Church News – Weekly Scripture Reading

From the Pews: Janet Mosley

By Dale Buchanan

Sitting on Gayle’s kitchen window sill is a notecard. I have never read it but I have often admired the artwork. Upon inquiring, Gayle informed me that it was a note from Janet Mosley and that she is an artist. When we visited her for this column, I was privileged to view the oil paintings she has hung in the front room of her lovely home. As a person who can’t color between the lines, I was astounded to learn she had fifty-one oil paintings but had not painted in years. This scribe is here to tell you that if I had half of her talent, I would be in front of a canvas with a brush 24/7.

Janet’s story:
“In 1837 my grandfather migrated from Angermund Rhineland Province, Germany to Rich Fountain, Missouri. He was the fourth generation of his Rhinelander German American family to live in Rich Fountain. In 1934 my dad moved from Rich Fountain to Wasco, California. My mother arrived from Rich Fountain in 1936, and in 1938 they married.

I was born in Wasco Maternity Home. With a doctor on call, the home was staffed by midwives. I arrived with yellow jaundice, and it was a month before I went home.

These memories focused my mind on childhood, parents, and siblings. Only one word can describe my mother—great! Her beautiful ceramics still decorate my home. I remember her making clothes for tiny dolls. My mother was a perfectionist. Every detail had to be perfect. This passion motivated every aspect of her life. Our home had hardwood floors, and I grew up watching her on her knees scrubbing and waxing those floors. We were five children constantly coming and going and yet she maintained those shiny floors. We never went to school or anywhere unkempt. My mother truly believed cleanliness was next to godliness. We girls had home permanents and clean clothes. She wore the same old coat for years, but we always had new ones.

Daddy drove a gasoline truck and then bought a Shell service station in Wasco. This when I really got to know my dad. With every oil change, he offered a free car wash. Guess who washed the cars—sis and me! We washed the outside, and when the car was on the lift we were lifted up with the car and cleaned the inside—a little frightening but exciting too. Gayle asked if our chores included cleaning the restrooms, and my answer was an emphatic ‘No, we did not do bathrooms.’

At home, dad loved to cook—especially he said when he was tired. This never made sense to me, but mother liked it. 😊 He took great pride enriching the garden and flower beds with leaf mold he dug up in the mountains and hauled home in his pickup.

We were five kids in a neighborhood full of kids. Many memories center around that cadre of children. We rode bicycles in the streets, skipped rope on the sidewalks, and swung from the monkey bars in the school playground. My sister and I had one pair of roller skates between us. We took turns on our sidewalk or we walked to the park—adjusting the skates with a skate key—and rolled around the perimeter. There was a store nearby where we bought ice cream and candy on hot summer days, and a bus driver on our block often gave us a ride home from town after unloading his last passengers.

As a middle sibling, I never suffered from middle child syndrome. The other kids said that I was mom and dad’s favorite. 😊 Favorite or not, I was also known as the ‘trouble maker’ and ‘black sheep’ of the family. When mother was upset with me she said, ‘Janet, I have a bone to pick with you.’ When she was really mad the conversation began, ‘Janet Mary, get in here.’ That is when I knew I was really in trouble. ‘So, Janet Mary, if this friend of yours jumped off a mountain, would you jump too?’ I could not resist. ‘Yes, Mom, I would have to jump to save her.’

When I met Robbyn at the swimming pool, I liked him immediately. He appeared so romantic. A double date was arranged, and it was everything a girl could hope for—jack rabbit hunting on his cousin’s ranch. Robbyn and I sat on the hood. I held the flash light but also got a turn with the 22 rifle and actually shot a rabbit. The boys slaughtered rabbits all evening and then he took me home. 😊 We went steady—mostly to drive-in movies. Robbyn was working in the fields from sun up to sun down and fell asleep on almost every date. I persevered! And after four years he finally proposed. In August we will celebrate fifty-three years of marriage. I have absolutely no regrets! There have been good times and not so good times, births and deaths, laughter and tears, joy and sorrow.

Looking back over my life, if I had it all to do over, I would go to college and be more patient with my children. I have lived with a loving man and raised two wonderful children. I have six dear grandchildren and a colorful rubber gecko from a cruise to St. Thomas that they all love. Several years ago, on a visit they hid it from me. Now it is a tradition—hide the gecko from grandma!

