Delaware Grammy

My heart is beyond full today.  It is overflowing.  Life is made up of so many shades of the basic emotions — happiness, sadness, peace, sorrow, satisfaction, etc., can all fill our hearts in a way that makes us almost not know what it is that we are actually feeling.  And that is how I feel.

Uncle Vernon died this morning.  He quietly slipped away in the early morning darkness, and left his pain wracked body lying still and at rest.  I got the call just before we left to pick up “our” three kids to go over to our Church Retreat.  I really didn’t have time to think about his passing until on the way home.  The kids were tired, quiet in the back, and suddenly Muffie piped up and said, “Miss Mary Ann, can we come to your house on Thursday night?”

“I don’t know, Muffie,” I said, “but probably not.  My uncle died this morning, and his funeral is on Thusday.”  The words hung in the air, thick and heavy.  “He was such a good Uncle,” I said, now crying.  And then I told them this story.

I remember one time when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Freda come to visit us, and I was in the throes of young adolescence (‘Addled Essence” would be more accurate, to be sure!).  My hair was a mess, and my dress was dirty.  I had been trying to clean up the kitchen, and I was talking to Uncle Vernon.  We stored the frying pan in the oven at our house (Still do in my house, to this day!)  But I had put a cake in to bake just a little before, and it was almost done.  I was talking animatedly to Uncle Vernon, who always engaged me in conversation, and without thinking, I grabbed the frying pan and put it into the oven without looking, right on top of that almost baked cake.  I felt an unfamiliar thud and then I looked in disbelief at the flattened and scrunched cake.

My Sweet Mama was not happy with me for ruining the cake.  We had plans to use it for a dessert the next day that is similar to Cherry Delight.  The only difference is that you use the baked cake as the bottom layer instead of a graham cracker crust.  It was all the rage back then, and I am pretty sure that Mama was expecting company for lunch the next day.  I don’t know what she must have thought, but it WAS a result of not paying attention.  (Something I was, unfortunately, quite famous for.  Still am.)  Uncle Vernon and Aunt Freda were the current company, though and so she didn’t scold me too hard.  But I felt awful, and I cried.  We tried hard to repair and salvage, but it was still rather sorry looking.

Later, I was back in the kitchen, and Uncle Vernon came up to me and said, “Mary Ann.  Come here.”  He took me to where our living room and dining room met, where there was a large, full length mirror, and positioned me in front of it.  “Take a good look,” he said.  I did.  Didn’t particularly like what I saw, either.  “What do you see?” he asked.

It really wasn’t much to look at.  My hair was stringy, falling down over my face.  I reached up and tried to tuck it behind my ear.  My dress, made of the shirtwaist pattern of the day, was an aqua gingham, rumpled and dirty.  I was dreadfully self conscious.  “Um, I don’t know.  Me?”

“Now, Mary Ann,” he instructed kindly, “I want you to straighten your shoulders.  Don’t slump.  And I want you to smile.  You can smile.”  He took my hands gently in his and crossed them over my tummy.  “Hold your hands just so.  Like that.  Now look at you.  I see a beautiful young lady,” he said with energy, confidence and enthusiasm.  “Look at you!  You really are a wonderful young lady.  You are intelligent and you will go far.”

I looked in the mirror.  I smiled at the girl in the mirror and she smiled back.  I felt a surge of confidence like I had never known before.  I didn’t feel beautiful, but I felt capable.  I knew I wasn’t gorgeous.  I certainly didn’t have a reason to be vain, but I really did feel like I could meet the challenges of life, and that I had something to offer this old world, and it felt really, really good.

I have always blessed him for that day.  It was pivotal in my life.  It was many, many years before I understood how “Uncle Vernon” that was.  He lived and breathed encouragement.  He looked for something to praise, something to give hope, something to affirm.  

We are going to miss him.  We are so glad for his triumph, so sad for our loss.  A mix of emotions, again.  This old world keeps on turning, ever bringing us closer and closer to Home.  I wonder how emotions will play into our existence in Heaven.  I’m sure they will be there, and will be a part of that glorious experience  But to think of emotions without the contradictions of our limited knowledge, without the distractions of our Humanity — now that will be Heaven!

Rest in peace, Uncle Vernon.  We’ll see you in the morning. 

Oh, and tell my Precious Daddy that I will always love him and will miss him until my last breath.   

                                                     

I just heard a car pull into the driveway! 

Our Rachel-girl is safely home.  She drove the entire distance alone from Cedarville, Ohio to Milford, DE, in her little Mazda. 

