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“All great and precious things are lonely”. – John Steinbeck

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I see what is beauty to me:
A few warm days in spring,
the smell of lilacs in the house,
the wetness that comes at night,
red sunsets.
Loneliness.
“Beauty to me,” from Moments, Mary Elyn Bahlert, published, 2026

I am not often lonely. But I have known loneliness, hard and deep loneliness. In my twenties, I worked in my first professional position, finally moving into public relations in both the Social Security Administration and the Food and Drug Administration. I had good friends. I lived in Milwaukee, where I’d grown up; I knew Milwaukee well, and I liked the life I had there. But I was lonely.

I was lonely, and it hurt. Some times, I’d come home after a day at work to my one bedroom apartment, furnished with furniture from the 1940’s, books lining the full bookshelves. This was the 1970’s; this was in the time before the Internet. Sometimes, in my loneliness, I’d call a good friend – a friend I’d called more than once that week – and chat for a time, until something else called to her to attend to. Was she lonely, too? I never told her I was lonely, and I never heard her talk about loneliness. But I was lonely.

During those years, I began to learn about the ministry. I’d been drawn to ministry since my late teens, when the thought arrived on its own, one day: I could be a minister. I had not seen or heard of such a thing as a woman minister; in the Lutheran Church in which I’d been confirmed, women were not allowed to speak in church. That – among other things – did not sit well with me. I started to learn about the ministry by reading books I’d borrowed from the library. I read about denominations. Until my mid-twenties, I did not find a church in which to connect. I began my learning in my own particular, introverted way.

And then, I did do some searching. I’d attend a church service at some congregation. More than once, as the unknown person – and as an unmarried, un-partnered woman – I’d be ignored. That was enough for me to not return. In my searching, I was led to visit a United Methodist Church across from the University I’d attended, on the East Side of Milwaukee. There, a kind older woman – Verdell de Yarman – looked right at me, asked if this was my first time at Kenwood United Methodist Church, and, after church, walked with me to the coffee fellowship, where she introduced me to the Rev. Harvey Stower. And it was Harvey who warmly invited me in, the way he warmly invited everyone in, to a circle of young people. And it was Harvey who asked me one day if I ever thought about seminary. And I told Harvey that I did – often – but that I just didn’t talk about it. After all, I had never seen a woman minister (although they did exist!).

I was grateful for Harvey and the community that formed around him. That community became important to my life in the years that followed. I’m always grateful.

The loneliness remained, until the mysterious and wonderful day I met Jeff Kunkel, my husband. In our marriage, I have not been lonely. I’ve heard about people who are lonely in their marriage. How hard that must be. Jeff is my true companion, my life partner.

As I reflect now on those times, many years ago, I look back at the quote of John Steinbeck that serves as the title of this blog post. I expect that Steinbeck knew loneliness, that he knew loneliness well enough to have clearly described it. And although he did not write of loneliness as I have – as a painful companion, a companion that brings tears and a complete emptiness into the mix – I expect he knew that of loneliness, also.

When I was a pastor, I spoke of loneliness in one sermon. And I have not forgotten: after worship, as people greeted me and sometimes commented on what they had heard (which is not always what I thought I had said!), a young woman shyly said to me: “thank you for talking about loneliness.”

“All great and precious things are lonely…”

At Walden Pond, Massachusetts, where Henry David Thoreau lived in a small cabin, relishing his alone-ness. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 8/2026

memories, nostalgia

Those summer nights

Mary Elyn Bahlert

As a child, it seemed to me that summer was long. And as a child, the summer was not only long – but languid. That’s a word I’d use for the particular sense of summer in that humid climate. Humidity ruled summertime, until the day that gave way to a spectacular lightening storm. And then the air shook and the sky was grey and the sound of another clap of thunder after the brilliant lightening eased the languid air.

Summer evenings, my family would gather on the front porch after supper. We always had supper, except for major holidays – Christmas, Easter – supper, not dinner, which is what Jeff and I have together each late afternoon now. I’ve taken to using the word supper, sometimes, to describe the late afternoon meal we share. Each time I use the word “supper,” I notice. Over the course of our marriage, we’ve always sat together at the table at dinner-time. And we do now, too.

But we had supper at five in my family as I grew up. We always had a home-cooked meal, except for those very special Fridays when Daddy would go to George Webb to pick up hamburgers – 7 hamburgers for $ .99.
Yes, that’s it: 99 cents. Sometimes we had borscht – always a favorite for me – and other times we’d have holubtsi, stuffed cabbage, as it is known in other cultures. A good search tells me that holubtsi translates to “little pigeons.” I suppose it takes some doing, some mind-shaping, to imagine the cabbage rolls as little pigeons. I did not favor holubtsi. And so, even though I have the recipe in my mother’s own hand, with personal notes describing her preferences – I have never made holubsti.

