An Ordinary Life

The man beside us at the Uzbek restaurant sat alone. “How long you been together?” he asked Laurence and me.

“Forty-one years.”

“It’s beautiful. So beautiful.”

Together is beautiful in a home. Together is beautiful in the Church. Brothers and sisters of like precious faith came to market today. Some I knew; others I hadn’t met before. The youth sang carols. The customers responded by clapping and videoing. An older lady, Sherry, said, “Will you please sing one more,” and they sang, “Silent Night” just for her. Then they walked off towards the tram TOGETHER. Together, not just as a group, but also as one in heart and spirit. The beauty of this togetherness shone as a beckoning light on Roosevelt Island today.

Tomorrow a few of us will worship together at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission. We were not all raised in the same culture or country, but we are one in the body of Christ. We are together.

I’ll always remember the glory of singing “Redeemed, how I love to proclaim it” (my eyes get teary just thinking about it) with the 11,000 brothers and sisters together at the 2022 Confidence.

There’s a beautiful place of Together with the people of God.

The customer beside us in the restaurant left to go alone to a bar and watch football.

Berniece

Beneath the steel beams of the overhead train, I observe the faint orange of a sunrise crisscrossed by black electrical wires. In the City That Never Sleeps, I hear the rumble of trains, Muslim prayers, horns honking, and, when I listen closely, birdsong. The sari-dressed woman on a bench in the park-like median beside me leans over to say that it’s 22 minutes until the next bus. I reply, “I know.” I decide to wait and not spend the money on Uber. However, just then a bus rounds the corner onto Queens Boulevard, and we both cross the street and board it for a ride to Roosevelt Island.

That’s as far as I got this morning. Now it’s the western sky that is tinted with the sunset. Market was good. Ordinary. Normal. It felt routine to go out early this morning to commute, and to work at market. (Meanwhile, Laurence had a dentist appointment, and he walked in Forest Park.)

Why was I thinking these thoughts? Unexpectedly this last week, I spent several days in Kansas. I flew out for the funeral of Jim Kehn at Ulysses. His wife, Anita, is my cousin. I’m glad I went. I don’t think I’ll ever forget standing in the warm sunshine (70 degrees, no wind) at the cemetery, seeing the brilliant yellows and reds of the casket bouquet, and hearing the choir sing, “Somewhere in the skies . . .” Truly, I was lifted to Heaven. I’m glad for Jim’s testimony. I saw so many friends and relatives. I could spend time with my parents.

But then the plane landed at LGA, and I was home where life is normal.

Berniece

“But his father was Greek” (Acts 16:1). I wonder if the apostle Timothy looked like the husky, black-haired waiter with a full beard in the restaurant where Laurence and I dine alone among the Greeks. It is said that the Greeks are fickle, petty, partisan, passionate, and competitive.

The blue and white of the Greek flag are mirrored in the colors of the restaurant with blue trim and beams, white walls, and off white vintage lace curtains. There’s a worn wood floor, white tablecloths, and a screen showing pictures of Greece. The Greek mother and restaurant owner moves between tables, visiting with the diners or she stands quietly to the side observing. Around her neck is a chain with a gold cross. The cross on the Greek flag symbolizes Christianity. (1 Corinthians 1:24, “But unto them which are called, both Jews and Greeks.”)

We begin with warm pita and an olive oil dip. So satisfying! Laurence orders the moussaka and I ask for a gyro. Moussaka is to the Greek what lasagna is to Italians. It’s a rich tomato meat sauce layered with eggplant and potato and topped with a thick layer of sauce. My first bite of the lamb and beef gyro amazes me (not being such a meat fan), and I tell Laurence, “You have to try this” as I drop some of the slivered meat onto his plate.

Long tables fill with elderly looking Greeks. (Well, they might be our age, but they look older. 😊) The noise level rises. The Timothy-looking waiter hugs the ladies. The man across from us greets everyone that comes in as if he/she is a good friend. He steps over to us and says, “I’ve had a heart transplant. I’m 69, but my heart is 32.”

The waitress is too harried to bring our bill, but finally gets it to us. Laurence pays, and then we step across to where the man with a young heart sits. We visit with his table of people about the restaurants in Elmhurst, the food, and about friendships. The man tells us this large group (maybe 50 people) gathers here every other week. “You could give me your number and join us.”

