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The return to church

I found a Coptic (Egyptian Orthodox) service in Albany.

After my rebaptism event, I was surprised to find that I felt no particular need to start going back to church. But I got a girlfriend in the fall of 1978, and Susan attended the Unitarian Church in Schenectady. I tried it, and it didn’t “take.” I was in the choir briefly, though the music never connected with me.

More to the point, it seemed that some of the policy discussions were silly, such as whether candles were “papist,” undoubtedly the concern of some lapsed Roman Catholics. Candles are CANDLES! I went to church on Christmas eve, either that year or the next, at a Catholic church, as I recall.

It wasn’t until my maternal grandmother’s funeral in 1982 that I got to seriously thinking about church. She had died in Charlotte, NC on Super Bowl Sunday, but it was her wish to be buried in her hometown of Binghamton, NY. She was cremated in Charlotte, but her remains were brought back to Binghamton in May for a service at the church in which I grew up, Trinity A.M.E. Zion.

My father, sister Leslie, and I all sat in the choir. My goodness, I’m sitting in the choir! And it hit me, “I need to be sitting in a church choir.”

Thus began the Great Church Shopping Expedition. Susan, with whom I had broken up, and then had recently gotten back together with, and I went to at least a dozen churches. What I/we were looking for, I couldn’t say.

An early contender was Trinity United Methodist Church, which shares part of its name with my home church. Moreover, and it may have been my first day there, but the minister, Stan Moore, a great guy, albeit with a crushing handshake, gave a sermon. During his remarks, he had mentioned in a positive light the massive anti-nuke rally the day before in New York City, which Susan and I had attended.

It wasn’t until December, though, when Gray Taylor, one of the tenors in the Trinity choir, came down from the loft to the front of the sanctuary to note that the choir was seeking members that I decided to come to that church regularly.

Late in 1984, I joined the church. While I was at Trinity, I got involved in the governance of the church, including chairing the Administrative Board and later chairing the Council on Ministries, which dealt with aspects of church life, worship, education, and the like.

There’s a whole lot about this period I could share, but I’m saving it for the roman à clef that I will never write.

One useful exercise, in 1995-96, was a thirty-four-week Bible study called Disciple, generally held at the home of my then ex-girlfriend, and now wife. It coincided with the third, and last time I read the Bible from cover to cover.

One of the Disciple exercises was to go to a faith community different from one’s own. I found a Coptic (Egyptian Orthodox) service on Madison Avenue in Albany. I was about five minutes late, but I needn’t have worried, as the service went on for three hours, mostly in Arabic. Afterward, there was a luncheon, and I had this lovely conversation with one young man, in English. When he found out about my Protestant membership, he said most pleasantly, “You DO know you are going to hell, don’t you?”

My departure in 2000 from Trinity UMC wasn’t about a couple of incidents, but rather the fact that the pastor (not Rev. Moore) had goaded the membership into abolishing the Administrative Board and the Council on Ministries. The subsequent system was more “efficient”, in that it was a cabal run mostly by the pastor. Thus, when conflict arose, there was no recourse.

During the discussion about the change three years earlier, one choir member, who had also been a pastor, asked the reasonable question, “Where are the checks and balances?” But “efficiency” won out; efficiency in a church policy structure is highly overrated.

The Lydster: Her career choices

I saved this Ask Roger Anything question, from Chris, until now:

Do you feel like you’re pushing your daughter towards certain career choices or letting her choose, or both? Do you think you’d be supportive of a career where it would be difficult for her to make a living, e.g. actress or musician?

Oh goodness, no. That’s a function of her needing to figure out what she wants to do. And honestly, I don’t have a strong sense of something I want her to do. I suppose I don’t want her to do something that involves a lot of danger.

Thinking about some of the things she has tried out:

Ballet – did it for two or three years, decided it wasn’t for her. But the lessons she learned have been useful, and she still likes to choreograph her own moves.

Soccer – she did youth soccer for three or four seasons, decided it wasn’t for her. So I was a bit surprised that she signed up for modified youth soccer this fall. What she learned before has come in handy.

Playing clarinet – her mother played, and she seemed to enjoy it. Moreover, I thought she got to be rather good at it, but she suddenly dropped it a couple of years ago. I was surprised when she pulled it out once this past summer. Maybe she’ll go back to it, maybe she won’t.

Things she’s interested in currently:

Art – she’s quite good at it, and she received some local awards for it. She DOES agonize over her work, though.

Clothing design – She’s been taking old clothes, cutting them up, stitching them together. Well not so much in the school year, but it was a business she wanted to look into this past summer.

Law – right now, she says she wants to be a lawyer. She sees injustice on the news on TV and wants to fix it. I wanted to be a lawyer for a time, so that would be fine.

One of the things that seems constant in this narrative is that everything learned has value. Maybe it won’t be applied directly, but it won’t go to waste.

Would I discourage her from a career path that might be difficult? No, and frankly, it would not have occurred to me. Now that I think of it, neither of my late parents EVER said, “you ought to do” X for a living. My father had a varied career, and I doubt it would have occurred to HIM. My mom was easygoing about those things, as long as we were happy and not involved in some criminal activity.

Music Throwback Saturday: Thank You

Back in 2010, I listed and linked to three Thank You songs for the Thanksgiving weekend. I figure if it was good enough for six years ago, it’s good enough for now. I have all songs in my collection.

Thank the Lord for the Night Time – Neil Diamond, #13 in 1967

While some of his later work I thought was too middle of the road for my tastes, I LOVED early Neil Diamond: Cherry Cherry, Kentucky Woman, Solitary Man, Holly Holy. This was far from the biggest hit for the singer/songwriter, though I wonder if it did better regionally because I heard this a lot in the day. This is probably my favorite of his songs; it is very soulful.

Listen HERE or HERE

Thank God I’m a Country Boy – John Denver, #1 on both the pop and country charts, in 1975; also #1 in Canada.

Written by John Martin Sommers, a guitar/banjo/fiddle/mandolin player in Denver’s backup band, “the song was originally included on Denver’s 1974 album Back Home Again. A version recorded live on August 26, 1974 at the Universal Amphitheatre in Los Angeles was included on his 1975 album An Evening with John Denver.”

It’s the live version that was the hit, one of four pop songs, and one of three country tuns to top the charts. This and I’m Sorry/Calypso topped both.

Listen HERE

Thank You – Boyz II Men, #21 pop, #17 soul, in 1995

The third single from Boyz II Men’s second studio album, II, this new jack swing song was co-written and co-produced by Dallas Austin and the group. It is almost certainly my favorite song by the quartet, now operating as a trio.

The group had three hits that hit #1 for weeks in double digits on the pop charts: End Of the Road (13 in 1992), I’ll Make Love To You (14 in 1994) and, with Mariah Carey, One Sweet Day (16 in 1995), which was the second question on the first JEOPARDY! game I played.

LISTEN HERE (single version) or HERE (a capella album cut)

Pizza and compassion, to go

On this Thanksgiving day, I’m thankful.

It was a Monday in late September when I was coming from a meeting, and heading to church. This guy named “Tim” was looking for something to eat.

Being very close to a pizza shop on Lark Street in Albany, I asked him to come in and order a slice or two. While we were waiting, Tim told me what a screw-up he had been.

He’s fallen off the sobriety wagon, again, and he’s embarrassed that his brother will be coming to town to go to some rock concert. Tim knows his brother will be disappointed.

I had no words of wisdom. I told him that I thought he was being terribly hard on himself, that he should keep on trying.

As I packed up my pizza slice to go – I WAS already running late by then – Tim gave me a big hug. And I’ll tell you the truth: I wasn’t fond of Tim hugging me with his boozy breath and slightly malodorous self.

But what I remembered from a very different story informed me: Tim needed to hug ME, Tim needed to thank ME.

So, on this Thanksgiving day, I’m thankful. Thankful that I don’t have Tim’s addiction. Thankful that I had the means to buy him dinner. Thankful that I can try to see the situation from Tim’s point of view.

It’s hard for us to be inclusive, to embrace those who are different. We may be OK with gay people or black people, but waiting the extra time it takes for a person in a wheelchair to board the bus may make us cranky. I suspect there are areas we all have that push against our blinders.

May we all be thankful, and ask for greater awareness and compassion for those around us, especially those we might find different or “lesser.”

Also: John Green: On Not Seeing Hamilton

Eight Poets to Discuss Over the Thanksgiving Table

The Muppets auditioning for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade

Cousin Donald Yates (1943-2016)

Donald Yates was my late mother’s first cousin. As I explained when his brother Robert died last year, they, their late older brother Raymond (d. 1978), and their older sister Frances were my mother’s closest relatives, though Raymond, the oldest, was a decade and a day younger than Mom.

They lived in Binghamton until their dad Ernie died suddenly in 1954, when Charlotte and the kids moved to St. Albans, Queens in New York City. The Greens would go down and the Yates would come up at least annually. Their kids, including Don’s’s kids Donnie and Tanya, were the closest relatives my siblings and I had, even though they were a decade or more younger than us.

My late father arranged the flowers for Donald’s wedding to his first wife, Carole – who I saw at the funeral – as he did for Robert and Audrey back in the 1960s.

I’d see Don only occasionally in the past couple of decades, always with Robert, but they would always be memorable. My wedding in 1999, the birth of my child in 2004, a few mini-family gatherings in Binghamton (one definitely in 2006), and Thanksgiving 2013 at the home of their niece Anne outside New York City. They were always generous with their resources – my wife specifically recalls their generous monetary gift after the Daughter was born.

The last time I saw Donald was at his brother Robert’s funeral. My trek to Donald’s funeral was nearly a carbon copy – early train to NYC, the E subway out to Queens, then local bus (Q4) to the funeral home where I spoke, open casket, the trek to the cemetery in Long Island, trip back to Jamaica, Queens for a 2 p.m. repast that was closer to 3 p.m., and a train back north. The repetition does NOT make it easier.

There WAS one significant difference, though. At the cemetery with Robert, there was just the ceremonial burying. At this service, there was a drape covering a pile of dirt, and after we all flung flowers on the casket, it was lowered, and a backhoe that was nearby was driven over to the gravesite and filled the hole with dirt. I had heard of such things, but I had never actually seen it happen in the dozens of burials I’ve attended.