Leaving Home

Later this week the movers will arrive to load up our stuff and take it to a new place. We have lived at our current address (a pleasant ranch-style house on Pleasant Avenue) for nearly 15 years.

We moved here because I was the pastor of a small church in town.  There are many posts on this blog about my life as pastor of the place once known as Jubilee Assembly of God.  When I arrived, Jubilee AG was a place with an extraordinarily difficult history and had already been a struggling congregation for many decades.  There were at least two points in its life when it probably should have closed.

Still, I arrived with a large amount of hope and a firmly-held belief that things were going to turn around.  How hard could it be to genuinely love people, preach reasonably good sermons, be honest and transparent and find ways to be a blessing in our small town?

While I will always love the people I met here, and while I affirm that God was often present in some wonderful ways, things did not turn around in any sort of permanent sense.  We grew. We shrank. We grew. We shrank.  After ten years of trying, I resigned.  Even now, more than five years later, typing those words makes my heart hurt.

I had stayed longer than any pastor who had been there, except the founding one. After me, Jubilee had an interim pastor and then two more pastors and a second name change before finally closing its doors a while back.

I have avoided driving past the church building for quite a while now.  There is going to be a "restart" that will be spearheaded by a large church about 20 miles away.  I hear it will begin this fall.  Last week I drove by.  There was a pile of stuff out by the trash--I think maybe cupboards, and a man was mowing the overgrown lawn.  I'm glad something may still happen there. I wish them the best.

Why we stayed in this town for five years after I no longer served the church is a complicated story. But now it is time to go.  If you have seen my neglected little blog lately you know that my husband, Ken, has been in poor health for about three years.  I thought a condo or senior apartment might be suitable, but Ken hated the idea (truth be told, I did as well) but his days of shoveling snow and lawn care are behind him.  We are moving to a large, two-family home south of here.  Our daughter, Kristina, son in law,Daryl, and granddaughter, Trinity will live upstairs in a nice apartment.  Ken and I will live downstairs.  It is a beautiful old house with lots of character.

The movers are coming in three days, and the house is mostly packed up.  I still have quite a bit to do, but this morning I sat out back with a cup of coffee and enjoyed my home.  The house is nothing special.  As I said, it is a pleasant ranch house. It has always seemed a bit small--mostly because there was nearly always some extra family living in it.  I won't particularly miss it.  However, I will certainly miss our one-third acre yard.

Right now, our tree-filled property is lush and and lovely.  We have a nice little deck out back.  In the long, grey days of winter I look out the kitchen window at piles of snow and I long for warmer days when I can sit in shaded seclusion.

This morning is beautiful.  It is supposed to be hot later, but right now it is pleasant and a breeze is blowing. I made coffee and went to "sit a spell" as my Texas-born mother used to say.

My elderly mother moved in with us about the time we moved to this place.  She was lonely, and it was hard to adjust from living in the south to living in the north.  She never really got over being homesick, and Wisconsin's  harsh winters were difficult. One thing she did love about Wisconsin was how green it is in summer. We used to have a covered swing on the back deck, and she spent many hours there. She also spent a considerable amount of time pulling weeds!  This morning I could almost see her in her jeans, striped cotton shirt (she pronounced it "stripe-ed") and large straw hat, sitting out near bushes on our fence line happily pulling up my poppies.  Poppies really do look like weeds until they put out flowers...I never told her.

My relationship with my mother was always complicated and usually strained.  I loved her very much though, and I was sad to see dementia take an increasing toll.  A friend from the church became her patient  companion for a while (thank you, Laurie), and then a stroke caused me to make the painful decision that a nursing home was needed.  She spent two years there before she passed away.  They were difficult years, made somewhat easier by an excellent CNA who knew her from church and loved her dearly (thank you, Kristen) and visits from a friend (thank you, Pat) who loved her like family.

Not long after my mother died, Ken's disabled brother, Kevin moved here from California to live with us. Kevin lived here for five years before moving to an assisted living place in Sheboygan for several months before his death.  This morning I closed my eyes and listened to the soft cooing of mourning doves and the trill of a cardinal singing from the top of our large birch tree.  Kevin used to comment a lot about the number of birds we had.

