Life and Rest, and Joy, and Peace
I just returned from the funeral and burial of my uncle, Edwin Miller. He was 94. He was my father's oldest brother, and the father of Marlin, Valetta Yoder, Omar, Orville, Leanna Chrystie, and Howard. Edwin's wife, Nellie, died some time ago, after they had been married for 63 years.
Valetta was my age, Omar was Carol's age, Orville was Myron's age, Leanna was Lowell's age, and Howard was Dorcas' age. Marlin was the only one in their family who had no age mate in ours. I had always known that Edwin and Nellie had children who died in infancy--three, in fact. Their names were Loretta, Wilbur, and Raymond. I believe they were all born prematurely.
As has happened to me before, I feel like I know my uncle Edwin better now than I did before. Hearing from his children about what he cared about, with what grace he accepted the losses of the last years (vision and mobility, among others), and of the faith that coursed in a deep current through all of his life provided a fuller picture of Uncle Edwin than I had before.
I had always known Edwin to be intelligent, well-read, and knowledgeable, although he never attended school beyond eighth grade (which he accomplished a year ahead of schedule). I knew him also to be a hard worker and an excellent manager. Those who knew him only in recent years perhaps believe he always moved slowly and gingerly, but I remember him swiftly striding about on the farm, and accomplishing farm work with dispatch.
I remember him giving me a job during harvest one year when I was probably in the lower grades in school, and I proudly proclaimed my status to every family member within earshot as soon as Edwin was out of earshot. "I have a job!" I said. The wheat was being stored in a round steel bin in our farmyard, and it dropped into the bin at the top via an auger that had its lower end situated inside a hopper that stood on the ground, ready to receive the grain being dumped from a grain truck or wagon--most likely a pickup-mounted grain bin actually. My job was to run to the hopper whenever a load of grain came in, and stand beside it to direct the person in the hauling vehicle--so that he could get it backed up just right to start dumping grain.
When I was young my dad and Edwin did some farming together, and shared equipment. As a consequence, we children spent many hours working together--or playing together while our dads worked together. A long tiring job of tilling the fields was ever-so-much more enjoyable when one person from each family went to the field together and took turns making rounds. We usually agreed on a specified number of rounds at the outset, after which we would trade off drivers. The off-duty driver waited under a shade tree if such were available.
Last Saturday when Lois and I took lunch over for the family that had gathered after Edwin's death, we reminisced about one particularly vexing aspect of those field working escapades--the pop-off valve on our old U M&M (Minneapolis Moline). As the LP gas in the tractor's tank expanded in the heat of the day, it continued to build up pressure until a safety release valve was activated. When that happened, the noise was deafening, and a dramatic plume of vapor blasted out and billowed all around. As Marlin remembered it, the ones in our family were used to it, and weren't terribly bothered by it, but those in their family feared it greatly.
I remember it a little differently. I don't think anyone ever got used to it. It gave a bit of warning by a soft hissing, and if we hadn't been so scared of the whole business, we could actually have manually released some pressure at that point by opening the valve. Instead, we cowered and waited and then shuddered helplessly when it finally blew. Valetta remembers being so traumatized by it once that she walked a mile to our house from the field where she was working along Centennial Road, claiming that the blast had blown her off the tractor. On Saturday she gave a more likely version. It blew and she stopped the tractor safely and left in a hurry.
I learned to ride a bike on Edwin's farm, with Valetta hanging onto the seat and running alongside to help me stay upright--over and over that one day, with great patience. That night when I lay in bed I could still feel my legs pumping up and down on those bicycle pedals, and I could feel my body tautly struggling to stay upright. I was ever-so-pleased to have learned how to ride a bike that day.
Valetta and I were very much alike in our fascination with all things outdoors, and probably similarly unenamored with indoor work. We encouraged each others' tomboy instincts and climbed trees, investigated bird nests, and romped around on the farm at every opportunity. We went to church barefoot long after more prim girls our age were donning shoes to go to church. We persisted till we were nine years old.