She may have been the only PERSON in that car, but there were many, many PRAYERS circling her ’round. 

Ah, LORD JESUS, this Mama’s heart gives grateful praise for traveling mercies, and for the joy of a child come home.

 

My uncle is slipping away from us.  This vibrant, intelligent man who chose to be kind and loving and faithful, who pastor-ed a church in downtown Wilmington in the turbulent 60’s, who was a school principal for years in New Castle County, who had the rare art of encouragement almost down to a science, is slowly but steadily slipping away.

My Sweet Mama and I stopped over unannounced yesterday, and at my cousin’s invitation, we sat in on a conference between my cousin and Compassionate Hospice.  Sometimes the answers are so hard, solutions to the immediate so elusive.  As part of the extended family, we are aware that the best thing we can do is continue to pray, be supportive, and love this part of our family with every tangible means we can think of.  My aunt is a courageous woman, and she has been remarkable in her care of her husband.  From being a caregiver myself, I am so aware of how “carried” we can be in difficult situations, but I also remember how easy it is to feel overwhelmed.  I remember getting out of my house on rare occasions for necessary “market runs” and I would find myself crying out loud, unrestrained, when I was all alone in my car and no one could hear me.  I remember how little things were HUGE, and stuff that I might have been able to “shake off” I couldn’t when I was under the stress of caring for desperately ill people.

Case in point:
When we moved to our farm in 1989, our family was caring for Harriette, a high functioning individual who had developed a cancer on her vulva.  (A REALLY bad place to develop cancer, believe me —  but that’s another story)  Daniel was busy with his plumbing business and raising chickens — and it usually meant that I needed to go for groceries late at night.  I remember one night that Harriette was almost out of pain meds, and I needed groceries, so Daniel stayed with the kids and the ladies (We had four kids and three ladies at that time) and I made a bee-line for Meatland in Harrington.  I had planned my evening almost down to the last minute, so that I could get out of Meatland and get to the drugstore before closing.  I hadn’t shopped for quite some time, and I had a big cart load of things.  When I pulled the cart into the checkout lane, the young cashier sighed and rolled her eyes.  I tried hard not to notice or be too upset.  It was late — she had probably had a hard day, and she had no way of knowing that I had just cried my eyes out on the way there, and that I was very, very fragile.  She started checking me out, thumping the groceries down in a pointed way and the bagging fellow kept piling the things higher and higher in the cart. 

I finally said, rather meekly, “Do you think maybe we ought to get a second cart?” 

That brought another rolling of the eyes and a lips in a straight line, and so I said nothing more — especially since I saw that my time was running out to get to the drugstore for Harriette’s medicine.  They piled the cart up and stuffed things into nooks and crannies, and I paid my bill and headed for my car. 

About halfway across the parking lot, a bag that was just out of my reach suddenly slid off the top and crashed to the ground.  Inside the bag was a bottle of lemon juice and a card I had picked up for some occasion.  The jar shattered, and the card was ruined.  I remember standing in that parking lot, crying, and the overwhelming feeling I felt was RAGE.  I was so angry at that cashier, so angry at the store, so angry about not being able fix things for Harriette (and the way things were so complicated in my family) so angry that I didn’t have enough time to go back into the store and demand recompense because if I did, I wouldn’t make it to the drugstore on time and Harriette wouldn’t have her pain medicine.  I felt so powerless, completely at the mercy of the “wind and rain” in a boat that was taking on water at an alarming rate.  I don’t know what I did with that bag — I may have left in right there in the parking lot.  I loaded my groceries and paused long enough to look at the store, clenched my fists and said, “If I can help it, I will NEVER again shop in this store!!!”  And that felt really good in a twisted sort of way.  (The truth is, I never did another shopping excursion in that store.  I think I may have gone in there in an “emergency” to purchase an item, but I really was DONE!)

Looking back, I think about some of the hard lines I took during that time that were so stubborn and ridiculous.  The state was paying me (the lowest amount they paid anyone) for Harriette’s keep and care, and I knew that they should be paying me more, but I kept saying, “I refuse to ask them for more money.  They know how difficult this is, they know they should pay me more, but I will NOT ask them.  More money doesn’t make an unbearable situation bearable.” 

That sounds right, doesn’t it? 

