Walking Into the Sunset

According to Idioms by The Free Dictionary, the term "riding into the sunset" means "To resolve or conclude things in a neat, happy, and satisfactory fashion; to retire from work, use, or relevance, especially on a positive note or after a long and successful period of activity." When I read that definition, I thought how nice it would be if COVID Life would ride off into the sunset for once. I refer to the ending in a neat and happy fashion, and the part about retiring after a long period of activity, not so much the word "successful". 

If there will be anything to be described as successful about this time, perhaps it will have to do with lessons we've learned, the new perspectives we've gained. I'm convinced that, for me, the good memories of this time will include a more relaxed schedule, more time bonding with family and friends, and more moments observing nature.

One of my activities during COVID involving all three of those memories is walking. I don't walk nearly as often as Ken does (he's up to a 16,000+ steps daily goal!) but I walk several times a week, most often in the evenings. I usually walk with Ken or Kerra, or both, and sometimes with a friend. I love seeing beauty in nature as I walk. Once in a while I take my camera along, and photograph some of that beauty. It slows down the walking, for sure, but it speeds up my enjoyment of the activity.

I notice the variety in clouds - from great hulking masses that backdrop a whole set of farm and town buildings...

...to the horsetails wispy-swishing across the blue yonder.

Flowers take my eye - the dainty elegance of Queen Anne's Lace...

...the milkweed's purple burst of fireworks... 

...and the spiky teasel spearing the evening sky. 

And who knew that going-to-seed wild asparagus in the ditch has tiny yellow bells along its ferny fronds?

I take note of all the rabbits. There are many. I call them names like Fiver and Bigwig and wonder about their secret life, especially since reading Watership Down, our first book in the Book Club for we3@home this summer.

I marvel at the way God enhances ordinary scenes of grasses, weeds, and leaves by placing a setting sun behind them.  

"Walking into the sunset." I can't think of a much better term for describing the event of strolling along our road with Ken on a summer evening, sometimes hand in hand, "retiring from work, especially on a positive note, in a neat, happy, and satisfactory fashion." I call that "successful" for making good memories. Thanks, COVID.

                         Photo cred: Kerra Martin

Last Post's Childhood Memories

Last year, my blog posts all had two features in common. At the end of each post, I included a section called "This Post's Quotable" and one named "This Post's Childhood Memory." My most recent blog post, the only one I have done so far this year, did not include those features. That was on purpose - I don't plan to add them to the posts I do in 2020. They were fun and good in serving their purpose while they were here, but now they are there, and there they will remain - lounging or romping about, as the case may be, in back issues.

In farewell to those features, this post will be a small collection of childhood memories, some from me and a few from some of my sibs, as well as from an author I discovered recently.

~ Me: I remember wearing plastic bread bags on my stockinged (or tightsed, or snowpantsed) feet inside my winter boots, to help keep my feet dry while I played or worked outside in deep snow. I'd turn the bags inside-out so I wouldn't get bread crumbs on my socks. The bags helped provide a waterproof barrier against melting snow inside my boots, at least until the bags got holes in them...

~ Troy: I remember learning some reading skills before school at the urging of you and Anni, perhaps you more than her. My memory is of struggling with the short e sound and getting it confused with the short a sound.  I think you were patient. (Thanks for that strong vote of confidence, there, Bro.)

~ Faye: During the time leading up to one of my childhood birthdays, I told Mom that I wasn’t going to sit on her lap anymore whenever I turned whatever age it was (seven I believe), thinking I was too old/big.  When the birthday arrived, I received a book as a present.  Mom told me she’d read this book to me if I sat on her lap.  I didn’t remember my earlier declaration and agreed to the deal.  Mom did remember however, and enjoyed the fun of luring me onto her lap in spite of me trying to grow up. And now I enjoy the memory of the love and humor. 