After supper, after the dishes were washed and dried and put away, we’d gather as a family on the front porch of our upstairs flat. At one flat, I remember leaning over the porch railing on the side next to the alley to see my Grandma Markowski (Srebny) coming slowly up the alley. There were always several foldable lawn chairs on the porch, and a chaise lounge that I came to enjoy as I entered my teen years. In the 1950’s, when both my parents were still smokers, Daddy nailed an empty coffee can to the railing to use as an ashtray. But after a winter of bad colds, both he and Mom stopped smoking, and at a time when the bad effects of cigarette smoking were becoming common knowledge.

Some evenings during the summer, Mom would head back into the house to the kitchen, and we’d have drippy slices of watermelon as a treat. When Suzie and I were little, Mom gave us each a slice of bread to eat with the watermelon, to assure we would not wet our beds because we’d had watermelon slices in the evening. Mom had a few “old wives tales” that she believed, maybe even into her elder years. And those beliefs are beliefs that I have never held.

Summer evenings were still humid – even languid – in the Midwest, until a thunderstorm gathered overhead and boomed us into the house. I remember lying in bed, listening to a storm go overhead from the west to the east; we lived only a few miles from the shore of Lake Michigan, where I expect the storms were gathered up and disappeared – other weather patterns formed across states to the east.

When Daddy had his two weeks of vacation from the steel mill each summer, we’d head up to Door County for one week of the two, staying with an aunt and uncle and cousins, or renting a modest cabin for the week. Kellstrom’s in Sister Bay had a cottage to the west of the highway, on a small rise, halfway up the road. I always look up that road when I pass it along Wisconsin Highway 42. The cottage has been gone for many years now. Those modest cabins have been replaced by 4 star hotels along the whole length of the village of Sister Bay.

But there has not been anything to replace those languid summer evenings in the Midwest, for me. When I arrived to live in the Bay Area in 1981, I was surprised that the East Bay’s summers were grey with fog in summertime, fog that didn’t clear until late afternoon. Along with those hot summers, which brought their own kind of living along with the short season in Wisconsin, the humidity that plagues the Midwest often is not present here along San Francisco Bay. And we have a lot more sun now in the summertime which makes me much happier than the long grey days the sunny days have replaced.

What I miss most about summer days in the Midwest – other than my family, so many who have passed now – is the preciousness of the season. When we knew that we’d be facing a long, gray winter, each day of summer, we knew to cherish the time. We cherished the time because we understood that it was short, and that soon enough, the seasons would bring gray skies and cold winds off Lake Michigan for months.

Suzie and me, circa 1955-1956, Milwaukee.

reflecting, wisdom

be here now

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I had been meditating for several years. I had learned to meditate – been given a particular mantra by my teacher, a healer I’d studied with over the course of those years. She required that her students practice meditation, twice a day. I was faithful to my practice. In the morning, I’d meditate for the first time as I sat up in bed each day. In the afternoon, I’d often close the door of my office and sit in silence, repeating the mantra to myself, for 20 minutes.

At the time, I’d heard stories of the healer’s other students when we gathered. It seemed that out-of-this world, even strange experiences were common to them. I listened with interest. And I knew that I had not experienced any of those things. Was I doing something wrong? I didn’t think so. And I continued the practice, twice a day, morning and afternoon.

Jeff and I were traveling. We were staying in his mother’s house in Brookfield, in the room that Jeff and Randy had shared as boys. I woke up and lay in bed for a few moments. I sat up in the bed. Then – I sat in complete, utter silence. I didn’t hear the sounds of Jeff’s mother moving around in the house. I didn’t hear the distant sound of traffic along Capitol Drive – a major traffic artery that held bumper to bumper traffic each morning. I sat in a complete and total silence.

And then – my busy mind began its constant chatter – again. Monkey mind, it’s been called. I knew that mind well. By any name, it’s the way of minds, it seems.

*

As I continued to meditate faithfully, twice a day, another, more subtle movement of my mind became clear to me. I realized – a surprise to me that simply arrived – that I was fully present in my life. When I sat with someone, I was present to them. My mind was not planning what I needed to do next. I was not constantly worrying about the day’s events. I was present to the person I sat with.

Now that I’m retired, I no longer practice meditation – although I still know my mantra. From time to time, Jeff asks me to tell him my mantra – he knows that a rule I was given by my teacher was to never share my mantra with anyone else. EVER. And I haven’t.

But my busy mind – some have called it “monkey mind” – no longer rules my life, as it did for so many years. I’m sorry I acted on its foolishness when I was younger. I hope that some of the decisions I made were good!

A few years after I had retired from full time ministry, I was serving a small congregation alongside another pastor. We were each 1/4 time (figure that out! ). I preached every other week and kept in touch with parishioners and visited in hospitals when needed. It was an easy gig, and the particular people at the little church made it easy. They were a kind group of folks, and together with them and the other pastor, I negotiated a move to another congregation, and gave up the church building to a large group of Korean language people who still call the place their home.

