An Ordinary Life

Philippians 3:10, “That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection.”

I walked through the playground after buying buns from the Chinese bakery on Easter morning. “Truthfulness, compassion, and forbearance,” proclaimed the banner beside where the Fulan Gong group stood in a mediative pose. Several more Asian groups, some in uniform, moved to exercise music. I’d give it to them for their being fit. Further on a large group of young men played a fierce game of volleyball. Others were on the basketball court. The homeless hung out on the playground benches, cans and bottles of alcohol beside them.

Welcome to Easter morning in Elmhurst. Likely, if I would have walked on, I could have witnessed worshippers at the South Korean churches. Not all in Elmhurst are heathen but many are. I wiped a tear as I entered our building. God’s love is there for His creation in our community.

“Happy Easter,” I greeted customers at the farmer’s market yesterday. Many responded with the same, “Happy Easter.” One older Christian (?) couple told me they were going to Manhattan to join a protest. It made no sense to me. Another lady said she couldn’t comprehend what Christ did. I told her that’s me. I said, “I feel like my friends get it, but I don’t understand.”  This dear customer and I accept by faith Christ’s blood shed on Calvary.

I saw and heard evidence of the Resurrection in the service at Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission this morning. The young men sang. The youthful tract couples shared songs and an essay. Attendees from different countries know the risen Savior and they will freely tell what He’s done for them.

Christ is risen! Matthew 28:18-19 says,  “All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth.
19 Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.” Many nations come together in Queens. Oh, that all might know the Resurrection Power.

Berniece

Our anniversary celebration took place at Kabul Grill on Long Island. From the Midwest to the capitol of Afghanistan is a far distance in country, climate, and culture. We had no plans of a dinner place when we rode the train to Long Island, but it wasn’t an accident that after a morning spent touring Old Bethpage Village, we chose this place for the Uber driver to drop us off.

We could not have chosen better. Rafi greeted and seated us, showing the hospitality that the Afghani people are known for. We made our choices of eggplant with yogurt, naan, chicken kebab with its mild seasonings and saffron, and rice with raisins and carrots.

Rafi, the owner, wanted to know what brought us here. When he heard we were celebrating our 43rd anniversary, he brought a second salad.

“Are you Muslim?”

“One hundred percent. What about you? Rafi asked.

“Christian.”

Later a man came in to get catered food for a Passover meal. He explained to us that this is the traditional food his Jewish grandmother made. (There were once tens of thousands of Jews in Afghanistan. Now there are none.) The Jew, the Muslim, and the Christians had a most amiable conversation in this peaceful country far from the turmoil in Kabul.

Above our heads hung the famous National Geographic picture of the 12-year-old Afghani girl in Pakistan. I mentioned we’d seen the same picture in a favorite restaurant near our place, but sadly, the restaurant closed. Rafi said the owner had died. I told him we’d met the man who started Edible Arrangements at the restaurant. “Do you know about him?”

“I know all about it,” he said looking down and giving a little kick that said, we don’t want to talk about this. Instead, I commented about the large, homemade kites decorating the walls. “Do these symbolize kite fighting?”

Rafi lit up. Kite fighting, now that was something he loved talking about. It’s the sport of their country. We once passed by a park with a sign, “No kite fighting!” Rafi couldn’t explain why Mayor Giuliani outlawed the sport of trying to cut your opponent’s kite string. Rafi said that it’s a colorful scene that people like to watch.

We don’t usually get dessert in a restaurant, but we were celebrating so we ordered baklava.

“Do you want baklava or custard?” Rafi asked.

Custard? That tempted us, but we stuck with the baklava. “You’re going to make us fat,” I said when I saw the large serving of the layered filo pastry, nuts, and syrup.

Finally, we finished and paid. As we walked toward the exit, Rafi appeared with custard. He handed it to Laurence saying, “You take good care of that wife of yours.”

