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I belong to the sisterhood of African women braiding hair. Membership doesn’t come easily to someone with White skin, but after years of acquaintance, I’ve been accepted. Having a child who shares my name bonds me with my African sisters and truly it is the most wonderful thing ever. It’s a chosen family where I find community and support.

Only my African sister would message me with, “Mama we’re coming over. We’re hungry. You better start cooking.” I’ve always said, “The worst thing about having company is inviting them,” so this makes me happy.

When I broke my leg and couldn’t cook, my African sister took over the kitchen – my White sisters did too. The best fish I ever ate came from her Liberian table. I even dared a bit of the very spicy pepper to add more flavor.

If possible Laurence and I will seat ourselves with the Africans in the fellowship hall. The discussions might get a bit too noisy for Laurence, but his wife delights in them.

Last evening, Sundaymar sat in the recliner doing her daughter’s hair. I lazed on the couch across from them. While Mama moisturized and braided,  we had the opportunity for storytelling, sharing wisdom, and strengthening our friendship.

I caught Bee nudging her mother when she thought Mom overstepped in talking about the Whites.  No offense on my part. I’m happy if I can be thought of  as one of them.

Berniece

We pulled suitcases down Broadway as employees left from the night shift at Elmhurst Hospital. In the meantime, my boss and his crew set up the market on Roosevelt Island. The Q70 bus waited for us, and 20 minutes after leaving home we were walking into LaGuardia Airport. Voted number one airport in the USA, we marvel at how quickly we’re through security and walking past the dazzling fountain to our gate.

We’re excited to be going to my niece Leah’s wedding, and a little sad to miss the service for Papa Isaac Akinyombo’s retirement from the ministry. Since arriving here in 1998, Papa has been our minister, guidance counselor, and a prayer warrior. He checked in often when Laurence had Covid. We bonded over many worship services and fellowship dinners, at school picnics, communion services, holiday gatherings, and all the heartwarming discussions in Papa’s small apartment. We cried together when Mama left us.

A special service was when some of the writing group I belong to gathered to worship in the mission on Cherry Street in Poughkeepsie before going to a writer’s retreat. That day Papa encouraged us to write, that words, beginning with those Moses was inspired to write, are important in God’s kingdom.

Papa’s contemporaries will be there today -.those wise, grey-haired brothers and sisters. It blessed us to spend a short time with a few of these ordinary people last evening in a picnic shelter beside the Hudson River. Four of us ladies sat on a bench by the Sleepy Hollow Lighthouse as the sunset glow reflected off the water. Walking back to the park, I saw Roger Penner and Ed Warkentin (present and past NYC missionary) talking together on a bench by the river while Laurence stood on the lawn visiting with his cousin Rol Loewen. Elmer Swareys and Franklin Wengers had left by then for their motel in Fishkill.

The sun set behind the hills and the lights of the magnificent Tappan Zee Bridge came on as Rodgers and we boarded the Metro North train for NYC.

“Beyond these hills lies Home.” Prepare for takeoff.  Berniece

I began the day by remembering my grandparents, the uncles, aunts, and cousins and how we’d gather at Camp Hawk on Memorial Day. I remembered my dad going up to bat in an early Memorial Day gathering when the Paul Becker family met at Harvey County Park.  As a cousin wrote on Sunday, Dad has hit a home run. This Memorial Day, we put flowers on his grave. On July 5, 2024, Dad joined his parents, brother, sisters, and nephew Clayton in Glory.

Instead of breakfast, ball, lunch, and homemade ice cream at Camp Hawk this year, Laurence and I met Roger and Elsie Penner, Ron and Carol Becker, and Eric Pobee on the Metro North train. We took it from Grand Central. Rons and Rogers found us on the third to the front car when they got on at Harlem-125th, and Eric boarded the same train at Stamford, Connecticut. Eric knows Connecticut, so when we reached Bridgeport, he gave us a quick tour before we went to the ferry.

Laurence and I are acquainted with ferries; however, we were not prepared for the mammoth one awaiting us. We boarded, and I watched as the vehicles drove on. The ferry can hold 1,000 passengers along with 100 vehicles. As we found our seats, Eric offered us each a can of coconut water. He said, “You didn’t ask me what I’m pulling this (a rolling backpack)for.”

