Title
by Grandparents Respond
to Impertinent Questions
Service at UUCSS on May 28, 2000
Sermon
by Dave Hunter
Introduction
I would like to read to you this morning letters that my four grandparents
might have written to me in response to questions that I might have asked them.
Each of the letters has a factual basis, but in each instance I have filled
in some gaps. It will help you to follow them if you know that my grandmothers
wrote their letters immediately after funerals, funerals of their children,
and that my grandfathers wrote their letters when their own deaths were in
sight.
Is it just my family, or is it true of other families as well, that there
are some questions that are not asked, or, if the questions are asked, they
are not answered?
My father's parents were Presbyterians. My mother's parents were Congregationalists,
though during one period in their lives, when they lived in a town without
a Congregationalist church, they were part of a Universalist congregation.
The hymns this morning are hymns that might have been sung in my grandparents'
congregations as well as by Unitarians of their generation. "Nearer, My God,
to Thee," was written by 19th century Unitarian Sarah Flower Adams. We will
sing it surrounding the letters, in the spirit of prayer or meditation. Please
remain seated to sing the verses. For your information, in verse 4, "Bethel" is
Hebrew and literally means house of God; here it is used to refer to an altar,
the place where the presence of that which is most holy is especially recognized.
Letter from Grace
Davis Hunter
(Feb. 5, 1881 - June 29,
1976),
mother of Herbert Davis Hunter, grandmother of David Hobart
Hunter
January 25, 1969
Dear Dave,
I put the note on the envelope for you not to open this until Memorial Day
of the year 2000. By then I will have joined your grandfather, and your mother
will have joined your father. By then you'll be able to understand things that
you cannot now, as a young person. I didn't mean to evade your question this
afternoon, but there are some things that it's better not to discuss. And talking
about your father, especially today - well, I can't.
You asked why Son - your father - lived at home until he was 30.
I don't expect he ever told you about Queenie. I never said anything against
his marrying Queenie; I want to be clear about that - but I was relieved that
he did not marry her. It was obvious that she wasn't our kind, but I didn't
say a word to Son about that. I told him she was a perfectly nice girl. I told
him I liked her, that I would not hold her Catholicism against her. I told
him it was up to him. I never stood in the way of what Son wanted. I told him
that his grandfather, the minister, would never find out - he was already dead
by then - and that we could hide it from his grandmother.
Harriette, I mean your mother, Harriette was a nice girl, but she might as
well have been a Catholic herself, what with nine brothers and sisters in the
family. Sometimes I think Son chose her as a rebuke to me because I didn't
give him any brothers or sisters. Of course, my older sister - Aunt Bert -
couldn't have any children. But Uncle Eddie loved her anyway. Now my little
sister, Aunt Ruth, she was the rebellious one. Can you imagine the daughter
of a good Presbyterian minister going off to Washington, DC, and then attending
a Unitarian church. And then Ruth let her daughter marry a Unitarian
minister. Unitarian ministers! They said that that A. Powell Davies fellow,
the Unitarian minister in Washington, was a great minister, that he wrote books
and was a leader in the city. He insisted the church allow coloreds to become
members. He threatened to resign if they didn't. How times had changed from
when my father was a minister.
I couldn't answer your question this afternoon, also, because it was my fault,
your father's lung cancer. If only I hadn't let Son smoke, living as he was
under my roof, he would still be with us. Dave, there is nothing worse for
a mother than having her own child die before she does.
Letter from Claude
Innes Hunter
(Feb.
16, 1878 - Sept. 3, 1964), father of Herbert Davis Hunter, grandfather
of David Hobart Hunter
May 28, 1964
Dear Dave,
I don't know if you believed me our not when I answered your question about
why I went to France during World War I. I told you that I went to war because
it was my patriotic duty, and I thank you for not pushing me. You know that
I'm not someone who says a whole lot about himself, especially about his feelings.
So I have written you this letter, not to be opened until Memorial Day of the
year 2000.
A small town can be a boring place, and Homer, Michigan, was as small and
boring as any. I thought it would be better when we moved to Lansing, but it
wasn't really. Then the U.S. entered the War. I think I believed then that
I volunteered out of patriotism. As you know - your question told me you knew
- I didn't have to go - I was over age, and I had a wife and Son. I think Simmie
- that's what I called your grandmother; she always called me Bob - I think
Simmie believed me. We never talked about it. But it was a once in a life time
opportunity to see France, to visit Paris. I saw it as my last chance to have
freedom, if you know what I mean. I might have said at the time that I would
have been willing to go to the Front, but I volunteered to go to France with
the YMCA, and I must have known that I would be safe. The worst danger I ever
was in was after it was all over, and I got flu. I didn't get is so bad, just
a week or two. So many people died. That's when I was really scared.
Most of what we did was just ordinary hard work, nothing special. We tried
to make sure the men could buy all the fresh fruit and chocolate they wanted.
