Linda Roorda

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

Learning that last Sunday, 09/19/21, was Abuse Awareness Day in the Christian Reformed Church (in which both Ed and I grew up), I am sharing my blog which was posted to their website in 2017. There once was a man who appeared on the scene. Suave and debonair with confidence bold. Flattery oozed like syrup sweet. And despite her protests, he flattered yet more. After all, he said, she deserved the praise for she was worth it. Despite her protests, she absorbed the attention… until she understood his world of deceit. Abuse encompasses an array of distorted behaviors and abuses within friendships and marriages, destroying God’s gifts. Lacking respect, those with self-centered narcissistic and/or predatory traits have a need for power and control over others. They are confident and prideful. Their goal is to exploit, crossing boundary lines with intimidation to prove their superiority, having a need to diminish the worth of others to feel good about themselves. They claim repeated mocking put-downs are jokes. If you attempt to break the cycle, they contend you can’t take a joke, are too emotional, and too sensitive. “Like a maniac shooting flaming arrows of death is one who deceives their neighbor and says, ‘I was only joking!’” (Proverbs 26:18-19 NIV) With callous disregard, they lie when faced with truth. They may abuse emotionally, verbally or physically. Their story changes to suit confrontation as they feign innocence, create confusion, and claim they don’t understand what you’re talking about. In attempts to hold them accountable, they skillfully play the innocent hurting victim, project blame onto the true victim, and will not take personal responsibility for their own issues. They don’t feel a need to apologize, claiming they did nothing wrong – evidence of a hardened heart. Predatory grooming, done in specific stages, is universal against children, teens and adults to control with a perverted form of trust to the perpetrator’s benefit. After targeting someone perceived as vulnerable, they reel in an unsuspecting heart with the flattery of false love. Keying in on filling an emotional need, they try to isolate their victim in secrecy from those who would realize what’s happening divide-and-conquer technique). Innocuous sexual advances are made which gradually become bolder until the abuser thinks control can be maintained to score the ultimate goal. Grooming also manipulates the victim’s responses to garner increased affection. If you desire to please others, you’ll meet their needs. In time, you will be manipulated into doing more of their bidding. They’ll make excuses and manipulatively use Scripture so you’ll accept their abuse, thwarting your protests. When they think they’ve got you under control, emotional destruction begins. You are despised for having qualities of love and joy which they cannot feel, necessitating an endless pursuit of new victims to manipulate in order to fill their heart’s void. If you back away from their chaos, they may use threats, turn angry or violent, quickly revert back to a loving persona to throw you off balance, and resort to stalking behavior. Unless they show and express true sorrow and repentance for their behavior with evidence of genuine change, walk away from their abuse… and stay away. For we read, “There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers.” (Proverbs 6:16-19 ESV) The opposite of such discord is a love which embodies all that is good. “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (I Corinthians 13:4-7 ESV) As we speak with such love, we encourage each other. “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.” (Ephesians 4:29-32 ESV) Typically, those who trust others have a heart of empathy, are naively innocent (without “street smarts”), and are more easily taken advantage of. Predators know this and zero in on their target like a hunter on its prey. To realize that someone would target you for their advantage is to feel a range of emotions from guilt and shame for having been used, to anger at another’s attempts to destroy you. Genuine love is not in the abuser’s heart despite claims to the contrary. With evil intent, you are used for their benefit - a lack of respect for your worth. When that is recognized, you are on your way to recovery and healing. I know… I was a victim. Sadly, several times because I simply forgave and moved forward, trying to make the relationships work. Not until after I had walked away from them and no longer allowed any contact, did the abuse end. Yet, out of the experience came wisdom from God. Mutual friends who have never fallen under the blinding spell of narcissistic and/or predatory deception, nor suffered attacks of retaliation, do not see the abuse. They see only the passive mask, the public face of supposed innocent humility, and often excuse and enable abusers. After all, they’re so kind and loving, so good to everyone – until, behind the scenes, you cross them, buck their mistreatment, and begin to confront their wrongs with truth privately or publicly. Yes, these types of abuses are found within the church, the perfect cover with our Christ-like love for, and generous forgiveness of, one another. As the body of Christ, we should listen, believe, respect, and support the victim who dares step forward. The abuser only recovers when the façade of innocence is removed by admission of wrong, repentance, and proves the desire for a changed heart. To the youngster or adult being swayed by abusive pressure or bullying - hold tight to your convictions, ideals and honor. Don’t allow anyone to take these from you. Respect yourself enough to say “No” and walk away – whether it be “No” to drugs, “No” to someone wanting to take away your innocence, “No” to emotional or physical abuse, or “No” to sexting, sexual abuse, or sex trafficking. Walk away and seek advice from a trusted, qualified professional to help you stand firm against such unwanted pressure. Respect yourself as a child of God. Don’t be taken down. Taken Down Linda A. Roorda She was taken down the garden path And showered with seduction’s prose, Sweet words of praise and silken flattery That touched her heart to follow his goals. She trusted him and his glowing words Though his zest for life held deceitful charm, As her heart of love for all in her world Was purposely swept by grooming words smooth. How easily swayed is a trusting soul Who believes and thinks the best of her friends, Yet who is misled by the foxy wiles Of one who claims humility’s garb. Why the conquest instead of friendship? Why the seeking to own gentle hearts? Why the pleasure in taking away That which is not yours to alone enjoy? How can you claim a God-honoring life As you betray a friend’s trusting heart? Such evil flays the inner soul And leaves a wound not easily healed. But comes reality when the truth sets in And she regains boundaries once lost As true emotions with selfless empathy Emerge once again to prove her value. For in disrespect concealed by flattery Lies the evil of a planned defeat. He cannot abide reality of love, And must destroy the one with a heart. As she unravels the disillusions And begins to heal her eyes are opened. Emotional depths of her heart and soul Are restored in full, her peace made complete. ~~

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

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

I'm so very sorry, Ann. How difficult and painful a loss for you all. Please know that my thoughts and prayers are with you all.

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

Oh Ann! I am so very sorry to hear this. How difficult this must be for you and everyone in your family. You've now lost two sisters. My heart goes out to all of you as I keep you in my thoughts and prayers during this very sad time. Sending my condolences for this tragic loss to your entire family, with hugs.....

Thank you so much Ann! I love your kitchen table image too! Supper time with our kids was time we could share our day with each other; it helps glue you together - love those memories 🙂

I am so thankful for family and friends who were able to attend my mother’s graveside memorial service yesterday. I had selected a pastor for the service; but, as it turned out, he was not feeling well enough to attend. Yet in God’s wisdom and plan, the funeral director asked me to give Mom’s eulogy since I knew her best. And though I forgot some important parts I’d wanted to share, it became a much more memorable and special service to me, and to all who attended from comments shared. So, I’d like to share a poem and reflection written several years ago which I closed with yesterday, but which is fitting for each one of us with losses of family and friends. For us since the end of May, it’s been the loss of several close friends, a sister-in-law, several cousins, and now my mother. For losses you have suffered, may you feel God’s comforting presence with peace in your heart… for the love you once shared will live on forever in your heart and in treasured memories. It seems that at every holiday and family event there’s an empty chair. We all have one... or more. It’s where our special loved one(s) always sat. Actually, we can still visualize them sitting there, sharing our love and laughter. But, it’s all just a memory now... sometimes hazier than we’d like. Memories are good from this perspective, even if tinged with a bit of sadness. There are memories of fun and happy times... of laughter at the world’s best jokes told only the way they could… and countless days of childhood fun – before technology spoiled the best in our games of imagination. Memories of when our children were infants… as we moms nursed our precious babies, rocking them to sleep… And yes, memories of tears shed… as dads cuddled their little one crying from hurts - physical or emotional. If only that old rocker in the corner could talk… all the stories it would share! It also seems that many of our memories of days long ago are laced with the beauty and simplicity we now miss in the busy rush of life. So, sit quietly in the empty chair, and take time to think about all that once was when our special loved one was here among us… and remember their beautiful life. The Empty Chair Linda A. Roorda The empty chair that quietly waits Once held a life in arms of love A life of joy and busy fun But now stands mute in days of silence. The one who sat upon its wood Once held a wee and precious babe To gently rock away the tears And soothe aside the anxious fears. The empty chair has heard it all From shaking sobs to rolling laughs And then it listened once again To all the stories read aloud. The empty chair in silent years Will keep its secrets evermore Of dreams and hopes and plans and sighs Of each who sat upon its lap. The empty chair has heard the pleas In earnest prayers of burdened hearts Like gentle sighs to God above For Him to guide those it once held. The empty chair now brings to mind The love of those who graced our lives Who’ve left behind sweet memories Tenderly held forever in love. ~~ 08/19/13

Thank you so much Chris! She did have quite a full life... among that great generation!!

