Who Remembers Mrs. Biederman?

Some decades ago, in a 1950's mobile home her late husband had bricked into a house with a sunny foyer, living room and fireplace, lived Mary Whitford Biederman. Her home became the youth hub, gathering place, in our community. Many who gathered, like me, had no idea how, when or why the New England transplant came to live in South Georgia. We only knew her  home was always open to us. Not much else mattered.

Mary Whitford Biederman
1909 - 1986

I've read with interest books by Mark Batterson that speak of circle making. Maybe, the author knew Mrs.  Biederman. Perhaps she was his muse. I speak of  her ability to make a person feel that they were in her circle. Her prayer circle for sure. For truly, whether I visited her solo or with others in her home,  we never said good-bye without forming the prayer circle. The formation was quite simple, really. Just hold hands in a circle -- pray one by one as it came your turn. For those of us who didn't want to pray aloud, she told us to squeeze the hand of the person beside us, until the circle came back to her. 

Mrs. Biederman's prayers were full of faith asking God to "bless the hands of those whom I hold and the hands of those they hold."

She knew us -- she knew to Whom she was praying. 

We were in her circle.

'Twas just that simple.

All I remember her asking from us was to sing the popular song of the day,  Pass it On. The opening lines about how it only takes a spark to get a fire going were her favorite. It didn't matter whether we gathered by her fireplace or by bonfire, she never seemed to tire of that song. Such a catchy tune.

Some time ago, I came across a birthday note from 1980 where she'd written: 

Dear Becky, tonight,  I almost caught myself wishing you could stay just the age you are now. But not really. It’s just that you are so much fun now, such a blessing now – so like a lovely April morning. Mornings turn to noon times, and then into quiet fulfilled evenings. So may your days and years be. I am thankful to have known you "in the morning" and I wish for you the sunshine and shadows that make many days complete. 

How glad I am that I kept the aged note with penmanship from days of yore.

And, how thankful I am, too that the sender of the note knew me "in the morning" of my life. 

Those days of early teen to young adult. Days of anticipated birthdays, boyfriends and breakups. 

Days that eventually included marriage and my first year of motherhood.

Such were the years the sender of the note knew me. 

Such were the years of being in her circle.

Celebrating an anticipated birthday
 at Mrs. Biederman's house. 

Aside from birthday notes and letters she'd write to me while visiting her family in New England and Alaska, Mrs. Biederman shared her poetry with me.  This inspired me to write some as well. Yet mine proved quite fleeting. My lack of rhythm and rhyme sounded awkward to the ebb and flow of her lines.

She played such a vital role in my life. It seemed fitting she would act as grandmother at my wedding. My own grandparents had passed on. 

All the more vital, I first knew I loved my husband when we were at her house one Sunday evening. 

Such a long time ago.

Yet, that memory has power to quicken the many things I felt in the morning of my life. 

    

 

Mrs. Biederman and me in 1983.

Mrs. Biederman accepted the role of honorary grandmother with the understanding that she and I be photographed alone rather than with actual family. That was her idea. She feared confusing future generations that might look back and wonder who she was. To settle the matter, though, she chose a dress of soft shaded purple. Along with her stately white hair and cameo pendant, she looked ever the part. And, I wore her pearls as my something borrowed.  No doubt, though, I wasn't the first bride in her circle to wear the pearls.

Within in a year of the wedding, Mary Whitford Biederman self-published a small bound book of  poems to share with her own family and friends.  Scribbled Words is a bundle of poetry offering  glimpses of  the morning, noontime and then quiet fulfilled evenings of her lifetime. 

And, it's priceless. 

Dedicated With Gratitude to Jesus for letting me live in his Beautiful World is found on the first page. 

And, just inside the front cover, she wrote in penmanship from days of yore: To Becky: With gratitude for letting me watch you grow up so beautifully. For memory of fires, prayer circles and always love. 

A baby arrived not long afterward.  Husband and I named her for Mrs. Biederman, his mother and my aunt. No doubt, though, our first baby wasn't the first in Mrs. Biederman's circle to be named for her. 

Then, in what seemed like no time at all, the circle maker and the published author passed on to her Maker.