A short train trip away on Long Island we experienced the food and culture of Afghanistan.  Berniece

Laurence had Monday, April 7, off. We took the train to Philadelphia. With speeds up to 125 miles per hour, we arrived there in only an hour and 15 minutes after leaving Penn Station. My cousin Gaylene with husband, Charles, met us at the train station. First stop was the Reading Terminal Market, a busy, bustling place with many food choices and not enough tables to seat the crowds. We, of course, had Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. Afterwards, we threaded our way through the aisles, stopping for donuts from Beiler’s. Laurence and I also purchased sausage from our go-to place, an Amish vendor. I appreciated visiting with the two older Amish ladies running the stand.

We dumped luggage off at an Airbnb before going down to the site of the immigration station along the Delaware River where the SS Vaderland landed on December 26, 1874. My great grandparents (likely along with your ancestors) came ashore in the New World there. Broken down pilings poke from the river; otherwise, we use our imagination at what it must have been like to set foot on land and walk into an unknown future. (As you know, it didn’t go good for a long time for them. Do I need to say how blessed we are?)

From there, we took Laurence back to the train station since he had to work today. Charles, Gaylene, and I went on to Germantown to the birthplace of the Mennonite Church in America. We couldn’t get into the church, but we walked around in the cemetery, thankful for the faith of our fathers!

Supper was at a Mexican restaurant before going back to our Airbnb. I messaged the host that there were no coffee pods. He responded by having Uber Eats deliver some from an hour away; that’s service for you! (I wrote him a nice review.) I felt rather loathe to leave the cute little house this morning, but we had places to go and things to see.

First stop was Independence Hall where the park rangers did a great job of explaining the writing of the Constitution. The original chair with the “rising sun” where George Washington presided is there. (Ben Franklin sat in the chamber wondering if it was a rising or setting sun and declared it a rising sun after the constitution was written.) Charles and Gaylene went to the Liberty Bell. I met them afterward at the Visitor’s Center. A lady there helped them plan the rest of their time in the Philadelphia Historic District.

We said goodbyes, and I parted ways with Charles and Gaylene. They went on to the Betsy Ross House, Christ Church Cemetery, and the Museum of the Revolution. These are all places we’ve been to numerous times. I walked to the Pennsylvania Bible Society. Founded in 1808, it’s America’s first Bible Society. It isn’t very impressive, but I like to go to that little place with Bibles. The older lady volunteer manning the desk shared with me how America needs to turn back to the Word.  Amen!

An Uber driver picked me up there and dropped me off at the train station. Less than two hours after leaving Philadelphia, I walked in at home – glad to be here, but so very happy we could appreciate the rich history of our forefathers and of our country together with Charles and Gaylene.

Berniece

It’s a long way from the front bench of Grace Mennonite Church, Halstead, Kansas, to an apartment in NYC.  Saying, “I do,” meant going with Laurence to Grandview, Idaho, a place I’d never been. I didn’t know the desert or mountains, how it would be to live in a small, old double wide, and to worship with only a few families. But I was young and in love. The flowers I planted bloomed profusely. I enjoyed long walks in the desert and mountain hikes with Laurence.

Then came Georgia with its heat, humidity, and hospitality. That strange place soon felt like home.  Here, we lived in a new single wide trailer amongst pecan trees. One day, God spoke clearly (after the Minister asked) when I was sitting on the entrance steps. He said He wanted us in NYC. That was 37 years ago.

Today, this once foreign place is home more than any other. Our small apartment is enough. These streets, stores, parks, trains, busses, playgrounds, and restaurants are familiar to us. We enjoy the ethnic diversity, understand a little bit of different cultures, and make our living here. Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission is here. God is here.

I did not know when I said, “I do,” 43 years ago today that we’d never have children, spend many years in NYC, have friends across the conference, or that I’d be writing this blog.  It’s good, I didn’t know.

God knew.  From the plains of Kansas to the skyscrapers of NYC, Laurence and I have had a wonderful life.

Berniece

The young lady across from me on the bus carefully held her henna-painted hand, allowing it to dry without smearing. I admired the intricate design in shades of brown on the back of her fingers and hand. “Is it Eid?” I asked.

“Yes, tomorrow.” I knew it was, but I wanted to acknowledge the young lady who was obviously proud of the design.

