A Lustre of Midday

With a forty-foot evergreen as its centerpiece, Ashland’s Corner Park has been transformed into a shimmering winter wonderland. Long a fan of Christmas light displays, I do enjoy the blow-up snowmen, Santas, and even Minions I’ve encountered this year, yet the display of white lights at Corner Park is breath-taking. Turning the corner from Main Street to Claremont Avenue, I sensed what Clement Moore was describing in his beloved poem: “The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a lustre of midday to objects below.”

Sharing my appreciation for these new lights with a friend, I was surprised by his vehement response (paraphrased): “Who likes white lights? Christmas should be for kids, and kids like – and need – colored lights!” (While I won’t publicly name my friend, those in the know will be able to identify him easily enough). I grew up with the old-school colored bulbs clipped to our gutters and encircling our Christmas tree, yet strands of white lights currently illuminate our tree. Giving it some thought, I suppose I prefer the white lights to the colored ones. But it’s way beyond a preference for my friend – it’s a passion.

However, my friend’s penchant for colored lights is not shared by his wife. Take a look at the glittering Christmas trees inside the Kroc Center, and you’ll see whose preference prevailed! 

Isn’t this symbolic of how relationships, especially marriage, work – or don’t work? How do you put the toilet paper on? Hellman’s mayonnaise or Miracle Whip? Hard or soft mattress? Blanket or no blanket? Late, on-time, or early?

Of course, there are more serious conflicts in marriage. Should we have kids? “No, Rhythm is not a good name for our son.” To spank or not to spank? How can we afford . . .?

Even end-of-life decisions can bring conflict in family relationships. Should the experimental cancer treatment be extended? Is it time to call hospice? What about the DNR order? Cremation or burial? Open or closed?

No matter what kind of relationship we’re in – marriage, partnership, family, even the puppy love of kids – there will be conflict. And playing “rock, paper, scissors” isn’t the best determinant for making critical decisions. 

Writing in “Caring and Commitment,” Lewis Smedes suggests what he calls “permissive caring,” “giving each other permission to be the different sort of person each of them is. They care enough to leave each other alone, enough to celebrate the gifts each brings within his or her character.” In other words, they learn how to set each other free. Smedes understands: “Committed love is a power to surrender our right to get what we desire so that the person we love can get what he or she needs. When my desire conflicts with your need, I will opt for your needs – if my love is committed love.” 

Mike Mason takes a further step: “Marriage at its best is . . . a backwards tug-of-war between two wills each equally determined not to win.” As in, “No, dear, please keep the toilet seat up. I don’t mind at all!”

Whether in marriage or family, work or neighborhood relationships, we are often called to compromise, not in the sense of a dishonorable or shameful concession, as one dictionary definition suggests, but instead, by negotiating a way forward, even if it means giving something up. By articulating each position, we can talk through the aesthetic of white lights in a public space versus the joy of children when surrounded by multi-colored lights. It may end by making space for multicolor Christmas trees in the family room. It helps to remember the assumption of the word itself – “com” (together) and promise. There is a promise inherent in the willingness to find a way forward within our committed love, acknowledging the value of the relationship over the color of the lights.

I do have a potential community compromise that could ease my friend’s angst over the white lights at Corner Park. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to thread the night sky with red lights for Valentine’s Day, green for St. Patrick’s Day, and red, white and blue for July 4^th? What do you think, Mr. Mayor? I know somebody who might help!

A Thing Most Wonderful

Listening to 24/7 Christmas music on the radio, I heard an advertisement for the all-new Paper Wonder cards by Hallmark, which promise to bring the holidays to life in a whole new way, offering the gift of holiday magic to friends and family. They appear to be a new and improved model of the pop-up books that seldom survived to the third child in our family. 

 

Merriam Webster defines the noun wonder as “the quality of exciting amazed admiration, or rapt attention of astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one’s experience.” I doubt the new Hallmark cards totally fulfill that definition of wonder, but “the holiday season,” seemingly stretching on forever through the often dark and dreary days of December, does invite us to an exciting amazement within the awesome mystery of faith.

 

Think of the commemoration of Hanukkah, when the one-day supply of oil lasted for eight days, bringing light to the Hebrew people. Or of Kwanzaa, the December celebration honoring African heritage, and lifting up the principles of unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. With its Mishumaa Saba (seven candles), wonder is reflected on the faces of the children of the family, much the same as in the light of the Hanukkah candles or the Advent candles of the Christian tradition.

 

Our sweet granddaughter, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, has perfected the expression of three-year-old wonder at the delights of the Christmas season. The lights, the decorations and the carols all bring her joy, and she has approached the opening of early presents with great gusto. A visit to a personable Santa at the mall left her starry-eyed, and she chuckles with deep laughter when we drive past our neighbor’s house, as the Grinch attempts to pull down their Christmas light display. 

 

Margaret Philbrick suggests that children own wonder. “It’s engrained in the purity of their hearts and expressed through their senses.” She further notes, “They do not rush to get up and get on to the next thing. They gaze.”

I remember when I too was captivated by wonder. I stood on my bed for what seemed like hours to scour the night sky for the appearance of the “right jolly old elf,” but finally succumbed to the pull of my dreams. A few years later, I kept my Christmas Eve candle alight into the midnight darkness, protecting its flickering flame during the drive home. I longed to sustain the holy awe of worship, unwilling for the wonder of my young heart to be extinguished. 

In the years since, I’ve developed a complicated relationship with Christmas. Some changes came naturally, as they do for many adults. The 24/7 Christmas music, the cha-ching of the cash/credit register, and the “I want, I want” call of constant advertising threaten to make these December weeks a burden to bear rather than an awe to embrace. My experience was complicated by my exhausting Salvation Army work, as the demands of fund-raising and people-serving colluded to hijack any sense of wonder I had in the holiday. In my attempt to fulfill a calling to ministry that intersected where my deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger met (Frederick Buechner), it’s ironic that a sense of wonder at the mystery of the incarnation flickered dangerously, just like my childhood Christmas Eve candle. 

And yet, the words of E.B. White continue to speak: “Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder,” the wonder that shines from the eyes of children and has no patience for the scrooges among us. We claim it on a midnight clear, in the little town of Bethlehem, and in the echo of the angels: “Gloria in excelsis Deo.” 

In the next days, a holy book will be opened and the ancient words read aloud once again: “And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.” Indeed, it is a thing most wonderful. A blessed Christmas of wonder to you. 

