Because of what happened, I remember certain insignificant aspects of that day that would have faded from memory long before now but not others. For example, although I can’t recall why we got out of school early that Friday, I have a mental “video” of sweeping my driveway, one of the chores that nominally justified my weekly allowance. Another lost recollection is what was in my thoughts just before the bad news came. (In the post-Ice Age predating boomboxes, Walkmen, and iPods, I had only daydreams to relieve the tedium of mundane tasks like raking leaves, shoveling snow, or sweeping driveways.)

I did much of my growing up in a small, conservative, New Jersey town about 20 miles southeast of Trenton. In the election of 1960, my parents were among a handful of non-Catholics in that district who marked their presidential ballots for then-Senator Kennedy. Like the majority of people thereabouts, our next-door neighbors were solidly Republican. Consequently, when the youngest daughter came outside that afternoon to announce that Kennedy had been shot, my first thought was that she was making a tasteless joke. She insisted, though, that it was on the news. My skepticism and fear of later teasing for being so gullible quickly gave way to a sense of horror at the possibility that the words were true. I rushed inside to seek confirmation or refutation.

In those days we had no cable, CNN, and 24-hour news cycles. We did, however, have morning and evening newspapers, at least in major metropolitan areas, and AM stations. I had a transistor radio, which meant I didn’t have to wait for the vacuum tubes of the desktop plug-in set in my bedroom to warm up before I could hear incoming reports. When I heard the sounds of solemn voices with news wire machines clattering in the background instead of a pop-40 hit, I knew something extraordinary had happened. As the stream of words began to register in my brain, I learned of the fateful trip to Dallas and one of what would be many variations of the status of the President and the sequence of events that had produced it. I hoped desperately that the wound was minor or, if not, that our “modern” medicine could save him. I couldn’t have been more unnerved if an asteroid had struck the planet.

Like aftershocks of a major earthquake, the news of that day and the ones following just jolted me again and again. The President died; the Vice President, whom I distrusted and disliked, took the oath of office; the alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, died at the hands of Jack Ruby within sight of the police. Although details get washed away in the stream of time, some turn up on the banks every now and then.

Those sad memories, unfortunately, did not stand in isolation. We witnessed in 1968, only weeks apart, the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Senator Robert Kennedy. These played out against the backdrop of protests — some nonviolent, others not — against racial, economic, and social injustices. President Kennedy’s assassination, it seemed, was merely the prelude to unending disasters. The expectations of my generation for an era peace and prosperity for all eroded as the decade wore on.

So, every November 22 is a day of sadness, remembrance, and reflection for me and, I hope, for my fellow Americans of a certain age. It is the reflective aspect, though, which leads, in the spirit and season of giving thanks, to an expression of gratitude. I am sincerely grateful that for the last 48 years no one has succeeded, despite several attempts, in undoing the choice of president by our citizenry through acts of violence. I also hope that all of us will work in concert to avoid a repetition of such a tragedy.

On the 5th, we will not be deciding whether or not we should move. We will simply be voting on whether learning more about specific options for a building is warranted, and I feel strongly that it is. Unfortunately, much of the conversation surrounding this issue in recent weeks has been based on speculation about how much a new or leased building would cost — $2 million, $5 million, $10 million? The truth is that no one really knows. There has also been speculation about how much it would cost to renovate our current space to the point that it would function for us. We have not done enough work to know the answers to these questions, and I think we owe it to ourselves and the future of the UU movement in Hampton Roads to find out. We owe it to ourselves to take the work that we do seriously and vote “yes” on exploring options for how we might make that work more effective and wide-reaching.

Sadly, a number of the comments in the post-service forums reflect a fair amount of fear of the unknown and wild guesses about cost and options. My concern is that we could be losing focus on the central issue: building a sustainable future for our church community. We need to pursue hard facts so that we can have a real, honest, and meaningful conversation. Voting “yes” on the 5th will mean a commitment to facts and reason — two things that Unitarian Universalists value. I hope I can count on you to be part of this effort, and I hope that you won’t take this lightly.

Thanks very much for all that you do for UCN and for taking the time to read this commentary.

Cheers, Reannon Branchisi

Learning non-judgmental ways of communication was the focus of Eddie Oliver, a nonviolent communication speaker, during the Jan. 16 workshop at UCN. The social hall was filled with diversity; in expectations, opinions, and levels of curiosity. Just the kind of setting I love. As a fairly new member, I was glad to share the afternoon with other congregation members who value civility.

