Simplicity

When Doris Rabeler died at Fox Hospital in Oneonta NY on Thursday morning, April 5, 1990, I was not there. Yet I know that, regardless of the circumstances, her passing occurred with serenity and grace. As I reflect on her life tonight, one day later, I think of her strong, silent faith. Then I recall several of the seventeen Christmas’ I have lived on the same street as she and Henry.

I cannot recall the first time I met Doris. Nor can I recall a time that I wasn’t aware of her deep faith. Similarly, I cannot remember a Bovina Christmas without reflecting about her integral part of each year’s celebration. Henry would drive down to our farm a few days before Christmas each year and deliver their Christmas card. A generous sized box of Doris’ homemade cookies accompanied that card. Each year he brought not only the unforgettable cookies, but also a lovely holiday visit.

Then I recall another early memory: Doris’ hospitalization for several days. Henry came to eat dinner with our family several times. I baked pies frequently and usually served one to Don and Henry. Quickly, I learned that our lean neighbor liked a substantial-sized pie slice. To this day, four decades later, I still smile about those “Henry Rabeler-sized” pie slices. They were easily equivalent to about a quarter of a pie.

Our family grew to five, a son and two daughters. We all got busier and visited our neighbors less. When an agricultural downturn led to my decision to return to work off the farm, life became busier yet. I rarely saw my neighbors except when we met in Russell’s General Store in town.

Two days before Christmas, 1990, I saw an ambulance speed rapidly up our road. Just two farmers lived up there: Helen and Jim Burns and Doris and Henry. My heart dropped. Who? What had happened? I began to pray for a person whose name I did not yet know. Moments later, the phone rang. Henry was not breathing when the ambulance silently and swiftly left for the hospital fifteen miles away. One moment he’d been working in the barn, the next moment he’d clutched his chest, suddenly unable to breathe.

 And so, Henry did not deliver his and Doris’ Christmas card that year. He had planned to after he’d completed his barn chores that morning.

Soon Don visited Doris and observed she was moving slowly through the initial days of her widowhood. He saw, too, the graceful presence of her faith. Doris and her son-in-law were eating dinner (in the country, that’s a mid-day meal) at the table. Nearby the large picture window framed a snowy country scene.

They talked about the year Henry had been driving his tractor and it tipped over on a patch of ice. While Henry recuperated, Bob Monroe milked the cows, Don cleaned the stables, and Doris did the rest of the work.

 “That was a long, tiring winter,” Doris said. Henry and Doris sold the cows that spring and their peers honored them as Jersey Farmers of the Year.

 As Don prepared to leave that day, Doris gave him a “baked goody” with her Christmas card attached.

 A few weeks after that, Polly’s gerbil was curled into a ball, eyes closed, and, unmoving, seemingly near death. I called our veterinarian. “They don’t often survive when they’re at that point,” he said. “But you could try keeping him warm and giving him some mineral water. If there’s something in his tummy he shouldn’t have, the oil may help move it through. It’s a shot in the dark, but it might help.”

I thanked him and turned the thermostat to a cozy 70 degrees in the room. Hopefully, I placed the gerbil cage on the floor vent, then searched without success for mineral oil. I didn’t want to drive fifteen miles to Delhi for a rodent who didn’t appear he’d live until I returned. I called Grandpa up the road; he had no oil and neither did Linda Rosa across the road. I called Doris, who checked and found some. Moments later I arrived at her doorstep.

I hadn’t seen Doris since Henry’s funeral. She already looked older and frailer. The blue twinkle in her eyes was still there, but dimmer. I hugged her tightly and told her how much I thought about her. She chuckled as we talked about the gerbil. Then she poured a small amount of mineral oil into a clean maraschino cherry jar.

She left the room for something. As I waited, I noticed her son-in-law, Wayne, fill the bird feeder just outside the large kitchen window. Doris’ grandchildren, Joshua and Kara, helped their dad. Doris returned to her charming farm kitchen, printed “Mineral Oil” on a self-stick label, and fastened it to the jar. She found a tiny dropper, still in its cellophane container. We talked briefly about the prize-winning recipes in the Daily Star Cookbook, which had arrived in the newspaper that day. Then, her daughter, Judy, arrived, the telephone rang, and Doris started into the adjoining room to answer it. As I thanked her, I said I’d let her know what happened and said good-bye.

 That was the last time I saw Doris. Later, I called her to relay that the gerbil was moving around his cage as usual and eating his seeds. Doris softly chuckled, sharing my surprise and pleasure. I again thanked her and said good bye.

Since that day, the sick gerbil and my last visit with Doris remind me of some old wise sayings. The treasured moments in our lives are sometimes the large important ones. Most often, though, they are the small ones that don’t seem significant at the time. And, the truly most important part of life is people.

 A week later, the gerbil got sick again. Once more, I repeated the treatment, and went to bed. In the morning, the cat meowed to go out as I walked to the cage. Horrified, I discovered the tray pulled out about an inch and the occupant gone. Further search revealed evidence that the cat had hastened the gerbil’s demise.

Those who share the faith that Henry and Doris quietly modeled all their lives, know God moves in mysterious ways. Divine order embraced the role the tiny gerbil played in my last visit with Doris, I believe without doubt.

 Doris had tucked a small Christian calendar in with our Christmas card. I gaze at April’s scripture, as I pause from writing, and tears fill my eyes. If we live in Him, when earthly life ends, we continue living in Him, sharing His eternal life.

I know Henry and Doris continue to live in Him now as they did all their lives. I weep because I miss them.

~ Mary Jo Doig, April 6, 1990 – originally published in The United Presbyterian Church Newsletter, April, 1990, Bovina Center, NY.

NOTE: Doris and Henry’s granddaughter, Kara, found this story among some old Bovina documents and sent it to me. Long lost, the fact that this story came home is remarkable. For, beyond this precious memory of the Rabeler family, this story first opened my eyes to the power of recording our life stories. Many thanks to you, Kara!

My hope today is that this good neighbor tradition spreads throughout our world for all our brothers and sisters. Truly, we are one.