On Writing and the Unexpected

Writing is a great way to process so many things that we deal with in our lives. Yet, the age of digital communications, such as Twitter, Facebook and emails, and the emphasis on concise speech with bullet points and time limits reduces the benefits the written word gives us. Honestly, how much processing can one really do in 140 characters?

I missed writing. I know no one stopped me from writing in a journal or keeping a diary, but I just could not seem to start. Luckily for me, Claire Asbury Lennox started a writing class at Glenn last year. I thought this would be just the focus I needed to be more diligent and disciplined about creative writing. 

For reasons I am now forgetting, the year 2015 brought more reflections on events and people from my past. I wished I could ask Mom or Dad; why hadn’t I asked Mom or Dad? Now they are not available for the questions. I suppose it is just my age that made me realize how quickly facts and memories slip away from a family if someone does not write their stories. 

My mother must have had the same realization when she was around my age. I have lots of facts about relatives and pieces of furniture. My grandmother was a librarian, and she provided lots of identification about folks in old pictures, including writing their names on their foreheads in the picture! I found myself longing for the rich stories associated with these people and places. I struggle to remember the stories I have heard about these relatives. For me, it is not the big facts of who married whom and where they lived. I wanted to preserve the jokes told at a family reunion and the small shared moments together. In case my children ever have this same curiosity, I thought I better start writing at least what I know. This project is my own little Story Corp for our family, and Claire’s class would provide the impetus to begin.

Claire was finishing her Masters in Fine Arts at the time she began the class. She had requirements needed to complete the program, and teaching this class would help her meet those. For her students (US!), Claire offered the skills she was being taught. Claire emphasized the class would be a memoir writing class and began by teaching from the wealth of resources she has on constructing memoirs. She introduced us to passages that were constructed in ways that conveyed emotions and to phrases used to emphasize the author’s intent with a minimum of well-chosen words. Claire gave us exercises in class to help us learn to dredge up the feelings that are associated with the facts we remember. (At one point, Claire was ready to move on, I think, and we begged for more exercises!) 

Try one yourself. Write down five public events that occurred during your life before age 18. Take only about 3 minutes to make the list. Now, pick one and write about the event, emphasizing how you felt when you learned the news, how people around you reacted, and how the event changed you, if it did. The class members my age included on our lists the day John Kennedy was shot and the Vietnam War. The younger members led off with the events on 9/11. The Challenger explosion was an overlap between the age groups. We only wrote about our chosen event for about 10 minutes, and we only shared our piece if we desired to do so. Once the sharing began, we were enthralled by the different perspectives each of us had on the same event. I was amazed by what memories lingered way back in my brain!

If you know Claire, you know she is generous with her talents and positive in her approach. Claire is the same when she teaches. That said, Claire could be much tougher on me than she is. Attempts have been made, and several pieces are in progress on documenting the memories of my life. I still have the bad habits of thinking I’ll finish that later and of putting other mundane things in life ahead of my goals for writing. Maybe confessing this on a church blog will provide the magic elixir to be more proactive on this project. 

Even knowing I am not prioritizing my writing project, I will continue to participate in Claire’s new sessions. I love learning of other people’s approaches to their projects and hearing their pieces. I am inspired by the diligence others bring to their projects and encouraged to do more. I am delighted to be the recipient of Claire’s knowledge of this area. I enjoy having a class so different from my occupation in which to participate. 

Our core group is supportive and close. Where else do you find friends to listen to your home movies, who will gently tell you how to change that phrase to gain emphasis on the emotions you were trying to convey, who will pat you on the arm if tears come along with the words. Being true to the spirit of Glenn, we do not always stick to memoir writing, either. Our members have shared fiction, poetry, and even stories written through obituaries.

Glenn is indeed a rich spiritual community. Glenn offers support in ways we would expect of a church community and in many ways I would not expect. Writing class is one of those unexpected pleasures. I hope others will be encouraged to take advantage of this creative outlet to hone their writing skills and keep an art form, which we too often forget to practice, alive!

Ann Rushing

The class "Writing Your World" will be held from 6:30 to 8:00 p.m. in Room 401 of the Church School Building on the following Sunday evenings: January 31, February 14, February 28, March 13, April 10, and April 21. Cost is $60.00. For more information and to sign up, contact Claire Asbury Lennox at clasbury10@gmail.com.

What Are Your Plans?

My cousins Joseph, Cathy, and Ann grew up on a farm in South Georgia. It was the same farm that my mother and her sister and brother grew up on. It was the same farm we visited as children when we went to see my mother’s side of the family on Thanksgiving and Christmas. This farm is no longer a legal part of our family; however, the memories of our time spent fishing in the lakes, hiding in the tobacco barns, and teasing the hogs will be a part of my life forever. 

My Aunt Janice died last December 26 and we traveled down to Lakeland United Methodist Church to join with family and friends to celebrate her life. My Aunt Janice and Uncle Pete raised their children, my three cousins, on that farm and most of the stories told that day came from those days.

The story that has stayed with me all year, and the one I think of as we enter a new year, 2016, is one that my cousin Joseph told as he delivered his mother’s eulogy. He told of how she would come into their bedrooms early on Saturday morning carrying a cup of cold water. She would dip her fingers into the water and flick the water on his face until he would wake up. She would then say, “What are your plans? What are your plans for the day?” Joseph said that his first thoughts were always something like “Well, after I get rid of you, I plan to go back to sleep.” She would continue to flick water on his face until he responded with some reasonable plan for the day.

Joseph told those gathered for his mother’s funeral that as a teenage boy he hated that Saturday morning ritual. All of his friends got to sleep as long as they wanted to. He, on the other hand, had to get up with some kind of a plan for the day. As he recalled this memory, Joseph confessed that as an adult he realized this obnoxious Saturday morning ritual had instilled in him a sense of motivation and direction that to this day enables him to live intentionally. 

While even the best of plans can change in a moment’s notice, not having any plans for our lives is dangerous. It can lead to aimless wandering, futility and, ultimately, despair. The prophet Jeremiah reminds us that even God has a plan for God’s children: “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11) God’s plan for us is to love us, to care for us, and to give us one day after another in which we can live intentionally.

As my Aunt Janice might ask, “As you enter 2016, what are your plans?”

Wishing each and everyone a Happy New Year!

Peace, Alice

Gift of God to me and the world

Our final post in this Advent series is on the 5:00 p.m. Christmas Service. Glenn member Amy Bugg Burke writes on her own memories, reminding us of why it is indeed a community favorite and a beloved tradition.

When my dear friend Nancy Fleming found out I was pregnant with my son, she insisted that we should be the Holy Family at the Christmas Eve service the next year.

“But won’t Joseph be too old? He’s due in May!”

“No! He’ll just be an Epiphany baby! It will be great! You have to do it!”

Glenn’s 5:00 p.m. Christmas Eve Service is the most important of all my Christmas traditions. I have not missed a single year since I was about six weeks old – indeed, I have refused other plans at Christmas simply because they would mean missing this beloved service.