But I was wrong.  More money wouldn’t have cured the cancer, but it would have bought some help for me.  It would have bought time away for my family.  It would have bought pizza on Saturday nights for the kids and Daniel and I — a real treat for our family.  But I kept thinking that the state would somehow realize what the needs were and that they would do what was right.  (I learned that, when it comes to MONEY, the state really doesn’t ever hand out money to care providers unless they are forced to.  As long as I would do something and not ask for more, they figured that I was somehow getting along okay.)   The upshot was that when Harriette was finally moved to a nursing home and my one lady had her hip replaced and then went to another placement, I was so exhausted, so incredibly depleted, and so sure that I was in the wrong field that I let my license expire, and kept only Old Gertrude, whom I could keep without a state license.  When people asked me why, I would say, “Because we need to heal as a family.  These last months have been a struggle, and I, in particular, but also our whole family, need to heal.”

I am so concerned about my aunt right now.  Her eyes are so tired, and she is so determined to see this through — and that is admirable, but any time someone is caring for a family member, particularly a spouse, there is a whole different dimension and sorrow associated with that — more so even than what I’ve done with my ladies. It is challenging and difficult and Heart-rending.  It is partly the weight of responsibility, but it is more than that — it is the intense love of a lifetime, playing an unfamiliar “last verse” to an old love song, a sorrow that never leaves you, a weight in your chest, a “foot in your stomach” kind of feeling that wants so badly to hope for the best, but is constantly being hit in the face with reality.  We are in a solemn place of  responsibility to hold fast the prayer ropes for our loved ones in these days.  My aunt, in particular, but also their four children and their families.

I suppose this is too long — that I’ve probably lost some of you long ago.  For those of you who are still with me, please pray for Vernon and Freda Zehr and their family.  Logically, we know that dying is a part of living.  Experientially?  Well, it just doesn’t make sense.

What motivates the frantic gathering and harboring of food when there is a crowd of people?

What makes them plan ahead and ask for the leftovers to take home before the meal even begins?

What is it that spurs them on to ask if they can “Fix plates for Mom and Dad” before the line is even through?

And why the brown paper bag, stuffed full of all the gleanings from the table at the end of the night?

Lord Jesus, what is it that motivates ‘Our Kids?’  These kids that don’t belong to us at all,
and yet ‘belong’ to our church family and Daniel and me in ways the we don’t really comprehend?
Is there a threat waiting for them behind that stark, grubby door
(inside which I am seldom allowed)? 
Or is it soul hunger that gnaws away at their hearts and tells them that there will
“NEVER BE ENOUGH”
No matter how hard they try.
Never enough food.
Never enough creature comforts.
Never enough energy to meet their emotional needs.
Never enough resources to meet their physical needs.
Never enough security.
Never enough love.
Lord Jesus, once again, my heart cries out to you for the children.
Could you build a protective wall around them?
And costly though that may be, may we count the cost,
and may we be found inside that wall.
Where it counts.
Where we can be found by them.
So YOU can make a difference.

 

It’s been a busy day at Shady Acres.  For the past two days, our church has hosted a food/rest/pottybreak stop for Black Rock’s Bike-a-thon.  (See here:http://www.blackrockretreat.com/bikeathon/)  What a great time it was, and the event is so well planned, down to the way the food stops are handled, it was a joy to be a part of it.

Yesterday, there were about 50 bikers that stopped at our little country church.  Gary Burlingame and I stayed for the entire time, and Christina with Charis and Deborah and Certain Man all did some helping, too.

This morning, the co-coordinator felt it would be wise for someone to be there somewhat ahead of time, and so I went up around 9:30 and set up what we had, just in case there were some early birds.  It was cold and overcast, and no one came early.

Pretty sparse fare at this point — just bananas and cookies
and, in the cooler, chocolate milk.

But with cookies like this, who needs much else?
Dave and Ilva came to be our church’s volunteers for the day,
And wouldn’t you know, I didn’t get a picture of them!
I am so grateful for their help today,
because it meant that I could go home after things were set up.

 

 Then the food wagon got there, and there were wonderful things to choose from.

 

These were the Black Rock “Foodies” for our station.
Jon and Rose Diener. 
Wonderfully organized, helpful and cheerful.

 

Pretty soon, the bikers started pulling in.

 

There were lots of stories and note comparing and encouraging words.

 

This is a mother and son team that were doing the ride today.
I think he said that he is 13, and this is his second year to ride.
After the first riders came through,
I left the Bike-a-thon in the capable hands of the team that was there
and came home to my waiting chores.

