It's Saturday night. Sermon is about ready for preaching. I've been looking up verses for a Bible study which begins tomorrow. Actually, it's not so much a Bible study as it is a Study of the Christian Faith. We will be studying theology. So I've been thinking about theology this evening, both the basics that I've learned, and the experiences and questions that I've had. I've got the movie "2001: a Space Odyssey" on in the background.
May I say it? I have never understood this movie. I don't remember seeing in the theatre because I was only about 9 or 10 years old when it came out. But I remember my dad and my uncle having a conversation about the movie, and what they thought it meant. It was a theological conversation, that's all I remember. They were talking about things that were beyond me, but I was curious.
My uncle died just after Christmas, so he's been on my mind. I've got "2001" on in the background, and I'm still not sure what it means, and I'm thinking about my uncle, and theology. It's that part at the end of the movie, where the old man becomes a baby, that I think my uncle and my dad were talking about.
It's funny what you remember, on a Saturday night
My uncle was one of the forming influences on my life. I thought he was a smart adult, and I always got the impression that he thought I was smart too, and that made a difference. He was interested in a lot of things, and one of those things was theology. He talked about Bonhoeffer, Niebuhr, Barth. He knew about the historical critical reading of the Bible. He was passionate about grace, I think because he knew he needed it.
So, tomorrow I'll be starting this study of Theology. A lot of people think that theology is boring. I think theology has to do with everything in life. So if you do it right, it can't be boring. Ordinary life and extra-ordinary life, questions and certainties, whoops of joy and sobs of sorrow, everything goes into the theological mix.
I couldn't go to my uncle's funeral this week. I have been thinking about that too.
Tomorrow morning, when we introduce the study of theology, perhaps the music of the movie "2001" will be playing in the background of my mind. And maybe the music of my uncle's life.
And then we'll go to worship, and we'll remember the baptism of Jesus, and dip our fingers in the water, and remember our own baptism too. We'll dip our fingers in the water and maybe we'll remember the other times we dipped our fingers in the water, or how we never learned to swim, or how we were scared of the water or how we loved the feeling of it. We'll dip our fingers in the water and wonder what it means to be children of God.
Tonight I'm thinking about my uncle, and theology, and "2001" and the water. And theology.
It's funny what you think about, on a Saturday night.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Saturday, January 6, 2018
Saturday, June 18, 2016
On the Day Before Father's Day
On the day before Father's Day, I am sitting here looking at old photographs.
I've prepared for worship tomorrow. I have a sermon and a Bible study and some notes in the margins of the bulletin, reminding me of extra things, like the announcement about Vacation Bible School, and the young woman who is going to thank us for helping support her college education.
I've got a few old pictures of my father, too. The one I am looking at now is a picture of my dad and me, when I was a baby. I am just lying there, and my dad is bending over me, with his trademark curl hanging over the front of his face. We are making faces at each other.
I love this picture, for so many reasons. I love it because it captures my dad's sense of delight. He did like to make faces, not just at me, and he liked to tell stories, and he liked to talk in different funny accents. He was the Jewish grandmother, and the Swedish grandmother (he seemed to have a lot of grandmother voices), and he was all of the voices he remembered from the old radio programs in the 30s.
I love this picture because we are looking at each other, too. I'm just a baby; maybe I haven't even been baptized yet. But I can tell he loves me; he's my dad, and he thinks I'm all right. We're a Scandinavian family, and I am sorry to say that we haven't always been that demonstrative. But I can see his love in this picture.
I also love this picture because I think my dad is handsome. I am not sure other people can see it in this picture. But I can. I have a few other old pictures that I love as well. There is a picture of my dad standing in his TV and Radio Repair shop, with a whole bunch of radios behind him. It's a color picture, and I believe it was taken before I was born. When I looked at that picture, I think, "My dad was a looker."
I am preparing for worship tomorrow, and it seems like it is going to be a busy day. It's Father's Day, and It is also Juneteenth, the day that the news of emancipation got to Texas. There will be a special offering, and I really hope that we have a big turnout for our cross generational Vacation Bible School evenings. And I am preaching on Galatians, what it means to be children of God.
Children of God.
There are so many things I want to say. There are so many things I want to say, about justice, and the worth of all people.
But really, if you want to know, what I want people to know, every single day, is captured in that picture of me and my dad: This is how the Father loves you. With delight and abandon, not counting the cost, the Father looks at you, whoever you are, and says You Are All Right.
That's all I want everyone to know.
Every single day. Every single minute.
I've prepared for worship tomorrow. I have a sermon and a Bible study and some notes in the margins of the bulletin, reminding me of extra things, like the announcement about Vacation Bible School, and the young woman who is going to thank us for helping support her college education.
I've got a few old pictures of my father, too. The one I am looking at now is a picture of my dad and me, when I was a baby. I am just lying there, and my dad is bending over me, with his trademark curl hanging over the front of his face. We are making faces at each other.
I love this picture, for so many reasons. I love it because it captures my dad's sense of delight. He did like to make faces, not just at me, and he liked to tell stories, and he liked to talk in different funny accents. He was the Jewish grandmother, and the Swedish grandmother (he seemed to have a lot of grandmother voices), and he was all of the voices he remembered from the old radio programs in the 30s.
I love this picture because we are looking at each other, too. I'm just a baby; maybe I haven't even been baptized yet. But I can tell he loves me; he's my dad, and he thinks I'm all right. We're a Scandinavian family, and I am sorry to say that we haven't always been that demonstrative. But I can see his love in this picture.
I also love this picture because I think my dad is handsome. I am not sure other people can see it in this picture. But I can. I have a few other old pictures that I love as well. There is a picture of my dad standing in his TV and Radio Repair shop, with a whole bunch of radios behind him. It's a color picture, and I believe it was taken before I was born. When I looked at that picture, I think, "My dad was a looker." I am preparing for worship tomorrow, and it seems like it is going to be a busy day. It's Father's Day, and It is also Juneteenth, the day that the news of emancipation got to Texas. There will be a special offering, and I really hope that we have a big turnout for our cross generational Vacation Bible School evenings. And I am preaching on Galatians, what it means to be children of God.
Children of God.
There are so many things I want to say. There are so many things I want to say, about justice, and the worth of all people.
But really, if you want to know, what I want people to know, every single day, is captured in that picture of me and my dad: This is how the Father loves you. With delight and abandon, not counting the cost, the Father looks at you, whoever you are, and says You Are All Right.
That's all I want everyone to know.
Every single day. Every single minute.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Stuff
These last few days packing and moving has been a part of my work. I have been sorting and packing books and cards and papers, deciding what to toss and what to save, trying to put things in boxes in at least a semi-organized manner.
Sometimes I stop to look, to read, to remember. I stop before packing a book that I bought, but haven't read, and I think, "Maybe I will read it now." I stop to look at a random photograph, a picture taken after a baptism, or during Vacation Bible School one year. I stop in the middle of sorting a box of cards, to read a thank you note from a child: "Thank you for helping me cut my pancakes." I remember then, the "lunch with a pastor" rewards given to students for Sunday School attendance.
I have a lot of stuff.
I have a lot of children's books, I observe. I did not get these in seminary. I decide I am going to keep all of these, though they are heavy. I also have most all of my seminary books still, and my notes. have sermons. I have lesson plans. I have knick-knacks too. What should I keep?
This is what happens in life. You accumulate. At least I do. Some you accumulate on purpose, and some by accident, just because it goes into a corner and you don't think of it again for a long time. And then, someday, you move and you consider the weight of all of that stuff. What it means. What it costs. The memories held in the middle of the stuff. There are different kinds of weights.
One piece of advice I got with regard to leaving my congregation: Attend to the relationships. Make time for people. I think it is good advice. But there is a hard deadline to be out of the office.
I would much rather be visiting people, talking to them on the phone, having coffee, than sorting stuff in my office. I would much rather spend all of my time with people than with stuff, except for the time when I see some old confirmation student doodling and memories flood back in.
I wonder if, in the next leg of the journey, I can somehow design my life so that I can spend more time with people than with stuff. I would like moving to be easier, to be able to pick out and pick up the most important stuff, even to know what it is, and then to spend more time with people, with the people I will leave, with the people I want to remember.
Sometimes I stop to look, to read, to remember. I stop before packing a book that I bought, but haven't read, and I think, "Maybe I will read it now." I stop to look at a random photograph, a picture taken after a baptism, or during Vacation Bible School one year. I stop in the middle of sorting a box of cards, to read a thank you note from a child: "Thank you for helping me cut my pancakes." I remember then, the "lunch with a pastor" rewards given to students for Sunday School attendance.
I have a lot of stuff.
I have a lot of children's books, I observe. I did not get these in seminary. I decide I am going to keep all of these, though they are heavy. I also have most all of my seminary books still, and my notes. have sermons. I have lesson plans. I have knick-knacks too. What should I keep?
This is what happens in life. You accumulate. At least I do. Some you accumulate on purpose, and some by accident, just because it goes into a corner and you don't think of it again for a long time. And then, someday, you move and you consider the weight of all of that stuff. What it means. What it costs. The memories held in the middle of the stuff. There are different kinds of weights.
One piece of advice I got with regard to leaving my congregation: Attend to the relationships. Make time for people. I think it is good advice. But there is a hard deadline to be out of the office.
I would much rather be visiting people, talking to them on the phone, having coffee, than sorting stuff in my office. I would much rather spend all of my time with people than with stuff, except for the time when I see some old confirmation student doodling and memories flood back in.
