Author: mymennonitememoir

Poetry of Spring

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Written Spring of 2004

Something about spring and poetry go together.  When I recently had a day off from work in early March, I hung out laundry, something I hadn’t done in months.  There was a welcome, but unusual smell in the air.  It was faint, but definitely, unmistakably spring.  Yet over by the line of trees there was still a lingering reminder of winter, persistently visible:  a border of snow. It was a day between winter and spring, but oh how invigorating, how awe-inspiring, how poetic.

Life seems too full of many “promises to keep,” yet hopefully we still have time to marvel at the green shoots pushing up underneath the brown, winter-laden foliage.  I hope we never cease to be amazed at the sight of the first daffodil, preceded by the first robin coming “down the walk.”  The green resurrection around us encompasses our celebration of Christ’s resurrection.  May we bear witness to this resurrection power and grace as we live and breathe the poetry of spring.

Can you name the poetry or poets briefly quoted above?  Let me know…

Getaway to Chicago

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Written Spring of 2012

This past winter when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, I decided to get away and visit my girlfriend, Peggy, in Chicago.  Since I had invited myself, I told her I would get a room at a local bed and breakfast for a few days and see her whenever she could fit me in her schedule.  The thinking was that I would have time to work as well as see Peggy.  Well, Peggy was usually ready to do something soon after all her kids left for school, so we took one day to see the sites in downtown Chicago including the highly polished kidney bean called Cloud Gate and took another day to pick up Peggy’s daughter at nearby Trinity University.  We ate lunch every day together, trying a variety of ethnic restaurants and saw all the local Oak Park museums, from Frank Lloyd Wright to Ernest Hemingway.

I stayed at an old Victorian B&B hosted by Gloria, a kindred spirit.  Over breakfast we listened to each other’s writing adventures and we soaked in each other’s reassurances.  Gloria was the one to tell me how she confidently wrote a play and had it produced at a nearby theater.  She told no one about it….because she said, “Everyone will try to talk you out of it.”  She just went to her special “saint room” and wrote and it was as if it was blessed by Saint Joseph himself.  She had her family of grandchildren as her actors and she was the narrator.  It was produced one night to a standing room only crowd. For some reason, this woman was like ambrosia to my soul.  She was an energetic, warm host and I wished I could stay longer under her tutelage.

Another added benefit of this trip was getting to know Peggy’s family better.  We were the only female attendants at each other’s weddings, but the demands of our children and family had sequestered our friendship for many years.  We still sent the obligatory Christmas cards, but we had very little contact and lost touch with each other’s daily personal struggles that often keep friends bound together.  So on this trip I got to talk to and spend some time with her oldest twins, Jessica and Amanda, and her son, Ryan, her husband Jon, and even their guide dog, Hunt.  It wasn’t enough time, but it did provide a glimpse into Peggy’s life that I thoroughly enjoyed.  How we have changed since our college days…how we have grown and matured and in some cases, become hardened to life’s cruel twists.  How wonderful to reconnect and witness first-hand the daily joys and sorrows that make up Peggy’s life.

Working at McDonald’s

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Written Fall of 1980

“Nobody can do it like McDonald’s can, “ but then who would want to?

Feelings such as these come to mind when I think of this past summer.  I was employed at McDonald’s of Souderton.  I begged for more hours and higher pay, but hated every minute I spent there.  Well, maybe that is a little strong.  Let’s say, on the average, every other minute.

My hours regularly ran from eleven AM to seven PM, Monday through Saturday.  I spent my early mornings in dread of the approaching eleven o’clock hour.  Luckily, by the time Phil Donahue was in its last commercial break, I had usually succeeded in pasting on my plastic smile and psyching myself up for another day at the “grease pit.”  Then I quickly stomped on my Ford Torino gas pedal and did not look back till I reached the golden arches.

With a pleasant appearance and a boiling interior, I pushed the 6-3 combination of the Employees Only door.  Due to the fact that I never wanted to arrive a minute too early, I usually had to punch in immediately.  Then I politely asked the nearest manager the familiar question, “Where am I today?’

If I was lucky, I got to be on a register to pant the orders given, in less than one minute’s time.  But if I was unlucky, I had to do the breakfast dishes and then go out in the lobby to empty trash, clean windows and tables, fill napkins and straws, and sweep and mop the floor.  Either way I was a goner.  This is one of the many times when the question, “Why am I here” arose in my mind.

