Another memory related to Thanksgiving

 

             Living with a grateful and a generous set of mind and heart is not just a one day or weekend celebration.  As my husband Jim matured and grew as a Christian, so did these qualities of character and spirit.  A story I love to tell about Jim is a breakfast conversation the morning after we had received almost $80,00 from his mother’s will when finalized.  This was about four years ago now.  After finishing his breakfast, he came back up to the counter dining spot with a 3 x 5 card and a pen.  He wanted to get right to work on deciding how we were going to use some of the money, not for ourselves or what we could buy/save.

            No, his thoughts were about who we could give money to.  I replied, “Could we savor for just a moment having such a large sum of money in our account?”  Just days later, we got on to uses for the money, but this short conversation clearly presents Jim at his saintly best, ever the ready servant.   

Thanksgiving Memories

          

            Going to a chain buffet for one Thanksgiving in St. Louis, our gang of three, Jim, my brother and me, probably tops the list as the worst meal of thanks ever.  Our children were not living in St. Louis or able to come that year, and I think my small oven was broken.  At the buffet, some there—and it was crowded—seemed to find the cramped setting and unlimited amount of food an appealing, mouth watering holiday occasion.  Not so for us.

          At the opposite end would be our best and most meaningful Thanksgiving gathering.  David, our son, had gone far, far away to Ithaca College in New York to start a Master’s degree.  We hadn’t seen him since August, and his experience there had been disappointing.  Coupled with his shyness and living alone, he talked about his monastic existence.  Bill and Bonnie were probably in Indiana, and Bill’s parents in Pennsylvania had invited us all to share the holiday together.  In all, there were ten or eleven of us gathered around a large, antique table laden with great food much of it prepared by Bill and Bonnie.  Jim probably said a blessing as he was frequently asked to do at such things.  After dinner but still sitting around the table, we were asked to write something we were thankful for on little slips of paper.  When read, we were supposed to guess who had written it.  The only answer I remember was David’s: “safe travel,” concise but true.  Bill’s aunt and uncle and their son had come to Pennsylvania from Boston to join us.

           Pleasant and interesting visiting among us accompanied some football watching over the course of our time together.  Poor Bill and Bonnie were too busy with preparations until dinner.  As I observed Bill’s dad and his sister doing some hand washing of dishes and clean-up, there was something sweet about brother and sister sharing this task.  For Jim and me, being welcomed into a Thanksgiving with real gratitude along with the food and football and getting to share it with our children was truly sweet and satisfying.  

          Well before he died, Thanksgiving had become Jim’s favorite holiday.  It can be a meaningful yet relatively simple occasion—no costumes, no gift giving, etc.—plus a feast to enjoy. Maybe that Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania was the year that its top status began.                                                                                              

 

More on awesome possibilities

             Awe or awesome are words that rarely come out of my mouth, partly because these words are, in my humble opinion, overused and often spoken in expressions not even close to the actual meaning of this word.  Technically, according to dictionary definitions, awe is “a feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder.”  Plans for the weekend, even great ideas, are generally not awesome.

             For me, nature or natural phenomena, can stir a sense of awe, a feeling with an element of reverence like the definition suggests.  Seeing the ocean in all its grandeur impresses me and stirs within me images of the greatness of God.  Because of my love for waterfalls,  Jim planned a trip to a Tennessee state park called Falls Creek Falls, just south of Chattanooga.  What a simple, quiet place with an amazing range of falls.  Off in the distance, one rushed over a high cliff and fell a very long way into a canyon with water below.  I well remember how close we stood to a two-tiered rush of water into the rocks.  We actually got wet posing for group pictures with other visitors.  And the sound, the awesome “voice” of nature.

              However, the lovely state park—set apart and so quietly tucked away from any towns or trafficked roads—couldn’t compare to experiencing Niagara Falls.  As has often been the case, our traveling ventures “circled” the places our children have lived over the years.  David attended Ithaca College in Ithaca, New York, a little town of many little falls.  When we did get to the Niagara Falls, it was a glorious summer day, showing off the pastoral setting and the lovely, rushing water heading toward the big drop off.  The voice of nature yells, but it is a yell that again, overwhelms me with wonder and awe, affirming the grandeur. 

            Our daughter Bonnie lived in the northwest corner of North Carolina when her husband was hired at Appalachian State University.  They were right up next to Grandfather Mountain, so named because from some angles it looks like the profile of a grandfatherly man.  When we stayed at one lodge there, I could look out the window and see old Grandfather right across the way.  It was supposed to be one of the big tourist attractions in the state.

