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EDITOR’S NOTE: When Ronald Sider died this summer, remembrances flowed around the world in tribute to his half a century of progressive Christian activism. Care to read more about those milestones in his career? Check out Ron’s Wikipedia page. In the following column, Ron’s sister Lucille writes about the far more personal side of the brother she loved so dearly. Her remembrance takes the form of a letter she wrote to—Dear Ron.

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‘Dear Ron—’ A Sister’s Remembrance

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By LUCILLE SIDER
Author of Light Shines in the Darkness

Dear Ron,

I want you to know some of the many ways in which you have influenced me. My earliest memory of you stretches back to your practicing baseball at home. You were about 14. You were a pitcher—the kind of picture that swings your arm in a full circle. You were fast—very fast. You needed a catcher and asked me. I was 6 at the time.

I was determined to catch those fast balls and I did. The glove I used was way too big for my hands but that didn’t stop me from using it.

I clearly remember your second year in college, Waterloo Lutheran University which was close to home. Near the end of that year you lost your faith, having been influenced by a professor who was an atheist.

Our parents were beside themselves and started to pray. They prayed that a Christian professor would come to the college. Their prayers were answered and that next year Dr. John Warwick MontGomery came. Through your experiences with him, your faith was restored.

When it was time for me to go to college, I assumed I would go to Waterloo Lutheran like you. But Mother and Dad were dead set against it for fear I would lose my faith. They insisted I go to our church college, Messiah College, in Pennsylvania. They helped pay for my tuition—even though their finances were modest. But they would do anything to help me maintain my faith.

Their prayers were answered.

In college I had a double major—psychology and religion. In high school, I had discovered psychology and especially dream interpretation. I wanted to learn more about dreams but my college was focused on teaching about becoming a social worker. So for several years I turned to my other interest: religion.

You and your wife Arbutus were at Yale University when I graduated from college. You had just graduated from Yale Divinity School and you were working on your doctorate. I was delighted that you were there! You finished your doctorate that year, but you told me about a friend of yours who had just spent a year in Israel. His name was Don and we started dating immediately. At the end of that year we married in the Divinity School Chapel where friends and families assembled to celebrate.

You and Arbutus supported me in my interest in Christian Feminism. I was a founder of the Evangelical Women’s Caucus (EWC), which was really an offshoot of Evangelicals for Social Action—of which you were the founder. Recently EWC expanded and is now EEWC—Evangelical and Ecumenical Women’s Caucus.

You and Arbutus also supported me in my work for Daughters of Sarah, a Christian feminist magazine, for which I was a founder and editor.

When I was 50, my second husband Denny suddenly divorced me to marry a student. I was absolutely devastated and I had to resign my position as Director of the Samaritan Center in Evanston, IL. After a year of turmoil you invited me to come and live with you in Philadelphia. The plan was to stay with you while waiting to become a member of Gould Farm in Massachusetts. Gould Farm masterfully combined physical labor with psychology and spiritually and it was clearly what I needed for two and one-half years. The trip to Gould Farm from your home in Philadelphia was about three hours. You and Arbutus visited me often and, when it was time for me to leave Gould Farm, you drove me to Binghamton, New York, to live near my cousin, Twila.

During my time at Gould Farm, I revealed to you and Arbutus the secret I was holding for years: sexual abuse when I was a child. It became clear to all of us that this sexual abuse was a big part of my mental illness.

You and Arbutus strongly encouraged me to report the abuse and confront the abuser, a brother in law. I was not strong enough to do this at that time but by your knowing the secret, the burden was somewhat lightened. Then when I later reported it, you both upheld me. You assured me that it was the right thing to do.

Ten years later I was encouraged by my writing teacher, Dr. Arlene, Malinowski to write my life story, which included the sexual abuse. You and Arbutus were the first family members to read the manuscript. You absolutely agreed that my story should be published and you and Arbutus wrote the Preface of the book. My book title was: Light Shines in the Darkness: My Healing Journey Through Sexual Abuse and Depression.

By this time, you had become a very, very well-known Christian activist. I knew that you were prolific in your writing but just recently I asked how many books you had written. I expected it would be 10 or so but was dumfounded when you told me it was 45!

And then, Ron dear, you were felled by complications from colon cancer.