Many who had once gathered in her home, those she had drawn into her circle, gathered that day in the community church she loved so dearly. We paid our respects as she lay there in the soft shaded purple dress from my wedding. The service felt fitting. We tried our best to smile through tears as we sang 

Pass it On once more. Just for her. 

Oh, the wonders of Mrs. Biederman, the circle maker. I think of her more often than not. Especially as I move into the quiet fulfilled evenings of my life. Memories of her love, writing and prayers stay with me. 

And so, I long to make a circle.

A fire would be lovely, too.

By fireplace or bonfire, 

just a spark will do.  

 *******************************************************************

 Many thanks to The Valdosta Daily Times. 

On July 1, 2024 the newspaper first published online 

 my column titled Mrs. Biederman, the Circle Maker.  

This similar post is made in her memory. 

She met her Maker 38 years ago this month.

 

Pondering Psalm 46:10 Anew

To write that Psalm 46:10 is my favorite verse would come at no surprise. I like quiet and stillness – it's my default setting. Too much noise frustrates me. All this is a bit overstated, over written even, but deep truths generally are. Just lately, my niece gave me a mug and journal that she designed around Psalm 46:10. Just for me. She's so kind. She even included a lovely seaside scene. Southerners like me call it "the beach" and my niece knows I love the beach (another over written deep truth). Yet she didn't know that I had also been gifted with a red book entitled, A Meditative Journey Through the Psalms. A thoughtful friend, who has taught me so much about discernment and prayer, gave it to me.

Life with the mug, journal and red book encourages me to “be still and know that God is God" all the more. During these winter days, even in the south, all I want to do is be still. Quiet time with God is commendable, but it's very good that spring will be here directly. In that vein, the author of the red book, Dr. Timothy Tennent, encourages me to ponder with clarity the whole of Psalm 46. As I do, the earth gives way. The mountains fall into the heart of the sea. The psalm is written from a deep place of turbulence. Not a peaceful beach scene at all. The author reminds me that Psalm 46 is the basis of the hymn, A Mighty Fortress is Our God, penned by Martin Luther, the great reformer of our faith from centuries ago. The hymn and the psalm remind me that no matter what, God is always in control. My attention is called to the scene in Mark 4 where Jesus speaks to the turbulent sea waters and commands them to "be still." And, of course, they do. All to say, I'm pondering Psalm 46:10 anew and may I better know that God is indeed God. May I continually be aware of Holy Spirit within me. Not just in the still and quiet places that I long for, but in turbulent places where sin brings noise, chaos, confusion and division. Finding such places isn’t difficult. I want to be so led by God’s peaceful presence, that turbulence gives way to stillness wherever it erupts about me. Let it be, Lord – and, thank you.

Praying with Sweet Caroline

 

I meet at times with a friend to pray. Her name is Caroline. More often than not though, she's simply referred to as Sweet Caroline. She's so amazing. I often wonder if she's the real muse behind Neil Diamond's pop song by the same name. But I don't think they've ever met. Well, at least she never mentioned it.

When we meet, my friend and I talk about how kind God is to us and we share many things; some of which tug at our hearts. We laugh too. We talk about good food, shoes with open toes, great nail color and the beach. Fine books, our children and husbands are also in the mix.

Smiling that we are in His book.

 

            Once, when our time reached well spent and we had not yet prayed, Sweet Caroline said we needn’t worry or fret. With her Bible in hand, she found Malachi 3:16 and read aloud:

Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another;

and the Lord hearkened, and heard it,

and a book of remembrance was written before him for them

that feared the Lord, and that thought upon his name.

            We like this verse. We like it so much that the whole Old Testament Book of Malachi made for a hot topic when next we met. We read that God’s people were in a very sad state. The pride of their priests had led them into sin of all sorts and shapes. Many of them put more trust in their wealth than in God. Some spoke harsh words about him and said, “what good does it do to serve God?”

             Yet not all of God’s people were in such a sad state. Some still feared the Lord and thought upon his name. Some still had deep trust in him. Some still spoke kind words about him. And God heard them and wrote them in his book.

