Fair of The Plymouth Church

“Fair of The Plymouth Church – Tomorrow, at 10 o’clock p.m., the ladies of the Plymouth church open their fair in the rooms devoted to the meetings of the ‘Social Circle,’ over the lecture room of the new church, in Cranberry street.  We learn that the ladies of this church have had their fair in contemplation for a long time, and have wrought a great variety of useful articles which will be for sale at fair prices….”

When Whitney and I began our planning last Spring, we knew we had a big shoes to fill and big expectations to satisfy.  We kicked off with a lunch for former YF chairs hosted by Sharon Humphries, which yielded over 10 pages of notes of many wonderful ideas, sage advice and warnings, as well as hilarious YF stories and finally (and thankfully) offers to help!  One big take away from that meeting was that a Yankee Fair is really only as great as the sum of its booth chair. With that in mind, Whitney and I buckled down recruiting our leadership level volunteers.  Many coffees, emails and meetings later we were staffed.

Historically, the leadership at Yankee Fair has tended toward the female, but given all the dedicated men in our community, we wanted to expand our volunteer base, so we asked David Burrell to lead the men’s group in the service of lunch.  A daring task which he nonetheless accomplished with fierce determination.  We applaud the men who served lunch on November 4 and we pity those who did not.  David Burrell has your number and knows where you live!

Much of what happens at Yankee Fair, comes together at the last minute of activity. However some things, such as the coordination of the children’s programming, or lunch, or the creation of all the handmade items, happens for months leading up to the fair. For example, Penelope Kulko served many pots of delicious soups which warmed the stomachs of many crafters on many late nights spent cutting and glueing.

Which leads me to this most important observation: fellowship, whether it be found in the sorting of collectibles, toys, books, the serving of lunch, the hanging of buntings or in the flitting about coffee hour with a clipboard to sign up unsuspecting potential volunteers, is the true result of a Yankee Fair well planned. In fact, the best part of Yankee Fair is not the fair, but the collaborative work that makes the fair an actual fair.  What Whitney and I eventually learned on November 4, 2017, is that Yankee Fair is not so much an event to be chaired, as it is a vital part of the church which requires faithful stewardship.  You take your turn at the helm, and leave good notes for those who will follow you.

The first fair of 1849 was a benefit to furnish the rooms of the church. Since those early days it has become the tradition of Yankee Fair to find a charity recipient that the entire Church, Church School and neighborhood can all feel comfortable supporting together.  This year, while our neighborhoods undergo significant changes in the affordability in a place that everyone can call home, we thought Habitat for Humanity provided a perfect balance for these various constituents – and it helped that our Christian Help Ministry already had a long standing relationship with the organization.  Having their staff come and participate in the fair with an educational craft event for children in the gym only added to the festivities.  We are very grateful to be able to present them with a check for approximately $9,000!

So now as Whitney and I upload the last of our notes to the Yankee Fair Dropbox, we do so with knowledge that Yankee Fair 2019 will be every bit as wonderful as was the Yankee Fair of 2017 due to the strength and vibrancy of our entire community. Thank you to everyone for making it such a success!

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Surprised by Peace

Oh dear God – how do I go from here?

This was my prayer of panic in the 2 AM dark in the waiting room of the cardiac building of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.  I suddenly realized I was hunched over a small round table, my hands and face wet with tears that finally poured out of me following the most bizarre and incomprehensible 24 hour period of my life.  Standing over me were my parents-in-law, and the heart surgeon who had just informed me that my husband of only four weeks had survived the seven hour surgery to repair a massive aneurysm and dissected valve that had been found in his ascending aorta the day before.  Although my face was hidden, I was keenly aware that the people above me – the only other people still left in the dark waiting room at 2 AM – were watching me with intensity.  It was a moment of total suspension.

The preceding day, Martin had called me to say he was on his way to the ER and I should meet him there immediately.   I had forgotten that he’d gone to see a cardiologist that afternoon, as a precautionary measure, because his brother had had a procedure a few months prior.  We hadn’t paid much attention to it, because we were busy being happy and excited for our wedding over Thanksgiving, and were filled with the promise of the new life we would create together.

