THE OWL'S SONG

My Aunt Pauline--the End of an Era

2009-07-07T09:56:00.010-05:00

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of those faithful to him. Proverbs 116:15

My mother's sister, my Aunt Pauline, has gone to be with God.

The picture above is my sister, Paulette, our Aunt Pauline, and me. It was taken in January when Paulette and I were in Texas and on our way to our mother's funeral. Dear Pauline was sad she could not make the trip, but she was glad we had managed to spend a little time with her. Like my mother, Pauline was one of those wonderful "steel magnolias" that the south is known for, women who are gracious, charming, always ladylike--and strong. I've written on this blog about my mother's Texas family and how influential they were in our lives. They seemed like a Norman Rockwell illustration to us, and now the last one is gone.

My grandfather once travelled on a wagon train. He had a scar on his wrist that he told us grand kids was the reminder of a wound from an Indian arrow. (I was disappointed to later learn that it had actually been caused by a childhood fall into an empty cistern.) During the depression my mother and her siblings picked cotton in the fields during the summer, along with "Papa" and Mexican laborers. Papa, was an astute farmer, however. Over the years he increased his land holdings and eventually became a man of some means. He and my grandmother were the parents of eight children, two boys and six girls. Both boys went off to war in Europe and both came home safe again to "the family."

How we loved our Texas relatives! We were the California contingent, my dad having relocated to work at Lockheed Aircraft during World War II. The family was close-knit, supportive, loving, God-fearing folks. If one was in the hospital or in some sort of trouble, the others were there. The women raised smart children (seriously!), kept clean homes and cooked wonderful meals. Except for my mother, they lived in Texas all their lives. Five of them remained in the same small town.

Pauline loved to paint. One of her paintings hangs in my living room and another hangs in the hallway. Pauline taught Sunday School at First Baptist for decades. She was the best cook I ever knew. My mother was a wonderful cook too, as all the sisters were, but Pauline was a genius in the kitchen. Her dishes were homespun, but they were all fabulous. At about age eight, I ate so much of her tomato soup I almost made myself sick. My mother's recipe box, now mine, contains dozens of recipes that are designated, "Pauline's."

Pauline had married my dad's cousin, "Pee Wee." Pauline and Pee Wee lived on a farm, and after they grew more affluent they turned the little house into a lovely brick ranch-style home. Later, she nursed Uncle Pee Wee through blindness and then a brain tumor, sitting at his bedside for hours as he lost his sweet personality, then his senses, and then slowly died. It was agonizing for Aunt Pauline, as was the tragic and untimely death of her only son. Through it all, she kept her head high. She also kept her faith in God, her love of her family, her pride in her grandchildren, and later great-grandchildren, as well as her zest for life. Her clothes were always lovely and fashionable, her hair "coiffed" weekly at the beauty shop, and her makeup tastefully applied.

Years ago, when my mother got "strange" my Aunt Pauline was the one sibling who really believed my father's heartbreaking and shocking stories of what life with Leta had become, but she never stopped believing the best for her sister. My dad loved her for that, and he stayed friends with Pauline and Pee Wee till he died, even after my parent's strange and sad divorce.

My mother disappeared for several years, a sad and bizarre story. When my late sister, Darlaine, located her in a California "board and care" home, a frail shadow who at aged 55 looked about 95, it was her brother, C.G. who convinced her to come home to Texas. It was exactly the right thing for her to do, and she regained much of who she was, teaching the Bible, leading a prayer group, and working in a little clothing store until (at age 85) she finally retired. Her family had welcomed her home, and my mother was there as one by one her siblings grew older and passed away and only she and Pauline remained. My mother lived in Texas for about 30 years until she finally grew frail and forgetful and came to live with us. Not long afterwards, Pauline relocated to an assisted living facility in Ft. Worth near her daughter, Shirley.

The sisters' last good bye broke our hears as the two elderly women, both still lovely, embraced for what would be the last time. They wept, knowing this. I got teary-eyed too. They had grown very close in their older years, sharing prayer, dinners, shopping and trips to the doctor.

For some time Pauline has lived on "borrowed time." She pulled through things that would have finished off a weaker person, and for several years she lived, unaccountably, with only about one-third of her heart intact. She lost her eyesight too, and she was no longer able to cook or to paint. She told me it was hard to leave her hometown behind and move to Ft. Worth. but she stayed positive, calling my mother at least once a week to check on her and hear the latest from faraway Wisconsin. She knew Leta was "mentally failing" but it still hurt Pauline when she heard of my mother's stroke and subsequent move to the nursing home. No more phone calls.

Recently Pauline had grown more vague in her thinking, but for someone in her nineties she remained remarkably lucid and interested in family, politics, the news, etc. She was sad to be unable to attend my mother's funeral, and Paulette and I cried as we looked at the beautiful spray by my mother's casket that simply said, "Sister." Pauline had won the rather macabre contest as to who would survive to be the last of Papa and Mama's brood.

We have one aunt in-law remaining, but the last of my mother's remarkable family of origin is gone. To the end she remained faithful to God, concerned about her hair and makeup, fashionable, and connected to those she loved. I like to imagine that she is having a wonderful family reunion now.

But to me it feels like the end of an era. How can it possibly be that all of them are gone?

A Wonderful Tribute to My Husband

2009-07-03T18:06:00.004-05:00

Ken recently retired from working with Royal Ranger (a boys ministry). At least, he retired from doing it on a regular basis. He has also served as the president of a group within Rangers called Frontiersmen Camping Fellowship. They pick a fur trade era persona, and they have lots of fun learning frontier skills along with the spiritual stuff. This is actually how we got started in Rendezvous (fur trade) play acting, since he decided that the gear was so expensive we'd better use it at secular gatherings as well.

This was recently published in their newsletter, and since Ken never blows his own horn (and doesn't often have someone else blow it for him) I am copying it here.

A Tribute To Our Outgoing President, Bearded Eagle

Heart. This is the first thing that came to mind when I was asked to say something about Ken (Bearded Eagle). He is the "mountain" in mountain man, not just in stature but in heart. Royal Rangers is just a part of Kens ministry. Doing God's work is his life, joy and substance. Ken can yell at you and you thought he paid you a complement, and the job was done better for it. I have run into men here in Milwaukee...one asked if I knew Ken George. I said, "You bet I do." The man said, "Commander Ken led me to Christ, and that changed my life. Tell Ken I said thanks." I don't know his name but he works at Sam's on HWY 100 and National, so if you are there and wearing a Ranger shirt he will probably say it to you too.

Most of you know Ken works...as a chaplain counseling both the young and the old men in prison...These men will do anything for Ken, and do it with joy. When you are in Ken's camp you can't help but notice the wooden table, chairs and kitchen sitting in front of his lodge. Most of these were made by...[inmates]. He has made a strong impact for Christ Jesus on their lives also.

Generosity is the next word that comes to mind. When you enter Bearded Eagle's camp there is always a place to rest your bones, sit and talk a spell. His camp has every thing he needs and everything others need. Just bring it back when you are done. Bearded Eagle doesn't bring all these extra things for his use; he brings them for anyone else who needs them. A lot of [the gear that the district FCF] has was given to us by Bearded Eagle. For the past 6 years so much more has been implemented to make our chapter what it is today. Bearded Eagle has the spirit that, "If it can be better, let's do it better and make it better." That is what he has always tried to do and will still do as long as he is able...

Persevere. Some of us will grow old, some gracefully some not. Some of us will never get the chance to grow old. But if you do, look at Ken. In spite of what his body is going through, he still tries to make every event. Ken wore a foot cast most of last year, and he kept up with everyone else--or he was ahead of every one else. (Right now his leg is in bad shape and he needs healing from Jesus so keep him in your daily prayers so he can continue to join us in all of our activities.)

If you need something that Ken has he will gift it, sell it, or trade it...use Ken as the example and keep on going and stand strong. When you feel you can't, continue to stand firm and keep going. It may not be graceful, but he keeps on going, never gives up, never surrenders, always perseveres.

Ken has big shoes to fill, and I am glad I don't have to be the one to fill them. In the past 6 years FCF has become more exciting, challenging, and fun to both teach and be a part of...Ken answers to...God, and each of his ministries are God-centered and inspired. A program is man-centered; a ministry is God-centered. Ken has ministries.

Respectfully Submitted -

"Midnight Bear"

Litttle Big Foot: Stained Glass

2009-06-30T09:58:00.018-05:00

If you would like to start at the beginning of the "Little Big Foot" story, click on the link at the bottom of this post or the one in the sidebar. When you are redirected, scroll down to the bottom of the page.

If you would like to hear Keith Green's song "Stained Glass," click here.

Dee Anna, wearing loafers, blue jeans and a green t-shirt, sat alone in the silent sanctuary of Eastside Methodist Church. She had finished packing the last box of books from her office, and she was tired. She had received several offers of help, but she had wanted to finish that particular packing job alone.

Splashes of color from a nearby window cascaded across the carpet and over the window sill, turning the rays of sun into a work of art all their own.

Dee Anna smiled, picturing the mosaic of color as tiny angels who had come to encourage and comfort her. She giggled aloud when she realized that the angels she was envisioning looked a lot like the three plump fairy godmothers in Walt Disney's classic film,"Sleeping Beauty."

Leaning against the hard back of the pew, she closed her eyes with a long sigh. The melody and words of a Keith Green song drifted through her thoughts.

We are like windows,

the bright colors of the rainbow...

She remembered how she used to listen to Keith Green as she studied in the little dorm room she shared with a preacher's daughter from San Antonio. It was her freshman year of college. Her roommate had been a very devout and outspoken girl who often talked about sin and the need for a national revival. Dee Anna hadn't liked that so much, because it had reminded her of her father. Still, she and her roommate had shared a love of music and of Keith's passionate longing for holiness and a spiritual awaking in the churches of America. In those days Dee Anna had been an idealistic fundamentalist, a young woman who thought she would change the world as soon as someone gave her a chance. She would share the love of Jesus with children, and she would have a lasting impact on young hearts and minds.

She had passionately believed that each person is a unique and beautiful creation of God. She still believed that, she acknowledged to herself. She had also believed that all that was necessary to flourish was to be saved, pray hard, and read the Bible every day.

It was a long time since she had believed that.

She had tried to take the good things from her childhood with her and leave the bad ones behind. The problem was, she thought sadly, the bad things just wouldn't stay put back in her home town. They drifted into her dorm room, her children's church classroom, the seminary library as she worked on her thesis. They followed her to Dallas as she attempted to forget all she had been taught. They floated with her as she prayed at midnight in a downtown Catholic church, and they had even managed to drift northward to Madison.

Like the colors from the stained glass, they tinted her life. But the tints were not lovely. They were gray and black and dark blue, and the shadows lurked, sometimes just out of sight, but always there.

We are like windows

Stained with colors of the rainbow

Set in a darkened room

Till the bridegroom comes to shine...

She opened her eyes and looked up towards the altar area with its stained glass portrayal of Jesus as the shepherd. No stained glass at North Woods Chapel, she thought, but there are sheep. People in need of peace, in need of encouragement, in need of God's amazing grace. She recalled the unusual stillness she had experienced as she sat on the bed in the parsonage and again as she had stood in the pulpit. She wondered about the awareness she has sensed of tired, weary people. Had that really been God? Did God really think she was the one to help them?

She spoke into the stillness, as a long-ago pastor's face swam into her memory, an elderly man who had loved the 23rd Psalm and had taken a kindly notice of the little girl with red hair.

