An Ordinary Life

“Good morning, Pilgrims.” The present missionary often greets us with this on Sunday morning. I like it.

“By faith Abraham, . . . obeyed; and he went out not knowing whether he went. By faith he sojourned in the land of promise, as in a strange country, . . . For he looked for a city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God” (Hebrews 11:8-10). I read and reread these verses during devotional time in the apartment in Woodside where we served as houseparents for young men. They anchored our conviction to rent in Elmhurst, Queens.

We’ve been sojourners in this place for 26 years. The strangeness has become ordinary. However, on a 9/11, seeing an ocean of smoke rolling and the Twin Towers gone, we were reminded that one day this awesome city skyline will be no more. During the Pandemic when Elmhurst became the Epicenter, we longed for another country. Often, while walking the streets of this city, I look up in silent beckoning for direction from the Heavenly.

In our daily work and walks, we mingle with the peoples of all nations and tongues. They too are only passing through. I write this post to remind myself that “here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come” (Hebrews 13:14). Berniece

P.s. Thank you for both the public and private comments about the supermoon. It was special to hear.

Half of the supermoon glowed above an apartment building as we moved out from under the canopy at the entrance of our building. I followed Laurence across the playground until we came to a long row of cement steps. Our seats afforded us a view of the beautiful moon rising above – not mountains, the ocean, or fields of grain – but over the Long Island Railroad, streetlights, Asian store signs, and brake lights. Airplanes glided beneath the moon.

The party was in the playground tonight as it is every summer evening, not a full moon party, though some may have noticed, but a gathering of friends. Under the streetlights, basketball, volleyball, and hackysack continued. The Tibetans dance was over, and they stood in small groups visiting. Tonight, for the first time, I noticed someone selling native Tibet clothes. In front of us, older Chinese couples danced in perfect sync. Little children wandered through the dancers, doing their own little jig. A child gnawed corn off a cob. Vendors with little carts sold food and trinkets. Crutches leaned against a bench where someone slept with a blanket pulled over their head. Groups of Chinese men played cards. (If you looked closely you’d see them handing around dollar bills.)

And then, I heard ever so faintly the sound of summer on the farm: Somewhere crickets chirped.

We turned once more before entering our building and marveled at the supermoon. Where were you when you saw it? Berniece

P.s. Don’t wait for Yvette to comment.

The sky fades from pink to dark blue, darker, darker behind the tree I see in the distance. A plane crosses above the tree as it’s about to land at LGA. My heart yearns for the beauty of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, specifically to be at the pass on the Kancamagus Highway. However, it is here where the peoples of the world live, people loved by God and by me – though I am not near so good at loving as God is!

I named the black-haired, bushy bearded waiter, Timothy, last evening. That’s because we ate in a Greek restaurant and the Bible tells us that Timothy’s father was Greek. Once we had a memorial for a Greek grandma at the mission church. Her granddaughter brought Greek food for us to dine on after the service.

Some Dominican sisters were in church today. This afternoon a group of us let the Spanish songs rip through the chapel. I don’t know how musical we were but we were joyful! Ellen Brown wore her native African dress to church. I chimed in with her, “Amen!” at the conclusion of the minister’s sermon. At lunch, David and Beth Kurtz, Laurence and I discussed good use of technology with Dr. Simone who is from Nepal.

Late afternoon, we walked into Moore Playground where, among many happenings, the Tibetans danced. Little girls in long narrow skirts with a sash imitated their elders. A smiling woman told us to join. It seems to me the Tibetans smile a lot. We walked on. We stepped into a food court just to observe the Burmese and Chinese. And we walked on. We saw a church group leaving and another beginning. We talked to the Bangladeshi man going into a service. He told us the Muslims are lost.

God loves these people. I do too but I don’t understand them nearly as well as God does, but I am always trying to learn. Thank you to those who share my interest (Jon Luke and Michael of last weekend!) Berniece

Living through the Pandemic did not make me a “lover of hospitality”. Instead, I adapted to alone time, and my introverted self rather liked it. The Pandemic is over, but we still live in a small one-bedroom apartment, so can’t I excuse myself from “the fellowship of the saints”? To do so would have been to miss the blessings of this past week, and to not have sung “Dare to be a Daniel,” with Jon Luke, Michael, and their sons. Dr. Simone from Nepal would have missed observing the Church in Queens if we wouldn’t have had supper together with these California brethren (where Dr. Simone first met our people) in our tiny apartment.

