ARCHANGEL A Publication of St. Michael’s Episcopal Church, Raleigh, NC • V ol. 3, Issue 1, Fall 2019
KALEID OS COPE S OF FAITH
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Table of Contents 4
The Sweetest Stuff of All
Greg Jones gives some thought to his 15 years as our parish priest and of the busy hive where we all belong.
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In Her Footsteps
Abby Van Noppen brings a complex set of dichotomies to her role as youth director and the kids follow her lead. Emojis are involved.
14 A Sight To See
Seven-year-old Grace Marquardt was born unable to see. But God put people in her path who pointed her toward the light.
18 Airborne & Amen
Duke seminarian Anna Page took an unusual route to the priesthood. First, she joined the Army; then she jumped.
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Who’s Who at St. Michael’s Church Phone: (919) 782-0731
All area codes are 919 unless noted
FEATURES 6 8
Whose I Am The Rev. James Pahl Jr. explores how being raised at St. Michael’s led to his life of faith. Nurturer-in-Priest The Rev. Holly Gloff looks back on her journey to the priesthood and finds her nurturing nature was there all along.
THE GOOD NEWS 20 Relics of Wonder
A simple music box bought on a whim for a friend gives Gregoria Smith a chance to ponder the meaning of things we hold dear.
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Founded on a Rock Writer Beth Grace explores the notion of going home again.
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Into the Wider World A team of two dozen parishioners circle a mother from the Congo and her sons with love, with surprising returns.
On the Cover: Central our Pentecost window is a beehive, which stands for the Church, the bees busily escaping into the world. For our Fall Archangel cover, we’ve transformed the window into a kaleidoscope, representing the many stories we bring with us as we come into the Church to do the work of God.
The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones, Rector ext. 117 • jones@holymichael.org (c) 559-2004 The Rev. Holly Gloff, Associate Rector ext. 127 • gloff@holymichael.org (c) 612-7228 The Rev. James L Pahl, Vicar ext. 105 • pahl@holymichael.org 919.339.3854 Anna Page, Seminarian page@holymichael.org Marion B. “Chip” Chase, Verger (h) 851-9576 VESTRY
Class of 2019 Tim Berry • 785-9573 | Dan Cahill, Jr. Warden • 785-1610 Valerie Jackson, Sr. Warden• 917-5164 Robin Kennedy, Clerk • 571-3633 Lee Walker • 896-8766 Class of 2020 Ashleigh Black •789-8284 |John Connell • 336-407-891 Rob Griffin • 510-9982 |Marty Munt • 847-6780 Karen Wagoner • 604-4701 Class of 2021 Liz Driscoll • 886-3424 | Matt Marchione • 426-8504 Katherine Poole • 623-3498 | Logan Price • 270-3700 Melissa Raley • 219-2746 STAFF
Stella Attaway, Director of Christian Education attaway@holymichael.org • ext. 106 Ann Garey, Publications garey@holymichael.org • ext. 103 Charlotte Griffin, Director of Development griffin@holymichael.org • ext. 121 Lee Hayden, Director of Operations & Newcomer Ministry hayden@holymichael.org • ext.108 Abby Van Noppen, Director of Youth Ministry vannoppen@holymichael.org • ext. 115 Kevin Kerstetter, Director of Music kerstetter@holymichael.org • ext. 101 Susan Little, Financial Administrator little@holymichael.org • ext. 113 Carolyn L’Italien, Assistant to Children’s Ministries & Operations litalien@holymichael.org Jean Olson, Parish Secretary olson@holymichael.org • ext. 112 Susan Rountree, Director of Communications rountree@holymichael.org • ext.122 FACILITIES STAFF
Jesús Epigmenio, Groundskeeper Marcela de la Cruz, Housekeeper PARISH DAY SCHOOL 782-6430 Mandy Annunziata, Director annunziata@holymichael.org • ext. 110 Cason Maddison, Assistant Director • ext.114 maddison@holymichael.org
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The Sweetest Stuff of All Words: The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones, Rector
ST. MICHAEL’S IS MANY THINGS. IT IS A HOUSE OF GOD AND A PLACE OF WORSHIP. IT IS A FAMILY AND A HOME. IT IS A TRIBE AND A TOWN. IT IS A WORKPLACE AND RETREAT CENTER. IT IS A PLATFORM FOR MISSION AND OUTREACH. IT IS A PLAYGROUND AND A BURIAL GROUND, FOR THIS IS HOLY GROUND.
After 15
years as rector of St. Michael’s, I have spent nearly a third of my life here. Melanie and I have raised our children here. They have grown to adolescence, and we, too, have grown, not only as parents but as people. We have been formed in our relationships to each other and to all of you, our sisters and brothers in Christ. We have come to be a part of things, not the center, not the top— a part. I am grateful to be rector here. As our daughters approach adulthood — two are practically there, and we are on our third dog since moving here — I am grateful the good Lord has allowed me to remain inspired and engaged in this place. St. Michael’s is many things. It is a house of God and a place of worship. It it is a family and a home. It is a tribe and a town. It is a workplace and retreat center. It is a platform for mission and outreach. It is a gathering place for fellowship, education, and friendship. It is a music room, festal hall, and sacred library. It is a playground and a burial ground, for this is holy ground. As we rejoice in our renovated stained glass windows, we have noted the many themes depicted iconographically therein with renewed attention. The beehive symbol in one of the windows grabs
my attention as I consider what this parish is like. It is like a beehive. A place where the many are one in purpose and identity. A place where we live and work. A place where we all serve the needs of our sovereign Lord, in this case not a Queen Bee, but the Lord in whose house are many dwelling places prepared for us. A place where we produce both the wax, with its ancient purpose of making candles to lighten a room and enlighten our hearts, and honey, with its great purpose of feeding us with no mean victual, but the sweetest stuff of all. Here in our buzzing hive, abounding with spiritual energy, healing wax and sacred honey, all of us are blessed to continue our life of service to the monarch of the universe, Jesus Christ. We’ve chosen the beehive as the symbol of our 2020 Annual Fund campaign. Our theme this year — Love. Give. Serve — is drawn from the great epistle of James, which reminds us to “Be doers of the word.” Certainly, this notion of being doers and not hearers only reminds us of this beehive metaphor so beautifully rendered in our Pentecost window. This window serves, also, as cover art for this season’s Archangel. Rendered as a kaleidoscope, it represents the myriad ways we come to the Christian faith. We all walk this path toward the hope of Christ differently — bringing our many stories of faith and call and hope to the parish we all call home.
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In this issue, you’ll read a few of those stories. Our new vicar, the Rev. Jamie Pahl, recounts his faith beginnings in this very parish as a child, molded by Sunday School teachers and choir masters and EYC leaders, who guided him in those early years toward the path he would eventually take to becoming priest. And Anna Page, our new seminarian shares with us how her own calling into the U.S. Army as a paratrooper led her to take a huge — and literal — leap of faith. Holly Gloff has a story, too. Though women had not yet been given permission to become ordained, as a teen Holly felt one day she would be among their ranks. We profile our director of youth ministry, Abby Van Noppen, and one family in our parish shares how God intervened through the hands of many to provide answers when they discovered their new baby couldn’t see. As we head into fall and this season of giving, remember, too, our Annual Fund. It’s true, the entire budget of this church is donated by you — who readily love, serve and give in so many ways to St. Michael’s and our community. We cannot do the work of our hive without the support of every household in our parish. So please remember that when you prayerfully consider your pledge.