I wonder if, in the next leg of the journey, I can somehow design my life so that I can spend more time with people than with stuff. I would like moving to be easier, to be able to pick out and pick up the most important stuff, even to know what it is, and then to spend more time with people, with the people I will leave, with the people I want to remember.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
The Scenic Route
It seems like a long time ago now, but it was really only two or three weeks ago, on a Friday. I had just gotten back from an overnight trip to another congregation in another state, where I met a lot of people and had conversations and ate dinner. On Sunday morning, they would decide whether they wanted to call me as their pastor.
But that Friday morning, after traveling south and meeting the people and coming home again, I officiated at the memorial service for the son of a member of my congregation. I didn't know his son well; he had lived in another state. But I had known this man and his wife for many years. They were old friends of my parents. I used to bring his wife communion. She had died two years earlier.
After the memorial service, and after the luncheon, a few members of the family drove up to the cemetery, on the north end of town. It is the same cemetery where my Swedish grandparents are buried, although I haven't been out there in many years. I rode with the father of the man who died and his daughter. It was a beautiful afternoon.
After the committal service, we walked around the cemetery a little bit. The family got me a map, so that I could come back and find my grandparents' graves, if I wanted to. We walked around and talked about who was buried next to whom.
Then we got back in the car and headed home.
The daughter said to her father, "How should we get home, dad? Which way should we go?" She had lived away for many years, and genuinely needed directions. Her father, sitting in the back seat, told her she should turn right instead of left. He wanted to avoid the highway.
He's legally blind, but he's lived in this community all of his life, and he remembered exactly which roads to take. He gave us directions all the way home, around familiar parkways and through some of the beautiful city parks. "Just keep going," he said, whenever his daughter asked a question.
We began to drive around some of my city's chain of lakes. I hadn't driven by Cedar Lake since I was a child, when my parents would take us swimming there. But there we were, and after that we drove around Lake of the Isles too. We came to Lake Calhoun, and another of the beaches where I used to swim, as a child. I took my first swimming lessons at one of those beaches. I got an ear infection afterwards, too. But I learned to float, so there's that.
I thought to myself that this was just the right thing to be doing this afternoon: taking the scenic route, after the funeral. I couldn't tell them that in a couple of months I might be moving away from the lakes and rivers and parks that had been my home for so many years. I couldn't tell them that this just seemed like the right way to spend the afternoon.
I couldn't tell them why it was such a gift, taking the scenic route.
I have always thought that I was formed, at least in part, by this particular geography -- the city lakes. I have been formed by the water, this particular water. There's a great river that runs through my city, but when I lived in Japan, I didn't particularly miss the Mississippi River. I missed the lakes.
So we took the scenic route that day. Because I wasn't driving, I could take time to notice things I never noticed, and to remember. I could remember the earache and what it was like to learn to float. I could remember picnics on the beach, and walks around the lake, and the time (when I was a young woman) that a single dad sent his two young daughters over to where I was sunbathing to ask me out (so long ago that was).
Most of the time, I confess, I do not take the scenic route. I am anxious to get where I am going, and I am afraid that I will be late. But every once in awhile, even during these past two weeks, I will take a small detour, and pay attention, and remember. I will look at a picture, or some words on a page. I will hear a few notes of music, or hold a construction paper heart in my hand, and for a moment, I will allow myself to float. I will take the scenic route.
But that Friday morning, after traveling south and meeting the people and coming home again, I officiated at the memorial service for the son of a member of my congregation. I didn't know his son well; he had lived in another state. But I had known this man and his wife for many years. They were old friends of my parents. I used to bring his wife communion. She had died two years earlier.
After the memorial service, and after the luncheon, a few members of the family drove up to the cemetery, on the north end of town. It is the same cemetery where my Swedish grandparents are buried, although I haven't been out there in many years. I rode with the father of the man who died and his daughter. It was a beautiful afternoon.
After the committal service, we walked around the cemetery a little bit. The family got me a map, so that I could come back and find my grandparents' graves, if I wanted to. We walked around and talked about who was buried next to whom.
Then we got back in the car and headed home.
The daughter said to her father, "How should we get home, dad? Which way should we go?" She had lived away for many years, and genuinely needed directions. Her father, sitting in the back seat, told her she should turn right instead of left. He wanted to avoid the highway.
He's legally blind, but he's lived in this community all of his life, and he remembered exactly which roads to take. He gave us directions all the way home, around familiar parkways and through some of the beautiful city parks. "Just keep going," he said, whenever his daughter asked a question.
We began to drive around some of my city's chain of lakes. I hadn't driven by Cedar Lake since I was a child, when my parents would take us swimming there. But there we were, and after that we drove around Lake of the Isles too. We came to Lake Calhoun, and another of the beaches where I used to swim, as a child. I took my first swimming lessons at one of those beaches. I got an ear infection afterwards, too. But I learned to float, so there's that.
I thought to myself that this was just the right thing to be doing this afternoon: taking the scenic route, after the funeral. I couldn't tell them that in a couple of months I might be moving away from the lakes and rivers and parks that had been my home for so many years. I couldn't tell them that this just seemed like the right way to spend the afternoon.
I couldn't tell them why it was such a gift, taking the scenic route.
I have always thought that I was formed, at least in part, by this particular geography -- the city lakes. I have been formed by the water, this particular water. There's a great river that runs through my city, but when I lived in Japan, I didn't particularly miss the Mississippi River. I missed the lakes.
So we took the scenic route that day. Because I wasn't driving, I could take time to notice things I never noticed, and to remember. I could remember the earache and what it was like to learn to float. I could remember picnics on the beach, and walks around the lake, and the time (when I was a young woman) that a single dad sent his two young daughters over to where I was sunbathing to ask me out (so long ago that was).
Most of the time, I confess, I do not take the scenic route. I am anxious to get where I am going, and I am afraid that I will be late. But every once in awhile, even during these past two weeks, I will take a small detour, and pay attention, and remember. I will look at a picture, or some words on a page. I will hear a few notes of music, or hold a construction paper heart in my hand, and for a moment, I will allow myself to float. I will take the scenic route.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Watching Home Movies With My Dad
So, Monday was my dad's 84th birthday. Sunday night my brother and my mom got him out of the nursing home where he lives so that we could have a nice birthday dinner at their home: turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy, corn, salad, and cherry pie for dessert.
My dad thought it was possibly Christmas.
He was pretty good: sometimes, it takes almost the whole visit before he will join the party, and talk. Last Thanksgiving he kept falling asleep until just before we took him back to the nursing home. But Sunday afternoon he got in a few comments. I thought he was going to start telling "Knock Knock" jokes. He didn't, but when my brother and I started imitating the old "Axel" character from past local children's program, he knew right away it was Clellan Card.
After dinner and before the cherry pie, my mom had a special event planned. We were going to watch old home movies. One of our old friends had taken some of our old home movies and put them on a DVD, so that we could watch them again. We hadn't seen those movies for a long time, but I remember sometimes, long ago, that we would have fun putting up the movie screen and pulling out the movie projector and watching a bunch of those 8 millimeter family shows. Most of them were various Christmases, with a few camping experiences thrown in. We used to love to run the Christmas ones backwards, so that we could see everyone re-wrapping up their presents. Simple pleasures, you know.
So there we were, all sitting together in the little family room, my dad in his wheelchair, right in the middle of all of us. One of the unique features of this DVD is that there is background music, and you can choose which sound track you'd like: classical, country, or folk. Another unique feature of the DVD is that the movies are arranged in no particular order. So one moment we might all be visiting the farm and it's before my parents were even married, and the next moment, all three of us kids are sitting under a tinsel-laden Christmas tree, and then the next moment it is another Christmas, but I'm the only one around, and I'm a baby (I'm the oldest.)
So we're watching all these little episodes, all out of order, and shouting out to one another and to my Dad, "Look! There's uncle Dick! There's Norma!" I still remember the first time my brother appeared on the screen, shaking my dad's arm and saying, "There's your son! That's David."
The one thing my mom kept saying: "You took these pictures. Do you remember?"
My dad isn't in any of the movies. He was taking them all.
From a professional standpoint, my dad was not an excellent filmmaker. He tended to cut off people's heads, for one thing. We were teasing him about that. He didn't have a great instinct for "the scene", but he loved us and he wanted to record a bit of our lives.
For us, we just wanted to say, "thank you." Thank you for not being in the movies, but taking the movies. Thank you for recording our lives, in little bits and episodes. In the movies, I can see through my dad's eyes, just a little, and I see how much he loved my mom, how much he loved us, even though he wasn't the type to say it much.
It's funny how much those few seconds of videotape can say -- how a few seconds of me chasing a kitten, or my little brother trying to blow out his first birthday candle, or his uncle hoisting all of us kids up in the air (except me, I was scared) brought back a flood of other memories and pictures. And my father isn't in any of the pictures, preferring to take pictures of all of us, his family.
Happy birthday, Dad. Thank you for taking the movies. Thank you for helping us remember, even if you don't.
My dad thought it was possibly Christmas.
He was pretty good: sometimes, it takes almost the whole visit before he will join the party, and talk. Last Thanksgiving he kept falling asleep until just before we took him back to the nursing home. But Sunday afternoon he got in a few comments. I thought he was going to start telling "Knock Knock" jokes. He didn't, but when my brother and I started imitating the old "Axel" character from past local children's program, he knew right away it was Clellan Card.
After dinner and before the cherry pie, my mom had a special event planned. We were going to watch old home movies. One of our old friends had taken some of our old home movies and put them on a DVD, so that we could watch them again. We hadn't seen those movies for a long time, but I remember sometimes, long ago, that we would have fun putting up the movie screen and pulling out the movie projector and watching a bunch of those 8 millimeter family shows. Most of them were various Christmases, with a few camping experiences thrown in. We used to love to run the Christmas ones backwards, so that we could see everyone re-wrapping up their presents. Simple pleasures, you know.So there we were, all sitting together in the little family room, my dad in his wheelchair, right in the middle of all of us. One of the unique features of this DVD is that there is background music, and you can choose which sound track you'd like: classical, country, or folk. Another unique feature of the DVD is that the movies are arranged in no particular order. So one moment we might all be visiting the farm and it's before my parents were even married, and the next moment, all three of us kids are sitting under a tinsel-laden Christmas tree, and then the next moment it is another Christmas, but I'm the only one around, and I'm a baby (I'm the oldest.)
