Many of my first memories have to do with my "other home", the small Methodist church that was three doors down and across the street from my house. Each Sunday morning, we would dress in our best clothes, and meander in a family clump down the sidewalk. I still remember trying to avoid tripping on one particularly uneven crack in the sidewalk. I would bet money that it is still there.
The feeling that I had standing in the middle of the church, surrounded by tall, hymn-singing adults was probably akin to the aura of exaltation the architects of Gothic cathedrals were trying to achieve. My young spirit would reach upward. The voices around me sounded like they were echoed from the vaults of heaven. When sitting by my father, I would lay my head against his chest and feel his bass voice rumble through his chest. The women, decked out in their best clothes, oftentimes topped by gorgeous hats, complete with veils, looked like they could give any angel a run for his money in the "glory" department.
When I was four years old, everything looked tall. I would look up at the grownups who towered beside me, despite the fact that I was usually standing on the pew itself. Beyond their heads, the ceiling was an infinite distance away; God must live somewhere up there, I thought (the church was, after all, his house), listening patiently to our prayers and hymns. He was either there, or behind the red velvet curtain in the front of the sanctuary. The Glory of Heaven streamed through the stained glass windows and when the congregation would respond to the invocation of the minister by singing "The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him," I had a real feeling of holiness.
Other images persist in my memory – listening to the pastor thunder out a sermon that made the light fixtures rock; sitting in the front row with a friend after serving as candle-lighters; vacation Bible School; church picnics and pot-lucks; funerals; weddings; christenings; joy and sorrow.
The members of the Zeigler United Methodist Church put up with my foibles and failures, and cheered my successes over the years. The church had the unique honor of hearing my first attempts to perform music in front of other people besides my family, as I got up at the age of 7 and sang the alto part of a duet with my classmate Donna; and played a Christmas special at our annual Christmas pageant. They watched as I sat, sweaty-palmed and white-knuckled at a revival one summer, and then rushed forward to the altar in response to the evangelist's invitation. They never criticized as I went through the rocky years of my teens, assuming that God would speak to my heart. Once, in a moment of desperation, after an argument with my parents, I ran away, but only got as far as Jean's house. Jean was a member of the church, and is still a close friend of my mother's. She sat and listened as I spewed forth anger; then she asked if she could call my parents. But she never criticized my feelings. I stayed at her house for a long time that evening.
The church took up a collection for me when I went to France after college graduation; and gave me a party when I returned, where they could look at my
pictures and listen to my stories.
Over the years, many of them have gone on to their reward. But when I sit in the sanctuary of that little church on a Sunday morning, they are still very much with me. The sanctuary has shrunk to the size of a cracker box; the people are stooped and gray. None of the ladies wear fancy hats to church any more. But one thing hasn't changed - they still know how to love. In fact, they have gotten even better at it; or perhaps I have gotten better at appreciating it. It doesn't matter how unexpectedly I return. I know that part of who I am is because of the way I was loved.
None of the Zeigler Methodists (except perhaps the pastor) excels in the finer points of theology. But they can tell you all about love -- the love between God and man; and how it is authenticated by our love for one another. Better than that, they show it to you every time you walk through the doors of the church.
Even though they get shorter every time I go home to visit, each one of them is still a spiritual giant.
Tuesday 23 March 2010
Monday 22 March 2010
Baggage
Baggage is one of the most annoying things in the world. The word can be defined in several ways.
1. A prostitute or disreputable woman
2. Things that encumber one’s freedom, progress, development, or adaptability; impediments
3. A pain in the butt when it doesn’t arrive with my daughter when she comes back from Greece
We take baggage with us when we go on trips, because there are certain items that we need, and certain other items that we think we need. Depending on where we are going, and how long we are going to stay there, that list may get rather long.
A case in point is a recent Caribbean cruise. One would think that going to the Caribbean (“don’t worry, be happy”), all you would need would be shorts, teeshirts, flip-flops, and sunscreen. Not so, if you are cruising on a luxury ocean liner. With three formal occasions on board ship, and a dress code of “business casual” at minimum, the luggage got quite involved. We had a panicked thought as we were dropping our baggage off at BWI, what happens if we arrive at Fort Lauderdale, and our baggage doesn’t?
