Author Archives: 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

“Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations” (Psalms 90:1).

In my dream, the sun slipped below the horizon, leaving an orange glow in the darkening sky. The next evening, the sunset sky awed Laurence and me as we walked by the sea. Never seeing a sunset from an apartment window means that the recent sunset views from Gates Pass and Mt. Lemmon in Arizona imprinted themselves in my mind. They were so beautiful.

For Laurence’s mother the sun has set. Once, as I returned from a walk in Pack Park in Moundridge, I saw Mom holding open the door of their home, she asked me, “Did you see the sky?”  Mom took note of beauty, and from her, I learned the names of the wildflowers alongside the narrow mountain roads of Northern Idaho. She saw the birds, the trees, the flowers, and she could find the wild huckleberries.

I loved my mother-in-law and appreciate her gentleness with me – how she easily conversed about little things, telling me the details of her bread recipe, and that she liked the rolls to be nicely browned. (Cookies too so I try to be a good wife and bake these things the proper length of time though it’s not how I was raised.)

Mom was kind and gracious, a lover of hospitality and of song. I enjoy hearing the stories of her childhood, of her parents, and how her and Dad came together in marriage. Today, I see her grandchildren serving the Lord, and I get to hold her great-grandchildren. As the sun has set on Mom’s life, the family can say, “The Lord has been our dwelling place in all generations.” This comforts me. Berniece

My world is quiet this morning except for the sound of a shovel scraping on the sidewalk. The superintendent clears a path for those who must go to work. Snowflakes fall against a gray background. White layers the rooftops outside our bedroom window and softly piles on the narrow ledge of a red fire escape.

It’s such a contrast from two weeks ago when we hiked the dusty, narrow trails of Sabino Canyon in Tucson with James, Kris, Caleb, and Daniel. How good it felt then to cool my feet in the cold waters of a small pool at the bottom of the canyon.

Laurence looked out from under his jacket hood to where I stood by the living room window and waved goodbye this morning. He’s off to work in a clinic at Elmhurst Hospital. Likely, patients will cancel appointments, and the usual chaos of Medical Primary Care will know a rare calm. I have a dress to sew today, some proofreading for a friend, food to cook, and the Spanish language to study.

I marked Psalm 51:7 in my Bible this morning: “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Have a good day! Berniece

Today is Laurence’s birthday. I stop writing to look out at rooftops with the bare branches of trees rising above them. Because I married Laurence, I get to live in this place.

I smile to myself, recalling those first years here when we roamed the city from Bronx to Brooklyn, from brownstones to large apartment complexes, from the J Train at Woodhull Hospital to the last stop on the D Train at Coney Island. We carried tracts everywhere we went: “Would you like a Gospel tract to read?”

I felt quite pleased to be his wife when in 1999, Laurence graduated valedictorian, giving a speech that had his classmates laughing and nodding in agreement. His 26 years at Elmhurst have not been without stress, but he continues to take patients vitals and to listen to their complaints and praise. He skillfully draws my blood when I’m the patient and checks to see that I’m moving through the system. His coworkers greet me, “You’re Penner’s wife.” Laurence gets to come home for lunch with me.

Covid was hard! At times, the symptoms still bother. However, we continue to walk city streets and climb mountain trails. Tonight, we’ll dine at an Uzbek restaurant. With Laurence, I get to experience the cultures of the world.

Laurence is not planning to retire this year.

Happy Lunar New Year! Lunar New Year is a big deal in Elmhurst where we live. Berniece

Sorry about the bold letters. It didn’t work to copy and paste the article below. Anyway, what I want to say is that I am open to your direction! Increasingly, these authors are being read by my sisters. This morning, I typed, Why are Sarah Young’s books deceptive?” What I read further alarmed me. Do I have wrong thinking about these books??

I threw Jesus Calling by Sarah Young into the trash at the Chicago O’Hare Airport. I felt empty, bereft after the garbage can swallowed the book. I’d had a similar experience with Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts when I’d checked it out from the library. I’d just gotten into the book when God asked me to leave it alone and return it.

Why did the Holy Spirit whisper that I shouldn’t read these books?

As a little girl, I’d sleep with a Raggedy Ann doll wrapped tightly in my arms. This illustration came to me as I thought of devotional books written by those who teach another Jesus (2 Corinthians 11:4). “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me” (Matthew 16:24). Modern day devotionals often craftily teach an independent spirit that says, “How I live is between me and a Jesus who loves me intimately.” This spirit does not need a brotherhood.