             Aside from nature, works revealing what only God can do, also stir in me a sense of awe and gratitude.  An excellent illustration of this is how David came to stand on a pitchers’ mound in collegiate baseball.  His athletic capabilities were evident even when he was young, and with a physical education teacher/coach for a father, he had much nurturing in his athleticism.  He fared well until high school, largely because the school teams had talented but also very confident players.  Our shy, less aggressive son was just finding his way on his winning sophomore baseball team when his ACL got torn during a practice. 

             Fast forward to the end of his long rehab in time to play varsity baseball, a team whose coach had parents complaining for years,  yet the coach remained in place.  Playing for him and David’s lack of fresh encouragement and confidence after his injury produced a very disappointing high school experience and no interest from any college scouts or coaches.  But coach Jim kept encouraging David to play summer ball.

             After just a couple games with a team David joined with some reluctance after his freshman year in college, he got his first chance to pitch.  An older man with a cowboy hat pulled into the park area about the same time I arrived.  That “cowboy” was the baseball coach for William Jewell College, a small liberal arts college near Kansas City, Missouri.  He was there to see a player on another team , but started watching David pitch.  That was the beginning of David getting a full tuition scholarship for baseball to a very good college—his heart’s desire suddenly fulfilled.  The wonder of God’s providential hand—awesome, indeed.

Some really powerful and encouraging lyrics of a few contemporary Christian songs are nurturing my faith in an awesome God recently.  One is called, "The Father's House," by Cory Asbury.  One line I just noticed today (even though I have listened to the song a number of times) struck me: "What looks to me like weakness is a canvas for Your strength."  Later is this list of seeming impossibilities: "Prodigals come home . . . Miracles take place.  The cynical find faith and love is breaking through when the Father's in the room."  Impossibilities--suddenly--become possible by faith in God. 

Suddenly--Possibilities of Faith

 

             Despite my infrequent flying, I knew when the pilot said to buckle up and get ready for landing, really hitting the ground took a while.  So, as expected, our gradual descent went as usual.  But as we got close to finally setting down, suddenly the plane pulled up and headed skyward instead.  A very nice young man was sitting next to me on the plane and in our conversation, I had learned he often flew with his job.  I asked him if my observation of what had just happened was accurate.  He replied, “Yes.”  And then I said, “Has this ever happened to you before?” This time he replied, “No.”

                This plane ride to Charlotte, North Carolina, happened over ten years ago.  I was traveling alone because I was going to help our daughter with her less than two-month-old son Henry for a week.  I had not thought about this experience for a long time until this last week.  I think the Holy Spirit brought it to my mind because of its symbolism of what I am experiencing right now.  The fast change of direction matches a quote of St. Francis of Assisi that has been written on my heart for even more than ten years: “First do what’s necessary, then what’s possible, and suddenly you will be doing the impossible.”

                Why would remembering this plane ride help me discern God’s still, small voice to guide me now?  He is encouraging me to keep believing that His promises are sure, His faithfulness to keep them remains even when circumstances are suggesting otherwise.  I have had significant pain, stiffness, and energy issues for thirty years.  In St Louis, where my husband and I lived all our lives before moving to Charleston, Illinois, in 2015, we spent a lot of time seeing various doctors and specialists before I was clinically diagnosed with Hereditary Spastic Parapleses, a rare neurological condition that currently has no medical treatment other than trying to relieve increasing muscle spasticity, discomfort, and weakness.  Just this summer, here in this little university town on the prairie, I had genetic testing, verifying the diagnosis and wonderfully determining that the chances of my children and grandchildren inheriting this condition are virtually zero.

                In my 20s almost fifty years ago, my real but conventional Protestant Christian faith became deeper, more Christ-centered and more experiential through searching the scriptures and exploring new possibilities of faith, such as healing after praying with faith for the sick.  My participation in various Bible studies and prayer groups nurtured my growth over the years; I experienced wonderful answers to prayer.  I also heard others’ testimonies of answered prayer, including my own husband, who initially was not at all interested in growing beyond his Catholic background.

