An Ordinary Life

Taste and See

“O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him” (Psalm 34:8).

“Come, and eat,” Jesus said to the disciples. They’d been fishing all night, and then, Jesus not only provided them with the largest catch they’d ever had, but he made breakfast for them. He served them the fish and bread that he’d prepared on hot coals in the sand. The disciples ate and were satisfied.

It was the most flavorful fish they’d ever eaten with the bread toasted to perfection, but it was not a lasting satisfaction. The disciples knew the words of Isaiah, “Wherefore do you spend money for that which is not bread? Eat ye that which is good and let your soul delight in fatness.” (Isaiah 55:2)? Jesus himself had told them that he alone is the bread of life (John 6:35), not like the manna flavor of coriander and honey, but the bread that feeds the soul, and gives eternal life.

“How sweet are thy words unto my taste! yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth” (Psalm 119:103)! The Word of life satisfies more than all the books in the Queens library. The sweetness of it pleases the inner man. No words that I pen will be as meaningful as those inspired by God.

Lay aside the flavors that do not satisfy in order to taste and see that the Lord is good. “Let my soul delight in fatness.” God wants to provide a table before me in the presence of my enemies. The fare on his table is rich and nourishing. Taste it. Dig in. Devour it. Drink the life-giving water that Jesus offers. It’s fully fulfilling and turns into a flowing source of water within me.

The bread of life and the living water will give me strength to run the race with patience, the grace to resist temptation, peace that passes all understanding, love for the church and for all mankind, joy overflowing, and a faith to endure to the end.

Berniece Penner

I write this against the roar of planes as they soar  into the skies, and the soft cooing of a dove. If I listen, I hear the 7 train rumbling on the overhead tracks some distance away, and then the nearby noise of  a roller bag being pulled up the metal ramp at the building’s entrance.Who knew when I said, “I do,” that 44 years later, my husband would set the coffee mug beside me in an apartment bedroom in Queens, a place where we never see a sunrise, but where the sky turns glorious at sunset.

It’s a good life. (Or did you want to hear about the hard things?) We’ve gone from the open spaces of the desert to an ordinary life in the city. We work and worship here. Laurence and I have become one while walking miles and miles on city sidewalks, park paths, and beside the sea.

We’ve experienced sickness and health, laughter and tears during the 44 years we’ve been married. A mile from here is the apartment that we moved into in 1988 when we first came to this city. Back then, Laurence and I sowed the seed and spread the gospel from the Bronx ghetto to the “Brooklyn Borough of Churches”. Together, we left behind (reluctantly on my part) the roast beef of childhood Sundays to dine on goat curry and oxtail stew.

In 1995, young men came into our lives; we shared the mission apartment and life’s learning experiences with them. Because we were young and because God opened the door, we decided to make Queens our home. We moved into this apartment on October 17, 1997. Thanks to the support of the brethren, we were able to buy it in 1999.

Nowadays, we two often think as one. I’m glad for this melding. God dwells here in our little apartment. The city noise stills, and we hear His voice. He who has led us this far will journey with us all the way home.

Berniece

The tomb is empty. I live in the resurrection power. It has not always been so. I was lost.

Are you the lost one, the one weighted down with sin? Is your mind dark with condemnation? Has your joy dissipated? Then it’s for you that Jesus gave his life. Jesus came, not for the righteous, but for the sinner (Mark 2:17). For you.

He came for me. He took my sins on himself. God turned his face away because of my sin. This past February while in the desert, God restored to me the gift of peace. Salvation is a gift.

Therefore I say to you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much. But to whom little is forgiven, the same loves little” (Luke 7:47). I’ve been forgiven much. I love the One who died and arose for me.

The tomb is empty.  “For ye (I) shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you (me) into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands” (Isaiah 55:12).

“That God should love a sinner such as I        should yearn to change my sorrow into bliss,
nor rest till He had planned to bring me nigh—
how wonderful is love like this!

Refrain:
Such love, such wondrous love!
Such love, such wondrous love!
That God should love a sinner such as I–
how wonderful is love like this!

