Author Archives: Berniece

My uncle Dean said at the service for his retirement from the ministry last evening that this song sung at his ordination had guided his ministry. I believe it was also the theme of his dad’s, my grandpa Becker’s calling.

At a Becker picnic back in the good ole days Uncle Dean told me, “Home is where your husband is.” Honestly, it didn’t seem like good days to me as right then all our earthly goods were packed in a U-haul for the move from Idaho to Georgia. I had no clue how this path would take us to a lifetime in New York City, to the one of the most, if not the most, diverse counties in the world.

Home is Elmhurst, Queens, where my husband is. Last evening, we watched as the smiling Tibetans circled to the music of their homeland. Once, a young woman stepped beside me at an intersection. She said, “I recognize you from the Colombian restaurant where I used to work.” Coming into our building some years ago, a group of monks in the rust-colored robes of the nearby Thai temple stood waiting for the elevator. Today, (after an appointment for his eye (thank you for praying)), Laurence will take the vital signs on patients from Mexico, China, India, South Korea . . . He works with nurses from Uzbekistan, Nepal, Russia, Jamaica, and many other countries. Jesus says, “All power is given unto me. Go.”

How blessed we are to live and work among all God’s children. The Gospel story, “Must be told.” Are we telling it? Berniece

Dressed for cold and rain, I step from the entrance awning of our building on Layton Street and walk two blocks to the subway station. I’m glad to see the world is awake here: a station attendant emptying trash, other commuters on their way to or from work. The homeless person isn’t awake, but rather, completely wrapped in a blanket, he soundly sleeps. Lights shine in the tunnel, closer, closer, and the R train rolls into the station.

Passengers visit in languages that I don’t understand. Some doze. It appears the man beside me is reading the Koran. Because it’s Ramadan he, like my Muslim coworker, will fast between sunrise and sunset. (This means no eating or drinking.)

I’ve arrived at Queens Plaza to wait for a bus that will take me to Roosevelt Island. Motels, offices, and residential apartment buildings rise all around me. I remember when this was a derelict, high-crime area. It’s changed. Now, we could not afford to live here.

A lady greets me. We’ve waited here together before. She comments that April 1 the train will again stop at Roosevelt Island. We won’t have to take the bus like we’ve been doing for months now. A man asks us for directions to 39th Avenue. We try to point him in the right direction.

Rain falls. Overhead scaffolding protects us. Soon a bus will pull up to the stop. (If not, Uber to the rescue.)

Good morning! May your day be blessed. The verse the Lord gave me today is Proverbs 4:23, ” Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.” I’d like to hear your inspiration. Berniece

Our bedroom is a peaceful place. Laurence just served us hot tea with biscotti from special cups on a small blue and white tray that I received when the neighbor lady two floors below us died. The tiny electric fireplace burns and we talk a little. Sometimes we sit – me in the small armchair and Laurence in the rocker – and listen to a service, or do some light reading until we fall into bed. I often think, this is the best time of the day.

But in the morning when Laurence sets coffee for me on the antique desk beside the bed, and he sits in the rocker drinking his, while we both read the Word then I often think, this is the best time of the day.

Today, Laurence and I took the Q53 bus to Jamaica Wildlife Refuge. For some reason, MTA was using a short bus. An Asian lady moved aside to let me have the empty seat by the window. Young people stood in a pack around the exit door. So close to me that I looked into their brown eyes, checked out fake fingernails, and their hairdos. Forget personal space on public transportation where you ride with every tribe and race, saint and sinner, rich and poor, and a lot of hurting people.

So we rode and looked out at stores and residences, restaurants, the overhead train, and Forest Park. (Laurence went to the park earlier today to walk on the horse trail.) We passed by the bay and saw planes taking off from JFK. Finally, we pulled the stop cord for the wildlife refuge. No one else got off with us. It’s rare that anyone does. We took a trail through flora and fauna and a forest. It circled around by the bay. In the distance was the NYC skyline. Laurence watched the birds and the ducks on the freshwater lake through his binoculars. The osprey flew from its nest. In the two mile walk we met one couple and another birder or two. It was peace away from chaos.

It’s a wonderful life – this living in the city – but for good mental and spiritual health, we must spend time in peaceful places. Berniece

Today, I’m having a latte in “Over the Moon,” cafe. Across from me is “Artisan Tea and Coffee.” I never expected to see all these coffee places in our vicinity.

In my bag, I have fabric for a June wedding. I have looked for garden wedding fabric in a dozen fabric stores or more. Always, “Just looking.” Just before I reached the last store, I said a prayer. Not a prayer of faith because I’d been in this store many times before. I knew it would be a miracle if there was the piece for me. I’m sure you already guessed that God gave a miracle, and I didn’t have to pay Manhattan prices of $35 a yard or even $15.