So we're watching all these little episodes, all out of order, and shouting out to one another and to my Dad, "Look! There's uncle Dick! There's Norma!" I still remember the first time my brother appeared on the screen, shaking my dad's arm and saying, "There's your son! That's David."
The one thing my mom kept saying: "You took these pictures. Do you remember?"
My dad isn't in any of the movies. He was taking them all.
From a professional standpoint, my dad was not an excellent filmmaker. He tended to cut off people's heads, for one thing. We were teasing him about that. He didn't have a great instinct for "the scene", but he loved us and he wanted to record a bit of our lives.
For us, we just wanted to say, "thank you." Thank you for not being in the movies, but taking the movies. Thank you for recording our lives, in little bits and episodes. In the movies, I can see through my dad's eyes, just a little, and I see how much he loved my mom, how much he loved us, even though he wasn't the type to say it much.
It's funny how much those few seconds of videotape can say -- how a few seconds of me chasing a kitten, or my little brother trying to blow out his first birthday candle, or his uncle hoisting all of us kids up in the air (except me, I was scared) brought back a flood of other memories and pictures. And my father isn't in any of the pictures, preferring to take pictures of all of us, his family.
Happy birthday, Dad. Thank you for taking the movies. Thank you for helping us remember, even if you don't.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Best Christmas Presents
I ever gave (I think).
1. The green scarf I got for my Mom at Walgreen's, because I thought it matched her coat. I was 10 years old. It cost $1.50
2. The red and yellow book light I got for my stepson for Christmas before he was my stepson. He was 10 years old at the time, and I heard later that he kept saying to his dad, "I've just got to thank her."
3. The box of chocolates we got for our parents and put under the tree on Christmas morning, with a tag on it that said, "From Santa Claus." The next year my parents went out and bought themselves Christmas stockings.
4. The time I made hand-stamped Christmas cards for every family in my parish. Luckily, I did not count the number of families before I began.
5. The guitar-shaped spatula which was a stocking stuffer for my husband, but which turned out to be fun for the whole family.
6. The boom box we got for my in-laws one Christmas. "Oh, it's something big!" My mother-in-law exclaimed. I never saw anyone so excited.
7. hand-knitted scarves for my sister, her husband and my niece.
8. for my brother, a polo shirt I happened to see which had a small Pokey riding a Gumby figure on it (this is a family joke, but 'Gumby' is one of my brother's nicknames).
9. old-fashioned ribbon candy for my mom who has a sweet tooth.
10. a particular cookbook for one of my husband's neices who likes to cook. I marked some of my favorite recipes.
When I think about it more, sometimes I think that the best presents I ever gave were these: listening to my dad tell stories, learning and singing a song in Swedish for my grandmother, spending time with my mom over coffee, singing and listening to my stepsons play instruments (although it's hard to say whether that was a gift given or received).
What do you think? What are the best Christmas presents you ever gave?
1. The green scarf I got for my Mom at Walgreen's, because I thought it matched her coat. I was 10 years old. It cost $1.50
2. The red and yellow book light I got for my stepson for Christmas before he was my stepson. He was 10 years old at the time, and I heard later that he kept saying to his dad, "I've just got to thank her."
3. The box of chocolates we got for our parents and put under the tree on Christmas morning, with a tag on it that said, "From Santa Claus." The next year my parents went out and bought themselves Christmas stockings.
4. The time I made hand-stamped Christmas cards for every family in my parish. Luckily, I did not count the number of families before I began.
5. The guitar-shaped spatula which was a stocking stuffer for my husband, but which turned out to be fun for the whole family.
6. The boom box we got for my in-laws one Christmas. "Oh, it's something big!" My mother-in-law exclaimed. I never saw anyone so excited.
7. hand-knitted scarves for my sister, her husband and my niece.
8. for my brother, a polo shirt I happened to see which had a small Pokey riding a Gumby figure on it (this is a family joke, but 'Gumby' is one of my brother's nicknames).
9. old-fashioned ribbon candy for my mom who has a sweet tooth.
10. a particular cookbook for one of my husband's neices who likes to cook. I marked some of my favorite recipes.
When I think about it more, sometimes I think that the best presents I ever gave were these: listening to my dad tell stories, learning and singing a song in Swedish for my grandmother, spending time with my mom over coffee, singing and listening to my stepsons play instruments (although it's hard to say whether that was a gift given or received).
What do you think? What are the best Christmas presents you ever gave?
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Soon and Very Soon
We sang the old gospel song, "Soon and Very Soon/We are Going to See the King" on Sunday. And I couldn't help it, while we were singing I could see them sitting near the front of the church. They have both been gone for a few years now, but they always sat in about the same place near the front of the church, pulpit side.
Whenever we sang this particular song, I always saw them sitting and holding one another, and tears would be streaming down their faces.
This song, I learned, had been sung at their daughter's funeral. Their daughter, their only child, had died of ALS, too young. They had two beloved grandchildren, and now three great-grandchildren, but whenever they heard this song, it reminded them of their daughter, and they cried.
So when we sang the song on Sunday, I couldn't help but see them still, even, sitting and crying, even though they are both gone now. They cried even though the song said "No more cryin' there...." even though the song said, "no more dying there".. And I suppose they cried from a combination of grieving and hope. They cried because in this world children should not die before their parents, and no one should go hungry, and young men should not have to go to war, and old people should not be left alone, with no one to care for them. And they cried for the vision that God promises us: a world where there will be no more crying and no more pain and no more death, a world where there will be enough water and enough light and enough love and enough life, where the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations. They cried because they remembered the past and they yearned for the future.
Soon and Very Soon
We are Going to see the King.
What is it about singing? As soon as I hear the song, my mind conjures up the memories; I see them so clearly. It's as if that couple is still with us, singing and crying and worshiping. Singing does that; it conjures something up, and helps us go on living and working and yearning for the future God promises, but that we can't quite grasp.
Sometimes, all we can do is wait.
And sing about it.
And that is enough.
Whenever we sang this particular song, I always saw them sitting and holding one another, and tears would be streaming down their faces.
This song, I learned, had been sung at their daughter's funeral. Their daughter, their only child, had died of ALS, too young. They had two beloved grandchildren, and now three great-grandchildren, but whenever they heard this song, it reminded them of their daughter, and they cried.
So when we sang the song on Sunday, I couldn't help but see them still, even, sitting and crying, even though they are both gone now. They cried even though the song said "No more cryin' there...." even though the song said, "no more dying there".. And I suppose they cried from a combination of grieving and hope. They cried because in this world children should not die before their parents, and no one should go hungry, and young men should not have to go to war, and old people should not be left alone, with no one to care for them. And they cried for the vision that God promises us: a world where there will be no more crying and no more pain and no more death, a world where there will be enough water and enough light and enough love and enough life, where the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations. They cried because they remembered the past and they yearned for the future.
Soon and Very Soon
We are Going to see the King.
What is it about singing? As soon as I hear the song, my mind conjures up the memories; I see them so clearly. It's as if that couple is still with us, singing and crying and worshiping. Singing does that; it conjures something up, and helps us go on living and working and yearning for the future God promises, but that we can't quite grasp.
Sometimes, all we can do is wait.
And sing about it.
And that is enough.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Visiting My Dad
I got a call yesterday to visit someone in the hospital. I didn't know her well, but I recognized her name, and when I got to the hospital, I remembered her husband. Two of her four daughters were there. They were not sure about their mother's prognosis, so we prayed for strength for whatever the future would bring.
Then I went to visit my dad at the nursing home.
I don't visit my dad enough. Every time I go, I consider this truth.
When I got there, he was napping, but was ready for a visit. So we got him up and I asked him about his day. It was quiet there on a Saturday afternoon, though I thought I heard a movie in the background of the social room. We talked about his favorite foods (pizza, meatballs, cherry pie, corned beef), and sang a few songs, including Bing Crosby songs and some hymns. My dad had a pretty good voice back in the day, and he loved to sing Bing Crosby songs most of all. I tried to get a little crooning in my voice when I sang "When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day." I didn't know all of the words, but then, neither did he.
Then we said the Lord's Prayer together.
My dad used to read Bible stories to us when we were getting ready for bed. My parents both said our prayers with us, but when my dad said them, he would often pretend he was Methuselah, the world's oldest man. He would tell us that he remembered Moses and Abraham and all of the heroes of the Bible, and he would talk in an old man's voice. When we started to say the prayers, he would pretend that he was falling asleep during the prayer, and when his voice trailed off, my sister or I would kick him.
So, that's my memory of my dad teaching me the Lord's Prayer.
My dad wasn't a terribly educated man. The youngest son of Swedish immigrants, he at first longed to be a high school teacher: he wanted to teach Shop. But he found that college was more of a challenge than he imagined, so he changed his plans and opened his own business: Radio and TV Sales and Service. I still remember the smells of that old shop, oil and picture tubes and carpeting.
My dad was traditional, which means that he didn't really cook or do much cleaning, unless my mom specifically told him what to do. He was endlessly fascinated by television and he could fry an egg, grill hamburgers and make a mean bean sandwich. He wasn't a cat person, but he loved our dog. He was sentimental, believing that love should always win out. But I don't remember ever seeing him cry. He liked to cover up tough times with a laugh or a joke.
He liked to sing, but he rarely knew all of the words to the songs. So sometimes, he made up his own words.
