An Ordinary Life

Rain softly drips outside the screen door of the cottage on South Hero Island this morning. We sit in the cozy, windowed living area that looks out over Keeler Bay.  The Green Mountains shaded in blues rise across the waters of Lake Champlain. Black-eyed susans and other flowers border the expanse of green lawn leading down to the water.

The Lake Champlain Islands are accessed by bridge or ferry. Route 2 passes by this cottage. Ironically, four days away on this same highway is the Bonners Ferry, Idaho, home of Laurence’s boyhood. (Now the Rory Walker home.)

We pass through these islands every summer, but this year we were fortunate to rent a place here. Laurence grilled burgers after we arrived here last evening, and we had corn on the cob and watermelon from Wengerd’s Farmer’s Market. (Somewhere not far from here Mom and Dad Wengerd lived years ago when they were Amish and the children were little. )

We drove up Mt. Equinox yesterday and enjoyed the views from the top. Driving on Route 7 by Bennington in Vermont brought back memories of being there with my parents and made me lonesome for Dad. (“We stopped here with folks. I think it’s the store where Mom bought fudge.”) We passed by the large Todd Lincoln estate that we once toured with folks. And were near the little yellow Serenity cottages where we stayed . . .

We’ll have breakfast here at the cabin, and then pack a lunch and drive up Mt. Philo with its expansive views of the Champlain Valley. That means a favorite ferry ride across Lake Champlain today.

Wishing you a good day. We’d like to have you join us here. 🙂 Berniece

Saturday

Isaiah 30:21: “And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.”

I stand by the yellow strip on the platform where I once lay with an obviously broken leg. A work train honks and then, “Cling, cling, cling” as it pulls through the station. Slowly, other early Saturday morning commuters join me to wait for the R train. “This is the way” to my job at the farmer’s market. The quiet voice of the Spirit says, “These are the words to write.”

Some years ago, I stood alone and confused by the railing of an East River ferry, when I heard a Voice say clearly, “I want you here (in the city).” Most often quiet, but that time loud enough to get my attention, God always has direction.

(Looks like it’s a man’s working world on the train this morning. Backpacks are the order of the day. Heads nod in slumber. The six pairs of shoes across from me are white, brown loafers, black, yellow tennis shoes with blue shoestrings, black sandals, black and white Nikes.)

“This is Roosevelt Island. The elevator is at the front of the platform.” I complete this post while sitting on an old block wall by the East River across from the Manhattan skyline. Seagulls cry. Traffic roars. “This is the way,” today. I do not know about tomorrow. God has a good plan for me (Jeremiah 29:11). I will trust Him.

Sunday

Today’s Sunday school lesson is titled, “Obeying Magistrates.” Laurence provoked the thoughts for this post when he reminded me of my experience of being a caregiver in the home of a judge in NYC.

Though I was the “little maid” the judge would often come home from a day in court and share the case with me. (A murder that happened in a church a few blocks from our home.) Mr. Judge did not banter about the case but rather, he was deeply burdened. The responsibility of the sentencing weighed heavily on him. The trial ended. The jury cast their vote. The judge sentenced. He said to me, “I did what I had to do” – not what his flesh wanted.

I respected the judge. In serious discussions, we talked about my stand as to serving on jury duty. He told me that I could not be dismissed from serving except by a judge.

Some years later, I sat in a dimly lit courtroom as attorneys from opposing sides described a court case. I heard the questions for jury selection. When my time came to be in the box, I asked to be excused. “Why,” the judge wanted to know. He heard my answer. He’d heard it before in his house in a quiet part of Queens. When the judge excused me, his little maid walked free.

In the light of today’s lesson, I plead for respect for the authorities of our land. Someday, we may need to give an answer for our convictions.

Berniece

P.s. The rod in my leg rarely bothers me. Laurence and I hope to do some hiking in the next couple of weeks.

“I need no mansion here below for Jesus said that I must go to a home beyond the clouds not made with hands” (C.S. Grogan).

