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

Remembering Tillie

I sit at my computer tonight remembering my mother-in-law, Tillie Wengerd Beachy, who recently passed from this life into the glorious peace and beauty of Heaven.  She was one hundred one years and nine months of age.

She was a staunch believer in the Lord Jesus Christ as her personal savior, and a woman of honor with a strong sense of justice.  She was one to speak her mind: you always knew what she thought about any given subject.  No pretending or hiding the “real Tillie.”

When Dave and I got married in 1967, Tillie took some getting used to.  I remember when we were dating, Tillie said, “We couldn’t think of anyone else better suited for a wife for Dave.”  I wasn’t quite sure how to take that at first, but I chose to take it as a compliment instead of wondering if she wished there were somebody better. J 

Tillie was a very pragmatic lady.  No frills or unnecessary “stuff.”  Having learned this, I remember one Christmas I decided I’d give her a practical gift and filled a bread basket with homemade cookies.  I was so hopeful she’d like it.  When I handed her the gift, she remarked, “Oh, thanks for the cookies, but I have no use for the bread basket: I already have one.”  I was confused and a bit hurt, because in my family of origin, one never turned down a gift, even if it was “of no use.”  Tillie wasn’t too keen on giving gifts wrapped in paper either, but preferred to hand the gift, unwrapped, to the recipient.  Like I said, she was a very practical, no-nonsense, take-charge kind of woman.  Not wrong, just different.

She and her husband, Irvin, had a great big heart for missions.  In the downstairs hallway of their Beachley Street home in Meyersdale, PA, was a large map of the world with areas marked for giving to missionary work around the world.  They prayed for and supported many good ministries and did without things so they could give more.  Tillie was quite frugal, but they always had sufficient, and we had many a wonderful meal at their home as the family of seven children with their spouses and children gathered for Thanksgiving and Christmas or other special events. 

She and Irvin both loved to sing and worship the Lord, and for a number of years, they opened their home to a group of “Hungry Hearts” who desired the infilling and gifts of the Holy Spirit.  People from different churches attended every Saturday night, and Dave and I were privileged among them.  Those were some special times of spiritual growth and deep unity of fellowship.

Tillie was quite knowledgeable on a variety of subjects, and their home sported a set of encyclopedias.  I remember one time at a Christmas gathering in the Beachley St. house, someone asked a question, and I expressed surprise that she knew the answer.  She looked at me, laughed, and said, “Why?  Did you think I was too stupid to know the answer?”  I was quite taken aback she’d even think such a thing of me.  In my family of origin, my expression of surprise would have meant, “Wow, I’m impressed you know that!”  It had been meant as a compliment.  Her personality wasn’t wrong—just different. 

After Irvin died, Tillie moved to an apartment in Springs, PA, near her eldest daughter, Phoebe.  I have good memories of visiting her frequently there.  I can still see her in the kitchen as she prepared a simple but delicious meal and sliced homemade bread while I set the table.  Sometimes we would talk about Scripture, personal concerns, or the whereabouts of people she knew in the community.   She frequently told us she was so thankful for our good marriage.  Over the years I’d come to understand and appreciate her for who she was.

When she could no longer care for herself, she moved in with her oldest daughter and husband.  The children devised a plan to take turns calling her every day.  When her eyesight began to fail, Dave and others made it a point to read Scripture to her with each phone call.

 Years passed, and Tillie longed to go on “home” to the Lord she loved; she said she felt lonely and was tired of living.  Dave and I visited her at Goodwill Mennonite Home in Grantsville, MD when we could.  It was hard for her to hear what was said to her, so conversation was a real challenge. 

 My mother-in-law finally got her wish to go “home” on Monday, December 15, 2014.  Thank you, Tillie, for all the years of faithful prayer for your family.  One thing is for sure: your prayers will never die.  I’ll see you in Heaven, Mama Beachy.

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

Are You Ready for Christmas?

Poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s moving lyrics, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” penned long ago in 1863 begins:

 “I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

“I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

The song, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” croons across the airwaves every year after Thanksgiving until the end of December.  But for many, the mention of “home” is especially painful this time of year.

