Musings on a Bookmark. A Note From Jan.

Had an urge today to clean out and organize the tall wooden secretary that stands in the living room of our perch, the only reminder of Wilson House days.  It’s still looking rather presidential with its height, 18th century design and dark cherry wood.  It remains my favorite piece of furniture not made by my brother Ralph or repaired and painted by Jud. 

Inside one of the small drawers, I found a collection of bookmarks, some of my favorite travel souvenirs. I was surprised to come upon one from The Baptist Temple on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, where Jud’s parents pastored for many years, serving into their 70s. Gold lettering stamped onto a red ribboned bookmark read: “Where Everybody is Somebody and Jesus Christ is Lord.”

Mother and Dad Carlberg, like most of us, didn’t grow up thinking in such an egalitarian way.  Oh, they sang “Jesus loves the little children.  All the children of the world.” But no one was particularly keen to have all God’s children as neighbors, friends or, above all, family. They, like we, had to unlearn what’s carefully taught and caught. They had to learn anew “to love your neighbor as yourself” and respect the EVERYbody aspect of God’s creation. And I guarantee you that you meet EVERY body in Brooklyn, including a lot of my relatives, even as gentrified as it’s become of late.

Dad and Mom, along with a handful of folks who didn’t head for the suburbs in the late sixties and seventies, integrated that old landmark church. Bastian of whiteness and rightness. Mom, joined by a few other brave hearts, went to nearby public housing to invite EVERY body they met to come to Sunday School and church.  Little by little they came. Little, as in children, mostly. Hard to resist love served with cookies and juice. Hard to resist finding yourself wrapped in a story told with the aid of flannel graph figures that you—with brown, black, white or yellow hands—could touch. Mom prepared those lessons like she was about to teach the children of the high and mighty. Which, as children of the Most High God, they were.

In that time of bussing, not always for noble purposes, the church bought an old school bus that Dad drove to pick up those farther away. During the week, the bus was locked behind chain link fencing to keep it from being stripped for parts, which gives a hint about the neighborhood.  Some mornings you could find Dad (Big Bob the Baptist) fiddling with balky parts under the hood or beneath the bus.  Master fixer and tinkerer. Jerry rigger of the first order. Calloused hands, more like a carpenter’s than a preacher’s.  Jud learned much from his parents. True servants.

Since Jud died, I’ve hung one of my favorite pictures of him from the key that opens the top half of the secretary.  The photo is a gift from Gordon friends in the communications department (think Stillpoint).  It hangs at just the right kissing height for me. I love it because Jud’s not dressed in presidential garb of suit and tie.  He’s simply wearing one of his favorite shirts, a well-worn, faded blue denim complete with frayed collar.  Jud learned a strong work ethic from his parents. That shirt reminds me of his hard working-serving heart for Gordon College, for his family and wherever God nudged him to help.

Moved his picture to a chair today to keep watch while I sorted.  Jud still has a way of keeping me on task. It’s those eyes.  He never suffered from scatterbrain nor creative outbursts that took gigantic detours.  I found a card depicting a woman in the midst of a creative sidetrack which I’ve kept for my mantra. It reads: “He said,’I hate to see you wasting your time on something frivolous.’  She said,’Don’t look.’ ”

Well, Jud keeps me company today while I work and think and remember him and his parents.  He came from good stock. Not perfect.  None of us are.  But, today, a red ribbon bookmark reminds me how rich I am. Reminds me, too, of who I can look forward to seeing one day, “when we all get to heaven.” Brown, black, yellow, freckled, wrinkled and even some mostly white folks, including a growing number from that Godly heritage called family: Mom, Dad, Jud and so many more.

“You (God) have given me the heritage of those who fear your name.” (Psalm 61:5)

Thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you, Jud. Thank you, God. Gracious, Merciful, Loving to EVERYbody and Creative beyond our wildest imaginings.

Some of us, as You know, God, are fairly wild and easily sidetracked by one creative whim or another. Just caught Jud looking at me from the chair in the living room as I sit perched on a stool in the kitchen writing away, joyfully distracted. The not-quite-finished secretary beckons.