Peter, George, John, Anna, and the Ephrata Cloister

First, we meet Peter Miller.

Born in the Palatinate in either 1709 or 1710, he came to America as a Reformed German preacher in 1730.  After serving in various pastorates in Ephrata and surrounding areas, he joined the 7th Day Adventists, and took up residence in the Ephrata Cloister.

Peter was highly educated, and likely the most skilled linguist in the American colonies.  It was he who translated the Martyr's Mirror from its original Dutch to German, at the request of the German Mennonites in Pennsylvania.

He also, at Thomas Jefferson's request, translated the Declaration of Independence into seven other languages, thus helping to explain across the world what the United States America was about.

Peter Miller was widely known, having many friends and acquaintances.  A notable one was his personal friendship with General George Washington.  Quite interesting given the lifestyles of both men, and important later in this story.

https://www.lancasterlyrics.com/b_peter_miller_the_ephrata_cloister/

https://www.lancasterhistory.org/images/stories/JournalArticles/vol6nos3&4pp46_49_118632.pdf

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/37093553/peter-miller

Now, the time frame.

The Revolutionary War was raging.  By all indications, the colonial army had no chance.  The largest battle of the war was fought along the Brandywine Creek on September 11, 1777.  According to the 1996 Encylopedia Britannica, the Americans suffered 900 killed or wounded, and 400 taken prisoner.

Because of his personal friendship with Peter Miller, General Washington sent his wounded by the wagon load to the Ephrata Cloister for care, an excruciating 40 mile journey.  Reportedly, up to 500 soldiers were bought to the Cloister, most with inadequate clothing and no care or supplies of any kind.  Makeshift hospitals were set up in the barns.  Specifically mentioned were the building names Zion and Kedar.  Did they also give up their personal rooms?  The tiny airless cells with wooden slabs for a bed and blocks for pillows, would not have been conducive to healing.

https://edwardhandmedicalmuseum.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/The-Good-Samaritan

The need.

Obviously, the brothers and sisters at the Cloister, highly skilled in their work and in living independently, were unprepared.  Immediately the small and somewhat aging population of thirty-six  Cloister residents was overwhelmed  But they served without reservation with what they had.  After all, having devoted their lives wholly to God, why would they step away from this desperate need?

Enter the Baers.

On the outskirts of Ephrata, toward what is now Denver, Pennsylvania, lived the Preacher John and Anna (Eshelman) Baer family.  Sturdy German Mennonites, they had a prosperous farm and a mill.  They worked hard, and wished only to live out their traditions and beliefs in peace.

Surely they heard of the Battle of Brandywine, and the suffering and death that followed.  They were no strangers to death themselves, having already buried three of their eleven children. In 1777, they had a five year old daughter, two teenagers, and the rest of their children were adults.  How many were still living at home and supporting the family farm is not known.

We do know that one son, Abraham, was charged as a Tory along with other Mennonite men of the area, for feeding starving British soldiers.  Although his accuser was later hanged as a spy, Abraham lived many years with a price on his head.  When his father's estate was settled in 1780, the state confiscated Abraham's share, because of the charges against him.

Word spread across the countryside; wounded and dying men at the Cloister needed care.  Food, supplies, and medicine (such as was available) were needed.  Preacher John and his wife Anna heard and answered the need.

How did they arrive at this decision?  Surely they had more than enough to do at home.  Their family needed them.  Could they not send a wagon load of supplies and consider their duty done?

Did they answer immediately, or wait and pray?  This was the fall of the year, harvest time.  Life was relatively peaceful for them; the fighting was a distance away and wouldn't have a direct effect on their lives and property, would it?

According to the 1996 Encylopedia Britannica, in 1775 a group of Mennonites had sent a statement to the Pennsylvania Assembly that read in part:

It is our principle to feed the hungry and give the thirsty drink;

we have dedicated ourselves to serve all men in everything that

can be helpful to the preservation of men's lives, but we find no

freedom in giving, or doing, or assisting in anything by which men's 

lives are destroyed or hurt."

Did Preacher John Baer add his name to this document?  Surely he would have been aware of it.  In any case, he and his family lived out that commitment.

