An Ordinary Life

“Therefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight and sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1).

When I read the above verse this morning, I thought how Minister Wayne Amoth has joined that great cloud of witnesses whose faith I want to emulate. I can picture him hanging a garment bag in the hall closet of the Washington Heights, New York, apartment and telling Letha, “That’s all we have.” He hoped that the thief who broke into Reuben Shirk’s van and stole his Bible would read it. I remember deep discussions around the table in the open dining area of that apartment, and the time Wayne and Letha went with us to Brooklyn after our friend Cynthia’s husband had just died in a horrific automobile accident. In that desolate apartment with dogs barking just outside the closed kitchen door, Wayne offered words of comfort. He told Cynthia that we would be there for her and her young son.

So many memories . . .

Time skipped along and years later, we met Wayne and Letha in Arizona. I have a mental picture of Letha standing against the kitchen wall of our Airbnb in Tucson, encouraging our dear friend Ady to let go of what’s behind and to travel to her home country of India with courage. None of us who were there will forget how the evening ended with Wayne’s prayer. Afterwards, Waynes, Eds, Kyrons, Ady, and we continued to stand in that sacred space as the youthful Ady shared about her conversion and of being led to the mission in NYC.

These last years when we’d see Wayne, he’d always tell us about the evening he was elected to the ministry. How he did not know what name to put down for the deacon. As the congregation knelt to pray, the name Richard Penner came to him. Wayne and Laurence’s dad were ordained the same evening.

Wayne has joined that great cloud of witnesses. I will meet him and Letha there someday soon.

Berniece

p.s. There is something I must add. I went to my diary just now and saw that on January 28, 2024, Wayne had the sermon at Phoenix. He spoke on “inexpressible joy” – joy that can’t be expressed.

A plane roared upon takeoff from LaGuardia Airport this morning, and then another, and another. I listen, appreciating the ordinary. A truck rumbles. Its brakes squeak as it stops to pick up the building’s trash. Normal day, I love you.

In our room, lit by a couple small lamps, we read the Word. Coffee mugs sit empty beside us. We’re 24 years older than that first 9/11. Our hair is grayer; our hearts softer, and we’re still here where we were then. Laurence will go to his place of employment at Elmhurst Hospital. I’ll take the elevator to the laundry room. Lunch will be in our tiny kitchen. Supper too.

God has been good to us. We love Him more than ever before, and we find ourselves longing for that other Shore. We’re here though, walking the streets of Queens, worshipping at Sugar Hill Mennonite in Harlem, riding buses and trains, and flying from LGA.

I smile to think how on that 9/11, I did not know if we would still be alive at Christmas, but we’re still here. I cut out a newspaper clipping back then that said, “We look for a city . . .” Today, we continue to “look for a city whose builder and maker is God.”

I hear cheerful singing from the bathroom, “Watch and pray . . .” God who cared for us then is caring for us now. Keep the faith.

Berniece

There’s a place at the table for everyone in the fellowship hall at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission. On any given Sunday, we gather from different tribes and nations to dine on Mennonite cooking. We, the people, are rich and we are beggarly, mentally unstable and well educated. We work for the MTA, in schools, hospitals, a library, a farmer’s market and more. We own our own homes, rent apartments, and live in a shelter.

We love breads, sweet deserts, and coffee with cream. One of us always goes to the cabinet to get the red hot pepper. The mission staff serves us well with main dishes, rice, and potatoes.

The food satisfies, but it is the conversation that causes us to linger. We discuss countries, customs, occupations, dress, volunteer work, and much more. Most of all we like to talk about God and His ways. We don’t always agree. Sometimes we are loud, and there is laughter. We love each other, and we always return to our place at the table.

I’m not sure why it works so well to sit together at the table. Why there is no place I’d rather be or no group I’d rather be with for Sunday dinner.

Maybe you want to come serve here. There’s a place for you at the table.

Berniece

P.s. The back of the Rice Krispie box says, “Everyone deserves a place at the table.” That’s where this title came from.

Last evening at sunset, we left our footprints in the sand. Those waves that climbed high and crashed when we were last out on Rockaway now only softly lapped against the shore as the tide went out. Surfers carried their boards over their heads onto the boardwalk and strapped them to bikes.

