What's in a Name, Part II

So...I'm off on an establishment rant again...

Was thinking about my PA driver's license today, because a friend was talking about renewing her license. And I got ticked. Again.

When I married Hal, I had to get a new Social Security card. Chose to list my name as Connie Wagner Garlick, dropping my middle name (Marie). The Social Security Administration, seeing my birth certificate and marriage certificate, accepted this as my name. So did the Internal Revenue Service.

The state of Ohio gave me no trouble issuing a driver's license in the name of Connie Wagner Garlick, or Connie W. Garlick (I don't remember if they used middle name or initial).

The state of South Carolina - Connie Wagner Garlick.

The state of Nebraska - Connie Wagner Garlick.

You would THINK that this is a national trend, allowing someone to use the name that they have chosen upon their marriage.

Think again.

The commonwealth of Pennsylvania - the woman across the counter at the DMV - crossed out Wagner as my middle name and wrote Marie. I told her that was not my name. She insisted that it was. I told her that I had changed my name when I married. Showed her my Social Security Card again. She told me that using the name on the Social Security card "USED" to be legal. She insisted that my middle name is Marie, that she had to use the middle name on my birth certificate.

I went to my state representative's office shortly after getting a PA DL that does not match the name on my bank accounts, IRS info, SS card...and got a young woman behind a desk who called the DMV, would not let me talk to them, laughed with the person on the phone, and smugly told me that was the law. I told her it was a stupid law (I may have thrown in a non-preacherly word) and got up and left.

I still think it's a stupid law. Two entities of the federal government and three other states recognize me as who I choose to be. The sad thing is, I really like where we're living and don't want to move just so I can get my real name back on a driver's license. *sigh* I will just have to get our representative on one of his public appearances and get him to understand that this is a law that needs to be changed. Or just have a driver's license that matches none of my other information until I retire and move from PA.

Oh - and to top it off - the same woman HIT ON MY HUSBAND the next week, when he went to get his license. Thankfully, I was not in the building when it happened, or I'd be writing this from jail.

Home Again

Last week was the first time I attended the Creation Festival since 2006, when it was rained out. I have attended since 1986 (with the exception of one year I only attended set-up, and the last 3 years). It was good to be home.

Yes, good to be home after the festival - real showers and flush toilets.

But more than that, it was good to be back at Agape Farm. Good to see friends that I usually only see at the Fest. Good to camp with a great friend, who served as the "best chick" at my wedding. Good to be in the company of other Christians, regardless of denomination or theology. Good to breathe in the dust (remember, dust is our friend, our alternative being mud).

It was refreshing to unplug from technology, with the exception of a few cell phone calls to my husband, who stayed home to hold down the fort. I love you babe, and I missed you. And I thank you for letting me go on my pilgrimage without giving me a hard time about leaving - I know those whose spouses let them go, and others whose spouses do not let them leave their side. I appreciate the fact that you allow me to leave you for a week with the cat litter.

It was good to plug in to the messages that were out there. Not only the messages of the speakers or the musicians, but also the messages of those I encountered casually. Messages of hope, peace, God's hand in their lives. Messages that I needed to hear.

I am grateful for telephone, email and social media that allow me to keep in touch with the friends that I have made over 20 years. I am more grateful for the ability to attend the festival this year and reconnect with those people. I love you all.

What's in a Name?

In the mid-80's, I worked for a computer software company. We had one particular customer who was difficult. Ok, really, he was a pain in certain parts of the anatomy that shall remain nameless. He was always trying to get free product, and no-one wanted to deal with him. The salesman, the techs, the owner of the company were always in meetings or out of the office - even if it meant they had to step out onto the sidewalk - when he called. So, we foisted him off on a temp that was brought in at one point. She was very nice, very sweet, and very temporary. So, when he called back several weeks later, he asked for Pam, and was told that she had been a temp. I helped him as best I could, telling him that I would give the salesman his message, that I was sorry, all I could do was give him the message, that I understood his frustration, that the techs were not available...and he told me how helpful I had been, could he have my name? I don't know why, I don't know where it came from - but I told him my name was Nancy. The office manager turned around and gave me an odd look. When I hung up, I told her who I'd been talking to, she just busted out laughing, understanding why I had not given him my name.

