I remember Pastor Miller preaching at Barclay Heights Community Church. We met in the lodge of an old YMCA camp on Esopus Creek near Glenerie Falls. When the lodge became our permanent home, we changed the name of the church to Glenerie Chapel.
I remember Pastor Miller praying; his opening prayers were nearly the equal of his sermons. These were not pithy, punchy, sound-bited perfunctories; his prayers were ten minutes of engagement with God on matters of the day, from local to global.
I remember Pastor Miller’s velvet singing voice. It reminded me of a baritone Andy Williams with a bit of Mel Torme. From where I sat, singing seemed to be pure pleasure for him.
I remember Pastor Miller telling us about Christ’s Passion during a springtime Sunday night service thirty-some years ago. One of the other teens ran out of the lodge, weeping – overtaken by the description of what Jesus had endured for him. I ran after him and listened to his story.
I remember Pastor Miller’s Christianity including humanness. He didn’t try to portray himself as saintly; he wasn’t aloof from his congregation. He wasn’t afraid to laugh.
I don’t remember when Pastor Miller invited me to call him “Bob”. The truth is I never really got used to it. He was simply “Pastor” to me.
I remember Pastor Miller saying he thought I’d become a pastor someday. I didn’t like that, and I fought it for a long time. But over the years, his was among a small number of voices through which God conferred that calling to me. I don’t wear it as comfortably as he did but I try to be true to my legacy.
Today, I’m remembering to remember because it’s the day of Pastor’s memorial service. I wish I could be present. He and his family are very much on my mind. I’m praying they feel the support of their communities as they find their way forward. I’m praying they know they’re not carrying his memory alone. And I’m praying they find grace today to celebrate him with all their might.
Showing posts with label Ulster County. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ulster County. Show all posts
3/28/2008
10/10/2007
The Dispatcher
Five days a week he got home at 7:30 in the morning. He was a dispatcher for the town police department. After a night of disrespect from younger coworkers it was good to get back within the familiar dirty walls of home. He’d been a U.S. Marine, a Justice of the Peace, and a “gentleman farmer” but now he took minimum wage.
The dented door of his Wagoneer creaked open and then reluctantly clunked shut with a shove. Dew on unmowed grass wet his cuffs as he walked to the door.
He didn’t glance toward the Lincoln. It’d been brand new such a short pair of decades ago. Now it seemed to be trying to sink into the thinly graveled driveway. Unrepaired after a minor wreck a few years back, it had faded from luxury to junk.
In the house she had coffee ready for him. She handed him a cup, kissed him goodbye and left for work. She was a longtime teller at the bank. It wasn’t much fun anymore. These days it seemed like there was always a new system being implemented and a learning curve to go with it.
He was so tired. The October sunshine was too loud for sleeping. All he could think about was how tired he was. He had a couple of hours before he had to be at his other job. He was also a part-time security guard. Leaves needed to be raked. Not today. He picked up the newspaper and wondered if he could justify mixing himself a highball at this time of day.
The dented door of his Wagoneer creaked open and then reluctantly clunked shut with a shove. Dew on unmowed grass wet his cuffs as he walked to the door.
He didn’t glance toward the Lincoln. It’d been brand new such a short pair of decades ago. Now it seemed to be trying to sink into the thinly graveled driveway. Unrepaired after a minor wreck a few years back, it had faded from luxury to junk.
In the house she had coffee ready for him. She handed him a cup, kissed him goodbye and left for work. She was a longtime teller at the bank. It wasn’t much fun anymore. These days it seemed like there was always a new system being implemented and a learning curve to go with it.
He was so tired. The October sunshine was too loud for sleeping. All he could think about was how tired he was. He had a couple of hours before he had to be at his other job. He was also a part-time security guard. Leaves needed to be raked. Not today. He picked up the newspaper and wondered if he could justify mixing himself a highball at this time of day.
9/23/2004
Baptism
The Esopus Creek runs through three hundred years of my family’s stories. It’s easy to imagine my Dutch and Palatine forbears tapping into its store of fish in order to fend off hunger. I used to fish it too on occasion, but happily, my survival never depended on the catch!
