Uncategorized, nostalgia, memories

“while we still have our health…”

Mary Elyn Bahlert
Istanbul at night, looking over the Bosporus, May, 2023
photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert

I first noticed when I was a pastor. From the time I entered the ministry until my retirement, the churches I served were filled with older folks. These “older folks” were people in their 70’s, 80’s, and even 90’s. Being part of a church community had been important to people in the generations before mine, and so, as a young pastor, I was often pastor to folks who were 40, 50, and even 60 years older than I was. Even in the years before I retired at 65, many church-going people were of the generation before my generation, The Baby Boomers. Having always identified with being young, even now I think of myself as young, healthy, full of energy.

A look in the mirror should bring that fallacy into focus, I think.

As the pastor to older folks, I was aware of a phrase used often by the people I came to serve – and to love. Before setting off on a vacation that they had dreamed about for years, someone might say, “I want to do this, while I still have my health, ” or, “I’ve wanted to visit my grandparent’s homeland, to go back before I die.”

Now, although I don’t say it out loud, I’m reminded of that simple wisdom as Jeff and I talk about places we’d like to visit, of places we’d like to see again. I, too, want to crowd as many travel adventures into this time in my life, when I can still travel freely, and when I can enjoy the trips we take completely. As I pack now, I count out the pills of the medications I take carefully, and sometimes I remember a time when I could travel without counting out pills beforehand.

As we plan our adventures together, I think: “will I be able to enjoy this trip, a year from now? I hope so”. The idea of a lifetime of years and adventures ahead of me doesn’t exist anymore. With each year, with each day, that lifetime of years and adventures is moving – quickly, quickly – away from me.

Lately, Jeff and I have been making arrangements for a trip together to North of Boston. Since I was in Miss Ross’s English class at Peckham Junior High School in Milwaukee, I’ve wanted to see the places that I read about as I studied for papers I wrote about the lives of great American poets, as I memorized many of their poems.

And as we plan, I think about the many travels that Jeff and I have enjoyed together. Through the years, Jeff has taken on the duty of planning our trips, down to the details. Now, I take on some of the work load. And we often talk about places we’d like to see, countries we’d like to see again, and new places. Each time we talk, I wonder to myself, “will I be able to travel then? “ That’s a new thought for me, but I expect I’ll not let it go.

I often remember a moment when my dad – I called him FRB – looked at me, a look of sadness or grief in his eyes, and said: “It goes so fast.”

memories, reflecting, Uncategorized

Downtown

Mary Elyn Bahlert

“When you’re alone and life is making you lonely,
you can always go downtown
When you’ve got worries,
all the noise and the hurry seem to help, I know, downtown…”
Words and music, Tony Hatch, 1964

The words and music drop into my head and I can hear Petula Clark singing the melody of “Downtown” as I sit down to write, today. And I’m remembering the adventure of going downtown, along with a friend, during my high school years. That must be when I fell in love with cities.

Linda Andersen and I took the number 23 bus from the North Side of Milwaukee to 6th and Wisconsin Avenue on a Saturday afternoon, when we were juniors in high school. I’d known Linda since Junior High Days. Like me, she was a product of Milwaukee’s North Side, and like me, she was a student at Washington High School. Unlike me, Linda was an only child, and her mother worked – unusual for the kids in my working class neighborhood. Linda was a nice girl, quiet, smart. I liked her, although I have never counted her among my really good friends from that time. Even so, Linda was the friend who was with me when we had our adventure in downtown Milwaukee.

After we exited the bus at 6th and Wisconsin, we walked East along the street, whose sidewalks were still filled with busy, fast-moving folks in the 1960’s. We stayed along the South Side of Wisconsin Avenue and walked over the Wisconsin Avenue Bridge to the more upscale part of Wisconsin Avenue between the Milwaukee River and the shore of Lake Michigan. On the East side of the Avenue, the sidewalks were wider and the businesses more expensive; certainly I knew that my people would not shop in the stores there. On the North side of the street on Wisconsin Avenue stood the Pfister Hotel. To me, the Pfister was the place for rich people who came to Milwaukee to stay. Years later, on our wedding night in 1984, Jeff and I spent the night in the honeymoon suite at the top of the Pfister, looking out to the East from our room as snow fell over Lake Michigan; it was the first day of spring (Wisconsin-style).

We walked over the bridge and stopped to look at the Marine Bank – 111 East Wisconsin Avenue -,newly built along the River. Next to City Hall, the Marine Bank was the tallest building in downtown. We were excited. We looked at each other and walked into the building. No one questioned our being there. We made our way to the elevator and hit the button for the 22 second floor. We had heard that coffee cost $ 5.00 a cup to drink at the restaurant at the top of the tower. We never got to verify that, however.

