Smell the Roses

This Mother’s Day, my mind went back to my life with Mom on the farm.  I think a farmer’s wife with children needs a special kind of resilience to survive the yapping demands of barn work, house work, garden work, and church work.  Do you see a common denominator?  When did she have time to “smell the roses?”  (For those of you who don’t know, that term means “Slow down: take time to enjoy life!”)

Before we children were old enough to help much on the farm, Mom’s daily early morning routine involved helping Dad milk the cows and do barn work.  Then she’d come into the house, wake us four children for school, get baby George out of the crib, pack our lunches and make breakfast.  After that, she diligently pursued the work for that day, whether it was doing the laundry, ironing, mending, planting or weeding the garden, gathering produce and canning or freezing it for preservation.  Of course, she fixed dinner for Dad and any hired hands (the noon meal was called dinner because it was the main meal) and then planned and fixed the evening meal we called supper.  In the evening, she went to the barn to help with chores again.

On Fridays, she cleaned the entire upstairs of our large farmhouse, stripped the bed sheets, put on fresh linens, then bunched up all the dirty linens and rolled them down two flights of stairs to the cellar floor where the wringer washing machine was waiting for laundry day on Monday.  Washing and drying clothes was an all-day job; I hung many a load of clean, wet laundry on our clothesline in the back yard.

Saturday mornings, she got up at 4:30 to clean the downstairs before she had to go to the barn to help milk the cows, so she’d have enough time to prepare food for company on Sundays, and then prepare her study materials for teaching a Sunday school class at church.

The two oldest of my brothers and I helped with all farm work as well.  Morning and evening, I helped with the milking and washed/sterilized the milking machines afterwards.  When I was eleven years old, Mom taught me to do laundry and ironing.  On Saturdays, my job was to wash the legs of the dining room and kitchen chairs, dust, and clean the tub and toilet.  More than once Mom found me sitting in front of the bookshelf reading a book that caught my fancy as I dusted.  I still remember the words I hated to hear: “First word—then play!”  Reading was ever so much more fun!  Another job of mine was to scrub ten pounds of potatoes, put them in a large pot to cook to make “jacket potatoes” for the coming week.  They were super-handy for making Dutch fried potatoes or casseroles.  We also baked cakes, pies and cookies for company on Sunday, because we often had guests on Sunday after church.  Mom needed lots of cookies for lunches and hungry boys who raided the large walk-in pantry. 

Mom also had a huge garden to tend, produce that needed picking and preserving: strawberries in season, peas, beans, tomatoes, and corn that we used to sell by the dozen to area customers.  (How well I remember the many dark green rows of corn wet with dew and the wet, unpleasant "slap-slap" of my Mennonite skirt against my legs as we picked golden Iochief corn early in the morning).  A farmer’s wife had no time for vacations.  Lord knows, with life constantly barking at her, Mom could have used one!

When I was fifteen years old, Dad had to have what was to be the first of three open heart surgeries.   

Mom’s parents and her sister Fannie took my parents to Shadyside Hospital in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Dad checked into the hospital.  Having never been away from any of from my family and children, Mom suddenly found herself alone in a strange city with a husband who was miles away in a hospital, not knowing if he’d live or die.  She had to learn to hail a taxi morning and evening to get a ride to the hospital.  Mom slept alone in a strange bed, ate breakfast alone, and was alone at the hospital.  She was there for two weeks until Dad was released to go home.

Grandparents Claude and Ollie were with us kids at the farm house during that time.  A hospital bed was waiting in the living room for Dad when he came home from Shadyside.  Mom was so glad to be home again, and with Daddy on the mend, she resumed her duties in the barn and daily routines as before.  To take Dad’s place in the work load, we also had a hired hand boarding with us, and Mom cooked for him and did his laundry too.  For reasons I’ll not go into, he didn’t last long, so they hired his brother, who didn’t last long either. 

Because Dad needed help on the farm, my oldest brother, Stan, had to quit high school and finish his education by correspondence.  Things began to settle down; Daddy was doing well and able to go to the barn and help out a bit.

Then Mom fell apart.  Because of her stress over Dad, she had a nervous breakdown after she relaxed—so said Dr. Rock.  She told me whenever she’d see everyone come in for breakfast after milking was done, she felt like screaming and pulling her hair out.  (She never did.) Dr. Rock told her he could give her medication for it, but the best remedy, he said, was to go somewhere quiet and relax.

I had to stay home from school on Mondays to do the laundry and help Mom.  I remember falling asleep in Mr. Slifko’s science class, and the awful embarrassment I felt when he called on me to answer a question.  Everyone laughed, but I didn’t think it was funny.  I barely squeaked by with a “D” in Mr. Deeter’s history class because I had no time to do my homework.  Our family became especially closely-knit as we did what had to be done.  We were like a team of horses hitched together, each pulling his weight.   

Leaving the farm for a vacation (even a short one) was out of the question. So Dad had an ingenious idea to help Mom: he and the boys built a simple 10 x 10 cabin covered with homosote in the woods above the “clearing” on our farm.  The cabin sported two old chairs and a small fold-away table on one side of the wall, with a bed on the opposite wall.  Two windows could be propped open to let in fresh air.  (I had a few camping trips there with my cousins, Pauline and Judy, and also my friend Ruth Yoder who lived on a neighboring farm).  Many an evening, our family went up to that cabin, and sometimes enjoyed the luxury of roasting hot dogs in the little stone fireplace Dad and the boys assembled. Mom sat in a chair surrounded by the peaceful beauty of nature, looked at the sky, and watched the trees sway in the breeze.  And she gradually recovered. 