It’s tempting to join the Greeks. We would not have to dine alone. But we also want to dine with the Uzbeks, the Indians, Colombians, Japanese, Italians, etc.

We walked from the restaurant into the quiet of the city. “That was an experience,” I said to Laurence.

“Was it a good one?” asked the Greek on the sidewalk.”

“Yes,” I replied.

Berniece with input from Laurence 11/2/2023

(I write this especially for those of you who are not with your family today.)

“Final call for the 9:50 train to Poughkeepsie. Alright folks, this is going to be a crowded train, so please, make space on the seats. Use the overhead racks for the bags.”

I pick up the sweet potato casserole and place it on my lap to make room for someone to sit beside Laurence and me. It’s quite unusual to see this train, pulling away from Grand Central, so full. A dozen people walk past, looking for an empty seat. Many more people will board the train when we reach the next stop in Harlem.

After Harlem, the train will curve over to roll along the Hudson – that most beautiful of rivers – for many miles until we reach the last stop in Poughkeepsie. The same architect who designed Grand Central designed the Poughkeepsie station, and it too is grand.

We anticipate the blessing today of food and fellowship with the Akinyombo (Daramola) family. Many of our holidays have been spent away from family (a stranger plops himself down beside me), and I long ago quit crying that we weren’t going home to Kansas for the holidays. I am grateful for family and for all the childhood memories of being with the cousins at Grandpa and Grandma’s. However, the photographs in my mind of outstanding holiday (I use holiday in this post because the same goes for Christmas.) memories are of those spent here.

I remember Josh Schmidt standing on chairs (the stage) with the little neighbor girl singing some childish school song. (The fall foliage on the hills across the way is amazing.) For years, Russian Alex with his Colombian wife joined us for dinner at the mission. Alex was gruff and might have missed a button on his shirt while his wife would be dressed to the nines. I remember hiking the Aquaduct Trail, just Laurence and me, one Thanksgiving. I recall another Thanksgiving in Reuben Akinyombo’s apartment before they bought a house, and how we had a large array of both Nigerian and American foods.

The chatter of well-dressed people fills the train. The lady in the next seat up videos the scene of the river, the trees, and the cliffs. The overhead racks carry luggage and hikers’ backpacks.

God bless you today wherever you are, whatever you are doing. (What are you doing? What are your NYC Thanksgiving memories?) Happy Thanksgiving. We love you! Laurence and Berniece

Somehow the Martha in me became Mary today, and I let the day unfold in whatever manner it would. This meant that I’d cleaned, cooked, and set the table in a relaxed way and still had time to ride the 7 train to Grand Central to meet James and Kris (Laurence’s sister) as they walked from the Metro North train in the great room by the clock. (“Meet me at the clock.”) More company would be heading to our place, but Kris, and I had time to walk through the Christmas Market while James got a drink and sat by the skating rink in Bryant Park.

James and Kris parked their suitcases in our foyer just before the houseparents, Randy and Rachel, arrived with Beth and her son, Bane. Eleven-year-old Bane – he plays Michael Jackson on Broadway – settled down on our bed with his computer to do his schoolwork. Then in another matter of perfect timing, Laurence, wearing scrubs, walked in to have dinner with his sister and the rest of us. 😊

Conversation flowed and soon Laurence needed to return to the clinic. Randy headed to a dentist appointment a mile away in Woodside. The rest of us gaped at frogs, eels, live crabs, pig snouts, and more ordinary things in the Asian Market. Kris bought bamboo toothpicks because they’re the best. The next stop was for bubba tea. (Bee, where are you? 😢)

Back at our apartment, we gave hugs and said farewells. Beth and Bane went to the R train, Rachel to the 7 train, and James and Kris to take the Q70 bus to LGA. I thought maybe I could extend the visit a bit by riding with them, but Q70 bus was jam packed and no way was I getting on it.

I turned to walk away when in God’s perfect timing I met a friend I haven’t seen for ten years (likely more). Andrea threw her arms around me and we shared hearts. She hugged me tightly again and again. We did not exchange phone numbers. (God knows where she’s at, and where I am.)

