Category: community

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

*

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.

beauty, community, Uncategorized

Living with diversity

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I love the diversity of the Bay Area, where I’ve lived for over half my life. As I walk on the busy shopping street in my neighborhood, I’m happy when I hear languages spoken by the people who pass me on the street. As I walk past the store fronts that line the street, most of the languages I hear I can’t identify. All the better!

For many years, I said, from time to time, that in the Midwest, the weather was more interesting – and more rugged, of course! – than the Bay Area of California. But the people were more interesting in the Bay Area. They still are, to me.

As a pastor in downtown Oakland, I was enlivened by the diversity of folks who arrived to worship with us – folks who brought their diverse backgrounds, languages, music, dress, and all the gifts of another culture – to the mostly white congregation that had chosen to stay in Oakland when there were other choices they could have made. I loved the heart of that place, where in years past the people had decided to cast their lot in the city, a city with its share of problems, of poverty, of violence. I loved them for choosing to stay in Oakland.

Today was Pentecost Sunday, and I had the honor of preaching for an anniversary celebration at Oakland Chinese Community United Methodist Church in Chinatown, Oakland. I read my sermon in English, paragraph by paragraph, and the Pastor of the congregation followed each paragraph with a Cantonese translation. The two of us, each speaking our own language, brought to mind the myriad of languages that were spoken when the disciples left the Upper Room and became apostles who went out to tell others about what they knew of God, and of Jesus.  “Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven. 6 When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard their own language being spoken. 7 Utterly amazed, they asked: “Aren’t all these who are speaking Galileans? 8 Then how is it that each of us hears them in our native language?” (Acts 2:1-8).

Jeff accompanied me to the celebration, and we were the only white people in worship. Many times here in the Bay Area, we are minorities – seldom in other places, or in Wisconsin, our birthplace. As we said the Lord’s Prayer in English, I listened for the voices of most of the others, praying in Cantonese, at the same time. A young man who had been raised in China read his statement of faith to the congregation, recounting how he had found his way to the Church, followed by the Pastor translating into English; then, he was baptized. A holy moment.

Diversity has its problems, to be sure. But it’s good to be in a place where people who are different are not afraid, where folks can speak in their own language as they shop or as they walk down the street, and be safe. That’s not true in many places in the United States now, or in so many other places.

As we walked to our car after worship and after receiving the generous meal we all shared together in the fellowship hall, Jeff and I stopped to wait at a corner for the light to change, across from a Buddhist Temple that brings the Holy to those others who do not worship as we do. I’m grateful that they are here.

We crossed the street and drove home to our little house on a quiet street in another part of the city.

In St. Mary’s Cemetery, Oakland. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 4/2024

community, reflecting

Little Free Library

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I was walking in my neighborhood late last year when I discovered a Little Free Library a few blocks from home. I stopped and looked through the books, enchanted. When I arrived home, I looked for the website that I’d seen on a little plaque attached at the top of the library: littlefreelibrary.org

I was ready to go! Jeff and I have a friend who can build anything, our friend Jim. So we asked Jim to build the library for us, and within a couple of weeks, we had our library, perched on a cement post on the strip of land we call “the panhandle,” that’s part of our property.

From the very first days of our hosting the Little Free Library, books began to appear. Jeff and I supplied a couple of books to get started. One day soon after, as I watched from the kitchen window, a car stopped, a woman I did not know got out, and she walked over to the Little Free Library to deposit some books. We were live!

I had followed up on my research, too, and so I went to littlefreelibrary.org and ordered a plaque that would put my library on the map. The Little Free Library that we are hosting is #125791. Little Free Library #125791 appears on a map on the website, and now we’re connected to other folks who host a Little Free Library in their neighborhood. I’m happy to be present to my community in this way, in a way that is important to me, and to Jeff: we’re both avid readers, mostly of nonfiction.

A few days later, I posted a picture of our Little Free Library on the Facebook page for Little Free Libraries, and I was set to go! I’m still receiving notes of welcome from other Little Free Librarians!

The story doesn’t end there, however. I was all set to go into a ZOOM meeting last week, when the doorbell to our house rang. I had to hurry clear to the other end of the house to answer, and I checked out the window before I opened the door, to make sure the door-ringer was still there. A young man I didn’t recognize was waiting for me to answer. When I did, he asked me if I was the person who was hosting the Little Free Library on the street. I told him that yes, I was.

He wanted to let me know that he’d found a book, The Freedom to Be, by A. H. Almaas, in the Little Free Library on our street. He had read the book. And – he said, looking into my eyes: “it changed my life.” He told me that he was on his way to meet with a teacher, an adherent of Almaas, right after his stop at my house. I had read a bit of Almaas over the years, and I told him that. We exchanged names. Before he turned to go, I suggested he stop over to see me again some time, when we could talk more. Smiling at me before he walked back down the stairs, he said yes.

Our Little Free Library! photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 4/2024