Author Archives: Berniece

“Your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.'”

“I want you in the city.” The Voice I heard behind me as I leaned against the upper deck railing of the ferry wasn’t literal; however, it was so clear that it could have been. God spoke, and I could rest in His direction, laying aside the turmoil of mixed messages from human tongues.

Years before, at home in Georgia, I’d heard the same words of affirmation for city living when they came ‘out of the blue’ one day as I walked through the back door of our mobile home by the pecan orchard.

This morning, after being questioned once again (or rather told by someone who says they know) when we’re leaving the city. I wonder. Soon? In a few years? Never? Will the Lord return before moving day?

I am thankful that God does not leave us clueless.  His Spirit speaks, correcting me, encouraging me, and He gives direction for the moment, for the day, and for life.

Laurence left to walk the two blocks to his job at Elmhurst Hospital. I am going to put ingredients in the bread machine (since the bread I had was all scarfed up at lunch in the fellowship hall yesterday), cut out a dress, go to the market, etc. This is direction for today. It is enough.

Berniece

P.s. In no way do I want to take away from consulting the brotherhood for direction. This is wisdom!

On this morning

When I just miss the local R train

I wait.

Finally, it comes

But just then

An F train buzzes through on the express track.

At Roosevelt it pulls out as we pull in.

Now I wait

Again.

God knows I pray about trains and timing.

So I stand here “redeeming the time”.

Berniece

Saturday morning on my way to work.

(This is not the sort of thing I write. Feeling foolish, I deleted it as soon as I posted. Here it is the second time.)

The young lady dressed in a lovely green sari with intricate embroidery laid her produce on the table where I stood checking out customers. She was beautiful too. Her toddler’s big brown eyes watched me and he smiled at me. Children are a conversation opener, and he gave me the nerve to ask the young woman where she’s from.

“Kashmir.”

“Did you say Kashmir? I want to go there.”

She replied, “You want to go there? You know about Kashmir? You are the first person I’ve met who knows about Kashmir.”

I shrugged. How do I know about Kashmir? I’ve probably read about it. “I’ve heard it’s the prettiest place on earth. I want to go to a houseboat in Kashmir.”

“It’s so beautiful,” she told me, “How shall I say it?” she twisted her hands, trying to explain. “It’s something more than beauty. It’s a feeling…” Words failed her. About then her husband came up. Short with a full black beard, he didn’t necessarily look like he belonged to this stunning lady. He picked up his little boy, and I could tell he was kind. The lady told her husband how I was the first person she’d met who knows Kashmir. He explained a little of the history to me. (In 1947,  the former princely state of the British Indian Empire became a disputed territory, now administered by three countries: China, India, and Pakistan.)

I’d read about the unrest, but they assured me that it’s safe to visit. I told them that  my husband probably would not be interested in going there. The man said that I could tag along with them IF they go back.

Do you want to join me to see Kashmir? Maybe you’ve been there and can tell me about it.

If there is paradise on this earth, it is here, it is here, it is here” (Amir Khusrau).

Berniece

Philippians 3:10, “That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection.”

I walked through the playground after buying buns from the Chinese bakery on Easter morning. “Truthfulness, compassion, and forbearance,” proclaimed the banner beside where the Fulan Gong group stood in a mediative pose. Several more Asian groups, some in uniform, moved to exercise music. I’d give it to them for their being fit. Further on a large group of young men played a fierce game of volleyball. Others were on the basketball court. The homeless hung out on the playground benches, cans and bottles of alcohol beside them.

Welcome to Easter morning in Elmhurst. Likely, if I would have walked on, I could have witnessed worshippers at the South Korean churches. Not all in Elmhurst are heathen but many are. I wiped a tear as I entered our building. God’s love is there for His creation in our community.

“Happy Easter,” I greeted customers at the farmer’s market yesterday. Many responded with the same, “Happy Easter.” One older Christian (?) couple told me they were going to Manhattan to join a protest. It made no sense to me. Another lady said she couldn’t comprehend what Christ did. I told her that’s me. I said, “I feel like my friends get it, but I don’t understand.”  This dear customer and I accept by faith Christ’s blood shed on Calvary.

I saw and heard evidence of the Resurrection in the service at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission this morning. The young men sang. The youthful tract couples shared songs and an essay. Attendees from different countries know the risen Savior and they will freely tell what He’s done for them.

Christ is risen! Matthew 28:18-19 says,  “All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth.
19 Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.” Many nations come together in Queens. Oh, that all might know the Resurrection Power.

