Chocolate, Spraypark, and Garage Sales

As a freelance writer working out of a home office, I've discovered a few temptations inherent in the profession. I cannot keep chocolate on my desk as I did when I worked with other people, because there is no one else to eat it - and so I do. Not good - well, actually quite delicious, but definitely not good in light of the fact that this is bathing suit season.

Which leads me to the second temptation, for on a picture perfect morning (or a sticky, sultry afternoon), I don't want to keep my nose to the grindstone - I want to head to the Kroc Center Spraypark. I admit to some self-conscious moments while strolling down Liberty Street in bathing suit attire, especially with no small child in tow. But I've perfected the doting grandmother look, so once I get there, I can stand under the tumble buckets without shame, even if the lovely Madelyn Simone isn't with me.

But the lure snagging me in these early days of summer is the garage sale bug. I used to work my way from front to back in the Times-Gazette each morning, starting with the headlines, checking out the obituaries, reading the opinion page, bemoaning the fate of Cleveland sports teams, and scanning the Tell and Sell. I'm still OK with that plan on Monday and Tuesday, but by Wednesday, I turn addictively to the classifieds to plot my garage sale adventure for the week.

What do I look for? I'm not big on collectibles, so the Precious Moments and Hummels don't catch my eye. I don't fish or ski, and my husband still has all of his father's tools as well as his own. Exercise equipment - fat chance. The truth is, I really don't need much of anything, but I'm delighted when I unearth a few books for vacation reading, and I keep my eyes open for clothes or other surprises for Madelyn.

Here's the bottom line of garage sailing - at least for me. It's not about the stuff - It's about the hunt. Can I get something I might use some day at a bargain price? If so, I'm pumped!

The hunt begins with the drive-by drill. First, you check out the neighborhood, looking for adjoining houses with sale signs to make the trip worthwhile, and then you drive by slowly, getting a glimpse of the goods. If it's only knick-knacks and adult clothing, I don't stop. Unlike retail, presentation isn't everything, but curb appeal does help, and I'm appreciative when kid's clothing is washed and sorted by size.

At first I felt guilty if I walked out empty-handed - after all, the garage sale host or hostess went to all that trouble - but I quickly realized if I bought something at every garage sale I browsed at, I'd be starring in Hoarders by the end of the year.

While "the hunt" may be the enticement that draws me in, what I've experienced over the last few weeks of intermittent garage-sailing is the same thing I love about Ashland - the people. I've had the best conversations, often beginning with, "Don't you write in the Times-Gazette?" From there I've chatted about writing projects, world peace, teen age girls in the Bible, being smitten over grandchildren, and the spraypark (especially on the hot and humid days).

I've also been amazed at the kindness of people I don't know, especially the house where I scored a backyard swing. I asked if I could leave it there until I could arrange to pick it up, and the woman hosting the garage sale said, "Let's toss it in my truck and I'll follow you to your house." Let me tell you - that wouldn't have happened in Philadelphia or Cleveland. Thank you.

I have a few boxes set aside with fuzzy plans for a garage sale of my own. I even have my classified ad figured out - "buy my junk - CHEAP!" Now, if I can just get over my fear of rejection, I might sell enough stuff to buy some chocolate, and take Madelyn out for a happy meal.  Keep watching the classifieds!

Overcome Evil by Good

Scrolling through some Facebook posts in a hotel room in Philadelphia, I began to read of a federal enslavement case unfolding in Ashland, Ohio. I leave home for a week and Ashland makes the national news - what's going on?

Growing up on a quiet street of working-class families in a suburb of Buffalo, I wasn't exactly sheltered, but gained most of my knowledge of the more disreputable side of life by sneaking a peak at the True Confessions magazines while my mother sat under the hair dryer at the beauty parlor. In my world, most people were decent. They cut their grass, took care of their kids, and went to church on Sunday - except for the Catholics, who could go to Mass on Saturday night and sleep in on Sundays, a good trade-off for having to eat fish on Fridays.

In my more than 35 years of involvement with the Salvation Army, I learned that while most people are decent, some people are not, and in their non-decentness, they inflict serious harm on others, whether stemming from their own pain, psychological disorder, or just plain meanness.

