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Very few of us have no attachment to a material object.  The visual of affect, a smell or sound will bring back memories of loved ones now gone or wonderful past times.  Although as Christians our allegiance is not to be with things of this world, the comfort drawn from these objects, especially in difficult times, is not all bad–it is only when they replace or exclude God that the line must be drawn.

Yet, how many sentimental material objects do we need?  If some should be sacrificed for monetary reasons–well, that is hard but reasonable.  Don’t get me wrong–I have still plenty of sentimental items–but over time my need for them has lessened.  At the same time my dependence upon God has grown.  Material objects won’t be with us for eternity, but God will.  They can be destroyed by fire, tornado or hurricane.  God will still be there.

Here in the USofA, it is our flag that is the symbol.  It stands for our strength of spirit, those who have given their lives for our freedom and for their brothers and sisters in battle.  It stands for who we are–a melting pot of the world.

As Christians, we have had symbols that rose to prominence, and then dimmed in importance.  The symbol that will never change, that stands out as a beacon shining forth from a lighthouse, is the empty cross.   It isn’t a passive symbol, either.  The empty cross at the same time both pulls at our heartstrings and shines out radiantly for who is not there.  It stands for the gift of freedom–freedom to live through hard times by clinging to the hope of a better future, and freedom from all of the ills of our wretched human nature.

Christian music also reflects this passion in its hymns and songs.  Some will say that there is no place for sentimental words–songs that speak of our personal feelings, and then I must respectfully disagree.  What is in our souls where the Holy Spirit dwells is not passive.  On the contrary, what resides there is deep passion that overflows for the love of our Savior Jesus Christ and the strength of an all-encompassing God.

In sorrow we desire the words of What a Friend We Have in Jesus or the Gaithers’ Because He Lives.  When we look out at God’s creation what comes to mind is How Great Thou Art.  When our love overflows, I Love to Tell the Story  bursts out, and when we first accept Jesus’ invitation who among us doesn’t think of Just As I Am?

There is a place for it all–just as there will be, until the very moment of death, the invitation to ask for Jesus’ forgiveness and become one of His spiritual children.  God’s door is always open.  He is waiting for you, just as he was waiting for me.  So, if you haven’t asked Him yet, do it now.  Believe me when I say this–it will be the best decision you will ever make.

babamarusia

Babamarusia is Mary May, owner of Quality Music and Books, a Christian book store in Osseo, Minnesota, and publisher of this blog.

Welcome to the Quality Music & Books Blog! 

Having spent my growing years in the Ukrainian Orthodox Church, I learned to say the Lord’s Prayer in both English and Ukrainian.  Although I do not understand the words when reciting or singing this prayer in Ukrainian, the remembered reverence when used during the Divine Liturgy, church functions, and at family dinners still makes for a very spiritual experience.

After marriage I began attending a Lutheran church with my husband, where again the Lord’s Prayer is used as part of the liturgical worship service.  I was quite surprised–or maybe simply naive–the first time I heard someone say that the prayer taught by Jesus and recorded in the Gospels as being just a prayer, not the only prayer, and certainly not necessary in a worship service.

A recent conversation with a pastor in the Nazarene church about the Lord’s Prayer and their only occasional use brought me to ponder upon my opinion for the necessity of praying it so diligently and regularly.  Here, without knowledge of the original language, I will rely on the King James Version ( KJV ) of Matthew 6, a chapter brimming with instructional teaching from our Savior Jesus Christ.

Taking specifically the passages on the prayer, I refer first to verse 9.   After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father …. In this translation “After this manner” certainly does not give firm direction for use in the same manner as the bread and wine for communion.  There Jesus uses the word “when.”  Also, verse 7 gives further instruction about prayer, But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do; …  This may certainly imply that repetitious recitation of the Lord’s Prayer is not even correct for this is what  “the heathens do.”