The sacrifice.

John and Anna left their home, family, and livelihood to nurse the wounded, ill, and dying at the Cloister.  Not a pleasant task.  One can only imagine the sights, sounds, and smells that agonizing wounds, infection, and overcrowding would produce, all in an area completely lacking in sanitation.  This was before anesthesia, before antibiotics, before indoor plumbing.

Almost immediately the dreaded camp fever, spread person to person by a bacteria carried by lice, attacked without mercy.  Typhus and scarlet fever thrived as well.  How long did John and Anna serve?  What were their responsibilities?  Most of the soldiers here heartrendingly young, helpless, and alone.  Did they move among the rows of agony with prayer and scripture as well as food and medical assistance?

Preacher Ira D. Landis writes:

"It is estimated that one hundred fifty soldiers died at the Cloister.  They were given military burials at first, but as the death rate increased they were simply interred in trenches and ceremony was forgotten.  There was no time or energy to do otherwise.  Ten of the aging Cloister residents lost their lives in the epidemic.  Others who came to help, like the neighboring Mennonite John Baer and his wife, Anna, succumbed also."

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/117709615/john-baer

Did John and Anna return home at all that awful winter?  The British were comfortably ensconced in Philadelphia.  General Washington's army was starving at Valley Forge.  Disease and death were raging in Ephrata.  And records show that Anna Baer died March 20, 1778 of illness contracted at the Cloister.  Their five year old daughter, Elizabeth, died four days later, which makes one wonder if they returned home to die.  John followed his wife and daughter to heaven on April 15, followed shortly thereafter by their thirty year old son Heinrich.

The lessons learned.

When they left to serve the wounded, John and Anna had to know their lives were at risk, theirs and those of their family.  But they went.  How many young soldiers will be in heaven as a result of their love, borne out in word and deed?  

 How does the godly example of John and Anna Baer and their children apply to us today?  Once again an epidemic rages.  How much is political and how much medical?  Certainly there were politics in 1777, too.

Surely there was a climate of fear then, as there is now.  For those of us who have our future settled in heaven, how much fear in the here and now is warranted?  The prevailing attitude today is protect one's self, and supposedly by extension those around us, loading guilt on the ones who resist the status quo.  

"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear, because fear hath torment.  He that feareth is not made perfect in love."  I John 4:18

How do we balance, in today's culture,  God's call to love and to serve, regardless of one's own safety?

"He that loves his life shall lose it; he that hates his life in this world shall keep it to life eternal."  John 12:25

Muffled Thud VS Casting All My Cares

It was a day of ins and outs.  Now evening had come.  Time to stay in and wind up the loose ends.

I had just concocted a casserole for the next day's meal, and washed all accumulated dishes and utensils, when a call came from DS#2.  In the midst of moving from a third floor abode to a house, he'd been on the move, so to speak.  Now finding himself situated in the house, with all his food remaining at the apartment, would I have anything to offer?

Always.  With the Trucker California bound, and motivation lacking, not much variety.  The casserole was popped into the oven, and freshly picked strawberries were washed for the occasion.  Time was, when a dash to the garden and a reach into the fridge would have provided a full meal, but not anymore.

He feasted on the food, I on the conversation.

During a quiet spot in our time together, a muffled thud sounded from nether regions of the refrigerator.  Upon investigation, an item that had waited a few months past the expected date of use was found to have blown its top.

Perfect timing.  An accessory to the meal was now in place, as the oven was still hot.

Guess it's time to stop minding everyone else's business and mind my own for a while.  Or,

I'm still going through cooking-for-a-crowd withdrawal.  Or, 

It's time to clean out the fridge.  Or,

The Trucker's diet is proving successful.  Or,

All of the above.

But any way you look at it, here is a visual of what happens when pressure is not released in a timely and appropriate manner.  In this case the situation was remedied deliciously.

But the rant inflicted upon a loved one a few days back, not so much.  That was a thud, and not a delicious one.

I find myself convicted of holding onto cares rather than casting them upon the One who cares for me.  And who is far better equipped to carry them.  Releasing the pressure in a timely way - so hard to do, but so much better.

Biscuits and gravy coming up next time the Trucker's in town!

Dust (Err...Feathers) In the Wind

It was a day with plenty of time, but small motivation.  Both the Trucker and his erstwhile Passenger were in low gear.

The DS#2 called.  Classes were finished for the day, his home bound students left with their assignments.  Might we have a project or three he could do, rather than sit alone at home?

We did.

First on the list, carry two blanket chests from the dim and cramped attic to an empty bedroom.  Much better space and lighting to sort, and hopefully downsize.

That evening, after the Honey Do list was complete and the Trucker stretched out on the sofa engrossed in online communication with fellow truckers, a trip downstairs to explore the chests. 

Baby clothing and blankets, little girl dresses, and more.  Most dating to the 1960's, lovingly sewn by the Passenger's mother.  Used for two generations of daughters.  Smoothed, folded neatly, and packed away again in the cedar depths, along with their attending memories.

The Trucker turned up, or down, as the case may be, in time to assist in the exploration of the second chest.  Here were a few wedding gifts, as yet unused.  Not because of any lack in quality or appreciation, but the colors were definitely 1980's.  And not the green, brown and golds favored in the Passenger's kitchen.

And then, rugs, woven by Great Grandmother.  Below those, two feather pillows.  Given by Grandma, when we were setting up housekeeping in 1992.  Made by her mother, she said.  The same Great Grandmother who had woven the rugs.  From her own blanket chest.  She had seldom used them, she said. 

We both loved history, and at least one of us had a sentimental tendency.  Those pillows were encased in new eyelet coverings, and provided comfort for several years.  Quite heavy they were, as pillows go, and I loved burying my nose in them.  No description comes to mind for the scent, maybe it just simply tapped into long ago memories.

About the time our DS#1 was beginning to crawl, those feathers began to escape the heavy sacking in which they were stuffed.  And baby found them.  The pillows were retired to the blanket chest.  By now, quite likely the same chest they originally came from.

Tonight the decision was made.  I didn't even want to think about the interior condition of those pillows, or the potential for asthmatic consequences.

As dusk crept over lawn and garden, those pillows went to the back porch, and with a seam ripper, I began to loosen the hand stitched edges.  A few feathers drifted free, and then...

There was a second pillow inside the first!  Even heavier fabric, hand stitched with thicker thread.

Down to the garden we went, those pillows and I.  Upended and shaken, the outer pillows gave birth to a cloud of small downy feathers, and each produced their inner pillow.

Back up to the well lit porch, and the seam ripper was employed again.  In my clumsiness, the now fragile-with-the-years fabric acquired a few small rips.

Upended and shaken again, the inner pillows released clouds of feathers.  Brown, black, white, and every shade imaginable of those colors.  Tiny feathers, silky.  I wondered how many fowl sacrificed their fluffy underwear to the cause?  Amazing how much weight they had, all together.  Coughing and sneezing and grateful for the evening breeze, I flapped those four pieces of fabric repeatedly, as clouds of feathery dust puffed out of them.  Sentiment gave way to sanitary as I watched history blow away.

Dust of the ages.  This stretches my mind.  If Great Grandmother stitched these pillows, it would only be logical that they would have been emptied and re-feathered on occasion.

But...the inner pillows?  Who made them?  HER mother?  Grandma was born in 1910.  Great Grandmother in 1889.  Great, Great Grandmother, in 1845.  How vintage WERE those feathers?  Grandma had seldom used the pillows.  But someone did!

God is the only one who knows.  If He counts every hair on our heads, surely he tallies every feather on a fowl.  And now I wonder, how many local nests will be lined this spring with vintage softness of indeterminate age?  

What a gift I've been given.  One of the very many.  Longing to chat with Grandma again, and ask her about the pillows' history, I dropped all four cases into the washer, gentle cycle, warm water.  Likely the first of several washings.

Now, I need a shower.  Dust of the ages, dust in the wind, dust in my throat, dust on me.  And feathers.  What an interesting twist this day has taken!

______________________________

In the early morning light, I once again stepped onto the back porch.  Little birds in great number were hopping daintily round the garden corner, gathering beaks full of dewy feathers.  Robins, sparrows of every description.  Meadowlarks.  On the perimeter waited timid bluebirds.