Lost

On Tuesday morning, I rose before the sun for a Nana day with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. My tasks were simple: get both girls ready for school, make sure Madelyn caught the bus on time, and deliver Lizzie to the welcoming arms of Tiny Tots Nursery School. I tend to run at least five minutes late in the morning, so I was excited to head out with ten minutes to spare. Maybe I could even stop for a muffin at Dunkin Donuts. Reaching into my purse for my car and house keys, my hands came up empty. 

Did I leave them on the counter, the table, in my coat pocket? No, no, and no. After a frantic search, I grabbed the spare set of car keys and ran out the door. Where could those keys be? The night before, I had pulled into our attached garage, carried a couple of bags of groceries into the house, and settled down to watch an hour or so of television. Logic tells me the wayward keys have to be within the confines of our home.

Two days post-loss, they are still missing. I’ve dug through garbage, searched and vacuumed my car, checked the refrigerator and freezer, and nada! I’ve also received well-intentioned advice, such as these sincere words from Madelyn: “When you lose something, you need to retrace your steps.” Since I can get from the garage to the end of my house in less than one hundred steps, that journey didn’t take too long.

Of course, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’m no novice when it comes to searching for missing objects. I’ve lost an entire set of facility keys, lost my cell phone at Disneyworld, and drove off from our new house last Christmastime with my phone on the roof of the car. And while I hate to mention it, Larry and our two older boys became separated from Dan and I at Cedar Point in the days before cell phones, and we spent many miserable hours trying to find each other. It happens.

We’ve all lost things, well, except for those people who live perfect lives, who have it all together. And then there’s us, the people with the refrigerator magnet that says, “I finally got it all together but I can’t remember where I put it.” Busy lives, forgetful moments, and inattention can lead to an unexpected search that turns up empty. Sometimes we get lucky and find the errant object, but not always.

About twenty years ago, volunteers were assisting in the clean-up from our Salvation Army Christmas toy distribution. We’d provided toys, clothing, coats and food for two thousand families over a two-day span, so the level of exhaustion was high that night as we sorted through mismatched mittens and packed away the remaining toys for the following year. In between counting the Christmas kettles, we worked in the gym, sealing a dozen boxes for the storage unit. 

Suddenly, one of the volunteers cried out, “My ring!” Her antique ring, in the family for generations, was missing from her finger. We unpacked every box that night, but the ring wasn’t to be found. Heartbroken, we finally gave up, reluctantly admitting defeat. 

Life can be like that. We lose hope, we lose control, we lose courage, and we may even lose faith for a time. We look in all the familiar places, we retrace our steps, we search diligently, and we even call on our companions for help, but our hands and hearts are empty. 

Yet there comes another chapter. Setting up for the next year’s toy shop, we had unloaded more than a hundred boxes when a volunteer came to me with a ring in her hand. “Look what I found in one of the boxes. Isn’t this pretty? I wonder if someone lost this?” 

There it was, Mary’s ring.

Thousands of years ago, the Hebrew psalmist understood. “Weeping,” David wrote, “may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” I write tonight with gratitude for recovered rings, compassion for discouraged hearts, and my fingers crossed that morning will shine its light on my keys!

P.S.  After searching for three days, the errant keys were discovered cushioned between the blanket and bedspread in the middle of our king sized bed.  

I'm Missing . . .

My sister recently asked me, “Do you ever have the desire to stand kettles anymore?” I was sixteen when I did my first shift at the Salvation Army kettle, ringing a bell enthusiastically in the frigid Western New York air, raising money for the work of The Salvation Army. My response to Janet was immediate: “No.” I gladly drop a few bills in the kettle when I pass, and highly respect the service done in this country and around the world through those donations. But do I miss the chilled toes and fingers, the aching back? No, I don’t miss that.

Yet her question prompted a train of thought into what I do miss, not just from Salvation Army ministry, but from the various places I’ve lived, the people I’ve been privileged to meet. 

O, how I miss the Sahlens hot dogs from Buffalo, and suckers and waffles from Crystal Beach. The pasties from Rockie’s in Wharton, NJ. The genuine Philly cheesesteaks and the cold, doughy pretzels sold on the street corner in the City of Brotherly Love. And now, I’m missing the A&W in Ashland, as well as donuts from Miller’s (Hawkins). While my life is not defined by what I eat, (really, it isn’t), I laughed at myself when I realized my first “what I miss” reaction revolved around food.

But I also miss early morning walks along the Niagara River with a trusted friend, and playing the bassoon. I miss the stimulation of college and seminary days. I miss the hustle and bustle of the big cities, even though most of my time in Cleveland and Philadelphia was spent in contained neighborhoods. 

Posts on Facebook this week reminded me of how much I miss the Ashland Christmas parade. My memories include walking with a group of bell-ringing kiddos, just minutes after finding out the Kroc project was in jeopardy, and perfecting the Miss America wave from the back of a convertible while nursing a sprained ankle. Heading to the parade along deserted streets on a sub-zero night, only to see the curbs lined with people who appeared out of thin air. Playing with the Kroc New Adventure band on a flatbed, while our mascot, RJ (our son), stood treacherously near the edge of the truck. And now, videos of my first absentee parade were highlighted by holiday fireworks. What a glorious night. I’m putting the parade on my calendar for next year. 

I also miss the connections of a smaller community, of knowing others and being known by them. I recently attended a Christmas luncheon, changing into pajama pants when I got home. That evening, I needed to run to the store. “I’m in Canton – I should be safe, as I never see anyone I know when I go out.” But my better self took control, urging me to put on something more presentable. Why? Family lore tells of cousin Judi, who took her husband to work and decided to run the car through the car wash – in her pajamas and curlers. The details are fuzzy, but either the car wash or her car broke down, and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. 

Of course, that night I met someone I knew from Ashland at Big Lots. Go figure. Yet that’s also what I miss about Ashland, recognizing each other, stopping to chat in the aisles of Gerwig’s White Barn or at a booth in the Lyn-Way. 

Ringing a bell in front of Tonawanda’s Twin Fair almost fifty years ago, I had no clue how Dr. Seuss’s words would evolve: “O, the places you’ll go,” or in contrast, “O, the places – and people – you’ll miss.” Relocation, separation, death – all leave us with a longing for what we knew, for those we loved – and still love. 

From time to time, my mouth still waters for Rocky’s pasties and authentic Philly cheesesteak. I long for friends who’ve moved, for a generation that has passed away, and I cherish the memories those longings evoke. But I also claim Dr. Seuss’ words: “Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting.” New tastes, new places, new faces, and even fireworks at the parade. Can’t get any better than that!

We Are the Children

A few days before Thanksgiving, my husband reached for the radio dial and put on a station playing Christmas music. As a Thanksgiving purist, I refuse to listen to Jingle Bells before the turkey’s been put away, so I made him change the station. Not yet!