Today, I’m celebrating the gift of my mother. When I pulled this together, she was still with us, though terminal. Sadly, she passed away late Monday night, August 23, a month before turning 88. Through her hospitalization and return to the nursing home, I was once again reminded how thankful to be for each new day. Growing up, we kids heard very little about my Mom’s growing up, though I loved visiting my relatives on The Farm, sleeping in the big feather bed with feather blankets and pillows, admiring all the antiques, waking up to the clinking milk cans put on the truck to go to the creamery, walking through the barn and fields with cousins Sandy and Gary, seeing the opening to a ground cave whose waters came out in Cobleskill, eating my first bowl ever of Life cereal at their huge table, the large kitchen with floor to ceiling cabinets from one end to the other along one wall, and playing inside the big farmhouse where once upon a time my mom and her siblings slid down the long railing on the stairs. This was a place I loved, of which I carry my own special memories. Enjoy this look back to my mother’s childhood, the "good ol' days", a time and place that emanates with images of “home.” My mother, Reba (Tillapaugh) Visscher was born and raised on a farm in Carlisle, NY at the corner of Cemetery Road and Rt. 20, the Great Western Turnpike. Her parents were Leo and Laura (McNeill) Tillapaugh. As #11 of 12 kids, she grew up on a large dairy farm which included pigs and about 3000 chickens, and the ubiquitous draft horses for field work. They did okay during the depression because their farm and large garden provided food for the family. Her parents drilled a well for running water after they’d been married about 20 years and had 10 kids. Though they had an old pump to bring water up in the well, I cannot imagine the work of running a home and farm, and a large family, without running water! Grandma T. cooked large meals every day, made delicious homemade bread in her old-fashioned woodstove oven, made scrumptious cookies (I fondly remember her big tin of molasses cookies in the huge pantry from which she let us get our own cookies, after we asked her of course!), homemade ice cream, plus fed traveling crews at harvest time. She also found time to tat and embroider, raise a vegetable garden to can for winter, grew gorgeous flowers, visited the sick and shut-ins, and more. My mom remembers that the winters were much worse than they are today - “It seems like it got cold earlier in the fall than now. We would pick drop apples in the fall and have cider made. My mother kept a 20-gal. crock by the back door of the farmhouse. I remember coming home after school and running to that crock, breaking the ice, and drinking some of that tasty cider! My favorite black farm cat, Skippy, had 7 toes on his front feet; he’d stand on his hind feet, reach up and turn doorknobs with his front paws!! I attended the one-room schoolhouse, William Golding, which used a dry cell system for power like my dad did before electric was put in, and the school had an outhouse. My favorite teacher in the one-room schoolhouse was Miss Santora who went skiing in the fields with us kids! We had a big woodstove in the center of the schoolhouse, and when it was very cold we would sit around it to keep warm. I remember the temperature was -25 degrees one morning, but my father was not able to convince the principal to close school that day. Somehow, we got there, but then it closed at noon. My sister and I tried to walk home but it was hard to breathe in the bitter cold and wind, so we called my father to pick us up at the Brand Restaurant opposite the school. It was normal to get 2 feet of snow in storms or blizzards. The wind was so bad in big snowstorms you didn’t know which way you were going. I’m told that in the Oswego area, people tied a rope around their waist to keep from being lost. We didn’t think of that, but we always made it. My father had a big wooden scoop pulled by the horses to clear snow out of the driveway. In 1943, my father bought a Massey-Harris tractor; later he had the steel lug wheels changed to rubber tires, and a plow was rigged on that tractor. We had an ice storm, I believe in February 1943, and light poles snapped like toothpicks. The town had an old Lynn Tractor and it was used to plow town roads; for state roads, they had big motorized trucks. I don’t know what they did to clear the roads before tractors and trucks were available, but I assume horses were used. I think it was in 1945 or 1947 when the snow came and the wind blew for three weeks, and we were out of school all that time! Drifts were so high and hard we could walk the horses on top. The workers broke all the snowplows in town, but the county had a snow blower which was used to open all the roads. I heard they had to keep the blower between the light pole wires as they could not tell where the road was. I don’t know how my dad and other farmers got their milk to the creamery then, but, again, I assume they used horses. Rt. 20 was the first to be kept open in snowstorms. My parents often put people up overnight when the road conditions became terrible. Before Rt. 20 was widened about 1941, the road was very slippery when raining and was icy in winter. One time a Greyhound bus went off the road and into the field off Rt. 20, south of our house. They used a bulldozer to pull it out of the field. A state trooper would ride a big Harley during the summer. When he arrested someone, my dad, as justice of the peace, would hold court downstairs; we would be in the room above the dining room, listening through a stovepipe hole! We had about 3000 chickens in a building west of the main house and we kids helped to water and feed them. The eggs were weighed, cleaned and crated by hand on Sunday night, and sometimes as many as 7 large crates of eggs went to the hatchery in Albany every Monday morning. My mother candled hundreds and hundreds of eggs to ensure a quality product was in those crates. We took milk to the creamery every day in traditional milk cans, and supplied wood to heat not only our house but the church and one-room school. We raised several pigs with my father holding a neighborhood butchering day on our farm in the fall. After the butchering was done, he cut up meat for the smokehouse, put some in crocks of salt brine, and made homemade sausage, etc. As gangs of local farmers traveled from farm to farm to help each other at harvest, my mother fed the crews when our farm was harvested. She had all her recipes tucked away in her head, and made the most delicious ice cream, hand cranked by us kids clamoring for a turn! She even shared beautiful flowers from her gardens with local shut-ins. About 1938 or 1939, Admiral Byrd’s snowmobile, the Snow Cruiser, was run up Rt. 20 on its way to Antarctica. As a child, age 5 or 6, I was afraid to go inside when it stopped near our farm on Rt.20. The rubber tires were not appropriate for use in the severe cold, and it was abandoned in Antarctica. There was an article and photo about it in the July/August 1996 “Reminisce” magazine, pp. 39-40. My family made our own maple syrup and sold some, and still do that now, nephews still farming the original family homestead from the very early 1800s. Even the original house is still used! Back when I was little, my brothers would tap 300 maple trees (which grew to hundreds more over several decades, now limited numbers again) for sap to be boiled down to syrup, so sugar rationing during World War II was not a problem for us. We trudged through deep snow in the woods each spring to help. My brothers also cut ice off the ponds in the winter, stacking and packing it in sawdust in the icehouse on the back side of the barn. Ice was cut from farm to farm the same way summer crops were harvested - by harvesting bees of many farmers working together. It doesn’t seem like ponds freeze over long enough or thick enough to do this now. That ice sure helped make my mother’s delicious ice cream – I think hers was the best at the ice cream socials!" My Mom shared that growing up in the Great Depression you had to make your own fun. She and a few sibs took their Little Red Wagon out by the road to pick up the grass mown by the highway dept. They’d pile the wagon high, and pull it back to the barn. Mind you, this was in the days of real horsepower. So, imitating how their dad and older brothers put hay up into the mow with the huge hayforks on rope pulleys with the horses doing the work (as my mother, and other young sibs, walked the horses back and forth repeatedly), she and her sibs took ice tongs and smaller ropes, slinging the rope up over and above the cow stanchions. With kids on each side, the ice tongs held bits of hay as the kids on the other side lugged on the rope to pull the hay up and over, and down into the feeding trough for the cows! Now that’s imagination! Reminds me how I used to milk cows when I was 4-5. In the barn with my dad as he milked in Marion, NY, I stood on a bale of hay, moving an old teakettle along on the road-side wall ledge, and stop to “milk a cow” every few inches! There are so many memories my mother has shared of her family who she treasured. She greatly appreciated my extensive genealogy research and documentation of every line in her ancestry back to the 1630s New Netherlands Dutch, English, and French, the 1710 German/Swiss Palatines (Tillapaugh came from the Swiss Dallenbach, each of her parents descending from two brothers in one particular German line), 1720ish New England Scots-Irish. She was proud my work was accepted for publication in three research delineation articles on her Hutton and McNeill ancestry in the New York Genealogical and Biographical Record. My mother's father was a jack-of-all trades, not just a farmer, but a man before his time, passing away too young, when she was only 16. I learned from my Mom that it was from him I had inherited green eyes. He built a top-quality registered Holstein herd with Canadian Holstein-Friesian bulls before most other farmers. I remember seeing bulls as a kid in their pens as I peered between cracks in their wooden stalls. Besides a dairy herd and chickens, he raised pigs, and sold extra hay. He took community responsibility seriously as Carlisle town highway superintendent, Carlisle school superintendent, Justice of the Peace, and Cobleskill school board member and president. A highly respected man of the community was my Grandpa Leo, as well as Grandma Laura. Photo Credit: Professional photo taken in 1910 of Hutton Family Reunion, Cemetery Road, Carlisle, NY, original farmhouse built in early 1800s, where my Tillapaugh cousins continue to farm today.

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

Thank you, Hal. You said it very well in understanding, as we all struggle in so many different ways. I truly believe God gives me words to write, and I always pray they will be used to touch someone's heart. So I will give God the praise for using those words for each of you who needed to read them. Love to all my friends here on TTL!

Thank you very much, Mahatma! Thank you...