~ Me: Many times, in reading Full Moon, Half a Heart (one of the children's books I mentioned in my previous blog post), I was transported right back to my childhood days because of the author's superb description of life in Wisconsin. One of those times was when the main character in the book was introduced to the dairy barn. When I read that part, I recalled with startling clarity all the sights, sounds, and smells of "going to the barn" when I was at my school friends Monica and Michele's place or staying with my cousins on the Kauffman side. I'm going to steal author Vila Gingerich's words here, because I can't think of a better way to describe my childhood memories of that scene:
"We stood in a sort of entry, the walls made of whitewashed concrete...a room bedecked with cobwebs and dust. In it stood a wheelbarrow, loaded with what looked like dark green sawdust...more sounds came from ahead, where a doorway wide enough to drive a small car through led into the main part of the barn. A rhythmic sucking sound echoed through the building. Scooping and banging rang out now and then. Beneath it all ran strangely muffled noises, as though a giant animal shuffled its feet and munched on lettuce...rows of cows filled the barn. Shiny pipes ran above their heads, and milking machines chuff-chuffed a rhythm...cows munched hay, their jaws moving steadily, feet shifting and stomping away flies..."

~ Annette (aka Anni): Mom occasionally purchased Chef Boy-ar-dee pizza kits, likely when they were sale items at Co-op or Simmon’s grocery store. It was great fun to help her make pizza out of a box for supper. We dumped the bag of dough mix into a stainless steel mixing bowl, added water, and stirred till the wad of pizza dough chased the fork in circles. After the dough was patted and coaxed out to the corners of a cookie sheet, we opened the small green tin can of tomato sauce with a manual can-opener—carefully!—and spread an ultra-thin layer of sauce on the dough. Next we snipped open the tiny packet of herbs, smelling predominantly of oregano, to sprinkle over the sauce. Mom had a skillet of fried hamburger waiting on the stove, perfect for snitching a mouthful of salty oniony goodness before scattering the meat chunks over the pizza. The last little packet contained parmesan cheese to sparsely coat the meat layer, and finally the pizza was ready to slide into the oven to bake just in time for a special supper.

~ Me: This past weekend, we visited Kayleen and Carlin in their home in Guys Mills, PA. One of the many fun things we did with them was to hike through a snowy forest in the Erie Wildlife Refuge. When I saw a "crop" of tiny little evergreens poking through the melty snow ground cover, I was immediately taken back to the woods at the Peninsula Rd White House where we lived for much of my growing up years. The woods had many fascinating features, such as the Princess Pines that popped up their petite selves in pretty patches on the forest floor.  

Perhaps reading these memories has stirred up some childhood memories of your own. Feel free to add them to this collection by including them in the comments section.

Grace Be Multiplied

It was a Sunday of lasts. For the last time, we carefully backed our van into its space in the row of vehicles parked against the farmer's field, got out and crunched over the icy parking lot, walked in under the car port and went through the front door into the familiar brick building we call "our church".

For the last time, we entered the spacious foyer, plunked our Bibles and purses on the brown folding table by the servery while we hung up our parkas at the coat rack, and said good morning to the friends we encountered as we made our way into the sanctuary.

We sat on the dark, curving, carved-on-the-end benches in the high-ceilinged room surrounded by tall windows of multi-colored stained glass panes and waited for the Sunday morning worship service to begin, for the last time.

After the three opening songs and the devotional by the Sunday School superintendent, we filed out of the main sanctuary past the church mailboxes (stuffed with CLP Sunday School papers and ministry newsletters) on our left and the beyond-the-arch rows of peopled chairs on our right. Or the other way around, depending on which aisle we used to exit the auditorium. We went down the steps to rooms in the basement and gathered on circles of black plastic chairs to have Sunday School together for the last time.

Following Sunday School, we regathered for the last time in the sanctuary for the closing remarks of the superintendent and the opening remarks of the devotional minister. We lifted the purple hymnals from the songbook racks and sang some more songs led by the song leader standing in his place between the wooden lectern and the table that holds the big Bible open to Psalm 23. We put our offering envelopes in the flat wicker baskets that the ushers passed among the pews, row by row.

Then we listened to the minister preach, followed the outline of his message on the overhead screen and took down notes on the back of the bulletin, the side of the paper unprinted with announcements and birthdays or anniversaries of church people. After the benediction, some closing remarks, and a closing song, we stood and turned around to talk with the people in the row behind us, for the last time.

Out in the lobby, we got through our somewhat tearful goodbyes and walked out the front door past the children peering out with their faces pressed against the window or chasing each other outside under the carport, got in the van, and drove home from church for the last time.