Here is where I offer my own approach as another viewpoint: It is very easy to fall into the habit of repeating memorized prayers without thought for meaning.  For example, musically speaking there are two ways to practice.  Learning difficult music takes hours of practice with many repetitions to achieve success.  One may execute these repetitions without much thought, or one can concentrate not only the written notes being played but also on the interpretation of what is heard.  With the first notes will be learned but nothing will actually be said, for notes without expression are only sound.  With the second there is thought and a story is told.

It is the same with this prayer if used without thought for it’s content.  The Lord’s Prayer as used in Matthew, given the text, may be the prayer of choice, or it may be an example for how to pray.  I suggest that if one is praying words mindlessly that it would be best to change what or how time spent in prayer is being used.

Recently I asked a group of fellow Christians their thoughts on the use of this prayer during worship.  Overall, the consensus was that those whose churches did not use it regularly would like to see it used more often, but were okay with its absence.  All used it during private prayer.

If like myself the Lord’s Prayer is used during private devotions and during worship at the church my husband and I attend, then I must ask for God’s guidance and the mind with which He has blessed me to be certain the reciting is active.  To achieve this I vary the prayer’s wording and also sometimes which portion will be emphasized, and also truly think about what I am saying.  Sometimes I fall into the thoughtless rut, at which time I start the prayer over.

If the Lord’s Prayer is not regularly prayed, then certainly it should be as a model for prayer structure … After this manner therefore pray ye … 

For further reading about the Lord’s prayer I include the following links.

To hear the Lord’s Prayer in Aramaic, the Language that Jesus spoke, CLICK HERE.

The Lord’s Prayer in English throughout history, Old English, Middle English, Modern English : CLICK HERE.

The Lord’s Prayer contains a preface and seven petitions.  CLICK HERE for a brief explanation of each portion.

Wikipedia, the Free Online Encyclopedia Article on the Lord’s Prayer : CLICK HERE.

The Orthodox Church in America article on the Lord’s Prayer : CLICK HERE.

The Lord’s Prayer in Contemporary English

Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name.  Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as in heaven.  Give us today our daily bread, and for give us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.  Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil.  For the kindgom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever.  Amen.

Try this ending to the Lord’s Prayer.

For the kindgom, the power, and the glory are yours from time eternal with no beginning and no end.  Amen.

Sunday, 18 February 2007

Thinking about my mom again today.  She was a pretty special lady.  This is the two of us on my wedding day in 1974.  Since I posted about her recently, I won’t go into detail.  What I am going to do is post some of the phrases she used frequently–they are words by which I still live and find encouragement.

• New Challenge:  I know you can do it!  I have great faith in you.
• When you are helping customers always treat them like you want to be treated.
• All you need is a pair of roller skates so you can go faster.
• Work hard and be good.
• Two wrongs don’t make a right.
• Older people have earned the right to be called Mr. and Mrs.
• Honesty is the best policy.

This Sunday has been spent with my friend, Chris, who lives in the upper peninsula area of Michigan, outside of the small town of Daggett.  The area where her home is at one time was called Banat, after a particular group of Germans who emigrated to this remote place.

She lives in a beautiful home built by her husband from wood he farmed from their property.  It is full of warmth and comfort–and when you stand outside, it is silent–absolutely silent. 

This morning we attended her country church of the Swedish Covenant denomination.  We sang, men and women prayed, and again I was renewed by the Word and their witness.  Perhaps that is why I think again of my mom, who went to the Plainky Plains church of which I wrote in a recent post.

Before driving to see Chris, my kindred spirit friend, I stopped on the way from Minneapolis in Oshkosh, Wisconsin where my daughter, husband and two children make their home.  The kids had been sick, and she needed to be at work on Friday.  I telephoned Chris and explained that I would be leaving after Ruthie got home from work–I knew Chris, a mother of three and grandma herself, would understand.

As babies who don’t feel good do, since it is their only way of expressing their feeling, the two little ones cried quite a bit, and it was like musical crying babies.  I couldn’t think of one more thing to try that might comfort them, when our one-year-old fell asleep.  His sister, barely three months old, settled in my arms as I rocked back and forth, singing Oh, You Beautiful Doll — the same song I sang to her mom when she was a baby.

