A Storm, a Power Outage, a LULU: An Exploration into Community
The Reverend Thomas C. Willadsen
It is about 4:00 a.m. The power is off I cannot get my sleep apnea machine to work, and it is so dark because the nightlight is off. It takes a while for my sleep-addled brain to make the connection that both these appliances are not broken by coincidence.
I go back to sleep.
It is 5:00 a.m. I am awakened by the sound of "guy-guys" (my three year old's term for anyone who wears a helmet while working) speaking on their walkie-talkies in the backyard.
That I slept through the storm that toppled my next door neighbor's seventy year old silver maple tree is a surprise to most people who hear this story. What can I say? I've got a hearing loss; I'm a sound sleeper; I have a clear conscience.
Four years ago, our power was knocked out for three and a half days by the last "storm of the
century." This storm wasn't as bad. The guy-guys were on the scene in about two hours, talking into
their handsets, swearing (especially the one on the utility pole) and trashing the garden that my wife has worked so hard on in the past few weeks.
It is Sunday morning, and we are off to a bad start. Mary and David have been up since the height of the storm, about 2:00 a.m. Peter, our older boy, inherited his dad's imperturbability and has slept through everything.
At 6:30 a.m. Mary announces we are going to Perkins for breakfast. Perkins has become our family
restaurant of choice this spring, but I suggest that we go to The American Table instead. It's much
closer to our home, just a few blocks from church. It's locally-owned and serves the same sorts of
breakfasts that Perkins does for the same price.
About 7:00 a.m., we arrive at the restaurant, needing coffee and the support of the community. Cindy is our waitress, and she is perfect. She guides us to the deals that will feed our boys for the least amount of money. She keeps my coffee cup full and even finds my wife some cranberry juice. She heard the storm but didn't know that anyone had lost power.
I walk the remaining three blocks to church from the restaurant. There's been no damage from the storm at church and the power has stayed on. This is a relief, because I won't have to reset the church's insecurity system. I have never been able to do this without accidentally summoning the police.
Elaine and Betty are setting up for coffee hour. Tomorrow is their mutual birthday. I instruct them to answer, "None of your damn business!" whenever someone asks them how old they are. Betty, a
new member, pretends to be shocked at this counsel. It prods Elaine to tell me a mildly racy joke
about a couple who pretend to be married. "Get your own damn blanket!" is the punch line.
As we close the service, everyone sings, "I have heard you calling in the night..." This line makes me
laugh so hard I stop singing. "God's going to have to do a lot better than that thunderstorm last night if He wants to get my attention," I think to myself.
After worship, Marlyn asks how David is. His earache interrupted yesterday's quilt meeting. "Fill that boy with enough Tylenol, and he's good to go!" I respond.
Nick, the adolescent member of my air-band, tells me that he returned to the library the CD from
last month's performance a few days overdue. I tell him I can write off the fine as a business expense.
"I knew you'd have an angle, Pastor Tom!"
After worship and coffee hour (It is a strange array of treats honoring the birthday women at coffee hour: circus peanuts, cheese curds, Jell-o bricks, nuts, crackers, fruit spread.), the congregation gathers
to hear about the application for a sabbatical grant that we will submit in the coming week. I hope to explore the emerging field of New Urbanism and its implications for a church like ours that has chosen to stay downtown. The congregation is enthusiastic. One woman says that we need to live into our new mission statement: Ministry from the Heart of Oshkosh, serving with energy, intelligence, imagination, and love. I've enjoyed the whole process of dreaming about what I would do, given three months away from work and up to $45,000.
On my one-mile walk home from church, I encounter only one person on the street, a realtor getting ready for an open house. I wish him luck. After we survey the damage done by the storm (none) and the guy-guys (less than we first feared) and move the downed limbs off the grass, I decide to clean the gutters. I love cleaning the gutters. I have the clearest gutters in Winnebago County. You can't keep me off my extension ladder when there might be blockage in my gutters. Luckily, the storm has blown down all the maple seeds, so I have a legitimate reason to climb my ladder.
As I'm on the ladder the chainsaw symphony starts. Many people on our block are out cutting big branches into smaller branches. Brian, the man who lives across the fence, is one of them. Brian is a good neighbor. He throws back the balls our sons hit over the fence. Today, for the first time, we learn his name, because the storm has brought us out, working on a common project.
While I've got my ladder out and I'm feeling community-minded, I walk down the street to the home for four developmentally-delayed women. City planners call their residence a LULU, for "locally undesirable land use," I have to disagree with this characterization. When my boys and I walk the three blocks to the park to play ball, if we encounter anyone on the street, it's one of these ladies. We always exchange pleasantries. One afternoon, the lady with the white hair asked if I could help with the zipper on her sweater. I'm a dad; it's what I do! Not only did she get her sweater on properly, but I got to feel like a helpful good citizen and my sons saw that strangers trust dad and dad helps strangers.
I walk to the LULU and ring the bell. The ladies lurk in the living room until the resident helper answers the door.
"May I clean your gutters?" I ask.
"Uh...if you want to..."
"I do, thanks!"
Frederick Buechner has said that one's vocation is "the place where our deep gladness meets the needs of the world." For me, that is at the top of my extension ladder. For more than a year, I've noticed the rotting leaves in the valley of the LULU's roof. I've noticed the leaves and maple seeds peaking out over the sides of the eavestroughs, and I've considered walking down the block and offering to clear the gutters. I'm glad I did. The gutter on the back of the house was clogged and filled with stagnant water. A quick application of my metal spoon and a forsythia twig releases a torrent of water onto the grass. The ladies are delighted!
After returning home I spot my neighbor two doors down the other way. We had bonded four years ago cleaning up after the last big storm. It was like a snow day in June. He couldn't write his article because his computer needs electricity, so we spent the morning hauling branches to the curb and helping our neighbors do the same. The day after the storm was the high point of our friendship. We see each other regularly but never take each other up on invitations to get together.
Don is amazed that I slept through the storm.
"I wanna be you in my next life!"
I'm thinking that's a compliment.
It seems that every one of these encounters says something about community: the rich, thick community relationships I have formed with the members of my congregation; the professional relationship Cindy offered us as she served our omelets and waffles; the casual, haphazard relationships that form among neighbors; relationships that are strengthened, even nurtured by storms and adversity. Thinking about my neighbor ladies, I can't think of a single "undesirable" thing about having them live on my block. They're
friendlier than anyone else. They are the only people we see on most of our trips to the park. They are kind to me and my boys. They accept our help and don't even really ask for it. They even let me discover my true vocation.
Ten feet off the ground, up to my wrists in muck I recognize my place in the community. The
joy I feel in being able to help is their gift to me.