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| Aunt Dorcas likes to talk about things she knows. |
I've been surprised at how many questions I get about dating and marriage. That suits me fine, as I have plenty of things to say on these subjects, based on up-close observations. Readers' conclusions may differ, but let's agree that we all need to think about what life is like for singles in the Christian/Mennonite world.
--Aunt Dorcas
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Dear Aunt Dorcas,
Why is online dating looked on as so dangerous? If a lady meets a guy at a singles retreat and they start dating, it’s acceptable. If they meet at church, work, or social gatherings, it’s okay. No one raises eyebrows or labels her as desperate. But as soon as she "met him online on Menno Meet or Christian Mingle," the eyebrows go up, and how terrible that is....and she’s whispered about in low tones.
How is meeting someone online any different from the other scenarios I suggested? Please enlighten me. Thank you!
--A Believer
Dear Believer,
Every time and culture has its rules about What Must Not Be Spoken. When my sisters and I would freely discuss at the supper table which ladies in church were pregnant, our parents would tell us how such things were never spoken out loud in their Amish youth. I think they were glad we were a bit more liberated, but they always found it hard to actually form words about Such Things. Mom forced herself to tell us about our changing bodies when the time came, but she used awkward terms and was obviously embarrassed.
Today’s under-30s discuss periods and bras with a casual frankness that makes me cringe.
In 1994, we moved into an old house that was being vacated by a lovely old couple named Bud and Mary who had lived there for 48 years. Mary used to call me up for long conversations. She told how a relative had died of cancer. “Well, back then no one said ‘cancer.’ You didn’t say that out loud. People would say it in other ways, like they ‘had a growth.’”
I thought, surely you’re not serious.
We consider ourselves so liberated from those outdated rules, but we modern folks have our own rules about What Must Not Be Spoken.
You can’t admit that you long for marriage and children. You don’t dare say out loud that you’re available and looking. You’ll be mocked if you ask for help getting matched up.
This results in awkward conversations, weird pretending, contorted decision-making, and lots of silent grieving.
People go to Bible school to “make friends” and “draw closer to God.” They go to widows & widowers retreats at Penn Valley for “encouragement” and “spiritual input.” They attend lots of weddings because oh, well, they just like to travel and it’s important to be there for your friends.
If anyone suspects that their motives aren’t quite what they say, and they might be going to meet potential spouses in addition to the spoken reasons, the long-married folks at church nudge and chuckle. “Well, Joe is off on another missionary journey. Heh heh heh. Poor guy.”
Signing in on a dating app means you can’t couch your motives in vague high-sounding terms. You can’t pretend. You want a boyfriend/girlfriend and hopefully a husband/wife.
Gasp. God forbid. The very act of getting on MennoMeet is Saying The Unspoken Out Loud.
I will grant that back in the early days of the Internet you never heard anything good come out of meeting an online character in person. It was the Wild West, and we were all suspicious of it.
However, those days are long gone. Most of us have learned what and who and which are legitimate. We meet strangers to buy or sell canning jars. My daughter tutors physics students online and would meet them in person if Covid allowed. I’ve connected at book signings with women I had only known online.
I think the stigma against meeting someone on Christian Mingle or Menno Meet is not because it’s online. It’s because you didn’t use a ruse, like Bible school or Penn Valley, to make it happen.
Let me contrast that with a story my daughter Amy told. When she lived in Thailand, she often attended a Thai church. A 30-something gentleman would always request prayer for himself, that he could find a wife.
Now imagine the giggles among both grandmas and teenagers if someone did that in your local prayer meeting.
But no one giggled at the Thai church. It was treated like any other need you might pray for, like a job or a new apartment.
God eventually answered his and their prayers with a sweet little wife.
From Isaac to Joseph to Moses to Ruth and on and on, the Bible is full of people who found a spouse in the most practical ways, from the resources at hand, usually facilitated by family members, without any snickering or pretending.
How about we all work to change the culture in this regard? Marriage is a legitimate desire. We all ought to be able to say that out loud and use the available resources to make it happen.
Maybe our children will tell their grandchildren about all the codes and contortions we used about finding a spouse, and the kids will think, surely you're not serious.
--Aunt Dorcas
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Dear Aunt Dorcas,
In our culture, widows typically get considerable support. They are affirmed in their sorrow. And it is a deep sorrow. If they have young children that is an added burden. If they have children, however, they have hope of someone taking care of them when they are old. People visit them.... much more so than never-married singles. Even Scripture teaches that we should visit the widows. So widows are affirmed in their sorrow for what was, should singles be affirmed in their wistfulness about what could have been?
And when a couple sets up housekeeping, they generally get gifts from a bridal
shower, a wedding, and a grocery shower. And I'm not saying that we should
change that. But when singles set up housekeeping someone might do a
housewarming for them.
Is it fair?
How should never-married singles feel about this?
--Lisa
Dear Lisa,
Never-married singles should feel exactly how they feel. If they’re happy and content, great. If they are grieving, the grief is legitimate. If they feel they are treated unfairly, they're allowed to feel exactly that.
Your question very much ties in with the previous one. The things our culture doesn’t allow us to say out loud means that singles are seldom, as you put it, affirmed in their sorrow.
When a nephew and his wife lost a baby at birth, the grief was intense. However, one woman had the insight to say to me, “We don’t think about the sorrow of those who can’t have babies, like “Alice” who is infertile or your daughters who are single.”
It meant the world to me to have that unspoken sorrow affirmed.
The conservative Anabaptist culture values marriage and children, as we should. But sometimes we don’t know what to do with never-married singles, so we pretend they will be fine if we just ignore them. So they struggle financially, and no one comes to repair their sagging eavestroughs. We assume they are ok emotionally because it’s too awkward to have a conversation about it.
We need to acknowledge the needs and realities of singles, in addition to taking care of widows and orphans. It’s not either-or.
