An In-Between Day

Mixed thoughts this morning, on this in-between day, this weekend nestled between Thanksgiving and “the Christmas season,” where it’s finally permissible (in my understanding of life) to decorate for the holidays. It’s two days after Thanksgiving, one day after the shopping frenzy of black Friday and the cartoon marathon memory of my childhood, “the day after Turkey Day on NBC.” On this between day, it’s also one day before Advent begins.  

 

And yet COVID lurks among us. We’re told it’s to blame for the supply chain issues. “Better buy it when you see it,” the pundits warn, as it won’t be there when you make up your mind. I was in a store yesterday where the merchandise was piled high, cascading to the floor in many spots. Supply chain problems?  Could have fooled me.

 

The nasty virus is to blame for much more than that early run on toilet paper or the inability to find this year’s version of the coveted Cabbage Patch doll or Tickle Me Elmo. It’s changed us a humans, dividing us in ways our parents couldn’t have imagined. I intended to describe those differences, but who am I kidding? We’ve become so entrenched in our positions about being masked and vaxxed that there seem to be no words left to say.

 

And the empty chairs at the Thanksgiving table? 777K, the googled report shows, just here in the United States. Yes, the “K” stand for one thousand. Does the use of the abbreviation lighten the burden of grief over the loss of 777,000 people, of 5,190,000 people around the world? We may act like it’s winding down, but one radio report indicated that this week, somewhere in Ohio, one in six current hospitalizations is for COVID-19 ( didn’t catch the details).

 

This morning, as I sat peeling vegetables for the fragrant pot of soup simmering on the stove, I wondered: what do we do? My thoughts wandered to the biblical women on the day after the first Good Friday. In their grief, we are told, still they “prepared the spices.” They did what needed to be done to prepare the body of Jesus for a burial in accordance with their faith. 

 

Somehow, in the valley of the shadow of death, more than five million bodies lining that valley, we must find time to both grieve and to “prepare the spices.” I’m searching for ways to live in the midst of the uncertainty that surrounds us, to find meaning. What I’m realizing in these anxious days is that sometimes it is enough to stir the pot of soup, decorate the Christmas tree, and light a candle of Advent. For, as Fleming Rutledge reminds us, “Even our smallest lights will be signs in this world, lights to show the way . . .” Might it be so.

 

 

I'm Lovin' It

Larry, Henry and I made an impromptu visit to the food court at the mall this week, meeting up with Dan and Emma for lunch. In Henry’s meal from Chik-fila included a place mat with a variety of animals. What does the dog say? Ruff-ruff. What does the pig say? Oink oink. What does the kitten say? Meow. And finally, what does the cow say? “Eat mor chikin!”

 

That may be the brilliant tag line for the chicken restaurant, but I’m grateful that people around the world have taken to heart the slogan, “there’s a little McDonald’s in everyone” and headed to the Golden Arches for burgers, fries and milkshakes. Those Happy Meals lined the pockets of Ray and Joan Kroc (capitalism at its best – and worst), and upon Joan’s death, her fortune  was distributed to The Salvation Army with specific instructions on what to do with those dollars.

 

As a result of her legacy gift, twelve years ago, on a pleasant April weekend, we celebrated a milestone in Salvation Army history in Ashland, Ohio as the  Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center was dedicated to the glory of God and to the people of the community. What a weekend it was. We had one working phone for the whole building. The heat worked too well; the air-conditioning, not so much. We sang out hearts out in Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” and Booth’s “O Boundless Salvation” with over a hundred of our closest friends (thanks, Libby Slade). Mountain Man entertained the New York Staff Band with great fervor. We bought a run-down motel in three days, placing us on the Ripley’s Believe It or Not list for the speediest Salvation Army property transfer ever. And then, on Sunday afternoon, with flags waving and horns blaring quite melodiously, we marched from 40 East Third Street to 527 East Liberty Street. What a weekend!

 

This chilly November weekend marks another ribbon-cutting at the East Liberty address, as an addition to the Kroc Center building is dedicated to the glory of God and to the people of the community. In our COVID-19 world, this dedication will be by invitation only, and held “under the big top,” brrrr. No Mountain Man for entertainment, as its likely he is serenading St. Peter in the heavenly realms. The phones work, the motel is long gone, and I’m told the temporary tent has heat. After the singing and the speeches are over, the highlight of the day will be the inaugural trip down the new waterslide. Will Joe, Doug or Billy have that privilege? The suspense is killing me – and the three contestants as well, who may be secretly hoping that they won’t be the winner by having the top donor amount to support scholarships to the center. 

 

Joan Kroc’s vision for the nearly thirty facilities now spread across the U.S. was a gift for sure, and money reallocated from her initial bequest made this Ashland addition possible – the gift that keeps on giving. Like the original project, the Ashland community stepped up and is pitching in a chunk of change to complete the construction as well. Kroc’s generosity, the community’s support, and their faith in the Army’s ability to serve, continue to astound me, and I remain thankful for the opportunity to reimagine Salvation Army ministry in the twenty-first century. We had claimed the words of Isaiah 54 back in 2009, and they are just as fitting today: “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back, lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes.”