Sarah Young says in Jesus Calling, “When your Joy in Me meets My Joy in you, there are fireworks of heavenly ecstasy.” Or again, “Wear my Love like a cloak of Light, covering you from head to toe.” Is this Jesus speaking? No! These are the words of a modern, liberal woman. This teaches another Jesus and delves into the occult.

The same goes for Ann Voskamp in One Thousand Gifts. The message of “In everything give thanks” (1 Thessalonians 5:16) is biblical and important, but her book teaches false doctrine. Voskamp says, “Mystical union. This is the highest degree of importance. God as Husband in sacred wedlock, bound together, body, and soul, fed by His body, quenched by His blood. . . God, He has blessed – caressed. I could bless God – caress with thanks.

The last chapter of the Bible says, “For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book.”

The Bible is a safe guide. Let’s read it and other sound teachings printed by the Church. Truth unites us with our brothers and sisters. “Buy the truth and sell it not.” Berniece 8/29/22

“Jesus came to give life and to give it more abundantly. Abundance is more than enough. Do you know what it means to sacrifice everything so that you can have . . . more than enough? More than enough joy. More than enough peace. More than enough satisfaction. More than enough hope. And finally, more than enough assurance of a home in Heaven.”

These are words from the sermon preached last Sunday in Phoenix by Minister Wayne Amoth. Today, because of Jesus, I am experiencing “more than enough” in a desert place. Along with Laurence’s little sister and family, we have walked the streets of Nogales, Mexico, hiked miles through a canyon, ate delicious barbecue, spent time around a fire while Sister roasted marshmallows, heard coyotes, and had javalinas walk through the patio of our vacation rental. However, I can testify from experience that if it were not for the peace that comes with the absence of fear and turmoil, I would not be so happy here.

We are blessed with being able to leave city chaos to see these places of natural beauty, of mountains and desert, the sea and lakes. The devil likes to follow us to these places; I know what it is to be tormented on a canyon hiking trail. However, thanks to Jesus, today I’m experiencing “more than enough.” You can too. God bless! Berniece

P.s. What happens when a football hits a Saguaro cactus?

Small home where God dwells. Plants and a worn Bible grace the antique desk beside the bed. Two chairs sit in the bedroom. This room is a sanctuary; peace washes over me as I walk through the bedroom door.

We have a small table in the tiny kitchen where we take our meals. The countertop is big enough to shape loaves of bread and to roll out a pie crust. (However, I don’t feel peaceful rolling out pie dough, so that rarely happens.) The one window in the tiny kitchen looks into the tiny kitchens of other apartments.

Just now, my sewing machine sits on the dining table with an unfinished dress beside it. That room is a dining room, living room, spare bedroom, and sewing room. It’s been a church room. So many memories with so many people have been made in that room.

I’m glad we have a little foyer. The cupboard from Coca who died is there along with the great-grandpa bench from a sod house, my grandma’s sewing rocker, and the Bible from Laurence’s grandpa Dyck. The quilt with the New York skyline that Jennifer Messian made for me when I broke my leg is on the rocker. A quilt from Laurence’s mother is on the bench. My wedding china is in the cupboard. My favorite books are in the built-in bookcase.

We also have a tiny bathroom with a maroon bathtub. A metal hamper and medicine cabinet attached to the wall were put there when this building was built in 1938.

We are content with small.

And with neighbors on the other side of the wall. As I type, I hear their laughter. May your mouth be filled with laughter. (Psalm 126) Berniece

I am a New Yorker. I feel one with the people of every tribe and nation around me in the Long Island City courthouse. I’m a New Yorker in this little cafe, eating a Greek salad with lots of chickpeas while totally ignoring the attorney beside me, the one in whose courtroom I sit as they select a jury.

The ever so familiar 7 train pulls into the Court Square Station near here. I rode it to arrive at the courthouse this morning. I rode smashed and crushed while totally ignoring the people in my personal space. New Yorkers know how to ignore.

When I’d finished lunch, I stepped through the slush back to the courthouse. We had our first snowfall this morning. It would have been a good day to hole up in our apartment with a book.

I ended up in a court room with the same woman I sat by in Central Jury. We seemed destined to sit together as we found ourselves side by side for a second time. I glanced at her info and pointed out to her that we’re the same age. After taking a phone call, she confided in me that her son is in the emergency room. She was so worried. I told her I would pray. Just now, as I walked by, she said, “He’s much better,” the burden lifted from her countenance.

“Thank God,” I replied.

Ignoring. Caring. Riding trains. Walking city streets. I’m a New Yorker.

More than this, I’m a child of God; therefore, I cannot serve on a jury. Say a prayer for me. I will for you. Berniece