Knowing someone we love is facing the journey to her heavenly home soon, and thinking of those who have recently lost their loved ones, I wanted to share this poem and reflective thoughts today. Sometimes… the pain that life hands out is just too much to bear. You’ve lost a dear loved one, perhaps a beloved pet, or an awesome job which was an extension of yourself, maybe you live with chronic illness, or perhaps an incurable disease… And in those difficult times, isn’t it a wonderful feeling to have someone who truly cares come alongside you… someone willing to listen to your heart, to help ease the grief, to share your tears, to speak a few words of wisdom, to help you deal with a particular hurdle, or just to be there to hold your hand while sitting quietly with you? This poem was written several years ago as we continued to face my husband’s chronic illnesses. It all began in the fall of 2008 with statin drug muscle damage and rhabdomyolysis (excretion of blood from muscles), polymyalgia rheumatica, and constant dizziness - with numerous diagnoses (comorbidities) added to the list since then with multiple hospitalizations, and near-death situations too many times. This is a new way of life for both of us... certainly not the life we dreamed of when we got married. Gone are the easier and somewhat carefree days. Gone is the freedom for Ed do what he enjoyed doing, like stacking his own firewood, being able to take care of our yard and other household chores with ease, or going for evening walks up the road… all the things we used to take for granted. No longer are we able to travel as a couple beyond doctor appointments, or enjoy an evening out to dinner. We enjoyed going to Cooperstown, New York for our 20th anniversary and later with our kids – to the Baseball Hall of Fame and The Farmers’ Museum. We’d hoped to take a dinner cruise on the Erie Canal some day. We long to just get in the car and go visit our children and their families; but, sitting in the car, even for doctor appointments, takes a toll on Ed with increased pain, stiffness, and a generalized sick feeling. So much of what the rest of us can do and take for granted takes great effort on his part due to various limitations. Yet, we both know very well we are not alone in this journey. You, too, are likely facing your own difficult struggles… and our hearts and prayers go out to each and every one of you. For God never promised that this journey called life would be easy just because we put our faith in Him… and may we know He is still in control no matter the circumstances. A few verses come to mind that we cling to during the hard days and which give us a sense of peace (all Scripture from the New International Version): 1) “But he said to me [the Apostle Paul], ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9 2) “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him…” Romans 8:28 3) “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10 4) For “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16.33 In your most difficult times, may you feel the comforting presence of loved ones helping to ease your pain, just as you feel the presence of our Lord wrapping His arms around you in love… as He covers each one of us with His peace amidst the turmoil… Sometimes… Linda A. Roorda Sometimes… The hurt just cuts too deep As you watch your loved one Face endless days of pain. Sometimes… You feel abandoned When prayers seem unanswered As waves of despair set in. Sometimes… You stand alone along the side Holding their hand in love Helpless to assuage the hurt. Sometimes… Tears that flow from out the soul Tenderly touch the heart When words cannot even convey. Sometimes… A hand that reaches out To hold, to steady, to calm Brings precious comfort to the weary. Sometimes… The voice of wisdom Gently whispers in your ear As the love of God gently enfolds. Sometimes… To understand the trial Is simply to accept God’s hand is still in control. ~~ 09/09/15 ~~

Thank you so much, Ann. I understand what you're saying and appreciate that I'm not alone, Ann. We have so much "noise" around us and in our head with daily life, I am not as focused or attentive as I should be either. And I agree with you!! I've said too that you'd think I'd learn the lesson and be more receptive to God's voice all the time. It's an ongoing life-long learning process 🙂 Be blessed, Ann!

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

Thank you very much, Mahatma! I really appreciate your kind words 🙂

If I give all but haven’t got love… then what good is my all that I have given… for what good is the giving without the right intentions? The biblical love chapter, I Corinthians 13, says it so well. We can’t perfect on those great words. But I do enjoy putting my own words to the intent of Scripture… that exercise helps me contemplate the deeper meaning and truth within God’s Holy Word. And if a poem emerges for us to enjoy, then praise goes to the Lord for helping me find the right words. I once saw a poster with the words, “Love isn’t love until you give it away.” I focused on those words and their meaning. They burned a path into my thoughts, and became forever embedded… for they were the words that saw me through labor the afternoon that my second daughter, Emily, was born… and I gave my love away to a beautiful precious little girl. Love is a meaningless word unless there is meaning behind the word love. On giving even the least of gifts, if it comes from the heart, the depth of caring is felt and treasured by the receiver. With faith and hope, we cherish each other from a heart of true love… it’s simply unmistakable. But it can also be said that the opposite of love is a rude and self-serving attitude. Yet, even in this, love can break through. Though accountability may be necessary to explain and denote the wrongs that were committed, when genuine repentance meets true love and forgiveness they walk hand in hand, and the wrongs are forgotten. How like the grace-filled love we receive from our Lord! When we confess and repent our wrongs, He showers us with His all… as mercy and grace flow over us with overwhelming love and forgiveness. If I give all with love, how I give will reveal the depth of love in my heart… If I Give All Linda A. Roorda (based on I Corinthians 13) If I give all but haven’t got love Where is my heart when the poor I aid, For without love nothing will I gain When glory I seek in praises of men. And if I speak in language diverse Expounding on life and the meaning thereof, And should I teach, mysteries to explain But don’t have love, how foolish the sage. For love is clothed in virtues of truth Is patiently kind without envy’s greed With modesty’s joy and humility’s garb Courteous to all, a generous heart. An evil heart is not my delight In truth alone does wisdom rejoice For love that trusts and always protects Will always hope and always persevere. I once was a child in actions and words But as I matured, reason spoke wisdom As I left behind my childish ways To reveal in part imperfections laid bare. For if I give all with a heart of joy Integrity’s voice will lead the way As faith, hope and love remain resolute Convincing the world the greatest is love. ~~ 2015

The tapestry of life… a montage of all that once was to all we’ve become and soon will be, all which occupies our life and dreams, and all which defines who we are in the depth of our heart. Wouldn’t it be neat to see a tapestry of scenes from your life… like the movie we see in our mind’s eye as we reflect back over the years? And from all those experiences in which we learned and grew emotionally and spiritually, what a journey it would tell! I’d like to think my tapestry would show a woman who has grown wiser over the years… for I am well aware of my youthful immaturity and inherent failings. But, woven throughout would also be the golden threads of friends, mentors and teachers who came alongside and taught me with loving encouragement. Having made small embroideries, larger crewel embroidered scenes, counted cross-stitch projects, and many quilts over the years, the fronts display their beauty. The back, however, can be a different story. Hidden from view are threads that meander in a wayward fashion to the next section, or even hide mistakes – rather like my life! But I also believe that the ups and downs and errors of life which those threads represent have all happened for a reason. As one of my favorite authors, Corrie ten Boom, once wrote, “Although the threads of my life have often seemed knotted, I know, by faith, that on the other side of the embroidery… there is a Crown." (Corrie ten Boom, 1974. “Tramp for the Lord: The Story that Begins Where The Hiding Place Ends”, p.12, CLC Publications) It’s so reassuring to know that our life experiences have an intended meaning and purpose… that we might gain a wisdom we could not have learned otherwise. Nothing can beat the exciting happy times we all enjoy! But, it’s especially in understanding the depths of pain and sadness through losses suffered or mistakes made that we grow wiser as God guides us through our difficulties. How often we find that from those life experiences the Lord positions us to come alongside someone else who might be struggling and in need of an emotional lift. For we, too, have tucked away memories of treasured friends who traveled beside us when we were in need. Though we may not think of it that way, they are, indeed, the gems of our life… just as we are for others. And thank you for being a gem in my life! With these thoughts, I was reminded that “...in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28, NIV) Through our patchwork experiences, we bring our worship of “praise…to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” (II Corinthians 1:3-4, NIV) What a cherished thought to know that whatever we go through, God will work it out for our good, our benefit, when our trust is placed in Him. From the blessings He gives to the difficulties He allows to come our way, may we grow in wisdom and, in turn, be used by our Lord to bless others as life’s gems! Life’s tapestry… that which God has woven as His masterpiece of our life… a testimony to those around us… a visual reminder of how great His love is for each one of us, tarnished and faded though we may be. We really do have a purpose in this world… in living for and serving our Lord and others with joy in our heart! Life’s Tapestry Gems Linda A. Roorda Woven within the tapestry of life Are threads of gold among the diverse. These colorful scenes, a journey of years Depict a life in memories treasured. ~ Memories like dreams elusive and wary Some haunting echoes, some images clear Some melancholy, some bursting with joy Of all which dwells within my soul. ~ This soul You knew from before my birth For You’ve called me Yours since time began. You wove the threads in skillful pattern Of who I was to who I am now. ~ For I am unique, a special design The only version which You created. And all of my life with its joys and tears Helped weave the me who I have become. ~ These memories dear like gentle footprints Bring quiet joy within my heart To recall a world of growing wiser With scenes that flood the gates of my soul. ~ As memories transport through all that once was And draw me in to contemplate Emotions run strong and images lie deep From another time and another place. ~ Memories thus treasured and savored anew Serve their purpose in visions tempered By value and worth from sadness and joy To understand life as it now presents. ~~ Refining the love within my heart Of those who walk among the threads In vivid hues of brightly lit scenes To bring a warmth and smile in my heart. ~ For the King of Light has woven my life In mosaic rich and design unique Of a life well lived through blessing and trial In treasured scenes on tapestry rare. ~ Thus memories and dreams, threads of a lifetime Have woven the fabric of this my life While you, my friends and dearest loved ones Are interwoven as tapestry gems. ~~ 2014

We've eaten there several times in the past - love their food too!