Although there have been a few years when I enjoyed being a part of the congregation, I much prefer participating. Growing up, I sang in the children’s choir, the Parish choir, and in a trio for “What Child is This?” I wore a paper mache donkey head (twice!) and spent several years as a rather ungraceful sacred dancer. After I went off to college, Nancy invited me back to help her wrangle dancers and 5th grade angels, which I did for many years (mostly so that I could spend time with her and enjoy one of the best seats in the house up on stage). Five years ago, I had the privilege of portraying the holy family with my husband and our son.

On that rainy Christmas Eve, Ryan and I somehow managed to make it to the front of the church and say our lines – the same lines I had been hearing (with minor tweaks here and there) every Christmas for 32 years. Moments later, we were headed behind the triptych to take the pillow out from under my robe and present “baby Jesus” to the congregation.

We brought Joseph out, and I proudly held him up for all to see while Ryan went to light the Christ candle. I had been afraid that Joseph would be too cold, or that he’d be afraid of the loud organ and bright lights, but he was comfortable in my arms and mesmerized by everything going on around him. It turns out that 7 months is a wonderful age to play baby Jesus! That year they also decided that Mary should sing a lullaby to the baby. Watching Joseph look around with wonder while I sang, I felt the rush of joy that all mothers feel for their young babies in those special, tender moments. Even now, tears spring to my eyes as I remember that sweet, warm baby in my arms (now a rowdy five year old). I find myself imagining another young girl on the very first Christmas night, also holding her new baby, warm and sweet:

Rock-a-bye, my dear little boy, dear little boy,
wonder of wonders, my blessing and joy;
slumber as I gently hold you,
let my tender love enfold you;
gift of God to me and the world,
here in my arms lies so peacefully curled.

Little Jesus, Infant Divine, Infant Divine,
one with the Father, yet born to be mine;
as I rock you calmly sleeping,
angel guards their watch are keeping;
precious child, one day we shall see
what love has destined for you and for me.

Whether this is your 1st, 38th, or 50th year at Glenn, I hope you will come and enjoy this special re-telling of the Christmas story at our Christmas Eve service. It may be a little crowded and noisy – babies will cry as parents strip sweaters off complaining toddlers – but by the end, when the candles are lit and we all sing “Silent Night,” you may also experience the joy and wonder of the Christ child, and the peace that he brings to us.

Amy Bugg Burke

A d v e n t

For our fourth post in the series, Glenn member and Lay Minister John Roeser shares a poem he wrote about the heavy and hard moments we often encounter in this season of waiting. All are welcome to come to "In the Bleak Midwinter: A Service of Grief and Hope" this Thursday at 7:00 p.m. in the Little Chapel.

a single candle was glowing a light and bright yellow -
alone - but for a reason,
for in this season, we wait

this single candle stood with three others -
their dark wicks stood sentry -
a clock with four positions
one lit, three quietly
even reverently telling us -
this is a new season, we wait

I had a closer view of this rack of four
moving up to the communion rail -
turned to my right and saw this new widow
she too, might have been staring at this light
but our eyes met - she smiled brightly
I was surprised and then I wasn't
for she knew in this season of hope, we wait

her handkerchief in her hand was knotted tight
her world changed over the weekend past,
dear John, put up a fight
darkness coming, it will soon be night
but that single light -
a side of this quadrangle of hope
stays in our minds - our minds
maybe race ahead - but our faith
is strengthened and allows
us to wait

Surrounded by The Story

Glenn Co-Lay Leader Carol Allums brings us to the third post in our Advent series. She helps us look forward to Lessons and Carols this Sunday by reflecting back on her many years of participating in the service.

This Sunday at 11:00 a.m., Glenn will present its annual Lessons and Carols service. If you’re not familiar with Lessons and Carols, it is a service that tells the story of the Christian faith, from the Garden of Eden through the birth of Jesus, using scripture lessons, hymns and anthems. A service of this type has been a tradition in Christian churches since the late 1800s.

At Glenn, choirs of all ages participate in the Lessons and Carols service, each offering an anthem to tell a part of the story. From the first and second graders in the Carol Choir singing “A Star, A Song, A Sign” to the adult Chancel Choir closing the service with the magnificent “Dona Nobis Pacem”, the choirs offer anthems of many different types and times. The congregation also helps to advance the narrative through the singing of traditional Advent hymns such as “Lo, He Comes With Clouds Descending” and “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”  Between the musical offerings, lay readers tell the story of our faith with scripture readings. Prior to the service, beginning at 10:30 a.m., Stuart Stephenson, Principal Trumpet with the ASO, will be joining with organist Jamie Shiell and percussionist Todd Mueller to present instrumental music of the Advent season. If you are ever going to be early to church at Glenn, this is the Sunday to do it.

As a member of the Chancel Choir, I have been in the choir loft for many Lessons and Carols services. Sitting there gives me a front row seat from which to watch all the children’s and youth choirs offer their best to God. As the mother of three children who grew up at Glenn, I have been moved to watch year after year as the children of our church so beautifully do their part to tell the story. And while I love singing in the Chancel Choir on normal Sundays, it is a special privilege to be a part of this service, with its wonderful music and timeless story.

Despite the joy I take in participating in Lessons and Carols, my favorite memory from the services over the years is from a year I did not sing. That was the year our son, Coleman, was diagnosed with cancer. Throughout the time he was receiving chemotherapy, Coleman frequently was unable to be around groups of people because of the risk of infection. During that time, my husband, Vic, and I would take turns on Sundays, one of us going to church with our daughters, Maddie and Jordan, and one of us staying home with our son. That year, the Sunday of Lessons and Carols was my turn to go to church, although it is possible that I finagled the calendar to make sure that was the case. Sitting in the congregation that Sunday, listening to the choirs and the scripture readings and singing the hymns, was exactly what I needed. During one of the most difficult times of my life, I sat surrounded by my church family, listening to the story of our faith and being reminded and reassured that God loves me and that no matter what was to come, God would be by my side.

So come to the Lessons and Carols service this Sunday. Come to listen to the music and sing the hymns. Come to hear the story of our faith. Come to sit surrounded by your church family or to find a church family. Come to be reminded that God loves us all and will always be with us. Come for whatever reason you choose – just come. It will be glorious.

Come and Hear the Angels Sing

We come to the second post in our Advent series. Looking toward the Youth Advent Concerts coming up this Sunday, Wes Griffin writes on their meaning in his life and in the lives of our youth.

Wes Griffin has performed with numerous sacred and secular vocal groups and is currently the Director of Youth Music and Associate Music Director of Glenn. He has built a model classically-based youth music program with strong participation. Wes is also an accomplished tenor soloist.