A sparrow took wing toward her nest in the nearby tree, another fluttering round her, scolding and attempting to steal her collection.  Did she not know there were literally millions more available?  And did the fowl frenzy realize how historic their bedding really was?

Alas, a photo of the gathering proved impossible.  My intrusion provoked a mass exodus of twittering gatherers.

But they returned when I departed.  News spread, and the gathering continued.  Each feather scrutinized carefully from all angles before being selected.  How they can pick up a feather without losing the previous from their beaks is a mystery.  

Now to the laundry.  The pillow fabric needs a third washing.  The laundry floor must be swept.  Day has begun again.

Jeremiah 3 - What is My Section of the Wall?

This morning's sermon via youtube was on the qualifications of leadership.  Various appropriate scriptures were read, but I got stuck on Nehemiah 3.

The background?  A traveler told Nehemiah (after he had cared enough to ask) about the decrepit and decaying condition of Jerusalem.  The city of peace, still in its vulnerable, war torn state.

Nehemiah took this seriously and personally.  See, God had allowed the destruction as a consequence of the people's sin.  He also promised restoration after a set time, if their hearts were turned toward Him.  

Oh behalf of his people, Nehemiah repented.   He grieved, fasted, prayed.  He offered himself to bring about a solution to the problem.  Notice he was not  priest, not a leader.  He was a servant, though a trusted one.  God gave him a plan, and favor with the king.

Traveling to Jerusalem with the king's blessing, protection, and supplies, Nehemiah inspected the damage under the cover of night.  He didn't set himself up as a leader, or give orders.  He simply got his facts straight and presented them to the people.  The people who had lived with the mess so long they took it as quite acceptable.

When the people heard what God had already done through Nehemiah (notice he didn't talk about what he himself had sacrificed to get to this point, but only the task at hand), the response was unanimous.  They would build.  And they prepared.  

Part of that preparation was ignoring yelps of protest from outside the city.  The sources of those yelps  were not the people of God, and had no authority in the matter.  But that didn't stop them from making noises.

What I noticed, then, in chapter three.

The high priest and his brothers, as spiritual leaders, began the work.  

Chapter three follows the work, describing a beginning by the priests at the sheep gate (that location is significant for priests) all the way round the city, until workers in the last verse finish up at the sheep gate, joining their work with the priests'.

Who did the work?  Some did the sections at their homes, as much as they were physically and financially able.  Some only accomplished a section from their front door to the corner of their house, and others picked it up from there.  Fathers and sons.  Fathers and daughters.  Fathers of fathers were mentioned.  I imagine they supported in finances or food if not strong enough for work on the wall.

Goldsmiths and merchants, apothecaries and rulers worked on the wall.  Not exactly their skill set, but God enabled them to do their part.  They only had to provide willingness.

Parts of the wall held higher honor than others.  The king's gate as opposed to the dung gate, for instance.  There is no record of competition, of argument.

The one negative record was a group whose "nobles put not their necks to the work of their Lord".  I would infer from that verse, others needed to cover extra ground as a result.

Did the work go smoothly, lacking discouragement from within and threats from without?  No.

Was the wall completed?  Yes.  And the inhabitants renewed their commitment to their God and to learning His laws.

They lived in unprecedented times.  Their lives contained every fear, every challenge we know today.  Hard work and sacrifice were a given.

Following Nehemiah's example, what shall we do?

 Awareness.

Repentance.

Fasting.

Prayer.

Availability.

Sacrifice.

We serve the same God.  The Omniscient, Omnipresent Jehovah Jireh, our provider.

In today's world, in my world, what is my section of the wall?

I Shut the Cat in the Bathroom Today and Other Musings

In the stationary residence of The Trucker and his erstwhile Passenger, there lives a feline.  For her, life is good.  No hassles except when a certain canine stops by.  

Eat. Sleep.  Repeat.  This is the life, with occasional intermissions to stalk tweety birds on the other side of the glass and guilt trip the humans into some lap time.