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Whose I Am Words: The Rev. James L. Pahl Jr., D. Min., Vicar Photo: Susan B. Rountree
Moving is
not easy after so many years in one place. The stuff that gathers and finds its way to the attic, so many outgrown clothes and toys the kids have thrown aside over the years. And then suddenly, they rediscover an item that was placed aside a decade ago, and it becomes brand new again for a day! Yet, looking back, despite all the frustrations of packing and organizing, the whole moving experience can be cathartic. A few weeks ago I was clearing out paperwork and personal effects that I have collected for almost 48 years, and I discovered a special relic: my St. Michael’s Day School diploma — signed by the Rector, the Rev. Larry Brown and Day School leaders, Polly Ingram and Kathleen Keezell. These are all names from St. Michael’s past — but in a sense, so is mine.
questioned and searched in all areas while in college and at other times. I thought I was heading to law school — or that part of me which thought I could become a singer/ songwriter, or miraculously join the professional tennis tour. What dreams we have! What I didn’t know then, was the seed was already planted, no matter the choice I was to make. The Lord had a hold on me (even when I didn’t know it or tried to deny it). Like you, I am created in the image of God and there is a purpose and plan in each of our lives. Recently, an old St. Michael’s friend said to me in a lovely message, “I have to admit I had flashbacks of a quiet but thoughtful teen . . . the Lord certainly had a divine plan for your life which I always felt in my spirit. But who knew that He would lead the man with a heart for priesthood back to shepherd those at ‘home’ who once shepherded him? It’s such a wonderful gift . . . and I’m constantly amazed at how God’s faithful hand works!”
This discovery takes me back to those days and the beginnings of my faith journey, a journey first instilled in me by my parents and family. And out of their trust and love, they allowed me to be placed into the faithful hands of others to do some additional shaping. My life at St. Michael’s and the many years that would follow prepared me for the uncertain journey of life — and like many of you, those years have been filled with blessings, thanksgivings, beginnings, endings and sorrows. And yet, this one discovery is a reminder to me of how much a church family can so impact a life.
Coming back to St. Michael’s reminds me of those who left this lasting impression on a young boy who was trying to discover who he was, and understand this thing called “faith.” Just to name a few: Jim Beckwith, rector; Larry Brown, rector; Mrs. Dees, seventh-grade Sunday School teacher; John Powell, first EYC leader; Mike and Frances Penick, inspirational leaders of the High School Sunday School class; Jim Good, organist and choir director — and so many more — people from my past and all who were critical in shaping me and St. Michael’s for so many years.
1 Timothy 4 says, “Command and teach these things. Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith and in purity.” I didn’t consciously know it at the time, but this was my modus operandi as a young person growing up in the church. It doesn’t mean that I lived it out perfectly! Rather, like many of you, I strayed and
And here I am, after so many years of being away, excited to be returning to a vibrant parish with amazing leadership, the place where it all began for me. The Rev. Greg Jones has done an incredible job of growing and leading this parish for the past 15 years, and I thank him for inviting me back to be a part of the team, to humbly serve as his Vicar. The Rev. Holly Gloff and the staff are fixtures and staples of
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a happy, healthy system. So, I would ask, if I could have been shaped and formed in amazing ways back in the 1970s and 80s at St. Michael’s, then why would it not be all the more incredible today in this vibrant parish? We are shaping and forming new disciples in Christ today, just as those leaders did for me. Many of you are part of this, even if you don’t know it. It is happening all around us. St. Michael’s is a place where this Christ-centered family serves with and loves each other and longs to see the future generations know this same reality — the children and youth of the parish in the day school, Sunday School programs and the EYC. Every one of us, young and old, can make an impression and assist in shaping a Christian life here. And it doesn’t just hinge on Sunday morning worship (although, this is where we begin), but the Adult Forums and other opportunities for formation and intergenerational gatherings. This is where the Lord is moving and acting even now. As we enter the fall and a new season, join me and others in re-discovering your own purpose and meaning in a life that God has created specifically for you here at this church. As I set up my office in the weeks ahead, I will display my St. Michael’s Day School diploma, as it prompts me to ponder where I came from, where I am going, who I am, and whose I am!
If I could have been shaped and formed in amazing ways back in the 1970s and 80s at St. Michael’s, then why would it not be all the more incredible today in this vibrant parish? We are shaping and forming new disciples in Christ today, just as those leaders did for me. Many of you are part of this, even if you don’t know it. It is happening all around us. —THE REV. JAMIE PAHL
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The poem, Hound from Heaven, above, by Francis Thompson became a metaphor for Holly’s call: hearing it, but resisting. ‘For, though I knew His love Who followed, Yet was I sore adread.’
HOLLY GLOFF FELT A CLEAR SENSE OF CALL AS A CHILD, GROWING UP IN THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH. BUT WHERE MIGHT IT TAKE HER? SHE EXPLORES THE PAST THAT LED TO HER FUTURE AS A ‘NURTURER IN PRIEST.’ Words & Photo: Holly M. Gloff
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Nurturer-In-Priest
Igrew up
attending an 18th century “Carpenter Gothic” church, where I loved to listen to the men and boys’ choir perform every Sunday. Women had no liturgical role during the service but were the nurturers, teaching Sunday School and making coffee. We were not permitted to be lay readers — until I was asked to read when I was in High School. I was honored to be the first female lay reader.
I enjoyed the quiet time before the service, when I could look over the hymns and readings for the day. I felt a strong relationship with God through this quiet time. When I was 16, I was on my knees at the altar rail, and as the priest gave me the wafer, I felt a bolt of realization that in my future I would be on the other side of the rail as a priest. It surprised me, since Holy Orders were not an option for women at that time. I lived in Connecticut, within walking distance of Long Island Sound, and most days I walked along the beach or the harbor to spend time with God. It was always the most peaceful and distraction-free part of my day. It’s where I could begin to live into the quote from Psalm 46 that says, “Be still and know that I am God.” That, and 1 Kings 19:12. where we learn that “after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.” These two quotes have often guided me. Just knowing that if I quiet myself before God, that’s where I need to be. The strongest nudges come when I am the most still. The sense of call continued to strengthen during my life. My mother kept a leather-bound poetry book that included a poem by Francis Thompson about the “Hound of Heaven,” which became a metaphor for my relationship with God. God would lead me gently
towards ordination, and I would resist, feeling unworthy and quite imperfect.
I was a musician growing up, playing the clarinet. But there was always something that did not fill me. I majored in Religious Studies and Fine Arts in college, though I felt a stronger call to the priesthood and began exploring seminaries during my junior and senior years. But life sometimes gets in the way. I was not able to follow the call right after college, and later — small children — and a husband who didn’t support my choice. But God was faithful in finding ways to fill my need to serve others. We moved to Virginia, and I worked as an activities director at a large nursing facility, where I often organized small church services so residents could worship. I enjoyed the challenge of offering generic Protestant services. God continued to nudge me as I spent time with residents who needed someone to talk to about their fears of the future, and what the end of life would look like for them. Suddenly, many saw their need for God. I didn’t feel it was my position to tell them what to believe, but we explored the subject of death as we read the Bible together and with prayer books and hymns. I wanted to help them come to terms with their own end-of-life issues and to assuage their fears. I made sure to respect each person’s own religious background and not foist my own ideas on others. I left that job after several years. My husband no longer wanted me spending so much time at work. I resented this deeply, but at that time I wanted to keep the family together. I worked from home, boarding horses and teaching riding students. I taught music. Finally my marriage ended. I
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moved to a larger town and was able to create a successful career teaching music privately and in private schools.