"The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He maketh me lie to lie down in green pastures,

he leadeth me beside still waters,
he restoreth my soul."

She would miss looking at the picture, she thought. She sang softly to herself and to the imaginary cluster of angels who frolicked on the windowsills and carpeting.

My colors grow so dim

When I start to fall away from Him

But up comes the strongest wind

That He sends to blow me back into his arms again

Ah, the wind, she mused. The ruach of God, the breath, the soft brush of air, or the mighty rushing wind. Thank you, Lord, for your sweet Spirit who never leaves me or forsakes me. I do not deserve your care over me, but I thank you for it. She stood and moved to the aisle.

We are His daughters and sons

We are the colorful ones

We are the kids of the King

Rejoice in everything...

And then the colors fall around my feet

Over those I meet

Changing all the gray that I see

Rainbow colors of the Risen Son

Reflect the One

The One who came to set us all free.

Are God's colors falling across those I meet? Have I really made an impact for the Kingdom of God in this place? Dee Anna wondered, thinking that it was certainly true that the spiritual hues of Eastside's people had fallen across her.

She moved to the steps that led to the altar area. Stopping, she gazed at her familiar surroundings. "I love this place, God" she said aloud, not sure if she was happy or unhappy that it was so. It just is, she thought. It just is.

She ran her palm along the altar rail, loving the soft sheen of it, the smooth surface, the memories of sharing the bread and cup as she stood at this spot. She went up to the pulpit and stood behind it, gazing without really seeing the empty sanctuary. Instead she saw her congregation--the "colorful ones" of this place. Closing her eyes once again, she saw the sanctuary as it had been yesterday.

The children were in the service because it was her last Sunday as Eastside's pastor. Some were restless, but some watched her intently. She sat on the steps and had the children gather around on the floor as she shared a last children's sermon and told them she was proud of them. Many of the children had hugged her before returning to their seats, and that had brought a lump to her throat.

She also remembered that her daughter Madeline's face had worn a sad expression. She had sat next to Melanie, her best friend. Melanie and Madeline, the two "M's." A smile passed over Dee Anna's face as she thought of Melanie's crop of braids, each with a pink bow, her shining smile, her smooth dark brown skin. The two girls had hugged each other and cried after church, and

Dee Anna had promised that Melanie could come up for a visit.

Melanie was the granddaughter of Leroy the gardener. Leroy was a life-long Southern Baptist and had told Dee Anna he would die a Baptist, but his daughter, Kendra, had come to Eastside as a pregnant single woman. She had sat across from Pastor Dee Anna in her office, twisting her hands nervously as she shared how far she had come from what her mama had taught her. She was involved with a man who was "no good for me," she had related, and she had said to Dee Anna, "I tried to talk to the pastor at Daddy's church, but it just didn't work. Daddy Leroy told me to come talk to the nice associate pastor at Eastside."

Michael and Dee Anna had reached out to the young woman, not sure how she would be received by the members of their all-white congregation. It was not an easy time, and leaving the boyfriend had been tumultuous, but the mother-to-be had stuck to her declaration to "turn things around for this baby that's coming." As it turned out, Kendra had quickly won the hearts of almost everyone with her quick smile and her willingness to pitch in and help wherever she was needed. After a few months, others of Leroy's family had drifted in, and Leroy had begun to attend Eastside about half the time. "I didn't know how I'd take to hearin' a woman preachin' the Word," he had admitted to Dee Anna, but I surely do like you, anyhow."

She was happy that the once all-Anglo congregation now had a sprinkling of others--a few Hispanics, Asians, a Hmong family, and a group of Nigerians, several of whom worked at the University of Wisconsin.

As she stood feeling a bittersweet kind of thankfulness, she continued to picture the individuals who made up the congregation of Eastside. Funny how church people always tend to sit in the same pew, she mused. Some had been challenging, to be sure. Some had left the congregation after Michael died and she had become the pastor. Others had loved her with an openness that had surprised her.

Not everyone had been overjoyed when their attractive young pastor had married a relative newcomer, but most had been glad to see he had found love again after the tragic deaths of his wife and parents. When he had been killed, the people had mourned with his wife and young daughter, bringing food, sometimes little gifts for Madeline, and volunteering to help however they could. They had, for the most part, been patient as Dee Anna put the pieces of her life back together, even as they, too, grieved the loss of their charismatic and and likable minister. She had been surprised and grateful when they had asked her to stay on as their pastor.

"Only Mrs. Herndon probably had a clue just how bad it was," Dee Anna thought, picturing her dear friend on the right hand side, about half way back. "God, bless that precious woman. How could I ever repay her many kind deeds?"

We are like windows

Stained with colors of the rainbow

No longer set in a darkened room

Cause the bridegroom wants to shine from you

No longer set in a darkened room

Cause the bridegroom wants to shine from you.

Dee Anna opened her eyes and wiped them with a tissue from the box she always stashed in the pulpit. She suddenly realized that the muscles of her legs were stiff and getting stiffer. "Too many boxes, too many books, too much squatting" she thought, reaching down to massage her calf. As she did, her gaze fell on Michael's Bible where it rested on a small inner shelf of the pulpit. It was a warm brown leather with gilt-edged pages. She had given it to him for his birthday the first year they were married. After he had died she left it in the pulpit, somehow feeling that a part of him remained at Eastside--with her-- at the pulpit. She bent and removed it from the shelf, caressing the gold letters of the name that she had requested be embossed on the cover.

Michael David Hanson

"How could I have not packed this?" she chided herself. She suddenly, and quite unexpectedly felt a shrp stab of something like panic, and then a wave of sorrow that seemed to flow like hot liquid from her feet up to her chest.

Shocking her, tears began to flow and a quiet sob soon turned to gasps that turned to groans. "Oh, Michael. I miss you. How can I not stand in your church, your pulpit, how can I not open the pages of your Bible to share the sermon with your congregation? How can I leave this place where you helped me find God, find hope, once again?"

She knelt behind the pulpit, grasping the Bible to her chest and sobbing. She remained on the floor, splatters of light falling around her until slowly the torrent of tears lessened and her sobs grew softer. It had been a long time since her grief had felt so raw, so fresh. A bit shakily, she grasped the sides of the pulpit as she stood to her feet and took a long breath.

The colorful "angels" were gone. It was getting darker in the church, and she knew Mrs Herndon and Madeline would be waiting with supper at Mrs. Herndon's little home. She would spend the night there and then they would begin the trip north.

She turned to the stained glass portrayal of Jesus the Good Shepherd. "I will see you in Little Big Foot, okay, Lord?" She gulped back the last of her tears as a chuckle escaped her lips.

Walking to the door that led to the hallway she glanced back for the final time at the pulpit, awash in the dimly waning light of a late-summer sunset.

"Good bye, dear Eastside. Good bye, Michael, my love. It really is time for me to move on."

Doin' It Right at Thornapple Covenant Church

2009-06-25T21:31:00.005-05:00

If I were able to relocate to Grand Rapids, Michigan, I would apply posthaste to be the new pastor at Thornapple Covenant Church. I'm on a sort of Christian Job List that posts positions for clergy and others. I don't know why I even clicked on this one, because
1. I am not able to move to Michigan and
2. I am not ordained with the Evangelical Covenant Church.

I have a soft spot in my heart for them, however. This dates from when Ken and I were pastors of a small Assembly of God congregation whose church building sat diagonally across the street corner from the small Evangelical Covenant Church. I don't remember how it came about, but we became good friends of the Covenant pastor and his wife, and I learned a little about their denomination. There was much I liked. We held a joint VBS, did outreach together, had a potluck or two where both congregations came.

The Thornapple Church website needs some work, but a look around was so encouraging. From all I can learn they are doing it right. They have the best mission statement of any church I've ever seen, and maybe also the shortest. Ready? Here it is.

Helping people find and follow Jesus Christ.

They caught the essential mission of the church in seven words! Bravo! From their website I surfed over to the Evangelical Covenant Church in America website. I just had to share the "commitment" statements I found there.

What are we committed to?

Reaching the unchurched, particularly the emerging generation
Pressing forward in ethnic ministry and diversity
Extending greater measures of compassion and justice to the poor and desperate
Attending to the health of existing congregations
Forming spiritually mature disciples who live out obedience to Christ in the world
Calling forth and equipping women and men for all levels of church leadership
Pursuing expanded strategic global opportunities and partnerships.

They are focusing on the emerging generation, deliberately embracing greater diversity, expanding the focus on justice and compassion, helping their churches be healthy, affirming the equality of men and women in ministry, and reaching out to the world.

WOW! Exactly right!

Thus ends my advertisement for Covenant churches. And old friends Dave and Alexis Davidson, wherever you are, I hope you are blessed and a blessing to many. I'm so sorry we lost touch.

Aletheia Praise Night at the Prison

2009-06-24T09:07:00.009-05:00

Last night was the monthly "Aletheia praise night" at prison.

Aletheia means "the truth that is revealed" and is the name of a weekly Bible study at the prison where my husband is a chaplain. It was given that name many years ago by a chaplain who encouraged inmates to be seekers of God's truth. The gathering is unique for this prison in that some inmates are given a ~~leadership~~ helping role. After the chaplain gives everyone a sheet with the topic/scriptures/questions for the evening, volunteers and an inmate helper guide discussion in several small groups. This is not the only Bible study opportunity, but it is the most well-attended one and includes both Protestants and Catholics and both English and Spanish speakers.

Aletheia Bible Study has continued mostly with volunteers from Reformed churches who have been coming in for years. And I mean many years, long before my husband arrived, and he has been the chaplain there for close to 20 years. Some of these dear people are in their late 80s or even their 90s.

The chapel is not air conditioned. It has tiny windows. The back wall of the chapel (an attractive building with singularly poor design) is glass and faces west. This means that in the summer months the chapel becomes an oven.

I don't usually attend the Bible study nights, but I do occasionally show up to sing at these once-a-month evenings of music, poems, testimonies and rap. As I've noted before in posts about prison, the most challenging individuals to deal with are usually not the prisoners but are the gatehouse guards--the guys who decide whether one comes in or stays out. This is a position of quasi power, and for some individuals that is not at all a good thing. Last night the guards included "Mr. Grump," an older man with a perpetual frown and a constant bad attitude, and someone I'd never encountered before. Many of the gatehouse staff know I'm the chaplain's wife, but he did not. I'll call him "Mr. Unknown." I'll use MG and MU, and SO for me.

AT THE GATEHOUSE

I found a parking space and entered the gatehouse, just outside the razor wire fencing. I was the first volunteer to arrive. Mr. Unknown greeted me with "What are you doing here? Do you know what a bad day it is to be in the chapel? Do you know that it is at least 110 degrees in there?"

Me: "Yes." Smile. "I'll be okay."

MG: Harumph!

MU: "I can tell you there is no way in *&% that I'd be in that chapel today. If I were you I would have found something else important to do, or pretended to forget or something." Head shake.

MG: "Drivers license." He's never one to use two words if one will do. He has seen me dozens of times and knows who I am. He always acts like he has never seen me before. I hand it over, with a big smile and a "How are you tonight?" He does not respond and he does not look at my driver's license either. He just pushes it back on the counter.

MU: "There's no way anybody but you is showing up on a day like today. You are probably gonna be the only volunteer tonight. I bet the inmates won't come either. I mean, it's hot in the housing units, but not as hot as that *&^% chapel. I bet no one is over there. Are you sure the chaplain even came to work there today?"

This conversation is going on as I remove my watch, glasses and belt and proceed through the metal detector.

