Standing on the Side of Love with our Time, Talents, and Treasure

Originally shared at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Statesboro on September 14,2014 by Rev. Jane Page

Story for All Ages – Stone Soup

Reading – “On Giving” from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

Sermon
I invite you to think of the last time you gave a gift that was significant and meaningful both to you and to the folks or organizations receiving the gift. 

Some of you may have thought about something you did yesterday – and others may have had to stretch your memories a little. Because I’m a minister, I am BLESSED to see wonderful outcomes of the gifts that I share every day.  And I’m so appreciative of that opportunity.  But I also remember some very special times in my life history, and I’m going to share one of those stories with you today.

When I was a little girl, I could entertain myself for hours playing with my dolls.  Now this was the pre-Barbie doll era.  In fact, by the time Barbie made her entrance, I had moved on to skateboards.  But as a child, my dolls were magical to me.  They brought me great pleasure and I became emotionally attached them.  And because my family members knew how much I loved these little ones, they gave me dolls for my birthdays and Christmas.  My dolls were not the grown-up dress-up dolls.  They were baby dolls or little girl or boy dolls.  They were children – my fellow playmates.  And they were my students.  I’d line them up all around the room and teach them.  And of course, at night, they were my bed companions.  I named them all – my own names if I didn't think the ones from the factory fit them.  They were my babies. 

Now of course as I got older and became more involved in my school activities, I played with my dolls less, but I still had them all lined up in my room and would include them in special parties with the neighborhood girls.  We would sit at our table and our dolls would have their own little table.  I pulled this picture off the internet.  My doll’s table wasn’t that fancy.  I’m sharing all of this with you so that you will understand my gift to the Baptist Children’s Home and why it was special.

We received word at First Baptist that the children at the Georgia Baptist children’s home needed toys – and that volunteers would repair them and get them in good condition so that these children would have Christmas presents.  I must have been about 10 at the time.  I came home, made sure my dolls were clean and their hair was combed, got a big box, and carefully laid my babies in the box.  I saved out two special dolls that were in poor condition – Tiny Tears and Suzie with the broken leg.  (Tiny Tears now fills in for Jesus every year when we have our Christmas Pageant).  And then, after they were carefully laid in the box, I put that big box atop my red wagon and pulled it to the church.  This was not just a hand-me-down activity.  This was a gift of love from my heart.  A big gift.  A gift for the greater good that we Baptists were striving for at the Children’s home.   I did not cry or have sadness with my gift.  I was so happy to be able to give generously. 

Since that time, I try to recapture that same spirit in my giving of time, talents, and treasure to the greater good.  And although I give to other good causes, I find that my greatest blessings as a giver come when I give to that greater good that this congregation and Unitarian Universalism represents as we Stand on the Side of Love in this community and in the world.  This is the place where we receive spiritual sustenance and grow those values in ourselves and in our children that make us better givers with other causes.  This congregation should be where we give our greatest gifts.  

And most Unitarian Universalists have the resources to make meaningful gifts.  But unlike other faith communities, many Unitarian Universalists treat their congregations as just another charity – like NPR or something.   Although Unitarian Universalists are near the top in average income, we are dead last in our giving. 

Say what?  Yes!

Although Unitarian Universalists are near the top in average income, we are dead last in our giving among 23 major faith traditions in the United States. (From Spiritual Truths, General Assembly Providence, RI – Rev. Val Weller)

Statistics show that folks with lower incomes give a greater percentage to charity.  (See Bama Group Research) And while most faith traditions challenge folks to tithe, we have very low expectations. We tend to have a fatalistic view of what we can do.  But I’m an evangelist for the LOVE that we stand for! 

So like the prophet of old—I’m going to Stand on the Side of Love – and shout out that we can do better.  We can be a part of a congregation that truly can live our principles and values, but we can’t think of that congregation in the same way that we consider the neighborhood restaurant – where we go and pay a fee to be served.  As Rev. Eric Wickstron reminds us, we need to give up the consumer mind set and begin to think of ourselves instead as shareholders, investors, and co-owners in what happens in our congregation..

Yes, the congregation is YOURS, a fellowship to nurture your own spiritual growth and that of others –including our wonderful children -- both internally and beyond.  And to do that we all need to share our time, talents, - and yes – our treasure. 

I truly believe that with our new home and increased visibility and space for increased activities, we truly are standing on the edge of something great.  We can be more than a little light in a tiny chalice.  We can be a lighthouse – a beacon of Love shining out in this community.  But for the light to shine, we need your gifts. 

I’m not going to suggest that you give a Tithe, though some do strive to do that as a spiritual practice.  But I do think that most of us can begin moving – if we haven’t already – to that 5% level of giving.  My dad used to say that we shouldn’t do anything (excuse the expression) half-assed.  And some would consider asking for 5% to be just that.  But I know that since folks do give to other good charitable organizations – 5% may be a more appropriate goal for you to strive for.  Some of you can’t do that all at once – but perhaps you could begin with giving 3%.  Whatever you give will be honored and appreciated.  And if you have no money to give – that’s okay too!  Because we also need for everyone to give of their time and talents as they are able to do so. 

Now we have to be careful when we ask folks to give of their time and talent.  Because some folks readily give and give and then get burned out and leave us.  And we don’t want folks to leave! 

