A Long Time

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.