Plain Wisdom (17 page)

In the spring of 1975, my family moved from a small Amish settlement in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to a farm outside of Shippensburg, Pennsylvania. This Amish community was twice the size of my previous home, which for a girl of eleven was both exciting and scary. Adjusting to a new school, meeting new schoolmates and a new teacher, attending a new church, having new neighbors—so many good first impressions to make.

One day shortly after we settled in, some English neighbors stopped by to welcome us. As time went by, our friendship with them grew, and we always looked forward to their next visit. We would all stop whatever we were doing and sit around the kitchen table as Mom served coffee and often her homemade shoofly pie. There are a lot of different recipes, but my family’s shoofly pie has a cakelike middle, a gooey molasses bottom, and crumbs on top. When our English guests were present, we ate our pie and drank our coffee separately, the way they did. But when non-Amish guests weren’t around, we soaked the shoofly pie with the coffee.

One day, after having lived at our new home for about a year, we were having one of our coffee breaks with our neighbors when my younger brother poured coffee over his shoofly pie. Children don’t get a cup of
coffee as the adults do, but we always dribbled a few tablespoons of coffee onto our pie.

Our neighbor looked at my mother in shock and asked, “What is he doing?”

A little embarrassed, my mother explained that this was how some Amish people eat shoofly pie.

“Unbelievable,” she exclaimed. Then she picked up her own mug of coffee and drenched her remaining pie. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since our first coffee break, but I was afraid you’d think I was weird. I grew up eating my pie this way.”

We get only one chance at making a good first impression. Being imperfect humans, we tend to be overly cautious, afraid of messing up. But when we’re not our true selves, we can lose more than we gain.

Here’s my mom’s shoofly pie recipe.

My family was really hungry, but the plan for dinner was a simple one—pasta salad and bread. It was summertime, and I’d been mom-the-lifeguard at the local pool most of the day while my children swam with
friends. For supper I had made a pistachio pasta salad from a new recipe. I thought its pretty shade of green looked quite appetizing.

After my husband said the mealtime prayer, I poured milk into the children’s glasses while they began to eat. Each one took a bite of the pasta, gagged, and spit it out in the napkin.

“Mom, that green stuff is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.” My oldest son, always bluntly honest.

His younger brother shrugged, not wanting to hurt my feelings. “I’m really not hungry after all.”

My husband downed a glass of tea after he’d taken a bite. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but Justin’s right.”

Convinced it couldn’t be that bad, I took a forkful. I too gagged and spit it out in my napkin. I have no idea what I did wrong to that recipe. I stood up and said, “Well, let’s go.”

I was met with looks of intrigue and hope. Not only was I going to spare them having to eat the awful meal, but we were going out to eat? They were in the car before I had time to grab the milk and put it in the refrigerator.

A few days later one of the boys was pushing me to get his way. I pointed at him and said, “Watch it, kid, or I’ll make that green stuff again.”

Frustration drained from his face. He held up his hands like stop signs. “No, please. I’ll do anything not to have to see, smell, or eat that stuff!”

A humorous threat can be a great way to caution someone who’s out of line and bring a smile at the same time. But more than that, it helps people be more comfortable in their own skin.

When our boys were younger, our son Mervin and his cousin Stephen Esh, who is from the town of Lancaster, exchanged weeklong visits each summer. Whether the boys were bottle-feeding calves, swinging on long ropes in the loft of the hay barn, or shopping for school supplies, it was always twice the fun when done together. Stephen loved farm life, so we always sent him home with a gift from the farm—a pair of pigeons, rabbits, or baby kittens, all boxed up safely with holes for ventilation to give them plenty of air during the two-hour trip home.

One year when Stephen’s parents came to pick him up, he presented his mother with the familiar cardboard box, which by now his mother had come to dread. “Oh please, no. Not another box with holes,” she cried. “What is it this time?”

Slowly she opened the top flaps of the box, peeking inside and expecting to see some furry critter jump out at her at any minute.

Suddenly she burst into laughter and pulled out a brand-new pair of black and white canvas sneakers—our gift for the summer.

Like most people in all walks of life, the Amish love to laugh. One of the best gifts we give one another is our sense of humor. Laughter lifts
our spirits and strengthens us. It even brings us hope, because once we’ve laughed, we can feel heaviness lift. Children laugh easily and often. Adults often bond through sharing lighthearted banter and laughter. Can you think of a way to make someone you love laugh today?

For a year after I attended my first writers’ conference, I wrote for several hours each day between homeschooling our second grader, running the house, and keeping up with two active teenagers. I also dealt with some painful foot issues, and my podiatrist prescribed a year of corrective footwear with inserts. Those shoes were so ugly! But I obeyed the podiatrist’s directions.

The day before I was to leave for my second writers’ conference, I returned to the podiatrist for a routine visit. I was thrilled when he said I could start wearing any type of shoes I wanted to. I gleefully packed several pairs I hadn’t been able to wear for a year.

The next afternoon my husband drove my rooming buddy and me to the airport, where we boarded a plane and flew to Houston. The following morning Vicki and I rose early to prepare for the long day of classes and talking with editors and agents.

Before jumping into the shower, I opened my suitcase and discovered I’d packed seven pairs of shoes and not one pair of underwear. The closest clothing store was more than thirty minutes away. If I went into town, I’d miss breakfast and my first class.

When I told Vicki what I’d done, she stared at me as if the words hadn’t registered. How could a grown woman forget to pack underwear but bring every pair of heels she owned?

She went to her suitcase. “I picked up these at the last minute at the store the other night.” She pulled out a package of brand-new underwear, ripped it open, and handed me a pair. I’d have to wash one of my two pairs of underwear each evening and hang them up to dry overnight, for four days. But at least I’d have clean underwear every day.

I told a couple of women at the conference about my mix-up, and one of them wrote my story on an index card and passed it to the emcee—without including my name. At the next group gathering, the emcee read it, creating quite a stir of laughter from the other attendees. Then she said if whoever belonged to that story would stand up, she could have a free book.

I argued with myself about whether to stand or remain silent. I stood. The laughter grew louder as this well-dressed woman with the soft voice and Southern accent took a red-faced bow before going up front to receive her free book.

Now, this story could be about making lists and being better organized, but it’s not. If I made a list, I’d just lose it.

It could be about God’s faithful provision in times of need, and that aspect shouldn’t be overlooked.

But mostly it’s about relaxing. I’m not perfect. Neither are you. We need to get over that expectation. I have areas where I shine. So do you. When we don’t shine, we should relax and enjoy the ride.

The two women I told my story to became my critique partners. The tale came up at another conference I attended, though I didn’t mention it, and because of that, writing doors opened. Who would’ve thought that my lack of packing skills could cause such a chain of events?

Um, perhaps God?

B
EAUTY
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SHES, AND
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HINGS
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ETWEEN

D
uring one of my visits to Miriam’s, we hitched a horse to a buggy, loaded up the children, and went to see some of her women friends and family. She asked what I called it when women had a small business in their home. I said, “A cottage industry.” She said she called it “having something on the side.” She added, “Almost every Amish woman has something on the side.”

Stifling a chuckle, I explained to her that for the non-Amish, that term usually referred to a relationship outside of marriage. When she could close her mouth and take a breath again, she turned many shades of red and then burst into laughter.