Terror

I had a nightmare last night--one of those rare, awful ones that take hold and won't let go. I kept waking myself up to end it, just to go back to sleep and right back to the dream. When the alarm finally went off, I wasn't left with many of the details, but a residual sense of terror.

Terror used to be a regular companion in my waking life. Even when things weren't out of control, and there was no screaming, or hitting, or throwing things, terror was nearby. We were always careful, being sure to have friends over as often as possible, eat the right things in the right order, and watch what we said--we somehow thought we could keep the explosions from happening, if we did everything right.

But the explosion was always inevitable. I knew when it was coming. The air would thicken. There was a familiar metallic taste in my mouth. He would get louder, threatening. Her alto voice would get higher, panicky but trying to hold her ground. I always wanted to intervene, but knew better.

Instead, I put it away. And when it was all finally over for good, I really put it away. In a box, with packing tape, inside another box, inside a vault with many locks.

Now here I am, keys in hand.

Shaking in my boots.

Oops Child

My family moved to Koinonia Farm in 1965. Koinonia was a racially-integrated commune in south Georgia, founded by my dad's cousin, Clarence Jordan (I've got a link over there if you want to learn more). The locals didn't much like Koinonia--there was a history of drive-by shootings, and whenever my teenage sister sat down in the high school cafeteria, that whole side of the room would clear out.

Sometime in early fall that year, my mom had a car accident. Nothing major, just a little fender bender in the grocery store parking lot. The state trooper came, and everybody agreed that it was the other lady's fault . . . until Mom gave her address as Koinonia Farm. Then somehow she ended up with the ticket and the blame.

Soon thereafter, Mom went to the doctor because she missed her period, and thought it was because of the accident at the grocery store (fortunately the doctor would still see patients from Koinonia). "Well, you have had an accident," he determined, "but a different kind."

Oops. That was me.

Making Change

History can happen any old time.

Four days ago, my minister announced from the pulpit that he would no longer perform legal marriages for straight couples until gay marriage is legal. He is one of the first ministers (or perhaps the very first) to take this stand. The event was not only on the front cover of our local paper, but also in USA Today, and has made news around the world. Though it was probably a difficult moment for some, I was more than proud to be there.

Almost exactly 42 1/2 years ago, Rev. Walter L. Moore welcomed Sam Oni, from Ghana, to the membership of his church. Vineville was the first Georgia Baptist church to integrate, as was reported the next day in The Macon News, The Atlanta Constitution, The New York Times, and as far away as the Mankato Free Press in Mankato, Minn. Though the deacons were unanimously behind their pastor and the congregational vote to accept Oni's membership was a strong majority, some members were incensed. A few even left the church over it. But others, staunch segregationists, stayed with the church. I find myself believing that, in staying, these segregationists must have begun to gradually open to another way of seeing the world.

My dad was also a minister in the 60's, and like my Granddaddy, cared deeply about civil rights. He was installed as minister of a Congregationalist church in Birmingham, AL on September 15, 1963, one week before Sam Oni joined Vineville, and the very same Sunday that the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham was bombed. Four precious little lives lost. I wasn't born yet; my sisters were 10, 8, and 4 years old (here are the older ones, in their Sunday best).

Later on, Dad proposed to his church that they integrate. In an environment of civil rights-related violence and death, the church wasn't ready. Embittered and angry, Dad left the Congregationalists and Birmingham, and turned his back on organized religion all together. That was it.

Dad continued his civil rights work after that time, but mostly from the outside: taking groups of black kids to all-white campgrounds, or black friends to white churches. As far as I know, none of those actions led to progressive change. He spent years railing against the church and anybody with power inside its walls, especially my granddaddy. In his mind, anybody still within the church was guilty by association.

But who changed minds, opened hearts?

Considering the Lilies

plaque in the Walter L. Moore Memorial Education Building

If I'm on the right path

(and the path does feel right)

then my redheaded lilies

will be clothed and fed.

