Lingering Stories

by Rev. Jim Briney

A member of a congregation I once served no longer was able to attend services.  From time to time I sat with her and visited with her in her 1 room accommodation in a long term continuing care facility.  I had seen her though the aftermath woes of her early married life, and learned of her peculiarities.  She encouraged me to tell her stories of my life, one of which follows this introduction.  She told me I should make a list of such stories, which I did several years ago.  There are some 230 of them.  She is gone now.  The stories linger.

Over the last two years of his life, Duke Ellington and I met up at various venues he was playing.  Among them, the Meadow Brook Amphitheatre, a private club in Michigan, and the Shamrock Hilton in Texas. Few people knew how ill Duke was, or how close he was to the end of his life.  I marveled at his ability to perform while keeping his commitments, honoring his contracts, respecting his audiences, and employing his orchestra. 

Duke summoned me to sit near him during the Meadow Brook intermission.  As Duke rested on the small bed backstage—belt undone and shirt untucked, to ease his pain—I wondered if he would be able to get up.  On cue, he rose to the occasion, re-took the stage, and gave the audience full measure.  I was surprised when Tony Watkins sang In The Beginning God, and dedicated it to me.  I think that was Duke’s way of saying I was ok with him. 

On another occasion Duke spotted me in the audience at a private club.  Duke motioned for me to come down and sit with him on the bench at his piano.  Duke knew my maternal grandfather had been a concert pianist and composer.  I whispered to him that I barely knew two pieces: Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I was not competent to play Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, so I played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with one hand.  Duke turned it into something—as if we had rehearsed it.

There was a beverage in a glass on the piano, within reach of Duke’s left hand.  Before returning to my seat, I asked Duke if he drank alcohol.  Without missing a beat, Duke said, “No, I retired undefeated.”  Another time I asked Duke how he sustained such a pace.  He was doing 200 dates a year. He told me he stayed in good hotels, slept in, and ordered the best steak and a bowl of chili that he poured over the steak. Duke said it was his main meal and it could be his last, so he ate what he liked.  He drank hot water, not coffee.  

Duke told me about his early days and promotions that had elevated the careers of The Duke and The Count.  I count myself lucky to have had a late dinner with Count Basie and his band several years before I knew Duke.  Duke wrote most days, knowing that his audiences wanted to hear what had become his old standards.  Duke figured it would be 30 years before anyone would listen to the music that occupied his prolific mind. He was writing every day. 

A fond memory of Duke Ellington has to do with his kindness to my eldest sister.  Upon my arrival in Texas, I asked her what she wanted to do to celebrate her wedding anniversary. She told me she had tried to get tickets for the Ellington concert and dinner at the Shamrock Hilton.  They had been sold out for months.  When I said let’s go, she did not know that I knew Duke and his son Mercer.  Mercer saw me in the hotel lobby while I was talking with the general manager, who stood at attention as Mercer approached us.

The general manager explained to Mercer that he could not accommodate the birthday wish of my sister, then asked, “Do you understand?” to which Mercer replied, “What are you doing for entertainment tonight?  Do you understand?”  Without another word, a table was prepared for us in front of the others.  As dessert was served a spotlight was focused on my sister.  Duke beckoned her to the dance floor with her husband while Paul Gonsalvas played an extended solo of Satin Doll.
That evening was a joy for everyone, with the exception of Paul Gonsalvas.  Paul had some sobering up to do and Duke was going to teach him a lesson. Each time Paul’s tenor sax was winding down, Duke spurred Paul on with shouts of praise for “The great Paul Gonsalvas.”  My affection and respect for Duke Ellington is for the man as much as his music.  Duke was not a disciplinarian, but he had his ways.

My memories include Mercer and I sharing a bottle of Cognac in a paper bag.  I preferred Courvoisier VSOP.  Mercer had a taste for Hennessy.  One time we sat on the ground while Money Johnson, Cootie Williams, Paul Gonsalvas, and others passed a reefer behind a stage door. They had been with Duke Ellington since his Cotton Club days, and when Mercer was young.

