Random Reasons, Part 4

"Doesn't that make you hotter in this weather?" the bus passenger asked.

This conversation occurred hours after the first round, which I drove in a vehicle without AC with internal temps reading around 113. That's the highest I've ever seen in a bus. It might actually be the top of the scale, so that it could have been even more. Later in the day, the replacement bus was a more civilized 83 degrees.

The surprising basic answer is: Actually, there are only a few days every summer when I am ready to tear it from my head because it feels like it is adding to the burden of the heat. Other than those rare times, it offers a little protection from direct sun. And I've never had a sunburned "part" in my hair since I began wearing it. Small but nice benefit. My hair stubbornly parts itself, even when firmly brushed and tied straight back. For this reason alone I will never be mistaken for a birthright Old German Baptist, since their hair always obediently flows straight back from hairline to covering edge to bun.

The more complicated answer is that the covering offers a unique line of defense against the heat. Being cotton, it absorbs and evaporates water quite effectively. So when the heat bothers me, I just whisk it off for a moment, soak it down with water from my water bottle, the hose, etc., wring it out, and put it back on. Probably no one has ever noticed that it was wet. But unless the weather is terribly humid, it makes a huge difference in helping my body keep at a functional temperature.

The passenger's follow-up comment was, "That string under the chin would drive me crazy!"

It took a little getting used to. Going through that transition in the mountains of British Columbia, where (no matter what they say) it is never too hot or too humid was a good start. I found in my first few coverings that the exact fit has a lot to do with the comfort of the strings. The little bit of elastic at the nape of the neck is a nice modern touch on my Old Order River Brethren style covering...the Old German Baptists have just a rigid binding at the back, so there's less flex in the chin strings.

Sometimes, like my OORB friends, I'll untie the strings for awhile when I'm in a semi-private setting. Some denominations never tie the strings, but leave them hanging down loose. Some have a long continuous ribbon that loops across the back of the shoulders without holding anything, or ribbons that are tied loosely at the collarbone--purely vestigial. Some cover just the back of the head, and not the ears like mine does. Most women, but especially these, rely on a straight pin at the top of the front to hold the covering firmly to the hair. It doesn't seem like it would be effective, but it is. I like the OORB style for its plain, practical work-a-day functionality. It stays on because it is tied on. And I can make them myself.

The firmly tied strings do serve a spiritual purpose, I find. Though they are not distracting, I do notice them as I move my jaw. Which means whenever I speak, there is a subtle reminder to consider my words, and be sure they are becoming to a godly woman. The slight tug of the strings reminds me that I am a light to the world that is not hidden under a bushel--when people see me, they know at a glance, from a distance, that I am a Christian. It behooves me to make sure I am comporting myself in a way that honors Christ. In this way, my every moment in the world at large is a witness to my faith in God and His son.

Blow-out

Being a covering is hard work.

Evidently, I scratch the top of my head in perplexity a lot...or at any rate, that's where coverings wear out first. Both my currently active coverings have grown so threadbare at the top that they've developed small holes. Don't know when I'll have time to sew new ones.

I don't mind wearing them with holes in them. There's actually something satisfying about it. First the humility of knowing that I'm not too vain about them. If I were wearing them for show, I'd worry more about how they look. I think it also says something that I scratch my head in perplexity that much...I know I DON'T have all the answers, and the holes prove that I take the time to think things over! Then, too, their tattered, faded condition proves that I've been wearing them long enough to wear them out. It's not a passing fad for me, it's a commitment for the long haul.

After church at Willow Springs the other day, A brother I'd not talked with before shook my hand and introduced himself. He observed in a friendly and straightforward manner, "I've heard of the coat of many colors, but this is the first I've seen a covering of many colors!" I smiled broadly. I hadn't thought of my covering as a reflection of Joseph's famous garment. It "covered" (protected) him, too.

[Is it a sin of omission that I failed to point out the "queer" significance of the rainbow colors? Can I plead my case based on "Women should not speak in church?" Perhaps not...we had stepped outside onto the broad steps of the building, so technically we were no longer IN church. I think not. To discuss such matters would seem as inappropriate as expounding on my favorite website or rock star to him...it's a part of a world that is not their world. When in Rome, do as the Romans....]