2 That Christ should join so freely in the scheme,
although it meant His death on Calvary—
did ever human tongue find nobler theme
than love divine that ransomed me? [Refrain]

3 That for a willful outcast such as I
the Father planned, the Savior bled and died,
redemption for a worthless slave to buy,
who long had law and grace defied! [Refrain]

4 And now He takes me to His heart–a son;
He asks me not to fill a servant’s place.
The far-off country wand’rings all are done;
wide open are His arms of grace!” [Refrain).         -C. Bishop

Praying you’ll know “the power of the resurrection” (Philippians 3:10) this Easter season.

Berniece

Fog envelopes rooftops and the bare, brown branches rising above them. “The world is quiet here” (Lemony Snicket). The building slumbers, its people off to work and the children to school. I hear the tick of our living room clock, and the elevator going up or down in the hall behind me.

The Lord provided well for our Sunday service. I love to lift my voice in song with people from different states and nations. We agree during discussions of the Word, whether it be in Sunday School or around the lunch table in the fellowship hall. Later in the day, a group of us took the subway to Queens and walked to the river at Hunter’s Point South. It was chilly but there’s a nice view of the Manhattan skyline and the bridges across the East River from the park.

On Friday, I had tea with friends at a Yemeni coffee house. After pouring tea into small cups we set the teapot on a wooden holder with tea light candles in it. We also browsed through an Indian grocery.

Being a part of and exploring the cultures and foods of God’s great world is what I like about living here.

We went from having almost no Tibetans living in NYC to this part of Queens having the largest population – an estimated 10,000 to 15,000 – in the Western world. When I walk the streets, I see Tibetan men and women with their prayer beads. Laurence works with some pleasant Tibetan nurses. We see them come by the hundreds to dance, wearing native dress, in the playground two blocks away. Their restaurants are all around. I just finished reading Eat the Buddha” by Barbara Demick. I want to understand what is happening, why they are here.

A neighbor reports that the Irish man who’d sit in our building lobby has died. He drank too much. Sometimes, it was a trial to take the time to visit with him. The man across the hall died a long time ago. Coca who lived on the first floor is gone. The elderly couple on the second floor both died. The woman with dementia passed away too. We need to always take time for the people of this neighborhood.

We’re all only passing through. Let’s make sure steps for Heaven, letting the Light shine so those that follow will be there.

Berniece

Years and years from now a child will say, “Remember how Dad and Mom built a snowman with us that first winter we were in America?”

Over 22 inches of wet snow piled up on rooftops and tree branches in NYC,  creating lovely layered scenes. The wind howled and pushed snow against our apartment screens. It piled up on window ledges until we could hardly see out.

The snow has ended. The sun wants to shine. I pulled on boots for a walk about the neighborhood. Some restaurants are open. Some stores are closed. Some sidewalks are cleared. Many aren’t. A dad and small girl worked at digging out their vehicle, but most remain entombed. I saw a paid crew make quick work of shoveling off the neighbor’s steps, drive, and sidewalk. (Laurence says Elmhurst Hospital is hiring people to clear snow at $30 an hour.)

Overheard: “This will be for the hair, James.” The woman carried a few wispy branches.

“Hair? Why does a snowman have hair?”

“This snowman will have hair!”

It looks like a snowman competition in the plaqyground near here. There are monster snowmen, big snowmen, medium snowmen, and small snowmen. Some wear a cap. Others have a scarf. They have pointy ears, stick noses, and one had an open mouth with a snowball inside. Some snowmen sit with legs bent over the bench edge. I saw a couple snowcats. The snowmen were being built with snow shovels, a sled, bare and gloved hands.

A little child climbed into a snow house that someone created in the playground. People posed nonchalantly against the snow scenes for their families back in India, Mexico, the Philippines, or any of the other 112+ nations represented here.

Five Asian women and a man shoveled furiously to make a space for tomorrow morning’s dance workout. There were a couple small snow hills for sliding on. The playground echoed with snowball fights and laughter.

I do not hear any planes taking off from LGA. Laurence is at work. He said very few patients came in, but the doctors did. They were mostly doing virtual visits.

I’ve put my Keen sandals away and taken out my snowboots. It’s winter in Elmhurst. Berniece

Good morning, to all of you blog readers from a luxury vacation rental in Phoenix. Trust me, it really isn’t so great, but after a 1940’s bare bones cottage in Tucson, this carpeted bedroom with a king bed seems pretty nice.