Taking a sip from my cup, I smiled thinking of sitting outside next to Kevin in his wheelchair, drinking coffee on a Saturday morning while Ken was still asleep.  Kevin was a character--and Kevin had "issues" and it was not easy having him here. I am glad we did though, and happy that he knew, at the end of his too-short and rather tragic life, that he was loved and valued.  How he enjoyed being part of a family.  He adored his grandniece, Trinity. And I can still see him waving at little Noah, our second grandchild, and saying "Hi, Baby!" because he had a hard time remembering his name. I will always miss Kevin.

Kris, Daryl and Trinity moved in when Kevin moved out.  It has been crowded, but we made it work. Now we move on to what will likely be our last house, and a new chapter of life.  Part of me looks forward to it, and part of me fears it.  There are lots of unknowns and things to be concerned about. But for this morning I sat on the sun-dappled deck and sipped coffee and remembered.

I thought of my mother and of Kevin, of course. But I also thought of my friend Honey sitting in the rocker in my living room and praying for the church and for me.  I thought of many conversations in the back-deck swing with Pat as we pondered the meaning of life and talked about family and read scripture and prayed. I thought of beautiful Tara sitting on the lawn with me and sharing hopes and fears. A few years back I travelled to Tennessee to conduct Tara's wedding. She is now in Florida and her husband is starting the process to become a missionary pilot.  I thought of a birthday party we had in the back yard, celebrating my 60th and Kevin's 50th year of life.  I thought of Kelly and John and Steve and Donna and Gene and so many others who have been on my back deck and shared a slice of life here. 

With deep sadness, I remembered my sister, Darlaine sitting in that same deck swing, beautiful blue eyes filled with sorrow, holding her husband's hand as we talked about her Alzheimer's diagnosis. I thought of my other sister, Paulette, visiting me and our mother as things began to deteriorate.  I remembered our shared sadness and shock at our mother's anger and paranoia.

I thought of David and Mark painting Kevin's room.  I thought of Thanksgivings and Christmastimes and how glad we were when Keith, Ken's youngest brother came to see us here. I thought of sitting with Joshua, our son, as together we pondered the implications of his approaching role as daddy.

Living in this town has been somewhat difficult for me. There have been plenty of perplexing and even frightening moments at this address.  I have walked the floor, cried, prayed, and sometimes fumed.  I have wondered if Ken was going to make it.  I have wondered who I am and how I can go on. I have felt exuberance and hope and I have felt like a pathetic failure. I have answered the middle-of-the-night phone calls with my heart pounding.

But there has also been much discovery and growth and love and laughter and joy.

I have moved many times since marrying Ken.  We lived in military housing, couples housing as we studied for the ministry, parsonages.  When the movers come on Thursday it will be move number 15.  I hate packing, loading, unloading, the mess.  I have never gotten better at it, even after 15 opportunities to improve. 

It is good to have something different ahead and I'm more than ready to say good bye to my home and hello to a new one.  It is time.  Past time, probably.

But leaving a home is always a little nostalgic.  Today I took time to say good bye.

The Motel

Every word of the following account is absolutely true. Seriously. No exaggeration is needed.

We are back after a weekend in the north woods. We departed much later than planned, so by the time we got close to our destination it was already evening. Not wanting to deal with the involved work of a Rendezvous * set-up in the dark, we opted for a motel. We stopped in a town with a population of less than 1,000, but it is the closest town to the place we were going (still 45 minutes away) .

The photo is taken from the driveway of the Capri Motel. The name was our first clue of what was ahead. What would you expect from a motel named Capri? It was one of those long, one story motels typical of thousands of American small-town establishments built in the road-trip heyday of the '40s and 50s. (Our town has one too, but it is actually remodeled and quite nice on the inside.) This one was L shaped, and it had a large amount of lovely petunias outside the office. The front lawn boasted old maple trees and a nice fire pit with wooden chairs.

I gazed at the sign though. It said a great deal about the motel. More about the sign in a minute.

