story of a family

f
a
o
y
r
o
St
Family
by M
iriam S. Lind
Your great-grandfather, J. S. Shoemaker, was the
recipient of my first writing efforts, and it is he
who is most responsible (because of his interest
and example) for my life-long habit of “writing
things down.”
Contents
Prologue
7
Hill Journal 1956
23
Hill Journal 1957
47
Hill Journal 1958
75
Hill Journal 1959
101
On the Corner 1961
128
On the Corner 1962
156
On the Corner 1963
186
On the Corner 1964
216
On the Corner 1965
246
On the Corner 1966
279
On the Corner 1967
310
On the Corner 1968
340
On the Corner 1969
380
On the Corner 1970
414
Prologue
W
hen I was a child in Idaho, one of the great events of our family’s
world was the semi-annual Communion Sunday. Then N. A. Lind
from Oregon would come to our little church at Filer. He would preach,
and I liked to hear him preach because he would invariably cry at some
point or another, taking out his big white handkerchief and wiping his
eyes, blowing his nose. That, thought I, is the mark of a real good preacher.
N. A. Lind baptized me when I was nine years old (infant baptism!) but it
was years before I met any of his seven sons.
I was nineteen the summer I first saw Millard Lind. With a friend I
was visiting Hesston College and at the evening meal in the dining hall
I saw a slight young man wearing an intense expression and blue and
white striped overalls. He paid no at­tention to me. And I paid little more
to him, but a friend told me that he was N. A. Lind’s son, Millard.
In the spring of 1940, at Goshen College, I saw him for the second
time. The Hesston Chorus, directed by Paul Erb, gave a program in the
Goshen Chapel Hall. I read the names of chorus members, came across
this one, and introduced myself. Neither of us was impressed with, or
long remembered, the other.
The following year Millard came to Goshen to join my class—the
juniors. I not­iced that he worked hard. Verna Oyer and I often watched him
as he walked into chapel, and she was forever pointing out his “beautiful
eyes” and how awful it was that he didn’t wear a tie. I learned to know more
about him on late evenings in the library where I worked and he studied.
I thought he had crazy ideas, and since I liked people who were crazy, I
enjoyed talking to him. As the year progressed, we two happened to be
placed on some of the same committees, and in the course of committee
work (?) became quite supportive of each other. Millard would carry my
books home for me, and en route we did our planning, plus some extra
talking. Once we went boating (which I’ve never liked)—Millard furnishing
the pop (which I have never been able to enjoy)—to discuss committee
work, of course. But no dating.
I had just washed my hair one evening, and it hung stringy and halfdry around my shoulders, when a knock came on the apartment door.
There stood Millard. “Will you go with me to the operetta at Parkside
School on Friday night?” This operetta (Jack the Giant-Killer) marked the
Story of a Family
beginning of an interesting friendship-courtship. It wasn’t the “love at
first sight” kind, but rather something that slowly grew and changed form.
“I don’t want a wife,” Millard used to say, “I want a comrade!” And so we
were comrades without actually realizing the euphemistic implications of
our word-choice. Gradually, however, we realized even this, and Millard
didn’t say any more, “I don’t want a wife” because he did want one,
urgently.
At this point we began to make plans.
They were many, and they changed often,
but finally they pointed to one date—April
17, 1943.
April 17, 1943
The leaves were not yet out, and though
spring was in the air, everything was
drab. Why didn’t we wait until June—the
“marrying” month? Why didn’t we wait
until his school and mine were over? Why
didn’t we wait until we had a little money
saved? Why didn’t we wait until Easter
Sunday? At least until Holy Saturday? I
don’t know, except that Easter (April 26)
was the latest that year that it had been
since 1886, the latest it would be in our
lifetimes! (My table of Easter dates recorded
information up to the year 2013—and the latest Easter recorded was
April 26, 1943).
So, at eight o’clock on Saturday evening, April l7, Rosemary Miller
and Verna Burkholder (now Dana Troyer’s wife) began receiving guests
into the Kulp Hall Social Room at Goshen College.
Neva White and Inez Snyder received the gifts and Edwin Alderfer
and Clayton Beyler ushered the guests to their places.
The guests having arrived—about 80 of them—the doors were closed
at 8:30 when a sextet (Barbara Esch, Thelma Miller [Groff], Dorothy
Snapp [McCammon], Mary K. Oyer, Warren Leatherman, and Roy Roth)
began singing “O Holy Saviour.” During the singing of the hymn the can­
dles at the fireplace were lit as Patricia Sieber held the candle from which
Esther Hess and Phyllis Yoder lit theirs and those at the “altar.” Besides
the candelabra, ferns were the only decorations.
S. C. Yoder read Psalm 121 (“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…”).
Following this, a prayer was offered. As the sextet sang “Send out Thy Light
8
Prologue
and Thy Truth,” the minister, Paul Erb, the best man, Ralph Hernley, the
groom, Millard, and the bridesmaid, Miriam Stalter [Charles], all took
their places in front of the fireplace, and I came in with John, my brother.
The wedding service, which we had written (taking some things from the
Mennonite order of worship, some from the Book of Common Prayer),
was read, with Millard and me responding by repeating from memory the
following vows:
I Millard take thee Miriam to be my wedded wife and do plight
thee my troth till death us do part.
I Miriam take thee Millard to be my wedded husband and do
plight thee my troth till death us do part.
Following the “pronouncement” the wedding guests repeated with us
The Lord’s Prayer, and the singers, with Barbara Esch as soloist, ended
the ceremony with “O Perfect Love.”
Congratulations followed; punch and cake were served at the table
arranged by Louise Yoder (who served the punch). Myrtle Kolb, presiding
at the cake, and Helen Wade [Alderfer], Rosemary Roose, and Naomi
Brubaker helped to serve the guests.
After I had changed into my
“going away dress” we were riced
and cheered, and made our way to
Elkhart, Room 209 in Hotel Elkhart
where we enjoyed a “honeymoon” of
a day.
April 17, 1943 - April 17, 1944
Until my school was out, around the
first of May, I went on teaching at North Liberty, coming home weekends
to my mother’s apartment at 1810 South Main, or what was known then
as “Shoup House” (situated somewhere around the site of the present
College Union). Here Millard and I had a bedroom and bath, and a little
storage room to ourselves, and we shared mother’s kitchen and living
room. In May the apartment in Silas Hertzler’s basement at 1625 S. Main
was vacant. This was a compact, one-room affair, and as soon as we were
squared away, we began to invite guests in. The summer was full: I worked
at Kline’s Store part-time, Millard was College Gardener! In August the
two of us had charge of two weeks of Boys’ Camp at Joe Brunk’s cabin
in Michigan. Among our boys were Jimmy Miller, Delbert Erb, Ronald
Graber, and Jerrold and John Keith Miller. I cooked—or tried to—and
9
Story of a Family
Millard directed the boys’ activities. We were both raw recruits, and camp
was new to the boys, so we all suffered through it together.
When fall came we both started to school again—Millard in the last
year of his ThB course, and I taking some Seminary courses to help out
in what I thought would be my lifelong role of “minister’s wife.”
About the middle of November food began to have no appeal for me,
and we knew that sometime in the next summer we would be having our
first child. We continued with our schoolwork, and in January Millard
started as supply pastor at Kouts, Indiana, driving down and back each
Sunday—a ninety-mile trip each way. Soon after this we moved back to
the South Cottage apartments with mother. Among those we enjoyed as
guests before we moved were: Mother, Liz Hernley, Esther Hess, Neva
White, Howard and Edna Zehr, Nelson Springer, Roy Roth, Mary Oyer,
Ivan Lind, Arlene Sitler, Myrtle Kolb, Mildred and Elta Yoder, Paul Erb and
family, Lena Hostetler; Mary Byler, Ruth Martin, Hazel Schrock, Beulah
Litwiller, Elsie White, Robert Kunderd, Helen Cutrell, Ralph Lehman,
Nancy and Catherine Hernley, A. E. and Stella Kreider, Viola Zehr, Eldon
and Louella Risser, Christine Weaver, Ruby Hostetler, Mildred Britsch,
Carolyn Byler, Florence Roth, Lois Litwiller—and others.
Important events of the year included: The birth of Ralph’s and Liz’s
Rodney Kent on May 30, 1943. The visit of Ruth, Little John, and later,
Robert, Reist, in March, 1944.
When April 17 rolled around, I could just barely squeeze into my
wedding dress, but I posed for a picture. Mother and Liz cooked a delicious
anniversary dinner for the four of us—creamed chicken and biscuits,
with the trimmings.
April 17, 1944—April 17, 1945
The last of May, 1944, Millard was ordained a minister at the Hopewell
church at Kouts. Paul Mininger was the presiding bishop. D. A. Yoder
preached the sermon. Though the meeting was solemn, what took my
attention was the fact that they twisted my husband’s hair in the process
of laying hands on him, and made him look silly.
As soon as school was over we moved to our new home—a house in
the little crossroads of Boone Grove. It was fun arranging our few pieces
of furniture around the rooms, three downstairs and three upstairs. Since
my doctor was at Goshen we decided that I would go there to wait for the
baby. Before I left, the Kouts women had a baby shower for me, and in the
long weeks that followed one of my most pleasant pastimes was arranging
and rearranging the saques, kimonas, and blankets, washing the new
diapers, and making a few tiny kimonas with “my own hands.” About
10
Prologue
July 1 I left for Goshen, hoping that within a few days the baby would
come. Days turned into weeks, and it was on a hot evening toward the
last of July when we knew the time had at last come. At ten o’clock we
went to the Goshen Hospital (standing on what is now the parking lot on
Fifth Street, behind the Presbyterian Church.)
In the sweltering heat of the next
afternoon, around five o’clock, I heard
the first cry of our son Dan Michael. He
weighed 9# 1 ½ oz., and was well filledout, only faintly pink, and beautiful in
every way.
The remainder of the year was filled
with new experiences for us both. We
were parents! Though the world might be
shaking around us with continued war and continued rumors of wars,
though meat and sugar were rationed, though the dollars never managed
to more than reach—what did it matter, compared with the wonder of The
First Tooth of Danny Lind!
Millard spent most of that summer painting the Boone Grove Church
and other houses in the community. I would put Dan in the baby buggy
and push him over the rough roads, across the tracks, to the church
to watch our breadwinner (and to mitigate the loneliness of the square
house). Each night we read together a chapter from our Greek Testaments
or, later when Danny started his nightly yowl, an act or scene from one
of Shakespeare’s plays.
Millard’s first wedding was held in our home and I had that place
shining for the occasion. A neighbor gave us flowers. Everyone was
excited—so much so that the bride, bridesmaid, and preacher’s wife all
forgot to cover their heads—unthinkable in those days. No one else was
there, however, to witness our mistakes.
In the fall of 1944 Millard started working for Dick Randall in his
small printing office in Valparaiso. Christmas found us with a guest who
stayed with us for six weeks—Millard’s mother. Danny enjoyed being
dandled, and we learned such standbys as “Creepy-crawly little mousy”
and “Reide Geile.” On Christmas Day Millard’s brother Wilbert, doing his
C.P.S. service at Alexian Brother’s Hospital in Chicago, came to visit us,
and my mother also spent a week of the holidays with us.
In March 1945 we moved into the house near the church, right
outside Kouts. It was a sort of ramshackle place, and we had only three
rooms, but one was large. That spring we bought a calf to raise for beef,
and Danny enjoyed it as a pet. On April 12 of that year Franklin Roosevelt
11
Story of a Family
died, and we remembered it as a day when we had uninterrupted classical
music on the radio.
When April 17 came, we were busy entertaining company from
Goshen and so did not celebrate our second anniversary in any special
way. Some of the guests in this year’s book were: Paul Miningers, John
Koppenhavers, Neva White, Rodney and Liz Hernley, N. A. Lind, Marcus
Lind, Mother Sieber, Paul Erbs, Chauncey Birkeys, Emanual Birkys,
Lester Hersheys, J. C. Wengers; Harold Bender, Edwin and Helen Alderfer,
Thelma Miller and Weyburn Groff.
April 17, 1945—April 17, 1946
The first important family event of this year—June 12, the birth of Ellen
Elizabeth Hernley. On November 16 came the next big news—David Henry
Reist.
But for us the Event of the year happened the next spring, only five
days before our third anniversary, when our Friday’s child was born.
Jonathan Shoemaker Lind emerged shortly after midnight, April 12, at
the Goshen Hospital. He weighed about 9 pounds and 2 ounces, and
looked as if he would be dark-eyed like his father. Jon­athan and I came
home from the hospital on our anniversary, and Danny, 20 1/2 months
old by this time, proudly pointed to “Ha-ha-hon!” when visitors came to
see. When Jonathan was almost four weeks old, we took him to church
for the first time, as we had done with Dan.
Millard worked hard this year in his church, trying to make a living on
the side. We lived from day to day, frugally, though most of the members
of our church had more than plenty. We didn’t have any bank account,
and we had few possessions. But we had faith, shared interests, our
family, and in our weather-beaten shack we felt rich enough. Small things
gave us extraordinary pleasure. I wonder if there was a happier family on
earth the day we brought Jonathan home to the little grey house, made
clean and ready by Millard, and explored with delight by Danny who had
almost forgotten that there was any home besides Grandma’s.
Among the guests who helped to make life interesting this year were
Levi Hartzler, Paul Mininger family, Mrs. J. D. Mininger, Miriam Stalter,
C. B. Shoemaker, J. Glenn Widmers, N. A. Lind, M. C. Lehman, John
Koppenhaver, Mother Sieber, Liz and Ellen, Paul and Alta Erb, Clayton
and Elsie Sutter, Louise Leatherman, D. D. Miller, Allen Erb, Ralph and
Lila Miller, Harold and Sadie Yoder, Paul Friesen, Laurence Horst, Ivan
Lind, and Harry Mishler.
12
Prologue
April 17, 1946—April 17 1947
In June of 1946 we moved to Hebron, Indiana to a tiny nest of three
rooms in a house otherwise occupied by Mrs. Gyles Aylesworth. (Mrs.
Aylesworth never forgot that she was a Daughter of the Revolution, and
when her membership in that august body was confirmed, it was her
crowning day!) Over the moving period we appreciated the help of my
sister Ruth, who with David and John spent a pleasant week with us.
Ruth was nursing David and I was nursing Jonathan, who refused ever
to take a bottle. So one day when I had to go to Valparaiso Ruth was wet
nurse for “Noffer.” He gave her one surprised look, but went on to enjoy
his dinner.
Millard began working this year for the great Salesman, Mr. Mallett,
and one day a week he went to Goshen to get some more courses toward
his B.D. degree, and to teach a course in Greek. Then came the intimation
of something new. The year before, Paul Erb had said to me one day, “I
wonder if Millard would be interested in curriculum writing since Edward
Yoder has died.” When I had mentioned it to Millard, he admitted that
when he had heard of Yoder’s death the thought surfaced: “Someday
I’ll be taking his place at that job.” Months passed and nothing came
of it, so we put it out of our minds. Now Scottdale contacted Millard,
asking him to write a year of lessons. We worked together—I typed on the
old rattle-trap, pasted, and cut. Millard wrote and studied and sweated.
Then came the invitation to come to Scottdale permanently. Our fourth
anniversary found us wondering how much longer we would be at Kouts.
In the meantime we went on with our work. Our two boys went on with
their growing; we made plans for a garden. We bought a new gas range!
(Up to this time we had been cooking on a two-burner kerosene stove.)
Pat and Mike, who had spent two weeks of the summer of 1946 with
us, made plans to be with us again this summer. This was the year my
mother broke up housekeeping, living with Aunt Stella while Amos was
abroad. Her visits were bright spots in our sometimes dark struggles to
do our work, earn a living, and feel sure that we were where we should
be.
Some other guests of the year were H. S. Bender, Jonas Birkys,
Christ Goods, Elaine Sommers, Howard Zehr, Ruth, John, and David
Reist, Ralph, Liz, Roddy, and Ellen Hernley, John, Viv, Pat, and Mike
Sieber, Joe Hoy and wife, Lester Glick, N. A. Lind, E. M. Yost, Mr. and
Mrs. George Lapp, Clayton and Elsie Sutter, Daniel and Dorothy and
Elmer Mireau, Dr. Maurice Burkholder and family, Mrs. Silas Smucker,
George and Glenn.
13
Story of a Family
April 17,1947—April 17,1948
By May we were definitely “thinking Scottdale.” The church had released
us, and in the last week of July we went to look around Scottdale for a
place to live. We found nothing, and decided to build. We made plans,
then returned to Hebron. When the big Mayflower moving van came, the
last of August, for our few odd sticks of furniture, the tomatoes of our late
garden were just ripening—a beautiful crop. I hope someone was able to
enjoy them!
En route to Scottdale we stopped for several days at the Wooster, Ohio
fairgrounds where our General Conference was in session. I took care of
Jonathan, and Danny went with his Daddy. One time when Millard was
busy talking to a preacher friend, he reached down for Danny’s hand—and
it wasn’t there. We searched frantically for him, but in the huge milling
crowd it was hopeless. Then over a loudspeaker came a message: “Donny
Lind is looking for his parents.” Of course we rushed to the Information
tent. There was our lost boy, sitting on John Horst’s lap, smiling his
characteristically sunny smile.
At Scottdale we set up housekeeping in a tent in Liz and Ralph’s
back yard. Immediately Millard and Lawrence Hawk began building up
on the hill in the cornfield. There were chilly, damp mornings in the tent,
but inside the Hernley house it was warm and there we ate our meals.
However, winter was coming too fast. And so we decided that the boys
and I should go to Texas for several months to visit the Reists, and come
back to a finished house. (How unrealistic can one get?)
Dan and Jontie were good on the long trip to Texas, but I didn’t enjoy
the trip at all. In fact, all the time we were in Texas, food didn’t taste
good to me; something about my pregnancy upset my eye-coordination
so that I could not read without becoming ill, and the whole world looked
drab. But there were a few bright spots. Liz, Ellen, and Rod—also my
mother—came down several days before Christmas, so we had almost a
family reunion on Christmas Day. Ivan Lind was also in the community,
and when 20-month-old Jontie spotted him he cried “Daddo” and ran
to him. One day over vacation we—the four Sieber women, with Bob,
our chauffeur—took off for Mex­ico, leaving the six children with Mama
Reist and Annabelle Stoltzfus. We enjoyed a fabulous, inexpensive meal
at a famous restaurant just across the border, and walked through the
market, wishing we could buy more of the pottery and basketry. I settled
for belts for the boys! The day after Christmas the three Linds headed
for Pittsburgh and Millard. Jonathan didn’t know his dad, but Dan was
soon talking to him, standing up between us on the front seat of the car
as we drove home to Scottdale. His first words were spoken softly, sort
14
Prologue
of hopelessly, “You dint get me a wagon, did you, Daddy?” (One of those
long-standing promises!) Millard had to say no, but assured Danny that
the promised wagon would soon be his. (It was.)
While we had been in Texas, Millard was working hard on the house,
but it was still far from finished. During January we lived on in Ralph’s
house; but now Liz was soon due to come home, so we had to move.
Moving day came the first of February—and with it, a blizzard. But that
didn’t keep our friends from the Publishing House—A. J. Metzler, Lowell
Hershberger, David Alderfer, Ford Berg, and C. F. Yake, from packing our
furniture from tent and barn up to our new home, which was really more
like a big cold barn. We were living in two rooms—the long living room and
the kitchen (no partitions). No lights. No running water. No bathroom. It
was a blue Sunday that followed our moving day. We huddled round the
little oil-burner (installed because the P.H.—which held the mortgage—
didn’t think it wise for us to invest in a furnace at this time, just one of
the shortsighted policies they insisted upon in our case.) The living room
was full of the jumble of our junky furniture and other belongings… and
thereupon our first visitor, John Horst, called to extend official pastoral
blessings.
In the spring of 1948, shortly before our anniversary, Millard was
away from home, and Ralph volunteered to fix a bolt on our back door. I
went into the unfloored side of the house to get a screwdriver, stepped on
the end of a board, and plunged toward the basement some ten feet below.
Fortunately I caught myself on a projecting board, and though we were all
scared, no one was hurt, and we could laugh about it afterwards.
By this time Millard had started work in his little office at the
Publishing House, and was serving as temporary pastor at the East
Scottdale (Kingview) Sunday School. Since we were expecting a new baby
in June, we saved our money, scraped it together, and put flooring (pine!),
partitions, and ceiling in the west side of the house. By this time we were
beginning to feel that we lived in a house instead of a barn.
Our first guests (besides Liz and Ralph) in our new home were
the Lawrence Hawks (our builder and his family). Next we celebrated
Jonathan’s and Ruby Plank’s second birthdays by having Marvins and
Ralphs as guests. Our anniversary guests were the minister who married
us five years before, and his wife: Paul and Alta Erb.
April 17, 1948—April 17, 1949
In May we finished the floor, partitions, and ceilings on the West rooms.
The last of May my mother came, anticipating helping us with the new
baby. In June came electricity—now we could use our own old washer!
15
Story of a Family
Now we no longer needed to light the lamp! The boys had fun snapping
the lights on and off. Running water was yet to come to us this year—and
with that, the added luxury of a bathroom that “worked.”
The one really important event of the year was the birth of the 9
pound, 13 oz. boy, Timothy Christian, who came to us on June 23.
But poor Tim got off to a rather bad start. His grandmother, who had
come to help care for him, was ill herself, and to try to feed and care for
Tim and for her too was more than my milk supply could keep up with.
Without realizing what was wrong, we nearly starved Tim. (By our sixth
anniversary, however, he was a sturdy baby, walking everywhere and
charming us all with his curly hair, bright blue eyes and teasing ways.)
In August we took a trip to Camp Eden in Michigan where Millard had
an assignment to speak at Farmer’s Week. (Note: For most of the years of
living together as a family, our only vacations were those made possible
by Millard’s “speaking engagements” which guaranteed travel expenses!)
When we returned late at night, we found Uncle Lloyds in our beds. We
were glad to meet some of Millard’s family, and the boys liked the way
Uncle Lloyd washed them. Soon after we returned, Grandma Sieber had
to go to the hospital, and anxious days followed. Ruth came from Texas,
and when my mother was well enough, they went together to Texas by
air. Before Grandma left, she sat in the chair by our picture window,
holding Dan on her lap. The other children, as usual, would wiggle and
run away, but Dan was happy just to sit there. (This picture of my mother
sitting there, thin and pale and gentle, with sunny Dan nestling in her
arms, is an unforgettable one for me; it was the last that I saw her alive.)
That was September. The winter months went by—and just before our
anniversary, I was driving home from town one day. I looked down a bit,
so I could lay the top­pling Timmy on the seat. When I looked up, the car
was going through a hedge and was headed straight for a tree. Whammo!
We were grateful that no one was hurt badly. Tim suffered a little shock,
I had lots of bruises and the blackest of black eyes—­two of them. Dan
and Jon were unharmed—but I knew it would be a long time before they
trusted me at the wheel again.
Some of our guests this year: John C. Wenger, Clayton Sutters, Mrs.
Sem Eash, Claude Culps, Joe and William Werts and John Stovers, Ralph
Hernleys, Betty Weaver, Uncle Lloyds, Lowell Hershbergers, William Ettling,
Paul Conrads, Joe Slatters, Harvey Bauman, Clair and Anna Bomberger,
Paul Mininger, Katherine Royer, Norma Hostetler, Ruth Carper, Orval
Shoemakers, Nevin Millers, C. B. Shoemakers, A. J. Metzlers, Milford
Pauls, Verna Zimmerman, J. L. Horsts, Nelson Kauffman.
16
Prologue
April 17, 1949—April 17, 1950
This year marked two fundamental events in our family life—the beginning
of a life, and the ending of a life. By Christmas we knew that a new
baby would be coming in July. And soon after Christmas, in February,
Grandma Sieber, who had been living with Uncle Dans in Idaho, died of
a cerebral hemorrhage. My greatest grief on losing my mother (I felt it at
the time of her death, and feel it now, years later) was the realization that
our children would never know her.
Some of our guests this year: Frank Brilharts, William Ressors,
Ernest Bontragers, Ralph Hernleys, Mary Lillian Long, P. A. Friesen, Paul
Erb, Nolan Books, Robert Garber, Ernest and Barbara Garber, N. A. Lind,
Sam Millers, Howard Charles, Betty Weber, Bernice King, Elva Yoder,
Margaret Jantzi, Don Snapp, Ivan Moon, Allan Eitzen, Chester Shanks,
and Glen Kings.
April 17,1950—April l7, 1951
One warm Sunday evening, July 23rd, Millard started looking quickly for
someone to stay with the three boys so he could take me to the hospital.
Ralph and Liz were in Cleveland, for Rodney had just had an operation.
Clara and Lowell Hershberger had gone to church. But Thelma and Viola
Hawk were home, and they came up to stay with the boys. They didn’t need
to stay long, for after
about an hour and
a half, Millard came
back with the news.
It was Big news, the
biggest yet in our
family (10 pounds
4
oz.)—Matthew
Charles Lind was
born. Matthew was
given
his
dad’s
initials, and so has
something
special
to live up to—or be
saddled with. When
he was about three
weeks old, Lloyds,
Gilberts, and Wilberts
surprised us one
Saturday
evening.
The
excitement
was over Wilbert’s
coming
marriage
to Rhoda. And so,
several weeks later,
we packed up baby
Matthew, the three
big boys stayed with
Aunt Liz, and we saw
Wilbert and Rhoda
married “in East.”
Millard preached the
short wedding sermon, and we attended the reception at Melvin Lauvers
in Akron. It was a treat for us to get to know the Linds better. Besides,
Lloyd and his boys put new roofing on one side of our house, and Lloyd
bought a hot water heater for us—now we could take a real bath!
17
Story of a Family
For Millard and me the years suddenly seemed to be going more
swiftly: September 1950, and down the road went our firstborn son, in
his new blue jeans and bright shirt, carrying his shiny lunchbox. His
back straight, he seemed not to care a bit that he was leaving us!
In February, on Valentine’s Day, Roberta Susan (soon to become
“Susan”) was born to Ruth and Bob.
Some of our guests this year: David Alderfers, Paul Erb, Harold
Baumans, Simon Gingerich, Lewis Martin, Frank and Suzanne Bishop,
J. J. Brenneman, Orlo Brennemans, Alvin Rogies, Aaron Stoltzfuses,
Roy Roth, Elaine Sommers, Edna Beiler, Lloyd, Mary, Pauline, Clifford,
Margaret, and Norman Lind, Gilbert, Iola, Harold, and Lois Lind; Wilbert
and Rhoda Lind, Homer Kauffmans, Henry Hernleys, Ivan Moon, Edwin
Alderfers, Jonathan Hostetler.
April 17, 1951—April 17, 1952
Our guest list for this year gives us a little idea of the good times we
had in our home: Lois Yake, Allan Eitzen, Elaine Sommers, Paul Siebers,
Bernice King, Betty Weber, Ruth and Elva Yoder, Nelson Springer,
Edna Beiler, Lois and Jerry Kreider, Warren Leathermans and Arthur
Leathermans, Lowell Hershbergers, Marta Quiroga, Wally Peterschmidt,
Chauncy Birkys, Paul Yake, H. F. Reists, Clayton Sutters, Ford Bergs,
Beulah Stauffer, Isla Zink, Hazel Gingerich, Edgar Metzler, Stanley Yake,
Virginia Ann Brennemen, Ida Showalter, Violet Harmon, Shirley Yoder,
Pauline Swartzendruber, Don Snapp, Omar Stahls, Paul Erbs, Delbert
Erbs, Nevin Millers, Floyd Brunks, Ellen and Lena Coffman, Cleason
Bender, John E. Lapp, Arnold Spisso, Pauline Graybill—and others. They
recall, among other things, our week at Chesley Lake in Ontario where
Millard served as an instructor for an MYF workshop. En route we saw
Niagara Falls, and watched a ship go through the locks.
But the name of the Person of the Year is not on that list. He came
one chilly Monday morning, November 5, and his birth was hailed by the
eager brothers who had a good name all ready for him—James Joseph.
James was from the beginning a merry little fellow with bright dark eyes
and dimples.
James Joseph’s coming introduced us to a very special person—
Pauline Swartzen­druber, who came from Michigan to help us. When it was
time for her to go home, we felt as if there was a death in the family.
In September of this year, Uncle Bob had been seriously injured in a
tractor accident. He was in the hospital for weeks, but recovered with few
lasting effects from his injuries.
18
Prologue
April 17, 1952—April 17, 1953
In the spring of this year the “company” started coming. First came my
brother Charlie with his wife Imogene, and Sally and Jerry. They spent
six days with us, and a month later Bob and Ruth and family came.
It was fun to get acquainted with cousins, some for the first time, like
Sally and Jerry Sieber, and Susan Reist; and some all over again, like
John and David. In June Wilberts came with baby Daniel, and everyone
had a good time. Rhoda told snake stories from her Africa experiences;
Wilbert took the boys for a picnic. Several weeks later our schoolmates,
Verna Oyer and Genevieve (Warner) Lehman spent several days here.
Genevieve’s four daughters, Anne, Becky, Katie, and Lucinda, are just
the ages of the four oldest Lind boys. Lehman girls and Lind boys had
great fun, and their mothers talked both nights until 2–4 A.M.
August brought us the McCammons: Don, Dort, and Julia. Pauline
S. stopped in for a quick visit. Margaret and Clifford and a carload of
friends surprised us on their way to E.M.C.
September first came, and we watched our second son clutch his
lunchbox and go down the road with his brother and cousins, his brown
eyes dancing in excitement.
It was only several weeks later that Clara Hershberger, a special
friend of the boys, and our neighbor, died suddenly.
On October 30, Millard and Tim left for Oregon, where Millard would
be engaged in Bible Studies for six weeks. Tim had a good time being
the only son of his Daddy for awhile. He stayed at Grandma Lind’s, too,
and that was fun. But the thing we could hardly wait to see was his new
pair of glasses. We were all excited the night Ralph and Liz took us to
Pittsburgh to reclaim our lost family. It took Tim several days to get used
to playing with a lot of boys again, but we were glad to be reunited as a
family.
While Tim and Millard were in Oregon, Aunt Stella Kreider visited us,
and it was almost like having a grandmother in the house again.
By the time April 17 came around again we could hardly believe that
we had been married ten years. We celebrated our anniversary by getting
a baby sitter for the children and taking Ralph and Liz to Crawford’s in
Connellsville, remembering that Ralph was our best man at the wedding
ten years ago.
Other visitors this year included Lois Winey, Hilda Carper, Norma
Jost, John A. Hostetler (courting Beulah Stauffer), Charles and Esther
Hess, Edgar and Ethel Metzler, Harold Bauman, J. C. Wenger, Martin
Hershey, Irene Fretz, Florence Snyder, Harvey Snyder, Paul Roth, Daniel
and Mary Hertzler, and Anna and Stanley Yoder.
19
Story of a Family
April 17, 1953—April 17 1954
The guest list for this year includes the Dewey Yoder family, who with Ralph
and Liz helped us celebrate Tim’s birthday, Allan Eitzen and his mother,
the Paul Blossers, C. B. Shoemakers, and Omar Stahls. Then came the
Glenn Esh family, here to “marry off” Hazel Gingrich to Henry Mast. The
Ford Bergs came to celebrate their anniversary and my birthday—July
19. Joanna Andres, Willard Klassen, Edwin Alderfers, Daniel Hertzlers,
Mable Erb, Edna Wenger, Leah Kauffman, the storyteller. Grandpa Lind
also came, and took Jon along on a trip to New York state, convincing
him of the wonders of Oregon along the way. (When he returned, he asked
Millard, “Daddy, why does everyfing gwow biggah an bettah in Oregon?”)
From August 28—September 1, our house was turned into a
three-family apartment, or hotel, with a room for each family: The
Charles Kreiders, the Warren Millers, and the Linds. December brought
Oregonians—the Alfred Nofzigers, the surprise visit (typical Lind fashion)
of Uncle Marcus and family, Clifford and Margaret. There were the New
Year’s guests—the Ralph Hernleys and Kenny Hieberts here for a grand
recital (see program opposite) the programs for which were typed by Dan
and Rod. There was the visit of Anna Yoder’s mother, of cousin Norman
Lind, en route to his 1W service in Iowa from a visit at E.M.C. And Jan
Glysteen, plus notebook, also visited us.
On July 31 a new playmate for the Lind boys, Roger, was born to
Ralph and Liz.
Then came the morning of October 2. Our friends at the Publishing
House and all over the country were glad when they heard about it, for
it was something new for the Linds—a daughter and a sister, Sarah
Elisabeth—a “perfect” baby, 9 pounds and 6 ounces, and featuring a pair
of lovely brown eyes, among other special fixtures. And our Pauline came
again to help us. (I had warned her that if we couldn’t get her here any
other way, I’d have another baby, and she’d have to come.)
One of our fun things this year was a Sunday afternoon project which
involved follow­ing the waterways: Jacob’s Creek to the Youghiagheny, to
the Monongahela to the Ohio.
Our eleventh anniversary was a time of celebration for the entire
family. I read the preceding history which I had hurriedly scrawled—we
all dressed up in our best (I in my wedding gown, and Sarah in her little,
white “best” gown). I cooked a good dinner (for a change) and it was
topped off with a beautiful high white anniversary cake—a gift from Liz,
decorated with apple blossoms. Ralph took some pictures of us, and we
decided to repeat the performance every year, if we can.
20
Prologue
April 17, 1954—April 17 1955
One day in May we were burning some trash in the fireplace outside.
The boys gathered around to poke sticks in the fire. I went to the window
and called to them, asking them all to get away from the fire. Everyone
ran—everyone but Timothy, of course, who was an obedient boy, but who
always had to do the forbidden one more time to show who was master of
his life. I went back to my work, and a few minutes later I heard screams.
I thought they were “play” screams and so I did not run, but Millard,
who was working in the garden, did. Timothy was afire, and by the time
Millard reached him and put it out with his hands, he had a badly burned
knee. Millard rushed him to Dr. Marshall, who cleaned and dressed the
burn. For weeks after that Tim wore a bandage. The first two weeks he
had to stay in bed and go to the Doctor every day to have the dressings
changed. Throughout the summer the doctor watched carefully, expecting
that a skin graft would be necessary. But by late August it was apparent
the knee would heal without surgery. We were glad that he was not “all
burned up to ashes” as he put it in a prayer soon after it happened.
In June Marcus surprised us—a little—with an announcement of his
marriage to Leah Kauffman. In July the family took a little trip through
Ohio and Indiana, stopping with the Kreiders in Wadsworth, the Liechtys
in Archbold, the Birkys at Kouts, and the Kreiders, Buzzards, Springers,
etc., at Goshen. Tim stayed with Ralph and Liz. In September our third
son clutched—not his lunchbox, but his lunch money, and went down
the road with brothers Dan and Jonathan, cousins Rodney and Ellen,
and friend Jimmy Cutrell to board the bus for his first day of school. He
was fortunate to be able to start school in the brand-new schoolhouse
which the boys had used for several weeks in the spring, but of which
Tim’s was the beginning class.
In October Don Liechtys visited us for a day and a night; in their
honor we invited the Erbs and the Pauls for dinner the day they were
here.
Our Thanksgiving guests this year were the Orie Cutrells, who were
living in the back two rooms of the Hernley house, and the Allan Eitzens. We
had a good day visiting, getting out the manger scene, making fruit cake,
and preparing pomanders. From then on to Christmas we concentrated
on our family Christmas program, which the boys gave on Christmas eve
and which was fun for all of us, even though I was sick.
During the fall and winter Millard taught a class at Johnstown once
a week, and one at the Publishing House also. I enjoyed the stimulus of
a cell-group for the first time, and met a fascinating new friend, Arlene
Heath, who in turn introduced me to some of her friends, particularly
21
Story of a Family
Esther Levin. We together began to attend the Great Books Group in
Mount Pleasant, and the stimulation of new friendships and new thoughts
was a great joy to me.
Among additional guests this year: Milford Pauls who helped celebrate
Tim’s birthday, Stanley Yoders who helped celebrate Matthew’s birthday,
Eugene Herr, our new pastor at Kingview, Kenny Hieberts, Louise and
Bonnie Leatherman, Dan and Mary Hertzler, Guy Hershberger, Levi
Hartzler, Howard Zehr, Paul Erbs, Don Masts, Eitzens, Cutrells, Alva
Yoders, Lowell Hershbergers and Sarah Lehman, David Schlabachs,
Chauncey Birkys, Hope Kauffman, and Naomi Smoker.
April 17, 1955—January 1, 1956
This was the year of the Transcontinental Tour for the Linds, in mid-May,
having secured the release of the boys from school several weeks early,
we all piled into our little green, two-door Chevy and headed for the west.
Contrary to what we had expected, the children were all exceptionally
good travelers, and we managed to make very good time each day.
Besides seeing all their mother’s old homes, schools, and haunts,
and the Idaho relatives, the same kind of treat waited in Oregon for the
children, but this time it was their father’s country and people. His “secret
place” was looked for, but not found. Ours was a six-week tour—again
made possible by a church appointment of Millard’s.
The calendar year ended with a special Christmas: the Texas Reists
were with us. And now the family history continues in “Hill Journal” and
“On the Corner.”
22
Hill Journal 1956
January
All during Christmas vacation we hoped for snow as a special treat for the
visiting Texas youngsters. And all during vacation we were blessed with
fine Texas weather!

But Pennsylvania arrived the day after the Texans left—and such
sliding weather! The supper hour is committed to animated discussion of
the finest sledding paths and which sleds perform the best. (It turns out
that the littlest, oldest, unlikeliest sled goes the fastest and farthest.) The
boys burst from the table in great agitation and fall upon their sledding
with renewed passion. When it is time to be called in for bed they feel it
a gross injustice. Don’t we know that there is still good sledding and the
snow might melt tomorrow? But they fall asleep at once, their cheeks still
glowing from the after-supper play. (And the snow is still there, tomorrow
and tomorrow and tomorrow.)

There is always beauty for free here on our hill. When hill upon hill
lies before our eyes, all iced with snow, one needs only to go to the window
to be rich.
But not all beauty is free. One thinks of this when one sees and
hears the record collections of some of our friends. The wardrobes, cars,
gadgets, furniture, and fine houses of the well-off leave me cold. But
music! Though ignorant of its technicalities, I am deeply hungry for it,
and find myself longing for its touch upon my day.

Often we thank God for those few friends of ours who can possess their
greater wealth with a light touch; and we offer special petition for other
friends who seem to have clutched at this blessing and are all tangled up
in it. God knew that we could not have borne the responsibility and the
temptation of affluence!

There is a prayer that I love—said to be a favorite prayer of St. Francis
de Sales: “Yes, Father, Yes, and always Yes!”

The child is another free source of beauty—all year ’round! Sometimes
one forgets it these days when the little ones are cooped up inside more
Story of a Family
than usual. (This year we have only three at home, but it seems less
peaceful than when there were four.) We have come to believe that living
with children is one of the more rigorous of Life’s disciplines. (There are
days, I tell myself, when I’d pay money to be working away from home!)
We agree with what many working mothers of small children say—that
they can be nicer to their children if they are away all day. But if I were
to work away from home, think of all the discipline I would miss! And all
the rewards of discipline!

In any case—I’m glad I wasn’t at a desk or on an assembly line or
in a schoolroom today. Among other things, I would have missed the
mutterings of our bright-eyed “Andrewshek” as he watched the cardinals
from the window.
“They are magic birds. They’d have to be magic—that red!”
And later,
“Does the cardinal know he’s a cardinal, huh? He prob’ly thinks
he’s jus’ a plain ole bird, not magic a-tall.”

Sometimes when I lay out my day before Him in the mornings, and
ask guidance in the choice of what to do and what to leave undone, I get
the feeling that by all means those bedroom windows are to be washed.
Wistfully I wish that my conviction would be directed toward reading that
new devotional book, or visiting a friend, or writing a letter—anything but
washing windows!

But my friend Arlene has a different approach. As she washes her
windows she prays, “Lord, wash my windows so that Your light can reach
those dark corners of my soul!” (I’ve tried Arlene’s way—and it helps! She
says she got it from a book.)

One book a week is what I aim to read. But a book I return to again
and again, and read slowly, underlining, and learning something new
each time is Day’s Auto­biography of Prayer. This one book has affected in
me a conversion in the under­standing and use of prayer. I would call it
my “Book of the Year” selection—for a number of years now.

Speaking of books, one thing that has made all this snow so pleasant
is that we don’t go anywhere evenings unless we have to. So we’ve had
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Hill Journal 1956
some good stretches of family life. And when we speak of family life, we
usually mean reading together in the evening. By the time we get around
to reading the new Christmas books this year (San Francisco Boy, by
Lenski, and On the Banks of Plum Creek, by Wilder) Mister Nine says, “I’ve
read mine three times already, but go ahead, I want to hear it!”

These days I’m re-learning the 103rd Psalm. In my childhood I
learned it in the “loving kindness and tender mercy” version. Now it is
rigorous mental exercise to substitute “steadfast love and mercy.” But it
means more than ever to me as I tax my memory with its repetition—at
the sink, in bed at night, or just here sitting at the desk and looking out
on the January hills of our home­—
Bless the Lord, O my soul;
And all that is within me,
Bless his holy name!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment when Eleven quietly leaves his
arithmetic, puts on his favorite Robert Shaw record (“He Watching Over
Israel”) and returns to his work—without a word.
February
We lay snug last night and listened to the February rain on the roof. And
oh, the difference in the sound of a cold rain and a warm rain! But cold
or warm, rain on the roof in the dark of night or early morning is one of
the loveliest of sounds to be heard. (When I know that I don’t have to get
up and take care of the furnace.)

Report cards! Can it be? Half the school year gone! Mister Seven’s
report card was a puzzle to us. Up to this point, the grading in our school
has always been done in multiples of five—with 100% possible only in
spelling. So Seven comes home with a string of 98’s, the gap between his
over­size front teeth exaggerated by his grin. Nine and Eleven cast dark
looks at Seven. They have never heard of teachers who give such grades!
And we ask—Why these 98’s? Seven doesn’t seem to know. Then Seven’s
friend’s mother calls up—is it true that our child has a rash of 98’s on his
report card too? What is the explanation? Is this all a big joke?
And we ask Seven again: Did anyone else get them? “Oh, yes,” he
says, “EVERYBODY but a couple. Well, three of us did, anyhow, or I’d
say about ten.” Enlightening. We finally figure out that they were doled
25
Story of a Family
out as a special treat for good behavior, and we have again that sneaking
feeling we had as youngsters, that this grading business leaves much to
be desired.

The kitchen walls are covered with all shapes and sizes of valentines:
from Four’s pasty version of a valentine man to Seven’s ingeniously
constructed cow of brown paper hearts (hastily thrown together when he
realized he’d forgotten his parents in the rush of addressing forty valentines
for school); to Eleven’s carefully executed lacy delicacy of paper doilies,
ribbons, and bows; to the lovely “store” valentine with so meaningful a
message which came from a dear Canadian friend of mine.

“And did you learn any valentine songs when you were in school?”
the children ask, after having sung all theirs, in turn, for me. Fortunately
for my self-respect, I can remember one or two. They seem delighted with
these museum pieces.

As we near the beginning of Lent we discuss the idea (at family
council) of going without desserts. Since we usually have a simple dessert
at dinner (supper) the plan agreed upon is to put the amount saved by
going without into a small bank, and to use the money for our Christmas
bundle fund. The next day Mister Nine comes home from school. “I didn’t
eat my dessert today!” he announces righteously.
“But we agreed this was not to apply to your cafeteria lunches; they’re
already paid for!” I remonstrate. “What was your dessert?”
“Well,” Nine grins sheepishly, “Well, it was really a doughnut. I ate
that. But we had cottage cheese salad and I don’t like that; so I pretended
it was the dessert!”

Often in the Quiet Time I feel dull and utterly incapable of making any
effort God­ward. The words I have just read in the Bible seem mere words,
my prayer perfunctory. When this dryness descends, then I search what
I have read for one phrase to carry with me during the day: one token
flower to “hold lovingly” as one saint has said—to recall and examine
as I go about my work. Inevitably this one “flower” gives a grace to an
otherwise dull day, no matter how barren my “feelings.”
One day it was, “Look to him and be radiant!” Another day it was
just the phrase, “His steadfast love.” And all during that day I asked Him
to surround and uphold my dear ones, my neighbors, the members of
my church and prayer groups, and those whom I would recall as being
26
Hill Journal 1956
in need of God, or His comfort, or His provision, to uphold them all with
this steadfast love. Another time it was the refreshing RSV translation of
II Corinthians 1:20 — “All the promises of God find their Yes in him.”

Today was so dull—and then the robins descended! I hadn’t written a
poem in months, but I couldn’t resist a bit of verse on this occasion.

Where is that seed catalog—? But first I must get these Baby Books
up to date—and this mending pile must be reduced to make way for the
inevitable work that grows out of seed catalog dreaming!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment when a certain young lad shyly
comes and shows his mother the s-p-e-c-i-a-1 valentine he has bought
for that s-p-e-c-i-a-1 sixth grader of the opposite sex. This affair has been
going on for several years, but never before has he ventured into the
realm of the Hallmark card!
March
On our hill we know nothing about the lion and the lamb of March. We
do observe, however, that March comes in with a kite and goes out with
a bag of marbles!

Perhaps when one has never known personally the love of a father
one is especially susceptible, but no beauty can so move me as the
relationship between a loving father and his children. I stand at the big
window and watch the six of them—not man and boys now, but all boys—
attempting to fly their kites in the lower corner of our acre. And suddenly
life seems too big; the place where I stand seems holy ground. And there
is only prayer.

“I wish we had more babies,” Mister Five said the other day. Our
bright-eyed “Andrewshek” misunderstood the wish for the reality, and
ran to me in excitement. Embracing me, he begged in that endearingly
serious manner of his, “And when we do have our new baby, will you let
me call her SPOT? Spot, like the Dog-That-Came­to-School?”

Last night our prayer group met again, and again we experienced
that exhilaration of being two or three—or eight or ten—together—plus
27
Story of a Family
the Other in our midst. We sang together—and how that singing unites
and lifts! Though in our “youth” we enjoyed singing in college choruses
and quartets, there is a spiritual quality in this singing together that
transcends any experience I have known. We observe searching silence—
together. One by one we bring our petitions, and pray together, audibly
or in silence, for one concern at a time. Knowing how disciplined living
can emancipate one from the tyrannical power of things and people
and one’s own self, we agree upon certain procedures which we try to
follow in the days between our meetings—and find that such procedures,
faithfully followed, really do open the door for God. We share our failures
and our insights, our prayers, our reading experiences, and witnessing
opportunities. We study a given topic from a book agreed upon by the
group (just now it is Discipline and Discovery, by Albert E. Day). And we
can feel our minds and our souls stretching in growth, and new meanings
springing into the timeless words—Prayer—Love—Grace!

After having experienced a number of years in various “cell” or “prayer”
or “study” groups, denominational and inter­denominational, and having
come to the overwhelming realization that God has used these groups to
make these the richest years of my life so far—I wonder why ministers in
our church are not more generally taking advantage of this movement.
Far from promoting exclusive cliques, the prayer group principle is widely
adaptable to any local program, and if rightly used, can be the means of
spiritual enrichment far beyond its apparent boundaries.

I always feel a little frustrated when I go to empty Mister Seven’s
pockets. Today the current “find” was absolutely amazing. All I could do
was lay it out in rows and point to it. “I know all about boys and their
pockets,” I sighed; “but tell me, where did he get the stuff?”
“Aw, Mom,” Mister Nine explained for his younger brother, “that’s
just the junk he got when he traded off his squirrel tail!”

Speaking of junk—there’s our back yard. Spring is pushing. One
sees the ears of the tulips and the spears of jonquils. Also—a recently
constructed “shack,” a mighty tangle of rope and clothesline wire, an old
broom, tin cans, bricks, cartons, rocks, chains, a broken-down soap box
racer. Cleanup day is imminent; one of these Saturdays we will descend
on this yard. And for a few days it will look as if respectable people live
here!

28
Hill Journal 1956
Once I read a letter which ended, “And now, if you come to visit us,
we’ll have a model farm to show you.” To show! What an emptiness. One
of my pet peeves is going to visit people and then being herded around
to see their possessions. It’s about as spiritually satisfying as a proposed
“visit” where the host watches television, and the guest, for want of better
employment, watches his host.

“Andrewshek,” like many three- and four-year-olds, is all engrossed in
growing up. When Mister Five asks me, “Why do children have birthdays?”
“Andrewshek” quickly replies, “So to be big!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment when Little Missy pulls my head
down and lays her cheek against mine, crooning in that dear two-and-ahalf language, “We is good little f’ends, isn’ we?”
April
And now it’s April. Mister Nine is ten, and has bought himself a dog, to
replace the ill-fated Jeff, our red cocker. Jeff was the children’s Christmas
gift, and victim of a passing train. His going caused deep wounds that even
yet are not healed—in the one boy who loved him most of all. It would be
disloyalty of the grossest sort for him to buy another dog so soon. But he
has contributed fifty cents toward Frisky. “That entitles you to the front
right leg,” Mister Nine generously concedes. Even so, Jeff is not forgotten
soon. As “Andrewshek” said wistfully the other day, “When God makes a
new world, maybe we can buy back Jeffie!” Maybe. But in the meantime
we have Frisky. The new acquisition is a mixture of Airedale, wire­haired
terrier, and dog—but he’s a mighty cute mixture, and we all like Frisky.

The plowing of the garden is, for us, an occasion for the leaping up
of the heart as surely as Wordsworth’s daffodils! The leaves of the trees
in the wood behind and in the woods on the surrounding hills are not
yet uncurled; the earth is still bare, but there is a promise in the very
air. And here and there the earnest of the promise—green fields of winter
wheat defying the changes of April. And there’s “More forsythia!” call the
children, as we drive the country roads.
The plowed garden in spring—an avowal of faith in the promise of
the Eternal One whose summer and winter, seedtime and harvest—shall
keep unfolding as long as the earth remains!

29
Story of a Family
“But how can I beat people to be big?” “Andrewshek” wonders, that
dear little scowl puckering his forehead and accentuating the piercing
quality of his brown eyes. I am tucking him in for the night, and so I
try to explain that we are as we are, and will grow only as fast as we are
supposed to grow, and that God has made us in such a way that we can
grow to be so tall and no taller. There isn’t too much we can do about it,
I remind him, but it’s a good idea to eat your good food, and get lots of
sleep and rest.
“Andrewshek” scowls still, and the question still shines in his eyes.
Then Mister Five, Theologian in the upper bunk, offers sagely, “You know,
J. J., the Bible says, ‘It is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves.’”
“Oh,” says “Andrewshek” in a small disappointed voice, but with
acceptance and understanding.

Easter morning on our hill has begun in the same manner for years.
The children awaken us with “The Lord is risen!” and wait with grins for
our answer, “The Lord is risen indeed.” Or vice versa. (But they are happier
if they can beat us to it.) The day advances to include sunrise services for
the older members of the family; a festive breakfast containing at least
these three specialties: hot cross buns, eggs, and singing. Then church
again. And intermittently all day, the eggs colored on Saturday are hid and
rehid until by Sunday evening they are crushed and unappetizing. Good
for salads and sandwiches, though. Also as creamed eggs for Monday
morning breakfast!

One of the surprising things I have learned recently is that one’s
ability to memorize does not vanish because of age, but more probably
deteriorates through disuse. For I am finding that the discipline of
learning a psalm a month, and a new hymn every two weeks is not at all
an impossibility, even with such mediocre mental equipment as mine.
And it gets easier all the time! How wonderfully, indeed, we are made!

And that reminds me of Children’s Meeting last night. Our evangelist
is one of the most agile storytellers we have ever heard—he keeps our little
brood interested not only in the meetings for children, but all during the
sermon. Mister Five confided today, “He preaches the best stories I ever
heard.” We parents who shrink from these object lessons that leave the
children with a remembrance of the object, but a blank where the lesson
is concerned, appreciated especially his children’s meetings. Tonight he
told them he had brought along from home a special tool to show them—a
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tool which could be used for a comb, brush, washcloth, rake, shovel,
dipper—(only a beginning of the list he gave the children) among other
things. After arousing the curiosity of the children and adults to an almost
unbearable pitch (I’ll confess I was thinking, Now how can he make the
Bible fit that description?) he brought his hands out of his pockets.
His text: “I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully
made.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The wordless adoration in the eyes of Seven
when he is presented with an unexpected gift—a box of colored BandAids for his Doctor Set.
May
May Day—and that old ache-in-the-throat returns. And I wish for all the
world that I could share the day—just once more—with the person who
helped most to make May a month of Enchantment for the child who was
me.

Someone has said that a homemaker’s success may be measured
by the moments of happiness that she gives her family. If this is true,
my mother was a whopping success. Of necessity she had to work away
from home; so we often came from school to an empty house. That’s bad,
they say. Though rarely she might have done so, I can’t remember of her
reading to us—a must for mothers these days. Many were the spankings
administered to me by her lithe hand—I know that, even though I can’t
recall any specific one. Her formal schooling extended to the eighth grade,
and while she kept her mind open, reading and growing all her days, she
persisted to the end in the ungrammatical “he don’t” and “they done.”

But in Love—ah, there’s where she ran off with all the degrees and
honors.

And now May is here, and I think of that love so often. I thought of it
last evening as I stood at the door watching the sun making a glory of the
western sky-bit visible here and there through the thin woods behind the
house. For it was on the eve of May Day that we three girls were always
to be found busy with May baskets. Not for us these cheap cornucopias
of construction paper! May baskets called from our saving places all the
hoarded boxes of various shapes and sizes, and from our heads all the
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Story of a Family
ingenuity which nimble fingers could bring into being. Crepe paper was
cut and scalloped and curled and lapped to resemble the flowers of spring,
and each basket was a creation, not a reproduction.
(Just now I wince as memory gives me a flash of our dining room on
such an evening—the long table full of baskets finished and baskets in the
making; flour paste in an old zinc jar lid; scraps of yellow and green and
rose paper littering the worn linoleum. I can see the naked bulb hanging
from its cord in the center of the room, the old treadle machine over by
the window, the worn armchair beside it. At the angle of my knees I feel
the edge of the high bench behind the table. And as it all comes back, I
know that never in all the House and Home magazines in the world will
there be pictured such a beautiful dining room!)

Then we would fill the baskets with popcorn, candy, and blossoms—
always apple blossoms—and in the desk, we would flit from house to house,
creeping to the door, laying down the basket, knocking, and running
wildly away—all the while shivering with excitement at the possibility of
having been seen! Coming home to our own doorstep we would find that
our friends had been busy also—and then came the guessing, “This looks
like Lois’s . . . that’s Lucy’s!” And we would dig deep to find the slip of
paper which would confirm our guess, or surprise us.

Several years we tried May baskets with our children. Somehow—
what is lacking? Friend Husband suggests, “Now be truthful—did your
brothers go in for this sort of thing?” All of a sudden I appear very foolish
to myself for trying to duplicate that dining room scene way back there,
substituting three boys for three girls.

Yes, so many things in May remind me of Her. There’s May Day, and
the last day of school—when she always made me a new dress for the
Picnic. A new dress—and her famous potato salad which was expected
at any picnic a child of hers attended. And there was her birthday (far
more important to us than Mother’s Day, which she had to share with all
mothers—good and bad).

Today, on Her birthday, I had to think of how she loved gardening.
And again I wished, as I often have done, that she had bequeathed to me
some of that affinity for the soil. But—affinity or not, I did finally set out
the lovely BigBoy tomato plants that I’ve grown from seed in flats by the
big window. Also the special Nearest­to-White and Giant-Chrysanthemum32
Hill Journal 1956
Flowered marigolds. Their foliage is rich and hearty. The maples were in
full leaf, and the garden soil was warm and friable as I set the plants out
in rows. I almost enjoyed it!

May 25, and there was a heavy frost last night. My lovely plants are
all shriveling, black from the breath of Jack. The first time I could raise
indoor plants without danger of having them pulled out by little hands—
and a frost destroys them! My neighbors cluck sympathetically, but I
sense they are really thinking, “Don’t they hear the weather reports?” (As
a matter of fact—we don’t. For fifteen years we’ve been trying to get into
the habit of listening to a radio, but with such a family of bookworms,
we’ve given up trying.)

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The quick tears in Mister Ten’s eyes and his
small, strained voice as he answers our offer, “Wouldn’t you like to go to
Boys’ Camp this year?” with “I like it at home pretty well.”
June
“The Hut” is the current craze among the ten-year-olds out our way. We
have dimly thought at times that we should be supervising the construction
a bit more closely. Today verified our misgivings. There was a fire in the
hut—which could have been tragic, but was only painful to our Mister
Ten. He went bawling to the doctor’s office, waving his arms, and hopping
up and down outside while we waited. But coming back, with beautiful
white bandages to the elbows of both arms, his face was radiant. “Oh,
I love this!” he cried. “I’m glad it happened the day before school was
out—now all the kids will see!” His brown eyes were a study in pure joy.
“Oh, I love it, I love it! At last I’ll have something to tell my children!” And
Ten’s mother understood—remembering the coveted broken arm which
she never did get.

In these days when reading is stressed as so important a part of a
mother’s duty to her child, what is happening to storytelling? We hope
parents aren’t forgetting the magic of those most precious-of-all stories —
“When Daddy Was a Little Boy” and “When Mother Was a Little Girl.”

Dinner tonight was special—the dessert being a rhubarb pie from
our good neighbor-relatives. “This is the best pie I ever tasted!” bursts out
Ten. Eleven, enjoying every crumb and longing for more, never­the-less
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Story of a Family
reproves his brother with a stern glance and adds, loyally, “Yes, it tastes
just like yours, Mom.”

Most unforgettable acquaintance of the month for me was authorillustrator Lois Lenski, whom I met yesterday at State Teacher’s College,
where she was speaking at a Social Studies Workshop. I felt I had never
seen such transparent honesty, good­ness, and understanding in one
person as I saw in this woman. My one reaction to her person and her
message: “She is the kind of person I would like to be.”

Seven is Eight today. Only one gift he wants, and for that he goes
with Daddy in the car on his birthday morning. He chooses it himself—a
lovely white rabbit, a doe—to be company to Rags, his brown buck. “What
is her name?” I ask, for I can’t bear to have babies or pets or dolls or
stories unnamed!
He reflects, and his big blue eyes go dreamy behind his specs. “Snow
White” he says reverently—and with finality.

This week I have reread, for perhaps the fourth time, Two Women and
a War. We have no desire to build up a large library of unread books, or
books requiring only one reading. Our policy is to wait to buy a book until
we are certain it will bear re­reading or lending. Attractive as long rows of
book sets appear in the living rooms of some homes we have seen, we are
contented to buy books for their contents, and not for the “atmosphere”
they can create in a room.

“I’m bigger’n—” is a topic of serious consideration between the two
youngest at our house. It is taken up every day, and often many times in
a day.
“I’m bigger’n you are.”
“Well, I’m bigger’n Jan an’ Ginny.”
“Yeah, but I’m bigger’n David.”
On it goes, on and on—until it ends inevitably with one or the other
saying, “I’m bigger’n anyone in the whole world ’cept Daddy an’ Mother
an’ God an’ Jesus.”
“Yeah,” answers the other, fully contented. And mother, listening,
smiles to be placed in so rare a category.

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June is lush from our window. People who come to visit say “Now I
can see the sense of a picture window with a view like this!” They say it
invariably, whether they come in June, October, or January. And though
we are in a chronic state of mild embarrassment over our rather wild
back yard, we are never ashamed of God’s canvas opposite our hill!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment in church when Almost-Eight,
now daily aware of his coming birthday, eyes the mother-to-be down
the bench, leans over and whispers lovingly to his own mother, “I know
Someone who was nice and fat eight years ago!”
July
Family reunions were a novelty to us as children. I was twelve before I ever
attended one—for we grew up in the Wild West, away from our relatives.
Reunions still fascinate me—and this year we were especially happy to
be included in the family of our Lebanon County cousins on July fourth.
Happy, that is, until the evening before, when one of the tribe developed
nausea and fever. Consequently the whole pack came down with the notserious, but inconvenient “virus.” And we could only hope we’d be invited
again sometime.

Today I read that ordinarily one makes no new friends after the age
of forty. We told ourselves that in this matter we hope we will not be
“ordinary.” We want to be open for friendship right up to the moment our
hearts stop beating! Just this week I have been made aware of the reality
of a friendship which has slowly flowered from casual acquaintance. And
I wonder—what manner of cultivation was at work here to produce so
beautiful a flower—before my very eyes, and yet I did not see it! And being
without know-how, either in the raising of roses or friendships, I can only
accept it unquestioningly, as one accepts a flower from the hand of a
child; lovingly as one takes each day, a gift from the hand of God.

We admire people who have a sort of perpetual open-house, where
folks are always coming and going. For some reason, perhaps laziness,
perhaps an innate bent toward introspection, this is a virtue we have not
quite achieved. But we do feel enriched by the guests that occasionally
are ours. Yesterday a missionary couple shared soup and concerns with
us. We are especially glad when these Princes of God come into our home.
They give meaning to those six little banks and to our Missionary Map.
35
Story of a Family

Our new map project differs from our former one, now defunct, in
that we are using only the pictures of those missionaries who have been
in our home. This makes us try a little harder to get our “bids” in when
the various missionaries stop in town. So far this year we’ve enjoyed only
three missionary families—but our fall missions program should yield us
some additions!

It keeps raining three, sometimes four, days out of a week. “And me
with a broken-down dryer!” All one needs to do is to write down a pout like
that to realize how undeservedly fortunate he is. Someday, I tell myself,
why not take your basket down to the creek, and try to teach yourself, by
washing clothes as millions of women still do, that we live like kings up
here on the hill?

The black raspberries are hanging on now—luscious fairy cups,
each tiny cell filled to bursting with sweetness. We have berries on our
morning cereal. Berries for dinner dessert. Berry cobblers for supper. No
one gets tired of them. When the welcome Sunday afternoon guest drops
in unexpectedly the supper menu is—berries and milk.
The green beans, too, are hanging thick, and today the boys picked,
cleaned, and put into jars, nearly two bushels of the tender vegetables,
our family’s favorite. Lazy mother—all she needed to do was to prepare
the jars and process the beans.
The boys enjoyed it—after all, this was only the first day. In fact, they
enjoyed it so much that they offered to go help the young mother over
the tracks and up the path, with her bushel. On their homecoming they
announced, “We didn’t do as many for her as we did for you—and she
gave us cookies!”

July is a big birthday month for us. Thirty-five has become thirtysix, five has become six, and eleven has become twelve, all within a few
days of each other. (To say nothing of neighbors and relatives and friends’
birthdays!) This year our former neighbors were our guests on their
daughter’s and our son’s birthday. Years ago these two had celebrated
together. This year, her mother made the cake for our son, and we made
the cake for her. The unveiling of the mystery cakes was a great occasion,
and one of those moments of happiness which the two children involved
will likely remember a long time.
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Hill Journal 1956

Today I read again “The Simplification of Life” from Kelly’s A Testament
of Devotion. I could feel the lift of spirit-wings as I read, and I thought I
must run out­doors crying to anyone who might hear, “Oh, read this book!
You can’t help but be different!” My second reaction was, “And how is it
changing me?”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment when flatfooted little “Andrewshek”
pads out from his bed and begs “Sit by my door, Mommy, so to keep the
scary dreams away.”
August
Because the breadwinner plans to go to school this fall, August has been
our month for some major operations on the family budget. We hadn’t
known there were so many possibilities—we thought we were living
frugally! To be sure, we always knew we were cutting the peelings thick
when it came to haircuts. Since both of us were convinced of our lack
of manual dexterity, we decided to retain the services of a barber as a
semiluxury. But this year, the semiluxuries have the knife to the throat—
so—

Few people would understand if I were to say that learning to cut the
five boys’ hair—even imperfectly—has been for me a spiritual victory. And
yet it was. Finding that one can do what he knew he couldn’t do is one of
life’s most exhilarating adventures, I do believe.

Small Daughter brought us up short to­day. “Please, Minka, pick up
the book.” We gave the order gently. Her reply— “No.” More firmly, then,
“Minka, the floor is not the place for your good book. Can you put it on
the shelf?”
“No.”
Again, rising, and adding to the emphasis, “Minka!” Miss AlmostThree cast a baleful look in our direction. “Okay,” she sobbed, “but don’t
say to me, ‘That’s a nice girl’!”
(We didn’t!)

The three big boys came home today after five days on the farm of
our Springs friends, and the house suddenly seems bursting with noise,
alive with long legs and arms. We are instructed that a garden tractor
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Story of a Family
and power mower are absolute essentials for our acre; that the next time
we get chickens we must get Leghorns; that a Farmall tractor is not to be
excelled; that at least three of our family will be farmers and, above all,
that “Mother, you were wrong! Those kids do too fuss about working, and
their mother does too have to nag at them to keep them on the job!”

We always think we will keep a list of the books we read together
in the summer, and we never do. But the summer has been full of good
reading experiences. Today, in the heat of mid-August we finished our
Lenski book—“Prairie School”—and were furnished with enough authentic
blizzardry to air-condition our warm living room.

The first day of school is looming—and Six, in his characteristically
hoarse, low voice, reminds me that “His” day is coming up. For he
remembers that we have a family institution concerning Boys-aboutready-for-first-grade. One day he is to be taken to a neighboring town,
where we will buy his “school things” and tip it off with a sundae at the
corner drugstore. Fourth in a line of small straight six-year-olds to go
through the family ritual, this current boy was specially favored—since
we combined a necessary trip to Pittsburgh with His Day. And the sundae
was eaten by Mother and son, with mutual pleasure, in a big Woolworth’s
Store.

In our Prayer Group we have learned one new hymn a month. At times
it seemed to take a bit too much effort, but we con­tinued to learn them.
Tonight, at our meeting, we sang together all the new songs we had thus
learned. Most of them were from our Songs of the Church. I felt afterward
that perhaps we should have shared some of our experiences with these
hymns. I, for one, could have said that canning was made bearable to the
tune of “The Work Is Thine, O Christ,” and that in the moments of waiting
before the services began “Dear Shepherd of Thy People” always helped
to prepare my mind. Then there were the times when the fullness of life
overwhelmed and I found myself bursting into “Praise the Saviour, Ye
Who Know Him” as I went about the ordinary duties of the day.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment when Six runs breathlessly into
the house, the sweat streaming from his sopping butchcut hair, down over
his temples. He throws into my lap a bunch of mint leaves he has torn
from their bed down by the stream, together with a grimy note (printed
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Hill Journal 1956
with the help of his next-oldest brother) bearing the words, “I love you.”
All this followed by the explanation, “That’s because of That!”
September
The years when we send a child to first grade are always more exciting than
the odd years. This year Number Four Boy left us, erect and confident. He
had beamed to be the subject of prayer at the breakfast table—the special
“Going to School for the First Time” prayer that each child gets only once
in his life. But now he offered us a nonchalant peck at the door and flew
to join his brothers and the rest of the crowd at the bus stop, his new blue
jeans and red shirt flashing like the foliage of a bright bird in the morning
sunshine.
Coming home, slightly wilted and bone-tired as anyone could see, his
only comment, “You have to sit so long at school!”

Tonight we were reading the next-to-last Laura Ingalls Wilder book. Pa
made a pun, and Laura explained that while Ma never thought Pa’s puns
were funny, she always had to laugh at the way Pa looked at her when he
made one. “Just like you are about Dad’s jokes!” grinned Twelve.

We all laughed, however, when Miss Almost Three began her literary
(?) career with a pun at the supper table. “Oh, I won’t eat this!” she cried,
as she pushed a minute brown particle to the side of her plate. “It’s a
bug!”
“Why, no, Honey,” we said. “That’s just a tiny piece of hamburger.”
“Well,” she replied saucily, “ham-bug­er!”

After days of canning when I think I can’t wait to stretch out on that
bed, it’s hard to be sympathetic with youngsters who are sure that sleep
is a waste of good playing time. Even the new scholar, though so tired
he is pale, resents the curfew: “Now listen, everybody,” he announces. “I
gotta new rule. Anyone with three blisters on their hand don’t have to go
to bed.” Softly then, in a tone of mock discovery, “Why, look, I got three
blisters!”

My good friend Lois writes that she loves to can. But she is one of
those Born Homemakers, I tell myself. And it’s true, she does have the
knack. But deep down, I know I could love to can, too—if I wanted to.

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Story of a Family
I suppose it’s a common human failure to love to achieve, but to
despise the steps by which we achieve. Those rows and rows of varicolored
fruits and vegetables on the shelves are a thing of beauty to me. (I only
wish I had exerted myself to fill the last empty space.) But only rarely did
I actually enjoy the work involved.

I keep thinking wistfully that I will have a soul again and will start to
Live—after canning is over! And while I say it, I say to myself, “Now that’s
an example of poor stewardship.” Much as I dislike canning, however,
I can’t make myself say, “I never want to see another jar!” I remember
someone who said that—and who never did see another one.

Canning notwithstanding, I did finish reading The Nun’s Story today.
I bought it for Arlene, but I wanted to see if it was good enough to send. I
like it so much that I loaned it to two more friends before sending it. And
I knew it to be one of those books which I must buy for my own library. It
is an uncanny literary ability which can make the reader feel as if all this
has happened in his own soul.

My private theory about gift giving is probably foolish, but I cling to
it: viz., I don’t like to give a gift to someone unless I myself want it so badly
that giving it away is a struggle. It was hard to send off that book, much
as I love Arle!

Sometimes I’m convinced that our two youngest are the arguingest
pair in the English-speaking world. They are so different—the fanatical,
mechanically minded boy-child, and the soul-of-domesticity girl; perhaps
that is part of the reason for their lack of rapport. Anyway, a dozen times
a day I am appealed to: “Am I a dummy?” “Am I a little girl?” “Am I stupid?”
A dozen times a day I smile and say, “No, you’re a wonderful girl!” And a
dozen times a day the little hands go on the hips and the little chin juts
forward with the Last Word: “See—Mommy DIDN’T SAID!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment when Missy, watching the
dressing of Big Brother’s wounds, whispers—with tears streaming down
her cheeks, “Oh, don’t hurt my little friend!”
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Hill Journal 1956
October
These are the crisp bright days of blue and gold. Morning—and down the
lane struts the colorful Ringneck, croaking his hoarse, harsh greeting to
us hill-dwellers. At noon we walk down for the mail, the little children
stopping to pick up sticks and stones and varicolored leaves; Frisky
bouncing playfully in and out of the fields, flushing pheasants; and
I—trying to match my thoughts with the various beauty surrounding us
all.

Perhaps there is something to be said for occasional solitude. One of
the disciplines of a certain prayer group is to observe a “personal retreat”
once a month. Two hours spent alone—absolutely alone—once a month!
I thought of that today as I took a leafy path into the woods at Laurelville,
leaving the children to play by themselves among the loved, familiar rocks
and rills of this beautiful campground. Only fifteen minutes of “Salute
thyself, see what thy soul doth wear” and I realized the wisdom of such a
practice. “For God alone my soul waits in silence” might be a good tonic
for that malady which so many moth­ers seem to enjoy, and yet complain
about most of the time—“busyness.”

How many words are wasted in a day—a week—a month—a year—I
wonder, on this favorite complaint, favorite excuse, favorite topic of
conversation among housewives. I no longer remember who pointed out
to me this truth—but I have lived to appreciate it, and to bless the person
who passed it on to me—that the real reason people talk so much about
be­ing busy is that it gives them a feeling of self-importance. That is why
one rarely hears a truly humble person complaining of being “so busy.”
(And though I know I’m not truly humble), I have, because of this insight,
removed the phrase “too busy” from my vocabulary. Strangely enough,
since then I have rarely felt harassed or pressed for time.

Long ago, in my student days, I burst into the crowded day of a great
and good man with an apology for interrupting a busy schedule. That
man not only put me at ease, but taught me “plain Christianity” when he
pointed to a chair, smiled, turned up his palms, and drawled leisurely, “I
have all the time there is.”

The man of the house is taking a few days off to paint the walls of
his domain. He has many helpers. I marvel at his patience as one after
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Story of a Family
another takes his turn at slapping (slopping) on the paint. Four paints
steadily for an hour, and weeps and wails when he must give up his
brush to Eight, who wants to paint his rabbit hutch. I try to match the
Man’s patience when they all come in with big brown blotches on face and
neck, in hair and even in the curlicues of their ears. The turpentine and
the patience give out about the same time.

Little Missy and her mother were admiring a new baby today. Coming
home, Mother suggested, “It would be nice for you to have a baby sister,
wouldn’t it?” Little Missy pondered that. She was tempted—almost, then
replied, “Well, I don’t think I need one, cause you an’ me are sisters,
huh?”

Eight has made a collection of leaves for his father’s birthday—first
gathering them, then shellacking, then carefully mounting them in a
wallpaper-covered notebook which he has made. “Have you a child,” asked
a friend of ours, “who seems innately unselfish?” I knew what she was
talking about. Our drawers and hearts are full of the small spontaneous
tokens from this child—a steady stream of them since his babyhood. And
always they are the creations of heart and hands—never mere moneybought baubles!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Those rare occasions when father and mother
together make the rounds of the sleeping children— “To see if they are
covered” and, one suspects, inwardly to renew those unspoken promises
made to each child at his birth.
November
Our little Princess today has need of consolation, for it is her big brother’s
fifth birthday, and though she has only recently officiated with queenly
aplomb at her own third-year rites, yet somehow her brothers’ birthdays
seem to come oftener than hers. She stands at the window and gazes
disconsolately out into the cold rain.
“Someday,” she murmurs, “I’m going to grow to be a BΙG Mommy,
and I’ll have BIG hands, and I’ll SMILE to Daddy.” She pauses then adds
as an afterthought, “And I won’t suck a sniggeret like the town lady. I’ll
jes’ chew carrots.”

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Hill Journal 1956
My friend Arlene and I both have copies of Fellowship of the Saints—a
fine anthology of Christian devotional literature. Consequently, hardly
a letter passes between us without “Have you read...on page...?” This
week I felt compelled to cite her to Evelyn Underhill’s “The Place of Will,
Intellect, and Feeling in Prayer.” This, I wrote, is the kind of reading that
makes difference!

But does reading make a difference? A friend at a meeting last night
said, “I get discouraged about writing, because I think—who’ll read it
anyhow—and if they do, what difference will it make?” Then she turned
to me. “Do you sense a cooperating audience when you write, or do you
just write to express yourself?”

I had to admit that at one time, in fact for many years, writing was
for me primarily a form of self-expression. But it has since become an
act of faith. If I didn’t believe that someone, somewhere, even only one
person—is a better, richer person because of something I have written,
I don’t think I could make myself take time from the duties which to me
are less exacting than writing.

Advice is cheap—and too many of us give too much of it needlessly.
But one line of advice I never feel apologetic about giving is— “You should
read this book!”

My missionary friend, Lois, said one evening, “You should read Eugene
Nida’s Customs and Cultures. Weeks later, while browsing over a shelf of
books which our pastor had placed at the back of the church, I saw the
book, and I took it home, not really believing that “An Anthropology for
Christian Missions” could be highly interesting to me. But it was. In my
enthusiasm, I included a few words about the book in a letter to a friend.
Several days later an airmail letter came, asking if the book could be sent
her immediately. “This is an S.O.S.!”
Weeks later she wrote that she had used the book as a basis for her
talks on “America’s Forgotten Children” to a convention of over 3,000
church women. And so it goes—the endless ripples from the tiny pebble:
One person says—“Have you read—?” and in time thousands have had
the opportunity of gaining sharpened insights into a common concern.

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So I am never apologetic when I say to a friend, “You should read…”
And though we book-lovers are often charged with being overenthusiastic,
perhaps our emphasis is necessary to remind those whose reading habits
are underdeveloped that reading is indispensable to those (including
“busy” homemakers) who would grow as Jesus grew—in body, mind, and
spirit.

Mister Ten and I were riding to town together last night. “What an
unearthly cackle!” I protested at one of his outbursts.
“Well,” he drawled, “you can just be glad I didn’t curl up my lips in a
shrewd evil grin.”
After noting the effect of his words with satisfaction, he admitted,
“Got that ‘shrewd, evil grin part’ from the Hardy Boys books, an’ the
‘curled lip’ part from that last dog story.”

Today we are making fruitcake—Marjorie’s recipe, with coconut and
jelly added to the usual ingredients. As we prepare the fruits and nuts,
we talk again of the joy we had as we visited our friends yesterday. “We
went to Thanksgiving at Debby’s house!” chants Miss Three. Twelve isn’t
sure which was best—the fun or the food. “Especially that dressing,” he
recalls, and his eyes go dreamy.

Then our thoughts move ahead to Christmas. Miss Three listens,
then, dimly, she seems to grope toward a forgotten pleasure. Finally it
comes out in words­—“And can I play with The-House-of-Joseph-BrokenHead?” Indeed she can, and from its yearlong rest on the shelf, we bring
the crèche, including the headless Joseph.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Those moments when this wife becomes one
with all loved women of all time, whose husbands look across the table at
them and repeat that obviously false (yet somehow true) nonsense, “Do
you know you’re the loveliest woman in the world?”
December
December means one thing on our hill—­Christmas. Each year it seems
as if Christmas begins a little earlier. Each year we try to think of new
solutions to some of the problems posed by the modern world’s “spending”
of the season. We here in our little corner of the universe don’t try to
make any sweeping reforms—but just to add our little bit of leaven to the
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dough. This year we decided on two ways to express what we feel about
Christmas. We would make gifts, where feasible, and we would open our
home to our friends during the holiday fortnight.

The boys are working with their tongues hanging out, trying to finish
the scrapbook for Grandpa and Grandma. Each has a certain number of
pages to fill, and so they are plastering on works of art, descriptions of
hobbies, snapshots, stories and pictures of their pets, samples of their
collections—and even some fruitcake.

We are waiting for “Gimme” to appear this year. But for some reason,
everyone seems so caught up in the spirit of giving that there is no
evidence of the demon. We used to wonder if there were any children in
the world more selfish than ours—especially at Christmas time. “What
have we done wrong?” we would say. But for some mysterious reason
things are different this year. “We’re just growing up, I guess,” is Twelve’s
suggestion.
Anyway, all the hoarded allowances have been carefully allotted for
this and that gift. The buying has been done independently and in secret—
and with Christmas still over three weeks away the unused crib back
in Dad’s and Mom’s room is already piled with odd packages, clumsily
wrapped and taped, showing evidence of much fondling, investigation,
rewrapping and retaping, while being the subjects of much whispering
and hinting. Mister Ten, adding a few more to the pile lets out a whoop
and cries, “You know, Mom, it really is funner to give than to get!”

Later, as I am washing dishes, I hear him practicing on the piano his
simplified version of “Joy to the World.” After the second phrase he stops
out of sheer exuberance and turns to me, eyes luminous—“Don’t you like
that! Such a spring to it!”

Christmas greetings! They overflow the place, it seems.
Here is the long yearly letter from the friend in Canada whom I have
never met—but whom I know better than I know some of my neighbors!
Here is a warm, loving note from the music teacher of my childhood, from
a Sunday-school teacher of my adolescent years, from dear aunts and
cousins, brothers and sisters, college and community friends. Here also,
are the photographic contributions of families who have made a habit of
sending a picture greeting each year since their marriage.
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Story of a Family

Unconsciously we sort the mail in this way: two-centers on one pile,
three-centers on another, form letters on another. And we come to some
conclusions: (1) That a personal word on a 2-cent postal card would mean
much more than a name on an ever-so-beautiful commercial greeting.
(2) That, though some form letters are superbly readable, and we do love
the people who send them, and appreciate their problems in trying to
communicate with many friends—still, we wish someone would publish
and circulate to pastors and missionaries and others who must (or who
feel they must) use form letters, some pointers on how to make such
letters “speak.” (3) That habit has a way of keeping names on a Christmas
card list long after the binding ties have been dissolved.
But all in all—what warmth and beauty reach down into our hearts
with the appearance of each of these white envelopes! We’re not quite
ready to throw the custom to the winds.

The great joy of the season was our Open House. Each evening
people have come, friends who were somehow not too busy for a little
unscheduled fellowship. I’m sure they have no idea what benediction
they laid upon our family as they came and went. We played together,
sang, talked, and drank punch, while the children whammed rhythm
band instruments in the back room.

Gifts were few at our house this year, yet everyone said the same
thing—“Just what I wanted!” Followed by hugs and kisses and vocal
affirmations of love.

The three boys were the Wise Men at the church program. I watched
them standing shiny-eyed with all the other children—(and our own
dear Minka like a little red candle herself) and I hoped that there would
always be children’s programs at Christmas. Inside, deep down, was the
warm memory of my own happiness as a child participating in the annual
Christmas program.

Today my friend “across the tracks” and I wind up the season with
a visit over cups of Japanese tea and Fortune Cakes, sent by her sister
expressly for us to enjoy together. As we sit, talking and drinking the
delicious tea, the children beg for Fortune Cakes, and giggle over their
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fortunes. Only little Andrewshek seems mystified. We read to him his
Fortune: “You will have great power over women.”
“Oh,” he whispers, and shuffles away, with big brown question marks
for eyes.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That treasured note from a friend who herself
does not celebrate Christmas, and yet who has given so freely, so lovingly
of herself. I read again her closing lines, quoted from Gibran: “And let
there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.” And I
whisper, “Shalom, Esther!”
Hill Journal 1957
January
“He giveth snow like wool”—a lovely phrase! But, carried in on the boots,
clinging to the pants, and stamped about on the floor of the utility room,
all resemblance of our January snow to wool disappears in a matter of
seconds.
We like it anyhow—and wish there would be enough for good sledding.
It falls, then thaws. Great muddy ruts develop in our road. The ruts freeze.
And who goes over this road without silently or audibly grumbling against
that road crew? They’ve been in the process (theoretically) of surfacing
our stretch for the past five years. Still it remains an ordinary country
road—gravel, to be sure, but narrow and full of chuckholes.
“I always clamp my teeth together, to save wear and tear on them,”
says Ten, as we negotiate the corduroy ribs at the corner just before the
bridge. The poor old Chevy can’t clamp her teeth. She just rattles.

Today, thinking of our Tall One, I was led to make French fries and
hamburgers for supper. That’s his favorite fare, and when he sniffs the
promise of such a meal, invariably he comes forth with one of those rare
bursts of affection followed by the highest praise a teener can give an
unpredictable parent: “You’re swell, Mom!” Smiling back at him, I realize
that at the present there is no more concrete way of showing him affection
than through food for his bottomless pit!

“Forget not to show love” was the verse in one of his first little books.
Opposite was the picture of a child in the process of showing love to a little
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old lady. I recall now the earnest way this same Tall One, then hardly two,
leafed the pages, repeating in his high, soft voice all the verses perfectly—
until he came to this one. Then he would falter, look up at me quizzically,
and proceed uncertainly—“Forget not to give flowers to Grandmother.”
Today I’ve been thinking about this little bit from the Bible—“Forget not
to show love.” I think of what my friend Dorothy says: “you can’t show
love without loving; but it is possible to love a person without showing
it”. I think, too, of the many times I have forgotten—or worse, refused—to
show even the fraction of the love I feel. I think of the way love blooms
about the house when I remember to show it—in the sincere compliment;
the unscheduled kiss or pat; the pressure of the hand; the quiet care
of tucking-in time; the serving of a favorite dish for the loved child or
husband.

My young friend Betsy has finally sent the children’s prayer I asked
for:
O Lord,
Help us to serve Thee faithfully today,
To learn quickly,
To think clearly,
To work diligently,
To play fairly,
And to be friendly to everyone. Amen.
I think Mister Eight will like this.

Six confided today, concerning a little friend, “We’re good friends
now—he doesn’t even bite me any more!” His younger brother, not to be
outdone, added, “He’s almost my friend—only—(in a small voice) he still
bites me a little!”

Our friend has recommended a book,—Douglas Steere’s On Listening
to Another. The book begins with an analysis of the role of the listener—
human and divine— and concludes with a description of the Quaker form
of worship. I have found it speaking to me—to me, one of the world’s worst
listeners. I need to learn to use the “receptive sea of silence”—God knows!
Thinking of this today recalled the words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer—that
“real silence, real stillness, really holding one’s tongue, comes only as the
sober consequence of spiritual stillness.” My resolve: to attempt not so
much to “hold my tongue” as to experience genuine spiritual stillness—
deep down at the source which feeds the tongue.
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
Miss Three stopped asking questions (and answering them—in case I
didn’t) for the space of a few seconds today, after which she came, grinned
up at her parent, and piped, “We were silent, weren’t we, Mommy?”

We have a mouse in our house. But ah! the snare of having reared our
boys to be bookworms. In their fierce book-bred compassion for animals,
they go about unsetting all the traps. The result—we have many a mouse
in our house. Oh, well,
“I think mice
Are rather nice!”

Today the mailbox produced a letter of appreciation. (I have a strong
feeling that to some, God has given a special Ministry of Appreciation!)
This was from a friend whom I have not seen since school days—over
fifteen years ago! As classmates we were never much in each other’s
company. But in the intervening years, particularly the last two, there
has blossomed between us a rich sharing via post card, infrequent letters,
and frequent prayers. I read her kind words again—
AND I PRAY: O Father-God, Initiator of all real friendships, I thank
you for this friend—for the growth of her spirit, for the influence of her
devotion on my own, and for the rich love we share in Christ. Help me to
grow to be what she thinks I am! And bless, with her, all those who join
her in the Ministry of Appreciation.
February
February—month of love! And tonight Esther and Gertrude took me to
hear Mary Morris’ “Great Love Scenes from Literature.” Listening to the
young students interpret passages from the Bible, from Shakespeare, and
from a long list of poets and playwrights, one very humanly longed for the
presence of “the man in her life.” We take each other so for granted, we
husbands and wives. Here our eyes would surely have met in the dimness
of the hall and flashed “That’s us!” as the young man read, “Let me not to
the marriage of true minds admit impediments…”

Today, the anniversary of Mother’s home-going, I find the beautiful
words of John Baillie, in his evening prayer for the seventh day, taken from
A Diary of Private Prayer: “I rejoice in the dear memory of [my mother],
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Story of a Family
knowing that, though [she] has passed into mystery, [she] has not passed
beyond Thy love and care.”

Somebody has said that it is easy to feel compassion for one who is
dead, “safely pigeonholed in history”; it is simple to feel deeply concerning
“great causes”; it is a small matter to weep over the fate of characters in
a book. But the measure of our compassion is the measure which we
expend on that particular person, right here, right now, who is in need of
it. And that is just the place at which we try so hard to escape action on
what we feel!

“Her concern for me,” writes my friend Arlene, “shows as plainly as a
white slip sticking out of a short black skirt!”

“Andrewshek” sidled up to his mother today with this question: “Why
is the world still round, and the water don’t fall off?”
A good question. His mother sent him scuttling to the study for an
answer from his father!

Our shower for Alice was one of those things that didn’t quite “come
off.” Our plans were well laid. The refreshments, we thought, were quite
lovely—just the kind Alice would like. But when the baby comes the night
before the baby shower, it does put a crimp in things. We were so happy for
Alice, though—a little girl! As we visited the next morning in the antiseptic
atmosphere of the hospital, there was the pull of many memories within.
Somehow, I can’t go into that maternity wing without reliving, at least
briefly, those deep experiences which accompanied the birth of each of
our children. As I was standing at the window of the nursery, looking at
Alice’s tiny daughter, the day of Minka’s birth crammed itself into my full
heart. There was her father, leaning over with shining eyes, and saying
those words, repeated five times before, but still new, “I’m so proud of
you—so proud!” And there was the mother herself, repeating inwardly,
again and again, the words of another mother: “My soul doth magnify the
Lord.” All this searing beauty returns in the familiar surroundings and
when some mother has a new baby, I argue with myself—“Shall I go and
subject myself to it, or shall I do the easy thing—write a note?”

Today the Bruch record came, and we are basking in beauty. Why
does he speak so to me? He may not be a top-rank composer, but—! As
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I listen to the cello solo I am reminded of Shakespeare’s words: “Strange
that a few sheep’s guts can rend the soul out of a man!”

Tonight the man of the house took out time to help discuss—
seriously—what I’ve tried to bring up a hundred (?) times, but with no
outstanding success: “In the event of death…” We both agreed that we
would want burial to follow as soon as possible after death, omitting
the “viewing” process; that burial should be followed by a memorial
service at the church; that included in this should be much singing (by
the congregation) of the great hymns of the church, and a message of
Christian faith, sounded on the note of joy and hope, to be given by the
pastor of whatever church we are attending at the time.

Last night we finished the final book of C. S. Lewis’ Narnian series
for children­—The Last Battle. “And the water stood in our eyes”—as old
John Bunyan would say—as we sensed in the magnificent figure of Aslan,
the Lion, the real presence of Jesus Christ. “How strange,” I confided
later to the boys’ father, “that for the first time in my life I should almost
ache with longing to see Him—face to face—and that when I read of Him
in a child’s fairy story, and He described as a romping lion!” The scene of
the judgment gripped us all, and Mister Six cried angrily, “I wish Jesus
would make everyone love Him!” There was a silence, then Mister Eight
answered soberly, “No, I don’t, ’cause then we’d be just like animals. You
have to be a person to make a decision, and I’d rather be a person.”

Thinking today about the boys’ “theological discussion” I recall that
these are ordinary boys, not the “gifted children” one hears much about
these days. Yet their insights have added much to their parents’ growth.
Often in the past I have berated myself for my failures as a parent, but
today I am inoculated with courage as I remember our closeness of last
night.
AND I PRAY: O God, we thank you for the delightful community of
souls you have given us—right here in our own home! Help us to remember
that these are not ours—to have, to use, to manipulate, to hoard, to
exploit. Remind us daily that we are honored to have, for just a few years,
“God’s men in our keeping.” Help us to hold them lovingly, carefully, but
with a light touch—as stewards, not as lords. Amen.
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March
With the cold March winds whining about the house corners and rattling
the naked branches against each other, how one longs for spring! For
the forsythia on the hillsides again—for the redbud, the wild plum, and
the thickening buds in the woods down by Jacob’s Creek. And how one
longs for the day when these little folks can be out, hair blowing, bootless,
snow-suitless, capering on the lawn! Verily, I am winter-tired.

We love to watch Mister Eight and his Minka. A special bond has
existed between these two, even before Minka’s brown eyes opened on
the world, when her brother knew this new baby was going to be the
sister he wanted. This morning, schooltime, bespectacled “Lefty” knelt
and embraced his pet. “Honey-dear, I didn’t get my kiss this morning!”
“Oh, yes, you did,” Minka cries seriously. “Don’t you be-member?”
“That’s right! I did kiss you, Honey­dear. But let’s kiss again to make
sure!”

Minka and “Lefty” have a game between them called “Denefit and
Bessert.” (To date none of the rest of us can figure out the significance of
Lefty’s choice of names, whether it be for a rabbit, a game, or a person.)
The game: She slides down his tummy off the divan. He reaches down,
saying, “O Dear, now I must go down and fetch my little old woman)” And
this, repeated many times, is the essence of “Denefit and Bessert.”

Yesterday was Pittsburgh day. Never do I go into the massive Carnegie
Library and Museum without a sense of awe. This time the morning was
spent in the music library, with earphones and a stack of records. After
hours spent with Bruch, Mozart, T. S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, and Robert
Frost, I removed the earphones, and peering frantically about the great
record­lined room, the thought kept recurring: “Ah, God, so much to
experience, and so little time for the experiencing!” Then came the boys’
father with the heartening news that the car had broken down! Later,
sitting in one of the immense halls of the art museum, waiting for the
tow-truck, I felt sick at the thought of what this added expense might
mean—unaware of the beauty all around me. But, ah, the wonders of the
subconscious, which stores away for us what we are unable to assimilate
consciously. For when I awoke this morning, there in my mind’s eye,
instead of the inevitable repair bill, were the graceful lines of the replica
of the Parthenon which I had unseeingly seen yester­day; and like a song
the words of Keats, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever…”!
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
Today the mending, the darling daughter, and the mother of the
family betook themselves to our friend Alice’s. We delighted (mother and
daughter) in the new baby. Minka watched her being bathed, and held
her to give her the bottle. Those brown eyes shine, and her mother knew
what refrain we should be hearing for days: “I fed the baby! I fed the
baby!” Meanwhile, her mother will be remembering the meeting of spirit
with spirit and bread broken together in thankfulness—bread which was
more than bread!

Wanted: a book of bright sayings written for the use of people-whodon’t-know-what-to-say-when-all-the-other-women-are-talking-aboutspring-house-cleaning. I mourn my deficiencies of the housewifely virtues
to a friend who, trying to be kind, assures me that God needs all sorts
of people! Friend Husband, though, saves the day: “If I had wanted a
nester,” says he, “I would have looked around for one.”

Mister Six’s girl friends keep ringing him up. “Smitty,” I say to him,
“how can you have so many girl friends? Why, a different one calls almost
every day!” And that young man, fresh and cocky from the first-grade
classroom, but serious as can be, replies, “Oh, I stay with one until she
likes me good enough, then I go to another one.”

Our friend has given me a book to read: Eric Fromm’s The Art of Loving.
Though not written from a “Christian” viewpoint, it is, nevertheless, one
of the most meaningful treatments of the subject I have yet read. From
its pages I have copied many gems in my notebook, and one hopes that a
few seeds have taken root in the deep places of the heart. “Only in the love
of those who do not serve a purpose,” I read, “does love begin to unfold.”
And, “To love someone is not just a strong feeling. It is a decision, a
judgment, a promise.” This book excites me with the possibilities of love—
given plenty of spirit-room. One feels its pervasive effect in our home
relationships; it must be shared with my reading neighbors—this book!
But some days I take it up with a kind of horror. To myself I say, “Oh, no,
do you have to subject yourself to that ruthless self-exposure again!” But
I do, knowing that God, who is wise, as well as loving, will shield me from
seeing more of myself in one expos­ure than I can bear.
AND I PRAY: O my God, and the God of all growing spirits, I thank
Thee for the green shoots which are made to spring in the human soul.
I thank Thee for sending into our lives people and circumstances which
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demand of us a decision to grow in this… and this… And I, who desire to
grow into the likeness of the Christ (yet in my humanity continually resist
growth), I ask Thy power to help me to abandon myself to that desire: to
“commit myself without guarantee.” I would be love as Thou art love; help
me to take the risks and the suffering which loving implies. Amen.
April
Now it is April, and the essence of many past Aprils seems distilled in this
particular one. All the heart-rending greens and yellows and pinks and
whites in the peculiar combinations that mean April: all the intimations
of life beginning. What lovelier month is there for beginnings than this
one—when the green wheat carpets the hill opposite our window, and
the buds are fattened, ready to burst? And we here, on our hill, we are
especially partial to April. Our marriage began in April. One of our babies
was born in April, and I have thought ever since that if one could choose
one’s own birth month, mine would be April!

Lovely April! But she is deceptive. And today marks the third of days
unseasonably warm—so warm that summer dresses sprout, mowers hum,
screens are going up, and the boys are asking to swim in the mudhole.
All this—when we know very well there are still some raw winds and cold
rains ahead of us! And little Minka, tousled from sleep, staggers out of
her room, sits down in a block of sunlight on the rug, and sings softly to
herself as her mother gets breakfast:
“I’m sitting in the sunshine, helping God;
I’m jis’ sitting in the sunshine helping God.”
Bless her, she is, at that. She has started my day right!

Is there anything quite so hard as asking forgiveness of another
person? Nothing, I thought this week, except asking forgiveness of a
whole group of people, one by one! Because of some things that were
said in our cell group the other night I found myself in that position. I
think I had always imagined—and experienced—that confessing makes
the burden lighter! But after repeating it six times over, I was only terribly
impressed with the seriousness of speaking without charity. What had
been at first a comparatively light burden, gathered weight as each door
closed behind me. At the same time, in spite of the condemnation and
depression, there was an experience of an almost tangible “Presence” (as
our Quaker friends would say). And as I struggled on through this week,
I now understood and lived what Barbour wrote: “The Lord’s goodness
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surrounds us at every moment. I walk through it almost with difficulty,
as through thick grass and flowers.”

A friend divulged a funny “absent­minded-professor” joke at our table
tonight. The lady of the house smiled wryly. “I used to laugh at those
jokes,” she sighed. “Now they’re too commonplace to be funny!” The latest
incident happened only a few days before, when the man of the house
came out from the telephone with a blank look. “I can’t find their phone
number!”
“Whose?”
“Why, Bill—uh—oh, just a minute.”
A sheepish grin pulled down the corners of his mouth, and he went
back in to make his call. Later he explained that he had been hunting in
the directory for “parras”—the top word on his Hebrew vocabulary card
pile!

These days I am using my list of “The Two Hundred Stories” for the
children’s nap time. I would like to get on with these stories, beginning
with my father’s and mother’s childhood, and stretching on into my twelfth
year. But every day Andrewshek says, “Tell about when your daddy died!”
and every day Minka begs, “Tell me about when you got your mummy the
dishes with the yellow flowers on them.” Will I ever get through my list? I
keep thinking I must write these out for the family…

Easter Sunday—and the little family lines up at the rail to watch the
giant United Airlines plane slowly rise from the ground—with Daddy in it.
Mister Six pales as the plane takes off, and tears stand in his eyes, while
the other five caper to ride the escalators. Sometimes Smitty’s devotion to
his father is frightening. Anyway, I suddenly feel more close and tender
with him than I have felt for a long time, and I think, “Child of Mine, what
would you do without your father!” Dear God, let him have his father as
long as he needs him!

And now Ten is Eleven. Strange about children. You ask them their
age. But even if you ask them the day before their birthday they are
never the new age. Nor a nice “ten-and-a-half.” No indeed! They remain
a nice round age until the day they qualify for the next nice round age.
Today the birthday boy was engrossed in his celebration—everything just
as ordered. His favorite boy friends, his favorite foods (all the French
fries, hamburgers, choco­late milk, cake, and ice cream they can eat), his
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favorite pastime (“messing around”—which in this case included frying
eggs over his Sterno stove down in the pasture). And while he is enjoying
his day of kingship, his mother is enjoying it in a different way. She is
remembering. But she is quickly snatched from her reverie concerning the
fat little boy with the alert dark eyes who lay, that April morning eleven
years ago, in the crook of her arm. For now he is dashing in and out of the
house, brimming with that intense enthusiasm which has characterized
him from babyhood, but that—goodness knows!—takes more patience
these days. I smile at his fleeing back, hold my ears as the herd thunders
past behind him, and remember the suggestion of Fromm, that it is not
particularly virtuous to love a baby—the test of mother-love being the
measure of love one has for the growing child!
AND I PRAY: Dear God, it is our son’s birthday, and I want simply to
thank you for him. When I think of how we rejoiced at his birth, and what
great things we envisioned for him, then I marvel at my lack of patience
with his sensitive, intense personality. Help me to accept his uncanny
reproofs with good humor and gratitude. And bless his twelfth year with
fun and growth—and with the love and understanding of good parents!
Amen.
May
May—all the sweet odors of springtime; the inviting stimuli of gardening
time! Yet the man of the house bends over his books, the call of the newplowed soil lost to him this year. And the woman of the house, as always,
is able to enjoy it all only from the distance of seed catalogs and poetry.
Valiantly the big boys rake and plant and hoe, taking advantage of their
dad’s current (and their mother’s perennial) lack of interest in gardening,
to have 4-H gardens of their own. The little fellers are gardening too. What
are they planting? Gourds, pumpkins, and watermelons!

Lefty used up all the garnered charm of his nearly nine years in
trying to secure permission to bake some cookies today.
“No, I think not … you’ve had too many sweet things lately.”
“Well, shucks,” he whined, “I could use salt instead of sugar, couldn’t
I?”
He does love to bake, and though I try to keep out of the kitchen
when he’s at work, it is sometimes good that I’m not too far away, for he
has a flair for innovation. The last time he made cookies—with the help of
Smitty—we overheard, “Well, it says baking soda, but we don’t have any
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that I can see; so we’ll just leave it out.” Later, “Doesn’t vanilla smell good!
Let’s put a whole lot in. The more, the better!”

Today I stopped by to get some information from an old friend, and
we chatted for a while. Then suddenly it was not chatter, but fellowship,
on that level to which so few of us find time to open ourselves. We
talked of prayer, and shared our experiences of growth in that area. “I
suppose,” he smiled, “that some good people would be scandalized. But
I scarcely ever pray any more in audible words—and yet prayer is more
meaningful and impor­tant to me than ever.” I told him how hard it is for
me to say to anyone, “I’m praying for you,” because of the abuse of the
phrase to mean, “I am mentioning your name when I pray.” And so I have
an understanding with people who know me, and when I say, “I will be
thinking of you” —they know. As I left, my friend said in his old, winsome
way, “Think of me sometimes.”
“Oh, but I do, often,” I cried. And God knows it is true!

Is there anything so delightful to the little feminine heart as a new
pair of shiny black slippers? Today Minka was the happy one, and to note
the reaction of her five brothers was a revealing study: Speedy, edging into
his teens, looks up at the shoes from the bowl of cereal he has prepared
for himself as an afterschool snack. “Oh, Minka, those are nice shoes!” He
gives her a warm smile.
J. S., all legs, stumbles in from school. “See my shoes!” cries Minka.
That gleam, peculiar to eleven-year-old boys, leaps into the boy’s brown
eyes. With a grin he grabs a shoe and holds it behind his back, —giving it
up quickly when he sees that tears are near. Bespectacled Lefty lopes in.
When the shoes are presented, he drops his school papers indiscriminately,
kneels on the floor, embraces his darling, kisses her, and caresses with
his own special words: “Oh, my little Honey-dear! What lovely shoes! Now
you will be my little Princess, won’t you? So shiny and black! And look at
the Jewels on them! They sparkle like your eyes.” (More kisses, squeezes,
and ejaculations of pleasure…)
Smitty, carrying the world on his shoulders as usual (ever since his
responsibilities began nearly seven years ago), passes by with, “Uh-huh.
Where’d you get ’em?”
Andrewshek takes one look, turns to me, and howls, “When do I get
some new shoes!”
And the girl-child hugs her shoes, pats them, and continues to walk
about the house with slippers in her hands and stars in her eyes.
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
The boys are enjoying the power mower. At first their mother was
careful and troubled. Now she doesn’t bat an eyelash. She is grateful for
their father’s free hand with the boys, for she knows she is not nearly
so wise in the matter of giving freedom. She remembers the words of a
psychologist who said, “Better let him break a leg falling from a tree than
break a life by being tied to Mother.”

My mother’s birthday … and the thought struck me today, as I wiped
my hands after washing dishes, how much my hands resemble hers. But
only in size and shape. My first vivid memories of church are of sitting
next to her, my hands on her lap, holding hers, pushing the protruding
veins to one side, then watching in fascination as they sprang back into
place. But her hands were of a different texture from mine—rough on
the palm side, from much manual labor; soft and thin-skinned on the
back, like nothing I have felt since. All her motherhood is focused for
me in the memory of the touch and the gestures of those hands. I recall
how nice—how really nice it was to be sick, for then she would often
come and lay her hand on our foreheads; and when vomiting was the
order of the moment, always she held her hand firmly on our heads as
we heaved away. I remember too how lithe, how sharp that hand, when
spanking was administered. I used to envy the children whose mothers
used paddles and hairbrushes and switches. I was pretty sure Mother’s
hand was next to a razorstrap in effectiveness!

Will someone explain to me what makes love flower in a family, all of
a sudden? In spite of full and trying days, tensions within and without,
quarreling among chil­dren and occasional vindictiveness of parents,
stresses between husband and wife—yet underlying all is some fine unity
of love. It is expressed in the spontaneity with which little sister jumps
out of bed, bounces over to biggest brother, and delivers a “smacker.”
“Thanks, honey,” he smiles, and continues eating. It is expressed in the
delight with which Andrewshek presents his daddy with the lost hammer;
in the tears of the two boys as they defend their older brother in The Case
of the Nasty Bus Driver; in the cheerful rearrangement of Father’s plans
when Mother must unexpectedly leave. I think of these signs of love, and
I pray:
Loving Father, when I think of the manner and quality of your love,
that love which accepts as children those who are not worthy even to be
as one of your hired servants, then I see that we, in our little family, have
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only tasted. We have tasted, though, and we hunger for more of that love
which is patient and kind, constructive and other-seeking. May we, all
together, grow up into love. Amen.
June
At five this hot June morning the boys lit out for the fishin’ hole. Now at
that time of day, we can only answer them in groans and stupid snatches
from our dream world, and it took us awhile to figure out, when we finally
awoke, why the house was so quiet. A few hours later they returned,
dusty, dead-tired, and—radiant. Thirty-one sunnies! “Fishermen clean
their own fish,” the mother reminds them. And they cheerfully do so.
Since it’s too hot for a fish-fry today, we are freezing them for a later
treat.

Last night was our farewell fellowship supper for our pastor and
family. These suppers are always a great joy, and of course this was
special. The friendship quilt was a real achievement. Ordinarily these
flower-laden, many-hued gardens of color leave me lukewarm. But this
was rather remarkable, so much clever talent and original thinking and—
we know—love, went into it. A little of the brightness goes out of life when
these dear friends leave us, but then, it only means that our arms are
stretched out to include a bit more of the world—since they must include
whatever place and people our friends serve when they go from us.

Andrewshek apparently found time a bit heavy on his hands
today. “Mom,” says he, “you still have fourteen towels left in the closet.”
Sometime later, I go to get one, and, folding and refolding, I understand
how much fun he must have had counting them. A little later the fan
goes off suddenly (it’s terribly hot, but I have vowed to ignore the weather
as a topic of conversation) and, after investigation, we find that a great
tangle of fine wire has caused the belt to slip off. When I come up for wire
cutters, Andrewshek watches me brightly. “Did you see any wire in the
fan?” he eagerly inquires. I bore holes through those brown eyes to the
snappy little spirit behind them. “Yes indeed. I saw the wire. Can you tell
me who put it there?”
“Not I!” A look of angelic purity lights up his face. Then I remember
my old tactics. “Andrewshek,” I smile casually as I turn to go to the
basement, “when did you put the wire in the fan?”
“Yesterday,” pipes a small, relieved voice.

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Today our friend Dorothy brought a cake over—a “peace offering,”
she called it—for some little Bible school mix-up. The boys couldn’t see
the sense of such an explanation—nor could their mother—and the cake
was cut and eaten to the tune of “Isn’t she nice!” “Aren’t they kind!” “It’s
the best cake I ever ate!” And I thought again, as I have before—it’s a
shame people can’t hear that spontaneous, informal thanks of children
which comes after the slack-­mouthed, expressionless staring and the
perfunctory “thank you” delivered on the spot. One comfort—givers who
are also parents usually understand!

The first week of Bible school is over, and seventeen little seven-yearolds have taught me much this week. Already I think of them as mine,
and want to follow them all their lives! Impossible, I know, but in the
meantime, as I am trying to give them my best, they are making eternal
gifts to me. Being a teacher, nurse, and housewife all at once, though, is
exacting. I’m tired—throughout. I’m like Andrewshek with the mumps:
“Everything hurts everyplace.”

“Oh,” chirps our little lady of three-and-one-half. “Are these the
clothes I wore long ago when I was a child?”

Lefty is nine today. His gift—a little camera; his eyes behind the
specs—stars. His cake—as ordered—chocolate with choc­olate icing to be
served with chocolate ice cream and chocolate sauce. Later we hear him
murmuring to himself, “This is the best present I ever got. This is the best
birthday I ever had!” And this—even though he has but one little gift so
far; even though we couldn’t invite the friends he wanted because of the
illness of the little children. His day was crowned when he was allowed
to mix and bake and serve pancakes to the family for supper. He spilled
three fourths of the batter on the floor and—as his mother looked on with
anguished eyes—his father whispered to her, “I’m proud of you for being
so gentle!” To which his mother replied, grimly, between clenched teeth,
“Birthdays have to be happy!”