We want them to stay with us and be renewed by others.  You know – some folks say that leading Unitarian Universalists is like herding cats.  But I don’t like that analogy.  I prefer referencing a flock of geese as a metaphor for a UU congregation, because there are lots of lessons we can learn from geese.  I’ve shared this before – but it’s worth repeating these lessons (originally shared by Milton Olson. (http://www.uww-adr.com/blog/lessons-from-geese-by-milton-olson#.VBc7thawVZw)

FACT 1

As each goose flaps its wings it creates an "uplift" for the birds that follow. By flying in a "V" formation, the whole flock adds 71% greater flying range than if each bird flew alone.

LESSON

People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going quicker and easier because they are traveling on the thrust of one another

FACT 2

When a goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of flying alone. It quickly moves back into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the bird immediately in front of it.

LESSON
If we have as much sense as a goose we stay in formation with those headed where we want to go. We are willing to accept their help and give our help to others.

FACT 3
When the lead goose tires, it rotates back into the formation and another goose flies to the point position.

LESSON
It pays to take turns doing the hard tasks and sharing leadership. As with geese, people are interdependent on each other's skills, capabilities and unique arrangements of gifts, talents or resources.

FACT 4
The geese flying in formation honk to encourage those up front to keep up their speed.

LESSON
We need to make sure our honking is encouraging. In groups where there is encouragement, the production is much greater. The power of encouragement (to stand by one's heart or core values and encourage the heart and core of others) is the quality of honking we seek.

FACT 5
When a goose gets sick, wounded or shot down, two geese drop out of formation and follow it down to help and protect it. They stay with it until it dies or is able to fly again. Then, they launch out with another formation or catch up with the flock.

LESSON
If we have as much sense as geese, we will stand by each other in difficult times as well as when we are strong.

That’s the congregation we need to be and that we CAN be. But we need us some good soup to nourish us.  And I have a STONE for the soup.  This STONE is magical because this represents our vision of what we can be.  We can BE that liberal beacon shining in southeast Georgia.  We can BE a congregation that folks KNOW exists because of our visibility – both in terms of our meeting place and in terms of our good works and advocacy for justice and peace.  We can BE a people that teaches our strong values to our children and reinforces them in us as well.  We can BE a community of faith where we can nurture and heal ourselves and receive the nourishment to nurture and heal the world.  But this vision –this stone, by itself, will not make the soup.  We need for each of us to go back and look into our cupboards --- and perhaps see what we are hoarding there in terms of our time, talents, and treasure, and bring them to share in the soup pot for the greater good.  And when we do, we will know – just as I did when I gave away my dolls, that it is a good and joyful gift. I can just smell that wonderful soup now.  Mmmm mmm good!

May it be so!  Honk Honk

Open Letter to Classmates

This letter was written in March of 2008 and sent to African American classmates and published as an "Open Letter" in the Statesboro Herald. 

March 10, 2008

An Open Letter to Erma, Mattie, Homer, Alvin, Elaine, Charlene, Jeanette, Runell, Mary Linda, Johnny Sue, Billy, and Catherine.

Dear Classmates,

In the fall of 1965, I entered Statesboro High School as a sophomore.  This was only the second year in the existence of this new school building on Lester Road.  But more was new than the lockers and desks awaiting me that fall. There were also new faces – darker faces than those I had been accustomed to in my Statesboro schools.  Some of you were students who began Statesboro High School that year, the first year that the high school was integrated.  And some of you remained and graduated with my class in 1968.  Others decided to leave and return to William James.  And others of you joined the class our junior or senior years.  But all of you were my classmates.  And one of you is no longer with us.  This letter comes too late for Homer. 

Like many of you, I was born here in Statesboro in 1950.  And like you, I grew up in the days of Jim Crow laws.  But unlike you, these laws did not affect me in obvious ways.  My white privilege allowed me access to every store, restaurant, and entertainment spot in town.  And for the most part, I was pretty naïve about the evils of racism.  Oh, I did notice things – as all children do.  I remember when I was 5 or 6, standing in the “Whites Only” line at the Dairy Queen with my dad, waiting to get a cone.  It was a hot day and there were lines at both the “white” and “colored” windows.  Perhaps that’s why I noticed the differences.  So I asked my dad why all of the white people were in our line and all of the colored people were in the other line.  My father shared this unique explanation with me.  He told me that we were white – and that we stood in our line to get vanilla ice cream, while the colored people stood in the other line to get chocolate ice cream.  Of course, I immediately told him that I wanted chocolate!  And he said, “No, you are white, so you get vanilla.  That’s just the way it is and you have to accept it.”  Well, I didn’t realize that vanilla was the only flavor served at Dairy Queen.  (That was even in the days before dipped cones.)  But his answer stuck with me.  And it has served as a metaphor for what happened in my life.  Indeed, I just accepted the differences and did not question them further.  Yet, I still took notice – like when boxes were being filled at my elementary school (Mattie Lively) with our old worn-out textbooks.  I asked what was going to happen to them and was told that they were being taken to the “colored school” for the children to use there.  “Separate but equal” was never the case in Bulloch County.     

To be fair to my parents, they never overtly taught me to be a racist.  They didn’t have to.  Everything in my society, from the Dairy Queen windows on, taught me that white folks and black folks should function in separate social environments.  And my society not only taught me that “separate” was right, it also taught me that I was in the superior group.  All I had to do was look at the water fountains.  The “whites only” fountains were clean with cool, refrigerated water.  Not so for the “colored” fountains.   And of course, my church reinforced these standards.  In the 60’s we also were witnesses to television news programs showing activities of the Civil Rights movement.  But these were presented in ways that made me fearful.  I’m sure it must have been covered, but I don’t remember seeing much of the peaceful demonstrations that I can now view in documentaries of that time.  The emphasis on our news seemed to be on riots and angry black people wanting to “destroy our way of life.”  The propaganda worked.  I was afraid and fearful of the possibilities of integration.  And I did not understand why in the world you would want to leave “your” school and come to “our” school.    

