Christ In Winter: reflections on faith from a place of winter for years of winter…
It’s Christmas, almost, and I miss my friend, Phyllis, for it was at Christmas time that I first met her, when we were both ten years old. I miss her especially when I hear “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”
My family had moved from the working-class near-east side of Indianapolis to the country near Oakland City in March. Phyllis and I were both in fifth grade, but I didn’t meet her until Christmas time. I was in 5-A, kids who started school in January, and she was 5-B, kids who started in Sept. She lived in town and I rode a school bus. And we went to different churches.
I went to Forsythe, an open-country Methodist church. Phyllis’ father, Jimmy Graham, was the pastor at Oak Grove General Baptist Church, a mile down the gravel road from Forsythe, while he attended Oakland City College [now Oakland City Univ]. Those churches held different theologies, but we shared a common culture, and so we also shared a common VBS and Christmas program. It was at that shared Christmas program in 1947 that I met Phyllis.
After the little children had “said their pieces,” and the older ones had sung a carol in a rag-tag choir, there was an excited stirring, especially among the Methodists, who were not used to excitement in church, at least not of the Baptist kind. Everyone looked to the back of the church. Striding confidently forward, holding an accordion almost as large as she, came this skinny little girl. She stepped up onto the platform, worked the bellows, and began to sing, with the deepest, fullest voice I had ever heard. Her song was “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” Longfellow’s 1863 poem, written in the midst of the Civil War, later set to John Calkin’s music.
I had never before heard a song like that, or a voice like that. It seemed like I was in the presence of royalty, or perhaps twelve-year old Elizabeth Taylor in “National Velvet,” or Margaret O’Brien in “Meet Me in St. Louis.” [1]
I met Phyllis then, but she didn’t meet me. Because of different grades and buses and churches, we didn’t really meet until we were freshmen in high school. We met then because I was in the girls’ biology class.
I was a mid-year student, and worked on the school newspaper and sang in the chorus. In a small school, with limited class offerings, that meant a confused class schedule. As a freshman, I had the second semester of “Commercial Arithmetic,” without benefit of the first semester, with mostly junior girls, and since I was otherwise scheduled during the boys’ biology class, I was placed in the girls’ class, taught by Iva Jane McCrary, the “old maid” home ec teacher. Phyllis and I sat across a big sewing table from each other. Phyllis was quite pretty and very smart, which meant that I could look at her or her test paper and expect erudition in either case.
The high point of freshman biology was learning about “human reproduction,” which took two whole days. When those two days came, though, Sammy Kell and I, Sammy being the only other boy with a class schedule as eccentric as mine, were sent off to sit in the principal’s outer office during class, since we did not have the right mind-set, or equipment, presumably, to learn about human reproduction with the girls.
When I returned to class, I asked Phyllis about what I had missed. “I think you’ll still be able to have children,” she said.
In our sophomore year, Phyllis’ father graduated from college and took a church in Tennessee. I did not see her again until I was the new Methodist campus minister at Indiana State University and Rose Polytechnic in Terre Haute, just graduated from Garrett Theological Seminary, and she was a new professor of mathematics at Indiana State, having just received a PhD from Indiana University. Typically of Phyllis, she had done graduate work in math because she felt it was her weakest subject, thus the one in which she needed extra work to be a truly educated person.
Phyllis was pleased that I had indeed been able to have children, two darling little girls. She became a member of our family, a special aunt to Mary Beth and Katie, sharing meals and picnics and friends.
The Wesley Foundation did not have its own worship services, and as the new campus minister, I got to preach only once a semester at Centenary Church. By the time those rare Sundays came around, I had a lot of ideas and passion stored up. Those were Sundays when Phyllis became a Methodist. After one of those sermons, she waited until everyone else had filed past me at the door, then reached up and grabbed me by the top of my robe and pulled me down to her face and said, “You don’t know it yet, but when you’re in that pulpit, you’re something special. People will believe what you say just because of the way you say it. So you make damn sure you say the truth.”