This seems like a good place to end. Thanks for listening to my story.”
P.S. I was a cheerleader for basketball in high school and runner-up for Snowball Queen. 😊

From the Pews: Wayne Brown

By Dale Buchanan

Gayle and I were on North Harrison in a lovely old Fresno neighborhood. We were searching for Wayne. I knew that Wayne was a member of the choir and his wife was Rosalie. That was the extent of what I knew about this man.

We eventually arrived at his home in a neighborhood of typically one-story houses. There we found a lovely two-story house, so different from the rest. Stepping from the sidewalk was a magical experience into another world. The path was arranged to make the diverse floral display standout with individual beauty.

I was distracted and Gayle kept nudging me along until we reached the front door. When Wayne opened the door and greeted us, I knew immediately that this was going to be a fun afternoon. We were ushered into a room with a high vaulted wood ceiling, lots of natural light, and a wall with books from corner to corner and floor to ceiling.

Wayne then disappeared into the kitchen, and handed me an iced drink made primarily with ginger and fresh lemons. I loved it. Gayle not so much! Wayne’s contention was that this concoction cured everything up to and including old age. And he very kindly suggested that from the looks of me, I needed a steady diet of ginger. 😊

We walked in at two p.m. and drove away just before 4 p.m. There was never a dull moment. Wayne told us his story in a transparent and entertaining manner. I cannot hope to make the story come alive as he did.

“My name is Corvin Wayne Brown. I was born in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, where I only lived for three months and after that we moved often until I was around five years old when we moved to Schenectady, NY. We stayed there until I was 10 years old. The first year we lived in an apartment and I kicked a football that went down the chimney and smoked up the kitchen for which I received a ‘licking.’ Next came a house heated by coal. Dad taught me how to go down in the basement and light the furnace—a job he didn’t like to do.

Mom worried about going to heaven. She was a fundamentalist and specialized in tears and guilt. Schenectady was Italian, Irish, Polish, and us. So, on Monday through Thursday I had peanut butter sandwiches, but on Friday it was baloney. I paid for that. This experience made me vow to be an atheist, and in college I took up smoking to keep the fundamentalists away!
Yes, I am a poet. I compose poetry because I can and I need to. When I wake up in the morning, I want to face what I like: I feed the cat, stroll in the garden, feed the birds, and when the spirit moves me, I write a poem.

I once wrote a poem about Grandpa. The first lines were good, but I didn’t know when to stop. I gave it to my friend Philip Levine, a United States Poet Laureate, to critique. His response was, ‘The first lines are good, and the rest stinks.’

Sometimes I write about things I just can’t get out of my mind. When I was in high school, I shot a dove and could not find it. While searching in tall grass I almost stepped on a rattle snake. The snake had swallowed my dove whole. In anger, I killed the snake and to this day I can’t forget it. This line from a poem I wrote lives with me, ‘Still hear that rattlesnake like I hear the wind blowing spring leaves.’

I guess the best part about living in upstate New York was when we lived in a house with clapboard siding next to a virgin forest with a creek and blackberries. There in that silent forest there was no limit to the fantasies that a seven-year-old could dream up and make absolutely real.

In answer to your questions:

At age seventeen I left home to attend the University of Arizona in Tucson. It was there that I met Rosalie and found her to be the perfect antidote to my loneliness.

Rosalie and I came of age during our college years and at the height of the Vietnam war. It was a time of conflict and confusion. In 1964 I watched on TV with a fraternity brother as the U.S. Embassy in Saigon was bombed. In terror my friend exclaimed, ‘My dad works there.’ Luckily, he was not on duty at the time and escaped injury. Suddenly it was time for me to unlock the secrets of Vietnam.

On Mother’s Day, 1965, a former Sunday School teacher came home and was not the same. He related the horror of killing a nine-year-old girl and a seven -year-old boy. Finally, after much agonizing, I decided the Vietnam war was not a good thing.

Who influenced me more than anyone else? The Dalia Lama! I love his parables like the one about the mosquito that landed on his arm. ‘The first time I blew it off, the second time I flicked it off, and the third time I squashed it.’

More stories about my ancestors:

My grandma used to say, ‘We’re not Okies, we are Oklahomians.

My grandpa saw his father shot to death when he was sitting on the front porch. My grandparents took his widowed mother, who was known as Ma Brown, to live with them. After years of struggle, the folks built a new house with gas appliances and indoor plumbing. Ma Brown was okay with that until she learned that it had indoor plumbing to which she responded, ‘No way I’m going to move into a house with the bathroom inside.’

I came to Big Red because they took me like I am!”

