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Linda Roorda

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Blog Entries posted by Linda Roorda

  1. Linda Roorda
    There are many free genealogy websites which are a great resource for records and helpful family data, including RootsWeb.  This free site, part of the ancestry.com family, includes a RootsWeb Family History Wiki section with their guide to searching your family trees. Along with Hosted Web Sites, you will find great tips and websites on how to begin searching, a list of sources and where to find various records, and a list of various countries/ethnic groups.  Clicking on any of their hi-lited items will provide information on beginning your research. 
    The RootsWeb page has been updated since I first used it 20 years ago, taken down the past few years while it was under re-construction.  Feel free to check them out for their usable functions, like the Message Boards.  Sadly, I think it's not as comprehensive as it once was.
    You can search surname listings under RootsWeb's “Connect to Family Trees” section to see what might be out there, though this page does not appear to be complete in its listings.  But, entering a name in the search tab might garner some valuable family information for you.  My favorite section years ago was the “U.S. Town/County Database.”  Here, I have found a wealth of information for vital records from churches and cemeteries, biographies, family lineages, and more.  Researching my Mom’s early New York families often brought me to the New Amsterdam/New York City, and the Albany, Schenectady and Schoharie county genweb sites. 
    Under the section labeled “Message Boards,” you can search your surname of interest, read other posts, and post your own query for information which I have done.  Folks on these message boards have been very helpful.  This has also been a resource to meet extended relatives in various lines, which I have also done.  We shared our own research and documented data with each other.  Several friendships were made this way, and they continue to be counted among my close friends today.
    I did find errors in submitted family trees on RootsWeb (or other online family websites) when I began my ancestry search, prompting my own research to document, write and publish my family articles in the highly recommended and accurate New York Genealogical and Biographical Journal.  For that reason, I tend to stay away from submitted family trees when seeking information on my ancestors, though you can certainly get answers to questions here.  I prefer to do as much footwork as I can on my own, albeit with guidance from friends who taught me as I learned along the way.  Submitted trees certainly can be entirely accurate; however, if used as a starting point with other online records, you can then seek sources to provide solid documentation and corroborative proof, i.e. church and cemetery records in reputable books or journals, census records, wills, etc.
    The next section is “Mailing Lists.”  These lists were also invaluable to me years ago, but it is no longer usable as noted on the updated website.  I was formerly on an email list which provided discussions on various topics relating to the early settlers and records of the 1600s and 1700s in New Netherlands/New York. It was a rewarding experience to reply to someone’s query by contributing data I have in a book of ancient Albany’s city and county records that was helpful to others. 
    From RootsWeb, I subscribed years ago to the Schoharie County email list.  That resource was where I saw the notice by a professor from Long Island who found an old photo in a Washington, D.C. antique shop.  The pencil writing on the back of the matting read, “First Tillapaugh Reunion July 1910…”  I replied that my mother’s two oldest brothers inherited that farm, and their sons continue to farm it today. A reproduction of the photo is in the Dallenbach book of descendants which I own, so I was well aware of what the professor had found.  In fact, the house in the photo, built in the 1830s, is still very much in use today.  I was offered the opportunity to purchase the photo which, of course, I did, thus beginning my genealogy research in earnest in the late 1990s.
    Other sections like “Quick Links” have important site listings including Find-A-Grave.  These options may include national and international websites, other tools and resources such as blank forms and charts, and hosted volunteer projects.  The latter includes books owned by folks who are willing to research them for information you might need from a particular book.  Your search may also find volunteers who are able to do local lookups at either cemeteries or historical societies for you.  When volunteers have helped by doing research footwork for me, I felt it appropriate to pay their expenses, a much-appreciated gift. 
    You can also submit your FamilyTreeMaker data to RootsWeb.  Instead, of doing that, I submitted a McNeill descendancy outline I wrote up with names and dates of birth to the Schoharie County Genweb site where it would be more likely to be of value for descendants.  It is also common courtesy not to submit names of any living relatives, or those born within the past 100 years out of respect for privacy.  I included no one born from 1900 through the 20th century.
    Another free online source of cross-referenced data is the comprehensive site called CyndisList.  The Categories section provides a list of resources, including American state and government as well as international resources.  There is an Adoption section to help find orphans and living people, message boards, and volunteers to assist your search.  A section entitled Free Stuff includes charts and forms, translation tools, online databases to search, volunteer lookups, surname family associations and newsletters, etc. 
    Sections you might not have thought about are included at CyndisList:  1) Migration Routes, Roads and Trails, 2) Canals, Rivers and Waterways, and 3) Immigration and Naturalization.  There are sections entitled Heraldry, Hit a Brick Wall?, and Ships & Passenger Lists.  The Mailing Lists are great for asking questions when you’re stumped, and for connecting with researchers working on the same lines.  There are also sites to purchase items, and free trials to search various genealogy websites before paying their site subscription fee.
    Ancestry.com has some free data, like the 1880 Federal Census records, but the best records are obtained using subscription-based entrance.  Here, you will find tabs for Home, Trees, Search, DNA, Help, and Extras.  It is an invaluable resource.
    Perhaps your ancestors came through Ellis Island.  Search The Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation to find your ancestors and the ship on which they sailed.  A ship’s manifest lists the passengers, their age, name of the ship, port, date of departure, occupation, nearest relative in their country of origin, and their sponsor in the U.S.  I found information for my husband’s paternal grandfather’s family when they emigrated from Holland in the early 1920s.  Some went first to North Dakota before settling in northern New Jersey as dairy farmers while others settled right away in northern New Jersey and Massachusetts to work in the textile mills. 
    I also found records at the Ellis Island website for my father’s families which emigrated from the Netherlands.  Like many families, both of my father’s grandfathers came through Ellis Island, each with their oldest son – my dad’s paternal grandfather in November 1922, and his maternal grandfather in September 1923.  They settled in and around Kalamazoo, Michigan among other Dutch.  When they earned enough money, they sent for the rest of their family.  My paternal grandfather emigrated from Uithuizermeeden in the province of Groningen at age 15 on July 1923 with his mother and siblings through Ellis Island. 
    However, my dad’s maternal grandfather was determined his wife and children would not go through the rigors of steerage and Ellis Island.  Instead, he sent money back home to them in Rotterdam for second-class tickets.  Decades ago, my grandmother told me only a little about their sailing on the S. S. Rotterdam to Hoboken, New Jersey.  Research showed the ship came into a New York City port in January 1926, with the ship’s manifest listing my grandmother’s family.  Unfortunately, I didn’t ask more questions.  She told me that a Dutchman, who made a living helping immigrants, met my great-grandmother and her children (my grandmother was age 15), and took them to his home in Hoboken, New Jersey.  He fed them, put them up overnight, and the next morning put them on the right train to Michigan with lunches in hand.  There, my great-grandmother was reunited with her husband, and my grandmother and her siblings with their father and oldest brother.  How exciting that must have been!
    My grandparents married in 1931 and lived in Kalamazoo, Michigan.  With the Great Depression, my grandfather and his father lost everything as building contractors.  They removed to another Dutch enclave in Clifton, New Jersey where my grandfather became a door-to-door salesman before later becoming a successful general contractor, with many a beautiful house or remodeling project to his credit.
    You can purchase quality photo documentation of the ships your ancestors sailed on.  However, I simply printed the free online photo of the ships on which my ancestors sailed, along with each respective ship’s manifest for documentation.  I used both Ancestry.com and the Ellis Island websites to obtain records.
    For steerage immigrants, the Ellis Island experience included passing a medical and legal inspection.  If your papers were in order, and you were in reasonably good health, the inspection process typically lasted 3-5 hours.  The ship’s manifest log was used by inspectors to cross-examine each immigrant during the primary inspection.  Though Ellis Island has been called the “Island of Tears,” the vast majority of immigrants were treated respectfully and allowed to enter America to begin their new life.  However, about two percent of immigrants were denied entry.  Typically, if you were suspected of having a contagious illness, or if the inspector thought you might become a public burden, entrance to the U.S. was denied.  I can only imagine the pain it must have caused when one or more family members were told they had to go back to their native country. 
    I am very appreciative of the efforts my many ancestors made to emigrate from their home country, to which none ever returned, of becoming American citizens, and of their hard work to provide a better way of life for their family.  By sharing bits of my ancestral heritage, of who they were and whence they came, I hope it has encouraged you to search for your ancestors, to find their place in the building of our great America, and thus to know the gift of your family heritage.
    FINAL COLUMN NEXT:  Genealogy Website Resource List
  2. Linda Roorda

    Be My Tower

    By Linda Roorda,

    I wish every Mother a very Happy Mother’s Day, including those without children who mother other children!  Below is another different reflection, but written out of the blessing from within life’s difficult reality.  Nor is it my very first poem, but close enough. It was written at an extremely difficult and stressful time in my life after my mother had a stroke on Christmas Day 2011.
    My mother was different. As I grew up, we didn’t get along well, and that continued as I raised my own family. I envied friends whose mothers talked easily with their kids, were involved in their lives, and who enjoyed doing fun things with their family. Growing up, I picked up on little cues from those who didn’t seem to like her or made fun of her in subtle and, sometimes, not-so-subtle ways.  She was mocked and belittled.  She was beaten up, twice, by the same hand that physically lashed out at me but not my sister. I hurt for her, and didn’t understand what was wrong...
    She was always “there” with us, but I/we couldn’t talk with her. She didn’t play with us as kids; but, then, neither did her mother, who had been involved with raising, feeding and clothing 12 children, feeding groups of farmers as they all went around helping each other with crops and butchering animals for food, growing a huge garden, helping with farm chores for a large dairy and several thousand chickens – all without running water until a year or so before my mother was born.
    My mother was distant, not someone I could share my heart with, confide in, or seek help from for my problems.  Simply put, I felt she was not a good mother.  And, as the oldest of six, I dreaded the day when I would have to “take care of her,” especially after my dad left and remarried.
    The call came the evening of Christmas Day 2011.  It was my mother.  I could barely understand a word she said, her speech was so garbled, but I managed to make out, “…stroke… need help…”  That sent a shockwave of fear and sadness through my heart.  Oh no!  My poor mother!  But, what do I do?  I’m ashamed to say it, but I wanted to turn around and find someplace to hide.  Why did I have to be the oldest child?  Why did I have to feel so responsible for everyone and everything, always?  Suddenly, I felt very alone.  The time had come for me to take care of my mother, and I was not prepared. 
    Thank God for her sister, my Aunt Lois.  I contacted her and she willingly offered to go with me to visit my mother in the hospital and later the nursing home in Rochester, nearly three hours away.  A city… that alone struck fear in my heart – I don’t like driving in cities.  During our trips to and from Rochester, Aunt Lois and I had some great talks, a time of sharing and understanding.  My mother is the 11th child in an old-fashioned farm family, while Aunt Lois is the youngest.  They were aunts to nieces about the same ages they were.  I don’t even know all my relatives! 
    Visiting my mother brought me up short to the realities of life.  As a medical transcriptionist, I saw this all the time in my work – folks are fine one minute, but the next minute their life is altered by a sudden change in health.  My mother, at 78, still worked as a part-time toll collector on the thruway.  Not only was her life suddenly and unexpectedly changed from being active to being an invalid, but my life was in the process of being totally turned upside down, too.
    Over the years I had asked my mother to let me know where she lived – “Yeah, I’ll send you directions,” she’d say, but she never did.  I’d asked her to make a list of important papers, where she did her banking, etc., just in case something ever happened – “Yeah, I’ll write it down,” she’d say, but she never did.
    Now, something had happened, and I was forced to take charge of her affairs with no clue of where or how to begin.  I signed papers to be her Power of Attorney and Health Care Proxy.  But I had no idea about what to do!  I didn’t even know where she lived!  I felt so utterly overwhelmed.  I already had so much on my plate caring for my husband with his blindness and multitude of health issues, working full time from 3-11 a.m. at a hospital, and taking my husband nearly every afternoon of every week for so many years to so many medical appointments, plus taking care of most all household chores.  I literally wanted to turn around and walk (no, run) away from everything I faced… but I knew that was not an option.  I felt so helpless.
    And so I prayed.  And a poem, a desperate plea really, wrote itself in my mind and it became my prayer to God, over and over:
    Though I may weaken and crumble
    Beneath the strain of stress,
    Be there, Lord, to guide me safe
    O’er crashing waters near.
    Be my tower of mighty strength
    Firm and strong to lean upon.
    When I think impossible
    Help me take that other step.
    Aunt Lois helped me find my mother’s apartment and van.  The neighbor ladies shared they’d heard my mother’s calls for help and saw her fingers poking out from under the door.  My mother managed to reach her keys and pushed them under the door so the ladies could unlock it.  They found her sprawled on the floor, unable to get up.  She absolutely refused to let them call an ambulance to take her to the hospital; all they could do was help her back to bed.  They apologized to me that they hadn’t called an ambulance anyway, but I reassured them I was not blaming them.  This was out of their hands; my mother had vehemently refused their assistance, even though they should have called an ambulance anyway.  But I was not into blaming.  The next day, Christmas Day, my mother knew something was terribly wrong and had called the ambulance herself.
    I scheduled more time off from work to spend a few days with my friend, Sue, now living in Rochester, who willingly offered to help me start taking care of my mother’s affairs.  She, too, was a blessing from God.  She knew just what to do, and kept me calm!  She helped me find the banks my mother used, and establish my Power of Attorney with them so I could take care of the necessaries.
    On returning to my mother’s apartment and opening the door, I was shocked at what I saw as reality sank in.  Actually, I was ashamed and angry!  “How could she live like this!” I cried.  She was a hoarder.  There was a narrow path through the debris of her life scattered around the apartment.  I knew what her van looked like inside over the years, but had no idea her apartment was this bad, too!  Tears rolled, and hugs were given as Aunt Lois and her daughter, Donna, joined me and Sue to help with the cleanup.  With their sense of humor, they kept my head above water with laughter as we spent hours sorting through every piece of mail, every box, and every bag of stuff to keep or toss.  And, unfortunately, a lot of her life had to be tossed.  I simply had no room at my home.
    Then, another friend, Elaine, a retired legal secretary, willingly came alongside to assist.  She helped me clean out the van, and sort through the stash of important papers we’d found strewn around the apartment and van.  With a small filing box and file folders, she organized the papers by labeling and sorting.  In my frustration, I made the comment about the unbelievable mess, especially after finding papers that she had not one, but two, storage units full of more stuff that needed to be cleaned out!  In her gentle way, Elaine reminded me of what the doctor had said, “Your mother has been mentally ill for a long time.  That is why she was a hoarder and lived the way she did.” 
    Elaine’s comment hit me hard emotionally, but they were words I needed to hear.  I was so overwhelmed at having to blindly pick up the pieces of my mother’s life that I hadn’t seen what was obvious to the doctor and others – she really had been mentally ill for many years, if not her whole life.  That’s why we and others thought she was odd.  That’s why she couldn’t relate to us kids.  Now, after being properly diagnosed by her physicians, and being put on medication, she’s so much better emotionally.  With Elaine’s gentle comment, I finally came to terms with, and understood, my mother’s emotional fragility, and thanked Elaine for the awakening in my heart.  I came to understand that my Mom had lost her husband and her children to divorce, and all her stuff was the balance of what she could control by desperately holding onto it all.
    Through the difficulty of picking up the pieces of my mother’s life, sorting blindly through her affairs that I’d known nothing about, making a ton of phone calls to her employer and banks, etc., getting her into my first-choice nursing home near me, filling out the application and gathering copies necessary for the massive Medicaid application process, and handling several legal judgments and subpoenas against her for debts, God was with me every step of the way.  He answered my desperate plea more abundantly than I ever expected! 
    Every time I felt utterly overwhelmed, God put someone there to walk with me, guide me, and help me over each new hurdle.  Even to the card which arrived from my daughter-in-law’s mother, MaryEllen, on the very day I got the letter from the department of social services with its overwhelming huge list of requirements for the Medicaid process, some of which we never did find and which DSS granted a special waiver with understanding, and then to having Elaine’s experience guide me through it.  And I must give special thanks to my husband, Edward, who has been here every step of the way, supporting me and guiding me with his quiet words of wisdom while being unable to help physically.
    In visiting with my mother at the nursing home, our relationship has grown. So, I decided to do something special for her – to make a quilt.  Since I was a teen, I’ve loved to sew clothes and quilts for myself and family, but hadn’t made time to sew in ages.  Around this time, I’d made Ed and myself each a log cabin design quilt using our old jeans, followed by a quilt for each grandchild.  On asking my mother what her favorite color was, she replied, “I don’t know.  I never had a favorite color.”  I felt a stab to my heart.  How could someone not have a favorite color?  So, I decided that since she was a September baby, I’d use shades of sage green and golden browns.  Making her quilt was a labor of love and I couldn’t wait to give it to her that upcoming Easter Sunday.  And she absolutely loved it! 
    But, you know what else special happened?  On our walk one evening back then, Ed told me I’d begun calling her “Mom” - she wasn’t just “my mother” anymore!  God used her stroke to work a miracle in my heart, and I have come to love the Mom that He blessed me with!  And God has given me one more blessing in the aftermath.  My Dad, who had walked away from me for a time, began corresponding with me again after I sent a Christmas card.  He even voiced approval for how well I’d handled every difficulty in life that was tossed my way, including a compliment on how well I was taking care of my mother. And, when I broke the ice by saying words I don’t recall ever hearing while growing up, Dad and Mom both responded by saying “I love you” every time we talked!  Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!  I love you!  (Photo above of my Mom holding me, her first precious baby.)
    Be My Tower
    Linda A. Roorda
    Though I may weaken and crumble
    Beneath the strain of stress,
    Be there, Lord, to guide me safe
    O’er crashing waters nigh.
     
    Be my tower of mighty strength
    Firm and strong to lean upon.
    When I think “impossible,”
    Help me take that other step.
    ~
    12/31/11
  3. Linda Roorda
    Maybe we don’t say it enough… those little words that mean so much - “You made a difference…” or “I appreciate you…” or “I love you!”  Along with the words, there are ways we can show how much we care, and here are a few I’ve been pondering. 
    Since retiring, I have totally enjoyed a second “career” - subbing in our public school district, and noticed something right away that has been consistent… the welcoming words and smiles from staff on up to the principals and superintendent – words of appreciation and thanks for coming in and helping out, for being there for the kids, no matter their age, from pre-K thru high school.  And it got me to thinking about us as family and friends.  I appreciate each of you for who you are, for your being a very special part of my life, for your kind loving words, for words of wisdom and words that teach me… Thank you! You’ve made a difference in my life! And I love you! 
    In thinking about others, one of the best ways we can express how much we care is by simply serving them, expecting nothing in return.  As the Apostle Paul wrote, “Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” (Philippians 2:4)  Ask how they’re doing, and truly listen when they express life is not going so well.  Make the effort to really understand what someone else might be feeling, or what they might be going through.
    Volunteer your time, that often rare commodity in our hectic schedules.  We can help those in a difficult situation, or recovering from surgery or illness.  We can provide a meal, or simply give attention to a shut-in to let them know they’ve not been forgotten.  Perhaps we could volunteer in a program where serving will benefit many… such as the local fire department, ambulance squad, an emergency department, or a local food cupboard.  There are so many ways we can share our time to show how much we care.
    Be a mentor to others.  Encourage them in their endeavors.  Help them succeed.  Lift them up emotionally.  Listen to their concerns.  Cheer them on!  Perhaps helping to widen their horizon in a favorite hobby might lead them into a fulfilling life-time career.
    Be there for the grieving.  Many words aren’t necessary.  Simple silence with a hug in sitting with them brings comfort.  Listen to their heart as they express their sorrow.  Share their pain.  Show you care.
    Give a smile to those you meet along your daily path, even strangers!  Watch their face light up knowing that you care enough to share a simple smile to brighten their day! 
    Be joyful for each other!  Praise them for even their smallest accomplishments, and express how happy you are for them in their greater successes. 
    Let someone know you'll pray for them.  Make someone a gift using your special talents, or gift them something unique to their interests.
    Greet others with a genuine friendly tone.  Share a positive attitude.  Make others feel wanted and welcomed.  Let them know how much you appreciate them and all that they do.
    With the passing of a friend’s daughter this past week, the age of my children, who shared my March birthday, I shed tears of sadness for her family in their deepest loss.  She had become a dedicated funeral director, comforting those who grieved their loved ones.  She moved on to a new job, showing those in need, and those she took care of in group homes, the depths of love from her heart.  Loved by family and friends, she made a difference in the lives of others. 
    I also learned this week that a friend, a distant cousin found when I was seeking to fill in my Mom’s ancestry, is in serious condition in ICU.  And my heart breaks for her and her family, as we pray for her recovery.  Treasured like a sister, we bonded right away, learning we had so much in common when we first met online.  We shared family ancestry data that we had gathered, as I learned much from her.  A former nurse, she next found fulfillment as a teacher’s aide, assisting special needs children.  In so many ways, she makes a difference in the lives of those with whom she comes in contact from her own caring and generous loving heart.
    Last month, I shared some of our daughter Jenn’s writings for a college psych course, as a memorial to who she was.  Passing away too young at 25 in 2003, she had much to look forward to, but God knew her days before even one of them came to be… and she made a difference in the lives of everyone around her with gentleness, wisdom, and a kind and caring heart of love.
    And I know that you, too, can name many examples of how others made a difference in the world around them, even in your life… just as you share this same loving kindness to make a difference in someone else’s life… someone in need of your compassion, comfort, kindness and generosity.  Feel free to share your thoughts with us all below.
    We can each make a difference wherever we are in whatever we do!  Shining our inner light as a reflection of Christ’s love within us, we let others know how much we care about them.  Be the one who makes a difference in the world today!
    You Made A Difference…
    Linda A. Roorda
     You made a difference in the world today…
    You gave a smile to someone in need
    Your face truly showed you cared from the heart
    For your love was felt wrapped up in the glow.
     
