Bad things happen in
threes, the old saying goes. If it’s true, it means maybe I’m in the clear now.
First, on Sunday afternoon, our pianist at Massey’s called to tell me he has been hired by University UMC, the same church who “stole” his singer wife from us four years ago. Well, actually, Kindred Church, the new-church start of University, stole her from us, and now that Kindred is wandering around Durham and probably struggling, University stole her from its own former new-church start. Andrew says he is going to be the organist there, although he doesn’t really play the organ. “You’ll be wasted on the organ,” I told him (at that hoity-toity, rich, elderly church), I didn’t add. But no, he’ll also play the piano. He and wife have big plans for new music at University! Good luck with that, I thought.
Then, Monday, I fell when I was outside. I was pulling the grill cover out of the ditch where the wind had blown it, and my shoe caught under the paver of our patio, and down I went – mostly on the concrete – hard. I lay there awhile looking up at the sky, feeling fortunate my head was resting on mulch and plants rather than pavers. I gingerly tested out the painful areas – hip, knees, hand. All bruised but not broken, thank God.
On Monday and Tuesday, I received my first personal-attack emails at Massey’s, from a Presbyterian pastor’s widow who affiliated with Massey’s but never joined. She got angry with me back in June and left Massey’s to join a Presbyterian church. Her very long and rambling emails blamed me for her bleeding ulcer in October and accused me of doing and saying all kinds of terrible things to her, all untrue. I discovered she also is sending these emails to folks in the congregation, at least one of whom forwarded it to the former pastor. Personal attacks are so difficult, and of all the people in the congregation, she should know better. I think she might have the beginnings of dementia. I let the SPRC know about it.
It was worse to discover the former pastor who lives in the attacker’s neighborhood with a lot of other church members, was already involved in it. She had more to pile on.
“You should know,” she told me, “that So-and-So (a Massey family member) is furious you’re not going to have a Christmas Eve service.” I guess she should have let me know when I asked for objections several times back in early November, I replied. She said: When Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday when I was pastor, we always had a packed night service. The family” has a tradition of going out to dinner together afterwards. Miss Annie is probably spinning in her grave.
I doubt it.
I was almost too upset to pray about it all. After about five miserable attempts, the Spirit whispered to me: “Be Still, My Soul.” So I listened to the hymn on my phone, eyes closed, and it was just what I needed to hear.
Be still my soul: the Lord is on your side.
Bear patiently the
cross of grief or pain;
leave to your God to
order and provide;
in every change God
faithful will remain.
Be still my soul: your
best, your heavenly friend
through thorny ways
leads to a joyful end.
Be still, my soul: your
God will undertake
to guide the future, as
in ages past.
Your hope, your
confidence let nothing shake;
all now mysterious
shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the
waves and winds still know
his voice who ruled
them while he dwelt below.
Monday was my annual consultation – as part of a group
of contented or retiring clergy, I was invited to meet early with the district
superintendent. I fall among the contented,
not the retiring.
I decided not to retire on my July trip to the mountains.
Refreshed and renewed, I returned to Massey's Chapel feeling good and grateful. The DS said I
should ask for that kind of time off – which doesn’t count as vacation, he said
-- every year. Maybe I will, assuming we have discretionary income after purchasing
another house.
Keith and I got an offer on our house two days ago from the
only person who already has been approved for membership at Elderberry. We
still need a contract. She lives in Texas but plans to visit the community again
in December, and we hope to get a contract and earnest money then. There are
still a lot of unknowns.
I pray a lot for Elderberry and for the hostages in the Middle East. I pray for personal peace.
Filled with nervous energy, I have been writing sermons so that I won’t think about it all. I’ve completed sermons through the second Sunday of Advent; I've planned the music and the Advent wreath readings. I've made a new Advent wreath; last year's was falling apart.
I need to walk more and say goodbye to the forest here. The paths are
so covered with leaves it’s difficult to walk.
I’ve started playing pickleball! I’m not very good; it’s
not like tennis. But I like it.
Thanksgiving is Thursday. Eric, Katherine, Jonathan, and I will follow our Thanksgiving tradition and play tennis in
the morning, then gather for dinner in the afternoon. As usual, I have much for
which to thank God.