I told him that I had wondered but my Canadian friend says that she is amazed by the personal questions we ask here in the USA. He laughed, understanding what I meant. “I like it,” Eric, who is from Ghana, said, referring to the questioning.

The hour and a quarter ride to Port Jefferson on Long Island was fabulous. As we pulled into the New York harbor, the verdant green hills came into view, the many boats docked, and a bustling harbor town.

Afterwards, we ate seafood (most of us anyways) in an open air restaurant near the water. I asked the busy waiter why the wooden cross on his label. He said, “It’s my way of honoring Him.” We wandered down by the water, walked, and sat on a bench. No picture could do justice to the beauty, and the best way I can describe it is the Power and the Glory with the sunshine and clouds over the blue of the sea.

A little girl showed me the seashell she’d found. Her bearded dad said, “If we find another, we’ll bring it to you.”

“We’ll be at the ice cream shop,” I replied.

“Don’t say that word around us, he said. 😀

Our group each chose their favorite ice cream, and enjoyed it while sitting around outside the shop. (Most of us anyways 😉.) And then it was time to leave the touristy part of town to climb steeply for a mile and a half to the Long Island Railroad Station. Eric walked part way with us before turning around to take the ferry back to Connecticut.

I fell asleep during the train ride into the city. Laurence and I got off at Jamaica to catch the subway home. Rogers and Rons went on to Penn Station. Never before have we rode Metro North, a ferry, and the Long Island Railroad on the same day, but we’re already dreaming of when we can do it again.

Laurence and I appropriately finished the day by eating dumplings on Broadway in Elmhurst. It wasn’t homemade ice cream at Camp Hawk but then and now, life is good! Berniece

How did you spend Memorial Day?

Good morning from our apartment in Elmhurst, Queens. Lately, there have been a bunch of new subscribers to this blog. This humbles me for who am I, what is there about my ordinary (to us) life that interests you? Who are you? I would like to know your names and how we’re connected.

We never witness a sunrise or a sunset from our apartment, but this morning the sun’s rays beam on the red of the fire escape and the brown of rooftops. Laurence walked to his job at Elmhurst Hospital a few minutes before 8 a.m. Lately, he’s been working in Senior Care. At breakfast, he told me about a bus driver who was there yesterday and was having stroke-like symptoms so Emergency was called.

If I’d walk a couple blocks to the small playground just now, I could watch the Chinese and Korean groups exercising to music, some in uniform, and one group might be using swords or popping colorful fans open. Recently, a young man told me, while riding the elevator together, that his mom dances there in the morning. “It’s a competition. You should join them.” They are all slim and trim! Likely, a volleyball game is going on, basketball, and ping pong. The drunks are sleeping and some Asian men gambling. However, we are not all godless in this community. The Gospel story is being told, tracts passed out, and prayers offered. This too happens in the playground.

To step into our apartment is to see a Mennonite home. Though small, our home is not much different than yours. I often thank God that I get to live here. My restless spirit finds fulfillment in walking these streets, in browsing the Asian markets, and tasting the ethnic foods all around us. I am most interested in the cultures of the people we live amongst. I like living by one of the busiest libraries in the nation – a people who enjoy reading.

We worship at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission in Manhattan. I feel a little sorry for those who don’t know what it is to worship there, how the Spirit brings people from multiple nations to sing, pray, and share together. On Sunday, there is no place I would rather be.

This is not to say that we don’t miss the country. I do get lonesome. I long for more fellowship with sisters and brothers of like precious faith. I do miss family.

But for now, God wants us here. It is home.

Thank you for reading.  “Soli Deo Gloria” (to God be the glory).  Berniece

Happy Mother’s Day to all my friends and relatives who are mothers, and especially to my own dear mother. She’s the best!

The email read, “She is childless.” I’d done some editing for this well known writer in Mennonite circles. This was how she described me to several hundred other writers. I didn’t mind, but it did make me wonder. Is this what defines me: no children?

I thought and thought and the more I thought, I realized it is true. I wouldn’t be writing this blog if the Lord hadn’t put me in an alone place and given me words. We never would have considered living in Queens if we’d have had children. With children, my life would be so different:

No days on the beach with my namesake Bee. I wouldn’t know Sundaymar’s laughter or call Kari my little sister. I would have never seen Ellen’s shoe collection or discussed an African woman’s love of pretty cloth. Jesse and Frank with their families would not have recently graced our home with their presence. And perhaps the biggest blessing of all came because of working at the farmer’s market and of the boss, Israel, and his wife, Sarah, who transformed from darkness to light. I would not have received a Mother’s Day bouquet from Greg, Shawn, and Jerry.