From the Pews: Dale’s Narrative

Written by Dale Buchanan

I have been blessed for over a year to share stories about the members of Big Red. I am writing this memoir more or less under duress. To write about myself was not a part of my commission. 😊 I had not been here long when I was approached to write a weekly piece in the Grape Leaf. I loved it from the beginning and I love it still.

Your reception as an audience of readers has been remarkable. Likewise, those of you who have shared your stories in such an open and honest fashion have made my task all the more pleasant.

For about two years I have been just Gayle Thornton’s friend, and I was thriving on the anonymity. Recently the pressure has mounted with questions like: Who are you? And statements like: It’s not fair for you to not let us know more about you than a simple I am Gayle’s friend. These friendly suggestions have increased to something akin to threats like: Either you tell us your story or we will get someone to do it for you. So, I have yielded and here is my story:

“My dad came to California during the Great Depression on a boxcar. He joined his brother in an abandoned hotel in Rolinda—a small village west of Fresno and east of Kerman. My mom’s folks were from Oklahoma and as a clan they had squatted in that building and were eking out an existence in the fields of the valley. It was there in a cotton patch that Shelby met Lenora, and with her father’s permission, they were soon married.
Time passed and I was born in Fresno County Hospital. Mom and dad were living in Hi-way City—a farm laborers’ village bounded by the old Hwy. 99 and Shaw Avenue. By the time I got there, the village consisted of two dirt streets—State and Mission—that cut the little burg into four blocks. The houses were boxcars that local farmers had pushed onto the lots for the Okie farm workers. One of those boxcars was my first home.

Things got some better. Dad got a job driving a truck, and mom sorted peaches and figs in the summer and picked cotton in the fall. They were able to make payments on the lot and borrow money to remodel the boxcar. By the time I started school, the boxcar was no longer recognizable as such—just a little shanty house like all the rest. I lived in that boxcar house until I was eighteen. Mom and dad died there.

Hi-way City was a horrible place to live but a great place to grow up. The streets were filled with urchins with no idea that they were all dirt poor. We all went to Teague Elementary School during the school year and worked on the surrounding farms during the summer. My first bike was put together with parts salvaged from the dump. Our swimming was done in the Herndon Canal. We roller skated with strap-on skates on the rough and bumpy oil street in the summer and in the winter we splashed and waded in the knee-deep water that ran beside those narrow little oil-covered streets.

My grandfather bought the lot next door to our boxcar house and constructed an Oklahoma style clapboard house, so I grew up next door to Grandpa and Grandma Hamett. Their front door and refrigerator were always open to me. When mom worked, my little sister Gwen and I were always cared for, spoiled, and loved by Grandma. Grandpa was a lay preacher in the fundamentalist church the family attended. At fourteen he was taking me along to preach short sermons at the small churches on his Sunday route. Sad to say, Grandpa would not be happy to know that his righteous religious teaching did not stick too well with me.

I was supposed to be the first in our clan to go to college. That never happened. In the sixth grade a family from Arkansas moved into a house on Polk Street. They had a daughter named Jewel. She became my little Jewel and eventually the mother of my children.

Jewel and I were married in July 1960 following graduation from Central High School. She bore us two children and made our house a home. I learned my construction trade. We built a new house and bought two cars. David was in kindergarten and Tracy was three years old when I got the call that my little Jewel had crashed that new car. My beloved Jewel was dead, Tracy would probably not survive, and David was seriously but not critically injured. The children survived and after many years in a tailspin, I am finally recovered from anger and depression. I have met a lovely woman and regained most of my shattered faith.
This is my story and I am sticking to it 😊

From the Pews: Jason Doggett

By Dale Buchanan

“Hello there, Big Red friends and Grape Leaf readers!  If you are reading this missive, just a few days since I stepped out of the pews to tell my story. Time has moved on and my words are frozen electronically on the page you are perusing.

My name is Jason Doggett, and I am spending the afternoon with Gayle and Dale. We have picked the hottest day of the year to meet. The temperature is expected to reach 106 degrees!  We are, however, comfortably settled in the Clovis Kuppa Joy Coffee House where it is cool and the atmosphere is pleasant and congenial.

Gayle has her notebook in hand, Dale has his prompts, and I have been instructed to talk and talking comes easily for me.

My surname is Doggett and is derived from the Medieval English “dogge” from which we get our word “dog.”  It was originally a nickname applied to someone with dog-like characteristics either complimentary or abusive. My favorite story suggests that the surname Doggett was associated with those whose profession it was to care for the gentry’s dogs—maybe something like dog walkers today. The first name to ever appear on tax rolls was one William Doggett in the year 1206. While I am speaking of ancestors, this seems like a good time to tell my Grandma Doggett’s story of the not so ancient Doggett ancestors. It seems that my Great-Great-Great Grandpa Doggett, known as Killing Men in the Back, lived in a cave in Sweet Water Texas with his wife, a Cherokee medicine woman.

