My friend asked me to go with her on a church hayride. Eavesdropping adults told us we could not share a hayride because I was Lutheran and she was Catholic. Undaunted I went to my parents who hemmed and hawed, clearly trying to discourage me, even as they promised to investigate the possibility of the hayride. We both attended the same public school and we all played together. What could be so different about church?
It seemed that even the adults were a little uncomfortable refusing me a place on the hay. Instead of the hayride I was invited to a sleep over. I packed my knapsack with great care and anticipation, somehow sensing the whole town was watching to see if lightning would strike. Our village did not have a newspaper, but the headline everyone seemed to be thinking was, “Local Scandal Unfolds as Lutheran Pastor’s Daughter Sleeps in a Catholic Home.” I don’t remember how many people spoke dire warnings in front of me, but the undercurrent threatened to drown me in distress.
The welcome from my friend and her family could not have been finer. Her parents were really nice and they made us popcorn and we played games. Even her older brothers and sisters greeted me warmly before disappearing. It was clear that they were all trying to make me feel at home, but my tummy was full of butterflies, my heart thwacking against my chest in fear, and try as I might, I could not relax. By bedtime, I was miserable. After the house was dark and silent and everyone seemed to be sleeping, I ran to the bathroom, grateful I got to the toilet before the vomiting started. I spent the night in the bathroom, trying to puke as quietly as possible. Eventually my friend’s mother heard me and tried to help, offering to call my parents or take me home, but I was determined not to fulfill the woeful predictions.
It is a long time since childhood, but I still want to bring all the body parts together. I remember a story my dad told me about when he was a chaplain in World War II. Dad never talked much about the war, but he told me one story I have never forgotten. “When I landed on the beach with the other chaplains, there was a soldier who came running up to us. He wanted to be baptized before he went into battle. We asked him what denomination he belonged to, but it was different than any of us and after conferring with each other we told him we could not baptize him. He persisted and all the chaplains were silent. Then suddenly, I said, ‘I will baptize you.’ I went down to the ocean and filled my helmet with water and I baptized him right there on the beach. I never saw him again.”
Some divisions have healed in my lifetime, some still fester. The kindness has always been there, emerging in the hearts of soldiers hungry for shared blessing, in parents wanting their daughters to have the freedom of friendship. Most every church in town has welcomed me for coffee and refreshments. No one has invited me on a hayride, but if there was one, I am confident I would be welcome. We all work together at the Food Shelf. We all take turns being on call at the hospital. We trust each other to show up and act lovingly, trusting in a God that is bigger than any of us, whose peace prevails. That peace yearns for a dwelling place in each of us, may we welcome it. May we share it, often and abundantly.
Each month a member of the Cook County Ministerium will offer Spiritual Reflections. This week our contributor is Reverend Beth Benson of the First Congregational Church – UCC in Grand Marais.
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