An Open Letter to My First Mentor

Happy Birthday, Joanne!

Do people in heaven celebrate birthdays?  Probably not, but more important for you (and tragic for me) is that this is the tenth time you have celebrated a birthday in heaven.  Another thing I’m not absolutely clear on is whether you are aware of this birthday greeting; whether you are privy to some of the milestones, triumphs, and failures I’ve missed sharing with you over the past ten years.  I’ve gotten used to thinking of you as a member of my “cloud of witnesses.”  I hope I’m right.

One of the reasons that I’m ok about admitting my uncertainties (that I have not yet developed a theology-of-everything) is that from the time I was sixteen years old, I witnessed your questioning spirit, your curious mind, and your whole-hearted  “pressing on to know the Lord.”   I wanted to know Him, too, so I trailed along behind you.   In fact, I wish I could ask you now if you ever thought of yourself as my “mentor.”  Evangelicals weren’t throwing that word around in the seventies.  However, they were throwing a lot of other words around, and you were curious about all of them.  Journaling, conversational prayer, the role of women in the church — you shared your books with me, we wondered out loud together,  and something stronger than heredity was passed along.  As we talked, you were teaching me how to think about faith, but I picked up other things as well.   When I clean out a mixing bowl, my spatula “chases the batter into the pan,” just like yours did.  I wouldn’t be caught dead without a supply of English muffins in my freezer so that when a crowd of teens lands on my doorstep, I can feed them “pizza babies.”

Crucially, from you, I learned to love the Word of God, because of Who it points to and because of the very sound of it.

When I asked how you happened to be quoting Psalm 8 from memory in a devotional, your reply was stunning to me:  “I liked it, so I wanted to memorize it.”

“Huh, why not?”  I said, and I am still saying it.  Whenever I review Philippians 2, I can hear your voice saying it with me over the engine of a VW Rabbit.

When we prayed together, I believed that God was listening.  Eventually, I began to believe that He would listen when I came to Him alone.

From you, I learned not to take myself too seriously.  Your daughter’s wedding in the apple orchard yielded some amazing black and white photos.  For instance, the bridal party and guests with heads bowed in prayer at ceremony’s end, barefoot brides maids in the tall grass, and the mother-of-the-bride with her head thrown back, eyes closed, apparently in deep, thoughtful meditation.   “Wow, that was some prayer time, ” I observed.

“I was just trying to keep my nose from running, ” you said.

Another uncontrollable force in your life was the kitchen table, always covered with an assortment of books, mail, loaves of bread, and magazines.  Whenever we talked on the phone, you were cleaning off the table.  ALWAYS.   Here’s what I’ve realized about that:

Like me, you had a husband and four kids. Like me, you were very active in your church.   Unlike me, you had a career outside the home.

I will never know what sacrifices you made to spend time with me.  So now, on your birthday, I want to remember what I have received so that when the opportunity arises, I will choose availability over “me-time”; vulnerability over “image management”; relationships over the elusive merit-badge in housekeeping.

I have not even begun to build into the lives of others in the way that you did, but thank you for showing me that it can be done, and that the Great Commission is not always fulfilled with a passport and a suitcase.  Sometimes two people sit at a messy kitchen table, and the Spirit is there, and disciples are made.


Linking up today with Leah Adams and a great group of writers and thinkers at The Loft.

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Michele Morin

Michele Morin is a teacher, blogger, reader, and gardener who finds joy in sitting at a table surrounded by women with open Bibles. She has been married to an unreasonably patient husband for over 25 years, and their four children are growing up at an alarming rate. Michele loves hot tea and well-crafted sentences, poems that stop her in her tracks and days at the ocean with the whole family. She laments biblical illiteracy and advocates for the prudent use of “little minutes.” She blogs at Living Our Days, and you can connect with her on Facebook or Twitter.

7 thoughts on “An Open Letter to My First Mentor”

  1. Sweet mercy, what a beautiful, tender post. I was so blessed by it, and challenged to live out my faith before those who circle around my life. Thank you, thank you for linking up at The Loft. What a blessing this was to read.

    Like

  2. Wow! Awesome tribute to your mentor! She sounds like quite a lady – serious but fun, too. Thanks for sharing about her at The Loft!

    Ok, now please, what are pizza babies? Because it sounds like something I might need to keep in my fridge, too.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Ha! Pizza babies are just English muffins, toasted and then topped with pizza sauce, cheese, and whatever else screams pizza to a hoard of starving teens. I just make sure that I always have at least a dozen EM’s in the freezer because you never know . . .

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  3. Oh, I love this! Your love for this person is evident and you have obviously learned gleaned and grown from their inspiration and leadership in your life… Even though you are missing your mentor, their legacy is living on! Praise God!

    Like

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