Charge conference this year was Oct. 26 at 7 p.m. at Parkwood UMC,
which my GPS told me would take 45 minutes to reach from my home. I gave myself
an hour and 15 minutes, and I was glad because the traffic on the freeway was
backed up and slow. Still, I arrived 15 minutes early and parked across the
street from Parkwood because the church itself has only handicapped parking. It
was dark by then, but the parking lot was well lit, and there was a baseball
game going on next to the lot with signs that said: “Beware of foul balls.” So
I moved my car!
I could hear chanting from a mosque on the other side of the parking lot. What
an interesting place.
I expected to be the first person from Massey’s Chapel there
– imagine my surprise to enter a classroom where there already were six people…
and the D.S. made seven. At least that many more arrived after me; we had to
pull up extra chairs. What a great show of support!
What did you do to get all these people here?, the DS
asked. Did you threaten them or something? They loved that – Yes! She threatened
us!
I really love these people. Our charge conference was a
love fest – we love God, we love each other, and we love The United Methodist Church. My “peeps” answered the DS’ questions (yay),
voted on the stuff we needed to vote on, and then I let slip that Keith and I plan
to move back to Durham. This made Massey's people very happy and seemed to puzzle the
DS. Why?, he asked me. “I’m just too far away,” I replied. That, and some other
significant things, I didn’t say.
After that, we went to the sanctuary for a worship service
with Parkwood.
I remember a former DS and mentor telling me that she
watched churches and pastors during charge conference – you can learn a lot,
she said. How many lay people attend? One or two, or a lot? Does the pastor sit
removed from the church or in the midst of those who attend? Do they look at
each other? She asked me why I thought the pastor had sat on the other side of
the room from his people at the charge conference we had both attended. I had noticed but hadn't thought about it. I
think – I think – I’ve not ever sat separate from my people at a charge
conference, but for sure I never did after that.
So: Another charge conference has come and gone. It has been a very good year, praise God.
Before
I forget, I wanted to blog about my visit to Sedona United Methodist Church on Sunday,
Oct. 1, while my daughter, son-in-law (who joined us for the weekend), and I were visiting Arizona. Katherine
was in a veterinary continuing education event about behavioral problems in cats, so Jonathan and I attended church together.
It was raining gently, a somewhat rare
event for Arizona. We got there early, of course, because I am always overly
eager to get to church, even if it is not one that I serve. We thought we would
sit 10 minutes or so in the parking lot, but no – here came a man with an umbrella
up to the car. I rolled down the window, and he offered to escort me into
church under the umbrella. That gave the church big welcoming points in Pastor Cheryl’s
book.
Once inside, Jonathan and I were attacked
by a small army of greeters who immediately took down our contact info and stuck name tags on our shirts. They
pushed all kinds of church freebies on us, including a cool magnetic cross, which I stuck on the refrigerator at Massey’s
Chapel. It was overkill, however, and we could hardly extricate ourselves to go
sit in the sanctuary. “I don’t live here, people!” I wanted to shout, even
though that had been the first question out of their mouths.
The sanctuary was lovely with big clear
windows, it had a back balcony where the sound system was set up, and was built for a larger congregation than the 50 or so souls who attended that day. I forced poor Jonathan to sit on the second pew from the front with me. The worshipers were dressed up which meant my son-in-law and I
were not dressed up enough. I wondered out loud what the small separate stage,
flanked by flags, was for – children’s Christmas plays? He answered it probably
was for a praise band. Oh… right. Pre-pandemic perhaps. You can tell what kind
of churches the two of us are used to.
The worship service was standard United Methodist, the piano music was all Communion hymns from The Faith We Sing projected onto a screen, and there was a small choir (no praise band). Because I did not know the songs, I could not sing loudly, which was probably just as well. The "mature" white male pastor gave a sermon about not getting discouraged, and I uncharitably wondered if he were preaching to himself. I know I do. I'm also mature, okay? Just not that mature.
There was no congregational sharing of prayer concerns, and no passing the peace.
