Home

I’ve learned a lot about home over the last four years. Home is where the heart is. Very true, but when you leave all your family and friends several hours behind, you leave most of your heart there as well. So admittedly, it’s hard to find home spots so far away.

One of my favorite home spots here in NC died last week—a dear woman named Selima Johnson. She was 93. She falls easily under probably everyone who has met her as one of your favorite old ladies. In the last two years, she had lost pretty much all her eyesight, and she had a hard—quite hard—time hearing. Very loudly, I would say, “HI SELIMA. IT’S JESS FROM CHURCH.” “Who?” And I would repeat myself, “JESS SCHOLTEN, ONE OF THE MINISTERS AT FIRST PRESBYTERIAN.” She would kind of nod, and—wondering if she’d heard well enough to realize who I was or if her memory was not as sharp as it had been at my last visit—I’d proceed into the conversation, checking in on how she was doing and the latest great-grandchild news. A few minutes later, without fail, she would say to me, “Is that Jess?” She said it just so every time. I should name a tone here that would help you understand it was sweet and gentle but full of energy and thoughtfulness, but there isn’t a word for the care and welcomingness that she had. Love, I suppose works, but not just that. It was inclusive. It was home.

We get a lot more “Ya’ll aren’t from around here, are ya?”s then we ever get of, “So glad you’re part of us.” But I always felt welcomed home with Selima. She read her Presbygram, listened to the church service on the radio, and paid attention to the church news. She kept up with me more than I could even keep up with her—in a way that reflected love and prayer and care.

So Thursday night, Jesus said, “Is that Selima?” and she was welcomed home. I should say, “Thanks be to God,” for she was ready to go. Except that I’m homesick already, and I will miss those loud conversations and the dawning of love that always came in the question, “Is that Jess?”

But for that light, for that care, and for the love and home she gave to so many… Thanks be to God!

Stay plugged in to keep the light shining....

I'll apologize ahead of time for the level of cheese, the sheer triteness, of this blog entry. But it was a good chuckle for worship yesterday.

Here's another worship secret. On the back of the pulpit there is a small, round light. The "on" button for this light is controlled by Judith, our organist. It alerts ministers to the actual ending of the prelude/choir selection to avoid that awkward, "Should I stand up or is there more to come," moment that I'm sure you can imagine.

Yesterday, all three of the ministers--we prefer jokes that allude to the Trinity as opposed to the Stooges--were up front, which inevitably leads to more chatting by the worship leaders than usual. I was lost in what I am sure was some sort of Holy Thought--not at all a moment of "I'm hungry--wonder what's for dinner"--when there was a lengthy pause after the organ stopped for the prelude. Ken whispers, "I guess I do the announcements?" and steps to the pulpit.

No light. No guide saying, "Yes, it's okay to stand up and speak." I'm sure he was filled with trepidation in starting without the light--the last time he did this, Judith was on "pause" between movements and missed playing the full Prelude.

Announcements/prayers/scripture/sermon/communion-later, we're back to Holy Thoughts again as the choir sings the morning's anthem and the offering is given.

An elbow-nudge interupts my contemplation of offerings: (should I offer Tom left-overs or Taco Bell?) "See that plug hanging there?" I stare into the darkness of the back of the pulpit--I see the three silver prongs hanging down from their dangling cord. "Bet that's supposed to be plugged in...."

And wham, every cheesy moral from forwarded emails or bad children's messages comes flying into my brain in one, concise thought:
You have to be plugged in to the source for the light to shine.

Too true, too true.

Shine on,
Jess