So, in memory of my friend, whom I miss especially at Christmas time, I will say the truth, words I first heard in the full husky voice of a skinny little girl:
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead nor doth he sleep.’
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth good will to men.’
May the peace of God be with you,
JRMcF
[1] I had a special crush on Margaret O’Brien because I had seen a photo of her holding the same fifth-grader reader I used at Lucretia Mott Public School # 3 in Indianapolis. Interestingly, at least to me, Margaret shares a birthday with Joe Frazier, the baritone of the Chad Mitchell Trio and Episcopal vicar in Big Bear Lake, CA. Each is 19 days further advanced in decrepitude than I.
[Some of the words above I spoke at Phyllis' memorial service, and some appear in my book, "The Strange Calling."
(Unless inspiration strikes unexpectedly, this will be the last Christ in Winter post until next year. Happy New Year!)
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
Iron Mountain ski jump
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Applause at Christmas
Christ In Winter: reflections on faith from a place of winter for the years of winter…
I have been applauded only twice in church, church applause being reserved for musicians and children, and both of those occasions were at Christmas, perhaps because Christmas is a season that features musicians and children, and the folks were already in the mood to applaud.
The first was Forsythe Methodist, open country, about three miles out of Oakland City, IN. We had moved there in March after I was the young shepherd in the East Park Methodist Christmas play in Indianapolis. I became a real shepherd, not of sheep, but cows and pigs and chickens. Later, when I was a freshman at IU, I was asked to be the narrator for the Christmas program at Forsythe. I was a little late for rehearsal, having hitchhiked down from Bloomington after my last class, and when I walked in, all the gathered children, perhaps 30, plus a choir put together for the occasion, since Forsythe was too small to have a choir for ordinary time, spontaneously broke into applause. I was considerably embarrassed and tremendously pleased. Forsythe had always accepted me, and now it applauded me, just for showing up.
My second occasion of applause was a Christmas at Wesley UMC in Charleston, IL. On Christmas Sunday, I made one of those stupid-preacher mistakes, the ones that are obviously mistakes after you’ve done them but which you don’t recognize as such beforehand. The children and I were lighting the Advent wreath and the Christ candle during “Special Time With Children.” I asked for volunteers. We got all the candles lighted. But there were still little hands up, volunteering, but no more candles. I snuffed out the candles and asked if anyone else would like to help light things up. The congregation broke into applause. [1] We re-lighted, with new volunteers. We kept repeating that until every child had lighted one of the candles.
In those occasions of applause, I learned the true meaning of Christmas: everybody should have a chance at sharing the light, and if you show up late, you’ll find out how folks really feel about you.
JRMcF
[1] I later learned that it was Art Snider, an academic counselor at Eastern IL U, who started the applause. He recently told me, “I always felt sorry for you. You hated administration so much, and the church was so big and the staff so small, you had to do a lot of it. I thought you should have staff members to do that stuff, so you could concentrate on preaching and pastoring, like Harry Emerson Fosdick at Riverside Church in New York.” It’s nice to think that someone once thought of me in the same sentence as HEF.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
I have been applauded only twice in church, church applause being reserved for musicians and children, and both of those occasions were at Christmas, perhaps because Christmas is a season that features musicians and children, and the folks were already in the mood to applaud.
The first was Forsythe Methodist, open country, about three miles out of Oakland City, IN. We had moved there in March after I was the young shepherd in the East Park Methodist Christmas play in Indianapolis. I became a real shepherd, not of sheep, but cows and pigs and chickens. Later, when I was a freshman at IU, I was asked to be the narrator for the Christmas program at Forsythe. I was a little late for rehearsal, having hitchhiked down from Bloomington after my last class, and when I walked in, all the gathered children, perhaps 30, plus a choir put together for the occasion, since Forsythe was too small to have a choir for ordinary time, spontaneously broke into applause. I was considerably embarrassed and tremendously pleased. Forsythe had always accepted me, and now it applauded me, just for showing up.