Minister Quentin Koehn said that this song stayed with him during the time of my dad’s passing. It’s fitting for the legacy Dad left us. My mind wanders back to an old two-story farmhouse. I would climb steep, narrow stairs and walk through my brothers’ bedroom to get to my room with its flowered wallpaper and a south window that overlooked the lilac bushes in the backyard.

There was the barn, ramshackle chicken houses, multiple wood sheds, and grain bins. Dad converted one of the buildings into a place to raise rabbits. The wood storage bins made excellent jail rooms when we played cops and robbers. (Locked up, you smelled the old grain.) I spent hours in the barn with my kittens after I found them in some dark space. Though not rich in earthly goods, I had the best of childhoods.

The time came for folks to retire and move to town. My parents’ home in Halstead is a simple one where love dwells and the front porch is made for sitting on.   Dad left his “no mansion here below” for a “home beyond the clouds” on July 5.

In the week after Dad’s passing, the table stretched to hold family and friends. Great-grandchildren spilled into the living room or onto the porch. The kitchen overflowed with people involved in food preparation.  Groups crowded together to fill the house with singing. There wasn’t room or luxury, but love spilled into all corners of the simple home that Dad purchased. Dad often commented on how he’d been blessed beyond his expectations.

This morning, as I reflect on my heritage,  Hebrews 13:5 comes to me, “Be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” Dad left me a rich legacy.

Berniece

Sunshine glinted off the plane as it took off early Saturday morning. “O beautiful sunrise.” Dad is experiencing sunrise in Glory. It’s sunrise this morning as I am on the porch where he so often sat. However, it isn’t sunrise in Glory where I am though the trees are green, the birds sing, and the cucumbers Dad planted on the porch begin to vine. Dad wanted the ugly pile of brush on the hospital parking lot out of here. It was there when I came, but this morning, I see it’s gone. Dad rests in the splendor of Glory, and these things are no longer important.

Little bikes are parked in Dad’s garage. A small great-granddaughter asked Mom, “Why did great-grandpa die?” Dad enjoyed nothing more than watching these little ones. A mom reports seeing Dad shake with laughter at their antics at the last Grandpa Night gathering.

Why did Dad die? His body was worn out. He lived his life well, and now he’s s left us for sunrise in Glory. We rejoice that Dad is Home.

Berniece

P.s. I reflect over the crowd gathered last evening: family, friends, cousins of folks, my cousins, special friends of folks, and special friends of ours, Shawn, the hospice nurse . . . Dad was loved. We are loved. We love you. Thank you for being there for us.

“For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens” (2 Corinthians 5:1).

Dad’s earthly house has been exchanged for a heavenly one, the mud mansion I pictured replaced by a sparkling home eternal in Heaven. While I am sad, I  also rejoice that he’s won the race, and I do not want my dad back here.

Not long ago, I prayed for Dad to live. You may wonder at me, but I was not ready for him to die. God giving me the picture of Dad’s house of clay helped me to let go.

I’ve been doing plenty of letting go lately. I thought Laurence could not possibly have a second eye surgery, but he did. (Because of this he will not be at Dad’s funeral. We’ve accepted this. A month ago we spent quality time with my parents in Kansas.) I  thought that no way could we leave Cape Cod last week after only one night there, but we did. Yesterday afternoon, I sat here in LGA, Delta terminal, expecting to fly to Kansas. But instead, after a pilot shared with me about his father dying earlier this year, I went home and ate Shanghai soup dumplings with Laurence. This morning, I am back at the airport to fly to Kansas. (Pray that it will happen.)

In all of the above scenarios, my ways were not God’s. His ways are both higher and better than mine. I can trust Him completely.

My dad is free of this house of clay. He is safe in the arms of Jesus. I also rest in the arms of Jesus, knowing He has a beautiful place prepared for me. And for you. God bless you.

Berniece

P.s. The West African Uber driver shared with me this morning that if we are humble, we won’t have anxiety.

Both Belleville’s and Fairview’s song services inspired us last evening as we listened from the chairs in our apartment bedroom. Even better was singing with the Akinyombos at the worship service in Poughkeepsie yesterday morning. The music rang right from our inner being!

