Bits and pieces (6): free my soul

I did not know the song “Drift Away” before the animal known as “show choir” was foisted on me in 2004 at a two-year college.  I don’t remember whether it was the closer or opener, but it became, as far as I remember, the strongest tune that group performed.  It’s catchy, and this song is, in a limited sense, a lasting “bit” from life.

I wasn’t sure why a show choir existed at a college; such groups are more about competition and show than music.  (In interviewing prospective students during my time at Houghton College, from time to time, a student from more southerly climes would register disappointment that we didn’t have marching band competitions in college.)  In fact, my predecessor with this show choir school had already moved away from having this “choir” singing any harmony at all, and she was reportedly going to have them merely lip-sync and dance the next year.  Unbelievable, I know.  I digress.

Anyway, anytime I hear the tune “Drift Away” in Walmart (it would not likely be on my radio), I am transported to that time in Missouri, now two decades ago, and a few “bits and pieces” come to mind:

In the show choir itself, I recall young lady named Jessica, who seemed almost obsessed with looking at herself in the mirror.  Her goal was to be a performer in Branson.  I had never seen a choir room with mirrors like that, and I’ve been averse to them ever since.

James, a young man with energy and a terrific attitude, married Audrey, and they seem to have a fine family now.

Sandy, the recently retired high school choral director who became the adjunct show choir lead, and I had a conversation on the phone in which I registered some concerns about dancing.  She assured me she was “a Christian person” and would uphold family-friendly standards.  I noted she had not said “a Christian.”  Ever since, I have thought the distinction was important.

P.C. Thomas, a Christian colleague, and I were sponsors of a weekly Bible study.  One of my music students attended.  His name was Jeff, and he was a sincere, hard-working guy.  He is a family man and a deacon in his church.  His girlfriend at the time did not maintain her life of Christian morality.  An older student in this Bible study group reacted quite negatively to my questioning his sense of what “anointing” meant then and how it has been co-opted today.  I can see the ire today.  He seemed to be upset to the point that he thought I was blaspheming God.  P.C. and his wife Thankam has us into their home for a delicious Indian meal, and they took us to their church once — a conservative, nondenominational “Bible chapel.”  I recalled the thoughtful hymns and atmosphere there and visited the same place a couple of years ago.

All these are bits and pieces of life:  students in a Bible study group, faculty colleagues with whom I can share faith, and a few students who have stayed with faith or grown in it.

There are some bits and pieces from which I would prefer my soul to be freed.  Some positive bits are seemingly minor, yet they play a role in our spiritual consciousness.

Previous Bits and Pieces blogposts

Bits and pieces (5): incapacity, envy, and judgment

In several respects, yesterday was a difficult day—a day in which I experienced little good news, and felt no real reason for being, and no capacity for spirituality (whatever that is).  I have little capacity for prayer° and no capacity for being what I should be.  Yesterday, I had no interest in being around anyone and even felt something like mini-guilt myself for the little moments of laughter and one encouraging word that came through Facebook.  If the above does not make any earthly sense to you, count yourself blessed.  (But do not reprove me for saying such things.  Trust me:  that would not be helpful.)

No way was I going to set an alarm this morning.

I slept till just after 8:00, got up, and piddled around a little, continuing to shirk some responsibilities.  I thought of someone I know whose friendship I have been feeling is very one-sided.  I think now that I presumed a simpatico relationship not in evidence, and I don’t think he knows what to do with that.  This person writes regularly of devotional practices, and of his family, and of the wonderful things he experiences at his church, and I wish I could write similarly.

Anyway, this morning, I made coffee and thought I would try to something good.  I made a positive decision to take out the gospel of Matthew and read that before something else. The last reading, several days ago, was Matthew 1 through 4, so I started into chapter 5 and fell on the first beatitude.  “Blessings on the poor in spirit.”  Immediately I recalled the expression “poverty of spirit,” which was a noun-phrase chosen by someone I once knew.  Problem is, that person had none.  No poverty of spirit whatsoever that I can recall, anyway.  He was an oaf who ran over people inter-personally and sometimes spiritually.  Including me.  I will never be able to read this beatitude without considering the source of an expression I would otherwise like to have taken into my vocabulary.