MU continues: "Do you know you are gonna sweat buckets in that sauna? I hope you don't pass out."

SO: "I'll just pretend I'm at a spa sauna! I'll probably lose five pounds! It'll be great." SMILE

MG: Snort

MU: . "If I'm gonna voluntarily sweat it'll be for something important. Nothing important about tonight at the chapel...."

SO: Actually, being at the chapel does me a lot of good. Probably more than a spa.

MU looks at me like he just stepped in dog doo doo. Right about that time five volunteers show up. Four of them are 80+. So much for me being the only fool to attend chapel, but there is no comment from MU. MG checks them in and they pass through the metal detector. To their credit, MG and MU were quick and efficient and made no difficulties. They were, in a stiff way, kind to the old people.

MU: "Do you know it has gotta be over 110 in that chapel, folks? Maybe 120?!"

AT THE CHAPEL

The sun blazes in. The lights are off. Two fans blow the warm air around. The guitarists are tuning up. One man, a long-time guest of the prison system who had formerly sported a long pony tail has a buzz cut. I ask him about his hair and he tells me that he grew it for "Locks of Love."

Many guys greet me. One, a remarkable Christian brother with the most beautiful smile I may have ever seen, says as he shakes my hand, "We heard you resigned your church. I know you have prayed for me, and now I'm praying for you, sister. I know God has something wonderful for you. You know you are always gonna be 'Pastor don't you, Miz Chaplain G.?"

The evening begins with the Gospel Choir, who sing the best version of "Blessed Be Your Name" that I have ever heard (the newer praise chorus, not the old hymn). As they sang, "You give and take away" my eyes filled with tears. The Spanish Choir sings. One of the Hispanic guys shares a testimony and says this is his last Praise Night because he is leaving the institution. Loud applause. He says he is happy tonight, not just to be going home but to share in praise to God with his brothers who have blessed and encouraged him. Not a churchgoer on "the outside," he came to chapel at the urging of a friend. He stayed and found God. More loud applause.

I sing. Next up is Bob. Bob is 89 or 90, one of those volunteers who has been coming in for a long time. He says he learned to sing hymns as his mother played their old piano. He sings an a capella version of "I Love to Tell the Story." He is seated to a standing ovation. What a blessing to these inmates that an elderly white man from a small town has been ministering to mostly guys from the inner city, and doing it for decades. And doing it in a chapel where all were sweltering.

We shake hands and wish God' s blessings on the men as they depart.

AT THE GATEHOUSE

MG is silent as he checks our hands for the stamp that says we are not inmates. :-)

MU: "You all survived! It was hot as blazes in there, wasn't it? No way I'd have been in that chapel tonight. Go home to your air conditioning!"

Bob: "Yeah, is sure was hot. I think it is a disgrace that the chapel is not air conditioned, and you can tell someone I said so! We had a great time praising the Lord though."

MG: Stares

MU: "I hope the inmates appreciated it. Was anyone there?" Smirks.

SO: "Oh, they came. They always show up for Aletheia Praise Night."

I think that perhaps a little seed was planted in MU's heart. My husband likes him, says he has a good heart, and was surprised to hear of his comments. Will you say a prayer for him today, and MG as well?

Pondering a Pile of Dirt

2009-06-18T18:34:00.001-05:00

Isaiah 61:1-4

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me,
Because the LORD has anointed Me
To preach good tidings to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives,
And the opening of the prison to those who are bound;
To proclaim the acceptable year of the LORD,
And the day of vengeance of our God;
To comfort all who mourn,
To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes,
The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.

Not far from here is a fragrant, flower-covered hill that is perhaps 25 or 30 feet high at the top. I couldn't really capture the glorious color, but these pictures give you an idea. It is large enough to be visible from a distance.

Isn't that glorious? You cannot see it in the photo, but this little hill sits off the side of the road because of nearby construction. Last year the beautiful mass of color was just unsightly dirt and debris left over from excavations, and bulldozers unceremoniously piled it on the side of the road. I remember driving past and thinking that they should have at least put it back from the road a bit. I wondered if someone would eventually move it.

Winter comes, as always here, with plenty of ice and snow. The unsightly brown hill became a mound of glistening white. As the first hints of spring warmth arrived, bits of green sprouted here and there.

Then one day, seemingly overnight, I drove by and saw that the ugly and useless pile of dirt had become beautiful--covered with green grass, purple phlox, and wild yellow mustard! I wish I had taken a picture then. The mustard plants soon disappeared and the phlox seemed to expand daily to eventually cover the hill in a fragrant mass of color.

I don't know if some anonymous nature lover decided that the ugly dirt pile needed to be something else--and spread phlox seeds all over--or if somehow it just "happened" as seeds that lay dormant were stirred up, left to the sunshine and rain and--voila--something beautiful grew.

Phlox grows wild here and right now it can be found in many fields, ditches and tall grasses.

I do know that what was a pile of dirt and debris a short time ago is now so lovely that I stopped to take a picture, and I've seen others doing the same. I pass this mass of flowers almost every day and I always feel a little lighter of heart, wondering how such a thing came to be.

The words "beauty for ashes" kept coming to mind. Beauty for ashes? When one is in a metaphorical ash heap, it is hard to imagine beauty. The Isaiah passage is one that Jesus quoted, saying that it was fulfilled in him. The Lord Jesus Christ is the One who heals, consoles, comforts, and transforms us.

I choose to consider this metaphor of new life as a special gift of God to me in difficult days. Each time I pass it (almost every day) I pray that the Lord will give beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, a garment of praise instead of a heavy spirit. I ask that for myself, and I ask if for others who are waiting for the promise of beauty to be fulfilled.

I am praying for you. According to the passage, the end result, friends, is that God is glorified. May it be so!

Little Big Foot: Afterwards

2009-06-13T10:10:00.004-05:00

The Reverend Gene Young was tired. Knowing the meeting at North Woods Chapel might run late, he had made a reservation at the Little Big Foot Motel. After the business meeting had concluded he had spent a few minutes with the three deacons. Now he sat on the side of a squeaky double bed, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to unwind. It was after 10 p.m. he noted, staring absently at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. He wondered if he should set the alarm or if he would wake up in time to get a reasonably early start. He pondered the merits of a shower, decided to forgo it till morning, and bent to untie his shoes.

What an evening, he mused as he undressed. Moving to the small bathroom, he washed up and brushed his teeth almost without thought. Folding his clothes neatly on a nearby chair, he donned pajama bottoms and pulled the curtains open so the morning sun would wake him. It had been pleasantly cool when he'd left the church, so he decided to open the window. Then he climbed between the sheets. Ah, he thought, it feels good to stretch out. Yawning, he listened to crickets. Was that an owl?

He wondered if he should call his wife and then decided it was too late. He closed his eyes with a sigh and in his mind saw the church sanctuary as it had looked earlier that evening. He tried to empty his thoughts, but was unsuccessful, thinking of the various questions, comments, concerns. Annoyed, he wondered why he always had to rehash everything--as if there was anything to be done one way or the other!

"Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee" he quoted from the King James. He always thought in King James when recalling a verse. "Lord, I'd like a peaceful night, please" he said aloud.

Had he been too blunt? he wondered. Not blunt enough? Well, judging by the questions and comments that had followed his little speech he had at least got them thinking. He wondered about the deacon board, wondered about the initial question from the short, blond man, wondered about the concerns over Dee Anna's single status, wondered how Dee Anna would take his report. Would she be relieved?

He turned over and fluffed the pillow. Okay, he thought to himself, enough already. It's done. Well, done for now, anyway. What would come next? Had he been right to suggest to his former student that she take a harmless trip to Little Big Foot? He thought of her late husband, his friend Michael, and felt a gentle wave of sadness. Dee Anna had adjusted well, he thought, after the initial shock, but how long would she want to stay in the Eastside manse that held so many memories of their life together before Michael's tragic accident? He wondered about Madeline. She seemed to be all right, though he knew she missed her daddy.

Remembering he hadn't set the alarm, he decided to chance sleeping till he woke on his own. Leaning sideways, he turned out the light and felt the darkness surround him like an embrace. Silently, he prayed for Dee Anna and her little daughter, for the congregation of Eastside Methodist Church, and for the people of North Woods Chapel. "Oh, dear Lord, may your will be done, Amen" he concluded aloud. He pulled up the quilt till it lay under his chin.

He faintly heard the clock in the Episcopal steeple chime eleven. A few minutes later he was asleep.

+++

Next morning, Gene Young awoke to the sound of his cell phone playing a manic version of the 1812 Overture. Disoriented, he sat up and blinked. Sunlight streamed across the rust-colored carpet and illuminated the little motel room. It was hot. The phone stopped ringing. Rubbing his eyes, he slowly swung his feet over the side of the bed, which responded with a creak. What time is it, anyway, he thought foggily.

On the wall opposite the bed hung an oil painting done in improbable greens and blues, a lake scene with pine trees and reflected pinkish clouds. A buck stood under a large tree and geese flew in the sky. Ah yes. Little Big Foot.

The clock on the nightstand said 8 a.m. He usually didn't sleep past 6:30, he thought to himself. He must really have been tired. Business meetings could take it out of a guy. As he stood and padded to the bathroom he wondered who had called.

Emerging from the shower, he was awake and clear headed. He pulled on his clothes and then checked the voicemail on his cell phone. The call had been from his wife. Well, he'd call her from the restaurant, he decided. As he ran a comb through his abundant silver hair, he looked out the window. Last night he'd pulled into the front parking lot of the old-style motel. He hadn't know what was behind the building, and it had been too dark to tell when he'd opened the curtains last night. Now he gazed at a wide swath of green lawn that was bordered by a strip of weeds and wildflowers. Beyond the weeds was a dense woods of pine and hardwood trees. I could get used to this place, he thought, as he turned to arrange his suitcase.

Not long after, he sat in a booth at one of Little Big Foot's several "mom and pop" establishments. This one was called Wilderness Cafe. After giving the pleasant young waitress his order he sipped a cup of black coffee and dialed his home number.

His wife's soft voice answered on the first ring. "I saw it was you calling," she said without saying hello. "So how did it go? What happened? Are you calling Dee Anna Hanson this morning? Are you on the road yet?"

He laughed. "Okay...plenty...yes...and no, I'm about to eat some breakfast. I sort of slept in." He spent a few minutes in further conversation before a plate of golden pancakes arrived. Sniffing appreciatively he smiled at the waitress as she refilled his cup, a heavy ceramic mug with a deer depicted on the side. "Well, breakfast is served, babe. I'll be home in a few hours."

His chair faced the entrance to the little cafe and afforded a good view of some of the town's folk as they entered the building. The restaurant seemed to do a good business. Always interested in people, Gene Young noted that most of the patrons were men. Several sat at a long breakfast counter and read the newspaper or joked with the wait staff. Most of them wore baseball caps, some with the Milwaukee Brewers or the Green Bay Packers logo, some said John Deere and some advertised corn or seed. Most of the men, and the few couples, seemed to be working-class people. It was Saturday, however, so maybe they just were dressed casually because they were about to start of day of fun--or work around the house. Everyone was white, except for a couple of men in jeans and tee shirts who appeared to be Native American. He briefly thought of Dennis Whitewater and his lovely wife. Was it Marla? Such nice people.

In addition to what were clearly regulars, several families sat at tables. Judging from the clothes, the kids, and the way they looked around when they first entered, he guessed these were tourists spending a few days in Wisconsin's northern vacation areas.