 

I had LOTS of relish waiting. 
I had gotten a batch into jars and sealed before I left,
but I had two more to go.  What a wonderful feeling!
39 pints (in 45 jars).  All sealed.

But then I kept thinking about how I had checked my Lima Beans
yesterday, and they were in dire need of picking.  So around six,
I went out and picked lima beans.  I got about 3/4 of a bucket.
Middle Daughter, home from her trip to the Baltic Sea, helped me shell them.

I washed them, blanched them, and got them into the freezer.
Four more bags!  Total now is 30 bags.

While I was picking the beans, though, I noticed a wonderful thing.
There are beans hanging on those vines in unbelievable numbers!
If we don’t get frost for a few more weeks,
I should have a couple of really good pickings left!
Even though it means lots and lots of work, I am so happy!
There really is nothing quite like Delaware Lima Beans.

 

 

 

It is Autumn at Shady Acres.  There are candles on the table and they are burning!

But these candles are forced to run a tough obstacle course.

There is a little girlie who loves to blow out the candles:

 

 

The only problem was — this Grammy didn’t watch closely enough,
and, sure enough, she got that beautiful hair too close.

How great was the consternation and wailing and this Grammy’s guilt.

But her Mama assured me that she would be okay, that she was, in fact, quickly to sleep.

The hair, not too damaged, and the quarter-sized red spot on her cheek looking better.

I guess this Grammy learned her lesson. 

Even when their enthusiasm seems careful enough, it probably isn’t.

Even when you think you are watching with impeccable carefulness, you probably aren’t.

And when something happens that you regret, the truth is,

The little ones forgive you better than you forgive yourself.

 

I posted this a few weeks ago around the time that I sent it into http://www.dearphotograph.com.

Dear Photograph,

The old swing is empty, but this Mama’s heart never is.

MaryAnn Yutzy

 

It’s been quite a while, and I decided that it had just not made the cut.   I know I’m prejudiced, but I was pretty sure that my photo was every bit as interesting as the next guys.  Today I got this message from the site director:

Hey MaryAnn,

—
Taylor Jones

 

The garden at Shady Acres (planted in a sunny spot) is quite an interesting undertaking to say the least.

Certain Man plants it.  Weeds it.  Sprays the bugs and digs the potatoes and picks up ground cherries.  He cheers on the asparagus and rhubarb, and he examines and exclaims over the carrots and carefully stakes up the tomatoes so that there is no problem when it comes to picking them.  He loves yellow summer squash and he picks those carefully and expertly.  He has been know to help pick up the butternut squash, but not because he likes to.  He does not pick beans.  Of any kind.  He does not cut asparagus, he does not usually pick tomatoes unless it is to eat one of his beautiful little ones on his way to the chicken house.  His involvement with the peppers is to the extent that he tells me when they need to be picked and how they are getting out of hand.

But he weeds and rotor-tills and strings up the wires and string for my beloved pole limas and usually his garden is picture perfect.

This year, most of the garden has been exactly right most of the time.  But the weeds got away from him in the potatoes and lima bean rows and it has been discouraging.  Especially since we aren’t getting enough lima beans to even bother with.  We can about throw the picking’s handful into a soup or eat them raw.  It’s been discouraging for Certain Man’s wife, too.

At the beginning of the summer, he decided that this year he was going to have a row of peas and a row of green beans.  I don’t often argue with him, but I REALLY didn’t want green beans (or peas, either, for that matter!) But he went ahead and got the seed and planted a row of green beans.  I was secretly just a little upset.  Green beans are not that expensive, people often have them for the taking, and besides.  I have to bend way over to pick those green beans and the hot sun and the way they hide is a great aggravation to this farm girl’s heart.  I just didn’t want to have them on my conscience.  Middle Daughter had pretty much said that she didn’t feel called to pick green beans for us, and I just knew I would be out there in that patch picking green beans and feeling misunderstood.

They didn’t come up!

I secretly rejoiced with exceeding great joy!

But then Certain Man came home one day with this lumpy envelope and when I investigated, I found it almost full of bean seeds.  “What’s this with these seeds?” I asked him.

“Oh, those,” he said.  “Gary said I ought to try them and he gave me that pack.”

“I don’t want green beans in our garden, Daniel.  They are hard to pick and Deborah said she would pick them last year and after a time or so of picking them, she got busy and I had to pick and they were nasty and I don’t want green beans in my garden.”

“I thought I might just try these and see,” he insisted.  “Gary says they are really nice green beans.  There aren’t all that many, and the first ones I planted never even came up.  It’s kinda’ late for them anyhow.  They probably won’t make much, but I’d sorta’ like to at least try them and see how they do.”

