The Hard Questions

Once again, my desire to write a humorous column about rain bonnets or to brag about the latest adventures of my granddaughters has been hijacked by the cries of the world around me. The culprits are many-faced. Boko Haram, ISIS, and suicide bombers head up the list, with one common factor: terror is their calling card.

I still remember the acts of horror that rocked my childhood, in particular the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy. I was deeply shaken by their murders. With the understanding of a child, I grasped the idea that those in power faced an inherent danger. That’s why the Secret Service exists: protection.

Now, fifty years later, the world has been turned upside down. The targets of terrorism aren’t kings and sheiks, presidents and prime ministers, at least not directly. Instead, a bomb kills Russian families headed for vacation in Egypt. Bursts of gunfire strafe through the Bataclan Theatre in Paris. An explosion rocks a Lebanese bakery. Thirty-two people are killed as they select fruit and vegetables at a Nigerian open air market. We wring our hands and ask, “What is this world coming to?” There is no protection, and the bad guys seem to be winning.

How do we respond? For me, it begins by sitting with the sorrow from living in a fallen world, for there is power in remembering. We remember Romain Feuillade, described as a boy with a deep kindness who aspired to be an actor. Twenty-three year old Arianne Theillier, who loved to draw cartoons for young readers. Kheireddine Sahbi, an Algerian violinist known as a great master of music. Lola Salines, who worked with La Boucherie de Paris, a roller derby team. All among those dead in Paris. And those on the Russian plane, those in the Lebanese bakery, those in the Nigerian market. We remember terror’s innocent victims.

In facing our own fears, writer Hunter S. Thompson suggests that “there is no such thing as paranoia. Your worst fear can come true at any moment.” That is the challenge that terrorism brings to everyday living, and that same paranoia is fueling the discussion on the possibility of terrorists hiding among the Syrian refugees.

Here’s what watching too much NCIS Los Angeles suggests to me. Those involved with terror cells are like cockroaches. They will find a way in. If a person is intent on creating terror, it seems there are easier ways to move about the world than to enter the refugee stream. Just thinking out loud.

In a world saturated with social media tweets and posts, everybody has a passionate opinion about terrorism, immigration, and/or Syrian refugees, often fueled by misinformation and fear. I long to be able to talk about the issues with civility and respect, but that’s been difficult at best. Might the endless stream of rhetoric and vitriolic responses ultimately cause more damage than the actions of the terrorists? People intent on creating terror understand what George Martin described in “A Game of Thrones.” “Fear cuts deeper than swords.” Or, as the demons in C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters recognized, “Suspicion often creates what it suspects.”

I also want to figure out what to say to the lovely Madelyn Simone when she asks me the hard questions. For now, at age five, she’s not paying too much attention to the world beyond the playground. But the time will come when she will ask, “Why, Nana?” When the twin towers were attacked in 2001, our youngest son was eleven, and I had no answer for him. How can such disregard for the life of another be understood or explained?

Yet Mr. Rogers’ timeless response stands: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” The NYC firefighters ran up the stairs as the World Trade Towers burned. They, along with the helpers in Paris, Beirut, Egypt, and Nigeria showed up to proclaim that no matter how deeply fear cuts into us, it will not have the final word. Can I hear an Amen?

We Hear the Angels

“Although eating honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.” I was reminded of Winnie the Pooh’s words as the lovely Madelyn Simone and I shared a conversation about Advent and Christmas. When was Christmas? Where would we go this year now that her great-grandmother has died? How can we get ready for Christmas? How many days would she have to wait?

Like Pooh had figured out, sometimes the waiting, the anticipation, is as rich an experience as the actual arrival of the honey, or of Christmas morning. I’m not sure Madelyn can understand that concept at the age of five, as it’s taken me quite a few more years to grasp it myself.

I remember well the year that the anticipation of Christmas morning overwhelmed me to the point that I could not wait any longer. I was probably about nine or ten, and I don’t know how I managed the logistics (as in, where was my mother?), but somehow I was able to stealthily climb up in the cubbyhole above the cellar stairs and search through every bag my mother had hidden away. So on Christmas morning, there was no surprise, no anticipation, and no sense of wonder. I had seen everything. My inability to wait had spoiled Christmas.

Did that ill-fated episode plant a seed in me that would later grow into a desire to protect the days of Advent in my own heart? My career choice made that more difficult than most, as in November and December the focus of a Salvation Army officer’s work is on bringing a blessed Christmas to others, often leaving little time or space for my own heart’s preparation.

Bill McKibben describes Advent as a “time to listen for footsteps,” aware that “you can’t hear footsteps when you’re running yourself.” In my desire to listen for footsteps, my own search for the fullness of Advent often drew me back to the memories of the Advent wreath, whose candles glowed in the quiet Sunday evenings of my childhood Decembers. It has also urged me to create, to compose carols, to write poetry, and to prepare daily Advent readings to share with family and friends. One of those collections, “We Hear the Angels: Ancient Prayers for Advent,” led me to individuals who prayed, sang and wrote of their own experience of anticipation over the course of the last twenty centuries.

I have been especially captured by the images they used, eager to exchange the Grinch, Scrooge, and even a right jolly old elf with a little round belly for those of the ancient poets: a clear light, a morning star, the cradle for the living Christ, Mary’s womb a bridal chamber. As I sat with the words of women and men like Hildegard of Bingen, Charles Wesley, Christina Rossetti, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Pope John XXIII, I could glimpse their faith and claim their words as my own plea.

When Frontier Press offered to publish this collection of ancient prayers of Advent, I was glad that the quiet joy I had claimed for myself in the days leading up to Christmas might be available to others. I wasn’t sure about their suggestion of a book launch here in Ashland, as I’m a writer, not a promoter, but what we’ve decided on is to gather in the shadow of the stained glass at the Kroc Center to experience the age-old prayers, art and music of Advent in worship (December 10, 7 p.m. – all welcome to attend).  

Will I be glad if a few folks buy my new book? Sure. That’s the point of a book launch. But I will be especially glad to draw together with those who gently anticipate the coming of the Light.

In the candlelit sanctuary, on a snowy, solitary walk, or in the early morning hush, we pause to listen for the footsteps of Advent. As the angels’ song echoes from the Bethlehem hills, might Advent 2015 bring us moments of holy expectancy that can be ours before we ‘taste the honey.’ Gloria!

Sing Me to Heaven

Those of us who have had responsibility for children’s programming understand the need for an emergency plan when the special guest doesn’t show up, the internet is down, or the carefully constructed activity flops. My go-to activity is a penny hike, where the group’s direction at each corner is determined by flipping a coin. Heads to the right; tails to the left. Sounds like a line-dancing refrain. There is plenty of opportunity to talk about life choices in that adventure, especially when two groups start at the same place but end up in totally different neighborhoods.

Flipping a coin for major life choices may not be the wisest method of decision-making, but life brings us to corners where we must turn one way or the other. The world-renown philosopher Yogi Berra understood those defining moments: “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I’ve been pondering Yogi’s counsel this week, as word of the deaths of Lloyd, Debra and Dorothy have drawn me back to the corners where our lives first intersected, when the choice of a fork or two in the road was influenced by their presence.

Lloyd Larsen, affectionately known as PL, was a Tonawanda, New York pastor who was the area director of Young Life in the 1970s. At Young Life, hoards of teen-agers would sit armpit-to-armpit in a local funeral home, singing “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” and celebrating Jesus. At the club meetings, I’d pray earnestly that I wouldn’t be chosen for the goofy stunt or skit of the night, but in the early morning campaigner small groups, the scriptures came alive to me in ways that transformed my path of faith. Lloyd opened the door for a sacred turning.

