Plain Wisdom

by Cindy Woodsmall

  Before leaving her home, I prayed for a new way to help my friend. I begged her daughter to call me if there was anything I could do. The next day she stopped by, asking if I’d make her mother some loose-fitting nightgowns. I hurried to the task, thankful for this new opportunity.

  A week later Loretta passed away. At her funeral I was humbly honored to see that my friend had chosen one of my homemade gowns for her burial.

  Thanks to God’s grace, and in spite of my procrastination, my work had blessed Loretta and her children after all.

  From Cindy

  When I was in my late thirties, I started my day hours before daylight and ended it well after the sun went down. I was raising three sons: one preschooler, one homeschooled seventh grader, and one high schooler who’d just begun honors classes. My days were a tangled array of meeting needs.

  Tommy worked sixty hours a week, and my teens needed my help with their schoolwork and with getting them to extracurricular activities. In addition, our preschooler had digestion issues. I have a brother who had the same problem, and he sustained permanent damage because of it. The stress never eased.

  By May of that year, I was longing for the seven-hundred-mile road trip we always took in June to visit my parents. I needed to feel my mother’s arms around me, hear her words of encouragement, and soak in the sense of respect she radiated. To everyone else I was just Mom doing her best. But to my mother, my value had no limits. I knew I’d leave her home feeling refreshed and strong again.

  One night my husband and I stood at the sink washing dishes while our preschooler sat on the floor zipping Matchbox cars across the linoleum.

  “Mom,” Tyler said, “you should call Grandma.”

  “I just talked to her a few days ago. She’s busy making plans for planting her spring flowers.”

  He returned to playing with his toys, and I continued my conversation with my husband. When I tucked my son in that night, he repeated his suggestion. Again I waved away the idea.

  As Tommy and I were heading out the door the next day to run errands, Tyler came into the foyer. “Mom, you should call Grandma.”

  My husband looked at me funny. “Maybe you should.”

  I picked up our youngest son. “I talked to her a few days ago, and we agreed we’d talk again on Tuesday. It’s on the calendar. I won’t forget.”

  When Tyler mentioned it again on Sunday afternoon, I was neck deep in helping my oldest son study for finals. And Adam had been diagnosed with a severe case of chickenpox, even though he’d had the vaccine. He was running a fever and was covered in little red blotches.

  On Monday night I attended an awards ceremony at my oldest son’s school while Tommy watched our preschooler and the teenager with the pox. At the ceremony Justin won five awards—local, countywide, and statewide. Having worked so hard to prepare him for public school, I felt as if I could breathe for the first time in quite a while.

  As we walked back into our home, I heard the phone ringing. My husband answered it. “I’m sorry,” I heard him say, “but I can’t understand you. Who is this?”

  A few moments later I heard him speak my dad’s name. The horror on my husband’s face made my legs go weak.

  Tommy hung up the phone and told me to sit down. Then he informed me that my mom had died of a heart attack while planting her spring flowers.

  I’d been given several nudges to stop what I was doing and call her. In my busyness I missed that chance. I’d never once considered that Mom might die in her sixties. Her mother and her mother’s mother had lived well into their nineties. She and I had always talked of her and my brother Leston moving in with us when Dad passed. He wasn’t sick, but we were going with the probabilities—women usually outlive men.

  I’d assumed too much, and my only solace was that we’d taken the time to build and maintain a good relationship over the years—after I was out of my teen years, of course. Back then, she was my safe haven if I needed to complain, whine, or pitch fits. When I matured, I saw her strength and value.

  Because her death caught me unprepared, I do my best never to take any relationship or any parting words for granted. As cliché as it sounds, we truly don’t know what tomorrow holds—except that God will meet us there and be our strength, our hope, and our nevertheless.

  ANNUAL QUILT AUCTION

  Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver.

  —2 CORINTHIANS 9:7

  From Cindy

  Sitting in Miriam’s yard, I sipped a cup of coffee as I watched sunlight peek over the mountains and fill the valley. Sunlight sparkled off the dewy grass. The steady clop of horses’ hoofs against the asphalt softened as the rigs pulled onto the gravel driveway.

  It was a day I’d looked forward to for a year. The annual Amish school sale. It’s a bustling auction with at least four auctioneers selling various goods at different stations, two makeshift kitchens, a few special-event tents, and several commercial-sized grills filled with chicken.

  Delicious aromas fill the air, as does the sweet sound of families and friends greeting one another. There is an ocean of Amish men, women, and children milling about—cooking, helping the auctioneers, bidding, and eating as time allows. The youth play volleyball and baseball out in the fields away from the auction area.

  The sales from each year’s auction support Amish schools in the surrounding districts. So on that beautiful spring day, several districts of Amish people were attending the school sale, along with hundreds of Englischers.

  Cars are parked in a freshly mowed hay field on one side of the road. Buggies sit in a different field with a fenced pasture holding the unharnessed horses. On the far side of the warehouse-type building, several portable potties and sinks are set up.

