Letting go of the binding grip of secrets...

I just watched a History Channel program entitled “The Secret History of the Ku Klux Klan”. I’m sill recovering.

I was feeling so overwhelmed by the horrific tales of violence and politic power wielded by these people for over a century that I called a friend in California in hopes that she could calm me down. Her first advice? “Turn it off!!”

But I couldn’t. I have secret of my own that I only tell people occasionally, and when I trust they won’t judge me when they find out. The town and county in which I grew up is the hotbed of Klan territory in Indiana. I’ve been both repelled by the Klan stories I’ve heard throughout my life and morbidly curious about their history…I’ve wanted to know why they are the way they are.

Whenever I hear about the Klan, I immediately feel guilty by association. It’s been a source of shame for me since I first heard about the meetings in the woods outside of town when I was a very young child. So when I told my friend this, she recommended—strongly—that if I felt compelled to watch it, I find a way to cleanse myself of its impact on me.

So this is my attempt at cleansing my soul from this terrible legacy that’s been foisted on me against my will. The Klan kept our town all white for decades.

First, let me say that no one in my immediate family or close circle of friends had sympathies for the Klan or their ideals. When my parents were in college, they participated in sit-ins at a local diner who wouldn’t serve Blacks at the counter. And my friends shared my own horror disgust that our hometown had a reputation for bigotry and the violence and hatred that always accompanies such attitudes. It was part of our collective feelings of inferiority.

There was a story that haunted me when I was growing up. It was about a murder in the county seat that took place in the 60’s. A young Black woman was selling encyclopedias door to door and she mysteriously disappeared. Her body was eventually found just outside of town. I don’t remember how she was killed, whether she was beaten or shot, but the case has never been solved. I suspect it’s a shared secret that some folks have taken to the grave and others continue to grasp tightly.

In my own hometown there is a popular cafeteria-style restaurant. There weren’t very many people of color going through the line, but on the occasions when one dared to, the server who took the entree orders would step back and cross his arms over his hest. It was a showy gesture that made it clear to everyone around him that he was refusing to serve anyone who wasn’t white. The server died several years ago. But why it was tolerated by the owners and managers of the restaurant for so many years is unfathomable.

When I meet an African-American from anywhere in Indiana, I’m hesitant to name the specific name of the town and county where I grew up. Once I reveal it to them, with an apology for the sins of my community, they say, “Oh yeah, we were always warned not to go there alone—especially at night!” They are always good-natured about it, almost like they have experienced that same attitude in other parts of the state and country.

But it’s not anywhere else; it’s my hometown. It’s personal. It’s shameful. And it makes me furious that they think they speak for all of us. In case I haven’t been clear, let me assure you--they don’t speak for me.

I haven’t mentioned the specific name of my home county or town here in this entry. It’s part of my profile here on my blog ad on Facebook. You can look it up if you want. But I withhold the names for a number of reasons.

1. It’s to protect the people I grew up with who are no guiltier of prejudice than I am. They may not want it revealed, and I want to respect their privacy.

2. I recognize that ours is not a unique story. There are lots of towns and areas of the country where the Klan is active. More’s the pity.

3. While this is a undeniable legacy of my hometown, it is not what defines its character. There is much more to the community that raised me than the Klan—a loving and spirited people, generous churches and other organizations, and compassionate individuals to name a few.

There’s a saying in 12-step groups—“You’re as sick as the secrets you keep.” In revealing my secret publicly, I wanted to cleanse myself of the darker side of my hometown. While I wasn’t wholly successful, it’s a start.

A Cat Named Juju

I recently acquired a kitten--or, more accurately, she acquired me. They found her in the parking lot at my apartment complex.

I was going to the front office area, the other day, to get my mail when I heard someone say, "ask Arlene!."

I was about to ask, "Ask Arlene What?" when the office manager asked enthusiastically, "you want a cat? It's real friendly!

I took one look at he little black and white imp in her arms and said, "sure!"

And that's how I became a cat owner again. Just look at her...is she not the cutest little thing you ever did see? She's a furry ball of perpetual motion. She's quite the entertainer. She's a joy.

I took her to the vet last week ad they confrmed she is a girl (We weren't sure because she was so little. The folks in the apartment office figured her age at six weeks, but the vet said that, based on her weight--3 pound--she is more likely three months old.

