gave me reason to love her.

I’ll see you in The Morning!

Just thinking back to five years ago at the end of January. . .

This picture was taken on January 27, 2007.

What a lot has happened in those five years!

Do you have a picture or a story from five years ago?

I don’t have enough time this morning,
but I could (quite literally) write a book!

Thank God for His incredible grace!
His undying love.
And the Hope of Heaven.

One of the funnest things in the world to do is to sleep over at Grandpa and Grammy’s house.

Grammy lets me wear her nighttime reading glasses and jump on the bed!

And I make up a song and jump and sing and watch myself in her mirror
and it is fun, fun, fun!!!

“I wook jus’ wike Gwammy,
Fah, wah, wah, wah, wah!!!”

(Poor  child . . .)

Christmas is over, and the decorations are down.  All that’s left is the Christmas Village, and Certain Man hopes to take it down soon.  He had planned to take it down this weekend, but decided to wait another week because of some extra activities this weekend.

When we take down the Christmas decorations, we take down the Thankful wall.  This is how it looked, just before we took it down and stashed it away for future reference:

And I want to post this one entry, made way down in the corner, just before the tape came off:  I think it was one of my favorites, written by our girlie who does the artwork for the Thankful Wall each year.  

“Middle Daughter,” “Deborah,” “Beebs,” “Beeba, “Auntie Beebs,” whatever you might be called at the minute, nothing that you might be called can change the fact that you light up our lives so many days in so many ways, and we are so glad you belong to our family!

One of the blessings of being the deacon’s wife at Laws Mennonite Church is that I am responsible for the emblems for communion.  I don’t so much care for getting the linens ironed and ready — except that our tablecloths were provided for our church by the late Anna Stoltzfus.  Anna and her husband, Lewellyn, died in a terrible accident in the autumn of 1988, and I never iron those two identical white, laced edged squares without thinking about her.  She and my Sweet Mama had quite a history together, and there is much to remember.  I like to iron them up all crisp and fresh just before the communion service. 

The bread and the grape juice (we Mennonites don’t do the “wine” thing) are something that I sincerely love to do.  Back when we first started, we used regular homemade bread.  It was at least something I was good at — soft substantial loaves, all properly done.  We tore them apart and shared them with joy.  And I made the grape juice in a big old steamer on my kitchen stove, canning jar after jar for my family and always, always, at the back of my mind was the thought of communion and my church family.  It warmed my heart to be able to use my hands to make the symbols of Our Lord’s Body, broken for us, and His Blood, shed for us.  It has been a sacred trust, and I was humbled yet so, so, glad.

Over the years, we’ve changed how we do things when it comes to the bread.  More and more, it felt right to make the switch to unleavened bread, so I searched and experimented and finally came up with a recipe that was theologically “right” and palatable as well.  I always made extra, so that there was some to share with the children and even adults after the service.  There was never any to take home. I will confess that I have never liked it as much as I do just the regular bread, but it does seem appropriate to use unleavened bread, and the recipe I used had a good flavor, and was easy to chew and swallow.

But now we have some members who are gluten intolerant.  I never thought too much about it until one of them said something about just bringing her own gluten free bread and “trading it out” before actually partaking.  This just felt uncomfortable to me.  What should we, as the body of Christ, the company of believers, do in this situation?  It troubled me greatly. 

So I started to look for gluten free recipes for unleavened bread.  My friend, Emma, told me that I didn’t have to look for special recipes, I should just trade out the flour with gluten free flour and experiment a little, and she thought I could come up with something.  And so I’ve been experimenting.  We’ve had gluten free unleavened bread for two communions now.  And people are kind.  Everyone has been supportive.  And our gluten intolerant friends kindly take the leftovers off my hands at the end of the service.  (I’ve noticed that people don’t clamor for leftovers, though, as they would when the bread was otherwise.)

And I’ve struggled more than a little with this thing.  I really don’t like the flavor of this gluten free unleavened bread.  I have “doctored” the recipe and tried to make it easier to chew and swallow, easier on the taste buds, nicer to look at, less difficult to dispense . . .  (don’t know if there is and “etc.” here or not, that might pretty much cover what I’ve tried to do with it) and I feel like I’ve had minimal success.  It makes me sad, like I was failing somehow in my responsibilities.  After muddling about in this vague sense of “something wrong,” I realized that this thing about the bread had shadowed my enjoyment of our communion service.  That has caused me to look more closely at what it is that I’m trying to do here, and why.  This is always dangerous, because it uncovers motivation and wrong attitudes and even theology that can be a bit askew.

First of all, I needed to deal with why it is so important that I have the perfect emblems for communion.  It is clear in the Scriptures that Jesus’ body wasn’t something of esthetic beauty.  Much as I like (and will continue to enjoy) a simple, yet attractive communion table, (crisp linens, polished serving dishes, purple grape juice, bread that is made just right and arranged attractively) that isn’t really important. 

