Sunday, a long time ago

Many years ago, a lot more than 50, but fewer than 70, when I was a young child, my father deviated from the regular schedule of the church service. 

Here's what I remember of that Sunday morning. 

My father had purchased a Bible which he wanted to place on the Communion Table (that's the table on which you can see an open book).  He said that the Bible should remain on the table, open, and from time to time he would change the page to another chapter, and perhaps another book, and would talk about that for a few minutes. 

On this particular Sunday he had selected a chapter in Psalms.  I do not remember what the chapter was, nor do I remember the sermon that day.

I do remember another thing that my father pointed to, however. 

In this picture you can see a small sign over the Pastor's Chair which is just behind the Pulpit.  It is black and is just above the burgundy colored curtain.  It says, "Jesus".  This, my father told the congregation is Who was precious to him, and he wanted it there to remind the church on Whom it was built.  As Jesus Christ was humble, my father wanted the sign to be small and unobtrusive, but visible even from the back row of the church. 

Dad then stood behind the pulpit,  prayed his closing prayer, and we all sang the Doxology as we left the building.

I really never forgot that day when dad opened that Bible, placed it on that table, and said as long as he was pastor, he wanted that Bible there. 

It was on that table for over 50 years. 


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Brothers

I have two brothers.  There's the one that's, shall we say, the quiet one (now); and the one who speaks with forked tongue (broccoli hater) whenever he can get away with it.  I love them both dearly.  One for his yearly birthday call to me, and the other because he makes FB worthwhile.

Mark, is the one that most resembles in mind his sister (that would be me).  He is a pastor in Goshen.  That's the one in Indiana, not the one in southern Ohio.

He's the one I used to leg wrestle.  He's the one I would punch for no reason at all, and he took it because he was trained that as a boy/man he should never hit a girl/woman.  I still give him a slug from time to time.  But since the time-to-time times that I see him are getting less frequent as we get older and spouses that can't travel keep us bound to our local area for the most part, I guess my punches will have to be KIWIs.  (See paragraph below for explanation.

Mark has a running commentary on FB about his dog, his lazy dog, Sherm, and his bathroom habits (Sherm's not Mark's).  Not exactly the most tantalizing subject, but he does put a very humorous slant on all he says about Sherm. 

Mark also hates broccoli.  So, lately, instead of saying _**&^, he says "broccoli".  So, I've been countering with "kiwi".  It's not that I hate kiwi, it's just not in the "my favorite fruits" category. 

Mark has a way of exaggerating something so that it almost sounds like the truth.  And therein is the rub.  Mark is a pastor.  He speaks the truth on Sunday and Wednesday, but other days?  He's just funnin'.  I love him for his humor, believe me.  He is an interesting "preacher". 

As I said he has made my forays in FB fun and interesting and I just have to respond.

KIWI!

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My brother Mark (he's the elderly gent, not the baby).

 

 

Thrifty MOm

My mom was so thrifty.  She could refresh six people with two oranges.  She'd cut the orange into sections, six per half orange.  That would be twelve sections per orange.  And those sections were equal and didn't look very skinny, as they should have. 

So with 24 orange sections, and six people, we each received four sections -- or smiles as mom put it.  We would suck the juice out of a section, then eat the pulp.  Yummies in our tummies.  We had our afternoon snack or breakfast orange supply and we were all happy.

Of course with three oranges, we made out like bandits, 36 sections, 6 people, 6 sections per person.  That would be dessert after dinner. 

To this day I cannot cut oranges the way my mom did.  I mean I cannot cut even sections like she did. 

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Sunday School Picnic Time

Sunday School Picnic Time was one of the most awaited events of the year back when I was a child.  This was one of the highlights of the summer. 

The church would get a bus to take those who didn't have cars (not all families had cars in the 40s and early 50s) and even those who had cars allowed their children to ride the bus. Some of the dads would take their cars to the site in case the children tired and wanted to get home earlier.

The picnics were usually held at one of the lakes in the "lake region" of South Jersey.  I know we went to Lake Oberst for a few years, and then we went to lake Paletine for several years.   I know we went to a third lake in my teen years, but as much as I've tried to think of the name of that lake, I just can't. 

The picnics always had grills where mom would cook hot dogs for lunch and then hamburgers for an early dinner.  The bus left at 7 p.m.  (I think).  I know by the time the bus did leave the lake to take us home, we were wiped out and slept very well after our Saturday night bath.