I could tell it wouldn’t do me any good to say any more, and I was gratified to see that lumpy envelope around for a very long time.  Long enough that I forgot about them.  Then one day, he mentioned that his green beans were up.

“Did you plant those beans that Gary gave you?” I asked.

“Yep!  And they came up good!”

Oh, well. 

We were working on Deborah’s library and he wasn’t spending much time in the garden and his weeds were fast taking over.  I decided that I wouldn’t worry too much about it.  With all those weeds out there, those beans didn’t stand much of a chance.  But then, his part of the work on Deborah’s project came to an end and he got after those weeds with a vengeance and since he started at the edge of the garden that everyone sees first, he weeded the row of marigolds that we plant next to the tomatoes to keep the bugs off.  Then he weeded his tomatoes, then his — you guessed it!  His bean row.  I came out one night to check on my pole limas and I saw a healthy row of green beans about 2/3 the length of the garden.  I decided that I was going to ignore them.

I fought the thistles and the butternut squash to go over my two rows of pole limas and got about a five gallon bucket on the first picking.  I was really worried, though, because there were no more viable pods hanging on the vines.  I proceeded to pray and sing over them, and tried to keep after the other garden things, but at least two weeks later I went over the patch again and got — two handfuls of shelled beans.  This made me a little cross.  Certain Man was steadily weeding the rows of pole limas, he was watering faithfully, he was doing all he could to help the pole limas grow, but it was all to no avail.  And I was still ignoring those green beans.  Occasionally, Certain Man would lament that “those green beans don’t seem to be making anything of themselves, either,”  but I was still not paying attention.  You see, I was afraid that if I looked at them and there were beans there, I would feel OBLIGATED to pick them. 

On Tuesday night, when the kids were here, I gone out with them and thought that I would work in the garden while they rode bikes and worked off some energy.  When they saw that I was in the garden, they all three came pounding across the grass and wanted to help.  They wanted to pick tomatoes and they were pulling the green ones off at an alarming rate.  I looked down and happened to see that there were quite a few green beans hanging on the first bush of the row, so I thought long and hard (at least five seconds) about asking them if they wanted to help pick the green beans and sure enough!  They did!

So we set to work with a 2½ gallon bucket and before I knew it, that bucket was getting full, and I hadn’t picked more than a fourth of the row.  Then the kids were tired of it already (they had worked under that scorching evening sun for at least ten minutes and it was getting to be to much for them, I guess).  So they went back to picking tomatoes and peppers that they threw all into the same bucket with the green beans.  I picked a few more green beans before LJ started sneezing and getting really, really tight in his chest, and we gave up gardening for the night.

I had this wonderful bucket, though, of the nicest green beans I have ever picked.  They were long and slender and crisp and green.  I looked at those green beans and after feeling so pleased with them, I felt heartsick at how many bushes that I hadn’t even touched, and how the week ahead was so very packed with lots and lots of stuff to do.  The evening got late before I could do anything with the nice bucket I had picked, so I decided that I would take the fresh green beans to my Sweet Mama’s house the next day and we would have them for lunch. I talked to Mama, and she seemed delighted to think that I would bring them.  I had also made Chicken-etti for the kids for supper (their favorite meal!) and Mama likes that, too, so we had our lunch all planned.

Oldest Daughter and Love Bug went along out to Sweet Mama’s that morning and while I worked on other things, Christina snapped those green beans and Mama fetched out some bacon and between the two of them, they made a big pot of fresh green beans and bacon.  Talk about good!  Those beans were wonderful.

But now I had a dilemma.  There were terribly many beans left out there, and I was coming down with the biggest guilt complex over them that I had experienced in a while.  But there was no time to pick those beans.  I came home from Sweet Mama’s and did some paperwork for the ladies, and then fed them and got ready for small group.  After small group, Certain Man and I remembered that his office was having breakfast the next morning and he had told them that I would make sausage gravy to send in.  They were celebrating Certain Man’s birthday and also the secretary’s and the gravy was by special request of the two birthday people.  The only trouble was, I was out of sausage.  So at eleven o’clock on Wednesday night, I made a mad dash for the grocery store for supplies.

And lest you think that Certain Man was just taking it easy through all this, HE WASN’T.  Our chickens went out on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning and the hours and hours of work that lead up to that and then follow it are enough to keep two men busy.  And he almost always does it all by himself.  I really did not expect him to pick beans.  Even if it was something he did, which it isn’t, he wouldn’t have under these circumstances.  I did discuss their presence with him.

