The Lord's Prayer and the Brain

The Lord's Prayer apparently activate areas of the brain that produce happiness and energy.  Danish researchers at Aarhus University asked 20 devout Christians to recite a rhyme, a wish to Santa Claus, offer a personal prayer, and recite the Lord's Prayer while having MRI scans of their brains.  Both prayers activated the dorsal striatum, a part of the brain associated with the release of dopamine, the neurotransmitter that fights depression, cravings and feeling tired, however, the Lord's Prayer had more than double the affect.

In their paper, the researchers speculated that this could be due to the fact that the Lord's Prayer, "according to Christian tradition, is sanctioned by Jesus as encompassing all important aspects of life.  This God-given authorization may reinforce practitioners' expectations or reciprocity in comparison with the often more idiosyncratic and individual requests in personal prayers." 

The rhyme and wish to Santa Clause both decreased the activation of this dopamine-releasing part of the brain.

(From First for women. 1/2/12, 43.)

IF

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

    This is my favorite poem.  I don't know when I first read it, whether it was in elementary school of junior high.  Although Kipling is talking about becoming a man, to me it is a poem that talks about being a mature human being, the desirable virtues and determination of the spirit, and the uncommon wisdom that is needed to live life as best we can without letting the pain of life get us down.  It is a call to understand who we are as individuals and to hold onto that core of recognition no matter what life throws at us.  It is a reminder to always do our best and never, never give up. 

The Bridge Builder- Rev. Robert J. Miller

I was raised in a "mission church" of the Evangelical United Brethren denomination in  West

Hanover Township.  Calvary EUB Church was a neat little church and I have fond memories of it.   It was a good place to worship and make friends - it was my home away from home.  Lots of people tell funny stories about the church building, like when the wind blew during worship an occasional piece of hay could be seen floating down from the ceiling.  The universal and all-pervasive nugget of memory that everyone possesses about the place was how cold it was.  Why?  Because it was built on the former property of a Lenkerbrook Dairy farm in one of their old dairy barns.  Everything in the church was an "add-on," including the heat.  But for an old barn converted to a house of worship, it served its purpose well.


To me, the church was fascinating.  In reality, it was not a large building but in my childhood memories it seemed like a huge, holy place.  This was in the era where you wore dresses and behaved yourself in church.  No running and screaming and playing because the sanctuary was a sanctuary - a place to honor God and be reverent, so that was how you were expected to act. I loved all the dark wood in the front of the sanctuary and to this day, I love dark wood.  A friend told me in later years that the front of the church was actually constructed from the headboard of an antique bed.  Oh, how reality can sometimes ruin the cherished memories of our youth!    It had a basement that was broken up by large posts (it was a barn, remember?) so if you got behind one during a program, you couldn't see.  They used simple folding chairs and folding screens to separate the space into Sunday school rooms, so if you didn't like what was being taught in yours you could simply listen in to the one next door.   The floor was tile...and cold.  The folding chairs were metal...and cold.  The restrooms were dark, damp...and very cold.  I hated going to the restroom there because I always thought I might freeze to the seat.  I still think of it as a stall they forgot to renovate.

We had several choirs, all of which were large, and every summer our enormous youth choir would provide music when Bill Mann would preach at Mount Gretna.  Kids in the neighborhood would hear from other kids about the choir and would come and join.  Eventually their parents might start to attend.   The music ministry was one way in which this little mission church started to grow.  

There were two buildings - the main church building and a smaller building where the children went for Sunday school.  We had great teachers, all laity of course, who taught us the essentials of faith and made us memorize Bible verses.  In the dead of winter the short trek was always cold and icy even though there was a covering between the buildings.  It was always a mad dash in search of warmth and you always had to be wary of cars that might be coming down the hill between the buildings.  

There were two pastors there before my family attended but they were only there for a year or two.  I only remember one pastor at the old church, Reverend Robert J. Miller.  To me, this pastor was almost like God.  He was a handsome man and not very tall although at my age everyone was tall regardless or their true stature.  But stature isn't based on height alone.  Stature is the measure of a man (or woman) in their entirety, and Pastor Miller was a devout man of God with a commanding preaching voice.  I always thought of him as possessing the mysteries of God himself and, as in accord with that time, his voice carried not only the authority of God, but of my parents as well.  Maybe you wouldn't do what your parents told you to do all the time but you better darn well listen to the pastor or you'd be in trouble big time.  As far as stature went, Pastor Miller was at the top of the pile.