+++

Dee Anna and Madeline were spending the day in Door County, a beautiful peninsula jutting out into Lake Michigan. They had driven up the length of the county after a night in an Algoma motel, stopping in several of the little towns. "Tourist traps" thought Dee Anna. The little highway had been crowded--many people having decided to take a last-minute trip before summer vacation ended. In Egg Harbor, Madeline had bought a snow globe for Mrs. Herndon. It had a light house inside.

Now they sat in the sunshine at a picnic table, licking ice cream cones. It was tradition that when they reached the tip of the peninsula they would stop at the fish store. It was not to buy fish, it was for ice cream. It was always odd, thought Dee Anna, to buy ice cream in a little shop that reeked of fresh fish. That was why they always ate the ice cream out back in the little park. Gulls soared in the sky, filling the air with their shrill calls. Madeline chased one across the lawn. Children laughed. A baby cried.

Madeline returned to the table and her ice cream, chatting happily, "Mommy, Door County is a funny name. Where is the door?"

"Well, kiddo," answered Dee Anna, "actually the name was "Door of the Dead." Madeline stopped licking her ice cone to stare at her mother.

"Early French explorers named it that because the the passage at the tip of the peninsula was so treacherous. It later was shortened to just Door County."

Madeline turned her globe upside down and chattered about whether Mrs. Herndon would like it, adding, "There's lots of lighthouses around here, huh, Mommy?"

Dee Anna nodded. "There were many lighthouses because there were many ships. The one in your globe is the one in Sturgeon Bay, but there are ten in all. Maybe some day we will come up here and take the lighthouse tour."

As she listened to Madeline talk about lighthouses and wonder how it would have been to live in one, Dee Anna's thoughts were about the meeting at North Woods Chapel. As she wiped ice cream from Madeline's chin and tossed their napkins into a trash can, she determined for about the tenth time, not to think about anything but what they were doing at that moment.

They walked to the pier and looked at the Island Clipper, one of the boats that made the short voyage to nearby Washington Island, waving to a group of women who stood on the upper deck.

They bought some jars of Door County cherry jam, one for them, and several to give away. They sat by the water and laughed as the wind blew their hair. After a while they headed for the parking lot and located their car.

Dee Anna's cell phone rang.

She had been waiting for a call, but when it came she wished it hadn't. She struggled to get her cell phone out of her purse before it stopped ringing.

"How ya doin,' girl?" It was Brother Young's hearty Texas-style greeting. With a sudden lurch in her stomach, Dee Anna did not immediately reply. "Hello? You there, Dee Anna?"

She swallowed. "Yes. I'm in Door County with Madeline. Let me sit down in the car. Please, hold on." She settled Madeline and helped her fasten her seat belt, and then she climbed behind the steering wheel. "Well," she asked quietly, "How did it go?"

"Well, Dee Anna, there was a good turn out, lots of discussion--an' only two "no" votes in the whole count. Not bad, you know. Unanimous is nice, of course, but this is not bad. Not bad at all."

Dee Anna rested her head on the steering wheel. She didn't know what to say. "Mommy?" said Madeline from her car seat. "Dee Anna?" said Gene Young on the cell phone. In unison, she heard both voices say, "You okay?"

She laughed a little breathlessly. "I'm fine, sorry. Just not sure what to think."

Conversation With a Budding Biologist

2009-06-11T18:30:00.005-05:00

Those of you who know me at all, in real life or just in cyber space, know about Trinity, who is about 2 and 1/2. I cannot overstate what a blessing this little grandchild has been to her "Papa" and me. She is the bright spot in a very difficult few years, and she helps us look to the future with joy and hope. Today she was picking wildflowers in her yard with intense concentration. You can see it on her face in the picture. The pretty little flowers are called "Indian paint brush." Trinity is quite a conversationalist.

Here is a little of our conversation today.

Trinity: HELLO, Grandma! Come see my flowers. We have to pick them.
Grandma: We have to pick them?
Trinity: (With that look she gives me that says she wonders why I am so dense), Yes, Grandma. We have to.
G: Okay then, let's go. We walk out into her large yard and she takes me to the flowers. There are many. She points, with authority.
T: You pick here and I pick dose over dere.
G: Okay
T: Grandma, we need more. We gots to pick more.

After intense and focused flower picking:

G: I'll be right back. We need a glass to put these in.
T: Okay, Grandma. Thanks, Grandma.
G: Here you go.
T: What you gots for da flowers?
G: A glass.
T: That is my glass! Not for flowers, for me!
G: It is still your glass. You can drink out of it when the flowers are gone.
T: Oh! Big smile. Okay, Grandma!

In the house:

T: Here, Grandma. Puts more flowers in da glass
G: Can we put the glass in the window here so Mommy can see it?
T: NO! I gots to hold dem! They my flowers. I hold dem!

When I mentioned that she would not be able to hold anything else if she held the flowers, she looked concerned and handed them over. At that point she heard a bird from outside the window and announced:
T: Hear it? Thass a cardinal! (She was correct.)
G: You are right. And what is that bird on the clothesline?
T: Thass a woodpecker, Grandma! (She was correct.)
We went outside, and picking up a flower pot she asked,
T: You want to count with me? We count da pots!
G: Okay. (After some counting, she picked up a pile of those little plastic things with a picture and the name, that go in pots, and she showed them to me.
T: See, Grandma? I has lotsa pictures of flowers! That one is yalloh. Is a marigold! (She was correct.)

Then we went to the chicken coop, and she announced,
T: Baby chicks are getting big, Grandma! They not babies so much anymore. Then she pointed to her chest and smiled and added
They growing, just like me!

At that point a bluebird hit the glass window and she looked up with great concern on her face.

T: Whassa matter that bird? What that bird doing?
G: I don't know. Maybe it sees itself in the window.
T: I go see outside now, Grandma. You stay here and watch da chicks for me, okay?
G: I'm coming outside too.
We look around and she says, "It a daddy bird. It have a nest somewhere."

Then she sees my fingernails with a coat of polish (not usual for me) and says, with enthusiasm,
T: Nice fingers, Grandma! They brown!
G: Well, sort of brown I guess.
T: They brown.
G: Okay
T: See my toes? They pink toes, Grandma. Mommy makes my toes pink.
She then stuck out her tongue and added
T: My tongue pink too. Kool Aide makes my tongue pink, Grandma. Is you tongue pink too? Lemme see, Grandma!
Then she pulled up her shirt.
T: Thass is my belly button and thass is my nipples. You gots them too, Grandma?
G: Trying hard not to laugh Yes, Trinity. Everyone has a belly button and everyone has nipples.
T: EVERYONE? Oh!

I'm exhausted from all this conversation. And she has started asking, "Why?" Oh dear.

Hanging Around the Veteran's Administration Grounds

2009-06-04T21:08:00.005-05:00

Last week Ken and I went to Milwaukee's Veterans Administration (VA) hospital. Ken was being evaluated in the "Pension and Compensation Clinic" and we had to start early in the a.m. Because of that, and the fact that we live a ways away, we went to Milwaukee and spent the night on the VA grounds in Domiciliary Building Number 43. I don't think I have ever before seen the word domiciliary.

The hospital is located at one end of the 25-acre property--beautiful property that includes rolling green lawns, a small lake, stately old trees, historic and interesting buildings, and the VA cemetery. I always find VA cemeteries so sad--the rows of identical little white headstones seem to go on forever and they seem so dreadfully anonymous. We passed the cemetery and a historic but sadly dilapidated chapel building (with a large sign on the side "We Need Your Help to Save Our Chapel"), and we arrived at #43, a building containing what is named the "hoptel." Veterans can stay there free of charge if they need to be at the hospital early. It was obviously also some sort of residence--I mean domicile--for veterans in need.

We entered the building and passed by the friendly "gatekeeper" who was manning a sigh-out book for residents of the building. Several disabled veterans were sitting on a bench just smoking, passing time and chatting, watching who came and went.

As with every VA facility I've ever seen, there was a general air of shabbiness. Where is it mandated that VA facilities are painted with ugly colors? No sage greens, creamy yellows, sea foam or cornflower blues here, just brown, ugly mint green, and bright aqua that made me think of the 1950s. We were checked in by a friendly employee in a cramped office filled with old furniture, battered file cabinets, and dingy walls. We went upstairs and found our room. It was pretty much as we had expected: two twin beds neatly made with white sheets, old mattresses, plastic chairs, second hand-store-style lamps. The bathroom was shared with the room next door, which (happily)remained unoccupied while we were there. The bathroom was equipped for wheelchair access, and while clean had clearly seen better days--cracked tile, old fixtures, wavy mirrors.

We dropped off our bags and went downstairs to the dining room. It too was brown. Nondescript brown floors, brown Formica-topped tables, brown wooden chairs, and beige walls. There was an old upright piano on one wall, one bright poster and one wall hanging that declared "Freedom Isn't Free." Otherwise the large room was bare. It was stuffy and overly warm to us, but we noticed most of the occupants wore long sleeves and even jackets. Dinner was fried chicken, canned black-eyed peas and collard greens (southern night at the domiciliary building?). It may have been the worst fried chicken I ever ate and the rest of the meal wasn't much better. Some men sat alone, heads down. Others sat together at the tables, and listening to the conversation was enlightening, sort of.

One Table
First vet: Hey, glad to see you back. How was the weekend?
Second vet: Okay, I guess.
First vet: Did you get laid?

Second Table
First vet: Hey man, what's going on tonight?
Second vet: a movie.
Third vet: *&^%*#@ movies.
Second vet: So, stay in your room and stop bitching.
First vet: So did you hear from your daughter?

Into the room came the guy from the entrance. He loudly announced that something (I didn't hear what) was missing. Had anyone seen it? Someone saw a white guy with a black shirt and white letters in the hallway. The white guys, and a few black ones, said they didn't know anything. One guy opened his jacket and said, "See, my shirt has no letters. Now go away."

All the staff and nearly every vet we saw smiled and greeted us, except for the one with no legs who sat in a wheelchair on the small sidewalk outside and smoked. Most seemed like individuals who were on the margins, guys who might be homeless if they didn't live at #43. Most were middle aged or better, but some were young. I noticed, as I have before, that nearly every Viet Nam era vet has a beard. Many have longish hair, some have ponytails. I wonder, are they all aging hippies? (Yep, my husband has a beard too.) I said to Ken, "I wondered how they come to live there. And I reflected on how many veterans are homeless on the streets of the USA. Especially Viet Nam vets. This is, I believe, a national disgrace.

There were signs of various kinds everywhere. Many of them were permanent and screwed into the walls. If you were putting up a permanent sign wouldn't you make sure it was reasonably straight before screwing it down? The number of seriously crooked signs was mystifying to me. Ken said, "volunteer labor." Maybe so.

Next morning we had a breakfast of powdered eggs and nearly burnt toast. I tried the oatmeal--a mistake. I've worked for large kitchens before, and I found myself wishing I ran this one. The staff was helpful and smiling, but their cooking was abysmal. They were on a tight budget, no doubt, but still...

There were more sad-eyed men, shuffling, in wheelchairs, smoking, but usually smiling and greeting us. I think it is sense of shared history, of fraternity. We would not have been there unless one of us was a veteran, so we were "in the club" so to speak.

At the hospital it was, as always, more of the same. Amputees, bearded middle-agers, full waiting rooms, long waits. A general air of shabbiness. Cramped offices. Equipment not new. Many employees of the VA do seem to be very caring individuals. I wondered how many of them worked in the hospital or other places on the installation because they genuinely care. Quite a few, I suspect.