On the night I was born in Fresno’s Valley Medical Center, Mom and my father were both patients. Of course, Mother was there to deliver me and my father arrived at the hospital after flipping his 1966 blue Ford Mustang in a drunken accident. The story of the blue Mustang wrecked in a drunken accident describes my father’s life of drugs and alcohol. He died at age sixty.

I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Selma, California. We lived in an apartment and I stayed outside until the street lights came on. I only had three or four buddies and we like riding our bicycles through the neighborhood. I had any number of half brothers and sisters, but three special cousins made for wonderful family get-togethers and holiday celebrations. Because of these relationships, growing up was lots of fun in spite of crashed cars and ever-present drugs and alcohol.

After the divorce my mom married Robert George, and this man became my dad. He went to work every day and came home every night. I could always go to him and talk if I needed to. He taught me about computers and by the time I was eight I was tearing them apart and putting them back together. Oh, and we watched Star Trek every night for eight years.

Mom and Dad had two more children—a brother Robert George II, six years younger than me, and a sister Cheyenne two years later. Robert was an annoying little kid. We shared a bedroom, and he made a career of messing with my stuff. My favorite memory of my little sister was a photograph which I still have of her just after she woke up in which she appeared to have horns.

Although it was obvious to me by age five that I was different, I did not understand why. Questions dominated and answers were few and far between. When I was seven or eight, an uncle took me to a Southern Baptist Church and had me baptized. This only increased the intensity of questions and the pain of loneliness. Why am I so different?  Why is Larry Doggett my father? Why is being gay so not gay? In high school I attempted suicide. It was a life shaking event that caused me to say, ‘Enough is enough’ and I began the journey that allowed me to accept who I am.

My first open and affirming church was Wesley United Methodist. My eyes were opened and I learned to read the Bible contextually. I understood that it is not a rule book or a weapon of control and I have embraced the New Age thinking of letting go of hurts and old baggage. It was Wesley that I met Kirk and we have been partners for sixteen years.

I first came to Big Red with my friend Ann Cartwright. I liked it here. I especially liked the people. I immediately sensed that open and affirming was more than just a slogan.

Dale, back there in the memories section you asked for a precious memory about my mom. I asked to come back to that. I remember a night at Me-N-Eds when as a child I was allowed to make a pizza for her and how proud I was.

My all-time favorite pastime is to watch ‘I Love Lucy’ reruns. I dare say that you could turn on any of her shows without sound, and I could perfectly quote the scripts of Lucy, Ricky, Ethel, Fred, and guest stars.’

From the Pews: Diddy Wagner

By Dale Buchanan

“Hello, my given name is Adeline. I was named after my dad’s mother, but my family has always called me Diddy (pronounced deedee).

With my daughter Jennifer, I made my first visit to the Big Red Church in January of 2019, and we were received into the church on February 24, 2019. It has been an exciting experience being a member of this church family.

Born on Father’s Day in the old St. Agnes Hospital, home to me was the farm way out on West Jensen between Fruit and Walnut. I lived there until I was married attending Catholic parochial schools and San Joaquin Memorial High School. My grandparents made the trip from Italy when they were in their twenties and passed a strong work ethic on to my sister Carol and me.
There were two houses on our side of Jensen, and a subdivision with lots of children on the other side. We lived on a farm and dairy with lots of cool things to do. My sister Carol—nine years younger–and I lived on the other side. We engaged in a serious sibling rivalry until Mother died and have now built a loving relationship. As the older child I was the ringleader of the neighborhood gang and in charge of making mud pies, and the truth is I was more attracted to the neighbors and families across the street than to my own family.

Moving on from birth family to my married family, I will tell you two stories that might give you an idea of what my marriage was like. In this first story, my husband-to-be and I were fighting about where to get married. He wanted a civil ceremony and I wanted to get married in a church even though I had not darkened the door of a church for years. The more we argued, the madder we got. I finally pulled the ring off my finger and threw it at him. I was afraid it would fall through the slats on the porch, but it didn’t. He picked it up and left. He showed up at work the next day, and after making sure I was not going to throw anything, he said, ‘Let’s go get married.’ I thought I had won, so I agreed and with another couple we drove to Lake Tahoe. We found a Justice of the Peace there and in fifteen minutes we were married. I was thinking: this is not the way it is supposed to be—no flowers, no music, no white gown, no priest, and no church.