But now, we’re less than four weeks from Christmas, so I’ll be cranking up the volume to rock around the Christmas tree, soaking in the classic carols as well as those that fall into the “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” genre. I love the instrumental version of “Christmastime is Here” by the Vince Guaraldi Trio, but if I hear “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” one more time, I’m gonna scream! Enough already!

I have precious Christmas memories rooted in music. As a white-robed child, I processed from corner to corner in a darkened sanctuary, carrying a battery-lit candle and singing words from “The Quempas Carol:” “God’s own son is born a child, is born a child. God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.” I also remember listening to our church kids singing about dashing through the mashed potatoes, as well as a lullaby “to the tiny Son of God,” as their mice and cat characters sang their hearts out in “Not a Creature Was Stirring.” How did we ever find the time and energy to do a full-fledged Christmas musical? 

One of the highlights of Christmas in Ashland has been the Jingle Bell Ball at the Salvation Army Kroc Center, as the KC Big Band turns the gym into a veritable winter wonderland. This year it’s scheduled for December 8 at 7 p.m., a time to dance the night away to the strains of Irving Berlin and Michael Bublé, or for those of us with two left feet, to soak in the music around the candlelit tables. 

Over the years, Christmas music has warmed our hearts and strengthened our faith, yet it can also challenge our thinking and behavior. Consider the reaction to the song of the angels on a Bethlehem hill, or to the poignant plea of Bing Crosby singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” to generations of servicemen and women around the world.  

In 1984, in response to a terrible famine occurring in Ethiopia, Bob Geldof and Midge Ure collaborated on a song for Christmas, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” It was recorded on November 25 by BandAid, a group of UK musicians coming together for Geldof and Ure’s project. Hoping to raise 70,000 pounds for famine relief, it became the fastest selling single in British history, raising eight million pounds within its first year. On this side of the pond, a similar project was soon undertaken under the banner of “We Are the World,” raising $63 million for humanitarian aid in Africa. 

The natural causes of the Ethiopian famine of 1984-5 were exacerbated by civil war and inhumane political decisions. Yet now, in 2018, a similar humanitarian crisis is brewing in Yemen. David Beasley, managing director of the World Food Program, said, ‘What I have seen in Yemen this week is the stuff of nightmares, of horror, of deprivation, of misery.” According to the United Nations, in Yemen, a child under the age of five dies every ten minutes from preventable causes, including hunger, disease and violence.

Just as we did in 1984-85, it’s time to pay attention, to be reminded again of the suffering of so many. BandAid’s vocalists understood, “There’s a world outside your window and it’s a world of dread and fear where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears.” 

The needs of the world outside our window are overwhelming. As a friend recently lamented: “Find what breaks your heart and you will find your purpose. What do you do when almost everything breaks your heart?”

What to do? We begin. We listen. We educate ourselves. We pray. We speak out. We give. And we sing. “And in our world of plenty we can spread a smile of joy . . .,” for “we are the world, we are the children . . . it’s true we’ll make a brighter day, just you and me.” For the children of Yemen, the children of Ashland. 

A Wistful Affection

My daughter-in-law Becky has been planning and prepping for her high school reunion for months. It’s been ten years since the strains of Pomp and Circumstance filled the air in Jerome, Pennsylvania, as the relieved graduates claimed their hard-earned diplomas. Many have relocated in search of opportunities not available in their coal belt town, but they’ve returned this weekend with spouses and new babies in tow, for turkey at the family table and reconnection with their classmates at Saturday’s reunion. At ten years, they’ll still recognize each other, and they’ll share the old stories of their high school escapades and the new stories of their post-high school lives.

Nostalgia is defined as a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations. We all feel it from time to time, particularly at reunions or the Thanksgiving table, even when those memories carry with them a mix of happy and unhappy associations. I’ve had a week of nostalgia myself, beginning last weekend with a reunion at the Canton Salvation Army corps we pastored for nine years prior to coming to Ashland. Oh, how those old stories rolled off our tongues. How good to be together again.

Thanksgiving brought its own gift of nostalgia. Because of the demands of the Christmas kettle work of The Salvation Army, we seldom spent Thanksgiving with our extended family, opting instead to gather our own children around our table. We’d call home to talk with the grandparents – and now we’re the grandparents! This year, as our daughter-in-law’s family joined us, four generations bowed in a prayer of thanksgiving, and then proceeded to devour the turkey, mashed potatoes, and a dozen side dishes – and pie! And this year, it was our son’s turn to call home from Pennsylvania.

The news that a deeply-loved friend is seriously ill also came this week. We spent time together nearly every week in the early 80s, and although we’ve been separated by hundreds of miles for more than thirty years, our hearts are with them today. 

A final reminder came in a message from Juanita Evege Stanford, an Ashland native now serving with The Salvation Army at the Kroc Center in Philadelphia. She visited a young woman in her congregation, and as they chatted, our names came into the conversation. The woman reached for a well-used Bible, showing Juanita the inscription from 1989: presented to Gwynette by Captain and Mrs. Lawrence Shade. As I remember, our house was somewhat of a chaotic mess in those days, but she spoke of being welcomed into our home and hearts in a way that has stayed with her all these years.  

This sense of nostalgia has been accompanied by a wistfulness, a sorrow for the empty chairs, the loss of those claimed by death, and a longing for those separated by disconnection.Yetit has also come with a deepening sense of appreciation for the life I’ve been privileged to live, and for the people I’ve been blessed to know and love, who have known me and loved me in return. Parker Palmer puts it this way: “When I think back on the many people who have been so generous toward me, I never think of money or ‘things.’ Instead, I think of the way they gave me their presence, their confidence, their affirmation, support and blessing – all gifts of ‘self’ that any of us can give.” Even if the house is messy!

In 1906, William Booth, the General of The Salvation Army, wrote a letter to those serving in ministry. It began: “My Dear Comrades. You are the joy of my life today.” It goes without saying (although I must say it) that the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday are at the top of the “joy of my life” list, but there are so many others, in Ashland, Canton, Cleveland, Philadelphia, Dover, Binghamton, Tonawanda, and literally scattered around the world. You, my dear ones, and you, my faithful readers, are the joy of my life. In response, I’m embracing Wendell Berry’s challenge: “Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away.” Grateful for the memories.

Remembering What Cannot Be Forgotten

I sat in front of a young veteran at church this past Sunday. As he and his children prepared to leave, they had quite the discussion about where they should go for dinner, as many local restaurants offered free meals on Veteran’s Day for those who served our country. 