And I am left to wonder, Why is the lovely chapel in such sad shape? Why is it that those who have paid a severe price for their service to the country--broken minds and bodies--aways seem to get leftovers? When I consider the federal budget and how it is being spent--well, something is very wrong about that.

First a Little Fun, then a Little Update

2009-05-31T23:26:00.005-05:00

A bunch o' chicks have arrived at Trinity's home.

Here is Kris, teaching Trinity to "pet very gently."

And Daddy, who has transformed an old chicken coop into what we are calling "The Chicken Hilton."

A little "Rhode Island Red." These are -- or will be-- the laying hens who will hopefully produce lots and lots of eggs for the family to sell.

And the pretty little yellow ones will be...ulp...dinner some day. But not for a long while. Aren't they just the cutest little things?

Now the update. Ken is slowly continuing to improve. His appointment with the infection specialist was delayed, but he is off the IV antibiotics (though the IV line, called a PICC is still in place) and taking two different oral ones. It has been over a month since we first visited the Emergency Room. He is hoping to go back to work part time soon.

First, however, comes a visit to the Veterans Administration Hospital for a whole day of evaluation for disability payments. We leave tomorrow, spend the night, and he will spend all day Tuesday getting poked, prodded, questioned, viewed and reviewed. He has received a small check from the USMC for years now, but there is a good possibility that this will be greatly increased because of long-term diabetes-related issues and consequences of a knee injury incurred while working for Uncle Sam. You know, bad news and good news. This is "good," because...

I am still unemployed. Still looking daily. Still praying "fervently"about minsitry opportunities and trying to trust God and do what I can in that arena...but mostly, right now, just needing to work somewhere. The situation is getting drastic. Wal Mart? Maybe. Nuff' said.

It seems that Ken's brother Kevin, who I wrote about here, will be coming to live with us in about a month. We thought this was going to happen just about a year ago, but he had a heart attack and was unable to travel, and other things changed. This time it looks pretty certain. He is an amputee, and there are lots of other issues. We look forward to it, but it will be challenging for all of us, especially considering our finances. Kevin gets disability, but...

Well, see you when we get back from the VA.

Little Big Foot: Mary Gets a History Lesson

2009-05-29T22:35:00.008-05:00

If you would like to read the "Little Big Foot" story from the beginning, just click on the link at the bottom of this post, or the one in the sidebar under "Labels." While Little Big Foot is a fictional town, and there is no Eastside Methodist Church in Madison, the other places I have mentioned are real. It is true that many Pentecostal churches in Wisconsin were started by women and also true that this is not widely known.

Mary Coats had not known what to think when the pretty redheaded preacher had visited North Woods Chapel. Until Lee had told her about it, Mary had never seriously considered the idea that a woman would choose to be a pastor. Mary had watched the visiting minister share her testimony on that extraordinary Sunday with such a confusing swirl of emotions and thoughts that it had made her feel almost ill.

She knew that her husband was not happy that Brother Young had suggested this woman come to preach for them, nor that the other deacons had agreed. One evening after a board meeting he had told her, in some frustration, "I do not understand how a man like Gene Young can even suggest this. The Bible is clear that a woman is to be silent in church, is not to teach men, is not to be in authority. I mean, he is a man of the Word!"

He had sighed as he sipped the iced tea Mary had brought him. "It isn't like we don't know that men and women are equal." He had smiled kindly at his wife and she had listened sympathetically as he went on, "It's not like we don't have plenty of places for women to serve. Doesn't he understand that we have God-given roles? God made men to lead. It started out that way right from the git-go, right from the Garden of Eden!"

Mary had patted his arm and nodded, listening. She loved her dairy-farmer husband, and loved that he had always been gentle and patient with her. "Like you, sweetheart," he had said with a smile. "You always understood that a woman's highest calling is to be a wife and a mother, and I love you for that. I'm glad you never got ideas that you didn't need a man to love and protect you." He had stood to his feet and stretched, grinning at her, "Of course, that's why I married you when you were still young and not set in your ways."

She had smiled back. "Why would any woman want to be in the ministry?" she had wondered aloud. "Who needs that kind of stress? A woman wouldn't be able to deal with that for long."

Then came the Sunday when Dee Anna Hanson had been the visiting minister at North Woods Chapel. As she listened to the young woman share a little of her early life, Mary had found herself leaning forward, fascinated. Occasionally she had caught herself and shifted back in the pew, glancing at Lee. She related to so much of what she heard, and once or twice she found herself wondering what it would be like to finally share her own story with a pastor.

She almost forgot that it was strange to see a woman standing in their pulpit and blessing the wine and bread at communion. It seemed undeniable that the Holy Spirit had done something unusual in their midst that summer morning. On Sunday night Mary had been surprised at Dee Anna's sermon. She was afraid to admit it to herself, but she did realize that it was the best sermon she had heard in some time. She and Lee had talked about it as they lay side by side that night. Lee had agreed that the Lord had been with them, and that he could find no fault with the sermon, or with the woman herself. "I like her," he had admitted, holding Mary's hand in the dark. "Actually, I tried not to like her."

Mary had laughed a little then and confessed, "Me too. But I did like her, Lee. I liked her a lot." Lee had squeezed her hand, where it lay on top of the sheet. A warm breeze had been blowing, she remembered. And she also remembered that Lee had turned to her and said, "Hey, don't go gettin' ideas! Or maybe just maybe get some different kind of ideas."

He had laughed and rubbed her cheek with his beard, and then they hadn't talked anymore...but later, listening to her husband's steady breathing as he slept, Mary had lain awake and wondered. She had prayed softly, "God, if it isn't right, why did so many people respond? Why did I want to listen to her some more? Why did I sense your presence in the stillness, and in that woman's words? Is their something we just don't understand? And God, what about Lee?" Her thoughts tumbled like clothes in a dryer, she thought, smiling at the image. She finally told herself, "Well, I won't worry. I bet this will be the end of it anyhow."

Now, several weeks later Mary sat in the North Woods Chapel sanctuary by her husband, remembering these things and feeling tense. She hadn't expected this meeting to be happening. Part of her heart was longing to know what it would be like to have Dee Anna Hanson as her minister. She knew that a part of her actually hoped that the lady preacher would be voted in, and she felt guilty about that. Most of all she was afraid. What would happen if the people voted for Pastor Hanson just because they liked her? What would happen to their church, to Lee and the others, and to her if they went against the clear message of the Bible?

As the meeting began, Mary sat quietly, hands clasped in her lap. She hoped there was no conflict. She hated conflict. Everything had gone fine until Bob Tucker had stood and asked his questions. What would happen now? Mary watched anxiously, glancing at Lee who stared straight ahead as Gene Young stepped away from the podium and Jim Johnson came back.

There was a pause, and then Brother Young began to speak. "Friends, I need to give you a very short history lesson." He began to pace slowly back and forth as he spoke, unconsciously adopting a mannerism from his days as a professor. " The Methodist movement began with brothers John and Charles Wesley. Pentecostalism grew out of Methodism and the nineteenth-century holiness revivals. There is evidence of Wesleyan teaching in the classic writings of many Pentecostal leaders. In short, we who call ourselves Pentecostals are rooted in the Wesleyan theological tradition. John Wesley is one of my favorite theologians, if one is allowed to have favorites in the ranks of church fathers." He smiled and then went on for a few minutes, speaking about John Wesley, circuit riding preachers and brush arbor revivals.

Then he stopped and said, "Well, please excuse me. I find church history fascinating. I will just add that the famous William Seymour, the preacher of Azusa Street, had Methodist roots. My mother, God bless her, was a Methodist too. Are some Methodists too liberal for my liking? Sure." He looked directly at the questioner. "So are some Pentecostals. And some are too rigid, my friends. Do you realize that we have our own questionable practices? We are not here to debate the merits of other denominations, though I understand that you may have concerns about the fact that Reverend Hanson has been a pastor in a different church tradition. She was one of my students in Texas at Bible college and she served as a children's pastor before going to seminary. I lost track of her, but one day I saw her at a prayer gathering in Madison. That was a surprise, almost too much to be totally coincidence. We got reacquainted, and she introduced me to her husband, Michael. We became good friends, and I want to make it very clear, a finer man of God I never knew. I never heard a better preacher, but more importatnly, he was a proclaimer of the good news of God's love by how he lived. Michael Hanson was a fine example of what a follower of Jesus Christ should be. He was courageous, gracious, steadfast, a great father to his little daughter. I miss him. Please do not insult his memory."

The congregation waited as he resumed the chair and Jim Johnson was seated. Then he went on, "The deacons have discussed a few doctrinal issues with Pastor Hanson, and we will be happy to share some of that with you. However," he paused and stood very straight, "we will not turn this meeting into a debate on denominations. And what is more, as regards women pastors, perhaps some more history is in order. Are you all aware that a woman founded this church?"

"How did I not know that?" thought Mary.

Stop the Presses: Susan Boyle has feelings!

2009-05-29T09:20:00.004-05:00

This is an excellent article. The fact that it STILL needs to be said just makes me furious. Susan Boyle is not the ugly one, folks. I'm not saying that her outburst of profanity was a good thing to do (if it even happened--it was reported in British tabloids). But imagine the stress this unknown woman has endured for the past several weeks as she was catapulted from obscurity to instant fame. And no, we do not need to describe men the same way. We need a crash course in basic human respect. Arrrgh!

Rolf McPherson, son of Aimee Semple McPherson, Has Died

2009-05-25T11:15:00.005-05:00

Rolf K. McPherson, son of Foursquare Church founder Aimee Semple McPherson, died last Thursday, aged 96.

When his famous (some would say infamous) mother died in 1944, Rolf took over the radio station his mother had founded and several other corporations, including the International Church of the Foursquare Gospel, and L.I.F.E. Bible College, now known as Life Pacific College. He also became the pastor of Angelus Temple, a church that had a capacity for seating over 5,ooo--not so unusual now days, but striking for the time.

The son of a Methodist father and a Salvation Army mother, "Sister Aimee" had built her ministry with a combination of drama, music, and a flamboyant preaching style. Criticized for her "antics" some would say she was just ahead of her time. I tend to agree about that, though I am well-aware that there were some highly questionable things about her life as well. Even her death was questionable.

Nonetheless, there were many things to admire about this woman--a person who defied the man-made restrictions of her day and blazed a trail for many women who came after her. Rolf McPherson seemed to have many of his mother's positive traits and not some of the less-desirable ones. As far as I ever knew, he was well-respected by his peers. Under his leadership, the Foursquare Church grew to a membership of several million worldwide. Today the Foursquare Church is found in 63 nations and has about 60,000 churches.

As a young teenager In the mid-60s I attended an Angelus Temple Sunday night service--my first Pentecostal service. I never forgot it. I was astonished at the emotional worship displayed by the congregation--all those hands in the air! And everyone praying out loud at the same time! Eyes closed? What was that about? I came home feeling a little smug about my more sedate Baptist worship style. Hearing that the church had been started by a woman was just plain weird to me and just added to my opinion that, while these people were probably sincere, they were misguided at best. Life is ironic, isn't it?

However, there were elements of that service that stayed with me. I've written about that before, and that isn't the point of this post, except to note that I recall standing in front of an enormous glass case somewhere in Angelus Temple that contained many crutches and other devices for aiding physically ill or disabled people. I didn't know what to think. I still don't. I have prayed many prayers for someones healing. I have been present when a healing that occurred was undeniable and verifiable. Still, I am sceptical of much of what passes for "healing" ministry today.