Homeless people fill shelters, or wander the streets.  Prisons are full of men and women who can’t go home for Christmas.  Families live in cars because they have lost everything – their job, house, and bank account.  Others suffer the death of a loved one, and so many suffer the pain of divorce or separation in a marriage.

Adult children are angry and refuse to come home or even speak to their parents.  Loving parents hold out longing arms and cry out to God because of those broken relationships.  Children wither mentally, emotionally, and physically because of parental abuse and neglect.  Moms and dads have wayward or runaway children, some of whom are enslaved in the sex traffic trade, have been kidnapped or killed.  Service men and women in combat overseas miss the comforts of home at Christmas time.  For all these, and many more, the words “Merry Christmas” are painful, hollow and mocking.

Brokenness abounds.

I think of the homeless woman I’ve encountered at various times throughout this year.  She pushes a grocery cart filled with her belongings as she hunches over the handle, reading a book, and making her way slowly up and down the sidewalks and streets.  I saw her the day of my children’s book signing at the Family Christian bookstore in Manassas, and again yesterday when I stopped by there to do some Christmas shopping.  The pavement had given the wheels on her buggy a worn flat spot making a “clunk, clunk,” sound with each step.

When I spoke with her a few months ago, she told me she’d lost her job and her home, and asked me for some money.  I gave her some, and asked, “Do you have family in the area?
She replied, “Yes.”

Again I pressed her.  “Why don’t they help you?”

Her answer: “We’ve had a falling-out.”

“Why don’t you give them a call and see if you can work things out?” I encouraged.

The homeless woman looked up from the book she was reading, and answered,   “The ball’s in their court now.”

How utterly sad!  An angry “falling out,” insisting her family come to her, prevents her from being home for Christmas!  And she isn’t the only one with that story.  Over the years, I’ve spoken with a few other homeless persons who’d had angry words at home, left the family to be on their own, and refused to make up.

“And in despair I bowed my head:
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said,
‘For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.’”

Indeed, Mr. Longfellow.  Hate and anger at Christmas time when there ought to be peace?   Dear God, tenderize our hearts!  We can’t solve all of the world’s big problems – you know, wars and all the overwhelming problems of the world – but we are responsible for our own corner of it.  One family member at a time.  One neighbor at a time.   Don’t play the blame game.  “If possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”  (Romans 12:18) Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.  What is my responsibility?

Jesus said, “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye but do not notice or consider the beam of timber that is in your own eye?...You actor (pretender, hypocrite)! First take the beam out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye.”  (Luke 6:41-42)

“Let all bitterness and indignation and wrath (passion, rage, bad temper) and resentment (anger, animosity) and quarreling (brawling, clamor, contention) and slander (evil speaking, abusive or blasphemous language) be banished from you, with all malice (spite, ill will, or baseness of any kind).  And become useful and helpful and kind to one another, tenderhearted (compassionate, understanding, loving-hearted), forgiving one another [readily and freely], as God in Christ forgave you.   (Ephesians 4:31-32)  “As you would like and desire that men would do to you, do exactly so to them.”  (Luke 6:31)  And, “See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.”  (Hebrews 12:15, NIV)

We tend to forget how much God has forgiven us for.  I don’t understand the love of God, but He sent Jesus, because He so loved the whole rotten, stinking world steeped in darkness and sin, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have God’s kind of life – everlasting life!  (John 3:16, my paraphrase)  Not one of us deserves even one teeny little bit of His forgiveness!  He already freely extends forgiveness to us even though we didn’t ask to be forgiven.  Think about that.  Our part is to believe Him and receive the forgiveness He freely offers.  What a gift to undeserving humanity!  If you haven’t yet received His free gift of forgiveness, tell Jesus you receive it right now and that you believe in Him.  Tell Him you want Him to be your Lord and Savior.  And it will be so.  Freely you have received, freely give – which includes forgiving others as you have been forgiven.  

Everywhere I go, people ask me the question: “Are you ready for Christmas?”  So, I ask you, dear reader, “Are you ready for Christmas?”  If you have a meek and humble heart to welcome the Prince of Peace, you are ready for Christmas.

The final triumphant lines of Longfellow’s poem are fitting here:

“Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.’

“Till ringing, singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men!”

