Galileo

 Dear Boo and Bubble,

We have just had a wonderful time together in the mountains, a summer ritual that I hope will continue for many years to come. When you arrived, it was with great fanfare over awards you received both at school and camp. It won't be until you have grandchildren that you will experience the pride Captain and I feel at your accomplishments. You are great kids.

I want to focus on Bubble's award for this post simply because of its nature and links to both general history and writings from Great Grandaddy Schaefer. It is the Galileo Award, described thusly: "Galileo Galilei was an Italian scientist who supported the idea that planets reolved around the sun. The Galileo Award goes to a student who always seems to have people "orbit" around them. His/her positivity and kindess always seems to draw people in. Congratulations to Bryant Yeargin."

What an honor, Bubble, to be so described as a person. I know...I know...you're blushing right now. One of the reasons you were chosen is because of your humility--ironically a major magnet in attracting others to you. You don't see yourself as anything extraordinary. 

I want to highlight something about the man for whom this award is named--Galileo Galilei. Most all of us are very familiar with his contribution to science, known as heliocentrism, with regards to the relationship of the sun to earth and other planets. However, it may not be so well known that this theoretical revelation put him at odds with the Catholic Church. The matter was investigated in 1615 by the Roman Inquisition which concluded that heliocentrism was heretical since it contradicted Holy Scripture. Galileo tried to defend his views academically but this just further alienated him from the Pope and the church. He was tried by the Inquisition and found suspect of heresy. In order to save himself, he recanted the theory but still had to spend the rest of his life under house arrest.

Not that it was any solace to Galileo, it took 350 years for the Catholic Church to itself recant the horrendous misappropriation of judgment. Pope John Paul asked for a reversal of the declaration of heresy and he was forgiven. 

Your great grandaddy Schaefer wrote of this in one of his editorials for The Greenville News years ago. I thought it would be fun to share his words with you now.

Grandeur, Laws, Makeup of Universe Awesome

By Schaefer Kendrick

The Greenville News, Sunday, October 4, 1992

 

There is one argument a lawyer won hands down (whatever “hands down” means). He, a doctor, and an engineer were arguing about whose profession is the oldest. The doctor claimed his was the oldest citing the first operation by The Great Surgeon creating Eve out of the rib of Adam. The engineer said he had that beat, citing the first great engineering feat by the Great Engineer creating order out of chaos. The lawyer won the argument by asking the simple question: “Who do you think created chaos?”

The longer I live the more my awe is struck by the grandeur, the laws and the makeup of the universe.

We take it all for granted, but the sun does always rise in the east and always sets in the west. Gravity doesn’t work on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. It works every day, 24 hours a day. The seasons find order in their regularity. The winds seem capricious but when studied they reveal a purpose and a plan and a consistency. The moon makes its calendar by manipulating the oceans. Water refuses to run uphill. Flowers bloom in a riot of colors the human hand cannot emulate.

Two weeks ago, I was standing on the beach at Pawleys Island, SC. The sun was visibly pumping up moisture out of that vast body of water known as the Atlantic Ocean, creating clouds for the wind to push west in search of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Finding that great range, the clouds would then, drop by drop, renew the flora and fauna and in the process replenish the creeks, watersheds and rivers, the water then draining back to the ocean from whence it had come in a process of recycling for ages past and for ages to come.

Just yesterday, I picked up an acorn under the shade of a giant oak tree and pondered how could the sun, rain and soil transform this seed, which I was holding in my hand, into a tree that could hold a hundred of me in its limbs?

Then this morning I looked up at a cloudless sky at infinity. The infinity that reaches beyond the human eye, beyond the telescope, beyond the spaceship, beyond the imagination and even beyond itself.

And last night I finished reading a biography of Galileo Galilei, the genius who helped Copernicus and Newton turn the concept of the universe inside out and upside down. As I turned out my reading lamp, I issued a prayer of thanksgiving that I live in a country where the mind can explore the universe and report its findings, whatever they may be, whether they be true or false, without the fear of being tried for the crime of heresy by The Inquisition and receiving a sentence of life imprisonment, as was the fare of Galileo. The sentence was later modified and some 350 years after his trial, Galileo was officially forgiven by the Catholic Church; Pope John Paul II formally asked a reversal of the Church’s decision against the great scientist. In the following year, the Vatican declared Galileo had been absolutely right to say that the earth revolved around the sun, and announced his heresy would be reexamined. (Galileo and the Birth of Modern Science by Martin Suggett)

This is the adjudicated heretic who wrote: “The sun, with all of its planets moving around it, can ripen the smallest bunch of grapes, as if it had nothing else to do. Why, then, would I doubt His power?”

