Category Archives: life

The Little Brown Church

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Nearly all my childhood Thanksgivings were spent at my paternal grandmother’s house, four hours north of us and across a state line. My husband and I continued the tradition after we were married and took our children up to see their great-grandmother every year. She passed away over two years ago, and it still doesn’t feel right to eat our turkey elsewhere.

The following account was written soon after her death. If your grandmother is still alive and you see her this Christmas season, hug her. You never know when it’s the last time.

* * *

My grandmother died on the day I introduced my daughter Jenica to needlepoint.

I did not notice this coincidence, not even a few days later while standing in Grandma’s living room, examining the dozens of needlepoint buildings—houses, churches, shops, a covered bridge, even a gazebo—intricately stitched and assembled by my grandmother. All the grandchildren were supposed to select one of these treasures as a keepsake. I picked up my childhood favorite: a little brown church with a music box that played “Little Brown Church in the Vale.”

My daughter’s face reflected her awe. “Play it again, Mommy.” She hummed, off-key, to the tinkling notes, cautious fingers touching the fuzzy yarn roof, a dusty, slightly shabby church from years spent long on Grandma’s shelf.

“Did Great-Grandma make this all by herself?” Jenica asked.

“Yes, she did, a long time ago,” I said. “I remember this church when I wasn’t much older than you. It was my favorite.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.” I smiled. “Why is your pink blanket your favorite?”

She giggled, knowing there was no answer to that question. Just because.

“We’ll take this church home and put it in a special place, where we can remember Great-Grandma when we see it.” I blinked away unexpected tears, looking at the room around me, full of a lifetime’s worth, yet strangely empty.

Why do I never value what I have until it is gone? I cradled the feather-weight of the little brown needlepoint church, wishing I could tell Grandma one more time that I love her.

* * *

Today, I study my daughter’s face, bent over her needlepoint stitches, creased with concentration. She looks up as I set the little brown church on the table beside her. “I want to show you something, Jenica.”

“Look what I just realized.” I turn the back of the church toward her, running my fingers over the yarn, more simply stitched than the front and sides. “Do you see these stitches?” She nods. “Now, look at your stitches. What do you see?”

Little Brown Church 020

She looks from the beautiful complexity of the church building to the simple flower design in her square of canvas. Her face lights up. “Great-Grandma did needlepoint, too, just like me.”

“Isn’t that special?” I wind the church’s music box, the tune weaving a musical bridge across the generations.

“I’m glad we have this church,” Jenica says, her eyes serious. “When we look at my needlepoint and when we look at Great-Grandma’s needlepoint, we can remember her and cry a little in our hearts because she died.”

“We’ll smile, too,” I say, “when we remember.”

She bends her head and spins another stitch in her flower, and the little brown church sings.

Why I Need to Stop Trying Harder

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I made some huge mistakes in a relationship recently. I completely blew it, I did, blew it so big and so hard that the explosion covered my head and my face in sticky regret. I will be picking it out of my hair for weeks to come.

In the aftermath, I said, “I will try harder to be the woman I should be.”

But that night I tossed and turned until long after midnight, restless with the knowledge that I had been trying—and look where it got me. Oh, maybe I wasn’t trying as hard as I should have been. I had gotten tired and discouraged and careless. I had said and done things I shouldn’t have.

Did this mean I should try harder? Is that the best way to repair the broken parts of me?

I have spent my life trying harder. Trying to have more faith, more trust, more submission. Trying to be more faithful and loving and joyful. Trying to produce more spiritual fruit. Trying harder to please God and serve others.

But I always end up covered in regret. I mess it up over and over.

What is wrong with me?

Why does the fruit of the Spirit so often dangle tantalizingly out of my reach?

I sat with my Bible and my questions for a long time, carried my questions around as I filled the washer and gave a wheezy little man a nebulizer treatment, went back to my Bible again, and after a while, my questions began to turn into answers. None of the answers are new to me; some of the verses are embarrassingly familiar. But God’s Word takes on new meaning for me in the context of a spiritual struggle.

This fruit that I want, the love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance that elude me too often? It’s called the fruit of the Spirit. Not the fruit of Stephanie. It is the fruit produced in the life of the believer by the Spirit of God.

I know this. Why do I try to manufacture the fruit by my own power?

