East vs. West:Flying, Dresses, Sermon Illustrations

I am safe at home and happy to be here.

The East is different from the West in many many ways and one of them is this: In the East, you can pretty much drive wherever you need to go.  You know how Mennonites are always going to visit Mom, attend reunions and weddings, and get together for the holidays?  Well, you can do all that by driving.

If you can find your way on those beastly roads, that is, which they all seem very capable at.

Well, theoretically we could drive from Oregon, too.  Only we don't like to think of driving 1800 miles to Minnesota three times a year to see Mom and Dad.

The ladies at my table at the retreat were talking about flying, something they very seldom did.  One woman about my age had flown exactly once in her life.  Wow.

[These ladies were also unfamiliar with the Izze drinks we were served with our snack.  That surprised me, and made me feel sophisticated, as I am good friends with Izzes, thanks to the girls working at Grocery Depot.]

I should have kept track of how many people on this trip, in both Virginia and Pennsylvania, when we told them our itinerary, said to me, with disbelief, "Are you flying back ALONE?"

 Well, yes I am.

As it turned out, I could also have said, "And my flight to Denver will be delayed so I'll be positive I'll miss my flight and spend the night in Denver, but then the flight to Portland will be delayed also, so I'll catch it in plenty of time, and get in at 11:20pm.

"Then I'll take the shuttle to the Ramada Inn, since our car is parked there, and I'll pick up the car key at the front desk and then go hunt around for the car in the parking lot.  When I start driving, the car will act all stubborn like the emergency brake is on even though it's not, and I'll spend half an hour pulling forward and back, shining my cell phone into the back of the wheel well to see if something is rubbing on the wheel, and hoping I find something so obviously wrong that I have to spend the night in the Ramada.

"Then suddenly things will loosen up and the car will run fine and I'll drive home which is two hours down Interstate 5, and I'll stay awake because someone is praying for me, I'm sure.  And then I'll hit the ground running and get ready for another airplane trip in 17 days, to a wedding in Toronto followed by most of a week in Minnesota with my folks."

Trust me, I would give a lot to be inexperienced at flying and have my parents and sisters within a day's driving distance.

There are things that eastern ladies are good at that I am not, like decorating for an event and navigating those roads and persuading their children to live close to home, so maybe it's ok if I am more comfortable with flying than they are.

Odd how you think everyone else lives like you do, until you find out differently.

Like: dresses.

I was so impressed with the cute but very modest dresses the SMBI girls were wearing.  I had sewed 8 dresses for Amy last summer, but I remembered sewing all my own before I went to CBS way back when.  I was curious if the other girls at SMBI sewed their own dresses or had their moms make them.

So I asked.

"My mom."
"My mom."
"My mom."

Oh dear.  These were girls from all over.  Is our generation failing to pass on the skill?  Amy and I had decided it was more efficient if I sewed and she cooked and cleaned, but maybe next time I should insist she sews for herself.

I talked to Emily about this.  She said, "Well!  When I went to SMBI I asked a few girls where they got their dresses and they said, 'I went to Goodwill and got a bunch!'"

Imagine how handy that would be.  And that has to be distinctly eastern--to find nice Mennonite dresses at Goodwill.  Wow.

I went to a little church with Amy on Sunday.  The minister used the following as sermon illustrations: Pickett's Charge, Papa Bear in the Berenstain Bears, and the Battle of Gettysburg.  I had never heard a Mennonite minister do that.

Don't worry, he also talked extensively about other things, like Ahab and redeeming the time.

I think Oregon ministers are more likely to extrapolate illustrations from grass seed.

Quote of the Day:
"Mom's giving you that 'I can't believe I raised you this way' look."
--Jenny, to Steven

SMBI

I’ve heard about SMBI for like, forever.

A guy from my home church was the first person I knew who attended, some time after I left home, and a slightly-cynical young person told me later that folks in church thought he was qualified --paraphrasing here--to teach, to preach, to instruct in righteousness, to reprove, rebuke, exhort with all longsuffering and doctrine  because –they would breathe in reverent tones—“He went to SMBI.”

Now, I find that reaction interesting, seeing as how it was something new and different –a CHANGE, no less in a place not comfortable with change—and they were so positive about it.

For good reason, I found in the years since.

Sharon Mennonite Bible Institute is a college-level Bible school in the hills of central Pennsylvania that offers four or five 6-week terms each year.  It's not quite the exalted place that the old home folks thought, but a good place where good things happen. I have known dozens of young people who were funneled through its doors and out into missions, voluntary service, and serving back at their home churches.

