Author Archives: Berniece

God’s providence put a book into my hands about the ministry of ordinary places, about being present and reaching out in my neighborhood.

God knows I’m an introvert. (Laurence disagrees as I expect you do too. 🙂) I think He likes it that way, so He can push me out of my box and use me the way He wants to. He’s given me many years of reaching out practice in NYC.

But what about my neighbor? I see the Irishman (or any number of others) from the building up ahead, and I slow my steps so that we won’t enter at the same time. I know he’ll want to visit, and I just don’t feel like it.

But aren’t we called to ministry in the place where the Lord has placed us? The last while there has been some interesting happenings with the Lord putting neighbors in my space:

I met the Malaysian neighbor in the elevator. She told me she’d been wondering how she could get a hold of me as she wanted to go with me to market on Saturday. She did and now we are friends.

My father’s passing has opened a door for sharing with neighbors. In a laundry room visit I heard about the grief for a Bronx mother-in-law who passed away last summer.

A few days ago, I was going out as Jose came in. “How’s it going?” he asked. I hesitated. Was he in a hurry? Should I tell him something personal?

Then I said, “My father passed away on July 5.” Jose looked stunned. He said, “My mother passed away two years ago on July 6. I still haven’t gotten over it.” We stood there for 20 minutes while neighbors went in and out, and while I held the front door open so as to not feel confined in the small vestibule.

“Were you close with your dad?” he asked? He wept as he told me of his mom’s passing. Before we parted, Jose encouraged me to find comfort in prayer, “I can see you are a person who prays.”

Today, I met the Chinese woman who lives above us. We greet when we meet, which isn’t often. We might discuss building matters, but we never visit. I  have not found her friendly or sociable. But maybe I haven’t appeared approachable. Today, we talked about life here versus living in the country, about old age and death, about her parents and mine. (She’d like to have her parents come from China but her 95 year old grandmother still lives.)

Ministry sounds like opening our home to others. Perhaps it starts with opening our hearts.

Berniece

The heat broke. A nice breeze comes in the opened kitchen window and the one by the fire escape. I hear the 7 train as it rattles over the overhead tracks at 82nd Street some blocks away.

Our lovely vacation is over, and Laurence has returned to work at Elmhurst Hospital. He messaged me yesterday: “I’m in MPC (Medical Primary Care) today, working with Joy.” 😊 He worked until 1 p.m., and then came home for a quick lunch before going to an eye appointment. Dr. Dayan, the surgeon, said that his eye is healing well. We figured it was but it is a relief to hear this from him. We’ve been somewhat ‘gun shy’ after how it went after the first surgery. It will be eight weeks tomorrow since the second surgery. The gas bubble in Laurence’s eye is still there, but it’s very small, and soon won’t be at all. 😊

Laurence could not have flown to Dad’s funeral even if it would have been a month later. I sometimes find it hard to grasp that he missed it. God knows. However, we as a family still feel incredibly blessed with the beauty and the timing of Dad’s passing.

That doesn’t mean we don’t miss him. I thought of Dad often on vacation. So many of the places we were, we had been with Dad. I can see Dad laughing at Wolfman with his rickety old car buzzing beside the train we rode at Clark’s Bears, and how Dad and Laurence walked one evening after hours to see the bears. I remembered that Dad said he was going to someday ride the cog train up Mt. Washington again, and how I lost every game we played in the old Saranac Lake cabin.

Life has returned to routine, to coffee in our bedroom first thing in the morning, and to long walks in the evening. I do laundry in the basement laundromat, and shop at the local grocery store on Wednesday when I get senior discount. Saturday is the farmer’s market. On Sunday, we worship at Sugar Hill. Laurence works 12 hours on Mondays. Tuesday the library opens at noon. On Thursdays, I write a thankful list. Friday, I pack a lunch for Saturday, I clean, and prepare something for Sunday dinner at the mission. Saturday evening, we figure out an ethnic restaurant to go to – often on Rockaway, and then we walk by the sea.