All Scripture is taken from the Amplified Bible unless otherwise noted.

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

The Christmas Bonus

1987 was a year of great change and adjustment for our family as we left Pennsylvania and moved to Virginia because my husband found employment there.  Although my parents and brothers and their families all lived in the same area of Virginia, I felt a great sense of loss because of friends I left behind.  I also left behind certain “social positions” such as President of our local chapter of Women’s Aglow in Somerset, heavy involvement in our church at Indian Lake Christian Center, and a home Bible study with dear friends with whom we'd met for a number of years.   Here in Virginia, I was a "nobody."  I didn’t feel established.  The neighbors were new, roads were new, traffic was heavier and faster, and we’d had to find a new church and make new friends.  We felt led to go to a different church than my parents and brothers attended, so we didn’t see them on a regular basis.  Everyone seemed involved in their own face-paced lifestyle and circle of friends. 

Now, in a few days, we'd be celebrating our second Christmas in Virginia.  Smiling faces and excited chatter greeted me as our family of five gathered for dinner on that December evening years ago.  Our oldest son told of a bonus check he’d received from his boss, and our daughter said she’d also received one from her employer.  My husband got a nice Christmas bonus as well.  

I told each one I was glad for them, but suddenly the monster of self-pity reared its ugly head and hissed in my ear.  Where is my bonus?  Everyone except me is doing something worthwhile and getting rewarded for it.  My throat tightened and I turned away so they wouldn’t see my tears.  What was the matter with me? 

The family ate in ten minutes what it had taken me hours to prepare.  Afterwards, my teenage boys headed to their bedrooms downstairs and my daughter to hers down the hall from the kitchen.  My husband went to the living room to watch TV, and I was left alone, staring at a messy table and even more kitchen duty.  Where was my free time?  The monster squeezed my heart, sending streams of tears down my cheeks.  I felt cheated, unappreciated, taken for granted, and worthless.  The emotional pain in my chest was palpable as the monster stabbed me.

Feeling quite sorry for myself, I shuffled around the table, stacked plates and silverware, and plodded to the kitchen.  I looked out the kitchen window into the inky blackness of night and set the plates in the sink, then headed back to the dining room for another load of dirty dishes.  I gave my husband a furtive glance to see if he’d volunteer to help.  Nope, he was enjoying his TV program.  Suddenly, the words of Joyce Meyer came to my remembrance: “You can either be pitiful or powerful, but you can’t be both.”  

I straightened my shoulders and decided the monster had played his last hand.  I dismissed him with a stiff rebuke, and he fled in terror at the name of Jesus.  The Holy Spirit helped me realize that Jesus will reward me for ministering to my family.  Jesus was my Christmas bonus, and I was honored to serve Him by caring for my loved ones.  What could be better than that?

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy 

The Angel That "Flied"

“I remember all that happened as though it were just yesterday.”  Debbie leaned forward, thick, ash-blond hair falling attractively around her strong face.  Her large, warm, clear blue eyes filled with tears as she told me the story.

“That Friday, I dropped off my four-year-old son Danny and his cousin Melanie at my mom’s town house, drove out of the complex and across the divided highway to the parked school bus I would drive come September.  The road looked wet from the shimmer of the intense August heat, and the 100° felt like at least 120°.  As I cleaned and washed out the bus, I kicked off my shoes to let the water cool my feet.  Then, as I bent down to clean under a seat, I heard a voice say, ‘Hi, Mommy!’ 

“I wheeled around, shocked to see my baby, my Danny, standing on the bus steps!  I said, ‘Danny!  What are you doing here?  I told you to stay at Grandma’s!  Now you stay right here; I’m just about finished…’

“I turned my attention to stuffing the ditty bag (first-aid kit, fire extinguisher, etc.)  When I straightened and looked out the window, my eyes met a terrifying sight.  My son’s body was pasted to the grill of an on-coming black Chevy Blazer.  Danny’s head and chin stuck up over the edge of the hood.  The vehicle kept moving, sliding, sliding, for about ninety-four feet as I watched, frozen.  I don’t remember any sound. When the blazer finally stopped, Danny was thrown off, and he slid twenty more feet on his back across the sizzling-hot asphalt.