As we traveled east this past week, we traced the path of our early Salvation Army days, from the training school in Suffern, New York, to Dover, New Jersey, our first assignment. We also traveled to Philadelphia, where we served in the Roxborough neighborhood and then in North Philadelphia,just blocks from where Bill Cosby grew up in the midst of Fat Albert and the gang. In those settings, we saw more than our fair share of man's inhumanity to man - gender inclusive.

Along with a mouth-watering cheesesteak, Larry and I shared a gazillion memories during the week of travel, some hilarious, some endearing, and some heart-breaking. As we reflected on the people caught up in the heart-breaking stories, we wondered out loud if there was something we could have done if only we'd known. That tends to be a common theme when the lives of others crumble around us. Didn't we see the abusive gleam in the eyes of our neighbor, the plea for help in the eyes of the child in our classroom, the despair of our suicidal neighbor? Why didn't we see?

Sometimes we did see, but the answers weren't clear-cut. How could we protect the most fragile in our midst? Should the family be reported? Should the child be removed from the home? Who do we believe? Could the support of the caring professional, the compassionate church, and an embracing community turn the tide? We saw it happen as people beat back the demons and pursued their dreams. We want to believe it can happen again, but sometimes the world comes crashing down instead.

When we read the headlines in the Times-Gazette, or hear the anguish in the pastor's office or the altar of prayer, we can't help but wonder why. Theologians speak of depravity stemming from the fall of our first parents in the Garden of Eden, psychologists identify the disorders that strike seemingly without rhyme or reason, and scientists point to the mysteries of DNA and to epigenetic modifications to the genomes as nature and nurture blend in mysterious ways. Often as the tragic stories unfold, a combination of these factors led the players to their thirty seconds of sordid fame.

So what do we do? Once again, our quiet community is shaken by the actions of a few. Following the attack at the Boston Marathon, Pope Francis drew upon the apostle Paul's words from Romans 12:21: "Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good," as Francis prayed that"all Bostonians will be united in a resolve not to be overcome by evil, but to combat evil with good, working together to build an ever more just, free and secure society."

That's the message that pulsed through our memory journey, the faces of goodness shining in the darkness. Now, in the shadow of Ashland's own story of the darkness of a few, we ask the questions, but then we do what we can as together, we plant seeds of goodness and keep the porch lights on, sustaining a just, free and secure home together.

I caught a portion of an NPR interview with Adam Johnson, the author of The Orphan Master's Son, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. As part of his research for the book, he was able to "finagle" a visit to North Korea, the setting for his novel. Restrictions were placed on what he could see, as his government minders controlled his itinerary. His comments were intriguing. Johnson said, "perhaps one of the more surreal things I've ever seen is seeing thousands of women wear the exact same shade of lipstick," and he noted that the men all had the same haircut. Odd, perhaps, but not earth-shaking, yet his questions were troubling to the North Koreans, especially when he asked, "where are all the handicapped people?"

Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times had the same reaction when visiting North Korea years ago. Told that handicapped people voluntarily moved from Pyongyang to other areas of the country, Kristof suggested that "the darker explanation is that North Korea systematically exiles mentally retarded and disabled people from the capital, so as not to mar its beauty."

How a country, culture and community regards those whose bodies or minds are fragile speaks volumes about that group's values and respect for life. That attitude shows clearly in our use of words. Sixty years ago, when my husband's teen-aged brother was living with muscular dystrophy, the family commonly used the word "crippled" to describe Jerome's physical condition. But over the years, "handicapped" became the more accepted term, now replaced by words such as "person with a physical or mobility disability."  

Sixty years ago, it was not uncommon for a child born with serious physical or mental limitations to be placed in an institution to be cared for by strangers for the rest of his/her life. That, too, has changed, as many long-term institutions have closed and families are provided the needed support to keep their children at home.

That's been my friend B.J. Brown's experience. Now in his thirties, he's grown up in the family home, sharing in the give-and-take of domestic life on a daily basis. He has cerebral palsy, and depends upon his mother and sister to dress him, feed him, and navigate his wheelchair through the world around him. While he has difficulty speaking, he's clear about one thing - he is a diehard Cleveland sports fan, and was thrilled when the Browns forced eight turnovers in their win against the arch-rival Steelers on November 25, 2012.