Rhythm and melody enter into the soul of the well-instructed youth and produce there a certain mental harmony hardly obtainable in any other way. Plato

There is something inexplicable but profound in vocal and choral singing. As listeners in an audience or congregation, we are blessed in our listening, but as singers, there is a bond, a camaraderie, a musical fellowship that is very powerful. Often, the anthems that are best-remembered and loved by the youth are the ones that were the most difficult and required the most discipline and rehearsal time. In a sense, the “process” of preparing the music becomes as important as the “product” of singing it in performance and/or worship. 

Many times, it is my joy (and sometimes curse) to be able to “step back” as a conductor and allow the youth singers to take charge of the musical moment with little or no guidance from me. The “curse” is that in these moments, I am often brought to tears by the beauty of both their singing and their obvious pleasure in sharing their talents with others. At these precious times, I truly feel the spirit of God present and among us. Nevertheless, somewhere (I am sure) it is mandated that conductors may not break down in front of their choirs regularly, so as not to distract them, so tears must quickly be put aside (at least by the time of the next anthem).

Sing modestly. Do not bawl, so as to be heard above or distinct from the rest of the congregation, that you may not destroy the harmony, but strive to unite your voice together, so as to make one clear melodious sound. John Wesley

The Glenn Little Chapel is a remarkable space for choral singing. The acoustics are such that even the quietest voices may be heard and appreciated. Younger and/or less experienced singers are encouraged and supported to sing solos or in small ensembles. More advanced singers are provided opportunities for substantial solos and ensembles. All singers gain confidence, supported by our wonderful congregation and local community. 

Nothing on earth is so well suited to make the sad merry, the merry sad, to give courage to the despairing, to make the proud humble, to lessen envy and hate, as music. Martin Luther

In her inspiring sermon “How Will You Prepare?” from last Sunday’s 11:00 a.m. worship service, Rev Blair Setnor challenged and encouraged us to reevaluate our priorities away from the trappings of consumerism and self-gratification and more toward anticipating the coming of the Christ Child and in helping others. In one of our musical selections for this Sunday’s concerts, “There’s a Spirit in the Air”, the great lyricist Brian Wren pens it best:

When a stranger’s not alone, when the homeless find a home.
Praise the love that Christ revealed, living, working, in our world.

With that in mind, in this wondrous season of hope and anticipation, my wish is that you will set aside time this Sunday afternoon to attend one of the concerts.

Come to marvel at the talents and gifts of our youth.

Come and support their courage and self-confidence.

Come to be inspired by and receive musical blessings.

Come and hear the angels sing, and Christ most certainly will come to us.

This Sunday, December 6, at 3:00 and 4:00 p.m., the combined Glenn Youth Choirs will present two back-to-back concerts celebrating music of the season. Formally titled "The Little Chapel Youth Choral Series", this is the 11th season of their annual Advent concerts. The concerts are dedicated to providing youth from 6th through 12th grades opportunities to sing the praises of God in the wonderful confines of The Little Chapel, one of the outstanding choral venues in this area. Free of charge; there will be an offering collected as a fundraiser for their choir tour/mission trip to Toronto in the summer of 2016.

Approaching Advent

This week begins our 5-week blog series on Advent. Guest bloggers from the congregation will write on a few of our upcoming events, reminding us of their significance in our life together and in this season of Advent and Christmas. 

Stewart Voegtlin begins the series with a piece on Advent wreath-making. Stewart is a 2015 graduate of Candler with a Masters of Theological Studies (MTS). He currently serves Glenn as a Youth Ministry intern and completed a pastoral care internship through Glenn in the spring of 2015. Stewart is a member of Glenn with his wife, Katrina, and their son, Trey. In his spare time he works towards committing the entirety of the Loeb Classical Library to memory, and vividly imagines catching ancient brown trout from undiscovered streams.  

Pastor Culla Manse always struck Middle C before playing the piano. What was perhaps Manse’s way of sounding a preparatory note has come to oddly define the meaning and metaphysics of Advent for me. I have often wondered if this habit meant anything for his congregation. Their reactions were neither arguable nor clear: they were unresponsive, as if he had done nothing but breathe. Yet, for me, it was the engine that drove the season. I cannot think of Advent without thinking of Manse or Middle C. They are impossibly entangled and continue to carry my thinking about this season’s import.

Manse was the first pastor I met through the paper. A leisurely holiday week swung slowly between a Red Hat Society luncheon and the high school’s exhibition of a local banker’s watercolors of whitetail deer. Four hundred words and a few photographs on Advent wreathing---at a church General William T. Sherman declined to burn because the pastor at the time was a Mason---would finally fill a nagging B Section vacancy.

Manse, himself, was substantial. This massive man, who shook rooms when walking through them, was never seen without his clerical collar, shirt, and coat---the black having finally faded the same blue as his eyes. Where his vocation had fixed him as one to help mend the broken, he crashed through life, straining the frame of his day to its very breaking point. What time I spent with Manse demonstrated more of the same, particularly with his own congregation.

Manse was uncomfortably provocative with his own folks, much less urban dwelling, would-be reporters who had milked neither cow or goat, nor had to spring from sleep in the wee hours with flashlight and shotgun to thwart a skulk of foxes from the henhouse. Why y’all here? he asked folks casually sitting around card tables, bending artificial fir fronds into circles. Nothin better to do? he asked. Wreathin just somethin you always done, and couldn’t stop now? Some folks laughed. Some sat silent. Manse lumbered around the church, circling card tables like a bull.

Manse was difficult to read. One heard so many odd notes in the song of his voice. What was that tone his questions kept? If it was anger, was it honest? If it was curiosity, and it was genuine indeed, could he not have found a more careful way to convey it? I took notes in one of those long, rectangular reporter notebooks while sipping sweet tea from a styrofoam cup. “I have never made an Advent wreath,” I wrote, and underlined it several times as if it were an admission so condemnatory that it must be set apart from notes regarding the church building’s age, longest serving clergy, and “celebrity” congregants. Does this matter? Manse asked, holding a half completed wreath above his berm of white hair, and then tossing it to the floor.

Folks still bent fir fronds into circles. They pulled plastic pine cones and bright red clutches of holly berries from bottomless shopping bags. Purple and pink and bone white Christ candles lay in a paper bag, bound in bunches with kitchen twine. Folks made more than they needed. Completed wreaths outnumbered church families almost three-to-one. They would find their ways to various gas station and meat ‘n’ three countertops. Did any paying customers ever think to ask why these wreaths were made and shared and ultimately mattered---especially since their symbolic significance served no match for supper or small talk?

Those wreaths were never activated. They never signaled the passage of Advent’s four Sundays. Their candle wicks never felt fire. They became nests for business cards. Folks played tiny games of tic tac toe, and scratched their names into the candlewax. The wreaths were wrested of their ritual, left unengaged, marking only indifference. It’s the concern that counts, Manse told me, pacing the nave, the floorboards creaking.

He told me this only after the folks had left, after I had photographed them all with their completed wreaths. In what way do you mean? I asked. Do what now, son? he asked, showing me concern was not a top that needed spinning. He stared, irritated, and then looked heavenward. The antebellum church’s boards and rafters chattered in the wind. They groaned. Manse rapped on the church wall. Pecan, he said. From the grounds. Same trees the snakes hang in come summer.