Watching these young folks, I developed a positive impression of the school as a place that gave young people a spiritual anchor and also an impetus for going out and making a difference in the world.

And of course, I have seen a gazillion SMBI photos online—on Xanga when that was fashionable, and now on Facebook.

Emily’s dream of attending was attained in 2009, when she took in a 6-week term, and Amy attended the following year for two terms and is now back for more.

Both girls raved about their SMBI experiences—the classes, the friends, the spiritual growth, the traditions, and the staff who took an interest in who they were and what they could become.

But I had never been there myself.

Until we decided that I would drive Amy’s car the second week of our Eastern Trip while she went to Passion in Atlanta, and then after the ladies’ retreat in Reading I would drive the car to SMBI and she would take me to the airport.

So here I am, in the hallowed halls of SMBI.  I have seen that long flat front brick wall that always looks so imposing in photos.  I’ve sat in the public lounge that I’ve seen in a hundred laughing photos—often with one shy person at the edge that I felt sorry for.  I’ve seen the dining hall and the coffee-cup rack and The Great Divide.  I’ve met the administrator and his wife and the secretary* and the deans.

*Amy thought I should blog about her.  Her name is Bethany, and she is fun, helpful, professional, insightful, efficient, and cute.  And single.

And I wish I were 18 again.  I would come here and study hard and make friends and laugh at inside jokes and face my own fears and have intense conversations and be inspired to do great things with my life.

Well, knowing me at 18, I would also make very heavy weather of which guy happened to sit across from me at the dinner table and hope it’s the one who asked the blessing on the food beforehand because oh my stars isn’t he just so SPIRITUAL which of course means he wouldn’t have the time of day for a sinner like me and then I’d go mull this over in the prayer closet and ask God for a sign like if we both volunteer to do dishes tomorrow morning it means it’s ok if I like him and then we both do but the whole time he jokes around with this fashionable little gal from Indiana with the new wire-rimmed glasses who makes me feel frumpy and old and he accidentally sprays a shot of water at her from the dish-sprayer and she shrieks and he looks pleased and I am done with asking for signs.  For good.  Until next time.

Ok.  Never mind.  I’ll stick with visiting SMBI at age 50 and not attending at 18.

But like I said, this is a good place, and good things happen here.

Travel Stuff and the Cat Named Fred

The rest of the family is now at home so I will go ahead and tell the world that we were all gone for over a week.

Once upon a time I posted about the children feeding the neighbors' animals while they were gone and a random friend of the neighbors said, "Hey, I knew I could break into your house if I wanted to because I read on Life in the Shoe that you were gone."

Oops.

So I didn't tell the world where we were, so you wouldn't break in and steal my Polish pottery, and also because I was out of wi-fi range most of the time, and also because I would rather talk with my amazing family members than post.

So.  Not that there's anything valuable at our house (besides Polish pottery) to steal, but Steven is home now, so don't try it.

I spoke at a ladies' retreat in Reading yesterday and today, and now after driving down I-76, known as The Turnpike, and then driving in all 4 points of the compass over mountain roads, and crossing Fortune Teller Creek three times, and asking a drawling hunter for directions, I'm in a Starbucks with Amy, who will continue at SMBI and will also haul me to the airport on Monday.

Goodness, how do I even begin to summarize this trip?

A few things come to mind:

Bad: I hate finding my way on Pennsylvania roads.  I cannot tell you how much I hate this.  I say this with venom and bitterness in my voice and heart.  I hate roads that say North but do not go north.  I also hate Google maps.


Good: I like Pennsylvania people.  Like Annette and Jay and their little love-bug Justice, and Curt and Tresa who were in Thailand with us and fed us at Shady Maple, and the lovely ladies at the Cornerstone Ladies' Retreat, and Barb who gives wonderful, detailed directions that are not like Google Maps, and also the drawly hunter at the little convenience store who said I can follow him and he'll take me to 655--with no evil intent, I am positive, but he gave such good directions I declined his offer--and my sister Margaret and her crew, and all the rest of you--you know who you are.

Starbucks is closing soon and I'll lose my internet connection so I will tell you the story of The Koehns' Strange Cat.

The cat is yellow and big.  His name is Fred.

He likes to be held, not because he is loving and cuddly, but because he is a king and this is what his subjects should do.

One day I went up the stairs of the 150-year-old farmhouse to our bedroom.  Fred stood in the doorway and looked at me like Ok, get busy.

Then he went in the bathroom and looked at me again.  I was supposed to do something, but what?

He hopped into the bathtub.  I thought, Ok, this is not what cats normally do.

Maybe he's thirsty. I put in the plug and put in just enough water to make a little puddle.  he didn't drink it.