“For it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13). This verse flies in the face of my frequent declarations: “I will do better.” I cannot do better. “There is none righteous, no, not one” (Romans 3:10). When it comes to spiritual self-improvement—well, there is no such thing as spiritual self-improvement. God is the one who makes me holy and acceptable in His sight.

I know this. Why do I try so hard to improve on my own?

But I’ve got to do something. If I can’t make myself good enough, if I cannot produce the love and joy of a Christian on my own, what should I be doing?

Part of me hates the answer, because it’s so…so humbling. It feels far more honorable to climb the tree after the fruit all by myself. I feel more productive climbing the tree—even if I never find any fruit—because I’m working so hard at it.

This is what I must do: I need to yield. Instead of chasing after fruit, I need to run to God and fall at His feet. I need to surrender, give up my need to be in control of the fruit basket. It’s not my job to produce the fruit, but it is my job to serve the One Who will cultivate a more worthy crop in my heart than any efforts of mine could ever rake together.

Romans 6:21 & 22 says it far better I can: “What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed? for the end of those things is death. But now being made free from sin, and become servants of God, ye have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life.” (emphasis mine—and please don’t skim the verses, because they are more important than anything I’m saying here)

Instead of trying to love, I need to learn to know the God of love more fully—and His love will then bloom in my heart.

Instead of trying to grow more faith, I need to draw closer to my Father—and He will water my faith.

Instead of trying to exert more self-control over my unruly heart, I need to yield everything to Christ—and He will prune and shape my heart.

I’ve been trying to fertilize the garden when I should have been cultivating my relationship with the Gardener.

Don’t take me wrong. There are many things to do in the kingdom of God. I can’t sit around with a dreamy smile, waiting for God to make me more long-suffering. Spiritual fruit is produced as I live my life, and the work God gives me is often that which helps me to be more fruitful.

In John 15:4, Jesus said, “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.” (emphasis mine)

I need to stop trying so hard to be a woman of God.

I need, instead, to abide in Christ and let His Spirit produce the fruit I long to see.

Canning with Stevia–and a Mis-snake

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The snake pushed me over the edge.

Before the snake appeared, I was already teetering on the edge—the edge of what? I wasn’t sure, but recent events had conspired against me. I felt overwhelmed and emotionally fragile, which is probably why that snake made me laugh—a shrill, hysterical laugh—as I clutched my weapon.

It all began two days earlier—no, the week before, actually, when Micah, my three-month-old son, came down with bronchiolitus. In August. That was the same week Jenica started first grade at Lighthouse Christian School, a thirty-minute drive from our house. Maybe other mothers can adjust tidily to the school schedule, and maybe other first graders can fit into their new world seamlessly, but not us. It was exciting, and it was terrible.

But I had peaches to pick up at Valley View Fruit Farm, ordered in a pre-school, pre-bronchiolitus fervor, and as I heaved the fragrant baskets into our garage, I considered my ways and found them unwise. What was I thinking, to order so many? Now I had to can them—I picked up a peach and tested its firmness—soon.

So, two days before the snake, I assembled canning supplies and peaches in my small kitchen. I consulted Home Joys on how much stevia to use in the syrup. “2 tsp. per gallon,” I wrote on a scrap of paper as Tarica, my preschooler, leaned on me, coughing. She was underfoot every day without her big sister to entertain her.

I started peeling peaches. Micah cried, hungry, wheezy. Tarica complained, bored, wheezy. The day stretched, endless, napless for this mother.

I hustled the children off to bed after lunch and tackled the peaches with desperate vigor. But before long, Tarica’s spasmodic coughing turned into violent retching, followed by a howl. I leaped for the stairs. Tarica sat in her bed, vomit covering her, the bed, the pillow. I abandoned the peaches for laundry duty and childcare.

Perhaps it was sometime in there, between the demands of a sick daughter and a nursing baby, that I made my mistake. Not that I noticed my miscalculation—oh, no, not at all. I forged relentlessly on with my canning. Late that evening, I pulled the last of fifty quarts out of the canner and collapsed into bed, ignoring the horrific mess of my kitchen. I would deal with it tomorrow.

In the morning light, my kitchen still looked like an unslayable dragon, but my heart was light. I had done it, all by myself, despite illness and a baby, despite weariness, and only two jars had not sealed. This lightness remained with me until that evening, when I pulled one of the unsealed jars out of the fridge for our supper. As I placed it on the table and sat down, Jenica asked, “Are those the peaches you put in my lunch today? Because they were way, way too sweet.”