Widows are allowed to post their grief on Facebook, and we all reply with hug emojis and comforting Bible-verse memes.
Of course the losses of the never-married are different, but what if they were allowed to post what they felt in honest words, and we all replied with affirmation?
I suggest we change the rules about What Must Not Be Spoken, and we have the awkward but necessary conversations with single people about what they feel and need.
If Mom could overcome her past enough to tell her daughters about "menstruation," we liberated people can ask the singles at church the hard questions.
That's what I think.
--Aunt Dorcas
Ellie had turned into
a block of ice. Her brain was numb and her mouth frozen into a little O, so she
couldn’t say a word of protest. She
could hardly even breathe.
Nancy paused only
a second longer before whirling around. “Ok, the rest of you pair off and let’s
get started. Ice and water from the table over there. Remember, this is for the
prison ministry. You’re doing this for Jesus, so be friendly and look happy.
Guys, carry. Girls, serve.”
More than a dozen couples
found each other, checked Nancy’s clipboard for the tables they were to serve,
and shyly moved toward the table full of pitchers. Janet, who had teamed up
with Sam, caught Ellie’s eye and telegraphed her shock and sympathy. Beth and
Bev in their beautiful shimmery dresses glided toward the table with their
partners.
Josiah’s treachery
meant that Kaylene Mullet was fifth in line, so she and Bryant were going to
serve together, just like in her dream. Unbelievable.
Josiah rose above
her, too close, grinning. Ellie refused to look at him, turning an ice-cold
shoulder before setting a pitcher of water on the tray. This beautiful evening
was destroyed. She recalled a passage from Zephaniah. “. . . a day of distress
and anguish, a day of trouble and ruin…”
If I look
miserable, he wins. The thought thawed her face enough that she was able to
stretch her mouth into a half smile as she poured water into glasses.
“Water for you,
Frieda?”
“What a pretty
dress, Pauline. Is it new?”
All the while,
Josiah was at her elbow, much too close, disturbing, grinning, arrogant.
Gospel music
radiated from the stage, and smiling Anabaptists of every type and description filled
the gym and found their seats. While the servers waited near the kitchen, the
director of the prison ministry took the stage to welcome everyone and pray a
blessing on the food.
A buzz of
conversation rose after the Amen. One by one, the guests left their tables to
file along the food tables and fill their plates with barbecued chicken, mashed
potatoes, and all the sides—buttered green beans, homemade dinner rolls, fruity
jello, and Caesar salad.
Back at the
tables, they devoured their dinners and projected their voices above the loud
music.
“I heard he bought
out the James Miller warehouse and hired his nephew to run it.”
“We just moved to
that little house on Pickers Road where Martin and June used to live.”
“My sister Dawn is
the one over there in the blue dress, with the baby.”
“We need to refill
waters,” Ellie said, trying not to look at Josiah or start crying. Slowly, they
eased around their tables, squeezing through the narrow spaces between folding
chairs and the robust farmers who filled them. When they rounded the table
where Ellie’s parents sat, her mother’s eyes signaled a hundred questions, but
all she whispered was, “Ellie, listen, if you get a chance, can you see if
they’ve used the pies I sent? I really want to take them to the potluck
tomorrow if they don’t get eaten up tonight.”
Ellie nodded.
“I’ll check. Oh! And Bryant’s mom in the kitchen said to say hello.” She turned
to pick up another pitcher so her mother wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes at
the mention of Bryant.
At last they finished
serving water. Ellie mentally reviewed the remaining tasks. Pie. Coffee.
Refills. You can do this, she told herself. Josiah followed as she stepped to
the drink table for a glass of water for herself and glanced around. To her
left, Anita, Nancy’s sister, nudged two small plates with slices of cherry pie
onto a long table already crowded with what looked like hundreds of similar plates.
Anita glanced up, saw Ellie watching, and smiled. “This is way more pies than
we’ll need, but I like everyone to have lots of kinds to choose from.”
Ellie took a long
drink. Over in the corner, Sam, Janet, and the twins and their partners laughed
together. Sam was telling a story, it looked like. Sierra was at the food
table, scraping out one huge bowl of Caesar salad that her mom held upright
into another one still on the table. Ellie kept looking around, wanting and not
wanting to see what she saw next: Bryant and Kaylene off by themselves, sipping
coffee and deep in conversation. She choked on the water and coughed hard.
If she didn’t find
something to do, she would break into pieces. Maybe this was a good time to see
if her mom’s pies were in the refrigerator.
“Hey, wanna take dessert
around?” Josiah spoke too close to her ear.
Ellie jerked away.
“Give me a minute, ok? I need to check on something for my mom.” She turned
toward the kitchen, desperate for a bit of time alone.
Josiah followed
close behind.
Ellie slipped past
the dishwasher hissing steam, and Nancy spraying the last bits of jello out of
a large glass bowl. Turning left, she found the big refrigerators.
One shelf of pies
remained inside—a few anonymous pies with whipped cream heaped on top, one
shoo-fly, and yes, there was her mother berry pie, clear in the back. Impulsively, she opened the next cooler. The
apple pie sat there among bottles of salad dressing. Bryant must have put it in
the wrong fridge. Weird. Well, maybe the first one was already full.
Why not do Mom a
favor? She closed the refrigerator door and moved down the row of coolers. Inside
the last door, the shelves held random bottles of ketchup and half-used Sweet
Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce, along with boxes of butter and jam packets. And
plenty of extra room.
She turned and
nearly crashed into Josiah. “You need help?” he said.
“No.”
“Whatcha doing? We
need to go give ‘em dessert.” He blocked her path.
“Do you mind?” She
waved him aside.
He shuffled out of
the way, and Ellie pulled the berry pie out of the first refrigerator and,
carefully, with one hand, the apple pie out of the second. She opened the last
refrigerator with one finger and set the two pies inside, way in the back,
placing a box of Smucker’s grape jelly packets in front of them.
