While we're there

September  5th is our anniversary. It will come on Oak Island and we'll go out to eat to celebrate with Mimi/Tim/Eleanor and our friends.

It will be our 48th anniversary.

Lord Jesus Christ, how can that be? I'm still a young man and Bern's still the elfin seductress she's always been!

But wait, our son is 43 and our baby daughter is 40.

Oh, my Lord, it's been 48 years!!!

Some days it seems like we just met. Some days it seems like we're still young lovers. And yet the truth is clear--4 granddaughters...two of whom are near being young women--and we're still here, almost half a century later.

Who would have known?

How could we have known--14 and 17 when we met?

And here we are.

It's been a long ride and one I wish I could live again.

I love her so, and all she's given me. All of it.

Like any long ride, it's not always been smooth--but it has endured and endured and endured.

Thank God!!!

Truly, God, I thank you.....

Soon, so soon....

Bern is in Brooklyn, looking out for Eleanor for two days since her day care is closed for a week. She'll be back at the train station in New Haven around 5 tomorrow.

I miss her more than I can say/ After all this time, being away from her is painful, even though we can go through a day with less than a couple of conversations. Just being in the same house with her is soothing to me. Who knew love could last so long, so deep?

But soon, soon...Saturday in fact, we fly to Myrtle Beach and go in the rental car to Oak Island with John and Sherry and Jack. Mimi and Tim and Eleanor will fly to Raleigh and drive to Oak Island from there.

And a week on the ocean surround by friends and family and food...lots of food...and not a little 'drink' as well.

How great that will be.

I have two days to write some stuff to tide you over until we get back on September 8. I'll try.

But a week away from my computer is a gift in itself.....

I may turn my phone off as well. I don't get email on it, at least and no one ever calls me.

No devices for a week---heaven....

MACK-dowell County

It's spelled McDowell, but how you tell if someone is from the southern most county of West Virginia is how they pronounce it. "MC-Dowell" isn't native. We natives say "MACK-dowell" and mean it. It's the "Mack" that matters to us. I don't know why. It just does.

McDowell County is where I grew up. It is 535 square miles. Rhode Island is 1214 square miles.. Nearly half the size of the smallest state--McDowell County, if you flattened it out, pushing all the mountains down, would be the size of Connecticut!

And it was where I grew up until 18 and off to college. And I loved it. So lush and green in the summer, so full of snow in the winter. So amazing in the 4 month spring and four month autumn--Winter and Summer were two months only. McDowell was farther south that Richmond, Virginia, but up in the 2000 foot mountains, so the seasons were much different.

But now...now, the county that had a population of 98,000 when I was three years old now has a population of 18,000, Try to imagine that.

And 39% of the people still left are below the poverty line.

And McDowell County, of all the 17,321 counties in the USA has the highest percentage of deaths from drug overdose.

Anawalt, where I grew up, had 1383 residents when I was 3. Today, it has 202.

Try to imagine the empty houses and boarded up houses and burned out houses left there,

Where I grew up, the building is gone. Like so many others.

This is where I grew up. I remember wondrous nature, incredible people, a perfect place to be a child.

And now....?

And now?

Coal died--and no matter what the President says, coal is not coming back, not deep mining, which is what fueled and fed McDowell County. Those mountains were full of coal--deep down. And deep mining is gone forever.

And the place where I loved to grow up is a shadow--a dim shadow--of that place.

(It is also the county in the 48 contiguous states with the highest average age and the lowest life expectancy. Ponder what that means....Only old people are there and they die  younger than most people in the US. Astonishing. Deeply painful for me.)

That spot on the earth--all 535 square miles of it--was heaven for me as a child.

And now.....Lordy, the pain to know what it has become....

Jusr beween us

I met Bern when she was a Freshman in High School and I was a Senior.

On September 5, we'll have been married 48 years.

Josh met Cathy in law school in Brooklyn.

Mimi met Tim at Bennington College though they didn't become a couple until a few years later in Brooklyn.

The thing that brings all this together is meeting in school.

Kind of interesting, just between us.

junkos

(I've checked and I've never, seemingly, shared this--though I can't check over 2300 posts! It's a poem I wrote for my granddaughters when there were only 3 instead of 4.)

When I tell my granddaughters about Junkos

“Let me tell you about these little birds,”

I'll say, “that I saw in Seattle....”

(There will be lots of questions then:

“Where's Seattle?” “Is it far?”

“Can we go there?” “How'd you go?”

They move along a story

the way they pump the swings

in the park down from their house--

quickly, rising higher, full of wonder.)

Then I'll tell them how the cook

in the conference center where I was,

saw me watching the little birds.

He was smoking a cigarette,

watching me watch the birds

while I smoked as well.

(I'll leave out the part about cigarettes.

Let their parents deal with that someday....)

