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Linda Roorda

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  1. Linda Roorda

    The Master Tailor

    By Linda Roorda,

    I trust you had a blessed Christmas with your family, or even celebrating from a distance but still keeping in touch! It always brings joy to hear from our kids and Grands : )  I also started sewing a new recliner quilt for Ed (photo attached) – the center panel and fabrics from three different friends, yet they mesh so well as if purchased together! But, I made a mistake in sewing. Had to rip it out and redo a side panel. Isn't that how God takes the pieces of our life and fits them all together perfectly?! And that got me thinking about this old blog, The Master Tailor.  Enjoy!  Sent with much love and hugs, Linda
    I love to sew!  And to think it all started in 7th grade Home Ec sewing class in Clifton, NJ.  Making a simple A-line skirt and a beach wrap (displayed on the wall by the teacher) were the humble beginnings of better things to come. 
    With my mom too busy caring for a new baby brother to teach me more, my dad’s mother took me under her wings.  A former professional seamstress, Grammy helped me sew a western shirt, not an easy project with those angled points, and taught me well to use the seam ripper.  I learned to rip out my mistakes, start over, and make it right!  After all, in making life mistakes, it’s how we accept correction or change that makes all the difference.  So, when I tried to make a quilt on my own, totally wrong, my Grammy taught me the correct way.  She gifted me with several fabrics as I made a cardboard template to cut out 6-inch squares.  Laying the fabric squares out on the living room floor, I set them in a pattern, sewed up the long strips, and then sewed each long strip side by side.  With that success, Grammy then gifted me with fabric every Christmas over several years for yet more skirts and dresses. 
    After my family moved to Lounsberry, NY in 1969, I bought a c.1900 treadle machine that my auctioneer cousin, Howard, was selling for only $3.  My dad oiled it, fixed the tension, got a new leather belt for the wheels, and my sewing obsession took off.   More skirts, suits and dresses were made on that treadle machine to carry me through high school, including my prom gown and wedding gown. 
    Turning 20 on my first birthday after we married, my husband bought me a new Singer electric sewing machine!  And oh, if it could talk, the miles of thread and fabric it has sewn in clothes for myself, shirts for my husband, clothes for my children, and tiny clothes for their dolls.  And, now, using this same sewing machine, I’ve been making quilts in log cabin and prairie window designs, along with simple and more-detailed table runners.  And how I wish my dear Grammy could see them for she taught me well!
    Have you known that feeling of contentment as you worked to create something of value for yourself or others?  Have you known what it feels like to be so engrossed in a project that you lose all sense of time?  Have you known the frustration of having to take the time to rip out a seam, or correct something that just wasn’t right?  And, because you did so, you then felt the satisfaction of seeing your finished project in all its beauty?  Maybe that’s how God views us when we recognize His hand guiding us through life’s ups and downs.  David said it so well, “If the Lord delights in a man’s ways, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.”  (Psalm 37:23-24)
    This poem was written in a reflective moment, remembering that various mistakes, hardships, and testing over the years have helped define character and create who we are deep in our soul.  At times, I’ve not paid sufficient attention to my sewing, made mistakes, and had to employ that seam ripper.  I’ve also realized what a life lesson that holds… because admitting I’ve made an error is the first step to correcting it, and then learning from it.  I may not want to face the trials which might be coming in the future; but, in looking back, neither can I imagine life without the hardships we have worked through.  They refine our life and shape us for the better… just like the seam ripper’s cutting edge.
    And I also can’t help but realize that the Lord knows what He’s doing as He works His will through those trials which He allows each of us to face.  “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him...” (Romans 8:28, NIV)  For through these difficulties, He shapes and molds us into the unique and special person He means for us to be.
    The Master Tailor
    Linda A. Roorda
    As the seamstress sits and begins to sew
    Her loving care goes into each stitch
    And correlation stirs within her thoughts
    Of the Creator’s design deep in her soul.
     
    In her mind’s eye she sees it take shape
    From simple concept to finished result
    And beams with joy, her dream made complete
    As she holds with pride her creation dear.
     
    But what the world just cannot see
    Are errors which loomed about to destroy
    For outward beauty can never reveal
    The seam ripper’s hand in disciplined cuts.
     
    When I beheld what the seamstress had wrought
    I could not miss the significant key
    Of one who deftly shaped my own soul
    From even before my life came to be.
     
    The Master Tailor gazed into the future
    And pondered the me who I should be.
    He planned and designed each path for my good
    As He cut and sewed the fabric of me.
     
    He carefully stitched and eased the seams
    And reigned in penchants of wayward threads,
    But now and then along the way
    The seam ripper’s edge He gently employed.
     
    For don’t you see without the hardships
    Life’s burdens and pain cannot reflect
    The greater good down deep in my heart
    As seam ripper cuts shape my will to His.
     
    On a journey I am, a work in progress
    For someday when my time has come
    He’ll gaze upon His workmanship
    And see exactly who He planned me to be.
    ~~
    2013 
     
  2. Linda Roorda
    Spring is on its way! For real! I saw little white snowdrops and purple crocuses blooming in my gardens on my walk-about Friday. The blackbirds have definitely returned, their huge flocks of black covering the yard and treetops singing their hearts out, along with the lilting songs of my favorite bluebirds and the tweets of robins. And with the slow emergence of spring comes the vagaries of weather, the plummeting highs and lows, yet we didn’t get the sleet and snow with yesterday’s rain, for which I’m thankful.
    But with Saturday’s cold blustery, windy, dreary, rainy day I decided to sew up a new purse – using fabric of fanciful and beautiful dragonflies like iridescent butterflies.  And as I sewed, my mind wandered back in time to the many various items like clothing, quilts, and purses I’ve made over the decades. But, as is typical, I made a few mistakes that needed correcting… like when I made a special quilt for Ed in the past. The center panel and fabrics were gifted to me by three different friends, yet they meshed so well as if purchased together! And yes, I made a mistake in sewing then too… had to rip out and redo an entire side section. But in the process, I realized something special - isn't that how God takes the pieces of our life and fits them all together perfectly?! And that got me thinking about this old blog, The Master Tailor.
    I love to sew!  And it all started in 7th grade Home Ec sewing class in Clifton, NJ.  Making a simple A-line denim skirt using orange thread (to resemble Western clothing) and a beach wrap (displayed on the wall by the teacher) were the simple beginnings of better things to come. 
    With my mom too busy caring for a new baby brother to teach me more, my dad’s mother took me under her wings.  A former professional seamstress of gowns and clothing, Grammy helped me sew a western shirt (see attached photo), not an easy project with those angled points, and taught me well to use the seam ripper.  I learned to rip out my mistakes, start over, and make it right!  Isn't that how God takes the pieces of our life and fits them all together perfectly?  In making life mistakes, it’s how we accept correction or change that makes all the difference.  
    So, when I tried to make a quilt on my own, totally wrong, Grammy taught me the correct way. She gifted me with several fabrics as I made a cardboard template to cut out 6-inch squares.  Laying out the fabric squares on the living room floor, I set them in a pattern, sewed up the long strips, and then sewed each long strip side by side.  With that success, Grammy gifted me with fabric every Christmas over several years for yet more skirts and dresses. 
    After my family moved to Lounsberry, NY in 1969, I bought a c.1900 treadle machine that my auctioneer cousin, Howard, was selling for only $3.  My dad oiled it, fixed the tension, got a new leather belt for the wheels, and my sewing obsession took off.   More skirts, suits and dresses were made on that treadle machine to carry me through high school, including my prom gown and wedding gown. 
    Turning 20 on my first birthday after we married, my husband bought me a new Singer electric sewing machine!  And oh, if it could talk, the miles of thread and fabric it has sewn in clothes for myself, shirts for my husband, clothing for my children, and tiny clothes for their dolls.  And, now, using this same sewing machine, I’ve been making quilts in log cabin and prairie window designs among many other designs, along with simple and more-detailed table runners, and purses.  How I wish Grammy could see them for she taught me well!
    Have you known that feeling of contentment as you worked to create something of value for yourself or others?  Have you known what it feels like to be so engrossed in a project that you lose all sense of time?  Have you known the frustration of having to take the time to rip out a seam, or correct something that just wasn’t right?  And, because you did so, you then felt the satisfaction of seeing your finished project in all its beauty?  Maybe that’s how God views us when we recognize His hand guiding us through life’s ups and downs.  David said it so well, “If the Lord delights in a man’s ways, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.”  (Psalm 37:23-24)
    This poem was written in a reflective moment, remembering that various mistakes, hardships, and testing over the years have helped define character and create who we are deep in our soul.  At times, I’ve not paid sufficient attention to my sewing, made mistakes, and had to employ that seam ripper.  I’ve also realized what a life lesson that holds… because admitting I’ve made an error is the first step to correcting it, and then learning from it.  I may not want to face the trials which might be coming in the future; but, in looking back, neither can I imagine life without the hardships we have worked through.  They refine our life and shape us for the better… just like the seam ripper’s cutting edge.
    And I also can’t help but realize that the Lord knows what He’s doing as He works His will through those trials which He allows each of us to face.  “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him...” (Romans 8:28, NIV)  For through these difficulties, He shapes and molds us into the unique and special person He intends for us to be. 
    The Master Tailor
    Linda A. Roorda 
    As the seamstress sits and begins to sew
    Her loving care goes into each stitch
    And correlation stirs within her thoughts
    Of the Creator’s design deep in her soul.
     
    In her mind’s eye she sees it take shape
    From simple concept to finished result
    And beams with joy, her dream made complete
    As she holds with pride her creation dear.
     
    But what the world just cannot see
    Are errors which loomed about to destroy
    For outward beauty can never reveal
    The seam ripper’s hand in disciplined cuts.
     
    When I beheld what the seamstress had wrought
    I could not miss the significant key
    Of one who deftly shaped my own soul
    From even before my life came to be.
     
    The Master Tailor gazed into the future
    And pondered the me who I should be.
    He planned and designed each path for my good
    As He cut and sewed the fabric of me.
     
    He carefully stitched and eased the seams
    And reigned in penchants of wayward threads,
    But now and then along the way
    The seam ripper’s edge He gently employed.
     
    For don’t you see, without the hardships
    Life’s burdens and pain cannot reflect
    The greater good down deep in my heart
    As seam ripper cuts shape my will to His.
     
    On a journey I am, a work in progress
    For someday when my time has come
    He’ll gaze upon His workmanship
    And see exactly who He planned me to be.
    ~~
  3. Linda Roorda
    Little lambs are so soft, cuddly and cute!  In my mid-teens, my siblings and I were given a lamb which I promptly named “Lambie.”  Very original, huh?!  It was only intended until something better came to mind, but nothing ever did.  She was a twin, abandoned by her mother and given to us by our cousin, Robert, from his flock.  I don’t know the breed, but she had light gray wool with a black face and black legs. 
    As Lambie’s main caretaker, I took responsibility to make sure she was fed.  Following my Dad’s directions, I made a gruel with oatmeal, water and evaporated milk, feeding it to her in a glass bottle which had one of my brother’s bottle nipples attached – we were good at making do.  And I loved to watch her little tail go “ninety miles an hour” while she drank! 
    Lambie was small, not very old, so we kept her in a box near the old-fashioned wood-burning kitchen stove to keep her warm.  It was too cold to put her out in the barn all by herself without her mama.  Even our mutt, Pepsi, of terrier and other unknown parentage, liked nothing better than to jump into Lambie’s box to check out this new arrival to our menagerie.  And I’m sure Pepsi wondered why this little one said “baaaa” and didn’t whimper like a puppy, but she contentedly mothered her adopted baby anyway! 
    Eventually, Lambie went to her pen in the barn, and followed me wherever I went.  It was fun to watch her spring up and down as she played and ran about the yard and nibbled on the grass.  Occasionally, she tried to wander beyond her guardian’s protection until called back to my side.  Though I never considered myself her “shepherd,” in reality I was.  I provided food and water for her, protected her, and kept her from harm… until the vet diagnosed her with Listeriosis, or circling disease.  Nothing could be done for her and we had to put her down.  Crying so hard I could barely see, I insisted to my Dad that I would dig the grave at the edge of the raspberry patch and bury little Lambie all by myself. 
    Such were the thoughts that came to mind after writing the poem below which is based on Jesus’ parable found in John 10:1-21.  Here, we read that the Good Shepherd knows each one of his sheep, and He calls them by name. But the sheep also know their shepherd, recognize his voice, and follow wherever he leads them.  Should a stranger enter the fold, the sheep will not follow him… instead, they will run around wildly or just run away en masse, simply because they aren’t familiar with the stranger’s voice. 
    Perhaps, under cover, a thief may come near the flock, pretending to be their shepherd.  He may disguise himself and draw a few young, inexperienced sheep away who think they’re following their shepherd.  Or perhaps a predator might sneak up on an unsuspecting lamb and lead it astray.  Disoriented and lost, the lamb follows the predator to supposed safety.  Soon it becomes obvious that the predator is not its shepherd… but by then it’s too late.
    Except, the true shepherd with his trained eye realizes what’s happened.  Like another of Jesus’ parables in Luke 15:3-6, He seeks out His precious lamb and brings it back, or willingly fights off the predator to rescue his little lost lamb.  Listening to its Master’s voice, the lamb turns around and joyfully runs back to the safety of the flock… and there it stays, feeling content and peaceful under the watchful eye of its protective shepherd. 
    And I thought, how like those sheep we are…  As Isaiah 53:6 says, “We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way; and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.”  We have a tendency at times to follow what sounds and looks so good, what seems so right… only to realize later that we’ve been duped… we were on the wrong track… and we need someone to save us.
    That special someone, the Master, the Good Shepherd, would do anything for us, His sheep… especially those who have wandered off or been drawn away by a predator.  Not so the hireling who doesn’t care much about someone else’s sheep.  With only a little provocation, he’d as soon run away than fight for the lives of the sheep under his watch.  Just as my heart ached and cried for the loss of my little precious lamb, so the Good Shepherd of our story aches for the lost, and would lay down His own life to protect and save His precious sheep from harm. 
    And isn’t that what our Lord, our Good Shepherd, our Master, has done for us?  May we always hear the love in our Master’s voice within our heart and follow His leading…
    The Master’s Voice
    Linda A. Roorda
    Like gentle sheep we’re prone to wander
    Easily enticed by things of this world
    But at the sound of our Master’s voice
    Will we then heed or continue headstrong?
    ~
    The Master’s words will not lead astray
    Seeking the ones who meander off
    Softly calling each one by name
    With tender words of comfort and peace.
    ~
    When storms arrive and release their fury
    The shepherd guides his flock to safety.
    How like our Master who longs to embrace
    And bring us home to rest in His arms.
    ~
    When wolves appear like gentle sheep clothed
    With flattery smooth they strike unannounced
    Their intention dark, the naïve to deceive
    Serving their needs, the meek to destroy.
    ~
    Then words of wisdom are soon directed
    At wandering lambs who have left the fold
    Calling them back to a sheltered life
    Protected under the Master’s great love.
    ~
    Unlike the hireling, He lays down His life
    Whatever it takes to gather His own
    Take heed to His call and flee from the foe
    Lean into His arms of mercy and grace.
    ~
    Like a good Shepherd is our Savior Lord
    With care He protects each sheep in His fold
    It matters to Him whose words we follow
    The call of folly or the Master’s voice.
    ~~
  4. Linda Roorda

    The Mentor

    By Linda Roorda,

    Today, my thoughts turn back to thank God for the mentors in my life… and I’m sure you can think of those who’ve blessed your life with encouragements along your journey.  I’d love to hear your stories of how others gave encouraging words as you grew up, or even those who came alongside you as an adult with a helpful perspective.  As you remember those who cheered you on, become a mentor to someone who could use your encouraging words.  (I’ve included the URL below my poem for the podcast, "Balms for the Soul", where my friend, Carla, has included my blogs - if you’d like to listen.)
    What do teachers Josephine Rice of East Palmyra, NY, Clara Breeman of Clifton, NJ and Kathy Haire of Owego, NY have in common? 
    We’ve all been blessed with a mentor, and likely more than one.  They come alongside to encourage us, help us understand a difficult concept, and help to guide us in the right direction.  They have an innate ability to bring out the best in us… that hidden talent or gift we didn’t even know existed. 
    I’ve had my share of mentors beginning with an elementary teacher for 1st through 3rd grades, Josephine Rice.  A self-taught teacher at East Palmyra, NY’s Christian School, she was gifted.  And she knew how to bring out the best in her students!  I’ve always remembered her teaching skills, and ability to teach three grades of about 30+ students in the same room of a small private school.  Though I distinctly remember dreading her timed math tests as she held a stopwatch in her hand, I learned a lot under her!  She also taught the finer points of phonics, and I enjoyed the old “Dick and Jane” book series when learning to read. 
    Having learned to read phonetically with certain sight recognition words, that skill continued to be a life-long benefit, particularly in my medical transcription profession when confronting unfamiliar new words.  But, it was also the foundation used to help my oldest daughter, Jenn, when she struggled learning to read.  I made flashcards for her, just as I used in Mrs. Rice’s class.  Math was also taught by rote memorization, which paid off in foundational skills retained, though math has not been my strong point.
    My next mentor was my seventh-grade English teacher, Clara Breeman, at Christopher Columbus Junior High in Clifton, NJ.  A woman with the 1960s beehive hairdo, she was mocked for appearing to be quite elderly.  She was considered by my peers to be harsh and exacting, taking no guff from anyone, the last teacher you ever wanted to have.  And, I’ll never forget my fear when I learned I had her for both homeroom and English – a dreaded combination, according to the neighborhood kids.  But, I graduated high school knowing she had been one of the best! 
    From Miss Breeman, I learned life-long foundational skills for writing, which I taught to my children when they began writing essays.  I learned to love sentence diagraming, and excelled under her tutelage.  But, I also felt her love when a young man, sitting next to me, began to taunt and mock me with his well-known sarcastic tongue.  Miss Breeman let him know in no uncertain terms that that was unacceptable behavior and would not be tolerated.  She insisted he apologize, and then moved him to another seat.  A Christian woman in a public-school setting, she had no qualms about promoting the use of the biblical book of Psalms for its poetry, from which I and others did our book reports.
    Years later, Kathy Haire, my gym teacher as a senior in Owego Free Academy, was a mentor who used praise for her “Ladies” which brought out her students’ best.  Gifted in athletic ability, I never utilized my full potential.  At Passaic Christian School when I lived in Clifton, NJ, I had excelled in double-Dutch jump rope, basketball and tetherball, with a natural high jump to block and defeat my opponents, much to my shorter 6th grade boyfriend’s chagrin. 
    Back at Clifton, NJ’s Christopher Columbus Jr. High, I had been among the fastest runners in my class, jumping hurdles with ease and room to spare on the stadium track in gym, and played a great basketball game.  Later, gym class in Owego, NY showed skill in volleyball, serving a strong ball to the guys’ team, with a springing high jump to hit and spike that ball back down over the net to score.  Then as a senior, with praise from Kathy Haire, I again played great basketball in gym, and perfected a routine on the uneven bars in gymnastics despite my initial petrifying fear of those bars!  She believed in me and gave me confidence to succeed.  I now look back at all the years missed when I could have joined track and field, tennis, volleyball or basketball teams - and the ranks of my Tillapaugh relatives with their athletic abilities and college and state records.
    Additional mentors include John and Betty LaGeorge and Pastor Doug and Lori Brock.  Their loving friendship blessed us, though they’ve moved on from the community.  Coming alongside us as a family, they included our children in babysitting and extra activities involving church and the Christian school, and simply shared God’s love and wisdom with us as a family.
    And isn’t that what our God simply asks of us… that we bless others through the gifts and talents He’s blessed us with?  Mentors model and teach wisdom, showing us a better way, perhaps a way we never thought attainable.  Mentors live out their love for others, and shower those around them with evidence of their faith in action.  May we go and do the same. 
    The Mentor
    Linda A. Roorda
    Your kind loving words enveloped my heart
    And brought out the best hidden within.
    You found the key to unlock the source
    Releasing the gifts that I never knew.
    ~
    You let me fly on wings that were new
    Discovering self with talents and skills.
    Confidence builder, you who encouraged,
    Tapped into assets just waiting to bloom.
    ~
    For like a flower about to blossom
    Absorbing kind words which nourish like rain,
    So discerning hearts that desire the best,
    Treasure the wealth emerging like dawn.
    ~
    Your gentle praise and guiding wisdom
    Opened the doors to a world unknown.
    You led the way as practice perfected
    That which had worth from talent unadorned.
    ~
    Like silver and gold refined by furnace
    Is elegance true, a beauty within.
    Always the mentor seeks out the hidden
    And brings out the glow with encouraging love.
    ~~
    To listen to this blog on Podcast:  https://open.spotify.com/show/7Big193iLjkZ5kAus2h4lU
  5. Linda Roorda

    The Nail

    By Linda Roorda,

    Easter… I remember one year when I was a little girl getting a special new dress, white bonnet, and pretty black patent leather shoes to wear to church, and, of course, chocolate candy.  I also remember fun when my Mom helped us dye hard-boiled eggs. But what youngster doesn’t get excited about also getting a basket dressed up in pretty pastels, filled with sweet treats, stuffed bunnies, and other toys. And don’t forget the ever-popular Easter egg hunt with more candy or toys tucked inside plastic-colored eggs… the makings of childhood fun!  And this year, enjoyed making a chalk-art drawing on our sidewalk for others to enjoy on this beautiful day.

