At The Bend in the Road

Back in the day, we vacationed with friends in Maine and decided to pick up lobsters for dinner.  John claimed he knew just where to get them, at a roadside stand with a great price for the crustaceans just around the bend in the road.  As stories go, there were quite a few bends in the road before they got to The Bend in The Road, and most of the water had boiled out of the lobster pot by the time they returned with the main course and soupy ice cream.

I’m remembering that story in these days of transition, as Larry and I enter a time of retirement from active Salvation Army leadership.  I wasn’t sure if the days of preparation for the transition would ever end, if we’d ever make it to The Bend in the Road called retirement.  But after 34 years and 16 days of ministry as a Salvation Army officer (somebody was counting), we’re at The Bend in The Road that concludes our active service.   [Note to loyal fans – read about it in At the Bend in the Road: Reflections of a Smitten Corps Officer].

It’s been an absolutely amazing journey.  Who would have known that the young girl with the bouncing pigtails who could barely reach the pedals on the piano would get her first job playing the piano in a small Salvation Army chapel?  Who would have known that she would fall in love with Jesus, fall in love with Long Point Camp, and then fall in love with a young man who sensed a calling to Salvation Army officership?  Who would have known that Frederick Buechner’s words would speak so clearly to the young woman’s heart: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet?”

Who would have known that this amazing journey would wind its way through the Garden State of New Jersey, stop for a few years in the city of Rocky, brotherly love and Philly cheesesteaks, make an unexpected  detour to the inner city of Cleveland, and put down roots in Canton, Ohio?  Who would have known that the billions of hamburgers flipped beneath golden arches would fund Salvation Army Kroc Centers across the country, and that Larry and I would be midwives for this wonder-filled place of community right here in Ashland, Ohio?   I’ll let you in on the secret:  even when we were clueless, God knew what the plan was, and around each bend in the road opportunities for ministry blossomed before us, planted by those who had been faithful in the preparation of the soil.

And now?  At The Bend in The Road, words of wisdom spoken by a spiritual companion resound.  “We often talk about the life of faith in terms of journey, but sometimes we simply have to stop where we are and dig a well.”  Albert Orsborn, an international leader of the Salvation Army in the 1950’s, recognized the need:  “The well is deep and I require a draught of the water of life.”  After all the years of Christmas kettles, sermons, government contracts, construction meetings, and even sprayparks, it’s time to put down roots, lay claim to a home and reach down deep.

So what’s next?  Salvation Army Captains Brett and Jessica DeMichael are Ashland’s newest immigrants, and will keep the spraypark buckets tumbling and the Salvation Army flags flying.  We’ve passed on the mantle of leadership, the keys to the Kroc Center, and my “dump-the-bucket” list so they will get the call when the alarm goes off at 2 a.m.  We’re taking time to sort the accumulation of stuff from 34 years of ministry, as well as to dream of the opportunities waiting around the next corner.   I’m looking forward to savoring a Coney at the A & W, walking the labyrinth on the hill at the Kroc Center, and writing to my heart’s content whenever the muse taps my shoulder.  Watch the Times-Gazette for Gracednotes every Saturday, as a writer’s eye, a pastor’s heart and a grandmother’s joy bring you a unique perspective on life in Ashland, Ohio, a place for roots and new wells.

Space, Light and Order

With my final day at work less than 3 weeks away, I’m sorting out how best to move around the next bend of the journey.  What to do?  How to choose?  I’ve articulated a ‘dump the bucket’ list, those job tasks I won’t miss, but what exactly will I do?  Is it possible to earn any money through the act and art of writing?  And can I do that with a laptop at the coffee shop or a legal pad balanced on my knees in the hammock?  

