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40. Homicide and Mental Health In the Parish

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

About 2:00 am on a Saturday night my pager went off. It was always on alert, charged, by the side of my bed. “Man down. Main Street; in front of the Baptist Church. Police on scene.” Holy cow, this was a mere fifty yards from my parsonage, tucked in behind the United Methodist Church on the opposite corner. 

I put on my coveralls and shoes, grabbed the pager, and headed for my truck parked around back. Too close to drive, I fetched my medic kit, oxygen tank, automated external defibrillator (AED), and radio. In the self-made medic kit were a stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, gloves, trauma dressings, forceps, a flashlight, glucose in squeeze tubes, and other assorted supplies.

“Palmyra 1415,” I called dispatch, “I’m on the scene,” even as I rounded the corner. I was close, but still had not laid eyes on what was going down. I was prepared for anything.

Or, so I thought.

I rounded the church to find a police cruiser with lights flashing, driver side door open, radio blaring, parked half in the street and half in the driveway next to the Baptist Church. On the sidewalk laid a man, face down. No cop to be found. Where was the perpetrator? Where is the village cop?

I thought to myself. Is the scene safe? This is one of the foundational lessons of Emergency Medical Services. One does not need to become a second victim.

I carefully approached, finding no one around. The man had no pulse and wasn’t breathing. I rolled him over on his back and noticed a blood stain growing on the left side of his chest. “Palmyra 1415,” I called again, “expedite the rig, start Advanced Life Support, and hit our pagers again for more help. CPR in progress.”

Then I started one person CPR.

What is taught in class is far different than the real thing. I’ve probably done CPR more than two hundred times. Never is it sanitary, especially in the elderly. Ribs get broken. People spew. The patient before me had been drinking beer all day, I later learned, and he responded like Vesuvius. Fifteen and two, was the standard of the day for one person CPR; fifteen compressions, followed by two breaths. Two mouth-to-mouth breaths. No, I did not have a CPR mask.  

Just hurl and get it out of your system, I learned early on. So I wretched to the side without breaking stride. Fifteen compressions, followed by two more breaths. What is also neglected in training is how exhausting CPR can be. Relief is necessary to maintain effective, uninterrupted compressions and breath. I was quickly losing steam. 

Then, a pair of shoes appeared next to me. “Jump in,” I asserted quite forcefully, “take over compressions.” No need for someone else to be covered in bile and vomit. “Palmyra AM-24 on the scene,” I heard on the radio. The scene was bathed in halogen headlights. Help had arrived. I didn’t even hear them calling dispatch that the ambulance and crew was responding.

Sirens, police cars, cars driven by my crew with flashing blue lights descended on the scene. It was like the cavalry was arriving. My crew took over CPR. Trauma scissors removed the patient’s shirt and pants, exposing one entry wound on the left side, between ribs. The open wound was oozing blood. The AED pads were applied and the machine was turned on. “Halt CPR,” I ordered. Asystole appeared on the screen, or, as everyone else knows it, flatline. Asystole is not a shockable cardiac rhythm. His heart had stopped beating and no amount of electrical charge could get it started again. 

With every compression, he continued to spew. The Endo-Tracheal tube slid between his vocal chords and was firmly placed, exactly as advertised. Thank you, Lord, for bright headlights and near perfect anatomy. The Bag-Valve-Mask (B.V.M.) was attached, making reparations much easier.  

As he was being packaged on a backboard and lifted onto the gurney, I got an I.V. established. There was no flash of blood, telling me his blood pressure was non-existent. Yet, the D5W dripped into his collapsing veins. Off we went in the ambulance. No Advanced Life Support was available, hence, the cardiac drugs would have to wait until the emergency room. My certification allowed me to start I.V.s and sink E.T. tubes, not pass pain relieving or cardiac medications. My crew did the thump and pump all the way to Newark Wayne, the closest hospital. We were all covered in spew. 

Windows open, exhaust fans on high, the AC cranked to 10; nothing could mask the smell. I made the radio call to the hospital and it must have sounded on the other end like I was in an open cockpit airplane. In the age before cell phones, we called in our patient reports to the emergency department over the open radio. Everyone with a scanner was privy to identity and health care information.

The backup alarm pulsed as my driver backed us into the ER bay. The doctor opened the back doors as soon as the rig came to a stop. His mouth was agape, surveying the organized chaos before him. He, too, turned shades of green, but refused to wretch. Wheeled into the trauma bay, the backboard and patient slid to the table under the bright lights of broken biology. 

Experience taught me to make the verbal report, then bow out and head to the janitors sink to fully immerse myself under pouring water, washing the offending fluid down the drain. The crew followed my example. We became like showered rats. 

Burned forever in my memory is the sight I witnessed while under the blessed stream of cleansing water. The patient was on the table, his left ribcage was lifted, and the doctor was up to his elbows reaching into the victims chest to message the heart. Rural EDs are often staffed with general practitioners, not specialists or surgeons. My doctor this evening literally had more than a handful. 

“Call it,” he told his code team. “The left ventricle is cut in two.” His gloved hand withdrew from the cavity. Without a left ventricle, blood can’t be pumped into the circulatory system. Life isn’t possible. He was dead before I got to him. 