It was World Communion Sunday (which explains the music), and during Communion everyone came forward and received bread that was pre-cut into small pieces and plastic thimbles of grape
juice (to be thrown in a trash receptacle before returning to our seats). There were three Communion stations
for the congregation, which meant it all ended very quickly. The Communion servers
were wearing white plastic cafeteria gloves which was a turn-off that I cannot explain
theologically. I’m sure it was a remnant of fearful Covid days; ironically, no one
wore a mask.
Jonathan and I were mobbed by friendly people at the end of the service and invited to attend a post-worship coffee and snack time, which we declined. When we emerged from church, the sun was shining brilliantly. We picked up Katherine and headed to lunch, followed by the drive back to Phoenix and flight home the next day.
Katherine and I journeyed to Arizona the last week of September, where we visited Antelope Canyon near Page, in the northern part of the state. Carved through the sandstone over millennia by water that sometimes still flows, Antelope Canyon will remain in my memory as a place of singular, other-worldly beauty. It would have been on my bucket list had I known how breath-taking it is. Here are some more photos:
All these photos were taken standing on the sandy floor of the canyon, looking up. I cannot describe the play of light and dark; these pictures were all taken in the early afternoon on my phone with no fancy photography tricks. You can stand anywhere and turn your body - or take one step - and the view changes. The colors change.
The photo below was taken with a "panoramic view," which counts as a small "trick," I suppose.
The part of Antelope Canyon we walked through is not long -- only about half a mile. It was mildly challenging because we had to climb up and down stairs and ladders and squeeze through narrow passages. I'm so very glad I experienced it with my daughter!
God is such an artist!
When I was at Massey’s yesterday, I spent some time digging
through the disorganized box of old files I have. Most of it is useless: lists
of committees, trustee notes from long ago, a folder filled with scraps of
treasurer receipts from the 1950s, ancient charge profiles stating a woman
pastor would be okay but not a black one. In a folder labeled “history,” I
found the notes from a church meeting followed by a special charge conference in
2001 (referenced in my previous post).
The language used to describe the relationship between the
full-time Parkwood UMC and the quarter-time Massey’s Chapel was “satellite.” In
1999, Parkwood was in desperate financial straits, so Massey’s Chapel, who
needed a pastor, became a “satellite” of the larger church, and paid that
church $6,000 a year for their pastor to preach on Sundays and do a few other
pastoral duties. Massey’s gave up their 11 a.m. worship time and began to
worship at 9 a.m. to accommodate the new arrangement.
The partnership held for two years. Parkwood’s pastor told
Massey’s that most people at Parkwood loved the arrangement, loved Massey’s
Chapel and “felt” (sorry) for them. I
doubt the feelings were mutual. The pastor told Massey’s the only reason their
church had survived was because one of their previous pastors had stayed for
nine years, providing stability.
But look at you now, he told them. Massey’s family members had
recently sold their property to Southpoint developers (leaving a postage-size
property for the church), and all moved away – to Timberlake, to Rougemont, to
Holly Springs. You can’t have a viable church with leaders living so far away,
he said.
Parkwood’s pastor had prepared a multi-page booklet for the
meeting, laying out the only options he saw for Massey’s Chapel: close; withdraw
from the UMC and purchase the property from the Conference for half a million
dollars (this option must have been discussed among the membership); accept a
part-time pastor if one could be found (which was unlikely, he said); or work
toward merging with Parkwood, to become one church, selling the Massey’s property
to the greedy developers building Southpoint Mall. The greedy developers would
take the property eventually anyway, he told them. They had money and lawyers,
and Massey’s did not. The Durham County historical designation would not mean
squat. No option existed of becoming a multi-point charge, not anymore. All the
part-time churches within a 10-mile radius had closed.
It was obvious Parkwood’s pastor wanted a church merger. After
having served small, fierce, rural churches, this option seemed laughable to me.
It made me a little sick to my stomach to think this was
exactly the kind of document I would have produced for Aldersgate in Chapel
Hill had I thought of it. When I served Aldersgate, I emphasized that Light
Rail was coming right through the church front yard. There was no stopping it! The
construction alone would mean the end of the church, so we had better sell now
while the property still had value.