While attending church in my home of Charlottesville, Va., I found myself more absorbed in church activities. I especially enjoyed joining the “Befriender’s” group, very much like Stephen’s Ministry. I honed my pastoral skills, and my rector allowed me to visit parishioners. I also conducted two handbell choirs. I had remarried by then, and we both began to play the harp. I played the harp for people who were ill or dying. Again, I found that God could use me in so many places to nurture those in need. When my always-supportive mom died, the priest organizing her funeral noticed that I spent more time choosing prayers and options than most folks do I told her that, at one time, I had felt called to the priesthood. “Well, your mom has died,” she said, “and your kids are grown. Why not pursue it now?” I was shocked, as I thought it was too late for me, but my husband Rob became my biggest cheerleader. We moved to Alexandria, Va., and my life in the church changed dramatically. Rob, although he was very ill with leukemia, managed to walk down the aisle of National Cathedral and present me for my diaconal ordination. He died three weeks before my ordination as priest here at St. Michael‘s. I’ve spent my entire priesthood here. Some people think priests have all the answers, but I’m still searching for them. I enjoy so much of my job as priest, and my role as nurturer has followed me here. It is a joy and a privilege to serve at St. Michael’s, where I have met many of the kindest people God ever created. and I continue to learn something every day.
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IN HER FOOTSTEPS Words: Will Lingo
F
or Abby
Photos: Susan Rountree & St. Michael’s EYC
Van Noppen, minister is a
verb, not a noun.
As St. Michael’s director of youth ministry, Abby never thought of herself as a “minister” in the traditional sense of the word. Still doesn’t. She had never worked for a church before coming to St. Michael’s, and in fact had never had the kind of relationship with church she hopes the youth of St. Michael’s will have. When Greg Jones started to recruit her for the job of youth minister, she wrestled with what that meant. “I was freaked out about this position,” she says. “I had my own thoughts of what I thought a youth minister was; it had a negative vibe. I had never worked at a church; it scared me.
That comes from what we don’t see. The hours mapping out the entire year in EYC, with Sunday meetings, Wednesday Bible study and special programs — all pointing to a shared goal. The conversations and texting with parents — and with the kids as she develops relationships with each group. It all looks casual. It’s all carefully planned. On trips, she groups occupants of each van with people they might not know as well, working to keep teens from self-selecting and instead focusing on inclusion. “I like Abby because she sees the good in everyone,” says Emma Norton, a junior at Wakefield High who has been coming to EYC since she was in sixth grade. “She tries to make sure everyone is included in what we do and feels part of the group.”
“Then I realized what they really wanted, and what Greg was trying to achieve. I thought minister meant one thing, but I came here and now minister means something completely different.”
In part that’s because Abby makes a point of putting herself in her students’ shoes. She knows they are going through a lot, including wrestling with faith and religion, probably for the first time in their lives. So the focus is not on theology and dogma.
Abby has been ministering to the middle school and high school students of St. Michael’s since February 2014. St. Michael’s has always been known for its programming for children, and now it’s in full flower, from preschool through high school.
“For students, for the most part, thinking deeply about their faith has not been on their radar,” Abby says. “Students might not be able to or want to talk about what they believe, but we can talk about showing God’s love, and that comes up in every scenario you can think of.
People who don’t know Abby well may just recognize her for her outward enthusiasm. She looks like the kind of person who might speak in emojis. And she does. Rare is the text exchange with Abby that doesn’t include a steady stream of laughing smiley faces, hearts and fireworks.
“I’m not going to preach to the kids. But we are going to show them what community looks like, and show them what support and love and kindness look like. It’s teaching them about a church community, and how God works in their lives.
She’s the kind of person who says Happy Birth-YAY! And means it. She has a bottomless well of excitement for everything from designing a T-shirt to selecting a restaurant for lunch. The sunny disposition is genuine, and that’s why it works. But it’s not what makes Abby a successful youth minister and has made the EYC program meaningful to so many teenagers.
“Even I didn’t fully know what that meant until I came here because I didn’t have that when I grew up.
What Greg
Jones was trying to achieve when he hired Abby was to find someone to take the EYC programs to a higher level, and he knew he might have to look for something outside the norm. He had seen youth ministers come and go at St. Michael’s and other churches, and while they were good,
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ABBY VAN NOPPEN TAKES MINISTERING TO OUR YOUTH TO A NEW LEVEL AS EACH WEEK PASSES. A CONTRADICTION, SHE SPEAKS IN EMOJIS BUT IS A MASTER ORGANIZER, TEACHING ST. MICHAEL’S YOUTH ABOUT COMMUNITY, COMMITMENT AND GOD’S LOVE FOR ALL
they didn’t seem to stay long and often viewed the job as a stepping stone. “I wanted someone who viewed this as a career instead of a path to the ministry, someone who made a profession of working with young people,” he says. “And the Episcopal Church is not great at preparing people to be youth leaders.” Greg realized a local organization was exceptional at developing youth leaders: the YMCA of the Triangle. “The Y had an incredible track record of developing people who are good and interested in working with young people.,” he says. “I noticed Abby as an example of that.” Parents and kids of a certain age remember Abby as Red Fox, her Y Guides name. Y Guides is a program for fathers and sons or daughters, and the local chapter is one of the largest in the nation. Red Fox was a program director for the Y Guides from 2011 until 2014, dealing with thousands of children in that time. Greg had noticed Abby at Y Guides events, and he eventually started talking to her about her future plans. One day they decided to get together for coffee. “That’s when I noticed she had the Episcopal tattoo, and I was like, ‘Are you kidding me?’ ” he recalls. Oh yes, the tattoo. That’s one of the many contradictions Abby throws at you. The sweet Midwestern girl has tattoos (including the one of the Episcopal shield on the inside of her right wrist) and was a self-described wild child before, during and after high school. The queen of spontaneous fun is actually a meticulous planner. And her cotton candy demeanor masks a core of pure steel. Episcopal tattoo or no, she had never worked for a church. She also had been offered a new job with the YMCA that would have been a significant step up. As she wrestled with the decision, she came to the Christmas Eve service with her husband, Chance, and her parents. Greg saw them before the service and walked over to say hello. He slid a Red Fox patch out from the prayer book he was carrying. She felt like she was being called. And the patch is now tacked to the wall outside the youth room door.
“I was terrified to say yes to this job,” she says. “Then I realized God was internally telling me that I needed to take it. “I loved Y Guides, I loved working with the kids, but I didn’t have the relationships. Being able to build relationships with students along the way was something I didn’t have, and that job would never provide.”