The Brown Decision, virtually outlawing segregated schools, was handed down by the courts in 1954.  Yet the schools in Statesboro had managed to remain completely separate for the next 10 years.  The latest effort to satisfy the courts had been the school system’s “Freedom of Choice” plan.  This plan was one in which parents could “choose” their children’s schools.  Everyone knew what choice was supposed to be made, though, and the schools remained separate till you and others made the bold decision to be pioneers in the effort to integrate our schools.  So there you were, walking through our halls with your heads held high and a determined look in your eyes.  And there I was, afraid of you, mad with you, but curious – oh so curious about folks like you.

For the next three years, we did our high school activities and really had very little interaction with each other.   I found out later that there were lots of folks who were interacting, though very negatively with you – trying to run you down with their cars and hurling insults and rocks.   I didn’t know about these occurrences because I never attempted to really get to know you.   I did make a connection with one girl that was life changing.  I used to be one of the folks at school that was a “cut-up” and class clown – someone who would make jokes about things and try to lighten up everyone’s attitudes.  When we were in the hallways, one of you would “cut up” with me in similar ways.  And we became friendly with each other.  I would like to say we were friends.  But I never invited you to my house and you never invited me to yours.  We were about as friendly as a white girl and black girl could be in those days I suppose.  And I remember thinking that I was more LIKE you than I was my white friends.  We were both from middle class families with parents that emphasized a strong work ethic, and we were both so fun-loving.  We were “kin” in many ways.  But I kept that thought to myself – not daring say it aloud.  That thought of our kinship, however, cracked through the armor of racism that I had built around me.  And I began to open my mind to the possibilities of a wider world of humanity.  I never thanked you for that. 

This year I have been involved with others in planning the 40^th class reunion for the Class of 1968.  We haven’t had one in 30 years and I’m very excited about seeing folks again.  Focusing on my high school classmates and high school years has been a time of joy and sorrow for me.  One of the sorrows that I have is that I missed out on a real opportunity to get to know some fantastic people.  And I missed out on an opportunity to provide a welcoming hand of fellowship.  This was my loss and I can’t retrieve it.  But I can apologize.

• I’m sorry that I did not make an effort to understand why you were coming to SHS.
• I’m sorry that I did not meet you in front of the school and say hello.
• I’m sorry that I was afraid of you and avoided being in places where several of you were together.
• I’m sorry that I avoided sitting by you in class.
• I’m sorry that I was involved with negative conversations about you and did not speak up when you were put down.
• I’m sorry that I didn’t encourage you to join the clubs that I was in or join the flaggette team.
• I’m sorry that I didn’t invite you to my 16^th birthday party.  It would have been a lot more fun with you there.
• I’m sorry that I didn’t find ways to get to know you – really know you and understand you individually, rather than seeing you as “one of those black students.” 
• I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize the remarkable opportunity that I had in that place and time in history to be a part of something special with you.
• And I’m sorry – oh SO sorry, that it’s taken me 40 years to say, “I’m sorry.”

I hope you can forgive me.  Who knows?  Maybe it’s not too late for some of us.

Three classmates together in 2014

Sincerely,

Jane Altman Page 

My Belated Eulogy for My Dad

Fathers Day, June 15, 2014

Rev. Jane Page

Preface:  As I was studying to be a minister, I'd tease my dad and ask him if I could do his eulogy when he died.  He would smile and tell me that the Primitive Baptists would not like that.  And indeed, I did not share anything at his Memorial Service.  If I could have shared, what would I have said?  Its eight years late, but I'll make that attempt on Father's Day today.

My dad was John Gideon Altman – always called by his initials J.G.  Daddy was the second son of John Buren and Ethel Johnson Altman.  He was born on December 16, 1925 at home down in Broxton, GA.  But his family moved here when he was only two, so Statesboro was the only home he knew.  His dad was hired to oversee the closing of a furniture store here in town.  There was a lot of that kind of thing going on when my dad was growing up.  After that store closed - rather than move on to another town and another furniture store closing, granddaddy decided to stay here and make a home for his family in Statesboro.  I’m so glad he did.  He rented space across from the courthouse and opened up a little grocery store, thus providing a good work place for his sons.  But J.G. was not paid much, if any, by his dad, so found other work to put some money in his pockets.  He had a variety of jobs as he was growing up and he enjoyed sharing stories about them.  One of his jobs was as a Western Union telegram delivery boy.  So he had to know where everyone in town lived.  And in later years, he would recite these to us.   He would say, right on that corner was where Old man “So and So” had a feed store, then next to that was the little card shop operated by Mrs. “So and So”…. And on down the street he was go, reciting names of businesses and houses.  He also knew the history of particular places.  Well, before that was the Brown’s house, it belonged to Old Man Brannon, and he bought it from Mr. Zetterower who bought that property when it was nothing but a sand lot.  Now I’m making up all these names and places because – sadly I never recorded this anthology of property.  By the time my dad graduated from Statesboro High School, everyone was going off to war.  He was turned down twice because of his high blood pressure.  I think he suffered some shame for that – because it was a popular war, a righteous war, one that young men were supposed to go fight.  But I’m glad he was turned down.  He may not have made it back, then where would I be!  Plus he never had to deal with the first hand atrocities of war.  SO, instead he stayed here and married his high school sweetheart, Christine Rogers on November 11, 1944.  Their marriage date is easy to remember if you can double numbers:  11-22-44.  He and his brother Buren began a used car business – and worked hard to furnish folks with cars during the war, when they were hard to get because the manufacturers were making vehicles for the war instead. Daddy would travel all over the place to buy cars taking carloads of drivers with him – then having each of them drive one car and pull another back to Statesboro.  Later they obtained dealerships for different models – the main one being Pontiacs.  I never thought I’d ever drive anything but a Pontiac.  Alas, nothing lasts.  There are no more Pontiacs and my dad is gone too. 