             While that was more years ago than we care to count, my friend and I agree that not much has changed since the book of Malachi. Verse after verse–book after book–age after age, God’s people are still the same. So is God. We read in Malachi 3:6 that he does not change. He still hears us.   

             And so, with a sweet peace in our midst, Sweet Caroline and I now read Malachi 3:16 each time we meet. Didn't I say she's amazing? She taught me to be sure and speak kind things about God even while we share things which tug at our hearts. She said that is a good way of fearing the Lord – to think upon his name. Oh, we still talk about good food, shoes, nail color and the beach; books, children and husbands are still in the mix. But now when we meet to pray, we also think about God with his hand cupped to his ear. We like that he hears us even though we have yet to bow our heads. We think he smiles as we talk about him.

             And we smile to think that we are in his book.   

*******************

Similar pieces of today's post have been published as follows:  A Fine Book as a guest blog post for Katy Kauffman of Lighthouse Bible Studies, In His Book  a compilation by Susan King's Short and Sweet Goes Fourth, and Smiling That We Are in His book by the Valdosta Daily Times/Faith & Family column.  

Guest Writer, Nancy Enna Cowart

Above

the

Sting

of 

Sadness

    

I grew up with two brothers. Watching them at the family table kept me entertained. I laughed at how fast they’d consume a full carton of milk. Their love for grilled cheese sandwiches and frozen pot pies escaped me. 

Handsome and gifted with a great laugh, my first brother debuted ten years before me. On a day when toddler legs journeyed onto a path away from home, my brother searched for me. He found me and brought me home. Four years separated me and my second brother. Quite handsome too, he tolerated me with great patience. One time he let me camp out with him in the back yard under an old green Army tent. Instead of toasting marshmallows over the campfire, I stuck mine directly into the flames on both ends. It’s the closest I ever came to twirling a fire baton. But once the star counting began so did the yawning and I took back to the house to wallow on my pillow.

My only complaint with my two brothers: they left this life much too early.

In the wee hours of New Year 1971, my first brother lost his life in a fire. He was nineteen. Since I was the youngest, the adults and my teen-sister were diligent in sheltering me from the details but I’ve often wondered what life would have been like had my first brother lived. I’ve often dreamt of more laughter and more toddler legs around the family table. I’ve missed what could have been. 

In December 2002, my second brother suddenly took sick and died. He had reached forty-five and had grown into a man of great faith. Upon his death, a lovely and devoted wife, along with two fine children were left behind. And so, with this brother, I’ve missed all that was.

Yet when I happen upon words such as these  . . . But there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother,  (Proverbs 18.24–NKJ) my heart quickens. How grateful I am to be reminded of someone, a true friend who never leaves life too early. I know this friend. We go back a long way and he does stick close. I’m prone to wander – to journey onto paths away from him. He searches for me, though. His kindness causes me to always turn back. (Romans 2:4) And he invites me to camp out – to actually live in the safety of his shadow. Even better than my own pillow, I wallow on his ever present help. Especially when my heart is broken. (Psalm 91:1; 34:18)

These are all deep truths. Tested and tried, I believe them without question. At the setting of each sun, I count my blessings by pondering the benefits of these truths. (Psalm 103:2)  Much like the stars on a clear night, there are too many to count. There are times, though, that I still feel sad. After all these decades, I still miss my brothers – their laughter and patience. A mere carton of milk, a grilled cheese sandwich, or a pot pie can bring back a score of memories. And it tugs tightly at my heart. 

Of course, this life is fraught with sadness. It’s a universal truth. Anyone who ever journeyed on toddler legs will feel the sting. Sadness hangs out relentlessly in our global community. It’s where we all live. But I remember that this life is but a sigh and declare to prevail over such. Wallowing in sadness is not good. It makes me anxious and anxiety doesn’t serve me well. It’s unbecoming to my countenance. Anxiety has the power to lead me into depression. (Proverbs 12:25)

So I declare to wallow in the deep truths of my friend – the very One who sticks closer than a brother. By their own short numbered days, my brothers pointed me to my friend. With each of their deaths my deep need for my friend has been quickened. And truly, he sticks closer than my brothers, or anyone else, ever could.

