Rolling With the Punches

My husband and I opened our home for a fellowship dinner for our former life group at 6:30 Friday evening for twenty people. My menu was West African Groundnut Stew from the More-With-Less Mennonite cookbook, and each guest had signed up to bring condiments such as peanuts, diced apples, peppers, scallions, raisins, pineapple, bananas, etc, rolls and dessert.

I did my cleaning the day before, got my tables ready and made the iced tea to save time on the day of the dinner. I put bowls, snack plates and napkins for the hors-d'-oeuvres on my dining room buffet.

By Friday, I still hadn’t heard whether or not Margaret* was coming, and then I remembered she was allergic to beef. So I called her and told her I’d make a chicken Alfredo/broccoli casserole for her, and she was so glad. Margaret asked if she could bring anything, but I told her everything was covered. 

Off I went to the grocery store and bought five pounds of cubed beef and rice plus ingredients for the chicken dish. 

Once home, I checked my e-mail, and Nancy*, who had signed up to bring two pumpkin pies, had e-mailed me and said she was sick, would not be attending, but would keep her promise and deliver the two pies at 5:30. 

After lunch, I checked my e-mail again out of habit, and Nancy had sent another e-mail, saying that as she was putting the pies into the oven, one of them fell on the floor. She was quite distraught because she didn’t have money to buy more ingredients, felt so ill and was trying to do too much, and said how embarrassed she felt. When I called her, she had just finished cleaning up the pumpkin pie mess. I felt so bad for her, and urged her to go lie down, keep the other pie for herself, and put the fellowship dinner out of her mind. Much to Nancy’s relief, I assured her I’d just call Margaret back and ask her to bring some dessert.

After I made arrangements with Margaret for the dessert, I was dicing and slicing and chopping away when suddenly I thought, “How could I forget? Today is the 17^th!  It’s Doug’s birthday!” (Doug is our oldest son who lives in the lower level of our home, and co-owns our home.) I had not bought him a card or gift, and decided I need to at least get him a card. So I dropped what I was doing, got my coat and purse, jumped into the car and headed for the CVS several blocks from us. I got the card and a cute gift (because there was lots of Valentine’s Day merchandise available), came back home, found a gift bag and tissue paper. When Dave got home, I reminded him of our son’s birthday, so he sent Doug a birthday e-mail.

My Groundnut Stew was swelling exponentially by the time I was ready to add the liquid and tomato paste, and I saw it would never begin to fit in the pot I was using. So I drafted hubby to bring in my canner from the garage and he helped me transfer the hot mixture into it. By this time it was 4:00—just two and a half hours before our first guest was to arrive. I had ingredients everywhere, not enough counter space, plus I still had to make the chicken casserole and the rice. I felt hot and prickly all over. Could I pull this off?

With the heat finally reduced to a suitable simmer so it wouldn’t scorch in the lighter-weight, make-shift cooking vessel, I made the chicken casserole, put it in the oven at 250° for a slow bake, and then cleaned up the kitchen and took out the trash. 

Dave called to me from our office: “Hon, this is January, not February. Doug’s birthday is in February.” 

Oh for Pete’s sake—what was I thinking? Sheesh!

I was putting Cheddar Chex Mix, tortilla chips and Chi-Chi’s salsa into bowls on the buffet table when the first guests arrived at 6:20. It was Margaret and her husband with several desserts, and I placed a colorful tray of cheesecake slices on the counter with the desserts and coffee. Bless her heart. The person who signed up to bring the dinner rolls never did show.

Three unexpected guests showed up.

Sharon* told me Cora* was bringing a birthday cake as a surprise to celebrate Francine’s 50^th birthday. At dessert time, I asked Cora when they were going to serve the cake. She replied, “We didn’t bring cake; we brought these,” and pointed to neatly-arranged pudding parfaits in cups. Then she asked, “Who told you we were bringing cake?” I told her Sharon must have been mistaken, and just assumed there would be cake because we were signing a birthday card for Cora. It turned out that everyone was glad Margaret had brought that tall, fancy and fabulous chocolate cake. There was only a teeny slice left.  

Our burgeoning home was rockin’ with lots of noisy love and laughter from nineteen adults as four children shrieked with delight playing air hockey in our game room downstairs. 

Dave got a call on his cell phone from Doug, saying he was going out for Chinese, and, “Would the person who parked across the entrance to my driveway please move his car?”

At ten o’clock and after many hugs and well-wishes that warmed our hearts, the last guest left and we began the clean-up. Paper plates, plastic silverware, cups and napkins had been gathered by my guests and trash taken out before they left. I started the dishwasher but my sink was still full of dirty dishes that would wait until Saturday. Life is good.

And Doug’s birthday gift is perched on my dresser awaiting the arrival of February 17^th.    

*Names have been changed

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

The Little White Church on Beachley Street

Feelings of wistful sadness washed over me as I lay sleepless last night.  I thought of the small white church I attended as a pre-teen and teenager: First Mennonite Church on Beachley Street in Meyersdale, PA.  My throat tightened as memories crowded my mind.

