An Ordinary Life

Brooklyn vibes swirl around this patch of grass with bright-colored flowers bordered by long rows of old brick warehouses. Ferries, boats, barges, and tugs ply the waters of the New York Harbor. We ate baba ganoush and naan (picked up from the nearby warehouse turned grocery) in this little park with it’s excellent view of the Statue of Liberty. Behind the grocery/warehouse is an old trolley. Once filled with commuters it now sits sadly abandoned, its windows broke out.

The G train cuts through Queens into Brooklyn, avoiding Manhattan, and it dropped us off at Smith and Ninth. (I eyed the riders: a child hopping onto a seat and having the stranger beside give him a smile, workmen, a woman with a dog, a monk in red robes, a young woman with an ornament of two-inch spikes around her neck. A young Mexican woman with a baby on her back went through selling candy. A war veteran begged for money. Young. Elderly. Fat. Thin. Red, brown, yellow, black and white. I saw Laurence and my reflection in the window and thought we didn’t look ordinary either.) The Smith and Ninth train station supposedly has the best view of any in the city from its platform. We then boarded a bus (that goes by the largest of city housing projects) for Ikea. After tramping through Ikea’s maze, we walked through weedy lots to Steve’s Key Lime Pie. It’s a dinky hole in the wall place in a warehouse. Even though it’s famous, I’m amazed that we found it. We had a frozen key lime pie popsicle covered in chocolate while sitting by a picnic table and took a small key lime pie to go. Yum!

The cranes on the New Jersey shore stand ready to unload ships. Staten Island rises across the bay. Laurence says to tell the Kansans about the grain elevators in Red Hook. They were a financial disaster from the time they were built in 1922 and were finally decommissioned in 1965, but they still stand. The Lehigh Valley Railroad Barge No. 79 bobs beside us. The historic barge was built in 1914 to move cargo around the New York Harbor and along the lower Hudson River.

I wanted to give you a picture of this place that none of you will likely ever see. You are blessed to live where you do! Berniece

The “Rain” topic eludes me as I sit here waiting for the guy to finish making the lavender latte I ordered. Instead, the rhythms of our community play in my mind. (That patron looks like Jefferson Smith. I see they’re actually working on the big coffee roaster. Hopefully, they’ll be roasting soon.)

On the way over, I observed that the Korean women exercising to music wore white and black. Yesterday, they all had red skirts with white tops. I wonder how they coordinate. Do they Whatsapp each other, decide today what to wear tomorrow, or have a leader who tells them what outfit to put on?

I followed but never quite caught up with my neighbor who was taking her little boy to nursery school. In Moore Park there was ping pong, basketball, people exercising, and bums. Many commuters disappeared down into a rabbit hole. I mean subway station. After all it’s real life!

The Asian market’s door buzzed with shoppers. Its large fruit displays are pushed against the outside wall. Since the Pandemic, the City hasn’t put the brakes on sidewalk vendors, and the Chinese spread out displays of cheaply made household items or racks of used clothing on the sidewalk where I walked to come here. There’s also an old-fashioned shoe cobbler doing a brisk business. The tools of his trade are in a wooden box. And a Chinese food cart with skewers that I am not brave enough to sample.

When I return home, I’ll pass by the Mexicans with their fresh fruits and vegetables and flowers. Every morning, a truck stops nearby to deliver the flowers. The bouquets are reasonably priced and long-lasting – a bright spot in an apartment!

This coffee shop is the only place in Elmhurst that could almost be Kansas. A place where I can leave my money and laptop on the table while I go to the restroom. I look around and realize I’m wrong: The one patron could have been a brother from Kansas, but everyone else looks like multi-cultural Elmhurst.

What are the rhythms of your life? Love, Bee (In here they call me Bee, and it always startles me. It’s my fault. I put that as my name. Someday, I’ll bring little Bee in here. I imagine she’ll be carrying a bubble tea, which she much prefers to coffee.)

Israel pays me to clerk at the farmer’s market; not to write blogs, but it’s cool in this church and quiet and peaceful. I came here to the fellowship hall to eat my lunch. It’s empty now, but I remember Gwynne serving cookies in this room after a candlelight Christmas carol service. Gwynne, a rather famous Black novelist, humbly became a part of the Mennonite writing group that I belonged to. She passed away in 2015. I attended her memorial here in this church. Gwynne’s publisher told the crowd that day about how the lady from the farmer’s market would visit Gwynne in the room where she lay dying. (She didn’t know how I’d experienced the light of Heaven in that Island bedroom.)

Earlier this morning, I knelt in the chapel to say a thank you prayer. I thought about little Jethro who said the favorite part of his NYC trip a few weeks ago was singing a song with his family in the beautiful old sanctuary (built 1888) of this church with its stained glass windows. I wish I would have heard them sing.

