Old Age and Sissies

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I have a birthday coming up and with its approach, the conversation inevitably seems to turn to a discussion about growing old.....well, maybe old-er.....not old quite yet. As I watch the two of you with all of your boundless energy, it underscores the point even more - the day will come when I won't be able to keep up with you. Perhaps time will help sort it all out. As I age, so will you.... and the expectations of my joining in on your running and jumping will give way to the satisfaction that I am in the bleachers spectating while you play your sports of choice; or, maybe that I am in the audience as you perform on stage.

The prospect of getting old, with all of its limitations and challenges, has yet to hit me. Quite honestly, I feel about the same as I did years ago. The fact that your mom is now in her 40's and Aunt Bee isn't far behind stuns me. How could they have aged so much when I haven't changed at all?!?

There are harbingers out there, though, and one of them comes from your great granddaddy Schaefer's thoughts on the matter. He obviously had no use for old age when he wrote the following.

"Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be; The last for which the first was made." - That is pure unadulterated hogwash all dressed up in rhyme and meter. I have been told Robert Browning wrote that ditty when he was close to 50 years old, so he was still eating on the first half of the pie. If he had really been old, the verse probably would have read: "Grow old, oh my, oh me, the worse is yet to be; Just wait and you shall see." If age were an exercise in double entry bookkeeping, you can bet your bottom dollar (if its still under the stack) the entries would be out of balance on the debit side. Grandchildren are powerful credits, but they will not offset arthritic joints, loose fitting dentures, squeaking hearing aids, impatient bladders, moribund memories, brittle toe nails, dripping noses, aching backs, fluttering hearts, quivering muscles and wrinkled skin.

The other night going to bed, I went to the dresser; took off my glasses, took out my hearing aids, removed my bridge work, slipped off my knee brace, took off my orthopedic corset, and the thought struck me that about as much of me would be sleeping on the dresser as in the bed. And what was on the dresser would sleep a lot better than I would because it wouldn't have to get up three or four times during the night to pee.

So far in the double-entry bookkeeping ledger of my life, the credits far outweigh the debits because I have the two of you and I have yet to suffer the litany of frailties that Granddaddy describes. I guess the day will come, but hopefully not with this birthday -- or the next few at least. Until then, I'm just going to keep being amazed at how much older everybody else is getting while I'm not.

Will You Wear The Water?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your lineage is riddled with preachers - starting with quadruple-great grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell and then triple-great Uncle Wade Bryant and then double-great Uncle Bob Poerschke and then great Uncle Bryant.  With the exception of Cottrell, they were all Baptists, that sect of Protestantism which utilizes the immersion in water to symbolically repent of sins (or wash them away) and emerge with a new commitment to God.  I grew up a Baptist and, at the young age of 10, was dipped in the baptistry of First Baptist Church in Greenville by Rev. Dotson M. Nelson in front of a packed sanctuary.  Perhaps I was a little too young then to understand the going down and the coming up….and to be honest with you, I’ve continued to struggle with the ritual’s applicable meaning beyond the imagery.

Well, fortunately…..your generational, ministerial chain remains unbroken and the current iteration is Bob Stillerman, your second cousin once removed.  (Your mom is a true second cousin and everybody goes back to Mattie Bryant Kendrick).  Bob graduated from Wake Forest Seminary and is now the pastor of Sardis Baptist Church in Charlotte, NC.  He’s been sending me his sermons and recently, one caught my intrigue not only because it dispelled some of my skepticism as to the necessity for baptism but also because it delved into baptism’s transformative properties.  I want to share some excerpts with you.

“Wearing the Waters of Baptism”

(Relevant scripture:  Mark 1: 9-11 – “And it came to pass in those days, that Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee, and was baptized of John in Jordan.  And straightway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him: And there came a voice from heaven saying Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”)

…….In today’s passage, Jesus is baptized.  And Jesus wears the waters of his Baptism every day of his ministry!!  It seems Jesus never does get completely dry from that dip in the Jordan River all those years ago.  In his every action, Jesus drips with God’s love and God’s joy and God’s purpose. 