The second story that was a precursor of our rocky marriage is about the honeymoon. The groom and best man dumped the bride and bridesmaid in a motel and spent the night bar hopping. You might say these two stories were harbingers of what was to come. Seven years later I was a divorced woman with a ten-month-old infant.

Looking back, it occurs to me that these two stories are also the foreshadowing of something wonderful. That ten-month-old baby was my daughter Jennifer, and she without a doubt prepared me for the good that was to come. When I was pregnant with her, I was walking around with a crown on my head. I was going to have a baby. Unfortunately, my husband and I continued our incessant battles. He wanted a boy and I wanted a girl. He wanted one name and I wanted another. And so the battles raged on.

Giving birth to Jennifer required a C-Section. When I first saw her swaddled in a blanket, one of her arms popped out. We could not decide if she was praising God or waving at me. She was sleeping through the night after seven days, but alas when she was a teen it was probably what hell is like. Today Jennifer lives next door to me, and it is good. Where we are now is a result of all that has gone before. After seven years of marriage, I was out from under the thumb of my husband, in charge of my own life, and free to raise my daughter. I grew up a skinny, sickly kid and had pneumonia when I was two months old. I wore the same size school uniform from the first to the fourth grade. I did not eat like a normal child, and it drove my mother crazy. The doctor finally told her to leave me alone and I would eat when I got hungry. There were a series of dead-end job that led to a forty-one-year career in a dental lab. I see my story as a series of precursors each fitting into the narrative which is my life story. They were not necessarily good or necessarily bad, they were just necessary.

Dale, you asked about my faith. Another story about Jennifer illustrates my response. When Jennifer was in the second grade, she came home devastated one day. Her boy friend had stopped talking to her. I asked her if she had prayed about it and she responded, ‘No, because God is too busy.’ My answer was, ‘No, Jennifer, God is always there!’ This answer to my seven-year-old daughter has become the bedrock of my faith.

From the Pews: Patsy Finster

By Dale Buchanan

My name is Patsy and I am sharing a condensed version of my life story. I suppose that the best place to start is the beginning. I was born in Gloucester County, Virginia.

I was the first-born of a family with three sisters. My second sister was Linda and the third Deborah. As the oldest child I was always the responsible one. I endured—or suffered—from the oldest child syndrome. I heard more than once, “Patsy, you are old enough to know better than that!” And it was my responsibility to act like a ‘big’ girl.

Next came Linda—full of mischief! As the middle child, she was the trouble maker! The folks bought a new dresser for their bedroom with pretty little pulls on the drawers. Linda painted parentheses around each one. Mother was furious. Linda denied it. I got blamed and shamed for not being responsible. Despite such times, I loved her and miss her since her death in 1996.

The baby was Deborah, sweet from the beginning, still sweet, and still living in Virginia.

Mother’s maiden name was Betty Ann Miller. My favorite recollection is the family potlucks that brought us together on holidays. As you might imagine, this gathering of the clan resulted in a host of cousins. We were outside running and playing, the men sat inside waiting to be fed, and of course, the women were occupied with preparing a feast. Hosting these gatherings was passed from aunt to aunt. Mom loved the gathering of family at her house, but hated it when they all went home and she was left with the dirty dishes.

My father, Burl Rapp, was a Navy man. I remember the anticipation of him coming home. However, the joy did not last long because he usually came home drunk. This union lasted until I was five years old, and when I was nine, Mom married John Seawall.

I grew up in rural Virginia next to a Southern Baptist Church with a cemetery. On the other side of our house was a small orchard and our neighbor’s house. I vividly remember playing softball in that small orchard. My neighborhood pals were Nellie, Wayne, Robbie, Mary, Hughie, and Nora. We grew up together, played together, and rode to school on the bus together.

I loved to read and still do. A quiet place with a book has always been one of my favorite things. The graveyard beside the Baptist Church—that spot peaceful and isolated—was my go-to-place, my get-away destination when I needed solitude. It was there on a dreamy afternoon that I discovered the fantasy world of the Hobbits and the little girl Elanor named for a small, golden flower. Years later I named my first-born daughter Elanor.

Money precluded college, and money even left a car out of reach. But I was determined not to end up like my mother—that is divorced with three small children. I left home and soon had full-time employment and a part-time job. William and Mary College, my full-time employer, provided lodging at a secretarial boarding house which was my escape and a godsend.