Fast forward about six weeks, to his next call. I had just given 2 weeks notice. When the office manager answered the phone, she put the call on hold and started cracking up. We all kind of looked at each other, waiting to find out what was going on. She caught her breath, looked at me, and said, "Oh, Nancy, this call is for you." I picked up the phone, gave my real name, and told him that Nancy was no longer with the company - and heard him sigh. He went through his whole litany of reasons he HAD to talk to the salesman or tech, listened to my whole litany of reasons why he couldn't - and, at the end of it all told me how he was glad that he had been able to speak to me, and could he have my name. I told him my name is Connie - but it wouldn't do him good, as I was leaving the company. He asked how bad the company was to work for, that Pam and Nancy and I had all left - I told him that Pam had been a temp, that Nancy was a flake and we had to let her go ;) and that I had just decided to move on to another industry, that the company was a good company and that I was SURE that whoever they hired would be very helpful.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, this past weekend poetic justice hit.

This past weekend Hal and I were at the Penn West Conference of the UCC Annual Meeting. At one point, all new pastors were introduced to the gathering. I was surprised to hear the name "Nancy Garlick" along with Harold Garlick as the new pastors at Meyersdale. Realizing they meant me, I stood up and said "Connie" and heard several other voices say the same. The Conference Minister later apologized for misspeaking.

Odd thing is, this is not the first time this has happened. When Hal and I were first married, within the first month, we had to attend the annual meeting for the Methodist conference where Hal was serving. At the district dinner, his district superintendent introduced "Hal Garlick, and his new wife, Joyce." Hal and I stood up, and Hal said, "This is my new wife Connie. You weren't supposed to tell her about Joyce." Everyone laughed, the D.S. apologized, and we went on with dinner. I later found out that our neighbor in OH was Joyce.

And I won't even mention all the times I was called Constance, which is not my given name (if you must know, Connie is short for Confrontational).

Not a Morning Person

I am not a morning person (and yet, somehow I was up at 7 am today). My husband knew this when we married. That is, he should have known this. After all, I had repeatedly told him. And, well, there was that whole different approach we had to the 8 am classes.

Before we married, Hal would get up from his dorm room (the nights he wasn't back in Ohio), get ready, go down to the student lounge, get coffee, hang out, head to class. I, on the other hand, would roll out of bed in my apartment on the other side of campus, throw on some clothes, pull my hair back into a pony tail, brush my teeth, and - if I had time - make instant coffee to put into my travel mug, and dash across campus to slide into class 2 minutes before it started.

So he should have known.

We married on June 1, 2002. That summer, most of the time he let me sleep in while he got up and puttered around the house, doing pastor stuff like sermon prep and drinking coffee. Especially after one particular morning. I remember it well. He had gotten up, in a good mood, bright eyed and bushy-tailed (a saying which I have never particularly understood) - kissed me good morning, said he loved me, to which I replied "mughlorkingsplat" or something of the like. A little while later (after I had rolled over, pulled the pillow over my head and started snoring again), I felt a vice close around my ankle and this horrible pain on the bottom of my foot. Ok, really, he had just grabbed my ankle and started tickling me. But, well, at that hour of the morning...

Needless to say, more than mughlorkingsplat came out of my mouth. I don't think I said any bad words - but I do remember questioning his sanity and asking him what he thought he was doing as I pulled my poor foot out of his evil clutches. He got a terribly hurt look on his face, and said he was just tickling his bride's foot (he tells me now that on that morning, his beautiful bride was not to be found). Feeling badly, I muttered that I had warned him that I'm not a morning person, that I was sorry, but please leave me alone. I think I said please. I don't know if he remembers it that way or not. If I didn't say those things, though, I meant to. In my defense, it was early. I know that when Hal tells the story, something about evil incarnate overtaking his bride comes into play.

We now have an understanding when it comes to morning. I get up on the mornings that I absolutely have to. The rest of the time, Hal gets up and does what he does quietly. He warns me before he turns the bedroom light on in the morning (otherwise he hears the line from Gremlins: "Bright light! Bright light!"). At times he'll gently kiss me bye when he leaves for the office, otherwise he'll just wait til I get up and call over to the office to say good morning. And I try really hard not to growl - or whatever that voice was that came out of my mouth that morning 8 years ago.

Memorial Day musings

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, Canadian physician

I never met my great-grandfather Salter. He was from Liverpool, and a scoundrel. But that's a story for another day. He served in the Royal Army, we know in India and perhaps in Afghanistan as well. He is buried in Old Tennent Cemetery, in New Jersey. And every year, the Boy Scouts put a flag (of the US, not the UK) on his grave on Memorial Day weekend. There are flags at his son's grave, and at that of his granddaughter's husband (my dad), along with countless other graves of those who served, at that and countless other cemeteries around this country and around the world. Some, like my dad, grandfather, and great-grandfather, who came home, lived, loved, and grew old. Some who came home, tortured by their injuries or memories, unable to love or forgive themselves or others until they were taken home by God. Some, like the young man whose name I can never remember until I'm there, who rests near the corner across the lane to the right of Neff Chapel, who did not come home alive; his headstone tells the story: his name, dates of birth and death, and the simple "Died in France." I never knew him or his family members, yet I check on his grave every time I go home.