My second occasion of applause was a Christmas at Wesley UMC in Charleston, IL. On Christmas Sunday, I made one of those stupid-preacher mistakes, the ones that are obviously mistakes after you’ve done them but which you don’t recognize as such beforehand. The children and I were lighting the Advent wreath and the Christ candle during “Special Time With Children.” I asked for volunteers. We got all the candles lighted. But there were still little hands up, volunteering, but no more candles. I snuffed out the candles and asked if anyone else would like to help light things up. The congregation broke into applause. [1] We re-lighted, with new volunteers. We kept repeating that until every child had lighted one of the candles.
In those occasions of applause, I learned the true meaning of Christmas: everybody should have a chance at sharing the light, and if you show up late, you’ll find out how folks really feel about you.
JRMcF
[1] I later learned that it was Art Snider, an academic counselor at Eastern IL U, who started the applause. He recently told me, “I always felt sorry for you. You hated administration so much, and the church was so big and the staff so small, you had to do a lot of it. I thought you should have staff members to do that stuff, so you could concentrate on preaching and pastoring, like Harry Emerson Fosdick at Riverside Church in New York.” It’s nice to think that someone once thought of me in the same sentence as HEF.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
The True Meaning of Christmas
Christ In Winter: reflections on faith from a place of winter for the years of winter…
“The True Meaning of Christmas”
The first place I learned the true meaning of Christmas was East Park Methodist, on New York St. in Indianapolis, almost to Rural St, 6 or 7 blocks from our house.
I was nine years old and had the second lead in a two-man Christmas play. I can’t remember the title. I was a young shepherd who learned the true meaning of Christmas from an older shepherd when the star of Bethlehem appeared to us.
The older shepherd was William B. Lewis, about fifteen years old, who was always called by his entire name. I would walk at night, by myself, in the dark, along New York St, where the bullies hung out in front of the hardware store, to meet William B. Lewis to rehearse. If the person with the key didn’t show up in time, or at all, to unlock the church, William B. Lewis and I would hang around on the church steps and talk about comic books. He favored “Don Winslow of the Navy,” since WWII had just ended and military comics were quite popular. I felt a bit inferior, since I still liked “little kid” comic books, Disney stuff like Mickey Mouse.
When the Christmas program time came, though, it was William B. Lewis who had spent too much time on comic books and had not learned his lines. It was my first experience with improv, but I managed to carry us both and learn the true meaning of Christmas—you need to know your lines, but be ready to improvise.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
“The True Meaning of Christmas”
The first place I learned the true meaning of Christmas was East Park Methodist, on New York St. in Indianapolis, almost to Rural St, 6 or 7 blocks from our house.
I was nine years old and had the second lead in a two-man Christmas play. I can’t remember the title. I was a young shepherd who learned the true meaning of Christmas from an older shepherd when the star of Bethlehem appeared to us.
The older shepherd was William B. Lewis, about fifteen years old, who was always called by his entire name. I would walk at night, by myself, in the dark, along New York St, where the bullies hung out in front of the hardware store, to meet William B. Lewis to rehearse. If the person with the key didn’t show up in time, or at all, to unlock the church, William B. Lewis and I would hang around on the church steps and talk about comic books. He favored “Don Winslow of the Navy,” since WWII had just ended and military comics were quite popular. I felt a bit inferior, since I still liked “little kid” comic books, Disney stuff like Mickey Mouse.
