Leston wanted to eat, but he fought and fussed about the mandated diet of baby food. One day he and Mom argued so much she stormed out of his bedroom, slamming the door. He threw his food tray at the door. Mom stalked out of the house and to the shed. I’d seen her go there a few times that week, but this time I followed her.
She stood just inside the door, her face buried in her hands, weeping. I hugged her tight. My insides quaked with fear that if Leston didn’t survive, neither would Mom.
We talked for several minutes. I questioned her stooping to his level and arguing with him. She agreed that I had a point and apologized for not handling herself better. I assured her that she didn’t have to be perfect, that I would always love her, that we all would.
As we walked back to the house, she put her arm around my shoulders and thanked me. I hadn’t done anything except let her know I cared. But somehow those few words, even though mixed with gentle correction from a teen, brought light and hope into her weary heart.
When we went into Leston’s room, Mark had cleaned up the mess and was sitting on Leston’s bed with two spoons in a fresh bowl of baby food.
Mark took a bite. “This isn’t bad. You guys should try it.”
Leston looked at Mom, picked up the other spoon, and ate a small mouthful of the baby food. “He’s right. It’s not that bad.”
Some family arguments are necessary, and they can be the beginning of seeing another person’s point of view. Arguing is often one person trying to get a message through to the other—one person’s light trying to get past the darkened understanding of the other. The odd and beautiful thing is that each person caught in the argument may have a light that needs to penetrate the other’s area of darkness.
UNEXPECTED REFUGE
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.
—PSALM 46:1–2
From Miriam
Horse-drawn buggies lined the fence outside our one-room schoolhouse. Inside, dozens of paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling on seemingly invisible strings, swaying as cold gusts of air swept through the door each time another family arrived for the Christmas program.
Everyone settled into the students’ chairs, and a hush fell over the room as nervous scholars began to perform. Seeing the innocent faces of children as they sang Christmas hymns, recited original poems, and acted out their play put the true holiday spirit in each person’s heart.
When the performance ended and the teacher tapped the bell to dismiss everyone, the room went from order to chaos. As children lined up for refreshments, the parents visited. I was making a mental list of Christmas preparations that needed to be done the minute I got home when I noticed murmurs of shock spreading through the room. My husband sought me out and explained that my cousin’s house was burning. The gas refrigerator had exploded. He told me to take the children home in the horse and buggy; he would head to the fire with the rest of the men.
Once at home I could think of little else but my cousin and her family of eight children. I had to be there. So I walked to the home of an English friend, Vanessa, and asked her to drive me.
Heavy smoke hung in the air. The land where my cousin’s house had once stood was now a deep, black, smoldering pit. Choking back tears, I greeted some of the family who stood huddled together, watching.
Fire trucks and personnel were everywhere. Despite their best efforts, the house and all the family’s belongings had gone up in flames or suffered irreparable water damage. But, thankfully, no one was hurt. The family had been at their own school program when the fire started.
Family, friends, and neighbors cleaned out the three-bay buggy shed (the Amish version of a three-car garage) to serve as temporary living quarters. A pickup arrived with beds. Someone delivered an RV for additional sleeping quarters.
The community spirit of service over the next four weeks was truly amazing. But what touched my heart even more was the help that came from our English neighbors and friends. A local lumber company gave the family huge discounts on many supplies for the new house and even donated some items. Credit accounts were set up at the bank and at Rachel’s Country Store so people could donate funds for furniture, appliances, housewares, and material for new clothes. A local driver provided a month of free trips. Ladies from Mowersville Brethren in Christ Church provided meals for the carpenters. Schwan’s delivered ice cream at no charge. Even the unopened Christmas gifts for the children were replaced, and many more came in time for the holidays.
Approximately twenty working days after the fire, the grateful family moved into their new, fully furnished, and stocked home.
I feel blessed to live in a community where there is such unity. And I hope that our simple way of life is not a burden to our English neighbors. I’d like to think that we are as much a blessing to them as they are to us.
As opportunities arise, we need to search for ways to help those in need, overlooking differences in color or culture and concentrating on what we have in common: the same heavenly Father.
From Cindy
My husband and I had known Dr. Mark Rutland for a long time, so when we learned that he’d founded a new ministry, we were excited to support something we knew we could trust.
Mark founded Global Servants4 and through that ministry opened House of Grace, a home in Thailand for tribal girls at risk of being sold into sexual slavery by their families. The goal of House of Grace is to prevent girls from being sold, because rescuing them afterward is far more difficult.