B.J. is a member of our Salvation Army congregation in Ashland, in his front row seat every Sunday, rain or shine, because family and friends make the effort to transport him to church. The Salvation Army congregation is sponsoring a Pep Rally Benefit for the Browns on Saturday, June 22 at the Kroc Center Spraypark from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m., complete with stadium food, a silent auction, and lots of family fun. Since his father's death three years ago, his mother Carolyn has depended on others to lift BJ in and out of vehicles, but now she's purchased a van for the family, and is determined to "beg, borrow or steal" enough funds to complete the wheelchair accessibility conversion. Since we don't want anyone to go to jail for theft, we're planning this fund-raiser in support of van conversion to allow Caroline to transport B.J. on her own.

Margaret Meade reminds us: "If we are to achieve a richer culture, rich in contrasting values, we must recognize the whole gamut of human potentialities, and so weave a less arbitrary social fabric, one in which each diverse gift will find a fitting place." As our congregation and our community embraces the Brown family in the Pep Rally Benefit, we model a way of living the North Korean leadership has rejected - we want to live in a community where there is a 'fitting place' for everyone - the seeing and the not-seeing, the mobile and the not-so-mobile, and even a smattering of Steelers fans. Be warned, however: no gold and black at the Pep Rally Benefit - orange and brown are the colors for the day - let's go Browns!

 

Coral and Pearls

Along with a number of our session mates, Larry and I mark the thirty-fifth anniversary of our commissioning and ordination as Salvation Army officers this month. Five years ago, in writing about the thirty year mark, I noted that if this was a wedding anniversary, I’d be looking for a string of pearls nestled in a box from Tiffany & Co. The traditional gift for thirty-five years is coral, but since I don't really want a salt-water fish tank filled with exotic fish and coral décor, I'm sticking with the pearls as I walk the path of recollection amidst the milestones of ministry, stringing them together through story and memory.

Hired to play the piano for the Salvation Army in at age 15, I knew very little about the organization, but soon became enamored by the marriage between ministry and social work.  That initial spark has flamed into a passion for social justice and spiritual redemption that continues to motivate my work even in retirement. 

What a ride this has been. Pearls of laughter are definitely predominant, because I’ve shared the ride with a man who loves to laugh. When we get together with former co-workers, the stories simply spill out. “Do you remember the time . . .” and before we know it, we’re rolling on the floor. We’ve even laughed about funerals, such as when the funeral director picked Larry up for the ride to the cemetery. My husband asked, “Where’s Joe (the deceased)?” “You’ve been holding him for the last five miles,” was the response, pointing to the box resting on Larry’s lap. Then there was Butch, who arrived at his master’s funeral in a bowtie.  If you know my husband, you can imagine his reaction, looking down at that big black dog perched sorrowfully in the front row of mourners. 

We’ve chuckled over some of the donations through the years as well: a station wagon dripping with ice cream bars on the hottest day of the year, eighty head of ostrich (alive, not dead – don’t ask), and cases of fake designer t-shirts and hats seized as contraband by the local sheriff. While Joan Kroc’s exceptional gift of millions of dollars for our Kroc Center is definitely the largest, we’ve probably counted $300,000 in coins tossed in the Christmas kettles – that’s a lot of pocket change.

We’ve also met some incredible people along the way. Brigadier Elizabeth Earl, a rather large retired officer in New Jersey, would hike up her skirt to climb into the van, invariably saying, “fix your eyes on the Lord, son,” words of wisdom we’ve clung to for many years. Anthony and Carrie, college students from Hong Kong studying in Philadelphia, taught our young sons to play rock, paper, scissors in Chinese, and helped us see the world through broader lenses.

Years spent ministering in African American congregations left us with a lingering love for gospel music, and a bevy of aunties for our boys. During a nine year stay in Canton, we were surrounded by men and women with amazing servant hearts, whose arms opened wide to people on the farthest edge of the margins of our community. And what can be said about the privilege of midwifing the birth of the Ashland Kroc Center? - Truly a journey in grace - and surprises!

