Check out new blog!

42 days until I begin my seminary classes and life starts to change around here! I've got a new blog up and running to track the journey at:

onewomaninseminary.blogspot.com

I hope you'll visit and post on the new blog--and please be aware that posting on this blog will be infrequent. But frequent enough to keep you posted on what's going on in our lives.

Cheers!

(There's a fun "women of the Bible" poll on the new blog, and we could use your vote. Please?)

My new bike and The Gift of the Magi

You have heard this tale by O. Henry (aka William Sydney Porter), right? Where a poor couple, Della and Jim, give sacrificially to each other. They have no money, and it is Christmastime. So she cuts off her long, beautiful hair, to buy a platinum fob chain for Jim's family watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy her beautiful tortoise-shell combs she has long admired. 

Tripping over each other, they present their gifts, their hearts overflowing with love. And, of course, the gifts they sacrificed for seem practically useless then--yet they cement and grow their love. All of this being compared to the gifts of the magi who came to worship Christ.

full story here

And so my own magi story has unfolded over the last 3 months. My husband, David, had two nice bikes of his own--one he used on bike trips, the other a mountain bike he used for everything else. I had no bike of my own, and so we started thinking about purchasing one. Except that David was laid off, and even though we made two trips to the bike store, we didn't want to dip into our savings to purchase a bike. I drooled over a Trek and a Globe model, to be exact, but tried to make peace with the fact that there was not going to be a bike in my near future.

Over the last few months, I also suggested a few money-saving ideas to my husband. Why not cancel the Y membership for the summer and downgrade the cable to basic. He agreed, and so I have been walking outdoors. He rode his bike, but he also took walks with his wife. And so the summer unfolded.

Except that last week, one week before David headed back to work, he said that he was thinking about selling the Bianchi road bike. "Are you sure, honey?" I said. "What if you decide you want to start making road trips again." And he said, "No, I don't see that happening. I'm ready to get rid of the bike."

And what I didn't realize at the time was that David figured by selling his road bike he could purchase me a new comfort bike. And that is exactly what he did. Last night, before we left for prayer meeting at church, he informed me that he wanted to stop by the bike shop to purchase a bike for me, before church.

I literally yelled "yippee!" and jumped a few inches into the air. He was rewarded with a kiss.

And we were off to the bike shop. As he drove my new champagne-colored Globe Carmel out to the car, I smiled from ear to ear. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. And all I wanted was open road and my new comfort bike--a gentle ride for my 36-year-old rear.

When prayer meeting was over, I started to push the husband toward the door. Let's go home and take a ride. Although the sun was close to setting, we pulled out our bikes, raced around the park trail, in rhythm to the live music there, then circling a small pond. And finally, home.

There is a wonderful feeling of joy and contentment in riding through the neighborhoods with my husband on this new bike. A bike he planned for and sacrificed for. A gift he gave willingly, wanting to share this activity with me.

Instant gratification is overrated, my friends. It's the gifts of thoughtfulness and heart that get me every time. Long live the story of The Gift of the Magi, and may all of us experience the joy of giving through sacrifice.

The O. Henry story ends with the author/narrator comparing the pair's mutually sacrificial gifts of love with those of the Biblical Magi:

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 5

I have to tell you the udder truth. 

I once stepped outside after an evening church service and found myself staring into the eyes of a large heifer. And she was chewing her cud. I'm sorry if you don't believe me, but sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Needless to say, I almost screamed, but soon realized she had simply escaped from the farm next door and was surprisingly harmless. 

When my dad took the call to a country church just before I turned 13, everything changed for us. We moved from a small town to a country church and parsonage--which, though separated by a few miles--were both, quite literally, surrounded by farms and fields. I also had the eerie privilege of walking out of the front of the church on another occasion after nightfall; looking up, I saw an owl perched on the building's small spire.

Anyhoo, when my dad became a country preacher it made for some interesting predicaments. There was the obvious: the parsonage was downwind from cows and pigs, and if the wind started blowing in the wrong direction, things got smelly quick. We lived on the corner of a dirt road and a highway, where every parishioner who passed could keep a good eye on us.

Especially some of the most faithful members of the church. It was Oren and Beulah who first welcomed us into their home and offered us their love and friendship. Hearty and warm, they farmed their fields until Oren was into his 80s. In fact, dear Oren only recently passed away when he was well into his 90s. They were the kind of folks who you instantly claimed as grandparent-like figures; it was impossible not to cherish them.