My part-time job provided David Finster. He came in the costume store where I was a seamstress to shop and would not leave. Then he kept coming back with mundane questions. It soon became obvious that he had a plan, and it worked to perfection. We met on June 25th, 1970, we courted for three months, and were married in September of that same year and have been married forty-eight going on forty-nine years.

Immediately after we were married David was off to Vietnam. Upon his return jobs were scarce, but before long he was hired by the U. S. Postal Service. This was a good thing, but he was not happy there and responded to his call to ministry. Our first-born Elanor was born during the ‘post office’ period, and we called her the postman’s daughter. The second daughter Jenny came during the ‘ministry’ period and is known as the minister’s daughter. 😊

David’s first call was to the Japanese Congregational Church in Fresno when it was located in Old China Town. While he was serving there, the minister’s daughter Jenny arrived. From there it was off to Belle Fourche, South Dakota, for five years. The girls had chicken pox on that long trip to Belle Fourche. Jenny was four years old and never stopped talking the whole time. David and Elanor were in the moving van, and Jenny and I brought up the rear in the car. There were times when I seriously considered making David take Jenny in the truck with him. That pilgrimage today is a precious memory. David’s next call was eleven years in a church in Fremont and finally three years at Big Red before retirement.

Looking back if I had it to do over, I would get a better education. I am proud that at age sixty I earned my AA degree at San Joaquin Valley Business College. And of course, one thing I would not change is my marriage to David. As a minister’s wife, my goal has always been to be who I am and not just David’s wife.

I love singing in the church choir. It feeds my soul. And my faith can be summed up, ‘God is there.’

What is a “Synod?”

By Pastor Raygan

From June 20th-26th, I will be attending The General Synod of the United Church of Christ in Milwaukee, Wisconsin (as will Kim!), which, for those who aren’t church-nerds yet, begs the question, “What is a Synod?” “Synod,” most simply, is a gathering of church representatives to conduct church business, and in the United Church of Christ, it is a very special gathering. The less official definition of Synod in the UCC is, “two-steps-and-a-hug,” because it feels like a giant family reunion.

Every two years, about 700 pastors and lay members of UCC churches and conferences from all over the country gather in rotating host cities to celebrate and support our relationships with our national and international partners in ministry, to learn and gain resources to support the work of our churches, and to make decisions on behalf of the national church. In the UCC, we insist on and celebrate the autonomy of every individual church, and enter into covenantal relationships with other churches, conferences, and the national setting of the church to do more together than we could do alone. So, when we have to make decisions as a whole denomination, our decisions aren’t handed down and doctrines aren’t proscribed, but passionate debates and faithful conversations are held, and when needed, votes are taken in an effort to reach consensus. We take care of the basic business like our national officers, board of directors, budget, but then we get to the good stuff.

A lot of time at Synod is spent discerning, considering, and voting on “Resolutions of Witness” that have been brought by local churches and conferences; which speak to matters of public life that need to be spoken into by the voice of faith, and when possible, have resources and efforts organized towards just outcomes. For example, this year the Synod will be considering resolutions pertaining to climate change, worldwide immigration crises, private prisons, opioid addiction, interfaith dialogue, and much more.

Additionally, because a gathering like this is an opportunity to learn together as a national church, we will hear from Matthew Desmond, this Synod’s keynote speaker. Desmond is the author of Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City. In preparation for his address, all of us attending Synod are reading his book in advance, as he has promised to build on the work of his Pulitzer Prize winning book. I am excited to learn what resources and ideas we can bring back, as we know that poverty is a particularly poignant issue in Fresno and the Central Valley. If you haven’t read it already, make room for it on your summer reading list, so we can continue the conversation and important work well beyond Synod. Will you join me?

Pastor Raygan

From the Pews: Ann-English Weaver

By Dale Buchanan

“I do not believe in love at first sight, but let me tell my story and allow you readers to decide.

My name is Ann-English Dillon Weaver. I am married to the love of my life. I am the mother of Caroline and Clara whom I love with all my heart. I have a close and loving relationship with my mom. I grew up surrounded by loving family, and today I love my church family and the people I work with. I guess you might say that I am stepping out from the pews to tell my love story.

The summer after my junior year in high school, I traveled with my cousin Jerryann to Colorado State University for a Church of the Brethren youth conference where youth from across the nation gathered.