Mercer and I met for lunch in a Chicago steak house a week after the funeral for his father.  When Mercer greeted me he said, “Pop left me 12 million dollars. I didn’t know he even liked me.”  I have learned that my friends are where I find them.  I connected with Duke and Mercer at Meadow Brook when they performed for 30,000 fans, at a private club for a few hundred, and at an elegant affair for high paying guests, thankful that Mercer treated.  

Mercer had a mind for math and music.  He beat the odds, winning at Keno in Las Vegas.  Mercer scored his own compositions, including Reflections Indeed.  Throughout the course of my life and ministry—along the arc of seemingly random disjointed encounters—all sorts of memories occupy my mind.  Duke, Mercer, and Julie—the woman who asked to hear my stories—are long since gone.  Remembering them has led to a time of my own reflections. Indeed.

A Cardinal Lesson in Discernment

by Teresa Blythe

I have not always been sure of what I wanted to do with my life, but I have an uncanny ability to know deep within what I do not want—especially in what you might call “defining moments” of my life. 

In the late ’90s, I served as a low-level public relations assistant for the government transit agency in Baltimore, assigned all the tasks that the director of communications didn’t want to do. We were hosting the Catholic Cardinal one day as we dedicated the opening of a new subway station near the Cathedral, so I wore my nicest skirted suit. 

As the Cardinal spoke, it was clear the sound system wasn’t working properly. It made no difference that there were two men, in pants, staffing this event alongside me—I was ordered to step onstage during the speech, get on my knees, reach under the robe of the holy man, and adjust the sound. After the event, my boss ribbed me about “getting to fiddle around under the Cardinal’s robe” It was then I realized this job had run its course, and public relations was not a good fit for me.  

Leaving that job, I went to seminary in the hope that my theological leanings would lead to a career. Everyone, including me, expected I would become an ordained minister. But part of seminary training is exposure to a variety of ministries and ministers. And what I discovered was a general malaise that set in for many clergy after doing the job for five or more years. These men and women of God talked a lot about “callings” and “loving the people”—in the abstract. In reality, they were lonely, tired and depleted. I became tired just being around them. Some of them had personality types like my own, and I realized that if they couldn’t cut it, neither could I. I just didn’t have the mettle to be a parish minister. And I knew that if I ignored that “no” and pushed forward anyway I would have a lot harder time leaving that job than I did saying goodbye to the job that had me crawling onstage with the Cardinal. So, with a bit of sadness, I crossed “parish pastor” off my list. 

I wondered what I would ever be willing to say “yes” to?

While in seminary, I also studied to become a spiritual director—a person trained in listening and helping people along their spiritual journeys. We look for signs of energy, desire, life, and joy—clues that God is doing a new or significant thing in the person’s life. We look for the “yes” and pay close attention to the “no,” which is a key principle in the spiritual discipline of discernment.

As I learned how to walk with others, I found my own passions. Being a former broadcaster and having that short-lived career in public relations meant that I had done a lot of writing over the years. Now it was time to write about things that really mattered.

It began with articles, essays, book reviews and finally co-authoring a book. I was saying “yes” all over the place, and amazingly, people were responding. Then came an offer to write someone else’s book. It looked like a great career move, but a little voice deep inside me was saying that old familiar “no.” I pondered. Weighed the pros and cons. Consulted with mentors and elders. No. No. No. As certainly as I did not want to duck under the robe of the holy Cardinal, I did not want to write someone else’s book.

That’s when I learned the “cardinal” lesson of discernment. It is only in hindsight that we know with any certainty whether the path we chose was the right one, and that’s OK. As we keep looking back, we discover what we need to know to move forward. That visceral “no” is an important voice to honor. In fact, sometimes I think that’s the voice more good people in the world need to obey. It’s heartbreaking to see someone who says “yes” to every offer that comes down the road and become a scattered mess. Perhaps they heard the shout of “no” a few times but ignored it and now they are burned out and looking for the escape route.

That “no” taught me that, because life is short, I need to pursue what I am specifically made by God to do, even if it’s not all that clear at the moment. I need to write what I want to write, be around people who are full of life and help others along their spiritual journey. 

And, of course–never, ever, work for someone who demands that I crawl under a Cardinal’s robe.

Ideas for reflecting on listening to the “no:”

  • When is the last time you honored a “no” that you felt in your heart? How did it work out?
  • How did you discover your life’s work? If you have not yet found your way, what tools are you using for discernment?

