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Several years ago, Jeff and I initiated scholarships in our names at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, where we both received our BA’s in the 1970’s. Later, each of us would make our way to seminary, Jeff to Garrett Evangelical Seminary in Evanston, Illinois, and me, to Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley. How our journeys connected to form the journey of our bonding is another story, for another time.

I graduated from UW-M in the winter of 1973 and was hired almost immediately to train as a Claims Representative for the Social Security Administration. In a way, that’s when my life as an adult began, when my world began to open, to grow, and finally, to flourish. I left government service to enter seminary at the end of 1981, which marked my move from the Midwest to California. Sometimes even now, I have to stop to remind myself that I am in another place, that most of my life has been lived at a distance from my personal roots. And in my case, that is fitting.

As Jeff and I look to our past and our future, we both have held the value to serve – and to give back. I listen when I hear someone else use that expression: “I want to give back to the community where I came from…” And so, after I retired, I endowed a scholarship in my name, to be given annually to a student who is the first generation of their family – a student of color – to go to university.

The Office of Planned Giving at UW-M connects with the two of us at least once every year. Through our connections, we think of the University representative as our friends. Often, when we return to Wisconsin to visit family or to return to the places we still hold in our hearts, we have a visit. In the course of COVID-times, of course, we’ve had to meet online, to continue the connection.

This spring, Jeff and I met the new woman who is assigned to the Office of Planned Giving. Over the internet, we introduced ourselves. When it came time for me to talk about my scholarship, to explain what it meant to me, I had a surprise: tears. (Maybe the tears surprised her, also)!

I’m not a crier. I don’t think of myself that way, although I have, over the course of a lifetime, cried many tears. And I suppose there is something deeper that is touched in me, that I have this privilege, that I’m able to give back, that I want to give back, that I want to offer to open the door for another young person, whose times and life will be very different from mine, to be able to walk through that door.

As always, as I am often am these days, I am grateful.

Like my life, our spring garden has flourished! photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 6/2023

During Junior High, besides my studies in school, I attended weekly, Saturday morning classes at an Evangelical Lutheran Church. For two years, the teacher of our Confirmation Class was a Deaconess, probably the highest position a woman could serve in that particular denomination. In the third year, our teacher was the Pastor of the congregation, Reverend Hoffman. Because I went to a public Junior High, I was expected to study for three years in preparation for Confirmation as an adult member of the congregation. My good friend Nancy, who lived with her grandparents in the neighborhood near my house and the church, also attended the classes.

One year, we studied the travels of St. Paul, whose work figured highly in the denomination. We looked at large maps that hung from the wall of the classroom, and the Deaconess used a pointer to chart out the travels of Paul as missionary to those faraway lands, in what we now call the Middle East. And, over the course of the three years of weekly classes, we memorized Luther’s Small Catechism. “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth…” and: “What does this mean?”

Nancy must have had a hard time sitting through those three hours of study on Saturday mornings, in addition to a week of public school. She expressed her having a hard time by acting out in some way. One Saturday morning, the Deaconess had had enough of Nancy, and so she sent her home, early. Later, as I left the building to walk home the two blocks to Medford Avenue, I met Nancy, sitting on the front steps of the Church. She had no intention of going home early to her grandparents’ house!

***

My family were not church-going people, and so, I was not a church-going young person. I survived – easily – the grueling “examination” before the Congregation, led by Pastor Hoffman, the week before we were to be confirmed. It was a large class of Confirmands, and the Pastor would call out a name and ask a question about the studies we had completed. The following week, on Palm Sunday, we were confirmed as adult members of the church. We received our Certificates of Confirmation, and a little box of envelopes for our tithes.

My family were not church-going people, and I was not a church-going young person, and so I attended church one or two times on my own before I stopped going entirely. A year or two later, I received a visit from the Deaconess, who had the charge to learn why I had “fallen away.” I recall bits of our conversation, my explanation that it seemed to me that the Hippies, with their talk of “love,” were expressing something like the Church’s teachings. I recalled that at one time during Confirmation Class, the Deaconess had used me as an example to the class of someone who would never drift away from Church! Now, I’d apparently failed her. I never did receive the visit from the Pastor, the next in line to question my failing faith.

Several years later, while I was studying at University, a surprising idea came to mind: “why couldn’t I be a Pastor?” I tell people now who inquire about my journey that I had not seen or even heard of a woman pastor! It would be several years before I found my way to a United Methodist Church with a thriving young people’s ministry led by a charismatic, politically involved Young Adult Minister who gently “took me by the hand” and led me into the Church. The Reverend Harvey Stower, had invited me, by his gentle guidance, to have a relationship with Jesus, and to show my faith by my life and actions in the world. And on one occasion, he asked me a question – no one had asked before: “Do you ever think about seminary?” His question allowed my unspoken yearning to come to the surface. His example of ministry, his work for justice, always, his walk with Jesus, was far-removed from the memorization and testing I’d encountered in Confirmation Class.

