Tag: community

community, wisdom

Hello’s in the ‘hood

Mary Elyn Bahlert

As a child, my family moved from rented upper flat to rented upper flat on the North Side of Milwaukee, every few years. We always lived in the upstairs flat. Because Milwaukee has cold, cold winters, each house had a full basement, usually divided in half, half reserved for the lower flat, and half reserved for the upper flat, each also boasting a coal furnace. Every winter morning, Daddy filled the furnace that heated our flat with coal, and stoked the flames as soon as he dressed, after the alarm which rang promptly at 6 AM, early enough for Mom to make his breakfast of bacon and eggs – every morning. I lay in bed until 7, when my little sister, Suzie, and I started our days at the kitchen table with a bowl of cold cereal. Then we walked the few blocks to school.

As a child, I knew the children in the neighborhood, those other children from working class families who walked the streets to school with me, who became my first playmates when the evenings were long, on the weekends, and during the hot, humid summers. I walked to school with those children, some who came from homes where another language was spoken at the table. Although Mom’s first language was Ukrainian, we all spoke English. Mom, Daddy, Ronn, me and Suzie.

What I don’t remember about the neighborhood is whether or not the neighbors were friendly. I don’t remember most of their names. Except for the children who lived within a block of our flat, my playmates in the summer time lived in the modest flats and modest single family homes that lined the streets for as far as I could see or could walk. My world grew a little when I became friends with Judy Hauser, whose family lived about a mile away, a house that her parents owned, and where her grandmother – who never spoke a word in my hearing – lived in the small upstairs of the bungalow, coming down to sit at the table with the family for lunch. Some Saturdays, I’d ride to Judy’s house to spend the day, or her dad would drop her at our house to spend the day with me. That’s how my world grew, inch by inch, block by block, school by school, buddy by buddy.

What I don’t remember about the neighborhood was whether or not we spoke to the neighbors we did not know, who walked those streets, who sat on the porches in the warm, humid evenings of the precious summers. I don’t remember if we even knew the names of all the neighbors. Of course we knew the names of the families on the next street whose kids were my playmates. It was Michelle Fralick who asked me one day as we walked to school: “are you Catholic?” I don’t know what I said to Michelle in answer to her question, but I know I asked Mom if I was Catholic when I got home from school that day. “No,” she said.

*

I suppose it’s because of those old Milwaukee neighborhoods that I love cities. The places I lived were modest places, and when I have the time to see them again, I take a look. I see the narrow streets. I see the streets, now more modest than they were then, some of the windows of those flats boarded up, some of the steps to the front porch broken, some of the strips of land that had been lawns now barren, brown, uncared for. Milwaukee is one of the cities who has suffered greatly from the racism that plagues the nation, that plagues the world. Milwaukee is a broken place in many ways, although it will always be my home.

“Feels like home to me…” (Randy Newman, “Feels Like Home”)

What I don’t remember is whether or not we greeted our neighbors. The cities I’ve lived in have changed – mightily – since those days of growing up. I love cities, love the city where I live now, and have lived for many years, and I love the cities of other places, of other lands, I’ve been privileged to see. This past spring, Jeff and I traveled to Japan for a trip with Overseas Adventure Travel. On the first morning after our arrival, as the group gathered to get a feel for our few days in Tokyo, I spent the morning alone, walking on the city streets. I was comfortable. I was happy. I enjoyed my time alone, to explore on foot the strange and wonderful new land I was privileged to visit.

But did we look at one another as we passed each other on the narrow sidewalks of Milwaukee in the 1950’s and 1960’s? Did we say hello to one another? Did we greet one another warmly, as neighbors? I don’t remember.

And so it is a small and wonderful joy to me when I walk in my neighborhood in Oakland now, and when someone looks at me – really looks at me – and when we say a few kind words to one another. One day, as I walked one of my well-worn routes to make sure I add to my tally of daily steps, I passed a short, gray haired old woman – she must have been my age, that is – and as I passed, she said a few words. More than a few words. She started a conversation. She told me she was new to the neighborhood, and since we passed one another on a street a few blocks from where Jeff and I lived, I don’t know where she lives. But I’ve looked for her ever since the day we passed one another, when I walk along that block. I think of her. I hope to see her again.

It’s good to see the same folks on my street, day after day. It’s good to hear voices sometimes, to see a dog out for a friendly walk on our street – on leash (of course). I know the names of some of the people I pass. And I often don’t know the name of someone I pass. Yesterday, as I walked up the last hill to my house along Pleasant Valley Avenue, the busy street that runs parallel to my own street, a young woman who I’ve seen once or twice came up to the curb to cross the Avenue. She turned to smile at me.