In 2009, I ended the book Be Still with, “Did an elderly, sanctified Martha sit quietly at her Master’s feet . . .?” It’s taken a lot of sanctification, and I’ve been a slow learner, but O the blessing of letting God work things out in His way and according to His timing. Berniece 11/16/23

Laurence walked in the woods of Forest Park today. The sun shone and the leaves were at peak foliage. The sun shone at market too. (Also, the Son shone at market.) Roger and Elsie Penner had their first solo travel experience as NYC missionaries when they came to market today. They rode the tram over the East River to get to Roosevelt Island where the market is.

I have no clue but perhaps, we had a 1,000 customers. (Boss, you can set me straight.) I have ongoing conversations from one market to another with many of them: “My 91 year old dad (who’s in Russia) said to tell you hi.”

“I’m the guy who saves the planet.”

Me: “O yeah, bring your own bags. Save the planet!”

Me to Andy, “What time did you run the marathon in?” He did it in some over three hours. Andy says that NYC is special because the crowds are out to cheer you on. Now he’s training for the marathon in Berlin.

Me to the silver-haired lady speaking Spanish. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

The lady, “I’ve been in Colombia for a year.”

There was the man who lost his cane in the market. The 3-year-old who insisted he’s five, “I’m five!” The couple who I discuss hiking trails with . . .

I didn’t set out to write about market conversations. I wanted to write about eating Guatemalan fast food for supper, and then about walking on Roosevelt where the sidewalk was lined with vendors of food and products from South American countries and from Mexico. Laurence says to bring your passport because you can hardly believe you’re in the United States. The scenes are of tarps, big kettles, grills, tables with plastic chairs and people, Spanish music and talk, little children playing, and a street preacher shouting. This is home and we love it!

We also love escaping to beautiful places along the Hudson River. We hiked this past week at Cold Spring and celebrated my birthday at an old inn there. Laurence got ice cream from Moo Moo Creamery.

We spent Thursday evening by the fireplace in Bear Mountain Overlook Lodge after the park police told us the black bears are active now, and we had to leave the bench by the lake. We’ve been going to Bear Mountain for a long time. (The first time was for my birthday in 1990.) Once we went there to ice skate with the Abe Gracia family. We’ve been there with some of you. What are your memories? This time, Laurence and I thought we might hike in abandoned Doodletown (such a fun name), but the trails were closed due to storm damage.

Tomorrow is another farewell/welcome. I’m hoping Sonia, an attendee, won’t want to sing, “God Be With You.” Todd and Donna Schmidt were kindred spirits, and we’ve certainly enjoyed hiking in beautiful places with them! God bless you, Todd and Donna, for your faithful service here and in Poughkeepsie.

You all have a blessed Sunday. Love, Berniece

I heard Pauline passed away. I hope she’s gone to the place of “many mansions” where there’s no homeless wandering the streets.

Pauline was a gentle soul who placed her large bulk on a park bench at night to sleep. In the morning, she’d make her way to the Pantry for a hot breakfast cooked up by Big Mike and served by Mennonite young men.

Before serving, these young men sang two songs with Laurence and myself (their houseparents) and with the missionary and his wife. After singing, one of the brothers would read and expound on the Word. Pauline appreciated devotional time.

The pantry program located an apartment for Pauline. Her very own apartment. No more sleeping on the street.

At Christmas, the Mennonites took the train to the Bronx to sing carols for Pauline. The missionary carried a box of groceries and placed it on her table. (This was many years ago.) Pleased Pauline showed her friends, the Mennonites, everything, including the refrigerator. She opened the refrigerator door, saying, “There’s food inside.” That’s the picture I remember: Pauline’s overflowing happiness at having food in her fridge.

The mission staff at Sugar Hill continues to reach out to the homeless community at the Pantry. With the arrival of colder weather we see the homeless hanging out in subway stations and taking up train seats by stretching out to sleep on the benches. They beg on the streets, and I ignore them. However, I’ve been reproved for my holier than thou attitude by the one who didn’t ask for money but instead said, “Will you pray for me?” I reply that I will. As I’m walking away I hear, “My name’s Kenneth. Pray for Kenneth.” It’s been touching to see other church groups reach out with both food and the Gospel in the park near us. I’ve come down into the subway station to see the homeless praying with someone who cared about their soul. (I’ve also seen plenty of beer cans and the body of one who didn’t survive.)