 Amen!

Wisdom of the Mountain Master

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I can't believe it's been over a year since I last wrote to you on The Bridge Project. Please forgive me for the lack of inspiration, but honestly that's something over which I have no control because it's a quite illusive thing. Today, however, it randomly struck as I was going through some old files saved on the cloud. I ran across a story written over 15 years ago when Captain and I had our sailboat Up Jinks in Guatemala. Don't recall the impetus for it at the time, but it seems apropos to share with you now. 

It's hard for me to believe that you are no longer the small children for whom The Bridge Project was originally intended. Calling you Boo (age 15) and Bubble (age 11) sounds ludicrous if you really think about it. But that's who you'll always be to me no matter how old you get. 

This is a rite of passage story. I hope you find meaning in it.

Wisdom of the Mountain Master

For years, I had heard about the master…how all who maneuvered the woods and climbed the mountain as a child to seek his wisdom, descended as an adult. Thinking that the timing was arbitrary, I wailed “When can I go? When is it my turn?” 

 “Only you will know,” they said. “Only you will know when life’s questions weigh heavier than your heart can bare. Until then, be young and thoughtless of worldly things.  For once you go …”  And, there was always a sigh, a trailing off.

Finally, I did know. My mind filled with anxiety. I yearned to learn the secrets of life’s navigations – where to go, when to move, how to seize the moment, who to trust.  Quietly, without fanfare, I slipped from my home. “The master will give me the answers,” I whispered to myself as I slowly shut the door behind me. “He will tell me what to expect on my life’s journey.”   

The path to the master’s house was well worn and defined out of the village. The first half of it cut a large swath through a luscious grove of Sugar Maples, their limbs overarched, creating a shaded canopy beneath. The maples gave way to a stand of tall, majestic pine. After some distance, the incline increased, alerting me that I had reached the base of the mountain. I could barely see the master’s house with its small, thatched roof and pale puff of smoke rising from the chimney. My neck craned upward because it was at such a steep angle above me. 

For almost an hour, I plodded up the mountainside, the path dwindling beneath me into ruts of rocks which made for rough footing. I grabbed at twigs and tree roots to steady myself. The air thinned which labored my breathing to the extent that I had to rest every few minutes and, even though it had cooled considerably, little beads of sweat popped out above my upper lip and right at my hairline. 

Finally, I scaled one last tenuous slope and stepped onto a plateau where a grassy meadow spread out in front. The path cut clearly through the middle with the master’s house standing at the other end. Even though my legs ached from the toil of climbing, I raced downward exhilarated by the accomplishment of getting there. The master obviously saw my approach as he came out on the porch to greet me.

His appearance stunned me somewhat. I had envisioned someone old and weathered, with long grey hair and the flowing robes of a wizard. But he seemed ordinary; his close-cropped hair still held a vibrant brunette, and his clothes were no grander than those of my family. He might have been a farmer or brick mason or a sheep herder for all I could tell. Nothing about his countenance suggested anything extraordinary. He did have a presence about him, though, which made me feel at ease and as I came near, he reached out to shake my hand and welcome me to his home.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said.

“And I, too,” I nervously stammered back since, as far as I knew, he had no forewarning of my visit. 

“It’s always exciting to see someone on the verge of the great journey.”

“I am very ready, master. My time as a child is long since past. My journey is way overdue.” 

He chuckled lightly at my chafing.  “Then we should get started.”

With his hands on my shoulders, he guided me gently into the house. It was completely modest with only two rooms. While the smaller served as a bedroom, the larger incorporated the living area. One side was obviously the kitchen. A small wood-burning stove stood in the corner. The fire crackled inside offering some heat to the room and sending the smoke I had seen earlier up a crude metal shaft through the roof. Above, a cupboard held some rudimentary cooking utensils and an insignificant larder. 

Across the room from this meek kitchen, bookshelves lined one entire wall with an extensive library covering every inch of available space. There were thick volumes bound with leather laces next to small books more professionally finished. Some stood upright, others flat, due to their size. Stuffed helter-skelter in the mix were loose sheets of paper that appeared to be original handwritten manuscripts.

The only window in the room was located on the wall between the kitchen and library.  It was oversized with the shutters flung open to encourage a delightful shaft of sunlight to brighten the interior. Underneath the window sat a roughhewn oak table with two chairs.  The master invited me to take one of the seats.

“Do you always donate your stove heat to the outside through this window?”  I asked.  Even though I really wanted to know, I was still startled a little by my own rudeness.