These brethren left us with piles of good memories from our time together – not just in our home but also at the mission, while watching soccer in Flushing Meadows, and seeing the joyful dance of the Tibetans in the playground near here – and the Harold Klassen family arrived. I figured the days of filling the living area had given way to nicer motel rooms where a person has their own bathroom so didn’t invite them for night until after they arrived. But they needed a place; we have the space; they stayed, and we were blessed, (Though it was a bit squished with two air mattresses and a sofa bed. Harold and Becky and their children wouldn’t let me do a thing with making up or taking down beds, which made them easy keepers.) There’s nothing quite like devotional time and breakfast with the relatives, especially since we are morning people.

I will quit writing to clean my little apartment and make soup for supper – the relatives are coming. 😊

We love having you in our home. (And if you want to take us out for supper to a nearby ethnic restaurant, we’ll accept.) Berniece

I see the green of a sprawling philodendron against the red of the fire escape, the brown of a roof, the blue of the sky. Inside, a bright bouquet of flowers in an old vase of Grandma’s sits on the nightstand.

I hear the 7 trains rumbling on aboveground tracks, an airplane taking off from LGA, a bird chirping, and the distant noise of traffic. Inside, a fan hums.

Laurence didn’t want breakfast this morning. He’ll have bagels, fruit, and boiled eggs at work as some of his coworkers are leaving the Medical Primary Care Clinic. I put hamburger to thaw on the kitchen counter. We’ll have meatballs for lunch. The apartment needs cleaning. It doesn’t take much to clean 755 square feet. I have pulled pork prepared in case the out of town brethren here sightseeing with their sons want to come for supper.

The recycle bag is full but the basement is closed for painting, so I can’t take it down. Yesterday, I couldn’t do laundry down there and had to go out to a Laundromat – like I did all the time in our mission years, but now I’m spoiled so I grumbled a bit and forgot the laundry soap at home and had to trot two blocks back to get it.

I expect an ordinary day, but God alone knows. I want to be clay in His hands, doing His will. May your day be blessed. Berniece

It is early morning, and I am drinking coffee and reading the Word. No beautiful view inspires me this morning. Instead, I see three house roofs and treetops with a brick apartment building peeking out between them. The cloudy sky lets me know that the sun is not shining. We never see a sunrise or sunset from our windows, but the sky colors tell us of the weather.

Today we will worship with the mission staff and the attendees at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission in Harlem. A youth sister from the Dominican plans to be there. The small chapel has been a refuge for many a wayfarer, including me. The Church shines in Harlem. In that sacred place Teresa and Dawn, Benn and Sundaymar, Bisi Akinyombo and her two children were baptized. There, blind Henry saw the Light, Israel and Sarah saw the Church, and others heard the call to repentance. God has heard and answered the sincere prayers prayed in Jesus’s name in that sanctuary with its blue chairs, carpet, and walls. The long windows at the front of the room face an apartment building. Many of you have worshipped there. There’s a nursery, a tract room, and a fellowship hall.

There is no place I would rather be than at home in Queens. There is no place I would rather worship than with our home congregation in NYC. God bless you in your worship today. Berniece

“Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee” (Psalm 119:11). This verse inspires me this morning from where I am on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. Below me, “breakers dash against the rocks with turbulence and din” (MPToews). I hear the soft ding dong of warning bells near the shore. Small craft glide on the waves in front of me, and the Portland Head Light stands tall and enduring. The sweet scent of wildflowers washes over me as the sun breaks through the clouds, beaming a pool of light on the ocean.

I am gifted this moment alone with God early this morning as Laurence and I begin a day in Portland, Maine, a place we’ve never been before. The rugged shore here is much different than the one we know of in Rockaway, Queens.

I will return now to the tiny studio Airbnb where we are staying. We’ll have breakfast there before taking a trolley tour and eating clam chowder. (How many bowls of clam chowder have we eaten!?)

“Thou shalt write them upon the posts of thy house, and on thy gates” (Deuteronomy 6:9). And so I write these words for you. May your day begin with God. The place where He meets us is always beautiful. Love, Berniece

Upon seeing the missionary wife’s status of Chinatown and of the Brooklyn Bridge, I am thankful: thankful to be here in the Great Whites with the pinkish hues of the sky and the mountains in shades of grey blues as the sun sets. Laurence will soon bring hot tea to drink here on the deck, and I’m wishing for my sweater.

We rode the 1950s-era Mountaineer train today over the Saco River, through the woods, on trestles to the Crawford Notch station, a 4 1/2 hour ride. On the way back to the vacation rental, we stopped at Crawford Notch State Park to grill hamburgers. It’s one of those prettiest spots and interesting to see the notch from the mountain ridge and then from the valley floor. This beautiful place is even lovelier in fall.