Who are these men and women who spent time in the military, voluntarily or conscripted into service? Their images flooded my Facebook feed throughout the weekend, as family members posted photos of Great-great-uncle Otto, a fresh-faced lad in World War I, and Grandma June, one of the 11,000 women who served during the Vietnam era, 90% of them as nurses. How did their days in the military mold and mark them? 

I’ve been working with my friend Cindy to publish a shoebox full of letters her father sent home from his days in the Army, 1944-46. When she initially asked me, I was quick to agree, unaware of how close to home the letters would come. My own father left the Buffalo area when drafted at nineteen in 1943, a year before my friend’s dad took his first bus ride as a member of the military. Unlike her treasured pages, Frank Streeter’s letters home were lost or discarded at some point over the last seventy years. I’m envious of Cindy’s preserved shoebox, as I saw no letters and hesitated to ask questions, leaving me with little knowledge of my dad’s service. 

I’m grateful for this glimpse of wartime life as described by the young boy from Kenmore, who grew up a few miles from my dad’s boyhood home. Themes running through his correspondence likely echoed in letters home from more than sixteen million military members who served in that terrible time, including my dad.

While I knew that many young men enlisted or were drafted during wartime, I was staggered at how young Duncan Tutton and his fellow soldiers were. When Duncan signed up for military service, he was seventeen. At nineteen, my dad was elderly in comparison, but still an adolescent. Duncan’s early letters were filled with a blend of a teen’s naiveté and bravado, which, as time went on, transitioned into boredom, uncertainty, and a longing for home not fully satisfied by a tin of his mom’s cookies. Neither Duncan nor my dad saw duty on the battlefield, but experienced the remnants of war in occupied Japan and the Philippines .

It’s tempting to glamorize the experiences of veterans, honoring them with a steak dinner or a whispered “thanks for your service,” but the stark reality is two-fold: many never return from war-time, and others are irreversibly changed by what they’ve seen, heard, and felt. The numbers alone are mind-numbing. During World War II, sixteen million men and women served in the military, 291,557 were killed in combat, with 113,842 non-theater deaths. In what remains the most tragic war of my lifetime, more than eight million people served during the Vietnam conflict, with 3,403,000 “in theater,” the rice paddies of Vietnam, not the Riviera or the Palace. The names lost to that war are inscribed on a wall in Washington; the names of those we’ve since lost to trauma and its attendant challenges are inscribed on the hearts of families across the country.

Writing home from Osaka, Japan on Christmas Eve 1945, PFC Tutton expressed wisdom beyond his years: “It sure feels funny writing ‘Christmas Eve’ on a letter home and I hope I never have to do it again. I’m about the only one here in dayroom tonight writing a letter. I guess the rest are out someplace; some getting drunk, maybe to try and forget . . . Somehow this is all I want to do tonight, that and go to church at eleven o’clock. I don’t want to forget this night, strange as it may sound. I want to remember it a long time, at least long enough to make sure it never happens again if I can help it.”

I’m grateful to those who served and to those who serve today. Yet I too resolve with young Duncan Tutton, and I believe my dad as well, to remember what cannot be forgotten. 

Anticipation

Anticipation. Carly Simon’s hit song tells of the waiting game: “We can never know about the days to come, but we think about them anyway.” While Carly sang about a romantic relationship, the drawn-out “an-ti-ci-pa-a-tion” is a common characteristic of humanity. We wait, with excitement or dread, for something to happen.

Standing silently on my bed, staring out into the winter sky, my eyes strained in anticipation for just one sight of Santa Claus. If only my eyes hadn’t gotten so sleepy, the five-year-old would have witnessed the arrival of the jolly old elf himself. I’d been waiting so long . . . 

By November 1, 1971, when Carly’s album was released, my anxious anticipation of Christmas Eve had diminished considerably. I was beginning to understand Stephen Davis’ belief that “nobody has any idea of what’s going on or what’s going to happen.” I didn’t know the twists and turns my life would take, whether I’d ever marry or have children of my own, or how smitten a grandmother I might be one day. That was all in the future, and at sixteen, I was wasn’t yet obsessing over my life’s path.

The past week or so, almost fifty years later, Carly’s “A” word was bouncing around my head again, making me a little bit crazy. Will the Cavs finally win a game in this young season? (Yep, one win to date). Would Hue Jackson get fired by the Browns? (Yes, joining the Cavs’ Tyron Lue and now Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III). Will the rain hold off so we can rake leaves before the snow falls? (So far, so good). 

One of the worrying questions that gnaws at me as I look to the daily news is, “where will the next mass shooting occur?” On Thursday morning, the answer came again: Thousand Oaks, California, rated the third safest city in the country by Niche. Random, senseless killings crowd our newsfeeds, and I hate the sense of dread I have over the questions of tragedy. Carly Simon was right: we never know what’s going to happen, but many of us think about the days to come anyway. The other shoe is waiting to drop.

I’ve also been anticipating November 6 with relief, worry and hope. While I enjoyed seeing Franklin in a commercial with his owner, Senator Sherrod Brown (and my favorite columnist, Connie Schultz), and am glad I don’t have to worry about poisonous Chinese dog treats on the shelves of local pet stores, the political ads were making me yell out loud at the television. When you long for the return of commercials suggesting a cure for erectile dysfunction, you know it’s been a lengthy political season. 

Lengthy or not, it was a hugely important election, and I was thrilled to see the highest midterm voter turnout by percentage since 1966. At 49%, it is still too low, but it topped one hundred million votes, a midterm record. Waiting for results was difficult, and as the numbers began to trickle in, I thought of the candidates and their teams as they watched the screens. I’m grateful for their willingness to run for office, and (with a few notable exceptions), for the graciousness of their reactions on election night, win or lose. It was difficult to see one common message across the country, but Bob Dylan’s prophetic voice did echo for me this week: “The times, they are a-changin.’”

But back to anticipation. A sense of expectancy was “keepin’ me waiting” on a personal level this week, as our family experienced our first gender reveal party. Would the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday have a “brudder” or a sister in March? They had the ultrasound on Friday, with the answer sealed in an envelope until Sunday night. I would have cheated and steamed open the envelope! But with the smash of a blue-tinted raw egg on their daddy’s head, we had our answer. 

Albert Camus suggested “we need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive.” After these many days brimming with anticipation, today I’m content to “stay right here” in the moment, grateful to be fully alive. 

Be Brave

I’ve been an avid reader ever since I can remember, but one author I’ve stayed away from is Stephen King. I know he’s sold millions and millions of books, consistently won the Bram Stoker Award from the Horror Writer’s Association, and has a best-selling book on how to write. But, as Bill Thompson, his editor at Doubleday, feared might happen after King wrote “Carrie” and “Salem’s Lot,” King has gotten “typed” as a horror writer. Thompson thought that a detriment, but King considered his words a compliment.

