WORD CAIRNS

A COLLECTION OF WRITINGS

JAN VICKERY KNOST

AuthorHouse™

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© 2016 Jan Vickery Knost. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/22/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6098-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6099-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6097-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918604

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Contents

Minister’s Columns:

Parish The Thought

A Pulpit Perspective

Some Thoughts On Suffering

An Altar’d State

Sometimes A Tear Glistens

Memoirs:

My First Real Funeral

Wadin’ The Creek Saturdays

Helen

Easter Dinner - 1942

A Singing Saint’s Remembrance

A Spanish Reverie

An Incredible Learning Experience

Not Guilty

A Proud Dad Remembers

Dad’s Recipe For Clean Scrambled Eggs

A Little Mystery

A Living Editorial

Moonlighting

Another Kind Of Mother’s Day Tale

A Governor’s Visit

A Summer Idyll

Bible People

Up From 800 Feet!

Ministry – The Occasional Miasmal Swamp

Taking The High Road

Wedding Stories

Lorna Smith Knost

A Memoir To A Better Era

Father’s Day - 2013

Sextons, Custodians & Janitors I Have Known

Poems:

The Terror And The Joy

Reflections In A Glass Bowl

On What Might Yet Be Said

Dedication To A Canine Friend

Virtue

Yesterday’s Tomorrow

Sleeping Angels

Blueberries

Dream Encountered

The Promise

Somewhere, One Of You…

Stories:

Livin’ In The Red Dirt South

Simplicity Made Difficult

A Story With No Name

The Kiss

Sermons:

Bibble, Babble, Bible – What To Teach?

The Sunshine Of The Soul

Universalist Heroes And Heroines

Jesus Did What? – An Easter Sermon

Bedside Manners

Utrim Sit Deus?

To Be Overdone Is To Be Undone

The Idea Of Hell

Baseball As Gospel Truth

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to our children –

Keith William Knost

Kristan Beth Knost

Jana Marcy Knost

Amy Kathryn Knost

And our grandchildren –

Meghan Elizabeth Battiloro

Patrick Michael Connor III

Haley Bridget Connor

Katherine Jan McCarthy

Christopher Zachary Battiloro

Linnea Faith Battiloro

Jensen Cole Butler

Jonah Nathaniel Butler

Anna Brielle Butler

With incredible love and gratitude,

Jan and Lorna Knost

Many people, especially ignorant people,

want to punish you for speaking the truth,

for being earnest, for being you.

Never apologize for being correct or for

being years ahead of your time.

If you’re right and you know it, speak your

mind. Speak your mind even if you are a

minority of one.

The truth is still the truth.

- Mohandas Gandhi

FOREWORD

- by Jana Marcy Knost Battiloro;

daughter of The Reverend Jan Vickery Knost

He was a man. Take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again.

- Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2

Easter Sunday – the show of shows so to speak in a minister’s church year -the Sunday when even the most apathetic church-goers find the time to dust off their Sunday best and come for some spiritual soul food. My father was never in the pew with my mother and us. Since I was born he has always been up there – giving a sermon, saying a prayer, giving the show. This particular Easter Sunday I want to tell you about was no different, except this time I got away from my mother’s watchful, quiet arms. As a toddler, I did not feel the need to be cleansed or sanctified– I just wanted to walk, explore, and survey the territory. So I did. I clumsily worked my chubby toddler legs up the steps to the mystical realm of spirituality known in Christian religion as the pulpit. With absolutely no knowledge of the importance of the day or of my father’s role in the pageantry, I reached my arms up to him for the opportunity to be held. He obliged, as well as continued to preach. I remained perched there, for a few moments, safely in my father’s arms, listening to the cadence and tenor of his voice, surveying the sea of people and community that was my world at the age of one and a half. I glanced down to my mother and siblings, waiting in the pew below, and I’m sure I recognized many of the people who were probably amused by the temerity of this toddler. When I felt I had surveyed my world enough, I stiffened in his arms, signaling to him I was ready to move on. He let me down, gently, with the knowledge I would find my mother and I would probably explore some more before I reached her again, but that I would undoubtedly be fine and learn along the way.