I think moms are the glue of their families, and the importance of taking care of their physical and emotional health—the need to smell the roses along the highway of life—cannot be minimized.  I wish Mom had been able to smell the roses much more than she did.

 

A beautiful bouquet of eighteen roses my youngest son sent me this year for Mother’s Day reminded me of the chorus of an old song Mom used to sing when I was a girl on the farm: “Give me the roses while I live, trying to cheer me on; useless the flowers that you give, after the soul is gone.” 

Amen, Mama.

Copyright © Elaine Beachy 2015

Hope

Frigid temperatures

Had chilled her to the bone

When winter raged against her marriage,

As storm after storm

Swept over her raw emotions

That threatened to buckle

Under the crushing weight

Of verbal and emotional abuse.

Would the long winter never end?

Would soft, warm breezes

Ever blow again?

Would Sonlight

Break through heavy clouds

And send the softening rain?

Everywhere in nature,

A long, cold winter

Had given way

To resurrection life.

The bright, floral colors of spring

Mocked her inner pain.

Creeping Phlox indeed!

Would to God their beauty

Could creep into her heart.

Tulips opened wide their cups

To embrace the sun.

How could she ever

Open her heart

To trust again?

In the panorama

Of the great outdoors,

Delicate, lacy, mint-green leaves

Bobbed in the breeze.

Dainty buds of magenta and white,

As well as yellow daffodils

Nodded agreement

That spring had come.

A chill swept across her skin.

Could spring ever come

To her heart again?

She hugged herself

And went inside

To pray and wait.

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

The Crazy Cycle

No, I’m not talking about PMS.  The “crazy cycle” is a phrase coined by Dr. Emerson Eggerichs in his book and DVD teaching titled Love and Respect, and it happens in many relationships, especially marriage.  Let me explain. 

Men speak, hear, see, and interpret communication through blue megaphones, blue sunglasses, and blue earphones, while women speak, hear, see and interpret through pink.  Not wrong, just different.  For example, when a wife says she has nothing to wear, she means she has nothing new to wear.  When a guy says he has nothing to wear, he means, “I have nothing clean to wear!”  Pink versus blue. 

Everyone needs to feel cared for and valued.  Imagine that each person has a “love tank” with an attached air hose through which to breathe.  If the husband steps on his wife’s “air hose,” she’s not going to suffocate and die.  She yells, “Get off my air hose, you beast!”  And if she steps on his air hose of respect, he’s not going to let her make him wither away.  He’ll shout, “Get off my air hose!”  And a fight ensues.  The question is: will we decode the messages we send one another? 

The wife comes to her husband, lamenting, “I can’t believe I’ve gained all that weight over Thanksgiving and Christmas!  I feel fat and ugly.”   So that week, her husband is in the bookstore and sees the featured book of the week, Shed Those Excess Pounds: Post-Holiday Menus Included, prominently displayed as the special of the month.  He buys it, brings it home for his wife, hands it to her, and she goes ballistic.  He’s confused, because he wanted to help fix the situation.  But through her pink ear phones, his wife hears, “You don’t love me; you don’t accept me unless I look like a Dallas cheerleader!”  And she storms off, yelling at him with less than complimentary words.  Her air hose got crimped.  Dr. Eggerichs says that even through a woman’s anger, if the husband learns to listen carefully, he will hear a faint cry, “Please love me!  Why won’t you love me?”  It’s faint praise, because he matters to her.  Will he learn to decode her?

The next month, the wife is in the bookstore, and she sees a book titled, “Improve Your Relationship,” and she buys it for her husband.  She says to herself, “I know my husband is very busy, so I’ll read it and highlight the important parts for him.  She ends up underlining half the book, then places it on the end table next to his arm chair in the living room.  But he ignores it.  Oh, he knows it’s there.  Inside, he’s fuming: “This is the third marriage book she’s bought in a year.  And it causes huge fights.  If I don’t say anything, I’m in trouble.  If I say something, I’m in bigger trouble.”  So he white-knuckles it and glares at the TV.  Through the marriage book he hears, “I don’t respect you; I don’t approve of you unless you read this book right now!”  She’s crimped his air hose.  Guys seek to do the honorable and respectful thing by avoiding confrontation face to face.  Will the wife learn to decode him? 

Emerson makes the observation that a woman is very sensitive about her body image, while the man can bring out “Atlas” anytime he wants to.  Not wrong, just different.

The woman wants to talk about their relationship to create feelings of intimacy and love, while the man sees it as an attempt to force him to change. 

Couples get on the crazy cycle when, “Without love, she reacts without respect; and without respect, he reacts without love.”  And the crazy cycle starts spinning.  Round and round it goes; where it stops, nobody knows—except the divorce lawyer (unless one of them breaks the cycle). 

The question everyone wants to know is, “Who is to break that crazy cycle?”  Dr. Eggerichs says that after much thought and prayer, the Lord gave him this answer: “The one who sees himself or herself as the most mature.”  Hmm.  How’s that for motivation? 