Secondly, why is it so important that it is palatable?  This business of being a part of the sufferings of our Lord Jesus is real.  We can talk about the “easy yoke and light burden” but there are still a LOT of times when following Jesus calls us to go against what we want to do, what we want to hear, what we want to say.  Sometimes it is just “hard to swallow,” if you know what I mean.  I am reminded of the bitter herbs that were a very real part of the Passover feast in the Jewish tradition, and I wonder again at this gospel that wants everything to be so easy.  And sweet.   And enjoyable to swallow. 

Being a Christian is a celebration of joy.  Serving the Lord is not something laborious.  Of all people we should live lives that speak to the truth of Freedom in Christ, of Grace enough for me, of Forgiveness through Jesus, of Life, and Hope, and Joy, and Peace.  And it should be so attractive that people WANT to be a part of it, that they should be drawn by the love and the sense of family that we have in our Church Family.  And we should share this good news.

But we should also remember that when we come together to share in the LORD’s Supper, we are coming together to commemorate His Suffering.  And if the bread we share isn’t all that palatable, maybe it can be a reminder of the fact that we are a brotherhood.  By choosing to share the bread that all can eat, we are bearing one another’s burdens.  In a very small way, we are sharing in the LORD’s suffering, and we should eat it with joy.  He did so very much MORE.  What a little, little thing for me.

²³ “The teaching I gave you is the same teaching I received from the Lord: On the night when the Lord Jesus was handed over to be killed, he took bread ²⁴ and gave thanks for it. Then he broke the bread and said, “This is my body; it is^[c] for you. Do this to remember me.” ²⁵ In the same way, after they ate, Jesus took the cup. He said, “This cup is the new agreement that is sealed with the blood of my death. When you drink this, do it to remember me.” ²⁶ Every time you eat this bread and drink this cup you are telling others about the Lord’s death until he comes.”
I Corinthians 11:23-26 ncv

It was such an exciting, heady time.  I was 17, and by some inexplicable happenstance, had been chosen to be a part of The Rosedale Chorale.  It was the 1970-71 school year at Rosedale Bible Institute, and what a wonderful time we had! 

I say inexplicable because I do not have all that great a voice.  Even our director, John O. Yoder, had admitted one time that I had pretty much gotten into Chorale on the basis of experience, more so than talent, but it didn’t really make a difference.  Once you were in, you were in, and I wasn’t about to leave of my own free will.  So.  I stayed.

We did the usual routine of Chorale Tour and made the customary record.  We gals all had red dresses of the double knit variety—and those things wore like iron.  Night after night, program after program, we persevered, and it was the kind of thing that forever memories are made of.

Then our director got the bright idea that we should come back to the recording studio, Heralds of Hope, and record another session of music that would be useful for his father, J. Otis Yoder’s, weekly radio program.  It suited most of us to do that, and back we went when school was out for the year.

We were good!  (I’m certain of it!)   John was a good director, but there was a lot of talent, clear voices, deep voices, with that tight, glorious harmony and the wonderful, old, timeless hymns of the church sung in classic, pure arrangements that are just so traditional Mennonite.  (It makes my heart ache to remember that sound!)

I said before that I don’t have that great a voice.  It wasn’t all that great back then, and it has deteriorated over the years.  It has gotten “reedy” and mostly lets me down on anything over the “Middle C” mark.  Gone are the days when I could sing for hours, and even longer gone are any illusions of grandeur.  Exposure to truly great voices has played a part in that, as well as something that happened during one of the final days of the recording session.

I was feeling unusually optimistic that particular morning.  I was singing with all my heart and soul and voice, and putting lots of expression into my efforts.  To be honest, I thought I was doing pretty well, sounding good.  But then:

Brother John spent a little time over on our side of the chorale, listening to us wondrous sopranos with interest.  I thought he was paying unusually close attention, and I redoubled my efforts.  Just singin’ my heart out.

Imagine my surprise when he paused beside me between songs and looked kindly at me.  “Be a little careful,” he said softly, “of the noise you are making this morning.”

OUCH.

I toned it down kinda’ gradual like.  I didn’t want to admit that I was making “noise” and I for sure hoped that no one heard what he had said to me.  Oh, yes.  And my feelings were hurt, my confidence shaken.

 But I’ve thought about that incident many, many times in the years since then.  Sometimes when I think I am really doing really good as a Christian, sometimes when it seems to me that what I’m doing is noteworthy or impressive or laudable, that my song is soaring, sweet and notably above the others, I remember those quiet words:  “Be careful of the noise you are making,” and I am set back on my proverbial heels.  What sounds so wonderful to our ears just might be “noise” in the ears of our Heavenly Father, as well as the rest of the world.

What this world needs is a song of hope and comfort and peace and JESUS, not some self-righteous noise coming from a prideful heart.   That kind of noise can ruin the sound of the whole chorus – the music of the mighty chorus of the Church of Jesus Christ.  How often we are just making noise?

I don’t know about you, but I’m resolving once again to be a little more careful of the noise I’m making.