Category: community

community, memories, remembering

Meeting the Bishop

Mary Elyn Bahlert

The year was 1981. That was the year I declared my intention to be ordained as a minister in the United Methodist Church at my local congregation, Kenwood United Methodist Church in Milwaukee. I had plans to attend the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California. Marjorie Matthews, the first woman to be consecrated a Bishop in the Church – the whole Church, across the world, across history – was Bishop of the United Methodist Church, Wisconsin Annual Conference.

At the time, I was still working as a Public Affairs Officer for the Food and Drug Administration, a position I’d taken the year before, after an early career with the Social Security Administration. Through my Sunday attendance and activity at Kenwood UMC I had learned about a trip to England, the “birthplace of Methodism,” where John Wesley, known as the founder of Methodism, had been born, in autumn. I signed up for the trip. I hadn’t been part of the United Methodist Church for very long, and I knew little of the history of the denomination (having been confirmed in the Lutheran Church – Missouri Synod, I knew a lot about Luther and I had even memorized Luther’s Small Catechism) and I thought the timing of the trip was perfect for me as I prepared to leave my career to go to seminary. I signed up for the trip to visit Wesley’s England after securing a passport. I’d never traveled outside of the United States before.

And so the thought of the trip was exciting and well-timed for me. I would be traveling alone, and I hoped to meet a few folks who were also part of the tour. I had learned that Majorie Matthews, the Bishop, would be traveling on the first leg of the trip to London. Knowing this, I’d teased several friends that I’d be traveling with the Bishop, as if she and I were friends.

Apparently, Bishop Matthews was on my flight from Chicago to London Heathrow. When the flight landed, I made my way to the bus that waited for the group to take us to our hotel. As I stepped into the bus, I saw Bishop Matthews standing at her seat. I nodded to her, and she reached out to touch my arm. “Sit with me,” she said. She explained that she’d be in London overnight, as I would, and she asked if I would be interested in being her roommate for the night, to spend some time seeing London. After that night, her obligations would begin, and she would no longer be traveling with my group.

Bishop Matthews loved beautiful clothes. In our free hours that first day, we shopped together in London. I purchased a beautiful black skirt and matching blouse with a floral print that was more elegant than anything else I owned. Bishop Matthews served as my encourager. I was learning by being with her that as an ordained woman, who I was now would be part of who I would become. I could still enjoy the beautiful clothes I loved. I owned that outfit for many years.

And – I had a story to tell my friends when I returned home. Yes – I had traveled with Bishop Marjorie Matthews, the first woman Bishop – ever in history – in the world. I had an outfit to prove it!

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The following Spring, when I was in Berkeley as a student at PSR, I received a note from Bishop Matthews that she’d be attending a meeting of the Council of Bishops in the Bay Area. She invited me to come to see her. When I did, she introduced me to the Bishop of the Northern California-Nevada Annual Conference, a kind and politic action. I was beginning to learn about the importance of community and how we can be generous to one another.

community, nostalgia, reflecting

Life in the West – a sense of place

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I hadn’t visualized living in the American West for most of my life, but here I am. I’ve lived in Oakland for over 25 years, after I completed my work as a Pastor in Oakland, and I expect I’ll be here for another while – God willing.

When I was young, I imagined that I would leave the Midwest, and I was certain I’d move to the East, to New York City, perhaps, or to Washington, D.C. My imaginings always took me to cities. To big cities. I love the diversity of cities, the abundance of neighborhoods, each one with its own personality, and I love the choices we take for granted in the cities. I love the bustle of things, and I love the way even cities become quiet on holidays, or on early Sunday mornings. I love the diversity of people – diversity of color, of background, of education, of family. I love it all.

And I’ve been privileged to have come West, where I arrived as a student in seminary in Berkeley in the 1980’s. I was fulfilling my dream to go to seminary, to become a pastor.

My husband Jeff is from the Milwaukee area, from Brookfield, a suburb of Milwaukee. Part of him yearns for the quiet country life he came to love and to respect when he spent time with his maternal grandparents on their farm, northwest of Milwaukee, where Jeff’s mother had grown up. His mother, though, waited for the day she graduated from high school to leave that place for another life. Sometimes Jeff reminds me that it’s his turn to choose a place, a country place… I expect he must be dreaming again of finding a place that gives him love and care and a respite from whatever might be bothering him at the moment.

But we are connected here more than by time and a place. We have strong community here; community is important to us as a value, and we know it would take a long time to build that again in a new place.

And – I remind myself – we are not 40 years old anymore!

And so, from year to year, our connection, our deep bond to this place deepens and deepens. And when we travel, living in the West makes it easy to tell people, when they ask where we are from: we’re from California. Everyone knows where California is!

Looking out to the West, over the Pacific, from home. Photo by meb, 3/2025

community, memories, reflecting, remembering

Showing Up

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Over the years of my life, I have come to value something that is rarely mentioned. Although this quality is not often mentioned, it is of inestimable value. At least it has been in my life. Many years ago, I committed to memory the “gifts of the Spirit,” and sometimes before I go to sleep at night, I say them to myself: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” And to that holy list I would add: “showing up”.