That paragraph could go on for a book length, telling of foods, of places, of the sea, young men, former missionaries, and many more blessings sent our way because God knows best.

Lastly, we would not have had the experience on the E Train that happened this morning when a Muslim woman, covered in black except for her eyes, called out, “Beautiful lady, come sit by your husband.” I moved to sit by Laurence. The woman stood by me, asking about my faith. I explained that I’m a Christian. “Have you heard of Mennonites?”

“Once, about five years ago a woman named Sonia tried to explain to me.”

Sonia. I know Sonia. The same Sonia who lives far from where we’re riding the train. God’s providence caused us to miss a train, so we could ride this train and visit with this sweet lady. God’s amazing providence kept me ‘childless’ so that I would be blessed with this amazing life.

You too are being led into beautiful places by God’s loving providence.

Berniece

Dear Stranger on the R Train,

You sat across from me reading a book. I sneaked a peek at the title and saw it was, Seven Years in Tibet. As I rode, across from you, I googled the book reviews. The five-star ratings along with the acclaim caused me to request it from the local library.

It is a travel book written by Austrian mountaineer and Nazi SS sergeant Heinrich Harrer based on his real life experiences in Tibet between 1944 and 1951 during the Second World War. How strange is that?!

I recognized you as being Tibetan. After asking you if the book is good; you told me that it is, and  said, “I was born in India. My story is complicated.”

I asked if like the Dalai Lama your family was exiled to India.

“Yes,” you replied. “I’ve never seen my country that’s why I’m reading this book.”

I am interested in you. I care about your people. They are my neighbors. Your restaurants are around us. You dance in the nearby playground. Thanks to you, I now know you dance on Wednesdays because it is the day when the Dalai was born. I see the prayer flags. I enjoy momos, those delicious little dumplings. Your people smile a lot. They make caring and friendly nurses at Elmhurst Hospital.

Your slogan is, “Free Tibet.” Because Tibet isn’t free, you live by me. I like this. I ate Yak Sha Bakleb (yak meat dumpling) this evening at the Queens Night Market because of meeting you on the train early this morning.

“You will really enjoy the book,” you told me as the doors opened at Roosevelt Island, and I stepped off the train.

I’ll long remember the conversation. Thank you!

Berniece, a conservative Mennonite woman who’s interested in the peoples of the world.

How did life’s journey bring us to a quiet office in Bayside, Queens, where Laurence will have a medical procedure? After riding the 7 train to Flushing, we wound through quiet shopping streets, through Little Korea, and to a pleasant residential neighborhood with green lawns and blooming azaleas.

We could be at this office’s medical practice in the chaos of Manhattan, so I thank God for the calmness of Bayside, a place away from the subway, but not from the public bus system. When you leave the MTA rails, NYC becomes Anywhere Big City USA with small, medium, and large houses, including mansions, with landscaped yards. Bayside has become one of the most sought-after neighborhoods to live in New York City.

I too dream of living here until I think of the inconvenience of everything. Laurence wouldn’t be walking five minutes to work and coming home for lunch. I couldn’t go to the corner store when I’m making cookies and run out of brown sugar. The Asian market wouldn’t be here to wander in when I’m feeling blue.

Ahh, but Fort Totten is here, that beautiful park with the crumbling fort along the bay. It’s the most picturesque place, especially as the sun sets behind the Throgs Neck Bridge.  It’s a photographic scene where we once watched a young man propose among strewn rose petals to his beloved. There are other green spaces and a marina in beautiful Bayside.

After the appointment, we stopped at a favorite bookstore that’s operated by handicapped adults. We had lunch at Mad For Chicken. The large restaurant with its wood floors and long wooden tables certainly wasn’t Elmhurst.

The Long Island Railroad stops in Bayside, so that’s an option. However, we took the bus back to the throngs of Flushing and then the 7 train to 82nd Street. We returned to the city’s brick and asphalt, to home in Elmhurst – our favorite place!

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