The hosts and hostesses of the events (they changed from year to year) had games for the children -- the best of which was the candy toss. 

One thing about the S. Jersey lakes -- they are for the most part cedar lakes.  That means that there are cedar trees in the deepest parts of the lakes, and they are surrounded by these trees.  You cannot see your feet if you are standing in one foot of water.  And you do not want to wear a new bathing suit in one of these lakes, unless it is black or brown, because the suit will be darkened because of the pigment in the water (cedar?).   I learned that the hard way. 

I bought myself a new bathing suit -- I wanted a NEW one, and not someone else's hand-me-down  -- for a change, and it was a really cute suit -- pink gingham, one-piece.  Well, it was brown when I got home, so I washed it right away.  It was still brownish.  It just looked dirty.  I bleached it.  It didn't help.  So I had this mauve and muddy colored bathing suit which I wore for several years. 

The last Sunday School picnic I attended at Mt. Calvary was when I was in my late 40s.  We were home for a short vacation, and it was SS picnic time, only this time it was held at someone's home.  Sunday school had dropped quite  bit in attendance since the 50s.  I remember this day because I helped mom get ready for the picnic and we went in our car.  Mom was carrying the potato salad which I made.  When we got out of the car to go into the very large yard where the picnic was being held, mom would not let go of the bowl.  She said it was helping her keep her balance.

I never knew what she meant by that until this past year.  I have had severe balance problems, and I fine if I am holding something with both hands I can walk steadier.  Who knew?

One final note:  I find that out here in the Midwest they don't refer to these picnics as Sunday School picnics, but church picnics. 

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My brother reminded me that we went to Centerton Lake a couple of years and I think that's what I have pictures of in one of my many albums, and we also went to Cedar Lake.  I loved swimming there until one day I saw a bunch of fecal matter in the lake.  That was the end of it for me.  Sorry, Mark.

A small house

I lived for 23 years in the house in the picture above.   It was a small house.  The footprint is at most 1,000 feet.  It is a two bedroom house, with two attic rooms. 

I must start at the beginning.  I am writing this because I used to enjoy watching House Hunters on HGTV.  I have gotten tired, recently, of the younger set whining for and wanting at least four bedrooms (they have no children, just the two of them), they must have at least two bathrooms, and the master bedroom must have a bathroom with two sinks, a soaker tub, and a huge shower, separate from the tub.  The fixtures must be up-to-date, etc.  The kitchen must be huge with granite countertops.  And finally, this is in most cases their first home, not the one in which they want to raise their children.

There is rarely mention of the house being a home.

Well, our small house was a home.  My mother made it a home.

When I was small we had the two bedrooms, one for mom and dad, and one for us children.  In the children's bedroom my sister and I shared a double bed, and there was a crib, and a twin bed. One of the two closets in the house was in that room.  It held my mom's clothes.  Dad's clothes were in a walnut wardrobe.  The only other closet in the house was in the hall way.  It stored winter coats.  There was room for about six coats in there.  The vacuum cleaner was also stored there. 

There was little room to move around in either bedroom but we managed and we didn't think we were deprived.  And, oh, did I mention there was only ONE BATHROOM, no shower, except for a hose-like contraption attached to the faucet in the tub, which was a beautiful claw-foot tub.  Six people, one bathroom.  We didn't feel deprived, because it was our home.

When my sister and I had reached the ages of 6 and 9, respectively, we were put up in the attic.  It was cold in the winter and hot, hot, hot in the summer.  We didn't feel deprived.  There was no closet up there, so we hung our clothing on nails or a very small roll-around valet.  We were crowded in the attic because the center part was probably only 9 feet wide, and the only place to put the bed was sticking out into the 9x15 room that had a chimney in the middle (the heat source) and stairs taking up three feet at one end.  We loved that room. 

To this day, I have very fond memories of that room.  When I went to college I moved into the storage room in the attic, pulling out as much of the junk that was stored there so I could put in a single bed and use one of the chests of drawers that was stored in there.  I liked that room a whole lot.  Why?  Because I could rearrange my furniture as often as I wanted.  I had a desk, a chest of drawers, a bed and lots of neat "stored" items which I arranged in that small room.  The only source of heat in that room was what came through the doorway, so in the winter I had to leave the door open.  I felt like Louisa May Alcott.