    But, all my life, I’ve struggled with the dichotomy of our holiday celebrations… holding close the deeper faith-based, heart-felt meanings versus the popular fun and whimsical traditions.  Sometimes it seems we take our Christian celebrations for granted.  We do appreciate them for their remembrance of all Jesus did for us, but we have not always contemplated the intimate details in a more personal way.  Focusing on Scripture and Jesus’ words, His sacrifice, and self-contemplation a few years back, my thoughts prompted this poem and contemplative reflection.
    Have you ever seen or held an old-fashioned iron nail? I'm sure many of you have, just as I have. Researching the history of nails, it’s a rather fascinating subject, and I learned that not until the latter 19th century did we begin producing round cut nails by machine.   Bronze nails have been dated back to about 3000 b.c., with the Romans the first to eventually use harder iron for their nails. Since the earliest nail was first made, each hand-forged nail has been  out individually by a blacksmith from iron heated in the fire.  The nails were typically square, flat on four sides, tapering to a point at the other end.  An online search brings up images of such nails from a hundred plus years ago all the way back to include Roman crucifixion nails.  Those old Roman nails were ominous-looking objects about 5-7 inches long and half an inch wide at the top… and doubt I’d be wrong to call them spikes.
    So, it makes me shudder to think of the damage one of those Roman nails could do to a person’s flesh and bone.  It also seems like a heart hardened to the cruelty inflicted was required for the job.  And that was after the condemned criminal had been flogged mercilessly with the flesh torn and stripped from his back until he was hardly recognizable.  I did not go to see Mel Gibson‘s movie, “The Passion of the Christ.”  I know I could not have watched it for those very painful reasons.  There’s a movie playing in my mind from reading the passages in our Holy Bible, and I prefer that personal familiarity.
    The above-referenced images are those which typically come to mind as we contemplate Jesus’s crucifixion during the Passover.  Condemned under trumped-up false blasphemy charges by Jerusalem’s synagogue leaders, yet found guiltless by Rome’s representative, the crowd defiantly yelled, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”  As the leaders promoted the release of Barabbas, a rightfully jailed and sentenced criminal, the crowd demanded that Jesus take his place on the cross instead.
    Thinking “Oh, the shame of it all!”, we also wonder how the Jews could condemn an innocent man to such a horrid death, one of their own who healed their sick and who spoke wisdom into their lives.  But they did not understand His life’s purpose.  As they condemned Jesus, little did they know they were actually fulfilling prophecy about God’s only begotten Son whose very life was a sacrifice for even them. So here I stand, holding tight that nail and pounding it in deeper with every sin I’ve ever committed… and will commit… unless I confess, repent, and accept His gift of salvation.
    And it humbles us even more to know Jesus went to that cross willingly.  The Son of God willingly died for me… for you!  He took our place… and bore our shame… to redeem us from all of our petty and monumental sins, in the past and in the future.  For “we all, like sheep, have all gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.”  (Isaiah 53:6 NIV)  
    Yes, we have each gone astray, perhaps in only minor and seemingly insignificant ways, but our perfect God still calls sin what it is - “sin”.  To know that God deeply loved you and me before we even came to be, and that He sent His only Son out from a perfect heavenly home to this fallen world for our salvation is simply overwhelming.  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”  (John 3:16)  I am forever grateful for such a gift of love… and that He came to shower you and me with His limitless forgiveness, mercy and grace.
     And as we celebrate the death and triumphant resurrection of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, let us never forget the sacrifice He made for each of us.  Have a Blessed Easter!
     
    The Nail
    Linda A. Roorda
    Gripping the iron between my fingers
    I feel its cold and lifeless form,
    And it’s at this point my wandering thoughts
    Flash back in time to another day.
     
    Would I have taken that nail in my hand
    When before me lay a man condemned,
    Bruised and beaten, battered and bloody
    A man despised, forsaken and worn?
     
    But, in fact, I did.  I did take that nail.
    With hammer in hand I raised my arm,
    To pound that nail into flesh and bone
    And heard its ring bring pain and anguish.
     
    Deep in my heart, I knew it was wrong.
    He’d done no crime, no offense or harm.
    But with every strike my sins came to mind
    For I’m the one who nailed him to the cross.
     
    And yet with each pound his face was serene
    No anger or hate… but a tender deep love.
    With tears I confessed, “My sin nailed You there!”
    While He replied, “It’s for you I died.”
     
    “It’s for you I came.  For you I suffered.
    For your very soul I gave my all…”
    Death will not gain the heart of faith,
    The heart that to Him forever is pledged.
    ~~
    2017
    A version of this poem and personal reflection was initially posted on The Network, an online resource of the Christian Reformed Church.  
     
  6. Linda Roorda
    I know change doesn’t come easy to me. But, change, like pruning of bushes and trees, is necessary. 
    Inevitable change without and within, As time marches forth on its forever path. But what of our heart when the depth is exposed? Are we bitter in change or more gentle and kind?
    Pruning is vital.  It cleans out dead branches on a bush or tree.  It clears out heavy overgrowth.  Pruning is a necessary step for fruit trees and grapevines, enabling them to produce a bountiful crop of top-quality fruit.  Pruning also helps plants put more energy into growing and showing off their abundance of gorgeous flowers.
    For those unfamiliar with the process, pruning helps a plant maintain optimum health.  While dead branches, or an excessive amount, choke out the sun from reaching the inner depths, pruning opens up the heart of a plant.  Removing or trimming back branches allows the sun’s rays to reach into the heart of the plant in order to revitalize the entire plant.  It may seem harsh when beginning drastic cuts; but, when the task is done, we have a much healthier plant. 

    Without pruning, any flowering or fruiting plant, vine or tree can revert to a more wild state, putting its energy into unnecessary overgrowth.  With pruning, the focus is on nutrition, feeding and nurturing the  plant so it produces the best flowers and fruit.  Admittedly, I have failed to prune many plants over the years and have ended up with a messy overgrowth that is now a challenge of where to begin.
    And so it is with us.  We need pruning… of our thoughts, words and deeds… a pruning of our heart and soul.  With the trimming away of unhealthy vices, we are more open and receptive to change… change which brings out the best in us.  As Jesus said, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.  He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”  (John 15:1-2)  We need pruning to let the Son’s light enter the depths of our heart in order to revitalize us as we begin producing our fruit of the Spirit – “…love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”  (Galatians 5:22)
    We’re all branches in the tree of humanity, bearing fruit of various kinds.  We each have something special to contribute to this world around us.  Created unique, we’re endowed with individual gifts and talents.  But, we often need pruning to clear away the destructive debris in our lives.  We need pruning to allow the Son’s rays a chance to enter the depths of our heart… to cleanse and renew… to revitalize us… so that we can shine our fruit, our blessings, out into the world.
    And since God made each of us a unique one-of-a-kind creation, it brings joy to share our special gifts with our family, friends, and others beyond our close circle.  In so doing, we bless them in ways we can’t imagine, so that they in turn are encouraged to use their gifts to bless someone else. 
    The Pruning
    Linda A. Roorda
    He takes out his shears and sharpens the blades
    Ready to trim overgrown chaos.
    He eyes the tree, knows which branch must go,
    Which limb needs space as he trims and shapes.
    ~
    Decisions are made to remove dead growth
    Prune overcrowding and bring in the sun.
    Yet not unlike my life’s debris trimmed
    When clutter is cleared, opened for the Son.
    ~
    Bearing bad fruit shows a branch gone wild
    And bearing none how stagnant we are,
    What benefit then to remain untrimmed
    For lack of growth cannot show God’s love.
    ~
    But if we abide as a branch alive
    Bearing our fruit for the world to see
    The evidence speaks our soul’s depth of love
    That we will prove the Father’s commands.
    ~
    Abiding in love just as He loves us
    No greater gift has one for another
    For You, Lord, above have chosen us
    That we may bear fruit in lasting tribute.
    ~
    Inevitable change without and within
    As time marches forth on its forever path
    But what of our heart when the depth is exposed
    Are we bitter in change or more gentle and kind?
    ~~
  7. Linda Roorda
    I love to see a beautiful rainbow at the end of a storm, don’t you?!  I’ve even seen the occasional double rainbow emerging as the sun begins to shine, leaving a lustrous shimmering sheen on everything wet.  Then there’s that elusive pot of gold we joke about finding at its end… wouldn’t we be rich!
    Rainbows have come to symbolize many things.  Since the early 1970s, the rainbow has represented the LGBT community with bright bold colors, used by gays as far back as the 19th century to identify themselves.  In some cultures, rainbows are a bad omen, a portent of evil, while on the flip side they’re said to bring good luck, especially double rainbows. 
    But spiritually and biblically, the rainbow represents God’s love and covenant to all of mankind that never again would He destroy the earth.  In that one-and-only 40-day flooding deluge of rain, only Noah and his family members survived in the ark he built because of their faith in the one true God… while the rest of the world mocked Noah and worshiped their false gods.  With representation in twos, male and female of every living creature, including mankind represented by Noah’s faithful family, that must have been one full and noisy ark!
    After the storm, Noah and his family saw a magnificent rainbow as they left the ark. “God said, “This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come:  I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth.  Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind.  Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life.  Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.”  So God said to Noah, “This is the sign of the covenant I have established between me and all life on the earth.”  (Genesis 9:12-17 NIV)
    And what a blessing of love and hope God gave us as represented by that rainbow! We are showered with mercy and grace when we come to Him in faith, admit our sins, and ask for His forgiveness.  We all face the difficult trials of life, some more than others it seems.  As one of America’s favorite poets, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, once penned, “Into each life some rain must fall.” 
    “Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
    Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
    Thy fate is the common fate of all,
    Into each life some rain must fall,
    Some days must be dark and dreary.”
    Yet, just like the rainbow given as a sign to Noah after the flood, God has promised He will be with us, and never leave us… forever. (Matthew 28:20) 
    I’ve always been touched by the story of Israel’s Joseph, sold into slavery by his jealous brothers.  Taken to Egypt to become a slave, and though a faithful servant, he was falsely charged and imprisoned for many years.  Eventually released by Pharaoh for his ability to interpret the king’s dreams, he became second in command!  As a “prime minister,” Joseph led the nation through tremendous harvest successes followed by extreme drought and famine.  During the famine, his brothers sought assistance from the foreign nation, not knowing their younger brother was in control of grain disbursement.  When later identifying himself to his brothers, Joseph shared how God had blessed him through the difficulties, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.”  (Genesis 50:20)
    Though we all face our own share of difficulties, we have the hope that our gracious Lord will walk beside us, guide us, and see us through the storms.  As Joshua told the nation of Israel on going into the Promised Land, “Be strong and Courageous.  Do not fear… for the Lord your God goes with you.  He will not leave you or forsake you.” (Deuteronomy 31:6) 
    Many generations later, the Apostle Paul wrote that he had asked God three times to remove the thorn with which he suffered.  Instead, God’s response was simply, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness…”  Paul was able to boast in his hardships because it was then he felt Christ strengthen him, “For when I am weak, then I am strong.”  (II Corinthians 12:7-10)
    Yet, all too often, like me, we often see only the bad in the difficult situation… initially at least.  When we raise our eyes to see how God walks through the storm with us, we see the good, the blessing, that comes as we look back in hindsight.  Paul reassured us by saying, “And we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.”  (Romans 8:28)
    The beautiful rainbow arching across the sky after the storm is a beautiful reminder of God’s love for us, His gift of salvation, His promise to always be with us… no matter what! 
    The Rainbow’s End
    Linda A. Roorda
    ~
    The richest treasures at the rainbow’s end
    Reveal the blessings of abundant grace
    Joy from the heart to brighten your way
    Wrapped up in love and joy unending.
    ~
    Yet the pot of gold always out of reach
    Taunts our goals with pursuits of pleasure
    Tempting the heart to envy another
    To yearn for more that’s not ours to gain.
    ~
    But when we release our wants for more
    And humbly embrace to persevere
    We face the trials standing firm in faith
    As blessings pour out from our Father above.
    ~
    Such treasures rich we cannot fathom
    For in His plan all things work together
    That from a rough path we find His promise
    And see His face at the rainbow’s end.
    ~
  8. Linda Roorda
    We recently watched a news clip from January 10, 2022 showing a young woman driving up to a large dumpster, opening the rear door of her car, grabbing a black bag, flinging it into the dumpster, and driving away. Six hours later, passersby rummaging through the trash heard what sounded like a kitten crying. I cried as I watched a woman tenderly cuddle and caress an infant after finding the newborn boy inside that bag, while her friend called 911. My heart goes out to the teen mom, 18 years old, reportedly afraid and unsure of what to do, claiming she didn't know she was pregnant. Reading that she and her boyfriend had broken up last summer, I was also saddened that the baby's father had had no say in the future life of his child when she threw their baby into the trash. I also hope she gets some good counseling. 
    Yet, every state has safe haven laws providing a drop-off at police and fire departments, even at hospitals. Not considered abandonment of an infant up to each state’s specified age limit, safe havens will place the infant in protective custody for foster care or adoption. When teaching sex ed to our teens, perhaps it’s time we tell them about safe havens and that there are many options where someone can turn to for help, not just for an abortion, and not to throw their baby away like garbage. 
    I have also read and heard stories about survivors of attempted abortion left to die by abortion clinic personnel – infanticide is the appropriate term. Thankfully, compassion stirred the hearts of staff who sought medical care for these infants who were later adopted and loved, some of whom were born with defects due to the abortion procedure, some going on to become outspoken pro-life advocates for the value of every human life.  As one abortion survivor, Melissa Ohden, stated, “Something’s wrong when women’s empowerment is based on ending another human being’s life.”
    On February 25, 2019, the U.S. Senate failed to pass the Born-Alive Abortion Survivors Protection Act by a vote of 53-44. It would have protected infants born alive following an abortion attempt. Independent journalist, Thor Benson, tweeted that “there is no such thing as an abortion survivor.” What a false narrative he promoted!
    Among a number of abortion survivors is Gianna Jessen, “born during a saline abortion” per her birth certificate with resultant cerebral palsy, a powerful pro-life speaker.  On August 22, 2013, Gianna shared her emotional journey with an Australian government audience, “We are in a battle for life and death. Which side are you on?… If abortion is just about women’s rights, then what am I? … What arrogance… that the stronger should dominate the weaker, and determine who should live or die. You cannot make your own heart beat. It is the mercy of God that sustains you, even when you hate Him… I am weaker than most of you, but this is my sermon. What a small price to pay to be able to blaze through the world as I do and offer hope. God is in control and He has a way of making the most miserable thing beautiful…”  
    With today being “Sanctity of Human Life” Sunday, I believe that extends to far more than the pro-life movement.  To me, it’s not a political issue, but one that affects our moral fiber because all life is sacred.  The intrinsic value we place on life determines how we treat others around us.  Though I realize there are differing opinions on abortion, this is a story dear to my heart. An edited and condensed version of this reflection and poem was first published at Do Justice, a section of the Office of Social Justice website for the Christian Reformed Church.
    With the 49th anniversary of January 1973’s Roe v. Wade abortion decision, I share the story of a young mother-to-be.  She already had two healthy children, but this pregnancy made her very ill, vomiting frequently, steadily worsening.  Struggling to carry this new life, her doctor sought a “medically necessary” abortion.  Three doctors needed to sign documentation indicating her life was in jeopardy if the pregnancy continued.  But, no third physician would add his name. 
    A Cesarean section was performed at 7 months’ gestation or risk losing both mother and baby.  To everyone's surprise, twin boys were born!  After surgery, the mom nearly died from the effects of toxemia (i.e. pre-eclampsia), the result of high blood pressure and the demands on her body by two babies.
    With much prayer and great medical care, she pulled through.  But, the largest twin at 5 lbs, born with an enlarged heart, died at two days of age, while the smaller twin at 3-1/2 lbs spent a month in an incubator.  This tiny preemie survived, albeit with health problems and very limited vision in only one viable eye. 
    How do I know?  The smaller twin is my husband, Edward.  We praise God that no third physician was willing to sign for an abortion which would have killed these boys before they were given a chance at life.
    By 1951, major medical centers knew that high levels of oxygen in incubators led to infant retinal damage and blindness.  But, physicians at the small hospital in Goshen, NY’s farming community were not yet aware in 1952.  As a toddler, Ed was seen by a specialist in Boston who gave him his first glasses.  Later, at about age 5, with stronger lenses, gazing out the car window he shouted, “I see them!”  Though blurry, kids sledding down a hill was something he’d never seen before.  Telling this story never failed to bring tears to his mother’s eyes.  Ed also recalls that was when he first saw outdoor Christmas light decorations.
    Taken to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City when age 8 or 10, his parents learned he was among about 2000 children seen in their clinic, one of only seven children with some remnants of vision.  The optic nerve to his right eye was destroyed, while his left eye had limited vision, 20/200 with ultimate correction. 
    As Ed grew up, he was determined to do nearly everything everyone else could.  Totally blind since 1998, we consider it a blessing he had limited sight for as long as he did.  The renowned musician, Stevie Wonder, has the same condition causing his blindness.  First identified in 1941, it wasn’t until 1951 that retrolental fibroplasia was proven to be caused by high-concentration oxygen in the incubator contributing to abnormal blood vessel growth which damaged the retina.  Now termed retinopathy of prematurity, it still affects a small percentage of very premature infants. 
    At about 18-21 days, the pre-born infant’s heart begins beating.  By 12 weeks, she is about 2 inches long, fully formed and recognizably human, able to feel pain.  By 14-16 weeks, being fully formed, fingers and toes have fingerprints and nails, he sees and blinks, inhales and exhales amniotic fluid, kicks, may suck a thumb, and sleeps regularly.  At full-term, 39-40 weeks, your baby is ready for life outside the nurturing womb. Your infant is not just a blob of cells and tissue, but a very real baby.
    Since Roe v. Wade was passed January 22, 1973 allowing legal abortions in America, the numbers have reached an approximate 58.6 or 59.1 million by 2016 (depending on source).  While some data is voluntarily reported, I read other American states have not provided details in years, along with untold uncounted abortions.  
    For anyone who has aborted their baby for whatever reason, I pray she finds peace.  But, my prayer is also that each precious life be allowed to reach his or her full potential and purpose, regardless of disability.  Yet, I realize there are women in situations for whom an abortion may truly be necessary.  Such personal decisions must be difficult and painful. 
    I’ve often thought that if we care so much for those in the animal and plant world, protecting and preserving so many species from decimation, how much more precious is each and every human life?  How can we destroy human life through abortion simply because the pregnancy doesn’t fit our plans, may be the result of abuse or rape, or the pre-born child is “defective” and may be a “burden” to society?  Do we justify abortion because some parents can’t afford a baby, are unprepared to care for their children, might abuse them or kill them?  Difficult scenarios; but, even in our imperfect world, there is help including viable alternatives like adoption.  As abortion survivors will tell you, they are very thankful to be alive, even children born to rape victims… simply because their mother cared enough to give them the gift of life.
    My cousin, Randy, with an intellectual disability, grew up a kind and loving young man thanks to the love of his widowed mother, Marjorie.  Despite his disabilities, he had a strong faith in his Lord, and knew everything there was to know about his favorite baseball team and its players! 
    My step-sister’s son, Cory, was born with DeGeorge syndrome due to a missing part of chromosome 22.   Like many with disabilities, Cory had an infectious joy for life and an unconditional love for everyone he met, thanks to his mother, Janet.
    Anyone who has miscarried an unborn child understands the pain of loss. I miscarried our first little girl, Heather, at six months, apparently twins who didn’t separate, and 11 months later miscarried another little one at 3-1/2 months.
    Despite our own disabilities, some greater than others, we are each created unique and have a special place in this world for touching the lives of others.  Life is sacred, and each pre-born child is a treasured gift from God just waiting for us to open our arms and heart to their precious life. 
    As David wrote in Psalm 139:13-16:  “…you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.  My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.  Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” 
    What If…
    Linda A. Roorda
    What if…
    There was no God?
    Would we know how to love
    Or, would ego rule our lives?
    Would we each decide
    What laws to live by
    Changing like the wind
    As our wants wrest control?
     
