Spring 2010 DreamSeeker Magazine

8/9/2019 Spring 2010 DreamSeeker Magazine

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Who Are the Voiceless Now?Marilyn Kennel

Beneath the SkylineEveryone Else is Doing Perfectly Fine

Deborah Good

The Private DancerRachael L. King

Books, Faith, World & MoreHistory as Viewed Through Personal Experience: Reviews ofOnceUpon

a Country; Rabble for Peace;andWar, Peace and Social ConscienceDaniel Hertzler

Planting on the Upgone Sign

Mary Alice HostetterA Sworn ChristianDavid W. T. Brattston

Community SenseThe Snapshot of a Congregation

Mark. R. Wenger

and much more

DDreamSeekreamSeeker Magazineer MagazineVoices from the Soul

Spring 2010Volume 10, Number 2; ISSN 1546-4172


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Who Are theVoiceless Now?

Marilyn Kennel

Twenty years ago I was approaching middle ageand I had issues with the Mennonite churchthat is,the church as I had known and experienced it. Inner

turmoil and ambivalence swirled around my self-identity, my gifts and interests, and the role of womenin church leadership.

From earliest childhood, as I heard my grandpajoyfully speak of teaching Bible school and holdingprophecy conferences, I had dreamed of working inthe church. As years went by, I continued to feel an ir-resistible pull to some form of ministry, but the image

was always fuzzy. The specifics of my calling and how Imight be useful to the church never came into focus.

My unfulfilled dream was like a low-grade fever, anever-present ache. I learned to live with it, but it wasnever far from my mind. Emotional pain was stirred

when I read of other womens successes. Embarrassingtears would well up at unexpected times, provoked,perhaps, by an innocent question about my educationor my career.

I had been taught to respect and obey the voices ofauthority in my church as the voice of God. Personalcalls to service were discerned and confirmed by the

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Letters to DreamSeeker Magazine are encouraged. We also welcome and when possi-ble publish extended responses (max. 400 words).

Relics

Ive read there was a time

when the pious venerated thembone of St. Peters little fingerswatch of cloth from the Saviors robesplintered fragment of the Holy Cross

But here in my house are the true relicsthis bedroom floor rug

Grandma wove from old clotheson the shelf there a cast iron rooster bank

my mother told me she prized as a little girlhere hanging in its place in the garage

this garden rakehandle worn smooth by Dads strong grip

and there against the wall the piano now long silentthat she could bring to life

Bach, old hymns, Scott Joplin, songs to sing with ourdaughtertunes

happy and sad

Go aheadtouch themcarefully prayerfully

with your fingersyour hands

They are holy things.

Ken Gibble, Greencastle, Pennsylvania, is a retiredChurch of the Brethren pastor. These days, instead ofwriting sermons, he writes poetry (mostly) and otherstuff.


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Planting on theUpgone Sign

Mary Alice Hostetter

The phone rang ten times, and there was no answerwhen I tried to call my mother at 7:00 the morning ofher ninetieth birthday. A bit concerned, I tried again

before I left for work. That time she answered in sixrings.

Happy Birthday, I said. Where were you?Out in the garden. We need to finish planting.

Still have to put in the pickles, corn, limas, and stringbeans. Thought sure we had enough seeds, but I had tosend Daddy down to the hardware store for more. Itsthe upgone signI checked the Farmers Almanac,she said. And the ground is finally dry enough for

planting again. Im glad I got the lettuce and peas inbefore it got so wet.

So what are you going to do to celebrate yourbirthday?

Hadnt given it much thought. Try to finish upthe garden, I guess.

Birthday celebrations had been much on mymind. I was approaching my own fiftieth, as weremany of my friends. Some had already passed that

marker, so conversations frequently turned to celebra-tions of the BIG FIVE-O. One friend had done a

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twenty-fifth anniversary issue, heasked Hershberger for a 1,000-

word article on the decline of theMennonite community vision.

Had he understood Hershbergersacademic style and personal identi-fication with the cause, he surely

would not have given him such anassignment.

Hershberger wrote a longer arti-cle which was not found acceptable.

We got them together for attemptedmediation. Schlabach writes, The

efforts at reconciliation probably in-creased mutual understanding, butthey did not fully succeed. Hersh-bergers manuscript never went toprint (386).

In an Afterword, Schlabach re-flects on Hershbergers contribu-tion. He lists nine points in asummary of Hershbergers convic-

tions and then observes, In his own

time, a host of ethically earnest peo-ple, Mennonites and others,thought that what Hershberger said

was worth their listening. Even per-

sons who differed with him were of-ten in his debt. . . . Later generationsshare that debt, and so also surely,

will generations to come (517).

Three academics, who each, in hisown way, has sought to make a dif-ference. For Tutu the differenceshave been most visible and dra-

matic. But Nusseibeh insists that re-gardless of what the Israelis do,Palestinians will remain. And, asSchlabach observes, Hershbergerhas spoken and we do well to listen.

Daniel Hertzler, Scottdale, Penn-sylvania, is an editor, writer, andchair of the elders, Scottdale Men-

nonite Church.

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My Car

Nol R. King

One morning last week, I heard my car talking tomy neighbors car, where they sat beside each other atthe yards edge. As I had not known my car could ei-ther think or talk, I paused unnoticed behind a largebush.