Because of Marlin's big-brother input, Valetta was usually far ahead of me in learning about important things such as cars and car races and gospel music. Valetta always had the low-down on the cars in the church parking lot--make and model and more. I learned almost everything I knew from her.
Several years ago when I did some research on my grandparents' life in preparation for a presentation at a family reunion, I felt like I gained a smidgen of insight into what had shaped Edwin into the very responsible, high-achieving person he became. His position as the first-born of twelve children was probably the most significant factor, but there was more.
By the time Edwin was 16 there were 11 younger siblings. Nine in the family were boys. The Great Depression hit when he was eight years old, and a great drought in the Midwest followed closely on its heels. Life was tough for everyone, but perhaps particularly so in the Miller household, where there was a lot of farm work, and only young children in the home. I think Edwin must have had a lot of responsibility at a very young age, first in working for his father at home, and then in working for others. Edwin began to work away from home when he was quite young. If he did so as soon as he was finished with school, he might have been as young as 13. I knew Edwin to have had very little use for frivolity and irresponsibility, and it makes perfect sense against the background of the expectations he faced from little up.
Edwin served in practical ways in the church and community. He was the sexton at church for years. Before the days of air conditioning, that meant opening the windows on a Saturday summer evening to cool the building thoroughly, and then to close the windows early the next morning to keep the cool air inside. During the winter, the furnace got turned up on Saturday evening, and turned down again after church. The church building itself figured large in the family's memories. Orville's earliest memory is of his mother loading him and his older brother Omar into a wagon and pulling the wagon down the road to watch the construction of the Center church building on a corner of their farm.
In speaking of the mark the church left on their family, Orville noted wryly that their family left a mark on the church as well. On one occasion when Howard was too young to help with clearing off the sidewalk during the winter (I think I'm remembering the chore right), he stayed in the car, with the motor running to keep him warm. Somehow he wrangled the car into gear and collided with the west wall of the building. A chunk broken out of one brick was the mark that stayed a long time. Fortunately the distance the car traveled was very short and the speed couldn't have been great.
Edwin traveled sometimes to help out with Mennonite Disaster Service projects--something he enjoyed a great deal, although he didn't often take the time to leave home otherwise, except for family trips to see Nellie's Indiana family.
Nellie was a fortunate part of Edwin's life. I suspect it was partly her vision that had the family packing up for a 3-week camping trip to Colorado and Wyoming during one summer, leaving Howard, the 6-month-old baby, at Melvin Yoders, and having Abe and David Yoder stay at Edwin's place to milk the cows and move irrigation pipe, etc. Everything they took with them for three weeks of camping fit into the trunk of their Bonneville Pontiac (Thanks to Valetta, I could identify such a car today if I saw one). That trip is a highlight of the children's memory bank.
In later years, Edwin and Nellie traveled together to Europe and to various places on tours in the US--one or two every year in their retirement years, while their health allowed it. On these trips, I believe Edwin could lay aside the mantle of responsibility that had characterized his life earlier, and a mellow, gentle man gradually emerged. That's what people saw who cared for him in the 4 1/2 years he lived at Mennonite Friendship Communities where he died. He was appreciative and uncomplaining, liberally sprinkling his communications with good humor.
Today at the funeral, Shane led in the congregational singing of "'Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus." The significance of that choice became clear when Orville shared that in a Sunday evening song service at MFC, Edwin helped sing every word of that song--at a time when he hardly ever sang more than single phrases of most songs, and he never again sang any of that song, even when others sang it. Orville believed it to be the testimony of his heart. I'm sure that from now on, I will be voicing a tribute to my Uncle Edwin every time I sing that song. I've copied the words* here from this site:
Valetta was my age, Omar was Carol's age, Orville was Myron's age, Leanna was Lowell's age, and Howard was Dorcas' age. Marlin was the only one in their family who had no age mate in ours. I had always known that Edwin and Nellie had children who died in infancy--three, in fact. Their names were Loretta, Wilbur, and Raymond. I believe they were all born prematurely.
