Square Peg, Round Hole

It came as a subtle warning. “Do you remember what happened to “Mrs. Smith?” Because I’d come to my denomination as an older teen, I didn’t know what happened to Mrs. Smith, but I soon discovered that in the organizational memory of my church, Mrs. Smith stood out as someone who had strayed outside the lines of acceptable theological thought. I don’t know the details, but the consensus was that because of her liberal (and perhaps heretical) leanings, she and her husband were forced out of ministry (because in the Salvation Army, husband and wife have to serve in ministry together – generally if one goes, the other does as well unless they choose to divorce).

The words came at a time in my life where I was reading deeply in Catholic writers such as Henri Nouwen, Joyce Rupp, Richard Rohr and Joan Chittester, and apparently that was causing some discomfort to my denominational leader(s). I was also beginning to write publicly, and apparently what were seen as my radical leanings (quite moderate in the grand scheme of things) were of concern. “We don’t want you to go the way of Mrs. Smith,” was the implied message.

My path to the Salvation Army came by way of the Presbyterian Church and many years of piano lessons, when, at age fifteen, I was hired to play piano for Sunday meetings. My adolescent theology had been formed int eh pews and classrooms of the reformed tradition, and sprinkled with the energy of Young Life, a longing for social justice long before it became a buzzword, and the searching of a seeking yet questioning heart. As a young adult, I was captivated by magical summers at Long Point Camp that provided me with a sense of community and purpose, and became involved in a dating relationship with a young Salvationist. God was calling, and I claimed the Salvation Army as the destination I understood through Frederick Buechner's definition: "The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet." 

I didn't choose the denomination for its specific theological stance any more than most people choose a church by studying its doctrines or by-laws. Rather, I chose it (or was chosen by God for it) for the way my faith and my social concerns could co-exist and flourish. Through my years of active officership (34, years, 16 days to be exact), I self-defined as a square peg in a round hole, but I made it work, committed to coloring within the company's doctrinal lines from the pulpit, although tossing in a quote from time to time from a less conservative thinker (sometimes even a Catholic). In my writing, I think I pushed the edges gently for the most part, more on the praxis side than the doctrinal side of things. Amazingly, "they" even invited me to be a corresponding member of the International Doctrine Council for a few years. 

Years of inner city ministry sharpened my understanding of God's preferential option for th poor, and the challenges of Kroc Center development in a small Ohio city brought deep gladness to my ministry experience. I focused on what I could do within the broad boundaries of ministry, and not so much on what I couldn't do.

Now, in what is defined organizationally as early retirement at our own request, I still fall under the "law" of the Salvation Army, for retired officers can lose their rank and even pension if they stray too far (think Mrs. Smith). So while I do not face the challenges that active officers do, I am hopeful that my membership in a social media group of progressive thinkers won't endanger my retirement nest-egg. As I read of the angst some of my friends are experience as they try to navigate the minefield of political correctness (and sometimes survival) within a (mostly) theologically conservative organization, I am tempted to whisper my own warning to them: remember Mrs. Smith. Don't be foolish. Don't cast away a beloved ministry or your (and your spouse's) livelihood because you threw caution to the wind. Jesus himself taught us to be "wise as serpents and innocent as doves" (Matthew 10:160.

 I understand, from the perspective of older age and hopefully some wisdom, that those words do need to be said from time to time. But I also want to remind my brothers and sisters that sometimes we are called to be Mrs. (or Mr.) Smith. Not to the point that we deny the existence of the Trinity or convert to Scientology or Nuwaubianism, but to the place where we think deeply, read widely, engage in respectful conversations, and pray for discernment, “hating what is evil and clinging to what is good.” Be wise, be courageous. 

While it seems as if I could say much more on this topic, for now one final thought comes from Henri Nouwen, whose experience in the Catholic Church has often encouraged me. “Loving the Church often seems close to impossible. Still, we must keep reminding ourselves that all people in the Church - whether powerful or powerless, conservative or progressive, tolerant or fanatic - belong to that long line of witnesses moving through this valley of tears, singing songs of praise and thanksgiving, listening to the voice of their Lord, and eating together from the bread that keeps multiplying as it is shared. When we remember that, we may be able to say, "I love the Church, and I am glad to belong to it.”