Tonight, preparing for Bible school tomorrow, I found these lovely
words in Phillips’ translation to Philippians: We shared together the grace
of God. I had to think of all the people who have contributed significantly
to my spiritual growth—who indeed have shared with me, through the
years, the grace of God. Before me passed a procession of these characters,
beginning with my own mother, brothers and sisters; ministers, teachers,
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and friends of my childhood and early adolescence—how much I owe
them! Friends—professors and students of college years sharing, always
sharing. My own household, husband and children, sharing continuously,
with a silent, imperceptible spiritual osmosis. The unique sharing of that
first cell group—and all the subsequent experiences with individuals
in the prayer groups which have followed, even to the present. Those
unexpected, “surprise” sharers—my Jewish friends, that Sister on the
train, the little amateur actress. Neighbors, pastors—I reflect upon these,
and others, with love. I remember the words of Albert Schweitzer: “I
always think that we all live, spiritually, by what others have given us in
the significant hours of our life.”
And I pray: O God, I thank You tonight for the great and undeserved
blessing of spiritual friends and counselors all along the way of life. I
know that even the small growth of spirit which has come to me has been
“thanks to their prayers and the resources of the Spirit of Jesus Christ.”
Help me to take my place with them as with “God’s children; blameless,
sincere, and wholesome, living in a warped and diseased world, and
shining there like lights in a dark place.” Amen.
July
July came in today and plumped itself down rather hotly, and then it
rained. It rained—and where are those seventeen little seven-year-old
angels whose praises I was singing last week? “Only four more days of
Bible School,” reminds Friend Husband, with a sweet smile—from his
Ivory Tower!

At last we are getting our road. We park our car over at our neighborsacross­the-tracks, trudge up the path with boxes and bags of groceries,
and are rewarded in seeing the white strip of stone stretch farther and
farther, on down the hill to the corner, and out of sight. Road making,
by the way, provides many hours of instruction and amusement for the
boys. Some, even, that we would gladly dispense with; e.g., the language
of the construction gang!

Invitation to Pilgrimage (Baillie) lies here on the desk—a daily invitation
in itself. My reading lately has been desultory and disconnected. So today
I get on with this book which I began so long ago. In my notebook I
copy: “There is an old saying, ‘Be careful what you seek, you may find it.’
And some who have sought God only as a complacent ally of their own
ambitions have found Him a consuming fire.”
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
After delivering a wet kiss, Minka giggles, apologizing, “That was a
little bit juicy, wasn’t it?”

Tonight at Esther’s apartment, I found myself suddenly, and quite
to my inclination, a listener. As she showed me pictures of her brothers
and sisters, and told me of them, it almost seemed that this was my
family. With the plate of dewy fruit between us, plenty of good hot black
coffee, and the warm personality of the room in which we sat, I found the
time slipping away remarkably fast, and myself becoming more involved
every minute—my life with the life of my friend. Driving home alone,
late, I thought of the words of “The Prophet”— “Your friend is your needs
answered.” And my heart answered silently, “Yes!”

The big boys have a passel of new books to read, and the slightest
interruption seems almost a physical agony to them. Ordinarily sociable,
today they were quite otherwise when a friend from down the road knocked,
asking them to come and play. While the boy waited at the door, I trudged
back to their room to announce the visitor. “Oh no!” whispered the
usually compassionate Speedy. “Dirty Skunk,” muttered Secundus under
his breath. Their mother, it must be confessed, had to smile. Actually,
both expressions meant the same thing— “I can’t be bothered now—I’m
reading!” but Secundus always makes it so much more interesting. His
typical answer when asked to do an unscheduled task, “Aw Mom, that’s
dirty of you!” (always followed, however, with a great grin). Ah me, I wish
I had the services of a child psychiatrist to study each of our children.
I have a sneaking suspicion that I laugh when I should punish, ignore
when I should laugh, and punish when I should ignore!

Today another milestone rolled around for me. I tried to think back
to ten years ago, twenty years, thirty years; to imagine how those days
might have been spent. To have those days given back in their details
would supply much that these sketchy and intermittent journals, and the
even more sketchy memory, has lost. It would reveal the child, the young
girl, the new mother—and perhaps one could see more clearly the links
between the stages! One can only guess what those three days might
have held for me. But I can recall with thankfulness the “dear and faithful
dead” and friends and family very much alive, who today complicate my
life with love and responsibility. As I thank God for all those who have
made my years a pilgrimage of joy, I remember the words of Max Muller—
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“The past is ours and there we have all who loved us, and whom we love
as much as ever, ay, more than ever.”

Two swift days, full of reminiscences, exchange of ideas, and Christian
fellowship are now gone into the past. Our friend, who had not visited us
since school days, has reminded us again that God is not idle outside
our denominational walls or even our Protestant walls. It is a joy to see
growth in grace, to recognize the fruits of the Spirit on trees in other than
our own little orchards!

Smitty is seven, and the chief delight of his birthday has been in
finding the twenty-odd coins which his brothers have hidden, treasurehunt style, all around the house. At bedtime he reaches up for a final hug
and sighs, “I’m glad you were thirty years old when I was born.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. ’Cause now I won’t have to always be stopping to figure out
how old I am. All I’ll have to do, when I forget, is ask you how old you are,
and take thirty away from that, and then I’ll know how old I am. Makes
it much easier!”

This was one of those periods when I have felt put upon, misused by
friends and family, tired of doing more than my share, in short, very very
sorry for myself. “Poor me!”—as the old spiritual goes. Then this morning
I read the verse, together with others of Psalm 103: “For he knows our
frame; he remembers that we are dust.” Now again, I read it—and I read
no farther; and I pray:
O my Father, I thank Thee for this…that when we are in those
deep morasses of self-pity and bitterness, that when our finitude hangs
like a stone about the neck, when the living of this daily round seems
a treadmill…then Thou knowest. Thou knowest, remembering of what
frail stuff we are made. Thy totals are gross totals—everything added, all
taken into account. Realizing anew, this morning, the wide­ness of the
divine mercy, the coldness and bitterness melt away, and I am ready,
through grace, to meet a new day with love and faith. Amen.
August
August is here, dry and dusty during the day. But at night—ah, what is
lovelier than the insect orchestra one hears these warm, still evenings.
Minka, leaning against me in the summer twilight, whispers, “It must be
almost night, for I hear the night sounds.”
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“And what are the night sounds?” I ask our Princess, stroking her
Alice-in-Wonderland hair.
“They are all those little weeks and keeks that you hear,” she
whispered.

Our prayer cell met again tonight—and, with our new group, the
unity is just beginning to be noticeable. We find ourselves more involved
with each other; rapport springs up between people who would not have
thought themselves to have much in common. It is the same old miracle
happening newly before our eyes, I tell myself, and, knowing that the
Spirit moves where it will, I do not ask for this, or that, to happen. I
mainly pray, “Lord, in this, as well as in other relationships in which we
are involved, lead us and teach us and surprise us!” From past experience,
I know He will!

These days the book on the bedside table (my side) is a novel by Enid
Bagnold, The Squire. She does have the oddest style, full of surprises,
and all stickery with ordinary words coined in extraordinary ways. But
beyond this is her uncanny gift of expressing in words the thoughts and
feelings—even the vaguest of them—characteristic of a mother. I can read
only a little at a time, she’s so insightful; then I must come up and gulp
for air, having seen in words, for the first time, some of my most formless
emotions as a mother.

Just home from an unexpected weekend attending the funeral of
an uncle, I am reminded of the ways in which joy and sorrow are linked,
all along the way. A sad occasion, but still, joy in the meeting of loved
relatives and friends. Then there were: the long ride over the turnpike,
during the silent hours of which nagging problems were untied in prayer
and com­mitment; the brief stops with relatives along the way; the hurried
phone call to a former member of our prayer group (and the joy of it still
alive within, reminding one again that there is nothing equal to Christian
fellowship); the home-coming—seeing the Family again with eyes that are
not jaded—looking at one’s children as if you really saw them—and one’s
husband!
I think—only two days have passed, and yet—such heights and
depths! And I remember Blake’s words:
Man was made for joy and woe
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
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The inseparable character of joy and sorrow inherent in the nature of
life itself! To believe that, and accept it as such, this is, indeed, to “walk
safely” through the world, undismayed by the extremes.

Today we were included with the picnic crowd at Pete’s, and it was
a special joy to fellowship with people in our own community with whom
we do not often eat. We admire this family which has brought with them
to our town such a spacious, old-time hospitality—and we wonder why
more of us don’t do this oftener—ask our friends to bring their picnic
baskets and eat with us in the back yard!

Today we had elderberry pie—thanks to J. S. who uncharacteristically
screwed up his eleven-year heroism and on his own initiative picked them
and cleaned them while I was gone the other night. In spite of the fact
that someone would have to repeat Grandfather’s opinion of elderberry
pie (eating it is like crunching flies’ heads) the cry was “Seconds?”

Tonight Friend Husband was reflecting on his friend. “You, know—
he disturbs people—but he helps them. Why, in some ways he reminds
me of Jesus!” The words seemed to shock him a little. Concurring, I could
only smile, “But why not? Shouldn’t we Christians remind each other of
Jesus? Aren’t we supposed to be ‘little Christs’?”

Relatives and friends, “piles of them” as J. S. says it, have made
August a most en­joyable month for us. Grandparents, un­cles, aunts,
cousins, friends, friends of friends, Sunday-school classes, from as far
away as Somalia, from as near as next­door, they have come and broken
bread with us, and accepted our accommodations with good grace. When
we asked our good neighbor-across-the-tracks-and-up-the-lane for the
use of her freezer to help us prepare a bit of food ahead of time, she
responded in more than Biblical fash­ion. In turn she asked each member
of our prayer cell to contribute something to her freezer for us. “Love in
action!” beams the Head of the House. And because of the real love which,
we knew, prompted the gifts, no food ever tasted better or went farther!
As our last guests of the sea­son drive out the lane, we realize how much
each one of them has added to the structure of our family life. I vow again
that I shall go out of my way more often in order to share our home. And
I pray:
Father in heaven, we remember that Christ was often a guest in
humble homes while He lived here, and through Him we thank You for
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Story of a Family
the increased joy and under­standing and love which is ours because of
those who go in and out of our home. We are grateful that makeshift beds
and ordinary food, smudges on the windows and dust on the shelves,
have never seemed to mar the quality of our fellow­ship. We thank You
most of all for Your Presence with us (whether over a cup of tea or a
spread table), that strange and vital alchemy which transforms ordinary
conversation into communication of spirit with spirit. Amen.
September
Labor Day at our Hill-home is usually spent laboring as usual. But today
we took a sudden notion to go swimming, family-style. Though unbearably
hot and sticky at home, the pool was cool, the breezes fresh (and we
had it all to our­selves). As we left home the boys’ father got into the car
and sharp-eyed Lefty cried, “Hey, kids. Look! Dad doesn’t have his cards
along! Yipeeee!” At which all took up the chorus— “Yipeeeee! Dad left
his cards at home!” It was a day to remember, for when had they, in the
past year, ever seen their father go anywhere without a stack of Hebrew
vocabulary cards to fill any odd moments of time which may fall to him!
With the cards were shed his cares; all the old smile wrinkles around
his eyes were in use again. And six children said, in their six different
ways—all through the afternoon hours—“Isn’t it fun to be together and to
have Daddy really with us! And don’t we do more fun-things than anyone
else in the world!”

Today I read from Psalm 37, and had to pause at familiar words
viewed with a sudden new insight. “Take delight in the Lord, and he will
give you the desires of your heart,” was the reading of the fourth verse.
And I thought—yes, it is true. For when one does take delight in Him,
deep down, one’s desires are changed!

Minka spotted in church today a round cherubic face peering over
his mother’s shoulder. “There’s our baby!” she gasped in pleasure. Ever
since we kept him last weekend she has felt possessive of him. Well, we
all have. We enjoyed him so—and the household seemed to have a new
center for a few days. The man of the house enjoyed it all, and grinned at
his rattled wife as the hands of the clock raced past the normal time for
leaving for church— “You forget what it’s like to get a baby ready at the
last minute, don’t you!”

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Overheard from the nursery this morning: Minka remonstrating with
her visitor, “No! No! Don’t do that! Mothers and daddies don’t fight!” A
clear-cut little tes­timony, we hoped, to what she has seen and heard
concerning mothers and daddies.

From Job 29 came my “thought for today” this morning. Somehow, I
had never before read this wonderful chapter with these eyes! As I read it,
I thought—this is the kind of person Jesus was when He walked among us
as man—and it’s the kind of person His followers are supposed to be! Job
says, among other things, that he “smiled on him who had no confidence.”
I thought—Oh, we want to do the big, stuffy, important things, and if we
are disqualified or unqualified for them, we sulk! But here is a beautiful
service which the most graceless of us could give: to smile on those who
have no confidence! Meditating, I remember with gratitude all of those
kind and greathearted people who through the years have smiled on me
when I had no confidence. Every poem or article or story I have ever
written, or will write, is surely the harvest of those smiles.

One more apron string cut—snip! Andrewshek, bless him, took
around his own plate for the first time at tonight’s potluck. He followed
the line of boys, sat with the boys, returned for seconds with the boys.
Seconds, a friend told me, with a twinkle in his eye, included four large
pieces of cake which were devoured steadily and completely, far from the
clucking of the mother hen. We now have only one little chick left, tagging
around with us at potlucks. But she too is growing, and she too will follow
in the steps of her brothers (only somewhat more daintily, we hope). Ah,
I feel old, old tonight. Bring me my shawl and slippers!

Speedy ordered shoes today—or rather, we ordered them together—
size 12AAA. I sighed, not only at the price, nor at the beginning of another
set of special-shoe headaches. But—the poor boy! All his life he will have
to hear them say what his mother has had to hear most of hers: “Aha!
A good understanding!” Or, worse yet, “You’re a poet and don’t know
it—your feet show it—they’re Longfellows!” I shudder to think how much
nonsense is per­petuated from generation to generation. Would that
wisdom might be so easily handed down!

The very nicest day of the month, I decided tonight, has been today—a
leisurely day spent with the dear uncle and aunt who have never before
been in our Hill ­home together. As we women mended and shared, and
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Story of a Family
enjoyed each other, I realized again how much we of different gen­erations
need each other. And I hoped that someday I could give as much in one
day to a daughter or a niece as was given today to me!

Before she left, Auntie gave me a packet of my teen-age letters to her.
As I read, I was by turns amazed, chagrined, and heartened. At least, I
sighed, as I put them away for future reference, there is no more doubt in
my mind as to whether or not I was a typical adolescent!

Our family project for the school year is singing together. So far our
little in­formal sings have resulted in the increase of spontaneous musicmaking around the house. The big boy goes oftener to the piano to try out
a new hymn or an old favorite from the Golden Book. Little sister oftener
puts her favorite hymn-songs on the record player, and sits singing along
in her small red rocker. And even I worry over the recorder (while Father
holds his ears), or find myself suddenly breaking into “Mighty God, while
angels bless Thee!” over the dishpan. And I pray: O God, I thank Thee
that the man made in Thine image is a singing soul. I thank Thee for
great hearts who have in past ages poured themselves out before Thee in
words and music— “in tones almost divine.” I thank Thee that there is no
burden too heavy to be lightened by song, no joy too piercing to find some
expression in music. To all who are overburdened by sorrow or by joy,
grant, O God, the healing, the revealing ministry of song. Give them this
day bread for their bodies—and song for their spirits! Amen.
October
Depend upon it, this Mister Nine will always be the one who will go out
spon­taneously and bring back Beauty into our house. Today it was a flare
of yellow and brown October leaves, arranged in artless, lovely lines in a
brown jug. He has shel­lacked his gourds too, and they are spilling out of
a horn of plenty on top of the bookcase.

Today’s reading was from a little Quaker pamphlet, The Inner Islands,
by Winifred Rawlins. The author speaks of the inner problems of women
in their mid-forties who find their creative drive frustrated in one way
or another. The children have left or are leaving the nest; or as in the
case of the childless and unmarried, drives which one had thought were
quite well harnessed sometimes become mystifying in their intensity. Into
my notebook, for present knowledge and future good, goes the following
insight: “I believe that the most rewarding and mature way of rechanneling
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passion is the development of tenderness, and that this is true for both
men and women.”

The little daughter’s birthday was celebrated yesterday with grownup friends,—one of whom shares October 2 with Minka. Our fellowship
at the dinner table was brief, it being prayer-meeting night; but the time
spent was quality. More than ever we are convinced that what we need
is not more time for living, but rather, more discipline and dedication
in purposing that we shall do all we can to increase the quality of each
moment of life. But the lazy will not pay the price—how well I know!

The “Asian” flu has caught us in its clutches. All eight of us at once!
A friend of the family asks the mistress of the house, via telephone, “And
how about you?” To which, in mock stoicism, that lady replies, “Well, I’m
sick too—but I can’t be sick, so I’m not sick, I guess!”

Today, the order was closet cleaning. This is always a great experience,
once one gets at it—a vital link with the past (in this particular closet) and
a time for the exercising of will power. This time an old piecemeal journal
of the beginnings of our family was found. The big boys howled with
laughter as they read their recorded prayers and “bright’” sayings.

Mister ’Leven, on his way to the neighbor’s tonight, stops to kiss his
mom. She takes one look and cries, “Go back and wash your face!” He
returns, seconds later, makes an exaggerated motion of dodging her, then
turns and waves at the door; “Bye, Mom—won’t attempt a kiss—they’re
disastrous!”

The coloring of the trees is begging description this week. From our
window it is really the loveliest (we think) we’ve seen. Or is it because it
is from our window? Most of the color is of yellow, golden, orange, brown
derivation. Very little reds—yet the contrast of the golds and greens seems
a more stirring combination than even the most vivid reds.
But the leaves are disappearing swiftly; today a cool wind is loosening
them; before the gusts they twirl across the lawn in a little death-dance
all their own.

In a magazine today I read about eight states of mind which keep one
mentally fit:
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Story of a Family
(1) expressiveness
(2) acceptance of love
(3) reverence
(4) creativity
(5) realism
(6) self-esteem
(7) normal aggressiveness
(8) adventurousness
And how does one go about acquiring these desirable states of mind,
someone asks?

Well, I make a beginning on number 8 today by a sheer act of will
power. For women who enjoy sewing, it would be no particular adventure.
But for this inept seamstress it was at least equivalent to a scared child
voluntarily running out into the dark! To make the commitment by
buying the material was the initial plunge. Then a person couldn’t turn
back, having spent the two dollars. Actually it took so little time to give so
much pleasure. The result was two bunnies, a panda, and a lion romping
around, where once had been four quite ordinary children.
Then, with this assortment of animals in the back seat of the
Plymouth, plus a couple of clowns and a leopard picked up at various
neighbors, we were off. Trick or treat being the established custom in
these parts, we did not want to disappoint some of the good aunts and
grandmas who always prepare, with full cooky jars and extra candy or
apples, for the knocking of these strange children at their doors. So each
child had his empty bag for expected booty, and little bags of treats to
leave with the children whose homes we visited.
Now, late at night, the four happy children, divested of their animal
personalities, are sleeping. I look at their blissful, faces, and the bulging
bags carefully deposited beside each bed, and I pray:
Thank you, dear Father, for the innocent and lovely pleasures of
childhood, which are a reminder to us grownups, who have sometimes
lost the lilt of living, that real happiness is easily given and costs little.
Help us that, in our earnest desire to make our children good, we may
not fail to make them happy. And in our concern for their happiness, may
we use good sense in remembering that the making of happy memories is
within reach of the slenderest parental purse!
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November
November! The new bulbs went into the ground today, and I thought,
“What changes will have taken place in our world, in our community, in
our family, in our individual souls? What changes, and what growth, by
the time we see these again?”
Later, after watching our neighbor-across-the-tracks planting his
bulbs carefully, measuring the depth of each imbedded bulb, I walk home
disconsolately. Hope we have lots of snow this winter—to protect our
bulbs which, I’m now sure, were not planted deep enough!

Smitty has written his first letter to grandmother. I tell him his
writing is much better than his mother’s at age seven. Incredulous,
he, until Mother actually pro­duces from the closet her first letter to her
grandmother, some thirty years ago. Smitty, not-on-your-life going to
reflect on Mother’s writing skill, draws his mouth down to try to disfigure
the smile of satisfaction which involuntarily plays there. “It’s pretty good,
though,” he says loyally, “for thirty years ago when things were olefashion.”

The last few days have been gray enough to match the dull November
landscape. No desire to read anything worth while; so sorry for myself; no
interest in other peo­ple; no desire to think or grow; my mind dwindling
to pygmy proportions! Friend Husband would say, “You need a book.”
(To him, a book is practically a cure-all!) But I recognize this as one of
those dry periods which even the saints speak of as inevitable. And they
have taught me to “wait them out,” without becoming unduly anxious.
Particularly I remember today the sharp words of Baron von Hügel: “There
is nothing so radically mean and deteriorating as sulking through the
inevitable.”

Of all the baby showers I’ve helped with, I think perhaps tonight was
the nicest. The dramatization of Nora Oswald’s “The Cycle of Woman,” in
spite of no rehearsal, went off without a hitch—well, almost. The guest
of honor sang the solos in her lovely, clear soprano; the tiny baby boy
(who pinch-hit for the baby girl we needed), the nurse, the little girls, the
teen­agers, the bride, the grandmothers—all made it an evening for the
memory.

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Story of a Family
“It would make me so happy,” Minka whispered as her mother stepped
out of the car with her usual “Now-be-good-I’ll-be-back-soon” formula.
“What would?”
“To look in the window at the doll dresses!” She turned up wistful
brown eyes. Her mother hesitated, then nodded to her, and together
they walked the few steps to the little apron shop where the exquisite
handmade doll clothes were being displayed. Just a few minutes of
shiny­eyed “oh”ing—then with a blissful sigh with never a “I wish I…” she
skipped back to the car.

Tonight was special: a potluck at which the women of the three
churches met to eat with the WMSA National Committee, here for their
annual (I guess) business meeting. We shared bread and that which is
more than bread together, at tables. Coming home to Friend Husband,
I was unable to answer more to his “How was it?” than the heartfelt
“There’s nothing like Christian fellowship!”

The congregation surprised us this morning when they, through
Brother David, announced that the Harvest Home offering of foods was
to be a gift to the Acting-Pastor and family. One friend said, “I told my
husband, just watch their faces when the announcement is made.” The
boys could not believe that all this bounty was for us. At home, there were
exclamations of “Steak!” “Real Butter!” “Jelly!” “Oh Boy!” And above all
came the excited, “Popcorn! Popcorn! Enough for all winter!”

From a small book containing free translations of parts of the Dead
Sea Scriptures, inspiration has come this week; and to read is to be
compelled to share. For one friend I copy a few lines which seem made for
her blithe spirit, and send them to her via mail. On another page I find
words about offering as a tithe, the “skilled music” of the lips. It seems
almost a dedication of a friend’s voice, and I call, via telephone, to tell her.
I show Friend Husband and Our Friend the lines about the deep, deep
truth set firm in the heart of man. And I myself rejoice with the unknown
writer of the an­cient Qumran Community, that the Almighty has put my
spirit in the “bundle of life.”

On a day like today—when the first light snow lies like a lovely promise
of the boun­ty to come; when a note from a friend warms the utmost
corners of the heart; when a new door of service surprisingly opens;
when the housework goes smoothly and the children seem contented and
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resourceful; when one feels the presence, for a sharp, sweet moment of
one of the “beloved dead,” on such a day a little song sings itself over and
over within, and I pray:
“O Lord, I am not worthy;
O Lord, I am not worthy of all Thy mercies
And Thy truth
Which Thοu hast shown unto Thy servant.
December
December first: The children beam with pleasure as we light a fat red candle
at dinner tonight. Lefty jumps up and flits from switch to switch, turning
off the lights. No one has said a word about Christmas, but Andrewshek,
just a blur of brown eyes at his corner of the table, whispers, “Let’s sing
Silently Night!” After dinner Lefty washes dishes (nine-year-old style—call
it “washing” if you wish) to the tune of carol after carol, sung in his true,
sweet soprano. In the living room, meanwhile, we hear the husky rasp of
Smitty’s voice as he settles into a corner of the sofa with a copy of Sing for
Christmas on his knees. “I’m jis’ so happy,” he murmurs hoarsely to no
one in particular, “I guess I’ll jis’ sit down and sing Christmas carols.”
And thus…is the month of Christmas ushered in on The Hill.

“The Little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes” has had its impact on
the family’s youngest preacher. Andrewshek’s sermon this morning, to a
wide-eyed audience of one, included the following enlarging: “An’ He din’t
cry. Not a tear. He didn’t even wiggle. Not a teensy meemsy wiggle.” At
this point the young preacher’s own words seem almost too much to take
lying down. “Only,” he added uncertainly, “I think He did.”
And the audience nodded solemnly in full agreement.

The sixth-grader has entered into business, with Lefty as his junior
partner. They must have money for Christmas, and of course their measly
allowance would hardly buy one present. So they trudge from door to
door, asking for orders of ground pine, or as the old-timers call it— “crow’s
feet.” At fifteen cents a box—the box is this big—it is supposed to be a
bargain, and they come home with an interesting arrangement of letters
of the alpha­bet which actually turns out to be a list of about twenty
customers. The Enterprisers’ parents, to whom selling comes harder than
turning handsprings, stand back and wonder what ancestor put that trait
into their sons’ genes!
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Story of a Family

The annual flood of letters, cards, and form letters has begun. The
lady of the house has two alternatives. She can drop all else to hurry and
get those notes in the mail, even if they do ring with an eerie sameness.
Or she can say “No, I’ll take it easy—and give only as I can give myself
along with the letter—even if it takes a year. She decides upon the latter.
But she wishes often, as she delights in the warmth of the greetings of
family friends, that she had had more foresight, and more “Git-up-andgo.” Then these same friends would be knowing that the people on The
Hill were thinking of them too!

These pre-Christmas weeks have brought a special joy. The
neighborhood preschoolers (fours and fives) have been coming in for a
story hour twice a week. I am quite sure that the cutest children in the
country live in our own neighborhood, as we prepare a little program for
their mothers and younger siblings. And when they sing the African carol,
“Jesus Christ Was Born on Christmas,” their eyes are all the stars I need
to remind me that Christmas is com­ing! Each voice has an endearing
quality of its own, from Denny’s earnest, if somewhat irregular, basso, to
Jan’s soprano, true and sweet as a crystal bell.

Christmas Eve is upon us. Our nearest neighbors (and nearest
relatives) eat chili with us, and we adults share around the table for a
brief hour—a rare treat in these hepped-up times. Then our family gives
their family a program, at the close of which we pray in unhurried quiet.
But as the door closes on our guests—closes with a jingle of the bell on
the home-made (and lopsided) wreath—a sudden whoop sounds from the
living room. “Presents!”
About this time a quiet voice arrests us as Lefty, looking earnestly at
us through his specs, pleads, “Last year it was a mess, everybody yelling
and opening packages at once. Let’s do it differently this year. Just one at
a time open a present. Then we can all see the happiness on the faces.”
Agreed by all. And while the parents exchange a glance which says, “We
who are so rich—­what need have we of gifts?”—the packages are opened,
one at a time, and we all see the happiness on the faces!

The newest addition to my devotional library is The Letters of Evelyn
Underhill. Rich food, these letters of a modern saint. It is almost an eerie
experience to find one­self naming a spiritual problem, only to dis­cover
wise counsel for that very problem on the next page! Douglas Steere’s
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Hill Journal 1958
little Prayer and Worship is also on my Advent’s menu, and in these
post-Christmas days I am finding it a gem, especially as a guide­book
for devotional reading. He speaks of “marrying the mind” to revealing
Scripture; but he assures the reader that reading the Bible without
yielding to the Spirit’s preparation, and without “following the light that
comes” after reading, will mean little.

Tonight we sang the Messiah—a traditional New Year’s Eve occasion
here in our little church community. What with three other New Year’s
Eve meetings going on, there were no tenors at all, the basses were few,
and everyone seemed just a bit intimidated by the scores. But it was a
really joyous experience, even if we will probably not be asked to make
records of our renditions. And one felt that the little circle of praying
friends experienced together a meaningful ringing out of the old and in of
the new, as, with clasped hands, we waited for the church bells to signal
the beginning of another year.
Coming home, quite cheerful and wide awake after coffee and
fellowship, I think about the evening, and I pray:
O God, I thank You for the year that is past, for its joys and its
growth, and its suc­cesses; yes, and for its heartaches, its recessions, and
its failures. It has been a good year, for You were its Lord. You hallowed its
pleasures and transformed what was unpleasant into spiritual blessing.
With such knowledge of Your grace and love, how can I but put my hand
confidently in Yours, walking in trust another hour, another day, another
month, another year?
Hill Journal 1958
January
The first day of the year burst bright and clear. And who can say what
combination of impressions—however minute—give today that eternal
quality, to a particular person at a given place, in a unique temporal
setting? I try to trace the patterns of this day. Why this pervading
impression of wholeness? Partly, perhaps, it is the memory of last night,
singing the Messiah in the Pauls’ living room. (Well, it was singing.
Singing the Messiah can be a great experience, even in the absence of
tenors, even when the runs are all running the wrong way.) Maybe it was
the quietness of the little circle of friends waiting in prayer for the New
Year. Or was it going to that person for forgiveness, for understanding,
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Story of a Family
in an attempt to start the year without any known barriers between us?
It may have been the fellowship with our neighbors across the tracks,
plus Aunt Beth, as we all (at least the more agile) sat cross-legged around
a low table, clicking chopsticks together. Our living room reflected the
possibility that the neighborhood supply of mandarin pajama tops was
depleted—but each of the thirteen of us had at least a smattering of the
Chinese look.

The big boys have acquired a new lock on their door—one that will
keep out varmints (especially those of the four-, six- and eight-year-old
variety of Homo sapiens). True to character, Secundus locked himself out
of his own room today. Windows were vainly attempted; screwdrivers and
knives proved equally disappointing. In the end their father grimly took
a saw and removed a part of the wallboard partition between his study
and their closet. Going-on-twelve slunk through the new entrance while
the entire family stood watching, silently accusing. A moment later he
emerged—this time from the door­way of his own room. And in the tail
of his eye we thought we detected a sweet, secret joy in having been the
cause of such drastic action.

Today was spent in cleaning and reorganizing files. One must be
quite ruthless: These college themes, these inane love let­ters, these
hoarded Post covers, adolescent journals, letters to the children from the
maternity ward—these must go. Who in his right mind would start a new
year of effort with such a weight? She sets herself courageously to the
task. But first—each folder must be opened, just to see what it is that is
being destroyed; just to see and approve…. And lo, the years of her life
are quite suddenly compressed into this one moment. All the hurt and
the happiness of the green years; all the love and heartache centered in
the mother-daughter relationship; all the naiveté of young wifehood and
new motherhood; all this she feels again as she opens each folder, reads
its contents, and, misty-eyed and thick-throated, replaces it in the file.

Our friend has recommended another book, Paul Tournier’s The
Meaning of Persons. But not only has he recommended a book—he has
given a friend. This Christian psychiatrist from Switzerland writes with
such engaging honesty, such lucidity, that his very person rises from the
pages of the book and speaks directly to the soul of the reader. I go about
my Martha-way, but I ponder the exciting insights he has given concerning
marriage, concerning children’s secrets, the keeping of journals, the true
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Hill Journal 1958
dialogue between persons. And I ask a blessing on all who go about doing
good in the form of recommending helpful books. May they have their
reward!

Overheard from the Big Boys’ room tonight: “What’s this Hill Journal,
anyhow?” The muffled, disinterested answer: “Oh, I dunno. I think it’s
some kind of magazine or something.”

Tonight, in the tiny shining basement kitchen of Mrs. B., we three
honored guests broke bread with our friend. Never, we felt, was a table
laid with more care, and never was food more tasty. Into this meal had
gone so much nervous energy in planning—it must be just right for us!
Into it had gone hours of preparation over the coal stove in the corner.
Into it had gone that secret, unmeasurable ingredient of love, and the
“in honor preferring one another” which is so rare a seasoning. Looking
across at the broad, dark face (she was so happy to please us) I found
myself praying fervently in the words of my grandfather: “Bless the heart
and the hands of her who prepared it for us!” Truly He has made us,
dark and light, of one blood. But when it comes to cooking—and to true
hospitality, I sit at the feet of Mrs. B.

The arrival of new babies never yet has become a commonplace to this
sentimental household—even when we are not the fortunate recipients.
This has been a month full of exciting phone calls and tiny envelopes in
the mail. First came small Abby, then John Timothy, then Miriam, John
Lowell, and finally, Karl. Each of their mothers a dear friend, I rejoice
with them one by one, and eagerly await the day when I can hold their
babies just for a small moment, and remember a little of what it was like
to receive such a gift.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The delighted thanks of a teen-ager who has
discovered on his desk a purchase made by his mother. His mother is
really quite ignorant about such things, but she has proved that she can
follow directions. One twelve inch dowel pin, one 3/4″ pipe nipple. His
grin lights up his face, the whole room, her own tired face: “Mom! You’re
okay—you hit it right on the head! In fact, you’re sharp!”
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Story of a Family
February
To the accompaniment of stinging sleet against the big window, the
family gathered tonight for one of its all-too-rare church sessions. The
boys had prepared a program, and from the happy faces all around, we
knew that one such period as this might well be worth a month of per­
functory religious exercises. At the close, Mister Almost-Twelve prayed
earnestly, “Thank you for this happy occasion, and help us to have them
oftener.” At this rebuke, Father and Mother and the Eldest exchanged
amused glances; amused, but nevertheless saying clearly, “We thank you
too, Lord, for this experience of communion with those of ‘the church in…
[our] house.’”

The big boys and their parents weath­ered the elements this Sunday
afternoon to take in (thanks to our friends’ tickets) the concert at Syria
Mosque. Somehow, listening all open-souled to the Pittsburgh Symphony
Orchestra and S. Thaviu’s magic violin dovetailed exquisitely with our
morning worship experience. The boys, slightly less emotional about the
music, were fascinated by the arrangement of the orchestra, and pleased
to discover that they could identify most of the instruments by the aid of
the ear and a pair of borrowed field glasses. On our arrival home, Big Boy
went to our little stack of records and hunted until he found one which
he had heard in the afternoon. As the music flooded through the rooms
of our house, he was heard to mumble, “That bassoon!”

A new book, all one’s own, can—for me—set off one day from another,
all shiny and special. Even before it’s read one feels he must tell somebody
about it, show it off, call attention to the format and the cover, perhaps
contemplate with a friend what one is expecting to receive from this book.
Today it was Elton Trueblood’s edition of Doctor Johnson’s Prayers. For
Friend Husband, struggling in the deep waters of the Accadian, Hebrew,
and Syriac lan­guages, I read this (with a smile): “Enable me so to pursue the
study of tongues that I may promote Thy glory and my own salvation.”

Shades of the winter of 1949! Or rather, drifts. School is closed
for the week, and this mother finds herself enveloped in a tremendous
appreciation for the school­teachers who normally relieve her of such
confusion as she is experiencing now. When it’s almost time for them to
return to school, they do finally settle down to some constructive pastimes.
Today, from the closed door of the Little Fellows’ room, we hear the piping
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Hill Journal 1958
voices of the members of a newly formed organization called “The Munny
Raseing Culb” trying to agree on procedure:
“Let’s not talk about what we did—let’s talk about what we’re going
to do,” comes a suggestion from sensible Smitty, who at seven still retains
his earlier gift for clarification.
“At least,” says his neighbor-twin, “let’s wait ’til we git the money
before we have it all spended.”
The harangue goes on and on and final­ly Smitty winds up the business
session of “The Μunny Raseing Culb” with sound advice:
“Let’s wait to have this club ’til we have a little more sense.”
Agreed.

Minka, indignant, blurts out half a forbidden word, in the direction
of her mother, then stops short. “No,” she says sheepishly, “I won’t call
you that, ’cause you love me so very much, even if I am mad at you.”

There are few gifts more precious than a praying friend. At those
moments when one’s problems seem impossibly involved, one’s burden
unbearably heavy, to be able to go to the phone and confess simply, “I
wish you’d be thinking of me,” is like knowing where to reach for a warm
hand in the darkness. Then later, when in a flash of insight the problem
is laid open, the weight lifted suddenly, one wonders why he does not
more often ask this help of his friends. I am quite ready to agree with one
authority—that not contemplation, but intercession is the highest form of
prayer, and that it expresses most clearly the character of God Himself.

These words of Evelyn Underhill have brought me up short more
than a few times as I have approached God with a list of names: “Devote
yourself…to intercession—using the whole strength of your will in it, not
casually recommending people to God.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The quiet words of a friend reassuring me, after
a painful misunderstanding, that “there is balm in Gilead”—the balm of
forgiveness and continued love between us.
March
Today—bright, cold, and Marchy, Esther said goodby to her friends with
an elegant luncheon at the Townhouse. As I look back over these years
which have held added riches because of her friendship, I think, “Lord,
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Story of a Family
who am I that I should have this friend—and not only this one, but many
others with whom I have experienced that deepening of the spirit which
the poet says, must be the only purpose of friendship?” Thus I think,
and yet know that one must accept honestly and simply these gifts of
friendship and love—accept them as miracles of grace which can never be
asked for nor sought for, but which “come to pass.”

Overheard: a question-and-answer session from the bowl-licking
set.
Five: Methuselah—he really lived long, din’t he?
Seven: Sure. He was old and blind but he still had a couple wifes.
Five: Yeah. Hey, do you think he was true?
Seven: Sure.
Five: When was he born?
Seven: I think about 1900.
Five: Wow! That was before the war!
Seven: Well, sure.
Five: Did he fight in it?
Seven: Naw—he was too old!

Tonight, answering a mysterious invitation, six of us haggard old
married women ended up at a restaurant, the guests of six fresh-faced
unmarrieds, for sharing of fine food and yet finer fellowship. To sit at ease
there and later in Helen’s pleasant apartment was pure joy, and we left
with reluctance. I don’t know what they thought, but recurring to me all
the way home was this: “Why don’t we get together more often? We have
so much to give each other.”

One of the most delicious feelings, I decided today, is that peculiar
lightness after a severe headache. One can turn his head this way and
that—the horrible weight of pain is gone—one can almost fly! A cup of
Constant Comment with the friend-across-the-tracks packages the whole
delicate feeling into a precious and unforgettable impression.

This month my book was The Early Church and the Coming Great
Church, by John Knox. Because of the author’s explanation of the
purpose of the Communion service, I find myself looking forward to that
occasion with more than the usual joy. It is at the time of a person’s
death, says Κnox, that the significance of his life be­comes apparent.
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Thus, to remember Jesus’ death is to contemplate the meaning of His
entire, incomparable Life.

Experiences of this week aroused com­passion and concern for two
groups of peo­ple: the restless church folks who make a habit of following
after this and that new wind of doctrine at the expense of loyalty to the
particular fellowship with which they have voluntarily identified them­
selves; and these pathetic clubwomen who have found no more satisfying
outlet for their energies than the jealous guarding of their heritage as
daughters of this and daughters of that.

Minka looks out the window for a long moment, then turns slowly
to her mother and observes, “It seems like all our neighbors have more
proppety than we do.” After a pause, “But that’s all right, isn’t it, ’cause
we have more childrens than they do. That makes it fair.”

From the selected letters of Baron von Hügel, two tidbits, one of
which made me smiley, the other—thoughtful: “A religious woman is
often so tiresome, so unbalanced, and excessive…” (Baron, I agree!) “Many
women are better helped by women than by men, yet how few women are
sufficiently trained interiorly to be able to help wisely!” (And amen.)

A pleasure trip undertaken unexpectedly holds more joy for me
at this particular time of life than ever the anticipation of birthdays
or holidays held for me in childhood. Birthdays meant presents and
privileges; holidays meant food and fun. But such a trip always means
contact with people—surely God’s most remarkable gifts! Perhaps a trip
will mean the making of new friends, perhaps the confirmation of longstanding relationships, perhaps the matching of long-known names with
faces. In this case it was all three. The joys included: learning to know
better the family with whom I traveled; drinking tea with the interesting
daughters of one of my grandpa’s favorite fellow ministers; sharing into
the wee hours the kind of experiences friends share who cherish each
oth­er, but see each other infrequently; meeting the mistress of Sleepy
Hollow in person; sitting on the edges of a family gathering, yet not feeling
a stranger. So much to remember!

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TO KEEP AND PONDER: The clasp of a friend’s hand in parting, and her
words echoing in my own soul even yet— “The spiritual bond—isn’t it
wonderful?”
April
April first found the mistress of the house late to rise, having just come
home from her precious weekend. But while still abed, she had no doubts
concerning the welcome which a rather bedraggled family and a more
than slightly disheveled house was giving her. From eldest to youngest
she was besieged:
“Sorry Mother, but we ate up all the wieners.” (So what—there were
only five pounds.)
“But Mom, I don’t need a jacket—I put my hand out the window and
no frost gathered on it!”
“Hey Mother, how do you work this problem? ‘The five members of
the Jolly Juniors Club need to buy enough pop for…’”
“Thee, Mom, my tooth ith out at latht!”
“Hey Mom, we dug up a hunderd-ninety worms at Stevie’s place.”
“But Mummy, it wasn’t time for you to come home—I still have one
clean dress left!”

Occasionally I like to take a familiar story from the Bible—so familiar
that I have unconsciously memorized the words—and attempt to approach
it with an open, uncommitted mind. It can be a bit like rounding a familiar
curve to be suddenly confronted with the same old hill—the same one,
but in this new glory of spring presenting facets which one had previously
missed. Today, in the Easter tradition, and at the suggestion of a friend,
I have read the words of Jesus to Magdalene, “Do not hold me … but go
to my brethren.” In that moment of insight I saw more clearly than I had
yet seen, how impossible it must be for the Christian to build a taber­nacle
on the mountaintop. For to clutch to oneself, to hold, is to eliminate all
pos­sibility of sharing—whether it be a thought, an experience, a person,
a relationship, or a possession. I closed my meditation pray­ing that it
might be increasingly true of me that I did not stay to clutch, but ran to
tell my brethren.

On Easter Eve there has come a little envelope from Mrs. B. Enclosed
is an Easter card, two dollar bills, and the pen­ciled note, laboriously
written by dear brown hands, “I know you don’t need this, but I send it
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with God’s love.” Suddenly the two dollars has leaped in value, and is too
precious to spend.

Secundus is twelve today—a confirmed sportsman, in his heyday
with a new glove, ball, and bat. When the neighbors come to offer him a
roller-skating treat (“We’re leaving right away!”) he leaps from the party
table and disappears. Smitty looks after him with an expression of wonder
and disgust: “Well. It seems unusual to me. Someone not even staying for
their own birthday party.”

Book of the month—J. H. Oldham’s bi­ography of Florence Allshorn.
Scarcely have I leafed through it when Alice calls, “Do you have anything
good to read?” and it flies to her. Now it is a peculiar secondhanded, but
genuine joy to become acquainted with the book as she calls to read a
gem she has found, or just to tell what the book is doing for her. The
owner of such a book may rightly rejoice, knowing how out of proportion
with the original cost is the ultimate price.

A pathetic reminder of a certain home­maker’s failures: Mister Twelve
approaches his mother with a humble little smile, “Mom, do you think
maybe I could mend these holes in my socks?”

Friend Husband must often smile at his illiterate wife in her handling
of the Scriptures. Consequently her usual approach when seeking
confirmation on something she has written is, “I know this is torn out
of the context but…” At which he smiles fondly and replies, “It probably
is, but, let it go, it’s a good thought, and if it helped you, it will probably
help someone else.” Whereupon she sighs and returns to her desk feeling,
nevertheless, like a child who has just received a fatherly pat on the head.
And under her breath she may be heard to mutter, “Please remember I
am not writing for exegetes!”

For tonight’s guests the lady of the house resisted the temptation
to run into town to supplement a poorly stocked and uninspiring larder.
Knowing that our guest of honor is herself one of those disciplined, doit-yourself, make-it-do persons, I was quite sure she would appreciate
concoc­tions with odds and ends. She did! And the fellowship with her
and her equally lively and interesting daughter was all the richer for the
decision to refuse to be careful and troubled.
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
TΟ KEEP AND PONDER: The wise words of my friend Mrs. B., when
I have unexpectedly found my way into her little basement kitchen for
coffee and comfort: “I like it when you drop in on me when I’m sitting
here in my old clothes. It always makes me think how one of these days
God’s a-going to come, and this old lady won’t have time to put on a clean
dress!”
May
A bus load of carefree women with a gay sprinkling of teen-age daughters
was our tri-church contribution to the regional WMSA meeting. The ride
to and from would have alone yielded a bounty of that kind of fellowship
in which the Hausfrau too rarely participates. But this was only an
introduction to a dayful of such com­munion. From our friend Helen’s
thought­ful paper I have copied this: “There are six things which every
woman has to budg­et: time, energy, abilities, space, property, and money.
How she budgets these determines the quality of her homemaking.”
Among Speaker Jake Goering’s psychological comments, this one
spoke to me: “Let your children act their age when they are children if
you want them to be able to act their age when they are adults.”

It seems to be the month for Mother­Daughter functions, and
this mother finds herself harassed at having accepted, in un­guarded
moments, too many “speeches.” After making the rounds and fulfilling, as
one could, these obligations, one large question remains: Do audiences
in general understand their responsibilities to speakers? Do they realize
how much depends on their participation as to whether or not the speaker
will give them the best of himself and his thought? When one looks over
an audience and catches even a little of that participation, then, even
though his speech may be written out and followed closely, there is added
that “something” which makes the difference between mere words and an
inspired utterance. I always face an audience with a silent plea, “Share
yourselves with me, and I will give not only these poor words, but myself,
to you; keep your responses hidden behind a closed face, and all I can
give is words.”

Small Daughter confides: “I put myself to sleep by telling secrets to
me. They’re just old ones I knew before, but I still like to tell me them.”

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How amazing to sense a few of the silent and secret means which
God uses to bring about growth in man, His image! Tonight a big boost
was given to this particular “image” as she listened to the candid spir­
itual autobiography of a friend. How painful the probing, the writing,
the reading must have been! But what new strength of purpose is mine
because she dared to be as honest with herself as she knows how to be.

I am convinced that there are some books which, for all their greatness,
cannot speak to us until we have ears to hear. A number of years ago,
at the advice of a friend, I struggled through Dostoevski’s The Brothers
Karamazov, emerging mainly with the embarrassment of knowing that
its greatness had not really touched me. This past week I have reread
the book in my own paper-backed copy. Somehow the experiences of the
intervening years have opened enough doors that this reading was an
intensely personal, heartrending experience.

May has now unfolded in all her perfec­tion of tender greenness and
billowing blossoms. She appears so unspoiled, so delicate and lovely, one
wants to reach out and hold her forever. But the magic-skin leaves must
toughen to withstand the heat of summer; the blossoms must make way
for the green fruit. And, after all, is it not only a transition from one state
of perfection to another—first that of spring, then of summer…? “He has
made everything beautiful in its time.”

Today’s mail brought four inspiring letters. After what has seemed
to be months of trudging down to the mailbox only to find furniture store
fliers, envelopes stuffed with coupons, “new exciting offers” (for a limited
time only) of this and that maga­zine, invitations to cash in on this health
plan, on that money-making proposition­—after all this, what a lift to find
four first-class friendly letters all in one day! In spite of the fact that I,
who once wrote many letters, now write practically none, and use H. L.
Mencken to support me (“a friendship that’s worthwhile doesn’t need the
glue of correspondence to keep it together”), the ministry of letter writing
today seems very important to me. As I read the heart-warming words of
a great and good man—words directed personally to me, as I visit with
the mistress of Sleepy Hollow, as I catch the gay, ever-young spirit of
Auntie between the lines of her letter, as I sense the wholesome affection
in the note from this college friend, I am not quite ready, after all, to stop
writing letters. And to Mencken I might reply that a good letter supplies
something more than glue.
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
Ask the two grownups what impressions remained of their short
jaunt to Canada this weekend, and they might say: “Meeting with friends
at Vineland and Kitchener—old friends, new friends; cups of tea and
simple meals all made sacred by the benison of Christian fellowship; a
new faith in the quality of the young people of our church.” Ask the three
little folks, and the answer might run like this: “We saw a big boat go
through the locks, and a big draw­bridge go up to let the boat through,
and some people had a thing you could grind and pepper would come out
on your eggs, and some nice ladies had a kitty under the porch and lots
of salt and pepper shakers that could work and they gave us a whole box
of cereal toys to play with on the way home!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The sad, dreamy look in the eyes of Andrewshek
as he confides, “You know, sometimes I’m in bed and I think—what if
there wasn’t any dad and mother? I sure feel strange when that thought
comes over me!”
June
June, to the people on our hill, as to the people on many little hills of
our land, is inevitably associated with the closing of the school year,
the activity of Bible school, roses, strawberries, and, in our case, the
beginning of the summer spate of birth­days.

“School is out!” I always rejoice to have the boys home again. We have
a family council, outline our summer duties, and everything, it appears,
will go like clock­work this summer. Several days later the confusion is in
full mad swing, and I am already casting a wistful eye at that page of the
calendar which contains blessed, blessed Labor Day.

Bible school finds this person mothering nineteen seven-year-olds
again this year, as last. As I look into their fresh young faces day after
day, I am reminded of what one writer has said of the three stages of life
according to Jesus. In children, he says, one finds the characteristics
of spontaneity and wholeness; in men one finds inhibition and division;
in the “new person” born into the kingdom, spontaneity and wholeness
appear once more. This explanation illuminates Jesus’ words, “Unless
you…become like children…”

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Yesterday, after a Laurelville picnic with friends, we stopped at their
home long enough to receive a trophy from the rose bed. Today, each time
I pass the bowl with the perfect creations of red, white, pink, and yellow,
my breath catches at their beauty, and I must reach out and touch them,
as one would touch the cheek of a newborn baby. I touch them, and I am
awed to realize how eloquently a simple flower can speak when it comes
from the hand of a treasured friend.

A thought for the day has come from some aimless reading, and I
smile as I copy it into my little notebook: “It is a general rule of life that
should you touch mud with your gloves, it is never the mud that becomes
glovey.”

Tonight was a Homemaker’s Special. The rice and curry alone would
have made Headlines in this hill-woman’s daybook. But it was Nan’s
detailed account of what is in­volved in sending one’s children to board­
ing school which gripped me and left me feeling naked and ashamed.
Yet there was in her presentation not a hint of “See how we Indian
missionaries sacrifice!” (How pathetic, anyhow, to hear people speak of
their own sacrifices.) Just her usual sunny smile and quiet voice—an
ordinary mother sharing with other ordinary mothers the usual concerns
of mothers the world over for their children.

Lefty’s tenth birthday was a quiet day full of simple joys: a new tire
for his bike, a drive alone (himself steering) with Dad, icing his own cake
with a chef’s touch, a few reminiscences with his mother con­cerning the
day of his birth, the beaming reception of the family’s singing of “Happy
Birthday,” and the crowning privilege of a king’s day—staying up as late
as he wishes.

“So you see, I lean on you,” writes my author-friend Lois, after she
has asked me what books I would recommend for in­spirational reading.
“We human beings do need each other so much!” I smile, knowing how
superficial are our little systems of stratification, how stupid our simpering
excuses that we are not needful to those more talented, more famous, more
rich, or more beautiful than we are. I think of Eric Fromm’s, “Inasmuch
as we are humans, we are all in need of help, today, I—tomorrow, you”;
of Evelyn Underhill’s, “Souls…all souls are deeply intercon­nected”; and of
the words of the wise Seneca, “God divided man into men that they might
help each other.”
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
Friend Helen always says that since one has time to read only the best,
one should find a person who knows you and whose judgment you can
trust, and ask them for book recommendations. So when I read Elaine’s
review of Reality and Prayer (Magee) in the Herald, I knew that this was
a book which would likely speak to me. As I have read it this month, I
have been moved by the realization of how certain friends and the books
they have loaned me have helped to groom the mind and spirit for the
reception of this one book in a way that multiplies its significance.

A friend asks, “What is your philosophy concerning clothes?” That
called for little reflection, upon which I discovered that over the years my
views have undergone change. Whereas I once thought one should give
little or no thought to the selection and use of clothing, I have learned
that when little thought is given to selection, great energy may be spent
feeling uncomfortable, embarrassed, and even hu­miliated in ill-fitting,
unattractive, or in­appropriate clothing. One can only speak for himself,
but I find that when I attempt to select carefully, and succeed in making
what seems to be a wise choice, I am then freed of further concern when
the clothing is in use.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The compas­sionate tears in the eyes of a small
daugh­ter as she refuses to eat her dessert, since her mother has none.
“But Daddy, I can’t eat when my own mother has to go hungry!”
July
Recollected dimly and inaccurately, the summers of my childhood seem
to have had a lazy tempo. Things didn’t have to be done—at least not
this minute. But I was a child. It is with wonder that I now realize how
differently the summer vacation months may have been viewed by my
mother! Could it be that she too was tumbled along through the days,
hanging on for dear life while the current whisked her along? For us here
on The Hill it’s only summer’s beginning, but already all hope of any
order to our days has been abandoned. One can only lift helpless hands
and mutter weakly, “I surrender! I surrender to the pressures within and
the pressures without, to the fluster of special days and the clutter of
ordinary days… I sur­render to the hours of dragging drudgery and the
moments of insight and uplift…” One tries to do what can be done in a
day without debilitating strain, to be what one can be without hypocrisy.
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And then if one is a little bit wise, he relaxes and smiles secretly recalling
that the days come one at a time.

One book leads to another—this is a part of the intense excitement
of the Reading Adventure. To be led by inferences, by a quotation adroitly
placed, by an idea documented in footnotes, from one book to another is
reminiscent of following childhood treasure trails.

Today the Lady on the Hill pretended she had a green thumb.
Young plants from a friend’s overcrowded bed made the journey, some
to the garden of the parsonage, the remainder to our own back yard.
Transplanting the tender stalks in the preacher’s garden was an act
of rather hesitant faith. Would they grow in this newly cultivated soil,
with the hot July sun pelting them? Would they respond with no one
here to hover over them and encourage them? Straightening from my
unaccustomed posture, I look over the rest of the garden. Someone else
was here before me—someone who had faith, and now the tomato plants
are sturdy and spreading, and the rows of beans are bushing out. I glance
at the kitchen window of the parsonage. It is the spattered window of a
house-in-process. But I see it clean and shining. And behind it stands the
pastor’s wife, her hands in the dishwater, her eyes on the dash of color at
the edge of the garden.

At last we have—for a while—what we’ve always wanted—six boys!
Our sixth is a sandy-haired eleven-year-old Canadian. We clean out a
drawer for him, bunk him with the boy nearest his age, and promptly
enroll him as a member of the swimming class at the “Y,” as well as an
honorary member of our family.

Our Reality and Prayer came back to us today with a unique
bookmark—a dollar bill. This man makes a practice of borrowing rather
than buying books, and has his own idea of evening up the score.

At this point in life one does not expect the world to shoot fireworks
on the occasion of one’s birthday. Yet I wondered as I went to bed last
night, my new age rest­ing rather lightly on my consciousness, if I had
ever felt so surrounded by love, so cherished, as on this latest birthday.
Little gifts and bigger ones; cakes—two of them, and both works of art;
three first-class, personal letters; and, over the phone, birth­day messages
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to be recorded in the heart! Lying awake, holding it all, and wondering,
I could only pray, “What shall I render unto the Lord for all His benefits
toward me?”

Smitty’s birthday, following hard on his mother’s, finds him the proud
possessor of one of his aunt’s special cakes—a tugboat which is the envy
of the neighborhood. Smitty is eight today, and as solid a little citizen as
the family has yet produced. After lights out, his father and mother re­flect
on his virtues:
“He’s the one—remember—who insisted on having his bottle ’til he
was past three!”
“Yes—and aren’t you glad we let him enjoy it, in spite of the way folks
looked at us?”

Today our beautiful baby girl arrived from the Children’s Bureau.
Five weeks old she is, with black hair and fair skin. Yesterday her new
mother-to-be was pan­icking—wondering if she even knew how to hold a
baby any more. Tonight, having settled the new addition without a hitch,
she feels herself a veteran at baby care.

Long age I gave up the idea of ever learning to swim. This summer, in
need of some extra vitamins for my mental balance, I have cashed in on
the family membership at the local “Y” and—can it be?—have just passed
the first series of tests. Friend Husband is impressed, and as I display my
Minnow card to the waiting boys tonight, my stock rises visibly: “Good for
Mom!” “She did it!” “In the deep part, too!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The joy of having a friend who will say to one
almost engulfed in such tasks as filling stomachs and washing clothes,
“And how is it with your soul?”
August
Each morning we awaken to the pecul­iar humming noises of nature in
August. Gradually, as the day unfolds, other voices are added: from the
kitchen the distinctive grind of the applesauce mill; from the back yard
the crack of bat on ball; from the mud-hole, shouts and splashes; and
throughout the day, the insistent punctuation of a tiny girl-baby asking
for food. The day races on, becoming hot and dusty in the process, and
we rush along, becoming likewise. But every night brings “sweet sleep
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which knits the raveled sleeve of care,” …and every morning His mercies
are new.

Love has many hands and many voices. Last week it reached out
and spoke in the form of an applesaucing. A. brought a bushel of yellow
transparents from their own tree (she herself used the windfalls—these
were flawless picked apples). She brought her huge pots and pans and her
gracious self and children and we had a lovely day canning applesauce
and communing. (Yes we did too commune—in spite of the twelve children
in and out of the house!)

When, after a few days of anxiety, an appointment with a specialist
materializes, and I return home with a comparatively clean bill of health, I
discover that love has spoken again. My sister-neighbor, besides keeping
the children, has canned the bush­el of peaches which has been waiting
in the utility room.

Overheard from the vicinity of the rec­ord player where small daughter
is sitting in her little red rocker, intent on Marian Anderson’s recording of
“Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”:
“Course not. Course, I wasn’t there!”

I have a friend who is sure to give me something worthwhile to take
along home and think about, whenever a meeting be­tween us takes
place. Today she passed on the advice someone had given her: “Praise
your child every day.” There is no child who does not do something that
merits recognition and encouragement during the ordinary course of a
day. Occasions for nagging are so easy for parents to find—surely we can
also find at least one occasion for honest praise! Parents who may be
wary of such extravagance with their children might reflect on how far a
little praise goes when directed to themselves.

Tonight we gathered on C. F.’s lawn after church to welcome home
the Ressler sisters. No less fascinating than Ruth’s stories were Rhoda’s
interpretations to the deaf persons present. Her agile hands actually
spoke and her mobile face communicated, we guessed, beyond the call
of duty.

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Story of a Family
This week it seemed that a whole loving community conspired to give
me a trip to Hesston with the three big boys and Friend Husband. Almost
on the eve of their departure (without me because of the unexpected
advent of girl-baby!) one friend called to say, “We want to keep the baby.”
Others opened their doors to the three remaining. Another said, “I’ll do
your ironing,” and another, “Do you need a nightgown?” I accept all the
generous offers and am grateful, but I think, how is it that other people
can see ways to be helpful before I can? I remember over­hearing my
mother sighing over a certain teenage daughter, “Yes, she’s a good worker,
but she just doesn’t see work!”

Highlights of our hurried trip included a short night with Lois and
family—whose house was already bursting at the seams with company.
On our leaving, she gives me a rose from her old-fashioned garden and
confesses with a smile that her garden is her “mental health”—like my
swimming.
In Goshen there are rich, unexpected meetings crammed into the
“time it takes to get these books unloaded and the tires checked.”
At Newton there is the famous Guest House, where Mister Twelve,
brightening at the sight of two colored men at the next table, sighs, “Now
I can enjoy this food.” And later, “You know, the best part about that
restaurant—better even than having seconds—was that it didn’t have
that terrible sign in it!” (“We reserve the right to refuse service…”)
At Hesston we soak up the hospitality of Hesston homes, enjoy coffee
with old friends and sidewalk visits with new ones, while Friend Husband
fills his conference appointments.
Then there is the old-shoe comfort of auntie’s house again, and home.
Home to fat girl-baby who didn’t seem to miss us, to two others who
sighed, “Why di’n’t you stay longer?” and to a little boy who, quiet and
good for a whole week, spent the day skipping and singing from morning
till night, our first day home.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The compassion in a small daughter’s eyes as
she takes her mother’s hand after an exasperating day with boys in the
clutter of another building project. “Mommy,” she consoles, “Are you very
tired of huts?”
September
Is there any phrase so sweet as “day after Labor Day” to a summer-tired
mother? This one thinks it has angelic over­tones. Not that she can’t bear
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her children—she really thinks they’re quite nice. But it’s for their sakes,
too, that she welcomes that wonderful, sparkly-new first day of school.
She knows that, even more than she needs a vacation from them, they
need one from her—plus the discipline and challenge of regular classwork
after a willy­nilly summer.
This time the last little boy straightens his shoulders and struts
along to school with his brothers. And he joins in the chorus that fills
the house, come four-forty o’clock: “Oh, I do like school!” “I got just the
teacher I wanted, Mom. We all did!” “I get to sit by Jon!” “Davy’s in my
room, too.” “Fifth grade is much more interesting than fourth!”

My friend K. and I have discovered new ways of helping each other.
She seems to have difficulty disciplining herself to read and meditate. I
have trouble accepting discipline in housework. And so we bar­gain. In
return for the explanation of my new method of meditation, she gives me
a few pointers for lining up some weekly household tasks.

The Gospel of Mark is my book of the month. Each day I read a
chapter, recording the encounters of Jesus with persons and His responses
to those encounters. Each day I close my meditation with a devotional
response in the form of a writ­ten prayer. At the end of the month, I feel
sure this book will seem more mine than any I have read in the Bible. At
this point, I can only “stand in silence and adore” as the Person of Jesus
shines through the writ­ten story of His meetings with other persons.

As for the household disciplines—well, I grit my teeth and insist that
I shall get into the habit of doing that ironing on Tues­days and cleaning
the bedrooms on Fridays. It’s nice to be flexible—and still be able to hold
things together. But some­times I feel rather like a rubber band which has
been so flexible, so often, that it has worn thin and is about to snap.

Andrewshek, thoughtful in the bath to­night, asks his Daddy, “Were
you a carpenter?” When the answer comes, “No,” a light goes out of the
brown eyes, and he looks down into the water, disconsolate. His father
perceives and smiles.
“I’m not a carpenter—but Jesus was. He was a good carpenter.”
“Was He?” Andrewshek pipes in wonder. And in wonder and sudden
exhilaration he breathes softly, “You know, don’t you, that I’m going to be
a carpenter when I grow up?”
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
Today our preacher was stricken with laryngitis, so we had a unique
worship service—mostly singing interspersed with appropriate Scripture.
We were glad he didn’t call in another minister. His creative solution to
the problem was a far greater joy to this worshiper. Later, I thought, Why
is it that we feel we must scrabble about in an emergency, to keep things
go­ing “as usual?” An occasional dose of the unusual—whether it be in
food or recreation or worship or work—might be good for us and for our
pampered tastes.

A small fairy who lives at our house touched a routine trip to town
with her wand and transformed it into a treasure for the memory when
she turned to the driver, her eyes luminous, and sighed, “It’s so beautiful
going places with you.”

Today we set out the willow twigs which our friend procured for us,
and hoped that at least one would grow. These twigs came from huge
willows on the old home place in Juniata County where my Father lived
as a boy and where he grew up into young manhood. My mother often
painted for me the picture of Papa, a little boy lying on his stomach in the
hall doorway of the big house. From here he loved to watch the willows
during the violent summer storms. Ever since we saw those willows nearly
ten years ago, I’ve wanted to go back and get a start for our own little
acre. Now the stubby twigs have come, from the hands of friends, and to
me they are a living link with the father who died too soon to tell me his
own story of the willows.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: These golden Sunday afternoons when the Tall
One comes out of his room, viola in hand, and grins, “How about making a
little music together?” At times like this, his Mom is grateful that, though
she’s no pianist, she can at least play hymns (in the keys of F, G, C, and
E flat) to the accompaniment of an up-and-coming viola.
October
The golden days have come again. “Again,” she writes—yet each year
October seems to be a new thrill of colors, tex­tures, dimensions, odors.
Today was one of those bright blue days, and against that blue the
remaining leaves fluttered like gold tags in the wind.

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To live in such a golden world, yet to feel the sadness and suffering
about one and within one is to experience an ex­quisite tension of pain
and joy. A friend in need comes humbly to our door to say, “I thought—if
I could just look out your big window for a while…” We say that is just
what our window is for. But as we stand there and feel our friend’s hurt
as our own, somehow the colors outside the window are deepened and
blurred.

Minka greets us at breakfast on her birthday morning with a haughty
glance at her high stool:
“No stool, please…I’m FIVE!”

Sometimes—maybe once in a lifetime­—an experience comes to us
which defies capture by words. Perhaps it is a moment of rare, insightful
meeting with God or with another person. Somehow it leaves us aching
for the consummate, face-to-face meeting with God. After such an experi­
ence the words of John Donne cry out within:
“No man can see God and live, yet I shall not live until I see Him; and
when I have seen Him I shall never die.”

“Everybody—come to the Animal Show. Admission one penny.
Gum from the gum bank—one penny. Everybody’s invited! Free
refreshments.”
Lefty and Smitty and their bright-eyed neighbor cooked this one
up—and since the invitations were out before the mothers got wind of
it, it really went through. (Even to the “free refreshments”—free, that is,
to everyone but the moms.) To our surprise, however, this was no halfcooked performance. The magician, the bunny, and the leopard, in proper
costume, put on a clever little skit (original, too). But for the mothers it
was the audience that stole the show. There they sat on the improvised
bleachers—fourteen bright-eyed neighborhood youngsters, a colorful lot,
mostly under six years. Their faces reflect­ed their delight in the antics of
the ama­teurs, and as little hands clapped and shrill voices called for a
repeat performance, gum was chewed with all the vigor and strength—
and sound effects—of fourteen pairs of excited little jaws.

The Inward Cross, by Charles Kean, wins top place on my reading
list this month. These are the most rewarding meditations I have yet read
concerning the words of Jesus on the cross. I refrain, with effort, from
interrupting Friend Husband, scowling over his books in his cell. Instead,
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I write down in a notebook what I would ordinarily share with him. One
thought stays with me today—that the spirit behind the words, “Father,
into thy hands I com­mend my spirit,” should be the basis for our dealing
with the uncertain future. Kean suggests that in every decision we make,
in every relationship we enter, we should echo these words. I like that.
But to say it is to say also, “Not my will… .” And somehow, for me at least,
that is never easy.

Friend Husband’s birthday is this year the occasion for taking his
colleague and wife (our neighbors in the red house down the road) out to
dinner. If it wouldn’t be for the fine fellowship we have on these eatingout nights—a fellowship we can’t quite duplicate with ten children, nine
of them boys, milling about—we might feel it to be an extravagance.

Tonight, a still, clear gem of October, I made the acquaintance of
some new friends—the constellations. Having been able to recognize
up to this point only the Big Dipper and the Milky Way (and one other
rather nice star which I had assumed from childhood to belong to me),
I am acutely aware, suddenly, of the neglected areas in my education.
It’s comforting to discover that one can keep learning though, as long
as there is incentive to learn. The boys, ignited by my new discoveries,
feverishly hunt up books and articles and charts on the heavens, and are
soon far beyond me.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: A moment of wonder, of remembering, of meeting,
of prayer… in the quietness of an empty chapel… on a rainy day…
November
November finds the family on The Hill beginning a flurry of late fall
housecleaning. Drawers, closets, shelves, and files yield to the firm hand
of Order. For a few hours at least, one can walk through the rooms singing
with the poet:
“Order is a lovely thing
On disarray it lays its wing…”
For a few days, not a cobweb! Clean drapes hang at all the windows—
windows which suddenly seem to be letting in an extraordinary amount of
light. I remember the “Poem in Prose” which Archibald MacLeish wrote for
his wife… some­thing about there always being sun and time and a sweet
air and peace and work done, curtains, flowers, candles, a cloth spread,
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and a clean house—wherever she is. Friend Husband couldn’t write that
about me most days, I think, wistful. But—but today he could!

Andrewshek has requested that for his seventh birthday he doesn’t
want anything big like, well, like a tool belt (anyhow he already has one).
He just wants little bitsy presents. His eyes dance, then, at the heaped
platter of minute-size gifts all done up in party paper and ribbons.
Scotch tape, nails, clips, labels, paste, gum, dimes, pencils, a comb, tiny
notebooks, crayons, and string are among his loot. For days he hoards
them unused, just so he can count them again.

“Missionary slides,” muses Lefty reflectively as he strains toward his
reflection in the mirror in order to clip on his bow tie. “Well, I know what
that means. They’ll begin with a boat and end with a sunset!”

Man Is Not Alone, a philosophy of religion by Abraham Joshua Heschel,
has provided a spot of beauty and light for me in the gray sameness of
these November days. This man traffics in words which are more poetry
than prose. Every page carries gems of insight, aphorisms which call
for underlining and remembering. Above all, the person of a godly man
shines through the words and the ideas and one thinks of Enoch, who
walked with God. A friend who delicately questions my appreciation of a
Jewish author, says, “Yes…but he isn’t a Christian.” I reply, “If only more
of us Christians were as Christlike as he is!” I am in debt to this good
man for new understandings of the Person of God, the will of God, and
the walk with God.

Minka, all measles and misery, crawls into bed on her daddy’s side
and snuggles into the shelter of his arm. “Now,” she observes, “Daddy has
a young mother and…” Her other parent cringes, waiting for the blow to
be dealt by the word “old.” “And,” Minka adds thoughtfully, “and a tall
mother.”

“When I was a kid at home,” states one of our friends in an aggrieved
tone, “our parents were free on Sunday afternoons. We scattered and
kept out of their way. Nowadays Sunday is my hardest working day—I’m
expected to keep them entertained. Why can’t they entertain themselves,
like we did?”
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We smile in recollection of the Old Days and in recognition of the New
Order. We ourselves have had some pretty harrowing Sunday afternoons—
even with the help of naps and how-to articles and books. It seems there
are days when a child can be presented with fifty-odd suggestions as to
what he might care to do, and not one will appeal to his sophisticated
taste. Then there are days like today—blessed day!—when each one
settles down to his own pastime. Then the parent who was going to write
letters is almost inspired to write an ode in praise of family harmony! An­
drewshek and Smitty have sealed themselves in their monastery, and are
building a miniature village. Minka is mistress of a paper doll household.
Lefty and his next older brother are deep in books from the Saturday trip
to the library. The Tall One experiments with the tenor arias from the
Messiah to his own accompaniment. And the tiny baby sleeps, as is her
habit—an admirable trait in a lady of five months.

The man of the house presents us his Christmas gifts by stages this
month: a concrete floor in the basement, good for years of roller skating
and ping-ponging; and especially for me, steps leading to the basement
from the inside of the house—contemplating those chilly dawns and lone­
ly nights when I become fireman during his regular weeks of absence, I
think this is about the most thoughtful gift possible…

Thanksgiving this year was special in a different way. The family
was alone, but it seemed that many of our friends were with us. For on
our table were hot rolls from our neighbor-relatives next door, corn from
Marnetta’s freezer, and pumpkin pies from Kit’s oven. No one was able to
figure out the why of this windfall, but “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come”
fairly rang as we gathered about the table, and we ate our food with love
and remembering and gladness of heart.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The hushed, excited voices of Christmas-struck
children planning and practicing (behind closed doors) for the family
program, nearly a month away.
December
The Christmas month calls for “grace for little things,” this mother feels,
almost more than any time of the year. Today, listening to the fourteenyear-old experimenting alternately with all four voice parts of the same
Messiah chorus, I am desperately aware of the need for such grace—or
earplugs.
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
Friends of the family, just returned from three years in Switzerland,
delighted us with their company last night. Highlights of the evening—
their delicate playing on Blockflutes, reminiscences of their work abroad,
and the acquaintance of their “small character.” (Minka’s name for her:
The-Little-Sara-Who-Likes-Cheese.)

“This year,” the Hill-Woman told her­self—and the family, in case they
wanted to hear—“our Christmas greetings are going out early.” They did,
indeed. That was no idle boast. However, after reading on every other
incoming greeting, “Yours was the first card of the season for us!” she
confessed to her husband that next year our cards will be sent a week or
two later.

Overheard: a small sigh of satisfaction from the youngest. “Think of
it! I colored this whole page without yawning!”

Everywhere there are stars: Stars in the eyes of the Tall One when he
discovers that he and his viola get to go to the county orchestra. Diminutive
hands of the new­born of the community (Why do their hands always
remind me of stars?) A heaven full of glory-declaring stars as we listen
to The Messiah sung by the Mendelssohn Choral Society accompanied
by the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. Then there are those sparks of
excitement as the boys gather around to watch their parents open the gifts
they’ve bought them. With even more joy than they exhibit opening their
own gifts, they watch us unwrap the paring knives, the thermometer, the
little per­colator for our joint use. “Is that the kind you like?” “Did you
guess at all?” “They cost us…” At this point a large hand claps over a
small mouth; so the parents are spared the knowledge—until later when
they surreptitiously remove the sticky price tags from the backs and
bottoms of their gifts.

Christmas day began with a 7:00 a.m. chorus, “When can we go?”
And ended with a 10:00 p.m. wail from Secundus. “Best day of my life
this year, and then you have to insist on leaving right in the middle of
everything!” It seems an impertinence to try to take the whole shining
day apart and appraise it, piece by piece. But next day we find ourselves
doing just that. The Tall One says, “That food!” Andrewshek recalls the
Surprise-Pudding centerpiece, from which to each person’s plate, ribbons
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led and were pulled at the appropriate after-dinner moment. (Even Baby
Joyce rated a rattle!) There is talk of base­ment playing, of planning the
program to be given for the parents before the basement fireplace, and of
the program itself. (A very good one, the parents agreed.) Lefty speaks of
the marshmallows roasted in the fireplace. (Just why do boys like to burn
theirs, and wave them about under people’s noses, crying, “Look! mine’s
on fire! That’s the way I like it!”)
The parents recall a special treat—listening with our pastor-hosts
to a recording of Dylan Thomas reading his own “Boyhood Christmas in
Wales.” How could it be, we wondered aloud later when we were home,
that the recounting of a particular child’s experiences—a boy’s at that,
and in a strange country and culture—how could such an account evoke
so much of one’s own childhood experience? That’s the magic of good
writing, I guess. Anyhow, it seemed as if all the sights and sounds and
smells and tastes and textures of our own childhood Christmases were
compressed in this brief hour of listening and remembering.

Several weeks ago, after viewing a film on family worship, the boys
came home full of big plans to revamp our own sys­tem. Each evening
at dinner we are now to take turns conducting table devotions. Today,
Sunday, it’s Dad’s turn, and he suggests that our morning worship at
church be counted as family worship. Smitty hotly declares this to be
cheating, and his father meekly concedes (in shortened form, however.)
Smitty further guards the purity of our family worship in reprimanding
severely his small sister when she chooses as the worship song, “I Had a
Goat, His Name Was Jim.” (Let it be said in his defense, though, that his
tears of compassion immediately responded to her heartbroken sobs!)

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment when, in the midst of the choir’s
singing of “Surely” one is pierced by the immediacy of the words, “He hath
borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.” “My sorrows, too!” I think—
the sorrows that no one else can know or understand, that even I can
scarcely name to myself… A great silence envelops the deep places of the
heart, and the choir, for a while, seems far away—like angels singing to
the world’s anguish.
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Hill Journal 1959
January
It’s a new year again, and the first day of it. There is a fascination about
this day for me—in spite of what the cynics say about its really not being
more significant than any other day. Sometimes when one is confronted
with an ordinary day with its ordinary demands, one wants to run the
other way. (A crisis may require less courage than the daily grind.) But
today, today I awaken with joy. “Here is the day,” I quote to nobody in
particular. “Here is the day; one must act.” And as the wings carry me to
the kitchen for the preparation of Breakfast #1 of the new year, another
song is singing within: “This is the day which the Lord has made; let us
rejoice and be glad in it.”

The boys thought the new year couldn’t have started better—dinner
with Alva’s at Grantsville. “All that food!” sighed Twelve. “She said, ‘Just
a little snack for supper.’” Lefty’s mimicry of our hostess was effective.
Smitty looked back at the family, waving from the icy walk. “I guess they
are just about the nicest people there are,” he said, in quiet desperation.
We all understood; for how does one—we always ask ourselves as we
leave this home—how does one answer to such hospitality as this?

Overheard today, a remark of a friend, “I’m not what I want to be.” It
made the hill-woman thoughtful, for it is something she has often glibly
said of herself. But this time, somehow, it arrested her attention. Not
what I want to be? But how can I say that? For am I not becoming, day
by day, that person who is the result of my real wantings? How easily one
declines himself into thinking that he wants the best and the highest. O
God, may I increasingly want for myself what you want for me.

Smitty, having faithfully discharged all the duties a harassed mother
could think of while preparing supper for guests, plants himself in her
path and pleads, “But, Mom, I don’t like to just spend my life pacing back
and forth; I want to be helpful!”

What a rare happening is a good biography! Let one crucial letter
be omitted from the sources available to the biographer—and maybe he
has missed a valuable key to an important door of his subject. Several
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years ago, on reading The Letters of Evelyn Underhill I noted that the
correspondence with her spiritual director, Baron von Hügel, was absent.
The preface stated that these letters were, unfortunately, missing. Today I
have become acquainted with a new Evelyn Underhill through the courtesy
of Margaret Cropper, her latest biographer. The “lost” correspondence
was not lost after all.
These letters to and from the baron reveal a facet of E. U. which seems
to me to be necessary to the understanding of her as a person. Here are
her conflicts and waverings, those spiritual anguishes which she nobly
kept out of her letters to those who looked to her for guidance, but which
were real, and with which she struggled all her life. This recommends her
to me as a greater saint than the calm person I had envisioned from her
Letters.

Last night, according to habit, the mistress of the hill-house made
a list of the things to be done the following day. After the children had
left for school this morning, she took up her list. Scrawled at the bottom,
right after “let down hem of M’s dress” was this pathetic note, designed
to melt the heart of a mother who sometimes makes repeated promises
without fulfilling them: “Read How We Grow Up, Chap. 3, to your third
son.”

One hears lots of talk about taking life a day at a time. Today, after
hearing some bitter words concerning a friend, I thought what a fine
thing it would be if we could learn to take people a day at a time, too.
But no, we must carry along their history—what they did and what they
said and what they were in another situation. And often the baggage of
this history piles up so that we can’t find the person “[hidden] among the
stuff.” We hope that, as for us, each day finds us taller in stature; we like
to think we are capable of growth and change and rebirth. But others we
judge as they were yesterday, last week, twenty years ago. Well, this is the
little sermon the hill-woman preached to herself today. And she ended
by being grateful to God—the one Person who really takes us a day at a
time.

Minka’s eyes shone today, when she opened a big box of “nurse’s
things.” This was more than a shiny little kit from the store. It was the
carefully hoarded and much-used treasure-trove which Betty Ann had
collected herself as a small girl playing nurse. Now she is a real nurse,
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and Minka is heir to her box of dreams. Dream, little daughter. Dreams
have a way of coming true if we want them to—I know!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The rebuke of the month: I was tired and cross
and would rather not have talked to the one who called me, even though
I knew of her lying there, day after day, with so much to irritate and so
little to comfort. She must have sensed my impatience, for she said, “I’m
sorry to bother you, but your voice always soothes my nerves.”
February
Like January, February opened for us with a gala feast. This time it was
a Mexican dinner at our neighbor-relatives, just comfortably settled after
spending the holidays in south Texas. Enchiladas, tamales, hot peppers—
the boys reveled in the abundance of favorite foods. And I quietly enjoyed,
as I always do, the sheer beauty which this sister of mine is capa­ble of
producing, given some food, a table, and an occasion.

Overheard: Minka confiding to a playmate, “My mother knows much
more than my daddy. I know, ’cause whenever I ask Daddy something he
says, ‘Ask Mother.’”

“[O] rest in the Lord, … wait patiently for him.” Some days when I listen
to this recording of Marian Anderson’s voice, the soul can hardly bear the
weight of beauty. Not only the unique voice, but also the im­mediacy of the
text of the aria makes listening a deeply personal experience. For who of
us does not nurture that heart’s desire for which we long in secret silence,
and which seems so impossible ever to possess? I find reassurance in a
comment found today in The Interpreter’s Bible. The writer is explaining
the different answers which may be given to such a prayer. One might
be, “You must wait for what you desire, but you shall have now what you
need.” Lord, if this be your answer to me, may I accept graciously what I
need and wait patiently for that which I desire.

The family turned out en masse tonight (with the exception of absent
Father) to hear the County Orchestra play at the high school. All that I
could see of our first­born was the tip of his viola bow and his left ankle.
Nevertheless I was giddy with pride, and I felt much like those overbearing
alumni at whose class letters I had hooted years ago— “Our daughter has
first chair in violin…”
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
Tonight for a valentine treat the hill-woman featured a “Favorites
Feast.” Now a Favorites Feast comes about in this fashion—each child,
the day before, confides secretly one item of food which he would like to
have on the menu. Father and Mother add their choices in a desperate
attempt to balance the meal. This time the result was mashed potatoes,
Italian spaghetti, hamburgers, ravioli, chocolate ice cream, corn bread,
lettuce, and candy. Smile, O friends, at our top-heavy menu; it was a joy
to serve and a joy to eat.

“My children don’t say things like that,” observed a reader of this
column. I tried to tell her that her children probably say and do things
much more interesting and significant, for our family has no precocious
children. The only difference is that I have a habit of taking notes on
paper—she relies on her memory. I have found that these little jottings
over the years often restore the image of a child long forgotten. It seems to
me that in the true enjoyment and appreciation of family life, the past of
each child plays a role. Most of us can recall the past piecemeal, at best,
and with distortions and loopholes. Granting that notes and diaries are
not foolproof when it comes to documenting facts and emotions—I’ll still
rely on these above my will-o-the-wisp memory.

“It’s not what he said, it’s how he said it!” wails Minka. Minka is
learning about life when she is learning about inflection. What a difference
is made by that subtle shifting of the voice! Her mother recalls a college
classroom where the professor was reading aloud one of her poems. The
remembered line ran:
“Where the dumb clouds lay quilted and calm.”
Croaked the friend in the next chair, “He made them-there clouds
stupid, not speechless!”
And when I think of what we can do for or against people by the mere
rise and fall of the voice, I remember a friend who, in order to bestow a
great gift, needs only to speak one’s name with that indefinable inflection
which no one else has quite mastered.

For years a “Sisters’ Party” has been in the offing here—and tonight
it became a reality. We met at Hazel’s, and it was sur­prising to find out
how interrelated our little community is. The sisters poured in, each
with a dish of something remembered from the table at home. (My own
sister delighted me with butterscotch pie, the like of which I had not
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tasted since our mother made her last butterscotch pie for me, years ago.)
Reminiscences were the order of the day. Older sisters recalled lugging
their baby sisters about, and baby sisters remembered their bossy (and
loving) big sisters. We tried guessing which of the pair (or the three) was
the older, and many a tale was told out of school. It was a relaxing,
different sort of evening, and when I came home, I felt like saying to the
small waiting daughter, “Poor child, no sisters!”

The hill-woman hates to think of what might happen to her cooking
if the family would not be invited out once in a while. For then the boys
enthusiastically demand that we get the recipe for this … and this.
The current craze is for hot fudge pudding, which the lady in the red
house down the way served us recently. All you do is sift into a bowl
1 c. flour, 2 tsp. baking powder, ½ tsp. salt, ¾ c. sugar, and 2 T. cocoa.
Stir in ½ c. milk and 2 T. melted shortening. Blend in 1 c. chopped nuts,
spread in 9″ square pan, sprinkle with a mixture of 1 c. brown sugar and
3 T. cocoa, pour 1¾ c. hot water over the batter and bake at 350 degrees
for 45 minutes. Served hot with or without cold rich milk, it brings from
our Tall One one of his rare slangoes: “Hot-dig!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Minka’s whispered apology as she flits back
and forth from her father’s chair to mine: “I hope you don’t get tired of it,
but I just have so many kisses inside of me, I don’t know what to do with
them!”
March
March, with its capricious temperament, had the laugh on us right from
the start this year. We left for Goshen, just the two of us plus Minka,
with the sun hot and bright—so hot and bright that at the last minute we
exchanged Minka’s warm winter coat for her light spring one. No sooner
were we on the turnpike than the gusts of wind and snow almost lifted the
old Pontiac from the road, and Goshen greeted us in a blanket of snow.

But the cold and the snow were entirely out of keeping with our
week there. “Friendship is a miracle!” writes Simone Weil, and it seemed
that wherever one turned, one was confronted with this miracle. Years
may have passed since we had seen each other. Yet there was no backtracking to be done; in fact, whatever bond had been between us seemed
to have strengthened; understandings bloomed where we had not even
been aware of the need for such understandings.
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“You know,” I confided to my companion on the homeward trek,
“while you were teaching this week, I visited with nearly forty people.
And,” I added as Friend Husband smiled indulgently, “every one of those
contacts was a vital one—for me. Not one was commonplace; not even
those hurried surprises on the streets and in the halls that began, ‘Why,
hello!’ ”

Back home, Minka greets her brothers and baby “sister” with aplomb.
In spite of the fact that they think they have gotten the best of the bargain,
spending the week with an aunt who gave them “all we wanted to eat,”
Minka feels her position is quite superior. After all, she had her own
private rooms at Aunt Stella’s. She saw baby turkeys. She made new
friends. She has a boxful of treasures garnered from Mommy’s friends.
Furthermore, from her lofty heights she can be generous—she doles out
a small gift for each boy with nonchalance. But at the baby’s pen she
suddenly becomes again the little girl we love. “Sweetie,” she whispers,
as she urges her to play with the new toy she has brought her. Then she
turns to me. “Does Joycie know she’s a person? I hope so…”

“Everyone” is reading Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago—and so I finally
take it up also. Whether or not the book has been oversold, its reading
has been a significant experience for me, and the usual wrangle and
confusion over the Russian names has not prevented reading enjoyment.
“How wonderful to be alive,” cries Lara, “but why does it always hurt?”
An old question, and no new answers. But the hill-woman, with Lara,
will still choose aliveness with hurt, to the safe, sterile “existence without
courage.”

The car being out of commission and Father gone, we had our service
at home this Sunday morning. I always look forward to these occasions,
for I can count every time on new insights into the persons of the young
worshipers who have planned and executed the service. Today we even
had typed bulletins, at the top of which was, The United Brethren Church.
When I asked why the desertion from the Mennonite faith, the five male
conspirators looked at each other in amusement. This was their little
joke. For, as one of them finally pointed out, there couldn’t be a better
name for their church—wasn’t it being run by five brethren?

The green tips of the bulbs are showing; a friend has donated pussy
willows to enhance the springy decor of the bookcase; Easter is upon us,
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in spirit and in symbol. Yesterday eight children stood around the kitchen
table coloring eggs, each moving from one color to the next in order to
produce one egg of each color for his own private collection. I remember
the time when this was a trial. This year, with the increased steadiness of
little-fingers-grown-bigger, it was a joy.
At sunrise service this morning we heard the old-new words, “The
Lord is risen indeed.” Yet I could not repeat them glibly, knowing that He
is risen indeed, to me, only as I am risen with Him.

A friend, in a conversation today, was deploring the fact that as
Christians we do not feel free enough to speak our minds, one to another.
Shouldn’t we be able to say what we think about each other and our
church? Partly, I agreed. But some­how, I knew that often the people who
feel freest to “speak their minds” are the most lonely and unhappy of
persons. After thinking about it, it seemed to me that freedom to speak
one’s heart (one’s love) is a higher and a more costly freedom, and that
I have little right to speak my mind when I have not freely “spoken my
heart.” To speak the truth is one thing—any crank can do it. To “[speak]
the truth in love,” God knows how few of us are capable of this. And so,
for me, I cannot ask more freedom to be critical when I have not loved
freely. “There is no freedom,” writes Heschel, “without sanctity.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Andrewshek’s nervous system is not geared for
TV, and when he comes home from a session of Cowboys and Indians at a
friend’s home, he cannot sleep, out of fear. I talk to him, trying to soothe
him into sleep. “Remember that picture in your book, and the verse about
God’s arms being around us?” I repeat it, then, “Underneath are the ever­
lasting arms.”
“Yeah, I know,” Andrewshek whispers, “but keep your arms around
me, Mom, please.”
April
The proverbial April showers have been real and plentiful these first few
April days. Small daughter is disconsolate, and I hear her muttering to
herself, “You’d think the sun was dead!”
The gifts of April are not all showers of rain—and not all those first
bright smiles of hyacinths and jonquils. Today Sister Therese’s newest
book of poetry Moment in Ostia arrived direct from Sister Therese, the
friend of a friend. The delight of reading good poetry is heightened by
the joy of discovering that we, the poetess and myself, share enthusiasm
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for the writings of Simone Weil and Thomas Merton. Moment in Ostia
has brought me more than exquisite poetry; it has brought me another
friend. It takes a really good book to put one on speaking terms with the
author.

April—life! I used to have some vague notion of eternal life being
what one has after death, whether he wants it or not. But now I think of
it differently, and when I read, “If any man is thirsty, he can come … and
drink [of the water of life freely],” I know that eternal life is something we
taste here and now, or never; and that freely drinking of it or not makes
the difference between life and mere existence. Tonight I have had to
thank God for the eternal life in which I have participated this day: the
meeting of spirit with spirit as I sat with a friend; the easy exchange of
confidences with a growing boy; the insight springing from the pages of
the book I was reading; the sure guidance from within at a moment of
indecision.

Smitty is examining the hand-tooled belt which his Texas aunt made
for him several Christmases ago. “I want to keep this belt,” he announces,
“to show to my other family—you know, my wife and children. And I will
tell them the story of how I got it, and who gave it to me. She made it with
her own hands.” We guess this is Smitty’s own way of saying, “Daddy and
Mommy, I like the way you have shared your own childhoods with me. I
want to do it for my children, too.”

Tonight at Second Son’s thirteenth birthday supper the guest was
our friend Don, fresh from Japan. The boys were over­awed by his great
politeness, including his low bows, his seating of their mother at the
table, and his insistence on helping with the dishes. Mother decided that
this is the kind of guest we should have oftener. After all, a big strapping
fellow who is polite and still knows about baseball and boys is proof
enough that one can have manners without being a sissy.

Coming home from a particularly dis­appointing evening spent with
other members of a prayer group, I mused on the word, “meeting.” And
I sighed to think how many assemblages one sits through without there
having been any real meeting.

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Tonight, because we were without a car, and because of a sudden
upsurge of the spirit of adventure, the hill-woman walked the three-odd
miles to town. It was a crisp evening, and I walked briskly for two reasons:
to get there in time, and to keep warm. New sights and sounds and odors
were opened to me as I trotted along the road: the birds exchanging their
little good nights over and over; the peepers proclaiming spring from the
swampy hollows; the heretofore unnoticed dimensions of the banks at
the roadside; the loveliness of the back yards along Pittsburgh Street
Extension (we always pass too fast to really see them). It all was a new
and exhila­rating experience. I do hereby recommend walking to town at
least once every ten years.

The Tall One had missed his supper to go to Music Club, and so his
mother saved a generous supply of creamed chicken to be served him on
his return. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t eat it all, Mom,” he apologized later,
pointing to the tablespoon of creamed dope he has left in the pan. “See,
Mom, I ate six sloppy-joes at Music Club.”

Which is the most rewarding and which is the most trying stage of
family-raising? I ask myself. Parents of a houseful of pre­schoolers have a
definite answer. Parents of teen-agers (forbidden word!) have another. As
for me, I have always felt that the current stage is both the most trying.
and the most rewarding. Each child, at any age, presents problems and
pleasures to serve as both weights and wings to this parent. Tonight one
of those rare bonuses to parenthood was given when they all, from five
to fifteen, seemed alive, yet peaceable; when, without plan or design, we
chatted the evening away together without one major uprising, no namecalling—and no nagging!
TΟ KEEP AND PONDER: The thanks in the shining eyes of the three
youngest as they are served a Tiny Party. Once in a great while their
mother remembers how she liked Tiny Parties when she was small. And
so she makes the wee, triangular sandwiches, piles minute-sized cheese
slabs on Minka’s Blue Willow platter, and prepares inch-long carrot stix.
These, she guesses, are the meals her children will remember longest.
May
Mother’s Day came early this year, and especially early to the house on
the hill. As it happened, Smitty finished his gift a week ahead of schedule,
and couldn’t wait. The tiny piece of cloth with M S L sewn across it in
almost recognizable letters was worth more than a dozen red roses—even
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if Mother never did divine its intended use. And what fun it must have
been to wrap. All that Scotch tape!

Today the boys’ father was in charge of a funeral, and the big boys
were involved in a May parade. Andrewshek seemed puzzled all morning
as preparations were made. The source of his confusion became apparent
as he suddenly burst out, while watching the parade, “Wow! I never knew
they had to celebrate that much for a dead person!”

A little paperback, No Man Is an Island, written by the Trappist,
Thomas Merton, has been the springboard for fruitful meditation this
week. Proper love of ourselves, says Merton, is something we owe to
others. And by proper love of ourselves he means “first of all, desiring to
live, accepting life as a very great gift and a great good, not because of
what it gives us, but because of what it enables us to give to others.”

One small person at our house seems to have a sense of honest selfacceptance. “You know,” she begins earnestly, “it seems as if I love you
more than anyone in the world, except myself!”

Today was a day for celebration, hat-throwing, firecrackers. Actually
all we did was have an extra-special breakfast and a few quiet cheers
around the table when Father, still sleepy from his early morning train
arrival, announced that now he was home for good. The winter-long
arrangement of life-with-Father for one week, followed by life-withoutFather for the next, is now over.

A new experience for the women of the family: attending a motherdaughter banquet together. In a way it seemed as if Minka’s grandmother,
gone long before Minka herself was born, was also there. I felt a strange,
rich communion with my unseen brown-eyed mother on one side, and
my attentive brown-eyed daughter on the other. This experience in return
seemed to communicate itself to the women who listened. They gave, I
was sure, more than they received. Sometimes this miracle happens when
one gives a very ordinary speech. Sometimes it doesn’t. In any case, the
small daughter, on the way home, patted her mother’s arm and moved
closer. “You told good poem-stories,” she murmured sleepily.

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This week we have nine children at our house. Minka looks forward
to these visits of her little friends, for she knows that then her mother
might make an effort to do some special things which have been delayed
for months. “Sometime, dear” is an all-too-familiar answer to this patient
child’s repeated requests for doll clothes, a tea party, a story—or the
making of fairy houses. Like most nostalgia-embroidered memories, the
making of fairy houses in reality did not quite come up to the pic­tures
in mother’s mind. In the first place, the lovely little ditches are an Idaho
product, and no stony Pennsylvania creek bank could offer the same
opportunities. To make a fairy house one should be able to lie flat on his
stomach on one side of the little ditch, and dig the wee house hole in the
opposite bank. A can lid, pushed firmly into the bottom of the hole and
covered with green moss, makes a lovely floor, and extends out over the
water as a balcony. Toothpicks produce a proper railing.
Missing also, in this thirty-years-too-late version of fairy houses were
the little china penny dolls, big as a minute, which we children would buy
to attract the fairies to the completed houses. So the long-prom­ised project
fell a bit flat. Yet I have a suspicion (so powerful is the mind’s magic)
that long after the little girls have forgotten about the unsuccessful fairy
houses they made, they will remember the lovely ones which a nostalgic
imagination produced for them—in words.

TO KEEP AND PONDER:
Back in the long ago
When goblins were real to us, and witches,
We built, with breathless care and tender skill
Fairy houses, in the ditches…
Only the greenest moss
We chose for carpeting the tiny floors,
And bought, to lure the fairies, stiff penny dolls
In the dim downstairs of Moore’s.
Back in the long ago
Flat on our stomachs by the little stream
We fashioned fairy houses with love and longing
For fairies who never came.
June
June seemed this year to leap at us with­out a warning. Suddenly the
house is filled with sound and fury which a more patient mother might
primly call “activity.” First off, the two young campers must be outfitted
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with bedrolls and changes of clothing for the annual Little Boys’ Club
camping weekend. One assumes that the extra clothing supplied will
come back unused or not at all. (Or bearing the tag marked “J. C. Penney
Size 6” instead of “Boyville Size 8.”)
The only member of the family who seems to consistently bring peace
and not a sword these days, is now a year old. Her first birthday left
Baby Joyce placid and smily as usual, with only a moment of won­der as
the tiny lighted candle flickered before her; a moment of delight as her
fingers dug into the squishy icing; and a moment of pleased surprise as
the sticky, sweet stuff found her mouth. These mo­ments we captured in
color (we hope) with our camera.

How I admire those people who plod along doing things methodically,
from a sense of responsibility and duty. Most things this lady attempts
must be moti­vated by the sense of adventure. Tell her it would be hard to
do, or that no sane person would try it, or that one doesn’t learn this new
trick this late in life—and she will probably attempt it. Tell her it is ex­
pected of her, that other women do it this way without batting an eyelash,
that it would be simple for one with her time and talents—and she will
likely turn coldly the other way.
Teaching Bible school morning and eve­ning for two weeks, including
planning and making freezer meals to cover that period, was one of those
things which she determined to do because it seemed impossible to one
with her easygoing (polite English for lazy) habits. With such motives she
knew she would be undeserving of any credit which unthinking people
might give her. (Besides, she didn’t do it alone—lots of people helped
out with food, love, and service.) But she did it, and enjoyed it. And who
knows? Next time she may be able to do the same with a purer motive!

Found in the Little Boys’ Room, a typed sheet bearing the following
information:
The Activeity Club
Minka L. . . . Treasure
Andr. L. . . . Presidant
J. J. C. . . . Congress
Smitty L. . . . Guard
Lefty L. . . . Guide
Note: The Guide is most Importent
Note: Dues: 1¢
Note: Activeitys, fishing, picnicing, hiking, swiming, selling.
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I smile as I contemplate the possible life span of this first club of the
summer. And I wonder if Lefty realizes how I know who masterminded
the organization!

My friend Elizabeth has loaned me Weatherhead’s latest book, A
Private House of Prayer. According to a bad habit of mine, I could not
read beyond the first few pages, for by that time I knew I must have my
own copy to underline, to cherish, to loan, to have at finger-tip availability
for my times of need. This is a rich storehouse of devotional material.
Weatherhead is a man with a genius for extracting valuable insights from
every man he has met, every book he has read, every homely happening
of his daily existence.

Today was Baby Joyce’s “Psychological.” The two of us went with our
caseworker to Seton Hill College at Greensburg, where a trained Sister
went through the fascinating process of testing the baby’s intelligence. I
had not believed there could be so many ways of stimulating a more or
less measurable response in so young a child. Com­ing home, dreams of
future service with foster homes, or adoptive parents, or even with testing
programs such as I had just witnessed—vague dreams nudged at the
corners of my consciousness asking, “Is this it?” “Sometime?” “Maybe?”

Annual Publishing House Picnic today. Oh, the luxury of taking a
book and a blanket, and just relaxing! But Friend Husband reminds me
that this is a day for socializing. “Don’t you think,” I suggest, “that the
rest of them might be as glad as I to be left alone a bit?” (He doesn’t think
so.) Facing the long tables loaded with such astonishing variety, such
artful arrangements, such temptations of color and odor, I realize sadly
that I still have no adequate “Philosophy of Food.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The inner burst of joy in the midst of a hot,
dusty day, when Lefty presents me with an armful of wild roses—the
first I’ve seen or smelled for years. “There’s a whole garden of them in the
middle of the woods!” he cries.
July
Some more energetic parents would, I am sure, find themselves at less
odds with the world in that middle summer month than we do here on
our hill. We make a few feeble attempts at a work schedule for the boys.
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Of course they make their own beds and keep their rooms clean, or
at least keep a path cleared between Saturday cleaning upheavals. Of
course they do the dishes more or less willingly, usually less. Of course
they practice their music lessons and mow the lawn (which needs little
mowing in this dry season). But all this takes only a fraction of the time.
Then what? The Tall One has the project of painting the house. But even
this, we see, will not take him long, for he works swiftly, evenly, and
willingly—when he works. Secundus has the task of cutting down some
small trees. This sounds glamorous until the blisters start appearing. A
good case of poison ivy saves the day for him. Oh, for a farm! But at least
we are com­forted that they all like to read; and when the work runs out,
they bounce back to their books with joy.

Remembering the times when the Sears repairman has come out to
fix my washer, only to find a small length of key chain in the pump, I have
finally acquired the habit of going through the boys’ pockets with special
care on washday. I am grim as I pick up Andrewshek’s jangling, heavy
jeans. These pockets, I conclude, might well be storage facilities for the
Pittsburgh Screw and Bolt Factory.

July is full of birthdays and anniversaries for us. But who is there
to celebrate with one those hidden anniversaries of the heart? Quietly,
alone, I today partake of οne such sacrament of remembrance.

The little fellers come home from watching a Pony League game in
which their two big brothers played. They are wild in their acclaim of
Secundus who, they say, made a beautiful, oh, a beautiful catch out
on the field. “Everybody cheered him!” cries Smitty, proud to burst. In
sheepish delight the Man of the Hour hangs around the sink where I am
mixing tomorrow’s supply of milk.
“You know,” he philosophizes, “when you do something like that for
your team for the first time, you feel like—well, you just feel like a real
person!”

The Hill-woman’s birthday came on a Sunday sandwiched between
two rather trying weeks. Books and letters, clothes and accessories, a call
from Texas in the morning and one from Michigan in the evening, made
her feel that somehow, she could keep on going; somehow from now on
she was going to be a better woman.
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The sister-neighbor announced, in addition, that she was preparing a
picnic supper for us to take out or eat in, as we wished. “Just a few simple
picnic foods,” she cautioned. “Nothing fancy.” During the preparation
Lefty, who had been watching her, burst into our house gasping, “Simple!
She says simple!” He flopped onto a chair in mock unconsciousness.
Later, after viewing, eating, and sharing the food with friends, we decided
that Aunt Liz had better bone up on the meaning of the word “simple.”

“Why can’t we take in the family swim at the Y?” the children ask
their father. “It’s every Friday night.” Father agrees tiredly that he will
go with us once, but we shall not ask him to do it again. After a relaxing
evening in the pool, where all of us showed each other what we had
learned in our separate swimming classes, where the boys water-fought
with their dad, and the Tall One patiently played in the shallower water
with the Small One; after all this, guess who it was who insisted, “We
must do this often!”

Smitty’s birthday was one of those hot, poorly planned, cluttered
summer days spent hauling the children to the Y, picking up packages
at Sears in Connellsville, getting books at the library, buying groceries at
the A and P, collecting the children at the park, meeting Daddy at fourthirty, icing a cake, and having a birthday party in process by six. But the
new Niner couldn’t have exhibited a more kindly spirit. (Even when his
“main” birthday present—two goldfish in a bowl—died at nightfall.)

Midsummer—and the garden is dry and pitiful, the lawns brown,
the dust hot and thick on the little road behind the house. These are the
fine summer days I used to dream of when the children would be outside
working or playing happily. Now they gather in the living room after a
few abortive attempts at outside play. “Too hot” “Too dirty,” they mutter.
And so they bring their books, their games, their arguments, and their
spite in under the nose of their mother who has long ago forgotten that
there is such a condition as peace. But they also bring their persons,
their reaching-out minds, and emotions as quick to flow outward in
compassion as they are to flare up in conflict. Passing back and forth
through the rooms, I recall again Enid Bagnold’s rich pictures of intuitive
motherhood in The Squire. I remember how the Squire looked at her little
son “seeing all that the shape of his face meant to her, the unfolding of
the seven years of his past ...” and thinking “how dull, in comparison,
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were the faces of children who were not hers,” as dull as the faces of men
who were not one’s Beloved.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The brave effort of Smitty to control the tears as
he stands alone, blinking fast, after watching our baby-for-a-year leave
us with the ladies from the Children’s Bureau. He turns to me fiercely, in
answer to my query “Nothing’s wrong with me!” Having thus asserted his
manhood, his voice falters patheti­cally, “She patty-caked for me, Mommy.
Right at the last.”
August
Fortunately for the pleasure of the family, the one who is responsible
for packing up for a family trip seldom realizes the enormity of her task
until the day before—when it’s too late to back out. And so we leave on
schedule (well, almost) for a real family vacation. Our destination is the
cabin at the Mountain Clinic, Harman, W. Va. After our arrival, the first
day is spent in trying to believe that there is really such a place as this
and in trying to con­vince ourselves that we are actually the fortunate
ones to live here this week. The boys soon find another boy at the clinic­
home, and later discover a whole nest of them down the road, in a family
arranged just like ours—five boys with a girl on the end.
One’s soul is slowly healed in this place brimming with the beauty
of bird song, of rushing waters and still waters, of green mountains
protecting one from faraway pressures of urban culture. There are
breakfasts of huckleberry pancakes; there are gifts of warm apple pies, of
fresh milk and butter, of corn and other garden prod­ucts delivered at the
door. Above all, there is fellowship within the family and with the other
families who live in this idyllic little strip between the river and the mill­
race. We leave, believing that we can face the rest of the summer with a
bit more spirit.

“Why do you sing when you work?” asks my young friend who is
spending the day with us. “I like it.” And what can one answer? I say, “I
don’t know … just because, I guess.” But if I were more reflective, I might
have said, “Maybe, dear girl, it’s because you are here, and the joie de vivre
that is always bubbling up in you makes me happy too.” Maybe one sings
because life is too big and heavy to be carried around indefinitely, inside.
Or maybe it would be truest of all and less complicated to say, simply,
“My mother used to sing when she worked. She sang even when she was
sad, even when she was worried, even when she was tired. Somehow, I
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always felt that the world was all right as long as I could hear my mother
singing. And so I guess I got into the habit of singing too!”

Smitty and his friend Steve are overheard discussing the imminent
arrival of school days.
“Did you hear,” Steve queries earnestly, “that they’re talking about
making the school year longer?”
“Yeah,” sighs Smitty bitterly. “And then they say this is a free country!
You can’t eat what you like and you have to go to school, and still, they
say it’s a free country!”

Since our August visitors discreetly avoid mentioning the condition
of our windows, I try to make a point of explaining why a map of the
world serves as one pane, an old church bulletin as another, the back
of a typing tablet as a third, and why a piece of tape is strapped across
a fourth. We have five sons, all of whom are baseball fans, all of whom
agree that the only decent place to play is in the back yard, all of whom
disclaim any real responsibility for the four broken panes of glass. We
shall wait to replace them until baseball season is over. (Knowing how
rapidly small repairs are made in this household, I add, under my breath,
“Until the last one has outgrown baseball.”)

“Days of the Spirit never pass away,” writes Heschel. Today I rested
for a while among cool ferns in the woods, in the shadow of a great rock.
And I arose, knowing that though I would likely never again come back
to this place under these circumstances, yet I had here discovered the
Cause to which I now desire to give the remainder of my life. I had found
my true vocation, however impossible it might be to explain it to the world
to which I was returning. Going from that place, I felt my commitment to
be one which even death could not terminate. “Days of the Spirit … never
pass away.”

The hill-wife complains rather bitterly to her visiting guest, “It
seems to me that being a mother this summer meant hauling children
back and forth to the places they had to go.” My wise friend nodded in
understanding. “Accept it,” she smiled. “That is one of the functions, the
important functions, of the modern mother!”

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Today was the special day to which all our first-graders-to-be look
forward—the day for shopping alone with Mother for school clothes.
Minka preferred to invite her friend Susy, since they had been promised
dresses alike in anticipation of their being separated soon. This naive
mother discovered that shopping for dresses with two little girls in tow is
quite another mat­ter than shopping for shirts and jeans with boys. She
should have allowed at least two extra hours.

And now the vacation days are num­bered. We look over the summer
and won­der why we have complained when there have been such rich
satisfactions. Time with the family—more than usual. Friends: the
inimitable J.P.S. out of his cast and here just in time to hold his pet,
Joyce, before she leaves. (Also to serve us the best chicken soup we have
tasted—with poetry, too!) Mary, with whom the hours passed like minutes
because of the rare rapport which sprang up between us; our Oregon
Lois, of whom we could somehow not see enough; Ohio Lois and family—­
who always wait too long between visits, and leave before we get started;
Canadian Irene (again, not enough time) and her companions who shared
our fruit on a hot evening; Friend Husband’s new coworker and his wife;
the two good families who leave our community soon; vivid, earnest Arlene
whose August stay at Heathwood always provides a haven for a certain
sum­mer-tired lady … all these and others cause us to agree reverently
with the current quotation on a local church sign­board: “Friendship is a
miracle.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The silent undercurrents of love and joy and
grati­tude passing from one to another as we eat our last meal with a
family particularly dear to us.
September
The bright blues and reds of new school clothes … the golden light of a
September morning … the excitement of the old­-timers and the shining
joy of the newcomers at the bus stop … another year of school has begun.
Minka’s red dress flashes through the green of the trees and bushes
between our window and the mailbox. At the same time, the hill-woman
hears a voice from a so-recent yesterday crying out, “It’s a girl!” A new
sense of the swift passage of time takes her by the throat for an instant.
But only for an instant. With not too many regrets—indeed with keen
delight—she looks about the quiet room where she stands. After fifteen
years, she is alone. The whole day is hers—hers!
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
But freedom is a relative word, after all. A day or two of this delicious,
aimless enjoyment, and grim deadlines begin to loom. The first task is to
clear out a place to work. The smallest room in the house is transformed,
after a day of hard work, into a study with all sorts of advantages for
one who has a writing assignment. The only catch is that the study, the
typewriter, the handy bookshelves, desk, telephone, desk­pad—none of
them will do the actual work for her.

“Why do big people have those strings on their foreheads?”
“Strings?” I ask Minka, “What do you mean?”
“She means those lines on your fore­head,” suggests Secundus,
helpfully. Never one to flatter, he adds, “Too bad, isn’t it? Must make you
feel awful old!” On the contrary, I assure him, I do not feel old, and it isn’t
too bad, and I like strings on my forehead.

Tonight we listened to W.F. Albright give his first of a series of lectures
on “Archaeology and the Bible” at the Carnegie Lecture Hall in Pittsburgh.
Though much of what he said was difficult for me to follow, and though
the detail could have been tedious, I found myself fascinated throughout
the lecture, unable to keep my eyes off this intellectual giant. The sheer
brilliance of his mind and the breadth of his knowledge held me spell­
bound. I came away with a new sense of the majesty of man—this highest
creation of God:
Thou hast made him little less than God,
and dost crown him with glory and honor
—Ps. 8:5, RSV

After the lecture, we sat around the table at C.F.’s with tea, pretzels,
and cakes, adding to the evening’s inspiration some long-neglected
fellowship. Coming home, we found the remains of a tea party. Lefty,
we guessed, threw the gala affair. Only Lefty would insist on using every
piece of Fostoria in the cupboard, disdaining the play party dishes. I’m
glad. It warms me to know that, in spite of the appearance of his room to
the contrary, he is able to recognize and create beauty.

Letters! Little bits of life that can light up the dullest day or extinguish
the brightness of the most joyous moment! Thoreau, I’m sure, was speaking
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only part of the truth when he remarked, “As the inner life fails, people
run desperately to the post office.” (In his whole life, he said, he hadn’t had
more than two or three letters that were worth the postage—poor guy!)
It may be that Thoreau, who was able to commune with nature, never
knew the joy of communicating intimately with people or of committing
himself to a particular person. Dr. Johnson, rascal that he may have
been, lived more fully and roundly and seemed to respect the personality
of others more highly. It was he who knew, far better than Thoreau, the
possibilities of letter writing as a form of vital communication. To Mrs.
Thrale he wrote, “In a man’s letters, you know, madam, his soul lies
naked.”
As I go over today’s mail—letters which at this particular time seem
like hands reaching out to help me up after a fall—I muse on what great
men have said about letters and the writing of letters. I quite agree with
William James’s genial observation: “As long as there are postmen, life
will have zest.”

Minka, home from school with an unidentifiable ailment, watches
the midafternoon supper preparation with concentration. “Just think of
it … just look at it!” she murmurs to herself in wonder, “The kettle is
breathing!”

Tonight Friend Husband and I are the guests of friends, and we’re
“eating out.” Good food and good fellowship work miracles in restoring
humanity to one who is almost lost in a maze of difficult study. On the
way home the man who “didn’t see how he could take time out” sighs that
it’s the wisest thing he could have done!

One of the very deep subjects of our conversation with our hosts of
the other evening was the naming of babies. Among other things, we gave
our approval (as if it were needed) of the name Emily. This morning we
are happy to hear that our friends are the parents of a new baby—the first
of their three children who could be expected to answer to Emily.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The lift that comes at 4:40 daily when the
hill-woman is overwhelmed by the burst of talk from the eager school
children. How fresh-faced and delightful they seem, after being away
all day. And now the evenings of listening to six different reports of the
day, and, finally, of reading a good book aloud to­gether seem almost too
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important to give up to those countless meetings which seem to swallow
up a family’s week.
October
Minka’s sixth birthday opens the month of October for us festively, as
usual. With three little friends to share the party, a braided crepe-paper
crown, and a cake in the form of a bassinet with a tiny doll sleeping inside,
she is shiningly happy. But long after her friends have skipped home
clutching their prizes, the guest of honor is found carefully examining
each tiny blue-willow plate on the now disordered party table. Unmindful
of her presents and with the fat tears brimming the brown eyes she
mourns, “O dear, where is my gum? It was very usable gum!”

It is a bright and beautiful October Sat­urday—just the right day to
take our friend Elizabeth to the hideaway cabin at the Mountain Clinic
in West Virginia. The four youngest, plus Stevie, our guest for a month,
pile in too. Going down, we feel disappointed at having missed the best
of the fall coloring, but the sun on the bright yellow leaves is cheering.
Elizabeth, full of ideas for restless children, suggests that we play a game
called “Beautiful.” The game is to guess what beautiful thing has made
us cry out “Beautiful!” Arriving at the Clinic, we unpack Elizabeth’s gear,
visit a while with our friends here, and it is time for the home trek. Coming
back, we find that the gorgeous colors of autumn are still here after all.
We had to see “the other side of the mountain” to believe it. And the other
side of the mountain was all that we could have wished for by way of
beauty!

Promises to children, this mother feels, should not be made too glibly
unless one really means to carry them out—and soon. For a month Smitty
has been begging for help in making a winter garden. Today at last his
delinquent mother makes good her promise. Through the delicious fall
after­noon we roam the woods, scuffling the dry, golden leaves with our
feet and looking for moss and tiny violet plants and ferns. Here we come
to the spot where we had our snow picnic last winter. “I got too cold,”
sighs Smitty. “I don’t care for another one.” There is Jonah-whale rock—a
family landmark named years ago on our first ex­ploration of these woods.
“And here, Mom,” cries Smitty, pointing to the branch of an enormous
tree, “is where we built our tree house this summer.” His mother gasps.
Overhanging the path, higher than the house—oh, much higher—is a
frail platform of thin, uneven boards. “Oh, my goodness,” she responds,
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in typical motherly fashion. “Whatsa matter, Mom? Does it look high?
Aw, that’s nothin’,” Smitty consoles her, taking her hand gaily. As for the
mother, she clamps her mouth shut and goes grimly on. After all, if she
was too busy all summer to inspect this thing—as she was repeatedly
invited to do—what can she say now? She does breathe a little prayer,
though, for all little boys who climb, out in the woods—away from their
mothers.

The winter garden is now complete with its ferns and violets, its moss
and lichen­covered twigs, its partridgeberries and a tiny ceramic mouse
which Andrewshek has generously lent from his collection (after being
wheedled unmercifully). And now Lefty reminds me that I promised even
longer ago to help him get started on his Indian beadwork. Just when
this gets intriguing, the red beads give out. I have somewhat to say to the
manufacturers of kits for children. They should not include patterns for
which there are insufficient materials!

Tonight was a great occasion for us—our first pastoral visit. (Ministers,
it would seem, do not need pastors.) Our pastor’s quiet preview of the
coming communion service and what it can mean was a happy experience
for the three of us who sat with him around our table. Not the least of
our joy was listening to the teen-ager express himself with an ease and
earnestness which we had not known him to possess! Another reminder
that our children do not belong to us and that each has his own secrets.
Favored, we, if only occasionally we are invited to enter his secret world.

A new experience for the family—the installing of an electric stove.
This, however, is more than just an ordinary stove because it belonged to
friends who could not take it with them halfway across the country. “And
so,” I explain to Friend Husband, who smiles indulgently, “cooking on it
is a sort of mystical experience.” (He smiles, but he understands, and he
agrees.)

The thought of taking the suggestion of the junior superintendent
about halloweening for soap for Hong Kong refugees at first leaves the
boys cold. “You mean we have to knock and ask for it? Oh, no!” However,
when it is agreed that I too will join them, and as a band of gypsies we
will go only to the houses of people we know, they consent. Seventy-three
bars of soap and several hours later, as the raggle­taggle gypsies drink
cocoa and eat dough­nuts (made right before their eyes in the new stove’s
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deep-well fryer), the cry is, “Oh, this was much more fun than regular
halloweening!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The lovely memory-picture of the improvised
table­cloth laid by Elizabeth and the children on our way to the Mountain
Clinic. Green ferns and varicolored leaves made a pattern of such beauty
on the rough wayside table that one could only groan, “Why, oh, why, did
we leave the camera at home!” Next best—or maybe, after all, the best—is
to store it away in the memory in a pack­age marked: To be opened on a
dull day when life seems difficult and pointless…
November
It is Andrewshek’s birthday; as most people do on special days he
becomes thoughtful, contemplating the great subjects of life and death.
The question finally finds words: “When I am dead, Mommy, will anyone
else be alive?”
Once again I am reminded of what the great writers have often said:
How impossible it is for any man to believe in his death!

November, it seems, can be almost as capricious as April. Going
down the hill for the mail, I seem to walk in a different world each day.
On a Monday the wind almost picked me up bodily and set me down
again at the bottom of the hill, only to push me back violently on my
return trip as if to say, “You have to work for it!” Tuesday was one of those
still, golden Indian-summer canvases with the startling October-blue sky
and the humming of a few late insects. Wednesday I walked in a warm,
light rain; Thursday in sleet; Friday through haze that softened still more
the quiet coloring of the burnished hill­sides all about me. “He has made
everything beautiful in its time.”

Having long been a reader of the poems of Mark Van Doren, the
hill-woman brought home from the library his Auto­biography, knowing
that for the next week a good meal would always be within arm’s reach.
Perhaps the most satisfying reaction to the reading of this book was that
it did not in any way distort the picture of the man as seen in his poems;
it only sharpened the outlines and filled in the background.

Today the family made a trip to Pittsburgh for the purpose of setting
up housekeeping for the husband and father in a tiny apartment (a study
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and sleeping cubicle) at the seminary. Knowing the effect of long hours
of study with no family bustle to relieve the tension, we try to leave a
bit of ourselves in this room for him. Pictures, books, and a green plant
soon make the bare little rooms inviting, and we almost envy him in his
pleasant privacy.

The fall rains have come! They have come late, but now they are
making up for their tardiness with their volume. The great bowl which
our neighbors had scooped out down in the pasture has now become
what it was intended to be—a lake. The boys watch it fill, and there is
great talk of boating and fishing and swimming and skating for years to
come. Since they have lived in the country all their lives, there have been
a few times when they have wished to be in town. But now one overhears
the wild assertion that they couldn’t be paid to live in town! (Their parents
feel this is not quite the time to introduce the subject matter of several
letters which have lately come into their father’s hands, indicating the
possible uprooting of the family from their hill-home.)

The long evenings are coming again and with them the old-fashioned
reading sessions. The four youngest nightly arrange themselves as close
as they can get to the reader. Having reread several Little House books
and the Joseph story, we are now on the third of Mary Norton’s books
concerning those delightful little people known as “The Borrowers.” When
we go to the Central Carnegie Library in Pittsburgh, we seek out Mrs.
Hodges, head librarian of the Children’s Rooms. Can she give us any
suggestion for some more read-aloud books? One by one she names
them, and one by one the boys pipe, “We’ve read that—we’ve read that.”
Mrs. Hodges claps her hands delightedly. “Oh,” she cries, “these are the
kind of children I like to recommend books for!” Whereupon she suggests
a very old book, Toby Tyler, writ­ten in 1885 but, she says, as interesting
to children today as it was then. Mrs. Hodges is right again, we discover.

“When they want to bake,” the hill-­woman says, “I remove myself as
far from the kitchen as possible. It’s the only way they can have freedom
and I can have peace of mind.” Tonight Lefty and Minka are joyously
assisting each other in a cake-baking spree. Fortunately their mother is
able to stay away until it’s all over.

“There’s nothing like the water to provide play opportunities for the
whole fami­ly at once,” confides the large lady in the red swimsuit as she
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and the hill-woman tread water in the “Y” pool and glance over their
respective children. Her companion agrees. Having been afraid in the
water as a child, it is a particular joy to see the children thoroughly at
home in the pool, playing games with each other, swimming and diving
and ducking and racing. Togetherness in all its best aspects blooms under
such conditions. It really does, she smiles inwardly, as she watches the
tall son leave his fun in the deep and of his own will go down to the
shallow water to teach Minka, the only nonswimmer, the first principles
of face-floating.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Today, in a moment of concentration, the words,
“He must increase,” dropped into my conscious­ness with a strange
significance. Sudden­ly it seemed that this attitude toward the other
person might well be the core of all real loving…
December
This year the gift-giving schedule, we knew, must be drastically revised.
Should we drop names from the list? Instead, we decide to do our
shopping at the dime store, limiting each purchase to twenty­nine cents.
With this system we find that we can even expand our list. Divided into
three shopping groups, each of which is armed with a list of names and
money to cover a twenty-nine cent gift (plus sales tax), we have the gayest
afternoon of Christmas shopping ever! Those in Lefty’s group, we decide,
are the star shoppers, for they have come back with almost half their
money! “If you see something you know someone would like, and it costs
ten cents,” Lefty reasons, “why pay twenty-nine?” I can’t help praying,
“And lead him not into sophistication…”

Two paperbacks came in the mail today, and business was suspended
while I took a quick look at the reading menu before me. These, I decided,
would be saved for reading in bed. Going to bed alone is not so terrible if
one has a good book! Looking at the attractive covers, I think of the boom
in paperbacks within my own lifetime. What a breadth of really good
literature is now available in this inexpensive, yet entirely satisfactory
form! One remembers when most of the covers—even those of a classic—
were of lurid scenes, the paper unpleasantly rough, and the type poor. Now
there are thousands of editions with format and art which are pleasing
both to the sight and to the touch. As Lefty would say, “Why buy a book
for four-fifty when you can get it for seventy-five cents?”

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Story of a Family
Today, the friend at the other end of the telephone line remarked,
“When I grow up, I hope…” And the hill-woman, remembering it later,
smiled. What a delightful thing for a woman of forty to say!

Now come the evenings that we love, the special evenings out of every
year. Snug in our log cabin, though the snow lies drifted outside and the
ice on the lake is glistening in the moonlight, we wrap the tiny “cheap”
gifts. The little boys labor, biting their tongues, to write the right names
on the right tags: they stop once in a while to beg a piece of the candy
which arrived today from our Kansas friends. And long after the children
are in bed, an inept seamstress sews at a wardrobe for a small doll,
hoping that love will cover a multitude of mistakes.

Once more comes the thrill of hearing from friends all over the
world. Christmas greetings, like so many warm hands reached out, like
so many smiles visible across the miles. (Oh, yes, we agree it can be a
racket; it can also be love.) Once more the sharing of home with friends
(a real treat to us whose only guest for months has been our welcome
weekender—Friend Husband). Once again the quiet delight in that one
special handmade gift, in that surprise beyond our expectation. Once
again the shining eyes of a girl-child holding a new doll. (Please don’t look
too closely at those clothes!) Once again the hearty shouts of a houseful
of boys crying, one after another, “Open it, open it; it’s something you’ll
reeely like!” and later, over their own gifts, “Just what I wanted!” Once
again spending Christmas Day with our neighbor-relatives. (We live too
close to visit much during the year!) Once more, all these reminders of
the essence of the season, never more beautifully expressed than in the
simple words we have heard every Christmas of our lives, “And there were
in the same country…” Never more simply expressed than in the words of
Saint Paul, “And the greatest of these is love.” Once again, Christmas.

It’s the day after Christmas, and a child is poring over a new calendar.
With starry eyes she whispers as she points to a certain date, “I just can’t
wait. I just can’t wait to get back to it. It starts with an s and ends with
an l and I JUST CAN’T WAIT!”

TO KEEP AND TO PONDER: The sound of the town bells, resounding
on our hills at that magic moment when New Year’s Eve becomes the
morning of a new year. At twelve midnight we have flung open windows,
disregarding the bitter edge of the winter dark, just to hear these bells.
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But this one is different—and the hill-woman is thoughtful as she thinks
of the possibility of a new mistress who will stand here—listening to the
bells next year at this time. With a touch of sadness, but with peace, she
prays: “May she be as happy here as I have been.”
Editor’s note: What? No more Hill Journal? Yes, the author has left
the hill and during the period of “resettlement” preferred not to write. But
she has promised to write again later (although not from a hill) if we want
her to.
Will you help us decide whether to invite her back? Write us a letter
or post card giving your vote on this question: Hill Journal should come
back: Yes ____ No ____. Reasons for your opinion will also be of interest.
Address: CHRISTIAN LIVING, Mennonite Publishing House, Scottdale,
Pa.
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the
Corner 1961
January
The New Year came in as we sat quietly in the candlelit sanctuary. Before
now we had not heard the Union chimes with such clarity… Just a token
of all that we miss when we fill the silences with noise and motion!

Eleanor Roosevelt says she has made few New Year’s resolutions, but
those she has made have been kept. I, too, recall having kept some—a few
out of many. To have done so was, as I remember it, an exhilaration; an
“added”—a means of grace, really. And so, cautiously, I write down a very
few suggestions for the New Year.

Sometimes prayer for another complements the various ways we
have of serving in love. But sometimes there is, literally, nothing left but
prayer. By circumstances we may be prevented from doing, from giving,
from meeting; then only in prayer can we still express the heart of our
loving. And so I often recall such persons, sensing with Thomas Merton,
that “without my love for them they may perhaps not achieve the things
God has willed for them.”

The spare moments of these days are being spent on working out
a litany to be used at a baby shower for our High Park friend. Weary of
the usual games and gim­micks common to showers, the hostess was
determined that this should be a more meaningful occasion. And so the
woman on the corner has been delegated to pre­pare a “Litany for Mother
and Child.” Empty things, says Evelyn Underhill, need to be filled, and it
is up to us to fill them—and so we are doing just that. It is a work of love,
but even works of love are costly. This doesn’t just write and organize
itself!

One of the really discouraging things about parenthood is that it is so
seldom granted a parent that his child comes to know him as a person…
to understand something of his inner life, his struggle for autonomy of
existence, his high thoughts and noble purposes, as well as his doubts
and despairs and mixed motives. Mostly, it would seem, parents remain
“parents” until they die. And can we hope to be treated differently?

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On the Corner 1961
Listening to the sermon last Sunday was one of those rare experiences
in which what one hears ties in miraculously with one’s current reading,
his meetings with persons, and his own inner crises. In the glow of
recognition, we experience again something of the incredible nature of
grace.

After-school chatter: “Well, today at school we saw Matt Welsh
anointed gov­ernor on TV!” Afterthought, “Or would you say ordained?”

Are there others, I ask, who come home from a meeting, having in no
way really met anyone on a significant level of com­munication? I suppose
one can be greedy, one can ask too much of life. Perhaps we should only
hope to be—to someone else—that occasional pinpoint of light, which,
perceived, is a sort of shadow—an “all’s well” to another ship passing in
the night.

Big Brother drove out today, and it was good to have him, his wife,
and his friends around our table in a new home. As we talked of the gone
years, I thought, “What different memories we have, each of us, of our
mother!” An interesting family project might be the assigning of the topic,
“This Was My Mother,” to each of the six. My guess is that in the six
manuscripts we would find six different mothers!

The Brother brought meat for us, too. Wonderful, wonderful meat!
His own sausage, hamburger, a rolled roast, a ham. Later a big-eyed little
boy looked in awe at the riches. “Now we’ll have meat every day!” “But
we do have meat—almost every day,” his mother explained. “Aw, I don’t
mean meat in things; I mean meat all-by-itself!”

Outstanding among the stimulating books read this month: Tillich’s
The Cour­age to Be, Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory, MacLeish’s
J. B.

A friend who once came to our table, seeing the rolls, cried out,
“Homemade rolls! Now that is the hallmark of love in meal preparation!” In
a way, I suppose many homemakers would agree. (Excep­tions are surely
in order here; we have all served rolls without love, and love without rolls.
) But in this case, at least, it was true.
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Story of a Family

TO KEEP AND PONDER: A small boy’s reaction to a story in the local
newspaper. Two little girls, eight and ten, after a violent argument with
their father, ran barefoot three miles in three-below-zero weather. “How
terrible!” I cried. “Think of going barefoot so far on such a cold night!” The
response: “Yes, but the worst part would be to have a violent quar­rel with
your father.”
February
The lady from College Avenue breezed in this February morning. There’s
no one else we know who feels free to walk in and ask for lunch, in case
she’s had none. “Any peanut butter? Bread? Milk? Good!” Such artless
freedom cheers one. My world would be several shades grayer without
this friend!

Long February evenings are tailored for family reading, but one must
admit to a bit of nostalgia for the winter nights, gone now, when all six
could be gathered around one book. Still, the three younger ones and
I move happily through Onion John, Cad­die Woodlawn, and a repeat
performance of The Long Winter. And in their own rooms above us, the
older three lie in their beds with, respectively, The Red Badge of Courage,
the latest Heinlein Science Fic­tion, and one of a stack of baseball stories.
Long February evenings are still good for family reading!

“You Are Accepted.” This sermon of Paul Tillich’s from his Shaking of
the Foun­dations speaks with marvelous immediacy, confirming so much
of my own unarticu­lated inner experience. I think of this friend … and
that … and wish that it might be possible to share some of this Bread
with them. Longing, as one does, for wholeness, for ever renewed reunion
with God and oneself, for the discovery of a clear goal, there are times
when we long still more that another may find what we fail to find. At
such times we understand the agonized prayer of the priest for his child
in The Power and the Glory: “Damn me, I deserve it; but save her.”

The child bursts in from school, breath­less as usual, and starryeyed. “Look, Mother, look at my papers!” The woman, with a perfunctory
“Yes, Dear,” continues to give her attention to whittling carrots at the
kitchen sink. Two days later, clearing debris from the window seat, she
finds the paper and studies it—her latest, smallest child’s first cursive
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On the Corner 1961
writing. The big, well-formed letters of the exercise fill the yellow sheet:
“Dear Mother. This is my first cursive writing. Do you like it?” The woman
likes it, but the time to rejoice with those who rejoice is past. Two days
later is two days too late.

My High Park friend left today with her family for their year abroad.
Somehow it relieved my sense of desolation to see her mixer standing in
the corner of my cupboard—for my use until her return. And I think—yes,
“things” can be the bearers of joy and of comfort—when they remind us
of a relationship. I have a certain knife which I use daily. Yet I never pick
it up without thinking, however briefly, of the one, now dead, who gave
it to me as we left her home after a summer evening of good fel­lowship,
“You liked this—take it along,” she insisted. I have a little gaudily flow­
ered tray, left behind by a friend moving out of the state. It isn’t the kind
of a tray I’d buy. But it gives me a particular pleasure to use it as the
family “sick tray,” or to carry our eight tumblers to the dining room each
evening at dinner, because it re­minds me of a person. Looking around, I
see that our house is full of such reminders: an old sewing basket and a
theologian’s picture on my desk; a wood carving and a cradle in our living
room; a bottle brush; a quilt; a pump vase of blue glass; a cutting board
… the list is endless. No, our home does not really reflect our own tastes.
It is almost literally “a part of all that we have met.”

We tried something new at World Day of Prayer this year—silence.
But, frankly it was rather a flop. We just don’t know what to do in a
service if no one is speaking or praying aloud. It was heartening, though,
to see that somebody knew what to do. While others sat in the little
chapel discreetly glancing at their programs, wondering how to do this
thing properly, the old Episcopal rector came down the aisle, squeezed,
kneeling, into a pew not made for kneeling (his feet had to stick out into
the aisle) and, oblivious of all, prayed there until he was through praying.
Then he arose with dignity and left the chapel. Who but a child—or a
saint—would be so free, would know so surely what to do?

Strange, how a day can suddenly collapse, and all attempts at ferreting
out “Why?” are futile. Why the sudden loss of meaning, relevance? Even
the most vital relationships seem without purpose, without life or color,
empty. And, with Arnold, one feels he is here “as on a darkling plain
where ignorant armies clash at night.”

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Story of a Family
But just as strange are those moments when, without warning, one
is lifted out of these deep despairs. At such times I always assume that
someone, somewhere, is directing love toward me, and I hope that my
loving thoughts do as much for my friends.

Highlights from a month of reading: Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird,
Tillich’s Shaking of the Foundations, and C.P. Snow’s Strangers and
Brothers.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: One small girl’s inadvertent tribute to her father
while introducing him (in absentia) to her doll family: “Meet the Professor,
the gentlest man to the ladies.”
March
Having just read my neighbor’s three little books on exquisite Japanese
haiku and having just made a springtime discovery in my still-wintry
flower beds, I do the only thing to be done in such a predicament: create
a haiku of my own. A sorry little haiku to be sure—but mine!

Which reminds me—how refreshing it might be if simple people like
us, with aspirations for writing poetry, would begin their experimentations
with such a form instead of mangling a perfectly good thought in order to
squeeze it into an a-b-a-b quatrain! Almost anyone should be able to say
something with significance and beauty in seventeen syllables!

Reading over the first journal entries from my students, I perceive
that I am learning creative spelling rather than teaching communications!
I tell the class so, and they respond with cheerful grins. All of a sudden I
can see some sense in the movement for spelling reform!

Throughout the years of bringing up small children, housewives in
our bracket learn to ask concerning any garment, “Is it washable?” The
cost of dry cleaning for a large family is almost prohibitive. But now selfservice has arrived! Today we tried out the new coin-operated dry-cleaning
equipment on the corner of Jackson and Eleventh. Besides having fun,
we were rewarded with beautifully cleaned clothes (needing little or no
pressing) at the cost of $1.50 for eight pounds. When we told the man
of the house that we’d saved over seven dollars in dry-cleaning bills, we
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On the Corner 1961
were made to feel that the Virtuous Woman of Proverbs hadn’t too much
of an edge on us!

It was a raw March day, far from the spring we had expected, but
still so very warm with the welcome of friends. Yester­day we spent the
day with the congrega­tion who welcomed us, green from semi­nary, some
eighteen years ago. It is strange how short a time fourteen years seems
when friends meet again. Still stranger is the fact that in such a short
time, those who were little children then, have be­come unrecognizable!
Just when we begin to feel ageless, abruptly a college girl is presented to
us. (Last time we saw her she came to our waists and had two front teeth
missing.) At this point we detect a creak­ing in our joints.

“There was a brightness in him.” These words from Alan Paton’s Cry,
the Beloved Country kept recurring to me today. Sitting in the beautiful
Elkhart Presbyterian Church, half-listening to the good and true and
comforting words of the minister, I was captured by that portion of
the mag­nificent window depicting the praying Christ in Gethsemane.
Remembering the rare spirit of this friend of my youth, I was aware of
the words repeating themselves, within me: “There was a brightness in
him.”

March has been another rich reading month. There was the excitement
of two more of C. P. Snow’s “quiet” yet pene­trating novels; another of the
Don Camillo books; a careful reading of Christopher Fry’s Boy with a
Cart; a rereading of Wilder’s The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Through these
and other books I have caught a glimpse of reality; I have sensed love;
I have met myself, my brother, and God. I remember the time when I
felt that God could be encountered in the reading of devotional books
more surely than in other books. At the same time I would have insisted
that God is not con­fined to a church house, but can be found on the
streets, in the offices, in the squalor of slums, in the splendor of nature,
in the union of man and woman, in the rapport of friend with friend, in
the relationship of parent and child. At that point in the pil­grimage, I
did not see any particular sig­nificance in the fact that even the Bible is
not primarily a Devotional Anthology. Here there is biography, fiction,
poetry, philosophy, drama, historical narrative—in fact, almost any type
of literature. Perhaps we shall one day have to acknowledge more readily
than we do now, that just as there is no exclusive type of architecture
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which can contain God, so there is no one type of literature which has the
monopoly on spiritual truth.

One gets all kinds of advice before and after moving to a new
community. And when it comes to choosing a church “home,” the advice
is by no means subtle. “Whatever you do, don’t join a large con­gregation,”
was the most frequent advice given. Which is exactly what we planned to
do from the beginning, and what we did. After more than a year in the big
church which we were cautioned against (lack of warmth, “you’ll be lost
in the crowd,” “you won’t be needed”), what have we found? About what
we expected to find—what we have found in every church to which we
have belonged: warmth and concern, a place to put our particular gifts
to work, fellowship and spiritual stimulation, and a deepening conviction
that numbers are irrelevant in the household of faith.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: That moment which occasioned my first haiku:
Sharp thrust of plowpoints
On winter-sealed plot of the heart­—
My first snowdrops!
April
April again... and again as in most of the Aprils of our lives, it is the
Easter month... now for eighteen years, April, the anniversary month
for us... April, for fifteen years a birthday month which an­nually opens
up the family season of birth­days... April, the month of chilly rains and
warm rains; of heavy wet snowstorms and pleasant sunshine; of bare
limbs shiv­ering in the sharp wind, and living green bursting, uncurling
before the very eyes… April, when the Hausfrau gets the dirty-eye, when
nagging sadnesses and dis­appointments and wintry thoughts are gently
eased out of the heart by a rising, inexplicable hope… when one almost
believes again that he can somehow be what he was created to be… April,
I love you!

“And this is for a new spring frock,” writes a friend. Accordingly,
though the woman on the corner knows that the body is more than
raiment, she responds as most women respond—have always responded.
She responds much as she did (at the age of four) to the white dress with
the blue embroidered kitties lapping milk from a saucer on her bodice;
as she responded at eight to the new green princess dress for the school
picnic (the lovely dress that shrank beyond use the first time it was
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On the Corner 1961
washed); as she responded at eleven to her first “boughten” dress. Yes,
the body is more than raiment. But even the most saintly of women, I
would guess, experi­ence a lilt when presented with new raiment!

Today was the first day that felt like spring. So I responded, not by
a flurry of housecleaning, but by baking a few pies and going visiting…
across the street, down the street, up the avenue. The dirt we shall have
always with us…but our friends we shall not always have!

Living in a community containing many specialists, one sometimes
wonders what he is, and what he is good for. Just where lies his unique
contribution? Sadly one is apt to realize that perhaps he has no unique
contribution. Perhaps it is greedy to want to be able to do just one thing
better than others can do it. Perhaps one should after all accept himself
as a person who must “attempt less than others,” as E. B. Browning
suggests. Maybe God needs consecrated dabblers! A friend re­minds me
that if I really want to get into a field that is wide open and which offers
little competition, I should try to become a saint!

For two days now, the children have been home from school, following
the most gorgeous snowstorm we have yet seen here. Truly the land of
Goshen is God’s country right now. Oh, the town is bloom­ing with white,
loaded with loveliness. Winter-weary as we all are, we wouldn’t have
missed this for anything—the finest snow-show of the year!

A family jaunt to Michigan yesterday, besides giving pleasure through
the meet­ing of new friends and old, revealed to us newly the uninhibited
nature of childhood. After a series of artless observations by the youngest
(causing consternation among her siblings) our hostess broke into gay
laughter. “Well—at least we know they weren’t coached!” And this was
some com­fort to the parents, who recognized the dangers of coaching a
child into insincerity.

Imagine tempers flaring over a discus­sion of methods of prayer! Yet it
happens; I know it now! How rich our fellowship in prayer might be, if we
were content to let each person find and follow the method, the language,
the climate of prayer that is for him, personally, the most meaningful.
Regrettably, “effective prayer” is too often measured by the degree of
fluency with which one can audibly participate in a prayer meeting. As
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for me, I accept the Hebraic concept of prayer as the strength­ening of a
relationship, rather than the Canaanite concept of prayer as a means
of getting things (power, etc.) from God. But I will not quarrel with the
Canaanites!

It is pleasant to meet with joy unex­pectedly on the ordinary streets
and lanes of our days. Last week there was the exhilarating chorus
program of Brahms’ Lie­beslieder. Ah, the pleasure of properly wedded
words and music, performed and directed with spirit!
And yesterday there was the visit to the Chicago Art Institute, with the
Fine Arts classes. Obviously a day is not long enough to more than taste;
but I found myself re­turning to the rooms of the French Im­pressionists.
Sitting in the Monet room, I was fascinated by the contemplation of the
mind, the skill, which could so create this beauty, portray this truth. We
used to sing, “For such a worm as I.” But here one sees man as one in
whose mind God has truly set eternity, as the Bible states it. Somehow, in
the presence of such evi­dence, I cannot despise the image of God—“thou
hast made him little less than God, and dost crown him with glory and
honor.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Reflecting on our visit to the Art Institute, I am
newly aware that God, through man His image, is still busy creating; and
in many cases the verdict must still be: “Very good.”
May
Our reluctant May began with green, but little color besides. The women
of the family could find barely enough flowers for two May baskets, so all
the others we had projected were postponed until next year­—an earlier,
more colorful May Day, we hope.

Remember the childhood fascination of moving into a different house?
It’s hard not to pity the person who never experi­enced this as a child.
First, the house it­self intrigued one. The rooms, no matter how small,
seemed large and strange, and our voices came back to us hollowly as we
called to each other. Gradually, as the fa­miliar furniture filled the rooms,
swallow­ing up the echoes, the strangeness receded. Then we would run
outdoors to make new discoveries. There were always sheds, or garages,
the farthest reaches of lawn and garden (maybe even an orchard), the
plantings about the house. Though I am no longer a child in many ways,
yet the wonder returned again this spring as I poked about with a stick in
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On the Corner 1961
the beds and bushes around the house on the corner. Green spears and
spikes are coming up all over; all the bushes are erupting greenness. But
what are they? We must wait for the flowers—and we do. We wait, and
one by one the shrubs and leaves tell us their secrets: hyacinth, tulip,
iris, lily of the valley, Japanese quince, magnolia, lilac, snowball, spyrea,
mock orange! Worth waiting for!

Once again there are fresh flowers on the table, and the ivy is relegated
to the anonymity of the windowsill greenery, al­most unnoticed among the
showy African violets. A recent guest tells us a flower story: An African
boy accompanying Eu­ropeans on safari, prepared the meal, and as a final
touch, filled a tin can with sand and stuck a wild flower in it, setting it
in the middle of the camping table. The boy assisting him asked why he
should do such an odd thing. “Oh, don’t you know,” the first boy replied,
“Europeans can’t eat un­less there is a flower in the middle of the table?”

Speaking of flowers, this is my month to spend in the crib room
during Sunday school. And it is this variety of flower which I find to be
my all-time favorite.

The usual rash of mother-daughter af­fairs is prevalent. Cautiously
consenting to participate in a few, I find all three de­lightfully different.
One turns out to be a reunion with many old school friends. At another,
anticipating knowing no one, I am delighted to find the mistress of cere­
monies to be a dear friend I have not seen for nearly twenty years. Still
another gave me fine new friends among one of our sis­ter GC churches.

There was never such a Mother’s Day at our house! The daughter
and I arrived home from our trip in the wee hours, awak­ing to a house
actually in order, if not shining. One boy had planned a hamburg­er and
French fries meal (naturally—his favorite). Another had paid for the
needed ingredients (until I could pay him back). A third had wrapped a gift
of candy bars (his idea of the perfect gift). Besides this, there were floral
offerings and ingeniously painted cards from the rest. But the crowning
event was Father’s reading of Prov. 31, punctuated by the hoots and
giggles of the children. Now I realize that some parents may have been
distressed at such impiety. Perhaps there are women who actually like to
think that their chil­dren regard them as examples of the per­fect woman.
As for me, I knew well enough that I sat there, obviously a carica­ture
of these words—and I rejoiced that the children were honest enough to
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recog­nize the joke. Their laughter at such places as, “She rises while it
is yet night,” “she brings her food from afar” (from the A & P), and “she
makes herself coverings” was gay and spontaneous and was worth more
to their parents than any flowery Mother’s Day phrases or pious poses.

Lilacs again! So brief is their season! It seems so short a time that we
can look out the bedroom window and see our far neighbors’ magnificent
bushes—four varie­ties in one glorious splurge of loveliness. Yet, in spite
of the short season, their fra­grance manages to live with us the year
round and to evoke newly every May choice memories of places, of people,
and of times long gone…

Our little neighbor has finally had his birthday. When we first learned
to know him, we asked him his age. “Free,” he replied sunnily. “Free in
May.” Today, as he showed us his new toy, we asked again his age (old
people are so forgetful). “Four,” he beamed. “Four in May!”
Which reminds us—what would we do without this little neighbor
who rings our doorbell almost daily for a playmate? As one of the boys
confided soon after we moved, “I’m glad he’s in our neighborhood. You
know, there’s something about having a little kid around that makes you
feel, oh, sorta good and happy.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The mem­ory of a little communion service on a
Sunday evening in one of the Sunday­-school classrooms. The fact that
we, who had missed the congregation’s spring com­munion, ate and drank
with our friends who are soon to leave us for their mission field, with
the newly baptized class of young people, and with some of our older
members who normally take communion in their homes, heightened
the significance of the occasion. Moreover, our pastor has a unique gift
for preparing meaningful worship services—never the same, but al­ways
tailored to the particular occasion. And today, again, he “neglected not
the gift” that is in him.
June
The final report cards have come; the porch has been washed down by
a status-conscious teenager; storm windows are off, screens on. June is
bustin’ out all over and so are the kids’ threadbare school clothes—and
so are the appetites! The woman on the corner has her summer cut out
for her.
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On the Corner 1961

Commencement season is here, and we are happy when old friends
drop in. Around our table, a couple in their seven­ties sing with us the
doxology. Afterward, we remark about the remarkably clear, young quality
of the woman’s alto. But then, her spirit is just as sprightly.

The tulip tree in our front yard is in bloom. The waxy yellow-orange
blossoms delight the eyes each time I step out the door to get the mail, to
sweep the porch, to shake a tablecloth, or to answer the doorbell. Strange
how these little bonuses sometimes make life bearable on an other­wise
desolate day.

“Why did you come to Goshen?” I ask Annie, our little Dutch friend
from down the street. She has been here skipping rope with the youngest
every day for a week now. But her answer reveals that grown-up people’s
reasons for coming from the Netherlands to Goshen apparently have not
yet registered with her. She smiles shyly and tosses her blond Dutch bob,
“Oh, we came because we like it here. It’s so cozy in Goshen!”

We have discovered that rarity—a book which can be read aloud to,
and thorough­ly enjoyed by, the entire family, from seven to seventeen to
forty-two! It all came about when my Neighbor-Two­-Doors-Down observed
our smallest boy mowing the lawn. “In his short pants and long-sleeved
shirt, he looks like Tinch, doesn’t he?” she remarked.
“Tinch?” I asked.
“Oh, haven’t you read The Gentle House”? I remembered faintly
reading it some years ago. Now we borrow it, and each evening I read
to the family at dinner. And nobody wants to leave before the reading
stops!
Sometimes one is gripped by a book yet hesitates to recommend it
indiscriminately, knowing how people differ in tastes. How many really
fine books we would like to pass on to others, yet we do not, knowing that
certain issues, areas of life, are taboo to them. If they were to read our
book, they might not be able to see the forest for the trees… But here is
a book that we can share without a qualm. Here is a book which will not
only interest and entertain a family, but should awaken compassion and
understanding in parents and children. (The author, Anna Rose Wright).

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Story of a Family
The little leagues are in full swing, and the days are full of misplaced
gloves and caps, and queries, “Is my FOP shirt clean, huh?” or, “Be sure
to call me in time for my game at eight.”
“Well, I’m batting two fer three now, Mom,” confides one boy.
“Good!”
“Then you know what two fer three means?” he cries incredulously.
Incredibly, I do know. The little fellers scan the sports page, looking
for their own names, and when the youngest finds his, followed by, “hurled
the Pirates to victory,” a pleased sigh escapes him, and he asks for the
scissors.

Last night at church there was a special service commemorating the
fiftieth an­niversary of the ordination of one of our veteran ministers. This
giant of a man is so well beloved (even in his own country) that such a
service seems “meet and right” to a degree that few such services do. Most
people do not grow old, we are told. They are old when they stop growing.
This one has never stopped, and so he seems ageless.

The annual round of neighborhood cir­cuses, lemonade stands, hot
rods, and hut building has begun, we see. It seems that these activities
are timeless—that whether one is settled in town or country makes little
difference. Childhood—even in the TV age—is still childhood. There
is some­thing whole and round about child’s play. I watch the circus
preparations and I am catapulted back more than thirty years to a little
street in a little Idaho town. I can see myself, the Prince, standing in bor­
rowed tights and ballet slippers, calling to the moon, who was Clarenceat-the-top-of-­the-ladder (Clarence—because he was youngest, and the
moon had the fewest lines to learn). Even yet the lines come back:
O moon through the beautiful trees,
I would like for my birthday, please,
just to play a while with your golden smile
And to sit on, your golden knees…
And little it mattered to the indulgent audience of mothers and fathers
if Lucy the king’s beard fell off or Clarence the moon forgot his lines.
And now, three decades later, history repeats itself in the form of a
small wistful boy who comes, asking, “Where are the kids? We have a play
all ready to give, only we can’t find any audience!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: A new insight from a friend, lonely in a strange
land. She asks me not to apologize for my “depres­sing” letters. “Sometimes,”
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On the Corner 1961
she says, “I think they help me more than the cheer­ful kind.” And I
understand—having been often plunged into deeper desolation than ever
just by being around an excessively cheerful and hearty person!
July
A dabbler myself, and not particular glad to be one, I still feel a bit sorry at
times for those who by the necessity of their choice must spend the greater
part of their thought and energy in one specialized field. Aren’t they a bit
lonely outside the company of the few who speak their language? Tonight,
we celebrated the Fourth with another Old Testament family. (The label
is given out of respect to the family heads!) The assorted boys gravitated
to the basketball ring on the garage. The two Heads settled themselves in
a dim corner of the porch and fell to chewing their favorite, esoteric rag
with the appetite of those long deprived of such fellowship. We women,
in another room, made our own ventures into friendship. We ranged over
the many fields in which, we discovered, we have both dabbled. And in
spite of all that may be said for the association of couples, we knew that
our fellowship was all the richer for the segregation!

What excitement to find persons who are enthusiastic about the same
faith, or ideas, or music, or people, or books which have captured one’s
own imagination! After reading one after another of C. P. Snow’s books,
and finding no one whose eyes sparkled at the mention of his name, I
was rewarded with a bonanza today! I met my neighbors’ houseguests,
charming people whose home has been the world, and whose beginnings
were in Wales and Minnesota. Up to a point our talk was the usual polite
chitchat of people who meet and part casually. But then C. P. Snow was
mentioned—and we discovered three addicts in the same room. From
here on, we could have had conversation enough to last a whole ocean
voyage—by freighter at that!

Returning the book, Dear Mr. Brown, by Fosdick, ushered in one of
those meetings to which one can look back with wonder, and which one
catalogs under the heading, “Grace!” Douglas Steere has said that there
are times when we come into the presence of a genuine listener, and the
very quality of his listening makes us better than we were. After today
my ideas of a good listener have been ex­panded even more. Here was
one who not only received, but also gave in such a way that what one
thought were his own peculiar problems were shown to be shared by the
listener in other contexts, other forms. We expose to another per­son our
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Story of a Family
hurt, our disillusionment, our doubt, in a vain effort to find answers.
But if that person gives us, not the pat answers of a gone generation,
but the acknowledgment that he knows what we mean, for he too has
experienced it in this … and this … then there is possibility of a miracle
that is greater than any “an­swer.” One rises strengthened, not be­cause
his problems have been solved, but because, through his self-disclosure
he has made himself available to bear not only his own burdens, but that
of his listener too.

How many people have walked through the door of our lives and stayed
to sup with us—all because of a book! Tonight we had good fellowship
with a young family whom we met through the com­mon reading of a
book on child training. To eat together from a table spread not only with
barbecued chicken but also with stimulating ideas is an experience which
can never be relegated to the realm of the commonplace.

The little children have left for a ten-­day stay on their old Hill. Life is
sudden­ly quite simple. The downstairs washbowl stays clean all morning;
the piles of sand dumped from Little Leaguer’s ball shoes onto his bedroom
floor are missing; the refrigerator door stays closed for hours on end; a
quiet, well-ordered atmosphere per­vades the white house on the corner.
And every morning an incredulous little neighbor rings the doorbell and
asks for each of the children in turn, only to end his queries with, “Well,
when are your children returning?” [PIC]

This is the sort of day that leaves one ashamed … ashamed that
somehow, after all these years, he has not more com­pletely fulfilled the
promise of his life … that he has not been, to these people who trust and
love him (and today tell him so in such delightful ways) more trustworthy
and loving. A neighborhood tea, the florist’s finger on the doorbell, letters
and cards, family coddling and surprises, a telephone call, gifts of linens
and books and fresh garden produce. What does one do?

Tonight we shared our regular Satur­day night guest with guests from
the Hill. For who can be satisfied, when he has found a treasure, not to
share it with those he loves? So we were eager for these to meet each
other, and thus to en­large the circle all the way around.

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On the Corner 1961
Small daughter writes, “I miss you, Mummy, but it seems like I live
here.” And on the corner, the house is beginning to echo a bit hollowly, as
if asking for the cries and laughter of its rightful inhabit­ants. Such stuffy,
quiet grownups and teen-agers taking the place over!

And they return, brown from days of swimming in the lake; happy,
overflowing with their adventures. They return with one of their aunt’s
special cakes for the other members of the family, with a few trinkets, and
with memories potent enough to last a lifetime. And the small one—at
last—has learned to whistle through her teeth.

Our speaker tonight suggested that to the time-honored factors
of heredity and environment should be added a third—­the will of the
individual child, the factor of individual decision-making and respon­
sibility for it. Fresh breezes! Bless him!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The joy of reunion at some indefinable place in
a conversation with an old friend. Up to this point the talk is pedestrian,
almost forced, and one wonders, “Will we ever be air-borne again? Is it
lost—the rapport we once had?” And when we cease to ask for it, it is
given.
August
“And was our car completely de­molished?” asked the boy hopefully, as he
listened to the details of his big brother’s accident on his way to work. The
poor old fifty-dollar Chevy, chief thorn in the flesh of the whole family of
boys, was, we assured him, listed by the police as “a total loss.”

Friends from the far North ate dinner with us tonight, and we were
grateful for a few hours in which to catch up on our two years’ separation.
We, who had once lived in a common community, now have a richer store
from which to bring to each other gleanings from our different cul­tural
climates. And the two little girls have grown tall and interesting.

Though I have been a lifelong admirer of the outgoing, neighborly
type of wom­an, I have somehow not been able to transform myself into
one. In this area I seem to be unable to overcome inertia. I simply wait—
sometimes hopefully, some­times sheepishly—for someone else to make
the first move. For a year we didn’t even know who lived in the green
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Story of a Family
house down the street. But since their two parked cars were the victims
of our old Chevy, we’ve become neighbors! Kind­ness speaks an eloquent
language, and few people would be so kind as these have been, under the
circumstances. Today this neighbor, herself recuperating from surgery,
has stopped in to inquire anxiously about our son’s teeth, to share a part
of a lazy afternoon, and to loan me a book of charming woodcuts made
by a friend of hers.

The beans fly in all directions these days when the children are
busy at cleaning them. The warning signal, however, has come with this
latest bushel: if I can one quart more, they aren’t going to eat ONE BEAN
when they appear on our winter table. To tell the truth, I was planning
on stopping anyhow, without the threat. Also, I knew the threat was
harmless, since green beans are a favorite winter vegetable.

“And what are you reading now?” a friend writes. Reading? Did I ever
read a book? Do I even know how to read? I suddenly realize that I have
not read a book for at least two weeks, and it seems as if it happened in
another life, mysteriously removed from these hot August days filled to
the brim with beans and children!

Last night our relatives from the Hill came, with full arms as usual:
freshly baked cinnamon rolls, the accumulate third-class mail which still
arrives for us in the big rural mailbox we shared, the drapes we had left
in our hill-house in order to soften the impact of its emptiness and odd
socks and shirts left by our vacationing children. Suddenly—for what
reason?—I remembered with an acute pang the view from the picture
window and felt an unaccustomed twinge of nostalgia. But this was soon
relaxed by tea and talk, as we gathered up the stitches we had dropped
since our last meeting.

When I have a visitor who is a particularly good cook, I never try to
outdo myself or her, knowing the uselessness of it. But I do try to serve
one dish which may be new and exciting to one who is always interested
in new recipes. Tonight I offered our guests fried rice, made according to
the recipe of my rice-happy neighbor next door. The charm worked! She
copied the recipe.

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On the Corner 1961
The children have finally finished the birthday gift for me—a month
late, but worth the wait. It is a notebook of pictures and stories entitled,
“For Our Mother to Tell Her What We Did in Pennsylvania.” It represents
hours of painstaking collaboration; it represents a kind aunt’s motivation
(promise of reward); it represents love all around; and I love every page.

Today in South Bend I found the Haiku book I have wanted for my
friend, and the finding of it inspired this, for her birthday:
Friend of my old home …
From one spring to another
Parted … Still we meet!

Our weekend guests have left in their little Mercedes. It is always
a special joy to renew acquaintance with this sister-in-­law who has so
much good sense and vitality—and Christianity! And it is al­ways a new
discovery to find that people need not “speak the same language” to have
genuine spiritual rapport.

Augusts are always enriching months, in spite of the heat, the work,
and the restlessness of children needing the dis­cipline of school again.
For August al­ways brings us house guests, dinner guests, and old friends
stopping in for a few minutes as they drive through our town. This month
has been no exception, and around our table we have had good fel­lowship
with old friends, with friends leaving town for assignments elsewhere, with
our minister and his family, with relatives, with our children’s friends,
and with our regular Saturday night visitor, whose quick ringing of our
doorbell al­ways brings us joy.

Today, with sadness, I hung up the thin, worn, torn sheets of pink
and white which Arlene gave me years ago—and which have been either on
our bed or on the wash line continually since that day. Somehow I seldom
looked at them with­out consciously remembering Arlene. Now that they
are beyond salvation, what will bring Arlene, with all her freshness and
spiritual vigor, to my attention as often as they did? Yes, “things” can be
the bearers of grace, symbols of living relationships.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The fervor of one twelve-year-old who, noting his
mother’s weariness on the eve of the an­nual trek to Little Eden, sets up
the iron­ing board and insists on ironing the dozen shirts which remain
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Story of a Family
in the basket. In a glow of happiness he finishes his task­—a task done
awkwardly, left-handedly, but beautifully. And the mother (who has
difficulty recognizing the child who or­dinarily wails when asked to pick
up a newspaper realizes anew that crisis brings forth the best qualities of
some peo­ple, as well as the worst of others.
September
After days of frayed nerves; after the fever of canning that last bushel of
toma­toes, attacking that last great pile of laun­dry, and finally packing
clothes for eight people—packing, indeed, far into the night—after all this
heat and bustle, how healing it was to lie for hours, today, on the beach.
As my friend beside me said, there is something infinitely strengthening in
the knowledge of the dependability, the in­evitability of the waves’ advance
and re­treat upon the shore … And so every afternoon of this precious little
vacation, we return to this spot. Days of fellowship with faculty wives and
faculty ladies I sel­dom more than nod to all year, hours of jumping the
Lake Michigan waves and walking up and down the sandy shore with a
friend—days, hours, moments like these slowly help to loosen the knots
of the last few frantic days and of the entire summer. That which was
bound is released, and one feels whole again—or nearly so. Three and a
half days at Little Eden can do this!

Home again, the piles of washing and ironing again seem
insurmountable, the days long and hot and impossible, and the deadlines
for teaching preparations omi­nous. But the gathered strength of our lit­tle
stay in Eden has given me a bit more starch than I would otherwise have
had.

The sounds of school are with us again. Each morning the patrol
boys broadcast their shouts on the late summer morning. “O—kay—
ay—!” What a joy to be allowed to yell with such abandon. Today two
of these boys, proudly officious in their new jobs, shouted their quarrel
at each other as they guarded their corners, a block apart. “Shut up!”
cried one. “Why? Why should I?” shouted the other. “You’re dis­turbin’ the
peace! That’s why!” roared the first, in a voice more raucous and peace­disturbing than that of his fellow officer!

This is what one gets for opening his mouth. Having put into rather
forceful words my opinions on the costume­-centered newspaper accounts
of even Christian weddings, I am now being asked to prepare the write-up
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On the Corner 1961
for the wedding of our neighbor’s daughter. Attempting to carry out this
assignment, I decide that news writing is a demanding and constrict­ing
field, and one which I do not care to enter. Even so, it is good to try to
put into practice that to which I have verbally committed myself. When
finished, the ac­count sounds like any other wedding story except that the
details of the worship and dedication service take the place of the usual
details of costume and decoration. But this is a great difference, it seems
to me, and an important one. With satisfac­tion I note that the picture
above the ar­ticle includes a groom, who is actually a rather important
ingredient for any wed­ding, in spite of all evidence to the con­trary!

The freshmen are with us again, but with a great difference. One
of them is our son—and many will be my students. As I listened to our
minister’s prayer this morn­ing, to the dean of men’s talk, and to the
litany prepared for the vesper service, I wished that each of these young
people might sense something of the tremendous dedication which our
faculty brings to its teaching task … I prayed that they might be spared
the shallow and perverted habits of petty criticism. But they too must be
given the chance to grow normally through, not around, their experiences.
And ripening is a gradual process.

I have read that the sense of smell is the most evocative of our senses.
I believe it. Today we baked oatmeal cookies from the recipe in Mother’s
faded, stained reci­pe notebook. At the first whiff of these spe­cial cookies
baking, a part of my childhood was poignantly alive for me again. And my
mother, in all her mother-ness, humor, and humanity, seemed suddenly
to be standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. Tired on her feet,
her apron slightly soiled over the broad middle, the braided coil of her
hair slipping down slightly from its high perch, her face soft and mobile,
her large brown eyes weary but warm and accepting—my mother, bak­ing
cookies.

A blessed breath of the coolness of Oc­tober mornings has been
injected into the humid September summer. Again we housewives have
a little zest for life—we can at least look at our work without de­spairing.
But it is not easy even to look at all that should be done. Teaching, even
parttime, is demanding. Not only is it a matter of hours of preparation,
teaching, and paper-grading, but also an involve­ment with persons from
whom one cannot be entirely detached, if he wishes to really give himself
to his work.
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
“You walk like you’re tired,” observes the boy. His mother says that
it is true. She is tired. “Do those shoes really feel good?” No, admits his
mother, they really don’t. “Well, why don’t ladies wear shoes like boys
wear, if those funny toes and heels hurt them?” The mother admits that
this is a sensible question, and tries to imagine herself going to class in
sturdy, brown Boy Scout shoes.

One value in attempting two jobs—how ever temporarily—is that one
has the op­portunity to exert more discipline in his choices. “You must
be busy,” friends say. When I say I am not, they assume that it’s just a
matter of words, for they know that I react to the word “busy.” But this is
not true. I simply refrain from doing things and going places—the doings
and goings of which would be the added burden that would indeed make
me busy, inside and out. It is amazing how much trimming and pruning
one can do without missing or be­ing missed. Likewise amazing is the
help one can get from practicing the advice of which my friend Ann has
written in her song: “When I sits, I sits all over, and when I lies, I lies
down loose.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The rich experience of communication with
a differ­ent age group. Sitting in the church library today as the Senior
Adults filed into their meeting, chatting with these wonderful people of
my mother’s generation, glimps­ing a bit of their wisdom and kindliness
as well as their interests and hopes and fears—all this has given me a
new focus for my day. These seem to be the years of segre­gation, of rigidly
divided compartments into which we are placed according to our age.
One wistfully hopes that the gains of such a system outweigh the losses!
October
That lovely tree on the corner of Seventh and Franklin! Every day it
changes, its reds deepening and glowing. Every day its gift to me is new—
the gift of piercing joy which comes unasked whenever one finds beauty
and does not resist it.

Newest member of the family arrived on small daughter’s birthday—a
pixie-haired baby-doll with floppy arms and legs, who cuddles up like
an honest-to-goodness baby. She’s so real that when we give her to our
friend to hold, she cries, “Take it! Take it! It’s real.” The baby’s mother
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On the Corner 1961
graciously lets Grandmother play with Sweetie while she’s at school! After
school, however, Sweetie is almost forgotten­ as four enchanting eightyear-olds eat together the miniature victuals which have been ordered
for the birthday supper. Four laughing mermaids take a bubble bath
together in the big tub; four excited girls whisper and giggle together in
the little room at the end of the hall; and four angels at last fold their wings
and slip into a dream world. Another birthday is over, and as Sweetie’s
Grandma tiptoes out of the room, it seems as if she hears her own mother
saying, “Your birthday is the one day that belongs to you … Birthdays
should be happy days for chil­dren!”

A new angle in church elections: A boy who stayed home from
church because of a cold, greets his parent at the door with the anxious
question: “Did you get the prize?” The dense parent doesn’t under­stand
the question. “Did you get the prize, huh? Did you win?” We finally are
able to translate it into our own language, which is: “Were you elected?”
We smile ruefully and say, yes, we got the prize. And the boy glows with
joy to know that he is represented on the Church Council!

Is it true of most people that what they want most is the impossible,
the forbidden, the right to open the gate that says, “No Trespassing”? It
isn’t that there are so many areas into which we dare not enter. It is the
one that frustrates us—the one tree in the garden of which we may not
eat, or whose fruit we are not capable of digesting! And though we may
chafe because we may not eat this, have that, go there, perhaps at the
same time we deeply know that it is for our salvation that the prohibition
is made.

“Do you have a good talk for us?” my friend asks just before we enter
the room where I am to speak to her WMSA group. I tell her that I won’t
know for a while­—how can one know, when so much de­pends on those
who listen? My better half—the audience—comes through, however, and
so it becomes a good experience of meeting. The talk? Apart from the
meet­ing of persons, what good is a talk!

All over town, gold leaf is being prodigally scattered by the fall
breeze, and not just on the streets and lawns of the rich, either. The
grayest little shack has its mounds of gold, its never-ending sifting of
yellow—down, down through the autumn sunshine. I have heard Edna
St. Vincent Millay’s God’s World described as maudlin or even hysterical!
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Story of a Family
For Eighth Street—in Goshen—in October—I would call it an ineffective
understatement.

We watch them set off for the frosh banquet, and suddenly feel just
a little of the weight of age settling down upon us. The boy? He’s ours.
The girl? Her mother was our college classmate. And so the wheels of
time turn to full circle. Our chil­dren stand where we once stood (yet not
really there!). With the children of our ­friends who once stood with us,
they watch life on the GC campus—watch it, and enter into it, and give
themselves to it…

Living in town has its advantages—more than a few. But not among
them is this annual horde of Halloweeners. Two days to go ‘til Halloween—
and already tonight over 50 of them have trudged up the front steps, rung
the bell, and departed with a calculating squint at what we dropped into
their bags (apples and cookies are frowned upon), with a mechanical,
“Thank you,” and with, we suspect, a good bit of the gray paint of the
porch floor on their shoe soles. Or is it my imagination that makes me
certain that a coat of paint, come spring, is twice as necessary now as it
was a week ago?
Oh, well, it’s a comfort to know that they enjoy it. And there is
something ap­pealing about the tiny black cats and ghosts and Mickey
Mice who stand there singing out, “Trick or treat!”—tots scarcely old
enough to be up at this hour, much less abroad at night. Almost scared
of them­selves and each other, they appear. But they are quite sure of
what they are after.

In spite of a realization of great inadequacies, I am finding that it
is possible to actually “enter … into the joy of … [the] Lord” in one’s
teaching experiences. Who could help it—when the students are so
bright, life-loving, open, idealistic, eager (at least up to this point. How
subtly life closes us in upon ourselves with the passing of years!) One
student suggests innocently that she would like to explore the question,
“What happens to the idealism of youth?” Her question echoes within me
in the poignant words remembered from a youthful reading of Storm’s
Immensee: “Hinter jenen blauen Bergen liegt unsere Jugend. Wo ist sie
geblieben?” Where, indeed, has it gone—our youth? And not so much our
physical youth (for maturity brings with it solid joys of its own), but that
eagerness for life, for ideas, for new frontiers! Today several students stop
to congratulate me on the Professor’s chapel talk. “The thing is,” one tall
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On the Corner 1961
boy explains with enthusiasm, “it gave me at least two completely new
ideas!”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: It is a beautiful vision, that prophecy of Micah’s
which pictures the nations going up to the mountain of the Lord, the
swords being beaten into plowshares, and all hot and cold wars in the
past. Most beautiful of all is the picture of every man sitting under his
own fig tree! But today I would say: Dear Lord God, let my tree be a
maple—an October maple, please, all gold-tinged—with orange, like the
one on our corner.
November
We planted bulbs today, the little boy and I, in our “secret garden.” It’s
not real­ly a garden—just a big bare space on the back lawn, which the
industrious lad has spaded to form a circular lot. It’s not really secret
either—all the others know we planted the bulbs. But they don’t know
what we planted, nor how we arranged them. So it is our special project—a
down payment on a gift for the family, to be delivered, we hope, next
spring.

A long brown box from Kentucky arrived at our door today—our
dulcimer! The beautiful little instrument, handmade by a farmercraftsman, is the center of family attention for today, at least. Because it
is a simple instrument, even the youngest can quickly pick out “Go Tell
Aunt Rhody” and soon we have a harmonica joining the chorus, then a
recorder, then the organ, and finally even the viola. Though on a concert
stage it might seem a rather wild combination, it sounds just fine in a
family living room on a chilly night, with the mood being one of great
informality, and the motivation—“just for fun!”

The lovely leaves have gone. All that are left are the ugly brown
patches which have been blown into the shrubbery and caught there, or
against the foundation around the house. We despair of raking them, for
the first light snow has fallen, and cold seems to have descended for good.
Then we are given that one day in a year which becomes the talk of neigh­
bors over their boundary lines, the subject of tellers at the bank windows,
the greeting of every passing acquaintance. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” It
is a bonus Saturday, balmy and invigorating. All hands to the rakes and
the baskets! Inside, Mother cleans furiously, with the energy of five days
within her. Summer clothing, sorted and folded, replaces the stacks
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Story of a Family
of winter clothing in the chests and trunks. Curtains, windows, rugs,
spreads are washed. We are more ready for winter than we had hoped to
be—all because of one glorious day, a little golden piece of September set
into the heart of blustery November.

Now the soup and sandwich days are here again. The children come
in for lunch, ruddy with the cold, and hoping for soup on the menu. But
the chief chef gets a little weary of trying to figure out which kind to try
today. Then she remembers an old favorite of her mother’s—brown potato
soup. Made like any potato soup, but with the addition of flour which has
been browned in a skillet (without shortening) and with a sprinkling of
raw onions in each bowl, the “new” soup becomes a favorite on the first
try! The chef suspects that at least a part of the enthusiasm for this recipe
is that it comes from that shadowy, magical land of a parent’s childhood!
“I like old-fashioned food,” one young thing volunteers, “cause it makes
you feel, well, like history.”

“Why is it, Mom,” asks a curious child, “that sometimes when I ask
you what date it is, you have to think a while, or look on a calendar, and
other times you tell me without even thinking?”
I explain to the questioner that there are four days out of a month
when, if he asks me the date, he is likely to get the answer immediately. I
never miss it on these dates: the fourteenth and fifteenth, the twenty-ninth
and thirtieth. Just as he never gets his dates scrambled on Christmas
Eve and Christmas Day—so I am fully aware of Payday Eve and Payday!

In a pensive moment this morning, I re­flect on the directions for
opening the new box of rolled oats. “To open, pull string.” What a lazy
race we are getting to be! Suddenly this box becomes more than a box to
me. It becomes a symbol of a way of life. To get where you want to get,
learn to know the right people—and handle them with kid gloves. To find
love, success, per­sonality, friends, even God—follow this easy formula.
“To open, pull string.” In­deed! Out of sheer rebellion—however use­less
and silly it may be—I get out my sharp little paring knife and open the
box the way I used to open it before life became so infested with strings
to pull!

“I’ll be glad when I grow up, so I can write like you,” the little lady
of the house confesses. “Like me?” The woman on the corner laughs
wonderingly. “Yes, Mommy. All fast and scribbly so no one can read it!”
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On the Corner 1961

So many words printed every day! One wonders how much action
they really prompt, how real is their influence. But today I find myself
taking action on a paragraph in a woman’s magazine. This fellow says
that he has one little Thanks­giving ritual which he follows every year. He
writes a letter of thanks to a person who has enriched his life in some way,
but whom he ordinarily would not think of thanking. Sometimes it is a
garage attend­ant; sometimes an author; a happy child who unthinkingly
gave him courage; or even, perhaps, a statesman. And so, for the family,
I write to a long-standing friend of the family, Jean Ritchie, who, because
of the charm of her singing and dulcimer-­playing, has become a familiar
name at this house.

“To Grandfather’s house we go” takes on a bit more meaning for us
this Thanks­giving. Though our children have never had the joy of an
annual trek to Grand­father’s house, today they sense something of what
it must mean to be so blessed. Lacking handy grandparents, they find
that great-uncle and aunt serve the pur­pose just as well, and they spend
a fine day around her table, getting reacquainted with second cousins,
and enjoying the tasty turkey dinner. The middle generation also enjoys
the rare fellowship of visiting lei­surely once again with each other and
with our hosts—their parents, or uncle and aunt. In fact, everyone is so
well pleased with the day that we decide to make an annual affair of it,
and the house on the corner is designated for next Thanksgiving dinner.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Another query from the boy with question
marks for eyes—this time directed toward his Sunday-school teacher and
relayed to his parents: “But if you have to punish before you forgive, what
does forgiveness mean? What good does it do to be forgiven?”
December
“Oh, good! It’s December! Now we can begin to have Christmas!” She
wants to begin right away? and so I acquiesce. She may arrange a
little Christmas table in the hallway, if she wishes. She wishes. With
enthusiasm and love, she covers her little table with the red velvet, sets a
white can­dle in the Christmas candleholder which her big brother made
years ago, and care­fully unpacks the pieces of the crèche. Thus we begin
to have Christmas…

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Story of a Family
But the stores have been tinseled and overstuffed and jingly for weeks.
It seems that each year the season is ushered in a bit earlier, only adding
to the confusion of the issue: What is Christmas? What is it, indeed, I ask
myself, as I begin to carefully divide my December into compartments in
the hope that with a little foresight and discipline I might be able to better
keep Christmas in spirit. Strange, though, how in spite of such care,
the days slip through the fingers. I begin to have the hopeless, helpless,
familiar feeling that again I am unprepared to cope. Again only about half
our list of friends will hear from us this year. Most of the little homemade
gifts will not be made. The house will not be shining. The cooky jars will
not be full. This is the price one pays for taking on a double load—that
there is no time nor energy left to give to those beyond the family circle.
Having faced this, and de­ciding that it shall not be thus next year, I relax,
accept the half-done state of my affairs, and enter into the joy of the sea­
son…

The joy of the season is ushered in by many means: the meeting at
Auntie’s, where I am given the rare privilege of fel­lowship with women
of her generation, wonderfully wise and mature and accept­ing—even to
the point of seeming to ap­preciate the amateurish attempt to enter­tain
on the dulcimer; the annual faculty women’s banquet, after which two
of us fall to talking and find that the miracle of meeting has taken place;
the warm, sincere letters which keep coming, in spite of our own halfexecuted plans for greeting those we love; the children singing, plan­ning,
practicing, working secretly in their rooms…
And always with stars in the eyes. An evening fellowship over an
African meal in our friend’s trailer. A call from a friend, “My little Christmas
gift to you this year will be to do your ironing next week.” Choosing the
tree with the Professor and rejoicing at the spicy fragrance which fills the
living room as he executes his annual task of setting the tree in its place
of honor on a reliable stand. Thus is the season of joy ushered in…

And now the schools are closed, and the pace quickens. Packages
begin to arrive. Here comes a neighbor with two gorgeous loaves of
Christmas bread (she knows our guests are arriving tomorrow)! The door­
bell rings early in the morning and here is a great package of meat from
Uncle John, sent special delivery just last night, and bringing shouts of
joy from the boys. A pair of sheets arrive in time to take care of the extrabedding problem! How did she know? Here’s a package with a note which
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On the Corner 1961
says we can open it now, for it is supposed to help out in the Christmas
rush.

Paper plates and cups to save dishwash­ing at lunch and supper!
Just before we leave to meet the train, an elegantly dec­orated breakfast
wreath is brought to the door. By the time our guests arrive, we feel as if
their entertainment is a joint proj­ect of the community! …

Giving, receiving, meeting, loving, re­membering—all are significant
elements of the joy of the season; all are ours in these happy days with
old friends. And when they leave us, we are richer because we have had
these few hours together. But now the eve approaches. In the lull which
follows departing guests and the coming climax of Christmas Eve, I often
hear, from the living room, a soft voice reading over and over, “And there
were in the same country…”

We deliver our few little gifts; the Pro­fessor drops his work and relaxes
with the family; the pace slows significantly…

Christmas Eve has come. In our church we are transported once
again to Bethle­hem as the children’s choruses and the MYF readers tell
us what Christmas is all about. The three kings miss their cue, but we do
not miss the message …

The week after Christmas Eve some­times becomes one long, rather
disorderly anticlimax. But not for us—not this year! First of all on
Christmas morning the little portable mixer must be tested by the eager
young ones. New games are in session. New books are keeping their
readers glued to the sofa corners. A little girl needs help in making a doll
kimono, now that she has a sewing basket of her own.
Guests are coming for Christmas dinner, but we’re having the most unChristmasy of dinners—just rice, with all sorts of condiments to sprinkle
on top of it, and for dessert, fresh fruit. That’s the kind of thing you can
get by with, if you choose such easy, unconventional guests! Christmas
Day is followed by several ordinary days filled with paper burning, string
saving, washing, ironing, picking-up-after, and simple meals. (How good
soup tastes to everybody—after the past two weeks!)
Suddenly we are transported to our old home—our first family visit
since we left—now it’s Christmas all over again! How can so much joy be
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Story of a Family
packed into so few days? In just two days we meet scores of old friends,
glimpse the new babies, fill a pew at the little church, walk through
our former home on the hill, experience the old-shoe comfort of visiting
around the yellow kitchen table of our neighbor across-the-tracks, bask
in the hospitality and familiarity of our relatives’ home and presence, and
take delight in the view from the hill.
In the meantime the children, almost strangers to a sled, spend most
of their waking hours coasting down the gentle hills, skating on the lake,
stuffing themselves with their aunt’s delicious food, and contacting old
friends by telephone and by yelling across the hills. “Happy new year!”
a little boy calls across the tracks to his friend, as we again load up
at midnight for the return trip. “Happy new year! Happy new year!” the
answer echoes …

It may not be a happy new year. There may be for some of us, or for
us all, much sadness, much hardship in this, and future years. But we
have had this moment, these days, this wonderful season of joy. It has
been a grand climax to a good year. It has been a gift of grace. Whatever
happens, we shall keep the memory of this season. Surely, some shred of
its joy we shall keep and we shall ponder it in our hearts.
On
the
Corner 1962
January
With bells and song the new year is celebrated, but scarcely a day has passed
before all eight of us are whisked once more into the world of textbooks,
tests, and lectures—the same old wonderful grind, even if the calendars
are all spanking new. Fleetingly, I think of my fondness—sentimental, no
doubt—for making resolutions. I’d like to compose just one, but I can’t
seem to find the time and place for the required meditation.

To my reading friends I silently send out a recommendation of the
book I have just finished reading. A large documentary by Oscar Lewis, The
Children of Sanchez, opens a world about which few of us know much, the
world of the urban poor. All the more appalling and fascinating because
it is the account of an actual, liv­ing family, this many-faceted story pro­
vides opportunity to develop the kind of empathy which is required of
those who would see in the sick, the hungry, the prisoner, Christ Himself.
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On the Corner 1962
It is an expen­sive book—but I keep hoping that all our friends who are
interested in psychology, anthropology, or just plain Christianity will find
their way to a good library to seek it out. Fortunately, our town librarian
is wide open to suggestions for new pur­chases, and so when I find a good
book, I call her, and she usually responds by or­dering the book and by
giving me first chance at it!

Probably anyone who heard William Nagenda and Festo Kivengere
when they spoke here and there in our North Ameri­can churches will
remember what I have taken home after hearing them today. It is always
invigorating to uncover a new in­sight in an old story, but mostly we
seem to depend on somebody else to do it for us. Tonight the Story of
the Prodigal Son expanded in significance as our brother pinpointed the
sharp contrast between the two brothers merely by extracting a phrase
from the conversation of each. Said the younger, “I have sinned…” “I have
served…” said the elder. Is it vain to hope for a day in which, perhaps,
there will be fewer and fewer elder brothers among us?

The cold has settled in now. The boys have banked the snow in the
back yard to form a frame for a skating rink, and have flooded the ground
within the frame. The result provides hours of innocent fun. It doesn’t
serve, however, to keep one young adventurer at home. On a below-zero
day he visits the dam, jumps on a frozen-over fishing hole—just to see if
it might break. It might, and it does. As his scared companions watch,
he goes through into the deep water, yet manages to catch hold of the
edge, pull himself out, and trudge the frigid half-mile home. With frozen
clothes, a white face, and a chastened spirit he lets himself in, trying to
slip past his mother. In vain! Yet he meekly succumbs to the hot bath,
going to bed, gentle scolding, and a few extra motherly manifestations of
love. The mother, meanwhile, wonders how many more times this fearless
child will be allowed to come back to her from the brink of disaster!

Once again, after a year of absence, my old friend and her family have
returned to our town. It’s comforting to have, once more, this place to go
occasionally after the teaching stint is finished for the day. One needs
a few such second homes where shoes can be kicked off and hairpins
removed.

We are discussing a book, and the question is raised: Can one
be Christian, yet suffer feelings of meaninglessness and despair? The
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woman from the corner goes home depressed, for she feels that there
are those of us—indeed, many—who by their very nature must live life
“the hard way.” There are others whose temperaments seem to fit them
for a more even, accepting existence. (William James speaks of them as
congenitally “healthy-minded.”) Often one of the former, who has made
great spiritual strides, is still less attractive than a pleasant person who
has really changed very little in temperament from the time of his infancy!
How wise Jesus was to warn us all against judging—even against judging
at what point a Christian is or is not Christian. As for me, I take refuge in
the psalms, those remarkable expressions of the ambivalent, turbulent
David who was God’s man always, yet knew despair. And from the pen
of a modern saint (Merton) I take comfort also: “It is better to find God
on the threshold of despair than to risk our lives in a com­placency that
has never felt the need of forgiveness. A life that is without prob­lems may
literally be more hopeless than one that always verges on despair.”

The nephew and his wife stop in to bor­row our recorders. We lend
them gladly, hoping that they will fare better with them than we did. Our
purpose in having them was to play together, but this doesn’t seem to
work out in these months of thesis writing. “Someday,” we say—a familiar
ending to so many pipe dreams!

Semester exams! The light in the middle room upstairs burns late
as the college stu­dent drinks his coffee and reviews his notes. And what
parent dares give words of wisdom to the crammer, when he re­members
his own study habits some twen­ty years back? Besides, the candle is burn­
ing at both ends in the dining room, too, where the table is spread with
the bright­-jacketed journals of Basic Communications students. Another
poor mortal is struggling with the task of assigning grades—grades which
can never really be an accurate as­sessment of the whole student!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Those cozy evenings of winter, free from the
frenzy of Christmas and of semester exams—the time when we gather up
strength for the frenzies ahead. Their studying done, the boys are bent
over the chessboard, on­lookers scarcely discernible from partici­pants.
Meanwhile the youngest and I fol­low the adventures of the wondrous
Mary Poppins—she for the first time, her mother for what seems to be
the tenth, but is likely only the third. Father, studying at the dining-room
table, looks on wistfully, but doggedly keeps to his books… These are the
moments which this woman on this corner cherishes, both now and later,
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in retrospect, in the heat and rush of mid­summer. She cherishes them
and gives thanks for them and yearns to be worthy of them, all the while
knowing that no one, ever, is worthy of grace.
February
On these icy February evenings, the twentieth century with its speed and its
complexities hardly intrudes. Age-old pas­times of reading, chess playing,
listening to music—even conversation—absorb the fam­ily members in the
living room after the last schoolbook has been slammed shut and piled
upon one of the four untidy stacks littering the dining room table. How
often, as I have stood in the doorway watching the intent faces of the
chess players, have I been grateful that children are able to find pleasure
in such simple, time-honored, and inexpensive pastimes—along with
their very real involvement in the 1960’s. Yes, seeing them thus absorbed
tonight, I could almost believe them children of my own generation, or an
earlier one! But there are, I know, great differences. When I was nine, my
Weekly Reader featured a dar­ing story about the possibility—sometime
far in the future—of a radio which would have a screen on which pictures
would be projected as the words were broadcast. Of course, we didn’t
believe a word of it, but it was exciting. These children, now, do not bat an
eye over space travel; they fully expect that man will reach the moon quite
soon. And they hoot merrily to think that their parents couldn’t believe in
the possi­bility of television until it was proved!

The little dulcimer rang tonight after Vespers when the college
youngsters dropped in and decided to stay for pizza and fellowship. One
of them turned out to be an authentic folk singer of Swiss yodels, and
though he’d never seen a dulcimer, he blithely accompanied himself and
the rest of us, as one song led to another. Soon enough, all the chairs
around the long table were full, and even the youngest was chiming in
without the reserve ordinarily shown before strangers. Now if we had
suggested, “Let’s all gather ’round and sing tonight,” we should have
gotten pained looks and boos from the offspring. But with a pied piper in
charge, the kind of evening we love came about naturally, as a rare and
wonderful gift. Perhaps, I reflect, it is true that life’s loveliest mo­ments
are never those for which we set the stage, but those which just happen;
that the greatest satisfactions are not those we take, or ask for, but those
which are given unasked—gracious gifts from the hand of God.

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While the woman on the corner at­tempted to share choice morsels
from Evelyn Underhill’s letters with her Elkhart Seminary sisters, that
good neighbor—two ­houses down—chose a grand way of stand­ing behind
her. She served hamburgers and milkshakes (“As many as we wanted,
Mom, just think!”) to five boys with singu­larly elastic stomachs. That’s
what I call fellowship in the gospel, bless her!

Today the students of Section A dribbled into class reluctantly with
many a back­ward glance toward the Student Lounge. “Won’t you dismiss
class?” they kept ask­ing. Incomprehensible to them was my answer, “But
why?” It was embarrassing to discover that an epoch-making event was
taking place, that it was being tele­vised, and that it was supposed to
happen in exactly four minutes. And so, Basic Communications, Section A
ended up in the Student Lounge, its naive instructor, as full of butterflies
as any flighty freshman girl, watching too, as John Glenn made history.

Later in the day, as the children took turns pushing the shuttle on
the old rug loom in Mrs. B’s basement, and as we all ate her fat sugar
cookies, it seemed that we were suddenly transported from the space age
to grandmother’s day. And I looked upon these youngsters with a twinge
of re­spectful envy: no conflict for them in events which to me seemed
incongruous! “This morning we saw John Glenn go into space and come
back. This afternoon we watched the rug-woman making Mom’s stair
carpet on her loom, and she let us work the loom, and she gave us some
cookies like the ones Mom’s grandma baked. And tonight a lady from
Afghani­stan visited us.” It’s all in a day for the child of the 1960’s.

For weeks we have been saving for this treat. And now tonight in
the middle of an ice storm, we send out the six men in our family to
a Father-Son banquet—the first experience of its kind for any of them.
We proudly launch them on their treacherous journey to the Church
Fellowship Rooms, knowing that our love for them will some­how help
them to negotiate the ice-covered streets safely. And then we two women
eat our sandwiches together quite cozily, with grandchild Sweetie, the
floppy doll, staring brightly at us across the table.

“My letters—all dead paper, mute and white,” the poet writes. And
there is the breath of death about old letters, somehow I feel it when I
open the files where lie those few folders of letters which for some reason
have been difficult to destroy. But these letters which one comes upon
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in the mailbox, after a morning filled with teaching or housekeeping
duties—how alive, how vivid they are! This morning there were three for
me—all unexpected, delightful, surprising, and almost breathing with the
vitality of the people who wrote. From Connecticut, from Pennsylvania,
from Kansas, these living bits of paper brought to me the loving presences
of three women who are dear to me. Why don’t we write more letters?
Oh, not duty letters, not “answers to your letter,” but this spontaneous
encoding of a little bit of ourselves onto a piece of paper, and sending
it off, knowing that we shall certainly be received in love and joy by the
friend who recognizes our scribbling on the magic envelope!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Robert Shaw’s gift of interpreting the St. John
Passion. This was the first time we heard it in English, and we came away
wondering if we’d tire of listening to it every Sunday of our lives. No, we
would not, we think, as we go home “lost in wonder, love and praise.”
March
About this time of the year we grow overeager for spring, refusing to face
the bleak possibility of six more weeks of cool, if not cold and stormy,
weather ahead. We begin to talk about spring house cleaning, some of
us, and the others actually begin to assault the upstairs rooms with that
semiannual fury peculiar to good house­wives. Here on the corner we have
literally laid out the carpet for spring. Our rug-lady up the street has
finished the hall and stair carpets, and we can’t wait for anything so
unlikely as Spring House Cleaning. Down they go, and they transform
the dim winter halls and stairs into a spring garden of freshness and
color. We gather bare branches of forsythia and Japanese quince, forcing
them to outwit the outside weather over which we have no control. Let
the harsh winds of March keep howling through northern Indiana. Spring
has be­gun inside our hearts and inside our home.

At Doc’s house tonight we were among the guests, all of whom shared
in common the present privilege of living in this fair city, and the past
privilege of having at­tended college about the same time (some twenty
or more years ago). It was impos­sible to be overimpressed by the dignity
of this group of doctors, professors, and preachers around the table—
especially when they began releasing accounts of col­lege escapades. It
is good, we feel, oc­casionally to meet in this way with one’s peer group,
so to be reminded that educa­tion, titles, distinctions, accumulations of
wealth or power or honor (or the lack of them) fail to add to or detract
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from the worth of the person as he is known to his friends. And so that
which might seem like informal, even gay, fellowship turns out to have a
basis of deep significance, and becomes to each of us a reaffirmation of
our acceptance of and love for our brothers.

Viper’s Tangle, by the Catholic writer François Mauriac, is a book
not pleasant to read, but deeply revealing of the human condition—of
my condition. Stirred by its greatness, I find myself feeling doubly sad
about the sad state of most of the so-called “Christian” fiction confronting
us today. Since we (Protestants) seem at this point still to be unable to
produce fiction which is significant in either theme or style, the least
we could do is to make more use of the great writing which has been
produced by those of other parts of the Christian fold. However, as long
as we are more shocked by the sins of others than by our own sin, we are
probably not ready for such reading. With such a “middle-class morality”
we can hardly expect to see the spiritual significance of a book exposing
the tangle of vipers which one man discovered within himself.

Our Family-Head lives in an Old Testament world a good bit of the
time, and because of this he is sometimes able to shed light on questions
which others have about this world. This has opened for us all kinds
of interesting experiences and relationships. Tonight we sat about an
elegantly appointed table in the home of our Middlebury friends to
celebrate the birthday of another F.O.T. (Friend of the Old Testament),
and to discuss some more of those inexhaustible themes from Genesis.
One does not need a large enthusiastic audience to maintain interest
in the field of his choice; he needs only a few whose eager minds keep
posing pertinent questions, and who really want to explore the answers
with him.

“Never again!” The woman on the corner collapsed onto the sofa after
the last third-grade girl skipped (or was she pushed?) out the door. A
veteran of countless lively boys’ parties, I had looked forward to giving this
“quiet little luncheon” for the daughter and her playmates. Apparently the
guest-list contained an unfortunate combination of personalities. In any
case, after such a free-for-all, I knew I’d never have the courage to corral
this particular group of little females within my dining room again!

This morning during the church service the opportunity came to try
out some advice of a favorite saint. To be sure, the principle extracted
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was used in a context other than spiritual or physical suffering, but it
was effective, and I now hope to practice it increasingly, whenever I find
that petty annoyances are tying me into knots. At first the fretful child
behind us only momentarily took my mind from the sermon, for it was a
piercing sermon, spoken to my condition. Gradually, however, the shift
of focus from the sermon to the child was apparently made on some
unconscious level within me. Suddenly I was aware of seething hostility
toward the parents of the child. (The fact that I couldn’t turn about to see
who it was didn’t help! It’s less frustrating when you know just who is
the recipient of your hostility!) As for the sermon, it was now, for me at
least, nonexistent. Mercifully, then, my anger shifted toward myself. Why
should a fretful child or any other disturbance dictate my own behavior?
It was at this point that Evelyn Underhill’s words came to me: “It is much
the same with bodily suffering. There, too, one can either explore it and
emphasize it, allow one to be obsessed by it till it is nearly in­tolerable, or
he can stand away from it and let it happen, and so kill the worst of the
sting.” These words, memorized years ago in a totally different context,
now re­turned with added illumination. Thus aided by the loving Spirit
who brings things to our remembrance (“the Spirit also helpeth…”), I was
able, by an ef­fort of will and by a miracle of grace, to “stand away…and let
it happen,” and to join again the worshipers, and the Hu­man Race.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: the memory of this year’s Spring Vacation.
All the public-schoolers in the family home for a week—and in dreary
weather, too! Know­ing too well what could happen, how our big house
could suddenly shrink, how frayed the best of our good natures might
appear by suppertime each day, we put our heads together and did a bit
of planning which paid off, and even gave us some unexpected bonuses.
Each child took his turn being at beck and call for a day; on all other days
he was to be un­disturbed. The result? The woman on the corner never had
so much willing help for such long periods! One room after another was
house-cleaned, always with the help of a child. The junior-high chef filled
all available cooky jars, and baked a cake for good measure. Errands were
quickly run, books and newspapers were picked up without the usual
“But I didn’t put them there,” and a fine comradeship—lasting a whole
day—characterized each successive working team of mother and child. At
the end of vacation, whereas I usually add to the last psalm the words,
“Praise ye the Lord for schools, especially after vacation,” I could joyfully
replace them with, “Praise Him for vacations, and especially praise Him
for children who make them so delightful!”
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April
Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote
The droghte of March hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every vein in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;…
No April ever comes but I hear the melodious voice of that high school
teacher as she introduced us to Chaucer—Chaucer in its original, Old
English beauty. And it always leaves me with an ache that no child of ours
has yet had such a teacher, who could so inflame those lumps of stu­dent
clay, who could so light up a whole world of thought and experience, that
even to this day one marvels at the continuing influence of her teaching.
What a magnif­icent, strong-willed woman she was! And how much more
than English VIII she taught me! They said she smoked and drank—and
I’m sure what they said was true. But because of her acceptance of my
plainness and piety, her respect for my youthful faith, her belief in my
gawky sev­enteen-year-old self as a person of worth, I, too, began to know
what it can mean to accept another person, irrespective of his behavior, as
worthy of love and respect. Wherever she is, I hope that life has re­warded
her appropriately, and that the lilt of the Chaucerian lines adds as much
to the enchantment of her Aprils as it does to those of her students.

In these days of Conventions and Impor­tant Meetings, it is a small
thing for even little frogs in little ponds to hop a train or plane and to
become a part of the milling crowds converging in the Grand Ballroom
of the big city hotel for the opening address. Even the most humble
participant sports an identification badge as important­-looking as that
of the famous speakers and discussion leaders. What does it matter if no
one pays attention to your name? Hav­ing a natural aversion for things
done in a big way, this little froggie felt quite out of her element at this,
her first convention, and though her assignment was to learn something
about the teaching of college communications, she found herself ab­
sorbed in observing the behavior of indi­vidual persons beside and around
her. She attended the workshops faithfully, and was impressed with the
facets of communications about which she knew little or noth­ing. But
she learned enough to justify the expense of ten such trips, in one half
hour of informal conversation with one man. And what she learned was
not unrelated to communications; it was a clear example of impartial yet
personal self-giving—not the condescending handing down of advice from
expert to amateur, but the sharing of one life with another. I salute Dr.
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On the Corner 1962
Charles Drake of Harvard who is able to give of his knowledge with such
integrity, earnest­ness, and humanity!

What is more shocking to the nervous system than to be awakened
in the wee hours by the insistent ringing of a bell? The very ring screams
of emergency, and in that half second when one is trying to shake off the
drug effects of sound sleep in order to determine the source of the ring
(alarm clock? doorbell? telephone?), the possibilities of such an emergency
can be genuinely terrifying. An accident! A death in the family! A cry for
help! This morning at 2:00 a.m. we were relieved to find only a couple
of shivering boys at the door—one of them a nephew we hadn’t seen for
years, and of whose whereabouts we didn’t know until now. The derelicts,
whether or not they knew it, were doubly welcome for disproving our
initial fears!

What is a good sermon? What do we mean when we tell the minister
that we “enjoyed the sermon this morning”? Per­haps we often mean merely
that we agreed with it…that it supported our ideas and confirmed our own
interpretations. For me it means that at least one new insight dawned
upon me as I listened, an insight which, directly or indirectly, would lead
to a change in my actions or reactions or at­titudes. To how many women
in our brotherhood, I wondered tonight, would a certain statement of our
Passion Week speaker have afforded such an insight? Shocking at first in
its implications, is it not still something to study, to evaluate, and perhaps
to act upon? The statement: that perhaps the current American wom­en’s
magazines, with their emphasis upon gracious living and dream kitchens
and smart furnishings are influencing our sense of values more than the
Bible. The wom­an on the corner, for one, came home and crossed a few
more things off her list of “needs.”

It is difficult for me to understand why some good people are afraid
to read books which cannot be recommended in toto. Some of the most
exciting and spiritually helpful ideas I have found in books which
contain other ideas which are either dull, irrelevant, or foreign and even
antagonistic to my own. This year my Easter reading was The New Man
by Trappist monk, Thomas Merton. What if I could not go along with his
mystical Catholicism at ev­ery point? He nevertheless gave me the jewel of
an idea which enriched this sea­son, and, I would guess, my whole life. To
find the full meaning of life, he says, we must find—not the meaning that
we expect, but the meaning that is revealed to us by God. He adds that
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this meaning is not a sun that rises every morning of our lives (though we
think it should, and so we tend to substitute some artificial light of our
own when God’s meaning is not clear to us), but it is a meaning which
dawns upon us in God’s own time. Somehow it com­forts me to know that
we do not need to know the meaning of what happens to us, the whys of
our lives. God has not prom­ised that there will not be moments, days,
when everything seems quite absurd. We do not need the answers; we
need only to know Him, and to wait for His explana­tions. And we can be
quite sure that they will come when we are unaware, bursting upon us
like a new sun, and convincing us beyond a doubt.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: the joy of another April! These are the mornings
when the woman on the corner looks out at the green spears jutting
from that secret garden which she and the young son plant­ed last fall;
at the unfolding magnolia buds; at the haze of green in the maples as
the tiny leaves uncurl; and wonders. These are the mornings when even
the trailings of sand spilled from the sneakers of lads who are again in
training for the spring track meet crunch deliciously under her feet as
she smooths the spreads on their hastily made beds. These are the days
when her morning prayers are all the same: thanksgiving to her Creator
for be­ing permitted yet another April!
May
For so long ours was an all-of-a-kind family that we still feel a special
kinship with other all-girl or all-boy families. Last night our guests’ five
sons and their father lined themselves up with our five sons and their
father for a parlor picture-taking, while we women, outnumbered twelve
to three, looked on. Small daughter had her misgivings, but she was
soon rewarded, for today we visited old college friends who specialize in
daughters, and she sat happily at the long table, one of a group of hungry
and talkative boys and girls—­five of each! All-of-a-kind families still seem
special to us; and even though we have no real regrets that ours was
ended with the advent of The Princess, we can’t feel sorry for parents
who are blessed with a solid row of girls or of boys. We couldn’t agree
with those who say that every girl should have a brother and every boy a
sister. We have the habit of replying that if this were true, the good Lord
would have arranged it to be so. Blessings on the all-of-a-kind families!
May they all be as happy and complete as these two whose fellowship we
have just enjoyed.

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On the Corner 1962
The youngest comes home from an aft­ernoon spent with a school
friend whose name is unfamiliar to us, but who has begged to have our
daughter come to her house to play. “Did you have fun?” we ask her. “No,
I didn’t,” she answers em­phatically. “She insisted on playing teen­ager
the whole time.” We wonder how one plays teenager, and she gives us
a simpering performance of looking into an imaginary mirror, applying
imaginary lip­stick. “And then you talk about boys all the time. Stupid!”
We smile on her, grateful for her present naiveté, and we hope that it will
be a few more years be­fore she decides that it isn’t stupid after all.

It scares us a bit, the way some folks generalize about family
patterns. “He comes from a good home.” “The children in that family can
be depended upon…” “Their children are so good (or ornery, or bright, or
polite…).” Perhaps such deductions are generally valid, and ours is one of
the few families constituting ex­ceptions to the rule. But we look at our six
and think—how could anyone say they have any traits in common except
that they are all “human beans”? We even have trouble finding similar
habit patterns among them, though we have come up with one: at this
point they all habitually wash their hands before meals!
This week we were again made aware of the six widely varied attitudes
toward work, as help was enlisted for the tail-end of house cleaning.
There is one who sim­ply takes work for granted, plows into it, does it
well, and seems to have no special need for praise for a job well done.
There is another who spends the greater part of the allotted time arguing
that the number of square feet in the wall he is to wash is greater than
that which his brother had to do, and then mumbles and complains as
he halfheartedly swipes at his area. An­other will do anything for money,
but pre­fers to volunteer for unpaid work, rather than to be drafted.
Still another has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, and will do
anything he is asked to do, even when it is work rightfully belonging to
an­other, even though it inconveniences him, even though it makes him so
unhappy that he must blink back the tears as he reports for duty. Then
there is our “little French Horse” who tears into work with a zest, exulting
in doing a good, thorough job, and basking in the resultant praise. Final­
ly there is one who really enjoys helping, but seems to feel that a bit of
complaining about “all this work” somehow goes along with the task—in
much the same way that many children say they hate school when they
really like it.
Is the point proved? Please, dear friends, there’s no one cubbyhole
for the six kids on this corner—or those on any corner, any street, any
road!
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
Once in a while the woman on the cor­ner answers yes to a request
simply be­cause there seems to be no valid reason to say no. Then as the
appointed hour ap­proaches, she wonders whatever possessed her to agree
to do this! This afternoon was such an occasion. It sounds so simple—
just reading some poems to a bevy of wiggly, giggly little Bluebirds. Yet
she quaked as she waited to be called upon. Surely today’s eight-year-old
girls, with their TV fare, their sophistication, can hardly be expected to
respond to these simple things written over ten years ago for and about
little boys! But the fears were groundless. Childhood is still a time of
open response to the stimulus of the moment, I guess, for the dear things
sat shiny-eyed, laughing in the right places, clapping with gusto, and,
afterward, shyly offering, “I liked your pomes!”

Reading days have come—no classes this week—and I take
advantage of the breath­er by boarding a train to visit a dear friend whose
husband has died. As the old coach rocks through the dark hills of
western Pennsylvania, past the steel mills, along the Monongahela and
Youghiogheny riv­ers, a nostalgia seizes me. And when the train stops for
five minutes at Connells­ville, I think I must run into the old sta­tion where,
so many nights in what now seems the long ago, we sat, the little chil­dren
and I, waiting for the train from the west—and Daddy! Somehow these
mem­ories of little, everyday things, and gray, familiar places, rather than
of life’s great crises and spectacular scenes, are the ones which crumple
the heart, and bring back most poignantly a bittersweet past.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: In a month filled with Mother-Daughter
breakfasts, teas, and banquets, one hears a plethora of flowery tributes to
motherhood. But the woman on the corner cherishes most the one from
a certain brown-eyed eight­-year-old. They sat, she and her mother, at
the dime-store lunch counter, over their lemon-blends. Several counters
away sat a pretty young thing with two small chil­dren in tow. Brown-Eyes
watched, hor­rified, as the babies were yanked and slapped and spoken to
harshly. There was a long silence. “You know,” she whispered, with just
the faintest trace of tears making those eyes even more luminous, “some
mothers that are pretty aren’t—aren’t good mothers. And some mothers,”
here she turned up a face glowing with love, “and some mothers aren’t
so—so pretty, but they are good.”
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On the Corner 1962
June
Commencement over, we pack boxes and luggage full of the necessities
of life (mainly books) for The Professor, and take him off to Chicago where
he settles into his little bachelor cubicle for the summer. This is a ritual
which has been repeated, in various forms, often enough that every­one
seems to take it in his stride. As one of the young ones says, “I try to think
back to a time when Daddy wasn’t going to school or writing his thesis,
and I can’t remember that far back!” Observing the healthy relationships
existing between this man and each of his children, I again am convinced
that time is a small factor. I read the complaint, in a woman’s maga­zine, of
a wife whose husband has just earned his doctor’s degree. They have two
children and a debt which will take them years to pay off. She wonders if
it’s right that anyone should be asked to jeopardize health and home in
order to prepare for the work for which he is obviously suited. I know how
she feels, but long ago I had to face this fact: that no one asked us to do
what we knew we must do. This course of action was our decision, and
any hard­ships encountered along the way were a natural consequence
of that decision. Ad­mittedly, some people have the advantage of more
money, less family, more brains ­but this cannot enter into our own plan­
ning. We are responsible for the choices we make; it’s as simple—and as
complex­as that. But once we have accepted re­sponsibility for our choices,
however stupid they may seem to others, and how­ever much deprivation
they may cause us, there is a certain freedom and joy in con­tinuing on
one’s course. And the children in the family just naturally soak up the
attitude of their parents, whether it is one of acceptance or of complaint.

Sometimes it helps, in setting goals for oneself, to dangle a reward
at the end of the hurdle. But this time the woman on the corner found
the obstacle course too long, and the reward too tempting. And so, with
a few more pounds to go, she gave up and called the friend who was
promised an evening out with her at the completion of her stated course.
She can always tell herself that she’ll lose those pounds sometime, and
besides, she needed the fellowship so badly that she was just naturally
frustrated in her purpose to lose weight. It was a grand evening, out at
Miller’s Country Restaurant, sharing real food and real fellowship again,
after these lean weeks!

You can’t have everything—and I have never asked that The Professor
be a Jack-­of-all-trades. But there’s no denying the fact that one handy
man in the family would be awfully useful! Today I’ve been walking on
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clouds—all because of The Professor’s brother, who is visiting us. That
good man has never yet paid us a visit without playing the role of Mr. Fixit.
This time it was the dryer, which has been sitting there silent and useless
for nearly a year, waiting for repairs which we knew would be expensive.
A little tinkering and cleaning, a little oil and penetrating fluid, and she is
humming sweetly again. Our prize servant has again come back to work
for us! Permit me to sing the praises of all handy men (be they husbands
or hus­band’s brothers or sons or grandsons or good neighbors) who work
miracles, and who never present a bill!

The cherries are ripe, and on a clut­tered Saturday morning the
invitation comes to the family on the corner: We may share the crop of
sweet cherries on another family’s tree if we come and pick them. With
buckets and baskets the rest of the family scoots out the door while the
housewife whisks about uncluttering the house so there will be time for
the unex­pected canning operations. A few hours and forty quarts later,
all of us are beam­ing at the first load of fruit to be taken to the basement
this season, and gratefully thanking our benefactors.

For a week, now, our neighbor’s roses have given us a lift as we
walk through the various rooms of our house. Here a deep red one floats
in a shallow glass bowl; there on the bookcase two yellow ones bend
gracefully over the blue vase; and on the dining room table, roses in
varying shades of pink and creamy white are glanced at and sniffed at by
passing members of the family—even the boys. Someday, I tell myself, I
too shall grow roses. But deep down I know that I am not the rose-growing
kind, having neither the patience, the love of the soil, nor the know-how.
And besides, why should I rob my neighbor of the joy of sharing with me
her specialty? No, I shall try to con­tent myself with writing a little old col­
umn now and then—for her to read, in return for the roses!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Found in a boy’s pocket, an unsolicited Father’s
Day tribute—obviously written as a class as­signment, but nevertheless
cherished.
MY FATHER
My father (or dad, as I call him), earns practically all the money we
spend. He teaches at Goshen College. He leaves for work at 7:45 a.m. and
comes home about 5:45 p.m. Sometimes, in fact, usually he goes back to
work after supper.
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On the Corner 1962
He often plays games with me, like baceball (which he is not the best
in, but he is good for his age), Careers (the game he beats me every time
in), and others.
I like to hear the stories he tells me, about when he was a boy. Some
of them are very exciting.
When Mother is feeling ill, or is away, he cooks the meals. (He is not
the best cook, but his meals are better than noth­ing.) He also helps clean
the house, wash the dishes, and do other things, when Mother is away.
On winter days, he never fails to see that the fire in the furnace is just
right.
I don’t see how I could ever get along without my dad!
July
July officially opened for us with a double celebration of the Fourth at the
Sunday school picnic, and later in the eve­ning, at the home of our Topeka
friends. Two potlucks in one day! The boys groaned in disappointment
as they reached the place where they could not accept an­other of those
thick, juicy hamburgers. “If only we could have them tomorrow!”

What is lovelier, on a hot, hot July day, than to receive an unexpected
telephone call from a distant friend? “As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so
is good news from a far country.” Suddenly there seem to be cool breezes
wafting through the rooms, and a new wave of energy makes the re­
maining tasks of the day light!

“And how was your camping trip?” we ask the pale, smudgy boy who
trudges in­to the kitchen, dropping his lumpy camp­ing gear in the first
convenient corner. We get the answer we expect, a dull, “O.K..” (Months
later I find a grimy folded paper in the pocket of his school jeans, and
re­ceive, thanks to his English teacher, an enlargement of the terse July
answer.)
My Camping Trip
This summer a freind and I decieded to go camping for 2 days at a
lake about 12 miles over the border in Michigan. We divided up the list of
things to bring. When we left (on bicycles) we had 2 saddle bags full of
food. The bicycle rid­ing proved tiring, but we made very good time. When
we arrived we quickly made camp. It was then that my pal chalked up his
first brownie badge—he’d forgotten the mosquito repellent.
After we had set up the tent we started scouting around. In the lake
hundreds of fish were within casting distance, and again my pal came
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through and callously announced that he had forgotten the bait. Luckily we
found small frogs that would serve the purpose.
For dinner we had hot doggs, cookies, pop, potatoes, and candy bars.
The hot dogs proved very messy because the bread my friend brought was
about the size of a silver dollar. After dinner we went fishing for 20 minutes
and caught 30 fish. We decided that the good fishing could be accounted
for by the sole reason that there were no fishing signs all around the lake.
Since we had no time-piece we ate sup­per when we were hungry.
Then we started getting ready for bed. After we made the first campfire, it
was so fun that we made 3 more. We went to bed but after about 4 hours
of trying to sleep we got up and went for a midnight swim. We were only in
for a half hour on account of the cold water. We then decided to try sleeping
in the sand. It worked.
We then woke up very early and took out a boat to go fishing. That time
it took us 2 hrs to catch 32 fish. We went back to camp to eat breakfast.
It was then that everything went wrong. The eggs carefully packed by my
friend were all broken, the bread was full of ants, the pop was stag­nent,
the cookies were burned, the butter was melted, and a pair of my pal’s
pants were burned off at the cuffs. By what we thought was dinner time,
our food was no more. We then decided that we would cut short our venture
and be in Bristol by 3:00, where we could get a ride home with his dad.
On the way back we stopped at a rest park where my friend, practicing his
casting, lost a 2 dollar lure.
When we arrived in Bristol it was 11:30. The idea of spending 3½
hours with only 13 cents between us about broke us down. We managed,
however, and at 3:30 we triumphantly entered Goshen.
(Moral, attached by woman on the corner: what mothers don’t know
until three months later, doesn’t hurt them.)

A rather sudden development scatters all our July plans to the winds.
With scarcely more than a week’s warning, we were off to the West Coast,
leaving behind two bachelor boys. When I suggest to them that I wish so
much they could come too, the outspoken one counters, “Now, Mom, do
you want us along as persons or as exhibits?” Our usual July birthday
plans are scrapped: My day is a flurry of getting ready, though not without
its cele­brations. (New books fall from beribboned wrappings, a yellow rose
arrives with a note from the rose-lady that a box of sandwiches is in the
freezer, to be picked up when we leave in the morning.) Fourth-Son’s
Day is celebrated with real cake and ice cream, even though our hosts
at our first stop (Kansas) didn’t even know it was his special day. And
his birthday breakfast at the cozy little home of these good friends is a
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On the Corner 1962
rare one: roasting ears and hamburgers! As for the Tall One’s Day—while
his mother, brothers and sister, cousins and aunts picnic together on
an Oregon lawn, and his father eats a final “Last Supper” with his own
parent and brothers, he doubtless has a good time celebrating with a very
special friend. But his mother remembers with a little pang that this is
the first time in his 18 years that she has baked no cake for him!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Driving homeward again, over the majestic Big
Horn Mountains, we keep saying to each other what we shall probably say
for years: How tragic if we had not come! How providential that we were
urged to come even after we insisted that it was impossible for us to join
the rest of The Professor’s family, meeting together for the first time in
over thirty years—and most likely for the last time. Our two-day reunion
was one of those unblemished joys, from beginning to end—surely a gift
of God.
THE TRAIN
I was laying in bed
One long summer night,
When I saw from my window
A very strange light,
And out from the black
Came a long mournful cry,
And whatever it was
Came clacketing by,
Then I wondered and wondered
With all of my might,
What has a long mournful cry
And a very strange light?
Then I started to think
And then thought again,
And after more thinking I said, “It’s a train!”
Soon the train and its clacketing
Went out of sight,
With its long mournful cry
And its very strange light.
—Matthew
Lind
August
The first of August finds us winding up our whirlwind trip. And what a
splendid trip it has been! Besides the main feature —the reunion of the
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The Professor’s family —there were such bonuses as seeing all my own
brothers, two for the first time in many years; there was the golden day
spent in The Little Town on the Prairie; and through it all, there was the
excite­ment of the varying natural scenery, all at its green and prosperous
best this partic­ular year. What a lot of living was packed into these
twelve days for us! And our only casualties were a foam pillow lost on
the turnpike as the result of a pillow fight, and a bone-china cup broken
at home in our absence! Returning to the house on the corner was not
without its shocks. A heap o’ livin’ had been going on in these bachelor
quarters too. But what at first seemed like the Herculean job of cleaning
out the Augean stables, really didn’t prove to be so bad after all. It took us
only two days to restore the place to comfortable living quarters.

“Wouldn’t it be fun,” suggests one young thing, “if we had the ability
to see into the future, and to discover the further life of the family?” The
rest of us around the table decide we’d just as soon not. A day at a time
is enough for us. But this one says he can hardly wait to see what he’s
going to remember about his youth because he is sure that not as many
exciting things are happening to him as happened to his dad and mom
when they were young!