When I graduated from high school, I moved into a counselor room in a cabin at Long Point Camp, a picturesque spot on the shores of Seneca Lake. I shared a living space about 8’ by 10’ with my co-counselor Pat and the camp office aide, Debra. Feisty and friendly, Deb and I clicked. With responsibility for a dozen twelve-year-olds, it surely was a memorable summer, culminating with Debra proudly claiming responsibility for my budding relationship with the young man who would one day become my husband.

Our subsequent marriages and relocations intervened n our friendship, and it wasn’t until the advent of Facebook that we reconnected, if only briefly. That’s how I learned of her recent death. Scrolling through Debra’s Facebook posts, I’m recognizing how connected we still were in spirit, even though separated by too many years, too many miles. A passion for TED Talks, women’s opportunities, Ignatian spirituality, grandbabies, Pope Francis: that’s us. Her quote of Mary Oliver’s words speaks deeply: “I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.”

A third influence appeared in the form of one who came alongside. We’d been assigned to inner city Cleveland, where our family integrated our congregation. Dorothy Lykes, aka Major Mom, was at the neighboring Salvation Army center, and her example and encouragement walked with us through many challenging days. When she died last week at the age of eighty-four, she’d just finished ministering at the Salvation Army Harbor Light Center in Cleveland.

Lyricist Jane Griner gently instructs us: “If you would mourn me and bring me to God, sing me a requiem, sing me to heaven.” For PL, it’s likely that echoes of a raucous rendition of “I am the light of the world” were heard at his home-going. For Dorothy, her calling card, “Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King,” accompanied her transition from this world to the next. And for Debra, Marty Haugen’s refrain resonates: “Shepherd me O God, beyond my wants, beyond my fears, from death into life.”

I’m grateful for the nudges of companions who have been there, as Griner explains, to “sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem.” Now, with a catch in my throat, I sing my companions to heaven, knowing that their presence wasn’t a lucky penny crammed in a pocket, but instead, a gift of discerning grace. 

Friday Night Lights

My high school athletic career started with enthusiasm, but petered out during an undistinguished stint with the track team. To make up for my personal sports deficit, I’ve vicariously experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat as long as I can remember, and this month is giving me plenty of opportunity for both.

Here’s  the agony. (I’m a ‘give me the bad news first’ kind of person). Four consecutive Super Bowls. Four consecutive losses. That’s an anguish only a Buffalo Bills fan can fully grasp. I hoped for a fresh start when I moved to Northeast Ohio, but the Brownies haven’t cooperated. After last Sunday’s debacle, I wondered what advantage a visibly bruised and battered QB provides? Might as well paint a target on his jersey. Johnny fared a bit better Thursday night, but only because he can run away faster. At least there’s one bright light for local fans – Ashland University grad Jamie Meder at defensive end.

As for the Cleveland Indians, why does it always seem to be too little, too late? Yet by April, I’ll be tuning in with renewed hope as Tom Hamilton woos me back into the fold with his enticing invitation: “We’re underway at the the corner of Carnegie and Ontario.” Play ball!

Basketball has been a third choice for me over the years, but I’ll admit it: I’m hooked on the Cleveland Cavaliers. I know I’m being played by their marketing department, but I like being Facebook friends with Kevin, Delly, and Kyrie. I may share LeBron’s “friendship” with 22 million other people, but I like being one of the popular kids. The clips of their Halloween party were brilliant, with Delly in operating room scrubs, J.R. Smith with diaper, bib and baby bottle, Kevin Love appearing as a perfectly mustached Jackie Moon from the movie Semi-Pro, and ‘Prince’ LeBron singing “Purple Rain.” Yes, I know how much money they make, but it’s still fun to watch a bunch of super-tall kids being silly together.

Basketball may be underway, but it is still Autumn in Ohio, still football weather. Once again, the Ohio State Buckeyes are on top of the polls, number one in the country, having survived undefeated to this point. Go Bucks! But something just as exciting is happening on local gridirons, on Friday nights at Community Stadium and on Saturdays at Jack Miller Stadium. What a season for the Ashland University Eagles. With their last regular season game today at 1 p.m., a win will cap off a perfect 2015 regular season. They may “only” be Division II, but we’ve witnessed some amazing football in purple and gold. We’re on a role, Dr. Campo. Hope you’re enjoying your first football season in Ashland.

Not to be overshadowed, the Ashland Arrows finished their regular season 9-1, losing only to their nemesis neighbor Wooster, and played their first playoff game last night. Writing during the week, I’m sending good vibes to Scott Valentine and his players for a win, as we’d love to spend our Friday nights in November under the lights. Win or lose, our hometown Arrows will continue to stand strong and proud, cheering our cross country runners at the state finals today and celebrating successful seasons with their tennis, volleyball, golf, soccer and cross-country brothers and sisters.

Friday night football is much more than the boys on the field. Cheerleaders, band members, the student section, and even the sophomore class cleaning up the stadium after each game – all contribute to a shared experience of pride and accomplishment.

Yet on the turf and trails, courts and courses of our community, high school and college athletics go beyond competition. Former Baltimore Raven’s linebacker Ray Lewis gets it. “Don’t walk through life just playing football. Don’t walk through life just being an athlete. Athletics will fade. Character and integrity and really making an impact on someone’s life, that’s the ultimate vision, that’s the ultimate goal – bottom line.” Enhanced by their participation in athletics and yes, the arts as well, character is being formed in our young men and women, and our community is strengthened. Glad to say it – we’re Ashland proud!

The Fog is Lifting

In 1956, a scrawny, 43-year-old man wandered down a busy New Jersey highway, and later was admitted to Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital. First thought as the delusional ramblings of schizophrenia, instead, the diagnosis was Huntington’s Disease, a degenerative neurological disorder. For five years, each week his wife escorted the man from “Wardy Forty” to “the Magiky Tree,” on Greystone’s grounds. As they shared a picnic lunch with their children, did they sing of redwood forests, endless skyways and golden valleys? Perhaps, for this was America’s Troubadour, Woody Guthrie, composer of “This Land is Your Land.”

Larry and I began our Salvation Army ministry in Dover, New Jersey, where we did holiday visitation at Greystone Park. The complex was huge, its continuous foundation design surpassed in size only by the building of the Pentagon. Opened in the 1870s, its population peaked at 7700 in the early 1950s, in part due to World War II veterans and PTSD. By our visits in the late 1970s, its census was rapidly decreasing, due to the nation-wide push for the deinstitutionalization of mental health patients.

The majority of the facility has been abandoned for many years, and neglect had taken such a toll that the cost of saving the grand old building was astronomical. Images of its demolition reminded me of Guthrie’s story and our holiday visits. As videos of the wrecking ball captured the structure’s demise, I thought of those we’d met as we caroled through the wards, sharing warm socks and new toothbrushes with people abandoned by the outside world. Over the years, some had come to Greystone for the hoped-for miracle cure of electroshock therapy or hydrotherapy, but over time, many lived out their years in its cloistered environment.