    You made a difference in the world today…
    You lent an ear to someone hurting
    You listened to tears and heard their story
    You held their heart in the depths of your soul.
     
    You made a difference in the world today…
    You walked the path where a friend was plodding
    You carried their burden, you went the extra mile,
    You eased their stress and brought hope to their day.
     
    You made a difference in the world today…
    Your hands rough and worn, were held out with warmth
    Bestowing attention, you covered their needs
    As your arms enveloped to guard and protect.
     
    You made a difference in the world today…
    You spoke words of truth with gentle kindness
    You showed concern, asking how they were
    And shared their dreams scattered in the storm.
     
    You made a difference in the world today…
    You took the time to sit in silence
    You held their hand bringing peace and comfort
    When their life was torn apart in sorrow.
     
    You made a difference in the world today…
    You shared their joy with laughter’s ring
    You praised them for a job well done
    As your love and hugs showed the depth of care.
    ~~
    03/14/21 – 03/19/21
  4. Linda Roorda
    As we travel life’s path, we all manage to lose a few things… like special trinkets, and perhaps a few friends from another time and another place as life moves on.  We even lose our patience a few more times than we care to admit.  Though losing something special can be painful, it’s different from giving it away… releasing that treasure on our own is a whole other story, a gift of love.  In this season of graduations, my thoughts began to travel in the direction of releasing our treasured youth with love.
    Letting go of what we hold dear can be difficult, perhaps even bittersweet, yet the release can leave us with a warm glow in our heart.  It’s a process that takes time.  As Corrie ten Boom, one of my favorite authors and evangelists, once said, “I have learned to hold all things loosely, so God will not have to pry them out of my hands.”  Like a mother hen, we lovingly protect and keep our little ones safe, and try to impart some of our hard-earned wisdom over time before letting them take off on their own.  After all, we truly want the best for them! 
    But, as our little ones grow up, they mature with a wisdom found only by taking some of life’s most difficult steps.  Learning to walk, falling down is a frequent occurrence as they learn how to get back up and try again.  Then, as they continue to grow and mature, they also benefit by failing a few times, learning how to pick themselves up to try again.  At times, though, I was over protective of my children, a hover-mother, not wanting them to face some of the difficulties I did… not my best parenting idea.  I loved my children and wanted to be involved in every aspect of their little lives, encouraging them to be all they could be.
    We all know parenting has its challenges, and every so often I’d say, “It’s hard to raise a mother!”  Raising our children was a joint learning venture, especially since they managed to arrive without an individual instruction manual in hand.  But, now we have the pleasure of watching our children raise their children.  And hearing their stories holds extra special meaning.  Like when our daughter, Emily, was trying to put her middle son down for a nap.  He had every excuse in the book as he fussed around.  Finally, she let him know how frustrated she was getting with him.  Patting her arm, 3-year-old Sam gently said, “It’s ok, Mom.  You’ll get used to it!”  And Em had to tuck her face into his blanket so he wouldn’t see her laughing.  There’s more wisdom in those words than little Sam could have ever known!  For out of the mouths of babes comes wisdom sweet.
    Should we hold too tightly to our children and their childhood, we may not allow them the freedom they need to grow with life’s changes.  They may not become the well-adjusted mature adults they are meant to be.  And, if we fail to help them discipline their own actions, they won’t know the rewards of self-control.  Each child is a unique individual, a most precious gift from God to be treasured and loved as we guide them in starting their journey of life. 
    My friend, Mimi, once shared a quote from her stitchery with me – “There are two lasting gifts we can give to our children – one is roots, the other is wings.”  How true!  May we love our children enough to provide them with the deep roots of a sturdy foundation, laughing and crying alongside them, while giving them wings and freedom to fly out into the great big world on their own.  And may we learn the gift of releasing with love… allowing us all to see the beauty deep within their heart. 
    Releasing With Love
    Linda A. Roorda 
    Along life’s journey we lose a few things
    Like fancy trinkets and friends of the heart
    Even some time, and patience, too
    All that holds meaning through our hands will slip.
    ~
    Losing possessions with meaning attached
    Shows how futile to retain our grip
    As respected wisdom gives true perspective
    That where grace abounds we hold but loosely.
    ~
    When losing our self for a greater good
    We follow a path of godly wisdom
    And in giving thought to what holds our heart
    Is found the key essential to life.
    ~
    For the years of youth build up to the time
    When wisdom is gained and freedom earned,
    We’ve gently led and helped them to know
    It’s time to fly on wings of their own.
    ~
    By clutching firmly life’s fleeting passage
    We cannot grasp the beauty within
    For in the act of releasing with love
    We’ll come to treasure each moment’s sweet gift.
    ~~
     
  5. Linda Roorda
    Approaching Memorial Day, my thoughts are of all who gave their lives in war that we and so many around the world might live in freedom.  Their battles on the field and in the mind are not what we who have never been there can truly fathom.  We can listen to or read survivors’ stories, hear of their fears amid tales of bravery, empathize with the sadness and trauma as they share the loss of buddies and who and what they might have become, consider questions relating to the whys and wherefores of war and the lessons learned, but we can never fully comprehend unless we’ve been there.  I’m very thankful for all who have served for the sake of freedom, but especially remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
    Yet, even this season of corona-virus pandemic has been compared an invisible war.  Here and around the world, we’ve battled an infection that struck unexpectedly.  Our medical professionals grew weary on the battlefront, facing daily unknowns, while being the sole comfort of those dying without family present.  We faced the loss of family and community members, not to mention the toll among the greater world community.  We saw unemployment numbers skyrocket, houses of worship closing for a time, businesses being shuttered forever, long lines of the weary waiting patiently for free food, arrests of those trying to open their business to normalcy while hardened criminals are released from jail only to commit crimes again, and we’re left with doubts and fears.  Will life ever be normal again?
    I have doubts and fears, too.  If we’re honest, we all do.  We think we’re not good enough and will never measure up.  We may doubt our abilities or skills, fear a lack of control in certain situations, or fear the unknown future.  We look for accolades to prop us up, to make us feel better about ourselves, trying to prove that we really are someone of some importance.   
    But I have to ask: whose voice am I listening to?  That inner voice which berates me for every mistake, every misstep, every poor choice or selfish deed, even looking for praise… or, am I listening in humility to God’s gentle nudging, that quiet voice in my soul from His deep and tender love?  A number of times I’ve been nudged with a gentle inner whisper, while other times I’ve heard His voice speak loud and clear.  Unfortunately, I have not always listened and reacted as I should have.  My will, my desired outcome, got in the way of God’s voice.  I need to remember to “be still, and know that [He is] God.” (Psalm 46:10a)  For when I quiet my frantic ruminations and sit still, humbly and quietly waiting to hear the Lord’s guiding words, it’s then that my heart is receptive, and my doubts and fears subside.  
    Open to profound wisdom and examples of Christ’s love in the world around us, I recall “Blood Brothers” from M*A*S*H (April 6, 1981). https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0638258/  This episode is a classic, my favorite about the medical unit’s priest, Father Francis Mulcahy.  I appreciate his quiet gentle ways, words of wisdom, and deep humility, yet I also appreciate that he is not so “holier than thou.”  Like the rest of us in many ways, he reveals a temper flare at times.  Knowing his superior, Cardinal Reardon, is scheduled to visit and review what Mulcahy has accomplished at the 4077th, the good Father wants everything and everyone around him to show perfection… including his own sermon.  Instead, Mulcahy becomes cranky and frantic with constant interruptions from side issues.  Oh, so like me at times!
    In the midst of feeling sorry for himself, Father Mulcahy learns that Capt. Pierce has just diagnosed one of his patients with an incurable disease.  Offering his own blood for his severely wounded best friend, a young soldier is told he has leukemia and can’t give blood.  Arguing about plans to send him out the next morning to the hospital in Seoul, Pvt. Gary Sturgis insists to frustrated Capt. Pierce that he wants to stay.  A matter of days won’t bring him a cure, and it’s more important that he be at his buddy’s side when his wounded and unconscious friend wakes up.  Ultimately, Father Mulcahy sits down and talks with Sturgis.
    The next morning, Cpl. Max Klinger searches for and finally finds the Father still in his pajamas and bathrobe, engrossed in conversation with Sturgis.  Suddenly realizing the entire night has passed them by, Mulcahy is self-conscious and visibly upset at himself.  Totally unprepared to face the Cardinal and his congregants, Mulcahy enters the mess tent used for the worship service.  Stumbling over apologies for his lateness and disheveled appearance, and lack of a well-written sermon, Father Mulcahy decides to simply tell the truth. 
    “I want to tell you about two men.  Each facing his own crisis.  The first man you know rather well.  The second is a patient here.  Well, the first man thought he was facing a crisis.  But what he was really doing was trying to impress someone.  He was looking for recognition, encouragement, a pat on the back.  And whenever that recognition seemed threatened, he reacted rather childishly.  Blamed everyone for his problems but himself, because he was thinking only of himself.  But the second man was confronted with the greatest crisis mortal man can face - the loss of his life.  I think you will agree that the second man had every right to be selfish.  But instead he chose to think not of himself, but of a brother.  A brother!  When the first man saw the dignity and the selflessness of the second man, he realized how petty and selfish he had... I... I... I had been!  It made me see something more clearly than I've ever seen it before.  God didn't put us here for that pat on the back.  He created us so He could be here himself.  So, He could exist in the lives of those He created in his image.”
    What great words to live by!  We truly have a purpose in life!  We can learn so much from others around us in examples of Christ’s love… even as we’re in the world, but not of it. (John 17:14-16)  Just as our “faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1), so should our doubts and fears disappear in the presence of our Lord.  “You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in You.  Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord…is the Rock eternal.”  (Isaiah 26:3,4)
    It’s not the inner negatives nor the adulation I hope to hear that matters.  It’s where my heart resides in humility as I seek our Lord’s approval.  As we each grow in faith, we look to God to guide us through our fears, doubts of inadequacy or inferiority that plague our thoughts, the negativity which so easily berates us… remembering and recognizing that we belong to God, and are loved beyond measure by Him.  Christ lives in us as we become His hands and feet to reach others.  In bringing Him our praise, we will hear His still small voice in our hearts, removing all doubts and fears that assail no matter what we face. 
    When Doubts Assail…
    Linda A. Roorda
    When doubts assail look up beyond self
    Focus on truth from wisdom above.
    Take heart from His words spoken in peace
    And know He holds you in the palm of His hand.
    ~
    When doubts assail know you’re not alone
    There’s Someone who cares, your burden to bear.
    He’ll give you His peace and provide a way through
    As darkest of nights emerge in new dawn.
    ~
    When doubts assail and plague your heart
    Thinking your worth isn’t good enough,
    That you could never measure up in life,
    Know there is Someone who believes in you.
    ~
    When doubts assail and fears haunt your path
    Speak softly in prayer and listen for His voice,
    That gentlest nudge stirring in your soul,
    As He guides your steps in the way you should go.
    ~
    When doubts assail be eager to learn
    At the feet of Him whose wisdom excels,
    Bask in His love and dwell in His presence
    Building your faith to prosper in truth.
    ~
    When doubts assail lift your voice in song
    Glorify His name with reverence and awe,
    For Holy is He, full of mercy and grace…
    As a child of the King, you’re loved beyond measure.
    To listen to this blog in podcast format, go to Balms for the Soul Podcast by Carla Cain, and scroll down to "When Doubts Assail", click to listen, and find others with my name.
    ~~
  6. Linda Roorda

    Laundry Day

    By Linda Roorda,

    Starting my early Saturday morning chore of laundry, I couldn’t help recall this article I wrote a few years ago. Doing the laundry is everyone’s favorite chore, right?  Ummm… no!  Even with modern conveniences, it’s a task I don’t think many of us look forward to.  Sort the darks and lights, delicate linens from the jeans, pre-treat stains, use various cycles and water temperatures, to bleach or not to bleach, does it go in the dryer, on a hanger or the clothesline outside, does it need to be ironed or can it get by with some wrinkles, etc.  You all get the idea! 
    Actually there was a time my sister (age 10) and I (age 11) did all the family laundry at the city laundromat at the top of the block after my third brother was born and our Mom was laid up with health issues that summer. We pulled the "little red wagon" with one or two baskets of laundry piled up, and learned pretty quick how to do the laundry on our own without being taught, using those big washers and driers. With teamwork, we folded the big sheets and everything else to the admiration of older folks doing their own laundry. But the best part was the incentive in that we also had some money to buy treats each time!
    I remember as I grew up that my dad’s mother did laundry on Monday and ironed on Tuesday, without fail.  Both she and my mother had old wringer washers, which fascinated us kids.  My sister and I actually enjoyed putting the laundry through the rollers to “wring” out the excess water, heeding the warning to keep our fingers away from those menacing rollers!  I’m sure many of my readers remember those antique washers, too!  With perhaps a few fingers painfully scrunched between the rollers.
    So, imagine what it must have been like doing laundry in colonial days without washers and dryers.  The fabrics were wool, linen, cotton or silk, without permanent press.  It was a major undertaking back then, and not an effort completed every week.  I found it interesting to learn that most items laundered were “body linen.”  These garments (undershirts, shifts, chemises, etc.) were worn next to the skin to protect the fancy outer shirts and dresses from skin oils and sweat.  Clothing from a few centuries ago was not laundered often because the undergarments protected them, in turn being the very reason that antique clothing has survived the centuries.  Removable cuffs and collars also protected their shirts and dresses from dirt, along with the full bib aprons which I recall my mom’s mother always wearing over her dresses in the old farmhouse.  My dad’s mother seemed to wear mostly a below-the-waist type apron over her every-day dress.  Wearing pants, or jeans, was out of the question for my grandmothers’ generation!
    But, to wash all the laundry, soap was needed.  One of the annual fall chores was to make soap, typically done after the fall butchering of hogs.  Virtually every part of a butchered hog had a purpose with the lard being used for cooking or making soap.  Soap making began well in advance by burning hardwoods down to white ash.  Next, a tall wooden barrel was set up with holes in the bottom for drainage.  Small stones were placed in the bottom of the barrel, and covered with straw.  A good layer of white ashes was put in with naturally soft rainwater poured on top of the ashes.  Then followed a slow drainage of the water down through the ashes, straw and stones before the liquid leached out of the holes in the bottom of the barrel and into a separate wooden or glass bucket.  This effort produced liquid lye.  Aluminum containers were not used as the lye would destroy them.
    Sometimes an ash hopper was used to make lye rather than the tall wooden barrel.  By keeping the ash hopper in a shed to protect it from rain, fresh ashes could be added periodically with water poured on top every so often to obtain a steady supply of lye.  Again, the lye would drip slowly into a bucket beneath the hopper. 
    To test the strength of the lye, either a potato or an egg was floated on top.  If it floated with about a modern quarter-sized area of its surface above the liquid, the lye was ready for use in making soap.  If it was too weak, it could be boiled down more, or poured back through more ashes.  If it was too strong, a little more water was added.
    To make old-fashioned soap, water, lye and tallow/animal fat is needed.  One recipe I found online uses 2 gallons of rain water, 10 ounces of lye by volume (not weight), and 5 lbs of tallow/lard (animal fat).  Trim the fat into about 1-inch cubes, removing anything that looks like meat or is not white.  Start a fire under a cast iron pot (split pine apparently works best as it heats quickly and the heat is controlled easier).  Place the tallow cubes into the pot to render (cook) the fat into a liquid.  Once the fat has cooked down, strain it through cheesecloth in a funnel-shaped container.  The liquid should be a nice amber color. 
    Then, measure and weigh 5 lbs of liquid fat, putting it back into the cast iron pot (again, aluminum will be eaten by the lye).  Slowly add the water to the fat, which cools the fat down to solidify it into a greasy cream.  Make sure the mixture is well blended.  Carefully measure out 10 oz. of lye into a glass container.  (Red Devil Lye brand can be purchased, and was often used by our ancestors if they did not make their own lye from ashes.)  Carefully add the lye into the tallow/water mixture using a wooden paddle to stir it gently.  Be careful - since lye is extremely caustic, it can burn your skin and eyes on contact. 
    Cook the soap mixture for 30-60 minutes, stirring occasionally, adjusting the heat to keep it from boiling over.  After cooking, the mixture should be similar to a creamy chicken soup.  When the wooden paddle removed from the mixture has “sheets” that look like hot wax hanging from the paddle, it’s ready to pour into wooden, glass or cast-iron molds that have been lined with plastic wrap or waxed paper.  Allow the soap to harden for a few days before cutting it into bars.  It may take a week or more to harden for use.  (Online Source:  Shepherds Hill Homestead, Making Lye Soap – no longer available online.  Try Daves Homestead, How to make the easiest lye soap ever.
    Before washing stacks of laundry, the ladies would have sorted the clothing, soaking some overnight in soapy water.  Sounds similar enough, doesn’t it?!  But the difference starts with their gathering enough firewood to feed a large fire under each huge copper (which did not rust or stain like iron) or black cast-iron kettle.  You’ve seen those kettles in front yards either upright or on their side as a large flower urn.  The Iron Kettle Farm in Candor takes its name from their large black iron kettles on display.
    Next, water had to be hauled from the well to fill the kettle(s) and any other wash or rinse basins.  About 20-40 gallons of water were needed per wash load, with perhaps 10 gallons more for the scrub and rinse basins.  Remember, they had no running water back then either; and, if they did not have a water source close at hand, walking a distance with heavy shoulder yokes to carry buckets of water would have been the norm.  My mom’s mother raised a large farm family of 12 children, not having running water in the house until the early 1930s, 20 or so years after my grandparents married (my mother, child #11, was born after running water was available).  Are we tired yet?!
    After starting a good fire under the kettle to boil the water, some lye soap was put into the water.  Clothes were then dunked into the boiling water and agitated by using a 2-3 foot long wooden paddle.  Some garments might be removed to a smaller basin where they could be scrubbed more thoroughly to remove dirt and stains.  Remember the antique wooden shutter-like washboards?  They were put to good use as the clothes were rubbed over the “shutters” to loosen dirt.  Chalk and brick dust were often used on greasy stains.  Alcohol could treat grass stains, kerosene, and blood stains.  Milk was believed to be helpful in removing fruit stains from clothing and urine stains from diapers.  Lemon and onion juice were often used for bleaching. 
    Colored garments were not washed with lye soap in order to prevent fading.  Instead, they were scrubbed by hand in cold or lukewarm water.  Need something starched?  Great-great-grandma simply put that garment into water that had been used to cook potatoes or rice, making sure the water had not soured or turned moldy before putting the clothing in it.  If the used potato or rice water was not used for laundry, it was often used to make bread.  Nothing went to waste back then. 
    Once boiled, washed and rinsed, the laundry had to be wrung out before drying.  If you were wealthy, you might own a “box mangle” which wound the laundry around rollers, and then rolled a heavy box over them to squeeze out excess water.  Normally, water was simply wrung out by hand by twisting each garment.  Then, the clothing was hung on a clothesline (without clothespins), spread out on bushes, hedgerows, fences, wooden frames, or even spread out over the lawn.  And, oh my!  If the farm animals or pets got into the clothing, one had quite a mess and had to start the process all over again.  If it was not good drying weather, everything was dried inside the house or up in the attic.  A good hot fire in the fireplace or cook stove would help dry the clothes very well.
    After the laundry was done and dried, the ladies would need to iron the clothing.  That required heating up heavy irons in the fireplace in order to press each garment.  What a hot chore that must have been!  And all the time they were taking care of the laundry, they had other household chores and meals to prepare, children to care for, and barn chores if the man of the house was out in the fields clearing land, planting or harvesting.  It was definitely not an easy life for our ancestors…
  7. Linda Roorda
    I love taking walks in the fields and through the woods, and miss those walks from years ago.  Actually, for our first date on Christmas Day 1973, Ed took me for a walk up the hill on what used to be his family’s farm, now the Hollybrook Country Club golf course.  We followed a steep path upward that once upon a time was used to access a hayfield, presumably by a team of draft horses.  From the top, standing in a grove of white pines planted in defined rows, we looked back down on the farm.  I took a few photos - without a zoom lens, they did not come out well.  But, our view out over the snow-covered valley was awesome!  And, it was the first of many long walks to come.
    Years later, we took our three children, and close friends, Kathy and Hugh with their two children, for walks up the new logging trails.  We even found two trees with a straight “bar” of wood growing between them.  I have no idea what formed this oddity; but it was completely covered in bark, joining the two trees like a friendly handshake between them.
    We also took our three children for walks through the fields even though, admittedly, it wasn’t a favorite hike for all of them – though they did enjoy taking turns riding on their Daddy’s shoulders!  One of the worst moments, though, was when our daughter, Emily, got the toe of her sneaker caught in a small-animal trap as we entered the main logging trail into the woods.  Let me tell you, I was furious!  Ed and his father had not been notified by anyone that traps had been set out there.  Thankfully, we were able to get the trap off Em’s sneaker.  Thankfully, it had only latched onto the front of her sneaker where a thick band of heavy rubber protected her toes.  And, thankfully, she suffered no damage other than bruising to her toes. 
    Making no apologies for my anger, I took a rock and smashed the trap into several pieces, tossing them into the underbrush.  A day or so later I saw two young men walk across the back of the fields, looking for a trap that was no longer there.  Unfortunately, we never knew who they were to have asked them about their not having had permission to trap on our land, let alone not giving us knowledge where said trap lay covered up in the middle of the trail, and the fact that it could have caused much worse damage to Em’s foot.  Though I did not know it at that time, it is illegal to touch someone else’s trap; but, it is also unethical not to ask for permission to trap on property that is not yours, not to mention unethical to lack the courtesy to inform the land owner of where your traps are placed.
    Another time, we saw a gorgeous buck with an awesome large rack off in the distance in what Ed and his father called the “21-acre piece.”  It was a very rocky field.  After they moved on the farm in 1968, they picked 80 loads of rocks before deciding that was beyond enough and they just dealt with the rest.  They always said they didn’t know how crops grew with all those rocks which seemed to birth new ones every spring, but that field grew the absolute best alfalfa! 
    But, back to that buck.  He gazed at us as he stood proud and tall, and began pawing the ground.  Then he stomped and snorted, trotted toward us a bit, and pawed and snorted again.  Soon enough, he quickly and gracefully bounded off as he disappeared back into the woods.  What an awesome sight that had been!
    I remember taking walks a few years later with our son, Dan, like when we spent time identifying as many plants in a pasture that we could for one of his Boy Scout badges on his way to becoming an Eagle Scout.  Another time we followed turkey tracks into the woods.  Taking walks in the winter months, we saw many animal trails though we didn’t always know what footprints belonged to which animal. 
    Dan and I even got lucky to find deer beds in the snow!  Tucked under gnarled and weathered ancient apple trees in the meadow pasture (below the ridge that runs behind our property), they provided the deer a well-used cozy hideaway.  This old apple orchard was located below where a saw mill had been situated above the creek in the 1800s.  On the south side of the creek, and along the side of that field, was the old dam remnant which had backed up the creek to provide sufficient water flow for the mill.  The images of farm life from another century scroll through my mind, as I think about those who used to enjoy walking these fields so long ago.
    Thankful for another day and God’s beauty in creation on display all around us… from the gardens we cultivate to the natural wild beauty I/we too often take for granted. This past Friday, I attended the Memorial Service for my late cousin Robert’s wife, Virginia, at His Tabernacle in Horseheads. I lived with their family for 6 months in 1974 before my marriage to Ed that October. Virginia shared her advice, wisdom, humor, and recipes for her spaghetti sauce and goulash which I made for decades and miss on my limited diet. Posted to FB yesterday, one of her sons and his wife shared photos of the beauty and sounds of nature on their walk in the peace of God’s love surrounding them.  In a previous reflection for my poem “Creation’s Glory,” I shared my enjoyment of taking walks in the fields and woods of my cousin Howard’s farm in Nichols, NY.  I love the solitude and beauty of nature, God’s creation.  May we enjoy the generous blessings God has showered on us in so many ways... as we go for a walk, taking in His love enveloping us... even as you enjoy visualizing your own walk among nature’s beauty with this poem. 
    Come Take A Walk
    Linda A. Roorda
    Come take a walk upon a path
    That stretches out beside a creek
    And wanders past the arching trees
    As through the fields and woods we stroll.
     