The value
Abby places on stability, juxtaposed with her adaptability, represent another of the dichotomies in her soul. “I like familiarity, but I also like to do things differently,” she says. “It scares me, but I’ll do it.” In part that’s because of how she grew up. Her family’s roots run deep in Coffeyville, Kansas, but after Abby Jean Dennis (and twin sister Carlye) were born — in Tulsa, Okla., but that’s another story — the family moved frequently as father David rose through the ranks of hospital administration. By the time they started kindergarten, the family moved to Joplin, Mo. By middle school, Claremore, Okla., and it was off to Greenville, Ky., for the high school years. Abby says she hit on all the teen classics: falling in with the wrong crowd, experimenting with drinking and smoking, and acting like a general pain in the neck. She remembers not just the behavior, but what it felt like to be in that place emotionally. “Everyone’s trying to figure out, ‘Who am I? What kind of person do I want to be?’ ” she says. “Not everyone is going to go crazy, but everyone’s going to try different things.” After graduating from high school in Kentucky, Abby went to a local community college, as her parents recognized she wasn’t ready to be on her own at college. Her father’s next job took them to Arkansas. Abby had just started at the University of Arkansas in 2001 when her life changed. Her mother Kim found out she had cancer—an aggressive brain tumor—and needed immediate treatment. Adrift and in search of direction, Abby suddenly had clarity. Continued on the next page
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Continued from page 11 “When my mother was diagnosed, that was the light switch,” she says. “I literally went to my knees and just gave it all to God. My life hasn’t been the same since.” Kim’s treatment was successful, but the tumors came back, not once but two more times. She has been cancer free since 2007. Abby’s parents have since moved to Johnston County, where her father works for the local hospital. It wasn’t just that her mother had cancer, or that she survived, that changed her, Abby says. It was the grace her mom has displayed every step of the way. In spite of having to go through the process three times, and suffering permanent effects from the treatments, Kim not only didn’t complain, she never questioned why it was happening to her and never let it slow her down. “No one in her cancer study group is living,” Abby says. “She’s a living miracle, some people would say. Seeing her faith and her strength through that whole process was INSANE. It was never, ‘This is me doing this;’ it was always like, ‘This is God working through me.’ ” No matter where the family lived, Kim had always provided an example, becoming a loyal church member; Episcopal if they could find it, but another denomination if they couldn’t. Abby and Carlye went sometimes, but usually resisted. They didn’t see the example then, but they do now. “You don’t know what it all looks like, then it’s your mom,” she says. “You have to go through that, you can’t explain it. You don’t know until you go through it. “My faith and my belief in God and my journey is so simple now. I’m not one of those people who has to know A, B, C and D. I just know through experience and faith. I saw it with my own eyes. “And if she didn’t make it out of that, I don’t think that would change how I feel. She showed me that the end game wasn’t here.”
It was
during her mother’s illness that Abby returned to the Episcopal Church. She found a church in Eureka Springs, Ark., that felt like home, and she worked for the Diocese of Arkansas at a summer camp and in campus ministry. That’s also when she got the Episcopal shield tattoo. Like Abby’s strength and religious conviction, it’s not conspicuous, and she doesn’t talk about it unless you ask her. But it’s there, strong and ever present. “This was the symbol, the beacon of helping guide me through that whole time,” she says. “It’s a symbol of what was always there, that I didn’t realize. It was never gone.” From that pivot point Abby found direction not only spiritually, but professionally. She graduated from Arkansas and earned a masters degree at Missouri State. A job at Elon brought her to North Carolina, and after a year there she went to work for the YMCA in Chapel Hill as the fitness and wellness director. She married Chance in 2009, and they moved to Jackson, Miss., where he went to grad school. When they returned to North Carolina, Abby went to work for Y Guides until St. Michael’s came calling. Abby started on Super Bowl Sunday 2014. She made gradual changes focused on bringing more structure to the program and trying to welcome more people. “Abby has a great vision for what a healthy organization should look like,” Greg says. “She is fun and engaging, but she’s also very professional and organized. She has a joyful personality and ethos, but she also projects strength. She has a vision for what she wants to happen.” It didn’t take long before larger numbers of kids started turning out for EYC. More than 100 kids and parents came to the kickoff events in August this year, including a new event just for sixth graders, added when she noticed the new kids were getting lost in the shuffle.
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But Abby doesn’t talk about numbers. She talks about reaching the kids who are there, and continually making people feel welcome. “Numbers are not important,” she says. “The numbers will be there if you make a safe space for students, a space that’s fun, with good programs, and where their friends will be. A space where every student feels that they’re safe and they fit in.”
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bby sees
something in every student, even if they can’t see it for themselves. That’s why a kid who might be sitting alone won’t be alone for long, and if someone tries to pull up a chair to sit at a table of friends, she might be redirected to sit at a different table. Abby is comfortable with being uncomfortable, another contradiction she embraces. It’s not unlike the way she looks like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm but has the soul of professional wrestler Ronda Rousey. Oh, did we mention that Abby is a huge fan of mixed martial arts? “I’m a fighter,” she says. “If someone steps to me . . .” You will rip their heart out and show it to them?
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grandparents are. “Students need to be accepted for where they are now.”
Abby is comfortable with
And that might not be knee-deep in Episcopal beliefs and practices. That doesn’t mean God can’t work through them.
contradiction she embraces. It’s
“The things that you can focus on: How can you be a good human, how can you show God’s love, how can you not be mean to people?” she says. “When you think about faith in that way, it’s a lot easier to understand. But it’s not easy to do.” Adolescents deal with insecurity and rejection every day, and with people who simply aren’t nice. EYC can’t be completely insulated from that, but it can at least show them a better way.
being uncomfortable, another not unlike the way she looks like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm but has the soul of professional wrestler Ronda Rousey. Oh, did we mention that Abby is a huge fan of mixed martial arts?
“That’s what everyone wants, to be welcomed, but not everyone is going to do that, so how do we work with that?” Abby says. “They might not want to talk about their faith, but good friendships are Christ-like relationships, and I think we give them an idea of what this is supposed to be all about. “If we can just love our neighbor, the world will be such a better place. If they’re not going to get that anywhere else, they’re going to get it from me.”
“In a polite and respectful way.” Abby wears an Episcopal charm that she inherited from her Grandma Ruby on a necklace, and when you hear about her family’s connection to the Episcopal Church and her love for students, the wonder is how she didn’t become a youth minister sooner. “If I had a penny for every time somebody said to me, ‘I can’t believe you work with middle and high school kids,’ ” she says. “It’s amazing. I love it. I see myself in these kids. I see it as something incredibly positive because I see them. They are struggling to do life, just like their parents are and their
Will Lingo is a writer, editor and founder of Helium, a baseball-focused media agency.. He writes frequently for Archangel.
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Archangel
A Sight To See AS SHE WAS LEARNING TO MOTHER HER 3-MONTH-OLD DAUGHTER, JESSICA MARQUARDT WAS FACED WITH THE SUDDEN DEATH OF HER OWN MOTHER. HOW WOULD SHE COPE? AND WHAT DID SHE MISS ABOUT HER OWN DAUGHTER AS SHE GRIEVED? Words Jessica Marquardt
Photos: Dana Levey & Carol Ellis Photography
Blinded by
grief. That’s the only way I know to describe it.
When my daughter Grace was 3 months old, my mother died in a bicycling accident. She was a healthy, vibrant 54-year-old. As if the fatigue of having a newborn wasn’t enough — a baby who came home weighing 4 pounds 7 ounces, who would not drink milk except by a small tube taped to our pinkies, who had already spiked a fever high enough to warrant a trip to the WakeMed emergency room. Now my mom was gone. There were days when it felt like it was more than I could bear. No one can replace my mother, of course. She was my daily phone call and the first person from whom I sought counsel. She was my cheerleader and my voice of reason. She described herself as an intentional parent and a facilitator. My mother was a beacon of light in our community, a volunteer for the underserved. She filled people’s hearts with joy. But there is something miraculous about the divine appointments I’ve experienced since I’ve
become a mother without one of my own. God lovingly and intentionally sent people to help me wade through a season of grief and trauma. People, who in their own ways, have collectively filled the vacuum left in my mother’s absence.
