Finally he got close enough to pick up Charlie. He yelled down at me, “Okay, I can get the cat. But how do I climb down this slippery tree with a frightened cat in one hand?”
I had an idea. I ran into the house and grabbed a sheet from the closet. Hurrying back, I yelled, “We’ll stretch out the sheet, and you can drop the cat. We’ll catch it.”
He didn’t look convinced, but we saw no other way to get the cat down safely.
Each boy held a corner of the sheet, and I grabbed the other two corners. We stretched out the sheet and stood there like firemen waiting to catch someone jumping from a burning building. I looked at the boys. “You have to hold on tight when Dad drops Charlie. Are you ready?” They gave me a half-frightened smile as they pulled on the sheet.
Tommy dropped the cat. The terrified, half-frozen fur ball hurtled toward us with his claws extended. But before Charlie reached the sheet, the two boys dropped their corners and took off running. A second later the cat landed.
All my life I’d heard that if you drop a cat, he’ll always land on his feet. I guess if you drop a half-frozen cat from thirty feet up a scrub pine tree during an ice storm, the landing-on-his-feet rule doesn’t necessarily apply.
Charlie hit the ground and took off running. Tommy climbed down safely. Soon both cat and owners were inside a toasty warm house, eating. Charlie slept soundly throughout the day, and his playfulness had returned by the next evening, and he never again climbed so far he couldn’t get back down.
We’ve all ventured too far and gotten stuck at some time in our lives. And the ones who were supposed to help didn’t, for whatever reason. Sometimes we have to endure that icy storm for a night, but we can be sure that God stands waiting in the storm for us, and when we finally let go and drop, He always holds tightly to the safety net.
AMISH FRIENDSHIP BREAD
A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.
—PROVERBS 17:17
From Cindy
I was in the third grade when I made my first real friend in school. Until that time I’d never asked anyone to come home to play with me unless that person could walk to my house. But by the time I entered third grade, we’d moved to a more rural area. When I asked my mom and dad if my new friend could come over, they thought it sounded like a good idea.
Our parents passed notes back and forth and worked out the details. My friend and I were so excited! She couldn’t spend the night, but she could ride the bus to my house, and her dad would pick her up around six o’clock.
We bounded off the bus that afternoon and waltzed inside, all giggles and excitement. My mom greeted us, looking surprised when she met the girl. We played in the backyard, walked to a nearby creek, and laughed over the silliest things.
When my dad came home, he looked from my friend to my mom, motionless for a moment before he smiled broadly and welcomed the girl. When her dad arrived, his eyes grew large as his daughter introduced us. A few minutes later I overheard the two dads talking. Only then did I finally understand my mother’s surprise, my dad’s amusement, and her dad’s speechlessness.
It was the sixties, and my new friend was African American. I hadn’t told my parents she was black, and she hadn’t told her parents I was white. We were aware of the other one’s skin color, but we didn’t think it mattered. My parents had asked me if she was nice. They’d asked if she did her homework. They’d asked if she liked what my mom was going to fix for dinner the night she came. But no one asked what color skin she had.
I still remember the laughter as our fathers shook hands that day.
Every night in that era, the television news told of conflicts between blacks and whites. It might not have been comfortable for our dads to meet like that, but whatever either of them thought or felt, they were friendly during the exchange.
We moved a few months later. That’s when I met my next best friend, a Plain Mennonite girl. After her my closest friend was first-generation Japanese. After her I had a native Hawaiian friend who practically lived with us on the weekends.
Perhaps it was coincidence that I had so many friends of different nationalities. Or maybe we had something in common. Because my family moved so often, I always felt out of place. Maybe that’s why we gravitated toward one another. What I know for certain is that a good friend removes loneliness, and even when we go through a season where there are no earthly friends, God is always our friend (see John 15:15).
From Miriam
Sometime ago a friend stopped by my house with a plastic bag of the sourdough mixture called Amish Friendship Bread starter, along with the recipe and instructions. Years ago when everyone made bread, sourdough starter was a household staple. It is a continuous source or base, which can easily be shared or passed on. I’m not sure how it got the name Amish Friendship Bread. After all, it was an English friend who passed it to me.
After following the ten-day steps, I added more ingredients, mixed it well, then divided it into four separate bags, still having a separate amount of starter to feed and set aside. So I had one cup of starter to bake with and three to pass on to my friends. I looked forward to enjoying a new variety, chocolate-chip pudding.
Next I set out to find homes for the other three bags of starters. One friend didn’t have time, one said it always flopped for her, and another said her family didn’t care for it. So I tended to the starters each day while still trying to pass them along. After ten days, bake day came around again, and my starters now multiplied to sixteen, which would multiply to sixty-four in ten more days if I didn’t find someone to adopt them.
Slightly frustrated I went to my mother to borrow bread pans and started baking. I baked for hours. I baked every last dollop of the sourdough mix and ended up with twenty loaves of delicious bread. And not a single starter.