When House of Grace began, Tommy and I couldn’t give money, but we prayed for the girls and dreamed of someday becoming a sponsor. Sponsors provide redeeming love to save young girls from slavery. A destitute father or stepfather (or an uncle or a mother) who can find no other way to feed his family may sell a daughter, usually when she’s between the ages of six and nine. Sometimes another relative—typically an aunt or grandmother—has compassion on the young girl and finds a way to get word to House of Grace.
From the beginning Mark felt that it would be wrong to pay the family for the girl in order to rescue her. Instead, House of Grace offers to take her in—feed her, house her, and pay for her to attend the local school. A representative assures the father or stepfather that his daughter will be able to bring the family more money in the long run if she’s educated and can get a good, steady job. The father may spend several days wrestling with the decision, but a desire to do what’s best for the child has always prevailed. To this point House of Grace has never been turned down.
It isn’t an ideal solution. My heart would break if I had a daughter raised in a communal home rather than with loving parents. But it’s the best alternative for these girls.
About twelve years ago Tommy and I became sponsors of a girl. Our little girl has grown into a young woman and will soon graduate from school and enter college. The joy of getting to be a part of this kind of ministry is hard to define. In a country where supporting our local churches seems like a drop of water in an ocean, having the opportunity to make a tangible difference in someone’s life feels like salve to a weary heart. I hope our foster daughter and all those who have been sponsored by House of Grace are able to accept with peace and grace that what we’ve offered them is far from perfect. It’s imperfect perfection—better than what would have been but not anything like what God wants to do as they continue their journey on this planet.
I pray that we too can take our eyes off the imperfect situations that have molded our lives and instead focus on the difference God has made and will continue to make.
IN HIS HANDS
SIMPLE CELEBRATIONS
The Amish celebrate Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and birthdays with simplicity and tradition.
Easter may include fixing a basket of candy and coloring eggs and hiding them for the children, but the celebration doesn’t include the Easter bunny.
For Thanksgiving the men often bring home wild turkeys to pluck and cook. I’ve been at Miriam’s home when all the men went hunting. It’s a special time of fellowship for everyone—the men who go off hunting together and the women who have a day or two on their own to visit one another. Let me tell you, turkey from the grocery store’s freezer is nothing like a freshly prepared and cooked turkey. When I took my first bite, it was as if I’d never tasted turkey before in my life.
Christmastime is very special for the Amish. The parents look forward to the cute skits the schoolchildren will perform inside the one-room schoolhouse. Amish children don’t get a lengthy Christmas break like public school children. They get off for only two days, possibly two and a half. Amish schools may not close for half a day on Christmas Eve, but they are always closed on Christmas Day and the day following, called Zwedde Grischtdaag—Second Christmas. Many Amish look forward to Zwedde Grischtdaag as much as, if not more than, Christmas Day, because it’s a special time for visiting friends and relatives.
When I first heard that, I thought, You visit these people all the time. But the main focus of regular visits is accomplishing work. Even church Sundays require a good bit of effort as they set up a home to seat and feed several hundred people. But Second Christmas is for kicking back and soaking in the power of Christ’s birth. There is no to-do list—just long hours of chatting while eating leftovers and watching the children play with their new toys.
The Amish Christmas doesn’t include Santa Claus, electric lights, tinsel, or decorated trees. They honor the season of Christ’s birth in simple and creative ways.
We too can make holiday celebrations more memorable by keeping them simple. Here are several ideas inspired by the Amish way of celebrating Christmas:
Turn off the lights. Light candles (or even pull out old kerosene lamps), and set the mood for an evening of singing carols, telling favorite family tales, or reading Christmas stories with friends and family.
Put away the tinsel and expensive decorations. Pull out old Christmas cards and string them along the walls in your living areas. Spend a moment thinking about each sender.
Keep gifts practical. Think of “tools of the trade,” useful gifts that reflect what family members do in their respective professions.
Consider making gifts for others. Homemade gifts are always appreciated for their personal touch.
Show kindness to your neighbors. Bring your family and friends together to donate food, toys, and clothes to friends and neighbors who’ve been especially affected by the economy.
Make the kitchen a haven. Prepare food in advance whenever you can so the day of festivities can be spent with loved ones. Don’t get crushed by the stress and expense of doing it all yourself. Invite guests to bring their favorite traditional dishes.
Make cleanup a family affair. When it’s time, bring your family together in the kitchen. Talk about your favorite parts of the party while doing the dishes and wiping off counters.
Be thankful. Giving thanks doesn’t have to end with Thanksgiving. Spend time telling loved ones how much they mean to you throughout the season, and see how much joy it brings them … and you.
From Miriam
In the midst of a holiday, it’s always helpful to be able to prepare the breakfast entrée the night before. Here’s one that we often use when we have overnight guests.