History Room II

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child must work for a living,
But the child that's born on the Sabbath day,
Is fair and wise and good and gay.

I don't know about all that, but I was born on a Sunday. Here's a picture that Grandaddy took of my two-day-old self, smiling in my grandmama's arms:

And here's something I learned from the church bulletins on file in the History Room:

On the day I was born in 1966, Walter Moore preached on Genesis 26:12-22. (Feel free to look it up. I did.) The title of the sermon was "Fresh Water from Old Wells."

Sounds like a pretty good book title, doesn't it?

Epiphany

Up to now, I've been on a journey. As of today, I'm writing a book. I'm still on a journey, no doubt, but no more mamby-pamby "I'm exploring my family history, and maybe some day it will turn into something vaguely resembling a book-like object." Pah. This is a book. A book that has been waiting to be written for a good long time, and I'm finally getting out of the way so that it can get itself on the page. I'm proud to be the one doing the typing.

What does this mean, in concrete terms? Here's what it means:

Starting Monday, I work on the book four mornings a week, no laundry, no tidying, no vacuuming, no Sudoku. Plenty of afternoon time for that. Other activities (i.e. walks in the woods) are permissible as long as they facilitate the process.

Money? Yes, we could use more, so I'll look into grants and other ways to make ends meet while I'm on this journey. Throughout history, people have written books and continued to eat (though not usually simultaneously), so it must be possible.

I make a plan as soon as possible about who I need to talk to, where I need to go, what I need to do. I'm a doer, and I've given myself permission to do. Now the fun starts.

You doubters may be out there in Blogworld thinking, "right, people make resolutions all the time--they're made to be broken. She'll never follow through."

Just you watch.

Meet the Preacher

This is my beloved Granddaddy Moore, known to others as President of the Georgia Baptist Convention, Trustee of Mercer University, Dr. Moore, or simply "Preacher."

I knew him as a huge, gentle, loving Granddaddy, patient with my questions about fish guts, never eating peaches with the fuzz still on, smiling as he ran around the camera to be in the picture. I remember his study, with so many books and the big brown vinyl fold-out couch. And his various putting gadgets, the ones I liked to roll the golf balls into, watching them spit back out across the living room carpet over and over again. And I was always really fascinated by his really big ear lobes. He was my safe place. And I loved him for it.

Other people thought of him differently. To the Minister of Music, he was a beloved "bossman," with the final word on everything. To the young Baptist, he was a much-admired authority figure, whose word was never questioned. To the segregationist in his recently-integrated church (the first one in the Georgia Baptist Convention to integrate, a feat accomplished in 1963), he was an "underhanded, deceitful communist." Another minister referred to him as an "unusual combination of Christian scholar, and reg'lar feller."

As far as I can tell from what I've learned, this remarkable man was the complete package: he had scholarship, impeccable integrity, boundless wit, an unusual ability to deeply understand people, administrative skills, courage, great preaching, and a political mind. And don't forget those really cool earlobes.

He was both a doer and a deep thinker, something we could do with a little more of in our modern leadership.

His daughter, my mother, never questioned his wisdom, especially when he said an oath was an oath, and a marriage was forever. I do wonder what his wisdom would have been, had he known the full story of what we were surviving.

Immersion

One hot Georgia day, my Uncle Buddy set out to prove that holding your breath could not make you pass out. He was dramatic. He decided to prove his hypothesis on the high dive at the Cedartown pool. When he missed the water all together, the impact of ten-year-old head on concrete must have ended his aspirations to become a scientist. But he made a fine religion professor.


I guess I was holding my breath, too, as I dove into the pool of my family history in Macon. But fortunately I didn't land on concrete.

It was an intense day.

I came back with nearly 1,000 copied pages and 6 hours of stories on tape to transcribe. Every minute I was there, I was either listening as hard as I could, intently reading and looking through files, or madly copying everything that felt important before my time ran out. I was hoping to come home with more of a sense of the history, the characters, the time line. My immersion experience left me dripping with all of it.