She loves sitting in my front room window sill. It's where I used to have my 'Jesus collection,' until she jumped up there ad started knocking things off the shelf. I couldn't get after her too much, since it's a cat's natural instinct to be curious about the word around her. I'm on the look out for an enclosed case for my collection, as I figure she's not going to leave any surface untouched.

This is her perch in my bedroom closet. She's a jumper an a climber.

But mostly, she's a soft, furry bundle of energy. She's Juju.

Evelyn and Laurie

This is a true story about my friend Laurie and her mother, Evelyn. I've used it in sermons on a variety of topics, such as grief and redemption. I had lunch with Laurie yesterday, and as we were talking about our lives, both the blessings and the burdens, I realized I have never told Laurie I'd written this story.

It's based on an email I received from her a few years ago. I present it here in memory of Evelyn, and in honor of Laurie.

Evelyn lay on her bed in the corner bedroom of the house where, as a widow, she had raised her four children on her own for the past nearly 30 years. As a hospice care nurse held and stroked her hand, she tried to allow her body to relax, like the nurse kept urging.

"Come on, Ev, you can do it," the nurse was saying. But the breaths kept coming out in rasping heaves. Her body was resisting death, just like she had for the past several months.

Always strong and independent, once by necessity, later, perhaps out of habit and a bit of pride, Evelyn had resisted every step of the way. First it was giving up her car, then enduring strangers in her house saying they were there to take care of her. And then there was that blasted walker. Why did her legs keep failing her? And her mind? She kept forgetting things. Now, she could feel her body shutting down moment by moment.

She knew it was near the end, and so did her family. Two of her children were in the other room, waiting. But they had been waiting for months, as they all thought she had reached the end of this life before. They'd said their good-byes more than once. They had made their peace.

“Why do I linger?” she thought.

"Come on, Ev, you can do it," she heard the voice say above her. Was it the nurse, or God? Either way, she wished she could tell the voice, "My name is Evelyn."

She became vaguely aware that there were more people in the room, now--her youngest daughter and son. The nurse must have called them in. It must be the end, again….

Laurie watched her mother's chest move up and down and heard the loud wheezing sound coming from her mother's throat. “Is this the end, again? How many times will we have to say good-bye?” she wondered.

The labored breath sounded ragged, as if torn from her body. She thought, could that really be coming from her mom? The nurse had told them the body does this at the end. It fights to continue, even when it's too weak to breathe. In fact, the body can be so weak, it can't relax.

Soon, the breathing changed to a quieter, more peaceful sound. It was a sign that her mom was able to relax, the nurse said. Then the sound stopped altogether. The silence was huge and overpowering in that small room, where, as a child, Laurie had run to her mother's side for comfort.

"Is she gone?" Laurie asked the nurse.

"Yes, she's gone," the nurse said.

The silence was replaced by sobs coming from her own throat and from her brother beside her. Suddenly, a loud gasp, a desperate intake of air came from the direction of the bed and it startled the two of them. She almost laughed when the nurse explained, "Sometimes they do that. They take one last gasp of breath."

Clearing her throat and wiping away the tears, Laurie hugged her brother and headed for the telephone. There were a lot of people to call, arrangements to be made….

Where 've been all year...

This has been a strange year. It was unlike any other of my life. I began 2009 in the hospital. In fact, I ended 2008 in the hospital.

I don’t remember Christmas or New Year’s—I was recovering from heart surgery. I missed the inauguration, although I was in Washington, DC—the doctors did a tracheotomy on me and put in a feeding tube that day.

Just before Christmas, I came down with an infection that felt like the flu. I even casually mentioned it on Facebook: “Arlene has the flu—boo hoo.” I thought I would come across like I was feeling sorry for myself. I mean, it’s not the worst thing that can happen to a person. It was barely worth mentioning.

I never imagined it would lead to a stroke or destroy a valve in my heart. I would stay the hospital for 3 months drifting in and out of consciousness and coherency. There was a time when I couldn’t speak, couldn’t write, couldn’t put a sentence together to… well, save my life. I had to learn how to walk again, feed myself, bathe myself.

I went from utter despair to hopefulness to determination, back down to despair again. But mostly, I had a flat affect. I couldn’t—didn’t want to—pray or read or write in my journal. The first time I heard music—on a friend’s iPod—I cried. I had really missed it.

By the time I left the rehab hospital in DC the day after St. Patrick’s Day, I was walking with the assistance of a walker, but I still had to use the wheelchair for long distances. My legs were swollen ad had begun to leak fluids. But I was ready to get out of there and get on with my life.

