SUNDAY MORNING

From the pastor

 

May 11, 2008

 

            It is a weird weekend—combining a sentimental mood of Mother’s Day with evocative stories about the searing fires of Pentecost.  We find ourselves jolted into a Pentecost hope for our church while simultaneously honoring the spirit of motherhood:  that submission of the self to the necessities of the needy. 

 

And it is apt that this was the weekend for the memorial service for my friend, Audrey Hiles.  

 

            Audrey would have been 80 this year and was one of my all time best friends.  She had been battling a legion of cancers for almost a decade.  And battle she did.  If you asked her how it was going with the cancer, she would scrunch up her face, ball up her fist, spit out a string of expletives, and clarify just how much scorn she had for those @#$%^&* little cancer cells.  If a cancer cell could think, it would have been scared witless to hear her talk.  And when the doctor told her almost 10 years ago that she only had a couple years left to live…well…let’s put it this way:  she simply decided to outlive the doctor.  God could tell her when to die, but no doctor better even dare.  And true to her courage, she never yielded to her fears of pain, death, or even the mutilating effects of the treatments. 

 

            I was Audrey’s pastor for 13 years, and a close friend for another 7.  For five years my daughters and I took a week each winter to relax with her and Claude in their seasonal home in Florida.  The last time--Jie was also able to go.  Audrey would take us to beaches and restaurants, cook and play games in the evenings, and gather us oranges and grapefruits from the trees of her good friends.  She regaled us with stories about her children and grandchildren, her friends, the places she had traveled, and all the people she didn’t like.  (The last were the best and most fun!)

 

Her husband, Claude, who survives her, has an attractive nonchalance that paired well with her fiery passion.  The marriage between the two was summarized by Chris Ritter, their current pastor:  The old man told the young man that he and his wife had been married almost 60 years.  It was decided early on that the wife would make all the little decisions--and he would make all the big ones.  The young man asked how many big decisions had come along during those 60 years.  The old man reflected:  “…none.”

 

Audrey was born in Chicago during the gangster era—which could be why no one ever wanted to mess with her—even though she was maybe only five feet tall.  She flew with the Civil Air Patrol in World War II, tried to join the FBI (rejected by J. Edgar Hoover himself), tried to become a veterinarian (trumped by her fourth pregnancy), helped to found a hospital in Maryville, Illinois, and ran several family businesses.  Her travels took her to Europe and China (among other places.)  She was skilled in Chinese cooking, Italian cuisine, and ham and beans and corn bread.  

 

Audrey loved to argue with me in our Bible studies.  And even though I often thought her thoughts were crazy, she changed my whole theology about Bible study itself.  Thanks to Audrey, I am now convinced that the Bible is designed to provoke human arguments.  It is in the mental wrestling of argument that scripture comes alive—and the living word of God speaks to us.  Scripture is so booby trapped with paradoxes, contradictions, and outrageous assertions that those who read it thoughtfully and deeply can’t help but argue.  So when Audrey talked about going to heaven, it was with feistiness rather than sentimentality.  Her long deceased loved ones will have to wait—she has a few other matters to settle first.  May the Lord have mercy on those biblical characters she plans to corner and interrogate, especially the apostle Paul.    

 

            When she was a young woman, Audrey was viciously beaten—at gunpoint—an occasion full of terror, helplessness, and humiliation.  When she spoke of that day, half a century later—she still trembled and welled with tears.  And although she rarely spoke of it, she wanted me to know her story—so that I would understand why she was so argumentative when we had Bible studies about forgiveness.  In time it occurred to me that this awful event had morphed into a holy parable which shaped her life.  There was nothing she could do to change that day from many years ago.  But she could spend the rest of her life redeeming it—by protecting others from harm.  

 

And protect she did!  She was incurably maternal to anyone who was beleaguered, needy, or vulnerable.  She frequently slipped material aid (under the table), mentored (by modeling toughness), and quipped advice, (often abruptly.)  She instructed on such things as prayer (use it), weight (lose it), and sex (use it or lose it.)  

 

If you were one of “her people,” she protected you from others—and from yourself.  I’m not sure how you got to be one of “her people,” but I suppose it had something to do with her being able to sense that you needed her unique paradox of toughness and tenderness.  Her rabble queendom included innocent young women, widows, lifestyle deviants, beleaguered pastors, abused spouses, the mentally unbalanced, immigrants, soldiers and sailors…and anyone who needed a second chance—for any reason.

 

            I grieve and weep deeply when I allow myself to feel the emptiness of Audrey’s death.  It baffles me that she liked me so, that she protected me so fiercely, and that she shared with me so generously.  Perhaps even more than learning the art of arguing from her, I know that I have been touched by God’s grace—through her.  

 

So Happy Mother’s Day Audrey.  And may the searing fires of Pentecost that rested upon your personality burn forever brightly in the hearts of all who knew you.    --Mike

 

 

In Audrey’s memorial bulletin, the family included this rendition of a Milton Berle poem that Audrey had jotted down (one of the many poems and prayers she had stuck to mirrors and other furniture):

 

I’d rather be a could be if I couldn’t be an are.

For a could be is a may be with a chance of touching par.

I’d rather be a has been than a might have been, by far.

For a might have been has never been, but a has was once an are.

 

(This is a picture of Jie and Audrey in her Florida kitchen, taken a little over two years ago.)