Tomorrow we will worship in the sanctuary at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission. There is no place I would rather be for a Sunday service. However, God is here. May you find yourself in the sanctuary of the Lord today and forever. Love, Berniece

I just came up from the mailbox. The small metal boxes line a wall in an alcove next to the stairway. Each tenant holds the key to their box. We also have a key fob for the two front doors and to unlock the elevator so it will go to the basement where the trash and the laundry room are. Another key unlocks our apartment door. You’d be amazed at the the number of locks on our door. When our guests want to leave, they stand puzzled by the door until either Laurence or myself unlock it. The funniest thing is when they try to leave via the front closet door. They open it to see coats, folding chairs, and table boards; and quickly close it again. This happens quite frequently.

We are safe here, and I did not lock the door while I ran down the three flights to the mailbox. As I walked through the hallway back to our apartment in the corner, I felt grateful again that the management had the hall walls painted a nice golden yellow (after years of ugly orange). The hall doors and the elevator door are brown. We pass seven apartment doors before coming to ours if we use the stairs. The elevator is in the middle of these doors. So eight apartments to a floor and there are six floors.

This building was built in 1938. The same year as is the map of Bible Lands that hangs on our foyer wall. (The map came into our possession while dumpster diving with friends in Philadelphia. I’ll spare them from telling you who they were.)

The subway came through in 1934. Before then it was farmland. Clement Moore who penned “The Night Before Christmas,” would sometimes stay with his grandparents at the farmhouse that was razed when the subway came through.

I didn’t want to write about this building – to tell you how we have a new red canvas awning that stretches from the entry to the front sidewalk. It’s caused some of the neighbors to raise an awful fuss at the absurdity of it. We even had a letter from the management telling the tenants to take their problems to them and not to complain to the co-op board. I messaged our friend on the board and told him we think he’s doing a great job. He messaged back, “You are great neighbors, and I am very happy to share our home with you.”

Home. This building on this quiet street in this big city is home. We’ve lived here since October 17, 1997. We rented our apartment for two years and then bought its shares in 1999. (Thanks to the encouragement of the late Jay Bullock and a loan from the late deacon Allen Issac.)

Thanks to the many of you who have graced our home with your presence. God bless! Berniece

P.s. What I really wanted to write about was the beautiful scene along the Hudson River by the lighthouse at Tarrytown last evening.

P.s.s. Comments keep me writing.

We’re on the hill where the grills are. Smoke rises from the barbeques around us. I believe the South Korean meal will be quite different from our chicken shish kebabs. (I looked on in amazement as the mother perched on her haunches on the picnic bench. I could have held the pose for only a moment before toppling to the ground.) The Mexicans started the charcoal, put the bag to burn on top of the grill, changed their shoes, and went down the hill to play soccer. The Romanians (I’m guessing at their nationality) started their fire and then sat down in lawn chairs. Looks to me like they brought “everything but the kitchen sink”.

Muslim women walk. Indian men play cricket. Laurence relaxes in the lawn chair. We reminisce about being here with Benns, Randys, Tims, Bee, the boys. Randalyn and my friendship began in this park. It’s peaceful here – so different from the playground I wrote about this morning. There are trails in the woods. Birds sing. The 40 acres of grass playing field looks dry.

Expensive homes surround the park. I’m guessing by the sort of stores that Asians and Jews live in the neighborhood. (We passed a photographer taking pictures of a young Jewish man. For his Bar Mitzvah?)

After thirty years, I know something about other cultures. Still, I’m ever learning. Still, I get things wrong. I say understanding culture is the biggest challenge and the biggest blessing of living here. It seems to me that the American man and the South Korean woman grilling next to us is in the midst of a cultural misunderstanding right now.

The sun is setting. Tomorrow is the market, so we will go wait for the bus that takes us to the train and home. Thank you for being interested in my musings. Berniece

P.s. Laurence says, “Did you tell them that Donald Trump grew up near here?”

I chose a spot in the shade over by the slow moving sword dancers in Moore Playground. It’s quieter here; however, I still hear a jackhammer, the music of the Korean dancers, and the slap of a tennis ball in the handball court. A grandpa swings his granddaughter, and I see a well-dressed group walking through the park – the Jehovah Witnesses have returned. There’s a volleyball game being played and basketball.

The walk this morning took me past Thai restaurants and a Filipino place where they barbeque on the sidewalk. I saw the can man with his grocery cart. I stopped to admire my favorite yellow roses.

I wonder what’s happening in the Asian food court across the street. They’ve put a sign on the building that says, “S Mart,” along with a huge plastic red crab. An Asian grocery? We already have two big ones in the area. (Welcome to Chinatown.) I walked in the side of the building that’s open. I saw a customer buying food at the Burmese Hut and observed sesame balls, piles of fried rice, and foods for which I have no name at the Chinese buffet.

Several hundred Tibetans, many dressed in traditional dress, filled a section of this park Wednesday evening. We watched as someone lit candles on a decorated cake. Afterwards, they sang happy birthday in their language and then in English to His Highness, the Dalai Lama.

Some elderly Chinese chat on the bench beside me. It’s been a quiet week, so while I feel privileged to live here – even that God wants us here – I miss the fellowship with my people.

And now these elderly Chinese are exercising: punch, punch, kick, kick, holler(!) . . .