It was this moment that maybe best captures my experience as the daughter of this man. How do I capture his strength, his intelligence, his creativity, his joie de vivre, his energy, his charisma, and his magnanimous personality in a paltry foreword for a book? I don’t know. I suppose that is why I begin this as the toddler, reaching up for the safety of his arms, but knowing that he would allow me to go when I was ready, trusting my own sense of adventure and spirit to find my own way. That is who he is to us, my siblings and me.

The child of a minister learns that life is different than the lives of other children very quickly. Sundays are the busy days, whereas other dads dreaded Mondays. Saturday nights were the stressful night when Dad read the sermon to Mom, whereas other families went out or relaxed on Saturday nights. Weeknight family dinners happened later than most families, after Dad returned from one of countless committee meetings. Christmas Eve was a busy night of work and we never quite knew when he might come in and join the family celebration. Our phone number was always easy to remember, in case a parishioner needed him in an emergency. There was always a chance he would be called to a hospital late at night, there was always a stranger at our Thanksgiving table, and we would occasionally be told not to go in the living room till Daddy finished the wedding. This is the life of a preacher’s kid, – especially this preacher’s kid. I just assumed my dad was different than others because of the nature of his job. And my father is different – but thankfully, as I have aged, I recognize that what sets my father apart from any other dad is everything other than his unique career.

My father was called to the ministry because of his need for and love of people in general. He loves life and he loves people. His immense sense of caring and compassion is ebullient and infectious. My father taught us this and how to love one another and make sure we are kind and generous. My father taught me about baseball, fishing, classical music, and good writing. My father taught me about good movies, a great meal, and how to use a power drill. My father taught me to write and read poetry, to speak publicly, and to sing loudly. My father taught me to be politically attentive and socially active, to stand up when others might sit down, and to be brave in the face of adversity. My father taught me to cry out loud when I feel the need, and to laugh out loud when I feel the need. My father taught me to say I love you and often.

Each day he would make us breakfast, and he served us a question each morning with our food: What do you have to look forward to today? As a parent, myself, now I understand his meaning – to find unique in the mundane, to find joy in the sorrow, to find hope in the dread. He encouraged me my whole life to take a different view or strike a different path, trusting his lessons would guide us to safety. As a teenager, I remember driving to California on a summer vacation. As we traversed the very flat, very desolate area of West Texas, we slept on and off to break up the monotony. On one particular leg of the journey, we traveled at night. He stopped the car, woke us up, and asked us to get out and stand in the middle of the road, just to look up at the stars. I looked up at the dizzying landscape of overwhelming stars in that immense sky and heard him say, Just look at that. Once again, he was reminding us to look again, enjoy the view, look for the good, and appreciate with humbled awe the world in which we are so privileged to be alive.

My father has been providing me with the opportunity to marvel at the view for over forty years now. I suppose it began with that Easter Sunday perched up in his arms, but I know it has not ended. My hope is that each of the pieces in his book provides you with a different view of him, in the wonderful, complex mosaic that is my father. I have learned to share him with, what has amounted to thousands of people, throughout his career. I am only so happy to have the opportunity to share him once again.

Thank you, Dad, for the lift and the view. Life is grand.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Gentle Reader,

Please know how happy I am that you have received this volume. I have wanted to produce it for some time. Mostly, it is because I wanted to leave something for our grandchildren to read after I have departed this mortal coil. One son-in-law once asked, Have they ever been there when you were in the pulpit? I had to say, No. Then he followed with, It would be great if you could put together a book of your work over the years.

Well, that idea took for me. I began to go through nearly a half-century of professional writings to find some modest offerings that may be of interest to my young grandchildren as they grow to maturity. And so, this is it.

My life has been dedicated to several very simple things: my wife and family, my profession, music, laughter and the proscenium arch, not to mention fishing and golf.

This book is a collection of sermons, minister’s columns, stories and poems. They have been resurrected (not a Universalist theme, to be sure!) that I hope you will enjoy.

The stories are mostly from experiences in my life. The poems are statements about the human condition. The sermons are only a sampling of a much larger file of efforts made in behalf of the congregations I served. The rubric for writing each sermon was to spend an hour of research and preparation for every minute of its length.

