For Janet

Janet Shellito was an Anna. Like her faithful Biblical counterpart, Janet was waiting to see Jesus. His return in her lifetime was an event as matter-of-fact as the mail arriving and venerable as, well, seeing Christ face to face. She couldn’t wait. I imagine there’s little difference in Janet’s earthly and heavenly mindset. Despite being confined to a body that wouldn’t always cooperate, Janet lived in biblical reality. With the same simplicity that she waited for Jesus’ return, Janet expected the world to yield to the truth of His Word. If she encountered an aberration, she prayed and waited for things to return to God’s system. The day she saw a bumper sticker advocating integrated world religions, she told me about it as if she’d witnessed a waterfall flowing upwards. I remember her speaking out loud to her injured back, reminding it that the Lord created it straight.

I grew up knowing Janet at church. The first time I felt compelled to receive the gift of tongues, I was twenty-one and Janet was eighty-four. I scanned those waiting at the altar to pray for people and approached Janet. She had a serene confidence about her that drew me in. We prayed and waited. Nothing happened then. I was discouraged; Janet was certain. She urged me to go home and continue to wait for His power to fall on me. I followed her counsel, but didn’t receive tongues for seven more years. When it happened, Janet was the third person I told, following my mom and roommate. She was thrilled. The next time we met together, she hugged me and dragged me over to the kitchen table so we could sit down and pray.

“Let me hear your new language, Brooke!”

She held my hand and began speaking in tongues.

“Come on, let’s hear it!” she coached.

I was awkward at first and Janet encouraged me to pray in tongues every day “to build my Holy Spirit muscles”.

After returning from my first trip to China – five weeks of teaching the summer after graduating from college – I was hungry for deeper spiritual growth and wanted someone to disciple me. I prayed and felt led to ask Janet. She and I had had little interaction since praying together one year earlier, but she was excited at the prospect of meeting together. Janet seemed to miss the fact that I was coming to her for wisdom and chatted on about how she needed someone from a younger generation to teach her more about the Lord. We met on Saturday mornings for three years. We’d talk about what we’d learned in our personal Bible study that week and pray together. Sometimes we’d break routine and go out to breakfast at the Old Country Buffet in Kirkland. There were always several of her acquaintances eating there, like a high school reunion with waffles and hash browns. Janet would introduce me, “This is my girl.” Each bite took ages to make it to her mouth as we chatted. I’m a quick eater and had to make a secret game of staying even with her pace. It seems obvious now, but at the time I didn’t see that those outings were never about the food.

I went to China again in 2005, that time for one year. Janet and I stayed in contact. When I returned to the US, we met on and off for another three years. Then, I decided to move to China yet another time. I have a vivid memory of our last meeting before I left for Beijing. We stood in her front yard next door to the fire station.

Janet held me at arm’s length and said, “Now, Brooke, if the Lord returns and we’re raptured while you’re in China, how will He know where to find you? Will He know?”

The question puzzled me. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. She waited for my reply, with inquisitive eyes never leaving mine. I realized she meant it.

“He’ll know where I am, Janet,” I said, “He’s the one who’s sending me there, right?”

“Well, I want you to meet me at the east gate in Heaven,” she said, “That’s what it says in the Bible.”

I agreed and drove off, watching her wave at me in my rear view mirror.

Jesus didn’t return that year in Beijing, and as far as I know, He is still biding His time. Last night, ninety-three year old Janet stopped waiting and went to Him. I will miss her. Terribly. There are pieces of me that have been forever shaped by her remarkable precedent. Today, may I choose to see the world through God’s reality. May I pray in assured expectation. May I grow older, without retreating from His call on my life to serve Him fully every day. Like Janet.

I will meet you at the east gate, beloved friend. Wait for me there.

Kalona, IA

“No dream comes true until you wake up and go to work.” – Amish proverb

This summer, I’ve come to empathize with the unemployed. Since returning from China, I set my alarm clock because I feel the need for structure; a structure that normally exists in going to a job. Days are spent catching up with friends, job searching, and doing leisurely things like baking bread. Now that I live in a new city, my local friend base has disappeared, leaving me with a little too much solitude. One thing that has been clear since moving to Iowa is that God is nudging me to write. It was this combination of hungering for writing inspiration, ample free time, and apathy towards the job search that resulted in yesterday afternoon’s adventure.