Middle C on the battered upright piano bonged like a church bell. Its sound as congruous as its decay was stubborn. It took me five Advent wreathing articles to ask Manse why he struck the note before playing, even after I had carried it with me for years, always wanting to stuff significance into the act, like those goofy canned snake gags that explode when opened by their unwitting victim. Manse returned questions with questions. He never waited for a response. That particular night, after everyone had left, Manse sat down at the piano and played Be Thou My Vision. Middle C crept from the chancel and hovered up the apse and fell from its apex and moved down its nave. Among its persistent sound was Manse’s singing; his voice what the song might be were it to sing itself, its own best thought---by day or by night.

Those photographs I took on those wreathing nights at the church rose immediately above the ruck. Like their subjects, they wore no masks. They shared their smiles, their selves. This was no place nor event for concealment. As mawkish as it sounds, these images sang, entangled impossibly in the knotted ideas of our religion as an encounter of God and humankind in Christ, where the most sought-after song is seasonal: God addressing humankind as a human among humans. 

I cannot help but hear Middle C, and the hymn that had chosen Manse, and Manse’s voice, a hoarse whisper that could never make up its mind to simply sing. Always in those photos are scrums of children running around the card tables, screaming, laughing, hair stricken with static, faces flushed. I can hear the Advent song they sang to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star: Advent is a time to wait / Not quite time to celebrate / Count the candles one by one / Until Advent is done / Day by day we work and play / To prepare for Christmas day.

My publisher suggested cropping the kids out. But I kept them. Shocked senior faces made more sense then. Smiles unscripted and honest. These photos posed no questions. They would not provoke me or others into thinking more than simply receiving what they proclaimed. All of those elderly hands fashioning fir fronds into unbroken bands. Hands liver spotted and rippled with veins. Young hands upon old hands, the way children stand over adult feet and are walked around the world.

I still like to think Manse thought the wreaths helped folks identify where they were, that they whispered a way around the approaching season. They showed them how to start, both beginner and expert alike, much as Middle C kept eighty-eight keys from appearing bewilderingly self same. I still like to think Manse struck Middle C to get his bearing, his orientation. Its bonging bell put him within the piano, even if its location was not truly in its middle, as Advent is by definition neither near nor far.

The congregants never answered Manse’s question, but I believe they were there because the wreathing helped them get their bearing, their orientation. They saw the face of God in those children and each other; they knew that the magic of the season was not an abracadabra of marketing and commerce, but the infinite made finite: God come to meet us in our smallness. But I also believe Manse compelled his congregation to ask itself why the act mattered because he must. It was Manse’s way of striking Middle C among them, of waking them to the living God’s availability. Manse was only doing what he did every time he settled onto the stool. He was helping folks locate themselves in a time that may appear as bewilderingly self same as any other, but could not be more different.

When the folks would finally finish, and I’d filled a camera memory card, and notebook pages with notes, they would find their ways outside and chat about how they could not believe Christmas had come again---even though it was still several Sundays away. Twilight had taken to dusk and the trees that lined the river were lit with setting sun. I stuck around the church with Manse. The sanctuary now silent. And as Manse made his way up to the altar, to the battered upright piano, and I awaited the arrival of Middle C’s bonging bell, I wondered if I heard it more in its absence, if---like the Church that is this Kingdom---I was becoming to understand my orientation to Christ as the only true way to get my bearing in the world, to apprehend what has happened, and to recognize that which is still to come.

Glenn welcomes the Advent season with a special evening filled with decorating Advent wreaths, making ornaments for the Glenn Family Christmas tree, singing carols and decorating cookies. Join us on Wednesday, December 2, 6:30 p.m. in the Ward Fellowship Hall. Bring your greenery and a donation for wreath supplies.

Journeying Toward Justice

In the early 1990s, Kelly Gissendaner was convicted of the murder of her husband Doug Gissendaner and sentenced to the death penalty, despite the fact that Kelly did not commit the murder herself. Kelly personally admitted on many occasions her guilt for conspiring in the murder of Doug and her deep regret for how she played a hand in his death. Kelly never claimed to be innocent, but her sentence has always seemed greatly disproportionate to the sentence given to the man who actually killed Doug Gissendaner. He is up for parole in 7 years. Kelly was executed by the state on September 30, 2015, despite pleas from those who knew her about her changed heart, her love for people, and her ability to minister to the women in the prison around her.

My involvement in the case of Kelly Gissendaner began, essentially, by accident. I latched onto what was happening on social media and people began to look to me for answers about the activism that was occurring at Candler. In retrospect, I could have refused this role. I could have claimed that I had no idea what was going on, that I was not in charge, and pointed people to other authorities. But I didn’t. I took it upon myself to answer these questions, to be a voice in a place where one was needed, and to answer my call to justice work. 

I am often careful in talking about justice work, because I realize we are not all called to the same things. Not everyone is called to hang banners at 4:00 a.m. or protest in the streets.   Some of us are called to quiet prayer. Some of us are called to organize logistics behind the scenes. Some of us are called to teach others. It feels a little bit like beating a dead horse to say that all of these gifts and skills are important (even though they most certainly are), so instead I’ll say this: no matter what your gifts are, you are called to justice work. We are all called to help the oppressed, house the stranger, and heal wounds. We are all called to this, not because I say so but because scripture tells us we are. 

Over and over, the law codes of the Old Testament tell the people of Israel to care for the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner – the most helpless and outcast members of the Ancient Near Eastern society. The prophets chastise Israel for their ignorance of these law codes. The prophets claim that the exile they are experiencing is because the Israelites failed to do the justice work that God asked them to do. The Psalms characterize the wicked and the evil ones as those who do not do justice but impose violence and oppression on the people. It goes without saying that the teachings of Christ show us how to bring justice, offering grace and acceptance to all those despised by the world. 

The question, then, is what does this look like for you? This question can be overwhelming. I’m often overwhelmed by all of the brokenness around us. Economic inequality, racial injustice, oppression of immigrants and refugees, abuse of women, destruction of creation - these types of lists are nearly unbearable. Similarly, to reduce the brokenness of the world to merely a list of problems greatly minimizes these issues. The truth is that you cannot fix everything. I cannot fix everything. But we can, together, try to fix little pieces of some things. When we, as the church, through prayer and faithfulness, allow ourselves to tap into our passions, sometimes seemingly by accident, we become God’s agents.

It’s true that we can’t change the world. But the good news is that God can. This might seem cliche, like something off of a terrible bumper sticker. And I don’t say it to mean that God works magic to make everything in the world happy and shiny. I do mean, though, that God redeems our brokenness. God offers us resurrection through Christ. And not just us, but the world. All of these systemic issues that overwhelm us can begin to be healed by our own small actions and by God’s great actions through us.

Where is your voice needed? What are your gifts? For whom does your heart break?