I brushed my teeth.

He looked at me like  Hello??  O Slave, do you still not get it?

He began licking the drips from the faucet.

Ah ha!
I turned on the faucet just a teeny bit and also pulled the plug.

Fred turned up his head and drank.  Licklicklicklicklick.

He was happy.

I turned off the faucet.

That is an unusual cat, I think.

Book Signing in VA

To all my friends in Virginia: I'm scheduled to have a book signing at Books of Merit at the Dayton Farmers Market on Saturday, December 29 from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.  I'll have my new books on hand.  Come say hello if you're in the area.

The Desperate Home Remedy That Worked

Today a Facebook exchange triggered a faint memory and I'm hoping some other Yoders can help fill in the details.

Recently, you may recall, I posted this happy news:
It is now the 11th of December and I have not had any head-cold-turning-to-chest-cold-turning-to-bronchitis-and-please-let-me-die-now-asthma this fall like I had four times last fall/winter/spring.
Was it the flu shot?  More vitamin D?  More exercise?  God in his mercy deciding I'd suffered enough?
I don't know, but it is really nice, and I am grateful.

So, guess what.  A week later I got sick with the cold and flu that Jenny was just getting over.

I posted this on Facebook:
The battle is on. My cold vs. echinacea, Vitamin C, Goldenseal, Advair, Vitamin D, garlic, beclomethasone hypropionate, NyQuil, Albuterol, and ibuprofen. This is war.

Lots of folks cheered me on in the fight.  Some added remedies of their own: apple cider vinegar with blackstrap molasses.  1 teaspoon honey mixed with 1 teaspoon cinnamon.  I tried this, since I had both on hand.  The two don't combine well.  Jenny took one look and said, "That looks like when I spit at the warehouse."

Yes.  Well.

Of course we had one person who linked a story saying that studies have shown that most of my remedies don't work for the common cold.

This person is studying to be a nurse, so he will someday be the professional who tells moms that no, there is no way that teething can cause fevers.

Not that I carry grudges or anything.

Our friend Hans posted this: "I hope you survive the cures."

Later he added: "I would suggest also taking boiled extract of squirrel dung. It's all-natural, so it's good for you. And I heard it cures everything from Cancer to the Common Cold."

And suddenly, there was that little memory ringing dimly in the back of my head.

Dad told us the story many years ago.  It happened, I'm guessing, when he was a young teenager.  They lived on a farm in Oklahoma, and one of his brothers--I don't recall which one--got the measles.  He was very ill, and the family was desperate to help him.  Someone told Grandma that a cure for measles is "schof-gnuddla tae," or, God have mercy, tea from sheep turds.

Well.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  A neighbor had a flock of sheep.  After dark, Dad saddled the horse, rode to the neighbors, snuck out in the pasture, and gathered a supply of "gnuddla."

Grandma brewed the tea.  The sick boy drank it.  He recovered and obviously lived to a ripe old age, since all those uncles did.

As I recall, this remained a secret between Dad and his mom until he told us.

And now I've told the whole world.

Do any other siblings or cousins remember this tale?

And no, I am not yet desperate enough to try this myself.

Quote of the Day:
(text from Emily:

"There is for real grass growing on the floor of dad's car" 

Why I Love Grocery Deals

For years, I have been on a quest to conquer occasional depression and every-winter SAD without resorting to prescription medicines.

This led to sitting in front of a special light for a grueling half hour every morning plus vitamins and potions of every description.

I've been most successful with a combination of Vitamin D, St. Johns Wort, and 5HTP.  But lately I felt like that wasn't quite cutting it for this stage of life.

My friend Judy recommended something called SAM-e.

When I hear that name, I always think of an Amish guy with a big bushy beard and glasses.  "Did you get some calves from Sam T. Yoder?  No, it was Sam E."

The stuff is expensive, but I like it and I think it's working.  Today I went to Walgreens and bought a one-month's-supply box of SAM-e for $41.  (Horrors)

I got a second box for half price.  (Still a lot)

Then I went breezing toward home but on the way I stopped at my friend Heidi's little bent-n-dent store, Grocery Deals.

I love that place.  You never know what you'll find.  Sometimes it's staples: flour, aspirin, honey.

Sometimes it's fun snacks.

Sometimes it's exotic-for-me foods like those little cards with little spice packets to make chicken cacciatore or shrimp alfredo.

And the price is always a fraction of what you'd pay at a regular grocery store.

Today I was almost ready to check out when I looked at the vitamin and medicine shelves.  Yes, aspirin for my migraine regimen, toothpaste for Steven.