I’m old now. To her, I’m just another old woman. But maybe that’s why she smiled. I’m harmless, after all – I’m old now.

I hope to see her again. I’ll make sure to smile, to say hello. I hope we can make our own place just a little friendlier when we do.

A fall sunset over our street. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 9/2026

community, reflecting

Lake Merritt UMC

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I was serving part time in a small congregation in South San Francisco, living in Oakland. After several years of my floundering around, trying to make my way into the United Methodist Annual Conference while being married to another member of the clergy, I was grateful for the chance to preach each Sunday, to be present to the people of that community. Aldersgate United Methodist Church had been built in a post-war housing development in South San Francisco – the same development as my Uncle Pete and Aunt Athalie, who had lived there for many years. My being there was a twist of faith, or fate – or something else chosen by powers greater than myself or even greater than the United Methodist Bishop who sent me there. I was finally Pastor of a congregation that I was serving on my own. And I was grateful.

Pastor’s School that year was at Asilomar, a conference and retreat center along the Pacific Coast, south of Monterey, in January. I always looked forward to Pastor’s School, mostly for the time with other clergy, the friendships I formed among my colleagues as we sat in classes and ate meals together. Each conversation felt like a connection. I was standing outside, in conversation with Paul Extrum-Fernandez one day during Pastor’s School that year, 1996. As we stood there, Paul asked me where I’d like to go in the Annual Conference. Hmmmm… I had not considered that one, clear question – ever. And no one had ever asked me before. I stood silent for a few moments, thinking. Finally, I answered: “Lake Merritt,” I said.

Paul’s wife, Renee, was Pastor of Lake Merritt. I knew that. Paul knew that. “Oh, Renee will never leave Lake Merritt,” he said.

Two years later, I was Pastor at Lake Merritt United Methodist Church, a congregation formed by the merger of old First United Methodist Church of Oakland – whose building had burned to the ground – and St. Stephen’s United Methodist Church – where the people of Lake Merritt began to worship after the fire, before the new congregation built an entirely new building on the shore of Lake Merritt. The merged congregation became one: Lake Merritt United Methodist Church. I was excited, happy to be sent to Lake Merritt. And I was happy for 16 years – a long tenure, by any account, for a United Methodist Pastor, whose parishes are appointed by a resident Bishop. And I was grateful. I loved the people, in large part because I understood that they had chosen to continue to do ministry after their merger, and with insurance money to carry them into the future – in downtown Oakland.

I was right there with them, in downtown Oakland – and in my view, in heaven.

Sixteen years is a long tenure for a United Methodist Pastor, whose fate is held in the hands and heart of the resident Bishop, but Jeff and I worked it out as best we could as a clergy couple who chose to live together, to not be separated by an appointment to a church by a Bishop. He received training as an interim pastor, which opened doors for him to serve locally in churches of other denominations as well as United Methodist parishes.

*

Every Sunday during my tenure at Lake Merritt, I opened worship with these words: “Welcome to worship at Lake Merritt United Methodist Church, an open and welcoming Christian congregation serving downtown Oakland”. And I served, together with the wonderful lay people of the congregation, who accepted and understood the diverse community of Oakland, and had chosen to stay and serve among that often unruly and difficult community. I was – I am – proud of them.

*

I’ve been retired for 12 years now. I miss many things about being a parish pastor, but as time has gone on, I’ve taken other, shorter gigs, and even traveled some to be with one or another community of faith, to lead worship, to preach, and to connect with the folks of another faith. To be honest, there are many things I don’t miss! I’ve preached at other United Methodist Churches – filling in for friends and colleagues who are taking a Sunday away, and I’ve gone to Mass at a local Roman Catholic Parish that serves the African American community of the Bay Area. Until this past year, I had not stayed closely connected to the community at Lake Merritt, but the current pastor has invited me to preach, to be present for her and to the people of the parish.

This past weekend, while the Pastor is on Sabbatical, I have been one of the clergy she has invited to preach in her absence. And as fate would have it, I was called upon to offer pastoral care and finally to perform the memorial service for a woman with whom I have a strong connection; I buried both her husband and her son, a police officer (see “The day they died,” thewisdomyears.org, May 18, 2025).

