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.
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).
“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
Remembering the token and riding the Redbird dates us. It was a gritty city when we arrived here in 1988. The soles of my shoes cracked from walking sidewalks strewn with crack viles and broken glass. Rusting applainces, sagging sofas, and used mattresses poked out from the ghettos vacant weedy lots. The Bonx continued to burn; we watched from an above ground subway platform as an apartment building went up in flames.
Slipping the dollar token into the slot got us through the turnstile at the Woodside Station and onto the 7 Rebird Train. We’d take it to Grand Central to transfer to a 4, 5, or 6 train and ride into the Bronx. Or maybe we’d go to Times Square for a 1, 2, 3, A, or C train to Brooklyn. Laurence spent hours poring over maps to determine the route that would take us to tract contacts who lived in highrise apartment buildings in Booklyn, Bronx, Queens, Manhattan or Staten Island. (We usually drove to Staten Island.) The subway map was our constant companion on the rails.
We returned to a cleaner and safer city in 1995 after being gone for three years. Stepping onto a 7 train car felt like coming home. The cost of a subway ride rose to $1.50 that year, and the token was being replaced by the metrocard. A young man came to the NYC Unit with some sort of early GPS device, but it had little value compared to the free subway map. The Redbirds too were being replaced, the last one running on November 3, 2003. (Many of them were dumped into the sea for the purpose of artificial reefs.)
In 2005, with street parking becoming increasingly difficult and the price of insurance rising, our little car had become a tiresome burden. We decided to sell it. How carefree we felt. The glass on the street from a car that had been broken into didn’t come from our vehicle. We’d been riding trains, but without a car, we learned just how extensive the public transportation system was, and we’d use our metrocards to ride the bus to the ocean, to Howard Beach, the Wildlife Refuge, the parks, and Brooklyn coffee shops. (We also became acquainted with the train and bus system outside of the city and have since done many day and overnight trips away from here.)
By January 2021 all 472 subway stations had tap-to-pay scanners where riders could use contactless bank cards or mobile wallets. Tap. Go. Tap. Go and so we zip through turnstiles and onto buses. OMNY (One Metro New York) cards are being phased in. The metrocard will see its demise by the end of this year. A subway ride is $2.90, but if you’re a senior like my husband you can ride for half price. What a bargain to be able to ride for less than he could in 1995! “Where do you want to go tonight?” he asks.
“Kissena Park?” I reply. We check Google Maps for directions and tap and go through the 7 train turnstile at 82nd and Roosevelt. We look at an app to see just how many minutes before the next train arrives. At the last stop at Flushing, we push through the crowds of New York’s Chinatown to wait for the Q65 bus to tap and go for a ride to the peaceful oasis of a beautiful Queens park.
Thirty years of NYC living is written across the time of the token, metro card, Omny, tap-and-go. What a city.
Berniece
ps I could write about the subway and 9/11 or how it ground to a halt during the Pandemic, about the people of the subway, and the places it carries us. So many stories. Do you have a subway story to share?
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.
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
What do you complain about the most?
I must be desperate to type if I’m looking at the writing prompt. Here it is Thankful Thursday, and the prompt asks what I complain about the most. I refuse to be drawn into answering. I will not open the complaint department today.
I am thankful for the scene through the clean bedroom window of sunshine on rooftops and house gables, and to see the plane ascending into the clouds after taking off from LGA.
I am thankful to have discovered a Hobby Lobby store not so far away on Long Island. Can you believe it plays Christian music?! It’s enough to bring tears to the eyes of a New Yorker.
I’m glad my mother taught me to embroider. It surprises me that it’s become the fad again. Dena sat on the couch of the unit apartment, embroidering on Christmas Day, using her grandmother’s metal hoop! It’s such a calming thing to do.
It’s a miracle that Laurence is not coughing and coughing (as has been the case since he had COVID-19) after coming down with a cold on Sunday, and I never got sick. He returned to work today after taking three sick days.
I’m sure enjoying listening to the singing from the Elkton boy’s class. It’s nice they’re in our time zone, so I can listen while I make supper. I have dough rising in the bread machine to make fresh buns with that we’ll have with turkey burgers tonight.
Let me get back to embroidering. Say not what you have to complain about but tell me, what are you thankful for? Berniece
An Ordinary Life 