The Esopus nearly took my father’s life one afternoon when he was small. He went under, but my grandfather was watching, and pulled him back up into the air.
I was baptized in those same waters, along with my Dad and the rest of my immediate family. It was a chilly sacrament since Indian summer didn’t show up that September.
After a brief testimony, I held my nose and arched backward until fully immersed. Pastor Miller steadied me, but I still felt disoriented and vulnerable in the cold Esopus.
Baptism is a tactile poem about resurrection, which is the spiritual principle of life-from-death, and the current that carries hope forward. Faith isn’t just a wish. It’s more like counting on an unfolding of good things I can’t create for myself – an unfolding that unfolds forever.
All goose bumps and grins, and in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, we were pulled out of the water into the air. Life from death: ritually enacted and viscerally understood.
The Esopus nearly took my father’s life one afternoon when he was small. He went under, but my grandfather was watching, and pulled him back up into the air.
I was baptized in those same waters, along with my Dad and the rest of my immediate family. It was a chilly sacrament since Indian summer didn’t show up that September.
After a brief testimony, I held my nose and arched backward until fully immersed. Pastor Miller steadied me, but I still felt disoriented and vulnerable in the cold Esopus.
Baptism is a tactile poem about resurrection, which is the spiritual principle of life-from-death, and the current that carries hope forward. Faith isn’t just a wish. It’s more like counting on an unfolding of good things I can’t create for myself – an unfolding that unfolds forever.
All goose bumps and grins, and in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, we were pulled out of the water into the air. Life from death: ritually enacted and viscerally understood.
5/06/2004
Dove
I’d been thinking about making a pilgrimage to my hometown. I hadn’t been back there for eleven years, and that had only been a brief visit. So, it had been a long time since I’d really spent any time there.
Conventional wisdom says you can never go home. I’d been warned that the area had changed considerably, and not for the better. But that didn’t really touch my reasons for wanting to go.
My memories of Ulster County had begun to fade. Their substance was wearing thin. It was more like remembering a book I’d read than a place I’d lived. I felt impelled to go back and hold a handful of dirt. As odd as it sounds, I needed to verify for myself that it was still real.
This growing eagerness to return home became more urgent when my Grandmother’s health took a bad turn. It was beginning to seem like she might be within view of the end of her journey.
She’d smoked for most of her life, and her struggles with emphysema during recent years hadn’t sufficiently motivated her to quit. Now she’d finally been forced to exchange her cigarettes for a portable oxygen tank.
Because she adamantly refused to fly, and because I couldn’t afford to, it’d been far too long since we’d visited face to face. It seemed imperative that I get there, but I couldn’t figure out how to pull it off.
The answer came in the form of an exceptional birthday gift. My wife spread the word that she would set out a “tip jar” at my party for contributions toward my airfare and hotel. Thanks to the generosity of friends and family, the trip became possible.
After settling into my hotel room, I drove to my Grandmother’s home on Old Sawkill Road. She met me in the doorway with her calm, wide smile. It was a good reunion.
We talked for a while, and then she asked me if I’d mind doing a few chores. She could still brew a fine pot of coffee, but there were other things she could no longer do. A neighbor helped her out from time to time, but as she put it, “He ain’t so young no more either.”
One of the chores was refilling her birdfeeder with seed. She stood beside the ladder, under the butternut tree and coached me through the task. The feeder was an antique, clear plastic contraption. A little door had to be worked open in order for a portion of birdseed to spill out onto the tray.
Grammy Burnett had a soft spot for birds. More than once she’d rescued a fallen robin or sparrow, and successfully nursed it back to health. I’ve heard stories about a blackbird she saved that became something like a pet. It staid nearby for a long time, and would even perch on her shoulder like a parrot.
She was still looking at the birdfeeder as I eased my way down the ladder. She said, “The dove will come around. She’s smart, she’ll open the latch. Then the other little birds will get some seeds too.”