Practice: Using the Quaker image of the “stop in the mind” as part of your discernment process. When you feel an urge to slow down or stop around a particular request made of you, take time to explore that. It could mean saying no is what’s best. Or it could mean you need more information, or that now is not the time. The “stop in the mind” can be important discernment information about how God’s spirit relates to us.

Why I Became a Spiritual Director

by Teresa Blythe

The practice of spiritual direction rescued me. I never felt I fit into the conservative church I grew up in, so I set out as a young adult to find a spiritual path that focused on God’s unconditional love of creation.

The journey took considerable time. My new path had little to do with the institutional church. I didn’t discover it in worship, bible studies, social justice activism or through the adoption of a new theology. I found it by way of a Presbyterian minister who was in training to be a spiritual director. From the very moment I entered spiritual direction, I knew I wanted to be exploring my experience, values, and beliefs the rest of my life.

A Safe Place

The spiritual direction relationship was a safe port in the storm of my connection with Christianity. It also gave me the tools and the space for discernment—especially around vocation.

When I entered spiritual direction in the late 1980’s I had no thoughts of pursuing ministry. I was busy developing a career as a radio news journalist. My need for spiritual direction was solely about healing my image of God. And it was working—I was healing.

As I moved from market to market trying to make a living in what was turning out to be a shrinking field, I was fortunate to find many able and experienced spiritual directors along the way. The work I did in spiritual direction gradually changed me, showing me a greater depth of purpose in life.

The Call

By the mid-90’s, I was broadcasting 100-second news updates for a Baltimore rock station with a “Morning Zoo” format, fondly referred to in the business as a trio of “the d–k, the dork and the (news) girl.” My epiphany—my “call narrative,” so to speak, came when the two DJs brought in a female stripper to entertain them at work. While I’m not a prude, inviting a stripper to a radio show seemed useless, even counterproductive to me. Still, I played it cool, reading the news on air as she danced for the guys. Walking out of that studio, heading back to my closet (literally—they had me work out of a closet) I heard a tiny voice say “I want more than this for you.”

For me that meant attending the Ecumenical Institute of St. Mary’s Seminary in Baltimore at nights while continuing to be part of the Morning Zoo. From there I headed to San Francisco Theological Seminary because it had a training program for spiritual directors.

Giving Back

Wanting to give to others what I had received was a driving force for me vocationally. I thought I would work mostly with people—like me—who were refugees from fundamentalism. What I’ve come to appreciate is the variety of experience, concerns, and spiritual needs in the world. We’re all refugees from something. Everyone who enters spiritual direction has wounds, desires and beliefs worth paying attention to. We all need sacred space filled with compassion, deep listening, and reverence.

That’s why I became a spiritual director.

On Puzzles, and stories

by Sandra Chapin

Puzzles exercise the brain. This kind of workout is something I can do on a daily basis. Putting pencil to paper for a little Sudoku (a math puzzle – more entertaining than figuring out my bank balance) while cable news hosts keep me over-informed. Putting finger to computer for online jigsaw puzzles when I need a break from TV. Yes, my mind is sharp and my eyes are strained.

Get back to real life, you say? Can’t get away from puzzles.

Composer Richard Rogers sang on that subject. From The King and I

There are times I almost think
I am not sure of what I absolutely know
Very often find confusion
In conclusion I concluded long ago
In my head are many facts
That, as a student, I have studied to procure
In my head are many facts
Of which I wish I was more certain I was sure!

Is a puzzlement

A great story set to music. The King of Siam reached out to Anna, the governess from England, to unravel some of the puzzles that persisted in his head. Through conversation and companionship, they both benefited by learning from (and disagreeing with) each other. They were like puzzle pieces representing Eastern and Western thought, and when their edges adapted and found a fit, a better image and understanding of the world emerged.

St. Paul’s is a puzzle. My next sentence choice could take take us in many directions, but the point I want to make here is that we are pieces that fit together. Surprisingly. Each one is the product of a different history. Our shapes vary. (Let’s not get into that.) Our ages may cluster around some vague measure of maturity, but our outlook on life is all over the map.

