It’s a broken world. So now what?
In a cold, basement apartment miles outside of town, with moving boxes still unpacked, and her faith forestalling an emotional breakdown, Vicki Fleeman fingers through a photo album.
"This is my favorite picture," she says. "This was the guy I was crazy about."
His name was Jim. Vicki and he are leaning against an early-model,world-worn Chrystler. They’re posing like couples in love pose for pictures, with embarassed smiles and tied at the hip. Time has taken away much of the color photo's vibrancy as it has so many things since Jim Fleeman's death 10 months ago at the age of 57.
Vicki lost her "buddy," her "soul mate," her husband of six years, the first man with whom she could hold a genuine conversation. She also lost her home in town, which she says she could no longer afford.
Last evening, Dec. 7, she pulled out a small artificial Christmas tree and a box of homemade decorations. Soon she came upon an old Christmas bulb with the names "Jim" and "Vicki" written in sparkles. The names were held with glue, and she promptly fell apart and cried till she fell asleep.
It's now Wednesday evening, Dec. 8. The clock on her wall has its hours marked with the suffix "-ish" (Vicki maintains her wit). It's “6:30-ish.” She pulls on a winter coat, stuffs a handbag with her Bible and Catechism, grabs her car keys and cane and steps out into the wicked wintry weather of northern Ohio. It's a dark, 25-minute drive toward Uniontown, to her church, Queen of Heaven Parish.
From different directions, other women, too, converge with the same books stuffed into handbags. Rose Marie is one of them. She has just successfully battled Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Jan is another. She has celiac, an autoimmune disease. Jennifer is another. She recently underwent two surgeries on her spine.
Others, too, are on their way. They drive through neighborhoods with homes in foreclosure. They know this town. They know who’s lonely, who’s unemployed, who’s in need of a hot meal, who’s enduring crisises of faith, or marital problems, or health issues.
This is Uniontown, Ohio. Like everywhere else in 2010, it's been knocked a bit off its axis. And like everywhere else, church ladies routinely gather to pray.
Let's pause for a moment:
[start italics]
Dear God,
Thank you for church ladies who gather in Your name. We know many of their families and even their pastors treat them like full-time spit buckets. Still, they remain as steady as tripods. They understand how times of great trial provide powerful opportunities for spiritual growth, but when they try to explain this to their kids they are met with a series of yawns that seems rather gratuitous.
Lord, we also know their works of mercy serving the “lepers” of today — the rejected, lonely, poor, hungry, disabled, and dying. We realize they've chosen the High Road, walking in faith rather than in fear. And we know they hate driving at night, and yet they never miss a prayer meeting.
Lord, despite their own trials — or because of them — they manage to do the heavy spiritual lifting for us all, and I suspect their prayers uphold the world. They do all of this, Lord, even though they drive each other nuts. They are truly amazing.
Amen.
[end italics]
Jim and Vicki had so much in common. They liked to cook. They embraced sarcasm as a cleansing agent for the soul. Both struggled with physical ailments — she, disabled from a leg fracture, and he with heart and kidney disease.
“He was my teddybear,” she says.
On March 1, he sat up in bed at the nursing home. Vicki and he held hands. It was a beautiful visit. Then it was time for her to go. The phone was ringing when Vicki returned home. “How-de-do, it’s me,” he said. Those were his last words. Everything turned real bad, real quickly. She heard him fighting for breath. She heard the phone drop to the floor. She heard the nurses performing heart compressions. He was gone.
She rushed to the nursing home. His body lay there. She said a prayer that he be received in heaven. Then she slipped the wedding band from his finger, and she wears it to this day.
It’s “7-ish.” It’s sleeting. Vicki finally pulls up to the parish center. She's knows what the prayer group will be doing this evening. They'll pray for each other's intentions. They'll plan who's making what for an upcoming trip into Akron to feed the homeless. They'll read Scripture and discuss why in the world God allows so much suffering. Short answer: It's a mystery, it purifies us, so deal with it gracefully, Baby.
As she walks across the windy parking lot, leaning heavily on her cane, Vicki talks of moving back to Uniontown, somewhere near the church. She’s on three waiting lists for affordable housing. Her preference is an apartment right over there. That one. Boy, that'd be perfect.
