Plain Wisdom (8 page)

Adding a baby to a family is not new upon this earth. It’s been a regular occurrence since Adam and Eve had their first child. Yet each newborn is a fresh start, not just for the infant, but also for the family.

Usually by six months the little one is sitting in a highchair at the family table. A lot of growing up takes place at the kitchen table. Here weary, hungry bodies are refreshed. Manners are learned. Laughter is heard. Tears are spilled as the weight of the day is shared with those around us. Lessons are taught. Fears are conveyed. Confidence is built.

A kitchen table holds far more than bowls, plates, and platters. Even now, with my youngest almost grown, I hear laughter at the table … often when my adult children recall all the unsuccessful new recipes I set before them during their childhood. And I hear lively discussions as we each want the others to see some aspect of life from a different perspective—because learning about life at the table is something we should never outgrow.

On Monday morning I stood at the kitchen table looking at the piece of furniture I was about to replace. I ran my hand over the top, feeling all
the dents and scratches from years gone by, gazing at the splatters of tole paint left behind from countless crafts. Each mark had a story.

A lot had taken place around this table in the past twenty-five years. I served my first meals to my new husband here. After our fourth child arrived, we added a leaf. This was where we’d celebrated all their birthdays and taught them to pray at mealtime.

Many Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas dinners had been shared as we gathered around this table. We added yet another leaf when we welcomed our two daughters-in-law, and we extended the table again recently to make room for our dear grandchildren.

This is where we as a family have gathered not only to take in food to nourish our bodies but to partake of spiritual food for our souls as we have celebrated life, God’s love, and our love for Him and for one another. Here we have shared our disappointments and heartaches.

The more I thought about it, the idea of a new table became less appealing. In spite of its wobbly ways, I held off making that trip to Zimmerman’s.

Spring planting gave way to summer chores and activities. Soon we were into the fall harvest, with the holidays just around the corner. My unsteady old table had to be replaced before the next huge family gathering.

But when my good English friend Katrine offered to help refinish the old table, I eagerly agreed. We sanded for days, removing the old finish, the dents, and the scratches. We took the extension runners apart and sanded each one smooth, then securely reattached them. Then came the staining and coats of polyurethane. My beat-up old table was transformed into a beautiful heirloom.

On Thanksgiving Day, as my family gathered around my “new” table, I felt extremely grateful for my friend’s help as she’d selflessly sacrificed her time, skill, and effort. I felt truly blessed by her friendship, and I was thrilled to be able to restore and strengthen the most important piece of furniture in my home.

In much the same way, when we give our hearts to God, we change from the old to the new. He sands down the rough selves, transforming us into new selves by grace, with faith. As 2 Corinthians 5:17 says, “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”

Some of my favorite childhood memories are wrapped around special family times. And I’m not talking about just when we were on vacation or having a birthday party but during those occasions when each family member stepped out of the busyness of his or her world and truly connected with those who shared the same home.

From the time I was eight until I entered high school, my family lived in various parts of rural Maryland. In one place we lost electricity to our home fairly often. We were well equipped to deal with the outages—a potbelly stove for cold weather, plenty of goods my mother had canned from her garden, and several kerosene lamps. So we had warmth, food, and light. What more could a family need?

Games! Fast-paced, easy ones, where the goal is laughter, not winning.

During those times when the television was as dark as the night, we’d clear the kitchen table, set a lantern on it, and start a board game. Not having electricity caused everyone naturally to shift his or her normal routine.

For me, what was most fun about those evenings was having my parents’ undivided attention. Parents are often so busy being parents that their children don’t get to see their true personalities—the one that shows up when Mom goes out with her girlfriends or when Dad and his co-workers eat lunch together at a restaurant.

Game night, which only occurred when the electricity went out, helped shape my thoughts about my family. It gave me a glimpse into my mom’s carefree side and my dad’s sharp wit, which had us roaring with laughter. Temporarily being without electricity was an inconvenience to my parents, who had work to do. But it radiated a light inside my heart that has lasted a lifetime.

The Old Order Amish live without electricity all the time.

Do I want to live the way they do? With much respect to them, I say, “No, thank you.”

Do the Amish want to live as we do? With much respect to Englischers, the Amish I know say, “No, thank you.”

We’d each have to give up things we cherish. I’d have to alter much of the life I’ve always known, and while I was at it, I would likely be altering the lives of my family for future generations.

But there are common denominators in the two traditions—like our determination to protect our families and keep them a priority. And our belief in the power of love, which doesn’t originate with any particular tradition—not Amish or Englischer—but comes from the love God has for us. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9).

Physically, I was cleaning walls, windows, cupboards, and floors. Mentally, I was planning menus for the two meals to be held in our home the next day. The first meal would follow the church service in our home and feed everyone who attended. The Amish hold church services in people’s
homes every other week, rotating the responsibility for hosting the service and the meal afterward. The second meal of the day was for close friends and extended family. The ladies all bring loaves of homemade bread and desserts to share, which is a big help. But the main course is the responsibility of the host family, which this week was me.

Going over the list in my head, I felt confident that I had all I needed for lunch: bread, ham, cheese spread, peanut butter, pickles, red beets, pies, and coffee—enough to feed the whole congregation of approximately 110 people.

Only our families and a few close friends would stay for the evening meal. I planned to serve meat loaf, mashed potatoes, peas, a salad, and noodles for that one. Dessert would be cakes, pies, pudding, and fresh fruit for the health conscious, but I’d forgotten to buy fruit. Several of the folks couldn’t eat much of anything except fruit, so I started to panic. Going to town was out of the question, as I’d already gone twice that week. A third trip would require arranging for a driver, which was somewhat costly, assuming I could find one on such short notice. The only store close enough to reach by horse and buggy had already closed for the day.

Scolding myself for being so scatterbrained, I breathed a quick prayer.
Lord, tomorrow is Your day, and this is Your church
. Knowing I couldn’t do anything about the problem, I focused on moving furniture out and benches in as we set up for church.

About an hour later I heard a car in the driveway. Pulling back the curtain to see who it was, I gasped in disbelief. An English friend was coming up the walk, carrying a huge fruit basket! I choked up, both surprised and ashamed—ashamed that I was so surprised at my answered prayer.

It had seemed like too small a thing to bring before the Lord. But He had heard and He cared, and I was reminded never to underestimate the power of prayer … even for seemingly insignificant requests.

We serve certain foods at every after-church meal. The peanut butter spread is a favorite.

In the spring of 1971, when the first families from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, bought farms and settled in the picturesque valley in Franklin County, Pennsylvania, lots of issues needed to be worked out. Since the Amish hold their church services in people’s homes, a place to worship was no problem. But schooling the children was. They had only a few scholars (schoolchildren) in their midst, so sending the kids to the local Mennonite school seemed the best solution. But it was ten miles away, which is quite a distance when one needs to hitch a horse to a buggy and travel twenty miles round trip twice daily.

As time went on, more families moved into the area. The church grew, and another Amish congregation was established. They now had enough children and teachers to start their own school.

A vacant brick building, which had been used as a school by the English years ago, was an ideal place for a one-room school. But the owner was not interested in selling or even renting it. So the Amish children continued attending the Mennonite school ten miles away.

Several years later an English neighbor lost his barn because of an electrical fire. It was a beautiful old barn and had been in the family for generations. Sadly, it burned down to the stone foundation.

As the sun rose the next morning, a smoky haze enveloped the old homestead. Neighbors came from all directions with tools and plenty of ambition. The cleanup went swiftly, and plans were made to rebuild.