Brenna Lakeson
Candler School of Theology intern

Tonight at 6:30 p.m. in the Ward Hall, Brenna will be speaking in more depth on her experiences of advocating for the life of Kelly Gissendaner. Explore with her the Biblical and theological issues of capital punishment, our legal systems, and our faith.

Stories told and told again

I was hired to be Glenn’s co-director of Youth Ministries in the spring of 2009. Before I was officially on staff I watched the youth production of “Guys and Dolls” with infamous performances by youth alumni Candler Vinson, Kristen Holladay, Kathryn Mase, and Zack Mountcastle.

The first two events that I did as an official staff member were Bite Nite (picture a crazy scavenger hunt with pictures, videos, and crazy outfits throughout Atlanta and Decatur) and Youth Sunday (our completely youth-led worship service every May). These two traditions, and our youth productions, reach back decades. 

Stories told and told again… 

Over the years, these events and our buildings have played host to many stories. Stories of fun and stories of great transformation. In my years at Glenn, it has been amazing to witness our spaces, our ministries, and our community continue to draw and call people back. 

This Sunday at all three worship services, you'll hear reflections from our staff as we celebrate the gifts and pledges that are given to God. I will share a few memorable stories of fun and transformation. And ask you to consider:

What stories will be told in years to come?

How will you invest in our children today and in their children to ensure that our spaces, our ministries, our unique community continues to draw and call people back?

Blair

Youth Sunday 2012

Youth alumni Megan Sadowski Simmons and Claire Asbury Lennox with former Youth Director, Amy Bugg Burke, at Senior Banquet 2006.

Guys and Dolls Youth production, 2009

Gnadenthron

While driving long trips, I will sometimes surf radio stations to learn what the world is listening to: contemporary Christian music, rock music, folk music, jazz, hip-hop, rap, opera, country, classical, oldies. Given that I sometimes take very long trips, I have done a lot of listening. One night as I was closing in on Atlanta c. 2:30 a.m., I remember hearing experimental space music from GA Tech. Go Tech.

I virtually never listen to religious stations – too many apparent charlatans. However, once while driving late night from Durham to Charlotte, I happened on a religious broadcast whose character impressed me. So I stayed tuned and there ensued a sermon of Charles Haddon Spurgeon. It was not his voice, but that of someone reading one of his sermons. I had never heard of him and had no idea of his era.

As you can see at the link above, Spurgeon (1834-1892) was among the great preachers the world has ever known. He was a Baptist who got his call at age 19 and preached so persuasively that his congregation built him a church in London seating six thousand. They sang principally the psalms of Isaac Watts exclusively a cappella; thus his musical theology, at least, was Calvinist.

His sermon addressed God’s temporal and spiritual providence for us. It was about 30 minutes long, though I have since learned that his sermons usually spanned two hours, so some generous editing had transpired. It was a straightforward, didactic, ingenuous explication of scripture. Though simple in form, it was interesting, inspiring, and its simple truth went straight to the heart.

I searched the web but never found the source of the broadcast, so I couldn’t find the sermon or the scripture he used. Nevertheless, I have the gist. He spelled out the anxiety many of us feel about our worldly security – money, success, comfort, fame, legacy, etc. Then he spelled out the fears many of us have of our moral and spiritual fitness for this world and the next. Then he said we should put all these anxieties at the throne of God and be comforted: “Lay them all at the throne of God.” William Sloan Coffin, in a sermon he preached at Cannon Chapel, said “there is far more grace in God than there is sin in us.” I cited the probable source of this on the blog a few weeks back: William Langland (1332 – c. 1386), “All the sin in the world in relation to God's mercy is like a spark of fire in the midst of the sea.”

My first senior pastor, Charlie Milford, at my first major church post, Park Road Baptist, Charlotte, 1976-1982, mentoring this inexperienced and often overly anxious director of music, said to me many times: “be not anxious.” 

Be we not anxious, for all people, cares, and dreams are welcome at God’s Throne of Grace.

Steve

About Annette Stephens

When I started attending the 11:00 service at Glenn in 2013, a lot of it was new to me. The morning prayer, back then usually offered by Josh Amerson, was always meaningful – and helpful too, since prayer was novel in my life. And toward the end of the prayer, he held up to God a list of those coping with failures of the body.

Over time I started noticing how many of these people stayed on the list, week after week, month after month. The litany of names began to take on a recognizable rhythm, but while the sounds and syllables of the names have become familiar, I know nothing of the people they denote. Who are they? What are they facing? What do they like to do? What are they proud of? What would they want us to know about them?

Annette Stephens is one of those names. She suffers from Alzheimer’s and lives at Brighton Gardens in Buckhead.

Her husband Wesley Stephens told me that he and Annette first met on the way to Lake Junaluska, as part of a Methodist caravan. They were both in college and saw each other two more times in Atlanta after summer was over. “The third time, it took,” he says. They were married in 1952 and had four children, Lynn, Dan, Dot, and Jimmy.

One of five children born to Mary and Wiley Aiken, Annette grew up in Pennington, Georgia (the home of Pennington Seed), which sits on the banks of the Little River, about 60 miles east of Atlanta. Wiley died of pneumonia in 1930 and Mary was left to raise her children alone on a cotton farm in the midst of the depression. They lived without indoor plumbing or electricity until Annette was in college.

The Stephens served churches in the North Georgia conference for 25 years, and when her youngest child started school, Annette started teaching at Clark Middle School in Athens, Georgia. She taught science and managing “the little savages” kept her on her toes, Wesley says.

As a working mom of four, she didn’t have a lot of free time, but she loved walking, camping and traveling. “Nine times we traveled as a family to go camping out West, each time for a month, and we saw all the western national parks. We’ve visited all 50 states and camped in Europe, New Zealand, Ecuador and Britain. We’ve seen some places!” he says.

Unlike some on the weekly prayer list, Annette is a member of Glenn, and first came at the suggestion of her son, Jay and his wife, Ann Berry. “Annette attended the New Class,” Wesley says. “When we heard that Ted Runyon was involved, we thought that has to be a great class if he’s in it. She enjoyed the class – always spoke up and had good opinions.”

When I ask Wesley for a fond memory of Annette, he says after coming up in such a humble place, she was a conservative person. “One day, the kids came running in the kitchen to announce they’d seen a story in the paper about how you could feed a family of four on some small number of dollars a day. But Annette was unimpressed and said, ‘I feed a family of six for less than that!’”

He also wants us to know how much they appreciate the visitors Annette has had from Glenn and how much she’s enjoyed them. “She still knows us and she’s happy,” he says.

Irene Hatchett
The Glenn Communications Committee

Annette in 2012.

God as Mother

Does anyone happen to remember that time I waxed eloquently about reflecting on the type of mother I wanted to be one day? I even preached about it in my first-Sunday-back-to-work-sleep-deprived-state-of-new-motherhood sermon. I remember that I made some correlation to how we each have to constantly ask ourselves what type of Christian we want to be.  

