You may wonder how I get ideas for blog posts. Some are good, some are not so good.
But this blog post comes from a book I helped to write during the era when a different book called Fifty Shades of Grey (which was a kind of dirty book, the kind I would NEVER write!). But me and several others from our company, which was called Mennonite Media at the time, had the idea to write a nicer book about grace.
Grace is a word we don’t use alot, but I do have hope we look for grace in our lives, our friends, even our so-called enemies, or some not-so-graceful people.
This brought me back to the book we at Mennonite Media decided to try our hand at writing, and we named it Fifty Shades of Grace. And last night this story came back to me with amazing love–and this was amazing love often expressed by my Dad. The story about my Dad was called thus: Softened by Grace. I found the book on my shelf (was wondering if I still had it, but it was there, and I knew the story it held). You get to read it now! If you will! It’s a story I love and I hope you will enjoy too.
***
Softened by Grace
When I was seventeen and about to embark on my senior year of high school, my family packed up the car, a pick-up truck, and a U-haul trailer, and moved nine hundred miles from Indiana to north Florida.
Northern Florida was light years away from south Florida in terms of the beach culture of Fort Lauderdale or Miami. North Florida was more like living in very rural Georgia or Alabama: Deep South in everything from accents to attitudes.
The year was 1969: the Vietnam War was in full swing; it was the first year of full racial integration of Florida’s public schools, and just a year after Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot, for reasons not unrelated.
So I was the new girl in school. I can still remember one boy glaring at me and spitting out, “Damn Yankee! We don’t need any more of ya’ll down here. If we could fight the war again, we’d win this time.” And it was NOT the Vietnam War he was talking about. (If you need the explanation, it was the Civil War he was talking about.)
We had a government class called “Americanism versus Communism,” and every day the teacher, Mr. Dickens [name changed] would rant about “g’vment, religion, freedom, and don’t forget the fortunes of University of Alabama football, and huntin’.”
Not only was I new and freshly imported from the North, I was immediately categorized as Mennonite. Everyone know Mennonites were different. Some of the local Mennonites were different in dress, but others like me were different mainly because of our beliefs.
I had lived a sheltered life near Goshen, Indiana, where most of my friends, teachers and neighbors were either Mennonite, Brethren, Amish, or Conservative Mennonites. I went to the Mennonite high school in Goshen my first three years and enjoyed a great bunch of friends. My biggest crisis was breaking up with my steady boyfriend, shortly before we moved.
So even though initially I was excited about the move, once there, I felt isolated, lonely, and very different from most of my peers. For the first time in my life, I hated and dreaded going to school.
Mr. Dickens had a chip on his shoulder when it came to religious people. Mostly, he thought they were a bunch of hypocrites, “Fiiiine Babtists (his pronunciation) and on Sunday mornings, who do you find drinkin’ and drivin’ home from Joe’s Bar on a Saturday night? Whoohie!” he would explain, shaking his head.
Still, as a new southern transplant, I was fascinated with his stories. What high schooler wasn’t content to listen to tall tales and loud opinions for an hour rather than buckling down to discuss the assigned reading. At times, his logic and opinions made sense, and I realized his mind went deeper than huntin’ dogs and ‘Bama’ football. He was, after all, editor of the town paper.
Mr. Dickens picked up early on my faith background and would buttonhole me with questions like “How would Mennonites keep Communists from taking over our country if it ever came to that?” I remember my face feeling hot as I stumbled for answers. I was raised to be a “nice” girl, so I never thought of it as bullying or badgering, or a hostile classroom environment.
In our Mennonite family, one of the firm rules guiding our lives was that Sunday was a day of rest. We only did the necessary chores of taking care of animals–and “women’s work” of cooking and washing dishes. Dad, as a rule. would never drive a tractor or do any work on Sunday that could wait until Monday.
But in Calhoun County, a day of rest for humans was also a day when hunters would take their dogs and go scouting for deer.