The goal of Mr. Eggerichs’ Love and Respect teaching is to show couples how to change the crazy cycle, how to get on the energizing cycle, and finally the rewarded cycle.  God created women to need love, and men to need respect.  Not wrong—just different.  

Ephesians 5:33 (NIV) says, “However, each one of you also must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.”  God commands the husband to love his wife because it doesn’t come naturally to him.  Likewise, God commands the wife to respect her husband because respect doesn’t come naturally to her.  It’s a decision of the will to obey God’s instructions, and it works!

According to Dr. Eggerichs, our culture has become a feminine, love-focused culture.  Even the greeting card industry proves it: there’s not one card that mentions respect.  Says Emerson, “The Women’s Lib movement sincerely believes men are flawed; their thinking is, ‘If we could just change men and make them more like us, everything would be great.’  These women are good-willed women with good intentions, but they are not Christ-followers.  Even our educational system tries to make boys behave like girls.  If they don’t, we’ll medicate them.”

Dr. James Dobson, when he heard Dr. Eggerichs’ teaching on love and respect, freely admitted and regrets the fact that for years he counseled couples incorrectly.  He always focused on getting the man to love his wife.  Emerson said when God showed him the aspect of respect for the husband, “I finally realized the reason the husband wouldn’t come back for more counseling was because he felt disrespected and blamed for not loving his wife enough.  I had focused on the husband showing love for his wife.  The counseling was all one-sided.  I had done it wrong for years!”    

I recommend Dr. Eggerichs’ materials to every church, to every couple.  My husband and I have led the study three times in small group settings, and it changes all relationships – not just married ones.  One woman told us it even helped her with the boss at work!  His books are available on Amazon and the fourteen-session DVD/workbook sets are sold from his website http://loveandrespect.com/ .  Change the home – change the culture! 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

When In Rome...

My friend, whom I’ll call Peggy, stood in the doorway of her dining room, hands on her hips as I sat at the table.  “You know,” she said, as she looked at me, “Hospitality just isn’t what it used to be.”

I was surprised by her unexpected comment and asked, “What do you mean?”

Peggy took a seat at the table with me and said, “I love to cook and entertain—it’s a gift God has given me.  But I’ve been so discouraged lately.”

I rested my elbows on the table and leaned forward as I laced my fingers and rested my chin on them to give her my undivided attention. 

Peggy continued, “Some time ago, I gave a dinner party for a group of friends, and I made lasagna and salad.  We all sat down, and one by one they began to make excuses for not eating my meal.  One lady said, ‘I’m on a gluten-free diet, because I prefer it.’  Another lady said, ‘I’m on a low-carb diet.’  Still another person said, ‘I’m eating paleo right now.’  All they ate was the salad.” Peggy gave a big sigh. “And forget the dessert I had made.  I was terribly embarrassed, and couldn’t wait for the evening to be over.  I had to force myself to be pleasant.  Not one of them mentioned their dietary restrictions when I invited them.  I was so mad at them!”

“How rude,” I replied with indignation.  “Surely a person could forego one night of a special diet when offered hospitality!  And if they truly had an allergy, they should tell you!” I said indignantly.   “Besides, the Word says to eat what is set before you.”

“You’re right,” Peggy agreed. “I can truly understand if a person has a bonafide allergy to a food such as peanuts or gluten.  My own son has to eat gluten-free.  But to insist on special treatment for one night of hospitality is not right.”

Peggy went on. “Another time I hosted a Bible study ladies luncheon for about thirty women, and one of my friends called me the week before and suggested I have a gluten-free menu item, as well as several vegetarian dishes, and some paleo food too.  I told her I would see to it and take care of it.  However, this friend came to the luncheon, bringing with her all the dietary dishes she had asked me to consider!  I felt very disrespected and dishonored; there was almost no place to put all the food.  So you see, hospitality has taken on a sour note for me.  People are so consumed with eating just the right things nowadays.  I see a trend that is not good – everyone is so consumed with following this or that diet, that it’s taking all the joy out of offering hospitality!”

  

The guests who made excuses for not eating Peggy's lasagna remind me of the parable Jesus told in Luke 14, verses 16 - 24 where the servants were sent out announce to the invited guests that everything was now ready.  Verse 18 says, "But they all alike began to make excuses..."  So the master sent his servants out into the streets and alleys and invite the poor, crippled, blind and lame.  Jesus concludes the parable with these words, "I tell you, not one of those men who were invited will get a taste of my banquet."

Let's practice giving and receiving hospitality that honors God and one another.  You’ve heard the saying: “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”  If you truly have an allergy, let your hostess know well in advance so she may accommodate you, or decline her invitation altogether.  Enough said.

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

The Best of Everything

Sometimes I wonder how much sickness is brought on by the way we think and our attitude about life. 

My friend Roxanne* relayed how her upbeat, overweight mother, a mere four feet and eleven inches tall, never let anything get her down.  Roxanne said, “She refused to be negative.  And today at ninety-six years of age, she enjoys life, including the food she eats—especially Nutter Butter cookies and diet soda—and makes no apologies for her preferences.  Although she suffered a heart attack in 1997, she has no diabetes, or other ailment, and she’s outlived all those doctors who pestered her with dire warnings that her diet would kill her.  She refused to believe them.”

