The Story of an Old Order Mennonite Girl

Circle Letters: The Story of an Old Order Mennonite Girl - A Memoir by Aleta M. Schrock

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Daddy's Baby Girl: A Photo Memory

Throughout my childhood years, and even now as an adult, I have carried with me the feeling of being loved and special. This feeling may, in part, be due to a particular photo-memory of my dad. I have no timeline with which to gage this memory, except for the feeling of being the size of a little one or two year old girl enveloped in my daddy’s arms.
He is sitting on a kitchen chair leaning slightly forward, my back leaning against his chest, my legs following his as they form his lap, his arms snuggling me into his embrace. We sit there with our backs to the kitchen table, facing the area where the large white granite sink would have been inside the back door: Our hearts connected; a knowing that I am his baby girl.
Even though it is a still-life shot with no words spoken in the photo-memory, my feeling has always been that he spoke them. That he actually called me his Baby girl.
Over the years I have often questioned the accuracy of this memory, while hopefully clinging to it. My first language is Pennsylvania Dutch, but my memory consists of the English phrase “Baby Girl.” In Pennsylvania Dutch we frequently use English/Dutch combinations, so I thought that he would more likely have said something like “Baby Madle”  which is Baby Girl or perhaps “Glae Madle,” Little Girl or possibly even “Glae Buple”  Little Baby, but none of those phrases felt quite right. My feelings register the phrase “Baby Girl”. If my dad would not have used that phrase perhaps the entire memory-photo was off. Had my emotions left a thick layer of smoky residue across this picture?
The last several years I have been reading my Aunt Emma’s diaries. She is my dad’s sister. The oldest in the family. Her diaries span fifty-two years from 1939, the year that my dad was born, until 1991 when she passed away. She wrote in her diaries that after Dad learned he had cancer, he would just sit and hold me and play with me for hours at a time. As I read I experienced a renewed hope that my memory of snuggling on his lap and being called his baby girl might actually be real.
After reading Emma’s diaries, I initially wanted to tell her story, but even though her brief diary entries brought her to life in my mind, I struggled with putting who she was on paper. I finally came to the realization that her story touched some deep places within my story and I needed to first tell mine. So I called my mom and began to relate my earliest memories. This was the first time I had shared many of them with her or with anyone for that matter.
My mom and I talked about which of the “Baby Girl” phrases Dad might have used. “He might have said “Baby Girl,” Mom said. “Either that or “Baby Madle.” But I doubt that he would have used the word buple, it holds a more negative connotation.”
As I thought about these things my mom started talking again. “When I was expecting for the second time,” she mused. “Your dad asked if I thought it might be a girl this time and I responded that it was probably another boy.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice to have a girl since we already have a boy?” he asked.
Wow! He really wanted me! My heart thrilled at the thought.
Since that time I have come to realize that possibly the reason the words were not a part of my photo-memory is because he may not have spoken them. They may merely be the memory-expression of what we both felt at that moment. But no matter what the words were that he had spoken or not spoken, the one thing I know for sure is that I had heard his heart. He wanted me, a baby girl. I was and I am his Baby Girl.
That feeling of being loved has stayed with me throughout my entire life… with both family and friends… and when in my late teens I came to Christ as a broken, hurting child, it was easy to receive the love and forgiveness of my Heavenly Father.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

TODAY: Christmas 2011

Merry Christ-mas! I am blessed.
This morning my husband sang in the Christmas Choir at church and I operated the computer that projected the words to the songs on the back wall above the balcony. So while the congregation thought the choir members were merely lifting their eyes in worship to God, they were actually reading the cheat-sheet I was displaying. The choir members knew the songs, but since we had a big production today, it was nice for them to have the words there in case of a moment of nervous blankness.
Initially I found myself working hard to have the correct verses displayed at the right time in order to not make a fool of myself. But then God reminded me: We don’t do things with excellence to exalt ourselves: we do things with excellence to better serve others. Through this attitude Christ is also exalted and served. The presence of God was wonderfully present and we were blessed through this time of worship in song.