One Sunday afternoon in the fall, when the ground was soggy and full from the hurricane season, Dad could hear a vehicle stuck in the mud, somewhere across the fields. You could hear the tires whirring in the mud. So Dad went out quietly and got his tractor, fetched some sturdy chains, and went rambling down the paths between fields until he reached the source of the sound.
Who did he find there but Mr. Dickens, and his dogs, with his truck stuck up to its axles.
Dad quickly pulled Mr. Dicken’s truck out of the mud. I don’t know if Dad worried about whether neighbors would think he was working on Sunday when they saw him on his tractor. But Dad did tell me he’d found and freed my government teacher.
On Monday morning, Mr. Dickens began class with “I was out huntin’ with my hounds Red and Rowdy yesterday ….” and we all settled in for what we hoped would be a long diversion from civics, government, and religion.
“Well, I was out near the Miller farm” he said with a nod to me. “And then Whoohie! Fooey! Hot dang! The ole’ truck jes’ mired down and wasn’t going nowhere, no way. I rocked it back and forth. Of course, it jes’ made the mud worse, and I knew that, but what was I to do? I was eight miles from town.
“And then I looked up and who did I see puttin’ across the fields but Mr. Miller, on his tractor, on a Sunday! And he commenced to putting his chains on my truck and had me out of there in no time at all.”
“Now that’s a fine Christian man who don’t ker’ what his neighbors will think, that he’s disobeying the rule about not working on Sunday, to help this poor ol’ teacher out of the mud.”
He turned to me. “I’ll never forget that, Miz’ Miller. You’ve got a fine father. If everybody who went to church was like that, we’d all be better off. Now that’s what Christian love is all about. You tell him thank you again for me now, will ya?”
And Mr. Dickens never did forget my father’s simple act of kindness. He brought it up often in our discussions of religion the rest of the year. I felt less “on trial” and less suspect in my faith tradition.
Dad’s bridge of grace to help someone in a ditch in spite of normal Sunday rules softened my opinion of a curmudgeonly teacher that day–and maybe of this young self-righteous northerner who needed to open herself to be more accepting of anyone, no matter what kind of opinions they expressed or where they lived. I doubt Dad thought of himself as extending grace when he went to get his tractor, but Mr. Dicken’s ideas about Christians, pacifists, and Mennonites would never be quite as hardened.
***
Grace is not always easy to extend. But I will be remembering my father and his prayers, his love for people in all the world (seriously), and hopefully will extend to our family, perfect or not.
***
You can read the book called Fifty Shades of Grace: Stories of Inspiration and Promise, published by Herald Press. Here’s a link. Fifty Shades of Grace a book by The Herald Press Editors – Bookshop.org US
My husband and I enjoy going to the area college football games at James Madison University. We’ve done that ever since our middle daughter decided to go to JMU back in 2003 in order to play in the Marching Band, which we grew to love greatly.
Now, I don’t know a whole bunch about the ins and out of football but I do know when to yell and cheer and often follow the player who is running with the football, and sigh if something doesn’t go right. I also get tears in my eyes every time the band comes out marching on the game field.
At this point in our lives, we are riding an ADA bus (for retired folks or those who have broken legs etc. and need help.) This also involves arriving very early, especially on Homecoming Day. So we sat in our own car for at least 1-2 hours and while I did have a book along I could have been reading, I was watching the two people across from us cooking food on a small grill (of some kind, it used fuel, not a match) and the husband appeared to be fixing breakfast. It was early and I was intrigued. Mosey gal that I am, I was wondering if there would be other people coming to this small conclave, or would it be larger. They certainly seemed to have enough food for the army over there, and then some: stacks of bagels, drinks, eggs, sausages, snacks, cookies, etc. I started getting a bit hungry, but we didn’t know them, at all. (We did have two edible donuts in our own Prius. Yay.)
Finally an older woman, warmly dressed, got out of the van and then a bit later, an older man did also. Ah! So there were parents besides the man and woman preparing the food. I swallowed and watched. That means they were grandparents, probably, coming to enjoy homecoming.