Knowing how easily I can be distracted, I recognize that I need space dedicated to work, so the hammock and spraypark are out of the question.  When we moved into our home two years ago, the former owners had created an adorable playspace surrounded by rainbow stripes and featuring its own blackboard wall, complete with chalk.  Keeping with the theme of the room, we set up a crib for Madelyn’s visits, and filled much of the space with the requisite Legos, doll cradle and a children’s gathering drum (gotta keep the percussionist tradition going in our family).  While my desk and computer occupied one corner of the room and its bookshelves housed the bulk of my library, it was obviously a playroom/office, not an office/playroom.    

Although I was able to produce quite a few meaningful words from that space, my writing has by necessity taken a second seat to the work at the Kroc Center, and I certainly never considered it my “day job.”  So it is fitting that as writing moves a few rungs up life’s priority ladder, it was time to take a large, deliberate step this week and move my home office out of the playroom.

Its new home is a wonderful space, a tiny bedroom at the corner of the house, filled with light.  The wrap-around desk spreads out my workspace, with cubbyholes for paperclips and stamps, a real Roget’s Thesaurus, Webster’s Dictionary and rhyming dictionary, and lots of in-progress purple file folders.  It is a vivid reminder that I, like so many of my generation, straddle between two worlds, the typewriter and computer world, the cassette tape and the Ipod world, the checkbook and the on-line banking world.  Oh, I’d better keep that thought for another column – I might need it!

Does space really matter to our creativity or the well-being of a workplace? Yes.  When the drive-through accident shut down the office wing housing the social services staff at the Kroc Center, caseworkers were consigned to temporary desks scattered throughout the building.  The ensuing rhythm of disconnection and the formation of new connection was a challenge for both staff and visitors, and they were glad to get back to the routine their own space allowed.

What should our workspace look like?  As we focused on the design for the new Kroc Center, we were functioning out of what had been bedrooms in the apartment on the third floor of the 1937 Salvation Army facility, so anything was an improvement over those digs.  I had no idea there were so many models for workplaces, such as hotel, touchdown, desk sharing, cave and commons, huddle space, booth, war room, meeting room and storage (never enough for those of us who audition for Hoarders).  We stuck with the traditional model of individual offices, but I wonder what might have happened if we’d allowed for more flexible space.  Well, the next time I design a Kroc Center . . . 

Twentieth century architect and designer Le Corbusier reminds us: “Space and light and order.  Those are the things that men [and women] need just as much as they need bread or a place to sleep.”  What I’m discovering with my own miniature office is that it’s possible to claim that space and light and order for our own.  It’s true in our churches, offices, and homes – light, order, color and beauty all help space to become sacred ground.  Add in the reminders of places, seasons, and people who have shaped my life, the scent of a fragrant candle, a Billy Holiday CD, and photos of the lovely Madelyn Simone – I may never come up for air!

Time to Make the Donuts

“It’s time to make the donuts.”  Fred the baker first uttered that memorable line for a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial in 1983, and it has since become part of the American vernacular.   I must admit that getting up at 3 a.m. every morning to make donuts is not my dream job.  At that hour of the day, I’d do worse than Lucille Ball did on the candy assembly line.  But Michael Vale’s oft-repeated declaration stands as a symbol to those who, day after day, do what needs to be done to support their family, to stand tall in their community, and yes, to make sure we’ve got fresh donuts for the breakfast table or the office coffee break.

There’s something about a donut that spells comfort.  Whether it’s an old-fashioned fried cake dusted with sugar, a puffy glazed donut that melts in your mouth, or the luscious creamstick worth fighting over, a donut and a cup of coffee can make a bad day bearable.  And yes, I know that too many donuts can pack on the pounds, but that’s a subject for another day. 

Today is National Donut Day, surely on my top ten list of favorite holidays, along with National Go Barefoot Day (today as well) and Old Maid Day (Monday).  Unfortunately, I missed celebrating No Diet Day last month, so I’ll just have to eat a donut in the spirit of that day.  Any excuse for a donut!