Intrigued, I asked Roxanne to tell me more about her mom.  Roxanne folded her hands on the table in front of her and said, “I really think God simply enjoys my mother.  Her attitude protects her from sickness and disease.  Even as a young girl, Mom, whose family lost everything in the Great Depression, found a way to enjoy life. For example, she dug dirt away from the roots of a large tree in their back yard to make ‘rooms’ in a ‘dollhouse’ for her rock collection family.  She’d say, ‘I have the best dollhouse in the world!’

Mom’s up-beat, can-do father always verbalized his adoration of his wife and children.  Injured by shrapnel in World War I, he also kept a very positive attitude through that ordeal.  The family has letters he wrote home from the trenches, telling his wife she’d be so proud of him if she could see the way he fixed everything up.  He described how he turned a box into a bedside table, made something else into a cot, and built a little nest for himself.  He turned lemons into lemonade.  

After the war was over, my grandfather’s self-sacrifice and love shone as he helped a cousin in financial hardship.  He raised this cousin’s son as his own, even though Grandpa thought he didn’t have enough money for his own three children.  With no extra bedroom, that child slept between him and Grandma in their own bed.  My mom always saw her parents have a great attitude.

My grandmother had a job at the post office in the days following World War I and maintained a positive, thankful mindset.  She got up at 4:00 every morning, went to the post office to light the fire in the coal-burning stove to warm the place, then came back home to heat their own cold house.  But my grandmother saw to it that the cold house did not deter my mom’s piano practice, an established habit since second grade.  Mom was to play the piano in spite of the cold – with gloves on!  And when the piano teacher told my grandmother, ‘Your daughter has no talent; you’re wasting your time,’ Grandma refused to listen to such negative talk and got her another teacher.  Mom went by train to another city to take lessons from a person who had studied in New York City.  She was so good that over time she started giving piano lessons to help pay for college (or as they said back then, ‘finishing school.’)

Mom got out of college at the end of World War II and became a piano teacher, went to Fort Bragg, North Carolina for a job, and ended up working for the army with the rank of Captain, doing entertainment for them. 

One day, the soldiers were to ship out for what they later learned was “D-Day.” Soldiers were lined up in an auditorium where Mom was in dress rehearsal with the orchestra to play Rhapsody in Blue when the piano bench fell out from beneath her!  My mom went crashing under the piano with the bench.  You could hear a pin drop—the soldiers didn’t know what to do.  Mom just crawled out from under the piano, stood up, and started laughing.  That broke the ice and all the soldiers started laughing as well. Everyone was able to sit down and hear the concert of Rhapsody in Blue before they shipped out.  Mom never took herself too seriously—a mindset she got from her father.”

The war was over, but not in Japan.  In 1945, she went by ship to Europe with the U. S. Army and set up night clubs in Germany for the soldiers.  She carried a gun and had soldiers who worked for her, and they gave her an ambulance to drive around in."

Roxanne brushed back her hair, leaned forward and continued. “In college, Mom had very few things.  She told me she remembers looking out the dorm windows and watching the other girls walk around in their finery, and drive off in a car driven by chauffeurs.  Mom said, ‘They may have beautiful things, but I have my piano.’  She never let those women get her down, even though she knew they had more possessions.  God inspired my mom to pursue playing the piano in spite of her first teacher having been so negative.

When Mom married in her thirties, she’d tell everyone, ‘My husband is the best catch in D.C!  We have the best house, the best back-yard—the best of everything!’

When Dad contracted Alzheimer’s, Mom was forced to make drastic life changes.  She had to sell their beautiful 5-bedroom home with manicured lawns and gardens near the Potomac River and move to a retirement complex into a 2-bedroom condo.  We children thought she might be greatly distressed, especially when her condo had a view of the parking lot instead of a view of green grass or woods.  Instead, Mom said, ‘I have the best view of any condo!  I can look down at the traffic and pavement and see who’s coming and going!’ 

She gets around well in her scooter, is active with other senior citizens, goes to a Bible study, a poetry class, and DAR meetings.  Her mind is sharp.”

Roxanne leaned back in her chair as she finished her narrative.  “In spite of my dad’s protracted and difficult Alzheimer’s disease, and eventual passing, Mom made her presence known in her mid-eighties as she starred in a play, Love Letters, at her retirement community.  Mom thinks she’s a classic beauty, but really, she isn’t,” Roxanne said with a smile.  “She simply has a positive attitude about herself; it never occurs to her to be down on herself.  Mom has a zest for life – Nutter Butter cookies and all!

*  Name has been changed

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

Quiet, Please

Discouragement and weariness nipped at my heels like yapping dogs.  Unwelcome tears stole to the corners of my eyes as I entered my quiet space and shut both doors.  The sound of the dogs seemed farther away as I sat on the sofa with Bible, journal, and pen at hand.  I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a deep breath.  My lips quivered as I struggled to find proper words, but gave up and decided quietness was better.  I thought of my Lover and closed my eyes.

Aware of His presence, I saw a wrought iron fence that surrounded a garden, which I entered through the diagonal corner gate.  Before me in the center of the garden was a beautiful, white, three-tiered water fountain.  Tall geysers of crystal clear sparkling water rocketed upward, and then fell, cascading, into its base below.  Immediately, I thought, “The Water of Life, springing up to salvation.” 