I was able to lay her in her crib–and it was then she smiled at me.  Complete innocence, just for the joy of being, no holds-barred smile.  It brought tears to my eyes the sight was so incredibly beautiful — and I thought.

Before we accept Jesus as our Lord and Savior, we are the crying children, full of hurt and anger and past wrongdoings–lots and lots of baggage.  Then, sometimes for reasons unknown to us, we accept His invitation to come into His arms and be held close with love, and it often brings a peace so overwhelming there are no words to adequately describe it.

We then become the innocent, pure infant with a whole new life begun and no writing of the faltering past.  We can smile for the joy of smiling and there are no lies behind our eyes.  And the peace–if it has never happened to you, that’s okay, I can tell you what it is like.

It is like where I am now, in a remote spot in Michigan, where when you walk outside there is complete silence and calm–incredibly, unbelievably, wonderful.

There is another place we can go to leave the world behind, and that is whereever two or three are gathered together in Christian fellowship, such as a church.  Orthodox Christians have a slow, calm, peaceful hymn that they sing without instrumental accompaniment during their Divine Liturgy, the Cherubim Hymn.

“Let us, who mystically represent the Cherubim and sing the thrice-holy hymn to the life-giving Trinity, now lay aside all earthly cares, that we may receive the King of all, escorted invisibly by ranks of angels. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!”

The Crosses

Hear the leaves of the trees softly rustle …
A background chorus for the solos of the birds.
The captives of the earth listen in hushed silence
As the symphonies of seasons pass by.

I stand among my ancestors and they come to greet me.
The souls who toiled so willingly in life, enduring hardship,
Now rest in wait for the coming day when I shall join them too.
I feel their love and peace permeate my innermost self.

We have this common bond, you see.
For I have the life I do because they gave it to me.
Their toil has given me freedom.
Their hardship has given me strength.

And … I remember …

I see great grandma standing amidst the tall, undulating grass.
Unashamed, tears drop to the ground beneath.
Quietly she moves among the white painted crosses
Giving a gentle carressing touch to the ones she loves.

I see grandmother and granddaughter look one last time at each other
Imprinting within their minds and hearts
What will have to last until each sees the other again,
Always longing never to be apart.

Now I look within so that I too may imprint in my heart
The visible and unvisible that I see until my return.
For though I stand among the crosses, what is before my eyes …
Are my beloved.
© Mary Katherine May
June 12, 2006

Nine years ago today, February 14, my mother died at the age of 70 from a stroke.  That morning, just before 5 a.m., I was awakened by the telephone ringing.  “Mom is on her way to the hospital by ambulance,” I was told. Just a few minutes before midnight she was gone.

February 13 that year was a Friday, and that was the day Mom said goodbye.  You see, on Friday we were all there–her children and grandchildren, and her three best friends.  In the evening we had spoken by telephone, and she said, “You know, today was a really good day.”  Even today that sentence brings sweet tears to my eyes and memories of my mom.

Eleanor Wakaruk was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, but lived her childhood years in Canada.  Her parents were Sam (Simon) Wakaruk and Katarina (Katherine) Gorman.  Katherine was the oldest of eight children.  Her mother, Wasylyna Koshman Gorman, emigrated with her family to Stuartburn, Manitoba, Canada, in 1899, from Halychyna (Galicia), now known as Ukraine.

The families were very poor in Halychyna, and they never had great monetary wealth in Canada, either.  What they were rich in was faith and family bonds.  When my mom, Eleanor, was two and her brother Tony was four years old, the family of four went to Grandma and Grandpa Gorman’s farm located next to the Rum River.  Katherine was sick with “consumption,” and there she died.

Sam left the children there and came back to Minneapolis.  At first Eleanor and Tony lived with Aunt Lena and Uncle Bill Wakaruk, and then went to live with their grandparents.  At sixteen she returned to Minneapolis to work and lived with another relative’s family, and at nineteen she married my father.  Our family had four also–father, mother, brother and sister–until my dad died when I was four years old.  My memories of my father are dim, but Grandma Gorman lived until her 98th year. 