    While sun above shines brightly down
    Casting shadows of dappled grays,
    Fluffy white clouds roam bright blue skies
    Lending a glow along our way.
     
    Tuffets of grass, castles for mice
    Who part the strands to peak between
    And gaze in wonder as giants pass
    Eyes open wide, they take it all in.
     
    Minnows darting between the rocks
    Slightly hidden among the reeds
    Peeking around to catch a glimpse
    Of who’ll they be when they have grown.
     
    For swimming here are bass and trout
    Catfish and snakes and pollywogs
    The creek is teeming with life beneath
    A surface smooth and lightly rippled.
     
    Moving along we gaze on sights
    Only few see to take delight
    For there are ducks and geese with young
    Plying waters, enjoying a swim.
     
    High above us and all around
    Squirrels jumping, tails a’bobble
    Seeking berries, seeds and leaf buds
    Keeping an eye on strangers below.
     
    There’s an eagle!  King of the sky!
    High in a tree with eyes that pierce
    Seeking a meal to take back home
    He swoops down quick as talons grip tight.
     
    Turkeys strutting, feathers fanned wide
    Toms keeping guard, hens grazing with ease
    Moving steadily across the field
    A beautiful sight though rarely seen.
     
    A rabbit hops along the trail
    I never saw nor heard a sound
    But there he goes darting among
    The brambles wild, his home beneath.
     
    A tiny fawn cautiously peeks
    Beside his mom as she stands tall
    Gazing about to check the air
    Strangers like us cause her to fear.
     
    With quickest turn she bounds away
    As tawny fawn brings up the rear
    White tails held high they dart through brush
    To hidden home in forest deep.
     
    The sights beheld have not begun
    To share that seen in walking past
    Ferns and flowers, trees in full leaf
    Grass growing green, birds on the wing.
     
    The beauty here in nature’s bounty
    That holds the eye and touches the ear
    Savor the treat, hold onto treasures
    Blessings from above for us to enjoy.
    Photo: Lake McDonald, Glacier National Park, by Linda A. Roorda, 2004
     
  8. Linda Roorda
    Father’s Day… a time to remember the dads we treasure.  They’ve taught us well in the ways of life.  And I remember a lot about my dad.  In fact, it would be fair to say that I had put him on a pedestal while growing up… not a wise placement for anyone. But it seems he could do anything and everything, a jack-of-all-trades.  Though none of us can measure up all the time, there is One who is perfect… who forgives all our failings… our heavenly Father.
    There is so much my Dad, Ralph, taught me and my five siblings, including all about the love of Jesus.   As a small child on the farm, I would say, “Jesus is my best friend!”  But, for a time as a teen, I forgot my childhood friend until my Dad reminded me of those words I used to say as a little girl.  Oops! 
    I loved playing board games on Sunday afternoons with my Dad, especially Scrabble. I love the challenge of this game and tend to play aggressively, perhaps because I was in tough competition with my Dad.  Though I won only one game against him over those several years, it was a sweet victory knowing that I’d accomplished the win without his having given me an edge.
    He taught me honesty was the right way such that in 8th grade English class I chose to write an essay entitled “Honesty Is The Best Policy”, receiving an A.  Actually, I think I may have gotten writing and art abilities from him.  Although he was an exceptional storyteller, perfectly imitating voice and mannerisms of various comedians, I speak best through the written word.  He also had a gift for drawing with his talent for art passed on to me and my son.
    As we grew up, we loved hearing Dad tell family stories of his and our childhoods.  He had a gift for telling any story in a humorous way, and how I long to hear them all again.  I’d ask him to write them down for posterity, but he never did.  When he drove truck in the latter 1960s through the 1990s (and later huge tractors for an Iowan farmer), he’d come home with stories from the road.  He shared radio routines by Bill Cosby and southern Cajun comedians, recalling their stories and imitating accents perfectly!  That was way better entertainment than TV any day! 
    I recall a few stories of his time in the Army at Fort Greeley, Alaska (1956-1957), a foreign assignment before official statehood.  From 18 months to 2 years, I was too young to remember my six months at Delta Junction with my baby sister.  But, I do remember having heard how he, his best buddy Roland, and two other friends found a sunken rowboat.  As it lay not far below the surface of a lake, they pulled it up, cleaned it off, and took it out to fish.  It made for an interesting adventure to say the least – while they each took a turn fishing, the other three worked hard at bailing to keep the boat afloat! Now that’s dedicated fishermen! 
    Fort Greeley is also where he learned to drive big rigs.  With someone ill, he was asked to take over in the motor pool one night.  Proving he could handle backing up a trailer perfectly, the commanding officer asked where he’d learned to do that since everyone else struggled.  “Backing up a manure spreader, Sir!” was his dutiful reply.  They kept him in the motor pool, where he gained invaluable training for later driving 18-wheelers.
    He also was given a rare promotion because he took the time to thoroughly clean an office coffeepot, a skill learned from his Dutch immigrant mother who had taught him all aspects of housekeeping while growing up, like any good Dutch mother.  With a general visiting Fort Greeley, and the coffee-making task handed down to my Dad, he took pains to provide a clean urn for making fresh-brewed coffee… which greatly impressed the general.  When the general asked who made the coffee, the aide who was supposed to have made it “blamed” my Dad.  Instead of the feared reprimand for the typically bad-tasting coffee the office was known for, the general complimented my father on the best cup he’d ever tasted!  Turning to the senior officer, he told him to give my father a promotion!
    When we were younger, he always had time for us. I loved it when he took us fishing to Garret Mountain in Clifton, Lake Hopatcong and Upper Greenwood Lake. And, though I could never bring myself to touch those worms (still can’t!), let alone put them on a hook, and never did catch “the big one,” it was the quality time with our Dad that meant so much to us kids.  As a tomboy, I especially enjoyed working outside with my Dad whether it was in the barn learning to care for the animals, in the huge vegetable gardens, or traipsing the fields and woods hunting.  That love just naturally transferred to enjoying the time spent working alongside my husband out in the barn or in the yard, even growing my own gardens.
    As we grew older, we teens were often in our own little world yet I still adored my Dad.  He listened and gave sound advice.  I even recall the day he didn’t go to work, taking me instead for a drive to discuss a problem I was dealing with.  At times though, I wasn’t ready to listen to him because, as life moved on, his anger took control and he wasn’t always there for us as a family, causing division with his divorce by expecting full support.
    But I treasure our renewed relationship later in life.  With apologies for my own errors as a teen, I heard his sadness as I expressed how family dysfunction affected all of us, and he understood my saying I/we all had needed him more than he realized when he was on the road for 2-4 weeks at a time.  I appreciated his compliments on my writing for a local newspaper, my own blogs, publishing genealogy research in a national journal (The New York Genealogical & Biographical Record), and for how well I raised my family and took care of my Mom.  Honesty and forgiveness cleared the way for better relationships with love expressed to both my parents.  God truly takes our most difficult situations, working them for our good when we love Him, admit our errors, and make amends.
    My Dad’s careers changed from farming, to driving a grain truck delivering feed to dairy farmers (with top NY State Purina Feed salesman award for 1961 and 1962), to carpentry with his Dad, a general contractor in northeast New Jersey, to driving a tank truck locally and later OTR (over the road/cross country).  When we lived in Clifton, NJ, he drove chemical tankers locally in northeast Jersey, southern New England, and New York City.  What stories he brought home from his experiences!  I got to ride with him only twice and wish it could have been more.
    I was never so happy as when we moved back to New York in 1969!  Though I hated city life, I can now look back with fond memories of Clifton, NJ.  As we settled into “backyard farming,” he taught me how to care for our mare, War Bugg, a granddaughter of Man O’ War, a retired Western working ranch registered Quarter Horse.  One of his trucking buddies also worked the rodeo circuit and put War Bugg through her paces – she did a figure-eight so tight you’d’ve thought she’d fall over!  I helped Dad build her corral and box stall in the small barn, along with re-roofing and remodeling the old chicken coop for our flock.  And then came the heavy-duty barn chores of bringing hay down out of the mow, hauling 50-lb bags of grain, mucking out the pens, learning to groom War Bugg and pick up her feet to clean the soft undersides, devouring books on horses and their care, dreaming of being an equine vet.  I saw his deep concern when I stepped on a wasp’s nest in the haymow with 11 stings on my leg, and his gratefulness for my dousing him with a 5-gallon pail of water when a torch threatened to catch him on fire while trying to burn tent caterpillars.
    But I also learned the hard way that running War Bugg flat out up the road and back could have killed her.  I’d simply clicked my tongue and she took off like a rocket, so I let her run.  I was scolded hard, yet taught to walk her slowly, allowing her to have only small sips of warm water till she cooled down.  After riding her another time, I dismounted, tied her to the backyard light pole, ran into the house briefly; and on returning, realized she’d pulled on and broken her bridle, standing as if still tied with reins straight down.  And I realized she was Western trained to be “ground tied” and to take off at the click of the tongue, very responsive to touch, the absolute best horse!  I still miss her…
    Soon enough, I got married and began a new life with my new family, while my siblings and parents scattered themselves around the U.S.  Life changes, and we change with it. As a child, I teased my Dad when he turned 30 that he was old, and that when he’d turn 50 he’d be “over the hill!”  Well, Dad, guess what?  Your oldest daughter reached that milestone a ways back, and she’s still kickin’!  Giving him this writing in 2014 before he passed away April 17, 2015, his wedding anniversary with my Mom, he knew I felt blessed to have him as my Dad.  Sometimes I wish I could go back and relive the childhood fun of days long ago, but I treasure those memories that linger still... and I love you, Dad!
    May you each be blessed with very special memories of your Dad, too!  Happy Father’s Day! 
    I Remember A Dad
    Linda A. Roorda
    I remember a dad who took me fishin’
    And remember a dad who hooked my worms,
    Who took those hooks from fishy mouths,
    And showed me the country way of life.
    ~
    A family of six, two girls and four boys
    Fun and trouble we shared as we grew.
    From farms and fields to paved avenues,
    Walking and biking, exploring we went.
    ~
    I remember a time spent playing games,
    A dad who’d not cheat for us to win.
    Family and friends and holiday dinners,
    Lakes and farms and countryside drives.
    ~
    Weeds were the bane of childhood fun,
    So ‘tween the rows we ran and we played.
    But as I grew and matured in age,
    Weeding was therapy in gardens of mine.
    ~
    I remember a dad who thrived on farming
    Livestock and gardens, and teaching me how.
    I remember a dad who took me huntin’
    Scoutin’ the fields, always alert.
    ~
    I remember a dad who taught us more
    For growing up we learn by example.
    I remember working alongside my dad
    Roofing a barn and building corrals.
    ~
    I remember a dad whose gifts were given
    In fairness to meet each child’s desire.
    I remember a dad whose wisdom we honor
    In memories of caring and love in small ways.
    ~
    I remember a dad who brought us laughter
    With Cajun and Cosby stories retold.
    For blessed with a gift of retelling tales
    Family and childhood events he recalled.
    ~
    I remember a dad whose time was given
    To help his children face life’s turmoils.
    Time spent together are memories treasured
    For things done best put family first.
    ~
    I remember a dad who taught me more
    To treasure my faith in Jesus my friend.
    In looking to Him as Savior and Lord,
    Salvation by Grace, not earned by my deed.
    ~
    As I look back to days long ago,
    I remember the dad I knew so well.
    For I miss the dad who took me fishin’
    And remember the dad who taught me more.
    Listen to my recording of "I Remember A Dad" under my friend's podcast, Balms for the Soul.
  9. Linda Roorda
    Despite all the work to get ready, I really enjoyed being part of our Spencer-Van Etten Farmers Market yesterday, with a surprise video made (by a friend of my high school friend!) which introduced each of us vendors, shared to my Facebook page. It was great to meet friends I haven’t seen or talked to in a good while! One of our vendors introduced herself, saying she remembered me and my sister from high school in Owego, and graduated with my sister! Amazing! But what deeply touched my heart was when a precious young lady and I shared smiles and greetings as she told her grandfather she knew me from school! As a sub this spring, I’d always worn a mask; yet as a pre-K student, she recognized me without a mask! It reminded me that we truly can make a difference in the world…
    Laughter is good for the soul, they say.  It can lift us up when we’ve had a down day, when nothing seems to be going right… hearty laughter, giggles over the silliest of things, and laughter that brings tears of joy to our eyes… it’s all like a song of love in our soul.
    So often I see my husband’s love and care for me like that of our Lord’s above.  In praising and thanking God, the One who sustains me and you day by day, I felt a song of love rising within my soul.  In every way, every day, He is there… even when I fail to see Him or thank Him. Unfortunately, sometimes, I take my Lord for granted… just like I do with my husband and others at times.
    Yet, in the depths of His loving care, you and I are not taken for granted by our gracious Lord.  If He so cares for the birds that fly around us, providing their next meal and the means by which they make a nest and raise their little ones… then surely He will care for you and me with His great love.  And, if He also cares for the beautiful wild flowers of the field and the hybridized delicate and hardy flowers of our cultivated gardens, surely He will also provide for all of our needs in the way He knows best!
    “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?  Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?  Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?
    “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith?  So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”  (Matthew 6:25-34  NIV)
    Today’s poem and theme come from one of my favorite section of verses since childhood. Our God cares so much for us - when life runs along smoothly and even in the most difficult of times when we struggle. Sometimes we forget their source and take our blessings for granted… but may the beauty and blessing of this new day remind us how greatly we are loved. And may you find joy and laughter in the simplest of things today! God bless you!   
    Your Love is a Song
    Linda A. Roorda 
    Your love is a song bringing joy to my heart
    For all I need, Lord, is found in you,
    And carried on wings to Your throne above
    Are prayers of praise from my grateful soul.
     
    Your love is a song that gives me reason
    With You at my side my life has purpose,
    You assuage my fears and calm worried brow
    And lighten the load of burdens and cares.
     
    Your love is a song in the morning dews
    For all You do to meet daily needs
    That I would know how great is Your care
    In giving me strength to face each new day.
     
    Your love is a song within the trials
    When my heart cries out in deepest despair
    Your answering voice calms my weary soul
    As Your gentle hand brings comfort and peace.
     
    Your love is a song in laughter’s therapy
    From giggles and grins to snuggles and hugs
    You care for me like birds of the field
    With a gentle hand as you hold my heart.
     