Regarding his mother's prayers for the sick, McPherson said in an interview a few years ago, "They used to bring ambulances and stretchers, and they left empty. Often Mother would-right in the middle of her message-go down and pray for somebody on a stretcher. They would get up off the stretcher, and the stretcher would be carried off empty." He believed in the veracity of his mother's ministry, and he once remarked that he had been part of the greatest move of God that the city of Los Angeles would likely ever experience.

Reading of Rolf McPherson's passing reminded me of my long-ago visit to Angelus Temple. If the crutches and other artifacts I saw in that glass case were from genuine healing miracles...well then I know of no one today who is experiencing those kind of healing gifts in their ministry. Not in America, at any rate.

I wonder why? I wonder, are we so disgusted by the antics of some of the more "renowned" charismatic or Pentecostal healing ministries or methods that they will simply never happen again? Was the Holy Spirit doing something remarkable in those days that simply is not happening now? Is it a general atmosphere of unbelief?

Don't you envy the ease with which Peter and John must have been able to share the good news of Jesus? I mean, so far no one has been healed when my shadow fell upon them.

The scriptures list ministries of healing among the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I say, please, Holy Spirit, reveal yourself to a hurting world. Use whomever you choose. Use me, if you will. Give us people of passion and purity and devotion in today's church, of whatever denomination.

Little Big Foot: The Congregational Meeting

2009-05-22T22:02:00.006-05:00

The Reverend Gene Young stood in the rear of the North Woods Chapel sanctuary gazing forward at the pews. A good number of people had come out for the meeting, and he noticed that the four deacons were all near the front and that each one's spouse was present. Good.

The long sanctuary windows were open to the late-summer breeze. The pleasant sound of crickets filled the room and a red-tinged sunset lit the sanctuary with a rosy glow. After the initial rustle of people entering, signing a roster, greeting friends and shuffling into pews, it had grown unusually quiet.

Deacon Jim rose from his seat on the aisle and moved to the front of the room, standing near the altar table at a lectern that two teenage boys had brought up from a basement classroom. Jim seemed relaxed. He rubbed the top of his head as he began to speak, but only his wife, Lorene, and a few who knew him well realized that he was not quite as composed as he would like.

He welcomed the gathered congregation, thanked them for coming and called the meeting to order. He briefly prayed for God's blessing on the meeting that was about to commence and introduced their guest. He asked Brother Young to explain the evening's proceedings and to serve as the chair for the meeting.

Gene Young was in his mid sixties, with thick silver hair, a ruddy complexion, long arms and legs and large hands and feet. He also possessed a warm smile and affable manner that sometimes, along with his Texas drawl, concealed his brilliant mind. His blue eyes, wrinkled at the corners by years of sun and wind, missed little. He moved to the front and prepared to begin the meeting.

"What a beautiful evenin' the Lord has given us. And what a great turn-out! Thank you, friends, for taking the time to be here. We all are aware that this church has been without a minister for some time. Many have been praying earnestly for the Lord's direction as we go through the process of discerning who should be your next pastor. It has been a privilege and a joy to work with this great board of deacons." He paused to glance at the four men seated to his left. "Thank you, each one, and thank you to your lovely wives as well. I know you ladies have had to give up your husbands quite a lot more than usual."

He paused, looking intently at the congregation, and then went on, "I hope all of y'all had a chance to meet Dee Anna Hanson a few weeks ago when she led your Sunday morning worship. I know that Lee and Jim have already reported to you regarding the Sunday they all visited Eastside Church in Madison. I have spoken at length with your deacons. I have also spoken at length with Pastor Dee Anna."

Brother Young stopped and cleared his throat, looking out at the assembled people. On the second row, hands clasped, sat Dennis and Marla Whitewater. Marla smiled and nodded slightly. Jim and Lorene sat near them. Chad sat just behind Dennis, looking intense, as usual, as he tossed his hair back from his forehead with a nervous gesture. "Dee Anna was right," Gene Young thought. "He really does look like a young Donald Trump." Next to Chad sat Lee and Mary Coats. Lee' s arms were crossed and Mary looked at her lap.

He went on, "Most of you know that North Woods Chapel operates under what is called a 'congregational' form of government. This means that those of you who are members of this church will be voting this evening. Your deacons have had many questions for me and for Dee Anna Hanson, and they all know that some of you may have questions as well. Please be courteous." He spent a few more minutes talking about Robert's Rules of Order and outlining the agenda for the meeting. Then he walked to the front of the center aisle as he said, "I'll be frank. Reverent Dee Anna came here at my urging. As many of you know, she is the pastor of Eastside Methodist Church down in Madison. Her husband was the senior pastor there until his tragic death a while back. The congregation asked her to stay on, and she has done so, serving with distinction."

"I suggested to your board that they invite Pastor Hanson to come in view of a call. He smiled as he added, "I suggested the same thing to Dee Anna, but she was not enthusiastic." A few people frowned slightly.

"However, after several weeks of prayer, conversations, and a second visit with these men," he gestured towards the deacons, "she has agreed to consider serving here. As I said, the board had many questions for me, and there were some concerns." He paused, and took a deep breath. "However, they wisely decided to put the matter before you for a vote, after time for discussion." He stopped, allowing them to absorb his comments.

At the rear of the sanctuary, sat a group of about 15 teenagers. They were quiet and seemed to

be listening carefully. There were several others who looked to be in their 20s. Brother Young was a little surprised to see so many young people present.

There were several couples, a few people who sat alone, and a group of elderly women. Behind Lee and Mary Coats sat a couple who were both wearing overalls. A few people appeared to be Native American or perhaps Hispanic, a Black couple sat across the aisle from the teens. Two middle-aged women sat together on the front row, right side.

"An interesting bunch," thought Gene Young, as he asked for a reading of the roster. Next, he asked Dennis Whitewater to read a statement from the deacons. Dennis stepped forward and in his characteristically direct way began to speak.

"I want to tell you that we did not come to this position hastily. We met at length. We were not all on the same page, it seemed." He looked straight forward, avoiding eye contact with any of his fellow deacons. "We agreed to a sort of compromise. We would meet with Brother Young here and ask him some specific things. One of those things was about the biblical stance on women preachers. After asking him many questions we decided to speak to Pastor Hanson once more. Then we went to Madison, as I think you all know. We watched her with her congregation, took her to lunch, questioned her some more. We prayed, and prayed, and then we prayed some more." He smiled.

Marla nodded at him encouragingly. He went on, "Only then did we determine, even though we were still not in complete agreement about everything, that it seemed the right thing to do to commend her to this congregation." Since things are a little unusual this time, we asked our brother presbyter here," he nodded at Gene Young, "to come as a representative of the district."

He continued solemnly. " In Acts, chapter 15, the early church had a problem. At first the followers of Jesus were all Jewish. But then many non Jews became believers. That was good, of course, but questions and disputes arose. Some people were upset that these new believers were not circumcised and did not follow the Jewish laws. The apostles themselves did not all agree about what to do with the Gentiles who were becoming Christians. The church was changing. At the end of what was probably some pretty heated debate, they decided to write a letter and send it out to all the people. Here is what they said, 'Therefore we are sending Judas and Silas to confirm by word of mouth what we are writing.'"

Dennis paused once more. "This is powerful stuff, I think. Listen to this next part...It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us."

The people in the pews were silent, gazing at him. "Did you catch that? It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us. We believe that whatever else she may be, Dee Anna Hanson is a remarkable woman of great strength. We believe the anointing of the Holy Spirit was evident when she was here with us. We welcome your questions but we believe we must allow the Holy Spirit to guide us in what might be an unexpected direction. We are not certain what will come, but we believe that you, the people of this church, will try to do what is right. If we follow the leading of God, well, it will be good to the Holy Spirit and to us."

Dennis returned to his seat. He let out a long breath. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it. Marla squeezed his hand. "Good job," she whispered softly. Brother Young returned to the podium and after a few more remarks, he opened the floor for questions. There was a long moment of silence. Just as it was getting uncomfortable, a short blond man stood to his feet abruptly.

"Well, I will get this started," he stated. "Somebody has got to." He glanced around for a moment, and then he looked at Brother Young." Why are we talking about a woman as our pastor? Wasn't there any man who wanted to come here?"

Chad frowned and abruptly shifted in his seat. Marla glanced at Dennis. Mary twisted her hands in her lap. Lee remained expressionless, and Jim and Lorene both sighed quietly in unison, turning towards the speaker. Most in the congregation looked uncomfortable. A few nodded, and a few frowned. A teenage girl made a not-quite audible comment to the boy sitting next to her.

"Well," thought Gene Young, "might as well get right to it."

Before he could speak the man blurted, "And another thing, why are we considering a...a Methodist? Those Methodists are all a bunch of liberals!"

"Well," said the chairman calmly, " let's take the second question first. I believe that in the question-and-answer session you had when she visited here, Reverend Hanson spoke about this with those of you who were present. Isn't that rignt" Several heads nodded. Pausing, he looked intently at the blond man, who sat down. "As I mentioned, her husband, Michael Hanson, was the pastor at Eastside. I met Pastor Michael several years ago." He stopped abruptly. "Brother Jim, please come to the podium. I would like to briefly turn the chair back to you. I would like to speak from the floor."

Spring Has, at Last, Sprung at the Owl Backyard

2009-05-20T14:44:00.004-05:00

Should you be inclined to click on the picture to enlarge it, you will see Trinity's swing and the ever-present dandilions. The crabapple tree is gorgeous, and I could not do it justice in a picture.

Pastors and Other Intersted Persons!

2009-05-18T18:08:00.005-05:00

I am sending out a brochure I made to let pastors and others who make such decisions know about me--my experience, particular emphasis, generally my availability. Sort of

"HAVE BIBLE--WILL TRAVEL"

Yow! I really dated myself with that one, didn't I? Anyway, if you would like one mailed to you, please send your snail mail address to me (or I can send the doc. to your email inbox, but it won't look great) here

dkgeorge AT charter DOT net

removing spaces etc. Thank you.

A Friends Friday Five

2009-05-15T12:54:00.008-05:00

A new F.F. hostess for Rev Gals, Jan, has been thinking about friends. She says, " Being an only child (all growed up) who moved around a lot in my lifetime, friends have always been very important to me. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote: 'The way to have a friend is to be a friend.' So today let's write about the different kinds of friends we have, like childhood friends, lost friends, tennis friends, work friends, and the list goes on. List 5 different types of friends you have had in your life and what they were/are like.

Only five...that is difficult.

1. I will start with a few childhood friends. There were my neighbors Pat and Kathy, two beautiful Hispanic girls who were my best "neighborhood" girlriends for about 7 years. Their mother gave me the first quesadilla I ever ate (with her homemade tortillas!). I was hooked, so my mother started making them too, and now they are a family favorite of more than one generation. My best friend, however, was George. We played lots of imaginative games, some times with improvised costumes--cops and robbers, pirates, cowboys and Indians, Robin Hood and Maid Marian and many more. George was the one friend of my childhood who never, not once, took advantage of the nearly-blind-and-wearing-braces me. For that and many other things, I loved him. I still wonder about him. He was a very sweet boy who had what I now realize was an abusive mother.

2. High School friends. We never forget those, do we? The two who were my closest friends were Pat and Loretta. Pat was so skinny she looked like Olive Oyl. Her boyfriend was Ken's best buddy. They introduced Ken and me--and the rest is history! The other was Loretta, a beautiful Native American who I loved like a sister. I wish I knew where she is now. There is a certain song of 1968 vintage (You Were On My Mind by the We Five--one hit wonders) that never fails to make me think of her with love and appreciation.