One king held the frankincense.
One king held the myrrh.
One king held the purest gold.
One king held the hope of the world.
(Words and Music by Jeff Borders, Gayla Borders
        and Lowell Alexander, Arranged by Jay Rouse)

Thank you God for choosing to being born as a human and providing real life and hope for this world.
My husband and I cooked and baked this week. Some of it was done in bits and pieces during the day, some of it late at night. Friday night we came home from choir practice sometime past 10:00 PM and decided that if we wanted the pumpkin pies and milk tapioca made it needed to be then. So we reached into the cupboards and got out the pie pans that had last been used at Thanksgiving and that would probably not be used again until Easter.
I got out the milk tapioca recipe written on a lined index card in my grossmommy’s handwriting- a family favorite.
“Milk Tapioca,” my husband laughs. “It’s tapioca. Why bother adding the word milk?”
“Ah, but the word milk is essential,” I tell him. “In the spring we cook Rhubarb Tapioca. Tapioca can also be used to thicken fruits, making it Peach Tapioca or Cherry Tapioca… Yeah, I believe the word Milk added to the front of Tapioca is indispensable.”
We measured and stirred, baked and cooked, laughed at silly nothings and sang Christmas Carols. While the pies were in the oven, sometime around 1:00 AM, Daniel stood by the stove stirring my milk tapioca while I washed up the last of the dishes. Suddenly he remarked, “I had an extra can of pumpkin left over. I should have checked more carefully when I made that comment about the filling be more runny than normal. Let me see…” His brow furrowed slightly as he counted cups and teaspoons. “Yeah, I doubled everything except the pumpkin.” We discussed whether it was going to set properly or whether it would have enough of a pumpkinny taste. To our surprise it turned out quite well, slightly sweeter than we would have preferred, but quite edible.
While we were laughing at his cooking error, I tasted the milk tapioca. “Did you forget something, too?” he asked when he saw me walk over to the refrigerator and stare at the recipe posted there.
“It’s the salt,” I said while holding up fingers to figure out 1/8 times twelve. Grossmommy’s original recipe called for only two cups of milk. She always tripled it when she made it and I had those measurements penciled in besides the others, all except for the salt.
“It needs more than salt,” my husband commented licking a spoon. “It also needs sugar.” I added the salt and then went back to the recipe. The original recipe called for three tablespoons of sugar, multiply that times three. I was lifting fingers again.
“Ah, that’s the problem.” The tripled recipe needed one cup plus one tablespoon of sugar, but because I always add slightly less sugar, I had penciled in only one cup. That evening while cooking I had forgotten that the recipe already had less sugar figured into it and I added a scant cup of sugar. I might have gotten away with that if it wasn’t for the fact that tonight I was duodectupling the recipe. By adding two scant cups of sugar I had reduced the sweetness by somewhere between four to six tablespoons. I added four more tablespoons and the milk tapioca turned out perfectly.
 My sister-in-law and her college age daughter ate dinner with us after church on Christmas Day. My husband had made a delicious cranberry walnut stuffing. I told him he’ll need to write it down so we can duplicate it again next year. We had made extra of everything so we could send some home with our guests plus enjoy leftovers all week.
In the afternoon we all went to the Dollar Theater and saw the movie: In Time. My husband and I had seen it earlier this week and wanted to see it again. It’s thought provoking.
My husband’s job doesn’t allow him to be home every evening, so we are especially enjoying his time off. Many evenings we sat side-by-side on the sofa, each with our laptop, feet propped up or curled under, drinking hot tea or hot chocolate, nibbling on cheese and crackers or cookies… just being. Occasionally I would ask for a moment of his time and he would lean over to read or proofread my writing. Other times I would pause and listen to the latest research he had found on electro-magnetics and then an enlightening conversation would follow.
One evening, in honor of our first date, we drove through a local neighborhood to see the Christmas lights. We reminisced, comparing the two evenings. On our first date it was close to zero and windy. This year it was in the forties and we could comfortably roll down the windows to listen to some of the musical displays.
My life contains health, love and laughter. Indeed, I am blessed.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Photo vs. Movie Memories: Aunt Emma