Berniece

Our anniversary celebration took place at Kabul Grill on Long Island. From the Midwest to the capitol of Afghanistan is a far distance in country, climate, and culture. We had no plans of a dinner place when we rode the train to Long Island, but it wasn’t an accident that after a morning spent touring Old Bethpage Village, we chose this place for the Uber driver to drop us off.

We could not have chosen better. Rafi greeted and seated us, showing the hospitality that the Afghani people are known for. We made our choices of eggplant with yogurt, naan, chicken kebab with its mild seasonings and saffron, and rice with raisins and carrots.

Rafi, the owner, wanted to know what brought us here. When he heard we were celebrating our 43rd anniversary, he brought a second salad.

“Are you Muslim?”

“One hundred percent. What about you? Rafi asked.

“Christian.”

Later a man came in to get catered food for a Passover meal. He explained to us that this is the traditional food his Jewish grandmother made. (There were once tens of thousands of Jews in Afghanistan. Now there are none.) The Jew, the Muslim, and the Christians had a most amiable conversation in this peaceful country far from the turmoil in Kabul.

Above our heads hung the famous National Geographic picture of the 12-year-old Afghani girl in Pakistan. I mentioned we’d seen the same picture in a favorite restaurant near our place, but sadly, the restaurant closed. Rafi said the owner had died. I told him we’d met the man who started Edible Arrangements at the restaurant. “Do you know about him?”

“I know all about it,” he said looking down and giving a little kick that said, we don’t want to talk about this. Instead, I commented about the large, homemade kites decorating the walls. “Do these symbolize kite fighting?”

Rafi lit up. Kite fighting, now that was something he loved talking about. It’s the sport of their country. We once passed by a park with a sign, “No kite fighting!” Rafi couldn’t explain why Mayor Giuliani outlawed the sport of trying to cut your opponent’s kite string. Rafi said that it’s a colorful scene that people like to watch.

We don’t usually get dessert in a restaurant, but we were celebrating so we ordered baklava.

“Do you want baklava or custard?” Rafi asked.

Custard? That tempted us, but we stuck with the baklava. “You’re going to make us fat,” I said when I saw the large serving of the layered filo pastry, nuts, and syrup.

Finally, we finished and paid. As we walked toward the exit, Rafi appeared with custard. He handed it to Laurence saying, “You take good care of that wife of yours.”

A short train trip away on Long Island we experienced the food and culture of Afghanistan.  Berniece

Laurence had Monday, April 7, off. We took the train to Philadelphia. With speeds up to 125 miles per hour, we arrived there in only an hour and 15 minutes after leaving Penn Station. My cousin Gaylene with husband, Charles, met us at the train station. First stop was the Reading Terminal Market, a busy, bustling place with many food choices and not enough tables to seat the crowds. We, of course, had Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. Afterwards, we threaded our way through the aisles, stopping for donuts from Beiler’s. Laurence and I also purchased sausage from our go-to place, an Amish vendor. I appreciated visiting with the two older Amish ladies running the stand.

We dumped luggage off at an Airbnb before going down to the site of the immigration station along the Delaware River where the SS Vaderland landed on December 26, 1874. My great grandparents (likely along with your ancestors) came ashore in the New World there. Broken down pilings poke from the river; otherwise, we use our imagination at what it must have been like to set foot on land and walk into an unknown future. (As you know, it didn’t go good for a long time for them. Do I need to say how blessed we are?)

From there, we took Laurence back to the train station since he had to work today. Charles, Gaylene, and I went on to Germantown to the birthplace of the Mennonite Church in America. We couldn’t get into the church, but we walked around in the cemetery, thankful for the faith of our fathers!

Supper was at a Mexican restaurant before going back to our Airbnb. I messaged the host that there were no coffee pods. He responded by having Uber Eats deliver some from an hour away; that’s service for you! (I wrote him a nice review.) I felt rather loathe to leave the cute little house this morning, but we had places to go and things to see.

First stop was Independence Hall where the park rangers did a great job of explaining the writing of the Constitution. The original chair with the “rising sun” where George Washington presided is there. (Ben Franklin sat in the chamber wondering if it was a rising or setting sun and declared it a rising sun after the constitution was written.) Charles and Gaylene went to the Liberty Bell. I met them afterward at the Visitor’s Center. A lady there helped them plan the rest of their time in the Philadelphia Historic District.

We said goodbyes, and I parted ways with Charles and Gaylene. They went on to the Betsy Ross House, Christ Church Cemetery, and the Museum of the Revolution. These are all places we’ve been to numerous times. I walked to the Pennsylvania Bible Society. Founded in 1808, it’s America’s first Bible Society. It isn’t very impressive, but I like to go to that little place with Bibles. The older lady volunteer manning the desk shared with me how America needs to turn back to the Word.  Amen!

