As an atheist, heathen, pagan, I had many people try to evangelize me. Usually, they focused on questions of how. “How do you explain the existence of the eye,” was one that stands out, but there were many others. They were always challenges to explain the existence of life, the universe, everything… in the absence of God. I wish they had asked me not questions of “how,” but questions of “why.” I think “how” questions are so often science questions and I could answer those. But questions of why are not so easily or satisfactorily addressed.

But if I were in a position to evangelize someone, I wouldn’t even ask the “why” questions. Instead, I’d speak about story. I would challenge people to honestly, unreservedly, give God permission to write their story, to let their author author them. Then I would say, okay now pay attention.

Elly Gets Baptized

The morning of the baptism was a series of almost disasters. I had bought two dresses for her, a small and a medium, and even the small was too big so we had to sew her into it. When Jeremy stopped by the bakery counter at the grocery store in Beloit to pick up the cake Beth had ordered the previous week, they had no record of the order. Beth was on the phone negotiating with the store manager and I was mentally calculating how many 9-inch round cakes would equal one half-sheet cake when a bakery employee walked in with the cake. She had left to pick it up from their central bakery, didn’t let anyone know she was going, and was running late. Who knew grocery stores baked their cakes elsewhere?

We arrived, cake and all, at St. Mary’s the Catholic church in Downs, which looks like a boat cutting through the prairie and flint hills, and deposited the cake in the hall. Beth is so lucky that she lives so close to the church. Really, we could have walked there in ten minutes.

I am honestly not as much a fan of this style of architecture, but even so, I appreciate the symbolism here and a church is a church and the Mass is the Mass and no one needs my approval to design a church!

We had forgotten Father Daryl’s thank-you gift (a large assortment of home-canned goods, fancy chocolates, and a card) so my nephew Raymond, Beth’s son, went back to retrieve it. I thought it was cute and funny- a country priest being thanked with canned goods. It was like something from Little House on the Prairie.

We sat in the back of the church because even though she loves going to Mass, Elly is still a little kid and is therefore prone to fits of wiggles and giggles. This day of all days, she was so excited she could not keep still. The Mass was beautiful and the homily was very good. The readings for that day were the almost sacrifice of Isaac (Gn 22:1-2, 9a, 10-13, 15-18) and the transfiguration (Mk 9:2-10). How appropriate! Parents, give your child to God; Child, be changed!

At the end of Mass, Father Daryl announced they would be having a baptism and anyone who wanted to stay was welcome to. Many people did including my niece (Debbie’s Daughter) Chelsie and her family and the children from Ellie’s faith formation class. I keep typing Ellie, but it’s Elly, Elly. Elly. One day I will remember.

Anyway, we all moved to the front of the church and Father Daryl changed out of the purple chasuble and to just the alb (I think that’s what the white robe is called) and stole. He went to open the baptismal font and found that it was locked. Here we come to the third of our almost disasters. For many minutes he and the parish staff were searching through keys, trying them and finding they didn’t fit or if they did fit, they didn’t unlock the font. Finally, they found one they were sure was the key, but the font still would not open. We all sat in the pews praying that they would find the right key and that the baptism could still happen today. Thankfully, after about ten more minutes of fiddling, the lock gave way and the font opened and Elly was baptized.

The order of events for the actual ceremony is kind of a blur. We were all able to come up and trace a cross on her forehead. She was anointed with oil on her chest and forehead. They got a little stool for her to stand on so she could comfortably rest her head over the font. When she was baptized, the water was poured over the top of her head and ran back into the bowl in the font.

He Gave Us His Breath

After the baptism, we went downstairs to the church hall for cake and coffee. Elly stood at the cake table serving everyone and she refused to sit down or eat any of her cake until after everyone who wanted a piece had received one. Father Daryl sat by Beth, Raymond, Holly, and I and we talked about when everyone would be confirmed- Easter Sunday because they didn’t have Easter vigil at this parish, it was at another parish in their pastorate this year. We started talking about Holy Week and I warned Beth that Holy Thursday and Good Friday are difficult. She feels things like I do. Probably even more than me and cries very easily. Father Daryl agreed that these days were difficult, but also good. He asked, “How did Jesus die” and we were both perplexed by the question. Beth said, “for our sins” and I said, “in love.” Father said, yes, yes, those are answers to why, but how did He die? I said, “He couldn’t breathe.” Father said, yes He couldn’t breathe. Think about that- God dying because He couldn’t breathe. He not only gave us breath and life, but gave up His Breath and Life for us. Beth started to cry. Yes, Holy Week is difficult. Difficult and good. I like Father Daryll very much. He is like a Father Grandpa.

Afterward, we asked Elly if she felt different now that she was baptized. She said yes, she feels full and happy.

Lambs and Lydia’s

Later that day, we went to my niece Lydia’s (my oldest sister’s daughter) for a cookout. The large house was filled to bursting with relatives- sisters, nieces, nephews, great nieces, and nephews. This is what happens when you are the youngest of seven children and become an aunt when you’re three! Midi was overwhelmed by all the people she hadn’t seen in many years, but the house was large so she was able to find places to just be. I asked her at the end of the trip if she was glad she had come and she was. I am so thankful for this time with her as well.