You think that was a little miracle? God gives these to increase our faith that He hears our pleading prayers. Yesterday, our 22 year old nephew was baptized. A big miracle!

Tell me about your recent answers to prayer. (I just thought of another answer today, but it’s too personal to share.) We serve a mighty God!

🙏 Berniece

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, we roll along the track beside the Hudson River to worship with our brothers and sisters in Poughkeepsie. Ever since we sold our little car in 2005, we’ve been adventuring on public transportation. And what a fun ride it’s been!

Last evening, we pushed through the Asian street vendors and pedestrians in Flushing to the Long Island Railroad train station. We’d picked a destination on the map where we could walk to a restaurant, and then set off to explore. The thirty minute train ride took us across Little Neck Bay and past the English-looking homes of Douglaston. We rode to the last stop at Port Washington, and then walked the wrong way for a while. However, we did discover the Japanese restaurants on Main where we may someday want to return to dine. We walked through residential neighborhoods until we reached a hole-in-the-wall barbecue place. After ordering, we took one of the four tables. The decor consisted of peach walls, dusty iron cowboy statues, beer signs, a chiminea, and metal roosters like I’d recently seen for sale in the markets of Nogales, Mexico. I assume this is a village like so many others on Long Island where the wealthy and the Mexicans who work for them (and are getting wealthy too) live. After a delicious meal, we had a sunset train ride home.

Today it’s the Metro North train that is taking us to Poughkeepsie. We had a bit of a time getting into Grand Central because of Fifth Avenue being blocked for the Half Marathon runners. (I enjoyed discussing this with two of our farmer’s market customers who will be in the race.) The grand Grand Central Station is one of my favorite places in the city. Even though it was early, people were coming and going, cafes served coffee, and a bridal couple posed for wedding pictures.

I forgot to write about the boisterous St. Patrick Day revelers on the train last evening. Most of them piled off at the same station and the car quieted.

The sun shines on the river and glimmers off the hills. We passed Westpoint, the island of the sisters who wrote, “Jesus Loves Me,” and now a Breakneck Ridge stop for the hikers. We’re not hiking today; we’re running a race. Our goal is Heaven. Have a blessed day! Berniece

I just came from picking up Laurence’s suit from the cleaners. Now it’s ready for Abigael’s wedding. My next door neighbor was coming in as I went out. I asked Rebecca about her cancer journey. Her and I stood in the lobby for 15 minutes while she told me the difficult time she’s having though she’s a year out from the surgery to remove the cancer.

I walked two blocks to the cleaners for the suit. As I came back into the lobby, Jose was coming out. Jose and his brother inherited Coca’s apartment. (I got her beautifully woven Romanian cloth.) I asked Jose how it’s going with Coca’s apartment. He said, “Do you want to see it?”  I definitely did, so he showed me the newly painted walls, new light fixtures, new kitchen flooring and backsplash, polished hardwood floors, and a lightened bathroom with a small shelf that held a tiny planter of real-looking lavender. Jose opened the doors of the walk-in closets – so much space. I could easily downsize from a one bedroom to move into that lovely studio apartment! Asking price is $235,000 (welcome to NYC!).

However, I know that both Jose and I felt some sadness. The empty apartment came because Coca died. She died alone. Her neighbors were her only support group. I met with the funeral director after she died. They put her ashes in a box. Jose spread them in Central Park where Coca would often go to walk.

There are 48 apartments in this building. The food smells in the hall tell us that people from many different countries and backgrounds reside here. The parents at work. The children at school, so this building is quiet during the day.

I’ll leave more building tales for another day. Laurence will soon be home for lunch. We are going to have the first picnic of the season this evening. Berniece

“There’s something different in the air,” Laurence said as we walked in the woods of Forest Park. We could only see the bare branches of the forest in the chilliness after sunset, but I also felt it – the hope of spring. Another winter had passed. “The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land” (SOS 2:12).

Earlier on Friday, I met my friend Wendy who lives on the Upper East Side for a walk in Central Park. We observed the first blooms of tiny daffodils, of snowdrops, and forsythia. Birds sang and sunshine glinted off the water of a meandering creek as we sat visiting on a railing in the North Woods. Yesterday, from the bus windows, I saw that pink blossoms cover the earliest of cherry trees on Roosevelt Island.

The winter is past. The playground near here fills with youth on skateboards, basketball, handball, volleyball, and ping pong players. (It’s a little place, but there’s space for the multitudes.) The Tibetans dance. The children play. The mothers visit.

I’ve never forgotten the youth who years ago in Woodside turned to me and began to sing, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” as we came down the 7 train subway stairs. This stranger and I both knew the beauty of a spring day in Queens.