Are we contented yet? It’s just an accumulation of trinkets and stuff, an assemblage that needs to be fed every so often. I should know, because I have my own collections from the past. But, in the long run, none of it will go with us when life’s earthly journey comes to an end. We should be content with what we have and who we are… not seeking to satisfy our appetite with more of everything life has to offer. Be at peace, rest in who we are meant to be… don’t compare or judge ourselves to others. In contemplating that accumulation, I’m reminded of a song by the rock group U2 from their Joshua Tree album – “But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…” A fitting comment to an endless search for just the right thing. Theodore Roosevelt was even noted to say, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” How truthful and fitting both sentiments are for all of us at times! So, what is contentment? How do we find it? And when is enough… enough? The dictionary on my desk tells me contentment is where the heart is at… perhaps rested and satisfied, at peace, with a quiet and calm joy. Contentment is an attitude of the heart… being thankful and grateful for what we do have, serving others out of a joyful appreciation. Because, believe me, contentment is not found in eyeing what someone else has… of being jealous or envious of what’s on their plate… as if we didn’t have enough to take care of on our own. In Philippians 4:11, the Apostle Paul wrote “…for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.” Hmm… so how could he say that with all the many difficulties he faced? There’s an old hymn I’ve loved since childhood, coming to treasure the words even more after our daughter, Jennifer, died. Horatio G. Spafford wrote a poem put to music after he and his wife lost their 2-year-old son, their property in the 1871 Great Chicago fire, suffered further economic losses in 1873, and then lost their remaining four daughters at sea - “When peace like a river, attendeth my way. When sorrows like sea billows roll. Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul…” …well-known words of comfort. Having three more children, losing a second son at age 4 in 1880, he resettled in Jerusalem with his wife and remaining two daughters. There, he founded the American Colony, a Christian group providing humanitarian relief to the disadvantaged of any faith. He’d learned the secret to contentment. The Apostle Paul, writing to a dear young friend, stated in I Timothy 6:6-7: “But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it.” Don’t get me wrong… it’s not about denying ourselves the ability to succeed in our careers or home life and to have nice things. Instead, it’s all about the depth of our heart, our faith, our attitude… the intangibles… the spiritual treasures. Life really isn’t about gathering as much stuff as we can hoard for ourselves. Life was never meant to be like that old saying attributed to Malcolm Forbes, “He who dies with the most toys wins.” It’s not about God ensuring that we have a wealthy and happy life. It’s not His plan to make us “rich and famous” in a life of ease without pain. Instead, contentment is a learning process… learning to be who God intends us to be… learning to be gracious and loving when our life is full of pain, disappointments, illness and setbacks. And, in learning to give thanks and appreciate what we do have, we find ourselves gladly serving others around us with a heart of joy and peace… as contentment flows from our soul. Contentment Flows Linda A. Roorda Contentment flows from the soul at peace Not easily grasped though deeply pondered How quick am I to follow my will While yielding to trust finds Your truth with grace… ~ Grace to understand blessings of mercy In wending my way through waves of turmoil Seeking shelter from storms that threaten As Your calming spirit brings showers of peace… ~ Peace that envelopes my very being From the depth of stress that oft overwhelms Which tugs and strains the restful repose To humility meek with a heart of joy… ~ Joy that shines bright in the face of woe Amidst the sadness of sorrow’s dark tears As rays of hope through shutters burst forth To flood my soul with serenity’s rest… ~ Serenity’s rest within the world’s din Marks peace of mind when focused on You Grant me, I pray, a heart full of love One filled with thanks as contentment flows… ~~

