Aileen goes on. . .and on

“And on March 9th, we’ll have a lab experience,” my professor said, “to practice baptism by immersion.”

Practice baptism? Shoot, I’ve been doing that all my life. No, I’m not an ordained pastor. In fact, I’ve only been in a baptismal pool once, for my own baptism 38 years ago. But, I’m a Baptist preacher’s kid and I’ve been baptizing folk ever since I started swimming, maybe even before then.

“I get to be the preacher first!” My sister, the oldest, raced me into the water. Whether we were vacationing at White Lake, NC, or playing in the local swimming pool, we spent much of our summers immersed. We could get pretty creative with water games and since our lives revolved around the church, it was to be expected that our experiences there would be reproduced in playtime. (Some kids play cowboys, firefighters, cops and robbers. We played Baptist.)

“Fine,” I told her, “But you only get to baptize me once. Then it’s my turn.”

Assuming a solemn expression and a preacher voice (which my Daddy never had but we’d heard our share) my sister placed one hand on my back and raised the other skyward. “Aileen? Why have you come?”

“Because I have accepted Jesus as my personal savior and I want to be baptized.” My voice sounded funny. I was holding my nose prematurely as my sister had been known to splash me under before it was time.

“Then,” she said, pitching her own voice down to sound more like Daddy’s, “Upon your profession in him, I baptize you my [giggle, giggle] little sister, in the name of the father, the son and in . . . the hole you go!” Before she got the last word out, I was under.

“Okay! My turn!” I said, wiping my dripping hair out of my face and taking my place behind her.

Now that I think about it, I suppose our little game was a bit disrespectful, maybe even borderline sacrilegious. (I won’t even tell you about our Eucharist tea parties.) But mainly, looking back at those days, I’m grateful. I’m grateful that my faith traditions were so familiar to me that they became a very literal part of my everyday life. As a child, that meant I baptized playmates. As an adult, it means that I continue to follow Christ. And I’m not even playing.

I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit. Mark 1:8 NRSV

“It’s driving us all crazy,” I told the vet. She and I sat cross-legged on the exam room floor as my beagle paced, sniffing around for a way out.

“Charlie licks the floor constantly,” I said, “And it’s not just the floor either. He licks the carpet, his bed, everything. It’s . . . well. . . it’s gross.”

She got my point. “Any other symptoms?” she asked, holding out her hand to Charlie, enticing him to come close. She scratched his ears, cooing, “That’s a good boy, Charlie. Aren’t you a sweet boy?” He leaned into her so she could do a better job.

I told her what was going on with him, trying not to leave anything out.

“It sounds to me like he has some tummy trouble,” she said. “When dogs experience stomach pain, they try to find a way to get rid of that pain. So, they lick, trying to consume something that will make them throw up.”

“Eww.”

“Yeah, I know. But when they can get rid of the contents of their stomach, they feel better. At least for awhile.”

Fascinating. What she was saying was that it is my beagle’s instinct, when his tummy hurts, to consume something even worse for him to make the pain go away. Even after Charlie and I left the vet that day, I kept thinking about this canine tendency. I thought about how many times I do this. How many times do I self-medicate, using a drug that’s far worse for me than the problem itself? My drug of choice is food. Yours might be sleep, anger, work, cigarettes. Whatever: we just keep licking the floor, trying to find something to make us feel better.

“And the problem is,” the vet said, “that the licking itself can become a habit. If an animal has had long-term chronic stomach pain, even if it is treated and the problem is resolved, sometimes he will keep licking out of habit.”

(Like self-medicating just because we can?)

“Then we have a psychological problem.”

(No kidding.)

“So what we try to do is treat the stomach ache early, before the licking has become a compulsive behavior all its own.”

(Now there’s an idea.)

She prescribed—yes it’s true—Pepcid®. In a few days Charlie was feeling much better and licking a lot less. Amazing. We treated the real problem, and the destructive behavior went away.

Wonder if that would work in humans?

It was January 13, 2009 and I was on my way to the college when my cell phone rang.

“Where are you?” my GWU friend asked.

“On the way. What’s up?”

“Uhhh, nothin’, just wanted to see if you wanted to meet us for coffee.”

“You’re out of class?” It was only 8:30 and they had Dr. Cal Robertson. Doc Cal never ends class early. Never.

“Well, yeah.”

“I thought you had Robertson.”