I also knew my father respected Rev. Miller.  If Dad didn't like someone he said it, and Dad was and is not above stating his disagreements to someone or even getting into arguments if he feels he is right.  Pastor Miller was the same, which could have led to huge rifts in any church at its worst, but they both seemed to respect each other and even when they disagreed, continued to work together and consider each other friends.  If my Dad liked someone then they were okay in my book.  I've always respected my father's insight into people's natures.  Pastor Miller passed the father test, so it was another affirmation of who Pastor Miller was as a person, as if being God-like wasn't enough. 

Pastor Miller was definitely an EUB pastor and maintained his dedication to the EUB even after we merged, liking many of the EUB rituals more than the newer Methodist versions.  I have to admit, I still prefer the old EUB hymnbook over any United Methodist hymnbook I've ever used.  This didn't mean that he cast aspersions on The United Methodist Church.  He did not, nor did I ever heard him utter one word against the merger.

At some point we outgrew the old church and regardless, the old barn was condemned.  Rev. Miller oversaw the building of a new church building.  There was great effort to try to include the youth in the move, and I vaguely remember carrying hymnbooks or something else from the old church to the new one up the hill.  At my age, it seemed like a very long walk but I believe it helped us to say goodbye to the church building we were raised in and that held so many memories.  Despite our love for our old church, a new church was exciting.  It was warm!  There was a huge white cross on a burgundy background on the front of the new Mount Calvary United Methodist Church, which used to be visible from Route 22 as you passed by Fairville Avenue.  The view of it is now obscured by trees.  To me at that time, it seemed formidable, breathtaking up close, and a great statement of faith.  The church later had a makeover when they constructed an addition to the building, and now the United Methodist cross appears on a white background.

I will never forget the day they tore the old church down after it was condemned.  My elementary school, West Hanover, was only the length of a football field or two from the church.  I very distinctly remember during recess that day, watching the dust or smoke rising above the trees that blocked the view and hearing the monotone roar of large equipment as they tour into the old structure.  I know I stood and cried on the bank by the little stream at the lower end of the playground, struggling to catch a glimpse of the church, but failing.  It felt like someone was destroying my home.  The steeple, which had been the center of concern because it was judged likely to give way and fall into the sanctuary, did not want to come down.  It was only with some difficulty that they finally leveled it.  In a way, it was a statement of faith, that in adversity the only thing that will not falter or fail us should be our faith.  

Pastor Miller taught my confirmation class.  It was held after school in the overflow of the new church sanctuary.  It was not the fluffy, barely intelligent stuff that we teach today.  Back then, confirmation was filled with information about faith, our heritage, and what was expected of you as a member of the church.  And every week, Rev. Miller assigned memorization verses for us to recite back the next week.  They weren't verses like, "Jesus wept."  They were entire pericopes, at least it seemed to me.  I was always afraid of not knowing the verses for Pastor Miller or of not having my homework done for class.  I remember sitting on my bed reading the homework and going over and over the verses.  The whole day of class I would read and say our assignment repeatedly during school.  I don't know what I thought would happen if I didn't know those verses, besides him reporting the deficiency to my parents who might well exact discipline of some sort, but I didn't want to find out.  I loved Pastor Miller and I did not want to disappoint him. He was the kind of man every pastor should be.

As the years have gone by and I think of Pastor Miller, I regret not having had the privilege of

knowing him in my adult life. I learned so much from him in my youth, from what he taught and the way he lived his life, and can only image what I could have learned from him in my adult life.  He was an interesting man who grew up a twin, was a gunner in the Pacific during WWII, and then became a pastor.  I would have loved to sit and play cards with him, like my father and other men in the church used to do, while exploring his past with him.  He and his wife, Jean, who I also remember fondly, had three children whom they adopted.  Mary and Kathy were twins, and John was the oldest.  Of that family, only Kathy survives, and I know she misses her father, mother, brother and sister very much.  I have no doubt that they are very proud of Kathy, pleased with what she does and who she has become, and are watching over her and her son very protectively.      

Today, March 16, is the 25th anniversary of the Rev. Robert Miller's passing, and in one month, on April 16th, it will be the 25th anniversary of Jean's death.  Kathy states "I could not have asked for better parents - they were smart, funny, compassionate and strong Christians. I can only hope I have made them proud with the life I have led so far. This is my father's favorite poem and he carried it in his wallet all of his adult life. With gratitude for my parents, I share it with you..."