I put the keys in the ignition, positioned my sunglasses while looking in the rearview mirror, and entered Kalona, IA into my new GPS unit. Kalona is located fifteen miles southwest of Iowa City. Highway 1 quickly exchanges nondescript strip malls for gently rolling cornfields. Growing up near the Pacific Ocean, I used to imagine people in the middle of America who had never seen the ocean. I pitied them, whoever they were. How sad not to know the salty, slightly foul smell of tide flats; the sound of lapping waves and raucous seagulls; the vast spectrum of blues. Now I know that while I was busy feeling sorry for Midwesterners, there must have been a girl in Iowa pitying me. How sad that I didn’t know the way miles of fields can look like an animated artist’s canvas; the way the rustling wind dances through the rows, occasionally bending a stalk back in an impetuous dip. It’s a beautiful thing.

I knew I was getting close to town when I saw my first horse drawn wagon coming towards me on the road. A man with overalls, straw hat, and a squared-off beard loosely fingered the reins as my 60 mph dust invaded his tranquil ride. Kalona was established in the 1840’s when three Amish families settled in the area. Today, it is home to the largest Amish settlement west of the Mississippi River. Modern restaurants and businesses mix with tourist-attracting Amish shops and historical sites. For my first stop, I ate a sandwich for lunch at the Kalona Bakery. The downtown area was torn up with a road construction project, so I followed a detour along narrow side streets. That led me to Kalona’s Historical Village.

I parked in front, turned off the engine, and tried to assess whether or not it was worth visiting. The building’s exterior had no agenda, as far as enticing visitors. Just a simple, wooden sign and friendly curtains in the windows. In the end, my decision was made based on a need to use a restroom and wanting to escape the uncomfortably hot car. Three elderly women wearing matching patchwork vests greeted me from behind a large octagonal information desk. We smiled at each other for a moment and I tried to assess what this place was all about.

“What would you like to do, Sweetie?” a woman with “Anita” on her nametag asked.

“What can I do here?” I inquired back.

Anita explained the different tour options and the rooms I could see, with different prices.

“We close at 4, so you probably don’t have time for the long tour,” she said.

I looked at my watch. It was 2:30. From what I could see, the whole place would take me fifteen minutes tops to take in, and that was allowing for my restroom visit.

“How about the short tour?” I said.

I paid $6 and Anita’s teammate Ellen led me out the back door into the heat again. I thought it was a guided tour, but Ellen pointed to a row of outbuildings and explained that I should go inside each one and push the button. Then I would hear a recorded explanation of the historical site. With the exception of one retired couple, I was alone.

The first building was a post office. I unlatched the hook-and-eye door and stayed in the doorway, rather than going in. Truth be told, I was a little freaked out. The open door and one window provided the only light for the scene. Complete with a mannequin postmaster, everything was enclosed behind a glass wall. I saw the aforementioned button and reached inside far enough to press it firmly. At once, the glassy-eyed postmaster came to life, rotating from side to side, as the recording boomed about the rigors of sorting mail in the olden days. It was the historical equivalent of a haunted house. I slammed the door and jumped off the porch, shaking the spooky feelings off with a shimmy-like dance sequence. The door swung back open and I refused to go back and lock it. Ellen or Anita could see to that at four o’clock.

I looked at my watch. 2:34 and I was ready to go. Good thing I was too late to take the long tour. How was I going to kill enough time to justify spending six dollars and convince the information desk ladies that I was a mature adult who could handle their freaky row of fun houses? I stood in the shade for a few minutes, watched the retired couple smile at the antics of the general store mannequin, and then decided I could handle the barn of antique tractors. The barn was musty and quiet. I walked slowly, feeling like I’d shrunk – the machines towered over me. I got to the midpoint and remembered the postmaster. What if he had friends lurking in the corners, feigning tractor repair work? I made a 180 degree turn and booked it out of there.