As soon as we’d made it to the top of the Marine Bank, we took the elevator right back down to street level, walked back out onto Wisconsin Avenue, and continued our adventure, walking all the way to the shore of Lake Michigan, before we found the nearest bus-stop and waited for the 23 bus to take us back home to the North Side.

I didn’t know it then, but my world was beginning to grow – just a little bit. I’m a city person, through and through. Jeff calls me a “city girl.” I like to say that you can drop me in a city anywhere and I’m comfortable. As I write this, we’re back only a few weeks from a trip to Japan, where I spent a lovely morning walking through the busy streets in Tokyo, blocks from our hotel, alone. That walk was a high point for me.

It’s safe to say that all adventures begin somewhere, and with a few steps. My adventures began then.

Walking in Tokyo, March, 2026. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert

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Showing up

Mary Elyn Bahlert

If I had to – during these years of my life – think about what qualities I think are important, in myself and others, I would choose one. I’ve called the quality, “showing up.”

In my mind, in my memory. are many moments when a friend walked beside me, or a friend sat listening to me, when someone – an elder, a good friend, my mother – and said something that has stayed with me, and even been a guide for a time in my life. I’ve been blessed with good friends my entire life.

I was walking from my mother’s grave on a cold, cold day in February, 2001. A small group of friends and family who had gathered at the funeral we held for Mom in Milwaukee also walked with me to her grave. I called to Joanne at the last moment to join me in throwing earth on the casket before she was buried. She nodded and came to my side, and together we attended to the ritual, before we walked away to leave the gravediggers to their work. They had to work hard that day, I’m sure, to dig into the frozen earth.

The moment I remember most is that Vicki – a friend since high school days at Washington High in Milwaukee – walked beside me, and in her soft, kind voice, said: “You had neat parents.” I have not forgotten her presence, and her kindness. Vicki had lost her own parents when she was young, and in a way, my folks took her under their wings, by their presence. My parents had shown up for her, also. All these years later, Vicki and I are still friends, across the miles, across many changes, across all that life has brought to each of us.

I remember the evening Jeff and I were married at Calvary United Methodist Church in Milwaukee. We were married on the first day of spring, March 21, and in true spring fashion, Midwest style, there was a snow storm. Also in true Midwest style, the sanctuary was full that evening, in spite of the weather, in spite of the late hour. Good friends brought their children, some to be present at the first wedding they would attend. I remember that a whole sanctuary full of people showed up – some who I knew, and others known to Jeff, but not me. I remember the moment when both of my parents walked up the aisle with me to where Jeff waited. All of those people, many now no longer with us, showed up to witness to our marriage.

I’ve moved a long way from Milwaukee, and I still keep in touch with many friends from my childhood and young adult days in the Midwest. As I write, I see their faces, I remember moments when they showed up, too, not only when there was a snow storm, but in good times and bad times. Sometimes all we need is for someone to show up.

I recall times I failed to show up, and lost a friend.

As I write, I can see the faces of other loved ones, of other times. I have a favorite photo my mother with her brothers, Johnny, Mike, Pete, standing at the graveside of their sister, Ann, in Milwaukee. Johnny and Pete had come a long way, from the Bay Area of California, to stand at the grave. And they had traveled to Milwaukee just a couple of months before to be present at the funeral of their mother. On the photo, taken in the cemetery, my mother had written: “and now we are four.” I expect that it is the last – and maybe the only – photo of them together.

As a pastor, I think I began to value more the importance of showing up. In my mind’s eye, I can see clearly the full sanctuary on Lake Merritt on the day of the wedding of two women, the gathered community filled with joy. Not long after, the sanctuary was filled again for the memorial service for one of the women whose wedding we had celebrated together in that place. In my mind’s eye, I am standing again at the front of the church, on the chancel, as I witness the faces, and even more, the presence of the gathered community. I had stood there, fighting back tears of my own, before I walked down the aisle to stand at the door of the sanctuary.

When Jeff and I go now to be present at the memorial service for a friend or colleague, and as I prepare, I remember the importance of showing up. As I prepare, the faces of those who have shown up for me through my life often come to mind. For as long as I can, I hope to show up, too, for others.

I am always grateful.