“Whadja do that
for?”
“Who wants to
know?”
“You can’t just go
hidin’ pies. I’m gonna tell Nancy.”
Ellie rolled her
eyes. “I’m saving them for my mom, ok? She needs them for the potluck tomorrow,
and Anita said they’ve already got enough pies for tonight. Let’s go.”
With Josiah hovering
as always, Ellie approached the table where Anita held a slice of banana cream
pie as though a space on the table would magically open up for it. Anita smiled.
“Are you ready to serve dessert? Here.” She set the banana cream plate on the
tray and handed it to Josiah. “You can get enough plates on here for one table.”
Ellie pushed
herself through the motions. Smile at the guest, ask what kind they wanted,
choose the piece of pie, set it in front of them. Refill the tray. Do it all
again. Would this torturous evening ever end? Finally, the last table was
served and Ellie handed the tray back to Anita.
“Time for coffee,”
she snapped over her shoulder.
The music team sang
“I was in sin’s prison” from the stage, so loudly it was hard to hear anything
else. Josiah cranked the dispenser handle on the percolator and sloshed coffee
into three insulated pitchers like he was filling a water trough for his
calves. He slapped the lids on top without screwing them down and set the
carafes on his tray, then crammed the extra spaces with coffee mugs and looked
at Ellie. “You ready?”
“I guess.”
“Let’s get this
done. I’m gettin’ hungry.”
Ellie took a deep
breath.
“Coffee, James?
Decaf or regular?”
“You’re welcome.”
Josiah held the
tray chest-high, an inconvenient height for Ellie, who had to reach up for the
mugs and even higher for the carafe handles. He didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Bertha?”
“Coffee, Jonathan?”
“No, sorry, we
don’t have tea.”
“Dad, I know you
want coffee. Here you go.”
“Ellie, you look
like you know what you’re doing!”
“Thanks, Dad!”
She tightened the
lid on the decaf carafe and poured a cupful. She set it in from of her mom and
whispered, “Your pies are still there. I kind of hid them!”
They snickered
together.
Josiah sighed
loudly. “Hurry up,” he said, his voice sounding loud as the music abruptly stopped.
“I wanna go eat.” Josiah lifted the tray right over Jonathan Gingerich’s head
as he squeezed between him and Wilbur Headings in the chair behind him. Ellie
reached for the last full carafe on the tray just as Josiah turned impatiently
to avoid bumping Jonathan’s wife, Betsy, and hit his elbow on Ellie’s dad
instead. Ellie grabbed frantically for the handle but couldn’t reach it in
time, and Josiah instinctively shoved the tray up and away from himself, trying
to regain his balance. The carafe tilted forward, the lid fell off, and hot
coffee splashed down the front of Ellie’s white sweater and dress and onto the
floor as the two empty carafes and four mugs fell off the sides of the tray and
crashed to the floor.
Gasping, Ellie
grabbed the fabric at her waist and pulled the hot wetness away from her skin.
Chairs scooted back and clanked into others, someone put their arm around her,
and her dad knocked heads with Jonathan as they reached across the table to
snatch up everyone’s napkins. “Here, Ellie, step back! Are you ok? Watch it
there, Josiah! Ellie, are you sure you’re not burned?”
Everyone was
watching. Even the musicians onstage seemed to have delayed their next song to
see what was going on.
Terrible. Just
terrible. A day of trouble and ruin, a day of darkness and gloom. This
beautiful evening had turned out to be the worst of her whole life.
“You finish
serving coffee. It’s only that table and the next one,” Ellie hissed at Josiah,
pointing to her parents’ table and one more, nearer to the stage. She longed to
sprint to the restroom and burst into tears. Instead, she stepped carefully between
the crowded tables, then walked briskly around the perimeter of the gym, head
held high, the wet dress flapping on her legs, until she reached the exit. In
the restroom, she could see proper black shoes and black nylons in two of the
stalls, so she forced back the tears and grabbed a handful of paper towels. She
was still squeezing the coffee out of her dress when Frieda Yoder came out of
the first stall, displaying her scary minister’s wife smile, with lots of sharp
teeth. “Oh hel-LO, Ellie! How is your evening going?”
“Fine.” She lifted
her hem to squeeze out the brown drips among the white roses.
Frieda turned on
the hot water. “Did I see you serving with one of the Weiler boys?”
Ellie threw the
paper towel in the trash and fled.
As Ellie slipped
into the gym, all four hundred contented Mennonites had turned their backs to
her and their attention to the stage. Mark Gerig, head of the Northwest Prison
Ministry Team, introduced Dean Rea, a short, wiry ex-convict who, Mark
explained, had gone through the ministry’s Bible study courses while at the
state penitentiary in Salem.
No one was serving
coffee, which meant it was probably time for the servers to eat. Ellie saw Josiah
set three carafes and the tray on the coffee table and jog toward the kitchen. Janet
and Bryant stood at the pie table, filling trays with plates of pie for the
servers to enjoy. Bryant nodded at Ellie without really looking at her. “How’s
it goin’?” He turned back to Janet. “Have you read the Chronicles of Narnia? If
you haven’t, you should.”
Janet nodded
toward the kitchen and gave Ellie a look that said, “We’ll talk in there.” Ellie
held the kitchen door open for Bryant and Janet, and all the servers gathered
in a tight group inside the kitchen.
Of course, Nancy
had to give them a little speech about what an amazing job they had done and
how pleased Jesus and all the guests had to be, but no one more so than Nancy.
They were just so efficient, she couldn’t believe it. “And hungry, no doubt,”
she added. “Help yourself to the food on the counter, and take your plates into
the room next door.”
At last, Ellie and
Janet were together, huddled at a table away from everyone else, their plates
of food ignored.