THE BRIDGE BUILDER

An old man, going a lone highway,
Came at the evening cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast and deep and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim-
That sullen stream had no fears for him;
But he turned, when he reached the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,
"You are wasting strength in building here.
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again must pass this way.
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head.
"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for him."

-Will Allen Dromgoole

Sermon: God Is My Co-Pilot

I've wanted to try to upload a sermon but for quite a while now I have been having difficulty with moving the video from a DVD to a computer format.  I seem to only get part of the DVD.  I have not yet figured out why but for some reason, this sermon did download in segments and I was able to put them together for one complete sermon.  I had to upload it to blogger in 2 sections because it was a tiny bit too large to upload as one. 

This sermon is more than a few years old.  As I go back through it I can see that I had not preached for awhile and it looks like it, and sounds like it (if I said "uh" one more time I think I'd have lost it, literally).  Yes, preaching is a lot of fun but you have to do it regularly to stay in the groove.  I was at Gravel Hill for 5 years and only preached about 4 times on a Sunday morning - yes, that's 4 times from a possible 260 sermons.  What can I say? 

Despite the problems, the congregation seemed to like this sermon, probably more because of the videos I used, but I still hope it was at least in part due to the message.  I had people walking up to me literally months afterwards, repeating back to me what I had them reciting during the message (long after I had forgotten the sermon).  The senior pastor hated it and said I set the congregation back 10 years.  Perhaps a bit melodramatic but again, what can I say?

God Is My Co-Pilot:

Brahms Knew

Brahms knew.
Verdi knew.
Strauss knew, but he had lapses.
Beethoven knew, but he was more concerned with other things.
Wolf knew, but he wasn't letting anyone else in on it.
Tchaikovsky knew, but set out to prove he  didn't.
Milhaud didn't know.
Honegger didn't have the foggiest.
Mozart had the idea, but he didn't live very long.
Berg knew, but that didn't have anything to do with it.
Puccini knew, and milked it for all it was worth.
Gilbert and Sullivan didn't know, and milked it for all it wasn't worth.
Gershwin caught on finally.
Britten took someone else's word for it.
Schoenberg didn't know, but he gets credit anyway.
Stravinsky didn't know, but he didn't let that stop him.
Rossini didn't  know, and didn't care.
Chopin knew, but it upset him.
Wagner knew, but not a fraction of what he thought he knew.
Schumann knew that Clara knew that Brahms knew.
Bernstein was trying like mad to find out.
It's unclear if Debussy knew or not.
Bach knew, but it was too early to do anything about it.
Liszt didn't know, but he made a lot of money anyway. 
Menotti didn't know anyone ever knew.
Some people find it hard to believe that Bartok knew.
Mahler knew, and look what it did to him.
Schubert knew all along, but it never got out of Vienna.
Berlioz didn't know, but he orchestrated it loudly.
Bellini didn't know, but he made it difficult to sing.
Prokofiev had to hide it from the Kremlin.
Bruckner didn't know, but wrote it over and over.
Andy Haydn tried and tried and tried.
But it was Brahms who really knew. 

I love this.  I've saved it since undergraduate school (I think) because I so agree with it.  Brahms definitely knew.  My only comment  - Debussy didn't know.  I do not know the author.

Julie's Message

Julie Lynn Parson Hoepfer's life here on earth ended on February 25, 2014.  Her Celebration of Life took place on February 28, 2014.  The following was included in her funeral bulletin and was written and shared by her family.  It is in honor of Julie and her life of love and caring that I repost it so that those of you who loved her can come back and re-read it whenever you want to remember.   More importantly for me, it is a message that I want to be able to re-read as I think about Julie, and don't want to risk losing this simple message of love. 

Julie's Message

Thank you for being here with us today.  You are here because you have been touched by Julie.  It was her wish that this not be a gathering to mourn her death.  Instead, she wanted us to be here to celebrate her life.

Julie was not preachy, but she wanted to leave a message  This is a message that, all of you who knew Julie, will recognize even if she rarely put it in words.  She testified her message in the way she lived.  In the way she loved.  Our service is meant as a remembrance of this message.

Psalm 23:  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.  He restoreth my soul.  He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; they rod and thy staff they comfort me.  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. (King James)

This is a well-known psalm of deliverance.  To be delivered is to suffer and know fear.  Julie didn't want us to dwell on her trials related to cancer, but they have to be acknowledged.  She knew pain and disability.  She knew the menace of her disease.  She knew fear.  But, as depicted in the psalm, she kept moving.  She continued to move through the valley of the shadow.  courage means moving forward even when you are afraid.