I sincerely hope you who are not family will like this little volume. It is a small indication of my gratitude for having been able to enjoy life with you all through the years. With every good wish and with affection,

Jan Vickery Knost

Charlestown, RI

2015

PARISH THE THOUGHT

"And one of the elders of the city said, Speak to us of Good and Evil.

And he answered:

Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil.

For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?

Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves,

and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters."

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

All of us struggle with the excruciating dilemmas wrought in our world today. Suicidal terrorism continues to grip the human psyche. We feel helpless to find a way to reason with those willing to die in order to kill others.

We grieve for our sisters and brothers of the Roman Catholic faith, divided over the problems wrought by the criminal behavior of those in whom they had put their trust – priests and hierarchy alike.

Our national memory seems short when measured against the horrors of two World Wars, the Korean War and Viet Nam. Some are never able to forget.

Even our former enemies now rally with us as economic and cultural friends. I wept at saying Goodbye to Seiji Ozawa after his twenty-nine remarkable years as Music Director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. One writer expressed it all: "He’s our guy!"

I wept, too, when our babysitter, Helen Nomura, didn’t come to our house anymore. She had been taken to a concentration camp in Oregon following the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor. But my brother and I participated in all the War Drives – savings bonds, scrap metal, rendered fats for making munitions, Victory Gardens. We hardly knew the meaning of good and evil but the blackouts were really there on the West Coast where Dad attended seminary.

Now the new symbol of human courage and sacrifice is a picture of three firemen in NYC raising a tattered flag at Ground Zero. It has virtually replaced the seven Marines raising a flag on Iwo Jima.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

We, who have given our lives to the work of assisting people through their religious journeys, feel just as helpless as many of you. We wish we could assure a peaceful existence and a world of good and plenty. But the evil of thirst and hunger won’t go away. Not now. Not ever.

We can only open our hearts to each other’s pain and dedicate each day to addressing the ills nearby, praying that sanity will come.

A PULPIT PERSPECTIVE

One morning last week, I mentioned to my wife that it was just about time for the smelt to start biting in Hingham Harbor, Massachusetts. I then alluded to the fact that salt water being but forty-five minutes away, there must be some smelt in New Jersey too. Don’t tell me you’re going to do that again? We still have enough smelt from last year to last a month!

I suspect many spouses might be saying the same thing this time of year. Smelt fishing is an enjoyable late fall and early winter pastime – still catching fish so close to the advent of winter. Yet, it reminds me of something else. I recall a strong and wonderful person named Hazel Kehoe. I am happy to say it was my privilege to know her.

Hazel was a tiny woman in her late sixties when I first met her. Live shrimp could only be purchased at the Bait Shack in Hingham, and that shack was her longtime bailiwick. She would always greet me cheerfully and mutter some observations about the male crowd who leave beer cans on my dock. I learned that she and her husband were the proud parents of five sons. Mr. Kehoe had died some years before, but Hazel had kept his trust by raising all of them in the Roman Catholic faith. She remained a lifelong Baptist, attending church regularly, but her boys were Catholic – that’s what he wanted.

Mrs. Kehoe could stand toe-to-toe with the roughest of the waterfront crowd who graced the docks on cold fall and winter evenings to catch the tiny smelt. One story I recall tells of the time one customer kept getting nature’s hurry-up calls. It was probably due to the large quantities of malt brew he was imbibing while fishing. Mrs. Kehoe kept watching him as he went back and forth to one of the lockers to use-it-for-that-which-it-was-not-intended. As he stood in the door of the locker for the third time, he suddenly felt himself propelled inside by a strong shove on the back. Standing outside was this tiny woman yelling I’ll teach YOU to use these lockers for that! as she pounded two ten-penny nails into the door to keep him there.

Religious understanding is a fragile enterprise, especially when it involves understanding someone else’s religion. Too many of us let tradition get in the way of the right of others to choose. Hazel Kehoe might very well have raised her sons Baptists. But she didn’t. She chose, rather, to follow the wishes of her husband. In doing so, and in quietly observing the tenets of her own faith, she showed by example that it is possible to be open to other religious faiths and the values they teach. There is not one of her sons who would deny this.

Years ago, I was honored by being