Could the homeless, bearded man pushing a grocery cart of stuff be an angel unaware?

Happy November. May your refrigerator be filled with plenty. Berniece

This life and that life. This town and that city. This place and that one could hardly be more different, yet I feel at home here in Small Town just like I do in Big City. Here, we bounce on old brick streets while driving a car. There, we glide on trains or ride buses. Our people live here, but over the years, we’ve bonded with the people of the world who bring their customs and cultures to Queens. And their food! Laurence says he misses soy sauce when he’s in Small Town. The smell of garlic does not waft through the air here, like it does on the streets and in the hallways of our apartment building in NYC.

We enjoy the conversations around dining tables and in coffee shops that come with visiting in Small Town. Being with family is always quality time. We get to laugh and love great nieces and nephews, and listen to, “Boom,” as the little niece tells about Dad shooting an armadillo.

It rained and rained in the City. We came to Small Town, and it rained here. The rain didn’t shut the subway down or close Night Market for six Saturdays like it did in Queens. Instead, now the wheat can come up in the big fields.

My parents live in Small Town. We carry coffee to the porch while we read the Word and meditate. The porch is for visiting with Dad and Mom (and anyone that comes by). There is no porch in the Big City, but it is home. Berniece

This morning we’re alone in the crowd of a subway car. It’s not much different than the aloneness on a porch overlooking Lake Champlain. Swaying with the train while holding a layered lettuce salad for lunch in the fellowship hall, I say a prayer. The Spirit reminds me how blessed we are to have a beautiful church building to worship in though we live in NYC. God is here just as He was in Vermont a week ago.

A thousand times, I’ve rebelled against aloneness. I did again this last week, longing for someone to message, “Could we meet?” Reasoning with God does not bring happiness. (Laurence just realized that there is a seat beside me. He moved across the D train to sit with me. I’m not alone. 😊) I read from Elizabeth Elliott’s excellent book Loneliness, A Pathway to God again this morning. She writes how God gives joy to those who mourn and that joy is quite different from being happy. “The price then for joy is mourning.”

“My cup runs over” as I surrender and embrace God’s plan for my life. And as I’ve done so often in the past, I thank God for the opportunity to live here.

You too are blessed! Love, Berniece

“You left your cart. Somebody take it.” It seemed strange that the building superintendent would call our apartment to tell me this. After all, I always leave my cart parked against a washer in the basement laundry during my once a week wash day. However, I thanked the super for his concern and hopped onto the elevator. I needed to go down anyway to throw the clothes into the dryer.

“Has there been a problem in the building?” I inquired as I pulled clothes from the washer. I really like the super. He works hard to keep the building clean. He is from Albania, and doesn’t speak or understand much English.

“People of the building good. Renters, I don’t know.” He left to empty the trash, but soon returned. This time he walked to a washer and picked up a card.

Card not cart! The card I used to start the washers! I’d just put $20 on it. I thanked him profusely. I stuck this card into the slot to start the dryer, and immediately noticed that it had $9 left (not $20) on it. I pushed start though I knew it wasn’t my card. Mine was in the cart pocket where it belonged. I had used someone else’s money. I told the super that it wasn’t mine. He took it.

An hour later, I left the apartment to return to the basement, but then thought, why not take the $1.50 that I used from someone else. I went back into the apartment and got the money. Down in the laundry room, an Asian lady wearing a yellow blouse was looking around and then went to the machine to add money to a card. Sure enough, she’d lost her card. I did not speak her language, but I made sure she understood that the super had her card, and I gave her the $1.50. When she kindly tried to return the money, I raised my hands in protest.

A week ago, the laundry room visit was with a tenant who came here from Argentina as a young girl. She and I discussed culture and how we have so many different ethnic groups living around us. It is such a blessing to observe and try to understand the people of God’s great world, and sometimes we misunderstand.

That’s my Friday evening ramblings. I suppose I could do a whole series of laundry room episodes. Have a blessed weekend. Berniece