Author Archives: Berniece

This life and that life. This town and that city. This place and that one could hardly be more different, yet I feel at home here in Small Town just like I do in Big City. Here, we bounce on old brick streets while driving a car. There, we glide on trains or ride buses. Our people live here, but over the years, we’ve bonded with the people of the world who bring their customs and cultures to Queens. And their food! Laurence says he misses soy sauce when he’s in Small Town. The smell of garlic does not waft through the air here, like it does on the streets and in the hallways of our apartment building in NYC.

We enjoy the conversations around dining tables and in coffee shops that come with visiting in Small Town. Being with family is always quality time. We get to laugh and love great nieces and nephews, and listen to, “Boom,” as the little niece tells about Dad shooting an armadillo.

It rained and rained in the City. We came to Small Town, and it rained here. The rain didn’t shut the subway down or close Night Market for six Saturdays like it did in Queens. Instead, now the wheat can come up in the big fields.

My parents live in Small Town. We carry coffee to the porch while we read the Word and meditate. The porch is for visiting with Dad and Mom (and anyone that comes by). There is no porch in the Big City, but it is home. Berniece

This morning we’re alone in the crowd of a subway car. It’s not much different than the aloneness on a porch overlooking Lake Champlain. Swaying with the train while holding a layered lettuce salad for lunch in the fellowship hall, I say a prayer. The Spirit reminds me how blessed we are to have a beautiful church building to worship in though we live in NYC. God is here just as He was in Vermont a week ago.

A thousand times, I’ve rebelled against aloneness. I did again this last week, longing for someone to message, “Could we meet?” Reasoning with God does not bring happiness. (Laurence just realized that there is a seat beside me. He moved across the D train to sit with me. I’m not alone. 😊) I read from Elizabeth Elliott’s excellent book Loneliness, A Pathway to God again this morning. She writes how God gives joy to those who mourn and that joy is quite different from being happy. “The price then for joy is mourning.”

“My cup runs over” as I surrender and embrace God’s plan for my life. And as I’ve done so often in the past, I thank God for the opportunity to live here.

You too are blessed! Love, Berniece

“You left your cart. Somebody take it.” It seemed strange that the building superintendent would call our apartment to tell me this. After all, I always leave my cart parked against a washer in the basement laundry during my once a week wash day. However, I thanked the super for his concern and hopped onto the elevator. I needed to go down anyway to throw the clothes into the dryer.

“Has there been a problem in the building?” I inquired as I pulled clothes from the washer. I really like the super. He works hard to keep the building clean. He is from Albania, and doesn’t speak or understand much English.

“People of the building good. Renters, I don’t know.” He left to empty the trash, but soon returned. This time he walked to a washer and picked up a card.

Card not cart! The card I used to start the washers! I’d just put $20 on it. I thanked him profusely. I stuck this card into the slot to start the dryer, and immediately noticed that it had $9 left (not $20) on it. I pushed start though I knew it wasn’t my card. Mine was in the cart pocket where it belonged. I had used someone else’s money. I told the super that it wasn’t mine. He took it.

An hour later, I left the apartment to return to the basement, but then thought, why not take the $1.50 that I used from someone else. I went back into the apartment and got the money. Down in the laundry room, an Asian lady wearing a yellow blouse was looking around and then went to the machine to add money to a card. Sure enough, she’d lost her card. I did not speak her language, but I made sure she understood that the super had her card, and I gave her the $1.50. When she kindly tried to return the money, I raised my hands in protest.

A week ago, the laundry room visit was with a tenant who came here from Argentina as a young girl. She and I discussed culture and how we have so many different ethnic groups living around us. It is such a blessing to observe and try to understand the people of God’s great world, and sometimes we misunderstand.

That’s my Friday evening ramblings. I suppose I could do a whole series of laundry room episodes. Have a blessed weekend. Berniece

I do not have the patience to do the research in order to write in a knowledgeable way about the history along Lake Champlain. There’s a peaceful shore road on the New York side near the Canadian border that Laurence and I enjoy walking. We stop to read the historical markers along the way: “Near this spot survivors of the British gunboat Simcoe buried their dead comrades left on board following the American naval victory on Plattsburgh Bay.” So reads one marker after another until our mind picture becomes one of musket blasts and death. But today, the lake is serene and blue and a dairy man leads his cattle to pasture.

South of here stands the massive ruins of “His Majesty’s Fort of Crown Point.” The French built a fort here between 1734 and 1737. In 1759, the British captured the fort from the French and built a fort here. General John Burgoyne’s army occupied the fort in 1777, and it remained in British control until the end of the Revolutionary War. (Are you history buffs following me?)

I told Laurence what I’d written about him wanting me to tell you the history. He replied, “Are you going to say how peaceful it is today?” There is hardly a lovelier place along the lake than by Crown Point. The formidable ruins make you gasp with their massiveness, but today, it is a serene park with an awesome view of the lake, a graceful bridge that connects New York and Vermont, and of mountains.

