It's That Time Again - Maple Season

Once upon a time a boy was born in a bedroom, in a house near the Ottawa River—known locally as Hog Creek—not far from Elida, Ohio.  There, he joined four older brothers on a small farm, where life was simple and wholesome.  The boy was a quiet one—introverted and shy—and more than anything, he loved the outdoors, nature, animals, farm-life, and wildlife.  He did not enjoy being around people, except for family and a few friends.

 

The boy loved books.  One of his early favorites was “The Biggest Bear,” by Lynd Ward.  It made him wish he had his own pet bear.  He especially liked the end, where Johnny could visit his bear every day and bring it a lump of maple sugar.   

Books about pioneers and Indians became his passion, and the boy wished he had been born two hundred years earlier, where he could have lived the stories he loved to read.  Since it was not possible to go back in time, the boy did what he could to experience some things he had read about.  He would take many hikes along the river with brothers and cousins and pretend to be an Indian, or a pioneer.  This was one way to enter the world of yesteryear—if only in his imagination.

Somewhere along the line, the boy learned that Indians had discovered maple syrup.  They had passed this information on to the settlers, and over the course of many years, the collection of sap and the production of maple syrup had become a booming industry.  So the boy who loved nature, became interested making some maple syrup.  He gathered up some supplies, and using only the most elementary information, set out to harvest some sap.

His first attempts were very crude.  Using a large one-inch diameter drill bit, and an old hand auger, the boy—now thirteen years old—drilled deeply into a lovely back-yard maple, and was delighted to see sap dripping from the hole.  Next, he slid a short length of pipe into the hole, drove a large nail into the tree above the pipe, and hung a bucket on the nail.  He didn’t stop until seven or eight beautiful maples had been tapped.  The boy was excited to watch the sap begin dripping into the buckets.  The unfortunate part was that most of it was running down the tree due to the pipe not fitting tightly in the holes.

The maple syrup project would most likely have ended in failure, except for the help of an evangelist, Fred Augsburger,  who was staying in the boy's home for a week, while holding revival meetings.  Turns out, Fred was experienced with maple syrup production, and while the boy was at school, he went out to the trees and drove little wedges around the tops of the pipe, and managed to stop most of the leaking.  He also said he would send the boy some real tapping spiles for the next year.   

The evangelist kept his word, and for the next several years the boy used the nice tapered spiles that fit snugly into 7/16 size holes, drilled about 2-1/2 inches into the trees.  The trees loved this new arrangement, and breathed a sigh of relief at the much more reasonable sized holes.  And the boy managed to make several gallons of syrup each year—enough for his family, and little to sell.

Now fast forward a few years.  The boy became a man, and began a family of his own.  He was fortunate to have two maple trees where he lived, and continued to produce a small amount of maple syrup—still using the spiles that the evangelist had given him.

A few years later, the man and his growing family moved to a location where ten nice mature maple trees provided shade, and the potential for a good supply of maple syrup.  But now with ten trees, it was impossible to boil the sap on the kitchen stove.  Something different had to be done.  Fortunately, there was free natural gas on this farm, and the man thought to himself, "I will build a little shanty, and put an old gas kitchen stove in it to boil the sap."  

And that's exactly what he did.  He also built a stainless steel pan that covered all four burners, and was now in business.  It was a great delight to see the steam billowing out of the tiny little building that closely resembled an out-house—but with a much sweeter scent.

After several years of making maple syrup for his family like this, and sharing it with friends and neighbors at Christmas time, an interesting thing happened:  A neighbor man who observed the process, and who had enjoyed his pint of Christmas syrup, wanted to tap his trees too.  Soon he was also supplying his family with the delectable maple sweetness.

Then the neighbor, after a year or two of making his own syrup, suggested that the two of them should also tap the trees at their church, and have a pancake meal to support missions.  And so they did.  They called it the Maple Syrup For Missions Festival.  It was a success, and the proceeds that year went to support one of the church's missionaries.

