Author Archives: Berniece

Come join me for a cup of hot pomegranate tea. I went out, planning to go to the mall; however, I met the neighbor lady coming from the train and we stopped to talk. Rebeca and I did not  let the noise of trains entering and leaving the station keep us from catching up on each other’s lives. I congratulated her on their son’s engagement. As often happens in this city, it will be a marriage of nations.

I boarded the train: “Grand, “Woodhaven” where the mall is, “Rego Park.” Then I remembered that Laurence suggested I buy tea. Forget the mall! I’d rather wander through the Russian stores, so I went to Rego Park where it’s enjoyable to observe the Russians and look at the dark breads, perogies, the meats, soups, sweets, and the Holy (Jerusalem) Hummus.  I stocked up with four boxes of relaxing tea for our evenings.

I was surprised to see one of our Russian customers Saturday morning at market. She’d planned to go to Russia last week. She told me her dad died so she hadn’t traveled. She’s been going back and forth a lot because of the care of her father. (It’s difficult to travel to Russia just now.) He used to be here. He was a writer, so we got along.

After 30 years of following Laurence around NYC, I’ve developed a curiosity to understand the cultures, and foods of all God’s people. Friday afternoon with my work done (it doesn’t take long to clean our small apartment), I took the bus to Middle Village and walked there. We had cheese perogies, almost like mom’s, for lunch today that I bought in a European Deli there (the clerk didn’t bother to be friendly). I went into an Italian bakery and a Mexican one. I looked around in an Italian meat market ($11.99 for a package of ravioli). And, for the record, I also stopped at the Dollar Store and the Salvation Army Store.

Laurence worked Saturday so had last Wednesday off. We took the train to Poughkeepsie and walked from the station to a Japanese restaurant for lunch. I ordered sushi. The variety plate looked like a work of art and tasted as good as it looked. Laurence had a bento box with teriyaki chicken. Afterwards we walked on to Papa Akinyombo’s place. The visit there was enriching. We help each other on the road to Heaven.

Sunday services at Sugar Hill continue to be well attended. I asked one of the new attendees if he has family here. He said that he doesn’t. I told him we’d be his family. He laughed and said, “Will you please? I need a family. My family is bad.” Pray for the attendees. Pray for us. As the world gets darker the Light shines brighter. There’s a mission staff, young men, and tracts workers in this city who are letting the Light shine.

I hear children playing by the building entrance as I write this, along with the murmur of voices on the other side of the wall. Laurence works until eight this evening – a 12-hour day for him.

I looked down from my kitchen window, one day last week, to the kitchen opposite and below us. Curtains hid the face of my neighbor but their happy face slippers made me smile.

Wishing you a life of smiles. Berniece

HUMILITY

This year I want to be clothed with humility. Christ became a servant. He’s my greatest example. I detest pride in others, but I’m rather blind to my own.

An author wrote that at 80 years old, she can let others live their lives without thinking she has to change them. I’m inspired to be this way at 64, practicing humility by not pushing my (wonderful to me) ideas. Humility trusts; is not anxious; loves. Humility commends others without promoting one’s own self. It’s hard to offend a humble person. Humility and simplicity go hand in hand. It doesn’t compare itself with others. Humility promotes unity rather than division.

Someone asked Corrie Ten Boom how she handled the compliments and praise that were heaped on her. “She said she looked at each compliment as a long-stemmed flower given to her. She smelled it for a moment and then put it into a vase with the others. Each night just before retiring, she took the beautiful bouquet and handed it over to God saying, ‘Thank you, Lord, for letting me smell the flowers; they all belong to you.’”

I’ve never forgotten the elderly man seated near us in a restaurant who bragged all evening to his friend about his accomplishments – his car, his education, and even how the beautiful woman he’d been with turned the heads of everyone in the room. Honestly, it stank! I am giving you permission to remind me of my WOTY when you see the ugly head of pride rising up in my life.

The key to loving and being loved is to be humble; to laugh at my mistakes, and to be able to say “I am wrong!” This year I want to grow in the grace of humility. Berniece

P.s. What would you pick for a word of the year?

The world looks washed clean this morning A cross, bridges, rooftops, bare branches, and the city skyline, timeless and lovely from our view on the 7 train. Heaven closed 2024 with a resounding winter thunderstorm. Afterwards, wave after wave of fireworks brought in 2025. The ball dropped in Times Square.