I appreciate and enjoy routine life. Berniece

The mountains are shrouded in fog this morning while I sip coffee on an Adirondack chair in front of Cottage 6. Rain softly fell on the roof as we slept and a water puddle sits in a low place of the gravel driveway. The trails will be muddy today. We hiked yesterday to the top of Mount Willard where we had an incredible view of the Presidentials and of Crawford Notch. We could see where we’d ridden the scenic railroad into the Notch. We live outside when we’re up here. We take our meals outdoors: breakfast, dinner, supper. Coffee too and devotional time. We have interesting conversations on the trail (“You’re the best dressed person on the trail”), or while waiting in the ice cream line.

Why then, do we live in the city? Sometimes, I wonder. Laurence says how he walks to work. He comes home for lunch. He has weekends off, health benefits, and vacation. People are there. We’re fascinated by culture. Even out here, Laurence will say to me of the tourists, “Did you know that they’re South Koreans?” NYC is foodie heaven. It’s a feast for the eyes as we observe the sights of every block different from the last one – the little shops, the Asian markets, the street vendors and on and on. A bus takes us to the sea or to walk the wooded trails of Forest Park – so much variety in the city. The mission church is there.

Most importantly, God wants us in the city, a place where life has its joys and sorrows. God blesses us with this time in the mountains. It’s a gift, and we are thankful. Soon we’ll return to Queens. Our heart is there. It is home. (And my coffee is cold. 😎 Today, we get to meet the Brent Loewen family and their company for the bear show by Lincoln, NH.) Berniece

The sun rises over the White Mountains and peeks into our cottage window, saying, “Rise and Shine.” While meditating in the coolness of the morning (this isn’t Kansas), the Spirit brings Malachi 4:2 to mind, “Unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings.” I reflect back to a year ago in the White Mountains, and I know that God has granted healing since that time. I am learning that by trusting Him completely, there is peace. Luke 1:78,79 in the NIV says, “Because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living darkness . . . to guide our feet into the path of peace.” Peace.

A favorite place in the White Mountains is the Kancamagas Highway. The 34.5 mile scenic drive has no restaurants, gas stations, or motels. It does have waterfalls, picnic areas,  many curves, hiking trails, and pullovers to stop and take in the beauty. It is prettiest in fall, but its summer beauty isn’t lacking.

A year ago, on an evening drive we stopped at Kancamagas Pass. The sun was beginning to slide down the Western sky, and it felt like we were meant to be in this place, at this time to marvel at the beauty of God’s creation. At 2,855 feet, a light jacket feels good even in summer. We pulled out camp chairs and sat in the shelter to watch the spectacular scenario. We were not alone. Others joined us in hushed, reverential silence.

This year, we returned. We were alone at the Pass, but as the sun began its descent behind the mountains, more people wandered in. Laurence kept saying, “O beautiful sunset” (instead of sunrise like the song says ). A husband told us that sunset on the Pass was what his wife wanted for her birthday. Once again, we were awed by God’s creation as the sun slid down the sky: the sun resting on the mountains, then partially below, lower, lower, until only a sliver of bright orange remained, and it disappeared. We sang, “Happy birthday, dear Joni,” with whom we’d shared sunset at Kancamugus Pass, folded up our camp chairs, and drove the curves back to Lincoln, NH.

“O beautiful sunrise or sunset,” when Christ shall come again in majesty . . .” Have a blessed Sunday.

Berniece

P.s. It amazes us that there is a congregation worshipping in NH.

Rain softly drips outside the screen door of the cottage on South Hero Island this morning. We sit in the cozy, windowed living area that looks out over Keeler Bay.  The Green Mountains shaded in blues rise across the waters of Lake Champlain. Black-eyed susans and other flowers border the expanse of green lawn leading down to the water.

The Lake Champlain Islands are accessed by bridge or ferry. Route 2 passes by this cottage. Ironically, four days away on this same highway is the Bonners Ferry, Idaho, home of Laurence’s boyhood. (Now the Rory Walker home.)