She hadn’t intended to make a profound statement. She didn’t care much for fancy talk. But there it was, a perfect poetic image of kindness.
When I got back to my hotel room, I wrote her words in my journal so I wouldn’t forget them. They stirred up a holy gratefulness in my spirit for the doves in my life.
The Great Dove opens the latch, and courage, humility, integrity, balance, meaning, generosity, salvation… spill out into life. Then we learn to open latches for one another. We learn about kindness and grace.
That was, in fact, the way I’d gotten to be there that spring. Kind people created the means for me to spend a few days with the woman who had taught me how to handle a fishing pole. She died in December of that same year. She was one of the smartest doves I ever knew.
"I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. I would not have known him, except that the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, 'The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.' I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God."
John the Baptist, describing Jesus.
Conventional wisdom says you can never go home. I’d been warned that the area had changed considerably, and not for the better. But that didn’t really touch my reasons for wanting to go.
My memories of Ulster County had begun to fade. Their substance was wearing thin. It was more like remembering a book I’d read than a place I’d lived. I felt impelled to go back and hold a handful of dirt. As odd as it sounds, I needed to verify for myself that it was still real.
This growing eagerness to return home became more urgent when my Grandmother’s health took a bad turn. It was beginning to seem like she might be within view of the end of her journey.
She’d smoked for most of her life, and her struggles with emphysema during recent years hadn’t sufficiently motivated her to quit. Now she’d finally been forced to exchange her cigarettes for a portable oxygen tank.
Because she adamantly refused to fly, and because I couldn’t afford to, it’d been far too long since we’d visited face to face. It seemed imperative that I get there, but I couldn’t figure out how to pull it off.
The answer came in the form of an exceptional birthday gift. My wife spread the word that she would set out a “tip jar” at my party for contributions toward my airfare and hotel. Thanks to the generosity of friends and family, the trip became possible.
After settling into my hotel room, I drove to my Grandmother’s home on Old Sawkill Road. She met me in the doorway with her calm, wide smile. It was a good reunion.
We talked for a while, and then she asked me if I’d mind doing a few chores. She could still brew a fine pot of coffee, but there were other things she could no longer do. A neighbor helped her out from time to time, but as she put it, “He ain’t so young no more either.”
One of the chores was refilling her birdfeeder with seed. She stood beside the ladder, under the butternut tree and coached me through the task. The feeder was an antique, clear plastic contraption. A little door had to be worked open in order for a portion of birdseed to spill out onto the tray.
Grammy Burnett had a soft spot for birds. More than once she’d rescued a fallen robin or sparrow, and successfully nursed it back to health. I’ve heard stories about a blackbird she saved that became something like a pet. It staid nearby for a long time, and would even perch on her shoulder like a parrot.
She was still looking at the birdfeeder as I eased my way down the ladder. She said, “The dove will come around. She’s smart, she’ll open the latch. Then the other little birds will get some seeds too.”
She hadn’t intended to make a profound statement. She didn’t care much for fancy talk. But there it was, a perfect poetic image of kindness.
When I got back to my hotel room, I wrote her words in my journal so I wouldn’t forget them. They stirred up a holy gratefulness in my spirit for the doves in my life.
The Great Dove opens the latch, and courage, humility, integrity, balance, meaning, generosity, salvation… spill out into life. Then we learn to open latches for one another. We learn about kindness and grace.
That was, in fact, the way I’d gotten to be there that spring. Kind people created the means for me to spend a few days with the woman who had taught me how to handle a fishing pole. She died in December of that same year. She was one of the smartest doves I ever knew.
"I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. I would not have known him, except that the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, 'The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.' I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God."
John the Baptist, describing Jesus.
4/27/2004
Meatball
Meatball lived in a ranch-style house two doors down from ours on Codwise Street. He was the Superintendent of Highways for the Town of Ulster, and his real name was Ed. I don’t know why he invited us neighborhood kids to call him Meatball; it might have been to ease the intimidation of his presence. His size and saunter, and the bigness of his voice always made me think of John Wayne. In my memory, the two men are one person.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
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