                Ten years ago, I had no need of walking with a cane.  Now I am being encouraged to use a walker, and I do when I “take a walk” or feel more tired in the evening, but not all the time.  The pandemic ending my exercising at Eastern Illinois University's Recreational Center has affected my efforts to keep as strong and upright as I can.  So I have been on the slow descent in my physical experience for some time.  The genetic counseling I had this past summer made clear some stark realities of future possibilities.  But a practice I have used for some time is asking God, “What do you have to say about this?”  The book of James tells us that we can ask God for wisdom, and He will supply it.

                His voice continues its instruction to believe, to fear not but trust that God’s promises will come to fruition—suddenly, like in the Bible and in St. Augustine’s words.  I have yearned to see more Biblical manifestations of the ministry of Christ continued by the Holy Spirit for a very long time—not just for myself but for many.  Jesus healed all, all who came to Him for help.  The book of Acts is a record of the early church and its experience of the Holy Spirit’s power continuing Jesus’s ministry as Jesus said they would if they would tarry in prayer until the Holy Spirit was poured out upon them.

                Some years ago, a prayer attributed to Mother Theresa circulated through emails for quite a while.  A line that really grabbed my attention was this: “May you not forget the infinite possibilities born of faith.”  Impossibilities becoming possible by the faith that God alone can quicken to our hearts and minds.  May “my plane” pull up and dramatically change course soon, mine and many more.

               

                 

               

 

Forest Park Forever

Forest Park Forever

                For a little girl growing up in St. Louis, the main feature of Forest Park was its nationally acclaimed zoo.  In the 1950s and 60s, the zoo was much simpler with lots of open space around the various animal habitats.  The big event hands-down was the monkey show, set in an outdoor circular venue, bleachers overlooking the little water mote between spectators and the stage for the monkey show.  When relatives came to visit us from out of town, the zoo and Cardinal baseball games were high on the destination list.  My parents had pictures made into slides, so my cute little girl delight at various zoo locations is well documented.

                At the free zoo, visitors could walk the various “streets” and see bears in settings depicting their natural habitats.  A favorite path was along the monkey and gorilla cages, all open air so people felt they could almost communicate with these critters.  A very popular and famous gorilla named Phil smoked cigarettes, greatly amusing the crowds.  After Phil died, a life-sized replica of him is now in the new  monkey section.  Another favorite place in the park was and is the nation’s largest outdoor theater.  The high quality shows on a very large stage shaded by real trees had amazing sets and costumes.  I remember seeing shows there with my family and even on a date.

                 Just across the street from the Lindell Boulevard boundary of the 1300+ acre park is The Chase Park Plaza Hotel, a very classy and well-known hotel even today after major renovations over the years.  In its very fancy Khorassan ballroom, I danced with Jim, a young man who would become my husband. The University of Missouri, St. Louis, homecoming dinner/dance was quite a bargain at only $5.00 per couple for this blind date.  I liked the young man, overlooking his ugly glasses to appreciate those pretty blue eyes and long eyelashes.  Yes, February 27, 1971, was the providential beginning of a love story that even after 45 years of marriage, ended too suddenly and too soon.

                On some dates and after marrying, Forest Park continued to be a place we explored and enjoyed.  My husband really loved musicals, so much so that he, a high school junior in 1965, went to the theater seven times to see The Sound of Music.  However, after seeing the show Applause featuring Lauren Bacall at the Muny with me on a very hot and humid summer night and later becoming parents, there was a long stretch before we made our way back to the Muny.     

                I am sure we took our children to the zoo before our first venture to take them to a kid-friendly Muny performance.  With a show like Peter Pan and a back section of free seats, the combination seemed perfect, and it worked out well.  Actually, sitting in the free seats provides a bit of a show in itself with people of all ages bringing many kinds of treats/food and beverages to pass the waiting time, from fried chicken to wine and grapes to melting, messy chocolate covered peanuts.  On another outing, we rented a paddle boat and made our way along the canal to the large basin at the bottom of Art Hill, a sledding destination in the winter.  Since the more recent renovations that placed lovely lighted fountains in the basin, that spot at night became my favorite sight at the park.

                Jim had various summer jobs during his years teaching physical education and coaching, but one of them led to the development of a new passion and area of expertise.  He had noticed a sightseeing bus in downtown St. Louis and inquired about the business.  Hired the next summer as a driver who picked up people at various downtown hotels, collected money, shared information all while navigating the streets downtown, his introduction to this industry was a baptism by fire.  But he studied St. Louis history, architecture, ethnic neighborhoods, historic churches—all of it greatly interested him.  After some years of study and working as a guide with visitors to the city, he became a respected tour guide among his peers.  He had a kind, considerate and humorous way with people, a winning combination that played out over and over throughout his life.

