Author Archives: Berniece

For in the day of trouble
He will keep me safe in his dwelling;
He will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent (Psalm 27:5).

The skinny man who boarded the bus asked Laurence for a seat as he shivered uncontrollably, a cigarette and drool dripping from his mouth. I really didn’t want to be left sitting with him, so instead, I hopped up and offered him my seat beside Laurence. He took it.

“Why don’t you button your coat?” I asked from where I stood. He complied by slowly setting his Popeye’s soda on the floor. With his shaky hands, he tried closing his jacket buttons. I could see he was not going to be successful and leaned over to close them for him. He needed shelter.

And so did we. A couple hours later, after filling up on soup, dumplings, and Armenian pastries made with walnuts and red raisins, we walked to the bus stop. The cold temperature, along with the wind blowing off the sea, penetrated right through our layers of clothing. We moved around the corner to stand against what was once a restaurant, but now appeared to be under renovation. We hovered by the wall, the wind pressing against us.

I reached behind me – a strange gesture – and tried the door handle of the building, expecting it to be locked. To my surprise, it opened, and we stepped into the shelter. Warmth washed over us. The wind no longer raged. While watching through the open door for the bus, we looked around. The power tools, a ladder, and other valuables would be worth stealing, and any NYC street smart person would know to lock the door, or it would all quickly disappear.

We saw the lights of the Q53 bus approaching. Laurence pulled shut the door, and we dashed into the wind. I cannot prove to you, but I believe the door locked. God gave us shelter from the wind and cold that we might know we can trust Him in the storms of life.

Berniece

The City is My Home

A large saguaro cactus silhouetted against the rising sun symbolizes the desert for me. I keep the picture in my mind’s eye, as a phone background, and it’s etched in the pottery coffee mug beside me. The realization, however, sinks into me that the city – not the desert – is my home. My heart is here. The city is my security. It provides our livelihood. There is no place I would rather worship than in the city, in a church where people of many different backgrounds meet and meld.

I know the city’s trains and buses. I walk its vibrant streets and shop at its ethnic stores. I walk into the busiest library in the nation to see a wealth of books and of like minded people. The emergency personnel of this city picked me up when I’d fallen and broken my leg. The surgeons here mended it, and the best of them removed my burst appendix. City nurses cared for me in my brokenness. Today, I meet them on the sidewalk, and they chat with me.

I know my neighbors, their challenges, that the boy next door is engaged, and the Polish couple’s dog’s name is Romeo. We visit together about our families while we throw clothes into the coin-operated washers and dryers of the basement laundry room of this building. Because I live here, I know the Muslims are having Ramadan now, and that the Chinese New Year is cause for a large celebration.

Beautiful and fresh flower bouquets are inexpensive when purchased from the sidewalk vendors of the city. The taco trucks are numerous. There’s the old Chinese man who mends shoes, and the Mexicans who sell pineapple. I would miss these things in the desert where the sun rises behind a large saguaro cactus.

When the city wearies me (and it does!), a bus will carry me to the sea or the Wildlife Refuge. I know the beauty of the bay at sunset when the large orange orb sinks behind Throgs Neck Bridge. I walk with my best friend on the wooded paths of Forest Park, and many times we’ve grilled there among the Hispanic parties with their music playing.

I live in the city, in a small apartment that holds all our earthly goods. Here, in this alone place, I am given words to write. The colorful foods and fabric of the city satisfy me. The city is my home.

Berniece 3/4/25

(Written as a writing assignment.)

It’s 15 minutes until the next F train – the one that carries me to work – will arrive at Roosevelt Ave. The man beside me smells of cologne. He types quickly in Spanish on Whatsapp. I take it he’s heading somewhere different than the man with a paint-splattered backpack who’s obviously going to work. I suppose a 100 commuters surround me this early Saturday morning, each one waiting for a train. Because I just missed an R train back at Elmhurst, I had to wait for another. I watched a F train zip past on the express track while I stood on the local subway platform. (So missing one train, easily makes my arrival time 20 minutes later.)

It amazes me how patiently New Yorkers, for the most part, wait. And we do wait: on an elevator, on trains, buses, in traffic, in the post office, and in long check out lines.