The rise and ultimate fall of the State Asylum for the Insane at Morristown, New Jersey (its earliest name) echoes that of similar institutions here in Ohio, illustrating much of the history of mental health services in our country. What Quaker physician Thomas Kirkbride believed to be innovative, moral treatment located in beautiful surroundings, quickly grew to massive institutions plagued by overcrowding, decaying infrastructure, and sketchy treatment of patients. By the time we visited, Greystone bore an eerie resemblance to Nurse Ratched’s ward in the 1975 film, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

As I attended a recent conference sponsored by the Ashland County Mental Health and Recovery Board (MHRB), I remembered those discomforting visits to Greystone, and caught myself humming the tune from the old Virginia Slims cigarette ads: “You’ve come a long way baby . . .” (great commercials except for the product they sold). The world of mental health treatment and support is light years away from the Greystones of our history. Amazing strides have been made in our understanding of mental health disorders, the development of effective medication, and the availability of effective treatments – although there is still much work to be done.

Here in Ashland County, the MHRB is tasked with ensuring the availability and accessibility of quality services that support recovery for individuals with mental illness and/or alcohol and drug addiction. In doing so, the local MHRB and its partners work to create an environment of hope. Through a focus on resiliency, empowerment and transparency, the mental health conversation is shifting from “what’s wrong with you?” to “what has happened to you?” University of Houston professor Brené Brown explains the premise: “Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it.”

Perhaps Guthrie’s voice was prophetic as he sang, “I roamed and rambled and I followed my footsteps . . . a voice was chanting, the fog was lifting . . .” In the 1950s, there was little commitment to the Ashland County MHRB’s vision that “everyone is entitled to live a quality life in the community.” Thankfully, today the fog fueled by a lack of understanding, stigma and shame is lifting. Tuesday, our community’s continued caring at the polls will empower all of our neighbors to have community-based, compassionate options for mental health support here in Ashland County, helping Guthrie’s legacy to be true for all of us: “This land was made for you and me.”

Henri Nouwen prays, "We are your people, walking in darkness, yet seeking the light." Join JoAnn Streeter Shade as she walks us toward the light that is Christmas in her latest publication - "We Hear The Angels: Ancient Prayers for Advent" BUY NOW AT: http://go.usawest.org/Angels

Our Lives Are Measured By These

As I’ve waited for the cashier at Hawkins to ring up my groceries in recent weeks, I’ve noticed a sign near the cash register: Tuesday is Senior Citizen Discount Day. Yet until this week, Tuesdays and my craving for delectable donuts hadn’t coincided. But finally, I was at the right place at the right time – with my Golden Buckeye Card in hand. Somehow the day didn’t have the same thrill I experienced at age sixteen when I first held my long-awaited driver’s license in my hands, but my first use of that golden card did bring a smile to my lips. I’ve carried it around for some time, but finally got the chance to use it. Mark that on the calendar!

While I doubt that particular milestone will make our Christmas newsletter, October is a month of official milestones for our family. Over the next few days, we’ll celebrate our son Dan’s birthday, one marked by the loss of his parent-provided medical coverage extended through the Affordable Care Act. Larry will have his sixty-fifth birthday, grateful to have his own Medicare Card, a more valuable addition to his wallet than the Golden Buckeye one. And in this same week, we’ll celebrate our fortieth wedding anniversary. Forty years seems like an incredibly long time to me. How can this be?

Now in our seventh decade (yikes, that sounds ancient), most of our milestones will be marked vicariously, as others graduate, marry, and give birth. What I’m recognizing is that the major milestones of life will now belong to someone else. As Lilly Ledbetter, a retired supervisor from Goodyear Tire and Rubber in Gadsden, Alabama remembers, “I sometimes worried I’d never experience that sense of wonder you’d feel meeting a new friend or traveling to a new place for the first time. I was afraid the major milestones of my life, marriage and childbirth, were past. Was it foolish to hope I still had something exciting ahead of me, something even important, that I could have a life of my own?”

Yet retirement, as Ms. Ledbetter discovered, wasn’t the last frontier. Her subsequent lawsuit over what she believed to be a discriminatory policy based upon gender ultimately led to what’s known as the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act. As she stood at the podium of the Democratic National Convention in 2012, she’d found her personal “something even important.”

She is not alone, as I have many friends who are reaching exciting milestones of achievement well into their sixties, seventies and eighties. At times, I do feel a twinge of envy as they accomplish, achieve and soar. But I do have to ask myself, what is “something even important”? Susan B. Anthony helps with that question: “Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, nor the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.”

In that light, these October days are blessedly interspersed with milestones great and small, yet valued nonetheless. The lively Elizabeth Holiday rolled over twice (but hasn’t yet repeated that trick in my presence). I completed the first draft of my new book on teen women in the Bible. We’ll celebrate our fortieth wedding anniversary and that milestone birthday in the company of family and friends. My car’s odometer hit the magic number 123456 this week, although I missed capturing a photo for posterity (or at least for Facebook). A major change of policy within my denomination, one that I’d championed for nearly forty years, was finally achieved. The lovely Madelyn Simone brought home her first school pictures, proudly telling me the names of her classmates, with a shy grin when identifying two of the boys (not ready for that milestone).

With tremendous achievement and unfathomable tragedy as her companions, Rose Kennedy still understood. “Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.” Here’s to savoring these moments that sniff around and never leave, for indeed, as Ms. Anthony reminds us, “our lives are measured by these.”

Small is Still Beautiful

In our relative old-age, Larry and I have become creatures of habit, although we’ve not yet succumbed to the 10 p.m. bowl of ice cream my parents enjoyed for so many years. When it’s time for “Madame Secretary” and “The Good Wife” on Sunday nights, or Gibbs and Abby searching for answers on NCIS on Tuesdays, we’re right there, glad that new episodes are finally airing. What’s ironic is that we could record “our shows” to watch at a different time, view them “on demand,” or catch a back episode from the network’s website. But at 8 p.m. on Tuesday nights, guess where we’re at? Definitely showing our age.

A friend recently introduced me to “On Being with Krista Tippett,” self-described as a public radio conversation and podcast, website and online exploration, focused on what it means to be human. Its underlying question asks, “How do we want to live?” Tippett and her colleagues, “pursue wisdom and moral imagination as much as knowledge,” in disciplines ranging from economics and religion to astrophysics and the arts.

I am definitely late to this dance, but better late than never, as proverbial wisdom teaches us. I hadn’t come across her radio broadcast before now because I seldom turn on the radio when it airs on Sunday mornings at 7 a.m. on WKSU-FM. But with podcasts, mobile apps, website access and Facebook links, it’s pretty much available any time, any place – just like NCIS. Welcome to the twenty-first century, JoAnn.

Courtney Martin, one of the regular “On Being” columnists recently wrote a piece entitled, “Small is Still Beautiful.” In searching for ways in which an economy can be stabilized, she suggests we ask this question: “What if one of the virtues for a stable economy wasn’t scale, but its opposite? What if the safest thing we could possibly do is invest in the people and places within walking distance of us?” Or, in our not-so-urban county, within a five mile radius, a ten mile circle of our home?

One of the obvious ways to do this is to shop local. Climbing aboard the downtown Ashland bandwagon, I’m excited the Gilbert’s building has a number of small shops in its renovated space. Across the street, Juliana Bridal just won the Best Retail Rehabilitation Award at the Heritage Ohio Annual Conference. Woohoo! With a wedding in our family’s future, I’ll be stopping in soon.

But local is not just downtown. Just around the corner on Claremont, Kimberly’s Closet is now opening where the fabric store had been, and Eva’s Treats is a fun stop for dessert after dinner at Kelly’s Restaurant, Lotus Chinese Cuisine or O’Bryan’s. On the other side of town, “local” is even in the name of Local Roots, a great place to shop for – you’ve guessed it – local produce, baked goods and lots more.