A bit later, maybe an hour or so, some teenagers or college kids arrived, and I finally figured out that their daughter had come to the game (not sure if she attended JMU or not, but a likely guess). A young man also came by. The daughter gave her dad the longest hug I had seen in a while, and it did my heart good. Tears actually puddled in my eye. How sweet, how wonderful. The young man seemed to toss back and forth through some friends in other tailgates, which wasn’t surprising. I mean, young men don’t normally hang on their Dad’s neck for a good 30 seconds.
In another 10-15 minutes, the word had gotten around, I guess, that there was good good food at that tailgate table across from our car, and I’m guessing there were 20-25 kids checking in, hugging necks or at least putting one arm around a shoulder. The grandparents got involved hugging as well, and I was happy. Happy to know that kids still love their parents (mostly) and parents enjoy their kids. Eh? Usually!
Who cares about a football game? Across the U.S. and globe, usually, men, women, girls, kids, grandparents and great grandparents gather on Saturdays or other days to get together and enjoy friends, family, and guests.
P.S. We won this one. Who cares, really, about the outcome. Hopefully men and women, boys and girls, friends and not friends, enjoy a camaraderie of sorts. Right? The world is big, and we, likewise, need to be big and loving and happy as much as we can.
And above, here’s the sweet group I saw, (I fudged getting a photo), so you can live the dream also. I was peering through our windshield. It was fun. (If you count how many people are in the photo there are 10 people in this one; a large group was seen a bit later.)
I still enjoy football games. Do you?
Why or why not? (And that’s okay by me!)
I’m always impressed and excited when I see a new leaf growing in my plant pot. The pot itself is a huge and heavy old clay pot that I don’t move around very much, unless I shove the trunk that holds the plant, a Philodendron. (The huge trunk carried some Television Awareness Training videos from long long ago when I spoke to groups about teaching children and adults to not watch too much TV). The trunk is another old thing that I hate to get rid of.
But on to the story of my Dad’s love and sweetness. When I was a freshman in college at Eastern Mennonite College (now University) my Mom and Dad brought me to the college and then we proceeded to shop downtown in Harrisonburg–which at that time had many dime stores (do you remember downtown dime stores?) No malls–wait a minute, I haven’t been in a mall in eons. Things change, right?
Anyway. When we were shopping my Dad looked at a plant in one of the stores and decided to buy one for my dorm room at EMC. How precious! He thought the room needed brightening. And it did! I had only brought along a few items to college because I didn’t know how to plan for a small room, or what I could bring. I did bring along a blanket or two, a pillow, some clothes, a jacket or coat, and a coffee pot. I felt pretty grown up.
The Philodendron began to grow and spread and I loved it. Over the years, I had to get bigger pots (and eventually really heavy pots) to tote my pot from room to room.
Then my junior year I got to spend in Spain, but I wasn’t sure who would take care of my Philodendron. I asked a friend if she would be willing and she was happy to do so.
Years passed, and that plant grew and kept me happy. Until it didn’t. I had not done my duty in keeping after it. You know? But late this summer I decided it was time to clean out the pot (along with several other house plants) and do more diligence for these plants.
Finally, just these past couple weeks, when I stared at the Philodendron, it seemed to be launching a small new growth. I was scared and figured it would not grow. It would just shrink again.
But eureka! It is now responding and (keeping my fingers crossed), expanding and I am almost ecstatic.
I’m thinking my Dad is out there urging it on. My heart still warms–even as I write this. We loved him for more than his love of flowers.
Hugs to Dads everywhere who love pretty plant things.
***
What are your memories about your Dad or Mom (if you are old like me)?
Can you see the very small leaves launching at the bottom? They are growing every day!
How can we be growing, as well?
I’ve been deaf in my left ear for all my life.
I now know why I still have deafness. In one ear.
My dear mother birthed me, but a mere day or two after I was born she hemorrhaged. That means blood was coming out of her uterus and she didn’t know how to make it stop. (I spoke of this in my book, Memoir of an Unimagined Career which was mostly about my work for Mennonite Media, but in the first chapter I wrote about this hemorrhaging.)