It’s a fact that we Americans love our 4th of July celebrations! We especially enjoy family gatherings and picnics, and big parades with lots of floats and marching bands. We look forward to fireworks with their beautiful colors and designs exploding in the night sky. We decorate our homes with flags and bunting. We salute, or respectfully place our hand over our heart, as our nation’s flag is carried past us by military veterans in parades. And, we recall the two important founding documents of our nation: 1) Preamble to the Declaration of Independence: “…We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…” 2) Preamble to the U.S. Constitution: “We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America…” What precious meaning these words have held as we take time to gaze backward to their origins, something I never tire learning about. As I contemplated our nation’s celebrations, I thought about the effort and sacrifice it took from many to give us the freedoms we so often take for granted. I am so thankful for all we have in America which many around the world do not enjoy. But I also wondered if perhaps we have forgotten all that took place a long time ago, and if this day has simply become a traditional fun holiday. Though no nation or government has been perfect as far back as the beginning of time, the early days of a young nation’s beginnings provide perspective for today’s America, this bastion of freedom. So, it’s fitting that we ponder what part our ancestors played in the making of our great America some 240 years ago. And, I might add, one of the best parts of researching my ancestors was the great lasting friendships I’ve made with other descendants. Several of my ancestors served in the Revolutionary War in various capacities, some of whom I researched more extensively than others. Originally, I did not plan to bring them into this article. But then it occurred to me that would be fitting. Knowledge of personal service and sacrifice often provides us with a greater understanding of the historical era and what our collective ancestors experienced. Numerous events, political acts, and taxes over many years led to the First Continental Congress meeting from September 5 through October 2, 1774 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It was held to counteract the British Parliament’s Coercive Acts (commonly called the Intolerable Acts by the colonists) which were intended to punish the colonists for their Tea Party held in Boston’s harbor. But, among the early precipitators of the American Revolution was the import ban in 1774 against firearms and gunpowder enacted by the British government. Next came the order to confiscate all guns and gunpowder. The aptly named “Powder Alarm” took place on September 1, 1774 when Redcoats sailed up the Mystic River to capture hundreds of powder barrels stored in Charlestown. Taking the event seriously, 20,000 militiamen turned out and marched to Boston. Battle was avoided at that time, but ultimately took place the following spring at Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1775. Within these events lie the foundation of our Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution as written by Thomas Jefferson in 1791: “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” The Second Continental Congress began meeting in Philadelphia on May 10, 1775. That very same day, Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys seized New York’s Fort Ticonderoga from the British after traveling west from Vermont. On June 14, 1775, delegates from the Second Continental Congress created the Continental Army from colonial militia near Boston. The next day, they appointed an esteemed and experienced military and civic leader as commanding general of their new army, a humble man by the name of George Washington, congressman of Virginia. Nearly a month later, Washington arrived in Boston to take command on July 3rd. The Continental Congress then approved a Declaration of Causes on July 6th. This proclamation outlined why the thirteen colonies should stand united against Great Britain’s political clout and military force. Through these early years, and with pressing urgency, the great minds of the day began formulating a bold statement of the burdens the colonists bore from an overbearing government an ocean away. Initially, the colonists were not looking to start a war; they simply wanted their concerns heard and addressed. But, revolt would be a relevant term regarding that which was festering. They felt the heavy hand of tyranny over them like a smothering umbrella with their king and his government’s over-reaching philosophy of “taxation without representation.” It did not take much for congressional delegates to think back and recall the Boston Massacre of March 5, 1770. Several colonials had taunted the ever-present British soldiers. Reinforcement soldiers shot into the crowd killing five civilians, injuring six others. Three years later, the Tea Act in May 1773 was followed by the Boston Tea Party on December 16th. The year 1775 began with several new tax acts put in place; labeled collectively as the Intolerable Acts, they were Britain’s answer to their colonists’ unrest. And then an auspicious delegation met in Virginia on March 23, 1775. Those present never forgot Patrick Henry’s speech and resounding words, “Give me liberty or give me death!” Paul Revere’s midnight ride came the night of April 18/19, 1775 to warn of British ships arriving at Boston’s shores. [From the interstate, I have seen Boston’s diminutive North Church tucked beneath the shadows of modern “skyscrapers,” and walked the upper and lower decks of the U.S.S. Constitution from the subsequent War of 1812 – with a sailor in period dress uniform talking on a telephone!] Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “Paul Revere’s Ride” (“Listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…”) has been said to contain many inaccuracies; in reality, it was written 80 years after Revere rode out with several others on horseback, quietly alerting other Patriots, but it may also be that Longfellow simply wrote a flowing ode to Revere with embellishments as any poet is wont to do. The British government was again intent on confiscating all weapons held by the colonists. Bands of British troops were sent to confiscate ammunition stores in Salem, Massachusetts and part of New Hampshire. Both times, Paul Revere, a silversmith, was among members of the Sons of Liberty who alerted townsfolk in advance of enemy troops, giving them sufficient time to hide weapons and frustrate the British military. Desiring to alert citizens, Revere garnered assistance from Robert Newman, sexton at Boston’s North Church. To warn that the Redcoats were coming from the shorter water route across Boston’s inner harbor, Newman hung two lanterns from the steeple window. These lanterns were clearly seen by those in Charlestown, including the British, unfortunately. Newman must have felt tremendous fear as the Brits attempted to break into the church while he was still there. Reportedly, he managed to escape capture by quietly sneaking out a window near the altar moments before enemy soldiers entered the church to begin their search. And the very next day, April 19, 1775, the Minutemen and British redcoats clashed at Lexington and Concord with “the shot heard ‘round the world.’” Two months later, June 17, 1775 saw the Battle of Bunker Hill (actually Breed’s Hill) on the Charlestown Peninsula overlooking Boston. Per military records, my ancestor John Caldwell McNeill was present as part of the Hampshire Line. As British columns advanced toward American redoubts, the colonists were reportedly told by their commander, “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” The British were shot virtually pointblank and hastily retreated – twice. It was not until the third advance by the British that the inexperienced colonists lost to a superior military force. As the colonists’ limited ammunition ran out, hand-to-hand combat took place on that third advance. The redcoats took control with greater troop numbers despite their loss of over 1000 men, while the colonists counted over 200 killed and more than 800 wounded. Yet, the inexperienced Americans realized their dedication and determination could overcome the superior British military which, in turn, realized this little uprising was going to bring a long and costly war to the Crown. With pressure mounting, the congressional delegation met the next year in the City of Brotherly Love. Here, they commenced to hammering out wording for what would henceforth be termed a declaration of independence. “Monday, July 1, 1776, [was] a hot and steamy [day] in Philadelphia.” In a letter to the new president of Georgia, Archibald Bulloch, John Adams wrote, “This morning is assigned the greatest debate of all. A declaration, that these colonies are free and independent states… and this day or tomorrow is to determine its fate. May heaven prosper the newborn republic.” (John Adams, David McCullough, Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, New York, NY, 2001, p.125.) The delegates felt the tension amongst themselves in the debates and wording of their declaration, and the voting at the end of the day was not unanimous. Their tension was heightened that evening as news reached the city that one hundred British ships had been sighted off New York, with eventually more than 300 joining the initial fleet. The seriousness of what they were undertaking was felt by every man in the delegation for they knew their very lives were on the line. July 2nd saw an overcast day with cloudbursts letting loose as the delegates met. The New York delegates abstained from voting while others joined the majority to make a unanimous decision. Thus, on July 2, 1776, twelve colonies voted to declare independence from Britain. More than anyone else, John Adams made it happen. His elation showed in writing home about the proceedings to his wife, Abigail. “The second day of July 1776 will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more.” (McCullough, pp. 129-130) News spread like wildfire throughout Philadelphia. A young artist, Charles Willson Peale, journaled that “This day the Continental Congress declared the United Colonies Free and Independent States.” (McCullough, p.130) But, Congress still had to review what the delegation had written before an official statement could be made. July 3rd blessed the city with a drop of 10 degrees following cloudbursts the day before. Tensions had even begun to ease among the men, but still there was much work to be done. More discussion and deliberation ensued as they reviewed the language of their declaration. (McCullough, pp. 130-135) Much had to be cut and reworded to make it a more concise document which then boldly declared, “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America. When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.” Benjamin Franklin offered encouraging and comforting words to the now-silent Thomas Jefferson whose many words were debated and cut. When their work was finished, it was still Thomas Jefferson’s words, however, which have held a firm and tender spot in the hearts of Americans ever since. To Jefferson goes the credit for writing “…We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…” (McCullough, p.130-136) Thursday, July 4, 1776, dawned cool and comfortable. The tension was gone from the weather just as it was now from among the men of the delegation. Discussions were again held through late morning when a final vote was taken. New York still abstained, but the other twelve colonies voted unanimously to support the hard work they had wrought in this Declaration of Independence. Ultimately, the delegates from all thirteen colonies, including New York, signed the document in solidarity. (McCullough, p. 136) Celebrations began on the 8th when the published Declaration was read to the public. Thirteen cannon blasts reverberated throughout Philadelphia, bells rang day and night, bonfires were lit everywhere, and candles shone bright in windows. The news reached Washington and his troops in New York City the next day where the Declaration was read. More celebrations sprang up as the crowds pulled down the equestrian statue of King George III. (McCullough, p.136-137) But, their elation was not long in lasting. In reality, it would be several more years before celebrations of this magnitude would again be held. In reality, though the hard work of writing such a declaration was finally completed, even harder efforts and sacrifices of thousands of men and boys on battlefields were about to begin. In reality, the conflict about to begin would affect every man, woman and child living within the thirteen colonies in ways they could never have imagined. And, ultimately, their great sacrifices gave rise to the freedoms which we enjoy and tend to take for granted today. The lives of the men who signed this declaration were also forever affected. If the new America lost its war for independence, every signer of said document faced charges of treason and death by hanging for actions against their king. In signing, they gave “support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, [as] we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.” There were 56 representatives from all thirteen colonies who signed, ranging in age from 26 to 70 (the oldest being the esteemed Benjamin Franklin). Over half were lawyers, but the men included planters, merchants and shippers. Most of them were wealthy men who had much to lose should Britain win. Though none of them died at the hand of the enemy, four men were taken captive during the war by the British, with one-third of the signers being military officers during the war. And, nearly all of them were poorer when the war ended than when it began. There was much at stake in the days and years ahead after the Declaration of Independence was signed and the war began in earnest. Some men abandoned the battle lines, their friends, and what once seemed like worthy ideals, and simply walked home. Many suffered untold pain and suffering as prisoners of war. Many suffered deprivations of food and clothing along with disease and death within their own military camps. Many fought family and friends in the same community as Patriot was pitted against Tory, i.e. Loyalist. Schoharie County, New York, considered by historians to be “The Breadbasket of the Revolution,” provided an abundance of food for Washington’s northern troops. To frustrate the colonists’ efforts, the British and their Loyalist supporters, including many Native Americans, destroyed and burned crops and buildings as they captured, killed and scalped settlers throughout the Mohawk and Schoharie Valley and along the western frontier during the war. In reality, however, we likely would not have won our independence if it were not for Washington’s spies. Barely two months after the Declaration was signed, a 21-year-old Yale graduate by the name of Nathan Hale from Massachusetts eagerly volunteered to spy for Washington. He intended to go behind enemy lines on Long Island and in New York City to infiltrate the British strongholds. Instead, not being sufficiently familiar with the area and its people, and likely having a New England accent, he was caught and found to have sketches of fortifications and memos about troop placements on him. Without benefit of legal trial, he was sentenced to death. His requests for a clergyman and a Bible were refused. Just before being hung on September 22, 1776 in the area of 66th Street and Third Avenue in Manhattan, Hale was heard to say with dignity, “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.” (George Washington’s Secret Six, Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger, Penguin Group, New York, NY, 2013, p.1.) George Washington knew that he desperately needed spies, but he needed them to work in such a way that they would not be discovered. His tender heart for his fellow countrymen deplored that even one should die for the cause of freedom. Yet, he also knew that such loss was inevitable. And, thus was born Washington’s spies so aptly named, “The Secret Six.” Out of the realization that Gen. George Washington desperately needed spies, and hating to lose even one more life after the hanging of Nathan Hale, a ring of trustworthy spies was gradually pulled together. Washington’s “Secret Six” included five men and one woman embedded within and around New York City and Long Island, each familiar with the land and its people. They reported to Washington on British movements and military plans in a timely fashion. Because they knew the area, and were known by the people, they were readily accepted as they maneuvered amongst the enemy. That is not to say, however, that they didn’t come close to being found out. They lived in constant fear of such, not to mention the fear of losing their own lives and destroying their families in the process. At times they were emotionally frail, depressed and despondent. But, because of their passion for the freedom movement afoot, they came together for the greater benefit of all. At one point, Washington’s army was entirely surrounded by the British in New York City. With tips from his spies, and being a man given to much time and prayer with God, his troops managed to quietly evacuate the city under the cover of night at an area not under guard. With dawn, however, came the realization that a large contingent still remained behind and would be very visible to the enemy. An answer to prayer was soon forthcoming to allow the balance of his men and equipment to leave the city – an unexpected and extremely dense morning fog enveloped the area, allowing them to continue crossing safely over into Jersey with the British unable to do anything about the Continental Army’s escape from their clutches. Because of the work of Washington’s spies and the “important memos” he managed to have planted with false information behind enemy lines, the Americans were able to surprise the enemy at Trenton, New Jersey on Christmas Day night 1776 after the British had relaxed their guard and celebrated the day in style. Needless to say, the Americans enjoyed a vital and rousing victory. Because of the spies and their efforts, accomplished with great fear for their own lives and that of their families, warning was given to Washington of 400 ships arriving from England. The spies’ insider knowledge that the British were planning to attack and scuttle the French ships and troops coming to Washington’s aid allowed him to turn the