The Hills are Alive

As I reserved our tickets for Ashland High School’s annual musical, the melodies from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music” began to tickle my fingers. So before we braved the winter weather last Saturday night, I sat down at the piano to set the stage for our expedition to Ashland Middle School. The notes, practiced so diligently nearly fifty years ago, poured through my fingers as I climbed every mountain, forded every stream, and followed every rainbow. I fumbled for a chord or two, but I was surprised at how easily my memory retrieved the music and words of “Do-Re-Mi,” “My Favorite Things,” and “Edelweiss,” imprinted on my brain so long ago. I couldn’t wait to sing once more, “The hills are alive with the sound of music!”

What fun it was to greet fellow Ashlanders as we entered the grand old lady, perhaps for the final time. As an immigrant to Ashland, I’d never danced upon the stage of the John A. McDowell Auditorium, or made music in her orchestra pit, but I could tell the air in the theater was tinged with nostalgia that night, blended of course with the time-honored sense of anticipation in the moments before the curtains open. Our second level, front row balcony seats provided a great view as we joined more than a thousand of our friends and neighbors to watch as the young people of our community brought the classic musical to life once again.

How I wished we had brought the lovely Madelyn Simone with us, but I wasn’t willing to risk a white-knuckled trip to get her from Canton in Saturday’s iffy weather. I’m not sure she would have understood the story line (the nuns, the threat of the Nazi takeover, etc.), but she would have loved the singing and dancing as well as the von Trapp children dressed in the draperies.

The story itself is a dramatic portrayal of the lives of a musical family who suffered through the takeover of Austria by Hitler’s regime in the early days of World War II. The climax of the musical comes when the family is spirited off the stage of the Salzburg Music Festival and ultimately hikes to freedom over the Alps, accompanied by the strains of “Climb Every Mountain.” In real life, Captain von Trapp also held Italian citizenship, and the family simply walked to the local station and boarded the train to Italy.  

As the music swells at the end of the theatrical production, the audience is left with the sense that all will be well for the von Trapp family as they “followed every rainbow.” Yet that romanticized image belies the truth of the treacherous journey facing the refugee family of 1938 or of 2015. In today’s world, there are an estimated 16.7 million refugees, people who have left or been forced out of their country of origin. There are another 33.3 million considered to be internally displaced persons, forced to leave their homes as a result of armed conflict, generalized violence, or human rights violations.

As I studied World War II history in high school, I naively thought that civilization had learned its lessons from the atrocities of the Nazis and the terror of that conflict. In reality, as the BBC reported last year, the world is in similar turmoil today. “The number of people living as refugees from war or persecution exceeded 50 million in 2013, for the first time since World War Two.” In Syria alone, nine million people, almost half its population, have been displaced in its bloody civil war. 

Naomi Shijhab Nye speaks for me: "Those of us who leave our homes in the morning and expect to find them there when we go back - it's hard for us to understand what the experience of a refugee might be like." I may not be able to understand, but I cannot ignore the anguish.

Unexpectedly, in the midst of a fabulous, joy-filled performance, a tender nudge opened my eyes to a sliver of the world's pain. With a "sad sort of clanging," joy and sorrow converged on a chilly February night that will stay with me forever.

Ashland's Hidden Treasures

On days slightly more temperate than we’ve been experiencing in February 2015, the lovely Madelyn Simone and I like to visit the playground at Cahn Grove Park on Ashland’s Southeast side. When I finally coax her off of the swings, we usually head back home, but if an act of true love ever allows warm weather to return to Ashland’s own version of Arendelle, we’re going to spend a day in the park’s neighborhood. Yes, I’ve watched “Frozen” one too many times, but “baby, it’s cold outside.”

Here’s my plan when the weather decides to cooperate. We’ll start our day at The Dairy Bar with some home-cooked breakfast, although I do really like their French fries and the burgers with grilled onions. We’ll miss seeing Alan Hart at the grill, the big-hearted owner who died in late December, but the regulars will still be at their favorite tables. We’ll make our car payment to the welcoming people at Directions Credit Union, and then we’ll spend some time at the playground, where I’m going to teach this child to “pump” so I don’t have to push her on the swing for hours on end.

