An Ordinary Life

After four days of cloudy, rainy weather (rainy should be first, but it doesn’t read right), Laurence pushed open the bedroom shade this morning to a city washed clean and bathed in sunshine. Who could stay inside on such a glorious fall day!? This afternoon, rather than studying Spanish, I rushed to the library. (Meaning I walked fast to quiet any guilt for not exercising.)

I passed the “butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.” Better said, “The beggar, the vendor, and the cobbler.” The beggar asked for a dollar. The Asian vendor sold cheap things made in China from blankets laid out on the sidewalk. The Mexicans played musica, waved their flag, and sold fresh flowers, fruit and veggies. The cobbler sold me a pair of black boots, Clarks brand for $5. I added a $1 tip after he beat the dust from them. The cobbler and I do not speak the same language. A man who spoke Chinese came along and explained how the shoe he held needed to be repaired. I like to watch the cobbler work. His sidewalk shop is under the Long Island Railroad on Broadway. When the day is done, he’ll carry his wooden box of tools home with him.

For months, I’ve been watching Thrifty Sisters for some black boots in my size. Today, I found a pair for sale by the cobbler’s bench. God is good! All the time! He cares about the little things in our lives.

Berniece

P.s. Are you interested? I almost think this is too dumb to publish.

“This little light of mine. I’m going to let it shine!” Shine all over New York City. I’m going to let it shine. Let it shine till Jesus comes. I’m going to let it shine.”

I’m giving a shout out that the Pandemic is over! Join the masses walking through the Times Square Subway Station in the afternoon of the fourth Sunday of the month, and you will hear the Mennonite singers belting out, “There is power in the blood!”

Someone set up in “our spot” at the station, so the Mennonite group of around 30 people strung out through the long hallway that leads towards the 7, R, N, and Q train. Missionary Todd, houseparent Randy, Laurence, and the four young men took the lead. (Zach, the new boy, hauled the tracts. Some things don’t change. 😅.) We stopped in the corridor where these trains connect. Preston, the boy who’s here the longest, gave out song numbers. (This is also according to tradition.)

And we sang: loudly (to drown out the trains), beautifully, and most importantly, to the glory of God! We’ve been doing this for almost thirty years, but yesterday was different. I’m not sure I can explain; we’ve been through some hard valleys during the Pandemic. I understood the commuters passing through have likely also been broken, and I loved them. We could offer them hope in Jesus.

I passed out tracts for awhile and was encouraged by how people took them. A lady gave me a 👍, saying, “This is what we need.” A stooped Black man told me how people with the Holy Spirit identify with one another. After leaving, he turned back to give me some more words of cheer. I wonder if he was an “angel unaware.”

The Mexican vendors beside me sold clear cups filled with mango, pineapple, or watermelon. Another had a cart with churros. The police drove them away. Later, they returned. Once, they pretended to be waiting for the elevator instead of trying to make dinero when the authorities were in sight. They gladly took the Spanish tracts offered to them.

As the mission staff and PA group took the long hall towards the A train, Laurence and I went down the stairs to take the 7 train to our apartment in Elmhurst. We’d let the Light shine, and we’d been blessed.

Do you recall singing in the subway. What are your memories? (Who remembers being stung with pepper spray and losing their voice?)

Berniece

P.s. Youth sister Abigail Daramola got ahead of me with writing a blog about yesterday. 😊 https://abigaelmoyin.wixsite.com/meraki/post/bowery-sunday

Three tall, light-skinned, fair-haired young men popped up out of the subway station. They did not fit in with the short in stature, dark-haired Asian and Hispanic peoples of Elmhurst, and I easily spotted them. Rylan, Todd, and Zach came from the land of Oz (that’s all New Yorkers know about Kansas) to one of the most culturally diverse areas of the United States. We began with coffee in Elmhurst Rostery. Afterwards, I pointed out the church where the future King William IV of England once worshipped, and then we went on to the Asian market. It was fun to see these guys’ fascination for live crabs, eels, and frogs, and to watch the workers cleaning and cutting up fish. We went through the aisle of noodles, and I pointed out the great variety of teas for whatever ails you. The food court just up the block was mostly shut down except for the Burmese stall with the Chinese raman noodle take out place beside it.

We crossed into the Moore Playground. The action in there depends on the time of day. I’m guessing that yesterday morning, it was Korean women doing Tai Chi and retired Chinese couples dancing. The basketball courts are always busy, and some homeless will be holding down park benches.

The young men saw our apartment, and blessed it with some singing 😊 before we walked on to Elmhurst Hospital to say hello to Laurence. We crossed the border between Asia and South America. My favorite tamale 🫔 lady gave me a smile as we passed. She’d sold out and was pushing a grocery cart with her empty kettles towards home. The young men climbed into the overhead subway station at 82nd Street to take the train to the “Place of Tourism”: One World, 9/11 Museum, Trump Tower, Central Park, Brooklyn Bridge, etc. These places are not on my tour schedule, but if you want to see Queens, I’d love to show you around. (Especially if it includes a meal at a favorite ethnic restaurant.)