In our final meetings, I tried to tell you how much you mean to me—and now, I have asked my editor David Crumm to publish this letter in ReadTheSpirit so my appreciation is as public as our various books about our lives.

I will always love you dearly from the bottom of my heart.

I am so blessed to have you as my brother.

Much love,
Lucille

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Care to Read More?

Lucille Sider inspires readers nationwide with Light Shines in the Darkness, her memoir about spiritual resilience in the aftermath of life-shattering trauma. She also is publishing a series of columns about the many ways men and women find themselves confronting trauma every day.

Here are some of her earlier columns:

• Her first story was The Perfect House.
• Then, All Manner of Things Shall Be Well.
• Taking on cancer ‘this step, each step’
• Knitting Our Lives Together
• Finding Resilience in the Midst of Winter Blues
• Do you have an animal friend in your life? They can help you make even more friends!
• Lucille Sider Shares a Creative Coleus Christmas wit her Community
• When disaster strikes, our resilience is rebuilt with helping hands
• ‘Act your age!’ may lead to healthy surprises

 

 

 

 

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‘I cried when …’

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By LUCILLE SIDER
Author of Light Shines in the Darkness

Like millions of others around the world, I cried when I heard the news that Queen Elizabeth died.  It was instant.  And it quite surprised me.

My mind then travelled back to Canada, where every day in school we sang, “God Save The Queen.” My mind then flipped to a slight anger at God, for God did not save the Queen—she is dead! Then came the realization that she was 96 years old. But the tears kept coming.

My mind flashed to a recent conversation with my son about my citizenship. I am still a Canadian although I have lived in the US for 57 years. I am a Permanent Resident in the US and as such I renew that status every ten years. The cost is approximately $300. But I sharply replied to my son that I will not become a US citizen. I am and will remain a Canadian. That is settled.

I vividly remember myself as a child standing at attention in various classrooms as we solemnly sang, “God Save The Queen.” We faced a large picture of her at the front of the classroom and in some way we loved her. Her smile was so warm. It filled us with love every single morning at school.

All of us girls were in love with Prince Charles and we dreamed of marrying him. We later thought he was quite mean to Princess Diana so were not sure that we would marry him even if he asked!

When Trump became president it was quite a relief to know that I could return to Canada at any time. There was considerable joking that I could marry my good friend Frank and enable him to escape the US, too.

Now, writing this remembrance a day after the Queen’s death, I wonder why I cried and why I have a certain sadness and fear in my heart. It seems that the world is just not safe if the Queen is not here protecting us.

I watch on TV the throngs of people in England gathering to bring flowers to the royal family.  I watch King Charles and Camilla going among the crowd of people shaking hands.  One person kissed Charles’ hand and another kissed his cheek. If I were to travel to England, I would just shake his hand.

I love watching the pictures of the Queen over the years. Her marriage to Prince Philip. At first he seemed a bit abrupt but then we saw his warmth and his care for the Queen.

I love seeing images of the coronation when she was just in her twenties. Her travels across the empire.

As I sit down to write on this day after the Queen’s death, my tears are mainly gone.

My sadness has turned into gratitude. Gratitude for her long life. Gratitude for the deep wisdom she bestowed on the whole world. Gratitude, that, as a Canadian, I hold her in my heart in a precious way.

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Care to Read More?

Lucille Sider inspires readers nationwide with Light Shines in the Darkness, her memoir about spiritual resilience in the aftermath of life-shattering trauma. She also is publishing a series of columns about the many ways men and women find themselves confronting trauma every day.

Here are some of her earlier columns:

• Her first story was The Perfect House.
• Then, All Manner of Things Shall Be Well.
• Taking on cancer ‘this step, each step’
• Knitting Our Lives Together
• Finding Resilience in the Midst of Winter Blues
• Do you have an animal friend in your life? They can help you make even more friends!
• Lucille Sider Shares a Creative Coleus Christmas wit her Community
• When disaster strikes, our resilience is rebuilt with helping hands
• ‘Act your age!’ may lead to healthy surprises

 

 

 

 