She also has her own room.  Well, sort of.  The small one off the laundry room.  It contains food of her liking, fresh water, and a litterbox, as well as one of the human variety which boasts a cushy cover for sleeping on.

This morning when she wandered in for breakfast, the door shut behind her.

The reason?  Floors needed mopping.  Badly.  And here's the problem.  A wet mop gliding over floors is one of the few things that will awaken Felinious from Never-Never Land.

Wet floors just call paws to trek across them.  And into the litterbox and back out.  And up on the windowsill, then down the hall in an attempt to sneak a nap on the human's bed, for instance.  Et cetera.

Not this time.  The door closed.  Decisively.

There's something about a closed door that invites protest.  From a feline who is routinely silent, yowls emanated from behind that door continuously while the floor was mopped and dried.  Why did she yowl?  She who had everything she needed in that small room for life and catliness?

Because she couldn't get out.  

A door that usually stands open is taken for granted.  When it closes, a different situation entirely arises.  There is a tendency within all of us, human or otherwise, to resist boundaries.  Strenuously.  Why, when we have all we need (and more) for life and Godliness within that boundary?

End of story.  Except to say, even a mundane chore gives opportunity for reflection.  And realization of why we react as we do, and what we might change to more fully appreciate our blessings and honor the One who strengthens us for every task.

COVID-19 Rant

Anyone else out there weary of COVID-19? Every organization even remotely connected to me, or not at all, seems duty-bound to inform me of what THEY are doing to manage this virus. It has become a sales tactic of sorts.

Every news story trumpets numbers, warnings, dire predictions. It has become more political than medical. Then there is the economic side. Will there be an economy left when this is over? How will I live without an income?

And the legal side. If I break a stay-at-home order, will it result in fines or jail time? Does the government really have the right to close businesses, or forbid us to peacefully assemble? The temptation is to focus on what I perceive as my rights.

Can you stand yet another take on the subject? Allow me.

IT DOESN'T MATTER.

It doesn't matter what I think, what I want, even what I need, right now. What DOES matter? I am a child of God, and those around me know it.

Therefore, what does it say to those around me when I intentionally disregard the current health restrictions? When those who look to me as a role model, see me disrespect their potential health and well being? They will then either feel disrespected, or choose to also disregard restrictions. My actions have a ripple effect.

Is it really that big a deal to stay home? I have a home, stocked with all I need. Many don't. And God is waiting for me to spend time with Him, why not now?

How about making a conscious effort to cough and sneeze into a tissue or elbow instead of my hands? And wash my hands regularly? It's only good hygiene ANYTIME but especially now.

So, will it kill me to show a bit of respect for those around me, and be a good example? It's what I've always intended to do anyway, isn't it? If I claim to be pro-life, even the remote possibility that I may harm someone else should be considered, not?

Scripture instructs us to "Obey them that rule over you". I haven't found a COVID-19 restriction yet that would require us to violate Scripture. (We STILL have far more freedoms than most in the world! And more options for communication.) The current situation is not forever, and there are lessons to learn along the way that my generation and those younger need to know. This too shall pass.

OK, end of rant.

Seven Years Ago, In Laredo

Texas Trip 

February 16 - 21, 2013

The decision to ride with the Trucker was difficult.  It had been over a year since I’d last traveled with him.    My work load for the week was lighter than usual.   The children were more than capable of caring for themselves and maintaining the house.

My struggle?  Leaving.  Letting go.  Missing out on their lives.  In particular, the Quiz-A-Thon involving the 14 and 16 year old on Thursday.  The 18 year old had already arranged her work schedule to attend the quiz, however; she could drive them.

The Trucker remained quiet, and did not pressure.  The struggle raged inside for a few days.  I grumbled at God.  Why does it have to be this way?  Why, in order to spend time with my husband, do I have to say goodbye to my children?  Why, in order to spend time with my children, do I have to say goodbye to my husband?  It wasn’t fair.

Friday, fixing lunch, I prayed.  “God, if you want me to go with the Trucker, please have the 20 year old tell me I should go when he comes in today.”  Not living at home at the time, he was not aware that I was considering going, and he didn’t yet know what the Trucker's load was for the week.  Lunchtime came.  I sat down with the children who were at home.  In the course of casual conversation, the 20 year old said, “Mom, you should go with Dad this week.”  I was sunk.  