We checked in and carried a small bag to the (surprisingly) No-Smoking room. Opening the door, we were greeted with a warm wash of stale tobacco air. Well, it might be a no-smoking room now, but 50 or 60 years of cigarette smoke certainly do leave a signature.

Here is the sign that welcomed us into room number nine.

We got the message--in yellow and red. The little pine tree air freshener was not helping the air quality however. The lamp to the left is hanging from the ceiling on a slightly rusty brass chain, and the wooden flower basket (actually part of the lamp) was filled with faded pink plastic flowers. Hmmm. Perhaps you can see the plastic lace mat under the lamp?

We looked at each other a bit apprehensively as we headed for the beds to give them that little trial bounce that one always does at a motel--not too good, but since there were two beds we'd be okay. One sleeper can deal with a saggy bed a lot better than two sleepers, you know? The beds had a quaint country touch--quilts. Nice thought, but they were the ugliest quilts I have ever seen, with a strange mix of dark but faded colors. They did not match each other.

We checked out the bathroom--whew--clean enough to be passable. The mustard-hued shower curtain had a curlicued crest with a gold letter C (for Capri, I surmised) emblazoned on it. There was a metal tissue box holder on the wall such as are often found in motels. It was empty of tissue, but it was festooned with a string of faded silk flowers. I was giggling by this time.

The room decor offered several more chuckles, groans, or snorts of derision, depending. We decided not to use the ancient air conditioner. The paint on the window we wrestled open was badly peeling, but a nice evening breeze did help with the warm air and the tobacco smell. The sound of crickets was pleasant.

Deciding to settle in and watch the Olympics a while, we turned back the quilts of our respective beds. No giggle this time. I gasped and then burst into laughter. The bottom sheet was canary yellow with orange hibiscus flowers. The top sheet was pink with purple roses. The pillow cases matched each other. They were another floral print, blue this time. Ken's sheets were similarly uncoordinated, and again the pillowcases inexplicably matched. His were turquoise and white plaid. We sat on the beds and howled with laughter, and Ken remarked, "Good thing we don't have to spend the night with the lights on. The sheets are so loud we'd never be able to get to sleep!"

After calming down and catching our breath, we got reasonably comfy. I noted that the night stand (decorated with an ancient alarm clock, another plastic doilley and a vintage '50s lamp) contained magazines. The first one I pulled out was a "Better Homes and Gardens" circa 1995. Quickly doing the math I said incredulously, "This magazine has been here for thirteen years! Can you believe that?" Deciding that cutting-edge decorating tips from over a decade earlier were not helpful, I opted for the next magazine, Country Living. The date on the cover? Nineteen hundred and eighty seven. Even the charms of the decor and the linens had not prepared me for a magazine that was twenty one years out of date! I found that astounding and kept wondering, "Who dusts these and puts them back and never notes that magazines from the current century might be a good idea?"

After a while I waxed a bit nostalgic, recalling trips in the days when we travelled with a child or two and a very limited budget. We had stayed in several such places, but not in a long time. And maybe not quite so--retro. Still, I remembered the rare times in my own childhood when my family stayed at a motel during a car trip. A motel was an adventure, a welcome alternative to my Aunt Velma's 30 cats-crowded house. A little room like this would have seemed fine to me in those days. Actually, if I squinted my eyes I could picture some family from the forties or the fifties rejoicing in the nice bathroom with a shower, the beds, and the country view out the window.

Next morning as we pulled away, I stopped to take a picture of the sign. Note the turquoise (screaming '50s) color of the oval that says Capri, the overgrown bushes, the missing V in HAVE. Don't miss the proclamation that this motel features color TV from RCA! The wall behind the arrow (with mostly missing flashing yellow light bulbs, now turned off in the daylight) is badly peeling. The little coachman who stands atop the gate has a badly chipped face, poor thing.

You might think we were crazy for staying in such a place. We kind of thought so too, until we remembered that we were about to dress up in 19th century clothes, sleep in a white canvas tent, and cook in cast iron over a camp fire. Or maybe, if we didn't want to rough it, we'd cook inside the lodge on our little stove.

