PHOTO MONTAGE

The Rev. Janis Yskamp officated Sept. 5, 2012 at a Chapel memorial Eucharist for Sara C. Oldberg at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Wellsboro, PA. It was a simple and moving service with no sermon, as requested.

The 7PM service was held with all the building's doors wide open; a lovely, late-summer evening breeze stirred the fresh air resting upon the Town Green, which the Chapel overlooks.

Using the Book of Common Prayer, the service was based on the Burial Office which begins on page 492. The Collect used appears at the bottom of page 493.

All of the readings and prayers were suitable for a departed loved one who had been baptized as a child and whose faith as an adult was a private matter. Reading the lessons was The Rev. Dee Calhoun. Prayers for Sara's loved ones were included.

The Old Testament reading was Isaiah 25:6-9 followed by Psalm 46 BCP pg. 649.

The New Testament reading was 1John 3:1-2 followed by Psalm 106 v 1-5, BCP pg. 741.

The Gospel, read by Mo. Janis, was John 14:1-6, followed by the Apostles Creed BCP pg. 496.

Then followed prayers beginning on BCP pg. 497.

Holy Eucharist was Prayer B, BCP pg. 397 (preface BCP pg 498)

The post-communion prayer is found on BCP pg. 498.

The concluding blessing is found on BCP pg. 500.

Attendees included people she had met on her visit to St. Paul's shortly after Greg began his ministry here, and my Service Dog Faulkner greeted everyone.

Displayed in the Chapel were Mom's high school portrait and a picture from a visit to Hallberg Lane during the first year of our marriage. Also displayed was our wedding photo which her effects had included; it shows Greg and I with Fr. Setmeyer and thumbnails of herself (looking very happy) and Tom and Carol surrounding us in the corners.

Following the service, The Reverends Yskamp and Calhoun anointed me and prayed for my upcoming surgery, which Mom had enthusiastically supported.

Additional prayers honoring Sara will be offered at the Sept. 8 Eucharist by The Rev. Gregory P. Hinton.

~Susan

On long Diocesan drives, and thru our rural home-county, we listen to free, public-domain audtiobooks. This week it was The Trail of the Axe by Ridgwell Cullum: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36522 . A 4AM passage, one late night last week, reminded me powerfully of Mom's way with Dave and, I am sure, Tom and Nick.

Below is the part that spoke to me, and evoked her as my own excellent role model.

~Susan

.... The pivot of her life was her boy. A pivot upon which it revolved without flagging or interruption. She had watched him grow to a magnificent manhood, and with all a pure woman's love and wonderful instinct she had watched and tended him as she might some great oak tree raised from the frailest sapling. Then, when his struggles came, she had shared them with him with a supreme loyalty, helping him with a quiet, strong sympathy which found expression in little touches which probably even he never realized. All his successes and disasters had been hers; all his joys, all his sorrows. And now, in her old age, she clung to this love with the pathetic tenacity of one who realizes that the final parting is not far distant.

Her furrowed face lit with a wonderful smile.

"I cannot say for sure," she said. "There are times when Dave will not admit me to the thoughts which disturb him. At such times I know that things are not running smoothly. There are other times when he talks quite freely of his hopes, his fears. Then I know that all is well. When he complains I know he is questioning his own judgment, and distrusts himself. And when he laughs at things I know that the trouble is a sore one, and I prepare for disaster. All his moods have meaning for me. Just now I am reading from his silence, and it tells me that much is wrong, and I am wondering. But I do not think it concerns Betty—and, consequently, not your husband; if anything were wrong with her I think I should know." She smiled with all the wisdom of old age.

Mom didn't miss much, but she was so respectful of boundaries (a Carpenter characeristic) about what she SAID. She was a firm believer in people's need and ability to learn from their own mistakes. (She told me that her own darling father had taught her this.)

Thanks, again, Mom!

This is a piece I drafted years ago for eventual gathering into a book of memories of our ministry times in Wellsboro. Of course it exaggerates shamelessly; names are changed to protect the individuals’ privacy.

The “Millie” in this piece represents a score of women I have lumped into one “piece,” all of whom generously still help “raise me right” as a newcomer they‘d called to their Boro.

We buried the woman I called "Millie" a few days ago, amid a barrage of travel demands in our email. For ten whole minutes I got to sit in the service Greg led, remembering MY Mom.