Yesterday morning, we took a hike that began at a Revolutionary War cemetery and led to the top of Coot Hill. We could look down on Crown Point, on the lake, and the Champlain Valley. The Adirondack Mountains were dressed in fall colors. I know of no prettier view. Yet, in this spot a British soldier once spied on the French at Crown Point.

We crawled in slow traffic back into the city yesterday evening. Today, I look out at the cityscape as I write about the Champlain Valley. This is home, but it isn’t far to go there, and, Lord willing, we will return to that peaceful place. Berniece

The coffee Laurence made stays hot in a Yeti cup while we sit in the coolness of a new day on the porch of an old cottage – one that was built in another era. The lush greenness of the lawn slopes down to the blue of Lake Champlain. The Green Mountains of Vermont rise on the opposite shore.

Yesterday we walked the familiar streets of Essex, NY, while waiting for the car ferry to take us across to Vermont. In visiting with the blue-eyed (so seldom seen in NYC ) couple from New Brunswick, we learned that they’re acquainted with the Mennonites. We heard an encouraging sermon while overlooking the Champlain Valley from the top of Mt. Philo. “At evening time it shall be light” (Zechariah 14:7).

Laurence designed a scenic drive that took us over the mountains and through the woods of a Vermont dressed in greens, reds, yellows, and golds. We viewed falls rushing with copious amounts of water and walked a trail through meadow and wood where Robert Frost spent 23 summers. A bookstore owner and I shared about our love of reading and writing while Laurence really wished to be moving on to mountain roads. As we left the man said to Laurence, “Thank you for your patience.”

Today we return to the city. It is home. Whether it be in the city or the country, on the mountain or in the valley, we are given the privilege of letting the Light shine in the evening of Time. Be blessed today. Berniece

P.s. I hear the whistle of the train below me and beside the river. Someday we’d like to take this scenic ride to Port Henry, New York, a village near here.

P.s.s. I feel quite sure if I’d consult Laurence, he’d want me to tell you about the history of this valley.

I hear a subway train pull away from the Elmhurst Subway Station as I trot down the steps into the familiarity of an early Saturday morning. Commuters do not line the platform, but they will before another train pulls in. I am not the only New Yorker going to work early this morning.

Is the rain over and gone? Will the flooded stations again have trains running through them? How will I get to market this morning? My plan is to take the R to Queensboro Plaza, then a shuttle bus to the shuttle train that goes to the Island. If the above fails, I’ll pay the price for an Uber driver. Last week, a man from Bangladesh picked me up only a couple minutes after I messaged. He surprised me by asking if I’m Amish from Pennsylvania. I cannot (do not want to) hide who I am. “I’m Mennonite. Have you heard of the Mennonites?”

Now I ride the R train surrounded by hard working people of every tribe and nation. Sleepy ones too, and some wear masks. The lady beside me has blue fingernails. The pretty Asian lady across from me looks like a stewardess. The Mexicans ride with their backpacks.

The day feels full of opportunity to let the Light shine.

That’s a peek into the last 15 minutes. Trains screech. “Stand clear the closing doors. Next stop Queensboro Plaza.” Have a good day. I’d like to hear about your morning. Love, Berniece

After four days of cloudy, rainy weather (rainy should be first, but it doesn’t read right), Laurence pushed open the bedroom shade this morning to a city washed clean and bathed in sunshine. Who could stay inside on such a glorious fall day!? This afternoon, rather than studying Spanish, I rushed to the library. (Meaning I walked fast to quiet any guilt for not exercising.)

I passed the “butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.” Better said, “The beggar, the vendor, and the cobbler.” The beggar asked for a dollar. The Asian vendor sold cheap things made in China from blankets laid out on the sidewalk. The Mexicans played musica, waved their flag, and sold fresh flowers, fruit and veggies. The cobbler sold me a pair of black boots, Clarks brand for $5. I added a $1 tip after he beat the dust from them. The cobbler and I do not speak the same language. A man who spoke Chinese came along and explained how the shoe he held needed to be repaired. I like to watch the cobbler work. His sidewalk shop is under the Long Island Railroad on Broadway. When the day is done, he’ll carry his wooden box of tools home with him.

For months, I’ve been watching Thrifty Sisters for some black boots in my size. Today, I found a pair for sale by the cobbler’s bench. God is good! All the time! He cares about the little things in our lives.

Berniece

P.s. Are you interested? I almost think this is too dumb to publish.

“This little light of mine. I’m going to let it shine!” Shine all over New York City. I’m going to let it shine. Let it shine till Jesus comes. I’m going to let it shine.”

I’m giving a shout out that the Pandemic is over! Join the masses walking through the Times Square Subway Station in the afternoon of the fourth Sunday of the month, and you will hear the Mennonite singers belting out, “There is power in the blood!”

Someone set up in “our spot” at the station, so the Mennonite group of around 30 people strung out through the long hallway that leads towards the 7, R, N, and Q train. Missionary Todd, houseparent Randy, Laurence, and the four young men took the lead. (Zach, the new boy, hauled the tracts. Some things don’t change. 😅.) We stopped in the corridor where these trains connect. Preston, the boy who’s here the longest, gave out song numbers. (This is also according to tradition.)