As a bribe to get her off the swings and across the street, I’ll give her a dollar and let her roam the aisles of the Family Dollar store to see what she’ll choose from its assorted merchandise. I’m hoping to talk her into bubbles instead of candy - we’ll see how that goes. By then, the pizza  ordered from Donna D’s should be ready, and we can head back to the park with our delicious lunch for more outdoor play.

After another stint at the playground, we’ll wander over to Ashland’s great pie restaurant, AKA the Lyn-Way. Will they have any raspberry pie, or will I have to settle for apple pie a la mode – or maybe coconut cream? I’ll convince Madelyn to order something I like, because she’ll end up eating mine anyway. Who can resist, “Can I taste yours, Nana?”

Our last visit to Cahn Grove Park was cut short by the arrival of heavy rain, but that won’t send us hustling home if the skies open up again. Instead, we’ll visit the new location of Local Roots Market at 1221 Cleveland Avenue. This wonderful cooperative of farmers, producers and consumers first gathered in the South Street warehouse, and then spent some time out on Route 60. But they’re back in town, and it’s now a gathering place for all kinds of locally-produced items and fascinating, friendly people.

You never know for sure what you’ll find on the shelves of Local Roots, but their Facebook postings alert their friends to the arrival of new items nearly every day. They carry an assortment of gluten free treats, locally grown produce, and yummy baked goods. You can also purchase Ecuadorian tamales (call ahead for availability), free range eggs, Millie’s essential oils, and Miss Kitty’s low suds laundry detergent. If you’d rather do some gift shopping, they display a wide variety of items from local crafters and artisans, and they’re now stocking books written by Ashland authors, including yours truly. It makes my day when Madelyn looks at one of my books and says, “That’s your picture, Nana,” so we’ll be sure to check out the book display. She may even notice her picture on the cover of “Family Ties: Reflections of a Smitten Grandmother.”

There’s one last critical stop before we head for home. The meat counter at the Cleveland Avenue Market will save my marriage as it provides the answer to the perpetual question, “What’s for supper?” That, along with a take-out pie from the Lyn-Way and we’ll be good to go.

Can’t wait till summer? While the park may be in hibernation for a few more weeks, its neighboring businesses are open and inviting. Pies are in the oven at Donna D’s and the Lyn-Way. Local Roots has heat, wi-fi, music and Miller’s Creamery Caramel Corn, so who needs summer? We’re supposed to have a tropical heat wave today (in the 20s), so maybe I’ll see you out and about at one of these hidden treasures here in Ashland, Ohio.  

Birthday Part Two

As I noted in last Saturday’s column, this week has been my birthday week – the big 6-0! I didn’t want to tell you ahead of time that my family decided to surprise me with a visit to the most frequented vacation resort in the world, Walt Disney World. While I know Ashland is someplace special, I wanted to be cautious and not announce to the world that our house was going to be empty for nearly a week. However, arriving home late Thursday night, I realized that anyone trying to rob us would have been like Marv and Harry from “Home Alone,” slipping and sliding on the ice in our driveway.

Yes, my husband, three sons, daughter-in-law and the lovely Madelyn Simone spent six days with me in the land of Mickey. Technically, we were heading south to celebrate my birthday, but since Madelyn turns five this month, she told everyone she met that we were going to Disney for her birthday. Hot diggety dog!

WDW is an amazing destination and a well-oiled operation. In 2013, 18.6 million people visited the Magic Kingdom, and it felt like there were a million of those people there on Thursday. Yet here’s the irony. As we were leaving our hotel for the airport, Madelyn made her 200^th best friend of the trip. One of the adults traveling with her new friend was from Ashland, Ohio. She looked at me and said, “Are you Mrs. Shade? Is this the lovely Madelyn Simone?” I won’t mention her name in case her driveway isn’t an ice skating rink like ours, but it sure is a small world.

Speaking of “It’s a Small World,” I’m glad that ride didn’t break down halfway through its voyage around the globe. I’d rather be stuck on the incline of Space Mountain, the roller coaster that operates in the dark, than to hear that song ten more times. The depictions of various cultures are fine, but the song gets on my nerves.

