The Voices of St. Johns Youngstown

My grandmother used to make prune jello. Yes, I said prune jello. And she was proud of it, presented it to us only on special occasions as an offering of the highest order, of the greatest affection. Of course, we all hated it. And we all had some. Never more than one helping, of course, but never a complete rejection.

Because my Grandma also used to give us bread sopping with hot gravy when we came for lunch after church. She would pick all the raspberries on her bush and tell me to eat them, or fresh green beans from her garden. She would make shrimp salad with those cans of tiny shrimp because she thought that was my favorite when I would visit during the week. She was a depression-era grandma who showed her love in providing, especially food.

And I have learned that from her, and my other grandma and my parents. Preparing food is always done with love and intention, always an offering of myself. And when I am surrounded by people I love, family and friends, and we bite into a roast chicken or a plate of brownies, they know I made the food especially for them.

So I offer a simple recipe, something that my family and friends love. It was first made for me when my son had open heart surgery when he was 9. I had been with him in the hospital for a solid week and I went home to see my other kids, and a friend had us for supper and support. She made this salad, and I will always remember that it made me feel like everything was going to be OK. (And it was). I think of that moment whenever we share it.  And I offer it to you to make your own lovely memories.

Apple Snicker Salad

6-8 sweet apples, cored and chopped ( I sprinkle them with a little lemon juice)

1 bag of snickers candy bars, chopped

1 container of whipped topping

Combine and refrigerate. Very yummy!

Overtime

the roses bloomed
gone in an aster afternoon
still i stayed on
the shadows grew
the maples changed
before i knew
why should i work and worry
no wage could ever buy
the opalescent wonder
of a rare October sky

“Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang”

Black arms and fingers reaching to the blue,
Bleak silhouettes of former forest green.
Their choresters flown to warmer, humid climes,
Now silence reigns where summer hymns of praise
Were raised by cardinals, wrens and finches gold
Nestled in those arms’ and fingers’ strong embrace.
These “bare ruined choirs” will in the Spring leaf out and
Echo to those lovely feathered songsters once again.
These reassuring returns endure.
“It’s going to come out all right – do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass – they know.
They get along – and we’ll get along.”

–William Farragher

“There are many different gifts, but it is always the same Spirit…. The particular manifestation of the Spirit granted to each one is to be used for the general good.” 1 Corinthians 12:4 and 12:6.

I am always impressed by the many and varied gifts God has given to members of St. John’s, and by the many creative ways these gifts are used for the benefit of the church and the community. It is truly an illustration of God’s abundant, overflowing generosity.

There are those with the gift of hospitality, whether expressed in events like the Sunday Coffee Hour, Easter Sunday brunch or at the Red Door Café. There are gardeners, those who keep the grounds beautiful and indoor plants flourishing and those who plant and tend vegetables at the Inner City Garden. There are those who volunteer monthly at the Food Pantry, organizing the food and assisting clients, or welcoming women who come for Coffee and Conversation. There are those who welcome visitors and guide them around the building, those practical souls who maintain the building to look its best or decorate it for special occasions. There are those whose gift is to pray for the needs of others, or to teach, or to deal with day-to-day business of the parish and finances. The Altar Guild prepares meticulously for services, washing and ironing linens, cleaning silver and brass, so all is ready in its proper place for the priest, acolytes and chalicers. The organist and choir bless our worship with the gift of music. Eucharistic Visitors keep in touch with those who cannot attend in person.

Gifts, above and beyond those mentioned, all used for the general good and the glory of God.

contemplating history on my hands

Mother

Grandmother

Great great grandmother

how lovely you were my ladies

for i can barely force your rings upon my fingers

yet i shall carry you with me

in honor of Love

more durable than diamonds

karen

I was walking down the hall at Williamson Elementary the other afternoon, and as I passed the library I saw the counselor teaching a class of older students. I heard her talking about saying please, thank you and I’m sorry, and asking the students to identify which they would say in various scenarios. It seemed very basic stuff to me, and I thought how sad it was that we have to teach manners in school.

It would be easy to say that inner city parents don’t teach their kids manners, and blame some amorphous villain. But that simply isn’t true. It doesn’t matter what school you go in, you are going to find children who have been taught kindness and respect and those who have not.

The most powerful way to teach civil behavior is to model it. There are many places where adults congregate, including church, where it is clear no one has taught them to be nice. We live a life of rushing, of fear, of imagined scarcity, and so sometimes we lead with our elbows. I am always moved and deeply impressed when I see people stop, pay attention and choose kindness.

I have a picture in my mind from the Charlottesville protests. A toddler, barely able to walk, clothed in a bright white Klan outfit from head to toe. I was horrified. What will that child know but how to hate? It will take a lifetime of pain and isolation to unlearn the cruelty and meanness. That poor baby is being taught a very specific way of treating people. Heartbreaking.

While I cannot change what is happening in that family, I can be very intentional about what is happening in my own. I can work to be a sign of peace. I can work on my temper, on forgiving and forgetting, on practicing kindness over being right. I can set a more reasonable pace, lower my stress and take time to be with people I love and who love me. I can be what I want from others, live the life that I hope for others.

All of this is hard work. But I can’t leave it to a school counselor to accomplish. She has enough work to do. We all must reset our priorities, put others first, and be nice. That is the world we all want to live in, so that is how we must live.

Words of a Feather

I found a feather
At the foot of a sheer face
Dappled
Like blueberries
In a muffin half.
Was my sleek find
Lost when its cliffdweller,
Driven home by the voice
Of a cumulus cloud,
Fell afowl of a needle eyed hawk

-William Farragher-

Photography is my passion. I captured this image at the Youngstown Sheet and Tube Company Homes. A portion of these homes are abandoned and I had an opportunity this past winter to photograph the discarded spaces.

As I stood in the empty kitchen of a once vibrant home, I stared out of this window. I gazed at the snow on the roof of the abandoned complex across the street. I watched my friends struggling to walk up the icy path following my footsteps to this home. I began to notice how the light coming through the broken pane twisted and bent to reach my cold face and hands. The light rays danced as the wind ever so slightly moved the shattered bits of glass. A delicate dance performed at the perfect moment to an audience of one.

I lifted my camera, click, click, click. My mind and body shifted to the task at hand, capturing the moment, freezing time for an instant. It wasn’t until my drive home that my thoughts returned to the broken window and that beautiful dance of light and motion. Broken but the light still permeated the window pane, the kitchen and my thoughts. I was thinking about the heat from the sun, the motion of the wind and the power of God.

Today, as I once again look at this photograph, I remember that cold winter day. The memories of that moment in the abandoned kitchen flood my thinking and I’m brought to my own brokenness. The ways in which life has cracked and in some cases fractured my tough exterior. I think we are all broken in some way but we are afraid to show those cracks or expose our brokenness. We are conditioned to show the world our perfect self. We really aren’t perfect, are we?

The cracks exist but I think God uses them. God knows that we are not perfect. He sees us as we are. He knows our brokenness. Maybe it is through those cracks in our tough exterior, that hidden brokenness that God brings light. God permeates our souls through the very cracks that we are ashamed to show the world. I wonder if I am ready to show my brokenness? Am I brave enough to allow God in to heal the cracks?

singing love songs
surrounded by the patterned light of matins
and the sound of other singers
entwined in litany and dance
the music of the spheres

-Karen-