Light Rail never came, although the proponents certainly
had seemed hell-bent on it. The greedy developers never took Massey’s Chapel;
they just built all around it. Massey’s received a retired part-time pastor who
worked out fine. Later, the church received a part-time local pastor who presided
over a tripling of attendance. Aldersgate never got that chance.
I think now: If members sold their property to Southpoint developers, there should have been money to provide other options for Massey's Chapel. Maybe not.
The other aspect of the notes that made me queasy was sensing
the church’s hostile, sullen attitude leaking out, especially in the special
charge conference notes. Almost the only people who attended were members of the
ruling family, most of whom now dwell in the cemetery. Reading the notes, I was
reminded of the dour, surly attitude of the declining churches I have served.
God, I am glad to be away from them. Massey’s Chapel received so many new members in the past decade it ceased to be a grim, angry church long before I arrived. Maybe it never really was.
I love to dig into local church histories.
Let’s back up to the year 2001 at Massey’s Chapel. I hadn’t
even gone to divinity school yet. The church was small, and the Massey descendants
were still the controlling family. Massey’s Chapel shared
a pastor with Parkwood UMC, although the churches were not formally yoked on a
charge together. He left one of his sermons behind, which I found when we
cleaned out the fellowship hall in preparation for a renovation in 2021.
The sermon was intended to be prophetic, meaning the pastor
was telling Massey’s Chapel in no uncertain terms what was going to happen to
the church. It was a good sermon, and I found myself moved while reading it
although nothing about it ultimately came to pass.
The printed sermon was saved because it became part of a
church meeting soon afterwards. I found the notes from that meeting, too.
In the sermon, the pastor told the congregation: You can’t
go on like this! You’re too small and pay too little to have your own pastor. When
I depart from this church (soon!), with the way things currently exist, you
have no future. There is not another part-time church close enough to form a two-point
charge with Massey’s (The church had a history of being part of a multi-point charge).
Parkwood was full time, and I guess the pastor served both
churches out of the goodness of his heart? Hmmm. He served Massey’s and
Parkwood together for at least two years. He followed a one-and-done pastor,
who himself followed a half-year interim pastor, who followed a pastor who was
appointed to Massey’s for nine years. They were
all ordained elders except possibly the interim. The pastor in 2001 might have
been appointed to Massey’s to give them some stability. But I was unclear – who
disliked the Parkwood-Massey’s arrangement? The pastor? The churches? Everyone?
It was a disturbing sermon. I’m not sure what he was advocating
for them to do. Pay more? Beg Parkwood to continue sharing a pastor? Accept a licensed
local pastor? Possibly he wasn’t advocating anything, just telling them how he
viewed the situation.
He reminded them that back in the early 1930s, Massey’s
Chapel had talked with great excitement about expanding the little sanctuary.
Visitors were coming, people were joining, and things were crowded. For an
unknown reason, the church never followed through, and attendance and membership collapsed. The sanctuary that exists today (2001 and
2023) was/is essentially what existed in 1930. The implication was that Massey’s
was stuck in the past.
At a special charge conference several weeks after the sermon, apparently the
D.S. told Massey’s Chapel she could give them a retired elder to serve part time, which they
instantly accepted – at very low pay. Embarrassing low pay, the current pastor
chided them. Can’t you come up with $175 to make it an even amount? No. But the
retired elder took it and stayed eight years.
He was Massey’s pastor when I came to know him through the
pastors’ breakfast when I was a new pastor. He keeps in touch, wants
to receive the newsletter, and clearly still loves Massey’s Chapel although
almost everyone he knew is gone.
By God’s grace, Massey’s Chapel continued through 2001, through another rapid turnover of pastors (2009-2012), through a pandemic, and into 2023 and beyond.
What are the best sellers at the Duke Regional Hospital’s
gift shop? Baby gifts? Flowers? Toiletry kits? No…. The best sellers are candy
and chips.
I find this surprising in a facility dedicated to health
and healing. Plenty of patients probably are hospitalized with heart disease
and diabetes and who knows what else for over-indulging for years in high-carbohydrate
junk food.
The main customers in the gift shop are hospital staff, but
there is a steady trickle of patients and family of patients who also go
shopping there.
The above photo is the wall of best-sellers, although I
couldn’t get the candy-bar part of the wall nor the soft drinks in the picture.