And what I have seen in my visits to Lake Merritt UMC is “an open and welcoming Christian congregation serving downtown Oakland.” The vision that the people and I held in our hearts and minds, in our openness to diversity of all kinds, has created a truly open and welcoming Christian congregation. I think this is rare reality among churches. Congregations are well-known for holding tight to old, old traditions, to be unable and unwilling to make changes, for the unwillingness to step on the toes of folks who’ve been around for a long time and have their own ways. Congregations will not be moved from “the way we’ve always done things.” But Lake Merritt has outgrown and surpassed those ways. I credit their witness and determination to serve the community of Oakland – a community that can be gritty and hard, a community that is colorful and rich in diversity – as a strength that continues to blossom in the people there.

I’m proud of them.

Virginia Turner and me – after worship at Lake Merritt United Methodist Church, Oakland. Virginia Turner is my 102 year old friend.

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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

Uncategorized

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

community, reflecting

Friends

Mary Elyn Bahlert

“You’ve always had good friends,” my mother once told me. She was right. I’ve always had good friends, friends I find interesting, friends who listen to me as much as I listen to them, friends who are readers and travelers, friends who have a keen interest in life.

As I get older, I think I value my friendships even more than I ever did. Or maybe I realize now that our lives are short – we don’t know when we will lose another friend, or when we might face our own demise – and so each moment, each encounter, becomes more important as the years pass.

A few years ago, I received an email from a former student at Clarke Street School in Milwaukee, where I’d gone to 5 and 6 grades. She had written as part of the outreach to let me know about an event honoring Washington High School in Milwaukee. “Did you go to Clarke Street School?” she had written. When I looked at the name, the signature said Fran xxxxx. I knew her as Frances, and I sent my email response right away. “Are you Frances xxxxx?” I asked. I’d found her, my best friend in the few years before we entered Junior High, before I entered the Pilot Program for “smart” kids, and she skipped a grade, instead. I’d often wondered about Frances, how her life had unfolded. A few months later, Jeff and I were privileged to have a meal with Frances – now she’s Fran – and her husband, Jakov, in Milwaukee. And our staying in touch has been important to me in this season of my life.

Some friendships seem to last a long time, other friendships seem to last for a season, a short time in life. My husband, Jeff, makes friends with everyone he meets. He’s an extravert, and there are times I’ve teased him about the easy and comfortable way he makes friends. He’s got good friends, as I do. I’m grateful to be married a man who values male friendships as much as I value my female friends. I like to tease him that he’s the world’s “most extraverted man.” That’s not an exaggeration! And I have to say that Jeff and I are good friends as well as life partners. That’s a gift in my life, to be sure.

I’m grateful now to be making new friends as the years unfold. I’ve connected with a woman pastor I’ve known for many years, and at our yearly clergy gathering, we make time to spend with each other. Another colleague – we went to seminary together – and I have decided to make sure to have lunch once a month. A woman I’ve known since the 1980’s and with whom I share an August birthday, have dinner together at least two times a year – before Christmas and during our birthday month. Just as we have for a long time, we each come with a small gift for our long time friend. One of my good friends is making end-of-life plans for herself as a single woman, carefully laying out what she wants and intends as she lives in her 80’s. I’m just one of the people she is bringing into her planning. Even though she is single, her friendships reassure her that she is not alone. Some of my friends are friends I share with Jeff – couples – and others are solo friends.

For a few years, I led a group at a local Senior Center in Oakland, which I called “Life’s Reflections.” Although the group has ended, the faithful members met for a Christmas sing-fest at my house during the holidays. And I count them among my friends.

Over the past few years, since a former parishioner and new friend to me, Margret, died suddenly, her widower Jim has been a good friend to both Jeff and me. Jim likes to cook, and he has Jeff and me for breakfast at his house once a week. We’ve never had a repeat breakfast in two years!

I can still see Joanne’s face as she sat at my desk in Green Bay, Wisconsin, for the first time, in 1973, and asked me: “Do you golf?” I hadn’t golfed – still haven’t golfed – I told her I’d try to golf! – but Joanne and I have been friends ever since.

I have lunch dates a couple of times a week, even in my elder years. Lunch together is a good way for me to connect with my friends. I learn which friends text, and who likes to communicate via email. Or a phone call.

One or two of my friends are women I’ve met through taking part in spiritual retreats overseas. Sometimes we plan for a phone call or a zoom call to connect, since we live a long distance from one another.

I’m grateful for them all. As I reflect on my friendships, I see I could add others. I’m grateful to each one. And yes, I have always had good friends. Mom was right.

Jeff, Thanksgiving Day at the Bahlerts’ in San Francisco, 11/2025