4-8-19 SMOKE II

For the second half of my Lent Writing this year I am revisiting the trigger words I have used already, but writing from a different perspective. On 2-20-18  the word was SMOKE. Today I'll use the same word in a different light.

Eli Zook's barn burnt to the ground. I saw pictures of it on my friend Bob's Facebook page. It was exquisitely painful to watch it in its journey from good solid wood to ashes and smoke. Its spirit swirled up toward heaven over passionate flames. It sprang to death out there in Eli's field, it's powdery ashes spilling over Eli's crops. The cows, I hope, escaped the inferno. I suppose they did, or Bob would have told me.

Bob came to visit us tonight, from his home in Lancaster, PA. Eli is Bob's neighbor. And Eli is Bob's friend. It's always a mighty good thing when your neighbor is your friend.

Having grown up in Pennsylvania, I am familiar with Amish country. I've seen first-hand the tidy farms in that piece of God's country, with children dressed in deep blue and black, and men with long beards, crisp white shirts and flat brimmed hats. I've pretended, in quiet secret places in my mind, that I wore the soft cap and apron of a faithful Amish woman, sitting beside my hard working husband in a horse drawn buggy. I've eaten fresh made Shoo Fly pie and peered from the car window paused at the side of the road,  gazing at the rolling fields and the hex signs coloring the beautiful barns of the newer orders of Amish.

"Do the Zooks have electricity?" I asked.

"Oh, no" Bob said, "though, would you believe Fannie has a computerized Bernina sewing machine, which she powers with a 12 volt battery and an inverter? They will not purchase clothing, just large bolts of fabric and thread. And these are Old Order Amish, they don't even use buttons. They will use a straight pin instead. And Eli powers the milking machines for his 63 head of dairy cows with a diesel engine." When Bob popped over to say goodbye, before he came for his visit to Utah this week, Eli was making handles for blacksmith hammers with his air powered lathe, driven by that old diesel engine. Eli wished him well in his travels.

A fistful of years ago Bob was living in Pittsburgh. He read in the Pittsburgh Press about the tragic martyrdom that took place in the one room schoolhouse in Nickel Mines, PA, a village in Bart Township, Lancaster County.  On October 2, 2006, a gunman took hostages in the schoolhouse and shot eight out of ten schoolgirls, aged 6-13, in front of the chalkboard, execution style. Five of the girls died. The shooter turned the gun on himself, taking with him to his death any explanation for the deed. 

Thirteen-year-old Marion Fisher and her sister
asked the shooter to shoot them first,
trying to buy time for the other girls in their school.

The tight knit Old Order Amish community united in their grief, and also in their immediate acts of forgiveness and reconciliation. Many of them attended the funerals of the five girls, and also of the shooter. they embraced the shooters wife and children in their own particular sorrow. Within six months the community had torn down the Nickel Mines school and built a new one-room schoolhouse at another location, which they called  New Hope School. The Amish do not believe in insurance. They do believe in supporting each other.

Five girls with the same death date
are buried beside each other in the
Old Order Amish cemetery in Bart PA

Non-believers criticized the Old Order Amish for their readiness to forgive. But letting go of grudges is a deeply rooted Amish value. This willingness to forgive does not, according to Amish scholars, undo the tragedy or pardon the wrong, "... but rather constitutes a first step toward a future that is more hopeful." (D. Kraybill)

After reading about the community that would unitedly do such a thing, Bob decided he wanted to live there, around that breed of humankind. So he packed up his things and he moved to Bart, PA, two miles from Nickel Mines. He lives in a converted old schoolhouse, which overlooks the fields of Eli Zook. In the morning he wakes to the sound of horse hooves on the road, and Eli's cows in his pasture, and there is peace and quiet and calm. 

Except when Eli's barn caught fire, and no one could save it.

But, Bob said, within three days Eli had a brand new barn.There were no insurance estimators. No big construction machines or cranes to lift the frame of the massive two story structure. Instead, there was an army of soldiers clad in black and white and rich, royal blue, a field full of horses, and lumber coming in on flat bed wagons.

"Three days!" Bob said. "It was Biblical."