It was the least we could do. The soldiers really had it hard - weeks in the
trenches, with the awful noise of the guns and the rain and the mud. And at
any moment they could die or have a leg or an arm blown off. Or worse. I don't
know how they stood it. In comparison, managing the warehouse was easy.
Actually, what scared me the most, prior to the flu, was when your grandmother
said she wanted to get a job. But I put my foot down. No job. I might have
been across the ocean, but I still was the provider for the family; I still
had my self respect. After the war was over, we kept up the canteen for the
men for some months. And then I came home and opened the store in Lansing with
my brother. I guess you never can really get away from real life. It follows
you everywhere, even to France. No, I can't complain. Most of it was dull,
no different than a small town after all.
France was a long time ago. France didn't match my fantasy. It's probably
just as well.
Letter from Allerton
Cushman Kibbe
(Jan.
12, 1874 - Jan. 15, 1956), father of Harriette Kibbe Hunter, grandfather
of David Hobart Hunter
January 1, 1956
Dear Dave,
You asked why I became a farmer and not a musician. It's a good question.
I guess you remember all those evenings when you were little, with us on the
farm during the summer, when I would play the violin for you and your brother
and your cousins, after all the chores were done. I really liked playing for
my grandchildren, just as I had earlier for my own children. Sure, I would
have liked to do music full time. But you must know by now - if you followed
the instructions on the envelope - that life doesn't always go the way you
want it to. Should I stay on the family farm or go into business, like my brother?
I felt that whichever choice I made would be the wrong one. So I kept the farm,
but then I lost the farm, and we ended up living on the farm that you remember,
that broken down farm that Ma's brother let us have. I've never lost that feeling
of guilt for losing the Kibbe farm, or the feeling of shame and resentment,
for having to live on my brother-in-law's charity.
I regret that no one would pay me to play the piano or the violin (not that
they ever paid me very much for milk). Why didn't I have sense enough to stop
after the first few children? And I regret that two of my children married
badly - one married very badly.
But it wasn't all bad. All nine of those children got an education, even
the girls. All the boys - Robert, Bradford, Wallace, and Richard - they all
went off to World War II, but they all came back alive, and whole. So many
didn't. We were lucky. I shouldn't complain. And even later, when the worst
happened, it gave me hope to see you and your brother Steve play with the your
little cousins, Penny and Rob, the orphans, when they first came back from
Germany, before they went to live with their Uncle Wallace.
As I said, it bothered me that Ma's family looked down on me because we never
had any money. I used to say that Rose and Steve (that's my sister-in-law and
her husband), that Rose and Steve collected antiques because they didn't have
anything else to do, while Winnie and I lived with antiques because we couldn't
afford new. Maybe the way Ma's family treated us is why we had so many children.
Ma's brother Ned was the world famous veterinarian. Her brother-in-law Steve
was a rich antique collector. But one thing they could never do was to get
their wives - that's Sarah and Rose - to get their wives pregnant.
And now I'm sitting here, near the end of my life, writing this letter and
smoking my pipe. If I had my life to live over again, I would be the musician.
Somehow, I would make it work. Maybe I'd have fewer children. But that's not
the choice we are given. I did my best. I thank God for the good; I can't blame
Him for the bad, and I'm ready for whatever comes next.
Letter from Winifred
Dimock Kibbe
(Feb.
24, 1877 - June 14, 1964), mother of Harriette Kibbe Hunter, grandmother
of David Hobart Hunter
May 28, 1952
Dear Dave,
I pretended not to hear you when you asked this afternoon why I had nine
children. Your mother seemed aghast that you would ask such an impertinent
question, but I knew that you must have gotten the question from her. I think
Harriette, your mother, my third born, married a single child as a rebuke to
Allerton and me. And of all days to ask such a question, as though losing one
child doesn't matter if you have eight others.
My sister Rose and my sister-in-law Sarah would needle me about having so
many kids, but they would have given anything just to have one. Rose would
say that just the smell of man would make me pregnant. I'd reply, "I'll lend
you Allerton for ten minutes." Her Steve might have been a good man, if money
is what makes a man good, but he sure couldn't get her pregnant. Sarah would
say, "You'd think a farmer who's been up since before dawn would just fall
asleep at night." I'd reply, "Dr. Dimock [that's my brother, Uncle Ned] Dr.
Dimock knows how to get cows and horses pregnant; you'd think he'd know how
to get a wife pregnant."
Lucia, Lucia! Light of my life! Lucia, you were such a sweet baby. Always
looking for a hug, always ready with a kiss. You could never get enough. Was
it my fault, Lucia? Did I not give you enough love? I was always so busy, with
the chores, and the endless meals and the dishes, and then the last two babies.
Sometimes I was just so tired, I just got impatient. Did you have to go so
far from home? Working in a cafeteria. Lucia, why couldn't I keep you safe
and happy at home with me? I wept through the entire funeral. Allerton did,
too. I remember that Christmas, it must have been 10 years ago. It was the
only time I ever phoned Lucia while she was living in Washington, D.C. I pleaded
with her to come home for Christmas. She just repeated over and over, "I can't,
Mama, I can't," and broke into tears. She never mentioned it, but a mother
knows when her daughter is in trouble. I knew she must be pregnant. Where is
that child now?