I read fiction and non-fiction, mysteries and biographies, science fiction and cereal boxes, but I draw the line at books filled with horror. I watched a clip of Margaret Hamilton’s conversation with Mr. Rogers, as she told about her experience of being cast as the Wicked Witch of the West. Mr. Rogers asked her to put on her costume, piece by piece, and I shivered as she transformed into the scariest character of my childhood. I still cover my eyes and ears when she appears on the route to Oz. Given that sensitivity, I certainly don’t need to be scared out of my wits by King’s characters, especially on a dark and stormy night.

“The Shining” is a perfect example of why I don’t read King. He describes his motivation to write the book that came during a night in the Stanley Hotel shortly before it closed for the season. He and his wife were the only guests in the place, and after some bizarre experiences, he went to bed. “That night I dreamed of my three-year-old son running through the corridors, looking back over his shoulder, eyes wide, screaming. He was being chased by a fire-hose. I woke up with a tremendous jerk, sweating all over, within an inch of falling out of bed.” That was his inspiration – the novel is far scarier!

I saw the master of fear’s tweet regarding the current political campaign that will end this Tuesday (finally!). King tweeted: “Donald Trump’s campaign message in two words: Be afraid.My campaign message in two words: Be brave.” 

Here’s a writer who has become wealthy by scaring the bejesus out of millions of people. Stephen King is the expert on what draws out fear in humans. Regardless of his political leaning, I find his words credible. He knows fear when he sees it, smells it.

Fear comes in an assortment of sizes and shapes. Small children, with limited life experience, can be afraid of many things. The delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, intrepid explorer that she is, shakes with fear when someone uses those new-fangled hand driers at the mall. Mr. Rogers sang about another bathroom fear, when he reassured his viewers, “you can never go down the drain – you’re bigger than the water, and bigger than the soap.” 

In adulthood, common fears of public speaking, heights, bugs and snakes top most surveys, with zombies, clowns, ghosts, and an invasion of Honduran refugees at the bottom of the list. As we age, we fear losing our hair and hearing, and more seriously, our health, our minds, our resources, and our lives. We can choose to live in fear of what may or may not happen, irrational or rational as our fear may be. Or we can, as King suggests, be brave.

Because ultimately, Stephen King’s tweet stretches far beyond phobias and politics. In choosing between fear and courage, we decide every day, every hour, who we will be as individuals, and who we will be as a community, a nation. Can we bravely stand with the words of Dwight D. Eisenhower? “This world of ours . . . must avoid becoming a community of dreadful fear and hate, and be, instead, a proud confederation of mutual trust and respect.” 

When we wake up in the morning, when our children climb the steps of the school bus, when we enter the synagogue or sanctuary, and yes, even when we pull the curtain on the voting booth (which I urge you to do), we decide whether fear or courage will be in the driver’s seat of our lives. Can we trust that we are bigger than the water, bigger than the soap? 

A "Yes" to Life

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I deliver the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday to Tiny Tots Nursery School, where the unflappable Mrs. Porter reminds Lizzie and her eleven three-year-old classmates of the importance of making green choices, not red choices. In her second full month of school, Lizzie is getting the hang of the daily routine, washing her hands, matching the letters of her long name, and sitting criss-cross applesauce when it’s circle time. 

Her adoring Nana is getting the hang of the routine as well, handing off my little charge to her teacher so I can escape to my nearby house and start – or finish – my weekly T-G column before it’s time to pick her up. 

About half of the dropper-offers appear to be well past child-bearing age. I overheard one grandfather asking his granddaughter where they should go for lunch. “Steak and Shake, of course,” she answered, as they made plans to enjoy their Tuesday date together. One woman told me she’s the great-grandmother. My immediate (but unspoken) reaction was, “I’m going to have to do this for another generation?” Oops, I meant, “I’m hoping to be privileged to do this for another generation!”

It’s hard to believe I’ve been riding the smitten grandmother wave for eight years, and based on the demographics represented in the nursery school lobby, I’m in good company. For some grandparents, it’s a limited-time relationship, tucked in between work schedules and leisure activities. For others, it’s an economic necessity, as child care costs in Northeast Ohio are estimated at an average of $177 per week for a preschooler, easily vying with a mortgage payment for the highest expense in the family budget. 

In comparison, Nana Daycare tends to cost the provider money, for TD Ameritrade found that grandparents spend an average of $2,383 each year to benefit their grandkids. We only have two littles, but a trip to the store can sure be expensive. Lizzie nearly had me talked into buying a small package of Hatchimals, only $9.99. How dare I deprive her of these magical creatures nestled inside colorful speckled eggs, just waiting to hatch so they can sing, dance, and play games with her. I’m not giving up my Nana role to some self-hatching robotic bird. 

My care for Elizabeth and her older sister, the lovely Madelyn Simone, is a labor of love. I’m glad to be able to provide a consistent presence in their lives, and save their parents a few bucks, for the good news is that I can return them to their parents’ care at the end of the day. Not so for many other men and women my age and older. According to government data, there are about 2.7 million children being raised by grandparents or other family members, a number that has grown with the opioid epidemic. And 20% of those families have incomes below the poverty line. Ouch!

The federal government is paying attention to the challenges faced by these custodial grandparents. Given the struggle to find any common ground of bipartisanship in D.C. these days, I was pleased to see the House and Senate passed the Supporting Grandparents Raising Grandchildren Act, a bill co-sponsored by Republican Susan Collins and Democrat Bob Casey. 

Casey noted that this second round of parenting presents its own challenges, such as “delaying retirement, navigating school systems, bridging the generational gap, working through the court system to secure custody and finding mental health services.” The SGRG Act will establish a resource bank for these guardians. Hopefully it provides support for third grade math as well.

As Charles and Ann Morse recognize, “A child needs a grandparent, anybody’s grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world” Whether hundreds of miles away, around the corner, on 24/7 guardian duty, or filling in for a neighborhood child, the value of a grandparent’s care is incalculable. Lesley Stahl describes her experience: “I am convinced there is a gramma gene that disables the word ‘no.’” I’m accused of having that gramma gene, but in a world swimming with “no,” I want our little ones to find their own “yes” to life, a yes rooted in a grandmother’s love.  

Charge It!

Larry and I were fresh out of The Salvation Army’s Training School in 1978 when we got our first credit card together. Our initial purchase was a chest freezer that is still performing its faithful duty in our son’s garage. What little savings we had prior to entering the seminary had been used up by student loan payments and school expenses, and so a credit card cushion those forty years ago seemed like an awesome gift to us. 