“Well, I see that you are a very observant person as well as inquisitive,” he responded with no hint of irritation. “That’s a good combination.  But…to answer your question…what’s important to me is achieving a balance. If I close the window all the time, the house gets too hot. If I leave the window open all the time, it’s too cold. So, whenever things get too much one way or the other, I adjust.”

I mused over this information and the memory flashed across my mind of a seesaw my father made for me when I was a little girl. My cousin and I would play on it for hours, bobbing up and down and periodically attempting to stop with both of us mid-air, our weights balanced against one another to see how long we could stay in limbo. The thought of it must have registered on my face because the master noticed some slight change in my expression.

“Do you find that funny?” he asked.

“No, No. I was just recalling when I was small and played with my cousin on a seesaw made by my father. That’s all.”

“Ah, so you’ve experienced the effort that it takes to maintain balance?”

“I guess so, but it didn’t seem so hard to do...not an effort or anything.”

“Well, you’re lucky then to have had someone to teach you this skill at such an early age.  It appears I spend most of my time working on it.”  He paused for a moment as if for some reason he needed to contemplate this statement. 

“Do you have a big family?” he abruptly continued.

“Not really, but I do have a lot of friends.”

“That’s nice. You can’t have too many friends, you know.”

I wondered then about him. “What about you? You live way up here all by yourself. Do you ever get to see anybody? Other than children like me, I mean?”

“Well now, let’s see. Does it stand to reason that since I am alone, I might possibly be friendless? One could argue so, but before actually answering, I think it’s important to define ‘friend.’ What’s your definition?”   

I thought this to be a peculiar question. Surely everybody understood that friends are people with whom you play and laugh. I said as much. “They are my playmates. We do things together like flying kites in the meadow or romping barefooted in the streambed below the lake or diving into a drift of snow. That’s my definition.”

“I see. So, you spend time with friends, they help you while away the hours.”

“Yes, definitely.” I was proud of myself for answering the master’s question with such conviction.

“Ah, but can it not be that the real friend in the matter is the kite or the streambed or the drift of snow?”

“I don’t understand,” I responded somewhat deflated.

“Then I will introduce you to my best friends.” He scooted his chair back from the table.  It made a rough scraping sound on the hardwood floor.

This totally perplexed me. To my knowledge there was no one else in the house and I certainly hadn’t passed anyone on the path up the mountain. He signaled for me to join him at the bookshelves, and I followed him.

“For me, many days go by without seeing another person. But these books can solicit from me any human emotion. I laugh. I cry. I am transported to other places. I learn. I grow. With these friends I spend my time and while away the hours. That’s your definition, right?”

“I guess I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“My point is that you are never really alone unless you choose to be and this, to me, would be a very fearful thing.”  He paused just for a second, then segued, “Which reminds me, have you ever known fear?”

My mind raced through my life’s experiences and one distinct circumstance immediately surfaced.

“Oh, yes, positively I have.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I used to watch sailboats on our lake with a lot of fascination. We didn’t have a boat, but my father kept some scrap lumber in his shed, and he agreed to let me use some of it to build one. He helped me draw a plan, measure the wood and nail the boards together,” I explained. “My mother sacrificed one of her worn bed sheets for the sail and calculated for me exactly how much canvas I needed in proportion to the size of the boat. She fashioned some grommets in the sail and rigged the lines with a piece of old rope. Father whittled me a rudder out of another wood scrap.”

The master nodded his head as if his parents might have done something similar.

“Finally, the day came when we marched the boat down to the lake. We picked a day that looked just right, with enough wind that I could experience some movement over the water. I worked the rudder hard until the air filled the sail, and I was off.  My parents ran along the bank whooping and shouting like children.”

My expression darkened. “Before long, I had made my way almost to the opposite side of the lake. That’s when I heard the first distant roar of thunder. I had been concentrating so hard, I hadn’t noticed that rain clouds were building in the sky and a storm was approaching.”

“Ah hah!  I was wondering where this story was going,” he interjected.  “What happened next?”

I continued. “My parents frantically called to me to sail back to their side of the lake. I turned the boat around. Rain started falling very hard as if the clouds had cracked open like eggs right above me. The drops pelted my eyes so forcefully, I could hardly see anything. The wind whipped into a fury causing the sail to billow with such power that the rigging rope flew from my hands. I lay down on my stomach and crawled carefully forward a little, grasping for the rope as it snapped in the air like a snake.” 

“Finally, I caught it just before the bitter end cracked me in the face and I gained some control over the boat. Soaking wet, my parents shouted instructions to me from the shore. Even though the whistle of the wind and roar of the rain drowned out most of their words, I could understand some of it and responded accordingly.”

I took a deep breath, reliving the horrific feelings of that day.