One day the source of life for the Zook family went up in smoke. And three days later it rose again.

"These are good, solid people," Bob says. "And I don't plan to ever leave them."

Now, every day, twice a day perhaps, Eli fires up his diesel engine and milks his 63 cows on the lower level of that barn. In the upper level, the members of their small community of Old Order Amish worships and sings. And on other days, after school, they set up three volleyball nets, where the kids play the Old Order Amish version of Video games, only they themselves are the players led by God's delighted thumbs.

"Never challenge an Old Order Amish kid to a game of volleyball," Bob says. 

"You'll lose."

45. ACRONYM

When we were kids our mom used to say, when it got a little hectic at her house with seven kids running around: "Unnecessary noise is rude!"  One day when we  drying dishes in the kitchen on Old Clairton Road George was making some sort of racket, so I said UNIVR! Short for Unnecessary Noise Is Very Rude.  It stuck, and to this day you will hear any one of us calling out the family acronym, UNIVR, whenever someone is making annoying sounds. We have a number of family acronyms, some worth sharing and others…well, not.

I'm reminded of a couple acronyms that mean something to me.  One comes from my friend, Bob Pegritz, and the other from my daughter, Annie.

IPOY

"Fred used to end his show with 'I like you just the way you are.'  It took me about 50 years to be able to say it and mean it.  Fred never said that with any exceptions, he lived it. " 

My friend Bob spoke with that reverential tone in his voice, the one he uses when he talks about his musical heroes, and Jesus.

Fred… of course… was Fred Rogers.  The gentle soul of many a child's safe place. Creator of Mr Roger's Neighborhood, wearer of comfy cardigans and tie up tennis shoes.  Friend to Daniel Tiger and Mr. McFeely and so many others who graced the screens of generations of televisions.  And a friend of my friend, Bob.

Bob Pegritz is a gifted whistle player, among other things.  But before I knew him he was a surgical nurse. After a few years of military service during the Vietnam War, Bob attended Physicians Assistant School.  He was hired, after graduation, to work as a surgical assistant at the Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh, PA.  One day, as Bob was attending to a young patient, the boy queried, "I heard that tomorrow you’re going to open my chest with a big saw to fix the hole in my heart. Is that right?” The question was so frank that it stunned Bob, and he didn’t now how to respond. Instead of answering, he told the young boy that he had to go deal with an emergency and he would be right back. In his medical scrubs he crossed the street to the building which housed the television  Broadcast Station WQED channel 13. Out of breath, he told the receptionist in the lobby  "I need to talk to Fred Rogers."

She quickly opened a door and returned with a panicked gentleman, long and lean, wearing a soft wool sweater.  "What's wrong?"  He asked, his eyes focused on Bob.

"I’d like to talk to you about this child." Bob responded.

Fred said, “One of my kids?”

"No. One of my patients over at the Children's Hospital. He has a question and I don't now how I should answer him. "

Fred put his hands on Bob’s shoulders and said “Do you realize the picture you are presenting by standing in a lab coat and scrubs, what worries that creates for me?"  Fred had worried that something had happened to one of his children. "Oh, no! I'm sure your kids are just fine." Bob apologized.

True to form, instead of turning his back on Bob, Mr. Rogers asked: "Now that you’re here, and you have my attention, what can I do for you."

"What do I say to a boy who asked me if we were going to saw open his chest?"

Fred answered, in no hurry.  With his gentle words he told Bob, "You cannot lie to this child.  By doing that you will have lost your trustworthiness and integrity.  He needs to trust doctors.  Reply yes, but you will be asleep, and you will be sore when you wake up, but in the end you will be fine.  And tell him you got that from me.  And one more thing, take him up to the operating room and show him where he will be going.  Do it tonight, so in the morning it will be familiar.  De-mistify the operating room."

At the end of the conversation Fred asked Bob if there was anything else he could do for him.  Bob, daring as it may have been, asked if there was any way he could hold King Friday.  So back on the set, Fred tucked noble old King Friday over his hand and held him up near the castle:

"Hello, Bob Pegritz.  How are you today?"

The next day Bob helped sew up the hole in that boy's heart, and he filled that pumping heart with trust.