Yesterday I learned that the fact that I was deaf in one ear, changed my life. I’m grateful that I’m not totally deaf but now I know why one ear is deaf. I can hear pretty good, but all things considered, I am excited to know that there is a reason. It is called congenital, and is “a disease or physical condition, present from birth.” That means this problem was present when I was in mother’s tummy and she didn’t know it and doctors didn’t pay much attention to that 75 years ago. I knew I had deafness, but didn’t know why or when or whatever.
Mom always thought and told me that I may have gotten deaf in one ear because of mumps or some other disease or issue. (She did take me to other doctors when I was a teenager, in order to find out if anything could be done. No, not much, the professionals always said.) I also know that she discovered my deafness when I was a little girl, maybe age 3-4. She would try to get my attention when we were sitting in church and since I was normally a very obedient child, she wondered why I didn’t listen to her in church. I would just ignore her trying to whisper to me.
Going back a few years, she also told me Dad had to work the day she was hemorrhaging and she couldn’t contact him. (No cell phone back then, I’m afraid!) Mom claimed I was such a good baby that I wasn’t crying while she was hemorrhaging. I don’t know if that would have changed my one ear deafness (if I was quiet) but I can’t tell you how happy and grateful to know this information. We went to a doctor/or Audiology professional in Richmond Va. the other day, (about 100 miles away) and he steered me to continue using my hearing aid, rather than going the route of trying the Cochlear Implant route, because it wouldn’t be as good a route for me. You can read more about Cochlear implants elsewhere, and I wish it could help me, but he was a long-time professional and had no reason to not guide me well.
I’m happy I can still write, which I do frequently! I wish I could write a letter to my mother telling her our discovery regarding why I had/have a deaf ear. I maybe need to know more, but I’m happy to know more of my story!
If the doctor had guided me otherwise, there would be a lot more humps to get over in the Cochlear implant route. I may regret that sometime, but for now, I’m just happy to put my hearing aid in my ear every day, and enjoy sleeping without an aid in my ear.
What do you think, or know? Tell me any stories you know or have heard!
My friend had a beautiful and meaningful coffee mug sitting on a countertop as we were both helping our Broadway Lions Club make pancakes, sausages, biscuits and gravy on recent Saturday morning.
I was struck: wow. what a message she was sharing and I’ve just got to show y’all too. I had heard of them all, but hadn’t thought about them in eons. Have you heard of these women?
Here goes:
Wait like Sarah
Protect like Rahab
Trust like Ruth
Pray like Hannah
Lead like Esther,
Rejoice like Mary
Sarah was hoping for a baby. She was married of course to Abraham and they both longed for a baby but nothing was happening. I’m guessing some of my readers have experienced both the hope and perhaps the downturns when nothing was happening.
Rahab was/is perhaps the most unusual woman–because she was actually a prostitute in that time. A harlot. Imagine. She lived in Jericho and if you are familiar with the Bible you might know that Rahab helped hide Joshua’s spies and according to the Bible, there had been spies sent by God.
Ruth was a widow at that time and a Moabite widow who stayed loyal to her Israelite mother‑in‑law Naomi, moved with her to Bethlehem, and ultimately married Boaz—and Ruth eventually become the great‑grandmother of King David. Yeah, that David, who we know had many stories and even loves, but that’s another story.
Hannah wanted a baby too, badly. The Bible says she was barren. She was the wife of Elkanah who also wanted a baby–men had hopes too. Finally, they got that baby, Samuel, and raised him, and eventually Hannah dedicated her boy to God because she knew that was best. (Of course, he grew up to be a good boy who listened to the call of God and he became a prophet and judge at the time (lots of info on Samuel in numerous chapters of the Bible).
Esther was a beautiful woman of the Bible and longtime was my favorite as a child or hearing of the stories. She too was considered for the harem (the king’s place to find women, basically. Eventually she was chosen to become a queen, and she interceded for her people, invited the king to a banquet. and together they all denounced a guy named Haman, the bad guy.