As for culture, the wonderful world of Disney has ingeniously enmeshed itself in our lives. We can sing all the songs, we identify with our favorite characters, and we’re anxious to stand in line to get a chipmunk, duck or mouse to sign an autograph book. The Disney brand has come a long way since Walt used to talk to us on Sunday nights at the beginning of “Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color.” He died before Disney World was completed, and I wonder what he’d think of his empire today. Maybe this: “I only hope that we don’t lose sight of one thing – that it was all started by a mouse.” How I wish I’d bought a few shares of Disney stock back in the day.  

While at a Meet-the-Princesses Luncheon, we talked about Disney employment with our waiter and asked how the women get selected to be the princesses. His answer was classic even though probably scripted: “They’re either born into a royal family or they marry a prince.” While I can enjoy Madelyn’s princess costume and adorable curtsy, I want her to know that girls can dream of much more than life with a fairy tale prince. I want to remind her of Walt’s words: “The more you like yourself, the less you are like anyone else, which makes you unique,” and “When you’re curious, you find lots of interesting things to do.”

As in any large, crowded venue, we had some difficulty keeping track of each other, even with cell phones. But we discovered the secret: if we shouted out O-H, the rest of us would answer, I-0, along with fifty other people in the vicinity. Proud to be Buckeyes!  

Fortunately, our ability to navigate the huge property improved as the week progressed, and we survived tired feet, bumpy and grumpy moments, and even two lost cell phones. When we look back at the Disney pictures from 2015, most of all we'll remember a beaming little birthday girl nestled in the arms of Pooh and Piglet, Daisy and Donald, and Belle and Ariel, framed by Walt's own words: 'Laughter is timeless. Imagination has no age. And dreams are forever."

At Sixty

When these words appear on the pages of the Ashland Times-Gazette, I will have less than forty-eight hours before I cross a major life threshold – turning sixty. There, I’ve said it in print so it has to be true – I’ve read it in the T-G.

How could I possibly be sixty? I don’t feel like I’ve lived that long, nor do I feel sixty, at least most days. Yet as a woman who will have lived in seven decades, two centuries, and even two millennia, I’m finally at that great divide. Yikes!

While I don’t qualify yet for Social Security, I will soon get my own Golden Buckeye Card that is issued automatically by the Ohio Department on Aging, qualifying me for discounts at 20,000 businesses state-wide. Their website assures me that as a Golden Buckeye I am not “defined by my age, but inspired by it, a respected and vital member of my community who continues to grow, thrive and contribute.” So glad for their affirmation and support!

The subject of my doctoral dissertation was vocational identity and direction for women clergy at midlife, and this milestone birthday bumps me out of that age category. My midlife days are coming to an end, if not already in my rear-view mirror. I’m even at the endpoint of what Sarah Pearlman calls late midlife astonishment. By fifty-five, I was pushing that limit, and now at sixty, I will clearly be in the period of life author Gail Sheehy describes as the passage where “time starts to pinch.”

Some of the metaphors for midlife I found helpful were an autumn gospel (Kathleen Fischer), discarding shells (Anne Morrow Lindbergh), and casting off old maps or shedding skin (Joyce Rupp). In comparison, am I facing a life marked by eternal winter as in “Frozen” or the “Chronicles of Narnia”? Will I still be able to bend down to pick up new shells on the beach? Do I have to spend my older years depending on a GPS instead of an actual map? Hopefully I can discover guiding metaphors for my sixties and beyond that won’t include wrinkled prunes or sagging body parts.

What I also discovered in my doctoral research was that women in different age groupings can be defined or described by terms that may feel more or less flattering. While I’m comfortable with words such as elder, grandmother, and wise woman, I’m not too sure about crone. Crone? Isn’t that an ugly, withered old woman? Yet Ann Kreilkamps redefines the word. “In ancient days,” she writes, “Crone meant Crown. Crone is the messenger, translator of life’s passages, midwife to Death, Birth and Rebirth. Crone is the stage at which what was formerly passionately and often painfully or violently expressed is now recollected in tranquility.”Maybe that description needs to wait until seventy.