There are fond memories of summer trips to the farm.  Grandma planted a long row of peas so that we could go out to the garden and eat as many as we wanted.  My brother and I would climb into the pigpen and try to have the pigs give us a ride.  One of the outbuildings was where Grandma kept her cream separator, and in it was a double bed for overflow company.  It was a big deal to be able to sleep in the “grenva.”  Grandma cooked on a large wood stove.  There was no telephone and no running water.  Dishes were washed in a pan outdoors in the summer, and of course the facilities were located in a one-room building behind the grenva. 

Grandma’s English was almost non-existant, but love does not always need to be spoken to be known.  We could see it in her eyes and when she smiled, and in her tears as the car pulled away from her house to go home.

There were traditions that may seem archaic in today’s world that my mother upheld in her own home–and yet the reasons behind them are still good.  Sunday was a day of rest.  Washing clothes, sewing, cutting with scissors–these were work and not allowed.  Food for Easter dinner had to be table ready the day before, because cutting with a knife would be work.  My cousin Jerry recalls that on summer Sunday’s Grandma would spread a blanket on the ground and listen to records on the wind-up record player.

Not so far from the farm is the place where the little church at Plainky Plains stood, and across the dirt road is the cemetary where many of my family were buried.  Grandma may have been Orthodox, or she may have been Catholic.  The church had an Orthodox cross, but Grandma prayed with a rosary.

I remember Grandma sitting on her bed, holding the rosary and whispering her prayers.  During our summer visits, we would go to the cemetary with her, and she would move from grave to grave saying prayers for her loved ones–this is what the Orthodox do.

In June of 2006, my cousin Jerry and I drove to Canada.  We visited relatives in Winnipeg, and then spent a day going to places around Stuartburn that held memories for us.  The church at Plainky Plains no longer stands.  Yet, as we walked the ground that now instead holds a remembrance marker, it still felt like a holy place.  Across the road at the cemetery we walked among the crosses.  There is no physical evidence for what Jerry and I experienced.  (I felt that they were glad we came–that they hadn’t been forgotten.)  Yet, it is proof enough for me that love and goodness live on, passed from generation to generation when lives are lived well.

I believe that the people who were the church body of Plainky Plains loved God and truly worshipped with humble hearts–this is the spirit that lives on, in this consecrated ground and within the hearts of those to whom they have shown the way by how their lives were lived.

Having been taught both Orthodox and Protestant faith traditions, I cannot say if prayers do any good after death.  Yet if for no other reason than to honor my grandparents’ ways, I prayed for those buried at Plainky Plains for family whose names I could still read on the crosses.  I hope for all of us to have a good accounting when Jesus Christ returns, and that we will one day worship and praise God together in Heaven.

There has never been anyone in my life like my Bunia.  From the time as a young child when I first spoke this name, until the time that she passed away at the age of 99 years and 2 months, I never called her anything else. 

The story related to my brother and myself, was that she wanted to be called Babusia, a diminuntive of Baba, the Ukrainian name given to grandmothers.  It seems, though, that the two of us at our young ages couldn’t get her name right–in fact, it came out quite in a way that would not be appropriately used in public.  So, Bunia it was.

Pauline Rychly Koshuba Haydak, my Bunia, truly enjoyed the role she played as grandmother to her eight grandchildren.  How special I felt when she would tell me how rich she was–her millions, for she considered each of her children and grandchildren worth a million dollars.  Now I, too, am growing in wealth, with our three children married and having children of their own.

While growing up and well into adulthood I thought Bunia was truly rich.  In truth, however, she never was.  I thought my Bunia to be a gourmet cook of the highest ability.  In truth, however, she never was that either.

Pauline was a petite woman, maybe five-feet at her tallest.  By the time Bunia died, I doubt that  she stood more than four-and-a-half feet tall, or weighed more than 80 pounds soaking wet.  What this diminutive woman lacked in size, she made up for in pride.  Firm in her beliefs, she called herself persistant rather than stubborn.   