 

The water park won’t be open for a few more weeks, but when it’s ready, the Shade family is coming to test it out. The lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday have loved their visits to RJ’s Spraypark, and we look forward to introducing the charming Henry Kyle and the sweet Emma Belle to the wonders of the new water park. We may not be in Speedos, but we’re sure to be wearing smiles. 

 

Happy Expansion Ribbon-Cutting Day to all the Ashland Krockettes. Kudos to the staff, board, and community for all you’ve done to turn a dream into reality once again. with a special word of appreciation to our friends, Majors Annalise and Billy Francis, who have shepherded this expansion. No broken bones on that waterslide, Billy. And get some rest, because, thanks to Mrs. Kroc, “you deserve a break today!”

 

American Honey

Nearly four years ago, we made the difficult decision to sell our beloved home in Ashland to move to Canton to be closer to family. I have not regretted that choice, especially as it placed us nearby during the challenging months before the sweet Emma Belle’s birth. Yet whenever I’ve left a community I’ve grown to love (Ashland, Canton, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and Dover – and of course, Tonawanda), I’ve regretted leaving behind relationships that will never be quite the same, no matter the vows we make to stay in touch. Leaving town also removes the probability that acquaintanceships from that place will be nurtured into friendships, the kind celebrated with long, lingering conversations and shared dreams.

 

As I read “American Honey: A Field Guide to Resisting Temptation,” the memoir recently released by Sarah Wells, an acquaintance and Facebook friend, I’ve definitely wished we still lived in Ashland. If we did, Sarah and I might be spending time at the coffee shop, comparing notes about mud-splattered spats from our high school band uniforms, coming of age in a blue collar family, the escapades of two boys named Henry (her son, my grandson), and the challenges of being a woman with ambition and faith. Those imaginary conversations would be peppered with our mutual love for reading and writing, and our appreciation for the power of words – and yes, my propensity for run-on sentences! 

 

Since I live in North Canton and Sarah lives in Ashland, we’re separated by sixty miles of a ribbon of highway, as well as a generation of living. Thus, I have to be content to soak up the words she’s committed to print, tasting the sand and the salt of potato chips at the beach, and feeling the tear-kissed tenderness she shared with her beloved Brandon over a pan of sweet potato fries. I wish I’d had her ten (or is it eleven?) strategies to manage your crazy (self) person when I was at my craziest. I needed someone to say, “Get up fifteen minutes earlier, for God’s sake, and slow the morning down a smidgen. Start the day with a Word so it sticks to your hips like the pancakes.’ And if even that sounded impossible, I needed someone to tell me it was OK to call a babysitter so I could have time for myself without feeling guilty, for it truly is “better to have a sane mom some of the time than a crazy one all of the time.” Granted, this memoir is no traditional self-help guide to marriage, but that page of strategies is worth the price of the book.

 

How I love to read, and I am loving the pages of this book. As Alberto Manguel explains, “At one magical instance in your early childhood, a page in a book – that string of confused, alien ciphers – shivered into meanings. Words spoke to you, gave up their secrets; new universes opened. At that moment, you became, irrevocably, a reader.” Mrs. Ditmer’s first grade class at Fletcher School flipped that switch for me. Since that moment, I’ve found inspiration, adventure and solace between the covers of a book, and Sarah’s words haven’t disappointed. 

 

As a writer, I’m fascinated at how an image or just a few words can make a lasting impression. My favorite of the many images in “American Honey” came in Wells’ chapter, “The Worst Soccer Mom,” for she sums up the travails of parenting when her husband was out of town by describing the lowest point of soccer practice with a six-year-old, a five-year-old (the budding soccer star), and a sixteen-month-old. “I’m out of Cheerios.” If you’ve been there, you understand.

 

As a teen, I religiously read the monthly magazine feature, “Can This Marriage Be Saved?” As a counselor, I’ve been present with couples who wrestled with that same question. I’ve read scores of books on marriage, written a marriage curriculum (MarriageTools) and even a book on using guerilla warfare tactics to cope within difficult marriages. All too often, the focus is on fixing what is broken, often necessary to preserve vows, to keep promises. 

 

But in “American Honey,” Wells doesn’t preach or counsel, provide a to-do list or a magic formula. Instead, she writes of the love story of Sarah and Brandon. Sue Monk Kidd reflects: “Writing memoir is, in some ways, a work of wholeness.” Ultimately, while Wells acknowledges the fragility of marriage and family, she honors the wholeness of life: “Okay, so our love keeps record of wrongs, but also mercies. After all, we are here. We hold our wrongs and mercies together in careful intimacy.” Not perfect, but whole.