The idea of having an annual Maple Syrup Missions Festival quickly became a reality, and in the following years, the men tapped a lot more trees—mostly yard trees belonging to other members of their church.

This was the birthing process of what has become a popular annual event in the community.  

Looking back, it was a simple idea with an interesting string of events that led to this point.  Without taking any credit for the outcome, the boy, now a sixty-two year old man, would like to recognize how God’s hand has been involved in the process from the beginning.  Ever since He put the shy little fellow on the earth, and made him to love nature, He knew where it would lead.  And the man is grateful that Maple Syrup can be used to support a variety of mission projects in this community, and in far away places.

The 18th Annual Maple Syrup Missions Festival will be held on Saturday, March 28, from 7:00 to 10:30 AM at the Sonnenberg Mennonite Fellowship Hall, on Hackett Road – just east of Kidron.  Everyone is invited to attend and enjoy a scrumptious meal that includes homemade pancakes, fresh homemade German sausage patties and links, Maine blueberry sauce, and real maple syrup.  The meal is served on a donation basis.   Extra syrup and sausage will be available to purchase as well.

From Kidron, Ohio, the place where dreams come true, we leave you with hopes that warmer weather will arrive soon.  The steadfast men are becoming weary of shoveling snow, the lovely ladies are feeling housebound, and the children are getting too many snow-days off from school.   Once again, it’s time to tap the Maple trees.

Muppim, Huppim, and Ard, and a cat named Issachar

We’ve had some rugged weather these last few days, and it’s not that much fun to be outside.  A three mile walk seems like an unnecessary form of punishment, but I do miss the exercise on days like this.   The Schwinn Airdyne feebly calls my name from the chilly basement family room, but it goes unheeded.  It’s just one of those days to take a break.  That’s allowed about once a week.  

Last evening after settling into my lazy-boy with a blanket and a cat on my lap, it seemed good to re-read one of my favorite stories.  “The biography of Joseph Jacobson.”  Author: Moses Amramson.  It takes place in Genesis 37 through 47.

This amazing story has everything:  The dynamics and consequences of a father having a favorite son.   Strange dreams, jealous brothers, conspiracy, intrigue, human trafficking and slavery, false imprisonment, broken promises, unprecedented power and wealth, forgiveness and redemption.  Throw in some temptation and betrayal, a famine, skinny cows eating fat cows, starving people, and long trips across the desert.  In the end, the emotions run deep as those who deserve to be punished, are forgiven.  This is a story that draws us in, and the pages turn themselves.   

Jacob, who lost his son more than twenty years earlier to what he believed was death-by-wild-animal, learns that his son is alive after-all, and is ruling the nation of Egypt.  Talk about stranger than fiction.  No one could have planned it like that.  This took divine planning.  Makes you wonder how God would have accomplished this without the treachery of Joseph’s brothers.  

Joseph is one of my  heroes.  In all the setbacks  he faced, there is no indication that he ever lost hope or faith.  In each place and every circumstance, he gave his best.  It seems he was able to trust God and accept that everything was happening for a purpose.  That’s a hard lesson, but I believe many times it is true for us too.   

Near the end of the story we come to a list of Jacob’s descendants—those who had been invited to move to Egypt to escape the famine in Canaan.  Jacob had twelve sons, and in the history given to us in these pages, the sons and all their sons are named.  These are Hebrew names, and some of them sound strange to our English ears.

Sometimes there are things that jump out at us when we read scripture.  Often it is a thought or truth that we hadn't considered before—many times something we need right at that moment.  Other days, something may strike us with humor.  And that’s what happened when I read the names of Benjamin’s sons.  He had ten of them, and the final three are listed as Muppim, Huppim, and Ard.  I read it once, then read it again.  Then it became necessary to read it out loud.  Just such a nice ring to it.  “Muppim, Huppim, and Ard.”  Juanita glanced over at me like there might be a hole in my bag of marbles.  But then, she knows not to be too surprised at anything coming from me.  I just grin at her and say it again.