  On the day of this auction, probably a thousand people congregated inside the warehouse-type building used in the family’s timber-framing business.

  This school sale was a great gift-buying opportunity for me. My readers love the chance to win Amish-made crafts, wall hangings, and quilts. Every Amish person who’s made and brought an item to sell receives a percentage of its selling price, so it’s one of those win-win situations I’m honored to participate in.

  My dad, stepmom, sister, and one brother were there too, along with my husband and one of our sons. We were busy eating and drinking the homemade goods and bidding on everything from handsewn, faceless dolls to birdhouses to carvings to wall hangings to king-sized quilts.

  After the crowds went home, the cleanup began. The sun sank behind the mountains, and about the time darkness settled over the land, everything was in sufficient order for supper to begin. About nine o’clock that night, amid soft conversations and bursts of laughter, my husband, youngest son, and I sat at Miriam and Daniel’s familiar old oak table and shared a meal with a group of very weary and content Amish folk. Those men and women had worked for weeks to be ready for the auction, and they’d earned enough money to pay the schoolteachers for several districts in the area. They were pleased.

  The following day my husband and son headed home in our van, which was loaded to maximum capacity with Amish-made goodies. When I finally tore myself away from my Amish friends a week later, I had two things on my mind—the fun of giving all those items away throughout the year and the expectation of attending next year’s auction.

  From Miriam

  Our community’s annual quilt auction is usually held on the second Saturday in May, with the proceeds benefiting our local Amish schools. The auction is open to the public, and approximately two thousand people attend each year.

  Having it before Mother’s Day gives people the opportunity to pick up a gift for that special motherly someone in their lives. In addition to numerous handcrafted quilts, many other homemade gifts and delicious treats are offered for sale.

  As the time draws near, the whole valley is abuzz with preparations. In homes, ladies feverishly quilt. In shops, men buil
d furniture and crafts. In nurseries, gardeners coax potted plants and hanging baskets to bloom in time for the special day.

  But no one looks forward to this event quite as much as the children. For weeks before the sale, many of them do odd jobs and chores for a little extra spending money. For them, the biggest decision of the day is what to buy first: a soft pretzel, a fresh doughnut, or something sweet at the candy stand. Rachel’s booth is usually among the most popular spots of the day. She owns a dry-goods store in our area, and her gift corner on the day of the auction offers toys, books, and delightful items for all ages.

  One year my ten-year-old son worked especially hard to earn money for the upcoming event. He’d spent most of his cash by lunchtime, so he skipped the meal in order to buy me something special for Mother’s Day.

  I was deeply touched by his sacrifice and selflessness. How God-pleasing this must have been. Our Lord loves a cheerful giver whose heart is as generous as that of a child. When I don’t want to give of myself or I don’t want to give something away because I’m feeling selfish, I remember two things—that wonderful feeling of freely giving when I was a child and the abundance of what God has given to me over the years.

  DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?

  Do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, tolerance and patience, not realizing that God’s kindness leads you toward repentance?

  —ROMANS 2:4, NIV

  From Miriam

  My English friend Linda came home from work one day, and as she opened the door, she had to shove the cat aside with her foot. Being greeted at the end of a tiring day by a friendly cat would be nice, but Linda had barely made it inside when her furry friend started up with its pleading meows. The cat would not let up. It kept begging until Linda fed it.

  After grabbing a bag of dry cat food and dumping some into a bowl, she stepped outside and placed it on the porch, finally silencing the persistent feline. As the cat ate, Linda scratched its back a second or two, then walked away. The cat followed, leaving its food. It rubbed against Linda’s legs as she tried to move.

  Sidestepping the little creature, Linda sat in her porch rocker for a minute of relaxation before starting her own supper. The cat jumped up on her lap, nudging Linda’s chin and begging to be petted.

  After a few strokes the cat settled down for a nap. But the minute Linda got up, the cat was at it again, rubbing against her every time she took a step. No matter how many times Linda shoved it aside, the cat came back.

  After supper Linda and her husband, Rick, sat on the porch swing with the tabby at their feet as they tried to swing. She told him about the pet’s antics.

  “You know,” Rick said, “that cat reminds me of God.”

  Linda’s eyebrows rose.

  “We go about our daily routines, trying to do what we want to do, striving to accomplish our goals. And when God tries to get our attention, we tend to shove Him aside, thinking He’s getting in our way. But He gently persists until we finally spend time with Him and show Him that we love Him.”

  From that day on, Linda has looked at her cat with fresh perspective. And she has viewed God with new eyes as well.

  From Cindy

  While my brother Mark was in school, he worked as a farmhand to earn enough money to buy an old fixer-upper car. He spent summers and weekends baling hay, milking cows, and cleaning barns. His employers, the Zimmermans, stopped by the house on occasion, bragging that he was the best hired hand they’d ever had.

  Finally Mark had earned enough money to buy a ’57 Plymouth Belvedere at an auction. He bought one in good enough condition to drive off the lot, but he didn’t have a driver’s license, so Dad drove it home for him. They parked it in a patch of woods near the house, and Mark spent weeks tinkering with the motor, cleaning the upholstery, and waxing it.