As I looked down, a circular bed of smiling, purple-faced yellow pansies decorated the base of the fountain, and I began to weep.  My Amish paternal grandmother’s nickname was “Pansy,” and as I cried, I thanked my heavenly Father for her love and years of faithful prayer for me.  To my left I noticed a bird house atop a pole, while a small bird perched on the lower lip of the fountain to take a drink.   

Enjoying the melody of the fountain, I walked past the birdhouse to a canopy swing on the soft green grass, and invited my Lover to join me.  We sat in peaceful silence for awhile before I noticed a lidded brown box close to the fountain.  I turned to Him.  A bit timid, I gathered my courage and asked, “What’s in the box?”  Immediately I knew it contained my disappointments and weariness, and I began to weep.  I spoke in a whisper. “I give You all my weariness, all my disappointments; please refresh every part of me.”

He stood beside me in companionable silence, never demanding anything.  My heart lifted and I felt deeply loved, understood, warmed, and comforted.  Then my day called, and the interruption annoyed me.  I looked at Him and said, “I have to go.”

The next day I went back to the garden with eagerness, and again invited my Lover to join me.  A golden shaft of sunlight streamed onto the green grass as we sat together on the swing.  Again the box by the fountain caught my attention.  My Lover looked at me and suggested, “Let’s open it together.”  He walked with me to the box, bent down and lifted the lid.  My heart leapt with surprised delight when, instead of disappointments, I saw beautiful jewels and necklaces!  In the bottom of the box were His love letters to me.  I made a mental note of the desire that filled my heart -- the desire to read His Words. 

Oh how I loved Him; there was no reproach in His look – just acceptance of me and understanding of the world I live in.  He reached out a hand to me, and we smiled at each other.  In playful abandon I grasped both His hands as we swirled across the soft green grass. 

If those dogs try to hound me again, I know where to find my garden.

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

The Alarm

I turned onto my left side, opened one bleary eye, and glanced at my alarm clock.  I was pleased to see I had awakened on my own at 7:00 a.m. with my alarm set for 7:30 a.m.  I rubbed the sleep out of both eyes, reached over and shut off the alarm to make sure I didn’t forget to do so once I was up. I stretched my body, and lay contented for a few minutes before I rolled out of bed. 

After I made the bed, I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, hung my towel across the top of the shower, placed the hairdryer on the sink, set out the hair spray, mousse and hair brush, and picked out my clothes to wear to my Women’s Life meeting that morning.

The water was cold, so I waited for it to get warm before I stepped into the shower.  Ahh, it felt so good!  I thanked the Lord for the nice hot shower, and prayed for the homeless deprived of such luxury.  My prayer was interrupted by a jarring sound—the sound of my alarm clock!  What?  Surely I was hearing things. But no, the angry sound of insistent decibels was unmistakable.  How was it possible?  I turned the alarm off before I got out of bed.  I was sure I did…didn’t I?  I questioned my memory.

A sudden thought struck me.  “Is God sounding the alarm for me to pray for someone?”  With one ear toward heaven, I asked Him, and prayed in the Spirit for certain individuals that came to mind.  I didn’t sense any urgency, and I wasn’t sure, but I prayed anyway.

After I prayed, I debated.  Should I turn off the shower and drip my way on tiptoe into the bedroom to silence the offender, or tell my brain to ignore the sound?  Should I try to rouse my husband at the computer in the office to come to my aid? No, he’d never hear me unless I gave myself a sore throat. Then there was the matter of our son’s bedroom on the lower level directly below our master bath.  He might think I was in mortal danger and come running if he heard me yell.  Perish that thought.  

The sound of an insistent alarm is kind of like hearing the persistent cry of a baby. 

I marshaled my thoughts.  What’s the hurry?  The clock isn’t going anywhere, and I am bigger than that clock.  I decided the clock would just have to wait until I was good and ready to exit the shower and get reasonably dry.

As warm water cascaded down my back, I did the stretch exercises for the lower back my chiropractor told me to do.  All of them.  I took time to squeegee the glass shower doors and towel-dried my hair, then tucked the towel around me, and stepped out of the shower, eager to be free at last from ten minutes of irritation.

I hurried to my nightstand and looked at the alarm button.  It was pushed to OFF.  What??  I didn’t know what to do except pick up the alarm to examine it.  When I did so, the alarm silenced.  Go figure.

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

Will You Be Mine?

Everyone needs the offer of love and friendship.  Who can forget the cute "puppy love" valentines you received in school?  Or the homemade valentines you made with crayons, markers or water colors, construction paper, and bits of ribbon or lace?  Or the little multi-colored candy hearts with the words, “Be Mine, hug me, real love, all mine,” etc?  Maybe you purchased your valentines to share with classmates in elementary school, or mailed them off to friends. 

Photo by gettyimages.com

Recently, when I cleaned out some dresser drawers in search of Grandma Ollie’s locket I purchased at Grandpa’s auction, I came across some Victorian valentines I bought years ago from some forgotten catalog.  I photographed them for this post: 

I also found a Victorian fan I’d forgotten I had, and photographed it as well.  Along with the fan, I found a fascinating paper on “The Language of Fans.”  Apparently, every male and female was to know the proper social language of the fan. 