                After Jim's death in 2017, it was our daughter Bonnie who discovered the tribute stones called pavers that the nonprofit group Forest Park Forever sells to keep improving the park and remembering special people.  After purchasing one, I could use 45 characters for the engraving on the paver.  “Jim Laughlin, great St. Louis Tour Guide” seemed perfect for this setting.  There are several areas of pavers throughout the park, and I had no say about Jim's location.  But not surprisingly, the paver now sets in a most appropriate spot along the walkway at the base of Government Hill.  At the top of that hill is one of the few structures from the 1904 World’s Fair that remains in use today.

In the last months of his life, Jim presented a program on the 1904 World’s Fair held at Forest Park to an interested group assembled in the city library here in Charleston, Illinois.  As usual, he did an excellent job for the Life long learning Academy university program, complete with cotton candy and doctor pepper soda, both introduced at that fair.  He was delighted to tap into that part of his life’s work here in Charleston. 

After 66 years of life in St. Louis, we moved to this small town on the prairie where our daughter, her husband and our first grandchild, Henry, live.  Much of St. Louis and our years there remained in our hearts, so it is fitting and providential, I would say, that some of Jim’s great work in our hometown is remembered and etched in stone.

Forest Park Forever, indeed.           

Today's call to "Good Trouble"

                What better shirt to have on as I write this piece than my 50^th anniversary T-shirt (Selma bridge crossing), bought in the Birmingham, AL, airport as my husband Jim and I waited to fly back to St. Louis.  We had visited our son and his wife who were living in Montgomery in 2015.  Thankfully, Jim and I visited Selma during our visit a few days before all the commemorative events were to be held, allowing us to easily drive around the quaint town, stop at a central location to do some exploring and then finally get back into the car and put our feet on that famous bridge.  The movie “Selma” had come to the theaters not long before this trip, and we had seen and been moved by it, continuing our “education” on the struggles for civil rights. 

                Since John Lewis’s recent death, I have watched some of the television coverage of his life-long, very passionate and devoted work for equality for all.  I think he was jailed over 40 times for getting into what he called “good trouble,” like being part of peaceful protesting.  He surely gave his all for what he believed in and thought he should be finding ways to put his beliefs into purposeful activity, eventually being elected to the House of Representatives for 34 years.

                I have been thinking for some time about writing on a sermon I heard more than 40 years ago and how applicable it is for these tumultuous times in which we are living.  The scripture for the sermon can be found in Luke 5, when Jesus was teaching the multitudes gathered along the shore from Simon's boat.  When He stopped speaking, He said to Simon, “Launch out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch” (Luke 5:4).  Simon responded somewhat unenthusiastically since they had “toiled all night and caught nothing.”  However, referring to Jesus as Master, he said he would let down the net “at Your word.”  The catch filled up two boats and powerfully affected the fishermen, especially Simon.  Jesus, seeking out disciples, told them that they would now be catching men; their response was dramatic and wholehearted.  “They forsook all and followed Him” (vs 11).

                Jesus has been calling to us throughout the ages to commit to the cause of Christ, to spread the gospel and do so with such fervency and dedication that “signs and wonders” just like in the gospels and the Acts of the Apostles would demonstrate the power and compassion of God.  Recently, I was struck by the full name of that record of the first church; usually I think of it as Acts.  But it is more compelling to be reminded the miracles, the persecution for getting into “good trouble,” like healing a lame man begging for alms (Acts 3), all came together after the day of Pentecost, the pouring out of the Holy Spirit as prophesied by Joel.  In Acts 1, Jesus had told the apostles and others to tarry, to pray and to wait for a fresh outpouring of the Holy Spirit before beginning to spread the gospel. 

                At the time I heard this sermon many years ago, I felt like God was prodding me to seek out the deeper waters of faith and trust Him to give our family a healthy son preceded by a healthy pregnancy.  Our second child and first son had been born two months early after a very difficult pregnancy.  He lived just 17 days, never making it home from the hospital, but we had seen miraculous answers to prayer all along the way, including his tremendous comeback from near death the night he was born.  My need for God’s comfort, wisdom and strength after his death was great.  I was not brave or willing to “hope” for a better experience should we try for another child.