Mary of course was the chosen mother of Jesus, who was born in a manger in Bethlehem; she loved and cuddled him of course like any woman or decent man. You probably know what eventually happened to Jesus, and Mary mourned him when he died on a cross in Jerusalem, and went to his grave. That story actually ended well with Jesus being the known savior–of the world if you can believe that way. Which I do, obviously.
There were many many other women of the Bible who did courageous and perhaps outlandish things in the Bible and generally just in life! The Bible is worth reading and believing and if you look things up, you may be surprised by the excellent and amazing things women do, even today!
Okay, I’m done preaching and done writing for this day but hope you will ponder some of these delightful and difficult stories that exist in the Bible.
And I thank my friend Gina who provided this wonderful backdrop–with a coffee cup. I was using a mug too but I drank in these stories and memories and all!
P.S. I have a small Bible Concordance which gave me these small tips and references–some things I had forgotten about the Bible. Worth grabbing! I’m sure you can find something similar in a bookstore, if you look.
P.P.S.S I’m so sorry that the photo has to fold over like that but I’m working on it. Any help here?? How do you straighten a sideways photo like this!! Help!
***
I do hope you might enjoy and ponder some of these women, and share some thoughts about them too!
And add some of your female favorites in the Bible as well.
Phones are great, aren’t they? Until they’re not. And they’re not anywhere to be found.
Of course I’m talking about iPhones or whatever you call them or whatever you use.
Let’s go back 75 years to the days when our families would actually listen in to neighboring friends and relatives if they happened to be in the same jurisdiction of phones. If you were polite in those days, you didn’t listen in, but if you were really nosey and curious you might listen in.
Or perhaps you are just a might older than me and my husband, and you might be using a Jitterbug for your phone. That’s fine. They have their purpose for sure. I’m not quite of that generation and frankly I don’t know how to use a Jitterbug at this point.
Anyway, last night my husband and I were out looking for this regular iPhone that was not anywhere to be found. This has happened to both me and my husband when our phones simply disappeared. (Or we left them in weird places.) You know?
And the next generation–our daughters–came to the rescue. They all live two to six hours away. Well, you don’t depend on kids to show up at 8 o-clock in the evening when they’ve had a long day working and maybe, just maybe they might have gotten all their kids into bed already and were hoping for a little bliss.
However, you might be able to do what we did and launched kind of an SOS to our daughters for ideas or help they might provide. Our daughters have varying types of phone service.
And it was almost a miracle, or at least it felt like that to our older generation.
My husband hadn’t turned his phone back on after church and had forgotten that it was off.
So on Monday as we looked around at places where he might have lost or dropped it, we were bewildered and wondering because he had also mowed the lawn that afternoon and had his phone in his pocket but we couldn’t find it anywhere, including on a neighbor’s property.
Our oldest daughter texted “Isn’t there some kind of ‘locate my phone’ thing if you have an Apple phone? It’s an app that finds the location of your phone so you can go to the general area.”
Our youngest daughter texted, “I might have access. Hold on …”
Our middle daughter not only texted, but send a message and photo on my phone marking the territory Stuart’s phone was in and she said “Dad, it looks like your phone might be in the front yard? This is a map of both mom and dad’s phone location, in proximity to your house.”
We got more excited. Oldest daughter texted, “Looks like it might be near the red bud tree maybe?”
Youngest daughter explained, “I was on Mom’s phone with them for a bit and they were walking all over out there looking … I don’t know how accurate the access was with only two devices pinging … “
Oldest daughter added, “Well, it will probably be better to try it in daylight, but at least they know it’s on the property somewhere.”
Then they suggested that I send our list of numbers and pin numbers that we keep in a small journal. So I photographed my list and sent it to them. Youngest daughter’s husband had also gotten involved, with his wonderful insights from his own computer work.
All of sudden, miracle of miracles, our middle daughter proclaimed “The phone has been found! We were able to ping the ringer.” Her husband suggested that we look in the car.
We scrambled to it! We had earlier looked in the car, for sure, but it had not been found. It was under the car seat cover in the car!
Halleluiah.
