For people in Shreveport, Louisiana, Christian Service (CS) represents different things.
Close to Home
This column was adapted from a sermon preached by John Hulden at Trinity Lutheran Church in Moorhead, Minnesota, on Sunday, April 13, 1997...
If I had to choose one word to describe my friend Buddy Gray, it would be relentless. He was an advocate on behalf of homeless people in Cincinnati.
The phone call came as it does to many parents at some point in the growing-up years of their children. Colleen had fallen off the jungle gym at school, and could I please pick her up?
"Death sucks." Five years ago this was the opening of a eulogy by a minister for a mutual friend who died tragically.
At home, the best-known of Sojourners' Washington, D.C.-based ministries is the Sojourners Neighborhood Center, where Barb Tamialis has served as executive director and her husband Jim Tamialis has served on the board since the Center's inception. When Barb and Jim's 25th wedding anniversary rolled around, we threw these original community members a party and put into action another Sojourners ministry: We "published" a collection of memories and wishes from their friends and family.
Love, commitment, and faith come up often in 25 Years Together (a limited edition), as do references to Barb and Jim's adoption of three children over the years. The following excerpts testify to their witness in marriage, children, vocation, and community.
— The Editors
On the eve of her wedding to Jim, after the rehearsal and dinner, Barbie questioned her father about the mural wallpaper he had purchased to hang in the dining room. He had to admit that getting the yard in shape for the outdoor reception had taken all of his time and he had not been able to hang the wallpaper mural.
"No problem, let's hang it now," she said. So the mural was hung by Dad and Barbie on the eve of the wedding day and it still hangs there today, 25 years later.
— Mom and Dad Wallis (Barb's parents)
Twenty-one years ago, these two people gave me a gift that many children today only dream of—they gave me love and they gave me a family. I cannot say, honestly, that I have returned to them that same generosity, but they have been there for me nonetheless.
— Mike Tamialis (Barb and Jim's son)
One day in early May I left Sojourners Neighborhood Center for about an hour to run to the post office and the bank.
I am going to begin this story, in a sense, where it ended, and where it will never end.
Nights are the worst. I toss and turn, seeking a blessed relief from consciousness that seems to come only at dawn.
Tiesha became nervous as Ann and I took her trick or treating through Columbia Heights. "I hope they don't shoot you two!" she said.
Every year, at our family reunion, one more seat of memories and laughter is empty.
When I tell people I live in Washington, D.C., a common reply is, "I'm sorry to hear that."
About five years ago, when my husband and I were hosting a gathering from our parish, a member of the group made a comment that caused me to flush with humiliation and anger.
I cut my political teeth on United Farm Worker grape boycotts in California's San Joaquin Valley.
I guess I am doin' all right. I'm studyin', and like the teacher says, it pays off.
As I yelled at Melissa and Gabriel for disobeying, a terrible contradiction flashed before me, but I beat it down, intent on winning this battle of wits.
In 1974, my family moved from Great Falls, Montana, to Visalia, California. All moves are difficult, but this one—falling between sixth and seventh grades—was particularly hard. Even more profound than a change in physical geography was the new social layout.
My Montana classmates were children, existing in the twilight of 12-year-olds. I and other girls in Mrs. Hewitt’s room did notice "the boys," but playground games were still self-segregated by sex. On our half of the blacktop, jump rope, four square, and tag reigned. On the far side, sequestered boys played much the same inventory, minus jump rope, and when possible, a clandestine game of British Bulldog.
However, in California adolescence had dawned fully without me. Truth be told, the sun was high in the sky—couples "goin’ steady," holding hands at the bus stop, and eyeing pinky friendship rings with a diamond chip at Woolworth’s—$12.99.
OUR TEEN years never quite leave us: The alchemy of awkwardness, exhilaration, self-absorption, and social longing is acid-etched with precision. I revisit these times often now, as my oldest daughter approaches this leg of her journey. Knowing the young adults in our circle mostly inspires me. From our reliable and yet vulnerable baby-sitters (boys and girls) to the earnest, sincere, and too-much-bass neighborhood garage band, these people are now part of my ever-widening adult community.
"Welcome to the 40s," a friend said to me on my birthday, "the old age of youth and the youth of old age."