No way am I going to read Matthew 5 now.  So much for trying.

The “bits and pieces” today are in evidence above, but I will share them more according to the pattern below.

He was about 4 years older and was not a Christian at the time, although his family was part of my church.  I didn’t really know him, but we’ve spoken a few times and communicated during the last few years.  His life has turned out to be more or less what I once assumed and desired myself.¹  This person is at peace and has purpose.  He has a church scenario to which he and his wife are able to contribute, and which ministers to them.  Still, thoughts of him can be demoralizing.  I think part of what I feel is called envy, and I don’t know what to do with it other than to name it.

I have written more than once about the other person but will not use his name, either.  His influence in my life was for a short time encouraging.  It was shallow, though, and I . . . I was young and relatively untarnished by emotional pain.  I can see his face as clearly now as if I had seen him in real life in the last 20 years.  And I wish I couldn’t.   This is a “bit” that has done nothing ultimately but sour my stomach.  I’ve been unfairly judged and poorly treated by many, but I’m hard-pressed to find anyone who should have known better, and known he should do better, whose judgment was so harsh, one-sided, and completely ignorant.²  And yet he was one who purported to minister to others, both in a local church and in the broader sense to a class of people who were hurting.  Realizing such an inherent contradiction in this person leads me away from Matthew 5 today.  This is of course a “bit” that I wish I could excise.  (And please do not judge me for saying such things.  Nor should you presume to advise me on a method, despite the possibility that there might be one I have not found through years of trying.  Trust me:  that would not be helpful.)

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° Someone asked me for prayers, and I responded that I have no capacity for prayer, and the person later thanked me for prayers.  I do not understand this response.

¹ That was before the betrayals of 1991+ and 2016-18+.

² It’s my understanding that those who lash out at others—and make no mistake that these can be people who are “close” to us—can be dealing with their own emotional baggage, perhaps accusing themselves by proxy.  I would not be surprised to find out that this oaf had committed an egregious sin previously.

Bits and Pieces (4)

Some “bits and pieces”—which might also be thought of as a sort of residue from life’s intersections—are quite inspirational.  Others are not at all positive but may still serve.  Negative bits can be cautionary signposts and opportunities for instructional pondering. 

I don’t strongly believe in “God’s master plan in lives,” as the poem has it, but I do think there are strings of bits and pieces that help to form us, for better or worse.  Here are a few more. . . .

Her name was Amanda.  I don’t even remember her last name, but I could look it up.  She was a student in a small music department, was moderately talented, and had a chip on her shoulder.  At one point, she complained to another faculty member about how challenging I was making the music history course.  It had been assumed to be more of a music appreciation course, although it was for “music majors.”  She was also brash enough to challenge the fact that a professor had some say-so over her time on a practice piano right outside his office in a makeshift setup.  Her “technique” included banging very loudly, and it could even be that she intentionally started practicing during my office hours, saving her fortissimo, con fuoco passages for the time I was there.  (Given how rude she was, it was not a big leap to think she would do that.)  She was a piece of work in her zebra pants and her attitude in clear view.  I think I see Amanda in some young people today, and I think it hampers my potential influence with them.  Truth is, this kind of bit in my life causes me to keep my distance from teenagers sometimes.  I still enjoy knowing a few, supporting them, and teasing them good-naturedly.  My dad did that kind of thing, and I think of his good relationships with teens (and that is of course another “bit”), but times were simpler then.

His name was Eddie.  I haven’t had any contact with him in years.  He was a congenial saxophone player.  I can almost see him over there in the sax section, either outdoors in the football stands or indoor in the sax section, smiling and grinning with glasses on.  Eddie now calls himself “gay” and is a decorated professor of English and a poet laureate in his locale.  Based on a few searches, I’d say he seems to be something of an activist, and he is also the interim director of some program related to “gender studies.” ¹  He was among the first to be married to a man in his state.  Despite my general feeling that civil and economic rights in our country may extend to those living a gay lifestyle, Eddie’s activities embarrass me.  If I ran across him today, I think I would be able to talk with him candidly and with civility.  I believe he would receive me the same way.  I don’t know that we would enjoy any meeting of the minds, but it would be illuminating.