Daddy died September 25, 2006, the morning after I was ordained here as your minister.  Here is how his Obituary read:
Mr. John Gideon Altman, age 80, died peacefully Monday at the Ogeechee Area Hospice Inpatient Facility. He was the co-owner and vice-president of Altman Pontiac-Buick-GMC until he retired in 1997. Mr. Altman was a member of the Statesboro Primitive Baptist Church, where he was in the Frank Williams Sunday School Class and Men's Brotherhood. He was a charter member of the Statesboro Kiwanis Club, former chairman of Bulloch County Tax Assessors Board, a member of the Alee Temple, former president of the Statesboro Shrine Club and was a Mason. Mr. Altman was a former director and assistant treasurer of Peach State Life Insurance Company.

Then it listed his surviving family members.

I don’t especially like that obituary.  But daddy would have been pleased because it’s a very traditional one, basically sharing how he made a living.  And, indeed, that was of ultimate importance to my daddy.  So be it.  But it leaves out the most important parts of J.G. Altman, his personality, and his life.  And since I didn’t get a chance to eulogize him when he died, I’ll take this opportunity to tell you a little more about my dad – at least my perceptions of him.

1st – My daddy was a very smart and capable man.  I used to think he could build or repair almost anything.  Seriously, if he had seen someone do it before, he could do it.  He used to brag on how he learned how to do many tasks that others have to pay to have done.  He would find some excuse to go to the place of business where folks work and repair – maybe have a small job for them; and then he would hang out and just have conversation – telling them stories, and entertaining them while they worked.  They wouldn’t realize that he was also watching just what they were doing.  Then he knew how to do it.  He never learned much from books – but he could sure learn from watching.  He would have loved youtube with all of its “how to” videos I think.  But since he didn’t have that – he would go find the real thing.  He used to tell the story of how Old Dr. Floyd called him out one night to fix something at his house – and whatever this was that needed repairing – it wasn’t that difficult.  And he said to Dr. Floyd – “This is not that hard to do.”  And Dr. Floyd said, well I may not be able to fix that – but you couldn’t take an appendix out.  And my daddy said, “If I watched you do it one time I could.”  And indeed, he never operated on us, but he would sometimes operate on the farm animals.  Fix them and stitch them – and set their bones, whatever they needed.  Daddy not only learned from observing, he had an engineering, mathematical mind.  I still marvel at how he designed that reinforced concrete dock at our pond so perfectly – and how he fixed the overspill on the other side of the pond just precisely so that the water would start to spill over before coming over the top of that dock.    He also built that beautiful little cabin that reminded him of the house where he was born.  You go look at the workmanship in that cabin – and the little winding stairs that took him forever to figure out – but he did.  Daddy was smart!

2nd – Family was important to my daddy.  He was a wonderful son, brother, husband, father, and grandfather.  He loved us.  But like many men of his generation, he didn’t verbally express that love.  Instead, he showed us his love by providing for us and doing things with us.  He bought a lot out on Cypress Lake and built a little cabin.  We’d go out there every weekend and boat and waterski.  What fun we had doing that!  He sold the cabin after his dad died so he could have more money to purchase my granddad’s farmland. Granddaddy didn’t have a will so his farm was left in equal portions to my dad, his three siblings, and his mom.  My uncle Buren wanted the farm in Clito, but the other family members wanted to sell their shares of the farm where I now live.  So daddy bought their shares.  He connected that farm to his dad – and that was his way of holding on to a piece of him.  My dad had an awkward relationship with his dad, but boy he sure showed his loved to his Mama.  He’d go see her every day and was there when she died.  Of course she kept him happy with her good cooking – and he DID enjoy that good southern cooking.  And he loved my mama, my brother and me – and the grandchildren and great grandchildren.  They would go over and pounce on him while he sat in his recliner and he would fly them up in the air – for as long as he could.  He also showed his love by trying to teach us things.  But most of us could just never learn to do it right.  And certainly none of the family members could do it “JG perfect.”  So be it. 

The 3rd thing that was important to my daddy was WORK.  He worked hard ALL his life.  That’s how he saw value in life, in how hard and well someone worked.  My dad had no patience with shiftlessness – and he let us know that.  Because my mom also had this strong work ethic – I got it from both sides.  My dad used to claim he was working hard so that one day he could take it easy and fish.  He built the cabin and that nice dock I told you about so that he could “one day” fish off of it.  But that day never came because he would have another project, and another – to get ready for that day.  I used to worry that my dad would never have the joy of taking it easy and fishing.  Now I understand that his JOY came in the work.  And I’m so glad to have inherited that Joy of work! 