3. Family Friends. Some family are not friends, try as one may. At least that has been my experience. Then there are those that are family AND friends--who are trustworthy and loyal and loving. And then, of course there are the family friends by which is meant FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. Oh boy, those can be strange. And then there are those friends who are just as close as if they were part of the family. Sisters and brothers, parents, children, who have no genetic connection but claim a part of one's heart. God has blessed me with some of these, who will be part of my forever family. If you are one of those, I have told you! :-)

4. Cyber friends. I would have thought it impossible, but there are several friends I have never met who are very dear to me. Those include Dr. and Mrs. Platypus, Teri, Maureen, Jeannie, and several more. There are a few who I have had the joy of meeting face to face: Ruth, Bronwen, Sharon, Cheesehead in Paradise, Psalmist, Mary Beth (all too briefly). Many of my cyber buds called, emailed or messaged me to share support and prayer during Ken's hospital stay. How wonderful to have friends in England, Australia, Ireland...and yes, they are REAL friends.

5. Church friends. Some of the people who have at one time or another shared a pew with me, or listened to me preach, are a great blessing. Of course, we all know there are some who are anything but--ha--but I have been blessed by knowing some truly wonderful fellow-believers. Some were part of church in my childhood but they are still dear to me. My beloved Pastor Stanley Polk, deacons who served with my father and loved my sisters and me, Sunday School teachers, professors....many more. Just in the last month one mowed our lawn, one sold something and gave us the profit, some gave flowers and a card that brought tears to Ken's eyes, one put gas in my empty tank, another gave me a gift certificate to the grocery store. Another cut my hair. One cried with me. One hugged me till I could hardly breathe...lol....and several have shared prayer with and for me. What a blessing that is! Especially that.

Gotta have friends!

More on Men, Women and Church

2009-05-14T09:32:00.004-05:00

There were some interesting and insightful comments to this first post. Many thanks to those who responded.

I promised a follow up, but before I get started, I'd like to answer a question. Much 2 Ponder asked about why I did not interview men who did not attend church as part of the article published in Mutuality. Good question. I was asked by the editor of the magazine to rework a post she saw here into an article, and that is what I did. There were time constraints, and while I did some further research (a closer look at demographics in my church and those in the area among a few other things), I did not have time to do much else before the magazine's deadline. Also, it would have made for a much longer article..

I would love to do this, however. I am thinking about coming up with a survey that could be used for this purpose, and I'll let you know if I do so. I will likely ask for help! Also, some of you commented last time that you were going to "count heads" at church. If you did, please comment about what you found. Thanks!

Now on to Part Two.

While there seems to be no denying that we need more men participating in our local churches, it is hard to generalize across both "sides of the aisle." Some comments came from people in mainline church traditions; others are in the evangelical camp. Are the issues different? My opinion at this point is that some are and others are not. And in this post I seem to be asking even more questions--but I hope church leaders think more deeply about this issue.

An Aging Church Usually Means One With More Women

Several commenters noted that in churches where there are more older people it is not surprising that the women outnumber the men, since that is true in the population at large. Ruth says, "In some ways I think the age difference is more noticeable than the gender issues." Gilly says, "It seems to me that churches that attract families, have men in the congregation. Where young families do not attend there is a preponderance of women. So the aim would seem to be to attract families, including the men. If you 'catch' the children, you 'catch' the women...If you 'catch' young men then you get the women along too." LutheranChik seems to confirm this when she says, "In our church we have a good male/female ratio, I think because we have an influx of younger families with kids..."

In the first church Ken and I pastored, the women outnumbered the men by about 1/3, but a large part of the congregation were over fifty; several were in their 70s or 80s. None of the books or articles I read about gender disparity and the supposed "feminization" of the church mentioned age as an issue. It seems that a church (or a denomination) that notes an aging demographic increase might need to think about attracting younger members instead of a single-minded focus on manly ones.

Spiritual Cotton Candy for Women Versus Meat for Guys-- Could it Become the Opposite?

Some noted that women's ministry sometimes tends to be spiritual fluff, with the meat reserved for men. Bad Alice calls it, "bland...on women's topics." I hope that this is an unconscious thing and not intentional, but I have no doubt that it happens. Not long ago I attended a function that was advertised as a "Prayer Retreat for Women." Prayer was a small part of the proceedings. Instead we got decorating tips, tips on how to be submissive wives, personal testimonies from women (while those were good, they were not meat) and a speaker that was so girly (for lack of a better word) I could hardly stand it--and I was not alone.

I believe this is at least partly due to Victorian ideas of women as more fragile and less intellectual than men. The woman of the 21st Century is vastly different than those of a century ago--not in innate intelligence or ability, but in her perception of her "place" and what she can or cannot do. Some segments of the church, it seems, have yet to realize this.

Ironically, however, if you take even a casual look at the 'manly" genre of writing you will find a fairly negative stereotype of men as, in Murrow's words, "less studious than women" as well as less disciplined and more juvenile. Frankly, I am mystified as to why any intelligent man finds this anything other than laughable. Any men out there who can help? Please chime in.

However, might we find in the not-too-distant future that women are seen as studious and spiritual and men are seen as wanting something less? A family member recently told me about attending the men's ministry gathering at his church for the first time. He is intelligent and studious and was looking forward to prayer and some study of scripture. Instead it was an evening of watching a football game on the church's big TV. Not even a simple devotion was offered. He did not give it another try.

Is it a "Lack of Male Leadership" Issue?

Here is a quote I saw recently, from a Men's Ministry director, "The great majority of ministry in Protestant churches...is like the Titanic..."women and children first." God appointed men to lead. Men don't follow programs, they follow men."

Is it true in your church that a disproportionate amount of money and attention goes to women and children? It wasn't true in my church. And what about that claim that men follow men?

Rev Sis seems to have a healthy balance of men and women serving at her church, but she expressed some of the concerns I had too, saying, " My concern is in addressing the needs of men as a female pastor. Some will come to me with their issues but not nearly as many as women." I wonder, do male pastors have this problem with their female parishioners? In a male-dominated clergy, do women open up to their pastors, or do they find other avenues for help?

Sally says, "I think that almost 70- 80% of the Church in the UK is female, but the leaders are still mostly male." Gilly, also from the UK, says, "I've never met 'girly' worship, but I have found...powerful worship which both men and women have participated...I have heard boring sermons from both men and women! If it really was a matter of men v women 'up front' then surely those churches that forbad women to be ministers would be full of men? And they are not."

LutheranChik's church has a balanced male/female ratio and "a balance of women and men in leadership positions." On the other hand, P.S. notes, "Currently our whole paid staff is women and a good strong part of the volunteers are men. It has been an interesting evolution of leadership...in the "old days" when the man pastor did everything, the men...didn't have to do much...[for] women...there were always the kitchen and cleaning duties...duties with the children...We now assign both men and women...men used to just wait around for the wives to finish in the kitchen; now they are in there pitching in."

I found that remarkable, and if she is on to something, having a woman in the pulpit would not have a detrimental effect on men volunteering--in fact the opposite might actually be true. Thinking back to my own church, we had men serving alongside women in every ministry team of our church (except the women's group, of course). My husband was the only man who volunteered for nursery duty, but I think that will change too. As noted in the magazine article I found that the churches near me had about the same ratio of males to females, regardless of whether the pastor was a man or a woman. I don't find much, if any, evidence that male leadership translates into more men in the congregation.

Are Women Dissatisfied Too, but Stay Anyway?

Kristen's church is growing and has a balance of men and women. But she notes that some of her acquaintances attend churches where there are more women than men. She adds, "Some of these women have told me that their church isn't really that great for them...the sermons don't engage them...the worship doesn't uplift them...but they go anyway, out of a sense of duty and 'for the children.'" She wonders if cultural conditioning plays a part, saying that if men don't like going to church, they just won't go. Women, on the other hand, are much more conditioned to do things because we feel obligation or duty. She concludes, "So for some churches...maybe sometimes nobody really wants to be there. But the women are the ones who stick around anyway."

Are "Masculine" Stereotypes Part of the Problem?

Iris said something I find very significant. "I believe that in the conservative evangelical branch we have burdened the men with this 'godly man image' which no one can effectively bear. I believe they are expected to be and do far too much and as a result they feel inferior, ineffective and eventually back completely off. If we would forget these 'roles' and images (women ones included) and just work together in the Kingdom I believe there would be a proper balance."

I absolutely agree. Those pushing the men the hardest to "step up and lead" may actually be doing the opposite. If you were a man who was not necessarily a leader, not particularly "manly," perhaps quiet, a follower, or maybe unsure of your abilities, what would you want to do when every men's leader tells you about your "leadership" role and the extra burden you bear just because you are a Christ follower who happens to be a male?

Bad Alice seems to confirm this when she notes that the men in her church are active and involved, perhaps because "...the men seem to be honest with each other about their problems and challenges (at least according to my husband). Perhaps the men at my church just feel that there is a place for them -- that they don't have to be godly, upright, and strong and they can safely admit that they aren't and be encouraged.

Love and Authenticity Not Programs and Causes

That leads to the next point. Several commented about a need for authenticity in relationships, and a sense of community that transcends divisions of age, gender, etc. Much 2 Ponder said, "One thought that I can't get away from is the fact that gender is even an issue. It makes no sense because it is contrary to the way that I believe God sees men and women." Grady says,
"Gender is real, and there are times to focus on it, but that will always be secondary to God's love and calling for each individual. I doubt that any church which is fully focused on the reality of God and His Word will have much gender imbalance."

Nightmare says he is not a "fan" of church but that this has nothing to do with being a man. He says many churches focus on "the acorns and are oblivious to the forest." He wants to see more focus on Jesus' love and less on evils to "fight." (Incidentally, the is exactly the opposite of most of the advice I read on how to "masculinize" a church.) He adds, "It seems to me I remember Jesus hanging out with lepers, prostitutes, the downtrodden, and he showed them how to live a life to honor God..., [not]...pointing fingers, talking down to them. He lifted them up, he did not shame them, they were not rebuked, they were shown love, mercy, and compassion, something sorely missing from a few of the churches I no longer attend."

My husband, Ken, sort of fits the "manly" stereotype. He is a big guy who likes sports and the outdoors and he is a natural leader. He says, "I think it is self-fulfilling statements. 'Real Men' don't go [to church] so if you are a Real Man you won't want to go. You will find something else to do with your time that is more manly. I love the bumper sticker that says 'Real men serve God.' That is want a 'Manly Man' should be doing, not letting someone else dictate their feelings or choices...It matters little who is the pastor or song leader."

After I wrote the first post about this issue, I ran across several on-line discussions about men and church. I'd like to share a little of what I found, much of which was in the form of comments to various posts. You might or might not agree. One said,

Two reasons, I think:
1) Religion is seen as a *crutch* - as something that helps you cope with life - and men like to pretend we don't need help. It's the same reason we drive in circles for 3 hours instead of asking for directions.

2) We like to think we're more logical than women. (I didn't say we *were* more logical, but we think we are.) Faith requires the abandonment of logic to a certain degree.

Another said,

"Here are some observations, not value judgments:
1) Women tend to be more emotional than men on average and religion can address this rather well.
2) Women still have the lion's share of child rearing responsibilities. Support structures such as those offered by churches, synagogues, etc. will therefore naturally see more traffic from women than men.
3) The feminization of society, and religion, continues unabated. Women will feel more comfortable with this than men -- on average.