What I know now that I didn't know then is that I am probably two dozen different types of mother in any given day! I'm the cuddly, loving mom who will of course read one more story. The silly-sing-songs-about-everything mom. The impatient, frustrated mom. The exhausted-I-just-want-you-to-go-to-sleep mom. The I-wish-you-would-wake-up-so-I-could-actually-have-time-with-you-today mom. The hippy "we don't watch tv" mom. The modern "here - entertain yourself with my cell phone" mom. The healthy meal-planner mom. The bribe-the-child-with-a-cookie mom. The schedules and routines matter mom. The flexible and it'll-be-a-good-experience mom. And these were all just this afternoon!

And so, yes, I do still believe that we can and should reflect on the types of parents (grands/teachers/guardians, etc.) we want to be. But we also need to remember that our relationships are fluid and ever-changing. And that's okay. Jesus himself once said, "blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God" (Clearly, he spoke old English...), as well as saying he came not to bring peace, but a sword. So confusing. Truth be told, it is probably going to be as hard for our children to figure out what types of parents we were to them (hopefully with the help of caring therapists!) as it is for us to figure out what Jesus really was like during his time on earth and what God was, and is, and ever will be. And that's okay. Because relationships are fluid and ever-changing.  

Sometimes I need God to be my cuddly mom who will bear with me for one more story. Sometimes I need God to be the schedules and routines matter parent and other times need the flexibility. Oftentimes, I need grace that's as sweet as the promise of a cookie. When we try to describe our relationship with God, I hope and pray that it is as complicated as describing our relationship with our children. Because it doesn't mean that God is changing who God is. It's just this simple: we are beloved children of God...with an ever-changing relationship with our Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. 

Grace and Peace,

Susan
 

Continue to Build

"If you see a turtle on top of a fence post, you know he had some help."

This statement is attributed to Alex Haley, author of Roots, who kept a picture in his office of a turtle sitting on a fence post. To him, this image held a powerful message: each of us is where we are because of the help we have received from others. 

We often look at the success of others and extol their hard work, their talents and abilities that got them where they are in Iife. We may even be tempted to pat ourselves on the back as we remember the struggles and sacrifices we made to get to where we are today. In the movie Shenandoah, the father, played by Jimmy Stewart, offers a blessing before every meal in which he takes full credit for everything on the table. He prays, “Lord, we cleared this land, we plowed it, sowed it and harvested it. It wouldn’t be here, and we wouldn’t be eatin’ it if we hadn’t done it all ourselves. We worked dog boned hard for every crumb and morsel, but we thank you just the same for this food we are about to eat. Amen.”

But despite one’s hard work, despite the talents and abilities with which one has been gifted, everyone is like the turtle sitting on the fence post. We have experienced the help, the encouragement, and the inspiration of others. I know that I have. I can look back on my life and see the teachers who taught me the love of learning; the coaches who taught me to give 110% of my effort; the Sunday School teachers who taught me the love of Jesus; the friends who gave me a spirit of adventure and courage; and my mom and dad who fostered in me an independent spirit and gave me opportunities to discover God’s call on my life. My life is built on the foundation of others who offered the best of their selves to help me discover the best of myself. 

At this time in the life of our church, we have entered into a capital campaign that we are calling Foundations for Generations. We are raising $3.3 million dollars so that we can continue building on the foundations laid by all of those who came before us. I have heard so many stories of families and individuals who loved this church in the past and gave of their time and money to build a strong foundation of faith, worship, service and mission. Generations of people have passed through the doors of Glenn Memorial and have come to know of the love of God because of those who laid the foundation. We now have the challenge and opportunity to do the same for future generations. May our gifts of time and money enable others to discover their place in the kingdom of God as we continue building on the strong foundation of our forebears.    

Alice

On Time

How is it already _________?! This is a question I have found myself asking a lot recently. How is it already October?! How is it already 5:00?! How do I already have 10 more emails? I haven’t been able to figure out where that time has gone. It’s probably traffic on North Decatur…yeah that’s right, I blame everything on North Decatur traffic. Seriously, though, where has all that time gone?

Yesterday brought an answer to that question. And it came in the form of two important encounters.

I went to visit someone in the hospital. This person was not expecting to see me so I walked over to the hospital with every intention of being in and out of the door quickly. However, the routine turned into the remarkable. As I sat and visited with this person, we shared stories and we laughed. I spent more time than intended, but by the end of the visit I didn’t care. I made the visit planning to pray with someone in hopes that they would feel better, but I left feeling better myself.

Later in the evening, I got a phone call from a dear friend. After catching up on the necessary pleasantries he asked me something that was completely unexpected: “My wife and I want to ask you if you will be our son’s godfather.” I was speechless. And that doesn’t happen often. My friend continued to share with me his experience with his own godfather, particularly how he was a faithful presence in his life. Finally, I couldn’t hold back my answer anymore and said “Of course I’ll do it! I’d be honored.” I spent the rest of the night dreaming of fun things to do for upcoming holidays and birthdays for my new godson.

What these two experiences yesterday reminded me of is that I need to invest my time in people. That is what brings me joy and helps me feel like I am fulfilling my calling. Yes, the to-do list needs to be checked off, but maybe the list of important people in my life needs to take precedence. Yes, the emails need to be answered, but they don’t always need a response immediately. I began to realize that I was feeling short on time because I had placed things in the wrong order. I don’t have any more time today than I did a week ago. There are still just as many things I need to do before tomorrow or before Sunday. But when I change my priorities, I change my perspective.

So if you are wondering where all your time has gone, I'd encourage you to make sure your priorities are aligned with what brings you joy. Maybe you pick up the phone and call the person you’ve been meaning to talk to for the longest time instead of making another work call. Maybe take a long lunch tomorrow and spend some time watching your kids run around in the pumpkin patch. Maybe turn off your phone this evening and play a board game with your family. No matter what you choose to do, just make sure you’re investing your time in the important things.

Kaylen

The Pumpkins are Coming

This is my favorite time of year. Scarfs, football, indulgent coffee drinks (pumpkin spice latte anyone?) and play dates and pictures in our beautiful pumpkin patch.

The pumpkin patch is a long-standing Glenn tradition and is our main fundraiser for youth missions. Our pumpkins are locally sourced from an organic farm here in Georgia, so, in buying these pumpkins you not only serve our local community and global efforts abroad, but you’ll also support our Georgia economy. Win, win! Come enjoy a picnic on our picnic tables, photos in our photobooth, (#glennpumpkins) or even schedule your own party in the patch.

There are several ways you can support Glenn youth missions AND enjoy the patch: 

1.) Buy a variety of amazing pumpkins. This money supports all youth missions both local and global: Bahamas Methodist Habitat, Servants in Faith and Technology, Mountain TOP, Honduras Outreach Incorporated, Action Ministries, Trinity House, Branan Towers, Jerusalem House, and many more. This money also provides scholarships for ALL youth to participate in these life changing experiences.