A baby who can’t see
My father-in-law was one of them. Dan’s dad is a retired ophthalmologist. Over a 52-year career, Dr. John Marquardt built a state-of-the-art eye clinic serving Ohio residents and specialized in cataract surgery. During a visit to North Carolina, he noticed that Grace’s eyesight did not seem typical for a child her age. He would know — she’s his 15th grandchild! Her eyes weren’t tracking, and she wasn’t making eye-to-object or eye-to-eye contact. He recommended an eye exam and hand-picked the ophthalmologist. We headed to Duke Eye Center. Grace was 8 months old. After a series of doctor’s appointments and an MRI, she received a handful of visual diagnoses: optic nerve hypoplasia, strabismus, encephalomalacia, cortical visual impairment. It seems she experienced a stroke in the womb that caused brain damage in her occipital lobes, where vision occurs. But when she was born, we had no idea about the
Grace Marquardt, 7. Photo by Diana Levey.
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15 stroke and its ramifications. My child was blind, and I didn’t see it. The day we received her diagnosis was ordinary, except for the flood of medical terms. We left the appointment at Duke. I returned to work, casually mentioned to my manager that Grace is visually impaired. No emotion. Just the facts. Back to work. Denial and emotional numbness kept me going. Looking back, my reaction seems inappropriate. But I’m thankful the grief over losing a parent and becoming a special needs mom trickled in, instead of overwhelming my senses. I felt God’s presence through it all. The ophthalmologist told us to “wait and watch.” Though Grace’s vision couldn’t be cured with glasses or surgery, it wouldn’t get worse. Good news, right? Some people have degenerative eye conditions, slowly robbing them of their sight. Grace wouldn’t experience a life-altering change during adulthood, or worse, adolescence. She would maintain her little bit of vision, and she wouldn’t know a different way of life.
The dream that made all the difference
Kind, well-meaning people say Grace is lucky to have parents like Dan and me. Don’t get me wrong, I love praise. I’m a words-of-affirmation kind of gal. But we haven’t done this alone. Action was our only choice. God gave us everything we needed to move forward.
We are fortunate to live in a place with so many health care and education options. Grace would be monitored by her ophthalmologist, endocrinologist and neurologist. She was eligible for vision services from a teacher of the visually impaired through the North Carolina state early intervention program, as well as an occupational therapist. We hired a physical therapist, too. At 9 months old, Grace was not meeting developmental milestones — she wasn’t pushing up, rolling over, crawling, pulling up to stand. She wasn’t eating well and was consistently dehydrated, which put her in the hospital a handful of times. She was just trying to survive, and so were we. While I go numb, my husband is fantastic in an emergency. An engineer by training, problem-solving is in his bones. Every night of Grace’s various hospitalizations, Dan slept by her side and let me go home to rest. I was pregnant again. Another sweet baby was coming our way. I was sick and tired and losing my milk supply for Grace. Dan was able-bodied and alert and practically born to be a medical advocate for Grace. We make a stellar team. One night, Dan woke up suddenly amid a dream. A nightmare, really. He dreamt that Grace’s organs were shutting down from dehydration. He was certain Grace needed a feeding tube. Grace soon had a new specialist on her team, a gastroenterologist, and a shiny new feeding tube surgically placed for all her nutritional needs. Within a few months, our miraculous child pushed up, rolled over, crawled, stood and walked. It was one of the best decisions we’ve ever made, and the idea was laid upon my husband while he was vulnerable, resting in the hands of God. Day care was no longer a suitable place for Grace. She needed regular tube feedings and various therapies. Plus, we continued on the next page
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The Marquardt family: Grace, Jessica, Dan & Liz. Photo by Carol Ellis Photography Continued from page 15 were about to have two babies on our hands. We needed help. We held interview after interview for a nanny position; no one hit the mark. We followed the rules: conduct a phone interview, meet in a neutral location, invite the candidate to your home for round three. Eventually we decided to skip the formalities and invited a candidate directly to our home after a casual phone chat. Melissa walked through our door with a smile, a loving attitude and experience with special needs children. When she asked how many cc’s we used to flush Grace’s feeding tube, we knew she was the one. My career at SAS has afforded my family access to the best health care and the ultimate flexibility to attend to my kids’ needs, and with Melissa by my side we had a solid team in lock step. She attended every therapy session with me to reinforce the exercises during the day. She helped me put our youngest, Liz, on an infant schedule. She traveled with us. She shuffled Grace to the Governor Morehead School, where we were certain she was getting a tailored, appropriate preschool education for her ocular visual impairment — tactile activities, high-contrast materials and magnifiers, orientation and mobility lessons. Melissa arrived each morning with enthusiasm, allowing me to run out the door. She greeted me with the same enthusiasm when I came back through it. Thank goodness
she answered God’s call.
A missed diagnosis
A second opinion changed everything. While visiting my in-laws in south Florida, we took Grace to University of Miami’s Bascom Palmer Eye Institute. My father-in-law wanted to be sure Grace’s retinas were healthy, so he generously made another appointment with one of the best. Three years prior, Grace had received a list of diagnoses, the primary being optic nerve hypoplasia. ONH is the underdevelopment of the nerves that transmit information from your eyes to your brain. But to our surprise, the team in Miami had a different perspective on what was causing Grace’s visual deficits. The fellow at our appointment, Dr. Sara Grace, mentioned that cortical visual impairment was a more accurate way to characterize Grace’s vision. Grace has always had CVI; we knew that. But we hadn’t given it much thought because it was buried in a list of other diagnoses. My initial impression of CVI was that it was just a fancy acronym for brain damage in the visual processing centers of Grace’s brain. We had no idea.
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Now we understand. CVI is a brain-based visual impairment. Grace’s eyes are fine — she can see what we see — but her brain can’t make sense of it. For example, though Grace can see illustrations in a children’s book, it’s difficult for her to interpret them. She does not recognize faces, not even mine. Rather, she uses other clues to find her friends on the playground or her parents in a crowded room. CVI has been described as looking through a “kaleidoscope of meaningless color and pattern.” A visually neurotypical person like myself doesn’t think about how complicated it can be to interpret what we see, especially in a novel or complex environment. Imagine a trip to China. You can see the menu, but can you understand it? You can see the food being served, but do you know what it is? Our world is designed for people with average visual processing abilities. But for individuals with CVI, everything might as well be in Chinese. How did we get up to speed on CVI? Simply put, a trip to Omaha, Neb. As soon as we left Bascom Palmer, Dan began to research CVI. He found the American Conference on Pediatric Cortical Visual Impairment, and it was a mere two weeks away. “Do you want to go?” he asked. My answer was no. My faith was shattered. What could they possibly know in Omaha that our local health and education systems had failed to tell us? How could we have failed to investigate CVI sooner? The prospect of leaving for a wildcard conference seemed impossible.
The leading cause of pediatric visual impairment
Dan and his father traveled without me and discovered a community of doctors, educators and parents having in-depth, productive conversations about CVI. They met MDs who explained that CVI is the leading cause of pediatric visual impairment in the developed world — affecting approximately 30-40 percent of children with visual impairments — but it is not well understood in the medical community. In fact, we were fortunate Grace got a diagnosis. Some children with CVI are labeled with ADHD due to inattention. Some are labeled with autism due to lack of eye contact or inflexibility. Some receive no diagnosis at all. They also met Christine Roman-Lantzy, PhD, who literally wrote the book on cortical visual impairment and education. We learned that the ocular approaches used in Grace’s preschool were inappropriate, and that we needed to design her education program based on the guiding principles of CVI. Her research gave us the knowledge we needed to better understand Grace, how she sees and
17 how we should design her curriculum and environment. Dr. Roman has been a steadfast, caring mentor to us ever since. The biggest takeaway? Expect improvement. It’s the one thing I want everyone to know about kids with CVI. No more of this “wait and watch” advice. Because CVI involves the brain and not the eye, we can harness the brain’s ability to change in order to improve Grace’s vision. By systematically building connections in the brain, a child with CVI can see more. We’ve learned to implement intentional interventions to help Grace add to her visual library, facilitating her experience with her visual world. This approach has given me a way to follow in my mom’s footsteps, an intentional parent and a facilitator.