A few weeks later, I’m gathered with my clergy colleagues around the breakfast table at a local diner. Bacon. Scrambled eggs, covered in Tabasco. Wheat toast. The same order for the past fifty years. We talked of church, parishioners, town gossip, the state of the country. Love was our common language, Jesus was our common redeemer. 

The door was awkwardly pushed open. In walked an elderly woman, assisted by a walker. She scanned the dining room. She set eyes on us and began to shuffle our way. “Don’t look now, but, I think we have a visitor.” We all tried to look innocent, uncertain what was to unfold. 

The woman stopped at the end of our table and asked, “Are you the group of ministers from town?” “Yep,” we all shook our head in agreement. “Is one of you Reverend Goddard from the Methodist Church?” She asked. Others sighed in relieve while I looked up and squirmed. “What can I do for you,” I asked, trying to force a smile. 

“You’re a medic on the ambulance, aren’t you?” 

“That would be me.”

“Were you on duty the night my son was killed?” She asked. Pause, then silence.

“Yes. Yes, I was,” I whispered.

He and his girlfriend had been drinking beer all day and had a fight late at night. The domestic dispute came out the back door and into the front yard. Neighbors called 911. She pulled a steak knife and sunk it into his chest. As he collapsed, she threw the knife into the bushes and ran. The police officer pulled in, and commenced to pursue, leaving just the victim for me to find. 

“Did he suffer?” she whispered.

It was like the Oxygen was sucked from the room and everything moved in slow motion. Carefully, gently, I responded, “No ma’am. Your son did not suffer.”

“Oh, thank you,” she surprise me. I rose to her embrace. “I’m so glad he didn’t suffer and that you were with him when he died.” Thank you, she repeated, wiping away the tears. Thank you.

You are welcome. 

—   

The pool felt good this morning. Lap after lap slid by, the silent count drummed by in my brain. Water walkers were in the lane to my left, swimmers churning water, passed me on my right. 

Slow is how I like to go. Deliberate. Disciplined. Holding back my full potential. 

Lent is a season of discipline, I remind myself.

Speed and strength are but memories of my youth. Wisdom keeps me in my place, protecting my geriatric frame and muscles from injury or harm. Head up. Eyes up, straining to look forward. Reaching, pulling, flying my hand over the surface back to the water before me. 

My hand skimming over the water, like the breath of God in the Creation. Ruach. 

The wind blows where it will. We neither know from where it came, or where it goes. That’s what Jesus said, so scripture informs us. 

Reach. Breathe. Pull. 

Where is it that I am going? Do we pull, or, are we pulled?

—-

Life settled down the eight years I served the parish in Palmyra. Church attendance hovered around ninety every Sunday. We were an active congregation, engaged in numerous local and distant missions. Church leadership liked to complain a lot, but we held it together for the common good.

We hosted twice a year chicken BBQs to bolster income, directing cars though the parking lot to a place where packaged dinners can be run out to the car. We cooked 625-750 chickens each round, halved, and flipped on huge home made wracks. Members of the parish were generous with donations of their time, pies, and all the makings for coleslaw. Our parsonage smelled like BBQ chicken for two weeks after each event.

My wife, Cynthia, was making the commute to her labor and delivery job in Geneva. Our son was taken to and from daycare in Canandaigua. There were church meetings a couple of times a week, senior citizens Bible study down at the high rise apartment complex in town, hospital and shut-in calls, worship planning, and sermon writing. I leveraged my math and computer science undergraduate to build a church web page right after Al Gore invented the internet. We were one of the first church web pages in existence. Email was delivered to my computer; too bad, in the early years, few were online to send it. There was no time for slowing down. In my early 30’s I felt invincible, professionally on an upward trajectory. The sky held no limits.

Except, I felt like I wanted more.

So, I did my medic thing and answered fire calls. I answered more than three hundred ambulance calls and over a hundred fire calls a year. House fires, car wrecks, heart attacks, strokes, childbirth, flooded basements, brush fires, mutual aid, homicides, suicides, you name it. Code 2479 meant “calling hours are from 2 to 4 pm, and 7 to 9.” The adrenaline rush was addictive.

I was the chairperson for the district Board of Ordained Ministry, the first committee beyond a local church were a person begins to explore a potential call to ordained ministry. This was a responsible volunteer job, balancing the reports and responsibilities for about thirty people at a time. The bishop placed me on the Conference Board of Ordained Ministry, a front row seat where all the sausage is made. Who gets in? Who’s in trouble? Who gets their ministerial status changed?

And yet, I wanted more. What about my seminary training and experience at Eastway Community Mental Health (Dayton, Ohio) conducting crisis interventions and psychiatric assessments? Though there was plenty of mental health concerns in the parish, I was wondering what kind of opportunities existed in the community.

A newspaper ad caught my attention. Clifton Springs Hospital and Clinic (CSHC) was looking for part-time Psychiatric Assessment Officers (PAOs). It felt like the heavens opened and the voice of God spoke. It wasn’t about the money; the church was fairly compensating me. My empathy for people suffering mental health crisis ran deep, especially those who faced the challenges of chronic disease. It was more about the thrill of busting into somebody’s mess and being the one to make everything better.