“They're called Junkos,” he called to me.

“The little birds?” I asked.

He nodded and blew smoke.

I jerked my head as one flew by,

almost skimming the grass.

He told me there were two kinds.

The ones with gray heads were just Junkos

and the ones with black heads were called

'hooded Junkos' with their black hoods.

Junkos are small and quick.

Swallow like, with long splashes of white

on their wings when they fly.

Curious birds, a couple hopped

into the meeting room we used,

craning their necks and watching us

for a while, wondering about us,

I suppose, then hopped back out

the door we left open

because of the heat.

I told the cook about Junko visits

and he replied they came in the kitchen

from time to time,

then left.

I imagine Junkos

live in the East, as well,

and my granddaughters

could see them some day

in Baltimore.

I could look it up

before I tell them

in the green bird book

my friend John loaned me,

mostly forever, because

I love birds.

I could show the girls

the color plates of birds--

a multitude of them--

which I sometimes just

look at without reading the names.

But I don't think I'll research Junkos

before I see the girls.

I'd rather just wonder if I'll

ever see one here, in the East,

or if they live only on the Pacific

side of this wide land.

I like to wonder about stuff like that--

even stuff I could Google and know.

So I'll just tell them how much

I loved watching the Junkos

and leave it at that.

Let them wonder about the birds.

It's always good, I believe,

to wonder about things.

I pray those little girls,

wondering-machines,

will never stop wondering.

That is what I pray.

JGB 7/11/11

Humility

I wanted to talk about humility (which is in short supply these days--especially in the White House) on Sunday because it was the third week of Jesus talking about being the 'bread of life' and I was out of stuff to say about that.

So, essentially, I told this story to show how I found a modicum of humility early in my priesthood.

Father Dodge and Hot Stuff

When I arrived at St. James, the congregation was being served by Fr. Bill Dodge, a retired school teacher who was a Title Nine priest.  Canon Nine is a strange little piece of Canon Law also known as “the old man’s canon”—though to be politically correct it should now be known as “the old wo/man’s canon”. (If it’s not “ageism” to call people “old” these days….)  Episcopal Church law is more strict about ordination than most any denomination; however, Title Nine is an “out”, a way around the rules for those late in life who feel called to priesthood.  If the Church determines the call is legitimate, the candidate is allowed to study privately, usually with a near-by priest or group of priests and be tested after the term of study is met. (It is no longer a Canon, by the way.)

That’s what Fr. Dodge had done.  He’d become a priest through the back door.  When I was newly ordained, after four years of theological study and two (count ‘em—two) Master level degrees, I had little patience with Title Nine priests and even less with Fr. Dodge.  He was in his 70’s and, to my exalted standards, not up to snuff.  But I was going to be a deacon for a year and needed somebody to help me liturgically.  Deacon’s Masses, which are weird both theologically and as liturgy, would serve from time to time, but the congregation deserved a “real “ Mass monthly or so and Fr. Dodge was the best I could find.  Plus, for reasons beyond my comprehension, the parishioners seemed to have a deep affection for him and were always happy to see him.  It wouldn’t have been astute of me to get rid of the old codger since I needed him and the parish wouldn’t like it. 

(It’s embarrassing and humbling to listen to myself talk like that!  I thought of myself as such “hot stuff” in those days!  I was God’s gift to St. James Church and worldwide Anglicanism as well.  At least that’s what I thought.   The truth is, looking back, I was brash, arrogant and unkind almost all the time.  Hot Stuff, indeed!)

In addition, I considered myself a liturgical genius---the be all and end all when it came to ritual and celebration.  In fact, I’d spent four years at Harvard and Virginia Seminary, neither of which has any claim to teaching liturgical practice.  Liturgy at Harvard had been mostly of the “feel-good”, lots of balloons and readings from Kahil Gibran.  Worship at HDS began with Unitarian politeness and didn’t go much further or deeper.  In fact, any resemblance to Christian, much less Anglican worship was totally accidental.  A typical chapel service would include—in no particular order—readings from the Koran or Hindu scripture, a little jazz played by my friend Dan Kiger or other musical students, some silent meditation and the singing of some of the hymns of Hildegard of Bingham.  The Archbishop of Canterbury would have been horrified!  The closest thing to a Eucharist I remember was when Rabbi Katinstein brought some Passover bread and Harvey Cox  talked about the religious symbolism of sharing food and we all went up and took a piece for ourselves.  I loved it, felt I was in the forefront of liturgical renewal.

Virginia Seminary was, when I was there, a “Low Church” seminary.  That meant that worship was restrained, proper and in good order.  That  (“restrained, proper and in good order”) meant that no Popish nonsense would be allowed to infect the purity of Protestant worship.  One of the lame jokes we often told was this:  “You know what streaking means at VTS?  Running through the chapel in full Eucharistic vestments!”  There was a lot of controversy at the seminary when I was there because altar candles had been added to the “communion table”.  Candles made some of the faculty nervous.  You shouldn’t open the door to “catholic” practice---first come candles and then (gasp!) incense and the adoration of the blessed sacrament!