I had always known Edwin to be intelligent, well-read, and knowledgeable, although he never attended school beyond eighth grade (which he accomplished a year ahead of schedule). I knew him also to be a hard worker and an excellent manager. Those who knew him only in recent years perhaps believe he always moved slowly and gingerly, but I remember him swiftly striding about on the farm, and accomplishing farm work with dispatch.
I remember him giving me a job during harvest one year when I was probably in the lower grades in school, and I proudly proclaimed my status to every family member within earshot as soon as Edwin was out of earshot. "I have a job!" I said. The wheat was being stored in a round steel bin in our farmyard, and it dropped into the bin at the top via an auger that had its lower end situated inside a hopper that stood on the ground, ready to receive the grain being dumped from a grain truck or wagon--most likely a pickup-mounted grain bin actually. My job was to run to the hopper whenever a load of grain came in, and stand beside it to direct the person in the hauling vehicle--so that he could get it backed up just right to start dumping grain.
When I was young my dad and Edwin did some farming together, and shared equipment. As a consequence, we children spent many hours working together--or playing together while our dads worked together. A long tiring job of tilling the fields was ever-so-much more enjoyable when one person from each family went to the field together and took turns making rounds. We usually agreed on a specified number of rounds at the outset, after which we would trade off drivers. The off-duty driver waited under a shade tree if such were available.
Last Saturday when Lois and I took lunch over for the family that had gathered after Edwin's death, we reminisced about one particularly vexing aspect of those field working escapades--the pop-off valve on our old U M&M (Minneapolis Moline). As the LP gas in the tractor's tank expanded in the heat of the day, it continued to build up pressure until a safety release valve was activated. When that happened, the noise was deafening, and a dramatic plume of vapor blasted out and billowed all around. As Marlin remembered it, the ones in our family were used to it, and weren't terribly bothered by it, but those in their family feared it greatly.
I remember it a little differently. I don't think anyone ever got used to it. It gave a bit of warning by a soft hissing, and if we hadn't been so scared of the whole business, we could actually have manually released some pressure at that point by opening the valve. Instead, we cowered and waited and then shuddered helplessly when it finally blew. Valetta remembers being so traumatized by it once that she walked a mile to our house from the field where she was working along Centennial Road, claiming that the blast had blown her off the tractor. On Saturday she gave a more likely version. It blew and she stopped the tractor safely and left in a hurry.
I learned to ride a bike on Edwin's farm, with Valetta hanging onto the seat and running alongside to help me stay upright--over and over that one day, with great patience. That night when I lay in bed I could still feel my legs pumping up and down on those bicycle pedals, and I could feel my body tautly struggling to stay upright. I was ever-so-pleased to have learned how to ride a bike that day.
Valetta and I were very much alike in our fascination with all things outdoors, and probably similarly unenamored with indoor work. We encouraged each others' tomboy instincts and climbed trees, investigated bird nests, and romped around on the farm at every opportunity. We went to church barefoot long after more prim girls our age were donning shoes to go to church. We persisted till we were nine years old.
Because of Marlin's big-brother input, Valetta was usually far ahead of me in learning about important things such as cars and car races and gospel music. Valetta always had the low-down on the cars in the church parking lot--make and model and more. I learned almost everything I knew from her.
Several years ago when I did some research on my grandparents' life in preparation for a presentation at a family reunion, I felt like I gained a smidgen of insight into what had shaped Edwin into the very responsible, high-achieving person he became. His position as the first-born of twelve children was probably the most significant factor, but there was more.
By the time Edwin was 16 there were 11 younger siblings. Nine in the family were boys. The Great Depression hit when he was eight years old, and a great drought in the Midwest followed closely on its heels. Life was tough for everyone, but perhaps particularly so in the Miller household, where there was a lot of farm work, and only young children in the home. I think Edwin must have had a lot of responsibility at a very young age, first in working for his father at home, and then in working for others. Edwin began to work away from home when he was quite young. If he did so as soon as he was finished with school, he might have been as young as 13. I knew Edwin to have had very little use for frivolity and irresponsibility, and it makes perfect sense against the background of the expectations he faced from little up.