The 4th thing that was especially interesting about my Daddy was his strong faith. He sincerely believed that he was going to go to heaven and get his REward one day.  (That’s how he pronounced it – his REward).  He was not really that much of a religious man—that I could see.  He didn’t read his Bible much or pray.  But he would share about going to get his REward.  I don’t know what he thought he was especially going to be rewarded for.  But he did – because he thought he did everything right.  If something went wrong with something he did – then it must be someone else’s fault.  This was especially true if he lost something.  Mama must have misplaced it – or perhaps one of us took it and didn’t return it.  Because he knew right where he left it --- in some pile of something you could find anything in, but that didn’t matter.  Because – according to my daddy, he just didn’t make mistakes. So, he saw himself as a really good man.  Now – folks he wasn’t that good.  In fact, he was kind of hard to live with.  Although my mama managed to do just that for almost 62 years.  Bless her heart – for real!  You know, some of the things he did and some of the ideas he had– in my mind – were just wrong.  But he looked at himself through some kind of lens that I didn’t see.  We just got where we laughed about it – what else can you do?

As my dad aged his memory started going.  And he changed.  He forgot a whole lot of stuff – including who we were.  But something else happened to him.  He became a really sweet and caring man, telling us (and anyone else around) how much he loved and appreciated us.  Now most folks who have Alzheimer’s get kind of mean as time goes by – but not my daddy.  He got sweet.  And I’d like to think that perhaps this sweet, loving man was what was at his very CORE – and through the years he LEARNED to be that hard person that men were supposed to be.  When all that was forgotten, the sweet J.G. remained.  Something else that remained with him was his memory of the old songs he learned long ago.  And I would go to his house and sing them with them. Shortly before he died right over there at Ogeechee hospice, Johnny said – “Jane come over here and sing again to daddy.”   I sang one his favorites.  “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.  I once was lost, but now am found.  Was blind, but now I see.”  And as I sang, my daddy looked right into my eyes and he moved his mouth to the song.  And that was indeed, Amazing Grace – for him and for me.  And it was My RE-ward – for sure.   Thank-you Daddy.

Ron Lyall's Eulogy

 

Ronald Lyall

August 28, 1925 - April 30, 2014

 

Eulogy Shared by Rev. Jane Page at Ron's Memorial Service, May 10, 2014

 

Ron Lyall—Ron Lyall,
You always make me smile.
I’ve known Ron for about a decade and a half – and I knew him first as a friend and a fellow member of the UU fellowship before I became his minister.  So I got to know the real person that folks don’t always show to their minister --although I don’t think my folks have a problem showing lots to me.  In any case, I just loved him from the beginning.  Not that Ron was always easy to love, but for some reason, he was easy for me to love.  Maybe because he loved me back.  I will miss him and will forever cherish his memories.  I went to see Marjorie, Heather, and Allison this past Monday afternoon and we had a good time sharing lots of memories.  Some of the things they shared with me were stories I had heard before, and some were surprises.  So, I’m just going to share a little about his life and loves – and we are also going to have time for his family to share and for some of you to share as well.

Ron was born on August 28, 1925 in Collingdale, Pennsylvania and he was born at home – as many were in those days.  His father died when he was just two years old, so he never knew him.  The untimely death of his father, however, did open up an opportunity for which Ron was forever grateful.  The philanthropist, Stephen Girard, left part of his great fortune for a boarding school in Philadelphia for fatherless boys.  And Ron was able to attend both elementary and secondary school at Girard College – graduating in 1943.  Now if you had many discussions with Ron, you know that he was proud to have been brought up in an institution where “no man of the cloth” was allowed entry.  I decided to look this up and indeed, Stephen Girard’s will reads “Prohibiting any ecclesiastic, missionary or minister of any sect from holding or exercising any station, no such person should ever be admitted for any purpose or as a visitor, within the premises occupied by the College..”  Now the teachers and students would lead chapels – but the students were not indoctrinated with any particular creed or dogma.  And Ron was proud of that upbringing which allowed him to explore and question on his own – and he never quit doing that!

Of course it was war time when Ron finished school and he went straight into the Navy.  He had always wanted to be a sailor.  He became a signal man and served for three years.  Whenever some of us at UU would get on our high moral horses and condemn the nuclear bombing of Japan, Ron would share with us the other side of that story.  You see he was on that ship headed for a Japanese invasion when the bombing occurred.  And Ron shares that there was great fear among them that they would never make it back home.  With the bombs falling, the war ended – and as far as Ron was concerned, his life and many others were saved.

After attending art school in Philadelphia, Ron worked as a graphic artist and photographer.  He was working in the same building as Marjorie and they became acquainted as they would ride the elevator.  (Their relationship had a very “up and down” beginning.)  He did not ask her out though – and she eventually left Philadelphia and moved to California.  And like many fellows – when she was gone, he realized what he missed.  He didn’t let that deter him though and used the telephone, making lots of long distance calls to woo her back.  He said on the phone that he wanted her to come back and marry him.  Now this is before they had ever been on a date!  But he was there at the plane to meet her and went back with her parents to visit with them in their home.  Her mom liked him and thought he’d be a good catch.  So after a few days Marjorie asked him, -- “Well, are you going to marry me or not?”  And they made plans right then.  That was in October of 1958 and they got married that December.  They made their home in Center City Philadelphia and had two daughters, Heather and Allison.  When Heather was 11 and Allison was 2, they moved here to Statesboro where Ron had taken a job with Brooks Instrument.  And we sitting here today are so glad they made that decision to make their home with us. 