“Hey, Mr. Yutzy.  Did you know there are a WHOLE LOT of green beans out there?”

“They aren’t any good any more, though, are they?”

“They are beautiful, Daniel.  Just gorgeous!”

“I saw some time ago-” (probably when he was weeding) “that there were quite a few hanging on out there.  I just figured when no one picked them, that they were too hard.”

“Well, they aren’t.  And someone really needs to pick them.  I guess I will have to see what I can do.”  And then I made the mistake.  “I really didn’t want green beans in the garden.”

“Well,” he said darkly.  “I can take care of those green beans for you in about 15 minutes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll just go out there and pull them all out and throw them over the fence to the cows.”

“Daniel, you can’t just throw those beans away.”

“Just watch me!”

“No, I don’t want you to throw them away.  I’ll try to do something with them.”  The thing is, I was pretty sure he had no intentions of throwing those beans over the fence.  (Though he has been known to do such things!)  I suspected that he was going to try to somehow pick them himself in his already overcrowded, over committed schedule.  He was so tired already that I was worried about him.  I decided to not say another word about picking green beans to him.

Thursday (that was yesterday) we were beginning to have lots of warnings concerning the hurricane that was coming and I began to realize that I needed to get as much garden produce off as possible.  I had an early appointment with Nettie in Dover, needed to pick up some material to make a trial dress for Love Bug for a wedding, and had a case manager coming for a home visit and Oldest Daughter was having a “31” party here in the evening.  There was going to be NO TIME to pick beans.  I really didn’t want to all that much, anyhow.

And to be honest, not only did I not WANT to, I was pretty sure that it wasn’t beneficial for a particular health issue that I’ve been dealing with.  When I had a hysterectomy a couple of months after I turned forty, and at the same time, they did an abdominal hernia repair and put in a stainless steel mesh, I thought it would solve all my problems in both departments.  And it seemed to be okay for a decade or so, but the last couple of years I’ve realized that I need some additional repair done.  And bending over, picking produce is not comfortable at all.  But I don’t like food to go to waste and I don’t like to complain.  AND, I kept remembering how wonderful those beans had tasted at my Sweet Mama’s table.  

So this morning, before it got too hot, I decided I would go out there and try to make short work of that bean row.  Of course, there is no such thing as short work in a bean patch.  I pondered the mysteries of gardening.  (Why are these beans doing so well in the same garden as the unproductive Limas?)  I prayed for grace under the hot sun.  I prayed for a breeze.  I prayed that the cloud cover would move over the sun.  I prayed that the sun could just go behind a cloud.  I stood up and looked at the long row.  I took off my glasses and wiped my sweaty face on my sleeve, and remembered that people on furosomide are not to be out in the sun.  And through it all, I picked green beans and picked green beans and picked green beans.  Oh, and I sang some of my favorite storm songs and thought about all the possibilities of the hurricane and looked at my tomato plants and decided that I should take all of the ripe tomatoes off before the storm and that made me think about the peppers and so I checked them and picked them, too.  Middle Daughter had been busy getting things put away before the storm, but she came out and helped me just when I thought I could not make it any longer and her good conversation and helping hands saw me through those last difficult moments.

Then Middle Daughter’s friend, Abi, came over and the two of them snapped the beans for me, and there is such a hearty, healthy amount.  I have a big pot of tomatoes cooked up, ready for juicing out, and those beans almost ready for the blancher and Certain Man and I got Shady Acres about as secure as we possibly could and it is all good.

I’m not ready to say that I am glad he planted all those green beans, and I think I will give away at least the next picking if there is anything left after IRENE makes her way across Delmarva, but I am so grateful for these beautiful green beans, and I suppose I will be even happier next winter.  Methinks I will cook up a pot of them tomorrow with some bacon to eat while we are weathering out the storm.

Good night, all. This gal is going to bed!

There has been a lot of water over the dam since I last wrote about my three kids.  Actually, it was July 22nd when I thought maybe this was one project that I was going to have to just let go.