We pass through these islands every summer, but this year we were fortunate to rent a place here. Laurence grilled burgers after we arrived here last evening, and we had corn on the cob and watermelon from Wengerd’s Farmer’s Market. (Somewhere not far from here Mom and Dad Wengerd lived years ago when they were Amish and the children were little. )

We drove up Mt. Equinox yesterday and enjoyed the views from the top. Driving on Route 7 by Bennington in Vermont brought back memories of being there with my parents and made me lonesome for Dad. (“We stopped here with folks. I think it’s the store where Mom bought fudge.”) We passed by the large Todd Lincoln estate that we once toured with folks. And were near the little yellow Serenity cottages where we stayed . . .

We’ll have breakfast here at the cabin, and then pack a lunch and drive up Mt. Philo with its expansive views of the Champlain Valley. That means a favorite ferry ride across Lake Champlain today.

Wishing you a good day. We’d like to have you join us here. 🙂 Berniece

Saturday

Isaiah 30:21: “And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.”

I stand by the yellow strip on the platform where I once lay with an obviously broken leg. A work train honks and then, “Cling, cling, cling” as it pulls through the station. Slowly, other early Saturday morning commuters join me to wait for the R train. “This is the way” to my job at the farmer’s market. The quiet voice of the Spirit says, “These are the words to write.”

Some years ago, I stood alone and confused by the railing of an East River ferry, when I heard a Voice say clearly, “I want you here (in the city).” Most often quiet, but that time loud enough to get my attention, God always has direction.

(Looks like it’s a man’s working world on the train this morning. Backpacks are the order of the day. Heads nod in slumber. The six pairs of shoes across from me are white, brown loafers, black, yellow tennis shoes with blue shoestrings, black sandals, black and white Nikes.)

“This is Roosevelt Island. The elevator is at the front of the platform.” I complete this post while sitting on an old block wall by the East River across from the Manhattan skyline. Seagulls cry. Traffic roars. “This is the way,” today. I do not know about tomorrow. God has a good plan for me (Jeremiah 29:11). I will trust Him.

Sunday

Today’s Sunday school lesson is titled, “Obeying Magistrates.” Laurence provoked the thoughts for this post when he reminded me of my experience of being a caregiver in the home of a judge in NYC.

Though I was the “little maid” the judge would often come home from a day in court and share the case with me. (A murder that happened in a church a few blocks from our home.) Mr. Judge did not banter about the case but rather, he was deeply burdened. The responsibility of the sentencing weighed heavily on him. The trial ended. The jury cast their vote. The judge sentenced. He said to me, “I did what I had to do” – not what his flesh wanted.

I respected the judge. In serious discussions, we talked about my stand as to serving on jury duty. He told me that I could not be dismissed from serving except by a judge.

Some years later, I sat in a dimly lit courtroom as attorneys from opposing sides described a court case. I heard the questions for jury selection. When my time came to be in the box, I asked to be excused. “Why,” the judge wanted to know. He heard my answer. He’d heard it before in his house in a quiet part of Queens. When the judge excused me, his little maid walked free.

In the light of today’s lesson, I plead for respect for the authorities of our land. Someday, we may need to give an answer for our convictions.

Berniece

P.s. The rod in my leg rarely bothers me. Laurence and I hope to do some hiking in the next couple of weeks.

“I need no mansion here below for Jesus said that I must go to a home beyond the clouds not made with hands” (C.S. Grogan).

Minister Quentin Koehn said that this song stayed with him during the time of my dad’s passing. It’s fitting for the legacy Dad left us. My mind wanders back to an old two-story farmhouse. I would climb steep, narrow stairs and walk through my brothers’ bedroom to get to my room with its flowered wallpaper and a south window that overlooked the lilac bushes in the backyard.

There was the barn, ramshackle chicken houses, multiple wood sheds, and grain bins. Dad converted one of the buildings into a place to raise rabbits. The wood storage bins made excellent jail rooms when we played cops and robbers. (Locked up, you smelled the old grain.) I spent hours in the barn with my kittens after I found them in some dark space. Though not rich in earthly goods, I had the best of childhoods.

The time came for folks to retire and move to town. My parents’ home in Halstead is a simple one where love dwells and the front porch is made for sitting on.   Dad left his “no mansion here below” for a “home beyond the clouds” on July 5.