2.) Volunteer for a 2-hour shift in the patch. Get to know and love our youth by spending 2 hours in the patch. Click here to sign up!

3.) Have a party in the patch! Forms here.

4.) Help unload pumpkins at our Youth and Activities Building on Sunday, October 4 and 18 at 1:00 p.m. Pizza provided :)

Hope to see you there!

Rev. Blair Setnor

Transfiguration

My two night camping venture in June of 2007 to West Virginia’s New River was intended to be recreational, theological and productive – to at last finish a draft of the final chapter of my book on music and worship. Settled into my primitive site along the river, I worked in the evening for a couple of hours on my laptop by the fire. The next morning I returned to writing, but found I could not open my research files. The previous February I had bought a new desktop pc with Office 2007. I had saved my research files in the new format, and, when packing for this trip, moved them to my laptop. As my laptop did not have the new Office, they wouldn’t open. I of course knew of this danger, but, in my haste to depart, didn’t think of it. This is what I call outsmarting myself. The error message asked if I wanted to download a utility allowing me to work with the files. My primitive camp site having no Wi-Fi, I was, as we say, not a happy camper. 

After pondering my stupidity and this colossal waste of an opportunity, I considered simply enjoying this time in nature. “Naw,” I thought, “I’ll find a network.” I drove to Fayetteville at the north entrance of the National Park, found a library, and yes they had a network. Libraries rule. I told myself it would take ten minutes. Two hours later, I left in abject failure. As Burt Reynold’s character, Lewis, said in the film Deliverance – a movie which ominously comes to mind on my backwoods trips — “machines will fail us.” The library had a slow connection and, after downloading every possible update, the utility still refused to open. I despise surrendering, but when I had exhausted every option, I gave up.

However, while waiting through seemingly interminable downloads, I wandered the library stacks. I love libraries and, from my graduate school days, they feel like home. Once, while looking up from my laptop, I saw a huge coffee table book on coal mines of Fayette County.  Therein were pictures of the night and day work forces of some 20 mines in the county, stringing along the New River. There were pictures of the communities and churches and even a band. Among them was the infamous Eccles Mine in nearby Raleigh County, which suffered several disasters. It was harrowing to read of these and the colossal toll of human life. Some believe it was named for Ecclesiastes. The bike trails I later rode went through sites of some of these now abandoned mines. There is a wedding of humanity and the land, and each manifests indelibly the portent of their storied relationship.

During another download, I perused the reference section, among my favorites. I happened on the Interpreters Dictionary of the Bible and looked up “Holiness,” the subject of one of the research files I couldn’t open. These files contain the fruits of searches I have done from online Bibles for words like “worship,” temple” and “holy,” through which I hoped to gain insight into true worship as set forth in scripture. The dictionary has an article “Holiness” written by James Muilenburg. I was pleased to see he used the word “numinous,” one of my favorites. I learned it from my great friend, the late Jamie Mackay in my early years at Glenn. Jamie was an attorney, US Congressman, literati, statesman, nature conservator, Glenn member and, most prominently, Betty Asbury’s brother! Muilenburg’s article cites theologian Rudolf Otto’s use of “mysterium tremendum” to describe the fascinating, humbling, overawing experience of approaching the presence of God. This article changed my approach as to how we might advance our experience of these divine, transfiguring encounters with God.

I pondered this on my final ride along the river. Miles from the nearest human, I surprised several wild fowl, including a turkey, who ran around clucking anxious protest at my intrusion before disappearing in the woods. Shortly, a full grown doe ran across the trail right in front of me. I thought, “two such sightings, there has to be a third – a trinity,” though nothing striking appeared for the remainder of the ride. I returned to my camp site, packed up and departed.  On the lengthy exit road, a faun entered the road some 50 yards in front of me and ran directly toward my advancing car. Incredibly, it gave no sign of seeing or hearing the car. I stopped. As I observed in incredulous wonder, finally, just a few yards ahead, it saw me, slid to a stop, looked, and ran off. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne said, “thought has always its efficacy and every striking incident its moral.” These three signs from nature have meaning that yet escapes me. Yet, in retrospect, the faun seems to have brought a welcome farewell, a salute to the respect of my visit, and an invitation to return from the beautiful innocence of the wilderness: an encounter so intimate, so powerful, it required us both to stop, and see.

Hawthorne’s wife, Sophia, with her wedding ring, scratched “Man’s mistakes are God’s intentions” into a window of Concord’s The Old Manse, where they lived for a while. Theologically, it does not apply consistently, for God is not responsible for our failings.  However, if we stop and see, we may observe God transfiguring mistakes into blessings, and error into holiness.

Steve

Member Spotlight: In Memory of Frank Asbury

My grandfather’s name was Frank Logan Asbury III. Many of you might have had the privilege to know him during the sixty-plus years that he belonged to Glenn Memorial United Methodist Church. He was the one in the suit on Sunday mornings (in the summer he and Mathew Pinson went toe to toe in their matching seersuckers) who wouldn’t leave the sanctuary after the closing voluntary until he had shaken your hand with vim and vigor (a language man, he loved alliteration) and often exclaimed something like, “Why, Pastor Alice Rogers, as I live and breathe!” even if he’d seen you no less than two days ago.

He loved to communicate and connect with his faith community in a plethora of ways. But apart from his sunny greetings (Carole Adams once described him as “sunny” and oh, it is the perfect word) after worship, you may not have noticed him up front very much. And that’s because he wasn’t in the lectern reading the Gospel lesson or ushering or singing in the choir (but those Fanny Crosby hymns… even Steve Darsey knew they were his favorites). The spotlight wasn’t his place (unless there was a joke to be told - “I absolutely challenge anybody anywhere to be a more masterful joke teller,” Julia Wynne declared at his 85th birthday party).

No, Frank’s place was often behind the scenes, serving the meal at Wednesday Night Supper or helping count offering money and sign checks. With a career in insurance, he was the one to call if a person or church vehicle got scratched up. He served as chair of the congregation’s first Council on Ministries, the Administrative Board and the Board of Trustees. He worked hard to get Safe Sanctuaries training in place at Glenn, and he and my grandmother, Betty Mackay Asbury, chaired the Glenn School kindergarten Board of Directors when their second child Mackay was in the 4-year-old class.

Then there were what Betty calls the “somewhat unconventional ways” that her husband expressed his love for Glenn: He would wash the signposts in front of the Church School Building when wet grass stuck to them after a mowing. He once noticed that the front steps of the parsonage needed scrubbing, so he took his bucket over and set to work. And of course, he loved to joke that his full name was actually Francis Asbury, the famous Methodist circuit rider. (Former pastor Cynthia Vaughan told us, “He was always affectionately known as ‘Francis’ to me!”)

Whether you knew him as Francis or Frank, or simply as a friendly face in worship or at supper, Glenn lost another dedicated servant when he passed away on December 18, 2013 from complications following a stroke. But his legacy of service and friendship endures. And in homage to his desire for our faith family to connect and work together – in and out of the spotlight – all generous gifts that have been given in his memory over these two years will be used to enrich the church’s communications ministry, so that future generations may enjoy a Glenn Church just as strong and devoted as my grandfather left it.

