My father used to say "sometimes you have to go back in order to go forward..." And I'm finding these days that as I make many new beginnings in my life and get ready to celebrate my 45th year on this earth, I keep wanting to fall on my knees and say "thank you." Sometimes it isn't until you put the load down finally that you realize how heavy it really was. It isn't until you've left until you can see things more clearly and honestly. And sometimes you just have to be amazed that you made it this far.
There were good times and bad times. My first church appointment was in South Central Nebraska, and I do mean SOUTH. You couldn't go much south-er than where we lived and still be in Nebraska. I was appointed to three churches and Larry served two. My closest church was 25 miles across the prairie. They weren't too happy that I wasn't living in their parsonage, and they never did get over that. It was a little tiny town that was pretty much a ghost town. There were a couple of small cafe's, a bar, and a school that kept defying the powers to stay open. I did manage to draw a crowd of 60 people in that church on Sunday, and I earned kudos when a beloved member of the community died suddenly in his garden and I had his funeral. Some people began to think I might be alright. Others still held their ground-- their empty parsonage a sore spot that never healed. My other congregation had a whopping crowd of 9 people on Sunday, and an outhouse in the back that hadn't been used for years. Unfortunately I was forced to use it since I got pregnant that year, and when you gotta go, you gotta go.
In that church, there were peacocks in a neighboring yard, and a rooster that always chose to cry out right during the Silent Prayer after the Lord's Prayer. I always brought a travel cup of 7 Up to quell my morning sickness during the sermon-- which only made it more necessary for me to use the god-awful outhouse. It was a long way home....
The third congregation was my favorite. They only met once a month because the 10 remaining members were all over 70, lived several miles away from the church, and it was getting harder for them to keep the church open. It was a little white clapboard church out in the middle of the prairie, and on the Willa Cather Historical Tour. Some claimed she worshipped there, but no one remembered for sure. It had no running water in the church, and yes, there were not one, but two outhouses out back-- one for men and one for women. One had to travel 7 miles on a dirt (not gravel, but dirt) road to reach the church. My first Sunday preaching there, I had my 13-year old stepson Michael with me, and it had rained two inches over the weekend. The road was a sloppy mess! I endured the 7 miles of mud in my F150 rear-wheeled drive pick-up which a lot of anxiety and maybe even a few cuss words. When I arrived at the church, the men were all standing on the front step of the church laughing. One of them said, "Usually when we get this much rain, we cancel church. But we all wanted to see how this preacher lady from New Jersey drove that pick-up in this mess!"
Thanks, guys.
Michael proceeded to tell them that I would be willing to drive out there in ANY kind of weather.
At that church, they set out a huge potluck dinner on wooden planks set across the old, wooden, attached seats in the church. The women brought jugs of water from home, and we all ate a homemade feast. Afterward, we had church. The 5 men sat on one side, and the 5 women sat on the other. Most of them fell asleep before I was through. They'd told me when I came that it was best to keep it short.
I didn't stay in that appointment for more than one year. The people who were mad at me for not living in their house never got over it, and so they collected all the complaints they could on me one day and ambushed me at a meeting. They didn't like that I was pregnant. Who was going to take care of the baby? Would my baby take time away from my ministry? And who was going to pay for that Sunday I missed church because I was bleeding and the doctor ordered me to bedrest in case I was having a miscarriage? There were people who supported me, but they kept silent, as often happens. At my farewell party which was also a baby shower, one man got up and scolded the crowd for driving me away and told them they should be ashamed of themselves. Then we had cake and opened presents.
My best memory of that year was the little church on the prairie at the end of a muddy road. Before I was done, they decided it was time to close its doors for good. They were all getting too old to keep the church going. So we invited everyone that ever loved that little church, and the building was full-to-bursting on that day. We even had a baptism for a grandchild, and the offering plate was overflowing with bills to pay for the building's upkeep. And of course, we had a lot of good food to eat! Just weeks after its closing, one of the members died-- the youngest one, at the age of 70. We had a moving farewell for him, in his home church. I often wondered if it just broke his heart beyond repair to see it close.