I applied and was hired. After a period of orientation in the day clinic, I was signed up on the rotating call schedule. Every third night between 7:00 pm and 7:00 am, I was the PAO on call for the emergency department. Everyone in psychiatric crisis from a three county area were brought into our ED for assessment. They came by police, ambulance, or they just walked in. Because of my role on the volunteer ambulance, I already knew and liked the ED doctors and nurses, and they liked me. In time, the psychiatrist I worked for grew to know and trust my work. If it was my opinion that a person was in need of involuntary treatment, with the power of a physician’s signature, they were taken away, most often never to be seen by me again. I was in and out of a persons mess in one hour or less; and that was the way I liked it.

Some nights on call, the pager was silent as a stone, and I’d get a good night sleep. Other nights, I’d get called in five or six times. Often, I’d be assessing one patient, or writing up my notes, when another person came in to the ED. In good weather, I loved to zoom in on my Honda CB-750, dressed in leather and helmet. The doctors called it a “donor cycle.” That always made me smile. I didn’t care; I looked and felt bad-assed.

Major depression was probably the most common complaint. A lot of people will have a major depressive episode in their lives, where they might lose weight, inability to sleep, feel long periods of depressed mood, or might have pervasive homicidal or suicidal thoughts. If untreated, depression can become chronic. Note to self: if overwhelmed by depression, get help. Get treated before an episode of depression changes brain chemistry and you’re left with a life-long, chronic disease. Assessment is straight forward. Treatment is effective. Medication and counseling works wonders. And medication is improving all the time.

Five or six major depression assessments in a row tended to make me feel a little depressed myself, so I loved to have the occasional bipolar or schizophrenic patient come along to mix things up. You know, to keep things interesting. Our team and I conducted assessments on children and youth, and elders and the frail. Drugs and alcohol, oh, my, led to substance abuse disorders, self-medicating, and additional poor life choices. The hospital was blessed with an out-patient mental health program, in-patient, a drug and alcohol floor, and even provided electro convulsive therapy (E.C.T.s), an effective and modern treatment for depression. The only mode we had lacking was an in-patient adolescence unit, but then, at that time, few hospitals provided psychiatric care for kids.

My plate was full. In fact, I was juggling a lot of plates. But, for the time being, I was able to keep them all spinning.

32. What Parents and a Parish Teaches

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Rural Yates County was the perfect place to begin my parish ministry. The people are salt of the earth, hardworking, generous above and beyond expectations. Faith runs deep. I had much to learn. 

Elderly residents of the local nursing home had much to teach me. I took my turn in the cue of pastors from nearby churches providing worship services on Sunday afternoon. Every six or eight weeks was my turn in the barrel. I quickly learned to bring my choir from Dresden. The overly sedated, room full of residents, dozing in Gerry-chairs were largely unresponsive to my skillfully crafted academic sermon of the day. When the choir began to sing one of the familiar gospel songs, everyone would perk up and began to sing. As soon as the song was complete and I began to speak again, everyone fell back asleep. 

I’ll take my humble pie with a slice of cheese, please.

An invitation came in soon after we moved in to join the Lectionary study group of United Methodist pastors that convened once a week in Geneva. Charlie Hess (who won the fishing boat in the Roman Catholic raffle, and refused to honor the Social Principles about gambling by giving it back) was the host pastor.

Sam Davis, smart as a tack, joined us from Seneca Falls. He never met a sugar donut he couldn’t resist, and ended up wearing powdered sugar all over his face and shirt. Gary Hakes hailed from Phelps, the father of one of my fishing camp nippers, and chair of the local chapter of Planned Parenthood. Progressive; my kind of guy. And Steve Parr, a long suffering elder serving a rural parish on the other side of the county, whose wife was the chaplain at the local private college. Steve was frugal, to the point of buying donuts in quantity from the local wholesaler then freezing them in his freezer. Instead of buying donuts from the local donut shoppe, he’d bring in frozen, sugar coated  pucks in a zip locked bag. Gotta love him.

The first morning I attended, I showed up with a stack of academic Biblical reference books and commentaries. Everyone burst out laughing. Sam Davis, a graduate of University of Chicago, was impressed. The next week, I bought the donuts.

The Lectionary study group taught me the value of peer fellowship, support, and humor. Life in the trenches of a Parish Pastor is rough, filled with huge doses of both laughter and tears. We were five white, privileged pastors dressed in Hush Puppies, raising families, juggling demands, and doing the best we could with what we had. With little supervision, we functioned as an accountable discipleship group. Our friendship lasted all lifelong. They are all gone now; I’m the last one standing. I smile with the warm memories of these giants in my life, gently guiding me through the challenges of Ordained Ministry. 

I learned much from the local undertakers.

Bruce owned one funeral home uptown in Penn Yan; Steve owned the other. The competition was friendly. Bruce served on the leadership team of a nearby United Methodist parish and he liked to gripe to me about the conference, Bishop, and denomination. He was also the source of much parish gossip: “I saw so and so at the pharmacy the other day. She was checking out with cart full of lubricating jell and weight loss supplements.”