One of those early morning phone calls again! We suspect maybe
it’s from some­one in the sixties or seventies, whose day starts (and ends)
several hours earlier than ours. Actually it turns out to be an­other Texas
nephew surprising us, and he s welcomed into the family for the next ten
days. His first significant act is to lie town flat on the living room floor
(yes, he s offered a bed) and sleep for several hours. Ah, that informality!
We discover again that those foreigners from the coun­try of Texas may
have a chip on their shoulders about their native land, but they’re among
the easiest people in the world to have as guests.

Easy also to have around these days—a ­special family pet, the
20-month-old son of our friends. This bright, friendly boy has quickly
adopted these additional brothers and a sister, while our compara­tively
grown-up clan responds with de­light to an experience which none of them
can clearly remember: the fun of having a talking toddler in the house.
“Did you see what he did?” “Did you hear what he said?” we say to each
other all day long. And all he needs to do is open his arms to one of the
children and say that child’s name, to acquire a devoted slave. Tommy
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On the Corner 1962
won’t remember—except perhaps “in his bones”—the week at our house;
but there are seven of us who couldn’t forget it!

“It was a good evening. Somehow I feel more a whole woman, less
‘neuter’!” My friend’s farewell strikes a response in my own spirit. I know
what she means, even though she expresses surprise that I do! Don’t
we all have these arid stretches in which we seem to function as a sort
of colorless, efficient machine, without the vividness and vitality which
lights up ex­istence when we are made to feel whole women, whole men?
This awareness can come to us in many ways; and sometimes it is the
product of a chance remark, a fleeting rapport, a glance across a room; or,
like tonight, just an otherwise ordinary conversation between old friends,
which somehow turns out to be more.

On the way to our friend’s piano recital at Ann Arbor, we provided
passing motor­ists with a spectacle: a carload of women standing helplessly
about a car with a flat tire. The woman from the corner insisted that we
were equal to the emergency, even though she had to look in the car’s
instruc­tion book to find where the bumper jack would fit on this new
Buick. To her re­gret, and to the relief of the others, a humble workman
in a rickety truck stop­ped and applied first aid. Nothing like bolstering a
man’s ego by appearing com­pletely helpless in the face of a mechanical
failure—whether it be a flat tire or a dull knife!

Tommy left tonight, and our Somalia cousins arrived. What memorymaking days for the children—these few days of playing with cousins
who come only once in five years! Suddenly we have three lit­tle girls,
instead of one; three young boys near enough in age to team together.
So concentrated is the boys’ play that they reject every intrusion; their
manners de­sert them; they fall to a game of Gusher or Monopoly or pingpong with a zest, a hunger, that reminds one of starving pigs at a trough!
And when grownups speak to them their response as much as says, “Yes,
hello, but can’t you see this is a mat­ter of life or death?”

Tonight, the guests having departed, one of the big boys recounts to
his father the story their uncle told late last night—­a story which had us
all in stitches. But something is missing.
“That’s funny,” he observes. “Why was it so hilarious last night, but
nothing special at all today?” He concludes that the elusive mood may
have been dependent on the lateness of the hour, our tiredness, and the
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special privilege of being able to stay up and talk with adults after the
little kids are in bed!

What a wonderful month! No sooner does one car leave than another
one comes. And these are our Kansas friends, old-shoe comfortable to
have in the house, and bringing with them always an inex­plicable lift.
Even the big boys are cap­tivated by Miss Four; the college boy raises his
eyebrows, looks across at me, and says, “Schöne!” And the high-schooler
responds to her innocent advances with just the kind of teasing she
loves. Again, observing the interaction of the children and adults, we are
reminded of the rich gifts which family friendships offer. In gratitude, we
keep and ponder this lovely summer in our hearts.
September
Little Eden again, and again we stow our gear in Lakeview, the cabin
assigned to us, and to which we have become so attached that we almost
feel it is ours for these few days each summer. As we un­pack, the Professor
and I are amused by a contrast which never occurred to us until today.
Fourteen years ago, when we packed for our first visit to Little Eden,
important items besides clothes were diapers, rubber sheets, bottles and
nipples, cans of SMA, small treasured toys for two ­and four-year olds,
children’s aspirin, a thermometer, picture books, washing sup­plies....
Now the necessities of life in­clude ball gloves, swimming trunks, razors,
deodorants, combs, billfolds, pegged jeans, and suntan and sunburn
lotions. We are quite aware—when we pack for a trip—­that we are in a
new era of family living.

A few afternoons on the beach, a few days of renewed acquaintance
with these fine people who make up our college fami­ly (but with whom we
scarcely speak dur­ing the year, such a large family it is, and such a busy
one), and then back to the opening of another school year. For a while
it seems that God has made the days not quite long enough; but after a
few weeks the mountains of washing have been removed, more peaches
and tomatoes are stashed away on the shelves of the fruit room, the
initial excitement of new teachers and new studies has died down, those
first awful book-rental bills are paid, and, sure enough, the days are just
about the right length after all! One can almost do what needs to be done
in one day again, without feeling martyred.

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On the Corner 1962
Few areas of our lives these days are free from the pressures to react
as the Joneses do. The houses and furnishings we buy, the food we eat,
the music we listen to, the political party with which we align ourselves,
the brand of religious expres­sion we use, the books we read! It’s not just
that we feel the pressure to buy, to eat, to listen to, to vote for, to read
what everyone else is buying, eating, listening to, voting for, and reading.
But we also feel the pressure to react to all this, or to manufacture
reactions, like the crowd. Probably most of us conform more than we
think we do, but I’ll risk appearing a stupid and uncultured member of
the unwashed masses when it comes to smiling and bowing over some
of the current best sellers! Katherine Anne Porter’s Ship of Fools may be
the “long-awaited first novel” of a great writer, and it may head the bestseller list for months. Yet, having read it, I find myself unable to stretch
the imagination enough to think of it as a “great” book. Ah, for a glimpse
into the future, to see what literature will survive this “Age of Fools.”

It’s always a letdown to have the table spread, the kids in their best
clothes and company manners, and a sort-of-special meal waiting, and
then to discover that there are no guests. Still, the annual Ven­ture-inFriendship which our congregation sponsors for the new students is a
good idea, even if, like today, not enough stu­dents turn out to furnish
all the hosts with guests. We do a bit of searching in the highways and
byways with no success. On some days the woman on the corner might
rise to the occasion and proceed to make out of it a gala affair for the
family. But tonight, for some reason, she eyes that white, white cloth with
concern. “Go ahead, Mom, take it off and put the old red-checkered one
on,” suggests one boy. “We might as well enjoy our spaghetti, if we can’t
enjoy our guests.”

There’s nothing like a little learning to open new doors of concern and
action; Mamma is back in school again—to the delight of the youngsters
who wonder what her grades will be. My choice of a course in social work
was made because of a vague idea that maybe, sometime, I might want to
work in this field. But in the stimulating class sessions I am finding that
any mother or housewife could bene­fit from a greater knowledge of the
“help­ing process,” which is the heart of social work, and by acquaintance
with communi­ty resources. Then there are always the new insights which
a little study inevitably initiates. I heatedly explain a new con­cern to the
Professor tonight. He smiles and suggests that maybe I should forget
about a profession, and just take occasion­al classes in various fields, in
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order to get Involved about Conditions—and produce Militant Articles.
The woman on the cor­ner says it isn’t funny, but as a matter of fact, there
are some articles she’s going to write—and soon!

To find oneself teamed up with an old friend on a retreat mission was
an exciting prospect—especially since the friend happened to be the lady
on College Avenue. As usual, I found my friend’s combination of saint and
court jester a delightful one. It’s exhilarating to realize that the roommate
who awakens you with the proclamation, “Well, you’re welcome to the
bath room; I just saw a spider precisely the size, of myself walking up out
of the drain!” can a few hours later speak words that light new fires in the
spirit. And then there were other delights in those two golden days in the
lovely wooded hills of Friedenswald, with our G.C. friends at their women’s
retreat...sharing over simple meals, in quiet corners, at the scheduled
meetings ... giving to and receiving from each other out of the bounty that
we have received from other saints, living and dead . . . feeling conscience
quickened, concerns deepened, responsibility sharpened ... meeting new
friend, old friends, friends of friends, relatives of friends, and friends of
relatives ... listening, loving, discussing, laughing—all this was retreat.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: a few lines from a birthday book which I have
just finished reading. Rose Macaulay write that just knowing a friend is
offering the prayer, “In manus tuas illam, Domine, commendo,” in her
behalf, lights a candle for her in the dark places of the spirit. I know what
she means, for I too have seen the glow of that little candle on dark nights.
And I wonder if there is any prayer one could ever pray, for anyone, any
time which would contain such depth and breadth as this: “Lord, into
Thy hands I commend her (him, myself).”
October
The bright blue days of this October were crammed with hours to
remember: a daughter’s ninth, and her floppy doll’s first, birthdaysdemanding two cakes of course ... a rich session in Modern Liter­ature at
Faculty Wives’ Meeting, by one of those experts whose presentation is all
the more delightful and stimulating since she sincerely does not believe
herself to be an expert ... afternoon tea in our living room with old friends
from Idaho-land of my happy childhood . . . a farewell for a sorely-to-bemissed family, celebrated by a South Sea Islands dinner; result-a sense
of loss in our community, but a new recipe (Hawaiian curry) for my files!
... another evening of impromptu folk music, com­plete with our favorite
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On the Corner 1962
Swiss yodeler, his root beer, and our pizza ... the freshness of young life
all over the place-the chil­dren’s friends, student groups, Sunday ­school
classes-ushering in another season of school fellowship

Potlucks! Fascinating, frustrating pot­lucks! Even the ordinary one
can ruin an appetite by confronting one with a new decision at every
step. Which of the five or ten meat dishes shall I sample? Which salads?
Desserts? But last night our pot­luck was even more confusing. The Home­
makers featured a salad supper, and we were faced with choosing from
nearly one hundred salads. By the time I had passed up and down the
tables, feasting my eyes on those elegant edible objets d’art, inde­cision
had dulled my appetite. Just as well.
I like potlucks. I know they can serve a purpose more important than
mere nu­trition. Yet there is something about them that always puts me
off a bit. As I grow older, I feel somehow ashamed, apologetic, around
such an abundance of food-as if I should be asking forgiveness of hungry
millions. And though I know that our can­celing out of potlucks would
not feed those persons, still there is something slightly revolting about
such flagrant plenty. Even so, I keep attending them, though I do it with
uneasiness. For I have known it to happen often that a miracle of meeting
can flower more easily between people who break bread together, espe­
cially within the fellowship of the church. I like to keep all the windows
and doors open, in case that Grace should visit me.

Hoping to learn something new for my own use, I went to hear an
amateur dul­cimer player tonight. Although it was disappointing to find
that the performer’s range of techniques was even more narrow than my
own, it was a good evening. The lady was charming; her voice, a lovely
lyrical soprano which outdid her dulcimer playing, made us all wistful.
(I’ve often felt it must be so freeing to be able to soar away on a good
high soprano!) Most in­teresting was her explanation of the differ­ence of
theme in Negro spirituals and White spirituals. The White spirituals, she
says, are expressions of pioneering people, and generally speak of forging
on to something better-moving to a more satisfactory place. (ExamplesWayfarin’ Stranger and I Will Arise and Go to Je­sus.) The Negro spirituals,
products of an enslaved people, repeatedly call for de­liverance in the
present situation (Swing Low, Rocka-My Soul, etc...). The idea makes
sense. I want to explore it further, to see if her observation is valid.

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The Old Woman Who Lived—on the corner had such a bad cold (her
first in years) she didn’t know what to do. So, for a day, she took to her
bed. Seeing how the household falls apart when you’re un­expectedly out of
action for one day is enough to strike terror into the heart of any mother.
What would they do if I’d really have to leave them? The possibility was
sobering enough that every morning since that day, my first awakening
thought has been one of overwhelming gratitude for continued life and
strength to care for the family.

Who wants to return to his carefree, joyous childhood? Not I, even
though I’m sure it was, over-all, an unusually happy one. What we seem
to forget, over the years, is that little troubles can be mighty big when you
aren’t equipped to assess their importance.
A little boy can’t get his homework done. His mind just isn’t working
tonight. Hours have gone by, and he is still sitting, staring at his paper.
You finally wake up and ask the right question: “Is something troubling
you” and receive in answer the agonized wail, “Oh, I have lots of trou­bles.”
But which is the one that is keep­ing him from studying? He finally gets it
out—the G string of his violin has broken! All day he has worried, fearful
of telling, because this is his first experience with a broken string. He
doesn’t know that it isn’t a major expense item.
The relief in those eyes, when he learns that musicians are always
breaking strings, that this particular string will cost his par­ents only a
few cents, and that his big brother will replace it before the next practice
period at school—the relief, the won­der, is a beautiful thing to see. And
he settles down to finish his arithmetic in ten minutes. Childhood—
carefree?

We all felt quite Laura-and-Mary-ish today when we awoke to the Big
Snow. One young thing suggests that maybe it’s going to be like The Long
Winter—snow and cold and blizzards from October to May! But the heavy
snow which turned our town into a delectable fairyland was gone after
one fantastically lovely day during which cameras were clicking in rose
gardens where the last roses of sum­mer were vivid against the snow. Oh,
well, we weren’t ready for winter anyhow.
I suppose the time will come to us, as it has come to others, when
the drastic change of seasons will be too much for us. But as of now, we
do not envy our friends in Florida and California. We would vote for the
variety of the northern Indiana climate any day.

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TO KEEP AND PONDER: Those mo­ments after a women’s meeting of
some kind, when you, the last guest, are saying a gay good night to the
tired hostess; then suddenly something unexplainable takes place, and
you both drift to comfortable chairs . . . to talk. Some hours later you
find yourself saying a quiet good morning, and you go away unto the
darkness, a lighted candle within your spirit, and sens­ing the flicker of
an answering flame from her doorway.
November
The Public Sale is an institution under whose spell I have never quite
been able to come. Perhaps I have my mother to thank-or blame-for that.
While other householders exclaimed over the bargains they collected at
“The Sale,” my mother would remain silent. Her comment to us later
was always to the effect that it was a good thing if one was able to pick
up a needed item at a sale, but that nothing, however inexpensive, was
a bargain if you did not need it. And so, while other peo­ple filled their
attics and basements and garages with bargains, we lived with rela­tively
few possessions. (One of my price­less memories is that of helping to sort
over the handful of my mother’s “things”­ only enough to fill a few boxes
in a corner of a room.) At various times, however, I have gone to sales
hopefully in order to find specific items which I thought we needed, only
to be completely discour­aged. Yesterday I made one more try, standing
in the freezing drizzle for hours, and emerging with wooden feet and one
small item which I could have bought downtown for only a few cents more,
and without giving up my entire precious Sat­urday morning. Farewell to
thee, O Public Sale)

What is a “gifted” child? According to the current academic usage,
the term could hardly apply to any of our children, thinks the woman
on the corner. But there are gifts ... and gifts.... What about the child
whose sense of justice will not permit him to take advantage of another
child, and who will speak up against in­justice wherever he sees it? What
about the child with spontaneous compassion for all who are sick, hurt,
deformed, humili­ated, disappointed, left out? What about the child with
inner resources which make it impossible for him to be bored with his own
or another’s company? Who feels no need to rely on canned entertainment
for his pastimes, and who seems to assume that you use the resources
you have to produce the effect you want? What about the sunny child
who believes everybody to be likable, and makes generous allowances for
them when they are not? What, in­deed, is a gifted child? The woman on
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the corner joins with every woman in realizing that the degree of spiritual
and emotional giftedness which a child has is not necessarily related to
his being in, or out of, “the accelerated group.”

Today I finished Francois Mauriac’s A Woman of the Pharisees.
Mauriac, in my book, is one of the finest of the modern novelists. This is
the fourth of his books I’ve read, and I want to read more. How refreshing
to find a novel which develops a religious theme in depth; how tragic
that most of the so-called “Christian novels” rarely do this. It would seem
that almost any story, however poorly written, which uses the “right”
vocabulary can pass for a Christian novel while books which develop great
Christian themes in subtlety, depth, and with real artistry are passed by
because they do not conform to that vocabulary. Even in journalism, we
might do well to remember the warn­ing of Jesus: “Not every one who says
Lord, Lord...

In spite of the largeness of our local congregation, the opportunities
for real fellowship are many. Today was one of those special celebrations
which have a way of binding people to one another, no matter how large
a group they comprise. It was the thirtieth wedding anniversary of our
pastor and his wife, and the open house in the fellowship rooms gave us
the chance we wanted and needed to express the appreciation we feel for
these two who are continually giving themselves to us as servants—God’s
and ours.

We have lit our first Advent candle, and so are formally ushered into
the annual blessedness of the Christmas season. Per­sonally, I feel it is a
great loss that we tend to neglect almost entirely the church year in our
brotherhood. No wonder we wail about how Christmas and Easter have
been taken over by commerce—when we ignore the spiritual preparation
which Ad­vent and Lent could give us. Every day is holy—we know that;
but as long as we do give special emphasis to the traditional “holy days”
of the Christian church, as long as we join the rest of society in such
preparations as gifts and turkey for Christ­mas and new clothes, eggs, and
ham din­ners for Easter, we might well make some spiritual preparation
beyond that of the multitude.

There is something about an unseason­able day which makes it an
unforgettable experience. Today—the 30th of November—we had one
of those perfect, golden, September days. The quality of the weather
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On the Corner 1962
somehow changed one’s entire outlook. Neighbors meeting each other
on the sidewalk exclaimed to each other over the wonder of it; clerks in
stores seized upon it to bridge the conversational gap at the cash register;
housewives changed their plans for the day. The woman on the corner
gazed out of her open kitchen window and thought how like grace is an
unseasonable day) You can’t ask for it, you dare not plan for it, you will
not receive advance notice of it. It is simply, suddenly there. And you­
—you merely stand with open hands and receive it, with gratitude.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: the pleas­ures of the hours spent with our Novem­
ber guests: a young medical student who delights the man on the corner
with his live interest in the Old Testament; a long tableful of nephews
and nieces, their girl friends and boy friends, all of whom hap­pen to be
in college here at the present; a young family from the Elkhart Seminary
and our friends from the Negro Baptist Church there; our old friend in
the psy­chiatric nursing-teaching field who drops in to eat soup with us,
and to give us news of his family and his work in California; our favorite
guitar strummer and his friends, celebrating the occasion of his senior
voice recital; Aunt Beth, combining business (picture-taking for the family
Christmas greeting) with pleasure (talk over the dinner table); our Bible
study group in a farewell meeting with its mem­bers who are leaving for
Saipan; and—a rare treat for us—a house brimful of authentic relatives
participating with us in a Thanksgiving! To all these we are in debt, for
they all have poured added riches into our already full family treasury.
December
Our month of Christmas opened with quiet and simple joys: the College
Orchestra’s December concert; the first gift, a little candle, offered
lovingly to our youngest from the chubby hands of our favorite two-yearold; evidences of a grow­ing maturity in this perplexing matter of what
Christmas is really all about. No doubt about it, every family is always
in a state of flux. No Christmas can be or should be like the last. But
sometimes the changes are more sharply defined at a given stage of the
family’s growth. This year we are suddenly aware that we no longer keep
Christmas with “little” chil­dren. Lovely it was, while it lasted. Lovely and
hectic and noisy and exhaust­ing! But now it’s over, and we don’t wish it
back. This quiet (well, comparative quiet), this added thoughtfulness (a
sprinkling, amid plenty of selfishness), this ability to reflect and evaluate
(once in a while), this is the now of our family’s life, and we accept it
gladly enough. One of the tall ones observes that for the first time he
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doesn’t really care whether or not he gets any gifts. His youngest brother
adds that he still cares “but it eases off a little every year.”

If there were an item from past family Christmases which I might wish
to retain, it would not be the prattle and excitement of the preschoolers,
nor even the special atmosphere of the house on the hill where most of
our young-family life was lived. I think it would be the reading together
of the December issues of the Sunday edition of The New York Times.
Some­how, the pages devoted annually to “The One Thousand Neediest
Cases” brought Christmas into perspective in a way that nothing else
has since the time our sub­scription was discontinued. Each year the
gaiety of our Christmas season was tempered by the knowledge that for
thou­sands this same time was a time of suffer­ing, of tragedy, of pain,
of separation. Perhaps we would not fret so about our inability to “keep
Christ in Christmas” if we would go easy on the candle-poinsettia-­openBible motif, or that of the stars and the quaint, clean Wise Men and shep­
herds, and recognize instead the bitter motifs of the sword, the full inn,
the unat­tended birth, the death of the innocents, the hasty, furtive flight.
This is the First Christmas that “The One Thousand Neediest Cases”
recalled for us. And we needed to remember.

For many families we know, Christmas is a time of reunion, of
traveling annually to grandparents’ homes, with festivities and gifts
shared and enjoyed by all the relatives, and with children going to sleep
on Christmas Eve in a bed other than their own. We can guess that such
a Christmas would have its own set of re­wards, but we have never felt
denied because they were not ours. Except for one far-away Christmas
when two little boys and their mother were sheltered by a generous auntand-sister, while the man of the house was building some walls and a
roof for us, we have always spent Christ­mas in our own home. We like it
this way. We know there must be advantages in traveling to grandfather’s
house, but since we never had this privilege, we shall leave to those so
privileged the task of enumerating the advantages!

Christmas at home means, always, a sort of open house. Whether
or not peo­ple drop in (a vanishing grace-both to drop in, and to happily
receive those who do so!) there is somehow the aura of special readiness
for guests-more so than at other seasons. On our corner this is one time
of the year that neighbors may get together, even though we neglect each
other shamefully during the rest of the year. Maybe it is morning coffee
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On the Corner 1962
in the kitchen-just two women talking about Christmas meanings or
preparations. Or two colleagues and their wives drinking tea together—
late, after the children are in bed. Or two families meeting together.
Christmas at home brings the satisfac­tion of being able to receive
out-of-town guests: perhaps one’s own relatives; per­haps friends,
passing through on their way to family celebrations; perhaps va­cationing
students. Relieved of the neces­sity of hurrying to get the family ready to
go someplace, one can more serenely offer hospitality to those who are
on the run.
Christmas at home means participation in the special services of our
own con­gregation. The ranks are thinner, but the spirit is warmer than
ever, and somehow responsibility strengthens our responses.

Those last few days before Christmas were made easier for all of
us this year by one of our guests, a medical doctor who specializes in
amateur magic tricks. Not only did he keep the younguns popeyed with
the wonders he casually produced from nowhere, but he was responsible
for a rush to the library the next morning. With the aid of two armloads of
books on magic, the pressures of waiting for Christ­mas were considerably
eased for the younger set-and incidentally, for their elders.

For nearly all Christmases past, the children in our family have found
it in­tolerably difficult to keep a secret. If the clumsily wrapped gifts for
Dad and Mom did not announce themselves, they had been announced
long before by tongue slips and urgent hints almost as obvious as when
one tiny boy looked up from his blocks with shining eyes and burst out,
“I’m building somethin’ an’ it’s for you, an’ I won’t tell you what it is,
’cause it’s a secret, an’ it’s a GARAGE!” But this year, another evidence of
the fact that we have gone a long way since those days, was the children’s
gift to their parents­—a real surprise: china, of the pattern for which the
woman on the corner has long wished. Christmas dinner is simple, but
because of the lovely blue-and-white plates, it has an un-planned-for
elegance. (Not that we didn’t love all those pencil­holders, bottle-vases,
plaques, book ends, and calendars of Christmases past!)

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Looking back over these few weeks, this month,
this year, the years of my life, then taking second looks, more deeply-I
still come out at the same place . . . with, simply, gratitude. Gratitude not
merely for the good things that have been given and that have happened
to me. Looking back can be a terrifying and humiliating experience, if one
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Story of a Family
tries to be even a little bit honest. And with the good and the beautiful
there are the remembrances of loss, of death’s separations, failures, of
will­ful sins, twisted loves and hates, cruelties, indifferences, jealousies,
regrets, and the appalling list of omissions. But through it all there is
that thread of grace which, remembered, leaves one awed and grateful—
grateful for the whole fabric of one’s individual life. I can believe, reflecting
now, that there is truth in what a chapel speaker told us last year-that
the opposite of hate is gratitude.
On
the
Corner 1963
January
If the first day of a new year is any indication of the character of the coming
twelve months, we on the corner shall find our lives full of surprises,
noise, and sweet­ness; and the woman of the house is going to be hard
put to find a moment to sit down and commune with her Creator, her­
self, nature, or even with a good book. First there was a late, late arising
as is customary with us after a watch night; then unexpected dinner
guests, arriving when we were still in dusters and robes, but as welcome
as they were unexpected. Shortly after lunch Aunt Beth blew in with her
gear—this time the ingredients for a candy-making party. The chatter
of four nine-year-old girls and the auntly instruc­tions penetrating the
downstairs rooms kept at bay any silence which might have dared to
enter the house during the after­noon. Fortunately the numerous varieties
of fondant sampled as they were formed into candies had dulled the edge
of most appetites by evening dinnertime, and no one seemed to notice
that the meal was hardly worthy of the name “New Year’s Dinner.” At the
end of the day the wom­an of the house tried somewhat wistfully to recall
something significant she may have done on this, the first day of another
year. Nothing! But each of the little girls had a box of bright candy to
show for her efforts and to take home to share with other members of her
family.

There are too many days like this, when, on first consideration, the
housewife finds it hard to see anything significant resulting from her day
of work. True, she has a tired back and jangling nerves, and eyes that
will not stay open even for the most intriguing of books. But these are all
passing. What remains? Oh, yes, they tell us that we are molding character
and all that—and I can believe it. But I am comforted by the reflection
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On the Corner 1963
that what I am doing, not only as a mother but as “just a housewife” is of
elementary im­portance. There are scores of activities eating up the time
of women which, while good, can be dispensed with quite easily. One can
skip the next Homemakers’ meet­ing without drastic results. Committees
and appointments can be dropped or post­poned. Going to the hairdresser
is hardly a matter of life or death. But a dependent child must be fed and
clothed and loved —by someone. In this realm, postpone­ment, refusal to
participate, or irresponsi­bility is a sin against a person. It is at this point
of reflection that I usually end up thankful for the most rewarding and
exhilarating job in the world!

One more special New Years’ treat which I hope is a harbinger of other
such meetings in the year to come: an hour spent with two aunts—my
mother’s only remaining sisters. Out of six wonderful women these two
are left to remind me, every time I see them, not only of my own mother,
but of the rich heritage which can be transmitted by godly, coura­geous
people. If there have been any of our forebears who left an appreciable
amount of money to his survivors, I’ve never heard of him. But long lives of
God­centered goodness and wholesome values have netted an inheritance
which has en­riched us all—unto the third and fourth generations!

When good friends from afar stop in for a two-day visit, one first of all
wonders how we can possibly cover all the conver­sational ground in such
a short time. When the stay lengthens—because of illness—to ten days,
then, in spite of the dis­comfort of the ailing guests, there are given to us
long evenings over teacups, with leisure to really visit. And though we had
a hard time convincing our guests that we were glad they had succumbed
in our house instead of in less roomy houses along their journey, we
cherish the memory of those quiet evenings of talk. The understatement
of the year so far was our departing guest’s deadpan remark: “Well, at
least I can say that I know you folks better than I ever did before.” Let us
hope that time blurs such knowledge!

Who are angels unaware whose enter­tainment we should take care
not to neg­lect? Today, answering the doorbell, I listened while a young
man offered me the latest Jehovah’s Witness leaflets. Beside him was
a tiny child, skimpily dressed, bare legs exposed to the January cold.
I accepted the papers, listened to his ex­planation of what I should be
sure to read, thanked him, and closed the door. But long after, I could
not forget him. Why hadn’t I asked them in? Offered them coffee and
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Story of a Family
milk and cookies? Obviously they were cold, and one could almost see in
their faces the impression of continued verbal rudeness from good people
who opened, then quickly shut, their doors to them. My mind went back
to the many times in which I have heard good women tell with obvious
satisfaction how they “handled” such people from “heretical sects” at
their doors. But it gives me pause, now. What is Christlike about telling
off a Jehovah’s Witness? The memory I pre­fer to keep, and which I want
to remem­ber oftener for my own instruction, is that of a neighbor who
invited such a person into her home, drank coffee with her, and listened
to her without argument. Here, I thought, was love in action. Lord, for­give
us for all the angels we have turned away from our doors with coldness
and denominational loftiness!

Tonight at Bible study what began with a discussion of Psalm 23
drifted into an examination of some of the “plaintive” psalms and ended
with a discussion of the worship services at our own church. Com­ing
home, we decided that it was truly a therapeutic session, resembling
the struc­ture of the very ‘plaintive psalms which we had discussed—a
structure including complaint, querulous petition, dissatisfac­tion with
the status quo; but, finally, a staunch affirmation. No wonder so many
people have found comfort and instruction in the Psalms over the ages—
their writers were so unashamedly human!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: the influ­ence, over the years, of various psalms
(and phrases from psalms) on my own life. How glad I am that memorization
of the Bible was not “played down” when I was a child! How many the
times when I would have had no words to express what I deeply felt had I
not these words of men and women who were mortal as I am mortal, but
who thirsted as I thirst, for the living God! “O Lord, thou hast searched
me and known me. . . . Whither shall I flee from thy presence? . . . The
Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid? . . . God is our
refuge and strength, a very present help. . . . Take delight in the Lord,
and he shall give thee the desires of thy heart. .. .” So these fragments,
memorized by an immature, uncomprehending child, rise now to the
surface in times of need. Maybe all the jots and tittles aren’t in place—
they point me surely to the Source of strength and comfort; I have never
found them to be misleading.
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On the Corner 1963
February
Though she is approaching middle age (according to the verdict of the
younger generation) and though homemaking seems to her the most
creative of careers pos­sible, there are still some household tasks which
this housewife has not learned to love with a great, overwhelming love.
For instance, ironing. For twenty-odd years I have explored various ways
of trying to learn to accept this task with at least a minimum of joy. Music
hath charms to make me a somewhat less savage ironer at times, but not
always. The most success­ful gimmick I have discovered so far is to iron
while I visit with friends, either at my home or theirs. This gray morning
was made special by a trip to the farm. While my aunt hooked her rug,
I ironed, and managed to get rid of a good bit of ac­cumulated pique by
visiting with one of my favorite conversationalists. As usual, she sent
me home with some good books, good cheer, and great stacks of freshly
ironed shirts.

Having accomplished so much so pleas­antly, I added a further fillip
to crown the day that began so somberly: after the younger children
were abed my whole eve­ning went into solving the new Saturday Review
Double-Crostic—the first I’ve be­gun and finished in months. Ironing out
the mental wrinkles can be exciting even in solitude!

For years we have been the smiling, grateful recipients of a series of
rather nice, rather useless little articles executed in the industrial arts
room at the junior high. Today we reaped the harvest of all those smiles
and gratitudes: Son No. 4 brought home his project—up to now a secret.
It was an entirely useful, quite respectable, indeed, to our eyes, beautiful
step end table which was put into imme­diate use. We are not asking
that it hold together forever, but for our lifetime we expect to use it—a
table made valuable by a boy’s patient work and loving assessment of our
needs.

If one concentrates on the progression of ideas instead of the
necessity of standing rooted to the spot for ten minutes, he may find
that the pastoral prayer can be quite helpful in worshiping. But we have
been conditioned to expect worship to be effort­less: hence the billows of
hostility which one encounters on the subject of long prayer. And though
the anonymous au­thor of The Cloud of Unknowing un­doubtedly had a
point when he kept repeating that “short prayer pierceth heaven,” there
was One greater than he who often prayed all night!
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Story of a Family

Advice to all my good friends who love music and love the church and
who have not read Erik Routley’s engaging book of essays, Music: Sacred
and Profane—read it!

The first swim of the season—wonderful! I’m afraid I’m a hothouse
creature—the only swimming I really enjoy is that in a well-modulated
indoor pool. Now for eight weeks we faculty wives have our chance to
swim once a week at the lovely high school natatorium. Once again I’m
glad to have decided some time ago that I wasn’t too old to take the
plunge and learn to swim after all these years! Tonight’s exhilaration is
one that accompanies no other kind of physical exercise I have known.
Afterward, bone-tired, a few of us eat sandwiches together and have a re­
freshing meeting of minds over our food—a triple renewal!

“Familiar as an old mistake and futile as regret.” This line from
E. A. Robin­son’s poem, “Bewick Finzer,” keeps re­curring to me under
rather painful circum­stances. It is an awkward thing to be so gifted with
hindsight as is this woman on this corner. This morning I can see that
even though I thought I was too weary to move last night, it would have
rested, even re-created me to go to hear Serkin play. What a tragedy! Even
the musically inert were delighted; apparently it was the outstanding
concert of the year! The hindsight works in other ways, too. I can always
think of simpler, more exciting food I could have served to the guests last
night, and more unusual ways of enter­taining them; a really appropriate
gift­ clearly the Right One—instead of the one I spent hours choosing,
then bought in lukewarm acceptance. I can always think—later—of ways
I could have showed my affection to my visitor at the time, instead of
waiting to formulate it in a note after her departure. Then there is the
clever re­joinder to that remark which caught me off-balance, eliciting only
a silly “Really?” from me at the time. Oh, how good at repartee I am—the
next day, when there is no one but the pink kitchen wall to hear it.
But my latest regret strikes deeper. To­day, in a supermarket, I saw
a woman, obviously poor, washed-out, disheveled, pushing her cart with
the interference of many similarly poor, washed-out, dis­heveled children
who constantly plied her with questions as she attempted to shop. (Now
let me say here that I have vowed my next Militant Article will be entitled
“The Supermarket Mothers.” I have a deep anger concerning the brutal
treatment of little children in stores and supermarkets.) And so when I
saw this mother smile warmly as each child assaulted her, and when I
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On the Corner 1963
heard her answer them in a gentle and loving tone, I gave her a deep bow
(within myself, of course) and I knew I should go to her and tell her that
she was a special kind of person. I didn’t, though.
Why can’t I shake that verse from the Bible which has been dancing
in and out of my consciousness ever since? “To him that knoweth to do
good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin.”

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The light in a child’s eyes as she reads to the
family from the Bible which arrived in the mail today. Being the only
namesake of her late grandmother, she has been favored with this special
gift: she need not even change the name on the flyleaf, for it be­longs to
her, too. She finds the psalm marked by the ribbon. Was it Grandma’s
last reading place? And in good fourth­-grade style she reads for us as we
remem­ber with love this woman of energy, cour­age, and humor.
March
We’ve had a game of old-fashioned ana­grams, the youngest and I, while
the oth­er two (of the three who make up the younger set) finished their
homework. Now we’ve settled down to an hour of reading another Lawson
book. This is the kind of evening I love most—perhaps be­cause it is so
precious, so rare to come by, these days. And one is aware that very soon
there will not even be an occasional night like this, for there will be no
one left to read to. When that time comes, hope I shall be able to rejoice
in the fact that the cozy reading evenings are being repeated in six homes
of the next genera­tion!

Nights like this I hate to leave home ­and I only pray that I may come
back alive! No, it’s not because of the weather. But what a muddle this
household is in right now, with drawers, closets, files, cup­boards, and
corners all needing attention so badly. Lord, when you blow that trum­pet
for me, please make it sometime when my poor relatives and friends won’t
find such a mess to clear out! (As usual, I’d like preferred treatment.)

The sister of a dear friend visited the house on the corner today, and
with a sort of wonder, I made the discovery that here, too, was potential for
deep friend­ship—a friendship never really developed or explored because
of my close relation­ship to the other sister. The words of Da­vid Roberts
came again to me with new force: “Every friendship is entered into at the
expense of others equally worthy....”
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Story of a Family

What a glorious week—a stay-at-home week full of answering urgent
mail, clean­ing out drawers, sorting clothes into piles, washing, ironing,
and being what I am often called, but seldom qualify for: a busy housewife.
For several days out of a year, I find this quite invigorating: spe­cial cleaning
and sorting projects have a glory that the daily grind lacks!

The funeral today of our friend’s mother seemed to me to be the highest
type of memorial service. The simplicity, the dig­nity, the Christianity of
it! One could wish that those who plan services for our church leaders
would respect their great­ness by just such a simple memorial serv­ice. The
greater the man, it seems to me, the less needful are eulogies. Remember
FDR’s funeral? Would that ours might be as Christian!

I have often said (and others have said it before me, and along with
me) that when it comes to the setting for real com­munication, nothing
quite takes the place of eating together. How much, or what kind of food
is unimportant. From a cup of tea to a full-course dinner, it is often
the “breaking of bread” together that per­forms the miracle. This month
has pro­vided many such meetings for us. There was my neighbor’s
beautifully served luncheon for a few friends. (“Why, it was only soup,”
she remonstrates. Only soup—­served with inspiration, with a flair which
I could attempt day after day, and never approximate!) The memory of
a picture-­pretty table set for three before the floor-­to-ceiling window in
a friend’s country home, and presided over so graciously by herself, is
inseparable from the memory of the happy meeting of minds among the
three friends who surrounded that table. And in the tiny dining room of
our Elk­hart friends, there was the table loaded with cornbread stuffing,
turkey, and all the rest—plus those green beans cooked as no white person
could ever cook them. That table we remember too, for across it there was
good fellowship, and four-year-old Robin, the gorgeous, outgoing child of
one of the ladies who helped prepare the meal, didn’t let any color barrier
get in the way of showering her charm on us. She saw a lap, jumped into
it, wound her arms around my neck, and forthwith began to confide the
family secrets to her new friends. (We hope it’s a sister, Robin!)

Again spring vacation has arrived, and here on the corner we have
again mar­shaled forces. Since I have needed to do some writing—and
quick—I suggest that each child take charge of the household for one
day. They respond with a mini­mum of complaint—even a little enthusi­
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On the Corner 1963
asm. After all, the prospect of being free for four days is worth one day of
responsibility. One young thing, at the end of his day, watches wonderingly
as his moth­er, home now, and taking over the reins, puts the evening
dinner on the table. Finally he cries out, “Mom, I really admire you. Why,
I flew around like a chicken with its head off, just trying to get hot dogs
made for the kids for lunch. You do it as if it wasn’t even work!” Nothing
like a bit of responsibility to encourage appre­ciation!

Today, in the seminary lounge, we watched Hisako and Toshi and
Yaguchi­san giving a shortened form of the Jap­anese tea ceremony. It was
a beautiful thing—each act having a meaning, a sym­bolism of its own. I
could not help think­ing wistfully, “If only we had one such ceremony.” But
Americans are not noted for their ceremonious approach to life, I guess.
Indeed, as I told my neighbor, I think the only ritual I ever executed with
similar ceremony was the daily bath for the baby!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: the beauty of another kind of tea ceremony. And
perhaps this, for us naturally unceremon­ious Americans, is the kind we
should oft­ener cultivate—just taking a cup of tea with a friend. Today
such a little cere­mony was held in the kitchen of a friend. There were
mint tea, chilled blueberries, crisp crackers, set out for the three of us,
and familiar talk among us, strengthening the deep ties that bind “our
hearts in Christian love.”
April
Although we ourselves had only one spring baby, it always seemed to
me that spring was the ideal time for these young shoots to make their
appearance. This April we are alive again to the joy of wel­coming another
baby, again a ready-made one, as was our last one. There are plenty of
advantages that go with getting a baby of this kind. even though in the
end they go from us before we have a chance to see them flower into
toddlers, schoolboys, adolescents, and young adults. In the first place we
know before the arrival whether to shop for a boy or a girl; and shopping
is a pleasure, with a credit voucher in hand, a pleased daughter of nine
to help in the selection of clothes, and more physical facility than has the
usual mother­-to-be on the day of the arrival of her baby! At midnight,
then, he comes to us, a mite of a boy, already a veteran sufferer, having
received more medical attention in his few weeks of life than our whole
family has received in our accumulated lifetimes so far! His responses are
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few; brain damage, they tell us, is probable. But life is there, strong and
persistent, and we are eager to see what t.l.c. can do.

In spite of the fact that the woman on the corner felt equal to the task
of caring for a new baby, she was due for a few sur­prises. In lifting a baby
there are certain muscles used which may have become a bit out of tone
after six years of disuse. Incredible that such a tiny burden should make
a big strong woman so tired! And, although he is the best of babies, the
addi­tional hours of laundering, bathing, and feeding put an unforeseen
strain on the household time-budget. In the first few weeks of Life-withBaby, the mountains of unironed clothes for the rest of the fam­ily steadily
grow higher, and the morning song of the big boys becomes, “Mom, I need
a shirt!” But with the patience of the family, the kind help of friends who
drop in to iron while they visit, or to visit while I iron, and with the settling
of routine, I am convinced that I can still manage a household containing
a baby, in spite of my advanced age.

The Great Days of April come and go more swiftly than usual this
year, it seems ... birthdays of friends ... a son’s seven­teenth anniversary
marked by a special breakfast on the day preceding, a special dinner on
the day itself, and a special lunch on the day after. (At this stage food is to
him the highest expression of love, and so for once I disregard the budg­et
and try to fill him up.) ... Easter Day, spent quietly at home with a simple
dinner and our usual guest ... the twentieth an­niversary of our marriage,
this year cele­brated with old college friends who—back there in the dim
ages—were married a week after we were. In ways we did not anticipate,
our families have come together at one time and another throughout the
years, and now this night we celebrated with a gala dinner prepared by
their daughters and a gorgeous seven-layer tiered cake executed by our
son.

Having moved to a new community, one is never so aware of the
strength of old friendships as when a friend from the old home drops
in for a fleeting visit. (Some­how, this kind of visit always seems fleet­ing,
whether the friend stays an hour or a week.) Perhaps there is no surer
criteria of friendship than the nature of this meeting. With some people,
no matter how often we see them, we need to try constantly to think of
something to keep the conversa­tion rolling—something to bridge the gap
in time or interest or values. With others, even ten years with little contact
leaves no stitches unraveled; we take up our rela­tionship naturally—not
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necessarily where we left off, as many say; we may find that additional
stitches and patterns have been added in the interim, without our being
aware of them. This April has been a time of new realization of the peace
of friend­ship, when three women from the hill country have again walked
into my life with all that freshness and singularity of their persons which
has endeared them to me over the years.

Our favorite two-year-old has got him­self a butch haircut, and
seems suddenly twice as handsome as he was before. I have always been
fascinated by the role of hair in our feelings toward a person. I’m not
the first woman to admit that when the son’s or husband’s hair starts
creeping down toward the ears and under the collar, one can become
more easily irritated with them—and the same is true of the daughter
with bangs inching past her eyebrows. Many are the times that I have
been alerted to the necessity of getting out the barbering equipment by
the recognition of my own feeling of impatience with a shaggy child. As a
young mother I would often look at a newly barbered child and see as if
for the first time what fine eyes the boy had!

Again it is the jumping season, with sand everywhere: embedded in
the rugs, grating underfoot on the bare floors, pour­ing from the cuffs of
slacks and from the dark interiors of smelly sneakers. Socks are black
(“I’ve told you and told you not to jump in your socks”) and dingy boys
leave in the bathtub a dingier ring than usual. This is the story yesterday,
today, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—every day until the
final track meet is over. Oh, dear! But the grim woman with the broom
is just as pleased as the grimy boy when she reads in the paper that he
has walked off with the honors. She is happy to sew the junior high boy’s
track letter on his red sweater. And she cele­brates both the end of the
season and the victories by making May baskets with her daughter—more
a matter of her own nostalgia than of the child’s insistence.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: the mean­ing of life, in whatever form it is given.
Friends, hearing of the efforts made to keep our baby alive in those first
few weeks before he came to us, and of the possibility of his retardation,
wonder why such effort is made in “such a case.” But who is to decide what
the case really is? Who is to say that the life of the child of the unmarried
mother is less precious than the life of the child of a president? Or that
a certain retarded child might not have as distinct a mission as a certain
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“gifted” child? Who is to say? Who is to decide? Who is wise enough to
play God?
May
Again the Mother-Daughter theme takes over, and one wonders how
many more years will pass before this fad expires. True, the MotherChild theme is ageless and agelessly beautiful, but I should hate to think
that the rash of mother-daughter functions will continue throughout
my life­time and on to eternity! Along with all that is good and beautiful
about a special day and special occasions honoring moth­ers, there is
so much excess, hypocrisy, and downright idolatry involved that many
of us mothers would be grateful to forget that such a day exists. One of
the most subtly corrosive effects of such adulation-run-wild is that we
ourselves get to be­lieving that what they say about us is true, and that
we are perfectly deserving of all this honor! As for me, I need to re­mind
myself that the honoring of a parent by a child can no more be conjured
up by a special day than it can be bought by favors and bribes. As for
my own mother, let me continue to honor her quietly by re­flecting on the
quality of her love as I experienced it, and by being a more loving person
myself—all 365 days of each year of my motherhood!

One of our favorite poets, in the first decade of her professional life,
having been bitten by the Mother’s Day bug, is agonizing over what she
hopes to be an appropriate tribute. “My mother she is sweet and just”
comes easily, but then follows a long period of eraser-chewing and staring
into space. Finally a hopeful idea sends her hopping to her mother with
the question, “Mom, what does lust mean?” The mother suggests that
a better way to use it might be in its adverbial form such as “she sang
lustily” or some­thing similar. The poet is a bit crestfallen and thereupon
asks for a series of words that might rhyme with just. The mother, having
in her own youth been a veritable rhyming dictionary, complies. The
result is that the poet says she’ll love her mother sweet and just, even
when she turns to dust. Lucky woman!

Having poked all this fun at Mother Celebrations, I must confess that
each May finds me saying yes to at least a few in­vitations to participate in
such occasions as mother-daughter breakfasts, teas, and banquets. Long
ago The Professor gave me some advice which I’ve tried to follow in such
cases. “If you think a subject is hackneyed, if you hate what a certain
ob­servance or ceremony has become, then it seems to me that the best
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thing to do is not to turn up your nose at it and refuse to participate, but
to take the opportunity to fill it with new meaning—to plant the seeds
of change; to ask questions; to say not the things one is expected to say
on such an occasion, but to cut through to what is real and mewing.”
Sounds fine, but the idea’s easier to carry through on paper, and I admit
that I usually fall short of such intentions. For instance, one eve­ning this
week when I settled for an after­-dinner medley of “Songs of My Mother,”
accompanied by dulcimer and daughter. Though I’m pretty sure that
some of my good friends would term my efforts as schmaltz—and they’d
be right—never-the-less, it was fun, and the kind audience seemed not to
miss the usual Mothers day Platitudes.

Now is the time of the year when the last school festivities are
crowded into a few weeks. For the college community the big social event
of the spring is “Spring Fest” and we wonder, as we watch the passengers
file down the gang­plank into “The Sea Around Us” Banquet ­Hall, who is
enjoying it most—we faculty waiters and waitresses, tired old things in
black and white, or the students, all dressed up in their festival best—
and their youth. As here and there the faculty couples fondly spy out
their grown sons­-or-daughters-with-special-date, I’m con­vinced that the
Tired Old Things have the edge on the Bright Young Things.

With commencement a week away, the agenda of The Professor’s
wife is clear: wash curtains, clean rugs, sweep, dust, wash windows,
snag and destroy the cob­web lace. I remember the days when fall and
spring house cleaning were Sacred Institutions relegated to October and
March. Even my mother, who was no traditionalist, would get the Dirty
Eye about then. But mine—if I get it—comes mainly when house guests
are expected, and so the latter part of May usually finds me on a cleaning
binge. One thing I like about house guests is that they force me to do a bit
more thorough clean­ing job than usual—a luxury for which I otherwise
cannot take time.

This year our special commencement guests are one of The Professor’s
brothers and his family. If these brothers alone were the only community
resources we had, we should not fare too badly. Except for medical and
legal care (and even there we might be able to cull some amateur advice)
our needs would be taken care of quite adequately. Farmer, plumb­er,
electrician, teacher, mechanic, builder, salesman, businessman—you
name it, we have it. And preachers! Preachers of all sorts — preacher197
Story of a Family
bishop,
preacher-pastor,
preacher-teacher,
preacher-missionary,
preacher-professor! But this year we are especially grateful for the
mechanic-elec­trician-businessman. And not just because he healed all
the electrical diseases of the household. That was only the bonus. The
fellowship with one of our favorite fam­ilies was the underlying joy of those
days spent together.

Where is the woman who used to read at least one good book a
week, to say’ nothing of half a dozen which she would’ promptly forget?
Lost in the shuffle of housework and baby care, I suppose. But why
worry? This too is another stage of life to be accepted with grace, like the
passing of the Family Reading Evenings, I suppose. (It is harder than I
thought it would be—this acceptance of the fact that the family is in a
different stage of growth in which togetherness is not as important to the
child as respected privacy and individual development.) I once thought it
impossible to live creatively without much reading. The days pass, and
maybe the woman on the corner is not living creatively, but stomachs of
unbelievable elasticity are being filled, questions are being discussed, if
not answered, laughter is being shared, clothing is washed and mended,
a baby is loved. And there is always the possibility of sacraments being
created out of such.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Despite the fight with Mother’s Day, I still like
women, am glad to be one, and I take great comfort in the fact that Jesus
apparently valued women for their spiritual insights and good company,
as well as for their knack at rais­ing children, keeping house, and setting
a good table.
June
The rare hot days of June envelop us, and we panic at the thought of an
entire summer of such temperatures and such humidity. Our common
sense tells us that it would be a rare summer if such were to be the case.
But under the stress of the heat our common senses warp, and we cannot
imagine respite to he possible.

And that reminds me—where feeling is concerned, how bound we are
to the pres­ent moment! I smile to recall the words of George Macdonald
(that unique nine­teenth-century Scottish clergyman and man of letters)
concerning “two silly young women”: “They had a feeling, or a feeling had
them, till another feeling came and took its place. When a feeling was
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there, they felt as if it would never go; when it was gone they felt as if it
had never been; when it returned, they felt as if it had never gone.”
On one of the hottest of noons a mis­sionary family eats lunch with
us. Interest­ing conversation, good fellowship, and the high ceilings of
our old-fashioned house tend to minimize the heat, but the moment we
step outside to say good-by we are assaulted by a merciless sun and a
searing wind. One day we hope to sit around our friends’ table in Israel,
and perhaps there too we shall find the weather threatening to be a topic
of conversation!

The pace of life on the corner changes somewhere around the
middle of June. Up to that time there is the close of the school year,
commencement at the college, the post-commencement flutter, followed
by Bible school. But by the middle of the month a new schedule has been
inaugu­rated, new patterns of living begun. The oldest leaves home to
work with a con­struction crew. The second spreads wings and flies away
for a summer of VS. Dish­washing, practicing, paper routes, baby­sitting,
reading, and baseball become the order of the days for the younger set.
The food budget for the first time in years actually stretches over the
full two-week period, since the two most voracious ap­petites have been
removed to other tables. At times there are even leftovers! What a lovely,
carefree summer, thinks the woman on the corner as she muses over a
table set for six.

Letter writing is only one of the skills (out of the few I ever possessed)
which I have allowed to atrophy through disuse over recent years. Sad—
because it is one with great possibilities for good and for both the giving
and receiving of pleasure. Reading those first letters from an absent son, I
am catapulted once again into the wonder and excitement of the personal
letter. But not everyone has the gift for writing a truly personal letter, one
which amplifies and expresses the self within, and reveals facets of the
mind and soul of which we had not been aware. For years I’ve said that
I feel sorry for any couple who have not carried on at least a part of their
courtship by correspondence. But after having compared the dutiful,
brief postcards of one son with the effervescent, expressive epistles of
another, I’m con­vinced that people should not be judged by their letters,
nor constrained to write them. As for the postcard-son, I think I’ll suggest
that he just telephone us several times a year after he leaves home—then
at least we’ll have some idea of what kind of person he has come to be,
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what his interests are, and how he is getting along in the world. But we
shall watch the mails for fat letters from our extrovert.

Eating out occasionally seems to be “the thing to do” for couples or
even families in the Gracious-Living set. It is almost a status symbol, the
status depending upon the degree of nonchalance with which one can
say, “Oh, we’re eating out tonight,” and the degree of knowledgeability
con­cerning good eating places and gourmet tastes. I have nothing against
the custom. I, too, enjoy eating out. Yet—probably because of the way I
was brought up—I have seldom been able to “eat out” without a pang of
something like remorse for spending (or having spent on me) so much
money for one meal. I can remem­ber my first meal “out.” I was sixteen
years old, and my brother and his wife (with whom I was traveling)
took me to a little restaurant where we ordered a full meal: roast beef,
mashed potatoes, and the rest, including the coffee cream in the dear
little bottles. (I’ve always been fasci­nated by miniatures.) It was what our
twelve-year-old himself with very little ex­perience in eating out, might call
a crumby meal in a crumby joint. But to me it was wonderful, and even
the cockroach found under the crust of my brother’s pie didn’t seriously
affect my judgment of the meal or of the whole experience. (I had never
seen a cockroach before, nor read of their habits.) I sometimes recall
this “First” on those rare occasions when I am eating out with a friend
or a group of friends; and in the moment after the food has arrived, that
moment of “the sanctified headache” (as one of our preachers has put it) I
usually pray that somehow the quality of the fellowship might justify the
expenditure—whether or not I am paying for the meal. Tonight, eating with
my Main Street friend who is a summer widow, I felt that this happened;
that the waste was a holy waste strengthening us both.

Our new picnic table, constructed by the men and the boys as an
advance gift for the woman’s birthday next month, was christened tonight
on our neighbors’ prem­ises in the royal setting of a steak barbe­cue. Since
neither of our families is in the steak-serving bracket, this was a rare oc­
casion for both; but of course we all knew that we could have had just as
good a time together if the steaks had been ham­burgers.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: the grati­tude and contentment which comes of
hav­ing at least one friend who feels no need to wait for an invitation, but
who any time of the day or night may call and ask if you’ll be at home
in case she drops in! Every household should have at least one such
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friend, we decide, as we talk together in the dim living room on this hot
evening. She has brought a fan along, and we have turned off the lights
in the room, in order to make it seem cooler. But the three of us can
still see each other and we can still find much, besides the heat, to talk
about as we sit here. Life today is not impossibly rushed and complex
and impersonal as long as friends can still gather together in the leisure
of quiet conversation on a June night.
July
Between the lush green, the summer-­newness of June, and the slightly
soiled and dusty sameness of August, comes July, the lively peak of the
summer. At least this household on this corner seems to think of it as
such. The commencement scram­ble, followed by a quick orientation into
Bible school or summer school, the early weddings, the finding of summer
employ­ment are over. By now we have settled down into a summer routine
which has passed the hectic stage of adjustment, and has not yet come
into the doldrums or the fever of getting ready to go on that last little
August trip northward. The budget often rights itself during July, the last
school expenses over and the heavy back-­to-school drain still a vague
Thing away in the distance, unworthy of present concern.

One of the young things came home from his music lesson today
with a new book. Sitting down at the piano immedi­ately, he launched
into an hour-long sight­reading reading session, which is anything but
standard procedure around this place. Soon other, younger members of
the family were calling out, “I like that!” and “Play that again.” (One more
unprecedented reac­tion.) Even prosaic old Mom, a musical conservative,
found herself stirred by the vitality of the sound coming from that room.
“If this,” she mused as she listened to the boy playing from his new Jazz
and Blues book, “if this belongs to a new gen­eration of sound, then I can’t
be completely set in my ways because—because I like it! It speaks to my
bones!”

Are there people, I wonder, whose goals are so clear, whose selfknowledge is so complete, that they need not periodically reassess the
direction of their efforts, as I seem to need to do? The many-faceted
modern way of life seems to crowd me into a corner every once in a while.
A distract­ing busyness starts whirring around in my insides. These
warning signals remind me that I must again go “down into the still­ness,”
as Thomas Kelly advises, to redis­cover my true role. Then I can return to
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the surface level of life, armed once again with that kind of direction and
purpose which can say “no” or “yes” to a day’s de­mands with freedom and
responsibility, and without regret. A rereading of Psalm 139 and of Kelly’s
chapter on the “Simpli­fication of Life” (A Testament of Devo­tion; Harper
and Row; 1941) are always effective in helping to put the disordered cabin
to rights, and to reset the sails.

Having surveyed the babies in the crib room at the church on his
way to check on the one belonging to us, the boy was in a reflective
mood. Trying to read him, I ex­pected any moment to hear, “When you
see those babies who are all right, it doesn’t seem fair that our baby
has to be like he is.” But what emerged from our junior philosopher was
quite otherwise: “You know, it’s strange how, after you’ve looked at other
people’s babies, your own baby always seems cuter.” The extra squeeze
given at that point to the little fel­low in my arms might be interpreted:
“Mentally and physically handicapped you may be, but not, if we can help
it, will you be shortchanged on love!”

Scarcely a birthday passes but I think miserably about how
unimaginative and thoughtless are my gift-choosings. Here is a date—and
what are the considerations? Why, two: How much money can be spent?
What in the world would he/she like? To be sure I rarely give without
wanting to give, but oh, for that touch, that “gift” of instinctively lighting
upon the uniquely personal, the right expression of what is felt about this
person. Here is a large box of home—frozen corn—our family’s favorite
vegetable. Here is a housedress slipped to me, not on a birthday, but
weeks before, at a time when for special reasons it was needed. Someone
heard and re­membered, last Christmas season, when I artlessly admired
their Adventskrantz, with its German-made spindle and stand. Now here,
in midsummer, is an identical spindle and stand—not representative of a
great outlay of cash, true, but of an exorbitant thoughtfulness. Tea with
a friend and her small son (whose contribution was “Happy Birthday”
sung lustily over the teacups)­and a new cup and saucer at my own place
to take along home. Would I ever think of such a simple, yet appropriate
gesture? These and other kindnesses have blessed this day, yet left me
sad. For who, in the presence of grace, can be really happy, re­flecting on
his own gracelessness?

A reunion of the northern Indiana off­spring of J. S. Shoemaker was a
new treat for those qualifying. At the college cabin we met to eat potluck (oh,
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these Shoe­maker cooks!) and knit together again neglected relationships.
It was a little dis­concerting to realize that some of us, though living less
than ten miles from each other, had not met in the entire three years
since our family has lived here!

TO KEEP AND PONDER: After-re­union thoughts: “Why don’t we get
together oftener?” In the richness of such fellowship one is almost aghast
that some­how our lives are frittered away by activi­ties so much less soulbuilding. We know much about people, but enter into relation­ship with
them so rarely, and so gingerly. Again I am impressed by The Professor’s
explanation of the Biblical meaning of the word “know.” Making my own
free trans­lation, I reflect that to know a person is not necessarily to have
knowledge about him, to be able to call him by name and be rec­ognized
by him, but to enter into deep and meaningful relationship with him.
Lord, help me to see those about me whom I should know!
August
In spite of being a full-blown summer month, August always seems to
me an anticlimax. It is at this point that we begin to say in the Biblical
manner, “The sum­mer is almost gone, and we have not done what we
had hoped to do.” The green of the earth is losing its luster. Often grayed
with dust, the leaves hang limp in the heat or, if it is an unusually dry
year, begin to curl and dry prematurely. This August the lawns need no
mowing; the young boys begin to complain that they have lost their jobs,
and once again they stand in the bread line for allowances. The freedom
of vacation is beginning to pall, in spite of the fact that there are still
those special days at Little Eden to look forward to. But there are also
all kinds of fulfillments in this hot, dry month. Blue­berries are ripe, and
we pick them on an early morning, getting a thorough drench­ing from
the dew on the bushes, but pleased with the results of our effort. Yel­
low transparents become incomparable ap­plesauce. Picnic suppers with
friends in the back yard make the warm days worth enduring. And the
big boys gather home from their summer jobs—brown and mus­cular, and
somehow more appreciative than usual. And so we like August too.

There are in each of our worlds, I sup­pose, a few people with an
uncanny sense of timing. What spiritual wells do they tap, from what
inner disciplines arise their impulses to say and do the things which, for
the people who benefit from them, seem to be said and done at just the
right time? For me, here on the corner, it was one of those nondescript
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days—a day filled with “dailyness.” Then she came to my back door with
a basket of vegetables from her big garden—large plump tomatoes, green
beans, corn—all treats that our gardenless family rejoices in. Her ex­
planation was that it involved a fair ex­change—the bounties of her garden
for these bits and pieces of so-called writing. Hardly fair, I think, but I
accept this bonus payment with gratitude. Some­thing new has come into
the afternoon at this point; an ordinary day has been redeemed by a deed
of grace.

Summertime, which brings to the mother of a large family
unprecedented volumes of cooking, washing, cleaning, and con­fusion,
and leaves little opportunity for “creative solitude,” still has its rewards.
One of these is that a baby-sitter is al­most always available. This means
that Mom can accept an invitation to after­noon tea or morning coffee, do
her shop­ping at times convenient to her, browse in the library, or meet
with a committee, without wondering what to do with this baby. This
morning a cup of coffee and delicious little sandwiches of brown bread were
embellishments to fellowship with a lady who has retired from missionary
service in the technical sense only. She is even now busy discovering new
mission fields—writing, intercessory prayer, visita­tion, friendship. I come
away from her tiny apartment feeling somehow younger and braver than
when I left home. Al­most as young and courageous as she is!

Let us now consider the virtues of the three-tined fork. Can it be that
some women keep house without it? You may have your electric skillets,
your automatic grills, and teakettles and can openers. But if you have
no three-tined fork (handed down, most likely, from your grandmoth­er)
how can you manage? How do you know if a potato is done to the proper
degree of mealy tenderness? Or that the apples under that piecrust are
thoroughly baked? How do you layer peaches in your mason jars? In
my cupboards there are not many old or lovely things. My parents were
pioneers, and most of these ac­companiments of gracious living had to be
left behind when they went West. True, I have my mother’s butter dish
with the domed cover; an oak-leaf plate of heavy stonewear which was
Grandmother’s; also—through the kindness of an aunt—Grand­mother’s
pan-of-all-uses, in which her let­tuce was washed, potatoes peeled, and
apples piled for slicing into pies. Still, the only one of these precious
inherited items which is in daily use at our house is the three-tined fork.
Sometimes I pick it up and look anxiously at the slender steel tines, so
thin and delicate now that one of them is slightly bent at the top. And
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I wonder what I would do if this queen of my kitchen should conk out.
(Forgive my paean of praise, all you readers who have not been blessed
with such a fork! Those who have been, will understand.)

These are the years we could never envision when the children were
very young. Thinking back, it seems that it was difficult then to really
grasp the fact that someday these boys, the managing of whose boots and
snowsuits alone could almost eat up a given winter day (to say nothing of
the wiping of noses, tying of shoes, assisting in the bathroom)—that these
boys would someday be fully con­tributing members of the family! But here
they are—cheerfully using their vacation after a summer of hard work to
paint the walls of our living and dining rooms. With an ease and precision
of which I was never capable, with high spirits exercising themselves in
rowdy singing and vehement discussion of baseball averages, they do the
work in record time, and the new blue on the walls lifts all of our spirits.
Then too, there are now two extra chauf­feurs in the family: the mother is
no longer in the position of having to drop everything to take this child
here, to pick up shoes at the shop, to meet someone at the train or airport.
Better drivers than she ever was are now in command. Moth­ers of little
boys, take heart. Enjoy them now, of course, but don’t let anyone try
telling you that you’ll always look back to this as the best time of your life.
Though the plot may thicken as the pages turn, the characters get more
interesting all the time. And more helpful.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: Not the old question, “Why did it happen to us?”
but a more frequent one at this house ­“Why did it not happen?” Once
more the boy who jumps on thin ice and swings from treetops and pumps
his wavering bike in front of oncoming cars has escaped serious injury.
Why did he climb the tree? He doesn’t know. How did he fall? Well, the
top of the tree broke off, unaccustomed to one hundred pounds of sturdy
boy swinging from it. Why didn’t his neck hit the porch railing as he
fell? Why didn’t he make a crash landing right on the side­walk beneath?
Some boys do. . . . This one, after having the wits scared out of him, being
winded, bruised, and burned a bit, was soon walking around. Several
hours later he casually returned a tape measure to the tool drawer. He
had just been to the top of the same tree, this time measuring his fall in
a more scientific manner than had been pursued by the gathered family
and neighbors. Oh, well, it was only forty-five feet!
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September
Perhaps even more than January, Sep­tember is the month of beginnings.
Once in a while now, the heat is broken by small rains. The excitement of
school makes a joyous bedlam of the first week after Labor Day. Children
in new clothes—those bright reds and blues, redder and bluer than they
will seem at any other time of the year—flit past the kitchen window on
their way to good old Parkside. There are new house­hold routines, new
mealtimes, new neigh­bors. A new crop of college freshmen floods the first
Sunday morning worship service of the school year. Table conver­sation
takes a new turn as the college boys report on new profs and classes, and
The Professor talks about new courses. For the high school, junior high,
and elementary set, there is much discussing of teachers and schedules.
And for the stay-at-homes, there is quiet, blessed quiet—sometimes for
as long as three hours! With all this newness there comes inevitably a lift
of the spirit, a liveliness of purpose, which inspires a cer­tain housewife to
make some new lists of Things to Be Accomplished, Fall and Winter.

But ah, the lull before the beginnings! After weeks of hubbub with
the voices and the desires and the needs of many claim­ants constantly
bombarding the eardrums, there is a sudden silence. The family has
gone to Little Eden. The old neighbors have embarked for Africa, and
the new ones have not yet arrived. The baby, even, does not co-operate
in alleviating this de­pressing silence—he is the kind who doesn’t cry! I
turn on the record player, pick up a book, do the few needful chores,
wonder what has happened to the person who used to love solitude, and
gratefully accept a Sunday dinner invitation with Aunt and Uncle in the
country.

Now they come, the scholars, with their lists of supplies which they
must buy or rent. Having moved here from a state where these expenses
are included in the taxes, we have never ceased to be over­whelmed by
the disastrous financial havoc worked by starting out six children in a
new school year. We check and double-­check the lists of the Parkside
youngsters, sorting out crayons, rulers, scissors, erasers, and pencils left
from last year, in order to salvage enough to be able to cross a few items,
at least, off the list. And we won­der if we will ever be fortified to the extent
that we do not wince every time a school­boy comes in the door with the
song, “I need a dollar [or five or ten or fifteen] for lab fees [workbooks,
towel fees, textbooks, regulation swimming trunks, health insur­ance ...].”
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We are only grateful that the college boys, whose staggering incidentals
would be the killing blow, can reach into their own summer savings.

Entranced with new textbooks (not for long, of course), inoculated
with new in­tellectual enthusiasms, all the family is reading these days—
all except the maid-of-­all-work. Not that there is no time. She has most of
her evenings free; but the neces­sary energy to tackle a stimulating book
has long since fled, by that time. For years now she has been planning
to read Veblen’s Theory of the Leisure Class. She sees it now on the shelf,
makes a mental note to try to get it read before she is fifty, and sits in her
corner of the sofa, nodding over the latest Double Crostic.

When one does not, like many good women, go to work to help the
husband through school, she must think of little ways to affirm that, after
all, she is behind him. It goes without saying that such a woman will take
over the burden of the household to a greater extent than most women
need to do. But there are times when she wishes she could do something
directly related to his ordeal. This week I found such an opportunity—
typing the first draft of The Professor’s dissertation. I know, and he knows,
that I will not be asked to do the final typing. But in a first draft, it does
not matter too much if the a’s and e’s, the apostrophes, periods, com­mas,
and strikeovers stand out in boldface because of a heavy finger. And who
but a wife would feel free to shape up what she considers an infelicity
of style, or to sub­stitute one word for another which she thinks is less
accurate? (And who but a loving husband would let an ignorant wom­an
have so free a hand with his manu­script?)

“How long,” thinks a certain woman, “it has taken me to realize that
whenever I find myself wanting a certain thing terribly, I must resist
buying it, even if I can find the money for it! Invariably these change
—chairs, pictures, rugs, clothes, whatever, the desire for which carries
with it so much emotion—invariably these things, possessed, leave me
empty. I even come to hate the sight of them. Wait it out, I tell myself.
Wait it out. And when the heat of desire is cold, when you can have or
have not with equal joy—then make your decision.

Which reminds me of the wise words of George Macdonald to the
effect that he would always like to be welcomed into his rooms by flowers
in summer and by a glow­ing fire in winter. But if this were not pos­sible,
then he would like to think gratefully about how nice they would be—if
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he had them, and go about his work without re­gret. “Contentment,” he
concludes, “lies [not] in despising what we have not got. Let us acknowledge
all good, all delight the world holds, and be content without it.”

Now comes our “last supper” with our weekly dinner guest, and then
an ocean will separate us for a while. Miss these world-travelers, we must.
We can’t help it. But we also feel the stirrings of excitement, knowing that
a part of us will be taking in the new sights and sounds and ideas of a
different and far-off culture.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: The joy of having friends throughout the
world. This is a pleasure which few of our grandpar­ents had. But
now there is hardly a family we know who does not have some
relatives or friends living and serving in the far comers of the
earth. As for those of us who stay at home, we do not really stay,
for we are a part of all we love, and through them we share a worldview.
October
“October’s Bright Blue Weather” is a living poem which I always look
forward to reading in autumn. Each year the ac­companying illustrations
are varied. Some­times the colors of the leaves seen from our corner are
vivid and wild reds, greens, yellows, oranges, vermilions. Then another
year they may be mostly golden—shimmering like flecks of gold leaf
against the intense azure of the sky. But this season—is it because of
depression or loneliness or lack of imagination and creativity on my part,
or has nature gone sullen?—the weather is sharp and overcast, the leaves
curled and dull. Hardly one golden day to remember) Oh, well, there’s
always an­other year—or so we hope.

There is likely no community, however small, which does not have
local attrac­tions to interest the most curious of its constituents—if they
would only venture to explore them. Yet we usually prefer to go farther from
home to see the sights. We’ve read and sung of Mississippi River lore, and
felt a certain satisfaction in actually crossing the Ole Man Himself: We’ve
visited the Hershey factory and the big West Coast fish-processing plants.
We’ve haunted museums in Pittsburgh and Chi­cago. It has never occurred
to us, though, to explore the possibilities of an extended rowing tour of the
Elkhart River-though some of our friends have done this and have found it
exciting. Penn Controls, Conn Instrument, and Miles Laboratories are all
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On the Corner 1963
too close to be inviting) And only today, on the repeated advice of a friend,
did we actually pack up the younger children and drive out of town a few
miles to visit what seemed not too promising—that well-known species,
the Local Museum. But Hubbard Hill Museum was a pleasant surprise.
Scuffling through big yellow maple leaves—the only pretty ones we saw
all fall—we made our way through the clean, rustic picnic area, wishing
we had brought Sunday afternoon lunch along. We entered the neat white
house attached to the neat red barn, and thereafter we were lost for hours
in a past, informative, interesting, and—in spots—delightfully fun­ny to
the children and vividly nostalgic to us.

A faithful reader of John Ciardi’s column in Saturday Review, I yet
must wince often at his arrogant and cutting manner. And though I find
his thought stimulating, I had entertained the idea that it would be difficult
indeed to like the man. Curious, though, what an actual flesh-and-blood
confrontation can do to add dimension and proportion to one’s concept
of a person about whom he has heretofore only read. After listening to
his lecture in the Union Building, both we and our after-lecture company
agreed that—say what you will about this man’s roughshod tactics in
liter­ary criticism—he’s a Great Big Man, and we liked him. This brings to
mind what Paul Tillich observed in one of his ser­mons. Often, he says,
in effect, he read; the theological views of a man, and feels nothing but
antipathy to him and his ideas. But in meeting the same man face to face,
a new dimension is added, and both im­mediately recognize each other as
a Chris­tian brother. I suppose that many who disagree with what Paul
Tillich says would find the same surprise awaiting them if they were to
meet him!

In preparing for a guest there are many aspects which can be
controlled by the hostess. She can make sure the house is clean, the food
well prepared, the children motivated to look forward to the pleasure of
the occasion, and that she herself is re­laxed and rested enough to bring
her best self forward. But what about preparation for being a guest? Is
this a completely pas­sive role? After having a number of special people in
our home this month, we have been impressed by how differently guests
contribute to the homes in which they have been entertained. At times—­
and such are, fortunately, rare—the house looks suddenly very shabby
and cold and uninteresting after a guest leaves. At other times, glowing
with the warmth of the one who has just left, we return to our rooms to
see beauty where we had not seen it before. And neither time could we
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put our finger on what, exactly, those people did or said or were, which
made us feel rich or poor.
Perhaps one difference is that while the one guest might have given
us much valu­able information about himself and his work, he basically
conducted himself as an “honored guest,” not really seeing us, our children,
or our home. The other, though hitherto a stranger, was alive to us as
soon as he entered the door. Not only did he courteously answer our own
questions about his life and work (answered them, but did not elaborate
tiresomely upon them) ; he noted with pleasure the lovely complexion of
our “special” foster child, wondered who wove our stair carpet, ex­pressed
curiosity about the contents of the casserole, and commented on the
great differences in the facial features of our five stairstep sons. Whereas
the one guest came to us as an old friend and left a stranger, the second
came a stranger and left an old friend, and even our undis­tinguished
house somehow soaked up the aura of his generous spirit. It made me do
a lot of thinking about the kind of guest I want to be in the future!

Two nights on the train, with a day of speaking and visiting in between,
made a good, nutritious sandwich for this rather housebound old lady on
the corner. The occasion was a WMSA meeting in another state and an
invitation to speak on one of the few topics which I can discuss with any
real sense of abandon—and mission: Gifts from the Saints. And while
my task was to pass on a few of those gifts, at the same time a great
many other gifts came my way: gifts of renewed friendship with women,
friends not seen for years; of meet­ings with new friends and even, to my
great surprise and delight, a sister (in­law); hospitality in a young pastor’s
home; pleasant contacts, recipe-exchanging, and listening which were all
a part of meeting with ordinary—and extraordinary—people on the train;
and an appreciative family welcoming me into a clean house. Gifts from
the saints)

TO KEEP AND PONDER: In a com­plex age can one’s life be simplified?
Can I know who I am and what my central tasks are? When to say yes
and when to say no? Is it possible not to be the victim of pressures (what
others are doing, what is expected of me, what people think)? My gratitude
to saints alive and saints gone before for the answers to that question. All
the way from Abraham to Trueblood, their answer is one: the single eye,
the pure heart; centering down; making the one big decision in the light
of which one will find all minor decisions more or less automatic. This is
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still both the most effective tran­quilizer and the finest stimulant I have
yet found.
November
Now comes what has long seemed to me to be the most nondescript of
all the months —with March running a close second. In­deed, these two
months have some similari­ties. Bareness usually prevails; in the case of
November that first exciting beauty of snow rarely appears until toward
the end of the month—if then. In March the pretty white stuff is usually
gone, or else it is clinging only in dirty patches here and there. In both
months we are in for some sharp, even bitter, weather—new to us in the
fall, but irksome by March when we’d like to be thinking Spring Thoughts.
The woods, the fields, and the streets of our town are as unattractive
as they ever get; one must depend on an inner cheer—nature certainly
doesn’t overstimulate us!
But even November is redeemed by the great American holiday,
Thanksgiving. And March ushers in Lent and sometimes even Easter. Then
too, perhaps we need the dull and the bare and the sharp and the bitter
to remind us that even so are the seasons of life—not all, and not always,
beautiful and stimulating and shiny. So, come ahead, November!

Studying The Imitation of Christ with a Sunday-school class of alert
college stu­dents, I recall that in previous readings. I was somewhat
puzzled by its continuing popularity throughout the centuries. But at this
reading it seems perfectly under­standable that saints, living and dead,
have mentioned it as being a decisive help in their pilgrimage. A great
man has said, “Beware of receiving things too soon.” Sure­ly there are
times when spiritual truth will come alive to the seeker; but the seeker
cannot be greedy, eagerly attempting to digest what his system is not yet
prepared to receive.
And who can plot the right time for the reading of this or that?
Each person has his timetable which he himself cannot read in advance.
Whether or not he is ready for the revelation of a given truth may not be
dependent so much upon his maturity as upon a hidden sensitivity that
has devel­oped because of events or insights beyond his control.

In spite of all the nasty things said and felt about November, this
particular month continues to bring new surprises and pleas­ures. Now
on our own street, some five blocks townward, our aunt and uncle have
come to live from their country home. Much as we enjoyed that home, we
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find its spirit transferred intact to the Eighth Street house, and we hope
that being this close will not make it more difficult—rather than less—to
get together. I tend to be skeptical, remembering how little real visit­ing we
two sisters did while we were neigh­bors on the hill for thirteen years. But
still, visiting or no visiting, it was nice to know that she was there. And
we are finding that there’s a special kind of happiness in having relatives
on our street.

Just when the woman on the corner was beginning to feel sorry for
herself for being confined to the house; just when she won­dered if she still
had friends; just when the November doldrums had set in with a vengeance
and she was doing exactly what von Hugel described as the most “meanly
deteriorating” of all pastimes - “sulking through the inevitable”; just then,
all in one day, three of the most cheering and stimu­lating women I know
happened to drop in. It wasn’t prearranged; none knew that the others
were coming, but the effect was that of the best kind of a surprise party.
Later, though, washing the coffee cups, I did wish a bit wistfully that the
party could have been spread out over three different days.

There is one nice thing (among many) about having “celebrities” in
the home. When the housewife surveys her domain in preparation, she
knows that nothing she could do to make her rooms look a bit cleaner
or less worn or more sophisticated would impress her guest, who has
been en­tertained in mansions! So she can shed any such anxiety and
cheerfully go about her usual preparations—vacuuming that rug which
still has a bit of pile here and there to prove it was not always mere
woven jute, setting the table as she does for the family on Sunday noons,
and forgetting about any special instructions to children who just might
disgrace their parents!
This time our guest (the current L-M performer and the most
delightfully natural personality we have yet to meet) more than justified
our refusal to “fuss.” From the minute she walked in the door she was
one of us, even discovering at once our favorite standing place—the
kitchen register. She asked for a cup of tea with no apologies. (A good
hostess would have offered the tea before she asked; a good guest, she
felt free to ask!) From start to finish here was one who made us all so
comfortable that we forgot she was a guest. Later I had to ad­mit to The
Professor that the only kind of people for whom I find it really difficult to
prepare are “the climbers.” No matter whether they’re climbing socially,
culturally, economically, spiritually, intellectually—the effect is the same
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and recognizable in a minute; no effort made in their behalf seems quite
adequate.

Dark clouds moved over our land this November. Recording the
events of the four terrible days in a journal, I found my­self wondering
how people will feel about them by the time this is read—next Novem­ber.
For four days time seemed to stand still. Not only a nation but a world
seemed united in an unprecedented closeness. Tragedy ordinarily brings
out the best or the worst in people; what impressed us as we watched the
real-life drama was how much nobility did emerge from quite ordi­nary
people, how much dignity from usu­ally undignified media. Perhaps there
had not ever before been a death in which so many people of one moment
in time felt so personally involved. We too, in our little corner of the world,
sorrowed.

TO KEEP AND PONDER: It is not only the intimately known and loved
whose loss by death becomes personal loss to us. We felt genuine grief
at the death of a Presi­dent we had never seen. And when we later heard
that C. S. Lewis died the same day, we again felt that a brightness, a vital
presence, had gone from our world. We recalled the loved Narnia books
and resur­rected them, determining to read them through again, aloud, all
the way from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe to The Last Battle so
that the younger children, too, could be blessed by this great man. And
those of us who still recalled that final judgment scene could picture its
author striding up the last hill to look into the face of Aslan with radiant
joy.
December
Now that there is December, let there be snow—snow that snarls the
traffic and slushes the streets for the shoppers, true, but that also adds
that indefinable “pres­ence” which we here in the North Temper­ate Zone
come to associate with the Christ­mas month.

And let there be gifts—gifts given with­out anxiety to please or to
impress or to reciprocate. May parents have the good sense to refrain
from overgiving to chil­dren who already have too much of things and too
little of love and training. May grown children search for the gift of time,
of effort, or of understanding , attention which they can give to aged
parents who neither desire nor need the buyable gifts. May good people
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everywhere turn their attention and their children’s attention to giving
where there is need and to limiting their own wants.

What can measure the worth of a gift? Here is this wooden spoon—an
ordinary kitchen stirring spoon, but with a differ­ence. For it was carved
from a carefully chosen, properly aged walnut bough by a friend. Having
spent an evening in our home, sharing our folk-singer guest who was a
native of his own state, he wanted to say “thank you” and said it in the
finest way possible—the work of his own hands. Even apart from the fine
craftsmanship, the beauty of the grain, and its unusual con­tours, this
could never be an ordinary spoon!

And let there be friends—friends whose opening and closing of our
front door usher in the most precious and lasting gifts of the season. Let
there be times for the morning coffee, the afternoon tea, the late-night
dessert, the Sunday evening sandwich sup­per — all those occasions for
fellowship which we have been meaning to make all year but for which we
were never quite willing to sacrifice.

A string quartet practicing in the living room provides sweet cheer on
an early December afternoon.... The voice recital of a niece occasions a
celebration which fills the house to bursting, but college stu­dents gladly
sit on the floor so long as the tarts and punch reach them there.... A
brace of our favorite sisters watch in amusement as we open the gifts of
Christ­mas Eve, and next day they and a stay-in­-town nephew and his
wife help to eat our bona fide Christmas dinner; the materials which,
turkey included, were the fifteen-­year-old’s gift to the family and friends.
... So they come and go, neighbors and friends, and again we are forced
to assess our true wealth.

Let there be silences—cessations of mad preparation in order that we
may, perhaps, hear the angels sing ... or meet our true selves ... or see
Christ in “one of the least of these.”

At my first initiation to a ————— Party (attended in spite of
principles to the con­trary) the ladies present are asked to write what they
would get if they were given a hundred dollars. Somehow, I thought that
since these are mostly church ladies, their first concerns would be for
someone other than themselves. To my horror, most of the lists sound like
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On the Corner 1963
children’s letters to Santa, and somehow this revelation puts a damper on
the whole, evening—a damper not removed by the utterly silly games and
the long lists of orders following. At risk of making enemies among good
women who enjoy these selling parties, I shall only say that though we are
all different, both in our needs and in our responsibilities, it would seem
that attendance at these par­ties, like everything else to which a wom­an
gives her time, energy, and money, must be taken “down into the light
of the Pres­ence,” as our Friends would say. This little purifying exercise
might not prohibit us from attending the next party that comes along,
but if honestly done it will surely make a difference in our evaluation of
the entertainment there, in our list of wants and “needs,” and in the total
of our pur­chases. And if we are dealers ourselves, might it not make a
difference in the quali­ty of “entertainment” we initiate at those parties?

Let there be books at Christmas! One of the most exciting facets of
our childhood Christmases was the packages from Mam­ma’s relatives in
the East. The charm of Aunt Stella’s packages was that we never knew
what they contained. The charm of Uncle Charles’s was that we always
knew—books! These childrens’ books are today still treasures to me.
Ragged, backless, soiled, they represent the great joy of my childhood.
Here is the first book of poetry I ever owned, received at the age of eight. I
still say, “Thank you, Uncle Charles,” every time I look at it, for it opened
a won­derful world which I’ve been exploring ever since. And somehow I
think that I could never feel quite right about a Christ­mas without a new
book in hand—the new­ness, the promise, the sight, the smell, the texture
of it!

And let there be holy waste! The young­est runs to me with a horrified
look: “Do you know how much he (her brother) paid for your present!”
She whispers the sum, a monumental one to her and to her mother also,
who knows about how much this boy had saved from his paper route.
When he comes home, I chide him, only to realize that this exciting new
venture in giving is a veritable alabaster box, and I am a Judas to carp
at him.
I see it all: roaming through the store, he spied it. He hadn’t been
looking for it­—but here it was, the fabulous, the extrava­gant, the perfect
gift. Having seen it he could see nothing else in the store. And so he
brought it home, and his earnest, “But, Mom, ‘tis the season to be jolly!”
accompanied by some rapid blinking, silences me once and for all.
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On Christmas Eve after opening the roaster—just what I needed!—
and the tier­cake pans—just what I wanted!—I open, oh, holy waste, what
I had never even thought of owning—a hair dryer. And from one end of
the room to the other every face is beaming, and there is not a Judas
among them to remind him of how much he could have bought with that
money!

And, TO KEEP AND PONDER, let there be love. Let there be love which,
snow or no snow, gifts or no gifts, friends or no friends, silence or no
silence, books or no books, is the stuff of which a Christmas is made. For
a Little Christ is no more to be found in a stable but comes to birth only
in those who love.
On
the
Corner 1964
January
For years I have admitted to being hopelessly sentimental and ceremonial
concerning the beginning of a new year. True, it’s just another day,
indistinguish­able in its physical essence from Decem­ber’s day. But in its
real essence (real to me, that is) it is unique in countless ways.
In the normal curse of life the years teach us to value the old—old ideas,
old possessions, old ceremonies, old friends ­and it’s not to depreciate the
beauty of the old that I sing of the wonder of the new. Perhaps that wonder
will always be sharp­er to one who has been accustomed to comparatively
few new things in his life.

I cannot remember feeling sorry for my­self that, as a child, few indeed
of the clothes I wore were new, and I have little sympathy for those mothers
who teach their children by their own attitudes to wear hand-me-downs
with a sense of mar­tyrdom. My own mother gave us, early, the gift of
gratitude by way of her own obvious delight in the kindness of friends
and relatives who passed on to her family their good used clothing. And
so to us the opening of and digging into a parcel of used clothing was
tremendous excitement.
I remember that thrill. But new clothes! That was a thrill of another
variety. Once or twice a year there were new shoes to be sniffed at and
caressed and taken to bed; each year at the beginning of school there
were at least a few completely new articles of clothing—a new print dress
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On the Corner 1964
or new pairs of long tan ribbed stockings, flat and smooth in their unworn
state and without darns in the heels!

There were the old joys repeated, the family ceremonies of birthdays,
Easters, Christmases, May Days, and Fourth of Julys. Each year they
gained in richness and beauty. But new experiences! That first long trip
back East to visit grandpar­ents and cousins never before seen! That first
turn of the knob and the blare of sound from the family’s first radio! The
first wondering walk through the bare rooms of the “new” old house to
which we were moving....

The old ideas about the nature of life and the human condition, the
old expres­sions of faith, the old ways of saying “I love you”—what person,
knowing violent uprooting from these oldnesses, does not suffer a shock
deep and more devastating to the integrity of his being than even he can
realize? But new ideas! How they can give meaning to the old! If there
is life, there must be the new shoots from the old vines of rooted faith
and love; and these shoots are bound to be exciting—exciting in their
difference, exciting in their rele­vance, exciting in their potential.

And old friends—comfortable, predict­able, cheering—gaining in
mellow beauty as does fine silver—with use. But new friends! The sudden
rapport or the slow dawning of understanding with a person of whom,
last year at this time, you were not even aware! Beyond the barriers of
age, of class, of race, of religion such be­ginning relationships have a way
of lifting the weight of heavy responsibilities so that they may be borne
with a new grace and of bringing a flush of joy into the pal­lor of our more
listless days.

Most of us must admit, I guess, that even where time itself is
concerned the old takes on an increasing aura of meaning to us as we
grow older, and the weight of memories both pleasant and painful has
a way of enriching all of life. But—a new day! A new year! Spare me
from ever losing the hope which awakes with me each morning or on
New Year’s Day, no matter how dull or difficult the previous day or year
has been. It is the hope that somehow today, this year, there will be a
measure of meaning, of achievement, of fulfilled purpose that I failed to
capture in yesterday’s or last year’s maze.

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And so each year on January first I can’t help collecting my thoughts
rather cere­moniously and singing a song in gratitude for newness to the
God whose Spirit has a way of making all things, all relation­ships, all
days, New.

Among this January’s treasures of new­ness were these:
A new achievement—The Professor’s dis­sertation is accepted, and
our friends re­joice with us by means of letters and salu­tations and good
wishes from many; a steak dinner from one couple; a check from an
absent friend who orders us to cele­brate; a great package of ground beef
from three zany doctors who congratulate us, reminding us that “now that
the ‘grind’ is over, the woman of the house will no long­er have anything
to ‘beef’ about.”
New contacts—An afternoon of visiting with our foster boy’s
grandparents in our home, the occasion being their first meet­ing with the
little child whose welfare still concerns them, even though he is legally a
ward of the state.... Weekend guests—a family in town for the Jehovah’s
Witness Convention. In spite of well-meant dis­agreements of some good
people, we saw no reason, when solicited, to refuse lodging to those
differing from us. And so these two days were days of mutual respect
and gratitude. We’ll let God judge as to whether or not we should have
denounced their “heresy” to their faces or argued on matters of doctrine.
New “little” experiences—Lon’s chicken curry, upholding our
contention that the most inspired cooks in the world are men; the singing
of German hymns together in Bible study fellowship and, on a later eve­
ning with the same group, tackling Har­monia Sacra, singing the parts as
written for a delightful, though a bit eerie, effect; the reading of Elizabeth
Gray Vining’s novel about a favorite author, John Donne —Take Heed of
Loving Me.
For these and other newnesses, few in comparison to the many
oldnesses, yet so enhancing their value—for the tiny pin­prick lights of joy
that give beauty to a whole sky of darkness and pain and sor­row, MAY
GOD BE PRAISED!
February
“And what are you planning that your sons will become?” our Korean
friend asks us in all seriousness. We are taken aback at this frank
question which no one has ever asked us before. He, in turn, is mys­tified
by our answer to his question. Our sons themselves, we tell him, will
decide what occupation they shall enter. We would not think of trying
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On the Corner 1964
to influence them to go into any particular one of the many honorable
professions open to them. We think we have stated our case well, but
he sadly shakes his head. We can see that he fears for the future of our
sons. “In Korea,” he explains gently but with finality, “the parents decide
for the sons.”

This reminded us of the country woman who would gladly have taken
the responsi­bility of deciding the futures of these same boys. She came
walking across the fields to our house on the hill to read some Scripture
and to offer a prayer for our newest son. “And God,” she ordered quite
firmly, “make all five of these boys into preachers” (to which the mother—
who likes variety—added her own silent post­script).

The youngest was fitted with new lenses today. As we drove from the
doctor’s of­fice, she stared out of the car windows in wonderment. “The
world looks so much neater!“ she exclaimed. “Why, I can see every branch
on the tree! I thought they were supposed to look fuzzy.” I reflected that
I could write a nice little moralistic paragraph on the subject, “Reasons
People Can’t See Things as They Are.” But I decided to leave it to the
compilers of sermon illustrations or moral lessons from life!

This all reminds me of the great change in methods of teaching “moral
lessons” to children. I remember a series of books we sisters were given,
years ago. My oldest sister’s was large and thin and tan with the title:
Countries and Customs. My next sister’s was large and thin and green—­
Plants and Insects. Although these were both informative books, I now
suspect that their purpose was basically the same as that spelled out in
the title of my book (large and thin and red): Ideals and Moral Lessons.
Today’s children—even today’s parents—would probably find such books
hilarious in their obvious moralizing ef­forts. But we loved them—and
maybe we even learned something good from them!

Sometimes I wish for one shelf in the bookcase on which would
magically ap­pear the books I loved most as a child. In reading the books
on such a shelf, one’s own children might be amused and bored in some
cases, but surely they would be delighted with many of them. The basic
qualities of childhood have not changed that much—we hope.

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If a woman does not want her friends to know her age—and I have
never been able to understand whyever she should want it kept a secret—
she should take care not to give herself away at those times when a
group good-naturedly begins to recall the scenes of childhood! Anyone
who can remember the agony of making one’s long underwear fit around
the ankles (under the long stockings) while dressing on a wintry Friday
morning, who can re­call the ignominy of having to wear high shoes when
the more “cultured” were be­ing freed from such buttons and laces, who
can remember the ritual of surreptitiously rolling down one’s stockings at
school where Mamma couldn’t see—anyone who remembers such things
as these, and who can still recall the Lindbergh kidnapping ‘and Hoover’s
election, just has to be over forty!

One of the pet peeves of the woman on the corner is the segregation of
ages in our modern society. Middle-aged people are thought to have little
in common with young people; folks in their thirties and forties, unless
still blessed by their own parents, can be almost completely isolated from
those in their seventies and eighties.
What a treat for me, then, to have two reversals of this lamentable
fortune in one week! A college girl stops by in her little car to see if I am
available to go out for a cup of coffee. Not only am I available but also
terribly willing, since this is the time of day when I don’t very much like
the people I love, and I’m sure they feel the same!
Come Sunday, the whole family is invit­ed to the warm little home of a
retired couple who seldom tackle anymore the feeding of such an outsize
tribe. This fel­lowship has a special quality impossible to duplicate in
gatherings limited by age; and the children, who seldom talk with people
the age their grandparents would be (were they here), are astonished that
such “old” people can produce such a bountiful and delicious meal and
be inter­esting to talk to in the bargain!

“In this business of entertaining,” the speaker said, “by definition
there must be a donor and a recipient.” But when friends share a meal
around a table, who is the donor and who is the recipient—really? For
the eating of a common meal can also be, and often is, the sharing of life.
Though hospitality must be extended by the definite act of one person, the
distinc­tion between giver and receiver ends with that offer. To accept such
an offer is also to give. That antiquated bit of politeness, “The pleasure is
all mine,” seems basically false to me. What real pleasure can there be in
any manner of fellowship—of friend­ship—if it is not mutual?
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On the Corner 1964
Tonight the two seminary boys who ate Sunday evening lunch with
us in return shared their lives with us: their laughter, their hopes, their
humor, their sharp, bright, young thoughts. The pleasure was not all
ours—or theirs—and so it was great.
March
“I have decided something,” the young­est announces with the firmness of
Pooh’s declaration to Piglet concerning his deci­sion to catch a Heffalump.
“I have decided that every day this week will be a good day.” And so it was
because, having de­cided, she proceeded to discipline herself for a whole
week in such matters as leav­ing her room tidy and responding cheer­fully
to work and bedtime and practicing suggestions.
How powerful is mental resolution backed by firm will) Surely the
whole bat­tle is not won when we say, “I have de­cided not to worry; I have
decided not to be ‘busy’; I have decided that I will throw off the tyranny
of ‘what they might think.”“ To make such bold assertions is not to carry
them out, but it is a begin­ning, a beginning that too few of us often
make.

It takes only a very little lever to open the floodgates of memory.
Today I was honored to be included in a sort of Freundschaft Quilting,
even though my lack of preoccupation with, and skill in such matters
is well known. But I went ­for the fellowship with old friends. And I did
contribute several hours of stitches, such as they were. Aside from the
pleas­ure of renewing friendship, just the busi­ness of quilting served to
unleash a pack of memories long confined.
Once again I was a small child accom­panying my mother to the
Sewing—in summer at the church, in winter at the homes of “sisters.”
There was little to do at Sewings except to play with another preschooler
or two under the quilt. But there was something mysterious and spe­cial
about that dim playroom. We tinkered with empty spools. We lay down
on our backs and tried to guess whose hands were pressed against the
bottom of the quilt to test the stitches made on top; I well remember
despairing even then of ever being able to stitch so fast. Sometimes we
tried to guess which black oxfords be­longed to which woman—and it was
al­ways with comfort and pride that my eyes were inevitably drawn to a
certain pair of long, narrow, worn shoes—shoes distorted by the bunions
which caused Mamma so much discomfort all her life.

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A special supper guest this evening was the man who had been
the evangelist in our little Idaho church years ago when I, among other
children my age, “stood up.” Much could be said about so early a com­
mitment—almost infant baptism as it were. But what impressed me
tonight was the sudden realization that however immature I may have
been, however naive my stand, still it was an experience of greater sig­
nificance than I had realized throughout the years. For this is the one
evangelist, of the many who passed in and out of the churches I attended,
whom I remember with honor and affection whenever I have heard his
name mentioned. And so it was a joy to be able at last to have him in our
home-after thirty-four years.

I have a theory that to expect too much is as great a deterrent to
learning and growing as to expect too little. And so if I hear in a sermon
one phrase which strikes me where it hurts, I do not ask for more. There
and then I meditate on that one piercing arrow and leave the rest of the
sermon for those who need it. If in a book of a thousand pages I find
one life­-changing idea—only one—then the time spent on those thousand
pages is for me completely justified. The idea need not be earthshaking. It
may be a quiet idea, a few words which spread silently into the crannies
of the consciousness.
For weeks now I have been living with a little sentence from Elizabeth
Goudge’s latest fine novel, Scent of Water. Al­ready I have forgotten the
plot and the characters, but I doubt if I shall ever for­get the remark of
one person who said that there are after all only three really necessary
prayers: “Thee I adore”; “Lord, have mercy”; and “Into Thy hands.” The
longer I think on this, the more encom­passing they seem: adoration,
confession, intercession, commitment—all of these can be expressed in a
few simple words.

Today news came of an uncle’s death. Though I am not free to make
the five­-hour trip to pay my respects in the usual way, my thoughts
honor him as for many hours the memories of happy days spent in his
household drift in and out of my consciousness. He it was who, when I
first learned to know him, lived in the brick house in the hollow—the Old
Home Place—where my mother had grown up.
I still remember the exciting sense of history I felt when at the age of
eleven I was introduced all at once to a church full of relatives, houses
my mother had spoken of in such detail that I recognized certain features
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On the Corner 1964
as though from a picture book, the wonders of life on the Eastern farm,
attendance in the very one-room school­house where my mother studied.
In these hours of memory vivid sensa­tions of the laughter and
funmaking around my uncle’s table return. I also re­member the satiny feel
of the banister of that wonderful staircase and the un­matched excitement
when, at the end of a hot week spent pulling morning glories from the
young corn, my uncle himself presented me with my wages—a paper
dollar! It was the first paper dollar I had ever owned—so much finer in
every way than our clinking Idaho silver dollars.
And so the hours pass, and though I wish to be with the family who
gave me so much pleasure in my childhood, I feel that the loving thoughts
of remembrance are after all a most fitting farewell.

Today Little Bubu and I went to Indi­anapolis where he was examined
at the clinic of the James Whitcomb Riley Chil­dren’s Hospital. As we were
directed from room to room, doctor to doctor, therapist to therapist, I was
fascinated with the knowledge of these specialists. Trained to observe,
each in his constricted area could immediately see things which we had
not seen in a year of living with Bubu!
Again I found myself wishing wistfully that there might be one, just
one, little area in which I might be considered a specialist—that there
might be just one small thing I could do better than the next woman!
Still, I guess there are rewards in being ordinary—then at least you can
live a quiet life, if you are so disposed, without having the world beating a
path to your doorway and asking you to do all kinds of energy­-consuming
things which you really do not want to do.
April
The steps in achieving a goal often pass unnoticed. But when the goal is
as long­standing as that of the Professor’s, every milestone along the way
is the occasion for celebration. At least this seems to be the reaction of
friends who, upon learning that the Professor has successfully passed
the last test—the orals—go out of their way to “doctor” him right and left,
even though the title has not yet been officially con­ferred. Of course they
know and we know that the title alone means little to him.
In spite of what people on the sidelines often say about the relative
unimportance of a degree, we do live in a world where­in academic circles
at least—a degree is a necessity. None of the degree-seekers we happen
to know would put up such a tre­mendous struggle or submit themselves
to such grinding discipline for a mere title. Sideline critics are apt to
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overlook the fact that a tremendous amount of learning must take place
in order to qualify one to teach.

Tonight our fourth son was among the applicants for baptism and
church mem­bership. Our pastor has a gift for making such services very
special. I wished, how­ever (as I have often wished), that we had in our
church a ceremony approaching in significance and beauty the Jewish bar
mitzvah. This is the service in which the thirteen-year-old boy becomes a
Son of the Commandment—a part of the adult Jewish community. It, as
well as in the bath mitzvah (for thirteen-year-old girls), is a special service
in the synagogue as near as possible to the birthday of the child. Parents
of the new member also participate in this truly important occasion.
Sometimes one is tempted to feel that our baptismal services in
which large classes are “run through” are almost too impersonal and
casual to carry the really great significance of the moment. Unlike the
Jewish boys who must read (in He­brew!) from the Torah and prepare and
deliver an address of their intentions and commitment as a member of
the Jewish community, our candidates for baptism need not even face
the congregation at anytime and need only murmur an “I do” or “I will” in
response to the proposals put before them. To me the really discourag­ing
aspect of all ties is that such a ritual is considered so sacred (by virtue of
its having been for so long “the way we’ve always done it) that there seems
little hope of changing the basic pattern.
Our pastor did say, though, that he hoped sometime to arrange the
service to include the parents in the ceremony. It’s refreshing to find
people who seem to be aware that their Creator is not a person of dull
habit and who are continually seeking the right words and form for the
occasion instead of endlessly relying upon what has been traditionally
said and done.

This Easter morning found the woman on the corner a bit tired and
jaded. Half her thoughts were with the Professor back East in the midst
of his orals, half on other days when the family was very young and the
children were bright-eyed on this spe­cial day. With a bit of wistfulness
she re­called their love of the Easter Morning Ritual. But these family
rituals somehow seem a bit embarrassing to big teenage boys, and so she
has reluctantly let them go.
At this point in her reveries the college lad, first down to breakfast,
neat in his Sunday best, poked his head around the kitchen doorway and
grinned as he tri­umphantly sang out his part of the old ceremony: “The
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On the Corner 1964
Lord is risen!” And the woman, baffled as usual by the strange goings and
comings, leavings and return­ings, rebellions and dependencies of Youth,
remembered just in time to return the greeting: “He is risen indeed!”

One way of quickly realizing that you are fast approaching middle
age is to have around your table a group of college stu­dents whose fathers
and mothers were your classmates. The appalling thing is not just that
they seem so young but that you have to keep fighting the urge to tell
those stories about your association with their parents some 20 years
ago even while you sense that they couldn’t care less! You could say, “I
can remember when your birth announcement arrived at our house!”
and somehow it seems significant that you can remember it. But on
second thought it doesn’t make too much sense to repeat it before these
sophisticated (in a nice sense, of course) collegians. What will it be like
when we find their children around our table? Perhaps then we will no
longer fight the urge but just indulge in reminiscence. Let us hope that
such a generation will also have the grace to bear our rememberings!

Again there is that annual quickening of life—perhaps the most
dramatic, definite passage from one season to the next. I cannot remember
back to a time when changes from one to another of the four seasons did
not deeply delight me. I’ve never had the slightest wish to live in a climate
which is almost always temperate. Though extremes of weather in places
like northern Indiana involve the need for more types of clothing and
tighter housing, I’m not ready to trade such inconveniences for pleasant,
even weather.
There are people, I know, to whom such changes of the season seem
violent, who feel that life is somehow more pleas­ing when lived at an
even 70 degrees year-­around. So too, in the seasons of life, some of us
seem destined to be fascinated and some afraid of the changes which
come. Women are conditioned first to fear their thirties, then their forties,
then the flight of the birds from the nest, then old age. Men, we are told,
secretly dread the loss of their virility, of being pushed aside in their
profession or in the church, of retire­ment.
Yet there are many who welcome the seasons of life even as they
welcome the seasons of the year, feeling in their bones, somehow, that
each is good, that each has its fulfillments and rewards which cannot
rightly be compared with the fulfillments and rewards of another season
of life. For such it seems a sort of blasphemy, a kind of life-negation, to
hear a person speak wistfully of his childhood as the happiest time of his
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life, to hear the years of young motherhood thoughtlessly blown up out
of proportion by the familiar phrase so often spoken to harried young
mothers: “Enjoy your children; this is the best time of your life,” to catch
the plaintive refrain of one in life’s winter—“It’s no fun to be old.”
In every season of life there are disad­vantages; in every season there
are perils and sorrows; in every season there are joys and compensations.
I would hope that as I pass through what is left of life to me I can continue
to say with the same deep joy in which I have been accustomed to
welcoming spring, summer, fall, and win­ter and childhood, youth, young
mother­hood, and approaching middle-age: For the various beauties of
the seasons of na­ture and the seasons of the human pil­grimage MAY
GOD BE PRAISED!
May
“It’s funny,” says one Young Thing to another as they reenter the house
they left several days ago to attend their father’s commencement activities
in Pittsburgh; “funny, how, when you take even a two-­day trip back to the
place where you grew up, it seems like you’ve been gone so long!”
And a long journey it was for us, too­—to go back to the scenes of our
children’s childhood, our young parenthood. The memories came crowding
with every stick and stone, house and tree, each bend of road or contour
of hill. More followed as we attended the little church, now charm­ingly
redecorated; as we met old friends by appointment or by joyful accident;
as we drank the incomparable water from “our” spring, wandered through
the hill­-house in which so much happened to so many, and rested in the
hospitality of our old neighbors’ (sister’s) home.
Somehow the whole experience was one of those rare, flawless gems—
an occasion when, incredibly, everything went right! But the Young Thing
has said it: home­coming gives us the illusion of having re­turned not from
a few days in the East but from years in the past.

And now the last milestone of The Pro­gram on which we embarked
seven years ago is past. No longer need its progress be reported in each
letter to the relatives or friends. No longer is it a terrible neces­sity that
the man of the house leave the supper table every evening to bury him­
self in his books at the office. (In an emer­gency he may spend the entire
evening at home!)
Everyone in the family is a bit dazed to have the Conversation Piece
suddenly snatched from our midst. Dazed—but hap­py. And now, after
many minor celebra­tions tendered us by friends as we passed this or that
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On the Corner 1964
test, our good neighbors throw a Grande Finale of a celebration in honor
of The Professor. A rather well-defined era of the family’s life is now in the
past, and nobody seems to be regretting its passing.

When we came to The Corner, we fell heir to a rather motley collection
of trees and shrubs, most of which are still name­less to us. At times we
have threatened to call in an expert Adam to give us their names just so
we might feel a bit more comfortable with them. But I know what a tulip
tree is, and one of my May delights is to watch for the blossoms which
appear on our little tulip tree in the front yard. It has become a springtime
ritual to break off several of these blossoms, so rare in color and texture,
and carry them to the aunt who lives on up the street and who so admires
them as they float in a shallow bowl on her table. I scarcely ever look at
these blossoms without remembering Keats’ words: “A thing of beauty is
a joy forever.”

Young people, we’ve been told, are us­ually pleased when their parents
respect and appreciate the children’s friends. Now I’ll add a postscript
to that statement: par­ents are likewise delighted when their children
show respect for and interest in the parents’ friends! Sometimes the
youngsters—understandably—are bored with the table-talk when such
friends are visiting; they maintain a polite silence, asking to be excused
after a respectable interval.
But tonight no one asked to be excused as one of our old friends
mesmerized them with his stories, his obvious acceptance of them as
persons in their own right, and his artless enthusiasm for life. After our
guest had gone, one boy responded in the lan­guage of the disc jockey,
“There’s an oldie but goodie!” And the rest agreed that here was one “old”
person who was really “on the ball.” (Our aged friend was all of fortyfive.)

Long-suffering friends know that one of the weaknesses of this woman
is the love for quotation. Over the years it has be­come habitual for her to
jot down sen­tences which seem to present much thought—food in a very
small capsule or in a particularly beautiful or clever form.
There are people who feel that quoting is merely warming over
someone else’s cold thoughts—a lazy way to avoid think­ing for oneself.
There are others, however, who think of quotation as an art. They believe
that he who knows rightly how and when to quote does his listeners an
inestimable favor, setting thoughts afire by means of this one small bright
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flame. A great man has said that for such a boon we should give thanks
first of all to God who inspired it, next to the man who initially uttered it,
and then to the one who passed it on to us. A few words can start mental
activity which can change the direction of a life, they say.
I’m inclined to think that anything I might say about the dangers of
indecisive­ness would hardly make a listener think twice. But if I were to
make a mental bow to Oldham and use his words, “To refuse to choose is
to choose to drift,” it is conceivable that some one person might be caught
by the very succinctness of the adage, might remember it, might think
about it, and might possibly act upon it. And so I shall continue to quote
the quotable and to be grateful to those good friends of mine who pass
such quotes on to me in their letters and conversations.