So how and why did this baptism happen?  And what does it mean for us?

Mark’s Gospel tells us that a prophet named John lives in the wilderness.  John senses that God is near, very near.  And John senses that God is about to usher in a new era, a state of being known as the Kingdom of God, the place where Israel lives in right relationship with God and its neighbors.

John invites folks to a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

Too often, I think we misinterpret John’s call for repentance, as a warning against personal sin.  We imagine a long, spindly finger coming out of John’s camel-haired-robe and pointing down at us, tell us, “Get right, fly straight.  I can see it, I can see it. Uhm, uh-uh!!  You are rotten, rotten, rotten to the core.  I see it and God sees it, too!!  Repent, repent, repent!!”  And after being thoroughly scolded by John, his followers rush to the waters of the Jordan to wash away all that ick and sin and evil.  Transaction complete.

Well, friends, I will not and I cannot read Mark’s gospel this way.  John, like Isaiah and other prophets before him, is not telling the people that they are fundamentally flawed individuals, that their DHA is corrupt.  John is telling them that they’ve made poor choices.  They’ve turned away from God’s love because they’ve put their trust and their hope, not in God, but in the abilities of earthly institutions: governments, armies and other entities of power and wealth and privilege.

John says, “Come back to God.  Enter these waters, and renew your commitment to YHWH’s ancient covenant.  For in this covenant, there is a God of steadfast love and grace.  Repent!”

Translation:  “Renew your relationship with God.  Live into the people God has created you to be!”

And the call to enter water is a great symbol.  Water is fluid, and without limits.  And it’s messy.  It seeps and drips and spreads.  It’s a lot like God’s love.  It covers everyone.  Water is in stark contrast to the firm order of earthly power.  Enter the messiness of water, and wash off all those restrictions and disclaimers and regulations. 

…….So Jesus travels to see John, and to fulfill God’s calling for him.

But here’s where it gets a little tricky.  Lots of people want to ask, “Well if Jesus was so perfect, why in the world, would he 1) need to be baptized in the first place and 2) allow John, someone with less stature, to do the baptizing?  Shouldn’t it be Jesus that baptizes John?

Jesus’ Baptism, nor anybody’s baptism, yours, mine, or anyone else’s, these baptisms are not about a cleansing of our genetic makeup.  Baptism is a commitment, a statement, about how we’ll live a life that is God-centered.  Not just on the morning of our baptisms, but every morning from this day forward. We surrender a life consumed with self-promotion, for one that is wholly attuned to God’s desires for us.

……So up from those waters Jesus comes, reborn, recommitted into a life that prioritizes God above all else……

…..Jesus is like a big dog you put in the bath tub.  Upon being soaked and removed from the tub, the dog shakes its fur, and beads of water fly everywhere – there’s no escaping it.  You get soaked, too.  And Jesus is just like children who track pool and ocean water into an old beach rental. From the moment of his baptism, the waters of the Jordan are evident, everywhere he goes.

…….Imagine Jesus.  He’s come up from those Jordan waters.  Water beads on his arms and legs and robe.  It’s been two thousand years, but ever so slowly, those water droplets from the Jordan, they begin making their way through time and space, over vast oceans – they ricochet all the way to Charlotte.  When those droplets hit us, what will we do…….?

Will our baptismal waters be transactional?  Once we’ve been immersed, will we simply towel off, pull out our Bounty paper towels, perhaps even some Thompson’s water seal, throw on our raincoats and remove any sign that baptismal waters have soaked us?  Will the silence of our dryness speak?  Will our love for community only extend to the walls of this baptismal and doors of this sanctuary?