God painted the eastern sky in baby pink and blue, the deep blue beneath soft pink. I marveled at the sea scene as we walked a mile on the beach. Had there ever been such beauty as this evening by the sea?

On the way to the boardwalk, we walked past a home where the owners marked the level of Hurricane Sandy’s waters in 2012. That hurricane ravished this area of the coast. It tore at the boardwalk, leaving naked sentinels of posts. The angry waters swamped through homes built on shifting sands.

God who made the seas roar calmed them.

Psalm 107:26-30 expresses it best: 26 They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away.
27 They reeled and staggered like drunkards;
they were at their wits’ end.
28 Then they cried out to the LORD in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress.
29 He stilled the storm to a whisper;
the waves of the sea were hushed.
30 They were glad when it grew calm,
and he guided them to their desired haven.

Have a blessed Sunday, and may your storms be stilled to a whisper.

Berniece

Number 7 train to Flushing Main Street.

Squeak. Doors open.  “The next stop is Court Square.”

“Ride inside. Stay alive.” This announcement is meant to discourage subway surfing, a dangerous sport.

Several hundred commuters ride this train in the city that never sleeps. (“Never sweeps,” says the subway ad for Swifer).

We’re passing the Amtrak train yards. Your train starts here.

“Remember the best way to get out to the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center is with the MTA.” The US Open is going on and the 7 train will take you there.

The Queens tract workers are on this train. They were also on the Metro North train going to Peekskill earlier this evening. We’re happy about other Mennonites in Queens.

“This is Woodside.” Woodside. That’s where it all began in 1988 when we first came to the city.

“This is 69th Street.” Here you’ll find the Filipino stores and restaurants. “74th Street, Broadway.” Many people change trains here. The people of India, Bangladesh, Tibet, and Nepal come to this station and exit to the ethnic stores and restaurants they’re acquainted with.

“This is 82nd Street.” This is where we leave the 7 train and walk through well lit, throbbing streets to our quiet apartment on Layton Street.

Good night! Berniece

“It’s kinda like heavenly places,” Laurence says to me as the bus crosses Jamaica Bay, the water a dark blue out the window. The city skyline is silhouetted against a canvas splashed with the fading oranges of sunset colors.

We’re on the bus home from Rockaway Beach where we ate wood-fired pizza at a pink and green picnic table on the boardwalk with ambience provided by the restless roar of the sea. Hurricane Erin is out there somewhere and tonight the waves were wild and high, as high as we’ve ever seen them.

The surfers who gracefully rode the waves mesmerized us while we enjoyed the camaraderie of our fellow New Yorkers who were also awed by the sight.

We witnessed Glory when rays of the setting sun caught the waves just as they curled and crashed.

We’ve been to the desert, the plains, and the mountains, but tonight, I will take the beauty of the sea.

Berniece

I met a man coming from the subway station. Not a good sign. The R train platform at Elmhurst is empty. Not a good sign. The F train roars through on the express track. Not a good sign as I’ll want it at the next station down the line where I’ll board it for Roosevelt Island. Missed trains. Last evening on the way home from Forest Park, it was missed buses.

How much of our 30 years here have I spent waiting on public transportation? It doesn’t matter to me this morning. After being out of town for most of three weeks, I am happy to be back in the city I love. The city, my home!

My heart clapped when I landed at LGA on Thursday. I peered out at familiar sights as the plane descended. I pulled my suitcase and squeezed into a crowded bus. It didn’t matter. I was home. People bumped and shoved while getting off at Roosevelt Avenue. I walked past the Asian market, a bar, Thai restaurants, and more. People, people everywhere.

Laurence welcomed me into our apartment. He served up momos (Tibetian dumplings) from the street vendor outside the playground on Broadway. “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Yesterday, I cooked and baked in my tiny apartment kitchen, a most peaceful place. Our miracle God but a kitchen tool that I left somewhere in New Hampshire back in the drawer right where it belongs.  (If God answers these little prayers then surely He hears my ‘big’ ones.)

The R train came, and so did the F train. I rode it to Roosevelt Island. The East River flows below where I sit on a bench beside it. Sunshine glints from a Manhattan hospital. Seagulls call. Traffic roars. The red tram glides beside the Queensboro Bridge, and I am home.