                However, in the months that followed as I searched the scriptures and prayed, God did a work in me.  I read about “miracle” babies, like Abraham and Sarah’s son Isaac, promised to them but a long time coming.  Hannah, Samuel’s mother, had prayed and prayed for a child, and then after a particularly strong experience in prayer, she “knew” her prayer had been heard, and baby Samuel came along after that.  In time, an assurance from God had grown in my heart, that I could have a healthy son (my request) and normal pregnancy if I would step out in faith and trust this faithful God.  It was about this time that I heard the sermon about launching out into the deep.  Nudged and supported by faith in Christ and the encouragement of the scriptures, I took that step with my husband’s supportive faith, too.  About 14 months later, we welcomed David Daniel, a full term, eight pound healthy son.

                Now that charge to launch out into the deep waters of faith seems much more broadly applied—to Christians worldwide.  The ministry, the sermons, the gifts of healing and miracles, the fellowship among believers were so strong and so central to the lives of those “beginners” in Christian evangelism.  They knew the scriptures available to them and advised those listening to search the scriptures for themselves to see if what they shared was consistent and true.  They had real joy even in hardship; life was not about the next thing they wanted to buy or do but was in their service to Jesus Christ.

                Long before hundreds of years brought innovations and much more complicated and busy living, Paul issued a concern to the Corinthian church.  “But I am afraid, lest as the serpent deceived Eve by his craftiness, your minds should be led astray from the simplicity and purity of devotion to Christ” (11 Corinthians 11:3 KJV).  Apparently, the devil’s wiles have long included deceiving Christian people from keeping centered and devoted to what really matters about our faith in Christ and serving Him, loving Him “with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind,” Jesus’s words in Mathew 22:37 NKJV. 

                We cannot change yesterday, and we cannot make other people’s choices for them (if only), but we can decide to ask God to help us love Him more devotedly and sacrificially, reading the scriptures for ourselves trusting in the Holy Spirit to reveal God’s truth to us, praying and living out a life of service to others, not the self-service we can be so attuned to and centered on.  God has given us free will, but so hopes we will make this choice by His grace and with His constant presence.   

An old Christian hymn comes to mind: “Stand up, Stand up for Jesus.”

Lord Jesus, please guide us, show us, and enable us to follow You

 more fervently than ever, even willing

to get into “good trouble” for Your name’s sake.

Amen.

Distance from each other but not God

                When I watched the television coverage of protests in various states this past week, people demanding their right as Americans to be free and live as they please, defying social distancing guidelines, I knew I had to write about a sermon I have been listening to over recent months.  Peter Marshall, its preacher, delivered Trial By Fire in the last months of World War 11.

                Marshall came  to America from Scotland with five dollars in his pocket and no real plans; however, he also came with an assurance that God was leading him to make this journey after he and his mother had been praying about his future.  Initially digging ditches not far from his Ellis Island entrance, he went to Birmingham, Alabama, where two friends from Scotland had settled.  His gifts were recognized by his participation in a men’s Bible study group at his church, and they collected enough money for him to go to the seminary.  He clearly was gifted by God.

                After serving at two smaller churches in the South, he was called to the prestigious New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, D.C.  Church attendance grew as reports about its powerful new preacher spread.   In 1947, he was asked to be the Chaplain for the United States Senate.  What had been a poorly attended few minutes before Senate sessions became a compelling and important feature of those meetings. 

                I have listened to this sermon several times over recent months.  At the beginning, Marshall quotes William Penn:  “Men must be governed by God or ruled by tyrants.”  He goes on, calling Americans to be less concerned with their rights and more mindful of their duties and responsibilities as citizens of this country established on Godly principles.  He quoted a Life Magazine opinion piece exhorting Americans to move from a “lackadaisical” Christianity to a stronger and bolder commitment to Christ and the self-sacrificing life of faith Christ calls us to.  This choice could lead to a “long awaited Christian revival, a revival born in the hearts of its citizens.”  I wonder where our country would be today had these words and this sermon been taken seriously and acted upon.

 How could these words be more timely to us now, so much farther down the road away from Godly leadership and Christian faithfulness to Christ.  Please consider taking about 27 minutes to listen to Trial By Fire by Peter Marshall.  Let your spirit be stirred to meet this critical moment in our country and the whole world fighting a deadly virus with the basic essentials of faith: prayer, Bible reading, more prayer and much more of the Holy Spirit’s presence in us and all we do.  Let’s seek the “simplicity and purity of devotion to Christ (11 Corinthians 11:3 NASB) that Paul encouraged the Corinthians to remain steadfast in.