And, to my relief, there were no visible bugs at the Capri. Yes, I was concerned about that.

And yes, the experience was a bit disconcerting but mostly funny. I meant this post to make you smile. I'm sure that when we next head up north and pass that motel sign in the nice little Wisconsin town, we will laugh, remembering. And I don't plan on staying there again if I can help it.

But I am saddened and chagrined to know that for much of the world the sad, shabby little room in a dilapidated motel would be luxury, safety, a wonderful blessing. We had hot and cold running water, electricity, a microwave and a small refrigerator (surprises) and two beds. One for each of us. With sheets and blankets and quilts. And printed material. And a television.

Most of us are spoiled rich folks, you know? We just don't realize it.

* The link is to a Plover, WI Rendezvous, but is not the one we attended. Some are open to the public, and some are for any reenactor who shows up, and some are by invitation-only.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

We are back from MO. Our rear ends are a bit sore from long hours driving home. All in all, it was a really good conference.We heard from several of our AG leaders, all good, and Alton Garrison (our new assistant general superintendent) was terrific and very funny (to my surprise). I am so happy with our present leadership and have great hope for needed fresh perspective and change. One might not think so, considering that our leadership is not young--but their vision, passion, and insight was so refreshing. We were encouraged and challenged. We ate too much southern food. We heard and we sang lots of good music. We did not sleep all that well. Oh yeah, we hung out with chaplains and their spouses. It is always interesting to do that.

The crowd at the AG chaplain's conference is unusual in terms of both genders being represented among the ministers present, racial diversity (black, white, Asian, Pakistani, Hispanic and others), and the banquet is always fun in terms of dress. The military chaplains turn out in their dress uniforms, the rodeo chaplains wear cowboy hats, the biker chaplains wear leather vests and boots--the only ordinary-looking chaplains are usually the health care or corrections people. It is a rather remarkable group of unusual, wonderful, dedicated folks who often are isolated, unheralded and unknown (except to God).

The first night, Ken wore my favorite tee shirt. Hee hee!



We have heard some very interesting comments about this shirt. Just for fun, here are two from a while back--and they are remarkable in how they demonstrate that a woman minister is apparently an impossibility in some minds:

Two young men stood behind us in a restaurant line. They did not realize we could hear them as they discussed the shirt at length. Eventually one said, "Well, I'm just completely confused. Do you think he is saying he's gay?" (This in spite of the fact that the two of us were holding hands.)

A realtor was showing us a model home and she kept glancing at the shirt with obvious puzzlement and curiosity. Finally she asked, 'Uh, so which one of you is the preacher?" I managed not to say, "Did you READ the shirt?"

This trip, someone came up behind Ken and said, "So I take it you aren't Baptist?" LOL! At least that made some sense. (Sorry, all my wonderful egalitarian Baptist buds.)

This picture is me (the round one with her eyes almost closed) and Amy Maxwell (the tiny, young one): wife, mommy of two, seminarian at the Assemblies of God Theological Seminary, blogger, fellow REV GAL, and Army chaplain in the making. Isn't she cute? We ate (sorta) Mexican food at Chipotle and talked for over two hours. We could have talked longer. It was so nice to meet you, Amy! You can visit her at Gentle Whisper.com.

This morning I visited my mom in the nursing home. I took along a vanilla shake, knowing she loves sweets and also knowing that she is growing dangerously thin. She drank the whole thing, but it took about an hour of help and coaxing. I am frightned to see that swallowing is getting almost impossible for her. I'm not really sure she knew who I was. Then I was off to my church office to open mail and answer phone messages. While I was away a single mom and her baby were in a horrific auto accident that could well have been fatal. She blacked out, hit a post, rolled over once or twice and then hit a culvert and flipped end over end three times! The car is totalled, but mom and baby are all right. I hear that yesterday fourteen teenagers headed off to camp, and a phone call today let me know that good things are already happening there.

Thanks be to God--life goes on and among all of it we are assured of the presence of the Holy Spirit.

Oh, I almost forgot! I LOVE my new GPS! Much2Ponder, we will never be lost again! Woo Hoooo!