Claire Asbury Lennox

See you this Saturday?

Good Neighbor Day is this Saturday! I’m so excited for this is the day we come together and work in the community as a church family. There’s fun for everyone: toddlers to tweens to teens to adults. We partner across the generations to make a positive difference in the lives of others.

Last year, I was fortunate to have Laura Reece, GND project leader, take me on a grand tour of almost every project. The energy and joy was evident at each site we visited. I helped make sandwiches at the YAAB, visited with the skaters, sorted food for Medshare, worked at the ICM Food Pantry, sang at Montclair with the Mallards – it was a blast.

For many, many years, church members Laura and Eric Reece have been at the helm of this great day of service, calling us all to join. Last year brought in a record number of volunteers – over 300! This past June, the Reece family grew by one as their first daughter, Emma Grace, was welcomed into their lives. So the Reece's have passed the torch on to other faithful volunteers such as Diane Bryant, Susan-Anne MacKenna, Kaylen Short and myself. We have tried to fill their large and experienced shoes. Even with all our organization, planning, and phone calls and emails with Laura, we have yet to reach our goal of volunteers for this year.

There are many reasons to join others in service on Good Neighbor Day. But one is certainly to honor Laura and Eric and acknowledge all the hard work they have given in years past to make this day as great as it is. Please gather with us to make this Good Neighbor Day just as great, if not better, than the last.

If you have yet to sign-up to serve, it’s so easy.

You can donate items:
- food for the ICM Pantry
- lunch supplies for the Skating or Habitat projects slated
- Good Neighbor Day Kit Assembly

You can also/or participate in one of the 12 wonderful projects:
- Skating, Singing, Arts & Crafts/Games (3 different projects – all family friendly!)
- Park cleanup (2 events!)
- Lunch Preparations for Skating or Habitat
- Sort medical supplies for MedShare (AM or PM) or pack food for ICM Food Pantry
- Sort donations at the IRC Resettlement Shop
- Assemble donations at the Ward Fellowship Hall

So c’mon! Join the Glenn Family doing meaningful work in the community.

Many thanks,

Dawn Francis-Chewning

Listening Ears! Watching Eyes!

A new chapter begins in our house...literally. The repeat stage of a toddler learning to talk. "Cereal!" "Car!" "Airpwane!" "Ye-s!" "No-No-No!" "Mine!" "Idea?" "Okay!" "There!" And yes, pretty much all of the words are said in exclamation. And then there's my personal favorite: "Church!" And then, of course, there's the baby's first that made her parents look wide-eyed at the other one with a "who dunnit?" stare:  "Shoot!" (Thankfully, yes, it was only a 5-letter word THIS time...).

As one of our Glenn church family titles every Facebook post of their child, "Little Love Sponge,"  it really is amazing how much children of all ages and developmental stages absorb from us. Whether they are non-verbal mimics of our everyday habits, our facial expressions, or our words themselves, as we all know, children really are sponges. 

So these days, you'll find the Pinson family remembering much more to bow our heads, clasp our hands, and say a mealtime blessing. We are much more regular about giving goodbye hugs and kisses in the morning now that we have a pint-size reminder to scream "kiss!" even on days when we are feeling more affectionate toward our caffeine-laden cup than our spouse. We are paying much more attention to the music on the radio in the car and to the news and commercials that we used to mindlessly have on in the background of our lives. What used to be the background noise of life is now the focal point of our "little love sponge."

And I am humbly reminded that YOUR children are watching me every time they come to Glenn Church - or run into me while they are giggling down the hallway on days at Glenn School or Glenn After School. It is my hope and prayer that each of us will soak up from our Heavenly Parent all the good that God offers us - the words, the music, the prayers, the hugs and kisses - and pass them on to all of the precious children in our midst. And if you've found yourself with a bad day where you're exclaiming, "shoot!"...no worries. In the words of my little one you can always try "again! again!".

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly; teach and admonish one another in all wisdom; and with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God. Colossians 3:16 (NRSV)

Grace and Peace,
Susan
 

The Little Red Hen

My mother is a teacher.  She was, is and always will be a teacher. 

She was a teacher by profession. Before giving birth to five children, she taught high school English. When the twins, my younger brother and sister, entered kindergarten, she began teaching kindergarten at the First Methodist Church of Conyers, GA. She later moved to the public school system where she taught kindergarten and third grade until her retirement.

She is a teacher by vocation. It is a part of her very nature to teach. My earliest memories are of my mother reading to me and telling me stories. These stories formed me and taught me lessons that I have carried through my life. I now know that my mother taught not only to impart necessary information like how to count, say the alphabet, hold a pencil, add and subtract, read, use proper grammar, etc.; she imparted life lessons through stories that she told and revisited at formative times.

One of those stories was The Little Red Hen. In this story, the Little Red Hen finds some grain and asks the other barnyard animals to help her plant it. To her question, “Who will help me plant the seeds?” each in turn says, “Not I.”  Each of her subsequent questions is met with the same response. “Who will help me harvest the wheat? Who will help me grind the grain? Who will help me bake the bread?” “Not I.  Not I.  Not I.” But when she asks, “Who will help me eat the bread,” she is met with an enthusiastic chorus of “I will. I will. I will.”

My mother told, and often repeated, this story to my siblings and me during times when we all needed to pitch in and help. She knew that we would all want to enjoy the benefits of whatever task was at hand (like dinner, for instance!), and if we wanted to enjoy the final product, then we all needed to help make it happen. And there were plenty of tasks to go around no matter our age. As young children, to help prepare dinner, we didn’t have to know how to cook. One could fold the napkins, set the table, put the ice in the glasses, pour the tea. Mother showed us that there was something each of us could and should do.

As we grew older, my mother no longer had to read us the story or retell it when its lesson needed to be reinforced. She would simply end a request by saying, “Said the Little Red Hen.”

When I consider the life of a congregation, I often think of the Little Red Hen. It is tempting to want to benefit from all that happens in the life of the church without helping to plant the seeds, harvest the wheat, mill the grain and bake the bread, but it takes everyone doing what they can (no matter their age) to enjoy a strong and vibrant church.

This Sunday, we will celebrate the myriad of ministries that take place in the life of Glenn Memorial United Methodist Church. Our opening procession will include knitters, skaters, builders, learners, teachers, needlepointers, musicians, cooks, ushers, athletes, greeters, pray-ers, children, youth, young adults, older adults and everyone in between! As a congregation, we will also vote on whether or not we will enter into a capital campaign to raise funds to renovate and improve the buildings from which and in which we do ministry. There are many seeds to plant, wheat to harvest, grain to mill and bread to bake. “Who will help?” asks the Little Red Hen.

(If you have never heard the story of the Little Red Hen, you may read it here.)

Alice