As I thought about love, I decided to write a poem based on I Corinthians 13 in the Bible.

What is love?

Love is the glue

That keeps friendship from crumbling.

Love is the arm

That keeps you from stumbling.

Love is the look

That says, “It’s okay,”

When you’ve blown it so badly,

Or gone your own way.

Love is the joy

When truth wins the day,

Iniquities pardoned—

Not put on display.

Love is no joke;

It’s sincere and kind,

Not rude or proud,

But peace for the mind.

Yes, love never fails,

And our God is love.

Our cues are from Him

On the wings of a Dove.

God sent you a Valentine: Jesus!  His valentine reads, “Will you be Mine? Even before you were born, I loved you so much that I sent My Son into your world to die for your sins to restore our relationship—yours and Mine.  If you believe Me, be My valentine.  Will you?” 

Dear reader, if you accept God’s valentine offer, pray this prayer: “Jesus, I accept Your forgiveness of my sins.  I declare that You alone are Lord, and I believe in my heart that God raised You from the dead. I thank You for Your promise that anyone who calls on Your name will be saved.  Thank You for loving me; thank you for saving me, Jesus.”  (Taken from Romans 10:9-13)

If you prayed that prayer, I’d like to hear from you.  E-mail me at elainesplace4@verizon.net so I may encourage you in your new life of freedom in Jesus! 

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

Grandma Ollie

Dear Grandma Ollie,

I’m glad you were my dad’s mother.  Have I ever told you how much I loved you, and how the things you did and said impacted my life for good?  If not, I tell you now. 

Grandpa was right to choose “Pansy” as an affectionate nick-name for you, Grandma.  When I think about the pansy’s colorful, cheerful, smiling face, it fits you quite nicely.

You had a great ministry, Grandma Ollie, although I think you’d have been embarrassed to call it that.  You taught little children in Sunday school and wrote poetry.  You wrote to prisoners, the sick, the shut-ins, the bereaved, or to someone you sensed just needed encouragement.  It was just something you did.  You were naturally that kind of woman—hospitable, kind to others, both in deed and tongue.

Your church had a “Fresh Air” program where, every summer, church families opened their homes to kids from the streets of New York.  Your daughters, Esther and Elsie, each had children stay with them every summer, year after year.  You became their Grandma too, as you involved yourself in their young lives.  Those kids came to know the Lord, and their lives were forever changed.

 Sometimes at night, you’d hear someone in the kitchen, (your house was never locked) put on your robe and slippers and go see who it was.  Invariably, much to your pleasure, you’d find a dating couple or two from your church raiding the fridge.  You loved the young people and they loved you back.

If company stopped by your house unexpectedly for a visit near meal time, you never became resentful or upset.  You took it all in stride.  My mom told me you’d say, “Open the fridge; reach left, reach right, pull everything out, and make a meal.”  Did I mention you were amazing?  I think I could learn from you on that score.  Everything doesn’t have to be “perfect” when I have guests.  Right, Grandma?  You know it.  Your motto was, “When you have a heart full of love, you always have something to give!”  And that’s more important than food.  Mom telling me too how you fed tramps who came through the area looking for work. 

  

Thank you for teaching me how to bake bread, cinnamon rolls, and make “Grandma icing.”  (Today we call it penuche frosting.)  I still have your recipes.  How could I forget walking up the lane from our house to yours on an errand, being greeted by your warm smile and given a thick slice of homemade bread, slathered with rich, yellow, home-churned butter and homemade elderberry jelly?  Or a cinnamon roll slathered with Grandma icing?  My brothers received the same.   

Speaking of my brothers, we kids delighted in using the four-seater bright red metal merry-go-round you had in your yard.  Later on we had one down at our house, too.  I wish I’d have a picture of it.  I and three of my brothers each took a seat, propped our feet on a cross-bar, and pulled the flat lever toward us, then away from us, over and over again until the apparatus spun merrily.  We had to take care not to fall off the seat.  I can still hear our shrieks of delighted laughter as we went ‘round and ‘round.

 One day as we kids ate our bread and jelly and admired your beautiful blue pet parakeet in a cage, you told us to not give him any food.  For some reason, I didn’t resist the temptation to give the wee bird just one teensy bite.  What could it hurt?  The next day, you called us kids up to your house.  I was crestfallen when you told us your parakeet had died.  You asked, “Who fed the bird?”  After what seemed like a long and awkward silence, I admitted I had been the cause of his demise, but you never made me feel “bad.”  I still love you for that.  I learned to forgive easily because I experienced your forgiveness.

You laughed, but never aloud.  My mom says so, too.  Your face wreathed with merriment, your eyes squeezed shut and your body shook with silent laughter.  Your daughters took delight in teasing you about your eyes that narrowed to slits when you laughed.  They asked if you could possibly see anything at all.  That really got you going, and the rest of us laughed even harder—sometimes until we had to wipe tears.  I loved those special times of bonding.

  

I especially remember the times you, daughters Esther and Elsie, my mom, my girl cousins and I got together at the home of one or the other’s for lunch, and brought our sewing, mending, or needlework.  (I embroidered a set of pillowcases once.) Or we’d fill a canner with green beans, peaches, pears, tomatoes, or with whatever food needed to be preserved. Sometimes the day called for wallpapering or painting.  The hostess prepared lunch for us, and we’d sit comfortably in each other’s company and share a fantastic new recipe, tips on cooking, family stories and community news, all punctuated by your special laugh. 