Or, will our baptismal waters be transformative?  Will we too, follow Jesus into those Jordan waters?  Will we remove the garments of status and pride?  Will we place our dependence solely on God, and follow in Christ’s path?  Will we emerge from those waters with a new resolve?  Will we, just like a careless child, leave tracks of justice and mercy and reconciliation with every step we take?  Will we wear the waters of our baptism, so that in every corner of the city, our tracks are evident?  Will floors squeak from wet sneakers of love, of hope, and will droplets of care and concern rattle the gutters of forgotten homes?

…… The water, friends, is waiting.  Will you enter it?  And once you have, will you wear it?

Ode to An Older Brother

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today would have been your great Uncle Bryant's 70th birthday and in just a few short days, he will have been gone for fifteen years. The Bridge Project is riddled with stories of him. In fact, the very foundational post of this blog (see Monday, October 29, 2012 - "Sermon on Beirut and Lebanon) is the only copy of one of his sermons that I have. Because he was such a pivotal person in my life and that of Captain, your mom and Aunt Bee, it is extremely important to me that you know as much about him as I can possibly impart. After wrestling with how best to accomplish my goal, I've decided to just unleash my memories and hope you get caught up in their flow of nostalgia.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

The trip to Houston, TX, to visit your great, great grandmother Bethany when I was almost three and he was almost five and great granddaddy Schaefer raced our car along the highway against the train engineer on the paralleling tracks in Louisiana....with honks of the horn and toots of the engine answering each other for miles until the tracks and the road crossed....and we had to stop....waving as the train roared passed.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How we came back from Texas with his burning question to great granddaddy of the difference between a bull and a steer. How great granddaddy answered that a steer was a bull who had lost his ambition....and I piped in "Yes, Bryant, a steer is a bull who has lost his ammunition."

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How, when coerced by great Mamaw Mary to let me "play" with him and his friends, they concocted a game of "Cowboys and Indians" whereby I became the cowboy and they tied me up to a tree and left me all the rest of the day while they went off engaged in other pursuits. It all fell apart when Bryant forgot totally about me and, as I was missing at the table for dinner, really got into hot water when Mamaw found me after dark at the tree completely eaten up with mosquito bites.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

The World Series competition we had where Mamaw and I would pick a team with Granddaddy and Bryant selecting the other. The losers had to take the winners to the S&S cafeteria for dinner. (As a child, we had no concept that Granddaddy was paying for it regardless.) If losing were Bryant's fate, he would traverse the entire S&S food line ending up with only a glass of water on his tray.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

The day that he gave me a chance (again coerced by Mamaw Mary) to join his baseball team in the field at University Ridge Apartments. He relegated me to the out, out, outfield and told me to stand there, not expecting that I might have any impact on the game at all.......until I miraculously caught a fly ball to win the game!

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How I rolled with convulsive laughter on the floor in the back of our VW Beetle while Granddaddy taught him how to balance the clutch while shifting gears.......and the car coughed and hiccuped all the way down the parking lot of Stone Manufacturing....bucking like a bronco....and he got so mad at me.

And, conversely....when Granddaddy tried to show me how to hold the clutch at a stop sign on a hill and I rolled all the way down to the bottom before it caught....and Bryant guffawed from the back seat in revenge.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How he dedicated himself to football and the conditioning necessary to play the sport. And, how, the summer before his senior year, he took a lifesaving course......and then, we went to Ocean Drive for our annual week-long vacation.....and, because he was trained and physically capable, he swam for almost a hundred yards, dove to the bottom of the ocean and saved a person from drowning, for which he won a Carnegie Medal. (See Friday, December 14, 2012 - "Greater Love Hath No Man.")

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How he left high school as the all-American boy, captain of the football team, president of the student body, and pride of any parent..... and entered Washington and Lee with the specific desire to become a bio-chemist.......only to emerge in his senior year as a soulful, pipe-smoking Philosophy major with such a profuse beard that, when we all flew to Houston for your great, great grandmother Bethany's funeral, none of us recognized him (except for Mamaw Mary --- a mother always knows her child) and walked right by him at the Atlanta airport.