“Ellie! Are you
okay?? Josiah…! I could not believe what he did. It was so awful!”
At last the ice
inside melted. Ellie’s head filled with hot tears that leaked out of her eyes.
She dabbed her nose with a napkin.
“And dumping
coffee on your dress! What a jerk!”
Ellie turned her
head to hide her face from the rest of the group as more tears streamed down
her cheeks.
“Oh, Janet, it was
horrible.” Ellie shivered, both from the memory and from the dress, cold and
wet against her legs.
Sierra and one of
her Mayfield friends appeared beside Janet, holding heaping plates. “May we
join you?” Without waiting for an answer, they pulled out folding chairs and
sat down. Sierra put her hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “I saw what happened to you.
I am so sorry. Are you all right?”
Ellie nodded with
a dawning awareness that the two coolest Mayfield girls were leaning toward
her, radiating warmth and sympathy. Not only that, but a chic little Beachy
girl and two German Baptists had crowded around their table as well, with Bethany
and Beverly’s concerned faces behind them. They were all worried about her.
Her! Ellie! The conservative girl in the old-ladyish dress!
Ellie squeezed out
a few more tears and the blonde Beachy girl handed her a tissue. Janet gave her
a sympathetic side hug. Ellie took a sip of water and, in low tones so the guys
across the room couldn’t hear, told her rapt audience the whole story—not the
part about planning to serve with Bryant, of course, but all the rest—from the
unfortunate dress to Josiah’s treachery to the spilled coffee.
“Oh, but I love
your dress!” Bethany said, and Beverly nodded. “It looks amazing on you.”
“Oh my word. What
a creep! Telling everybody you’re serving together! I can’t believe him! So
annoying!” Sierra spoke for them all, and all the girls looked across the room
and glared at Josiah, who was having a loud conversation about football with
the guys at his table. "Nah, the Beavers are gonna wipe the floor with them!"
“Are you sure you
didn’t get burned from the coffee?” Janet patted her arm. “I can’t believe you
didn’t start crying. I would have just lost it right there. You are so brave!”
Ellie smiled.
Gradually, the
conversation moved on to other things. Ellie, suddenly hungry, dug into her barbecued
chicken and mashed potatoes. How could her horrible evening have so quickly
turned into this cozy scene of half a dozen of the most popular Mennonite girls
in the valley clustered around her, wanting to hear her story?
Maybe it was the
best night of her life after all.
A loud laugh
caught her attention. She caught the word “pie” and something that sounded like “party.” Josiah and his
friends leaned back and guffawed. Then they all turned and looked at Ellie.
Caring for Paul since his fall has been an intense education, and in a short time I've become an expert at subjects I barely knew existed before.
Of course I knew about visiting the sick, but in three months I've gone from a 10th grade level to a Ph.D.
Some of us know we should visit the unfortunate, but we're never quite sure how to go about it. So I'm going to share a few how-to's. Let's remember, though, that it's like making a pan of brownies. The important thing is to do it. Just show up. Even if you mess up an ingredient or two, it will still taste really good.
1. Remember that you are dealing with fragile people. Tread a bit softly, go gently, speak carefully. The sick person is hurting, the caregivers are stretched to their limits, and the family members are dealing with lives turned upside down and loved ones not being quite who they used to be.
2. Phone ahead. Caregiving takes a lot of time. Hospitals have specific expectations. Call first. No one wants a visitor in the middle of transferring to the restroom with their hospital gown flapping in the breeze.
3. Ask about restrictions. Should you wear a mask? Is it ok to hug? What are the best times to visit? How many visitors can come at one time?
4. Keep it brief. Showing up is what matters, not the length of the visit.
5. Having said that, read the cues and listen well. Patients sometimes love to recount every detail of the injury or sickness. Listening to all the gory details is a great way to serve and love, even if it takes an hour. Some of you heard more details of Paul's accident than you ever asked for. It was healing for him to talk about it. Bless you for listening.
6. Make it about them. Ask questions, listen, nod. This isn't the time to spout about the election or how the car repair guy tried to talk you into a new alternator. People who are barely surviving a crisis have forgotten that elections even exist, and they couldn't care less about alternators. Remember, they are emotionally fragile and physically exhausted. You are the strong person in this story. Handle them with care. They don't have the strength to take care of you, or to dredge up sympathy about car repairs.
7. Don't delay a visit just because you don't have food or flowers to bring. Your presence is enough. Food and flowers are awfully nice, though, if you want to bring them, even if it's a bag of oranges you pick up at the grocery store on your way over, or handpicked wildflowers in a coffee mug. In fact, anything you give will be deep with meaning. CD's to listen to. A card from a child. Books. A snuggly blanket. Anything. Most of all, though, your presence, showing up. The caregiver will cry. It will mean that much.
8. Mentioning your own medical experience is a bit of a gamble. Sometimes it's encouraging, such as when my friend Hope told us how she survived a broken neck and, for the first time, we compared stories with someone who truly understood. However, if you're talking with someone who just broke 15 bones and is trussed up in casts and braces from head to hips, you might not want to elaborate on the time you hit your head on the swing and needed five stitches. Just saying.
9. Leave your answers at home. You might "know" all about what God is trying to teach them or how he's going to redeem this situation. You have a deep sense that this is God's discipline to keep them from a bad decision. You had a prophetic sense that this would happen. Keep this information to yourself for now. The Holy Spirit is good at doling out information in the right doses at the right time. The sick person needs you to show up, listen, nod, and read the 23rd Psalm.
What if you have the answers on which supplements the patient should be taking? Whether it's Vitamin D, oregano oil, or Plexus, you're convinced it would help them heal. The best option is to give them your specific potion as a gift. A patient or caregiver in crisis mode can't make good decisions about purchasing supplements and is probably worried about finances. Suggesting they buy your product at this time is in poor taste. If you really believe it would help, give them a bottle and instructions, and let them decide if they want to take it or not. If it works wonders, they'll be back for more, and they'll be willing to pay.