The brother continued. "I presume you wear it for the same reason we do." I said that I'd started wearing it nearly 5 years ago. He nodded in approval, clearly satisfied with my answer. "Then it is a real conviction." "Yes, and that was after several years of discernment. My River Brethren friend gave me the pattern she uses...."

I do not know where this adventure is leading me, or the good brothers and sisters of Willow Springs. But it is clearly God who leads me wherever we are going.

I need only be present in each moment, listening to that still, small voice that seems so much louder when I step away from the turmoil of the "English" world.

Mini-ministries

One Sunday morning recently I set forth on the long drive to one of the churches where I often attend Sunday morning meeting with the Old German Baptists--actually almost on time, for a change! It had been a couple weeks since I'd been able to get away from the farm on a Sunday morning, and I was really looking forward to the spiritual gifts that invariably come from the nealry two hours of clear, practical bible study that is what passes for a church service with the OGB.

The 45 minute drive to the "8 Mile" meetinghouse is, in itself, a good meditation. The path lies clear across Lawrence and out the other side, then through miles of hilly farmland. It's good to get out of the river valley now and then, for a change of perspective. Seeing other farms always teaches me something about farming...and sometimes there's a special gift, like seeing a calf born just as I'm driving by. Besides, just driving on the open road has been a "therapy" thing for me for decades.

But imagine my surprise when the parking lot was empty at 8 Mile! Perhaps I'd read the calendar wrong? Since the denomination had a "division" last summer, the small remnants of two churches had joined for worship each week--odd Sundays at one meetinghouse, even Sundays at another.

I drove back to the Willow Springs meetinghouse. Again, an empty lot. Perplexing.

Some dim memory tickled at the back of my brain. Had my OGB friend M. said something a few weeks earlier about a special event some Sunday in April? I couldn't remember. Life has been very, very busy this past month.

But now what? Not exactly "all dressed up and no place to go," because I don't "dress up" for church. But certainly out and about with no clear destination.

I decided to try the Lone Star Church of the Brethren. It's another small, white, wood frame meetinghouse, not quite so plain on the inside (there's a piano, and printed bulletins). The Church of the Brethren, like the OGB and Mennonite churches, is descended from the Anabaptist movement at the time of the Reformation in Europe. Each denomination has preserved some practices at the expense of others, but they share many core values: simplicity (whatever that means...), pacifism, adult baptism. The COB order of the service is very like the Mennonite church I'm exiled from, and uses the same favorite "blue hymnal" as many Mennonite churches, including "mine". They had just finished the Children's Time when I arrived, and were singing the children off to Sunday School so the parents could focus their attention on the sermon. I felt sad for the division of ages. More fun for the children, perhaps, but with families so busy during the week, it seems more important than ever that the children and adults should share the whole church experience, as in the Old German Baptist church.

God, you are showing me who I am in you, and where my path lies. It's not at all clear, but times like this at least show me where it isn't. Please give me the strength and patience to "let the little ones come to me" as you did, "for such is the kingdom of heaven."

I have attended here before, and had not found the service to lift me to heavenly heights of praise and awe, nor lead me to profound depths of reflection. But sometimes it is most important to focus on "Whenever two or more are gathered in my name."

When my mind wandered during the "Meditation Time", I perused the rather commercial-looking pre-printed bulletin cover. There was an interesting meditation printed on the back. I was surprised to recognize the author's name at the bottom...someone who frequently contributes to the lively exchange on a COB listserve I participate on.

The minister directed me to the stairs after the service, making a polite escape tactless. Making small talk as we went down to whatever awaited, I mentioned my pleasure at seeing Brother Eberly's name on the back of the bulletin. "Oh," said the minister. "I guess I'll have to read it...."

Hm, I guess God needed me to help get Brother Eberly's message to the minister....

The fellowship time after the service was far different from either Mennonite or OGB, however. Here this little community showed its full glory. "Something to eat downstairs" turned out to be more than enought finger foods for a full, balanced, healthy meal: fruit, cheese, crackers, raw vegetables, summer sausage, chips, salsa, and cookies. The older lady next to me in line invited me to sit with her and her husband. Another lady about my age sat next to me as I settled in across from the older couple.