I remember the day of my mother’s funeral in Milwaukee. Jeff and I had accompanied my mother’s body back to Wisconsin to have her honored there, a funeral, and to have her buried there, alongside my father. Like many important memories of days and times in my life, “snapshots” appear in my mind of that day, a cold, cold February day, bleak in that way mid-winter days are bleak in the Midwest. I can sense myself sitting there in the sanctuary, aware of the folks who were sitting there along with me, my mother’s casket before us. Jeff’s mother and brother Randy were there, along with many of my friends, and some of my mother’s friends – those who were still alive, my mother having passed her 80th year, her friends, also. Some of those gathered were friends of my mother and some were my friends, there to be present to me.

Clearly, I remember myself walking away from the grave as the small group of us had gathered at the graveside for a few words to be said, and as we walked away so that her burial could be completed by the waiting workers. My friend Vicki walked beside me, and she said to me: “you had neat parents.” Her comment was so simple, and yet I have not forgotten her presence beside me, and I have not forgotten the words she said. With those words, she was telling me that she, too, had loved my parents, and that they had been a part of her life.

I remember Vicki’s presence that day and I remember the presence of many others. I remember reaching out to Joanne to join me in throwing some earth onto my mother’s casket at the burial. I remember my mother-in-law, Betty, taking my left arm as I walked down the steps to the gathering in the church basement that followed the funeral. I remember Jeff, who read the words I had written in honor of my mother, and who had traveled with me to be with her friends and mine on that day.

I will always love the people who were present that day. They showed up. My cousin Rudy and his wife Mary, now in their late 80’s and early 90’s, attended the funeral. I remember them especially because Rudy and Mary carry with them the value that I have come to love: they showed up. They were there at my wedding to Jeff, the first day of spring, when the guests traveled through another snow storm to be present with us. They were there when my father died after his long struggle with colon cancer. They were there on the day that Jeff read a short story of his at the little church in Kiel that his grandfather had pastored, many years before.

Last week, when I was in Wisconsin, I made sure to drive out of my way to see Mary and Rudy in their home. I wanted to show up for them, as they had shown up for me and for so many I loved, over the years. As we talked and talked, our conversation remembering so many that have passed, and including those who are still with us, I made sure to remind Rudy and Mary, as I have before, in other visits, that I have not forgotten that they had showed up.

Rudy and Mary personify that blessed quality, “showing up.” To me, they do. When I told them – again – they told me that they had visited my mother when she was living alone in the apartment on Appleton Avenue, alone after my father had died, alone in the place she lived until Jeff and I moved her to be closer to us in the Bay Area. I had not heard that story before.

I haven’t read accolades about “showing up.” I doubt I will, in this time of Artificial Intelligence and driver-less cars. Some of the simplest, most concrete things in life will not be mentioned.

But I remember all of you. I think of you often. I see your faces, those who showed up for me at just the moment I needed you to show up. Thank you.

Cousin Rudy and Me, circa 2014, Kiel, Wisconsin

community, memories, reflecting, Uncategorized

getting help

Mary Elyn Bahlert

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too”. – William Hutchinson Murray

Every year during early August, my long-time friend Nancy and I choose a good restaurant and meet to celebrate our birthdays – both also in early August – with small gifts and with a good meal and always, dessert – shared. This year, we stayed for a long time in the booth in the dimly lit restaurant where we had finished our dinners and our dessert, talking about our long friendship and our long lives.

Nancy confided in me that through most of her life, she has gotten on most easily with men, and with me and one or two other women as exceptions, she still thinks of herself that way. On the other hand, I find that I have had long time friendships with both men and women, friendships I value to this time in my life.

The role of men in my life stands out in a particular way. Through the years, I have been helped in some way by some good man whose path crossed mine. As a college age woman, I took a semester off before graduation, not clear about my future. I was unclear in my choice of college major, and although I had help through the University, I still took a semester before I would return to graduate with my BA. I was confused, and so I continued to live at home – as I had throughout my undergraduate years – and landed a job in a public relations firm, my desk in a corner of the basement office without windows where other young women my age worked in the accounting office.

The firm had one copy machine, and one day, I found myself making copies as the President of the firm walked up, and as he waited to use the machine. We chatted for a few moments, and in that time, I told him that I’d been at university, but that I’d left before I received my degree.

A few months later, I decided to return to school for the last semester of study, in the fall of 1972. I told my supervisor about my decision, and I prepared myself to give up the job and to find some other part time work to continue to pay for school. When the news of my leaving traveled to the upper offices, where the important members of the staff sat in private rooms with windows, an offer came down the stairs and to my desk. I could continue working at the firm – part-time – as I finished school. A new position was formed for me to be able to work part time. Apparently, the President of the company had heard about my leaving and made this offer, a way to support my receiving my degree.