“The boat crashed ashore bow first which sent me tumbling into the mud. My rudder broke in half, the sail was torn to shreds, but I was safe, and my parents ran up and fell to their knees beside me. I was shaking so hard it took them both wrapping their arms around me to make it cease. Yes, to answer your question, I knew fear that day. You can certainly see why, can’t you?”

The master hesitated for a moment. “Yes, you were no doubt afraid and with good reason. But there is something much more fearful than the experience itself.”

“What could that possibly be?”

“That you may not learn from it. Tell me, what did you learn?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that it ended.”

“Precisely.”

He saw my consternation at this remark and suggested that we sit back down again. “I’m being very rude. Could I interest you in some hot tea?”

“That would be very nice, thank you.”

He scurried off to the kitchen leaving me at the table by myself. By now, we had been talking so long that mid-afternoon had descended, and I marveled at the sun-drenched scene out of his window. Although indiscernible from the front of the house, the back jutted out over a precipice that plummeted straight down off a craggy rock face of the mountain. This gave an unfettered view of the valley below and the far distant vista. I leaned forward a little to focus on recognizing anything familiar to me.

“Quite a spectacular picture, isn’t it?” he proffered as he brought a tray to the table with tea bags, two cups, a sugar bowl and creamer. “The amazing thing to me is that the farther away you are from something, the less threatening it is. Like that bridge over there.”

I strained to see what he was talking about. He pointed out the window and I followed the line of sight until a quite picturesque bridge appeared. 

“Doesn’t look like much from up here, does it?  Not very long, you can’t hear the water roaring underneath it. Just part of a pastoral scene.”

“It’s lovely, though,” I responded in support of the bridge.

“Well, let’s suppose that this very bridge is the one you’re going to have to cross on your journey. I guarantee you when you are at its edge and go to take your first step, it will be much more intimidating.”

Our conversation had been so random up until then, I had forgotten the real reason I was there. The master was supposed to be preparing me for my journey into adulthood. We had frittered the day away on small talk.

“Master, it’s getting late, and we have yet to speak of my journey. I am excited but apprehensive as well. Tell me, what can I expect?”

The whistle of the teakettle on the stove spiraled upward to a scream and the master withdrew into the kitchen to retrieve it. He poured the steaming hot water into my cup first and then his own. Dabbing the teabag up and down, he stared reflectively out the window.

“There are only two things I can tell you about your journey. First - once you start it, there is no turning back. Oh, you will want to, but life won’t let you. Every footprint you leave on the path evaporates with each new step, no longer marking the trail home, but forcing you forward. Second – once you’re through, everyone and everything significant in your life will be simultaneously both familiar and foreign, the same yet different.”

His explanation left me vacant. “Master, I asked you to tell me what to expect.”

“This I can not. Every journey is unique. Only the beginning and the end are the same.”

This truly confounded me. If he continued to be so cryptic, how could I ever know what to suppose. “But how do I know I’m prepared? We haven’t even talked at all about what I will require to endure my life’s journey.” I spoke deliberately trying to keep my annoyance hidden.

“Oh, you’re wrong. We’ve talked about it all day.”

“We have?” My mind raced over all the things we had discussed. Nothing registered as apropos to my concerns.

“And, my child, you are ready. You have all that you need to cross the metaphorical bridge.”

“I don’t feel that I know anything more than when I entered your door,” I said indignantly, some of the irritation beginning to surface.

“Then you must trust - trust me that I tell you the truth; trust your parents that they’ve provided the skills you will need; and most importantly trust yourself to understand what they are.”

He fell silent and took another sip of tea, although by now the brew had chilled. If my temper had any impact on him, he didn’t show it. I sat very still across the table, watching him, absorbing what he had said and tamping down my anger. The sun’s cast on the vista outside the window indicated that late afternoon had set in.

“My, my,” he said suddenly. “It’s getting late. I’ve enjoyed the day so, I didn’t realize.  You must be on your way while there’s still daylight for your return to the village. The upper path is much more treacherous going down than coming up, especially if darkness is falling.”

I pushed my chair back. He did the same. 

“Before you go, could you help me close the shutters? I can do it myself, but it’s much easier with two and the cold night air will overtake the house pretty soon.”

“Of course,” I replied. “You need to keep your balance.”

He chuckled at this.

We stationed ourselves on opposite sides of the window and unlatched the shutter guards. He instructed me to pull mine in first. It was cumbersome and surprisingly heavy for my strength, but I managed. He gathered his shutter to the center and clamped the two together. With the light extinguished, the room darkened almost completely. The flickering flames of the stove provided only enough illumination for navigation around the house.