I moved to Indiana to stay with family. However, within the week I was back in a rehab facility. I spent Palm Sunday and Easter there. It didn’t have a strong rehab program, so when I left the place, my legs were just as swollen, if not more so, than when I went in.

So, I wasn’t surprised that, within two weeks I was back in the hospital—this time in Indiana. I went from the hospital to acute care to another rehab facility. That took me from the end of April through the day before Father’s Day. I l was about 60 pounds lighter, my body no longer swollen and leaking. I’d graduated to a cane for long distances.

So, by my calculations, I have spent all the holidays from Christmas Eve through Memorial Day in a hospital bed. And that doesn’t count Flag Day ad D-Day.

• I’ve skipped some details about my odyssey into the world of healthcare, insurance and public benefits. I’ll leave those for the book I’m writing. But let me close with some positive things that came out of my experiences:
• I learned I have a big family—some related by biology, most related through friendship. They rallied around me, both physically and spiritually. I felt their prayers from across the country, not to mention Iraq, Canada and the Czech Republic. I could not have made the recovery I have without their care, love and support.
• I have a renewed appreciation for life. I learned that I am not content merely to survive. I crave the fullness of life—in all its chaos and order, joy and sorrow, clarity and confusion, abundance and loss.
• I have a new energy, if not an exact direction, for my ministry. I want to continue to touch people in a deep ad spiritual place through my writing, preaching and outreach. But at the same time, I am remaining open to the Spirit—listening for where she is calling me to be and what she’s calling me to do for God’s people and planet.
  

I am now living in Eureka, Illinois, where I went to college in the 80s and spent 7 years as the local newspaper editor in the 90s. I have returned to a very special community that twice before cocooned me in love and care. Armed with the confidence and courage that exudes from their support, I’m ready to begin my life again.

Blessings,
Arlene

Communion Cartel, An Act of Faith

It was about half past midnight, and the chilling rain that had gushed and gusted most of the evening was falling softly, silently, coating the trees that glistened like spider webs against the street lights in the Central West End in St. Louis.

We got out of the car just as a small group of young white men began verbally sparring with a larger group of young black men. “I know you didn’t say that,” said one, turning around to head back toward the others.

As we went to the back of the car to get the bread and juice and the table, other people, white and black, came from buildings toward the young men to stop the fight that was brewing. Words were exchanged, bodies were shoved, voices were lifted as we made our way across the street to set up our little communion table in front of the Coffee Cartel, and all night coffee shop and refuge for college students, homeless people and the urban crowd.

As we set up the table, placing the cups, the juice, the bread, in their places, droplets of water covered everything. I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. I looked at my fellow seminarians and wondered briefly if this midnight Eucharist on a cold, wet, city street was a good idea after all. Would anyone notice us in this eclectic, boisterous setting, much less stop and join us?

The fight across the street broke up and two of the white men, young, almost boys, really, swept past us. One of them muttered, “f’king a-hole” as he nearly ran into George. Undeterred, George said to them, “Hey, how ya doin’ tonight?” and got a quick, “f’ you!” for his efforts. The other young man apologized for his friend, and they both went into the coffee shop.

No one accepted our invitation to join us, so we communed with one another--Carla, George, Carolyn, Lori and I. We sang softly into the rainy night, “Amazing Grace, How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.” People walked by swearing and laughing and holding each other up as they left a nearby bar that was closing. Most moved on without a glance at us.

Carla prayed and blessed the elements. We recited Psalm 23 as best we could from memory…”you prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies…” The words took on new meaning for me. Perhaps enemies are not always those who would harm us. Maybe they are those we fail to understand.

Perhaps we call them enemies because we don’t want to understand, because in understanding them we could more fully understand ourselves. In understanding ourselves more deeply, we run the risk of exposing ourselves to our deepest fears, our most feared weakness, our own sense of abject helplessness.

We continued through our homemade celebration of the Eucharist, tearing off chunks of bread and dipping them into the juice--serving one another. “There’s a Sweet, Sweet Spirit in This Place,” we sang into the din of voices raised in laughter and shouting, the swearing, racial epithets and singing of popular songs with obscene lyrics. A man double parked his car nearby to get to the ATM behind us without giving us a glance.

