A
Long Time
“Forty”
is code language in the Bible for “a long time.” Whether it describes the
interminable period of worldly devastation endured by the creatures aboard
Noah’s ark or the feeling of being forever-deserted experienced by the
Israelites wandering in the wilderness, the point is you don’t know if it is
going to end much less when.
Forty
years ago this spring my family was—as my father would always put it—“escaping”
from Mississippi. He was serving his third church, First Presbyterian in Starkville,
Mississippi, and had been there just three years (“three” is Biblical shorthand
for “resurrection” which implies you have to die first). During his short
tenure my white father and my white mother had supported civil rights for black
people, which had rubbed other white people the wrong way. Without proper
authorization, a meeting of the all-white congregation was held to vote to remove
my father as the pastor. After much debate the vote narrowly passed, but in
exchange for forcing him out the church was made to pay my dad a year’s salary
of $8,000 (which made each monthly paycheck $666, a significant number
according to Revelation 13:18 and so noted in my dad’s Bible.)
As
an eleven-year-old in the 5th grade who knew a lot but wasn’t old enough to
act on it, I was aware that things were unsettling. My little brother and I
were not present at the big meeting to oust our father, but I remember walking
up the long flight of wide concrete steps to the front doors of the church as
the members were leaving, when some adult patted me on the head in passing. I
remember after the meeting the teenage president of the church youth group came
over to our house—the church’s manse—to talk to my dad about what was
happening. I recall one of the last days of the school year when my teacher
Mrs. Wallace—whose husband had lost a leg in the war and would occasionally visit
our class, one leg and all—announced that I would not be returning in the fall
as my family was moving. One of my classmates, some boy, made a good-riddance
comment and the teacher scolded him. And some friends in the church hosted a
good-bye party for me at their house. Six other girls were there, and they gave
me a Kodak instamatic camera as a going-away gift. I took pictures of us that
day and still have them saved in a photo album along with each of their names.
For
whatever reason I have no memories of packing up our belongings. We did it
ourselves with the aid of friends, and Dad rented a U-Haul truck and hired two
men to help load it and drive with him to our new house and unload it. At the
last minute he had to rent a second truck and—I was told decades later—someone anonymously
left $200 in an envelope for us, enough to cover the cost of the extra van.
What I do remember about the actual move is riding with my brother in the
family Volvo as my mother drove us to our new beginning. My first glimpses of
dry land, Promised Land, were looking up at the trees and being mesmerized by
the sunlight playing hide-and-seek behind the flashing, green leaves. Surely an
indication that the flood waters were receding and we were on our way to the
other side.
As
I write this, forty years later, I am now 51. “Fifty” is “a full or complete
time” in scripture, and I indeed fully appreciate that this month happens to
mark the longest time I have ever served in any one position since being
ordained: two years and two months (or twenty-six months, neither of which have
Biblical relevance). For mixed reasons I choose to serve only on a temporary
basis, kind of like being a permanent substitute teacher. Perhaps because of my
dad’s experience, or simply because I’m human, I prefer to know at the start of
a church job—and the congregation knows, too—when it will finish.
In
the throes of struggling to keep your head above water or surviving a
hand-to-mouth existence in the middle of nowhere, it’s hard to track how it all
began or where it’s headed. Some people can’t bear the not-knowing and try to
control the only thing they think they can: the end. Except that acting on this
doesn’t always go to plan and you can find yourself back at point zero
(“nothing”). The harsh reality about “a long time” is that when you’re in it,
there is no end to it.
Only
when you’re out of it are you able to look back and see that it adds up to
forty long days and nights of utter chaos. Forty whatever of pure hell. “Forty”
isn’t some random number; it’s the gestation period, measured in weeks, for
human beings. And a week, “seven days,” spells “creation.” One nice thing about
weeks is they don’t imply a death but rather each one incorporates a day of
rest. I can remember having some bad weeks, as does everybody, but they aren’t
a life sentence. The world can change over the course of seven days and has
been doing so since forever. A long time.
