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Category Archives: Small town life

The Doors Came Home

25 Monday Jan 2016

Posted by chaplines2014 in Church, House, People, Small town life

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Memories, Synchronicity

Burlington house in fall

Our 1899 eclectic house was not built for the preference for open floor plans, but some former occupants decided that the next best thing was to remove as many doors as they could. The large pocket doors between the two living rooms disappeared, as did the door between the front hall and the dining room, and the swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen, and the upstairs doors between the central sitting room and the front and rear hallways. Air flowed freely between all of the rooms, especially the cold winds of winter, and with the large loosely-double-hung windows on every side of the house, winter wind did not stay outside.

Between the front hall and the middle bedroom, not only did the door disappear, but the doorway did, too, giving access to that bedroom only through the sitting room, which could no longer double as a private bedroom for guests or anyone else.

Finding the alternative of removing walls and creating a modern openness too costly—the apparent solution for every remodeling show now on House TV, which had not yet appeared in 1988—the solution seemed to be replacing doors (and doorway). Restoration stores and preservation stations with old building parts had not appeared yet either, so I went begging.

Church members came to the rescue.  Dean Moberg mentioned that he had a set of big pocket doors stored in the rafters of his garage. A former owner of his 1900-era house had removed not only the doors, but the entire wall between his dining room and living room, giving them a nice open space.  That was another option, but the structure of my house still needed those walls. They were dirty and ugly, but the right size. Thank you, Dean! They cleaned up well, and I do enjoy refinishing. The doors required a new set of rollers to work on the track that still existed, but a renovation specialist helped assemble those.

Jim Ritters had four doors and a quantity of old woodwork in the attic of his house, which also matched our house for age and woodwork. He just about had to tear out a window to get them out of his attic, but they cleaned up so well that they didn’t need refinishing. The small wall that filled the old doorway came out easily, and the woodwork helped to shape an opening that matched the rest of the house. Thank you, Jim!

Work on insulation and tightening windows came later, but our comfort and enjoyment of “This Old House” increased enormously. It’s good to be able to count on the help and generosity of church people when you need them.

The Tale of the Peddlin’ Parson

21 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Faith, People, Seasons, Small town life, Vehicles

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A License to Preach, Serendipity

cropped-3-trees-lighted-in-different-colors2.jpg

It’s not much of a tale, but it’s about one Christmas that stood out for this preacher. I had lived in Tilton only a few months, serving my first “called’’ and full-time pastorate at the United Church of Tilton. The start of work was not auspicious. The new church building had been completed the year before, with a lot of volunteer work from the congregation. There were only thirty-some members, and the Sunday School participation continued to be much larger than the worship attendance, as it had been for years, for worship began at 8 A.M., when families wanted to sleep in, and the people were accustomed to having a part-time pastor who served a larger church somewhere else, so the early hour was the only time that their pastor had been available. The new parsonage had finally been finished so my family—my wife and two small children—could move in. Our second car, “Sam,” had burned up with an engine fire, so we were back to having one car to share between my wife and myself. The youth group, built around the sports enthusiasms of the previous part-time youth worker, had fallen apart.

The leaders of the congregation were eager to encourage me, and they somehow had faith that we could make this new organization self-sustaining with a truly community-serving and Christ-centered purpose. There were few traditions, although we built on some that had begun in each of the fore-runner congregations that merged and began anew with their thirty combined members. We observed Advent with the lighting of Advent candles, collected gifts for the Delmo Community Organization, went caroling at nursing facilities and the homes of shut-ins, and prepared a children’s musical program for the Sunday School. In worship, the Sunday before Christmas, when all the singing, preaching, and praying was over, the congregation presented me with a gift.

Don Dunavan was one of the sturdy deacons, chief at the fire department, busy creating equipment at one of the local machine shops, raising four children, caring for his elderly mother, always available at church for  jobs that needed doing. He came riding down the aisle on a bright red Schwinn bicycle. “We understood that you needed some transportation to do your visiting around town, so we bought you this bicycle. From now on, you will be known in Tilton as the peddlin’ parson.”

Visiting with people in the town, finding needs and filling them, had become my primary occupation. The bicycle became my main mode of transportation. I did a lot of cold calling, getting to know people and what they were interested in, talking about the church’s new start and hopes to serve the needs of the community. For the most part people were receptive. When I heard of someone wanting to talk, or a problem that had arisen for anyone, I made a contact and arranged a visit.