I know many thought her too proud, and that’s okay.  I didn’t look at it that way.  You see, whatever my Bunia did, from the most menial to the most honorable task, she did to the best of her ability.  Nothing less that full effort was acceptable.  This is why I thought her rich, because she took care of home and its contents so well.  And, this is why I thought her a gourmet cook, because everyday-type foods were prepared exquisitely.

From her work ethics I too learned that I should give my best to whatever task was at hand.  From drying rain-drenched shopping carts at Target to making every stitch as perfect as possible on the table runner that won a first prize, doing my best brought a sense of accomplishment.

And so, it was, with the Red Roaster.  Sometime in the 1920s or 1930s Bunia had won this roaster at a bazaar.  Most often she used it for baking her holuptsi, known in English as cabbage rolls.  Fifty+ years later, that red roaster was still in use–there were a few spots of enamel missing, but I can tell you for certain that not a spot of baking residue ever stayed on that pan permanently.

Because it was often the case for Bunia to bring prepared food to various family gatherings, the red roaster, filled with holuptsi, was again in transit to another party of some sort.  Here is where the mystery begins.  Where was the roaster?

At that time I was in the habit of going to her apartment one day a week to take her shopping.  Every week I was asked if I had the roaster.  I was instructed to go home and look for it.  More than once on a visit to our home, Bunia went through my cupboards looking for the pan.

Not having success with me, it was then to my mother that she turned.  “Where is my roaster?  You MUST have my red roaster!”  Mom’s cupboards were subject to the same scrutiny as mine.  Whether called persistent for stubborn, the saga of looking for that red roaster went on and on–for two years at least I looked, my husband looked, my mother looked, and Bunia looked in every nook and cranny of her home, my home, and my mother’s home.

Well, one day, after all that searching, never giving up on that special red roaster, there was an announcement. 

THE RED ROASTER IS NO LONGER LOST! 

THE RED ROASTER HAS BEEN FOUND!!

Hallelujah! I thought, now I can put that mystery to rest.  It was found in the basement of one of her nieces.  She had left it there after the last party.  Now, today, for some reason I remembered that red roaster, after all these years.  I asked her why it was so important to find it, because once found it didn’t look so special to me anymore.  Bunia said, “It is still a good pan.”

That roaster of little consequence was “still a good pan.”  It was still useful because she took such good care of it.  Just as Bunia took care of her possessions so well, and just as she looked and looked for that roaster, never giving up until it was found,  there is someone who cares that much–not for things–but for each and everyone of us.

That someone is named Jesus.  If you are lost in the dregs of human life, He has been looking for you to come and be with Him.  He wants you to be one of his “millions.”  He wants love you, and give you the best care–better than anyone here in this world can give.  Jesus will keep looking and never give up–even when you are angry, or hurt, or turn your back because life has gotten so terrible it all looks black and hopeless.

Whatever situation you may be in, he will wrap his arms around you and see you through to the end.  It’s so easy, all you need to do is ask Him.  He knows what it is to feel like all hope is lost and alone and empty–like something is missing.

I was sick for a very long time.  There was no miraculous cure.  It was ten long years, and it was hard.  Yet, through it all, I had a friend who was more than a friend, who I knew I could count on to always be there for me–and He was.  Sometimes all that kept me going was that I knew Jesus and His angels were there going through it with me.  I am going to put this passage from the Bible in my own words.

Who is it that will separate us from the love that Jesus Christ gives?  Can hard times, sorrow, false accusations, danger, or physical harm?  The answer is that none will separate us.  I know without a doubt, I am convinced, that there is absolutely nothing, that will keep Jesus and those who give themselves to Him apart.

Jesus is the tender Shepherd who cares for his flock ….

Though beneath the drifting snow,
Summer flow’rs have been laid low,
I am safe in the tender Shepherd’s care;
Tho’ the sunbeams hide away,
On the dark and cloudy day,
I am safe in the tender Shepherd’s care.

Safe in the tender Shepherd’s care,
Safe on His bosom He will bear
Those who trust His mighty love,
Bear them to the land above,
Safe in the Shepherd’s tender care.