Laurence poured coffee, and I opened the Word to read Psalm 133, “Behold, how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! It is like the precious ointment, as the dew of Hermon…” 

We’ve been experiencing the sweetness of fellowship with our brothers and sisters. If you live in the midst of a congregation of the saints, you know this blessing. Likely, you take social life for granted, and maybe even complain about all the busyness.

This is not our lifestyle, but maybe it could be. Why not a home in the sun where we could socialize with our peer group, a place of heavenly conversations?

Then another verse comes, “Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say to you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest” (John 4:35). And then I understand.

We will go home to our apartment in Queens, to a building filled with a people who don’t know the pleasantness of brethren who dwell together in unity, a place where everyone has a story, and if you listen you will hear about a mother who died, a husband who had an amputation, about the Eid celebration of the people who don’t know Jesus but worship Mohammad. Laurence will return to Elmhurst Hospital where a nurse says, “There is something peaceful about working with you.” My boss at the market tells me that a customer’s cancer has returned. Another customer confides that he’s overwhelmed with life, that his wife also has cancer and the three young triplets and a younger child are causing a lot of stress . . . So many stories if we listen.

My coffee has gotten cold. We’re leaving soon for breakfast with the Seniors, for the warmth of people who understand, and who are from the greatest support group in the world. I would like to stay. 

“The fields are white for harvest. ” Monday, Lord willing, we’ll fly the friendly skies. We’ll land at JFK, and take the subway to Elmhurst Avenue, the place where there’s a Thai restaurant on every block, where the Tibetans dance, where the Mexican Mamas sell tamales, and men go to Friday prayers. The place where we belong.

Berniece

I’m writing this from a viewpoint outside our Airbnb in the cow town of Wickenburg. My view is of the desert where the saguero cactus stands tall and stately. It’s 75 degrees farenheit versus 22 degrees in NYC. The view from our apartment bedroom window in Queens will be of rooftops piled with snow. NYC is having the long winter. We’re glad we’re here.

Last Thursday morning we rolled our suitcases to the subway. We rode to the AirTrain and it carried us into JFK for the long flight to Phoenix. It seemed surreal to have lunch outdoors at a picnic table after we landed.

There’s something else about being here that is different from our lifestyle at home. Here, we get to be with our peers. Among the NYC mission staff, we’re the elders. At the Snowbirds’ Senior Breakfast, where we were around 40 people, Laurence and I were some of the younger ones.

The fellowship with old and new friends and family has been special! The Southwest draws a different group of people than we mix with in the East, and I’m having a hard time with remembering names. However, meeting up with friends from another desert and another time has been wonderful. (We lived in the Owyhee Desert when we were first married and left a part of our hearts there.)

As a city girl, I feel out of place in a town where the style is to wear a cowboy hat. A gate creaks and a donkey snorts behind me. One day, a wild burro stuck its nose right into our rolled down car window. Laurence celebrated his 67th birthday on a dock beside Lake Pleasant. Today, we hiked at Bell Rock in Sedona. Tonight, we’re invited to a picnic. Tomorrow, after Senior Coffee, we’re going to Tucson.

Yesterday, we went to church. Twice. The mission church in NYC is our favorite place. But I felt so safe and secure last evening with the congregation here. The church at Phoenix is a refuge in the desert.

God bless you where you are. Berniece

The world is quiet here. No traffic. No sound of planes taking off from LGA. Even inside our building, I don’t hear doors slamming, shoes clomping, or music playing. The city seems to be asleep after the big snow (approximately 10 inches here).

I do hear the sound of snow shovels. The snowplows went continuously yesterday, pushing  the snow up against parked cars, further trapping them. Buses kept running, but you do not want to drive if you don’t have to. It would be a real mess to dig out of a parking space today. To find a place to park would not be fun. The parking garages will be full.

On our short walk around the playground last evening, we saw more than one vehicle spinning as they tried to move. One man’s broom looked ineffective for snow removal from where he was stuck.

There will be plenty of opportunities for the young men from the mission to volunteer their time with snow shoveling.

People were taking photos against snowy backgrounds in the playground near here last evening to impress their families in warm weather countries.  For some of these immigrants, perhaps many of them, it will be the first time they’ve ever experienced a snowstorm or even seen snow.

My husband put on his boots and walked to work at Elmhurst Hospital this morning. He offered to work 12 hours since not all the employees will be able to be there. Laurence says it will be a slow day as most doctor visits will be done remotely. (Thanks to the pandemic instead of a snow day, there will also be school via remote.)