One man, Albert Cox, lived by himself, had no family, and had never had a relationship with any church. He didn’t have any interest in taking part in any group either, but he did like the idea of a church that would respond to people’s needs and try to serve the town. He hadn’t known any preachers before, he said, but he welcomed me into his home, and we talked about ways things could be improved for people’s lives. He was concerned about the town cemetery, which had fallen into disuse and decay, without a supervisory board to take care of it, and about the youth not having Scouting or recreational organizations to channel their energies. He had a lot of good ideas, though he wasn’t ever comfortable joining with other people in trying to implement them. Still we were able to find ways to work on them.

Years later, when Albert died and I was long gone from the community, his will designated his estate (a half-million dollars) in equal parts to a historical museum for the town and to the United Church of Tilton to be used for a community fellowship hall and gym. When I returned to the church thirty-five years later, I learned that I was remembered for three things—being a peddlin’ parson who visited people in the community, running a school-outside -the-walls activity program for youth, and visiting Albert Cox.

Beginning work as a pastor at Wapella

14 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Church, Learning from mistakes, Small town life

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A License to Preach, events, Memories

Pentecostal banner

During my senior year in college I served my first appointment as supply minister for the sixty members of the Wapella Methodist Church. It started out as a summer job, and extended month by month as the District Superintendent said that he could not find a permanent replacement. Wapella had been part of a five point “larger parish,” but they grew tired of sharing a minister with so many other congregations. They wanted a minister of their own. They welcomed me enthusiastically, at least until I stated why I opposed the war in Vietnam, and they even tolerated that as long as they could keep me. At the end of seven months I had to end my service to them, giving the superintendent and the congregation a month’s notice. I had college work to complete, and I had trouble keeping my car running the eighty mile round trip two or three times a week. The superintendent said he would find someone else to serve them temporarily, but he didn’t for several weeks. They continued to meet for worship anyway.

Three months later a tornado tore through the town one late afternoon, and several college friends joined me in returning to what was left of Wapella. A friend drove, since my car was not working. We arrived after dark, and learned that the first task was to locate people across the countryside. Since I knew where people lived, and telephone lines were down, we drove out to see whether people were safe and sheltered. Heavy rains continued, and at one point we found ourselves driving on seemingly flat land with water above the floor boards of the car, so we didn’t get to all of the people we wanted to check. By the end of the night, one way or another, everyone was accounted for, and few injuries were reported.

Daylight showed the carnage of the disaster. We returned to be part of the clean-up crew and the job appeared to be insurmountable with the remains of houses and buildings scattered over a wide area. I saw few of my former parishioners, as those who lost their homes had sought refuge elsewhere and had little left to salvage. We put in a day’s work, but many more would be required before the town would be ready to start rebuilding.

At one point in the day we looked at the church. The large stained glass windows were gone. The tornado had lifted and moved the structure a few feet, and it sat at a crazy angle on the foundation. It was a total loss. Later I learned that the congregation had used their insurance money to buy a house as a meeting place. They were determined to continue as long as they could in spite of all the difficulties they faced. Neither my poor service nor an “act of God” would close them down.

All in all it was a revealing but not an encouraging beginning to my service as a pastor.

Dangerous Domestic Disputes

12 Thursday Nov 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Church, Farm, guns, Small town life

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A License to Preach

Chicago Old TownApart from random reckless hunter’s shots and target practice on my car traveling through inner city neighborhoods at night, and the occasional shots through the parsonage windows that occurred at Tilton, Minonk, and Burlington, one bullet hole apiece, the only serious threats occurred as I tried to moderate domestic disputes.

At Tilton I learned that domestic disputes provide the most common setting where guns come out.

I was making a regular pastoral visit to an aged grandmother, whose several children lived within a few blocks of her house. She informed me that her daughter was going through a terrible ordeal and needed my help. The daughter had no phone, but she was home. Could I go and talk to her? I could and did. Talking to daughter and grand-daughter together, they explained the abuse they had endured and the sense of despair and hopelessness they felt. Where could they go? In the midst of that conversation, the husband came home early and drunk, and before I had a chance to say anything more than hello, he held a gun on all of us. Forty years later, I do not remember much of what I said, only the feeling that these could be my last moments, and the resolve to be calm and non-threatening, as I explained that I was a pastor, there to help all of them and not to take sides. His gun could only make things worse for him and for those he loved. Gradually he lowered his gun and began to cry. How it happened, I never did know, but over the next several months that family survived intact, that husband stopped drinking, and eventually they became active in the church.