The up and down motion of your feet that moved the threaded needle on the treadle sewing machine fascinated me.  Always neat and clean, you were quite skilled at making your own and Grandpa Claude’s clothing.  I was proud of you as a business woman, too; you made black Amish bonnets, white prayer coverings, and hassocks to sell.  I wish I still had the little hassock you gave us for Christmas one year.  Once, I watched you make a small hassock as you tied four empty metal quart cans together, surrounded them with stuffing, and padded the top and bottom. With sturdy upholstery material, you sewed a fitted covering with contrasting cording around the top on your treadle sewing machine.  I don’t remember how you got the cans inside and sewed the hassock shut.  Did I mention you were creative and talented?

(Thank you, Lela Beachy, for sending me the two "Grandma Ollie" hassocks you had!)  

Even though you were Amish Mennonite, and I was Mennonite of a different stripe, you accepted me as I was.  You were a godly woman of prayer, and took a personal interest in our spiritual lives.  We kids never left your house without being handed a Gospel tract, and I thank God for your prayers for me and my brothers.  Your prayers are still operative, you know.  They never died.  Do you remember the day you walked with me from your house down the lane to my house, and you looked at me and asked, “You’ve become a Christian, haven’t you?”  Did I tell you how surprised I was that you’d noticed?  I hadn’t told you that I stood up in church the week before to publicly declare that Jesus was my Lord and Savior.  You went on to say, “I noticed the change in you.”  Did you know a warm feeling of joy filled my heart at your words?  It profoundly marked my life.

And how could I forget the times in my teen years you walked down to our house and knelt by a chair with me in the dining room to pray together?  Each time, my dad and brothers were out on the highway with the tractors, pulling wagon loads of baled hay home from distant rented farm land in Garrett.  Black, angry clouds filled the sky as lightning flashed and booming thunder shook the house.  You were concerned for them and the hay they’d worked hard to grow, cut, rake, dry, bale, and load, that it not get soaked and ruined by a rainstorm.  Somehow it was okay when you were there to pray with us, and everyone came home safe and sound—including the hay!  Thank you for your prayers, Grandma. 

My ninety-year old mom confirms you never spoke a cross word or expressed anger against anyone.  Instead, you had a ready, warm smile for all.  My mom had a special love for you too; she says you were the best mother-in-law a bride could ever have.  That’s saying a lot, considering she and Daddy lived with you in the same house for some time.  Mom told me about the time a whole pie slipped out of your hands, and fell upside down on the floor.  Instead of complaining and getting angry, you simply started to sing, bent down, scooped it up with a spatula, and cleaned the floor.  I’m sorry to say I have not been such a shining example, Grandma.  You chose to think differently than most people: you chose to be pleasant and positive instead of angry and negative.

“Who can find a virtuous and capable wife?  She is more precious than rubies…Her children stand and bless her… Reward her for all she has done.  Let her deeds publicly declare her praise.”  (Prov. 31:10, 28, 31, NLT)

Grandma Ollie, all your children have joined you in heaven, so I stand and salute you.  I publicly declare your praise—through my writing. 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

The Auction

The sale grounds at the home of my paternal grandparents, Claude and Olive Yoder, were crowded.  Outside, the flurry of activity seemed another world to me: they were selling my grandmother’s things—and my grandfather’s too. Since the years of Grandma Ollie’s death, the lonely house, once filled with bustling activity, was no longer to be his home.  

Tired of the noisy din, I withdrew into the house.  The once-orderly home sounded empty and hollow as I took a private moment to walk through the gutted rooms. Alone, I entered the narrow pantry.   A limp, white muslin curtain hung forlornly over a simple rod that drooped at an angle over the narrow open window that almost filled the narrow wall straight ahead.  A gentle breeze stirred the curtain to life as I entered the space. Empty. Like the hole in my heart.  I caressed the gray linoleum-covered shelves that lined the wall on the right—shelves that once held Grandma’s freshly-baked cookies, cakes, pies, pots, pans, and supplies.

I sighed and retreated to the kitchen.  My eye moved to the old Frigidaire refrigerator with rounded top corners, and to the large white gas stove.   The porcelain-covered cast iron sink that once held mountains of dirty dishes and pans of sudsy hot water at many Thanksgivings and Christmases, seemed forlorn without the “cat and kittens” and Aloe vera plants and geranium cuttings on the windowsill.  It was a nice kitchen, really—good countertop space, even if it was covered with linoleum.  I pulled open the deep drawer to the left of the sink where she’d once kept her homemade bread, jelly, and a covered glass dish of “Grandpa butter,” a rich, yellow soft churned butter purchased from local Old-Order Amish farmers.  (The Old-Order Amish had horses and buggies, but Claude and Ollie had a shiny black car, and were members of Mountain View Amish Mennonite Church.)

