Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

"Momie, now I'm too warm." The blue eyes of Kameron, age 3, were puzzled. His blonde hair was hidden under the hood of his sweater that he had just labored to put on correctly. His socks had been reclaimed as balls in a corner to warm his chilly feet again and his shoes were on the right feet.

Our grandson, along with his siblings, was at our house while his parents traveled to Union County for an ordination. His attempt to find comfort was a perfect example of last week when May gave way to June. In one week we went from seeking warmth to ward off shivers, to seeking shade to cool off our overheated bodies. But that seems to be the way for spring 2021.

The hoeing, mulching and planting went beyond our own gardens last week. On Lafayette Road, we turned left past oak trees to work among gardens and flowers, that is, after my husband met his sixth granddaughter for the first time. Enjoying lunch with her three siblings was not a new thing for us, but on Friday, June 4, it was at the Weaver home instead of on the Piney Creek farm. Both places had grass to mow and strawberries to pick, that is, after 'Dawdy' helped a toad escape from the netting that protected berries from feathered marauders. Both places had cicadas, creeping and crawling, bumbling and buzzing, but under the ancient oak trees, they were much greater in number. At Piney Creek church they could be heard singing in the treetops when we approached the woods. As we knelt for the first prayer during services, which is a silent one, their unique droning song sounded somehow powerful, like the voice of God saying, "This is my creation."

Only the wings of cicadas could be found at our youngest daughter's home, however, on Sunday where we went for dinner. The surrounding woods are home to many hungry birds who snatch up the protein-rich insects. We enjoyed the picnic on the deck and the garden tours at the home of Bella, age 2, and although she is learning from her parents how to show hospitality, Bella made it very clear that she would rather have done the usual time at Dawdy's house. But tears of submission glistened on her cheeks as we rode on again in the buggy. The doors were open, she was in my arms and at my feet the huge bouquet of double white peonies took up a lot of space.

Earlier in the week a similar bouquet for my sister-in-law, also included white bearded irises and white bleeding hearts. These early summer flowers are here today and gone tomorrow. Like peony petals, all our glory will fall away and we die.

"But life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not the goal; 'From dust thou art, to dust returneth,' was not spoken of the soul."

In the mid-1800s, death for humans was even more imminent, when fevers raged for days and all the doctors could do was wait to see if their patients would survive. Last week I finished reading a classic titled "The Heir of Redclyffe" written by Charlotte Yonge in 1853. Influenced by Sara Yoder, author of the Becky and Benjie books, and who listed this classic as one of her favorite stories, I began reading months ago. Or should I saying "plowing"? Even worse than David Copperfield, this book had countless reference to ancient literature that I did not know, so I was relieved to acquire a condensed version by Marian M. Schoolland in 1952.

My comprehension of the story set in England became much better even though it was a country and an era I never saw. The story of Guy Morville, as the heir of Redclyffe, focuses on his spiritual struggle to overcome the darker side of his nature. His cousin Philip's sly attempts to make him look evil are surrounded by mystery throughout the story which reaches a climax at the end when Guy is shown as a true Christian willing to give up his own life for his enemy.

I'm glad Marian did not take out all the verses. Here is one I'll share:

"Hark, how the birds do sing,

And the woods do ring!

All creatures have their joy and man hath his;

Yet if we rightly measure,

Man's joy and pleasure

Rather hereafter than in the present is:

Not that he may not here

Taste of the cheer,

But as birds drink and straight lift up the head,

So must he sip and think

Of better drink

He may attain to after he is dead."

– George Herbert