Five minutes before one funeral, Bruce showed me a letter of complaint he sent to the bishop, claiming his pastor was engaged in inappropriate behavior. “What are you going to do about it,” he asked, the veins bulging from his temples and neck. “Well, nothing,” I replied, “because I have a funeral service to start.” 

Often the best response is a smile and silence. 

—

I couldn’t go to the pool this morning because a new clothing drying was being delivered. The old one stopped working after three years. Two hundred dollars for a repair man to assess the problem, then more to commence repairs, or, for a few dollars more, get a scratch-n-dent floor model replacement. I hate planned obsolescence and American consumerism. 

Two days ago I hit the pool for the first time in two weeks. We had traveled to the far coast to visit family. Cynthia and I took our time out and back, riding the train to take in all the scenery of our great land. Time with my brother and his family was priceless, much more fulfilling now that we are all retired. 

The water was cold and I doubted if I could swim hard for a full fifteen laps. But, I did. My arms and shoulders pulled at the water, pushing it behind, as my brain was lost in thought attempting to process all the conversations I had with family. 

What was the meaning of my (our) father’s early death? Does death have to have meaning? What about my (our) mother, living more than thirty years after dad died? That is a long time to be alone.

Our mother was a strong woman, I thought as I swam. She grew up in an orphanage, became the cutout for Rosy the Riveter, married dad after he returned from the Pacific, raised four children, followed Jesus and lived her life accordingly. When he died, she had to learn to make due on her own, balance a check book, return to driving, living independently. She did so with grace and humility. Mom died after nearly twenty years of Alzheimer’s in a nursing home at the height of COVID. Mom deserved better than me telling her that I loved her over the telephone while she took her final breaths.

My mother had taught me so much. Love. Faith. Grit. Hard work. And apple pies. Rare was the pie she didn’t give away to someone in need or from Dad’s parish or to a neighbor going through tough times. But every now and then, one of her pies were made just for us. 

—

The day was April 15th, a day made memorial by the Internal Revenue Service. In the dark of the early morning, the Plectron fired off the alarm to our volunteer fire department. Barn fire, at the cross roads of City Hill and Ridge. I jumped out of bed, stepped into my coveralls and shoes, and took off for the fire house, across the street and through two back yards. It was always a foot race to see who could get there first, Bill or me, my trusty church lay leader and friend. 

In the pre-dawn light I could see the mushroom cloud of a burning barn as I ran for the pumper. A barn to most of us is the image of rural life, a character from a Norman Rockwell painting, a calendar picture inviting us back to a simpler more wholesome time.

To a farmer, a barn is the center of a small business, generating income, often in competition with mounting expenses. A barn is a milking parlor, a hay mound, a storage space protected from wet elements. It houses valuable farm machinery, is home to cattle, a neighbor to a silo holding grain or chopped corn, and a place for kids to play.

This barn belonged to one of my church families. 

The string of pumpers, tankers, and the rescue truck snaked out of town, uphill in every direction. The water haulers carried a thousand or more gallons of water because only city people had hydrants. I drove the lead pumper, having won the foot race. Next to me was another volunteer, dressing and strapping in to his bunker gear to protect him from flame and heat.

The radio squawk from the chief, another one of my church leaders, now on scene in his personal vehicle, asking for mutual aid from at least ten neighboring fire departments. Barn fires needed a lot of water quickly. I feared this one was already beyond saving. 

I pulled into the farm yard to find the family and our chief frantically getting livestock and machinery out of the infernal. I had never seen a fire so large and frightening. “Oh Lord,” I prayed to myself, “don’t let me goof up.”

Tank-to-Pump lever; pulled. Pump primed. Hose lines laid and charged. Water flowing. Hard suction connected to the pump and pounded tight with a rubber mallet. Portable pond set up. Tankers from other departments arriving, waiting their turn to replenish the pond as fast as my pump would drain it. Sweat dripping in my eyes, tears for the family welling up in my eyes. 

My chief, Charlie, came over and looked me in the eye. “Todd,” he said somberly, “let someone else relieve you from the pumper. The family needs to see you inside the house.”

And so, the other shoe was about to drop. 

Around the dining room table sat Mom and dad, son and daughter, and a deputy sheriff. Eyes were down, the room was silent, the coffee pot announced a fresh pot was brewed. “Pastor Todd,” Mom said when she saw me, “come in and have a cup of coffee.” Mom was also a leader in my parish, a woman of strong faith, accustomed to hard work on the farm. 

The Sheriff asked the father about the farm and possible causes of the fire. Yes, there was electricity to the barn to run the lights and compressor for the milking machine. But he didn’t suspect there was a problem with the power. The night was clear so a lightning strike was doubtful. Dad truly had not a clue as to what may have started the barn fire. 

I sat waiting for divine inspiration. 

“Yesterday afternoon,” the son began speaking barely above a whisper, “my friend and I were playing in the barn. Just fooling around. We didn’t mean nothing. We got some matches and made a little fire. It didn’t get too big and we thought we put it out.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The guilt that descended was overwhelming. “I did it,” the young boy screamed, “but I didn’t mean to do it.” Tears burst the flood gate and he ran bawling to his room. The rest of us sat stunned in silence. 