Here the challenge: before you let your fingers do the walking to the Internet, or head for Wooster or Mansfield, ask the question – could I get this service, this merchandise locally? What would that mean for my neighbor who owns a small business, or for the waitress at a local restaurant?

We also invest in the people around us by giving local. One delicious way is at the ACCESS Soup-er Saturday event today at Grace Brethren Church from 11 a.m. – 3 p.m. Because of ACCESS, homeless families right here in Ashland County have a safe, warm place to sleep each night. It’s on my list for today, and I’m already tasting the soup. Or make an investment in United Way by “tripping the light fantastic” at the Harvest Moon Dance with the Kroc Center Big Band – tonight from 7 – 10 p.m. on East Liberty Street.

Eat soup local, dance local, dream local, invest local. I’m committed to investing in Ashland because I know that “small is still beautiful.” I’m right there with Ms. Martin, except . . . my precious granddaughters live nearly sixty miles away. So yes, once a week I climb in the car before the sun rises so I can be present with two sweet little girls. How much more beautiful small is when named Madelyn Simone and Elizabeth Holiday. 

The Real Thing

Most Americans were touched in some way by the visit of Pope Francis to our nation’s capital, the Big Apple, and the City of Brotherly Love (aka Philadelphia). Many people in those three cities are breathing a sigh of relief that the visit went well – no riots, no out-of-control protests, no major embarrassment to their cities. But many more are still basking in the afterglow of the pontiff’s presence. What kind of man rejects the luxury of a limo for the confines of a little black Fiat? Who skips lunch with people of power to eat at St. Maria’s Meals, a food program for the homeless? Apparently a man who has taken on the name of Francis of Assisi, a man of poverty, a man of peace, and a man who loves and protects creation.

What more can be said about the Pope’s visit to the United States? Columnist Kathleen Parker wrote of her personal response: “It was magical. Palliative. Heavenly. For a few hours, I felt un-cynical. I wanted to be a better person and say nice things about Donald Trump. I wanted to invite strangers into my home, wash their feet, and feed them fishes and loaves.”

Pope Francis, the best known religious leader of our times, is on the world’s stage. As the leader of the Catholic Church, he offers a remarkable voice to the world’s conversations not just because of his position, but also because he is recognized as someone who lives out his own beliefs. Yet his voice is not alone. The faith-informed presence that he brings to us is replicated in men and women of conviction who speak truth to power and who inspire us to be better people.

Here in Ashland, we too have those who stand tall for peace, who call us to spiritual truths, and who “walk the walk and talk the talk.” Two in particular come to mind this week. The first, Dr. Luke Keefer, departed this world for the next in 2010, but he is being remembered this weekend at an event at Ashland University and Ashland Theological Seminary created to honor his life and extend his influence.

Instead of focusing on testimonials to Dr. Keefer’s life and work, the conveners are committed to a living legacy. Thus, Shane Claiborne will speak this morning at 9 a.m. on the topic of “Tearing Down the Walls,” encouraging the Body of Christ to be alive in the world around them [free admission – walk-ins welcome at AU’s Upper Convo]. Claiborne has been involved in the development of The Simple Way, an intentional faith community in the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia. What better way to honor a man who blessed and inspired many “by his genuine and gentle example,” as Dr. John Swope remembers, than to explore new ways of living a faithful life.

A second person of influence is retired ATS professor Dr. Jerry Flora. In his newly released book, “Into Your Hands: Memoir and Witness,” Flora’s essays remind us of ourselves, of our childhood catastrophes and cherished memories, of our moments of unpredicted terror and great joy, and of decisive life moments that change us forever. Images of seven ducklings at Brookside Park, uninterrupted green traffic lights, and a preemptive strike to the jaw of a bully allow Flora to weave everyday experiences into the fabric of faith and life. Leaning on the windowsill of heaven, he speaks of prayerful living, empathetic listening, and a persistent concern for peace among all peoples. Might there be an echo of the Francis of today and of history?

Why these three? In the early 1970s, Viet Nam, Watergate, and Attica flooded our television screens with images of hatred and pain. An enterprising advertising campaign suggested an alternative world, a renewed America, ending with the tag line, “It’s the real thing – Coke is.” I don’t know about sugary brown soft drinks, but Pope Francis, Luke Keefer, and Jerry Flora are “the real thing.” Through painful sensitivity and persistent obedience, they have lived whole and holy lives. That’s why we are drawn to Francis, to Luke and to Jerry. Their lives truly teach the world to sing in perfect – and peaceful – harmony.

The Power of One

We’ve had our share of “I didn’t quite expect that” moments over the years as we’ve visited the cinema and the theater without fully vetting the chosen film or play. Ask me someday about taking couples from our church to see a murder mystery theater performance. Not good. Yet sometimes we can be pleasantly surprised, as we were in our viewing of the first “Rocky” film in our seminary days. It’s been on cable so much now that it’s lost some of its power, but I remember walking home that night, amazed at what a great film it was.

At my suggestion, Larry and I (minus kids) went to see “The Incredibles” a few years ago. Not quite the same impact as Rocky, I’m afraid. As the film began, its rather motley assortment of superheroes fell out of favor with the public and they had to go into hiding and live like normal people. I knew we were in trouble.

I was reminded of The Incredibles on Thursday as the United Way of Ashland County kicked-off this year’s fund-raising campaign. The first hint: the rather creative assortment of caped crusaders who paraded through Upper Convo on the Ashland University campus (great job as always, AU catering staff). Throughout the morning, the presence of these superheroes was corny at best as capes flew through the air and masks because the day’s fashion statement. I must pause for a shout-out to the zaniest superhero in Jim Hess. In the years he and Margaret Ann led the United Way Pacesetters in their escapades, we came to expect zany from him, so I was glad for his cameo appearance in Thursday’s program.

Archie the cookie mascot, the AU cheerleaders, and the wannabe superheroes joined with those who didn’t get the costume memo to proclaim The Power of One, a power often ascribed to Superman, Spiderman, and even Mr. “I work alone” Incredible, who singlehandedly save the world.

Like the lone superheroes, the power of one person is United Way’s message to the Ashland community. There is power in one cardboard box of coins, one payroll deduction, one fund-raising activity, one cook-out, one story. There is also power in the presence of one caring person in our lives, whether it’s a parent, a teacher, a mentor, a co-worker, or a friend. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard someone say, “If it wasn’t for ________, I don’t know where I’d be today.”

But my fuller understanding of the Power of One is in the lesson learned by Bob Parr, the normal name chosen by Mr. Incredible when forced to pack away his superhero suit. Sometimes, as Mr. Incredible discovered, the power of one isn’t enough. Instead, he needed the force-field ability of his daughter Violet, the super speed of his son Dash, and the stretchable body of his wife Helen, aka Elastigirl. Together, with all their superpowers combined, they were able to save the city from destruction.

I’ve worked in human services for nearly four decades, and I sure do wish we could have success as easily as the Incredibles did. I often long to hear the Mighty Mouse arpeggio of Saturday morning cartoons; “Here I come to save the day.” But that’s not how life works. Children are scarred by trauma and early deficits, parents are overwhelmed in their attempt to function day-to-day with inadequate resources, and our friends and neighbors are devastated by unexpected diagnoses and tragic loss. Mighty Mouse is a myth. Wonder Woman can’t do it all. As United Way’s Ev DeVaul reminded us, there is no magic “get out of difficulty” card to distribute at will.