Berniece

Berniece

This morning here on Grand Isle, Vermont, from Adirondack chairs beside Lake Champlain while watching car ferries traverse back and forth between Plattsburgh, NY, and this island, my mind keeps going to an oddity we saw near where we stayed in Tamworth, New Hampshire.

Past the summer home of the 22nd and 24th president, Grover Cleveland, a massive 20 foot tall hunk of  rock sits beside the road. Crumbling stone steps lead to the top of this massive boulder  with a tall white obelisk rising even higher. After passing by several times, we one day decided to stop. We expected the rock to be associated with the cemetery across the road; therefore, we were quite surprised at what was written on the obelisk. The Congregational Church of Tamworth had its beginning here when Samuel Hidden was ordained on the rock on September 12, 1792. Samuel served in the War of the Revolution from 1777-1781. He attended Dartmouth College. “He came into the Wilderness and left it a Fruitful field,” reads the north side of the monument.

A rock. Only a rock. Jesus says, “Upon this rock, I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it” (Matthew 16:18). “How firm a foundation, O saints of the Lord, is laid for your faith in his excellent Word!”

The Reverend Samuel Hidden was a minister for 46 years. He died in 1837 at age 77.

The ferries keep going back and forth. Back and forth. We plan to ride one later this morning, but right now Laurence is rather impatient with his wife’s blogging because he wants to go for a walk on Lake Shore Road. A good day to you.

Berniece

“May we share this table with you?” the woman asked as she set her picnic lunch beside us at the lone table overlooking the gorge with its humongous rocks and rushing water. We had pulled over on the Kancamgus 34.5 mile National Scenic Byway to have lunch on that summer day.

While eating, we chatted with the woman and the teenager who she said she mentored. After visiting about the usual things of where we live and so forth, the girl wondered if she could ask a question.

“Sure,” I said, knowing what was coming.

“Why do you wear that on your head,” she asked, referring to my prayer covering.

I’m not bold like Paul, and I wondered how to answer. I did not want to offend the friendly lady we’d been talking with.

Before I could say anything, the lady said, “I should know. I used to wear one.” She then proceeded to give a clear answer straight from 1 Corinthians 11. She did it honestly and humbly, and I felt in a better way than I ever could have. Without a doubt God put this lady in this place, at this time for a reason. Before we parted, the girl asked, “May I give you a hug?” 🫂 We hugged and said goodbye.  We did not exchange phone numbers.

This incident happened many years ago. Last evening, Laurence and I stopped to eat our picnic supper at Rocky Gorge on the Kancamgus Highway. (It must be one of the prettiest places in all of America.) Laurence asked, “Isn’t this where we met the woman?” Ever since we arrived my thoughts had been with the dear lady. My prayers too.

God, who sees the sparrow fall, knows her name and right where she (and I) are. He can direct her steps. He doesn’t need a phone number.

Berniece

ps Today we plan to take the cog train up Mount Washington. Last time we did this, my parents were along. I want to do it in memory of Dad. He enjoyed it so much and said someday he’d return. Instead, he went Home to the most beautiful place of all.

Part.Two

Laurence helped me carry the blue kayak to the water’s edge last evening. I paddled some. It didn’t take much effort. Part of the time, I just floated on the placid waters of Lake Champlain.

Imagine our surprise, when we opened the door to the deck this morning and looked out over the lake. “I won’t be kayaking,” I told Laurence. We poured coffee and went to the Adirondack chairs down at the lake. The wind roared and waves beat ferociously against the shore. The azure blue of yesterday turned more muddy brown. Whitecaps churned.

Life’s like that. Jesus then comes on the scene and says, “Peace be still. Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith” (Mark 4:29,30)?

It was a good day yesterday with going to the Vermont Islands and Mt. Philo. Back at the cottage, Laurence grilled peanut chicken for supper. Afterwards, we drove Lake Shore Road again and stopped at Happy Pike for ice cream with a view. Today, we’re thinking Mt. Jay in Vermont.

The disciples said, “What manner of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” It’s Jesus who gave His life for me. Because of Him, I have peace.

Berniece