An Uber driver picked me up there and dropped me off at the train station. Less than two hours after leaving Philadelphia, I walked in at home – glad to be here, but so very happy we could appreciate the rich history of our forefathers and of our country together with Charles and Gaylene.

Berniece

It’s a long way from the front bench of Grace Mennonite Church, Halstead, Kansas, to an apartment in NYC.  Saying, “I do,” meant going with Laurence to Grandview, Idaho, a place I’d never been. I didn’t know the desert or mountains, how it would be to live in a small, old double wide, and to worship with only a few families. But I was young and in love. The flowers I planted bloomed profusely. I enjoyed long walks in the desert and mountain hikes with Laurence.

Then came Georgia with its heat, humidity, and hospitality. That strange place soon felt like home.  Here, we lived in a new single wide trailer amongst pecan trees. One day, God spoke clearly (after the Minister asked) when I was sitting on the entrance steps. He said He wanted us in NYC. That was 37 years ago.

Today, this once foreign place is home more than any other. Our small apartment is enough. These streets, stores, parks, trains, busses, playgrounds, and restaurants are familiar to us. We enjoy the ethnic diversity, understand a little bit of different cultures, and make our living here. Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission is here. God is here.

I did not know when I said, “I do,” 43 years ago today that we’d never have children, spend many years in NYC, have friends across the conference, or that I’d be writing this blog.  It’s good, I didn’t know.

God knew.  From the plains of Kansas to the skyscrapers of NYC, Laurence and I have had a wonderful life.

Berniece

The young lady across from me on the bus carefully held her henna-painted hand, allowing it to dry without smearing. I admired the intricate design in shades of brown on the back of her fingers and hand. “Is it Eid?” I asked.

“Yes, tomorrow.” I knew it was, but I wanted to acknowledge the young lady who was obviously proud of the design.

“It’s beautiful, ” I said. It really was an amazing work of art. Her eyes twinkled with anticipation for the upcoming festivities.

In last month, Muslim people have fasted from sunup to sundown. Today ends the time of worship, charity,  and self-reflection in Islam called Ramadan. Hundreds of Muslim men dressed in traditional cloth and holding prayer rugs filed from the basketball court as we passed this morning on the way to the subway station and church.

“You can come. My wife is cooking. There will be lots of people,” my Muslim coworker offered yesterday. He invited us to Eid, the festival of the breaking of the fast. It calls for new clothes and if you’re a pretty young lady, you might want your hands made beautiful with henna art.

Little India was relatively quiet this afternoon, the outfits bought, jewelry purchased, and the groceries sold to make the biryani, kebabs, curries, and sweets. We did see Muslim families, dressed in their best, gathering to celebrate.

I am a Christian. I try to understand and relate to the people about me. I pray that they might know Jesus. There is salvation in no other name (Acts 4:2).

Berniece

“Therefore encourage one another and build each other up” (1 Thessalonians 5:11).

“Encourage: to inspire with courage, spirit, or hope : hearten” (Merriam Webster).

Two of the former young men with their wives and children joined us for supper recently. Afterwards, we came to our small apartment. Even before Laurence unlocked the door, I heard the dads telling the children to take off their shoes as soon as we entered the foyer. The children ran off to play, and we settled into the soft chairs for hot tea and talk. The visit encouraged us. I want these two couples to know that they are doing well with child training. The toys were picked up before they left and the coverlet used for playing bear 🐻 folded nicely on the bed. The children thanked me for the evening, and there’s a picture from the four-year-old on the fridge.

The email asked if I would edit a book of Anabaptist women writer profiles. The publisher Sheila Petra, encouraged me by saying I had done a good job earlier with typing up the profiles. Yesterday, she sent me a draft of the book cover. Sheila, by her encouragement, makes me want to write. 

I want to be an encouragement to other writers. I think of the young people, Elizabeth and Josiah Akinyombo, and their brilliant 10-minute writes that outshone mine. The women of my writing group have amazing talent, especially when it comes to poetry (which I have no talent for).

Talk about talent: We are gifted in New York City with talented outreach workers. We have an interesting, sincere, and unique group of attendees at the Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission services because of a song, a tract, and a word for Jesus. By God’s grace, you’re doing well mission and tract workers!

A Whatsapp chat with my brothers, one with friends, and another with the writing group often encourages me. But not all whatsapps are encouraging. It behooves me to message to encourage, to build each other up.

People respond to encouragement. I want to be an encourager: “I like your dress. That sermon was just what I needed. The dessert is delicious. Thanks for the coffee. You do so well.”

Tell an experience where someone encouraged you. Berniece