    Would we violate
    The sanctity of life
    Simply because
    Life would not matter
    Except for the worth
    We each determine
    How best we can serve
    Our selfish ambition?
     
    And yet, what if…
    Each life among us
    Was somehow meant
    To open the eyes
    Of our heart and soul
    To a higher purpose
    To show the value
    Inherent within
    No matter the wrapping?
     
    And what if…
    We move toward each other
    And then extend
    Our outstretched hands?
    Would that not show
    Great caring and love
    From within the depths
    Of a heart overflowing?
     
    For is that not like
    The hands of One
    Extended outward
    Nailed upon a beam
    To show us how
    We too should love
    And sacrifice self
    Our gift to each other?
     
    Because… what if…
    There is a God
    Who really cares
    And Who truly loves
    Each for who we are?
    For His life was a gift
    That we would know
    Just how we should love.
    ~~
    Photo of young Ed doing his favorite thing - listening to music, knowing exactly which record was which by memorizing the logo/name on each record!
  9. Linda Roorda
    (Originally published as front-page article in the local newspaper, Broader View Weekly, March 21, 2013. )
    My family’s memories: 
    Sharing about the old ways of collecting sap and making syrup brought to mind the stories my mother has shared over the years.  The Tillapaugh family of 12 children in Carlisle, New York made and sold maple syrup for several generations, and my cousins continue the annual tradition today.  My mother, Reba, and her younger sister, Lois, readily recall the childhood fun, albeit hard work, of helping their dad and older siblings during the 1930s and 1940s.  Lois shared with me, “As the youngest I did look forward to maple syrup time.  A lot of hard work, but worth it, with memories forever.” 
    Their dad and older brothers used a hand-turned brace to drill holes in about 300-plus trees.  They’d pound in the spiles from which buckets were hung, with lids placed by the younger girls.  When the sap ran, besides regular dairy farm chores and caring for a few thousand chickens, they had daily sap gathering.  This involved dumping each bucket’s worth into a holding tank on a large bobsled pulled by a team of black Shires (Dick and Daisy) or Belgians (Bunny, Nell, and Tub) on a trail through the woods.  My mother said that if rain got into the buckets it turned the sap brown, and they threw that out.  And, they often trekked the woods to gather sap with two or more feet of snow on the ground.
    Carlisle’s woods are not like those in our south-central finger lakes region.  Carlisle has rolling hills with limestone boulder outcroppings, many crevices and mini-caves.  With Howe’s Cavern near Cobleskill, the town of Carlisle and the Tillapaugh farm also have small caves with nooks and crannies throughout the woods.  There was a defined trail for the horses through the woods, but everyone had to walk carefully among the trees.  I remember as a child seeing a good-sized cave opening in the ground in the woodlot next to one of the farm pastures, so I can attest to their having had an interesting trek among the rocky outcroppings to collect sap.
    With a love for horses since my childhood when my father farmed with Belgians (and Clydesdales before marrying my mom), I can visualize the Tillapaugh’s harnessing their black Shires with flowing white “feathers” on the lower legs, listening to them clop along, stepping high in unison.  I can imagine the creaking harness and traces, maybe bells tinkling, the big sled’s runners scraping along a gravel road or gliding atop the snow. 
    At this point, my mother chuckled to recall a day she rode out on the sled carrying the sap tank with an older brother, Maynard.  When he jumped off as they went up a hill, the sap tank tilted and she fell off, the sled nearly running over her but Maynard stopped the horses just in time.  Another time, she got a tiny piece of metal in her eye from a bucket lid.  The doctor had a large magnet to draw the speck out, but she refused to let him, petrified it would pull her eye out!  She has no idea how the metal ever did get out of her eye, but there was no damage.
    When the holding tank was full, it was taken to the sap hut, and sap drained into one of two 4x8-10 foot evaporator pans over a wood fire.  I questioned her about the size of those pans, but she was adamant about the very large size.  Considering her memory has not failed her for other details, I saw online there were, indeed, evaporator pans this large.  The oldest brothers stayed at the sap hut boiling all night, often around the clock, watching the temperatures carefully with thermometers.  Lois also recalls their mother made lunches which the girls took out to their brothers.  
    My mother agreed with my aunt who said that “when the partially cooked syrup was ready, it was brought to the house in milk cans.  Mom would finish boiling it to the correct temperature over a kerosene stove in the summer kitchen, and strain it through felt into gallon glass jugs, mostly for home use, some to sell.”  My mom added, “Some syrup was boiled down more to make maple candy, or poured over the snow for a delicious sweet chewy treat.”
    Maple syrup helped their family deal with sugar shortages and rationing during the Great Depression and World War II.  At the end of the season came the hard work of cleaning all the equipment, repeated when the season started.
    After the youngest Tillapaugh brothers, Winfred and Floyd, retired and sold the family dairy herd in 1974, they built a modern and efficient sap hut closer to home.  Using both pails and plastic tubing, Floyd’s son, Duane, recalls other cousins helping them tap a few hundred trees in a venture which eventually grew to around 1000 trees.  “Back then, we put a pill in the drilled hole [to kill] bacteria.  I believe that’s illegal now.  We burned wood, but Dad rigged up a thing that would blow old motor oil in when it was close to syrup [stage] to make the fire hotter to push it to syrup.”  They sold syrup from home in pint, quart, half-gallon and gallon containers, also making maple cream and candy.  Their peak years produced about 200-250 gallons of syrup annually.  That was, indeed, a sizeable maple syrup operation!
    I researched online articles about the use of paraformaldehyde pills/tablets in the tap hole years ago.  Controversy has surrounded its benefits of cutting bacteria and helping the tapped tree heal versus the pills leading to fungi setting in with increased decay versus the fact that formaldehyde was making its way into food for human consumption.  Therefore, its use became illegal in the 1980s.
    Knowing that Native Americans made maple syrup centuries ago, I delved into their sugaring process.  They would make a slash in a sugar maple tree, collecting the sap as it dripped out.  Hollowed out logs were filled with fresh sap, and white-hot field stones were added to bring the sap to boil.  The Indians repeated this process until syrup stage was reached, or until they had crystallized sugar.  When the first Europeans arrived, the Indians traded maple sugar for other products, and taught their sugaring secrets to the new settlers.  
    Referred by my cousin, Bruce Tillapaugh, a retired Cooperative Extension agent, I contacted Stephen Childs, the New York Maple Specialist at Cornell University.  Childs said, “Cornell has a number of resources for backyarders and beginning maple producers.  Much of the information is available online at Cornell Maple.  We have a Beginner DVD and Cornell Maple Videos.  We hold many Beginner Workshops in the fall and winter.  A maple camp is held in June that is three full days of instruction for new commercial producers or small producers planning to expand.  There are recorded webinar programs online that interested persons can watch.”
    I also found a brochure online for the beginner written by a local resident:  “Maple Syrup Production for the Beginner” by Anni L. Davenport, School of Forest Resources, The Pennsylvania State University; Lewis Staats, Dept. of Natural Resources, Cornell University, Cornell Cooperative Extension, 1998.
    Maple syrup not only tastes good, but with a little more research, I learned it’s good for you!  It is a natural source of manganese and zinc, important for our immune defense systems.  Zinc is an antioxidant which protects our heart by decreasing atherosclerosis and helping prevent damage to the inner lining of blood vessels.  It is also known that a zinc deficiency can lead to a higher risk of prostate cancer.  Zinc supplementation is used by healthcare practitioners to help reduce prostate enlargement.  Studies have also found that adults with a deficiency in manganese have decreased levels of HDL, the good cholesterol.  Manganese helps lessen inflammation, key to healing.  Just one ounce of maple syrup holds 22% of the daily requirement of this key trace mineral. 
    Syrup also contains iron, calcium and potassium which help repair damaged muscle and cells.  It can settle digestive problems.  It can help keep bones strong and blood sugar levels normal, help keep white blood cell counts up to protect against colds and viruses, and maple syrup is not a common allergen.
    With all the goodness going for itself, 100% pure maple syrup is truly worth all that hard work!  Enjoy!
  10. Linda Roorda
    My first personal-interview article originally published as front-page article in the local newspaper, Broader View Weekly, March 21, 2013:
    “It’s all up to Mother Nature,” said Al Smith.  When the days begin to get longer and stay above 32 degrees, but nights are below freezing, the sap begins to flow.  And it’s then we start to see those long lines of plastic tubing snaking between maple trees in the woods as we drive by.  Did you know it takes about 30 to 50 gallons of sap to make just one gallon of delicious pure maple syrup?
    While a number of maple syrup producers locally have been in the business for decades, for brothers Allan and Albert Smith, Jr. (formerly Smith Brothers Maple Syrup, now Smith Family Maple Products), the sugaring fever hit in their teens.  And they come by it naturally.  Their grandfather, Dayton Smith, his brother Ben, and Dayton’s son Albert Sr. (the twins’ father), operated a small evaporator in the early 1970s.  Ben’s father-in-law, Aubrey Westervelt, had been sugaring for decades.  So, it was only natural the Smiths used his sugar bush, tapping about 250 trees annually with spile and bucket, trees still used by the younger generation.  Dayton, Ben and Albert’s initial evaporator was set up in a garage for a couple years.  Then, Dayton bought a commercial 2x6 evaporator and set it up at Ben’s farm on Sabin Road.  After operating for a few more years, selling by word of mouth, they ended the labor-intensive syrup production and sold their equipment.
    A favorite family story is told of a time Dayton, Ben, and Albert, Sr. went to a meeting at Cornell University’s Research Center.  They brought along a bottle of their maple syrup to show what they’d been up to in the little farming town of Spencer.  On showing their light golden syrup to the Cornell gentlemen, one of the Smiths wryly asked, “Do you know how much brown sugar we need to add to make the color darker?” And a hearty laugh was shared by all!

     
    Having grown up with sugaring in the family, Allan Smith decided to build a small homemade evaporator in 1992 for his B.O.C.E.S shop class.  With twin brother Albert’s help, they set it up in an old woodshed to see if they could actually make syrup.  One day, grandfather Dayton happened to visit and discovered the boys’ secret.  Seeing their homemade evaporator, he got excited and motivated them to continue their endeavors.  The following season, Dayton purchased a 2x6 commercial evaporator for them.  They boiled sap the old way, using about a wheelbarrow load of well-seasoned firewood every 15-20 minutes.  It took roughly an hour to make about one gallon of syrup.  As Smith Brothers Maple Syrup, the brothers tapped annually, selling by word of mouth just as the older generation had done.
    In 2010, Allan and Albert, Jr. sold their old equipment and purchased a 2-1/2 x 10 natural gas fired evaporator, capable of producing about 8-9 gallons of syrup per hour.  With this expansion in the family business, they changed their name to Smith Family Maple Products.  In 2011, they remodeled an old machine shed on their parents’ property into a modern sap house.  They love what they’re doing from the mundane aspects to operating the high-tech equipment.  And their excitement is contagious!  I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the two evenings I spent learning from the Smiths.
    Starting in 1992 with about 30-40 maple trees using spiles and buckets, they now have about 10 acres of sugarbush (maple trees), tapping about 500 trees, hoping to add another 500 next year.  Initially, they used a hand-turned brace with a 7/16ths drill bit, pounded the spile into the tree, and hung a covered bucket.  Later, they tried a chainsaw with an attachment to do the drilling.  It worked well, but the saw was a bit heavy to lug around all day.  Now, they use a lightweight cordless drill with a smaller 5/16ths bit that is much easier to handle.  The smaller hole also causes less damage to the tree.  
    In 1999, they bought a filter press which does a better job than the prior hand filter to strain the processed syrup of undesirables.  Their new sap house, with running water, and hot water at that, is a major change from the original old woodshed.  They now have a kitchen area with a work table, sinks, counters and kitchen stove to process their syrup into candy and other sweet confections.  Stainless steel containers store the maple syrup before it’s packaged into bottles and made into other products.  They’ve added machines to make maple sugar candy, maple snow cones, maple cream (equipment built by their dad), maple cotton candy, and granulated maple sugar.  The Smith family is constantly upgrading, hoping in the next few years to add a bottling facility for a bigger and better kitchen processing area. 
    In 2012, they added a vacuum pump to the sapline which pulls sap off the trees for increased production. With plastic tubing strung between the trees, the pump draws the flowing sap downhill to the large stainless-steel bulk tank.  From there, it is siphoned into a large plastic tank on a trailer and hauled to their sap house.  Sure beats the days of handling all those buckets!  From this large tank, the sap is run up into an insulated stainless-steel storage tank that stands about 15 feet above ground next to the sap house. 
    From the elevated storage tank, sap is fed downline into the Piggy Back Unit in the sap house which sits above a 1 million BTU natural gas boiler pan.  The steam created from the lower pan heats the cold sap in the upper pan.  As the sap heats, water is boiled off the sap, condensing it down to the beginning stage of syrup.  Hot air is forced through the sap in the Piggy Back Unit with a high-pressure blower, helping bring the sap to boil.  Sap usually boils at 212 degrees like water, but that changes with atmospheric pressure.  At the time of my first visit, Sunday, March 10, 2013, based on the barometric pressure in the sap house, the sap boiled at 210.8 degrees.  As the sap continues to boil and water evaporates, the sap thickens.  Reaching about 7 degrees higher than standard boiling temperature, or about 219, the sap reaches syrup stage.  Thermometers in the pans are constantly monitored as they measure the temperatures.  It’s a very delicate process.

     
    As the boiled sap loses water content, it flows from the Piggy Back rearward pan into the front syrup pan directly over the fire.  Floats regulate the sap levels as sap is divided into channels to cook evenly.  If it were to cook too hot or too long at this stage, it would blacken and harden like concrete.  As it continues to cook, syrup is pulled from the front pan and drips down into a stainless-steel container.  The syrup in this container is then poured into the finishing pan over a smaller fire where it is slowly boiled and refined to become the sweet taste we know as pure maple syrup. 
    All this while steam from the boiling process emanates from the venting cupola above the building, permeating the outside air with the delicious aroma of sweet maple syrup.
    A daily log book is kept annually to record temps, weather (sunny, cloudy, windy, rainy, snowy), amount of sap collected and syrup made, the sugar content of the sap, barometric pressure, etc.  I asked about the average amount of sap collected daily, and Allan simply looked it up in his log.  Roughly 400-800 gallons are collected daily with a total last year (2012) of 4516 gallons of sap equaling about 70-80 gallons of syrup.  The high boiling temperatures kill any bacteria that might come along with the sap.  They also clean the equipment before each season starts, during the season on slow days with no sap to boil, and again at the end of the season.  It is still a labor-intensive venture.
    The weather patterns make a difference as to the amount of sap and its quality.  A good sap run begins after a cold winter with sufficient precipitation throughout the year.  With the dry summer of 2011, followed by a warmer-than-usual winter and no deep cold spell in January 2012, the production of sap was down, though “still pretty good,” and the Smiths were pleased.  Allan told me, “Every year’s production is different, and every night’s boiling is different.”  They have definitely seen seasonal ups and downs, as does every farmer, but cannot say they have seen an overall “global warming” pattern. 
    Usually they tap around Valentine’s Day, occasionally not until late February.  This year they tapped February 8th and had their first sap run on February 16th.   Sap collected in the raw state is about 2-3% sugar; the maple syrup stage is 66% sugar.  The lighter grades of syrup are made earlier in the season, with grades darkening as the season goes on.  The grades include Grade A light amber, most sweet; Grade A medium; Grade A dark with the most maple flavor; and Grade B dark, a cooking syrup.
    I asked about disasters, and they’ve had a few.  When boiling, the sap can quickly burn if the temperature goes up too high too fast.  What you’re left with is a pan of black goo that sets up like concrete, permanently ruining the evaporator pan.  I can sympathize as I once accidentally overcooked some sugar water for my hummingbirds.  Turning my back on the boiling sugar water for just a few minutes longer than expected, I returned to find it had become a thin layer of solid black concrete in a good pot.  I used a screwdriver to scrape hard and long, but got it all off.
    The Smith brothers faithfully attend the New York State Maple Producers’ Association every January, the largest convention in the U.S.  The two-day event, held at the Vernon/Verona/Sherril High School, brings in speakers and specialists from Vermont, Cornell University, and Canada, etc.  Highly educational, it is for anyone who taps from one tree to 10,000 trees.  The Smith brothers have been learning as much as they can about the business, including the latest technology available, constantly seeking to improve and grow their business.  They also learn about industry standards in order to meet government regulations so they can market their products commercially.
    Smith Family Maple Products are sold by word of mouth and at Family Farm Mercantile on Townline Road between Spencer and Van Etten.  A few years ago, a woman visiting from Ohio happened to see the Smith’s maple leaf sign on Sabin Road and stopped.  Now she faithfully orders maple syrup every year from her home in Ohio!  Eventually, they hope to build up a large enough volume to sell online.
    If folks want to try making syrup just for home consumption, there are no regulations.  Basically, Allen and Albert told me, “You need to boil the sap to 219 degrees, keep everything clean, without contamination, and enjoy!  Maple syrup is good on anything!”  There are many websites which can provide information, along with Cornell’s Cooperative Extension offices.    
    Being rather technologically challenged, I was very impressed with the Smith Family Maple Products’ operation.  From simple and humble beginnings, it has grown to encompass today’s modern technology in order to produce more syrup, more efficiently.
    Next week: Part II
  11. Linda Roorda