“It’s beautiful, ” I said. It really was an amazing work of art. Her eyes twinkled with anticipation for the upcoming festivities.

In last month, Muslim people have fasted from sunup to sundown. Today ends the time of worship, charity,  and self-reflection in Islam called Ramadan. Hundreds of Muslim men dressed in traditional cloth and holding prayer rugs filed from the basketball court as we passed this morning on the way to the subway station and church.

“You can come. My wife is cooking. There will be lots of people,” my Muslim coworker offered yesterday. He invited us to Eid, the festival of the breaking of the fast. It calls for new clothes and if you’re a pretty young lady, you might want your hands made beautiful with henna art.

Little India was relatively quiet this afternoon, the outfits bought, jewelry purchased, and the groceries sold to make the biryani, kebabs, curries, and sweets. We did see Muslim families, dressed in their best, gathering to celebrate.

I am a Christian. I try to understand and relate to the people about me. I pray that they might know Jesus. There is salvation in no other name (Acts 4:2).

Berniece

“Therefore encourage one another and build each other up” (1 Thessalonians 5:11).

“Encourage: to inspire with courage, spirit, or hope : hearten” (Merriam Webster).

Two of the former young men with their wives and children joined us for supper recently. Afterwards, we came to our small apartment. Even before Laurence unlocked the door, I heard the dads telling the children to take off their shoes as soon as we entered the foyer. The children ran off to play, and we settled into the soft chairs for hot tea and talk. The visit encouraged us. I want these two couples to know that they are doing well with child training. The toys were picked up before they left and the coverlet used for playing bear 🐻 folded nicely on the bed. The children thanked me for the evening, and there’s a picture from the four-year-old on the fridge.

The email asked if I would edit a book of Anabaptist women writer profiles. The publisher Sheila Petra, encouraged me by saying I had done a good job earlier with typing up the profiles. Yesterday, she sent me a draft of the book cover. Sheila, by her encouragement, makes me want to write. 

I want to be an encouragement to other writers. I think of the young people, Elizabeth and Josiah Akinyombo, and their brilliant 10-minute writes that outshone mine. The women of my writing group have amazing talent, especially when it comes to poetry (which I have no talent for).

Talk about talent: We are gifted in New York City with talented outreach workers. We have an interesting, sincere, and unique group of attendees at the Sugar Hill Mennonite Mission services because of a song, a tract, and a word for Jesus. By God’s grace, you’re doing well mission and tract workers!

A Whatsapp chat with my brothers, one with friends, and another with the writing group often encourages me. But not all whatsapps are encouraging. It behooves me to message to encourage, to build each other up.

People respond to encouragement. I want to be an encourager: “I like your dress. That sermon was just what I needed. The dessert is delicious. Thanks for the coffee. You do so well.”

Tell an experience where someone encouraged you. Berniece

For in the day of trouble
He will keep me safe in his dwelling;
He will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent (Psalm 27:5).

The skinny man who boarded the bus asked Laurence for a seat as he shivered uncontrollably, a cigarette and drool dripping from his mouth. I really didn’t want to be left sitting with him, so instead, I hopped up and offered him my seat beside Laurence. He took it.

“Why don’t you button your coat?” I asked from where I stood. He complied by slowly setting his Popeye’s soda on the floor. With his shaky hands, he tried closing his jacket buttons. I could see he was not going to be successful and leaned over to close them for him. He needed shelter.

And so did we. A couple hours later, after filling up on soup, dumplings, and Armenian pastries made with walnuts and red raisins, we walked to the bus stop. The cold temperature, along with the wind blowing off the sea, penetrated right through our layers of clothing. We moved around the corner to stand against what was once a restaurant, but now appeared to be under renovation. We hovered by the wall, the wind pressing against us.

I reached behind me – a strange gesture – and tried the door handle of the building, expecting it to be locked. To my surprise, it opened, and we stepped into the shelter. Warmth washed over us. The wind no longer raged. While watching through the open door for the bus, we looked around. The power tools, a ladder, and other valuables would be worth stealing, and any NYC street smart person would know to lock the door, or it would all quickly disappear.