Still I fought with myself.  If I stayed home, I could go to the Quiz.  I could watch the 18 year old ride.  I could attend volleyball games.  I could get more painting done.  I could do the mending and finish sewing projects.  I could catch up on sleep as opposed to losing more.  But I had committed to traveling with the Trucker at least once a year.  And I had a direct answer to my lunch time prayer.  (Notice how often the pronoun “I” is used?)

One hour before time for to pull out, in the aisles of the grocery store, the decision was finally made.  I would go.  Less than an hour to finish shopping, put away groceries, pack.  Clothes, food, bedding, things to do while driving.  I said goodbye to our home schoolers, phoned the two in the working world my plans, and walked out of the house, tears streaming down my cheeks.  Why was this so hard?  Was I really that selfish?  The Trucker graciously gave me space to adjust.  Had I known what all would happen that week, I could not have gone.  But God wanted me in the truck, as did my husband.

_____________________

Tuesday morning, a message came from the 20 year old.  He was very sick with the flu.  Independence and your own apartment tend to lose their flavor when this sort of thing happens.  Could he stagger home and be cared for?

But I wasn't there.  I was so very far away.  How desperate, nearly frantic I felt inside.  Is this how a mother bird feels when her baby falls from the nest, she hears it calling, but she cannot save it?  For reasons best not explained here, I very much wished to be home to show love in this practical way.

On the heels of that, came another message.  The son of friends, a young man ours had grown up with, was dead.  A patch of ice, and a tree.  Such a shock, such overwhelming grief.  Tears flowed for the mother.  For reasons best left unsaid again, "There go I but for the grace of God".

______________________

Tuesday was the day to deliver and reload in Laredo, Texas.  It was a long day of sitting in dry, windy parking lots, breathing dust.  Seven hours of waiting, with a heavy heart.  For a load of avocados.    Who needs avocados??

My hopes of arriving home in time to be at the Thursday Quiz dwindled away.  We had only the snacks and water kept in the truck - sufficient, but not very appealing.  The only bathroom was in a supply closet off the worker’s lunchroom.  It was embarrassing to walk into the lunchroom filled with Spanish speaking men.  Courteously, all would jump to their feet at my appearance, nodding, smiling, and gesturing to the bathroom door.  Sigh.

Once loaded and through the border check, the Trucker drove til after midnight, in order to get back through Houston before the morning rush hour.  Finally on the city’s east side, we rolled through two truck stops and found them full.  There was no room at the inn - every parking space was taken, and some that were not parking spaces.  We were so tired!  Farther on was a small truck stop, not part of a national chain the Trucker normally frequents.  It was quiet and dark.  There was plenty of room.  How glad we were for a place to sleep.

As we got out of the truck, I felt a check in my spirit.  Something was not right.  I waited for the feeling to go away.  It did not.  

The fuel pumps were dimly lit, the store entrance not at all.  Bullet holes punctured the front window.  Instead of the clerk’s cheery greeting and the easy camaraderie among the truckers normally experienced at such places, there was foreboding silence.  The men at the counter stared at us out of what seemed to me hard and empty eyes.  

 Although well lit inside, the building's atmosphere was dark and oppressive; it was almost a physical sensation.  Something I have not felt for years.  Not fear exactly, but extreme heaviness.  It took effort to raise my head and look around.

Just inside the door sat a very young woman, her appearance and mannerisms immediately marking her as a lady of the night.  My mother heart reached toward her though my hands could not.

Wordlessly, the Trucker guided me to the questionable restrooms along the back wall.  He waited just outside the women’s door, then took me quickly back outside.  Walking back to the truck, we discussed what to do.  My heart said flee.  Yet the Trucker was out of hours, and exhausted.  We locked doors and settled in the bunk.  I was fully expecting a disturbance during the night.  But there was none.  God provided the rest we needed.  

My thoughts have returned to that young woman frequently.  Who was she?  Why was she in that situation?  Could we have helped her somehow?  I could not cry for her; it was one of those times that the hurt goes too deep for tears.  If only I could have put my arms around her, taken her away from that awful place, told her about God and His agape love.  But most of all, I think, “There go I but for the grace of God".  