On days when sadness tugs tight, I’m learning to be still. Quiet moments with my friend are essential because, from everlasting to everlasting, my friend is God. The maker of the stars calls them all by name while calling me by mine. (Psalm 90:2;147:,4; Isaiah 43:1)

And so, I exalt my friend above the height of the stars. Way above the sting of sadness. 

***********************************************************************************

Nancy Enna Cowart 

 is the pen name for a southern writer. 

 May you enjoy Nancy's first-time post on Sensitive on Purpose.  

 

I'm delighted to share this column published by the Valdosta Daily Times in their September 25, 2021 weekend edition. It's my nod to World Wide Communion Sunday.  

On birthdays and breaking bread

Long ago when my daughters were still under my roof, they liked to quiz me about birthdays. By their randomly calling out a family member, friend or an acquaintance’s name, I’d recall that person’s birthday. We had fun with their birthday recall game. These days, still being able to recall a person’s birthday is a good thing. Yet, more often than not, I fail to remember to wish the person happy when the birthday actually arrives. And, somehow for me, remembering to acknowledge a birthday is more personal than simply recalling it. In the coming and going of daily life, I pass houses of worship bearing symbols of my faith. Crosses are in abundance and I easily recall what the cross represents. Yet, when I come to the Lord’s table to partake of Holy Communion, I’m invited to remember why the cross is so necessary to my faith. I live among people with birthdays. I even have my own share, so I’m in dire need of forgiveness. It’s my human condition. As a life-time-churchgoing Christian, I fail at loving God with my whole heart. I forget my first love (Revelation 2:4). I rebel against the grace God offers me. I break His law at every turn. And more often than not, I don’t love others very well either.

I don’t remember to wish them happy birthday. Moreover, I ignore their worth as image bearers of the Holy God. This is especially true of others who don’t think like me.

So my sin list is exhaustive. There’s never been enough ink or space. That’s why I need Jesus, and I’m like the psalmist who is so glad to go into the house of the Lord (Psalm 122:1). Especially when we celebrate Holy Communion.

Partaking of Holy Communion, which is also called the Lord’s Supper, is my favorite act of worship. As I worship I’m reminded of the actions of Jesus on the night He gave up His life for my redemption. While among the disciples in the upper room of a house where they were sharing supper: “He took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying: ‘This is my body broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.’ “Likewise, He also took the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in My blood, which is shed for you.’” Luke 22:19, 20 (NKJ) I’m reminded that before I knew anything about God or even celebrated my first birthday, Christ died for me. Through His death on the cross, my sins are all forgiven (Romans 5:8). Long ago, the Creator of the Universe prepared a table for me through the sacrifice of His son, Jesus Christ. While partaking of the broken bread and juice, I remember all that has been done for me through the birth, death and resurrection of His son. And in remembering these things, I better understand God’s goodness that follows me every day of my life (Psalm 23:5, 6). It is so personal.

By celebrating Holy Communion, I proclaim the mystery of my faith: Christ died, Christ is risen and Christ will come again. This simple act of worship is an outward sign of a beautiful and inward work of grace. Christ died centuries ago. Yet I somehow sense the presence of my Savior while partaking of Holy Communion. It warms me. Unlike a hot flash or a digestive ailment so common for a girl with my share of birthdays, it’s delightful.

And I think about the two disciples who walked beside the resurrected Jesus. As they traveled from Jerusalem to a village called Emmaus, they didn’t realize it was Jesus walking with them. That is, until He later blessed the loaf of bread and broke it to share with them: “Then their eyes were opened and they knew Him ... and they said to one another, ‘Did our hearts not burn within us while He talked with us on the road, and while He opened the Scriptures to us.’” (Luke 24:31, 32) So it is, when celebrating Holy Communion, I don’t just recall the cross. I remember the cross and my heart burns anew with God’s forgiveness. Oh, how I need it. I need it simply because I have a birthday. And it’s just that personal.

Becky Hitchcock a member of Valdosta First United Methodist Church and a life-long resident of Old Clyattville in Lowndes County.