Still, I’m always grateful for the sound sense of theology and Biblical understanding I’d received during those three years of classes in the Lutheran tradition. As I grow older, looking back, I see that my life has had a trajectory of its own. Often, I was too anxious to trust that trajectory. But here I am, a fulfilling life of service behind me, and a deepening spiritual journey, still. As I like to say, “I’ve taken a drink from many cups.” I’m grateful.

A memory… My husband and I had finally made it to Paris. “Finally,” because I suppose I’d always wanted to see Paris, one more of the great cities of the world. We had had one trip to Paris cancelled at the last moment when my sister’s partner died unexpectedly in Hawaii, and so, at the very last minute, we changed our plans to be present to her as she took care of the details of his death. We had a small, meaningful memorial with a small group of his friends on his little boat in a harbor in Pearl City. During our few days there, we had lunch with the father of our nephews, my sister’s ex-husband, and I turned to Jeff at one moment and said: “we’ll always have Paris.” Indeed.

A few months later, we made the trip.

We stayed at a lovely old hotel with our room a walk up on the third floor, its windows overlooking the Seine across the way. We arrived so tired from our always-busy lives that we almost slept through the first full day! The front desk called us to ask that the maid be allowed to clean a bit in our room, so we dressed and made our way down the stairs and into the waiting city – Paris!

I’ve always loved cities. I expect I’ve always loved cities because I grew up in the city, and feel comfortable with cities. I have good sense about what places are safe – and those that are not. I love the country, of course, but my first love is city life.

The next morning, I was ready to go out from our hotel before Jeff, and so, we agreed to meet at a cafe on the corner, a short walk from our hotel. I walked to the cafe, ordered a latte and croissant, and sat there, enjoying the morning, star-struck in a way: “here I am, in Paris!”

After a few minutes, I got up to walk along the Seine. I watched as vendors set up their booths, walking toward Notre Dame, in the distance. I walked and walked, and I found my way to a little known museum dedicated to those who lost their lives in the Holocaust. As I left the site, I looked over at Notre Dame, got my bearings, and walked slowly back to the hotel. Before I arrived at the hotel, I saw Jeff in the distance. He saw me and walked toward me, appearing frantic. “Where were you???” he asked. “I was walking.”

Later, he told me that he had been beside himself with worry! He’d involved the front desk clerk when I was not to be found at the cafe where we’d agreed to meet, and he enlisted the clerk to help him. The clerk had assured him – again and again – that I was okay. This was a Jeff I did not know well – he’s by far the calmer of the two of us. What he couldn’t understand was that I hadn’t kept the date.

When we ended our trip with a dinner a few days later, we offered our simple, repetitive prayer at dinner, remembering the ups and downs of this trip. We end every trip this way, reflecting on what comes to mind, what stands out in memory. With each memory comes the response: “And God was with you.” Jeff mentioned the exciting morning he’d had, waiting on the street for me to keep our date for our first morning in Paris. I began to laugh, to giggle. I didn’t understand.

After all, I’d simply been enjoying the morning in Paris! And here we were – the trip almost ending!

I expect I could find those little blue gym shorts on an Amazon search, if I wanted a set! Those little blue gym shorts marked my passage into Junior High and High School. And they were a sign of that time in history – my personal history and in the history of schools.

I wasn’t good at gym, but I don’t remember having a sense of dread about gym, either. That’s good. I was shy and had a few good friends – which holds true in my life even now.

I loved the classes, I loved learning, and that is an attribute I carry with me today. My mother loved to say: “you learn something new every day -” a bit of wisdom she held on to tightly. Although uneducated, her people were inquisitive, and learning satisfied that quality, it seems.

But I’ve lost my train of thought: little blue gym shorts. Shy, I hated having to change clothes in the locker room, but here I am, remembering – so I survived the trials a public education granted me. Now, when I read about the learning curve of an Olympic contender, particularly a woman, I notice how her life was shaped by being an athlete even from childhood. I am not an athlete. I was not an athlete.

But what did the athletic girls do in the years when I was in school, graduating from high school in 1967? Women in sports had to pass through a lot of hurtles, including academics. I was good at the academics, in fact, academics came easy to me. So the hour of gym class every few days was a blip on my screen of uncomfortable times. I did it. I made it through.

I’ve checked Amazon – no luck on the blue gym suits. Now, it seems as if girls get suited up in leotards. But I can find a set of “little blue gym shorts” on a google search. Vintage! The gym sets are vintage! And, I expect, so am I.