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!