“What do you want to do?” the deputy asked gently. All of us were thinking of legal actions, loss, and grief. All of us, except for dad. 

“When I was young,” dad began, “about the age of my son today, I, too, accidently burned down my Daddy’s barn. It was an accident. I knew, but no one else did. It’s been my secret these past forty years and it has always weighed heavy on my heart.” 

I thought of Christ on the cross, dying for our redemption. 

“The one person,” I carefully began, “who needs to hear your confession, is your son crying in his room.” 

The pause was pregnant. “You’re right, Pastor.” Dad pushed away from the table. “I gotta do what’s right.” Dad left us in the kitchen and went in to console and confess his sin to his son. 

That was a morning nearly forty years ago. It was a day in the life of this parish pastor where I learned about redemption, the depth of love Christ has for each of us, and the depth of love a father had for his son. 

30. The Post Office, Conflict, Voting, and Emergency Surgery

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Life serving a small parish was good. Expectations were low, so it was easy to excel.

Mornings were spent in the church office. There was no heat. In fact there was no office. I simply made space for myself out of a large closet and had moved in a glass top antique desk. When the temperature dropped below freezing, my hand would stick to the glass. Parishioners took pity on me, even thought they wondered what I was doing in the church building every morning. Someone kindly provided a kerosene heater. 

Each morning the mail would come in at the post office around 10 am. It was a social event, where I could catch up with everything happening in the neighborhood. While the post mistress filled each box, about ten women and I waited intently for each mailbox to be filled. Each had a husband or a live-in man who worked out of town. My neighbor, George, and I were often the only men in the village between 7 am and 5 pm. 

One morning I went to fetch my mail, waited patiently for my mailbox to be filled, opened the locked door, and removed the contents. Everyone in that cramped, little post office looked at me, at the mail in my hand, and had a panic look of a deer in headlights bug eyes. “Oh, my,” I thought to myself. “What did I do now?”

On top of my stack of mail, in plain sight for all to see, was a pornographic magazine; not one that could be described as soft, filled with worthwhile articles, so said every male who nervously turned every page. No, it was a raunchy magazine, the kind that was mailed in a protective, tinted plastic sleeve. 

“It isn’t mine,” I protested, turning every shade of red. Snickers abounded.

I took it to the window, behind which the post mistress held court. “Oh,” she said, looking over her cat glasses that sported a silver chain drooped around her neck. “I must have put it into the wrong mailbox.” She promptly slid the offending item into the post office box right above mine. We all knew who owned that box. 

A year or two later, I conducted the funeral of said mailbox owner. He had been one of the last blacksmiths before hiring on to work the coal piles at the Greenidge electrical generation power station. Covered with coal dust, I could only see the white of his eyes when I’d see him after his work. Laying peacefully in his casket, I trusted that he was now at peace at home with his God. 

—

The pool this morning was all business. Get in, get it on, get it over with. My thoughts churned with my flailing crawl. I had been recent witness to a sudden, emotionally charged, vulgar laced slur that took everyone in the room by surprise. It was defensive, instinctual, verbal violence meant to hurt and to harm. 

Others responded with tempered defense, while my broken heart filled with empathy for the one who took the unwarranted brunt of the offense. How one responds to such harm defines character and spiritual wellness. 

Now there is something to focus on, as the laps churned away, the cool morning water providing me with a sense of balance and support. Character. Spiritual wellness.

No, I do not like conflict. Most people don’t, with the exception of lawyers. But I’ve learned with time and experience that conflict is best dealt with immediately, with confidence, and kindness.

Delay results in retrenchment, resentment, and deepening malaise. My response should be balanced with love and insight regarding motives of those involved. Is someone’s anger coming from a childhood experience, from demons of addiction, from anxiety over marriage, children, or employment? Is their outlash the result of an untreated mental health condition? Sometimes it is as simple as their dog biting them in the butt as they went out the door that morning on the way to work. 

I can’t take away the anger and hurt of this world. But my faith, in the God of my experience and understanding, is able to work a healing balm into every broken soul. 

The soap and hot shower after my laps this morning cleansed my body of the pool’s chlorine and brought restoration.

—

One church in town. One cemetery. One  village, I paternalistically considered my own. It was a privilege to be with my people in their disease and death, connected with family and ancestors that had gone on before them. Many were the graves at which I stood, leading prayers of reluctant release from this mortal life into the hands of our eternal God. 

Graves trembled with each passing coal train that fed Greenidge’s boiler, generating electrical power to homes throughout the Finger Lakes. Skiffs transported employees and navy personnel to and from the barge anchored in the center of Seneca Lake conducting top secret research. School busses picked up and dropped off children as they went to and from school up town in Penn Yan. The hotel served up game dinners for hunters and served cold beer to a sublime cliental. 

The local town offices were shared with the highway department and a substation for the State Police. My wife and I presented ourselves to vote before election officials. “Last name, please,” as if they didn’t know the new preacher in town. Out was hauled a large binder of registered voters. “I can’t seem to find you here,” she said, as she licked her finger and leafed through the pages. “You are registered Republican, aren’t you?”