Together we walked through the room to the door. Still not quite sure exactly what I had learned, I awkwardly thanked him for his time. 

“I wish you well,” he said. “Maybe someday we can talk again. I’d love to know how things go.”

I walked down his steps and tromped back across the meadow. As I came to the end and climbed the upslope that marked the path’s descent, I turned to look at the master still standing on the porch. He smiled and waved. Strange – his face, his countenance, the house, the meadow – they were all the same, yet there was something else – what was it?  They were also somehow different. I realized at that moment my journey had already begun.

The Scars Disappear

 

Dear Boo and Bubble,

It seems that so much of our societal dialogue these days focuses on differences—race, gender, religion, political persuasion, orientations. Rather than seeing these differences as fascinating and opportunities to learn, they tend to become barriers to our abilities to know and understand each other. Quite frankly, it takes a lot of work…sometimes uncomfortable work…to get to know someone who’s different from you. Our tendency is to hide behind the curtain of comfort that homogeny provides. We feel safe and secure surrounded by familiar environs, but I would proffer from my own life’s experience that your world broadens, and you gain strength of character by diving into the waters of the unfamiliar.

I understand that so much of our hesitancy rests on the flimsy superficial excuse of the visual. It could be the color of skin or the not so pretty face or perhaps someone’s weight that deters us from going further or digging deeper. Think of Christmas presents under a tree, all deliciously wrapped in elegant shiny paper with huge, festive bows…but for one exception which is haphazardly swathed in newspaper, barely taped together. In the mad scramble to get things open, I would imagine this less attractive present with no outward appeal would be the last. Curiosity might serve as its only salvation. What a surprise, however, when its contents prove to be the most interesting gift of all—something with a value lasting longer than only into the afternoon of Christmas Day. How sad it would be to have never opened it, letting its difference be the barrier.

This reminds me of an experience Captain and I had several years ago when I was writing articles for Carolina Mountain Life Magazine, a local publication that covers the goings on in our area. My assignment (with Captain being my photographer) was to interview a man who had been burned over 95% of his body when the Louisiana oil rig on which he worked blew up. Miraculously, he survived not only the initial incident but the aftermath of operations and skin grafts that followed. He had moved to the mountains because his body no longer had any sweat glands, and he needed a climate with lower temperatures and humidity in which to live.

Even with the foreknowledge of his circumstance, it was very difficult seeing him for the first time. Because of the grafting, his skin had no flexibility and wrapped around his face and arms like taut cellophane. He had no nose, just nostrils…and his eyes were only slits without benefit of lids or brows. He explained that periodically he had to endure ongoing surgeries to cut Z patterns into his skin to relieve the tightness. His arms were so covered in scars, it seemed like someone had taken a switchblade to him.

We talked for several hours as he described the wrenching details of the accident, his months in the hospital, the agonizing procedures necessary to keep him alive, and the long slog to some semblance of recovery. Towards the end of the interview, my questions pivoted to his present life…how he had acclimated to the mountains and, perhaps more importantly, how the community had accepted him. To answer, he told us a simple story with an ending so profound, both Captain and I remain affected by it.

“I went into McDonald’s the other day to get something to eat. There was a table full of children on my right as I walked in. At the sight of me, they stopped eating and talking and began staring in fright. Of course, I couldn’t help but notice.

Instead of heading straight to the counter to place my order, I decided to go over and talk to them. I told them what had happened to me and rolled up my shirtsleeve to show them my arm. We talked about how important it was to stay away from fire…how dangerous it was and how something could go wrong in an instant. They asked if they could touch my skin and I let them. By the end of our conversation, we had become friends.

You see…when you get to know me, my scars disappear.”

Perhaps this mantra should be rephrased to broaden its application and say, “When you get to know me, our differences will disappear.”

The Least of These

 

Dear Boo and Bubble,

 Today, the sun is finally out after what seems like weeks of uninterrupted gray overcast skies that persistently dropped snow after snow, inches at a time all over our landscape. It is most welcome…a real mood lifter…and even more so an appropriate metaphor, because today is also January 20,2021—inauguration day. At noon, our country will come under the governance of a new president with a vision immensely divergent from that of the last four years. It gives us an opportunity to come out from under the grayest of clouds known as 2020 which brought an unprecedented trio of disasters to our shores: a pandemic with its commensurate illness, death, and economic destruction; horrific visuals of deaths of black citizens that picked the scab of the centuries-old wound of unresolved racial strife simmering in this country; and an attempted undermining of our electoral process based upon lies about fraud that culminated in a seditious riot on our nation’s Capitol building with the intent of doing harm to members of the senior leadership. The times are unprecedented and will require extraordinary capabilities to meet them. My heart, thoughts and prayers go out to President Biden as he embarks on the task.