While donuts may simply seem a fattening addition to our caloric intake, they are also an integral part of the Salvation Army’s heritage, symbolic of service in the most dangerous of venues.  The story began with the Army’s national commander, Evangeline Booth, determined to do something in support of the war effort as the US entered World War I.  The service centers and hostels adjacent to United States military camps weren’t enough for Evangeline.  “American boys are going to France," she said.  "We must go with them."     

About 250 young Salvation Army volunteers, many of them girls in their teens, went to France with the Commandant’s words ringing in their ears: "I promise you nothing. I don't know what you will get into, it may be life, it may be death; it may be sickness, it may be loss - I promise you nothing!"   

Helen Purviance and Margaret Sheldon were two of these young women, and after weeks of terrible weather, they wanted lift the spirits of the soldiers in their charge.  With supplies at a premium, they were only able to get flour, sugar, lard, and a bit of sugar and cinnamon.  Frying just a few at a time, these young women met a need in the midst of the war zone, a taste of home for those bedraggled, homesick young soldiers. The aroma of frying donuts was enticing, and soon donuts were appearing in huts across the battle zone in France.  The Salvation Army Donut Girl was born, and the lowly donut became a Salvation Army symbol of service that extends into this century.

So I was excited to discover that our own Buehlers Market has a promotion every Friday and Saturday in June, with a special price on a dozen Salvation Army Cake Donuts.  Sweet!  Let’s see – we can have donuts for Sunday School class, donuts to celebrate the spraypark opening, donuts for the Rio movie under the stars, donuts for . . . you get the picture.

So how can this column be redeemed from a blatant “go buy donuts” ploy?  I return to Fred the Baker – “it’s time to make the donuts.” That’s the clarion call of all those who serve – from the Salvation Army donut girls of 1917 to the Kroc Center caseworkers in 2012; to the plumber, the cook, the firefighter and many more.  When it’s time to “make the donuts,” they are there – ready to do what has to be done so that the people of our community have what we need.   

Go ahead.  Get yourself a donut.  And as you lick your fingers in contentment, take a moment to whisper a word of thanks for the Fred the Baker’s of our world.   

And We Remember: Reflections on Memorial Day

Memorial Day.  With summer peeking her head around the corner, the last Monday in May is marked as a day for parades and cookouts, with front porch flags lining the streets of small-town America.  As with other holidays, it’s easy to get so wrapped up in the gathering together for a party that we forget why it’s a holiday – or, as the word initially meant, a holy-day.   Memo to self – Memorial Day is a time set aside to remember those we have lost, those who have served, those who have sacrificed. 

What do we remember?  I start with my peers, the oh-so-young men (and a few women) who went to Vietnam – 2.7 million of them, 9% of our generation, mostly those a bit older than me, as my high school cohort hit the tail end of Vietnam.  By the time we graduated in 1973, the draft was over, and while we were still in the war until the fall of Saigon in 1975, it was generally our older siblings and cousins who made that life-changing trek to the jungles so far away.

We wore the MIA bracelets for those who didn’t return.  Mine was Major John Held, 4-17-68. Although the broken pieces of the bracelet have been consigned to the bottom drawer of my jewelry box for many years, his name comes to mind easily.  We trace his name and all the names of those who died on a wall in Washington and we remember. 

My father’s adult life began with a stint in the U.S. Army.  He was 18 in 1941, just a kid who ate his meal quickly so he got dessert.  Harboring a dream of life as a paratrooper, he drove truck and peeled potatoes as he served his country.  Spared the horrors of D-Day in Europe, his war occurred in the Philippines, as his unit moved among a people devastated by the Japanese invasion of their country.  We receive the flag of our country in his honor and we remember.

Much of our current context for military service is framed by deployments to Iraq and now Afghanistan, although many serve on bases scattered across the world.  With the wonders of Skype, we no longer watch the mailbox for the pale blue airmail letters, but those we love are still far away and still serve in dangerous situation. We watch the send-off of our area’s finest men and women – not all as young as those who went to World War II or Vietnam – and we remember.