10. Believe that your presence matters. You might think you're not a relative or pastor but only a mom stopping by for a minute while the kids wait in the car, or a farmer parking a seed truck beside the road and coming in for a visit. Those brief visits mean more than you'll ever know. What you have to offer is valuable and meaningful. Just show up.
Don't ever let the fear of doing it wrong keep you from visiting the sick. These are only suggestions to make a good experience even better. I'm sure that Paul's many visitors will never know how much their presence meant to all of us, and especially to him.
Matthew 25:34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
Quote of the Day:
"We pray for the aged, the sick and the afflicted, all those who need thy prayers."
--Alvin H., a minister in my childhood. We got annoyed at the lack of logic in "those who need thy prayers," but we did learn to think of the aged, sick, and afflicted.
Ellie’s 17-year-old brother Sam, crisp and handsome in his black slacks and white button-down shirt, appeared in the kitchen at 4:30. Ellie followed. Despite the garish white roses, she felt slim and elegant in the new dress, the fitted white sweater, and the messy bun, low on the back of her head, with two wisps of hair deliberately dangling around her face. She had decided not to wear a scarf—it might be too much for her minimalist look.
“You both look so nice!” Mom looked them up and down. “Ellie, that dress fits you perfectly. But are you sure your covering is going to be ok? It looks like it’s hanging on for dear life. I don’t know, with you walking around serving tonight. Can’t you put your bun up a little higher? Or add a pin on top?”
“I don’t have time. It’ll be fine, Mom. I’ve played volleyball like this.”
“Well, ok then. Here, don’t forget the pies.” Mom placed an apple pie in Sam’s hands and a berry pie in Ellie’s, their flavors designated by delicate fruit shapes cut out and artfully re-arranged on the perfectly browned top crusts. “Oh, wait!” She grabbed a Sharpie and scribbled her name on the bottoms of the pie tins as Sam and Ellie held them high in the air.
“Ok, have fun! See you tonight!”
Half an hour later, Sam pulled into the vast parking lot at Mayfield Mennonite. He got out, slammed his door, walked around the car, and opened the door behind Ellie while she patted her hair and repinned her covering. Sam picked up the berry pie out of the back seat. “See ya,” he said, and headed for the gym. Ellie hooked her purse over her shoulder, checked her teeth in the mirror on the visor, then eased out of the car. She reached into the back door that Sam had left open, picked up the apple pie, shut the door with her foot, and followed Sam, careful not to scuff her pumps on the gravel.
She didn’t see Bryant, but other young people were walking toward the doors. The laughing girls with flowing dresses and coverings tied under their chins—those had to be German Baptists. Imagine not only having strings but tying them tight! Ellie shuddered. The girls with tiny lace doilies for coverings who wore black skirts that barely reached their knees—they had to be Mayfield girls. One, Ellie recalled from attending previous Gospel Tidings banquets with her parents, was Sierra, daughter of Nancy who was always in charge of the kitchen.
Sierra held the door open for her friends, then waited for Ellie as well. “Hi! You must be serving too! Oh what a cute pie!” She grinned, displaying a beautiful smile and dimpled cheeks.
“Yes. Apple. Thanks! Hi!” Ellie managed breathlessly. Oh what a stupid thing to say. “I mean, Hi. Yes I’m serving. And the pie is. . .” But Sierra was already running past her to catch up with her friends, the flounce on her knit skirt fluttering.
Holding the pie with two hands, Ellie walked along the wide hallway until she reached the huge gymnasium. Under a large banner that welcomed everyone to the annual Gospel Tidings Prison Ministry banquet, two women in crisp sage-green dresses set up a registration table. They smiled at Ellie as she walked by. She smiled back. Are they Beachy Amish? Oh, maybe from the new church in Roseburg that Dad was talking about. So plain and proper. Aproned moms carrying boxes of greenery glided among the round tables that filled the room, the music team tuned guitars on the stage, and oniony smells drifted from the kitchen on the north end of the gym.
Where was Sam, where was Janet, and what was to be done with this pie? Ellie sidled to the kitchen door and was nearly knocked over by a large woman carrying a coffee percolator. “Sorry!” they both said, and the woman rushed on.
Should she enter the kitchen? She peeked inside. It looked like every counter was covered with large bowls of salad and enamel roasters. She didn’t belong there.
“Um. Ellie?” She turned. The young man was tall and gangly, all elbows and acne, with spiky black hair and dark eyes. One of the Weiler boys, Ellie decided, who lived south of Halsey and always drove around in old Ford pickup trucks with dirt bikes or goats in the back.
“Hi?” she managed.
The young man extended a large hand with grime in all the creases. “I’m Josiah Weiler. I was at Bible Memory Camp with you a couple times.” He grinned. “Remember?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Ellie maneuvered the pie to her left hand and cautiously shook his hand, recalling at least three Weiler boys at camp who all looked the same and thought it was funny to slap roasted marshmallows in each other’s hair. They had attended Mayfield Mennonite back then, but didn’t they start their own house church later? Something like that. She couldn’t recall.
Josiah cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was wondering if you’d like to serve with me tonight. I don’t know too many of the girls and I thought it might be, you know, fun.”
Was he out of his mind?
Ellie stared at the silver snap at her eye level on his white Western shirt and mumbled, “Actually, that’s not going to work. I have. . . I mean. . . yeah, thanks, but no.” She forced herself to look at him and smile.
“All right.” Josiah looked surprisingly cheerful as he walked away.
Wait till she told Janet about this. Eww! Creepy! The nerve of him!
“Hey! What’s up?”
Ellie nearly dropped the pie. Bryant! Handsome as a movie star in his white shirt and black jeans, hair a bit longer and curlier than last May at Conrad and Rhonda’s wedding, eyes as blue as ever.