I think about the month that is past and sort out its opportunities,
disappoint­ments, and pleasures. I think of the enter­taining and
banqueting, the orchestra pro­grams and the special breakfasts and teas
all crowded into these last few weeks of the school year. I think of the
pleasure of having the Christians of Russia with us and some of the pitiable
community reac­tion here and in other places supposedly “Christian.” I
think of the books I have read—all too few, indeed, but there was that
intriguing Morehead account of the Great Trek in Australia—Cooper’s
Creek. I think of our family’s guests, each of them in turn giving us good
gifts all unaware. I think of the greenness and color of ma­turing spring.
But perhaps I reflect most often upon a very small child with great
handicaps and great sensitivity to love. Suddenly the most important
event of the month seems to be “Bubuis creeping!”—on his tummy, to
be sure, but creeping, with the weak arms alternating in a pull that will
surely strengthen the underdeveloped chest mus­cles and bring him closer
to sitting alone. How beautiful is growth—even when it is slow in coming.
And how beautiful is the love which one small unclaimed, handi­capped
child can bring to his foster family.
June
Where did it all start—this June bride business? After attending three
weddings in three weeks—all on what I am sure were the three hottest
days of those weeks—I have to wonder why anyone would want to get
married in June. But the brides all looked cool and lovely, and the
grooms all looked calm—more or less—and proud. If the principals of
these occasions didn’t mind the heat, why should the wedding guests?
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On the Corner 1964
Like most other women, this one loves a wedding, usually has
to wipe the eyes a bit when the bride comes into view, and is always
looking for—and often finds—some­thing unique in any wedding she is
for­tunate enough to attend. In one of these ceremonies there was a new
and gracious touch which seemed to me quite beautiful: the bride kissed
her father when he gave her away as the mother stood in her pew. Maybe
the real reason this so appealed to us was that with sons in and near the
twenties, we somehow find ourselves iden­tifying with the parents more
easily than with the so-young bride and groom! Thus we like to see the
parents get a bit of recognition.

An unexpected bonus among all the weddings was the privilege of
bringing home from the hospital a mother and her baby. Many years it
has been since I was in a maternity ward, even to visit, but the antiseptic
odors and the crisp efficiency all around me brought back a flood of
memories. This time, however, the memo­ries were not as they used to be
some ten to fifteen years back—wistful and yearning. Now they were just
very pleasant. With much pleasure I watched that mother dress her tiny
doll of a girl for the home-going­ in our car. I was happy for her and not
one bit envious!

How can one be homesick for a land he has never seen? Tonight
while listening to the rich burr of our visiting Scot­tish minister I felt an
overpowering sense of homesickness for Scotland. Perhaps the letters
of friends who spent time in Scot­land and who report so faithfully what
they have seen and done and what they have felt about the country have
given me honorary citizenship there. Or perhaps it was the books of John
and Donald Baillie, read and loved for years. It could just be that through
these armchair experi­ences one can possibly see more of a coun­try than
do many of the tourists who actu­ally set foot on the soil.

The youngest man of the family has somewhere picked up a great love
for pro­ductive labor. He insists that if anybody calls offering us cherries,
berries, apples, beans, or anything, I must accept the offer; he will go and
pick them and help to clean, pit, pare, freeze, can, or preserve. He is as
good as his word and better: there is more on our shelves already than
has been there the last few years. I myself am caught up in his infectious
joy and excitement, and what was once merely time-consuming labor has
taken on the zest of a contest.

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Story of a Family
His first letter home after having left us for summer school in Colorado
causes a young son’s mother some embarrassment. This is the one who
was not supposed to be able to write a decent letter, according to the
woman on the corner writing in her journal at this time last year! Yet
how full of information, of humor, of himself this epistle happens to be! I
conclude that he must somehow be able to squeeze more meaning out of
studying music than out of working on a construction gang.

“Can you guess who this is?” These words always make me bristle
when they accost me over the telephone. But today when the question was
put to me, a bell immediately rang —there was only one voice like that.
Since that voice would have to be in Idaho and not in Goshen, I hesitated
identifying it. But the bell was accurate, and the speaker was indeed that
dear friend of our family whose very voice made me feel immediately that
I was a child again.
Strange how ageless they seem, these grown-ups who were our
parents’ friends (hence, old) when we were children. Ex­cept in cases where
great ravages of dis­ease have transformed them, they seem to be just as
they were when we were small, and it is hard not to feel that we are still
children in their presence. I feel it keenly after a pleasant day visiting with
Edna; and the Professor testifies to it also, a few days later, after having
spent a night with Oregon friends of his parents.

Now at last after the fever of getting the summer schedules in order,
shipping a son off to the West, and adjusting to the mealtimes of the
working boys, the couple on the corner gets down to the business of
reacquaintance after the Seven Lean Years. This nose-to-the-grindstone
living does not lend itself to leisurely conversation—and now that there
is time, we dis­cover that the gears have rusted and there is little to say
to each other.
As a step toward reunion we initiate an evening walk which not only
serves to re­establish a particular kind of contact be­tween us but also
gives other unexpected benefits. We take a closer look at the hous­es on
our street and the streets parallel to ours; we nod and speak to people
who in another era would have been thought of as neighbors—but whom
we do not even know! And along the way we are some­times hailed down
by friends or colleagues with whom we seldom, if ever, find time to visit
casually.
Tonight we were even beckoned into a backyard to sit around a
picnic table and help with the dessert. While the men ate applesauce and
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On the Corner 1964
talked theology, we wom­en ate applesauce, fed some to Bubu (who often
accompanies us on our walks), were served delicately toasted marshmal­
lows by the children, and talked woman­talk. The night before we wound
up ad­miring the flowers in the backyard of our uncle and aunt and later
talking at leisure in their pleasant living room.
Looking back over the month, we think of these walks as gems among
gravel. We are again aware that time to live even one such unhurried,
unplanned hour in any given day is seldom laid in our laps; an act of will
is necessary to seize it, then let it take its own shape as a parenthesis of
growth or fellowship or peace between the crowded hours of our modern
days.
July
Dear Friends,
Some of you have told me chat you sel­dom feel as if you are out of touch
with me even if I don’t write many personal letters because “On the Corner”
is some­what like a monthly letter from me to you. (I might add that it
could be a rather one­-sided correspondence, but more of that later.) Well,
you’ve given me an idea for a welcomed change from the usual month­
ly chatter of the goings and comings, the thinkings and doings on this
particular corner, And when does a person need a change more than in
July?
Forgive me, then, for taking the liber­ties of writing a personal letter
and doing what friends naturally do when they get together—reminiscing
a bit. Through eight Julys now, the first four “On the Hill” and the last
four “On the Corner,” I’ve been meeting you in these columns. Perhaps
some of you would like to know how it all started and why, what the
writer’s purpose may be, and how she goes about it.
As I looked through the pages of the new CHRISTIAN LIVING during
those first years of its existence, I was repeatedly aware that some small
element was miss­ing. Being, like Pooh, “a bear of very little brain,” I found
myself wishing for a note of lightness, a touch of casual every­dayness
to balance the rather unremitting seriousness of the pages before me. I
thought of those columns in other maga­zines which I always read first and
which spoke to me simply because of their in­formality and friendliness.
Such people as Harlan Miller and Gladys Taber seemed to be talking with
me over the back fence (almost a forgotten art, but still a great one!), and I
couldn’t help wishing that CHRISTIAN LIVING had such a voice. I thought
of this voice not as one to inform or instruct or reform or campaign but
sim­ply as one that would share the kind of things that neighbors share.
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Story of a Family
I attempted to explain my idea to the Home Life Editor. Looking back,
I can’t honestly say that she was enthusiastic. But she was generous
and plucky and willing to let me try. So I tried, and that is how I started
writing to you in July of 1956.
NOT BEING ADEPT at potting future events and thoughts and
reactions, I could not with conviction write in July of a January that had
not yet arrived. (As you know most of the copy for monthly magazines
is due six months before publi­cation.) So the poor reader has been con­
sistently served up warmed-over events and thoughts which occurred a
year be­fore. But you have been most kind and uncomplaining, though a
few of you have admitted that at times you are confused.
When the column began, its writing was really quite simple: just a
matter of choos­ing and editing excerpts from a journal which had been
kept regardless of “Hill Journal.” But years and the cares of life­—know
what I mean?—have changed my journal-keeping habits. These days I
sim­ply jot down on my appointment calendar the naked details of events
or thoughts as they happen. At the proper time they are lifted out of
their untidy paper bed and dressed. (I always attempt to put on them
the clothes they were wearing before bed­time.) Sounds easy, doesn’t it?
However, the passage of time, while it does give greater perspective, also
makes writing more of a chore.
And now in behalf of all those who have ever attempted to do more
than the aver­age amount of writing, a word to you people who think it
must be wonderful to be able to pour out words onto paper with such
ease! Ask any neighbor, any close friend, or any household of almost
anyone who writes anything worth reading, and they’ll tell you just how
much fun it is to live with such people when the Deadline is near. Writing,
even simple writing such as this, is hard work. And it can be pain­ful. All
too often after one has wrangled all day with a few pages of manuscript,
the result is like a fallen cake. As with such a cake—nothing one can
do (short of start­ing over from scratch, which you have neither time nor
energy to do)—nothing can make it right. So like the letters you write, like
your own cooking, perhaps, the product is uneven.
At best, however, the person who writes such a column as this
is bound to think of his unseen readers as friends, as women whose
concerns are much like her own­—women who, of course, are interested
in big issues and ideas but who also find “eternity in a grain of sand,”
God in the eyes of a child, and love, hope, and faith creatively active in
the chores of dishwash­ing, cleaning, cooking, gardening, and child care,
as well as in the act of formal worship and in church and community
service.
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On the Corner 1964
AND SO EACH MONTH, from the January beginnings I so much love
through my own sun-baked and special birthday month to the brilliant
December denouement, I send you a little of myself. I send it in the hope
that therein you may find a little of yourself and so may smile a little or
think a little or hope a little or love a little more than if you hadn’t read
the letter.
And never think that the correspondence is one-sided, for the one
who writes is aware, even as she writes her homely and simple lines, that,
as her patron saint (Evelyn Underhill) has quoted, “Souls—all souls are
deeply interconnected. The church at its best and deepest is just that—
that interdependence of all the broken and meek, all the self-oblivion, all
the reaching out to God and other souls ... nothing is more real than this
interconnection.” This quotation is one that I have kept in my heart, and
I ponder it nearly every time I begin my monthly letter to you.
Grace and Peace!
August
Summer’s perfection frays at the edges, and its grays under the days
and nights of heat. But in spite of the weather the end of the season
promises a rich harvest. Friends, neighbors, and family gone from us
for long weeks or months have arrived or are soon due to arrive. Other
friends on summer vacations are sure to stop in with us. Maybe even we
will drive somewhere for a day of leisure! And—who knows—perhaps the
woman on the corner will manage to get a book read be­fore the school
rush begins!

We wish desperately that the cooling change will come before our
overnight guests do. How can we send them up­stairs to sleep in that
oven?
The hoped-for change does not come but our friends do—en route to
visit rela­tives farther east—and in our pleasure of reunion we accept the
heat. The children decide to sleep out in the corridor between our house
and the neighbors’. Mercifully for those neighbors they are on vacation. All
night weary parents make repeated trips to the row of would-be sleepers
to bring mosquito repellent, to settle fights, to straighten incredibly
mangled sleeping bags, to encourage the wide-awake to try to sleep. In
the morning the oldest of the group—pale and patchy and bedraggled—­
announces that he has not slept a wink, and we believe him. As we say
good-bye to our friends, we urge them to stop back on their way home,
promising to try to make up for the wild night with better weather and
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accommodations. But we’re pretty sure they won’t—and we don’t blame
them!

The day is warm, the lawn is yellow and dry, the food on the picnic
table, greasy and crumbly, has turned out all wrong. But the occasion is
right and joyous. Home are neighbors, home from the sea—here where
(we feel) they ought to be!

Long ago in a childhood which now seems like something that
happened to a storybook child we girls clustered around a certain bench
in our little church. The object of attraction was a mite of a girl whose
parents had moved back into the community after a year or so in another
state. Audrey was new to us and very special since she could say “big
words.” Her older sister put her through the paces for us as we looked on
in awe. For months afterward our favorite after-church amuse­ment was
to run to Audrey, stand her up on the bench, and prompt her into show­
ing off: “Say Methuselah. Say hippopota­mus. Say Nebuchadnezzar. Say
Constan­tinople.”
That blond Audrey who so sunnily re­sponded to our promptings
is gone: the woman she became sat in our living room today with her
mother, and somehow it seemed that they had come to me not only from
the land but also from the time of my childhood. Idaho — two thousand
miles away—and a happy little girlhood—35 years away—both, seemed
very near to the house on the corner.

If we had said (coming home on a Sun­day afternoon from the
Benedicts’ cabin on Lake Oliver), “Let’s sing awhile,” the re­sponse would
have been sophisticated moans and groans from the younger gen­eration.
As it is one of those very young­sters in the back seat happens to start
a spiritual and from there on all the way home we have such a car full
of music (well-a, sort of) that we have to roll up windows going through
towns. We used to say of such spontaneous funmaking, “We had a great
time.” The teenagers of today say, “We had a blast!” Somehow the latter
expression does seem more ap-propriate—at least in this case.

Unable to sleep in the heat I get up and do what I have not done in
years—pick up a pen and begin writing, not for an assign­ment but just
for fun. Aimless at first, my efforts gradually and unconsciously con­fine
themselves to a theme. And when, finally sleepy, though exhilarated, I
pre­pare to return to bed, I find that the first chapter of what promises to
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On the Corner 1964
be an ambling commentary on an old subject has written itself almost
without my being aware of what was taking place. The theme: Mother
and Child—but with a difference. This mother is a foster mother, and the
child is handicapped, and the title drops out of the blue and settles itself
at the top of the first page: No Crying He Makes.

We were sure they wouldn’t, but they do! Happily, when our early
August visi­tors return we are blessed with cool breez­es. We eat together,
talk, and spend a comfortable night. All the imperfections of our first
visit are redeemed, and we accept this unplanned-for bonus as, simply,
grace!

And the summer-weary woman on the corner does manage a book
in spite of the heat and exhaustion. Nothing earthshak­ing. No classic
literary gem. But this book is what seems to be rare these days—a novel
that lifts and inspires and teaches one much about an old and often
mistreated subject: love. Somehow I feel a bit clean­er and more hopeful
for having read Brightness by Elizabeth Jenkins.

Vacation almost over, we suddenly real­ize that we have had no
vacation in the current sense of the word. Our one-day trip to visit faculty
friends on sabbatical in Michigan turns out to include only part of the
family because of sudden, though minor, illness; and so it is a special day
for only a few of us. Now, in a last-ditch ef­fort to do something special
together as a family we make what may well be our last family trip to a
zoo.
Bu-Bu, in his stroller, couldn’t care less—not only because of his
limited age and development but also, as we discover in the midafternoon
heat, because of incipient illness heralded by mounting fever. The Professor
is as tireless in his hunt for this or that animal as the boys are in their
search for the next refreshment stand. I sit on the benches rocking the
fretful baby and watching the hordes of people go by.
This, to me, is the fun of a zoo. In spite of the crowds, the untidyness,
the odors, and the heat, nothing restores my confi­dence in the American
family more than an afternoon at the zoo. For at the zoo the family is the
leading clientele. There are of course a few loners, a few young lovers, but
mostly there are families—families from all levels of society, in all kinds
of costume, from proper Sunday afternoon dress complete with hats and
heels, jackets and ties, to the embarrassingly casual hal­ters and shorts,
Bahama shirts, and—for the babies—diapers only. From the sidelines one
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Story of a Family
sees much tenderness, much concern for the young—far outweighing the
occa­sional snappiness so typical of the strained supermarket mother!...
“Farewell to the zoo!” I muse, as I wait for the rest of the family to
return to our meeting place. Just then a gray-haired couple with three tiny
black-haired girls pass my bench, and I am reminded that it is altogether
possible that the Professor and I may be back again someday—with the
next generation.
September
The beginning of the Parkside, junior high, high school, and college year
may be tiring, hot, and harrying; but it is hardly dull. Every day brings
fresh demands for more cash. Each year I think we have fortified the
budget adequately to cover all possible beginning-of-school demands.
Each year we do come a bit closer, but we never yet have anticipated the
full spec­trum of possibilities for cash outlay. We suspect a conspiracy.
Oh well, I tell my­self, in ten years who will remember such an earthshaking event as the sudden need for fifty dollars to be conjured up from
nowhere?

Friends and relatives of college fresh­men again come and go, enriching
our home with their fellowship; new seminary students again gather
around our table for coffee and Heilsgeschichte talk; and at the beginning
of another Sunday-school year I go to the bookshelf and blow the dust
off certain books which I must again study for my class in devotional
literature. Somehow, I find anew that summer heat, bodily weariness,
and the pressures of a large family are more easily borne within the
disciplined parenthesis of the school schedule than in the comparative
freedom of summer “vacation.”

Two of our friends, of whom we often said, “I hope he (she) finds
someone really right for him (her) “ have found each other to our (and
their other friends’) great sur­prise and delight. They visited us tonight,
and we were lighted by their glow. It is always warming to be in the
presence of love, whether young or mature. At such moments, too, one
looks at one’s own spouse with something more than the usual casual,
old-shoe acceptance.

Who can plot a friendship? Who can say, “This will exist as long as
we shall exist—this fine rapport, this ease, this at­mosphere in which
explanations are un­necessary, understanding is automatic”? When
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On the Corner 1964
suddenly it is not so, one gropes for clues: What happened? What did I
say? What has changed? Why do we speak past each other?
Yet no amount of individual probing or of frank discussion together
seems able to breathe life into a mysteriously ailing friendship. I am
convinced that the most tragic and the most painful of our earthly sorrows
are surely not illness, death, or financial loss; most painful is a broken
rela­tionship, whether with God or man.

In how many sermons have I heard the retarded or otherwise
handicapped child used as illustrative material—always in the analogy
of the tragedy of arrested spiritual growth. Sometime . . . I would like to
hear in a sermon something about the won­der and the sanctity of life in
whatever im­perfect temple it occupies, a sermon on the seriousness of
the command: “Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones.”
Sometime ... I would like to meet a person who would say (instead of,
“It’s wonder­ful of you to keep this child”), “Are there other children in my
town, in my county, who need loving care? Perhaps we could make room
for such a child.” Sometime I would like to see in the faces of friends less
pity for a handicapped child and more joy in observing the great strides
he is taking within the limits of that handi­cap.
But perhaps I do not speak for other mothers of other “special”
children. I only know that when Bubugot up on his hands and knees for
the first time today, rocking timidly, shining with achievement, I wished
for someone to rejoice with us rather than to compare him with normal
eighteen-month-old toddlers!

Gathering bittersweet has been a ritual of late September ever since
we arrived in Bittersweet Country. Today I thought I had turned off the
highway onto my Bitter­sweet Road; but since my knowledge of county
roads is based only on hunches and feelings and vague recollections of
certain landmarks, not on road numbers, the in­evitable happened. My
intuition failed me, and I got on the wrong road, ending up in entirely new
country with no sense of direction to guide me toward my goal.
But the angels were with me, for in my lostness I came upon a fencerow
hanging heavy with green leaves and bright berries—the most luscious
bittersweet feast my eyes had ever beheld! I would be shy of saying that
Providence made me lose my way; but in that moment, standing there in
the sun of a bright September morning and gazing at the green fencerow
all hung with dew crystals and orange beads, I thought of the line in John
Ciardi’s Snowy Heron:
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Story of a Family
“Saint Francis being happiest on his knees,
Would have cried Father! Cry anything you please
But praise. By any name or none. But praise...”
I never saw a snowy heron in flight. But I saw that bittersweet!

There are times when the occasions for praise are unforgettable,
lifeshaking: a dramatic deliverance from death or tempta­tion, a miraculous
physical or spiritual re­covery, an event of great joy such as the birth of a
child or a wedding. Then there are times when one look, one word, one leaf,
one small memory, one minor success, one inexplicable moment of grace
seems to expand the soul to such proportions that praise can be the only
response. Who can say why such a moment should sud­denly blossom
from an undistinguished moment in an ordinary evening at home in the
midst of the usual confusion of a large family’s comings and goings? But
it did, and suddenly I wished for a voice, for an instrument, for a skill to
communicate that silent, innermost, suffocating sense of praise.
October
After years of reading Phyllis McGinley, delightful columnist and lightverse writer, I am eager to see just how she looks. To my satisfaction the
image on the TV screen and her response to the questions put to her are
not in any way jarring to this old fan of hers. No false note distorts the
mental image which her writings have created for me over the years. It is
like seeing an old friend and hearing a familiar voice.
Perhaps there is nothing so compli­mentary to an author as to
discover that his writings and his person have a common integrity and
reflect each other faithfully. It is not too hard for a reader to sense the
presence of such an author behind his words. While I myself have read a
host of books whose authors left me cold—even if the books themselves
did not—I have, on the other hand, a list of persons who (I’m quite sure),
were I to meet or see or hear them, would seem of a piece with their
works. Among them would be, certainly, Alan Paton, Elizabeth Goudge,
Jessamyn West, Douglas Steere, Paul Tournier, Sylvia Ashton-Warner,
Abraham Joshua Heschel, Edith Lovejoy Pierce, Philippe Vernier, Sister
M. Therese, and Thomas Merton.
Alas, I know that the woman on the cor­ner has no such of-a-pieceness. I remem­ber too well the little lady who was as­tounded speechless
(and no doubt disap­pointed) to discover that the person who wrote those
“nice little things in the church papers” was not small, vivacious, and
black-eyed.
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On the Corner 1964
Our Tuesday-night friend brought with her the usual packet of butter
again to­night. Real butter! This package is always greeted with a great
deal of appreciation by our born-and-bred-to-margarine family. When I
triumphantly put it on the table, I can hardly resist shouting:
Nobody,
My darling,
Could call me
A fussy man­—
BUT
“I do like a little bit of butter to my bread!”*
However, I usually resist this temptation since the “grown-up” family
feel they are beyond A. A. Milne. (Happily, they will be able again to enjoy
The King’s Break­fast with impunity once they are parents.)

Today at a coffee I find a new acquaint­ance who says that she agrees
with me wholeheartedly about the value of that old steel, three-tined fork
(about which I sang last year in these pages). So great is my esteem of
that implement I had just as­sumed that many people would speak to me
in support of its recognition. But this was the first, person who did—and
I im­mediately felt warm and sisterly toward her! Several other women
present soon chimed in, and we soon had quite a little Society for the
Appreciation of the Three-­Tined Fork. Any more comers for the SATF?

Speaking of coffees, a friend of mine comments, “You people at
Goshen spend a lot of your time at coffees, don’t you?” I can’t speak for
anyone except the woman on the corner, but I assure her that I spend
very little time that way. Three or four a year constitute a usual record
for me. Though I find such an occasion extremely pleasant, I can agree
with my friend’s im­plied criticism that one can become ad­dicted, that this
can merely be another (and more acceptable) way of running from one’s
duties or problems or responsi­bilities—just like attending endless meet­
ings. But it can also be an opportunity for real fellowship and growth.
As for me, I still prefer the cup of tea or coffee at the kitchen table
with one friend at a time. But I know too that the same situation can be
approximated at a coffee, where, in spite of the numbers, one usually is
engaged in conversation with only one person at a time. And I must ad­mit
that there can be rich fellowship in such a quiet corner conversation with
persons I would never meet at my kitchen table.
* From “The King’s Breakfast” in When We Were Very Young by A. A. Milne. Copyright. 1924,
by E. P. Dutton & Co.. Inc. Renewal. 1952. by A. A. Milne. By permission of the publishers.
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Story of a Family

Today a visiting aunt is the honor guest at a rare luncheon meeting.
Her daughter has managed to find enough women rela­tives in Elkhart
County to fill up the table. It isn’t that we cousins don’t like each other,
but we just never take the time to meet. It required a Mildred, who is new
in the community, to round us up.
We have such a good time around the table that it seems a pity there
aren’t more such catalysts as Mildred in the world. A mischievous little
tormentor within me asks, “Why don’t you try being one?” But I have the
answer for him: “This isn’t my gift.” Even as I justify myself, though, I’m
aware that there are some things which can be learned.

Coming home from the grocery tonight, I am told that I have had
visitors—several of my Sunday-school girls who came to wish me “a
blessed Halloween,” whatever that is. I laugh at their spoofing, but it does
start me thinking.
Remembering the genius of Christianity for putting meaning into
pagan ceremo­nies, I reflect that a blessed Halloween could make sense.
Once celebrated as the eve of All Saints Day—a day for honoring saints
and martyrs who had no special days allotted to them—this holiday has
now be­come completely pagan. I would hardly attempt a campaign such
as “Keep Christ in Christmas” (“Keep Halloween Hal­lowed”), but next
year (I tell myself) I shall have a little private celebration of my own on
Halloween. I shall remember then, especially, my own “departed saints”
—people I have loved, people whose touch upon my life has made a
difference and who now have joined that great cloud of witnesses urging
me to “run with patience the race that is set before us”!

The little events of October line them­selves up before my eyes: a
visit with Sally in her kitchen; a daughter’s eleventh birth­day; Bu-Bu’s
first attempts at crawling (abandoned most of the time for the faster
tummy-creep); coffee here at home with the two J’s; Irene with us for
lunch; a meeting of our reading group; Uncle’s fu­neral; arrival of young,
bearded nephew; seminary counselee group supper at the cabin; carry-in
fellowship supper at church. . . . And so they go—little events whose only
shred of significance is in the relation­ships surrounding them. Reflecting
on this, I am again grateful that at the heart of my faith, at the heart
of life, is relationship, not rules; and this is what makes life not only
bearable but exciting.
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On the Corner 1964
November
A gray November is grayer for many Goshen College alumni scattered
all over the world. I wonder as I sit in the flower­-filled sanctuary hearing
with heartache—yet a certain joy—those hymns which Prof had caused
to become so loved and familiar to generations of students: “Eternal Fa­
ther,” “Great God, Indulge My Humble Claim,” “Before Jehovah’s Awful
Throne” —I wonder at the grace which gives to the world such men as
this. The sweetness of his life was phenomenal; it is difficult to believe
that he left an enemy in the world or anyone indifferent to the hopeful
and radiant charm of his person.
John Donne said, “Every man’s death diminishes me,” and in a way
it is true for us today. When the light of Prof’s life went out, all those
who knew him found the world’s light a bit dimmer. But in his death the
significance of his life bursts on us anew, and death cannot diminish the
great gifts he shared with us; indeed it only emphasizes them.
After the last Amen I find no words in my native tongue to say what I
feel. “What language can I borrow?” I borrow the first farewell that comes
to mind: Auf­wiedersehen du schöne Seele!

Tonight when I answer the doorbell, I am confronted by the minister
of a nearby church. We have never met; he is just passing by and stops to
give me some words of appreciation. After he leaves, the glow lighted by
his thoughtfulness is reflected in the faces of even the youngest children,
who think it incredible that such it person would take time on a cold
night just to tell their mother that something she has writ­ten spoke to
him. As for the mother—so moved is she by this unprecedented action,
that she determines to go and do likewise oftener.
Before I go to bed I make out a mental list of people who might be
glad to have even a telephone call from me. And once again I remember
the words of a long-gone mother: “The best way to show gratitude for a
favor is to do one for someone else.”

It’s the birthday of Youngest Son, and he can think of nothing he
wants or needs. This is frustrating to the brothers and sis­ter as well as to
the parents, for they wish to buy gifts for him. But on the evening of his
birthday we do have a package for him. Yet in spite of all his exaggerated
gratitude for the pair of pajamas, we sense his dis­appointment at having
only one gift—and that clothing. But what can we do when there’s nothing
he wants?
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Story of a Family
As we sing the usual (and by now a bit embarrassing) “Happy
Birthday,” one of the children sets before him a miniature Christmas tree,
all hung with bright, mini­ature packages of various shapes and sizes. By
the time he has opened them all, he has a good-sized nest egg of bills and
coins with which to buy something he might need or want in the future.
In his delight he sheepishly admits that he was a little disappointed at
first!

Tonight after talking to a sister via long­-distance telephone, I wonder
at the power of a human voice to evoke sleeping mem­ories, to call up
hidden emotions, and to bring forth that sudden, unaccountable joy­in-relationship which one all but forgets in the mesh of the immediate.
Suddenly I wonder why it has not occurred to me to call during the years
(nine of them!) since our absence from each other. But I know why, really.
Anyone whose whole life has of necessity been lived in the conscious­
ness of each penny can understand why a luxury like frequent longdistance calls has not become habitual. Now that the cost of such calls
is no longer prohibitive, the habit of frugality persists. In the afterglow of
contact with my sister, however, I jot a reminder for the woman on the
corner: Remember to indulge more often in the rite of the long-distance
telephone call.

Once more we are vitally involved in the college’s Freshman Parents’
Weekend. Now for the first time I feel that we can no longer be called
“young adults” but are moving rather quickly into middle age. Three years
ago when our firstborn made us eligible to participate in this weekend,
we were not quite so aware of the passage of time since very few of our
old classmates had children old enough to be in college. But this year it
seems that almost every other set of parents is a pair we knew when we
were students; and somehow the ac­cumulated impact is sobering and
aging! Still it’s also heartening and most exciting to meet again this way—
with more in com­mon than we have ever had.

Perhaps another indication of our classi­fication being properly middle
age is the increasing joy we find in the company of relatives. For years
under the burdens of making a living and child-raising we have foregone
efforts to keep in touch with any but our immediate families. Now, with
some of the pressure lessened we find our­selves increasingly eager for
fellowship with area cousins, aunts, and uncles.
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On the Corner 1964
This is a good month for such reunion. With the fine facilities of
Oaklawn at our disposal we discover that winter reunions are great—and
even the teens seem able to tolerate meeting their second cousins. After
all, there was a lot of good food around!

Speaking of the teens, I watched a charm­ing 16-year-old author of a
children’s book on TV this morning. This young lady was asked what she
thought of teenagers—were they as bad as they are made out to be? What
do they think on this or that issue?
Never have I heard such sensible an­swers to these nauseating
questions. This delightful girl refused to answer “for teen­agers.” She
explained that she could answer only for herself, that teenagers, much
less anyone, can’t be packaged and labeled and grouped, and that she
and other teenagers are simply persons who are growing up. She did
express the wish that people would stop thinking “teenager” and think
in terms of the one person involved. I agreed and smiled at her—even
though she didn’t see me—and confided that I was glad my moth­er never
heard of the word. I was just her growing-up daughter, thank God!

The first snow! No matter how light or transitory it turns out to be,
it always brings a lump to my throat. For while I ordinarily try to shun
sentimentality, I can’t look out upon the first snow of the year without
seeing beyond it another picture: myself at 20, kneeling before a dorm
win­dow, and later writing a long secret poem to a special person:
It is the first snow we have seen together:
This morning, on my knees before my window
I saw the first light snow—now through your eyes... .
I never asked him, but I wonder, as I watch him head for his office
this morning —does he remember?
December
December is a month for doing what we have always done. Almost sacred
is the routine, and one feels that to depart from it too often is to subtract
from the special­ness of the season.
Early in December we make the usual preparations in the house:
washing curtains and cupboards, installing new shelf and drawer paper,
and going through the un­sightly piles of books, papers, and maga­zines
which have accumulated. Early we begin making lists: lists of gifts to
buy, of friends to invite, of cards to send (if we are sending them this
year), and of pro­grams to be graced by our attendance) Early the special
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Story of a Family
activities start: the mak­ing of the Adventskranz—this year with Sally; the
annual orchestra program; and the Sunday afternoon informal singing
of The Messiah at the church. And this year a different treat is added—a
Saturday after­noon of folk music with Mike Seeger and Dock Boggs.
Early the notes and letters are written. This year we are sending
no cards, but we recall what it is like. For the woman on the corner it
is not really a chore since we send no “duty” cards. Frankly it is one of
December’s most joyous tasks, and I always miss it when we dispense
with it once in a while; for as we address the envelopes and write the
notes, thoughts of our friends light up the mind like so many varicolored
Christmas lights.
Early the family symbols for the tree are brought out of the big box,
just to see if they are in order and to bring up-to-date in preparation for
use later on in the month. What shall be the symbol for this year? A ThD
diploma, of course, to sym­bolize a journey’s end. The Youngest fash­ions
a suitable miniature diploma, complete with red ribbon for hanging, and
we return the symbols to The Box. The tree, we note, must be small this
year—up on a table or stand out of the reach of the exploring fingers of
Bu-Bu.
Yes, December is a month for doing what we have always done. Of
course there are always little variations, surprises, and omissions, but
part of the glory of the Christmas celebration is in the sense of continuity
with past Christmases—back into our own childhoods and the childhood
of that Christian church.
Then comes a different December—like this one. The preparations
are the same, up to a point. The house is readied; a few specialties are in
the freezer; the gifts are wrapped; and the compact, furry little tree hangs
full of the symbols of 21 family years. And then, a week before Christmas,
the mistress of the whole menage enters the hospital for a planned rest
(with sur­gery included), leaving behind her copious lists for numerous
children and a very earnest stand-in (who has put away his everpresent
Hebrew Bible for the dura­tion.)

Eleven days later I return to a reason­ably well-ordered household,
convinced that occasionally it is good to have an utterly different Christmas.
I observe, too, that: (1) I am not indispensable. Indeed, life went on very
well without me. Clothes, washed by the eldest, were clean, if a bit yellow.
The house was orderly and rea­sonably clean—at least those rooms open
to the public. Bubu was happy and well cared for.
(2) We are in the center of a caring community of Christians. A bountiful
din­ner meal was delivered each day by a different family of our Sunday244
On the Corner 1964
school class. Knowing that this would be so, I could rest comfortably
without disturbing visions of harassed males trying to carry out cooking
operations while I lay helpless. Each of these meals was an exciting epi­
sode for the family—for any mother with five teenage boys understands
how often the subject of food dominates a day’s con­versation—especially
when everyone is home and milling about the house with nothing special
to do.
In my absence some of the younger members of the family faithfully
recorded for me the contents of each of these gift-­meals, together with the
donors: “rice and other things casserole, chocolate cookies, lemon pie,
breakfast bread (woman in 1955 Ford Sedan).” By the way, will I ever find
out who that woman is? Step forward, please!
(3) I also learn that hospitalization need not be primarily a physical
trial. Looking back, I find that it was also a rich adventure in the life of
the Spirit.
(4) I find that, though I am not indis­pensable, I am much appreciated
at home. No task was so willingly returned to me as that of sorting clean
laundry. To allocate the right socks and underclothes—most of which
he’d never consciously laid eyes on—­to eight different stacks was almost
too much for The Professor.
Also my ability to track down lost arti­cles was much appreciated.
In a little search of my own for our best white tablecloth, however, I
am almost stumped. Then one night it suddenly comes to me. I creep
upstairs; and sure enough, there it is: a crumpled sheet wound around
a sleeping adolescent. At this point that wonderful sense of being needed
suffuses me, and happy I return to that too-soft bed, this time to sleep.
And so ends the most different of our family’s Christmases, and
perhaps the most meaningful in my life so far—a Christmas when I
discovered (through necessity) the blessedness of being quiet enough
to hear the angels sing; simple enough to re­ceive from God the gifts of
grace, insight, and healing which were waiting for me; and to receive from
countless generous friends an endless variety of loving atten­tions.
And so it was a December for doing what we always do—and
what we have never before done. It was a time for learn­ing anew the
grace of receiving—receiving without apology gifts, tangible and in­
tangible; receiving with joy that we may in turn give with joy.
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On
the
Corner 1965
January
A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.
—LAO-TSE

The first day of another year—the first step of another journey. Never
has the woman on the corner felt more fortified as the journey begins.
Surrounded by the continuing ministry of friends and family I am not
allowed to forget that I am still in the category of the convalescent.
Though I have once again taken on the responsibilities of meals
for the family supporting hands are on every side: this friend stops in
regularly to iron (she says she likes to watch the football games with
the boys) and to leave on the kitchen table a big box—those meltingly
delicious doughnuts (after all she drives right past that bakery—what
else can she do?)
This neighbor drifts in and out, picking up ironing, leaving magazines,
exuding concern and cheer. Another brings a huge bowl of chili at just
the right psychological moment. Two of the seminary family happen in
on the same frigid morning; and while we visit, one washes the breakfast
dishes while the other irons. Auntie comes by with a fragrant loaf of bread
still warn from her oven and a stack of newsletters from the church in
which I spent a good part of my growing-up years.
A pan of breakfast rolls appears on Saturday night—and moments
later a knock at the door brings our Sunday dessert­—cake and
strawberries from a well-stocked freezer. “If you don’t have your Sunday
dinner planned,” says the voice on the telephone as we close the front
door on the last donor, “let me bring you some. I didn’t get in on helping
you when the class was sending food. I won’t bring dessert but. . .” We
assure her that manna has just been sent from heaven as a fitting dessert
to accompany the ravens’ bread and meat.
So it continues: the lady professor drops in to visit—and to iron
(always that ironing—do they wonder how I keep them supplied?); a pan
of rolls materializes suddenly; the nephews and their wives stop in with
doughnuts and cheer; Sunday-school student “pops down” as she puts it,
bringing—what is it?—youth...joy...and other intangibles. Two treasured
friends come together with roses—­roses which for days afterward recall
the pleasures of friendship. Finally there comes the day when I refuse
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On the Corner 1965
to be classed as convalescent. “Six weeks,” I tell my iron­ing, doughnuttoting friend. “Then it must stop.”
Wonderful is good health but priceless is the community of concern
and sharing which envelops one in need. And this Woman in this place,
recalling the loving attentions of the past weeks, finds herself aching for
those persons without commu­nity who, when they are weak, are weak
alone. These so often undo the good work the physicians have done
simply be­cause there is no one to help carry the work load which must
be carried if a household is to function. If only there were some simple
way of passing on to these unknown, yet really needy ones, one-half the
attentions given to me—a privileged, yet no more worthy character.

It is only when he is a burden that another person is really a
brother and not merely an object to be manipulated.
—DIETRICH BONHOEFFER.

The first outing for the house-hound one was to be the piano recital
of the lovely girl in red. But whether it was the excitement of reentry into
society or but­terflies on behalf of the performer, the fact is that the old
lady didn’t, at the last moment, feel up to it. She did manage, though,
to look in on the reception after­ward, sharing a little bit of one of the
significant and happy occasions in the life of one who is—no, of two who
are—very dear to her.

It is not settled happiness but momen­tary joy that glorifies the
past.
—C. S. LEWIS.

Having declared myself no longer in the category of the sick and
afflicted, I as­sume everyone will automatically comply. But will the
attentions never cease? And how in the world did she know I was
hospitalized? The mailman today brings a package of delicately exotic
powders and lotions from a faraway friend. Again I am reminded how
much grace can reach us through tangibles!
Every time I use these luxuries I have a clear sense of the presence of
the vital person who sent them. A flood of memo­ries bring back Gertrude,
our original meeting place, and the many subsequent meetings: in her own
kitchen late at night after the Passover supper; at the comer drugstore
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Story of a Family
after the Great Books meetings; around the table of our friend Esther. As
I have wondered often, I wonder once more—“Why Should they call me
friend? What have I given them?” And once more I realize that it is not
just what we have given or not given each other but rather what has come
to life between us.

And let there be no purpose in friend­ship save the deepening of
the Spirit.
—KAHLIL GIBRAN.

To celebrate the end of convalescence, The Professor takes his wife
out for din­ner tonight. I must confess that it still hurts my conscience
to spend on two what could make a feast for the Seven who are eating
hamburgers at home, but The Pro­fessor seems to think that the occasion
warrants some kind of holy waste. As Jessamyn West has said:
This is a night to find out—by having too much—what is enough.

Bubu is two today, and it’s a happy birthday for all of us, for we see
his own two-year-oldness and not that of other two-­year-olds we know
or could recall. And his two-year-oldness is unique, incompara­ble. The
road to two has been special for him and for us. It has been a quieter
road than the main highway—a road on which there is no drag racing nor
murderous striving to pass.
It is the kind of road on which one can still walk with safety and
pleasure. There’s a bit of grass between the tracks, and the roadsides
are wilder, less cropped, and—oh joy—free of billboards. One still may
see wild daffodils here in the spring, an occa­sional wild rose in summer,
bittersweet on the fencerows in the fall, and in the winter snow unbroken
by plows, clean of smoke and slush and litter.
Not many such roads are left today—or if they are left, few people
have time to indulge in their beauty. But anyone who walks with such
a child as Bubu takes such a road and rediscovers much that he has
forgotten about life and love and God.

248
On the Corner 1965
I am against bigness and greatness in all their forms and with
the invisible, molecular forces that work from individual to
individual.
—WILLIAM JAMES
February
So much of one’s experience is completely incredible to the
backward gaze.
—CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

Periodically—usually during the slower months—I make a gesture
toward cleaning out my files. This has been going on for years, yet the
files remain much as were fifteen years ago. I never seem be able to get
past the first few folders. Reading these letters, diaries, and scraps of
thoughts that came out of past and long past periods of my life, I am left
a little dumb, astounded even.
Was this me? Did I really write, or think, or do what this scrap of
paper testi­fies to? What kind of a person have I be­come that I find it so
difficult to recognize my own expressions, to understand my own actions?
By turns amazed, hurt, puz­zled, exhilarated, amused, I find it difficult to
sustain a connection with the present, to rise up from those folders to
perform the very real and demanding chores of the household — cooking,
cleaning, washing, ironing—which at this period of my life leave very little
room for anything else.
Once again, as I did last year, I turn from these intriguing, yet
disturbing, frag­ments of the past thirty years. I hope wist­fully that day
will come when I can give my whole attention to sorting, re­flecting, and
perhaps understanding a bit what manner of person has been filling these
folders.

The past is never dead . . . it’s not even past.
—WILLIAM FAULKNER

It seems to me that one of the sorriest figures in the history of man is
the practical joker. Sometime I shall have to ask one of my psychologist
friends what makes such a person tick. I have the uneasy feeling that
insecurity and a deep inability to respect one’s self may motivate him
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Story of a Family
and his close associates, the boy and the van­dal. Vandalism is often, I
suspect, thought of as practical joking by its perpetrators.
Yesterday morning citizens of our street and a neighboring street
were the targets of such jokers. We realized it when we took that first
load of garbage out to the alley only to find the lids of our can and the
neighbors’ cans missing. A call to the police told us we should be able to
find a lid to fit down at the City Hall, where some thirty-five lids waited.
They had been found strewn along a street at the edge of town—and all
of them were from the streets nearest us. In place of the lid to our newly
purchased garbage can we brought home a battered, unmatched lid, all
that was left by the time other irate homeowners had culled through the
stack of salvaged lids. But we were grateful for it all the same.
And somewhere in town or out of town a few practical jokers were
likely laughing at the success of their own joke—there was no man of
humor or of dignity to laugh along with them. At the same time there
must have been those who would have wished to talk with the vandals, to
try to understand, and to reach out a hand to help.

[The world] is full of people suffering from delayed or ingrown
adolescence.
—STORM JAMESON

As the children in a family grow up, such days as February fourteenth
seem to lose their aura of excitement and charm, which for a small child
surrounds a cere­monial observance. But what is lost there is gained
in an exchange of ceremony for real experience. A son, his arm around
the waist of That Girl, stands by you almost unnoticed as you read and
then gently interrupts you to say, “Will you be around in August, Dad?
We need someone to marry us then. ...” Letters in strangely unboyish
handwriting keep arriving for another son. And the newest high-schooler
openly enjoys the company of the fair and tender sex.
With all these celebrations of life going on around me it seems a bit
silly to go through the motions of making the usual valentine cake for
the family in celebration of a mere Day—but I do it all the same. They
seem to like the red cake with its ribbonlike layers of white frosting—the
recipe that came from an unknown woman on a train (in return for my
listening to her griefs and daily-nesses she gave me six wonderful recipes
which I use regularly). The Firstborn also makes a cake for his beloved,
and neatly inscribes on its top, “Let us love one another, huh?” May they
indeed—for a long lifetime.
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On the Corner 1965

To love someone is not just a strong feeling—it is a decision, a
judgment, a promise.
—ERICH FROMM

Signs of middle age: to recall at any unusual (or usual, for that
matter) happening how it used to be. Listening to my elders doing this
when I was younger, I thought it the most boring and pointless pastime
possible—just as these Sprouts do now. Surely, I thought, surely “old
peo­ple” must have dismal lives to find nothing more lively to discuss.
But a day came when I wished to hear again from my mother those
reconstructions of her youth and her marriage, my ancestors and their
homes (all those details she had once offered and I had listened to with
scarcely a comment—and promptly forgotten). By that day she was gone.
And now I am beginning to find that though I would not wish to live
again my own childhood or youth—indeed, any part of my life—still, the
exercise of memory is a positive pleasure.
To remember is not to lay aside the present or abandon hope
for the future. To remember creatively can mean to gain wis­dom and
understanding, impossible with­out stored observation and experience.
Is it when one becomes too wishful, or wist­ful or bitter, in remembering,
that memory can hasten deterioration? Perhaps ... and that is what I will
need to watch, I tell this new middle-ager staring back at me from the
mirror.
It was tempting today, when all the chil­dren were home because of
a blizzard, to recall other snowbound days when they were small, and
we would sit on the old sofa, reading by the hour from a “Little House”
book. But now! The house is too small for all twelve of these enormous
feet, these burgeoning appetites, these widely differing tastes in what
music should be heard or which program watched. Lest I become too
wistful about the old days, I pick up a Dorothy Sayers mystery, retire to a
comfortable corner, and forget for a while that I have a family. Someday I
shall probably be remembering this hulla­baloo with pleasure, too!

To a noble person it is a holy joy to remember.
—ABRAHAM JOSHUA HESCHEL
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Story of a Family
March
God divided Man into men that they might help each other.
—SENECA

We know better than to expect spring so early, but it is like a breath
of spring to be invited to luncheon today at the home of older friends of
our college-church com­munity. To get away from home once in a while is
a pleasure for one as house­bound as I am; to come here and with other
friends to sit down to an exquisite meal is joy!
It is a visit combining friendship, re­membrance, and renewal in the
presence of two who have not ceased to communi­cate personal charm,
kindly wisdom, and evidence of the life of the Spirit—though like most
people of their generation they too have had their share of illness and dis­
appointments. These are the sort of peo­ple who help one to be unafraid
of the years ahead.

Lord, let me live in such a way as to make a light shine on people’s
faces.

In my mind there is nothing that be­comes a man more than a real
delight in the companionship of children. I often recall with delight the
little fellow with the big cigar in his mouth actually skipping down one of
the hilly streets of Scottdale, each hand clutching that of a small laugh­
ing girl..
And this morning I feel a warm glow when I learn just who is that
character on “Today” who always occupies the same spot outside the
studio window. Al Birney gets up at four o’clock every morning just so he
can go down town and reserve this spot in the window in order to wave to
his grandchildren in various parts of the country! Following this he works
twelve hours in a restaurant, goes home to his lonely apartment, eats,
sleeps six hours, and begins the day again with his long, cheerful vigil at
the window—just for the sake of those grandchildren! Few saints are as
faithful or as disciplined for the sake of the kingdom of God.

Childfulness: the capacity to grow up without “hardening up” and
“closing in.”
—HARRY and BONARO OVERSTREET
252
On the Corner 1965

Having just read an article on the evils of Lent, I launch a personal,
private pro­gram for the next few weeks and meditate thereafter on the
blessings of Lent. Only those who are able to live the disciplined life
constantly are in a position, it seems to me, to deprecate fixed periods
of disci­pline. The rest of us can well use a period of reflection now and
then, along with limited and symbolic fasts and depriva­tions, to remind
us more keenly of the world of the spirit. Even Jesus took His forty days
and forty nights.

It is only with renunciation that life . . . can be said to begin.
—WILLIAM JAMES

A Formosan student, asked to give his impressions of the U.S. (oh
tiresome ques­tion!), replies that one of the most sur­prising observations
has been how much Christian people here spend on dog food. Yet even in
our own towns people are hun­gry for bread.
Speaking of bread—today we heard a news commentator reporting
on the ad­vertising problems of a certain baking es­tablishment. In spite
of much and active promotion of their “Mother’s home-baked loaf,” sales
simply did not increase. More research revealed that most of today’s
shoppers have no image of the goodness of such bread—their mothers
never baked a loaf!
That, I suppose, classifies those of us who do bake often or even
occasionally as museum pieces. Let me still bake the occasional loaf
of bread—if not for the fragrance, if not for incomparable texture and
tastiness, if not for the sheer joy of creativity—then as a reminder of where
bread comes from. I never handle home-­baked bread without repeating
silently at least the first few of these lines, written by an unknown author
and introduced to me by a friend years ago:
Be gentle when you touch bread.
Let it not lie uncared for—unwanted.
So often bread is taken for granted.
There is so much beauty in bread­—
Beauty of sun and soil,
Beauty of patient toil.
Winds and rains have caressed it,
Christ often blessed it.
Be gentle when you touch bread.
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Story of a Family

I suspect that many who walked quietly two-by-two from the little
Negro church on the south side through the streets of Elkhart to the
large First Presbyterian Church on the hill across the river were for the
first time in their lives participating in what some may have called a “civil
rights march.” There seems to be a natural reticence among us to “stand
up and be counted” in such a way, and so we justify nonparticipation by
saying that there are more positive ways to work for racial justice—and
continue on our way doing little or nothing to that end.
Being a part of that orderly, earnest march culminating in the
“service of rec­onciliation” was for us an experience not easily forgotten.
Most impressive was the absence of featured “names” and pedigree­-giving
introductions which so disturb for me the dignity of many of our own wor­
ship services and meetings where “brother­hood” is proclaimed but hardly
practiced as purely as it could be. Here no names were even mentioned.
Black and white, the leaders and speakers just arose at their appointed
times and carried out their as­signments. In this way one could concen­
trate on the message instead of the mes­senger.

You do not look up or down on a friend; you look straight across
at him.
—AFRICAN PROVERB

The Freshman, home from a Detroit MYF trip, brings a gift—a tiny
delicate bud vase of blown glass which he watched being created from
start to finish and which he could not resist. Since I know the relatively
small amount of his resourc­es and the price of the gift, the little bit of blue
glass has assumed a value far beyond its cost to the young son who, even
away from home, was reminded of a mother who has a yen for blue.

The saints I have known in the flesh have often been quite unable
to keep any­thing for themselves.”
—EVELYN UNDERHILL
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On the Corner 1965
April
It’s very easy to forgive others their mistakes. It takes more grit
and gumption to forgive them for having witnessed our own.
—JESSEMYN WEST

The first of April is, I suppose, the ideal time to make huge “goofs”—if
one must make them. However, I still don’t know whose mistake it really
was. At a meeting for student wives last night, I sat compla­cently fingering
my notes while the chairman carried on the inevitable business. Then,
wham! She announced my topic. It couldn’t have been much further re­
moved from what I prepared, and there wasn’t time to figure out how the
switch may have happened.
In spite of what I thought was my flex­ibility with assigned topics, I
was un­nerved; that delicate balance of confidence on the one hand and
sensitivity on the other was disturbed, and it seemed to me that what I
finally offered was a rather gar­bled version of my originally well-planned
speech. Oh, well, as the children call out to the embarrassed victims of
their pranks on this day, “April Fool!”

To know what we need to know, at the moment we need to know
it, is few men’s privilege.
—CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

In spite of the fact that I know there are thousands of women in
the world who spend their lifetimes in a single-roomed hut or cottage,
I still find one of my great­est longings to be a room of my own. Oh for
a place—even a very small place—where I could spread out papers and
not need to gather them up before the next meal and where things would
be out of the reach of those incredible fingers of Bubu. Here I could be
surrounded by the few things—­pictures, photographs, baskets, vases—
that mean something to me and to me alone. Here I could escape to in
times of pressure and know that at least for a few minutes no on would
intrude. It would be a place to invite silence and meditation for however
brief a moment sandwiched between the hours of days now necessarily
filled with much activity and scattering of attention and concern.
Some days—like today—the longing for such a room becomes
obsessive, and finally I take solid stock of the possibilities. No matter
how I figure it, the outlook seems unpromising for at least five years
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ahead. Suddenly I know that I cannot wait five years for at least a corner
to call my own. I grimly push around kitchen appliances to make room
for a long table on which I can at least establish the tools of my trades,
all brought together in one place: cook­books, typewriter, Sunday-school
study ma­terials, calendars, program booklets, church directory, letterwriting materials. Far from ideal and badly in need of a good light to make
it really usable, it is still the best available substitute for that “Room of
One’s Own” which every woman longs for. And I am grateful for it. After
all, I’m not as bad off as the woman who could create her own room only
by throwing her apron over her head!

The main thing is to nurture the spark of grace in your heart. Put
aside whatever can extinguish it; seek all that will fan it.
—FENELON

Although the service of communion seems to bring forth varying
responses from different people, almost all agree that this ceremony is
of special significance. For some it is an almost magical way of obtaining
grace. For some it involves a deeply mystical approach to Christ. Others
see in it an affirmation of the brotherhood of all believers. Still others find
it a com­bination of these and other experiences.
Increasingly I am aware that the occa­sion brings near to me one or
two friends with whom I have had more or less intense fellowship in the
past. As I eat the bread of communion, I find myself suddenly long­ing to
break bread with one or another of these comrades who have shared with
me in the exploration of the life of the Spirit. Today the presence of one
was so vivid that I almost spoke her name, almost felt the texture of the
crusty rolls which we so often in the past did break together. And now, as
then, it was clear that there was Another between us—not to divide but
to unite.

We all need one another.... Souls, all souls are deeply
interconnected.... The church at its best and deepest is just that—
that interdependence.
—EVELYN UNDERHILL

The winds which brought death and des­olation to our country in April
1965, were the kind of winds which generally happen to other people,
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On the Corner 1965
people we do not know. But this time—although storm warnings, a coat
blown into the street, the garbage can sent rolling, and a neighbor’s tree
gen­tly toppling before our eyes were the only indications we had that a
terror was lifting over us to set itself down with a vengeance several miles
away—this time it happened to people we know and love. Relatives met
sudden death. Other relatives and church members escaped with their
lives or with, at best, a jumble of half-salvageable be­longings.
And so it seems almost indecent to be in the position of receiving
favors directly traceable to that which brought tragedy to so many others
around us. I speak of the joy of receiving calls from concerned broth­
ers and sisters and friends, some of them several thousand miles away.
There were voices I had not heard for years. In think­ing of our own good
fortune, I remember vividly John Hersey’s account in Hiroshima of the
little man crying in a daze of agony to the terrified and horribly burned
people rushing past him, “Excuse me, excuse me” —begging forgiveness
for being untouched in the presence of general tragedy.

I want to be there when everyone sud­denly understands what it
has all been for.
—from The Brothers Karamazov by Dos­toevski

Once again we celebrate wedding anni­versaries with our Topeka
friends, only this time with a slight difference. The five girls and five
boys of the younger genera­tion (the girls mostly theirs, the boys all
ours), and the parents too, keep mention­ing such things as material for
bride’s and brides-maids’ dresses, duties of a best man and ushers and
candlelighters, invitation lists, and reception plans. And her mother,
along with his mother, still seem a bit astonished at what is happening,
since the thought of such a union never occurred to them years ago
when they were classmates, nor later as they kept each other informed
by means of baby announcements, nor even when their first-born babies
entered college in the same class! Strange what young people are able to
accomplish en­tirely on their own initiative!

Love consists of this, that two solitudes protect and touch and
greet each other.
—RILKE
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Story of a Family
May
The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life
without wonder is not worth living.
—ABRAHAM JOSHUA HESCHEL

May 1, after a long-delayed spring, finds us enjoying one of the few
completely springlike days we have had all season. As we travel toward
Chicago, we note that the woods have that faint purplish haze which
presages the bursting of leaf-buds, yet the branches are still relatively
bare and easily discernible. I find myself won­dering what difference just
one week of this weather will make. Longing for green­ness, for lilacs, for
the heavy scents and heady colors of spring on our corner, I cherish the
secret hope that by some mir­acle all will be green by this day of next week.
The miracle comes through with a burst of glory, as if all the delay had
been a damming back of nature now to be re­leased in one incomparable
show of vi­tality.
One week later, sure enough, the town is top-heavy with green and
our backyard is a veritable censer of lilac-incense—far beyond my hopes.
As one of the students in my Sunday-school class puts it, wonder­ingly,
as we stand talking after class in the midst of all the greenness: “I keep
thinking spring can’t happen: it can’t be as mirac­ulous as it was last
year—and then there it is, more magic than ever!” Yes, like magic, and
more—like grace.

Our kinship of nature is a kinship of praise.
—HESCHEL

Bubu in his own way answers the ques­tion, “Shall we sin more that
grace might more abound?” with a resounding “Yes!” these days. Glowing
with the praise he receives when he pushes back the books he has pulled
out of their places on the shelf, the obsession of his little life seems to
be keep pulling them out in order to hear the command, “Now put them
back!” His grinning compliance is followed by the thundering praise, “Big
fellow! Fine boy! Good for you!” from various mem­bers of the family. In
spite of the fact that he has to “sin” more to get more praise, we know well
that his joy in receiving com­mendation is greater than the fun he gets
from being ornery.
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On the Corner 1965
All the while, Bubu’s wordless vocabu­lary is so eloquent it is no
wonder that he ignores verbal adventures. I ask myself if I would be more
anxious about his not talking if he were our own child; and though I hope
not, I suspect that I would be. For that matter, perhaps we care more
than we think. Last night I had a vivid dream in which he enunciated
his first, halting, recognizable words, then quickly gained momentum,
and soon was rattling off the names of everything within sight! It was
one of those wonderfully exhilarat­ing dreams which leave a person with
a residue of faith and hope even after awak­ening. Bubu will talk, I know,
in his own time.

It is important that the significant per­son in a child’s life has faith
in the poten­tialities of that child.
—ERICH FROMM

The Professor tells me that since he plans to be gone most of the
summer, his wife is to have money for a vacation all her own before he
leaves. The prospect is dizzying; which friend shall I visit? Some­one, of
course, who never gets to The Corner House. Shall I go to Pennsylvania,
or Ontario, or Michigan? What shall I do with those few precious days and
the trav­eling money? The more I ponder, the more depressed I become.
The contemplation of spending even a day with Arlene, Mar­gery, Irene, or
Pauline is exciting enough. It is the necessary preparation for the family’s
welfare in my absence and the inevitable chaos upon returning which in­
timidate me as I grow older. Is it worth it?

Faith says ‘Yes’ in spite of the anxiety of ‘No’.
—PAUL TILLICH

On the other hand, I muse a few days later as I whisk about the
morning “straightening,” what is more satisfying than turning chaos
into order? In my bet­ter moments it seems to me that the house­wife—
especially if she is also a mother, but even if she isn’t—has one of the
most truly creative jobs in the world. The creation it­self, in the Biblical
story, was one magnifi­cent feat—however long it may or may not have
taken—of bringing order out of chaos. My days too, however daily, are
filled with this task.
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Story of a Family
Though it may be argued that it all must be done again, like a potter’s
vase created and smashed repeatedly, it is not quite the same. The order I
create gives positive support to the lives under this roof and to others who
come here. The dish has to be washed again and again, but in the mean­
time it is the bearer of life—giving food to those around the table. The
flowers in the centerpiece die, but before they die some of their fragrance
and grace has become a part of those who, though they may not exclaim
over them, still see and experi­ence them out of the corner of the inner
eye—and nothing is lost. “No, nothing—­ever—is lost.” Thus thinks the
Woman on the Corner, contemplating her vocation in one of her better
moments.

Yes, Father, Yes and always Yes.
—FRANCIS DE SALES

May is the month for last-minute enter­taining of students you meant
to have all year; for banquets and teas and breakfasts and class outings;
for Reading Days and all-night vigils at the typewriter for the college
students who somehow perennially leave those important papers until the
last second. May is the month for perform­ances, and parents of as large
a family as ours are kept moving just getting to the various programs:
one child involves us in an elementary orchestra program and a motherdaughter tea; another in the junior high orchestra program; still another
in the high school orchestra program; a fourth in a folk song performance
at our annual Par­ent-Junior-Senior Banquet; and, finally, a fifth in the
spring concert of the college orchestra. (Hats off to the one family mem­ber
who does not play an instrument!) Like any other parents we are gratified
to watch our own and other children perform, but why does it all have to
happen in a few weeks in May?
On top of it all, the younger boys who have set up a lawn-mowing
business for the summer are besieged with calls for their services which
they must sandwich between practices, rehearsals, programs, and
studying for those finals. One of these Mays I shall accept the fact that
for a few weeks I must be resigned to the sort of rigorous bookkeeping,
scheduling, and finagling demanded of a dean’s secretary.

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On the Corner 1965
What a difference between action and activity! ...
When I get up feeling I have a hundred things to do—
then I know it’s all wrong.
—VON HUGEL
June
Short prayer pierceth heaven fastest.
—Cloud of Unknowing

Usually I avoid commencement exercises on principle. Not only do I
have a distaste for ceremony (though I know it has certain values) but I
simply have not the physical fortitude to sit through hour-long addresses
by eminences, however brilliant they may be.
This year, however, I did go (surely it couldn’t have been because our
son was a graduate!) and was rewarded with an un­conventional treat: a
short commencement address! I am comforted that at least a few men—
such as Franklin Littell—seem to un­derstand that most audiences are not
much impressed by my great ideas propounded after the first 30 minutes
of a speech. But all too many speakers still cling to the belief what they
have to say is so exceptional that the rules do not apply to them.

Joy comes from deep fulfillments, not from conventional
satisfactions.
—MAGEE

A single weekend—just a day and a half out
of our lives—yet
the emotions, the con­tacts, the insights of that hurried trip would take
years to unravel and communicate. The excuse was a wedding in another
state: a joy in itself. The unexpected stops with friends and relatives along
the way were all the more delightful and intense for their brevity; but the
bonuses! The unexpected! The flashes of grace!
One such was that moment in a country churchyard. Our stopping
there was one of those strange whims that afterward seem a part of a
plan. While The Professor walked through the “new” church—new, that
is, since we had been there last—I hurried alone to the little graveyard
as if swept by a strong wind at my back. There on that incredibly
perfect early Sunday morning of June I stood in the dewy grass in the
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Story of a Family
silence, surrounded suddenly by the host of loved friends, aunts, uncles,
grandpar­ents and—their stone marked (horrors!) by a few flowers of hotpink plastic—my father, my mother.
As if to crown this communion for which I had not asked or even
thought to wish, a meadowlark’s trill rose from the surround­ing grainfield.
How many years since I’ve heard a meadowlark! In that most shining
moment when my little segment of time touched Eternity even the hotpink plastic flowers did not offend me.

What shall the wedding breakfast be?
A fried mosquito and a roasted flea!

That pretty well sums up the amount of sustenance one gets at a
wedding reception. I’m not knocking the custom: those who ate at our
own wedding years ago rated no more than the usual; and until recently I
wouldn’t have expected that those who shall eat at our daughter’s wedding
ten years (at least, we hope) hence would fare any better.
But our friends in the brown bungalow have other ideas. They think
we’ve gotten things all mixed up—stuffing people after the funeral and
starving them after the wedding! I must admit that their view makes
sense: grieving and fasting naturally go together. Why then should food be
so important to those gathered in grief? Con­versely, rejoicing and “eating
and drinking” are natural companions. Why then should there be only a
token of food at the latter and twice too much at the former?
Maybe it’s just a matter of economics; a few persons must pay for
the wedding feast —if there is to be any—but most funeral “meats” are
donated by church or commu­nity. Too bad that the weddings of church
people have become thought of as such private affairs that even when an
invitation is issued to members of the congregation few will respond. Too
bad that church peo­ple don’t have—or take—the chance to rejoice (attend
the wedding and send in food!) with those who rejoice—as well as to weep
with those who weep. May the day come! In the meantime we are eagerly
awaiting a certain Iowa Fraulein’s wedding)

Lord, Thou knowest how busy I must be today. If I forget Thee do
not Thou forget me; for Christ’s sake, Amen.
—SIR JACOB ASTLEY

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On the Corner 1965
The last of June was a time of Comings and Goings, the like of which
no two weeks of mine had ever seen. The before, during, and after of
Mission Board meeting brought us house guests in an unprecedented
num­ber and of a variety of relationships. Any one of these visits would
have been the Treat of the Summer—in an ordinary year.
As overwhelming as the Comings were the Goings: on Friday, #4
left for Scottdale; on Saturday, the last guests departed; on Sunday, #2
headed for camp as a coun­selor; on Monday, #3 as a counselor and #5 and
#6 as campers boarded their re­spective buses; on Tuesday, The Professor
himself left for New York’s Kennedy Airport —and Israel.
Now a man or an innocent young thing might read this and think,
“So what?” But any woman in charge of a household can envision behind
the simple facts of the case something of the engineering feat required to
get everyone to his bus, train, car, or plane with all the proper equipment
clean, sorted, and packed in the proper luggage; to do this with a Special
Character like Bubu literally tackling one around the legs as he moves
from one part of the room or house to another; to keep on serving decent
meals in spite of the emergencies; and to see that everyone gets where he
is to be on time!

You’re not going to get any ships in if you don’t send any out!

In the midst of the final frenzy the brief visit of a friend is like a
benediction. This friend “knows what it’s like” and leaves an envelope “to
take care of some of those extras” that always turn up when one is getting
people ready for extended trips. Thank God for people who let you know
that they know what it’s like! Thank God for them whether or not they
leave envelopes!

Responsiveness to God cannot be copied; it must be original with
every soul.
—HESCHEL
July
Happiness depends upon the delicate balance between forgetting
and remember­ing one’s self.
—CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
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Story of a Family

The house is quiet—very quiet with only Bubu and I (and overnight the
eldest who is caught up in working by days and in wedding consultations
with his Beloved in the evenings.) In a burst of freedom I find a sitter for
Bubu and take off the afternoon to go with a friend to South Bend. My
excuse is to look for a proper wedding garment—but really I just want
to celebrate the delicious simplicity of these few days without a large
family.
The dress for the wedding still eludes me, but the joy of a new
discovery excites me more than finding the dress would have done. This,
I tell myself is God’s gift for me for today.
In a small corner bookshop we come upon greeting cards that one
can send without a feeling of frustration: cards with a Christian thrust yet
dignified by good taste in design as well as in selection of “sentiments.”
Greedily we each amass a stack of them and though I’m a bit hesi­tant to
share my knowledge of the locale of the treasure since it will mean that
other people will send out cards just as rare as mine—still I can’t keep it
and must whisk out my packet of cards to display to even comer!

...not because they are my powers but because they are His gift.
—MERTON

She stopped me in the hall to say that something I had written about
the Every­woman of Lost-Coin fame made her realize for the first time
that perhaps she had a special gift too—that of giving herself to others
through sending greetings and mak­ing telephone calls at important and
unim­portant occasions. How wise of her to rec­ognize her gift! One of the
most frustrating situations for a person who writes or sings or paints or
teaches or leads with any de­gree of competence is to confront the per­son
who thinks of himself as, in comparison, bereft of “gifts.”

Yet how many gifted women there are among us! I have friends whose
natural gifts of hospitality are great: no painstaking ef­fort on my part ever
begins to produce what they accomplish with a natural flair. So I do not
try. I accept the fact that this is their gift and mine is another. I have
friends who possess a positive knack for seeking out strangers, for making
people feel good without having to resort to any artificial techniques of
flattery. A gift! An enviable gift—but one which I can only appreciate, not
reproduce. Mine is another.
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On the Corner 1965
Other people I know have a way of mak­ing their houses invitingly
attractive, no matter what materials they have to work with; or a way
with children; or food; or of articulateness in public prayer; or a knack
for knowing what a person needs at the time he needs it. These are true
gifts—­endowments just as honorable and often more necessary than
those we speak of as if they were somehow greater. To recog­nize what
one can do well is, it seems to me, as important as to recognize one’s
weak­nesses. Only then can we weed out the frustrating and scattering
effects of that covetousness which makes us want to excel not just in our
own one or two special fields but also in those areas in which each of our
friends excels!

Who that loves can love enough?
—WESLEY

It is a summer of reunions. At the kitchen sink my sister and I sing
the old two-part songs of childhood as we almost always do when we meet
again after years (this time, ten of them). Meanwhile her good husband
repairs our light fixtures, which have had no attention since another
brother-in-law’s visit several years ago. A brother and his wife, cousins,
and old friends from the Far West drop in briefly. Then at the triennial
reunion of the descendants of J. S. Shoe­maker, I have the delight of
meeting cousins and cousins’ children, some of whom I had nearly
forgotten.
Here is a young matron with her chil­dren; they tell me she was the
little girl I used to rock to sleep. Here is a young father who comes up to
me, puts an arm affectionately on my shoulders, and kisses me. Goodness!
Who is he? Could it be?—it is—the Jerry who, as a golden-haired seven­year-old, was in my charge while his mother was busy with a new baby.
I used to think he had a sweetness of spirit rare even in a child; and it is
this that still shines in the man.
Reunions do have a way of reminding one of the relentless passage of
time. But also they may convince us that loving rela­tionships can remain
uncorrupted by time’s passage.

The will to take must be balanced by the will to give.
—OREN BAKER

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Story of a Family
With The Professor in Israel there seems to be even more of a
conspiracy of love surrounding me on my day. Toward the end of the
day I am so ashamed of all the attention—gifts, food, phone calls, cards,
service—that I hesitate to show anyone my “loot,” as the children gleefully
dub it. Then there is the pounding of nails and the slapping of tile after
tile upon the floor as the Boy with the Big Heart (with help volunteered
by the Oldest) donates the labor necessary to make the absent hus­band’s
gift (tile for four rooms) useful.
But the amazement of the day comes when that member of the family
who insists that gift-giving is all rot—and he doesn’t care to get or to
give—comes home with something I really need, a paring knife. No, not
one, but three. He figured that since such knives didn’t cost as much as
he had expected, he may as well buy three and use up his money. (The
only one in his price range, he says, was in a jewelry store. He didn’t think
the rhinestone-encrusted handle appropriate for a person of my type!

If we want to like the people around us, we had best give them a
chance to be likable.
—HARRY AND BONARO OVERSTREET
August
The Lord’s goodness surrounds us at every moment. I walk through
it almost with difficulty as through thick grass and flowers.
—BARBOUR

Months can go by in which there is scarcely anything in one’s reading
that stands and defies being quickly forgotten. Then suddenly there is a
BOOK. This week there were two!
One of these was Hutchinson’s A Child Possessed, a most unusual
story centered on a father’s love for his severely brain­-damaged child. The
same artistry that cre­ates the ruthless descriptions of a child so damaged
that she is scarcely more than an animal conveys the heartrending
beauty of a relationship—the kind of relationship which must be difficult
to understand if one has always thought of a “defective” child as less than
human.
In a totally different vein the second book, The Ever-Present Past,
contains col­lected essays by that extraordinary woman of letters, Edith
Hamilton, who has con­tributed so much to our understanding of Greek
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On the Corner 1965
culture in such a readable way. I am astounded to learn that this woman
be­gan writing at the age of 63. Up to that time, to be sure, she hadn’t
been merely puttering about the house. Still­—

God knows the proper time for giving you new lights.
—UNDERHILL

In the wake of tragedy there is always—naturally—editorializing.
Always there are those futile attempts to explain what is not ours to
explain. One of the reactions most disturbing to me, however, is “It is
God’s will.” Though I truly believe that God can bring good out of any
situation, I can­not believe that He wills tragedy, torture, gross injustice,
and all the other ills which bring terrible suffering to members of the
human race.
A friend and I were discussing this to­day. We also spoke of the fear
of death. Many Christians would say there should be none. I am inclined
to agree with the man who said that Plato believed in the Eternal because
he was afraid to die—and that the man who is not afraid die is no really
alive. Sometimes we make the Bible say there is no sting in death and
seem to say that to acknowledge that sting is to be faithless. Sometime,
we agreed, we must ask a New Testament scholar what he makes of some
of those statements in I Co­rinthians 15.

...there is only one way to get the answer to tragedy, and that is
to live through it, to endure the reality of it with fortitude and faith
...transmuting the pain, the resentment, the anger, into nobler
spirit.
—BAKER

For us at our house, last August was not just another repeat of that
final hurdle (for mothers) or the final fling (for children) of the Summer
Vacation. It was the Month of The Wedding, including: the last of the
three showers for the bride; the fitting of dresses and the buying of suits
and shoes; the token shining-up of the house in prep­aration for wedding
guests—then, as the last week opened, a quiet evening service for the
Crowning of the Bride in our home; the boys’ bachelor supper at Azar’s;
the wedding rehearsal; and, at last, the lovely serviceworship in which
our friends child became our child—and ours, theirs.
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Story of a Family
His young brother and sister lighted the candles perfectly; her three
sisters and his three brothers, standing there with them, helped to make
of the ceremony—besides a worship service—a family undertaking, not a
“social affair.” It was a beautiful day ... a day to remember . . . our family’s
first wedding!

Suddenly, the house seems terribly empty, even with six children
still left! And that mother who always secretly guessed that she would be
quite sensible about such things as a child’s leaving home is the victim of
a tough case of post-wed­ding blues. “Let him that thinketh he standeth...”
I am comforted by my dear aunt down the street who says that the same
thing happened to her over 20 years ago when their family’s first wedding
oc­curred!

But the blues do not linger long. The summer has ended. The Traveler
returns from the Far Land with gifts for all the family. For me there is the
menorah—the Jewish candle holder—for which I asked. And immediately
I place seven candles in the holder to light on Saturday evening when I
shall pray with my family the “Prayer of the Jewish Mother at Candle­
lighting”: “Father of Mercy, O continue Thy lov­ingkindness unto me and
unto my dear ones. Make me worthy to rear my children that they walk
in the way of the righteous before Thee, loyal to Thy law and clinging to
good deeds. Keep Thou from us all man­ner of shame, grief, and care; and
grant that peace, light, and joy ever abide in our home. Amen.”

The honeymooners, radiant and relaxed, return, and the woman on
the corner knows that the boy is fast becoming a man when she sees
him, minutes afterward, ly­ing on the floor in play with Bubu—some­thing
which would have been beneath the dignity of the Dependent Son.
Then come the lightning days of school preparation: receptions for
new faculty members and the purchasing of forgotten­-till-the-last-minute
items such as gym shoes and socks. The Summer of The Wed­ding is
over.

Thou wilt reveal the path to life, to the full joy of Thy presence, to
the bliss of being close to Thee forever.
—Psalm 16:11
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On the Corner 1965
September
...finding everlasting significance in the present moment.

Tired of staying home because of the complexity of taking Bubu
along, we pack for him this year too. Both of us—Bubuand I—shall imbibe
with the rest of the family that wonderful, clean, North Michi­gan air and
the rare atmosphere of the annual convocation of professors and their
families at Little Eden.
As it happens, Bubu enjoys it thorough­, as I do, in spite of his weight
and the vigilance necessary to keep him from en­dangering himself and
public property. Also he turns out be quite a conversa­tion piece and
maybe, we think, a bit of a missionary for the Cause of the Excep­tional
Child.

It takes a while for high-minded, inhibit­ed adults to make tentative
gestures to­ward recognizing that the retarded child in the stroller is a
person—indeed, that he is there at all—and some never quite make the
hurdle. But children have no difficulty. Most of them have a smile, a pat
on the head, a “Hi, Bubu!” for the little fellow, a hand outstretched for
his handshake, or a request for permission to push him about in his
stroller. The naturalness, the open­ness of children! What a pity that as
we gain the much-needed maturity of adult­hood so few of us retain that
freedom to respond impulsively to the persons—all sorts of persons—we
meet.

Let each become all he was created to be.
—CARLYLE

Back home, I suffer the typical throes of a return involving great
mounds of dirty clothes and “school-starting-tomor­row” emergencies.
As form begins to emerge from chaos and I insist, “Let there be light,”
I am in a quandary concerning which of my housewifely duties are
most important. Right now, of course, there is a lot of sheer physical
labor involved. But I’m impressed with the necessity for a great deal of
administrative skill, not only in seeing that the chores get done, but also
in remembering an appointment for this child, helping another to work
out a prac­tice schedule, making sure that the lawn­mowing business does
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Story of a Family
not go bankrupt be­cause of the failure of its partners to see ahead farther
than their corporate nose.
At the end of one such day when the hated role of administrator has
almost re­duced me to tears of frustration, I remind myself wryly that
whereas I once prayed, “Spare me that I might live to see my chil­dren
grown,” I now pray desperately, “Spare me that they might live to grow
up.” For in spite of all the lessons I’ve supposedly learned about being
dispens­able, at this time of the year it’s hard to believe that my death
would not cause­—aside from any transient sorrow—a great deal of chaos
in the lives of these few for whom I am especially responsible.

Happiness may be defined as the cer­tainty of being needed.
—HESCHEL

What is more elusive in the house of two People-Who-Write—and five
students who occasionally have to write—than the Bic pen! Wonderful
invention, that nine­teen-cent variety which we all use. I buy several at
a time, hoard them, hide them, watch over them, and loan them only
against my will and with sharp reminders that they be returned. Yet
when I want one...! Of course, no one knows the whereabouts of any of
my Bics—neither the black one nor the blue one nor even the red one
which I use only to make stars beside the events in my diary which I
may later need for my column. Sometimes be­fore I go to sleep at night
I imagine how rich in Bics we might be if we were to remove the bottom
of the sofa. Come to think of it, maybe that’s where three pair of papercutting scissors have disappeared to!

Beware of what you seek; you may find it.
—OLD PROVERB

Middle age has all sorts of little tricks to make you aware of its moving
in on you. It seems to me that these days I have more Blue Mondays than
I ought to have—two or three a week a least. “At such a time,” I may once
have said, “something always happens unexpectedly to redeem my day.”
Well, it doesn’t—not now, not usually. The telephone doesn’t ring, except
for the youth. No first-class mail. No special bonus of praise from anyone
for anything. No surprises, delights, or unexpected strengths. These are
days to be somehow muddled through. And though I know that some
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On the Corner 1965
people given my set of circumstances would do a better job of it, they are
not me.
Once in a great while, though, there is that Light. Like last week when
Mary and Elizabeth, in town for more important things, still thought of
me, called me, and arranged to take me out for dinner for a few hours in
their crowded day. Like to­day, when the lady down the street came just
for anyhow—with nasturtiums! How could she know that nasturtiums
do for me what roses do for many women? This is the flower that my
mother planted wher­ever she settled down: in the thin rocky Idaho soil,
the rich black loam of Illinois, the brown sand of Indiana, the clay of our
Pennsylvania hill. And to see, to hold, to smell a nasturtium is—for me—a
kind of meeting with my mother.

Most people need more love than they deserve.
—ESCHENBACH

We make our first visit, The Professor and I, to our son’s home—a
cozy apartment on the campus of the state university. How good it is to
see these youngsters in such control of their own affairs! Far from feel­
ing hurt at not being needed, we are de­lighted. And when his son sits at
the head of his own table and himself asks the bless­ing on our food, the
Professor beams.

We become our own father and mother, and we become also our
own child.
—FROMM
October
Free men set themselves free.
—OPPENHEIM

One often hears people regretting the fact that we no longer feel free
to “drop in” to visit each other. We must wait for invitations, and so we
often wait, and keep people waiting, all our lives, and never get together in
that old-fashioned “easy” way with those whose company we know would
be a pleasure. Myself—I’m of two minds about it. There have been times
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when such a drop-in has literally saved the day for me . . . has rescued
it from oblivion, and remained in my memory as a treasure. Other times
I have been so embarrassed by my own appearance or the state of my
housekeeping that I couldn’t enjoy the visit. (Yes, I know it’s a defect to
be apologetic, but after battling this trait for twenty-five years, I have
learned to accept it quite cheerfully.) I do not believe, however, as many
seem to, that we have neglected this kind of visiting because we care so
much less about each other. Rather, to me, it seems to be a product of the
age in which we live. A case in point: On one fine gold and blue October
day, feeling especially chipper I plunk Bubu into his stroller and decide to
visit a neighbor down the street. She is not home! So I try another ... and
another ... and another. No one is home. Later I learn that most of these
ladies are working full or part time.
In an age when houses sit empty and silent all day so that their
occupants can make enough money to pay for improve­ments on way
of life—including their homes—any talk about “dropping-in” and “oldfashioned hospitality” seems slightly ridiculous.

Fellowship is not an accidental addition to religion. It is the matrix
within which we bear one another’s aspirations.
—PALMER

On her birthday, our gift to the youngest is a trip to the Pagoda Inn
with four of her friends—no adults accompanying them inside. Later, as
we listen to their glowing reports, we sense the delight of being on the
verge of the teens, where one can still enjoy eating huge quantities of food
with­out talk of “watching the figure,” or boy-­chatter. Another year or two
and such in­nocence will be gone from them forever!

The walls of her mind all hung round with such bright, vivid
things!
—VIRGINIA WOOLF

Casually I ask the young son where he is going, that he is in such a
rush to finish his dishes. He explains that he has an ap­pointment with
his friend Doug to show him through our church building. As I stack
the last dishes for him, and prepare the water, I muse that there is great
prom­ise for the future (in spite of all the dis­couraging things one hears
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On the Corner 1965
about the so­phistication, delinquency, and amorality of many teenagers),
so long as there are still fifteen-year-old boys who get a charge out of
showing each other through their re­spective churches!

See how lovely they are!
How good for the eyes!
How good for the heart!
—F. D. WENTZEL

Around our table tonight were a few of the children—college
students—of persons who were special friends of ours long ago when we
were in college together. This is always a pleasure to which we look for­
ward each year, and one of the unique rewards of living where we do. Our
only regret is that we can’t possibly entertain all the children of former
friends, for just now the tide is beginning to come in. Also, we suspect
that besides the ones we know are here, there are many more whom we
never recognize, because neither their names nor their faces tell us who
their mothers and/or fathers were. Each year I take the new student list
and cheek those names which, I am sure, belong to the chil­dren of old
friends. But at the same time I am aware that among that mass of Milers,
Yoders, Gingrichs, Kings, Swartzendrubers, and Hostetlers—plus all the
new names­—there undoubtedly lurk several dozen more who may go
through four years of college right under our noses without ever reveal­ing
themselves as descendants of the little G. C. family as it existed in the
years from 1938-1942.

Every friendship is entered into at the expense of close and
sympathetic relations with others who may be equally admirable
and worthy of attention.
—DAVID ROBERTS

My neighbor-two-doors-down — (There! I’ve done it again. Some
young thing re­minds me that I should give an explanation of my peculiar
set of directions when referring to up and down our street. Perhaps it is
a testimony to the importance of the college in our lives that I invariably
go up—south—to the campus and down—north—toward the center of the
city.) My neigh­bor, whom I might never see at all except for the borrowing
process, stopped to chat today as I gathered in clothes. Having filled each
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Story of a Family
other in on family news, we turned to the weather, of course. She told
me how she has been enjoying my bush this fall. To prevent myself from
blurting, “What bush?” I followed her eyes, and saw for the first time what
has happened to our old snowball bush at the corner of the backyard.
In all our years here, never has it put on such a show—and I didn’t even
see it! Now, many times in a day, I glance out at my burning bush, and I
always think of it as a gift from my neighbor.
Indifference to the sublime wonder of living is the root of sin.
—HESCHEL
November
Man is a mistake-maker. This fact is at once his embarrassment
and his glory.
—OVERSTREET

Holding the broken lid of the little jam jar, I stand and repeat what
seems to be an all too frequent expression for me: “Why does it always
have to be the dear things?” Unlike many of my friends who have in­
herited antiques or other lovely dishes, I have few things which could not
easily be replaced. So what happens? The old cracked dime store dishes,
the cheap vases I wish would break but never do, the jelly glasses and
peanut butter jars—these go on cluttering my cupboards year after year.
Used every day, and sometimes more than a bit carelessly, they refuse to
so much as chip. But the lovely Fostoria flower bowl given to me on my
engagement by my mother; the antique vase from a cherished friend; the
bone china cup, handled with such care—and now, the cunning lid to the
little jam jar made by my sister just for me (“I hope it’s the right shade
of blue for your dishes!”)—the most prized piece of pottery in the house!
Why does it always have to be the dear things? I guess that’s what we
all cry out when we lose some­thing prized. In the light of such a loss, we
forget just how many jelly glasses have also succumbed along the way!

[Diogenes] . . . had cast away every handle by which slavery
might lay hold on him . . . all things sat loose upon him. All things
were to him attached by but slender ties.
—EPICTETUS

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On the Corner 1965
Most people I know can be classed as joke rememberers or nonrememberers. Though I am of the latter class, I often re­call, since in
our community of colleagues many have spent time in far-off places, a
certain cartoon. Sitting at a cafe table are two beatniks—young man with
unkempt beard, young girl with black leotards and lank hair. On his
face is an expression of utter humiliation as he looks down and mut­
ters, “I should tell you this, before we go any further: I—I haven’t been to
Europe!”
Not only have I not been to Europe. I have never been in an airplane,
or to Cali­fornia or Florida. (Not that I mind, I tell myself. After all, Rachel
Carson had never been out of the U.S. when she wrote The Sea Around
Us. Or to Washington, D.C., or New York City. Until this week. Then for
three grand days as guest of the Ameri­can Bible Society, I was able to
catch a bit of the flavor of the Big City; to sit in the U.N. Security Council
Chamber; to relax in a Room of My Own; to eat food I had not prepared
myself; to be inspired by meeting and listening to devout and gra­cious
persons of the ABS family, and to give, in return, my own small gift to
them.
Coming home I find that all has gone smoothly in my absence. Bubu
has been lovingly cared for by a substitute mother each day. The rug has
been vacuumed, the dishes washed. Why, then, should I be nasty and
add that no one thought to take out the garbage? I refrain from carping,
so blessed have I been. But I do take out the garbage, air the house,
and then, in every downstairs room, light a few sticks of in­cense. It is
refreshing to be able to use one’s wings occasionally, but good to have a
grindstone to twirl again.

Enjoying Him and working with Him have got to be balanced parts
of one full, rich, surrendered life.
—EVELYN UNDERHILL

The usual is for the faculty to entertain students in their homes.
Tonight the Prof and I were recipients of the Unusual—a delicious dinner
at Tom’s with our student friends—at their expense. Thanks to the young,
our hearts were gay!

Every experience gives the clue to a new duty.
—HESCHEL
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Story of a Family

Nothing seemed to work out for our family celebration of
Thanksgiving...; so the Woman decided she was not in the mood for
anything special, foodwise. They could take what they’d get! Then a family
brimming with pretty girls asked for the company of our family (lopsided
with boys) for the day. It was a good, noisy, fun­filled day. And even Bubu
became so ex­cited over watching the game of PIT that before we knew it
he had gnawed through the finish of our hostess’s table edge. She was
very gracious about it all. We in turn can say that though the rest of us
may in time be forgotten, little Bubu has undoubt­edly left his mark upon
this home!
Never forget a kindness; never remem­ber a wrong.
—A. LINCOLN

The young-marrieds come home—their first return. Not many minutes
after they arrive, I am aware that the son looks pretty shaggy around’ the
ears. Almost—for the habit is strong—I say it: “You need a hair­cut!” But I
catch myself in time, and as I relax and lean back in my chair, a delicious
sense of freedom suffuses me. He’s not my responsibility anymore! I don’t
need to re­mind him! And I remember the paragraph written by Dietrich
Bonhoffer concerning mothers-in-law. They still are free to love, to give,
to suffer with and for their children and children-in-law. But they are
forever freed—and barred—from giving advice.

The golden rule is—to help those we love to escape from us.
—VON HUGEL
December
We sanctify the present by remember­ing the past.
—HESCHEL

“Holidays,” quoted the speaker, “have a tendency to degenerate.” Yes,
they do, I mused. And during the rest of his speech I sat remembering ...
remembering a typi­cal Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving
from childhood days in the late twenties. Have holidays changed that
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On the Corner 1965
much? Or has my own sense of wonder dimmed so much that it only
seems so?
Easter! Its memory still warms me, though our celebration of it
seems terribly simple, now. No stores full of chocolate crosses lying
beside chocolate eggs, bun­nies, and chickens. No greeting-card cases full
of inane Easter greetings. There were soft-boiled eggs for breakfast—all
we could eat. There was the egg hunt in the yard, early in the morning,
and a big brother who knew such marvelous hiding places. But mainly,
Easter was church, with the exciting program so painstakingly prepared
by the children for weeks. There may or may not be a new dress to wear,
but the newness, the miracle, the sparkle was all there.
Fourth of July? A few firecrackers and sparklers—but mainly the
Sunday-school picnic at Blue Lakes. (Deviled eggs, row­boats, and one
year the great spectacle of the man in the black rubber suit floating down
the Snake River on his back with a paddle seesawing across his tummy,
and himself singing “Just a Song at Twilight” in a strong but funereal
voice.)
Thanksgiving—church, first of all, then two families eating together
of goose and suet pudding. And spending the day—until chore-time—
visiting, with the children in­venting all sorts of exciting pastimes with­
out aid of radio, TV, or the usual stack of Milton Bradley Educational
Games.
And Christmas? A tree, to be sure; with real little twisted candles on
wee snapper­holders, and a glass bird that could be clipped to a limb. Red
and green ropes strung by That Brother, crisscrossed from one corner
of the ceiling to another, with the big red honeycomb bell hung from the
middle. Gifts, handmade or handpicked, were there for each member of
the family from each member. No going together to get something Big.
And the Big gift, from Mamma, was rarely a doll. More often it was a pair
of slippers. And you loved them all — the doll dress, the handkerchief, the
thimble, the book, the pink stationery and, yes, the slippers. You loved
them, kissed the givers, and put the gifts aside, later, to go naturally,
gladly (today’s kids refuse to believe this!) to church. For again there was
Miracle in the air; there was the Pro­gam in which you had a “pretty long
piece” and you and Mickey would sing “Little Star.”
Watching modern children—our own in­cluded—and modern parents,
I am con­vinced that holidays do have a tendency to degenerate. Like
a snowball picking up sticks and grass along with more snow, much
that is foreign matter makes the day bigger and more overpowering and
less special. All the same, I am aware that nostalgia can be delusive too,
and though I know that the holidays of my youth were truly exciting
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Story of a Family
occasions, maybe today’s children will later remember these gaudy,
overdone Christmases with more joy than we seem to observe in them, as
we watch them work their way through the tissue and red ribbon.

We return in vain to the places we have loved. We shall never see
them again, for they were situated not in space but in time, and
the man who goes back to them is no longer the child or the youth
who dressed them in the colors of his passion.
—MAUROIS, paraphrasing PROUST

What would I wish that our children re­member of their childhood
Christmases? Only a few things, really: the family sym­bols on the tree;
the guests, in and out; the Nativity program with which they as small
ones always favored us parents; and at least one or two times when they
re­ceived a gift which utterly delighted them, or gave a gift which did the
same for someone else.

It is a wise father that knows his own child.
—SHAKESPEARE

With Special Joy I am remembering this year: The gift of a trip to the
Art Institute of Chicago, in the company of the giver. ... The deftness of
the hands of the mar­ried son as he assembles our Moravian Star which
I despaired of getting together... The colorful Nativity Mural made for by
our new daughter and hung on the wall to remind us of the Reason for all
this.... An evening of good talk and delicious Mex­ican food shared in the
trailer-home of a student couple.... The crazy mess of mix­ing up a double
recipe of our Christmas Red Cake only to find that I’d quadrupled some
ingredients and must now increase the others...The late-into-the-night
communion with a Special Young Person in which the masks slip, and
faces are seen. ... The funny gifts of that member of the family who doesn’t
believe in giving or getting at Christmas, but managed to come up with the
most delightful assortment of anyone. “And I got ‘em all for five bucks!” he
crows.... The luxury of moving about in a house made Christmas-clean
by Mary. ... Bubu’s pleasure in a small red tele­phone.... The receiver he
holds on top of his head, as he waves “Bye” with the other hand.... And the
people! The dear minister and his wife, of my childhood church; winsome
young faculty; our two Old Regulars’ bi-yearly Christmas guests; That
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On the Corner 1966
Family on College Avenue Who Is Always Doing Something for Somebody;
our student nephew and his wife; a gra­cious, handsome lady from the Far
North, who reads “On the Corner.” ... These all multiplied Christmas joy
by sharing it with us in our home.

Joy is the light seen farthest out at sea.

But there are always regrets: Again I am vexed by the great attention
to planned gift-giving (even though I myself succumb to it); the snarling
of schedules; the over­dose of meetings where so little meeting occurs—all
of this dumped into a few weeks which could be the most calm, the freest,
the most spontaneous and fullest of fellow­ship in the entire year.
Also, as a missionary family prepares to leave I suddenly realize that
I have not reached out to them in any way. I never knew, at any time,
quite what to do. Now I can see countless opportunities — gone! Mother
used to say of her youngest, most spoiled, “She’s a good worker, but she
doesn’t see work”—and it’s still, alas, too true!

To give pleasure to a single heart by a single kind act is better
than a thousand head-bowings in prayer.
—SAADI
On
the
Corner 1966
January
Under every roof there is an “Alas!”
—German Proverb

“The loneliness of the long-distance run­ner”—tonight the phrase
keeps turning and turning in my head and for the life of me, I don’t know
where it comes from. The title of a book or play? But from where, before
that? And what does it mean? What did it mean to the man who chose it
for the title of his popular work? I only know what it means to me, alone,
awake, aware, with family and friends all partying in or praying in the
new year in the midst of fun and love and laughter. Self-pity, that emo­
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Story of a Family
tion that never did anyone any good, that most deteriorating of emotions,
constricts what could have been for me a creative solitude. Then, of all
times, the doorbell rings, and in walks a school acquaintance from years
back, whose presence at our door I can’t account for. We were not close
friends; we have not kept in touch. Has she lost her way, had car trouble
outside out door? Not at all that complicated. She had read about Bubu;
their family, too, has a special child, and so, driving through on other
business, she has just stopped in to talk. Though there are differences
in being foster parents and blood parents of such children, there are also
vast areas of communication in which most people cannot participate.
Tonight there is not time to exchange all that is waiting to be expressed,
but we are invited to vacation come summer, in their cabin on Lake
Michigan. (I make a mental note: Won’t she be surprised if we accept?)
We shall see. But now as we say good night—no good morning—at the
door, I thank God for crazy people who decide to do unthinkable things
at midnight, and end up ringing a bell, lighting a candle, and leaving a
gift—all of which befit the celebration of new year.

“You can always begin again.” The first sermon of our new year finds
me hungry, open. The visiting minister preaches briefly (our favorite
variety!) makes some oddly clever remarks about zeros to the left of the
decimal point, and perils of a Thing-Life (he is a poet and the turn of
his phrase delights my poetry-impoverished soul). But the sentence I
remember and repeat to myself all day, all week, is one any unlettered
dull person could have said, and probably has said: “Remember—you
can always be­gin again.” I repeat this silently even while an equally silent
answer rises: “Seems to me that all my life has been a series of be­ginningagains.” “But at least you do begin again,” comes the reply. Yes. The evil
day will be when one has no will to begin again. Thank you, Redyns!

Tonight at the College we see Bergman’s film, Winter Light. It is
difficult to com­pare this Experience with the entertain­ment of even a good
movie. With a small frame, with very few characters and limited scenery;
in somber black and white—even with the inconvenience of Swedishspeak­ing actors (one must read the English at the bottom of the frame)
Bergman is able to communicate a significant idea in an unforgettable
setting. And such wonderful things he does with light!

A friend who also remembers the De­pression in many of the same
ways we do eats with us tonight. The menu, reminis­cent of our table in
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On the Corner 1966
the little house in Filer, includes: salmon cakes (absolutely and only one
apiece, no matter how many times one counted them through slit lids,
while the blessing was being asked), potatoes boiled in jackets, stewed
tomatoes. The only thing I did not recall was how Mother made those
salmon cakes. Nobody would have wanted two of these dry thin things
which reached our table tonight.

At the L-M tonight, The Professor and I used some friends’ tickets
and sat in the A-Reserved section. Admittedly these were better seats
than those to which we are accustomed; we could even make out the
facial features of the speaker. But somehow I was uncomfortable. I felt
like an impostor—the way I feel in a hotel or a dining room whose prices
are beyond our means. With­out being judgmental, I hope, of the people
who sit in the High Seats—after all, some­one must sit there—I still feel
more com­fortable among the peasants on the bleach­ers, with our own
blue tickets, than among the gentry, with the borrowed finery of creamcolored tickets!

In church this morning I sit dully, not even wondering when the angel
is going to move the waters. And then it happens. The hymn number is
announced, and before I even turn to it, I know what it is—”Come, Thou
Fount of Every Blessing.” A stinging behind the eyelids reminds me that I
am, after all, a sentimental old wom­an at heart, no matter how hard I try
to ride herd on those tendencies. For this was my grandfather’s hymn,
and to hear it after all these years is like having the essence of him burst
upon me for the first time. When we lived with him I was too young, he
was too old, life was too daily, we were too close. And so I had thought,
what was so special about this old man, anyhow? But in the singing of the
hymn today somehow the significance of his life falls into place. Beyond
the imperfections which I had wit­nessed and of which his children were
aware, emerges the man who loved and gave himself for the church, who
was al­ways on the side of progress, who in his generation was a light. At
the same time he was one who had time to write sheafs of letter-poems
and to make a score of intri­cate pen-flourish drawings over the years, for
a little granddaughter he had never seen. We sing, and I see him standing
in his own pulpit, a tall-man now bent, large nose, great drooping ears,
thin white hair and heard, but with joy in his old eyes: “Come, Thou
Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace. …

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Story of a Family
It is always with a bit of sheepishness that the woman on the corner
admits that she has a great liking for mystery and detective fiction that
is well written. And now she has a new author whose name she will
keep looking for. Harry Kemelman’s delightful Friday the Rabbi Slept
Late is not only good detective fiction; it is of theological interest. Long
after I have for­gotten the plot (ordinarily that happens a few days after
I’ve finished reading!) I shall remember what the rabbi told the Catholic
chief of police concerning the dif­ference between most Jewish and most
Christian praying.

January’s Bonuses: A surprise call from the special Michigan person
who has been an honorary member of our family ever since she mothered
us when each of the last two children was born; the reading of Daughter’s
literature project—an illustrated book entitled The Boy That Somebody
Wanted; dinner with our relative in the country—one of the most openhearted, open-house families we know; a letter from a most special friend,
written in a snow­storm, received in a snowstorm, and recall­ing gladness
and sadness shared.
February
Do not be disturbed about being misunderstood; rather, be
disturbed about not being understanding.
—CHINESE PROVERB

Bubu has witnessed, these wintry eve­nings, much chess playing in
the living room. He too would like to play, and makes power grabs for the
chessmen, only to find himself a very unpopular fellow. Tonight, however,
one of the boys heeds the urgent noises and pointings which plainly
indicate his wishes to challenge any comer. The chessmen are set up.
Bubu draws up a big chair and seats himself importantly, then begins
his game with a fervor. Chin on little uncoordinated left hand, he simu­
lates a moment of thought, then pawn-in­-hand, he takes mincing jumps
all over the board, removing this queen, that knight, another bishop in a
grand coup, always careful to place his winnings on his side of the board.
Finished with his clever move, he waits obediently for his rival to show his
skill. But he knows, and we all know, who will win.

Because I was curious to know what she would do with this literary
form, I have finished Eugenia Price’s novel. Alas! too many people
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already know what my opin­ions are concerning the state of the so­-called
“Christian” novel, but though the artistry in this one seems little better
than the usual, I can believe the book could be really helpful to one who
has never under­stood how God can work through tragedy without willing
it.

Last year the youngsters watched Cin­derella on TV with the usual
pattern of non­committal interest. True, those boys fol­lowed it all the
way through, apparently enjoying this old familiar tale brought to life in
operetta, and at the time I did not think of the “group dynamic” affecting
the reactions of our own Princess. Her response too, was animated, but
nonverbal. Tonight, however, when we watched the rerun, our room was
full of six twelve-year-old girls, and the place was buzzing, alive with
ex­clamation: “Oh, isn’t she LUVley!” “What a gorgeous dress!” This girl
joined in with the star as she sang; another swayed in rhythm with the
happy Cinderella. Then I realized what a constricting influence five older
brothers can have on the emotional expression of a very feminine girlchild.

It was MY DAY—beloved Wednesday, when I am free to go and come
like many other Hausfraus of my age; the day when my Right Hand—
Mary—comes to watch over The Little Fella, shine up the house, and
gives me the little taste of freedom and leisure which makes it possible
to be hap­pily committed to the house for the re­maining six days of the
week. My list was formidable but not depressing—these were all things
I wanted to do, but cannot do except on this day: writing, visiting, un­
hurried shopping. Then at noon—Wham! a sudden brief illness sent me
to bed. In the throes of aches and pains, vertigo and nausea, all I could
think was—how awful to waste this day! Why couldn’t it have been any
day but Wednesday! In such futile regrets I continued to waste the day.
…

There are among our acquaintances some highly economical and
disciplined persons who, I would guess, have very few wasted days or
materials or emotions to re­gret. I can’t imagine them feeling (as I often
do) that they are being sought out by the Button-Molder. (Remember Peer
Gynt’s fear of that Personage who gathered up all the weak and neutral
who were not good enough for heaven nor bad enough for hell?) From my
view their lives appear ordered and purposeful; my own, erratic. Times
like these, when I stoop to such unfruitful comparison, I end up being
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com­forted by Merton’s words: “It is better to find God on the threshold
of despair than to risk our lives in a complacency that has never felt the
need for forgiveness. A life that is without problems may literally be more
hopeless than one that always verges on despair.”

These days as I watch The Little Fella grow in all the ways that a child
is sup­posed to grow—however, more slowly than most—these days I find
myself repeating in­wardly, “I believe in love.” I repeat it not to convince
myself, but simply because the evidence before me is so overwhelming.
To see graphically what love has done for one child is to be continually
reinforced in one’s faith in the power of love. This morn­ing he awoke,
unbouncy and pale. For half an hour he was uncharacteristically content
to let me hold him—indeed he insisted on being so held, hugging me
with his legs as well as his arms when I tried to put him down. So he
was held, with all the appro­priate rocking, soft singing, pats, and sweet­talk which naturally accompanies such a performance. The indisposition
soon passed, and as he played away the day in his usual tireless and
inquisitive ways, I forgot about the little rocking session. But at one point
in his play, I entered the room to find him kneeling, his naked dolly in
arms, rocking back and forth against his heels, crooning the sweet noises,
gently patting, rocking, crooning, patting. “And now Love has come full
circle,” I thought. Watching, I again affirmed with the Great Ones that
Love is the Greatest . . . that Nothing Done In Love Is Ever Lost ... that
All That Is Not Love Is Death. And I know that love given to a child is the
fundamental gift—for the simple reason that it enables him to love.

February Bonuses: A fun-filled mid­winter social with students, in our
home. These can fall flat; this one didn’t, God be praised! … A newsy letter
from Hisako with a picture of her little Tomomi, born on our daughter’s
birthday … The read­ing of Robichaud’s Apple of His Eye—lovely! … A
late-at-night steak dinner here at home in honor of the publication of
a friend’s book … An exciting Just-for-Any­how box of presents for the
whole family from our Kansas friends … Auntie’s as­surance, during a
pleasant luncheon at the other Auntie’s house, that the ancient Sears
Roebuck catalog which I have coveted these many years will one day be
mine—­she’s “got me on the list.” … The delight, however chilling, of finally
getting my hands on Capote’s In Cold Blood … And not the least of all the
mercies and graces of a merciful and gracious Creator—the weather! “He
giveth snow like wool.”
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March
He who withholds kindness from a friend forsakes the fear of the
Almighty.
—Job

The days go by on this corner. Some en­tire weeks seem so dead,
and my task so isolating, that I cry out with the psalmist, “Shew me a
token for good.” Other times for days on end there is so much pleasant
excitement and surprise, or such a rash of minor calamities, that I can’t
even get around to reading my mail. This week was one of those freaks,
like the program of which the Young say, “It’s so bad, it’s funny.” Car
trouble (my fault), an un­recorded check (again, my fault), a day in bed (hit
and run virus), a horribly garbled newspaper account of a talk I’d given
(and I had thought I had such rapport with the audience!), a day when
The Little Fella managed unprecedented feats of destruc­tion, spaced
nicely throughout the morning: a new package of paper towels unrolled
and properly demolished while the doorbell was being answered; trails of
cleanser across a newly waxed floor, deposited while washer loads were
changed in the basement; two pounds of almost-thawed liver pulled down
from the cupboard and draped over him­self and other kitchen appendages
while I fended off a hated telephone salesman; and an unreachable pan of
rising dough—O love­ly stuff for little fingers—reached and ex­plored while
Mother made a quick sprint to the garbage can. To top it off, one of the
big children suddenly ran a 104 de­gree temperature. After the bedlam of
such a week I sit tiredly in church, hearing noth­ing, feeling nothing, only
dully repeating, “Shew me a token for good.”

Straightening the books on the living room shelves, I reflect on what
a bookshelf might say to strangers who take time to notice. I once thought
one could learn much about a person just by seeing his bookshelves. Now
I see how deceptive, how partial such a judgment can be. These shelves
now reflect not so much a person as a pilgrimage—and even that would
be ap­parent to scarcely anyone except myself. I am a binge reader, and
many of the books accumulated here say more about where I have been
than where I now am. Indeed, over the past five years I have added few
books, for whereas I once loved to possess books just because they were
books, I now depend on libraries and friends for the first introductions. I
buy only those which I feel I must underline, reread, or loan. So here they
all are on the shelf—books bought be­cause I loved books; books given
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by friends who knew what kind of book I might enjoy owning, and books
given by friends who did not know but gave anyhow; books bought in the
white heat of a mystery, or devo­tional, or “Letters Of—” binge; a very few
books bought because of their continuing usefulness; here they are, all
mixed to­gether. And there are empty spaces, too—­some of my best and
dearest books have been snitched by the big boys, and are to be found in
their rooms upstairs. So here are the bookshelves, and I defy anyone to
try to read me by noting the titles!

One of the more complex woman-gifts, it seems to me, is hospitality.
Over the years I have tried to isolate the chief ingredients of this gift as I
find myself on one end or the other of it. Last weekend, in Iowa City, we
again experienced the variety that most baffles me. We were greeted as
warmly as if we were the most welcome guests of the year (of course we
weren’t; everyone is welcome at this house!). We were pam­pered as if we
were royalty. Our private living quarters (somebody had graciously moved
out for us) were the last word in homeyness and convenience. All the food
offered us, from the simple breakfast served in our private apartment
to the family din­ners in our host’s home, was exquisite artistically as
well as exciting “culinarily.” Yet this royal treatment, to which we are
so unaccustomed, was offered in such a way that we knew not one
uncomfortable mo­ment. Added to all this was the exhilaration which the
stimulus of lively friends al­ways brings. “What a home!” we kept say­ing
to each other afterward.
But we have also been in homes where the genius of the hospitality
seemed to be the casualness with which guests were re­ceived; where no
particular preparation seems to have been made for our coming, but
where nevertheless we experienced singular meeting and at-home-ness.
Be­tween and beyond these two varieties exist other shades and types
of this wonderful gift—hospitality. Each has taught me some­thing new
about the complex gift; each has shown me a face of love which has
left me wondering; and each has convinced me that this is a gift to be
accepted and shared—not to be inspected and compared.