Then it happened again. This time, Pa took charge. I can hear his words now. "You will marry
my daughter." I never saw him so mad. John could see the shotgun, even over
the phone. Would that he had run away, like the no-good coward that he was,
and spared me the grief. Oh, Dave, there is nothing worse for a mother than
having her own child die before she does. And I wish now that I had never gone
through the door of the Universalist Church. That preacher said that God's
love never ends, that sooner or later, "All are reconciled to God." No! Never!
God is just! How could John go to heaven, while my baby Lucia lies dead at
his feet. Let him burn in hell forever!
Reflections
by the Rev. Kerry Mueller
Reflection on Impertinent
Questions
When I read the letters from Dave's grandparents, I was moved to two reflections.
I never met any of these people - they were gone long before I came on the
scene. But I was immediately drawn into the questions Dave would have asked
them. Their stories reflect the preciousness of every human story. These grandparents
struggle with the same deep questions of faith as we do - questions of life
and death, of dreams and loss, of justice and compassion. They are connected
across the generations to us, connected in memory and hope, connected to family,
to church, to country.
We use more sophisticated language today, but the issues are the human issues
of every generation. The orphaned grandchildren did not enter a "blended family." No
one saw Claude's French adventure in World War I as a "mid-life crisis." The
aunts lived with the pain of barrenness, not "infertility." Harriette may have
spent some years as a "career girl," but she did not think of herself as a
liberated woman. Winifred Kibbe didn't think of the devastating loss of her
daughter as "domestic violence."
Winifred's letter, coming so soon after Lucia's funeral, reflects her anguish
and her raging and righteous anger with John. It is the kind of lament that
human beings have written even from the days of the Psalmists. After the days
around the funeral, Winifred never talked about her pain. No one in the family
talked about Lucia. So we don't know what she really felt. But perhaps her
sorrow one day softened. Perhaps her years in the Universalist church brought
her some kind of peace. If she had written that letter a dozen years later,
perhaps she would have written it a little differently:
Let him burn in hell forever! How could I say that? He had a mother, too.
She lost her child, too, after the court martial, and she never saw her grandchildren
again. I never should have let Lucia go. I should have loved her so much that
she would never sell herself so cheap. We didn't have much, but we had each
other. Maybe I should have made her listen to the Universalists. Maybe if she
really believed that God loves her, she wouldn't have looked for love in every
two timing trifler she met. And the grandchild. . . . I never knew my sweet,
lost grandchild.
Dave, I hope you never learn these things the hard way. I hope you never
lose a child. I hope no grandchild ever asks you why you did something, when
you don't really know why yourself. The real question isn't "Why?" I've asked
myself that a million times. There's never any answer. Bad things happen. Terrible
things happen, even to good people. I don't believe that God punishes us, in
this life, or the next. We aren't punished for our sins. We are punished
by our sins. The Universalists were right. That John, he must have been
truly miserable, he was such a terrible person. I can't forgive him. Let God
forgive him. Wherever she is, Lucia is happy now. Now she knows she is loved.
She was never bad. She never deserved what happened to her. The real question,
the only question that makes any sense is, "How shall we live?" All I know
is, Allerton and I loved each other. We loved every one of our children. It
was worth it, even with all the worry and sorrow. We loved you, too, you and
your brother and all your cousins. I hope you know how much we loved you.
In the course of the human drama of family life, this family suffered a terrible
loss. This Memorial Day weekend, however, they can look back in gratitude.
Memorial Day began as a recognition of the Civil War dead, the formalizing
of an old custom of cleaning up the cemeteries and decorating graves once a
year. We don't have stories of Kibbe's in the Civil War. But Dave's great great
uncle Alexander Hunter served in that war, and came home after multiple escapes
from Andersonville and several other prisoner of war camps. Claude and Allerton
were not of a generation to suffer the horrors of World War I, and Dave's father
was just a little too old for World War II. His Kibbe uncles all served in
that war, and all of them came home again to take up their lives. This generation
can be grateful for their service, and grateful that more sacrifice was not
required of them.
But for many in this country, and no doubt in this congregation, Memorial
Day brings poignant memories of loss - of those who served and who never came
home, of those who came home wounded in body or spirit, of those who were not
soldiers but who suffered as civilians or who were the intentional victims
of war. This Memorial Day we can be grateful to all those whose service and
sacrifice have made this nation a place of freedom and possibilities. We can
be grateful to those who urged this country to stand up for human rights in
the world, and for those who urged the country to refrain from arrogant interference
in the internal affairs of others. We are grateful to the women and men who
supported and nurtured the soldiers - from the Unitarian Florence Nightingale
to the Universalist Clara Barton, and all their spiritual descendants. We think
this Memorial Day especially of the minority service members who contributed
so much to a country which often failed to repay their loyalty with justice
and equity.
Let us join in now in singing "America," found as an insert in your order
of service. |