Of all the moments for her to be standing there holding a pie like a complete idiot. Would he save the day and ask her to serve with him? Please please please?
“May I? I think the desserts go in the cooler.” Bryant whisked the pie out of her hands and strode into that noisy, steaming kitchen like he belonged there. Ellie followed. He walked up behind a woman chopping a head of lettuce with a huge knife and nudged her in the back with his elbow. “Mom? Pies go in the refrigerator, right?”
The woman turned and smiled. “Yes. Right hand door of the first cooler, wherever you can find room.” She gestured with the knife and Bryant took a step back.
“Watch it, Mom!”
They both laughed.
Ellie thought, Oh my word. Oh my worrrrrd. He is amazing. He has such a nice mom. Too too cool. I can’t stand it.
“Are you a Troyer?” Bryant’s mom asked.
Ellie nodded.
“You look so much like your mom. Will she be here tonight?”
“Yeah, she and Dad are coming.”
“Well, tell her I said to stop in the kitchen and say hi.” She turned back to chopping lettuce. “I love your dress, by the way. Such a pretty floral.”
Bryant’s mom liked her dress! Maybe everything was going to be ok.
Bryant rejoined her and led the way toward a group of about thirty young people, all dressed in black and white, clustered near the stage. Ellie desperately wanted to say something impressive, charming, and sweet. In the whirl of Josiah’s unwelcome invitation and Bryant showing up beside her, in the flesh, not a word came to mind.
Ellie caught a glimpse of Sam over by the wall and Janet in a group of girls, laughing. The Pine Grove and Mayfield girls all wore black skirts and white blouses, of course. Thank goodness there were also a few Beachy Amish in cape dresses. In fact, they had the look Ellie had hoped for—solid black dresses and white sweaters. Instead, here she was in this old-ladyish flower print. At least Bryant’s mom had liked it, plus she didn’t have to have strings on her covering. Ellie straightened her back, took a deep breath, and followed Bryant around the tables and across the gym to join the others.
Janet gave her a quick hug and whispered, “Ellie! What is going on?” She flicked her eyes toward Bryant and raised her eyebrows.
“I’ll tell you later,” Ellie whispered back. “And oh my word, did you see what Josiah Weiler did?”
“No. What happened?”
Ellie glanced around and saw a woman with her hair in a puffy gray bun on top of her head march out of the kitchen with a notebook in one hand. “I’ll tell you later.”
The woman stood beside Sam and Bryant and yanked a pencil out from under the black lace doily that covered her bun. “Hello everyone. I’m Nancy. How many of you have served here before?”
Three quarters of the group raised their hands.
“All right. I’ll explain for you first-timers. We team you up in twos, a guy and girl on each team. Each table has a number. I’ll tell you which tables are yours, and you’ll go around pouring ice water first while people are getting seated. Guys carry trays and girls pour. Then all the guests leave their tables and go through the food line, and after everyone gets their food, you’ll go around with refills of water.”
Ellie nodded.
“When that’s all done, the first people will need dessert. You fill trays with pieces of pie from that table over there, where Anita is setting up”—she gestured her pencil toward the northwest—"and offer it to everyone. Once again, guys carry trays and girls talk to people and set the plates of pie on the table.”
So much to remember! Ellie glanced at Bryant to see if he was listening. He was, unlike Josiah who was elbowing his brother Haggai and laughing. What a jerk.
The singing group onstage burst out in the first verse of I’ll Fly Away. Nancy raised her voice. “After that, you go around with coffee. You fill the carafes at the table over there.” She gestured to a table with two huge black percolators against the west wall. “Guys carry; girls serve. You ask if they want regular or decaf and make sure there’s cream and sugar on the table. Got it?”
That didn’t sound so hard. She and Bryant would make an amazing team, smooth and efficient. People would murmur to each other how nice they looked together. It was going to be the most amazing evening of her life.
The noise in the gym had increased as Anabaptists from all over the Willamette Valley and beyond drifted in and found their seats. It was getting hard to hear what Nancy was saying.
Nancy raised the pencil high and pointed toward the stage. “This is how we pair up. Guys line up here; girls line up over here. Then the first guy is with the first girl, and so on down the line.”
The group shuffled and rearranged themselves like sheep, rounded up and about to be loaded on a truck, then formed two uncertain lines. Ellie shot a knowing look at Janet, who lifted her hand like she was saying hi and wiggled her fingers. Five. Ellie counted quickly and stepped between Sierra and Kaylene Mullet.
She was fifth in line! Her heart pounded as she sneaked a peek at the guys’ row. Was God smiling on her for real? Oh my goodness. Bryant was fifth as well.
She exhaled. Yessss! Janet winked at her from down the row of girls.
Nancy stood between the two rows, inserted the pencil back into her bun, and snapped her fingers. “I forgot! Before we pair off, I need to know: Did any of you arrange ahead of time to serve together?”
Tim and Robin, who were dating and practically engaged, raised their hands. So did Randy and Shelley, slowly, and everyone snickered. So the rumors were true.
Josiah Weiler raised his hand.
Nancy’s eyebrows went up.
Ellie thought, My goodness. Who did he pick on after he talked to me?
“Josiah! You have a partner already?” Nancy looked around. “Is she here?”
Josiah grinned. “It’s Ellie.” He pointed a bony finger right at her, and twenty-nine servers turned and stared in astonishment.
 |
| Aunt Dorcas borrowed her son's medical scissors to take 31 stitches out of her husband's head. Today she snips your questions apart. |
I don't have a lot of advice, because, as I stated in my
post, it took a bad accident to really clarify what I wanted to do and what I
didn’t. However, before that I had started seeing that I took on duties because people had placed them on me without ever asking my permission. There
were things I did because others thought that my role as pastor’s wife,
mom, writer, family member, or whatever, required it. Once I saw the unfairness of that, it was
easier to start saying No.