How this beard created such consternation for Mamaw Mary at the service, one of her closest friends Katherine Nance, felt compelled to create a conciliatory explanation ---- "You know, all of BeBe's favorite men had a beard. Abraham Lincoln had a beard.....even Jesus had a beard!"

How he and I had a conversation on the plane coming back from Houston (I was a freshman at Furman) where he candidly explained to me that he had changed.....and I naively told him that he needed to understand "we had not."

When I think of Bryant, I remember-

How the steady drip, drip, drip of the Viet Nam war wore on him until he felt compelled to resign from the Navy's Officer candidate program and apply for conscientious objector status....for which he was rejected and so, he enlisted in the Navy and requested to be assigned as hospital corpsman (with a life expectancy of fifteen minutes on the battlefield) so that he could serve in a humanitarian capacity. How his first tour was at Camp LeJeune where he was attached to the marines and was taught Viet Namese.....and his second tour, in Jacksonville. How, in anticipation of being sent to Viet Nam for his third tour, he wrote Granddaddy Schaefer and reiterated his opposition to the war and how, if he were ordered to Viet Nam, he would go to jail instead. His conviction on the issue was solid, but he did not believe in fleeing to Canada, as so many people did to avoid sentencing. Miraculously, he was assigned to New Jersey for his third tour. (I believe it was divine intervention - God knows the sincere heart.)

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How he left the service and went to Duke University to gain his Doctor of Divinity Degree.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How Captain's and my wedding was his first as an officiant..... and he had to suffer with my shoulder-shaking giggles through the recitation of my vows. Unbeknown to Bryant, the week before, Captain insisted that we go over what we were going to pledge to each other. Being a lawyer, Captain wasn't going to say anything he didn't mean. As he perused the words, he came to the phrase "I plight thee my troth....," and he asked me what that meant. I had no idea, so we went to the dictionary, where we found the literal translation of "I pledge thee my fidelity." But, there were additional offerings for derivatives of the phrase, such as "trothplight" which means betrothed, but sounds a little like a witch with a wart on the end of her nose. Captain started calling me "his little trothplight" and I began laughing uncontrollably. Poor Bryant, at our ceremony.....when he asked Captain to look at me and repeat..."And, thereto, I plight thee my troth".....I totally spewed my cookies.....Beyond that point, all I could do was nod my head when Bryant tried to administer my vows with some semblance of decorum.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How he grew in his ministry and profession and ended up at Baptist Medical Center in Winston-Salem (now known as Wake Forest) ...... initially as the chaplain to the medical students and ultimately on the academic faculty attached to the Department of Gerontology with an expertise in holistic medicine. At the time of his death, he was administering a grant to study the power of prayer in the healing process.

When I think of Bryant, I remember -

How he salved the wounds of a colleague through intuition and his own special barbecue sauce. (See Thursday, November 6, 2014 - "The Healing Power of Barbecue.")

How he loved music, starting in high school playing the bass in a trio with Paul Surratt and George Wrigley......and continuing until the end in a blue grass band with a group of doctors from Baptist Medical Center.....may the circle be unbroken.

How he enjoyed the annual men's week of trout fishing on the Toe River at the foot of Mt. Mitchell.

How he was intrigued by fishing lures, especially antique ones, and traveled many miles to uncover their secrets and talk to their makers.

And, at last, when I think of Bryant, I remember -

How he found true happiness and meaning to his life when he met and married your Great Aunt Doris. I hope that as you grow older, you will take the time to visit with and get to know her.......for she is the one who can help you understand Great Uncle Bryant at his fullest.

Of Trash and Treasure

Dear Boo and Bubble,

It seems that the political season never actually ends…..it may simmer on the back burner or heat up to a boil, but it’s always on the stove no matter what.  We are getting ready once again to move it to the big eye for the next twelve months which means debates, ads, charges, counter charges and enough bluster to power the likes of Hurricane Katrina.