    The Stalwart

    By Linda Roorda,

    The old red barn stood tall on an open flat, alone against the gray sky, testament to a long life.  It had weathered countless storms, looking just a bit worn… another great photo by my friend Kathy’s husband, Hugh Van Staalduinen.  And once again, the picture painted a thousand words that raced through my thoughts.
    As we celebrate Father’s Day today, and my husband’s 70th birthday this coming Saturday, that barn seemed to be the perfect illustration of Ed’s character over the years.  In fact, the day I saw the photo, and wrote this poem in a couple hours five years ago, I was waiting to bring him home from yet another hospitalization.  Stalwart and steadfast, he’s remained standing no matter what life has sent his way… a true gentle giant.  And like that barn, he’s faced many storms head on, never bending or collapsing as the winds attempted to shake his foundation.  He’s remained firm with his faith in the Lord, resting secure in God’s provision and love, a pillar of strength for all of our family.
    Yet, it hasn’t been easy.  There have been some serious storms that sent waves crashing against him… and against us as a couple.  Despite some plain old-fashioned trials, dashed hopes causing great disappointments, the loss of a daughter, and his losses of sight, physical strength and ability, he’s overcome those trials with an inner strength and peace that comes from his faith in the Lord. 
    And now, facing a continued ebbing of strength and ability with the progression of permanent muscle damage caused by statin/cholesterol drugs, and worsening congestive heart failure, we’ve begun discussing what we should do when he can no longer function and get around on his own.  In all honesty, we don’t know what our options will be in the not-so-distant future.  We’re facing new frontiers.
    Still, through each difficulty, his and our faith has grown stronger, for we’ve learned “[We] can do all things through [Christ] who strengthens [us]” (Philippians 4:13)  As I’ve said many times before, James 1:2-4 puts it so well, even though we don’t want to welcome another difficult challenge.  “Consider it pure joy my brothers and sisters, 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, lacking nothing.” 
    Being “strong in the Lord and in His mighty power” (Ephesians 6:10-13) is the foundation on which we survive great storms and come out standing. (Proverbs 10:25) … Just like that barn in Hugh’s photo.  If we have a good foundation on the solid rock (Godly wisdom), weathered by time (experience), the structure (our character) will stand tall… and prove stalwart and unwavering. 
    The Stalwart
    Linda A. Roorda 
    Stalwart and stoic through the test of time
    Facing the world to weather life’s storms
    Meeting head on whatever befalls
    Humbly proclaiming, steadfast I stand.
    ~
    Bringing together nature’s harmony
    Weathered and worn, reliably true
    Dependably there to meet others’ needs
    Asking for nothing but structural care.
    ~
    Like the pioneers who settled this land
    And carved their place from wilderness wild,
    Weathered by nature midst elements raw
    They kept life sheltered from all threats and harm.
    ~
    Without proper care, wood planks become warped
    Foundations fail without wisdom’s base.
    Oh, can’t you see!  The meaning is clear!
    How like old barns are patriarchs wise.
    ~
    Learning through hardship true wisdom is gained
    Taking a stand for what matters most,
    Sometimes enduring alone in the crowd
    Serene and secure midst turmoil and storm.
    ~
    God bless the stalwart, unwavering friend
    Who braves the path no matter the storm.
    Of foe unafraid, on wisdom standing
    Steadfast and loyal with comforting peace.
    ~~
  12. Linda Roorda
    PART I - Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, “We are determined to work and fight until justice rains down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream.”  Paraphrasing the Biblical book of Amos 5:24, King did just that with God at his side to challenge us to seek justice.  Sadly, slavery is still a profitable venture around the world, including in our nation under various guises.  It flourishes in over 100 countries with India, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Uzbekistan, and North Korea topping the charts.  And it continues to survive because of the illicit financial profit it brings to the traffickers.  
    Several years ago, I researched, read, and wrote this article, “The Underground Railroad,” for my historical blog.  In honor of February being Black History month, I’d like to share part of my extensive article in series format. We can collectively learn from history’s mistakes to understand and improve life for our future, but erasing history serves no good purpose.  Just as the slaves arrived with memories of their African homeland, values, religious beliefs, intellect, wisdom, music and song, artistry, and skills, so their old ways were fused with the newly learned, blending and creating a new way of life as they strove for freedom.  (My resources available on request, books listed at article’s completion.)
    Just mention the Underground Railroad and the words evoke images of slaves huddled together, speaking in hushed tones, making plans with great fear and yet tremendous hope, depending on certain symbols to guide them… of those with unspoken plans to escape entirely alone… of lonely walks through the dead of night… of traveling with extreme vigilance in broad daylight… of being concealed under the false bottom in the bed of a wagon carrying produce, hay or bricks, etc… of stowaways hidden aboard ships bound for northern cities… of being hidden in a home or barn until it was safe to move on again… all while living under the overwhelming fear of discovery at any moment by both passenger and conductor/stationmaster alike.
    In reality, the abolitionist movement took tremendous faith and courage on the part of every participant on this train of sorts.  Most often, it was facilitated by one’s faith in God and knowing that “all men are created equal…” as the U.S. Constitution avers.  There was a spiritual impetus in seeking emancipation for a people who should not be held captive as someone’s possession, regardless of how ancient the tradition of slavery might have been… even from Biblical times.  But it also took bravery and self-sacrifice for a seemingly “hodge-podge” system to thrive in secrecy while operating within plain sight of those vehemently opposed to its intrinsic value.  Unfortunately, many who considered themselves “good Christians” were just as adamantly opposed to freeing the slaves. 
    Abolitionists were involved in an act of civil disobedience like no other, punishable by fines and/or imprisonment upon discovery, never mind the slave who was disciplined/punished in varying degrees of severity, even death.  With all of that at stake, how did the “underground railroad” ever manage to pull out of the station on such successful clandestine lines? 
    In 1823, the British Anti-Slavery Society was established by William Wilberforce, a former member of Parliament.  Having become an evangelical Christian in 1785, Wilberforce carried on a 20-year fight against the evils of slavery.  In 1787, after meeting with a group of British abolitionists, he recorded in his diary that his life’s purpose was to end the slave trade.  Becoming a leading abolitionist in parliament, he saw his cause through to the passage of the Slave Trade Act of 1807.   He continued to support the full abolishment of slavery even after his retirement from parliament in 1826. When his efforts were rewarded with passage of the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833, slavery ended in almost every corner of the British Empire, and Wilberforce died three days later. 
    Meanwhile, it was the notorious 18th century captain of a slave ship, John Newton, who realized the gravity of his evil ways as a foul-mouthed captain of ill repute when he, too, converted to Christianity.  Captured and pressed into service for the Royal Navy in 1743 at a young age, he led a hard life, once being whipped on board ship for attempted desertion. 
    In March 1748, Newton called out to God during a severe storm when his ship almost sank.  Every year thereafter, he recalled March 21st as the anniversary of his spiritual conversion to Christianity.  (Parker, p.12)  Though continuing in the slave trade despite his new-found faith, he treated others better, refrained from certain vices, and worked his way up to become captain of his own slave ship.  Newton felt he was doing nothing different from other Christians at the time in both owning and selling slaves, eventually retiring from the sea in 1754. 
    Yet, it was Newton who later penned the words in 1772 for one of our all-time favorite hymns as evidence of God’s grace in his life. “Amazing grace!  How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me!  I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.” 
    In 1788, Newton published a pamphlet, “Thoughts Upon the Slave Trade,” describing the appalling conditions of slave ships.  He apologized with “a confession, which…comes too late…  It will always be a subject of humiliating reflection to me, that I was once an active instrument in a business at which my heart now shudders."  Newton became an active supporter of Wilberforce’s campaign to end the slave trade, dying December 21, 1807 well before Wilberforce’s end to slavery was realized in 1833.
    Mistreatment of slaves was universally known.  Being in the hold of a ship was difficult enough of a trial being typically pressed in together with barely enough room to move.  Sickness and death, tossed overboard for infractions, jumping overboard in suicide, or being jettisoned overboard as unnecessary cargo were just some of the fates awaiting the slaves en route.  Then, being put on the auction block under close inspection, they were forced to endure yet more humiliation. In addition, there were often agonizing family separations of spouses and of parents and children. 
    Any slave found guilty of infractions (from some simple error, running away or murder) was punished, some more severely than others.  Should a slave not perform up to expectations, he or she often met with discipline.  Floggings or whippings, branding, mutilation of the ears or hands, cutting off of the ears or hands, hanging, overwork, and many other unsavory forms of punishment were meted out as seen fit by frustrated, angry and authoritative owners.  Man’s inhumanity to man was evidenced in untold suffering, too despicable to enumerate here, something which we cannot begin to fathom or contemplate.  To their credit, however, there were those who treated their slaves in exemplary fashion and whose slaves in turn were loyal and faithful servants, albeit still in bondage.
    And yet, this evil was part of normalcy for many centuries.  We are able, with hindsight, to see the injustice forced on fellow humanity through our combined modern ideology and spiritual insight.  Then, it was considered part of the established way of life, a substantial and valuable labor force.  Their times and understandings were so different from our perspectives.  Thankfully, there were those who saw the inequalities inherent within the slave trade even then, despite popular opinion to the contrary; and, gradually, the early abolitionists’ ideas took root and grew from their understanding of God’s inherent biblical truths.
    In 1619, “The White Lion” seized 20 African slaves from a Portuguese trading ship, the Sao Jao Bautista, selling them to the English settlers at Jamestown in Virginia.  Slaves began to arrive in New Netherlands as early as the 1630s by the Dutch West India Company.  The company was more interested in the labor that slaves could provide, not perpetual ownership.  Roughly “two thousand American and British ships were engaged in transporting between forty thousand and fifty thousand Africans to the Americas every year” during the 18th century. It was even this tremendously profitable venture which fed England’s industrial revolution of the 18th century. 
    In 1784, Thomas Jefferson, a member of the Continental Congress, helped draft a plan for settlers of the nation’s new lands between the Appalachians and the Mississippi River.  The plan was meant to prohibit slavery in all western territory.  Then, defeated by only one vote, hopes were dashed for preventing the spread of slavery.  Out of this dichotomy with which our nation struggled, Jefferson wrote he “feared that the continuation of slavery would inevitably lead to bloody rebellion and race war.” 
    Long before that bloody civil war began though, there was a movement afoot to assist slaves in escaping their plight rather than turning them in to the law for bounty money, or back to their masters for certain discipline, aka punishment.  Even most northern states had passed helpful laws by 1800 for the gradual abolition of their slaves.  
    PART II to follow...
    Feature photo courtesy of www.history.com
  13. Linda Roorda
    Thomas Jefferson embodied the dichotomy of struggle about slavery within our nation.  Acknowledged in his writing of the U.S. Constitution is the biblical premise that “all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with the inherent and inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…”  Though he owned slaves, he struggled with how to end the institution of owning another human.  He called it a “hideous evil,” yet, like others, saw blacks as an inferior race and necessary to a superior way of life.
    In 1784, Thomas Jefferson, a member of the Continental Congress, helped draft a plan for settlers of new lands between the Appalachians and the Mississippi River. The plan was to prohibit slavery in all western territory.  Defeated by one vote, hopes were dashed for preventing slavery’s spread.  From this dichotomy with which our nation struggled, Jefferson wrote he “feared that the continuation of slavery would inevitably lead to bloody rebellion and race war.” 
    The Fugitive Slave Act enacted by the United States government in 1793 was followed by state laws passed to aid the free blacks.  But this act also allowed slave owners, especially kidnappers, to obtain legal papers for returning fugitive slaves in the North back to their owners in the South.  Kidnapping blacks, both free and fugitive, went unabated as it was often difficult to prove one's legitimate freedom.  New York’s Manumission Society provided helpful legal assistance, but their efforts were often thwarted by claims of kidnappers who simply did not care that they might be sending the wrong person into slavery. 
    Bursting onto the scene with a great labor-saving device, Eli Whitney’s invention of the cotton gin that same year of 1793 propelled the southern cotton industry prodigiously forward.  While the machine contributed to the growth of cotton, it also enhanced expansion of slavery.  In 1800, there were just under 900,000 slaves in the U.S.; this grew to around 1.2 million by 1810, increasing to just over 2 million by 1830.  By the time the Civil War began, there were about 4 million slaves in our nation. 
    It wasn’t until 1799, after the Revolutionary War, that New York State passed the Gradual Emancipation Act, with the final state of New Jersey passing it later.  A subsequent law enacted in 1817 freed all slaves born before 1799, but that did not take effect until July 4, 1827.  In March 1820, Pennsylvania became the first state in the nation to pass a law to defeat the purpose of the Fugitive Slave Act.  In other words, slave hunters and kidnappers in Pennsylvania could face felony charges for their actions, be levied with a fine up to $2000.00, or spend up to 21 years in prison. 
    Six years later, the religious Quaker influence reinforced the law by making it even more difficult for a slave owner to "retrieve" his former property without a legally executed warrant and sufficient court witnesses for corroboration.  These laws allowed Pennsylvania citizens involved in underground activity to act without fear of reprisal, especially in the rural areas near their southern state line, though still necessitating they operate discreetly.  In northern states, blacks were considered free, but they kept one eye always alert, aware that at any time they could be tripped up, caught, and taken south. 
    During the early half of the 19th century, the dreams of slaves for freedom continued to grow.  In answer to these dreams came certain whites, along with free blacks, willing to assist them despite threats and their own arrest and imprisonment.  Unfortunately, in the summer of 1800, a plan for a major rebellion by slaves was discovered in Virginia.  Hundreds of blacks were arrested without solid evidence, and twenty-six were executed for their supposed involvement.  Any free black who traveled without authorization was arrested and fined, or sold back into slavery.  Even those with freedom papers were kidnapped and sold unless another white was willing to fight and/or pay for their rights.  Laws were still not conducive to assisting the free blacks, let alone aiding those who sought to obtain their freedom. Efforts to provide help to fugitive slaves took a great amount of personal conviction and determination to go against the norm.  
    Noticeably, the percentage of free blacks in northern cities rose dramatically – some were free by manumission (released from slavery by their owners), others escaped bondage during the Revolutionary War, some fought with colonial troops during the war and rewarded with freedom, while others were fugitives who had made their way north.  In northern cities, former slaves were treated as near equals by people who believed slavery was truly an evil.  Fugitives realized they could disappear among their new-found friends, especially in areas settled by other free blacks. 
    Almost by accident, it was the Quakers who initially led the early abolitionist work in the City of Brotherly Love… Philadelphia.  How fitting!  Their clandestine activity was based on religious faith and a belief they were honoring God by assisting slaves to freedom... while most of the rest of the nation believed it was criminal activity to harbor and assist a runaway slave, thus punishable by law. 
    As a group, it was the Quakers who held to a higher standard of education amongst their own people, men and women alike, and this naturally extended to the blacks whom they helped rescue.  With education, the blacks proved they were quite as capable as the whites in every endeavor, a novel idea to many who felt they were an inferior race.
    In the early 19th century, Quakers found safe homes and jobs for fugitives in Pennsylvania or in parts of New England.  They worked fearlessly, tirelessly, and surreptitiously to help untold hundreds flee while living under threats against themselves and those who assisted.  Along with some Methodists and Baptists who joined the Quakers, they felt morally bound by their faith in God to do everything within their power to help these poor people… one by one.  This cooperation enabled the Abolition Society and their non-member friends (including wives behind the scenes) to aid the fugitives as they passed from one home to another until reaching a safe destination.  Along the way, they were fed, clothed, sheltered, protected, and assisted in assimilating into northern society as free people.
    In due course, Quakers became the hands and feet of the abolitionist movement.  Not realizing they were creating a “railroad” of sorts, they set up a series of safe homes/havens.  In this way, escaped slaves could travel safely from the southern slave states into the northern/northeast free states, often into Canada to begin a new life. 
    In the south, a group of abolitionist Quakers from Nantucket, a whaling port in Massachusetts, led the anti-slavery movement known as the North Carolina Yearly Meeting (NCYM).  They met in the town of New Garden, N.C. and became instrumental in assisting slaves on their way north.  One young lad from this Quaker group, Levi Coffin, heard his father speak kindly to men in a “coffle” (i.e. gang of slaves chained together).  Retaining an understanding in his heart of the inequality and devastating effect on the men being led away from their families, this incident played a major role in young Levi’s life. 
    By about 1808, the NCYM Quaker members began owning slaves in a trusteeship for the sole purpose of granting their freedom in assisting them northward.  Some of these Quakers removed to the border states, i.e. lands north of the Ohio River, taking their “slaves” with them.  Once in non-slave-owning territory, the trusteeship slaves were given their freedom or assisted in reaching the northeast or Canada. Gradually, word spread of assistance for slaves as the North Carolina Quakers were familiar with the efforts by their Philadelphia Friends in transporting slaves to freedom.  Yet, “no blueprint for the network… [they] created survives, no map showing routes of escape, no list of safe houses.” 
    Soon, the American nation became embroiled in a bitter dispute over new states and their right to own slaves or not.  Reminiscent of today’s political animosity, Congressional debate in 1820 raged on both sides of the aisle.  Sen. Nathaniel Macon from North Carolina insisted that if restrictions were imposed on slavery, “[it] could only lead to a national catastrophe.”  Henry Clay from Kentucky felt that “the spread of slavery into western territories would actually benefit the slaves themselves…reducing whites’ fear of free blacks…” 
    Still, the overriding question remained whether Congress had “the power to restrict slavery when it admitted a new state to the Union.”  To compromise, Missouri allowed slave ownership.  The flip side of the compromise was that southern states grudgingly agreed to an exclusion of slavery in land north of what became known as the Mason-Dixon line as it extended westward.  Ultimately, the compromise angered men on both sides of the argument rather than appeasing anyone, and there the matter festered. 
    From Boston in 1831, William Lloyd Garrison led the way with strong anti-slavery convictions in his first issue of “The Liberator,” America’s first abolitionist newspaper.  “I will be as harsh as truth, and as uncompromising as justice.  On this subject, I do not wish to think, or speak, or write with moderation… I am in earnest – I will not equivocate – I will not excuse – I will not retreat a single inch – AND I WILL BE HEARD.”
    In August that same year of 1831, Nat Turner, a slave from Virginia, led a bloody revolt against whites as the assailants horrifically killed 60 men, women and children.  Turner was executed after his confession, while up to 200 additional slaves were killed in retaliation without proof of their involvement. This event only led to further restrictions on the slaves in every way possible, making life often more unbearable for the slaves as a whole. 
    The next year, 1832, Garrison founded the New England Anti-Slavery Society.  The New York City Anti-Slavery Society was established in 1833, the American Anti-Slavery Society in December of the same year, with the New York Vigilance Committee forming in 1835.  The cause which Garrison and others so avidly promoted garnered not only American but now international support.  
    Just as the abolitionists began to speak out more fervently against the evil of slavery, so the “railroad” become more active.  Yet, blacks who reached the northern free states continued to live in fear that even those who were kind to them might recapture them at any moment for bounty money.  And, more often than not, those men and women traveling north went without spouse and family – it was simply too difficult a journey to escape together.  After earning enough money, they attempted to purchase freedom for their loved ones, or hired someone to bring their loved one(s) safely north, albeit not always successfully.
    As noted above, though there were no definitive routes north, but typical avenues – with a different path for each person or group going north so as to avoid capture.  The slaves often had little to no knowledge of what to do, nor how and where to go in order to obtain the freedom for which they yearned.  They often heard through the “grapevine” who to contact for assistance, but fear of recapture and discipline lay over their heads like a death pall.  Because of that fear, and the fear of never seeing their family again, most refused to escape their bondage even when offered the chance.
    It is also believed slaves made “freedom quilts” to display specific patterns giving directions for when, where and how slaves could flee, even which homes were safe.  It seems logical despite recent research claiming this may not be reality.  As most slaves could not read or write, communicating through code via quilts is plausible.  They brought fabric and skills with them from Africa, handing down oral traditions through the generations with descendants of slaves attesting to a quilt code validity.  “Ozella McDaniel of Charleston, South Carolina, was taught the story of a system of quilts used to direct escaping slaves to freedom by her grandmother, a former slave… Different quilt patterns conveyed specific instructions for each stage of the journey.”  With little past black history deemed worthy of maintaining, much has come down through oral and private documentation with research to celebrate their history in America.
    The work of what we now call the “underground railroad” was done by word of mouth… knowing those along the way willing to assist blacks to freedom in the north… and those willing to provide a safe haven, willing to harbor a slave despite threat of law.  Even Harriet Tubman never went the same way twice, nor did they know exactly when she or others might appear. 
    Often, slaves escaped alone with no direction except to follow the north star.  At times, waiting for clouds and bad weather to clear held the inherent risk of being recaptured.  Few fled in groups or as families; it was too risky.  It took great courage to calmly outsmart the bounty hunters/traders, for the journey north was fraught with danger at every turn.  They traveled silently from one place to another, through rough terrain of forest, marshes, creeks and rivers, and into towns where professional slave hunters and informants lurked.  Whether alone or with a “conductor,” they carried very few possessions, wearing out their clothing and shoes (if they were lucky enough to have even one pair) from briars and simply walking, being fed, clothed and hid along the way by the kind souls at various stops on the line.
    Gradually, the number of people willing to assist the fugitives grew over the decades as multiple routes with safe havens became available.  Each successful step on the journey took the wit and cunning of those willing to give of their time in offering respectful assistance to another human.  It took ingenious ways to hide the fugitives and assist them from point A to point B to point C and so on until their destination was reached.  The fear of being found out and of being reported to authorities was overwhelming at times to most, if not all, participants on both sides.  For the conductor on the railroad, it might mean a steep fine or jail time, while for the slave it would mean punishment and the possibility of being sold into the “deep south,” far away from family and friends, or death.
    Even the abolitionists who assisted fugitives were at times beaten, stoned, egged, fined and served time behind bars for their work.  It was not easy being involved in this “openly clandestine” business to help fugitive slaves.  Many people knew exactly who was involved in the conveyance of fugitives on the road to freedom.  At times, the slave hunters knew who was providing aide, keeping an eye on their activity, while those either on the sidelines or involved in transport knew who to direct fugitives to for assistance.  Out of fear for their lives and those of the people they assisted, utmost secrecy was crucial when there came a knock at the door from a fugitive seeking help.
    The work took a firm determination and absolute conviction that what they were doing in these acts of civil disobedience was ordained by a higher power… that they were doing God’s will in helping to free the slaves.
    Next week: Part III – Frederick Douglass, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Harriet Tubman
  14. Linda Roorda
    As we noted earlier, most of the early conductors on the Underground Railroad were Quakers, but their early numbers steadily grew to include Methodists, Presbyterians and many other denominations, anyone interested in helping free the slaves.  Both preachers and abolitionists spoke publicly despite threats against them as they made inroads into the hearts of Americans.  William Lloyd Garrison was one such man who influenced untold thousands of people with his abolition work, as did others who shared his sentiments.  Obviously, their stand was unpopular as the news media proclaimed them "fanatics, amalgamists, disorganizers, disturbers of the peace, and dangerous enemies of the country."  Riots during convention meetings and attempted murder of abolitionists were not uncommon.
    But there were also black men who reached the forefront in speaking against the cruelty of slavery.  One of them was a former slave himself, Frederick Bailey.  At age 18 in 1838, Bailey left behind his common-law wife, Anna, escaping from Baltimore to freedom in Philadelphia and then to New York City, two of the most important northern freedom cities.  Meeting with men who could assist him, help was obtained for Anna to travel north where they were reunited and married.  Encouraged to change his name, he became Frederick Johnson.  
    Bound for Newport, Rhode Island, he presented a letter of introduction to Nathan Johnson, a prominent black man who would next assist the couple.  Noting that Johnson was a very common surname among blacks in New Bedford, Massachusetts where they were to settle, Bailey again changed his name – to that of Frederick Douglass, destined to become one of “the most famous African American of his generation.”  Ultimately settling in Rochester, NY, Douglass started a newspaper, supported women’s rights, and became a much-sought speaker on the abolitionists’ circuit throughout America, also having the ear and admiration of President Abraham Lincoln.  To honor his legacy, on February 14, 2021 it was revealed that the Rochester International Airport has been renamed Frederick Douglass Greater Rochester International Airport.