While I worked through my recent frustration, I remembered that the best way to have a friend is to be one and the best way to strengthen a friendship is to do a kindness when it’s not expected. So I started handing out baked friendship bread instead of bags of gooey starter. I gave all but two loaves, which I shared with my children. My friends, family, and I enjoyed the delicious bread as well as a fresh renewal in our kinship.
AMISH FRIENDSHIP BREAD STARTER
2 cups flour
2 cups warm water
¼ cup sugar
1 packet yeast
Mix all ingredients with a wooden or plastic spoon in a nonmetallic bowl. Pour into a zippered plastic bag and continue with the following steps.
AMISH FRIENDSHIP BREAD INSTRUCTIONS
Day 1: Leave alone.
Day 2: Squeeze bag several times.
Day 3: Squeeze bag several times.
Day 4: Squeeze bag several times.
Day 5: Squeeze bag several times.
Day 6: Add 1 cup flour, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup milk; squeeze bag until mixed.
Day 7: Squeeze bag several times.
Day 8: Squeeze bag several times.
Day 9: Squeeze bag several times.
Day 10: Pour the batter into a nonmetallic bowl. Add 1 cup each of flour, sugar, and milk. Mix with a wooden or plastic spoon. Pour four 1-cup starters into gallon-sized, zippered plastic bags. Give to friends along with the instructions, keeping one starter for yourself.
Then mix the following ingredients, and add to your portion of the starter:
1 cup oil
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 eggs
1½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup milk
½ teaspoon baking soda
2 cups flour
2 small boxes instant vanilla pudding mix
In a separate bowl, mix 1 teaspoon cinnamon with 4 tablespoons of sugar. Sprinkle into two 8″ × 4″ × 2½″ greased bread pans. Pour batter into the pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour.
Chocolate pudding mix may be used instead of vanilla. You may
also add chocolate chips, nuts, or raisins.
LAUNDRY, ANYONE?
He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.
—PROVERBS 16:32
From Cindy
Tommy and I had two teens and a toddler when my family had to take over all my duties. I’d had major surgery and was placed on full bed rest for nearly four weeks.
My oldest kept up with his high school honors classes admirably. My second son handled his homeschool lessons while watching his little brother. My husband cooked all the meals, washed the dishes, and cleaned the house without taking any time off from work. I felt proud of my family for rising to the challenge. But I also had feelings that were foreign to me. I felt left out and useless. Everyone was managing just fine without me, and maybe my emotions were raw due to the circumstances, but I hurt because no one really seemed to need me.
Finally the doctor gave his approval for me to be on my feet again. The first day everything looked in great shape, so I went into the laundry room to start a load of clothes. Surely there was dirty laundry.
Imagine my surprise when I opened the door to the tiny room and found dirty clothes stacked everywhere! I stood in shock, staring at what might be four weeks’ worth of laundry. What was everyone wearing, the cleanest of the dirty clothes?
I called my husband at work. He read the caller ID and answered with his usual “Hey, cutie. What’s up?”
“I am.”
“Good. Don’t do too much. I think the place is in good shape.”
“Uh, honey … what about the laundry?”
After a moment of silence, he gasped. “I never thought about that.”
“You guys had to run out of things like underwear.”
“Well, yeah. But I bought several packages for everyone. And socks too.”
I thought, You did that but forgot about the laundry?
I’m not sure I was well enough to laugh as hard as I did, but it felt good to be on my feet again and to be assured that I was needed. It also gave me deeper empathy for people who deal with chronic illnesses or the adverse effects of aging and those who can’t do for their family as they long to do.
And the month’s worth of laundry certainly gave me fodder for harassing my good-natured husband.
From Miriam
One warm Sunday afternoon, on the spur of the moment, my family decided to go for a drive in our horse and buggy and visit my sister and her family. Our four youngest children, ages six to fifteen, scurried around, getting dressed in their best clothes. It was a challenge to find everyone’s outfits in such short order, but soon we were in our buggy waiting on the last one, our fifteen-year-old son.
Minutes ticked by. Frogs croaked from the pond across the road. I drew a deep breath, enjoying the beauty of the late spring landscape in spite of the holdup.
Finally our son came to the upstairs window. “Mom, where are my dress pants?”
As an Amish mom, it’s my responsibility to provide handmade clothes for the family. With five sons it’s quite a job keeping everyone’s clothes clean and mended. So this question wasn’t unusual. However, in this instance I honestly couldn’t remember what I’d done with my son’s dress pants. I couldn’t even recall whether he’d grown out of his latest pair.
I groaned. Surely he could find a pair that fit, at least well enough for today. I told him to check his brother’s closet.
Seconds later he came to the window again. “Not there, Mom.”
“Okay, check the mending pile. Maybe they had a button missing.”
A few more minutes passed. I was starting to feel awful. Clearly I had not done my duty. I could think of several reasons I hadn’t made new pants yet. We were in the middle of planting season, and some of my responsibilities—like keeping up with clothes—had been put on the back burner.