But one by one, lives can change through the Power of One: One person, one family, one block, one neighborhood, one congregation, one school, one community, one United Way. As Ev encouraged us, we can celebrate the good stuff, we can raise awareness of the needs of our neighbors, and we can joyfully raise funds for distribution through United Way. Even if our superhero cape feels tattered and torn, we still have the power to change our world. It’s not a bird, it’s not a plane – it’s our community, living united.

JOY!

In a world that delivers a full share of tragedy and challenge in daily doses, what gives you joy? That persistent question has taken up residency in my heart and mind, and I’ve been paying attention to those moments when joy surprises me, as well as to what others have to say about joy, happiness and fulfillment.

As my faithful readers would expect, I must begin with the granddaughters. The lovely Madelyn Simone is an exuberant child who finds joy in blowing bubbles, picking tomatoes from the garden, and chasing butterflies. Her baby sister, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, seems to be a more solemn child, and it takes a bit of coaxing to be rewarded with one of her lopsided grins. But when she smiles at me, it’s pure joy.

Writer Shauna Niequist describes her joy: “I want a life that sizzles and pops and makes me laugh out loud. And I don’t want to get to the end, or to tomorrow, even, and realize that my life is a collection of meetings and pop cans and errands and receipts and dirty dishes. I want to eat cold tangerines . . .”

My friend Amy Reardon relates her experience: “Years ago I went to a really pivotal leadership training event that was preceded by lots of self-testing. I learned about my ‘oxygen’ – the things that make life beautiful to me, what I need to stop and drink in every once in a while.” For Amy, art, poetry, music, and gazing at the wide-open sky provide her needed oxygen, a refreshing joy.

Roman Catholic writer Joan Chittister sees the concept of happiness in another perspective. ‘If I really want to be happy, what am I part of that is larger than myself? What can I give to this world, this project, this question, this problem that will be meaningful to others? When I know I am about something bigger than myself, money and status and personal ambition all pale in the face of it – and in the morning, I wake up happy.”

Joy, happiness, oxygen – whatever we call it, it comes in various shapes and sizes. In recent days, I’ve discovered joy in music heard and created, in a crescent moon in a starless sky, in belly laughs, and in the company of friends. Sometimes joy creeps up on us when we least expect it, while at other times, we have to search hard for it in the midst of difficult days.

Years ago, three friends and I skipped out on an organized women’s retreat and headed to Jacob’s Field, where we ended up in the fourth row from the sky. We had a blast! With perfect weather, beloved companions, and a beer vendor who kept us in stitches, what more could we ask for? When I told my husband what a great time we had, he responded, “But the Indians lost.” Sometimes, my dear husband, you have to catch joy whenever you find it, especially if you’re a Cleveland sports fan. As blogger Will Gibson reminds us, “We do not need to be miserable just because the team is. We can repurpose that misery into humor and have a good time despite poor play. We’ve certainly had time to practice.” (Smiley face emoticon).

What brings you joy? Sports, nature, art, children, faith – we each have our personal list of joy-bringers. But there’s a special thrill when we discover a community joy, and that happened this past Saturday evening as we joined about one thousand fellow Ashlanders for “A Joyful Opening!” The Ashland Symphony, the Ashland Area Chorus, the Ashland Regional Ballet, and the Ashland University Brass christened the new Robert M. and Janet L. Archer Auditorium with a magnificent evening of music. From the brilliant brass tones of Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” to the crowd-pleasing strains of Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” we were treated to a night kissed by joy. What a blessed people we are.

And now the County Fair is here, the happiest week of the year in Ashland! Here’s to overflowing joy as we greet our neighbors, stroll the Midway, listen to the laughter of children, and munch on deep fried Oreos.    

A Red Tee-shirt and Blue Pants

As the television screen flickers in my comfort-controlled living room, the plight of the thousands and thousands of immigrants seeking admission to European counties is unfathomable. While the talking heads on the newscasts make their reports, I’m tempted to hit the remote, searching for better news. But the news isn’t much better over on ESPN, with the Tribe still five games out of the wild card race (same old story – too little, too late), and the Browns, while currently undefeated, reneged on their “leap of faith” by releasing Terrelle Pryor. Of such is the state of Cleveland sports.

But the refugees don’t go away. On a slow news day, reports from Europe still hit the headlines. Radio interviewers recount the heart-breaking stories of families destroyed by warring factions in their homeland. Disturbing images appear unbidden on my computer screen, as the photo of three-year-old Aylan Kurdi’s lifeless body sneaks its way into my life, tucked in between cat videos and birthday wishes on my Facebook feed.

Aylan’s story is a tragic one. A mother and two sons drown in an attempted escape to Greece, hoping to seek political asylum somewhere in the western world to escape the horrors of the Syrian civil war. The father survives. How does a family come to the decision to pay thousands of dollars to board a 5 meter smuggler’s dinghy? Aylan’s Canadian uncle explained why he and his wife sent the money to help her brother: ‘There was no other hope.”

As he spoke of the death of his wife and two sons, Aylan’s father repeated these chilling words: “the life jackets – they were all fake.” A $4500 ticket for a thirty minute boat ride and the traffickers couldn’t provide effective life jackets? Unconscionable. And why would an individual or a company manufacture lifejackets that don’t provide a chance for a life to be preserved?

It’s a tragic and complicated story. There is a relocation process worldwide for refugees, beginning with United Nations registration. Those heading for Europe through the route of illegal entry are cutting in line, unwilling to wait for months and even years to leave the camps. Reportedly, this was the fifth attempt by Aylan’s family to reach the shores of Greece. And concerns are being raised over the authenticity of Abdullah Kurdi’s account. Yet still, the image of the dead child on the beach remains with us.

As photographer Nilufer Demir noted, “There was nothing left to do for him . . . nothing to do except take his photograph.” Keith Jenkins of National Geographic digital understands the power of Demir’s action: “Taking a step back and thinking of the refugee crisis that has been unfolding for months, if not years . . . this is a point where people may pay attention in a different way.”

As unsettling as Aylan’s story is, his is only one face in a crisis of massive proportion. Here are the numbers. As of July, more than four million Syrian refugees were registered with the United Nations. The majority of these children and adults are currently in refugee camps in Turkey, Lebanon, and Jordan. About 350,000 have sought asylum in Europe. The United States accepted 1,500 Syrian refugees in fiscal year 2015. News reports suggest that we might be able to squeeze in ten thousand Syrian refugees over the course of the next year.

In comparison, according to the International Rescue Committee, during the twenty years following the fall of Saigon, two million people poured out of Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. By 1992, more than one million had been admitted to the United States.

I didn’t want to write about the Syrian refugee crisis this week, and toyed with more palatable options until this column was due at the T-G. I wanted to write about the lovely Madelyn Simone learning to ride a bike, not about a dead Syrian child who will never ride a bike. I want a clicker to turn off the violence in our world so families aren’t forced to make unimaginable choices to survive. Yet there is no magic clicker. This week I must write about Aylan, a boy in a red tee-shirt and blue pants. 

Peppa Pig and Maternity Leave

From the Ashland Times-Gazette.

Having set the alarm for 4:30 a.m., I watched the sun rise as I traveled towards Canton, looking forward to my Nana day with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday. I wish our days together were simply because I enjoy spending time with the girls, but the reality is that our extended family is attempting to cobble together child care coverage for Greg and Lauren’s children. A typical weekly schedule includes my one day a week visit, Madelyn’s time with her Pee-Paw, two days at a babysitter for little Liza, and a staggered schedule for Lauren so she can have two weekdays off. Greg then cares for Madelyn and the screamin’ demon (oh, I mean sweet little Liza) on Saturday and Sunday. Although the girls are loved deeply by all their care-givers, Madelyn articulates the challenges of this arrangement when she asks, “Where am I going tomorrow?”

