Tag Archives: events

Voting for a Compromise Nominee

07 Saturday May 2016

Posted by in Citizenship, Events, Growing up, People

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, ,

Chicago skyline 1970

For the first election in which I was eligible to vote, 1968, I began the year as a supporter of Democratic Senator Eugene McCarthy, the anti-Vietnam War candidate for President. Only a handful of political leaders took on the challenge to oppose the war. The opinion polls indicated that a majority of U.S. citizens still supported the war even though the reasons for it changed with the calendar. Some military analysts stated that the U.S. would have to prosecute the war for another thirty years before any resolution could be expected. Already we had used more armaments than we had during the entire Second World War, and the prospects of suffering in Southeast Asia and loss of life for everyone involved would surpass that war if the analysts were correct.

When Bobby Kennedy joined the campaign, I did not immediately move to support him, even though I knew that he had a better chance of mounting a successful campaign than McCarthy. His willingness to join the war opposition seemed late and calculated, depending on the courage of McCarthy and others to clear the way. Nonetheless I knew that I would vote for Kennedy when the time came. Sirhan Sirhan removed that possibility in the wake of the successful Kennedy campaign in California.

Next came the Chicago convention and the disastrous clashes between demonstrators and police that alienated people on all sides. The convention nominated a stalwart and hard-working liberal, Hubert Humphrey, who in ordinary times would have seemed an outstanding selection to win the office. Humphrey had been supportive in his role as President Lyndon Johnson’s Vice President, but as a candidate he tried to conciliate between those who supported and those who opposed the war, without specifying changes in the conduct of it. Republican candidate Richard Nixon promised that he had a plan for ending the war, but he was no more specific in describing his plan than Humphrey. Perhaps, given Nixon’s history, people could have foreseen that his plan for ending the war involved a major escalation in waging it, doubling the deaths and destruction, but a majority of voters chose Nixon and his secret plan.

Having my own views of the histories of Nixon and Humphrey, I opted reluctantly to support Humphrey. In this first election I also decided to work for him, canvassing the precinct including our apartment in Hyde Park on Chicago’s south side. I volunteered at precinct headquarters and was assigned to a Mr. White, a distinguished Jewish gentleman. While we worked together in his precinct, he invited me into his home, my wife and me to join him and his wife for a meal, and to worship with them at their Reform synagogue.

Mr. White had endured through many decades of Chicago politics and somehow remained idealistic. His work for Senator Paul Douglas and Alderman Leon Despres had given him sufficient hope to keep at it. Somehow he had managed to negotiate the tortuous route between the Chicago Democratic “machine,” the needs of people in his precinct, and his sense of the larger world beyond the city. He and his wife were the only bright spots in what proved to be a disappointing election.

Playing with Dynamite

13 Wednesday Apr 2016

Posted by in Caring, Church, Death, Disabilities, Events, Growing up, Learning from mistakes, People, Small town life

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, ,

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

Marty (not-his-real name) was one of my parishioners many years ago—memorable nonetheless. His life would have been a case study in oppositional defiance if anyone had chosen to examine it. His parents and siblings were “good church members”—steady, reliable, active in volunteering and supporting as well as anyone else, but Marty was a no-show in the church and in the community as long as I was acquainted with him.

His father was a World War II veteran and his brother had served in the army, but Marty first showed up looking for me when he learned that I had been a draft counselor, and Marty wanted to avoid the draft at all costs, not on any principled grounds, as this was during the Vietnam war, but just because he didn’t want to serve his country under any circumstances. His timing was right and he managed to slip between the cracks when the draft lottery was instituted.

Next came his girlfriend, seeking help in dealing with his bad moods and abuse, which, predictably when co-dependence is strong, escalated steadily. He lived with his under-age girlfriend in her mother’s home, which I naively assumed should make it easy for her and her mother to kick him out. No child was involved. Neither she nor her mother could carry out a resolution to make Marty behave or leave. It appeared that her mother was as emotionally tied to Marty as his girlfriend was. We talked about all of their options, legally and behaviorally and in seeking help, but they did not change anything. Marty continued to abuse them within their own house.