And oh my stars.  One box of SAM-e.  Exactly like what I'd bought at Walgreens.

For $1.99.

I think Heidi will testify on my behalf that I did not actually dance and sing in the aisle, but I felt like it.  She helped me hunt for more boxes, but that was the only one.

She suggested I post about it.  I said I would.

I love Grocery Deals.  You will too.  It's in that little Tivoli Village complex on the south end of Junction City.

 
 Lookin' happy with SAM-e and Grocery Deals.

Glimpses of Life

Today Emily and I cleaned out the fridge.

You may recall that three of my children moved east in two weeks' time in September.

Years ago, I snickered mockingly at both my mom and mother-in-law, because when their children started leaving home they still bought huge amounts of groceries and cooked big cauldrons of food.  They just couldn't seem to help themselves.

At the time, I thought, Seriously, this is not rocket science.  Just buy and cook less.

I have now repented of that attitude.

*     *     *
Skype is wonderful when you have children away from home.  On Thanksgiving Day, there was Amy at her aunt Barb's house, carrying her computer around to give us a tour of the huge old house, and then Matt walked in and we got to see him too.

I connect with Ben in Toronto every now and then, listening to the words but also evaluating his image on the screen--is he happy? should I suggest a haircut?  And yesterday I talked with Matt all the way off in Washington, DC and "met" his landlord when Matt swiveled the screen.  And hmmm, Matt now has a beard.  I asked how he gets by with a beard if he's working for the Navy.  "I'm a civilian, Mom.  They don't care."

 Someday I will wish I had paper-and-ink letters from this era.  But we all know that Skype or no Skype, my boys wouldn't be writing many letters.

So we continue to appreciate Skype.

*     *     *

Another shooting, this time in Portland, at Clackamas Town Center.  It sounds like it was right at the spot where my SIL Geneva and I had lunch, once upon a time, back when she worked at Macy's.

There is no making sense of these things.

*     *     *

 It is not in Paul's nature to panic, but he got as close as he gets when it looked like a whooping cough epidemic was about to engulf our church school.  Should he shut down school, cancel the Christmas program, keep all the siblings home if one child got sick?

He contacted his sister the doctor and talked to the county health department.  I sleuthed for answers online, primarily to find out the risks for asthmatic adults exposed to whooping cough.

But then the two coughing boys were taken to the doctor and told they don't have whooping cough after all.  And the one diagnosed family was quarantined in time.

The relief is enormous.

*     *     *
Speaking of asthma and relief: It is now the 11th of December and I have not had any head-cold-turning-to-chest-cold-turning-to-bronchitis-and-please-let-me-die-now-asthma this fall like I had four times last fall/winter/spring.

 Was it the flu shot?  More vitamin D?  More exercise?  God in his mercy deciding I'd suffered enough?

I don't know, but it is really nice, and I am grateful.

*     *     *

My new book is selling well, so thank you to all of you who played a part in that.

And special thanks to the four fearless folks to went over to the Amazon page and left a review.

Today I was at the post office mailing a bunch of book orders.  A woman was there struggling with getting a package ready to send to her mom, so I helped her tape it up.  She noted my veil and said she likes to wear a pink knitted prayer shawl when she prays.

Then she said, "Do you know if Dorcas has written a book?  I met her in 2006."

I said, "Um...actually I'm Dorcas."

She engulfed me in a hug and said, "I was praying to Jesus that I'd run into you somewhere!"

Wow.  I'm not sure why she wanted to see me, but we had a nice chat and I put her on my list to get my column by email.

And it was nice to know I was the answer to someone's prayer.
*     *     *
Years ago Paul's grandpa used to follow me around and holler at me about a wonderful potion called DMSO oil.  Whyyyy, it would cure canzer and just about everything else.  You just rubbed it on your skin and it went right into your bloodstream!  (Etc etc etc.)

I wrote about this for an essay writing class I took through Lane Community College, way back in--I don't know--maybe 1997.

Then I also sent it around to be critiqued when I was in one of Verda Glick's famous Writers Workshops by Mail.

The other day Verda sent me an email.  "Dorcas, when I read this ad and watched the video (see below), it reminded me of the very first time I read your writing. It was that cute sketch about Paul’s grandfather and his DMSO oil. I was captivated by your writing then, and I still am."

I  watched the video.  It told tantalizingly of a miracle chemical that relieved pain and was absorbed rapidly through the skin and much more, and finally they said what it was called.  Yes.  DMSO.

Wow.
*     *     * 

Emily glued a picture of Abraham Lincoln to the back of her phone so she could more easily distinguish it from mine.