I am terribly torn as I watch my kids stagger through these early days with a new baby in the house. They are both dreadfully sleep deprived, for Elizabeth hasn’t yet discovered how to lay in her cradle and coo – no, this little one demands attention as soon as her eyes open, and they open quite a bit.

I’m torn because I feel strongly that women should be able to work outside the home, to discover their gifts, and to have a life outside of diaper pails and Peppa Pig (a British cartoon that’s a favorite of Madelyn’s). 

Yet here’s this nine week old baby who still hasn’t settled into a rhythm of nursing and sleeping, perhaps in part due to her stay in the NICU, where day and night look exactly the same. As great as Nana is, little Liza still needs her mother.

In 2015, working outside the home has become a necessity rather than an option for many young women. Some are carrying the medical insurance for their family. Some are single mothers with no safety net underneath their babies when the cradle rocks, unable to survive on the cash assistance of $465 a month they’d get as welfare moms with two kids (2014 figure). So within weeks of giving birth, they’re back in the restaurants, factories, offices and classrooms, running on two to three hours of sleep.

I remember those days, as the baby screamed uncontrollably, laundry reproduced around me, and my work gathered dust in my office. And I was one of the fortunate ones, with lots of flexibility in my schedule. I didn’t have to clock in every morning at 7 a.m. Try maintaining breast-feeding with that kind of schedule.

A recent Huffington Post video made two striking statements. First, one in four new mothers is back to work within two weeks of giving birth. Women are afraid of losing their jobs, or can’t exist on unpaid leave or reduced disability payments. Anyone who’s ever given birth knows what the post-partum body looks and feels like on day fourteen, definitely not ready for prime time – or the assembly line.

Here’s the second statement. “There is only one developed country in the world that doesn’t offer paid maternity leave.” According to a report by McGill University’s Institute for Health and Social Policy, the United States, along with Papua New Guinea, Swaziland, Liberia and Lesotha, are some of the only countries in the world that provide no type of financial support for new mothers. In at least 178 countries, paid leave is guaranteed for working moms, and more than fifty countries provide wage benefits for new fathers.

But wait – isn’t there a Family and Medical Leave Act? Yes, FMLA is available for up to twelve weeks, but 40% of new mothers don’t qualify, and it’s unpaid. New mothers who live paycheck to paycheck can’t risk being evicted or having the electricity turned off in order to have a few weeks on the couch watching Peppa Pig oink.

I wonder if Mummy Pig took advantage of the United Kingdom’s thirty-nine week paid maternity leave when Peppa’s brother George was born. Wouldn’t it be great if one day, Mummy Shade and other young mothers could get the same kind of help without moving to London?  

Minions

I’m definitely not a movie aficionado. I visit the movie theater about twice a year, and generally have to be bribed to watch a movie at home with the family. I’d rather read the book. But since the Times-Gazette doesn’t have its own movie critic on staff, I’m using this week’s seven hundred words to blather on about “The Minion Movie.“

Ever since we saw the original “Despicable Me,” the lovely Madelyn Simone and I have laughed together over the minions, those adorable banana-colored creatures who don’t speak English. When the trailer for this summer’s movie first appeared last November, I had a terrible time convincing Madelyn that the movie wasn’t ready yet. She was adamant that we go to see it immediately, today, and so I promised we would see it together when it was finally released.

The Minion Movie has become the highest grossing animated film not produced by Disney, only beaten out at the animation box office by Disney’s “Toy Story 3” and “Frozen.” But was it a great film? Not in my opinion. I agree with Michael O’Sullivan (The Washington Post’s bona-fide film critic) who gave it two and a half stars out of four. He commented, “I, too, once enjoyed the Minions in the small does that they came in. But the extra-strength Minions is, for better or worse, too much of a good thing.”  

Great movie or not, I really am amazed at the minions. If you've been privileged to make the acquaintance of Stuart, Kevin and Bob, you know they can be adorable. These pesky little creatures carried an entire movie while speaking a language based on gibberish, without the need for a single sub-title. According to Pierre Coffin, one of the films's directors and the voice of the minions, he tossed in some Indian, French, English, Spanish, and Italian phrases. He "mix[ed] up all these ridiculous sounding words just because they sound good, not because they necessarily mean anything." Yet somehow, we, the viewers, understand what the minions are saying. What a fascinating experiment in linguistics.

Instead of inventing a word to describe them, their creators used an English word meaning a follower or underling to a powerful person. The word itself derives from the French word mignon, defined as small or pretty, darling. But in actuality, the minions really aren’t so darling after all, for the historical overview at the beginning of the film suggests they exist only to serve the world’s most villainous masters.

Now as a woman of the cloth, I’ve been keenly aware of the presence of evil in our world. Using Christian terminology, I understand the damage sin can cause in an unrepentant heart, and how our destructive actions can injure other human beings. If you’re not convinced of that, just go back and read the headlines of the Times-Gazette over the past few weeks. Even here in Ashland.

As I’ve thought more about “The Minion Movie,” I recognize that our world isn’t quite as black and white as the big screen suggests. Yes, there are those like movie scoundrels Scarlet Overkill, Dr. Nefario, and Gru who are proud to be labeled supervillains. However, evil can also be insidious, appearing to be harmless yet seducing its targets as easily as did the three sirens in “O Brother, Where Art Thou.” Yet whether evil is blatant or hidden, Scarlet Overkill’s question is haunting: “Doesn’t it feel good to be bad?”

Gru prides himself on being bad, but he’s faced with his own feelings of love for others as the Despicable Me movies unfold, leaving me aware of the tension between the power of redemption and the beguiling call of the sirens. Perhaps what Gru discovers is that it also feels good – and is good – to be good.

In the end, the Minion Movie offered up zany characters and wacky antics that entertained Madelyn and family for ninety-one minutes, even if it did overdose on yellow. It also invited me to contemplate the lure of evil and the possibility of redemption, much food for thought. Yet I am still left with one nagging question: Why am I so charmed by those naughty minions?  

Life Adds Up To Something

from this morning's Ashland Times-Gazette

The invitation came by way of an e-mailed newsletter from an Ashland church, to remain nameless to protect the innocent. “We’ve been cleaning out our church closets and have items you can have for a small donation.” Since I’ve seen my fair share of the contents of church closets, I made a bee-line for the church basement, where I found rows of tables, covered with hundreds of object, a story in the making.

The first to catch my eye was a set of golf clubs, a bit dusty. Had one of the previous pastors given up chasing that dimpled ball down the fairway, or had he (they were men’s clubs) left them for his successor? Surely those golf clubs were privy to spiritual conversations and whispered prayers of all sorts.

There were many reminders of days gone by, similar to most every garage sale, although with a religious bent. The Bible on cassette tape. An assortment of slides, probably of missionaries in Papua New Guinea. Those giant visual aids so Sunday School children could sing a hymn each week, long before high-tech computer imagery invaded the sanctuary. Who would want any of these now?

There was also quite a nice set of quilted hangers. Perhaps they had held the assortment of bathrobes and sashes that comprise a church’s costume collection, or maybe choir robes. That thought took me back to the first Sunday I sang in the senior choir, slipping into my choir robe and ascending the steps to the balcony with such a sense of joy and accomplishment.

I’m curious as to the source of the four Vote Democrat plates. Were they an offering of repentance, or did a disgruntled parishioner donate them to the rummage sale when Bill Clinton was having issues? Was anyone brave enough to purchase them?