The absolute best-sellers are the so-called “penny candy” in plastic bowls across
the top of the display.
Penny candy doesn’t cost a penny anymore. It ranges in price from 5 cents to 20 cents per piece, and I often sympathize with customers who want to complain about it. They bring fistfuls of penny candy to the counter and then go back for more. Friday, one woman brought over the entire display bowl full of some kind of peppermint candy and dumped it on the counter – she wanted all of it. I counted 61 pieces at 10 cents each. She also purchased Junior Mints and York Peppermint Patties, so she must be a peppermint lover.
One of the best-selling penny candy on Fridays is Reese’s small peanut butter cups. Another is Long Boys coconut juniors. I never had even seen a Long Boys, but I feel sure I would like them. Chocolate Tootsie Rolls (the sticky rolls, not the Tootsie Pop suckers which we also sell) are popular. At the risk of sounding like my mother, I want to tell people – “No, that will stick in your teeth and give you cavities!” In fact, sometimes I want to yell, “Don’t buy this stuff; it’s bad for you!” But I just smile, count the candy, and ring up the purchase.
(I never liked Tootsie Rolls in Halloween candy; I always threw them out. What the gift shop sells is twice as long as what used to get tossed into my Halloween bag.)
We sell a lot of chips, too, at $1.50 a paltry bag, and sometimes the $3.50 little cup of dip (salsa or cheese) to go with the chips. If you look closely at the photo, on the far right, you also will see some sort of oval heat-up meal costing $3.50 each, which people actually purchase as a meal. How do I know this? One woman told me she brings them home to her husband for his dinner, and he loves them. Put some crackers with it, and it makes a fine meal, she said. That just made me sad.
We sell quite a bit of individual pain killers like Advil that hang with the candy.
Customers also purchase drinks to go with their junk food –
often Coke products, but also water and vitamin water. The cost of drinks
in the gift shop (around $1.50 depending on what you buy) is apparently less than in the hospital cafeteria.
In the photo, there are some things I have never sold, like beef jerky, but then I only volunteer on Fridays. It’s possible that by Friday, people are tired and just want to eat candy and chips.
Friday was my first day volunteering in the gift shop at
Duke Regional Hospital. Everyone asks: Why the gift shop? Why aren’t you volunteering
as a chaplain? The gift shop seemed easier, I suppose. I wouldn’t mind being a
volunteer chaplain at some point. I remember the summer chaplain gig being very
difficult in Divinity school, but that was 20 years ago.
I’m not sure the gift shop is actually easier yet. I’m sure it
will be once I get the hang of things.
There are a lot of things to do before someone is allowed
to be a hospital volunteer. You have to take various on-line modules (including
an active shooter module), then pass a quiz on each. I nearly flunked my active
shooter module because I didn’t realize there would be a quiz, and I didn’t pay
attention very well. I’m not sure how someone would get a gun in the building anyway
since there is a metal detector to pass through at the main entrance.
Next came an in-person health check that included a blood
test for measles and mumps antibodies, and a TB skin test. The nurse jammed a needle
under my skin for the TB test, which created a small round bruise. When I
returned several days later, she nearly shrieked at the sight of it. “It is NOT
a positive TB test; it’s a bruise,” I growled. “Anything gives me a bruise
these days.” On closer inspection, she agreed.
The blood test revealed that my mumps titers were low. Huh,
really? I would have to receive the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccine because
there is not a separate mumps shot, the nurse informed me. It’s a “live” vaccine,
she said, which means I might feel bad for a day, get swollen lymph nodes and develop a rash, plus I could be contagious to
anyone who is not vaccinated for mumps.
Like my unvaccinated grandchildren?
Yes, she replied, alarmed. Why aren’t they vaccinated?! Our daughter-in-law
has her reasons, I replied. We don’t talk about it anymore.
So I had the MMR shot with no side effects, and I’m
isolated from my grandchildren for a few weeks. It’s a two-shot series, so I
have to get another one the end of September, along with another TB skin test.
Hospital employees and volunteers are required to get the flu shot this fall. I’m
sure we will have a Covid booster pushed on us, too. At least it’s all free of
charge.