Share These Stories of Resilience, Now

Then, Please Meet the Author in September

EDITOR’S NOTE: Lucille Sider already has inspired readers nationwide with Light Shines in the Darkness, her memoir about spiritual resilience in the aftermath of life-shattering trauma. Now, she is debuting a series of columns about the many ways men and women find themselves confronting trauma, every week in neighborhoods everywhere. This weekly series of columns will run through September, when Lucille is organizing an online opportunity to gather readers for a virtual conversation. This first column in the series—which she calls simply The Perfect House—focuses on Lucille’s own experience with the trauma of flood waters. Please, share this column with friends via email or social media (or print out a copy to share using the convenient “print” button at the end of the story). Then, if you are interested in taking part in Lucille Sider’s nationwide online conversation with readers in September 2021, please email Lucille at [email protected]

August 30, 2021, update: The second part in Lucille’s series appears in our WeAreCaregivers section of ReadTheSpirit magazine. It’s titled, All Manner of Things Shall Be Well—and, at the end of it, this second column also includes a full PDF handbill you can download with details of Lucille’s September Zoom series in a format that is suitable for sharing with friends.

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The Perfect House

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By LUCILLE SIDER
Author and Contributing Columnist

Sometimes—not too often but on occasion when I meet a person or  see that perfect dress—I know in my gut that it is right. Not wrong but right.

When this happens there is no going back, no agonizing about the choice. There is just the sweetest peace that flows through my body and soul.

Such was the case when I first saw the house on Old Vestal Road in Binghamton, New York, in 2010. I had lived in another part of Binghamton for five years by then. I had established myself with nearby family and with a lovely church including a small group of female friends that met every Wednesday to play cards.

As I began looking for a new home, the house on Old Vestal was only the second one I visited.  The first one a real estate agent showed me was chopped up into several small rooms. There was no natural flow. I could not get out of it too soon. But that second house on 1929 Old Vestal Road was perfect. It took only 10 minutes to know it—to feel deep within my heart and soul that this was the house for me.

It had lots of windows and that means lots of light. Light for my soul that sometimes suffers from the darkness of depression. Depression always deprives one of inner light.

The house was essentially square with windows everywhere. The living room closet even had its own window! The floorplan was open—and you just naturally flowed from room to room—especially from the dining room and living room and out to the deck.

The deck was half again the size of the house and it opened onto a huge back yard. That meant space for flower beds.  I already saw in my mind’s eye: daffodils, tulips, pansies, petunias and many more.

I put in a bid for the house immediately and within a week the deal was signed and sealed. I moved in the second week of September, 2010. That first year in the house was pure joy. It took some paint, some help from a handyman, a few visits from my brother and his wife from Canada. But nothing was serious. The bathroom needed a do-over but that could easily wait until I had some extra money.

And then came September 11, 2011, a Wednesday evening—one year after I had moved in.

I was driving home from church, barely able to see because rain was pouring onto my car. When I turned into my driveway a policeman appeared and bellowed out to me.

“You must leave immediately. The Susquehanna River (just a block from my house) is overflowing. You can go to the college gymnasium. You must take your pet if you have one.”

I had a cat named PJ. So I raced into my house, grabbed some clothes and my precious PJ.

Before I left, I called my friend Anita and she told me to come to her house. Anita is frightened of cats but she insisted I bring PJ. For three days Anita and I hovered around her TV, learning about the damage along the Susquehanna River in both New York and Pennsylvania. With my house being just one block from the river, it was clearly in harm’s way.

On the following Saturday afternoon we were summoned to the high school to learn whether or not we could return to our homes. Three hefty, loud-voiced men spoke. One was from FEMA and said the flood was due to climate change and cement roads and sidewalks. The other two explained that all houses had been inspected and for many, the foundations had been damaged. If the damage was that extensive, then we would find an orange zero with a slash painted on the house. If however, there was an orange K, the foundation was not damaged and we could enter for a brief time. We were to get clothes and other necessities for the week.

Two neighbors and I anxiously headed toward our neighborhood—and discovered that none of us had a damaged foundation. The orange K painted on our houses became a symbol of hope and strength that we carried in our hearts for the following eight months during which our houses were rebuilt.