I’ve done some personal soul searching the last few months as these events roiled our public discourse, asking myself what has been revealed about us as a society as it all unfolded. What could be at the root of it all? What is the common denominator—the first domino that with its falling cascades all the others into upheaval and makes matters worse. I have come to the conclusion it boils down to the coin of power and how those on the side of having it wield it to affect those who don’t. Whether in a crisis of health or wealth or justice or democracy, the poor and powerless rise or fall depending upon that wield. In any instance, power has the capacity to either foster equality or suppress it; to offer or deny access. The overriding question for me, then, is how does a power-driven society treat its poor and disenfranchised…and what is my responsibility in determining that direction, both individually and to a larger extent.

From beginning to end, The Bible is riddled with references to our interactions with the poor. In Proverbs 14:31, we are advised that “Whoever oppresses the poor shows contempt for their Maker, but whoever is kind to the needy honors God.” James 2:2-4 enlightens us on discrimination - “Suppose a man comes into your meeting wearing a gold ring and fine clothes, and a poor man in filthy old clothes also comes in. If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, ‘Here’s a good seat for you,’ but say to the poor man, ‘You stand there’ or ‘Sit on the floor by my feet,’ have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?” In 1 John 3:17-18, there is a specific exhortation to action - “If anyone has material possessions and see a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person? Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.”

All of these directives assume some personal contact with the poor. That is not my circumstance. I live in a comfortable bubble physically distanced from the broader world’s sadness and ugliness. My meager periodic contributions to The Salvation Army are more of a benefit to me in getting rid of items that I no longer need than they are any particular attempt to be involved. Other than that, I am left with financial support of organizations charged with the requisite responsibilities to take care of such things along with voting my conscience on these matters every two years. However, not so among some of your ancestors and family members.

The other day, Captain came across a copy of a letter written to Ben C. Gray from Hugh B. Cottrell, son of your quintuple-great grandfather Thomas by his second wife, and brother to your quadruple-great grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell. Thomas was a teacher and doctor who lived in Abbeville, SC, in the early to mid-1800’s. The content of the letter focused on Hugh’s description of his father and among that portrayal is this: “He was a very high minded, liberal and charitable man-had a large practice, and gave the poor who were not able to pay him, closer attention than the rich; sometimes he would feed them besides giving them medicine, when he saw the prime cause of their sickness was a want of healthful food.”

I’ve also just finished reading your late great-Uncle Bryant’s doctoral thesis which promoted the use of computers to enhance physicians’ treatments by connecting with available community services that could buttress those treatments. It was written 35 years ago when he was the chaplain to the medical students at the Medical Center of the North Carolina Baptist Hospital/Bowman Gray School of Medicine of Wake Forest University. Among his duties was to work in a pastoral capacity (for both patients and physicians) with the General Medicine Outpatient Clinic operated for the benefit of the underserved community surrounding the hospital. He describes the backdrop to his thesis this way.

This approach emphasizes conceptualization of medical problems as existing in a dynamic relation to the personal history and current contexts in which the patient now lives and relating treatment strategies to clearly defined objectives which are consistent with sound clinical judgment. In this clinic we try to merge the strengths of the “medical model” (with its emphasis upon the sciences of medicine) with a “psychosocial” model emphasizing the interconnectedness of person, individual history, living context, and the experience of disease. Understood in this broad way, medicine (like theology) becomes open to all the phenomena of human experience and, in practice, links up with and learns from other disciplines that are concerned with the human condition.

What anecdotally triggered his interest in this concept was a specific episode in the clinic. An older black woman diagnosed with chronic high blood pressure would repeatedly show up in distress after having ignored prescribed follow-up appointments. The attending medical students became so frustrated with her that their doctor/patient relationship became adversarial. Uncle Bryant entered the situation in an attempt to resolve the conflict. Upon questioning her, he found out that she lived alone, didn’t drive, and had no access to reliable transportation to meet her appointments. Her family members were all working or had issues with childcare. Her recalcitrance wasn’t deliberate…she just didn’t have the resources. But the community at large did. It occurred to him if he could establish a database of these resources, it might provide solutions to these problems.

On page 45 of the thesis, I found words that gave me a glimpse into the theology that undergirded Bryant’s faith and consequently his actions. He writes:

The care of the poor has always been an essential characteristic of ministry in the Christian community. The claim of the poor on theological understandings of ministry is rooted in Jesus’ own ministry. In the eschatological saying of Matt. 15:40 (“As you did it to one of the least of these my brethren you did it unto me.”, Jesus identifies himself with the poor. Any theological understanding of ministry which does not consider the needs of the poor as central to its own self-understanding is alienated from Christ.