I wonder: How do they ever get enough volunteers, especially retired people? Maybe they don't.
Shots are one thing, but masks are another. If they bring back masking, I’ll be postponing volunteering until the mask mandate is once again lifted.
I made a change today: I resigned from the finance team at
Elderberry. For having such a small budget (less than every church I’ve served),
the finances here are ridiculously complicated and therefore opaque. In Pastor
Cheryl’s world, this is a big red flag, but no one here cares what color flags
I see. Pastor Cheryl has no authority here and no experience that impresses anyone.
The treasurer told me if being on the finance team did not bring me joy, I should
step aside – so I will. I would never put up with that in a church! But hey, there's no church here.
I’m still thinking about the rest of my volunteering at
Elderberry; perhaps I will let most of that go, too. I have a volunteer job waiting
for me at Duke Regional Hospital if I will just take the Zoom training. I
finished the required on-line active shooter training while I was in Blowing Rock!
My first two Sundays back at Massey’s Chapel were love
fests. Attendance is good, and people are happy and mostly maskless. The lay-led adult
Sunday school took a break during July (just like the pastor) and now is
revving to go again. There is tai chi on Thursdays, regular “getting to know you
better” lunches, and the monthly prayer shawl ministry. In two weeks, I will teach a bible study on Genesis.
My decision not to let myself be bothered by glitches and
problems with the church livestream is going well. I’m already setting up committee
meetings in anticipation of a late October charge conference.
It is August, and the goldenrod – harbinger of late summer
and fall – is blooming. Can the cool days and colorful leaves of autumn be far away?
Meanwhile, thank you, God, for flowers.
I have one and a half days left in Blowing Rock, so it's time for a photographic wrap up.
The first thing I noticed when I arrived the beginning of July was the rhododendrons. I thought they bloomed earlier in the year, but a cool spring meant they were still blooming all along the Blue Ridge Parkway and in the towns - everywhere, really - even into the third week of July, in shades of white and pink. The second thing I noticed when I opened the car door was the cool, less humid air. It won't be easy to return to the mid-90s at home.
I visited Arborcrest Gardens in Boone twice - once with Katherine, once with Beth. It's open only on Fridays by appointment, and a visit is free.
Beth and I visited Grandfather Mountain one day (I went two days, if you count the synchronized firefly event Katherine and I attended). It was windy and chilly, especially on the swinging bridge, which was indeed swinging in the wind.
I took a video: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/6UmIvB6h8u8 . You'll have to copy and paste the url.
I am enchanted by tree roots. There are some grandfather trees at Grandfather Mountain.
Katherine, Beth, and I also hiked the Glen Burney trail in Blowing Rock, a short, steep down-and-back walk beside a beautiful creek and waterfalls.
Here's a video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDKBEPCGxYw
I feel sure I'll be back. I look pretty happy and relaxed.
Thank you, God, for this gift.
How quickly time slips past. My mini-Sabbatical is more
than half over, and my week of quiet was definitely finished the instant Eric
and Michelle stepped through the door on Friday. As much as I love them and
love having them with me, it was a relief to hug them good-bye today.
I can’t even guess how many hours I wasted last week (and
today, after church) watching Wimbledon. I have managed to get out once a day to
walk. I have prayed but not nearly as much as I had hoped.
After being away from home, some things have become more
clear to me. I have missed Keith, our children and their families, and our dog
Penny (although I’ve spent time with all of them while here). I have missed
Massey’s Chapel more than I thought I would. I am itching to be back in the
pulpit, and my next three sermons are ready. I have missed being involved in members' lives.
What I have not missed is the cohousing community in which
I live, and this needs some thought and prayer.
I love so many things about it and dislike other things (as with all of
life, I suppose). I have been relieved to be away from the constant drama, gossip,
and – as Keith calls it – “forced conviviality.” Now that I serve a church that
does not indulge much in those things, I don’t welcome them in the rest of my
life, either.
Funny, when I hatched the idea of a mini-Sabbatical back in
November, I thought I needed a break from church because I was weary from dealing
with the threat of Covid and from the heavy news of church disaffiliations. By
the time June rolled around, I was desperate to be away from Elderberry. I also
know how “down” I get in July and August – an annual occurrence that happens
because of the oppressive heat, my inability to play tennis in the heat, and
the feeling of being trapped indoors.