Of course I was in constant contact with my family and on the second week-end after the flood they poured in to help. My son and his wife from Washington DC. My younger brother and his wife from Ontario, Canada. My older brother and his wife from Philadelphia. In addition, friends from church just seemed to show up and know what to do. James noted that my beautiful, rounded, wood front door was beginning to warp. He said he could add a gold-colored metal plate to the bottom to prevent further warping. That gold plate was beautiful!

A friend Bonnie brought bleach and paper towels. It turned out that the nearby sewage plant had been destroyed, thus the water that was pouring into our homes was sewer water. To keep it from entering our bodies we wore masks and gloves. But masks and gloves were at a premium because everyone needed them. I was fortunate because my brother from Canada had brought a box of 50 masks. In Walmart I saw a woman crying because she had no masks. I gladly gave her 10 of mine.

Two weeks after the flood, my brother and his wife from Canada offered to come once a month for a full week and work with me on the house. While I had insurance, they saved me thousands of dollars—precisely, they saved me $37,000!

What that meant was that I had the money to rebuild. Walls and floors had to be replaced. Everything in the basement had to be replaced: washer, dryer, furnace, hot-water heater, electrical wiring. But most of all, I had the money to totally redo my kitchen.

What fun going to Lowe’s with my sister-in-law to shop for cupboards, sink, refrigerator, stove, dishwasher and on and on. We joked that we went to Lowe’s every day—and sometimes twice a day.

After Christmas however, I started to obsess.

I found myself fearing that the flood would come again. Fearing that I would lose my new precious appliances. I had chosen stainless steel and they were beautiful!

Every time it snowed I would imagine it was raining and my precious basement was filling up with water. For over a month I was obsessed. I talked my therapist about it and I prayed fervently about it.

Then, on February 3, my heartache lifted. Out of my soul came a poem. It was about grasping both things and people. It was about offering all I have or all that I am, to God.

Since that time, I have sometimes lost myself in fear. Fear of losing things, fear of losing people and on and on. But each time  this occurs I recite the poem and the burdens are lifted.

This is the poem. May it be a source of comfort for you, as well. I call it simply:

Bless My House

Oh Lord,
Please give me the grace
To delight in my house
To cherish each stone
To love its precious wood
To swing in its trees
But not grasp them.

Oh Lord,
Please give me the grace
To know deep within
The flood may come again,
The call may come again
To evacuate, to take my pet
And leave all else behind.

Oh Lord,
Please give me the grace
To own my house
But not let it own me.
To love my house
But hold it loosely.

Oh Lord,
Please give me the grace
To hold lightly
Any place or person,
Any thought or feeling.

Oh Lord,
Please give me the grace
To open my heart
To your abounding love
And abiding rest
And Be Free!

And Lord,
Please Bless My House

 

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Care to Read More?

GET THE BOOK, Light Shines in the Darkness, via Amazon or other online retailers.

Then, if you are interested in taking part in Lucille Sider’s nationwide online conversation with readers in September 2021, please email Lucille at [email protected]

 

EDITOR’S NOTE—The Lenten season that leads to Easter is a call to spiritual reflection for millions of Christians around the world. As Benjamin Pratt writes in our first Holy Week story, some of the questions we ask are: What are we yearning for? Dreaming for? Hoping for in our lives, our families, our communities and our world? Much like the Jewish call during the High Holy Days, Holy Week calls Christians to reflect on our relationships with God and with other people. This moving column about forgiveness by author Lucille Sider relates to the larger story she tells in her book, Light Shines in the Darkness.

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By LUCILLE SIDER
Contributing Columnist

When I was 15, I visited my sister Ruth and her husband Edmond in Ontario, Canada. It was the 1960s, they were about to have their first child and I visited to help them paint and prepare a perfect room for the baby.

What a happy time!

That is, until the night I was awakened in bed, startled to see Edmond standing over me. He began touching my breasts and declaring his love for me—all while Ruth was sleeping soundly downstairs. In an instant, I swung my arms to fight him off. As I fought harder, he left the room. What a horrifying experience! He did not enter my room again, but I could not sleep.

As the next day dawned, I did not confront him about the attack. How could I? I couldn’t fathom how to respond to what had happened at a time when Ruth was happy about all that was happening in their family. I was paralyzed and afraid.

Even though I did not confront Edmond, I hated him. I feared him. A second night was coming. Again, I could not sleep. Would he return?