BECKY HITCHCOCK

-cnhi-app.newsmemory.com/?publink=12628c751_1345f12 

God Stills Lives at the Beach

As I wrote in an older post from July 12, 2012, our family enjoys visiting the ancient shore of St Augustine Beach. It's our go-to happy place. We still stay in the same modest yet ever so clean and comfortable villa that is just steps away from the beach. The owner is continually making updates to the place. She's great like that.  Yet, there's one thing I hope she never changes.

There's a plaque quoting a Spanish Proverb that greets all who enter the front door. Inviting us to relax, do nothing and then rest after. It's a beautiful thing.   

Of course, one day the plaque might come down. One day the lovely little villa might not be so readily available. That's the nature of  the beach rental property business. 

Yet I never worry about God not showing up when I visit the ancient shore. He still lives at the beach. I like to think He awaits my visits. Actually, we visit together quite nicely. No lack or awkwardness at all. 

As I sit and watch the tide move to and fro, we delight over the squeals of children riding waves and dogs prancing by begging to be admired and petted.

When we walk together, I thank Him for houses situated so grandly. I feel grateful on behalf of those who have the means to own a beach home. And for those, like me, probably most of  us enjoying the beach, who only rent and visit.   

As we pass people of all shapes, colors and sizes, I feel God smiling. For each one is an image bearer that He created, loves and made an elaborate plan for redemption.  He's so wonderful like that. How grateful I am to know Him.  

God and I have such wonderful chats by the water.  If it isn't too rough, we wade out a bit. I thank Him for the beauty of His creation. I marvel at the refreshing water temperature and the width, depth and breadth of the massive body. And, I'm reminded time and again, that even in all its glorious splendor, the ocean is merely the creation. Not the Creator. 

Just as the sun begins its going down, I thank Him profusely. The years He has met me and mine at the beach, granting us safety and wonderful memories are more than I can count. Blessings are like that. Too numerous to count but oh the joy in doing so. Despite all that counting, I bring to His remembrance the many things that tug at my heart. One thing, especially too close at said heart to be written for public view. And He gently reminds me that He is at work hastening to perfect things that only He can perfect. That's His job. Not mine. And He does it oh so very well. He reminds me that He knows me and knows all things. 

He seems to say that all the while I'm caught in the beauty of relaxing. doing nothing and then resting afterward, He is still at work.  I think He wants me to trust Him more. 

And, there's just something about visiting Him at the beach that helps me do so.

Pondering Ash Wednesday

 

From dust you were formed and from dust you shall return.
  Genesis 3:19 (NKJ)

The season of Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. Lent is a 40-Day journey that spiritually prepares me to celebrate Easter. So I gather in the sanctuary with loved ones for a quiet and solemn Ash Wednesday service. 

During the service, I'm reminded that ashes represent mourning and repentance. And in the ancient world ashes were used for cleansing in the absence of soap. Fields were burned to give a chance for new life. 

And so, I'm invited to ponder my human condition . . . my sins of commission, my sins of omission and even those of my disposition. Such pondering brings me face to face with my own mortality. Especially when the pastor applies damp ashes to my forehead and declares: From dust you were formed and from dust you shall return.  Repent and believe the Gospel.

The quietness in the sanctuary is lovely. The history lesson is nice, too, but I don't like pondering sin. Especially my own. I like worship services to comfort and encourage. So I open my Bible to Psalm 103, a family favorite chock-full of declaration about God's love. The verses leap straight into my soul.

Yet, in the spirit of Ash Wednesday, the psalmist declares: 

For He knows our frame; He remembers that we are dust. 

                                                                        Psalm 103:14

By ancient design God created me (Genesis 1:27; 2:7).  He is acquainted with all my ways (Psalm 139:3).  He knows the best I try to be. He knows the worst I often am. He is familiar with the failings of my introverted disposition. And that stings. Yet I'm told these are fitting thoughts for the Lenten season because I'm reminded that I need a Savior.

How grateful I am that my Savior arrived at just the right time (Luke 2:11; Galatians 4:4,5).  And because of what He accomplished on the cross, my sins all lie beneath the ancient ashes. Their power over me is no more. This is a deep and wonderful truth that I'm prone to forget.

So maybe, Ash Wednesday is comforting and encouraging in its own way. A way worthy of my pondering.

First published in The Valdosta Daily Times, February 22, 2020 edition.