Author: admin

by Jim Reid

My fellow parishioners:

My path to becoming an Episcopalian is a little convoluted. I learned only in the past few years through genealogical research that my maternal grandparents were Episcopalians. At a young age, my mother became a Presbyterian; I wish I knew the details. My father was what I’d call generic Protestant, details unknown. I married a Catholic lady but, although I attended church with her, always felt as though I were living on the fringes. When my wife passed a couple of years ago, I went looking for a new church to attend. Holy Family was my second stop; there was no need to go further. I was home.

That brings us to stewardship. The pastor of a previous parish said, “I have to keep the lights on.” There is more to it than that, of course: Building maintenance, other utilities, insurance, salaries. And don’t forget our grounds, our campus, our outdoor cathedral (a term I am unashamedly “borrowing”). That’s our base but we can’t really call ourselves Christians if we don’t reach out to those less fortunate than we.

The need is everywhere. The list is available on our web page, but I’ll repeat it, at least in part, here: Diocese of Atlanta, Good Samaritan Health and Wellness, Pickens Community Thrift Store, CARES of Pickens County, Appalachian Children’s Emergency Shelter, Mountain Stewards, and Angels on Horseback. The preceding items are in north Georgia; we also support three missionary efforts off our shores.

I’m retired and am embarrassed to admit I do not yet properly donate my time or my treasure, but I’m working on it. As a result of COVID-19 having thrust virtual services upon us, I’ve recently become a member of the parish media team, a task I never imagined enjoying. That effort could use more volunteers; if I can do it, anyone can do it.

Bring your time. Bring your treasure. I don’t think God asks more of us than we can spare. Jim Reid

In a first-year Pastoral Care class in seminary, Professor Bill Pregnall offered us new students a metaphor for how people “do Church”. He said, “Imagine the parish is like folks being at the seashore.  Some people are content to sit among the dunes watching the waves and the people who’re closer to the water. Others move down onto the sand and spread out their beach chairs and blankets and bask in the sun.  Others go down to the water’s edge and get their feet wet as they walk along, looking for shells.  Still others wade out and feel the action of the waves.  Then there are those who run across the sand, dive into the waves and swim out past the breakers.  All of them are part of the shore “congregation”.  Each has a role to play in the life of the Church. There is no ‘right’ place to be.”

When we new students asked questions, Dr. Pregnall said, “We need to make sure that each person’s participation is honored.  If people are interested in moving closer to the action, we need to offer them incentives to do so.  If folks who’re out swimming deep get tired or into trouble, we need to bring them back to safety.  Over the course of their lives, people might choose different zones of participation.  Remember, all are near the water, all have been baptized and are part of the ministering body. Discerning with them what their ministries might be is how we nurture folks into mature faith. But there is no ‘right place’ to be.  Jesus called men and women of diverse backgrounds and experiences to be part of the fellowship. All are learning together to serve Christ in all persons, loving neighbor as self.”  G. Yandell

Summer’s Almost Gone

Been hearing the Doors’ tune in my head- Jim Morrison singing the hypnotic vocal: “Summer’s almost gone- where will we be when the summer’s gone?” (Waiting for the Sun Album,1968.) What a summer it’s been. Hunkered down, wearing masks when others shun doing so. Routines smashed, covid tests in short supply, results taking too long. Soo many deaths. So hard to comprehend.

The hummingbirds are fewer at our feeders. One ruby-throat guy is dive-bombing all the others when they get near. Beautiful creatures. The only birds that can fly backward, I’ve learned. I spied the last lightning bug a few days ago. More deer are feeding near the house. The horrific fires out west still burning untold acres. Whole towns burned to the ground. People displaced and dying.

The cool snap here is welcome after the hurricane. I feel almost guilty at the relative tranquility of our mountains.

I wonder at the students going back to class. Or those sitting at home with their laptops doing virtual learning. I remember the friends in elementary school I’d walk to and from school with. Or those in later grades I’d race on my bike home from school. The playground and gym were the loud and raucous, full of writhing, yelling kids.

I remember too during the cold war when we were given dog tags to wear each day at school. (I still have mine somewhere.) Practicing hunkering down under our desks during air raid drills. And especially the day when we had to walk home from school to practice the route our parents had assigned us. We were being timed to see how long it would take. Two of my friends and I walked through the cow pasture and stopped by the pond to throw rocks and splash around. Not the assigned route. My mother was fuming when I walked in the back door. She knew the reasons we had to practice those drills. They pretty much escaped me. But her anger didn’t.

There is a rarely visited section of the prayer book called ‘The Supplication.’ It’s attached to the end of the Great Litany. (Page 154) I’ve taken to using it during the early morning daily office. The rubrics suggest it may be used, “at the end of Morning or Evening Prayer, or as a separate devotion; especially in times of war, or of national anxiety, or of disaster.” I commend it to you. George Yandell