The miracle of neuroplasticity
Grace was a child who was late to reach all her physical milestones. She’ll turn 8 in November and now takes dance lessons and is on the swim team. This child who couldn’t drink, chew or swallow her food now devours Grandma’s sweet potato pie with gusto. (And if my grandma is like yours, seeing people eat her food is one of her greatest delights.) This child who looked blind, swiping her hands across the floor to find a toy and exploring it with only her hands, now searches with her eyes and visually inspects new items. This child who showed no interest in looking at books now peers closely at illustrations. This child who we prepared to read Braille now reads print — on grade level. She has matured into a true self advocate. God gave Grace the tenacity, curiosity — and the neuroplasticity — to overcome and improve, no matter how frustrating the goal. And God appointed people to support us on our journey. A grandfather who dedicated his life to helping people see again has done everything in his power to help his granddaughter do the same. A dad whose dream prompted necessary medical action. A little sister born at just the right time, to be the perfect motivator, helper and playmate. A nanny who followed her calling and asked the right question at the right time. A doctor whose second opinion reframed a diagnosis and who, after a move to North Carolina, is now Grace’s ophthalmologist. And the faith to take a trip to Omaha.
Jessica Marquardt works in global communications for SAS. She hosts the Kaleidoscope CVI podcast (CVIpodcast.vision) and is a member of the Pediatric Cortical Visual Impairment Society (PCVIS.vision).
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AIRBORNE & AMEN Words & Photos: Anna S. Page
Anna S. Page will graduate from Duke Theological Seminary in the spring. She is an officer in the US Army and is studying to become a chaplain.
Iwould be
the first jumper of my Basic Airborne Course class as we prepared to complete our five qualifying jumps. The drop zone raced 1,250 feet below me as I peered out the doors of the C-130, knowing I couldn’t step from the aircraft until I got the “Green light. Go!” from the Jump Master. Floating down to the drop zone was one of the most peaceful moments of my life. The air carried me slowly down, much like a guiding hand. The sun flickered off the other paratroopers’ chutes as they left the aircraft. I felt calm, trusting my equipment and my instructors. I was ready because, leading up to that moment, I’d been through multiple equipment checks, long hours of waiting
and deep contemplation about why I would ever jump from an aircraft. Moreover, there was only one option when you hear the “Go!” command — go! So went my journey to ordained ministry, too. Life checked my resiliency on multiple occasions. I dragged my feet on listening to God’s voice or looking for God’s hand. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to do with my life. Then, finally, I trusted God enough to hear the “Green light. Go!” So, I jumped. Four years ago, while attending the United States Army Basic Airborne Course, and after years of actively ignoring
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the Lord, I finally began to listen while sitting in a makeshift chapel on Fort Benning, Ga. There, sitting in little white folding chairs, I heard the stories of Gideon and the Sermon on the Mount as if I were hearing them for the first time. The Chaplain implored each of us to not be afraid to let our Christ-given lights shine for others, especially in moments of darkness. In that moment, I recognized my own fear — I was no less afraid of my budding sense of call than of jumping from airplanes. Though uncertainty remained, I offered myself as what I hoped would be a constant example of God’s love and light in a world which can be painfully dark.
I survived my five jumps and am just beginning to “survive” this new call to ministry. Yet, I did not always think I would serve our country as a chaplain. Driven by an interest in the human dimension of warfare, in 2013 I signed a contract committing myself to service as a commissioned Army officer upon graduation from Wellesley College. At that time, I thought I would pursue military intelligence. People, culture and history fascinated me. I wanted to take the information I gathered and use it to constructively transform conflict. This equation lacked one element however; faith. Yet, I was so set on military intelligence that never could I imagine continued on the next page
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AIRBORNE
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how God would use me in my vocation as an officer. My upbringing did not prepare me for a life in the Church. Though my parents encouraged religious and spiritual exploration, they never pushed me to profess certain beliefs. I even abandoned my faith in high school, only to be called back in undergraduate. So, I was shocked when God gave purpose to my life by taking my desire to serve our country, my passion for people and my drive to unite humanity across cultures — and called me to ordained ministry in the Episcopal Church as an Army Chaplain. The more I learned about the Episcopal Church and the Chaplain Corps, the more this calling made perfect sense. This bi-vocation of priest and officer would enable me to care for people as they are, connect across cultures and strive to create peace in our worlds. I began my formal discernment process for the priesthood when I returned to Wellesley the following fall. Throughout this process, I learned more about both the chaplaincy and the priesthood. Chaplains in the U.S. Army serve as both religious leaders for soldiers, providing for the free exercise of religion, and religious advisors, guiding their commanding officer on ethics, unit morale and religion. This means I am still the “subject matter expert” of the human dimension of warfare, but in a new way. The Chaplain Corps perfectly combined my love of people and culture into one vocation. Yet, I overlooked a major component. At this point in my understanding of my calling, I couldn’t conceive of the power the priesthood brings to the Army — and to the everyday. Duke Divinity School, the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts, and various ministry experiences highlighted for me how Episcopal sacraments, liturgy and theology constantly bring love and light to our world. The Anglican Episcopal House of Studies has held and formed me during my time in seminary. It is with this community that I experienced the beauty of our liturgy and the peace that is found in the constancy of Morning Prayer. Duke taught me to embody the concept that how we pray is how we believe, and how we believe is how we live. Said otherwise, Duke taught me how to live love and light through AEHS. DioMass then showed me what it means to be committed to all people, of all identities and to meet people where they are. These concepts are paramount to my understanding of what Christ meant when he commanded us to love God and love our neighbors. I strive to live this love ethic in all I do. Working at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in Massachusetts, the Barbara C. Harris Camp and Conference Center in New Hampshire, St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church in Hillsborough, the Methodist Church
of El Salvador — and the Army — all helped me put this theory into practice. Each job has allowed me to work with diverse sets of people, instilling in me a passion for honoring the inherent value, dignity and worth of all creation. This, for me, is the root of love and the light I seek to emit. Like jumping from an aircraft, answering God’s call to the priesthood and moving to North Carolina two years ago felt like a true leap of faith. Yet Paratroopers never jump without a parachute. Moreover, seminary, ministry and life taught me that parachutes come in all forms. God, for me, is a parachute. Through life’s ups and downs, God always safely carried me — even when I didn’t know it. Like a parachute guiding paratroopers safely to their landing zones, God, too, continues to guide me to the right places, throughout the globe, as I prepare to serve as an Episcopal army chaplain and priest. I am honored, humbled and excited that St. Michael’s is my new landing zone. I am elated to join you all, first as your seminarian this fall and then as your full-time curate starting this winter. The services I’ve attended, conversations I’ve had and observations I’ve made all show me that St. Michael’s is a place dedicated to love and light. This is what, ultimately, drew me to join your — now our — community. These values are also what drew me to ministry, when I first received my call in the summer of 2015. Since then, my understanding of my call has grown in depth. Though my call deepened, love and light have remained central to my call and continue to propel my vocation. I cannot wait to further grow in my understanding of calling with all of you.