And this from another post and another comment,

I don't think it has anything to do with religion at all, but rather with the structure of our churches. Men in general are less willing to be subservient to the authority of another than women. Following a pastor or church leaders requires deferring to their judgments over yours, implicitly acknowledging them as being "above" you at some level. Our culture makes this a negative trait for a man, but a positive for women. Also, outside of the authoritative hierarchy of the church, it is more like the family structure where women traditionally take more responsibility of organization and maintenance than men, so I'm not surprised they they volunteer more for those areas.

Interestingly, the e-magazine "New Man" featured an article last week titled, "What Does it Mean to be a Real Christian Man?" Here is a part of what was said (and I would give credit to the author but I could not find who that was).

What does the ultimate, ideal Christian man look like? That would be Jesus.

Its funny how the source of our faith seems to get lost in the debate among various Christians. Although each group claims a different aspect of Christ, I keep looking to the gospels to see the ideal godly man. Jesus had it all. Want solid thinking? How about constantly answering questions by quoting Scriptures and providing revelations from the Old Testament. Want a strong man? How about a guy who can spend 40 days in the desert without food, or sacrifice Himself for the salvation of everyone? Want a balanced man? How about a guy who treated women with more respect than anyone in His day and age.

I've almost always found that the best answers in Christianity are the most simple ones. If you want to know how to be the best Christian man you can be, look to Jesus.

Update

2009-05-12T19:48:00.005-05:00

There is Ken with Trinity a few days ago. He did manage to smile whenever she was around.

Ken took a turn for the better yesterday, so this evening he is home. He is not "out of the woods" yet, but we can do everything for him here that they could do in the hospital, at this point. A visiting nurse will be here any minute to show us how to use his PICC line (a more-or-less permanent line from his bicep up to his heart) to give him the three-times daily IV cocktail of antibiotics. Thank you, everyone, for your thoughts, emails, and prayers. Ken thanks you too! I'll let you know how he is doing in a few days.

I'm Still Here

2009-05-11T12:12:00.006-05:00

I have most of a follow-up post written regarding men and church. Thank you to those who commented...what great insights! I will try to finish it up later today. I also have part of the next LBF chapter written. I'm spending much time at the hospital. As for Ken, he saw an infection specialist today and some changes are being made. He will likely be in the hospital for another week, but that depends on progress in the leg, of course. For now, surgery is not on the table. (Pun intended!) Thank you, my wonderful friends, for thoughts, phone calls, emails and prayers. Most of all for prayers!

Meanwhile, you might want to check out a insightful and thought-provoking post called, "False Distinction Between Gifts and Roles" by Sarah Flashing, who blogs at Flash Point. I do not agree with her on everything (for example, her view on women as pastors), but she has much to say that is well worth reading. Here is a snippet from this article.

When gifts and roles are pitted against each other, an important and valid distinction is lost between self-denial and selflessness, the latter which we find as the example of Jesus who gave his life for the church. We also find that it is selflessness, not self-denial, which is the foundation for biblical submission. When women focus their energy on denying or refusing to embrace God-given aspects of who they are in an effort to preserve or protect the image they have of wife and mom, the biblical teaching of submission also falls prey to becoming an act of negation (“giving up”) instead of a positive act of love (“giving to”)...Submission ceases to be a selfless way of living and takes on the form of denying the self of pleasures or wants. It becomes a new rule instead of a virtue.

What do you think? Back later, dudes and dudettes.

Prayers Requested

2009-05-09T12:53:00.003-05:00

Ken has been battling a serious leg infection for about a week and a half. He is a diabetic, and has other leg complications. He has been in the hospital for the last three days but the leg is much worse. Horrible, actually. If something doesn't improve soon he will be having some drastic surgery to try to get at the infection.

A Buggy Friday Five

2009-05-08T08:50:00.006-05:00

Rev Gal Sophia, who lives in California, says:

As I was walking the beach today, I was surprised to find it swarming with ladybugs. The sweet little red beetles are one of my favorite insects and also my daughter's blogname... This got me thinking about spiritual insect trivia: Did you know that medieval mystics and theologians esteemed the bee for its dedicated work and transformation of ordinary ingredients into sweetness? That Spider Woman is an important creator Goddess to many Native American tribes? Or that Francis of Assisi was reminded of Jesus not only by lambs being led to slaughter, but also by worms (think "I am a worm and no man" from the Psalms)-- so he picked them up and took them out of stomping-vulnerable spots?!

In that spirit, this week's Friday Five is a magical mystery tour through God's garden of creepy crawlies!

1. Ladybugs or ladybirds? Pillbugs or roly-polys? Jesus bugs or water skeeters? Any other interesting regional or familial name variations?

Ladybugs. I used to love them until they were replaced in these parts by those annoying, smelly, biting, ladybug impostors, the Asian beetle. I don't think I have seen an honest to goodness ladybug in a long while. We don't have roly-poly bugs up here, but I remember them from California, and we called them roly polys or doodlebugs. Never heard of a Jesus bug or water skeeter??? They walk on water?

2. Stomp on spiders, carry them outside, or peacefully co-exist?

I am happy to co-exist with spiders in nature. I love spider webs, and I find spiders pretty fascinating generally. I mean, have you not read Charlotte's Web? But any spider who is foolish enough to come in my house is gonna get squished. Pronto.

3. Favorite insect?

Favorite? Hmmm...I don't have a favorite insect. See number one. I find many of them interesting, however. When I was a kid I had an ant farm.

4. Least favorite?

Cockroaches. UGH UGH and UGH. I could tell you disgusting stories from our days of military housing...Washington DC, North Carolina...but I will refrain. Suffice it to say that I once almost had hysterics just from seeing a cockroach. I'll tell you why in a minute.

5. Got any good bug stories to share?

Here is my roach story. In Oceanside, California, we lived in a charming (NOT) housing area for enlisted families called (ironically) Sterling Homes. They should have been condemned. They were WW 2 barracks that had been converted into housing, and they were pretty much reminiscent of "project housing." Ugh. They were roach infested. Periodically the bug exterminators would come through and we would have to pile everything in the center of the living room floor so they could do major bug killing. This resulted in a horrible stench of fumes, concerns that our brains were losing brain cells, totally disrupted lives---and about one week of roach-free living. The roaches, of course, just hopped over to a building that was not being fumigated and then returned when the coast was clear. The USMC would issue memos about how to keep a "clean" house. This would make me FURIOUS. I mean, it is not like just keeping one's counters crumb free will guarantee roaches will flee. Did you know that one of the cockroach's favorite foods is the glue of book bindings? Even to think of those days, and the pitter patter of little roach feet in the dark, makes me a little queasy.

Okay, here is the story. We carried those disgusting, filthy insects with us across country...and then when finally about to leave the military and head to N. Dakota to continue our education we started all out war. We fumigated, sprayed our furniture, sprayed every box before we packed it--and more. Ah, we figured nothing could survive our onslaught. Just to be safe we set off three bug bombs inside the U Haul truck before we headed west.

When we arrived, the U Haul floor was covered with bugs and egg sacks!

Still with me?

We just knew we were finally done with roaches.

We were wrong.

One day I saw ONE roach on the counter. I cried...I yelled...I mean I was seriously distraught. If one roach is on the counter....how many more lie in wait? We packed up the kiddos and we left town. But before doing so, we left the windows open. It was North Dakota, and it was November, and it was frigid. When we returned, about three days later, we did find a few dead bugs. But that was, at last, the end of the coexistence of the Owl family and the bugs. It has been a long time, but if I saw a cockroach these days I'm sure I'd still freak.

Bonus question: share a poem, song, quotation, etc. about insects.

Here is one that used to be one of my mother's favorites.

The Spider and the Fly

Mary Howitt

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,

'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."

Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.

"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"

Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "

Dear friend what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?

I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;

I'm sure you're very welcome -- will you please to take a slice?"

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind Sir, that cannot be,

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,

If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."

"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you 're pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now,

I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,

"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;

Your robes are green and purple -- there's a crest upon your head;

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue --

Thinking only of her crested head -- poor foolish thing!

At last, up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlour -- but she ne'er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

The creepy thing is, I once had to deal with a couple of church folks who put me in mind of this poem--flattery often hides evil intentions.

Wow! Who knew a Friday Five would bring back such lovely reflections? Heh heh...

A Church of Gender Division?

2009-05-06T17:11:00.002-05:00

Trevor Sykes has posted a post titled "A Church of Gender Division" over at The Scroll which is a blog from Christians for Biblical Equality. It relates to the post below, so thought some of you might want to take a look.

So is it True That Men Hate Going to Church?

2009-05-04T14:04:00.007-05:00

I am wondering about men and church. No, it is not the first time, but I would like your thoughts. Let me share a little background.

"Why Men Hate Going to Church" is the title of a best-selling book by David Murrow. At least it is a best-seller among certain church circles. I read most of it about two years ago when I was investigating the issue of men in church--or more precisely the lack thereof. I did some other reading as well, and I wrote an article for "Mutuality" which is a magazine that is published by Christians for Biblical Equality (CBE).

The article is called "Is My Church Feminized?" and if you like you can read it here.

Anyway, I printed some copies of the article to take along for an information booth at our Assemblies of God district council. A long-time pastor acquaintance stopped at the table to see what I was up to. I'll call him Tom, which is not his real name. An interesting conversation resulted.

One end of the table--me and a lot of CBE Material

The other end of the table--me and some of my own stuff.

Looking down at the table, he saw my article and took a closer look. Then he sort of backed up with an odd expression on his face--not exactly a positive look. (And on the slim chance, friend "Tom," that you are reading this post, I'm just writing it like I saw it, and I still like you.) I said, smiling, "Have a copy, Tom. I'm published!" He didn't take one, just looked at me. "Go ahead. I'd love to hear what you think, whether or not you agree or disagree with me."

"Well," he said a little hesitantly, "It is a subject I'm very interested in." "Perfect," I said. "So please do take one and give me your honest feed back." Poor guy. How could he say no?

A few hours later Tom was back. "I liked your article very much," he said, "and I tried but I couldn't really find anything I could disagree with." (An honest man!)

I admitted that I had expected him to disagree with the article. We talked some more and then he asked, "So, do you agree that the church has a problem?" I said yes, but that to blame it on women or the so-called "feminizing" of the church is a straw man (straw woman?) argument that is demeaning and insulting as well as misguided.

He mentioned the book, "Why Men Hate Going to Church." I told him I thought the book was poorly researched, simplistic, and had so many sweeping generalizations in it that I could not take it seriously. He looked thoughtful. Then (to my surprise) he said, "I think this article is really good. I think that what you are saying needs to be heard. Why don't you send it to Leadership or our AG ministers magazine, Enrichment? After a moment said I would. And I will, even though I will be extremely surprised if it sees the light of day at either of those magazines. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? I was quite gratified and happy that my friend had made such a quick change in opinion (and thanked God).

However, ever since our conversation I have been thinking. IS there a problem? According to some surveys, about 60% of the American church is female. Is that true where you are? If so, what do you think is the cause of that? If women and "feminization" is not the reason for less men in church these days, what is? What can we do? I'll do a follow-up post with some further thoughts after I give some time for others to comment.

Do You Visit "The Owl's Kitchen?"

2009-05-02T14:57:00.006-05:00

Mindy, the Princess of Everything is the opposite of me. That's why I love her. She loves garage sales, crafty stuff, making all sorts of gizmos. One thing we both like to do is to cook. Mindy asked me to enable the "followers" gadget over at my little cooking blog, The Owl's Kitchen. This is just FYI in case you like my recipes and want to know when I've posted a new one (which is kind of hit-and-miss). Thanks, Mindy, for the compliment!