When the Christmas program time came, though, it was William B. Lewis who had spent too much time on comic books and had not learned his lines. It was my first experience with improv, but I managed to carry us both and learn the true meaning of Christmas—you need to know your lines, but be ready to improvise.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Tirckiest Spritziest Christmas Cookies
CHRIST IN WINTER: reflections on faith from a place of winter for the years of winter…
[Today is replete with Academy of Parish Clergy friends. Paul Binder, who passed along the “Florida Wonderland” song, reminds me that he is from Mt. Vernon, IN, not New Albany, which I should have remembered, since my Oakland City teams played in the same conference,” The Pocket Athletic Conference,” as Mt. Vernon, although he moved there at 15 after growing up in Seattle. He is a Purdue grad, which punishment surely must absolve him from all the rest of his sins. Another FL APC friend, David Imhoff, says he is already singing “Florida Wonderland” at the nursing homes and other gatherings where he ministers at this time of year. And APC friend Suzanne Schaeffer-Coates posted recently that she was going to bake her trickiest cookies because middle son Malcolm said they are his favorite. Helen couldn’t stand not knowing just how tricky they were so asked, and got this reply…]
My trickiest cookies are what you'd call Spritz cookies, and I call "cookie gun" cookies.
In my first church there was an old lady, who I thought was older than God. She made the best Christmas cookies, and my favorite ones were these Spritz cookies. She gave me the recipe, and I bought a cookie gun in a yard sale, and set to work. The cookie gun made me crazy, as I could never get the timing right and I'd either have too much blob or not enough, and when it did start pushing out the cookies, I had to go likity split to keep up with it.
It turns out that Jane had given me the recipe by memory and had messed it up, so the ruined cookies weren't entirely my fault. The next Christmas, she drove herself to my house with her cookie gun, her recipe, and her cookie sheets. She made me buy a pound of Land O' Lakes butter (and leave it out the night before - she even called me the night before to make sure I'd put the butter out - to soften), Pillsbury flour (not Gold Medal), fresh McCormack Almond Extract, sugar and whole milk, and large eggs and PAM. When she got there, she made me lay out all of her's and my cookie sheets, and then mix the dough. The last cup has to be mixed by hand (literally, by hands). Then the assembly line, poom, poom, poom, pop out those cookies. Her hand operated cookie gun just spat them out perfectly. Then one sheet at a time, into the oven. 4 minutes...turn the sheet around facing the other way. 4 more minutes...out. New sheet in, set timer, take cookies off hot sheet onto cooling racks. Wash sheets between batches.
I was exhausted when we were finished. She was fresh as a daisy and helped me clean up, and took her stuff home with her - leaving me all the cookies, because she was going to make another batch at home.
For Christmas she gave me $$ to buy new cookie sheets and cooling racks. The following years, as she got even older, she came down to supervise my baking "her" cookies, and sat in a rocking chair and rocked baby Henry while I made them under her watchful eye. After she died, I continue to make the cookies every year, enjoying the memories, but hating the hard work and my electric cookie gun. I'd try other cookie guns that I bought in subsequent yard sales, but couldn't get the pressure right.
As I said in my FB "post", I stopped making them two years ago, but last year Malcolm said that he missed them, so I knew I had to make them this year. Last week, looking for something else in Walmart, I saw a $10.00 cookie gun that said that it measured out the exact amount of dough each time. So on the appointed day, I got out my cookie sheets, "Pammed" them, made the dough (butter softening all night, new Pillsbury flour, fresh eggs, whole milk, fresh almond extract, sugar, etc.), opened the cookbook to Jane's handwritten recipe, and set to, channeling her in my thoughts. The new cookie gun worked a treat, and in less time than I would have thought possible, they were done (yes, I turned the cookie sheets every four minutes), I was cleaned up, and had two tins of cookies.
Malcolm is happy, I am happy, and in heaven, I know that Jane is happy.
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
[Today is replete with Academy of Parish Clergy friends. Paul Binder, who passed along the “Florida Wonderland” song, reminds me that he is from Mt. Vernon, IN, not New Albany, which I should have remembered, since my Oakland City teams played in the same conference,” The Pocket Athletic Conference,” as Mt. Vernon, although he moved there at 15 after growing up in Seattle. He is a Purdue grad, which punishment surely must absolve him from all the rest of his sins. Another FL APC friend, David Imhoff, says he is already singing “Florida Wonderland” at the nursing homes and other gatherings where he ministers at this time of year. And APC friend Suzanne Schaeffer-Coates posted recently that she was going to bake her trickiest cookies because middle son Malcolm said they are his favorite. Helen couldn’t stand not knowing just how tricky they were so asked, and got this reply…]
My trickiest cookies are what you'd call Spritz cookies, and I call "cookie gun" cookies.