Muppim, Huppim, and Ard.  If there isn’t already a children’s book by that name, there needs to be.  Or perhaps someone should give their cats names like that.  Wish we’d of thought of that many years ago when we were kids on the farm, and there were way too many cats.  We had two wild female tabby cats that were responsible for most of the population explosion.  Thanks to creative older brothers, their names were Liberace and Issachar.   Never mind that these were men’s names.  At least Issachar was from the Bible.  The original Issachar was a half brother to Joseph, and his name is mentioned several places.  The most intriguing place is 1 Chronicles 12:32, where it says, “...sons of Issachar, men who understood the times.”   

Not Issachar, but looks like her.  This cat lives in Israel.

There was something else that struck me as really strange while reading the story of Joseph.  I’ve bumped into it a few times before, but never thought much about it.  Goes like this:  When Jacob was very old and approaching death, he made a request of his son Joseph, (Gen. 47:29, paraphrasing.)  “Put your hand under my thigh, and swear that you will not bury me in Egypt, but take my body back to Canaan and bury me with my fathers.”  

Seriously?  Put your hand under my thigh?  Has anyone else ever wondered about this?  I mean, it seems like that’s personal territory.   So I went to Google and searched, “Put your hand under my thigh.”   I learned that taking an oath in this manner could have a couple of possible explanations.   

One, putting your hand under the thigh of a sitting person, as a symbol of putting yourself under their authority while swearing the oath.

And two, putting your hand up between the legs while swearing the oath.  It seems in the context of Genesis 47:29, that Jacob was recognizing Joseph as the authority, and was asking a favor of him, so option two makes more sense.  This type of oath—this placing the hand in that place—to my way of thinking would be a shocking experience.  Perhaps that’s the whole point.  A oath made like this could never be forgotten.

Read it yourself, and see what you think.

That’s the fun thing about reading and re-reading the scriptures.  There’s always something new, something that requires some thought and further study.  When that happens, it brings us closer to God’s heart, and that’s a good thing, a cause for thanksgiving.

When we pick up the Word, even to just read a favorite story, the Spirit can run our minds in an unexpected direction.  In addition to reinforcing faith with stories of God’s leading, we learn some interesting names, we remember a long departed cat named Issachar, and we learn that Issachar’s men “understood the times.”    I need to find out more about those “times”, and try to figure out what it may mean today to be a man who understands the times.  That seems to speak of wisdom, something we want more of.

It’s time to leave you now, from the humble town of Kidron, Ohio, a place of warm hearts, warm homes, grateful men, patient women, energetic children, and a lap-cat named Chance.   So long for now.

Happy Valentines Day

Never trust the judgement of a fourteen-year-old boy—at least when it comes to women.  I know this to be true from personal experience.  Come along for a little walk...

Sadie Hawkins Day.  Do you remember when and where that started?  You do if you read the comics any time from the late 1930’s through the 1970’s.  The “Li’l Abner” strip.  Sadie Hawkins and the other characters lived in the community of Dogpatch—a place described by its inhabitants and outsiders as being “the most miserable and unnecessary place on earth.”   Sadie was thirty-five years old, the “homeliest gal in all them hills”, and still waiting for a suitor to come a-courtin’.  So her pappy, Hekzebiah Hawkins, came up with a plan to get her hitched.  It went like this: He declared a “Sadie Hawkins Day”—a day when all eligible bachelors would be required to race for their freedom, with Sadie in hot pursuit.

On race day, Hekzebiah lined up the men and announced,  "When ah fires my gun, all o' yo' kin start a-runnin! When ah fires agin—after givin' yo' a fair start—Sadie starts a runnin'. Th' one she ketches'll be her husbin."