Just when I felt sure my husband’s patience had reached its limit, the front door opened. Our son casually walked down the sidewalk toward the waiting buggy.
My jaw dropped. He was wearing a shirt and vest, dress shoes, black socks, and suspenders … but no pants. Yet he was strutting along as if everything were normal.
Hiding my amusement, I demanded, “Now, Mervin, you go right back in there and put on your hat!”
That stopped him in his tracks. The tension broke, and we all burst into laughter.
I was grateful that we could make light of something that could have ruined the start of our outing and caused bad feelings throughout the day.
THE COMFORT ZONE
Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering.
—COLOSSIANS 3:12
From Miriam
In the spring of 1975, my family moved from a small Amish settlement in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to a farm outside of Shippensburg, Pennsylvania. This Amish community was twice the size of my previous home, which for a girl of eleven was both exciting and scary. Adjusting to a new school, meeting new schoolmates and a new teacher, attending a new church, having new neighbors—so many good first impressions to make.
One day shortly after we settled in, some English neighbors stopped by to welcome us. As time went by, our friendship with them grew, and we always looked forward to their next visit. We would all stop whatever we were doing and sit around the kitchen table as Mom served coffee and often her homemade shoofly pie. There are a lot of different recipes, but my family’s shoofly pie has a cakelike middle, a gooey molasses bottom, and crumbs on top. When our English guests were present, we ate our pie and drank our coffee separately, the way they did. But when non-Amish guests weren’t around, we soaked the shoofly pie with the coffee.
One day, after having lived at our new home for about a year, we were having one of our coffee breaks with our neighbors when my younger brother poured coffee over his shoofly pie. Children don’t get a cup of coffee as the adults do, but we always dribbled a few tablespoons of coffee onto our pie.
Our neighbor looked at my mother in shock and asked, “What is he doing?”
A little embarrassed, my mother explained that this was how some Amish people eat shoofly pie.
“Unbelievable,” she exclaimed. Then she picked up her own mug of coffee and drenched her remaining pie. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since our first coffee break, but I was afraid you’d think I was weird. I grew up eating my pie this way.”
We get only one chance at making a good first impression. Being imperfect humans, we tend to be overly cautious, afraid of messing up. But when we’re not our true selves, we can lose more than we gain.
Here’s my mom’s shoofly pie recipe.
MOM LEE’S SHOOFLY PIE
Pie crust:
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon baking powder
1 cup shortening (or two sticks of unsalted butter)
¼ cup water (approximately)
Mix the dry ingredients—flour, brown sugar, salt, and baking powder. Cut the shortening or butter into the dry ingredients until crumbly. Add just enough water so you can roll out the dough using a rolling pin. Press into two or three 8″ pie pans.
Filling:
2 eggs
3 cups brown sugar
2 cups Old Barrel molasses
1½ teaspoons baking soda
3 cups boiling water
Mix together, and pour into two or three unbaked 8″ pie shells, depending on the amount of filling used in each pie.
Crumbs for the top:
1½ cups brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
6 cups flour
½ teaspoon cream of tartar
½ cup Crisco
½ cup margarine or butter
Mix the dry ingredients, and then add the Crisco and butter until the mixture is crumbly. Put the crumbs on top of each pie, and bake at 400 degrees for 10 minutes.
Then reduce the temperature to 350 degrees, and bake for another 45–50 minutes or until done. Cool and serve.
From Cindy
My family was really hungry, but the plan for dinner was a simple one—pasta salad and bread. It was summertime, and I’d been mom-the-lifeguard at the local pool most of the day while my children swam with friends. For supper I had made a pistachio pasta salad from a new recipe. I thought its pretty shade of green looked quite appetizing.
After my husband said the mealtime prayer, I poured milk into the children’s glasses while they began to eat. Each one took a bite of the pasta, gagged, and spit it out in the napkin.
“Mom, that green stuff is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.” My oldest son, always bluntly honest.
His younger brother shrugged, not wanting to hurt my feelings. “I’m really not hungry after all.”
My husband downed a glass of tea after he’d taken a bite. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but Justin’s right.”
Convinced it couldn’t be that bad, I took a forkful. I too gagged and spit it out in my napkin. I have no idea what I did wrong to that recipe. I stood up and said, “Well, let’s go.”
I was met with looks of intrigue and hope. Not only was I going to spare them having to eat the awful meal, but we were going out to eat? They were in the car before I had time to grab the milk and put it in the refrigerator.
A few days later one of the boys was pushing me to get his way. I pointed at him and said, “Watch it, kid, or I’ll make that green stuff again.”
Frustration drained from his face. He held up his hands like stop signs. “No, please. I’ll do anything not to have to see, smell, or eat that stuff!”
A humorous threat can be a great way to caution someone who’s out of line and bring a smile at the same time. But more than that, it helps people be more comfortable in their own skin.
Plain Wisdom Page 10