In the midst of death, there is life. Three days before we moved out, I went into labor and gave birth to my beloved daughter Sarah Gene. I came home from the hospital Sunday afternoon to a baby shower at Larry's church (I look a bit pale in the pictures), and Monday morning we moved. I don't recommend it, but somehow, like many more things ahead, we survived it. And life went on. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. And so we did.
There were good times and bad times. My first church appointment was in South Central Nebraska, and I do mean SOUTH. You couldn't go much south-er than where we lived and still be in Nebraska. I was appointed to three churches and Larry served two. My closest church was 25 miles across the prairie. They weren't too happy that I wasn't living in their parsonage, and they never did get over that. It was a little tiny town that was pretty much a ghost town. There were a couple of small cafe's, a bar, and a school that kept defying the powers to stay open. I did manage to draw a crowd of 60 people in that church on Sunday, and I earned kudos when a beloved member of the community died suddenly in his garden and I had his funeral. Some people began to think I might be alright. Others still held their ground-- their empty parsonage a sore spot that never healed. My other congregation had a whopping crowd of 9 people on Sunday, and an outhouse in the back that hadn't been used for years. Unfortunately I was forced to use it since I got pregnant that year, and when you gotta go, you gotta go.
In that church, there were peacocks in a neighboring yard, and a rooster that always chose to cry out right during the Silent Prayer after the Lord's Prayer. I always brought a travel cup of 7 Up to quell my morning sickness during the sermon-- which only made it more necessary for me to use the god-awful outhouse. It was a long way home....
The third congregation was my favorite. They only met once a month because the 10 remaining members were all over 70, lived several miles away from the church, and it was getting harder for them to keep the church open. It was a little white clapboard church out in the middle of the prairie, and on the Willa Cather Historical Tour. Some claimed she worshipped there, but no one remembered for sure. It had no running water in the church, and yes, there were not one, but two outhouses out back-- one for men and one for women. One had to travel 7 miles on a dirt (not gravel, but dirt) road to reach the church. My first Sunday preaching there, I had my 13-year old stepson Michael with me, and it had rained two inches over the weekend. The road was a sloppy mess! I endured the 7 miles of mud in my F150 rear-wheeled drive pick-up which a lot of anxiety and maybe even a few cuss words. When I arrived at the church, the men were all standing on the front step of the church laughing. One of them said, "Usually when we get this much rain, we cancel church. But we all wanted to see how this preacher lady from New Jersey drove that pick-up in this mess!"
Thanks, guys.
Michael proceeded to tell them that I would be willing to drive out there in ANY kind of weather.
At that church, they set out a huge potluck dinner on wooden planks set across the old, wooden, attached seats in the church. The women brought jugs of water from home, and we all ate a homemade feast. Afterward, we had church. The 5 men sat on one side, and the 5 women sat on the other. Most of them fell asleep before I was through. They'd told me when I came that it was best to keep it short.
I didn't stay in that appointment for more than one year. The people who were mad at me for not living in their house never got over it, and so they collected all the complaints they could on me one day and ambushed me at a meeting. They didn't like that I was pregnant. Who was going to take care of the baby? Would my baby take time away from my ministry? And who was going to pay for that Sunday I missed church because I was bleeding and the doctor ordered me to bedrest in case I was having a miscarriage? There were people who supported me, but they kept silent, as often happens. At my farewell party which was also a baby shower, one man got up and scolded the crowd for driving me away and told them they should be ashamed of themselves. Then we had cake and opened presents.
My best memory of that year was the little church on the prairie at the end of a muddy road. Before I was done, they decided it was time to close its doors for good. They were all getting too old to keep the church going. So we invited everyone that ever loved that little church, and the building was full-to-bursting on that day. We even had a baptism for a grandchild, and the offering plate was overflowing with bills to pay for the building's upkeep. And of course, we had a lot of good food to eat! Just weeks after its closing, one of the members died-- the youngest one, at the age of 70. We had a moving farewell for him, in his home church. I often wondered if it just broke his heart beyond repair to see it close.
In the midst of death, there is life. Three days before we moved out, I went into labor and gave birth to my beloved daughter Sarah Gene. I came home from the hospital Sunday afternoon to a baby shower at Larry's church (I look a bit pale in the pictures), and Monday morning we moved. I don't recommend it, but somehow, like many more things ahead, we survived it. And life went on. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. And so we did.
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