“I leaped from the bus, forgetting my bare feet, and dashed to Danny’s twisted, rubbery form lying motionless in the road.  By now, my feet were blistered, and my mind was becoming hysterical.  My baby’s face was a funny color as I dropped to the pavement beside him.  His small, tangled body looked ghastly.  I wanted to scream.

“Suddenly I felt my spirit take control of my mind, like something coming out of here.”  Debbie paused to demonstrate by laying her hands across her abdomen.  “It seemed I somehow became only an instrument God was using, and I was filled with an overwhelming peace I never experienced before or since.  I acted out the instructions I heard from my spirit:  ‘Lay hands on the sick and they shall recover.’  So I laid hands on Danny’s head, then his neck, chest, stomach, legs, and feet.  I prayed aloud, ‘Lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover,’ over and over again.  I experienced what Jesus said in the Bible, John 7:38: ‘Whoever believes in Me, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.’

“By this time a crowd had gathered around me and Danny.  One man who heard me pray thought I was in shock, pulled me away from my son and told me to call my husband.  Reluctantly, I obeyed.  But first, I called a Christian sister and asked her to call others.

“When I got back to the scene, the ambulance had arrived, and Danny was in the back.  I got in beside him.  As we started for Commonwealth Hospital, I saw a huge ‘goose egg’ grow on the side of his head, almost like a second head.  Again, I began to pray.  Laying my hands on his head, I said, ‘In the Name of Jesus, there will be no brain damage to this child!’  I didn’t care who heard me.

“A paramedic named John made unsuccessful attempts to get an I.V. into Danny.  Suddenly he yelled to the driver, ‘Go in on code blue!’ and quickly straddled the still form, and began heart massage.  Danny’s lips had turned purple and white.  John yelled, ‘Mom, call his name!  Call his name!’

“So I shouted, ‘Danny, in the name of Jesus, talk to me!  Talk to me!’  All at once, my son began to cry.  ‘That sound is music to our ears, Mom,’ John said.  ‘We’ve placed him in the best hands – those of the Great Physician.  I’m with Fishnet Ministries, and all three of us running this ambulance are born-again Christians, ma’am.’  By this time, John was able to insert the I.V.

“At Commonwealth, the doctors were grave.  X-rays showed the neck separated in three places, and multiple contusions from head to toe.  There was great concern about internal hemorrhaging and spleen damage, so he was transferred to the trauma unit at Fairfax Hospital in Fairfax, Virginia.

“Upon our arrival there, a group of Christians had gathered to pray with us as Danny was rushed to the second floor and prepped for surgery.  Within the walls of a private room, we knelt in a circle, holding hands.  As we prayed, someone spoke in tongues by the power of the Holy Spirit and gave the interpretation.  The message was this:  ‘There will be no knife taken to this child.  Jesus is on the scene, and He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.  The eyes of man will see a miracle, and miracles are for the unbelievers.’

“We finished praying and sat down to wait.  In just a few minutes the door burst open, and a frantic nurse beckoned with urgency.  ‘Mr. and Mrs. Mosher, Dr. Seneca wants to see you immediately!  The X-rays are starting to contradict themselves, and he doesn’t know what to think!’

“My husband and I jumped to our feet, and the prayer partners thanked and praised God.  As we entered the trauma unit, Dr. Seneca met us.  He looked quite moved as he announced, ‘Danny does not need surgery.  He started functioning on his own.  His neck shows no separation now, and all hemorrhaging has stopped; but we want to keep him here for observation.’

“We spent that night with Danny in intensive care.  I told a nurse he was brought in on a ‘code blue’ and asked her what that meant.  I was stunned to learn that it meant the death signal, and she was incredulous that our son survived.

“The next day, Saturday, Danny was moved to a regular room.  His left collar bone stuck straight up out of his shoulder, and the doctors could not wrap it because of the severe third degree burns on his back.  Dr. Seneca and Dr. Vitek took more X-rays, and were awe-struck.  The results showed nothing broken, yet they could see and feel his collar bone sticking straight up!  On Sunday, Dr. Seneca released Danny to go home, and called him a miracle child as he offered a teddy bear to my son.