Beulah had grown up in the rundown home across the dirt road where they now lived. And, although the story is a bit fuzzy in my memory, Oren had courted her young. They must have been married for over 70 years. And all along, they knew what was important: faith and service, generosity, family, and working with the land to produce crops. 

Oren's son's family also lived across the highway from us and provided us with many warm memories and years of friendship, too.

But, to tell you the truth, some of the first memories I have of Beulah is that her window gave her a birds-eye view of our activities, from a 1/4 mile down the dirt road. She noticed when the old brown station wagon left our driveway, and many a time, she could tell you when it came home. This might have bothered us if we didn't love her so; but as it was, we realized she cared enough about us to keep tabs on us--and inevitably she needed to know we were home so she could deliver fresh green beans or still-warm baked goods. As you can tell, the arrangement had its advantages!

But we didn't know all of this when we first moved into the country parsonage. We just knew that life had a different rhythm there, and it seemed like people were warmer, friendlier, and more hospitable. There was many a wonderful barn party for the youth group, with bonfires and smores and outdoor games under the stars. 

There was our freezer, filled regularly with 1/2 a cow from a local deacon who also happened to be a dairy farmer.  (I believe he missed Sunday School to get the milking done, before he could get cleaned up enough to slip in for church.) And if you want my opinion, country folks know how to do a potluck better than city folks. Those were grand events, and the cleaning up was just as much fun as the eating. It goes without saying that EVERYTHING was homemade.

There was an earthiness and a graciousness about the ministry of the church. I think people were more grounded, more connected to the land and to animals, and it made a difference in how they carried themselves. No one ever said running a farm isn't stressful; but there is a measure of repose in caring for the elemental things that can't be found in a factory or an office.

The teaching in Sunday School was usually simple and preached with the Bible in hand. Folks seemed to have a better grasp on right and wrong; what pleased God and what didn't. All of the people were imperfect with quirks and ingrained habits and all, but most of them did their best, and I loved them for their honest living.

It was important to my father to be honest and hardworking, too, which led him to insist on mowing his own lawn, which was in full view of the highway. Apparently he became one of them, because I remember the day the call came for the men of the church to go wrassle some escaped cattle. Dad must have done what he could, although if he helped in the end, it was only  because he was good at following directions.

A city preacher turned country preacher. I think the move was good for dad's blood pressure. I know it was good for the little brown church we came to love. And although 20 years have past now, and I'm far removed from that life, I still yearn for both the quietness of the country and the noisiness of the fellowship. 

Summer evenings with the ice cream freezer cranking out treats. Visiting and caring and an abundance of hugs and encouragement. When folks would rather give a hand up than take a handout. I carry these memories still close in my heart--and some of my best dreams bring back the smells, and the smiles, and the sunny nature of that old country church. Cows and all.

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 4

The good book says you will reap what you sow. Perhaps that explains why so many who crossed our path gave generously to us, without expecting anything in return. I can't count the number of times an unexpected check appeared in the mailbox, a Christmas fruitcake appeared on the doorstep, or a half of a cow made its way to our chest freezer. We were far from rich, but I never remember going without.

One of my first memories of this generosity materialized each Christmas on the porch of our light green parsonage. Throughout the year, Mr. Loomis, a faithful man from our church, delivered our Borden milk in a tin box on said porch. (Yes, I am that old.) He delivered our dairy each week like clockwork, which was equally true around the holidays. Except that the Christmas season brought the gift of eggnog and perhaps sour cream, maybe even some buttermilk and ice cream? Dad taught us to appreciate the fine taste of the eggnog at a young age, always with nutmeg gently sprinkled on top.  

Later, at our country church, a new seasonal gift emerged: the local funeral parlor delivered a box of pickles each Christmas, including several strange varieties. We always opened the box with our eyes wide, wondering at the kind of person who would send so many unusual pickles. Truly, that was one of the gifts that kept on giving. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the canned jars were yet unopened when the next Christmas suddenly arrived--and a new batch of pickled cucumbers appeared on our doorstep. I give the funeral director high marks for memorability.