In another situation a father held his gun on me when I came with his daughter to his house to take her children away from him. They had lived together for several years, but the daughter had resolved that her children’s well-being and her own required that they live on their own.  Only with repeated assurances that he could still see the children regularly, and no threats about legal actions or custody, did he give up his threat to use his weapon and kill everyone.

When I later agreed to serve as a volunteer chaplain for the city police department, the first instruction dealt with the dangers of domestic conflicts. The police trainer noted that officers wanted to have chaplains with them in family disputes to shift the focus from law enforcement to peaceful resolution. They felt more secure when the chaplains could join them, but they warned us that these situations remained volatile and unpredictable. They didn’t have to tell me.  In the months that followed, twice more I wondered if I would make it out alive. Years later, in another town, when I received another request to serve as a police chaplain, I decided that I was dealing with enough stress without adding that to the list.

“We thought we heard a siren…”

14 Wednesday Oct 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Church, Small town life

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A License to Preach, Memories, Serendipity

Monkeys see, hear, speak no evil, Bangra.com

Making our home in Iroquois, Illinois, during my final year of graduate school provided a challenge to Jan and me and to the people of that rural village. Jan was pregnant with our second child and in charge of three year old Alicia without a support system other than the new friends we were making. I was serving a temporary appointment as a “student pastor” of the only church in town. They had broken away from a yoke arrangement with a church ten miles away. They were getting used to having their own pastor, but one who had no more time to give them than their previous “shared” pastor. In addition I was working on a doctoral project which turned our life together into research on how they responded to historical critical approaches to the scripture and how they were coming to grips with the social and political changes in the world around them. (That was the year that the U. S. involvement in Vietnam came to a formal end with a negotiated settlement. Racial politics and sexual roles were in widespread transition.) I traveled back and forth to Chicago every week to keep up with my doctoral work. We packed a lot into that year. Somehow both they and we survived it.

While we had lived in Chicago, Jan had studied with a fine vocal coach, Elsa Charleston, and regained the wonderful voice she had developed in high school and her first year of college, before she traded her vocal performance major for a Christian education major. In Iroquois she was on her own. Almost every day she crossed the street from the little house they had rented for us to the church, and used the piano to practice. She did the vocal exercises she had learned to do, and she worked on songs that stretched her abilities. The exercises included the “Tarzan yells” that Elsa had incorporated to increase Jan’s volume, support, and range.

One fine fall afternoon, two of the church members were in the yard taking care of the mowing and shrub trimming when they heard a sound that they had never heard before. Henry Easter stopped his lawnmower, and Tom the barber stopped his electric hedge trimmer and listened. It was coming from inside the church! They checked with each other as the sound continued, and they decided that they would have to investigate. They entered the building cautiously and stood in amazement at the back of the meeting room. They were listening to Jan’s practicing. Finally she glimpsed them standing in the back.

“Do you need something?” she asked.

“We thought we were hearing a siren,” Henry answered.

They obviously didn’t know what to think, not only about Jan’s practicing, but about our presence in their community. When the year came to an end, I received my degree, Nathan was born, and our interim appointment to serve that congregation ended also. Many shed tears at our leaving. Were they tears of sadness, or joy, or both? I’m not sure.

Waste of a good mind

28 Monday Sep 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Events, Faith, Growing up, Gullibility, People, Small town life

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A License to Preach, Memories

3 Owls

A new teacher but already a middle-aged man, Mr. Vickers introduced himself to his first chemistry class at Paxton Community High School, “My first name is Mister.” He was always quite formal, organized, and meticulous, and he proved to be an excellent instructor in chemistry and physics. His instructions were orderly and systematic. If we did our part, we had no excuse not to learn in his classes. I was pleased when he offered me an opportunity to take part in a special summer class for prospective science majors at Northwestern University after my junior year in high school. That was the summer I also took advantage of an opportunity to acquire a Methodist License to Preach though the Illinois Wesleyan University licensing school.

Mr. Vickers did not have much use for religion. He did not reveal this through disparaging words, and we as students never heard him say what experiences had led him away from the involvements in religious organizations that typified many of his teaching colleagues in that community. He did not know that my thoughts about the future were divided between pursuing studies in science or religion. At the end of that summer someone must have told him of my divided interests.