The poor also embody the reality of our human situation before God. In the existence of the poor a truth about all human being comes into clear focus—absolute dependence on God. Ministry to the poor then is a direct witness to the truth of the Gospel of God’s continuing care for his dependent creatures regardless of their social standing.

I stand in awe of those who are called to action and actually do something about my professed concerns. If we are indeed dependent upon power to form our society, it takes their dedication to ensure that the poor do not suffer at the hands of it.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

 

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Well…today I turn 73 years old. Can you even comprehend that? Almost three quarters of a century behind me…and who knows how much more to go. It’s been quite a roller coaster ride since my last birthday, our world upended by a virus that has taken over 275,000 lives and rapidly counting. By a presidential election so bizarre in its aftermath that one wonders if we’re living in someone’s horror novel. By the killing of a black man by a policeman in front of our very eyes that left the country reeling with protests, counterprotests, and further violence. These are perhaps the scariest times I have ever known which says a lot because I have seen some quite frightening events in all these years. My emotions have ridden that coaster as well. I am left flummoxed, anxious, angry, stunned…but by and large, confused. As I sit here in my chair looking out the window, the weather seems to be in the same state—overcast and dreary…too cold to rain, but too warm to snow…so doing neither.

As opposed to the attack on 9/11 of our country, this moment of multiple crises is not a galvanizing one…one that snaps us all to attention and puts our petty differences aside to unify us as citizens of a single nation with a singular purpose. I swear, it seems almost like our very existence requires an enemy and, absent some foreign entity to fulfill that purpose, we just turn on each other. This muddled mess, to me, is more akin to the quagmire of Vietnam and the unrest surrounding civil rights in the 60’s, but on steroids. I can only surmise that today’s environment of nonstop “news” channels and social media are those steroids, creating a chasm of public opinion so wide that friends and family irreparably torn apart because they can no longer see or hear each other.

We passed a billboard outside of Columbia, SC, the other day coming home from our Thanksgiving family gathering that pretty much sums up for me how out of kilter this situation has become. It read “Facts ≠ Truth.” Now that is quite a perplexing equation and I am struggling to determine exactly what it means. Is it implying that facts are subject to interpretation such as words, paintings or feelings? Is it suggesting the question “What does this fact mean to you?” When you juxtapose this equation next to the very definition of a fact— a thing that is known or proved to be true—it is one totally at odds with itself. I find the suggestion preposterous.

Let’s analyze further, starting with the basics. The earth is round…the earth circles the sun…the moon circles the earth…gravity holds us to the earth…the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Are these facts the truth? I would proffer that they are, and I don’t hear much skepticism out there about them. But if you’re trying to confuse someone, you might try to convince them that they are not. Now, let’s look at another set of facts. Covid 19 has been the cause of death for over 275,000 Americans. A policeman’s knee held on George Floyd’s neck for over eight minutes caused his death. Joe Biden won 306 electoral votes. Are these facts true? Again, I would answer yes, and you shouldn’t be able to separate them from the reality that they are. You can’t state that Covid 19 caused 275,000 deaths but it’s a hoax…that Joe Biden won 306 electoral votes, but he didn’t win the presidency…that George Floyd had a knee in his neck for over eight minutes but that didn’t kill him. There are no “buts” with facts. They are the truth.

I have no idea who paid to display this proclamation on a billboard, nor can I surmise their motivation, but it suspiciously appears to be an attempt to sow uncertainty. And quite honestly, the last thing we need right now is somebody doing that.

Salutation

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I woke up yesterday morning to find this post of your mother's on FaceBook. It was such a moving tribute to my father (her grandfather and your great grandfather) that I asked permission of her to include it here in The Bridge Project.

Two things that struck me -- first, it is so interesting to read someone else's words describing one of the people you loved most in your own life; and second...how important it is to communicate your support and encouragement to someone you care about, knowing that they will carry both throughout life.

In some respects this blog is intended to do just that for the two of you. But it pales in comparison to the time and energy Granddaddy Schaefer shared with your mom by writing her in his own hand, every week, those many years ago.

Salutation to the Dawn

Look to this day!