Along the way, as we three girls grew up, we saw doctors and dentists who sometimes charged us a reduced fee, and on occasion, no fee at all. The dairy farmer from the country church filled our freezer with beef, including steaks, on a regular basis. And I remember most of us soundly rejecting the liver that was waiting in the freezer. In fact, I only remember eating liver once--I didn't understand why we had to eat it at the time, but I realize now it may  have been all we had at the time. No matter how little we had, we never went hungry.

In addition to all the gifts of food, my parents received money each Christmas from dear friends and from an offering collected by church members. It allowed us to receive presents and enjoy special meals and traditions we might have gone without otherwise. 

With all the generosity coming our way, I remember my parents being equally generous. We frequently had people over for dinner, mom baked cinnamon rolls and bread that were distributed around the neighborhood, and my parents regularly gave their tithe to the church and to other people or projects, no matter how little they had to begin with. 

We learned that not only does God love a cheerful giver--but that said giving brings joy back to the giver a hundredfold. It really is better to give than receive. Although receiving has its place, and allows both the giver and recipient to benefit. 

Fast forward to my freshmen year in college, when I was desperately in need of a winter coat, but didn't have extra cash to buy one. An anonymous card with money in it found its way to my dorm room, and I swallowed my pride and thanked God for this provision. I'm not sure how someone knew I needed that coat--maybe they didn't. It doesn't really matter--what mattered is that God provided the clothing I needed when I needed it.

Pickles and ice cream, steaks and fruitcake, cash and the absence of a doctor bill. Proof positive that God was watching out for us. Somehow the needs we had were often met just in time. "That was a close call," we could say. But that's not how we rolled. I remember bowing our heads around the dinner table and saying "Thank you, Lord. Thank you for meeting all of our needs, just like you promised."

It's a true gift to be forced to depend on God for basic needs and provisions. This preacher's kid wouldn't trade that opportunity for the world. 

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 3

Imagination. Make-believe. Adventure.

I don't know about the rest of you, but this preacher's kid had plenty of each. My two sisters and I played school, house and church, of course. But what really stretched our make-believe muscles was our association with the senior pastor's three boys. 

We three sisters inhabited the light green parsonage on one side of the brick church building; the three brothers inhabited the yellow parsonage on the flip side. Thankfully, there was a playground in between, a perfect place for brewing up imaginary adventures. And to tell the truth, I think our make-believe had roots in the only TV show all six of us were allowed to watch consistently: Little House on the Prairie. Oddly enough, our imaginings also involved kings, queens, princes and princesses, which were no doubt contrived from the well-loved Chronicles of Narnia book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. (And to think I never realized these coincidences until I started writing this post!)

Anyway, the strange saga we kept returning to was something called The Prairie Family--we lived on the wild frontier, but we played the part of royalty, and somehow this made perfect sense to us. As I was the oldest girl, I was accorded the honor of being "Queen Elizabeth," a name we no doubt nabbed from British royalty. Andy, the oldest, was "King Edward"--the others were princes and princesses. 

Every episode involved a battle, a chase, and a bit of arguing over who got to do what and to save whom. We dodged arrows, hid from warriors, ate imaginary picnics and very possibly slayed the enemy each and every time. All I truly remember for certain is that we were always victorious. There was magic in our make-believe, making us feel as though we were saving the day and conquering the world each time we played. The forces of good and evil were alive and well and good always triumphed in the end.

The story we played out time and again was really a shadow of the truer story we each held in our hearts. In real life, we preachers' kids came to understand that there is light, represented by God, and dark, represented by the devil. That is, there is always a battle going on around us and in us, but if we know God through His Son, we know the final battle will be won. Hands down. Good will save the day. And evil will get what is coming to him. 

We couldn't have verbalized this to you as we slashed and dashed our way through the latest episode of The Prairie family. But our hearts embraced this story. And that is what made our make-believe so thrilling and enchanting.

Three boys, three girls. Inevitably, because each of us were so close in age, there were jokes about all of us marrying one day, which only further advanced our fantasy world. We dreamed of kings and queens marrying, princes and princesses setting up house together while ruling over the world in their spare time.  At very tender ages, we laughed and imagined and wondered at what it meant to be a grownup.

As is wont to happen with a preacher's family, the senior pastor and his wife, known as Pastor Bill and Aunt Gloria to us, felt called to a new church in West Virginia of all places. Being in Michigan, it sounded like it was on the other side of the world to us. And so The Prairie Family disbanded, with fond memories still intact.