Edwin served in practical ways in the church and community. He was the sexton at church for years. Before the days of air conditioning, that meant opening the windows on a Saturday summer evening to cool the building thoroughly, and then to close the windows early the next morning to keep the cool air inside. During the winter, the furnace got turned up on Saturday evening, and turned down again after church. The church building itself figured large in the family's memories. Orville's earliest memory is of his mother loading him and his older brother Omar into a wagon and pulling the wagon down the road to watch the construction of the Center church building on a corner of their farm.
In speaking of the mark the church left on their family, Orville noted wryly that their family left a mark on the church as well. On one occasion when Howard was too young to help with clearing off the sidewalk during the winter (I think I'm remembering the chore right), he stayed in the car, with the motor running to keep him warm. Somehow he wrangled the car into gear and collided with the west wall of the building. A chunk broken out of one brick was the mark that stayed a long time. Fortunately the distance the car traveled was very short and the speed couldn't have been great.
Edwin traveled sometimes to help out with Mennonite Disaster Service projects--something he enjoyed a great deal, although he didn't often take the time to leave home otherwise, except for family trips to see Nellie's Indiana family.
Nellie was a fortunate part of Edwin's life. I suspect it was partly her vision that had the family packing up for a 3-week camping trip to Colorado and Wyoming during one summer, leaving Howard, the 6-month-old baby, at Melvin Yoders, and having Abe and David Yoder stay at Edwin's place to milk the cows and move irrigation pipe, etc. Everything they took with them for three weeks of camping fit into the trunk of their Bonneville Pontiac (Thanks to Valetta, I could identify such a car today if I saw one). That trip is a highlight of the children's memory bank.
In later years, Edwin and Nellie traveled together to Europe and to various places on tours in the US--one or two every year in their retirement years, while their health allowed it. On these trips, I believe Edwin could lay aside the mantle of responsibility that had characterized his life earlier, and a mellow, gentle man gradually emerged. That's what people saw who cared for him in the 4 1/2 years he lived at Mennonite Friendship Communities where he died. He was appreciative and uncomplaining, liberally sprinkling his communications with good humor.
Today at the funeral, Shane led in the congregational singing of "'Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus." The significance of that choice became clear when Orville shared that in a Sunday evening song service at MFC, Edwin helped sing every word of that song--at a time when he hardly ever sang more than single phrases of most songs, and he never again sang any of that song, even when others sang it. Orville believed it to be the testimony of his heart. I'm sure that from now on, I will be voicing a tribute to my Uncle Edwin every time I sing that song. I've copied the words* here from this site:
1 'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,
and to take him at his word;
just to rest upon his promise,
and to know, "Thus saith the Lord."
and to take him at his word;
just to rest upon his promise,
and to know, "Thus saith the Lord."
Refrain:
Jesus, Jesus, how I trust him!
How I've proved him o'er and o'er!
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus!
O for grace to trust him more!
Jesus, Jesus, how I trust him!
How I've proved him o'er and o'er!
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus!
O for grace to trust him more!
2 O how sweet to trust in Jesus,
just to trust his cleansing blood;
and in simple faith to plunge me
neath the healing, cleansing flood! [Refrain]
just to trust his cleansing blood;
and in simple faith to plunge me
neath the healing, cleansing flood! [Refrain]
3 Yes, 'tis sweet to trust in Jesus,
just from sin and self to cease;
just from Jesus simply taking
life and rest, and joy and peace. [Refrain]
just from sin and self to cease;
just from Jesus simply taking
life and rest, and joy and peace. [Refrain]
United Methodist Hymnal, 1989
*Our hymnal contains a very slightly altered version.posted by Mrs. I (Miriam Iwashige) at
3:57 PM
1 Comments:
Thanks for the glimpse of the funeral. I want to watch the service soon.
By
Unknown, at 12/13/2015
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