Her name was [withheld], and she was emotionally abused at home for years, in a hypocritical family that went to mass regularly.  She experienced some escape and fulfillment in other activities.  She later found her home in a high school group of friends.  Soon after that, she got into a very negative relationship.  She later became a Christian, turning fully from former ways and appearing fully to accept normative Christian beliefs and behaviors.  It would seem that previous experiences, combined with the lack of a supportive home, were key factors that led to a serious downfall in later life.  I am far more attentive now than ever before about negative home situations and the moral mistakes of youth.

Their names were [withheld], and I was accused of thinking one of them was evil.  I pretty much did think that, and I’m not unconvinced.  In a town that boasts multiple “haunted houses” and that once sponsored an annual “witches’ night out,” it’s probably not uncommon to find multiple people who like dressing up as a witch, and at least one of them does.  Both of them were Satanic instruments in family upheaval.  Ironically, I once thought of one of them as a friend.  I stood supportively by her more than once and was criticized for that in a rant.  I wish my family had never crossed paths with these people.  These bits injected into my life have rendered me more wary of certain alliances, and averse to an inbred town’s sites and events.  (The presence of paranoia is not proof that the issue is imaginary.)

Bits and Pieces series

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¹ I wonder aloud what it would take to become credentialed in the growing, viable field of Anti-Nonsense Studies or Social Media-Induced Contagion Studies.

Bits and Pieces (3): ethic and activity

Here are some more “Bits and Pieces” people and remembrances.

His name was James, and he managed a grocery store in Newark.  He had three other managers under him, but he ran the show.  My mom knew the asst. manager’s wife, and I applied for a job there.  I was offered a job, but I didn’t want to start in June because going to Senior High Week at Camp Manatawny during the last part of June was important to me.  When I expressed that somehow, he retorted, through my mom, “Well, does he want to work or not?”  I did go to Camp, and I did start working there immediately after, but I learned that sometimes ideas and priorities can clash.  (And James was my least favorite of the four managers for the next two years.)

Her name was Sylvia, and I haven’t seen her in 15 years or so, but I still respect her.  She and her husband hosted a Bible study on a weeknight at their home, southwest of Newark.  We struggled through traffic to drive about as far as you could go in that county, and we walked in just in time.  She welcomed us, and I indicated something about how hard it was to get there during a late rush hour.  Sylvia offered, bluntly and on-target, “Well, if it’s important to you, you’ll do it.”  I still think about that, but I must admit I’m not as likely to do things that seem difficult or annoying these days.

His name was Jerry.  He was a good man, a prolific father of believing children,¹ and a consistent, dedicated servant of God and of people.  He was a below-average preacher, but his smile was genuine, and he had a way of making everyone feel special.  I worked at the church building one summer and spent more time around him than usual.  He helped me fix a church lawnmower, and he bought me my first Greek New Testament at a flea market nearby.  At a camp, when several friends and I were working as staff members (dishwashers and the like), he once wryly commented, “Staff (staph) is an infection!”  It was funny.  The later preachers there were seemed more articulate, more impassioned, and more equipped to teach, but they were not better men than Jerry.  A couple of them did seem to be more oriented to being church “staff” members, which had a negative, complicating effect overall, in my estimation.  I don’t recall that Jerry was looked to as an adult Bible class teacher:  others were more equipped for that.  He had a file of sermons he would pull from, and I don’t think he spent a whole lot of time in study.  The church times might not have been as deep with Jerry, but they were simpler and better in some ways.  Jerry helped provide some very good and decent bits and pieces of my life.

Bits and pieces (2): with a mini-theme of gratitude

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¹ Six or seven out of seven, with the last one adopted, is not a bad record for faithful children!

Bits and pieces (2): with a mini-theme of gratitude

His name was Don.  He was a kind, soft-spoken, deeply faith-filled man who also happened to be successful in the business world.  Over a period of years, he endured (my word in hindsight, not his) several missives I gave to him and the other elders of my church.  He responded in writing once or twice, and in person far more often, always treating my challenging (if less mature) thoughts with grace and respect.  He complimented my leadership and participated with me.  I still never want to be an elder in an institutional church, but Don gave me a good pastoral example in terms of depth, teaching, and relationships with others.  I’m thankful for his memory.