Well, Ill tell you one thing, my old white car waspontificating, I have more than a few good miles leftin me, and Ill be swishjiggled if I stop one foot short of

where the Good Lord says, Stop, Car.I know! cried my neighbors little blue truck, also

dented, rusted, and with its own share of nicks andmetal bruises. It burns me up, my old lady talking

junk this, trade that. I get so mad, it makes me vomitoil!

I stayed behind the bush, transfixed by this unex-pected opportunity to hear my car speak from theheart.

She doesnt trust me anymore, is the problem, itwas bemoaning when I tuned back in. She thinks Imgonna just fall apart now. It wasnt my fault that muf-fler fell off last weekthe stupid mechanic forgot theclamps.

She does check your oil a lot, the light blue truck

agreed. Id say, just be glad she cares!I guess so, my white car admitted, grudgingly.

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THE TURQUOISE PENe-world, which makes this book loverand publisher sad.

Yet books have themselves beenblowing up pre-book cultural pat-

terns for centuries. Researchers areeven finding that reading physicallyrewires our brains, as the e-worldsurely does too. Books can be and doawful things. They can also bless usbeyond measure.

Weve learned to treat books as ter-rible and wonderful. I suspect weneed to learn to treat the e-world the

same way. So yes, when tap-thumb-tweet-text family and friends replaceflesh-and-blood versions, tragedy is

afoot. Yet maybe our e-families too arein their way real ones, even ones

within which God is at work as e-fam-ilies connect and cross-connect and

nurture each other until at last trulythey form a worldwide e-cloud of wit-nesses.

Michael A. King, Telford, Pennsyl-vania, is publisher, Cascadia Pub-lishing House LLC; Dean-Elect,Eastern Mennonite Seminary; and aFacebook friend. This reflection was

first published in The Mennonite(February 2010), as a "Real Fami-lies" column.

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Copyrighted Earth

Upon receiving some of my poems,my dad wondered if the Lord was in them.It was like asking if God is in a Bach partita

or a roseate spoonbill or a sunset.

If God is Lord of all, as he would have it,how could He not be in my poems?But he meant, did I name his God?

Did I recognize Him as creator?Did I respect His copyright?

Dale Bicksler


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But she thinks Im dumb, and Imnot. Im smart! I knowthree languages!

You do? whistled the

little blue truck. Really?Yup, said my car.Made in Japan. First lan-guage. Six months in aGerman warehouse, sec-ond language. Then Balti-more in 91 to my firstlady, American English. This heresmy second lady, starting from Febru-

ary 98. I wish you coulda seen mewhen I was still new. I smelled andlooked so great!

Youre still pretty classy, said thelight blue truck. I have always ad-mired you. I have especially enviedyour four doors all these years. Soroomy and accessible!

Ha, said my car. Sore and

rheumys more like it; going on 19years, these hinges. Throw me into atub of WD-40 for a weekthatd getmy hubcaps spinning again!

A car spa! Ha ha ha! Light BlueTruck laughed, which kind of hurtmy ears because it was so rusty sound-ing. Hey, but isnt it about time forher to come out and start you up? We

better shut up. Have a great day!You too, said my white car.

Time to get to work! Watch out forthose potholes down by the store.

Word on the street says they took oneof Marvin Mazdas tires yesterday.

I came around the bush a few mo-ments later and said, Good morning,

Cars! How are you today?I detected no response

from either of them, justlike any other morning,

although my car easilyavoided all potholes onthe way to work. I tried tofind a Japanese station onthe satellite radio to enter-tain it while we were dri-ving back home that

evening but was not successful.Then, yesterday, when I came out

in the morning, the frost on my carswindshield could have been taken tospell out the word Hi if you hadlooked at it with some imagination.

Well, hello to you, too, Car! Isaid, but I didnt receive any audibleresponse. I guess my car is still one offew spoken words around the humanelement.

I opened the hood to check the oil.It is crucial to check that oil! As Ireached for the dipstick, I saw a hosethat had shifted to one side, and I tookmy baby in to get it all checked out.

This hose is about to bust, saidthe mechanic. It gave you good

warning.I know, I said. My car may not

be fresh off the line, but it sure issmart.

As circumstances warrant, throughher Turquoise Pen column Nol R.King, Scottsville, Virginia, reports onstrange and wonderful or worrisomethings, including smart cars.

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I came aroundthe bush a few

moments laterand said, Goodmorning, Cars!How are you to-

day?


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Family Photographs

They used to be kept in scrapbooks

large unwieldy strung together pageswith four glued-in-place holdersat each corner of the photo.The pages were black.My mother had a single purpose penshe dipped in white inkto write

First Day of School

Fun on the BeachFishing Trip Success

so when you looked at the photoand read the inscriptionyou caught a glimpse into a storyor at least a chapter of it.Wait! let me get a picture of thatso the subjects pause for a moment

in the horseshoe gameor tossing the laughing toddler in the airor toasting marshmallows

and grin at the camera.

These were happy people doing happy thingsand life stopped for an instant

click and then resumed.Resumed with real life with worries about

where the money will come from to fix the furnaceand if Marthas cough is just a coughorGod forbidTB.

Happy people doing happy things.

So why is itlooking at them nowIm drenched in sadness?

Ken Gibble

Documents

Spring 2010 DreamSeeker Magazine