memories, remembering, Uncategorized

Something’s always missing

Mary Elyn Bahlert

One of the most poignant emotions, to me, is the feeling that something is missing. I expect the feeling is one of loss, or maybe nostalgia. It’s hard to put a finger – a word! – on it, but it’s there, a feeling that sticks to my insides, that doesn’t go away. Something is not quite right.

I think it’s the temperatures in the 50’s and 60’s that betray this time of year, the precious days between Thanksgiving and the end of the year. In Milwaukee, dark blue skies hanging over colorful trees of autumn give way to a bleak gray that marks the coming of the end of the year, of the beginning of months of cold, cloud-covered skies, of cozy homes, of night coming on early.

And I’ve lived in this temperate climate for most of my life, but the longing in me still comes on strong in late fall. After Thanksgiving Day, Jeff and I go out together to a Christmas tree lot to pick out a newly picked tree, take it home and begin the decorating as soon as the tree arrives. We love the lights that light up the early darkness each evening, and I move myself from my study into the living room, as often as possible. The pleasure of this season lasts for such a short time: the intense longing that accompanies the season will give way to the closing of the year. As a pastor, I loved bringing the Christmas story and the Christmas songs to the gathered community, often to a community of folks I did not know well, on Christmas Eve; now, I enjoy the lights and the early dark of the season alone, with Jeff. We seem to bring nostalgia into the house with the Christmas tree we’ve carefully picked out from a local business, always remembering the cold evening of a long ago December when my Dad would take a long time to pick out the best tree in the lot to take home to our cozy flat, carrying the tree up the narrow staircase to the second floor where Mom’s holiday baking filled the air with sweet smells.

All of these memories come to mind, as I sit near the tree. I like to play Christmas music on my iPad – quietly – as background to the moments we cherish now.

Before the end of the year, we’ll sit together in the room with the tree and remember moments of the past year that are highlighted in our memories. Jeff will write a list of what he intends to accomplish in the year ahead. I’ll remember those who are gone now, most for many, many years. It’s that time of year.

Our tree, waiting to be dressed for the holiday!

photo, Mary Elyn Bahlert, 12/1/2025

Uncategorized

“tis the season…”

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Jeff and I will gather with my cousin Norman’s family around a long, long table in a very small house on Potrero Hill for a Thanksgiving feast. Every year, we each make time to visit again with extended family to hear a few words about the past year, to hear what family life is like at this age, to mention how good everything that everyone has brought is, to hear laughter and conversations that don’t always make it all the way through – there are too many of us to catch up with! I bring the pies – pumpkin, apple, and two cherry pies made with cherries imported from Door County, Wisconsin, where my father and Norman’s father grew up.

Before we start to eat, Norman will undoubtedly turn to either me or Jeff – the resident clergy – to say a blessing. The room will be quiet for a few moments, and after the Amen! the chatter will rise up again.

Since tomorrow is The Day, I’ll be at work in the kitchen after dinner today, baking the pies. Cheryl, Norman’s wife, has spent most of her week getting ready, cooking whatever she can that can be prepared early. She’ll have empty glasses and full bottles of wine on the kitchen counter, along with snack foods for us, in case we arrive to the fest hungry. Norman will roam around the tiny house with his camera in hand, snapping pictures of his grandchildren. And when we sit down to eat, a portrait of the Bahlert family of Sister Bay will look down on us as we eat, maybe offering an unspoken blessing to the gathered voices.

It seems to me that getting ready for Thanksgiving Day holds as many joys as the day itself. After all those hours of preparation, soon one family after another will be at the door, donning coats, carrying goodies of leftovers from the feast, saying goodbye.

*

Holiday time in the Bay Area has a different feel to me than holiday time in the cold and grey Midwest, where Jeff and I both grew up. Holiday time in the Midwest followed days of already cold weather and winds off Lake Michigan, days when winter coats and gloves were already out for the long season ahead. And holiday time as a child, when there was a sense of magic in the air, ended a long, long time ago. But these days are a good time to remember those who are no longer here, but who have never left us, in a way. I’m sure they are with us: in our voices, in our laughter, in our smiles and in the curls in our hair.

And these days are a good time to be grateful, for all that life that has passed, all the beloved ones who are gone, and for the long table of young voices that gather to help us celebrate the holiday, again.

