An Ordinary Life

It’s noisy in the Elmhurst Station this morning. The homeless community at the entrance level carries on a lively discussion in Spanish. The R train rolled in as I typed that last statement, and I’ve already transferred to an F train that waited briefly at Roosevelt for the R train riders wanting to switch. I’m rejoicing this morning that after months of alternative routes, the F train will stop at Roosevelt Island.

Because I arrived at the Island very quickly – it’s early – I will finish this blog to you from my seat here beside the East River. Delicate white blossoms of cherry trees wave beside me. The architectural marvel of the Queensboro Bridge crosses the river with the tram rising beside it, carrying people to Manhattan. Sunshine reflects off skyscrapers, the sky tinged with a faint pink. A tug pushes a barge up the river. In the distance, I see the stately United Nations building. I listen to birds sing amongst the constant roar of Manhattan traffic.

This is my world this Saturday morning. God bless your day. My verse today: “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” Berniece

“What is your country?” I asked. I knew I likely was pushing the restaurant manager to tell me something that wasn’t easy, but I needed to know the answer. “We are Uyghur,” he replied.

“I know, but what is your country?”

“We came here from (northwest) China, but China,” and his voice trailed off. I understood why. The Uyghurs are a people and a culture without a country. Their beautiful land and peaceful lifestyle has been invaded; they have suffered genocide at the hands of the communist Chinese. The people we saw in the restaurant last evening seemed to me to be those who have experienced great heartache.

We’d been on the bus to Panda Express (how boring is that!?) when we saw an open sign on Uyghur Lagman House. “Shall we go there instead?” I asked Laurence.

“If you want.” We got off the bus at the next stop and walked back to the restaurant. We passed the Samarkand restaurant where we like to go for special occasions. It’s owned by Uzbek Jews so wouldn’t open until sundown. (It was the Sabbath.) We expected the Uyghur menu to be much the same as Samarkand since we’re talking Central Asia and it was. We had the most delicious lagman (noodles) dish with lamb and manti (dumplings) filled with lamb. The manti came with sour cream. Their unique stringed instruments decorated the walls, along with pictures of their homeland, and decorated prayer caps. A blue and white design running around the border made me think of Asia. I felt so glad to live here and experience this place. It was their opening day.

These gentle people are Muslim. There are not many of them in NYC. I feel small when I think about their need for Jesus. This morning, it came to me that I can pray for them. Our God is not small. He made them, and he loves them.

Berniece

“I’ve prayed more for them than I have for anyone else,” Grandpa told me when I called to tell him about our miracle meeting with a Haitian sister who had left the Fold.

We went to the large church in Queens to help friends with serving a meal to the homeless community. A Haitian youth girl and I chatted together while observing the crowd in that basement dining hall. After telling Jasmin about my grandparents’ service in Haiti, she said, “I’m going to tell my mother.” In a short time, the mother came and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. Madam had worked for my grandparents while they were missionaries in Haiti. Her and her husband had been members of the Church of God in Christ, Mennonite, in Haiti, but they had walked away from God and the Church.

It wasn’t hard for our God who hears prayer to bring two people from two different backgrounds and places together in a church basement in Jamaica, Queens. (It does look impossible to me!)

Since then, we have been witness to these miracle meetings a number of times: The Pakistani man who stopped his van where I stood on Broadway. He had often worshipped with us before moving to Toronto; the lady at a picnic table in New Hampshire who said she’d once wore a prayer covering; the sister who walked away from the Church but who fell into my arms when God put us  both on the second floor of Elmhurst Hospital. Recently, while in a park, a dad pushing his child in a stroller began talking to us. He looked quite shocked when I called him by name. Somewhere, Michael has loved ones praying for him.

I write this to give you courage today. God hears our prayers, and all power belongs to Him! “He is able.” Berniece

My uncle Dean said at the service for his retirement from the ministry last evening that this song sung at his ordination had guided his ministry. I believe it was also the theme of his dad’s, my grandpa Becker’s calling.

At a Becker picnic back in the good ole days Uncle Dean told me, “Home is where your husband is.” Honestly, it didn’t seem like good days to me as right then all our earthly goods were packed in a U-haul for the move from Idaho to Georgia. I had no clue how this path would take us to a lifetime in New York City, to the one of the most, if not the most, diverse counties in the world.

Home is Elmhurst, Queens, where my husband is. Last evening, we watched as the smiling Tibetans circled to the music of their homeland. Once, a young woman stepped beside me at an intersection. She said, “I recognize you from the Colombian restaurant where I used to work.” Coming into our building some years ago, a group of monks in the rust-colored robes of the nearby Thai temple stood waiting for the elevator. Today, (after an appointment for his eye (thank you for praying)), Laurence will take the vital signs on patients from Mexico, China, India, South Korea . . . He works with nurses from Uzbekistan, Nepal, Russia, Jamaica, and many other countries. Jesus says, “All power is given unto me. Go.”