We’ve kept that same credit card all these years, and we recently received correspondence from them, beginning with this line: “We’re excited to tell you about . . . a new feature of your account.” They ended their cover letter: “As always, we hope to be clear and helpful in explaining the changes to your account.” The following six pages (yes, I read them all) left me feeling like I had just tried to help the lovely Madelyn Simone with a third-grade math problem.

Bobby has a marble collection with 198 marbles. He then buys 44 more. He lost interest in his marbles, so he decides to switch to Legos and share his marbles with his 31 classmates (quite generous of Bobby). Estimate how many marbles each child gets. Why would I estimate? Why not just figure out the answer? Why is this so confusing? How do I explain this to an eight-year-old? I excelled in algebra and calculus back in the day, but by the time we get through these demon-designed word problems, I’m losing my marbles.

Here’s the deal, credit card company. You’ve already raised my APR by two percentage points over the last two years. After reading all your information, I still have no clue as to why I’d want to use your new “flex plan” if that interest rate is even higher than my regular one. 

Consumer credit card debt is a big deal in the United States. According to NerdWallet (what a great name!), the average credit card interest rate is 19.36 percent and the average household pays a total of $1,332.80 in credit card interest each year. Other figures from the Fed’s survey of consumer finances done in 2016 showed that in 2013, 38% of U.S. households had revolving credit card debt, and by December 2016, that had risen to 44%, with an average balance of $6081. 

There’s much to be said about credit cards and consumer debt, but I’ll leave any more analysis for the economists in our midst, who actually understand how the Federal Reserve, the stock market, and the consumer price index really work. What I do understand is this: confusion serves a purpose. Whether through payday lenders, credit card companies, or student loan services, the voluminous fine print of contracts and terms of enrollment can scare us off from being fully aware of our financial situations. 

But the strategic use of confusion-causing verbiage doesn’t stop there. It floods our television screens with advertisements for the medicine of the day, guaranteed to improve our lives in extraordinary ways, unless we happen to get one or more of the long list of potential side effects. And dare I mention the political ads that put a spin on “the other guy” in such a way to convince us the opponent is the spawn of the devil? Confusing for sure.

How do we figure out what’s legitimate? Back when people did anything to get their child a genuine Cabbage Patch doll, my friend’s daughter opened her gift on Christmas day. Initially, she was thrilled, but then devastated to discover it was counterfeit – no belly button. My friend had found an unreliable source – the trunk of a disreputable man’s car. 

In finance, in medical treatment options, in politics, and even in third grade math, the words of Isaac Newton help: “Truth is ever to be found in simplicity, and not in the multiplicity and confusion of things.” Consider the source of your information. Read the fine print, and ask questions if you don’t understand. And if, in the end, you still feel a bit confused, it’s not the end of the world. Robert Frost adds perspective, “I’m not confused, I’m just well mixed.”

As the Fog Descended

It had been a long week, marked by early mornings, the painful mockery of sexual abuse victims, the subsequent triggering of memories for myself and those I love, and the hope that the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday would keep her big girl panties dry on my watch (only one little “accident”). Since Larry and I were already in Ashland for a meeting on Friday, we decided to set our worries aside for a few hours and head to Community Stadium for an Ashland Arrows football game.

It was a perfect night for football. The earlier showers had subsided, and excitement was in the air as we splurged for reserved seats on the fifty-yard line. Purchasing our supper at the concession stand, we greeted a band parent friend, doing his duty for his youngest child. Climbing into the stands, we greeted other friends who had gathered to enjoy the Friday night lights of Northeast Ohio.

We picked a great night to come. With Halloween just around the corner, many of the high school students were participating in costume night. The AHS cheerleading squad was augmented by a hundred or so energetic little girls, getting a chance to cheer their Arrows on with great enthusiasm, even if they paid little attention to the game. Eighth grade musicians joined the AHS band for the night, ready to try out their chops on the gridiron, and the halftime show welcomed the Ashland University band to the field as well, as the combined bands filled the air with a brilliant sound that reverberated into the night.

Our hometown Arrows struggled through most of the game, but made a valiant effort to come back, taking the lead for a bit before Mansfield dug deep and finished a run to victory. Except for that last-minute defeat, we couldn’t have asked for a better evening. 

And yet.

Ever since our terrifying encounter with a frightened bat swooping around our living room at our Walnut Street house, I’ve been uneasy in their presence. Friday night’s bat seemed content to circle the stadium lights, but I still shivered, watching her beady eyes glisten. I never should have watched Hitchcock’s movie, “The Birds” back in the day. The body remembers. 

As a deepening fog descended on Community Stadium during that fourth quarter, I was reminded of the pall that seems to be slipping over our country in these days, where clarity is difficult to ascertain. Even in the midst of a high school football game, I couldn’t shake the sense that we are living in a twilight zone of sorts. 

Leaving the stadium on Friday night, I had no idea that this football game would be remembered not by the band show, the squealing mini-cheerleaders, or the exciting fourth quarter action, but by bananas left in a locker room. Here’s what I understand happened. Because bananas are a good source of potassium, many long-distance runners swear by them as a remedy for depleted electrolytes. The AHS cross country team uses the visitor’s locker room during the week, and when they have bananas left over, they leave the fruit for the visiting football team. The presence of these bananas was seen as a racial taunt by some Mansfield football players and coaches. Spurred along by all kinds of postings on social media, calls for a full investigation from political candidates, and reporting by the Cleveland television stations, now a Google search for bananas and cross country yields stories about Ashland and race relations. 

Jason Goings, current Ashland High School assistant principal and athletic director, was tasked with responding, explaining the source of the fruit and noting the before-the-game apology to the Mansfield team. Goings recognizes the dilemma: “What we thought was a gesture of kindness was understandably not perceived so.” 

It’s easy to take offense on either side, and tempting to stir the pot with rumor and dissension. Yet might there be a different way? Even when foggy, could we courageously move deeper into the pain of racial struggle and the hard work of racial dialogue? Might we find a way forward so that leftover bananas yield the sweet fruit of reconciliation in our small corner of the world?

Truth or Consequences

Bob Barker, a name synonymous with American game show history, hosted a nearly twenty-year run of “Truth or Consequences.” His tag line was familiar to his faithful television viewers: “Hoping all your consequences are happy ones.”

His sentiment matched the theme of his show, where contestants performed silly stunts and were rewarded for their efforts, even by a reunion with a long-lost relative or military personnel serving overseas. But in real life, not all consequences are happy ones. In fact, we live life knowing that while there may be rewards based on good behavior, there are unwelcome consequences to behaviors that harm another or break the norms of our society – consequences that reach far beyond the individual actor.