Not long after the beginning of school that fall, Mr. Vickers interrupted class to invite me into the hallway. I was apprehensive that I had done something wrong. His manner was usually sober and severe, so there were no clues that his interest was paternal. He explained that he had been disappointed to learn that I was thinking about a career in Christian ministry. “That would be a waste of a good mind,” he said. He had several other things to say about it that I have forgotten, but that sentence stuck in my thoughts.

My pastor at the time, Glen Sims, was a learned and compassionate man. Without his example of an intelligent person serving courageously and usefully in that community, Mr. Vickers might have been more persuasive. As it was, I knew that Mr. Vickers sincerely cared about me and my future, and he gave me a preview of challenges to come.

Mr. Jones, the speech teacher, soon added another viewpoint. Public speaking was a much more uncomfortable subject for me than chemistry or physics. You have to be able to cry on cue, if you’re going to be a preacher, Mr. Jones said in words to that effect. Preachers appeal to the emotions, not to the intelligence, according to Mr. Jones. Mr. Barth, the English teacher, also added his advice. His brother was a Lutheran minister, he said, and it’s not an easy life. You have too rosy a picture of it as a career. You have to be prepared to be lonely. People have many unrealistic expectations of the clergy.

The advice began to accumulate. Most other career choices were not subject to such interest. Just about everyone had an opinion about religious vocations. Mr. Vicker’s advice stood out among the rest. I heard him say to me that I had a good mind. That was a source of pride. I also heard him issue the challenge, “Do not waste such a gift. It would be easy to waste it, going in the direction that he thought I was going.”

Time Stands Still

15 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Church, People, Small town life, Words

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A License to Preach

Self-potrait 1988

But not in very many places. The longest pastorate in one of the congregations that I served was thirty-seven years. In the succession of those who came after him, I was third and each of us served eight years. Someone had placed a sundial in a small circular patio on the church front lawn as a memorial to their long term pastor. The sundial sat in the shade and the gnomon was missing. The “gnomon” for those who do not know is “one who knows,” and that is the name of the device that casts a shadow across the sundial to indicate the hour. In the shade the dial is perpetually in shadows anyway.

One member claimed to have the gnomon in his garage, and he intended to put it back in place some day. He was the same person who told me that there was only one pastor that he ever liked (guess who?), and he did not intend to like me. He died a couple of years later, and I got to officiate at his funeral, whether he liked me or not. I must admit to feeling some affection for the codger.

The gnomon never turned up. It was not found in his garage, which would have required an EPA Superfund cleanup to do it justice. For some people time had stopped in that parish. They were geographically and emotionally isolated from the rest of the world, and they held on to things of significance from the past. Other folks were just as quick to let go as the first group was firm in hanging on, so there was no end to possibilities for controversy. I tried to serve as a gnomon for my term in office, and I cast a few shadows that still remain. Now there are probably a few people hanging on stubbornly because of my efforts as well as my predecessors.’

Of course time does not stand still even if we remove the gnomon or dwell in the shadows. We must make some kind of peace with the movement of time even when we refuse to be clock-watchers. It is going somewhere with or without us. Even without a gnomon, without knowing where time is going, we still hope to cast some kind of shadow across the places in which we will stand.

I will not hold on too tightly to the past, and I will appreciate the present, and the future? I will let it be exciting. I will yield to it. It will belong to Another, as all time truly does. Therefore it will be better that I imagine it can be.

Firehouse Camaraderie

10 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Church, fighting fires, Learning from mistakes, Small town life

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A License to Preach, The Volunteer Fire and Rescue Squad

Yellowstone PoolEvery week, Wednesday evening was devoted to training and work at the firehouse. As a minister, I found it difficult to give up Wednesday nights, which I had reserved for many years as “church night,” but my congregation no longer had any regular events planned for Wednesday nights, and several members of my congregation were involved in the volunteer fire and rescue services, so it made sense for me to join in their Wednesday evening activities. Besides, I desperately needed training, and I needed to do my share of the work.

As far as any definition of fellowship, mutual support, and service to others could be concerned, the crew at the firehouse measured up. They regularly responded to calls for aid, protected each other in threatening circumstances, and, for the most part, enjoyed their work and each other while doing it. Many times we could sense the exhaustion of one or more of the crew, and the difficulty of continuing to work into the evening after a full day’s work elsewhere, or an already hectic week of emergency calls. Still, our situation called for as much training as we could fit in, whether it was actual practice with our equipment, videos and accounts of events elsewhere, review of successes and failures in recent calls, or formal hours for certification.

Every fire engine and emergency vehicle had its idiosyncrasies, every new piece of equipment had its peculiar instructions for use and maintenance, and every individual had strengths and weaknesses that needed to be learned. Sometimes maintenance tasks consumed so much time that we had little time for instruction. We always had “on the job training,” but the citizens of our community took little comfort from earning that some of us were unprepared for the unique tasks we were facing in any particular call. Who had not used the “jaws of life?” Who had not performed CPR? Who had not operated the new engine #4? Who had not fought a chemical fire? Who could not drive the old manual transmission water tanker that required double shifting? That person would probably be called upon to do that very thing sometime during the next few weeks. We regularly received lessons in humility provided by difficult circumstances.

The few officers of that volunteer team proved their rank by the experience and leadership they provided. The rest of us knew each other by the work that we did and our performances under pressure. Our vocabularies, educational attainments, bank accounts, wardrobes, and possessions did not matter at all when the time for duty arrived. Only the capacity to respond counted for value.

Once in a while someone planned an event that was supposed to be a party or a recognition of our service. No one could imagine a more awkward or useless event. We partied when we gathered to work.

In some ways the volunteer fire and rescue service provided a model of what a church could be.

When Notes are Unsigned and the Preacher Still Has a Pulpit

08 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Church, Learning from mistakes, Small town life

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A License to Preach, events, Serendipity

Self-potrait 1988

I had spent a few days in the hospital with some significant heart symptoms. When I returned to the pulpit after my release, I thanked the people for the many get-well cards, encouraging words, and generous offers of help that came to my wife and me, but I told them that there was also one card that had come with the others. Unsigned, it had asked, “What are we supposed to do, if our pastor is ill? We can’t get the help that we need when we have a sick pastor.”

In my notes for that Sunday in winter, 1984, I said that I must try to answer this question, as much for myself as for whoever wrote it. First, my physicians assured me that I could expect to get control of this issue if I took certain steps and continued doing so the rest of my life. I could return to work and have the heart to do it. Second, ministers are human and will get sick, some more often than others. The church will survive, and sometimes it will prosper, as people share more of the load and cooperate with one another in getting things done that the minister cannot do. Third, we are in this church together in all circumstances, good and bad, much like a marriage, and God’s power is most visible when we are at our weakest.  I had certainly felt that power, during the previous two weeks, when so many had taken time to provide what was needed, and I had gained in understanding of what I faced and what I needed to do about it.

I never learned who had expressed those fears in the “get well card,” and I don’t know whether the writer was embarrassed or not about my reference to those words from the pulpit, but the sentiment probably did everyone a favor.

Fire Call #6, a Train Derailment

24 Wednesday Jun 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Events, fighting fires, Learning from mistakes, Small town life

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The Volunteer Fire and Rescue Squad

Yellowstone Pool

Tilton was a village of heavy industry at the edge of a larger populated area, and train tracks crisscrossed the village, as well as a switchyard planted in the middle of it, so a train derailment was not an unexpected event. Minor derailments were common, and this call, that came late one evening,  described a minor derailment. The problem arose when one of the tanker cars bumped into another, and a leak developed. In those days there was no identifying information on the tanker car itself, describing the nature of the liquid contained in it, and the railroad personnel, who presumably called the volunteer fire department in the first place, were nowhere to be found.

The smell coming from the car was not extremely pungent, but sufficiently strong to make us wonder whether we and the neighborhood were in danger from the fumes. We kept our distance, knowing that the water that we had available, with our hoses ready to be charged, might not be usable for certain chemicals that were transported through the village, although diluting the chemical would be useful in most cases. The leaking chemical did seem to sizzle and foam when it touched the ground, but that in itself might not indicate severe danger. Without any information about the nature of the chemical, we were not in a position to know what the correct course of action might be. Evacuating the neighborhood, even the whole town, was not out of the question, but we didn’t want to be alarmists if it was simply a mild acid.

For thirty minutes we waited, trying to find and contact someone with accurate information so that a proper course of action could be followed. Finally a railroad representative arrived. It seemed that no one on the train itself had the correct information about the leaking chemical, and they decided to keep their distance until they could learn about it. They finally had discovered at there was no danger and that we could hose it down. It was instructive for us to learn that the local firefighters and the community itself were considered expendable if the information had turned out to be different, and a dangerous chemical had been involved.

We poured on some water, packed up our equipment and returned to the station, not much older but wiser.

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