The room fell silent. All eyes were on Cynthia and me. 

“Um. No,” I confessed. “We are registered Democrats.” 

“Oh,” she sighed as she pulled out a one page list from a file folder. “Here you are,” she smiled weakly. We cast our votes with humility, having learned our lesson in small town life. 

The women in town were strong and formidable. They worked the vines for the exploding New York wine industry, trimming with both hands in the cold of winter. They worked chores on dairy farms along with the men, milking cows 365 days a year. Never a day of rest.

Women buried their dead husbands and lovers, who died an early cancerous death as a result of working the coal plant. One tended her husband’s home dialysis, another a loving, devoted caregiver for her husband with Parkinson’s. Yet another stood by her man, even when her man proved unworthy of her faithful love. One woman aged gracefully with her retired husband, another spent her time baking the most delicious Danish pastries to be shared with neighbors (and the occasional visit by her pastor). 

Neither did I find any slackers among the men in town. Salt of the earth. Hard workers. Raising their families as best as they knew how. Oh, there were some exceptions, but they were rare.

The men in town were interesting characters. Those who displayed odd behaviors or a peculiar character added color to an otherwise drab environment. One played the marimba every Memorial Day at church, while another arranged for a high school senior to recite the Gettysburg Address. I discovered one dancing with a tree in his front yard, as I walked home after a late night church meeting. No, I did not suspect he was under the influence. That is just the way he was; happy to dosey doe with a Dogwood.

Conflict was rare. It was a thankful reprieve from future experiences. One couple thought I wasn’t sufficiently conservative in my interpretation of the Bible that they sat disapprovingly in their pew with arms crossed and scowls on their face. I would not apologize for emphasizing grace over judgment or love over law. I let Jesus do the talking for me. 

Sunday morning was chilly and snow swept as I headed out for worship at the other church of my appointment, a tiny church that sat in the middle of a cornfield at the intersection of a former stage coach stop. Reluctantly, I left Cynthia behind with our newborn son, Nicholas, who had been up all night crying and vomiting. The doctor up town agreed to open up his office and see them as soon as they could get there. Our neighbor, George, offered to go with  them to the doctor. Off we went our separate ways. 

After the early worship service, I returned to town. Time was of the essence, especially if delayed by a slow, rumbling coal train that blocked entry into the village. I quickly parked in my reserved spot and entered the church office to don my white clerical apparel. Just in time, I processed into the sanctuary to organ music and an assembling crowd speaking to one another in low murmurs. I took my seat up front, behind the pulpit and altar table. As the organ played, I closed my eyes attempting to center myself, and pray that Nicholas was okay. 

Serenity was broken as one of my Trustees (and fire chief) approached my chair. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “George just went with Cynthia and Nicholas to the hospital in Geneva for emergency surgery. What do you want to do?” He asked. “I can take you to the hospital, if you want.”

“Yes, please,” was all I could weakly reply. 

I gathered my six page, double spaced, typed sermon and handed it off to my lay leader to read in my absence. Off we went. Buckled in. Lights and siren weren’t needed due to it being Sunday morning. Kindness. Appreciated beyond words. Thank you, Lord, for the kindness of a Parish who loved me back and a Trustee who delivered me to the hospital waiting room. 

A quick hernia repair and a short hospital stay averted catastrophe, and we returned home. Healed. Whole. Thankful.

14. Casowasco – Building Community

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When the end of June arrived, the four of us guys migrated to the Staff House, now known as Wesley Lodge. Goodbye disgusting shower and the flea infested chemical toilet! We got indoor plumbing! The rest of the staff arrived and moved in. The ratio went from 4:0 to 6:25, men to women. Life was improving.

The prior seven weeks were devoted to getting the property in shape for summer camp. Most evenings, after a long workday and sailing / water skiing, we, few set about the task of building the long anticipated Fourth of July campfire.

Each year boats from around Owasco Lake would gather offshore to gather around our campfire, strategically located where the creek poured into the lake. It appeared to be safely positioned far enough away to keep embers from catching Galilee on fire, our signature Lodge, yet, close enough to the water that we could easily shove it into the lake if things got out of hand.

Dave, lifelong friend and best man at my wedding, was the chain saw guy. I was on the International tractor, using the front loader as an elevated platform and the hitch to drag logs. Clint, another dear friend, drove the dump truck, and climbed to the top of the stack to help Dave place the logs. We might have had one or two helpers, but mostly, it was the three of us.

We seldom found logs suitable for our efforts laying on the ground, so we went about the extensive woods searching for trees to fell and add to our stack. Dave would drop the tree and cut to length the largest logs to fit into the Dodge Power wagon dump bed. Clint would chain me up, first, to skid the logs, then, to attach them to my front loader so I could place them in the truck. The woods we worked could be anywhere between flat level to near vertical. Chains, cables, and winches, Oh my!

We’d take a load to the campfire site down by the lake, dump the load, and begin to lift each log onto the pile. We built a four-sided fire log cabin style, wide at the bottom, tapered to the top. We’d fill the interior with old firewood that had turned punky and couldn’t be used in any of the fireplaces. Our first year, the fire was built to 17 and a half feet tall. My final year, the campfire was built to 35 feet. Galilee was beginning to appear uncomfortably close.