    Sadly, freedom for blacks in the north was still often less than what white society enjoyed.  Josiah Henson escaped the bonds of slavery with his family, removing to Canada where they could truly be free in every sense of the word as Canada refused to surrender former slaves to the United States.  Henson was a born leader, a man who knew how to manage his affairs while assisting others.  Struggling to survive in a strange land, Henson worked hard and ultimately owned land in Colchester, Canada, observing what it required for black communities to prosper.  He, too, became a conductor on the Underground Railroad, assisting many slaves northward to freedom.  His life’s example was used by Harriet Beecher Stowe as “Uncle Tom” in the book which propelled her to fame and which did so much more to push the abolitionist movement forward.
    Another slave, a brave young mother, left her husband and children behind in the dark of night, carrying her young infant tightly in her arms.  It was the winter of 1838, and she left knowing that a slave trader was trying to buy her or her infant separately.  Though fearful of dying in the cold, or breaking through the Ohio River ice and drowning, she knew she had to try.  Along with her infant, she carried a flat board.  As she crossed the river, she repeatedly broke through.  Pushing her baby up onto the ice, she climbed out with the use of the plank.  Slowly she crept across the ice by pushing the baby ahead of her and using the board to move herself along, pulling herself up on it when she fell through the ice.  Finally, reaching the northern shore, she collapsed, freezing cold and utterly spent, but on the free side of the river. 
    What she did not know was that a slave hunter had been watching her, and she was about to be captured.  As he approached her, the man’s heart inexplicably softened when he heard her baby’s soft cry.  Instead of capturing her for reward money, and returning her to meet certain punishment at the hands of her master, he unexpectedly told her, “Woman, you have won your freedom.”  What compassion!
    On bringing her to the village, he pointed out a farmhouse in the distance, a haven of safety and rest, a home on the Underground Railroad.  Assisted by the Rankin family in fleeing onward into the arms of freedom, she became the inspiration for Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Eliza.”  Her treacherous crossing over the ice-covered Ohio River became “the most famous rendering of a fugitive’s escape ever written.”  
    Written in the Victorian era, and considered a romanticized version of actual events, Stowe’s 1852 novel, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin, or Life Among the Lowly,” accomplished a tremendous feat.  It not only brought respect to the abolitionists and their moral outrage at slavery, but it shed favorable light on the secret operatives of the Underground Railroad.  On the other hand, it greatly angered those in the pro-slavery camp.  Stowe’s very popular book prompted President Lincoln to remark when greeting her at the White House that she was “the little lady who wrote the book that made this great war.”  
    Knowledge of Stowe’s story left Harriet Tubman unimpressed.  Refusing to go with friends to see a play in Philadelphia based on “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Tubman stated, “I haint got no heart to go and see the sufferings of my people played out on de stage.  I’ve seen de real ting, and I don’t want to see it on no stage or in no teater.” 
    Despite her husband’s threat to report her should she ever escape, Tubman (born ca.1821) left him behind in 1849.  She quietly fled during the middle of the night to the home of a white woman who had previously proffered help should she desire it.  From Dorchester County in eastern Maryland, she both walked alone and was taken 90 miles north into Pennsylvania with the kind assistance of many along the way.  She crossed into the land of freedom as the sun rose, remembering always that “I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person now I was free.  There was such a glory over everything, the sun came like gold through the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in heaven.” 
    Though of short physical stature, Tubman was a woman capable of hard physical labor, proud to swing an axe like a man, preferring outdoor work over women’s housework.  Having known much hardship as a slave, having been lent out in early childhood, having been whipped and beaten repeatedly, and having had her skull bashed in by a thrown keg meant for a fleeing man, Tubman knew how to survive.  And, ultimately, she gained great success on the stage of life in assisting her people to their freedom. 

    With an unassuming yet authoritative air about her, Tubman had the ability to pass virtually unnoticed through the towns of Southern slaveholders, hiding her identity, “stealing” away numerous slaves on the road to freedom.  But that is not to say she didn’t face difficulties in helping slaves escape their bondage.  It was not an easy venture for any free black, even with proper papers, to maneuver around in slave territory without being apprehended.  Known to live in constant dependency on God during those times, Tubman is quoted as saying simply, “I tell de Lawd what I needs, an’ he provides.” 
    When she brought out her brothers and some of their friends from Maryland, they stayed briefly in her parents’ barn where her father fed them.  Hesitant to see their mother for fear emotions would give them away (Tubman had not seen her mother in several years), they left quietly, walking along muddy roads in the rains, circuitously through the woods to get around towns, eventually arriving at the homes of northern abolitionists.  They arrived in Philadelphia and were given aid by her friend, William Still, of the Vigilance Committee.  Still put Tubman and her fugitives on a train to New York City where Sydney Howard Gay gave assistance, putting them on another train to Albany, then Rochester, and finally taking a boat across Lake Ontario to St. Catharines, Canada.  Canada – where so many fugitive slaves endeavored to establish a life in true freedom, often becoming wealthy in owning their own land and businesses.  
    William Still, a free black and secretary for the Philadelphia Vigilance Committee, kept meticulous records of fugitive slaves and their conductors.  Still published a book in 1872, “The Underground Railroad,” from his extensive trove of information on the fugitives and their experiences.  In turn, Still was in contact with men in New York City who, like Sydney Howard Gay, also kept detailed records of the fugitives they assisted.  The extant records left by such men are among the limited but solid evidentiary proof of those who traveled the elusive and secretive Underground Railroad.  Messages between offices or stops were disguised as to the real purpose, known only to those involved on the “railroad.”  One such example reported by a visiting abolitionist was Still’s telegram to Gay of “‘six parcels’ coming by the train.  And before I left the office, the ‘parcels’ came in, each on two legs.”  
    Tubman was called “Moses” by her people, “General” by John Brown of Harper’s Ferry fame, and “Captain” by Sydney Howard Gay in New York City when he documented those whom she brought north to his office.  Her bold courage and ability to successfully travel unnoticed among the “enemy” was reportedly unparalleled among “conductors” on the “railroad.”
    By the time the Civil War began, Tubman had traveled 13 times into the South since she escaped bondage in 1849.  She is believed to have brought out at least 70 fugitives, among them her siblings and parents, possibly indirectly assisting an additional 50 in leaving on their own.  Supposedly, over 300 slaves were brought north on 19 trips by Tubman as claimed by her first biographer, Sarah Bradford; but these figures are believed to be greatly inflated based on contemporary study of now-known extant records.  
    With the advent of civil war, Tubman became restless, feeling the need to do more for her people.  She became a nurse, cook and spy for the Union in South Carolina, becoming “the first woman in American history to lead a detachment of troops in battle.”  
    The abolitionist issues in Stowe’s book, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” also brought legitimacy to the women’s rights’ movement which sprang to life in the 1840s and 1850s.  Men who championed their tenets nationally included Horace Mann, Rev. Harry Ward Beecher, Frederick Douglass, William Lloyd Garrison, and Gerrit Smith (the cousin of Elizabeth Cady).  Women whose beliefs embodied not only the values of abolition but women’s rights included Lucretia Mott, Sarah and Angelina Grimke, Abby Kelley Foster, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Elizabeth Oaks Smith, Paulina Wright Davis, Lucy Stone, Antoinette Brown, Susan B. Anthony, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, and Esther (McQuigg, Slack) Morris who grew up on our former farmland, supporting abolition as a young woman while operating her own business in Owego, NY, later becoming the first woman Justice of the Peace in 1870’s Wyoming Territory.  These are just a few of the many whose belief in equality for the blacks seemed to naturally extend into rights for women who were unable to legally own property or to vote.  
    Yet, even the cause of women’s rights created division within the nation just as the abolitionists’ work had done.  For troubled times were about to become even more turbulent.  During the 1850s, issues arose about the need for increased funding in the work of the abolitionists and the Underground Railroad. Funds were sorely needed to meet needs of slaves who fled northward to freedom, and to assist them once they were free.  Disputes also erupted as to whether enough was being done to rid the nation of slavery as a whole.  And dissension even arose amongst the white and black abolitionists during this period.  
    Blacks felt the whites were not doing “enough to combat racial prejudice,” while the whites “were appalled by the controversy.”  Many white abolitionists felt they had willingly placed their lives, their family, and their property on the line to follow their heart’s leading to assist the slaves, asking nothing or little in return.  To be vilified for not doing enough to help the plight of the black man was abhorrent to them.
    Before elections in the fall of 1860, debate upon debate was held as the option of state secession was also discussed.  Southern newspapers began warning that if Lincoln were elected president, they expected the Fugitive Slave Act would not be followed, and the Charleston “Mercury” opined in October that “the underground railroad would operate ‘over-ground.’”   
    Then, to the pleasant surprise of some and the disgust of others, Abraham Lincoln was elected president on November 6, 1860.  Though Lincoln intended to hold the country together as one nation, he would not end slavery nor was he inclined to end the Fugitive Slave Law.  He did, however, wish to amend the law so that no free black could ever be forced into slavery.  
    With feelings running high, Southern states began to secede from the Union after South Carolina was the first to leave on December 20th.  Together, they formed the new Confederate States of America.  Shortly thereafter, federal troops arrived at Fort Sumter in the bay outside Charleston, S.C. to defend federal property.  With ongoing dispute between the Union and the Confederacy over ownership of Ft. Sumter, President Lincoln faced a dilemma in how to respond.  After Lincoln ordered aid sent to the federal troops at Ft. Sumter, the Confederate Army opened fire on the fort early in the morning of April 12, 1861.  And thus began the American Civil War… 
    After so many sacrifices were made to escape the bonds of slavery, and with the nation’s first civil war, clarity was ultimately expressed when President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863.  Freeing all slaves (except in Maryland and Kentucky which had not seceded), his proclamation essentially proved that the work of the Underground Railroad was done.  The abolitionists had accomplished what they’d set out to do.  They had gained freedom for all enslaved African Americans, the fulfillment of dreams for thousands upon thousands when their work began inauspiciously so many decades ago. 
    At President Lincoln’s second inaugural address on March 4, 1865, he stated, “…These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest.  All knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war.  To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union, even by war… It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged… With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan – to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.”  
    Afterward, Lincoln asked Frederick Douglass what he thought of his speech.  Douglass replied, “Mr. Lincoln, that was a sacred effort.”   (“Absence of Malice,” Adapted from “Lincoln’s Greatest Speech:  The Second Inaugural,” by Ronald C. White, Jr., Smithsonian, April 2002, p.119)  Ultimately, all former slaves received their full legal freedom with passage of the Fifteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution in April 1870.  They could now appreciate their hard-won liberty; and yet, they continued to struggle for their rights over the next century, culminating with the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.  And even now, many continue to feel a prejudice.
    Harriet Tubman, former slave, a free and fearless woman, died March 10, 1913 in her new hometown of Auburn, New York.  She was essentially the last survivor of an unprecedented era, famed conductor on the Underground Railroad, having lived her life to help others attain the very freedom she had gained.
    Fittingly, the town of Auburn erected a monument to the auspicious career of this amazing woman.  “In memory of Harriet Tubman.  Born a slave in Maryland about 1821.  Died in Auburn, N.Y., March 10th, 1821.  Called the Moses of her People, During the Civil War.  With rare courage she led over three hundred negroes up from slavery to freedom, and rendered invaluable service as nurse and spy.  With implicit trust in God she braved every danger and overcame every obstacle.  Withal she possessed extraordinary foresight and judgment so that she truthfully said “On my underground railroad I nebber run my train off de track an’ I nebber los’ a passenger.”  [As noted above, the figure of 300 blacks is considered an exaggeration by 20th century researchers.  lar]
    NEXT WEEK:  Part IV, conclusion.
  15. Linda Roorda
    Many communities in states above the Mason-Dixon line had safe homes to assist slaves fleeing north to freedom, like Portland, Maine.  A center of activity, the city was important to blacks fleeing slavery for not only safe homes enroute to Canada, but also employment in the rail and shipping industries.
    Recently, I learned from friends near Portland, Maine that the city’s Underground Railroad Abyssinian Meeting House/Church, built during 1828-1831, is undergoing restoration.  Noted to be “Maine’s oldest African-American church building and third oldest [standing African-American meeting house] in the nation”, it held worship services, abolition and temperance meetings, Portland Union Anti-Slavery Society, a school for blacks from 1846 until the 1856, and much more.  Recognized as Maine’s only Underground Railroad site by the National Park Service, it is also on the National Register of Historic Places.  (Wikipedia)
    The Abyssinian church was dealt a devastating blow, however, when the SS Portland sank off Cape Ann in 1898, taking 17 male parishioners.  One of New England’s largest ocean steamers with side-mount paddlewheels, she provided a luxury service for passengers between Boston, MA and Portland, ME.  When the powerful “Portland Gale” blizzard struck the New England coast November 26-27, 1898, more than 400 people and 150 vessels were lost.  (Wikipedia)
    Locally, Tioga County, New York can also claim involvement in the Underground Railroad.  But, as historian, Ed Nizalowski, noted online, “…as is the case in so many other parts of the country, actual documentation and credible evidence for involvement can be very difficult to verify.”  According to Nizalowski, Hammon Phinney of the Baptist Church in Owego, NY was a strong leader among local abolitionists.  Meetings in Owego, as elsewhere, throughout the 1830s and 1840s were rife with “wild confusion and violence.”  Frederick Douglass was forced to cancel speaking engagements “for fear of his physical safety” in 1840, though he did return in 1857, and Garret/Gerrit Smith was hit with eggs. 
    Nizalowski’s research uncovered four homes on Front Street in Owego which are known to have been involved in the Underground Railroad – Nos. 100, 294, 313, and 351.  “At 294 Front Street, a building once owned by the Eagles Club, a brick lined tunnel had been found running along the north wall.”  He also stated that No. 351 Main Street “has the best evidence for being a station for fugitive slaves.”  It was owned previously by Judge Farrington, “a prominent Abolitionist,” and by Hammon Phinney, with the house having “a hidden space in the cellar.”  Nizalowski avers that Phinney’s work as a stationmaster was learned primarily when the property was sold.  “In 1867 when the Hastings family bought the property from Frederick Phinney, Hammon's son, the new owners were told that the home had served as a station for fugitive slaves.  This story was passed on for over 100 years.  The best evidence for Hammon being a stationmaster comes from his obituary that appeared on March 3, 1898 where it also states that his home served as a station.  This is one of the few written references from the 19th century identifying a specific individual.” 
    Tioga County homes in Newark Valley, Berkshire and Richford may well have been involved in the Underground Railroad as Nizalowski pointed out.  There may have been additional safe houses in local communities. Though I have heard of homes used for the Underground Railroad in our town of Spencer, NY, I have no personal knowledge.  I do know the McQuigg house built in 1830s where our house stands today had servants’ quarters; whether they were whites or free blacks I have no knowledge.  At the far eastern corner of the kitchen was a staircase with a door. Taking the stairs up, there was an open area with two separate rooms and a small sitting area, closed off from the other rooms by a different type of door with a different type of latch. Sadly, since the house foundation beams had dry rot, and the structure itself was caving in, the house was not deemed appropriate for renovation by our bank.
    Typically, local history is only gained through stories passed down within families which attest to involvement in the underground.  But there was definitely assistance and support for abolition work throughout our region of New York state, both financially and physically.
    Writing in 2002 for Elmira’s “The Jones Museum” website, Barbara S. Ramsdell quoted Arch Merrill’s book, “The Underground, Freedom’s Road, and Other Upstate Tales.”  “Jones quietly took command of the Underground in Elmira, a gateway between the South and the North.  It became the principal station on the ‘railroad’ between Philadelphia and the Canadian border.  Jones worked closely with William Still, the chief Underground agent in Philadelphia, who forwarded parties of from six to 10 fugitives at a time to Elmira...  The station master concealed as many as 30 slaves at one time in his home, exactly where he never told.  He carried on his operations so secretly that only the inner circle of abolitionists knew that in a decade he dispatched nearly 800 slaves to Canada.”  
    As noted in Part III, I had discovered while researching and reading various books and websites that the Abolitionist Movement and the Underground Railroad are intertwined with the beginnings of the Women’s Rights Movement.  It was a time in history when many good people of faith were not inclined to confront the evils of slavery; it was just the normal way of life, or so they believed.  And, for the most part, it was felt that the place of women was in the home or in limited occupations, often not even given as good an education as their brothers.  It was an era when those opposed to owning another human clashed definitively with those opposed to slavery’s demise. 
    Though slavery has been around since early historical times, even in Biblical history, how thankful we are that some felt a calling in their heart to honor God’s love for all by working tirelessly to free those in slavery.  Were it not for the ardent religious beliefs, persistence and sacrifices of the abolitionists, men and women, white and black, who carried on their work despite great opposition, slavery might have lasted far longer in this nation than it actually did… and thank God it did come to an end.
    Yet, as stated in my preface, slavery is still a lucrative venture around the world, including in our own America.  Under various guises, slavery flourishes in over 100 countries with India, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Uzbekistan, and North Korea topping the lists… all for the financial profits gained.  Adult and child sex trafficking (especially of women and young girls), drug trafficking, forced child labor, debt bondage, unlawful recruitment of children for war, and domestic service slavery, are just  a few of the repulsive categories.
    I began this series by noting Martin Luther King, Jr. had said, “We are determined to work and fight until justice rains down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream.”  Paraphrasing Amos 5:24, King did just that with God at his side to challenge us to seek justice.  May we do the same.  Never forgetting, we do not erase history.  Without the knowledge and ability to learn from injustice, we are destined to repeat.
    Knowing slavery continues in our world today, may we have hearts that care enough to help in some way.  One avenue we can take to help stop enslavement is by donating to a charity of our choice which specifically works to educate the public and free those held in bondage.  For example, our charity of choice is Samaritan’s Purse, begun by Franklin Graham, son of the Rev. Billy Graham.
    Among the innumerable famous and little-known Blacks who have brought betterment to our world are the following few:
    1. George Washington Carver (1864-1943) – born into slavery, an artist, botanist, teacher, agricultural scientist and inventor with extensive research on over 300 uses for peanuts; created Tuskegee Institute Movable School to teach modern agricultural techniques and tools to farmers in Alabama and around the world.
    2. Edward Bouchet (1852-1918) - son of former enslaved parent, removed to New Haven, CT; accepted at Yale, first African American to earn a Ph.D., 6th American to earn this degree in physics.
    3. Jean Baptiste Point du Sable (1745?-1818) – from Haiti, first to establish a permanent settlement at Chicago, a man of great reputable character and business acumen.
    4. Matthew Alexander Henson (1866-1955) - son of free-born tenant farmers; ran away from abusive home at 11; traveled with Robert Peary in 1891 on first of several trips to Greenland; Peary and Henson took their final trip in 1909; Henson set foot on North Pole first; returning home, Peary took all credit with Henson’s achievements ignored as a Black man.
    5. Bessie Coleman (1892 -1926) - one of 13 children born to Indigenous father and African American mother; educating herself, graduated from high school; not accepted at flight school being black and female, saved money for training in France; first Black woman to earn her pilot’s license in the world.
    6. Lewis Latimer (1848-1928) - son of self-liberated parents, Chelsea, MA; served in U.S. Navy during Civil War; a draftsman with numerous inventions, including filament system to keep carbon filament in lightbulbs lasting longer, only Black member of Thomas Edison’s elite team; improved design of railroad car bathroom and early air conditioning unit.
    7. Jane Bolin (1908-2007) - first Black woman graduate of Yale Law School; first Black woman judge in 1939; with Eleanor Roosevelt, created intervention program to keep young boys from committing crimes.
    8. Alice Allison Dunnigan (1906-1983) – first African-American female White House correspondent; first Black female in Senate and House of Representatives press corps; chief of Associated Negro Press in 1947; served under Pres. John F. Kennedy as education consultant for President’s Committee on Equal Employment Opportunity until 1965.
    9. Wangari Maathai (1940-2011) - first Black woman to win 2004 Nobel Peace Prize for environmental work in Kenya; social, environmental and political activist; founded Green Belt Movement, planting trees.
    10. Irene Morgan Kirkaldy (1907-2007) – July 1944 arrested for refusing to give up bus seat in Virginia; convicted in County Circuit Court, appealed decision to Virginia Supreme Court; Supreme Court ruled in her favor June 3, 1946 aided by Thurgood Marshall and the NAACP.
    11. Claudette Colvin (1939-) - 15-year-old who refused to give up bus seat March 2, 1955, arrested 9 months before Rosa Parks; main witness in federal suit, Browder v. Gayle, ending public transportation segregation in Alabama.
    12. Amelia Boynton Robinson (1911-2015) - tireless advocate for civil rights; first African-American woman in Alabama to run for Congress in 1964; worked with Martin Luther King, Jr. to plan march from Selma to Montgomery on March 7, 1965, severely injured; received Martin Luther King Jr. Freedom Medal in 1990.
    13. Rebecca Lee Crumpler (1831-1895) - earned MD in 1864, first African-American woman physician in U.S.; wrote and published “Book of Medical Discourses in Two Parts”, first medical text authored by African-American.
    14. Otis Boykin (1920-1982) – with 26 patents, developed IBM computers, and circuitry improvements for pacemakers.
    15. Charles Drew (1904-1950) – physician, surgeon, medical researcher with discoveries in blood transfusions, developed large-scale blood banks, blood plasma programs, and bloodmobiles for Red Cross.
    16. Jesse Ernest Wilkins, Jr. (1923-2011) – a genius, youngest student ever at age 13 to enter University of Chicago, earning bachelor, master, and doctorate degree in math at age 19; nuclear scientist, mechanical engineer and mathematician; published papers in mathematics, optics, and nuclear engineering; perfected lens design in microscopes and ophthalmologic uses; involved in Manhattan Project with future Nobel laureate Eugene Wigner with significant contributions to nuclear-reactor physics.
    17.“Hidden Figures: The American Dream and the Untold Story of the Black Women Who Helped Win the Space Race” is a 2016 nonfiction book by Margot Lee Shetterly. It tells about the lives of Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughan, and Mary Jackson, three mathematicians who worked as computers (then a job description) at NASA during the space race. They overcame discrimination to solve problems for engineers and others at NASA. For the first years of their careers, the workplace was segregated and women were kept in the background as human computers. Author Shetterly's father was a research scientist at NASA who worked with many of the book's main characters. These three historical women overcame discrimination and racial segregation to become American achievers in mathematics, scientific and engineering history. The main character, Katherine Johnson, calculated rocket trajectories for the Mercury and Apollo missions. Johnson successfully "took matters into her own hands" by being assertive with her supervisor; when her mathematical abilities were recognized, Katherine Johnson was allowed into all male meetings at NASA.  (Wikipedia)
    BOOKS I’VE READ:
    *Abide With Me, A Photographic Journey Through Great British Hymns, by John H. Parker, New Leaf Press, Green Forest, AR, 2009.
    *Bound for Canaan, The Epic Story of the Underground Railroad, America’s First Civil Rights Movement, by Fergus M. Bordewich, HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY, 2005.
    *Gateway to Freedom, by Eric Foner, W. W. Norton & Company, New York, NY, 2015.
    *Harriet Tubman, Conductor on the Underground Railroad, by Ann Petry, Harper Trophy of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., New York, NY, 1955.
    *The Island at the Center of the World, by Russell Shorto, Vintage Books Edition, New York, NY, 2005.
    A FEW OF MY WEBSITE SOURCES:
    *“Absence of Malice” (Adapted from “Lincoln’s Greatest Speech:  The Second Inaugural” by Ronald C. White, Jr.) in Smithsonian, April 2002, p.119.
    *“The Underground Railroad in Tioga County, A Piece of History With Many Gaps to Fill” by Ed Nizalowski.
    *John W. Jones Museum, Elmira, NY - “Our purpose is to preserve… related artifacts in memory of his role and the roles of others in the Southern Tier involved in the Underground Railroad and the American Civil War.”
    *Freedom Quilts – “The History of The American Quilt: Part One (Early African American Quilts) - Pattern Observer. History of the American quilt” by Molly Williams.
  16. Linda Roorda
    It’s been a rough month for both of us with my husband's ongoing health issues that never completely go away, extraneous related issues, so many medical appointments, house electrical and car problems, leaving us both feeling like we want to just run away… escaping it all to the proverbial vacation in the hills. I know you’ve been there, too.  But God… answered our needs with good friends who were glad to help, and a new medical internist team who really care.  And I found this poem and blog written during another difficult time in 2014 and 2015 that spoke to my heart, reminding me…
    We all have doubts and questions in our hearts.  We all have fears and worries and thoughts with which we wrestle.  But so did the best of men and women who were close to the heart of God – like Abraham, Sarah, Moses, Jacob, Joseph, David, Job, Esther, Mary, Peter, Paul, just to name a few… In fact, there’s a reason why I appreciate their life examples so much… it’s in the depth of their honesty.
    Perhaps we deal with wondering or wandering thoughts, difficult and painful questions, tears with pleas, and heart-felt longings.  Maybe, truth be told, we’re upset and just a little angry at God for not answering our prayers.  Maybe we wonder why our faith seems weak in the face of a host of trials while others float along in life with hardly a problem.  Maybe we feel we’re not worthy of His love and His grace, or maybe we think we don’t need His help... that we can manage on our own, or maybe we think He really can’t understand what we’re facing.
    Yet, we do know we truly can take all our problems to our Lord in prayer, though sometimes it seems like we just shouldn’t bother Him with all of life’s little seemingly insignificant issues.  Sometimes, our heart is so heavy we don’t even know how to put our thoughts into words in order to pray… 
    I’ve been there.  I’ve wrestled.  I’ve wondered, wandered and worried. Yet, Jesus understands.  He knows what we face.  He cares.  He’s been there.  He faced life head on with trials and temptations, with love from friends, but also with rejection, mocking and scorn.  And He knew to whom He could turn – His heavenly Father. 
    When I focus on what Jesus went through, how He suffered for each of us, then what have I to fear?  He knows… for He’s a friend like no other, just as the Apostle John wrote:  “Greater love has no one than this:  to lay down one's life for one's friends.  (John 15:13 NIV) 
    And being the Friend that He is, He welcomes our ponderings.  He exemplifies the bond of a friend who shares the burdens, doubts and fears of our heart.  He helps us understand the meaning within or behind life’s trials and wrestling thoughts.  He loves us deeply.  No matter what we’ve done or where we’ve been, or what questions keep us awake at night, we can go to Him.  He opens our eyes to His truth and words of wisdom when we come to Him in prayer.  And with a heart of love, He welcomes us into his arms of peace.  He truly cares about even the littlest things that we get so concerned about and fret over… for, as I Peter 5:7 reminds us, we are to “Cast all [our] anxiety on him because he cares for [us].”
    This poem came out of my own doubts, questions, fears and frets, and my tendency to take the reins amidst the struggles of life… when I should be giving all these things over to God and rest in His peace.  May you, too, find peace in knowing that, though we all go through these issues, our Lord has his arms and ears and heart open, waiting for us to come to Him with all our concerns.  Because He cares… 
    Thoughts That Wrestle
    Linda A. Roorda
    Within my heart are thoughts that wrestle…
    Where is my faith? On what do I stand?
    Help me now Lord to draw close to You
    Help me to grow rooted in Your truth.
     