The psalmist knew fear and pain.  The psalmist knew humility.  Julie's gift was her great humility and empathy.  The psalmist speaks of being anointed with oil - a gesture that acknowledges honor and worth.  While Julie was humble about herself, she freely acknowledged the worth of those she knew and loved.  To know Julie was to be lifted up by her.  She was at once the psalmist who yearned for a protecting shepherd and a good and merciful person who filled the cups of others.

Mark 5:25-34:  Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years.  She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak,  for she said, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.”  Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease.  Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, “Who touched my clothes?”  And his disciples said to him, “You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, ‘Who touched me?’ ”  He looked all around to see who had done it.  But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth.  He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” (NRSV)

Julie spent much of 2013 in New York City undergoing clinical trials in an effort to slow and overcome her cancer.  New York was large, intimidating, and far from her treasured base of supporting friends and family.  Like the woman in this gospel passage she was afflicted and lost in a teeming crowd.

What did she do?  Like this woman she reached out.  To know Julie is to love her.  The staff at the hotel where she and Don stayed came to adopt her.  From the time they arrived in a taxi to the time they left for a train ride home, they were met with hugs, well-wishes, and genuine concern.  She built a second home base.  How?  By reaching out to these strangers.

Julie usually didn't remember her dreams.  But one morning, she woke in her hotel bed and told Don of a dream she had.  She was in a crowd and she reached out - and touched the hem of a robe.  The man wearing the robe looked at her with kindness and mercy.  Julie dreamed this passage.  Like Psalm 23, she reached out for a shepherd to protect, guide and heal her.  Along the way, she reached out to strangers in her humility and love.  And they loved her back.

Matthew 25:31-40:   “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory.  All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats,  and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left.  Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world;  for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me,  I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’  Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink?  And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing?  And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’  And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’   (NRSV)

This passage begins with separation.  But there is more to it.  Those who are blessed are the ones who do not separate but unite.  They reach out to others.  Julie reached out to her loving family and friends.  She reached out to strangers who could help her - like hotel staff - and to strangers who needed help.

Julie's clinic in New York was a three-block walk from the hotel where she and Don stayed.  Hundreds of people walked this same stretch of Third Avenue.  Most of these people barely paid attention to each other.  Very few of them paid any attention to the handful of homeless people who dotted the sidewalk.  Julie saw them - particularly a man in a wheelchair who was positioned outside a McDonald's.  Julie began to anticipate passing by this man.  She'd stop when she spotted him and reach into her purse and pull out a five- or ten-dollar bill. (An act which you are advised not to do lest you attract pickpockets or cut-purses.)  She would drop the bill in the man's cup.  He would look her in the eye, smile and thank her.  Between themselves, Julie and Don wondered who this man was.  After a few months, Julie saw that Just giving this man money wasn't enough.  She wanted to give him the acknowledgment of his dignity.  "I'm going to tell him my name," she said to Don.

Remember that Julie knew fear.  The act of  going up to a complete stranger in an unfamiliar city and saying, "Hi, my name is..." can be very intimidating.  Somehow, giving your name to a stranger makes us vulnerable.  It requires a certain trust and a sense of humility.  And Julie did it.  She and Don saw the familiar figure in the wheelchair.  Julie fished out a bill and placed it in the man's cup.  She looked him in the eye and said, "I'm Julie."  His eyes lit up and he said, "I'm James,"  Smiles and handshakes were exchanged and Jule and Don hurried to make their appointment at the clinic.  As they departed, James called after them, "Thank you!"

Julie would be the first to tell you that she didn't do enough to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome the stranger, and clothe the naked.  Could she have done more, really?  Of course.  But how much more did she do than all those other people on that busy street?  And she did it because she recognized the dignity in someone.  She had the humility to see past herself.  She reached through the crowd.  She anointed this man.

Planting the Seed

Yes, we've jumbled these passages.  Julie, like all of us, was complex.  but her message was simple.  She just wanted people to be happy.

Simple messages don't make for easy plans of action, and Julie felt that she could have done more.  She felt guilty when she thought that she was petty or mean.  She was frustrated when people would act thoughtlessly.  But she knew her message.  Love people.  Try to make them happy.