Yesterday we visited the former home of the poet Robert Frost. Maybe I could write poetry if I could sit on the porch where he sat with such a magnificent view of the mountains. (Seriously, I could not!) We also saw where the Old Man fell off the mountain in 2003. Who remembers when he fell?

The only meal we ate out in the past week was last evening when we had pizza. I feel certain it was God’s providence that brought us to a place in Lincoln, NH, where two other Mennonite families (each with 11 children) were gathered around outdoor tables. We easily made all kinds of connections.

This makes me think of how we drove from the Vermont Islands to the White Mountains, coming within four miles of Minister Dale Becker’s Vermont home. We dropped in on them right at supper time. Bless Dale and Lucinda as they had a place in their hearts and home and enough food for us. This too, felt like God’s providence. Tomorrow we will worship with the Vermont/New Hampshire brothers and sisters. We are eager to be with ‘our people’ and to hear the Word.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.” -Robert Frost

A blessed Sunday to you! Berniece

Greetings from Point Au Fer. Yes, it’s a French name; we’re in New York, a few miles from the Quebec border. The couples’ conversation in front of us in the ice cream line last evening could not be understood. They called someone over to translate when the girl at the window asked, “Is that all?”

Thankfully, God speaks my language. I awoke this morning to the verse, “Freely you have received, freely give” (Matthew 10:8). Yesterday, I felt the Father’s presence as Laurence and I kayaked on Lake Champlain: little me on this great expanse of blue blue water with the Green Mountains of Vermont rising to the east. After rounding a bend on the lake, we spied the Adirondack Mountains of New York.

Yesterday, we toured the Wilder place of the book Farmer Boy in Malone, NY. It’s eleven miles from the Canadian border in beautiful farm country. Afterward, we drove an hour to hike only to find a bridge out right before we reached the trailhead, so then an hour’s drive back to here. But there was beauty all around. Did you know New York has the most designated wilderness area of any state?

After the ice cream, we joined a few friendly strangers at the lake’s edge to watch the super moon rise above the Green Mountains. This morning the sun in all its splendor is so dazzling on the water that we faced the Adirondack chairs south to easier read the Word (and drink coffee). (I’m wearing a jacket. This isn’t Kansas.)

I expect the reader wants New York City stories. God is there among the skyscrapers and chaos. This morning He is here where the waters of Lake Champlain lap gently at our feet. I pray that He is in the boat with you. If so, you have a beautiful life.

Love, Berniece

My husband, Laurence, numbers with the few hires among 4,000 employees who have worked over 25 years at Elmhurst Hospital. He began there as a volunteer during our houseparent days in the Woodside apartment. In the last months under USA Missions, he was hired as an escort in the hospital. We were young then, and he’d often climb steps rather than take an elevator to reach the patients he’d been called on to transport. (Years before, I worked with friends doing this at Halstead Hospital!)

Then, after two years like God parting the waters for the children of Israel, a supervisor opened the way for Laurence to qualify for three months of schooling in order to receive the title of Patient Care Associate (PCA). Laurence graduated at the top of the class and gave a superb speech at the graduation. (Ok. I may be biased, but none of our church family were there to hear. It’s been an alone journey.) PCA is no highfluten title. Laurence’s job consists of doing lots of vital signs, asking questions (have you ever thought about hurting/killing yourself?), making appointments, doing blood work, EKGs, eye photos, and a zillion other things that have been added over the years, making the job much more complicated and stressful than in the good ole days when he started. Laurence works in the Medical Primary Care Clinic.

Sometimes patients think he’s a doctor and will tell him their problems. He’s not anxious to hear them. He does know that with his nature, it’s good to interact with people. He comes home with stories, like about the mother with two little children who said her husband was abusive. He marveled at how quietly the children sat.

My clinic and emergency room visits have been smoother because my husband is an Elmhurst Hospital employee. He draws my blood when necessary. I’ve been stopped on the street so an employee can express their appreciation for Laurence. My time spent in the hospital room (broken leg, burst appendix) was punctuated with, “You’re Penner’s wife.”

Yesterday, I attended the ceremony honoring the employees who’d worked 25 years at Elmhurst Hospital. (Elmhurst Hospital is one of the top ten trauma centers in the country. Laurence says, “If they can’t save your life there, they can’t save it anywhere.) Afterwards, we ate the barbeque from Dinosaur’s that they served us. Elmhurst Hospital has been good to us! (I will refrain from the negatives. They are plenty. But Laurence has one and a half blocks to work and can leave the stress behind to come for lunch.) Berniece

P.s. Another blog written while having a lavender latte at Elmhurst Rostery.