It was not unusual for the coals to be a couple of feet deep and the fire to burn for four or more days afterward. Yes. It was a big campfire. And it got bigger every summer.

Dave, Clint, and I were a team. We worked well together, enjoyed each other’s company, and shared a humorous trait for pulling practical jokes. We pilfered another male staff member’s underwear, put them in zip lock bags, soaked them in beer, and froze them in the staff house freezer! We commandeered a younger clergyman’s canoe one night, hulled it up the dinning hall bell tower, and skewered it five stories high, for him to find the next morning as he came for breakfast. Alan, I’m looking at you. Priceless!

We hauled a sailboat to the reservoir at the camp entrance, placed the lifeguard tower over top the mailbox, and greeted Captain John and his family when they drove in from Ohio to spend the summer on staff. Yes, we were wearing life jackets. The mailman was also duly amused. NY State DOT had the audacity to place a stop sign at the entrance to our road. It made a very nice card table.  

These were but a tiny fraction of the high jinks we took part in while on the summer staff.

One June evening, as the last light of the day was fading and the three of us were dead tired, I was lifting the last of the logs to the top of the stack. Clint and Dave swung a log onto the pile and Dave commenced to cutting the notches to keep it from rolling and solidly in place.

In an absent-minded moment, Dave rested the idling chain saw on his thigh. Yikes! Blood went everywhere. I lowered him with the front loader, Clint threw him into the cab of the truck, and off they raced to the Emergency Room at Auburn Memorial Hospital. Forty plus stitches later, Dave returned a wounded soldier to the sympathy of the female staff. Clint and I just rolled our eyes.

Dave and Clint were joined with other male friends over the years; Rick, Dale, Scott, Larry, Bob, Mark, Carter, and others. Casowasco gave us a connection. Experience gave us strength. God wove us into a tapestry of grace that continues to hold me over four decades later.

Guys will be guys; for which I am thankful.

…

The pool this morning was calling me by name, gave me my own lane, and provided me with the necessary buoyancy of grace to swim my 15 laps. Other than to count the laps ticking by, it was hard to meditate, to focus my thoughts.

Thoughts of the recent Homeowners Association board meeting were interrupted by yesterday’s FLACRA’s all staff meeting. As the chair of the board, they insisted I be photographed presenting numerous awards to their respected recipients. I’m not that photogenic!

Breaking news, interrupted thoughts, thinking about my recent introduction to members of two small country churches where I agreed to serve part time in retirement. Did they like me? They seemed really nice. Would we come to love each other as a pastor loves their flock? Please, Lord; I hope so.

Most trips to the pool bring calm, clarity, focus. Today, not so much. Yet, I’m thankful and the laps give my muscles a good work out.

…

Bob called staff meetings each week on Sunday evening. Campers had moved in, parents left (either smiling or crying), and our staff needed to coordinate requests and activities. The craft room needed more supplies. The store was running low on Maple Walnut ice cream. Three campers were allergic to bees and had Epi pens in case they got stung.

Most staff meetings were in Bob and Ruth’s living room. We piled in laying on the floor or draped over the chairs, giving each other back rubs (my, oh, my). We laughed a lot and shared common misery, like tales of Saturday cabin cleaning. A toilet needed unplugged, additional sailboats needed to be brought out of storage, and the dock needed to be leveled (especially on hot days).

The schedule was posted such that a staff member was in attendance at every campfire each evening. We led the singing, guided the devotions, and closed with prayers. Rules were spoken, such as, “no put down phrases,” and “since everyone is new, you have the opportunity to be yourself and create the reputation you want to live with.” Good stuff, right there.

The rest of the staff and I learned how to live in community. How to express our needs. How to listen and respond with empathy. How to communicate, especially with members of the opposite sex. Yes, romances came and went, ebbed and flowed. We support each other and when there was a need, we all pitched in. When there was grief, we all responded with words of comfort and acts of kindness.

Christian community, I learned, is a beautiful thing. It can be found in a local church or an AA meeting just as it can be created and found at summer camp among the staff.

And then, there was Mary Jo.

She was new to the Staff and by this time, I was one of the veterans. My dad was an ordained pastor, appointed by Mary Jo’s father, the resident bishop. A resident bishop in the United Methodist Church has a lot of power, especially over who is sent where to serve which church. Compensation and steeple size matters. Politics and pride were in constant tension with the good-old-boys network. Yeah, back in the day, the bishop and his superintendents were all back-room cigar chomping white male  deal makers.

There are a lot of skeletons in them there closets.

They didn’t get a long. My dad was stubborn, a Don Quixote charging windmills of injustice, destined to short-term pastorates in small rural churches with tiny little steeples. Bishop Yeakel exuded power and authority, looked like he stepped right off a movie set, and was loved by all; except for those who crossed him. He was right at home in the bishop’s chair in are largest cathedrals, wearing his pointy hat and flowing robes.

To say it was chilly between Mary Jo and me would be an understatement.