Thank you for making us happy, Julie.  We love you so much!

Thanks for being with us to hear this message.

Love, (Julie Hoepfer's family)

Miss you, Julie.

Julie Lynn Parson Hoepfer and a Lesson of Love

"The Three Musketeers of West Hanover Elementary circa late 1960s, together again after 40 years. Funny thing about love is that even though people may go their separate ways, where real love exists, it is not diminished by time. Time does, however, diminish our physical bodies. The three of us have lost 40 years and it is now too late for us to be together for long. Don't have regrets. Time waits for no one. Reach out to those you haven't seen for awhile. If you truly love one another, it will seem like yesterday. Love and share your lives while you still can. No regrets. Only love."

I posted the above on Facebook on January 26, 2014.  One month later, in the early morning of February 25, 2014, one Musketeer has left this world for the next.  

Besides my family and my dog, Julie Parson was the first love of my life - like only children can forge bonds, she became my best friend, my playmate, the one with whom I shared elementary school, those first awkward attempts at playing sports, learning to read, hating math, growing up, getting crushes on guys, and dreams.  At that age, there are always dreams.  

I met Julie in elementary school in the first grade.  Two 6 year olds who had never been in a classroom before.  I was shy and Julie was shy.  I don't remember how we first met but quite likely it was in a corner somewhere, mutually attempting to hide from everyone else.   I dragged out my old class photos from elementary school to see exactly what years Julie and I were together in the same room because neither one of us could remember.  The results: only first grade under Mrs. Minnick and second grade under Mrs. Cole.  It seemed like there should have been more.  I do think it's odd how you can be with a teacher for a whole year and barely remember it.  Of course, memory is funny.  I look at these photos and though I barely remember being in Mrs. Cole's class, I can still remember the color of the jumper Julie is wearing for her second grade photo - kind of darkish maroon with light blue stitching.  Yes, memory is funny.  

Julie and I became like sisters.  I remember always wanting to play with her, go back to her house, or go to the pool when I knew she would be there.  Hers was the first place where I attempted to stay overnight, where we set up some sleeping bags on her enclosed back porch.  It was dark and peaceful except for the crickets loudly chirping outside, but I was a momma's baby and ended up crying in the middle of the night.  Julie's mom came down and called my parents.  I thought Dad would be mad when he picked me up, but he wasn't.  

There was a little creek that ran beside Julie's house and Julie and I would go down and swing around on huge vines that hung from the pine trees.  I loved that.  Meena, Julie's German Shepherd, and later Tilly, were always with us, too.  We both loved animals and the outdoors and apparently that never changed.  Up until the end, Julie and her husband Don kept a garden and counted Monarch butterflies.  Their back room was covered with photos of butterflies and in every window there were bird feeders to watch.  

At my house it wasn't much different.  We would go back to the swamp and catch crayfish and box turtles, look for praying mantis egg casings in the briers or monarch chrysalis on the milk weed, go to the stream and dig up clay and mold it into things or to the pond and watch the fish, or to the woods, well, just to play in the woods.  Evie, my Weimaraner, would always go with us to guard against the vicious pheasants that always scared us when they would suddenly flush out of the field.  Eve would point them when we got close so Julie and I knew there was one lurking about.  Now you don't see them much anymore.  The pheasants or the turtles, that is.  Evie, my faithful and loving companion, is long gone.  Times change.

Julie and I liked the same TV shows, like Star Trek, Dark Shadows and Alias Smith and Jones.  We had crushes on the same TV personalities, like Quentin Collins and Hannible Heyes, although Julie had a crush on Spock while I idolized Captain Kirk.  We shared the same books, notably James Blish's Star Trek series.  When we played together, it was usually "veterinarians," where we would bandage our stuffed animals up and take care of them.  We both wanted to be veterinarians when we grew up, but neither of us made it.  We both loved our dogs and they were our best friends when we weren't together.   

In fourth grade, Julie and my duo became a trio.  I don't know where Maria's family lived before they moved to West Hanover Township, although I know she just told me recently.  Like I said, memory is a funny thing.  Our new threesome ran together and shared whatever we could.  At one point we were even on the same softball team together.  I thought it was great but I don't think Julie ever liked sports.  If you look at our team photo from West Hanover's Seminoles softball team, Julie looks like she is being tortured.  Maria played for awhile but found other sports she preferred, like swimming.  But even though we were finding things that we liked doing apart from each other, our friendship remained solid.  Recess has a way of keeping friendships forged.