I remember our dear friends leaving because my dad arrived at the door of our light green parsonage, and for the first time I can remember, he had tears in his eyes. As the senior pastor moved his family and ministry on, dad felt as though he was losing his best friend. In truth, I think we all cried at least a little.  In those precious years, our families spent countless moments together--I witnessed the death of their dog as we were walking it downtown, we awoke one night to their knock on the door for a medical emergency, and it was Aunt Gloria who prepared me to be a flower girl at a wedding while my mom birthed my youngest sister in the hospital. We shared food and fun, laughter and make-believe.

And, honestly, it was a great comfort to feel normal in the presence of other preachers' kids. All of us have grown up, moved on, and for the most part, lost touch. But it was Pastor Bill who delivered my dad's eulogy at his memorial service two years ago, reflecting on the good times they spent together. And it was Pastor Bill and Aunt Gloria who showed up at my wedding last year, after dad was gone, reminding me of the rich heritage he and mom have given us.

And as for our memories of The Prairie family, we are all older and wiser now, but in my heart the premise holds true. Our stories are not finished--but good will, hands down, overcome evil in the end. And that is the truest story I know. 

Come back for part four...

 

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 2

Normal is only a setting on the dishwasher. Still, every kid thinks her life embodies that word: normal is whatever surrounds oneself, day after day.

For this particular preacher's kid, the norm easily consisted of being at church eight times a week, usually sporting a polyester dress that came down to mid-knee and very possibly white vinyl strappie shoes (given my father's limited preacher's salary). This feat was admittedly made easier by the fact that our old light green parsonage, or our small strawberry patch, to be specific, butted up to the church's cement driveway. And our Christian school took over various portions of the church building Monday through Friday.

No one ever bothered to tell us that we virtually lived in the large brick church building, and for some reason, it never occurred to us. Here are just some of the activities we engaged in at church:

Probably up until age three or so you could find us in one of the nurseries, doing what every child did: sucking on plastic toys, running away from nursery workers, and falling asleep on the floor, graham crackers drooling out of our mouths.

There were a good deal of potlucks in the gym/multipurpose room, and it was there that we learned to appreciate fried chicken, the unidentified contents of fluffy jello whatchamacalit, and weak kool-aid. And it only took us a few years to discover the first rule of said smorgasboards: grab your dessert while you can, on your first pass through, or you might find yourself gazing longingly at leftover brownie crumbs.

AWANA, or the Wednesday night kids' program, had us running circles and relays in the gymnasium, reciting Scripture verses till we were blue in the face in the basement, and receiving coveted trophies with little people on them in the auditorium.

We listened to missionaries who came from places as far away as Japan and Australia and Africa, and thrilled to experience their slide shows, staring, fascinated at people who looked nothing like us or anyone we knew personally. They were colorful and full of adventure, and as far as I can remember, they all ended about the same: "The fields are white unto harvest, God is calling forth laborers, will you say: here am I, Lord? Send me?" All of this was perfectly biblical, of course, according to The Great Commission in Matthew 28 to go into all the world. (But we Baptists weren't quite so good at reaching out to those different from us in our own country. Apparently we hadn't yet found chapter and verse.)

Still, sometimes these "strange" people wandered into our lives through no fault of our own. One of them was a homeless fellow who must have come to the church building and elicited my father's compassion. I'm sure this was not an unusual occurrence, as people always need help and my father's heart was tender and generous. The spotty memories I have of this event are this: the man sat at our oval table, rough-and-tumble but trying to remember his manners, and eating cooked corn. I'm sure there was also meat on the table, but I can't picture it. I just seem to remember he was grateful and that observing his situation somehow made us more grateful for what we had.

And though I can't be sure this part is true, which means it could be just a dream, I recall sitting in the back of our brown Oldsmobile, with the man on one side, and me and my sister scooching as far as possible to the opposing side. I am not sure where he was headed or why we were transporting him.

Probably sometime after this event, I dressed as a hobo for halloween, which at the time seemed perfectly acceptable but makes me cringe now. Today I wonder if I didn't think that being a homeless wanderer was somewhat exotic and adventurous. At the very least, it was still foreign and mysterious to me.

And that is but a small part of the tale of my two childhood homes. The light green parsonage filled with frequent visitors, decadent June strawberries and mother's freshly baked bread, and warm memories. Parallel to the light brick church building, of course, with a smattering of stained glass, perpetual potlucks, and countless admonitions to go ye into all the world (King James Version, of course).