In green pastures I’ll be fed,
By the quiet waters led,
I am safe in the tender Shepherd’s care;
He will guide me to the fold,
Sheltered from the wint’ry cold,
I am safe in the tender Shepherd’s care.

Through the valley dark and deep,
He will comfort, He will keep,
I am safe in the tender Shepherd’s care;
Happy in His saving grace,
Till I see His blessed face,
I am safe in the tender Shepherd’s care.
… Eliza E. Hewitt

There are a lot of Bibles available written in different ways–same story, just different wording so that all can understand.  I am not asking you to buy a Bible from me–you can, but what is more important is for you to get one and read it for yourself.
     …. babamarusia

As I have already said, buying a Bible or getting one is what is important.  I recommend the New Century Version, or NCV, because it is known to be the easiest to understand. 

babamarusia is Mary Katherine May, who along with her husband, Rick own www.QualityMusicandBooks.com.

Clever people give their piece of property with appropriate rustic cabin up in northern Minnesota clever names like kwitcherbellyakin!!.  My parents’piece of property with appropriate rustic cabin was always just called P Anderson.

My grandpa Wakaruk had a resort 5 miles south right outside of Nisswa–Sam’s Resort on Lake Edna. After he sold it and moved over to another lake, it became Fritz’s Resort. Fritz had much more creative ideas than my Grandpa Sam–running water, a place for RV’s, tennis courts, 3-par golf, townhouses.

When my mom remarried we would stay at her new husband’s father’s place–P Anderson, which then became his (another P Anderson) and then my brother’s (D Anderson) — who tore the cabin down and built a home.

We kids would walk the mile into town–Pequot Lakes, named after the great Chief Pequot and a battle, I believe–in the morning and sit at the 4-stool coffee bar in the bakery and have a sweet roll with our pop. Then it was across the 2-lane highway to the drug store where you could choose your 5 cents worth of penny candy and I would pick out my book to buy and read that day.

If we needed something for fishing, it was back across the highway to the west-side of mainstreet to Thurlow’s hardware. About that time Mom would show up in the car and take us back to the cabin.

The cabin sat in a bay almost smack-dab right in the middle of 3-mile long narrow Sibley lake. I would take out the wooden boat my brother and I had named Bacchus (because we were clever), row out to the middle of the bay and put down the anchor. Then, as the boat rocked gently side to side, I would read my book–getting too hot as the day wore on, I would finish while sitting under the shady pines.

We never had hot water, so it was to the lake for a bath, or heat some in the big kettles on the stove and pour it into the tub. It’s amazing how many kids can bathe in about two inches of water with just a little added in now and then to keep it warm.

On good days the one television station would come through, even though fuzzy, but it was usually the baseball game, so we would play card and board games in the evening. When it was cold the oil stove was fired up, but besides being stinky, it made the living room and one bedroom too hot, while the porch and other bedroom stayed cold.

My cousin, Melanie, and I usually slept on the rollaway in the porch, and her parents had the “honeymoon suite”–a bed that caved into the middle, curtain for a door, and window that looked into the kitchen. My brothers had the fold-out daybed in the living room, and Ted slept on the scratchy Victorian couch. My parent’s often took the other bedroom–curtain for a door, and after Grandma Anderson passed away, Grandpa would sleep on a cot. The bedroom off the living room was used for changing–when you were in there doing that, you called out “I’m changing!” to make sure no one came in unexpectedly.

Some evenings we kids would again walk into town to see the movie–2o cents, I think it was. Then, since it was dark and at that time there were very few lights on the road out to the lake, Mom would drive in and pick us up after the show. The movies were usually outdated, but it was something to do.

The best part of the evening was as the sun set across the water with all of its brilliant shades of orange and red. You might hear a distant motor boat going home after fishing, or a loon call over the still waters. We kids would fall asleep listening to our parents all sitting together round the table in the small kitchen playing cards.

Sometimes it’s good to remember.

(This blog is sponsored by QualityMusicandBooks.net.)