“Will you turn the coffee pot on?” 2025 began in the same manner as 2024 did – the Word and prayer. It’s these early mornings with God that sustained us in 2024. They will in 2025.

We’re riding to the magnificent Grand Central Station where we plan to catch the Metro North train for that beautiful ride (too many adjectives?) along the Hudson River to Poughkeepsie. Sister Christianah is preparing Nigerian food for us and the family. Brandt and Abigael (Daramola) Nightingale are out. Eric, our friend from Ghana will ride the train with us. I can’t think of a better way to begin 2025.

Yesterday in the building elevator, my neighbor wished me a “Happy New Year.” I returned the greeting, saying that I hoped 2025 would be a better year than 2024 had been. I was reproved when she said, “I’m glad to be alive. I work at Elmhurst Hospital where I see so many young people die – twenty-two years old! I’m glad to be alive,” she repeated.

I read Psalm 51 this morning. I love it and the washing while I read, and then on to the verse I woke up with,  “But grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ” (2 Peter 3:18). This is my desire in 2025 for myself and each of you.

God bless you in the New Year. Thank you for your friendship. Berniece

Evening: Lights line the shore across the Hudson River outside the train windows. We fared sumptuously on Nigerian food for dinner. Before dinner, Minister Isaac Akinyombo prayed a New Year’s blessing. Brother Dayo encouraged us to not mind the length of the prayer (because of dinner waiting), and I felt it was the best way to begin 2025. After several lively discussions, the songbooks came out and voices blended in praise to our Creator. We ended with, “Blest be the Tie that Binds.” It’s been a day to hold in our memory.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Loving Father,
Help us remember the birth of Jesus,
that we may share in the song of the angels,
the gladness of the shepherds,
and worship of the wise men.

Close the door of hate
and open the door of love all over the world.
Let kindness come with every gift
and good desires with every greeting.
Deliver us from evil by the blessing
which Christ brings,
and teach us to be merry with clear hearts.

May the Christmas morning
make us happy to be thy children,
and Christmas evening bring us to our beds
with grateful thoughts,
forgiving and forgiven,
for Jesus’ sake.

Amen.

It’s Christmas time in the city. Lights dazzle and sparkle. In our home, the red petals of a small poinsettia are backed by the  flourishing green plant of the bedroom window.  Cards from friends decorate. The table holds a candle in a holder that says, “Christ the light.” I witnessed the man from across the street walk carefully down icy steps to give the mail carrier a small Christmas package. It reminds me, we need to prepare a card with a bonus for our hard-working superintendent. Churches across the city will have a service this evening.

It looks like the Lord put us in Elmhurst, and He wants us to stay in the city this Christmas when families everywhere are feasting and fellowshipping. We’ve had the privilege of caroling in a subway station near us and also, in Penn Station. Thousands of commuters heard the singing. Clay, Rodger, and Dexter shared the Christmas story in a tract. I gave a children’s Bible story book to a homeless young woman who stood by her garbage bag of goods at the Roosevelt Avenue Station. 

Sheila Petre sent me her book, Prayers for my Hometown. It inspired me to write a simple prayer:

Dear God, As the snow gently falls on the community this Christmas Eve, make our hearts white, our minds pure, and our path illuminated by your light. I pray that the homeless will be sheltered by You. Keep us from evil.

In Jesus name, amen.

May the peace of Christmas rest upon you.

Berniece

Snow falls gently on the town this early Saturday morning. It’s a Christmas card picture in the playground with lamplight glow on tree branches layered in snow. I pray, “Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”

I’m on the train to market, the last one before Christmas. 2024 draws to a close. Reflecting back, I remember the passing of loved ones, Laurence’s major eye surgeries, and the peace of God that passes all understanding – the peace of quiet places while knowing the presence of God whether it be in our small apartment, the chapel at Sugar Hill, an old cabin on South Hero Island in Vermont, or on this train where commuters sleep.

And now it’s a cold Sunday morning. I’ll wear leggings and tights to church. It’s the Sunday for a service at Bowery Mission and for singing carols in the subway. However now is the quiet time of worship in our bedroom. Laurence says, “I was impressed yesterday with the verse, ‘Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.'”

“I was too.”

“Do you think this means once in a while or daily?”

It’s time to prepare for the day: to put Sunday school books and salad fixings in the backpack, stick an Omni card in my pocket, and pull on mittens. First though, I turn my Bible to Revelation 7:14, “They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” Washed whiter than snow by the blood of the Lamb! Because of this we have a carol to sing, a tract to give, a Bible story book for a child or for the homeless young woman whose children have been taken from her.