In the literature on life passages is the category Erik Erikson outlined in his work on the stages of psychosocial development. He describes the task of generativity versus stagnation as the ability to create or nurture things that will outlast the individuals as they guide the next generation. In choosing generativity, we claim an optimism about humanity and find ways to contribute to the world around us. As Samuel Ullman suggests, “Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.” Fortunately, I’ve got until at least age sixty-five (or later) before I need to move fully into Erikson’s last developmental stage of ego integrity versus despair that hopefully results in wisdom rather than regret.

Let me put aside the psychological mumbo-jumbo and return to the landmark birthday. Will this be a traumatic crossing into a new decade of life? I don’t think so. There won’t be black balloons or “over the hill” hats or canes to mark the date, just precious time with family. Elder, wise woman, crone? I’ll face those titles in the days ahead, but for now, I’m satisfied with “Nana” as only the lovely Madelyn Simone can say it. Now just give me that Golden Buckeye discount card and I’ll be good to go.  

That Radical Woman

During a conversation with a friend about my writing a number of years ago, he remarked, “you know, there are some people who see you as JoAnn Shade, that radical woman.” I didn’t know whether to smile and thank him, attempt to rebut the conclusion, or laugh.  But his comment has both caused me discomfort and confirmed a sense of purpose, as I’ve considered what it means to truly be “that radical woman.”

The discomfort comes from a not-too-healthy place within, from the voice that reminds me all too often that I will always be on the outside looking in, and that as long as I continue to speak and write, I will not fully belong within the ministry organization I have given my life’s work to.  Mine is the voice that raises the issues that others whisper about, questions of opportunity for women and men alike, as well as questions of justice and hope.  I ask “why?” but I also ask “why not?” Certainly I’m not nearly as radical as I could be (or should be?), but for some within a patriarchal system, any idea that rocks the boat is considered extremist. 

But I must admit that I do like the description.  After all, the word radical in its essence means “from the root.”  If I, as a woman, write “from the root,” from the basis of my faith and worldview as a follower of Christ, I must embrace that description of myself with joy.  Borrowing from the old song, “it is a thing most wonderful.” People read what I write, and it makes a difference.  I find words to describe their feelings and experiences, as well as ways to challenge them to a new or different way of thinking. 

            Regardless of my reaction to the comment, I do understand that to be labeled in such a way is to be ‘marked’ within the traditional church.  It may be that as you are reading this article, you recognize yourself as ‘marked’ as well.  You may simply think differently than most in your church, or you may be drawn deeper into contemplative prayer than others you know.  Perhaps you have radical ideas about what women should be able to do in the church, or a passionate love for Jesus that struggles to fit within contemporary life.  Don’t lose hope – you are in good company. 

Jesus was ‘marked’ at the beginning of his ministry, as described in Luke 4.  Most likely within hours of his declaration in Nazareth, “the Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” he was driven out of town, taken to the brow of the hill, and threatened with death.  While “he walked right through the crowd and went on his way,” from that point on, Jesus was a marked man.  Paul experienced this as well, testifying that “I bear on my body the marks of Jesus” (Galatians 6:17).    

What does it look like to walk with grace as a marked woman?  It begins with humility, for the mark of Christ upon his daughter must never become a glittering tiara that draws attention to the bearer.  Humility offers, but does not demand one specific conclusion.  Humility “test(s) the truth and then trust(s) the process of truth to determine the outcome” (Brueggemann, Hopeful Imagination, 62).  Humility wears the prophet’s mantle lightly, carefully. 

            Courage walks side by side with humility.  Courage is willing to be wounded, for she is acquainted with the Healer.  Courage submits to the branding of the radical label, knowing that she will never escape its touch upon her soul.  Courage refuses to speak with a flattened tongue.  

            I am reminded, as well, that to be ‘marked’ is truly a gift.  Again, Brueggemann is helpful, as he teaches that, “such radical faith is not an achievement, for if it were we would will it and be done.  Rather, it is a gift and we are left to wait receptively, to watch and to pray” (the Prophetic Imagination, 112).

            A favorite greeting card I received quotes Maya Angelou: “a woman in harmony with her spirit is like a river flowing.  She goes where she will without pretense and arrives at her destination, prepared to be herself and only herself.”  Without pretense; yes.  Yet it is the harmony with the Spirit of God that ultimately marks the Christ-follower.  A radical woman?  I can only pray that I might be worthy of the gift of that label.