“We do. . . we just . . . well . . . we’re at the coffee shop.”

There was something she wasn’t telling me.

“Is something wrong with Robertson? Is he sick?”

“Robertson’s fine.”

“Robertson is NOT fine if he let you out of class early.”

“No, really. Robertson is fine.”

“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll be there in a little bit.” I’m slow on the uptake at 8:30 in the morning. I didn’t hear the shock in her voice, the utter disbelief.

When I got to GWU, my friends met me, not at the coffee shop, but in the yard outside the divinity school. (It’s a long drive from Asheville to GWU.)

“Aileen. Dr. Goodman died this morning,” Donna told me.

“What?”

“It’s true Aileen,” Gary said, “He collapsed in the shower. We don’t know any more details right now.”

“Dr. Goodman?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” (We ask stupid questions like that when we are in shock.)

“Yes. It’s true,” Karen nodded, confirming it.

“Gary?” I looked up at my preacher-man friend who I refer to as my “little brother.” He nodded, reaching his arm around me to steady me.

“We’re having chapel today, but they changed the planned service. Now the focus will be Dr. Goodman.”

In a few hours, we all went to church. Here’s what I wrote about that service.

http://www.aileenonline.com/b2/?p=19

Lifting up the Goodman family today. Remembering. . .

If my granddaddy had been as superhuman as I thought he was, he would have been 107 years old yesterday. In tribute to him, and in celebration of advent, here is the devotional I wrote for the divinity school’s advent book. EnJOY!

Plans for Joy December 16, 2009 Gardner-Webb University Advent Devotional Jeremiah 29:11-14, 1 Thessalonians 5:16

“The question is not ‘if’ I will go to college,” I told my peers as we chatted in the school cafeteria, “the question is ‘where?’” My lunch mates might not have known how to spend their next four years, but my decision about college had been made well before my senior year of high school; in fact, the plan for me to continue my education had been put in place long before I was even born.

Granddaddy, my mother’s father, always wanted to be a doctor. He had the brains for it too; all his teachers said so. I remember my sister and me playing this game with him: one of us would get a calculator; the other would call out numbers and operations. “Nineteen plus 382, minus 44, times three . . .” The one with the calculator would compute the equation while Granddaddy did it mentally, scratching an occasional detail on his notepad. Granddaddy always got it right. Sometimes he even beat the calculator.

But Granddaddy never finished college because life took some unfortunate turns for his family. Granddaddy made the only choice he felt he could at that time: he went to work, earning money to pay tuition for his sisters so that they could complete their teaching degrees. “You girls got to get your education,” he must have said to them as he said a generation later to my mother and even later to my sister and to me. “These days, men can always get work, but you girls will need a college degree to get a good paying job.”

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Though I found it sad that Granddaddy missed going to college, I loved hearing him tell the story. I loved watching his face glow as he told of his sisters getting their degrees and my mother getting hers. At those times, I glimpsed true joy: the joy that comes from giving freely, loving completely. And I knew too, that I was an heir to Granddaddy’s sacrificial promise. He had created a legacy of hope.

Perhaps the Jews of the exile were not hanging out at Nebuchadnezzar High discussing future co-eds with their Babylonian buddies. Still, I bet those who listened to this promise from God, felt somewhat as I did every time I heard the plans my Granddaddy had made for me. I bet their hearts quickened at the thought of God preparing for their “welfare and not for [their] harm,” of their “future of hope.” Can’t you just picture their faces as they listened to the story? Look into their eyes. Watch as awareness dawns, “This promise is for me. Me!” One by one, they sense the real message , “God. God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God. Loves. Me.”

The promise holds. The future is secure. Let us rejoice always.

“I’ve probably only got a couple of months,” George said, drawing in a quick breath and blinking at persistent tears. He lay on his couch, a warm blanket covering him and cozy pillows tucked behind his head and under his feet. “But I’m at peace with it honey, I really am.” George squeezed his eyes closed but the tears seeped out anyway. “I don’t know how I can be at peace, but . . . well . . . yes I do. You know too.”

George loves living—cancer or no cancer—and he’s in no hurry to give this life up for the next. George knows where he’s going; he even has a son and a wife there waiting on him. He doesn’t fear leaving here for heaven; it’s not that. It’s just that . . . well, George loves life. He really, really loves life.