OVERNIGHT BLUEBERRY FRENCH TOAST
12 slices bread, cut into 1″ cubes
8 ounces cream cheese, cut into ¾″ cubes
1½ cups fresh or frozen blueberries (or if canned, drained)
12 eggs
⅓ cup maple syrup
2 cups milk
Place half the bread cubes in a buttered 9″ × 13″ baking dish. Top with cream-cheese cubes, blueberries, and remaining bread. Beat eggs, syrup, and milk, and pour evenly over the bread. Cover with foil and refrigerate overnight. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Bake, covered with foil, for 30 minutes. Remove the foil, and bake for another 10–15 minutes until the top is golden brown.
IN THE GARDEN
But I will sing of thy power; yea, I will sing aloud of thy mercy in the morning: for thou hast been my defence and refuge in the day of my trouble.
—PSALM 59:16
From Cindy
My sister, Kathy, has a gorgeous singing voice. Even as a teenager, she sang at weddings, had the lead in school plays, and belted out beautiful tunes at county fairs. I longed to be able to sing. She kept assuring me I’d get there one day. I earnestly prayed to be able to sing. At sixteen, when I was home alone one day, I knelt beside the kitchen table and asked God to give me a voice. When I rose, I tested my voice and discovered it hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe it took time for that kind of a request.
I tested my voice numerous times over the next few months, but I never received a singing voice. However, at forty years old I discovered a different type of voice—a writing one. Like singers, each author has a distinct voice. When looking for a new author, editors and agents want to find one with a distinct voice. Although a writing voice is harder to explain than a singing voice, it’s part of what sets one author apart from another. In part it’s about how that author’s storytelling rhythm and beat sounds to the reader.
Our strongest desires come from deep within, but our minds can’t always grasp what the true desire is. I had a heart’s desire for a voice that could touch others. I never once thought it might be something other than a singing voice.
When we pray, we often express a deep desire. If we stop expecting a specific response, we may find the answer. And our voice, whether we’re singing, writing, or speaking, is how we communicate to God and how we share God with others.
From Miriam
In our one-room schoolhouse, we start each day with devotions and singing. Our teacher taught us to enjoy singing, but as a ten-year-old I never looked forward to starting a song. So when it was my turn to lead the singing, I always chose the same song, one I was sure I could lead without stalling: “In the Garden.” If my teacher grew tired of me choosing that song week after week, she never showed it.
Thirty-five years later, with a husband and six children of my own, I start my summer days in the garden. My garden, which provides fresh vegetables for my family, is also my little getaway.
With the dawning of a new day, garden hoe in hand, I slip outside for some quiet time among the corn, potatoes, tomatoes, and, of course, weeds. The weeds keep the area private, because the children have learned that an interruption could land them an unwanted job out here. So this is where I meditate.
On one particular morning, with a heavy heart regarding a certain issue in my life, I poured my heart out to God, begging Him for deliverance. I felt His presence, accompanied by a calming peace. With that peace came the memory of a song—my special song from long ago. As I sang, the words had a new meaning that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes.
IN THE GARDEN
I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses,
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
He speaks, and the sound of His voice
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.
I’d stay in the garden with Him,
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
/> His voice to me is calling.
Chorus:
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.5
I love my garden because it’s not just a place where vegetables grow. It’s where God meets with me on a personal, individual level.
If you invite Him, God will visit you anywhere. You don’t need a garden or even a yard. Any spot will work, even the bathroom if that’s the only private space you have. Light a candle and talk to God. He’s amazing.
MOTHERS AND CHILDREN
Now our Lord Jesus Christ himself, and God, even our Father, which hath loved us, and hath given us everlasting consolation and good hope through grace, comfort your hearts, and stablish you in every good word and work.
—2 THESSALONIANS 2:16–17
From Cindy
No matter what was taking place in my life, I’d never been buried under anxiety. But when our oldest son got his driver’s license and left the house on his own that first time, fears assailed me like a hurricane hitting the shore of an unprepared town. Had I spent a lifetime raising him just to lose him as he was about to launch into a life of his own?
I smiled and waved as he drove away, saying yet one more prayer over him for safety before I went into my home. I tried to focus on other things, but my insides quaked, not just for this outing, but for all the others ahead of me. Within two years our second son would have his license too. The gale force winds of fear battered me, and I felt powerless to stop them.
As the evening wore on, I grew angry at myself. Worrying was ridiculous. Would my anxiety prevent an accident or keep my son safe? Yet I felt powerless to tame the storm raging inside me.
Plain Wisdom Page 13