Sadie got her man, and the spinsters of Dogpatch loved the idea so much that they set an annual date to repeat the race.  It was a good plan (at least in the comics).  Then, what started in a comic strip, caught on in real life, and Sadie Hawkins Day parties sprung up all over—a day when girls could ask the guys for a date.  

And this is how I first caught sight of the Swiss farm girl from the south end of Kidron.

At the age of fourteen, our freshman year, I was invited by a classmate to be her “date” to a Sadie Hawkins church youth party.  The farm girl was there too.   She was plain, with hair up in a bun, horn-rimmed glasses, not particularly attractive to my poor way of thinking.   She had taken the easy way out, and was there with a cousin.  I didn’t give her a second look or a second thought.  Can’t really remember anything else about the party.  I was too young, too shy, too uncomfortable—wishing I had said no to the request.

Two years later a Neuenschwander girl transferred from Dalton High School to the Junior class at Central Christian.   She was the same bun-headed girl from the Sadie Hawkins party.  She looked different now.  Times were changing, and her long, thick hair hung nearly to her waist.  She seemed like a nice girl, kind of quiet,  but I was still blind.

It wasn’t very long into the school year and we were in English class.  The long-haired girl sat a couple rows to my left.  I remember looking over and staring at her.   At this age, hormones were wreaking havoc with most boy’s ability to think intelligently about girls, and I was no exception.  

I barely knew the girl, but as boys do, judged her by my immature standards.  She wasn’t like the popular girls—the cheerleader type that all the boys ogled over—and she wasn’t made-up, and didn’t wear the latest fashion.   I turned back to my books and said to myself, “Ugh.”

Now this is where it got interesting:  I may have been the poster-child of immaturity and terrible judgement, but when I said “ugh” to myself, a voice in my head talked right back, clear as a bell,  “You should not feel that way about her, she could be your wife some day.”

The words startled me!  Not only was I having the feelings of a complete jerk, now I was hearing voices in my head.

I quickly answered back, “No! No way!”

I didn’t think much more about it, but as time went on, I began to notice the girl’s quiet and genuine personality.  I observed how she hung out with the nice kids.  She had her head on straight, and was an excellent scholar too.  Then something else began changing.  I began to notice how pretty she was, and how homely I was.  Instead of looking down on her, I was now looking up to her, and realizing with shame that she was a much better person than me.

The beginning of our Senior year, one of my friends began dating the girl.  I was happy for him, and a bit envious too.  It didn’t work out though.  He got the “Dear John” letter.  I remember it well.  He took it hard—very hard.  He was my ride home from school that afternoon, and at the wheel of his dad’s Buick, he drove like a suicidal maniac.  I feared for my life.  

But this was my chance.  I waited two weeks, and when the opportunity came to ask the girl to go with me to a christian movie, I walked up to her on wobbly legs, and a mouth that suddenly went bone dry.  

“Are you planning to see go see ‘The Cross and the Switchblade?’ ”

“Yes,” she said, “I was planning to.”

“Would you want to go with me?”

“Sure.”

And… as they say, the rest is history.

But history is still in the making.  I still love my Swiss farm girl from the south end of Kidron.  A lot of life has happened since we said “I do”, and some of it I’d do over if I could.  Together we raised four children, but it might also be accurate to say she raised five.  Now that the kids are out on their own, we’re rediscovering how much fun it is to be just the two of us.  I’d like to think I’m her strength—her knight in shining armor—but the truth is, neither of us is a whole person without the other.

In sharp contrast to the love we share, it is sad to acknowledge that today of all days—Valentines Day—the antithesis of love will pack out theaters all over.  The Fifty Shades movie.  That’s sad.  Sad because it portrays such a twisted view of an infinitely beautiful thing called love.  Sad because it will not just “entertain”, but reinforce the views of a selfish and destructive “love”.  True love is anything but Grey.  And that’s all I’m going to say about that…

One of my favorite authors penned the following words after going from a life of hate and murder, to a life-changing encounter with Jesus.  He wrote these timeless words about love.