And now I must get ready to leave for the train and for church in Harlem. Benn, Sundaymar, and my favorite Bee are coming. I’m thrilled. Minister Elmer Swarys are here along with their children and grandchildren. The Poughkeepsie people will be down, and Ephraim Kings are coming with Benns. Hopefully, the attendees Jamie, Dr. Simone, Rebecca, Ellen, and Sonia will be there. We have this great group of young men here and missionaries who know how to keep things running smoothly. Sunday school will be lively, the sermon inspired, and the fellowship hall will fill with joyous noise at lunchtime. (I wish you were here.)

Laurence just walked in with some buns for breakfast that he bought at the Chinese bakery.

Has spring arrived in your part of the world? Have a blessed Sunday. Berniece

A customer yesterday at the farmer’s market asked for an itemized receipt: eggs $3.99, kelabasa $3.99. I knew it meant my pricing would be scrutinized, and that I could be proven wrong. It happens! Sure enough, after a short time the customer returned.

“You charged me $3.99 for the eggs. I looked at the sign. It says, ‘$2.99.”

I turned to my coworker as the woman walked to the nearby sign to set me straight. “How much are eggs?” Eunice hesitated to say. We’ve been wrong so many times.

Customer turns the sign. “Oh,” she says, “I am wrong. They’re $3.99. I’m wrong.”

Relieved, I replied, “I really appreciate you saying that you are wrong. It isn’t easy to say that.”

Customer: “We make a big stink when the other person is wrong. When we’re wrong we should admit it.” She raised her arm, did a little jig, and shouted, “I’m wrong.”

Sister Kari if you’re reading this post, one of the best things you ever messaged about me was, “I know one thing about Berniece, she knows how to say, ‘I’m wrong.” Trust me, it hasn’t always been so. It took being broken. It took repentance to be able to humble myself and say, “I’m wrong. I’m sorry.” These are such beautiful words.

I didn’t even want to tell the boss yesterday when I’d messed up and given a customer $70 worth of free groceries because her credit card didn’t go through, and she was gone from the market, but before the end of the day, I admitted.

David said, “I think I’ve done the same thing.” (I guess I still have a job.” The boss’s boss is flying back from Malawi tomorrow where I understand they had ordination for both a minister and Deacon. Praise God.)

Soon now the D train will stop at 145th, and we’ll be at the mission. Have a blessed day. Berniece

In the city that never sleeps, I’m waiting on the bus alongside people who are off to their day jobs. The traffic roars on Queens Boulevard. The 7 train rumbles overhead. (Its windows alight. It’s passengers asleep or looking at their phones.) A man jogs past the bus I’ve just boarded. In all this action, the birds are singing. They’re awake too. Lighted windows in tall apartment buildings tell me that mothers are cooking. The deli sign flashes. The coffee shop is open. Delivery trucks pass and traffic moves in a river across the Queensboro Bridge.

We cross the East River. The passenger in front of me takes a picture of the magnificent Manhattan skyline. I pull the STOP cord. “Please exit through the rear door.” The Wengerd young men have a colorful market set up. They too worked through the night in this city that never sleeps.

“Good morning,” says the man in a wheelchair outside the grocery.

“Good morning,” I say to you. Berniece

In the last few days, we have:

Laid my husband’s mother to rest, seeing in her the image of the heavenly.

Felt so much love from and for the Penner family.

Witnessed the love of my father-in-law for his wife – not a love that wept deeply but one that glowed with the knowledge of his wife’s release from the earth.

Heard beautiful singing, beheld lovely flower bouquets, and ate delicious meals prepared by others.

Recalled so many good memories.

Renewed acquaintances with Penner and Dyck relatives and with friends.

Stood by the grave of great-grandfather Johann Dueck who as a young minister preached the funeral sermon of Minister John Holdeman.

Sang “Faith of Our Fathers” in the old Hillsboro church where Grandpa Dyck married Grandpa and Grandma Penner.

Listened to Abe Ensz and Franklin Dyck (with much input from the relatives) give a tour of the Dueck place, the David Dyck home place, the school where Mom attended . . .

Spent time with my parents at their home in Halstead.

I held the great-nephews. I rescued baby Ivan from his second cousin Laura’s smothering kisses.

I blushed to be pulled on stage.

I puzzled at being told, “New York is falling apart.”

I learned that Exxon’s horrific oil spill in the waters off of Alaska put an end to Norman Dyck’s livelihood.

I heard an exchange between two of the older Dyck cousins: “I have an axe to grind.”

“We will grind it then but not here.”

“Okay.”

We’re in the Kansas City airport waiting for our flight back to NYC. It’s been a sweet time of gathering with people we love. The funeral service for Mother was beautiful. All of the Richard Penner family was there except for weeks old baby Macklin and his mother. A huge thank you to our family and friends for caring for us during this time.

God bless you! Berniece