Ron later worked with the Publications Department at Georgia Southern and retired from there when he was 70.  He continued to enjoy his photography; and his family brought some of their photos to share with you today.  Now Ron is not in many of these pictures – because he was taking them.  He also enjoyed building things with his neighbor Roy Roundtree.  Heather and Allison recall their childhood vacations with him, and he took lots of pictures, of course.  In addition to the regular kinds of activities – like going to Disney World, they would do some alternative activities – (shhhh) like snitching some of the grapefruit from the trees along the roadside.  Ron also enjoyed going to concerts and even took Allison to see John Schneider of the Dukes of Hazzard.  Ron loved his family, good conversation, good art, good music, and good food – MMMM MMMM – especially that wonderful contraband – M & M’s.  I thought about having an M and M communion in honor of Ron, but thought this setting might not be appropriate for that.  However, I’ve placed some on the tables in the Parrish Hall and invite you to partake of these in memory of Ron.   

I’ll leave it for others of you to share about Ron at UU and in other places – but I will say this.  Ron was a faithful man – not in the traditional way many folks think of faith and religion.   But faithful nonetheless.  Ron said his higher power was the group, the gathering of souls together.  And whether that gathering was in the back room with his home group, or at our UU Fellowship, or most recently with fellow seniors at the Silver Lining Club; the gathering was a divine place – a place where he could connect with others in those relationships that nurture our minds, bodies, and souls and make us better people.  I’m so glad that he connected with me. 

Ron liked to take pictures of birds.  And I had a special encounter this morning that I’d like to tell you about.  Every morning I go for a run around Lakewood Drive – which is a circle in a wooded neighborhood across the pond dam from my house – no traffic there.  And I just go around and around that circle.  As I made my first round, I saw this really beautiful red bird sitting on a low tree by the side of the road.  And it stayed there till I was fairly close then flew away. I took that as a message that Ron’s wonderful spirit and energy had been released to the universe – to all of nature, and that little red bird was expressing his gratitude for that good spirit and energy.  When I came around the circle on my last lap, there was that same little bird – sitting in the middle of the road, just waiting on me.  And when I got close – he fluttered away with his wings waving a very GOOD bye.

Ron Lyall – Ron Lyall
You’ll always make me smile.

Ruby's Confession

Disclaimer:  This is fan fiction.  Although I did my homework and have included some facts surrounding locale and possibilities, all of this is fiction.
 

The ride across the causeway to St. Simons Island always lifted my spirits.  I rolled down the window a little to smell the sea air.  I needed a bit of peace before making this pastoral care call, for the woman I was visiting was dying.  Ruby was losing her battle with breast cancer, and had made the decision to forgo any further treatment.  She had moved to St. Simons, Georgia from Greenwood, Mississippi to live with her daughter Mary when she first started chemotherapy.  It did not take her long to fall in love with the island folks and with our small Unitarian Universalist congregation in neighboring Brunswick. Our community fell in love with her as well and she and I had a special connection.  She was glad to “finally have a lady preacher,” and I was pleased to connect with another liberal social justice activist who had very conservative southern roots. 

As I passed the docks with their beautiful boats and beautiful people, I wondered if Ruby would be able to make it to any more services.  I also wondered why she had asked that I come listen to her share a story, a confession she called it.  We Unitarian Universalist ministers seldom hear anything like confessions because our folks generally don’t worry about forgiveness and salvation.  But confession is good for the soul, and I was going to provide Ruby with that opportunity.

Ruby’s daughter Mary ushered me into her downstairs room. It had been a small family room, but Mary’s family converted it to a bedroom for Ruby since all of the other bedrooms in the large house were upstairs. Ruby had become too weak to climb them.  Attempts had been made to make her hospital bed seem less clinical, and a beautiful multicolored patchwork quilt surrounded Ruby, who sat propped up on her pillows. 

 Mary had a little pitcher of lemonade and some cookies at the bedside table for us to enjoy during our visit.  After a bit of chit chat asking me about my family members, Mary indicated that she had some housework to do and would leave us to “visit for a spell.”  I smiled at the language, glad that our common southern upbringings opened the possibility for us to use these favorite phrases. 

Then I knew our task was at hand and said, “Ruby, I hear you have something you want to share with me.  And I’m always glad to hear you share your stories.”

“Well, this one is a little bit different,” she said in a lowered voice.  “It’s one you’ve sort of heard before from someone else – at least you’ve heard part of it.” 

“Oh, has Mary told me some of it?”

“No, not Mary,” Ruby said as she shook her head vigorously.  “Mary doesn’t know.”

I realized that this really was a secret confession.  Mary and Ruby were very close, and I could not imagine Ruby keeping anything from her daughter.  I also couldn’t imagine anyone else telling me something about Ruby that Mary did not know, unless it was something that happened at church.  Ruby set me straight about that idea though as she explained that the story came from her youth.

I took a sip of lemonade.  “Well, let me hear it Ruby.  I’ve got plenty of time.”

 Here is what Ruby shared with me that day.