Becoming More than we are

Many quotes, magnet pictures, and various clippings have resided on the front and side of my refrigerator for years.  One of these seems to have been written for this very moment in history, world history.  Madeleine L’Engle, a prolific American writer who wrote the book A Wrinkle in Time, penned this, “We have to be braver than we think we can be because God is constantly calling us to be more than we are” (Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art, 2016). 

Those words are true and stirring, but what if we don’t feel so brave  or maybe worse, what if we feel brave but the source of this confidence is unreliable, like an inflated sense of who we are.  Thankfully, there is a source of strength and bravery, both real and reliable.  It is in God Himself and His son, Jesus Christ.  However, even before Jesus came to earth, the Bible depicts countless brave characters and their stories of courage.

A very well known story in the Old Testament is that of David, a young shepherd boy, who took on a very big and scary Philistine giant who taunted the Israelite army of the living God (1 Kings 17).  Young David had confidence to take on this giant with only a sling and a few stones because he had experienced God’s help and protection from attacking lions and bears as he had cared for the family’s sheep.  With only one stone and a proven faith in the name of the Lord God Almighty, he hit the towering giant in the forehead and down he fell.

Many of the psalms were written by David, and he honestly describes his experiences of discouragement and temptations to be afraid.  But he always comes back to the Lord, his light and salvation, the stronghold of his life.  Psalm 27 is a wonderful illustration of his faith and how it grew as he writes about seeking God and wanting Him to lead and teach him.  David ends the psalm with this honest and revealing profession: “I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.  Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart; Wait I say, on the Lord!”

As people of faith, let us respond to this time and its daunting challenges with humility and a willingness to seek God just as David and many others have done. We can choose to draw near to God and allow Him to create in us a brave strength, making us “more than we are.”

Tracing the trail

            Like my daughter in her first school days, I spent countless hours playing school with friends.  I knew I wanted to become a teacher myself in grade school.  As to what subject I would focus on, that was not as clear.  In high school, I had a wonderful lady for home economics and not just sewing and cooking.  My school had a special class for seniors on a variety of personal issues, like dating, marriage, etc.  How I would love to have a video clip of some of our discussions which now would seem from another age.  Because I liked to sew, knit and crochet, I thought this surely was the field I would be well suited to teach.

            My first semester at the University of Missouri did not confirm that thinking.  As I recall there were about eight areas in the home economics curriculum, including design, textiles, finances, etc.  I took two classes in this field, one taught by an artist, probably a very good one, but his design class was taught very poorly.  We had projects and he would line our creations up in front of the class from the best to the worst—always.  A friend I made in class wanted to go into design, and her projects were always at the end.  He didn’t even know whose project was whose, and I found this method of instruction or lack thereof quite unsatisfactory, especially for my friend.

            The other class that semester proved no more helpful or encouraging.  In all fairness, family management, including financial issues, was of little interest to me.  Adding to my displeasure was the teacher and her method.  She was an older lady and not an appealing presence in the classroom.  Was this really the field of teaching for me?   At Thanksgiving break, I visited my senior homemaking teacher and talked to her about my concerns.  I decided maybe some of these areas within the subject were more like hobbies for me.  So, I switched to English, a subject I enjoyed and did well in.  I did value the potential power of speech and writing.    Passion about literature or an interest in being a writer myself were not driving forces in my choice, making me a bit of an oddball among English teachers, but giving me an advantage with the students I taught, many of whom weren’t passionate either.  A nice young man in a developmental English class I taught told me he would rather be doing calculus.  Really?

            I chose one picture for this writing prompt, a non-posed one taken for the yearbook at the high school where I taught for four years, the same school I, myself,  had attended. And it was while I was a student there that the second picture was taken for a St. Louis publication called Prom Magazine.  Representatives, a boy and a girl for most schools, were chosen from St. Louis area high schools to write and submit school news to the magazine. One year’s reporters chose the two juniors who would follow them.   I find it interesting to have had this writing assignment and a bit of a feather in one’s cap during my senior year, perhaps a beginning to writing “calling my name” in years to come.