    Your love is a song that frees my soul
    With mercy and grace to cover each day
    Your welcoming arms delight in Your child
    And guide my steps along wisdom’s path.
    ~~
  10. Linda Roorda
    It’s a fact that we Americans love our 4th of July celebrations!  We especially enjoy family gatherings and picnics, and big parades with lots of floats and marching bands.  We look forward to fireworks with their beautiful colors and designs exploding in the night sky.  We decorate our homes with flags and bunting.  We salute, or respectfully place our hand over our heart, as our nation’s flag is carried past us by military veterans in parades.  And, we recall the two important founding documents of our nation: 
    1)      Preamble to the Declaration of Independence:  “…We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…” 
    2)      Preamble to the U.S. Constitution:  “We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America…”
    What precious meaning these words have held as we take time to gaze backward to their origins, something I never tire learning about.
    As I contemplated our nation’s celebrations, I thought about the effort and sacrifice it took from many to give us the freedoms we so often take for granted.  I am so thankful for all we have in America which many around the world do not enjoy.  But I also wondered if perhaps we have forgotten all that took place a long time ago, and if this day has simply become a traditional fun holiday.  Though no nation or government has been perfect as far back as the beginning of time, the early days of a young nation’s beginnings provide perspective for today’s America, this bastion of freedom.  So, it’s fitting that we ponder what part our ancestors played in the making of our great America some 240 years ago.  And, I might add, one of the best parts of researching my ancestors was the great lasting friendships I’ve made with other descendants.
    Several of my ancestors served in the Revolutionary War in various capacities, some of whom I researched more extensively than others.  Originally, I did not plan to bring them into this article.  But then it occurred to me that would be fitting.  Knowledge of personal service and sacrifice often provides us with a greater understanding of the historical era and what our collective ancestors experienced. 
    Numerous events, political acts, and taxes over many years led to the First Continental Congress meeting from September 5 through October 2, 1774 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  It was held to counteract the British Parliament’s Coercive Acts (commonly called the Intolerable Acts by the colonists) which were intended to punish the colonists for their Tea Party held in Boston’s harbor.  
    But, among the early precipitators of the American Revolution was the import ban in 1774 against firearms and gunpowder enacted by the British government.  Next came the order to confiscate all guns and gunpowder.  The aptly named “Powder Alarm” took place on September 1, 1774 when Redcoats sailed up the Mystic River to capture hundreds of powder barrels stored in Charlestown.  Taking the event seriously, 20,000 militiamen turned out and marched to Boston.  Battle was avoided at that time, but ultimately took place the following spring at Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1775.  Within these events lie the foundation of our Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution as written by Thomas Jefferson in 1791: “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”
    The Second Continental Congress began meeting in Philadelphia on May 10, 1775.  That very same day, Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys seized New York’s Fort Ticonderoga from the British after traveling west from Vermont.
    On June 14, 1775, delegates from the Second Continental Congress created the Continental Army from colonial militia near Boston.  The next day, they appointed an esteemed and experienced military and civic leader as commanding general of their new army, a humble man by the name of George Washington, congressman of Virginia.  Nearly a month later, Washington arrived in Boston to take command on July 3rd.  The Continental Congress then approved a Declaration of Causes on July 6th.  This proclamation outlined why the thirteen colonies should stand united against Great Britain’s political clout and military force.
    Through these early years, and with pressing urgency, the great minds of the day began formulating a bold statement of the burdens the colonists bore from an overbearing government an ocean away.  Initially, the colonists were not looking to start a war; they simply wanted their concerns heard and addressed.  But, revolt would be a relevant term regarding that which was festering.  They felt the heavy hand of tyranny over them like a smothering umbrella with their king and his government’s over-reaching philosophy of “taxation without representation.”   
    It did not take much for congressional delegates to think back and recall the Boston Massacre of March 5, 1770.  Several colonials had taunted the ever-present British soldiers.  Reinforcement soldiers shot into the crowd killing five civilians, injuring six others.  Three years later, the Tea Act in May 1773 was followed by the Boston Tea Party on December 16th.  The year 1775 began with several new tax acts put in place; labeled collectively as the Intolerable Acts, they were Britain’s answer to their colonists’ unrest.  And then an auspicious delegation met in Virginia on March 23, 1775. Those present never forgot Patrick Henry’s speech and resounding words, “Give me liberty or give me death!”
    Paul Revere’s midnight ride came the night of April 18/19, 1775 to warn of British ships arriving at Boston’s shores.  [From the interstate, I have seen Boston’s diminutive North Church tucked beneath the shadows of modern “skyscrapers,” and walked the upper and lower decks of the U.S.S. Constitution from the subsequent War of 1812 – with a sailor in period dress uniform talking on a telephone!]  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “Paul Revere’s Ride” (“Listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…”) has been said to contain many inaccuracies; in reality, it was written 80 years after Revere rode out with several others on horseback, quietly alerting other Patriots, but it may also be that Longfellow simply wrote a flowing ode to Revere with embellishments as any poet is wont to do. 
    The British government was again intent on confiscating all weapons held by the colonists.  Bands of British troops were sent to confiscate ammunition stores in Salem, Massachusetts and part of New Hampshire.  Both times, Paul Revere, a silversmith, was among members of the Sons of Liberty who alerted townsfolk in advance of enemy troops, giving them sufficient time to hide weapons and frustrate the British military.
    Desiring to alert citizens, Revere garnered assistance from Robert Newman, sexton at Boston’s North Church.  To warn that the Redcoats were coming from the shorter water route across Boston’s inner harbor, Newman hung two lanterns from the steeple window.  These lanterns were clearly seen by those in Charlestown, including the British, unfortunately.  Newman must have felt tremendous fear as the Brits attempted to break into the church while he was still there.  Reportedly, he managed to escape capture by quietly sneaking out a window near the altar moments before enemy soldiers entered the church to begin their search.  And the very next day, April 19, 1775, the Minutemen and British redcoats clashed at Lexington and Concord with “the shot heard ‘round the world.’” 
    Two months later, June 17, 1775 saw the Battle of Bunker Hill (actually Breed’s Hill) on the Charlestown Peninsula overlooking Boston.  Per military records, my ancestor John Caldwell McNeill was present as part of the Hampshire Line.  As British columns advanced toward American redoubts, the colonists were reportedly told by their commander, “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!”  The British were shot virtually pointblank and hastily retreated – twice.  It was not until the third advance by the British that the inexperienced colonists lost to a superior military force.  As the colonists’ limited ammunition ran out, hand-to-hand combat took place on that third advance.  The redcoats took control with greater troop numbers despite their loss of over 1000 men, while the colonists counted over 200 killed and more than 800 wounded.  Yet, the inexperienced Americans realized their dedication and determination could overcome the superior British military which, in turn, realized this little uprising was going to bring a long and costly war to the Crown.  
    With pressure mounting, the congressional delegation met the next year in the City of Brotherly Love.  Here, they commenced to hammering out wording for what would henceforth be termed a declaration of independence. 
    “Monday, July 1, 1776, [was] a hot and steamy [day] in Philadelphia.”  In a letter to the new president of Georgia, Archibald Bulloch, John Adams wrote, “This morning is assigned the greatest debate of all.  A declaration, that these colonies are free and independent states… and this day or tomorrow is to determine its fate.  May heaven prosper the newborn republic.” (John Adams, David McCullough, Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, New York, NY, 2001, p.125.)  The delegates felt the tension amongst themselves in the debates and wording of their declaration, and the voting at the end of the day was not unanimous.  Their tension was heightened that evening as news reached the city that one hundred British ships had been sighted off New York, with eventually more than 300 joining the initial fleet.  The seriousness of what they were undertaking was felt by every man in the delegation for they knew their very lives were on the line.
    July 2nd saw an overcast day with cloudbursts letting loose as the delegates met.  The New York delegates abstained from voting while others joined the majority to make a unanimous decision.  Thus, on July 2, 1776, twelve colonies voted to declare independence from Britain.  More than anyone else, John Adams made it happen.  His elation showed in writing home about the proceedings to his wife, Abigail.  “The second day of July 1776 will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America.  I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival.  It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty.  It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more.”  (McCullough, pp. 129-130)
    News spread like wildfire throughout Philadelphia.  A young artist, Charles Willson Peale, journaled that “This day the Continental Congress declared the United Colonies Free and Independent States.”  (McCullough, p.130)   But, Congress still had to review what the delegation had written before an official statement could be made.
    July 3rd blessed the city with a drop of 10 degrees following cloudbursts the day before.  Tensions had even begun to ease among the men, but still there was much work to be done.  More discussion and deliberation ensued as they reviewed the language of their declaration.  (McCullough, pp. 130-135)  Much had to be cut and reworded to make it a more concise document which then boldly declared, “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.  When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.” 
    Benjamin Franklin offered encouraging and comforting words to the now-silent Thomas Jefferson whose many words were debated and cut.  When their work was finished, it was still Thomas Jefferson’s words, however, which have held a firm and tender spot in the hearts of Americans ever since.  To Jefferson goes the credit for writing “…We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.  That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…”  (McCullough, p.130-136)  
    Thursday, July 4, 1776, dawned cool and comfortable.  The tension was gone from the weather just as it was now from among the men of the delegation.  Discussions were again held through late morning when a final vote was taken.  New York still abstained, but the other twelve colonies voted unanimously to support the hard work they had wrought in this Declaration of Independence.  Ultimately, the delegates from all thirteen colonies, including New York, signed the document in solidarity. (McCullough, p. 136)
    Celebrations began on the 8th when the published Declaration was read to the public.  Thirteen cannon blasts reverberated throughout Philadelphia, bells rang day and night, bonfires were lit everywhere, and candles shone bright in windows.  The news reached Washington and his troops in New York City the next day where the Declaration was read.  More celebrations sprang up as the crowds pulled down the equestrian statue of King George III.  (McCullough, p.136-137)  But, their elation was not long in lasting.
    In reality, it would be several more years before celebrations of this magnitude would again be held.  In reality, though the hard work of writing such a declaration was finally completed, even harder efforts and sacrifices of thousands of men and boys on battlefields were about to begin.  In reality, the conflict about to begin would affect every man, woman and child living within the thirteen colonies in ways they could never have imagined.  And, ultimately, their great sacrifices gave rise to the freedoms which we enjoy and tend to take for granted today.
    The lives of the men who signed this declaration were also forever affected.  If the new America lost its war for independence, every signer of said document faced charges of treason and death by hanging for actions against their king.  In signing, they gave “support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, [as] we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.” 
    There were 56 representatives from all thirteen colonies who signed, ranging in age from 26 to 70 (the oldest being the esteemed Benjamin Franklin).  Over half were lawyers, but the men included planters, merchants and shippers.  Most of them were wealthy men who had much to lose should Britain win.  Though none of them died at the hand of the enemy, four men were taken captive during the war by the British, with one-third of the signers being military officers during the war.  And, nearly all of them were poorer when the war ended than when it began. 
    There was much at stake in the days and years ahead after the Declaration of Independence was signed and the war began in earnest.  Some men abandoned the battle lines, their friends, and what once seemed like worthy ideals, and simply walked home.  Many suffered untold pain and suffering as prisoners of war.  Many suffered deprivations of food and clothing along with disease and death within their own military camps.  Many fought family and friends in the same community as Patriot was pitted against Tory, i.e. Loyalist.  Schoharie County, New York, considered by historians to be “The Breadbasket of the Revolution,” provided an abundance of food for Washington’s northern troops.  To frustrate the colonists’ efforts, the British and their Loyalist supporters, including many Native Americans, destroyed and burned crops and buildings as they captured, killed and scalped settlers throughout the Mohawk and Schoharie Valley and along the western frontier during the war. 
    In reality, however, we likely would not have won our independence if it were not for Washington’s spies.  Barely two months after the Declaration was signed, a 21-year-old Yale graduate by the name of Nathan Hale from Massachusetts eagerly volunteered to spy for Washington.  He intended to go behind enemy lines on Long Island and in New York City to infiltrate the British strongholds.  Instead, not being sufficiently familiar with the area and its people, and likely having a New England accent, he was caught and found to have sketches of fortifications and memos about troop placements on him.  Without benefit of legal trial, he was sentenced to death.  His requests for a clergyman and a Bible were refused.  Just before being hung on September 22, 1776 in the area of 66th Street and Third Avenue in Manhattan, Hale was heard to say with dignity, “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”  (George Washington’s Secret Six, Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger, Penguin Group, New York, NY, 2013, p.1.)
    George Washington knew that he desperately needed spies, but he needed them to work in such a way that they would not be discovered.  His tender heart for his fellow countrymen deplored that even one should die for the cause of freedom.  Yet, he also knew that such loss was inevitable.  And, thus was born Washington’s spies so aptly named, “The Secret Six.”
    Out of the realization that Gen. George Washington desperately needed spies, and hating to lose even one more life after the hanging of Nathan Hale, a ring of trustworthy spies was gradually pulled together.  Washington’s “Secret Six” included five men and one woman embedded within and around New York City and Long Island, each familiar with the land and its people.  They reported to Washington on British movements and military plans in a timely fashion. 
    Because they knew the area, and were known by the people, they were readily accepted as they maneuvered amongst the enemy.  That is not to say, however, that they didn’t come close to being found out.  They lived in constant fear of such, not to mention the fear of losing their own lives and destroying their families in the process.  At times they were emotionally frail, depressed and despondent.  But, because of their passion for the freedom movement afoot, they came together for the greater benefit of all.
    At one point, Washington’s army was entirely surrounded by the British in New York City.  With tips from his spies, and being a man given to much time and prayer with God, his troops managed to quietly evacuate the city under the cover of night at an area not under guard.  With dawn, however, came the realization that a large contingent still remained behind and would be very visible to the enemy.  An answer to prayer was soon forthcoming to allow the balance of his men and equipment to leave the city – an unexpected and extremely dense morning fog enveloped the area, allowing them to continue crossing safely over into Jersey with the British unable to do anything about the Continental Army’s escape from their clutches. 
    Because of the work of Washington’s spies and the “important memos” he managed to have planted with false information behind enemy lines, the Americans were able to surprise the enemy at Trenton, New Jersey on Christmas Day night 1776 after the British had relaxed their guard and celebrated the day in style.  Needless to say, the Americans enjoyed a vital and rousing victory.
    Because of the spies and their efforts, accomplished with great fear for their own lives and that of their families, warning was given to Washington of 400 ships arriving from England.  The spies’ insider knowledge that the British were planning to attack and scuttle the French ships and troops coming to Washington’s aid allowed him to turn the tide in a timely manner.  He was able to fool the British into thinking he was readying an imminent attack on New York City, causing them to leave Long Island Sound, thus allowing the French time to land and move inland to safety in Connecticut without battling the British at sea before they even disembarked.
    Because of the spy who owned a print shop which seemingly supported King George, important plans were heard and passed on to Washington.  Other spies were privy to the upper level of command amongst the British military at parties in a particular merchandise shop and a certain coffeehouse.  A circuitous route was set up for their messenger across Long Island to Setauket where packets with concealed or innocuous-looking papers written in invisible ink and code were rowed to the Connecticut shore in a whale boat (while being pursued by the British) where another member took the seemingly innocent packet of merchandise and rode his horse overland to Washington’s camp in New Jersey.  At times, someone simply traveled out of New York City to visit relatives in northern New Jersey and met up with another dependable link to pass the information along to Washington’s headquarters.
    Because of their courage and resolve, the spies assisted in uncovering the Crown’s Major John Andre` (who, himself, ran a British spy ring) as he worked with Brigadier General Benedict Arnold, American commander at West Point.  Despite a prior stellar military record, but due to personal bitterness, Arnold was in the process of handing West Point over to Andre` and the British.  Through a series of blundering mistakes, because of the spies’ knowledge given to Washington at just the right moment, and because of the quick thinking of a couple of patriotic guards on a bridge leading back into New York City, Andre` was captured and later executed.  Arnold’s hand-over was thus thwarted, although Arnold managed to escape behind enemy lines and ultimately fled to England.
    Because of the supposed loyal British support by the owner of said print shop, a little book was obtained through his work as an undercover spy.  This inconspicuous little book contained key information on British troop movements at Yorktown, Virginia.  With important knowledge gained of the enemy’s military plans, Washington was able to redirect appropriate troops and ships to Yorktown.  General Cornwallis surrendered for the British on October 19, 1781 in an American victory where total defeat for the Americans would have otherwise taken place. 
    Because they swore themselves to secrecy, no one knew the full involvement of all six spies, nor all of their names.  Only gradually over the last few hundred years has their identities become known, the fifth not confirmed until recently.  All five men are now known, but the woman’s identity is not; she is simply known as Agent 355.  It is believed she was captured and became a prisoner; but, there is no hard evidence by research even to prove that conjecture. 
    The efforts of the six spies as they secretly obtained information and passed it along (devising their own specialty codes, using a unique invisible ink, and more) enabled them to maintain total secrecy.  Nor did they ever seek accolades for their work after the war was over.  The secrets to their successful accomplishments have been among the methods still taught and used successfully by our CIA today.
    In the interest of sharing the spies’ courage which undoubtedly helped us win the Revolutionary War, their story (as briefly described above) has been extensively researched and written by Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger in George Washington’s Secret Six, The Spy Ring That Saved the American Revolution.  It was one of my Christmas gifts from my husband a few years ago, and I highly recommend it to other history buffs.  It’s a read you’ll find difficult to set down!
    While researching my ancestry over 20 years ago, I purchased Revolutionary War pension application files of several ancestors who had served.  For those whose government files I did not purchase, their data was obtained from Schoharie County Historical Society, various Revolutionary War books, CDs, and documents proving their service.  Hoping that my family research might provide us a closer glimpse of the war through their experiences, I share their legacy.
    1) Frantz/Francis Becraft/Beacraft, bp. 06/12/1761, Claverack, Columbia Co., NY - Private, 3rd Comp., 3rd Regiment, 1st Rensselaerswyck Battalion, Albany County New York Militia, on muster roll from Berne in 1782, 1790 census at Berne.  In an 1839 affidavit, Francis Becraft of Berne stated that he “served as a Private in a company commanded by Capt. Adam Dietz in the County of Albany...” Frantz/Francis married Catherine Dietz (sister of said Capt. Adam Dietz), my g-g-g-g-grandparents.
    In researching my ancestors, I discovered an apparent familial tie to the notorious Tory Becraft/Beacraft.  This man felt no remorse in aligning himself with Joseph Brant’s Indians to capture, kill and scalp Patriots throughout Schoharie County, known to have brutally killed and scalped a young boy in the Vrooman family who managed to escape the house after his family had been murdered.  After the war ended, Becraft/Beacraft had the audacity to return from Canada to Schoharie County where he was immediately captured by ten men.  In meting out a punishment of 50 lashes by whip, the men supposedly reminded him of his infamous acts against the community, his former neighbors.  Roscoe notes that death did not linger for him after the final lash, and his ashes were buried on the spot.  Of the ten men who swore themselves to secrecy, apparently only five are known.  (History of Schoharie County, William E. Roscoe, pub. D. Mason & Comp., 1882, pp.250-251.)  
    However, in "Families (to 1825) of Herkimer, Montgomery, & Schoharie, N.Y.," a genealogical source on many early families by William V. H. Barker, it is noted that the Tory Becraft/Beacraft was Benjamin, born about 1759, brother of my ancestor noted above, Frantz/Francis Becraft.  If this is accurate and they are indeed brothers, they were both sons of Willem/William and Mareitje (Bond) Becraft.  Another source, “The Life of Joseph Brant – Thayendanegea…” notes Becraft survived his whipping and left the area (pg. 64), just as other undocumented sources indicate he survived and returned to Canada to live with his family.  So, I am uncertain as to whether Tory [Benjamin] Becraft actually died from his whippings or survived and left the area.
    2) Johannes/John Berlet/Berlett/Barlet, b. 05/08/1748, Schoharie, Schoharie Co., NY – Private, Tryon County Militia, 3rd Reg’t, Mohawk District.  He married Maria Gardinier, b. about 1751; their daughter Eva/Eveline Barlett married Martin Tillapaugh, b. 1778, my g-g-g-grandparents.
    3) Johann Hendrich/John Henry Dietz, bp 05/10/1722, Nordhofen, Vielbach, Germany – served in Lt. John Veeder’s Company, Rensselaerswyck, later under Capt. Sternberger’s Company at Schoharie.  He married Maria Elisabetha Ecker, bp. 1725; their daughter Catherine Dietz, b. 1761, married Frantz/Francis Beacraft above, my g-g-g-g-grandparents.
    As per my research article on Chemung County’s Newtown Battle, the Indian/Loyalist raids and massacres also touched my ancestral families in New York.  In Beaverdam (now Berne), New York near the Switzkill River on September 1, 1781, the Johannes Dietz family was attacked.  Johannes’ son, Capt. William Dietz was captured and forced to watch his elderly parents, wife, four young children and a Scottish maid be killed and scalped.  (see “Old Hellebergh,” Arthur B. Gregg, The Altamont Enterprise Publishers, Altamont, N.Y., 1936, p. 24; signed by Gregg, in Roorda’s collection from her father.)  Capt. William Dietz’s father, Johannes, was an older brother of my ancestor noted above, Johann Hendrich/John Henry Dietz. 
    4) Johan Dietrich Dallenbach/John Richard Dillenbach, b. 1733 per cemetery records, Stone Arabia, NY; father Jorg Martin Dallenbach born Lauperswil, Bern, Switzerland, emigrated with 1710 German Palatines.  John Richard Dillenbach married Maria Mynard; their son Martinus took name of Martin Tillapaugh (my lineage), married Eva/Eveline Barlett as above.  Dillenbach reported for duty March 20, 1757 when Sir William Johnson called local militia out to protect Fort William Henry on Lake George for the British.  The Seven Years’ War, or the French and Indian War, began in 1754 and ended with the European peace treaties of 1763 during which year Dillenbach again reported to defend Herkimer with the Palatine District Regiment.
    James Fennimore Cooper wrote The Last of the Mohicans about the siege of Fort William Henry.  Roughly 2300 colonial troops were protecting the British fort when the French arrived with about 8000 troops in August 1763 and heavily bombarded the fort.  With additional supporting troops not found to be on their way, the garrison was forced to surrender.  The men were to be protected as they retreated by generous treaty terms.  However, as the Indians entered the fort, they plundered, looted, scalped and killed about 200 colonials, many of them too sick to leave.  In desecrating graves of those who had died before the siege, the Indians exposed themselves to smallpox, taking the germs back to their homes.  The French destroyed the fort before returning to Canada.  Fort William Henry was reconstructed in the 1950s.  Visiting this fort in 1972 with the Lounsberry Methodist Church youth group, I was unaware at the time that my Dallenbach/Tillapaugh ancestor had walked that ground, having been involved in the siege and survived. 
    5) Timothy Hutton, b.11/24/1746, New York City.  He married 2nd) Elizabeth Deline b.1760.  Their son George b.1787 married Sarah Wyckoff b.1793, my g-g-g-grandparents.  Timothy served as Ensign in Philip Schuyler’s Regiment of Albany County Militia, at defeat of Gen. Burgoyne in Saratoga October 17, 1777; appointed Lieutenant in New York Levies under Col. Marinus Willett; defended Schoharie County from burnings and killings by British, Loyalists and Indians.  This Timothy is not to be confused with a nephew of same name and rank, b. 1764, which many have done, including an erroneous grave marker in Carlisle, New York.  Sorting their military service out was part of my extensive thesis and documentation in researching and publishing two lengthy articles on the origins and descendants of this Hutton family in the New York Genealogical & Biographical Record in 2004-2005. 
    My Timothy’s nephew William Hutton served extensively in the Revolutionary War throughout New York City, Long Island, and the Hudson Valley.  My Timothy’s nephew Christopher Hutton of Troy, NY served as Ensign, promoted to Lieutenant, member of the elite Society of the Cincinnati.  My Timothy’s nephew, Timothy Hutton b.1764, served as Lieutenant in New York Levies under Col. Willett, enlisting 1780 at age 16 in the Albany militia.  My Timothy’s nephews, Isaac and George (brothers of Christopher and the younger Timothy, all sons of George Hutton, the older brother of my ancestor Timothy Hutton), were well-known influential silversmiths during the Federal period in the late 18th/early 19th centuries in Albany.  Hutton silver is on display at museums in Albany, New York.
    6) Johannes Leenderse (John Leonardson), b.06/18/63, Fonda, Montgomery Co., NY - enlisted as private in 1779 at age 16, Tryon County Militia, 3rd Reg’t; Corporal in 1781; served on many expeditions in the Mohawk Valley and at forts; joined Col. Willett’s company on march to Johnstown October 1781 in successful battle against enemy who had burned and killed throughout Mohawk Valley; re-enlisted 1782.  Married Sarah Putman b.1773.  Their son Aaron Leonardson b.1796 married 3rd) Lana Gross, parents of Mary Eliza Leonardson b. about 1732 who married William Henry Ottman, my g-g-grandparents.
    7) John Caldwell McNeill, b. 1755, Londonderry, Rockingham Co., NH - at Bunker Hill (actually Breed’s Hill) on Charlestown June 17, 1775.  As Sergeant under Col. Timothy Bedel of the New Hampshire Line, John bought beef to pasture and butcher as needed for the troops.  Bedel’s regiment joined “Corp.1, Co. 1, New York Reg’t” on mission to Canada against British; taken captive with his cousins and friends at The Cedars near Montreal, an island in the St. Lawrence; soldiers were stripped of clothing, belongings and food, and released in cartel negotiated by Gen. Benedict Arnold before he became a traitor.  John served at and discharged at Saratoga, NY.  He married Hannah Caldwell b.1762; removed to Carlisle, Schoharie County, New York ca. 1794; their son Jesse McNeill m. Elizabeth Ostrom, my g-g-g-grandparents.
    😎 George Richtmyer, bp 04/23/1738, Albany Co., NY – Captain from 1775 through end of war in 15th Reg’t of Albany Militia, defending Cobleskill and Middleburg, Schoharie Co., NY.  Married Anna Hommel; their son Henrich/Henry married Maria Beacraft (see above), my g-g-g-grandparents.
    9) Hendrick/Henry Vonck/Vunck, b. 03/06/1757, Freehold, Monmouth Co., NJ - served as private and Corporal in New Jersey and New York City; carried papers for American Gen. Charles Lee; joined units marching to same area of Canada as John C. McNeill; on return became ill with smallpox with others at Lake George when news of the Declaration of Independence was made; honorably discharged; called to serve again at Sandy Hook, NJ; captured by the British at Sandy Hook, taken to a prison ship, then to the [Livingston] stone sugar house in Manhattan, then another prison ship, the Good___  (writing illegible on the early 1800s pension document, possibly Good Hope).  After “one year and one month” as prisoner, he was exchanged and released.  “Having suffered while a prisoner great privations and disease and in poor clothing and severely unwholesome provisions many prisoners died in consequence of their treatment.” (Per 1832 affidavit of military service for pension.)  Conditions suffered as a prisoner left Henry in poor health the rest of his life; removing later to Montgomery County, NY.  Married Chestinah Hagaman; their daughter Jane Vunck married James Dingman, my g-g-g-grandparents.
    From 1776 to 1783 the British made use of decommissioned ships (those incapable of going to sea) as floating prisons.  At least 16 rotting hulks were moored in Wallabout Bay, the inner harbor along the northwest shore of Brooklyn, now part of the Brooklyn Navy Yard.  Among the ships were the Good Hope, Whitby, The Prince of Wales, Falmouth, Scorpion, Stromboli, Hunter, and the most infamous HMS Jersey, nicknamed Hell by the men. (see websites below.)  Over 10,000 men, perhaps at least 11,500, died on these ships due to the deliberate deplorable conditions.  Men were crammed below decks with no windows for lighting or fresh air.  There was a lack of food and clothing, with vermin and insects running rampant, and a lack of other humane efforts to aid the ill, all leading to the death of thousands.
    Prisoners died virtually every day, reportedly as many as fifteen a day.  Some were not found right away, their bodies not disposed of until days later.  Often, those who died were sewn into their blankets (if they had one) to await pick up by cart the next morning.  Many were buried in shallow graves along the shore (unearthed during major storms) or were simply tossed overboard, later washing ashore.  With development of Walloon Bay area over the last two centuries has come the discovery of their bones and parts of ships.  To commemorate these soldiers’ lives and what they gave in the fight for independence, the Prison Ship Martyrs’ Monument was built.  Located in Fort Greene Park, Brooklyn, it was dedicated on April 6, 1808 with improvements made to it several times since.  
    At least another 5-6000 men died in the sugar houses, bringing the total who died as prisoners to more than 17,500 in the sugar houses and ships, more than double the battlefield losses.  Sugar houses were buildings meant to store sugar and molasses.  Affidavits by my ancestor, Henry Vunck, and friends note he was held for a few months in the “stone sugar house.”  This could only mean the Livingston Sugar House, a six-story stone building built in 1754 by the Livingston family on Crown (now Liberty) Street in Manhattan.  Demolished in 1846, buildings No. 34 and 36 are now on the site.  
    A second sugar house, the Rhinelander, a five-story brick warehouse, was built in 1763 at Rose (now William) Street and Duane Street.  This building was eventually replaced and is now the headquarters of the New York City Police Department.  A third, Van Cortlandt’s sugar house, was built about 1755 by the early Dutch family of this name at the northwest corner of the Trinity Church in Manhattan.  It was demolished in 1852.  
    10) Hans Georg Jacob Dubendorffer (George Jacob Diefendorf), b. 01/23/1729, Basserstorff, Switzerland – a Loyalist during Rev War, he left Mohawk Valley for Philadelphia and New York City, returned to a daughter’s home in Canajoharie, NY after the war rather than remove to Canada.  A patriotic son disowned his father, taking his middle name (his mother’s maiden name) as his new surname, removing to Virginia.  George Jacob married Catharine Hendree; their son Jacob Diefendorf married Susanna Hess, my g-g-g-g-grandparents.
    On February 3, 1783, the British government acknowledged the independence of the American colonies.  The next day, they formally agreed to halt all military operations.  A preliminary peace treaty was ratified in April, and Canada offered free land that summer to Loyalists who sought a new life.  Still, the British military maintained a presence in Manhattan.  When Britain signed the Treaty of Paris September 3, 1783 to end the war, the hated Redcoats finally and slowly began to abandon their New York City stronghold. 
    Next would begin the task of establishing the government and president of this new nation, the United States of America.  George Washington rode into Manhattan on November 25, 1783 with his officers and troops, eight horses abreast.  At the same time Washington’s parade began, British soldiers and ships were setting sail for their homeland. 
    Flags were joyfully waved, church bells rang in celebration, and cannons were fired in honor of those who had fought and for those who had given their lives, all for the independence of this fledgling nation.  The war had definitely taken its toll; but, on this day, great joy was felt in every heart for what had been accomplished.  And that is why we continue to celebrate our 4th of July heritage in style – as we remember and commemorate those who gave so much that we might enjoy so much.  And, may we will never forget what their efforts wrought for us.
    (Data sources available upon request.)
  11. Linda Roorda
    Are we contented yet?  It’s just an accumulation of trinkets and stuff, an assemblage that needs to be fed every so often.  I should know, because I have my own collections from the past.  But, in the long run, none of it will go with us when life’s earthly journey comes to an end.  We should be content with what we have and who we are… not seeking to satisfy our appetite with more of everything life has to offer.  Be at peace, rest in who we are meant to be… don’t compare or judge ourselves to others.
    In contemplating that accumulation, I’m reminded of a song by the rock group U2 from their Joshua Tree album – “But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…”  A fitting comment to an endless search for just the right thing.  Theodore Roosevelt was even noted to say, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”  How truthful and fitting both sentiments are for all of us at times!
    So, what is contentment?  How do we find it?  And when is enough… enough?  The dictionary on my desk tells me contentment is where the heart is at… perhaps rested and satisfied, at peace, with a quiet and calm joy.  Contentment is an attitude of the heart… being thankful and grateful for what we do have, serving others out of a joyful appreciation.  Because, believe me, contentment is not found in eyeing what someone else has… of being jealous or envious of what’s on their plate… as if we didn’t have enough to take care of on our own.
    In Philippians 4:11, the Apostle Paul wrote “…for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.”  Hmm… so how could he say that with all the many difficulties he faced? 
    There’s an old hymn I’ve loved since childhood, coming to treasure the words even more after our daughter, Jennifer, died.  Horatio G. Spafford wrote a poem put to music after he and his wife lost their 2-year-old son, their property in the 1871 Great Chicago fire, suffered further economic losses in 1873, and then lost their remaining four daughters at sea - “When peace like a river, attendeth my way. When sorrows like sea billows roll.  Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul…” …well-known words of comfort.  Having three more children, losing a second son at age 4 in 1880, he resettled in Jerusalem with his wife and remaining two daughters.  There, he founded the American Colony, a Christian group providing humanitarian relief to the disadvantaged of any faith.  He’d learned the secret to contentment.
    The Apostle Paul, writing to a dear young friend, stated in I Timothy 6:6-7: “But godliness with contentment is great gain.  For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it.”  Don’t get me wrong… it’s not about denying ourselves the ability to succeed in our careers or home life and to have nice things.  Instead, it’s all about the depth of our heart, our faith, our attitude… the intangibles… the spiritual treasures.
    Life really isn’t about gathering as much stuff as we can hoard for ourselves.  Life was never meant to be like that old saying attributed to Malcolm Forbes, “He who dies with the most toys wins.”   It’s not about God ensuring that we have a wealthy and happy life.  It’s not His plan to make us “rich and famous” in a life of ease without pain.  Instead, contentment is a learning process… learning to be who God intends us to be… learning to be gracious and loving when our life is full of pain, disappointments, illness and setbacks.  And, in learning to give thanks and appreciate what we do have, we find ourselves gladly serving others around us with a heart of joy and peace… as contentment flows from our soul. 
    Contentment Flows
    Linda A. Roorda
    Contentment flows from the soul at peace
    Not easily grasped though deeply pondered
    How quick am I to follow my will
    While yielding to trust finds Your truth with grace…
    ~
    Grace to understand blessings of mercy
    In wending my way through waves of turmoil
    Seeking shelter from storms that threaten
    As Your calming spirit brings showers of peace…
    ~
    Peace that envelopes my very being
    From the depth of stress that oft overwhelms
    Which tugs and strains the restful repose
    To humility meek with a heart of joy…
    ~
    Joy that shines bright in the face of woe
    Amidst the sadness of sorrow’s dark tears
    As rays of hope through shutters burst forth
    To flood my soul with serenity’s rest…
    ~
    Serenity’s rest within the world’s din
    Marks peace of mind when focused on You
    Grant me, I pray, a heart full of love
    One filled with thanks as contentment flows…
    ~~
     