The angels sang to the shepherds, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” Washed whiter than snow, experiencing peace is my prayer for each of us. 

Merry Christmas! Berniece

“The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.” Isaiah 9:2

“Child of the day”, the Light shines upon you. The light from heaven illuminates our small apartment. This light guides our feet as we walk about the city. It’s there in the kitchen while I stir and bake. It’s with me as I tend to the day’s obligations. At night, this Light drives away fear and anxiety from my subconscious thoughts, so that I can sleep in peace.

While shepherds watched their flock one night, an angel appeared, proclaiming to them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.” A multitude of heavenly host filled the sky, singing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” Darkness blanketed the world, but now the Light had dawned. Jesus’ s coming brought great joy to the shepherds. When I come to Calvary, stripped of all I clung to, the blood of Jesus covers me, and there is great joy.

God’s people have this holy Light. Like a city set on a hill – more beautiful than the NYC skyline at night – is the Church of God, a Light so bright that no darkness can diffuse it. Thirty years ago, after a day of outreach, Laurence and I walked up 64th Street in Woodside, Queens. From the sidewalk, I saw the light in a third story window, and oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort to know we were not alone, a meal would be waiting, and we could sit down and share food and fellowship with others of like precious faith. Lamps continue to shine from the windows of the USA mission building in Harlem, while the keepers of the building spread the Light in NYC. The pure Light of truth streams into the chapel during the worship services. Its presence is felt in the upper rooms where God’s children work and pray. It glows in the fellowship hall as we share hearts over plates of food.

This year I’ve been shown that even when death takes a loved one, there is light. God’s presence gave my dad a peaceful passing. It stayed with the family as we laid our loved one to rest, and the Light continues to comfort those who mourn.

This evening in the sanctuary of Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission we heard the tidings of great joy. Upon us the Light shines. 1 Thessalonians 5:5 says, “You are all children of the light and children of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness.”

We are children of the Day and of the Light.

Berniece

Written for the Christmas program at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission.

I gaze out at fire escapes and rooftops, my mind far away in a Kansas farmhouse kitchen. I’m helping mom cut out and decorate sugar cookies, rolling peppernut dough balls, or watching the candy thermometer while stirring the ingredients for peanut brittle. Mom cuts the rich, dark fudge and layers it between wax paper in a Folger’s coffee can. It was, as it should be, the traditional childhood Christmas. It included, besides special foods, caroling. Christmas programs, family gatherings, and gifts from parents, grandparents, and cousins.

Rooftops and fire escapes move in, and the smells of a Country Christmas dissipate; the Child of the Nativity displaced, perhaps, by the lights of Diwali and the candles of Hanukkah. In this city of multi-ethnic cultures, Laurence and I establish a tradition of our own by making stuffed apricots, the energy balls carried by climbers in the High Pamirs.

Laurence and I work together in our tiny kitchen. He makes a small cut in ten large unsulphered dried apricots that he bought from an Uzbek grocery in Forest Hill, Queens, and then uses the handle of a spoon to form a cavity in each apricot. I pound 1/3 cup walnuts to a fine rubble and mix in three tablespoons black raisins and one tablespoon honey. Laurence stuffs the apricots with this mixture. I plug the opening with a walnut half.

While we appreciate our childhood Christmas traditions, we do feel greatly blessed to taste the food of a people who walk the Roof of the World.

Berniece

Laurence and Berniece live in Elmhurst, Queens, where they have the privilege of sharing Christ with the nations. 

This is where we worship. God is in this place. It is our church home. The Word of truth is preached here. Its doors are open to everyone. This morning, there were around 50 people filling the seats in the sanctuary. Our skin was not all the same color. Most of us were not born in this city, and a number of us grew up in another country. Several in attendance this morning first met the people of God in this sanctuary, they were baptized here, and went to their first communion here. Yes, we have revival meetings here, and we know the warmth of commemorating the Lord’s supper.

Here’s a little word picture of the overflowing fellowship hall at lunchtime: I heard Spanish being spoken by a young man sent to the mission by his parents who are acquainted with the Nicaraguan missionaries. Adam from Burkana Faso came because of the missionaries in his country. I felt sure I was missing out as the people of four different African countries were in conversation some distance from where I sat at lunchtime. The two Bronx girls had their heads together in a discussion about Christian attire. Larry, who passes out tracts, said that it’s all about Jesus. I discussed changing NYC neighborhoods with another tract contract. The Africans drank most of the ginger beer that Ellen brought, but I got enough to know that it was delicious and should cure whatever ails me.

