“Her Name is Grace”
Definition: alma mater. Literally 'nourishing/bounteous mother.' A Latin phrase commonly used to indicate a school, college, or university that one has previously graduated from.
Therapist Esther Perel said, “The quality of your relationships determines the quality of your life.” If Ms. Perel’s maxim is correct – and I believe it is – I’m a one-percenter in the quality of life’s friendships category. I was reminded of that two weekends ago when I returned to my alma mater on Little 500 weekend*** for the 45th reunion of the Indiana University Student Foundation Steering Committee. In 1980-81, thirty or so of us, seniors all, headed up events throughout the year that honed our leadership abilities, benefited the student body, university, and community, and bonded us in friendships that have lasted for nearly half a century. With Jennie, I married above my station. With my steering committee friends, I befriended beyond my deserving. In marriage and friendships, I’m a blessed man.
*** The Little 500 (known as the "Little Five") is a bicycle race held annually during the third weekend of April on a quarter-mile cinder track at Bill Armstrong stadium on the campus of Indiana University in Bloomington, IN. It is attended by 25,000 fans. For the best introduction to the phenomenon that is Little Five, watch the 1979 film “Breaking Away.” I was in the crowd for the filming of the race scenes. You’ll thank me for the recommendation.
On Saturday morning of our reunion, I went out for a four-mile run along a route that took me by locations dear to my memory. The last time I was back for our every-five-year (I learned the word is quinquennial) reunion, I was running up fraternity/sorority row toward my old haunt when a car of rambunctious college guys passed me and slowed down. One of them leaned out the window and hollered, “Run, Grandpa, run!” I was going to take umbrage at the remark but quickly conceded it was a true statement (I was a grandfather and I was running). So, I received it as a compliment (I was a grandfather and could still run!) and with those words of encouragement from that fine young man I charged up the hill with renewed vigor.
Grandpa’s itinerary this visit down memory lane, savored at an old man’s pace of 6 mph, included running by a 1920s bungalow a half-dozen blocks southwest of campus. I used to visit a woman who lived there. More about her in a moment, but first some background.
A mile later in my run, I literally chuckled out loud between huffs and puffs as I ran past the Chemistry Building. I went to IU thinking I wanted to be a doctor. In retrospect, I understand that’s what my grandmother Clarabelle wanted me to be. I was clueless as to what I wanted to do. Her hopes for a Dr. David ended the day I dropped Organic Chemistry during my sophomore year, thoroughly befuddled and failing, and picked up one of the few electives available to replace it.
The course was called “The Bible as Literature.” I rolled my eyes and sighed when I signed up for it. Truth be told, the Bible I received at my baptism six years earlier was in pristine condition, its spine never cracked – i.e., never read. The class was taught in Ballentine Hall, IU’s biggest and tallest classroom building, whose ten-story staircase I ran up and down umpteen times at the crack of dawn from the dead of winter into the spring as a member of our fraternity’s Little 500 bicycle team. My thighs burn from lactic acid buildup just remembering those workouts!
Dr. Roy Battenhouse, who I later learned was an Episcopal priest, was an English professor whose specialty was Shakespeare. He taught the class with a verve and delight that drew me into the Bible. I never retreated. I was hooked. One course led to another. When I told my grandmother I had dropped pre-med for religious studies, she scoffed. “Oh, David! You had the grades to make something of yourself!” In retrospect, I can chuckle out loud at that, too.
As my interest in religious studies was growing, I made an appointment with the Senior Minister of First Christian Church in Bloomington. I asked Rev. Griggs, “What do ministers do?” Part of his answer was to assign me to co-teach the junior high Sunday School class (though my faith was as awkward and immature as the adolescents I taught). He also gave me the address of a homebound member of the congregation to visit.
Her name was Minnie Teague, resident of the aforementioned bungalow six blocks from campus. I learned during my three years of visiting her that Mrs. Teague was a whiner. As I approached her door each week, I steeled myself for her litany of woes. The world was falling apart at the seams and was filled with hateful people. Her back ached and she didn't think she could stand it anymore. Her doctor didn't care. Her son hadn't called her in over two hours to check on her and probably didn't love her. It was probably going to rain again today, you just wait and see. Bloomington was changing and what was going to become of it? – She saw a colored man walk past her house the other day… Forget any "look on the bright side" counsel with Mrs. Teague. She could spot the cloud around any silver lining.
It’s been said, “A thankful person is thankful under all circumstances. A complaining soul complains even if s/he lives in paradise” (Bahu’u’llah). The late Dr. Fred Craddock, one of my mentors, told of when he was a boy growing up on a dirt-poor farm in West Tennessee. When he was diagnosed with malaria and quarantined in his room for an extended period of time and was feeling sorry for himself, his father came in once and tossed three books on his bed – The Bible, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Moby Dick. His father told him, “Even if you have to spend the rest of your life in bed, it can be a full and good life.” On his way back out the door, he added, “There is no way to modulate the human voice so as to make a whine acceptable.”
Though she whined, Mrs. Teague was in fact blessed. She was ninety years old and still lived in her own home. She had her mental faculties intact. She had a longsuffering, loving son, Bud, who attended to his mother daily. She also had Grace. Grace was Mrs. Teague's live-in housekeeper, nurse, and confidant whom Bud had hired to honor his mother's wishes to stay at home during the latter years of her life. Grace's name fit. She surrounded Mrs. Teague with unbounded patience and kindness. But no matter – Mrs. Teague even whined to me about Grace.
Mrs. Teague died decades ago. Grace is no doubt gone as well. Which is to say that in death as well as in life, Mrs. Teague is in the presence of Grace. I wonder if she sees now what she did not see back then – that no matter the circumstances, Grace is present in our lives, a gift from the One who loves us unconditionally whether we whine from dawn ‘till dusk or count our many blessings, name them one by one. Our steadfast companion in life and death. Source of life's consolations and kindnesses, of education and inspiration, of beloved teachers, mentors, spouses, and lifelong friends. Our Alma Mater, nourishing/bounteous Mother.
Her name is Grace.