The texts came back: Youngest daughter “Oh good!!!!”
Oldest daughter: “Amazing! I’m so glad you guys have that load off your mind.”
Middle daughter: “Technology is pretty helpful sometimes!”
Youngest daughter: “Thank you so much, Tanya and Jon.”
Oldest daughter: “Yes, thank you for helping them.”
Middle daughter: “Glad we could help!”
And, belatedly, I added, “We will be able to sleep tonight. Thanks to all of you.”
And we both slept as good of night as we’ve had in awhile!
And I’m shaking in my gut, crying a little, because I’m still so thankful and happy that we were able to jump this hurdle without a cost and with much appreciation for our wonderful and loving daughters that we love so much.
Don’t be afraid to do a ping, if you can figure out how!
Have you lost or looked for a phone–of any kind? What were your results?
I would love to hear your stories!
Do You Keep Track of Your Photos, Stories, and Memories?
It’s been awhile. If you’ve been wondering why (or maybe you don’t care, really!), I’ve been missing doing my blog.
I love writing and have several projects going along, and I do a once-a-month column for Chimney Rock Chronicles near Bergton, Va. BUT THIS COMPUTER won’t let me finish what I want and need to say, or it turns my photos upside down and prevents me from fixing it. You should see my face right now. I am livid.
Or living, whatever the case may be. I want my ‘puter to do what it is supposed to do.
Back to what I hope I can finish.
Our family, including parents, grandparents, grandchildren and more, spent five days in the area of Cherokee in North Carolina, one of our favorite places. All together there were between 45-50 cousins, grandparents, little ones (several babies) and much much fun in the Gatlinburg (Tenn.) area and North Carolina. I remember very well going to the “Unto These Hills” drama theater in Cherokee when I was young. I also remember the years (when we were older) and could do water rafting in various rivers, never knowing quite who was going to fall in or get their heads clunked. We (my husband and I) are now of the generation, however, who pick riding along in a sweet old train engine rather than rafting.
Mom and Dad, whose last name was Miller, liked traveling, and our whole family remembers the time we had stayed in our first cabin rather than a motel. I think it was 1990. Then, about 10 years later, Mom and Dad had a friend who suggested a place called “The Miller Cabin” and Mom and Dad happily rented it in North Carolina. It was beautiful and probably housed about 18-24 (I’m not sure anymore). This year, 2026, we went to the still beautiful Miller Cabin (doesn’t go by that name anymore) and not everyone could fit into it. But I hope Dad and Mom also loved the memories in heaven.
Gatlinburg, of course, being in Tennessee through the Smokey Mountains, offers thrills and slides. But we also saw numerous elk which was a big deal for us, but also deer of course (no bears). There were also Amish families riding in crowded trams over the valley and up to Tennessee’s mountains. Things have changed!
I’m sharing this because family is so important to me and I cherish that our daughters and spouses seem to like traveling too—even though things don’t always work out the way you want them to. I’m including a few photos in case it whets your appetite for keeping the memories going.
Plus, fall is quickly beckoning and Thanksgiving isn’t far behind. But I’m kicking myself for not including more descriptions of the people in old photos we cherish—but can’t remember who knows what!
At any rate, thanks for visiting my blog.
Summer is almost done.
Wait, wait, there are a few more weeks, to go, if you count Sept. 21. I’ll take the long way to savor the grass, the leaves, the zinnias, the blue skies, everything that reminds me of another summer, another time when we can grab all we have in appreciation for God’s gifts to us.
There are still weeks to go, including a first birthday for one granddaughter (and we can’t forget her sister’s February birthday where “hyper” was the word), or their mother turning 40, oh my. We won’t mention the older mothers … including me. There is time to luxuriate massively: stars in the morning sky, moon at night, cold air, warm air, and this year, abundant rain here in the Shenandoah Valley. I love it all. Oh, and did we forget the sweet corn that is still sharing it’s bounty?
I loved the grandsons too—lest we forget, because they weeded the potatoes for me, and other weeds they found.