On an ordinary day I worked register or drive-thru over lunch hour and then on grill during the slow afternoon hours.  I enjoyed working on grill by myself though everyone else despised it.  True, you did sweat profusely, running from buzzer to buzzer, turning the quarter pounders, searing the hamburgers, and dressing the filet-of-fish.  It was no easy job, especially when there was a rush and the hamburgers are burning, the pie buzzer is going off, and you realize you forgot to put the filet buns in the steamer.  It can be disastrous if at this crucial moment, with your face wet with sweat, a person on register bellows the unforgivable words, “I’m down six cheeseburgers.”

This is a fatal phrase in all McDonald’s.  It means that a customer has given an order but the product requested is not in the heated bin ready to sell.  This causes the grill team to drop all the more hamburgers and rip all the more buns.

But at least back on grill no grouchy customers can yell at you because their quarter pounder with cheese is too rare, that there is not enough hot fudge on their sundae, or that you charged them too much for their medium coke (to which you courteously point out that three cents tax is added).

I found the greatest number of complaints to come between the hour of four and five.  This is when groups of elderly women with pinched lips and pinched purses would order a plain filet-of-fish and a regular size cup of coffee.  Then they would immediately flash their “Golden Arches” membership card.  (This is a card given to senior citizens which entitles them to a free cup of coffee.) They then stared at the register till finally the all-telling digits appeared.  If I happened to forget to subtract their cup of coffee, they would make it known with an indignant shake of the finger.  One lady even stood at the counter for over five minutes, insisting that I had charged her two cents extra and demanding that I add it up again.  At moments like these my plastic smile grew rudely artificial.

The crew of workers surrounding me was not always easy to get along with either. I became an oddball because I was about the only one who did not join the beer and pot parties every weekend.  Due to this and also my failure to swear, I was often chosen to perform such tasks as taking the trash out or cleaning the bathroom.  Fortunately, as I continued to be faithful to McDonald’s, the managers began treating me with respect and even once advanced me to the position of “Crewperson of the Month.”

I soon learned the rule that all the workers, even the managers, followed, “How to do as little as possible and still get away with it.” Guilt often pricked my conscience when I kneeled behind boxes in the stockroom to shove “Chocolately Chip Cookies” in my mouth, when I took a ten-minute break instead of the required thirty minute, or when I sat in the bathroom filing my nails.  But it was ironic how everyone seemed to be doing it.  The managers were unpredictable—you never knew which way to turn.  At one time a manager would say, “Relax, take a walk around the parking lot” but at another time, “If you got time to lean, you got time to clean.  Hop to it, Benner!” The only time when everyone was working as hard as possible and the managers were prodding us for better QSC (Quality, Service, Cleanliness) was when the supervisor made his monthly visits.

Now that I look back on it, I feel no antagonism towards McDonald’s, only pity for the slaves caught up in its system.

See also 1979 McDonald’s commercial at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znPdjWAcPHQ

You are My Beloved

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Written Summer of 2005

“You are my beloved.” I heard a powerful sermon recently on these words.  The pastor was referring to Jesus baptism in Luke 3 where the Spirit descended on Christ like a dove and there came a voice from heaven, saying, “You are my beloved, with you I am well pleased.” These consoling words changed Jesus life forever.  He was probably searching like all of us, for who he is and what he is supposed to do, and then all of a sudden he hears these words of affirmation and confirmation.  Suddenly, Jesus knows who he is.  He discovers his identity, his vocation, and his calling.

Some of us feel like we’re searching for that affirmation, identity, and calling in life.  We need to remember Jesus’ baptism and the strength and understanding he received in this joyful acceptance from his heavenly father and hear the message for each of us as well. We are truly and unconditionally, “God’s beloved.”  We too often listen to the voice of the world that tells us we are not good enough, not measuring up, not ….but instead we need to feel God’s validation and hear his words calling us, “beloved.”

For me, these words carry with them some responsibility.  Henry Nouwen encourages us to live out “a spirituality of love, of belovedness, the life of the beloved.”  I believe that means loving and serving everyone, whether they are the poor people of New Orleans, the “enemies” of Iraq, or the criminals on death row.  We can only be people that build each other up if we feel the affirming words of God, “You are my beloved,” and then recognize others as also beloved sisters and brothers.–BBM

Interview with Jerry and Beth

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Written April 1980

Over break I had the privilege of visiting Jerry Yoder and Beth Ranck, two of my favorite high school teachers.  They are planning a wedding for this summer.  They are quick to admit that their salaries will keep them from having an elaborate wedding or in starting a family immediately.  But they also admit that they really enjoy teaching and that the rewards exceed the disappointments.