They also had an ancient eye exam kit, the kind where the E’s pointed in various directions. Perhaps the Lion’s Club met in the church basement and left it behind, or the church tested pre-schoolers in preparation for kindergarten. Who knows?

There was a box of assorted hotel soaps probably collected in the last century – you know, like so many other items you bring home and then end up throwing out ten years later. I really thought I might use it someday . . .

Some items had languished in the lost and found before they made their way to the church cupboard. I was always fascinated by the bizarre items in the Kroc Center lost and found. How could someone go home without their shoes or car keys – or their false teeth?  

A lone figure from a nativity scene rested on one of the tables, the baby Jesus abandoned by the rest of his entourage. It reminded me of when my mother helped clean out her church’s closets prior to a massive remodeling job. She came home cradling the baby Jesus doll, the veteran of years of Christmas pageants, then relegated to an upper shelf in the third floor storage closet. Jesus seemed a bit worse for wear, but my mother brought him home, freshened up his clothes, and let the grandkids play with him. That, my friends, can preach.

As I moved from table to table, I chuckled over the odds and ends of life assembled over the course of many years. Unless we follow Dave Bruno, with his 100 Thing Challenge and minimalist lifestyle, we’ve all got closets of junk (oops, I mean treasures), items long past their prime but held onto just because. Like the detritus of the church, our tucked away treasures tell the stories of service given to a community and family, of shared history, and of great joy, deep sorrow, and hopeful expectations.

In my narrow home office, I’m surrounded by similar reminders: the RJ Kroc Bobblehead, a Buffalo Bills magnet, artistic creations by the lovely Madelyn Simone, and the red porcelain shoe reminiscent of seminary days. One day they too will be relegated to the garage sale table or trash bin, but for now they remain as story-teller, reminding us, as Frederick Buechner noted, that “life adds up to something.”

Just Do It

The New York Times recently reported on a fitness study in Denmark. The general question asked was, “Can intense exercise be fun?” The researchers determined that a potential new approach to intense interval training “could appeal even to those of us who, until now, have been disinclined to push ourselves during exercise.” Not so sure about that.

Fun or not, Americans certainly spend a lot of time and money in their attempts to be physically fit. Unlike a generation or two ago, where the daily routines of hard work and outdoor play provided the necessary physical activity, gym memberships, Zumba classes, FitBit trackers, kindergarten soccer teams, and 5K runs attempt to create appealing opportunities for young and old. Add to that list the plethora of nutritional aids, diets, and cleanses, and we can agree that at least some of us put priority on forming our bodies in ways that invite health and wellness. We may not consider it to be fun, but do so in order to improve.

With considerably less hype, there are also people who consider the formation of their spiritual being to be of as much if not more importance to their personal well-being. Through many years of pastoral ministry, I’ve wrestled with this question: what can we do to care for our spirit? Most of us aren’t prepared to retreat to a monastery or hermitage for the next thirty years, or to live “enclosed,” in a room adjacent to the church as a young woman did in the 14^th century (whom we remember as Julian of Norwich). We have jobs and families, commitments on a daily basis that keep most of us from devoting large blocks of time to marathon training or the mystic’s withdrawal into the woods or desert.

There are definitely many less radical options available to those who desire to grow in the things of the spirit. We can begin through involvement in a church body, attending worship and participating in the life of the congregation. The Kroc Center’s labyrinth, on the southwest corner of the campus, provides a meditative path for spiritual seeking. Book discussions, such as one recently begun at Park Street Brethren Church, allow us to read spiritual literature together, currently Henri Nouwen’s “Return of the Prodigal Son.” And we are blessed as Ashland Theological Seminary often opens its doors wide to the community as with the October 2 and 3 visit of Shane Claiborne of “The Simple Way” to Ashland.

In 1995, several professors and students from the seminary began dreaming of a school of spiritual formation located outside its walls. From that dream, a two-year ‘school,’ Lifespring, was developed that practices a rhythm of retreat and rest on a monthly basis, inviting its participants to experience God joyfully and to serve others effectively. Lifespring is currently welcoming new participants to its next cohort of instruction and experience.

What is best? As in physical exercise, what’s best is the type of activity we are likely to actually do, rather than just plan for or think about (how much exercise equipment is gathering dust in your basement?) Some of us do best with an exercise or spiritual practice that is routine, becoming as regular a habit as brushing our teeth or walking the dog. For others, variety truly is the spice of life, and our best exercise of the body or the spirit is new every morning.

Carrie Bergman, who works with The Center for Contemplative Mind in Society, created a visual tree of contemplative practices that begins with the roots of communion, connection and awareness. The tree expands into branches described as stillness, generative, creative, activist, relational, movement, and ritual/cyclical. While she makes note of about thirty leaves, there are hundreds of possible combinations of individual practices that can form a holy shade over us and around us.

Thoughtful spiritual formation can be as profoundly life-changing as regular exercise, yet whether for a healthy body, mind, and/or spirit, our own part of the equation is summed up in Nikes’ now iconic three words. “Just do it.” Your “it’ may look different than mine, but it is in the doing that we find health and wholeness – body and soul.

Women, Past and Future

After surviving the challenge of raising three sons, I am thrilled to have two beautiful granddaughters. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed spoiling the lovely Madelyn Simone over the last five years, but, as the Bob Dylan prophetically teaches us, “the times, they are a-changin’.” Lauren’s maternity leave is over, so Thursday will be my first day with the delightful Elizabeth Holiday (age seven weeks). I do hope she lives up to my descriptor and doesn’t cry all day.

I’m sure Madelyn will offer me much expert assistance, although she’s already made it very clear that she doesn’t do diapers. But her help will be short-lived, as she’ll leave me high – and hopefully dry – my second week, on her way to kindergarten. How can that be?

Ah, what will the future be like for Madelyn and little Liza? Born female and American in the twenty-first century, it’s likely they will have few restrictions on what they want to be when they grow up (a question I struggle to answer even at age sixty).

It hasn’t always been so. That question was answered in a much narrower way for girls born one hundred or two hundred years ago, and it generally involved a life within the home. Those women who sought opportunities in the world around them did so at the risk of chastisement for overstepping their boundaries, sometimes forbidden to continue in the direction of their choosing. Most women accepted the norms of the day, but, as happens in today’s world, some pushed the envelope, finding success in a variety of endeavors.

We were reminded of this reality as Deleasa Randall-Griffiths portrayed the life of Carrie Chapman Catt during this year’s Ashland Chautauqua. Mrs. Catt determined early in  life that she was charged with a mission – obtaining the vote for women. I’d never heard of her before, so was glad to make her acquaintance through Randall-Griffiths’ compelling performance.

While Mrs. Catt functioned on the national stage, women here in Ashland were also stepping forward. Shirley Fulk Boyd has compiled an excellent resource in recognition of Ashland’s bicentennial entitled Ashland Women: 1815-2015. I loved reading the snippets of biography describing women such as Bella Osborn, the high school principal for many years, and Norah Abbe, superintendent of the early Samaritan Hospital. Some were noted for their achievement of a “first,” such as Helen Arnold, Ashland’s first probation officer; Sarah Wartman, admitted to the Ohio bar in 1893; Catherine Luther Sampsel, the first Ashlander with a piano; and Agnes Duice, Ashland’s first woman to wear pantalettes. Scandalous!