We joined hands as a family and bowed our heads for prayer—but I forgot to pray. I was transfixed by Jenica’s words, and suddenly, I knew. I knew the irrevocable truth about my hard-earned peaches.

Prayer finished, I clasped my head in my freed hands and moaned. My family looked at me, alarmed. “I made a terrible mistake,” I said. “I put too much sweetener in the peaches yesterday.”

“How much is too much?” my husband asked.

“I was supposed to use two teaspoons of stevia per gallon. I just realized I used two teaspoons per quart. Four times too much. I can’t believe this.”

* * *

I still couldn’t believe it the following morning. The peaches were nearly inedible, with a strong stevia aftertaste. What was I going to do—can unsweetened peaches and serve them with the sweet ones? More canning? It was unthinkable, but throwing fifty quarts of peaches away was equally unthinkable.

I felt sick and distracted over my mistake, which is probably why I didn’t notice the snake until I was halfway across the living room, about the same time it noticed me. We froze, the snake and I, heads up, unblinking, eyeing each other across the five feet of space between us.

A harmless black snake, I thought, oh, so carefully rational under my surging adrenalin. A dangerous human, the snake thought and turned to flee. I followed it, unsure of what to do but determined to track it. The only thing worse than seeing a snake is knowing there’s one around here somewhere. To my horror, the snake sought refuge in the sacred ground of my kitchen.

As I watched the snake disappear beneath my refrigerator, I fought the urge to laugh hysterically. I raced for my broom and nearly hyperventilated when my foot rolled over a long black snake on the laundry floor. It flopped and I yelled, only to sag against the wall. Just the iron cord, Stephanie. Breathe. Breathe.

Heart racing, I established guard a safe distance from the fridge, broom held at the ready. I couldn’t just walk away and let the snake wander all over the house. Once, the snake slipped its head out of its cave, but seeing me, it retreated. The laughter bubbled up from the wild place inside me. It was all so strangely funny, the snake and I caught in this ridiculous standoff.

I waited. And waited. No snake. Micah cried. “Okay, snake, you win,” I said and yielded my culinary territory to the reptile. “I’m not coming back until you’re good and gone.”

But I was forced to give way to necessity: We have to eat. I never saw the snake again, although I think it of now and again, especially when Micah crawls over and pats my ankle while I’m washing dishes.

As for the peaches, well, I have about 40-odd jars of super-sweet ones out in the garage. They might still be around when Micah is old enough to go snake hunting.

Stranger on the Doorstep

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This experience happened last winter, about a month before Tarica started seizing. Now that snow is flying again, I remember this and wonder if I did the right thing.

* * *

The doorbell rang while I was in the middle of changing Micah. When a second peal quickly followed the first, I scooped up my diaper-clad baby, wrapped a blanket around him, and raced down the steps. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I glanced at the sofa, grateful to see the doorbell hadn’t awakened Tarica. She had been stricken with the stomach virus less than two hours ago.

At the door, a stranger waited, wind-blown and worried-looking. Snow swirled around the young man, catching in his red beard and on his narrow shoulders. Before I could say a word, he said, “Sorry for bothering you, but could you give me a ride to Kettle Road?”

I snugged the blanket around a small bare shoulder, mentally scrambling for something kinder than a flat refusal. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. My daughter is sick, and I need to take care of him.” I gestured toward my wriggling bundle.

“No one else is around that could give me a ride?”

Was that a leap of fear I felt? “No, I’m sorry. Not right now.”

He bounced on his toes. “Do you think anyone’s home over there?” He pointed to a neighbor’s house through the trees.

“I have no idea,” I said, realizing I could fit what I knew about those neighbors in the bowl of a spoon. They had kept to themselves ever since moving in last summer. I pointed in the opposite direction. “You could try the people on the other side of us. Someone is often home during the day.”

“The next house down?” He began a retreat down the drive.

“Yes.” Something pinched inside me. “Did your car break down?” I asked.

He turned back. “Yeah, it did.” He shook himself and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “It’s cold out here.”