Spring vacation is usually a time when we muster our dwindling
work force, make a schedule of housecleaning, yard work, storm-window
removal, and related unpop­ular tasks, and zip through them in great
order. There was plenty of sly rejoicing this year when the poor weather
conditions precluded such celebrations, but we still retained what was
meant to be the prize at the end of the workweek: a day in Chicago.
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The plan was to visit the Art Institute and a few stores which the three
younger ones wanted to see. Alas for our plans. Three flat tires and some
three exasperating ga­ragemen later, we arrived in Chicago at the time
we had planned to leave. Having ar­rived, in spite of coming through
great trib­ulation, we weren’t about ready to turn around and go back.
So we phoned the col­lege son who offered to baby-sit, and stayed long
enough for The Princess to visit her beloved Thorne Miniature Rooms,
for the next older one to admire with a wood­lover’s eye the furniture and
wood carvings and to stand fascinated before Albright’s “That Which I
Should Have Done I Did Not Do,” for Mother to sit a while in her favorite
Impressionist room, for Father to trot about seeing as much as he could
see, and for the remaining teenager to be thor­oughly bored!

Additional gifts of March: Spring vaca­tion—and once again those
hilarious times around the table, sparked by the three big reunited boys.
Somehow, it sounds a little like familiar music—however out of tune—to
the woman on the corner, but it’s completely baffling to the daughter-inlaw who grew up in a family of girls, and who insists that her husband
isn’t like this when they are in their own home! . . . Spring vacation—and
I have time to browse a bit in the local bookstore where the clerk—­bless
her—recommends what turns out to be the best book I’ve read in years:
Elizabeth Achtemeier’s The Feminine Crisis in Christian Faith.... And so
the gifts of an­other March are given, and amid dailiness and dullness and
occasional despair, I do receive, after all, His “tokens for good.”
April
People who are wrapped up in them­selves make small
packages.
—Old Proverb

The Sunday-school teacher puts a per­fectly legitimate question to her
class of small Elkhart County citizens: “Can any­one tell me what happened
on Palm Sun­day?” To a man they answer, “Tornado!” The memory of
the 1965 disaster is still fresh. Some of those children lost homes and
friends and relatives. Then too, the new tornado-warning system keeps
us all aware, throughout the long spring and summer tornado season,
of the grim possibilities. Angry letters are printed in the local news­paper
in answer to one citizen’s complaint that the sirens disturb the peace
and strike fear into children. By far the majority of the letters support
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the city government in its warning technique, I have no quarrel with it,
but I rather agree with the man who wrote that though his property was
com­pletely destroyed by that tornado, he still prefers to walk in faith
rather than fear, reasoning that the odds are against his be­ing hit again
soon. And so I, like him, listen to the warnings and keep the radio on
for further news. Whenever the time should come that the announcer
reports a tornado within a few miles from the city and head­ing our way, I
shall gather my brood and go to our none-too-safe-anyhow-basement. In
the meantime I think that parents who rush their children in frenzy to the
base­ment without even waiting to hear what the situation is, might well
be just as cautious about installing seat belts in their cars and insisting
on their use, and about teaching their children safety and responsibility
con­cerning bicycle riding on the streets. How many times have I had to
veer sharply or screech my tires because a child suddenly decided to
ride on the street instead of the walk, and made the change without even
glancing at traffic!

Friends ask if I am used to my new bifocals yet. Contrary to
expectation, I found it not too difficult to get used to them—physically.
But psychically! Some­how I always associated bifocals with ad­vanced
middle age. Just like I associated stiff joints and arthritic pains and high
blood pressure with old age. Now beset by all three and bifocals too, I
have to reorient my thinking concerning these symptoms. On the other
hand, maybe I should take a good stiff look at myself!
In Toledo for a visit with two different Lutheran conventions where
“The Name­less Ones” is being given, I am again con­vinced that I am not
“Churchwoman” material. Conventions, programs, business sessions,
reports, masses of people, and brief, superficial small-talk that costs
noth­ing—all these bore me violently, however necessary they may be
to promote a wom­an’s involvement in the church program. But, sitting
beside one such churchwoman as we eat, talking at length with another
as we wait for a meeting to begin, driving with still another between cities,
I discover that there still may be a bond between us. And visiting on
successive evenings in the two homes where the husbands and the wives
both give themselves so wholly that the seeds of friendship are planted
. . . so wholly that one knows renewal and nourish­ment in the inner
person—this is further proof to me that we do not need to have similar
gifts to be enriched by each other.

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On the Corner 1966
What a joy to have the man in whose presence you have found such
meeting to say, “Send me a copy when you have it written, won’t you?”
(“It” referring to the litany he thinks should be written for Bubu), instead
of the usual “So good to have met you!” How many such polite phrases
as the latter we give and receive, expressing no interest in continuing or
enriching a rela­tionship. And perhaps it must be so, for we cannot expect
to find a friend in every casual acquaintance—indeed we could not bear
the weight of all that giving and re­ceiving. Some encounters are forgotten
just because we are human and cannot possibly remember everyone we
have ever met. But I do not forget soon a tall woman with whom I have
had past-midnight fellowship, who ignores the usual polite good-bye to
look me forthrightly in the eye and affirm, “We shall meet again.” Indeed,
some way or another, we shall.

Erik Routley, whose books have de­lighted me for a number of years,
became flesh and blood for me as we met the sturdy little man from
Scotland and heard his lec­ture on certain aspects of church music. In a
minor excursion from the main point of his speech he told of a certain
American hymnal in which appear musical directions for each hymn.
From his mouth they sound­ed ridiculous, as they likely are, though most
of us wouldn’t have thought about it.
Later, as I sat through a long business ses­sion in another church,
I idly picked up the hymnal and from my hour of boredom I was “saved
by Routley” as schoolchildren are “saved by the bell!” For this must
have been the book to which he referred, I thought, as I noted all those
directions. How does one sing “grandly,” “broadly, with movement,”
“sprightly,” “tenderly”? And as I write this, I just wish there were some
way to translate this humor of the Routley inflection as he purred, “Or
this one . . . simply)”

Stopping in to return a dulcimer, the young son and I chat a while
with the grandfather of the family, the only one home today. We talk of
what he has already planted and what he will plant; what he has been
doing during the winter months, and what he will do now that spring
has come. He shows us the lovely hand-carved spatulas and spoons in a
colorful assortment of beautiful woods. We go away, each of us carrying a
reminder of this fine Kentucky gentleman and his craft: a pancake turner
of pale, beautifully gained wood (what kind did he say it was?) for me,
and a little osage orange spoon for the boy who loves wood. The Boy says
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to me, as we drive home, “Think how much I could learn if I lived near
him!”

The Gifts of April are usually enough in themselves without the
bonuses which I usually list in this place. But this April is slow; the
balmy air, the profusion of spring flowers, the leafing trees and green­
ing grass—this is all to come. And so I turn to the memories of other
gifts: the reading of St. Matthew’s account of the Passion, in solitude,
on Good Friday morning: a sur­prise visit from Sally—contact with whom
is always refreshing, so alive and energetic she is; a letter from Arlene
with, as always, clippings and quotes, but the greatest, her love which
shines through all the random contents of her big long envelopes: Japa­
nese (or was it Chinese?) noodles in the hut on College Avenue, in honor
of a friend’s birthday; another incomparable Bergman picture, Through
a Glass Darkly, which, as is usual with his pictures, is an Experience,
never an entertainment: our twenty-third anniversary at which we con­
gratulate each other for managing to stick together, and celebrate with a
family din­ner, complete except for one young man who is engrossed in a
more important rela­tionship . . . how well we do remember).
May
What is the use of running if you are not on the right road?
—Old Proverb

Whenever we are anticipating the com­ing of friends whose gifts in
entertaining are outstanding, I make less effort than usual. But this time
I did think I’d at least wash the dining-room curtains the day be­fore—not,
of course, for our guests, but just as a spring rite. The curtains promptly
dis­integrated in the process, and so we and our charming friends ate
our Mayday break­fast before the bare bay windows. But laughter was
around the table; Spring was outside the windows: green little leaves, an
early lilac, and the lovely salmon of Jap­anese quince dabbed our morning
fellow­ship with a color the curtains would have dimmed. Our friends, the
ultimate in hosts, turned out to be super-guests as well; the coup was
their comment that we really shouldn’t put curtains across the picture
outside the window.

A young son is asked to contribute a few words, along with
representatives of other age groups, in our morning worship on Mother’s
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On the Corner 1966
Day. He speaks briefly on the theme, “Remember now thy Creator,...” and
we accept it as the gift which, he says, he wanted to contribute toward, but
had no money. He would never have had money enough to replace such
a gift! In the mean­time the earning members of the family have ruined
an entire day for me by pre­senting me with a gift designated for Moth­er’s
Day, Fourth of July, Birthday, Christ­mas, and next Easter. I never even
thought of owning a dishwasher. So rattled and baffled and incredulous
am I that on the Saturday when it arrives my List disinte­grates, and all
I had hoped to do is for­gotten. How the givers enjoy such discom­posure!
Even the married children at Bloomington, must call home to see “how I
took it.” I take it with joy.

Again I say it, and again no one really believes me, that I am so
weary of Mother­Daughter banquets that I will never speak at or go to
another. True, I usually make a worthwhile contact in fulfilling my obliga­
tions—but is it worth it? And has not this whole Mother’s Day Bit gone
to seed? At the end of the season I feel like the very bright child who,
nevertheless, did not care to spend as much time reading as one would
expect. His explanation was that he wants to live life, to do things, not
just read about it. And I think we’d all be better off concentrating on being
mothers, doing our job, rather than celebrating the fact, and embroidering
it with a lot of sugary fiction. I have no love for that lady long ago who
invented Mother’s Day. In some ways I think it has done more harm than
good. (After reading this strong statement my family may at last believe
me—for who is going to ask me to speak, at their M-D banquet, knowing
my sentiments?)

Spring, so slow in coming this year, sud­denly bursts upon us here,
and in my jour­nal I mark this sixteenth day of May with exclamation
points. At last I believe that summer, winter, seedtime, and harvest will
keep returning as appointed, however late the signs might be. But in all
this vivid array of changing seasons, is there anything comparable to
Seedtime? There are count­less days in my year when I could read that
repetitious one-hundred-fiftieth psalm with­out a flutter of life. But on
May 16 of this Year of Our Lord I could repeat it time after time, and
each time it would be a New Song: Praise Him. . . . Praise Him. ... Let
everything that breathes praise The Lord!

When I was a child, the birthday most important to me, next to
my own, was my mother’s. Somehow I cannot rid myself of the habit
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of celebrating in some small way even though she has been gone many
years. I pray in John Baillie’s words that I might rejoice in her memory,
knowing that “though she has passed into mystery, she has not passed
beyond Thy love and care.” I make a cup of coffee her way—the meth­
od she used when she came home from work and needed a quick lift: a
measure of coffee in cold water, brought swiftly to a boil, then removed
from the burner, left to settle, and finally imbibed—shoes off, feet up,
in the easiest chair in the house. Today I so prepare, so drink, and it is
like a sacra­ment. Don’t kid yourself, I tell the daughter of this long-gone
mother, You are senti­mental. At least on May 22 of any year.

The Professor has another of his bursts of domestic activity. About
twice a year, if we are lucky, he is suddenly aware that the place is falling
to pieces about our ears, and he takes off a Saturday to patch it up. The
leaking faucets are sealed, screens re­paired, heavy things moved, loads
of trash taken to the city dump, and if there is time even the suckers and
dry twigs are removed from the little trees and shrubs on this corner.
Today an additional brainstorm develops: Bubu must have an outdoor
pen for the summer; he shall have it now. By nightfall, in addition to all
the other semi­-annual repairs, a beautiful large play yard is waiting for
The Little Fella to explore in the morning. The Professor retires with that
semi-annual glow of assurance that he really is the lord of the manor. We
all agree, verbally.

Late at night, after all the others are in bed, the soon-to-be-leaving
son philoso­phizes with his mother concerning the fa­miliar rebellion one
sees among students of college age. He is no different, he asserts; he
too finds it necessary to break away, prove his independence. But why,
he asks, do some of them speak so bitterly of their parents, and of the
church? He offers a partial explanation: as he sees it the ones who are the
most hostile have been made to feel somewhere along the way that their
father or their church or both were always Right. And then this child, so
quick, all his life, to tell us what is wrong with us, so slow to utter one
clearly complimentary word to his parents, gives unwittingly the perfect
gift: “I’m glad,” he muses, “for a father who never gave us the impression
that he had all the answers.”

May, always a bonus in itself, brings ad­ditional gifts: a delegation
of ladies from our first pastorate, 20 years back, is in town for a WMSA
meeting and stops in for a pleasant hour. The Professor and I sit through
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On the Corner 1966
a banquet at which our son, intro­ducing fellow members of his group,
shows us a face we had rarely seen before; our favorite college junior (now
turned senior) delights us with her inimitable, in-character speech recital.
And Bu-Bu, glowing, rides the trike at the Rehab Center all-by-himself
from one end of the hall to another where waits a glowing Mamma!
June
To say good-bye is to die a little.

By now the Professor and I and—hopefully—our friends have
accepted the fact that we are not talented socializers. We’re glad there
are great banquets, meetings, rallies, and reunions for those who do like
them. Still, general social occasions, involving hordes of people, do not
particularly draw us. This year, however, we broke with a tradition we
never consciously decided up­on, by attending—for the first time since our
graduation—the Alumni Banquet at the College. Since we were part of a
class famous only for its lack of class spirit (in­deed we once voted against
promoting any class spirit!) and since this was not a big year for that
class (“big” years being multi­ples of five), we did not expect to find many
old classmates at our table—and we did not. But renewing acquaintance
with the one who was there made the unprecedented worthwhile. Again
I had to remind myself that in spite of strong opinions about cer­tain
social functions and solemn meetings, I usually learn something or enjoy
someone as a result of going.

The time nears for another bird to spread his wings, and we are
glad, knowing that in spite of all our insufficiency—and ineffi­ciency—as
parents, still, we have done for him what we have done, and he is not
likely to need us much more. The farewell rounds begin. The Brothers
Three take their re­spective wife and girl friends out for dinner. There is a
last evening, unstructured, loose-­jointed, as is our style; but still a good
evening with girl friends, in-laws, cousins, family, wandering in and out,
eating to­gether late at night the strawberry short­cake which the cousins
have brought, talk­ing of this and that, nothing solemn. But when we
take him to the train for his Akron orientation, twenty suddenly seems
very young to the woman on the corner. And several weeks later, when in
Chicago we see him for several brimming hours and watch him board his
plane for Hong Kong via Tokyo, not only does twenty seem young; Hong
Kong seems very far, and three years very long. Still we can’t really be
solemn. We have to smile at the hand­shaking ritual, and laugh ruefully
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when the young man who never kisses things like parents and sister
explains that this is a special occasion, in celebration of which he will
bestow this special honor.

And now we move furniture, exchange rooms, shake up the household,
until it ap­pears as if we are trying to remove all traces of the one who is
gone. The living room rug, we think, will benefit by a shift­ing of sofas
and bookcase to distribute the wear. The youngest boy moves into the
room his brother has vacated—a room of his own for the first time. His
former room­mate takes our bedroom on the first floor, while we move
to their vacated room—­colder in winter, hotter in summer, but larger—
and with a closet. In the clutter and flurry of making these changes,
the woman realizes that there is nothing like house­cleaning to take the
edge off a loneliness and—admit it—a wistful sadness she had not quite
anticipated.

One of the products of our latest house­hold reorganization is that I
now have a place for a desk, in front of a window from which I can observe
Bubu at play in his outdoor pen, and in a room whose door can be firmly
shut, permitting one to leave all the litter as it is without pushing it aside,
piling it up, or hiding it from The Little Fella.
These days, grateful to the boy who lets me keep the desk in his room,
I look toward it often and hungrily, thinking of all I ex­pect to accomplish
there before the sum­mer is over and I am again a full-time baby-sitter.
But I must wait to indulge this longing until my Right Hand returns from
ten days of camp at Little Eden where, I hope, she is having fun enough
to strength­en her for taking over the household while Mom writes, sorts,
files, and ENJOYS.

A special child needs a great many spe­cial things: special equipment—
braces and splints, straps on the pedals of his trike, grown-ups with
special patience, a special amount of time, and a special way of ap­praising
his growth. AND special clothes which will take patch upon patch at the
knees and which he cannot pull off, un­buckle, or rip away. At last I
discover the perfect answer—the tough little hickory-­striped Lee suspender
overalls. I remember them from childhood when many little boys wore
them, but I look in vain for them in stores and catalogs. Finally one day
in a laundromat I see a toddler in those Lees. I ask his mother, a stranger,
where she found them, and she tells me of a store in little Shipshewana.
As I enter the tiny country town, I am overcome by nostalgia. Who can
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understand it but one who has lived a part of his childhood in such a
small place? (Ours was Dakota—population 250.) And the store! This
is the kind people write about affectionately in autobiographies. Such
stores have all but disappeared from America, I suppose, except as period
pieces maintained for the curiosity of the sophisti­cated. But this is not
a showpiece—it is for real: just an old-fashioned dry goods store (but
with all kinds of new-fashioned fabrics and products) maintained for the
people of the community. I walk around, delight­ing in the stacked bolts
of dry goods, the straw hats and boots, the long white stock­ings for little
girls, the cotton bats and the notions and all the rest cramped together
in this small space. Grateful to the good Amish and whoever else it is
whose way of life demands these products (what a shame if the store were
modernized!) I take home with me two pair of special hickory-striped Lee
overalls, size 3, for the special Little Fella on the Corner.

Other June gifts: The lovely wedding of our pastor’s daughter in which
the whole church was invited to share the joy of the occasion; supper,
in company with a cous­in’s family, at the home of my girlhood Sunday
school teacher (since we three women had all shared for a time a common
church and community, there was delight­ful talk of old times, old places,
old friends—a pleasure which seems to grow on one with the years); a
neighborhood barbecue in the middle yard, organized to say good­bye to
the entire family of the right house, to the daughter of the middle house,
and the son of the left house-on-the-corner.
July
Kiss not thine own son if an orphan stands by.
—Persian proverb

If the weather decides to make this one of the hottest Julys we can
remember, then surely there should be compensations. And there are—
the very first Sunday afternoon an old friend of both of us arrives for a
two-day visit. In these days of unhurried, easy renewal of friendship, we
realize again the treasure we have in this particular friend. We think we
have not known any­one in whom we could see within the span of the
time we have known her—such growth in the graces, and we wish that we
could give similar evidence of such charity, such real interest in and care
for others, such forgiveness and acceptance. Even if we had not seen this,
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we should have had the gayest of times because of the lively conversation
which always accompanies her visits.

When I first read, on the Seminary bulle­tin board, the proverb about
sons and orphans, I had an insight into why, over the years, I have come
to shy away from accepting or giving family kisses and ca­resses in the
presence of others, especially those unmarried or childless. Though I
never analyzed the feeling at the time, now I realize that subconsciously
it must have seemed a flaunting of a relationship, a gesture of shutting
out, of drawing a circle around that which was mine. Much is writ­ten
and spoken about the beauty of family, or mother, or connubial love.
But it is never beautiful when it is exclusive in the pres­ence of others.
Our friend Erich Fromm (of The Art of Loving) would say that under such
circumstances it is not even love: that the mother who “loves” her own
child but does not feel warmth toward other children not her own, does
not even love, really, her own child.

A friend mentions how nice it is that people can pick up where they
left off, after years of completely ignoring each other. I used to say this too,
and believed it was true. But now, when I reflect on what has happened
to many of the friend­ships which I once would have thought to be vital for
a lifetime, I’m not sure. We can, in a sense, pick up where we left off. But
friendship as a source of continuing strength, it seems to me, has to be
nour­ished. That which we love, we care for—we water, we feed, we shield
from cruel cold or equally cruel heat. Such care is costly; and maybe that
is why so many vital friendships turn into casual, pleasant rela­tionships,
picked up now and then. Friend­ship, to C. S. Lewis, was the greatest joy
life had to offer; but he could not under­stand why anyone would want to
know more people than he could make real friends of.

It seems to be our lucky month, in spite of the heat, because of the
rare guests who have come to us. On the hottest night of the summer, an
unforgettable family shares our small-town lives and overheated sleeping
quarters. At last I am able to meet the rabbi and his family who included
The Professor on family jaunts in Israel last summer, and gave him
friendship. The time is too short for me to be appalled at my casual hotweather hospitality (those re­grets always come afterward) but it is long
enough for the miracle of rapport, for the exchange of book-talk, childrentalk, Israel-­talk, and life-talk. It is long enough to real­ize again that one
does not make friends; he recognizes them.
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
The first letter arrives from Hong Kong three days after our worldtraveler has sent it, and each person in the family reaches for it eagerly.
Most, however, let it drop after struggling through the first sentence of the
closely written page. After two read­ings to various family and friends, my
eyes burn with strain. Some lines never are de­ciphered, and in desperation
I just read them orally as they appear, e.g.., “I’m buy some tenses and
pushmitter bons.” Later we decide he may be saying something about
playing tennis and badminton, but we still think perhaps we should take
up a collec­tion to buy him a typewriter. Again we are reminded, as we
read the glowing account of his first days in “the greatest city in the
world,” that life with this One is not always easy, but it’s never dull.

For a few days, mid-month, there is respite from the stifling heat,
and in those days we discover that we do too still like to cook (or write, or
paint the house, or baby-sit), that we don’t feel nearly as old and worn out
as we did last week, that our minds are quicker and our bodies stronger
than we had been led to believe. For a few days that big fan which we finally
broke down and bought several weeks ago looks utterly ridiculous.

As refreshing as a cool day in a swelter­ing summer is the weekend
we spend with our son and daughter-in-law. He is playing in the opera
orchestra, and we go down to see “Boris Godunov” (but really, to see
our family). The boys agree they can adequate­ly care for Bubu in the
absence of parents and sister who usually perform the chores of baby
care. (They actually have no choice but to agree!) And so we are free, for
a whole day and a half, to enjoy our children in their pleasant apartment
on the univer­sity campus. We even enjoy the opera—I, for the first time,
actually, since it is given in English. Hats off to Indiana University who
performs all its operas in English, and to Robert Shaw whose chorale
sings the Passions in the language of its audiences. (I never did think
it was polite of people to use another language in the presence of those
who could not understand it—unless, of course, they didn’t know the
prevailing language!

Additional gifts of this Hot July: Swedish Inga, special friend of one
member of the family, spends an evening in our home, charming us all
with her old-world curtsies and her independent mind, so much so that
we, too, hate to see her leave our little town. Another birthday, and Auntie
arrives, nasturtiums in hand, to escort me to a few bright morning hours
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of coffee and talk. Later, That Neighbor makes my day special with a
houseful of friends and one of those exquisite luncheons that only she
can create. And now comes the news that one of my favorite detective
authors, Harry Kemelman, has created a new Rabbi story: Saturday the
Rabbi Went Hungry. The prospect of another good book to read is in itself
enough to make special an ordinary day.
August
Everything done in chard is commun­ion with God.
—UNDERHILL

On the first Sunday of this new month a visiting preacher speaks
about the Good Samaritan. Already I have forgotten the title of the
sermon, its outline, and most of its pertinent points. But one sentence
will be remembered: The essence of the Good Samaritan’s act, he said,
was that “he gave up some of the fullness of his own life that another
might live.” This is what it actually means to be like Christ (Christian!), to
be a neighbor. And now this sentence is the bearer of joy to me as I recall
many of those who have given up some of the fullness of their lives that
one little child with so many strikes against him might live more fully.

This morning a slight headache sent me to the cupboard for the
aspirin bottle, and I took the pills, glad there were such marvelous little
miracle workers, but also glad that our family rarely needs medica­tion of
any kind. Aside from the very im­portant and even life-saving properties
of many pills, one is overwhelmed by the multiplicity of medications for
every con­ceivable purpose: there are pills to keep us awake and pills to
put us to sleep; pills to pep us up, and pills to slow us down; pills to curb
the appetite, and pills to en­hance the appetite; pills to prevent concep­
tion, and pills to increase the possibility of conception! One is amazed—
and almost scared—contemplating both the present and the possible
future consumption of pills for all types of mankind’s woes—not just his
illnesses. Maybe one day there will be pills which will give us wisdom,
courage, compassion, patience—all those wonderful things which at
present seem to come only through suffering.

Is it possible for families who vacation every year to know a joy
comparable to that of one to whom vacations are rare, occurring only
once in many years? Hav­ing accepted the gracious invitation of that New
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Year’s Eve Guest, we suddenly find ourselves enclosed in a wonderful
(modern!) cottage in the woods overlook­ing Little Bay de Noc in Michigan’s
Upper Peninsula. Our first day, a day of unre­mitting rain, we almost hug
ourselves and each other with the joy of being here. Nothing to do but
what we want to do! Books, games, food, and records litter the big table;
the fire in the heater is cheery, and the whole family screams out a game
of Pit. When have we last heard so much laughter in our family? For a
whole week the nine of us live together in three little rooms, without one
sour note, one tramped-­on-toe, one regret or iota of boredom. We enjoy
each other, often talk of and write to The Missing One on the other side
of the world, meet our neighbors, have good fellowship (and good smelt)
with our benefactors, eat when we’re hungry, sleep when we must. And
not one person says or even seems to think, “Wouldn’t it have been a blast
if Bubu hadn’t been along!” As we close the door of this magic cottage we
realize that we probably will not re­turn even though they say we must
and we say truthfully that we’d like to; but for what we have had here
together we’ll be saying “Thank you” for the rest of our lives, to a certain
family across the bay.

Driving home, I had long thoughts on Togetherness. This word
bothers me. I am affronted by the manner in which “to­getherness” has
been sought out, planned for, and promoted by good people. As such, it
seems a phony goal. I believe—­and the experience of the past week has
underlined my belief—that togetherness, like grace, is something that
is “given,” not made. Or it is like true humility and other fruits of the
spirit, a by-product. By pushing people together and planning a common
pastime, one may get physical proximity. But genuine togetherness is a
miracle, and we do not order miracles—we just accent them with utter
delight, with open-handed joy. So do I now accept the gift of this past
week.

Now, back to work: and last on the schedule of Special Things Which
Will Not Get Done This Year If I Don’t Do Them While I Have Baby-Sitters
is a refur­bishing of the Professor’s office. For a day we work together,
moving books, arrang­ing shelves, adding a new and colorful coffee cup,
an Israeli poster. a green plant, the Kim vases, and some flowers from a
neighbor’s garden. Finished, I have a sneak­ing suspicion that it makes
little difference to him. But at least it is more cheering to me as I stop in
now and then to drop off his lunch.

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August always brings its assortment of friends, making a rich and
fruitful bounty to enjoy at the end of a Long Hot Sum­mer. There were the
Book-Friends, out­standing of which were Isaac Singer’s In My Father’s
Court, Goertzel’s Cradles of Eminence (wish I could have read this when
my children were small; I wouldn’t have tried so hard to be “a good
mother” and maybe would have been a more inter­esting person)), and the
delightful Every Second Thought.
And the People-Friends! Remembered are a chili and corn meal in
the backyard with our dear ones from Texas; a “Last Supper” with our
Miss J and her Mr. J; a visit with the lady on East Douglas who gives
me roses for bread; farewell eatings-­together with friends and neighbors
going to Africa and to Germany and other points east and west; a surprise
lightning visit from our Kansas family; and the welcom­ing home from
England of my Main-Street friend.
But let it not be said that gifts of the spirit are all that fill the heart:
What about the gift of a newly, bluely-painted kitchen—from a son who
thinks it needs painting, so buys the paint and applies it, just like that?
A fine capstone for a great summer!
September
The service begins when the meeting is over.
—from the Quakers

Now come the dusty days of Summer’s End, when the heat, the fever
of preparation for another school year, and the tying up of loose ends after
vacation have taken their wages. Now one is eager for a new schedule,
for a return to a more disciplined household wherein One Breakfast is
served. Only on Saturdays, now, can the young wolves prowl about the
kitchen making their eleven o’clock egg sandwiches, hot chocolate, and
French toast (leaving trails of cocoa, syrup, and egg-­yolk, despite the
warnings of the she-wolf). No matter how one longs, in May, for a break in
routine, nothing is more welcome than the September return to law and
order. We sense that the Young would also admit such relief were it not
so unpopular to agree with one’s parents.

For years I have been eying my files, all those letters, all that junk
which one day must be reckoned with. Now, each afternoon during the
hour while Bubu sleeps, I begin doing what I’ve been plotting to do for
all those years. The first file is opened—my mother’s letters to me and
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mine to her, written during my seventeenth year—and my plan is simple.
I shall read, type out any significant lines, save a letter here and there
if it is really valuable, and burn the rest. Af­ter all, they are, as the poet
suggests, “all dead paper.” Which is all very well while contemplating
the task. Reading the letters is another matter. What was dead suddenly
flames to life—the hurt, the awkwardness, the wonder of growing up—it
all comes back—even the late-at-night weariness of wash­ing out, every
night, one’s hose and under­things because they were all you had. It comes
back—the rare anger and everlasting love and tiredness of a mother who
occasion­ally sent a dollar bill for hose when she could squeeze it out of a
monthly salary that was far less than half of what our 17-year-­old makes
in a week! And so I discover again that the “past is not dead—it’s not
even past” and again I know that never can I willfully destroy that which
refocuses, even at the cost of hurt, a relationship sometimes blurred by
death and the passage of time.

Rosh Hashanah!—and today I remembered privately and with
gratitude a number of Jewish friends to whom this is, of course, a Special
Day. But again I had to chide The Professor and myself: Why is it that
although these good people always send us greetings on our Christian
holy days, we never re­member them on theirs? In this, as in too many
things, one perceives in oneself the arrogance of the Majority—a pretty
awful thing to happen to a member of a minority group once fiercely
persecuted for its reli­gious beliefs!

News of Operation Joy—Engaged!—arrived today on the birthday of
one of our favorite young friends. Though it would have been fun to be
surprised, we weren’t, really. The Professor and I rejoice to cross off two
more names from our hypothetical List.

Against the tide of masculine support, my own frail, feminine vote
barring football participation for the youngest son is power­less. All the
same, I do score a point or two. We draw up and sign an agreement
concern­ing study, grades, and bedtimes, which by the end of the first
month of operation, turns out to be reasonably effective. There are
fathers, I tell The Professor, who do not permit their sons to play football.
But this father, this father remembers how he sneaked time for the sport
in his boyhood, running all the way home after practice so as not to be
missed at chore-time. He re­members the stolen sweets too vividly to deny
his son. Mothers tend, I suppose, to remember statistics about broken
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bones, paralyzing injuries, and deaths resulting from The Game. That
such a Two can become One is, I suppose, a testimony to the miracle of
marriage.

It doesn’t take much to save a day from oblivion, to give a jolt to
jaded senses, to inexplicably lighten a depressed spirit. It doesn’t take
much—in fact, sometimes the stimulus is so inconspicuous that one
has to pause and think back, “Now what was it that suddenly polished
up this day that—up till then—was such a bore and a drag?” From the
treasures of this month I recall these Day-Brighteners: a Virginia family
who stopped in only to inquire about their rela­tives, our neighbors, but
who stayed to meet us—really meet us as we talked in our living room
on a hot noonday in early September; a private letter from the faraway
son—a let­ter not of doings, but of being, and feelings, and readings, and
dreamings; a courteous repairman who dropped everything to fix the
mower; an altogether unexpected meet­ing in the vestibule of old Kulp
Hall, with my remarkable friend Margery, who had just deposited her
daughter here; the goodness and love radiating from a simple yet utterly
delightful woman met in the waiting room at Crippled Children’s Clinic
(besides her own three teenagers, this ample-hearted lady has six foster
boys—none of them brothers, and one handicapped—all of whom she has
cared for for seven years); the birth of Kiersten, an almost-grandchild, we
feel, since her parents, The Professor’s nephew and wife, are especially
dear to us; then there is al­ways the surefire Day-Saver—one which I can
produce at will—a trip to the public li­brary with its culmination in an
armload of books whose intriguing titles and gorgeous jackets are enough
to promise joy, even though I may not have time to open them today!
October
Try to see your ordinary daily life as the medium through which
He is teaching your soul, and respond as well us you run.
—Underhill

October on our Corner is ushered in, al­ways, in the pleasantest of
ways. There may or may not be brilliant foliage on our maples; there
may be a splurge of “Octo­ber’s bright blue weather,” but then again, the
more fitting bit of verse might be: “The day is cold and dark and dreary.”
We might be in shirt sleeves or in sweaters, jackets, or raincoats. But of
one thing we can he sure: as long as our Princess is around there will
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be joy and brightness around our table as we celebrate with her another
birthday. This year it is not an ordinary birthday, however. The little girl
who never in her life asked for new clothes (because her interests were
elsewhere) is gone. Her birthday gift, by request, is a shopping tour for
a skirt, blouse, and sweater of her own choosing. Having chosen, she
is radiant, and we welcome her to the teens with the tra­ditional cake
decorated not by those childish candles, but by a single red rose.

As a young preacher’s young wife, I used to wonder how old I
would be when it would no longer be a strain to listen to my husband’s
preaching. To that question I have still to find an answer. One friend says
it’s no strain at all for her. She al­ways knows she’ll near something good
from her husband and she always does. But she’s a particularly strongminded and confident person and, I suspect, an exception. For most of
us, I’d guess, it’s rather worse than speaking ourselves, in which case we
can’t be objective at all. But here we are, in the seat of judgment, and at
the same time identified intimately with the one who is holding forth. No
matter how many times we have been gratified by his good sermons, or
heard good reports from others who have heard him, we subconsciously
feel that this time may be the glaring exception: this time he may forget,
or repeat more than usual, or become too complex, or preach too long . . .
to say nothing of calamities like a crooked tie, or the misplaced strand of
hair, or an unruly trouser cuff. No one but the preacher’s wife knows with
what inner re­lief—and surprise—we tell him, finally, that he preached a
good sermon today. Today I do so to The Professor, who preaches rarely,
to be sure, but usually illuminates when he does.

After reading “Letters to the News” in our local paper today, I
experienced hearty confirmation of a long-standing personal feeling which
I never before expressed: that the last thing I’d want to be, however nec­
essary they are, is a “fine, public-spirited citizen.”

A letter from a relative of a relative, giv­ing information about the
beginning of my father’s family in America—in the early 1700’s—excites in
me all kinds of wild dreams about ancestor-hunting. Of a sudden I realize
that only a few years ago I couldn’t have cared less when genealogies
were being discussed among the relatives. “A sure sign that middle age
has set in!” I think. But I am not regretful. Indeed, I’m grateful that I
have come to the place where reflection on my beginnings brings joy.
About this time of life, one writer has said, we finally admit that many
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things we wanted to do will not be done; we won’t get around to painting
that picture, or learning French, or studying the violin. True! But while
re­linquishing some of these dreams (and others like them) with regret
(I really did want to paint “A Nokomis for Mrs. Nuzman” and “October
at Fifth and Madison”) at the same time I latch onto new interests more
con­ceivably within my grasp. And I pray greed­ily for Time to organize a
reasonable story of our family beginnings for the children to enjoy when
they reach their mid-forties.
The newest conversation piece at our house is a 1902 Sears Roebuck
catalog—my legacy from a dear aunt who knew how much I wanted it!
Not only does it provide a window into the turn-of-the-century cul­ture;
but for sheer entertainment its value is tremendous. We realize this after
an eve­ning when the whole family, including visiting Son and Wife, and
nephews and their wives, are convulsed by the reading of a one-page, fineprint description of “Our $18.00 Giant Power Heidelberg Electric Belt.”

Now the storm windows are in place, at last, after weeks of hinting
that everyone else in the neighborhood has complied with the rules of an
Indiana winter-to-come. The Professor, however, says that his timing is
not to be compared unfavorably against his next-door-neighbor’s, who
had to get things done earlier than usual because he was marrying off
his daughter. That daughter’s wedding, by the way, on a bright morning
at Month’s-End, is a cameo of simplicity and grace which we will long
remember.

An “unbeliever” asks whether I really feel as grateful and optimistic
as I sound in the usual summing of the “bonuses” at the end of each
monthly column. Strangely enough, I do, in retrospect. But for her
benefit, I have ferreted out a few Exasper­ations, Disappointments, and
a Sorrow from this October, in the hopes that they will somehow make
her happier! I remember: a talk given at one of our country churches, a
talk that turned out to be such a perfect fiasco that I felt guilty taking
the pillowcases and the five dollars; Buburemoving the pillowcase and
cover from one of my good pillows, then biting out great chunks of the
foam rubber and throwing them in glee about his room (at which point
I came in . . . ); my washer conking out not in­explicably but from sheer,
premeditated overloading by the one person in the house­hold who should
know better; being intro­duced again as “a busy housewife and moth­er,”
and so, again, having to explain that it isn’t true, that I’m actually lazy;
reading in the Herald of the death of a person once known and loved
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On the Corner 1966
years ago . . . I had al­ways hoped to meet him again and exchange talk
of what had happened to each of us since we last met. To know that this
could not be was sudden sharp sadness.
November
When his eyesight became too poor to read books, he began at
last to read him­self.
—William Barrett, about Nietzsche

The first snowy Sunday—it has to be a Sunday—of any winter grabs
at the heart in a special way. It is as if all the snowy Sun­days of one’s
life are distilled here and now. The mood seems pervasive—all members
of the household appear to be caught up in the warmth, quietness, and
singularity of This Day. With dinner over, each goes about his own private
celebration of Life in his own way: the oldest and youngest seek their
rooms to spend the afternoon with books; the two in between gravitate
to their respective pre­occupations—one to his friends, the other to his
basement shop. While The Professor tucks in Bubu for a nap and snitches
one himself, I am lured to the kitchen. On such a day there seems only
one way to celebrate, and so I mix and knead the dough for good brown
bread. This bread, I sing in a silent psalm, is not bread for the body,
primarily. It is soul-bread, and into it goes my grati­tude for this first
snowy Sunday of the new winter!

Today he is fifteen, and at this stage the way to his heart is truly
through his stomach. Nothing pleases him more than this extra birthday
surprise: Saturday morning break­fast—whatever he wants—at Azar’s,
with his brother (who drives a car) for an eating companion. It calls for a
rare demonstration for a young man of this precarious age—a bear hug
and all the trimmings. The rather large kiss carries the aroma of syrup
and bacon, and one can imagine by the coins re­turned just how much
food he has put away.

Thanks to some overdue education on the part of parents and schools,
children these days understand much more about birth than they did a
generation ago. But perhaps less about death? In my day birth was the
hush-­hush subject; death was faced more openly. We children went to
funerals, saw raw open graves unrelieved by all the trick greenery, and
viewed dead people who looked dead (I can even remember seeing one
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young mother in a shroud). Now death has become the obscene word, and
the whole subject is so smothered by euphemisms and a sheer, obsti­nate,
cosmetic deception, that we almost convince ourselves that we don’t die.
Almost.
But I shall die, and I will not be sold on a softening campaign. Rather,
I look with ad­miration upon the Lutherans who, in their attractive family
“calendar”—Table Talks* in which subjects for table conversation are
suggested by means of art and questions, have approached the subject
boldly. “Who has died in my family’? . . . Do I know their death day?
Should I in some way re­member it? Should there be some day in the
year when I think about the day I will die? I will need courage and hope.”
Today, No­vember 13, is the forty-sixth anniversary of my father’s death.
Remembering, I give thanks that he gave me life. Remembering, I give
thanks that our own children will all be able to remember their father.
Remem­bering, I admit that though I do not wish to die, I know that I
shall; may courage and hope be mine in that hour.

David and Lisa could hardly be called entertainment. This picture,
based on actual case histories, presented in the book by the same title,
is the finest movie I have seen. It is an experience in which each viewer
tends to participate with more or less identi­fication, though David and
Lisa themselves are struggling through mental illness. Through them one
sees not only his own symptoms of illness, but a society in which we
are all increasingly fearful of coming close to one another. Not only has
neighboring dwindled, and even the handshake become more rare all the
time; but within our own families the tendency is to isolate ourselves from
each other. Indeed, the rare family who persists in freely showing affection
by unpre­meditated pats and kisses and touches and hugs, is looked upon
with horror by many good people. (Surely there must be some Freudian
explanation that would induce a big boy to kiss his mother playfully when
she hands him an unexpected treat?) Our student nurses, I am told, see
this film three times in one day in the course of their studies. I think it
would be good for most of us to get such a concentrated dosage. If you
ever have the chance, I tell my friends, see David and Lisa. You’ll be a
better parent, a better child, a better person for having this glimpse of
yourself.

After long months in the hospital following an accident, she was
being feted at a tea to which were invited friends she wished to see. With
* Table Talks may be ordered from the Augsburg Publishing House, Minneapolis, Minn. 55415.
Price is $2.50 plus .20 mailing charge.
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On the Corner 1966
shame I had to confess to the honored guest that I was probably the only
one included who had not in any way ac­knowledged her hospitalization.
“You were sick and I did not come unto you,” I had to say. To be included
under such circumstances is the kind of rare kindness that rebukes one
into making certain that such neglect shall not happen again.

I have great respect for people who get other people together. Our
hosts tonight would not have invited us to their home for a meal, but
their visitor knew our son in Hong Kong, and even had pictures of him on
his slides. And so we were asked to come to meet him. The meeting was a
joy, both from the standpoint of meeting the guest himself, and the proxy
contact with our son. But along with it we met a fine family who posed as
go-betweens. Such unselfish hosting is becoming rarer all the time. We
hail it gratefully!

November’s gifts: A never-to-be-forgotten Thanksgiving shared with
Aunt and Uncle, cousins and cousins’ children in the woods-­home of our
Bluffton, Ohio, relatives. This was the nearest thing to “Over the river
and through the woods” we ever did on Thanks­giving Day. . . . A quiet
Sunday morning worship service made special by our dear daughter-inlaw’s reception into our church. . . . The once a week, every week, special
day when the blue envelope comes from Hong Kong.
December
I must rejoice without ceasing, though the world shudder at my
joy.
—Ruysbroek

December opened with an appropriate ges­ture of love—an exquisite
breakfast with my neighbor-friend (how often does one find this rare
combination—truly friend, truly neigh­bor?) before her fireplace, on my
“day off.” Time was—only a few years ago—when we were free to run in
and out of each other’s houses, keeping in touch without trying. But
times and our circumstances have changed, and now we must plan for
meetings if we are to have them. Thanks be to God for a friend who makes
meetings possible by con­stantly opening her home to all kinds of people!

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Bubu is ill, and miserable as he is, he is still canny enough to enjoy
this illness to the hilt. A great one for ceremony at any time, now he is
adamant. He must lie with his head on two pillows, facing the TV (on, of
course). He demands a pacifier. Great-grand­mother’s wool shawl must
cover him. Mother must pull up a chair beside him and hold his hand.
Now he’s all set to be sick! All of this is demanded with such sweetness
that no one can resist him—and no one does, for we know that in a few
days he will be well, and so independent that we can’t even get him to
sit on a lap. Such a child can’t really be spoiled by too much attention at
such a time.

En route to the airport, the college son and I eat a late breakfast
together at Azars. In a rare burst of communication this usually silent
one talks of himself, of his family, of his relationship to his brothers
and parents, of books he is reading, and of ideas he is exploring. What
parent can ever ask for such sharing? One can only take it when it comes,
however rarely, and be grateful. A few hours later he is on a jet, en route
to Paris and to his destination—the home of his Swedish friend where he
will spend two weeks. He has earned the money and the right to spend it
for this one lavish gesture if he so wishes, and he goes with our blessing.
Still, I tell him ruefully, I do envy him. I’ve never even flown! And for me,
at eighteen, to think of flying to Sweden for the holidays would have been
as unbelievable as for him to think of going to the moon today.

“Why was it such a special Christmas?” we asked ourselves after it
was all over. There were reasons why it might not have been. For the first
time in the life of our family, a face was—in fact, two faces were missing.
Though we’ve never made a fetish of “togetherness,” still, one notices
such omissions. Our faithful friend down the way was in Germany; our
good neighbors were in Boston; the few remaining friendly friends who
usually stop around at this season didn’t, for one reason and another.
We didn’t hear from either of my sisters. One of our two Christmas dinner
guests dropped out. Then why was it the most “all is calm, all is bright”
Christmas season I can remember?
Thinking it over, I know that it must have been the Grace of it all.
Most of the Expecteds were gone; the Unexpecteds took over. We had
made few plans for guests during these days. Behold, we had guests
around our table every single day during vacation, and sometimes twice
a day. There was the day before Christmas Eve when our Amish friend
came in the morning, and stayed to eat soup with us and to visit into the
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On the Corner 1966
afternoon. There was Christmas Eve when the married children joined us
and we turned on the tape recorder for the benefit of the Hong Kong Kid.
Although the table conversation was pretty garbled on tape, we think he
got the idea and Bubu entered into the spirit of it all by giving a special
rendi­tion of “Bow-wow-wow, whose dog art thou?”
There was Christmas Day, with our special guest turning out to be
Mrs. Santa herself, so laden down was she with her own brand of delicious
caramel apples, tangerines, party mix, candy, games for the big children,
and toys for the Little One. Then followed the long slow quiet afternoon,
the beginning of many vacation hours to be spent playing the new game
of Scribbage, while renewing friendship.
In that wonderful limbo of hourless days running into hourless
nights, that dateless stretch between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day,
the Wonder and Grace of the Unexpected continued; an evening with
the lovely family from Mayflower Place; the day following when a young
nephew of the Pro­fessor’s and his family of little children livened up the
place in a rare mealtime visit; the late-night visit of two brothers (recent
alumni) and their wives with whom we drank tea, ate Dobisch Torte (thanks
to Gen!), and solved the problems of humanity; a cozy afternoon with tea
and candles at Phoebe’s; our favorite Editor arriving as a surprise supper
guest; and of course our Bloomington children in and out of the house
every day. … On and on it went, right up to the climax of New Year’s Eve
when the house was suddenly quiet, all mine, for hour upon delicious
hour in which I paced myself: an hour of reading followed by an hour of
preparation for tomorrow’s dinner followed by an hour of meditation and
“resolution” followed by a half-hour of washing up fol­lowed by … so it
went, from six to twelve—a glorious six hours of renewal.
People, Time, these were the gifts of Grace that made the season
richer than ever. But there were others: the pervading close­ness of our
absent ones which intensified rather than diminished the joy. And the
tangible gifts—the blue tablecloth, the two coffee mugs, the green sweater
(knit by Herself for her mother-in-law), the lamp, the towels, the electric
shoepolisher (count on Smitty to spend his all on a holy waste!)
Add to it all the gift of a little child’s presence, an exceptional child to
be sure, but one who kisses his new shoes good­night, strokes a real live
baby with gentle­ness, and in a thousand ways reminds us that whatever
is done for him is done for the One who makes Christmas the joy that it
is.
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On
the
Corner 1967
January
He gives snow like wool;
he scatters hoar­frost like ashes.
He casts forth his ice like morsels;
who can stand before his cold?
—Psalm 147:16, 17
A more generous person would simply ac­cept and enjoy, but while these
reactions were my strongest ones, I must admit to an accompanying
vexation for never having thought of such a celebration myself! Our
friends long ago instituted this New Year’s breakfast to bring into their
home the fami­lies whose children were friends of their children. For this
affair it is the children, not the parents alone, who determine who shall
be the guests. Through a leisurely morning we drink coffee and wander in
and out of the kitchen where a giant, special potato salad, cold cuts, and
all manner of hot breads (baked by a daughter) seem to keep reproducing
themselves. Each time we return to the living room, we sit in a different
place, renew another acquaintance among those of our own age group,
or learn first­hand what one of the younger generation is studying in grad
school, or is planning for next summer. (The youngest of the younger
generation tend to congregate in rooms away from adult scrutiny, but the
college and post­grads have outgrown the need for bunching, and proved
good company as they sit among us.)
What a wonderful institution, this break­fast, we all agree on the way
home! Why didn’t we ever think of anything like it?

With a burst of whirlwind energy he blows through the door on a
cold January night, a long “European” hand-knit scarf trailing from
behind his neck, his suitcase stuffed, an extra cardboard box with foreign
lettering falling where he drops it as he embraces us with an affectionate
exuberance seldom seen in him since he was a child. Home is the traveler,
and tonight he is full, full, of the past three weeks. We would know,
even if he did not say so, that the Christmas vaca­tion in Sweden was
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Always one to delight in gift-giving (even as a
child he could never happily “chip in and buy a group gift,” but had to
supplement such a gift with a choice of his own for each person), he has
not even unwound the great scarf from his neck before he has torn open
the big box and delivered to everyone the gift he chose for each in the
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On the Corner 1967
little town of Värgärda. Far into the night he tells of this unforgettable
Christmas with a warm and wonderful family, in a land where this season
is rich with traditions, glowing with candles (“You never saw people so
candle­crazy!”) And from the Special Girl’s mother, he brings a gift for
me—a lovely little red­bird carved from wood—sure to become a traditional
Christmas decoration for us from now on. After he has collapsed on his
bed, I remember how, when he told us last fall that he planned to use
his summer’s wages for this trip, it seemed to me a great deal to spend in
three weeks. But now I see that it was a bargain, from beginning to end.
Good thing, isn’t it, that prudent parents can’t make all the decisions for
their children!

In the wake of The Return of the Native, a new idea comes to us.
Since all the boys visit the kitchen before they go to bed any­how, why
don’t we have a late meal “like they do in Sweden”—a light repast, with
candles and quiet, before bedtime? Everyone is enthusiastic as we initiate
this. We know that we shall probably not do it every night (we don’t seem
to be able to sustain a New Idea without change for very long). But in the
meantime, we enjoy it. Much as we love the four-year-old asleep upstairs,
it is pleas­ant to have one meal together where squeals and spilled food and
water are out, and grown-up conversation, laughter, and prayer over a
warm drink and “fixins” are in. To­night the box from Aunt Ruth furnishes
our candlelit table; another night it is Phebe’s coffee cake; sometimes we
are down to crackers and tea. But so far, always it is Special.

Sometimes one is so pressured by the appeal of advance advertisement
of new books that he neglects to read books of the recent past which, now
out of the lime­light, are still superb. Petroukas’ A Dream of Kings is not a
current best seller, but I have found it a most moving novel.
Sometimes it seems that it would be easier to keep the mind open
if one could keep his ears shut to all the propaganda dictating what we
should eat, wear, read, think, be, and do. For years I have been telling my­
self that instead of concentrating on the new books section of the library,
I should start at one end of the stacks, and respond to hooks as they leap
out at me; respond, re­gardless of the age of the book!

You tell yourself he must be a little home­sick or he wouldn’t say these
things. You remind yourself that when he was home you two often found
yourselves at cross-purposes. Still, getting one of these intimate, private,
and special letters in which the things that matter most to him—and to
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Story of a Family
you—are open­ly discussed, in which affection is unashamedly confessed,
in which mistakes are candidly ad­mitted—getting one of these letters can
bring a lift which makes one feel, suddenly, that everything is all right,
and being a mother is an incomparable joy.

There are days like this, I’ve been told. Maybe they’ve happened to me
before, but though I recall joy with ease, my ability to remember misery
is poor. There was hail; there was a snowstorm which was so bad that
a coveted trip had to be canceled; Bubu was sick; the luncheon with a
friend had to be dropped because of the roads; and the slightest details of
housekeeping seemed to reflect the spirit of the day by perversely refusing
to come out right. Never were the words of the cliche so comforting to me,
I think, as I climb into bed mumbling, “To-morrow is another day.”
February
He who sings songs to a heavy heart is like one who takes off a
garment on a cold day, and like vinegar on a wound.
—Proverbs 25:20, RSV

Take a snowstorm at the outset of a “sev­en hour” automobile journey
(that makes it eleven hours); add, after two harrowing hours of driving,
two boys with sick stomachs, a shortage of sacks, and no chance of pulling
off to the side of the turnpike; throw in a disabled heater and insufficient
heavy cloth­ing or blankets (especially after one of the afflicted ones resorts
to a turned down front window in lieu of a sack); as a crowning touch
induce the third party of the four to come up with the same sickness;
what do you get? What we got was one of the weird­est trips in our family’s
history. The faithful children who have kept the hearth while we were
gaily enjoying our Pennsylvania week­end open the door to us at an hour
nearer morning than night. We stumble in, pale and foul, and fall into
beds—most of us too sick even to bathe. The next day the two Faithful
Ones stay home from school to care for the sick. The medal of honor, we
think, belongs to that fellow who—entirely of his own volition—gets out
into the freezing weather with bucket, hose, and hot water, to salvage the
honor of the much-abused Mer­cury. We defy anyone to put That One into
a “Those Teenagers!” category. After a day or two of convalescence we can
also sing the praises of the other teenager who, through it all, took care
of Bubu without a sigh. This, we know, was a trip we will not forget. But
it is weeks before I find my­self remembering anything but the ride home
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On the Corner 1967
... weeks before the grim details fade, and memories of the joys of reunion
with friends and relatives (and a certain house on the hill!) spring up like
flowers out of muck.

Someday, one of these days soon, I say to a friend, I am just going to
quit discussing weight reduction. We agree that discussion of it doesn’t
help much. What does help launch me on my current Lenten Carefulness
is two days of being unable to tolerate any food. On Ash Wednesday I step
on the scales, and, gratified, I think that I can, after all, make at least
token headway.

February fourteenth passed without a ripple at our house. The
woman on the corner did think of serving something special and red for
dessert at the “Nachtmal.” Doubtless others of the family were faintly
aware of the day, but on the whole we have all grown out of the valentine
stage. But the fifteenth! First there was a delivery boy with red roses. For
me! Who would ever send red roses to me? The card read, “The Eldest
One” and I—ungrateful wretch—was delighted to reflect that our son has
such a good wife that she would remind him to send his old mother red
roses on this last valen­tine opportunity before their extended tour of duty
outside the country. Later, in con­versation with that wonderful son and
daughter-in-law, I try to express my joy. “Yes,” she says, “I was so proud
of him! I didn’t know a thing about it until he had sent them! It was more
fun than getting them myself!”
But seldom does only one lift come to me in one day. Weeks can pass
dully, but there comes a day when I am bombarded with grace, Today
was one such. Following the flowers, a friend stopped in for one of her
rare visits. She brought a new brand of instant coffee which she thinks
is the best yet, an armload of books, and a cheerful ten­-minute visit. She
left by the back door as the mailman came to the front with a let­ter from
a sister—an equally rare Happen­ing. This is, I muse, indeed, THE DAY
THE LORD HATH MADE, and I am glad and rejoice in it.

One of our favorite nephew-families spends Saturday afternoon
through Sunday morning with us. We enjoy seeing how the Small One
has grown, and Bubu is fascinated with the live doll, whose hand he
strokes gently. He deposits himself beside her and he shall not be moved.
Again we are impressed by this child who, though so curious and swift,
unreliable and unpredictable that he must be watched constantly in
order that he might not wreak havoc on himself or on numerous delicate
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Story of a Family
machines around the house, can still be trusted with little children. He
has not learned yet that by pushing, biting, hitting, or kicking, one may
sometimes get what one wants. Depending, that is, on what he wants!

Note to myself: I must call my friend on Main Street to tell her what
a hit her breakfast-roll recipe scored with the family yesterday morning.
In fact, we liked them so well and will probably use them so often on
Sunday morning, that by giving me that recipe she has inspired me to set
a prec­edent. Indifferent cook that I am, I hereby issue a recipe from The
Corner:
Sunday Breakfast Roll
Preheat oven to 400 degrees 20 minutes before rolls are ready to bake.
4 cups flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon grated lemon rind
1 cup (2 sticks) margarine
1 package or cake yeast, dry or compressed
1/4 cup very warm water
1 cup milk, lukewarm
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
In a large bowl, combine the flour, 1/4 cup sugar, the salt, and grated
rind. Cut shortening into the flour mixture. Sprinkle or crumble yeast into the
very warm water; stir until dissolved. Scald milk and cool to lukewarm. Add the
dissolved yeast, lukewarm milk, and eggs to the flour mixture. Toss lightly until
thoroughly combined. Cover tightly and refrig­erate overnight. Divide dough in
half. Roll half on a well-floured board into a rectangle 18 by 12 inches. Sprinkle
with half the mixture of 1 cup sugar and the cinnamon. Roll up tightly beginning
at the wide side. Cut each roll into 1-inch slices. Place, cut side up, on greased
baking sheet. Flatten with palm of hand. Repeat with the remaining dough and
sugar-cinnamon mixture. Bake immediately in a hot oven (400 F. ) for about l2
minutes. Ice while warm with thin mixture of confectioner’s sugar, water, and
grated orange rind. Makes 36 rolls.

For our little visiting nurse, it is the last day to knock herself out
in behalf of our Bubu. Her tour of duty with him ends at the semester.
The student nurses assigned to him come and go, but this one took her
assignment as a serious duty. She was de­termined to do all she could to
move along the ever-so-slow wheels of Public Welfare in order that this
child should be accepted at Aux Chandelles. A tedious job, to say the
least! But today, her tenacious efforts and our more lackadaisical ones
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On the Corner 1967
were rewarded. Bubu has been enrolled for next term, and we are all glad,
sensing that to him as to the other one hundred children involved, a walk
through the doors of Aux Chandelles is, literally, a walk “Into the Light.”
March
While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat,
summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease.
—Genesis 8:22
When I praised the Bic pen in a previous column, I had no idea that
bread was being cast upon the waters and would return “after many
days.” Today one of the world’s most gentlemanly of gentlemen, who also
happens to sell Bic pens, replenished my chronically depleted supply
of that commodity. A dozen pens! “I’ve wanted to give them to you ever
since I read that,” he smiled, as he concluded the presentation with his
inimitable Japanese bow.

Speaking of bread upon the waters! This was a verse that puzzled
me no end in childhood. First of all there was that image of a chunk of
my mother’s bread—the big thick end crust, it had to be, since that was
my favorite part of the loaf. One imagined standing by a coulee—that
swift, sometimes scary, stream of my Idaho childhood—or even by the Big
Ditch. You would throw the crust in, then go away. After many days it
would come back to you (to your own little ditch in front of your house?)
and, according to the Bible verse, that should be a very good thing to
happen to you. But who, I puzzled, would want that soggy bread, full of
typhoid germs and all that?

He has indicated in every way he knows how—and believe me, his
ways are many and cleverly unmistakable—that he wants a drink. But
we are busy talking, and we ignore him. After a few moments we become
aware, in the midst of our conversation, of a dragging sound, followed by
a plop: drag, plop; drag, plop. Here he comes, walking the only way he
can—on hands and knees. But he has visited the refrigerator, and in his
hand is the milk pitcher which, in spite of his uncoordinated grip upon
it, spills a bit only when used as an auxiliary hand to propel him into our
presence. And when we smile, and come to his aid, and our guest squeals
to find us so calm in such a calamity, he merely looks at us with the first
bit of disgust I’ve ever detected in him: “I told you,” that look says, “that
I wanted a drink.”
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Story of a Family

Tonight we have a guest at our candlelit Nachtmal. And she has
brought with her the goodies—a coffee ring with raisins and things inside.
Once again I forget my plans for Lent, and partake gratefully of the bounty.
And I think, as we visit with our benefactress, how much good fellowship
in this world would never come into being without the shared meal!

“Oh, Mom,” wails the six-footer who is asked to move his size twelves
so I can pick up the newspaper lodged beneath them. “What’s the matter
with you? You’re always trying to wreck that ‘lived-in’ look!”

He was responsible for the lessons in his Sunday school class this
morning, and though he had prepared his lesson, he was not quite prepared
for the response. This tall high-schooler took his little foster brother in
tow, and, in the circle of his high school friends, he discussed what it
means to have such a child in one’s home. Soon another class drifted in,
then another, having heard interesting sounds through the curtain. The
tall fellow came home glowing with satisfaction. “He did everything I told
him to. He sang for them, walked for them, and even kissed them. He
was really cute. But the nicest thing,” he added, “was that they liked him
so much. You just feel warmer toward your friends when they show real
interest in someone like him.” Yes, I thought, you do. And I would like to
nominate the three classes as Exhibit A opposite the sometime picture of
that Troublesome-Teenager Cliche.

“Be sure,” he writes, “to keep account of the money you send me. I
want to pay it back when I’m earning again.” Keep account? Since when
does love keep accounts? To list the little dribbles we send now and then
to make it possible for you to have a few extras would be like making a
list of the meals you’ve eaten at home, or the number of times I gave you a
bath, or songs I sang or stories I read to you when you were small. It would
be like listing love-pats and kisses, birthday cakes and outings—all the
little things that were done for you not because they were necessary but
because we loved you. You know well that we have always had a horror
of a certain kind of account-keeping: number of souls “saved,” number
of meals served to guests this year, number of funerals and weddings at
which one officiated. But to keep account of love-gifts horrifies us even
more. When the day comes that we must keep account of such gifts, then
they will have ceased to be gifts of love.
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On the Corner 1967

This is the time of the year when certain accountings, however,
must be made. And though our status makes income tax forms far less
formidable than they must be for many people more affluent, we still
don’t feel able to cope with those forms—especially when we remember
that last year we made a mistake that hurt pretty badly several months
later! So The Professor takes them downtown to the man who makes a
business of helping out people like us, who obviously were made to live
in a less complex society!

One of the hardest things to do in all of life is to get inside another’s
skin—to feel what they feel, to “sit where they sit.” We have our little ways
of trying, but mostly they are feeble efforts at best. The man I admire
is the one who refuses to be satisfied with the shallow knowings with
which most of us content ourselves—the man who does not simply try
to imagine how another person in a specific situation may feel, but who
leaps into the situation himself, up to his neck and sometimes over his
head. Such a person has a right to write a book called Black Like Me.
Such a person has a right to appear on the “Today” program and tell what
it is like to be a migrant worker. This morning such a man did appear,
and told of his year of living as a migrant worker. Five minutes with such
a man outweighed, for me, a half-hour sermon on the age-old theme of
“Our Christian Duty to Those Less Fortunate Than Ourselves.”
April
For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come ...
—Song of Solomon 2: L 1, 12 (RSV)

“Give me a kiss!” one of us would beg, and we were proud of his
compliance. “Say hello!” “say good-bye.” “Shake hands”—all these orders
he has learned to obey happily But would he ever, ever, we wondered,
volunteer these social amenities? The sociali­zation of Bubu has been a
long, slow process. These days, however, we see a quickening, since he
goes to school daily. And today! Today the response of love is unmistakable
as, in the midst of a happy dance in time to music he stops at my chair
wraps his arms about my arm and gives me a resounding smack on the
elbow. His first voluntary kiss! I blink quickly and tell myself that women
have cried for more stupid reasons. And I thank God for another touch of
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Story of a Family
grace upon the long, slow, and some­times lonely way that Bubu and his
family travel together.

Again spring comes slowly to our part of the country, but in one
day we see it unfold in all its glory. This is how we do it—­rather like the
process by which photogra­phers speed up the opening of a flower: We
begin at our own little city in northern Indiana and drive straight south.
With each 50 miles covered, we find the grass a shade greener, the air a
bit warmer the tiny new leaves a little bigger, until, having reached our
destination—Bloomington—we find we have arrived at spring: balmy air,
green leaves, and gorgeous patches of redbud—all this and the joy of
being with our children, too.

Tonight ten of us ladies sat around Viola’s table, eating the exotic
food, and talking as if the opportunity would never come again. As a
matter of fact, such chances do come seldom enough—and then they aren’t
“chances” at all: somebody has to step forward and make them happen.
We’re so glad Viola took this courageous step that we determine it must
be done again next year. All sorts of wild suggestions and promises are
made: for instance, a certain woman on the corner invites the group in for
a quilting to be held at some later date. Since most of the group happen
to be nonquilters, this seems to have real entertainment possibilities. We
shall see.

After many postponements because of Bubu’s little illnesses at last
the morning cines when Doris and I can have the break­fast together
planned weeks ago. In her colorful living room the morning sun sparkles
through the cut-glass bowls of strawberries—her last ones, she tells me,
saved in the freezer for this occasion. There is an un­forgettable aura about
a meal prepared, a table—even a coffee table—spread, so ob­viously, with
love. And there is always something special about the meetings we have,
this friend and I, over such a table. Even if “all” we talk about is our
children!

Thinking of that living room, I suddenly realize that this friend of
mine has never “shown me through the house.” Though mistress of one
of the loveliest of homes (judging from that living room) she seems to
possess it without being possessed by it, and therefore one can really
enjoy its beauty. My pet peeve is being taken on a tour of a house when I
haven’t requested it; and my gold medal for courage goes, surely, to that
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On the Corner 1967
woman who politely declined when such a tour was forced upon a visiting
group of women.

It’s one of those slow days when nothing much is happening Also, the
check hasn’t come, so there’s not much to celebrate with. But after school
when a babysitter is avail­able, I go to The Professor’s office and invite him
out for a cup of coffee with me. “How wonderful!” he beams. “What made
you think of it?” “Oh,” I replied, “I just wanted to celebrate—it’s sort of a
special day for me.” “A special day?” The Professor beetles his brow and
one can see the painful probing for the significance of this day. “Let’s see,
April, April—Jon’s birthday? Νooo-OH! OUR MARRIAGE!” After twentyfour years, we can laugh together over his prodigious memory for Special
Days and enjoy our cups of coffee together as much as we’d enjoy steak
at Tony’s.

Later, though, one of the children reminds us of the way we traditionally
celebrated our wedding anniversary, up to the last few years. We had
decided long ago that once we had a family—even one child—the wedding
anniversary could not be properly enjoyed alone; indeed the Wedding Day
was, most im­portantly, the beginning of our life as a family. And so we
always celebrated—when we could—with the children, at home. I would
wear my wedding dress, and everyone else would dress to the teeth. We ate
around our own table, a special meal, with a special cake—often donated
by my neighbor-sister. “Why don’t we do that anymore? ‘ they ask today.
I really don’t know, I say, but promise that next year I shall get out my
gown, and, since it will be our twenty-fifth anniversary, we shall celebrate
in the old style—even if there will be vacant chairs about the table.

In a few days of warmth, the gay spring flowers blossom. Then
come long weeks of cool, even cold, weather, which, one thinks, cannot
possibly last but which does. But the flowers last too! Never have the
spring flowers bloomed so long, kept fresh, as it were, in a month-long,
refrigerated climate. And now at month’s end comes this gorgeous snow
through which, on a last-of-April mor­ning, one sees the lovely salmon of
the Japanese quince outside the dining-room win­dow; little green leaves
from the hedge, and, in our neighbor’s flower bed, red and yellow tulips
flaming against the snow’ s whiteness. Ah, and there’s that cardinal
again!
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May
I went down to the nut orchard, to look at the blossoms of the
valley,
To see whether the vines had budded, whether the pomegranates
were in bloom....”
—Song of Solomon 6:11 (RSV)

Maybe if I write it here, and read it again at the beginning of another
May, I can re­member and be prepared. But who—in an academic setting,
at least—is ever quite pre­pared for banquet-ridden May? Not that it is not
joyous; it is! Not that I don’t enjoy eating with friends and colleagues, as
well as strangers; I do! But so much, all on a heap!
This year it all began with the annual church banquet for its high
school juniors and seniors and their parents—always a fun occasion,
when one sees one’s own child in a new light, and enjoys the interaction
with other parents of these fine kids. Then came the pleasure of being
a speaker at the area Mennonite Business and Professional WMSA— a
new and rewarding contact. Add a pleas­ant luncheon as guest of a home
demonstra­tion group—most of whom were in their seventies and eighties;
add a testimonial ban­quet (is anything in the world more boring even
for a good cause?); add three in one day—a church mother-daughter
breakfast, a sem­inary-women’s breakfast, and a seminary­-sponsored
Mexican dinner.
Then begin again with a seminary “Dean’s Dinner,” come along
several evenings later with a faculty banquet, wrap it up on the last
Sunday afternoon of the month with an Associated Seminaries’ tea, and
sandwich in between the strogonov dinner at David and Viola’ s and the
evening-out with a lively student friend. Postscript: the evenings—such
pleasurable ones for us—when groups of semi­nary students were in our
own home. This is May on and around the comer where lives a dejected
woman who had hoped by June first to lose fifteen pounds.

So many lovely celebrations in May! In a way, in our climate, at least,
nature cele­brates Life in May—so why shouldn’t we all? In Connecticut,
a dear young friend is “com­ing of age” in the Jewish community. How we
would like to be at the service of worship fol­lowed by the celebration of
her Bat Mitzvah! But though we can’t be there, and do not even know the
appropriate Hebrew greeting for Debra on this special day of hers, our
loving thoughts surround her.
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On the Corner 1967

By now the children know pretty well how their odd old mother
feels about Mother’s Day. The married children call, though, how­ever
apologetically, and such a call “makes the day” for me, any day. The kind
lady on the corner across Franklin from us, sends a card telling me what
a wonderful mother I am—which card is put in its proper perspec­tive by a
grown son’s snicker as he reads it—and his consequential presentation of
“an imaginary bouquet of roses” which he brings from behind his back in
genteel style. Other than this, Mother’s Day at our house is like any other
quiet Sunday, unmarred by any actual, symbolic, or artificial deference.
I do not judge mothers who like it otherwise; but I do prefer it this way
for myself.

At our table tonight is Paul, an engaging young man from Taiwan—
about twenty-five years old, we would judge. Such brightness shines from
him as he tells us how he first “came to know” Jesus, that I almost wish I
could remember the first time I ever heard of Jesus! He became a Christian
finally, he says, because of the Mennonite Paxmen in his country. “They
were so good, I wanted to be like them” was his simple explanation.
Before he leaves we feel we have learned a lot about goodness. We wish
we radiated good­ness in a degree approaching that of our guest. Maybe
then we, too, would look fifteen years younger than we really are!

Writing a letter to the Absent One across the world, I find my mind
recalling a line from Dreiser’ s The Bulwark; a searing story which I read
years ago. Old Solon, the Quaker, is dying, and his mind is preoccu­pied
with the welfare of his children. To the daughter who has caused him
much sor­row, but who has now come home to care for him, he whispers,
in his semiconscious state, “If thee has not the Inner Light, where will
thee go?”
I try to explain to my son that his father and I, contemplating our
children, do not ask that their faith should take the form of ours, nor
hope that they should interpret every item as we do. We want them to find
their own way, not blindly follow ours. We only hope that they will resist
any pressures to close their eyes, or to turn away from the Inner Light—
that “True Light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.” We
hope—and we believe.

A taped message from that Absent One arrived today, and with it
he almost walked into the room and sat down with us. With his usual
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Story of a Family
flavorful reportage (plus some exaggera­tion, we suppose, since he sees
everything more imaginatively than most of us) he gave the riots of Hong
Kong rather full coverage. Though he assured us that they were not as
bad as reported, his graphic portrayal of a demonstrating group suddenly
turning and converging on him, the only Westerner in sight, did ripple the
surface of our compo­sure a bit. Seeming to sense that this might happen,
he added, “But don’t worry, Mom, I won’t...” and at this tantalizing point
the tape ran out.

It was the fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration of friends. On the
calendar I had carefully checked a date three days before the anniversarywith the note “send letter to P.E.’s” Three days later, letter unwritten I
read on that same appointment calendar: “Fiftieth Anniversary—P. and
A. E.” And once again I sighed to see another good in­tention go down the
drain. “Oh, well,” I consoled myself, “I’m sure they got so many cards they
couldn’t even say whether or got we sent one!” Maybe they couldn’t, but
I could. For some strange reason one never gets quite the charge out of
“meaning to do” that he gets out of actually doing!
June
Awake, O wind and come, O south wind!
Blow upon my garden, let its fragrance be wafted abroad.
—Song of Solomon 4:16, RSV
After trying to reclaim June as a part of “summer vacation” I have given
up. There is little possibility of establishing that long-dreamed-of Summer
Schedule in a month broken up by commencement, Bible school, the
beginnings of summer school for Bubu, and weddings. So we plan to
muddle though the month of June and start in earnest with the Schedule
when the young­est (now my only dependable household helper) returns
from her ten days of camp, halfway through July.
That doesn’t leave much of a summer, and so I make lists, determined
not to be so overwhelmed by the lack of remaining time that the goals for
this summer will not be reached. This summer, says the list, my Helper
will learn to run all the appliances without my supervision; to sort clothes
for the laundry; to master several “company” meals; and she, not I, will
be responsible for getting those school clothes ready. I love lists. But they
are deceptive, I know. Having made such a list, one experiences a sort of
euphoria—as if every­thing is accomplished, οnce it is written. We shall
see!
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On the Corner 1967

Twenty-five years later! Our college class—or a remnant of it—meets
and laughs and renews acquaintance. Patient wives and husbands who
were not a part of the class drag themselves with their more or less
enthusiastic spouses to the reunion lunch­eon; then to the “Class of 42”
table at the Alumni Banquet; and finally to the Elkhart home of one of our
former class presidents, where we stretch out the joy of reunion as late
as possible. For a class with a notorious lack of “spirit” (at one time we
voted not to have any) there was a good deal of pleasure in each other’s
company as we filled one another in on “the years be­tween.”

Besides the big reunion, commencement brought other memorable
treats. House­ guests—an old classmate, and the Lady From the Hill
Across The Tracks of our old home; the Very Large Experience of listening
to St. John’s Passion, given by the music community of the College; our
married children’s homecoming and the joy of enter­ing with them into the
excitement of pre­paring for a term of service abroad.
Tonight we sit before the TV with more than the usual attentiveness
during the 5:30 local news. Never has there been such news! Project
Breakthrough (a summer program meant to reduce regression for retarded
children between school terms) will have coverage, we are told. Since our
Bubu is enrolled in it for the next six weeks, we hope against hope that
maybe, just maybe, we’ll see him on the screen. As we watch, suddenly
there he is—wavering, unsteady on those two feet, but walking toward us
in his little plaid overalls. Only an instant, then gone. But we all sit back
with great grins of satisfaction, as if we had witnessed his acceptance of
the Nobel Peace Prize. We hug the unsuspecting child and say silly things
like “Did you see...?” Looking back, we can’t recall having seen any other
children, or even hearing what the an­nouncer had to say about Project
Break­through!

One thing that has always impressed us about this child is his
sensitivity to the feelings of adults concerning him. He seems to have
antennae which immediately assess the situation, and so he rarely intrudes
on one who is wary of him. With others he immediately responds—opens
like a flower—­and sometimes for no reason that we can readily see. It is
not merely a matter of getting attention or not getting it. It is something
felt.
Tοday I stared as I saw him reach out to the stranger who had stooped
to talk to him—saw him reach arms around the neck, and seriously plant
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Story of a Family
a kiss on the cheek of the man who had paid him no more atten­tion than
many adults pay him. How did Bubu decide to do this unprecedented
thing—to give a kiss to a stranger! How could he know that this man was
the father of such a child as Bubu himself?

Today through the mai1 there has come a list of “bad things” gleaned
from a book mentioned in this column. I decline to answer the sender
because I sense that communication is hopeless: to begin with, from the
very book which yielded all these “bad things” I recall only a valuable in­
sight about prayer! I am sad for people why spend their lives going abut
documenting what is bad—about people, about books, about “the times.”
Where, other than in God alone, can one expect to find perfec­tion? Surely
not in a book! Even the Bible can yield some racy language for the one
who looks for it.
We live our imperfect lives in an imper­fect world. We enjoy roses,
ignoring the thorns as well as the manure which en­riched the soil from
which the gorgeous blooms sprung. I keep reading books—not “good”
books or “bad” books—books in which various pictures of life with its
inimitable mixture of good and evil are found. (The only “thoroughly nice”
books I’ve read have tended to be thoroughly phony—because life is never,
here on earth, “thoroughly nice.”) And I, like every reader, am responsible
for what I remember from the books I read. I cannot purge books—­or
life—of that which is offensive; but I can decide what to look for.

Through some oversight—a neglect, I think it was, of a little
mimeographed sheet containing a tentative list of candidates for an
upcoming church election—I suddenly open my eyes and find myself
on a com­mittee. Not being a committeewoman, I am appalled. But the
crowning terror comes when the non-committeewoman is asked to act as
secretary for the committee. At this point, one can only weakly offer the
in­formation that never in one’s lifetime has she acted as secretary for any
organization how can she be trusted with official minutes? To which the
chairman, a past ­master at administering committees, dryly comments
that this is a good time to learn how to write minutes. With grimness I
clasp a pen, look down at the paper, and start recording; but .there is
already be­ginning inside me the whir of Busy-Wheels which are out to
destroy my peace of mind.
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On the Corner 1967
July
The meadows clothe themselves with flocks, the valleys deck
themselves with grain, they shout and sing together for joy.
—Psalm 65:13, RSV

The business-at-hand, in July, on the corner, is ever the same. There
are only minor variations on a few themes: to settle one­self and the family
into some kind of summer routine; to endure the heat when it’s hot, and
be properly grateful when it’s cooler; to enjoy to the hilt the three family
birthdays which fall in this month. This year the two youngest are sent
packing, the boy far south for a month with relatives, the girl north for
her annual ten days of camp. And the Little Feller goes happily to school
each day. Proj­ect Breakthrough—whatever it may turn out to mean to
him—is indeed a break­through for his mamma. Having delivered him at
his school each day, she retreats for the next four hours to her little room
at the Seminary where she writes, sorts, files, and reads (all of which are
impossible to attempt in his presence) until it is time to pick him up and
head for home again.

On the list of Dear Hearts and Gentle People who have made this
July pleasant for us: the Relatives who gathered here for an evening with
a sister and her family who shared pictures and talk of their Spring Trek
around the globe; Kin from the other side of the family, our overnight
guests while in town to marry off a son to a local daughter; the Ladies
young and old around our daughter-in-law’s quilt in Topeka; and of
course our dear young-marrieds, in and out of the house, waiting on
visas, saying tentative good-byes, and waiting some more.

Another birthday. Tonight, in retrospect, I ask myself as I do annually,
Will I ever be so old or so sad or so jaded or so self-­forgetful that this
one day out of the year will not be a day of utter joy? It has al­ways been
that way—thanks to a mother who made our earliest birthdays so truly
Our Special Days. It doesn’t seem to matter whether there is little or
much acknowledg­ment of the day by others; whether there is “loot” (as
the children put it) or not; wheth­er I am physically on “top” or “low.”
What­ever the weather, physically or emotionally, the fact remains that it
is my Day of Joy.
As a matter of fact, this year it was an­other of those fabulous days
when everyone, it seemed, outdid themselves in my behalf... A new
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dress from a sewing friend; a dinner-out with my Main-Street sister; let­
ters, cards, bookmarks, sheets, roses, Bic pens, purses, Peanuts books,
telephone calls, a pitcher, tea, a gift of money, doughnuts... It’s not right,
it’s not fair, I tell my­self, to be treated thus. But I love it, once a year. Oh,
yes, and that one Special Card!

The Special Card is one of the tall variety which, one senses
immediately, is not going to be complimentary. The innocuous “Happy
Birthday” on the outside is completed on the inside by “Old Tiger!” and
the appropriate illustration. The endearing words come from the college
son, and I get the message! His sheepish enjoyment of the family laughter
ensuing, assures me that: (1) the “tiger” image is not without some grain
of rele­vancy, and (2) he has some affection for the old girl anyhow.

Speaking of sons calling their mothers “Old Tigers”: I am reminded
of how often, around our table, there has been a frank, yet affectionate
“putting into their places” of the elders by the children. The Professor
usually laughs and adds weakly, “If I had talked to my dad like that...!”
But I think he really enjoys the fact that his sons can openly and with
good humor tell him off. Seeing how it has worked out under our own
roof, I must agree with Niebuhr’s observation: “An amiable disrespect of
parents is more compatible with love than an enforced obedience.”

The List as regards the summer activities of The Princess, made last
month with grit­ted teeth and grim inner determination, was not made in
vain. She does learn, with reasonable agility, how to run the applianc­
es; and she does so on marginal time be­tween baby-sitting, cooking,
sewing lessons, music practicing, and other personal and household
responsibilities. But I am reminded of my mother’s complaint, “It would
be so much easier to do it myself, but she’s got to learn!”—a complaint
I never fully appreciated till now. A complaint I thought I would never
make, even silently. But­mother to daughter to daughter—Life has come
full circle. And again I wonder how my mother managed to “keep her
cool.”

If a poll were taken, I think bleakly, standing in the door of our
daughter’s room, if a poll were taken among mothers of early-­teen
daughters, what would be the number-­one gripe? Surely, it would have
to be—­how could it be anything else—the state of their rooms. Unmade
beds. Dressers litter­ed with dirty hose, bottles and creams, hair­-rollers,
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On the Corner 1967
pictures, letters and books. Clothes lying in circles on the floor—untouched
since they were stepped-out-of. Clean skirts and sweaters thrown into a
corner with clothes ready for the hamper. Times like this I like to forget
that what I see here is only a little different from what my mother saw in
my room some thirty years ago. (The main difference—this girl has more
of every­thing to lie around.) But I am cheered by the observation of a
newspaper columnist, who says that any young girl of this age who keeps
a neat room is probably ab­normal and bears close watching; possibly the
services of a psychiatrist are indicated!

Hannah Greene’s I Never Promised You a Rose Garden is one of those
rarities, a book you read, but do not release from your con­sciousness for
days and weeks. Even months afterward, you happen to say to a friend,
or she says to you, “Have you read I Never Promised ...” and if you have
both read it, you are “en rapport.” Just plain fine writing, a sensitive
psychological approach, restraint, and integrity in character delineation
make this book the years’ best for the woman on this Corner.
August
Thine is the day, thine also the night;
thou hast established the Luminaries and the sun.
Thοu halt fixed all the bounds of the earth;
thou hast made summer and winter.
—Psalm 74:16, 17

After years of inactivity in this depart­ment, the Professor has become
a marrying parson. It is a month of weddings for us, and we both enjoy it.
The season opens ap­propriately with the wedding of two of his Seminary
students; following this, a student­-friend combination (students and
friends of both of us) enters the Holy Estate; then come two children from
two families of our friends. Each ceremony is simple and im­pressive in a
different way; each bears the unique stamp of the participants upon it.
We won’t soon forget that wedding in which the father of the bride
delivered the finest wedding meditation we have heard—­a sermon free
of the usual sticky senti­ments centered on bride and groom, and based
instead on an appeal that their com­mon commitment be one of caring for
the people around them. Maybe it takes a non-minister to get some fresh
breezes blowing in the wedding-sermon department!

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Story of a Family
So deeply involved were we both in the second wedding that we almost
felt like a third set of parents. These were our chil­dren, too—youngun’s
we had seen through four years of college, whose growing friend­ship we
watched with interest—who, singly and together, sat often around our
table. To help with their wedding seemed not just an honor, but a natural
outgrowth of our intertwined relationships.
And this was the wedding in which that vivacious Mother-Of-TheBride was in­volved—that one who long ago said some brave words about
Food at Weddings. Those words were fortified by deeds as we joined in
a most joyous and delicious wedding feast. All in all, it was an occasion
which, like a family wedding, not only called for a new dress for the
woman on the corner, but turned out to be an intense interval of grateful
worship.

En route home from the wedding, a young son retraced with me a
vivid part of my life—the early teens—as we stopped over for two jewellike days in one of my old-home communities. The rolling land­scape of
northern Illinois, all green and gold in the perfect August weather, could
scarcely have looked lovelier. Nor could I have had a better companion;
one sensitive enough to understand the depth of my feel­ing for these
homesteads, schools, groves, sidewalks, roads, churches and cemeteries.
Young enough to be curious and old enough to be appreciative.
Together we peered into the windows of the house where I lived with
Grandpa, a house scarcely changed from the early thir­ties when I first
came to it. Together we marveled as I noted that even the garden was in
the same place as when my mother last planted it, that the ferns still
grew around the porch, and that the woodhouse and garage were as
remembered, except for a general decay. The apple tree whose blossoms
reached into my upstairs window was gone, but otherwise, so little had
changed!
Together we studied the schools, the church, the old Shoemaker
homesteads, the tombstones in a cemetery full of relatives (including two
sets of his great-great-grand­parents and most of their children). Togeth­
er, then, we came back into the present as we visited with his uncle—my
brother—and relatives he never knew he had.
Reflecting on these two days, I realize that this eon has given me
the outstanding gift of my summer, a gift to cherish always: the sharing,
without sign of boredom or condescension, of a segment of his mother’s
past. It was a segment I have always re­membered with joy, but now the
joy has been multiplied because of its being commu­nicated to a child of
my own.
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On the Corner 1967

My private summer project has been to gather together all the old
“Hill Journals” and “On The Corners” in an orderly fash­ion, for the benefit
of the children. Non­readers of the column up to now, they may one day
enjoy following the family through the thicks and thins, and so I plan to
aug­ment our private family history in this fashion, eventually Xeroxing
copies for each. Today I make a check beside that item on the List: First
stage accomplished. All ma­terial gathered and prepared for copying.
The Xeroxing will have to come later, when we aren’t saving money for a
sabbatical.

At the “Singer Style Show” tonight, the yοung dressmakers appear in
their sum­mer’s handiwork and receive their awards. This mother, never
of any practical help to a sewing daughter, didn’t expect miracles, but
was delighted when her daughter’s dress was included in the top ten. I
couldn’t help feeling terribly inadequate, seeing these ten-to-fourteenyear-old girls model­ing their own dresses and exhibiting a skill which I
cannot approximate in my forties!

Today the women on our block met a charming new neighbor who,
with her fam­ily, has moved into the house several doors north of us.
When I discovered that she was an art teacher, I asked if she planned to
be teaching.
“Oh, no,” she replied, “not until Johnny is well settled in school, at
least—and that will be three more years. You see, if, when he’s grown, he
turns out well, I want some of the credit. And if he doesn’t turn out well,
I want to have the satisfaction of knowing that what happened wasn’t be­
cause of my neglect in those early years!”
It’s comforting, we middle-agers reflect, to meet new-fashioned young
mothers with old-fashioned ideas!
September
I would feed you with the finest of the wheat, and with honey
from the rock I would satisfy you.
—Psalm 81:16

September, a time of ripeness and cul­mination in nature, is, as usual,
the time for beginnings in the family. Back to school! From youngest
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Story of a Family
to oldest the pace suddenly changes. No more late sleeping. No more
ignoring of bells and schedules. No more refrigerator-raids at all hours of
the day.
The Little Feller becomes an all-day stu­dent at his special school;
the high­schoolers are off to a new start without a murmur; the college
boy, after an initial depression over his classes, changes his registration
and attacks his studies with more zeal than he has shown for years.
The Professor, too, is glad to be back in the classroom. For the Young
Marrieds, there is the continuing School of Patience—still waiting for the
visas they now fear may not come at all. The young man on the other side
of the world has a new school too—Vietnam. For the Woman on the Cor­
ner there is the School of Freedom: sud­denly to have 4 1/2 hours a day
to manage without interruption from the Little Feller is, she discovers, an
educational adventure.
What cheer a change of pace brings to the pilgrim! He knows he’ll
get tired again, and that what is now invigorating will in time become
burdensome. But for now I rejoice in the newness of life that Back-to­School brings. I recall the Shakespeare jingle which was our first little
boy’s first memorized verse:
Jog on, jog on the footpath way
And merrily hent the stile-a
A merry heart goes all the way,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.

It could not have been a lovelier day to say farewell to the uncle who
inadvertently introduced me to the World of Books by supplying me with
my first “very own” volumes back in the twenties. October’s Bright Blue
Weather was blowing around us on the hill, and even the somber trappings
of Death could not dispel the cheerful memory of that uncle leading our
singing with a flair comparable to that of only one other church chorister
I have known—“Prof.” Later in the day I took a quick sprint through the
halls of what our little fellows used to call “Da Punishing House”—and the
familiar faces and friendly hand­shakes recalled to me the joys of shared
life in this lively community. A few more hours on the Hill—with the
House we loved and the People we love, and the View that never failed
to send an empty gaze back full—then home. For this full day of joy and
sorrow I give thanks in the words of the canon we sang so many years
ago in chorus: “Oh life is good and death is good, O life is good and death
is good...”

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On the Corner 1967
Over the years, muses the Woman on the Corner, there have been
surprisingly few people who really rubbed me the wrong way. But at the
very top of that short list would be a group of people I could call “the
sentence-finishers.” Nothing annoys me like haying people finish my
sentences. In­variably such callous persons never supply what you really
would have said, had you been given the chance to say it. (Anyone with
enough sensitivity to know what you would have said, would have enough
sen­sitivity to let you finish in the first place!)
One of my most frustrating experiences with this happened years ego
when a well-meaning person asked me why I no longer wrote as much
as I used to. Then, without giving me a chance to answer, she said, “It’s
probably because...” followed by “You feel ...” followed by “Is it that you
don’t...” followed by “Or might it be. . .” All these suggestions were given
in rapid fire, and all were entirely off my wavelength.
If she had given me opportunity to utter one phrase in answer to the
initial ques­tion, she would have known my reasons. But the poor woman
closed the conversation after her final suggestion, and went away without
ever knowing why I don’t write as much as I once did. My one regret in the
ensuing blessed silence was that she didn’t know that she didn’t know.

There are days of activity when one doesn’t stop to think who he is
or why he is. There are days when one is riding high —all’s not only Right
with the world, but Great! There are days of anxiety, of wait­ing, of grief—
none of which one would ask for, but all of which can somehow strength­
en a person. But the days I dread most are the days like yesterday, the
Blah Days. I read the scribble of my lone journal entry for that day: “A
No-Person, waiting for the Button Molder....”

In the Dear Hearts and Gentle People Department the month was a
good one for us on the corner: a leisurely Sunday morn­ing breakfast with
our good “country cous­ins” and their All Girl Orchestra, the occasion
being the TV viewing of the CBS Special on the Mennonites; a late-intothe­-night, around-the-table session with Syl and Nancy whose superb
listening and speaking skills bring unexpected insights, and result in
some important decision-­making later; a dinner-out with my Main Street
friend (one of our usual semiannual flings staged on her birthday and
mine); coffee and catching up with Jill, home from Germany after two
years; the regular Thursday evening and Sunday noon fellow­ship with
our Young Marrieds; an on-the-­spot response to a Sunday night on-the­
-spot invitation from our friends on Wilson Avenue. Recalling these and
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other real meetings this month, I say—and it’s been said before, “Blest be
the tie that binds.”

The TV Special seems to us to be, along with the news broadcasts,
worth the price of having TV in the home. Tonight’s was the one we would
have hated most to miss: a program which proved, as one critic later
commented, that you don’t need all that money, stage-setting, costuming,
and people to produce a really good program. You need one man afire with
an idea. Eric Hoffer held us spellbound for an hour, just sitting in a chair
on a bare set, and talking. One didn’t need to agree with his ideas to be
overwhelmed with the vitality of his mind. After seeing and hearing him,
even the better TV programming suddenly seemed contrived, lackluster,
and not very Special at all.
October
The voice of the Lord makes the oaks to whirl,
and strips the forests bare;
and in his temple all cry, “Glory!”
—Psalm 29:9

At fourteen, her thoughts are not as available to me as when she was
four—nor would I want them to be. I remember, in bits and pieces more
vivid than the memories of any other period of my life, something of what
it was like to be fourteen. I remem­ber how I cherished the privacy of my
own room. I remember regarding my mother with affectionate tolerance,
the kind one reserves for the OLD or SIMPLE. I remem­ber looking into the
mirror oftener than when I was younger, seeing each blemish, whether
of inheritance or adolescence, and thinking my secret thoughts. It never
oc­curred to me what thoughts my mother may have had as she looked
at me.
But new I have a good idea of how my mother might have felt: She
saw her daugh­ter in all her wonderful fourteen-year-old­ness. She saw
the hiddenness, the love-hate ambivalence, the bursts of confidence,
the crushes, the new humor and independence. She also saw herself at
fourteen and made inevitable comparisons. And, in vignettes all around
the edges, she probably saw that nearly-grown-up-woman-child at vari­
ous stages of her growing up.
Today, while a fourteen-year-old girl stands at the mirror brushing
her long hair, I see a tousled, pajama-clad two-year-old sitting pensively on
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On the Corner 1967
the bare floor in a shaft of morning sunlight, dust beams dancing around
her bright-brown hair. And I hear the small voice answer my pedestrian
“What are you doing, Honey?” with “I’m jis’ sittn’ in the sunshine, helpin’
God.”

Report from the Dear Hearts and Gentle People Department: A busy
student nurse­-niece steps in long enough to stir up a zowie Mexican
cheese-dip, and stays to dunk Fritos with us in the smoky October
dusk.
The daughter of dear Idaho friends comes to scout a few eastern
colleges. However much we want her to decide on our college, however
captivated we are by her charm, we apply no pressure, probably because
we are cowards: What if she’d be disappointed later, and blame us? Much
as I admire and enjoy her, I seldom see my neighbor two doors north. So
on a chilly morning we arrange breakfast at Azars together, complete with
her small daughter who enjoys sam­pling various kinds of jelly, a cache of
which she has discovered on the counter right behind her while we have
been busy talking!
The birthday of a friend on Mishawaka Road brings together a handful
of women—her relatives and friends from twelve to seventy—on a sunny
Saturday afternoon.
And a young nephew, taking a breather from teaching in the Big City
spends the weekend with us. He is the perfect kind of guest—one who
does not need to be enter­tained, explained to, or dusted for but who just
moves into family status without orien­tation.

How long does it take to find a friend? How often can one count on
making a new friend? Friendship, I’ve often repeated, is a miracle. It can’t
be asked for or planned for. It happens. Years may go by without this
happening, however amiable one finds many of the people he meets. And
then one day, it happens, all unsuspected. Like this week, when we took
Ann to Holland, Michi­gan, to meet her next hostess, who would introduce
her to Hope College as we had introduced her to Goshen College. At
some time during the hour, as we sat drinking coffee in that living room,
rapport sprang up between two women, strangers. And I knew, and she
knew, though it was all unspoken, that the possibilities for friend­ship
were present; that if there should be further nourishing at any time in the
future, the seeds would grow.

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The understandings which the Little Feller has brought into our
sphere of thought and life have been many. One of the greatest is learning
just a bit how parents of such exceptional children feel. Sitting, not where
they sit, but near to where they sit, one soon identifies with their joys and
their fears, their compassion and their hostilities.
When we as foster parents begin to talk of a sabbatical, then there
begins for me a new anxiety: What will happen to the Little Feller? As I
mentally search among friends, relatives, church “brothers and sisters,”
I am dismayed to discover that I cannot think of one person why could or
would step forward and say: We will be glad to care for him next year! In
the ensuing emptiness, I think of all these parents to whom this question
must be a constant fear: “What would happen to this child if I should die?
Would anyone love him, if not for his own sale, if not for my sake, then
even for Jesus sake?” The anxious question echoes without an answer.
But there are miracles of love and accept­ance in the world. A telephone
call from a sister drops the bombshell: “We would like to come up North
for a year, live in your house, and take care of Bubu.” Whether or not the
arrangements can be worked out, I suddenly know once again that there
are still people in the world who believe in losing life to find life.

It was fourteen years age this month that one of my most memorable
reading adven­tures began. I had never read War and Peace, though I
had read allusions to it for years. In spite of the fact that never since the
age of six had I been a nonreader for any appreciable period of time, the
great size of this book was a formidable obstacle to that young mother of
fourteen years ago. There were six children, the eldest nine, the youngest
ten days. There was hand-to-­mouth living and an unfinished house.
But, as in any place, any situation, there was Time. And that Time
was mine to spend according to my priorities. I chose to spend some of
it on War and Peace. Each time I nursed the baby, I picked up the heavy
book also, and in bits of twenty min­utes, throughout the days of that
lovely autumn, I digested War and Peace. No book could have been more
suited to being picked up with pleasure, yet put down without a sense of
urgency to continue. Never before or since has it taken me so long to get
through a book. But it is the most vivid reading “experience’ of my life,
one remembered with warmth and gratitude.
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On the Corner 1967
November
The eyes of all look to thee,
and thou givest them their food in due season.
—Psalm 145: l5, RSV

The more I reflect on the emotion of gratitude, the more I see it as one
of the greatest endowments of the human personal­ity. To be grateful is to
be aware of the grace of life; to be truly aware of the grace of life is to be
gracious in one’s approach to persons pleasant or unpleasant, as well as
in one’s reaction to circumstances pleas­ant or unpleasant.
The Jews in their worship have retained this centrality of gratitude
far more than we Christians have: “Blessed” is the key word; “Baruch ata
Adonai”—“Blessed art Τhou, O Lord”—is the key phrase of every prayer.
The typical Jewish prayer repeats over and over, “Blessed art Thou who
givest ... who doest ... who bringest ... who createst...” Blessed, Blessed,
Blessed—“Baruch ata Adonai!”
Listening to a typical Protestant prayer on a Sunday morning there
are, to be sure, a few “We praise Thee’s”; but mostly the key words seem to
be: Give us...keep...watch over...endow us...fill us...be with... All perfectly
legitimate askings, but perhaps out of proportion to the praise. Thinking
on these things, my November prayer is simply, “Blessed art Τhou, O
Lord our God, King of the universe, from whose band poureth the grace
of life.”

“Baruch ata Adonai”: Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who giveth family
and friends. There was, this month, the afternoon hour of tea with my
neighbor-friend, before her open fire. (Baruch ata Adonai, for genuine
meeting.) There was the sixteenth birthday of our youngest son. (Baruch
ata Adonai, for sons and daughters!) There was Thanks­giving dinner
with Walter and Mildred, the house bursting with cousins and cousins’
children, and such good talk around the table. (Baruch ata Adonai!) There
was the pleasure of finding myself, at the orchestra potluck, seated beside
that second cousin who shares my first name, and with whom I enjoy
little more than a yearly chat, even though she lives scarcely more than a
mile away—Baruch ata Adonai!

“Baruch ata Adonai”: Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who giveth
responsibilities of mother­ing. To prepare the packages of books and sweat
shirts, of fruitcake and cookies, for the son across the world from us, and
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to an­ticipate his response is like participating in a sacrament. Grace is
present wherever love is present. (Baruch ata Adonai!)
To live in the timeless limbo of a hos­pital stay with the Little Feller
who doesn’t know what it’s all about; simply to be there when he calls at
night, to rub the back, give the water, sing the song—for this privilege,
too, one cries, “Baruch ata Adonai!” Not all women have the privilege of
comforting their children. Some mothers have to leave, and their children
in our ward cry quietly at night, too frightened to ask for help. For the
privilege of being a substitute mother for those who couldn’t stay—“Baruch
ata Adonai!”
“Blessed art Thou, O Lord,” who gives such strength and courage
and love to the parents of the deformed baby across the hall; to the father
who comes in each evening at six, dons the smock, and holds the child
with tenderness for several hours; to the mother who comes late, at
eleven, after work, and does the same. Gratitude is present wher­ever love
is present.

“Baruch ata Adonai!” Blessed art Thou, O Lord, for small joys
remembered. Today, unwrapping a piece of gum (a seldom thing for me) I
pause to consider the foil. Sudden­ly I remember what pleasure these little
pieces of tinfoil brought to me as a child. We would carefully peel off the
waxy white paper and, if we were very small, run with the foil to Mamma,
why would, by twisting it about her finger, fashion for us a tiny “fairy”
goblet, or a little cup and saucer. In a day when most of the children I
know have too many toys, too expensive ones, and too little time to enjoy
a fraction of what they have, I am grateful for the mem­ory of small joys,
of homemade toys—the foil cups, the tissue-paper-covered comb, the
clothespin fences, the oatmeal-box doll beds, the spool wheels, the stick
horses, the orange-crate desks.

“Baruch ata Adonai!” Blessed art Thou, O Lord! How often, during
my lifetime, have I had to express gratitude for the pleasures and the
instruction that have come to me through books. And today, coming across
my tattered first poetry anthology, I am overwhelmed by the memories
of books enjoyed as a child. Those were not the days of the plethora of
picture books which our own children enjoyed. Caldecott Medal books
were nonexistent, and people in our circles were not then aware that
there were such things as the Newbery Award Books (though I did read,
and love, Dr. Doolittle).
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On the Corner 1967
But even the indifferent and the poor books—by today’s standards—
gave me the Joy of Reading—a lifetime gift, as it turned out, and one of
the most important gifts any child can receive. There were all the “Series”
books: The Little Colonel, The Rover Boys, Elsie Dinsmore, The Bobbsey
Twins, Five Little Peppers, Grace Harlowe, and of course, later on, all of
Louisa May Alcott’s books, read many times. Then there were the awful
books from the Sunday school library (awful only in retrospect): Touching
Incidents and Remarkable Answers to Prayer (good for a cry anytime,
along with Elsie Dinsmore), and, in the same category, Mother, Home, and
Heaven! Later came Jane Eyre, St. Elmo, Old Curiosity Shop (my Dickens
favorite, read over and over as I identified with Little Nell). So it went, and
suddenly I was in my teens, in another world, and with new book-vistas
opening every day.
“Baruch ata Adonai!” Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who givest books for
the hand to hold and the eyes to read, and the mind to embrace!
December
Praise the Lord From the earth...
fire and hail, snow and frost,
stormy wind fulfilling his command!
—Psalm 148:7a and 8, ASV

At least once in every five years, I used to tell myself, a woman beyond
the age of thirty-five might do well to attempt some­thing she thought she
would never learn to do. As her age advances, perhaps the importance
of such an effort increases. Some may learn to drive a car, or take up
painting or tailoring or upholstering.
When I was thirty-five I proved to my­self that I could cut the boys’
hair, after all. I was nearly forty when I learned to swim. But now I am
long overdue for some new attempt. And the opportunity has come: each
Sunday afternoon I give to the Elk­hart Temple (Temple Israel) and begin
learning, painfully, the rudiments of the Hebrew language. Having joined
the class three weeks late, my first session leaves me all but hopeless. But
by the next week I have caught up with many in the group, surpassed a
few, and proved to my­self that I am not too old to learn a new language,
however slow my pace may be as compared to thirty years ago!

The Dear Hearts and Gentle People who entered our door this December
were fewer than usual. We had barely started on our “List” with that most
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refreshing Mr. Ruth as our first guest, when the flu struck—an unusual
occurrence at our house. (Ordinarily we seem to take the flu only in those
years when we’ve had flu shots!) It was also an occurrence which brought
the usual quick ministry of the Lady-Next-­Door—hot meals for those who
could eat, and a solicitation far beyond what our ills might call for. I am
repeatedly chagrined that this neighbor always seems to find out when
we are even slightly sick; yet she can have been in bed a week, and we
hear about it only after she has recovered. May­be, I tell myself wistfully,
among those who passed by the man who fell among thieves, just maybe
there was one who actually didn’t see the poor man, and so passed by on
the other side! Blessings, though, on those whom do see and respond.

Every Christmas, it seems, has a flavor of its own. Last year we were
happily flooded with guests, planned-for and un­expected. This year was
quite otherwise. There was a weekend in the hospital for the Little Feller;
there was family illness so general that scarcely anyone felt up to par for
much of the season. And so the List was finally abandoned. We wanted to
share our Christmas with this person, that family, in our home ... but we
didn’t. Still, there were the perennial joys.
As usual, Christmas Eve found us gath­ered for our Christmas
Family Occasion: a simple (soup) supper at a festive table, with everyone
“dressed up,” followed by gift-­opening in the living room. Since there was
little food, the table was flaming with candles—all we had in the house,
about thirty of them—and the Little Feller, in his Chinese cap, was awed
at the sight.
Just as we were ready to sit, his mother came with gifts for him. She
had not seen him for two years, and was hardly prepared for the little
guy who walked up to her politely, put out his hand and said “Hullo” to
the “Lady,” then joyously opened the gifts she had brought him. Later,
we told each other that if we had planned for her to come at a time when
she would be most impressed by his well-being, we would have chosen
that precise moment of the entire year. We were glad to reflect that her
Christmas must surely be happier for her knowing that the child she bore
is a loved, secure, and happy little boy.
But in all the candle-glow and deep joy we were aware of the missing
link. For that son whose Christmas away from us is in a land of war, of
danger, and, as he puts it, of “all the beauty gone”—for him we took a
roll of colored film, hoping thus to share a little bit of this, our Second
Christmas Eve Without Him. No one said it, but we wondered: Will he
indeed return to share again such an Eve with us? And we pray that he
shall.
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On the Corner 1967

A colleague has passed his German pro­ficiency and now he must
make good on an old promise: that those, who helped him shall be taken
out for dinner if and when. So, a crisp December evening finds us joining
him, his good wife, and the two Main Street ladies who helped him
most—in a gala, delicious dinner at a Michigan Inn. I always wondered
how Coq au Vin tasted! Now I know. I still wonder, though, whether that
heaped-up plate of smorgasbord appetizers (herring in cream, smoked
oysters, caviar, potato salad, cottage cheese, spiced apples, slaw, corn
relish, pickles, jello salads, macaroni salad, salmon and tuna salads...)
may have been respon­sible for my inability to fully enjoy the main course
which followed?

Ordinarily new houses leave me cool or lukewarm. At best, I may
admire a certain new house, yet have no twinge of covetousness, no wish
for such a house to replace the one we have. (I love our con­ventional
1926-or-thereabouts square white house on the corner. It is the kind
of house I had always wished to live in.) But the house where we visited
friends tonight was different. Though I didn’t covet it for my­self, I still had
to acknowledge that of all the new houses I’ve seen in the past twen­tyfive years, this is the one in which I could live most happily were we to be
ousted from our “Rudy Senger” house!

Each Christmas, indeed, has its distinct flavor, yet they all tend, in
retrospect, to flow together. If it were not for this jour­nal, I tell myself,
I could not distinguish one from another when I look back more than a
year. And yet the recalling of Christmas Memories is a common experience
of West­ern man; over the two thousand years since Christmas happened,
our literature has been enriched by such recollections. Even the TV
screen blossoms with an occasional special which somehow brings our
own memories into focus. Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory happily
was repeated again this season; and will be, one hopes, for many seasons
to come. Somehow this note of living remembrance, set against the awful
reality of the news broadcasts, helps to create a balance—to restore, per­
haps, the bit of hope we need to keep be­lieving that Love really is stronger
than Death.
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On
the
Corner 1968
January
Praise befits the upright.
—Psalm 33:16

The opening of what is planned as Travel Year for the family on The
Corner is appropriately celebrated among a galaxy of world travelers
gathered (not as world travelers, but as friends) at 1916 Woodward Place
for the Annual New Year’s Breakfast. Our own projected travels seem so
unreal that I do not hear much of the advice that comes my way. I can
only tell myself “A year from now, I may wish I had believed enough in our
plans to really listen!’’ As it is, I just sip coffee, eat Susan’s incomparable
rolls, and bask in the pleasant company of one of the most congenial
groups of people imaginable. The talk of such things as customs lists,
money problems, sanitary accommodations in Turkey, and Mother’s
nightly washbowl laundry duty in the hotels—all this talk swirls about
my head, interesting in the way such talk might be interesting to a person
who never plans to travel. “Blesses are those who have not seen, yet have
believed”? Alas, I am not thus blessed.

He went back to school today, the Little Fellow did, after a two-month
absence—an absence punctuated by two hospital stays, learning to live
with, then without a heavy cast on one leg, and learning to walk again.
If we had any doubts about how well he remembered his classroom, his
classmates and his teacher, or how he would respond, these doubts
dissolved the minute the door was opened. With a great cry of “Hullo!” he
opened his arms wide, tackling his teacher with hugs, and was in turn
tackled by his little friends “He’s back!” “He’s here!” His mamma standing
at the door, was completely forgotten, utterly ignored, and glad to be so!