I graduated with my BA in January of 1973, and was offered a position as Claims Representative for the Social Security Administration, which was hiring that year to bring on enough staff to implement the Supplemental Security Income Program for low-income elderly and disabled folks (the SSI Program – a life-saver for many folks – continues today).

A few years later, I was working as a Claims Representative in the SSA office on Milwaukee’s South Side, interviewing recipients of both Social Security and SSI. When I could, I had accompanied the Claims Representative in the office to a Contact Station where members of the public could file for benefits without traveling to the District Office. And I was called on to give talks to the public from time to time.

What I also did surprises me, even now. When the end of the week rolled around and no more public interviews were expected of me, I’d make my way to the office – the door was always open – of the District Manager. I’d sit in a chair across from his desk and have a conversation, asking about what his work was like, what was difficult, what it was like to be a District Manager.

I expect relationships with my father and my older brother – both of whom liked me – gave me some confidence in myself.

In the fall of 1980, the position of Field Representative opened at the Waukesha District Office of SSA, and I applied for the job. My additional work – public contacts, public speaking – helped me land the job. As did the fact that the District Manager knew me personally. He was happy for me.

During my final year as a Claims Representative in that office, before I received the promotion to Field Rep, another good man, Larry Alt, was my supervisor. One day, Larry told me that I needed to meet his wife, Sue Alt. He thought that she and I could be friends. And after I met her, Sue became an important friend to me for many years. She’s gone now, and I still miss her.

Through the years, other men have lit the path on my way. I’m grateful.

I’m grateful for the positive, affirming friendships I’ve had with men over the years. I’m grateful for the loving father and brother who lit my path in a way they did not intend or understand. As I hear the stories of others, and as I’ve struggled with what I received – and did not receive – as a young person, I see how those relationships have shaped my life. Continue to shape who I am.

Jeff and Me, on the Baltic Sea, July, 2024

community, memories

Lambing

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I’m definitely a city person – a “city girl,” as my husband likes to say. In my early twenties, when I was in my first professional position in the Federal Government, I had been assigned to live in Green Bay, Wisconsin: too small for my taste, I tell others now, “I almost died in Green Bay.” A bit of an exaggeration, of course, but I like to tell the story that way so others get the drift of what living in that cold, gray place had meant to me. “Get the drift” – as in snow drift – I suppose.

I digress. Over the years as a pastor, I came to learn about many mission activities, some in the United States, others in places overseas. I spoke often about mission to the congregations I served; I reminded them, again and again, of how those of us who are privileged to live our lives in warm and clean houses, our tables set always with a warm meal, health care – now more than ever a privilege – everything we want and need to be safe in our lives, had not only the ability but the need to give to those others whose lives had not afforded them the luxuries we take for granted. And over the years I became familiar with ways – call them opportunities – for us to give.

A favorite of mine is Heifer Project International. I’ll tell you why it’s a favorite. HPI provides animals and education to people in impoverished circumstances by giving them animals, by giving them the education they need to care for the animals, and to give them a future that these animals provide. You can take a look at the website for HPI here: heifer.org

“Giving an animal gift at the holidays is like giving someone a small business, providing wool, milk, eggs and more. Every animal gift comes with a free honor card to let your gift recipient know their holiday gift is providing families access to medicine, school, food and a sustainable livelihood.
Your animal gift will support the lives of families in need.” – from the HPI website

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Once a year, HPI offered a weekend for women, “Women’s Lambing Weekend,” a gathering at the carefully timed birth of the lambs at the HPI farm outside of Little Rock, Arkansas. (As I checked out the HPI website to write this post, I found that they no longer ofter the Women’s Lambing Weekend. It’s a loss, I think). Joanne – my long time, faithful friend – who had grown up on a farm, and I were roommates that weekend. From the time we arrived, we attended classes that provided information about the mission and the people who HPI served. The work of Heifer Project came to life during those sessions. I was sold on their mission forever!

As the weekend progressed, we all waited for the lambing to begin. Veterinarians were on site, as teachers to our sessions, and available, always, to the animals.

One morning, the gathering of women sat in the chairs in the small classroom that was ours when we weren’t being introduced to the farm. The instructor had just begun when someone walked quickly into the room and in an excited tone of voice, yelled: “the lambs are here!”

We all jumped up from our seats and ran over to the field outside the main barn, where one of the vets was gently cradling a lamb in her arms, Mother Sheep lying close by, her eyes on her baby. As occupied she was with the beautiful lamb, the vet told us about the birth, and she told us how the mother and lamb would be cared for now.

I was so happy to see the new baby lamb! Even Joanne, with her years of growing up on the farm (where she and her brothers were usually out in the field, picking rocks), was happy to see the new lamb.

My weekend at Heifer Project was a joy I often remember. On our mantel, in front of the window above the fireplace, there’s a picture of me, holding a baby sheep – a lamb. I loved that moment, when the littlest lamb was placed into my arms.