Fortunately, our bags arrived, and although Cunard didn’t have us on their list to be transported to the ship, that was soon rectified. We did hear of one case where a teenager didn’t receive her luggage, and had to make do wearing the clothing of other family members, until her luggage could catch up with her in Barbados, at our first port of call.
A few years ago, my daughter Meghann arrived home from a 3-month-long sojourn in Greece, just two days prior to Christmas. One of her suitcases, which had Christmas presents, several pairs of shoes, some very expensive makeup, and her entire DVD collection of “Sex in the City,” didn’t show up at Dulles Airport when she did. She filled out a baggage claim, and we expected the bag to be delivered to us the following day, or the day after, allowing for the holiday travel rush. But no dice.
The day after Christmas, I started making phone calls, and the missing baggage, became baggage in the sense of Definition #2 above. Although I had the claim number, the British Airways phone tree put me in an interminable loop, from which I could only escape by hanging up the phone. I stopped dialing any option about “missing baggage” and started selecting the ones for live agents (option 5, option 3). I would always reach a fairly sympathetic person, who would hem and haw over the contents of my service ticket as they read it on their computer screen, and then every time I would hear something different.
“It is on the truck to be delivered.”
“Let me take your phone number, because I need to do some research, and then I will call you back.”
“Let me put another trace on it… and then someone will call you back.”
“I can’t tell where it is, but you need to call the baggage claims office at the airport, and their number is…”
Finally after a few different promises of a phone call, and a few fruitless attempts to get someone in the baggage claims office to pick up their phone, I was desperate. I called one last time, practically in tears. The agent on the phone assured me that she was just a booking agent, and couldn’t do a thing to help me. As a matter of fact, I needed to call the baggage claims office, and gave me the numbers again. I heatedly told her that I was very, very upset, and British Airways was not giving me what I would consider very good customer service. At that point, the only thing she did was offer me the customer service fax number, if I wanted to file a complaint. But no effort was made to give me any real help.
She had become a baggage in the sense of Definition #1.
Finally, I drove to the airport, which is an hour from my home, because I had no other means of getting any answers about Meghann’s baggage, which had now become my own baggage in an emotional sense.
There were two ladies working in the baggage claims office. Working hectically, I might add. They said they had not been answering their phone because they were too busy. I advised them that this policy had obliged me to drive an hour to the airport to ask about the missing luggage in person, and they apologized about that, but said that their priority was in taking care of the 200 pieces of luggage that were only now arriving in the airport from the Christmas rush.
Apparently, Meghann’s suitcase had been located in Athens, which was a relief. But one must ask, how did one suitcase get loaded onto the plane, and the other one not? Also, what is the lame excuse in the 21st century for a business office not having voicemail? With the abundance of starving college students available during Christmas break, why not hire one at minimum wage, to answer the phones, and otherwise help them between phone calls. This is definitely a management shortcoming!
One must ask what type of individual would work in a baggage claims office as a profession. Whatever they are being paid, it is not enough. I have had various jobs where I had contact with the public, and I can tell you, the public is not very pleasant when they have lost their baggage! That office does not have any happy people coming in their door. I was ready to hurdle the counter in a murderous rage, myself.
I think that the ascetics were onto something when they eschewed material possessions. It must have been easy for them to pack for a trip. All they needed were their sandals and a robe, and what they could carry in one small bag. They would probably not have any problem at all getting through security, and would not even have to check luggage.
They just would never cut the dress code on the Queen Mary 2.
1. A prostitute or disreputable woman
2. Things that encumber one’s freedom, progress, development, or adaptability; impediments
3. A pain in the butt when it doesn’t arrive with my daughter when she comes back from Greece
We take baggage with us when we go on trips, because there are certain items that we need, and certain other items that we think we need. Depending on where we are going, and how long we are going to stay there, that list may get rather long.