Two end-to-end speaking appointments this month help me finally
to put into words some reactions which have been churning about in
my head for years. The first appointment was with a group of our own
church women, rural for the most part but like all the rest of us living in
modern homes in a modern age and for the most part content to do so!
The second was with The Woman’s Club, Afternoon Literature Section, of
our town. Both had asked me to discuss the same subject.
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On the Corner 1968
I came to the first group, and, being a little reserved myself (among
strangers), I waited for someone to talk to me. Finally I made a few feeble
attempts at conversa­tion, but they fizzled out. After my talk, during which
I was never sure if I had their attention—so few actually looked at me
while I spoke—two women who were particularly interested did move over
beside me and ask questions. A few women shyly thanked me as I left.
Most of their names I never learned. In spite of the envelope in my hand
which was supposed to be a gesture of appreciation, I felt that I had been
a complete flop.
The next day, at the Woman’s Club, I was immediately introduced
to all present, and as each additional member entered the room, special
introductions were made. As I talked, I had lively attention; and the apparent
emotional involvement ranged from spontaneous laughter, through smiles,
expressions of amazement and disbelief, nods of agreement, and shakings
of the head, to spontaneous tears. An energetic discussion followed all
through the social hour, and the women were too busy asking questions
to discuss the recipe for the dessert which was served. (I noticed, how­
ever, that they did make a point of asking the hostess about it before they
left.) One after another, every one of that roomful of women spoke to me
personally before she left, expressing sincere appreciation for this new
look into the world of mental retardation.
On the way home I tried to figure out what made the difference.
Was the speaker that much more scintillating the second day? Was one
group vitally interested, the other only casually? Were the “town women”
superficial in their expression of gratitude, the ‘‘country women” honest?
The answer to all of these, and other questions which I asked ins self was,
I was quite sure, No. Yet this is a pattern which has been often repeated
for me and for other women who occasionally speak to women’s groups in
our community. For me it points up one great lack often apparent (though
not always; some communities and many individuals are exceptions)
among our own church women.
It is not, I think, lack of interest in im­portant issues. It is not lack
of desire to communicate. (I knew these women were not unfriendly, but
perhaps just reserved in the presence of a stranger—as I was myself.) But
it is pretty evident that we have much to learn about graciousness, simple
good manners, taking the initiative with strangers. All our traditional
‘‘good works” we should have done, but we should not have left these
graces undone!
Should not the woman who can offer a beautiful prayer of thanksgiving
to the Lord also have the grace to give thanks to her friends beautifully
and sincerely? I ask the question not only of my readers, but of myself.
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Knowing the answer—for me, it least—I do resolve to work harder to break
down the wall of reserve behind which I, too, hide upon occasion.

I am grateful, at January’s end,
For the voice of an old friend speaking my name in that inimitable
fashion...
For the Big Snow, transforming plain little Goshen into an enchanted
fairy-tale village...
For the birthday of our Special Child, marking for us nearly five years
of special opportunities, graces and gifts...
For the weekend visit of an always-wel­come nephew who makes
himself at home without being told to do so—even lying on the floor to
watch TV...
For a really good TV drama, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good
Night”...
For a breakfast “out” with my neigh­bor...
For being included weekly in a small discussion group of mothers at
Aux Chan­delles—learning to sit where they sit and feel what they feel...
For, every night, a good book to read, even if I do fall asleep over it
after five minutes!
February
The righteous man is not afraid of evil tidings.
—Psalm 112:7a
February opens on a somber note for us here on The Corner. Each
day we watch the TV news with apprehension, and won­der as the Tet
Offensive unfolds, if we shall surely see the son and brother again. But
we do not worry, knowing how he would hate it, knowing it would help no
one. We just plain refuse to indulge in the waste of Worry over anything.
Weeks pass; then on a bright, cold day two good things appear in the
same mail: a letter announc­ing The Professor’s grant for study in Is­rael,
and—Oh happy Day!—a letter from The Besieged One in Saigon.
One Day of Grace is followed by another. Midmonth, suddenly there
comes the news for which our married children have waited over eight
months; the news they despaired of but which I doggedly persisted in
be­lieving would come (though that faith was thinning with each passing
day). The visas have arrived! By month’s end, “last” fam­ily gatherings
at her house and his house are over and we stand in the airport station
watching our children take the first step of the long journey (long only in
miles) to India.
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
The only way Evelyn Underhill felt she could really help people
spiritually was to “get them one at a time.” The only way, I’ve found, to
really meet anyone is to meet them one at a time. And so I have long ago
elected to avoid, whenever possi­ble, the mass meetings and to arrange
instead to meet people individually. But this does take arranging! Much
of the auto­matic fellowship of the past is long-gone.

Granted that large groupings are some­times indicated, necessary,
and enjoyable; granted that we sometimes receive our first important
introductions to a friend at such a meeting. Still if we are to learn to
speak to each other on another, deeper, level, we have got to meet face to
face, unhurriedly. And if such depth in friendship is de­sirable, we have
got to make room for it. No longer will such room appear auto­matically.
How many potentially deep, strength-giving friendships never develop
simply because we do not consider them important enough to make time
for them!

Valentine’ s Day, often neglected at our house since the days of the
Valentine Box have been left behind by our teenage fam­ily (though I
most always plan—too late—to make at least a red dessert that night!)—
Valentine’s Day turns out to be a celebrated day this year. Carnations
from Tim and Kari give fragrance “to all that are in the house”; one of the
best pictures yet of the Little Fellow is presented, attractively enlarged,
by the Eldest, why is experimenting with his new camera. His wife brings
an international cookbook we have been wanting and in return for all this
bounty I give the family—a perfectly ordinary dinner.

Sometimes we get a little weary of reading and hearing about the
generation gap, and of how parents and teenagers should strive to
communicate. We weary of the endless gimmicks suggested to effect such
communication, and the cries of “Alas!” when the gimmicks don’t really
work.
Remembering my own teen years, and how unthinkable it was for
me to discuss my inner life with even an understanding mother (though I
did discuss it freely with my friends and even some people of my mother
s generation!) I am not about to flip because my own teenagers evidently
feel the same reserve.
Let the counselors and the pastors teach parents how to “leave the
doer open”—yes! (Though how one is suddenly taught this when his
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children are in their teens escapes me. I would think that such an opendoor policy must have its beginnings at the beginning of parenthood
and before!) But given an open door, no teenager, no parent, should feel
guilty if the youngsters choose not to walk through it, should they? Is
not this the age when they should be forming attachments outside the
home? When they should be questioning sharply the set of values handed
down to them? When they should begin to “leave father and mother” in
hundreds of little ways so that when the big leave-takings are indicated
they can be really free to leave? (Or better—free to really leave?)
I’ll admit that I too would like to know, oftener, what our four teenagers
are think­ing. But if I would know, it could be an indication that certain
strings which have to be cut in order to make their personhood possible
are not being cut on schedule. Then, too, I remember my own youth, my
mother’s acceptance of my silences and my contrariness, and my own
natural, un­conscious return to confiding in her—confid­ing, however, no
longer as child to mother but as person to person.

I am grateful, looking back over February, for a chance to tell, once
again, a group of churchwomen about our Special Child and his Special
School…
For a Saturday lunch with our two “adopt­ed” young-marrieds, J and
J...
For a shared breakfast with Carol at which we compare ideas about
fourteen­-year-old daughters...
For good foreign-car mechanics like Gus, who rescue us from the
clutches of slick garages...
For the letter of that young man in grad­uate school who seems to
think it entire­ly normal and natural to communicate occa­sionally with a
gray middle-ager on a cor­ner…
For (yes, again) Bic pens and the man who dispenses Bic pens—this
time with a great flair in honor of our projected sabbat­ical!
For adventurous children who are not tied to Mother, Home, and The
Great American Way of Life…
For a brilliant young Miles accountant who, week after week, gives
an evening to a few dull people struggling to learn to speak a little modern
Hebrew.
March
Let not those who hope in thee be put to shame through me.
—Psalm 69:6a
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On the Corner 1968

One symbol which has had increased mean­ing for me over the years
is “the cup.” I have a friend who, whenever she came through our town,
would bring a lively Bone China cup for me as a gift. (I wish I had all those
cups from her and other friends! Some women I know keep theirs intact by
carefully doling their use for spe­cial occasions. But The Professor prefers
to have every cup of coffee served to him in one of those cups. “If it breaks,
I can always buy you anther,” he says. Indeed he can—but though they
do eventually chip, crack, or break, he never has bought a replacement!
For some reason, each new cup I receive, each special cup from which I
drink, recalls for me the varied symbolism of The Cup over the centuries:
“The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup”; “My cup runneth over’; “In
the hand of the Lord there is a cup, with foaming wine, well mixed...”;
“I will lift up the cup of salva­tion”; “Father, if it be possible, remove this
cup...”; “... and likewise [he took] the cup, and gave thanks.”
The cup of suffering, the cup of joy, the cup of salvation, the cup of
judgment, the cup of fellowship, the cup of blessing—; whenever I give
or receive a cup as a gift, whenever I held a cup in my two hands (not
properly by the handle!) and drink in the presence of loved ones, I am
remembering the old and rich significance of The Cup, remembering that
“Likewise he took the cup and blessed it.”

One of the recurring phenomena of all times, a phenomenon
appearing once again in our day, is long hair for males. An inter­esting
mental pastime is to note what kind of people get hot-and-bothered about
it, see it as a moral issue, and wonder why “such good parents” allow their
sons to wear their hair so long! In my observation, a good many of such
objectors have, or would be amenable to having, pictures of Sallman’s
Christ—long wavy hair and all—­hanging in their homes. Not only that,
but they probably have pictures of their grand­fathers as young men with
furry sideburns and hair equally as long as many of those on today’s
streets. And yet, to them, this latest bid for longer hair is a moral issue!
In the meantime, I can’t restrain a certain feeling of smug satisfaction
as I see hordes of our girls with long, so-called “hippy” hair, going scotfree! It’s about time they got off the hook! Still, one wishes wistfully that
those who object to the longer-­haired or bearded young males might listen
to them and find out just why they elect to count themselves out of the
clean-barbered-­middle-class-crowd in this way.

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We had planned, the three of us, to meet again after more than ten
years. We could barely believe that all the wrinkles were ironed out, that
our schedules really meshed—but there it was: Esther had her plane
ticket, I had our VW, and we would meet at Arlene’s. That weekend, after
two weeks of near-perfect spring weather, had to be the time when a last
winter storm descend­ed viciously on the one little pocket of Pennsylvania
where we planned to meet! Was it too mach to ask? After consolatory
phone conversations with the one whose plane did not take off, the
two of us remain­ing settled down to a weekend of rare fel­lowship. In
a snowbound limbo which blotted out family responsibilities, time, and
future plans, the two of us tightened up and made shipshape an old
friendship, and ventured into new waters with mutual understanding,
honesty, and compassion. Reflecting, on the journey home, I reiterate that
a rare friend­ship doesn’t “jis grow.” It needs nurturing, time, attention.

March over, I AM GRATEFUL.
For deadlines which stir one out of apathy and eventually result
in a glow of accomplishment, no matter how insignificant the task
completed.
For orthodontists who, besides doing what must be a rousing business
with people whose children have miner cosmetic irregu­larities in their
teeth, can make possible a decent bite and a bit of self-confidence for the
boy or girl who at one time was called (behind hands) Buck-tooth.
For our young married friends who stomp in every time they hit our
town. What a lift to a couple who now openly admit that they have passed
from the young-adult category to the Middle-Aged catch-all!
For women like Marcia who can turn a piece of English wool into a
respectable gar­ment for a lady twice her age who never ventured beyond
aprons, curtains, night­gowns, and housedresses.
For the technology that can develop tape-­recording, marvelous device
whereby one can hear the voice of a Saigon son, complete with sniffles
(“I’ve got this cold I can’t shake, Mom”) and all the inflections, imper­fect
pronunciations, and wondrous modula­tions which remind you that he
is still very much the kid who left home two years age. And to be able to
hear that voice not once, but over and over!
For one zany friend who is not wise and sensible about money! We’ve
occasionally met a really miserly person, or a spend­thrift of the common
variety, but most of our friends are like us—just middle-of-the-­roaders
who try to take care of their money, balance the books, and spend, save,
and give in moderation. But there’s this woman who, though she no
longer has a husband to pick up the pieces after her, simply ignores
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On the Corner 1968
money. She has no idea how much she has in the hank just puts it in and
takes it out. She hands a blank check to a repairman, hoping to avoid
embarrassment. When the paperboy comes, she rifles drawers, baskets,
cupboards, sure she will find a bit of money she has stashed somewhere.
(She does.) Lately she found, in an old book, a fifty-dollar check dated
twenty years age. New this week she sends a tenner for me to give to
one of our children. Found it stuffed in a glove in the back of a dresser
drawer, and didn’t know what to do with it!
April
Lord . . . let me know how fleeting my life is!
—Psalm 39:4

When a man dies, the significance of his life suddenly appears in
bold relief. We on our corner had nothing to add to the words written and
spoken concerning the great man who was assassinated in Memphis.
But we too watched, and we prayed and suffered with our countrymen
black and white who truly mourned the violent death of an apos­tle of
nonviolence.
We flinched at the casual remarks of “Christians” on the street and in
stores: “Well, he asked, for it!” And we were glad to note that our children
were even more deeply moved at this man’s death than at the death of
that young president with whom they had identified.
We supported the fourteen-year-old who, with another friend,
canvassed the commu­nity for funds to stock the Martin Luther King
Memorial Shelf which they themselves initiated in their local school.
There are all kinds of ways to show our sympathy for these who mourn;
such constructive action, we feel, is a good way, and we are proud that
they thought of it and carried it through.

One of the projects which I’ve relegated to our sabbatical year is an
article concern­ing, in part, a segment of my mother’s girl­hood. The whole
project would be impossible unless I had access to the knowledge which
only she or one of her sisters could give me. She is gone, and of her five
sisters and three brothers, only the two youngest sisters are left. But one
of them, bless her! lives in our town. On several pleasant April mornings
we sit and talk about the life of a teenager around the turn of the century.
After next year I hope to reward—with a finished article—the patient aunt
who for hours reached back into her memory for my sake. But even if
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the article never appears, I think we both enjoyed the journey we took
together.

A medical checkup! With what dread, at times, we approach it,
putting it off at the slightest pretext; yet with what relief we usually read
its results. It’s like being given, suddenly, the promise of good health for
an indeterminate time. Important as it is to get a regular checkup in ease
one or more of the diseases one dreads has actually invaded the body, I
think it’s almost as important to go simply for peace of mind!

Our twenty-fifth anniversary passed quietly, as we wished, with only
a little late-night dessert with the family, our per­ennial guest, and the
one member (with her husband) of the original wedding party who lives
in our town. But I did, as projected, wear my long white dress, and wear
it with­out making any alterations. I couldn’t re­frain from remarking a bit
smugly that this one feat impossible to many of my college friends who,
twenty-five years ago, were much slenderer than I.

Easter morning she sang, “O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?” and the
choir rejoined with the joyous “But Thanks Be unto God.” When, after
the service, I told her I couldn’t figure out who that attractive young girl
in the choir was until she opened her mouth, she laughingly accused me
of trying to earn two pieces of pie. Easter evening, around her table, she
with her husband shared her remarkable parents with us and another
friend. There was candlelight, laughter, good conversation and, among
other delicacies, two kinds of pie.
Two weeks later on a bright Sunday morning I sat again around
her table with other disconsolate friends and with her mother. All her
brightness and buoyancy, all her gaiety and wit, all her exuberant
comments on almost any subject, all her beauty and charm were—
unbelievably—absent, and I knew again how utterly death can change
the scene.
Yet it was her own parents who con­stantly reminded us all, in the
way in which they conducted themselves, in the way they planned the
memorial service, in the way they faced the reality of her death and
helped her children and husband and friends to face it—it was they
who reminded us that Death does not have the last word to say about
Life. Though mourning their only child, they comforted us all with their
wis­dom, their sanity, their faith, and even in their grief they gave us
immeasurable gifts.
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On the Corner 1968

April has come and gone, and I AM GRATEFUL:
For anniversaries—all kinds, whether they be of a birth, a wedding,
or a death. They make one stop and think about the significance of the
event which is remembered, and often they evoke memories which are the
bearers of grace.
For—yes, TV! which brings, along with and in spite of all the poor
variety pro­grams, trashy soap-operas, sagas of violence, and endless
commercials, also a sense of moral involvement with the shaking and
shaping events of our shrinking world. We couldn’t be among the crowds
who several years ago heard a man cry, “I have a dream...” but we saw
and heard it all in the aftermath of that man’s tragic death, and we knew
that somehow we were im­plicated in that death.
For our Trefoil MYF—for the vitality they inject into our church life,
the hope they represent, and the faith they vindicate; for the program
then gave us, recalling their service week in Chicago over Spring Vacation,
and the accompanying fellowship they and their sponsors planned and
executed. If all teenagers were like these teenagers, we could trust anyone
under twenty!
For the privilege of being a foster parent, whether or not it carries
with it—as it did for the first time the other night—being a guest at a
banquet given for all the foster parents of Elkhart County!
For a supper invitation to a colleague’s home, where we are introduced
to the charming Dutch theologians who have spent the spring in our
seminary community.
May
The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me.
—Psalm 138:8

Years age I read a book about prayer in which the author, opening the
subject of problem-solving prayer, stated three possible ways of facing a
difficult situation: to run away from it, to fight it, or to face it with honesty
and to concentrate on finding a way through it. Today I asked the school
psychiatrist if it would not be easier for the Little Fellow if, rather than
sub­jecting him to the devastation of seeing us board a plane and leave
him behind, we should simply “disappear” while he is in school. Though
the good doctor was careful to give no directives, he did convince us that
even a small, retarded child should be allowed to face reality; that grief
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Story of a Family
should be openly acknowledged; that a vague disap­pearance is harder
for a child to bear than an open abandonment. Even young children, he
feels, should not be spared in the event of a death in the family. They
should be allowed to see it through and thus to sense its finality. (The
doctor should know. His own four young children in this way faced their
mother’s death.)

At last, today, I just did it. After months of furtively noting that those
curtains on the shelf still needed to be measured and hemmed, months
of quickly closing the door with “Later”—after months of dread­ing a job I
hate—I did it! What a catharsis! What an expansive, pleased-with-oneself
euphoria results from doing the nasty little job that has nagged you for
so long!

Having had, in February, that personal—and just a bit hair-raisingaccount of the Tet Offensive, describing in detail some of the dangers
the relief workers faced or could possibly face in the future, I am a little
bothered as the new May Offensive opens in Saigon, more bothered, in
fact, than the first time, though this one is not supposed to be so severe.
Now I know too much! I insist that I do not worry, yet for several nights,
sleep evades me. And so I creep downstairs, and into the wee hours I
manage to push aside anxiety by concen­trating on making a “book” for
a friend. This woman has much more to grieve over, much more to be
anxious about, than I have. The book may not be what she needs just
now, but it is what I need!

Having been foster parents for a number of years, we have wished
in vain that one—just one—family from among our friends here would
be in the fraternity with us. For my part, I’d like to be able to share
this experience as women talk to each other about their recipes, their
teenaged sons’ appetites, their “busy schedules”—all these things they
have in common. But the years have gone by, and though we have met
many fine foster parents in our community, not one of them was from our
own im­mediate circle of friends. When the Welfare Department sent out,
through our WMSA, an urgent call for foster homes, especially homes for
Negro children, we were delight­ed. Surely now, we thought, there will be
some who will welcome this chance to carry out, at a most basic level,
their strong beliefs concerning the racial crisis!
Weeks went by, and we guardedly asked People Who Knew if anyone
had stepped forward. The reply was No.
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On the Corner 1968
Tonight my cup runneth over! We arrive early on Wilson Avenue,
where our Bible study is meeting to say good-bye to several of the group
(we’re included) who are leaving town. The celebration will include
homemade ice cream, strawberries, and cake, plus all that good talk,
including Hank’s stories and Lon’s repartee. As soon as we enter the door
however, we focus on two brown mites—twins of two-and-a-­half though
they look much smaller—who have been the center of attention in this
home since their sudden arrival three days ago. It takes no more than
three days for these people to get a feel for some of the delights of foster
parenthood, and when we talk briefly at the door as we leave, it occurs to
me that we are no longer alone on this particular desert island!

I am grateful that May is over, but grate­ful too: for all the ceremonial
eatings-to­gether of May: for the Seminary-Women’s Breakfast, the FacultyWomen’s Coffee, the Seminary-Faculty s Salad Supper, the Faculty
Banquet, and our church’s annual Junior-Senior Banquet for Parents
and their Juniors and Seniors. However hard these may be on the diet,
they are still a pleasant part of each May in our college community. And
this spring there are the added farewells which might be unsettling were
it not that I really cannot believe in our going!
For the nonceremonial eatings-together as well: breakfast with Ruth,
lunch with Esther and Mary, afternoon coffee with Miriam, dinner with
Tim and Kari, supper with the Duecks at Granger…
And for the highly unceremonious eatings-­together around our
own table with Semi­narians, with Moslem and Christian Arabs, with
Dutchmen, with Afro-Americans, and ex-Amish, with the Thursdaynighter, and mainly with the usual tableful of argumenta­tive teenagers
whose facial features betray their parentage.
For an hour with Elizabeth and her fabulous collection of
autographs...
For the fact that no one asks me, these days, “What are you reading?”
If they did I should have to say, “Small parts of the newspaper and The
Christian Century.”
And I am truly grateful for shots, immuni­zations, injections,
vaccinations—all these necessary preparations which make it
possi­ble for prospective travelers to bore their friends for weeks
with descriptions of pain, fever, discomfort, and even immobility!
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Story of a Family
June
The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in...
—Psalm 121:8

“I won’t believe it until it happens.” This is the stubborn answer
repeatedly given by the Woman on the Corner to the repeatedly offered
question: “Aren’t you excited about your trip?” Actually, excitement is
precluded by more than unbelief. In the first week of June, Commencement
past, my Big Sister comes to do all those time-consuming little things
which I had hoped to do: hemming up skirts, sewing on snaps, planting
the tiny flower garden by the kitchen door, ironing, packing away, and
making sure that food is on the table at the appointed time. Meanwhile
I am so overwhelmed by final preparations for the Congo-bound son,
last-­chance celebrations with neighbors and friends, appointments with
doctors and den­tists, that I barely manage to say thank you, let alone to
commune with this won­derfully giving person. I just accept, accept.

Robert Kennedy is shot and is buried and again we watch the horrible
drama on TV, hardly able to believe that three such simi­lar dramas could
be played out before us in the space of five short years—two of them
within a few months of each other. We begin to wonder why anyone would
register concern at our leaving for “such a hot-spot as Israel.” Where,
indeed, is one safe from violence?

Our Middle One leaves the nest, and I feel somehow that he has
been cheated of extra attention which he should have had and which we
were unable to give, in the midst of our own preparations. But after the
long days, when all the others are in bed, I work late into the nights to
finish a special book for his coming birthday: there are some things more
important than trip preparations, and this is one. “Blue Is the Color of
My Life’’ is a tiny sliver of Self, and I know that this One will recognize it
as such.

The Little Feller starts back to school again, unaware of the meaning
of all this hubbub, unaware that the new family which has arrived (and
to whom he responds en­thusiastically) will be the Important People in
his life this coming year. Quietly that family slips into our household,
gently yet firmly taking over his care, as we go on about our last flurry of
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On the Corner 1968
packing, weighing, wondering if those Russian visas will come through,
and copying itineraries at the last minute when we are assured that they
will be waiting for us either in New York or Copenhagen.

There is a last breakfast at Azar’ s with the Tall One who is staying
behind. There is a last open house in honor of the new Family on the
Corner. (It is punctuated by cloudbursts, but nonetheless gay.) There is
a final frantic ten minutes at the train station as we wait (because of our
own stupidity) for our baggage to arrive in an­other car.
Then there is a rush of inadequate fare­wells; there is rain. And
through the rain streaking the window of the coach I see a bewildered
little boy struggling in the arms of his aunt, thumping his chest with that
eloquent forefinger, and surely saying, “I go too!” I see, too, a tall blond
boy looking suddenly much younger than I had thought. The world blurs
and I think: It is true; we are really on the way. How could I leave them?

And now the last week of June brings many Firsts to the four of us
travelers. For three of us it is the first experience in air travel (we have an
excellent view of the wing). For all of us it is the first time we have picked
up a factory-new car, a dia­mond-blue VW Variant which we are sure will
never reach our destination intact if all the driving we encounter is as
erratic as that in Luxembourg. (Alas—we find that Luxembourg drivers,
in comparison with those of Brussels, Antwerp, Istanbul, and Jerusalem,
are tame indeed!) For all of us it is our first real taste of Europe: a multi­flavored feast.

Our first night on the terra firma of Eu­rope is flavored with fear and
anxiety. But morning appears—and Brussels—and Bob Otto, who comes
to the rescue of our two very sick children by directing us to a physician
and his high-powered prescrip­tion. Not only, but also! This Friend-in­need further insists that we occupy Foyer Fraternel for the night, at the
usual MCC hostel-pittance; and once we have put the sick children to bed,
he and his good wife take us out on the town—to the Grande Place; to a
coffee-house brimming with “ambience”; but most of all, into the warmth
of their fellowship. They have made the difference between hateful and
grateful memories of this great city. And long after our travels are over we
will continue to say: Beyond the thrill of sites and sights, of seeing places
which before existed only in books, of hearing famous bells, touching
centuries-old stones—beyond all this was the simple joy of meeting those
whose life-­center is the same as ours.
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
The city is Amsterdam. The hotel is crummy. (By the time we find
it—for we are late arriving here, thanks to that Antwerp traffic—the best
places have been picked by tourists similar to us, many of whom we bump
into on the narrow canal streets as we and they walk along with noses in
Europe on Five Dollars a Day, craning necks now and then to check an
address.) But it is Amsterdam. The real, true Am­sterdam! And in spite
of the crumminess of the place, we are glad to be here, and glad that we
can all be in one room, for we still have ailing youngsters to care for. Here
on the Heerengracht our window faces the canal, and we can watch the
excursion boats slipping by through the murky water. We can—and do—
walk to the fabulous flower market and to the Mennonite Church on the
Singel; to the Anne Frank Huis on Prin­sengracht. We can hear the chimes
from Westerkerk—the ones Anne Frank heard in her attic room.

The casement window is open toward the canal, and as I idly watch
the boats pass, or absorb the sounds of humanity and its machines in
the narrow alley below, I sud­denly realize that none of this seems strange
at all to me. Wherever I turn, whatever I see or hear (even that swooping
landing, when, between the walls of hills on either side, the patchwork
countryside of Luxembourg rushed up to meet us)—all seems faintly
familiar, and much seems commonplace, as if this were only one of many
European trips for me! The answer must surely be that I have been here
before.
And I have. A lifetime of reading, read­ing, reading can be more
informative than travel itself. Such reading has a way of seeping into the
subconscious, surely. And now I see that though travel can be a great
privilege in itself, it can hardly give the wealth of experience which reading
offers. I see too that all one’s past reading flows into and illuminates the
experience of travel. Suddenly I realize that the great gift has not been
this one year of travel ­but 40 years of the exquisite joy of reading. To
one whom has read even moderately, travel may turn out to be merely
a bonus; and hardly a spot on earth will appear completely strange to
him.

The Land of Goshen is far away. And the two boys left behind? They
belong to a world somehow no longer real. Yet once in a while in the midst
of wonder (perhaps over the unbelievable price of fifty cents for 20 roses
in the Flower Market on the Singel) or delight (perhaps over seeing in the
Rijksmuseum the original of that print on our dining-room wall)—once
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On the Corner 1968
in a while, in the midst of wonder, delight, recognition, I suddenly get
a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and seem to hear a small
midnight voice: “Mama, Wadda!” or see a shock of bright blond hair being
flung back out of blue eyes, in that Tall One’s char­acteristic gesture.

The June of Junes is over and I am grate­ful:
—for dreams come true
—for hopes realized in spite of unbelief
—for insights, meetings, recognitions, hidden memories, resulting from
the privilege of Travel
—for all those who wanted this dream to come true for us, and who,
in so many ways large and small, helped to make it happen: friends,
neighbors, relatives, colleagues, travel agents at MΤS—all of them!
—for the Special People who moved in to give us the greatest gift of all:
free­dom from anxiety about a home for that Special Boy.
July
The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof; the world and
those who dwell therein.
—Psalm 24:1

Notes from a Travel Diary…
Waterhuizen, Netherlands: Breakfast at the Scandinavian Inn was—
at last—what Europe on Five Dollars a Day promised we might expect in
Holland: superb coffee, jam, bread, butter, boiled egg, ham, and cheese.
And everything so clean! ...The bicycle paths along the road are tempting.
People of all ages are riding here, yet rarely does one see a woman or even
an eye-catching young girl in shorts or slacks. Even on their bikes and
with slim skirts, they are remark­ably graceful and modest, The Daughter
vows to return with her friends—after grad­uation from high school—to
take a motor­bike tour here.
Rothenburg, Germany: Having bought a blue earthenware milk
pitcher and a blue plastic bucket (the latter for cup-washing) we sit in
the square of this quaint town watching the very German inhabitants
stroll by. We are waiting for the VW (like a baby, in for its first checkup)
to be ser­viced. Suddenly I realize that I haven’t thought of that AmericanWomen’s-Pre­occupation since leaving home! And that is understandable,
since nearly all the women I see on the streets are at least as thick as I
am—and many of them thicker.
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Fredericia, Denmark: With the help of Sven’s map we had no
difficulty finding Annelise’ s grave. The Arent plot is a charming place—
graveled, as all the graves are—with markers of natural boulders rather
than angular, cut stones. Bright flow­ers blaze here—cacti, marigolds,
geraniums, daisies, all arranged in stylized but abso­lutely lovely manner.
How can I forget Fredericia, so long a part of me, the home of my long-dead
pen-friend? (The children will remember Fredericia for the incomparable
hot dogs—mild wieners dressed in deliciously seasoned sauce, and crisp
with french-fried onions!)
Copenhagen, Denmark: The lights, the flowers, the fountains, of
Tivoli Gardens at dusk are just short of being garish: but along with the
acrobats flipping through the air, the music coming from the orches­tra
shell, the people eating and drinking in the open cafes—they get through
to us, reminding us that we are observing a Na­tional Institution. The
pantomime we watch is in itself not all that unique. But what is special
is the spectacle of the thousands of people watching it: fathers with
sweatered little boys on their shoulders, old Danish dames smoking cigars,
whole family groups of fair-haired, golden-skinned, charmingly clean and
happy people all caught up in this familiar but delightful horseplay. Most
striking to me in this horde of humanity swirling about in Tivoli and on
Copenhagen streets is the almost total absence of bad taste—not a hair
curler! No shorts or tight pants at all! Some mini-minis, to be sure—and
a few pant-dresses. But one feels as if each person naturally wishes to
honor himself and others by appearing at his best.
Vorgorda, Sweden: The Nelson home speaks eloquently of Inga and
Margit, as well as of all the family members who are not here. With a
charming abandon they have decorated their walls with anything they
like—prints, magazine pictures, snap­shots, baubles, and little nothings
which have special meaning for them. One recognizes here a freedom
from all that “nice” attention to what is “proper and in good taste.” Yet all
is, somehow, evocative of human warmth and grace—which is so much
more appealing than “propriety.” Woolen fabrics of warm yellows and
browns cover chairs and couches—these have come from Birgit’s loom,
standing empty now. A spherical mobile, made of wheat heads stuck
into clay, hangs above our beds. I can’t help but envy such everyday
creativi­ty as I see all around me here. The Farmor (grandmother: father’
s mother) asked the blessing on the food, and put questions to us, Inga
translating. Who will be the next President, do you think? What will hap­
pen in Vietnam? Her response to the latter was whispered sadly: “Only
Christ can help.” As we prepared to leave in the rain, Inga bicycled off to
work, the Farmor gave me a postcard picture of her son’s church, and
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On the Corner 1968
Margit asked us to “greet Papa and Mama” for her when we should see
them at Uppsa­la.
Uppsala, Sweden: As we walked toward the cathedral I recognized
her immediately—Birgit, the lovely, vital woman I had known only
through photographs and the fond descriptions of a son who spent a few
unforgettable weeks in her home. Yngve too, and their daughter Karin,
charmed us from the first moment, and we were at once old friends.
First they showed us around the Domkyrka, where Birgit and I lit can­
dles at the Martin Luther King Memorial Sculpture in the vestibule. (The
sculpture­—on display during sessions of the WCC—bears a striking
symbolism of hope: can­dlesticks rising out of a bonze, shattered globe, a
“broken world.”... Then the four of us—Yngve, Birgit, The Professor, and I
­strolled through the nearby cemetery where many of Sweden’s Greats are
buried. We searched for Dag Hammerskjold’s grave (they hadn’t seen it
either) and though none of us are “grave-watchers” we all found it moving
to stand there and remember his greatness and his faith.
Hamina, Finland: In the Market Square, a vacant lot set squarely
in the middle of the town, everyone was setting up his stall. The gypsies
were there in their bowed wagons; horses and dogs and people were
freely mixing their odors; and for the first time we sensed that we were
approaching a culture quite alien to that of the Western world from which
we had come. We shot a few pictures, bought some indigestibly greasy
pastry, and were off through the wooded countryside, past the houses
with ladders. (Is fire a particularly Finnish hazard? If not, how does one
ex­plain these permanently installed ladders leading up to the chimney of
every little hut, every grand estate?)
Vyburg, USSR: We had been told at the border that, contrary to
Intourist information, we could NOT get insurance and rubles there, but
at Vyburg. At Vyburg, where we found Intourist with difficulty, we were
told that we must go to Leningrad for insurance. When we bought our
benzin tick­ets and exchanged money, our rubles and kopeks came from a
rickety drawer (in a rickety table in an unbelievably unbusiness­like office)
where all denominations of bills and coins lay in untidy, helter-skelter
dis­array, as if dumped there from some giant change purse, and the dour
attendants calculated change on an abacus. The huge station that houses
Intourist was, like all other buildings in sight, austere, uncom­promising,
closed off…
Leningrad, USSR: Repino camp—our home for the next three nights!
Tent num­ber three, our own, is actually a little hut with a wooden floor
and waist-high wooden sides above which is a permanent canvas tentstructure. The beds are clean; the WCs though not quite as clean as
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described by Meyer Levin in that article—are ade­quate; we’re just glad
that our tent happens to be far removed from that corner of camp. Looking
for something to eat, we wander the great strange streets of Leningrad in
the rain, baffled by the lack of any indication that here...or here...is a
restaurant into which one could go, sit down, order, and eat some hot
food.
Finally, we sit a young fellow wearing a McCarthy button. I run
after him, to the kids’ dismay, and ask for help. He is a young American
here on a six-week study tour. He knows the language, but can’t help
us much. He and his fellow students also have trouble finding food, he
says ruefully, but he himself practically lives on the ice cream sold on the
streets. “It’s really very good,” he adds hopefully. So, having clued him
in on the latest news about the McCarthy campaign (two weeks ago)—we
persist until we find an ice cream kiosk. And now we each clutch a gray
little cup of hard, maple-flavored stuff that is sur­prisingly good.
We stand there, huddled with a gray mass of Leningradians, under
shelter of an en­trance to a great gray stone building. And the gray rain
continues steadily. The Hermitage, a fabulous building in itself, apart
from its art collection, was built as the winter palace of the tsar. We found
our­selves straining to see the pictures, yet lacking the courage to ask
one of those grim women (guards) to turn on lights. (Already at Repino
we had discovered that lights, rain or shine, go on around nine P.M.) But
Julie and Bobbie were with us. Thank God! And Julie—this charming,
knowledgeable, slightly brash New Yorker—approached the guard with
a curious blend of authority and courtesy, asking for a light. That guard
looked confused and incredulous—but she pressed the button! The light
was feeble, to be sure, and we enjoyed it only in that one room. Still, we
were delighted to discover that these grim, shapeless women who seem
to be in charge of everything everywhere, are “not of steel, but of granite:
their surfaces can be chipped, with the right tools!...
About 10:30 they came as they had promised, Ivan and his wife,
Vera, an attractive couple. I had earlier met him in the communal kitchen,
where he eagerly spoke to me, obviously anxious to use his English. From
them we learned much about the life of a typical professional person in
this country. Both highly trained in the medical profession—he a medical
specialist, she a pediatrician, their salaries together total about $250 per
month. No wonder they were astounded that we could buy a car and take
a trip like this! We discussed the price of Russian cars, the language
difficulties here, the services for tourists, the Vietnam War, the ArabIsraeli conflict: on all these, as well as on religion, Ivan showed amazing
understanding and open­ness. Vera, who speaks French and a very pretty
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Russian, asked me, through her husband, what work I do. When I told
her that I simply take care of my family, she sighed wistfully: “Nice!” Ivan
and Vera thought we looked like “missioners” and were interested in our
nonresistant beliefs, but wondered if we expect our children to accept
them. Ivan explained gently that though his wife and he are atheists, many
Russian people are not; his mother is religious, and is not happy with his
lack of faith. Somehow we were sad to say good-bye to this handsome,
friendly couple who offered us friendship...
Klin, USSR: At Tchaikovsky’s hose at Klin we were asked to tie great
filthy bags over our shoes before entering the sacred precincts. As I leaned
to tie the strings around my ankles, my eyes caught the thick fingers of
the man next to me, fumbling to tip his around his great clumsy boots;
and I thought, “How incredible that I should be sitting here, jammed
against a really-truly Russian soldier!” Yet actually there was nothing to
it...
And now, besides the rain, we again met up with our twin problems—
food and benzin. How were we ever to get anything to eat? We couldn’t
pick up the merchandise and show it, and often we couldn’t even recog­
nize what was before us in the long showcase, let alone tell the cashier
how much we owed her so that she could figure it on her abacus, take
our rubles and kopeks, give us a little white slip in exchange, and shoo us
back to the counter to claim our goods (after the grim shape­less woman
behind the counter had scrutinized the little white slip to see what she
should give us.)
And then—the benzin! The Professor was almost hysterical with
frustrated laughter over our plight. Here, we were met by a grim stolid
matron who wouldn’t take our stamps, (even though we were willing to
settle for anything that would make our VW run) because the octane
number indi­cated was one she didn’t have... There, the Professor, after
waiting with the gas nozzle in the tank (customer serves him­self), was
finally rewarded after he signaled to a man who could see the attendant
inside, who signaled in turn to her, who turned on the flow. As the desired
number of liters was approached, our Professor franti­cally waved to the
man who frantically waved to the woman who turned off the flow. (“The
man” in this case was just another customer who was putting benzin into
his tank.)
At another station we entered and got in line only to be reprimanded
by the police­man on duty (at a gas station!) that though indeed we were
in line, we had not driven into the station correctly. So we were di­rected
back the way we’d come, around a sort of cloverleaf, and in, entering
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exactly the same place, only this time we had done it according to the
rule, so it was accept­able…
At still another station a woman, spotting our odd car, tumbled out
of her own, and turned her movie camera on us!
Moscow, USSR: Hungry and tired we arrived in Moscow to find the
American Express Office at the Metropole closed, and we were not allowed
to eat in the hotel dining room. But the Professor did manage to engage a
guide for eight dollars an hour—a redhead with a beehive hairdo (the rage
here in Moscow, it seems) who didn’t know too much, seemed to care less,
and almost got us a traffic ticket. Though she managed to outtalk the
officer, it was clear that she was more frightened than we were. Still, we
did get inside the Kremlin—imposing indeed! And Red Square is actually
a beautiful red...
We managed to fight our way upstream like desperate salmon, and
were spewed out at one of the entrances to the fabulous G-U-M store. We
couldn’t believe what we saw: More people, it seemed, than merchan­dise,
and few people actually buying the very expensive goods, though many
seem to have indulged in the delicious-looking ice-cream cones being
vended all over the place. Here the problem of even getting to the counter
was so great as to deter us from the even greater problem of try­ing to tell
the cashier what we wanted. Far up on one of the balconies we looked
down at the incredible sight, and took a picture of it so that one day when
this is all over, we shall be able to believe it...
Coming back to the car we found the usual admirers—more curiosity
seekers—sur­rounding it. The Professor replied to the man who asked
(sign language), Where from? by pointing to the VW “Deutschland” and
to himself, “America.” The father smiled gently down at his son with a
knowing nod, and whispered, “Da, Amerikani.” The little boy, wide-eyed,
nodded silently…
As we turned into our cabin drive we yelled with delight to see, in the
next drive, the big Dodge belonging to our New York friends. At top speed
we began exchanging accounts of what happened to each family “in the
meantime.” We ate near each other in the kitchen, stood outside talking,
then moved into their cabin because of the chill, then out again when
Bobbie shuddered, “I hope this thing isn’t bugged.” Not that we thought
it was, but still...
Tula, USSR: At Yasnaya Polyana we were too late to see the inside
of Tolstoy’s house, but we did walk for an hour on the grounds through
deep woods and by ponds and gardens, stables and carriage houses right
out of War and Peace. And, far back in the forest at a Y where paths meet,
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we saw his grave—a simple, unmarked grave, green with uncut grass and
strewn with wildflow­ers ...
Kharkov, USSR: The most exciting thing that happened today—I’m
ashamed to say—was borscht. Stopping to eat (we hoped) at another
crummy pectopah (restaurant) we spied a worker eating borscht. We
excitedly pointed; the smiling (for a change) waitress got the message,
and we sat down to ready ourselves for the treat, never minding the soiled
tablecloth, floor, and waitress. We were going to have warm good soup.
But how warm, how good, how abundant, we couldn’t have guessed.
Bowing over that first bowl of borscht, the aroma was so love­ly, I was in
tears!
At the Kharkov camp we spent most of the evening with a young
couple—both engineers—who stopped to admire the VW, and stayed
to ask us the usual ques­tions about America (all loaded): How do you
explain the killing of Kennedy? Martin Luther King? What about Vietnam
War? After admitting and discussing America’s problems, The Professor
probed gently, “And now perhaps you could tell me what you see as some
of your country’s prob­lems?” The young fellow looked at the ground and
from side to side as the ques­tion was repeated, and finally murmured,
“No problems. No problems in USSR.”
Kiev, USSR: Kiev from a distance is impressive. (We have learned
to appreciate large cities from a distance; near at hand, we always get
lost in them!) Cathedral buffs would find this great city a rich cache, but
our kind of trip makes cathedral-hunting impossible. We are situated,
how­ever, in an attractive camp on the outskirts of the city, and from this
vantage point I look over its spires and think of my friend Esther whose
parents fled Kiev during the pogroms of the early 1900s. Thank God they
got out, otherwise my warmhearted friend might never have been! I write
and tell her of my gratitude, but with more restraint. I don’t think those
letters will be opened before they reach her…still­…
Bucharest, Rumania: Traveling toward Bucharest, the Carpathian
arc is gorgeous...we sing, we laugh, we talk about all the pictures we
didn’t get, all the hilarious fun at the Rumanian border when we were
invited to wash our hands of the country we had just left. We exclaim at
the fine roads and the clear directional signs and the friendly people—
people smile in Rumania! Even official people! And, for a change, there
are flowers along the way—flowers to take the place of those garish
propaganda posters of the last ten days. How good it is to find, the world
over, the same flowers—roses, nasturtiums, dahlias, daisies, mari­golds,
zinnias, bachelor buttons, cosmos! And now here, even in the socialist
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countries, there is the language of the flowers to take over when other
communi­cation fails.
Constanta, Rumania: The Constanta we reached, late at night, was
full up, and only private homes were available. We ended on a narrow
street, in the shabby home of a Rumanian sea captain. The place reeked
of garlic and mice, and there was only a sofa and a cot for the four of us,
but we had no choice. So we watched while the women piled sacks of rags
against the wall to make the cot into a double bed. Then, while the men
went out with the jolly captain to find a cafe for the starving teenager,
the two of us sat disconsolately on the improvised beds, writing in our
journals. A knock sounded: the married daughter came in with a plate of
tiny tomatoes, strong white cheese, and dry bread. Fifteen minutes later
there was a second knock, and we were offered pitiful, shriv­eled peaches
and small chunks of dry, odd-tasting cake. The third knock brought
bottled (tepid) water and—oddly, since we had eaten the bread and cake
long before—honey. This pathetic gesture at hospital­ity caught me off
guard, and it was good for me. I would not have offered anything if I had
so little (and such a poor little) to give. So again I have learned…
Slivens, Bulgaria: On we go through the driving rain, exhausted.
Though since USSR we are sick of camping, we turn in at the “Camping”
sign. Again—no room in the Inn. But for one and fifty we can park our
car, brush our teeth in the filthy out­door sink, use the incredibly filthier
WC...It rains...We talk it over. The Professor dreads going out again on
those highways which in this awful rain have proved, in spite of their
newness, to have been a Great Mistake. (They were con­structed with
elevated curbing along both sides, with no outlets for the water to run off;
the result—a canal.) We had passed car after car stalled along the way,
and when we began to see even stalled VWs, we figured we had better not
tempt fate further.) Depositing our luggage in the director’ s tent, we put
the back seat down, lay our own blanket on the flat bed, and three of us
lie down—on our sides, since that’s the only way we fit, and crooked at
that! The odd-man-out slumps in the front seat. At the impossible state
of affairs the woman and children get the giggles, which infuriates The
Professor. The night drags on; we alternately giggle, freeze, and doze; the
rain drums on the roof of the VW; we are not allowed to leave camp until
seven in the morning. Oh, come, Seven!
Efes, Turkey: Handsome, courteous, and knowledgeable, Kenan
proved to be a good guide. We didn’t expect him to be as interested in
today’s clients as yesterday’s: Au­drey Hepburn and Yul Brynner’s wife!
Still, he performed well. Ephesus was a glory in the shimmering heat: the
wide marble streets leading down to the now-far-removed har­bor—these
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are the very streets the Apostle Paul must have walked when he left the
city after his three years here. And here was the very theater in which the
crowds roared, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!”—where Paul wanted
to go out on stage to talk to the angry mob, but gave in to the town clerk
who, after two hours, was able to quiet the crowd with his sane words.
Izmir, Turkey: Back at The Anba again, we returned the key we
had inadvertently taken, and asked permission to take a picture of the
Eloglu painting in the dining room. We took it; after which the attendant
informed us that if we wished we could buy it for 300 Turkish lira. For an
hour we walked the streets, and finally The Pro­fessor gave his permission
for me to buy the only picture I ever longed to own­—the gorgeous Lilacs.
Returning to make the transaction, we were told that the price had gone
up to 500 lira, so we left, con­tent that we had tried at least. And now we
indulged in our final “Izmir lunch” as we had come to call it—a cheese
sandwich and fruko at the little stand on the corner, with the sad-faced
man officiating. Afterward, The Professor—bless him—shook hands with
the little man and behold, a smile appeared. And when we asked if the
small child was his son, the fellow positively beamed. I wished there
would be something more than a handshake to give him—something to
change the pushcart existence stretching before him; something to make
him smile oftener!...
At 3:30 we were allowed on board; we watched our little VW, the
last of seven cars on the barge, being swung into the air and onto the
top deck: we explored our little cabin—privacy, hot running water, and
everything else we need—plus cock­roaches. Two days and three nights
here, and then; please God, we shall be entering the Promised Land!
August
On the holy mount stands the city he founded;
The Lord loves the gates of Zion more than all the dwelling places
of Jacob.
Glorious things are spoken of you, O city of God.
—Psalm 87:1-3

For two days and three nights the Good (roaches excepted) Ship Izmir
carries us through the Mediterranean. They are long days: long hours
of lazy deck-sitting; long waits in the ports of Marmara, Rhodes, and
Limassol; long entertainments in ring-side seats on the aft deck when
“Little Buttercup” comes aboard to sell her wares to the sailors, making
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change out of a seemingly endless supply of Turkish lira, stashed in her
bosom; long spaces between meals; long nights.
Only the meals are brief, being presided over by “The Snatcher,” a
grim-faced steward who stands poised to spirit away our plates, should
we be so foolish as to pause between bites or lay down a utensil. We
utter a few hurrahs—sotto voce—when the father at the next table firmly
grasps his small son’s plate in both hands as The Snatcher swoops down
upon it. By the morning of the Fourth we are wondering if we really want
to return by sea to the good old U.S.A. next year!

The Promised Land lies before us as we awaken and peer through
the porthole. Whether or not Haifa derived from “ha­yafa,” it is indeed,
on this early morning, The Beautiful to the four of us: especially to me,
the Unbeliever, who thought we’d never get here. In one short day we are
given enough treats to highlight a year: disembarkation; being met by Roy
and Florence (who can overstate the relief of seeing, in a strange place,
familiar faces at the barriers?); eating, in their cool and pleasant home,
food with the flavor of America—a soothing interlude after those forty
days and forty nights of “wondering” in the World’s Wilderness; eating
the varied and good, but strange bread of the Nations; traveling up to
Jerusalem, the Beautiful City of God; opening those letters from home;
meeting our new colleagues and finding some old ones at Mennonite
House; and finding there, too, a place to lay our heads until we discover
our own vine-and-fig tree. All this in one day—topped off by American pie
and home-talk in the last hours before sleep engulfs us!

Jerusalem is a city of many colors. From the Mennonite House balcony
we can peri­odically check on this glorious city which, like a body of water,
subtly changes its hue as the day unfolds. Mornings, emerging from the
haze, it is Jerusalem the Creamy. Later with the hot sun overhead, the
flaws are more apparent: the beige stones reflecting the fierce rays; the
rubble of No­ Man’s Land; the deserted bunkers; the street torn up for
repairs; the baked earth blend­ing into the baked stones: the dusty olive
of cypress and shrub which have known no touch of rain since March.
Then toward evening the versatile stone (of which the whole of Jerusalem
seems to be built) takes on a pinkish cast, changing at twilight into a faint
burnished gold. But twilight is brief; suddenly the curtain falls and now
stepping out on the kitchen balcony, we see that electricity, wonderful
stuff, has made a truly golden Jerusalem out of the city. Jesus Himself,
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even from His commanding post on the Mount of Olives, could hardly
have seen such a glory!

The first days in a new country are like the first hours in a new
house. How often, this August, I am reminded of my childhood delight
in Discovery as I explored the family’s new (old) house, all my senses
bristling. The shape of a special window­—the odors of the little dirt cellar—
the circle of iris around the clothesline pole—the long board walk from
the back porch to the woodshed—the strange look of a familiar bed in an
unfamiliar room—the finding of a niche for a doll-bed, a shelf for those
few books! And these days are full, as those hours were full. Perhaps
the senses are less acute than forty years ago, but now, as then, there is
delight, wonder, newness, shine, as we find a little house (ready for us in
a month), establish banking proce­dures, contact schools and university,
go out for our first sight-seeing drives, meet our first Jerusalem People,
read the local Jerusalem Post, learn to think in terms of lirot and agarot
instead of dollars and cents, listen more or less attentively to advice from
all directions, try out the bus system, begin to recognize at least two or
three routes through this ancient city, and—of course—eat a falafel!

In contrast to our experience in USSR, there is an availability of
food in The Golden City. One need not look for a place to eat—it is there,
wherever you turn. It may or may not be to your liking, be it falafel, rich
pastry, hummus with tehina, or merely a cup of eshel (a variety of yogurt);
but it is available without the bother of looking for stores, restaurants,
or even open markets—all of which are also here in abundance. Every
block has a high ratio of falafel stands to shops, and there are al­ways
people there, standing, eating, or walking down the street, falafel or bagel
or pastry in hand, blissfully ignoring the fact that, where we come from,
civilized people do not eat on the streets. Before the month is out, we too
eat on the streets, the sauce from the falafel streaming down our fingers
on occasion…
Falafel: round pita (flat Arab bread which when cut reveals a hollow
pocket) cut in half, into the pocket of which are placed three or four balls
of a deep-fat-fried mix­ture of ground chick-peas, a salad of tomatoes,
onions, and mint, and, over it all, one of several sauces available on the
open-air counter. Delicious when the falafel are still hot and the appetite
is good. Sick­ening when both are otherwise. Filling and cheap in either
case: thirty-five agarot, or about 10 cents. With a glass of one of the famous
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fruit drinks—for twenty-five agarot—one is able to have an extremely eco­
nomical and nourishing lunch.

What continues to amaze me about this country is its compactness.
These biblical places—Ι had envisioned them scattered over an area
comparable to a Midwestern state. So much for my sense of geography!
But everything seems to be on a pile!
Today, for instance, we took a one-hour drive just to get a preview of
what is in store for us. In that hour we saw—from our vantage point on
Mount Scopus—the wilderness of Judea, the Dead Sea, and Mountains of
Moab, all in the distance but unmistakable. Traveling a bit farther up the
road we saw, from the Mount of Olives, the Jericho road snaking down
through barren hills. Turning the head a bit, we saw the Bethlehem road
striking off in another direction. Moving the eyes clock­wise one could take
in, here on the slope below us, Gethsemane; the tombs of the prophets
Haggai, Malachi, and Zechariah; and the Kidron Valley; and across from
us, the walled city with the Dome of the Rock shining in the sun.
Driving down through the Kidron Valley we came upon Absalom’s
Pillar, the Pool of Siloam, Hezekiah’s Tunnel. Here, all within a small
circle, were the city gates, Bethany, Bethphage, Mount Zion, the site of
the Last Supper—all those places whose names have been as familiar to
me as the names of friends and relatives. You can’t go downtown to buy
a newspaper without passing half a dozen antiquities!

Everyone in Jerusalem seems to think it is unbearably hot; therefore I
feel a bit of a freak as I enjoy the baking sun while hanging out needlework
tablecloths, scarves, and napkins which will dry almost immedi­ately in the
hot wind that blows across the Mennonite Central Committee com­pound.
Is my excitement with this city making me immune to its disadvantages? I
needn’t think back very far to remember how the Indiana heat prostrates
me, saps my energy. But here, a miracle has occurred—I thrive in the
heat! The miracle, of course, is the virtual absence of humidity…

From here, at month’s end, Jerusalem seems to us a Golden City
indeed. In addition to all the glorious things which have been spoken of
her in the part we shall probably add our weak, but genuine, praise as
the months go by. From here, too, the possibilities for a Golden Year seem
good, in spite of the occasional bursts of rifle fire or the dull thump of
explosions heard from a distance.
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September
As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round
about his people.
—Psalm 125:2

Here in the hills surrounding The Golden City, September is generally
warm and brown and dry. Under our own vines and olive trees, however,
there are bright patches of color the tiny green “garden” (lawn); the great
bunches of purple and light green grapes hanging from the arbor which
shades the path to the house; the velvety blue of the ripe plums in the
orchard on the hover terrace; the deep coxcomb, flaring geraniums, and
vari-colored pinks and bachelor’s-buttons on the higher terrace; and, on
the next-to-highest one, Geveret (Mrs.) Koch’s rose garden over which
Yusef the gardener hovers on these hot mornings.
A friend recently returned to the States from travels abroad—including
a few days here—writes, “Isn’t Israel the hottest, bar­est, rockiest place
you ever saw?” In the meantime my letter, which has crossed hers in the
mails, describes our love-at-first-sight delight in these beautiful Judean
hills. She couldn’t have been in Beit Zayit!

The time has come for our colleagues at Mennonite House to leave the
country for the continuation of their sabbatical in Edin­burgh. We celebrate
her birthday, our house­warming, their leaving, and the six weeks of good
fellowship we’ve had together, at an Erev Shabbat (Sabbath Eve) meal
in our “dollhouse.” We shall miss this zany couple; his inimitable laugh
(which our young son, nevertheless, does a fair job at reproducing—no
small feat!) her grace, our discussions, and argumentations. We part
friends and brethren, even if he has failed to convince me than I must
revere the recognized Holy Places.

The Holy Land! Without straining my brain to define “Ηoly,” I muse
on my reaction to this land and its endless “holy places.” We have not
been here long, but we’ve seen many of them: Gethsemane, The Church
of the Ηοly Sepulchre, the Via Dolorosa with its Stations of the Cross;
the Temple Mount, the Garden Tomb, the Church of the Ascension,
the Mount of Olives—where is the end of the list? And yet I find that
most of these specific places leave me cool. Spring in little Goshen is
more reminiscent to me of Jesus’ resurrection than that great rambling
edifice in the heart of the Old City, with its piles of stone and its endless
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scaffolding, in the main rotunda of which is the mausoleum with the
marble slab, sur­rounded by icons and candles, velvet and braid. Even the
charming Garden Tomb, though certainly more evocative of The Event,
seems an unnecessary artifice. To me, the “holiness” of the Holy Land
is its history and geography. To stand on Mount Scopus and view the
Judean wilderness below—and, miles away, the Dead Sea banked by the
Mountains of Moab, and to realize that, unlike the Holy Places built by
man, this is what any woman of Jerusa­lem might have seen in 4 B.C.—
or even long before—this sends chills up the spine and gives a sense
of immediacy and continuity to the biblical narrative. Moab, over there,
never fails to plunge me into an identification with Naomi and Ruth. To
go down the bleak Jericho Road is to get a graphic sense of Jesus story,
“A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho...” The churches,
temples, and syna­gogues now standing on ruins of earlier ones, which
stood over the ruins of others before them—I leave their excitement to
others. And though I can appreciate the tremendous devotion which has
gone into their building, rebuilding, and upkeep, my peasant spirit takes
delight in a different kind of holy place. I rejoice in the holy Geography,
linked with the Holy History of this Ηoly Land.

Before we came to Israel we were briefed by various people who had
been here. Per­haps the best advice we received was from two Israelis, now
living in Elkhart, who warned us that we should be wary of ad­vice offered
to us here. “Anyone you ask will gladly tell you how to get to the place you
want to go—even if he has no idea where it is. Just remember that advice
is given free, but it doesn’t have to be taken.”
Today this timid soul was trying to catch a bus downtown from
the Central Bus Depot on the outskirts. The woman at the information
desk gave an indeterminate wave of the hand to indicate that I should go
across the street to beard the bus. Put­ting my life on the line, I dodged
my way across the street to where (I thought) she pointed. There a kind
woman at the bus stop told me that for the bus I wished to catch, one
must go back across the street and down a bit. Dutifully I returned. At
this bus stop I could not find my bus number. A passerby took stock of
my trouble and directed me back across the street. There an intelligentlooking man asked me which bus I wanted. “For that—you wait over
there”—he motioned to the side of the street from which I had just come.
“Go through the station and wait on the other side.” I argued, “But over
there they told me...” He gazed at me with stern sorrow: “They told you
wrong. Listen to me, I know.” All meekness, I returned to Information
where a new attendant, a man, was now seated. “For that, back across
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the street, past the monument, in front of Binyanei Ha’ooma. Where else?”
he ended plaintively. Where else indeed!

The sharav has come, a hot, hot wind drying up one’s very eyeballs.
Hanna, our landlady, tells us that this wind comes from the Sahara, and
it also goes by the name of hamsin (pronounced komseen)—a word based
on the Arabic word for fifty. She says that the Arabs hold that there are
fifty such days a year, but the Israelis think there are more than fifty, so
they call it by their own word sharav.
We do not argue about the word. We just shut the doors and windows
and, when possible, stay inside our quite comfortable little house.
Though the hamsin-sharav provides endless conversational material for
the Israelis; we find it not all that un­pleasant, even when we must go out.
Lacking humidity, these billows of heat are not as debilitating as is a hot,
humid Au­gust day in Midwest U. S. A.
For two days all the buses of Jerusalem—acres of them, it seems—are
primly parked side by side. The highways are uncrowded; the stoplights
do not function; all shops are closed, and all places of amuse­ment. The
solemn High Holidays are here—Rosh Hashana, the “head of the year.” For
two days one forgets about the Post and the Shop—normally the objects
of daily visitation here in the village. For the year 5729 is being ushered
in with solemni­ty. Our neighbor menfolk, with their prayer shawls and
prayerbooks, trudge back and forth to the shul—the little green shedlike
synagogue up the way, throughout the two days.
But at sundown today the religious holiday is ended. Neighbor
Asher can again light up his pipe; we can look forward to the emptying,
tomorrow, of the overflowing “dustbins” holding the garbage which our
three families have accumulated; and after three days of deprivation, we
shall hear, come morning, the welcome musical horn of the Mobile Post
truck!

Of all the sightseeing trips we have taken, none yet has awed me like
our first drive to Jericho. The road down, through the absolutely barren
but startlingly beautiful hills, was like a journey into Time Past. Except
for the modern road and the utility poles, these hills seemed untouched
by civilization. In the eerie beauty of it all, scarcely a car passed us on the
road, few signs of life appeared. It was not hard to imagine the perils of
walking such a road alone either then or now—especially at dusk.
The parable of The Good Samaritan clung around me like a palpable
presence as we wove our way down, down, down, past the sea-level
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marker, and on down to the Dead Sea, the (lowest spot on earth. And
there, surrounded by deadness bloomed lovely Jericho. This was the
Jericho of those stories illustrated on our Sunday school cards back
in the twenties! Here was Elisha’s fountain of sweet water—how small
a spring to be endlessly watering the whole Jericho plain throughout
centuries! Here was the tell containing the earliest location of the oldest
city (of continuous habitation) in the world, Viewing the tower excavated
by Kathleen Kenyon (dated six thousand years B.C.) was chilling and
somehow intimidating.
But this was also modern Jericho—modern in the sense that we
ourselves had living links with people here. For there live the parents of
two of our student friends, and in the cool long hall of one of the families
we were served the most delicious of apples—from Ηebron, we were told—
and (to the uninitiated, the somewhat less palatable, but still interesting)
Turkish coffee. In return for the Arab hospitality, we were able to give
news of the faraway sons—a fair enough exchange!

September over, we are overwhelmed by the gift of these golden days
in The Land of the Book.
October
Walk about Zion, go round her,
number her towers,
consider well her ramparts,
go through her citadels.
—Psalm 48:12, 13

Under the Olive Tree, on her hill, the woman reads a letter claiming
that there, On The Corner, October was never lovelier. And here?
October: lovely days in Galilee on the Eve of Succoth—days of sun
and friendship; nights of late “soul-talk” on the veranda of the Scottish
Hospice. October: Golden hours spent writing the final chapter of “the
Book” in the Bet-Hamidrash of the ruined synagogue in Kafr Nahum
(Capernaum—Jesus’ “own city” where He “called a little child and set
him in their midst...”) Oc­tober: the fun of having all our Jerusalem and
Beit Jala colleagues in our home on various Erev Shabbats... October:
in­creased absorption into the life of our neighborhood; kindred souls met
from Is­raeli, Arab, and international communities... October: hour after
fascinating hour of pacing these streets, alone or with another, walking
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On the Corner 1968
... going round ... numbering and, yes, talking to shopkeepers; bargain­
ing—at first timidly, and then with a cer­tain dash of boldness. October:
discovering the first violets . . . enjoying the aroma of first real rain.
October: month of all these vivid pleasures, and many more—but, un­
forgettably, the month of YOM KIPPUR.

Day of Atonement
Erev Yom Kippur: Tuesday morning, and the city is bustling. Traffic
jams; the congestion on Yafo is maddening. But by 2:00 p.m., when we
arrive home, the cars on the Jerusalem-Tel-Aviv road (visible from our
house) are thinning out. By dusk not a car is to be seen on the whole
sweep of the big road. We have read on the front page of the Jerusalem
Post the important bulletin that persons who fast must finish their last
meal before 4:48 p.m. Our meal is ended, the hour has come, the Yom
Kippur, the most solemn day of the Jewish Year, has arrived. The Quiet is
eerie. It seems that even the dogs and birds know it is Yom Kippur—not
a whistle is heard, not a child’s laugh or a slammed door.
With Asher and Cynthia, Wendy and Debby, we go to the “Kol Nidrei”
service at the Ashkenazi shul. (The Sephardics are meeting in the regularly
used shul. Usually the two groups meet there together, but not on Yom
Kippur, because of differing tradi­tions regarding the service.) Hanna, in
her black stockings, black shoes, black dress, and black shawl, comes
along. (Since her son was killed she has given up going to shul, plus all
festivals, all entertainments, even family celebrations at Pesach. But one
does not ig­nore Yom Kippur.) Our men, properly adorned in their kepot
(yarmulkes, or prayer-caps) join the men up front, while Cynthia and I,
our own heads kerchiefed like the rest of the married women, sit with our
daughters and Hanna at the back of the clubroom where the rest of the
wom­en have gathered.
I had wanted to hear a good Ashkinazi “Kol Nidrei,” sung in its
haunting, unforgettable beauty; but to hear that executed really well,
we would have had to go to a Jerusalem synagogue. That would mean
renting a room in the city, or else walking home at night through the
Jerusalem Forest—something that even our Israeli friends caution us
against. (Absolutely no cars, ex­cept for emergency vehicles, move on Yom
Kippur, and the people of other religions who happen to be here comply
with the spirit of the day....)
As the service develops on the little shul here in our village, the “Kol
Nidrei” is barely distinguishable. Still, the informality and earnestness
is a delight to behold. All the little boys—even the toddlers—wear their
black or white or blue embroidered kepot. They weave in and out of the
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club­room, sometimes resting against their swaying fathers, sometimes
catching at prayer shawls, sometimes sitting attentively, or watching
carefully when their fathers show them the place in their prayerbooks.
Men—even the “leaders” up front—stop sometimes in the midst of a
prayer, to walk around and discuss something with a neigh­bor, smiling,
even laughing a bit; or the fa­ther might pause to welcome, discipline, or go
out after a child, then return to the place in his book. Once in a while the
rath­er noisy chanting on various pitches drops and falls into the confines
of a hymn which everyone seems to know and all sing in a sudden and
startling unison. (So sad, so rich, these hymns!) Then the completion
of the service nears, with the repeated, “Avinu malchenu” (our Father,
our King) litany rising to a crescendo, stirring even such an outsider as
myself. We walk home silently in the dark, spending the remainder of the
evening quietly reading, and very much aware of the Fast—even though
we ordinarily don’t eat that late anyhow!
Yom Kippur: The Day of Atonement, the Day itself, dawns. More
hours of reading and quiet talk and—for us grown-ups—­fasting. Our
Jewish neighbors say little, but seem to be surprised that we would try to
follow the spirit of their day this closely. To visit their shul is one thing;
but to fast! For this is a real fast. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is to be
taken into the mouth. Cynthia regrets that she must take two swallows
of water to get her aspirin down—but in case of illness and weakness it
is permissible.
So the day passes for us. The men from the neighboring houses have,
however, spent most of the day praying at the shul. And now, with an
hour to go before sun­set (the Post tells us the Fast ends at 6:00 p.m.) it is
time for us go back to the shul for the final service, if we wish to hear the
shofar. Entering, one can read the tiredness of the men who have been
praying all day. Asher, in his fine prayer shawl, stands, hair disheveled,
swaying through all the prayers (though it’s perfectly permissible to sit at
certain intervals). Children drift in and out. The tall, black-bearded man
(who happens to be night editor of the Jerusalem Post) keeps pushing his
glasses over his head, peering at his watch and, as dusk deepens, leaning
out the window to watch for these first stars.
The pulses quicken. The three Cohen (priestly family) members leave
the room followed by the three Levis who will wash the formers’ hands
in the washroom. Re­turning, the Cohens cover their heads and forearms
with their shawls, turn toward the congregation, and recite a blessing.
Then comes the rapid “Avinu malchenu” litany—beautiful, but hurried.
The cantor’s voice revives; the Spenta is repeated the required number of
times and everyone joins heart­ily in “The Lord our God, the Lord is one”
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(Adonai Elohenu, Adonai echad...). And now the tall bearded one leans out
the window one more time, his glasses perched on top of his bushy black
hair. He peers anxiously into the sky, then gives a slight smile, a nod, a
signal. From the opposite corner the shofar—ram’s horn—is lifted and
blown, and its weird, tremulous, rasping wail signals the end to another
Day of Atonement.
In the Diaspora, this is the moment when each man turns to his
neighbor and greets him with the words: “Next year in Jerusa­lem!” Here,
such a greeting has no mean­ing. After a slight hush a bustle is appar­ent,
as a table is quickly spread, strong spirits are poured into shot glasses,
squares of the dry Israeli sponge cake are cut, and all are invited to break
the fast. There is much greeting: “Shana Tova!” “A Good Year!”), shaking
of hands, and cheerful talking. We are enveloped, included, and carried
with the tide out the door onto the dark road, and, in a merry mood, to
our own number 49 terraces.
Through the window of the Speed house we see the Shabbat candles
gleaming on Cynthia’s little table in the “lounge” and we are all invited in
to break the fast again—this time on pickled herring, bread, dill pickles,
tomatoes, and more dry cake. An hour of lively talk and joyful fast­breaking, repetition of many Shana Tovas and Lila Tovs (good-nights)—
and we are inside our own little house again.
The fast broken, this most solemn of solemn days over, we are new
free at last to celebrate the birthday of our poor daughter who up to now
has been absolutely neglected on the date which usually sig­nals daylong
pampering! Her brother and I spread the white cloth, deck it with roses,
candles, and the small wrapped gifts, and hurry about to make the pizza
with which we will do some more Fast-breaking. We sing, we eat, we enjoy.
And thus ends what must surely be her most unforgettable birthday to
date! Shana Tova!
November
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem!
May they prosper who love you!
Peace be within your walls,
and security within your towers!
—Psalm 122:6, 7

November, which in some dim past is re­membered by us as a month of
blustery winds, bare trees, and the beginnings of a long cold winter, is full
of sunshine, Indian-summer brightness, green grass, roses, and ripening
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citrus here. In addition it turns out to be a month of great fellowship.
Helen, our Miss Mennonite Central Com­mittee, comes and brings friends
with her to sit around our table; neighbors—Asher and Cynthia, Iris and
Michael, drop in for tea as they pass: our colleagues up Tel-Aviv way plan
trips for our combined families, and our good pastor and his wife visit us
a while on the last lap of their tour.

Peace, a word heard often in unpeaceful Jerusalem! Looking for the
Rubin Academy, I ask my way of a gentleman who chats with me in
broken English as he guides me. “What! You leave after only one year!
Ev­ery Jew should live permanently in Israel.” (As usual I am assumed to
be Jewish.) “And all who can,” he adds slyly, “should live in Jerusalem.”
He turns to me with a sad smile: “Jerusalem is center of world; Jerusalem
lacks only one thing to be perfect—peace.”

It wasn’t a peaceful month for Jerusalem. On a Friday morning I
start at the thudding boom of an explosion in the distance. “A big one
this time,” I muse, and idly wonder where—as any wife and mother will,
who has some of her brood in the city from which the noises come. It is
the mar­ket I discover, the Mahane Yehuda, where, at this time yesterday
morning, I too was in the milling crowds, assessing potatoes, almonds,
clementinas, and parsley! I read in the Post that directly across the street
from the place I had parked the car then, the jeep was parked in which
the explosive charge had been planted. The plant worked well; ten people
died. But such is the spirit of this remarkable city that, next market day,
the place was full, crowded with peo­ple buying and selling. Buying and
selling, yes, bit also determined to go to the mar­ket in defiance of the
danger.

Since we are not living in an American or British Colony, but are
surrounded with ordinary Israeli villagers, we escape much of the kind of
social life in which we see many foreigners caught up and which we are
eager to avoid. But if the particular kind of socializing we have here is
to us more exciting and enriching because of its difference—sometimes,
like this week, it can be exhausting, too. I recall fondly those years of
my life when I was at my best late at night, and wish I could transplant
them. For in our village, the normal time for en­tertaining is 9:00 p.m. “Do
come over for drinks at nine!” say the South African Is­raelis on our right.
(“Drinks,” by the way, usually mean—to them—tea, coffee, or mitz, the
delectable Israeli drink made with a fruit-crush-syrup and water, and,
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to my delight, not carbonated.) On our left the English Israelis follow the
next night with “So drop in for tea? At nine?” And over in Mosa, a mile
away, the American Israelis insist, the night after, that we drive over to
meet them “nine or soon after.”
The problem is that, these days, by nine o’clock I am all but done
with the day, and can barely prop my eyes open, much less turn into a
scintillating conversationalist. Still, we go. And somehow conversation
never lags, midnight comes startlingly soon, and we come home stimulated
with the new contacts. Never ask about the cruel awaken­ing at 6:30
a.m.!

Masada! If anyone had told the lethargic Woman on the Corner a year
ago that she could persevere up the serpentine path for an hour and a half
of grueling climbing, and not even be stiff and sore the following morning,
she would have hooted. In com­pany with our friends from Ramat-Gan,
the family did ascend the heights. The five children, we admit, ran ahead
like mountain goats, and reached the top at least a half hour ahead of
us. (Fortunately, we had the lunch with us.) Never outdoor enthusiasts
to begin with, we oldsters stopped often to mop our faces and catch our
breath. I was glad to have comfortable shoes; The Profes­sor was glad to
know that his heart was sound. Bertha was glad to see that the path was
safer than it had been the first time she climbed Masada, years before;
and Paul, an old hand (foot) at this, was undaunted; glad, I suppose,
that we were making it. But we did persevere and, standing on top of
Masada, the reward was far more than the simple joy of accomplishing
what one knew (in my case) he couldn’t accomplish. Part of the reward
was the magnificent, view of the region, with the mountains of Moab
menacing, closer than ever, across they Dead Sea at Masada’s feet. Part
of the reward was reliving the tragic and arresting history of the place,
as we viewed the results of Yadin’s remarkable excavations. And a great
part of the reward was simply the fellowship with Paul and Bertha who
had initiated this trip for our pleasure as well as their own. Going down,
we wondered if we’d be able to hobble about in the morning. But morning
finds us spry; these weeks of walking the streets of Jeru­salem, uphill and
down, have paid off. Not only have I learned to enjoy walking, but I am
benefiting from its keeping-in-shape function.
By the time Roy and Florence called to invite us to go along with
them, the name Wadi Kelt was familiar to us. Israelis and Americans,
when asking us where we’d been or where we planned to go, were sure
I to say, “You must hike back the Wadi Kelt.” Today the ten of us drove
down the Jericho road and seer negotiating a rocky trail across the plain
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and up the hills, we packed our lunch into the string bags and hiked
down Wadi Kelt. In the shade of a few olive trees we set out our simple
lunch on a rock ledge and ate together in one of the most unforgettable
of picnic sites. There beside us, where we sat on low shoes, was the deep
wadi, forming a gorge which separated us from the high cliff op­posite.
Nestled against that cliff, St. George of Wadi Kelt, a monastery dating
from Justinian times, clings, its blue doors and white domes shining, its
hermit’s eyries on the adjacent cliffs reminding me of these endless tree
houses built by five young sons, grow­ing up.
After lunch we marched on up to the monastery where a hospitable
lay brother showed us around. We saw an Elijah’s cave (there are others
in Israel), a chandelier sent to the monastery by Catherine the Great, and
passed a small locked building which, we were told, was the library. The
Professor later had to chuckle, remembering the conversation conducted
in Hebrew be­tween himself and the lay brother. Pro­fessor “The building is
very small.” Broth­er: “It is very small outside—very large in­side.”
But what sets this place apart from all others in Israel is a little
incident involving a young lad, an exuberantly swung bag of clementinas,
and a broken chandelier (fortunately, not Catherine the Great’s!). Out of
sympathy for the lad we do not retell the story in detail too often. But we
hereafter refer to this monastery as St. James of the Clementinas, and we
know one young man who will never forget the Wadi Kelt.

For people who do not care to remember, Israel is hardly worth visiting.
Everything seems to shout, “Remember! Remember!” The geography shoe
from blue Galilee through the Judean Hills to Masada, to Sinai, blazes
with: “Remember!” The archaeological sites: the fortifications of Ahab’s
palace in Samaria, Jacob’s well in Shechem (Nablus), the Wailing Wall,
the tombs and pools and tunnels of the Kidron Valley; Ra­chel’s tomb
in Bethlehem, Old Jericho, the Macpelah cave in Hebron; these and
thousands more defy one to forget, but there are modern reminders, too.
Here in Jerusalem, Americans, especially, find the Kennedy Memorial,
on a commanding hill outside the city, stirring. One is bound to ask the
meaning of the mill opposite Kikar Plumer (Montefiore the tombs on Mt.
Herzl send one to the books for more information regarding the beginnings
of Zionism. But of all the modern monuments here, specifically designed
to help one to remember, surely the most impressive is Yad Veshem, the
memorial to the six mil­lion Jews destroyed in our times. One leaves the
Tent of Remembrance, the memorial shaft, the documentary museum,
and the little art gallery with anger and wonder and fear: anger that it
did happen, wonder that it could happen, and fear that, man being what
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he is, it might happen again. After walking through this place, somehow
I find it difficult to think of buying a sou­venir at the little shop in the
Art Gallery. But I do buy the small stickpin (for only a lira—thirty cents)
bearing the one word in Hebrew letters—Zchor: Remember!
December
Lift up your heads, O gates!
and be lifted up, O ancient doors!
that the King of glory may come in.”
—Psalm 24:7

December opens with a few days of rare relaxation at Florence’s, in
Ramat-Hasharon. I insist it can’t be very relaxing for her, since she seems
intent on serving beautiful meals three times a day; yet there it is: when
two people really meet, the pleasure is never one-sided.

Another of these unbelievable days ar­rives. Of little faith, I often
say, concerning great hopes: “I’ll believe it when it hap­pens.” Today it
happened. The fatted calf prepared, the house cleaned, an extra bed
made up, we leave Beit Zayit in the small morning hours and arrive at
Haifa moments after the boat from Istanbul has docked. Af­ter an hour of
peering over the police bar­riers to the decks and portholes of the white
ship, we hear, “There he is! I saw him!” But it is several hours later until
we are sure, and somehow I am taken aback at this young fellow walking
toward me, pack on back, his boyish face smiling under the fatigue hat.
I had expected someone elder, with a harder, more knowledgeable air.
This—this is the young kid who left! As we drive back, as we become,
in the following days and weeks, reacquainted, I find more surprises in
store.
Who can stop time, or gauge its effects? I only know that a son has
returned: that, all appearances to the contrary, he has ma­tured, that
there are both disturbing and delightful changes on his outlook; that he
can no longer be “subject” to us in the way of children and parents—but
that we still have much to learn from each other. And once again, as in
years past, the whole household is enlivened with his enthusiasm, his
endless comments on books, people, and ideas, and his quick and eager
curiosity about life.
Sister Edmund has invited us to tea at the Convent of Soeurs de Sion
on a hill in Ein Kerem. Here, where Elizabeth and Mary exchanged good
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Story of a Family
news, where John the Baptist was born, we sit around the tea ta­ble with
those of the lively sisters who can speak English and enjoy the simple
meal of tea, crackers, cheeses, and—best of all—honey produced by their
own bees. There is something about the life in such a place that has
always appealed to me—and still does, in spite of my contentment with
the way I have chosen. It is a bleak day, and as I stared at the windows
waiting to go, I silently recall the Hopkins verses memo­rized long ago, “I
have desired to go where springs not fail...” In a few months, I’ll come
back to Soeurs de Sion to read, to write, to think, to ask questions...

Hanukkah, festival of lights, has come to Israel. In the Old City we’ve
bought nine little clay pots for candleholders, in place of the Hanukkah
menorah, and they stand side by side with our Advent candles. (This year
our candles are of various sizes and colors—bought at our favorite candle
shop in the Old City, one a week, over the past months.) The favorite
Hanukkah foods—latkes (potato cakes) and jelly-filled doughnuts—are
now available in every little open shop along the street, and we, too;
sample the greasy delicacies.
For the neighbor children we have wrapped a few tiny gifts to be
given on suc­cessive days. We contribute a gunny sack to Debby who
needs it for a play at school. (No doubt she is a volunteer on the Macca­bee
troops!) We lend her our flashlight for the final “torch parade” in which
the chil­dren of the village march singing on the roads that spiral around
the hill that is Beit Zayit—the very hill where Judas the MaccAHbee (as
the Israelis pronounce it) fought the Greeks.
But in spite of the Maccabees, the latkes, the doughnuts, the torches,
the Hanukkah candles, to any child who has known—as Debby has—the
excitement of a Western Christmas, Hanukkah hardly rivals it. As little
Jewish Debby writes her English grandmother in a letter she is laboriously
scrawling at our kitchen table: “Hanukkah was very nice indeed but I
miss the pres­ents of Christmas.”

At Beit Jala we sit in a crowded hall listening to the Arab boys version
of Christmas. With a great flair for the dramatic, they ham their way
through an adaptation of “The Other Wise Man” and sing the tra­ditional
carols. One little change in an old ­carol at first startles us: “Nowell,
Nowell,” they sing in English, “Born is the King Immanuel.”
Once again we are reminded of the emotional impact of the choice
of a single word! Here, Israel is worse than a dirty word, and the proud
Arab will not use it. To use the beautiful—to us—Shalom to the Arab
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On the Corner 1968
at­tendant at a service station is to immediately put a distance between
us. The Professor, blissfully absentminded, does this constantly —even
addresses them further in Hebrew —causing the family to squirm in the
back seat. Such is our discomfort that as we slow down at our favorite
Arab station, the stage whispers are sure to begin “Use Eng­lish!” “Don’t
say Shalom!” One time out of ten—if we’re lucky, he hears and heeds.

The little group of American ladies in Rachel’s room chat over their tea
and short­bread. Then someone happens to mention that the Christmas
cards are coming in now. Another adds, “Do people write to you about
how wonderful it must be to be here where it all began?” Everyone breaks
into a laugh of recognition, and all of our reactions seem to be similar: “If
they only knew!” I too may once have written this. Too well I remember
that year after year when, noting the tendency of Christmas to start earlier
and last longer and be glossier, tinselier, more expensive every year—I
would wish that I might be able to remember the Christmas Event in its
purity without all this! Surely the Holy Land should be the ideal place to
do so!
So what happen? Here we are, a Christ­mas-keeping minority in the
land of Jews. Bethlehem is two miles away. We are sur­rounded by the real
places and even, surely, some of the sights, sounds, and smells of that
first Christmas. We sit through a few traditional programs, and somehow
they fall flat. It just isn’t Christmas. Ruefully, I must admit, before it’s
over, that the Event seemed more real to me back in Goshen. Also—Ι miss
all that cheer and bustle and tinsel and glitter, much as I hate to admit it.
And almost everyone I talk to here rue­fully admits the same!

Still, in spite of our lack of feeling about Christmas, we did prepare for
it. On the twenty-fourth, the Christmas Eve Chili Soup was duly prepare,
the festive cloth spread, all these gorgeous Old City candles brought to
the table, the small cheap gifts wrapped. And when our son and our
friend from Goshen came out of the rain and into the door, lo, the Star
came and stood over No. 49 Beit Zayit!
The lovely limbo between Christmas and New Year s has never been
lovelier—even the accentuated absence of four of our fam­ily members
cannot possibly obliterate the joy and wonder of reunion. “You must see
this... “We must take you there” is the order of these days. And though
we can’t hope to show our guests even a fraction of the treasures of this
land, we try! The Chagall Windows, Yad Veshem, Bethlehem, Beit Jala,
the Mount of Olives, the wonder of the Old City, including the Dome of
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Story of a Family
the Rock and the Via Dolorosa procession, Jer­icho, Qumran, the Dead
Sea, Nazareth, Ti­berius, Capernaum, Samaria, Masada, the Kennedy
Memorial, Israeli Museum, Hebrew University, Ramat Rahel; all these
and more are visited. In Jericho we eat two sumptuous feasts at the home
of our Arab friends, and get a good introduction into Arab hospitality:
let there be one pause in the conversation, and the hostess begins her
theme: “YOU ARE WELCOME.” “THIS IS YOUR HOME...” And on and on
it goes, “We are glad you have come. Please, THIS IS YOUR HOME! Come
often! Come every Saturday!” We are forced to pick their oranges and
their pomeloes, and the amount we pick, of course, is not enough; they
must add more and more...

The climax of these days surely must be the sunny morning on Galilee
when our youngest son, having asked for baptism some months before,
receives it in an idyl­lic spot on an inlet, shaded by trees on whose great
exposed roots we sit, the little congregation shares a most joyous occasion.
His sister accompanies us on the guitar as we sing folk hymns; each of
his family, and his friend, in turn ask of him the baptismal queries. His
father baptizes him there, quite near the place where Jesus multiplied
the loaves and fishes, near Kfar Nahum. And on this note we all “ring out
the old; ring in the new.”
On
the
Corner 1969
January
His holy mountain, beautiful in elevation, is the joy of all the
earth…
—Psalm 48:2

In the last moments of the old year we lit our Mary-candle, vowing
to light it again next year, God willing, in the presence of at least seven
of the nine who ate lemon pie around the little Beit Zayit table. Ivan and
Rachel left just before the New Year came--they wanted to hear all those
bells! And now it was time to say good-bye to the first of our departing
travelers. Even with the two extra boys still here, it seemed a greatly
diminished household when we returned from Lod airport.
But it was a lovely day, and so we drove the few miles to Aqua Bella,
where a new park is being developed around the ruins of a Crusader
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On the Corner 1969
monas­tery. The three strapping boys had a great time. Like little fellows,
they dammed up the tiny stream, then broke the dam, watching the
course of the water and estimating how long it would take to reach the
bridge…

Matsada again, today, for the bene­fit of the Blonde Boy. The mother­daughter team decided against climbing that serpentine path again, and
so the men made it up the mountain in record time. Our Traveler seemed
in­tent on burning himself out, climbing up without resting, running all
the way down, and later at Ein Gedi—racing up the mountain again,
eager to find David’s Spring. The waterfalls at Ein Gedi are like sudden
miracles, appearing in the wilderness, out of nowhere. We crept through
the fairy­land of rush tunnels into open spaces where, one by one larger
and lovelier waterfalls awaited us. Knowing that in this very canyon,
among these rocks and falls, David hid from Saul—adds an eerily exciting
dimension to Ein Gedi.

No place like the holy Land for mul­tiple doses of holy days! Today
we re­turned to Jericho to celebrate Greek Orthodox Christmas with our
friends who had made us promise to return before the Blonde Boy leaves
the country. In a light rain we first revisited the Wadi Kelt, which was all
but deserted. The Israeli soldiers who met us on the path wondered if we
had permission to be here. “Aren’t you afraid of Al Fateh? No one should
come to Wadi Kelt without a gun!” Apparently we were exceptions; in any
case, the last people to be killed here—last week—had guns… Again there
was a feast in Jericho, almost a repetition of our last one here, but with the
Upside-down-eggplant-dish replacing the stuffed potatoes. And Marwan
was there again, all smiles and good English, with the little fingernail of
his right hand stylishly long. Everyone was gay. The grandmother ate with
us, and this time it seemed cozier, because we ate in the kitchen Again it
was: “You-­are-welcome!” and “This-is-your-­home.” Gifts and letters were
produced, to be taken back to their Goshen son, and we, too, got in on
the gifts: the grandmother gave me one of her cro­cheted doilies, and each
of the boys was presented with a little bottle of per­fume by the daughter
of the house!

Jewish shopkeepers in Jerusalem do not, to say the least, fall all over
a per­son to get his business. Ask for a cer­tain article and one might get the
an­swer, “For what? This is better…” “Why should you want red since this
blue is nicer?” (Easier for him to reach, that is.) “You got 75-Watt; that’ll
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cost you a fortune—use too much electric!” Without further consulting
you he yells to the clerk, “Arbayim!” (“Forty!”) and officiously makes the
exchange while you stand meekly, a mere onlooker. Today at a coffee
bar, I asked the coun­terman if he would run a little cold water into the
scalding Nescafe he was about to give me—the spigot was right there at
his elbow. He scolded, “For what? Use milk—” “But I don’t like milk in
coffee!” “There’s sugar.” “I don’t like sweet coffee.” With a look of utter
disgust he turned on the tap and slammed the cup down in front of me.

Chutzpah (kutzpah) is a word and concept dear to most of the
Israelis I’ve met. It gives the sense of cheeki­ness—not pure arrogance,
not utter brashness, —a sort of jaunty imperti­nence, a triumphant selfassertiveness. True, it has a derogatory connotation in certain contexts,
as I heard my neighbor shout to his wife concerning a re­treating figure:
“That woman has the most amazing chutzpah in the state of Israel!” But
mainly, Chutzpah is thought to be a good thing. Israelis are proud to
see their children display­ing it. Ephrat had been having some difficulty
adjusting at school—as any child would, transplanted from an Englishspeaking to a Hebrew-speak­ing environment. Her mother reported to me
that the psychologist was much pleased with her progress, however. The
hitherto quiet, polite little English girl was getting cheeky, developing
chutzpah! Wonderful! As with much that one sees here, I am forced to
partly admire this trait. But I guess I shall always feel more at home
around people who count gentleness a virtue, who believe that the meek
shall in­herit the earth in a symbolic—if not literal—sense. But such a
land and such a people are becoming rare…

Gardiner Scott, a slight, balding, mustached fellow who has retained
his marvelous Scottish accent even after years in Jerusalem, is the heart
of St. Andrew’s. Standing there each Sunday morning in his black cassock
with his Jerusalem cross about his neck, and girded with his leather belt,
he might appear comical as he gives the “in­timations” were it not for the
aura of Presence. An indefinable dignity, in­tegrity, simplicity pervades the
brief Sunday morning service when he pre­sides, bringing forth as if by
miracle a sense of encounter. But it is the prayers of Gardiner Scott that I
will remember longest. Rich in faith and the pervasive piety of the modest
Scottish home from which he must have sprung, these extempore prayers
come from him with all the grace of perfected phraseology, yet softened by
the moving reality of one “soul’s sincere desire,” and the full awareness
of, and relevance to, the contemporary scene. Not a Sunday passes but
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On the Corner 1969
that he devotes a part of his prayer to remembrance of, and gratitude
for, the dead, and our ties with families separated from us… I can’t really
describe a prayer of his, only to say that after months without a sense of
the reality of prayer, one should find himself forced, by Gardiner Scott, to
become a firm believer again.February
I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and be glad in my people.
—Isaiah 65:19 (RSV)

Before coming here we were told that Kar lee (“I’m cold”) is a phrase
we would hear and use often during the rainy season—the winter. True,
we did hear it often. In fact, when the first rain came last October, I
went up to The Shop to find women muffled up as if for zero weather.
Frances, a former New Yorker, called gloomily, “Well, how do you like
our winter? Isn’t it awful?” But Frances has been away from New York
too long to remember what Cold is. I wanted to laugh and say, “Winter?”
but I only smiled. Within a few weeks we noted with amazement that the
Jerusalem streets were filled with people bundled in woolly hats, gloves,
boots, and heavy coats. The weather? Well, I thought it quite pleasant fall
weather—a bit of a nip in the air, but far from cold. Actually, I have been
uncomfortably cold only twice in Jeru­salem: once when I walked from
Jaffa gate up to Davidka, toward evening, in a raw wind; once when I had
to wait at the bus stop for an hour in the rain. For a few rainy weeks in
December and January, it is true, we tended to sit around the two little
“fires” —kerosene heaters—and wore tights, or took hot-water bottles to
bed. And there was that day last month when the second snow in decades
fell upon Jeru­salem, closing school, and providing conversation for days
to follow. But Kar lee? Not really. Only when we contemplated returning
to an Indiana winter!

“Shai’s brith will take place at Hadassah at 1 P.M. on Sunday. Please
come.” The little card, signed “Iris and Michael,” was delivered to us several
days after the birth of their son, and we were delighted to be in­cluded.
On Sunday afternoon we found Iris in the reception hall of the Ma­ternity
Wing, waiting with a middle­-aged couple. Iris immediately sprang up,
kissed me, and introduced us to these special people from South Africa,
parents of Michael’s best friend. (This friend, like Michael, is also in exile
be­cause of anti-apartheid activities in South Africa.)
As people began to gather we were ushered into a large room, simply
a bare room with a few folding chairs, and a folding counter where Michael
was pouring drinks and setting out plates of sweets to be consumed after
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Story of a Family
the Brith (“Breet”). At the far end of the room was a glassed-in cubicle
where the circumcision would take place.
People kept coming—mostly Beit Zayit friends and colleagues of
Michael’s at the University—and we all milled about in a most friendly
fashion. No one was really “dressed up,” except the South African couple.
Fannie’s and Danai’s long pigtails hung down their backs as if they were
going to The Shop to do their daily marketing; chil­dren danced about; we
were introduced to the new people, the chatter sur­rounding us indicative
of a gay occasion. Then the baby was wheeled in, and through the glass
bassinet we all got a good look at the beautiful child, asleep there in his cap
and sweater. The mohel arrived, a large fat man, his great belly pushing
out the white coat he wore, his peyot (side-curls) swinging and his long
black beard waving, his black kepa atop his bald head. This was the signal
for the men to get their kepot out of their pockets and onto their heads,
for Michael and the sandek to put on their prayer shawls, for the young
godparents to carry the child from his mother into the glass enclosure,
and put him in the arms of the sandek who was to have the high honor
of holding the baby during the ceremony. (The sandek on this occasion
was the man we had met in the hall—the father of Michael’s friend.) The
words of blessing began, and people moved closer to the glass enclosure
to participate as the prayers were contin­ued, the surgery performed, and
the child exultantly named “SHAI!” by the master of ceremonies and a
man of great piety, the mohel. (Shai, pro­nounced “Shy,” is a contraction
of Yeshaiahu—Isaiah.) Michael now held his son on a pillow, reciting the
usual blessings and prayers from the prayer book propped up against
Shai’s tummy.
The milling began after a hush, as mazel tovs (Congratulations!”)
and Torah, Huppah v’ma’asim tovim wishes (for a long life marked by a
knowledge of the Torah, a happy marriage, and good deeds) were offered to
the parents in behalf of Shai. And now the little cakes and candies began
to dis­appear rapidly as small fingers kept reaching up to the folding shelf.
A brith is a family affair, and there were all sizes and shapes of children
there. Hillel, I noticed, was terribly green, and kept whining “Ema!”
(Mommy) to Ruth, who was engrossed in a conver­sation. The whining was
not without cause, we discovered soon (all over the floor). The tall drinks
and the short drinks were consumed … more joyous, informal talk … and
Shai’s brith was over. For some who were there it was, I suppose, just
another brith. To us, the only goyim present, it was unforgettable.

This elfin child, Danny, delights me. First there is his odd little
face and the precocious intelligence which seems to fit those features.
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On the Corner 1969
Then there is that fan­tastically precise English and vocabu­lary. Eating
curries tonight at the Wade’s table, we watch, amused, as his parents
remonstrate with him for push­ing away his plate of food. “It is forbidden
food,” he explains cheekily. In still another setting, this three-year­-old
approaches his eight-year-old sis­ter craftily: “I shall tread upon your toe,
eh, Fretty?”
Yesterday, hearing the children at play outside our lounge (living
room) I ruefully reflected on the difference between the typical American
child expressing his desire to go along with the older kids, and Danny. “I
wanta go too,” whines Anychild, USA. Danny wails, “I should like to go
as well!”

Today I remember that my father was born in 1884 on this date.
I muse on the heritage one can have even from a father one has never
known. I like the customs of my Beit Zayit neigh­bors concerning family
“holy days.” Birthdays are—as with us—happy occasions with special
treats of food and gifts. But in addition there is special remembrance of
the dead on the date of their death. A twenty-four-hour memorial candle—
usually in a special holder—is lit on the eve of this day, special prayers
of thanksgiving for their lives are offered in the synagogue and at home;
and family members passing the candle throughout its twenty-four­-hour
life reflect on the life of this per­son. But there are limits, Fannie tells me,
to the ability of the human being to properly “remember” all his relatives
in this way. And so, candles are lit only for parents, brothers, and sisters,
and—God forbid—one’s children. (I never heard one of my neigh­bors refer
to such an eventuality with­out prefacing it with “God forbid”; the death
of a child whose parents are yet living is considered the ultimate tragedy.
It is the “nature of things” that chil­dren should outlive their parents.)
This is one custom I plan to adopt upon our return to the House on the
Corner. In preparation, I bought a memorial can­dleholder today, in a
shop on Ben Yehuda Street…
March
Sing to the Lord with thanksgiving…
he makes grass grow upon the hills…
—Psalm 147:7, 8 (RSV)

At pleasant Stella Carmel, the guest­house near the traditional Place
of Sac­rifice, our MCC and Missions person­nel held their spring retreat.
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Story of a Family
En route we drove up the West Bank. The laven­der cyclamen and the red
poppies (also called anemones and buttercups) were strewn all over the
roadsides, through the rocky hills, wherever a bit of soil would allow them
to grow.
The retreat itself was good, with not too rigid a program, and lots of
fel­lowship. The ladies, bless them, gave me (in return for my talks) those
two elegant Arab-needlework pillow tops I had put back to buy for myself.
Now, in my own rooms on the corner, I can be reminded for years to
come of these good days. Returning to Jerusalem by way of the Sharon
Plain, we saw the streets of every town filled with families celebrating
Purim. Little Queen Esthers and Mordecais, as well as the usual variety
of animal characters one sees on Halloween in the States, tripped along
the crowded streets as we passed. Home again, we were invited to a Purim
party out under the grape arbor. The hos­tesses were Debby and Ephrat,
with their friends, sisters and brothers. Fanny’s Reuven and Sarah were
there, and Yehudit, on holiday from her uni­versity studies, was leading
them all in some rousing Purim songs by the time we came on the scene.
What hand­clapping, what laughter, what fun! But then, Purim is about
the only fun-holiday the Jews have, says Yehudit.

At 5:00 p.m. the Professor took me to Ein Kerem, and I was soon
settled in a tiny, but adequate, cubicle at the convent of the Soeurs de
Notre Dame de Sion. Mother Edmund had placed a tiny bouquet of wild
cyclamen in the room. Otherwise there was no hint of an “extra.” A narrow
cot in an alcove, a table, a chair, a small plain wooden shelf: this was
all, and this was enough. Though Mother Edmund complained that the
windows were too high—she plans to have them lowered so that one can
see out—I insisted I prefer them as they are, for beauty is distracting, and
I have work to do. (An Israeli jour­nalist here agrees. Speaking of this one
day when we met on a garden path, he quoted a rabbinical sage: “He who
looks up from his study of the Torah, and says, ‘What a beautiful field!’
has given himself over to perdition.”)
My stated purpose in coming to this sanctuary is to finish the
preliminary draft of my “book” about the Little Fel­low. In the week given
to me, I man­age to do that, and more: I read an Eli­zabeth Goudge book; I
explore the con­vent gardens, paths, and terraces, each day making some
discovery—the tiny, walled cemetery where the identical iron crosses are
marked with the names of sisters and the dates of their deaths; where
the daffodils grow in a stylized rectangle over each grave, the huge
geraniums spill over the terrace, and the cypresses, barely viewable from
the outside, add shade and coolness. I think through some relationships
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On the Corner 1969
that need reappraisal; make some firm decisions about the shape of my
life upon re­turning to the States. (Let me never again feel diminished by
my reluctance to be drawn into the activity—the good activity—swirling
about me there!) But Ein Kerem, and the lovely silent Soeurs de Sion,
are not just a retreat for me…not just the background for study and
meditation. At table, over simple food, I meet and communicate with a
French Catholic volunteer worker, a sort of mannish, tough version of
Simone Weil; a big Israeli—Sabra—journalist; a theological student from
Japan who knows about Mennonites through hear­ing Kagawa talk of
them (he is a mem­ber of Kagawa’s church, and his father was a good
friend of that saint); a Swiss roving journalist, a little British designer
(graphic arts) whose obvious affection for his “Mum” must be the basis
for our rapport; a Russian-American couple working on their PhD’s; a
German dan­seuse, retired, absolutely the homeliest creature I ever saw,
in whose cluttered rooms I eat strawberries and cream and listen to tales
of her ten years in and out of Gestapo prisons; and of course, beautiful
Mother Joachim—so like my own mother that I feel repeatedly drawn to
her, asking her questions about her order, which began as a mission to
the Jews, but is now devoted to promot­ing understanding between Jews
and Christians.
Coming home was shattering for a few hours, but mostly joyful.
Lovely Ein Kerem, Soeurs of Sion, where “a few lilies blow”—may we meet
again! And if not, let me remember always the peace within your walls…

Helen and I went to St. George’s to hear William Carson Blake and,
inciden­tally, to see the spectacle of Jerusalem’s religious leaders in all
their finery—from the tiny red Cardinal caps to the peaked hood of the
Armenian patriarch. Blake looked rather ordinary in comparison, even
though he is a big handsome man. And his sermon was disarmingly
simple, winsome, and short—on finding God’s will for one’ s life. We
shook hands ­ceremoniously with His Importance at the door, and walked
over to the Mennonite House in the lovely Jerusalem dark. There we ate
pancakes, in Helen’ s cozy apartment, and talked ’til 12:30…

Tonight the kids and I went to the International Bible Contest. It
began at 9:00 p.m., and at 2:15 a.m. President Shazar was still going
strong with a final speech. What a spectacle! Apart from the contest itself,
it was worth coming just to observe an Israeli audi­ence, over half of them
school children, little boys in their kepot, earnestly lis­tening for five hours
without an inter­mission! To see Shazar and Ben-Gurion at close range
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Story of a Family
was a blast for us, but the audience seemed a great deal more interested
in the little Israeli who represented them—and won (though it was hardly
a fair contest … even the Jerusalem Post reported that the Netherlands
contestant should have won!)

To be rudely awakened in the early morning by an inconsequential
telephone call is a pet peeve of mine. But for this call I would gladly have
arisen at 2:00 a.m. Our first grandchild, in India, has arrived safely, and
the boy has been given the name of our Little Fellow at home. All day long
I go about the house remembering the day—25 years ago—when I saw his
father, our firstborn. Beautiful. Full Circle. Baruch ata Ado­nai—Blessed
art Thou, oh Lord!

We left for Kibbutz Shamir after mail time. A lovely day was ours as
we drove through Samaria, eating our oranges and one sandwich apiece
by the roadside, be­yond Nablus. The lilies of the field were all around us;
the green wheat in the Valley of the Dancers was voluptu­ous; Samaria
never looked lovelier to us. On up, past Tabor, past Tiberias, past Zfat,
up, up—and there we found Sha­mir, on the hillside, with the Razins,
Musa and Dora, waiting for us. The hospitality of their tiny apartment
was heart-warming. Dora could speak little English, and I, little Hebrew;
so our daughter acted as interpreter. This particular kib­butz, being in
the corner of a triangle with the former Syrian mountains on one side,
Lebanon on the other, was under constant shelling from ’48 to ’67, and
the place is honeycombed with shelters and trenches. But Dora does not
like to talk of it… We visited, slept on the hard little kibbutz beds, ate in
the huge dining hall, visited the chil­dren’s houses and clothing centers,
showed each other snapshots of our chil­dren, talked of their Chicago
son who knows our Chicago nephew—and next day, went home again,
down through Samaria, stopping at Jacob’s Well and at a wayside market
where I bought an ancient goat-bell for the Little Fellow to tie onto his
tricycle’s handlebars…April
“They shall come and sing aloud on the height of Zion, and they shall
be radiant over the goodness of the Lord....” Jeremiah 31:12

We decided to see some new country today, Helen and I, and took
the train to Tel Aviv. The train ride gives one a different perspective on
this partic­ular slice of Israel. Hills and valleys not visible from the road,
carpeted in green grass and wildflowers, appeared. Tiny stations tucked
away from the sight of road travelers, revealed themselves to us. In T-A
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we met Florence, and the three of us went shopping in a large department
store. There Helen delighted in the forgotten displays of luxuries, and
we delighted in Helen’s enthusiasm. I bought little; but then, just as we
were leaving, I found it: ex­actly what I wanted for that Grandson—a little
silver Kiddush Cup with “Yeled Tov” (Good Boy) in Hebrew letters on its
side. I borrowed twenty­-five lirot from Florence, and splurged without a
backward thought. At noon, then, we met Lucille and Bertha, and Helen
treated us all to a fine dinner at a downtown hotel. Home—tired, happy,
and inordinately pleased with That Cup!

Pesach! Hanna came over, just as we were getting ready to leave for
our big evening—the Passover Seder with Asher and Cynthia. She insisted
on showing us through the Hagadah, be­sides rounding up more copies
for us. Cynthia had invited her also, but no, she would not relent—she
has “re­signed from life” since the death of her son two years ago. And yet
I think she really wanted to be with us, as, dressed in our best, we went
over about 7:30, our two men looking quite authentic in their kepot.
The Seder (Say-der; Asher pro­nounces it “Sider”) began as Debby sang
the “Ha lilah ha zeh” (“On this night…”) quite nicely, and we all followed,
more or less, as Asher bumbled through. How he loves his Head-Of­-TheFamily role! The Seder went on and on. Poor Wendy couldn’t stay awake
until dinner was finally served. The Passover meal itself began with a hardboiled egg served in a sherbet glass, and covered with cold water. Cyn­thia
put an all-too-generous pinch of salt on each egg, and then we broke it up
with our spoons, making of the egg and water a rather sick-looking mess
which, except for the excess salt, was surprisingly good! We asked the
signif­icance of the egg, but nobody knew. Wonderful chicken soup with
matzoh balls came next, and Cynthia was exu­berant to see that the balls
floated lightly on top. (The matzoh balls—sort of dumplings—are a test
of a cook; those of a poor one will lie heavily at the bottom of the soup.)
Turkey followed, with potatoes, two salads which our own young chef
had offered as his contribution, chocolate mousse and fresh fruit mix,
coffee, and of course four glasses of wine, completed the meal. (Actually
one needn’t drink four glasses; four sips will do, with the glass being filled
again at the appro­priate places in the service.) There was more reciting
of prayers and blessings before the evening was over. Elijah’s wine-cup
was filled and poor, tired Debby was sent to open the door and stand
there while Asher recited some more invocations. (Elijah didn’t come.)
Debby found the Afikomen, and was promised whatever she asked for
(all this was whispered secret), and about 11:30 we rose to go home. Had
this been a Seder anywhere else in the world, the final words would have
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been, “Next year—in Jerusalem!” I was sad to think that next year, in­
deed, these words would be appropriate for us to use. But for now, we
were glad to be in Jerusalem, grateful for this joyous Pesach Seder, this
dear family. And Asher was to say of this, his family’s first experience at
in­cluding “goyim” at their Seder—“Quite the nicest Sider we’ve had, eh
Cyn?”

We decided to join the Maundy Thursday walk from the Upper Room
(one of them) to Gethsemane. Our in­formation source was incomplete,
and so we found ourselves in the ridicu­lous situation of being trapped in
a group of Swedish tourists having a VERY HIGH mass in Christ Church.
Crunched against the wall, we couldn’t escape until our row was sum­
moned to the altar rail for communion. By then our group was long gone,
but we drove out to the Kidron Valley in hopes of catching up. There we
found them, a bit beyond Absalom’s Pillar, so we parked the car and joined
them. And we did stand in Gethsemane and listen to the Gethsemane
story, and to the Christ-Have-Mercys of the Devout. I was wistful of such
devoutness; but for some odd reason, the story seemed quite removed
from reality in this set­ting, peopled by these solemn Westerners in their
cassocks and crosses…

Early—“very early in the morning cometh” the four of us to St.
Andrew’s. In the chill mist we watched the sun clear Mt. Zion, casting
its reddish glow on the creamy stones of Dormition Ab­bey opposite us.
We shivered through the Sunrise Service, but we were glad we came.
Later there was com­munion at St. Andrew’s, lovely ser­vice, and that was
our Easter—with the mundane addition of a simple ham dinner, and
the pleasure of Ivan’s and Rachel’s company for supper and after-­supper
games. They won all the high scores, of course. These intellectuals!
Besides, they had played the game be­fore…

Communion at St. Andrew’s is the simplest, most dignified of services.
(I recall how we work and plan at home to make “a meaningful service”!)
Here it is always the same, on the last Sun­day of the month, and always
new. The sermon is even shorter than the usual fifteen minutes, so the
service still re­mains under an hour from beginning to end. The single
silver chalice and the plate with bread are covered with the stiffly starched
white cloth. There is the simple blessing, when Gardiner Scott lifts the
plate, “The Lord Jesus, the same night he was betrayed, took … and gave
thanks…” Then there is the unassuming passing of bread— “Take ye, eat
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On the Corner 1969
ye…” by the lay-elders, down each row, and the eating of the bread as
one takes it, instead of waiting for a signal to be given for a cere­monious,
unison swallowing. “In like manner … the cup …” blessed and passed
from one to the other, the elder wiping it with a spotless nap­kin before it
goes to a new family group.
There is no choir at St. Andrew’s, no bulletin, no special music on
organ or anything else. The organist is a man who cares about the church
and its music, and who leads the congregational singing as deftly as a
chorister, never dragging, yet never hurrying us through. True, the singing
is not as “good” as the singing in the Big Church. But if I have learned one
thing from Gardiner Scott and St. Andrew’s it is that worship ceases to be
worship when it becomes self-conscious. What would people at home say
about St. Andrew’s? I don’t know. St. Andrew’s is special as Jerusalem is
special; the same circumstances do not obtain—the congregations cannot
be compared. But, I do know that I would like to find, on returning, that
our services there could be as natural, as simple, yet spirit-warm, as this.
And as brief.