The sanctuary was full today. I can’t recall a time like this time with people coming to the mission searching for a church home. God is moving. The Light is shining. Pray for the church in NYC.

How has Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission been a haven for you?

Berniece

The traditional Thanksgiving meal of sweet dressing, turkey, ham, mashed and sweet potatoes, pecan and pumpkin pie filled our plates. The love of family surrounded us in Mom’s Kansas home. Sweet baby Annabelle got handed around. The noise level of the great nieces and nephews rose and fell, depending if they were downstairs or up. The nieces and nephews sang. It was the all- American Thanksgiving of my childhood. I took it for granted back then, never dreaming I would take “the road less traveled.”

We flew home to NYC on Monday. The crowded Q70 bus took us to within blocks of our building. Christmas trees sparkled and lights twinkled in the lobby that smelled of cinnamon. It felt so comfortable – like home.

Laurence brought a plate of food from the Thanksgiving potluck at the clinic: noodles, rice, dumplings, … He said the Haitian nurse brought herring. No turkey or dressing or sweet potatoes. This is not the tradition of our Elmhurst home.

We like to spend Thanksgiving with the Akinyombo and Daramola families in Poughkeepsie. It’s become our tradition and a place we feel at home. Today, the food was American traditional, the conversation lively in Papa Akinyombo’s small apartment where we sat tightly together in the living room. After a while the songbooks came out and Josiah led one song after another. Granddaughter Vera and her husband graced us with their presence. Brother Dayo dropped us off at the train station, and the Metro North carried us to Grand Central. (A brief delay at 125th while the police escorted a man off.)

My people are in Kansas. My people are here. God is good. All the time and everywhere.

Berniece

It’s quiet in our apartment now except for the murmur of voices from the other side of the bedroom wall and of planes taking off from LGA. Our neighbors are The Happy Family. Dad laughs. Mom chuckles. The boys chatter.

We had supper tonight at Spicy Shallot with Bart and Annet, friends from Belgium. It’s the second time this week that I’ve eaten there with them. Bart ordered duck both times. I had sushi.

Barts have been traveling the world the last seven weeks, and then they came to Queens where the world meets. They especially wanted to see the Unisphere in Flushing Meadows. The large globe symbolizes the 1964  World’s Fair theme of “Peace Through Understanding.” My tour with them continued through Little India: The Hindu store with all its small gods, prayer beads, and incense, the grocery with its spices, dried fruits and nuts, and an aisle stacked with 10, 20, and 40 pound bags of rice. Annet moved very quickly past the live frogs in the Asian market. Afterwards, we sipped tea and ate sweet potato puff and coconut bread in Fay Da Bakery.

Fall favored us with perfect weather for a long, but not too hard, hike on Veterans Day. We took the Metro-North to Cold Spring, walked to Nelsonville, and hiked along a ridge with views of the woods, the Hudson Valley and River. A volunteer told us we were the oldest hikers on the trail. I replied, “We’re here to give the other hikers courage.” A young man reached out a hand to help Laurence when he slipped, and then both he and his companion offered me a hand down the slight dropoff. We trudged back into Cold Spring and dined outdoors at the old train station. When a train whizzed by, I recalled little George’s fascination with it, the time we ate there with his parents and my brother and wife.

Soon after 8 one morning this week, I took the subway to the mission to pick up something I’d forgotten there last Sunday. The trains going into the city at that hour were packed with commuters, and I was smushed against the bodies of strangers. No one talked. Eyes closed as we swayed towards Manhattan. I thought about how these people may be fighting each other in other countries, but here we live in peace.

Now it’s early Saturday morning on the subway platform at Roosevelt Avenue. A rat crosses the track. I board the F train after letting the crazy man with the bags of chips crowd ahead to be the first through the F train doors. He takes a corner seat and falls asleep. A mom hands her little son with black spiky hair some breakfast. The commuters beside him sleep, but the boy curiously watches a man striding through the car, unlawfully opening doors, and stepping into the next car.

I left the Roosevelt Island subway station at first light. The Beaver Moon hung over the city skyline. I chose the river path and was surprised by a turkey landing in front of me.

All’s right in my world.

Berniece