What could be better than living for a whole month in a
very cool (literally) and beautiful place? I practically skipped to church and
back today in 60-degree weather. The divine gifts I have received since being
here have tended to be small, surprising, and refreshing.
My sister arrives Tuesday, and her presence will be another gift from God.
If I’m going to blog, I really do need to take photos. My
photo-taking is not great, although I did snap the above picture at the Blowing
Rock Museum today. The painting jumped out at me because I instantly recognized it as illustrating the younger son's homecoming in the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
I would not normally have gone out of my way to visit a
museum here. Actually, I wasn’t there to see the museum. I walked all the way
back to Blowing Rock Methodist Church so I could discover where all those
congregants parked on Sunday. The museum is tucked between the Presbyterian and
the Methodist churches, and behind the museum is – voila! -- public
parking. Not a lot, but some. If I return to church with my son and granddaughter
this coming Sunday, we will drive and park behind the museum.
I noticed that the Presbyterian and the Episcopalian
churches both have parking lots behind the churches. The Methodist church does
not. I wonder if the Methodists steal some of the Presbyterians' parking spaces.
So -- I was walking past the museum and saw it was open and
had no admission fee, so I stopped in. It had a nice photographic history of
Blowing Rock, and there were four or five exhibits. Not bad for a small town.
Otherwise, it was a quiet day except for several afternoon fly-overs
by military jets – there were two today and three yesterday. They fly very low
and are extremely, horribly loud – you can hear them coming VERY fast. The
whole building shakes. I have never experienced
this, and yesterday I thought the world was ending, or a bomb was falling, or
aliens were landing. I actually leaned down with my arms over my head; the
noise genuinely frightened me. Other
people here ran outside their units looking at the sky. I caught a glimpse of
one of the jets through the window – military for sure. Why would they be
flying here?
My heart pounded for long minutes after they were gone.
What must it be like to live in Ukraine, I wondered, where the bombs really do fall.
Before the fly-over, in the quiet, I wrote a sermon for July 30 on the lectionary scripture from Romans 8. The Spirit helps us in our weakness for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words. For sure, the suffering in Ukraine draws sighs too deep for words. Tonight, I’m praying for the people there.
So far, the month of July has not been much of a “mini-Sabbatical.”
We drove down last Monday, and at first Keith and our dog
Penny were here, joined after a day by our daughter Katherine. They were
looking for a vacation, so we did a fair amount of walking in nature,
window-shopping, and eating out. The weather was very fine, and we didn’t miss
the 90s in the Piedmont at all.
On Thursday, Keith and Penny left, and Katherine stayed for
a few days -- but left a day early because the temperature inside my little
third-floor condo was really very hot. It followed a cycle of: cool in the
morning, comfortable in the mid-morning, going to warm in the afternoon and
really hot by about 5 p.m. The heat lasted until well after bedtime, only
cooling off around 3 a.m. A high of 80 degrees outside resulted in a warmer
temperature than that inside. The open windows never caught much of a breeze,
and the fans didn’t cut it and were so loud we couldn’t hear one another talk.
I purposefully rented an air-conditioned condo – part of my
whole intent was to escape the July heat. The so-called AC in this unit is like
the kind you find in motels. Located in the living room, it was incredibly feeble,
hardly putting out any cool air, and the air certainly never reached the
bedrooms.
So I had a conversation with the renting company. To my
surprise, they moved me (well, I moved myself with Katherine’s help) to a 3-bedroom
mansion in the upscale resort of Chetola. The rental company told me they didn’t
know how long I would be there, so I should take everything with me. I stayed
there Saturday afternoon and evening, all day Sunday, and Monday morning until I
was informed the AC was fixed and I should move myself back to the original
condo.
Hauling all my stuff up three flights of stairs was not fun
although at least it wasn’t hot.
The only restful, renewing day I have had so far was
Sunday.
I intentionally planned for this week to be alone and quiet
– to pray, study, write, and read. Here’s to finding God in unexpected places!