A highlight of the workshop was a poignant short film that allowed us to experience how responding non-judgmentally feels better. We know what it feels like to react to aggravating circumstances. We do it everyday. The character in the film did just that; but after wearing special glasses, he was able to see human conditions, not just annoying actions. By the film’s end, the universal reaction was, “Where can I get a pair of those sunglasses?”

We would/do react differently (to those same circumstances) when connected to the humanity inside us. Why? Because it makes us feel better about who we are…and who you are. Everyone benefits.

We also practiced identifying and articulating our own basic needs (especially to those closest to us), recognize how our needs influence our dialog with others, and why a little consideration often softens misunderstandings and harsh feelings. Enjoying the follow-up classes!

Proposed bylaws change

My wonderful POD team, Dave, Rick and Eric, has done such a good job, all arrived intact and the gang here had fun, getting it out while I was vacationing in Germany. My daughter’s house was hit very badly by the 100 yr ice storm, and roof, windows, and flooring needed to be new. So the POD had to wait for 2 more wks, and it had not arrived when the storm hit, such luck!

I am unpacking and don’t know where to put all the stuff! Box after box goes to Goodwill or into a shed. My family is very good, and the 2 grandsons in the house, 19 and 26, do occasionally give a hand with moving a piece of furniture or large box.

Sharing the bathroom is a challenge, though, and for my birthday (laugh) I asked for a bedside commode!

Everyone works, and I have quiet time by myself every day. I truly enjoy the company, and I think a few of the guys like seeing the dishes done and the stove cleaned. Our soldier, now policeman, and Heidi, who got married on Oct. 1st, are my favorite people, and we had some nice talks.

I joined the senior center, but so far I don’t have time to leave the house except with my daughter for shopping. They have a small bus I can ride when I get settled.

I am joining a small church here and thanks, John and Phyllis, for calling and asking how I’m doing. I was told on Sunday, that you called.

My lovely house plants from VA are surviving and making me happy. That’s all the garden I need for now.

Love to all; stay well.
Your friend, Gudrun

1. Concentrate on one subject per message whenever possible. It’s easier for the recipient and the subject heading will make search/retrieval more efficient.

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15. Finally hit SEND. If a response is appropriate, expect a timely one.

ADDITIONS and EDITS WELCOME!
jslosser7@cox.net

When [Rev.] John [Manwell] called and asked if we would be willing to take part in this workshop by sharing what he termed “our spiritual odysseys”, he said that he and [Rev.] Phyllis [Hubbell] had done something similar at a GA conference a few years back, but that he thought for the purposes of this weekend, it might be helpful to have stories from long term members.

Although the word “odyssey” sounds a bit grand for my maze-like wanderings over the years, I’ll try to recall some of them for you and hope you can follow the jumps. The events may not be in chronological order, but they all contributed to the search for meaning in my life.

I don’t remember exactly when that search began, but I became aware of it as a sort of vague hunger, which sometimes made me miserable and other times filled me with peace and contentment. Along the way I met some helpful guides, tried some strange experiments and had some disappointing connections with churches which left me confused and more than a little cynical about religion at a very early age.

My parents never went to church themselves but sent my sisters and me, in best dresses and hair ribbons, to Euclid Avenue Christian Church every Sunday. The minister was tall, white haired, and handsome in a stern sort of way.

I remember one sermon that he gave about Job, and what I got out of it was that nobody should ever question God, not ever. By the time he got through telling about God’s wager with Satan, I thought that God must be cruel; that he would sacrifice any of us just for bragging rights to the devil. I’m sure biblical scholars saw it differently, but I was 11 years old and that’s what I heard. I came away from that sermon with a lot of questions about God, but I kept them to myself.

Thankfully, the next year we got a new minister, Tom Pletcher. He was easy going and interested in the young people in the church. On Sunday nights he and his wife made punch and cookies and let us gather in the church basement just to have fun. Remember this was 1943, the war was on, sugar was rationed and any place we could get free sweets and be silly and loud was considered a “par-tee”.