    Why am I prone to wander away?
    Why do I hold ever tight the reins?
    Help me to know You guide me gently
    As I rely on Your restoring word.
     
    Your word is truth, reality to me
    A firm foundation to strengthen my soul,
    Lessons to heed when life falls apart
    Knowledge to earn by traveling this road.
     
    Should I utter my bitter complaints
    To underscore the trial I face,
    You offer hope when I’m in despair
    As all my cares I release to You.
     
    Despite my doubts You still rescue me
    You draw me close on hearing my cries,
    Your gentle words within my soul
    Give voice to reason, a wisdom to gain.
     
    You understand my human frailties
    Though I can’t fathom you lived in two worlds,
    Within your heart was sinless perfection
    But in this life temptation You faced.
     
    For You knew pain, rejection and jeers
    And You were tempted, in hunger and thirst,
    But better than we, You stared down the hand
    Of evil's grasp which held not Your will.
     
    You cried with loss, and needed to rest
    You shared a heart for those steeped in sin,
    Your words gave life to the seeking crowds
    As You fed their souls with unreserved love.
     
    The great I Am, the giver of life
    You bless all who come, whose hearts are seeking,
    That we might know, the one holy God
    The Word in flesh, the Light of the world.
     
    For this our faith in your death alone
    And resurrection from the tomb to life,
    Cannot be swayed by earthly passions
    When we take hold of your nail-pierced hands.
     
    Grace and mercy bestowed on my heart
    When faith is wrapped in your sacrifice
    The reason you came among us to live
    How great a gift I can never repay.
    ~~
  17. Linda Roorda

    Tis The Season!

    By Linda Roorda,

    December 5th is a day my/our Dutch ancestors celebrated Saint Nicholas Day or Eve, part of traditional European Christmas celebrations for centuries.  My cousin Sytske Visscher in the Netherlands shared that “St. Nicolas Day/Sinterklaas Day is celebrated on December 5, or the weekend before or after. According to the myth, the Bishop of Myra in Turkey (St. Nicolas) was born on December 6 and started to give presents to the poor members of his congregation on the evening before, December 5.  Families nowadays decide to celebrate the weekend before or after the official day.  Especially celebrating with only adults can better be organized on a weekend (Friday or Saturday evening) when most people do not have to go to work the next day.  Many not only give presents but also make poems to say something to the receiver of the present about what happened to him or her in the last year.” 
    I think Christmas is everyone’s favorite time of year, especially a white Christmas!  Right?!  Even shopping begins in earnest the day after Thanksgiving.  But many of our current holiday traditions either changed dramatically or began only in the 19th century.  Writing in the “Broader View Weekly” local newspaper in December 2012, I explored the origins of many of our American Christmas traditions.
    The Dutch word “Sinterklaas” for Saint Nicholas is considered the origin of our American “Santa Claus” with Washington Irving and Clement C. Moore helping to make him who he is today.  The earliest writing in America of a figure resembling our modern Santa can be found in Washington Irving’s satire of Dutch culture.  In “History of New York” published in 1809, Irving writes in chapter IX:  "At this early period…hanging up a stocking in the chimney on St. Nicholas eve…is always found in the morning miraculously filled; for the good St. Nicholas has ever been a great giver of gifts, particularly to children."  
    Clement C. Moore immortalized St. Nicholas in “’Twas The Night Before Christmas.”  In this ode to St. Nick, he appears on December 24th, Christmas Eve in America, not the traditional St. Nicholas Day/Eve of December 5 or December 6. Moore’s poem, published anonymously in a Troy, New York newspaper on December 23, 1823, promotes a new appearance to the original lean St. Nicholas:  “He had a broad face and a little round belly…He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf…[with a] "sleigh full of Toys" [and] "eight tiny reindeer…[as] Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound."  The two original reindeer names of Donder and Blixem were later changed to Donner and Blitzen.  Once again, the Dutch influence in the former New Netherlands was involved as “donder” means thunder and “bliksem” means lightning.  
    While Irving and Moore both present the jolly gift giver as Saint Nicholas, political cartoonist Thomas Nast is considered the first to refer to “Santa Claus” in his illustration for the January 3, 1863 edition of “Harpers Weekly.”  President Lincoln had requested that Nast depict St. Nicholas visiting the Union troops.  Nast’s illustration shows Santa Claus sitting on his sleigh at a U.S. Army camp, handing out gifts in front of a “Welcome Santa Claus” sign. 

    Another treasured tradition of our modern Christmas is Charles Dickens’ short story, “A Christmas Carol,” written as a commentary on the greed of Victorian England.  Available in bookstores the week before Christmas 1843, it sold very well, never being out of print since.  Scrooge has the distinction of being one of the most well-known literary characters.  But what do we care… Bah, humbug!
    Our decorated Christmas tree comes from German traditions with Queen Victoria’s husband Prince Albert putting up the first decorated tree at Windsor Castle in 1841.  Based on illustrations of this event published in America in 1849, Christmas trees then became fashionable on this side of the “pond.”  Small candles were used to light the tree, with popcorn and cranberry strings typically used for decoration.
    From the religious aspect, Christmas celebrations differed in many ways based on national origin.  I found it interesting to learn that Christmas celebrations were outlawed in Boston by the Puritans in the mid to late 17th century with fines for violations, while the Jamestown, Virginia settlers enjoyed their merry celebrations under Capt. John Smith.  After the American Revolution, Americans looked down on English traditions, including Christmas.  Apparently, Congress was even in session on December 25, 1789!  In fact, Christmas did not become a federal holiday until Congress declared it such on June 26, 1870.  
    By the late 19th century, celebrating Christmas was made popular through children’s books and women’s magazines.  Church Sunday School classes began encouraging celebrations, and families were decorating Christmas trees with everyone “knowing” Santa Claus delivered gifts on Christmas Eve, traditions which have been carried on into the 21st century.
    Other popular traditions we all look forward to include decorating our homes and trees, baking scrumptious special treats, singing carols, and either making or shopping for just the right gift for each special person on our list.  But, alas, the years have also taken a simple celebration in honor of Jesus’ birth and made it into a highly marketed holiday, one often filled with ostentatious materialism.  Personally, I prefer to step back to the simpler traditions of my Dutch ancestry and childhood home, one without “all the trappings” and media frenzy.
    With my dad being a first generation Dutch-American, we veered from Dutch tradition in some ways.  We maintained Christmas Day with a morning church service and a big family dinner; but, our gift-giving was held the Saturday before Christmas, not the Dutch traditional day of December 5.  My husband’s Dutch family opened gifts on Christmas Eve as they had Christmas morning worship service too, but we decided on Christmas morning for our kids to open gifts.
    My first and last adoration of Santa Claus came the Christmas I was 5 years old when Santa visited my grandparents in Clifton, New Jersey. We three oldest granddaughters shyly sat on his lap to share our wants.  Afterwards, my grandmother took us to an upstairs window to watch Santa and his reindeer leave.  All I saw was a car with red tail lights driving away between the snowbanks.  At that moment, I was crushed and disillusioned, and just knew there was absolutely no Santa Claus because, despite dressing the part, he did not have a sleigh and reindeer! 