My parents modeled what it means to remember as they faithfully tended the gravesites of their parents and other relatives at Elmlawn and Mt. Olivet, and then traveled to North Tonawanda for my dad’s family plots. My siblings and I would run and play among the tombstones and markers, searching for silly names and sticking our feet in the fountain. We weren’t especially reverent, but the visits to the cemetery were an accepted part of the rhythm of life growing up in the 60’s. 

After all those years of cemetery visits, my mother decided to scatter my father’s ashes in the Niagara River and have a tree planted in his memory along the bikepath he dearly loved.  I like that.  It helps to think of my dad pedaling alongside the river, checking out the family of ducks and nodding to greet friends along the way, rather than boxed in among rows and rows of dead people.  Nothing against cemeteries, but this was a good choice for my dad. Regardless of location, at the end of the day we can pause at a tree, a gravesite, a photo album, and we remember.  

This Memorial Day, my family will be together as we remember.  I’m not sure if we’ll get to the cemetery to honor our ancestors, but we’ll be sure to visit Grandpa’s tree along the bikepath, listen for the 6 a.m. cannon blast (not sure why that commemorates Memorial Day in Tonawanda, NY, but it’s tradition), and crank up the ice cream freezer.  We’ll lick the dasher for you, Dad, and amidst the laughter and stories, we’ll not forget the empty chairs, the empty arms, the empty hearts:  we remember.

  

Days of Transition: Part 2

The term “bucket list” describes the activities people want to experience prior to “kicking the bucket.” Popularized by a movie of the same title featuring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, many began to develop their own bucket lists, often including the film’s “laugh till I cry” and “kiss the most beautiful woman in the world.” Of course, now there’s a bucketlist.org website, providing its visitors with the ability to track their own bucket list with up to 10,000 options! Inspiration for those with limited imaginations.

            In my transition from active Salvation Army service to a retirement from that daily work, I’m developing the reverse - a “dump the bucket” list – actions I’m glad I won’t have to do anymore.  My list starts with the United Way proposal, only because it’s so fresh in my mind. Sorry, Ev, I appreciate all United Way
does for the community and for the Salvation Army, and recognize the need for accountability, but I’ll gladly let someone else take on that task next year. 

            Unfortunately, United Way is only one of many sets of paperwork I’ve wrestled with through the years, and now with so much done on-line, it gets even worse.  Last week, after struggling to fill out an on-line application for a summer program that refused to let me enter the required information, I walked out in the office and asked, “Is there anyone here who isn’t an idiot who can figure this out?”  Because I certainly couldn’t.  I won’t miss that.

I’ll gladly give up my role as the complaint desk hostess, and if I never need to fire another person again I will be relieved.  I don’t want to be the one having to notice the weeds poking their tenacious heads out of the mulch at the Kroc Center, and I’m tired of being the bad cop when it comes to the kids mistaking the entrance columns for a climbing wall.  And I won’t miss being the official cotton-candy maker – way too sticky.  

In my role as an officer within the Salvation Army, I will be so glad to be freed from facing unexpected relocations (the hardest part of the whole gig for me).  The same outfit every day routine gets old, and the off-black pantyhose can find its way to the rag bin – well, at least until I have to attend a funeral, as I do want to dress appropriately to pay my respects.

Yes, I would like some cheese with that whine.  And I’ll admit it – except for firing employees and relocating with only a few weeks notice, these are mostly sand-in-the-shoe issues, simply a part of life that happens with whatever job we are in.  I’m sure that just as soon as I dump these out of my bucket, I’ll fill it up with a few other tasks that are just as unwelcome. 

But oh, how I will miss so much else.  Being welcomed by Chelse, our early morning greeter every Lord’s day, rain or shine.  Turning on RJ’s spraypark on a hot Sunday afternoon and letting the kids splash to their heart’s content.  Watching the tulips bloom outside the Sacred Space.  Staff meeting potlucks.  Mini’s cookies.  Playing Sarah’s piano. Sharing a burden. Kneeling in prayer.  Wiping a tear.