We saw the lights of the Q53 bus approaching. Laurence pulled shut the door, and we dashed into the wind. I cannot prove to you, but I believe the door locked. God gave us shelter from the wind and cold that we might know we can trust Him in the storms of life.

Berniece

The City is My Home

A large saguaro cactus silhouetted against the rising sun symbolizes the desert for me. I keep the picture in my mind’s eye, as a phone background, and it’s etched in the pottery coffee mug beside me. The realization, however, sinks into me that the city – not the desert – is my home. My heart is here. The city is my security. It provides our livelihood. There is no place I would rather worship than in the city, in a church where people of many different backgrounds meet and meld.

I know the city’s trains and buses. I walk its vibrant streets and shop at its ethnic stores. I walk into the busiest library in the nation to see a wealth of books and of like minded people. The emergency personnel of this city picked me up when I’d fallen and broken my leg. The surgeons here mended it, and the best of them removed my burst appendix. City nurses cared for me in my brokenness. Today, I meet them on the sidewalk, and they chat with me.

I know my neighbors, their challenges, that the boy next door is engaged, and the Polish couple’s dog’s name is Romeo. We visit together about our families while we throw clothes into the coin-operated washers and dryers of the basement laundry room of this building. Because I live here, I know the Muslims are having Ramadan now, and that the Chinese New Year is cause for a large celebration.

Beautiful and fresh flower bouquets are inexpensive when purchased from the sidewalk vendors of the city. The taco trucks are numerous. There’s the old Chinese man who mends shoes, and the Mexicans who sell pineapple. I would miss these things in the desert where the sun rises behind a large saguaro cactus.

When the city wearies me (and it does!), a bus will carry me to the sea or the Wildlife Refuge. I know the beauty of the bay at sunset when the large orange orb sinks behind Throgs Neck Bridge. I walk with my best friend on the wooded paths of Forest Park, and many times we’ve grilled there among the Hispanic parties with their music playing.

I live in the city, in a small apartment that holds all our earthly goods. Here, in this alone place, I am given words to write. The colorful foods and fabric of the city satisfy me. The city is my home.

Berniece 3/4/25

(Written as a writing assignment.)

It’s 15 minutes until the next F train – the one that carries me to work – will arrive at Roosevelt Ave. The man beside me smells of cologne. He types quickly in Spanish on Whatsapp. I take it he’s heading somewhere different than the man with a paint-splattered backpack who’s obviously going to work. I suppose a 100 commuters surround me this early Saturday morning, each one waiting for a train. Because I just missed an R train back at Elmhurst, I had to wait for another. I watched a F train zip past on the express track while I stood on the local subway platform. (So missing one train, easily makes my arrival time 20 minutes later.)

It amazes me how patiently New Yorkers, for the most part, wait. And we do wait: on an elevator, on trains, buses, in traffic, in the post office, and in long check out lines.

(I’m writing the remainder while on the Sunday morning church-bound train.) The train eventually came. Sitting between two heavily jacketed men, I was on my way to Roosevelt Island and the farmer’s market.

However, it was not the end of my train-waiting woes. After work I did the long walk back to the train station. (The “wild turkey crossing”  made me smile. I’m a witness to a wild turkey on the island.) The sign in the station said that it would be 19 minutes until the next train. I sighed and settled in to read the blogs of others. (I especially enjoy the one of the woman who is hiking the Triple Crown.) The sign switched to 18 minutes and then didn’t change for a long time. I must have waited 30 minutes for a train. Waiting with patience? I’m a work in progress when it comes to the patient factor.

I prayed for an R local at Roosevelt Ave, but no, it would be 13 minutes before one appeared. The weather was nice and I decided, rather than wait, I’d give patience a break and walk home.

The experience goes with the life lesson God is teaching us. This morning, Laurence chose the song, “Waiting on God for His blessing today.”

“Let patience have her perfect work, that you may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing” (James 1:4).  Berniece 3/2/25