What could I do to keep him away since there was no door to the room—just a curtain? But I found some straight pins in the room and I fastened the curtain to the wood.  Of course, I knew that he could break through this, but I hoped that at least this might deter him, even a little bit.  He did not return that night but the trauma continued to build within me.

The following afternoon, my father came to pick me up. He admired the baby’s bedroom, then took me home. As soon as we arrived, I insisted that I talk with him and my mother. They sat opposite me at the kitchen table as I sobbed my way through the details. In my heart, I knew they would help. But instead, my mother sat silent, stricken. My father uttered a short prayer which I barely remember hearing.

I expected them to defend me, but they were silent.

I felt totally abandoned.

They never said another word to me about it. They did nothing. I was left alone to carry this secret for 33 years.

For decades after that interaction, I was painfully aware that I still held tremendous anger toward my father. Sometimes, it took the form of despising him. Other times, it took the form of disobeying him. Once I even cut my hair short—much shorter than was expected by women in our denomination. For decades, I harbored anger toward him.

Why didn’t I confront him? He was an adult; I was a child. That horrible day around the kitchen table, he had made his reaction crystal clear in such a hurtful way that I dared not risk a second injury. And, unlike today, there were no models for me of women publicly talking about such abuse. I could see no way to respond further to him. The trauma festered. My anger and hatred simmered silently.

Eventually, in 2002, my father died. (And my mother had passed six years earlier, in 1997.) We had never found a way to address this deep wound.

While I held onto this anger for decades, it did not prevent me from succeeding in other ways in life. I enjoyed a career as both a clinical psychologist and clergywoman. My faith was strong, and I developed powerful spiritual practices, like meditation. It took over 50 years, but meditation was what allowed me to forgive my father.

It happened just after I turned 68, 54 years after the abuse. I moved into an apartment in the south side of Chicago, in the same building where my dear friend Frank lived. I had known Frank for many years. We lived near each other in our 30s and meditated together weekly with one other friend. Even after that period in our lives, we still would gather for meditation occasionally. But beginning in our late 60s, we began to meditate twice a day.

We started each meditation by saying and enacting “The Lord’s Prayer” as Frank interpreted it from Aramaic, the language Jesus spoke. In the traditional line about forgiveness, the Bible tells us to “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” But from the Aramaic, Frank translated it to something we could truly see: “Loosen the knots that form within and between us, freeing us to forgive.” This made the Lord’s Prayer an “alive” prayer, full of powerful imagery—not at all static the way the traditional rendition can become.

Frank then enhanced this “aliveness” by embodying each line with physical postures. At one point, Frank suggested we use a prayerful posture that is common throughout many of the world’s religious traditions, although most Americans may not have seen it except in a Catholic or Episcopal ordination service. And, some clergy encourage this posture on Good Friday to mimic Jesus’ form on the cross. They call it “lying prostrate.” In this particular form of prostration, a person lies face down on the floor—the ultimate form of prayerful surrender.

Frank suggested we use this posture during the line about forgiveness. I remember the first time I did this—spreading out on the floor face down, arms out, in the shape of a cross. How deeply this embodied the prayer’s petition. With our arms straight out, there could be no “knots.” Being in the shape of a cross, we were powerfully reminded of Jesus on the cross. And as he suffered there, Jesus offered forgiveness for those who had crucified him—something that later on was understood to be forgiveness for all of us for all time.

After two years of saying and enacting this prayer, I had a profound experience of forgiveness toward my father. It was not a strong lightning bolt that shocked me to my core. It was not a burst of remorse that brought me to my knees. In that moment, I simply realized that there was no heaviness in my heart in regards to my father. There were no knots. The heavy, angry heart that I carried for 57 years was simply gone.

It took commitment on my part.

I learned that forgiveness doesn’t always come quickly, or immediately, when someone has been hurt so badly. But by committing to saying this prayer of forgiveness, I gave myself the time I needed to let it truly sink in. Without this meditation and time, I don’t think I would have ever forgiven him.

And, so, this year as we enter Holy Week, I invite you to consider this spiritual discipline to help ease those knots that may be tying you to a troubling past. Remember: For me, it took time. Lots and lots of time.

But you may at least want to start right now. This is a season of new beginnings.