One Alumni and Her Blessing

From Jes Kast-Keat

Are you sick of posts about graduation? I hope not because I am going to add one more. Except this time it is from the perspective of an alumni. (Check out Jason Lief's post and Jeff Munroe's post for some other graduation thoughts.)

On Sunday afternoon I boarded my plane in NYC to head "home" to Michigan to celebrate the graduation of my spouse Jim Kast-Keat. Besides the pride I feel for Jim I am also incredibly proud to have graduated from Western Theological Seminary. So today I dedicate my post as a blessing from this alumni to her alma mater. Alma mater in Latin means "nourishing mother" and the theological and pastoral nourishment I received from the professors and staff at Western was indeed nourishing and transformative.

My best friend and I made the commitment the first week of seminary that we were there for transformation. We were not there to appease people by the "correct" theological answers or to regurgitate for an exam only to forget what we retrained the following year. No, I went to seminary seeking theological and personal transformation. When I walked across the stage in May 2011 I know I accomplished my goal.

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A Special Day

From Jeff Munroe

On Saturday, Jason Lief reflected in this space on college graduation and the twin impulses to hit the road or stay where you are. Today, at Western Theological Seminary, we watch students “hit the road” as they graduate, but it is also our version of college homecoming, where we welcome former students back.

Commencement is a grand event, and because I serve as one of the WTS vice presidents, I get to march in the processional. I’d be quite content tonight simply sitting among the assembled parents and spouses and friends, but I do have to admit I get a pretty good seat this way.

It is also our Alumni Day. (Sexist grammatical note: “alumni” is the plural of alumnus, a masculine word in Latin, and technically I should also be using alumna/alumnae throughout this article, if one follows Latin grammar when writing in English. If you are offended, please forgive me. I’m trying not to make this too cumbersome.) Because I am the seminary’s Vice President of Advancement, our class reunion luncheons and the alumni dinner are under my department. I wind up getting pretty good seats at these events, too. We will honor distinguished alumni Vicki Menning and Gordon Laman tonight at dinner, and I am sentimental enough to know I will be choked up by the stories of their long and selfless careers.

But may I tell you about two things I will be especially thinking of today?

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You’ll Find Your Way

Five o’clock on Mother’s Day Eve was a frantic time for my father, brother and me. This was when it dawned on us that tomorrow was Mother’s Day and we had forgotten to get a gift. At that time corsages were popular for moms, but the local flower shop was already closed. Thankfully, Larry’s Super Valu was open and carried a small assortment of corsages for last minute shoppers like us. Assortment is probably too generous a description because by the time we shopped, anything with roses, daisies or carnations were gone leaving only plain and obviously undesired orchids. And so year after year, my mother wore her “last option” corsage to Sunday worship and thanked us for being so thoughtful.

My mom died in 1995, so it’s been a long time since I’ve selected a Mother’s Day gift for her. As an adult, I’ve come to appreciate the intentional gift she was faithfully giving as she received our hastily chosen corsages. The foundation of faith she and my father helped lay and carefully nurture provided deep grounding for my brother and me that keeps us rooted today. Now a mother of two with a nine year-old son and seven year-old daughter, I hope I do the same for them.

In Andrew Peterson’s “You’ll Find Your Way,” I hear my mom’s wise counsel in the lyrics and realize her gift continues, even in her absence. Written for Andrew’s own son, this song captures what I want to tell my children as they navigate the challenges of life.

Go back, go back to the ancient paths
Lash your heart to the ancient mast
And hold on, boy, whatever you do
To the hope that’s taken hold of you
And you’ll find your way

With gratitude for moms and the gifts they give—Happy Mother’s Day.

Dana Daniels is the associate director of advancement at Western Theological Seminary. She is also involved in an RCA church plant, Embody Christ Fellowship, with husband Rev. Jim Daniels.

Going

From Jason Lief

Yesterday was graduation at Dordt College. Over 300 students sat up on the stage, waiting for their diploma, so they could leave. Graduation day has a strange aura about it. Professors are still grading, but most are glad the end has come. Parents and family are wandering around campus trying to catch a glimpse of what their child has been up to for the past 4 years. Seniors? They're ready to go. They're excited, maybe some are a bit sad, but most are ready to move on to the next stage of life. There's a freedom that comes with graduation; life is full of possibilities and potential. Some students fret about not have a job when they cross of the stage, others are more than happy to take the next few months and "walk the earth." One group of students bought an old black bus they plan to use to road trip to California. They've converted it to run on a combination of diesel fuel and cooking oil both to save money and the environment. Another student is going to go to the "holy" land. No class credit, no tour groups - just himself, a walking stick, and the places that Jesus walked. Me? I'm making my own trek... to California. My friend has to be at a wedding and asked if I wanted to ride along. No responsibilities...no speaking or research...just me, my buddy, and the open road.

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Shades of Green

From James Bratt

As you outlanders might have noticed, the bloggers at this site who live in the upper Midwest have been musing out loud (it’s not complaining, because upper Midwesterners don’t complain; it’s not nice) that winter held on long in these parts this year, deep into April, and then was succeeded by a spring that was hardly worth the name. Cold. Grey. Wet. More cold. More rain. In West Michigan, a whole lot more rain. The Grand River hit its highest mark in decades, the basements of rich and poor were joined in a democracy of drowning, and my brother-in-law the drain commissioner had nary a moment’s rest.

Well rejoice and be exceeding glad, Gentle Reader, for sun and warmth have well and truly arrived even here. The landscape has exploded with growth and color, and the birds of the air, the beasts of the field, yea, every living thing have burst forth into song and bleat and pollen and beauty. You walk outside and are dazzled by how green everything is. Bright, pulsing, screaming green. It’s enough to make the heart sing, except we upper Midwesterners only allow that to happen in private. Like kissing. There’s a room for such things; for singing, it’s called church.

I’m not grousing about this warm turn one little bit. It’s just that the suddenness of it all cost me my annual turn to recite Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” A great professor of mine used to take his class outside to read that poem on just that pivoting day when spring makes it clear that it’s here to stay, that resurgent life is about to create a thick new covering in the trees above and on the ground below. Frost found this magical moment to be a little bittersweet: “Nature’s first green is gold/Her hardest hue to hold/. . . So dawn goes down to day./Nothing gold can stay.” I love to recite that verse. Maybe in honor of Ken Kuiper, maybe out of the sort of Calvinism that led a senior colleague of mine, one glorious June 23^rd morning years ago to sit down heavily at lunch and sigh: “Yep, days start getting shorter now.”

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