Think of Bill Cosby. We served in ministry just blocks from where Cosby grew up in Philadelphia, and remember well Cosby’s familiar words: “Hey, hey, hey, Fat Albert.” We even had one of his comedy records at our house. Now, this iconic actor, whose portrayal of the affable Cliff Huxtable charmed millions of households in the 80s, has been convicted of sexual assault and sentenced to prison for his actions.

In reading about Cosby’s show, I discovered that Cosby wanted Vanessa L. Williams cast as his screen wife, Claire Huxtable, but because Williams had recently been selected as Miss America, the pageant officials wouldn’t allow her to be in the television series. Williams soon faced her own set of consequences when Penthouse Magazine published nude photos of Williams, taken when she was a photographer’s assistant two years previous. The photographer assured her at the time that the photos would never leave the studio, but that promise was famously broken and she was forced to resign her crown. 

Ironically, in William’s case, Playboy Magazine reportedly took the high road and declined to publish the photos. According to Playboy mogul Hugh Hefner, “the single victim in all of this was the young woman herself, whose right to make this decision was taken away from her. If she wanted to make this kind of statement, that would be her business, but the statement wasn’t made by her.” 

In thinking about these two situations, it’s clear that even outside of the legal punishment that Cosby is facing, consequences run deep. With Cosby, as witnessed by impact statements at his sentencing, many women have suffered under his unwanted and potentially criminal attention for many years, and a country’s admiration for Cosby has been forever tarnished. And while Williams has been successful in her career, she’s never escaped the whispered reminders of her disgrace. Her family and friends, along with the greater African-American community, were devastated when the first Black Miss America was stripped of her crown under such ugly circumstances. 

Yet here’s a challenge: one protest sign after William’s forced removal repeated the words of Jesus: “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” Dig deep enough into our personal history, and there’s something we’ve done, something we’re ashamed of, something that’s hurt someone else, even if from many years ago. 

Knowing that, where does forgiveness fit in? Can people be rehabilitated? Teachings of faith speak of the restorative power of God. Should we have to pay forever for something done as a teen, under the influence, or at a moment of knuckle-headed stupidity? 

We’d like that answer to be “no,” except for this: others will pay, others are paying. What then is our responsibility? Good counsel comes from Alcoholics Anonymous, beginning with step four, the creation of a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. Admitting what’s been revealed to at least one other human being, asking [praying] to have those defects of character removed, and making amends to those we’ve hurt form the basis for the next five steps. Half of the twelve steps to sobriety demand this response to our actions: “This is who I am. This is what I’ve done. This is who I’ve hurt. This is what I will do as a result.” 

The laws of government bring punishment. The laws of action and reaction bring natural consequences, happy or not. Might truthfulness of heart and redemptive sorrow extend another way for us to live? 

Is Anybody Listening?

It’s that time of year again. Yes, falling leaves, hay rides, and fresh-pressed cider are staples of the autumn season, but I’m thinking instead about the sights and sounds that mark the weeks leading up to election day, especially in the even-numbered years when federal offices are being contested. 

What does a successful election campaign look like? William McKinley ran a front porch campaign for president in 1896. His campaign manager traveled the country raising money, while McKinley remained on his front porch, with 700,000 people traveling to Canton, Ohio to listen to his speeches. Imagine that!

When my Uncle Bill’s brother-in-law, Alfred Hausbeck, first ran for the New York State Assembly in 1960, his campaign was marked by strategically-placed billboards and lots of door-to-door visits – and no television ads. He depended heavily on yard signs, as Uncle Bill enlisted my dad (and me as his faithful companion) to plaster the streets of Buffalo with his name.   

In 1948, Harry S. Truman traveled more than 31,000 miles, criss-crossing America, shaking over half a million hands, long before the invention of hand sanitizer. I wonder who was responsible for counting all those hands. Yet the self-described advertising junkie Paul Suggett notes what’s changed since Truman: “No candidate would ever put that kind of a commitment [Truman’s example] into the meet-and-greet when advertising can do a far more effective job.” 

Suggett’s conclusion is likely true on the national level, but here in Ashland County, and across Ohio’s seventh congressional district, something is happening that makes me wonder if there is indeed a different way. The multi-dimensional campaign being carried out by Ken Harbaugh, candidate for congress, rooted as it is on Harbaugh’s interactions with the people he hopes to serve, is attempting to answer that question. Yes, he’s on Facebook, sends out numerous e-mails, and has now introduced television ads (one with footage from his storied participation in a demolition derby), but he and his team have also knocked on more than 40,000 doors and have made over 100,000 personal contacts. 

As I’ve watched this congressional race unfold, I’ve wondered – in this day of entrenched political positions, can Harbaugh’s approach work? Making tough decisions at the start of his campaign, he was unwillingness to take money from corporate-funded Political Action Committees (PAC). His campaign is self-described as “powered through individual donations, hard work, and the belief that our country is worth fighting for.” As a former Navy pilot and president of Team Rubicon Global, an organization that trains military veterans to aid in natural disasters, he’s tested that belief in the toughest of situations.

Harbaugh is running in an odd-shaped district, stretching from the shores of Lake Erie in Lorain county, through parts of Huron, Medina, Richland, Stark, and Tuscarawas counties, and encompassing all of Ashland, Coshocton, Holmes, and Knox counties. How can a newcomer possibly cover all that ground? As the incumbent, Representative Gibbs has the advantage of name recognition and of prior service. In 2014, he didn’t even have an opponent from the other party. Even with those odds, Harbaugh has stepped up to take on the challenge.

I’m curious – is Suggett correct about election campaigns? Given the implications of fiercely-held red and blue political positions, shouldn’t a candidate focus on raising money and buying television and internet ads, as the experts suggest? Is a commitment to the “meet-and-greet,” the time spent listening to the concerns of our neighbors across the district, wasted in today’s culture?

I’ve often asked, “Is anybody listening to the ordinary people?” I remember visiting Congressman Ralph Regula in his D.C. office in the late 90s, chatting about his farm and his grandchildren, as well as legislative issues of impact to our Salvation Army clients. His willingness to engage in that dialogue reminds me why the person chosen by “we the people” to serve “we the people” in Congress is called a representative. These 535 people are the closest thing we have to a voice in Washington. Who is listening to us? That question seems like a good one to ask as we head to the voting booth this November. 

Tell Me a Story

I recently picked up Sue Grafton’s book, “Y is for Yesterday,” the twenty-fifth mystery of an alphabet-based series that began with “A is for Alibi.” I’ve enjoyed her writing style for years, listening to her books on our way to Maine or curled up with her pages as the autumn evenings stretch before me. 

