what I've learned from life, by Mary Elyn Bahlert
I hold my hand into the night
and words drop – light –
into my palm:
blessed words, delivered from the heart of the ancestors –
before them – from the hearts of others –
all who worked and walked and wondered
as we do now.
I hold my hand into the night
and words drop – light –
into my open palm. —Mary Elyn Bahlert, 5/2025
At home, I was the big sister. And so I was thrilled when my brother Ronn brought home a friendly and fun young woman – Sue – and introduced her to the family as the “girl” he was going to marry (this was the early 60’s, when young women were still referred to as “girls).” And I was thrilled when Sue, who was the middle of three sisters in her own family, took an interest in me.
Sue was the big sister I had never had. She listened to me and she made me laugh. (Sue and me laughing would play a big part in our lives as the years unfolded). I cherish a vivid memory of Sue and me together in the cramped bathroom of my family’s upper flat on the north side of Milwaukee. We sat together as she cried about an argument she was having with Ronn. More often those days, Sue made Ronn laugh, and Ronn made Sue laugh. As I bring Sue to my memory now, I can see her wide smile and the light in her eyes. She liked me, just as I liked her. And – she would never fail to tell me the truth. Never.
*
Early in their marriage, Ronn had had an accident as he drove alone on a Milwaukee street; he ended up in the hospital for several weeks. As the years unfolded, he would need to be hospitalized again and again. And so one summer, as Sue was Mom to three children under five already – David, Alicia, Vicki Sue – she was about to give birth to her fourth child. I stayed with her in their house in the suburbs of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, slept in her bed with her as she tossed and turned, unable to sleep a full night in the last days of this pregnancy. Ronn was hospitalized again.
Most nights, the two of us would sit together on the screened in porch, talking and laughing in the dark. All night long. That year, the cicadas arrived to fill the air with their loud screeching calls, early in the mornings, just before daylight. The children were still asleep, although we didn’t know when that would change, and our world was just the two of us, facing one another in the dark. Sue was a smoker – she smoked until she died in 2015 – and I listened and laughed to her deep voice as I watched the light of her cigarette go up and down in the dark, sitting there together until the morning light broke the silence that surrounded us.
*
The last time I saw Sue was in the spring of 2015. I’d taken a trip to visit the family in Northern Florida on my own that year, and the day before I left, I went to lunch with Sue and Alicia, her older daughter, who was her caregiver. It seems that a medication that Sue was taking was also taking her memory, and from time to time, she’d stare at me quizzically, trying to recall who I was. Then, at one point in the conversation, a moment of clarity, she said to me: “you’re a minister.” Yes! She did know who I was.
After lunch, I drove Sue and Alicia back home. I got out of the car to give them each a hug, and Sue held on to me for a long time. As I drove away a few moments later, I watched in the rear view mirror as Sue stood, waving and waving.
*
“Sue, Sister, Sweet”
I remember when I first knew you were my sister –
you, sitting on the edge of the claw footed bathtub
in the crowded bathroom of an old Milwaukee flat, crying.
I listened to your tears, and then, I knew:
You are my sister, Sue.
I remember you, 8 months pregnant – again (!)
I remember your voice all night long
in the dark Carolina night,
the light from your cigarette, up and down, up and down,
the two of us, laughing, laughing:
We laughed until dawn.
During the day, you were Mom.
Years later (in my new life)
you brought me a home-baked goodie
while I was still in bed – insisting that I accept this gift of love!
I remember you marching me to the classical music CD’s in the back
of Barnes and Noble:
You bought me Beethoven.
I listened, all spring long, to the minor notes,
mourning another Sue.
Now, these notes, this mourning, is for you.
I mourn for you.
I remember – I will remember always –
you waving goodbye (I watched you in the rear-view mirror),
as I drove away from you – for the last time.
“I don’t know when I’ll see you again, Sue,” I said into your silence.
You knew, you knew, you knew, my sweet, sweet sister, Sue. (poem by meb, 2015)
The wind,
the trees,
the graying thunder-studded skies
greet us,
sitting close together on a creaky bench.
Beneath the eves we huddle
as big, cold drops plop
before our eyes.
Like a cat I sniff the cooling air,
reach out to catch a few cold drops
in the warm of my hand:
And I am comforted, sitting with you,
with the storm.
***”Arrival,” by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 5/2025
Early morning, day light
hangs loosely on our shoulders,
in our hair
as we walk, silent,
sniffing like the deer who crosses our path,
who stops – still as a statue –
sees us,
darts away.
We make a narrow path
in the darker places,
walking in a line.
We are One then:
with the path,
with the eager birds,
with the sky,
with the silence that holds us,
carries us.
***
“Early morning, day light,” poem by Mary Elyn Bahlert, May, 2025,
at the Ridges, Baileys Harbor
“At the Ridges,” photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, May, 2025
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