How blessed we are to live and work among all God’s children. The Gospel story, “Must be told.” Are we telling it? Berniece

Dressed for cold and rain, I step from the entrance awning of our building on Layton Street and walk two blocks to the subway station. I’m glad to see the world is awake here: a station attendant emptying trash, other commuters on their way to or from work. The homeless person isn’t awake, but rather, completely wrapped in a blanket, he soundly sleeps. Lights shine in the tunnel, closer, closer, and the R train rolls into the station.

Passengers visit in languages that I don’t understand. Some doze. It appears the man beside me is reading the Koran. Because it’s Ramadan he, like my Muslim coworker, will fast between sunrise and sunset. (This means no eating or drinking.)

I’ve arrived at Queens Plaza to wait for a bus that will take me to Roosevelt Island. Motels, offices, and residential apartment buildings rise all around me. I remember when this was a derelict, high-crime area. It’s changed. Now, we could not afford to live here.

A lady greets me. We’ve waited here together before. She comments that April 1 the train will again stop at Roosevelt Island. We won’t have to take the bus like we’ve been doing for months now. A man asks us for directions to 39th Avenue. We try to point him in the right direction.

Rain falls. Overhead scaffolding protects us. Soon a bus will pull up to the stop. (If not, Uber to the rescue.)

Good morning! May your day be blessed. The verse the Lord gave me today is Proverbs 4:23, ” Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.” I’d like to hear your inspiration. Berniece

Our bedroom is a peaceful place. Laurence just served us hot tea with biscotti from special cups on a small blue and white tray that I received when the neighbor lady two floors below us died. The tiny electric fireplace burns and we talk a little. Sometimes we sit – me in the small armchair and Laurence in the rocker – and listen to a service, or do some light reading until we fall into bed. I often think, this is the best time of the day.

But in the morning when Laurence sets coffee for me on the antique desk beside the bed, and he sits in the rocker drinking his, while we both read the Word then I often think, this is the best time of the day.

Today, Laurence and I took the Q53 bus to Jamaica Wildlife Refuge. For some reason, MTA was using a short bus. An Asian lady moved aside to let me have the empty seat by the window. Young people stood in a pack around the exit door. So close to me that I looked into their brown eyes, checked out fake fingernails, and their hairdos. Forget personal space on public transportation where you ride with every tribe and race, saint and sinner, rich and poor, and a lot of hurting people.

So we rode and looked out at stores and residences, restaurants, the overhead train, and Forest Park. (Laurence went to the park earlier today to walk on the horse trail.) We passed by the bay and saw planes taking off from JFK. Finally, we pulled the stop cord for the wildlife refuge. No one else got off with us. It’s rare that anyone does. We took a trail through flora and fauna and a forest. It circled around by the bay. In the distance was the NYC skyline. Laurence watched the birds and the ducks on the freshwater lake through his binoculars. The osprey flew from its nest. In the two mile walk we met one couple and another birder or two. It was peace away from chaos.

It’s a wonderful life – this living in the city – but for good mental and spiritual health, we must spend time in peaceful places. Berniece

Today, I’m having a latte in “Over the Moon,” cafe. Across from me is “Artisan Tea and Coffee.” I never expected to see all these coffee places in our vicinity.

In my bag, I have fabric for a June wedding. I have looked for garden wedding fabric in a dozen fabric stores or more. Always, “Just looking.” Just before I reached the last store, I said a prayer. Not a prayer of faith because I’d been in this store many times before. I knew it would be a miracle if there was the piece for me. I’m sure you already guessed that God gave a miracle, and I didn’t have to pay Manhattan prices of $35 a yard or even $15.

You think that was a little miracle? God gives these to increase our faith that He hears our pleading prayers. Yesterday, our 22 year old nephew was baptized. A big miracle!

Tell me about your recent answers to prayer. (I just thought of another answer today, but it’s too personal to share.) We serve a mighty God!

🙏 Berniece

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, we roll along the track beside the Hudson River to worship with our brothers and sisters in Poughkeepsie. Ever since we sold our little car in 2005, we’ve been adventuring on public transportation. And what a fun ride it’s been!