When I was trying to figure out whether to change course and go to seminary to be a pastor, I was desperate to know what my parents thought about it. They're Scandinavian, though, which means they aren't always free with their opinions. But finally, I practically begged. I asked my dad, "Do you think I would be a good pastor?"
"Oh," he said, "I think you'd be good at whatever you did."
"You never say that," I told him.
As if thinking it for the first time, he said, "Nobody ever said it to me, either."
I don't visit my dad enough.
But when I do, we sing. Even though neither of us remembers the words.
Then I went to visit my dad at the nursing home.
I don't visit my dad enough. Every time I go, I consider this truth.
When I got there, he was napping, but was ready for a visit. So we got him up and I asked him about his day. It was quiet there on a Saturday afternoon, though I thought I heard a movie in the background of the social room. We talked about his favorite foods (pizza, meatballs, cherry pie, corned beef), and sang a few songs, including Bing Crosby songs and some hymns. My dad had a pretty good voice back in the day, and he loved to sing Bing Crosby songs most of all. I tried to get a little crooning in my voice when I sang "When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day." I didn't know all of the words, but then, neither did he.
Then we said the Lord's Prayer together.
My dad used to read Bible stories to us when we were getting ready for bed. My parents both said our prayers with us, but when my dad said them, he would often pretend he was Methuselah, the world's oldest man. He would tell us that he remembered Moses and Abraham and all of the heroes of the Bible, and he would talk in an old man's voice. When we started to say the prayers, he would pretend that he was falling asleep during the prayer, and when his voice trailed off, my sister or I would kick him.
So, that's my memory of my dad teaching me the Lord's Prayer.
My dad wasn't a terribly educated man. The youngest son of Swedish immigrants, he at first longed to be a high school teacher: he wanted to teach Shop. But he found that college was more of a challenge than he imagined, so he changed his plans and opened his own business: Radio and TV Sales and Service. I still remember the smells of that old shop, oil and picture tubes and carpeting.
My dad was traditional, which means that he didn't really cook or do much cleaning, unless my mom specifically told him what to do. He was endlessly fascinated by television and he could fry an egg, grill hamburgers and make a mean bean sandwich. He wasn't a cat person, but he loved our dog. He was sentimental, believing that love should always win out. But I don't remember ever seeing him cry. He liked to cover up tough times with a laugh or a joke.
He liked to sing, but he rarely knew all of the words to the songs. So sometimes, he made up his own words.
When I was trying to figure out whether to change course and go to seminary to be a pastor, I was desperate to know what my parents thought about it. They're Scandinavian, though, which means they aren't always free with their opinions. But finally, I practically begged. I asked my dad, "Do you think I would be a good pastor?"
"Oh," he said, "I think you'd be good at whatever you did."
"You never say that," I told him.
As if thinking it for the first time, he said, "Nobody ever said it to me, either."
I don't visit my dad enough.
But when I do, we sing. Even though neither of us remembers the words.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
A Few Things I Remember
This weekend I was supposed to give a greeting as a part of the afternoon program at the church Centennial. I shared a few memories, but there were a lot of things that were left unsaid, small things, big things. Here are a few things I remember:
*the gnarled hands of Jenny, a former organist of one of the churches where I served, and how she loved picked herring.
*the smell of pancakes wafting up from the church basement during the Easter Sunrise Service.
*the taste of fresh asparagus, home-made jam, deer sausage, pheasant and green beans, among other things...
*the fact that the Easter Sunrise service, led by the youth at 6:30 in the morning, was the biggest service of the year.
*the sound of four young people from the same family, who all played the saxaphone on special occasions.
*sitting on the front porch of the parsonage with a parish member, talking about which songs she wanted sung at her funeral
*taking a large group from the congregation up to Watertown to serve a meal at a place called "The Banquet." We made meatballs.
*going to the cemetery with confirmation students to make rubbings on the gravestones. We displayed the rubbings in the churches on All Saints Sunday. The trouble was, it was dark at the cemetery. And, it was Halloween.
*riding in a parish-member's pickup one icy January evening. He picked me up to go and visit his mother, who was dying.
*sitting in the kitchen of the wife of one of my parish members, going through the Small Catechism together, so that she could be confirmed Lutheran and join the church.
*sitting in the kitchen of a young couple, preparing them for the baptism of their first child.
There were many more funerals than baptisms those four years in rural South Dakota. However, there was a large and active confirmation class and youth group. A few new members joined.
The little boy that I baptized lit the altar candles on Sunday. There are many children in the small community now. They are some of the children of those youth I had in confirmation. The seeds of faith were watered and nurtured by their parents, their extended families, the congregation, and me. But mostly they were watered by the Holy Spirit.
*the gnarled hands of Jenny, a former organist of one of the churches where I served, and how she loved picked herring.
*the smell of pancakes wafting up from the church basement during the Easter Sunrise Service.
*the taste of fresh asparagus, home-made jam, deer sausage, pheasant and green beans, among other things...
*the fact that the Easter Sunrise service, led by the youth at 6:30 in the morning, was the biggest service of the year.
*the sound of four young people from the same family, who all played the saxaphone on special occasions.
*sitting on the front porch of the parsonage with a parish member, talking about which songs she wanted sung at her funeral
*taking a large group from the congregation up to Watertown to serve a meal at a place called "The Banquet." We made meatballs.
*going to the cemetery with confirmation students to make rubbings on the gravestones. We displayed the rubbings in the churches on All Saints Sunday. The trouble was, it was dark at the cemetery. And, it was Halloween.
*riding in a parish-member's pickup one icy January evening. He picked me up to go and visit his mother, who was dying.
*sitting in the kitchen of the wife of one of my parish members, going through the Small Catechism together, so that she could be confirmed Lutheran and join the church.
*sitting in the kitchen of a young couple, preparing them for the baptism of their first child.
There were many more funerals than baptisms those four years in rural South Dakota. However, there was a large and active confirmation class and youth group. A few new members joined.
The little boy that I baptized lit the altar candles on Sunday. There are many children in the small community now. They are some of the children of those youth I had in confirmation. The seeds of faith were watered and nurtured by their parents, their extended families, the congregation, and me. But mostly they were watered by the Holy Spirit.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Memories and Detours
Yesterday my husband and I drove from Minneapolis to Watertown South Dakota. I haven't been back to northeast South Dakota since I left 14 years ago. I returned to be a pastor in the big city where I was born and raised. But I loved it out on the prairie, and I've been thinking about an opportunity to go back and visit for many years.
This year is the 100th anniversary of the largest of the three small churches I served. Tomorrow I'll be a part of the worship there (along with many other of their former pastors, may I say), and each of us has been invited to give a small greeting at the Anniversary Program. (I haven't written it yet.... but I'm thinking about it.)
So we drove the old route that I used to drive fairly often, the one from Minneapolis to Watertown, mostly down highway 7 to 212 in Montevideo. (I haven't gone the last leg, to Vienna, yet.)
I remembered that the first time I drove out to interview, I put the music from "My Fair Lady" on the tape deck in the car (yes, it was 1994) and sang songs all the way out there. I had just come from my fifteen minutes of fame in a church production of "My Fair Lady". I had learned the part of Eliza and graduated from seminary: I thought I could do anything.
I remembered the time we took the youth group to Valley Fair for the day, leaving early in the morning, and arriving back late in the night. We stopped at a pizza place in Montevideo for a late supper. I actually used someone else's cell phone (I didn't have one at the time) to call ahead and order the pizzas. The call broke up and I had to call back a couple of times, but I was finally able to place the order.
I'll never forget the looks on the faces of some of the youth when we arrived at the pizza place and the pizzas was all ready for them. Later on, I marvelled at the trust of the person who took our order at the pizza place.
I remembered how I drove back home to Minneapolis on empty roads on Christmas Day. I remembered how, at my interview, one of the questions was, "how do you think you will adjust to the wide open spaces?"
I started thinking about the high points of my ministry there, and it seems to me that those high points are small things.
At Montevideo we hit a snag: some really complicated detours due to road work. We ended up in towns I had never been before, veering south, and then north to Madison. We did see some things we had never been before.
Finally we drove into Watertown, to a hotel that was just being built when I left. We ate at a restaurant that wasn't around when I was in town 14 years ago. We saw that there were new coffee shops that did not exist when I lived there before.
Tonight and tomorrow, I will see again some familiar faces. But, the faces won't all be familiar. The children that I taught for their first communion, the 9th graders that I confirmed two weeks before I left: they are all now grown and married, with children of their own.
What will I say to them? I'm grateful to them. I'm glad to be back. There are memories and there are detours, and both of them are necessary and I'm not always sure which is which.
This year is the 100th anniversary of the largest of the three small churches I served. Tomorrow I'll be a part of the worship there (along with many other of their former pastors, may I say), and each of us has been invited to give a small greeting at the Anniversary Program. (I haven't written it yet.... but I'm thinking about it.)
So we drove the old route that I used to drive fairly often, the one from Minneapolis to Watertown, mostly down highway 7 to 212 in Montevideo. (I haven't gone the last leg, to Vienna, yet.)
I remembered that the first time I drove out to interview, I put the music from "My Fair Lady" on the tape deck in the car (yes, it was 1994) and sang songs all the way out there. I had just come from my fifteen minutes of fame in a church production of "My Fair Lady". I had learned the part of Eliza and graduated from seminary: I thought I could do anything.
I remembered the time we took the youth group to Valley Fair for the day, leaving early in the morning, and arriving back late in the night. We stopped at a pizza place in Montevideo for a late supper. I actually used someone else's cell phone (I didn't have one at the time) to call ahead and order the pizzas. The call broke up and I had to call back a couple of times, but I was finally able to place the order.
I'll never forget the looks on the faces of some of the youth when we arrived at the pizza place and the pizzas was all ready for them. Later on, I marvelled at the trust of the person who took our order at the pizza place.