While we were visiting, his daughter brought me a cup of tea and on the tray was a serving of homemade fudge. “Oh, try that fudge!” George encouraged me, “I just made that last week. Oh, and Marilyn?” His daughter returned. “Bring Aileen some of my jelly too. You like jelly don’t you Aileen? I made peach and blackberry.” (Of course I like jelly—particularly the kind you can’t buy in stores.) “Bring her one of each.”

“Have you met my great-grandchildren? They’re downstairs.” I had not. “Of course Ben and Jocelyn–that’s just two of them; you know I have eight?” I did not. “I’ve been so blessed.” George smiled, nodding.

“Hey did I tell you? I went to Florida last week.” George’s eyes twinkled; he looked like a kid who had pulled a fast one on the adults of the world.

George, in the advanced stages of cancer, had been scheduled for surgery last week. By a fortuitous turn of events, the surgery had to be rescheduled for the end of the week; it just so happened that one of his daughters was Florida bound. George loves Florida.

“What in the world did you do down there?” I asked him, still shaking my head at the wonder of it.

“Mostly what I’m doing right here.” George laughed at himself, gesturing at his comfy set-up. “But it was good just to be near the water.” He sighed, wistful. “You know that’s not like me to sit around.” I knew.

In addition to making culinary delights to share, George has countless other hobbies and avocations. He goes to first run movies, art galleries, and the homeless shelter. He is an avid fisherman, a woodworker of remarkable talent, and a gardener with a bright green thumb. He reads voraciously, maintains his North Asheville home, and attends Asheville’s First Baptist every Sunday he is able, his time-worn, green-covered Living Bible in hand. And he’s planning even now for a Thanksgiving family reunion when he’ll be surrounded by his children and theirs, and theirs.

“I know you are at peace, George, but it’s okay to be sad too.”

My octogenarian friend nodded, acknowledging the truth, tears flowing freely now. “You really love living don’t you?”

“I really do, honey, I really do.”

Then the LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground. He breathed the breath of life into the man’s nostrils, and the man became a living person. Genesis 2:7 (New Living Translation)

I’m not a baseball fan—I’ll give you that. Still, I’m also not an anti-fan. I care if my son’s favorite teams win (which means the Red Sox and anyone playing the Yankees) and I like the Angels—because Reggie Willits is a real live angel, that’s why. (A story for another time.) But, no, I didn’t watch the 2009 World Series. I did hear it, though; and I heard a lot about it.

Back in 1967, according to Google Answers, the average pro baseball player made around $6000 a year. In 2000, the average salary for the same job was $1.9 million. But get this. The median household income in 1967? Around $33,000. In 2000? Approximately $45,000. So, let’s just make this simple. In 1967, a pro ball player made one-fifth of his annual income playing ball; he made the rest some other way or he slipped below the average. Today, a ballplayer makes enough for his family plus 41 other families to live at the level of the common folk. (These numbers are, of course, for salaries, and don’t include income from commercial endorsements. I think we can assume there were no such things back in the 1960’s.)

Then there are the ads. An ad for this year’s World Series ran, on the low side, $100,000 for a 30 second spot. These ads tried to get you and me to buy stuff: stuff or services, we can’t afford because we don’t make $1.9 million, but that we will pull out our plastic and purchase because we think we will be better off if we have that which is advertised. (Also, perhaps, a discussion for another time.)

All this is appalling, but I heard something today that absoflippinglutely blew my mind. If you watched the World Series you noticed that during the game, little banners ran across the top of your screen pulling your eyes away from the batter. Stats of the player? Details about the game? NO! Another dadgum advertisement. You get this right: the $100,000 and up for the actual commercials was not enough! They needed more. What in the Sam Hill?

I don’t care how much a person likes baseball. This is crazy.

Greed. It’s a nasty business.

And [Jesus] said to them, “Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.” Luke 12:15 (NRSV)

(In the words of my preacher friends, “That’ll preach.”)

“This isn’t going to end up in your blog, is it Mrs. Lawrimore?”

My daughter Trellace and her friend Kaitlin, having participated in the annual five-mile Crop Walk, returned to the church prior to the evening’s activities. Hungry and with time to, well, burn, they found a bag of microwave popcorn, set the timer to two minutes, and stepped out of the room. When they returned, the popcorn was, ahem, toast, and the whole fourth floor blabbed their blunder. You’ve smelled burned popcorn, right? There’s no mistaking it. It spoils every pocket of available oxygen with its obnoxious stench.