  12. Linda Roorda
    The tapestry of life… a montage of all that once was to all we’ve become and soon will be, all which occupies our life and dreams, and all which defines who we are in the depth of our heart. 
    Wouldn’t it be neat to see a tapestry of scenes from your life… like the movie we see in our mind’s eye as we reflect back over the years? And from all those experiences in which we learned and grew emotionally and spiritually, what a journey it would tell!
    I’d like to think my tapestry would show a woman who has grown wiser over the years… for I am well aware of my youthful immaturity and inherent failings.  But, woven throughout would also be the golden threads of friends, mentors and teachers who came alongside and taught me with loving encouragement.
    Having made small embroideries, larger crewel embroidered scenes, counted cross-stitch projects, and many quilts over the years, the fronts display their beauty.  The back, however, can be a different story.  Hidden from view are threads that meander in a wayward fashion to the next section, or even hide mistakes – rather like my life!  But I also believe that the ups and downs and errors of life which those threads represent have all happened for a reason.  As one of my favorite authors, Corrie ten Boom, once wrote, “Although the threads of my life have often seemed knotted, I know, by faith, that on the other side of the embroidery… there is a Crown."  (Corrie ten Boom, 1974. “Tramp for the Lord: The Story that Begins Where The Hiding Place Ends”, p.12, CLC Publications)
    It’s so reassuring to know that our life experiences have an intended meaning and purpose… that we might gain a wisdom we could not have learned otherwise.  Nothing can beat the exciting happy times we all enjoy!  But, it’s especially in understanding the depths of pain and sadness through losses suffered or mistakes made that we grow wiser as God guides us through our difficulties. How often we find that from those life experiences the Lord positions us to come alongside someone else who might be struggling and in need of an emotional lift.  For we, too, have tucked away memories of treasured friends who traveled beside us when we were in need.  Though we may not think of it that way, they are, indeed, the gems of our life… just as we are for others. And thank you for being a gem in my life!
    With these thoughts, I was reminded that “...in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28, NIV)  Through our patchwork experiences, we bring our worship of “praise…to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.”  (II Corinthians 1:3-4, NIV) 
    What a cherished thought to know that whatever we go through, God will work it out for our good, our benefit, when our trust is placed in Him.  From the blessings He gives to the difficulties He allows to come our way, may we grow in wisdom and, in turn, be used by our Lord to bless others as life’s gems! 
    Life’s tapestry… that which God has woven as His masterpiece of our life… a testimony to those around us… a visual reminder of how great His love is for each one of us, tarnished and faded though we may be.  We really do have a purpose in this world… in living for and serving our Lord and others with joy in our heart!
    Life’s Tapestry Gems
    Linda A. Roorda
    Woven within the tapestry of life
    Are threads of gold among the diverse.
    These colorful scenes, a journey of years
    Depict a life in memories treasured.
    ~
    Memories like dreams elusive and wary
    Some haunting echoes, some images clear
    Some melancholy, some bursting with joy
    Of all which dwells within my soul.
    ~
    This soul You knew from before my birth
    For You’ve called me Yours since time began.
    You wove the threads in skillful pattern
    Of who I was to who I am now.
    ~
    For I am unique, a special design
    The only version which You created.
    And all of my life with its joys and tears
    Helped weave the me who I have become.
    ~
    These memories dear like gentle footprints
    Bring quiet joy within my heart
    To recall a world of growing wiser
    With scenes that flood the gates of my soul.
    ~
    As memories transport through all that once was
    And draw me in to contemplate
    Emotions run strong and images lie deep
    From another time and another place.
    ~
    Memories thus treasured and savored anew
    Serve their purpose in visions tempered
    By value and worth from sadness and joy
    To understand life as it now presents.
    ~~
    Refining the love within my heart
    Of those who walk among the threads
    In vivid hues of brightly lit scenes
    To bring a warmth and smile in my heart.
    ~
    For the King of Light has woven my life
    In mosaic rich and design unique
    Of a life well lived through blessing and trial
    In treasured scenes on tapestry rare.
    ~
    Thus memories and dreams, threads of a lifetime
    Have woven the fabric of this my life
    While you, my friends and dearest loved ones
    Are interwoven as tapestry gems.
    ~~
    2014
     
  13. Linda Roorda

    A Vessel of Worth

    By Linda Roorda,

    I love to sing, always have, since I was a kidlet.  In my childhood, it was the old Hymns of Faith whether in Christian elementary school, church, choirs, in the backseat of the car singing with my sister as our family went for a drive, or as she and I sang an occasional duet in church.  As a teen, I sang along with old country/western and then rock songs of the early ‘70s on 99.1, the WAAL.  Yet, I’ve always enjoyed the old hymns, simply for the truth of the words and the joy of singing, though I also appreciate the upbeat contemporary praise and worship songs on Family Life Network, 88.5-FM.  As I age, I still love to sing though my voice is not always as crisp and clear, nor even as loud as it once was.  With pulmonary sarcoidosis, I just don’t have the volume or depth of air in my lungs anymore.
    As a retired member/leader of a church Praise Team, it was a humbling honor to select music for the worship service - hymns, country gospel songs, or contemporary praise songs.  Each week we brought a different set of songs, usually chosen in an attempt to mesh with the Scripture readings.  Our hearts were touched when we chose music not knowing the Scriptures to be read and the songs fit perfectly, knowing God worked through us!  Occasionally, we felt moved to change a song, or for some reason we unexpectedly needed “Plan B” with a different option.  Time after time, we saw what could be looked at as a failure of our plans but which instead was intended by God for His purpose… to touch someone’s heart in a way we could not have foreseen.
    For there’s something about singing that lifts the heart up… from utter despair… from a difficult day… from the trials and wounds of life… from pains and losses in life that scar… like a cleansing of the soul, bringing a renewed sense of worth.  God takes our brokenness and makes something of beauty from it.  If only those who complain about musical choices could understand that perspective, what a joyful difference it would make!
    Because singing also lifts the heart up in praise to God for all the goodness He’s blessed us with… for His taking us through those difficult times to better days… for His working through our wounds and scars to refine us and use us for His purpose, for His glory… so that, with praise and joy for all He has done for us, we might then touch another life along the way.
    After I wrote the poem below, its message reminded me of the old hymn, “Have Thine Own Way, Lord” by Adelaide A. Pollard (1902), put to music by George C. Stebbins.  This worshipful song has been a favorite since my childhood.  “Have Thine own way, Lord!  Have Thine own way!  Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.  Mold me and make me after Thy will, while I am waiting yielded and still.”
    And the Scriptures from which both the above hymn and my poem’s messages are drawn reflect the Master Potter’s work in us: “So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel.  But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands, so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.” (Jeremiah 18:3-4 NIV)  Another prophet felt the same way as he praised our heavenly Father by writing, “Oh Lord, you are our Father.  We are the clay, you are the potter; we are the work of your hand.” (Isaiah 64:8 NIV)
    Our life is a continual process of growth and refinement through the years.  As we stay focused on our God and His love, He refines our rough edges… our failures, mistakes, and sins… and works through them to bring out our best, just like the Potter, almost without our realizing it… 
    Then, one day, we take a look back.  As we ponder the path we’ve been on, we realize how our Lord took us through difficult times to clear away the pain of wounds… to draw us closer to Him… to cleanse us from our sin… to refine and change our attitudes from within… to renew our life’s direction… and to bring joy to our heart… as we become a vessel of worth, more like Christ.  And that’s something worth singing about! 
    A Vessel of Worth
    Linda A. Roorda 
    I’m like a clay pot, a plain earthen vessel
    Scarred and fragile, bruised and broken.
    What can I offer in this condition?
    What is my value, and what am I worth?
     
    So I watched the Potter as he took raw clay
    Gray bland in color, an undefined block.
    Throwing the clay with fingers easing
    All the rough edges, the lump he refined.
     
    Faster he pedaled, wheel turning smooth
    Humming a tune, his hands deftly worked.
    His vision emerged through design taking shape
    While gently he scraped imperfections aside.
     
    Yet there in the clay for all to see clear
    Lay fissures and cracks now being exposed.
    Some faults ran deep, others lay shallow
    All marred perfection, casting doubt as to worth.
     
    Swiftly he worked to shape and refine
    As beauty beneath was slowly brought forth.
    Heat up the furnace! the potter exclaimed.
    It’s only through fire refinement is made.
     
    Purging the defects, molding and shaping
    Tempering through fire, perfection to find.
    For hidden from view in mind’s eye alone
    Lay His creation, a vessel of worth.
     