They let us sing what we chose, so we picked the rowdiest songs we knew. Later on, we learned that it was our rendition of “Pistol Packin’ Mama” that led to the eventual dismissal of Mr. Pletcher. The power clique that ruled the church deemed our Sunday night gatherings un-Christian and concluded that the Pletchers were not the sort of leaders they had in mind when they hired them.

I don’t know what happened at Euclid Avenue after that, because my sisters and I quit when the minister was fired. We all felt terrible and our parents didn’t force us to go back.

Years passed when I didn’t go to church at all. I spent a couple of those years (between the ages of 14 and 16) either in a hospital or in a body cast, and all I could do was read. So I expect it was the combination of reading and isolation that stirred up the hunger for understanding.

After what had happened with the Pletchers, I went looking for a place that offered stability. I had read a number of books about the Catholic Church and was inspired by the dedication and serenity of the nuns and priests who devoted their whole lives to good works.

So I decided to visit the one small Catholic Church in our town. Unlike Protestant churches, it stayed open every day, so I went by myself on a Wednesday. It was cold and windy, a week before Christmas when I pushed through the double doors and entered the warm, empty church. The altar was covered with red poinsettias, votive candles flickered on either side and the smell of incense floated in the stillness. I slid into a back pew, leaned my head down and just cried.

Maybe it was sheer beauty of the place, or the fact that I needed so much to believe in something, but I truly felt I was in the presence of God. I stayed in the church a long time that day and started going to Mass on Sundays. After several months, and against my mother’s strong objections, I started instruction to join the church.

I became close friends with the priest, Father Bambrick. I knew him from the hospital when he visited patients, and I really enjoyed the instruction sessions, even though Father Bambrick worried about my questioning so many of the Church’s teachings.

But he was a kind man, and at the end of my instruction period he told me he didn’t think I would ever make a very good Catholic, but not to worry about it because he thought I was a good person. That liberal attitude didn’t help him rise in the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, and he was still just a priest when he retired some 30 years later. When Tony and I decided to get married, we went to Father Bambrick’s church in Front Royal, VA, so he could perform the service.

After I was married, I still attended mass regularly, but I never really got to know the priest who replaced Father Bambrick. I had just one encounter with him when our son was born. I was distraught, because the doctors didn’t think that he would survive a collapsed lung, but when this priest came to the hospital, he didn’t offer a single comforting word. He was adamant that we ask the doctors to take the baby out of the life-saving Isolette just long enough for him to be baptized. His warning: “If the child dies, he will go to hell if he is un-baptized”. I never went back to the Catholic Church after that.

Tony still sang in the choir at the Baptist church but he agreed to try out the more liberal Methodist church nearby, where his best friend, Ted, was the Minister of Music. We never formally joined the church, but Tony joined the choir, and it gave us a place to go on Sundays.

That is, until Ted came over one night furious because the minister had instructed him to tell an unmarried pregnant girl who sang in the choir to stop coming to church until she was over “her condition”. Ted refused to do it, so the minister talked to her himself. When the young girl left the church, Ted, Tony and I left with her.

Again there was a long stretch without any church at all. We moved to Evansville, IN for a year, and then to Norfolk where Tony went to work on the newspaper. By then, we had a three-year-old son and felt he needed some religious training, so we started going to the little Methodist church two blocks from where we lived. Tony was assigned the federal court beat and was smack in the middle of the school desegregation debacle that was fraught with emotion that seeped in everywhere, even in church. On one Sunday after the federal court decision, the minister comforted the anxious congregation by saying from the pulpit that if any black person (I’m using a euphemism here) tried to enter his church, he would block them with his own body.

Tony and I were stunned but we didn’t say anything. We got up quietly, picked up our son from the nursery and went home. I was furious with the minister and with the congregation but mostly with myself, with both of us, because we knew it was wrong, but we didn’t have the courage to say so out loud.

It was a disturbing time to live in Norfolk. Tension was high, and Tony had a front row seat to a lot of the action. He covered federal court and the schools, and we both thought it was a responsibility of churches to support integration efforts. I had given up expecting anything good from churches, but Tony started talking about one minister who was fighting a lonely battle to make things better. Although I admired what I read about the minister, Jim Brewer, I was not about to get involved in any more churches.

Then one day Tony said a friend was playing a gig in a church in downtown Norfolk and had invited us to go along. Although I wasn’t happy about the location, I definitely needed a night out. So I got all dressed up and set out to go hear some music. What I discovered was The Unitarian Church of Norfolk.

I will never forget that night. We opened the door to the sound of laughter. The place itself was nothing to brag about, but the people sitting around the floor were an amazing sight, especially for those times. Old people, young people, white people and black people all sitting together in a circle. They were dressed in very casual clothes, and I stood there in my high heels and good dress because it was supposed to be a church.

There were a few folding chairs around, so I found one next to an old man who told me he was from Lake Taylor Nursing Home. His name was Carl Cartwright, and he had been a clown with the Barnum and Bailey circus all his life. When I asked him to tell me about the Unitarian church, he said that all he knew was that in his travels around the country, people looked down on circus folks, and the only people who ever made them feel welcome were the Unitarians. That was on a Saturday night, and when we left to go home, I shocked Tony by saying I would like to come to the church the next morning and check out that minister he had been talking about.

We rarely missed a Sunday after that. Jim Brewer could light up a room just by walking in. The people were friendly and smart and brave. It was a tiny little church, a small congregation, but it had such heart that you could feel it every time we met.

Jim Brewer was an inspiration during those scary times, but he also brought out the best in each of us. In numbers we were small, but as a group we were able to make a real difference in bringing about needed social change.

We all hated to see Jim leave for a post in Africa, but he was followed by equally inspiring Jim Curtis, Carl Essenwein, eloquent Arthur Graham and all the others whose pictures line the back wall of our sanctuary. They each had different gifts, but every one of them helped us grow.

And grow we did. We moved around a lot, too. In addition to the little church on Moran Avenue, we used the old library on Freemason Street, and the Little Theater building. We met for a time in a school and finally found what we thought would be a real home on Graydon Avenue. It was a big old house that we outgrew quickly, but we turned it into a church while we were there.

We moved into this building [at 739 Yarmouth Street] in 1972, I think. I remember standing in the sanctuary that first week we were here, feeling a tremendous sense of pride. We had a group then called the Womens’ Alliance, and we cleaned the rug, polished the pews, and made the church look absolutely beautiful. There was something new and exciting going on here all the time.

I found a new energy myself in 1972 when I learned that the animal pound in Chesapeake was described by the Humane Society of the United States as the second worst in the country. Encouraged by the strength I found in this church, I mounted a campaign to do something about it and was able to organize the Chesapeake Humane Society in May of that year.

In addition to the Humane Society, I became the State Humane Officer for Chesapeake and spent most of my time working on animal welfare issues, but I frequently came to Carl Essenwein for guidance and encouragement, and he never let me down. Being part of this church changed me from a person who wouldn’t raise her hand at a PTA meeting to someone who could and would do anything it took to help the animals.

From 1972 to 1978 I worked hard in the office and on the road, but that changed abruptly when I tried to pick up a German Shephard that had been hit by a car. It badly injured my back, so I went in for surgery in July, assured by the doctor that I would be out of the hospital in two weeks and back to work in six.

But that didn’t happen. Once again I was confined to bed in a body cast for six months and then learned from doctors at Duke that there was nothing they could do to undo the damage done in the original surgery. I was devastated. To make matters worse, I couldn’t come to church anymore.

That was before we had a ramp and both the front and back steps were impossible for me to manage. Friends tried to keep up, and the minister, Arthur Graham, came to visit, but he developed serious health problems himself, and I gradually lost touch with most of my church friends. I still have a book they gave me signed with their good wishes and love. The book was appropriately titled Man’s Search for Meaning, and it has been well read over the years.

As the months wore on, I became very depressed, and spent most days by myself reading. Then one day the doorbell rang and a stranger introduced himself as Dave Hoffman, the minister of the Congregational Christian Church down the street from us. One of my friends was a member of his church, and she had told Dave that she was worried about me and asked if he would just stop by and say hello.

My first thought was that I was going to kill Marion, but I invited Dave in and within an hour, I learned that he had shared a room with a Unitarian in college and greatly admired the great Unitarian preachers. He visited often after that, and I found him to be a very liberal thinker. He would have fared much better in a Unitarian church.

His church was accessible so Tony and I started going fairly often. Tony joined the choir and eventually the church, but Dave accepted the fact that I did not want to drop my Unitarian membership and never pushed me on the subject. I worked with him in his outreach programs at St. Brides Prison and his efforts to end hunger, but as the church grew increasingly more narrow and conservative, I stopped going altogether, but remained friends with Dave and his wife.