That afternoon, I’d come to the church early, a rarity for me. A few minutes after I arrived, Kaitlin rushed up to me.

“Mrs. Lawrimore! Help me!”

Kaitlin explained that she and Trellace had pretty much scorched the upper floor of the church, and then Trellace had rushed off to hand-bells, leaving Kaitlin with the still smoking bag. Any minute the fire alarms would go off, bringing Asheville’s finest to our doors.

Half an hour later, we’d made good progress upstairs in the youth center. With windows open and fans going, the air quality was considerably better than it had been. But alas, it was too late: the smell had made its way all the way through the church. Everywhere, people were asking, “Something burning?” or “What’s that smell?” Kaitlin and I just smiled, shrugging our shoulders.

Thirty seconds. That’s how long it took for the popcorn to go from tempting teenagers to tempting fire fighters.

When it began, it seemed like such a safe activity. In fact, during the two minutes ante-burning, down the hall from the scene of the kernels, Trellace and Kaitlin had mocked up what they thought was an absurd scenario.

“Wouldn’t it be funny, hahaha, if that popcorn burned, hahaha, and we went back to the youth room, hahaha, and the whole place had burned down, hahaha.”

“Yeah, like that could happen, hahaha.”

“Wait,” (laughter waning) “How much time did you put on that timer?”

“Two minutes, why?”

“NOOO! It only takes a minute and a half!”

“Oh come on, what’s 30 seconds?”

It shall be made with oil on a griddle; you shall bring it well soaked, as a grain offering of baked pieces, and you shall present it as a pleasing odor to the Lord. Leviticus 6:21 (NRSV)

So there I was, sitting in Jan Davis Tire Store (time to get the tires rotated, don’t cha know), minding my own beeswax, when in walks (I kid you not) Osama Bin Laden’s nephew. Olive skinned and bearded, with a pill-box shaped hat perched on his Middle Eastern hair, he wore billowing britches, a flowing blouse that reached his knees, and a long linen vest draped over the whole ensemble. He approached the counter; I didn’t hear what the clerk called him, but I think it was Mr. Bin Laden.

Now, it would have been bad enough having a terrorist’s blood kin walk into the place of business I was patronizing had I not been studying (you guessed it) biblical Hebrew, of all things. And I was sitting right by the door, practically in the doorway.

So I think to myself, Well now, Osama Bin Laden’s nephew has just walked into Jan Davis Tire Store and I’m sitting in his pathway reading Hebrew. How very nice is that. Well. Hmm. How should I handle this situation since I know I’m not an over-reactive person and I’m certainly not a racist for heaven’s sake!

About that time, the fella turns around and before I realize what I’m doing, I smile and say hello (because I smile and say hello to everyone—it’s a habit). He smiles back, says hello, does not pull out a machine gun, and proceeds out the door. Then he stops, noticing my book, and comes back inside the store.

“You’re reading Hebrew?” His eyes are kind.

I mentally slap myself for slipping into the stupid stereotypes that are based on the minority and are so unfair. I know better. But knowing and doing have never been the same. This person is a potential friend, regardless of his religious or political background. Shame on me for missing that, if even for a moment.

“You don’t see many people reading Hebrew in Asheville.” He smiles, chuckles a little.

I smile back and explain. “No, I guess not. I’m in divinity school. I’m taking Hebrew and I have a test next week.”

He asks where I go to school and then where Gardner-Webb is and we talk about that for a minute or two. The conversation turns back to Hebrew.

“I read Hebrew,” he says, “but only about as well as a third grader.” His countenance is warm, open.

“That’s great. I’ll have to learn a lot more to get to the third grade level.” We both laugh a little.

“Well, good luck on your test. Have a great day.”

“You too,” I say and I really hope that he does. I hope, I pray, that throughout this day, Godly people will treat him the way they would want to be treated.

“It was nice meeting you,” I say, and I really mean it.

“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Matthew 7:1-2 (NIV)

“I got the invitation to my friend’s birthday party, Mommy.”

“Oh?”

My 11-year-old daughter, Margaret hesitated, seeming to withhold information.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, dragging the word into two syllables, “it’s a sleepover.”

“Okay.”

“And . . . ”

“And what, Margaret?”