For it is live, the very life of life

In its brief course

Lie all the verities and realities of your existence;

The bliss of growth;

The glory of action; 

The splendor of achievement;

For yesterday is but a dream;

And tomorrow is only a vision;

But today, well lived, makes every yesterday

A dream of happiness,

And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

--Sanskrit

Granddaddy Schaefer sent this poem to me when I was in my first year at Barnard. Little chickadee from South Carolina doing her best to believe she deserved her spot at the Ivy League elite (that wasn't just due to grades and geographic balancing at a public high school in my state). When you know your place and position, you understand your relationship with those who came from the top of the US Prep School Elite. Awareness of others relative to yourself is a marker of both intelligence and street smarts...don't dismiss it!

Granddaddy Schaefer sent me handwritten letters weekly. Not dictated. From his own pen. He took the time to show up to me in support of my journey, one he knew as a GIANT leap for me. I didn't realize at the time that he understood because he had taken a similar leap himself.

I idolize my Granddaddy Schaefer, even knowing his many flaws that I learned as I grew into adulthood. His belief in me and his way of showing up when my parents were in a dubious state of mind about what to let do...well...I know he argued my side (even when I didn't know there was one that could/should be argued).

The Salutation to the Dawn was one of his favorite poems. May it be a support to those in a time of transition, struggle, or peace. The words resonate regardless of your station of position in life. And maybe Granddaddy Schaefer's spirit will argue your side in the nether and you'll know the victory of having his wisdom and courage to speak up and influence your path.

                                                                                                Mary Kathleen Tally Yeargin

I Failed

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I want you to pay special attention to the words on this post. They are not mine, but were written by Captain as he personally grapples with the issues swirling around us today. It is a self-reflection that doesn't surprise me...it is one of his finest qualities.

Reconciliation and Redemption

by John Tally

“I’ve had a turn on awaking this morning of the men who were my admiration and wonder in the days of Calhoun... It was unfortunate that politics and politicians were so exclusively dominant over the minds of young men of the Palmetto State ... We were fired, thus, unhealthfully... Had literature, science, art, commerce and agriculture — especially agriculture— been our attraction ... substituted for the passional partisanship ... what a yield there would have been of the fruits and flowers for enrichment of the world of mind..." (From Dual Overheat by Rev. Joseph Cottrell in the Carolina Spartan, Spartanburg, SC 1892. https://ufdc.ufl.edu/AA00026239/00013/46?search=calhoun)

Rev Joseph Benson Cottrell, my great, great grandfather, grew up in South Carolina. After graduating from The Citadel and moving to Alabama he was ordained in 1854 by the Methodist Church in Tuskegee. He was a prolific writer and outspoken about the issues of his time. It was quoted in his obituary of 1895 that Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy of Southern States, said Cottrell was “the most eloquent defender of secession” of the states from the union. Yet, in 1865, five years after defending secession, Joseph Cottrell stood before the Methodist conference in Montgomery, Alabama and defended the “full affranchisement of the negro.” By 1870 Solomon Deary, a black minister and educator, was recorded as a member of Cottrell’s household in the census of Bullock county, Alabama.

In an article entitled Black Shadow dated April 1882, Cottrell wrote: “Many of us before the war, and for time subsequent thereto, believed that every negro had a divine right to a white man for a master, and benevolently strove to secure him his franchise, but we see it differently now. For one, I rejoice in the freedom of the negro. Let there be the same chivalry on his behalf now as there was on behalf of what we deemed his right to his old relation to his master.”

Fast forward a hundred years. While serving in the South Carolina House of Representatives I was given the opportunity to cast a vote to remove the Confederate battle flag from atop the South Carolina state house. I voted to keep it flying. That vote was used to seal my defeat for reelection by distributing a record of that vote among the black churches on the eve of the election. My fault. I should have voted to remove the flag, but I didn’t.

Having grown up in the south I have been part of the failure to acknowledge and remedy the “Black Shadow” that continues today. My grandmother held the Florida delegation in the 1948 Democratic convention when the Dixiecrats walked out protesting the call for equal rights. (See blog post dated Saturday, November 24, 2012, entitled "A Steel Magnolia in the Family.") My brother as a student at Birmingham Southern in the 1960's spoke out for civil rights. But when given that opportunity, I failed.

My father-in-law, Schaefer Kendrick, wrote several years later that even though we southerners embrace the politeness for which our south has been noted, we continued to wave the confederate battle flag as a symbol of heritage while a large portion of our population saw it as a reminder of oppression and racism. Ultimately the flag was removed from atop the state house, though it was still flying on the grounds.

I believe there are many other statues and symbols of the “Black Shadow” in public places that more appropriately should be move to museums or confederate cemeteries. The removal of these symbols from the public square is just the beginning. We must learn to treat everyone with respect no matter their race or religion. Reconciliation and redemption can only come by rejecting the policies of division that have existed in the past and still flourish today. Stand up and be heard.