A good place to begin is to monitor your reaction. If you do it but feel
resentful, trace that back as far as you can. Resentment means you're saying
Yes because you don't feel that No is an option. Why do you feel you can’t say
No? The best Yes is one that’s freely given.
--Aunt Dorcas
***
Dear Aunt Dorcas,
I'm not good at small talk when meeting
new people. What conversation starters do you suggest other than weather and
other cliche topics?
--Mrs. Pepper
Dear Mrs. Pepper,
I shared this question with my daughters.
Jenny passionately advocated that the weather is a perfectly fine topic of
conversation. It’s a connection and a shared experience! It’s something you
have in common with everyone around you! Don’t denigrate the weather!
All right then.
I told them about the time I was in
Minnesota in January of 2013. My brother and I went out for breakfast at a
local truck stop to talk about Mom and Dad. It was about 20 below zero outside,
and snowy. As we ate, these big hairy Minnesota guys in Sorel boots and parkas
would come in the front door of the café, puffing clouds of mist with
every breath, and stomp the snow off their boots with a relish and delight
that’s unique to Minnesota people in severe cold. Then they’d walk past our
booth with their parka and insulated gloves making swishing sounds, and they’d
nod at us and murmur, “Cold out dere.”
Weather is definitely connection,
especially if you live in Minnesota.
But let’s say you live in milder climes
and there’s not much to say.
Everyone has a story to tell. I find that
if you look like you want to hear it, people will probably tell it to you, in
great detail and at times for far longer than you might wish. All you have to do is keep
nodding and saying “Uh-huh.”
Except you can get in trouble doing this,
because every so often I’m nodding and repeating Uh-huh, meaning “I hear you.
Yes, I hear that too. I am tracking your narrative,” and suddenly they’re
saying, “And I learned through my chakra from Swami Nanda that we are all One
with the earth’s energy and we become Light and Being with the unique vibration
of our celestial identity.”
I don’t always put the brakes on my nod in
time. Or I nod, meaning, Ok, I am listening to you, and my daughters say I come
across like I actually agree.
I think Jesus understands.
Amy said, “Sometimes you already know
something about the person you're talking to. You should ask about that. Maybe something you saw on
social media. It means a lot when people remember specifics, like maybe your
car broke down or you took a trip to Idaho.”
“Some people say, ‘How is your dad doing?’
and I don’t know how to answer, because I don’t know what they already know.
But others will say, ‘Is your dad still in a neck brace?’ or ‘Has he tried
driving again?’ and that’s easier to answer.”
When I’m sitting beside someone on a
plane, I like to say, “Are you heading home?” I understand TCK’s don’t like
this question, but most other people do. Either they’re happy to say, yes,
they’re going home, or they’ll tell you that no, they’re going to visit the
grandkids or attend a conference. Then you have lots of opportunity for further
conversation about grandkids and work, assuming that you are reading the vibes
correctly that they actually feel like talking.
People like to talk about their injuries,
hobbies, children, grandchildren, gardens, dogs, memories, bargains, and
travels.
Several years ago, Jenny had some of her
physics-class friends here to study, and one of them, a young man I had
pre-judged because he had a topknot, asked me what I’ve been reading lately. He
immediately became my friend for life. What a wonderful question to ask someone,
especially your friend’s old-fashioned mom. He can topknot all he wants.
My sister Margaret Koehn is the world’s leading
expert at conversation starters, so I asked her how she’d answer Mrs. Pepper's question.
She says:
It is my firm belief that we can do so much better than we do when it comes to
small talk. It all comes down to how unselfish do I want to be? How much do I even
want to enter into the other person's life and go deeper and truly feel for
them and look them in the eyes and CARE? It’s easy to do the fast, easy
version...Hey, how yew doin, hows yo mama 'n em? (Thats the southern version.)
Inside you are saying either let me get out of here, let me go on to a cooler
group, or a more fun person. But if God is asking you to take time for someone,
enter into their life and listen well.
Hey, Rachel. I loved what you said in Sunday school.
How is Shanna coping with a new teacher?
How is your neck since last week when I
worked on it? Did you get it checked out?
I need new ideas. What have you been
making for supper?
Or the visitors at church:
Hi, welcome here!
So good to have you. Where do you live?
DO NOT ASK WHO THEIR PARENTS ARE UNLESS
YOU KNOW THEY ARE FELLOW MENNONITES. Many ppl have sweetly asked and basicly
shut off comments when I explained who I am and they soon realized that I had
no pedigree. Always left me feeling funny.
But people are doing much better! I have
often heard questions like “What is your story?" or younger people will
ask,"What is your passion?" What a wonderful springboard to more
questions!
“So, do you think you will ever buy a
pottery wheel? I will pray for you that it will work out for you! And the
classes sound so fascinating!"
Then there are the mothers. How do we ask
them good questions? I loved it so much when an older mom was interested. "Oh
honey, I felt for you tonight listening to Emma. Hang in there! You are a good
mama!" What is your baby doing that's new? Sometimes just a quiet, caring "How's
it going, really?" In the back of the nursery was enough to bring tears
down my face.
We have one youth girl, Ashlyn, who is so
good at great conversation and doesn't chafe and itch WISHING she was talking
to somebody younger and cooler. I love to visit with her...Hey Ash,what kind of
project are you doing lately? A few weeks ago it was mixing stuff in an old
blender and making paper. Which led to Thai women walking behind the elephants,
picking up dung, washing it in the river and making these cool paper book
markers. And her delight over this. Engaged, delighted, interested.
I like to ask older women questions like, so
what changes to you see in your children because of tech? What would you like to
do /accomplish in the next 10 years? What is your project this winter?
Little kids? Oh my!
Who is your best friend?
Where did you travel to last?
Oh why do you have a bandaid? What
happened?
Tell me about your scars.
Tell me about your pet.