Jerryann was keen on moving to California, while I had no ambition to leave Virginia—ever! Shortly after our arrival at the conference we met a group of boys from California. Mind you, I did not go to Colorado looking for love, but it was there that I first laid eyes on this long, lanky boy with amazing teeth. He had just had his braces removed and he had a huge smile. His name was Russell Weaver. I experienced that phenomenon that happens when your common sense leaves home. My friend Dale calls it love 😊

All of us at the conference were wearing name tags and after introductions I hid mine and approached Russell. ‘Hey, Russell, how are ya?’  He did not remember my name! We went our separate ways. Jerryann and I headed to the volleyball courts, and those California boys followed us. Not long after our arrival it began to rain. For the second time that day I approached Russell. I took his hand and said, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’  I have no idea what happened to the rest of the group. The whole world revolved around Ann and Russell for the next three hours as we walked in the rain. When Russell dropped me off at my dorm, I was fifteen and in love. I called and broke up with my boyfriend back home. That week with Russell was like heaven.

When I got home, I announced to my mother, ‘I am in love and I am going to marry him.’  My mother being a practical person replied, ‘No you are not!’ And she explained that my common sense had left home. I was not listening! I was prone to tantrums and adverse to listening to advice. I did well in public but often melted down at home. So, when Russell sent me an I-love-you letter, I experienced simultaneously a mountain top experience and a big meltdown. Finally, Mom made a call to Madera, and it was established that Russell was from a good family and the impasse was broken. I was allowed to fly to Fresno, California, for Christmas vacation. It was a fairytale week. Russell’s folks took us to Disneyland and then drove us up the coast to Morro Bay.

Russell and I made several trips across the continent, but I lived on the morning side of the mountain and he lived on the twilight side of the hill. Life happened. College loomed in our future and common sense prevailed. I loved Virginia and he loved California. We broke up, but the connection was never completely severed. For most of our college years, AOL was our preferred means of communication with messages like, ‘Hey, how’s it going?’  And then complaints about the people we were dating.

And the fairytale romance continued with a little help from my friends. Russell and I found ourselves face to face again at Spring break in San Diego when I was a junior in college and he was a sophomore. We fell in love again on that beautiful drive from San Diego to Morro Bay. My grandmother remarked to mom, ‘That girl has a boyfriend on both coasts!’

After graduation I moved to Fresno and found work so I could be close to Russell who was still in school at Fresno State University. In 2005 we celebrated Christmas in Virginia. Russell asked me to take a walk in the rain before going to church. I said, ‘No, it’s too wet.’  He dropped on his knee and after fumbling a bit produced a ring and proposed. I said, “Yes!’ In 2007 we were married in my grandmother’s backyard in Virginia.

We struggled for a while getting established and on our career paths. Both of us went back to school. Russell suffered a torn ligament that wrecked his chances at pole vaulting in the Olympics. Today he is a special education teacher and pole-vaulting coach at Clovis West High School. I am an occupational therapist working mostly with autistic children.

I was born in Franklin County in the foothills of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. My mom and dad attended the same high school and were married for 18 years. Dad has a doctorate in philosophy and is brilliant. My mother is known for her musical talent and was recognized as a wonderful teacher.

Mom had two sister and between the three of them, there were seven cousins. We seven cousins were always together. Six of the cousins were tall, dark, and handsome, and I was the short, fat, blond kid. Strangers on the street would greet whichever sister was in charge of us and say, “You have six lovely children and then look at me and remark, ‘How sweet of you to bring the neighbor’s kid along too.’

So, do you think I found love at first sight?”

Upon Reflection

By Dale Buchanan

Fifty-seven weeks ago, I was blessed with the opportunity to write my first “Getting to Know You” essay. It was and continues to be a column dedicated to the “Folks in the Pews.” That first person was Gayle Thornton primarily because she was one of the people in the congregation with whom I was well acquainted. Last week our pew person was Pete Espinoza. I put Pete on my list mainly because he is always smiling.

A little over a year has gone flying by and this afternoon seems like an appropriate time to reflect on the fifty-six people and the stories they have freely shared with us week after week.
As I sit here at my desk, it is very quiet and like an echo the sweet memories of all those interviews come reverberating back to me. As I ponder, I see the faces that have become dear and hear the now familiar voices as they dig into their pasts and share precious stories of childhood, fond memories of young love, nostalgic recollections of days gone by, and these along with pleasant accounts of the joys of living in the moment and dealing with life both the good and the bad, the happy and the sad.

An echo sends back the reflected sounds to me as cliffs resound the thunder of the ocean and as a cathedral roof reverberates joyous hymns. The memories of front rooms, coffee shops, the courtyard at Big Red, and the benches at the back of the church fellowship hall come to me as an almost mythical experience—precious memories that will always inspire me.