But I got such good advice from my Xanga friends, and there was that Holy Spirit nudging that just wouldn’t stop.  So, even though I had no support from the kid’s mother when it came to taking Mya alone, I decided that unless she would let me take her alone for an evening, I wouldn’t have the three of them together here again.  The little ones tried mightily to change my mind, and the Mom wouldn’t answer my phone calls on the night I was to get her, and even took the kids and left the house because “It wasn’t fair for Mya to come and not the others.”  I decided that I could be stubborn, too, and I sent her word that I wanted to pick Mya up for the evening on Tuesday night and I would take her and do some school shopping.  And that, unless I could get that in before the next Thursday night, the kids wouldn’t be coming.  She finally agreed that I could take her, and I promised the other two that they would get their turn alone with me, too, if things could be worked out. 

What a blessing this strategy has proven to be.  Our church provided the money for school supplies and for one outfit a piece, and each kid got to do at least one thing special on our day out and got to choose where to eat lunch and then, if they were good, they got an ice cream cone on the way home.  They could not have been better.  Just perfect examples of decorum and co-operation. All three of them earned that ice cream cone fair and square.

I decided to do some specific behavior modification on the Thursday nights when the three of them are here, and that has been successful beyond what I had expected, too.  I’ve been trying to plan better, trying to free the evening up from anything but engaging them in activity — whether that is working in the garden, taking rides on the golf cart, and I have even managed to get them involved in READING to them — something they have not been very interested in before.  I have been careful in choosing the stories — keeping them short and exciting, and it was gratifying tonight for them to ask if they could have another one.   They have also become interested in stories from when I was a little girl that I can tell them on the way home.  Another positive in a time that often went to pieces.

Last Thursday, I had a very trying day, and even though I had told them earlier in the week that I thought they could come, I came early to the conclusion that I just couldn’t have them.  I tried to call the mom, but there was no answer, so I texted her that I wasn’t up to having them, but that we would pick them up on Sunday morning for Sunday School.  She didn’t get my message, and at 6 o’clock she and the three of them were on my doorstep.  I went out and their eyes were so pleading that I almost relented and let them stay, but I hadn’t made supper and I hadn’t planned any activities for the evening, and I decided that I just couldn’t do it. 

“I’m sorry, Dawn,” I said to their Mama.  “I’ve had a tough day today, with our daughter leaving for college and a whole lot of activity planned for the next couple days.  I would like to have them stay, but I just can’t.  I hate to disappoint them, but it just doesn’t suit for me to have them tonight.”

For once, she seemed okay with that, and even though I saw the hurt in the eyes of the kids, she herded them back into the car and left.  I wondered if they would come to Sunday school on Sunday, because she has sometimes said that if they don’t come on Thursday, they can’t come to church, but I decided to take the chance.  I really needed those Thursday evening hours, and even though I felt guilty, I knew it was what I had to do.

Sunday Morning, Daniel went to pick them up while I finished up the last minute things here at home.  He came back for me and the ladies, and as I got into the car, I said, “How’re my kids this morning?”

“Fine . . . um, Ms. Mary Ann.  We have something for you.”

“For me?  What do you have for me?”

The oldest fumbled with a homemade envelope in her hand and then thrust it in my direction.

“We wrote this for you,” they all chorused.  I pulled out a piece of notebook paper, crumbled and folded many times.  There was also a piece of notebook paper that had been carefully colored — one line pink, one line blue, one line pink, one line blue.  “Ms. Mary Ann, I colored that for you,” said Muffie proudly, “And Mya wrote the note ’cause we didn’t know how to write it.”

I unfolded the paper and looked at the smudged and penciled lines.  I suddenly could almost not read for the tears.

Dear Mrs. Maryann
do you know that we love you?  Cause you are the best person that we ever met.  And thankyou for taking us school shopping and taking us to eat lunch we really appreciate what you’ve done.  We really love to go to your church and your house on Thursday nights.
Love,
Mya, LJ and Muffie.

I am so grateful to God for His blessings to me, for giving me friends who give me advice when I need it that is workable and for giving me courage to try even when it seems so hopeless.  The three of them were here tonight because I have a conflict on Thursday night and the best gift of all for me was that when I realized that Thursday wasn’t going to work, I actually wanted to work something else out.  And they are still busy, and they still don’t tell the truth, and I keep finding things that I need to be firm about — but I see them actually making decisions to obey me when I say something — even turning around and coming back when they are on their way to disobey, and being kind to each other when issues come up that would have sparked familial war before.  I am so profoundly grateful.  It makes me feel like keeping on keeping on.

And on that note, this gal is getting herself off to bed.  Thank you, friends, for praying for Daniel and I and these three kids.  It has truly made all the difference.

We finally had some rain while Rachel was home.

Our kids are sorta’ like their Mama.  If there is rain to be had, it is a wonderful day!