All of my earliest childhood memories are merely snapshots in my head. The Old Order Mennonite Church I grew up in does not allow cameras and discourages its members from having their pictures taken. My dad’s family religiously observed this ordnung or rule; therefore, I have no tangible photo album of my early childhood.
The only album I posses is the perceptions within my mind, taken as snapshots void of conversation, yet poignant with emotion. Through these emotions connected with each memory-photo, I have a knowing of what is being said even though I cannot remember actually hearing the words being spoken. I have wondered if, just like faces fade within our memory, the voices fade too, and therefore I am left with only the knowing and not the sound.
These photo-memories have aged and become somewhat fuzzy and since they may not have been taken in the best lighting, I have questioned their authenticity. Yet, through the years I have clung to the hope that they are genuine, because their contents are all the memories I have of my dad.
There is only one early childhood memory alive with movement. It’s a memory of my dad's oldest sister, my Aunt Emma. Emma was a favorite with all of us grandchildren. In this action filled movie-memory Emma is sitting in the dining room on her white high-chair, her outstretched arm waving a straight, dark-walnut stained cane, her voice filled with laughter. I can still feel the sheer joy of darting back and forth between the kitchen and dining room; dodging sideways, evading her cane, peals of laughter bouncing against the white painted walls.
Over the years I have been curious why all the memories of my dad are contained in these still shot photos. Why Emma’s is the only early childhood memory with live action. Then, as I read my Aunt Emma’s journal and also began to record my memories, I stumbled upon what I believe to be the why.
My dad passed away from Hodgkin’s Disease when I was four and a half years old. My four year old mind was not capable of comprehending death: It could only perceive it as an abandonment of hellish proportions. My memories of him froze in action along with the grief of losing him. I still remember the feeling of being Daddy’s Baby Girl, but there is no sense of loss connected to those memories. My mind freeze-framed the memories before it got to the painful emotions. My aunt Emma, on the other hand, remained a source of joy well beyond my childhood. My memory of her is not merely a freeze-framed photo; it is a part of my life-movie.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Life as a Book

My aunt, Emma Schrock, began her 1971 diary with this poem by Gertrude Laura Gast:

       The New Year like a book lies before me;
       On its cover two words, "My Life," I see.
       I open the covers and look between—
       Each page is empty, no words can be seen,
       For I am a writer, I hold the pen
       That'll fill these pages to be read by men.
       Just what kind of book will my book be,
       My life written there for others to see,
       Each day a page written, one by one—
       Will it be worthwhile when finished and done?
       Lord, help me keep these pages clean and fair
       By living the life I’d have written there.