Bob was 23. On Fred Roger's advice he began taking young patients to the operating room the night before surgeries.  The nursing staff at Children’s Hospital, to this day, takes children to the operating rooms the night before surgery.

Thus began a lifelong conversation between Bob Pegritz and Fred Rogers. There were many comings and goings across that street in Pittsburgh, PA. Bob was medical advisor for Fred Rogers special Mr. Rogers Talks to Children with Cancer.  Through the years Bob and Mr. Rogers wrote letters back and forth. Bob has 39 letters from Fred Rogers, each one hand written.  Fred signed each letter with a four letter acronym, followed by his name:

 IPOY,  Fred.

I asked Bob what IPOY meant.

I’m Proud of You.

ILYMTYCEI

Words being repeated so often that they become acronyms are endearing. Mr. Rogers' IPOY reminds me of our own ILYMTYCEI, which began years ago with our youngest daughter, Annie.

My Annie, of the tender heart, has a tendency to worry a bit.  Always has.  Bless her tender heart. She worried at the simplest things, her imagination fooling with her.  If Dave and I were going out on a date, she would stand at the garage door and watch us as we pulled out.

"Be careful!  Don't get in a wreck!  I Love You More Than You Could Ever Imagine!"  She stood there with her hand thrust in the air, her fingers forming the American Sign Language symbol for I Love You! Dave put the car in reverse and we both held the same hand signal as we pulled away.

Annie had, and still has, a deep need to express her love.  Her fears of loss make her a bit too anxious.  I have other children with the same anxieties.  It makes them especially loving, but it also makes them hurt more than they should.  I would wish the fears away, but then it would take away their sweetness too, so I pray for them to find peace despite fear.

Annie's continual use of the phrase "I Love You More Than You Could Ever Imagine" became a standard salutation in our house.  Eventually I began signing all my letters ILYMTYCEI, followed often by a simple "m." for Mom.

I have been blessed, or cursed (blursed) with a powerful imagination.  Our four children inherited that blurse.  They are gifted artists and musicians and thinkers and writers and creators.  I can imagine deep, deep love.  I can feel it, too.  Annie's suggestion that she could possibly love me more than I can imagine is unlikely.  And yet, I suppose it is true.  Because what we think we know of love is encapsulated in our human experience.  But we are more than human.  Like the old adage, "We are not human beings having a spiritual experience.  We are spiritual beings having a human experience." Love is deeper than my conscious mind can fathom, and what I know of it is strangely more than what my experience and my imagination combined can conjure.  Love is ancient.  I suspect it is the most familiar of all emotions to our spirits. ILYMTYCEI is likely true, for all of us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is very late here, as I write this night, this Good Friday.  Dave and I are in Spokane helping Annie and her family move into their new house.  Kate has flown in from Houston to help as well.  We've been laboring all day, and we are exhausted. The household is sleeping.  I can hear love breathe.  In my tiredness I think of Peter, James and John falling asleep at the gate of the Garden, despite Jesus specifically asking them to keep watch. I ache for Peter, James and John. I don't think their weariness was an indicator of their love. I hope not. It was a reminder for them, and for all of us, that we are human and by nature must fight to recall our divinity. I imagine their regret.  

I imagine the events unfolding, their Friday night ending with a scene on the cross; the profound sorrow, the immense physical pain, the spiritual intensity,  the juxtaposition of full knowledge and ignorance, the ironies and the agonies. Inscribed on the cross, above the head of the Savior of the World, were letters meant to mock him.  And yet they were the truth. A simple acronym:

INRI
"Jesus the Nazarene.  King of the Jews".

He is king over all, whether we know it or not, whether we believe it or not. Doesn't matter. King over all. But somehow, each of us takes Him individually for our own.  On a most personal level, He is mine alone, and in my imagination I see these letters, hammered into the cross:

ILYMTYCEI

I Love You More Than You Could Ever Imagine.

One day, when this is all my past and all that is left of me are words, I imagine with my grandest imagining that He will give me a hug, a real warm one like I think He would, and while He holds me close He whispers in my ear, "IPOY."