I visualized the center row of long dark benches and two rows of shorter dark benches on either side, creating two aisles.  At the age of eleven, I stood at the end of one of those center benches to publicly declare my faith in Jesus Christ as tears rolled down my face.  And after a number of weeks of instruction, I knelt in front of that church to be baptized by the Mennonite method of pouring.  

I remembered a row of benches against the back wall of the church, too.  I saw the pulpit and the two alcove windows behind the pulpit, with a picture of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane hanging on a narrow wall between the windows.  I remember a door to the outside on the left.  A steeple with a church bell that rang on Sundays graced the church over the entryway.  Tall narrow frosted-glass windows looked like those of churches one sees on Christmas cards.

 

I thought about how that little church gave me the opportunity to develop in my Christian walk. Here in this place, I was asked to teach summer Bible School, Sunday school, and sometimes give a talk on a certain topic Sunday nights.

We had a great youth chorus under the direction of Ray Hershberger, the father of my best friend Maretta.  I remember the weekly practices and chorus programs we gave in churches and at Oakland Nursing Home in Maryland.  I think we sounded quite good!

I recalled the wonderful youth group we had under the direction of Sam and Elizabeth Yoder.  We held elections for a president, secretary and treasurer and followed Robert's Rules of Order in conducting our youth meetings.  I remembered the  mystery suppers, talent nights, hayrides and hot dog roasts, making food baskets at Thanksgiving for needy families, making candy in Elizabeth's (and my mom's) kitchens for Christmas packages, and more. 

I'll never forget my impression of a preacher from the Church of the Nazarene came to First Mennonite to preach for us.  I can still see him walk to the platform, get down on his knees, and pray for a little while before preaching. 

I remembered Ressley Tressler, Norman Teague and Ross Metzler who pastored our little church over the years.  I gave thanks to God for their faithful oversight of our little flock.

When the church disbanded, a group of Spirit-filled “Amish Mennonites” started a Charismatic church there called “Rock Church,” and my husband and I were so blessed to be part of that.  During that time, our first son was born (forty-five years ago) and we dedicated him to the Lord in the little white church.  My parents and Dave’s parents also attended there, and I thank God for their godly influence in our lives.

We drove past the little white church several years ago.  The once-special place is now used for some sort of garage or tire storage facility and the windows are boarded shut.  Overgrown with vines, trees, and shrubs that threaten the thirsty once-white clapboard siding, my dear little church looked forlorn and badly neglected.

I wiped my tears with the bed sheet.  Even though the church is no more, it was once used by God to give me spiritual life.  I felt deeply grateful to God for all the people who entered and exited the doors of the little white church on Beachley Street.

"The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance."  Psalm 16:6 (NIV)

  

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

Recycling Christmas Cards

Christmas time always brings a shower of beautiful cards from friends and family, and I delight in each one, taping them in the doorways to my kitchen and office.  They provide a festive look.  But after you un-trim the tree, take the Christmas lights out of the windows, take down the greenery, the outdoor wreath, store the table centerpiece and nativity set in big plastic tubs, wrap up the strings of tiny clear mantel lights, pack the Christmas stockings, take down the Command hooks, and have hubby stash everything in the garage for next year, what do you do with the cards?  I mean, it isn’t like you can display them again next year.  And they’re so pretty; I can’t bring myself to throw them out.  Surely there is a use for them.

My Amish grandmother, Olive Yoder, always had a basket that fascinated me.  It was made of old Christmas cards cut round at the top, sides tapered, with two cards placed together with their pretty sides facing outward, then sandwiched between two pieces of some kind of plastic cut to fit the card shape.  Holes were punched all around the edges and top, and crocheted together around an octagon-shaped bottom base also made of Christmas cards sandwiched together with plastic.  Each Christmas season, Ollie would bring out that pretty, artfully-crocheted basket and put it on her dining or buffet table and put her Christmas cards in it.  I wonder if she made them to sell or bought them from someone; I never thought to ask.

 A sampling of some of my gift tags

This year, I decided to use an idea I read about last year.  I made lots of gift tags!  I had three year’s worth of cards tucked away, and I spent the better part of three days going through them and cutting out tags.  For shapes, I used the rim or base of differently-sized tea cups to trace out circles, and also cut squares or rectangles around pretty parts of the card.  A hole punch made place to insert a ribbon.  

Another idea is to make Christmas ornaments.  Match the round, identically-sized ones, then glue them back to back and insert a length of pretty ribbon through the hole, then tie a pretty bow to hang on your tree next year. 

The neatest thing about recycling these Christmas cards was that my granddaughter Nicole was spending the day with me and we worked at my kitchen table together – she at her craft project and I at mine.  The largest cup I used was an old one my grandma Ollie gave me one Christmas when I was about sixteen years old.  It brought back memories of her love and kindness and Christmas time at her house.  I had tears as I told Nicole about my grandma Ollie and the cup and saucer gift.  I told her about the scalloped Christmas card basket too.  Such good moments with grandchildren are priceless!

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy