Remembering Geraldine Willcuts

It’s been several months since Geraldine Willcuts died, but she’s still resting on my mind. I have before me one of her watercolor cards in a frame—a mountain stream cascading through autumn trees, interspersed with evergreen. It captures some of Geraldine’s lively, creative spirit.

When I think of her impact on my life, I have to open my memories to include Jack. In my earlier years, as a newcomer to the yearly meeting and a fledgling missionary, it was Jack Willcuts who told me I was a good writer. And it was Jack as editor of the Evangelical Friend magazine who actually gave me a monthly column and encouraged me to take seriously my vocation as a writer.

On furloughs home from Bolivia, Jack and Geraldine as a couple befriended and mentored us.

Sometime at the end of the 1990s, my home church, North Valley Friends, sent my name to the yearly meeting as a candidate for recording. When the recording committee informed me that my official mentor for the process would be Geraldine Willcuts, I was thrilled. Geraldine took her role seriously (and with a lot of humor). Whenever I was home from overseas, we met frequently over cups of tea and great conversation. I loved her earthy common-sense spirituality. We talked about what it means to be wife, mother, and minister of the gospel at the same time; how to nurture creativity in the busyness of life (she the artist, me the poet); how to walk lightly over the planet; how to support our leader-type husbands while being true to our own callings; how to identify our callings—all sorts of good stuff.

During yearly meeting sessions, 2001, I stood on stage with the other recording candidates. Geraldine stood at my side and presented me with a certificate and a new Bible, the one I still use. On the inside cover she had inscribed 1 Corinthians 2:13: “So then we do not speak or write in words taught by human wisdom, but in words taught by the Spirit, as we explain spiritual truths to those who have the Spirit.” She added her own thoughts on our time together and ended with a blessing: “God bless your words, written, spoken, and thought; God bless your students; these are all ‘bread cast upon the waters that will not return void.’”

I hold that blessing today. Thank you, Geraldine Willcuts, mentor and friend.

In belated gratitude to my right thumb

I am a frustrated writer. Two of my preferred tools are giving me fits. The first is my computer. The second is the thumb on my right hand.

We’re working through the computer problems, with help from some technicians. Today we’ll install the programs that might solve everything. Or not. Being without this tool for almost three weeks has slowed me down. At least I have a reason other than myself to blame for missed deadlines.

But I must confess that I’m even fonder of my right thumb than I am of my computer. And more miffed at its disloyalty.

Right now, swollen and sore, it reminds me of how much it usually does for me and how dependent I am on it to get through the day. I have to ask Hal to open cans and chop the onion for our evening meal. The car door is too demanding for me to manage, so we’re back to the days of courtship when he did the honors. In a way, that’s nice, but I actually prefer the independence of doing it for myself. All these little ordinary services my thumb has faithfully preformed for me all my life.

To say that having a fat throbbing thumb cramps my writing style is understatement.

So—sorry, thumb, for taking you for granted. Thank you for serving me so well in the past. Please, if you would, come back from this weird vacation and become, once again, my faithful servant.

Sincerely, the rest of your body

The eradication of gratitude

This week I participated in two online Quaker board meetings. Online meetings—conference calls or skyping—make it possible for people widely separated geographically to get together and do business, Quaker style. I’ve discovered that we can even sit together in silence over the phone, although the time is usually brief and something in the quality of the experience goes missing. Even so—it can be done.

The first meeting involved a board I’ve just become a part of, and this was my introduction to the group. We span yearly meeting lines (as well as theological perspectives) but are united in a common task, one I highly value. I also value these wider Quaker connections.

As a newcomer I was ready to listen. The first item of business was a reading of the minutes. This included mention that one of the members had just completed a task, and the minute expressed appreciation and gratitude. Another member reminded the group that they had previously decided not to express gratitude in the minutes because if they thanked one person, they would need to thank each person for each task completed, and someone was bound to be left out. The minutes were then corrected and approved.

I can see the logic behind this. Minutes should be to the point, not flowery. Good recording clerks do not gush. Formality dictates style, in this case. Even so, it felt a little strange.

Then one day later, I participated in another conference call, this one of a board within our own yearly meeting and among people I know. We opened and closed the meeting in verbal prayer, without any telephone silence. And our excellent recording clerk does not gush, at least in the minutes. So far, so good. But this time, it was me who reported on a completed task and was, appropriately enough, not thanked, either verbally or in the minutes.

I represented a team who had been working together in a very difficult situation, and we had definitely experienced God at work. Our work had come to a good conclusion. I was hoping this would be a cause of rejoicing for the whole board. And maybe it was, beneath the surface.

I guess this is a confession. I should be mature enough by now not to want or expect expressions of gratitude. As I talked over my disappointment with Hal, he encouraged me to remember who I was serving. That helps.

Later this week, I have another digital Quaker meeting. I clerk a committee under the NWYM Board of Global Outreach that has oversight over our Friends Serving Abroad in Russia. This time we will skype, complete with video images. We will gather from around the Pacific Northwest and Russia. We are close friends and this meeting will be more informal. We’ll probably even joke and laugh out loud. Seeing the changing expressions on faces encourages this.

Someone may even say, “Thank you.”

A buried seed: Indian Quaker William Abel

It’s Thanksgiving, and later in the day family members will converge and we will feast and play and enjoy one another. But right now my thoughts go back to the stories of pilgrims and Indians*, and I’m reminded of someone I’ve become very thankful for. William Abel: Indian, Quaker, and the seed that was buried in Bolivian soil in 1919. Today the tree known as the Bolivian Evangelical Friends Church (INELA) acknowledges Abel as one of its founders, and people honor his name.

Part of our task in this project of researching and writing the history of the INELA is to dig up the facts and begin to separate them from the myths that surround this mysterious person. We’ve finally identified his tribal origins, and earlier this month we spent time on the San Pasqual Kumeyaay reservation near Escondido, California.

I had made telephone contact earlier, but was told that the group had declared a moratorium on visitors because of a pending court case, and that maybe next year they would open their tribal records to us. As our research in other archives took us to that area anyway, we decided to see if we could meet some people and just talk about William Abel and our project.

We drove around for a while, trying to locate the cultural center we knew was there, and finally ended up at the ceremonial round house. It was closed, but several men were working on a construction project, and we approached them. People are generally friendlier in person than on the phone, and we found that to be true in this case. While a bit wary at first, people gradually opened up to us.

Everyone we talked to was fascinated by the story of William Abel and became interested in helping us discover the truth about him. Although no one had ever heard of him, two people had knowledge of an early settler, Peter Abel, who had lived in the same small village, San Pasqual. Peter was killed the year that William was born, 1870. Although we haven’t yet discovered a firmer connection than the name, that’s a trail we will certainly follow.

The tribal archivist who met with us in the Land Development Office warmed up noticeably when she discovered that Abel, along with us, was a Quaker. “You have been kind and just to the Indians,” she informed us. I don’t know why I was surprised that she knew that, but it seems to have opened some doors to our investigation, and we’re delighted.

The following day, Hal called up an older woman who is known as the tribal historian, and they talked for a long time. She was fascinated by Abel’s story and asked for all the details of what we’ve discovered so far. By the end of the conversation, both Hal and this woman had slowly realized that they had something more than an interest in Abel in common. They acknowledged to each other that they are both followers of Jesus. Before they hung up, this old Indian keeper of the tribal memories blessed us and our project in the name of Jesus.

We followed-up our time there by sending digital copies of the documents people had requested (including US census records), and their replies were grateful and friendly. Our contacts with them will continue. Curiosity has been awakened, and they are in a better position than we are to research Abel’s beginnings.

We’re realizing that the story of William Abel is not meant only for the Quakers of Bolivia. It will be a gift to the San Pasqual Band of Kumeyaay Indians. He came from them and always owned his Indian identity, signing his letters to the California Quakers, “Your Indian brother, William Abel.” Throughout his time of service in the Philippines as well as Bolivia, he frequently expressed concern for “my own people.”

I’m grateful for William Abel and his life of dedication and sacrifice, grateful for the seed that was buried so far from his own home, grateful for the church that is flourishing because of it. I’m grateful for the San Pasqual Indians today and for the possibility of giving back to them one of their own: Indian and Quaker, William Abel.

*Although I’ve been trained to use the politically correct term, Native American, we’ve become aware that current day tribal peoples prefer the term Indian, and use it with pride. So I will, too.

Grace sightings for the month of March

This God-spy has been on the move, with eyes open, ears listening, hands touching, alert, eager (except, of course, for those times when I've been none of the above). Here are some of my sightings:

--A gathering of Friends in Sacramento: I had the privilege of participating with FWCC Friends from around the hemisphere as we met in Sacramento under the theme, “Let the Living Waters Flow.” New friendships and renewed contacts highlighted this time together. It was full of grace. (Photo: Margaret Fraser, Elenita Bales, Anna Baker.)

--A birthday party: We helped Peter, our youngest grandchild, make that great leap from five to six years old. Living so close to family is a grace I don’t take for granted. Nor do I take “minion cake” for granted.

--Having our granddaughter stay with us over spring break: Not only does Breanna like to be with us, she loves to cook for us! And she does it so well. Our oldest grandchild is now a college freshman (!) at George Fox University.

--Rain on the roof at night: One of my favorite songs, and part of an Oregon March.

--Flowers on the maple tree: Yes, spring is here. Mixed in with the lovely rainy days, the sun appeared and promised more frequent visits in the near future. Daffodils also made similar promises, and hope is in the air.

--Listening to my husband play his French horn in a duet with grandson Reilly on his cello, and recognizing it as real music.

--Poems, and a writers' group to read them to: Once a month I meet with a group of other Quaker writers. We report any progress (or lack thereof) during the last month, read any new stuff, laugh a lot and leave the meeting encouraged. It’s a grace-filled highlight of my month.

--Meeting for clearness: I love this Quaker custom, and availed myself of it this month. Six Friends gathered with me around a major decision I’m having to make. It was good to be held up in the light by people I consider wise, to be silent, listen and talk together. And yes, God spoke.

--An icon for Quaker worship: How unquakerly! But how Christian. Last year I brought home this replica of a large mosaic of Jesus from the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. I love the tender expression on the face of Jesus. I love learning from other traditions. I know Jesus is more than any image, but this simple icon helps me sense certain truths that I’m learning as I walk with the living Lord. It’s a small grace I accept with gratitude (needing all the help I can get).

Confronting the abominable scowl

Last week Hal and I enjoyed prowling around in the archives of Southwest Yearly Meeting of Friends, hot on the trail of the puzzle pieces as we research the history of the Bolivian Friends Church. One of the occupational hazards of archival research is the temptation to scamper off on any of the fascinating rabbit trails that frequently pop up. Because of the limited time we had, we managed to resist many of these tempting trails. But not all of them.

The rabbit trail I’m about to lead you down appeared in the lower right hand corner of page 8 of the magazine Christian Workman, from “first month” 1905. (The Christian Workman was the early printed voice of California Yearly Meeting.) It’s a short trail, essentially a list of the characteristics of an effective “junior worker.” A“junior worker” might be what we would today call a youth pastor.

Some of these characteristics, while timeless, reflect a different age. The junior worker...

--Is gentle.

--Cultivates simplicity.

--Speaks a kind word often.

--Lays stress on small duties.

(Perhaps we would describe youth pastors today in more dynamic terms?)

Some of the characteristics definitely root in the early 20^th century:

--Uses blackboard.  (A what?)

--Wears junior badge. (This congers up memories of my brownie button, which I wore with pride. But I somehow can’t picture a youth-pastor-badge, or anyone today wearing such a thing.)

My favorite characteristic from the list stands out in its quaintness. I learned that an effective junior worker…

--Thinks scowling abominable.

Abominable. That’s a strong word. In other words, the junior worker is not only someone who scowls at a scowl, he or she wholeheartedly opposes it.

I’ve been chewing on the term awhile, and I’m sensing more and more its appropriateness. However quaint the expression, the common sense therein applies as much to us as it did to those 1905 junior leaders.

Scowling people are still, if not totally abominable, at least irritating.

I offer my own grandkids as an example. Normally these young people are adorable, but on that rare occasion when one of them wakes up grumpy, “abominable” may not be too wild a term to use.

Please observe these photos of the grandkids scowling abominably. You’ll quickly discern that they are posing for instructional purposes. These are not their normal expressions. But I wanted to illustrate what a scowl looks like, and rather than the blackboard, I’m using digital photography, this being 2013.

Of course, the really abominable scowl is the inward one. I must confess that I sometimes bear one, carefully disguising its outward manifestation if other people are present. I have days when a black cloud hangs over my spirit and I can see no good in the world around me, including the people who inhabit it. Abominable is exactly the right word in this case. Some would call it sin (a word that fits better in a document from 1905, but applies today).

The antidote is thankfulness, I think. On dark days, deliberate thankfulness is an offering we make to God. An unnatural offering, but a real one. An old hymn tells us to “count your many blessings, count them one by one.” 

It’s hard to do that and scowl at the same time.