One of the merry-go-round issues that always surfaces is the budget of the country – how much or little there should be; what amounts should be apportioned to which items; which Paul will pay what Peter; and whose ox will be gored and whose spared.  The arguments reflect various priorities and perspectives.  For the most part, it’s simply East and West and never shall the twain meet.

This is nothing new, for sure.  Where one sees boondoggle, another sees necessity - thus the rise to such phrases as “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”   I ran across an article written by your great granddaddy Schaefer the other day which illustrates my point pretty well.  Thought I’d share it with you because I happen to totally agree with his premise.

Narratives are Rare Jewels of National History

(The Greenville News, Sunday, December 12, 1993)

 

President Franklin D. Roosevelt worked more combinations on the alphabet than the skilled fingers of a busy safecracker doing a job on the First Union National Bank and all of its branches.  Just to launch the idea, there was the SEC, the NRA, the CCC, the WPA, the FTC, the FDA, the FHA, the FDIC, the FSLIC, and many, many more.

All of this was happening when I was in high school in the ‘30’s, and I was satisfied to let the grown folks of my family do the thinking on all matter political.  I was busy trying to figure out how to beat Parker High School in basketball which the Greenville High Red Electrics had never done, and didn’t do during my tenure.

My people were conservative Democrats, which back then was not an oxymoron.  The particular agency that exhausted their inventory of scorn was the Works Progress Administration.  Like the Civilian Conservation Corps, its primary object was to put people to work.

My folks fired their biggest cannon of derision at the program designed to put unemployed writers to work.  One project had these writers to take the field to interview Negroes who lived during slavery.  The project was directed by the Library of Congress, and the writers recorded verbatim what these former slaves had to say – now called The Slave Chronicles.  What was viewed by my family as a folly and a waste of money produced a chest of rare jewels of our national history.  These oral histories are preserved by the Library of Congress, and presumably are available to the public.

Belinda Hurmence has collected 27 of these narratives of former South Carolina slaves and edited a book entitled Before Freedom When I Just Can Remember, published by John F. Blair of Winston Salem, NC.  Her book reproduces these narratives without comment or editing, just as they were recorded by the WPA writers.

Being a lover of Southern history, and of humor (wherever originated), the very first narrative snagged my fancy for humor.  A portion of it now follows.

(Narrative of Violet Guntharpe, age 82, taken by W.W. Dixon in Winnsboro, SC, 1936)

“My mammy stay on with the same marster till I was grown, that is fifteen, and Thad got to looking at me, meek as a sheep and dumb as a calf.  I had to ask that man right out what his intentions was, before I get him to bleat out that he love me.  Him name Thad Guntharpe.”

“I glance at him one day at the pigpen when I was slopping the hogs.  I say, ‘Mr. Guntharpe, you follows me night and morning to this pigpen; do you happen to be in love with one of these pigs?  If so, I’d like to know which one ‘tis.  Then sometime I come down here by myself and tell that pig about your affections.’”

“Thad didn’t say nothing but just grin.  Him took the slop bucket out of my hand and look at it, all round it, put upside down on the ground, and set me down on it.  Then, he fall down there on the grass by me and blubber out and warm my fingers in his hands.”

“I just took pity on him and told him mighty plain that he must up his tongue and ask something, say what he mean, wanting to visit them pigs so often.”

“Us carry on foolishness about the little boar shoat pig and the little sow pig, then I squeal in laughter.  The slop bucket tipple over and I lost my seat.  That ever remain the happiest minute of my 82 years.”

(I, for one, wish we would go to a system whereby I could dictate how my personal tax money is spent.  On the tax forms, just let all of us allocate our contributions to the government in line with our priorities.  It would be an interesting experiment……and, I bet, we would end up with a budget reflective of the will of the people with everything being funded adequately that matters to all of us.  It certainly might get rid of some of the haggling!)