Talking to them as friends in a home situation helped me to see them as individuals instead of disciplinary teachers.  Seeing them as individuals and not as permanent fixtures forced me to relate their life to my own.

After talking with them I felt like teaching was a realistic option for me.  Beth majored in English at college with the same interest in drama as I have.  She uses this acting talent through teaching in drama classes and by directing plays. 

My interests in English have always centered around drama, but yet I have no desire to become a professional actress. So, how do I use this talent?  Well, it makes sense to say that I could teach English and direct high school plays.  Miss Ranck seems to feel fulfilled by this.  But although it appeals to me, I would rather be acting myself than trying to make students understand how it should be done.

Both Jerry and Beth talk about their relationships with students and how this is what makes teaching worthwhile.  “If it weren’t for the kids, I wouldn’t be teaching!” admits Jerry.  They talked about the challenges of reaching students that are hard to handle or refuse to listen.

This appeals to me because I would love relating to kids and trying to help them—at least as much as my high school teachers helped me.  I remember how I appreciated a listening ear that was unprejudiced of the situation. I usually talked to my mom, but when I began having problems with my parents, I really needed the advice of an adult.  My teachers listened patiently, gradually directing me in the right direction, but letting me think I had made the decision.  I was lucky to be able to talk to Christian teachers that were far enough removed, to know better yet close enough to understand.  If I could provide this kind of encouragement and guidance, teaching would make me feel like I was really helping someone and part of a worthwhile occupation.  But would I be satisfied?

“Teaching is different every year because each year you have a new bunch of kids to work with.  This way you don’t get tired of the job near as fast as you would otherwise.”

This probably would add variety, but would I eventually become calloused to the needs of my students as the age difference widens?  I have to admit, the yearly three month vacation is appealing. I just don’t know if I could see teaching the rest of my life.  To this Jerry said, “Just take one day, one year at a time, Bev. I have to reevaluate each year whether I want to teach, but somehow as the year begins anew (with new faces) the challenge of teaching comes alive again.”

As you can imagine, they both strongly recommended I continue thinking about teaching and assured me that I would be a great teacher.

Although my reservations about teaching still remain, it was good to discuss my fears and to hear their encouraging words.  I could easily see that teaching fulfills them and hope to someday feel that same self-fulfillment myself.

To My Eldest Sister

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Written Summer of 2003

You used to be my pretend mother,
dressed in a white, folded hat and uniform
I wanted a younger mom and so I enjoyed
your visits from college

Later, when we visited you in the beautiful Rockies
and you dressed in jeans and patchouli,
I longed to be independent and self-assured
         as my eldest sister

But really I didn’t know you
until the day you doubled my age
On that day, we first took time to
get to know each other

Sure, you still call me “Bevie” at times
and laugh at my youthful foolishness.
But more than anyone else,
you hurt with us in our recent misfortune
You bridged the gap of 15 years and 3, 000 miles to stay with us
to comfort us at a low point
You tried in vain to make it disappear
         and I loved you for it

You still grace a room with your presence
        filling it with your scent and your
        beaming smile
Thankfully, you are my eldest sister.

Walks Down Halteman Road

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 Written July of 2003

When I was in 3rd and 4th grade, I struggled with going to school.  I seemed to worry a lot—and Mom and Daddy became concerned about me.  I normally loved school but suddenly I didn’t want to go and couldn’t eat breakfast in the mornings.  I was scared to go to school, but also too embarrassed to tell Mom and Daddy why.  Actually, I was afraid someone might get sick in school.  But Mom and Daddy didn’t know why I was acting so strangely every morning and used to discuss—what are we going to do with Bev?

Well, Daddy came up with a solution.  One day when I came home from school, Mom told me that Daddy would be taking me for a walk each night before supper.  Daddy said, “She needs more fresh air.  A good walk will help her!”

I’ll never forget those walks down Halteman Road.  Daddy got a walking stick for both of us and when he pulled a weed and put it in his mouth, I did, too.  Daddy saw every pheasant, bird, squirrel, and rabbit and he pointed them out to me, but always teaching me about nature’s patterns.  We often discussed the various cloud formations in the sky, admiring the sunset, and predicting the next day’s weather.  Daddy had a love of nature and saw the beauty all around him.  He taught me to really see the world in minute detail and take none of it for granted.