Bill Hoddinott, one of my Unitarian friends who lived in Great Bridge tried to keep me up with things at UCN and called one day with news that they had built a ramp. On that first Sunday back, I was excited but nervous. It had been 11 years since I was in this building, and I wondered how much things had changed.

When we drove up, there was our old friend, Bill Carroll standing on the ramp in his snappy black hat, and he leaned out and yelled “ the Steins are back”. And we were. We met the interim minister, and learned that most of our old friends were still here. When we came through that door after such a long wait, it was just like coming back home after a long journey.

That was 23 years ago, and I still sometimes just stop in the back of the sanctuary and feel grateful.

I love this place, this building. But what really makes this my church is US. . . YOU. From the first night when I walked in the door and sat down by Carl Cartwright to this night sitting here at the start of another year, I love whatever it is that blends us together and makes us a church.

As far as my spiritual journey goes, I hope it never ends. Each September, when we start off anew, I look forward to hearing new sermons, singing familiar hymns and yes, even working on whatever new challenges that will arise as surely as the tides in the Hague. But I have no worries about this church.

After 50 years, I’m confident about our future, whether it’s here in this building or somewhere else. This church is not just real estate, where the answer is location, location, location. I think it’s more about our vocation. . . the call to each one of us to carry on the work in a way that will make us as proud of our future as we are of our past. We old folks have passed the reins on to you younger people. I hope you look forward to this new year as much as I do.

So it is with the dynamics of the decision making of our congregation. The water inundation event of last fall heightened our awareness of the need for a proactive response. In response we devoted last year’s mid-Winter meeting to beginning steps for meeting the challenges we face. Out of that meeting was born the Dream Catchers. This team of thoughtful, dedicated members is proceeding with much attention to the process. They are not focused on the ultimate outcome of that process but are gearing up to educate and inform us as the processing unfolds. After all, the outcome has no significance whatsoever if the congregation rejects it. In the end the approach taken by the Dream Catcher team will serve us well.

It is clear that there are choices of ways to deal with the problems of space limitations, safety, insufficient or inaccessible parking, rising tides, etc., but in the early stages of the process it is inappropriate and counterproductive to place judgments on those choices. At this point, the best and most acceptable path remains elusive. Of course, we will never find the path deemed exactly perfect by each of us. We can and will, however, find a path that is acceptable to most of us and which will not be fraught with deal breakers. Eventually, the greater good will take precedence over individual considerations, and each of us will take pride in the group decision.

Very soon teams will be formed to pursue specific areas of information. Based on the forms we filled out at the mid-winter meeting, we have a data base of areas of interest for many members. You will be contacted based on your stated preferences. If you weren’t at the mid-winter meeting, you will still be able to join in according to your interests. This is an all-hands-on-deck adventure.
Dream Catchers and the Board are also planning an educational experience for all of us regarding environmentally friendly ways of remodeling, reconfiguring, building, buying or renting space. Stay tuned. It will be good.

Your participation in the Appreciative Inquiry workshop on September 24-25 is also a part of the overall game plan. Make plans to join us.

It’s going to be a busy year with significant, exciting work to be done. The Dream continues.

Jerry

Since I became Web Administrator in late 2008, the Friday eMail has changed hands four times. The grind of turning out a weekly compilation of upcoming congregational events in a timely way takes a toll on people with other commitments in their lives. Fortunately, for those who receive the weekly “wake up call”, each time the position of editor has needed a new volunteer, we have gotten one. It is quite miraculous, particularly by Unitarian-Universalist standards.

In the same time frame, we have had another, quieter miracle in communications. Every time Lynn Jacobs has attempted to give up her editorial position on the newsletter, she has remained in place rather than allow the “press room” to go dark. Over the last two years, she has had some close encounters with “retirement” from the post, only to have her hopes dashed at the last moment. She still carries it on, but I believe that like an addict who has finally hit rock bottom, she will make good on her promise to quit. It will be a great loss to our community, even more so if no one comes forward to carry the torch. (Don’t look in this direction! If you do, you have no idea what else is currently on my plate.)

Somewhere out there is a newsletter editor-in-waiting. Please step forward before the flame burns out.