About 8:00 in the morning the first of them appeared in the road
leading up past our drive. It was the beginning of a morning-long stream,
the three­-day-marchers on the last leg of their­ annual trek. Singing,
clapping, walking, or marching briskly, they came, and came, and came.
There were the young and vigorous—boy and girl soldiers, marching
bands, kibbutzniks (all had to be 16 years or older to qualify), a Japanese
contingent with its rising-­sun flag, a Swiss contingent, American, French,
African… Pot-bellied men in shorts, their chests full of ribbons from
previous marches, pulled their panting women up the hill; here was a
blind group, and scattered throughout were people in casts, braces, and
on crutches. There were balloons, flags, and tam­bourines waving, and
here, there, every­where, were the high spirits, the pre­cision singing and
clapping, even after three days, even with five more kilo­meters to go!
The Professor and I watched, and we agreed that only a very young, very
idealistic country could produce such a phenomenon as the Three-DayMarch.
May
The Lord bless you from Zion!
May you see the prosperity of Jeru­salem all the days of your life!
May you see your children’s children!
—Psalm 128:5, 6
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
About 6:30 Fretty came over to in­vite us to their Lag Ba’omer bonfire.
We were instructed to bring our own food—particularly potatoes—to
roast in the fire. What time? “About 6:15.” Already fifteen minutes late,
we quickly folded up the supper we had begun, and carrying our little
rush stools and potatoes we went to the field, third ter­race down. Then
followed another of those hilariously unorganized Wade parties. The
bonfire had not yet been lit—indeed, the wood hadn’t been gathered, so
we all set about to find what burnable material we could. Blankets were
spread on the plowed field, and the invited families drifted in. Ir­repressible
Fannie was there with Sarah, Reuven, and Zvi. She had just had a tooth
extracted, and was in pain, but nothing seems to dampen her spirits. She
sat there all evening, holding a great white handkerchief to her mouth
and talking at top British English speed. Ruth, with her boys Gai (Guy)
and Hillel were there also, as well as Fannie’s sister Hanna and children,
plus Frances and Aran with their daughter Vered. Nobody seemed to be
able to tell us what Lag Ba’omer was all about, but eventually—about
eight or nine o’clock—we had a great bonfire, inedibly burned potatoes, a
few inches of deliciously roasted sausages (wieners), and—throughout—a
great good time which could suc­cessfully challenge any well-organized
party we ever attended in the States.

Everything was finished on schedule today. Even the oven got its
cleaning! At 12:30 we boarded the local bus for the Jerusalem bus dept,
waited for the airport bus, arrived at Lod, and waited some more. Finally,
after an hour over­time, we climbed into our BOAC and were on our
way, incredibly, to India. In spite of the basic wonder that this should
be happening to me at all, the tedium of the trip was such that I had to
think of the little girl who with the three younger brothers flew from her
parents in Germany to grandparents in Canada. Asked about the trip
by the waiting grandparents, she replied (in German) that it had been
“stinkingly te­dious.” I’m quite sure that the reason they food-and-drink
you so often on these jets is simply to relieve some of the boredom.
But New Delhi materialized; there was our son hanging over a
balcony, wearing a kurta and looking ill—which he was. We were escorted
into an an­cient-looking little taxi where our hand­some Sikh driver waited
to usher us into one of the most unforgettable drives of a lifetime. On this
seven-hour jour­ney from Delhi to Mussoorie, his hand was never off the
horn; bicycles, people, cars, trucks, cows, all seemed to take their time
getting out of the way, but that driver never gave up. At each close call
the Professor’s nervous laugh seemed to spur this daredevil on to greater
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and greater feats; eventually that Professor suppressed the laughter… We
stopped for breakfast at a tiny dirty stand where we ate the most amazing
of omelets. One egg (for each person) was beaten into a great frothy mass
which I couldn’t believe had come from only one egg, then fried in lots of
fat, and made tasty with peppers and onions and unknown factors.
On our way again, we passed through the Sawaliks, a most fascinating
range of mountains, ragged and “moth-eaten” with odd erosions and
malformations. Our son-and-guide informed us that it not only looks
old—it is an extremely old range of mountains—much older than the
Himalayas, whose foothills we would shortly see. After the Sawaliks came
the Dun plain, and in hot Dehra Dun we went into an air-conditioned
restaurant for a sundae while our driver got his beard washed and strung
up in that fascinating Sikh style. Then, having summoned courage and
strength for the final stretch, we went up, around, up, around, up, to
Mussoorie. A long walk through the bazaar gave me—not tired feet, but a
stiff neck, the result of twisting from side to side to see the wonders!
Another stretch of dusty road, another climb, and we arrived at our
destination—Woodstock Villa, where lived the particular Small Object
of our journey. Our lovely daughter-in-law ran out to greet the dusty
travelers, and shortly afterward I was holding my first grandchild, a
lovely boy of nearly two months, who immediately smiled into my eyes. In
that first smile I saw at once—to the delight of his mother—his maternal
grandfather’s grin…

Another leisurely day on the hill. I hope our children don’t mind our
lack of eagerness to see and do, come and go. We enjoy “just sitting quietly
and smelling the flowers” like Ferdinand. The “flowers” are the incredible
view from the balcony of Woodstock Villa; our children, functioning
responsibly as husband and wife, as parents, as teachers; neighbors,
who treat us as family; the graceful coolies, ayahs, sweepers; old friends;
The Grandson, most pleasant and responsive of babies… These quiet joys
are what we came to India for. Anything else we may see and experience
here is strictly bonus.

This afternoon we walked up (“Does the road wind uphill all the way?
YES, to the very end”) to Oakville where we watched the boys playing
tennis as we sat in the shade. Later we trudged on up to the top of this
ridge, to the marvelous view of other ridges, other valleys, to the “Secret
Talking Ground” of all those Woodstock students over the years. For
some strange reason we were overjoyed that the way back home was all
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downhill. Even my days of tramping Jerusalem’s up-and-down streets
did not make this climbing easy; what would it have been without such
preparation?

The Professor reached the end of his tolerance of a beard today. He
is tired of the feel of it, tired of the way it has of becoming the topic of
conver­sation whenever he meets someone he knew BEFORE (and there
are plenty of such here). I fully agreed, seeing how uncomfortable it made
him, but first I took a picture. And now we all know, or will know, how he
looks with a beard, which is what we were clamor­ing for all these years!

My first ride on the cycle today, and I was glad I took it, for I have
had a few fears concerning it. But it was de­lightful. I went to the bazaar
behind my son, to get a few more odds and ends. No more sleepless
nights worrying. Sure, something could happen. It could happen, even
more easily, in a car between Goshen and Elkhart!

She awakened us with her knocking, and then whispered, “The
snows are out!” “Oh no,” I thought, “Do I have to climb that hill again—
just when I thought we were escaping it for good?” We gulped down our
Red River Cereal at the Hilliard’s, and then—the climb. But the reward of
seeing the snows was more than worth the climb, and it was the perfect
ending for our visit here.
Later, in church, The Professor led a brief beautiful service of
dedication for our grandson and his parents; after-­church pictures were
taken of us all, and of our charming hosts, the Hilliards; a special curry
and pilau awaited us at home; a high tea with the mission­aries at Ashton
Court rounded out the day. After two weeks of reunion and discovery, the
next steps followed fast: Packing Day, Leaving Day, Good-bye Day; the
wrench of realizing, as I kiss the bare back of my grandson, that he will be
walking and talking before I see him again; the indispensable overnight
ride on an Indian train; a hot (117 de­grees) day in Delhi; a short flight; a
swoop down over the enchantingly fa­miliar Israeli landscape; and a great
good feeling of at-homeness when we discover that Rachel and Ivan have
come to meet us, and to convey us back to our own vine and fig tree!
June
The Lord watches over the sojourners.
—Psalm 146:9 (RSV)

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On the Corner 1969
We met again in the Old City, Amalia and I, and I brought her the
Tibetan toe ring and Calendar Brooch I had bought in India especially for
her garish tastes. Our weekly jaunts are numbered, and we savor each
with a special joy. The morning was spent in cleaning and rearranging
the Dollhouse to make room for the two welcome guests—my brother and
sister. A cheesecake was baked, and other small things were readied.
On schedule we drove to Lod, and on schedule they came: she, looking
trim and relaxed, he towering over us with a crazy Pop-Eye beard. I had
forgotten what a huge man he is, this brother! Though in deference to tired
travelers we had scheduled nothing for this first evening, they were ready
to plunge into Israel, and so we spent the evening walking Jerusalem
streets eating falafel, and later sitting down at our favorite little open
restaurant on Yafo for a sampling of other Arab dishes.

Today we headed for Bethlehem, where we visited the Church of the
Nativity, then drove out to Shepherd’s Field where, with the permission
of the guard we sat on rustic benches near the chapel, spread the cloth,
set out a crusty loaf of “Angel” bread, Israeli cheese, and Jaffa oranges
all brought in my trusty string bag—and ate together. Big Brother was
over­whelmed, I think, at the impact of this little meal. And, true, even we
sensed a quality about the occasion which made the thought of that kind
of elegant, expensive restaurant meal to which he is accustomed, seem
superfluous and even crass. Because of the setting and the simplicity
of the food itself, a sacramental dimension was added… Refreshed, we
headed for Herodium, and found the climb to the top worth it, not only for
the view of the ruins, but for the view of the Judean desert surrounding
this massive fortress. My admiration for Herod—however un­willing it must
be for such an evil man—grows when I see each additional masterpiece
of construction for which he was responsible. From Herodium we set out
to find the site of the an­cient Tekoah, home of the Prophet Amos. And
we find it at the top of a bleak hill—a place where someone has made an
effort to plant a sycamore tree in his honor, and where a droll Arab boy
delighted my brother’s heart by his cheeky posing, cigarette in mouth, for
a picture.

Galilee was lovely on this, our fourth family visit—and Upper Galilee,
even lovelier. This time, instead of stopping at Banias, we drove on to the
Golan Heights, the Professor having Mt. Hermon on the brain. However,
since The Hermon was not snowy, and since we would have had to pay to
take the risk of the poor road up her side, we stopped at the Druze village
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Story of a Family
of Magda Shams, and turned around. Instead of going back the way we
came, we drove on across the Golan Heights, past deserted villages and
the sad, empty city of Kunetra. Only army jeeps passed us on the road,
and it was a bit eerie up there. Had we known that shelling occurred in
Kunetra that very morning, the eerie feeling might have been accented
with some real fear! Amazingly—we thought later—no one stopped us.
We came home by way of Safed (Zfat) where we caught a whiff of that
in­spired atmosphere which fed the Jewish mystics who here formed the
Kabbala, and we looked down a cliff to see an ancient cemetery wherein
many of those revered mystics were buried hundreds of years ago. We
had been told not to miss the renovated Old City section, now an artist’s
colony. Very nice it was, but somehow, to me, a bit phony. But this is
the fad—the “thing to do” with these Old City sections of towns, wheth­er
they be in Safed, Akko, or Joppa. Better, we suppose, than letting them
crumble and disappear, but—“Lord, let it not happen to Jerusalem’s Old
City!”
The Baha’i gardens in Haifa were magnificent in the early morning
dew, and at the shrine we were met by a dedicated Baha’ist, formerly
a Christian, who explained that this is not a tomb but a memorial,
and asked us to remove our shoes. This large, pleasant lady with two
chins (and a fascinating pink necklace which for some reason held me
spellbound) explained, without being too overbearing, something of the
Baha’i faith. Leaving the gardens, we were stopped by a little old lady
carry­ing an artist’s portfolio with watercolors for sale. At The Professor’s
nod, I bought one, of Jerusalem Hasidim—for the princely sum of three
lirot. Surely we should get more than ninety cents pleasure and memory
out of that!

This trip would be our last to Jeri­cho, and so, after accepting once
more the gracious Farran hospitality, explor­ing (quickly, because of the
dreadful heat) Qumran and Old Jericho, we knew we must take that
swim in the Dead Sea today, if ever. At Ein Feschka we took the plunge,
dressing for the ordeal in the high reeds and rushes. We were no sooner
in the water than we won­dered why we hadn’t done it before! How utterly
relaxing—just to sit back, clasp hands under the knees, and bask! I could
have lain there for hours, but the sun was setting, so we reluctantly crept
out, dipping ourselves in the fresh-water pool to remove the brine, and
leaving on our suits to cool us en route home through the hot desert. (A
day later, Ein Feschka was off-limits for tourists, as Syrian shells burst
near this spot, killing a woman who, like me, prepared to take her first,
and last, dip in this famed brine.
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On the Corner 1969
We started early, arriving in Beer­sheva at the height of the market
bustle near the edge of the city. Our curiosity was satisfied: this was a
camel market, plus a market for all kinds of other livestock, rugs, old
jewelry, brass, and just plain junk. Each Bedouin woman had her wares
plunked down in the dust on a filthy cloth or rug, and squatting about
were other Bedouins in the process of bargaining. In con­trast to this
marketplace was the quiet of the camel market where groups of men sat
quietly near the camels, taking their time arriving at agreement, then
sealing it with formal handshakes. All sorts of camels were there for the
bar­gaining--lovely little things, still suckling; mangy, calloused old things,
and some, cutting quite elegant figures. But look at any camel’s face, and
you see the silliest-looking animal in the world!

The walk through the Mea Shearim quarter, where the ultra-orthodox
Jews live in close community, is worth taking if only to read those signs
hung across the streets by the “Committee for Guarding Modesty”:
“Jewish Daughter! We do not tolerate anyone walking through our streets
immodestly dressed.”

The full two weeks is over: we’ve been from Dan to Beersheva, from
Akko to Joppa, from Tel Aviv to Jericho, and it’s been a good and full
relaxing family fellowship. At home tonight we eat a simple supper of
pizza, and spend the evening singing hymns and songs together, as Big
Brother has requested...And now, our guests gone, we begin the sorting,
washing, packing, leading up to our own exodus. And in between are
sandwiched: a last com­munion at St. Andrew’s; lunch with the GardinerScotts; visits to surrounding Arab villages to study a particular battle of
Saul; farewell to the Great Gal at MCC who is leaving for her own vacation;
a last fellowship—a chicken barbecue—at Beit Jala with our won­derful
Israel family—all the MCC and missions people who can never again be for
us mere acquaintances; a last coffee with the Arab girls at MCC; tea with
Michael and Iris, Asher, and Hanna; spaghetti with Yehudit and Tamar,
the two Israeli girls who have been so helpful with the Professor’s Hebrew
studies. And I end the month, this last, fabulous month, staying up late
to finish my little book of Psalm selections for Amalia, who “believes in
Gawd” but has never read the Bible…
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July
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!
—Psalm 137:5
July, a month of farewells: Amalia and I meet for the last time at
Jaffa Gate. We have little time, but all of it is ours, free and relaxed. We
drink our “limmon tea,” exchange last-minute gifts, part quickly. Shalom,
shalom. Geveret Koch is given the Arab-needlework batik—blue, blue,
for her blue “hen­house.” A real gift, since I want it my­self! She gives the
children what she knows will please them: a recording of “Jerusalem of
Gold” for Daughter, a little Arab finjan (coffee pot) for Son. Toda raba, toda
raba… Tamar stops by with a record of Hasidic Songs and Dances. Toda
raba! Shalom, lehitraot… A last trip to the Nassers, a last shower of Arab
hospitality: cold drinks, fresh fruit, Turkish coffee, and all the “We shall
miss you”s and the “You are welcome”s. Good-bye, Good-bye… A final
visit with the Tel-Orens, complete with Hannoch’s most-convincing-hand­
shake-in-the-world, Sharona’s rapid heartwarming talk, their greetings to
be given to Elkhart friends. Shalom, shalom… A last trip through this city
we love. Past Hechal Shlomo and the Monastery of the Cross—buildings
rep­resentative of the many which we never saw on the inside, but which
became landmarks for us. O JERUSALEM, IF I FORGET THEE!...
A last contact with Ivan and Rachel, this one so typical of all our
contacts with them, their appearing when we need them! They have come
to help pack the car, sweep out the final dust from the Dollhouse, wash
that last dish.
Good-bye, good-bye… Yehudit, the Sabra, hand outstretched for a
final Shalom, shalom… And now, the re­frigerator defrosted, the stove
cleaned, the floors mopped, the bills paid—nothing is left but the final
farewells: Asher brews us a last cup of coffee, and tells us that he and
Cynthia (now on holiday in England) are having trees planted in Kennedy
Memorial Forest in our names. Michael and Iris with Shai, and Hanna
and Asher follow us to the VW. Hanna envelops the daugh­ter in her arms,
whispers to her in Hebrew (Hanna is so proud of that girl’s Hebrew!), “No
people like you … no people like you!” Kisses, handshakes, blessings…
Shalom, shalom, wonderful neighbors; and may it truly be shalom!
Out on the highway we are far beyond the Castel before we remember
The Professor’s sports jacket, hanging in the wardrobe of the Dollhouse.
Forget it. Maybe the Budget Shop at Goshen will have another: And now
our heavily loaded little car arrives in Ramat Hasharon, where the ends
of the perfect circle meet: Here we ate our first meal in the Land of Milk
and Honey; here we eat our last meal, with Roy and Flor­ence and their
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On the Corner 1969
children. Baruch ata Adonai! Blessed art Thou O Lord! Shalom, shalom,
dear friends! Shalom within, shalom without.
In the harbor at Haifa the Queen Anna Maria rests, waiting, to take
us from one home to another; from fare­wells to welcomes…

July, a month of welcomes: Welcome aboard! And we are pleased
with our cabin facilities as we examine what will be our home for thirteen
days: four comfortable bunks, an adequate bath, four closets, a dressingtable-desk with four drawers, and two chairs for com­fortable reading.
This brief life of luxury also includes an abundance of food. In time we
learn to order less than is of­fered, and some days the sickening rock of
the boat frees us from ordering any­thing at all…
Welcome to Athens! Tour tickets and passes in hand, we leave our
ship for a sortie into lovely, hot Athens. The flavor of Athens is unique,
the architecture light and clean and airy after the heav­ier lines of the
Middle East ruins. And what is there to compare with the Acropolis and
its paragon—the Par­thenon? For me it has a kind of mystical appeal hard
to explain, and so I am amazed how tired and blah most of the tourists
seem. It is hot, but the heat is dry; and we surely haven’t been over­tired
by much touring! Of course, we four didn’t need to wait for this climb
until we were sixty; also, I’ve been for­tunate enough to have a year of
walking in Jerusalem to toughen me for this morning’s little sprint. But
when those tired tourists come to the souvenir shops—oh, then what
energy they have! Athens, I hope I can return to you. I wish all those I love
could see you in this shimmering July heat, to remember you as “a thing
of beauty…a joy forever.”
Welcome to Pompeii! Two days past Athens we again prepare to
disembark—this time for a brief tour of ancient Pom­peii. But then comes
this Landing pass fiasco. The line is too long, the service unbelievably
slow; it is soon apparent there will be no tour unless somebody lights
some dynamite. Somebody does. Irate Greeks and Israelis start yelling
and pushing; the officials are overcome, and end up wildly handing out
passes to each comer. We end up with passes for Helmi and Shervy Nagar,
Naomie Nason, and Aleye Ogurich, and are given clear­ance. But fiasco is
still a relevant word: on board our bus we discover that though the guide
speaks English, no one can understand his English. A dashing young
Greek from Brooklyn promptly takes over, translating the guide’s En­glish
into Brooklynese, then Greek. “On tha right, ya see tha Isla Capri—only
ya don’t see it, unless ya got better eyes!” Oh well, we did see Pompeii, or
at least a bit of it. And that tragic lava­ encrusted figure of the man with
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his hand over his nose and mouth—his gesture made a special kind of
sense to us, as we recalled our first visit to the ship’s Sauna yesterday…
And now, Welcome to a long, long week on the Atlantic, too much of
it spent in the bunks or deck chairs, sport­ing a slightly green complexion,
and wishing nothing so much as that this voyage might end.
Welcome to New York City! The plans were, the schedule was, that
the Queen Anna Maria would dock at 8:00 a.m. She docks (oh, many
muggy hours, stepped-­on-toes, boring Orpheus-room-conver­sations
later) at 3:15. By 5:15 we are through customs. Then begins the long
wait down in the bleak dock terminal, with suitcases for chairs. Out of
twenty-­six cars in the hold, ours would be number 25. When at last it
hovers over us, the time is 11:45 p.m., and I am firmly stating that never
again will I take an ocean voyage—particularly with a car… Getting clear
of NYC at mid­night is simple, though, and once we are free of her we
begin to see an in­credible country—vast, strange, and rich beyond words.
Welcome to gas at half the price of Israeli benzin! Wel­come to hotdogs
and hamburgers that taste like hotdogs and hamburgers! Welcome to
clean restaurants, clean restrooms, clean countryside; to cold water given
without asking, to doors held open for you, to thank-yous and windowwashings from service attend­ants! Welcome to the sight, at dawn, of the
rolling Lancaster County country­side: indecently, voluptuously beautiful
to eyes which have been trained to search out beauty in the neutral colors
of a desert land.
Welcome to relatives at Akron, with whom we spend a day renewing
family ties and washing and drying clothes the Great American Way.

Welcome to our old home at Scottdale, the house which sheltered our
infant family, the hills we loved, a special gathering of relatives, friends,
neighbors, breaking bread with us on The Hill; a special cake appearing
for the most be­wildered of birthday-women…
Welcome to the House on the Corner! At six we roll into the driveway;
Little Fellow lunges out to meet us, nervous, but knowing; the Tall Blond
is in our arms; beloved neighbors have joined the wonderful Keepers-ofOur-Hearth in setting forth a welcome picnic.

I walk through my house, a stranger. I sit by the Little Fellow, trying
to understand his speech, and feel a stranger. I’m floating; it’s not real;
it is real—it’s not… Will I be able to catch hold of life here, far away from
Jerusalem My Happy Home? … After hours spent talking with sons about
the draft, we are worried and disoriented.
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But Little Fellow has happily kissed us good night. The big boys, I can
tell, are glad to have a home. In spite of worry, disorientation, strangeness,
I think it will be good to pick up life here on the Corner again. I think
“tomorrow will be fair.” Shalom, shalom.
August
Goodness and mercy ... follow me all the days of my life.

This particular August is a strange limbo in which I wander like a
puzzled child. Some days the feet are firmly in contact with terra firma;
some days I seem to float in a semi-disembodied state, not quite aware of
what is real and what is only apparent. Can one be said to have a home at
all if he has left his Soul-Home to return to a house-on-­the-corner which
is also a home? How far out into the current of this swirling life about
me can I go without surren­dering all freedom of choice to the vicious
undertow? An inner voice says: Resist at all costs—you need not be
drowned! A hundred gentle, conde­scending voices answer: Like everyone
else, you will forget your intentions, and your life will be sucked back into
the current. I believe, I doubt, I wait, I wonder. On tiptoe I walk through
this fragile month of—not August, but cul­ture shock.

Sitting more or less placidly on The Corner year after year one
gets the feeling that nothing much happens in a given twelve months.
But coming back after a season elsewhere, even the small changes are
shocking to the senses, and one thinks, “The way to make things happen
is to leave town!” Actually, the changes are not all that great, I guess: a
neighbor has a new kitchen; North Hall and the A & P have disappeared;
the Public Library has its beautiful new home; babies have been born; a
neigh­bor, church friends, have died; the hair quotient on the campus has
gone up; there are slight alterations in the rules for collection of garbage;
my washer and refrigerator are on their last legs. But the returnee who
at first is tempted to think that “things have really hap­pened” in his
absence, must often con­clude, upon closer inspection, that this is largely
an illusion. In somewhat the same way that beauty is in the eye of the
beholder, change may sometimes be in the mind of the onlooker.

In those few days before his latest set of parents leaves, the Little
Fellow’s anx­iety is apparent. To which family does he belong? Who is
going to stay with him? True, the days are full of play and fun. But at
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bedtime his “old mama” puts him to bed, and the fears surface. Between
strong avowals of “I love you bery much” come the strained reaching after
the familiar: “Where Aunt Roo? Where Uncle Bob?” When, finally, he
sleeps, I go back to my room with anx­ieties of my own. Will there be a long
hard pull ahead for him, for us, as we attempt to restore his confidence in
these people who walked away and left him last year?
Then—miracle! He has said good­bye, one morning, to the Family who
gave him such loving care this year. Another day of play passes. Bedtime
comes, and he falls asleep happily, with no hint of strain. The days which
now follow bear out the reality of what we sensed that first, relaxed night.
It is as if the puzzle pieces fell into place for him as his interim Parents
drove away: Dad and Mama, away back in the dimness, had told him they
would be back. They came back. He can trust them. They are his family.
And now—life as usual.

Now alone with my new-old respon­sibilities, I find that a trip to the
super­market is imperative. Confidently I set out with a list. Several hours
later I re­turn limp, distraught, as near to a nerv­ous breakdown as I ever
hope to get. And I have a new insight into one possible reason for the
super-energy demanded of the U.S. Housewife on any given day. The
woman who has one or two at-home dresses, one or two street-­dresses,
one or two dressy dresses is spared the energy needed to decide which of
twenty to put on in the morn­ing… Buying bread, milk, rice, flour, beans,
fruit, at the little shop in Beit Zayit was simple—you couldn’t go wrong.
There were few, if any, choices. But Kroger’s is another matter. Of ten
or twelve possibilities for green beans, which shall it be? Fresh? Frozen?
Canned? If canned, then which variety? Read the fine print, compare
the weights, juggle the figures. Then there’s bread. At Beit Zayit it was—
just bread. Only on Friday morning did I have the choice of the Hallah—
Shabbat loaf—or the ordinary “Give us this day our daily” bread. On
Kroger shelves there are Monks breads, Pepperidge Farm breads, Kreamo
breads, and a half-doz­en other trade names alone. Among the Kroger
brands, shall it be Rye? Wheat? White? Cracked Wheat? Cheese? Old­Fashioned? Sandwich? Italian? French? If rye, the choice is frightening:
Jewish rye, Bismarck rye, Old-World rye, American rye, Black Forest rye,
Party rye, just plain rye, our rye…
From my first shopping tour I come home, trembling with tiredness,
though it is still morning. In the aftermath of those wild hours, I go about
this big white house with a grim, hands-on-­hips purposefulness. I had
thought we lived “fairly simply.” Well, from now on the simplifying will
be more drastic. Too many clothes. Too many pots and pans. Too many
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gadgets. Too many duplicates in every department. It occurs to me now
that the sin of affluence is not merely to have more than one “needs,”
or more than another has, but to have duplications which demand the
making of countless little decisions (which dress? which pan? which
table-service?) that consume energy and do not really serve the human
beings for whom I am responsible inside and outside this house.
Now the long slow task of sorting and filling boxes begins. And a
spotlight of insight begins to shine around some tired old words—“careful
and troubled about many things…”

On our first morning in opulent Amer­ica the richness, even of nature,
made me want to cry out: Too much green! As we progressed I added: Too
much variety! Too much efficiency! Settled on The Corner again, it was:
Too many decisions! Too many possessions!
But there was another commodity heaped upon us, about which,
somehow, even the most ascetic person could not complain. In the first
difficult weeks of attempting to readjust to a culture which, in only one
year, had become strangely foreign, the love of our broth­ers and sisters
in this Community-of-­faith was the indispensable ingredient. And that
love came quickly, in many guises: That first wave, across the street,
from Jack and Eleanor; our first visitors, eating soup with us even before
our bags were unpacked—Rabbi David and his Pearl; then, following in
quick suc­cession, coffee at Winnie’s, dinner at Paul and Bertha’s, tea with
Elizabeth, breakfast with Evelyn and Verna, lunch with Verna and Mary,
coffee with Lon and Kathy, tea at Florence and Eliza­beth’s, Sunday-atthe-lake with the Lehman tribe, supper with the Retired Adult’s Sunday
School class, lunch with Esther, tea with Miriam, visits from the IsraeliSwarrs and the Arab-Farrans; offerings of flowers, food, and—of course—a
box of Bic pens from dear “Mr. Bic.” Finally, at month’s end, Love included
us as witnesses to a marriage ceremony of such rightness, such beau­tyof-spirit that we still find no words to describe it.
Too much of so many things, here on this green, maple-shaded
corner. But who can say that he has ever loved too much, or received too
much love?
September
…and uphold me with a willing spirit
—Ps. 51:12

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The weeks pass, and the routines of another autumn return. One by
one we traipse to one or another of our fine specialists, for that overdue
attention to our eyes, our teeth, our innards. We soon are concluding that
our chief job this winter will be to support faithfully the medical profession
with our wages, our gifts, and our tithes. (Another good reason for the
simplification of our de­sires, the paring of our needs!) The Professor goes
back to the Seminary, the big boys to the College, the teeners to High
School, the Little Fellow to his Aux Chandelles … a nephew ends his
sojourn of a month with us, a niece begins hers... Young life flows around
and in and through this house on the corner. For The Woman it’s a time
of joy. The coveted Shalom Bayit—household peace—is hers, at least for
the moment.

Moving about in our own rooms again (how spacious, after our
little dollhouse under the olive trees!) I ask myself wonderingly if this
detachment I feel will be a casualty of our eventual readjustment. Is it a
law of life that the old ruts must necessarily claim us? Are we too staid
for new patterns of living to take root? These are days of reflec­tion and
wonder. No promises are made, no bold predictions are offered. But we
note that the gathered family, having come together again for a few more
brief years before the necessary and right “diaspora,” is united in new
and subtler ways. Though separated from each other last year, each of us
was led to similar conclusions concerning a de­sired alteration of style of
life. Though never a demanding, “Gimme!” family, they are now refusing
things that we all took for granted over the years: new school clothes,
desserts, regular visits (by the big boys) to Azars late at night. All along
the line, from oldest to young­est, the “in” words are Simplify. Make Do.
Do Without.

Man does not live by bread alone … and homemade ice cream, face
it, is for most of us a dispensable luxury. Par­ticularly it is so in a setting
like last evening’s, when the Seminary faculties met for their first Social
of the new year. Bread and tea would have been enough, with all that
superb fellowship potential. But I suppose I shall have to give up on
that little dream; only dire poverty would permit us to assemble without
that abundance of good food on hand, to keep us from becoming too
preoccupied with “meeting.”
And so we have the barbecue, and all the accompaniments, climaxed
by home­made ice cream, pièce de résistance! And then, fat and full, we
settle down to chat as fat and full people do. And though, frankly, that
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sharp edge—so necessary for keen appreciation of good food—was long
gone by the time we had arrived at the Cold Stuff, still, a good bit of
chitchat revolved around this treat.
While I helped my friend grind away on the freezers earlier in the
afternoon, I realized that the making of homemade ice cream is really
less a matter of food for the body than sustenance for the nostalgic soul.
We make it—at least in part—because of the memories it con­jures. For
me, those memories were awakened strongly as I ground away, knee on
the freezer-top. Forty-odd years fell away, and there I was, sitting in the
sunshine of an Idaho summer. It all came back—watching my brothers
bring the block of ice home in a burlap bag in which it was crushed with
a sledgehammer on the cistern top…
Begging to turn just a little bit and finding that, indeed, just a little
bit was all I could turn it by the time they let me try… Waiting for the
moment when the dasher came cut, and we could attack it with spoons…
Lean­ing close to watch the clean rag being twisted and screwed into the
hole left by the dasher, as mama deftly packed the freezer… Opening
the cellar door so the precious cargo could be carried down into the cool
darkness to wait for the birthday celebration in the evening. On such
occasions we didn’t preface this treat with a meal—birthday cake was
the only accompaniment, and so the full sweetness and richness of the
“Delect­able Mountains” in our soup plates was adequately appreciated.

I never like to miss a Mothers’ Cof­fee at Aux Chandelles, though some­
times I have no choice. It is an elite sorority, and I always feel somehow
un­deserving of membership in it. Only one qualification exists, and your
retarded child, whether “trueborn” or foster­—fulfills that requirement.
Here we learn from each other quick­ly, alertly, because we have a
common reservoir of emotions, of experience, of suffering. Here we find a
rare under­standing, and a full acceptance for our children that we find
nowhere else—not even in the church! Here we enter into each others’
specific problems with keen identification because most of us have “been
there”—or mighty close to “there.”
Having been exposed to so many large-hearted women in one day, I al­
ways come home feeling grateful and optimistic. Yet most of these women
are very ordinary. Few are highly educated or exceptionally articulate.
Just women—raised to extraordinary courage and kindness by the gift of
a Special Child.

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While we were in the Land of The Book, I read few books, for two
reasons. One—I should have had those glasses changed before I left.
Two—there was too much to see, too much living to do, too many fantastic
people to meet, too much to learn. So I settled down to an education
without books. Along the way, however, I did gather recommendations of
books I should read upon our return. Almost as soon as we were home, I
took my list to the bookstore and or­dered them in paperback. Last week
my shelf of Israeli/Jewish books arrived, and in these golden end-ofsummer days I am tantalized by their presence. I pick up this one, then
that, longing to give myself to their reading. But I plunge seriously into
only one: Life Is with People, by Zborowski and Herzog, an anthropological
study of the culture of the shtetl. (The shtetl was the small town, or
village, of Eastern European Jews which existed for centuries virtual­
ly unchanged until World War II when their millions were liquidated.)
As I read, I sense at once that here are the roots from which my Israeli
neighbors, my American Jewish friends, sprang. Reading on into the
book I understand characteristics and habits of those friends which I
only noted before. I rec­ognize them on every page, hear their talk in the
buses and shops, their laughter cascading from their kitchen windows,
their prayers in the shul. Most of all I am plunged again into the “feel” of
a Jerusalem Shabbat, that unique experience which will color the word
“sabbath” for me for the rest of my life! Never do I close a session of Life
Is with People without a wave of homesickness.
I look over my shelf and bless the poor eyesight which forced me to
live, to enjoy life with those people, not just read about them. I take up
a book, and thank God for the good eyesight which now enables me to
relive that joy of withness and to enter into a fuller understanding of it.
October
Thou dost beset me behind and before, and layest thy hand upon
me.

Last year at this time we were a part of the crowds at the Wailing
Wall on the eve of Simhath Torah—the day which ends the Feast of
Booths—Sukkoth. Simhath Torah means “Rejoicing of the Torah” and
we nostalgically recall the black-caftaned, fur-hatted Hasidim doing just
that—rejoicing in dance and song around the Torah scrolls held up in
their midst. Remembering, I have my own quiet little Simhath Torah cele­
bration as I today recall how the spir­it and the words of one Book have
framed my life and have affected my major—and minor—decisions.
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The sit-on-the-floor, dip-and-chip, sing-in at Ellen’s tonight wasn’t
meant to be a Simhath Torah observance, but its rousing spirits came
as close to the wild, free joy of those Hasidim at the wall, and the horah
dancers in Indepen­dence Park, as we normally could expect to get here.
The Midwest, if not the U.S. in general, is still a place where the expression
of emotion is done mainly be­hind closed doors—otherwise it must suffer
the frown of middle-class decorum.

Lon and Kathy served us steak tonight, and in the spirit of the Old
Testament we ate with zest. Among the ancient as well as modern Jews
one notes a lack of the dichotomy of sacred and sec­ular, body and spirit.
Life—for them—is whole; joys of the flesh and of the spirit are interwoven;
desires and appe­tites are to be exercised, not despised and crushed. All
have possibilities for good within the context of covenant-­living. The sin is
to despise the gifts of God, and one can show this by asceticism as well as
by overindulgence, though the most common form of de­spising is that of
indifference—the appeasing of one’s appetites without joy. “Enjoy! Enjoy!”
is the invitation to mealtime. Our hosts tonight know how to set the stage
for such enjoyment. A crisp salad, a hot bread—that’s more than enough
to enhance a steak. All this, and good talk, too.

The complaints directed against God in the Book of Job and in many
of the Psalms make a lot more sense to me than they used to. “Complaints
against God,” one man has written, “are much healthier than indifference
to Him.” Healthier also, we might add, than fear­ful silence. And maybe,
just maybe, there is a lot more room for laughter and fun-making in
our God-talk than we were taught to believe. “It is the heart that is not
yet sure of its God that is afraid to laugh in His presence,” says George
Macdonald.
The Jews of the shtetl lived in a God-­oriented society. God was “so
much a living reality” there that people would often complain—with
affection—“If God lived in the shtetl, He’d have His windows broken.”
Complaint against authority, against “conditions” is a hu­man need.
Maybe there’d be a lot less work for psychiatrists and counselors if more
of us in our generation had been allowed to complain against our fathers
and—as Job and David did—our heav­enly Father!

Sometimes the Woman on the Corner grits her teeth and says, “Never
again!” Volunteering has a way of involving one in a lot more work than
seems apparent in the harmless phrase, “a little volun­teer work.” I had
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thought it only right that I should offer my services a day a week to the
school which has done so much for our Little Fellow. Visions of stuffing
envelopes, typing letters, fil­ing reports, gave me courage to take on this
small service. I didn’t expect to be asked to take charge of the library—
which would entail the making of de­cisions, and cataloging judgments,
to say nothing of the routine typing and filing. I had wanted to be a
“slave”—not an in-charge person. Wryly I take on the job, with a good
bit of fear and trembling. I don’t know about this volunteer stuff: I offer
to help The Professor find materi­als and methods for his Sunday school
class, and end up teaching the class. I volunteer to keep a child for six
months, and here I am, beginning my eighth year with him. I ask for a
putter-job, and get Work. If I had it to do “over,” I tell myself, I’d choose
a paying job, which I could quit without loss of face, when the going got
rough. So I tell myself … and in the same breath thank God that I don’t
have it to do “over.” God knows—and I know now that only the dynamics
of volunteering can force me to operate above the level of mediocrity.

It seems true that the college scene has changed greatly in the last
few years, and the gap between the world of the parents and that of
their chil­dren has widened frighteningly. Goal-orientation, the timeconcept, style of life—these are matters in which many alert sons and
daughters disagree vio­lently with parents, and can no longer accept our
viewpoint. They feel they must do what challengers of the status quo have
always done—react in “radical” ways. Our friend Hubert points out that
the etymology of the word suggests “getting to the root.” One does not
need to heap either excess blame or excess praise upon these young to
acknowledge that “Christian” churches, homes, and colleges could use a
few shocks to give us insight into how far we have cut our­selves off from
the Christian Root…
But the Generation Gap has always been here, they tell us. And
sometimes the gap has been literal. I remember a favorite blouse which
sported tiny slits in the sleeve at the shoulder. Miracu­lously, after each
laundering, that blouse came back to me with the holes neatly stitched
shut. Just as miraculously, my mother found the holes open whenever
I wore the blouse. Not a word was spoken, but the game continued for
months. Fortunately for us both, Mother tired first. With great good humor
she acknowledged that I had to be free to sin my own sins!

These are the days when desperate program-chairmen send word to
each other via the grapevine, that another traveler has returned from distant
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On the Corner 1969
lands, and is available for speaking appoint­ments. Accordingly I go hither
and yon, but not really unwillingly. For I am still steeped in the spirit of the
year that is behind me, and to spend an evening trying to share some of it
with other women is not a chore. Whether it is “Jerusalem, My Happy Home,”
or “House of Olives” or “Women of Israel”—I am only too glad to speak. As
Jessamyn West wrote, “Like all lovers, I enjoy speaking of my Beloved!”
November
Ηe gave gifts to men...

This November morning an acquaint­ance has pointed out how
cheerless and ugly a Goshen November is. I’m always a bit puzzled by
the degree to which sensible people allow themselves to be emotionally
intimidated, if not impris­oned, by weather and geography. Though I
do find sunshine and majesty of nature exhilarating, Grace—as I have
experienced it—has hardly been dependent upon my physical environ­
ment. And now that the flowers and sunshine are gone, now that the
maples—Goshen’s chief glory at other seasons of the year—are bare, what
better time to rejoice in the Grace of Life?

Grace. Of all the old-fashioned words, why is this the one that has
leaped into life for me now, in these rich middle years? Each one of us,
says St. Paul, has been given his own share of Grace. Why has my share
been so great?
“Grace,” writes Rabbi Heschel, “re­sounds in our lives like a staccato
… only by retaining the seemingly dis­connected notes do we acquire the
abil­ity to grasp the theme…”
Looking back over nearly fifty years of living, the theme seems
heartrendingly clear on this gray November morning, yet to make notations
of those resound­ing staccato notes would be as endless a task as it would
be joyous. I won’t attempt those notations today.
But let me move through this day, this month, this winter with an
open­ness to Grace—Grace which will come, not with my asking, not with
my de­siring, not with the regularity of the rising and setting sun nor the
predict­ability of the seasons, not in any ex­pected amount or manner.
But Grace, I know, will appear; that all-out-of-­proportion, unexpected,
undeserved, unasked-for Grace will appear. “He gives gifts to men…”

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After five weeks of being a part of our household, the Tall Gal moves
out into her own apartment. Though her words have been few, her quiet
ways, that articulate smile (always seeming to hover on the verge of the
verbal) will be missed at our noisy dinner table. To have had her with us
has been one more touch of Grace.

The possessions surrounding me here on the Corner-house—how
few of them have monetary value! And the ones I value most are mere
baubles, cherished for their symbolism alone. The basket from Geveret
Koch (May she rest in peace!) could not have cost more than sixty cents
in Jerusalem’s Old City market. The “Fairy Flower” (as the Third Grader,
years ago, called it when he had finished it) framed now, and hanging on
the dining-room wall, will hardly arrest the art connoisseur—should one
happen into our home. The tiny glass paperweight Jill brought me from
Germany couldn’t have cost her much. Yet Geveret Koch lives again every
time I set eyes on the basket; the whole wealth of one son’s gifts lights up
my day whenever I look at the Fairy Flower. To hold the smooth dollop of
ruby glass in my hand—as I often do—is to be warmed by the image of the
beautiful and sensitive girl-woman who gave it to me. Dollars and cents
are totally irrelevant in a gift which carries with it a genuine remind­er of
the giver, thus becoming a true bearer of Grace!

The eyes of our guest tonight shone in the candlelight as she assessed
the appearance of the table. “But it looks like a celebration!” she cried.
It was a celebration. We celebrated her coming to us and bringing to our
table her own charming brand of aliveness. She may carry the rather
weighty title of Church­woman-in-Residence among the semi­narians. But
tonight she was simply a sharer, with us, of the Grace of Life.

To some small extent, I suppose, we are regulators of Grace. Evelyn
Under­hill wrote one of her “pupils” something to the effect that Grace is
always sur­rounding us, ready to break in upon us, but that we condition
it by closing or opening the doors and windows by which it could gain
entry. Forgiveness offered, conscious gestures toward the breaking down
of walls that divide us—these are doors which, opened, are sure to invite
Grace. The arrangement to eat breakfast with a friend may or may not
result in Real Meeting; one thing sure, such a Grace likely will not be
given if no first steps are taken to make it possible. Ruth and I ate break­
fast together this morning. We didn’t plan the outing for the purpose of
re­ceiving something more than food and friendly chatting. But having
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On the Corner 1969
opened the window a crack, we both realized that Something More was
added; something more strength-giving than pecan rolls and coffee.

Thanksgiving: a Day of Grace. I ask Why? True, we gathered up
the nieces and nephews who happened to be around, plus a young
man suddenly left “without a country”; we even foraged about as late
as Thursday morning and came up with a quartet of our long-haired
son’s long-haired friends. The food was ordinary. The conversation was
not really all that scintillating. Yet the Something More was present to
such an extent that a big boy, nibbling in the kitchen as I cleaned up the
mess, kept saying, “A good day—one of our best Thanksgivings, don’t you
think?”

A friend remarks, “Don’t you cheapen the concept of Grace by
attributing every lift of the spirit to its presence?” I re­ply, “Don’t you limit
the concept of Grace by refusing to recognize the lilt of its presence in the
most ordinary ex­periences?” It is only when the reality of Grace rips loose
from its prison of sacred, theological language and comes to warm me
where I sit in my daily-ness, that I can believe it is anything more than
just a sacred, theological word!

And so I move through the month of November more aware of
Grace than of Grayness. Life flows about me. Our own children and the
Gentle Young who drift in and out with them (some stay a few hours, a
night; some settle down for weeks or months) … our invited guests …
callers. Through all of these Grace may suddenly appear and brighten
the fabric of my days. A letter, a telephone call … a handshake … a kiss
… a small success … a distress of spirit … the irking daily disciplines
of commitment … on any of these Grace may alight. And if it does, it
can make sense out of the inexplicable, turn an ordinary conversation
into an unfor­gettable meeting, bring the promise of hope to a defeated
spirit, and fan a spark of joy into a contagious flame. Amazing Grace!
December
They rejoiced with exceeding great joy…

Along with Grace there’s another old-­fashioned word that I have come
to value. That’s Joy. It’s a word symbolic of a reality which erupts from
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the depths and, as I understand it, has little to do with the popular notion
of “happiness.” Among “good Christian people” it is at times so scarce
that one must drastically reevaluate the term “good Christian people.”
Yet the Bible seems to assume that Joy is a mark of the Follower of The
Way. The Man of Sorrows was a Man of Joy if we are to believe His words,
His prayers, His free actions, His reputation among His contemporaries,
enemies as well as friends.
Joy, said Tillich, Divine Joy, is found only at the depths of life. And
that must mean that it can coexist with anguish.
The Good without the Joy, said Heschel, is a Good half done. And that
must indicate, if it’s true, that there’s a lot of half-done goodness coming
out of our dour righteousness. Dear God, I pray, let me be remembered
as a “joyful mother of children” any day, rather than “an upright pillar of
the church.”

New joys all over the place this December! First there was the Love
Feast. Aware, one Wednesday evening this fall, that our K Group was a
little taken aback by my experimental re­fusal to serve refreshments, I
made one of those unpremeditated, grandiose promises: The next time we
meet at our house, it will be for dinner, and we shall call it a Love Feast.
And so Joy itself ushered December into our home, as those twentyodd, crazy, wonderful individualists, with whom we have shared smallgroup life for years, sat at table with us. The meal itself—spaghetti—was
simple enough to prepare that I asked myself why we didn’t do it before.
The long table stretched from one end to the other of our living room;
there were candles, candles; there was laughter and joking, and some
serious talk as we said our farewells to the group.

O Hanukkah, O Hanukkah, come light the menorah!
Let’s have a party, we’ll all dance the horah.
Gather ’round the table, we’ll give you a treat,
Svivonim to play with, levivot to eat.
And while we are playing, the candles are burning low,
One for each night, they shed a sweet light,
To remind us of days long ago.
Tonight the House on the Corner went absolutely candle-crazy as
each of the sixteen youngsters standing around our table lit a menorah
(the seven older) or a candle (the nine young­er). We wished for cameras
to catch the Joy in those lovely young eyes. Yet­—how could a camera
have captured it? We’ll settle for our memories here. I think back over
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all the children’s parties that have been a part of our family joy … many
are now hazy and hardly distinguishable from each other. But there was
something about this bor­rowed celebration—something—at any rate,
we know that when we have for­gotten the details of most of the happy,
candlelit occasions in our home, the Hanukkah party may still be vividly
recalled.

Joy is … Kari and Lois stopping in unexpectedly, sleeping on our
living-­room floor… Joy is a last Hebrew­-conversation class before the
Holidays eat up our Monday evenings… Joy is hours and hours of editing
slides, slides which we will view, I’m sure, very seldom, but which will
have power for years to evoke past joys, gone days, the fresh loveliness of
the little chil­dren-now-grown… Joy is experimen­tation, at the suggestion
of the Young, with the idea of a Christmas Without Presents—a strange,
exhilarating, not entirely fulfilling, yet most educational experience… Joy
is Joe and Elaine, Howard and Miriam, John and June, Pat—and all the
other Christmas guests without whom there would not have been giving
and receiving to balance the strange absence of the gay packages under
the tree… Joy is Clarence and Alice stopping in with some Christmas
Cheer… Joy is a little boy with chicken pox. Joy is being included, we stolid
middle­-agers, in a party made up of young graduate-student couples…
Joy is letters and cards from Jerusalem … telephone calls to and from
family and friends across the country… Joy is sending the youngest to
help in the cleanup in Mississippi… Joy is stand­ing beside a friend at
the back of the auditorium, watching the Aux Chan­delles version of the
Nativity—surely the most moving reconstruction I have seen to date… Joy
is Christmas Eve’s chili soup and Christmas Day’s rice eaten with one
who can recall with nostalgia our sharing of the sacred Christmas meals
last year in our little Dollhouse in the Judean Hills… Joy is a book which
brings delight, and no book has brought me more delight this season
than The Joys of Yiddish placed on my table by that neighbor who always
senses what is the right gift for the moment-that-is… Joy is finding the
eyes resting again and again on the Hebrew SHALOM—now a part of
our living-room “furniture”; and remembering with love the family who
brought it to us as a welcome-­home gift… Joy is lighting the New Year’s
Candle, lit for the first time last year in Jerusalem; and eating lemon pie
by its light, in company with Verna, and with Mary, who was present at
its first lighting… Joy is the aware­ness of the Newness that burst on the
world-scene with Jesus… Joy is see­ing that Newness reflected in people
around me… Joy is remembering those who have made me most aware of
the Joy that flowered from the life and death of Jesus: my mother, from
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whom, surely, I received the physical capacity for joy; a certain Sunday
school teacher who guided me in those first years of awakening to the joy
of com­mitment; a professor who believed that my joy could be channeled
into words which would deepen the joy of at least some who read them;
a flamboyant woman-saint who in her kooky way incarnated, for me, the
joy of Jesus; sensitive men and women friends who shared, at various
times, places, the joy-at-the-depths with me; a loose­-hanging, free family,
the most basic context for the sharing of joy; an impaired child who lives
and moves and has his being in Joy…
In the pain of remembering and the peace of remembering, I find that
my joy is full.
On
the
Corner 1970
January
Life ... is unfair.
—J. F. K.

The first article I read in the New Year leaves me with this one small
phrase uttered—in what context I do not know—by the young president
whose life, it would seem, was un­fairly, violently ended in our time. The
words haunt me. The truth hurts. How well I know that life is unfair—I
who have been given so much good that I didn’t deserve, spared so much
ill that I had coming to me! It’s easy to see why the idea of reincarnation
appeals to many: here is a system which has the possibilities of eveningup the score, at least. I can’t remember the time (even as a child, I felt it)
when I was not uncomfortable about the richness of my own situation in
comparison to that of others I knew. Throughout my growing-­up I cried
out again and again with Ivan, in Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov, “I
want to be there when we find out…” I want to see the score evened-up!
At the same time, I’m aware that here and now we can help to evenup the score. I am not afraid of the Social Gospel; Jesus preached it in
Matthew 25, and as I sense what He did with His life, I think that passage
is pretty close to the heart of what He was getting at. I am afraid of my
own tendency to a piety which can satisfy the demands of that passage
(Matthew 25:31-46) by praying, expressing “intelligent concern,” sending
money and clothes, and bypassing the Way of the Cross completely.
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Hubert Humphrey, commenting on the words “Life is unfair,” adds
that life’s unfairness is not entirely irrevo­cable, and that “we can help
balance the scale for others, if not always for ourselves.” But how few of
us are going to voluntarily change our way of life to do so!

The New Year begins as others have begun: that incomparable
breakfast with the Beechys (which we missed last year); a few more open
days and nights before the schedule-stockade hems us in; days spent
more or less lazily, getting up when we wish (for me, it’s when the Little
Feller wishes); follow­ing where the spirit leads; listening to each other a bit
more, perhaps; just, BEING; nights spent sitting up late with the family,
talking, or breaking into a spontaneous songfest; gathering with friends
for amiable exchange of ideas, as we did around Jack’s and Eleanor’s
grand new fireplace (ah, that homemade bread!).
Then there is, for me, the added pleasure of the inevitable list-making,
wishful planning, or whatever term happens to cover the now obsolete
phase, New Year’s Resolutions. This is an activity I would not willingly
give up. Sometimes it even helps me to get things done, to embark on a
new course in some small way. To date these meditations at the years
be­ginning have not made a new person out of me, but I’ve never asked
that they should. I’m grateful for small nudges, for imperceptible growth
toward the Goal. And I purely love List-­making!

In all Elkhart County there are probably few individuals who would
have enjoyed so wholeheartedly to­night’s treat. Part of the treat was
tangible and part—surely the greater part—was not. Our Israeli friends
shared falafel with us, but more, we shared together nostalgic associations
of the Land of the Falafel. All of down­town Jerusalem was in each morsel:
the crowded streets, the scurrying Hasidim, the roaring green buses, the
open falafel shops, one after the other, punctuating every block. And
again it seems incredible that one short year in a strange land should so
completely capture me that I think of it in terms of the home to which I
will return as soon as possible!

“One kind act is better than a thousand head-bowings in prayer,”
said the Saint. I agree. And one kind thought executed into action is
better than a thousand intentions. One wearies of hearing, “We must get
to­gether,” “We must have you folks in soon”—and (how well I know) one
wearies of saying these weak words over and over. Then comes a Thelma
who doesn’t bother saying the words until she can make a firm invitation
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out of them, who plans for a meeting in the middle of her teaching day—
plans, and carries out the plan. Over a lunch of soup and sandwiches
we have not quite an hour together—enough time to refresh each other,
renew the joy of friendship. Who said there isn’t enough time for meeting,
these days?
Yet most of us go on living under the delusion that there truly is not
time at out disposal. The card is not dropped into the mailbox, because
we ate waiting until we can write a long letter; the cup of tea is not offered
because we are waiting for time to make something special to serve with
the tea; the friends we’ve been wanting in for dinner—they won’t be
sharing the dessertless spaghetti meal because we’re waiting until we can
do it up right—shine the house, set a proper table, and prove our cooking
skill. God be thanked for people who don’t wait for everything to be done
“decently and in order” —for the spur-of-the-moment-ers, the let’s-do­-itanyhow-ers, the dropper-in-ers. And God forgive the rest of us who keep
on saying that we’d like to do it, but…

Years ago there was a gorgeous day when “all the vapours of God”
visited our Hill. Rain, hall, sleet, snow—what a circus! Today the visitations
were different but even more exciting. Weeks pass without anyone coming
to the door—for me, that is. Oh, yes, the doorbell rings, the telephone
shrills, but ordinarily it’s for one or the other of the Young, and I end up
feeling like a secretary toward the end of the day!
But today was my day. First came the mother of some M.D.R.’s who
are linked with our M.D.R. sons. Through the pleasant morning and
over a sandwich at noon we exchanged the joys and pains of our sons’
in­volvement with this aspect of disciple­ship; then came the lady from
Woodward Place in whose home we’ve spent many hours, but who has
rarely been here; barely was she gone when a vivacious college girl, friend
of a friend, dropped in to chat, leaving me just enough time to resort to
sandwiches again, for supper, and arrange the furniture for the K Group.
And I was thankful to be one of the fortunate ones who can be home when
the doorbell rings.

He is seven years old, and now we can add to the list of memories of
five shiny-eyed boys and one big-eyed girl, each eyeing his very special
cake on his very special day, another memory: Another small boy—this
one with the left eye slightly askew—radiating pure joy as he gazes at the
red, green, blue, and yellow train lit with seven candles plus one—atop
the engine—to grow on. For a very special boy we wish a very special
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On the Corner 1970
year of growth, and we affirm his being a part of our family by singing
the riotously off-key Happy Birthday Song—sure proof that he belongs to
us.
February
To share... is to have more of everything.
We have much to share, much to discuss, yet there are complications!
She has a small child, one of those bonus-babies trailing years behind
his older brothers and sisters. And I have a child who, come winter, is
prey to one respiratory infection after an­other, and is likely to come down
with some­thing new on the very day I had planned to meet my friend
in her home. But after months (years, even) of trial-and-error (all error)
today was Our Day. As I ironed, she mothered—and the grace of meeting
was ours. For one hour. When shall I learn for good-and-all that the big
package can con­tain an empty box; that the small one may hold the
infinitely precious gem? That an hour shared may mean an astronomical
multiplication of joy?

Most of our friends have rather strong opinions (feelings!) concerning
the Middle East problems. Tempers can flare and bit­terness can inflict
wounds even here in “quiet little Goshen”—thousands of miles from the
scene of the conflict—when good people line up on one side or another.
Having lived in the milieu, counting friends among both Jews and Arabs
(here, as well as in Jerusalem), we find ourselves hope­lessly lodged
near, if not on, the fence. In Jerusalem, our Israeli friends knew of our
sympathies with Arab friends. Our Arab friends knew of our sympathies
with Israeli friends. Perhaps they both felt a bit sorry for us that we were
unable to take upon ourselves the angers of only one side.
Returning to the States, I practiced my own absurd brand of
reconciliation. (After all, no one else seems to be getting along so famously
with theirs!) For my Arab friends (and Arab-sympathizer friends) I brought
Jewish gifts; for my Jewish friends, gifts crafted by Arabs. And here in
our home the two strains are blended without apology…Hebron glass; a
menorah … Surif needlework; a mezuzah … olivewood boxes; a Hebrew
Shalom … a Jerusalem Cross; a Star of David…
When, as happened tonight, Arab student and Arab sympathizers
mingle with us around the dinner table, no sign of our Jewish empathy is
removed from sight. When, as occasionally happens, Jewish friends eat
with us, no apologies are made for the obvious identification we feel with
Arabs. So far our approach hasn’t ironed out all the difficulties between
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Story of a Family
the two “Brothers” but we’ll keep close to that Fence, hopefully, so that
we can at least see both sides.

Sometimes the mood among the Young these days seems to cancel
the importance of past and future. Much as I sympathize with some of the
moods, causes, and angers of today’s Under-Thirtys I remain unconvinced
about the lack of necessity for build­ing on the past and entertaining hope
for the future. Perhaps I am a sentimentalist, but I suppose I shall always
feel a need for maintaining a healthy tie with my own roots, and for
attempting to keep alive a similar awareness among our children… And
so I keep observing a few simple cere­monies—birth-days, death-days,
special ­days of the church year—to reiterate my connection with, my debt
to, the past.
Today, on the twentieth anniversary of my own mother’s death, I
light the me­morial candle. Each time I pass during these twenty-four
hours I am reminded of some facet or other of the complex interconnec­
tions of our two lives. If the children ask, “Why the candle?” I answer,
“My mother’s death-day” and leave them free to ponder—however briefly,
however inwardly—their own connections with a grandmother they never
knew except through the mem­ories of their mother.

Will the time come, I ask myself, when I will have lost this crushing
sense of grati­tude for the year that ended last July? Once, twice, three
times in barely over a week I have responded to invitations to share some
of that Year with groups of women. To date, I accept eagerly every time the
opportunity is given. Yet when I actually face an audience, the anguish
re­turns: Why should this have been given to me? I look over the gathered
faces and know that few, if any of them will be given a year in that exciting
land—and only by some real fluke of fortune will even one of them have
the freedom of opportunity I had, if she should by chance be given that
year. Standing there, all of a sudden I want to ask, “Why do you want to
listen to me? You don’t want my warmed-over experi­ences! How can they
possibly mean any­thing to you?”
But in the midst of anguish the miracle, the old miracle of sharing
seems suddenly possible. I am once again humbled by the generosity of
these people who have the greatness of spirit necessary for vicarious joy.
They are saying to me by their open and expectant faces, “Break your loaf
with us; we’ll all eat of it.” I do; they do; and behold, there is the miracle
of multiplication of loaves and fishes! And in this way, an old, old way,
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On the Corner 1970
life is shared, and many who will never go to Israel tell me that they have
been there…

To the person who does not live to him­self, the varieties of opportunity
for sharing himself are endless. … She came back from India where, in the
weeks of her visit, she had spent herself with scarcely time for breathing:
Coming home, then, she again made the rounds, speaking to this church
group, to that women’s gathering. But such wholesale transactions were
only the visible part of the iceberg. This woman is one of those whose way
of life is to see and re­spond to individuals. Lucky me, to be one of those
individuals! Back in town only a day, she still took time to deliver the one
gift from India which she knew would mean most to me: a slide of our
little grandson.

Only recently I took to the air; my first experiences of flying were in
connection with our sabbatical last year. But today (in company with
a friend who tells me that the gift of this flight is my Birthday, Christ­
mas, Fourth-of-July, and Veterans’ Day gift for the next five years), I
have experi­enced my first real thrill in flight. “On a Clear Day You Can
See Forever”—and on this clear day I was able to trace an often-­traveled
path between our old home in western Pennsylvania and our House-On­
-The-Corner. Somehow, to be able to see from above what I had known
so familiarly from the ground was spirit-expanding. People who give me
things are always giving me so much more than they are aware of doing!
Especially when we open the package to­gether…
March
… recognizing that they were only strangers and no­mads on
earth.
—Hebrews 11:13, Jerusalem Bible
When I was twelve we moved our home from the Snake River Valley
of Idaho to the fertile, rolling hills of northern Illinois. The implications
of that move were so far-reaching, the changes so dramatic, that I still
look back to that first year in our new home with wonder and excitement.
The culture, the people, the countryside, all were far more foreign to me
than any of the cultures, people, countrysides I was to meet later in our
travels through Europe and the Middle East. Every day brought new
ideas, surprises…
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Story of a Family
Like … the first theme I was asked to write in seventh grade: March
First, Moving Day. Sitting there in that little one-room schoolhouse (I had
come from a modern school in which I had a different teacher for each
subject; here I was in the school where my mother had studied years be­
fore—at these same hinge-top desks—a school with 19 pupils in seven
grades!), sitting there—I puzzled over the meaning of the theme title. I
had never heard of the phrase, never been exposed to the idea of a moreor-less fixed date on which peo­ple moved, if they were going to move. Now
I see that working out that little theme was my first fray into the fields of
sociology, anthropology, and psychology!
I don’t think the idea of a fixed moving-­date ever did get through to
me … for I was a daughter of pioneers, the child of a man who had an
itching foot, was not considered prudent, kept on the move. It may well
be that he was not prudent; it is likely true that our mother, after his
death, would not have needed to work as hard as she did, had he been
tied to fixed moving dates. Still, I’m glad for my heritage. Such a heritage
has made it easier, perhaps, to be somewhat of a pilgrim and stranger,
both in terms of material possessions and in terms of ideas. Any day is
moving day!

Any day is moving day…
One aspect of attending Faculty Banquet always heightens my
anticipation. Who shall we be seated with? What new ideas will come to
me as a result? What fresh understandings of these people as persons?
What surprises by way of rapport or lack of it? How will our life, my
life, their lives, be changed—however imperceptibly—because of this one
meeting?
After eleven years of attending Faculty Banquet the fascination
remains—indeed, it is intensified with each new year. And I have yet
to attend one such affair which has left me unmoved in one way or
another.

Things moved, all right, around our table tonight. Once in a while I
get the urge to bring people together in potentially volatile combinations…
There are these two poets we know—a carpenter-poet and a theologianpoet—and I thought, What fun to expose them to each other! The fire­
works which followed in this case were neither threatening nor hostile.
They were just purely beautiful, as one after the other of the two poets
held forth. And one of the most beautiful displays was the apparent awe
with which each of the two listened, open-mouthed, to the other!
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On the Corner 1970

Another moving day far away, in the foothills of the Himalayas, a
little child moves beyond the first year of his life in our world. And the
woman who has been transformed into a typical, adoring grand­mother by
his birth a year ago—this woman lights a little candle for him, sets it in
the kitchen window, and dreams of the day when she will walk the streets
of Goshen with his hand in hers…

For nine Sundays, now, we have moved together, pitching our
tents briefly at Bethel, at Shiloh, at Shechem, at Capernaum, Nazareth,
Bethlehem, Hebron, Beer-sheba, Jericho. Today our association on this
Ten-­Day Tour of the Holy Land terminates as we gather in “Jerusalem”
to eat the Pass­over together. The young friends of high school age (that
wonderful age, that terrible age where we all must hover, vacillate be­
tween childhood and manhood!) enter into the mock-Seder with all the
proper combinations of joy, fun, and serious attention to the de­tails. And
once again I am convinced that the learning process is greatly enriched
by Doing.

One of the pleasures of the middle years is the increased facility with
which one is able to move back and forth from present to past, from past
to future, and to find delight in all three dimensions of one’s life-in-time.
The closing week of this moving month, March, finds us—my older sister
and myself—merging memories, realities, and hopes. We drive together
to visit, in a neighboring state, one of the two surviving sisters of our
mother. There in her cozy rooms we talk of old times, and eat at her
table—finding that none of her competence-with-food has been lost over
the years. There we also meet other old friends and relatives who in the
process of reviving old memories, manage to pack the days full of new
ones for us to take along as we leave.
In our brother’s home, farther upstate, we eat the incomparable
roast he has been preparing for us over a period of many weeks—first
by careful selection, then controlled aging and skillful trimming, and
finally, by really professional roasting … we reminisce about our last
year’s weeks together in the Holy Land as we view his slides … we spend
a leisurely hour in the little cemetery where our father and mother,
grandfather and grandmother, not to mention aunts, uncles, cousins,
great-grandparents—lie buried.
I have always said that it matters little to me where the bodies of
these dear to me are finally buried. Yet, this day I dis­cover that the little
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cemetery by the Freeport Mennonite Church is one of my most favorite-ofall places in the world. I must acknowledge that it does mean something
to me to be able to come here, read the names of all these who were
con­nected in vital ways with my own existence, and give thanks for my
“roots.”
Someday soon (my sister and I affirm that we want to make this an
annual pil­grimage, at least through the lifetime of our aunt) I want to
come back armed with materials to make tombstone rubbings. Perhaps
I may want to hang them in my study to remind me—in still another
way—“that no man is an island, entire of itself…”
April
He took him by the hand…

Leafing through the Gospel of Mark, I am warmed by the warmth
of this Man Jesus as He carried out His vocation with crazy, impaired,
beautiful, needy persons. He didn’t theorize about them in an ivory tower;
He didn’t, as a rule, heal by remote control; He didn’t merely look with
com­passion and then go home and pray for them. He took them by the
hand. Even the child who was used for an object les­son was not pointed at;
he was brought into the circle, and Jesus “put his arms around him.”
I wonder… I wonder how much of what we sincerely wish to share
with per­sons is lost because we cannot bring our­selves to “take them by
the hand.”

Looking through the month of April, another gorgeous April, it is the
Sacrament of the Touch that is poised like an aura over the events noted
in my appointment book… On this particular evening “they took us by
the hand,” even though we are no longer members of their K-group. And
so we broke bread with them at this fare­well supper for several members
of the group. In Bill and Phyllis’s large room the long table stretched
almost from end to end; shoulders touched, food was passed from hand
to hand, life was shared, anxieties exchanged:
‘‘Strong hands to weak, old hands to young … around the … board,
touch hands!”

One of the gifts of Youth to Age in our time is, I think, a new
perspective on touching. Some years ago I noted with concern that I
myself was becoming squeamish about touching people—I who had
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On the Corner 1970
come from a family in which we freely expressed our affection and friend­
liness by bodily contact. I noticed that I was not the only one among our
friends whom shook hands less and less, and while I viewed the general
tendency to with­draw from people physically as symptomatic of a deeper
withdrawal, I seemed power­less to do anything about it…
It took observation of, and identification with my own college children
and their friends to free me from the artificial re­straints which I had
accepted from the surrounding society. It took watching such beautiful
tableaus as this: He was my son, yellow hair sticking out from his head
like a stack of newly threshed straw; She—she was some girl I’d never
seen, long skirts swirling, long hair flying. Coming from opposite ends
of the street, he on one side, she on the other, they recognized each
other and called out in de­light. Running toward each other, they met
in the intersection of Eighth and Franklin, and there, oblivious of cars
and people, they flung arms around each other, and spun about in a
graceful and free dance of friendship. No, they weren’t dating, they weren’t
engaged. They were friends who had shared deeply and shared gaily;
why should they not celebrate this meeting? Some people, I know, worry
that sexual freedom is bound to follow such a relaxation of our old selfconsciousness about touching. But watching these kids I’m convinced
that simple touching tends to defuse tensions and contributes to a much
more healthy sexuality than does a self-conscious prudery.

Passover was celebrated at our house this year. Our motive, however,
was not to be good Jews, but to somehow share with as many people as
possible this beautiful ceremony. We won’t vouch for its authen­ticity (we
were glad there were none of our Jewish friends present to trip us up!)
but we did attempt to touch the spirit of this service of remembrance
which from ancient times has not changed too much. Little Feller, in his
prayer shawl and kepi, had been carefully tutored by his sister so that he,
as the youngest member of the family, could indeed sing “the four ques­
tions”—at least in a token way.

“He took them by the hand…” Somehow I like that better than the
“touch hands’’ bit—particularly when it comes to hand­shaking. I have a
standing peeve against the dead-fish handshake, and it is difficult for me
to even want to know a person who touches my hand limply when I held
mine out in good faith. One of our Passover friends was John, Irishman and
priest. He truly stood in Christ’s tradition last night when handshaking
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time came around, taking us by the hand in a most convincing symbolic
gesture of brotherhood…

We took her by the hand … they took us by the hand … he took me
by the hand … the story of our April, many times repeated, in infinite
variety: Miriam, Alice, and I sharing lunch and a rare talk-­session while
our three husbands are in Pittsburgh at a Festival of the Gospels. Our
boy-family and our daughter-in-law’s girl-family (what is left of both)
noisily and joyfully inter­acting around a typically loaded Lehman table
on a Saturday evening. Hands touching across seas and continents as
our Pesach greet­ings come and go between the House on the Corner and
various houses on the hills surrounding Jerusalem. A breakfast with
Kathy. An hour with Anni. And then, on the last Friday evening of the
month, a drive to South Bend to the Erev Shabbat service at Temple BethEl. The lone Gen­tile in the service, I might have felt quite forsaken sitting
alone in the back seat; but the speaker of the evening is our won­derful
friend and favorite rabbi, David. After the service, as everyone files to the
reception hall to greet the visiting rabbi and drink coffee, I am greeted
with “Gut Shabbos” by the friendly Jews of Temple Beth-El, and I return
my best Jerusalemese: “Shabbat Shalom!” Even so, I hang back, slinking
at the end of the line, a bit self-conscious about introducing myself on
this occasion when their new overseer is being greeted. But not for long.
Enveloped in the arms of this loving, radiant man, kissed and kissed
again, hugged and in­troduced and hugged again, basking in the genuine
delight which my coming has given him, answering the loving queries
about his dear friend, The Professor, exchanging enthusiasms of good
books—all in a few moments—then more kissing, hugging, touching of
hands, God bless yous, Shaloms; and once again I know as I have known
in so many ways this month, that “Some­body touched me … and it must
have been the hand of the Lord!”
May
How beautiful are the faces of people returning home!
—K. Hulme

God, who “set the solitary in families” set me in a family for which, as
long as I live, I shall give joyous thanks…
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We were seven: my mother, my three older brothers, my two older
sis­ters, myself. All two years apart, ex­cept for my sister and me who were
nearly three years apart. (I always figured it took longer to make me…)
We didn’t have much money; we didn’t have, from my infancy, a
father; we didn’t have the security of relatives nearby—the nearest were
some 2,000 miles away, almost none of whom I saw until I was nine, and
then only briefly…
We did have—what did we have?—each other, I guess. And that,
not for very long. I was twelve when our home was dismembered and the
diaspora began. In the May before my twelfth July birthday, the seven of
us sat around the table all together for the last time in our lives.
(True, we did meet once, briefly, at the wedding of my sisters ten
years later, but we were all in one spot only long enough to have a quick
picture taken of us before one brother had to leave.)
Even at our mother’s burial, we were not all present.
I don’t think I had faith that the six of us remaining would ever meet
again in one place, at one time, after the death of the one who had been
the mortar which held us together. But our eldest sister had the faith,
wrote the letters, made the telephone calls. And now, thirty-eight years
after our last family meal together, twenty years after the death of our
mother, we were on the way to meeting.
How beautiful are the faces of people returning home…

And it was home to which we were to return—our childhood home.
A centrally located point might have been less expensive for most of us,
but it seemed “altogether fitting and proper” that we should return to the
Snake River Valley in Idaho, where we had lived together as a family so
briefly (for the six of us, only twelve years of more-or-­less complete family
life) and where two brothers still lived.
The jets scream out from Pennsylvania, Indiana, Illinois, Texas…
How beautiful the faces of those returning… The jets come to a screaming
halt on the Boise Airstrip — Dear God, what a big sky they have out
here! How beautiful the faces of those looking with love on the returned!
The gray-haired man on crutches with our mother’ s soft face and mild
brown eyes—the only father I ever knew—His still-dimpled wife … how
beautiful… Their children, now set in families of their own … how beautiful
the niece’s husband, the grandnieces, the grandnephew, the nephew’s
wife, all met for the first time… how beautiful, all this life stemming from
the brother who would take me up in one hand, balance me there, and
spank me with the other. How beautiful the faces, the open, western faces
of the people on the bus as I travel along familiar roads down the valley
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in view of the (how beautiful!) canyon, though sagebrush hills, to Twin
Falls… My brother the Innkeeper and his wife—how beautiful…the son,
the new daughter-in-law, the spacious room at their Inn — beautiful!
And now, while waiting for the rest of the family, I am given freedom
and a little Karman-Ghia, and I come home.

An evening with Lucy, my most cherished childhood friend, and her
hus­band … beautiful … the lined face of an old neighbor—incredible that
Blanche should still be here, salt-and­-peppery, witty as ever, and our own
mother gone twenty years!… I walk the streets of the little town where God
set us, solitary, in a family: here is the house I remember best, but here
is another—how tiny it is! I was five when we moved from this one, and I
remember the big orange spider on the porch…Here is deserted Central
School—but where have they gone, those ditches we used to straddle? Here
is the playground where we nearly broke arms playing Flying Dutchman,
the tubular fire escape where we sat to eat our lunches… How beautiful,
how sad the ghostly main street! So many staring, empty stores. Here
Dillinghams’ Drugs served the best butterscotch sundaes in the world.
Here the print-shop initiated my brother as a printer’s devil. Here is the
bank building that faithfully guarded my sixteen dollars and eight cents
(until it had to be withdrawn, as all our accounts had to be, to pay for the
move to far-off Illinois).
I walk through the dusty grass of the cemetery, outside the town,
and every row of stones brings familiar names, yet names which conjure
only fragmentary pictures. Fred Weatherly. Wasn’t he tall and thin? Lewis
Rich—all I can remember is a dazzling smile. Jess Gilmer: they sang
“O Come Angel Band” at his funeral. Irma Deal Showers…oh, I wish I
had a flower for her grave! Our nearest neighbor, she taught us piano in
exchange for “taking care” of Clarence. I had not known she was dead…

How beautiful are the faces of people returning home! Our Brother
the Printer, handsome in his dark suit and blue tie, his mane of graywhite hair properly distinguishing his position in the family, sits at the
table’s head, with our Brother the Sausage King and Our Brother the
Innkeeper flanking him. …Beautiful…The sisters—we three “little girls”
now all in our fifties (well, almost) sit listening to escapades which we
by reason of our purity and innocence had been spared hitherto… For
one gala evening we sit around a festive table enjoying the prime rib
roast which the Innkeeper has personally supervised and upon which the
connoisseur of prime rib roasts—The Sausage King—has put his stamp
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of approval. We eat and we share memories, we laugh, and flashbulbs fail
to operate, even with the help of the few faithful in-laws who are with us.
And we say good night.

For one bright morning five of us (Holiday Innkeepers must be about
their business) pile into a car and drive, nostalgic and merry, through the
flat countryside—oh, beautiful—which was the land of our beginnings. It
is said that we can never return to the places we’ve loved because they
are situated in Time, not Space, and dyed the color of our imagination… I
don’t know. I only know that it was beautiful… A final picnic with the local
nephews and nieces and their children, then the dispersion—a dispersion
which, in spite of our mouthing the expected words about re­peating it,
is not likely to be tied up in one bundle ever again… To return to the
places one has loved with persons one has loved is, after so many years, a
strange and intense inward journey. I welcome the respite of a brief night
and morning with Boise friends, and again the Big Bird swoops down to
take me back to the House on the Corner… How beautiful are the faces of
people returning home…
June
“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
As a young girl, I was fascinated to meet people who had never moved
from the house in which they were born, or who had never been out of the
county or state… Remembering my own at­tachment to one or the other of
the many houses in which we had lived, or the lo­calities in which we had
made our home, it was not difficult to feel a bit of envy for those whose
roots were so undivided.
To move out of a house or a commu­nity can be painful; to move out
into a new situation physically or psychologically can be terrifying; to
have to locate certain events in one’s life by first determining where one
was living at the time can be exasperating. With every move, the roots
undergo a subdivision; with every new locale, loyalties are split; with the
explo­sion of new people into one’s life, the simple life can evaporate into
a dream. Yet, had I the choice, I would never opt for any other kind of
existence.
To have been born in the little grey shack of pioneers, to have lived
with a family in a succession of tiny houses where four of us slept in a
room (if we were lucky), to have had, at thirteen, with the fragmentation
of our family, the compensating joy ineffable of a room of my own for the
first time in my life; to have moved on into a series of apart­ments, shared
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with an always-weary mother who still was able to turn any­thing into a
home; to have begun the cycle again—another series of little houses, a
damp tent, a new house, or the shell of a house, on a hill (it did somehow
eventually become a home, forming and holding the new family which
came into being within its log walls—), a house on a corner, a temporary
trans­plantation to a little dollhouse on a Ju­dean hillside, then a return
again to the corner-house—all this I would not want to give up, disrupting
as it may sound.
To have soaked up the sunshine in a fertile basin of the majestic
Rockies, roamed among the rolling hills of north­ern Illinois, settled on
the flat, undistin­guished plain of northern Indiana, perched on a hillside
in western Pennsylvania or on the holy hills surrounding the Beauti­ful
City of God—; to have enjoyed mild­ness, dryness, coldness, humidity
in the climates of the west, the east, the mid­dle-west, and the Middle
East—; to have exulted in the glory of the four seasons in a place where
temperatures rarely reached zero in winter or over eighty in summer, and
where autumn leaves were invariably yellow, and springtime aspen leaves
quivered against the darker ever­greens; or in a place where rain poured,
day after day, in torrents, and deafening thunder sent less brave children
to their mothers; where “forty below” was not unheard of, and we walked
to school breathing or trying to breathe, through layers of scarves; or in
places where the autumn leaves on your hill or on your corner were such
a glory as to send you to your knees; or in the country where the rain
being “over and gone” the flowers do “appear on the earth” im­mediately,
as if by magic…
To have known the friendly informal life of a little western hamlet; the
farm and small-town mores of the Bible Belt, the reserve and conservatism
of the East, the melting pot of Jerusalem—To have been a part of all those
houses, land­scapes, climates, communities, has been to be hopelessly
divided, yet hopefully united with all lands, all climates, all people…

Especially the people. And this June as usual we have reaped great
returns from our many moves, however painfully those moves may
have divided us. But we have also gained from the many moves of the
people who have come into our home, or into whose homes we came.
Supper with John and Ruth (Pennsylvania, Africa, Indiana), lunch with
Roy and Florence (Pennsylvania, Ontario, Israel), a few pleasant days
with Ruth and Susan (Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Texas), supper with
Huberts (Pennsylvania, Virginia), with Ivans (Oregon, Indiana, Kansas,
Ne­braska, Texas, Virginia, and God-knows­-where-else), with Cyril and
Shirley (South Africa, England, Israel, Indiana), an eve­ning of pictures
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On the Corner 1970
with Stella, Louella, and Mildred (Illinois, Kansas, Ohio, India, California,
Indiana), an incomparable weekend with Esther (Ohio, Pennsylvania,
Washington, D.C.), a hilarious supper-­cum-entertainment on the lawn of
Nick and DuBose and their wacky family (Washington, Illinois, California,
Alabama, New York, Connecticut, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia,
Maryland, Washington, D.C., Edistoe Island, Indiana), breakfast with
Evelyn (Pennsylvania, Indiana, New Jersey, England, Japan, Ethiopia),
an evening with Sue (Ohio), Dean (Kansas), Mary (Indiana, Scotland,
Africa), Devon (Ohio, California, Indiana), and John (Ireland, Connecticut,
Ontario, Ohio, Indiana —). To have all these was to have the world in our
home.

I remember how, as a young mother, I discovered for myself that
though there may always be room for one more in the family, it does not
necessarily follow that life can go on as simply as before. To be a mother
of many children is to be divid­ed into many different kinds of a mother…
and though I would not want to have one less than I have, sometimes
it’s fun to speculate how simple life might be if we had only one child, if I
needed to be only one mother.
But I am a multiple-mother, and as such I have had the usual
agonies of fragmentation. I am not one, but seven mothers. Yet in this
case division is an intermediate step to multiplication. And for me, being
sliced into seven mothers has multiplied my joy. So, too, each per­son
who comes to me as a new friend causes still another division, another
drain on energy, another distraction — and another miracle of multiple
returns.
He has, indeed, made everything beau­tiful in its time.
July
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude…
—Wordsworth

A young friend recently tried to con­vince me that gratitude is passé.
Grati­tude passé? His naive statement had one overwhelming effect on
me. Ever since, I have been even more sensitive to the graces which I find
surrounding me both in the inner space of the spirit, and the outer space
of my world. And at the end of this pleasant July I find myself focus­ing
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with gratitude upon that phenomenon known as “the inward eye” or—less
poetically—the photographic memory…

What Abraham Joshua Heschel calls “the holy joy of remembering”
is made even more joyous when remembrance is accompanied by
pictures flashed upon the inward screen—colors, facial expres­sions,
shapes, arrangements—all con­spire to bring alive what cannot ever be
repeated, yet, so long as memory serves, cannot ever be lost. Pictures
of certain moments of this July flash upon the inward eye, returning to
bless me, to encourage me, to rekindle my joy, revitalize friendship—and,
yes, to shame me. From the skeletons of a few words scrawled on the
appointment calendar, full-blown color photographs bloom on the inner
page. How can I regard them without gratitude? Here, then, are some of
those pictures­—

A whole album of photographs from those few Esther-days—days
when my friend from D.C. finally came to share with me something of the
joy of our Israel-year: Esther, sitting in the little cherry rocker, reading
my journals as if they were the bread of life (how she would love to go to
Israel—land of her own people!)… Esther, standing with me in the little
Shipshewana antique shop where I am mesmerized by That Blue Chair …
Esther, eating French­-fried mushrooms with me at Troyers … Esther, in
nightgown, hair down, propped up in bed, talking of her children. These
pictures remain to warm me long after the dear friend has flown back.
And every picture with an Esther in it is glowing.

That salad! Try as I might, I haven’t been able to duplicate it on my
own table, even though my ingredients are identical, even though the
clear glass bowl should help to produce the same effect as hers…crisp
lettuce, tossed in the Fostoria bowl with half-thawed chunks of golden
pineapple, huge black pitted olives, and small yellow-orange cubes of
cheddar cheese. Though I am hardly a connoisseur of either good food or
table settings, though I would have thought that the fellowship would be
most significant to me—yet what I vividly remember of the evening is That
Salad—“a thing of beauty and a joy” to behold them, on Miriam’s table,
and now—on that inner table.

A small Chinese restaurant…six people crowded around a table…four
Young—faces smooth, faces bearded; two Middle-aged—faces middle-aged!
Forgotten, in retrospect, the food; for­gotten the conversation; remembered
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On the Corner 1970
simply the grouping: Janet sat here, Elizabeth there, Perry, John, there.
Simply a snapshot of students and pro­fessor and their wives, celebrating
the earning of a new degree. Celebrating life. Celebrating the fruitful
interaction of students and teachers from the beginning of time…

“And this is my sister Kitty—” I am sitting on a chair in an office.
My friend has brought the little packet of photo­graphs as he promised.
Here he stands between his parents. Here is the peasant house which
he has helped to modernize for them. Here is his mother standing before
her cupboard with her “blue and white and speckled store.” I look at the
sister and say: “But of course! I would have known her!” In fact, none of
the photos have surprised the pictures I already had in my mind. For in
chance remarks, vignettes sketched in passing, this friend, without ever
“sitting down and talking about the family” had in truth, with his colorful
and passionate words, presented to the inner eye such clear portraits
that the actual photo­graphs were merely a confirmation of what I had
already “seen.”

And what is left to me of that pleasant summer evening when one
set of guests shared their stories with us, then left early after which
the other set stayed on into the evening to give us a rare report of the
Mission Board meet­ing? The stories are gone. As for the menu—what did
I serve that night?... This picture remains: Paul, sitting in the rocker by
the lamp, face lit with enthusiasm as his recital entertains and inspires
his listeners. This picture re­mains, plus the strong conviction that the
ingredient missing in most P.R. men I know (but not, happily, in Paul) is
irrepressible Bounce, undeflatable Joy!

Vignettes of a life and a death: One—Sunday morning. I am on my
way to the crib-room, he is on his way to his Sunday school class. We nod
and smile and pass, and in the moment of passing I think, “A good man.
A really good man.” Two—an hour later. A class member rushes into the
crib-room asking for a blanket to place under the head of the Sunday
school teacher who has suddenly become ill. Three—dinner­time. My
neighbor is at the back door, the screen between us: “He is dead.” Three
Sunday morning pictures … always returning when I hear his name.

What factors trigger the shutter on that inner camera? Most of that
day in Shipshewana is blurred. What did we do? What did we talk of?
A goodness, a rightness, a pleasantness remains, and one picture: I am
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in the car somewhere on Highway 20, with Mildred and Carol—I can
see their faces—we are talking of freedom and grace and joy. And I am
suddenly aware that, as usual, I am talking too much…

Who was sitting where at that table? It was a good day, I remember, a
meet­ing in honor of a visiting friend. And I remember absolutely nothing
of our con­versation or food. But there is a picture: at my end of the table
I sit talking with a young man who has dropped in. I see the chair, the
window behind him…and I know why the inward eye re­corded only this
one flash of memory from that day. For at my end of the table there was
a meeting—a real meeting—taking place because an apology that needed
to be made was made.

Color it green of the riverside trees coming into the kitchen through
the big window; color it a kaleidoscope of tempting foods; color it the
earthy colors of Ernie’s and Mary’s hospitality; color it a bright moment
around a family table…a moment to keep and cherish.
August
May … the whispering of my heart (find favor) in your presence …
Yahweh, my Rock, my Redeemer!
—Psalm 119:14, The Jerusalem Bible
Happiness … 2. A state of well­being and pleasurable
satisfaction…
—Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary

This August, happiness is...joining in all kinds of celebrations: Like
the Hershbergers’ fiftieth anniversary, on a flawless Sunday afternoon.
(Surely these lively people haven’t been married fifty years! As friends
mill about we look at the wedding pictures, seeing grandsons in the face
of the young man who peers from the photo, the granddaughter in the
face of the young woman.) …Like the farewell-supper for two members of
our former K-group, in Hank’s and Mary’ s pleasant backyard. (A special
treat—seeing this backyard for the first time, after meeting for years
inside their house, at night.) …Like the water­melon-and-crullers party,
celebrated with fellow seminarians in honor of C. J.’s birthday…Like the
welcome, in the church fellowship rooms, for Gene and Mary. (Though
we don’t make a banner and fly it, we, out of all these fellow church
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On the Corner 1970
members, have the honor of having been members of the church where
Gene began his ministry; the Pro­fessor participated in their wedding; Mary
and I learned much about each other during several years of interaction
in a small group. And so in a very real way, for us to welcome them into
our congrega­tion is to celebrate a homecoming.)

Happiness is…to participate in the Unexpected: Like when Henry and
Donnie, Africa-friends of our son in Africa, drop in and sit at table with
us on a hot August noon… Like when the Mussers and their incredibly
agile off­spring stop by, on a Sunday twilight, to deliver a book, and stay to
become acquainted… Like a rare invitation to the “Commune” where steak,
theology, and mosquitoes are shared at the backyard picnic tables… Like
the delight of a new taste treat—groundnut stew, courtesy of Jean…Like
the sur­prisingly well-executed My Fair Lady at the Bristol Opera House,
performed by the Elkhart Civic Drama for the benefit of Aux Chandelles.

Happiness, this August, is to watch a young boy’s wholehearted
obsession with a new “toy”—which in this case happens to be the big
wheelbarrow on Fannie’s farm. What does it matter that the uncoordinated
legs and arms cannot possibly keep the wheelbarrow going in a straight
line? What does it matter that the barrow is so heavy that pushing it knots
the muscles and draws out the sweat-beads? For a very few minutes this
guy has the run of the universe, has heaven in his grubby hands. However
impaired his body, his brain, may be—his joy is perfect and unconfined!

Happiness is to have known Hubert and Mildred during this year;
to have shared with them in K-group; to have had them within walking,
biking distance, here on our street. And happy-sad is to say good-bye as
they return to their Virginia home.

Happiness is…a warm Sunday morning at Reba Place. Having heard of
this fellowship for years, we finally decide, one morning, to travel to Evans­
ton. There, in the lucid informality of a small group of people committed
to each other and to the kingdom, I find tightnesses dissolving, flowers
of hope opening. And though I know that no one kind of community has
all the answers, I am aware that these people have together wrestled
with basic questions, and have acted out decisions that for too many of
us remain “theoretical considerations.”…Happiness is meeting there old
friends from way back, and not needing to wait until after the service to
do so. Though we walk in late, friendliness rushes to greet us: Vera, from
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Israel, flashes us a smile, a wave; Eunice finishes her song and cries out
a hello, explaining to every­body that these are old friends; Don gets up,
comes over and shakes hands. And the service goes on, as if our coming
were a part of it, not an interruption. Later, in the Playhouse, we eat
with the small group whose fellowship-dinner­-Sunday this happens to
be; we are a part of the participating audience as the chil­dren give their
usual after-dinner perfor­mance of extempore singing and drama; we visit
around the cable-spool tables. Leaving, I sense that I will be coming back
to Reba Place now and then for reinforcements.

Happiness is…riding my blue bicycle, alone, early in the morning.
When one does not have a room of one’s own, he should have some
substitute. (An apron over my head is not enough for me; besides my
aprons aren’t big enough for that.) This August, the solitary pre-­breakfast
rides are my alternative to a room of my own. There is a freshness, a
stillness, to life at this time of day, particularly when one does not need
to be giving his attention to another person at his side or in front of or
behind him. The early morning bike ride, far from being a selfish luxury,
is—I think—a sensible acknowledgment of my own needs, needs which,
if not attended to, can cripple the joy and spontaneity which are basic
to my ability to share life with these to whom I am responsible. And so I
un­ashamedly indulge in my ride. I will not invite you, or you, or you to
go with me. It has been said by wiser men than I that the ability to use
solitude creatively and joyously is basic to the ability to love. And that is
what I’m learning to do these fine, dewy August mornings!
September
I am so glad that you are here. It helps me to realize how beautiful
my world is.
—Rilke

“While friendship has been by far the chief source of my happiness…I
can­not understand why a man would wish to know more people than he can
make real friends of.” This quotation from C. S. Lewis’s autobiographical
Surprised by Joy, copied into my notebook over fifteen years ago, passed
on to others because it rang a bell with me, now in­jects itself into my
thoughts at the end of this exciting September. I suddenly realize that I
no longer agree with it.

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On the Corner 1970
That’s the trouble with opening one’s mouth, or worse, writing what
one thinks. There it is, to box you in, label you, for the rest of your life and
even longer. If one’s alive, really alive, one changes. New experiences and
insights rearrange—even transform and reverse —one’s judgments and
feelings. Yet the little black letters on the white paper endure (even though
the paper may yellow) and what you have written fifteen or fifty years
before, threatens to engulf the person you have become. Most of us end
up being pretty defensive about it all, since our background has taught
us that along with hard work and thrift, consis­tency and an unchanging
outlook are prime assets for successful living.

Most of us are defensive…How­ever, one of our sons breaks all the
molds in this respect. If he is embarrassed by his record of mind-changes
and shifting enthusiasms he at least can laugh at himself. “Do you really
believe that?” his concerned professors and friends have asked over the
years. His cheerful reply: “Well, that’s what I think today. Ask me again
tomorrow!” Earnest people despair: “Will he ever settle down to anything
useful?” As for me, I mostly just enjoy him. How refreshing to live around
a person who is not congealed, rigid, de­fensive. I notice too that such a
person tends to be less judgmental of others. When, late one night, we
seriously dis­cuss his approach to life he grins, “Who knows? I may make
a profession out of serious dabbling.” And who knows, I re­flect, maybe
the world needs a few cheer­ful, undefensive dilettantes!

Following my son’s cue, I try to be less defensive about what mindchanges have come to me over the years. Now I am apt to say, “Though I
may have written otherwise ten years ago, last year, this is what I think
today.” Concerning the Lewis quotation, I can now disagree openly,
amending it as follows: “While friendship has been by far the chief source
of my happiness … I can understand why a person would wish to know
many, many people who will never be his friends in the strict sense of the
word.” Life is too short, we are too frail to bear the intensity of many great
friendships. One of the sadnesses of existence is that we occasionally meet
people in whom we recognize the possi­bilities for mutual rapport, and it
hurts not to give one’s self wholeheartedly. Yet, being human, we are
limited, and must usually settle for a milder, less in­volving relationship—
“mutual acquaint­ance.”

Related to this is another quotation which has become a part of me
over the years—Albert Schweitzer’s passage on “Influences” which I first
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read years agο in John Baillie’s A Diary of Readings. So many people, he
says, gave him some­thing or were something to him without knowing
it. Perhaps he never exchanged a word with them; perhaps he had only
heard of them; perhaps his acquaintance with them was casual. If we
could meet the people who have particularly blessed us in some way,
and could tell each of them what passed over from their lives into ours,
they— and sometimes we—would be amazed, says Schweitzer. “Hence,
I always think that we all live, spiritually, by what others have given us
in the significant hours of our life.” Cer­tainly some of life’s greatest gifts
to me have come through people who were not my friends (as I define
“friend”) at all. As Schweitzer affirms, influences can flow from one person
to another without bene­fit of the current of a deep friendship. 
I think of people I have met this month, people who unknowingly
have brought with them to our encounter Joy, Insight, Hope, Laughter,
Tenderness, Silence, Openness…
A brief, intense encounter at the annual Seminary-Faculty steak
supper, with a person whose surface I had never even tried to penetrate.
We will likely never become great friends, in the restricted sense of the
word, but life-changing gifts are exchanged in that brief interval, I know…A
first visit, long overdue, to Stevie and his radiant mother. We don’t really
“move in the same circles” yet I know that on some level there has been
and will be an exchange of “gifts.”…A meeting with a poet whose work I
have respected: Edith Lovejoy Pierce and I will never move into friendship,
yet what a rich hour it was up there in her Evanston apartment, finding
ourselves immediately en rapport, speaking togeth­er of things which are
at the center of both our lives…A Women’s Retreat where so many fine
and lively women from our conference district gathered; where so much
potential for deep and satisfying friendships undoubtedly existed—and
there was opportunity only to dabble, really. Yet, from people I may
never see again, I learned— especially in the smaller groups—new ways
of looking at myself, at them, at my world. Yes, I do wish to know more
people than I can make real friends of! I am glad that all these September
meetings took place. All of these people have helped me to realize “how
beautiful my world is.”

Then comes month’s-end and with it, the Child-Woman about whom
my son has written, months ago, “I hope that one day I can bring to you
a daughter­-in-law like her. I know that you two will love each other at
once.” He knew. And now she comes—frail-strong, gay-­serious, bright-
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deep. She comes to make the first tentative contact with his family. And I
sense immediately that she will be a Joy and a Song to me (and perhaps
a friend?) as long as I live.
October
Just to be is a blessing… Just to live is holy.
—Abraham Joshua Heschel

October: SHE is seventeen. I don’t think she knows it, but each of
her birthdays (as well as those of her brothers) is a day of remembering
for­me… Not a birthday of one of the Seven passes without my recalling,
secretly, the moment when the gift was given. And again I give thanks.
But in her case there is an additional exercise of memory. I can’t imagine
what it might be like to be a boy of seven or seventeen. But each of
her birthdays, at least from five on up, have taken me back to my own
childhood. What was my life like as a child of six? ten? fourteen? and
now seventeen? One of the cries of the younger generation, they say, is
that parents have forgotten what it is like to be young. Being blessed (or
cursed?) with a sharp memory for feelings, odors, tastes, tex­tures, from
my first two decades, I think I do remember very well indeed what it was
like for me to be seventeen. And maybe that explains why my patience
sometimes evaporates: it can be ex­asperating to look at your daughter
and see unmistakable traces of yourself!

The Doctor, Hebrew-reading crony of The Professor, has reached
some sort of milestone in his life, announces his wife, as she invites us
to a surprise party. What is the milestone? She will not divulge at this
point. We speculate, then realize it doesn’t really matter. If he’s passed a
milestone, then he should have a gift. We wrap up a black kepah (yarmulke,
or prayer cap) for him, and go to join his Oaklawn colleagues and friends
who have gathered to wish him well, whatever the milestone. Turns out
that it’s his fiftieth birthday. Being fifty myself (but unaware that fifty is
anything more than the usual birthday milestone) I congratulate the new
member of the club. Fifty, I think, is a good age to be. And, as I have felt
at every previous stage of my life, and will continue to feel, I suppose, I
would rather be fifty than any other age, younger or older. I hope the good
doctor feels the same way.

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The Little Fellow enters the hospital for eye surgery, scheduled for
the next morning. Before he goes to sleep, his aunt brings a package—a
chime telephone with buttons to press. Press one particular button and
out pops the Operator! His joy is complete. He must go to sleep with the
telephone beside him. After surgery, his first words are not “Take it off,
please!” (I am reminded of that painful awakening after his first experience
with leg sur­gery when, out of his meager four-year vocabulary he could
summon only one word, directed to the cast: “Off!” which he moaned over
and over, alternately with “Wadda!”) “Take it off, please,” will come later
as he tries unsuccess­fully to reach his bandaged eyes. Now his one-track
mind hones in on the present center of his affections: “Please, I have my
new telephone?” Darkness and pain are manageable with the beloved
telephone at his fingertips, even though the restraining straps limit his
arm movements. And his mother blesses people who always seem to be
able to choose the right gift.
Before we made our last move some ten years ago, I told friends, “I
hope we can find a big square white house.” Though we lost heart as we
searched for any house in the land of Goshen, we did eventually find just
what I had dreamed of, here on the corner. From the beginning we felt
at home inside these walls, and over the years the only changes we have
made are minor—except for the recent construction of livable basement
space (the joint gift of an inheritance from The Professor’s parents and
the building skill of our youngest son). Nor do we have big plans for
future renovation. We have to smile when certain people look about our
house and come up with something like, “Hmmm—this is a good solid
house. Lots of possibilities for re­modeling!” Since both the Professor and
I are perhaps too easily satisfied with the place as it is, someone else will
have to take advantage of all those possibilities someday…and we hope
they won’t have a chance for many years!
But even we acknowledge that oc­casionally paint is needed. And I
would hardly be honest if I were not to express a certain joy as I look
around my newly painted rooms. True, the color is the same—I couldn’t
part with my delphini­um-blue yet—but new slipcovers on the sofa, and
new wall-hanging to hide an awkward door, a rearrangement of our few
undistinguished pieces of furniture do lift the spirit and brighten the
prospect of another cold, dreary Indiana winter.

Even as late as my late thirties, one of the most boring subjects in
my estimation was any discussion of genealogies. I tried to listen politely
to my elders excitedly discussing some relationship they had discovered.
Inexplicably, when I turned forty or thereabouts, I was amazed to
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discover that I was actually becoming interested, almost against my will,
in my “roots.” Far from becoming an enthusiast, at least I followed a few
leads, contacted relatives whose connections with our family had been
marginal, began to attend Family reunions, visited ceme­teries where my
forebears—a few of them—were buried, and kept a haphazard file against
the day when I wouldn’t have anything “more impor­tant” to do.
This fall, however, my interest is revived by a happy chance. A friend
of The Professor happens to be at the AFSC in Philadelphia and in some
con­text mentions our name. A worker there overhears, asks questions:
and in time we discover a whole branch of The Professor’s family tree of
which we had not been aware. The upshot—two of the most pleasant
days of our October, when the cousin and his wife visit us. It is a visit of
such rap­port and joy that we can only speculate in awe what loss would
have been ours, had we missed these relatives. A further bonus: Ruth, in
leaving, asks if I have any bulbs to share with her, so she can plant them
and be perennially reminded of these happy days. And so I do what I have
been thinking of doing for ten years—I dig up those pink lily bulbs, give
some to her, and reposition the rest. I too shall have a perennial reminder
of “Our New Re­lations.”
November
Oh, life is good and death is good…
—Old Canon

Perhaps I am naive, a shallow optimist. But in the fifty years I’ve
lived, I haven’t been able to shake off the per­sistent conviction of the basic
goodness of life. Yet even as I write it, I am aware of a sense of betrayal,
for I know that “the lines have fallen for me in pleasant places”—far more
pleasant than for most of the world’s people, and for many who have
found life a burden and death a grim joke. Even though I am personally
con­vinced that good can be salvaged from any suffering and death that
I may experience, yet I know that there are horrors to which people in
every age have been subjected which—were they to happen to me—might
well change my view of the goodness of human existence. Even so, I must
speak from what I know: and on that basis, I must confess with the old
canon, that Life is good and death is good.”

Life is good. And in the beginning weeks of this November it has
been especially good to our family. Another son has returned safely from
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his years abroad. For a very few weeks the family is almost complete—
only the “Indians” are miss­ing.... Then once again the dispersion begins:
Number Four Boy leaves for his 1-W assignment in Chicago; Number Five
Boy, for his old home in Pennsylvania. But before they go, many noisy,
wild, and wonderful mealtimes have been ours, and usually there have
been additional merry souls around the table with us: college students;
the lovely Child-Woman who sits by Number Three Boy; special visiting
friends of Number Two Boy; a family to share Thanksgiving Day with
us; Jerusalem Helen! More often than not the evening meal has moved
naturally into a spirited festival of folk-country-gospel music, to the Little
Feller’s delight, and with the aid of his rhythm band instruments. And
life is good.

Life is good in retrospect, I find, when our K-group launches a
new series. Each of us will try to summarize his life, his vocation, his
intentions and hopes, for the benefit of the others. Hopefully, new levels
of understanding might re­sult by taking time out to learn a bit more
about each member of the group...Hopes are realized and—at least
for me—surpassed, as we see our brothers and sisters newly, having
become better acquainted with their backgrounds, their assessments of
themselves, and their struggles and aspirations. In preparing to take my
own turn, I see patterns in my life which I had not seen before. I even
begin to realize what my vocation might very well be, and find new joy and
freedom and contentment in accepting that vocation.

Life is good in its dailyness. Looking over the appointment book now
that the month is over, I have to admit that most of these days were
made up of sheer routine—dailyness—which might have been deadening
except for the patches of grace. Yet those patches of grace needed the
background of dailyness to set off their shine, just as a vast night sky
enhances the glory of a single star...

But those patches of Grace!...The breakfast with Thelma and Mary
Lois...The two evenings with the Russian film version of War and Peace...
The over-lunch visit of Kindred-spirit Ann...The Twelve Days of Helen:
“Come and stay as long as you can I had told her. “We’ll put you in an
upstairs room where you’ll have quiet; we won’t make any demands on
you—you can continue your recovery here...” On and on my pen ran. So
she comes and what do we give her? Anything but Peace and Quiet! We
should have been fore­warned as, on the way to the airport, we receive
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On the Corner 1970
news of a death in the family which we know will take us on a three-­day
journey, leaving her to cope for herself as the remaining family members
spend their energies comforting and cleaning up after the Little Feller who
is to succumb to flu in our absence...We should have guessed that this was
only the beginning, to be followed by all manner of bizarre emergencies:
Droppers-in, calling for Impromptu company-meal after meal, more noisy
singing around the table, more basement-­beds; forgotten appointments;
emergency chaufferings; all of which added up to Joy, but hardly Peaceand-Quiet. After celebrating a zany Night-out alone, in commemoration
of those still, late Jerusalem nights we enjoyed together, I send her off to
her next stop, hoping that she will somehow recover. And secretly I hope
that in spite of the drain on her flagging energies, she will re­member the
craziness of this household with more nostalgia than she might have
remembered a haven of Peace and Quiet!

“And death is good...” Or should one amend the old canon to say,
“Death can be good”? The first death among the Professor’s brothers
comes with the shock of suddenness. Yet in spite of grief and, for the
immediate family, certain loneliness and a pervading sense of loss, there
is somehow a holy joy enveloping those brothers and sons and their wives
and children who have been called to­gether by death. An almost-tangible
love and tenderness, an almost-visible open­ness is present as we sit
talking at the kitchen table, as we meet the lovely new daughter-in-law,
as we refurbish our communication with the other members of this family
who have had so special a place in our own family’s affections.
At the funeral we are surrounded by thoughtful people who seem to
be wear­ing the somber expressions entirely ap­propriate to the occasion;
yet those who have been closest to this zestful man seem the lightest of
spirit. I find myself hoping wistfully that my family upon my death might
similarly be able to say by their shining faces, “Oh, life is good and death
is good.”

Death is good when, among other things, it brings people together
in new humility and caring. I remember how, in the midst of the sorrow
of my own mother’s burial, there was the joy of meeting people I had not
seen for years. I have a memory of standing beside the as-yet unclosed
grave, that cold February day, talking with a friend and articulat­ing that
very joy. On this latest day, too there has been joy of reunion, not only
with family, but with friends. And those few who join the gathering at the
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cabin especially to meet the Professor and my­self, bring an additional
warm glow to the already kindled fires of love.
Leaving, I glance over to the church­yard and I think, “Where Grace
has been acknowledged in life, Grace will be present in death. Peace,
Brother!”
December
We are molded and remolded by those who have loved us...

In the life of an ordinary household there are, in spite of the “goodness
and mercy” following one every day, long or short stretches of ordinariness,
of aridity. There are days, weeks, months even, when one doesn’t feel up
to par, when things don’t jell, when joy seems dormant. But one never
knows when that Other is going to break in, break loose, and inject a glow
at the center of life...
The thirty-one days of this December-­on-the-corner have been—
almost without exception—just such glowing days. An inexplicable aura,
an exploding joy, a pervading sense of grace are present day after day.
Each member of the family, all those who come in and go out, seem to
be blessed with charisma; loving gaiety reigns at the dinner table, and
communicates itself to the guests. Even while it is happening we are
aware that Love has loosed a rare Christmas gift among us, and we let
ourselves be swept along, not needing to ask Why? From Where? How
long will it last? For what purpose has it come?
At such times I find myself especially “melded and remolded” by the
individual encounters with loving people: One of my favorite couples stops
in on a Saturday morning to talk, and to tell me of their coming wedding.
Though they insist they want nothing to eat, I do convince them that,
since the grill is ready to be heated, the patties made, they should at least
have a quick hamburger before they leave. In the fifteen minutes it takes
to prepare the food, a sudden inspiration seizes me. Leaving them to talk
to­gether in the other room, I spread a white cloth on the kitchen table;
place the big Swedish candle in the middle. When I am finished, gleaming
Fostoria goblets hold their milk; matching plates—their sandwiches; cloth
napkins complete the preparations, and some­how what began as a quick
snack ends up as a sacramental meal, a sort of “prenuptial mass.”
And there are other encounters: an Azar breakfast with a winsome
college girl, a last meeting before she returns to her Virginia home; a
candid, quiet, good hour...those long telephone conversations late at
night, with a troubled friend—involvements which painfully hollow out
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On the Corner 1970
the spirit that it might one day be able to hold more joy...the open house
at Russ and Marge’s where we meet Woodstock peo­ple who know our
Woodstock people, and who give us the gift of added testimony to the
sweetness of our grand­child!
And we are “molded and remolded” by the Brotherhood: It’s a good
month for the morning worship services at the Big Church. There too, it
seems that some kind of special grace is present. There is the morning
when Don’s “I have no man” sermon brings the gift o