You know I grew in a rural area out from Greenwood, Mississippi, actually lived there all of my life till I moved here.  Oh, yes, I remember you telling me that you were familiar with that part of the country because you got your doctorate from Mississippi State.  Well, you know it’s a very conservative region --- still is, but it certainly was when I was growing up.  The McDonalds lived a few miles from us, up on Choctaw Ridge.  And their boy and me, we were best friends as children.  We’d meet in the middle between our farms and play.  Our favorite thing was making mud pies near the edge of the river.  My brother Johnny would come with us sometimes too, but he said our games and playing were too silly for boys.  He’d tease Willie about it.  And in fact, he teased so much that Willie quit playing as much with me, and started hanging out with Johnny more.  He explained to me that he wanted to fit in with the boys – because he was a boy, but he enjoyed playing with me more.  We would still meet at our special place and share what was going on in our lives.  As I got older, Willie wanted to hear about my crushes and dates.  And he would always grill me to pieces about my brother Johnny and whether or not he was dating anyone. 

One day when I met him, I could see that he was bruised pretty badly.  He said Johnny had gotten upset with him, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was about.  His eyes welled up and he said, “You know I love your brother.”  That was kind of a funny thing for one boy to say about another – but I knew they were close, like brothers almost.  I told Willie that Johnny probably rather have him for a brother than me for a sister.  And Willie just shook his head.  I asked him why Johnny had hurt him.  But Willie said I wouldn’t understand.

At the end of my junior year in high school I met Willie at our favorite place near the river and he was excited.  He said, “I’ve decided to share something with you Ruby.  I want you to know.  Now that Johnny and I have graduated and I’ve saved some money from my job at the gas station, I’m going to ask him to go away with me.” 

“Why would you go way,” I asked.  “And why would Johnny go with you?”

“Because I love him.  And I think he loves me.  And we can’t live here!!  He and I have been making love for a long time, and it’s what I want.”

“You’ve been making love? But you are both boys,” I said.  “I don’t know what you mean.”  I really didn’t.  Back then we just didn’t discuss such possibilities.  Besides, I kind of always liked Willie, and hoped that someday he would see me as something other than a friend. Now he was telling me he loved my brother!!  Besides, Johnny was going steady with Betty.  I didn’t know what or how to feel.   Willie pulled out a letter he had written and asked me to give it to Johnny.  It was a love letter, complete with more romantic language than I had ever read in a Harlequin romance novel.  Then I understood.  

“You can’t do this!” I shouted.  “You will ruin his life and your own life too.  You’re crazy.  Do you know that?”  

I took the letter and started running.  Willie caught up with me as I got to the bridge that crossed the river.  He cried out that he couldn’t live without Johnny.  “Yes you can!”  I screamed.  “You will have to.  I will never let you do this Willie.  You will have to come to your senses.”

He caught up with me in the middle of the bridge.  Tears were in both of our eyes.  We just cried and held each other for a while.  Then I tore the letter in half.  “Let’s just throw this thing down into the Tallahatchie River,” I said.  And not bring this idea up again.  And we let that letter fall down to the muddy water below us.

Indeed we did not bring the idea up again, because I never saw Willie again.  Two days later, on June 3, 1960, they said that Willie McDonald jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge.  I knew better.  I pushed him off.  Not literally – but with my rejection of his love for my brother and my rejection of his sexuality – although I didn’t know that term then.  In any case, I could have been the caring person who at least tried to understand.  I was his best friend.  Yet I let him down.  I wanted to talk to my brother about it.  But I just couldn’t.  He and Betty  married and moved to Tupelo, then Johnny died in a horrible car crash when he drove off the road into a tree a couple of years later.  I always wondered about whether that was intentional too.   

Ruby turned her head away, but I could see the tears and her mouth quivering.  “Ruby,” I interrupted as I touched her hand.  “Is this the story that Bobbie Gentry told in her ballad?”

“Yes,” Ruby said, “but she wasn’t Bobbie Gentry when I knew her back in Greenwood.  She was Roberta Lee Streeter.  She changed her name for her singing career.   I would never have shared anything about it with her if I had known she was going to write a song about it. She and I were good friends and I just shared my frustrations about how everyone was going on with life as usual when we heard about Willie’s death..  Of course she changed our names.  She changed Willie McDonald to Billie Joe McAllister, but folks in Greenwood knew who the song was about. I had to hear that song over and over again in 1967.  It  was a number one hit and won three Grammys.  Bobbie told me she had to write a song for the B side of what she thought was going to be her first record. She thought many folks would never even hear it.  She didn’t know the whole story of course.  I’m glad she didn’t or she might have put the whole story in that song.  I’ve had enough guilt to deal with all my life as it is.”

I hugged Ruby and said, “you are a little older than I, but not by many years.   I know from my own experiences how things were in that era.  We were products of our time.  We did the best we could.  Ruby, you need to let go of that guilt if you can, reminding yourself of how you’ve lived your life. Your grandson Jeff is proud that his grandma supported him when he came out.  Plus, you’ve been such an inspiration to us in our congregation, especially with your participation in the organization of our PFLAG chapter. I’ve always marveled at your enthusiasm, made more remarkable because you were managing your own serious health problems. I assumed that your passion was due to your grandson’s coming out, but I can see now a tragedy long ago helped make you the compassionate person the congregation and I know.

The tears began to glimmer in her eyes again, but she smiled.  “Yes, I think you are right,” she said softly.  “ I do feel better now that I’ve told you about it.”  

“Ruby, can I say a little prayer for you?” I asked.  

“Yes, I’d like that,” she said.