She understood that our lives are interesting stories for others to read. Therefore, she kept a diary and before her death in 1991, even began to recopy each diary by hand in larger notebooks so that it would be in an easier to read format for her nieces and nephews.
Eleven years later a diary entry about a friend named, Joe, expressed this same concept.
Joe, a man from Chicago became interested in learning more about the Old Order Mennonite Church and every other weekend he drove his car from his home in Chicago to the Old Order Mennonite community. He often stayed at my Grossdaudy Schrock’s house and since Grossdaudy was in his late eighties and no longer able to drive, Joe drove their horse and buggy to church for them. He would often spend the night at my Grandparents and became good friends with my Aunt Emma who still lived at home. She was fascinated with him and his life. She watched him buy a farm, date an Old Order Mennonite girl from Virginia and prayed for him to join church some day. She made several comments similar to the following August 11, 1982, journal entry:
Joe’s life is like reading an interesting story. One wonders what’s next.
She saw Joe’s life as an interesting book. He saw the Old Order Mennonite life in a similar light.
I believe we all have a story. It’s there waiting to be told. We can choose to find it by fully developing, living and loving the life we have or instead live vicariously through the lives of others we deem more exciting.
I discovered this when I was somewhere between the age of nine and eleven. During those years I lived, ate and breathed mystery stories and had just finished reading a great one. I rolled onto my back on a blanket under a Maple tree in our back yard, gazing up into the blue sky, relishing that after-a-good-book feeling resonating through me, wishing my life were as exciting as the books I read: mysteries to solve, foreign lands to travel, exciting people to meet…
Then the realization came. My life is exciting. It is just that when the characters in a book face a dull moment, they turn the page and start a new chapter and in real life I had to live through those boring moments. At that instant, as my body lay on the blanketed grass and my eyes gazed through the leafy maple branches past the fluffy white clouds to the blue sky beyond, I knew that if all the exciting moments in my life, were compacted together, they would create an exciting story. It was all in the point of view. My life was a book.
During the next seven years mystery stories evolved into animal stories and then were eventually replaced by romance novels. During my mid-teen years I lived, ate and breathed romance novels containing the theme “poor, hard working girl meets rich, handsome guy and lives happily ever after.” I eventually recognized them for the junk that they were, but I had no idea that in another seven years, as a college student, those novels would come to my rescue.
At the age of twenty-three, when I was in college, I lived in a little apartment by myself. Each week I did not have enough extra money to even buy a piece of chocolate candy. One day after I had paid all the bills and bought the basic groceries I needed for the week, I sat on the floor beside my day-bed looking through tears at my one remaining dime. I felt thankful for having a dime left over while simultaneously trying to ignore the fact that I had four entire college years to live through before I could become a teacher and begin earning a decent income.
Suddenly, in the midst of my tears, the nostalgia of those teenage romance novels swept through me and I saw myself as one of those “poor, hard working girls.” As the sentiments of those novels enveloped me, I realized that, just like the characters in the book, I did not know what exciting, romantic experiences lay just around the corner. At that time I would not have admitted it openly, but those seemingly empty novels had reached through the years to encourage me.
* * * * *
The following year I actually met and fell in love with a “rich, handsome guy.” He brought up the topic of marriage and I panicked, “Not till after I graduate from college.” Shortly after that he asked if he could pay my rent and living expenses so that I would not have to work anymore and thus have time to take more classes and graduate sooner.
A year later he panicked and decided he did not want to get married after all. The night he broke up he gave me a check to cover all my living expenses for my final year of college. His comment was that as a teacher I would make a difference in the lives of children, and he viewed the money he gave me as an investment into those lives.
It took some time for me to realize it, but I had just survived my own personal romance novel and I actually lived happily ever after… Eventually.

Tell Me a Story

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Teacher: Then and Now

One Valentine’s Day during my second year of teaching I felt two arms encircling me from behind. They held me tightly and I had to twist my body around to discover that it was Reniesha.  Reniesha, an angry little second grade girl who sometimes made loud noises to disrupt the class, frequently stuck out her foot to trip other students as they walked by and “accidentally” bumped into children with her elbow. With her, life was a daily challenge in my classroom, and yet, there was something about her that wound its way into my heart. I reached out to her with everything I knew, but life had hardened her heart… had taught her not to trust… had convinced her she was bad.
Reniesha and the public schools were a culture shock for me. In the one-room Old Order Mennonite School where I taught previously, I was concerned about note writing, paper wads, gum chewing and talking. The only one of those I dealt with on a daily basis was talking. While the academic education of these little minds was important to the Old Order Mennonite parents, instilling Godly principals was even more so.
But now, in this inner-city public school some of my students had parents who were just trying to survive, trying to figure out a way to make it through another day. For years I questioned their level of commitment to their children. But over time, as I have gotten to know them, I have come to the realization that their love for their children is every bit as powerful as the Old Order Mennonite mother who daily helps her little daughter climb up on a chair so she can help measure out flour and sugar and wash dishes. As powerful as the Old Order Mennonite father whose greatest desire is to farm or have a business at home where he can daily teach his sons to become studious men. I have come to understand that the families of many of my current students are fighting battles in their lives that I can only begin to imagine… battles that involve drugs, gun shots at night, sexual exploitation, hateful words and holes in their hearts that have left them wounded and without the knowledge of how to keep these same things from happening to their own children.
In contrast my childhood playground was a peaceful safe neighborhood of barns, swamp, railroad tracks, woods, creek, pond and poison ivy beds. I went to sleep each night under grossmommy-made quilts and comforters with warm snuggling memories of bedtime fairytales, nursery rhymes, Bible Stories, Richard Scarry or Dr, Seuss and always the cheerful “Good-Night, Aleta, Schlof Gut. Sleep Well.” and I awoke to the whirring-snap of green pull shades accompanying my mom’s soprano voice:

Let the sun shine in. Face it with a grin.
Smilers never lose and frowners never win.
So let the sun shine in. Face it with a grin.
Open up your heart and let the sun shine in. (Stuart Hamblen)

I still taste the sugary sweetness of Captain Crunch drowned in fresh milk from my uncle’s dairy followed by a slurping ahhh as I tipped the bowl to my lips and savored the remaining goodness of sweet milk and then the subsequent quiet reminder, “I let you slurp the milk out of your bowl here at home, but remember it is not polite to do it at other people’s houses.”
The satisfying taste of the cookies we were allowed to sneak in between mealtimes reminds me that the worst hunger I experienced as a child was while peddling my bicycle home from the furthest corners of my playground anticipating the aroma of meat and vegetables my mom would dish out onto our dinner or supper plates.
My mom never yelled or referred to us in any unpleasant ways. She never even called us kids. We were children. Kids were baby goats. The Bible refers to goats being on the left and sheep on the right. She believed children deserved more respect than to be referred to as goats.
As a teacher I have attempted to convey this sense of love and security to my students, but Reneisha, like many others, would only respond in part, her guard up, protecting her heart in the only way she knew how. I believed love and praise, along with rewards and consequences were the tools needed to raise a child’s behavior to the next level of greatness. I would watch challenging students like Reneisha in an effort to catch them doing the right thing, even the least little thing such as a Math problem all by themselves, and then I would praise them sincerely. It made some difference which was evidenced by Reneisha’s arms around my waist, but even though I received a few more hugs that year, nothing changed permanently. And finding those moments when she deserved words of praise were often difficult.
What I did not know then, was that when God created me in his image, he had placed his own Creative Force within my tongue. I would not have needed to wait until I caught Reneisha doing the right thing before I spoke words of praise and life into her heart and mind. God speaks those things which are not as though they already were (Rom. 4:17). He has told us to do the same, to speak in faith, believing that we have what we ask him for (Mark 11:23-24).
I had a very angry boy in my classroom this year. At Open House the night before school began he and his siblings ran in and out of my classroom throughout the evening yelling and laughing, “He’s bad! He’s bad! Daren’s bad!”
I hugged him with the smiling comment that I was sure he would be a good student. He was for about a three day honeymoon, then I had a substitute for two days and when I returned he soon began to live up to his siblings' prophecies. I began with the typical “praise him for every little bit of good he does” and give logical consequences for wrong choices, but he became even more angry and defiant than before. Then one day as I was praying God brought two things to my memory.
The first was a book that I had read about strong-willed children: You Can’t Make Me (But I Can Be Persuaded) by Cynthia Ulrich Tobias. The author had stated that all the consequences in the world could not convince a strong-willed child to follow the rules. A strong-willed child would rather do the proverbial “cut off the nose to spite the face” rather than allow the adult to win.
So I quit trying to make him follow classroom rules through the reward and punishment method and instead began to do the second thing God had brought to my remembrance. Speak the Word of God into his life. God says that his Word brings us life and health (Prov. 4: 20-22). But this was the public schools. I could not speak as freely as I would have liked, so I asked god to place his health and life into the words I was able to speak.
I began to hug Daren throughout the day and say, “Daren you’re a good boy. I love you. I’m so glad you are in my class.” And he would yell, “I’m bad. I hate this school.” 
I ignored his comments and continued to repeat, “Daren you’re a good boy. I love you. I’m so glad you are in my class. You are a good boy and sometimes it takes time for good boys to learn how to make good choices.” Instead of giving him the negative consequences he deserved, I spoke those same words of life to him when his behavior was atrocious. Soon I would feel his body begin to relax and lean into my hug. I continued to speak the truth of God’s word into his life. You are a good boy. Within days his behavior began to improve. Speaking the goodness and love of God into his life before it was visible has brought that goodness and love into the realm of the visible. He still has challenges, but nothing like what it used to be and he continues to improve every day.
God tells us to be imitators of him (Eph. 5: 1). So I spoke to the mountain and spoke those things that are not as though they already were, knowing that in the Spirit World… they already are. I continue to speak the goodness and love of God into Daren’s life and God performs his Word in ways that I never could.        
My relationship with God works kind of like those charities that have large corporations backing them up, for each dollar raised the corporation promises to donate double or triple the amount. Therefore, if I give $100 to that charity, I’ve in reality helped them raise $200 or $300. Without that corporation’s support my $100 would be just that- $100. Likewise, when I try to do the good and right things in life on my own strength, I am limited by my own ability.
On my own, whatever good I am capable of accomplishing, that’s all that gets done. I have twenty-five first graders with whom I have to remember to each day verbalize hope even when it looks hopeless, to praise when I’d rather complain, to speak kind loving words when I feel exasperated, to speak the goodness of God into their hearts and minds when all I see is misbehaviors, to patiently explain and re-explain in four different ways to six different children how to do a Math problem, to gently but firmly remind them that they need to turn and look at the teacher when she is talking, to quietly tell two children who have misbehaved for the third time that day to go change their behavior cards, to smile and exclaim excitedly to the fourth loose tooth within three minutes time, to know exactly how much sympathy to show to a chronic complainer, to wisely decide when a Band-Aid is necessary to a stop blood flow, when the bandage is necessary to stop the tear-flow and when it is time to say: You WILL be fine. You do NOT need another bandage., to not allow the strong-willed child to demand more of my attention than the ones doing the right thing, to know when to be firm and when to be gentle, to remember to be kind and smiling and loving while I teach Reading and Writing and Spelling and Math and Science, Social Studies and social skills with great enthusiasm from 8 o’clock in the morning until 2:20 in the afternoon…
On the days when I realize how far short I have fallen and begin to feel overwhelmed with the realization that I can never remember to do it all… On those days I realize that I have been trying to do it on my own strength. I have been forgetting to rely on the one who called and equipped me. Then instead of trying to do better, I build my relationship with God: I read his Word, I spend time in worship and rest in his presence. Then as his Spirit within me increases and I decrease, his power within me does what I could not. He backs up my feeble $100 efforts in love with double and triple the amount of results.