    After all, everyone’s favorite reindeer is Rudolph with his nose so bright!  Supposedly written by Robert L. May for his daughter when her mother was dying of cancer, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was actually written in 1939 for his employer, Montgomery Ward, as a Christmas book given out free to customers.  Though May’s wife did die around the time he wrote the story, he read it to his 4-year-old daughter as he worked on it simply to ensure it held a child’s interest.  With memories of his own childhood, May decided on a tale with roots in “The Ugly Duckling” and the taunts he had suffered as a child.  Poor Rudolph was ostracized by other reindeer for being different, having an obvious physical abnormality… a glowing red nose.  No one else had one!  Regardless of his defect, Rudolph thrived under his parents’ love, overcame his disability and the taunts to become a responsible young deer!  And then one foggy night, Santa noticed how Rudolph’s nose shone through the dark, and asked him to lead the team of reindeer pulling his sleigh on Christmas Eve!  How excited and honored Rudolph must have felt! 
    We’ve all been blessed with special Christmas memories over the years.  While visiting my mom at Elderwood nursing home in the past, she shared that her mother had always put up and decorated a large Christmas tree in their front parlor.  It was a big change for her to learn that her new husband was not so inclined to such displays due to his more austere Dutch upbringing.  With limited decorations and no trees until my mid-teens when my dad finally gave in to the pleading of his six kids, I have found it difficult to step out of that mold.  Yet, I have enjoyed putting up a tree with lights and decorations when our three children were young.  And now, since my mother-in-law gave me her ceramic tree the Christmas before she passed away, I am honored to share her generosity in this smaller and simpler display.
    My favorite Christmas memory was when my husband, Ed, farmed with his dad.  With finances tight, I usually sewed clothes for all of us.  But, one year I also made doll beds for each of our children by taking free boxes from the local grocery store, gluing the bottoms together, and covering them with wood-grain contact paper.  My step-mother gave our three children a Cabbage-Patch type girl or boy doll she had made, while my grandmother sewed clothes and blankets for each doll.  And our kids could not have been happier!  
    Our local churches do not have a Christmas morning service like Ed and I grew up with, though we have enjoyed the local Christmas Eve candlelight services and singing of favorite carols.  We also began a tradition of reading the Christmas story with our children before they opened gifts on Christmas morning.  
    And another favorite of our family has been the TV special, “A Charlie Brown Christmas” by Charles M. Schulz.  With the busy holiday shopping extravaganza and commercialization, I think we sometimes lose a little of the wonder of that very first Christmas.
    “Narrator:  It was finally Christmastime, the best time of the year.  The houses were strung with tiny colored lights, their windows shining with a warm yellow glow only Christmas could bring.  The scents of pine needles and hot cocoa mingled together, wafting through the air, and the sweet sounds of Christmas carols could be heard in the distance.  Fluffy white snowflakes tumbled from the sky onto a group of joyful children as they sang and laughed, skating on the frozen pond in town.  Everyone was happy and full of holiday cheer.  That is, everyone except for Charlie Brown…”
    “Charlie (to Linus):  ‘I think there must be something wrong with me.  I just don’t understand Christmas, I guess.  I might be getting presents and sending Christmas cards and decorating trees and all that, but I’m still not happy.  I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel…’”
    “Later, after a day of frustrations, Charlie says:  ‘I guess you were right Linus; I shouldn’t have picked this little tree.  Everything I do turns into a disaster.  I guess I don’t really know what Christmas is about.  Isn’t there anyone who understands what Christmas is all about?’”

    “Linus:  ‘Sure, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.’  [Walking to the center of the stage, Linus speaks:]  ‘And there were in the same country Shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone ‘round about them, and they were sore afraid.  And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not!  For behold, I bring you tidings of great joy which will be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a sign unto you.  You shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in the manger.’  And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men.’”  [Luke 2:8-14] 
    Did you notice Linus drops his blanket? He knew who to trust. And, for me and my family, that’s what Christmas is all about…  As we begin to celebrate this Christmas season, share your special memories!
  18. Linda Roorda

    To Be Mary...

    By Linda Roorda,

    As we approach Christmas and remember “the reason for the season”, I think back to the time when this poem and reflection were written nearly 10 years ago. Thinking about Mary, I wondered what she thought of all the simple, special and amazing events. As a Jew, waiting for the Messiah, she must have been awed and humbled to know she was especially chosen by God to bear the “Son of the Most High,” (Luke 1:31), the “Son of God.” (Luke 1:35) Even as the angel explained, and Mary accepted God’s will on her life, did she truly understand the significance of the life she would give birth to?  And out of my ponderings, came these words. 
    The precious little baby whose birth we again celebrate grew up with a purpose.  I’ve wondered what it would have been like to have watched His life unfold.  We have the advantage of looking backward with Scripture in hand.  Mary would have known the old Jewish prophecies from the past which looked to a future Messiah.  And I wonder what her life was like as she watched her little boy grow into manhood.
    But first, what did Mary think when told by an angel that she had found favor with God... that she would conceive and give birth to a son…before she was even married?  What would everyone in town think of her?!  After all, it was a punishable offense to be pregnant before marriage; she could be stoned to death!  What did she think on hearing this angel say that her son’s kingdom would never end?  (Luke 1:26-38)  Yet, Mary willingly gave of her life, telling the angel, “I am the Lord’s servant.  May it be as you have said.”  (Luke 1:38)  Later, she sang a beautiful tribute of praise to God, which we call The Magnificat:   “My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant...”  (Luke 1:46-48) 
    And in Matthew 1:18-25, we learn that after Mary informed Joseph she was pregnant, he decided to divorce her quietly and to not make a public spectacle of her.  He loved her that much.  But an angel appeared to him in a dream and told him not to be afraid to take Mary as his wife, and to name her son Jesus, “because he will save his people from their sins.” 
    Still, it must have been hard for both Joseph and Mary to deal with the community at large as all their neighbors knew of her pregnancy before their actual marriage had taken place.  What courage and faith it must have taken on their parts to follow God so explicitly while others may very well have talked behind their backs.  May I be granted even a fraction of that kind of faith to follow my Lord.
    Can you imagine what Mary thought when shepherds sought them out to see their son in the stable… because the angels had told them they would find Him there.  And what did she think later when three wise men from the east showed up at their home… bearing gifts for her child… gifts fit for a king?  Luke 2:19 tells us she kept these things in her heart and pondered all that had taken place. What did Mary really think about as she watched her son grow up? 
    What were her thoughts during a time she and Joseph couldn’t find Jesus?  When Passover celebrations concluded in Jerusalem, the family began walking back home.  After a bit of time had passed, they realized their oldest son wasn’t with them.  Oh no!  Where could He be?  I can just imagine the fear in their hearts as they casually and then frantically searched among the crowd.  Not finding their son anywhere, they turned back towards the city with heavy hearts.  He had to be around somewhere… but, where?  He couldn’t just disappear! 
    Eventually, they found him – teaching in the synagogue.  And here these men, the Rabbis, the leaders of the synagogue, sat in rapt attention listening to all that this young lad, their son, had to say!  My word!  He was only 12 years old!  I’m sure they must have been just a little perturbed at his having caused them so much concern.  When they told him to come home, he replied, “Don’t you know I must be about my Father’s business?”  Hmmm… they must have thought that was quite an odd reply.  His dad, Joseph, was a carpenter, not a rabbi.  Did his parents realize Jesus meant his heavenly Father’s business? 
    This was just the beginning of Jesus’ unusual life and ministry.  What he did, how he grew up, where he studied… these are all unknown to us, but not to his mother.  Dear Mary must have watched with pride as her little boy, now a grown man, had quite a following.  People eagerly came to hear him and came to be healed, with many healed miraculously.  Nothing like this had ever happened before!  And though there were people who were not pleased with her son’s ministry, still, the majority seemed to listen closely to every word he said. 
    What were her thoughts as she watched her son’s special life unfold while she raised her other children?  What did she think about when her first-born son was despised and rejected, and then crucified like a common criminal? The anguish she must have suffered as tears flowed down her face. And what were her thoughts on learning her son had risen from the grave, just as He had said!  Did she realize then that He truly was God… that He was the promised Messiah to save us from our sins… and that her son was her Savior, too?  And did she understand that this was why He was born?  I’m sure she must have recalled His words, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life”! (John 3:16)  For this is why Jesus, her precious baby boy, was born.  This is why we celebrate Christmas!  Oh, the joy of it all!
    To Be Mary…
    Linda A. Roorda
    What was it like to be Mary…
    A betrothed young woman
    Not yet married but promised,
    As she carried the stigma
    Of unplanned pregnancy.
     
    What was it like to be Mary…
    To wonder at this baby boy
    Foretold by visiting angel,
    To love the Lord, her God
    And follow His will without question.
     
    What was it like to be Mary…
    Giving birth to her child
    In a stable among animals,
    And to gaze in wonder
    On the life of her precious son, Jesus.
     
    What was it like to be Mary…
    To find her son teaching
    Scholars trained and wiser than He,
    To wonder and ponder
    At His knowledge beyond their ken.
     
    What was it like to be Mary…
    To follow crowds of people
    Who looked for healing and comfort,
    Observing her son’s miracles
    With His divine words of wisdom.
     
    What was it like to be Mary…
    To watch her son teach and minister
    As He was loved yet despised,
    Revered yet rejected,
    Fully God and yet fully man.
     
    What was it like to be Mary…
    To watch her son be crucified
    As He paid for our sin with His life,
    But then to see Him risen,
    Our lives redeemed for eternity!
     
    What was it like to be Mary…
    To know her Son was born for this
    To think He’d save the world
    But not in the way she’d hoped
    For His life was given that others might live. 
    May you be richly blessed as you ponder the life of this precious babe in this season of joy!
    Merry Christmas!
    ~~
     
  19. Linda Roorda
    There was a time we longed to know more about our loved one, wasn’t there?  When we were dating, we wanted to know everything there was to know about our beloved’s life… from childhood to adulthood… who they were in the depth of their heart, and what made them who they are today.  We often come to know each other so thoroughly that we can finish their sentences!  We know how they think, and why they do what they do.  And we eagerly follow their leading.  How well I remember following Ed in the barn, learning from him… following so close he called me his little shadow! 
    I hope we never lose sight of that longing to know our loved one on a deeper level because life continually changes, and so do we.  And that got me to thinking… and wondering… how well do I know my Lord?  Oh, I know Him… I love Him… and I know His word.  But, do I know Him deeply, as well as I knew my husband?  I know I fall short and cannot live up to His expectations.  But I also sense a need in my heart to continually study the depth of who God is; and, in that way, learn more about Him and His will, His path, His leading in my life.
    In Deuteronomy 6:5, we read, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.”  That’s not always easy.  It’s a challenge.  There is so much in life that clamors for our time and attention.  Yet, as the psalmist David expressed his heart in Psalm 25:4, I find it echoes my heart-felt longings:  “Show me your ways, O Lord, teach me your paths.”  While he also wrote in Psalm 63:1-2, “O God, you are my God; I earnestly search for you.  My soul thirsts for you…” 
    Many years later, the prophet Jeremiah heard Yahweh/Jehovah God speak to him with a message for the people of Israel on returning to their homeland from captivity in Babylon.  “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, “‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek me and find me when you search for me with all your heart.’”  Jeremiah 29:11-13 NIV)  And that’s the heart I want while seeking Him in my life.
    The day I was writing this blog in 2015, my stepmother, Virginia, and I spoke on the phone.  As we reminisced about my father, Ralph, who had died that April 17th, she shared a story about my brother Charlie’s daughter.  At age 3, Nina tagged along behind her grandfather on his way out to the garden.  “What are you doing Pop-Pop?” she asked.  “Picking the Japanese beetles off the tomato plants and putting them in this bucket,” was his reply.  Since she wanted to go in the garden with her beloved grandfather, he told Nina to follow where he put his feet so she wouldn’t get her sneakers dirty from the mud.  Out of love and understanding for his little granddaughter, Pop-Pop then took a shorter stride.  As Nina followed, she stretched her little 3-year-old legs just far enough for her feet to land in Pop-Pop’s big footsteps as he led the way down the path.
    Under Pop-Pop’s guidance, Nina picked beetles off the leaves and dropped them into the bucket.  As she exclaimed to Granny, “I pick Napanese beetles like Pop-Pop!”  Nina was literally following in her grandfather’s footsteps, and proud of it!  And isn’t that what the Lord asks us to do as we seek Him?  That we would love Him enough to follow in His steps, on His path, as He guides our way!
    To Walk In Your Steps
    Linda A. Roorda 
    My soul is thirsting for truth from Your word,
    My daily strength on this path of life.
    A joy with grace and merciful peace
    When in Your will my soul finds its rest.
    ~
    Teach me Your ways, to walk in Your steps
    Let Your light shine as it guides my path,
    May I be used to reach seeking souls
    Others who need the touch of Your hand.
    ~
    May all my words echo Your wisdom
    And may the thoughts within my heart's depth
    Reveal the treasures I’ve kept and pondered
    That all I do will glorify You.
    ~
    So I’ll rise above the fray of this world
    To place my trust in Jesus my Lord
    And even though some days overwhelm
    I rejoice within His absolute love.
    ~
    For gracious is He who pursues my heart
    Just as I am, He embraces me.
    To know His truth with mercy sets free
    Blessed assurance and peace in His will.
    ~~
     
  20. 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.
    ~~
  21. Linda Roorda

    Tolerance...