    As I stood aside observing the skill
    Which molded and shaped a plain lump of clay,
    I thought of the One who had created me
    A vessel of value, made worthy by Him.
    ~~
    2014
  14. Linda Roorda

    Hope

    By Linda Roorda,

    “You have breast cancer.”  Among the scariest words we can hear.  I was in shock.  My mind was racing.  Tears began to trickle down my cheeks.  I was both numb and yet devastated emotionally.  It caught me totally off guard.  Me?  Cancer?  I could not think clearly.  My heart was pounding.  I was in panic mode.  This cannot be happening!  I have so much to do to take care of my husband.  I don’t have time for this interruption in my life!
    October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Diagnosed in 2014, I remain cancer free.  Because a grieving process is normal when diagnosed, I share my story in the hope it helps someone else.  My story was also shared in the past on the Christian Reformed Church Network website, and my cousin’s wife Carol submitted it to the Bradford Co., PA “Daily Review” who plan to publish it this month – all to remind others how important exams for cancer are for both women and men, because…
    I had actually intended to cancel my mammogram.  There was too much on my plate and I simply didn’t want to take the time to go for this exam in my already hectic schedule.  But, my husband (God bless him!) told me to take care of myself for once, and go get that mammogram.  Dutifully, and now thankfully, I listened to him.
    I could not even have my husband with me when I was given the results of my biopsy - he was home with his own health issues, particularly severe constant dizziness when upright, along with extensive muscle and joint pain, recovering from life-threatening pancreatitis, and has not been able to work for several months.  Being blind, he cannot drive me to and from my appointments.  He can’t be with me to give emotional support at my appointments, or even be with me at my surgeries.  He can’t be there to help ask questions, or simply put his strong arm of support around me… until I get home and share my fears with him.  And he’s been so good to me, so loving and supportive, sharing his Godly wisdom to help calm and soothe my anxious thoughts.  God blessed me with the best husband I could possibly have!
    But, I’m afraid.  I don’t know what lies ahead.  Will I get more cancer?  How will I take care of my husband and everything else if I’m incapacitated?  I don’t want to deal with all that I’m being forced to deal with.  I want to be left alone.  I want to be a little girl again without any cares or troubles.  But that’s not reality.  Reality means I will seek answers. 
    And so, as a medical/radiology transcriptionist, I research my diagnosis.  I read the literature from my surgeon’s office, and devour the words which reputable online medical centers or cancer associations have posted to discuss the disease and the best treatment options available.  Objectively, I understand what they’re talking about… I know what the words mean.  But, deep down inside, I don’t want to digest it.  I want to push it all away.  It’s become too personal.
    Yet, I have decisions to make.  Decisions I never thought I’d be making.  I’m more comfortable being on the typing end of the diagnostic language, feeling sorry for “my” patients.  Knowing that others have gone through this diagnosis and treatment before, and survived, is both helpful and unhelpful… mostly because each diagnosis and the dealing and healing is personal.  No one else can go through, or feel, exactly what you do.
    I talk with my husband’s aunt who faced her own cancer diagnosis several years ago.  She made her decisions, and did what needed to be done.  I like her attitude.  She is a true woman of faith, an inspiration to me as she looks to our Lord for his guidance every step of the way.
    And gradually, after making panicked decisions, then rethinking and picking each option apart, I come to a decision I can live with.  A decision my family and closest friends support me in.  And I’m okay… being reassured to know my cancer has been caught at an early stage.  For there are others I’ve known with a cancer diagnosis and prognosis worse than mine – those who have recovered after surgery and treatments and done well, those who have been through extensive treatments only to relapse, and those who have lost their lives from such a devastating disease…  And my heart goes out to every cancer patient and their families for all they have gone through.
    This poem was written in three sections at three different times since my diagnosis.  I was amazed at how the words seemed to flow with only minor adjustments.  But then, I shouldn’t be amazed at a God who has held my whole life in His hands.  And I praise the One who blesses me with the words and thoughts to write.
    And, while contemplating it all, this favorite verse of my late daughter, Jennifer, came to mind.  “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”  (Philippians 4:13)  I had embroidered it into a floral design to hang on the wall when she went to Houghton College, also making embroideries for my other two children, Emily and Dan, with their favorite verses. 
    I also found reassurance in “…know[ing] that in all things God works for the good of those who love him...”  (Romans 8:28)  While reading around this verse, I see, “…hope that is seen is no hope at all.  Who hopes for what he already has?  But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.  In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness.  We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us…in accordance with God’s will.”  (Romans 8:24-27)
    Even as I face my diagnosis head on, not knowing what to do or if I’m making the right decisions, God is there.  He answers my heart’s prayers, which I initially didn’t even know how to express other than “Help me, God!”  Then, as I read Romans 15:13, these comforting words enter my soul with more meaning than ever before, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” 
    Along this journey, I even found laughter… in, of all places, the book “Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Cancer Book, 101 Stories of Courage, Support and Love.” [pp.156-158] It was the kind of hearty laughter that brought tears to my eyes… a rolling-on-the-floor kind of laughter!  It may have been stifled for a while, but laughter is still within me.  And soon, smiles will once again reflect the joy down deep in my heart!
    So, I’m at peace.  I find comfort in knowing God knew this obstacle on my journey before I even came to be.  He knew I would struggle, but He also knew how He would continue to draw me to His side, and provide loving, caring family and friends to support me.  And to know the extent of caring thoughts and prayers from family, friends and neighbors in my community is overwhelming.  As I’ve grappled with life’s changes, I know the Lord has had to carry me at times, but He has also led me through the maze as I’ve slowly learned to accept and deal with what He has allowed to come my way.  And I renew my hope in Him as He leads me forward.
    HOPE
    Linda A. Roorda
    When dark is the way and fear gathers ‘round
    When the road seems long with twists and turns
    The unexpected now comes into view
    Quite unprepared, my course it alters.
     
    The vista ahead fraught with fear and stress.
    How can this be? Can’t happen to me!
    How do I deal with changes to come?
    My plate is too full.  I can’t handle more!
     
    Why, Lord? I ask. I don’t understand!
    As I plunge into the depths of despair.
    I’m at a loss.  Why this obstacle?
    Why me?  But then… Why should it not be?
     
    Some days I’m numb.  Some days I just cry.
    With a loss of hope, and a heavy heart
    Many life changes I don’t want to face
    A grief ensues, a mourning what was.
     
    As sadness descends and stress consumes
    I want to cry.  I want to scream out.
    I haven’t the time.  I just cannot deal.
    Difficult questions now haunt all my thoughts.
     
    When darkness of night seems far too long
    And no answers come to pleading prayers
    Hold me tight Lord, in Your arms of peace
    That without fear a new day I may face.
     
    So I withdraw to an inner retreat
    My haven safe away from the pain
    A place where I rest to gather my fears
    Handing them over, releasing my frets.
     
    For there on the side just waiting for me
    With arms open wide He hears my deep sighs
    The cries of my heart, the fears locked inside
    Taking my burdens and guiding my steps.
     
    Who but you, Lord?  Who else but you?
    Who cares enough to count every tear?
    Who feels the pain, the fear and anguish
    That steals the joy from within my heart?
     
    Hope like a beacon peeks brightly through tears
    With a peace that calms my troubled seas
    Always at my side with a whisper soft
    Drawing me near and holding me close.
     
    Though I’ve felt lost while clinging to faith
    You’re always here embracing with love
    Returning my joy to face each new dawn
    Giving me hope in the peace of Your Light.
    ~~
    May/June 2014
  15. Linda Roorda

    When Breaks the Dawn

    By Linda Roorda,

    Sometimes words seem so utterly inadequate. I awoke this morning to learn a friend lost her beloved sister quite unexpectedly yesterday. Thinking of all the devastation and loss of life Hurricane Ida left behind, and the sadness that has engulfed us all from the debacle in Afghanistan half a world away, our thoughts and prayers and support continue to be with each one so heavily affected by loss.
    And I remember that five years ago tomorrow our world came close to crashing down in a different way, but our great God took control and we praise Him for the blessings with each new dawn.  No, we don't know what the next minute holds for any of us. We've all had our shares of painful losses, within rich blessings that sometimes, it seems, we take so much for granted. May you feel God's arms envelope you with His comforting love and peace amidst the pains of this world. With much love, Linda
    ~~  ~~  ~~                            ~~  ~~ ~~                             
    We often give a prayer of thanksgiving for each new day… as the sun barely begins to peek over the hilltop or horizon, sending its rays to disperse the darkest night… as the twinkling gems scattered upon the black velvet heavens slowly fade from sight… and the sun’s brilliance once again illuminates our world.
    With each new dawn we become aware of the wonders of a new day… another day in which to sing praise and bless someone else along our path.  Having been blessed in so many ways I lose count, I’m afraid I have a tendency to take many of them for granted.  Yet, even the littlest ones seem to just always be there to greet us as we rush by without giving them a second thought… Oh, we have so much to be thankful for, don’t we?! 
    The above reflection was begun in August 2016 with those two simple paragraphs not long after the poem below was written in 2015.  It was just a simple way of saying thanks to God for His blessings and guidance each new day, blessings that I often tend to take for granted… because we never know what tomorrow brings as the saying goes, never mind the next minute. 
    And those words were given new meaning when we were involved in an accident a few weeks later on September 6, 2016.  We were both okay, despite muscle strains.  Actually, we were very thankful to be alive!  It could’ve been so much worse.  With even a second’s worth of difference, it could have been a head-on crash, or at the very least a direct hit into my driver’s side door.
    Even NYS Trooper Leonard told me in the ER, “That was some excellent driving you did there!”  Coming home from my husband’s medical appointment in Sayre, a southbound car on Rt. 34 drove directly into my northbound lane.  As I came over a rise in the road, that car barely missed the SUV ahead of me as I braked and veered to the right shoulder, onto the gravel and grass, running over a 4-ft reflector post which ripped off the rear fender, avoiding going down the steep slope which likely would have rolled our car and very possibly killed my husband.
    Unexpectedly, my car had been rammed hard by the drifting car into my driver’s side rear door and panel.  The impact blew the left rear tire, broke the suspension, ripped the rear bumper off, and whipped my car around into the arc of a 180-degree turn.  Steering to avoid colliding with other southbound cars, I ended up facing southward on the shoulder of the opposite lane.  Later, Ed heard witnesses telling the Trooper, “I don’t know how she missed those cars, but she somehow managed to go between them!”  And no one else got a scratch!
    I’m as impressed as anyone else.  I vaguely recall being in the midst of other cars, afraid we’d take a direct hit on Ed’s door or that I’d hit the car to my left as we spun in that arc, but none of that happened.  I am not hesitant to say that I firmly believe it wasn’t my driving expertise.  In fact, I felt like I wasn’t in control of our car.  I truly believe God’s angels took that wheel and safely wove us between the other cars to prevent a major pileup, one with multiple injuries or even a fatality. 
    So many wonderful people stopped to check on us, called 911, helped stabilize us, and gave us both wonderful loving support.  As my left arm began feeling very heavy and numb, an EMS volunteer held my neck from moving prior to putting a brace on once the ambulance arrived.  The other driver went off the road and into the woods.  She’d been seen to be weaving across the lanes for several miles, with others getting ready to dial 911 for cops to intervene when the accident happened.  She told others she was driving under the influence of her opioid medication.  I do hope she got the help she needed to get off those meds.  Interestingly, she lived a good distance south of the PA border, but had driven quite a ways from her home to Ithaca, NY for her medications.
    I can’t say enough how thankful we are for God’s mighty hand in all of this.  In the space of a second or two, there could have been a completely different result.  Yes, we are so blessed in so many ways… with each new dawn.
    When Breaks the Dawn
    Linda A. Roorda 
    When breaks the dawn my heart rejoices
    For I am blest to see a new sun
    And in my soul a song is stirring
    With praises for this beautiful day.
     
    You open my eyes to the truths of life
    Truths on display in all creation
    A beauty here I marvel to see
    Speaking to me in majestic hue.
     
    Show me each day the way I should walk
    A daily journey with You at my side,
    Let deeper truths from Your holy word
    Speak to my soul and guide all my steps.
     
    May all my steps bring glory to You
    On a path of faith with Your word as guide
    For wisdom’s ways are worth more than gold
    And treasures kept show where the heart lies.
     
    When breaks the dawn let my praise arise
    To You, O Lord, the giver of gifts
    That all may see Your mercy and grace
    Gently bestow a love to be shared.
    ~~ 2015 ~~
  16. Linda Roorda

    Ode to a King

    By Linda Roorda,

    Analogies give us a glimpse of similarities and truths of a story tucked within a story.  Thinking about this concept after my poem below was written brought to mind Mark Twain’s British book, “The Prince and The Pauper,” published first in Canada in 1899 and subsequently in the U.S. in 1882. 
    In Twain’s beloved story, a young prince and a pauper (who happen to look a lot alike and were born on the same day) trade places in life.  The prince experiences the roughness of a lowly life just as his counterpart once did, while the pauper tries to bravely find his way at the top of an unfamiliar kingdom of elites.  Common sense, so crucial to his survival in the real world, comes in quite handy as he makes his way through the upper echelon. Ultimately, the real prince returns to claim his rightful place as heir and is crowned king.  Ever grateful for his real-life experiences as a pauper, the prince now understands life for the poor and hard-working folks beneath him, and is better able to comprehend their needs.  And, then he makes his friend, the pauper, his aide. 
    Having never read Twain’s book, my poem was written without knowledge of the story line, though I had heard of the title.  After research, it’s clear my poem takes a similar albeit slightly different tack to Twain in relating a king who was used to observing the realm from his castle high above the fray of every-day life.  Wanting to experience firsthand what life for his subjects was like, he walks among them dressed as a beggar.  In this guise, he observes that most people continue on their way with their heads held high, seldom stooping to assist someone poorer and perhaps scruffier than they.  Sadly, there are those who live and breathe a self-serving arrogance.
    Recently, I encountered two gentlemen – one, a young man looking a bit shabby, crouching against the building to finish a cigarette before entering our local grocery.  Unsure of whether to smile at this lone man for fear my friendliness would be misinterpreted, I nervously glanced his way as he quickly got up and stepped ahead of me to hold the door open.  Giving a smile and thanking him very much, ever the gentleman, he waited off to the side for me to get settled with a shopping cart, but I told him he could go ahead of me.
    Later that same day, I met an elderly casually-dressed gentleman walking into the pharmacy at the same time.  As I hung back to allow him entrance first, he instead slowed down for me to go ahead. Noticing his cap signifying he was a Navy Vietnam Veteran, I thanked him for his service, mentioning one of my brothers was a 20-year Navy man having served in the Gulf War.  At that point, the gentleman quietly told me he’d served in Korea, Vietnam, Gulf War, and many places in between, a 40-year vet, and we had a nice chat as he thanked me.  And I realized, first impressions do tend to make a difference, don’t they?
    On the other hand, a young woman notices our poor man in his tattered clothing.  Kindly offering to feed him, and not only did she provide nourishing meals, but she repairs his coat to provide warmth against the cold.  He returns often to talk with her, to learn the depths of her heart, and to simply show appreciation and gratefulness for what she has done for him, a beggar.
    He was afraid to share that he had fallen in love with her, but was now in a dilemma for he needs to return from whence he came.  Indeed, he knows that truth must always be told in any situation… and so he set out one day to let her know how much he loved her.  He was willing to give up all he owned just to serve her for the rest of his life.  And it was then that he could see his love was returned in her eyes as he knelt down to propose.  With her “yes,” his heart leapt for joy to know their hearts would soon be united forever, as he then shared with her who he really was.
    Tucked within the depth of my poem’s reflection is the analogy of our Lord’s love for us. Leaving His throne in His beautiful and perfect heavenly home, He came down to dwell among us… in our world of sin and pain.  Once here, He experienced life just as we do with all of its temptations and sadness, but also the joys.  And thus He is able to be our advocate and comforter, knowing from personal experience what our life on earth is all about.
    Yet, our Lord came that He might serve us, not to be served. “…just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many." (Matthew 20:28) In His sacrifice, He gave His all for us… His life… that we might accept His awesome priceless gift; and, in so doing, share eternity with Him above.  What joy there will be when we are united with Him, and remain in the presence of His love forever!  What a King! 
    Ode to a King
    Linda A. Roorda
    I gazed from afar while observing my realm
    And found with interest motives in action,
    But often their lives showed merest concern
    Though I could see depths of their anguished souls.
     
    Oh how I loved these people of mine!
    And longed to walk the path to their soul
    A chance to converse, a sharing of hearts
    To bring them peace with comforting words.
     
    So stepping down, I entered their world
    Yearning to serve the rich and the poor
    But they did not know this beggar in rags
    Most never saw needs, just held their head high.
     
    And then I noticed a young woman fair
    Who spoke gentle words to a stranger coarse
    She offered me food and to mend my coat
    While love in my heart had only begun.
     
    A love which grew on the winds of time
    A chance to bond and learn of her heart
    To know the depths of comfort and peace
    Humility’s grace wrapped up in mercy.
     
    Now deeply in love I’d sacrifice all
    Yet she did not know the truth of my garb
    How would I explain that she’d found favor
    That her heart was true, like gold refined.
     
    So I intended my dilemma to share
    To let her know from afar I’d come,
    That all I’d longed for I treasured in her,
    Companionship sweet, a melding of souls.
     
    Expressing my love for her tender heart
    Overwhelmed was she as on knees I bent
    Asking for her hand, with tears she said yes,
    My heart leapt for joy that we’ll become one.
     
    And then I shared my journey in rags
    From a kingdom rich in glory and fame
    To this lowly world of sorrow and pain
    To which I had come, others to serve.
     
    For it was then my eyes did behold
    Analogy of One with far greater love
    Who left His throne to walk on this earth
    To share our burdens and speak to our hearts.
     
    His love ran red as He gave His all
    To purchase with blood and redeem our souls
    That He might draw near, from sin set us free
    To offer His gift of life eternal.
    ~~
    2015
     
  17. Linda Roorda

    Safe In My Arms

    By Linda Roorda,

    I can’t swim.  Oh, I took lessons… learned to float and doggy paddle at the Clifton, NJ YMCA. And I loved playing in the water with my siblings and cousins at Green Pond, a lake in northwestern New Jersey where my aunt and uncle had a cottage.  Didn’t even mind being in water way over my head.  There, in the safe swimming section, we’d jump off the dock or have our dad toss us over his shoulder into the deep water.  I loved it!  But then… I almost drowned.
    I was either 10 or 11.  Our family had driven out to the lake for a day of fun.  And here I was laying across a ski board tethered by rope to my uncle’s boat.  I was either very brave or very foolish, but found myself being pulled across the water clinging to that board, enjoying the ride! 
    Until the boat took a fast turn… and the wake caught me off guard.  The board flipped over, hit me on the head, and I lost my grip.  Flailing furiously in the water, I tumbled over and over, struggling to hold my breath, trying to break the surface for air when I felt something under my feet… all in a matter of some very long seconds.  Planting my feet down, I stood up, and dared to open my eyes… shocked and absolutely relieved to find I was chest deep in water, standing on a very large rock or a ledge in the “middle” of the lower end of the large lake! 
    I was so sure I would drown while flailing around… instead I was safe!!  Trauma clicked in later.  I cannot float, nor can I swim. I sink. Don’t even try to teach me… Ed tried when we were dating, and he quickly found out my panic was very real when he let go of me in the deep end of the pool.  I still need to wear floaties to enjoy the water. 
    I’ve long realized I was held in the arms of God that day decades ago.  No one dreamed there would possibly be a rock or ledge with shallow water out there.  My father watched from the shore with his heart in his throat, afraid for my life.  But he never told me that until decades later.
    This incident reminds me of how we are loved and held safe in the arms of not only God, but the arms of our family.  As a helpless infant, we are tenderly held and kept safe in our parents’ arms.  As we grow up, their loving arms are still there… ready to protect us and guide us.  Then, all too soon we’re ready to leave the nest and fly off into the world on our own.  At some point between thinking we know it all and realizing we don’t, we bring the wisdom we’ve learned back to our aging parents, understanding what it was they tried to teach us as we now teach our children… and find we’ve come full circle.
    And therein I see the arms of God… holding and caring for us, teaching and guiding us… accepting us for who we are because He created us and knows who we are meant to be. 
    Safe In My Arms
    Linda A. Roorda
     From the very moment that you came to be
    You were held safe, safe in my arms
    A helpless babe, you looked up to me
    Your needs were met with love undivided.
     
    When you fell down and bruised your ego
    You came running to comforting arms
    You looked for me to answer concerns
    Questions of life with wisdom to gain.
     
    But as you grew you looked to yourself
    I wasn’t needed, not so much anymore
    You thought you held the keys to life’s goals
    As facing forward you met the world’s pace.
     
    And then one day you understood all
    The depths of love and sacrificial gifts
    Your arms reached out to hold me secure
    To share with me wisdom you had gained.
     
    Is it not true full circle we’ve come
    From infant small to adult mature
    And is it not true the life we have lived
    Is mirrored within God’s love for us all.
     