In my first church there was an old lady, who I thought was older than God. She made the best Christmas cookies, and my favorite ones were these Spritz cookies. She gave me the recipe, and I bought a cookie gun in a yard sale, and set to work. The cookie gun made me crazy, as I could never get the timing right and I'd either have too much blob or not enough, and when it did start pushing out the cookies, I had to go likity split to keep up with it.
It turns out that Jane had given me the recipe by memory and had messed it up, so the ruined cookies weren't entirely my fault. The next Christmas, she drove herself to my house with her cookie gun, her recipe, and her cookie sheets. She made me buy a pound of Land O' Lakes butter (and leave it out the night before - she even called me the night before to make sure I'd put the butter out - to soften), Pillsbury flour (not Gold Medal), fresh McCormack Almond Extract, sugar and whole milk, and large eggs and PAM. When she got there, she made me lay out all of her's and my cookie sheets, and then mix the dough. The last cup has to be mixed by hand (literally, by hands). Then the assembly line, poom, poom, poom, pop out those cookies. Her hand operated cookie gun just spat them out perfectly. Then one sheet at a time, into the oven. 4 minutes...turn the sheet around facing the other way. 4 more minutes...out. New sheet in, set timer, take cookies off hot sheet onto cooling racks. Wash sheets between batches.
I was exhausted when we were finished. She was fresh as a daisy and helped me clean up, and took her stuff home with her - leaving me all the cookies, because she was going to make another batch at home.
For Christmas she gave me $$ to buy new cookie sheets and cooling racks. The following years, as she got even older, she came down to supervise my baking "her" cookies, and sat in a rocking chair and rocked baby Henry while I made them under her watchful eye. After she died, I continue to make the cookies every year, enjoying the memories, but hating the hard work and my electric cookie gun. I'd try other cookie guns that I bought in subsequent yard sales, but couldn't get the pressure right.
As I said in my FB "post", I stopped making them two years ago, but last year Malcolm said that he missed them, so I knew I had to make them this year. Last week, looking for something else in Walmart, I saw a $10.00 cookie gun that said that it measured out the exact amount of dough each time. So on the appointed day, I got out my cookie sheets, "Pammed" them, made the dough (butter softening all night, new Pillsbury flour, fresh eggs, whole milk, fresh almond extract, sugar, etc.), opened the cookbook to Jane's handwritten recipe, and set to, channeling her in my thoughts. The new cookie gun worked a treat, and in less time than I would have thought possible, they were done (yes, I turned the cookie sheets every four minutes), I was cleaned up, and had two tins of cookies.
Malcolm is happy, I am happy, and in heaven, I know that Jane is happy.
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Monday, December 20, 2010
A Hot Time in the Years of Winter
My Academy of Parish Clergy friend, Paul Binder, who lives in FL, even though he is originally from IN, New Albany, if I remember correctly, sent the winter song below. It is a good reminder that not everyone who lives in the years of winter can expect a white Christmas, unless it’s white sand. Thanks, Paul, and Merry Christmas!
Florida Wonderland
(sung to the tune of Winter Wonderland)
Sea shells ring, are you list'nin'?
On the beach sand is glist'nin'
What a wonderful sight we're happy tonight'
Walkin' in our Florida Wonderland
Gone away is the blue bird, here again is the snow bird
We sing a love song, as we go along
Walkin' in our Florida Wonderland
On the beaches we can build a sandman
And pretend that he is lifeguard Brown
He'll say, “Are you sweatin'?” We'll say, “No man,
Cause we can go in swimmin' all year round.”