(I’m writing the remainder while on the Sunday morning church-bound train.) The train eventually came. Sitting between two heavily jacketed men, I was on my way to Roosevelt Island and the farmer’s market.

However, it was not the end of my train-waiting woes. After work I did the long walk back to the train station. (The “wild turkey crossing”  made me smile. I’m a witness to a wild turkey on the island.) The sign in the station said that it would be 19 minutes until the next train. I sighed and settled in to read the blogs of others. (I especially enjoy the one of the woman who is hiking the Triple Crown.) The sign switched to 18 minutes and then didn’t change for a long time. I must have waited 30 minutes for a train. Waiting with patience? I’m a work in progress when it comes to the patient factor.

I prayed for an R local at Roosevelt Ave, but no, it would be 13 minutes before one appeared. The weather was nice and I decided, rather than wait, I’d give patience a break and walk home.

The experience goes with the life lesson God is teaching us. This morning, Laurence chose the song, “Waiting on God for His blessing today.”

“Let patience have her perfect work, that you may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing” (James 1:4).  Berniece 3/2/25

The child across from me put her hand over her nose. Others avoided the end of the car where the homeless smell wafted from. I was just thankful that the Hispanic man gave me his seat, and I didn’t need to stand swinging the 9 x 13 carrier of dessert that I was taking to church for dinner. Riding the train felt like home to me. The place I wanted to be – certainly more comfortable than pulling up to church in a rental car and walking into a sea of white faces, proper dress, and not knowing where to stand or sit. (You all know I love you too!)

Out of the subway station, up the steps and through the brown door into the foyer of Sugar Hill Mission, Laurence and I went. The missionaries, houseparents, tract workers, and young men greeted us. I shook hands with tall Allister and tapped Sonia’s shoulder as I walked by her spot on the back row, women’s side. I gave a wave to Minister Isaac Akinyombo as he sat down and turned to greet his daughter, Sister Christianah. Her husband, Brother Dayo, had the message, affirming what the Lord has been speaking to me about the last while: God hears and answers our prayers.

The Reuben Akinyombo family was there, and I got to sit across from Sister Bisi at lunch. Bisi, Sonia and I had a lively conversation that circled through NYC and wouldn’t have made a lot of sense to the people of the congregation where we parked our rental car, though those people mean ever so much to me. But here at Sugar Hill I’m comfortable. The city is my home. After the young men served coffee, we’d eaten dessert, and washed the dishes the missionaries, houseparents, Laurence and I sat and visited with Eric. Eric came from Ghana. A few months ago he gave his heart to the Lord, and he is a happy man.

Tonight we’re comfortable in our tiny apartment, in a building with 47 other apartments, on a street with more buildings. I love the desert and the mountains, sunset and sunrise views, the relatives and a proper congregation, but this is home. Berniece

I write this blog from a small Airbnb in the cowtown of Wickenburg, Arizona. I am a writer because of an alone life. I spend hours alone. We spend evenings alone in NYC. We vacation alone in the summer months. We have got used to the alone life, and, for the most part, we do not mind it.

Therefore, it’s been an unexpected blessing that instead of hiking alone in the Arizona desert, we are fellowshipping with friends. Did not God’s providence (I certainly didn’t plan it) put us down in this spot (with its awesome view of Vulture Peak) where we can see over to the house where Bob and Mek are staying. We began married life in another desert, living on Bob’s place. In 1983, we moved on, our ways parted, until now.

Before coming to this place, I booked a place in Surprise. To our surprise, it belongs to a brother and sister in the faith, so while it was a little overwhelming to have Mennonites that close, the blessing went above and beyond with the connection of the brotherhood.

Mike and Darla and we were young couples together in the Owyhee Desert. Yesterday with them and Bobs we did a fabulous boat tour on Canyon Lake, had lunch in Tortilla Flats, and a train ride and ice cream at Goldfield Ghost Town. I’m sure Laurence and I could have enjoyed these things alone, but how much richer to experience it with friends.

Since coming here, we’ve connected in spirit with new friends and bonded with old friends. “How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity . . . for there the Lord commanded the blessing” (Psalm 133).