tide in a timely manner. He was able to fool the British into thinking he was readying an imminent attack on New York City, causing them to leave Long Island Sound, thus allowing the French time to land and move inland to safety in Connecticut without battling the British at sea before they even disembarked. Because of the spy who owned a print shop which seemingly supported King George, important plans were heard and passed on to Washington. Other spies were privy to the upper level of command amongst the British military at parties in a particular merchandise shop and a certain coffeehouse. A circuitous route was set up for their messenger across Long Island to Setauket where packets with concealed or innocuous-looking papers written in invisible ink and code were rowed to the Connecticut shore in a whale boat (while being pursued by the British) where another member took the seemingly innocent packet of merchandise and rode his horse overland to Washington’s camp in New Jersey. At times, someone simply traveled out of New York City to visit relatives in northern New Jersey and met up with another dependable link to pass the information along to Washington’s headquarters. Because of their courage and resolve, the spies assisted in uncovering the Crown’s Major John Andre` (who, himself, ran a British spy ring) as he worked with Brigadier General Benedict Arnold, American commander at West Point. Despite a prior stellar military record, but due to personal bitterness, Arnold was in the process of handing West Point over to Andre` and the British. Through a series of blundering mistakes, because of the spies’ knowledge given to Washington at just the right moment, and because of the quick thinking of a couple of patriotic guards on a bridge leading back into New York City, Andre` was captured and later executed. Arnold’s hand-over was thus thwarted, although Arnold managed to escape behind enemy lines and ultimately fled to England. Because of the supposed loyal British support by the owner of said print shop, a little book was obtained through his work as an undercover spy. This inconspicuous little book contained key information on British troop movements at Yorktown, Virginia. With important knowledge gained of the enemy’s military plans, Washington was able to redirect appropriate troops and ships to Yorktown. General Cornwallis surrendered for the British on October 19, 1781 in an American victory where total defeat for the Americans would have otherwise taken place. Because they swore themselves to secrecy, no one knew the full involvement of all six spies, nor all of their names. Only gradually over the last few hundred years has their identities become known, the fifth not confirmed until recently. All five men are now known, but the woman’s identity is not; she is simply known as Agent 355. It is believed she was captured and became a prisoner; but, there is no hard evidence by research even to prove that conjecture. The efforts of the six spies as they secretly obtained information and passed it along (devising their own specialty codes, using a unique invisible ink, and more) enabled them to maintain total secrecy. Nor did they ever seek accolades for their work after the war was over. The secrets to their successful accomplishments have been among the methods still taught and used successfully by our CIA today. In the interest of sharing the spies’ courage which undoubtedly helped us win the Revolutionary War, their story (as briefly described above) has been extensively researched and written by Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger in George Washington’s Secret Six, The Spy Ring That Saved the American Revolution. It was one of my Christmas gifts from my husband a few years ago, and I highly recommend it to other history buffs. It’s a read you’ll find difficult to set down! While researching my ancestry over 20 years ago, I purchased Revolutionary War pension application files of several ancestors who had served. For those whose government files I did not purchase, their data was obtained from Schoharie County Historical Society, various Revolutionary War books, CDs, and documents proving their service. Hoping that my family research might provide us a closer glimpse of the war through their experiences, I share their legacy. 1) Frantz/Francis Becraft/Beacraft, bp. 06/12/1761, Claverack, Columbia Co., NY - Private, 3rd Comp., 3rd Regiment, 1st Rensselaerswyck Battalion, Albany County New York Militia, on muster roll from Berne in 1782, 1790 census at Berne. In an 1839 affidavit, Francis Becraft of Berne stated that he “served as a Private in a company commanded by Capt. Adam Dietz in the County of Albany...” Frantz/Francis married Catherine Dietz (sister of said Capt. Adam Dietz), my g-g-g-g-grandparents. In researching my ancestors, I discovered an apparent familial tie to the notorious Tory Becraft/Beacraft. This man felt no remorse in aligning himself with Joseph Brant’s Indians to capture, kill and scalp Patriots throughout Schoharie County, known to have brutally killed and scalped a young boy in the Vrooman family who managed to escape the house after his family had been murdered. After the war ended, Becraft/Beacraft had the audacity to return from Canada to Schoharie County where he was immediately captured by ten men. In meting out a punishment of 50 lashes by whip, the men supposedly reminded him of his infamous acts against the community, his former neighbors. Roscoe notes that death did not linger for him after the final lash, and his ashes were buried on the spot. Of the ten men who swore themselves to secrecy, apparently only five are known. (History of Schoharie County, William E. Roscoe, pub. D. Mason & Comp., 1882, pp.250-251.) However, in "Families (to 1825) of Herkimer, Montgomery, & Schoharie, N.Y.," a genealogical source on many early families by William V. H. Barker, it is noted that the Tory Becraft/Beacraft was Benjamin, born about 1759, brother of my ancestor noted above, Frantz/Francis Becraft. If this is accurate and they are indeed brothers, they were both sons of Willem/William and Mareitje (Bond) Becraft. Another source, “The Life of Joseph Brant – Thayendanegea…” notes Becraft survived his whipping and left the area (pg. 64), just as other undocumented sources indicate he survived and returned to Canada to live with his family. So, I am uncertain as to whether Tory [Benjamin] Becraft actually died from his whippings or survived and left the area. 2) Johannes/John Berlet/Berlett/Barlet, b. 05/08/1748, Schoharie, Schoharie Co., NY – Private, Tryon County Militia, 3rd Reg’t, Mohawk District. He married Maria Gardinier, b. about 1751; their daughter Eva/Eveline Barlett married Martin Tillapaugh, b. 1778, my g-g-g-grandparents. 3) Johann Hendrich/John Henry Dietz, bp 05/10/1722, Nordhofen, Vielbach, Germany – served in Lt. John Veeder’s Company, Rensselaerswyck, later under Capt. Sternberger’s Company at Schoharie. He married Maria Elisabetha Ecker, bp. 1725; their daughter Catherine Dietz, b. 1761, married Frantz/Francis Beacraft above, my g-g-g-g-grandparents. As per my research article on Chemung County’s Newtown Battle, the Indian/Loyalist raids and massacres also touched my ancestral families in New York. In Beaverdam (now Berne), New York near the Switzkill River on September 1, 1781, the Johannes Dietz family was attacked. Johannes’ son, Capt. William Dietz was captured and forced to watch his elderly parents, wife, four young children and a Scottish maid be killed and scalped. (see “Old Hellebergh,” Arthur B. Gregg, The Altamont Enterprise Publishers, Altamont, N.Y., 1936, p. 24; signed by Gregg, in Roorda’s collection from her father.) Capt. William Dietz’s father, Johannes, was an older brother of my ancestor noted above, Johann Hendrich/John Henry Dietz. 4) Johan Dietrich Dallenbach/John Richard Dillenbach, b. 1733 per cemetery records, Stone Arabia, NY; father Jorg Martin Dallenbach born Lauperswil, Bern, Switzerland, emigrated with 1710 German Palatines. John Richard Dillenbach married Maria Mynard; their son Martinus took name of Martin Tillapaugh (my lineage), married Eva/Eveline Barlett as above. Dillenbach reported for duty March 20, 1757 when Sir William Johnson called local militia out to protect Fort William Henry on Lake George for the British. The Seven Years’ War, or the French and Indian War, began in 1754 and ended with the European peace treaties of 1763 during which year Dillenbach again reported to defend Herkimer with the Palatine District Regiment. James Fennimore Cooper wrote The Last of the Mohicans about the siege of Fort William Henry. Roughly 2300 colonial troops were protecting the British fort when the French arrived with about 8000 troops in August 1763 and heavily bombarded the fort. With additional supporting troops not found to be on their way, the garrison was forced to surrender. The men were to be protected as they retreated by generous treaty terms. However, as the Indians entered the fort, they plundered, looted, scalped and killed about 200 colonials, many of them too sick to leave. In desecrating graves of those who had died before the siege, the Indians exposed themselves to smallpox, taking the germs back to their homes. The French destroyed the fort before returning to Canada. Fort William Henry was reconstructed in the 1950s. Visiting this fort in 1972 with the Lounsberry Methodist Church youth group, I was unaware at the time that my Dallenbach/Tillapaugh ancestor had walked that ground, having been involved in the siege and survived. 5) Timothy Hutton, b.11/24/1746, New York City. He married 2nd) Elizabeth Deline b.1760. Their son George b.1787 married Sarah Wyckoff b.1793, my g-g-g-grandparents. Timothy served as Ensign in Philip Schuyler’s Regiment of Albany County Militia, at defeat of Gen. Burgoyne in Saratoga October 17, 1777; appointed Lieutenant in New York Levies under Col. Marinus Willett; defended Schoharie County from burnings and killings by British, Loyalists and Indians. This Timothy is not to be confused with a nephew of same name and rank, b. 1764, which many have done, including an erroneous grave marker in Carlisle, New York. Sorting their military service out was part of my extensive thesis and documentation in researching and publishing two lengthy articles on the origins and descendants of this Hutton family in the New York Genealogical & Biographical Record in 2004-2005. My Timothy’s nephew William Hutton served extensively in the Revolutionary War throughout New York City, Long Island, and the Hudson Valley. My Timothy’s nephew Christopher Hutton of Troy, NY served as Ensign, promoted to Lieutenant, member of the elite Society of the Cincinnati. My Timothy’s nephew, Timothy Hutton b.1764, served as Lieutenant in New York Levies under Col. Willett, enlisting 1780 at age 16 in the Albany militia. My Timothy’s nephews, Isaac and George (brothers of Christopher and the younger Timothy, all sons of George Hutton, the older brother of my ancestor Timothy Hutton), were well-known influential silversmiths during the Federal period in the late 18th/early 19th centuries in Albany. Hutton silver is on display at museums in Albany, New York. 6) Johannes Leenderse (John Leonardson), b.06/18/63, Fonda, Montgomery Co., NY - enlisted as private in 1779 at age 16, Tryon County Militia, 3rd Reg’t; Corporal in 1781; served on many expeditions in the Mohawk Valley and at forts; joined Col. Willett’s company on march to Johnstown October 1781 in successful battle against enemy who had burned and killed throughout Mohawk Valley; re-enlisted 1782. Married Sarah Putman b.1773. Their son Aaron Leonardson b.1796 married 3rd) Lana Gross, parents of Mary Eliza Leonardson b. about 1732 who married William Henry Ottman, my g-g-grandparents. 7) John Caldwell McNeill, b. 1755, Londonderry, Rockingham Co., NH - at Bunker Hill (actually Breed’s Hill) on Charlestown June 17, 1775. As Sergeant under Col. Timothy Bedel of the New Hampshire Line, John bought beef to pasture and butcher as needed for the troops. Bedel’s regiment joined “Corp.1, Co. 1, New York Reg’t” on mission to Canada against British; taken captive with his cousins and friends at The Cedars near Montreal, an island in the St. Lawrence; soldiers were stripped of clothing, belongings and food, and released in cartel negotiated by Gen. Benedict Arnold before he became a traitor. John served at and discharged at Saratoga, NY. He married Hannah Caldwell b.1762; removed to Carlisle, Schoharie County, New York ca. 1794; their son Jesse McNeill m. Elizabeth Ostrom, my g-g-g-grandparents. 😎 George Richtmyer, bp 04/23/1738, Albany Co., NY – Captain from 1775 through end of war in 15th Reg’t of Albany Militia, defending Cobleskill and Middleburg, Schoharie Co., NY. Married Anna Hommel; their son Henrich/Henry married Maria Beacraft (see above), my g-g-g-grandparents. 9) Hendrick/Henry Vonck/Vunck, b. 03/06/1757, Freehold, Monmouth Co., NJ - served as private and Corporal in New Jersey and New York City; carried papers for American Gen. Charles Lee; joined units marching to same area of Canada as John C. McNeill; on return became ill with smallpox with others at Lake George when news of the Declaration of Independence was made; honorably discharged; called to serve again at Sandy Hook, NJ; captured by the British at Sandy Hook, taken to a prison ship, then to the [Livingston] stone sugar house in Manhattan, then another prison ship, the Good___ (writing illegible on the early 1800s pension document, possibly Good Hope). After “one year and one month” as prisoner, he was exchanged and released. “Having suffered while a prisoner great privations and disease and in poor clothing and severely unwholesome provisions many prisoners died in consequence of their treatment.” (Per 1832 affidavit of military service for pension.) Conditions suffered as a prisoner left Henry in poor health the rest of his life; removing later to Montgomery County, NY. Married Chestinah Hagaman; their daughter Jane Vunck married James Dingman, my g-g-g-grandparents. From 1776 to 1783 the British made use of decommissioned ships (those incapable of going to sea) as floating prisons. At least 16 rotting hulks were moored in Wallabout Bay, the inner harbor along the northwest shore of Brooklyn, now part of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Among the ships were the Good Hope, Whitby, The Prince of Wales, Falmouth, Scorpion, Stromboli, Hunter, and the most infamous HMS Jersey, nicknamed Hell by the men. (see websites below.) Over 10,000 men, perhaps at least 11,500, died on these ships due to the deliberate deplorable conditions. Men were crammed below decks with no windows for lighting or fresh air. There was a lack of food and clothing, with vermin and insects running rampant, and a lack of other humane efforts to aid the ill, all leading to the death of thousands. Prisoners died virtually every day, reportedly as many as fifteen a day. Some were not found right away, their bodies not disposed of until days later. Often, those who died were sewn into their blankets (if they had one) to await pick up by cart the next morning. Many were buried in shallow graves along the shore (unearthed during major storms) or were simply tossed overboard, later washing ashore. With development of Walloon Bay area over the last two centuries has come the discovery of their bones and parts of ships. To commemorate these soldiers’ lives and what they gave in the fight for independence, the Prison Ship Martyrs’ Monument was built. Located in Fort Greene Park, Brooklyn, it was dedicated on April 6, 1808 with improvements made to it several times since. At least another 5-6000 men died in the sugar houses, bringing the total who died as prisoners to more than 17,500 in the sugar houses and ships, more than double the battlefield losses. Sugar houses were buildings meant to store sugar and molasses. Affidavits by my ancestor, Henry Vunck, and friends note he was held for a few months in the “stone sugar house.” This could only mean the Livingston Sugar House, a six-story stone building built in 1754 by the Livingston family on Crown (now Liberty) Street in Manhattan. Demolished in 1846, buildings No. 34 and 36 are now on the site. A second sugar house, the Rhinelander, a five-story brick warehouse, was built in 1763 at Rose (now William) Street and Duane Street. This building was eventually replaced and is now the headquarters of the New York City Police Department. A third, Van Cortlandt’s sugar house, was built about 1755 by the early Dutch family of this name at the northwest corner of the Trinity Church in Manhattan. It was demolished in 1852. 10) Hans Georg Jacob Dubendorffer (George Jacob Diefendorf), b. 01/23/1729, Basserstorff, Switzerland – a Loyalist during Rev War, he left Mohawk Valley for Philadelphia and New York City, returned to a daughter’s home in Canajoharie, NY after the war rather than remove to Canada. A patriotic son disowned his father, taking his middle name (his mother’s maiden name) as his new surname, removing to Virginia. George Jacob married Catharine Hendree; their son Jacob Diefendorf married Susanna Hess, my g-g-g-g-grandparents. On February 3, 1783, the British government acknowledged the independence of the American colonies. The next day, they formally agreed to halt all military operations. A preliminary peace treaty was ratified in April, and Canada offered free land that summer to Loyalists who sought a new life. Still, the British military maintained a presence in Manhattan. When Britain signed the Treaty of Paris September 3, 1783 to end the war, the hated Redcoats finally and slowly began to abandon their New York City stronghold. Next would begin the task of establishing the government and president of this new nation, the United States of America. George Washington rode into Manhattan on November 25, 1783 with his officers and troops, eight horses abreast. At the same time Washington’s parade began, British soldiers and ships were setting sail for their homeland. Flags were joyfully waved, church bells rang in celebration, and cannons were fired in honor of those who had fought and for those who had given their lives, all for the independence of this fledgling nation. The war had definitely taken its toll; but, on this day, great joy was felt in every heart for what had been accomplished. And that is why we continue to celebrate our 4th of July heritage in style – as we remember and commemorate those who gave so much that we might enjoy so much. And, may we will never forget what their efforts wrought for us. (Data sources available upon request.)