Once, during my senior year, some of the students from more High Church dioceses organized a “high mass” with chanting, bowing, genuflecting, incense and much crossing of oneself.  I was fascinated.  I’d never seen such a thing.  My old nemesis, Reginald Fuller, was the celebrant.  He was “streaking” around the chancel in his vestments, censing the altar, chanting in his Oxbridge accent, genuflecting like one of those little yellow birds that keep dipping into a bowl of water.  Several of the faculty walked out in a huff at such going’s-on.  There was serious discussion over sherry about suspending the student planned Wednesday services.

That one service was all I knew about Anglo-Catholic worship when I arrived at St. James.  Fr. Dodge, I have to admit, seemed to know when to cross himself and genuflect (which I couldn’t do without nearly falling on my face).  St. James, like most African American parishes, had been founded in a rich High Church tradition that disappeared when the first white priest came to be their Vicar.  So, one good reason for keeping Fr. Dodge around was so I could figure out how to celebrate in a way that was Anglo-Catholic in a mirror dimly.  So, those times I’d let him come and celebrate I’d watch him out of the corner of my eye to try to find a pattern to his movements.

However, Fr. Dodge didn’t seem to follow any discernable pattern.  I came to believe that if he ever knew what he was doing, he’d forgotten how and was crossing himself at random places in the service.  Even though I didn’t know how to celebrate a real mass, I resented him for not knowing!  And that wasn’t the end of my complaints about him.  His hands shook when he elevated the host and chalice, sometimes spilling wine on the fair linen.  He’d lose his place and I’d have to prompt him with a stage whisper several times during the service.  He mispronounced words all the time.  Several times, rather than “in your infinite love” he said “in your INFANT love”!  I mean really, how much could the good folks at St. James and I stand of this sloppiness?

And the one time I let him preach—horrors!  He read his sermon haltingly at best, mixing words up and shaking to beat the band.  Besides that, if he’d had any kind of decent delivery at all, his theology was more Pilgrim Holiness than Anglican.  He talked about Jesus as if he were a good guy from down the street, someone who would teach you a lot and lead you to heaven when you die.  Obviously, he’d never studied homiletics—or much of anything else so far as I could tell.  I was embarrassed for him, but more than that, I was embarrassed that I needed him.

So the day of my ordination finally came.  I invited Fr. Dodge to be in the service out of guilt over what I planned to do.  He was so excited about being near the altar with the Bishop and the two dozen other priests.  He told me afterwards that it was one of the greatest days of his life and that he was so proud to work with me.

The next week I fired him.

Well, it wasn’t really a “firing”.  I drove up to his house high up on a hill about 20 miles from Charleston and talked to him on his front porch.  I explained how now that I was a priest I really didn’t need for him to drive all that way twice a month.  I told him he needed to take it easier at his age.  I reminded him that there were two churches much closer to his home that would probably be overjoyed to have his help.  I thanked him for all he’d done and told him that I really didn’t need any coffee and that I’d had lunch already.  “No,” I said, “I really don’t have time for a piece of pecan pie.”

He said he understood.  He told me how much he’d enjoyed working with me and how much he’d learned from me.  “You’re going to be a wonderful priest,” he said.

I thanked him and slinked away to my car.  By the time I got back to Charleston, what few qualms I’d had about what I’d done were melted away.  I was a priest—a wonderful one at that—and I was finally free of Fr. Dodge.  Things would really get rolling now at St. James.  It would be like releasing the emergency brake that had held me back while I was a deacon.

A month or so later, Remitha came to see me.  Made an appointment and everything instead of just dropping in like usual.  We even sat in my office and did small talk—something Remitha never did and wasn’t good at.  Finally, she cleared her voice and began….

“I wanted to come and find out if anything was wrong with Fr. Dodge,” she said.  “I notice he hasn’t been here since your ordination.”

I started explaining how since I was a priest now I didn’t need him as much.  “And,” I lied, “at his age, he and his wife felt it was a long way for him to drive….”

She held up her hand and got up.  “That’s fine,” she said, “just as long as he isn’t sick again….”

She was half way to the door when I caught my breath and said, “Again?”

She spoke with her back to me.  “Well, his first stoke wasn’t too bad….”

“First stroke….” Is all I could get out.

“But the second one laid him up for months,” she said.  Then facing me she continued in a soft voice, “but you know, since we didn’t have a priest, he got his wife to drive him down and he did the service sitting on a stool.  He couldn’t give us communion, of course, but Morris and Ben did that for him….And when the service was over two of the younger men would carry him down to his wheelchair and…..”