After so many weeks of the silent treatment, following one Sunday evening staff meeting, Mary Jo pulled me aside, got right into my comfort zone and said, “Look. Your dad doesn’t like my dad. My dad doesn’t like your dad. But. That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

I was stunned by Mary Jo’s stark honesty, her willingness to take risks for the sake of building a social network and our staff community, and her humility to swallow a healthy dose of pride. Yeah. Wow. “You’re right,” I said when the Spirit gave me a shove to break the deafening silence. “I’m willing to give it a try, if you are, too.”

The following day, Don has me using the backhoe to dig the footer for the staff house addition. It had to be straight, squared at the corners, and forty-eight inches deep to get the footer below the frost line. To this day, I still think a backhoe is a thing of beauty. In experienced hands, watching a backhoe work is like watching a maestro conducting an orchestra.

I wasn’t alone. Slightly behind me, my peripheral vision got a glimpse of Mary Jo standing, watching me dig. I turned, smiled, and shut down. “Good morning,” I said as I jumped down. I figured there was no better time like the present to start trying to be a friend. “Whatcha upto?” I asked.

“I always wanted to give that a try,” Mary Jo confessed. “It looks so cool.”

What an opportunity, I thought. “Hop up and let me show you how.” She sat in front of me. My arms wrapped around her and my hands guided her movement on the control levers. It was a little like that movie with the pottery wheel and music, but not really. It was more like two people who God had brought together to become friends.

Later, I was seeking a seminary to attend after I completed college. Mary Jo invited me to visit her in Dayton OH. She was going to be starting her second year at United Theological Seminary. Though accepted and tempted with generous financial packages, I didn’t want to attend where my dad attended (Drew in Madison NJ) or nearby Colgate (Rochester NY). I stayed with Mary Jo and slept on her apartment floor. She gave me the grand tour and introduced me to as many professors as she could find.

I was sold. If it hadn’t been for God working through Mary Jo, my life and call would have gone in entirely different directions.

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of Casowasco, for the people who became such important influences in my life, for lifelong friends, for community, for grace and love, for your call to be an ordained pastor.

8. Addison and Vernon Lee

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Things went south for dad’s pastoral ministry in New Jersey and the U-Hall was backing up to the parsonage for parts unknown. I didn’t know why and I didn’t ask. We were moving to Addison, New York where dad would serve the Addison / Woodhull parish while commuting to seminary. New house, new school, new friends, oh my. 

Addison was right on the mainline Erie Lackawanna. Trains that passed nearby in New Jersey passed right behind dad’s church in Addison. It seemed that every Sunday during the Lord’s Prayer, the quiet of a church sanctuary got a dose of the blaring horn and earthquake that rocked the building as a passing freight passed mere feet from the back door. 

That back door. I recall Mom, dad, and me meeting the district superintendent (and future mentor of mine), Vernon Lee, at the church for dad’s interview with the Pastor Parish Relations Committee. The back door hung by one hinge. Vern told us that he’d fix that door if only he brought along a screwdriver. He would have, too.  First impressions matter.

Addison was a hard drinking, hard scrabble town. One Sunday, dad arrived at the church early for worship when he found a suspected arsonist passed out drunk in one of the Sunday school rooms. He had started 17 fires around the building. Thankfully, none of them amounted to anything other than a huge mess. Probably spared his life, too. 

The prospect of burning down a church appeared to me to be positively evil. All was not right with the world, even my simple 9th grade mind could see the evidence. 

The pool today was quiet and refreshing. Laps went quickly as my mind dwelt on those days spent in Addison. It would be more than a week before I can return since a family trip is scheduled to begin tomorrow morning at the Rochester airport. It felt great to glide through the water, my eyes inches from the bottom, feeling like flying.

School was filled with bullies and fist de cuffs. I gravitated towards a group of kids from church who tried to fly beneath the radar of the carnivores. Even still, we witnessed teachers being assaulted and kids being dragged into the bathrooms to serve as punching bags for the alpha males. 

My English teacher, Mr. U, was a member of the parish. He also drank in school. We all knew he had a pint in his lower desk drawer. Down the hall was the shop class, where Mr. N was king. He was short, fat, and the first non-white person I had ever met. He was always angry at us kids. No one dared cross him. 

In shop class, our period was coming to an end. I cleaned my bench and stood next to it waiting for the class bell. A kerfuffle rose behind me, and Mr. N stormed in our direction. He took two kids from behind me and myself out into the hall. In his hands was his self-made, notorious “Board of Education”. He made us line up in the hall with our hands on the wall. He summoned Mr. U to act as a witness, I suppose, and laid into our asses with rage and furry. I cried, it hurt so much. I cried because I knew I had done nothing deserving of corporal punishment. Injustice laid bare was, and is painful. 

When I met Dad after school, he was outraged. Despite my pleading, he marched down to the school to talk with the principle. My life, already difficult, was about to get really complicated. I don’t know what became of the yelling behind closed doors, but I knew that Mr. U and Mr. N gave me a wide birth for the rest of the school year.

Dad had my back. A father’s love provided protection, stood up to injustice, and helped me navigate through the growing complexities of life. 

Evil. Real. And dangerous.

Injustice. Systemic. Insidious. 

A Father’s love was able to overcome both. Lesson learned.