But then came junior high, and later high school.  We were separated.  Julie said she went home from school our first day of junior high and told her mother she wasn't going back because we weren't in any classes together.  Her mother thought differently.  We were never in the same classes, never the same lunch, never the same anything.  At that age we were too young to know what a precious thing our friendship was, and we all grew apart.  It wouldn't have taken much effort to stay friends - we all lived within a square mile of each other.  I suppose at that age we start to become more self-centered or lazy or something.  I'm not really sure.  We all found other friends, ones that we saw more often, ones with whom we attended classes or church.  Maria and Julie stayed in the same classes until high school, Maria and I in the same church until then as well, and then we all just sort of drifted away from each other.  I don't even have Julie or Maria's high school senior photos.

Julie got married soon after high school, a mistake as it would later turn out, with the exception of the births of her two children.  Maria and I went to college and then grad school, leaving the area for awhile, although Maria was first to return, now a doctor.  I returned in 1990.  None of us knew where each other was, although I was pretty sure Julie still lived in her childhood home. I didn't try to contact her. Although I thought about both Julie and Maria often, we were no longer in elementary school.  By then we were different people with different lives.  I assumed that childhood friendships were only good during childhood.  

Julie had remarried in the 1980s to a wonderful man she called her "soul mate."  The two obviously share a deep respect and love with each other that even death will not destroy.  She worked a few different jobs but settled into a position with West Hanover Township, which is where my sister ran across her and found out that she had cancer.  At the time I was working in the Hershey Medical Center as a chaplain and after my sister told me, I tried to contact her.  My calls were not returned.  I supposed Julie might have felt as awkward as I.  About a year later Julie's sister Pam  contacted me and told me Julie's cancer progressed and to try again to call Julie.  Apparently, Julie did want to see me.   

I felt a little awkward when I went to Julie and Don's home, a place that appeared pretty much as I remembered from 40 years earlier, even though Julie and Don had added to the place.  I wasn't sure what I was going to say until I saw her there, in a hospital bed in a sunny back room surrounded by windows and bird feeders and pictures of butterflies.  Nothing had changed.  Our friendship was as real as it was when we were 6 years old.  The thin and frail person before me was still Julie, my wonderful and absolutely beautiful friend.  Though her eyes were sunken they were bright and alive.  Her smile warmed my heart and took me back to a simpler time.  It was as if 40 years had never occurred.  Her hug and kiss on the cheek were the seal of a friendship that would never die, and never could.  

Yes, Julie and I had lived almost our whole lives apart.  I guess that is the funny part about love.  Our lives consist of the physical, the palpable, the concrete, real in the material aspect,  and born of our physical selves while in touch with our physical surroundings.  We think that love is as well, but it is not.  Love is intangible, impossible to define, ethereal, born of the soul, emanating from the heart of the Creator.  Love is not defined by our limited ability to explain or understand it.  Love is not limited by time.  True love never dies.  Because our English language is limited, we often equate the word "love" with romantic love, but there are so many more types of love.  The Greeks had three words for love, but even those have limitations.  A love born of friendship is a love that is deep and abiding, able to withstand the passage of years, and is forgiving of the foibles of character that make us drift apart and remain apart for too long.  It is able to survive our fear, our cynicism, and the things in life that change us and tend to harden our hearts toward others, and even toward ourselves.  It is accepting of what we've experienced and what we've become.  Above all else, this kind of love is supportive, trusting, honest and uncomplicated.  It doesn't ask why people drift apart, but simply rejoices when they are reunited.  True love survives.

Although Julie taught me many things when we were small, about trust and joy and friendship, perhaps this lesson of love is the most important.  Julie doesn't know she taught me these things and I'm sure she never intended to.  Sometimes lessons just happen.  And although I never reached out to her in all the years we were apart, she was always a part of me, and that I always knew.  That's because I knew that childhood friendship, that innocent love, was always there.  I missed that friendship and love, but I didn't know how much until I re-experienced it, and now have to leave it once more.  But I know that love does not die and one day, in the not so distant future, I will see Julie again, and that innocent childhood friendship will once again live, just as Julie does now, in the realm of the unseen and ethereal, in the realm of love and of God.

  

Thank you, Pam, for urging me to contact you sister.
Thank you, Don, for allowing me into your home and for loving Julie like no other.   
Julie, I'll see you again, old friend.  I love you.  Thank you for your friendship and your love.