A case in point is a recent Caribbean cruise. One would think that going to the Caribbean (“don’t worry, be happy”), all you would need would be shorts, teeshirts, flip-flops, and sunscreen. Not so, if you are cruising on a luxury ocean liner. With three formal occasions on board ship, and a dress code of “business casual” at minimum, the luggage got quite involved. We had a panicked thought as we were dropping our baggage off at BWI, what happens if we arrive at Fort Lauderdale, and our baggage doesn’t?
Fortunately, our bags arrived, and although Cunard didn’t have us on their list to be transported to the ship, that was soon rectified. We did hear of one case where a teenager didn’t receive her luggage, and had to make do wearing the clothing of other family members, until her luggage could catch up with her in Barbados, at our first port of call.
A few years ago, my daughter Meghann arrived home from a 3-month-long sojourn in Greece, just two days prior to Christmas. One of her suitcases, which had Christmas presents, several pairs of shoes, some very expensive makeup, and her entire DVD collection of “Sex in the City,” didn’t show up at Dulles Airport when she did. She filled out a baggage claim, and we expected the bag to be delivered to us the following day, or the day after, allowing for the holiday travel rush. But no dice.
The day after Christmas, I started making phone calls, and the missing baggage, became baggage in the sense of Definition #2 above. Although I had the claim number, the British Airways phone tree put me in an interminable loop, from which I could only escape by hanging up the phone. I stopped dialing any option about “missing baggage” and started selecting the ones for live agents (option 5, option 3). I would always reach a fairly sympathetic person, who would hem and haw over the contents of my service ticket as they read it on their computer screen, and then every time I would hear something different.
“It is on the truck to be delivered.”
“Let me take your phone number, because I need to do some research, and then I will call you back.”
“Let me put another trace on it… and then someone will call you back.”
“I can’t tell where it is, but you need to call the baggage claims office at the airport, and their number is…”
Finally after a few different promises of a phone call, and a few fruitless attempts to get someone in the baggage claims office to pick up their phone, I was desperate. I called one last time, practically in tears. The agent on the phone assured me that she was just a booking agent, and couldn’t do a thing to help me. As a matter of fact, I needed to call the baggage claims office, and gave me the numbers again. I heatedly told her that I was very, very upset, and British Airways was not giving me what I would consider very good customer service. At that point, the only thing she did was offer me the customer service fax number, if I wanted to file a complaint. But no effort was made to give me any real help.
She had become a baggage in the sense of Definition #1.
Finally, I drove to the airport, which is an hour from my home, because I had no other means of getting any answers about Meghann’s baggage, which had now become my own baggage in an emotional sense.
There were two ladies working in the baggage claims office. Working hectically, I might add. They said they had not been answering their phone because they were too busy. I advised them that this policy had obliged me to drive an hour to the airport to ask about the missing luggage in person, and they apologized about that, but said that their priority was in taking care of the 200 pieces of luggage that were only now arriving in the airport from the Christmas rush.
Apparently, Meghann’s suitcase had been located in Athens, which was a relief. But one must ask, how did one suitcase get loaded onto the plane, and the other one not? Also, what is the lame excuse in the 21st century for a business office not having voicemail? With the abundance of starving college students available during Christmas break, why not hire one at minimum wage, to answer the phones, and otherwise help them between phone calls. This is definitely a management shortcoming!
One must ask what type of individual would work in a baggage claims office as a profession. Whatever they are being paid, it is not enough. I have had various jobs where I had contact with the public, and I can tell you, the public is not very pleasant when they have lost their baggage! That office does not have any happy people coming in their door. I was ready to hurdle the counter in a murderous rage, myself.
I think that the ascetics were onto something when they eschewed material possessions. It must have been easy for them to pack for a trip. All they needed were their sandals and a robe, and what they could carry in one small bag. They would probably not have any problem at all getting through security, and would not even have to check luggage.
They just would never cut the dress code on the Queen Mary 2.
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