In 1989 I was in Germany. My friends and I found ourselves at a memorial to the German war dead. Sobering, because of the realization that they - "the enemy" - mourn their dead just as we do. Not surprised that they mourn, mind you. But sobering to come to a place where they are free to mourn those that they loved that fought, willingly or not, for their country. I say willingly or not, because in WWI one of my grandfather's duties was to guard German Prisoners of War. He spoke of the day that one of the POW's, who spoke some English, asked him if he wanted to fight. Pop-Pop looked at him, and said, "No, did you?" to which the POW responded with a shake of his head and said "No, not at all." My grandfather always got quiet around then. He hadn't wanted to go to war (another story for another day), but had, just as this German soldier had, to do his duty for his country.

Let us not forget that Memorial Day weekend is not just the unofficial start of summer, or an extra day off from work, or a day of beach or park or picnic, or a day to snag some really good bargains at the mall. Let us remember that Memorial Day - Remembrance Day - is a day to remember those who served. I'm not saying don't have fun. I'm going to a picnic Monday evening; Hal will be speaking at a local observance of the day first. So as you go about your weekend, remember those who made it possible. Remember those who came before. Remember those, on both sides of any conflict, who are mourning those that they lost.

As for me, Lt. Col. McCrae, I will catch the torch. I will bear it high. I will not break faith.

Making Root Beer out of Lemons

When I was doing my Clinical Pastoral Education at Shadyside Hospital in Pittsburgh, I had a patient I'll just call J to respect their privacy.

J had cancer. J had been a nurse, and knew that the normal outcome of their particular strain of cancer was death. They had tried several experimental drugs, but the treatments had little effect.

J's parents had died, only sibling had 2 children and lived several hours away so visited rarely, and J's "significant other" had ended their relationship. J was, shall I say, slightly bitter. I don't fault J for that. J felt as though they were alone in the world.

One day while I was speaking with J, they remarked, "You know, if one more person tells me 'when life gives you lemons, make lemonade,' I'm gonna slug them. 'Cause I think I'm doing a pretty good job of making root beer." I didn't respond verbally, but I did raise my eyebrows at J. J closed their eyes, and said, "Well, that's my problem. I'm trying to make root beer out of lemons, and I should be making lemonade." After talking about it for a little while, and letting J come to terms with things, I asked J if I could use this story as sermon material sometime, and they approved.

Because aren't we all like that sometimes? We get into a situation - sometimes life-threatening, like J's cancer, sometimes just annoying. We take what we have at our disposal - but instead of using what is available to help us, we do the wrong thing with the right resources, then wonder why things aren't getting better.

Sometimes the situation is not going to improve - J died of the cancer a few months after this conversation. But J's attitude toward facing impending death without the support system of family or "significant other" changed. J's bitterness never left completely, but it was tempered with the realization that being miserable wasn't helping, and some of the bitterness at being alone dissipated , as J got out of the room to interact with other patients on the ward more often.

Sometimes, though, the change to making lemonade instead of root beer (or simply letting the lemons rot, unused at all) changes the situation we are in, and allows us to improve things. Unhappy with your job? Find a way to change the things at the job that make you unhappy, or find a new job, or a totally new career path.

Caution: don't try to make others make lemonade with your lemons. Unhappy in your relationships? Change yourself - they are YOUR lemons, not the other person's. Don't tell someone that they need to do this or be that for you to be happy - happy is a choice you make for yourself, as is bitterness.

And just so you know, I have a glass of root beer (with a shot of lemon juice) every year on J's birthday, because it happens to be the same date as mine.

Food and Place Dreams

I have been dreaming lately of specific places and specific foods. Don't do that often. And they are the last dreams of the morning, so I remember them well. The first was this past Monday, dreaming of the Dog & Duck in Mt. Pleasant, SC. When I worked for Maersk Line, we occasionally brought food in for the staff. At one point, when they went from a 1-hour lunch to a 1/2 hour lunch, we were bringing in food quite regularly, so that people could "buy out" without having to get nailed in the traffic on Long Point Road, and Dog & Duck was one of the places we'd bring in food from. I grew to love their Belle Hall sandwich (http://www.dogandduckfamilypubs.com/index.html