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Anna Page took a leap, literally, and ended up in a life of faith. A seminarian at Duke Divinity, she joined St. Michael’s this fall and will become a curate after her graduation this winter. The hope is that she will be ordained into the deaconate soon after graduation.
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What are
Relics of wonder Words: Gregoria Smith Photo: Susan Rountree
we without our memories? I cannot count the times when objects, words, sounds, familiar smells, triggered a strong feeling that brought back memories of events I have experienced. What amazes me is our capacity to share such stories that, like objects, get stored in our brain. When evoked, we re-signify them, assigning new meanings to them. It must have been the third trip, and I was exhausted loading and unloading my car, for I was in the middle of moving to northwest Raleigh. Stopping at a store to pick up one thing, I remembered it was my friend’s birthday, and I had not prepared a gift for her. She would understand if I brought a small something just to say I remembered. Randomly, I found a small box covered with a nice design and a little stone on top. She could put her jewelry in it or find some good use for the box. I caught up with her at church, and I said, “Wait, I have something for you.” As soon as I handed her the box, her expression changed. She paused and her face took on a seriousness I had not seen before. She looked at me and said, “My father was the last person to give me a music box.” I could sense tears about to drop from her eyes. I didn’t even know it was a music box. But it touched her in a way I had not expected. Then she started to talk about her father, who passed away a few years before, how he would always devise ways with objects to stimulate her curiosity. Reflecting on her reaction, I realized that I may have given her something I did not have. But it came back to me in real words laden with meaning, describing her experience with the object. By sharing the memory, the experience became mine (vicariously), too. “Perhaps that’s what relics are for,” I later wrote to her. “Passing on stories contained in their recalling.” You see, my father died early in my life, before I could remember. I imagine, he may have given me something like that music box. How do we know? The feminist, Bel Hooks, wrote what her grandma
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told her, “When you’re going away to a strange place, be sure you take something with you from your home.” Bel’s grandmother gave her a quilt which reminded her of home during difficult times in college. My own mother wove towels and blankets in a native loom. Sometimes the women in her family wove enough so she could bundle, travel and trade them in nearby provinces. I must have been 11 when she showed me how to use the old loom in the first floor of their home in the northern Philippines, a colonial Spanish town. I kept one of her cotton blankets until it finally fell apart. Spices and cooking smells remind us of places we once lived or visited. Coffee reminds me of McNulty’s store in New York City’s West Village, with big casks full of coffee infused with amaretto, cinnamon, or sambuca. Our grandson brought a soap bar as a gift from his mother this summer. It so happened that it was also the fragrance my own mother always wore, and it brought back scenes in her bedroom where she kept her face powder, perfume and special personal belongings. The room had an altar where, at Angelus, and as a child. I lit oil lamps in front of a painting of Christ. Like the music box, rosaries remind me of the ones my mother or aunts gave me when I was a child. To this day, I still follow the prayers guided by five mysteries — as if the stages of Christ’s and Mary’s lives pass behind my eyes. My Catholic upbringing is rich in symbols, and, like many, I can still imagine the wooden statues of saints at the transept of our parish church, and the special ones people carried in a procession during Good Friday. No, we did not pray to the wooden replicas. They were devices to help us focus on God and others who we thought populated the heavens. Objects are good to remember with. This is not to deny that at some point in the history of our faiths, objects became imbued with extraordinary properties. Relics became so popular that people flocked to churches, synagogues or temples where some prophet’s hair, other body part, or clothing was preserved — Mohamed’s hair in Medina, St. Stephen’s Cranium in Germany, Shroud of Turin and many others. Today, we look at these as aids to our chain of memory as members of faith groups. According to brain science, we have a pea-sized
indexing system that pulls out analogically related items triggered by our senses. Neural nodes can file, process and connect similar or related contents that we see, hear, smell, touch and feel. Objects incite memory like indexes, evoking emotions we originally experienced. We know this connection from our own experiences, from writers, artists and from our faith practices that we continue throughout our lives. I have attended many Eucharists in my life in different countries, Sunday after Sunday. Although the services follow a sequence or order, the sermons and parables always give us a newness that is laid upon how we heard them before. The mystery of the Sacrament goes on for ages. Through the simple box, becoming an object of memory, my friend and I now have a deeper connection. That is the way I want to think of the many “objects” we see in church. They are devices by which we remember important events, figures, songs and stories in our common life. For every Christian, the Cross, for example, evokes different meanings, but we all know the story behind it. A music box reminded my friend of her father. It was a humble present by which we now both share a new meaning.
Raised in the Philippines, Gregoria believes that artistic creations like dramas, music, as well as games and cuisine, are woven together to make sense of who we are and what we are about as communities.
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Archangel
Founded on a Rock Words & Photo: Beth Grace Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock. — Matthew 7:24-25
We drove
slowly down Thorn Street past the Maloney’s house, just down the road from the Merrill’s – best babysitting gig in town. Hey, remember that lady Dad nicknamed Mrs. Olive Drab? She lived right there. We paused outside the brick house where my BFF Betty lived, where she told me where babies come from, taught me how to swear and bested me every time we raced around her huge house, dodging her artist-father’s contemporary canvases in which, I reported to my Mom and Dad, folks didn’t wear any clothes. We drove on, slowing, slowing. Stop. Our house. 822 Thorn. Our childhood haven that boasted a creepy basement, an enchanted attic, and trees out back that transformed into caves and castles. Home, where we did what families do: Lived, learned, grew, fought and made up, experienced the occasional miracle, prayed every now and then, and raised ducks, turtles, cats, rabbits and three hamsters all named, for some reason, King Louie. Together, we built a life there, the five of us. We sat in the car and stared, my sister and I. We looked at each other in disbelief, then back at the house. A quick Google check confirmed what the overgrown bushes, the crumbled brick walk, and the whiff of abandonment told us: Foreclosure. The front porch, where we sipped Tab
and listened to Pirates games on AM radio, tightened our skate keys, and slept out in summer with Dad snoring on a cot protectively blocking the steps, was gone. Paint was peeling, the fence leaned toward certain death, and the windows where Mom used to post plastic candles on Christmas Eve -- to light the way for the Holy Family, she said -- were dark, revealing a lifeless shell. Scenes from my childhood streamed live in my head. Squealing sisters jiggling with glee while Dad lit the tree in the living room and declared that Santa had, indeed, been there. Riding the neighbor’s huge Airedale like it was a horse. Singing as Dad hammered out “Ole Faithful, We Rode the Range Together” on our out-of-tune piano. Hopscotch and jump-rope on the brick walk outside. Watching JFK’s funeral on the black and white TV while Mom perched on the edge of the coffee table, weeping. Lying on the floor of my pink bedroom listening to the Beatles and imagining that one day I would be Mrs. Paul McCartney. Then, to my mother’s funeral in 2001. “In my father’s house are many rooms,” the celebrant intoned. I lean over to whisper into my sister’s ear, “And mom has already painted and rearranged the furniture in every one of them.” We snorted. The celebrant gave us the stink eye. What would she think, seeing this mess? She painted every wall in that place at least once (celery green — I blame the 70s). She decorated it with garage sale finds she turned into treasures with glue, paint and the world’s most creative eye. My father, a poorly paid accountant for US Steel, adored her creativity even while teasing her that if he stood still for five minutes, she would paint him celery green and use him as a hat stand. For his part, this house was where his heart was. His wife and kids were safe under its roof and he could pursue his
own passion — singing with his Barbershop chorus and his quartet, “The Unpredictable Four.” He spent hours at the dining room table — little girls racing around his feet — cobbling together his chorus’ monthly newsletter, declaring himself publisher of the “world-famous Woodshed Echoes. All the News that Fits the Typing Paper.” From this loving nest, the Graces faced the world as a team. Someone once took a photo of us lined up sideby-side in high summer, all shorts and knobby knees and bad haircuts. “Look,” Dad proclaimed to laughter from all of us. “It’s the Bungle Family on vacation!” From this house we took our steps into teen and adulthood. We moved into life with confidence, dreams and the rock-solid support of two parents who not only loved us — they liked us. I sat in the car, shaken. This house formed me as a child of the world as surely as St. Michael’s formed me as a child of God. My rule of life was written there. Who I was, who I would become, all of the gifts I would be given and would give back to the world sprang from that old frame house, the Bungle Family Homeplace. Well, now … wait a minute, I thought, wiping away tears. Maybe it wasn’t the house that performed this magic so much as the people in it, so much as the God above it. We founded our family, our lives on rock, on faith, on love, on trust — not on those old squeaky Thorn Street floors. Turns out, the house we grew up in is one that cannot fall. One that cannot crumble. One that cannot be foreclosed upon. Our house stands strong. Our house stands, forever.