And now, I must go pick those nasty yellow bugs in the garden, that have to be smushed in order to share the green beans. That is summer too.
Probably my favorite moment two weeks ago was when our grandsons talked grandpa into going to fish at a pond they’d been at several times, and they always enjoyed trying to catch any kind of fish. It took awhile, but the next thing I knew several boys came dashing to the other side of the pond, carrying their load, all excited after a long wait to get some fish (which of course they promptly threw back into the pond).
Now, their 3-and a half-year-old cousin, a girl, is saying she wants to go fishing too. I bet she’ll get her wish one of these years, and I won’t be surprised if her little sister decides to follow her big sister’s example … We will see!
Summertime. The living may not be so easy but do take it easy when you can!
I am so happy too, here, because I have been having a wretched time getting signal on our laptop etc. Not sure why, it is very slow.
But, here we are!
What have you done this summer? What are you hoping to do yet?
The Pastor Who Married Us
When my husband and I began to date (my senior year in college, 1975), he was open to moving away from his Lutheran church and upbringing, and me moving away from my Mennonite upbringing.
So we tried out a church I had heard about. It was a church called Trinity Presbyterian which met in an old house, which dated back to Civil war times, and contained a beautiful antebellum home (mansions built in the south prior to the Civil War, approximately 1825). I don’t know much about the history but it had beautiful fireplaces in various parts of the large brick home. Instead of razing the old house, a committee of the organizing Presbytery suggested remodeling it to serve as a temporary sanctuary until a larger, permanent church could be built. They decided to see what it “might be like to begin a church from the ground up. It had been deserted for three years and the lawn was grown high with weeds. The new group began meeting regularly on Wednesday evenings to scrub, paint, and repair, as well as to discuss, sing, and share.” (Longterm member Pat Churchman wrote most of this description, who died a few years ago.)
That developing congregation traveled to Washington DC to visit “Church of the Saviour,” and studied books on the mission of the church. They chose to make Trinity a mission-oriented congregation in Harrisonburg, Va. which focused on small-group life. Four house churches eventually were organized with 8 member leaders. I had heard a little about this kind of different church and suggested to my boyfriend, Stuart, that we check it out.
We began attending. At that time active “house churches” or small groups met often including Sunday mornings when each house church planned their own service as they met in homes. They participated in outreach avenues, such as visiting a nearby prison once a month. Like early disciples did in the Bible! This was a brainchild of our long-term pastor there, Don Allen, who deeply influenced us, and finally married us in 1976!
Five years later he moved to Washington D.C. for some 15 years to experience life among church goers in his district. Then he and his wife, Betty, moved back to Harrisonburg for retirement. Trinity organized a coffee house for many years called “The Marketplace” where there was lively discussion, quiet conversation, and sometimes solitary thought.”
As Pat wrote about the house church movement “many people were caught up in counter-culture, anti-establishment ways of looking at their culture. … Many of us were drawn to Trinity not just because it was non-traditional in many ways, but because we sensed a group of people challenged to be on mission, searching for authentic, meaningful[MD1] paths of service.”
In these recent years since about 2000, (of course many things have changed about the church meanwhile) and I have learned much from Don even though he was no longer an active pastor. But numerous members of various groups still met for conversation, checking in with each other on trials and adventures, studying a book or two, and sharing prayer. I appreciated commentary even if Don went into a long theological description with deep meaning. When he could no longer drive, I loved driving him and others who needed rides as we continued our tradition of meeting in homes as we could. In later years he was almost blind, but by george, he would always tell which street I needed to turn on.
Early in his ministry he wrote a book called “Barefoot in the Church” and when dear Don finally passed away at the age of 95 on a Sunday morning this July, his daughters and many friends kicked off their shoes to be barefoot like Don as a way of remembrance and communicating church renewal.
My other special memory is how every time we had a meeting in our home, he would exclaim about our long long dining table, and wished he had one that long. (Made by Amish in Indiana for us, seating at least 20.)
Don now sits at a table in eternity that will always be as lonnnnnng as God keeps it going, and we pray for persons of faith who will keep it going along the way, along with dozens and dozens of those who have passed on to their reward in the heavens.