How easy it is to stumble along in life without thought to either our “I need to dump this bucket” list or our dream list – this is what I want in life.  That’s why Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer is such good counsel: “God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.”  We can’t dump everything out of our buckets, but we can have some control over what goes in.

So what will bo in my bucket in the days ahead?  Not sure yet.  I just know that Jim Rohn puts it into perspective for me: “Asking is the beginning of receiving. Make sure you don't go to the ocean with a teaspoon. At least take a bucket so the kids won't laugh at you.”  So this summer, look for me at the beach – Madelyn and I will be building sandcastles, and I’ll be the one with bling on my multi-hued bucket!

Days of Transition:  Part One

During my doctoral studies, I lived closely for many months with the scriptural narrative of Hagar, best known in biblical history as “the other woman” in the story of Abraham and Sarah.  She became such a familiar companion to me that I ended up writing a book with that title, connecting her story to that of contemporary men and women. (Just in case you’re interested, it’s on the shelves of the Ashland Library or for sale at the Kroc Center).

Found in Genesis 16 and 21, the brief account of Hagar’s life wrapped around Sarah’s life story, both partners of the same man.  Sarah was infertile, unable to have a baby, so Hagar was drafted to fill that need, a surrogate mother of sorts for Sarah.  But then the miracle took place.  Sarah became pregnant herself at the age of 90.  Yikes!

            Fast forward from biblical history to my life story of 2012.  Our precious granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, just spent two days with us at our home, and I have one thing to say: Sarah, you must have been crazy to have a baby at 90.  That’s not the natural order of things.  There’s a reason the biological clock comes to a halt before age 57. 

After chasing around a two year old for 48 hours, I am utterly exhausted.  She runs faster than I can get up.  Madelyn can open doors, write on her leg with a red marker, go down the slide at the playground, and whirl through a room like a tornado.  She likes to take a group of items and spread them out – rubber bands, practice golf balls, paper clips, business cards and chalk were the items of choice this visit.  I’m worn out all over again just typing these words. 

Don’t get me wrong.  She’s a wonderful child.  She will sit quietly to watch her beloved Nemo and Rio, and was quite creative playing with a few golf balls in the green room at the Kroc Center, with its gently sloped handicapped ramp.  Even the squalls of the terrible two tantrums pass over quickly, and she seems to sense when the adults around her need an extra dose of love.

So it was a good thing that she was with us these particular days, because the adults around her desperately needed her extra dose of love.  Larry and I received word that the Salvation Army was making a change in leadership at the Ashland Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center.  We were to move on to another assignment, and a new couple was coming to Ashland.  After we picked our jaws up off the floor, we realized that we would have to tell our staff and church family of that decision – we didn’t want them to read the news on Facebook.

So as we sat together in the Sacred Space at the center, celebrating birthdays and graduations, we took the first step to break the news to those we’ve come to love so dearly.  It was time for us to pass the mantle of leadership to another couple.  There were shocked expressions, tears, and many questions from those facing their first experience with Salvation Army transitions.  “It’s the way it works,” we told them, drawing on our 34 years of facing the “June moves.”  “This year Ashland is on that list.”   

The absolute gift of those 48 hours was that Madelyn was with us.  Without knowing why, she comforted us, she cheered us up, and she reminded us of the place of love. As we sat and sang Skidamarink-a-dinky-dink for the tenth time, she looked up at me and in her inimitable way proclaimed “I love you!”  The preacher in me doesn’t have to look hard to make the connection to how the Spirit of God abides with us.

I’m at my word limit for today, so I don’t have time to tell you about Captains Brett and Jessica DeMichael and their children as they pack to make their journey to Ashland, about our plan to semi-retire a bit early to remain here, or the fear and trepidation of job-hunting well into our dotage (LOL on the dotage part).  Stay tuned.