Last evening, we pushed through the Asian street vendors and pedestrians in Flushing to the Long Island Railroad train station. We’d picked a destination on the map where we could walk to a restaurant, and then set off to explore. The thirty minute train ride took us across Little Neck Bay and past the English-looking homes of Douglaston. We rode to the last stop at Port Washington, and then walked the wrong way for a while. However, we did discover the Japanese restaurants on Main where we may someday want to return to dine. We walked through residential neighborhoods until we reached a hole-in-the-wall barbecue place. After ordering, we took one of the four tables. The decor consisted of peach walls, dusty iron cowboy statues, beer signs, a chiminea, and metal roosters like I’d recently seen for sale in the markets of Nogales, Mexico. I assume this is a village like so many others on Long Island where the wealthy and the Mexicans who work for them (and are getting wealthy too) live. After a delicious meal, we had a sunset train ride home.

Today it’s the Metro North train that is taking us to Poughkeepsie. We had a bit of a time getting into Grand Central because of Fifth Avenue being blocked for the Half Marathon runners. (I enjoyed discussing this with two of our farmer’s market customers who will be in the race.) The grand Grand Central Station is one of my favorite places in the city. Even though it was early, people were coming and going, cafes served coffee, and a bridal couple posed for wedding pictures.

I forgot to write about the boisterous St. Patrick Day revelers on the train last evening. Most of them piled off at the same station and the car quieted.

The sun shines on the river and glimmers off the hills. We passed Westpoint, the island of the sisters who wrote, “Jesus Loves Me,” and now a Breakneck Ridge stop for the hikers. We’re not hiking today; we’re running a race. Our goal is Heaven. Have a blessed day! Berniece

I just came from picking up Laurence’s suit from the cleaners. Now it’s ready for Abigael’s wedding. My next door neighbor was coming in as I went out. I asked Rebecca about her cancer journey. Her and I stood in the lobby for 15 minutes while she told me the difficult time she’s having though she’s a year out from the surgery to remove the cancer.

I walked two blocks to the cleaners for the suit. As I came back into the lobby, Jose was coming out. Jose and his brother inherited Coca’s apartment. (I got her beautifully woven Romanian cloth.) I asked Jose how it’s going with Coca’s apartment. He said, “Do you want to see it?”  I definitely did, so he showed me the newly painted walls, new light fixtures, new kitchen flooring and backsplash, polished hardwood floors, and a lightened bathroom with a small shelf that held a tiny planter of real-looking lavender. Jose opened the doors of the walk-in closets – so much space. I could easily downsize from a one bedroom to move into that lovely studio apartment! Asking price is $235,000 (welcome to NYC!).

However, I know that both Jose and I felt some sadness. The empty apartment came because Coca died. She died alone. Her neighbors were her only support group. I met with the funeral director after she died. They put her ashes in a box. Jose spread them in Central Park where Coca would often go to walk.

There are 48 apartments in this building. The food smells in the hall tell us that people from many different countries and backgrounds reside here. The parents at work. The children at school, so this building is quiet during the day.

I’ll leave more building tales for another day. Laurence will soon be home for lunch. We are going to have the first picnic of the season this evening. Berniece

“There’s something different in the air,” Laurence said as we walked in the woods of Forest Park. We could only see the bare branches of the forest in the chilliness after sunset, but I also felt it – the hope of spring. Another winter had passed. “The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land” (SOS 2:12).

Earlier on Friday, I met my friend Wendy who lives on the Upper East Side for a walk in Central Park. We observed the first blooms of tiny daffodils, of snowdrops, and forsythia. Birds sang and sunshine glinted off the water of a meandering creek as we sat visiting on a railing in the North Woods. Yesterday, from the bus windows, I saw that pink blossoms cover the earliest of cherry trees on Roosevelt Island.

The winter is past. The playground near here fills with youth on skateboards, basketball, handball, volleyball, and ping pong players. (It’s a little place, but there’s space for the multitudes.) The Tibetans dance. The children play. The mothers visit.

I’ve never forgotten the youth who years ago in Woodside turned to me and began to sing, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” as we came down the 7 train subway stairs. This stranger and I both knew the beauty of a spring day in Queens.

And now I must get ready to leave for the train and for church in Harlem. Benn, Sundaymar, and my favorite Bee are coming. I’m thrilled. Minister Elmer Swarys are here along with their children and grandchildren. The Poughkeepsie people will be down, and Ephraim Kings are coming with Benns. Hopefully, the attendees Jamie, Dr. Simone, Rebecca, Ellen, and Sonia will be there. We have this great group of young men here and missionaries who know how to keep things running smoothly. Sunday school will be lively, the sermon inspired, and the fellowship hall will fill with joyous noise at lunchtime. (I wish you were here.)

Laurence just walked in with some buns for breakfast that he bought at the Chinese bakery.

Has spring arrived in your part of the world? Have a blessed Sunday. Berniece