“But I'll be patient,” she says, adding with a smile, “and chilly."
"This is my favorite picture," she says. "This was the guy I was crazy about."
His name was Jim. Vicki and he are leaning against an early-model,world-worn Chrystler. They’re posing like couples in love pose for pictures, with embarassed smiles and tied at the hip. Time has taken away much of the color photo's vibrancy as it has so many things since Jim Fleeman's death 10 months ago at the age of 57.
Vicki lost her "buddy," her "soul mate," her husband of six years, the first man with whom she could hold a genuine conversation. She also lost her home in town, which she says she could no longer afford.
Last evening, Dec. 7, she pulled out a small artificial Christmas tree and a box of homemade decorations. Soon she came upon an old Christmas bulb with the names "Jim" and "Vicki" written in sparkles. The names were held with glue, and she promptly fell apart and cried till she fell asleep.
It's now Wednesday evening, Dec. 8. The clock on her wall has its hours marked with the suffix "-ish" (Vicki maintains her wit). It's “6:30-ish.” She pulls on a winter coat, stuffs a handbag with her Bible and Catechism, grabs her car keys and cane and steps out into the wicked wintry weather of northern Ohio. It's a dark, 25-minute drive toward Uniontown, to her church, Queen of Heaven Parish.
From different directions, other women, too, converge with the same books stuffed into handbags. Rose Marie is one of them. She has just successfully battled Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Jan is another. She has celiac, an autoimmune disease. Jennifer is another. She recently underwent two surgeries on her spine.
Others, too, are on their way. They drive through neighborhoods with homes in foreclosure. They know this town. They know who’s lonely, who’s unemployed, who’s in need of a hot meal, who’s enduring crisises of faith, or marital problems, or health issues.
This is Uniontown, Ohio. Like everywhere else in 2010, it's been knocked a bit off its axis. And like everywhere else, church ladies routinely gather to pray.
Let's pause for a moment:
[start italics]
Dear God,
Thank you for church ladies who gather in Your name. We know many of their families and even their pastors treat them like full-time spit buckets. Still, they remain as steady as tripods. They understand how times of great trial provide powerful opportunities for spiritual growth, but when they try to explain this to their kids they are met with a series of yawns that seems rather gratuitous.
Lord, we also know their works of mercy serving the “lepers” of today — the rejected, lonely, poor, hungry, disabled, and dying. We realize they've chosen the High Road, walking in faith rather than in fear. And we know they hate driving at night, and yet they never miss a prayer meeting.
Lord, despite their own trials — or because of them — they manage to do the heavy spiritual lifting for us all, and I suspect their prayers uphold the world. They do all of this, Lord, even though they drive each other nuts. They are truly amazing.
Amen.
[end italics]
Jim and Vicki had so much in common. They liked to cook. They embraced sarcasm as a cleansing agent for the soul. Both struggled with physical ailments — she, disabled from a leg fracture, and he with heart and kidney disease.
“He was my teddybear,” she says.
On March 1, he sat up in bed at the nursing home. Vicki and he held hands. It was a beautiful visit. Then it was time for her to go. The phone was ringing when Vicki returned home. “How-de-do, it’s me,” he said. Those were his last words. Everything turned real bad, real quickly. She heard him fighting for breath. She heard the phone drop to the floor. She heard the nurses performing heart compressions. He was gone.
She rushed to the nursing home. His body lay there. She said a prayer that he be received in heaven. Then she slipped the wedding band from his finger, and she wears it to this day.
It’s “7-ish.” It’s sleeting. Vicki finally pulls up to the parish center. She's knows what the prayer group will be doing this evening. They'll pray for each other's intentions. They'll plan who's making what for an upcoming trip into Akron to feed the homeless. They'll read Scripture and discuss why in the world God allows so much suffering. Short answer: It's a mystery, it purifies us, so deal with it gracefully, Baby.
As she walks across the windy parking lot, leaning heavily on her cane, Vicki talks of moving back to Uniontown, somewhere near the church. She’s on three waiting lists for affordable housing. Her preference is an apartment right over there. That one. Boy, that'd be perfect.
“But I'll be patient,” she says, adding with a smile, “and chilly."
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