I remembered how I drove back home to Minneapolis on empty roads on Christmas Day. I remembered how, at my interview, one of the questions was, "how do you think you will adjust to the wide open spaces?"
I started thinking about the high points of my ministry there, and it seems to me that those high points are small things.
At Montevideo we hit a snag: some really complicated detours due to road work. We ended up in towns I had never been before, veering south, and then north to Madison. We did see some things we had never been before.
Finally we drove into Watertown, to a hotel that was just being built when I left. We ate at a restaurant that wasn't around when I was in town 14 years ago. We saw that there were new coffee shops that did not exist when I lived there before.
Tonight and tomorrow, I will see again some familiar faces. But, the faces won't all be familiar. The children that I taught for their first communion, the 9th graders that I confirmed two weeks before I left: they are all now grown and married, with children of their own.
What will I say to them? I'm grateful to them. I'm glad to be back. There are memories and there are detours, and both of them are necessary and I'm not always sure which is which.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday Five: Christmases Past
Jan at Revgalblogpals gives us this simple Friday Five:
Share five Christmas memories.
Here goes:
1. When I was very little, we went to spend Christmas on my grandparents' farm in Southwestern Minnesota. I was so little then that my mother's younger sister was still living at home, in the big upstairs bedroom that all of the girls shared. I was also very worried that Santa Claus would not find me way out there. I remember that I slept in the bed with my aunt, who told me scary stories and warned me that I'd better not try to get out of bed and check on Santa Claus.
2. One year, my sister and I got a joint present from my grandparents on Christmas Eve: the game Twister. When it was time to go to bed and wait for Santa Claus, we of course had the hardest time going to sleep. We counted to 100 a few times and told a few stories, and then decided it must be close to morning. So we quietly got out the game, turned on the light and started playing. We thought that we were being pretty quiet, but pretty soon my mother appeared in the doorway, looking bleary-eyed, and she proclaimed: "Santa Claus has NOT come yet. And he won't come if you don't GO TO BED."
3. When I was in 9th grade, my father's business failed, and the next year at Christmas, he worked stocking merchandise at the Big Store with the Red Circles. (He eventually got a sales job at a big department store.) I remember being very happy that I got a Supermax Blow Dryer as a Christmas present that year. It's not bad to have simple tastes.
4. When I was living in Tokyo (where I didn't have a car, and I didn't know about any Christmas Tree lots), I bought a little potted fir and made little paper decorations to go on it. I played all of my Christmas music on our boom box. All of us missionary-teachers-in-training went to our churches for a Christmas program, meal and later a Christmas eve service. I looked around at the rest of the people in my church, and realized that this was their Christmas: no huge family reunions, no turkey, no big stacks of presents under the tree. When we came home, we opened presents with the family who lived next door to us. It made me realize that "Christmas is all about spending time with you family" is nice, but not really what Christmas is about. Christmas is about Jesus coming into our world.
5. My first Christmas in my little churches in South Dakota, I told the story about my Christmas in Japan on Christmas Eve. I was invited over to a parish member's house. Their traditional Christmas Eve dinner was soup: oyster soup, chicken noodle soup and chili. I had brought presents for them, but it turned out that they didn't exchange presents on Christmas eve. I remember going home, wrapping packages and finishing my Christmas Day sermon, and packing the car so that I could leave straight from church and get home in time for some Christmas with my mom and dad, and my brother and his two children.
Share five Christmas memories.
Here goes:
1. When I was very little, we went to spend Christmas on my grandparents' farm in Southwestern Minnesota. I was so little then that my mother's younger sister was still living at home, in the big upstairs bedroom that all of the girls shared. I was also very worried that Santa Claus would not find me way out there. I remember that I slept in the bed with my aunt, who told me scary stories and warned me that I'd better not try to get out of bed and check on Santa Claus.
2. One year, my sister and I got a joint present from my grandparents on Christmas Eve: the game Twister. When it was time to go to bed and wait for Santa Claus, we of course had the hardest time going to sleep. We counted to 100 a few times and told a few stories, and then decided it must be close to morning. So we quietly got out the game, turned on the light and started playing. We thought that we were being pretty quiet, but pretty soon my mother appeared in the doorway, looking bleary-eyed, and she proclaimed: "Santa Claus has NOT come yet. And he won't come if you don't GO TO BED."
3. When I was in 9th grade, my father's business failed, and the next year at Christmas, he worked stocking merchandise at the Big Store with the Red Circles. (He eventually got a sales job at a big department store.) I remember being very happy that I got a Supermax Blow Dryer as a Christmas present that year. It's not bad to have simple tastes.
4. When I was living in Tokyo (where I didn't have a car, and I didn't know about any Christmas Tree lots), I bought a little potted fir and made little paper decorations to go on it. I played all of my Christmas music on our boom box. All of us missionary-teachers-in-training went to our churches for a Christmas program, meal and later a Christmas eve service. I looked around at the rest of the people in my church, and realized that this was their Christmas: no huge family reunions, no turkey, no big stacks of presents under the tree. When we came home, we opened presents with the family who lived next door to us. It made me realize that "Christmas is all about spending time with you family" is nice, but not really what Christmas is about. Christmas is about Jesus coming into our world.
5. My first Christmas in my little churches in South Dakota, I told the story about my Christmas in Japan on Christmas Eve. I was invited over to a parish member's house. Their traditional Christmas Eve dinner was soup: oyster soup, chicken noodle soup and chili. I had brought presents for them, but it turned out that they didn't exchange presents on Christmas eve. I remember going home, wrapping packages and finishing my Christmas Day sermon, and packing the car so that I could leave straight from church and get home in time for some Christmas with my mom and dad, and my brother and his two children.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Small Stuff
So we're finally on vacation here in the Cool Bay City -- and we've seen some of the Things That Everyone Should See -- been to City Lights Bookstore, Grace Cathedral, The Presidio near Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown...
Here's something I want to remember, though:
We were coming home on the cable car after dinner in Chinatown on Wednesday night. When I'm in Chinatown, I get this eerie feeling that I've been transported back in time and space, remembering a little of what it was like to walk through neighborhoods in Tokyo, peek in small shops, eat small pieces of roasted chicken on skewers.
After we jumped on the cable car, my husband gave up his seat to a woman. I heard her say "yokatta", when she sat down, so I knew she was Japanese.
I kept thinking I would like to talk to her in Japanese, but I couldn't even remember how to ask her if she was Japanese. Finally, I spoke to her in English. Between she and her husband, we could converse a little, and I did remember a few Japanese words. But I was frustrated by how much I had forgotten. I thought, "when I get back to Minnesota, I want to get a book and study up again, at least remember some basic phrases."
Anyway, she and her husband had been visiting Yosemite. They were from Tokyo and were in the United States for about a week. Before we got off the cable car, her husband took a picture of us. I remembered that these sorts of photos are called "kinen shashin."
The only thing I could think to tell her when we parted was, "Ki o tsukete", which means "Take care", or "Be careful."
It isn't often that I think about my experiences long ago as a missionary and teacher in Japan. Most of that time seems like it came from another life. I can't hold on to those memories and make them seem real and close. It's hard to remember that I walked those streets halfway across the world for a time. I am a Minnesota girl, and feel so parochial, so place-bound to the particular geography that has formed me.
Then, for a few moments, a shard of a bright memory will glisten. "I climbed Mount Fuji, once, you know." "I remember Shibuya station; there's a statue of a dog there." "Look -- there's a maneki-neko (a beckoning cat). All of the shops have them. It's for good luck."
"Natsukashii." (There's no place like home.)
Here's something I want to remember, though:
We were coming home on the cable car after dinner in Chinatown on Wednesday night. When I'm in Chinatown, I get this eerie feeling that I've been transported back in time and space, remembering a little of what it was like to walk through neighborhoods in Tokyo, peek in small shops, eat small pieces of roasted chicken on skewers.
After we jumped on the cable car, my husband gave up his seat to a woman. I heard her say "yokatta", when she sat down, so I knew she was Japanese.
I kept thinking I would like to talk to her in Japanese, but I couldn't even remember how to ask her if she was Japanese. Finally, I spoke to her in English. Between she and her husband, we could converse a little, and I did remember a few Japanese words. But I was frustrated by how much I had forgotten. I thought, "when I get back to Minnesota, I want to get a book and study up again, at least remember some basic phrases."
Anyway, she and her husband had been visiting Yosemite. They were from Tokyo and were in the United States for about a week. Before we got off the cable car, her husband took a picture of us. I remembered that these sorts of photos are called "kinen shashin."
The only thing I could think to tell her when we parted was, "Ki o tsukete", which means "Take care", or "Be careful."
It isn't often that I think about my experiences long ago as a missionary and teacher in Japan. Most of that time seems like it came from another life. I can't hold on to those memories and make them seem real and close. It's hard to remember that I walked those streets halfway across the world for a time. I am a Minnesota girl, and feel so parochial, so place-bound to the particular geography that has formed me.
Then, for a few moments, a shard of a bright memory will glisten. "I climbed Mount Fuji, once, you know." "I remember Shibuya station; there's a statue of a dog there." "Look -- there's a maneki-neko (a beckoning cat). All of the shops have them. It's for good luck."
"Natsukashii." (There's no place like home.)
Friday, December 4, 2009
My Sister's Birthday
I'm pretty sure, if I'm counting correctly, that this is a significant one for her.
As always, I'm late getting the present in the mail, but I've been thinking about the fact that my mother always told me, when my sister and I were fighting, that "someday I'd appreciate having a sister." In that spirit, I'd like to share ten gifts my sister has given me:
1. She painted a picture for me when she was in 8th or 9th grade. The picture shows children holding balloons. It's a narrow, long picture; entirely unique.