Long may these remembrances remain. And we hope that this 200 year-old house—was God’s way of helping many many saints and sinners to find God’s love for us.
By Bertha Miller
(Written by Melodie Miller Davis’s mother, in a diary of memories)
My husband Vernon and I moved to Juniper Place in 2004. In high school I loved typing and decided I wanted to be a secretary and work in an office, so I went to the affordable Elkhart Business College. I then got a job at American Coating Mills at $17 a week, big money. I was just 18 and fresh off the farm. The war was in full swing. I found a whole different world in that downtown Elkhart office, so different than my strict Mennonite home. At the office, people flirted, there were cigarettes all over the place, cursing and swearing, especially by my boss. At an office Christmas dinner at a restaurant which was a real treat for me, I thought some got a little drunk.
I wasn’t much interested in marriage at the time. I didn’t want to be tied down to one guy. Plus, I figured no one would want me because of my large feet.
When I first met Vernon, I thought he was sort of cute. He was serving at Ypsilanti Mental Hospital in Michigan during World War II as a conscientious objector (C.O.). So, I wrote him a letter and he wrote back. A friend, Jasper got us together. I just happened to be in a dime store in Elkhart and he knew me and Vernon also. Vernon was soon sure I was the one for him. I wasn’t sure but I felt so comfortable talking to him. He wanted to take me to a movie for our first date but I was kind of surprised because I never went to movies: in my church, movies were “wicked.” So, we went to Playland Park and had fun on the rides. There was one other C.O. in the office and I tried to keep it a secret that my boyfriend was a C.O.
It took me a long time and prayer before I knew for sure that I wanted to marry Vernon in 1946. Eventually we owned our own farm and I happily became a farmer’s wife and we soon started a family of three daughters and one son.
Later in life Vernon did much volunteer work with the CROP (Christian Rural Overseas Program), and started a fundraiser of planting an entire farm in corn with proceeds going to CROP. The “planting” was covered by a local TV station and Vernon and my middle daughter got on the front page of the Indiana Prairie Farmer magazine. The more he worked with the CROP program and Heifer Project, the more he desired to go to see where we had sent crops and animals to help feed “hungry people” as he often said. When the Mennonite World Conference was planned for Amsterdam in 1967, Vernon began to look into how we could afford to travel to the conference and then continue on to see various places where we knew missionaries, or had hosted visitors from other countries, or where CROP corn and heifers had been sent. Vernon and I ended up traveling completely around the world stopping in many countries including Vietnam in that horrible war. We were able to visit a Vietnamese friend and some workers.
One big adventure as a family was leaving northern Indiana to settle in north Florida for about 9 years where Vernon helped start a mobile home factory to help provide jobs. The business eventually folded, and Vernon returned to farming and eventually we moved back to northern Indiana where so many of our family lived. After he retired from farming, we spent many winters volunteering with other senior Mennonites in South Texas. We were not rich, but we had a rich life full of love, faith, family and many learning experiences. Our children say now they loved seeing Daddy put his arms around me as he left the supper table each evening, thanking me for cooking and usually landing a kiss on my cheek.
He knew later in life that I really hoped to live at Greencroft as many friends and family did. His last big loving gift to me was to move us to Juniper where we lived for two years before he died in 2006, and I stayed there until 2021. He was the love of my life although seven years older than me: 29 to my 22 when we got married. I know now we were very lucky to have 60 mostly wonderful years together.
BIO: Bertha Miller, age 97 died October 11, 2021. She would have been 100 years old this July. She lived in the Cove nursing unit for a couple years after enjoying Juniper 17 years. Bertha was an active volunteer reading to others at Greencroft and welcoming visitors. Even two months before she died, she enjoyed grading Home Bible studies for Gospel Echoes prison ministry. She also loved acting in the Curtain Raiser productions for a number of years. Earlier she and Dad ran a Bed and Breakfast in their home when they lived near Wakarusa Ind., which they loved doing.