Berniece

P.s. Laurence said I could write a blog about the future of the Church being in good hands. We’ve been encouraged with the spiritual youth we’ve spent time with recently.

I gaze out at a fire escape and rooftops. None of you hear the 7 trains rumbling or planes taking off from LaGuardia Airport. However, though we live in an alone place, we belong, and belonging is beautiful. It is safe.

Tomorrow I will take a bus and a shuttle (which is kind of a pain as the F train is not stopping at Roosevelt Island because of track work), and I will walk into the market. There, I will see brothers and sisters of the same faith, setting out mounds of fresh fruits and vegetables. I will belong, and the fellowship will be sweet (in between the busyness of waiting on customers).

I learned that we are not alone in Elmhurst after breaking my leg in January of 2021. I’m still awed by the fact that many made the trip to Queens to express their love to us and to make sure we had something to eat. One of the special memory pictures from that time shows my church sisters from different places and countries squished into our living room for a Christmas gift exchange. Bee was here with her teacher, Randalyn, and Abigail, Elizabeth, the moms, and mission staff wives…

Whenever I think of the beauty of being a part of the people of the Church, I remember the glory that shone in the chapel at Enfield Shaker Village in Vermont when we met there for a writer’s retreat. We ladies of different ages and places had never all met before. Our husbands were not all acquainted. Yet, we united as one while reciting the 23rd Psalm, while singing, visiting, and praying.

On vacation the next summer, Laurence and I stopped by the Shaker dwellings. Remembering the retreat, I had great expectations, but I was let down. The chapel held no Glory. Instead, it was dark and damp. My people were not there.

This past November, I lifted my voice with a “washed in the blood” throng of thousands to sing, “Redeemed, how I love to proclaim it.” I did not want to leave the secure place that I felt at the Conference. I don’t need to. Though we live alone in Elmhurst, we belong to that brotherhood, and we are safe.

What do you find beautiful about belonging to God’s people? Berniece

I’m on the second floor of the Winter Garden by a table (with coffee, of course), overlooking the Hudson River. I came from those windows where you can see the 9/11 Memorial. I used to work by the towers. My heart broke when they went down. I say I’ve moved on. But if this is so, why do I feel weepy?

The breaking softened my proud heart. A few years after the towers fell, we went through an attack from the evil one that took me through the fire of repentance and taught me to trust the future into God’s hands. Today we continue to deal with the effect of Covid in our home. Thus the tears.

I do not mean to have a pity party. I visited with an Asian youth just now as together we looked out at the Memorial. He said to me, “Depression is the result of luxury.” He told me that many countries are experiencing hard times, wars, and even genocide. “These people,” he said, “have no time for depression.” Because of difficult things, I have learned to know God. (I guess it’s kept me from depression.)

I was at St. Paul’s for the ringing of the Bell of Hope at 8:46 a.m. today. To begin the service the pastor read, “Jesus sets before us the hope of the kingdom of God. All that will be broken will be bound up in God’s healing love. All that is marred by weakness and sin will be transformed by God’s reconciling love. It is in this hope that we bring to God our prayers, our selves, our remembrances, and look to God for the new life of the kingdom.”

If you love someone, tell them. Love, Berniece

P.s. Where were you on 9/11?

If I have a congregation away from home, it would be Morning Star Mennonite at Mifflinburg, PA. Those people have been our people since way back in 1988 when we turned our two-door Granada into Reuben and Lydia Shirk’s driveway, and then got into their green station wagon to begin a lifetime in NYC. (We still miss our late brother Reuben’s kind counsel and encouragement.)

Enter Israel, my young unhappy boss, and his wife Sarah, his sisters Laura, Linda, and Sarah, his brothers Joni, Louie, and Davy and their spouses. Watching their transformation from darkness to light brought more joy than words can express. The ripples of faith spread to their children, and to their employees. Heaven witnessed as these were baptized into the Church, and the membership of the congregation at Mifflinburg increased. You may have met some of these brothers and sisters at board meetings, conference, in your homes, and congregations.

Enter Benn and Sundaymar with Bee. Our brother and sister who were baptized in NYC worked last Sunday evening, so Bee came to John and Misti Wengerd’s wedding reception with us. My namesake sat with me. We both love NYC, the beach, and bubble tea. But Bee has a desk in the school at Mifflinburg. Her and Amber, her teacher, took me to see it. Bee’s parents, Benn and Sundaymar, just closed on a house near the Mifflinburg church.

Jared and Mel Isaac’s daughter Misti married Israel and Sarah’s son John. Jared was one of our boys when we were houseparents. I was never more content than around Israel and Sarah’s table yesterday with Laurence, Israels, Jareds, and their families. What great things the Lord has done and continues to do! Berniece

P.s. Israel’s youngest son Luke makes delicious lavender lattes!

“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