Nobody's Perfik

     It was a summer church service under the protection of a tent.        Days of great heat, uncomfortable humidity and frequent heavy rains had relented and given us an idyllic summer day for this annual event. 

     The tent protected us from the late morning sunshine and the tent also gave us a sense of community beneath its cover. 

     This was not what one would call a summer tent revival meeting that ends with a pile of discarded crutches, wheel chairs and walkers and folks dancing in the aisles…yet it did yield a residual effect of renewal.  It was very Presbyterian. In fact, it was Presbyterian – but with a designer’s touch. 

     The prosthetics left behind after this meeting was more in the metaphorical sense. For a moment we could cast aside our defenses of indifference and pretense and leave them in a heap out back.

     Designer/Pastor Linda K. stood before the gathering and connected the spoken and sung offerings of many. All seemed to point toward the idea of living in the moment…seeing and smelling proverbial and literal roses.  All the while, nurturing a sense of hope for the future as the path is lit for each of us in our own way.   �
     While contributions of members who volunteered verse lended to the theme, even more so, the venue itself – an Outdoor Education facility lent more.  Elk and deer sauntered over to observe the goings-on.  Birds fluttered about.  Flowers sprung from the ground, faced us and smiled. The cool, dry summer breeze wafted through the open-walled tent giving an assist to the brought-in flower arrangements, causing them to tumble over again and again. 

     Perhaps the breeze was telling us that for this one day, at least, we could leave those greenhouse grown flowers in the greenhouse and take more notice at what was already provided on site. 

     Beech trees swayed in the background as Linda led the service.  Their small leaves fluttered, turning each tree in to a kinetic sculpture of green…and with every flutter of each leaf, the contrasting shades of green from opposite sides were randomly revealed.  One parishioner stood to read the poem, “Trees”.  It fit well.

    Then I remembered a trip to my wife’s home Austrian alpine town, Eisenerz.  It is a mountain valley town and everywhere one looks into the distance, huge snow capped mountains loom overhead. 

     Before we had gone there, I worried how I might become complacent and bored with the closed-in constancy of those mountains.  But when we were there, each mountain was in motion.  Each changed with every passing hour of daylight.  Colors changed, hues changed, air currents changed, shadows changed and even outline shapes of the alps changed with the comings and goings of clouds.  The mountains were as alive as those leaves on the beech trees.

     The light plays upon the forms of the ancient mountains. 

     The light plays upon the leaves of the trees that change from season to season.

     The light plays hide and seek on the ground amid the shadows of earthly things and the light plays upon something as fleeting as a ripple in a body of water.

     God gave us light…light gives us life and new ways to see things that God provides.

     You have all probably heard these: If a tree falls in the woods and there is no one to hear it, does it still make a sound?  or…If a husband comes home with a new power tool and there is no one there to complain, is he still wrong?
     But here is another:  If a writer has no one to read what he’s written, is he/she still a writer?

     This week, there is one less reader of these posts than in the past. So in some way, I am now less of a writer.  

     This reader was special.  His place in my life was a primary reason why writing became an avocation.  And his place in my life was greater than that.

    Robert Graham “Bob” Kemper died last Monday.  He was Senior Minister of the First Congregational Church we love in Western Springs, IL and a primary reason we were drawn to that church.  He became much more after we were in the door and had taken the pledge of membership.

    Bob was a liberator. It amazes me that people with personal physical limitations (his was blindness via macular degeneration) have the inner strength and gifts of communication that help others transcend their own limitations.

     He freed me to develop a spiritual life of my own – without the guilt associated with the biblical illiteracy that remains with me.

     He freed a dramatic story of family life from my wife, Elsa. Shortly after we’d joined the church, he called and asked if she’d be willing to present the story of her family’s life in post-war (WWII) displaced persons camps and their immigration to the U.S.  That experience led us on a multi-faceted journey of exploration and presence among others that continues to this day.

     Bob was a teacher, deep thinker – philosopher and theologian. Yet he had a remarkable way of communicating his deep thoughts to others in a way that was understandable, practical and not intimidating.

     The church had formed a writer’s group under associate minister Leslie Ritter-Jenkins and I joined in.  Bob was not part of that group directly, but we met in the church library that was named in his honor after he retired. Books he had written rested on the shelves. Encouragement from the group and the aura of being in “his” library inspired me to continue writing. 

     At the time of the formation of the writer’s group, the concept of personal mentoring was popular and I sheepishly asked Bob if he’d serve as my writing mentor. 

     “Let’s go out to lunch and talk about it” was his response.  We went to one of his favorite restaurants in the Chicago ‘burbs – “Little Joe’s.”  In spite of his dear wife Margie’s concerns for his diet, Bob loved to find reasons to go there.  Little Joe’s is a greasy little hot dog and Italian Beef joint that caters to blue-collar, factory workers and other serious gastronomers, such as Bob and I.  Bob took to Little Joe’s like a little boy would take to a candy store.  He loved the Chicago style hot dogs and the greasy fries.  He was a fry dipper and so am I. 

     Bob tactfully declined to become my writing mentor yet, he remained interested in the path of cyberspace, paper and ink that lay ahead for me.

      Simply knowing Bob might read my offerings in the newspaper and/or on the website was inspiration to me.  He was a strong role model in many ways – he voice was clear in his writing and his message was concise.  I strove to find my voice in my writing in the same way.

     But most importantly, Bob was the quintessential Minister.  He was a conduit between me and the mysterious higher power to which mankind has assigned many names. He was a conduit between people – helping them connect.  He explained the church’s moniker that featured one blank quadrant representing “the truth of faith that will only come when we die.”

     Bob’s benediction continues to be an inspiration to me and countless others. 

     And now, Bob is filling-in that blank quadrant of the church’s moniker and I paraphrase his benediction for him:

Bob,

God go with you…

May He walk where you walk,

Guide where you must make choices,

Comfort where you hurt,

and Surprise you

by His continued love for you

and what you were

and what you did.

     Thank you, Bob Kemper, for all you have been, and will continue to be, for me.