I didn’t hear much more.  I wished she’d stop talking or I’d be struck deaf and dumb or the floor would open up and I could crawl inside.

“You know what I admire most about Fr. Dodge?” she was asking when I tuned back in.

I shook my head and tried to speak.  I think I was struck dumb.

“How he was willing to continue his ministry even though that wonderful reading voice he had and the regal way he held himself at the altar was taken away from him.”

“He had a good voice…?”  I croaked.

“Sometimes he’d sing a solo for us,” she said, killing me with her matter-or-fact tone.  “And I wish you could have heard him read the service,” she continued, consigning me with her smile to one of the lowest circles of hell.  “Before the strokes he was one of the best speakers I ever heard.  He gave up a career in radio to be a schoolteacher.  Did he ever tell you that?”

I found that I was sitting back down though I didn’t remember doing it.  “No,” I said, softly, “he never did.”

“Well,” she said, backing toward the door, “just shows what a humble man he was.  Humility makes a man a wonderful priest….”

Then she was gone and I was left alone to consider humility.

(One of the things that happened at VTS on a regular basis was “Bridge before Lunch”.  There were half-a-dozen or so card tables and while whoever was assigned to help set up lunch was doing their job, bridge would break out.  My partner most of the time was Rodge Wood.  I was a novice at bridge but Rodge was a master.  He’d played in tournaments before coming to seminary.  As inept as I was, Rodge carried me.  We were a good team, so good that none of our classmates would play with us but the underclassmen could be duped into a game.

They’d see us at a table and come over and ask if we’d like a game.  Usually, since no one wants to be in over their heads, they’d say, “are you any good?”  Rodge would answer for us both.  “Jim’s bad and I’m OK.”  Then we’d embarrass them for a few hands.

Once, over lunch, I asked Rodge why he didn’t tell other people the truth about his playing.

Rodge quoted scripture:  “He who humbles himself will be exalted,” he said.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s what the passage means.)

“Humility” has the same root as “humus”, dirt, earth.  True humility isn’t about demeaning yourself or pretending to be less than you are.  True humility is realizing, beyond any doubt, who you are and where you come from.  “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Being humble means being close to the earth from which we all come.  A friend of mine often says she “doesn’t trust anyone who hasn’t had their face of the pavement.”  What she means, I believe, is that once you’ve hit bottom you realize that whatever you accomplish or however far you rise the earth is patiently waiting for you.  The bigger part of humility is perspective and point of view.

Things look rather distorted when you’re a Hot Shot.  It’s like flying in a plane and thinking about how everything down on earth looks small and toy-like.  Things may look that way from up high, but you best not forget that they aren’t really small—it’s just your perspective and point of view.

While Remitha talked to me about Fr. Dodge, knowing all the while what infamy I had committed, what a rat I had been, my face had descended from “on high” to the grit and grime of the pavement.  The ground, the earth, the humus had swallowed me up.  It was a blessed gift, one I’d need to receive countless times again.

I called Fr. Dodge and drove out to his house.  I told him that I had been wrong.  I told him that I wanted him to come back, twice a month, to celebrate and preach once each month.  I told him I realized that I didn’t want to do it all by myself.  I told him I was sorry and asked him to please consider coming back.

He was as gracious as before, only this time I hadn’t had lunch and we ate tuna-fish sandwiches on homemade bread, washed it down with sweet ice tea and each had two pieces of Mrs. Dodge’s pecan pie.

For a year or so after that, I sat at his figurative liturgical knee.  I came to delight in his mispronunciations—“infant love” might work better than “infinite love” when all is said and done.  It became a pleasure to prompt him or merely point to the altar book in the right place.  I finally started “lining” out the service when he celebrated by pointing to each line as he read.  (In fact, I train the seminarians who work with me these day to do that for me!)  And, for the first time, I noticed how he was with the parishioners of St. James.  He never pretended to remember names when he didn’t.  He listened to them intently and didn’t say much in return.  He smiled almost constantly and the slight crookedness of his smile from the strokes came to be dear to me.  I never bought his simplistic theology, but I did learn that if we can’t talk about heaven we most likely will never be able to imagine it…or go there….

Then he died, suddenly and in his sleep.  It was my honor to commit his ashes to the ground.  I drove up to his house on the hill and scattered them in the garden he loved to work in, among his flowers and bushes.  Mrs. Dodge told me how much “Billy” had enjoyed working with me and being at St. James.

“He told me many times that you were a wonderful priest,” she said, brushing away a tear.

“Takes one to know one,” I told her and she beamed.

“That makes him happy,” she said, “I just know it does.”

We left Fr. Dodge in the garden (and in the heaven he so clearly imagined) while we went inside to tell stories, laugh and cry and eat some pecan pie.