Love is patient,

Love is kind.

It does not envy,

It does not boast,

It is not proud.

It does not dishonor others,

It is not self-seeking,

It is not easily angered,

It keeps no record of wrongs.  

Love does not delight in evil,

But rejoices with the truth.  

It always protects,

Always trusts,

Always hopes,

Always perseveres.

Love never fails.

     --1 Corinthians 13--

To my high school sweetheart and wife of many years...

I love waking up beside you.  I love coming home to you after a day of work.  When I return from my fast cleansing walks, out of breath and soaked with sweat, you enjoy hearing about the weather, the scenery, the people I’ve encountered, and the things I’ve learned along the way.

You’re my favorite artist with Fifty Shades of cotton fabric destined to be another well-planned quilt.  You’re a patient wife, a wonderful Mom, and a loving Grandma.  Happy Valentines Day, my dear!  I love you!

Amish Neighbors

Slowly I’m becoming acquainted with a few of my Swartzentruber Amish neighbors.  At first it seemed they eyed me with suspicion as I walked the roads.  Can’t really blame them I guess.   There have been situations where it is merited, and the Amish do not forget stories of kidnappings, murders, and intrusions on their way life—even if it happened thirty or forty years ago.  And even if it’s extremely rare.  It’s best to not trust a stranger until learning to know them.  Naturally, some of the more recent happenings have jacked up the suspicion. There was the 2006 school shooting in Lancaster County, PA, and just last summer,  two young Amish children were kidnapped from their vegetable stand in the state of New York.  Thank God they returned home safely.

Hey, how about a little lesson.  We’ll keep it short and interesting.  Let’s call it Some things you always wondered about the Amish and Mennonites, but were afraid to ask. (Yeah, I know, not very original.)

There are four distinct groups of Amish in my neck of the woods.

These are the Swartzentrubers, Dan’s, Old Order, and New Order.  Go a few miles further and you can add the new New Order (yes, new, New Order).  

Not being an expert on all things Amish, I believe there may be additional sub-strains, but these are the main groups.  The Swartzentrubers are the most conservative and least modern.  The groups progress up the ladder from there with what conveniences they will allow.  This is an oversimplification though, because there are many other small differences, such as length of men’s hair, width of hat brims, size of bonnets, colors of clothing, types of harness on the horses, buggies with or without doors and windshields… the list goes on and on and on.  Each group has its own Ordnung—a comprehensive list of rules—mostly unwritten.  It’s not difficult for local folks to see the differences, but it seems that to most outsiders, an Amishman is an Amishman.  

Though these groups are mixed together geographically, they do not worship together or inter-marry.  They all have their own church districts, preachers, deacons, and bishops.  For worship they meet in each other’s homes every-other Sunday.

To make it even more confusing to the outsider, there are also several varieties of Mennonites in the neighborhood mix—some of them appearing almost Amish.  But there is at least one common denominator:  Nearly five-hundred years ago our shared ancestors were part of the  Anabaptist movement in Europe—Christians who were baptized as babies, but wanted to practice believer’s baptism, or re-baptism.  Our particular branch of Anabaptism is named after a former Catholic priest, Menno Simons from the Netherlands.  Thus, the name Mennonite.

The Amish denomination branched out from the Mennonites a little over three-hundred years ago when a Mennonite leader by the name of Jacob Amman insisted on strictly holding to traditions and enforcing the ban—which meant excommunicating and shunning those who veered from the rules of the church—until they might repent and return.  At that time in history, most Mennonites no longer practiced shunning.  But Amman and his followers insisted, so they split off and began to be called Amish.  What began as a bitter disagreement between church leaders, finally ended with confessions and a desire to part ways amiably.  I’ve just completed reading “The Letters of the Amish Division”—actual letters written between Amman and other Mennonite church leaders over a period of years.  Fascinating, but not pretty.    