As I’ve strung together these pearls of memory, I’ve realized the power this metaphor brings to the work I’ve found through the Salvation Army. As the symbolic anniversary gift, it seemed appropriate that this object of beauty and worth is created in the oyster or mollusk shell when an irritant is coated, layer upon layer, by a calcium carbonate substance called nacre. That does seem to be the work of the Salvation Army, where those considered by many as an irritant to society actually find a place to rest and to belong, and, over time, take on at least some of the luster of the nacre, the gleam of the pearl. If the nacre of grace has worked its power on those I’ve served, it also continues to smooth the rough edges in me, layer by layer. 

And now the coral. Harvested from the sea as well, precious coral is the skeleton of red coral branches. Over the centuries, it has been valued for its beauty, but was also a symbol of protection and fertility. The coral speaks of the protective hand of God upon my life for sure, and the continued fertility of mind and spirit that has been mine in these past months of retirement and in the unfolding opportunities that lie before me.

The day my first "pearl" Times-Gazette column appeared in the newspaper five years ago, I had an unexpected gift from a friend - a string of pearls to signify that special anniversary. I was touched by her thoughtfulness, and fingered each pearl with the sweetness (and sometimes saltiness) of memory. But please, no fish tank, friends - I'll gladly cherish my coral memories with our granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, as Marlin, Dory and Nemo swim through the ocean - I don't clean fish tanks!

Perhaps the truest lesson of the thirty-five years is that my life has been enriched far beyond any care I’ve been able to extend to another.  Or, to change the metaphor to Hata Beja’s words, “the fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose.” What a gift the years have given, what a faithfulness the Lord has promised - and delivered.

A Red Thread

Summer weekends in my childhood weren't complete without a visit to the cemetery. As my parents carefully tended the gravesites of their parents and other ancestors, my brother and I explored the neighboring monuments, and I'd wonder out loud about the people who were buried beneath those stones. Whenever we cut through the cemetery on our way to Progressive Field to watch the Indians, I'm forever dawdling, wanting to check out the gravestones and wondering about the stories represented by the engraved words. So I felt quite at home when Larry and I, along with our friend Chelse, visited the Ashland Cemetery for the Living History Cemetery Walk, sponsored by the Ashland County Historical Society.

While I don't have any relatives buried in Ashland, I was aware that a Salvation Army officer, Fredrich Holzgrefe, was laid to rest there, thousands of miles from his home in Germany. He died in his mid-thirties in his living quarters at the newly completed Salvation Army. He'd done quite a bit of the work himself on the new Salvation Army barracks, and his bereft congregation and friends made sure he was provided with a peaceful resting place in the local cemetery in 1904.

Little did I know that the first character we would meet at the history walk was also connected to the Salvation Army. What a small world. Emily Hess did a terrific job portraying Mrs. John (Hannah) Newcomb, who served as a Salvation Army officer for twenty years before Hannah and her husband resigned in 1911, apparently due to his ill health. Hannah had graduated from Ashland High School, and after they left Salvation Army work, they spent some time in Sebring, Florida, but by 1916 the family returned to Ashland. I spent some time at the historical society library and at the Salvation Army office, but could find no further mention of any Salvation Army connection for Hannah or her family, but I'll keep digging.

In Hannah's voice, Emily noted that her Salvation Army work and world was much different from the current day Kroc Center here in Ashland, and I thought especially of her comment while talking with Bill Bihlman the next day. Bihlman is a member of the South Bend, Indiana Salvation Army Kroc Center, and he has been on a mission over the past seven weeks to bicycle cross-country on a fund-raising tour for the O'Connor House, a small shelter for pregnant women in Carmel, IN. Because of his connection to the South Bend Kroc Center, he decided to place seven of the Kroc Centers across the nation on his itinerary, including Ashland, Ohio, Hannah Newcomb"s home town. He's been to San Diego, the original Kroc Center, and to Phoenix, Omaha, Quincy, IL, and Dayton, and will visit Tidewater, VA before he completes his tour.