I hear my friends, as if for the first time, relate again the tender stories of mother, the ironic accounts of dad. I see through the reflective power of love the brothers and sisters recreated and made real in the flash of the moment right before my spellbound eyes.

One my one, this diverse group and distinctly individualistic men and women set aside an hour or two and tell their stories. When I started these columns, I did not know most of you very well and some of you I still do not know except for a ritual handshake and a “Peace be with you” greeting. I count it a blessing that there are fifty-six of you with whom I have spent time talking. Fifty-six of you who I can now count as friends because we have shared life-shaping stories, revealed dreams, passions, and dared to speak of our hopes and ambitions. Dale Buchanan has found—in just over a year—fifty and counting acquaintances that he can truly call good friends.
You may find yourself being tapped on the shoulder in the very near future. 😊

From the Pews: Pete Espinoza

By Dale Buchanan

We met Pete at a local restaurant where he had graciously agreed to be interviewed. Pete is friendly and conversational—a natural storyteller. From this point on you will hear only Pete’s voice.

“My given name is Guadalupe. Saint Guadalupe, Mexico’s patron saint, first appeared to an indigenous person in what is now Mexico City—one the most famous and  visited shrines in all Christendom.

I was born a sickly child and almost died at birth. My father prayed to Saint Guadalupe for my life. I survived and the saint was given credit—a cause for rejoicing except for the fact that my mother’s first husband was named Guadalupe. This infuriated my grandma. She vowed not to love dad or his children. I hated my name. My nickname which I could not speak in public sounded like Pete, so in the first grade I became Pete

I was born in Hardin, Montana, on November 12, 1955, the next to last of twelve children. Mom called the five children from her first marriage her first batch and the rest of us the second batch. She was always busy having children, so an older brother and sister found it their job to care for the youngest of us. Mother’s first-born son Nick became the barber for all of the boys. I hated it. He was rough and hurt me. Looking back, he was probably not real happy about giving all of us squirming boys our haircuts.

We lived two miles from our nearest neighbor on a gravel road several miles from town. There was only one other Hispanic family in Hardin—my uncle, aunt, and a bunch of cousins. I did not notice any prejudice until one day in the fourth grade. Mother always packed some goodies in my lunch pail, and I liked to share with my buddies. On this particular day, I found a sucker in my lunch and I gave it to a friend. I watched him throw it away after another classmate said, ‘Don’t eat that. That kid is a Mexican.’

Let’s talk about my mother. She worked hard and made two families one. She instilled in me a sense of belonging, emphasizing that I had a right to be here and that I was to ignore prejudice. She not only preached this but practiced it. The following is an example of how she taught us. As a large family many of the older siblings had left home before the youngest were born. One of my brothers married a white woman. At a family gathering for the first time I saw that white face among all the brown ones, and I exclaimed, ‘Auntie, you are white.’  Amid peals of laughter she replied, ‘Yes, I am, Pete.’

Dad was a farm laborer, and we lived in a house provided by the farmer who owned a sugar beet farm. We all worked side by side in the fields. Sadly, dad was an alcoholic. But that is not what I remember about growing up in that house. There was love there. On Saturday nights, we gathered as a family. Big band records were on the record player. Dad danced with mom, then they danced with all of us, and finally we kids danced with each other. As the evening wore on Dad would pull down his accordion and thrill all of us with traditional mariachi.

The grandma I mentioned before became a bitter old woman. Her husband, my grandfather, died on the day I was born, and it seems she never forgave any of us. When Mom was ill sister Pat, who was five and I a year older stayed with her. She did not feed us and we were so afraid of her that we took turns sleeping.

I first met Steve at a party. We shook hands, and it felt comfortable like we were old friends. A year later I attended a church service and there he was again. I knew why I was there. Metropolitan Community Church became my regular haunt, so much so that Steve accused me of stalking him. Finally, he invited me to a poker party at his house. I baked him a batch of chocolate chip cookies, and he became the only person I ever baked cookies for. Steve and I were together for twenty-five years until he passed.

Metropolitan Community Church closed it doors, and we came to Big Red—an easy transition for Steve but not so much for me. For a while I wondered if I was perceived as gay, Mexican, or a short guy. The turning point for me was when Faye Saxton chased us down one Sunday and invited us to join the choir.

My mother always told me that I was different and to be myself. To remind myself of who I am I sometimes dye my hair a different color for every season—green for spring, yellow for summer, orange for fall, and red for winter.