Needing exercise, we went out after the services last evening. The Tibetans had gathered to dance to the music of their country in the playground near here. We watched as the large group, some in traditional dress, circled swaying and prancing. When the tempo picked up, the dancers moved more swiftly, stomped harder and motioned more. Smiles lit the faces of the dancers. They dance to preserve their cultural identity against the encroachment of the Chinese in their homeland. The dance was a protest.

Ironically, the Chinese were not being silent in the playground; a large speaker system loudly poured forth their dance music. Couples paired off and twirled to the songs sung in a language we don’t understand.

Laurence and I walked on. A few blocks later, we heard another kind of music. We crossed the street and found a small group standing in a handball court, chanting as a leader directed. It was a Hindu worship service.

I pray that the music of the one true God will someday fill Elmhurst. Berniece

P.s. Laurence returned to work this morning after over two weeks off for eye surgery and recovery. Help us pray that all will be well. Thank you for all your prayers!

(Letting go of the rest.)

After the trials of the last week, I’m thinking the Lord wants Laurence and me to come forth like gold.

On Monday, Dr. Dayan checked Laurence’s eye. He assured us that healing was ongoing. The surgery had been major, and it’s going to take awhile for the gas bubble to dissipate and for eyesight to be normal. His eye looks kinda ugly.

Afterwards, while eating our packed lunch in a beautifully landscaped Manhattan park, a Roosevelt Island customer happened by and stopped to talk. I told him I’d spotted the wild turkey on Roosevelt Island. He said the turkey came over from Queens and was likely headed for Manhattan. 😊

Monday evening, feeling like we needed a mental and physical health break, we picked up a rental car. Tuesday morning, found us driving to Massachusetts, arriving in Plymouth in time to have clam chowder by the sea for lunch. We’ve been to Plymouth before, but could easily spend several more days there in that place where the Mayflower landed. After walking to Plymouth Rock, we moved on to a simple, family run motel on Cape Cod. We walked down Main of the oldest town on the Cape, toured an historic Saltbox house, and bought ground corn at a grist mill. We spent the evening on the beaches and by the lighthouses of the Cape.

All would have been well except for an email that caused stress. “Give such to God,” you say. We tried, but early the next morning when we couldn’t sleep, we decided to go home, leaving the cute room that we’d paid for for two nights.

Thankfully, we do love our Queens home, and also, traffic moved rather well. A little over four hours later, we were home. I let Laurence off to deal with the complexities of paperwork from his job, and I went to look for parking. 1. Parking in our area is impossible. 2. I am terrible at parallel parking. I prayed aloud for a parking space and then felt surprised when I located a large one not far from home. “Thank you, God!”

Instead of Cape Cod beaches, I did laundry on Wednesday.

We did have a rental car yet Thursday. I’m of the mind that the Lord directs our steps, and that day we unexpectedly ended up in Norwalk,  Connecticut, where we joined a ferry tour to Sheffield Island. The temperature was perfect, the sky clear, the water blue, blue as we rode with another two, and the captain with his crew (of two). We learned interesting things, saw lighthouses, and osprey nests before landing on Sheffield Island. For two hours we roamed the island, toured the lighthouse, ate our packed lunch, but mostly we just sat in Adirondack chairs overlooking the Long Island Sound. Cape Cod’s beaches could hardly compare to the loveliness.

I marvel at God’s ways. I planned. I had to let go of my ideas – hand them to God, trust Him and believe that He has a beautiful life for me (and for you.)

We are on our way to Poughkeepsie to worship with the brothers and sisters there. Laurence plans (!) to go back to work tomorrow. We don’t know how that will go, but I think the lessons learned this last week will help us to trust God with the future.

Let’s pray for each other. Berniece

“The next stop is 46th Street. Stand clear of the closing doors please.” I’m on the way to church. Cool and carefree. I don’t need to watch the road so I write this blog. Sometimes, I read or pray. Often, I just sit and watch the people (who are watching me. Only a tourist thinks that no one pays any attention to anyone else).

Maybe next Sunday, Laurence and I will ride together. His right eye slowly improves after surgery 10 days ago, but it looks awful. (Keep praying.) Laurence talked of going to Fort Totten to listen to a service. It’s a peaceful place with a few sailboats floating on the waters of the Long Island Sound.