~S~

P I C K L E S   A N D   P I E   P A N S

My dearly loved friend,

I thank you for your letter. Your words sparkled with all the clarity I've come to recognize as your hallmark stamped on a thought. I feel quite unequal to the task of replying with like clarity, and I seem to have forgotten momentarily what my own hallmark might be.

I'm thinking now of sweet old Millie Branson, our dear parishioner, who gives a million jars of pickles, all different recipes, in jars of every make as she's collected them through the years... pickles sweetened with honey or sugar or cane syrup... pickles dilled with garlic and without... pickles sliced, whole, large, gherkin... smooth pickles from early-gathered cukes, pickles that crunch, pickles that squish, pickles that chew, pickles that melt...

They are all pickles, all green, all in jars full of the pickle juice du jour.

One naturally wants to exercise stewardship over such gifting. And one naturally wants to express appreciation and admiration, anew, each and every time, because Millie's memory is such that she does not recall that she has given you “hundreds” of such jars on past occasions.

Each gift feels, to her, like the first time she's blessing you with her wonderful pickles. And all she really wants back are the empty jars-- to give them again, of course, pickle-packed.

Yes... the neighborly, natural thing would be to see the blessing she's bestowed. The thing is, though, once she's got you on her pickle list, she's stuck in giving mode, and you could just about pickle-fill your belly on a daily basis. But you can't live on pickles alone. She must assume, if she thinks at all about how many jars you've stowed down cellar, that you entertain an awful lot. As she herself probably did, once upon a younger time.

I bet most people fill the emptied jar with their own prize-winning recipe, and return it to her with a pretty ribbon tied 'round the fabric-wrapped lid. That's the way here. It must go on all year, too-- WalMart never seems to put the canning supplies away with the seasonal stock!

Millie must have a really wonderful cellar of her own, too, by now-- jams, jellies, beans, sauces, chili peppers.... even a flatlander like myself can see the sense in the system. All she really needs to make are pickles, and pickles must fascinate her, for you can always count on Millie's Pickles at the parish picnic in July-- every year, five or six new delights she's created.

Making her specialty, she can get back everything a body needs to live. (I'm sure there are even people who plow her driveway when they bring back the boxful of pickle jars!) Yes, the system is fine-- she's just a bit stuck now on the "Must Give Pickles" side of the exchange.

She's lived by this system for so long that I'm sure she accurately understands that when a cloth-covered pie turns up on her doorstep, someone is saying anonymously, "I'm sorry, I broke your pickle jar, but I baked you a pie and please keep my best pie pan, too." I bet if I dropped in on her today to bring her an audiotape with the Saturday night service's music, I'd find her with someone’s fresh pie-- all ready to cut for company.

Some of us "just-arrived" newcomers take a long time to discover our own special recipe to put in Millie's jars. That's fine with Millie, as long as she gets the jars back. (After all, not everyone is smart enough to have been born and raised here, and grow up knowing everyone does have something they will give, their whole life long.) She's happy just to have the jars back, actually.

I suspect that even without the return of the jars, she's happy just to give her pickles-- what better gift could one give, after all, than the best pickles in the county?

These ways are so automatic among the natives, so ingrained-- so inbred-- that she would be completely baffled if I asked her about this.

Millie's lesson is totally contained in each jar.

I see that I'm having a little trouble getting the giving end right, myself; I suspect I may be involved in several out-of-balance economies, as a clergy-spouse is always outnumbered. But I know a local expert who can speak to me in the kinds of words I use, and I think I will ask her to tell me more of Millie and the way people here manage to give what they have harvested.

Her special recipe is helpful words, wrapped not in calico but in smiles and hugs.

In the meantime I will add your peck to her store down cellar and return the jars as they are emptied. Your jars have the cutest labels you know, and I do love pickles!

You must come to one of St. Paul’s parish picnics too, with your pickles. Do try to come soon, while Millie is still able to be with us!

Oh-- and do keep the pie pan!


All my love, always,


Susan 

At Millie's funeral, the young matriarch-in-training whose Mom we were gathered to remember laughed with tears of joy as I shared a short "pickle" memory. I wish you all could know the comfort of this amazing coimmunity of dear, dear people. They'd all remind you of Mom.

(C) 2012 Susan O. Hinton