Over the years, I’ve learned that I also need to show up for my friends, my beautiful plants. This plant has been with me since 1998. Sometimes I’ve failed to show up – and she shows it! – but she has always patiently returned. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 2026

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Summer in the city

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Here in Oakland, warm days are already here – in April. Last week, we had a couple of days of rain, but now we are back to clear skies and warm days. I always appreciate these days of early spring, when the trees and grass and shrubs in the neighborhood are already turning a rich, dark green. Our own yard – which Jeff has carefully planted and tended to all these years – is green, too. At dusk, the calla lilies shine as if they have an inner light. Maybe we sometimes shine with our inner light, too.

But the mornings are cool, before the sun rises in the sky over the city. As I was walking this morning, grateful for the hills in our neighborhood, which adds to my rising breath as I walk, I was reminded that walking is good for me. The hills remind me, every day.

For some reason, as I walked in the gray morning which will give way to sunshine shortly, I was thinking about summers in the city when I was still living in Milwaukee. Summers were short there – precious – and often languid, with deep, humid days that would give way to thundershowers at some point. We never wasted a day of enjoyment.

After I started University at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, my parents were often generous with my use of my dad’s ’67 Bel Air hard-top. After Mom had driven dad to work and set about whatever she did to keep house all day in our rented flat on the North Side, I was able to take the car to my classes on the East Side of Milwaukee, a few blocks from Lake Michigan. And so I found new, longer ways to arrive at classes, where I had to park several blocks away from campus to find a parking spot. I’d usually find a place on Newberry Avenue, a street filled with mansion-like houses, a center strip covered in grass, and fewer cars than the streets on the North Side of Locust Street, which I’d taken through the city to get to school. I’d walk the blocks to school from there.

After class is when the fun began for me. I have always loved the East Side of Milwaukee, and I took advantage of it then. I’d walk back to the car and drive East on Kenwood Boulevard, which took me right onto Lake Drive, the beautiful winding street along the shore of Lake Michigan. I’d open all the windows and sing along to the Motown music I loved on WAWA radio in Milwaukee. From time to time, I’d catch a look at the Lake, and I’d always check to see whether Bradford Beach was crowded that day, or not.

“My cherie amour, lovely as a summer day
My cherie amour, distant as the Milky Way
My cherie amour, pretty little one that I adore
You’re the only girl my heart beats for
How I wish that you were mine – ” (words and lyrics by Stevie Wonder, Sylvia Boy, Henry Cosby, 1969).

I’d join Stevie Wonder, getting the lyrics perfectly every time. If a song was new to me, I listened carefully so that I could sing along the next time.

*

When I have time and a car on my visits to Milwaukee now, I like to drive up Lake Drive again. I like to be alone. Lake Drive looks the same to me – although the vintage of the cars has changed – but I always feel a little sad, remembering the summer days, those “lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer,” so long ago, now. I still know each turn in the road. I can see changes that have been made, an old brick building across Lake Drive from the Lake that had been empty for as long as I can remember, now morphed into a coffee shop. I drive as far south as North Avenue, and there I take the windy road up the hill onto Prospect Avenue. I drive north to UWM, to take a look at the campus one last time.

The calli lilies are always beautiful, lit from within with a sacred light.
Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 4/2025

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Wisdom for these times

Mary Elyn Bahlert

“According to an old Native American legend, one day there was a big fire in the forest. All the animals fled in terror in all directions, because it was a very violent fire. Suddenly, the jaguar saw a hummingbird pass over his head, but in the opposite direction. The hummingbird flew towards the fire!

Whatever happened, he wouldn’t stop. Moments later, the jaguar saw him pass again, this time in the same direction as the jaguar was walking. He could observe this coming and going, until he decided to ask the bird about it, because it seemed very bizarre behavior.

“What are you doing, hummingbird?” he asked.

“I am going to the lake,” he answered, “I drink water with my beak and throw it on the fire to extinguish it.” The jaguar laughed. ‘Are you crazy? Do you really think that you can put out that big fire on your own with your very small beak?’

‘No,’ said the hummingbird, ‘I know I can’t. But the forest is my home. It feeds me, it shelters me and my family. I am very grateful for that. And I help the forest grow by pollinating its flowers. I am part of her and the forest is part of me. I know I can’t put out the fire, but I must do my part.’

At that moment, the forest spirits, who listened to the hummingbird, were moved by the bird and its devotion to the forest. And miraculously they sent a torrential downpour, which put an end to the great fire.

The Native American grandmothers would occasionally tell this story to their grandchildren, then conclude with, “Do you want to attract miracles into your life? Do your part.”

You have no responsibility to save the world or find the solutions to all problems—but to attend to your particular personal corner of the universe. As each person does that, the world saves itself.””

~ provenance unknown

Fushimi Inari Taisha Shrine. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 3/2026