Later on we'll perspire as we float on a tire
To face unafraid the plans that we've made'
Walkin' in our Florida Wonderland.
(By an anonymous lyricist, fortunately!)
Florida Wonderland
(sung to the tune of Winter Wonderland)
Sea shells ring, are you list'nin'?
On the beach sand is glist'nin'
What a wonderful sight we're happy tonight'
Walkin' in our Florida Wonderland
Gone away is the blue bird, here again is the snow bird
We sing a love song, as we go along
Walkin' in our Florida Wonderland
On the beaches we can build a sandman
And pretend that he is lifeguard Brown
He'll say, “Are you sweatin'?” We'll say, “No man,
Cause we can go in swimmin' all year round.”
Later on we'll perspire as we float on a tire
To face unafraid the plans that we've made'
Walkin' in our Florida Wonderland.
(By an anonymous lyricist, fortunately!)
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Geniuses Don't Repeat
Christ In Winter: reflections on faith from a place of winter for the years of winter…
Geniuses Don’t Repeat
One of the good things about looking back over your life in old age is that you can see who you really were and are. In that process, I have learned that I am a genius.
That’s partly because Jane Smiley has pointed out my genius in her book about John Atanasoff, who invented the computer. It’s not that he and I are the same sort of genius, although I am amazingly proficient at un-inventing the computer, inventing ways to make it NOT work. Geniuses, however, have certain traits in common. Smiley lists those traits. I have them all.
Once having conquered a field, a genius gets bored and moves on to something else. That’s my story. I once had a straight-A semester in college so did not feel the need to do it again. I ran a marathon. I won a contest and got a poem published. I wrote a book and got it published. I went to spring training with the Cincinnati Reds. I won the love of a beautiful woman. No need to repeat. That’s genius.
Suzanne Schaefer-Coates said on Facebook, after I posted “When Father Rode the Mail,” that I should post a Christmas story each day until Christmas. I replied that then I wouldn’t have anything for subsequent years. That caused Naomi Roberts to point out that a writer does not hold back. [1] But that would be a repeat. I’m not holding back, Naomi, but because I’m a genius, I don’t repeat.
Several weeks back a reader of this blog wrote to Abingdon Press and suggested to the editor that he get me to write a book. He replied to her that he had looked at the blog and that it was indeed okay and that I should contact him. The reader forwarded his reply to me. I have done nothing about it. That’s not procrastination nor is it laziness; it’s just the way of us geniuses. I’ve already written a book. Four, in fact. No need to repeat.
Cancer research indicates that patients who get better DON’T do things for other people. It also indicates that patients who get better DO do things for other people. What? The difference is the feeling of obligation. If you do for others because you feel obliged, you get worse. If you do for others because you want to, you get better. People who stop doing out of obligation get better, but they get even more better if they do good by choice.
One of the advantages of old age is declining energy. I have more good things to do for others without obligation than my time and energy allows, so there is no need to do obligatory things in order to be a good person.
I’ve often thought about writing a book of reflections for old folks, sort of like “Now That I Have Cancer I Am Whole,” my book of reflections for cancer patients, and those who love them. I’ve even worked on it from time to time. My title was to be “Bloom Before You’re Planted.” It’s actually Helen’s title. I was extolling Walt Wagener as the best example I know of blooming where one is planted. She said, “I want to bloom BEFORE I’m planted.” It’s a wonderful thought, and a great title. “Christ In Winter” is a good title, too. But taking it on with an actual publisher, with an editor like Ron Kidd, that would feel like an obligation, and geniuses don’t do obligation. It leads too easily to repetition.
May the genius of the present moment be with you,
JRMcF
[1] That’s one of the problems with Facebook; your friends can see how you are trying to weasel and call you on it. Naomi thinks that I am a writer, instead of a genius, because we met as members of The Red Herring Fiction Workshop in Urbana, IL, instead of Mensa. Come to that, I don’t think either of us are members of Mensa, either.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
Geniuses Don’t Repeat
One of the good things about looking back over your life in old age is that you can see who you really were and are. In that process, I have learned that I am a genius.