"Where do you live?" The older lady asked. I generally begin the answer to this question with "North Lawrence", and go from there as seems appropriate. "Oh, I grew up in North Lawrence," she replied. We compared addresses and found she'd lived just a few blocks from my place in the early 50's, at the time of the '51 flood. She related how her mother and sisters had spent two years living on the back porch of their home while the flood-ravaged house was rebuilt. A useful bit of history...the following day was the public hearing for my Conditional Use Permit to allow camping at the farm, including for myself to have somewhere to live while renovating one of the little houses.

Thanks for the encouragement, God! I'm not so nuts after all...just learning from the past. Camping out for a summer is nothing compared to living with two kids on a porch for two years!

Someone commented on my covering. "You must be German Baptist". I tried not to choke on my astonished laughter, nor embarrass the questioner. "Well, I do attend there usually, but they were having a special function today. Actually the German Baptists wear white gauze coverings; this one is cut from the River Brethren pattern." I went on to explain that each Plain church had its own covering style and color, and I wasn't any of them.

God, I guess you wanted me to remind these people of their Anabaptist cousins in other faith communities. The last names here are all the same ones from the Old German Baptist church, but I guess generations of "disfellowshipping" have spintered the once-close families. Maybe my presence here will begin a path towards rejoicing in their similarities rather than shunning their differences. So many families have been torn apart through our churches' history. As faithful Christian presence in our nation dwindles, it seems like we should band together to strengthen our numbers across divisions, not perpetuate our disagreements about the logs in each others' eyes.

The woman next to me heard me mention I was a Mennonite. "I tried to find Peace [Mennonite] Church when I first moved to town," she said. "I went to the address in the directory, but it was Ecumenical Christian Ministry building, and no one there had ever heard of Mennonites. It was really strange."

I sadly shook my head, commiserating with her confusion. "When was that?" I asked. It was just after the congregation had bought a building of its own and left ECM behind, apparently leaving no forwarding address. My heart aches for my church, hiding from new members and casting out old ones that don't fit the mold.

Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.

She does not, perhaps, realize that we are ministering to one another. Seeing her disappointment in the implied rejection of not leaving a trail she could follow, I'm reminded that their behavior towards me is not so much about who I am as about who they are, and how they are wounded. My heart softens a little, and I can pray for them more gracefully than usual.

We exchange email addresses. We haven't used them yet, but we each know there is another lost sheep, looking for their rightful fold.

Meanwhile, any flock will suffice for company. The rainbow covering helps me remember that every human interaction I have, every day, truly is ministry work if I remember that it's so. Not just my ministry to others, but others' ministry to me.

Disconnect....

A church I formerly attended is considering changing the starting time of its weekly one-hour worship service, from 10:30 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. One of the considerations is that this later time "might be more convenient for families".

I presume this means easier to get the kids out of bed and fed and dressed, with maybe a little relaxed time for the grownups to sip a cup of coffee and read the Sunday paper. Having been a single parent, I know what it is to struggle to get out the door at all, under ANY circumstances. I know the tears and wails, the lost shoes, the missing buttons, the tantrums over a rejected breakfast menu item or a forgotten favorite toy....

And yet....

When I visit my Old Order River Brethren friends, and arrive Saturday afternoon so I can attend meeting with them the next morning, the household arises about 5:30 a.m. on Sunday. The 10 children, from toddler to college graduate, are in the car (van!) in less than an hour--no fussing, no drama, no crises. Everyone moves quietly and efficiently about their farm chores and preparations, as busy and serene as the gentle bees in one of the family's hives.

On the road, we slowly relax into full wakefulness, and begin to eat the snacks prepared the night before: sweet rolls, apple wedges, other finger foods. The children talk quietly, sing, engage their baby brother. By 9 a.m., we've arrived in Dallas Center, near Des Moines, where there is a "large" community of this tiny Plain (somewhere in between Amish and Old German Baptist) denomination.

The children sit peacefully through the 3-hour service. ALL the children, and there are a lot of large families with little ones.

No ritalin. No force. No problem.

Something is working there, in the Old Order River Brethren culture. Something is not working here, in modern church culture.

It is observations like this that intrigue me, that lead me on in this odd journey towards a greater faith.