In the week after Dad’s passing, the table stretched to hold family and friends. Great-grandchildren spilled into the living room or onto the porch. The kitchen overflowed with people involved in food preparation.  Groups crowded together to fill the house with singing. There wasn’t room or luxury, but love spilled into all corners of the simple home that Dad purchased. Dad often commented on how he’d been blessed beyond his expectations.

This morning, as I reflect on my heritage,  Hebrews 13:5 comes to me, “Be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” Dad left me a rich legacy.

Berniece

Sunshine glinted off the plane as it took off early Saturday morning. “O beautiful sunrise.” Dad is experiencing sunrise in Glory. It’s sunrise this morning as I am on the porch where he so often sat. However, it isn’t sunrise in Glory where I am though the trees are green, the birds sing, and the cucumbers Dad planted on the porch begin to vine. Dad wanted the ugly pile of brush on the hospital parking lot out of here. It was there when I came, but this morning, I see it’s gone. Dad rests in the splendor of Glory, and these things are no longer important.

Little bikes are parked in Dad’s garage. A small great-granddaughter asked Mom, “Why did great-grandpa die?” Dad enjoyed nothing more than watching these little ones. A mom reports seeing Dad shake with laughter at their antics at the last Grandpa Night gathering.

Why did Dad die? His body was worn out. He lived his life well, and now he’s s left us for sunrise in Glory. We rejoice that Dad is Home.

Berniece

P.s. I reflect over the crowd gathered last evening: family, friends, cousins of folks, my cousins, special friends of folks, and special friends of ours, Shawn, the hospice nurse . . . Dad was loved. We are loved. We love you. Thank you for being there for us.

“For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens” (2 Corinthians 5:1).

Dad’s earthly house has been exchanged for a heavenly one, the mud mansion I pictured replaced by a sparkling home eternal in Heaven. While I am sad, I  also rejoice that he’s won the race, and I do not want my dad back here.

Not long ago, I prayed for Dad to live. You may wonder at me, but I was not ready for him to die. God giving me the picture of Dad’s house of clay helped me to let go.

I’ve been doing plenty of letting go lately. I thought Laurence could not possibly have a second eye surgery, but he did. (Because of this he will not be at Dad’s funeral. We’ve accepted this. A month ago we spent quality time with my parents in Kansas.) I  thought that no way could we leave Cape Cod last week after only one night there, but we did. Yesterday afternoon, I sat here in LGA, Delta terminal, expecting to fly to Kansas. But instead, after a pilot shared with me about his father dying earlier this year, I went home and ate Shanghai soup dumplings with Laurence. This morning, I am back at the airport to fly to Kansas. (Pray that it will happen.)

In all of the above scenarios, my ways were not God’s. His ways are both higher and better than mine. I can trust Him completely.

My dad is free of this house of clay. He is safe in the arms of Jesus. I also rest in the arms of Jesus, knowing He has a beautiful place prepared for me. And for you. God bless you.

Berniece

P.s. The West African Uber driver shared with me this morning that if we are humble, we won’t have anxiety.

Both Belleville’s and Fairview’s song services inspired us last evening as we listened from the chairs in our apartment bedroom. Even better was singing with the Akinyombos at the worship service in Poughkeepsie yesterday morning. The music rang right from our inner being!

Needing exercise, we went out after the services last evening. The Tibetans had gathered to dance to the music of their country in the playground near here. We watched as the large group, some in traditional dress, circled swaying and prancing. When the tempo picked up, the dancers moved more swiftly, stomped harder and motioned more. Smiles lit the faces of the dancers. They dance to preserve their cultural identity against the encroachment of the Chinese in their homeland. The dance was a protest.

Ironically, the Chinese were not being silent in the playground; a large speaker system loudly poured forth their dance music. Couples paired off and twirled to the songs sung in a language we don’t understand.

Laurence and I walked on. A few blocks later, we heard another kind of music. We crossed the street and found a small group standing in a handball court, chanting as a leader directed. It was a Hindu worship service.

I pray that the music of the one true God will someday fill Elmhurst. Berniece

P.s. Laurence returned to work this morning after over two weeks off for eye surgery and recovery. Help us pray that all will be well. Thank you for all your prayers!