I've  thought a lot about Hannah Hayes Newcomb, Fredrich Holzgrefe and Bill Bihlman this week. The stories of their lives - and mine - come together at a three-way intersection: Ashland, Ohio, the Salvation Army, and a commitment to mission. Fredrich wore out his heart in service to others, Hannah followed her heart to Salvation Army training in New York City at the end of the nineteenth century, and, with heart pounding, Bill leans into the wind daily as he rides for hope across the United States.

Certainly Hannah and Fredrich never heard motivational speaker Steve Maraboli, but they understood his counsel just as Bill does: "Never decide to do nothing just because you can only do little. Do what you can. You would be surprised at what "little" acts have done for our world."

Hannah, Fredrich and I met through the fragment of a story, as preserved in a yellowed newspaper clipping and reenacted on a cemetery walk. Bill and I met as if by chance, when our lives crossed paths one afternoon in the lobby of the Kroc Center. Perhaps as the ancient Chinese belief suggests, there is an invisible red thread that connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. I'm grateful that the red thread of our personal narratives runs through Ashland, Ohio.  

Serendipity

I finally picked up a copy of Quiet: the Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, Susan Cain's in-depth look at introversion, especially with its psychological and social implications for life in the United States. She concludes her book with words of wisdom for those of us who fall into the introvert camp. "Love is essential; gregariousness is optional. Cherish your nearest and dearest."

For nearly thirty-five years, Larry and I have lived at least four hours away from our families of origin, so it hasn't been easy to spend time with our nearest and dearest. Our jobs included ministry responsibilities on Sundays, so we weren't able to be with extended family on holiday weekends. So because we could get away this year, we headed to the western New York area for a few days of family connection over the Memorial Day weekend.

It was a bit too chilly for a swim in the backyard pool (polar bear club member I'm not), but we grilled hot dogs (Sahlen's, of course) , drank homemade root beer,  and told a story or two. It sure was good to be home with family.

It was also a weekend of serendipitous moments. I've always loved the word "serendipity," with its meaning of happy accident or pleasant surprise, and we experienced three unexpected glimpses of serendipitous grace on our visit.

The first encounter with serendipity happened shortly after lunch on Sunday, when my sister and I looked at each other and said, "We've got time to get to the Memorial Day parade." We hadn't planned to go, as we didn't want to rush away from our cookout. But a glimpse at the clock promised a few minutes to spare, so we grabbed the kids and the Twizzlers, hopped in the car, and headed to Main Street.

I'm spoiled by Ashland parades, with the high school band and a variety of marching units, and was disappointed by the nearly empty sidewalks and meager parade lineup. But then the serendipitous happened. We stood to honor the American flag as the local Salvation Army marched down Main Street with its brass band, and I was nearly bowled over by a hug from a woman with a sousaphone. We'd known Stephanie as a teen-ager many moons ago in New Jersey, and there she was, in a parade in my hometown!

Later that day, we decided to visit Niagara Falls, as did about 100,000 other people. We walked around a bit, amazed once again at the power of the rapids and the cascading water, but decided to postpone our Maid of the Mist under-the-falls adventure until another visit. We were ready to head home when we ran into friends from Cleveland - serendipity! We ended the evening at Old Man Rivers as the sun set over the Niagara River, sharing a meal and the leisurely conversation we don't always make time for in Ohio.

Before we headed for home on Monday, we took my mother to visit my father's memorial tree along the Two Mile Creek bike path. My sister and her young sons joined us, and Lucas and Noah helped us weed around Pops' tree as we reminisced about the nineteen-year-old Army recruit who served in World War II more than sixty years ago. Noah and I checked out the path to the creek, and he and his brother ran a couple of races as the sun peeked out from the clouds.

As we prepared to leave, a woman stood up from the tree she was tending and said, "thank you for bringing the children." Her memorial tree was for her grandson who died at age ten, and her labor of love was usually accompanied by tears. But as she watched the boys playing together, the tears stayed away, and she was glad for the resonance of children's laughter in the midst of sorrow.

To borrow C.S. Lewis ' phrase, I was "surprised by joy" through the unexpected embrace of an old friend, the words of a stranger, and good conversation at the river's edge. If, as Cain suggests, introverts are given "keys to private gardens full of riches," I'm a wealthy woman for sure.