That’s partly because Jane Smiley has pointed out my genius in her book about John Atanasoff, who invented the computer. It’s not that he and I are the same sort of genius, although I am amazingly proficient at un-inventing the computer, inventing ways to make it NOT work. Geniuses, however, have certain traits in common. Smiley lists those traits. I have them all.
Once having conquered a field, a genius gets bored and moves on to something else. That’s my story. I once had a straight-A semester in college so did not feel the need to do it again. I ran a marathon. I won a contest and got a poem published. I wrote a book and got it published. I went to spring training with the Cincinnati Reds. I won the love of a beautiful woman. No need to repeat. That’s genius.
Suzanne Schaefer-Coates said on Facebook, after I posted “When Father Rode the Mail,” that I should post a Christmas story each day until Christmas. I replied that then I wouldn’t have anything for subsequent years. That caused Naomi Roberts to point out that a writer does not hold back. [1] But that would be a repeat. I’m not holding back, Naomi, but because I’m a genius, I don’t repeat.
Several weeks back a reader of this blog wrote to Abingdon Press and suggested to the editor that he get me to write a book. He replied to her that he had looked at the blog and that it was indeed okay and that I should contact him. The reader forwarded his reply to me. I have done nothing about it. That’s not procrastination nor is it laziness; it’s just the way of us geniuses. I’ve already written a book. Four, in fact. No need to repeat.
Cancer research indicates that patients who get better DON’T do things for other people. It also indicates that patients who get better DO do things for other people. What? The difference is the feeling of obligation. If you do for others because you feel obliged, you get worse. If you do for others because you want to, you get better. People who stop doing out of obligation get better, but they get even more better if they do good by choice.
One of the advantages of old age is declining energy. I have more good things to do for others without obligation than my time and energy allows, so there is no need to do obligatory things in order to be a good person.
I’ve often thought about writing a book of reflections for old folks, sort of like “Now That I Have Cancer I Am Whole,” my book of reflections for cancer patients, and those who love them. I’ve even worked on it from time to time. My title was to be “Bloom Before You’re Planted.” It’s actually Helen’s title. I was extolling Walt Wagener as the best example I know of blooming where one is planted. She said, “I want to bloom BEFORE I’m planted.” It’s a wonderful thought, and a great title. “Christ In Winter” is a good title, too. But taking it on with an actual publisher, with an editor like Ron Kidd, that would feel like an obligation, and geniuses don’t do obligation. It leads too easily to repetition.
May the genius of the present moment be with you,
JRMcF
[1] That’s one of the problems with Facebook; your friends can see how you are trying to weasel and call you on it. Naomi thinks that I am a writer, instead of a genius, because we met as members of The Red Herring Fiction Workshop in Urbana, IL, instead of Mensa. Come to that, I don’t think either of us are members of Mensa, either.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Joy to the Mysterious World
Christ in Winter, Dec. 18, 2010…
Vic Stolzfus, although Mennonite, was a member of Wesley UMC in Charleston, IL when I pastored there, and the Chair of the Sociology Dept at EIU. He went on to become President of Goshen College, and is now retired and rewound.
As we move toward the mystery of Christmas I would like to pass along to you a quote from an African friend of Vic’s: “I would rather live in a world surrounded by mystery than live in a world so small my mind could comprehend it.”
Vic Stolzfus, although Mennonite, was a member of Wesley UMC in Charleston, IL when I pastored there, and the Chair of the Sociology Dept at EIU. He went on to become President of Goshen College, and is now retired and rewound.
As we move toward the mystery of Christmas I would like to pass along to you a quote from an African friend of Vic’s: “I would rather live in a world surrounded by mystery than live in a world so small my mind could comprehend it.”
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