So when I received the phone call and Martin used unfamiliar words like ‘massive aortic aneurysm’ I didn’t fully understand what they meant, or why it was so urgent that I get myself from Brooklyn to upper Manhattan that instant.

When I arrived at the hospital, Martin looked completely fine, the same as always.  He had no symptoms of any kind.  Indeed, he had his gym bag with him because he’d intended to lift weights after that doctor’s appointment, just as he did several times each week.

As word of his condition spread throughout the ER, several interns came to look at Martin, curious to see a 43 year old man with an aorta 5 times the size it was supposed to be.  “Wow,” they all said with the enthusiasm of finalists at a national high school level science competition. “It’s amazing – you are actually alive!”

When the surgeon came in, he said, “I have never seen this condition.  Somebody must want you to be here because, medically speaking, you should have died last summer.”  “It’s my wife,” Martin said, which was supposed to be a joke, but I knew he meant it.

I could not fully comprehend what was happening.  Aneurysms, dissected valves and cardio-thoracic surgery are not things newly wedded couples spend time thinking about.  When one speaks vows of “in sickness and in health” and “until death part us,” one doesn’t think those words apply to RIGHT NOW – surely they are meant for much later.

“What if it doesn’t go well?”  I asked Martin.  “I need to know what you want me to do.”

Later, in the 2 AM darkness, after hearing the successful result of surgery, after finally falling into weeping, after feeling the eyes of Martin’s parents and the surgeon watching me intently for what I would do next, after knowing they were waiting for some kind of cue from me, which I could not give, I prayed . . .

Oh dear God.  How do I go from here?  How do I move?  Because I do not understand any of this.  How do I physically make the journey from this moment into the next?  And what on Earth will the next moment bring?

There was no noise.  There was no light in the room.  Nothing remarkable happened.  Very simply, peacefully – I sat up.  And the next moment began, and life moved on.

I often think of that moment in my life.  In the chaos and confusion of a real emergency, that simple movement – from here into there, supported by God’s peace – was the bridge that upheld me as I entered the next unknown.

Maggie Fales
Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, NY
December 10, 2017

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Christmas Lights

Every once in a while I see a jogger and react in a way that is incomprehensible to thinking people.  I say to myself, “I should start jogging.”  One spring a few years ago, during such a period of insanity, I began running around a couple of blocks.  The highlight of my stroll was passing an out of the ordinary yard not far from our house.  At night, when the lights are on, it can’t be missed.  The most striking feature is the Christmas lights.  The lights, which cover a Mulberry tree, are a startling variety of colors.  A red birdhouse with a black roof invites passersby to “See Rock City.”  A big red bow adorns a holly wreath.  It’s hard not to smile at the yard.

In a conversation with someone who lived a few doors down I asked, “What’s the story with your neighbor’s Christmas lights?  That’s an interesting yard.”

The yard is not as amusing to him as it is to me:  “Those stupid Christmas lights have been up for years.  It makes me furious when I think about what that yard does to my property values.  I am sorely tempted to buy a BB gun just to shoot those &%$* lights!”

I started to rethink my feelings.  Perhaps the yard wasn’t as wonderful as I originally thought.  Maybe I would feel differently if I lived next door.  Then one evening, as I was leisurely making my way I saw a woman working in “the yard” just up ahead.  I sped up so that ten minutes later, when I was in need of a break anyway, I was able to stop and say:  “Your yard is really interesting.  Is there a story behind the Christmas lights?”

She smiled, “Yes, there is.”

She pointed to the house across the street and identified a particular window:  “The elderly woman who lives there came to stay with her children seven years ago.  She’s in her nineties now and seldom leaves her room.  After her first Christmas here she went on and on about how much she enjoyed looking at the lights and bright colors in our yard.  We’re the only view she has.  When Christmas was over, we didn’t have the heart to take the lights down.  We decided that as long as she’s around, we’d leave the lights on.”

In a world full of darkness, we need to leave the lights on.

BrettYounger_SignatureTransparent

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