Early one Sunday morning, I woke early, long before the alarm clock was set to go off. My busy mind – my “monkey” mind – was busy, turning over and over again some unfinished business of the last week. Then – I wish I’d known this was possible, long before this moment – I told myself I wasn’t going to do that anymore. My mind stopped. The thoughts that had seemed in control a few moments before were quiet.

And I have never done that again. Ever.

BE HERE NOW

What a joy to be present to life’s precious moments… photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert

memories, remembering

My uncle Pete

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I guess some people would call Uncle Pete a “blowhard”. He did have a tendency to talk loudly in a room filled with people, and to lend his certain extraverted charm to that room.

Even so, Uncle Pete was a favorite of mine.

I watched him as my Uncle Johnny – the smart one, the sibling with the “interesting” past – spoke. Then, Uncle Pete was quiet and listened, with a certain reverence, to every word. I’m not sure how I learned the secret, but word was that Uncle Pete only rose to the rank of Sergeant First Class in the Army because of Uncle Johnny. As I write now, I can see the look in Uncle Pete’s eyes as he listened. He held Uncle Johnny, his eldest sibling, in the highest regard.

Uncle Pete was handsome. In my eyes, anyway, Uncle Pete was handsome. And Uncle Pete knew how to be an Uncle. That’s a difficult quality to explain. But Uncle Pete had it. When I was dating Jeff – who would go on to be my life partner, my husband, Uncle Pete quietly spoke to me one day: “I can see he’s showing more affection to you now.”

After I had moved to the Bay Area from Milwaukee, and after Jeff and I had moved around a fair amount, we lived in San Leandro. At the time, The Oak Knoll Navy Hospital operated in Oakland. My Aunt Athalie – Uncle Pete’s wife, the mother of their daughter, Michelle – was being operated on for the serious arthritis she suffered. I went to visit her, and when I arrived, Uncle Pete was there with her in the private room. He was quiet as she and I talked. After I’d been to seminary, I think some members of the family held me in some suspicion, and I count Uncle Pete among them. And so Uncle Pete – usually a boisterous presence in any room – stayed silent.

Still, after I’d visited with Aunt Athalie, as I left the room, Uncle Pete walked beside me to the elevator, then walked with me from the hospital to my car. He was quiet the whole way. He made sure I drove out of the parking lot safely before he returned to the hospital.

*

In 1995, I was sent by the Bishop to serve a small, half-time Church appointment in South San Francisco. I’ve always considered it a quirk of fate that the church to which I was sent was in a development of single family homes built in the hills of South San Francisco after World War 2. I say “quirk of fate” because the church had been built in the development where Uncle Pete and Aunt Athalie’s modest home stood. I can recite the address today. I’d known the address since I was a child, and had arrived at exactly the place where I’d arrived in my early teens; in a hot, humid Wisconsin summer, I’d taken an imagined trip from my family’s upper flat clear across the country to — Alta Mesa Drive, South San Francisco. The people of Aldersgate United Methodist Church (the church has since built a new building and changed its name), who made sure I had a nice lunch waiting for me every Sunday, would sometimes give me a meal to take over to Uncle Pete and Aunt Athalie.

My mother had never liked Aunt Athalie. I knew that, although I expect no words to that effect were ever spoken. And I think – again, these thoughts are my own – that my mother was jealous of Uncle Pete. Pete had been my grandmother’s youngest child and her favorite. My mother had grown up in a home filled with drinking and parties, their own kind of chaos. And while she loved her father, her relationship with her mother was more complicated. Maybe Mom had expected her mother to protect her from the abuse she suffered in her mother’s house. Still, the way these things happen, Mom was the one who carefully cared for my grandmother in her final years. But in my years getting to know Aunt Athalie, I came to love her. I miss her now.

When Uncle Pete developed Alzheimer’s, he would wander around the housing development. He might have been a nuisance, or worse, to other people. Instead, the men of the neighborhood, who knew Pete was a veteran, accepted and explained his wandering: “Pete fought in three wars,” they’d say. He was safe.

Aunt Athalie called me the day Uncle Pete turned violent – a symptom of Alzheimer’s – and asked for reassurance that if I called the police to help her, they would not take Uncle Pete to jail. I called the police local to the neighborhood and had their assurance. And so they came to take Uncle Pete to the hospital, and later a facility, where he would die.

And I have a fond memory of a visit Jeff, my mother, and I made to see Uncle Pete in the facility. He was safe there. His caregivers brought him into a small room where my mother, my cousin Michelle, her husband, Jeff, and I sat around a table. I don’t think Uncle Pete knew us at all, although he was loud and boisterous. When the visit was over, we walked outside together into the beautiful Bay Area day. As we walked away, my mother turned back. The rest of us waited as she stood again in front of her little brother, Pete, and as she gently reached up to touch his face.

“I can think of younger days, when living for my life was everything a man could want to do. I could never see tomorrow, for I was never told about the sorrow…” words and music by Barry and Robin Gibb, 1971