God bless you in the place you are filling. Berniece

“Roast Coffee, not people,” reads the t-shirt of the barista who just made this excellent London Fog that I’m drinking in Elm Roastery. This place, more like The Meeting House in Segwick, Kansas, is definitely unique to Elmhurst. I walked past the Koreans dancing in Moore Park, saw the drunks side by side on a bench, passed the Muslim woman trailing properly behind her husband, and saw stores with name signs in strange languages. These are the ordinary sights of Elmhurst.

Telling a barista our story. Explaining that I didn’t want to come to NYC, but then God so clearly brought the verse: “I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance,” and seeing the barista’s eyes light with understanding while he adds milk to the tea is so far from ordinary in Elmhurst. (His parents were Christian missionaries in West Africa.)

We are mostly heathen in Elmhurst: Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu . . . Every morning a group doing Fulin Gong stands mediating at the entrance of Moore Park. A unique Buddhist Monastery rises a few blocks from us, and I’ve witnessed a group of orange-robed priests waiting for the elevator in our building. Few people in Elmhurst know or have even heard the name of Jesus.

I observe friends gathering in this coffee shop, speaking in languages I don’t understand. I am humbled. I am blessed with the opportunity to let the Light shine here. I wish you were here having coffee with me. (I wish Gospel Tract was here.)

Today you can say a prayer for the work of God’s people in Elmhurst, Queens. Berniece

The river appears moody this morning as we pass alongside it on the Metro North train to Poughkeepsie. Gray, clear, gray, and grayer on the width of it right to the hills on the opposite shore. A mist hangs over the hills. A barge pushed by a tug plies the waters. I see the Point at Croton Park and think about scrambling down the slope to throw stones into the water, or maybe, to pick up colored glass.

For two hours we’ll ride beside this river, one of the prettiest train rides in America. Domino Sugar borders the river in Yonkers, and a notorious prison in Ossining.

“Cortlandt Station will be next.” It’s the only station on this line that doesn’t have a view of the river. Tarrytown, Peekskill, Garrison, Cold Spring, Beacon . . . We sold our car in 2005 and began to ride the train. Since then we’ve become acquainted with these towns that border the River. Their parks, hiking trails, coffee shops, and unique stores charm us. Most importantly, the train takes us to Poughkeepsie where our friends live and where we can do the Walkway Across the Hudson.

Seasons come and go along the river. The new green of spring gives way to the verdancy of summer, the color of fall, and the bareness on the hills in winter. The sun beams a path on the water and then slips behind the hills as we ride back into the city.

“Manitou will be next,” a stop for hikers only. Soon we’ll see the flagpole at Bear Mountain Inn, the ruins of Bannerman Castle, the fortress of Westpoint, and the island where the sisters lived who wrote the song, “Jesus loves me.”

“Yes, Jesus loves me!” Safe travels. Berniece

I thought about the many miles of trails Laurence and I have hiked together while we walked on a wooded path in Forest Park last evening. Laurence’s family has a saying about Dad hiking “Clifty at fifty.” We hiked at fifty and have kept on hiking though we’re past sixty. However, we’re more cautious. (I have a rod in one leg and don’t want one in the other.) We go slower, rest more, use hiking poles, and avoid the most difficult trails.

Laurence and I spent Sunday night in Overlook Lodge at Bear Mountain. Monday, we hiked to the top. The path is part of the Appalachian Trail, and we met a couple thru hikers. They had walked 1,400 miles from the starting point in Georgia. One man told us he began walking the trail on March 9.

An Asian man who stopped to let us by said, “I really admire you.” That encouraged me, and so I tried to pass it on by telling some young ladies who looked winded as we passed them, “If I can make it, you can.”

I got stuck writing about Bear Mountain, but other favorite trails stick in my mind: Lonesome Lake in the White Mountains, Coot Hill in the Appalachians, and recently Rainbow Gulch in Woodland Park, CO.

Trails keep us sane for the craziness of city life. (Like the kaboom we heard one morning this week. A hospital employee Laurence recognized ran the stop sign outside our place. She hit a van. It flipped. The two little boys inside were sitting on the curb when I got out there. No one was hurt.) From Queens to the Pacific Crest Trail 😅, Laurence and I want to keep walking together.

What trails do you enjoy? Only one really matters! Berniece

6:12 a.m. June 17 Elmhurst Avenue Subway Station while waiting on a train to take me to work. I hear the sound. I see the lights. The R train approaches. “This is a Manhattan bound local train. Stand clear the closing doors.” (We joke we’ll be saying this in the Manor: “Stand clear the closing doors.”)

I’ve had almost twenty-four years of riding the early morning Saturday train. It’s ordinary life, but still I feel humbled that I have this blessing of being with people of every tribe and nation. People God loves. (Ok. So I’m a little bugged how the men pushed past me onto the subway car and took all the remaining seats. This isn’t Kansas.)

Each bench seat holds six adults. They are rather squished together in this post pandemic time. One in six wears a mask. A man without a home curls down on half a bench. Some sleep. Some play games. A man reads. I catch eyes looking at me that quickly turn away when I happen to glance at them.

“This is Roosevelt Island.” Have a good day. God loves you. Berniece