Christina and Rachel getting soaking wet in an afternoon shower.

Unfortunately, we took almost no pictures on the weekend. 
And Raph and Gina left on Sunday afternoon —
After which I realized that I hadn’t gotten a single picture of them.
This was a serious grief to this mother’s heart.

 

Sunday Evening, we had a Yoder family cookout.
We’ve had so many people in our pavilion for a number of different things
but I’ve never had my family.  It was time to remedy the situation.
When they agreed to gather at Shady Acres instead of Sweet Mama’s house
I was one tickled pink daughter/sister/auntie/momma/wife.

My sister, Sarah.  She and my younger sister, Alma, are my best friends.
When no one else understands me, and it feels like no one else cares,
Sarah and Alma are a place where I can crash with my tears and with my angst.
They don’t always agree with me, but they always love me.
I have so little time with them.  Maybe that is why they can still love me!

Queena and Ethan, our Wycliffe team of the family. 
They are raising support for their assignment in Asia.
We hope to have them around until next spring.

 

Sweet Mama and my youngest brother, Mark, Jr.
     

Yes, Markie, it is good to wipe your mouth after such big bites!

Here is my oldest brother, Clint, and his wife, Frieda.
They recently sold their home and are relocating to South Carolina.
It occurs to me that the times we have to be together like we’ve been
for all these years is fast coming to an end.
I believe that men need to follow God, and I believe that is what Clint
is doing . . . but I almost cannot stand to see them go.

 

This is Dorie — Ethan and Queena’s girlie.  She lights up our lives.
If you want to know what a three year old thinks, just have a little talk
with this young lady!

This is James, Dorie’s little brother.
I cannot look at this little fellow without a feeling
of extreme gratitude rising in my heart.
Because of a traumatic birth, and some unfortunate
happenings, the doctor told his family that he would probably
never be “normal” 
The outlook was the grimmest of the grim.
But God . . .
And that says it all.
Glory, Hallelujah!!!

 

Our family is blessed with an abundance of young people.

Maria (Slaubaugh) Swartentruber, Tim Yoder, Carmen Heatwole,
Rachel Yutzy, Holly Yoder.

These five have always been “best buddies” with Tim never acting
at all like he minded being the thorn among the roses. 
What a great time they had together this weekend with Rachel just home.

Carey and Maria, My beloved Certain Man (It was his birthday!)
and the side of Gabe Heatwole.

I even got in on some of the conversations.
Our daughter in law, Jessica, Gabe Heatwole, Joe Slaubaugh and Yours Truly.

 

Our son, Lem, his wife, Jessica and Gabe.

Jessica, Gabe and Joe.

 

And there was even a feisty game of rook going at one of the tables!
Daniel (though he wasn’t a part of it) Josh Slaubaugh (Though he is completely hidden!)
Mark Jr., Polly Yoder, and Lawina Slaubaugh.

 

                                 

Whether chomping on a big old carrot from Grandpa’s garden or spooning down the redi-whip on a plastic spoon,
She’s still the only grandbaby we got, and we think she’s wonderful!

 

And then on Monday evening, those of our immediate family that could make it, went to Olive Garden.
Missing were Raph and Gina and Deborah (who had to work). 

 

Rachel’s friend, Lara Shenk was along.

 

 

   

Rachel and her Daddy.
When we met her at the Rosedale International Center on Friday,
she hugged her Daddy like she would never let go.
“I’ve been waiting for this hug for nine months,” she said.
“There just was no man in Thailand that I could really hug,
and I just needed my Daddy!”

Daniel and two of his girls.
He would have been even happier if only Deborah would have been there!

 

There was lots of playing going on while we waited for a table.

 

Keeping Charis entertained was important.

 

But even so, the time got really long for a little girlie.

 

Charis and her Uncle Lem really have some good times!

 

Rach and her Brother, Lem with Lem’s wife, Jessica.

 

Lem’s educational expertise and his success since he is out of school
has been an incredible blessing to Rachel.  She called me on Monday night
nearly in tears from the wonder of it all. 
“Mom,” she said with her voice full of emotion, “There is nothing like having
a big brother pave the way for you!”

    

These two always have plenty to talk about.

 

As do these two.

 

Daniel thought it was a pretty good place to wait —
between two pretty, young women.

(That was okay by me.
I was busy chasing our grandbaby.
There are few things I enjoy more.)

 

. . . and there you have it! 
Just a few glimpses into our too short weekend.