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The author, right, in the stroller, with sisters Pat, left, and Susie, center.
Beth Grace is a freelance writer and editor. She is communications director for the NC Masonic Foundation and writes frequently for Archangel.
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Kevin, Dursabe Nyirazana’s oldest child, pauses before a day in middle school.
A TEAM FROM ST. MICHAEL’S HAS FORMED A CARE CIRCLE AROUND A WOMAN FROM THE CONGO AND HER THREE BOYS. TOGETHER THEY FORGE AN UNCERTAIN PATH, THEIR ONLY COMMON LANGUAGE, LOVE. BUT THEY ARE LEARNING THAT WITH GOD, ALL IS POSSIBLE.
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Into the Wider World Words: Shelia Pueschel Photos: The St. Michael’s: Refugee Team & Jeff McLamb
Imagine
stepping for the first time into a new home chosen and prepared for your arrival by strangers in another culture. The bright space was likely unimaginable from 7,000 miles away, in the dirtfloored hut in the UN Refugee camp where Dusabe Nyirazana lived after fleeing her home country of Rwanda. But this past spring, a team of parishioners from St. Michael’s set to work on transforming an empty apartment in southeast Raleigh into a home for Dusabe and her three boys. In doing so, they created a “circle of welcome” for Dusabe and her family, committing to help them for a year as they settle into a new country and new environs. What we take for granted, Dusabe had to learn. Where would she build a fire for cooking? Where would she get water? How would she understand the speech of these people and how could they understand her? Dusabe’s Circle of Welcome members now have some insights into her experiences, so different from our own. “Living and working with this family is a window on the world,” says Robert Perry. “‘We’re transported out of ourselves and into the wider world.” Kathy Crawford stepped through that world with Dusabe having no common language, and tried to teach her how to use an electric stove. Dusabe only cooked over an open fire. (The oven has yet to be mastered.) The refrigerator was something completely unknown for Dusabe. She is still learning which foods need refrigeration. And there is so much else to learn. Katherine Davies often takes the family grocery shopping. It’s a real challenge, she says, for Dusabe to master choosing and preparing foods
that can be new or unrecognizable to her. She was excited to see familiar sweet potatoes and garlic. Back in the camp, Dusabe and her boys, ages 12, 9 and 3, shared one meal each day in camp. In America, they are taken out for ice cream as a treat. Terri Haywood is teaching Dusabe to sew. “She’s quickly learning sewing skills — and a few English words in the process,” Terri says. “I leave their apartment with joy in my heart and appreciation for the opportunity to share what I learned at my grandmother’s knee,” Terri says.
Dusabe lived in a refugee camp for 20 years while dreaming of a real home. When she was given a chance to bring her three sons to the U.S., it meant leaving her husband, mother and sister behind. Team members have been struck by her courage, and by her eagerness to learn. She and her sons, Kevin, Cedric, and Franky are ready to try everything. So many windows to open, so much to learn. Dusabe and the boys recently attended a block party and cookout with one team member. (They also attended the Parish Picnic.)The older boys go golfing with another volunteer. One team member and her son have a family visit weekly for playing or other fun. They have been on picnics, swimming and to volunteers’ homes. Their joy is real, and people seem to gravitate to that. Volunteers say the family often spontaneously bursts out into song. Members of Dusabe’s Circle of Welcome who have committed to bringing this family into self-sufficiency, have formed relationships, opening even more windows into wider worlds. We have formed new ties with Lutheran Services, which supports these refugee families, and with Dusabe’s church, Good News Seventh Day Adventist. We constantly forge new relation-
ships as our volunteers take family members to school, doctor and dental appointments, recreational activities and community events. “The boys are truly joyful in their interactions and outlooks,” says Bob Orr. “Regardless of the new adventure, they react with interest, enthusiasm, and appreciation.” “They are my Good Samaritans,” says Kathy. “They give me an incredible joy that is their life spirit.” Laura Slaughter and her son, Jacob, visited one evening in the summer, and as they departed, Laura says, ”Cedric, the middle child, quietly placed a mango in Jacob’s hand. “Earlier, Jacob was fascinated with it,” she recalled. “I placed my hand on my heart — the universal gesture for gratitude — and said my thank yous. I know that mango was purchased with food stamps. “Despite spending a lifetime of not having the basics — home, food, security or education — Dusabe and her boys live in a space of love, generosity and kindness. They are a light in a complicated and shadowy world. It feels like a bubble, a contained world of kindness, gentleness. Once there I do not want to depart.” Joy is evident in all the team’s written communications and meetings. There is an excitement in sharing bits of good family news and their personal activities with the other team members. A very real sense of community has grown. “The other really special part of this ministry,” one volunteer says, “ is the engagement and interaction with other members at St. Michael’s, many of whom I had not previously known.” Have there been surprises? Yes, but each surprise has a blessing for us as they open more windows of understanding. Continued on the next page
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It’s surprising to one team member that, “When two people have the desire to communicate, even if they don’t know each other’s language, they are able to.” And volunteers have mentioned that their own faith has been strengthened through this work. As Stacey Hodges puts it, “When we connect at the heart level, we see Christ in each other.” When she was considering inviting the family to her neighborhood party she says she experienced an important moment about faith, trust and not letting the rumblings of the mind override the wisdom of the heart. And the outcome for her was “transformational.” “I arrived one morning to transport Dusabe and the boys to an appointment,” says Charlotte Campbell, “finding the family sitting quietly in Dusabe Nyirazana, right, and her boys, from left, Cedric, the darkened living room — quite a contrast to Kevin & Franky are making their new home in America with the usual scene with exuberant greetings and hugs the help of a team of St. Michael’s parishioners. from the boys. Closer observation revealed Dusabe with a Bible in her lap leading family devotions. Aha, my answer to my ongoing question: How does someone so removed from the rest of the world find the courage to travel halfway around the world to seek a better life for her children?” The parish continues to support our dedicated refugee team, Dusabe, Kevin, Cedric, and Franky. Your prayers are requested, also. There is opportunity to join the team as a volunteer. One need not worry about languages or skills. Showing up with love is enough.
Shelia Pueschel joined our parish in 2015, and she is a member of the choir.
Jeff McLamb photo