Thanks to Amman, we have a lot of cash flowing into Lancaster County Pennsylvania and Wayne/Holmes Counties of Ohio. That sounds shallow, and misses the point, but the results of his convictions have lasted over three hundred years, and people come great distances to view this way of life and purchase quality Amish products.  

Of all the groups of Amish in my neighborhood, it’s the Swartzentrubers who intrigue me the most, because their ways of living and methods of farming are nearly identical to how my Great-Grandparents lived.  To walk along the road through these farms and observe them in their daily routines is almost as good as time travel.  It’s like time screeched to a halt and waited—so those of us who are curious about how our Great-Grandparents lived, can see how it was, firsthand.

 

Great Grandparents, John and Anna Swartz

Considering our shared heritage of Anabaptism, I do feel a sort of kinship with the Amish.  They probably don’t recognize it like I do.  To them, I’m just another Englishman.

As I walk, I try to be friendly, to wave, and as often as possible, to say a word of greeting or have a small conversation.  Slowly we are becoming familiar with each other, and I can see the look in their eyes is changing from distrust to friendly familiarity.  

A young man often passes by me, walking home from work.  I greet him in Dutch, and he smiles, and greets me in return.  

A teenager leads a beautiful Haflinger horse along the road.  I stop and ask him about the horse.  It’s three years old, and green-broke to ride.  He smiles as he talks about the horse.  I learn his name is Merlin.  

Then there is the boy checking his muskrat traps at the pond by the “S” curve.  He appears to be about twelve years old, the same age that I was when I first began trapping.  I ask him how it’s going.  He’s caught a few, and the pond owner is grateful.  No one likes Muskrats perforating their pond banks.  

One day last week there were teenage boys hauling a wagon load of ice blocks that they had just cut from a pond back in the pasture.  The blocks were about ten inches thick and one foot square.  They use these for summer refrigeration.  The team of draft horses pulling the load was walking slowly, so I asked some questions.  Where do they put the ice, and how long will it stay frozen?  The young man replied that they have an old truck body with a shed built around it.  There is a one-foot gap between the body and the shed wall which is stuffed with insulating material.  It surprised me when the young man said the ice will stay frozen until September.

These small conversations, and frequent greetings are making my walks more enjoyable and meaningful.  I’m at a loss for words to describe this feeling of being more alive—of being more “at one” with the community.  The best I can do is to say you will have to experience it for yourself.  It doesn't cost  anything but a little time.  You’ll soon learn as I did, that it’s the best hour of the day.

I cannot end this without saying how grateful I am to God for parents, Grandparents, and a long, long line of ancestors who took their faith seriously—endeavoring to follow Jesus at all costs—and passed it on to the next generation.  

In the same breath, let it be said, it’s not so important where we came from, as where we are headed.  Occasionally a backwards glance helps us focus on the path ahead.  Thanks for walking along.

Once again, we leave you with pleasant thoughts from Kidron, Ohio, where the snow-shoveling men enjoy coming in from the cold and touching their icy hands to the back of their lovely lady’s neck.  She’s patient, but jumps and yells anyway.  The kids?  They’re still out sledding on the amazing snow-packed Jericho hill, but they’ll be in soon, asking for some hot chocolate.  All is well.

Four is a Good Number

My almost-daily walking is a good time to think about family and remember all those child-rearing years, the special times we've had, and the blessings we share.  It sure doesn't seem very long ago when I watched four little people come into the world, take their first breaths, and cry their first cry.  I cried too—great big tears of pure joy—my heart overwhelmed with love.  Our firstborn was forty years ago, and last-born, twenty-six years.   

We couldn't have predicted back then what life would be like right now with four children in four different states.  Even before we were married, Juanita and I thought four would be a good number.  Two boys and two girls.  Had it all planned out.

After one boy and one girl, we were pretty certain that we had been over-estimating our child-rearing abilities, and thought one of each was a good place to stop.