Nothing could seem more normal to a preacher's kid. Stranger yet, after years of my father receiving odd middle-of-the-night calls and the occasional charge to find a missing child or a herd of lost cattle, almost nothing would surprise me.

Stay tuned for part three...

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 1

Each Sunday morning, come 11 am, you could find our whole family camped out in row two, opposite the gospel side, listening to the prelude and smiling at the preacher sitting up on the platform.

We were parked there, I think, mainly because my mother, armed with her stylish tortoise shell glasses, usually played the great brown organ located approximately six steps away from our pew. It's also possible that my dad, the assistant pastor who usually gave the announcements--those things he eventually renamed "opportunities"--wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible when ascending and descending off that stage. Then there's the best reason of all for making three Baptist pastor's daughters sit in the second row: there was little chance they would get distracted and a much greater probability they would sit still during the sermon. 

But if you visited our church one Sunday morning, you probably wouldn't even notice us sitting up there, not at first. Although the rest of the Baptist congregation preferred to be seated about halfway back, where the fire of the sermon would not leave them scorched, where they could be comfortable, while still moving forward in the process of sanctification. 

Here is the reason you wouldn't see us, and you have to trust me on this.

The carpet in this grand auditorium with its lofty ceiling and nifty drop down lighting, was gold. The pews? Vibrant purple and brilliant red. A fact we children did notice and comment upon early on, at which time we were told: "The decorations in this sanctuary were selected to mirror some of the elements of the tabernacle of the Lord." And that was sufficient for us, really. Soon they appeared absolutely normal, even mundane. (Though I would be curious to know what the casual visitor thought of the decor.) We were just grateful, I think, that they were padded. That's all that mattered to our backsides during the hour and a half service.

The bulletins announcing the order of service were a very blase tan with a brown drawing of the church building itself on the cover. "First Baptist Church," it read. And honestly I can't remember the slogan that accompanied it. The only thing that bulletin was good for was telling me that "A Mighty Fortress" was the next hymn and on which page in the book it was located. I sucked in my breath a little while waiting for the song leader to tell us if we would be singing verses 1, 3, and five. Or just two and four. I followed his conducting, as his arms waved toward the congregation,  and tried to hit every note like I was a professional.

I was only five, I think, when my voice got loud in church. I would sing those hymns with abandon and verve, and I think I got lost in the music every Sunday. Those rich lyrics sunk down into my marrow, and when I sit down to my piano today, I still remember them. Baptists back then never raised their hands in worship that I remember, but they were allowed to raise their voices and their hearts. And many of them did.

As many fundamental Baptist churches were wont to do back in the 70s and early 80s, each service included "special music." It was special because one person or two or three people would rehearse it especially to perform it in church. Except they wouldn't call it a performance. Oh, no. They would say "sister so and so will now minister to us in music," and then whichever pastor announced it would sit behind the woman while she approached the big pulpit, leaning forward toward the microphone, poised to croon her heart out to the congregation.

Many times it would be my father who announced this special music. As he sat down on the platform bench, we would look up at him and try to see what he really thought of this morning's special music by reading the look on his face.

Pastor Dick, as our father was called, would sit there, often in his polyester rust and burnt orange suit, with a pleasant smile on his face. And every few months or so, things really got interesting for us. 

I don't know who she was, except to say that she must have been trained in the operatic style. She seemed to wear blousy clothing to cover her ample frame, and she hit notes most of us could only dream about. Of all the special music performed in that church, I think my dad appreciated that style the least. And so we three girls would glance over at his facial features while the sister ascended into the high notes, with trills and frills. 

My father, to his credit, created a deadpan look that involved his mouth inching up slightly at the corners while his eyes slowly glazed over. I'm not sure if he was also gripping the binding of his dark Bible. But I like to think his inner monologue kept reminding him that special music could only last for about four minutes--five minutes, tops.

Perhaps, as those four minutes stretched on for what seemed like ten or fifteen, my father was daydreaming about the roast, potatoes, and carrots in the oven and how lovely it would be to top them with gravy. Perhaps he was thinking about the possibilities of a new outreach that would bring more people to the church. Perhaps he was asking God for forbearance. 

Whatever the case, special music always comes to an end. And the sermon begins.

Come back for part two...