Why am I blessed with a loving husband who protects me, a safe home, all of my needs met, and even most of my wants?  What did I ever do to deserve these blessings?  And why do I grumble when things don’t go my way?   Lord, forgive me.  And please, keep Your hand on that young woman.  May she come to know Your redeeming love, somehow, some way.

Fourteen to Three, in the Family Tree

A random conversation recently had me shaking the branches of the family tree and reaching for twigs and leaves not yet explored. Names, birth dates, death dates. Three pieces of information. Not much to say about a life. And yet, so much. I found a family of 14 children. What wealth these parents had!

Then I noticed that six of the children had 1872 as a death date. And I couldn't rest until I knew the answers, what these parents had suffered.

Between 1860 - 1865, five newborns were buried. Five little headstones in the family plot. Then diphtheria struck. Six children, ages one to seventeen, gone in three days. Two more headstones, three children in each grave. Three days. In addition to the previous losses, the children around the supper table and in their beds at night, went from seven, to one. ONE. *

Most likely, because of quarantine restrictions, the parents and remaining child mourned alone. What grief, what pain, what immeasurable loss. How could one live, let alone thrive, emotionally? In a day when resources such as we now have were not available?

Only God. And only when we allow Him to be Lord. Only when we open our hands and release those we love to Him. Jehovah Jireh, my Provider. Jehovah Repheka, my Healer. Just what I am pondering today.

*(Later, two more sons were added. Nearly two decades younger than their older brother.)

An Afternoon with the Nephew

A cold winter day and a school holiday, too. The Nephew had more pent up energy than fit his mama's house. So I enjoyed the privilege of routine tasks with an oversize "Bee" droning randomly in the local airspace. And not always in the same room as the controller either, which made predicting one's next move a bit tricky.

Under the Nephew's delicate touch, the Bee landed on tight edges and ledges, often, I have to say, coming back to "base" tangled in spider webs. Great house cleaning assistance, this! He even managed a set-down on the ceiling fan!

Then the Trucker checked in and joined the fun from afar, issuing the challenge of landing on a moving ceiling fan...oh, this was too good to pass up. An hour of persistence later, mission accomplished! My only regret is that I missed filming the epic landing!

Some days it is possible to set aside the heaviness of life and enter into the joy of a child again....for just a while.

Bowing to Baa - ing and Baack

Thinking about Moses this morning. He had it made. He was heir to the throne. Then it all came down; he fled for his life. Ended up herding sheep, something no self respecting Egyptian would be caught dead doing. He went from receiving bows to baa's.

Did he sometimes wonder why he had fought so hard for life? In the wilderness, he was just existing. Nothing to look forward to, seemingly no purpose.

But when he came to the "Mountain of God" his life changed. A change he had not sought or expected.  In taking time to see the unexplained, he put himself in God's presence, and God met him there.

Moses never regained his status, never was the next Pharaoh that he had been groomed to become. His life continued to be one of humility, deprivation, and rejection. But millions down through the ages owe their lives to him. Many millions more have drawn strength and inspiration from his life story.

Because he put himself in God's presence. God was there always, but He did not call until Moses was willing to step aside to meet Him.

Stepping Out in Faith

Thinking of the apostle Peter today. He was totally sold out to Christ, and Christ was crucified. But he waited, and accepted the gift of the Holy Spirit. That day at the temple in Acts 3, he had no proof the lame man would be healed. But he spoke out in faith. 

What could he lose? Only his life.

When the curious crowd gathered, Peter again stepped out in faith, seized the opportunity to explain. But the explanation required calling out their sin. That took courage. 

Again, what could he lose? Only his life. 

After all, the Christ of Whom he spoke was crucified.

And those who yelled "Crucify Him," may well have been in the crowd on Solomon's porch, "greatly wondering."

I am challenged not to base my actions on the anticipated reaction of the "crowd", or on the security of knowing what will happen. Instead, my actions must be grounded in the One Who controls all things. My security must be in Him alone. 

What can I lose? Only my life.

Temporarily.