I took a few steps to the wide archway between the kitchen and dining room, and could once again see the blanket nailed across the opening as we 16 cousins put on a Christmas program (directed by me, I might add).  Those who didn’t have a part in the actual nativity scene would recite Scripture verses or poems.  I got lost in thought as I remembered Christmases in their home—the long, dark dining room table, as every child’s parents sat on a bench behind the table and beyond, Claude and Ollie sitting at the end near his roll-top desk. Through tears, I again saw Grandma’s eyes that would squeeze shut from the broad smile on her face as she beamed with pleasure at her grandchildren’s performance.  (For Amish grandparents, surely they had a more open mindset than what I imagined other Amish folks did, to encourage such play-acting.  And I loved them for it.)  I remember Grandma’s table, laden with food at mealtime, and then with bowls filled with Rice Krispie squares, popcorn balls, nuts, and penuche peanut candy squares, for eating after the gift-giving.

The door above the bottom stair step that led upstairs from the dining room was closed.  I knew there were two spacious bedrooms upstairs with Jack and Jill bath, and storage under the eaves.  Without going upstairs, I bent down and opened the hinged bottom stair tread one last time. Nostalgia swept over me as I remembered the children’s toys she’d always kept for us there.  I wiped tears on my blouse sleeve and walked into the living room, now naked and bare.  No huge, lush trailing ferns sitting on tall pedestals in two corners of the room.  No companionable rocking chairs, couch, or extra dining room chairs lined up under the double windows. No bureau chest of drawers whose top right-hand drawer secreted a yellow plastic hen that laid little round eggs when put on a surface and pressed.  Through the double living room windows, I looked out into the overgrown area where Grandma once kept a flourishing garden, and beyond that to the farm’s orchard where I’d gathered apples as a child.  An ache tugged at my heart as I turned away.  

With slow and quiet steps, as though in respectful mourning for the house, I entered Grandpa and Grandma’s bedroom.  An empty spot that once held their dresser greeted me.  I thought of the top left-hand drawer that had held Grandma Ollie’s white Mennonite head coverings with strings sewn to the bottom corners.  (I used to try one on from time to time, and I could still remember the sense of Grandma’s pleasure when I did so.)  In that drawer was also a thing of great fascination for me—a special teeny purse made of mother-of-pearl with a red lining.  It had a long chain, and inside the purse locket was a tiny note in Grandma’s handwriting: “First gift from my parents 1903.”  On the decorative outside were the words, “Souvenir, Norfolk, VA.”

Two clothes closets with doors still sporting glass knobs, separated by a built-in shelving unit with a hinged door, and hinged hamper chute below it, met my gaze as it swept the room.  The hall bathroom had built-in shelving with a hinged door and laundry chute as well.  I opened the laundry chute one last time and looked down the hole to the basement floor below, now filled with items for the sale.  I choked back the tears, and wound my way back through the kitchen, into the dining room, to the front door.  The green-patterned linoleum beneath my feet seemed cracked and worn, kind of like my feelings. 

I headed outside to the wide front porch that cried out for my grandma’s touch.  No friendly red geraniums greeted me.  The peeled paint and exposed wood seemed to reflect the peeling layers of my emotions and raw sense of loss.  The high concrete steps were crumbling away, and Grandma’s flower beds were no more.  I’d always loved how the porch steps came to a landing that sported a set of steps on either side of it, so one could turn right or left to go to the yard.  

Slowly, I made my way down those concrete steps one last time and turned right toward the garage and basement door and tables that held boxes of sale items.  I spied Grandma’s Bibles distributed throughout several boxes, and I remembered she’d been a writer.  I leafed through her Bibles, and saw they contained notes and papers which I intensely ached to have, but was afraid to take because they were not mine to take.  I’d been told she had a book of poetry somewhere too, but I never got to see it.  

Grandpa Claude, in his wide-brimmed straw hat and white shirt, with suspenders fastened to dark-colored Amish pants, sat quietly on a chair with his wooden cane under the large canopy tent.  Silently, he put a hand on his knee and watched his and Ollie’s things pawned off to the highest bidder.  My heart felt sad that he’d been so lonely without my grandma by his side.  

I left the garage and made my way to my husband and three young children in the crowd.

A bevy of antique dealers circled like sharks around my grandmother’s things.  Then the auctioneer held up a familiar object: that special little heart-shaped mother-of-pearl purse locket!  And I wanted it.  My heart thumped as I began to bid.  Money was tight for our young family, and my heart beat faster as the auctioneer’s voice rose with excited tempo to the duel between me and another bidder—ten dollars, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty—I looked up at Dave.  The auctioneer asked, “Who’ll make it thirty-five?”  Dave nodded and allowed me to bid higher, because he knew how much I wanted something of my grandmother’s.  I had no room for much of anything of Grandma’s in my house, but this little purse locket would fit just fine.  As the auctioneer asked, “Do I hear forty?” my hand automatically shot up.  Strangely, the antique dealer had quit bidding against me.  I felt numb as the bidding stopped with me. I got it for forty dollars!  I’d won!

After awhile, my cousin Pauline sidled up to me and said she was so glad I kept on bidding and got it.  Later, I was told that someone had told the antique dealer I was Olive’s granddaughter, and that’s why he’d quit bidding.  I was grateful for whoever had spoken up for me.

As the auction ended, and we drove away, I was left with the unmistakable feeling that the auction had trespassed on my property—a tender place in my heart.  They’d had no right to be at my grandma’s house, selling and buying her and grandpa’s things.  But they had been, and there was nothing I could do about it.  Farewell, sweet childhood delight. 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy