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“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference” (Robert Frost).

I liked my home by the pecan orchard. It hid under the shade of leafy branches, and I thought of it as a treehouse. I liked having a clothesline. I liked a garden. I liked walking to the neighbors, and how their children would come visit me.

Then I took the road less traveled. I exchanged quiet country paths for taking small steps on crowded sidewalks. The road led to an apartment building, to skyscrapers, bustling markets, to sirens, and strange languages. Trains and buses rush down this less traveled road. It is noisy and has bright lights. In place of bird song on this road, I hear the cry of the soul. Instead of the congregation of the saints, there’s a mission church of broken people.

God directed me to the less-traveled way. Because of him, this road has become home. I like it here in a city of brick and asphalt. I like seeing the cultures of the world dance around me. I like tasting the foods of many countries. I like hearing the stories of the people on this road.

“I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

Berniece 11/17/2025

“This famous poem contrasts two literal paths, but the symbolic meaning reveals a deeper juxtaposition—the decision between two different choices.”

A plane roared into the skies from LaGuardia Airport. I checked the time: 6:01 am. So it did wait until the law said it’s ok. I hear another and another as I stand on the gum-splattered R train platform. An E train roars through and now the beep, beep and the arrival of the Manhattan-bound R. The tattooed arm of another passenger moves in beside me. There is no fear; I’ve rode this train a 1,000 times before.

It’s my lucky day as an F train pulls in just as the R reaches Roosevelt. Big men, younger than I am crowd in front of me. They take the few vacant seats. Can’t they see, I’m a senior? I got a reduced-fare card this week. I’ve quit pushing to be in front, but I’m still working on being angelic in my feelings.

The train stopped at Roosevelt Island. Someone held the elevator door open in the station for me, and I rode to the top of one of the deepest stations in the subway system, and then walked along the river to market. I had market customer discussions on the marathon, favorite New Hampshire sites, faith over fear, vegetables for soup, how to dress for church, the little girl who dances, how big Juju is getting, chemo treatments, and then there was the customer who can’t talk but made a happy grunt when I told him David is going to be a daddy.

And now it’s tonight after eating Greek food and then standing on the beach in the darkness. The waves that lapped against the shore were long and wide. Someone had a fire in the sand where they roasted marshmallows. Little children played around them. We bounced home on the bus. Laurence was jolly. He suggested I write about the drones on the beach in the summer.

The truth is that I am tired, and sad, and lonely. I’m sure life will look brighter in the morning when Laurence brings me coffee, and I read the Word.

Berniece

P.s. My friend Sarah texted saying, “Love is vulnerable,” so I wrote the last paragraph.

Though it hardly compares to the race of life that Paul refers to, I do have some interest – as a New Yorker – in the 26-mile marathon being run through the five boroughs today. I’ve enjoyed talking with a customer who’s ran in the past. I asked him if he’s running this year.

“No, but I’m going to be cheering for the seven runners from Roosevelt Island who will be running. This is like Christmas for a marathon runner.” He told me he’d be going to the Bronx to show his support. “That’s where the race gets hard.” The customer’s eyes gleamed with the enthusiast’s sparkle as he told me how that two time Olympic champion Eliud Kipchoge, age 41,will be running what is expected to be his last major marathon.

I doubt we will watch today but we have. I recall the time I unexpectedly felt my eyes well up with tears upon seeing a woman running in remembrance of a friend who died on 9/11. There’s a kinship with New Yorkers that only they understand.

I’m interested in who wins. However, I’m more interested in the race of life, so off we go to worship at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission.

God bless you in your race. I’m cheering you on.

Berniece

Dull greens and rust-colored trees rise above brown rooftops. A dove settles on the red fire escape. I hear steam rising in the wall heaters. It’s the fall time when I begin to add layers for work at the market. First a sweater and now a jacket and leggings. The customers buy root vegetables to make soup

The air is crisp. The sea off of Cape Cod softly dashed with the sky blue colors of fall, something different than the wild waves of summer.

Off-season Cape Cod is a delightful place. The beaches aren’t crowded. Seniors hang out at the  lighthouses. They offer interesting information like the man who told us the boardwalk in Sandwich was first built to haul bricks from a factory to building sites.

It was warm enough that first morning to have coffee on the upper deck of the Cape Cod-style house. We stopped in Plymouth where we had lobster bisque and clam chowder with a view of the harbor. We walked by the Mayflower, Plymouth Rock, and past the Sparrow House built in 1640 to the old grist mill. The last day we toured the crude homes of Plimoth Plantation where there’s an awesome view right down through the village to the sea.

A fun fall memory is of riding the Metro North with friends along the Hudson River to Poughkeepsie where we ate a Japanese lunch and did the Walkway Over the Hudson. The hills were decked in fall beauty though they did not have the brilliant reds of last year.

It’s Bowery Sunday. A group is coming from Fleetwood, PA. The heat of summer is gone from the subway stations, and it will be comfortable to sing and pass out tracts at the Times Square Station.

Our dining table is set with a Thanksgiving runner.  I plan to serve soup to the friends coming for supper.

I’ll close with the benediction of the harvest Psalm:

Psalm 65:4-11 NIV – 4 Blessed are those you choose and bring near to live in your courts!
We are filled with the good things of your house,
of your holy temple.
5 You answer us with awesome and righteous deeds, God our Savior,
the hope of all the ends of the earth
and of the farthest seas,
6 who formed the mountains by your power,
having armed yourself with strength,
7 who stilled the roaring of the seas,
the roaring of their waves,
and the turmoil of the nations.
8 The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders; where morning dawns, where evening fades, you call forth songs of joy.
9 You care for the land and water it;
you enrich it abundantly.
The streams of God are filled with water
to provide the people with grain,
for so you have ordained it.
10 You drench its furrows and level its ridges;
you soften it with showers and bless its crops.
11 You crown the year with your bounty,
and your carts overflow with abundance.

Berniece

Step with me into the main room of Grand Central Terminal where Brandon Stanton, author of Humans of New York, has installed his visual love letter to New York. For two weeks, all ads in the whole terminal have been removed and the ordinary New Yorkers from each of the five boroughs are displayed to the world.

The people of the world have flocked to view the art installation as massive photos flash onto the pillars and hang silently on the walls. Seeing people, people from everywhere – maybe more than we’ve ever seen in Grand Central before – is in itself an eye sensory experience.

Dear New York: Shabby, chic seemed to be the style of the lady applying makeup on a crowded train this morning. The little girl talking into a plastic cell phone could be an Asian princess. I’d hire the man with a backpack and paint-splattered jeans. The older woman in a pink-knit sweater top calculates her Con Edison bill after reading the New York Times. The mother with a child on her back and the shaggy, black-haired older son walks by selling candy. A two some dressed for the office seriously discuss the partner who isn’t playing fairly. The bearded Muslim Uber driver tells me about community in his country of Algeria. The waiter talks about the police in his country of Nepal.

New Yorkers of every tribe and race, we love you.  God does too, a lot more than I do.

Berniece

Heaven is calling, and I want to go. I wonder if you think I’m strange. It’s not that life is burdensome. How could it be when the two of us are having hot tea and pumpkin biscotti? Laurence had the day off since he’ll work at the clinic tomorrow. I did cleaning and laundry yesterday, so I felt carefree today.

We took the train to Cold Spring, NY. It traveled beside the Hudson River. The river has its moods and today it was a peaceful blue. The hills on the opposite side wore early fall colors, which is really the drab green of late summer. Soon they’ll be dressed in their best orange, yellow, and red brilliance.

We walked to Little Stoney Point and hiked to the top where the view of the river and the hills is magnificent. We ate our lunch on a green lawn by the trail center, toured Main, had ice cream from Moo Moo Creamery, and dallied (Wordle players) a long time at Dock Park doing nothing. Dock Park faces Constitution Island where the two sisters lived who wrote the song, “Jesus Loves Me.”

I fell asleep on the train home until the conductor made a loud announcement, “Put your bags on the overhead rack and have only your seat on the seat!” A group of Westpoint cadets boarded the train at Garrison besides there being a Yankee game, so the train was full. After I awoke, I just stared out the window at the beautiful scenery.

However, the loveliness of today doesn’t compare with the beauty of Heaven. That’s why I say, “Even so, come Lord Jesus.”

Berniece

PS The weather looks good for tomorrow, and I’m happy to be going to work at the farmer’s market.

“Therefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight and sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1).

When I read the above verse this morning, I thought how Minister Wayne Amoth has joined that great cloud of witnesses whose faith I want to emulate. I can picture him hanging a garment bag in the hall closet of the Washington Heights, New York, apartment and telling Letha, “That’s all we have.” He hoped that the thief who broke into Reuben Shirk’s van and stole his Bible would read it. I remember deep discussions around the table in the open dining area of that apartment, and the time Wayne and Letha went with us to Brooklyn after our friend Cynthia’s husband had just died in a horrific automobile accident. In that desolate apartment with dogs barking just outside the closed kitchen door, Wayne offered words of comfort. He told Cynthia that we would be there for her and her young son.

So many memories . . .

Time skipped along and years later, we met Wayne and Letha in Arizona. I have a mental picture of Letha standing against the kitchen wall of our Airbnb in Tucson, encouraging our dear friend Ady to let go of what’s behind and to travel to her home country of India with courage. None of us who were there will forget how the evening ended with Wayne’s prayer. Afterwards, Waynes, Eds, Kyrons, Ady, and we continued to stand in that sacred space as the youthful Ady shared about her conversion and of being led to the mission in NYC.

These last years when we’d see Wayne, he’d always tell us about the evening he was elected to the ministry. How he did not know what name to put down for the deacon. As the congregation knelt to pray, the name Richard Penner came to him. Wayne and Laurence’s dad were ordained the same evening.

Wayne has joined that great cloud of witnesses. I will meet him and Letha there someday soon.

Berniece

p.s. There is something I must add. I went to my diary just now and saw that on January 28, 2024, Wayne had the sermon at Phoenix. He spoke on “inexpressible joy” – joy that can’t be expressed.

A plane roared upon takeoff from LaGuardia Airport this morning, and then another, and another. I listen, appreciating the ordinary. A truck rumbles. Its brakes squeak as it stops to pick up the building’s trash. Normal day, I love you.

In our room, lit by a couple small lamps, we read the Word. Coffee mugs sit empty beside us. We’re 24 years older than that first 9/11. Our hair is grayer; our hearts softer, and we’re still here where we were then. Laurence will go to his place of employment at Elmhurst Hospital. I’ll take the elevator to the laundry room. Lunch will be in our tiny kitchen. Supper too.

God has been good to us. We love Him more than ever before, and we find ourselves longing for that other Shore. We’re here though, walking the streets of Queens, worshipping at Sugar Hill Mennonite in Harlem, riding buses and trains, and flying from LGA.

I smile to think how on that 9/11, I did not know if we would still be alive at Christmas, but we’re still here. I cut out a newspaper clipping back then that said, “We look for a city . . .” Today, we continue to “look for a city whose builder and maker is God.”

I hear cheerful singing from the bathroom, “Watch and pray . . .” God who cared for us then is caring for us now. Keep the faith.

Berniece

There’s a place at the table for everyone in the fellowship hall at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission. On any given Sunday, we gather from different tribes and nations to dine on Mennonite cooking. We, the people, are rich and we are beggarly, mentally unstable and well educated. We work for the MTA, in schools, hospitals, a library, a farmer’s market and more. We own our own homes, rent apartments, and live in a shelter.

We love breads, sweet deserts, and coffee with cream. One of us always goes to the cabinet to get the red hot pepper. The mission staff serves us well with main dishes, rice, and potatoes.

The food satisfies, but it is the conversation that causes us to linger. We discuss countries, customs, occupations, dress, volunteer work, and much more. Most of all we like to talk about God and His ways. We don’t always agree. Sometimes we are loud, and there is laughter. We love each other, and we always return to our place at the table.

I’m not sure why it works so well to sit together at the table. Why there is no place I’d rather be or no group I’d rather be with for Sunday dinner.

Maybe you want to come serve here. There’s a place for you at the table.

Berniece

P.s. The back of the Rice Krispie box says, “Everyone deserves a place at the table.” That’s where this title came from.

Last evening at sunset, we left our footprints in the sand. Those waves that climbed high and crashed when we were last out on Rockaway now only softly lapped against the shore as the tide went out. Surfers carried their boards over their heads onto the boardwalk and strapped them to bikes.

God painted the eastern sky in baby pink and blue, the deep blue beneath soft pink. I marveled at the sea scene as we walked a mile on the beach. Had there ever been such beauty as this evening by the sea?

On the way to the boardwalk, we walked past a home where the owners marked the level of Hurricane Sandy’s waters in 2012. That hurricane ravished this area of the coast. It tore at the boardwalk, leaving naked sentinels of posts. The angry waters swamped through homes built on shifting sands.

God who made the seas roar calmed them.

Psalm 107:26-30 expresses it best: 26 They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away.
27 They reeled and staggered like drunkards;
they were at their wits’ end.
28 Then they cried out to the LORD in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress.
29 He stilled the storm to a whisper;
the waves of the sea were hushed.
30 They were glad when it grew calm,
and he guided them to their desired haven.

Have a blessed Sunday, and may your storms be stilled to a whisper.

Berniece