“My husband, Victor, and I were concerned about possible mental trauma in our son, so that afternoon we questioned him at home.  I said, ‘Danny, do you realize what happened to you, honey?’

“He thought awhile, then said, ‘Umm, I ‘member the big black hitted me, then I went to sleep.’  I asked him if that’s all he remembered.  His forehead creased in deep thought, then all at once his face brightened. ‘I ‘member the angel that flyed, Mommy.’ 

“I was transfixed and asked him what he meant by seeing an angel.  He replied, ‘Yes, Mommy, you know—the angel that flyed in the ambulance. The angel took my hands and placed them around my neck, like this.’  Danny placed his small hands behind his own neck to demonstrate.  ‘And he carried me.’

“I asked him where he was carried, where he went.  My son said, ‘The angel took me to Jesus, Mommy.  The angel said Jesus told him to go down in the road and get the little boy that was hurt.’

“Stunned, I asked him again if he really saw Jesus.  When he replied, ‘Uh-humm,’ I asked him what Jesus looked like.  He thought hard and struggled for the right words.  Finally, my four-year old Danny said matter-of-factly, “Mommy, Him looked like a big, bright, bright light bulb!  There was lights all around!’

“I asked him if he talked to Jesus.  He nodded and said, ‘Uh-huh.’  I prodded him further, and wanted to know what Jesus said to him.  Danny said, ‘Jesus said He was gonna heal me!

My curiosity got the best of me, and I asked him if he saw me or any people, on the road at the scene of the accident.  Danny said, ‘No, Mommy, but I ‘member the man sitting by the road with his hands on his head.

All of us in the room were stunned by what was just revealed.  The man who hit Danny had been sitting on the curb with his head in his hands, just as Danny described him.  I believe Danny must have been out of his body before the ambulance arrived.

“Well, the burns on his back healed miraculously without medical treatment, and by Tuesday morning his left collar bone was down flat.  The doctors were incredulous; they had truly seen a miracle!

“Today, Danny is a strapping 5’11”, 195 pounds, totally normal fourteen-year old with large hands and a warm, affectionate heart.  As I sometimes hold those hands in mine, I thank God for His kind goodness.  Although I had been a Christian for many years, that August of 1984 was the time I lost my fear of God—you know, the hell-fire and brimstone teaching I’d been raised with—and I realized how much He loved me.  He was not ‘up there’ with a club just waiting for me to sin so He could ‘get me.’  He allowed me to keep all three of my sons, yet gave up the only One He had for me!”

As Debbie spoke these words, her eyes brimmed with tears that spilled down her face.  “I have a very thankful heart for Who God is, and I firmly believe that having an attitude of heart-felt gratitude and faith in God’s Word are vital keys to experiencing the miraculous intervention of God.

***

I wrote this after my interview with Debbie Mosher in 1996, and sold the story to Guideposts Magazine.  It made the cover story of their 1997 May/June issue of Angels on Earth magazine. They re-wrote the story to their own liking, and also interviewed Debbie.

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

Kick the Hurry Habit

Harry let out a swear word as he yelled at the car ahead of him.  “Get a move on, you creep; I haven’t got all day!!”  He blew one long, loud blast on the horn as he moved within an inch of the offending car’s rear bumper.  The other driver stuck his hand out the window and gave Harry an obscene hand signal. 

“Good grief, Harry, calm down,” his wife Melda admonished.  “You’ll give yourself a heart attack!”  Harry gave Melda a withering glance, gripped the steering wheel, and retorted, “I don’t want to be late for church!”

Here in Northern Virginia, life seems so fast-paced.  Traffic can be a “bear,” and patience wears thin.  Drivers honk their horns, or weave in and out of traffic just to gain a couple car lengths.  (Then you laugh when you see them stuck at the next traffic light with you.)   The TV show, Mythbusters, did an interesting experiment with a fifteen minute timed driving exercise.  One driver was to weave in and out of traffic, while the other driver was to stay with traffic, and forbidden to change lanes at all, and arrive at a set location.  To my surprise, the “weaver” only arrived a minute sooner than the one who just stayed with traffic.  So I ask: is it really worth it to let traffic give you a migraine, upset stomach, and angry emotions? 