I held both of Ruby’s hands as we closed our eyes and I prayed:

Oh, Spirit of Life and Love, we connect today in your loving presence.  Ruby has shared a story that has burdened her heart for many years.  We pray today that with the telling of this story, her burden is lifted.  For even in the telling and the listening that we’ve done today, our own spirits have been lifted. Ruby has been a blessing to her family, especially her grandson Jeff, and to our congregation. We love her.   My prayer is that our love will give her comfort and peace.  And that she will know what a wonderful difference she makes in our lives.  May she be an inspiration to me and others so that we all may work together to end oppression of every kind.  May we accept her gifts to us as that shining light that endures from generation to generation. And may that peace and love that is present with the two of us today, inspire us to share it with others, till,  like the old prophet said, “justice shall roll down like waters, and peace like and ever-flowing stream.”  Amen.

And Ruby said, “Amen.”

And the reader says…

Critical Epilogue

Bobbie Gentry’s 1967 hit “Ode to Billie Joe” is a musical southern gothic tale which provided enough open spaces for major speculation by those who heard it.  The main point of the story was how folks went on with their daily everyday lives in the midst of such tragedy.  But the mysteries of the song received the most attention, including the reason for the suicide, the identification of what was being thrown off the bridge by the narrator and Billie Joe, and the relationship of the narrator to Billie Joe. Every speculation that I’ve read, including the later movie based on the recording, assumes a romantic relationship between the narrator and Billie Joe.  My fan fiction opposes this assumption and demonstrates that Gentry’s song is open to a queer interpretation, one in which Billie Joe is in love with the narrator’s brother.  It also demonstrates how fan fiction can mimic the canon by using some of the same literary elements. 

This fan fiction has only three characters in the 2014 story, including the first person narrator who is a Unitarian Universalist minister.  It’s easier to write what we know, and as a minister I know of the pain of folks who carry burdens and need to talk to their ministers about them.  So I used this familiar setting to provide a basis for Ruby sharing her story.  Perhaps that was to provide a level of comfort for me as the author. Hopefully it also provides greater connection for the reader as well.  The story within the story told by Ruby has additional characters from the song.  These names are different, but Ruby explains the reason and for fans of the song, it’s obvious anyway. 

The queering of this story takes place in the middle, as Ruby shares how Willie explains his plans to share his desire with Johnny that they move away together.  This makes no sense to Ruby.  Even though Willie has shared about his love with Johnny to her before, she didn’t “get it.”  Her mind was closed to the possibilities of what that kind of love would be like and she assumed he was referring to a brotherly love.  When she asks why he wants Johnny to move away with him, Willie tries to be more direct.  “Because I love him.  I think he loves me.  He and I have been making love for a long time, and it’s what I want.” Ruby still cannot perceive the meaning and objects with “But you are both boys….  I don’t know what you mean.”  Part of her lack of understanding may be due to a lack of language for explaining.  This was prior to Stonewall and the more open gay rights movement.  People in rural Mississippi may have had the attractions, but they did not have the words for “coming out” to others in an understandable way.  It was not clear to Ruby until she read his love letter to Johnny and recognized it as romantic love because it reminded her of the Harlequin romance novels she had read.  Even with the understanding she rejects the idea by saying, “You can’t do this! …You will ruin his life and your own too,” and pronounces Willie as “crazy.”  The sequencing of this part of the fan fiction may be read as symbolic for the sequencing of the coming out of gays in America in the last decades, beginning with everything being closeted and hidden, then rejection with the assumption that individuals must be mentally ill, followed by a slow understanding that was often accompanied by denial and even anger.  Sadly just as many in the gay rights movement did not live to see this understanding and acknowledgement that we are experiencing from society today, Willie does not live to see Ruby’s acceptance and love of him as a gay man. 

The “Ode to Billie Joe” and my fan fiction contain some common literary elements.  In the fan fiction story, Ruby shares a deep secret with her minister.  She doesn’t tell her minister initially that she is inspiration for the narrator in the “Ode to Billie Joe.”  This becomes clear, however, as she shares the story.  The facts of the story serve as the clues for the minister solving this mystery.  For example, Ruby shares that the minister has heard the story before, but not from her daughter who doesn’t know.  She also shares it’s from her youth, which provides a time perspective for the minister’s discovery.  She reminds the minister that she’s from Mississippi and that this is the setting for her story.  Gentry’s song specifically mentions Mississippi and specific geographical locations, including Choctaw Ridge and the Tallahatchie Bridge.  These specific localities gradually are uncovered in Ruby’s narrative as well.  Ruby talks about Willie McDonald living on Choctaw Ridge and shares about her brother coming with her to meet with them at their play times as children.  I attempted to write the piece so that the READER would discover the connections at the same time as the minister.   Having some suspense and mystery in this piece seemed appropriate since the cannon itself is full of mystery.  I also used the everyday descriptions of time and place to introduce the story, just as Gentry introduced her tale with the words, “It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day.  I was out choppin’ cotton and my brother was balin’ hay.”  My fan fiction introduction includes sharing the setting of going over the bridge to St. Simons with the smell of the sea air and sitting down for lemonade and cookies prepared by Ruby’s daughter.  Sharing some of the same literary devices as Gentry allowed me to connect with her as a story teller.  These connections would probably not be obvious to the reader, but subconsciously it may affect the reading of the piece. 

I close the fan fiction with a prayer which provides the opportunity for some reconciliation for Ruby.  I chose to close it this way because this is what I would actually do in a setting like this.  But it also provides a sense of atonement (at-one-ment) for the reader who has experienced the tragedy and pain vicariously and perhaps needs the reconnection to love and healing the prayer provides.  

Oh, may it be so.