The second boy came along several years later.  We loved them all dearly, and were satisfied that our family was now complete.   

Not so quick...

Nine years after boy number two, along comes girl number two.  I was thrilled—super thrilled.  Little girls are the best!  We were back to our original number.  As they grew and developed their gifts and interests, we began thinking about their future, about what they would be when they grew up, and where they might live.  It was all speculation, and it seemed to be a long, long way off.

As young parents, it was difficult to think of fulfilling our own dreams, doing all the things that filled our imaginations when we were children, things like living in the mountains or near the ocean.  We knew it would be impossible to move with our family to all the places that we enjoyed visiting, but planting our children in these places could be the next best thing.  Of course, having all our children near us would be great we thought, but that doesn't seem to be today’s reality.  So if they’re going to live other places, where would we want that to be?

For starters, we thought it would be good if our oldest son would stay nearby.  He would  morph from right-hand-boy to right-hand-man.  Instead of him holding the flashlight for me, I would now hold it for him.  He would be a handyman, hard-working, loyal, always willing to help anyone.  He would marry and have children who looked like him—children who would hug old G-Pa and G-Ma at church on Sunday mornings, and bring us lots of joy.  It was a good plan.

Then, remembering how much fun our childhood vacations to Michigan had been,  and how we had even gone back there a couple of times for vacations when our two oldest were small, it was pretty much a given that we should have a child locate there.  This would be a great place for our dear sweet oldest daughter to share her life with a husband and a passel of children, being all that she ever wanted to be—a wife and Mom.  She would live near water of course, and offer free lodging to aging parents.  Somewhere near the shores of Lake Michigan.

But we loved the Mountains too.  Our honeymoon was spent traveling the Blue Ridge Parkway through North Carolina.  We've traveled it several times since then, and still love the mountains, waterfalls, hiking trails, Rhododendrons and Azaleas.  We would want a child to locate there so we’d have a place to visit in May just like we did those many years ago when we were so lost in love that we hardly noticed the flowers anyway.  This would be the ideal place for a creative son who plays guitars and loves mountain music.  He will settle there and prepare a place for us.

Then there was the boyhood dream of real mountains.  Lewis and Clark expedition comes to mind.  Indians and horses.  Elk, Mule deer, and Grizzly bears.  Pikes Peak.  Wouldn't it be awesome to visit the majestic Rocky Mountains on occasion.  Perhaps one of our children should settle there.  With only one left, that would need to be the adventurous daughter who loves the sun and big blue skies.  What better place than the western side of the mile high city—Denver, Colorado.

So we set about, strategically planning their future.  They were totally oblivious to this of course.  Though there were many baffling twists and turns in the journey, and many fearful moments where we thought our best-laid plans were failing,  it all worked out in the end.  As of this month, the deal is sealed.  Our children are all homeowners in each of the places we “foreordained”.  (Using the word quite loosely.)

These are some of the things that occupy my wandering mind as my legs pump rapidly up and down the hills of Jericho and Zuercher.  These walks are an opportunity to be thankful for children who are responsible and caring.  And they love each other!  This is huge!  There was a time...nah, let’s not get into that.  

In each of the places where they are planted, they are developing lives independent from ol’ Mom and Pop—creating and enjoying new circles of friends.  We’re proud of them, and thank God for them.  The truth is, they landed at each of these places through circumstances that had nothing at all to do with any of our thoughts or wishes.  But it is nice that our vacation spots are planned for us.  Kids—please expect that call any day now.  Keep the bed made.  We’ll see you soon.

From thirty-seven thousand feet in the air—seat 24A of an Airbus A320—these words are being tapped out on my laptop.  We’re winging our way back home from Denver, Co, where we just helped our youngest and her husband move into their newly purchased home.  Denver is a nice place to visit, but there is no place like our little hometown of Kidron, Ohio—where the hard-working men are hopeful, the women are comely and pleasant, and the children love to come back home, where the porch light is always on.