            My senior homemaking skills and values rose to the forefront as I stayed home for a number of years while our three children were born and growing up.  Not long before I started thinking of working part-time, I sent in a favorite and very delicious recipe to a Suburban Journal divided into various areas of St. Louis County.  The promise of getting a taste of the chocolate chip brownies must have led to my recipe being featured in a coming weekly issue.  The “reporter” who came to interview me was a very likable lady about my age, a former teacher, who wrote articles for the Journal as a stringer, someone working for a pittance on certain stories.  Her children were about the same age as mine, and she had been a teacher, too, in a Catholic grade school.  As we got acquainted, she encouraged me to apply to do what she was doing; she, however, was passionate about writing and was working on a novel. 

            The Journal editor hired me even though her experiences hiring English teachers had not always been wise.  But she said she had a gut feeling that pressed her to take a chance on me.  So, for almost a year, I wrote human interest stories, eventually getting a regular feature, interviewing various pastors and writing about them and their varying churches.  One of the more memorable pastors and his church were at  an old Lutheran church and school struggling to stay viable in its north city neighborhood.

            I returned to teaching, first at a nursery school and then in a local community college close to my home in Florissant as an adjunct in the booming developmental English classes.  Then I was asked to tutor in the Writing Center where again there were opportunities to write for the Loose Leaf newsletter the center published for a few years.  During the 19 years I worked at the college, I sent in a submission to write for a coming Suburban Journal feature, “Spreading the Word.”  Being chosen as one of a group of rotating writers for this feature matched my Christian faith and study with writing—a perfect pairing. When the Journal folded, a couple writer acquaintances suggested I start a blog, the furthest thing from my mind.  But I had been praying about what to do and decided to get one up and running, with the help of my more technically wise son.  That was in 2013, and it has kept me writing although not often enough. 

            Coming to Charleston furthered writing’s wooing of my interest and attention.  A kind and friendly neighbor invited me to her memoir writing group.  And here I am, still feeling a little bit of the oddball but mindful that the shepherd’s hook has been gently nudging me along a writing path for a very long time, all the way back to high school.  I hadn’t thought of that Prom Magazine assignment as an early step on this writing path until asked to find a picture from my St. Louis, Missouri, past for this assignment.  How about that?

Casual Clubs can be lifesavers

                 Perhaps you belong to a casual club, or perhaps you don’t even know what I am talking about.  This distinction I, myself, only became familiar with after my husband, Jim,  and I joined the Eastern Illinois University Rec Center to work out just four years ago.  Have I heard other “casual club” members use this terminology?  Well, no.  But, I have come to believe this classification might be an original Rayma Kay Laughlin creation.

                Many who work out at the rec center are students, EIU faculty, and retirees.  Clearly, some have friends and casual acquaintances from being part of the Charleston community over the years.  However, Jim and I joined the rec just seven months after moving to Charleston in 2015 after living all our lives—about 66 years—in St. Louis, Missouri.  Our connections here were few but three of them were the reasons for this move: our daughter, son-in-law (EIU employees}, and first grandson, then five.  Joining the rec center at the university was our first venture here not associated with family, like kids’ baseball games, church activities, and family get-togethers.

                Right from the start, Jim and I enjoyed associating with the EIU student workers at the rec.  Jim and I are both outgoing, retired teachers, and at that time eager to make some personal connections in our new town.  Jim especially became engaged with athletes, some track and cross country students.  He, himself, attended Southern Illinois University in Edwardsville on a cross country scholarship and had competed at EIU while in college.  I, on the other hand, had never even heard of EIU until our daughter applied for a job here.  Before Jim’s sudden death in August, 2017, we had become casually acquainted with students and fellow workout folks, and I had begun calling them “casual club members.”

                Staying with our habit of twice weekly workouts after Jim’s death proved to be life-giving.  Upon my return to exercising, many people expressed their sadness and sympathy.  I believe some might even have prayed for our family.  News of a man appearing to be in good shape suddenly dying while riding a bike travels fast in a small town (20,000 including university students).  Because Jim had no identification with him, he was probably already pronounced dead at the Emergency Room by the time the officers found me, adding to the dramatic impact of our story. 

                This last week in the first month of a new year, 2020, has been filled with the tragic story of a very famous former basketball player, Kobe Bryant, his daughter and seven more dying in a helicopter crash.  All had left their homes the day of the crash expecting to return just like my husband had and so many others do every day but don’t come home as expected.  Of course, I have thought more of Jim and  that experience of sudden loss in my own life.  When I texted these feelings to my son and asked, "How about you?" he replied, “Agreed.  Lot of families in this situation changed instantly.”  Then we simply affirmed our love for each other.