Back in the hot sun, 2:40 pm. I took a deep breath and went inside the last building – a Mennonite Museum. Much to my joy and relief, there were other visitors milling about and a real live tour guide inside. I became a quick fan of these Mennonites. I decided to move around the large room in a clockwise direction. The first display showed a list of ministers from the early 1900’s. I gasped in delight when I noticed “Moses W. Yoder, 1933.” I happen to be dating a handsome Moses J. Yoder, 2010. I took a photo with my phone so I could show him evidence of his Mennonite counterpart later that day. The name Yoder was everywhere. I snapped several more pictures, should Jeremie be interested in seeing his last name on various farm items like feed sacks.

Before long, the tour guide came over and greeted me with, “And who are you?”

“Brooke Caldwell from Seattle, Washington. Who are you?”

“Ruth Yoder. Kalona, Iowa.”

I took to Ruth right away. She talked about the differences between Amish and Mennonite traditions and told stories about the items on display. Without her, I would have passed right over the funeral sticks. They were just a bundle of sticks, leaning against a display case. When she pointed them out, I saw that they had name tags affixed to them. Ruth explained that when someone died, a family member would cut a stick to match the person’s height and take the stick to the local coffin maker as a measurement. The coffin maker’s son had kept a collection of sticks and his family donated them to the museum after he died. I wonder if they made a stick for him too.

Ruth and I chatted about the museum, her growing up and living her whole life in Kalona, and what had brought me to Iowa. She told me she’d recently seen mountains in person for the first time when her daughter took her to South Dakota. It gave her appreciation for the words, “lofty mountain grandeur” in the hymn, “How Great Thou Art”. We sang a few bars together and smiled at God’s goodness in creation. Before I left, Ruth encouraged me that God indeed would take care of me – job-wise and otherwise. What a gift it was to meet her.

3:30 pm! Wow. I had just enough time to cruise through the Amish quilt collection in the main building. Anita smiled as I came back in, and gave me a laminated card with quilt information on it. The postmaster may not have had tractor-fixing friends, but he certainly had buddies in the quilt room. With Anita at my side, I kept my eyes up on the walls where the quilts were and refused eye contact with the life-sized plastic family, frozen in meal preparation and childcare poses. The quilts were beautiful and reflected Amish values. For example, red was hardly used because it’s seen as a flashy color and they don’t believe in calling attention to themselves. I left at 3:45 with a Fall Festival flyer in hand and a promise to return for the festivities later in September.

On my way home, I made two stops: first, to drop off a resume at a Christian school and second, to buy a snack at the famous Stringtown Grocery. Stringtown is an Amish-run store that offers fresh produce, snacks, bakery items, and bulk goods. I walked inside and turned down the first aisle. There was a wide cart of items blocking the way and a dress-covered backside and legs with black wool stockings stuck out, kneeling behind the cart. I squished past and the old woman stood up, her white bonnet reaching just below my shoulder. I looked at the large collection of bulk spices, labeled by hand. As I moved toward the back of the store, I was perplexed by how dark it was. What was going on? Think, Brooke. You’re in an Amish store. No electricity. Just sky lights.

After exploring the small store, I bought a small bag of peanuts from a tall young woman behind the counter. She wore a modest light blue cotton dress, apron, and a white bonnet partially covered her blonde bun. Behind her, a wooden sign listed the prices of bulk goods. They were listed in 25 and 50 pound increments. What does one do with 50 pounds of flax seed?

The bell hanging from the door rang lightly as I left and got back in the car. Seatbelt fastened and air-conditioning flowing, I looked behind me before backing out. Wonder of wonders, there was the little old woman who had been stocking shelves a moment ago. She was backing her Oldsmobile out of the parking spot to my left! She could barely see over the steering wheel and the car moving was evidence that somehow her feet could reach the gas pedal. But, driving? What kind of Amish woman did she think she was? I’ve since learned that there are varying degrees of rules within the Amish community. The Old Order does not use electricity, telephones, or other modern conveniences, while far on the other end of the spectrum, “Beachy” (named for a family) Amish drive cars, use electricity, and have modern farm equipment.

I drove back to town on Highway 1, past a “Watch Out for Horse Drawn Vehicles” sign and a cluster of kids in overalls and homemade dresses. The corn provided a gorgeous backdrop for white sheets blowing dry on a farmhouse clothesline. Before long, I was back on Iowa City’s brick streets, passing gas stations, university buildings, and old churches. What a rich day. I don’t have work to get me out of bed, but I am certainly grateful that I get to wake up in Iowa. I hope the postmaster stays out of my dreams.