2. She baked me a Boston Cream Pie once, and sent it with my mother when she was visiting me at college.
3. She deigned to share an apartment with me for a short while just after I graduated from college; a little brownstone one bedroom with hardwood floors. It was my first apartment.
4. When we were young, we shared a room; she used to listen to my insomniac whisperings until she fell asleep.
5. She played the guitar and sang songs with me. Favorite duet: "Whispering Hope." (She sang alto.)
6. She let me take the crock from Grandma's house that said, "Jackson Creamery" on it.
7. She thought my stories were good (usually).
8. When we played Tarzan with the little boy down the street, I got to be Jane. She was Cheetah.
9. She let her daughter come to the North Shore with us, one of my favorite vacations, ever.
10. Laughing and singing are my favorite memories: it is good to have a sister.
As always, I'm late getting the present in the mail, but I've been thinking about the fact that my mother always told me, when my sister and I were fighting, that "someday I'd appreciate having a sister." In that spirit, I'd like to share ten gifts my sister has given me:
1. She painted a picture for me when she was in 8th or 9th grade. The picture shows children holding balloons. It's a narrow, long picture; entirely unique.
2. She baked me a Boston Cream Pie once, and sent it with my mother when she was visiting me at college.
3. She deigned to share an apartment with me for a short while just after I graduated from college; a little brownstone one bedroom with hardwood floors. It was my first apartment.
4. When we were young, we shared a room; she used to listen to my insomniac whisperings until she fell asleep.
5. She played the guitar and sang songs with me. Favorite duet: "Whispering Hope." (She sang alto.)
6. She let me take the crock from Grandma's house that said, "Jackson Creamery" on it.
7. She thought my stories were good (usually).
8. When we played Tarzan with the little boy down the street, I got to be Jane. She was Cheetah.
9. She let her daughter come to the North Shore with us, one of my favorite vacations, ever.
10. Laughing and singing are my favorite memories: it is good to have a sister.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
In Search of a Pastrami Sandwich, and my lost Youth
This evening I stayed a little too late at the office making phone calls, and then made a futile visit to a bookstore, looking for a very particular cookbook that they didn't have in stock. I got home a little late and very hungry.
I didn't want to cook supper; my husband didn't want to cook supper. What should we do? We discussed various options (Pie Shop, Sports-Themed Restaurant, Cafeteria). None of them really got us excited. Then my husband said, "How about Fishman's Deli?"
I had heard about Fishman's from an old high school friend of mine. One of my classmates owns this Restaurant, Bakery and Deli in my hometown. We decided that this was a good idea. It has the added bonus of being a trip down memory lane for me.
The kosher grocery store and bakery takes up most of the space, with a small eating area in the front. Since we were eating late, there were only a few people in the restaurant: an older couple, and a couple of families that looked like they were finishing up.
All of the men were wearing yarmulkes. I was very aware that we were the only Gentiles in the place. It felt strange.
We ordered our sandwiches and I looked around, remembering my friend from Brownies, C. C. was one of my giggling friends. We also both liked to sing. We tried to learn all of the songs from Allan Sherman records and all of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals, as well. I also was invited to spend sabbath with them on several occasions. I remember being a little in awe of the special prayers and rituals, and worried about that little sip of wine I was supposed to drink. We both liked play-acting, and (I'm embarrassed to admit this now) we would even act out some stories from the New Testament. At 8, I was totally clueless.
It seemed that, for awhile there, I had more Jewish friends than I did friends from my own youth group. In fact, I didn't feel that comfortable with most of the others from my church youth group. But I enjoyed conversations about religion, literature, and philosophy with some of my Jewish friends.
One of my friends, C, called it "Lutheran-Jewish Inter-faith Dialog." We both wanted to be writers, and both of us were really into our faith traditions. She taught me a table prayer in Hebrew that I remember to this day, and helped me learn about some of the Jewish Holidays as well. One of the things I respected most about her was that she was vulnerable enough to ask me, one day, "Do you think because I am not a Christian that I am going to hell?" And I had a sneaking suspicion that my religion officially held this position, but I myself had a hard time believing it.
As we waited for our pastrami sandwiches, the elderly couple in the booth next to ours struggled to leave. The gentleman turned to us with a twinkle in his eye, and said, "You have to wait longer if you aren't Jewish." My husband laughed and said, "How could you tell?"
One of the things I miss, being a pastor, is getting to know people who are not like me. It seems that I spend most of my time talking with other Lutherans. They're nice (mostly), but I realize that my most significant, most illuminated, and sometimes most challenging times were times when I was the stranger, learning another language, tasting other flavors: living in Japan, being invited to Sabbath meals, all those "Lutheran-Jewish interfaith Dialogues."
When have you tasted other flavors, or felt like a stranger?
I didn't want to cook supper; my husband didn't want to cook supper. What should we do? We discussed various options (Pie Shop, Sports-Themed Restaurant, Cafeteria). None of them really got us excited. Then my husband said, "How about Fishman's Deli?"
I had heard about Fishman's from an old high school friend of mine. One of my classmates owns this Restaurant, Bakery and Deli in my hometown. We decided that this was a good idea. It has the added bonus of being a trip down memory lane for me.
The kosher grocery store and bakery takes up most of the space, with a small eating area in the front. Since we were eating late, there were only a few people in the restaurant: an older couple, and a couple of families that looked like they were finishing up.
All of the men were wearing yarmulkes. I was very aware that we were the only Gentiles in the place. It felt strange.
We ordered our sandwiches and I looked around, remembering my friend from Brownies, C. C. was one of my giggling friends. We also both liked to sing. We tried to learn all of the songs from Allan Sherman records and all of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals, as well. I also was invited to spend sabbath with them on several occasions. I remember being a little in awe of the special prayers and rituals, and worried about that little sip of wine I was supposed to drink. We both liked play-acting, and (I'm embarrassed to admit this now) we would even act out some stories from the New Testament. At 8, I was totally clueless.
It seemed that, for awhile there, I had more Jewish friends than I did friends from my own youth group. In fact, I didn't feel that comfortable with most of the others from my church youth group. But I enjoyed conversations about religion, literature, and philosophy with some of my Jewish friends.
One of my friends, C, called it "Lutheran-Jewish Inter-faith Dialog." We both wanted to be writers, and both of us were really into our faith traditions. She taught me a table prayer in Hebrew that I remember to this day, and helped me learn about some of the Jewish Holidays as well. One of the things I respected most about her was that she was vulnerable enough to ask me, one day, "Do you think because I am not a Christian that I am going to hell?" And I had a sneaking suspicion that my religion officially held this position, but I myself had a hard time believing it.
As we waited for our pastrami sandwiches, the elderly couple in the booth next to ours struggled to leave. The gentleman turned to us with a twinkle in his eye, and said, "You have to wait longer if you aren't Jewish." My husband laughed and said, "How could you tell?"
One of the things I miss, being a pastor, is getting to know people who are not like me. It seems that I spend most of my time talking with other Lutherans. They're nice (mostly), but I realize that my most significant, most illuminated, and sometimes most challenging times were times when I was the stranger, learning another language, tasting other flavors: living in Japan, being invited to Sabbath meals, all those "Lutheran-Jewish interfaith Dialogues."
When have you tasted other flavors, or felt like a stranger?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Remembrances of Vacations Past
Until I got married, I did not take very many vacations.
In my first parish, I did take the required vacation time, and not just because it was required. I needed it. But, as a single pastor, I had a hard time figuring out where I could afford to travel, and would like to travel, by myself. So I often took vacations either to visit my sister or to my home town, where I still had friends.
As a child, I only remember taking two significant vacations with my family. My dad had his own business, a small Television Sales and Repair Shop, and he just couldn't be gone. (I also suspect that we couldn't afford to travel that much.) But when I was going into the 5th grade, we took a two week vacation out to Seattle, Washington, to visit my aunt and uncle and their two small children. My uncle had gotten a job at Boeing. It was the first time anyone from my family had moved so far away.
This was a Big Deal in many ways. My dad had never left his work for so long, and I'm sure it made him anxious. We drove out there, and it took us three days in the Rambler. I figured out that Montana was a Really Big State. It was the first time I ever saw a mountain, or an ocean. We stayed in motels every night, but just looked for blinking "vacancy" signs. On the way home we stopped at Yellowstone National Park and saw Old Faithful. My aunt and uncle took us to the ocean, the Space Needle, Mount Rainier, and other places that I don't remember any more.
The second major vacation was a family vacation to Disneyland, when I was 16 years old. This was about a year after my dad's business had gone bankrupt. He was working for someone else now, and had actual vacation coming. And this was the One Dream Vacation for our family. My dad got us hotel reservations all the way out to California. We stopped for an extra night in Denver, Colorado, to visit friends who had moved away. At Disneyland, we stayed at the Disneyland Hotel -- the height of luxury for us -- and had a tour guide for our first day at Disneyland. I was in total awe of her abilities, as she would speak to us, and then turn and speak to another set of tourists in french! I decided then and there that I wanted to be a tour guide at Disneyland when I grew up.
I sewed a little back then, and sewed myself three new pairs of shorts, two halter tops and one midriff blouse especially for our trip. Thus began my obsession with having "something new to wear" when I travel.
Since getting married in 1999, I've travelled more than in my previous forty years combined. I've been to San Francisco, to Pennsylvania twice, to Disney World in Orlando, to Door County, Wisconsin, and to the North Shore of Minnesota. We've headed out to the Black Hills and Chicago by car, and to Albuquerque and the Grand Canyon by plane (haven't taken the train yet, though).