I drove away from Macon with tears streaming.

Welcome to the History Room



My grandmama loved birds. One of my favorite things at her house was the little plastic wren that lived on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. It was one of those with the hole in its back--when you filled it with water and blew into its tail, it would twitter a bubbly song. Just like her.

She was tiny, this minister through music--I passed her early, and I'm pretty small myself. A little bit round, though not fat by any means. She moved quickly, always in high heels, whether her "bedroom shoes" or Sunday best. But the best part was when you'd first get to her house and poke your head in the door. "Grandmama?" The response, from whatever part of the house she happened to be, was always her characteristic soprano squeal: hoohoohoohoohoo! Welcome to the nest.

When I got to Vineville Baptist Church on Monday morning, I had no idea where to go. The place is big and the front door isn't obvious. But I found my way in to the office, and after a few minutes of fluttering around me ("did you hear who her grandfather is?"), a nice member of the staff graciously led me down, down and around to the History Room.

There are many doors to get to the History Room. After passing through the room of mirrors, we went to the back of a larger gathering room, to the door pictured above. Big breath. We stepped through this doorway and I found myself at the bottom of a stairway, with another door to my left. Here's what I saw:





hoohoohoohoohoohoohoo!





Welcome to the History Room.

First stop: The End



I got to Macon earlier than I planned. I had the name of the cemetery and general directions for finding Grandmama and Granddaddy's graves, so it seemed like as good a place as any to start my exploration.

I pulled in just as the sun was setting. The cemetery was huge. And peaceful. Air beginning to cool, birds high in the trees, far-off train whistle. A good place to breathe after an afternoon of bombing down the interstate.

I knew I'd never find them by looking, so I decided to follow my feet. And they took me there. Right straight there. Darnedest thing.

Okay, here I am. What next? I read the footstones. "Minister of the Gospel" for him and "A Minister Through Music" for her. (Interesting how we word things differently for those of us who just are, and haven't been hired to be so.)

Having no brightly colored plastic flowers to offer, I settled for a tasteful bouquet of wild ones that I found nearby.




I looked around at the neighbors--what's it like to hang out here for eternity? Who else is around? I introduced myself to the Jewish family buried next door, and imagined Grandmama going over to welcome the newcomers to the neighborhood, dropping off some Tea Time Tassies, maybe borrowing a cup of sugar later on.

The train whistled again, I started to get chilly, and it was time to go. Grandmama and Granddaddy were glad I had come.

It was mutual on both sides.

In the beginning, my ducks


I once drove from California back home to the south with my friend Gretchen. We stopped at my uncle's in Memphis, and visited the Peabody Hotel. Those ducks, they're in some rows! Down the elevator, in a stately line along the red carpet, PLOP in the fountain, round and round. All accounted for, all terribly dignified.

My ducks, not so much. One still has her feathers in curlers under a colorful scarf. Another's in the car, honking the horn. The baggage-laden one is jumping up and down on her suitcase, with underwear sticking out around the edges. One is trying to light a candle and have a Meaningful Moment, but the wind keeps blowing it out, and no one else will participate anyway. Another has her head in a book. One duck is standing at attention, waiting for instruction, with no clue where to go. Ah, ducks.

Tomorrow I go on the first foray of my journey--to Macon, GA, where I'll be getting to know my Granddaddy. He died when I was 11, and I have very fond memories of him, in a Granddaddy-sort of way. But he was also a public person. His papers are in Special Collections at Mercer. I'm hoping to find some of him in the history room (I imagine it as the Room of Requirement) at the church where he was the beloved minister for so long.

While I'm there, I'll stay with old friends of my parents, the person who introduced them and then later wondered if that was a big mistake. I've only met them once before, when I was in Macon for my grandmother's funeral a few years ago.

I'm not at all sure where this will go, where I'll land. But I have directions to get to Macon, and for now, that's enough.