Monday, November 14, 2011

My First Blog

I grew up in the Old Order Mennonite Church/culture. People, who have not grown up in a community where Old Order Mennonites live, look at me quizzically when I say that. I often find myself giving the quick explanation. It’s similar to the Amish. Like the Amish, Old Order Mennonites drive a horse and buggy and wear plain clothing. It's similar and yet to those of us living it... it's very different. We're not Amish. For years I've wanted to share my story and to bring an awareness of Old Order Mennonites to the world. But I’ve wondered: Would anyone actually be interested?
At the age of 23 I chose to leave the Old Order Mennonite Church. I have now lived in mainstream American culture slightly longer than I had lived as an Old Order Mennonite, but I have still not totally figured out where I belong. I am bi-lingual and bi-cultural. I flow in and out of English and Pennsylvania Dutch when I think. I flow in and out of cultural mannerisms depending where I am and who I am with. All people do this to a point. We flow between being our work-self and our home-self, but when culture is added into the mix the concept is taken a step deeper.
My mom’s family developed the tradition of having a family reunion each year that one of them turns fifty. This last summer we celebrated my youngest aunt’s fiftieth birthday. She and I grew up as playmates. I’m not far behind.
There is something about facing ones 50’s that changes a person. Some people refer to it as a mid-life crisis. But instead of buying the proverbial red convertible, my mind began a walk down Memory Lane. Who am I? What culture do I belong to? Where has my life gone? Have I accomplished my dreams? Do I still have the same dreams? Am I truly living or just existing? Who do I want to be when I grow up?
This blog is a chronicle of my journey from a little Old Order Mennonite girl to who I am today.