Despite all the work to get ready, I really enjoyed being part of our Spencer-Van Etten Farmers Market yesterday, with a surprise video made (by a friend of my high school friend!) which introduced each of us vendors, shared to my Facebook page. It was great to meet friends I haven’t seen or talked to in a good while! One of our vendors introduced herself, saying she remembered me and my sister from high school in Owego, and graduated with my sister! Amazing! But what deeply touched my heart was when a precious young lady and I shared smiles and greetings as she told her grandfather she knew me from school! As a sub this spring, I’d always worn a mask; yet as a pre-K student, she recognized me without a mask! It reminded me that we truly can make a difference in the world… Laughter is good for the soul, they say. It can lift us up when we’ve had a down day, when nothing seems to be going right… hearty laughter, giggles over the silliest of things, and laughter that brings tears of joy to our eyes… it’s all like a song of love in our soul. So often I see my husband’s love and care for me like that of our Lord’s above. In praising and thanking God, the One who sustains me and you day by day, I felt a song of love rising within my soul. In every way, every day, He is there… even when I fail to see Him or thank Him. Unfortunately, sometimes, I take my Lord for granted… just like I do with my husband and others at times. Yet, in the depths of His loving care, you and I are not taken for granted by our gracious Lord. If He so cares for the birds that fly around us, providing their next meal and the means by which they make a nest and raise their little ones… then surely He will care for you and me with His great love. And, if He also cares for the beautiful wild flowers of the field and the hybridized delicate and hardy flowers of our cultivated gardens, surely He will also provide for all of our needs in the way He knows best! “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 6:25-34 NIV) Today’s poem and theme come from one of my favorite section of verses since childhood. Our God cares so much for us - when life runs along smoothly and even in the most difficult of times when we struggle. Sometimes we forget their source and take our blessings for granted… but may the beauty and blessing of this new day remind us how greatly we are loved. And may you find joy and laughter in the simplest of things today! God bless you! Your Love is a Song Linda A. Roorda Your love is a song bringing joy to my heart For all I need, Lord, is found in you, And carried on wings to Your throne above Are prayers of praise from my grateful soul. Your love is a song that gives me reason With You at my side my life has purpose, You assuage my fears and calm worried brow And lighten the load of burdens and cares. Your love is a song in the morning dews For all You do to meet daily needs That I would know how great is Your care In giving me strength to face each new day. Your love is a song within the trials When my heart cries out in deepest despair Your answering voice calms my weary soul As Your gentle hand brings comfort and peace. Your love is a song in laughter’s therapy From giggles and grins to snuggles and hugs You care for me like birds of the field With a gentle hand as you hold my heart. Your love is a song that frees my soul With mercy and grace to cover each day Your welcoming arms delight in Your child And guide my steps along wisdom’s path. ~~