We finished the service by sharing what we thought about this experience. I had thought, along with the others around the table, that we were the truly vulnerable here., exposed to the elements, both human and natural. But who is the more vulnerable, really? The five of us in our raincoats, huddled around a wooden table covered with dripping glasses of juice and plates of bread? The few homeless men inside the coffee shop who had found a warm dry place to stay for awhile against the harsh reality of their everyday lives? Or were the young drunk men and women wafting past us in the saturated midnight air the most exposed?

We had decided to pack up the elements and head in for a cup of coffee and a moment to share further this experience that had already impacted our ministries in ways we could not yet fully fathom. Suddenly, a young man, obviously drunk, bounded out of the shop and stood looking at the bread on the table. We offered him some, George saying it would help him feel better when he woke up in the morning. He took a large piece and then asked for more.

His friend soon joined him and took our offer of juice. I immediately recognized him as the man who had been so angry when we first arrived. His name was Eric; he was the one who swore at George’s cordial greeting…his friend, John, eating the bread, turned out to be his cousin. John was the one who had apologized for Eric.

John started singing songs from his Catholic upbringing. I recognized one--“Here I am Lord, Is it I Lord?…” It’s the hymn every Protestant Seminarian puts in her ordination service. It’s about being called by God and boldly answering that call. I found myself wondering how this child, this drunken, wayward soul, who would probably remember very little of this early morning encounter with a small band of seminarians outside an all-night coffee shop…how did this child know this song?

Then he sang the words wrong. Instead of, “I will go Lord, if you lead me,” he sang out loudly and confidently, “I will go, Lord, if you feed me.” I will go, he said, if you feed me. Is it really that simple?

We did finally pack up our makeshift communion table and made our way to the coffee shop. George made sure Eric and John were with their friends who could get them home safely. It was about 2:30 a.m. when we pulled back into the parking lot of the seminary, shared hugs and made our way to our individual apartments.

That image of the five of us around the table on a busy sidewalk, the air strong with alcohol, profanity and desperation, stayed with me as my everyday life came back into view. I remembered the chaos whirling around us as we stood in the calm, quiet center, acting as surrogates, consuming the body and blood for those who could not or would not accept the invitation to the table.

Did the atmosphere seem calmer, less violent when we finished, or was that my own wishful thinking? Did we do enough? Did we do too much? Did we really do anything at all? I don’t know. But I do know that in performing this act of faith in the wet chaos of the moment, we were fed.”

Jesus collection grows again...

I'm terribly late in sharing these images of the most recent acquisition to my Jesus Collection. I posted my original article here about my collection of Jesus images.

Up to that point, I had bought all of them myself through various sources. I even said in the article that no one had yet given me something to add to the collection.
Well, was I wrong! Shortly after I posted the article, my dear friend Mel in Illinois sent me this wonderful Celebriduck Jesus! It's part of a line of celebrity rubber ducks.

She had been holding onto it awhile--she and I are members of the same procrastination club...thing is, no one in the group has yet to calendar a meeting. Ha!) Anyway, she read my article and mailed it to me.

What's especially sweet about this is that Mel knows I also collected ducks when I was in DC. There is this great HRC store where they sold rubber duckies with an American Flag design, say, or the LGBT rainbow, camouflage, flowers, stripes, etc. I have four of them on the back of my toilet right now. Sadly, they don't sell them at the store's new location.

Obviously, when it came to putting Celebriduck Jesus with the Jesuses or the ducks, it was no contest. I couldn't have Jesus living in my bathroom.

"Just a closer walk with thee," doesn't mean that kind of intimacy.

So he's in my office with the others. Come by and see them some time--it is quite impressive. People are actually starting to take notice of them.

Blessings and hope,
Arlene

I received an email this morning that brought me to tears, overcome with the emotion of generations of women who have been foring the trail of eqity. I had already heard the story and even watched the movie mntioned in the story below. But I was reminded of their great sacrfice, and moved to sharethis with a wider audience.

I don't know who wrote the original email and put the photos in as visual reminders. I am greatful to her, whoever she is. Below is my edited version.

WHY WOMEN SHOULD VOTE

This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-grandmothers; they lived only 90 years ago.

Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.
The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the vote.

(Lucy Burns)

And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'

They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.

(Dora Lewis)

They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cell mate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror' on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote.

For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms.

(Alice Paul)

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

Much of this is depicted in HBO's movie 'Iron Jawed Angels,' which is now on video and DVD. In the movie, Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. The doctor refused, saying, 'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'

Read more:
http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/collections/suffrage/nwp/tactics.html
http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/collections/suffrage/nwp/brftime3.html