                Survivors like us are not in a casual club, but I do feel a kinship with them as I do with other widows I now know.  But it is the rec center where I find continued “benefits” from my casual club membership.  I’ve even made a couple friends, students and adults, whom I see outside our rec center connections.  That is such a blessing for a person still feeling new to this community.  Just yesterday, I took the a new rubber cane tip that I couldn’t get on because the old, beaten down one wouldn’t come off.  I was on the way to “the club” when I discovered this problem, so I just took the new tip with me, knowing I would get help at the rec center.  Sarah, the supervisor, just took a tool and cut the old tip off.  Yes, a casual club member comes to the rescue once again.

                Such casual clubs and the opportunities they provide not only for personal fitness but also for socialization and simple acts of kindness are beneficial beyond measure for people like me who need more than exercise.  Real connections among us, not just virtual ones, can provide substance to our exhortation to love one another.  

Christ offers new beginnings

Going to jail is not usually where one starts over.  Hopefully, people would leave jail or prison having begun some process, program, spiritual growth, etc., that will send them off on a more positive path, perhaps even life-changing.  It does happen.  Movies portray such changes like The Birdman of Alcatraz, and books by Chuck Colson, who began prison ministry after his own imprisonment for the Nixon presidency wrongs.  He wrote, “ . . . only when I lost everything I thought made Chuck Colson a great guy had I found the true self God intended me to be and the true purpose of my life.”

                My road to jail began some years ago when I bought a book by Wally Lamb called Can’t Keep it to Myself and read Shakespeare Saved My Life by Indiana English professor Laura Bates.  Both books address the positive effects of writing and reading programs with inmates during their sentences.  I wanted to try something less grand—I can barely understand some of Shakespeare—but make some use of reading and writing to benefit people serving time.  A cook at the Coles County Jail told me some inmates there wait many days, even months, for a court date and/or final outcome of their situation.  So, I tried to contact the jail administrator but couldn’t get a return call. Finally, I decided just to go by the jail and see if I could catch up with this lady.  It happened that I not only got to talk to her, but someone was there who told me about a Christian program already up and running.

                I still don’t know the overall structure or outreaches of the Wingman program, but I decided to try out the mentoring outreach, taking one of the eight two hour slots a week to sit in a little visitors’ room waiting to be contacted by an inmate through something like skype.  Previously, all I knew about jails or prisons was what I have seen in the movies—well, that ship has sailed.  Just recently a much- needed mentors’ meeting at the jail aired some of the difficulties of the present system and included a tour of the actual jail, an empty area but a no less sobering experience.  Dismal,  gray, concrete block structure cells house multiple people who try to sleep on metal bunkbeds with 4 or 5 inch mattresses.  Here they stay 24 hours a day until they go through some tunnel to the courthouse or are released.  No daylight unless an inmate is making his or her way through the tunnel.

                For the Christian mentoring, inmates can login on their monitors, one in each cell, for a faith-based conversation on several topics with a waiting mentor.  The program also provides Bibles to people who want them and many do.  Since I am relatively new, I don’t know who will appear on the monitor and the same is true for them although regular mentors have certain nights and times and therefore, more regular connections.  The 30 minute sessions each inmate can have are fairly improvisational.  Ones I have sat in on or led involve listening, getting acquainted with the inmates and what they are needing or seeking, including matters of faith.  All of us try to pray before the 30 minutes ends; some even start with prayer.  I try to have some conversation first, initiating personal interaction.

                After a rocky start including getting bumped off my initial time slot and then having little interested inmates on a different night and missing a couple weeks around Thanksgiving, the mentor meeting enabled me to get my old slot back and start over on this venture.  At this point, I have probably talked to 12-15 individuals, mostly men, and have had some quite memorable experiences.  I would imagine and understandably so, some inmates get on the phone just to have some social engagement with someone on the outside.  But a few have especially seemed to be of a repentant heart, wanting to get right with God and the people they  love, and I hope I have encouraged them and brought them closer to feeling God’s presence with them.  One young man cried as we prayed at the end and after what he had shared earlier in the session, I believe his remorse was genuine.  I pray all of us mentors are offering something real on Christian fellowship and encouragement, clearly pointing them to Christ and His mercy for us all.