And since being up there at Lake Superior for the umpteenth time (and it never gets old, by the way), I've been thinking of two of the pleasures of vacations: there is the humble pleasure of discovering something for the first time, of realizing how little you really know about the world, and expanding that world just a little bit again. And there is the other pleasure of going back again to the place you've been before, the joy of returning to a familiar place, with its familiar mysteries.
I've been to the North Shore many times, but always a little later in the summer. This week was the first time I've seen the lupines bloom here.
I wonder if heaven will be that way too: familiar, but also full of discovery, comfortable, but strange.
In my first parish, I did take the required vacation time, and not just because it was required. I needed it. But, as a single pastor, I had a hard time figuring out where I could afford to travel, and would like to travel, by myself. So I often took vacations either to visit my sister or to my home town, where I still had friends.
As a child, I only remember taking two significant vacations with my family. My dad had his own business, a small Television Sales and Repair Shop, and he just couldn't be gone. (I also suspect that we couldn't afford to travel that much.) But when I was going into the 5th grade, we took a two week vacation out to Seattle, Washington, to visit my aunt and uncle and their two small children. My uncle had gotten a job at Boeing. It was the first time anyone from my family had moved so far away.
This was a Big Deal in many ways. My dad had never left his work for so long, and I'm sure it made him anxious. We drove out there, and it took us three days in the Rambler. I figured out that Montana was a Really Big State. It was the first time I ever saw a mountain, or an ocean. We stayed in motels every night, but just looked for blinking "vacancy" signs. On the way home we stopped at Yellowstone National Park and saw Old Faithful. My aunt and uncle took us to the ocean, the Space Needle, Mount Rainier, and other places that I don't remember any more.
The second major vacation was a family vacation to Disneyland, when I was 16 years old. This was about a year after my dad's business had gone bankrupt. He was working for someone else now, and had actual vacation coming. And this was the One Dream Vacation for our family. My dad got us hotel reservations all the way out to California. We stopped for an extra night in Denver, Colorado, to visit friends who had moved away. At Disneyland, we stayed at the Disneyland Hotel -- the height of luxury for us -- and had a tour guide for our first day at Disneyland. I was in total awe of her abilities, as she would speak to us, and then turn and speak to another set of tourists in french! I decided then and there that I wanted to be a tour guide at Disneyland when I grew up.
I sewed a little back then, and sewed myself three new pairs of shorts, two halter tops and one midriff blouse especially for our trip. Thus began my obsession with having "something new to wear" when I travel.
Since getting married in 1999, I've travelled more than in my previous forty years combined. I've been to San Francisco, to Pennsylvania twice, to Disney World in Orlando, to Door County, Wisconsin, and to the North Shore of Minnesota. We've headed out to the Black Hills and Chicago by car, and to Albuquerque and the Grand Canyon by plane (haven't taken the train yet, though).
And since being up there at Lake Superior for the umpteenth time (and it never gets old, by the way), I've been thinking of two of the pleasures of vacations: there is the humble pleasure of discovering something for the first time, of realizing how little you really know about the world, and expanding that world just a little bit again. And there is the other pleasure of going back again to the place you've been before, the joy of returning to a familiar place, with its familiar mysteries.
I've been to the North Shore many times, but always a little later in the summer. This week was the first time I've seen the lupines bloom here.
I wonder if heaven will be that way too: familiar, but also full of discovery, comfortable, but strange.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Reflections on the Year
I can't believe that 2009 is only three days away. 2008 was my first full year of blogging; it was also the year I discovered facebook, something I am ambivalent about. The year held its share of ambivalent moments, as well as memorable times and disappointments. Here are a few:
Memorable:
1. We'll always have Paris. Even though we were there only three days, the trip was worth every moment, from the first-class seating on the trip over, to the little Parisian hotel 5 minutes from the Louvre, to Notre Dame Cathedral, sidewalk cafes and the Seine.
2. This year I embarked on a journey to organize people in my congregation around the issue of education. We organized a community forum in September; we're still working on our next steps. It's challenging, but I believe that we are on the threshold of some good possibilities for becoming a church that really lives the gospel.
3. The Festival of Homiletics in my town in May. I got to meet a lot of Revgals and hear a lot of good preaching. I don't think I can go next year, but I'm sure I'll put it on my regular agenda to go from now on.
4. I took some risks in posts about community organizing, immigration and racism.
5. I started therapy.
Disappointing:
1. I did not read as much as I would have liked to.
2. I haven't gotten anything published yet. Clearly, I need some sort of writing group, and to develop goals.
3. Scout "flunked" agility.
4. I didn't get and implement a creative and/or brilliant new ministry idea this year. I still think I need to take more risks.
5. Two dog-friends died this year. I was very attached to them.
6. I have been having trouble keeping up with the blogs lately.
Ambivalent:
1. facebook. On the one hand, I have gotten in touch with people I haven't seen in years. On the other hand, it is a huge black hole and waste of time sometimes.
2. The financial situation at the church. On the one hand, it's a scary budget deficit. On the other hand, the situation contains possibilities for our congregation to begin to be honest about what it means to be a faithful community of disciples of Jesus at this time and in this place.
3. Though I took risks in my writing, I still think I need to be bolder in what I write -- without compromising others' privacy or anonymity, of course.
4. I have not posted so much about the "big events", whether tragedy or success: Mumbai, flooding in Iowa, the election, housing and economic crisis. I'm not sure what I think about that.
So: what are your high and low points of the year? What are you ambivalent about?
I'm considering linking to what I consider to me my top ten posts of the year....
Memorable:
1. We'll always have Paris. Even though we were there only three days, the trip was worth every moment, from the first-class seating on the trip over, to the little Parisian hotel 5 minutes from the Louvre, to Notre Dame Cathedral, sidewalk cafes and the Seine.
2. This year I embarked on a journey to organize people in my congregation around the issue of education. We organized a community forum in September; we're still working on our next steps. It's challenging, but I believe that we are on the threshold of some good possibilities for becoming a church that really lives the gospel.
3. The Festival of Homiletics in my town in May. I got to meet a lot of Revgals and hear a lot of good preaching. I don't think I can go next year, but I'm sure I'll put it on my regular agenda to go from now on.
4. I took some risks in posts about community organizing, immigration and racism.
5. I started therapy.
Disappointing:
1. I did not read as much as I would have liked to.
2. I haven't gotten anything published yet. Clearly, I need some sort of writing group, and to develop goals.
3. Scout "flunked" agility.
4. I didn't get and implement a creative and/or brilliant new ministry idea this year. I still think I need to take more risks.
5. Two dog-friends died this year. I was very attached to them.
6. I have been having trouble keeping up with the blogs lately.
Ambivalent:
1. facebook. On the one hand, I have gotten in touch with people I haven't seen in years. On the other hand, it is a huge black hole and waste of time sometimes.
2. The financial situation at the church. On the one hand, it's a scary budget deficit. On the other hand, the situation contains possibilities for our congregation to begin to be honest about what it means to be a faithful community of disciples of Jesus at this time and in this place.
3. Though I took risks in my writing, I still think I need to be bolder in what I write -- without compromising others' privacy or anonymity, of course.
4. I have not posted so much about the "big events", whether tragedy or success: Mumbai, flooding in Iowa, the election, housing and economic crisis. I'm not sure what I think about that.
So: what are your high and low points of the year? What are you ambivalent about?
I'm considering linking to what I consider to me my top ten posts of the year....
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Ten Year Anniversary thoughts....
On Sunday, my congregation celebrated my ten year anniversary at this church. Ten years! It's hard for me to imagine. We had coffee and cake between the services, and people shook my hand and said nice things to me. My parents, and husband and step-son came as well.There was a basket for cards on the table, but one man wanted to give me his personally. It was a book, wrapped up, with a white rose attached to it. The rose was in one of those little plastic tubes of water, and he wanted to make sure that the water didn't leak out. As he put it in my hands, he said, "This is from (his wife's name) and me."
His wife died this past winter.
They had been married for over fifty years. She contracted polio in the epidemic after World War II, and had been in a wheelchair ever since. Ever since she was a young woman with two small children, she had lived in that wheelchair. He had had the house re-done so that she could do everything from her wheelchair. He had found more lucrative work, as an engineer rather than as a professor, so that he could afford the care she needed. He had spent most of their married life lifting her into and out of the wheelchair. He walks permanently stooped over from all those years of lifting and carrying her.
At her funeral last winter, I saw a captivating black and white picture of her, standing in the shallow part of a river. She was turning and smiling at the camera, and I thought, "I never really knew her."
On Sunday, as he put the book in my hand, he said, "This is from (his wife's name) and me."
The book was The Four Loves, by C.S. Lewis.
I could tell you about the highlights of my ten years by telling you about the programs I have started, by the worship services I've designed, by the Bible Studies. I could tell you about Faith and Fiction, my book group, and the Bag Lunch Bible Study, and the Contemporary Worship Service, and the Empowering Couples Workshop. I could tell you about my favorite Lenten Series (Practicing our Faith), or the Biblical Monologues I wrote one year. I could point to the Animal Blessing Service last fall, or the Prayer Knitters Group.
Or, I could tell you about the failures: the young adults groups that never got off the ground, the Bible studies with three people in them, the Drama Group that I could never get enough people interested in, the time I invited High School students to Faith and Fiction to discuss the book Holes, and nobody came.
But to me, the ten years are all about people: the stooped-over man who teaches me about love; the young couple who got married and moved to New York; people who argue with me in Bible studies and people I run into at the grocery store; a shy woman who is beginning to become a leader; a young boy who laughed when I washed his feet "because the water was so cold!"; a 10th grade girl who carried the candle at Easter vigil and the boy who said he wanted to be a pastor; the woman who stood in the river long ago, and who lived in a wheelchair for so many years.
And the ten years are all about God's faithfulness in this place, among these people, and to me as well. They are about a God's faithfulness to us in our joy and in our pain, in our failures and in our successes, in the past, and as we lean into the future ... with fear and with faith.