And we sang: loudly (to drown out the trains), beautifully, and most importantly, to the glory of God! We’ve been doing this for almost thirty years, but yesterday was different. I’m not sure I can explain; we’ve been through some hard valleys during the Pandemic. I understood the commuters passing through have likely also been broken, and I loved them. We could offer them hope in Jesus.

I passed out tracts for awhile and was encouraged by how people took them. A lady gave me a 👍, saying, “This is what we need.” A stooped Black man told me how people with the Holy Spirit identify with one another. After leaving, he turned back to give me some more words of cheer. I wonder if he was an “angel unaware.”

The Mexican vendors beside me sold clear cups filled with mango, pineapple, or watermelon. Another had a cart with churros. The police drove them away. Later, they returned. Once, they pretended to be waiting for the elevator instead of trying to make dinero when the authorities were in sight. They gladly took the Spanish tracts offered to them.

As the mission staff and PA group took the long hall towards the A train, Laurence and I went down the stairs to take the 7 train to our apartment in Elmhurst. We’d let the Light shine, and we’d been blessed.

Do you recall singing in the subway. What are your memories? (Who remembers being stung with pepper spray and losing their voice?)

Berniece

P.s. Youth sister Abigail Daramola got ahead of me with writing a blog about yesterday. 😊 https://abigaelmoyin.wixsite.com/meraki/post/bowery-sunday

Three tall, light-skinned, fair-haired young men popped up out of the subway station. They did not fit in with the short in stature, dark-haired Asian and Hispanic peoples of Elmhurst, and I easily spotted them. Rylan, Todd, and Zach came from the land of Oz (that’s all New Yorkers know about Kansas) to one of the most culturally diverse areas of the United States. We began with coffee in Elmhurst Rostery. Afterwards, I pointed out the church where the future King William IV of England once worshipped, and then we went on to the Asian market. It was fun to see these guys’ fascination for live crabs, eels, and frogs, and to watch the workers cleaning and cutting up fish. We went through the aisle of noodles, and I pointed out the great variety of teas for whatever ails you. The food court just up the block was mostly shut down except for the Burmese stall with the Chinese raman noodle take out place beside it.

We crossed into the Moore Playground. The action in there depends on the time of day. I’m guessing that yesterday morning, it was Korean women doing Tai Chi and retired Chinese couples dancing. The basketball courts are always busy, and some homeless will be holding down park benches.

The young men saw our apartment, and blessed it with some singing 😊 before we walked on to Elmhurst Hospital to say hello to Laurence. We crossed the border between Asia and South America. My favorite tamale 🫔 lady gave me a smile as we passed. She’d sold out and was pushing a grocery cart with her empty kettles towards home. The young men climbed into the overhead subway station at 82nd Street to take the train to the “Place of Tourism”: One World, 9/11 Museum, Trump Tower, Central Park, Brooklyn Bridge, etc. These places are not on my tour schedule, but if you want to see Queens, I’d love to show you around. (Especially if it includes a meal at a favorite ethnic restaurant.)

Berniece

P.s. Laurence said I could write a blog about the future of the Church being in good hands. We’ve been encouraged with the spiritual youth we’ve spent time with recently.

I gaze out at a fire escape and rooftops. None of you hear the 7 trains rumbling or planes taking off from LaGuardia Airport. However, though we live in an alone place, we belong, and belonging is beautiful. It is safe.

Tomorrow I will take a bus and a shuttle (which is kind of a pain as the F train is not stopping at Roosevelt Island because of track work), and I will walk into the market. There, I will see brothers and sisters of the same faith, setting out mounds of fresh fruits and vegetables. I will belong, and the fellowship will be sweet (in between the busyness of waiting on customers).

I learned that we are not alone in Elmhurst after breaking my leg in January of 2021. I’m still awed by the fact that many made the trip to Queens to express their love to us and to make sure we had something to eat. One of the special memory pictures from that time shows my church sisters from different places and countries squished into our living room for a Christmas gift exchange. Bee was here with her teacher, Randalyn, and Abigail, Elizabeth, the moms, and mission staff wives…

Whenever I think of the beauty of being a part of the people of the Church, I remember the glory that shone in the chapel at Enfield Shaker Village in Vermont when we met there for a writer’s retreat. We ladies of different ages and places had never all met before. Our husbands were not all acquainted. Yet, we united as one while reciting the 23rd Psalm, while singing, visiting, and praying.

On vacation the next summer, Laurence and I stopped by the Shaker dwellings. Remembering the retreat, I had great expectations, but I was let down. The chapel held no Glory. Instead, it was dark and damp. My people were not there.

This past November, I lifted my voice with a “washed in the blood” throng of thousands to sing, “Redeemed, how I love to proclaim it.” I did not want to leave the secure place that I felt at the Conference. I don’t need to. Though we live alone in Elmhurst, we belong to that brotherhood, and we are safe.

What do you find beautiful about belonging to God’s people? Berniece