Tell me about your baby.
I think you are really smart.( nobody
tells this to kids,and it shows).
--Aunt Dorcas and Aunt Margaret
Dear Aunt Dorcas,
Is it possible to put too high of a
premium on our children’s purity?
If you have been abused, I am sorry that
this probably sounds naive and terribly irresponsible. But I feel like I have
to ask someone because I feel clueless about training my children about
molestation or Too Friendly of Family Members.
My parents and particularly my mom were
excessive in protecting their children, especially their daughters, and yet my
mom struggled terribly to communicate about sex. And no, there was no sexual
abuse in my mom’s home either, just thick Victorian curtains and cobwebs. I
grew up thinking of sex as nasty and embarrassing and sexual abuse just waiting
to pounce on me from any passing male. My mom relaxed visibly with every
daughter that married.
How can I train my children to be aware
and yet confident that they will be protected by their parents and not
wallowing under clouds of confusion and fear of What Could Happen Even Though I
Am Bumfuzzled As To What IT Is?
--Confused Catherine
Dear Catherine,
Bumfuzzled is a wonderful word.
I’m not going to address your original
question right away because I think maybe that’s not actually your question.
Yes, sexual abuse is horrible, and you
don’t want it to happen. But let’s talk about giving children dire warnings
about vague threats.
Some of us have ancestors who were impressively
skilled at talking to each other in undertones, maybe about that young couple
that had to get married, mmm mmm MMMM! or that young man that went wild, and
then giving you that certain look and saying, “Now you be careful, ok?
Behave yourself!”
If you asked for specifics, they’d shake
their heads just a bit, then glance at each other. You learned not to ask, but
you sure wondered.
This approach leaves a child with these
messages:
Vague warnings instill fear but give a
child nothing concrete to work with.
Let’s talk about Bad Things that happen to
children.
If you are a normal person living on this
planet, bad things will probably happen to you. Disease, car crashes, terrible
storms. Bullying, verbal abuse, injustice. Sexual abuse, physical abuse,
exposure to evil. Loss of loved ones. Hunger, neglect, abandonment. Misunderstanding,
false accusation, undeserved punishment. Not all these things, God forbid, but
a few, or many.
Parents and other adults are supposed to
protect children as much as possible, but things still happen. Sometimes
children heal from their wounds, move on, overcome, develop courage, and grow
strong. Other times, they don’t. They go through life wounded, shamed, fearful,
frightened, triggered, resentful, beaten down, and defeated.
While parents need to protect their
children, they also need to let them learn and explore. Hovering endlessly
might do as much damage as neglect. How can they possibly find a good balance?
This is where parents need to be honest
about danger. Not vague, hushed words full of insinuation, but plain speech. Having armed their kids with information, they need to let them take appropriate risks. Yes, you can walk to Keith's house. Don't get in cars with strangers.
Even the best parents can’t foresee and prevent every possible awful thing. So parents need to ask not only, “How can I protect my children?” but also, “How do I teach my child to handle danger?” and “How do I teach my child to heal and move forward if something bad happens?”
Trauma responses are subjective and unpredictable. Two children can have the same experience and have vastly different reactions. A child getting separated from you at the store or getting bit by a dog might have panic attacks for life, or they might not. You can’t assume either.
If the following statements are true for a
child, it will make a huge difference in if/how they recover from pain and
trauma.
[I am not a professional, and this isn’t
an exhaustive list. It’s gathered from my own experiences.]
1.
I
am loved and cared for.
2.
I
am listened to and heard. I have a voice. I am safe and free to Tell.
3.
I
am allowed to feel what I feel.
4.
My
pain is acknowledged with compassion.
5.
What
happened was not my fault. I am not the bad person.
6.
Adults
will take steps so this doesn’t happen again.
7.
Adults
will speak truth to me.
8.
Adults
will bring justice on my behalf.
9.
Adults
will tell me about danger that I have the power to avoid.
10. I am able to sense
danger if I have the right information.
11. I can trust myself
to make good choices.
12. I can say No. Not
every adult must be obeyed.
13. If hard things
happen, I will recover and learn from them.
14. Even if bad things
happen, good things will also happen to me, eventually.
The event is significant, but the context
in which it happens is even more so. Does the child feel loved and heard? Is he
or she free to ask questions or discuss concerns? Do they know they can “tell”
without being shamed or silenced?
Ironically, a child who knows they will be
supported and believed if something happens is actually at lower risk of sexual
abuse. Perpetrators look for victims who are emotionally lost and abandoned.
I noticed you used the words “our
children’s purity.” Part of this whole equation is that when a culture places a
higher value on a girl’s purity than it was ever meant to carry, an awful lot
of things go awry. Also, my daughter Emily points out, things get weird when we think of purity as a valuable commodity that can be snatched from us in a moment, over which we have no volition.
In conservative Muslim cultures, the honor
of the family rests on the purity of the females. As a result, girls face huge
restrictions in dress, associations, and opportunities. Blame for sexual
indiscretions is minimal for men and maximal for women. Often, neither are taught
what healthy sexual boundaries look like or how to draw them.
Of course we condemn that. But there’s a
streak of the same spirit in the conservative Christian world, where aunts talk
in hushed tones over the applesauce strainer about the girl that was out of her
place, the way she pranced around in front of her married employer, and well,
we know what happened to her. She won’t ever get a good man.
Talk to both boys and girls in basic but sufficiently
specific terms about what’s healthy and what’s not with bodies, touching, and
private parts. Emphasize dignity and respect. Discuss what’s ok and what isn’t
at slumber parties. Tell them to trust their instincts about everyone, even fun
Uncle Alvin. If they tell you something that happened to them, try to keep your
voice calm and your eyebrows level. (Afterwards, you can go in the bedroom and
fall apart.)
That’s what I think, having raised children who survived bad experiences.
Aunt Dorcas