That’s why it seemed fitting to read Psalm 19 today since Daddy saw the beauty of God all around him.  In his last few days, he referred to heaven quite a bit and was looking forward to seeing how the skies proclaim the work of God’s hands.

This was the introduction to the scripture, Psalm 19, at my dad’s memorial service, July 31, 2003.

Storms of Life

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Written Summer of 2003

Where can I hide till this storm passes?
I see the pain veer up before me
I cower, pleading sympathy
but she breathes only my mistakes,
reverberates only my inadequacies,
and assaults evil in my motives.
Why such disdain?

I feel destined to meander aimlessly,
catching the harsh thunder,
pain immense
The shelter far away
beyond my reach…
talents wasted.

Heather and Miona

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Written Spring of 2012

In 8th grade a new girl joined our class at Penn View.  Her name was Miona and she was originally from Korea but adopted by a Norristown family.  Miona was not Mennonite and through her Heather and I were exposed to a different world. 

For entertainment, we would go over to Miona’s house for a weekend, eat supper in her dining room with guests and watch her father with a huge turkey in front of him, serve each person their portion of food.  Through Miona I saw what it was like to have a library as a room and witnessed for myself how one of the books was hollowed out for jewels.  Her mother never wanted the light on in the dining room when unused because it made the silver in the china cabinet noticeable to passersby and opened themselves up to possible thievery along Burnside Ave.  Through Miona, I learned how to “case” a drug store with 3 underage girls, one watching the door and the register attendant, another putting the quarters in the machine, and the other quickly removing the pack of cigarettes.  Through Miona, I stayed up late swooning about cute guys and calling one on occasion, singing, “Blue, blue my world is blue….blue is my world  since you went away.” As I recall, there wasn’t much response on the other end of the line.

I started smoking that year and my kids laugh today about how I was the most rebellious when I was in junior high.  I can’t say I ever really enjoyed smoking, but in 1973 a lot of cool people smoked and I loved the look of having a cigarette between my fingers.  Like Clinton, I often didn’t inhale.  It hurt my lungs when I did.  I remember how after Miona, Heather and I “cased” the drug store, we split the pack of cigarettes, and at home, I hid them in a small red box, underneath Bible quiz cards.  I doubt I realized the irony of that. 

By 10th grade, Miona and Heather were out of my life. Miona went back to Norristown High School and Heather went to Souderton High School after a particularly fun summer when she met the love of her life. Heather and I were constant summertime buddies, riding bike to the Souderton pool and meeting guys in the park, but when I talked to my parents about transferring to Souderton in 10th grade, they were vehemently opposed.  So I lost touch with my “enlightened” friends and started becoming the best goody-too-shoes ever.

See also my 8th grade class picture at https://mymennonitememoir.wordpress.com/2012/05/11/forever-sins/  

Maze of Life

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Written Spring of 2012

Mark 8:31-38

This reminds me of a time when my husband, Ken, and I lost each other.  We were on a weeklong anniversary celebration in England.  We had spent the whole day driving to Cambridge in haste for a 6 pm walking tour that met at the downtown tourist information center (TIC).  We were unfortunately running late (about 10 minutes) but hoping that perhaps we could catch up to the tour group anyway.  As we were running from the bus stop, we realized we didn’t have the cash that was required for the tour.  Wow, how did we not realize that before? So we split up. I ran on to the TIC while Ken said he would get some cash and catch up with me. I took up extra time trying to find the TIC.  Finally I found it.  It was closed with no tour in sight.  I waited. I waited. 

Suddenly I had a problem.  The center square was closing; people were leaving their produce stands and it was getting dark.  No sign of Ken.  No cell phone.  No way to get in touch with Ken.  What do I do?  I had no cash.  I kept walking around the same square hoping that Ken would soon arrive.  I walked down an alley in the dusk opposite two young guys…. Ok, now I was getting scared.  But what do I do?  Slowly I realized I had to do the only thing I could do.  Go get some cash from an ATM and take the bus back to our motel room.  I had to give up ever seeing Cambridge.  We were right there in Cambridge, but we weren’t together.  And the world looked suddenly hopeless. 

I got the cash.  As I rounded the corner for the bus stop I saw Ken waiting. He couldn’t find the TIC, so he went back to the last place we had been together. That was what had made sense to him. We learned a lot about each other that night, but mostly I realized that sometimes one has to give up everything to find the way back to each other. 

Being a follower isn’t as easy as it sounds.  We only find Jesus when we give up our hopes and dreams and put our lives in his hands, trusting that he will guide us through the maze of life.