We fly home to winter in NYC on Friday, but just now friends and coffee are calling. (I did decline going to sewing with my sisters. I fear that I’d feel like a fish out of water.) Berniece

“You are one hundred percent wrong, one hundred percent wrong!” said one Greek to another at the table beside us where four older men sat playing cards. The fifth man didn’t appear interested in cards but rather, wanted to discuss politics. This further provoked the speaker to proclaim, “The conversation is distracting me.” The words floated over to where Laurence and I sat eating baba gonoush with warm pita and a lamb gyro. (I reported this to Dana today when we had coffee. She replied, “It’s worth going to Port Washington just to eat there.”) We topped it off with a free piece of walnut baklava from the black-haired staff behind the counter. No waiter today.

The Greek restaurants we know are decorated with the colors of the flag and this one was no exception with its blue-painted walls, white trim, white tables and chairs. Blue represents the Aegean Sea, while white signifies the clouds and purity. (Our bedroom has sea-blue walls, white trim, and curtains, but we’re not Greek.)

Laurence and I sat beside the large windows overlooking Manhasset Bay. Afterwards, we walked by the bay and then back along Main to the train station. Long Island has its own culture. It’s near the City, but it is not the City – not the Big Apple that never sleeps. It was Monday and many of the stores were closed.

It was a 35 minute train ride from the Port Washington train station to Woodside, Queens, where we transferred to a 7 train.

Now I must add a thrilling announcement that isn’t Greek: After months of construction, the Flushing-bound 7-train is stopping at 82nd Street! This means no more long walks down Broadway for us.

Berniece

Ps Laurence gave the title and wondered if I couldn’t write a blog.

Thirty plus people along with table, tracts, cart, and water bottles tap through the turnstiles and board the A train to ride downtown to 42nd Street, Times Square. A lone singer stands in the chosen spot by the Port Authority Bus Terminal, so we string out with the commuters moving through the tunnel toward the 7, 1, 2, 3, N, Q, R, and the shuttle to Grand Central. A mother runs past us in the opposite direction, pushing her cart of churros. A little girl runs beside her. Behind her a black, shaggy-haired small boy turned man pulls an ice chest. He’s running too, from the authorities that want them cleared out. I want to sweep these children into my arms and keep them safe, but our group moves on until it halts by the stairway going down to the 7 train.

We sing, “Power in the blood; amazing grace; how sweet the sound; love lifted me; do Lord, do remember me.” One Pentecostal fellow passing by shows us how we could be dancing about, but it is not our custom. There are thumbs up and smiles and those who make the Sign of the Cross. People drag suitcases, push strollers, and carry bags. There are families and couples, mentally ill, and preachers (if I judge their dress correctly). Some sing along. Others video the group.

Meanwhile, Gospel tracts and children’s Bible story books were reaching the multitudes. Our Ghanian friend Eric faithfully passed out tracts. It was only a few months ago that he received a tract here in this subway station. Through this, Eric met Jesus and now, he’s sharing the joy. Tony  sang along with the group, also there because of tract outreach. The brothers and sisters took their turns. I passed out a few with the usual results of heads shaking no, or hands outstretched, and some with eyes averted. But hands down, DeeDee passed out the most tracts, literally jogging to and from the tract table to restock after having given out a bundle. DeeDee worships with us because one of the young men invited her to church.

Laurence and I went downstairs to the 7 train when the group went for a service at the Bowery Mission. We left Manhattan and rode out to 74th Street in Queens where we transferred to an R train.  It blessed my heart to see one of our tracts on a ledge as we rode down the escalator, and the information about the mission location in another place in the station. The tracts handed out yesterday didn’t just stay in Manhattan but could be going into all the world.

God’s Word will surely not return unto Him void. Pray for the work and the workers in the City, and thank you to the Gospel Tract Board for their vision of fields white for harvest.

Berniece

“The ninety-nine within the fold,
Are safe from fears and storms of night,
But one is on the mountains cold,
’Twill perish there—how sad the sight!

Refrain:
“Go search it out, and bring it home,
No more in darkness let it roam;
You’ll find it there in dreadful plight,
Oh! go and bring it back tonight.