The forecast is to be in the deep freeze all week, so this snow won’t be melting anytime soon. I’m going to the grocery store to get ingredients to make soup for lunch. When I look out the window, I see someone walking in the middle of the street where the snow is cleared away.

Soup and hot tea, puzzles and books. Alaska is not calling. Phoenix is.

Berniece

It is very cold the day before the storm, so I donned layers of clothes to go to the library to pick up some books I’d requested. (One of them is about Istanbul because I’m interested in that ancient city.)

When Laurence and I walked by a church on Broadway, we saw a sign about a Myanmar (Burma) bazaar. Spontaneously, we walked into the church hall and mingled among the hundreds of Burmese people. On the stage a girl sang as a band played. Vendors sold the foods of their country: noodles, meat, eggs, dumplings, fermented tea leaf salad, fritters, and more. (I cannot tell you the proper name for these strange-to-me foods.) We bought a sweet that was made with palm sugar and coconut. The vendor was sorry, but he didn’t know the English name. (I doubt it had one.) There were also vendors selling crafts.

I don’t know if you can relate to the deep feeling of satisfaction I had at experiencing a slice of Burma while in Queens. As we left, I told Laurence, “This makes me so happy.”

After leaving the library, we looked at the menu in the window of a Malaysian restaurant. We checked out the food buffet at the Chinese restaurant called, “Five Loaves and Two Small Fishes” (they have a box of gospel tracts), and then went into the large Asian market where they sell everything from rice to live frogs. In all our years of shopping there, which is several times a week, I have never seen so many people. Politeness is not the culture nor was it really possible among the thousands of customers besides the workers, pushing boxes of produce. (Like sweet potatoes from Livingston, CA. I don’t know for sure but we have seen them there.) Long lines stretched to the 10 cashiers. The only reason I can think of for the crowds is the predicted snowstorm.

The Chinese danced in the playground despite the cold. The homeless stood around with food and hot drinks that someone must have brought them.

I’m finishing this as we travel home on the Long Island Railroad. Laurence and I went to a Japanese restaurant in Port Washington for supper. I had sushi and Laurence shrimp ramen. They know us there. We have our table. While we ate, I enjoyed watching the sushi chefs with their white aprons and black cloth caps.

This has turned into a foodie blog. It must be the cold weather that makes me want to try all these different ethnic foods. Yesterday, I ate Greek with friends down by the bay, also in Port Washington.

I’ll close with a New York greeting on a day before a snowstorm: “Stay safe.”

Berniece

P.s. The trains will run, and we will go to church.

“You are brave,” the country girl said to me after my last post about taking the train for groceries and then stopping to donate blood.

Braveness is not what I feel when I’m on home turf. It’s normal life for me to take the train to buy groceries, to walk among hundreds of people when I’m going to market, or to tap an OMNY card for a bus ride to the sea.

Normal is climbing four sets of steps out of Elmhurst subway station. Then I trudge up three flights to our apartment. There are five locks on the door into our apartment, but we only use one deadbolt. We feel safe here. We also feel safe on the city streets in our neighborhood. I would not be afraid to walk alone at any time. (But one doesn’t walk alone in this city that never sleeps.)

The sounds of sirens, of planes taking off, and of the neighbor’s voices are around us, but usually they are not annoying. We hear apartment doors slam and people talking in the entry.

Normal is taking the train to church. Last Sunday some of our brothers and sisters were on the same train and in the same car as us. They did not know we lived here. We did not know they were in the city. Such a delightful surprise. It is not normal to run into our people in the city.

The sanctuary in Harlem fills with dear ones of different nationalities and cultures, so it isn’t the American typical Sunday school discussions, but God is present, and we are inspired. Afterwards, the routine is dinner in the fellowship hall. Truly, it is fellowship of the best kind, and there is no place we’d rather be.

The hospital where my husband works is a few blocks away from our apartment. Not only has it provided our living for many years, but it’s taken good care of our medical needs. We are not strangers there.

A few people say, “I could live here.” Many more tell me, “I could never live here.” Long ago I would have said that too, but that was before I knew the plans God had for us. The city is my home. I’m glad I live here, and while I’m here, I look for a city whose builder and maker is God (Hebrews 11:10).

Berniece