And autumn does come to the Bay Area… photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 10/2025

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Peace

Mary Elyn Bahlert

One day, a teacher and her disciples were walking.This was in the initial days. While they were traveling, they happened to pass a lake. They stopped there and the teacher told one of her disciples, “I am thirsty. Do get me some water from the lake.”
The disciple walked up to the lake. When he reached it, he noticed that some people were washing clothes in the water and, right at that moment, a bullock cart started crossing through the lake. As a result, the water became very muddy, very turbid. The disciple thought, “How can I give this muddy water to my teacher to drink!” So he came back and told the teacher, “The water in there is very muddy. I don’t think it is fit to drink.”
After about half an hour, again the teacher asked the same disciple to go back to the lake to get some water to drink. The disciple obediently went back to the lake. This time he found that the lake had absolutely clear water in it. The mud had settled down and the water above it looked fit to be had. So he collected some water in a pot and brought it to his teacher.
The teacher looked at the water, and then looked at the disciple and said, “See what you did to make the water clean. You let it be … and the mud settled down on its own – and you got clear water… Life is also like that. When it is disturbed, just let it be. Give it a little time. It will settle down on its own. You don’t have to put in any effort to calm it down. It will happen.”

Peace from my window – in Oakland. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 11/2025

memories, reflecting

Walking Through Covid

Mary Elyn Bahlert

It’s hard to remember what we thought about COVID-19 when we first heard about the virus in early 2020, and even when we ourselves were subject to a “sheltering in place” order, an order that changed our lives dramatically and for a long time.

How did we do it? A vivid memory of mine is listening to the new on NPR Radio at 3 pm, day after day. And I listened as each Friday, after recounting the news of the day, Judy Woodruff spent a few moments remembering in a few sentences the lives of five people who had lost their lives early in the pandemic, which swept across New York City before it reached across the rest of the country. We listened carefully to the wisdom and knowledge of Anthony Fauci as he gave us simple but extreme guidelines that would shape our lives for many months.

Jeff and I live in the Bay Area, which has a Mediterranean climate, and for that, we could be very grateful. We took to walking together early in the morning after rising and drinking our first cups of coffee even earlier – 5:30 am – in one of the two cemeteries that stretch for acres into the hills of the East Bay, just a block away from our house. We made new friends from the neighborhood as we saw some folks each day and others once or twice a week. We hosted gatherings with our friends as we sat huddled together in a circle in our yard in our down jackets. We ate our meals with friends on paper plates. For several months, I had our groceries delivered to our door by the brave and kind folks who did that work on our behalf, until I began to shop at the local supermarket early in the morning; I still like to shop early in the day, a habit formed during that time. Jeff was serving a church in downtown Oakland as interim pastor, and he preached each week as he sat in our yard and as I taped his sermon on his phone to be sent to the church secretary who put worship together for everyone in the parish.

Even so, the days and weeks and then months stretched on and on before us. Ugh. How did we do it?

Early in the evenings, Jeff and I would get into one of our cars and drive along Broadway in Oakland, through downtown, and to the Bay, where the ferries to Alameda and San Francisco left the dock, still on schedule, during the day. We would park along the narrow streets at Brooklyn Basin, a new development in Oakland, and walk along the shore of the Bay. Young people roller-skated on the pavement along the shore and loud music formed the background for all of us.

These memories came to mind – I’m certain there will be other memories – when Jeff and I drove into San Francisco – the City – on Saturday to attend a fall gathering at California College of the Arts. We parked our car a few blocks away and walked up some steep hills before we attended a luncheon on the campus. We remembered how we hiked in many places in the Bay Area, on Mount Diablo, at Martinez – and how we walked in San Francisco before the months of sheltering gave way to our getting vaccines. We sat outside on folding chairs carefully spaced safely apart at Kaiser in San Francisco as we waited to receive our first shot. We haven’t counted, but we’re sure we walked up and down those hills in at least 15 neighborhoods in the City over the months that stretched into years. Early on, traffic was light; as the months went on and as each one of us stretched our limits, tested our limits – traffic increased. Things were returning to normal.

Mary greets us each morning as we walk – up hills and down – in St. Mary’s cemetery, Oakland, 2020.