Marty had trouble keeping a job, mostly because he could not take orders or follow directions. He always knew better than anyone else how any job should be done, or he simply did not want to do the job in anyone’s time other than his own. In his favor, Marty was intelligent and curious enough to figure out many things, and well-meaning employers saw his potential, especially when they knew the rest of his family and attempted with their enabling persuasion to give Marty another chance. Marty went from job to job at a time when many young adults were having trouble finding a first job.

Marty’s record included any misdemeanor you can name—tickets for speeding, parking, noise, shoplifting, drunkenness, disorderly conduct. Someone was always bailing him out in one way or another, although I could not persuade people that this was not helping Marty accept responsibility. I tried to find him, to talk with him about the direction of his life, but he was more adept at avoiding me than I was in catching him. For a while I lost track of him and the newspaper carried no more news of his infractions. I had hope that he might be growing up. He and his girlfriend had a son. She had stopped calling me to ask for advice. Things might be working out, I thought. Certainly I knew that there were many people praying that they would.

The end came in an unusual way. Marty had worked for a man who cleared trees and prepared land for development, and he knew where the dynamite was stored. Marty broke into the building and stole some dynamite and decided to have some fun with it, blowing things up. He was successful. One of the first things he blew up was himself.

I officiated at Marty’s funeral. I said in passing that there were many ways that Marty played with dynamite. My words were not appreciated.

The Ethan Allen Roast

11 Friday Mar 2016

Posted by in Events, Learning from mistakes, People

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

Shannondale Community Center

While we walked through the Rock House shortly after we moved in, Shannondale Director Jeff Fulk had noted in passing that the old overstuffed rocking chair with the springs sticking out of the seat had seen better days. No one could sit in it comfortably without one of the springs poking him in the wrong places. I thought he was probably right.

It happened a couple of days later, after we had been out working in the rain most of the day. When the time came for the campfire that evening, and the temperature was warm and inviting, we looked around for dry kindling, but most of the wood on the forest floor was well-soaked from the day’s downpour. The evening was too nice to waste after a nasty day, so we gathered around the campfire pit anyway. Jim Wilson was ready to tell some tales. The rest of us couldn’t compete, but we could add a few tidbits to keep him going. But what is a campfire circle without a campfire?

The old chair came to mind. Inside. Dry. Just a few yards away. I had a hatchet. I asked for a couple of volunteers to come with me. Soon we were lugging the old chair outside into the campfire area.

Some of the members of our party registered some reservations. Nonchalantly I noted that we had enough money to replace the chair. I chopped off a few pieces and got a fire going, enough to dry out some damp wood and keep it going. Then for whatever reason—I don’t remember—I left the scene. When I returned someone (or ones) had toppled the remainder of the chair onto the fire and the resulting blaze was reaching as tall as the bottoms of the pine tree overhead. Fortunately for us, the tree was still wet from the day. Fearing the worst I called for help to bring some buckets of water from the house, and we successfully dampened the blaze down to a manageable size before the tree above us caught fire.

 

The Gift of Carrot Cake

09 Wednesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Caring, Learning from mistakes, People, Volunteering

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

Shannondale Community Center

We were at Shannondale Community Center for a summer week of service and recreation in the Current River NSRP. Jim Wilson was our guide with his many years of experience in construction as we repaired and applied vinyl siding to a house that had seen many additions with sidings in various degrees of disrepair. The elderly widow who resided there was very grateful for our crew of adults and youths who were helping her achieve a long-held dream.

The lady of the house helped in various ways. She gave us access to her inside toilet (which was not always available in the project houses we tackled). She provided water and iced tea for our refreshment. She pointed out the nest of copperheads in the patch of weeds at the east side of the house, and warned us that baby copperheads were as dangerous as adult ones, so we were very careful when we removed them to work there (They were very cute.). On the second day, when we were eating the sack lunches we had prepared as usual at breakfast in the Shannondale kitchen, she came out of the house with a beautiful carrot cake in a sheet cake pan—enough for all sixteen of us, though some of our group declined the gift. Several of us felt the obligation to have a piece of the cake, whether we liked carrot cake or not, because she had gone to the trouble of preparing it for us in gratitude for the work we were giving to her. I thought the cake was delicious. Danielle ate the cake but not the frosting. We finished the siding project soon after lunch and went on to other things.

That evening one of our group began to feel unwell and turned in early, skipping the campfire at the end of the day. I heard her vomiting as I went to bed. Not long after that someone else was headed to a noisy stomach-emptying in the common bathroom where we stayed. An hour later another one succumbed. The bathroom was becoming very busy, and no one had the luxury of being able to wait. Fortunately, the group shower house and toilet facility was not far away, and part of the group stayed at the community center building with its two bathrooms. About 2 A.M. yours truly of the iron stomach began to take my turn. It was a long miserable night, but as we compared notes, we came to the unavoidable conclusion that it was not an intestinal virus. Everyone who had eaten the cake with the cream cheese frosting had gotten ill. Everyone who had turned down the cake, and Danielle who had eaten the cake but not the frosting, had remained well. No one got a lot of sleep that night.

The morning dawned beautifully, and some of our group enjoyed breakfast. I had some toast and a little coke. We had promised to tackle another task, which was to help an area resident move her household furnishings into storage until another place became available. Enough of us were in good shape to do the job, and most of the rest of us tagged along, getting stronger as the hours passed.

As miserable as the night was, I would not have changed it. From that point on “carrot cake” became our humorous code phrase for anything that was a well-intentioned but questionable gift. Sometimes we learned to say “thanks” but “no thanks,” but it is always a challenge to be gracious when refusing a gift.

To Hide from Storms at Shannondale

05 Friday Feb 2016

Posted by in Events, Life along the River, Nature, People

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

cropped-rock-creek-wilderness-oregon.jpg

We were camping at Shannondale, and I made arrangements for our group to take an evening tour of Round Spring Cave, courtesy of the National Park Service staff. The only problem was that the number of tour participants was limited, and we had one more person with us than the available slots for the tour. Art Klein had stayed at camp, and another youth or two, who were not fond of caves, had stayed with him. Dean Moberg volunteered to stay above ground and let the rest of us go on this spelunking adventure. He had gone before, and, although there is always more to see in such a dynamic and complex cave, he was willing for the rest of us to enjoy it this time. There would be another trip and another opportunity to tour the cave.

As the time for the tour approached we gathered near the cave entrance, and Ranger Ruth entertained us with some colorful stories from the area lore about sinkholes, caves, and Ozark culture, and we were glad to be in the cave overhang area when the rain began. Still, Dean dutifully stayed outside when the rest of us followed our guide into the cave. Some of our group were a bit jealous of Dean’s choice during our squeeze through the narrow channel of the first hundred yards, as uncountable numbers of bats flew past our ears on their way outside for the evening’s mosquito harvest.

Dean, meanwhile, returned to the parking lot and our cars and observed the onset of a powerful windstorm, maybe even a tornado, wondering whether the wind would do more than scatter tree limbs and branches and rock the car that was his only available shelter.

An hour or so later our group emerged to a different environment, with evidence of the storm all around us. Dean greeted us and assured us that everything was all right, although he had wondered for a while whether he would be blown away. We returned to our campsite and found the tents in various degrees of collapse and disarray, which Art and his crew had tried unsuccessfully to remedy. We decided to take advantage of Shannondale’s more dependable shelter for another night, grateful that most of us had been able to spend the time of the storm oblivious to the world outside and enjoying the amazing and utterly quiet world below.

We were grateful, too, to those who had braved the elements on our behalf. We could always count on Dean and Art.

One More ‘Stupidest Things I Have Ever Done’

04 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by in Events, Faith, Learning from mistakes, Life along the River, People

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

Rock Creek Wilderness, Oregon

Returning to Shannondale along the Current River in Missouri was one of my fond dreams when I came to Zion Church in Burlington. Dean Moberg said that he also was eager to return, with his pleasant memories of getting to court his wife-to-be at that camp. Therefore, we planned a trip with Dean and Jeri, Art Klein, and several fine high school young people. We camped at Peaceful Point at Shannondale the first couple of days, did a service project—cleaning up and painting some camp facilities, and proceeded to canoe the river, putting in at Cedar Grove, canoeing to Pulltite in the morning, and reaching Round Spring in the late afternoon, a  twenty-mile trip  on the first day.

That year I had suggested  that we  do what I had done with other groups earlier, which was to carry food and gear with us in canoes, stay overnight on the river at one of the campgrounds or gravel bars, and canoe the next day another twenty miles to Two Rivers. The Current River’s… well…fast current, of course, had enabled this ambitious agenda with groups that were largely novices, as well as heavy rains on the days prior to previous trips. On this year of return, the river was quick, but not so quick, and the rains that came, came on the second day of our planned canoeing.

The second day opened gray and overcast, but seemingly warm enough, so “we” decided to go ahead with our planned trip, all the way to Two Rivers. (I don’t know if my enthusiasm was operative in the “we” or whether it was really a consensus.) We hadn’t been on the river more than ten minutes when the rain began, and, at first, it was gentle and warm. Not very long afterwards, it ceased to feel warm . Most of our group did not bring raingear. We stopped at a rock overhang and brought out the box of large garbage bags (along with duct tape, the other requirement for any trip we planned). At least everyone had an improvised raincoat for the rest of the trip. In addition to the dampness, the temperature began to fall.

Finding another rock overhang with just enough space for all of our group, and everyone beginning to be both tired and cold, we stopped for lunch.  We needed a break from paddling, the energy from the food and drink we had packed for the trip, and also warmth from somewhere. My matches were wet, but, fortunately we had smokers with us. Art used his lighter and the few items that were still dry to get a smoky fire going, providing just enough warmth to thaw us out a little, when we took turns standing near it.

We had no choice but to continue downriver. There was no place to pull out of this section of the river until we had paddled ten more miles to Two Rivers, where there was a store and a phone to reach our Shannondale driver, who would pick us up and save us from ourselves.

Our only hope to avoid hypothermia was to paddle like the devil and avoid the usual tipping of the canoes. Since these seemed too much to hope for, our only hope really was to pray like the…saints, even if we weren’t.

Never was I happier to have three determined adult helpers and a mostly good-natured and forgiving group of high school young adults. Together, urging each other on, we made it. When we finally reached Two Rivers and our Shannondale helper picked us up, I hurried to rent the Goat Barn for our overnight accommodations, instead of setting up our wet tents. We made liberal use of the hot showers and established the custom of closing our canoe trip with a visit to Salem’s Pizza Hut.

(Some readers may offer corrections to this memory and life-lesson; they are welcome!)

 

Heat Pump Heaven

27 Wednesday Jan 2016

Posted by in House, Learning from mistakes, Seasons

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

IMG_2080.JPG

We appreciate our heat pumps. The theory behind them is irreproachable—reverse refrigeration—taking heat from the outside and putting it inside in winter, and taking heat from the inside and putting it outside in summer. A local company installed our main floor unit fifteen years ago and the lower level unit fourteen years ago and then promptly went bankrupt. We found a good serviceman to keep the units in repair, after lightning did some damage to the upper unit’s electronic components. Although the manufacturer was a reputable company, he reported that it contained several outdated parts. He kept it going for us nonetheless. The lower unit, on the hand, has never given us a bit of trouble. It keeps plugging along, passing every inspection.  Finally, a year ago in the fall, when the upper unit fan and compressor warned that they did not want to survive another winter, we decided to find a replacement.

We examined several alternatives and finally narrowed the search to another major manufacturer. A Trane would replace a Carrier. It sounded like a very good system, but when it was installed it did indeed sound like a train. The blower, starting out as barely a whisper, built up the wind pressure of a gale in a Midwestern thunderstorm, pillowing the vinyl flooring in the bathroom and kitchen. A few days later we recalled the installer, who adjusted it to a moderate wind, saying that it had been set for Florida, instead of an Arkansas setting. Florida homes require such a tempest because of their high humidity. I accepted the explanation. The Arkansas setting provided a tolerable breeze, and the flooring stayed where it belonged.

We finally got the missing panel delivered for the air handler, which somehow had gotten lost in New Orleans, and the programmable thermostat that had been promised finally replaced the temporary manual adjustment model. By that time, our winter stay concluded, and the need for neither heat nor cool was evident in the mild spring, summer, and early fall visits that followed.

Our November stay provided the first serious test of our new system since February as the outside temperature fell to freezing, and we let the thermostat kick into action. Very little happened. The blower provided markedly less sound than it had, and the heat, drifting out of the vents, was warm enough, but lacked motivation. When I checked the crawl space where the air handler is located, I found the problem. The return air vent, stressed by the new fan pressure, had collapsed, flatter than a proverbial pancake. Not much air was going to get through that vent, which had severed its connection to the rest of the house.

We called back to the installer who was very quick to come and replace the return air vent with a solid metal vent wrapped with thick insulation. They took no responsibility for the collapse of the earlier system, which probably would not have held up in either Arkansas or Florida, so another investment was needed on my part, making this the equal to earlier estimates for a geothermal replacement, much to my chagrin, although who knows what unforeseen costs would have come with that installation?

Now, comfortably ensconced in our Ozark home with a balmy 72 degrees inside while the wind blows at 25 mph in the 25 degree temperature outside, all is right with the world.

A Christmas Letter

26 Saturday Dec 2015

Posted by in Seasons

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

We have been receiving Christmas and holiday letters from friends and family, and we appreciate every single one and the memories and hopes that go with them of treasured experiences together that the letters and cards represent. Often they bring tears of joy for the special times we have shared. Sometimes they bring tears of sadness, for we have reached the years when the frequent departure of friends and loved ones places them out of reach of everything but our prayers of gratitude for having known them. We want you to know that we send not only our greetings but our thanks and prayers for your lives, and our continuing praise to God for all of you wonderful people we have known and for the saving grace of Jesus Christ, who assures us that there is always more in store for our lives than what we have yet seen.

While this holiday time carries so much meaning in so many ways, for us it is still at its core an incarnation of the love of God in the Messiah who came, is yet to come, and is coming soon. In awe and mystery we see that loving person in the humblest of places, akin to the places where we have found ourselves and met you. Humbly we bow to adore Jesus, through whom we find that the ineffable Ruler of this universe (and all possible universes) does care for each of us.

Most of what we might report to you about our events and thoughts during this year has been on the “Gary Chapman” Facebook page or on chaplinesblog.com.  We have lived in Burlington, Iowa, for twenty seven years, and part-time in Bella Vista, Arkansas, for fifteen years. Au and Alicia just celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Brandi and Nathan recently celebrated their eighteenth, all continuing in their jobs and locales, with the addition of Alicia going to work as a receptionist at an O’Fallon assisted living center and  nursing home, in addition to her contracts as a theatrical costumer. Grandchildren Willow graduated from the University of Illinois and began graduate studies in paleontology at the University of Nebraska- Lincoln, where she is deep into the Barstovian Era (into  whose isotopes few researchers have gone before); Meadow just played seven characters in Sweet Charity as well as a lead in her first movie while a junior at Indiana University; and sweet Symphony turned purple as Ursula the Sea Witch in Little Mermaid, after being white as an Addams Family ancestor (and being green as Oz’s wicked witch two years ago)—she will graduate from O’Fallon High School with her Associate of Arts and Associate of Science degrees from Southwestern Illinois College, at the same time, in the coming May, then on to either Purdue University or Indiana University. Why do we feel that the pace of time is accelerating?

Jan’s mother fell and broke her neck C2 vertebra in August. She survived the fall, but now she contends with a brace that holds her head in place and protects her spinal cord. She had to leave her home and take up residence at the local nursing home, where our step-father of eighteen years, Glenn Edwards, visits daily. In order to identify with her mother (not intentionally!) Jan fell at the end of September, not breaking anything, but injuring herself severely anyway—we are thankful it wasn’t worse and she has been recovering well.

Gary enjoyed the responses of many people to the publishing of Out of My Hands and The River Flows Both Ways, and he is still editing Our Land! Our People!, a much longer narrative about the child John Bell on the Trail of Tears and his interesting life afterwards. During the year Jan and five distant cousins descended from her Great-great Grandfather John Bell had DNA testing to support or disprove his Native American ancestry, since the documentary evidence to corroborate the family tradition about John Bell was thin. Jan learned that she and her cousins have ancient Far East Asian and Yakutian (Siberian) DNA, common to Native Americans in the DNA records, which is as much supporting evidence as we can gain at the present time. It was nice to learn that we had Asians in our family before our beloved Au joined us, and that she had ancestors in America before her Puritan New England and seafaring ancestors arrived (or the Germans, Irish, or English Quakers who came later to the Middle Colonies and Illinois). DNA can only give us a little glimpse into the recesses of our past. Eventually it must show that we are all related anyway—one family in one world, all deeply in need of reconciliation.

It has not been an easy year, but we have enjoyed it anyway. More heart issues developed for Gary, but he runs regularly anyway. He has also continued teaching philosophy and ethics at Southeastern Community College, but this year it was all online, making travel easier during the courses. We made the usual travel circuit of Burlington, Bella Vista, O’Fallon, Champaign, Paxton, Mt. Sterling; Lincoln, Nebraska; and Bloomington, Indiana, adding another trip to the Black Hills and Mammoth Site, and a journey with Gary’s two brothers and sisters-in-law to Sevierville, Tennessee, at the height of the marvelous fall color, to celebrate all of our milestone birthdays—seventy, seventy-five, and eighty (a few months ahead of time for some of us).

We have plenty of cause for thanksgiving, and our prayers for the coming year include you and our hopes to be with you. May the peace of God bless you abundantly.

I dreamed a dream…

24 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by in Gullibility, Learning from mistakes, People

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

cropped-brandis-pumpkin-skull-inside-jack-o-lantern.png

The other night I dreamed a dream about a huge and elaborate wedding, so fantastic and so immense in the imagination of the couple, that only a giant could officiate. I did not know the couple, but still I was invited; they were inviting everyone. Not wanting to be a spoilsport or left out of the biggest social event of the year, I went. The caterers prepared huge hampers of food and barrels of beverages and loaded them onto decorated trucks. A troop of acrobats led the wedding procession in front of the drum major and a marching band, followed by the dozens of handsomely costumed people in the wedding party in open carriages, drawn by teams of Belgian and Clydesdale horses, until the bride and groom came in the grandest gold carriage of all, then the parents, and the decorated food trucks, collecting the cars and buses of the guests as they went, winding through the streets of the city into the countryside. We all arrived at the edge of the forest where the giant emerged from the trees and, to a hundred trumpet fanfare, the couple and members of the wedding party ascended the great platform, specially built and decorated with banners and bunting, to stand on a pedestal in front of the giant. The music stopped, and the crowd hushed, waiting for the giant to speak.

“Food first!” said the giant. “We eat first, then we have wedding ceremony.” By “we” the giant meant “I,” and the couple looked at each other, then stood aside and gestured to the Master of the Caterers, and they brought forth, immediately, as if by magic, plates full of food, to offer to the giant. The plates looked so pitifully small in the hands of the giant, like pennies or dimes in his hands, that he tossed them aside, and yelled “Real plates! Real food!” The servers scurried away and came back with huge caskets filled with sides of beef and ham and whole turkeys, troughs full of mashed potatoes and vegetables, each carried by teams of four to eight servers, up to the top of the platform , while the giant scooped up the food in his huge hands, all the time calling for “More! More!” until it was obvious that the giant was eating everything that had been prepared, and there would be nothing left for anyone else.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, but it was a dream, of course, and everyone looked in amazement and wonder as the giant ate the wedding banquet all by himself, and, when he had finished, he turned and walked grandly back into the forest, leaving the bride and groom, and the wedding party, and all of the guests, looking at his back, as he disappeared into the trees, leaving no one to lead the ceremony. I turned and said to the person next to me, “Didn’t the giant look a lot like Donald Trump?” but before he answered, I woke up or at least I think I did.

Beginning work as a pastor at Wapella

14 Saturday Nov 2015

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, ,

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.