  I’d never seen my brother happier. He told everyone about his beautiful Plymouth Belvedere.

  One afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman came by to see the car. I walked next to my brother as he proudly took them up the hill. When the vehicle came in sight, Mr. Zimmerman stopped. He looked at Mark. “You’ve been kidding us.”

  A confused look came over Mark’s face. “About what?”

  “You said you had a jade green car.”

  “Well, what shade of green would you call it?”

  Mr. Zimmerman glanced at his wife. “Mark, that car is pink.”

  I’d known he was color-blind, but I didn’t know he thought the car was green. When my brother looked at me, I saw the hurt in his eyes.

  “It’s a beautiful pink,” I said.

  He laughed without mirth. Then he confessed to the Zimmermans that he was color-blind.

  They laughed with him and assured him the car was gorgeous, no matter what its color. But my brother never felt the same about the car after that … or, for a long time, about himself.

  I’ve thought about that event a lot over the years, perhaps because one of our sons is also color-blind. Embarrassing moments and lack of confidence are part of the package in our color-conscious world. But that incident brings to my mind a spiritual parallel that clings to me even more.

  We don’t all see the world in the same colors or shades. We never will. Each generation, culture, class, region, and denomination sees life’s issues in varying shades and colors.

  If we all saw everything through the same lens, we wouldn’t ever be challenged when we’re wrong, need to reevaluate our point of view, or seek anyone else’s opinion about anything because we’d all think alike.

  Seems to me that’s when all color would drain from life.

  LIGHT FLOODING THE DARK

  Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.

  —JOHN 8:12

  From Miriam

  My husband and sons enjoy hunting. So when autumn finally rolls around, it’s time to go shopping for supplies: ammunition, rain gear, flashlights, and chocolate bars.

  While the Amish don’t use electricity, some battery-operated implements are okay. When LED headlamps hit the market, the boys thought they were the neatest invention, and each had to have one.

  At the end of one season’s first day, our boys were swapping stories as usual. I overheard one of them say that he had wandered around in the dark woods with rain pouring down on him because he couldn’t find his tree stand. To make the situation worse, he had a dim headlamp.

  With the light of dawn, he discovered that his flashlight had two more switches for brighter lighting. He was both frustrated at having stumbled around in the dark when he didn’t have to and thankful to know about those switches for the next time.

  When he said that, I pictured how God’s children wander aimlessly in the darkness until we invite Jesus into our lives. We don’t even realize what is missing in our lives until we discover Him. And even after He comes in, we squint in the dimness until we learn how to flip on that third switch that enables us to see more clearly. Then we receive the peace and contentment that come with having His love in our hearts.

  From Cindy

  I love words, always have. They enlighten. Encourage. Entertain. They can lift a heavy load or bury someone under a load. And they often do both whether we’re paying attention or not. Words come at us all the time through a lot of sources; they’re unavoidable.

  I used to tax my poor mom, wanting to know the names for everything. She tried to help and often dragged out my dad’s Random House Dictionary and scoured it for the right word.

  Of course, I didn’t love all words. As a child, I’d shudder when I heard certain words. One of my most hated words, believe it or not, was elbow. Oh, I despised it! I really don’t know why, but it sounded as ugly and offensive to me as a curse word.

  When I told my mother how much I despised it, she looked at me oddly. A few moments later she nodded that she understood. When I begged her to promise that she would never use that word again, she rubbed he
r forehead, as if trying to decide whether to honor my request or tell me to go grind feed for the chickens. She studied me, probably thinking how hard it would be to keep such a promise. Finally we made a pact never to use that word unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Words have power.

  God spoke, and light and entire worlds came into existence. He gave a name to each thing He created, starting with day and night, light and dark.

  Through our words we have the power to bring light or dark into our world and the worlds of those around us. What words will you not say for your loved ones’ sake? Which ones will you choose to use?

  THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS

  My strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

  —2 CORINTHIANS 12:9

  From Cindy

  Whenever I visit Miriam, we begin our mornings in her “hiddy”—a secluded spot to rest, pray, and visit with sisters and close friends. Her vegetable garden is mere feet away, and behind it is a huge pasture for the horses. We sit in lawn chairs tucked behind a set of L-shaped lilac bushes, sip fresh-perked coffee, and talk quietly while the earth wakens to a new day.

  When time allows, we return to that spot at the end of our day and watch darkness fall, listening to the songs of birds bidding the world good night. Tree frogs, cicadas, and crickets sing boldly. And we occasionally hear my favorite nocturnal bird, chuck-will’s-widow.

  During some of those quiet, still times, Miriam and I began to talk about our desire to share our lives with our readers—not a list of how-to tips, ten steps to better living, or learning to gain control over yourself, your husband, your children, or your life. We simply wanted to tell our experiences—the tough, fun, encouraging, disappointing, and embarrassing moments—so they might instill a sense of hope, victory, and humor into our readers’ days.