Revitalizing UU Women's Groups

Musings from the Cucumber Patch

by Laurie Richardson Johnson

Slam! The door of the moving van just shut, closing in Bernie and Al’s furniture and memories of forty-two years in the yellow house on Clinton Avenue. Bernie and Al raised six children in that house. In the later years, the numerous grandchildren took turns running, biking, and riding tricycles along the cement drive. Those of us left behind in the neighborhood will miss them—old and young alike. Bernie and Al took everything in stride: kids cutting through the yard, rock band practices, screaming babies, and out-of-control dandelions. They always greeted us quietly and kindly as we strolled down the street. I will miss the garden chats as we picked cucumbers or tomatoes together in our adjacent backyard plots. Our whole family will miss Bernie’s Christmas cookies and zucchini bread.

I knew Bernadette was a woman of the church. We were working in the garden when she told me about the cloth bags she had made and filled with school supplies, soap, and toothpaste for kids who had none. And then there were the funeral cakes, the mission meetings, the mother-daughter luncheons, the prayer groups, and the fund raisers. I continued to pick my cucumbers, knowing I was not a part of the women’s group in my own church. Bernie was in her late seventies; she had time for that, I reasoned. I struggled with raising children with special needs, continuing my drawing, writing, occasionally teaching, and trying to make ends meet. I sang in the church choir, and helped in other ways, but I didn’t belong to a women’s group. I continued to pick cucumbers. I knew there were women in my church like Bernadette, and all were eager to include the younger generations. But I began to feel so tired—how could I add one more thing? I kept on picking cucumbers.

It’s our relationships that matter. I know this. I write about it. I speak about it. In fact, I believe we may not exist for long if our intergenerational relationships are not nourished. Wisdom passed from one generation to the next is essential. We know it is important for young people to be noticed and accepted by the elders in our communities. It’s easy to say such a grand thing, but living it, on both ends, is becoming increasingly difficult in our “too much” and spread-out society while the quieter, but sometimes more fulfilling, opportunities around us languish.

Not long ago, a friend of mine told of a terribly painful time in her life when she had been the victim of date rape. Far from her family, she had few people to talk to. For some reason, she decided to attend the early morning breakfast meeting of one of the women’s groups at her church. Perhaps she had received a personal invitation she’d received from one of the women. My friend wasn’t expecting much; she didn’t imagine she’d have anything in common with the older church women who made funeral cakes and held luncheons. It wasn’t long before her story spilled out. The women responded with empathy, listening and crying with her, and then listening some more. She was overwhelmed by their compassion. The connection was immediate and let a small ray of light into her darkness.

Often, it is our suffering that becomes our common ground. Older women know about the pain of life; they have had more years to learn from it, surviving miscarriages, infant deaths, caring for aging parents, troubled children, rocky marriages, economic peril, and missed opportunities. They also know the sweet joys of children, accomplishments, fulfilled dreams, loving relationships, and faith.

When I work in elementary schools as a visiting artist, I am privileged to hear stories from the unedited lips of children. Together we create art and write letters honoring the older people in our lives. A few children barely have a connection with their elders. They wish their grandparents would turn off the television or come in from the golf course to talk and pay attention to them. Most children, however, are extravagant in their expression of feelings about their grandparents and older neighbors. Many children of recent immigrants tell heartwarming stories of their grandparents who are missed dearly. It is not uncommon to see the children’s eyes fill with tears as they share their memories through their artwork and letters: Grandpa, I remember when we swam together in the Caspian Sea. … Grandma, I miss your spicy meatballs. … Grandma, thank you for staying with me day and night when I was so scared and sick in the hospital. … Grandpa, I’ll never forget when you taught me how to catch a swordfish. … Grandma, thanks for telling me I’m not just a girl, but a wonderful girl.

In your congregation, whenever possible, connect the old with the young. Organize intergenerational celebrations and events, partners in friendship (match a child with an elder to encourage friendship, sharing, sending cards, visiting), and encourage everyone to slow down: to smile, to listen, and to pay attention to the young and the old. Ask yourself: Do I have any friends thirty, forty, or fifty years older, or younger, than I? If your answer is no, you are missing one of the greatest joys of life for yourself and your family.

Come August, while I’m out in the garden picking cucumbers, I know I’ll be thinking about Bernie and Al, remembering and missing our simple neighborly encounters. And thanks to Bernadette, I may also be thinking about the women’s group at our church, wondering, with each cucumber I pick, if there will be one more member in September.

Laurie Richardson Johnson is a visual artist and writer from Richfield, Minnesota. She often works as an artist-in-residence in local schools, using drawing, painting, sculpture and creative writing to express and celebrate friendship between the young and the old. She also offers a similar one-time program for schools, community and religious groups.