Western Pennsylvania | You Are Here

It was the first Sunday after the election, and I wasn’t the only one who came to church in search of healing. Our congregation is many in terms of race, culture, background and class; but we gather because we were also one. One hope. One faith. One Lord. One old red-brick building facing east, perched on a hill overlooking a wide, crowded valley. Overlooking the city that is my home.

Pittsburgh, Pa. November 13, 2016. Mercifully, the sun had risen another day.

On that Sunday, I gave and received hugs, eased my body into a pew, and tried to settle my mind. Our daughters were collecting crayons and paper from the table in the back, and my husband sat close, leaning into my arm. He knew I was barely hanging on.

I sighed.

Psalm 27 filled the first page of the bulletin. Too much text, I thought. I need to sing. I was desperate to gather up the chaos inside and release it into words, notes, and vibrations. I needed our collective voices to transform some of this pain into hope.

But I had no choice. This was how we were beginning. And so, as sunlight through stained glass filled the room, I submitted to the many words.

The Lord is my light and salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

And I thought, Lord, would you like a list?

When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh–my adversaries and foes–they shall stumble and fall.

Or win elections. Betrayal was still bitter on my tongue.

…though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident… for he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble… Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud, be gracious to me and answer me!

The psalm went on and on. And on. Together we heard it. Together we allowed it to soak in. Together we let the light crack through the stone we were using to protect our aching hearts.

Photo by V. Wolkins

You could almost hear the chisel at work: Do not forsake us, Lord–the Lord will not forsake us–Do not forsake us, Lord–the Lord will not forsake us.

Chip, chip, crack.

I believe I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage. Wait for the Lord!

Now it was time to sing.

* * * * *

Later, during prayer request time, we shared our own words.

I know a lot of army recruits. I’m concerned that the fear and the rhetoric will lead to more deployments. These recruits–they’re great kids.

Our foundation cannot be shaken–God is still in control. God is king of kings, president of presidents. No politician has ultimate power. Don’t be afraid.

How can we have reconciliation with Christian brothers and sisters who don’t even understand why this hurts so much?

If Muslims are forced to register, we will also register as Muslims. Because Jesus is Lord.

First, we cast our votes. Now, we cast our lives. This won’t be the first time.

And, like Psalm 27, we went on and on. And on.

* * * * *

My family left before the end of the service. We had previous plans to visit my parents, who live an hour out of the city. But first, on our way to their house, we would go on a quick bike ride. It was a beautiful fall day in Western Pennsylvania, and we had wanted to try this trail for months.

But now I was nervous.

As we drove north, the Trump yard signs multiplied, and my stomach tightened. Paranoia surfaced. Why had my husband insisted on wearing his “Black Lives Matter” t-shirt? Would someone say something disparaging in front of the girls? Or worse? We would be in isolated places on the trail. What if someone tries to hurt us?

I had one comfort–it was cold. My husband would have to wear his flannel over his t-shirt. We could blend in. None of us had dark skin, or wore a hijab, or seemed ‘other’ in any other way. No one would know who we were and where we came from.

And that quickly, I forgot who we were and where we came from.

* * * * *

The other day a friend said to me, “There are people who are deeply invested in the divisions in America.” This didn’t make sense at first. Aren’t the deep divisions our problem? But then I realized–it is the divisions that keep us safe.

As long as my husband wears his “Black Lives Matter” t-shirt in the city and his flannel in the country, we will be safe. As long as we vent our frustrations about the election with like-minded friends, no one will challenge us. As long as we pray with people who feel our pain, we can comfort one another.

Now. There’s nothing wrong with comfort, venting, or self-preservation. But we can’t stay there. Somehow we must find a way to bring our whole selves into the scary and uncomfortable places. We must listen. We must speak, somehow, in a way that can be heard across the divides.

We must learn, and learn again, to love more than we fear.

Last night I wrote out the text of Psalm 27 and posted it by my bathroom mirror. It is a reminder. A clue. A signpost on the way to hope, which I might be needing in the days to come.

The Lord is my light and salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

No one, Lord. No one.

My mother tells me that we only went to camp a few times before the tornadoes came. How can this be? I remember it all so vividly. Then again, how could I forget a place so full of real and imaginary bears? I was only a young child.

‘Camp’ was my Uncle Davey and Aunt Sue’s hunting cabin in the northwest corner of Pennsylvania, generously shared with extended family like me, my mom, dad, and two little brothers. It was about a two hour drive, due north, on winding Allegheny mountain roads, and as a town kid from a smallish city, it was my very definition of middle of nowhere.

When dad turned off the paved road and onto gravel, I knew we were almost there. Now the real adventure began–the rutted road was barely driveable, and our van inched and bounced along until the green and white cabin was in sight. Camp! Camp! Let us out! We pulled onto the grass (there was no driveway), fell out of the van, and begged my parents to hurry-up-and-unlock-the-door. Inside the musty smell of damp wood, un-aired linens and old furniture filled our nostrils, and my brothers and I ran through the three small rooms, drinking in everything familiar and forgotten.

At camp, there was no running water, so we carried jugs down to and up from the spring. At camp, there was no television, so we hiked to the big rocks, went spotting for deer, and cooked mountain pies in the campfire coals. At camp, there was an outhouse, so you ‘held it’ through the night and held your breath during the day.

And just behind this outhouse there were berry bushes, frequented–it was said–by black bears. Early in the morning, I would wake up, wishing-with-all-my-might for an indoor bathroom, and picture them–hiding behind the outhouse, waiting for me.

Despite the rumors, I never saw a bear in those berry bushes, or (thank the Lord in heaven) in the outhouse. To see a real Pennsylvanian black bear, I had to wait until we ran out of milk and bread. Then we climbed back into the van and bounced our way to the store.

The closest convenience store doubled as a mini-zoo, with animals in cages in the parking lot. There was a fox who was always hiding, and friendly deer you could feed. There were several other smaller animals I have forgotten completely, and there were… bears. Two bears, in steel cages, pacing back and forth, tracking us with small round eyes. Stay close to us, my parents warned, though the bars were thick and the bears well-fed. We stayed close. For a time.

When I was about seven, the bears were suddenly gone, and my parents said they heard someone shot them ‘out of pity.’ Shot them out of pity? This made absolutely no sense to me. If someone was so worried about the bears, why didn’t they just let them go? My parents just shook their heads sadly and let go of their tight grip on our hands. Go on, they said gently, go see the deer. After that, we still came to get our bread and milk, but the parking lot wasn’t so magical anymore.

I was left only with the rumor of bears. And soon, I was left only with the rumor of camp.

On the last day of May in 1985, a week before my eighth birthday, twenty-one tornadoes touched down in Eastern Ohio and Western Pennsylvania. One of these raced through the woods behind my aunt and uncle’s hunting property, shifting the cabin two feet on its foundation, disappearing the outhouse, and turning over the berry bushes. The cabin was spared, but ‘camp’ was ruined.

We visited only once after the tornadoes came, and I can still see it all with my eight-year old eyes. The mountains, stripped bare. Trees turned into toothpicks; trailers flung like toys across the fields. The root balls of the trees towered above my head, ugly and unbelievable, and we couldn’t hike to our beloved big rocks because of all the destruction, blocking every trail. Thirty years later, I’m still not sure I’ve gotten over the shock.

Where can the bears live in a such a world?

Photo by Jethro Taylor

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Tag Archives: Western Pennsylvania

The First Sunday After the Election

The Rumor of Bears