   

When we hurry, our muscle tension increases, blood pressure rises and hormones are released that, if the stress is prolonged, hinder the body’s healing and recovery processes.  When we hurry, we work faster, lift heavier, and are accident-prone.  My mom used to say, “Haste makes waste!”  And it’s so true; in our frustration to open flour and cereal bags, for example, they often rip open, and the contents spill everywhere.  In our hurry, milk or water gets knocked over, and the stress to deal with the mess is worse than ever.  Maybe we won’t need to “cry over spilled milk” if we slow down and take our time.

On the TV show Chopped, chefs must prepare a dish in thirty minutes and face a panel of three judges, hoping to avoid being “chopped” from moving on to the next round.  All four contestants begin with the appetizer round; one is eliminated because of faults found with his dish.  Round two is the main course, and again one of the remaining three is removed from the competition.  The final two chefs compete to win the dessert round.  The stress is unbelievable as chefs perspire, run to and from the pantry, slam pots, skillets, griddles, use deep fryers, blenders, sharp knives, and sometimes an ice cream machine.  Food is everywhere.  More than once, I’ve seen a chef cut a finger so badly that they lost valuable time getting the finger bandaged, and in the end, were “chopped” because they got blood on the serving plate.  The stress is palpable.  I ask myself: “Why would anyone want to subject themselves to such punishment?” The reasons chefs give for doing it is to “not let my family down,” or “to show my parents that I’m good at something,” or “because I love competition and want to win.” 

And we eat too fast.  Why?  Sometimes it’s because we oversleep, and need to gulp something for breakfast before we dash off to school, work, church, or an appointment.  Sometimes it’s just a habit.  My husband said he learned to eat fast on the job site.  As a commercial construction superintendent, he had to coordinate many subcontractors work, and often had to “eat on the run.”

Hurry spills over into listening, too.  We can easily get bored with people who speak slowly, or take their time to tell a story.  Are we so proud as to think that what someone has to say is not worth our time?  Since I write for home and family, let’s relate this to the family.  Do husbands and wives pay attention when their spouse talks?  Do parents take time to listen patiently to their children who want to share something?  Or are we so rushed in our schedules that our kids (and spouses) get lost in the shuffle?  Children can so easily learn to feel devalued and unloved because parents don’t take time to slow down, listen to them, and play with them.  I think children who feel hurried can also develop resentment toward the parents, and learn to pass that behavior on to their own children someday.

A number of years ago, I knew a lady who never answered her phone.  Instead, an answering machine message was short and not so sweet: “We’re busy – leave a message!”  It was said in such a way that the word “busy” sounded like she was even annoyed to take time to make the recording.  When I was around her, she talked of all she had to do, all that was going on, and seemed to wear busyness like a badge of honor.  I’ve come to realize that the more prominently a person wears that badge, the more disrespect and downright rudeness is displayed.  Do we take time to really connect and care about people?

We hurry our quiet time with God – if we have one at all.  This is an area I’ve had to work on.  How easy it is to let the tyranny of the urgent supersede good intentions.  I have to train my mind to put things into perspective and make a quality decision to satisfy the desire of my spirit and not let my mind dictate what my body should do.  And when I do, I feel peaceful, de-stressed, and satisfied.  The rest of the day goes so much better.

Why do we have a hurry habit?  Sometimes we try to please people and say “yes” to everything that’s asked of us.  A life without healthy boundaries, and the inability to say “no,” leads to a life of incredible stress.  We don’t want to disappoint people, so we don’t take care of our emotional health.  And sometimes we expect too much of ourselves, like, “I have to write one blog post per week!”  Or “I have to get that next chapter of the book written!” Or, “I have to host that party!”

There is a difference between being busy in an emergency, and being habitually busy.  Our bodies were not designed to be in a continual state of “fight or flight”.  We can choose different thoughts.  And we can learn to go to bed on time, get up on time, and begin our day with God.  By choosing to be orderly, put things in their proper perspective, refusing to stress out over traffic lights, etc, and deliberately slowing down, you will notice a relaxed feeling of freedom in your body.  You’ll get back your sense of control and increase your overall energy level.  We need to kick the hurry habit for our own wellbeing and for the sake of everyone around us.  Will you join me in my quest?

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy