Shit was about to get real, as they say. Dad sold his Sears and Roebuck kit house, assembled with the help of mom’s brothers, bought a house in town, and enrolled full-time at the local State University teacher’s college. His call to parish ministry, started at age 19 in the South Pacific. His call was about to pull out of the station at age 42 and begin its journey from college, to seminary, and ordination. Little did he know. Little did I know.

“Part-time, student pastors” we call them back in the day. Put a Bible in their hand, the love of Jesus in their heart, give them a blessing, frame a certificate autographed by the bishop, commission them good to go, and send them out to save the world.

Open Meadows not only defined the local geography but served also as the name of the small country church overlooking Chautauqua Lake. It was surrounded by, you guessed it, open meadows of wheat as far as the eye could see.

Dad had just delivered one of his earlier, unvarnished sermons about the wind of the Spirit; no one knows from whence it comes or where it goes (John 3:8). I sat in the tiny sanctuary, looking at the hole in the wall from an errant hunter’s shotgun slug, thinking about deer hunters, the wind, and the Spirit of God. I was six years old, the summer before entering first grade.

As I walked out the front doors of the church, I stood on the concrete stoop, enclosed by a wrought iron railing, the kind my father used to make, flanked by descending stairs, left and right. I saw the gentle, wave-like movement of mature wheat in the fields surrounding the church. Sun warmed my cheek.

The Spirit was moving. I felt the wind, and I was there to experience it. God with me. God calling me.

Laps. I’m swimming laps, as I have, off and on throughout my life. I love to swim, I just hate the drudgery of it all. Ultimately, I’m lazy. And a glutton. More the better, except when it comes to exercise. Going to the pool. Anticipation, which leads to anxiety. Lately, I’ve been trying to find motivation by imagining the luxury of the hot show waiting for me after I’m done. 15 laps. That’s all. Olympic swimmers can do that in minutes. It takes me half an hour. Instead of thinking about how much I have to go, I’m trying to mourn the laps that have passed, never, ever, to be swum again.

Today, I hit the water and punched “play.” Memories of first grade in that new house in Jamestown flooded back. 603 Harding Avenue, corner of Harding and Steward, right behind Fairmont Elementary School, just up the hill from the local corner store.

Prior owners of the house left a print on the living room wall, after they observed me spying it on a pre-purchase walk through. Paul Detlefsen, painter. The Big Red Caboose. Trains. Now we are talking. I loved trains, not the toys, the real deal. High horsepower. I’ve loved trains ever since Uncle Toad took me as a child down to the local yard to watch the Pennsylvania drill cars. That print has been with me ever since, much to my wife’s chagrins. The painting connects me to that house.

Neighbor. His name was Mike. We were both in the same grade. An Italian family. His dad made wine in their basement. Forbidden fruit, but, um, mmm, good. The house had a great back yard, where all the neighborhood kids played. We laughed, learned, and played tricks on one another. I learned to ride a bike on the brick surfaced neighborhood street.

The joy of bike riding was tempered by humiliation. I shit my pants trying to get to the bathroom in time. The stupid “Stop/Go” sign hanging from the bathroom door knob cost me that crucial extra half-second. When I got home from school, mom made me stand in the shower and wash out my own cloths. Thankfully, I was only at Fairmont for one year.

I kicked a hole in the wall in anger at my brother for not letting me return empty pop bottles, cashing them in for ice pops. “Just wait until dad gets home,” he grinned, knowing the licking that was in store for me. Mom got home and said, “Just wait until your father gets home.” Great. Like mother, like son. Waiting was torture.

Dad got home and we ate in silence. Bucky was good at the silence. After dinner he pulled the belt off his pants, bent my bare ass over his lap, and released his anger on my backside. I remember looking over my left shoulder, seeing my mother doing the dishes, pleading, “Now Bucky, don’t hurt the boy.” Thanks mom, for throwing me a solid.

The house, however, wasn’t about my failures, punishment, or humiliation. The kitchen was where I first celebrated Holy Communion, at the age of six. I walked home from school, got out from the refrigerator some of Welch’s grape juice and a loaf of bread, and went about celebrating Holy Communion, just as visiting Elders had done for my father at Open Meadows United Methodist Church once every three months. My brother, entered stage left, fresh home from Lincoln Junior High, asked, “What are you doing?” I told him.

“You can’t do that,” he replied.

Why? You just can’t, that’s why.

Well, I did. I had done it. What God has done, can not be undone. Like baptism. Like Holy Communion. I felt the wind of the Spirit and the warmth of the sun. God affirmed what I had done. God was calling. I didn’t know what or where. But, even at the age of six. I knew God’s sight was on me. God had plans. I just had to figure them out.

In time. All things, in due time.