“Well, it’s on a Saturday night, but I really want to go and she only invited two other girls and if I don’t go then that would mean she only had two girls at her party and that’s if those two girls can actually come and what’s the chance of that, I mean probably one of them can’t come and that would be horrible to have a birthday party and only have one friend there don’t you think mommy, so can I go please?”

Saturday night sleepovers. I don’t much care for them. You see, I want my kids in church with us on Sunday morning and Saturday night sleepovers make that tricky at best. Sure it’s fine to visit church with friends, but I feel like there will be plenty of time for that when they are older. For now, this family goes to church together on Sunday mornings.

After we talked about it, Margaret shared our plan with her friend. According to Margaret, it went something like this.

“Guess what? I can go to your party!”

“Great!”

“Only I have to leave at 8:00 Sunday morning.”

“Whoa. That’s really early.”

“Yeah. I know. But I get to go to the party and I’ll be there early so we can have plenty of time together. It’s just I have to leave at 8:00 so we can get to church on time.”

“Okay, but Margaret? Can’t you miss church just once?”

As she told me the story, Margaret demonstrated how she shook her head in disbelief before she laughed, answering her friend, “Ummm, have you ever met my mom?”

Church. Around here, it’s a priority.

Grandmama Mitchell didn’t play.

She gave birth to eight children. Seven of them grew to be adults; she buried her oldest daughter when little Annie was just eight years old. A couple of decades after that funeral, her husband, my grandfather, died in an automobile accident that very literally shook their town. She sent a son or two off to Vietnam; buried a daughter-in-law who left two of her young grandchildren motherless; and watched her children suffer divorce, abuse, and countless other frustrations.

So, Grandmama didn’t play. Her life was just too hard.

Grandmama had . . . well, let’s see . . . at least 21 grandchildren, and I have no idea how many great-grands. Most of her kids and their families lived within Georgia’s state lines. But not us. Daddy, Grandmama’s middle boy, wound up staying in North Carolina after completing his seminary degree. (He and Mother married after her college graduation and before Daddy started grad school.) So, to the Mitchells, my brother, sister, and I were the cousins-from-far-away.

Every summer, we piled into our station wagon du jour, and drove the long, hot hours to visit Grandmama. She lived in an old farm-like house that made no pretenses. Springs had long since been sprung—in the screen doors and in the mattresses. Flies buzzed in unafraid of Grandmama’s lethal swat; mice, unaware of the loaded traps waiting for them, just came right on in. Box fans propped in the windows dispelled any hope visitors might have of really cooling off. (During South Georgia summers, a fan just doesn’t do the job—no matter how hard it tries.)

The front porch, though, offered those same guests their choice of seats—plenty of rockers to go around. Grandmama’s doors were always unlocked, and she could always squeeze one more around the table. So it was to that hot, old, creaky house that my family rushed with annual urgency. Because it was Grandmama’s house, that’s why, and it was the most wonderful place in the world.

Grandmama welcomed us with hot baked peach cobbler, homemade biscuits, and a watermelon fresh from the garden. She would have been shelling peas before we arrived—her efforts bubbled on the stove in anticipation of a family supper. Everybody knew we were on the way; Grandmama was expecting all the kids in time for the blessing.

It always baffled me. How could my no-nonsense Grandmama make such a big deal out of us when she had so many other grandchildren to love? I mean, the three of us together made up only a little over ten percent of the total. Yet she always worked so hard to make things special just for us. Amazing.

Grandmama seemed to enjoy our visits so much: I remember her laughing at the stories told round the table. I remember her—a bright twinkle in her eyes—fussing at the men who would always be her boys. I remember her, hands in the front pockets on her house dress, coming in before we went to sleep that first night and asking my mother if we had everything we needed: “There’s plenty of clean towels and bath cloths there for you.”

A week later, when our last day popped up out of nowhere, I remember Grandmama fretting over us as we prepared to go. It seemed she didn’t want the week to be over any more than we did.

Back in the station wagon, we’d wave good-bye to Grandmama who stood outside the back door, watching us go. She’d wave for a minute, then fold her arms at her chest, then wave again. The tears she had kept in submission throughout the day, always got the better of her before we were out of the driveway. I don’t know when she went back inside after she’d seen us off. As far as I know, she stood right there until we got back the next year.

No, Grandmama Mitchell didn’t play. But Grandmama Mitchell loved. She loved well.

It’s Grandparent’s Day (no matter what the calendar says). Call your grandparents. Tell them you love them.