For the last time, that is, as Grace-ites. Tomorrow, on the first Sunday in March, we will be Oasis-ans. Or whatever you call people who belong to a church called Oasis. This Sunday will be a Sunday of firsts, please the Lord. It will be the first time to have a service in a different building with the new group of Grace people who have chosen to "start a second congregation" in downtown Kitchener.

One can't be a part of Grace Church for 16 years (exactly 16 - our family started going there on the first Sunday in March of 2003), and not stack up the positive experiences. One can't attend a last service in said church without having the stack of memories come tumbling forefront, bringing a heap of gratitude along with it. One can't look around at all the Grace-full brothers and sisters, and not shed tears at the pain of parting, of leaving behind this particular blend of people in this particular place.

At least, I couldn't.

Unobtrusively, I took a few pictures as I sat there. For memories' sake. A host of pictures flooded my mind besides. The snapshot of our first Sunday at Grace - arriving late because we thought the service started at 10:00 instead of 9:45, walking our shy and teary little girls to Sunday School and sitting with them in class for a bit, feeling rather lost myself among the small crowd (50 people, maybe?) after church but being so impressed with the welcoming friendliness of the Grace-ites.

I also saw a second snapshot - of a year later, when Ken and I officially became members of the Grace Family. I remember standing in front of the church that morning to give my personal testimony, struggling to find the right words to adequately convey my gratitude to God and to these people for the place of safety and healing they had become for me. I shared Psalm 107:29 & 30 to help clarify: "He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. ...so He bringeth them into their desired haven."

Other images clicked through my mind. They were mostly scenes of gathering - potlucks fantastic with a vast array of colors and tastes and traditions (anything from dorta pie to pad thai to egg cheese with maple syrup), lively Bible Study discussions in a circle of Wed. night go to meetin' people around the edges of the church foyer, "small groups" campfire times in someone's back yard, ladies clustered around someone in need and covering them with hand and heart in prayer, cheering teammates on in a relay at church camping, singing to (or with) elderly residents at places like Nithview or Forest Heights, oohing and aahing over the newest black-haired baby after church, playing Sardines Hide-n-Seek at ladies retreats, and showing up at church cleaning armed with rakes or buckets and rags.

We've done so much together in the years of Grace Family living. But now, it has come to this. We are dividing into two congregations. Last Sunday we had the last service together; tomorrow we plan to have the first Sunday with the two congregations having their own separate services. Someone said we should not think of it as a dividing, but as a multiplying.

I like that thought. Over the years that we attended this church, Grace kept multiplying. People from various types of churches, for various reasons, began trickling into the congregation. Eventually the trickle became a stream and then, in more recent years, a Mississippi. Hence the need for a second congregation to begin.

When it comes to the people of Grace, I choose to think of multiplication rather than division. Over the years, I've worshiped with these dear people. I've visited with them and shared meals with them in their homes, or in ours. I've laughed with these people, cried with these people, taken advice from them, learned from their example, pondered with them, gotten frustrated with them, disagreed with them, been amazed at them, and probably have taken them for granted far too often. I hope I have offered them grace; they have certainly given it to me. I pray for Grace to be with me always.

No matter where I attend church, may Grace be multiplied.

This Post's Quotable:

A staff member from a ministry team in northern Ontario, in describing some areas of financial need to supporters at a meeting, explained that one of their main furnaces to supply heat for the buildings on the grounds was in need of major repairs. "We have this funny little habit of naming the vehicles and large appliances around there," said the staff member. "So we had named this furnace 'Greta'. Now we call it 'Regret-a'."

This Post's Childhood Memory:

Speaking of church memories in this post reminded me of some impressions I have of Northwoods Mennonite Church, the church of my childhood. One thing I remember doing when I got bored during long sermons was to gaze at the strange pattern in the front panels of the wide wooden pulpit that the long-winded preacher stood behind. The darker wood shapes showed up in the lighter wood as the carcass of a butchered animal - perhaps a sheep. Ghastly, I know, but that's what was there in the pulpit. And once I saw it there, it seemed I couldn't see something else. Or I might place a paper over a hymnal and rub pencil lead over the place where the musical emblem was stamped into the front cover of the songbook. That made a more pleasing picture. Or I might lean my head up against Mom's arm and try to take a nap. I say "try to", because after I was a certain age she'd more than likely shrug me off because I was too old to be sleeping in church!