Each book stars the feisty private detective Kinsey Milhone, who Grafton suggests is like herself, only “younger, smarter, and thinner,” or “the person I might have been had I not married young and had children.” Sadly, as I turned the pages of the “Y” book, I already knew there will be no “Z is for Zebra, Zoology, or Zeus,” for Ms. Grafton died late in 2017, one book shy of her goal.

Over the decades, I’ve gotten hooked on authors, such as novelists Agatha Christie (fun “who-dun-its” I enjoyed as a teen), Susan Howatch, (especially the Starbridge series), and books from the prolific pen of Father Andrew Greeley, priest, sociologist, journalist and story-teller. He claimed to write five thousand words a day – that’s a lot of writing. I’ve recently sought out Jacqueline Winspear and her investigator/psychologist Maisie Dobbs, and have been captured by the story lines arising from Louise Penney’s Three Pines, so much so that this faithful library patron and connoisseur of used books paid full price for her last release.

At age eight, the lovely Madelyn Simone is “catching the bug,” discovering the quirkiness of Shel Silverstein’s poetry and the imagination of Roald Dahl. She’s been renewing Dahl’s “BFG” each week from the school library, and carries the tattered copy around with her. I’m planning to expand her personal library this Christmas, probably selecting Dahl’s “James and the Giant Peach” and “Matilda”(with the terrifying headmistress, Agatha Trunchbull). And BFG!

What is it about story that draws us in? Whether on the silver screen, flickering on our televisions, or hiding between the pages of a book, story calls us. As Margaret Atwood, author of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” reminds us: “You’re never going to kill storytelling because it’s built into the human plan. We come with it.”

I’ve wanted to write fiction for as long as I can remember, because I’ve always loved the magic of stories. I started a handful of novels, but even with the motivating helps of National Novel Writers’ Month (an annual November event), I’ve struggled to get past page twenty. As a preacher, columnist and mother, I’ve always wanted to preach, convince, and instruct in “the way,” so it’s been tough to simply allow the story to speak on its own. Rachel Held Evans describes my struggle: “If you’re going to be a believable storyteller, you have to avoid writing like a woman, or writing like a man, or writing like a pastor, or writing like a theologian, or writing like a Southerner, and start writing like you.”

Yet as of this week, after a long gestation and a hesitant birth, my first novel is done, ready to read, in my hands, in the trunk of my car, and available on amazon! “The Sally-Ann Goodwife” asks: Can Elizabeth Anne Stanton find her way from the privilege of Main Line Philadelphia to the challenges of life as a faithful Salvation Army servant to the poor and marginalized? Can she figure out how to be a good wife to her beloved Bram without losing her own identity? In an attempt to answer those questions, my main character dons the navy blue polyester of the Sally-Anns and begins her story: “We stood together at my father’s grave, our tears washed away by the unremitting rain punctuating the dismal morning.”

Maya Angelou understood my need to write this story: “There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you.” “Autobiographical,” asked a friend? Somewhat, as the Salvation Army connection acknowledges, for as P. D. James, another favorite author counsels, “You absolutely should write about what you know. There are all sorts of small things that you should store up and use, nothing is lost to a writer.” 

Reading about Kinsey Milhone, Maisie Dobbs, Matilda and Miss Trunchbull, or Libby Stanton-Pearson this week? Greet my literary friends, and be sure to share a favorite of your own.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

The recent Mr. Rogers documentary has left me singing his theme song, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” with its familiar tag line, “won’t you be my neighbor?” It’s a question many are considering in this rather tumultuous world, often with a sense of nostalgia for the 50s and 60s, where life centered around the neighborhood in ways that have seemingly disappeared from contemporary culture. 

In chatting with a friend, we wondered, “what happened to the sense of neighborhood we remember from our childhood?” In response, I made a couple of guesses. The most common answer in Family Feud style would be that women entered the paid workforce and no longer were at home. But I also thought about the difference it made when a household got its second car. Once a family could go in two different directions, there was seemingly little to hold them to life in the neighborhood.

My other guess was that air conditioning was installed in many homes. With the advent of AC, there was no need to open the windows, let alone go outside, thus providing little opportunity to even see our neighbors. Those of us of a certain age miss the nights when the kids would play tag, kickball, and SPUD until the streetlights came on. Now, as I said way too many times this summer, “I don’t want to go outside – it’s too hot!” And the mosquitos . . .

Other answers include our changing lifestyles, the role of social media (it get blamed for a lot these days), and a fear of the unknown. Brian Bethune offers this warning: “The evolving modern definition of a good neighbor is no longer someone who is part of your life, someone you chat with over the fence, a reliable shoulder in good times and bad, but someone who doesn’t bother you, either in your enjoyment of your home or by threatening its property value.”

Despite Bethune’s words, there is something about being a good neighbor that still calls to us, even in 2018. Why? For one, it’s good for us. Susan Pinker explains how humans need face-to-face contact, just as we need air and water. Those who are “surrounded by a tight-knit group of friends who regularly gather to eat – and, crucially, to gossip – live an average of fifteen years longer than loners!”

Good neighboring can also improve our neighborhoods. If we know each other, we’ll watch out for each other, lend out a lawnmower, report suspicious activity, or deliver a casserole when the new baby arrives or grandma dies. 

As a final motivation, there is a spiritual connection to neighborliness. As Fred Rogers said, “I believe that appreciation is a holy thing--that when we look for what's best in a person we happen to be with at the moment, we’re doing what God does all the time. So in loving and appreciating our neighbor, we’re participating in something sacred.”

To help us become better neighbors, Park Street Brethren Church is hosting a conversation on Wednesday, September 26^that 6:30 p.m. entitled “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” I’ll be joining Donna Thomas, who coordinates community outreach for Park Street, as we look at ways we can be better neighbors – without turning off our air-conditioning! Rumor has it that there will be fresh-baked cookies to encourage our discussion. Check with Park Street for more information and come along.

Also in Ashland, beginning September 18, Ashland University will host a series on the topic “Who is My Neighbor?” There’ll be lectures, a film, panel discussions, and a book discussion, with details on their website. These sessions will take the discussion of neighbor beyond the end of our block to wrestle with the age-old question: who is my neighbor?

A recent study in the United Kingdom discovered that nearly a third of its 2000 respondents could not pick their neighbor out of police line-up. I could identify everyone on my block when I was ten, but today? Not so. As Mr. Rogers describes, I’m ready to participate in something sacred, so it’s time to visit my neighbors. Maybe I’ll bake a batch of my Aunt Annamae’s sugar cookies to take along!