I feel like yesterday was one of the hottest markets ever on Roosevelt Island. (I look up to see we just stopped at Roosevelt Island Station.) I noticed a banner at the market and another on the light post of Good Shepherd Plaza yesterday that celebrated the 35 years Wengerd’s Farm Market has been on the island. The island folks did this because they appreciate Israel and the market. There was a cake and speeches. The boss stayed humble (and hot). It’s been a great environment for me to work in. I enjoy my coworkers, the customers, and the beauty of an island surrounded by water.

I messed up. I thought this R train would go on the F line, but now, I realize I’ll need to change to the Uptown A at Times Square. This means a long walk through a hot station. (Aren’t you thankful you can drive to church?)

I made it. I’m on a cool uptown train. I passed by where the Mennonites come to sing and pass out Gospel literature. “WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY?” blazed at me from the spot by the 7 train stairs. Mexican mothers sold mangos, drinks, and spicy peanuts. Policemen manned their post; they didn’t see the girl slide underneath the turnstile.

This reminds me of an experience that Laurence had this last week when he was on a bus where a customer refused to pay his fare. The driver finally shut the exit doors and called the police. The non-paying customer decided he did not want to confront the police, so he managed to get the exit window open and crawl out. I look at that window and cannot imagine how he got out. Laurence said it wasn’t easy.

A mentally disturbed person is singing off key and loudly about how anyone can make it in NYC. This stirs his counterpart in another section who shouts, “-(bad word) NYC. I’m going to Los Angeles.” I laugh out loud. I think I better go to Sunday school with the people of God. I hope you can too. God bless.

Berniece

Laurence asks, “Are you going to write a blog here? Dog blog? No, Woodside blog.” He says this because we’re sitting under a shade tree by an old cement checker’s table in a dog run in Woodside. Woodside, where Missions USA began its presence here in 1988.

The Long Island Railroad clatters behind while traffic swirls all around on both Queens Boulevard and the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Beneath all the traffic noise a dog makes the ball in his mouth go squeak, squeak, squeak. I laugh to see all four dogs in the enclosure with a ball in their mouth, the biggest a soccer ball. (This is turning into a dog blog.)

“You know what I remember about this place?” I ask Laurence. “We came here to sit in the morning of Thanksgiving Day 1988 before we went to the Bronx policeman’s home for dinner.” It wasn’t a dog run then but rather, a small park with a few benches. We’d only been in NYC a few months then, and I remember how completely happy I felt being here, though it was a holiday and our families would be together.

Not much has changed. We still belong right here. Right now. I trust you’re right where God wants you to be. Berniece

P.s. Please keep praying for healing for Laurence’s eye. He had emergency surgery last Thursday evening.

I feel somewhat like Elijah who told the Lord from his hiding place in the cave, “I, even I only am left.”

The still small voice says, “I have many people in this city” “(Acts 18:10).

My mind goes back across the years to how my good friend Gisela now rests in Glory after God led her to the Church in the city. Soon her grandson will walk down the aisle with his bride, a home built on the Rock.

Henry, the agnostic man, who started attending the Church in the city when he lost his eyesight has also gone to his eternal reward. His epitaph reads, “Now I see.” At the end of life he said, “There is nothing left but the blood.”

Sister Bisi’s baptism was at Sugar Hill, the Church in the city. She lives in Poughkeepsie where her and Brother Reuben are raising their family in the Church.

The Mifflinburg congregation gets to have Brother and Sister Benn worshipping with them. Their baptism was also at the Church in the city, and their daughter, Helene Berniece, will forever be a city girl who loves bubble tea and the beach.

And now one of our own, Sister Abigael’s marriage to Brother Brandt Nightingale has blessed the Church in the city. God sent a complete double rainbow as a witness on the eve of the wedding. Don’t forget this.

I could write of Ismari, Maxeau, the Vicentes (whose story isn’t finished), of attendees, and of visitors from out of town whose lives have been changed by the Church in the city. City outreach continues. God’s Word will not return unto Him void.

Berniece

P.s. Tell how your life has been touched by the mission in NYC.