    By Linda Roorda,

    It seems we often want our way regardless of how anyone else feels.  That old “give-and-take” attitude I remember growing up with seems to be lacking... all too evident among those who mock and bully others, even within today’s world of politics… where a war of words continues to erupt, and others are canceled.  It seems like absolute truth and moral or ethical standards have become a negative, a cause for ridicule… while relativism, or determining our own truth as we want it to be, is more often revered. 
    Authors like Laura Ingalls Wilder and Mark Twain/Samuel Clemens have become suspect, apparently not worth our reading in today’s political correctness. They, like so many others, wrote about the way life was as they experienced it while walking upon this earth, something we can learn from.  The Wilder Award in literature has been renamed the Children’s Literature Legacy Award because Wilder used words of a different era, inappropriate for today.  We were appalled at censorship, banning and burning of books many years ago, yet even now we walk a fine line of what is appropriate.  We disallow our children to read of life in other times when words or language we now recognize as inappropriate was used.  Even the Holy Bible is often not acceptable because it might offend.
    Yet, as discerning parents, we did not allow our children to read a few specific books in high school.  We discussed why they were inappropriate reading material with both our children and school personnel.  We were told by the principal that, because we calmly explained our objections, the school graciously saw our valid points and gave alternative reading material.  In Jenn’s case, after giving one particular oral book report, a few classmates told her they wished they’d read that book instead of the original proffered book.  A true story, it showed a quality of character in the challenges a young man faced as an Olympian runner diagnosed with cancer.  Unable to compete, he turned to helping inner city under-privileged kids. 
    The book read by the rest of the class, however, was filled with gratuitous sex, filthy language, and mocking of parental/family values – found when I simply opened the book at random junctures.  Actually, the teacher told his students to seek their parents’ permission to read that book!  And, apparently, if other students actually showed it to their parents, we were the only ones who said “no way!”  Even the school board was shocked to learn what that book held.  It was pulled from the school’s required reading list, and the teacher actually complimented us on our strong stance, saying he learned a lot from us.  There truly is a time for discernment of right and wrong when done with respect. 
    My poem here began to flow with news of the violence and tearing down of our nation’s historical monuments in the summer of 2017 and since.  Removing such historical memorials does not erase or change history… except for the younger generations who never learn its truths.  There are lessons learned in those memories earned.  We’ve come so far.  We’ve grown in understanding and acceptance. Isn’t that cause for celebration rather than condemnation?  Our differences can be teachable moments.  That’s what Freedom of Speech is all about… with a chance to show love and respect even in our disagreement, revealing true tolerance, not denigrating or canceling someone just because you don’t like their stance.
    Tolerance, by definition, is an ability to be fair, to accept a viewpoint which is different, and to bear with another in realizing that the opposition also has rights… without approving wrong by our silence, or going into full rage when disagreeing with the alternative view.  Perhaps we remember that society’s Golden Rule (which promotes tolerance, when you think about it), actually comes from the words of Jesus in his Sermon on the Mount:  “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the law…” (Matthew 7:12a) 
    Yet, tolerance is not a license to do anything we want at will.  A moral society adheres to absolute truths of right and wrong, or it breaks down without this solid foundation… as we now see with a preferential treatment of criminals being put back out on the street where they are free to commit crimes again, by not holding them truly responsible and accountable for their criminal acts.
    We should certainly be cognizant and tolerant of others’ opinions or beliefs, respecting our differences… but, that does not mean we have to tolerate rude or foul language, or abusive, bullying, or violent and criminal behavior.  Tolerance is not freedom to persist in traveling down a wrong path.  There are consequences for everything we do... and there is a time and place for speaking out respectfully against inappropriate words or actions. 
    So where did tolerance go?  Too often, it seems tolerance is relegated to that which accepts and promotes a particular politically-correct agenda to the exclusion and canceling of the opposing view and person… regarding differing perspectives as not having validity to be respected. What happened to our ability to show respect through appropriate discussion? What happened to Freedom of Speech? Why the hate-filled, foul-worded, disrespectful language?  Why violence with riots and destruction, or angry rhetoric to disallow conservative or religious speakers, even on college campuses?  What is there to be afraid of… that others might actually have valid points of truth, different from your own perspective and agenda?
    Fear of a differing opinion by engaging in anger and wrath toward that with which one disagrees serves no viable purpose.  We have heard mobs calling for their rights or else violence will ensue… while proclaiming how tolerant and justified they are.  Seems to me that violence as a coercive bully tactic is anything but tolerance.  Perhaps it would be wise to observe that true tolerance… the courtesy to listen, even agreeing to disagree in appropriate discourse… comes by respecting another’s viewpoint, their freedom of speech, without the backlash of vitriolic speech and/or destructive violence.
    When morality steps up and extends a hand in true respect, we’re living out the ancient Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:1-17). Given by God to Moses for the Jewish nation during its exodus from centuries of Egyptian slavery, these words still serve us well as a moral foundation for life even in today’s modern society.  Doing our best to live out Jesus’ words in what we call the Golden Rule, we show great love and respect for others… “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you…” (Matthew 7:12 NIV) – just as we wish to be treated.  With this love, and acceptance of those with whom we disagree, we embody Christ’s love, for “love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.”  (I Corinthians 13:6 NIV)
    Tolerance
    Linda A. Roorda
    ~
    Could I but live a life that was safe
    I wouldn’t question the wrongs encountered.
    I would not wrestle with problems I face
    Or troubles inherent with consequent strife.
    ~
    For if I the bad from this life expunged
    I’d then have left the best for display.
    My life would exist by my design
    For my benefit and pleasure alone.
    ~
    Remove the memories and mask the failures
    Fashion the remains to what I deem fit.
    Let visible be selfish ambition
    My life according to myself and me.
    ~
    I have no tolerance for views but mine
    My way is right and suspect is yours.
    I demand my way and fight you I will
    If only to prove entitled am I.
    ~
    Yet what I now see is your hand held out
    Bearing a gift, tolerance by name.
    You’ve come to my aid and lift me up
    To help me stand with dignity tall.
    ~
    There’s a price, you see, for this freedom shared
    It’s a cost in red that flowed for us all.
    And it grants relief from oppression’s fist
    That your words and mine comingle in peace.
    ~~
  22. Linda Roorda
    Today, I’m sharing something close to my heart.  I’ve shared this before, but it bears repeating because I am not alone.  Tourette Syndrome Awareness Month is May 15 to June 15, with the annual Tourette Syndrome Awareness Day on June 7, 2023.  Tourette Syndrome was named for a French neurologist, Dr. Georges Gilles de la Tourette.  He was the first to describe children and adults with specific tic movements in 1884, publishing his study about this syndrome in 1885.
    I’ve had Tourette’s since age 10-11, starting within a year after my family moved from farms in upstate New York to city life in Clifton, New Jersey… the city where I was born and my dad grew up.  It was an extremely emotional, disruptive time in my life to leave behind my close friends and the country life I loved… and preferred.
    Always believing it was that stress which precipitated my tics, I now understand there is often a genetic component, though I have no idea who may have had it in any older generation.  Most of my life I was embarrassed and ashamed to admit I had Tourette’s.  Nor did my parents know what to do about it.  I was initially mocked, and quickly learned to hide or camouflage the tics with movements that wouldn’t be as readily obvious.  I am constantly “on alert”.  Though I can generally successfully “hide” the tics, or so I think, they have to have an out and are worse when I’m away from the public eye or under stress.
    I’ve called the tics “my habit”, but never had a diagnosis until reading a letter in a Dear Abby or Ann Landers column in my early 20s.  Self-diagnosing from the apt description in that letter and response by the columnist, I felt such a relief to give my affliction a name!  Still, I only shared this information with my husband and closest family.  Though embarrassed and ashamed to see myself with tic movements in a family video, I have not let Tourette’s control my life or employment.  I was also afraid of passing it on to my children, but I wanted and was blessed with a family.  I’m aware of the tics, and am able to control them… but only somewhat.  And I’m also thankful they are considered “simple” tics. 
    Just as I’ve been ashamed of my movements, so my late husband was ashamed of being legally blind growing up.  (He read and approved this when I initially wrote it.)  He couldn’t see the school blackboard with his limited vision, even sitting in the front row, and would not ask for the help he needed.  Kids don’t want to be different from their peers.  When they have a noticeable difference, they are too often teased or mocked like my husband was, and become ashamed of who they are… sometimes with devastating effects, like suicide.  It’s up to us as adults, and even children, to be aware of the issues that others around us are dealing with.  If we provide support, acceptance, and encouragement, we will see ourselves for who we truly are - uniquely created in the image of God, and very loved.
    While subbing one day, I was surprised by a young student who kindly asked, “Do you have Tourette’s?”  Seeing no point in denying the obvious to those sweet innocent eyes, I replied, “Yes, I do.  But how do you know about Tourette’s?”  She’d watched a show.  As kids often do, they talked amongst themselves and others began asking me questions.  This led to their teacher setting aside time so I could share what I knew about living with Tourette’s.  I answered their many questions with several adding they knew someone with Tourette’s, too!  It was an informative session, endearing these students to me for their kindness and understanding.  They simply accepted me for who I am, just as I accept each of them.
    Tourette Syndrome is one type of tic disorder, meeting certain medical criteria of involuntary, repetitive movements and vocalizations, lasting for specific lengths of time.  My “simple” tics include, but are not limited to, sudden brief, repetitive movements of certain muscle groups like hard eye blinking or scrunching (the first symptom for most, including myself), facial, mouth, and head movements, shoulder shrugging, arm, hand and finger movements, head and shoulder jerking, leg and foot movements, throat clearing, repeating words or phrases verbally (or in my mind), and more.  I have an arthritic bony prominence of my collarbone from decades-long shoulder shrugs, and thoracic spine pain/arthritis from prior movements.  Tics wax and wane, change muscle groups at whim, and become worse under stress.
    Though the tics have never gone away, they often subside, albeit briefly, when I’m fully absorbed in something like singing, sleeping or designing paintings.  Totally absorbed while playing intently with my toddler son years ago, my step-mother commented that my tics had totally stopped during that brief window of time.  That was the first time I realized there really were times when “my habit” stopped!
    Tourette Syndrome is a neurodevelopmental disorder with typical onset in childhood or adolescence.  Chemical imbalances in the brain, environmental factors, or genetics are considered causative factors.  There is no cure, but there are some treatment options.  About 35 years ago, I was officially diagnosed by a neurologist and prescribed medication.  Unfortunately, taking just half a pill of the smallest dose, the dopey side effect for me was much worse than dealing with the tics, so I declined further medication.
    I do not have “complex” tics which include distinct patterns with multiple muscles and movements, hopping and twirling, head banging, and more.  Vocal tics can include sniffing, throat clearing, shouting, saying words or phrases, and repeating what was heard.  Though swearing and unacceptable language are found in a small percentage of Tourette cases, the media often describes coprolalia as a more common symptom.  My heart goes out to those with this more severe and disruptive range of tics, some of whom may qualify for disability benefits.  Many with Tourette’s also have other diagnoses including obsessive-compulsive disorder, hyperactivity (possibly me), attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder, and learning disabilities. 
    Guidepost magazine once featured contemporary Christian music singer, Jamie Grace, sharing her diagnosis of Tourette’s.  Reading the article about her, I burst into tears just to know that someone else has it, but has not let it stop her from living a full life, too.  I always felt so alone, never knowing anyone else with Tourette’s until I opened up about it a few years ago on Facebook.
    Looking at this from God’s perspective, I find it comforting to know He sees me for who I am, Tourette’s and all.  He has a greater purpose for our lives as we bring honor and glory to Him in all that we do, even with our limitations.  Often, as we go through the trials of life, that’s when we learn how to trust and rely on the Lord the best.  In overcoming our own problems, God uses us and our difficult circumstances to reach others who may be dealing with similar issues, bringing love and comfort to them in a way that is as unique as we are each gifted individually.
    To learn more about Tourette Syndrome and how to handle the emotional and physical challenges, go to their website:  https://tourette.org/  Read shared personal stories at: Home | Mytourette.org
  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
    Ever have visions and hear voices? Ever have a hunch, a sixth sense about something? Seems like it guides us to do something positive, or maybe helps us make a decision. I’ve had many instances. Most times I paid attention to the message; but, I’m ashamed to say, sometimes I did not heed the voices. Deeply touched by my friend Ann’s blog about her visions and voices, she encouraged me to share my own.
    Twice I sensed something bad was going to happen and couldn’t shake that feeling for weeks, until…
    Another time I had the strong sense a friend was very sad as I sat down at my work computer, but didn’t write her a note then…
    Many times, I’ve heard a loud voice speak as though someone was right next to me…
    And one time I had a heavenly vision…
    When I finally shared about my vision, it was a few weeks later. I’d worried what people would think. It’s not normal to see visions or hear God speaking to us, right? Well, wait a minute… not so fast. Let’s back up a bit. I should have known better…
    One of the clearest voices I’ve heard was after leaving an abusive employment situation. I’d resigned from the new job because of an unexpected inability to function and make decisions… I was hearing my former boss yelling and belittling me in my mind, and felt like an absolute and total failure. I literally could not think how to address an envelope!! Driving home, contemplating ending my life by crashing my car into just the right tree, I passed the home of my Dad’s friend and former Army buddy. I’d known him since I was a 2-yr-old toddler when my family lived in Alaska as my Dad finished his Army foreign assignment, before statehood. Roland lived out his strong faith in God, and now, driving past his house, I clearly heard the voice of God say, “I’m here for you. Your family needs you. You will be okay.”
    Nightmares and flashbacks then began of abuse from my teens and by my former employer, while also having very real property and car damage, but the cops did nothing to find the perpetrator. Yet, like David wrote in Psalm 91:2, “I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust’”, God was there for me in many ways during this extremely difficult time… as I took encouragement from His spoken words to me in the car that day. Seeking professional help, I was diagnosed with PTSD which had actually started after verbal rape in junior high. God knew why He allowed me to go through all these circumstances to get counseling, and my healing process began…
    Another time, I had the strong sense that something bad was going to happen. It was a few weeks before Christmas when our kids were little, and I couldn’t shake the feeling. Ed didn’t think there was anything to it, saying I was just being overly pessimistic. That heavy feeling stayed with me until Christmas Eve when he was taken to the hospital with severe chest pain. The doctors found he had a pulmonary embolism. A blood clot from his leg had passed into his lung, but he was going to be okay. I’d sensed something bad was going to happen…
    One morning as I sat down at my work computer, I had an overwhelming sense that Mary Jane, my friend since junior high in New Jersey, was very, very sad. Thinking about sending her an email, I decided my negative feelings were inappropriate and did not write. The next day, Mary Jane emailed me that her mother had passed away… a few hours before my premonition. I felt so badly about not writing her… if only I’d written a note of love and compassion when prompted…
    I also had a strong sense I needed to visit my Uncle Pete and years later an elderly friend, Edna. It was the last time I saw my uncle before his passing. Edna was in the hospital, more serious than I knew. Taking her last breath while I was there, my simple presence meant a lot to her family…
    Then came the spring of 2003. I had an overwhelming sense that something ominous was going to happen. The thought that the world was going to end that summer kept coming to mind, but just as quickly I’d push it away. It was too dark a thought, until…
    We awoke on June 11, 2003 to a hot and humid morning. I considered canceling the trip to the Watkins Glen Gorge with my girls, Jenn and Em, but we decided to go anyway. Anticipating a great time, we climbed the winding steps hewn out of rock in the entrance tunnel, rounded a curve, and stood at the top… gazing out at a downpour! How’d that happen so fast? We looked at each other and laughed – there had only been a few scattered rain drops when we entered the tunnel… someone had turned the faucet on! As it slowed to a drizzle, we walked on, enjoying the scenery of waterfalls and pools, plants and flowers.
    “We walked along, taking a few photos, as I held my umbrella over the cameras to protect them from getting soaked. I noticed the plants, telling the girls what they were, absorbed in the many varieties of ferns, flowering plants, and greenery. The girls were chatting together, enjoying the gorge, usually walking behind me, sometimes in front. As I enjoyed the plants, rock formations, and waterfalls, several times I clearly heard the words spoken loudly as if someone stood next to me, “Watch them.” Each time, I’d pay attention to my girls for a bit, but then drift back to observe the plants or the beauty of the gorge. I felt uncomfortable hearing those words, paying more attention to my girls for a while; but, the pull of nature was too strong and my focus would shift again. How could I have known that God was prompting me, and I didn’t heed His prodding better to “watch them…” Why didn’t I listen and watch them more closely?” (from Watch Them… A Mother’s Memories, by Linda A. Roorda)
    About 2-1/2 weeks later, Jenn collapsed at home in Alfred, suffering heart failure as blood clots passed through to her lungs, disrupting heart and brain function. Life support was removed two days later on the afternoon of June 30, 2003, and our precious daughter, wife of Matt, entered the joys of Heaven. Having asked God, “Why? I don’t understand?”, He provided Scripture in the Rochester International Airport! Waiting for our other daughter Emily’s arrival from California that morning, above us and to our left hung a plaque with Psalm 139:13-16: “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful; I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”
    “The morning after Jenn passed away, I sat on the bench in my flower garden in the eastern corner of our back yard. It was sunny, but still cool. This was my favorite spot, enjoying our yard from that perspective. I could look back at the house and think about my family. I could admire God’s creation in peace and quiet, listening to the chattering of the birds fluttering all around. As I prayed, thanking the Lord for Jenn’s life, praying for peace and comfort in our loss, I had a vision of Jennifer. She was at the base of a hill, in a sunlit field of beautiful flowers, standing near a tree, surrounded by children, and indescribably happy. I heard Jenn say, “Be Strong.” And then she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared… leaving me with an overwhelming sense of peace…” (Watch Them… pg.11)
    Even Ed had a vision of Jenn with long hair, describing how she sat on the sofa in a manner he had never seen due to his blindness. But I knew it was for real because that’s exactly how Jenn “sat” – stretched out, feet and legs curled “under” her, while she cupped her chin in her left hand with that elbow leaning on the arm of the sofa!
    I’ve had more premonitions, though I cannot recall the details. And, on two occasions, I clearly heard a voice with a message. In one, I was told to get out of a friendship, and the other time told not to reply to someone’s inappropriate words… but, thinking I knew how to handle both situations, I did not heed the words heard… later confessing to God how wrong I was not to trust the validity of the messages… learning the hard way to always be attentive to His voice, His messages…
    God shows His love to each of us in many different ways, ways that are as individual as we are, and in ways we may not always recognize as coming from Him. Yet, even when we don’t give Him our full attention, He continues to reach out to us, drawing us closer to His side. Both Psalm 139:13-16 and the words “Be Strong” have continued to be precious words from the Lord that I’ve clung to. With visions and voices from our awesome God, He has held me in His hands, wrapped His love around me and blessed me with His peace, a peace beyond understanding…
    My friend, Carla Cain, had asked me late last year if I’d join her podcast, Balms for the Soul, as a guest speaker with my poetry and reflective blogs. I’ve really enjoyed this project to record them. Click to listen to this podcast here. Sharing some serious difficulties I’ve faced in life, you’ll hear how God used them to work in my life as I recovered from traumas and abuses, in the hopes of reaching others who might need encouragement in their own difficulties.
    I’ve also expressed to Ed that sometimes poems burst forth faster than I can write them down. And, also expressed discouragement in wondering why God gives me words that express storms of life instead of love poems. We both feel strongly these are the words God is bringing out of the depths of my soul, healing my wounds, giving voice to what others might be feeling, while also sharing the depths of God’s loving care in all we face… confirmed in hearing how deeply some poems have touched the hearts of others.
    There’s just something of a personal touch in hearing the spoken words, so I encourage you to take a few minutes of your time to listen to this as a podcast. And God bless you in knowing He walks beside you, including on those most difficult days, as He leads and guides us along the way. With much love and hugs...
    The Hollow of Your Hands
    Linda A. Roorda
    In the hollow of Your nail-scarred hands
    You gently hold my fragile life.
    You carry me and protect me
    And whisper words of wisdom’s wealth.
    ~
    You wrap me in your calming presence
    You shelter me in the raging storms.
    Your comfort brings a gentle peace
    With endless joy that overflows.
    ~
    Your arms of strength enfold the weary
    My faltering steps you gently guide.
    You lift my face when tears rain down
    And give more grace when You I seek.
    ~
    Your voice of wisdom sustains my soul
    With lamp held high You lead the way.
    When You I trust, forsaking folly,
    The winding path for me You straighten.
    ~
    In the hollow of your loving hands
    You gently hold my fragile life.
    You keep my soul in perfect peace
    When all my heart abides in You.
    ~~
    Listen to this Poetic Devotions podcast by clicking here:  Visions and Voices
  25. Linda Roorda

    What If...

    By Linda Roorda,

    This story is very close to my heart for someone I dearly loved would not have lived among us if the recommended abortion had taken place. January is Sanctity of Human Life month, and today is Sanctity of Human Life Sunday. First designated as such in 1984 by President Ronald Reagan, I think it extends to far more than the banner of the anti-abortion movement. It’s not a political issue, but one that affects our moral fiber. Sanctity of life issues reflect on each one of us because all life is sacred.
    With the 51st anniversary of January 1973’s Roe v. Wade abortion decision, I again share the story of a mother-to-be who already had two healthy children, a girl and a boy. This time, she was very ill with her pregnancy. Vomiting frequently, she steadily grew worse. Struggling to carry this new little life, and against her wishes, her physician sought to obtain a “medically necessary” abortion. At that time, three doctors needed to sign documentation indicating the mother’s life was in jeopardy if the pregnancy continued. However, no third physician would put his name on the line to allow such an abortion.
    A Cesarean section was performed at 7 months’ gestation or risk losing both mother and baby. To the surprise of all, twin boys were born! After surgery, the mom nearly died from the effects of toxemia (i.e. now called pre-eclampsia), the result of high blood pressure and the demands on her body by not one but two precious little ones.
    With prayer and great medical care, she pulled through; but her little boys struggled. The largest twin at 5 lbs succumbed to an enlarged heart and died at two days of life, while the smallest little boy at 3-1/2 lbs was placed in an incubator for a month. This tiny preemie survived, albeit with health problems and very limited vision in only one viable eye.
    How do I know? The littlest twin was my husband, Edward. His blindness was caused by the incubator's high oxygen content. But we all praise God that no third physician was willing to sign papers to permit an abortion which would have taken the lives of these precious boys.
    Prior to1952, major medical centers knew that high levels of oxygen in incubators led to infant retinal damage and blindness. But physicians at the tiny hospital in Goshen, NY, a small farming community, were not aware of these findings. As a toddler, Ed was taken to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City. There, his parents were told he was among about 2000 children seen in their clinic, one of seven children who had some remnants of remaining vision! The optic nerve to his right eye was damaged, causing total blindness, while his left eye had limited vision, 20/200 with correction.
    Ed got his first pair of glasses at age 2. Three years later, with a new pair of stronger lenses, he stared out the car watching the world go by. Suddenly, he shouted, “I see them!” Kids were sledding down a nearby hill; though blurry, it was something he’d never seen before. Whenever his mom told this story, it always brought tears to her eyes. That one sentence was worth every cent of his care, she’d say.
    As Ed grew up, he was determined to do nearly everything everyone else could do. It drove him forward. Totally blind since 1998, we considered it a blessing he had limited vision for as long as he did. The renowned musician, Stevie Wonder, has the same condition. Then called retrolental fibroplasia (RLF), it is caused by high levels of oxygen in the incubator which contributes to abnormal blood vessel growth, damaging the retina. Now termed retinopathy of prematurity (ROP), it still affects a small percentage of premature infants.
    Did you know that at about 22 days, the pre-born infant’s heart begins beating. By 12 weeks, she is about 2 inches long, fully formed and recognizably human, able to feel pain. By 14-16 weeks, fully formed, fingers and toes have fingerprints and nail; he sees and blinks, inhales and exhales amniotic fluid, kicks, sucks a thumb, and sleeps regularly. At full-term, 39 weeks, your baby is ready for life outside the nurturing womb. Even Ed's retired dermatologist, a devout Catholic, always wore the tiny "Precious Feet" pin on her lapel as a testament to her beliefs, pleased we knew what it meant. Look up the pin name online for a physician's story behind this pin.
    Since Roe v. Wade was passed January 22, 1973 allowing for legal abortions in America, the numbers have been staggering with more than 63 million abortions. It must also be taken into account that some data is voluntarily reported while other American states have not provided details in a number of years, and I read there are many uncounted abortions. Yet with legal abortions available, the number of deaths from illegal abortions has declined.
    For anyone who has aborted their baby for whatever reason, I pray she finds peace in the loving arms of God’s forgiveness. But my prayer also is that each precious little life be allowed to reach his or her full potential and life purpose, regardless of disabilities. The current discussions of “quality of life” and euthanasia go beyond a personal decision, with government or insurance companies’ input supposedly for the “good of society.”
    There are many difficult questions on both sides of the aisle. But I’ve long pondered, if we care so much for those in the animal world, and carefully protect and preserve many other species from decimation, how much more precious is each and every human life – especially since we are made in the image of God? How can we destroy human life through abortion, i.e. murder in utero, simply because the pregnancy doesn’t fit our plans or the pre-born baby is “defective”? Do we expect abortion because some pre-born infants are imperfect, and will become a supposed burden to society? Do we justify abortion because some parents are unprepared to care for their children, abuse them, or kill them?
    Even in our imperfect society, there is a viable alternative – adoption. However, with more stringent laws passed to prevent human trafficking, adoption has become an increasingly difficult option.
    Anyone who has miscarried an unborn child understands the pain of loss. I miscarried our first little girl, Heather, at six months, with autopsy showing twins who did not separate properly, followed by a second miscarriage a year later. My cousin, Randy, intellectually challenged, grew up a kind and loving young man thanks to the love of his widowed mother. Despite his disabilities, he knew everything there was to know about his baseball team and the players!
    My step-sister’s son, Cory, was born with DeGeorge syndrome due to a missing part of chromosome 22. Also having apraxia (an inability to perform certain purposeful actions due to brain damage) and diabetes, he developed cirrhosis a year before passing away Easter Sunday 2015. Like many with disabilities, Cory had an infectious joy for life and an unconditional love for everyone he came in contact with, thanks to his mother, Janet.
    Life is sacred, and each pre-born child is a unique gift from God just waiting for us to open our arms and heart to this new little life.

    As David wrote in Psalm 139:13-16: “…you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”
    What If…
    by Linda A. Roorda
    What if…
    There was no God?
    Would we know how to love
    Or, would hate rule our lives?
    Would we each decide
    What rules to live by
    Changing like the wind
    As our wants wrest control?
    ~
    Would we violate
    The sanctity of life
    Simply because
    Life would not matter
    Except for the worth
    We each determine
    How best we can serve
    Our selfish ambition?
    ~
    And yet, what if…
    Each life among us
    Was somehow meant
    To open the eyes
    Of our heart and soul
    To a higher purpose
    To show the value
    Inherent within
    No matter the wrapping?
    ~
    And what if…
    We move toward each other
    And then extend
    Our outstretched hands?
    Would that not show
    Great caring and love
    From within the depths
    Of a heart overflowing?
    ~
    For is that not like
    The hands of One
    Extended outward
    Nailed upon a beam
    To show us how
    We too should love
    And sacrifice self
    Our gift to each other?
    ~
    Because… what if…
    There is a God
    Who really cares
    And Who truly loves
    Each for who we are
    For His life was a gift
    That we would know
    Just how we should love?
    ~~
    Linda writes from her home in Spencer. 
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