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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
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Bird-watching

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Jeff and I are watching the birds again. Our 100+ year old Craftsman home sits on its lot high above the sidewalks on our street, and so we have no window coverings. Our home is a birdhouse of its own! Outside the front window is a small grey birdhouse, currently uninhabited. Outside the windows of the kitchen stands a lovely crepe myrtle, joined by a beautiful birdhouse made by our friend Jim, and added to the yard this past winter. A circle of wooden lawn chairs in the yard gives the best view of who is moving into the wooden house in the side yard.

Jeff and I sit as quietly as we can in the wooden chairs, watching the titmice make a new home for their nest. The birds are busy; they don’t seem at all interested in us, the bigger creatures who also inhabit this part of the world. And so even as we move around, the couple does not stop their hard work, making room for eggs and soon, little titmice who will be coming into the big world that surrounds them.

I always like the little birds. Most find me unimportant as I observe them. But when the hummingbirds come into the yard, they are aggressive little creatures, sometimes buzzing close to my head as they observe this other strange, big – huge – creature. Quickly enough, the hummingbirds continue buzzing on to other places, out of sight.

I don’t think I have the patience to go about being a true bird watcher. I’ve tried. And I’ve seen some wonderful feathered creatures over the years, some who have seemed as interested in me as I am in them. But I do like to notice the birds who are our neighbors in our place in the city. They’re crafty – finding exactly what they need to make a cozy home in this busy urban area.

The new home of our titmouse neighbors! Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 2/2026

memories, reflecting, Uncategorized, wisdom

Curiosity

Mary Elyn Bahlert

“Curiosity killed the cat…” hmmm… that may be true. And although it may be true, it is also true that curiosity is a curious and important quality. Some people are curious, others are not. Maybe that’s one way the world is divided into “us” and “them.” For some, each day holds some curiosity… a new view of an old street, or seeing something one has not seen before. When we are curious, the world opens itself to us, shining full of curious things – and happenings.

As I reflect on my life in my elder years, I often return in memory to my Junior High years. I walked from our rented flat in a working class neighborhood of Milwaukee – I actually passed the Master Lock Company – on Fond du Lac Avenue, into the middle class neighborhood that surrounded Peckham Junior High School. At Robert M. LaFollette School and later at Clarke Street School on Milwaukee’s North Side, my classmates were also the children of factory workers and stay at home moms. But Peckham Junior High was in a lovely north side neighborhood with single family homes and carefully kept lawns. My world grew as I walked under the viaduct at 35th Street. I was a young person with open eyes and a keen interest in the world, a quality shared by my family. Right away, I noticed the differences in the neighborhood where Peckham J.H. stood, comparing what I saw in some deep, unspoken part of myself.

I was curious and I was smart, both qualities that have served me well in life. I had role models. At home, my parents listened to the news each morning from the radio that sat on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. And they stayed up at night to watch the news at 10 o’clock, before they went to bed to get enough sleep before the alarm in their bedroom went off at 6 am. They read the daily newspaper – The Milwaukee Journal. Many years later, on the cold February day in 2001 that my mother was buried alongside my dad at their gravesite on the south side of Milwaukee, I walked away from the grave as my good friend Vickie walked alongside me in the cold. “You had neat parents,” she said.

I think curiosity is one quality that my parents had that made them “neat parents.” They were interested, not only in the world, but in my friends. And when Vicki lost her mother at a young age, they were particularly welcoming to her whenever she came to spend time with me.

The world can be a difficult place – often. We are assured of that by staying in touch with the news every day, as my parents did. As adults, they knew the pitfalls of life along with the kindness and goodness. The world can be a difficult place. But the world is endlessly interesting.

I was thinking about curiosity today when I was preaching about Nicodemus. Nicodemus, best known for visiting Jesus at night to discuss spiritual rebirth and later assisting with Jesus’ burial, had a journey from hidden curiosity to becoming a follower of Jesus. Nicodemus came at night to talk to Jesus, apparently curious himself about this man who was causing a stir as crowds followed him from place to place, eager to hear a good word, or eager to be healed.

I told the story of a time my big brother Ronn, who married in his early 20’s, came to me after his marriage and made a comment I have not forgotten. In a way, Ronn had always treated me as an equal, although he was 9 years older than me. And I’ve never forgotten what he said: “did you know that not everyone is interested in things, like our family is?” I understood then that he was reflecting on a difference he had noticed in his new wife’s family. He didn’t say more. I always loved Sue – love her still now that she’s been gone many years – but it is true, she did not have the interest in life that Ronn carried, as if he was carrying a gene that gave him a keen interest in learning, in new things. Later, he’d turn that interest to computers, and when I called him from across the country with a problem using my first computer at home, he’d patiently walk me through the steps I needed to get back on track.

And I suppose, like Nicodemus, curiosity might lead us into unknown, uncharted places. Maybe curiosity is responsible for whatever risks we take, a companion to the risk.

The world is endlessly interesting… even the small places are beautiful… photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 2/2026