I loved that  home.  My sister loved that home.  My brothers loved that home.  Mom and dad put the love in our home.

Yes, we had outdated appliances, fixtures in the bath and an unfinished basement.  Shabby sheik?  My mom invented it!

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Church destroyed

I don't have much information on the Mt. Calvary Union Church's destruction by water which occurred as a wall of water knocked out the foundation of the church and it is not open to anyone until engineers look at it.  (run-on sentence)

You can google Runnemede, NJ news and you will read as much as I know.

I am crying right now.  I think I spent as many hours in that church from the time I was one year old until I married when I was 23 as I spent any place else except home.  That church was my second home.  So many memories.  So many messages that my father preached which I sat through and by the grace of God the words entered into my brain and I can now recall much of what my father taught.

I'm thinking about the inside of the church, the room in which I was married, the stained-glass windows, the pewter lighting fixtures, the "new" pews which the men of the church put together many, many years ago, the piano and organ which I played for so many years -- not at the same time, of course, the orchestra, Sunday School teachers and classes, Christmas programs, Sunday school picnics.  Do you get the picture of how much influence and a part of my life that church was. 

I know the "church" is not a building, but the people.  I still have many memories of the building.

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I'm beyond tired

These past few weeks have been ones of ups and downs, mostly ups. 

My dear husband, Alan, had minor surgery on the Monday before Memorial Day, and was released.  He was back in the hospital the following night because he fell, and since his wound was showing signs of lots of fresh blood, I decided to take him to the ER.  Thus began the "I'm tired" part of the journey. 

It found out in his re-examination that he had had a heart attack either right after he was put in the recovery room, or when he fell.  He doesn't remember feeling any chest hurt when he fell.  And, he had all kinds of heart tests before the minor surgery.  So, I left that night (way after midnight) as they checked him in.  I had his room number and I was ready for the next day.  Talking to the heart people at our wonderful Anderson Mercy Hospital.  Alan was going to require double bypass, which turned out to be triple bypass.  He was not a happy camper.  Thus began part III of the journey, "I'm more than tired".  Alan was not a good patient, he even admitted when he didn't do as the nurse and doctor had told him to do to get himself ready for the surgery the he was stubborn and didn't want to do the exercises.

After surgery I kept going to the hospital, getting  updates every four hours, and then getting a full-day's worth of updates when I stepped into the heart surgery unit (ICU).  He was doing pretty going for going through so much stuff, but he was still complaining about everything.  That was very wearing on me.  Our puppy, thankfully was in a kennel until I thought I was able to bring her home.

The thing is, I was so tired when I got home, but the house was so quiet, I brought her home shortly after Alan was put into a rehab unit about five minutes from our home.  Talk about being tired.  For me getting from the parking lot to his room was a long haul.  My own chest hurt by the time I got to his room every day and then I would pick up his laundry which was a lot, and would come home and take care of then so that I could bring back clean clothes in the morning when I went back to the rehab unit.  After two weeks of having the puppy back home, I had to put her back in the kennel because she just completely wore me out.

Alan absolutely hated it in the Rehab Center, and after day one he insisted he was well enough to come home.  Well, he wasn't, and I was able to stall him for three weeks before he wore me, the PT head, the Dr., and all the nurses down and we just decided to let him come home and if he fell or couldn't handle anything, he could come back to the Rehab Center (for up to 30 days after discharge). So, six weeks after surgery he came home.

You know what?  He handled it.  He is doing great. He gets stronger every day, and today he walked into one of his doctors offices with only his cane for support.  Now that I was happy about that but he did it.  We brought the dog home Monday afternoon, and that when I went from...

...being just tired.

I am now weary.  I'm more tired at this point.  I'm just plain weary.  And scheduling all the home health are stuff along with nine doctors' appointments, as well as my own physical therapy, which I have had only three times in the last six weeks, and I can feel it, helped my situations any.  But I'm a good scheduler and can set dates, cancel dates, switch dates around. etc.  Tot day we sorted his pills for this week.  What a mammoth job.  It took us two hours to sort out his pills for one week.

Tomorrow we see another doctor.  This one SHOULD regulate all  his meds and alleviate some of my angst.

I get from strength from the Lord who made Heaven and Earth.  So while this body is weary, I still have strength from the Lord who made me.  It's a promise.  I just have to find it!!!

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