Picture is from ten years ago.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Writing Stories
When I was in first grade, I learned how to read. I didn't start early, like some children do. I didn't learn to read at all until I started first grade. But, at almost the same time, I starting writing. At the time, all we had in school was Dick And Jane. I supplemented Dick and Jane with simple stories of visiting the farm, a few of the things I felt that the Dick and Jane stories left out They were suburban, like me, but they just didn't seem to have a wide enough experience of the world, in my view. A little later I began a series of stories about two girls who were best friends, remarkably similar to my own best friend and me. The stories, I think, we also updated versions of the Maud Hart Lovelace Betsy-Tacy books. Turn of the century Mankato was transformed into suburban Minneapolis, with adventures such as: putting on a play in the garage, sleeping outdoors in a treehouse, and trying to avoid annoying brothers and sisters.
I had a brief foray into feminism with "A Girl on our Baseball Team": vintage about 4th grade. I am amazed at how undeterred I was by the fact that I didn't know anything about baseball. I tried my hand at mystery stories at least twice. And in junior high, I dabbled in science fiction. One earnest story, I remember, was about how the computers eventually took over the world, unwilling to leave it in the hands of fallible human beings. (I did not have any conscious knowledge of 2001 or "Hal" at that time. really.)I wrote alone; I wrote with others. I remember one year going over to a friend's house nearly every day after school and taking out a cheap Schaeffer cartridge pen and sitting down together to write stories. We sat at a low child's table in her basement and scribbled furiously while the TV hummed in the background. We would take turns reading portions of stories to each other at the end of the afternoon.
In junior high I also experimented with some (in retrospect) really bad poetry. I started writing short humor pieces, as well. I continued to write stories: of families with many children, of campaigns for student council president, of young people running away from home. I wrote one humorous one-act play, and a story about a little girl who believed that someday she would be famous. It was called "destined."
However, somewhere along the line I just stopped writing stories. I think I was freer when I didn't know how much I didn't know. I wrote stories, unconcerned about facts, about research, about areas of the country, the world, and historical events. I wrote stories to make life more interesting than it was. I wrote stories just because I liked it. I wrote stories because I liked to hang around words.
I still like stories. And I like, more than ever, hanging around words, hearing the way they sound. But I haven't written any stories for a long time. I don't know exactly why. I know it's a lot harder than I used to think it was. Maybe that's part of it. Maybe I'm less curious too, but that would be sad. But sometimes I miss it: creating a little world, with people and places and plots thickening.
I wonder if I will ever write another story.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Six Quirky Things About Me
LJ tagged me for this meme a long time ago. Then she quit blogging. I hope it's not my fault! I hope she will start blogging again soon!
So, without further ado:
1. I like kosher dill pickles. This goes back to high school, when I used to frequent (or should I say nosh at) a local restaurant here called The Lincoln Del. Also learned to love pastrami sandwiches there. Later on, I discovered: it was the garlic.
2. I was bald until I was about two years old. I think it was a Scandinavian thing. I have a pretty good head of hair now.
3. I can't whistle, but I know a lot of songs, including Irving Berlin's "We're Having A Heat Wave/A Tropical Heat Wave." I've been humming that a lot lately (it's up above zero today).
4. When I took typing in high school, I started to "pretend type" what people were saying, moving my fingers on desks, tabletops, and other surfaces while people talked. Please, somebody else, tell me you did this.
5. I have "hyperextended" elbows (I believe that's what it's called). It's a little like being double-jointed, but not exactly.
6. Sometimes I forget to wear my gloves. But not last Tuesday.
I think everybody has done this quirky meme, but if not, please feel free to tell me and go right ahead!
So, without further ado:
1. I like kosher dill pickles. This goes back to high school, when I used to frequent (or should I say nosh at) a local restaurant here called The Lincoln Del. Also learned to love pastrami sandwiches there. Later on, I discovered: it was the garlic.
2. I was bald until I was about two years old. I think it was a Scandinavian thing. I have a pretty good head of hair now.
3. I can't whistle, but I know a lot of songs, including Irving Berlin's "We're Having A Heat Wave/A Tropical Heat Wave." I've been humming that a lot lately (it's up above zero today).
4. When I took typing in high school, I started to "pretend type" what people were saying, moving my fingers on desks, tabletops, and other surfaces while people talked. Please, somebody else, tell me you did this.
5. I have "hyperextended" elbows (I believe that's what it's called). It's a little like being double-jointed, but not exactly.
6. Sometimes I forget to wear my gloves. But not last Tuesday.
I think everybody has done this quirky meme, but if not, please feel free to tell me and go right ahead!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
It Was a Very Good Year...
A while back Wyldth1ng tagged me for this challenging meme, regarding the year I was 25. This has been quite a challenge for me, since I was 25 about a quarter of a century ago. One thing that helped: I lived in Japan during my 25th year, so that helped me to remember a few things. (I hope to add pictures to this post later.)
I turned 25 on April 16, 1982. Here are 5 things I remember from April 16 of that year to April 16th of 1983.
1. I had just moved from Tokyo, the urban center of Honshu, to the "little" town of Kumamoto, on the island of Kyushu. The school year in Japan runs from April to March, and I moved to teach junior and senior high school at a Lutheran School called Kyushu Gakuin. By the way, it was (and I believe still is) a Boys' School.
2. The first day of teaching 7th grade boys was extremely challenging for me. There were fifty boys in the class; the first thing the other teacher and I did was divide the boys into two groups. They didn't know any English. In theory, I knew some Japanese. But I realized just then that I didn't know "classroom English." After taking roll, it was touch and go. I was trying to ask them to write their names and one of the boys was trying valiantly to ask me whether I wanted them to write in capital letters or small letters. I didn't know the Japanese word for "capital letters" so I had no idea what he was asking. He ended up jumping up and down to signify "big" until I figured out what he was talking about. I will also remember the day I picked up a pencil from a student's desk and said, "This is a pencil." to which he replied, "This is a dorobou." (Dorobou, it turns out, is Japanese for "thief.")
3. I remember shortly after the school year began, getting a school break for what was called "Golden Week" back then. It was called Golden Week because there were three national holidays within about a week and a half. One of them was the Emperor's Birthday. Since there has been a new emperor since I left Japan, I wonder if there is still a "Golden Week". Perhaps my new friend Tanya, who lives in Japan, can tell. Anyway, during Golden Week we took a train and went to a famous pottery festival in Arita, where we bought lots of bowls, teacups and other essentials -- cheap. It was wonderful! P.S. yes, there still is a Golden Week.
4. During the summer break, (mid-July through August) I traveled with a group of young people to Kagoshima prefecture for summer fun and relaxation. If there weren't pictures, I don't think I would remember much except having fun by the seashore. For this midwestern girl, being near both mountains and oceans was quite an experience.
5. In March, my parents arrived for a two week tour of Japan. They visited Tokyo, the old capital of Kyoto, my town of Kumamoto, and also visited Hiroshima, where the missionaries were having their annual meeting. I also took them for an overnight stay in a ryokan, which is a Japanese-style inn. My parents recently told me they remembered the night I told them I was too tired to translate for them any more; they were on their own! So they got a little supper in Kyoto without any help.
The picture is of "Kinkakuji", the Golden Pavilion, in Kyoto, one of the many places I visited with my parents.
I turned 25 on April 16, 1982. Here are 5 things I remember from April 16 of that year to April 16th of 1983.
1. I had just moved from Tokyo, the urban center of Honshu, to the "little" town of Kumamoto, on the island of Kyushu. The school year in Japan runs from April to March, and I moved to teach junior and senior high school at a Lutheran School called Kyushu Gakuin. By the way, it was (and I believe still is) a Boys' School.
2. The first day of teaching 7th grade boys was extremely challenging for me. There were fifty boys in the class; the first thing the other teacher and I did was divide the boys into two groups. They didn't know any English. In theory, I knew some Japanese. But I realized just then that I didn't know "classroom English." After taking roll, it was touch and go. I was trying to ask them to write their names and one of the boys was trying valiantly to ask me whether I wanted them to write in capital letters or small letters. I didn't know the Japanese word for "capital letters" so I had no idea what he was asking. He ended up jumping up and down to signify "big" until I figured out what he was talking about. I will also remember the day I picked up a pencil from a student's desk and said, "This is a pencil." to which he replied, "This is a dorobou." (Dorobou, it turns out, is Japanese for "thief.")
3. I remember shortly after the school year began, getting a school break for what was called "Golden Week" back then. It was called Golden Week because there were three national holidays within about a week and a half. One of them was the Emperor's Birthday. Since there has been a new emperor since I left Japan, I wonder if there is still a "Golden Week". Perhaps my new friend Tanya, who lives in Japan, can tell. Anyway, during Golden Week we took a train and went to a famous pottery festival in Arita, where we bought lots of bowls, teacups and other essentials -- cheap. It was wonderful! P.S. yes, there still is a Golden Week.
4. During the summer break, (mid-July through August) I traveled with a group of young people to Kagoshima prefecture for summer fun and relaxation. If there weren't pictures, I don't think I would remember much except having fun by the seashore. For this midwestern girl, being near both mountains and oceans was quite an experience.
5. In March, my parents arrived for a two week tour of Japan. They visited Tokyo, the old capital of Kyoto, my town of Kumamoto, and also visited Hiroshima, where the missionaries were having their annual meeting. I also took them for an overnight stay in a ryokan, which is a Japanese-style inn. My parents recently told me they remembered the night I told them I was too tired to translate for them any more; they were on their own! So they got a little supper in Kyoto without any help.
The picture is of "Kinkakuji", the Golden Pavilion, in Kyoto, one of the many places I visited with my parents.
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