2 “The ninety-nine are safe today,
They’re all at home, so fully blest,
But one is wandering far away
Upon the mountain’s snowy crest. [Refrain]

3 “The ninety-nine with care are fed,
And rest within the shepherd’s fold;
But one is starving, nearly dead,
Upon the mountains bare and cold. [Refrain]

4 “The shepherd dear aloud doth weep,
Because one lamb afar doth roam;
The ninety-nine he’ll safely keep—
We’ll seek that lamb and bring it home. [Refrain]
Author: William G. Schell

I had an attitude about the young man sleeping in our living room. (This was back in the day when visitors to the city rarely got a motel room.) Peter – I’ll call him – was not an acquaintance. He was just along for the ride and to have a good time in NYC. I knew Peter had strayed from the Fold and was not living a godly life. I only saw him as a bother.

The Lord looked at Peter completely different than I did. I woke up that first night when Peter was in our home with the words of the above song playing out in my mind: “The Shepherd dear aloud doth weep. Go search it out and bring it home.” Several times during the night a different verse from the song came to me. The Lord who loves “the one wandering far away,” gave me a love for Peter. (Even today while riding the train to church, it makes my heart soft and my eyes teary to think of it.) I loved Peter and wanted to be his friend. I recall chatting with him one day while riding a crowded train; no more did he seem like a bother to me.

Though I lost track of Peter, I did not stop praying for him. Years later, we met up with Peter and his wife at a Peruvian restaurant in Queens. He had returned to the Fold and married a lovely Christian sister. I shared with Peter and his wife that evening of God’s love and how it changed me. Love changed Peter. After telling my story, Peter’s wife said, “No wonder.” It was love that drew the lost one back to the Fold.

The D train is almost at 145th Street Station, the stop for Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission. Today, we’ll worship with people of different tribes and nations. It’s the Sunday for singing and passing out Gospel tracts in a subway station and for a Bowery service. God loves everyone!

Berniece

The Cambria Heights Queens library website calendar said, “Please join us Wednesday mornings for workshops on machine quilting. We will learn basic sewing stitches to create beautiful individual and group projects that will be showcased in our annual art exhibit. All are welcome, supplies will be available for use during the sessions.” The key words: “Please join us, basic, supplies available, all welcome” made me think this would be an interesting adventure. (My mom says that maybe Laurence should stop some of my adventures, but Laurence is the one who opened my world to such. He’s fine as long as he feels like it’s safe.) Not that quilting is my thing. It isn’t, but I thought it would be kinda nice to be able to relate a little to all my crafty, quilter Mennonite friends.

Cambria Heights is not someplace where we have spent much time. I know very little about it. It’s on the edge of Queens and not near a subway line. I told Laurence, “I expect to be with a group of elderly White ladies.”

I rode the M train to Forest Hills where I switched to an E train to Jamaica Center.  From there, I followed the signs to the  Q4 bus. The wind blew in the below freezing temperatures as I waited and waited for a bus (maybe 30 minutes). I didn’t wait alone. Several times, a van drew up and some boarded. Dollar vans to where? I didn’t know the system and wasn’t brave enough to get on. The Q4 finally came and I rode 26 stops until I reached the library. Clearly, I was in a Black section of Queens, and yes, the ladies were all African American and on a first name basis. Like, “Oh Joanne is back. How’s your Dad?” I’m thinking I felt like any one of them would have if they’d go to a Holdeman Mennonite Sewing day! They each had their projects – some amazing work – as they are getting ready for a quilt show during Black History Month. They were nice to me. Greeted me and all, but I just didn’t fit in, and when I could comfortably leave, I did.

I took the bus back to Jamaica. White folks don’t go there much either, but we occasionally do, and I felt comfortable walking there. Years ago, we used to go to a food court, and now I found that it’s still open. I went in and had some scrumptious pupusas, feeling content with my lot in life.

I came home and sewed with my own machine. The ladies told me to come back after the quilt show, but I’d decided it wasn’t a place for me. However, while ironing the facing on a new dress, I started having second thoughts. What if we could get acquainted, learn each other’s names, could ask how their dad is doing, and tell them I lost mine in July. Maybe they’re Southern Baptists, and we could discuss the Gospel.

I’ll see how the Lord directs my steps. For now, Laurence is home and it’s time to make supper.

Berniece