Her name was Maggie, and “she” is actually an amalgamation of several female music students at a Christian college.  Maggie and her sister had been emotionally abused by a stern, exacting father.  Maggie was nice-looking and generally pleasant, but there was something about her that seemed wounded.  At some point I found out that she had been raped as a high school student.  She became sexually involved with another music student at this Christian college.  She supported a troublesome gay rights group that stormed the campus, and she soon became a friend of a seriously damaged, deeply gifted male who sexually propositioned another male music student at this Christian college.  She seemed to try to be fully engaged, and had bouts of musical/ensemble energy, but we never fully connected.  I suspect that she intuited just how concerned I was and was uncomfortable with revealing further details or dealing with her own spiritual walk.  Maggie loved the sound of her instrument and played very well.  I wonder what her fate has been.  I care about her music-making, because it was beautiful.  I care more about her soul.  Even given its sporadic blackness, it is a beautiful thing of worth to God.  (Let me see all these people as You see them, God of grace.)

His name was Randy, and his name was Tom, and her name was Rebecca, and her name was Kara, and his name was Mark.  Each one of these, at different times and for different reasons, came to live with us for a few weeks/months.  Two situations involved negative homes,.  One involved anti-God moral choices and consequences.  We provided some safety and “proxy parentals.”  Speaking for myself, I know I provided love, too,  All of these were believers, and all of them, as far as I know, are still believers, but I honestly do not know whether what we did had impact or not.   On the one hand, I still doubt my worth in most of those situations, but I can trust that we were used, and I think probably all of them would express gratitude even today.

Click here for Bits and pieces (1)

Bits and pieces (1)

I think I first noticed “Bits and Pieces” as a wall hanging.  It had been cross-stitched by Lisa and given to mutual friends, the Smiths.  It seems thaqt now would be a good time to express some thins about specific “bits & pieces” people in my life.  I have no endpoint in mind, and I’ve already made some surprising choices.  I only want to think—and encourage others to think—about the meaningful experiences that abide, for better or worse, because of the valuable people who have had impact.  This post will begin what may turn out to be a weekly or monthly series with three entries.  The familiar “Bits and Pieces” poem is at the bottom, but first, here are three bits.

Her name was Sue.  I haven’t had any contact with her in years.  She had sweet eyes, a pretty countenance, and nice hair.  She had multiple musical talents that also drew me to her.  Yep, I had a crush on her.  I remember that I spoke judgmentally to her in an unhelpful way one day.  It was part of my growing interest in being transparent about my spiritual convictions, but I wasn’t very wise, and I regret the comments I made, no matter how well intended.  I should have apologized for not finding a better time to have a better conversation.  It just came out, and it was a bad idea of a love-lorn 10th-grader.  I later lost touch with Sue.  She was a Methodist, and I have no idea if she’s retained belief in God, but my friendship with her probably didn’t help.

His name was Ed.  I haven’t had any contact with him in years.  He was Iranian.  I remember that people were making him feel uncomfortable because of his ethnic background.  As he stocked the dairy shelves at Shop-Rite in Newark (where I also worked), he sort of threw the dolly with the plastic crates of milk gallons around, because he was upset.  I wonder where Ed is these days, and what he’s feeling.

Her name was Connie.  She was a classy, pretty, well-spoken, older woman.  Her 2nd husband, Bob, was of a victim of polio, and Connie was his loving, caring, industrious, sweet wife for at least a quarter century.  29 years ago, Bob died at 77.  (That’s the age at which my dad died six years ago.)  I came upon the funeral program and found that I had been honored to lead several congregational hymns.  Connie had me into her home to tune her piano, and she consistently complimented my worship leadership.  Those compliments meant more as the years wore on, and Connie was one of a handful that my family visited, years down the road after I’d moved away.  I am ashamed that I did not keep in touch with Connie during the last decade or so.  I’m rather convinced that she liked me until she could no longer remember me, and that my visit to her would have been welcome anytime, which is saying something.  She’s gone from this world now, and she still means a lot to me.  I can still see her face.

These people comprise some of the bits and pieces of my life.  I don’t subscribe to a “master plan” view of God as a puppeteer with marionette-humans dancing around at his whim, but I nevertheless think there is much good fodder in this poem.

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