Many women worked tirelessly to make Ashland a better place for all. Clara Miller founded the YWCA and Mary Freer raised orphan children, while others fought against the scourge of alcohol, banding together in the Ladies Indignation Society (sounds like a great book title). Boyd notes that women like Caroline Jackson Kellogg stood nightly outside Ashland saloons to protest the easy flow of alcohol, while at the church, her husband Bolivar prayed for her success.

My favorite Ashland athlete from the book was Ann Petrovic, who starred for the Kenosha Comets in the women’s baseball league made famous by the film, A League of Her Own. Others, such as M. Lucille Sprague, joined the military. Sprague later provided leadership in our country’s Housing Administration.

Many who succeeded in business did so in partnership with their husbands, opening stores, medical practices, and even factories. After the death of her husband, Edna Garber ran the A.L. Garber Company from 1941-1969. I’m guessing her accomplishment gave courage to her daughter, Lucille Garber Ford, whose presence as the Grand Marshall of the fabulous Ashland bicentennial parade honored her own achievements within our community.

Regardless of circumstances, regardless of cultural barriers, Caroline and Clara, Ann and Bella, and Edna and Lucille remind us of what we can be, what we can achieve. Today, their courage reaches through the years to Madelyn and Elizabeth and to all the girls – and boys – of our community and our world. With continued encouragement and support, one day they too will say with Carrie Chapman Catt: “I have lived to realize the greatest dream of my life.”

There's Always Next Year

True Confession. I love Facebook. I love to be able to connect with friends, to type my happy birthday wishes instead of trying to remember to send a card, and to attempt to boost my book sales from time to time, not very successfully, I’m afraid. And I love hearing from friends around the world when I post my T-G column on Facebook each week. I got lots of reaction from the Unadulterated Triscuit column, and I keep expecting to get a box or two in the mail.

However, I’m having issues with Facebook because it allows my friends to post photos from Maine. This is the time of year when we make our annual pilgrimage to the ocean, where many Salvation Army friends gather for shared worship in the grove, nightly fun at the pier, and the welcoming sand and surf. But unfortunately, RJ’s Spraypark at the Kroc Center was the closest I got to water this week.

When we made the decision to forgo our Maine vacation this year, it made perfect sense. We really couldn’t afford the expense, and we were anticipating that our new granddaughter, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, would only be a week or so old – definitely not the time to leave Ohio.

It turns out that due to her early arrival, E.H. is already six weeks old, so we could have gone to Maine.  And now I am being bombarded with reminders of what I’m missing by way of Facebook. Jealousy and Envy may be high on the list of sins, but I’m asking for absolution in advance for my wayward ways, at least for this week.

Feeling bad about staying home, I suggested our family try to replicate our Old Orchard Beach, Maine vacation right here in Ohio. Brilliant idea, right? The Despicable Me movies have traditionally been a good option for rainy days in Maine. Pop-Pop falls asleep halfway through the movie, and we all laugh at those pesky yet adorable Minions. So we went to see The Minion Movie together, just like Maine. Pop-Pop stayed awake this time, but Unkie fell asleep. Somebody has to – it’s tradition!

Maybe, I thought, we could go for a ride together and get lost like we usually do on our way to Two Lights. Or we could walk around Ashland in our bathing suits – NOT! I’m not even brave enough to wear my bathing suit at the spraypark.

Another favorite pastime of ours in Maine is eating fresh seafood after church, but when I suggested Long John Silvers for lunch, I was met with rolled eyes and groans. Really, Mom? I don’t dare mention lobster rolls, Pier Fries, or Lisa’s Pizza. But in honor of my annual Dairy Queen ‘date’ with a dear friend, we talked for about an hour on the phone and I did order a hot fudge sundae at our local DQ. Somehow,  it didn’t taste quite as good without Lauren.

I’ve always tried to look on the bright side of life, so realizing that I won’t have to spend two mortgage payments to rent a house for the week does my heart and my checkbook good. There won’t be any sand in my sandwich, and our lunch will be safe from the seagulls. No sunburn either. It is a terribly long ride from Ohio to Maine, and we always manage to experience at least an hour or two of bumper-to-bumper traffic – won’t miss that either.

Life as a Northeast Ohio sports fan teaches us that we can’t always get what we want in life. I am grateful for our memories of years gone by, and, jealousy aside, for the joy my friends are finding at the ocean. It wasn’t to be this summer and I’m OK with that. As for our family, we’ll take a page from the Cavs, the Indians, and the Browns: “There’s always next year.” Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next July we’ll be stuck in traffic on the road to the ocean, as the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday watch the minions on the DVD player. Can you say, “Be-do, be-do, be-do?” Can’t wait! 

The Temple of My Familiar

A captivating video clip popped up on my Facebook feed this week. The caption indicated that a popular Christian author prophesized the demise of the pipe organ, suggesting it be broken down for firewood. Ouch! I’ve not been able to locate the actual quote so the author will remain unnamed, but his words deserve to be challenged. That’s where the video comes in, as Baltimore’s Dr. Patrick Alston disputes his prediction without uttering a word. Instead, the master organist Alston sits at the keyboard and allows the music to swell through his hands and feet.

The church has not escaped the winds of change blowing across our world throughout the last few decades. Blame it on the Beatles or the devil if you want, but the pipe organ has often fallen victim to those who clamor for a more contemporary sound to speak to our itching ears. But still, there is nothing in this world like the sound of a magnificent pipe organ as its notes echo from the rafters of a cathedral or sanctuary.

The day after my mother’s death, I attended the church where I grew up. On that sorrowful morning, I longed for the comfort of the traditional liturgy of my childhood, the familiarity of the stained glass windows, and the resonance of the organ. However, once a month, the keyboard, guitar and drums take the place of the organ, and guess what Sunday it was. No pipe organ for me that day.

I was so disappointed that morning, curious about the intensity of my reaction. In that tender time of early grief, I believe I was seeking what novelist Alice Walker called “the temple of my familiar.” I don’t remember her story line, but the sentiment of the title fits. While there is always room for the new, sometimes we simply want to return to the temple of our familiar, the sacred words, the remembered tunes, the ancient paths, and even the familiar scents and tastes.

As a young woman, I dreamed of being the organist in that Presbyterian Church on Broad Street in Tonawanda. At fourteen, I stepped toward that dream by starting organ lessons to supplement my piano skills. I often rode my bike to the silent church, where I would ascend the steps to the choir loft and allow the music to envelop me in its fumbling glory. I’d discovered an arrangement of The Lost Chord, and Adelaide Procter’s words challenged me: “My fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. I know not what I was playing, or what I was dreaming then; but I struck one chord of music like the sound of a great Amen.”

However, in what can only be described as the comical will of God, I never did get to discover that lost chord on the organ. Instead, my young organ instructor was moving on from his church job, and asked if I’d be interested in taking his place. Where? The local Salvation Army, where I traded the pipe organ for an upright piano, the strains of Bach and Handel for gospel hymns and Sunday school choruses. And the rest is history. All for $4.65 a week.

In these days following the death of my mother and the birth of our new granddaughter, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, 

I’ve thought a lot about the past, the temple of my familiar, but also of the role that hopes and dreams play along the path to our future. In the unique search for our own lost chord, just one casual conversation or one seemingly insignificant decision can change the direction of a hoped-for path or a long-held dream. And yet when we least expect it, the abandoned dream whispers to us one more time, beckoning us to return.

Perhaps some quiet morning, if a church door is left ajar, I’ll wander into a silent choir loft to see if my fingers and feet can still touch the longings of a fifteen year old girl. The notes may be a bit rusty, but I’m hoping my own lost chord is still waiting to welcome me home before the predicted campfire burns away the glory.