Lydia lives on a farm and has sheep and donkeys. Not long before, one of her sheep had triplets but opted to care for only one of the lambs so she had two bottle-fed lambs living right at the back door of her house. We spent a good amount of time playing with them. They were so cute! Elly picked one up and it proceeded to lick the oil off her forehead or maybe I should say instead, covered it in lamby kisses.

Lost Letters to My Father

Later that evening at Beth’s house, we were going through papers together and stumbled on some printouts of emails I had sent to my father 20 years before. He had printed them and kept them in a drawer for years, through three moves and Beth discovered them while cleaning up his house after he died. It is so sweet to think of him printing these, showing them to my mother (because she didn’t like to read from computer screens), and then tucking them away in his desk with his other papers.

Mostly they were old poems or writing samples I planned to (but never actually did) submit for publication. The stack was bookended by two particular pieces. On top, a poem I wrote about him, for him, and on the bottom, a letter analyzing two poems by William Blake. The poem is bad, very sappy, just an event quickly spun into words for the amusement of my father. The poetry analysis is so much worse because I wrote it for myself and it shows, oh it shows. Part of me wants to burn it, but I share them here because I think they are good examples of what Grace can do in a person’s life, of the story God will make of our life if we let Him.

So I drove back to Kansas for the first time since my father died to find this poem that I wrote him, about how much I missed him when he and my mother were traveling the US in their RV after retirement. I had completely forgotten about this poem and have no other copies of it.

From: To: Sent: Subject:
 
"Jessica Orr" <jessicaorr@wildmail.com>
<lewis@toast.net>
Thursday, October 28, 2004 5:43 PM
New Poem
 
Poem that refuses to be titled
16.5 miles down Linconway, Through three towns,
On the way to a common destination, 
I pass through a sphere of nostalgia. 
A stoutly paved road
Becomes dirt, strewn with silver gravel; 
Each piece is different, each piece the same.
Repugnant most people would call it; 
This smell that I love so.
The scent of fiberglass, 
Spinning, each thread tiny, clear 
Like spider's silk, 
I remember And I come back again.

This smell clings, it remains. 
I find it still in his things, 
From time to time.
Opening his thesis,
I don't understand the words 
But I know the meaning well.
Driving through the past, on autopilot 
My body is a shell, 
I am not there.

Daddy's shoes and daddy's coat, 
All the papers daddy wrote, 
Smell a lot like daddy's work.
How long 'till daddy's home again? 
Mama please, please tell me when.
'Soon soon it's all most five."
Today Bether's at Debbie's and Daddy's mine.

 
Sing me "Froggie" one more time 
Tell me just one more silly rhyme 
One more story, 
One more song, 
Please daddy, its been so long.
One more ride around the room 
Please don't say its bed time soon 
I want to stay in this long ago, 
Please don't say I have to go.

 
Please daddy, just one more anything

"Time is not something to bend and give, 
It is in the present where we must live"

Father's wisdom, just in time 
Ahead a truck stalled in the road 
Flashing lights, I didn't know
I wasn't there, I was at home


Hope you like it. Don't worry I didn't get in a wreck, I noticed the truck just in time to swerve.
Love you, miss you, write you soon.

Letter on Two Blakes Poems

Two years ago, I would not have driven back to Kansas. I would have said, yes I will go, but I would have found a reason not to. The second letter I’ll share illustrates more the kind of person I was- selfish, proud, completely missing the point. I am so embarrassed to read (and share) what I wrote, the way I spoke about Christianity, my sister, and her dog. What a little turd I was.

"A Poison Tree" By William Blake 

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did-end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in my fears, 
Night and morning with my tears; 
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night, 
Till it bore and apple bright; 
And my foe beheld it shine,
And knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstrech'd beneath the tree.

"The Garden of Love"
I went to the Garden of Love, 
And saw what I had never seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst, 
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut, 
And "Thou Shalt Not" writ over the door; 
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

Missing the Point

I love how I talk about “the average person’s ability to so completely miss the point” as I spend three pages completely missing the point! I didn’t understand what “turn the other cheek” meant but I write as if I do. I write like I understand Christianity and “organized religion” when I didn’t at all. And it is just… so prideful and haughty. Saying there was no one with whom I could hold an intelligent conversation when I was living in my sister’s house, rent-free, but complaining about her dog eating chocolates that I had left in a place where he could get to them. My sister is smart. She reads more than I do! Reading The Garden of Love now (and this whole letter), I’m struck by how selfish it is. I am so thankful to God for this letter. Completely missing the point… yes, that was my life before I became Christian. I’m not perfect now, not at all! But I am actively seeking to know my imperfections, praying for God’s help with them, and addressing them in the sacrament of confession. I don’t just rely on myself anymore.

I’m thankful for the poem too. It was very healing to read and it shows moments of grace breaking through. So take heart, Reader, if you have loved ones who are like the girl who wrote these letters- ones who love so fiercely but don’t quite know what to do with that love or their lives. God’s grace is offered to us constantly. It only takes one moment of humility to accept this gift: one crack in the pavement, one moment of weakness, one question honestly asked- God, are you there? Please help me- I can’t do this alone.