The other day I went by the Conference Office of the United Methodist Church for the first time in several years. When I worked in the local church, I spent many hours at this building in meetings and trainings for camp and other events. One of my former pastors had left a box of hymnals that I requested for an art project I am working on. Due to the disaffiliation from the UMC of several churches, there is an unusual availability of free hymnals. One of the items in the contract that the disaffiliating churches commits to fulfill is the removal of the church logo from their building and other elements in the church. Since the cross and flame are on the cover of the hymnals, they can no longer be used in worship unless they are granted special permission.

As I went into the room to pick up the box full of hymnals, I noticed two rows of boxes sealed with packing tape. As I walked by, I read the names on the boxes and realized that these are boxes from the churches that have officially separated themselves from our denomination. The labels indicated that within the boxes were records from those churches. Although I did not look in the boxes, I can imagine what those records contain based on the agreement that churches had to sign. In those boxes are documents that reflect church membership, baptisms, weddings, and deaths. There may be financial records that represent ministries such as missions trips, camps, United Methodist Men and Women, community outreach, and financial assistance for those struggling. Evidence of the lives that had been impacted by the churches over the years when they were part of the United Methodist Church.

These churches were not asked to leave, they chose to remove themselves. It is a small number in our Annual Conference right now, about six percent. But it hurts. It hurts to hear the lies and judgment from those who feel like the history that we share is not worth fighting for. I was born into the Methodist Church and it is an important part of my heritage. I would like to be able to simply write those churches off and move on, but it is a sad time. To see boxes lined up on two sides of the room as all that is left of the connection between us reminded me of a funeral, or maybe a divorce. All that remans of the relationship is contained in a cardboard box.

When I think about my grandparents I have vague memories of spending time at their homes. My mom’s parents were grandmother and grandaddy and they lived in a little town in East Texas. We loved sitting on their screened in porch and enjoying small town life. We would walk to the corner store with pennies to get a snack. My dad was raised by a single mother and her extended family. Nanny lived in a big two story house that she used for her catering business and as a tea room for women’s groups. There were always cousins around and we ran up and down the stairs and played in the Magnolia trees in the yard. I have a few pictures of my grandparents, but nothing that captures their voices or movements.

My parents and in-laws were loving grandparents to our son, but they lived a few hours away so we mostly saw them at holidays and special events. I would print pictures of Trey to send to them and a few times I compiled videos to share. Trey’s last grandfather died when he was in college, so he knew him a little better than the others. When the Timehop app brings up pictures of the family members that have passed, the still image reminds me of times we shared.

Technology has changed greatly in the last 20 years. Instead of having to wait several day for a picture to be developed, or transferring video from tape to tape, pictures or a video can be sent instantaneously. On my birthday this year, I received the cutest video from my son of my granddaughter telling me “Happy Birthday.” In true The Office style, she started the video telling me that “It’s Your Birthday!” Then she moved into birthday wishes and her own unique rendition of the Birthday Song. That thirty-four second video ties us together in a manner that a card or picture could not. This morning I got another video of her pretending to call me on the phone (which was actually her dad’s pickle ball medal). As she ended the call she said “I love you.”

What a gift to receive these short bursts of her life through video or picture. Although I see her almost every week, knowing that she is thinking of me as she goes about her regular schedule lets me know that we are building memories that she will have when she approaches fifty and thinks back on our relationship.

While running errands, I stopped by the local supplement store to get vitamins for my husband. The guys who work at these stores mostly look like personal trainers or bodybuilders. The young man checking me out asked what kind of work my husband was in and then asked me “Do you do anything?” I was startled by the question since people usually ask “where do you work” or “is this your day off.” My response was something like “I do some things from home.” I was embarrassed to say that I do not have a job, even though I have been mostly unemployed by choice for over ten years.

I could have said that I spend time with my granddaughter. I might have said I manage our household. Another truthful statement is that I support my friends and family in their endeavors. What I wanted to say is that I create art, walk several miles, and I read a book a day. But none of those things generate an income, which is how we measure our worth. After all this time, I still do not have a good answer when someone asks me “Do you do anything?”

My hope is that by the time I turn sixty in a year I will have an honest answer that I can proudly state when asked that sorting question when I meet a new person.