Quote of the Day:
Steven: THAT'S a creepy guy!
Emily: Steven, that's Abraham Lincoln!  He freed you!
Steven: He didn't free me!
Emily: Well, he freed your ancestors' cousins!

Later:
Emily: I felt so clever when I said that.
Jenny: He looks more like Grandpa than Abraham Lincoln.

December LFH

Today's Letter from Harrisburg is for you if you buy people gifts you think they ought to want.

Or if your mother does this to you.

Here it is.

The Minister's Wife Finds a Job Description and Regrets It

Maybe the biggest lesson from this is that it's dangerous to clean off your desk.

This afternoon I took a nice Sunday-afternoon nap and then went in the office and checked Facebook.

Pretty soon Jenny came wandering in, holding a little black book.  She began to giggle.

"The sister whose husband is in the ministry has a very important role in the work of the church."

She stopped beside me and read further.  "'The faithful wife is clothed with meekness and quietness.'  Hahahahahaha!!!  'She is of a submissive spirit, obedient to her husband.  Her life will enhance his acceptability and usefulness.'"

More laughter.  "Oh, Mom, this is so not you."

"Jenny, what in the world?"

She waved the little black book.  "It's called a Ministers Manual.  Emily found it after Dad cleaned off his desk.  I guess it was down in under stuff."

"Wow," I said.  I may have rolled my eyes.

"It says it was given to Dad when he was ordained.  And there's this section in the back called 'The Minister's Wife.'"

She read on, howling.

"She is an example for all women in all things.  As a rare jewel, she ornaments the work of her husband."


Then, such gales of laughter as to render her hardly able to stand up: "Her house is in such order so as to enable the family to accomodate visitors and guests at any time."

This continued on for two more pages.

I just sighed.

Paul, from the recliner, wondered what was so funny.

Jenny read him some choice passages between spasms of giggles.

Paul didn't see what was so funny.  "What, you don't think Mom is an example for other women?"

As mentioned, I just sighed.

Is it any wonder no woman aspires to be a Mennonite minister's wife?

Seriously, I don't think there's been a Mennonite girl in recorded history who said, "Ooooh, wouldn't that be nice to be a minister's wife?"

In fact, I think it's more likely that girls look at their boyfriends with a critical eye, wondering how much chance there is that they'll be ordained someday*, and consider running for the hills if any signs point in that direction.

*Since we choose ministers out of the laity, as the need arises.

I'm sure I've mentioned before that one of my gripes with this role is that it doesn't come with a job description, only a few Scripture verses and a long list of unspoken expectations, largely from yourself and also from people in your church.  So you never feel that you're doing all you should.

So I really ought to be gratified to find a job description, written down.

But as we can see it is so far from my reality as to make my irreverent daughter stagger all over the office in shrieks of laughter.

Here's what I think the job description of a minister's wife should be:
1. Be there for your husband and support him like crazy.
2. Tell him the hard stuff that no one else will tell him.

I've often resented that last item and told Paul that I wish someone else would tell him this stuff.  But somehow the Mennonite church structure does not lend itself to anyone taking the minister aside and saying, "That is a really bad idea.  Don't do that."

Or: "Do you know that you hurt Jim and Grace very badly?"

Or, "You don't want Charles for that position.  He has an agenda and he's mean to his wife."

This is stuff you wish your husband would just KNOW.  But usually he doesn't.  And you wish someone, anyone, else would tell him.  But they don't.

So you have to, and it's not easy.

And you can quit hoping that those submission verses make it ok to just be quiet.  They don't.

I found it intriguing, watching my friend Rachel's funeral online, that in her husband's tribute to her he said something like, "Rachel, now that you're gone, who will talk straight to me?"

I thought: even you, Rachel, sweet and kind and fitting that Minister's Manual description a hundred times better than the rest of us, even you talked straight to your husband about the hard stuff he needed to hear.

It's a complicated thing, being a wife, and an even more complicated thing, being married to someone in leadership.

But if we have to be married to someone in the ministry, may we all be so fortunate as to be married to someone who loses the Minister's Manual in the piles on his desk and never tries to hold us up to the standards of that intimidating section in the back of the book.

And who listens to us even when it's hard.

Last Blog Tour Stop--#19

And with this fine review on Gina's blog, Home Joys, the blog tour is over and we pull into our driveway and we're home.

Gina writes about the practical side of homemaking.  Stop by for recipes, tips on gardening, and much more.

Many sincere thanks to the 19 folks who read the book, put together a review, and organized a giveaway.  I hope you all gained lots of new readers.

And thanks to everyone who followed the tour and commented on the posts.  Special thanks to everyone who read your posts and decided to order a book.