    For didn’t His arms hold tightly our life
    That when we fell He gently restored
    And when we stood alone on life’s stage
    We were held safe, safe in His arms.
    ~~
    Photo Credit: Dock at Lower Green Pond, NJ taken by Linda Roorda spring 1974.
    Murky image from old camera used specifically in recalling this event.
  18. Linda Roorda

    Abusers Among Us

    By Linda Roorda,

    Learning that last Sunday, 09/19/21, was Abuse Awareness Day in the Christian Reformed Church (in which both Ed and I grew up), I am sharing my blog which was posted to their website in 2017. 
    There once was a man who appeared on the scene.  Suave and debonair with confidence bold.  Flattery oozed like syrup sweet.  And despite her protests, he flattered yet more.  After all, he said, she deserved the praise for she was worth it.  Despite her protests, she absorbed the attention… until she understood his world of deceit.
    Abuse encompasses an array of distorted behaviors and abuses within friendships and marriages, destroying God’s gifts. Lacking respect, those with self-centered narcissistic and/or predatory traits have a need for power and control over others. They are confident and prideful.  Their goal is to exploit, crossing boundary lines with intimidation to prove their superiority, having a need to diminish the worth of others to feel good about themselves.  They claim repeated mocking put-downs are jokes.  If you attempt to break the cycle, they contend you can’t take a joke, are too emotional, and too sensitive.  “Like a maniac shooting flaming arrows of death is one who deceives their neighbor and says, ‘I was only joking!’” (Proverbs 26:18-19  NIV)
    With callous disregard, they lie when faced with truth.  They may abuse emotionally, verbally or physically. Their story changes to suit confrontation as they feign innocence, create confusion, and claim they don’t understand what you’re talking about.  In attempts to hold them accountable, they skillfully play the innocent hurting victim, project blame onto the true victim, and will not take personal responsibility for their own issues. They don’t feel a need to apologize, claiming they did nothing wrong – evidence of a hardened heart.
    Predatory grooming, done in specific stages, is universal against children, teens and adults to control with a perverted form of trust to the perpetrator’s benefit.  After targeting someone perceived as vulnerable, they reel in an unsuspecting heart with the flattery of false love.  Keying in on filling an emotional need, they try to isolate their victim in secrecy from those who would realize what’s happening divide-and-conquer technique).  Innocuous sexual advances are made which gradually become bolder until the abuser thinks control can be maintained to score the ultimate goal.
    Grooming also manipulates the victim’s responses to garner increased affection.  If you desire to please others, you’ll meet their needs.  In time, you will be manipulated into doing more of their bidding.  They’ll make excuses and manipulatively use Scripture so you’ll accept their abuse, thwarting your protests.  When they think they’ve got you under control, emotional destruction begins.  You are despised for having qualities of love and joy which they cannot feel, necessitating an endless pursuit of new victims to manipulate in order to fill their heart’s void.
    If you back away from their chaos, they may use threats, turn angry or violent, quickly revert back to a loving persona to throw you off balance, and resort to stalking behavior.  Unless they show and express true sorrow and repentance for their behavior with evidence of genuine change, walk away from their abuse… and stay away. 
    For we read, “There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers.” (Proverbs 6:16-19 ESV)
    The opposite of such discord is a love which embodies all that is good.  “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude.  It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.  Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”  (I Corinthians 13:4-7 ESV)
    As we speak with such love, we encourage each other.  “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.” (Ephesians 4:29-32 ESV)
    Typically, those who trust others have a heart of empathy, are naively innocent (without “street smarts”), and are more easily taken advantage of.  Predators know this and zero in on their target like a hunter on its prey.  To realize that someone would target you for their advantage is to feel a range of emotions from guilt and shame for having been used, to anger at another’s attempts to destroy you.  Genuine love is not in the abuser’s heart despite claims to the contrary.  With evil intent, you are used for their benefit - a lack of respect for your worth.  When that is recognized, you are on your way to recovery and healing.  I know… I was a victim. Sadly, several times because I simply forgave and moved forward, trying to make the relationships work. Not until after I had walked away from them and no longer allowed any contact, did the abuse end.  Yet, out of the experience came wisdom from God.
    Mutual friends who have never fallen under the blinding spell of narcissistic and/or predatory deception, nor suffered attacks of retaliation, do not see the abuse.  They see only the passive mask, the public face of supposed innocent humility, and often excuse and enable abusers.  After all, they’re so kind and loving, so good to everyone – until, behind the scenes, you cross them, buck their mistreatment, and begin to confront their wrongs with truth privately or publicly.
    Yes, these types of abuses are found within the church, the perfect cover with our Christ-like love for, and generous forgiveness of, one another.  As the body of Christ, we should listen, believe, respect, and support the victim who dares step forward. The abuser only recovers when the façade of innocence is removed by admission of wrong, repentance, and proves the desire for a changed heart.
    To the youngster or adult being swayed by abusive pressure or bullying - hold tight to your convictions, ideals and honor.  Don’t allow anyone to take these from you.  Respect yourself enough to say “No” and walk away – whether it be “No” to drugs, “No” to someone wanting to take away your innocence, “No” to emotional or physical abuse, or “No” to sexting, sexual abuse, or sex trafficking.  Walk away and seek advice from a trusted, qualified professional to help you stand firm against such unwanted pressure.  Respect yourself as a child of God.  Don’t be taken down.
    Taken Down
    Linda A. Roorda
     She was taken down the garden path
    And showered with seduction’s prose,
    Sweet words of praise and silken flattery
    That touched her heart to follow his goals.
     
    She trusted him and his glowing words
    Though his zest for life held deceitful charm,
    As her heart of love for all in her world
    Was purposely swept by grooming words smooth.
     
    How easily swayed is a trusting soul
    Who believes and thinks the best of her friends,
    Yet who is misled by the foxy wiles
    Of one who claims humility’s garb.
     
    Why the conquest instead of friendship?
    Why the seeking to own gentle hearts?
    Why the pleasure in taking away
    That which is not yours to alone enjoy?
     
    How can you claim a God-honoring life
    As you betray a friend’s trusting heart?
    Such evil flays the inner soul
    And leaves a wound not easily healed.
     
    But comes reality when the truth sets in
    And she regains boundaries once lost
    As true emotions with selfless empathy
    Emerge once again to prove her value.
     
    For in disrespect concealed by flattery
    Lies the evil of a planned defeat.
    He cannot abide reality of love,
    And must destroy the one with a heart.
     
    As she unravels the disillusions
    And begins to heal her eyes are opened.
    Emotional depths of her heart and soul
    Are restored in full, her peace made complete.
    ~~
  19. Linda Roorda
    Change… whether visible on the exterior or inside and unseen, it can be a hard adjustment to make.  I don’t like change.  Those who know me, know that aspect of me well.  Change has not always been kind to me.  But, once I wrap my brain around it, understand and accept said change, I roll with it and move forward.  Because, as I’ve grown older, and wiser with the years, I’ve learned change is inescapable… of value for the lessons it teaches… and have learned not to fear it.  Perhaps some of you welcome change… and I admire you for that!  So, what is it about change we don’t like? 
    Nature exhibits obvious and dramatic changes right before our eyes.  From winter’s dazzling white to its not-so-white coverings of stark-bare limbs of trees reaching out and the dirty-white snow on roadsides… to spring bursting forth with new life in its many-colored splendor as birds bring joyful song to our lives… to the warmth and long-term blooms and verdant green of long summer days… to the casting off of autumn’s multi-colored leaves and darkening skies signaling the portent of dark and dreary days ahead… these are changes we clearly see and can identify with.  We understand these changes, even welcome them, as we accept the inevitable in the forward march of time.
    We visibly change, too.  From the moment we’re born, we continually change... as we grow and mature from infancy on through adulthood and elderhood.  We never stop changing as we age, and our appearance gives credence to this process which is as old as time itself.
    But what we don’t see are the changes beneath the surface.  In nature, it’s the life substance within a plant that moves it forward with growth to change through the seasons.  For us, change is evident in our learning processes, our maturation.  Just raising a child provides ample evidence of virtually daily change and growth - physically, emotionally and spiritually.
    Our physical change and growth are obvious.  From helpless newborn to the excitement of childhood growth, learning to do things “myself,” to the physical growth and aging process propelling each of us forward into young adulthood and on through the decades as we become “senior citizens,” change never stops.  We know it, we see it, and we feel it.
    Emotional change, though, is less obvious, yet still evident in our behavior and reactions as we mature from childish ways and selfish ambition.  “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.  When I became [an adult], I put childish ways behind me.  Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face…and now these three remain: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love.”  (I Corinthians 13:11-13NIV)
    Emotional maturity develops as we process our wins and losses in life… as we learn to share, to understand and appreciate each other, to show empathy for someone else’s situation, to feel pain and loss, to feel and share joy, peace, and more.  All these emotions are developed inside, invisible within our thought processes, but are evidenced in our maturing reactions.
    And then there is spiritual change in our faith.  This, too, is an unseen process of growth and maturation... a change that is often and especially brought about by life’s trials.  “Consider it pure joy…whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.  Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.  If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all…”  (James 1:2-5 N IV)
    As we grow in our spiritual faith journey, becoming more like Christ, we are constantly learning and understanding, changing our hearts and minds from within.  We learn to accept change instead of grumbling and complaining… learn to understand and grow by going through the difficulties rather than simply trying to escape and get out from under the trial.  “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)
    For it’s often that trial with its pain and tears which brings about learning and understanding - a process of growth... as we gracefully accept true change and joy brought about by the difficult and painful journey. And it’s only in that painful journey that we grow under God’s wisdom… as we become either embittered and hardened, or more gentle and kind... an invisible change within our heart, yet visible in our attitude and behavior. 
    Changes Without and Within
    Linda A. Roorda 
    The birds have hushed their lilting songs
    Bright colored flowers have faded away
    The trees have turned to brilliant hues
    And the sky with clouds is gathering dark.
     
    A silence of sorts ensues with the change
    Though here and there a bird can be heard
    But ever still grows the ambience
    Of nature’s peace midst colors of fall.
     
    Yet what we see belies the fact
    That underneath the surface calm
    Lies greater change than evidence shows
    A turmoil within to stir transition.
     
    For what can’t be seen is the moving force
    Behind the progress to destiny’s goal.
    So let the heart of every soul
    Heed wisdom’s call, accepting its purpose.
     
    This heart of change is all you ask
    That humbly I come as You draw me near
    To be still and know that You’re in control
    As you define Your place in my life.
     
    Inevitable change without and within
    As time moves forward on its forever path.
    Then what of our heart when the depth is exposed,
    Are we bitter in change… or more gentle and kind?
  20. Linda Roorda

    October Whispers

    By Linda Roorda,

    I puttered around the kitchen yesterday, an early October morning, baking Ed’s favorite chocolate chip cookies and my hearty squash.  Every now and then I glanced out the windows.  I love the scenery of our backyard… the gardens, bushes and trees… all planted by us once upon a golden time.  And the creek, fields and hills beyond, all formerly part of Ed’s family’s farm, now filled with cart paths and well-kept green grass circles that swallow up dimpled golf balls… with a few that manage to find their way into our yard by some awesome force behind them! But, instead of a summery sun, I glanced out to see a dreary day…
    I know many of my friends say fall is their favorite season.  And rightly so, I suppose – for the cooling temps are welcome relief from summer’s intense heat and humidity, and the typical brilliant leaf colors reflect different types of trees framed against the backdrop of a bright crisp azure blue sky with puffy clouds which all make for a gorgeous display of nature’s beauty.  But this year, without a hard frost yet, our leaves are rather dull, devoid of those bright colors. 
    I do enjoy the aromas of baked spiced apple and pumpkin pies, the odor of wood smoke wafting on the air (at times Ed can able to tell just what wood is being burned), familiar barn smells carried by a gentle breeze down the valley with a hint of well-cured silage, along with enjoying colorful fall flower arrangements, and the countrified pumpkin and gourd displays with corn stalks and hay bales some folks set up by their front door.
    But, truth be told, I find autumn to be the harbinger of a gray cold world with dying leaves that bequeath us with stark-naked tree limbs.  Yet, when studied, those limbs have a distinctive roughened beauty all their own etched against the sky of any shade.  And, though there are gray drizzly skies, and cold, damp days that chill to the bone… they do have a plus side with lots of delicious homemade baked goods, stews, soups and chili with cornbread!
    I much prefer spring and its promised return of new life and summer’s golden rays.  So, as this poem began to form several years ago, I tried to focus on the whispered secrets of fall – in its colorful beauty pointing to winter’s pristine white splendor, and the resurgence of life in the future that can only be hinted at now.
    October Whispers
    Linda A. Roorda
    The lonely parade
    of falling colors
    a silent drizzle
    and cocooning fog
    consuming
    dampening
    turn thoughts inward
    melancholy
    bereaved
    for the joy of summer
    basking
    in bright warmth
    now shrouded
    by hazy sheen
    forcing hearts to gaze
    ahead
    and to leave
    the past to fall
    behind
    etched in time
    yet even now
    renewed
    in visions of white
    and whispers soft
    of secrets hidden
    for the way it is
    and soon shall become.
    ~~
    Photo taken by author in 2019.
  21. Linda Roorda
    I’m sure we’ve all heard of Johnny Appleseed and those apple seeds he planted “everywhere.”  The 1948 Disney movie, “Melody Time,” and their 2002 version, “American Legends,” both include a short story about him with a simple upbeat song:  “The Lord is good to me, And so I thank the Lord, For giving me the things I need, The sun and rain and an apple seed, Yes, He’s been good to me…” 
    But who was this legendary man?  Not many Americans know the real story behind the myths perpetuated in film, song and verse.  And, since I didn’t know much more about Johnny Appleseed other than the fact that he went around planting apple seeds, I thought it was about time I did a little research.  
    John (not Jonathan, his youngest half-brother’s name, as some websites call him) Chapman was born September 26, 1774 in Leominster, Massachusetts.  But, he died far from his birth home, an apparent pauper, near Fort Wayne, Indiana in mid-March 1845.  He may have died the 11th, or the 18th, or was it the 17th?  Accounts vary, rather indicative of his life, but his obituary was dated March 22, 1845 in the “Fort Wayne Sentinel” of Fort Wayne, Ohio. 

    John Chapman's Birthplace - Leominster, Massachusetts
    He was a simple man, walking virtually everywhere in bare feet, even in inclement weather, wearing baggy pantaloons and a coffee sack from which he’d cut holes for his head and arms.  He often wore one or more hats on his head, including a cooking pot with a handle, and carried his belongings in a satchel on his back. 
    Then, one dreary evening when the precipitation coming down was a bitter cold mixture of rain and snow, he appeared at the door of the William Worth home, friends with whom he’d stayed before.  After satisfying his hunger, he shared his usual news “right fresh from heaven” with the family (Means, p.1) –  the truths within the Bible as seen through his eyes and those in the teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg as was his favorite past time.  He was a faithful disciple of Swedenborg’s religious philosophy, carrying the church’s books and pamphlets with him and eagerly expounding upon his favorite issues to anyone available to listen, for this was “…in many ways, the driving force of his life.”  (Johnny Appleseed:  The Man, the Myth, the American Story, Howard Means, p.6) 
    Chapman apparently awoke the next morning with a fever from an infection which seems to have settled in his lungs.  He died within days, or was it just hours, of what was then called the “winter plague” which could have been anything from pneumonia to influenza.  And, apparently he died with his face the picture of serenity as the Worth family and their physician later pointed out.  (Means, p. 2) 
    Chapman was a simple and gentle man, not one given to drunkenness or fighting.  He was very much at home in the wilderness, preferring the untamed wild country to the inside of a cabin.  But, at times he did appreciate the hearth of those who welcomed him inside their home - that is, when he chose to enter.  Interestingly, he was accepted by virtually everyone with whom he came in contact despite his odd and uncouth appearance - from the Native Americans to the domesticated early settlers and the wilderness frontiersmen.  He was respected as an odd eccentric, a larger-than-life character wherever he went.  He had an uncanny ability to be “here one minute, gone the next.”  (Means, p. 3) 
    The famed Civil War general, William Tecumseh Sherman, born and raised in Lancaster, Ohio, may have known Chapman, or perhaps just knew of him, as Chapman passed through the area while Sherman was still in his teens.  After Chapman’s death, Sherman is purported to have said, “Johnny Appleseed’s name will never be forgotten… We will keep his memory green, and future generations of boys and girls will love him as we, who knew him, have learned to love him.”  (Means, p. 4) 
    Born in 1774 as above, Chapman was the second child of Nathaniel and Elizabeth (Simons) Chapman.  His father was a member of the Minutemen Militia and fought at Bunker Hill.  Both families have ties to the very early New England settlers, with descendants of Chapman’s mother’s extended Simonds/Simons family known to include the George Bush family. 
    While Nathaniel Chapman was off fighting the war for independence that summer of 1776, his wife gave birth to their third son, Nathaniel, on June 26.  On July 16, however, Elizabeth succumbed to an illness already affecting her as she had written in a letter to her husband earlier that month.  Barely two weeks after her death, her tiny infant son also died.  There must have been intense heartbreak felt by the two young siblings left behind.  With their father at war, it has been presumed their mother’s family took them in.
    With very little documentation of their early childhood, we only know that little Johnny and his older sister, Elizabeth, are next found with their father and step-mother in Longmeadow, south of Springfield, Massachusetts by about 1781.  Into a very small house, about 400 square feet, Nathaniel Sr. moved with his new wife, Lucy.  In time, ten more children joined the family.  The assumption can only be that of a home in utter chaos and squalor as the older children helped to care for the newer infants.  From this noise and chaos, it appears John Chapman escaped with his half-brother, Nathaniel, Jr.
    Again, though we know very little of Chapman’s growing up years, he and Nathaniel Jr. are found about 15 years later (about 1796) in far western Pennsylvania.  The western frontier was just beginning to open up with wilderness land ready for settlement by Revolutionary War veterans.  How fortuitous when, in 1792, the Ohio Company of Associates (actually formed in Massachusetts, among other companies with land deals) began to offer one hundred acres of land free to anyone desiring to settle the “Donation Tract.”  This land encompassed about one hundred thousand acres of wilderness beyond Ohio’s first white settlement in Marietta, used to help create a buffer zone between the white settlers and the warring Native Americans.  There was one catch, however, to obtaining this free land:  you had just three years in which to plant 50 apple trees and 20 peach trees as proof of your intention to settle the land.  (Means, p.8-9)
    Chapman, with his uncanny ability to know where frontier settlements were likely to spring up, would trek into the wilderness, often along fertile river bottoms, stake out his claim and clear several acres to plant the apple seeds he had obtained from cider mills.  He usually surrounded his plantings with a brush fence, though that did not always keep the small seedlings from being destroyed by critters and river flooding.  In a few years, a small apple orchard would be waiting the arrival of settlers.  However, he did not profit much from property he sold.  Quite often, he simply used up whatever profits he’d made to buy and care for abused horses he saw on his travels.  He also had a habit of just giving away seeds or young trees to those who couldn’t afford to pay much, if anything, for them.  (Means, p.9)
    Chapman’s eccentricities abound, promoting a mythical aspect to his life story.  Supposedly, he had been kicked in the head by a horse, perhaps in his twenties, suffering a skull fracture that required he be trepanned – that is, he had a portion of skull bone removed to alleviate pressure on his brain from internal hemorrhaging.  Some have contended there might be validity to this story to explain some of Chapman’s oddities.  Again, even this accident cannot be proven beyond that which W. M. Glines of Marietta, Ohio claimed.  (Means, p.13)
    And so, into Pennsylvania, John (23 years) and Nathaniel (about 16) traveled – whether by foot, by horse, or by canoe no one knows for certain. Nor can various authors’ claims of various routes be proven beyond doubt.  Regardless of how they arrived, John and Nathaniel planted apple seeds in the ground which they’d obtained in apple mash at cider mills; their intent was to plant seeds to prove their land throughout the wilderness.

    Their first plantings were made in what later became Warren County of northwest Pennsylvania during 1796 to 1799.  Proof of their travels here is recorded in various journals and records at trading posts along the Allegheny River between Warren and Franklin.  At some point before the turn of the new 19th century, John and his half-brother Nathaniel parted ways for reasons unclear to historians.  John Chapman is recorded in various land deals, buying and leasing, signing promissory notes to family members, and selling land and apple seedlings all through the early part of the 19th century. 
    It should also be noted that, by planting apple seeds, Chapman’s trees would not grow fruit true to the parent apple.  Unless limbs are grafted onto sturdy root stock, apple seeds will revert to growing into one of thousands of varieties from their unique genetic coding, making apple tree propagation by seed totally unreliable.  Among logical explanations for Chapman’s planting of apple seeds for fruit trees have been his desire to quickly establish ownership of the land his seeds were planted upon, knowing that whatever type of apple was produced would simply be pressed into cider.  This beverage was consumed more often as hard cider at a time when liquor, hard cider and wine were used in large quantities by adults and children alike.  Thus, Chapman’s apple trees would be a welcome addition to any homestead on the frontier.  (Means, p.97)
    Another important part of Chapman’s mystique was his religious devotion to Swedenborgianism and the so-called New Church founded in 1787 in Britain after Swedenborg’s death.  In fact, after visiting Ohio settlements in1801, Chapman became a convert and devoted disciple, leaving literature for settlers, often announcing himself with the words, “Here is news right fresh from heaven for you.”  (Means, p.121)  Armed with his own philosophy of not harming anything or anyone, plant, animal or human, Chapman was ready to share his religious beliefs with anyone who would listen… an avid missionary, as noted by the New Church.
    Briefly, Swedenborgianism was founded by the Swedish scientist and philosopher, Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772).  In 1768, Swedenborg was tried for heresy.  In 1770, he and his followers were ordered to cease their teachings.  Swedenborg claimed to have psychic gifts, saw visions, and believed he was given special revelations directly from God.  He imputed his own philosophy into the divinely inspired words of Scripture to propagate his own beliefs.  Swedenborg also denied the triune character of God, believed that Christ was born with inherent evil from His mother, denied the personality of Satan, denied that Christ’s death was a substitution or atonement for our sin, and denied that Christ arose from the dead.  (Sanders, p.167)  Thus, he was in opposition to the doctrinal tenets which are the substantive foundational components of the Christian faith.
    Moving over into Ohio not long after the turn of the 19th century, Chapman is found planting his apple seeds from Steubenville and Wellsburg near the eastern border of Pennsylvania to Dexter City north of the Ohio River, Marietta on the Muskingum River to Newark on the Licking River.  He purchased or leased land in several northern counties as well, including Knox, Richland and Ashland.  Later, he also covered ground in Indiana.
    Chapman roamed far and wide in wilderness territory, always with an eye for a good place to put his seeds in the ground, having that keen ability to discern where new settlements were most likely to spring up.  In early September 1812, he began to merge into myth during a period of hostile Indian attacks with counter-attacks by the white settlers.  Chapman apparently ran 26 miles each way, in bare feet, from house to house in the middle of the night through the wilderness to yell out a warning to settlers that the Indians were on the warpath.  He, more than anyone else, knew the trails like the backs of his hands from his own meanderings and plantings.  With this singular feat, he alerted settlers of an impending attack by the Indians; though the Indians lay low for a brief period, they eventually overtook the settlers in a deadly surprise attack.
    Ohio was then a wilderness fraught with an overabundance of wild animals to be on the lookout for, along with murders and scalpings by Indians in retaliation for various events by the whites as they saw the loss of their territory.  It was also a time of hard, back-breaking physical labor for settlers to get their acreage up to par in order to earn a living from the land.  In this lifestyle, men and women both lived, on average, only to about age 35, though occasionally much longer.  In this wilderness, Chapman lived as a modern, unkempt “John the Baptist.”  He was dressed in assorted rags, with long and scraggly hair and beard, with not exactly a pleasant aroma about him, and with dark eyes that seemed to sparkle and glow in the excitement or passion of his conversations.  In the wild, he typically ate “honey, berries, fruit, some cornmeal for mush, [and] milk whenever it was available.”  (Means, p.168) 
    He was seen to walk barefoot in snow and on ice; he stuck pins and needles into his feet without flinching.  In fact, the mid-19th century poet, novelist, and Ohio native, Rosella Rice, wrote that neither she nor her childhood friends made “fun of the man [or had] sport at his expense… No matter how oddly he was dressed or how funny he looked, we children never laughed at him, because our parents all loved and revered him as a good old man, a friend, and a benefactor.”  (Means, pp. 176-177)
    In 1805, Chapman’s father and step-mother moved with several of their younger children from Longmeadow, Massachusetts to Duck Creek on the Muskingum River near Marietta, Ohio.  If they had hoped for it, the welcome mat was not put out by their “long lost” son.  Chapman’s father died only two years after arriving, but there had not been the usual happy family visits one would have expected between father and son.  Instead, Chapman appears to have continued to keep his distance from his family except on rare occasions.  Many thoughts fuel the speculation as to why, including the fact he had signed two promissory notes to family members without any documentation as to whether he paid his debt off or not.  Perhaps he and his step-family did not get along.  No one knows for sure why he kept his distance from them.  Let it be said, however, that being with his family wasn’t anathema to him; rather, his on-the-move personality simply didn’t fit to make him into someone he was not, as in someone who would stay on the homestead, tending to the fields, animals and family. 
    In his later life, Chapman’s work of planting both apple seeds and the New Church’s “fresh news” was considered to be that of an “extraordinary missionary…” by the Swedenborg church hierarchy.  “Having no family, and inured to hardships of every kind, his operations are unceasing.  He is now employed in traversing the district between Detroit and the closer settlements of Ohio…”  (Means, p.192)  In an 1821 letter regarding Chapman’s desire to trade land for religious books of the faith, something the church could not do, a Daniel Thunn called him “the Appleseed man…”  A Reverend Holly wrote in a letter dated November 18, 1822 that Chapman was a man in Ohio “…they call…John Appleseed out there…”  This is considered the first written record of the name given to an eccentric man who gradually evolved into the myth we call Johnny Appleseed.  (Means, pp.192-193)