Father’s Day… a time to remember the dads we treasure. They’ve taught us well in the ways of life. And I remember a lot about my dad. In fact, it would be fair to say that I had put him on a pedestal while growing up… not a wise placement for anyone. But it seems he could do anything and everything, a jack-of-all-trades. Though none of us can measure up all the time, there is One who is perfect… who forgives all our failings… our heavenly Father. There is so much my Dad, Ralph, taught me and my five siblings, including all about the love of Jesus. As a small child on the farm, I would say, “Jesus is my best friend!” But, for a time as a teen, I forgot my childhood friend until my Dad reminded me of those words I used to say as a little girl. Oops! I loved playing board games on Sunday afternoons with my Dad, especially Scrabble. I love the challenge of this game and tend to play aggressively, perhaps because I was in tough competition with my Dad. Though I won only one game against him over those several years, it was a sweet victory knowing that I’d accomplished the win without his having given me an edge. He taught me honesty was the right way such that in 8th grade English class I chose to write an essay entitled “Honesty Is The Best Policy”, receiving an A. Actually, I think I may have gotten writing and art abilities from him. Although he was an exceptional storyteller, perfectly imitating voice and mannerisms of various comedians, I speak best through the written word. He also had a gift for drawing with his talent for art passed on to me and my son. As we grew up, we loved hearing Dad tell family stories of his and our childhoods. He had a gift for telling any story in a humorous way, and how I long to hear them all again. I’d ask him to write them down for posterity, but he never did. When he drove truck in the latter 1960s through the 1990s (and later huge tractors for an Iowan farmer), he’d come home with stories from the road. He shared radio routines by Bill Cosby and southern Cajun comedians, recalling their stories and imitating accents perfectly! That was way better entertainment than TV any day! I recall a few stories of his time in the Army at Fort Greeley, Alaska (1956-1957), a foreign assignment before official statehood. From 18 months to 2 years, I was too young to remember my six months at Delta Junction with my baby sister. But, I do remember having heard how he, his best buddy Roland, and two other friends found a sunken rowboat. As it lay not far below the surface of a lake, they pulled it up, cleaned it off, and took it out to fish. It made for an interesting adventure to say the least – while they each took a turn fishing, the other three worked hard at bailing to keep the boat afloat! Now that’s dedicated fishermen! Fort Greeley is also where he learned to drive big rigs. With someone ill, he was asked to take over in the motor pool one night. Proving he could handle backing up a trailer perfectly, the commanding officer asked where he’d learned to do that since everyone else struggled. “Backing up a manure spreader, Sir!” was his dutiful reply. They kept him in the motor pool, where he gained invaluable training for later driving 18-wheelers. He also was given a rare promotion because he took the time to thoroughly clean an office coffeepot, a skill learned from his Dutch immigrant mother who had taught him all aspects of housekeeping while growing up, like any good Dutch mother. With a general visiting Fort Greeley, and the coffee-making task handed down to my Dad, he took pains to provide a clean urn for making fresh-brewed coffee… which greatly impressed the general. When the general asked who made the coffee, the aide who was supposed to have made it “blamed” my Dad. Instead of the feared reprimand for the typically bad-tasting coffee the office was known for, the general complimented my father on the best cup he’d ever tasted! Turning to the senior officer, he told him to give my father a promotion! When we were younger, he always had time for us. I loved it when he took us fishing to Garret Mountain in Clifton, Lake Hopatcong and Upper Greenwood Lake. And, though I could never bring myself to touch those worms (still can’t!), let alone put them on a hook, and never did catch “the big one,” it was the quality time with our Dad that meant so much to us kids. As a tomboy, I especially enjoyed working outside with my Dad whether it was in the barn learning to care for the animals, in the huge vegetable gardens, or traipsing the fields and woods hunting. That love just naturally transferred to enjoying the time spent working alongside my husband out in the barn or in the yard, even growing my own gardens. As we grew older, we teens were often in our own little world yet I still adored my Dad. He listened and gave sound advice. I even recall the day he didn’t go to work, taking me instead for a drive to discuss a problem I was dealing with. At times though, I wasn’t ready to listen to him because, as life moved on, his anger took control and he wasn’t always there for us as a family, causing division with his divorce by expecting full support. But I treasure our renewed relationship later in life. With apologies for my own errors as a teen, I heard his sadness as I expressed how family dysfunction affected all of us, and he understood my saying I/we all had needed him more than he realized when he was on the road for 2-4 weeks at a time. I appreciated his compliments on my writing for a local newspaper, my own blogs, publishing genealogy research in a national journal (The New York Genealogical & Biographical Record), and for how well I raised my family and took care of my Mom. Honesty and forgiveness cleared the way for better relationships with love expressed to both my parents. God truly takes our most difficult situations, working them for our good when we love Him, admit our errors, and make amends. My Dad’s careers changed from farming, to driving a grain truck delivering feed to dairy farmers (with top NY State Purina Feed salesman award for 1961 and 1962), to carpentry with his Dad, a general contractor in northeast New Jersey, to driving a tank truck locally and later OTR (over the road/cross country). When we lived in Clifton, NJ, he drove chemical tankers locally in northeast Jersey, southern New England, and New York City. What stories he brought home from his experiences! I got to ride with him only twice and wish it could have been more. I was never so happy as when we moved back to New York in 1969! Though I hated city life, I can now look back with fond memories of Clifton, NJ. As we settled into “backyard farming,” he taught me how to care for our mare, War Bugg, a granddaughter of Man O’ War, a retired Western working ranch registered Quarter Horse. One of his trucking buddies also worked the rodeo circuit and put War Bugg through her paces – she did a figure-eight so tight you’d’ve thought she’d fall over! I helped Dad build her corral and box stall in the small barn, along with re-roofing and remodeling the old chicken coop for our flock. And then came the heavy-duty barn chores of bringing hay down out of the mow, hauling 50-lb bags of grain, mucking out the pens, learning to groom War Bugg and pick up her feet to clean the soft undersides, devouring books on horses and their care, dreaming of being an equine vet. I saw his deep concern when I stepped on a wasp’s nest in the haymow with 11 stings on my leg, and his gratefulness for my dousing him with a 5-gallon pail of water when a torch threatened to catch him on fire while trying to burn tent caterpillars. But I also learned the hard way that running War Bugg flat out up the road and back could have killed her. I’d simply clicked my tongue and she took off like a rocket, so I let her run. I was scolded hard, yet taught to walk her slowly, allowing her to have only small sips of warm water till she cooled down. After riding her another time, I dismounted, tied her to the backyard light pole, ran into the house briefly; and on returning, realized she’d pulled on and broken her bridle, standing as if still tied with reins straight down. And I realized she was Western trained to be “ground tied” and to take off at the click of the tongue, very responsive to touch, the absolute best horse! I still miss her… Soon enough, I got married and began a new life with my new family, while my siblings and parents scattered themselves around the U.S. Life changes, and we change with it. As a child, I teased my Dad when he turned 30 that he was old, and that when he’d turn 50 he’d be “over the hill!” Well, Dad, guess what? Your oldest daughter reached that milestone a ways back, and she’s still kickin’! Giving him this writing in 2014 before he passed away April 17, 2015, his wedding anniversary with my Mom, he knew I felt blessed to have him as my Dad. Sometimes I wish I could go back and relive the childhood fun of days long ago, but I treasure those memories that linger still... and I love you, Dad! May you each be blessed with very special memories of your Dad, too! Happy Father’s Day! I Remember A Dad Linda A. Roorda I remember a dad who took me fishin’ And remember a dad who hooked my worms, Who took those hooks from fishy mouths, And showed me the country way of life. ~ A family of six, two girls and four boys Fun and trouble we shared as we grew. From farms and fields to paved avenues, Walking and biking, exploring we went. ~ I remember a time spent playing games, A dad who’d not cheat for us to win. Family and friends and holiday dinners, Lakes and farms and countryside drives. ~ Weeds were the bane of childhood fun, So ‘tween the rows we ran and we played. But as I grew and matured in age, Weeding was therapy in gardens of mine. ~ I remember a dad who thrived on farming Livestock and gardens, and teaching me how. I remember a dad who took me huntin’ Scoutin’ the fields, always alert. ~ I remember a dad who taught us more For growing up we learn by example. I remember working alongside my dad Roofing a barn and building corrals. ~ I remember a dad whose gifts were given In fairness to meet each child’s desire. I remember a dad whose wisdom we honor In memories of caring and love in small ways. ~ I remember a dad who brought us laughter With Cajun and Cosby stories retold. For blessed with a gift of retelling tales Family and childhood events he recalled. ~ I remember a dad whose time was given To help his children face life’s turmoils. Time spent together are memories treasured For things done best put family first. ~ I remember a dad who taught me more To treasure my faith in Jesus my friend. In looking to Him as Savior and Lord, Salvation by Grace, not earned by my deed. ~ As I look back to days long ago, I remember the dad I knew so well. For I miss the dad who took me fishin’ And remember the dad who taught me more. Listen to my recording of "I Remember A Dad" under my friend's podcast, Balms for the Soul.