The analogy is obvious. When one piece is missing – when a unique voice, hug or smile is not present – the picture is not as colorful or meaningful as we’ve experienced before.

But our puzzle is not “done” even when all pieces are present and accounted for.

These short phrases are from a recently concluded TV epic with enough plot twists to boggle the most nimble puzzle fan.

What unites people?

Armies? Gold? Flags?

Stories.

There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story.

Tyrion Lannister
Game of Thrones
Final episode

In our church gatherings on Sundays or during the week, in our conversations, without a sense of hurry and in the embrace of trust, we share our stories. Mostly they are not epic. They are best told not in sound bites (or tweets), not in speeches, but in response to a skilled listener who lets the word images unravel from the head and heart of the teller. No prodding. No judgment. No subject changing. No filling a silence with commentary.

Storytelling is a waiting game.

Is the puzzle of a person’s entire story ever complete?

The picture on the box may be of a covered bridge in the fall, and every jigsawed piece has its place. But what does it feel like to ride a bicycle as a twelve-year old into that darkened corridor, the rhythm of wheels drumming on weathered floor planks? Beneath is the stream where you and Grandpa fished all summer, hooking more jokes than trout. Does this bridge connect home and school? Childhood and adulthood?

Stories: bridges into the heart. A story may be given away, yet remain owned. Maybe we don’t tell it the same way twice, as memories are rediscovered or put aside. Shared, it can linger with a listener. Or result in a joyful moment, like the flash of the silver trout, darting away, laughing.

Stories unite people. And puzzle pieces.

image: Copyright ©2018 by Dianne Phelan Müller

I Love to Tell the Story: A Lenten Journey

by Amanda Peterson

One of the powerful aspects of the Lenten journey is it invites us into the story of our faith.  We are invited into the story of Jesus and how that impacts us in this moment.  We get to revisit and re-examine what that story means to us this year and how it has impacted us in the past.

Something wonderful happens when we gather to tell stories.  We are often encouraged to stay in this moment, which is a wonderful practice. Yet, this has left me wondering what does this do to my relationship with the future and the past.  How do I find balance in looking at the past and the future in order to bring me back to the Now?

This is where storytelling is very helpful.  It is a lost art in our culture.  The ability to sit around with friends and imagine the future you know is inside you. Say it out loud with feeling, vulnerability and support, even being wild and imaginative in the process.  By looking ahead and asking, “what do I want to experience in the gift of life I have been given?”,  it brings us back to the moment with new knowledge.  How do I start living now that will make that future show up in me?  What small steps can I take Now?

The challenge in future storytelling, and perhaps why people shy away from it, is that by speaking the future, one may enter into the  “I wish that were Now” syndrome.  The temptation to think life won’t start until that future is realized.  That temptation makes Now look like not enough.  And then the moment is gone. I notice as I work with people in life transitions that it’s easy to go to the hopeful future and want to dwell there.  In doing this, this moment is totally ignored, especially if the moment does not hold the sparkle of the future.

Another challenge in future stories comes when they are about waking up possibility. Waking up the “I wonder” inside.  That can be a scary thing to wake up because it can have a life of it’s own.  One can no longer hide.

These challenges happen because it’s easy to lose the meaning of what storytelling is truly all about.  Stories are told because they remind us that all of life is just one story after another.  The real power is in the story unfolding right now.

Storytelling one’s past is a bit easier.  In fact I tell a lot of past stories in my day, especially the horror stories.  “I’ll never do that again; let me tell you why.”  It is as though that past story is the end of the story. This happened – end of story. There is no moving on from here.  Yet if I were really practiced at storytelling, I would quickly come to the reality that this is but one story among many and there are more to tell. This story doesn’t define me.  It’s the story in this moment that matters. Looking back allows me to ask questions like, what was I doing five years ago?  Did I ever imagine that all this would be happening now, or is life exactly the same?   This brings me back to the Now with gratitude and trust that this moment truly is leading to the next.

I invite you to practice the art of storytelling in your Lenten walk.  In engaging Jesus’ story, once again let it also reflect on your story.  How did Jesus relate past, present, and future?  Ask questions and share stories about your walk with God with others.  Move beyond reading and discussing and ask, “how can these stories inform your Now moment?”