    As elusive and eccentric as he was in his lifetime, so he was in death.  While the actual circumstances and date surrounding his death are somewhat sketchy, it comes as no surprise that his actual burial plot is also now unknown.  Several witnesses stepped forward and claimed they knew where he was buried, including a self-proclaimed grandson of his half-brother Andrew - until it was determined John Chapman did not have a half-brother by that name.  Not until 1916 did the Indiana Horticultural Society chose an area at the top of a grassy knoll to forever be known as Chapman’s burial site.  Here, in Fort Wayne, an iron fence was erected with a plaque that reads as simple as the man was:
    John Chapman
    Johnny Appleseed
    Died 1845
     Near Dexter City, Ohio is another monument.  It stands seven feet tall, and is built with stones brought from every state in the nation.  This plaque reads:
    “In Memory of John Chapman,
    Famous ‘Johnny Appleseed…’
    Without a Hope of Recompense,
    Without a Thought of Pride,
    John Chapman Planted Apple Trees,
    And Preached, and Lived, and Died.”
    (Means, p.227)
    After his death, his estate was appraised with salable assets including one gray mare, 2000 apple trees in Jay County, 15,000 apple trees in Allen County, and multiple parcels of land.  With the sale of all he had to show for his life, Chapman’s estate was valued at $409 (about $9,300 in 2011), not exactly pittance.  However, every cent of it was eaten up by back taxes along with other unpaid bills owed to family and friends.  Rather symbolic of how Chapman lived his life… with little true income or money in his pocket, living off the land and largesse of friends and strangers, nothing ostentatious about him.
    It is also interesting to note that Howard Means (author of Johnny Appleseed:  The Man, the Myth, the American Story) was able to trace several plots of land on which Chapman had established orchards, but which have now become part and parcel of very modern cities, minus the orchards, of course.
    Many stories of Chapman/Appleseed have been proven false by Means’ extensive research as he ferreted out the details behind the stories.  Various contemporaneous writings have also set forth romanticized versions of Chapman’s life which were then carried on into the 20th century, perpetuating the myths about the man.
    In attempting to explain an element of Chapman’s eccentricity, Means recalled that he had once worked with a psychiatric response team in Washington, D.C.  Here, he found legally insane people often dressed in odd rags and tattered clothing and who smelled terrible – as eyewitnesses claimed of Chapman.  Means found it interesting that the eyes of many seemed to glow as they talked, just as it was said Chapman’s did.  These people clearly heard voices in their heads, often with acting-out behavior in response to the voices.  Chapman also told his listeners he was given revelations directly from God.  Means feels that Chapman meets the modern definition of insanity and shared “the old adage [that] if you talk to God, it’s prayer.  If God talks to you, it’s schizophrenia.”  (Means, p.274)   Whether Chapman/Appleseed was schizophrenic or otherwise insane is not mine to determine, but merely to pass along as explanation.
    This was not the direction I expected Johnny Appleseed’s story to take.  However we look at the life of Johnny Appleseed (aka John Chapman), he was a man who respected everyone he met, who harmed no one, not even a mosquito (putting out at least one fire rather than cause the death of more insects, per one eyewitness).  He was an eccentric man who has loomed larger than life, yet a man about whom we have known very little… with often that little bit being erroneous.
    Among other authors who have worked at fleshing out the myths and stories behind the elusive Chapman/Appleseed, Means has done a remarkable job to give us the clearest picture possible of John Chapman’s life.  While pointing out what is merely conjecture versus documented fact, to prove or disprove various and sundry reports, the colored stories and facts of Chapman’s life come alive.  And therein we discover the enigma of one for whom truth has evolved into romanticized myths regarding a simple man we’ve all admired… Johnny Appleseed.
  22. Linda Roorda
    Anniversaries…I like to think of them as brackets that hold our special memories marking the ever-flowing years.  October 26th is our wedding anniversary, and goodness, but how the years have flown!  There’s a lot of life lived within those years, a lot of water under that bridge… years that took a young bride and a little older and wiser groom through many stages of growth… years that saw carefree and happy days, but also years which saw many losses and changes that left their marks.  Truth is, some days were harder than we ever could have imagined possible when we first became a team and dreamed of living together happily ever after. 
    For me and Ed it has been learning to listen to each other (sometimes to what isn’t being verbalized), to make time to work out hard life issues, to accept each other, faults and all, to apologize and forgive, and to choose to love and remain committed to the vows we took on our wedding day. 
    Whether we faced the happy days of easy love, the normal day-to-day mundane aspects of life, the difficult challenges with Ed no longer being able to farm with his dad as he lost the last vestiges of vision, the acceptance of a new way of life while he spent six months learning new skills at The Carroll Center for the Blind in Newton, MA, the joy and excitement our children brought into our lives by just being who they are, love for the spouses they married and the Grandchildren they blessed us with, staring at unbelievable sorrow and pain when our oldest daughter unexpectedly passed away at age 25, or the changes which multiple difficult health issues and disabilities have brought us, there is One who has walked beside us every step of the way…
    In fact, like the poem, “Footsteps In The Sand,” I know the Lord has carried us during those times when we were utterly overwhelmed by life.  And, praise God, we have overcome what life has tossed our way, and our bonds have become stronger than when we first began our married journey 47 years ago! 
    Once There Was A Time
    Linda A. Roorda 
    Once there was a time
    I gazed into your eyes serene
    And there beheld the depths of your soul
    With all the love entwined in your heart…
    I miss the twinkle and the wink
    I miss the many tones of your gaze
    For your eyes spoke tender volumes
    Of adoration and undying love.
     
    Once there was a time
    Of holding hands on carefree walks
    Cherishing how you protected and led
    And lifted me gently over the fence…
    You shared your music, humor and wisdom
    As we walked and talked, laughed and pondered
    Sweet dreams and plans for our life ahead
    O’er paths unknown but bright with love.
     
    Once there was a time
    I breathed in deep the ambience
    Of fresh-baled hay and farming life
    And snuggled close, safe in your arms…
    I loved it best to work with you
    A shadow beside your every move
    Watching with pride my farmer’s hands
    Caring for cattle and crops and fields.
     
    Once there was a time
    Three precious babes arrived
    To bring us joy and share our love
    As we watched them grow and learn at our side…
    Then changes came, sudden and unbidden
    For life doesn’t always go as we plan
    You lost your vision, you lost your dream,
    We lost ourselves to a new way of life.
     
    Once there was a time
    Of joyous blessings and bittersweet days
    When dreams took root and on wings did fly
    From a nest that emptied all too soon…
    Then just as surely as rejoicing came
    The agony of death descended dark
    Yet hidden deep within the walls
    Lay healing and peace only God could give.
     
    Once there was a time
    We watched each other struggle
    Overwhelmed by cares and concerns of life
    From darkened doors to windows of light…
    For sometimes wisdom can best be learned
    By facing trials of hardship and pain
    In Faith, Hope and Love we persevere
    As we walk a path covered by prayer.
     
    Once there was a time
    When life seemed just an empty slate
    Waiting to be filled and made complete
    O’er paths now trod and bright with love…
    Yet in gazing back upon our days
    Never did we walk alone
    For gently guiding and lighting our way
    Were the grace-filled loving hands of our Lord
     
    ~~
  23. Linda Roorda

    Tug Salute

    By Linda Roorda,

    In the autumnal season of life, as we age and retire out of the workforce, some of us may begin to feel unwanted and useless.  We’ve done our job, and certainly did our best… we put heart and soul into our family and career.  But now that we’re a few years removed from a busy active life, and no longer able to do what we once could, maybe some of us feel like we’ve been “put out to pasture” and left to watch time slowly tick away.
    I hope you’re enjoying a great autumn season as the leaves turn colors, the geese form their entourages and fly south, colder weather requires jackets, and tinges of wood smoke make the outdoor air aromatic reminding me of what pioneer days must have been like. We still have not had a frost but expect it later this coming week.  Like life, a lot of changes happen in this season of fall as we prepare for winter just around the corner, reminding me I need to prepare for the inevitable and get those snow tires put on.  And so, we prepare for our latter season of life… and enjoy this time of change. Admittedly, though, I am not a big fan of change… like arthritis creeping in, realizing I need to buy a magnifying glass to read the fine print… but I roll with it, accept the changes, and move forward… 
    These thoughts came to mind on seeing some photos several years ago, like those at this tug graveyard, taken by Will Van Dorp, aka Tugster, another friend from childhood days.  As Will documents and blogs about the daily traffic of his aptly-named watery “Sixth Boro” surrounding New York City and its environs, we see tugs hard at work towing and pushing barges or assisting an array of ships.  Once upon a time, newly minted, they slid off the ways into the water, freshly christened with a shining glow, eager to face whatever responsibility or danger came their way. Tugs of various shapes and sizes actively plied the waters for many decades, sometimes sold to be rebuilt, repurposed and renamed to fit a new owner’s need.  But, it saddens us when these workhorses of watery roads are abandoned in a lonely inlet graveyard to slowly rot away.  They deserve a more fitting tribute for their hard-earned rest.
    Sort of like us… who begin to feel more like the months of autumn as the effects of aging take their toll… despite our thinking we’re a few decades younger and that we can still handle what we used to do with ease!  Maybe we had only one job, one career, or maybe we embraced multiple careers in our lifetime.  Maybe we lived through an era in history with a personal perspective that today’s youth just don’t understand.
    Be willing to share your life stories… the blessings, the fun and laughter, and the tears in tough times.  What was learned through your experiences may help someone else understand how to face their own difficulty.  With the end of life coming to us all eventually, be it boat or person, we can still make the most of our time that’s left.
    We don’t need to retire to the proverbial rocker in the corner… at least not yet anyway!  We can be repurposed in retirement to benefit others.  We can volunteer our time in any number of ways within our local community.  In so doing, we can bring a smile, a sense of joy and love to someone who truly can’t get out and about as they once did. 
    Listen to the stories, memories of the heart.  Help a friend share their life’s history.  Perhaps you can be the catalyst to writing down their memoirs.  Create the opportunity for such remembrances to be passed on to their children, grandchildren and great-grands, even to others beyond their immediate family. 
    Every one of us has a story to tell… our place in history to share.  Like us, those old tugboats are deserving of recognition for what was accomplished during life’s journey with a fitting salute and tribute. 
    Tug Salute
    Linda A. Roorda
    They ply the waters, these boats called tugs
    Each bow riding high with a stern slung low
    A workhorse they say for river or sea
    Vital to traffic of watery lanes.
    ~
    Now gaunt and faded like lifeless fossils
    Left to corrode alone with their mem’ries,
    Who can recall the day of christening
    When futures shone bright as colorful hulls.
    ~
    Riding waves high to rescue the dying
    Pushing and tugging behemoths of the deep
    Gently nudging, tucking in a berth
    Or pushing deep scows hauling upriver freight.
    ~
    No matter the calm, never minding the storm
    They’ve a job to do without laud or praise
    Handling with ease by a captain’s trained eye
    Who knows safe channels like the back o’ the hand.
    ~
    But came the day they were put to rest
    No hands at the helm, their days were numbered
    Silently rocking as waves tick off time
    Lapping relentless to a tune not their own.
    ~
    Haunting images mere remnants of honor
    Come close and listen, if you dare tread near
    Listen to whispers of tales long ago
    As we salute you, the pride of the harbor.
    ~~
    PHOTO CREDIT:  Will Van Dorp, "Tugster".
  24. Linda Roorda

    Worthy

    By Linda Roorda,

    What is our worth, our value?  How do we even measure such an entity?  Have we been so downtrodden that we feel like a failure… like we’re unworthy of the love of others?  Or do we hold our head up knowing we have inherent worth among the rest?
    Feeling unworthy is not new to any of us.  We’ve all been there at times throughout our life.  Haven’t we at one time or another made a simple mistake, yet were left feeling so ashamed we just wanted to disappear?  I have.  Frequently belittled in the past by a sibling and peers, those with a bravado making up for their own insecurities, I’ve felt defeated and worthless, without importance or value.
    After my family moved from farm life near East Palmyra, NY to city life in Clifton, NJ in February 1965, I struggled to accept this new way of life.  I hated the move and city life with every fiber of my being.  At age 10, I’d essentially lost all my good friends and the value of who I was… or so I thought.  I had to start over in a new city and a new school, trying to make new friends.
    Initially, this small school did not represent the love that I had been used to.  Here, at a city Christian school, I initially knew only two people – my younger cousin, Susan, and our minister’s daughter, Kristin.  Amazingly, her father had previously been our pastor in East Palmyra, and Kristin and my sister and I were already good friends – we used to visit each other’s home for play dates.  So, on the very first day of school, Kristin brought me and my sister inside to take us to the office.  Instead, we were met in the hall by the principal who yelled at us for being inside, insisting we go back outside until the bell rang. I felt so belittled, worthless, like I’d done something terribly wrong, all because the principal did not listen to us, nor recognize and understand that we were trying to tell her we were new students.
    At that time, I was smart, looked up to by peers.  However, there came a day that spring when I made a mistake so blatant that I was shamed.  Waiting for the school bus at the top of our block, I saw a truck pass by with S.O.X. written in very large letters on the side – and South Orange Express written beneath.  That’s an interesting name, I thought.  I’ll have to look for that truck again!
    That morning in school we had a surprise spelling bee – something I excelled in.  I read extensively already in fourth grade, being allowed three books for the week from the school library while everyone else could only take two.  As the spelling bee progressed, I was given the word “socks.”  Of course, I knew that simple word.  Yet, what proceeded to come forth out of my mouth was “s-o-x.”  And, then I was laughed at… 
    Oh, my goodness!  What had I just done!  I knew how to spell socks!  But that trucking company’s name had become embedded in my brain that morning, and, without thinking, that’s what I blurted out!  I was so utterly ashamed that I went back to my desk fighting tears, refusing to show outwardly my devastated emotions.  I felt absolutely worthless…  
    On reading this story, my husband encouragingly said, “Hey! There are two baseball teams, the Red Sox and the White Sox.  You weren’t so far off after all!”
    Acceptance by peers is not where my value and worth truly comes from.  Too often, we put stock in how others perceive us, even as adults… and in what they consider to be of value – like intelligence, good looks, possessions, and how much fun we are.  Instead, those things are all part of worldly superficial values.
    My family could not afford the latest new toys, nor the current fashion in clothes.  I often wore and appreciated hand-me-down clothes… especially appreciating clothing gifts from my grandparents, or fabric to sew clothes for myself once I learned how. But the simplicity taught me to value what I did have, and to consider others no less worthy than myself.  I do not look down on someone else, and developed empathy toward others in their struggles.  Remembering that when I meet someone new, or see someone who’s been hurt by mocking and shaming, I know how it feels as it had once been me.  Reaching out to others shows they are worthy, too!
    Though we may doubt our worth, God does not.  He knows our value.  After all, He created us and designed our individuality.  There are no two of us alike.  In this way, we each bring our uniqueness to benefit the world.  Unfortunately, our inherent value, our worth, has been undermined... by sin.  Yet, God loves us so much that He sent His beloved and only son, Jesus, to take the punishment for our wayward ways, our sin… to die in our place.  And with that gracious gift we realize, “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!”  (I John 3:1)  God knows our worth!  He values and loves each one of us for who we are!
    Though we may think we’re not worthy, we truly do have value… for we are totally and unconditionally loved by our awesome God… we are worthy!!
    Worthy
    Linda A. Roorda 
    I am not worthy to be called Your child
    I’ve willfully gone about my own way
    I threw caution away with the wind
    Thinking alone this world I could handle.
     
    But here I am down on my knees
    Knowing I’ve failed time after time
    How can You care and how can You love
    Someone like me still bucking the reins.
     
    You gently seek and call out to me
    Drawing me close, my wrongs now to see
    Had I listened to Your voice all along
    I would not feel the shame I do now.
     
    Yet as I reach for Your loving arms
    Hear my heart’s cry acknowledge my sin
    Knowing Your grace now covers my soul
    As once again, mercy washes clean.
     
    I give You my all as I surrender now
    And give You the fears that grip at my soul
    What will I gain by taking the reins
    When Your guiding hands hold gently my heart.
     
    For You hold me up and prove I’m worthy
    You lead me on to stand on Your words
    It’s then I feel Your arms surround me
    As Your love pours out its comforting peace.
    ~~ April 2015 ~~
  25. Linda Roorda
    To whom do I owe allegiance?  In whom do I put my trust?  To whom do I give credence?  Important words to contemplate for each of us in this world of conflict and hypocrisy.  Because, when we are individually or collectively silenced or canceled for our beliefs or opinions, for the sake of those who consider themselves to be “in the know” about any and all subjects, we, as a society, have ceased to listen and to understand.  We have lost our empathy, compassion and love, the ability to agree to disagree, but most of all we’ve lost true tolerance, loyalty and respect… allegiance.
    I’ve said it many times before… we are each created differently.  Our kids often heard that phrase from us as we rejected comparisons and envy around us.  We are each unique, to be respected and loved for who we are… even in our infirmities.  Just as every snowflake, every leaf, and every creature in the world of nature is different yet similar, even imperfect, so are we.  Not just physically and outwardly, but also emotionally in our thinking and reacting.  We each have different life experiences that contribute to making us who we are today, and why we think the way we do. 
    Have we not read or heard of the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”? (Matthew 7:12, Luke 6:31)  In other words, haven’t we been told to put ourselves in someone else’s “shoes” to understand their life and perspective?  In so doing, we understand just a little better what their life is like, enabling us to show empathy, compassion, true tolerance, and loving kindness. And that exemplifies Jesus’ words in Mark 12:29-31: “the most important is this: …Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.  The second is this:  Love your neighbor as yourself.”
    With trust placed in our God, He keeps us from stumbling.  He gives us the ability to love and respect those with whom we disagree.  But when we take our eyes off Him and His wisdom and we stumble, He is right there to help pick us up to start over again.  He welcomes us back, just like the little lost lamb He sought and brought back from danger.  For all that our great God does for each of us, I, we, owe Him our thanks, our praise, and our adoration… our allegiance. 
    To Whom Allegiance…
    Of Christ and His love
    Linda A. Roorda 
    Suppose my voice were threatened to silence
    By those opposing my faith in Almighty.
    To whom allegiance, the question I’d face
    Would I still speak or in fear acquiesce?
     
    Some think it’s fair to believe at will
    Whatever goes, whatever seems right,
    To each his own, a designer faith
    That which best fits their values perceived.
     
    I’d hope my faith through testing and trial
    Would stand ever firm in the Lord of my soul.
    For the great I Am with mercy and grace
    Will gently guide when His face I seek.
     
    His wisdom my source for dealing with life,
    Yet often my search still draws me away.
    Why do I think my knowledge is best,
    And why do I fight His hands on the reins?
     
    Time and again He’s proven to me
    He truly knows best, His way unequaled.
    He pulls me up short to rein in my will
    With reassurance as He directs my steps.
     
    My voice will then share the Truth it has known
    A comforting Peace in the storms of life
    A gentle holding in the palm of His hand
    A vision of Light ever guiding my path.
    ~~
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