That was an understatement: It was a brutally frigid day, with a wind that cut to the bone. “I hope you can get a ride.” My words sounded lame in the face of his plight. “Sorry I can’t help you.” I closed the door as he walked away.

From a window, I watched his hunched form swing down the driveway. Doubt squeezed my heart. Had I done the right thing? I couldn’t bundle my sick daughter into the van right after she got sick. My baby needed to eat as soon as I got him dressed. But I had just said something very close to “depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled.”

The young man turned onto the road and soon was out of my sight. I frowned at the spot where he had disappeared. Had I turned away an extraordinary opportunity? What if that young man with his red beard and thin coat was an angel? Far-fetched, maybe, but it was possible. That verse in Hebrews 13 says we are to entertain strangers because they might be “angels unawares.” I should have at least given him a cup of coffee. It isn’t every day I can serve an angel.

But maybe he wasn’t an angel. Maybe he was a violent young man with evil intentions. Maybe my veiled head stayed his hand. But he seemed sincere. How is a woman to know in this wicked age when to show generous compassion and when to be reserved and play it safe? On one hand, strangers can be dangerous; on the other, strangers can be angels in disguise. What should I have done?

Well, it didn’t matter. Tarica was sick. And he was gone. But if I did the right thing, why did I feel guilty? I stared out at the snow flying in the wind and wondered if an angel would mind the cold.

* * *

What do you think? Are we women too careful? Do we lose opportunities to show compassion because of our caution around strangers? If we trust God, can we help a stranger without fear? 

My daughter was sick; I had little choice. But what if she hadn’t been sick? I still don’t know what I would’ve done.

Why the “J” Is Important

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If it is a small world—and we often say it is—then the Mennonite world is even smaller.

A theory called six degrees of separation proposes that a person could be connected to anyone in the world through no more than five people. If this theory is correct, then I know everybody in the world through the friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.

Mennonites, on the other hand, have about two degrees of separation. Most of us can find a relative or an old Bible school friend among the acquaintances of any Mennonite stranger we meet. In fact, there’s a good chance we’ll discover that we ourselves are related, if we talk long enough. Even I, with a shot of non-Mennonite Scotch-Irish simmering in my veins, can make connections.

But I never met a lot of Mennonites named Stephanie, and when I married a Leinbach—not one of the common Mennonite surnames, like Zimmerman, Weaver, or Martin—I considered my chances of being the only Mennonite Stephanie Leinbach were fairly high.

I held onto that illusion for three weeks of newly wedded bliss, and then I met Stephanie Leinbach. She was from Colorado and married to my husband’s third cousin. So much for being one-of-a-kind. But all those Esther Martins had survived meeting themselves twenty times over, and I managed to recover from my disappointment.

The Other Stephanie Leinbach and I lost track of each other for nearly six years, until I wrote my miscarriage book. I hadn’t forgotten her; on the book, I had included my middle initial with my name because of her. Our name is uncommon enough that most people wouldn’t consider there were two of us running around. A middle initial wasn’t much, but it might help.

Shortly after the book was published, I received an email from the Other Stephanie Leinbach, and we began corresponding. I learned she had five little girls, two of them twins. They now lived in Indiana, closer to family. You know, the usual facts people swap when getting acquainted.

And then she asked me for my daughters’ birth dates. Her twins, Julie and Genevie, had turned four on March 29. Her Erika would be two in July. How close were they in age to my girls? And did we pronounce Tarica like Erika?

I about fell off my chair. Jenica had turned four on March 29!

What were the chances of two Stephanie Leinbachs having three girls on the same day, with names that sounded like we planned it? And we had an Erika and Tarica (pronounced nearly the same) a few months apart.

It was coincidence, nothing but coincidence, but it still gave me goosebumps. Before you ask, no, we are not twins separated at birth. Of that I’m certain. We are far too different for that.

The Other Stephanie Leinbach is why I use my middle initial. It looks pretentious, but in our small Mennonite world, with only two degrees of separation, we are too easily confused. Since she has more friends than I do and is more widely known, she gets most of the credit for the stuff I’ve had published, despite the J. And now that she’s recently stuck her toe into the publishing waters, I expect even more confusion to come. Two Stephanie Leinbachs who write? How will they ever tell us apart?

It’s not that hard, especially in person. If you meet a Stephanie Leinbach and she is outgoing and telling many stories and inviting you over for supper, it’s not me.